by Sarah Flint
There had been no returned texts or messages from Ben and, even though she hadn’t really expected there to be any, she was still worried, and a bit annoyed, that her assumption was being proved correct. He was obviously still pissed, and much as she was trying to accept that his PTSD would always give him mood swings, she was beginning to wish that she’d listened to her previous misgivings and kept him as a friend rather than a partner… at least until he was able to remain stable for longer periods of time. But she couldn’t help loving him, and worrying about him, and she had no doubt that her feelings for him would remain strong. She just wondered if they would be strong enough.
Drying herself off, she ran a brush over her scalp, grimacing at the sight of tired green eyes, a flushed red face and dripping wet hair in the mirror. Never in a million years would she ever look like one of the L’Oreal models whose hair seemed to hang in the air, suspended on the merest whisper of wind. Hers was thick, uncontrollable and sat on the collar of her jacket like a huge hairy caterpillar. The vision did nothing to ease her discontent.
She checked her phone again, but there were no new messages. She’d try to contact Ben again later, if for no other reason than to make sure he’d walked Casper. The dog didn’t deserve to be forgotten about, even if she had.
When she returned to the office, Bet and Sabira had her briefing from the previous night on a computer screen in front of them and were deep in discussion. Behind them, a cleaner was moving slowly about, wiping down desks and squirting glass cleaner at the large tinted windows that faced towards London. From where Charlie stood, he almost looked as if he was standing on the roof of the building in the foreground, wiping the clouds from the sky.
She dumped her washbag down and joined the others, quickly scanning the precis of the previous night’s incident and realising that her issues were immaterial in comparison. There was nothing like a dose of cold, hard reality to put things into perspective.
‘It’s horrific, guv, but it looks like a straightforward rape to me?’ She peered towards her boss questioningly.
Hunter glanced towards the cleaner but started to speak anyway. ‘That’s what we thought, too. On first appearance, yes, it does look like a simple case of rape, but I’ve just been fully briefed and there are in fact a lot of similarities to our Op Greystream series. We can’t rule it out as yet.’
‘Such as?’ She remained unconvinced. ‘There have been no sexual assaults up until now and Maryanne Hepworth, our victim here, is much younger than our normal profile.’
‘Well, it happened between midnight and 5 a.m., there was no damage caused during entry, the phone wires were cut and an item of sentimental value was taken.’ Hunter frowned. ‘The suspect was also of the same generic description, height, build et cetera, and he stayed with the victim for some time talking to her.’
‘And our series suspect is getting more and more familiar with his victims,’ Bet chipped in. ‘It still makes me shudder when I hear how he touches the old men and women and strokes their hair, like he’s grooming them in some way. I’m not that many years younger than some of them myself.’ She broke off with a grimace.
‘Go on with you, Bet. You’re not that old and they’d have to get past Dave first.’ Sabira grinned at her colleague. ‘But then who knows?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘He does seem to be getting more confident and this victim is younger. Maybe he is diversifying? Murder last time. Rape this time.’
The group silenced, each dwelling on the prospect.
‘I went home by bus last night,’ Charlie’s thoughts returned to her previous evening’s journey. ‘And it made me think about another thing that they all have in common, including the other possibles.’ She leant forward, clicking the screen on to an offence-mapping presentation. ‘And this one is also in the same area. It would fit too.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘Look, all the offences are within walking distance of the same few main roads – which are also where all the buses run. So maybe their location is something to do with the bus routes. It’s not a big deal, but it might be worth considering.’ She tilted her head towards Bet, before returning to the report of the rape. ‘But I’m still not sure about this one. No mask. Calling her Catherine, which is not her name, and identifying himself as Thomas, albeit I expect that “Thomas” is made up. This one does feel a bit different.’
‘Well, we won’t know until we speak to our victim, Maryanne Hepworth, and her sister, Danielle O’Brien, who gives evidence of first complaint.’ Hunter looked towards the three of them. ‘Bet, you and Paul carry on with the CCTV you’ve started and do some research on Catherine and Thomas, the two names our suspect mentioned. Sab, you and Naz will have to attend Florence Briarly’s post-mortem to confirm exactly how she died. Charlie, get your stuff. Danielle and Maryanne have been taken to The Haven. At least, Maryanne’s still alive to tell the tale.’
*
The Haven was just as its name inferred. As Charlie and Hunter entered the tranquil walled garden to its rear, the hustle and bustle of London melted into the background. For a few dozen steps, the pace was slowed and peace suffused the small lawned area and wild flower bed. Only the sound of a robin chirping from the boughs of a buddleia bush and the distant squawking of some of the green parakeets that now populated most areas of London disturbed the serenity. Nature was at work in all its inner-city glory.
As they entered the building, however, the harmony of the grounds was replaced with a low moan of distress and Charlie was brought crashing back to the reason for their visit. A CID colleague in plain clothes sat next to the figure of a young woman on a settee in the lounge area, obviously Danielle O’Brien. The young woman was weeping, her anguish obvious in the slump of her shoulders. The CID officer sat close, explaining what would be happening to her sister Maryanne, who was in the suite next door, being subjected to a full evidential examination by a force medical examiner.
For a brief moment, the CID officer continued her conversation before stopping abruptly to make introductions. Charlie offered her sympathy and held her hand out to the woman, who gripped it tightly but said nothing. Hunter too spoke of his regret at the incident and introduced himself as the Senior Investigating Officer, before excusing them both to a small kitchen area in order to speak to the officer who was seeing to Maryanne’s needs. She was one of many specially trained to deal with victims of sexual assaults.
‘How is Maryanne holding up?’ Hunter asked. ‘Any useful samples that might lead to a positive identification?’
‘Well, she’s doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstances.’ The officer frowned. ‘But, unfortunately, she pretty much obliterated any forensics after the suspect left. She had a shower and brushed her teeth and put all her clothes and bedding in to be washed. She spent the best part of an hour scrubbing herself clean, and I mean scrubbing. She’s almost red raw in places.’
Charlie winced at the thought, but she couldn’t blame their victim, however frustrated they would be at the lack of evidence. She knew she’d want to do exactly the same herself. Still, it was a blow.
‘What about any internal swabs?’ she asked instead.
The officer turned towards her and shook her head again. ‘Maybe if we’re lucky, but the suspect was wearing a condom, which he took with him.’
‘Gloves?’
‘Yes, he wore gloves.’
‘Dammit,’ Charlie made a quick note of the facts. ‘So it doesn’t sound as if we’ll get a lot from the scene either? I gather the point of entry was through an unsecured window. It’s a shame our man didn’t smash it. He might have left some blood.’
‘We’d never get that lucky!’ Hunter pulled a biro from his pocket and started to chew on its end. ‘We’ll just have to hope there’ll be something left in the bedroom – a hair or saliva sample. Anything that might identify him. At the moment, we don’t know whether he’s forensically aware, like our series suspect appears to be, or whether Maryanne has done his job for him.’
‘What
about his description?’ Charlie’s thoughts returned to the grainy image of the care home stalker and the suspicious male volunteer. ‘Do you think Maryanne will be able to recognise the suspect, or assist with an e-fit or artist’s impression?’
‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’
The door to the examination suite had opened and Maryanne Hepworth emerged looking pale and tired. Charlie immediately held out her hand, introducing them both, but the woman declined it, instead hugging her arms around her body.
‘I’m sorry,’ Maryanne said. ‘I don’t really want to touch anyone or anything until I’ve had another shower.’
Charlie let her arm drop, smiling sympathetically. ‘That’s absolutely fine. I understand.’
‘Do you?’ the voice was not accusatory, nor was it patronising. The question was spoken not with pity or malice but as a statement of fact. Charlie realised in that moment that, as far as Maryanne Hepworth was concerned, she would never understand. She could never understand, and however hard she tried to put herself in Maryanne’s shoes, it would never be enough.
‘You’re right. I don’t,’ she said quietly. ‘But I do understand what it’s like to be a victim, and I know what it’s like to see the man concerned get away without punishment. I want to make sure that doesn’t happen to you.’
She looked up to see the woman staring directly at her. She could not know that Charlie had watched, helpless, as her brother had drowned right in front of her eyes during a childhood boat-trip out in a stormy sea. She couldn’t know that the drunken captain, responsible for the shoddy condition of the boat in which they sat and the lack of life jackets, had also died, therefore abdicating himself from all lawful responsibility. She couldn’t know, but as their eyes connected it was if Maryanne Hepworth could read her pain and accepted the truth of her statement.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t helped you though, have I?’ the voice was factual again. ‘I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. And I washed every bit of the man away.’ She stared past Charlie at a spot high on the wall. ‘I always wondered what I would do in these sorts of circumstances. I’ve listened to the news, to stories of historic sex abuse and to the more recent allegations of rape against Harvey Weinstein and others, and I couldn’t understand why many of the women, and some men, didn’t come forward. Now I know why they didn’t. Because when it happens, you have no idea how you are going to react.’ She tore her gaze away from the distant spot and refocused on Charlie and Hunter, moving from one to the other as she spoke.
‘I always thought of myself as a strong, sensible woman. I hold down a good job. I am independent and I’ve worked hard to buy my own flat, but when it came to it I was completely paralysed with terror. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t try to escape. I couldn’t even move. I saw the knife and I froze. He raped me and I just lay there and let it happen. I was numb with fear. Then, afterwards, all I did was ask him to go. Can you believe that? I asked him politely not to kill me and I asked him to go.’
She frowned as if trying to evaluate her own actions.
‘You see, I thought I was going to die. I believed I was going to die and all I kept thinking was: keep absolutely still and the danger will go away. Do whatever he says and the danger will go away. Keep quiet and the danger will go away. But it didn’t go away, at least not until he was ready to go away.
‘Afterwards, my mind went blank. He might have physically left, but he may as well have remained, because he was still there, covering my skin, in my body, in my mouth, invading every part of me and my home.’ She looked across to the room where her sister sat and her voice broke. ‘I couldn’t even phone my sister. Not for a long time. I was too ashamed. Not of what had happened, but the fact that I had let it happen.’
Charlie went to speak but closed her mouth again instead, as Maryanne continued.
‘I was frightened that you wouldn’t believe me because I didn’t fight back. I was frightened of what a judge would say. What a jury would think. Would they have the same opinion as I had about the women who had supposedly let it happen?’
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
‘I know now, already, that it wasn’t my fault. You don’t need to tell me. I know. But I still worry what my mother will say? What my grandmother will say? She only left me two days ago.’ Maryanne glanced across towards her sister’s location again. ‘Thank God she wasn’t still here.’
She took another deep breath and straightened her shoulders. ‘So yes, I am willing to assist with an e-fit or an artist’s impression. I heard what you asked.’ She trained her eyes solely on Charlie. ‘It was very dark and I’m not sure that I would recognise him again, but I will try. I don’t know whether his name is actually Thomas, like he said or whether he really believes that I am Catherine. And I hope and pray that he doesn’t try to carry out his threat to return for me.
‘But even in the darkness I saw the way he stared at me, and I heard the way he spoke and told me he loved me. That memory will stay with me forever. It will remain with me even if he is in prison, but, at least if he is locked away, I will know that I have some freedom.’
She looked across at Hunter, obviously deferring to him now as the senior officer.
‘So I will do everything in my power to help you get him and put him away. Because I know I will never ever feel safe again, even in my own home, until he is caught.’
10
‘Dad, what the hell do you think you’re doing in my bed?’
Emma squeezed her body as far from her father as possible, pushing the duvet down further between them as a barrier.
Thomas rubbed his eyes and squinted at her, frowning as if trying to remember.
‘Don’t say you’re turning into a fucking pervert as well as everything else.’
She threw the words at him carelessly. Things were going from bad to worse and this was the last straw. It was unpleasant enough that she had to share a shoebox-size room with a grown man. There was no way she would tolerate sharing a bed.
‘I’m sorry. I think I just wanted to show you I still care,’ Thomas said weakly. He sat up on the side of the sofa bed, pulling his woolly hat off and running his fingers through his flat, greasy hair.
‘Well, that’s a funny way of showing it,’ she spat back. ‘Maybe next time you can keep out of my fucking bed and show me you care, like most normal fathers do; by going out to work and earning enough money to get us out of this shithole.’
She ran her eyes around their living space, what there was of it. It was impossible to keep it clean with the mishmash of furniture they had and with unpacked boxes still stacked up in every available space. Last evening, after their spat, she’d remained in her friend, Kelly’s room until late, not wanting to deal any further with her father’s manic behaviour or return to their depressing surroundings. Consequently, the dirty plates from her earlier meal were still stacked up, next to the flowers, in the sink. If she didn’t do them, no one would. Her father was incapable of even taking care of himself. There was no way he would step up to the mark and actually take care of her.
‘What would Mum say if she saw us now?’ She’d thrown this question out at him in the past. Usually just the mention of her mother brought him back to some semblance of lucidity, but after yesterday’s revelations, she was suddenly scared that even this last modicum of rationality was gone.
He swung round to face her, frowning in concentration. ‘She wouldn’t be happy. In fact, it would make her cry, so I can’t let her see us like this.’ His eyes swept the squalor of the room and he stood up, starting to pace around in what limited space remained between the boxes. ‘So, now she’s back, I’m going to get everything sorted out. You’ll see, Emma,’ he said earnestly. ‘I’m really going to try to get things right this time.’
‘Don’t give me that crap again.’ She threw her hands over her ears, not wanting to hear another word. She couldn’t even bear to look at his stupid, pathetic face when he talked like that. ‘Mum’s dead.
Catherine’s dead. Can’t you get that into your thick skull? She died a year ago today. Later on, probably on my own, unless you want to come, I’ll be taking flowers to her grave. Not that she even has a headstone yet. You haven’t even had the balls to go out to work and provide that for Mum.’
The angry words hung in the air as she struggled to get dressed out of his view, selecting an outfit from the pile of her clothes folded up on the arm of the sofa bed. How had things come to this? Her father wasn’t a bad man. He had tried. For years he had tried, but he just wasn’t capable. Maybe if the roles had been reversed, they would have managed. Her mother had been strong. Catherine would have coped with him being ill. She would have kept the family together. She’d had an inner strength, where Thomas was an empty shell.
Emma pulled a sweater over her head and looked across to where her father now stood motionless, staring out through a filthy window. His figure looked so forlorn, his shoulders sagging and his head bowed low, and for a moment she felt genuine sorrow. Just the spectacle of him looking so helpless had the power to provoke rage or pity in equal measures.
‘She’s not coming back. She’s never coming back, Dad.’
She turned away from him, her voice breaking.
‘But she is…’ His voice petered out even as he started to speak and she watched as he slumped down on his single bed, next to the window, and put his head in his hands. After a minute, in which they both stayed silently engrossed in their own thoughts, he reached across to retrieve his jacket from the floor. As he did so, the knife clattered out from its sleeve, falling from the tea towel and lying unwrapped on the lino. He paid no heed to it, fishing instead in the jacket pocket, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away from the blade. Even the sight of it horrified her, but at least it was clean. It obviously hadn’t been used.
