Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  Amber laughed out loud and raised her head, flashing her stunning white teeth. The thought of some poor man getting jumped on by the police for asking to borrow the sugar was hilarious. She hadn’t laughed for a long time. This was surreal. She felt she was playing centre stage in a police drama, except that this was true, and in the real world things went wrong. She knew that better than most.

  ‘I want to do it, but I’m scared I’ll mess it up...’ Amber hesitated, turmoil written all over her face. ‘But for the sake of other girls, and those he’s already attacked…’

  There was silence as she paused. Sam was motionless.

  Suddenly Amber stood, looked directly at Sam, and nodded.

  ‘I’ll do it. I want him caught as much as you do. Probably more. Let’s do it. Let’s do it as soon as.’

  Sam reached out to touch Amber’s arm and let her hand rest gently in a wordless ‘thank you’.

  ‘Let’s go for Friday. That’ll give us enough time to set it up. We’ll text him from your phone. We’ll set up the meet for Friday afternoon, about two o’clock. I’ll have people in the place and outside as well.’

  Sam stood. ‘I’ll ring you and tell you where has been chosen. I can’t come here while we’re doing this. If he sees me, he’ll not show up. Once we text him he might start watching your house.’

  Amber nodded and placed her hands in the rear pockets of her jeans.

  ‘You’ll be followed all the way. You’ll never be out of our sight. Trust me.’

  ‘I do,’ Amber said, staring into Sam’s eyes. ‘I do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ed briefed Sam when she returned. ‘The surveillance commander’s been told it’s on for 2pm Friday, and we’ve got a partial thumb print on the condom wrapper. First it’ll be compared to Terry Crowther’s prints, then the three on the sex offenders’ register.’

  ‘Let’s hope that partial is enough to get a match,’ Sam said. ‘That’ll save us putting Amber through the ordeal of going to the meet.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope so,’ Ed agreed.

  Both knew a partial fingerprint may be enough to identify an offender but the icing on the cake would be a DNA profile.

  ‘Eleven text messages to Amber’s phone,’ Sam said. ‘Bev pointed out he was persistent but it’s the question of why he’s persistent that’s key. He wasn’t persistent with the others.’

  ‘And the answer is?’

  ‘Staring right us!’ Sam said, voice rising with excitement. ‘He knew the others had reported. He doesn’t think she has.’

  Ed nodded. ‘Could be. Could be. There must be some reason.’

  ‘He might start to think that she’s a potential girlfriend,’ Sam went on.

  ‘Jesus… One other thing. What’s important to him about Tuesdays?’ Ed said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He rang Kelly on the Tuesday after the attack. Amber thought it was a Tuesday, and the examination has confirmed that the call was definitely a Tuesday. Most of the texts were also sent on a Tuesday. We’ve checked Danielle’s phone and that same number called her phone last night.’

  ‘Same night he rang me.’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  Sam ran the fingers of both hands through her hair.

  ‘Don’t know. Strange. Maybe there’s something in his past. Maybe something eventful or memorable happened on a Tuesday in his past. But it might just be something as daft as there’s nothing good on the tele on a Tuesday.’

  Ed burst out laughing.

  ‘Yeah, that could be right. Imagine all these psychiatrists suggesting this and that in his childhood when in reality it’s just a shit night on the bloody box!’

  There was nothing more either could do today.

  Walking to his car, Ed reflected on the advances in DNA. He could remember a time when DNA was unheard of…. still a twinkle in some scientist’s eye.

  He turned the CD player up to a volume more suited to a boy racer, the beat and the lyrics of Queen booming out. It’s a Kind of Magic.

  Cocooned in his car, he was Freddie Mercury, the opening words of the song perfectly summing up his latest hunt. The rapist’s mortality would prevent his efforts to remain at large.

  ‘Fuck!’ Ed shouted, swerving into a supermarket car park. He fumbled for his phone.

  ‘Hi Jeannie. Just calling to wish Jess ‘Happy Birthday’.’

  Trevor Stewart appeared outside Sam’s office, his uniform epaulettes looking like they belonged on a doll, his shoulders filling the doorway.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good. We’re making good progress. A lot further forward than we were on Monday.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it.’

  Stewart sat down. ‘I know about the phone call, your phone call.’

  Shit. Why am I surprised? He’s got spies everywhere, thought Sam.

  ‘Are you okay to continue? Perhaps a change of SIO?’

  ‘I’m fine sir. He’s rung a number that I put out into the public domain. It’s no big deal. I’m fine.’

  ‘Dave Smithies is willing to take over.’

  I just bet he is! Your new drinking mate, the DCI who wants my job. I’ve got sources too.

  ‘I’m fine, sir. It’s not a problem. If anything it drives me harder.’

  ‘Well if it becomes a problem, let me know. I’ve just got your welfare at heart. Just thinking chummy’s not likely to ring a bloke is he.’

  ‘He’s just as likely to ring Dave as he is me if his motivation is to taunt the ones trying to catch him.’

  Trevor Stewart stood up. ‘But he’s not likely to be fantasising about sex with Dave Smithies, is he? Keep me updated. Anything you need, let me know.’

  Sam slouched back in the chair. Now it was her fault the rapist fantasised about her. Stewart was something else. He couldn’t get her into bed but he was reminding her that he could do what he wanted with her career. Bastard.

  Sam grabbed her coat.

  A sudden snow flurry had Sam reaching to turn on the wiper blades. Great. She hated the snow. Hated it at school when the bullies amused themselves throwing snowballs at anyone who wasn’t part of their gang; hated her clothes covered in snow; hated red raw cheeks and wet hair; hated it years later when she fell over chasing a burglar in uniform, watching him escape into the arms of a colleague; hated the piss-taking that followed; even hated her one skiing trip with friends from university.

  She turned on to her driveway and despite the snowflakes clustering the headlamps like moths, the powerful beams lit up the front of the house, shining on a bunch of flowers propped up against her front door.

  Who buys me flowers? Someone’s got the wrong house.

  She dashed to the door, snowflakes invading her mouth and coating her hair like the white top of a Mont Blanc pen. The snow was melting as soon as it hit the ground and it would turn into tiny puddles as soon as she got inside.

  She grabbed the flowers, the wet paper disintegrating in her fingers, and darted into the hall, the lamp on the timer providing a dim light. Get into the kitchen, Sam. A wet, tiled floor is preferable to a wet carpet.

  The panic alarm didn’t ease the memory of last night’s call. It was bravado telling Ed she would be fine. It was outrage when she told Stewart she was okay.

  She placed the flowers on the bench, a smell like freshly cut wet grass rising from them. She hit the switch on the overhead cooker bulb and an arc of light was thrown across the grey slate floor. She bent down and shook her head over the sink. At the same time she pulled off her jacket and threw it underarm, backwards, in the direction of the table.

  More bright light as she opened the fridge door and rummaged around for tonight’s microwave ready meal. Lasagne? Or more Salmon en Croute? At least she’d be eating by 8.45.

  What was that noise? It didn’t belong in her kitchen, but her brain couldn’t process its origin. She turned away from the fridge and her legs began to shake. Lurching forward, she grabbed the bench for support. Unable to screa
m, unable to move, she stood rooted to the spot.

  She watched open mouthed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the worktop, as a shiny red cricket ball, the light shining on it like an actor on the boards, inched its way along the black granite bench, before dropping to the tiled floor with a dull thud, rolling a few feet before rattling to rest against the leg of a stool.

  Grabbing her phone, her hands trembling and fingers moving at speed, she flashed through the recent calls memory and hit Ed’s number.

  He answered it on the second ring.

  The words erupted from her mouth, panic oozing from her every pore.

  ‘Ed, he knows where I live. He sent me flowers. They were on my front step. He knows where I live. He knows where I live.’

  ‘Slow down, Sam. What flowers? How do you know they are from him?’

  ‘There’s a cricket ball inside them. A red, hard cricket ball. I‘ve never had a pizza delivered. He knows where I live. How does he know? I’m next Ed. He’s coming for me. I’m next.’

  Dropping the phone, Sam let her head fall on to the bench, fingers now clinging so tight to the granite they turned white. She bent down, slowly, unsteadily, and reached for the phone, aware of Ed’s distant shouts coming down the connection.

  ‘Sam! Sam!’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Lock the doors. Make sure that everything’s okay with the panic alarm. I’m on my way. I’ll ring when I’m outside.’

  She lurched away from the worktop, chest still heaving, her legs at first moving slowly then, as an athlete out of the blocks, her thighs were pumping like pistons, carrying her to the light switches by the kitchen door. Dazzling white lights leaped into life around the kitchen. The ceiling spotlights, the fluorescents under the wall-mounted units, the cooker and fridge lights, all engulfing the room in a heavenly white, like the spotlight from a police helicopter. Staring at the window, checking it for damage, she stumbled across the tiled floor and slammed the bolt on the inter-connecting door to the garage.

  Running around the room, she flung open the doors of every base unit, dropping into the crouch position like a member of a combat unit, looking into each of them, only convinced he wasn’t in the room once she had even peered inside the built-in washing machine.

  Her self-preservation gene kicked in and she slumped down, pressing her back against the kitchen door. If he was in the house, he would have to come to her. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity of leaping out from behind furniture in another room. The panic alarm could wait.

  The kitchen was no longer the centre of domesticity; it was her ‘panic room’, the type normally the preserve of the rich and famous.

  Never before had she considered herself a feeble woman but now, sat on the floor, her whole body shaking, teeth chattering, gasping for breath, knees drawn under her chin, arms wrapped around her shins, she craved the security of a man – her man – in the house.

  Finally the mobile danced around the floor as it rang and vibrated. She had probably sat there no more than 10 minutes. Staring at the illuminated screen, she heaved a sigh of relief; Ed’s name was displayed. Leaping to her feet, she tore open the door, and sprinted into the hallway.

  Ed looked into red, glassy, swollen eyes full of terror and relief.

  Resisting the urge to throw her arms around him, Sam was speaking before he had crossed the doorway. ‘Ed. Ed. Thank you.’

  Putting a big, wet arm around her shoulder, he ushered her inside.

  Her words left her mouth so fast they sounded like a vinyl record spinning too quickly on a turntable. ‘It was the shock. Sorry. I’m sorry. But he’s called me on the phone. He’s left flowers. How does he know where I live? How Ed? How?’

  His arm was pushing lightly at her back, nudging her towards the bright light, which he presumed was the kitchen. What other rooms project such fierce white light?

  ‘Slow down, Sam. It’s okay. Calm down. Look, I’ll check the house, but I’m sure everything’s fine.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said, almost before he had finished speaking.

  ‘That’s fine. C’mon. We’ll do it together. No worries.’

  A search of every room, albeit with Ed feeling slightly uncomfortable when he checked inside her wardrobes, satisfied them the house was clear and no windows were broken.

  Back at the kitchen, Ed took in the open doors, the lights, and the cricket ball, and grasped the enormity of her fear.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Okay,’ Ed said as he closed the fridge door. ‘Let’s calm down. He’s not here. If it was him, he’s certainly a cocky little bastard, I’ll give him that. But cocky always equates to fuck-up.’

  Reassured by Ed’s presence, Sam was white-faced but calmer now.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right, but it still doesn’t answer how he knows where I live. If he is what links the other girls, how am I linked to him? What links him to me?’

  Sitting on a stainless-steel high stool with a black sculptured seat, she put her elbows on the centre island and her head in her hands. ‘I’m tired. I’m not thinking straight, but the answer must be obvious. How does he know where the single women live? I suppose he could watch the houses, but how long would that take? Had someone been watching me, or my house, I’m sure I’d have noticed.’

  ‘Okay, Sam, let’s switch off for now. We’ll have clearer heads tomorrow. The key that unlocks the door of this investigation will present itself to us. One key, that’s all we need. Or as Freddie might have said, a kind of magic.’

  ‘Freddie? Freddie who?’

  ‘Never mind. Stick the kettle on. I need the loo.’

  In the downstairs toilet, he made a quick call, before heading back to the kitchen. Sitting on a matching stool he said: ‘I’ve spoken to Sue and it’s okay for me to stay here tonight.’

  It had been far from okay but he couldn’t leave Sam. He would face the consequences tomorrow.

  ‘Ed, there’s no need, I’ll be fine. Really.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, but I’m staying anyway. I’ll sleep on your couch, and get some fresh clothes in the morning.’

  ‘I appreciate it. Thanks. He really spooked me. And now he’s taking the piss big time, and that’s swearing. Do you fancy a drink? Sorry I’ve got no beer. A glass of wine?’

  ‘So much for the kettle! Yeah, that’ll be good. I could do with a drink. Thanks.’

  ‘Red or white?’ Sam asked, smiling for the first time since she’d seen the ball.

  ‘Whatever. I’m not really a wine person.’

  Sam walked across the kitchen, more reassured by Ed’s presence than she was prepared to admit, to her well-stocked thermo-electric wine cooler. The kitchen was large, modern and spotlessly clean. ‘Trevor Stewart wanted to replace me with Dave Smithies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Said he was looking after my welfare. You know, after the phone call.’

  ‘I was going to say how does he know that, but he’s got eyes and ears everywhere. And Smithies used to have responsibility for the guys with the panic alarms.’

  ‘Well, however they found out, between them they want shot of me.’

  ‘They need a sound reason. And they won’t get one. Tossers. Anyway, how do you keep this place so clean working the hours you do?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Sorry I can’t take the credit. I’ve got a cleaner. She’s been today, hence the reason it looks so spotless,’ Sam answered, pulling the cork on a bottle of Vosne-Romanee Domain Jean Grivot, a Premier Cru Burgundy. As the cork came out with a satisfying pop, Sam poured a splash into two large Riedel wine glasses. Ideally she should have opened it to allow it to breathe, but tonight had already been far from ideal.

  Sam sat on her stool and passed Ed a glass.

  He took a small sip.

  ‘That’s delicious.’

  Raising the glass to eye level, he stared into it, swirling the contents around. ‘Not what you’d get in our house, but I could get used to it.
What is it?’

  Sam explained to him her love affair with Burgundy wine, how she and Tristram had planned to spend a couple of weeks travelling through some of the vineyards in the region, hoping to visit the small commune of La Romanee in the Cotes de Nuits, watching the French world go by while they overindulged in both the red and white wines that had brought the region its reputation. She decided against telling him that this one bottle was in excess of £70, but she drank it because she liked it, not because she wanted to become a wine boor, telling everyone how expensive it was.

  ‘We’d have brought crates of it back with us, created a little bit of Burgundy on the North East Riviera,’ Sam said, grinning.

  Ed raised his glass again. ‘A Gaelic toast. May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had Irish blood in you,’ Sam said, eyebrows arched and a smile parting her lips.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, holding the palms of his outstretched hands towards the ceiling. ‘The Whelans originate from Cork. Great place. I go back every couple of years or so. I’m sure we’ve family there but I haven’t tracked anyone down. Great-great-granddad came over to Liverpool as a young man looking for a better life, like so many of his generation. Never got further than Merseyside. Unbelievably, he became a cop. A uniform Inspector by the time he retired so I’m told.’

  ‘Fascinating. I’d like to go to over and see that area of Ireland at some time.’

  ‘You’ll need to learn to drink the black stuff,’ Ed warned with a grin. ‘I’m not sure you’ll get posh wine like this in the pubs I go to, although a roaring fire, a pint of Guinness, and some good ‘craic’ takes some beating.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. But we’ll not be going anywhere until we sort this job out.’

  ‘We’ll catch him,’ Ed said, the smile suddenly gone. ‘It’s only a matter of time. And don’t worry about the likes of Smithies.’

  Sam studied her wine.

  ‘It’s the time that bothers me. How many more rapes do there have to be before we get our hands on him? And you can’t stay here every night until we do.’