Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  Be My Girl

  A Dark Tides Thriller

  Tony Hutchinson

  Cheshire Cat Books Ltd

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Saturday – November 2012

  Breathe.

  The subconscious order flew around her body like a speeding white pinball. Downward pressure on her mouth pushed her head deeper into the pillow, her tongue frantically trying to escape the intrusive synthetic material that tasted new but with a hint of fresh sweat.

  Breathe.

  Her nose strained to fill bursting lungs, the short snorts only strengthening the pungent smell, a smell alien to her bedroom.

  Breathe.

  Disorientated, trying to compute the sudden surface from deep sleep, Kelly Jones’s terrified eyes blinked rapidly, fighting to focus in the dark.

  Breathe.

  The pressure…The aching lungs…The smell…

  Breathe.

  The street lamp sent a dull beam of light through the thin, unlined curtains and her eyes began to adjust.

  The hazy blur receded. Her vision returned.

  And then she saw them.

  The eyes staring back at her through the slits of a ski mask.

  Her hands shot out of the duvet, grabbing the wrist of the gloved hand on her mouth as she fought for air but the pressure on her mouth increased, forcing her head even deeper into the pillow. She thrashed her legs, arched her back, shook her head, lashed out with her arms; anything to break free, but the hand refused to budge.

  Then the blade appeared inches from her face.

  She froze, transfixed by the knife.

  His speech was controlled, the words spoken in a conversational tone without emotion or excitement.

  ‘Do what I say and I won’t hurt you.’

  Her body stiffened, rigor mortis like, and her bladder sent a steady trickle of urine on to the white cotton sheet.

  Friday – February 2013

  Under the fluorescent glow of the tubular light, Detective Chief Inspector Sam Parker swivelled her chair to face the computer and scanned the inbox of her emails for the last time of the day. Her eyes were drawn to one in the middle. Those sent by the higher ranks always caught your attention. Sam looked away from the screen and smiled. Did her emails have that effect on junior officers? She had never thought about it before, but yes, they probably did. Not that she considered herself any different to the person she was in the summer of 2001 when she first collected her uniform.

  The cursor hovered over the message from the Assistant Chief Constable and she clicked it open.

  From: Trevor Stewart

  To: Sam Parker

  Subject: Undetected Rape

  Sam

  I am a little concerned that we still have an undetected intruder stranger rape from November.

  I am sure that the CID at Seaton St George has done a thorough job, but I would feel reassured if you and your team had a look at it.

  I want you to conduct a review. We can talk resources and terms of reference on Monday. Meanwhile, I have arranged for copies of statements etc to be forwarded to your office.

  Enjoy your weekend.

  Trevor

  Sam Parker turned off the computer, grabbed her coat from the hat stand, and walked towards the door. 7pm. Most of the offices would be empty. Everyone home for the weekend, or at the pub, striving for some sort of work-life balance. Had she not been so tired, she would have stayed another couple of hours doing paperwork. There was always something to do and she hadn’t anything to rush home for. Not these days.

  The desk phone rang. She hesitated. Answer it? Or keep on walking?

  ‘Sam Parker.’

  ‘Sam. It’s Trevor Stewart.’

  Shit! Should have kept walking.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you. I’ll pop along.’

  ‘Yes, okay. No problem.’

  Now what? Another one in no hurry to leave, his rented flat and take-away all he had to look forward to; wife and teenage kids living hundreds of miles away, refusing to traipse around the country as he climbs the promotion ladder. ‘Butterfly cops’ Ed Whelan called them – landing in one force before flying off to the next.

  ‘Sam. How’s things?’ he said, walking into her office.

  Had she only ever spoken to him on the phone, Trevor Stewart would look as she imagined. The deep, booming voice fit perfectly in the barrel-chested 6’ frame.

  ‘Fine. I’ve just read your email.’

  ‘You look tired. You should try sleeping when you go to bed.’

  She maintained eye contact but didn’t take the bait, her teeth and lips clamped together. Slime-ball.

  He dropped into a chair.

  Does he have to sit with his legs so far apart?

  Trevor Stewart ran his fingers through his sandy hair and smiled at her.

  ‘You’ve seen my email? Good. We don’t want stranger rapes going undetected. It’s a bad news story and if we don’t sort it, then it’s bad news for everybody involved in the investigation. Gives the impression we don’t know what we’re doing. Three months old. It needs sorting as a priority. We both know he could do another one.’

  Sam didn’t respond, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘Detecting jobs like this look good on your CV, too. Never does future promotion chances any harm.’

  His eyes locked on hers, his voice, quieter, conveyed just a hint of menace. ‘But they need detecting fast and I’m not convinced the CID at Seaton have done all they could.’

  That’s not how your email read, Sam thought. Another police politician – cover your back in writing while saying something else in private. She knew how the game was played, what the stakes were.

  ‘Ed Whelan and myself will look at it on Monday.’

  ‘Good. I’m sure with your experience you’ll give it a fresh coat of looking at.’ He stood up and checked the creases in his trousers. ‘I don’t want to keep you. We’ll speak Monday. I have every faith in you… but we need a result Sam…and quickly.’

  He turned around when he reached the door. ‘Let me know if you change your mind about that drink.’

  Dream on. Still, she needed to be careful. Trevor Stewart had formed a friendship with a Detective Chief Inspector who made no secret of the fact that he wanted Sam’s job.

  Through the glass exit doors she could see the fine rain falling, a mist-like vapour highlighted by the orange street lights of the car park. She pulled up the collar of her coat, took a deep brea
th, and braced herself to get cold and wet.

  Weekends were always the worst.

  At least the review into the rape would occupy her thoughts until the next job came in and in Sam Parker’s world, the next job meant murder.

  Sam pulled on to the driveway of her four-bedroom detached house. A number of the lights were on thanks to the ingenuity of plug-in timers. She wasn’t fooled by the glow. There would be nobody inside, the house as empty as she was. There would be no easy-going conversation with Tristram, no glass of wine and the inevitable discussion around their shared passion for Burgundy. Tristram had introduced Sam to the joys of the region’s acclaimed reds and was always quoting Harry Waugh, the renowned wine merchant and writer… ‘The first duty of wine is to be red, the second to be a burgundy’.

  These days, none of life’s pleasures seemed to matter.

  Saturday

  ‘Of course all men are rapists. They have constant sexual urges that they need to satisfy. If they cannot satisfy them with a consenting woman, then they will rape.’

  Sitting at the kitchen table, his mouth poised around a cold slice of last night’s left-over chilli chicken pizza, he stared at the retro Roberts radio on the windowsill, shaking his head.

  Where did the producers of these breakfast radio shows find these women?

  ‘What you need to understand is that if men cannot get the sexual gratification they need, then they will just take what they think is rightfully theirs. Masturbation is no substitution for penetration.’

  Letting her words wash over him, he gazed at the ever-growing mountain of pots in the sink, transfixed like a schoolboy staring out of the classroom window on a summer’s day. The mugs at the bottom of the mound were now, in all probability, growing their own penicillin; the oven to the left of the sink could double as a photographer’s dark room, the encrusted grime on the glass door blocking all incoming light.

  As he picked another slice of pizza from the cardboard box, its end drooping as he held the crust between his thumb and index finger, the rising crescendo of the educated and distinctively plummy voice snapped his attention back to the radio.

  ‘Fathers…sons…brothers…husbands…nephews. Every single one of them is capable of rape. The sooner women wake up to the fact that the genteel man next door, the smiling guy on the bus or train, the eloquent charmer in the wine bar, are all potential rapists, the safer they will be. Men use sex to dominate, but rape is not just about domination. It’s about dominating when they feel the urge to do so. Their needs are all that matter. All men are rapists in waiting. All men are monsters.’

  He tried to picture this woman. Was she one of those professor types? A sour-faced academic with a hatred of men and point to prove? Must be. Probably took her months to come up with that masturbation sound bite. He could see her sitting by the studio microphone, lip curling as she talked about men, despising them but emulating them in the way she dressed…trousers or jeans, brown brogues and baggy T-shirt, and the obligatory short hair and no make-up.

  Grabbing the table with both hands, he pushed the chair away from it with his backside and leaped across the floor, the cold on his bare feet feeling as if the outside frost had settled on the terracotta tiles. He grabbed the on-off knob and shut her up with one hard twist. What the fuck did she know? So what if she’d interviewed all those victims. Had she spoken to any so-called rapists? No chance. How did she know what motivated them, what motivated him?

  Grabbing the loose-hanging belt on his white, towelled dressing gown, he pulled both ends hard and fast, just a little too tight around his stomach. Stupid cow! Rooted to the spot, he replayed her outburst and asked himself if he was a monster. Inhaling slowly, he decided that depended on your viewpoint. How can I be a monster? I’m gentle with them. I treat them well. Even ask if they’ve enjoyed it. The muscles in his face relaxed into an ever widening smile, the tightness leaving his arms and shoulders. Loosening the belt, he leaned backwards against the kitchen bench. He planned everything so meticulously; from the moment he selected a woman to making sure he didn’t get caught. And domination? What was that about? It wasn’t about domination to him.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he bolted into his bedroom. Yanking open his bedside drawer, he dropped on to the bed, sitting upright, staring at the photographs on the driving licences. Licking his dry lips, he looked at each of them, memories flooding from the past and crashing into the present. This wasn’t the time to handle the items but, as his breathing slowed, he knew no amount of time would dim the memory of what each licence meant.

  Danielle Banks’s gloved hand pushed open the door into the town-centre coffee shop. Her dark brown eyes quickly scanned the customers, anxiously looking for her mother’s face. She’d already stressed in a text that morning she didn’t have much time. Glancing at her TAG Heuer watch, a Christmas present from her parents, she could see her mother was already 10 minutes late. Danielle was late too - but she was working and had an excuse.

  Her mother sauntered in, arms filled with designer shopping bags, the ceiling lights bouncing off her bleached blonde hair. Without waiting for a greeting, Danielle barked: ‘Mother! I told you I haven’t got long.’

  ‘Oh, Danielle.’ Donna Banks stretched out her daughter’s name as she spoke. ‘What’s the rush? Sit down. I’ll get the coffees.’

  ‘The rush is I’ve got to be back at work in 20 minutes.’ Danielle knew her mother would be deaf to the agitation in her voice.

  Donna placed her bags on the light oak table and slowly walked over to the counter, her black Vivienne Westwood woollen coat following the movement of her hips. Always dressed in designer clothes, Donna’s toned body still slid easily into a size 10.

  By the time she returned with the coffees, Danielle’s right foot was tapping up and down like the drummer in a rock band.

  ‘So what’s so important that it couldn’t wait?’ Danielle asked, picking up her skinny latte.

  ‘Nothing’s ‘so important’ as you put it. I was in town and thought it would be nice to have a coffee. I haven’t seen you for ages. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. It’s just busy at work and tonight we’re stocktaking.’

  Leaning across the table, Donna, her dark mascara framing her pale azure eyes, stared at Danielle and said: ‘Ditch the job. Work for your father.’

  Danielle slammed the tall coffee cup on the table. Here we go again.

  ‘Mother, I’m not working in a bloody scrap-yard! We’ve had this conversation a million times. I didn’t get a degree in fashion to work all day in rigger boots.’

  Donna pointed her right index finger directly at her daughter’s face. ‘And we didn’t put you through university to waste your time working in a clothes shop for the minimum wage.’

  Danielle used a napkin to dab at the foamy coffee she had splashed on the table.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got time for this. I’m happy. Okay?’

  ‘Happy? How the hell can you be happy?’

  Donna rubbed her face, stared at Danielle and then rested her chin in her hands. ‘We worry. Your dad worries. I worry. Especially because you live alone. What was the rush to get your own place after you split with that bastard?’

  ‘Oh Mum,’ Danielle sighed, back in her own Groundhog Day. ‘We’ve had this conversation. I’m 25. I want some independence.’

  ‘And why you didn’t go to the police after he attacked you is beyond me.’

  ‘I didn’t want all the hassle,’ Danielle said. ‘I’ve moved on. He was a mistake. I’ve learned from it.’

  ‘Yes but has he? Has he? I should’ve let your father have him sorted out. And what the hell are your so-called mates doing letting him know your new address? Are they stupid?’

  Donna rummaged in her handbag for her cigarettes then remembered…another victory for the health brigade.

  Danielle looked at her mother and softened her tone, more tactic than affection.

  ‘He won’t come round. He’s too scared of Dad.’


  ‘We just worry, Dan.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m fine.’

  Danielle gulped down her coffee and stood up.

  ‘Look I have to go now mum. Stop worrying. I’ll come and see you and dad soon.’ She leaned forward, kissed her mother on the cheek, and walked away.

  ‘Put some make-up on, Dan. You look so pasty,’ Donna shouted as Danielle’s long legs, wrapped in thick chocolate-brown leggings, danced past customers queuing for their coffees.

  Danielle glanced at her reflection in the coffee shop window as she walked out on to the street. Was she pasty? No, that was her natural complexion. Somehow, after splitting with Duncan, she just didn’t want to spend time and effort on looking good. The last thing she wanted at this point in her life was another relationship. If dressing down stopped her getting attention, that suited her just fine.

  Detective Sergeant Ed Whelan knocked on the door of the three-bedroom semi.

  ‘Ed.’ His sister-in-law Jeannie smiled and stepped to the side of the door.

  ‘I should have called first.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek. ‘Come in, come in.’

  Ed put the small box wrapped in silver ‘Happy Birthday’ paper on the kitchen table. ‘Just a little something… how’s things?’