‘Aren’t we always?’ Sam said, keeping her eyes ahead. ‘And failure is not an option.’
Ed turned to face her. ‘Yep. Trevor Stewart made that abundantly clear.’
‘And as ever, the buck stops with me,’ Sam grimaced.
‘Pressures of rank. Think of the pension,’ Ed smiled.
There was nothing obvious to suggest the location of the properties was paramount in the rapist’s selection process.
The loud, ticking clock was approaching 4pm when Dave Johnson walked into Sam’s office.
‘In the last 25 minutes we’ve had calls from two women on the Gull Estate. Each has recently had a window broken and both of them live alone.’
‘Shit,’ said Sam quietly. ‘We were right. Any more details Dave?’
‘I’ve sent a crew to each house. Kirsty Sneddon had her window re-glazed that same night. Emily Sharpe had her window repaired the day after.’
‘Ages?’ Ed asked.
‘Can’t remember off the top of my head, but early to mid-20s. I’ll know more once the detectives get back to me.’
‘Keep us posted. Thanks,’ Sam said.
Ed was first to break the silence.
‘Two more broken windows. Neither of the women attacked, or you would’ve expected them to have said something when they called in. Or not called in at all.’
‘Yeah, I don’t doubt that,’ Sam nodded in agreement. ‘These latest girls, what are their names again?’
Ed looked at his notes. ‘Emily Sharpe. Kirsty Sneddon.’
‘I’ve no doubt neither Kirsty or Emily were raped,’ Sam said.
Pausing, she leaned back in the black leather captain’s chair, her weight causing it to recline slightly. Her voice was noticeably quieter when she spoke again.
‘What I do think, though, is that we might have two unreported rapes. We may have two very frightened young women out there, and somehow we’ve got to get a message to them that it is okay to come to us. That we want to help them.’
Chapter Fifteen
Amber Dalton was standing barefoot, slicing fruit on her kitchen bench as the interview with DCI Parker was broadcast over her laptop. The knife narrowly missed her foot as it crashed to the floor. Amber grabbed the bench with both hands, knocking over the small white breakfast bowl. Feeling the sobs welling up from deep inside, she dropped to the floor, back against one of the units, knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Her chest heaved and shoulders shook as she breathed with jerky gasps. Her hands clenched into tight fists as she let out a howl. Pummelling her head, she was oblivious to the juice from the freshly cut pineapple dripping slowly and rhythmically from the bench on to her blonde hair.
‘Worthless! Dirty! Why didn’t you fight back? Why did you let him touch you? Let him have you? You’re better off dead. Why haven’t the police caught him?’
The stinging in her hands stopped her hitting herself and her arms flopped by her sides. She felt no pain on her head, but knew it would come later. She wanted to confide in someone, but who? She had no family in the North East, having moved to take up a new position in local government last October. She had become friends with a couple of girls in the office but wasn’t close enough to tell them about ‘him’. Even if they were best friends, she wasn’t convinced she would have said anything. She couldn’t even face telling her mother. She was dealing with it alone. Alone. Like she was when ‘he’ got into her home.
In the three weeks since the attack, she had barely left the house, only to the supermarket for essentials and the doctor’s surgery. Out at 9am but back in with all the doors and windows locked an hour later.
Under the impression she was depressed, her GP had no idea about the cause; she hadn’t disclosed the rape, instead blaming her anxiety on the new job in a new area. Amber had no idea when she would be able to return to work. Her doctor had recently given her another sick note for two weeks, but she couldn’t think that far ahead. Getting through each day was all she could focus on at the moment.
The fist of the devil had punched through her body, and turned her inside out. Her world had changed forever. She was now living in a surreal vacuum, surrounded by normality, but not embraced by it. Sleeping during the day, she fidgeted in the armchair all night, every lamp, ceiling and wall light ablaze in every room, ensuring that darkness never invaded her surroundings.
End it, Amber. Just end it.
He knows where you live, what it’s like to have you. What if he wants you again?
Was it him on the phone? Has he got your number?
The call from an unknown number had come three days after the rape. No one ever called her apart from her mother; everyone else sent texts or used social network sites.
She remembered staring at the ringing, vibrating phone, her body shaking, biting her bottom lip until she drew blood. She knew it was ‘him’. She hurled the mobile across the room. The back flew off as it hit the wall, narrowly missing the TV, and the battery skidded across the floor. It was still there, mocking her to pick it up and put the battery back in.
She knew nothing about ‘him’ other than he got into her home, carried a knife, wore a mask and raped her.
Her routine of walking in well-lit streets, sticking to populated areas at night, using licensed taxis, never having one night stands… none of it had protected her in the one place she should have been safest.
Terry Crowther didn’t work Mondays. It was the quietest night of the week in the world of pizza deliveries. Crushing the white polystyrene chip tray, he threw it on to the kitchen bench and walked into the bedroom to search for his swimming trunks.
Swimming had become an escape from the taunts; most of the bullies couldn’t swim. Now, of course, it wasn’t just about the swimming. It provided the opportunity to ogle women wearing not very much.
If his luck was in, and it had to change sometime, he might find one who didn’t have a pound coin for a locker. If he was really lucky, and she put her clothes in without locking it, he might get the chance to steal a pair of knickers.
Duncan Todd was out of work again. He had been for a run around the Conifers Estate that morning before returning home and watching mindless daytime TV. He didn’t run for the pleasure. He ran to maintain his stamina so he could play football on a Sunday morning. Not that he played yesterday morning. He was too tired. He telephoned the coach and told him he was ill, but in reality, he was shattered.
After his run he sat through brain-numbing chat shows for almost two hours before deciding the Internet and porn sites would make better viewing.
Danielle had caught him one afternoon watching porn and gone ballistic. Now he could watch what the hell he wanted without fear of being interrupted. Knowing where Danielle lived was great news, not that there was any likelihood of them getting back together. She had made that abundantly clear, but he still harboured hope.
On Saturday night he had seen the pizza delivery guy at her door. Hiding in a doorway under the cover of darkness, he had watched her in those tight shorts chatting to him, no doubt flirting with him, giving him the ‘come on’. ‘Slag,’ he had said to himself. ‘You’ll fuckin’ get yours.’
When he ran past her house in the early hours of that Sunday morning, the house was in darkness.
Ed and Sam knew the 7pm debrief would take about an hour and a half. The numerous new lines of inquiry meant all the detectives would have a lot to contribute, each officer being asked to outline what they had done, what information they had gleaned. They would all play their part in piecing together the overall picture. Teamwork would bring them a result.
Dave Johnson had already started writing on the whiteboard with a black marker. The board was a focal point, a visual reference showing the names and addresses of the women who had been raped, as well as those who had their windows broken. Alongside each name was a photograph. The police photographic department had quickly printed the digital images of Danielle Banks, Kelly Jones, Kirsty Sneddon, Lauren Storey, Na
talie Robson, and Emily Sharpe.
‘Okay,’ Sam shouted, standing next to the whiteboard. ‘Let’s get started. Six young women, all living alone.’
Seeing the quizzical faces on some of the assembled detectives, she continued without pausing. ‘You heard me. Six! Another two have come forward reporting broken windows. Neither was attacked.’
She moved across the whiteboard pointing at each picture individually, naming the women as she did so.
‘They are all very similar in age, all in their 20s, ages ranging from 22 to 26. While they’re all white, they’re not similar in appearance. Our rapist is not attacking a group of women who look alike, so we can probably rule out that he’s attacking women who remind him of a previous girlfriend. Six girls: two blondes, three brunettes, and a redhead, heights ranging from Lauren, who is 5’3’, to Danielle at 5’9’. Natalie wore glasses, the others didn’t. These girls were targeted not because they had any physical similarities. They were targeted because they were in their mid-20s and because they lived alone.’
She sat on a desk at the front of the room and took a sip from a bottle of sparkling water.
‘I believe we may have at least two other rape victims out there. Finding them is now a major line of inquiry. Tomorrow, I’ll front another media appeal. This time I’m going to talk in a very general way about the crime of rape itself.’
She planned to talk about the effect rape has on its victims and how the police used officers who were specially trained in the investigation of sexual offences to interview them. She would say how some women found it difficult to report such a hateful crime to the police, but that without the bravery of these victims, the offender would never be caught. She would urge victims to find the courage to come forward.
‘I’ve got have another mobile from the Telecomms Department and tomorrow I’ll publicise that number. Anyone calling that number will know they will speak to me.’
Exchanges of information began flying around the room.
A seated detective spoke. ‘A cricket ball broke Emily’s window. She hung on to it. We’ve got it now. It’s been dusted and they’ve managed to get a partial print. It looks small so it’ll probably belongs to a kid or a woman. Emily picked it up off the floor so the print could even be hers. We’ve taken her prints for elimination.’
Dave Johnson interjected. ‘The other victims didn’t know how their windows were broken, although Kirsty thought one of the rocks from her rockery had been moved. Maybe that had been used to break her window.’
The sergeant in charge of the house-to-house team was next to speak.
‘A Mr Noble lives directly opposite Danielle. He’d been up most of the night in his front room, reading. He got out of bed about 1am and didn’t go back until 5.15am. He’s adamant he didn’t hear any vehicles during the time he was out of bed.’
‘Interesting,’ said Sam.
The debriefing highlighted none of the young women had had any unusual visitors in the weeks leading up to their attacks. None of them were known to each other. They didn’t go to the same sports clubs, pubs or restaurants.
Bev Summers, a detective who had undergone formal training in the investigation of sexual offences, raised her hand and said she had spent the best part of three hours with Danielle at her parents’ house.
‘One thing she did tell me was that she had a pizza delivered on the night of the attack. The pizza was from Romeo’s. The reason I mention it is that Danielle described this guy as a real creep, someone who makes her feel very uncomfortable. That night she shouted ‘what are you looking at?’ to him.’
Sam stood up. This sounded very interesting.
All eyes were on Bev Summers.
‘She also lost a white thong some time ago, and she’s now convinced he stole it. He was stood at the kitchen door with a pizza when she went back inside to get her purse. She was about to put some washing into the machine and the washing basket was near the back door. She remembers the thong being in the basket and she’s not seen it since.’
Ed spoke up. ‘Before we leave tonight, can we telephone each of our victims and ask if they’ve ever had a pizza delivered to their homes. If they have, ask where they ordered them from.’
Dave was writing it all down. He looked up. ‘There are a total of 13 sex offenders living on the Gull and Poplars estate.’
‘Let’s reduce that number to only include males aged between 17and 31,’ said Sam. ‘I believe our rapist will attack women approximately five years either side of his own age. The victims range in age from 22 to 26. That, and the fact that he has to climb through windows, suggests he’s reasonably young and fit.’
‘Okay,’ Dave said, glad of any lessening in the workload. He flicked through his notes and continued: ‘We’ve got a load of CCTV footage from local shops, and one private house. They use VHS tapes, which record on a continuous loop, so not only do the tapes get overused and produce pretty poor images, they record over everything every 24 hours. The tapes will only be of any use in the investigation into Danielle’s attack.’
‘The usual problems,’ Sam said.
Dave nodded. ‘We’ve been to the council’s CCTV control centre and asked to see all the relevant digital images.’
Seizing CCTV was easy. The skill came in deciding what the parameters would be, and which images, from which camera, should be viewed first. If Sam and Ed didn’t give this careful thought, they could find themselves lost in a mountain of CCTV footage which would take weeks, even months, to examine.
Ten minutes after the debriefing, Sam had some startling answers. Romeo’s had delivered to them all. Each described the delivery by a man in his early 20s with blond dirty hair, yellow teeth, and all said he would lewdly stare at them.
Emily Sharpe named him as Terry Crowther. She had gone to school with him.
‘Let’s do some background checks on Terry Crowther tomorrow,’ said Sam.
As everyone was leaving, she walked across to Ed. ‘Me and Bev are going for a drink. Fancy one?’
‘Would love to, but best not. Need to keep the bride happy.’
Chapter Sixteen
For two hours Terry Crowther swam in the pool. He saw a couple of tanned beauties, wearing their brightly coloured bikinis, but he was beginning to give up hope. From the water he saw three women chatting by the communal lockers, swimsuits on, but still dry. Good looking, in their early 20s, he watched them walk towards him and the pool. He climbed out of the water. His heart stopped for a fraction of a second, and then began beating faster. One of them had left her locker open. With short, quick steps, not wanting to slip over and attract attention, he went straight to it, walked past the open door and grabbed the pair of white knickers from on top of a pink towel. His stride pattern hadn’t altered as he continued walking into the gents’ toilets.
The soft lacy material excited him and it took all his effort to keep himself under control. Now wasn’t the time. He returned to the pool for two reasons; firstly, he needed to identify which of the three women owned the knickers to enhance his future pleasure, and secondly, if he left the pool after them, he would less likely be accused of theft.
He soon discovered ‘Lady Luck’ was on his side tonight. His prize belonged to the long-haired athletic blonde with a deep golden tan. He committed her image to memory for future use.
Twenty minutes later, he walked through the leisure centre reception area. No one asked him whether he had seen anything suspicious. He skipped out of the building like a schoolboy enjoying a private joke.
Sue had cooked Ed a beef stew with oven-crispy dumplings. He was now slumped in his favourite red leather reclining chair, his feet on the stool, eyes closed, allowing the contentment to envelop him, as it always did when he’d had a hot bath and eaten. Flicking through the TV menu, Sue selected a comedy film, more for her benefit than her husband’s. He was already snoring. She fought the urge to wake him and ask about his day with Sam Parker.
Sam lay in her bath, her thoughts
washing over her brain. She really needed to catch this one before he struck again. Debating with herself what to eat, she considered ordering a pizza, but the thought of some sleazy deliveryman looking her up and down put paid to that idea. She opted for one final security check, a tin of soup and an early night.
Her bed was cold these days. It was always cold. No warm body to snuggle up to. An empty bed in an empty house.
He had read, listened and watched every piece of media coverage about Danielle. Her name hadn’t been mentioned, of course. Only he, the police and those she had privately told about the rape, knew who she was. He felt like he belonged to some sort of secret society, knowing what the world at large would never suspect.
Sitting on his bed, caressing the moleskin notebook, he was certain there was nothing that could lead the police to his door. The first couple of days were nerve-wracking nevertheless. Questions flashed like lightning strikes through his brain, query after query, each shooting into his head before he had the chance to answer the one before. Had someone seen him running? Had he missed a CCTV camera, one that captured his image and could place him outside at the time? Had someone given his name to the police, although there was no rational reason why they should? Had he left his fingerprints when he removed his gloves to put the condom on?
That reminded him he needed to buy more condoms. He hated doing that. He was convinced all the shop assistants were laughing at him, asking themselves, ‘who’d go to bed with you?’. Why were they always girls? Maybe he should buy them from machines in pub toilets? No, that would be worse. In a place like the gents in a pub, the laughing could turn into a kicking. Best to put up with public embarrassment. He would get them on Thursday when he went to buy another dark-blue tracksuit. He also needed to buy a new hat and gloves. It would be easier to buy them off the Internet, but that would leave an electronic money trail.
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