by Ian Mayfield
‘No.’
‘Nothing particular she said made you think she might be in trouble?’
‘Nope.’
‘So that was the first you knew of it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Just asked could she hole up there.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘She was in a right old state. Her boyfriend - ’
‘Luke Benton.’
‘Yeah, the one whose brother she babysits. This Nazi’d told her to help him firebomb their house. She tried to get out of it, but she didn’t know how without giving herself away. In the end, apparently, he was waiting outside in a van with some other bloke when she brought the kid home.’
That was how they’d got the cross onto the lawn, Sophia thought. Simple as that. A thumping great van no-one had seen. Three cheers for Neighbourhood Watch. She exchanged a glance with Marie, who returned at that moment with a tray bearing four teas in paper cups.
‘He gave her these devices,’ Meredith went on, ‘right in front of the kid, if you please. All rigged up and ready to blow. Once she left she was supposed to give it five minutes, then ring Mrs Benton from a payphone and warn her to get out. Course by then the fire’d already started. Then cop cars started blaring everywhere, she got spooked and legged it.’
‘So you reckon she swallowed it?’ DC Carter put in scornfully. ‘This crap about the Bentons?’
‘Immigrant bashing, wasn’t it? Fashionable. People like the BNP, why wouldn’t they want to do something like that?’
‘Come on, Phil,’ Carter insisted. ‘A blind moron wouldn’t fall for it. All the black families in London, target just happens to be her boyfriend’s mum? She’d be off out of it like a shot.’
‘She’s fucking sixteen!’ Meredith snapped. ‘How’s she supposed to know what to do?’
Sophia, with a warning glance at Carter not to interrupt again – though she had to admit he had a point – passed Meredith two sugar sachets and watched him stir them into his tea. ‘All right, Philip,’ she said, the stern edge gone suddenly from her voice. ‘We’ve established she took refuge with you. What then?’
‘When?’
‘While she was at the squat. Any strangers hanging around? Suspicious happenings?’
‘It’s an East End estate,’ Meredith said. ‘How bloody suspicious d’you want?’ Her blue eyes held his gaze. He gave in. He said, ‘Nothing happened that I know of.’
‘Until this.’ She tapped the photograph.
He thought carefully and shrugged. ‘Pretty much what you said. Debbie stayed in the front room watching DVDs. Then we came back and found that stuff.’
‘But no Debbie?’
‘She was gone.’
‘You checked everywhere?’
He glared. ‘Bet you fucking did.’
‘We found her clothes.’
‘Clothes, but no Debbie.’ He nodded grimly. ‘Yeah, that’s what made me finally brick it. I thought fuck, I’m not staying round here. Packed up my stuff and legged it.’
‘You didn’t bother to warn Billy and Jayne?’
‘Fuck, no.’ Meredith gave her a sarcastic leer. ‘I presume they got the message.’
‘When was this?’
‘When I got back? About half seven.’
‘Debbie’s other things,’ Marie interrupted. ‘Were any of them gone?’
‘I didn’t stop to take a fucking inventory.’
‘But you did stop to go through her purse and help yourself to her cashpoint card?’
‘No comment.’
‘Right.’ Sophia opened her notebook. ‘These friends of yours. We’ll need to try and track them down if we can.’
‘Why?’
‘Debbie might have found out where they are, be with them.’
‘No chance.’
‘Billy Scofield we know. This Jayne, what’s her surname?’
‘Mansfield.’
She looked at him.
‘Seriously,’ Meredith said, and turned his attention back to the plaster, which now seemed even less willing to continue adhering to his hand.
‘And Dermot?’
He looked genuinely surprised. ‘He ain’t been around for weeks. Made up with his parents, buggered off back home to Manchester.’
‘Surname?’ Sophia was careful to convey her irritation at having to prompt him again.
‘McCormack.’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Marie writing it down. ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’
‘Not particularly. Such as?’
‘That plaster. Cut yourself, did you?’
‘Broken bottle. Skipping.’
‘Must have bled quite a lot.’
‘A bit, yeah.’ He looked suffocated again.
‘Where was this skip?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘Or maybe you got the injury some other way. Let’s say, for example, cutting free a body tied to a bed?’
‘No comment,’ Meredith said, and the only other thing he said after that was ‘yes’ when Sophia asked him if he would consent to them taking a cheek swab.
‘Next right,’ Larissa Stephenson said, slipping the street atlas back onto the dashboard shelf. ‘Remind me why we’re here again.’
Jeff Wetherby fought an irrational disappointment. Lucky’s directions had steered them through the centre of Rye, out onto the Hastings road. Remembering a happy family holiday here long ago, he stole a wistful glance to where a windmill stood at the edge of low, flat pastureland that, centuries before, had been under the sea. Next time he had a free day, and if ever he could persuade some pleasant company, he must find time to revisit properly this beautiful corner of Sussex.
Not that Lucky wasn’t good company, but they had a job to do and anyway, she wasn’t who he had in mind. But he liked her enthusiasm, her earnest attentiveness, her effortless ability to fill gaps in conversation when he, taciturn, was at a loss. She lacked the cold vanity so often associated with the gift of exquisite beauty.
‘That sergeant I went to see yesterday at Ealing,’ he told her. ‘One of his mates - a DS Nish - overheard us talking and came up with a case that might fit, an unsolved rape when he was at Sutton five years ago. Unfortunately he was only on the periphery, and the DI in charge has since died. Which leaves us with the case file - I trust you found time to read it - and an interview with the victim, who now lives down here and who unlike most of the other women is actually willing to talk to us.’ He’d found the street, and was now cruising past a row of neat, new yellow brick houses with white wooden shutters.
‘Number 27,’ Lucky said, pointing.
Jeff parked in front of an open lawn with carefully tended flowerbeds and a young apple tree. They crammed into a tiny enclosed porch and rang the bell. A man answered. He had on a green cardigan over a grubby blue Fred Perry shirt and jeans. ‘Mr Beckett?’ Jeff said, showing his warrant card. ‘Hello. We’re from Croydon police. To talk to your wife.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The man frowned, then smiled politely and stepped back. ‘Come in. She said she was expecting you. Do please excuse the attire,’ he added, spreading his arms self-consciously. ‘Working from home today.’
They stepped into the cool, quiet hall of a home as immaculately tidy as only other people’s houses ever are. A child gate barred the way upstairs, and through a half-open door they glimpsed a box of brightly-coloured toys. The room Mr Beckett led them into was dominated by a Yamaha grand piano in gleaming ebony, making it seem tiny. There were music stands, a bookcase filled with loose and bound sheet music and tuition books, and more music spread crisply across the furniture. A cello case stood propped in a corner. On the walls were framed certificates and photographs of a pretty, smiling girl with long brown hair.
The subject of the photographs sat at a table between the piano and the French windows, immersed in writing what appeared to be a score. Jeff noticed she was several years older than the most r
ecent of the photographs. She didn’t react to their entrance until her husband called her name, when she nodded and tilted her head to one side, as though listening to something only she could hear. She jotted on the stave paper, laid down her pen and looked up.
Jeff said, ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Beckett. I’m Jeff Wetherby, this is Luck- Sorry, er... PC Stephenson.’
‘Larissa,’ Lucky said, smiling nervously. Jeff stole an embarrassed glance at her.
Miranda Beckett, née Hargreaves, turned to face them, sliding towards the edge of her chair. Her husband hovered. She said, ‘Do you mind if we talk in here? I feel more relaxed surrounded by music.’
‘Whatever’s most comfortable,’ Jeff said.
‘Do find something to sit on.’ She waved a long, willowy arm. ‘There are some chairs under that lot somewhere.’
Shifting some of the music, Jeff unearthed one and carried it over to the table. Lucky took the piano stool.
‘Thanks for agreeing to talk to us, Mrs Beckett. It must be the last thing you want to recall.’
‘I’ll manage,’ she said, scrutinising Jeff with hazel eyes. ‘Though I would have expected another female officer.’
He smiled apologetically.
Mr Beckett was still hovering. He said, ‘Would you like me to stay, darling?’
‘Yes, please.’ She flashed him a desperate smile. ‘Only do you mind fetching tea for us first? I’m sure the officers must be a bit parched after the drive down.’
‘Sure.’ Mr Beckett nodded and went out.
‘Nice feller,’ Jeff chatted. ‘How long you been married?’
His wife smiled proudly. ‘Three years.’
‘Got kids, I see.’
‘Our daughter,’ she said. ‘Joely. She’s fourteen months. Ewan just put her down for her nap, so your timing’s perfect.’
Jeff and Lucky smiled.
‘So,’ Miranda Beckett said, with a sigh that trembled faintly. ‘What can I tell you?’
‘Would you prefer to wait till your husband comes back?’ Lucky asked.
Mrs Beckett shook her head. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Jeff said, ‘We’d like to go back with you over the night of - ’
She interrupted him. ‘The night I was raped.’
‘If you can.’ His face betrayed nothing except - he hoped - reassurance. ‘Normally we wouldn’t trouble you after all this time, as our boss explained on the phone, but the circumstances are exceptional.’
‘I understand. You think they might have... other women.’
He opened his briefcase and took out the faded copy of Miranda Hargreaves’s witness statement. He scowled at it. ‘You were at home in the shared house where you were living...’
‘2 Langley Park Road,’ Mrs Beckett said, swallowing hard.
‘...when you heard noises in the vacant room next to yours.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Look, do you mind if I try and tell it in my own words? In therapy they teach you that; if you can talk about what happened to you it it’s one stage of the battle won.’
Jeff opened his mouth, but it was Lucky who said, rather loudly he thought, ‘No. Please go ahead.’ He glared at her, but neither she nor Mrs Beckett noticed.
‘It was late,’ Mrs Beckett said. ‘I was in my room reading. That room was empty at the time, at least as far as I knew. I just assumed it had been let and they were moving in.’
Lucky said, puzzled, ‘In your statement you said it was half past ten at night.’
‘You’ve obviously never lived in a house share,’ Mrs Beckett smiled. ‘People move in and out at all sorts of ungodly hours.’ Her expression clouded. ‘I say it was the next room; really it was the same, one big room, but there was a folding wooden partition dividing it in two. Anyway, they... they tried to get it open. I could hear them moving furniture out of the way and then they started rattling it.’ She hugged herself and began rubbing her upper arms, although it wasn’t cold. ‘Stupid of me, I called out that this was a private room on the other side, and they stopped.’
‘Stopped?’
Mrs Beckett took a breath. ‘For a while. Then I could hear them whispering.’
‘There were two of them?’ Jeff said.
‘I was frightened, but I didn’t cry out because I didn’t know if anyone else was home. One of them went out into the hall and started banging on my door. I’d locked it. But... um...’
For a moment it seemed she couldn’t go on. Lucky stirred as if to rise. The door opened and Mr Beckett reappeared with tea, milk and sugar on a tray, which he set down on the table. From an unnoticed corner by the French windows he extracted a stool and sat on it beside his wife.
‘Thanks. Larissa,’ Jeff said, motioning to the tea. ‘Could you...?’
Nodding, Lucky got up and poured Miranda Beckett a cup. The lid of the pot rattled. Belatedly, Mr Beckett recovered what he called ‘my manners’ and served tea to Lucky, Jeff and himself. ‘Everything OK, darling?’ he murmured to his wife, sitting down again and taking her hand.
Jeff said, ‘Are you all right to go on, Mrs Beckett?’
She nodded jerkily. ‘I’ve forgotten where...’
‘The banging on your door,’ he reminded her gently, trying to make it sound as neutral as possible.
‘Yes.’ She nodded again. ‘They stopped. The other... person... had got the divider part way open - about a foot - and called him back. Then they both squeezed through.’
‘Were you doing anything in the meantime?’ Lucky asked.
‘Trying to find my key to unlock the door and get out of there,’ Mrs Beckett retorted, as if this were obvious. ‘But I couldn’t get my bag open, I was too panicky. Then they were on me.’ She crowded close to her husband, who gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
Jeff nodded carefully and waited.
‘Two of them, yes,’ she said, belatedly answering his earlier question. ‘One grabbed hold of me and pinned my arms while the other one shone his torch around.’
‘It was dark?’ Lucky asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Only that was one of the things we weren’t clear about.’
‘I had the light on, but one of them turned it off as soon as he was in the room. Anyway - ‘
Lucky was about to ask another question, but her eye caught Jeff’s warning glance and she subsided.
Mrs Beckett said urgently, ‘I struggled. Don’t think I didn’t struggle, scream. It didn’t do any good. The other one, the one with the torch, he came and took over, it was one of those heavy rubber torches, and he just hit me with it till I stopped. Then he threw me on the bed and said something like, “That’s her sorted. She’s all yours.”’ A sob escaped her and her husband, his eyes sharing some of her pain and anger, put his arms round her. She blinked, deliberately, and said, ‘He was egging the other one on - the man who’d grabbed me first. I don’t think he wanted to... he was hesitating. His friend kept on at him - he was saying, “Go on, it’s easy,” and getting him to...’ She had to stop again, blushing a terrible scarlet. She rummaged on the table for a box of tissues half-hidden under some blank stave paper, grabbed a handful and covered her face, dabbing away tears. Jeff waited. Finally she looked up again, staring past him into space. ‘Getting him to take my... clothes off.’ She all but swallowed the words.
‘It’s OK,’ her husband whispered.
‘The first man still wouldn’t do anything,’ she went on. ‘Until the other one got fed up and got me to tell him where my key was. He went out of the room, I assume to look for more pickings.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Some chance, in a place like that.’
Jeff nodded neutrally.
‘Well, apparently all the first man was waiting for was no-one watching him,’ Miranda Beckett continued, anger fighting now through the tears. ‘Because that’s when he did it. Raped me.’
‘Just him on his own?’ Jeff asked.
‘Just him,’ she snarled back, ‘would have been enough.’ She turned to Lucky, who at once looked do
wn. ‘The other one came back just as he was... ejaculating.’ The word was bitten off again. ‘He hit the roof. I thought he was going to kill his friend - and me. He yelled out, “You stupid bastard - don’t you know they can get your DNA from that. It’s just like a fingerprint.” The first... He said, “I thought you wanted me to.” The other man said, and I remember this very, very vividly, “Stick anything you like up her, but not your knob.” I’ll tell you why I remember it vividly, shall I?’
She glared at Jeff, who again nodded.
‘I remember it,’ she said, crying without restraint now, ‘because he found my flute and...’
This time, it seemed, she really couldn’t go on. There was no need. Jeff and Lucky waited while Miranda Beckett fought back the nausea, and wept, doubled up, while her husband clasped her heaving shoulders helplessly.
When she’d recovered, Jeff levelled his eyes at her.
‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘we wouldn’t’ve bothered you with this again if we didn’t think it was totally necessary.’
‘I wouldn’t wish what happened to me on my worst enemy,’ she said. ‘If it helps you catch them, even after so long...’
‘I hope so,’ he agreed. ‘D’you mind if I ask you one or two more questions? Not intimate,’ he added hastily, seeing her blanch.
‘Ask away.’ She poured herself more tea with unsteady hands.
‘Now you probably remember helping a police artist come up with some sketches.’
‘I told the detectives at the time I wasn’t sure. I only caught a glimpse of their faces for a moment before the light went off.’ She set her tea down quickly as she realised what he was saying. ‘You want me to take another look, don’t you?’
As he’d feared, it was a pointless exercise. Her freely admitted flight of imagination bore even less resemblance to her darkened memories, five years later. He moved on. ‘You were quite clear on a couple of points. The second man - the one who acted like he was in charge, the one who went out of the room: you told DI Arnold he was tall?’
‘Very tall,’ she agreed, ‘and thin.’
He nodded. ‘And both quite young, you reckoned?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said bitterly. ‘Younger than me. Still at school, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
