Scream: A DCI Mark Lapslie Investigation

by Nigel McCrery

  ‘You used to be in the Army?’ Lapslie said, apparently amazed.

  ‘Left ten years ago. Royal Army Medical Corps. Qualified psychiatrist, even then. Specialised in combat stress reaction, acute stress disorder and post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  ‘How reassuring,’ Lapslie said, obviously taken aback.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Garland said, obviously enjoying the reaction. ‘I know everything about your history, but you know hardly anything about mine.’

  Emma decided that she liked Doctor Garland. He had a friendly bonhomie about him, an old-fashioned, old-world approach to life. If anyone was going to help Lapslie, it would be him.

  ‘I need your help,’ Lapslie said, chiming strangely with Emma’s thought processes.

  ‘Medical or criminal?’

  ‘Criminal.’

  ‘I’m not well up on forensic pathology.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Lapslie said, glancing at Emma and wincing. ‘We’ve had bad experiences with forensic pathologists. No, it’s more a case of you recognising a photograph of a suspect who we know has been present at this hospital.’

  ‘Lot of people pass through reception every day,’ Garland pointed out. ‘I don’t see more than a handful of them.’

  ‘But you know me,’ Lapslie pointed out, ‘and that may make a difference.’

  ‘Delusions of grandeur?’ Garland asked, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Fascinating.’

  Lapslie shook his head. ‘Don’t get so excited. I actually have reasons to believe that I am being singled out by the murderer for special attention.’

  ‘And a former patient of mine who swore blind that he was the secret ruler of the Earth, sent here from Jupiter to save us from destruction, had reasons to believe that as well. Spurious, of course, but he believed them.’

  Lapslie glanced at Emma. ‘You tell him,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m getting nowhere.’

  ‘You’re a patient,’ Emma said calmly. ‘I’m not.’ She smiled at Garland. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Lapslie here was sent a sound file attached to an email. The sound file was—’ She hesitated, glancing at Lapslie, and when he nodded she continued – ‘a recording of a murder. The email was sent from the internet café attached to this hospital. We have a recorded image of the person we believe sent the email. It’s a young female suspect, and we’re trying to identify her.’

  Garland raised an eyebrow and glanced from Emma to Lapslie and back. ‘The email was sent to you personally? So you’re a target. Murderer wants you to know that they know you. Or the email wasn’t sent by the murderer, but someone who knows about the crime and wants you to investigate it.’

  Lapslie nodded. ‘That about covers it. I’m not delusional. This person, whoever it is, really has me in their sights.’

  ‘Can I see the photo?’

  Lapslie handed the folded A4 sheet across to Garland. He unfolded it, and although his expression didn’t change from professional detachment crossed with aloof amusement, the atmosphere in the neurology department suddenly changed. A chill wind blew across Emma’s neck, and she wasn’t sure whether it was a premonition or a product of the air conditioning.

  ‘This is her?’ Garland said carefully.

  ‘Yes,’ Lapslie replied. ‘Have you seen her around the hospital?’

  ‘I have,’ Garland replied levelly. ‘I don’t think I’m breaking any confidentiality agreements by telling you that she’s the daughter of that new chap in your workshop – Stephen Stottart.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The family interview room in Chelmsford Police HQ was decorated in the same pastel colours as the paediatrics unit at the nearby hospital, with the same table in the corner with a wireframe toy where children could run beads along coloured wires which wound and spiralled around each other. The paint on the walls had dulled over the years and there were scuff marks at exactly the height where a five-year-old would run a toy car around the room. The ghost of a smell of spoiled milk and full nappies hung in the air. Like all the similar units Lapslie had seen over the years, it was depressing rather than relaxing. Or perhaps that was just because of the pain and misery that had been absorbed by the furnishings and the plaster and the paint; the tales of abuse by family, by babysitters, by teachers, by priests and vicars; by anyone, in fact, in a position of authority. The media often fulminated about sexual abuse being rife in some institution or another; in fact, it had nothing to do with institutions. It occurred everywhere that grown men had power over youngsters. There was something fundamentally wrong about the male brain, about the way sexual satisfaction and power were so often squashed together; something that had presumably grown as an unwanted by-product of human tribal evolution and now hung around like an appendix, ready to become sick and inflamed at the slightest notice. Most men had a mental cut-out that stopped them thinking and therefore acting inappropriately. Most men. But Lapslie, by nature of his job, tended to meet more than his fair share of men who didn’t possess that cut-out.

  Like most policemen, Lapslie firmly believed that paedophilic tendencies couldn’t be treated with drugs or counselling. Cognitive behavioural therapy wouldn’t work, and neither would neuro-linguistic programming. No fashionable psychological intervention was going to make a difference. Paedophiles were built that way because humans were built that way; it’s just that the little mental fuse box that most people had that stopped them from finding small kids and relatives sexually attractive had blown, and there was no replacing it short of going in through the skull and doing some radical brain surgery. With a screwdriver.

  The door to the family interview room opened, and a female police constable walked in: ‘They’re here,’ she announced. ‘Shall I send them in?’

  ‘Please,’ Lapslie said. ‘And send DS Bradbury in as well.’

  She left, and the door swung to behind her.

  Lapslie was sitting in a comfortable chair, his paperwork and notes balanced precariously on his knees. He felt like a fool. He would far rather be sitting behind a desk, separated from the person he was questioning by a solid barrier.

  But wasn’t that just emphasising his position of authority? Wasn’t that just a step along the road that led to domination, and then abuse?

  Best not to think about it too much.

  A video camera had been set up on a tripod in a corner of the room. Lapslie had the remote control balanced on his knee along with his paperwork, and he carefully pressed the ‘Start’ button to initiate the recording. His notes nearly slipped off his knees, but he caught them before they could hit the floor.

  The door opened again, and Stephen Stottart entered, his daughter behind him. He was holding her hand. She was shorter than she looked in the video image from the internet café in the hospital. She was wearing some kind of woollen hat, and corkscrew curls of red hair were tumbling out from beneath it. They were both looking wide-eyed and confused.

  Mr Stottart glanced at Lapslie, looked away at the video camera, then looked back at Lapslie.

  ‘You were at the synaesthesia workshop,’ he said. ‘Mark, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Mark Lapslie,’ he said, standing up to shake hands while trying to clutch his notes and paperwork to his stomach.

  Stottart shook Lapslie’s hand. His grip was firm and dry. His mouth was a tight line and his eyebrows were furrowed together. ‘I didn’t realise you were with the Dibble. So, what is this? You’ve been following us? Checking us out?’

  The Dibble. Lapslie hadn’t heard that term in a while; not since he’d spent a year up with the Greater Manchester Police working with the Drugs Squad.

  ‘Nothing of the sort.’ Lapslie gestured to the sofa across from his chair. ‘Please, sit down, both of you.’ As they sat, father and daughter side by side, and as he slid back into the comfortable upholstery of his own armchair, he continued: ‘This is something of an unusual situation. I am under the care of a consultant at the hospital, as you are, but I am also investigating a murder. The two are entire
ly unrelated – at least, that’s what I thought until your daughter came to our attention.’

  ‘You think she’s involved in a murder?’ Stottart snapped. His arm went protectively around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘She’s fourteen, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I know,’ Lapslie continued, ‘and it’s only a possibility at the moment, based on where she was at a particular time. She’s not under arrest, and this interview is not being conducted under caution. We just need to know what she knows – if anything.’

  The door opened again and Emma Bradbury slipped in. She nodded an apology at Lapslie, then took up an inconspicuous position against a wall.

  ‘She doesn’t know anything,’ Stottart said, and glanced down at his daughter’s head. ‘Do you?’

  She shook her head, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room.

  ‘Okay,’ Lapslie said, ‘then let’s start off with you. Can you tell me what you do for a living, Mr Stottart?’

  ‘I’m a biologist with an agricultural company.’

  ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘Basildon. Moved here from Manchester.’

  Lapslie looked across at the daughter. ‘And you, Tamara? That’s your name, isn’t it? Tamara Stottart?’

  ‘Yeah. I live with my dad,’ she said.

  ‘Anyone else in the house?’

  ‘My mum.’ She paused. ‘My brother. And Eddie.’

  ‘Eddie?’

  ‘The dog,’ Stottart replied for her. ‘I presume he’s not a suspect?’

  ‘Mr Stottart,’ Lapslie warned mildly, ‘this is a serious matter. A woman has died. Horribly. We need to find out why she was killed, and who it was who killed her.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just that – this is all new to us. I’ve never even been in a police station before.’ Stottart paused. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Dad!’ Tamara protested, appalled.

  ‘That’s not information we can reveal at the moment,’ Lapslie replied. He switched his gaze to the girl. ‘Tamara, we have no reason to believe that you committed any crime, or were present at the commission of a crime, but we do believe that you have – or had – evidence that a crime had taken place—’

  ‘Who was it?’ Stottart interrupted. ‘Who was killed?’

  ‘A young woman named Catriona Dooley,’ Lapslie replied. ‘Do you know her, Tamara?’

  The girl shook her head, still avoiding Lapslie’s gaze.

  ‘Are you sure? I’ve got a photograph of her here.’ He pulled an eight-by-five-inch print of Catriona Dooley from the pile of papers on his knees and held it out. ‘Please – look at this.’

  Stottart held out a warning palm. ‘It’s not – it’s not a photograph of this woman’s body is it? Dead, like? I wouldn’t want Tamara to see something like that. That would be rank.’

  There it was again – another northern expression. Lapslie suddenly felt strangely nostalgic for Manchester.

  Lapslie shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. It was provided by her family.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mollified, Stottart took the photograph and glanced at it, then held it in front of his daughter’s face. ‘Do you know her, Tamara?’

  The girl shook her head without looking at the photograph.

  ‘Please,’ Lapslie urged, ‘look at it.’ He tried to gauge whether she actually did recognise the photo from the way she held herself, but the way she held her shoulders so tightly and had her arms folded severely across her chest could have been guilt or could equally just have been typical teenage passive aggressive behaviour.

  She glanced quickly at the photograph, then glanced away. ‘No,’ she said in a quiet but firm voice. ‘I’ve never seen her before.’

  ‘She lived in Maldon,’ Lapslie pressed. ‘Does that help place her?’

  ‘I told you,’ Tamara said, ‘I’ve never seen her before.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Stottart?’

  Stottart shook his head. ‘Don’t recognise her.’ His eyes scanned the photograph again. Lapslie sought for recognition in his eyes, but he just looked blank.

  ‘Tamara, have you ever been to Canvey Island?’ He watched the girl carefully as he asked the question, looking for a flinch, or a wince, or some kind of gesture to indicate that she recognised the place and identified it with something unpleasant in her life, but her expression was neutral. Carefully so.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Lapslie looked at her father for confirmation. He shook his head.

  ‘She’s never been, and I haven’t been for at least fifteen years. Why – is that where the body was discovered?’

  He was asking all the usual questions that people being interviewed came out with – How was she killed? Where was she killed? – not so much trying to build up some kind of picture of the crime in his mind as trying to level out the inequality of knowledge between himself and Lapslie. It indicated that he, at least, might not know anything about the crime. Lapslie still wasn’t sure about the daughter, though.

  ‘Tamara,’ he continued, using the same relaxed tone of voice but conscious now that he was approaching the core set of questions, ‘when was the last time you were in Chelmsford General Hospital?’

  ‘You were asking about Canvey Island,’ Stottart said, jumping in before his daughter could speak.

  ‘Please – Mr Stottart.’ Back to the girl. ‘Tamara?’

  The pale, smooth line of her brow furrowed momentarily. ‘Dunno. A few days ago, I guess.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was waiting for my dad. He had an appointment.’

  Lapslie glanced at Stottart. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yeah. One of my regular sessions with Doctor Garland, like you. You can ask him, if you like.’

  ‘I will.’ Lapslie turned back to the girl. ‘Was that two days ago, at about eight p.m.?’

  She shrugged. It was amazing how much negative emotion a teenager could put into a simple shrug. ‘I guess.’

  ‘And did you use the internet café in the hospital while you were waiting?’

  ‘Yeah. So? It’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘Tamara,’ her father warned, ‘just answer the man’s questions. Don’t try to be cheeky.’

  ‘Why did you use the internet café?’

  ‘I was on BeBo, wasn’t I?’

  ‘BeBo?’ Lapslie was suddenly thrown by the unfamiliar term.

  ‘It’s a social networking site,’ Emma Bradbury murmured from her position against the wall. ‘Like Facebook, but aimed at a younger market.’

  ‘Ah.’ Lapslie had a vague feeling that he knew what Facebook was: an internet site where you could put up details about yourself and engage in trivial email conversations with other people. ‘Can you confirm that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean is there any evidence apart from your word that you were using this … BeBo site?’

  ‘She said she was,’ Stottart said. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Much as I would like to believe the word of everyone I interview, I’ve found through long and bitter experience that people often lie to me,’ Lapslie sighed. He turned back to Tamara. ‘So – is there any proof? Were you talking to anyone else on-line?’

  ‘I was just checking my messages,’ she said, and paused. ‘But you have to log on to the site, with a password. I guess there’s a record of when I logged on and logged off. You could check that with …’ she hesitated. ‘With the BeBo people,’ she finished lamely.

  Lapslie nodded fractionally at Emma. She could check that out later.

  ‘Did you,’ he asked, ‘while you were using the computer at the internet café, send any emails?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Specifically, did you send an email to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How would she know your email address?’ Stottart asked.

  A reasonable question, and one that Lapslie hadn’t considered. It had seemed obvious to him that a murderer who wanted to involve Lapslie in their crime would be a
ble to find it out, but a fourteen-year-old girl?

  ‘Did you,’ Lapslie continued, not responding to Stottart’s question, ‘send me an email with an attached sound file?’

  ‘What kind of sound file?’ Stottart seemed increasingly hostile as the interview continued and as Lapslie failed to volunteer any information.

  ‘Well,’ Lapslie went on after a few seconds. ‘Did you?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Lapslie pulled another photograph out of the pile on his lap, this time the one of the girl sitting at the internet terminal. ‘Is this you?’ he asked, passing the photograph to her. Again, her father took it and held it so that they could both see it.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, after a few seconds of looking at the picture. ‘That’s me. But I already told you I was there.’

  ‘You did, but the email that was sent to me, the email that is connected to the murder we are investigating, was sent from that terminal at the same time you were sitting at it.’

  ‘Maybe they put a timer on it,’ she said with devastating simplicity.

  ‘A what?’ Lapslie asked.

  ‘A timer.’ She glanced up at him with the derision that only the young can manage for their technologically illiterate elders. ‘You can delay emails so they get sent at a particular time. Everyone knows that.’

  Lapslie felt like someone had kicked the legs out from beneath him. ‘So you didn’t send the email?’

  ‘No,’ she said, smiling now that she had realised she had him on the defensive. ‘But it could have been delayed until the person who sent it had gone and I was sitting there.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else sitting at the terminal before you arrived?’

  ‘No. It was empty when I got there.’

  ‘Okay.’ He paused, and glanced over at Emma. She shook her head slightly. They’d closed off all the avenues of enquiry. ‘Tamara, Mr Stottart, thank you for coming in today.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Stottart suddenly switched from defensiveness to belligerence. It was a transition that Lapslie was familiar with. He saw it at every interview and every time a suspect was released without charge. It was as if, when the pressure that kept their mood defensive was released, internal mental pressure suddenly snapped them to the other end of the psychological scale. He’d seen fear suddenly snap to anger as well, and anger to fear. The mind was a funny thing.