‘Will do. Are we telling everyone about Amber now?’ Dave asked.
‘Yes. Nothing to lose now. We’ve tried the meeting. We can’t put her through that again. Brief everyone about that rape, please. If anyone asks why the delay in informing them, just tell them to ask me. Nobody will. Let them make up their own rumours.’
‘Okay,’ Dave said. ‘We’ve already started putting together a briefing sheet for the search team.’
‘Great.’
Dave Johnson nodded at Sam and was out of his chair as Gary Ross arrived.
Keep those plates spinning Sam.
‘Hi Gary, come in,’ Sam said, indicating for him to sit down. ‘I’ve spoken to Amber and she’s fine. Can you thank all of your people on my behalf?’
Gary nodded.
Sam went on: ‘The fact that he didn’t disclose himself to Amber doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He may have gone inside. He may have watched from outside. I want stills of everyone in that shop between 12.30pm and 2.30pm, and of everyone outside within those same time parameters. I also want a list from the surveillance log of all registration numbers that were parked in and around the shops.’
It was Gary’s turn to write down Sam’s requests.
‘Okay,’ he answered when his pen had stopped moving. ‘I’ll try and have them to you by tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Sooner, if you ca,n Gary,’ Sam said, her tone hinting at a command as opposed to a request.
‘I’ll try,’ Gary said as he stood up. He stopped at the door and turned around to look at Sam and Ed. ‘What about Jason Stroud?’
‘Probably wrong place, wrong time. I’ll keep you posted, but have your team keep that under their hats,’ Sam said.
‘No problem,’ Gary agreed as he walked away.
In fairness, Gary Ross thought, it wouldn’t be the first time a police officer had unwittingly walked ‘on plot’. He concentrated instead on how he was going to deliver all the stills for Sam.
She was the type who was used to getting what she wanted.
Darkness had fallen like a blanket over the shopping centre, but the neon lighting from the street lamps and the three take-away shops provided all the visibility the two detectives needed.
Terry Crowther got out of his black Ford Focus and started to walk the few short steps across the car park to Romeo’s pizza shop, where a couple of early customers were already inside.
Slamming the doors of the pale blue Ford Mondeo, they strode behind him, each step narrowing the gap. He knew exactly who they were the moment he turned around. He hadn’t met them before, didn’t know their names, but he knew instinctively, from the blue suits, the shiny black shoes, that they were detectives.
The one with the height and shoulders of a heavyweight boxer spoke in a voice that would have sounded threatening in a pulpit.
‘Terry Crowther?’
It was obvious that they both knew who he was. How? Nodding, he mumbled: ‘Yeah.’
Told that he was being arrested on suspicion of two rapes and the theft of two pair of knickers, he was cautioned, taken by the arm and led to their car. He wasn’t handcuffed, but the grip applied to his bicep told him making a run for it wasn’t an option.
Chapter Thirty-Three
He was shoved on to the back seat, falling sideways, before straightening himself up. Had they sent the two biggest detectives available?
Following the barked instructions, he scrambled behind the passenger seat, resisting the urge to wipe away the sweat at the back of his neck. Convinced the driver had angled the rear view mirror so he could watch him and not the traffic behind, he tried to control the trembling coursing through his body.
The mobile looked like a small box of matches in the hands of the pugilist, who phoned somebody called Dave.
‘Job done, no probs.’
What did that mean? What had they got on him?
The car moved off, and neither of the detectives uttered a word.
What was happening now? Ask me a question?
The detectives didn’t even look at each other as the car moved through the streets, both staring out of the windscreen. He turned his head to look out of the side window, shuffling closer to it, making it more difficult for the driver to watch him.
Was the silent treatment a technique they employed?
Were they waiting for him to start talking?
His bursting bladder, increasing heart rate, pulsating temple, and the light-headed dizziness you can feel after a long-distance run were all triggering the involuntary movements of his body. His hands, arm, and legs were shaking, and sweat rashes were everywhere.
They weren’t asking questions. Total silence. This was torture.
Would they search his house? Whatever they had now, they would have more if they went to his house. They might not go to his house. What did they have? Why get him going to work? Why not at home? They knew who he was, where he worked. They’d done their homework. They must know where he lives. What else did they know?
Should he just admit it?
No, say nothing until the brief gets there. He knew that he would be putty in their hands. He needed to hold out until he got a solicitor.
Jason Stroud was a man in a hurry as he came into Sam’s office. Ed, following, looked on as Jason blurted out that he thought he might have unknowingly stumbled across a surveillance operation. He explained he had gone for a hot chocolate but the second he realised he might be about to ‘blow out’ a job, he left.
‘Did you recognise anyone in the coffee shop?’ Sam asked.
‘I think there were two people from the surveillance team. Sat at different tables.’
‘Anyone else?’ asked Sam
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Okay, it’s probably nothing. If there’s a problem, I’ve no doubt the surveillance team will be in touch.’
‘Cheers,’ Jason said, and he walked out of the office.
Sam was happy to leave it at that. If he were to become a suspect, there would be plenty of time to ask questions in a formal interview about ‘meeting’ Amber. For now, some things were best left unsaid. Jason had been concerned enough to approach her. That alleviated the need for her to ask him why he was there, while still satisfying her need to have him know that she knew he was there.
Patience was always a virtue in any major investigation. Time would tell whether Jason was trying to pull her strings.
‘What did he say before you came into the office?’ Sam asked.
‘He was busting a gut to tell you that he thought he may have stumbled on a job.’
‘What did you say?’
‘The usual, there’s jobs going on all the time. Sometimes we inadvertently walk into them.’
Sam briefly closed her eyes, suddenly weary.
‘He might be fishing. If it’s him, he knew Amber was going to be there. If he thought a surveillance team was watching her, he’d know that we’d have arranged it. Contact Gary and tell him to brief all his staff not to confirm that surveillance with anyone. We’ve told him to keep Jason’s sighting under wraps, but I don’t want anyone even confirming there was surveillance. Let’s keep a close eye on Jason Stroud.’
‘What about getting another interview adviser?’
‘Not at the minute. Monitor his work. We don’t want to unnerve him. Let him carry on. Let’s not forget he may have nothing to do with this, so just let him carry on doing his job. I don’t want to give him any cause for concern. He’ll know we’re on to him when we want him to.’
‘No bother.’
Dave Johnson popped in to tell them that a house near Amber’s had CCTV fitted, and on the evening of her attack, the figure of a male was seen nearby at the relevant time. While the images weren’t good enough to identify the individual, they clearly showed the male was wearing a tracksuit with the Adidas three stripes on the arm.
Phone calls to the two police officers who stopped Crowther revealed they were 100% certain he wasn’t wearing an Adidas top, although they could
n’t recall the make of his tracksuit.
Crowther emptied his pockets at the Custody Sergeant’s request, and placed his house key, car keys, loose change and wallet on the counter. He watched as his change and wallet were placed in a clear plastic bag, whilste both sets of keys were handed to the boxer, who raised his eyebrows, and allowed his thin lips to part slightly, his gleaming teeth not hiding the menace behind the smile.
Placing the keys in his trouser pocket, the detective said loudly and clearly: ‘We’ll search his house and car under section 18 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, Sarge.’
His eyes never moved away from Crowther, leaving the detainee under no illusions what the police were about to do next.
At the house, the search team co-ordinator drew a rough plan of the ground and upper floors and allocated specific rooms to specific pairs of officers. All six of the search officers had been briefed about what exactly they were looking for, the bonus being that Crowther lived alone.
The integral garage was surprisingly tidy, with very little in it, so that particular search was conducted thoroughly in a relatively short time. Garages full of junk were a search officer’s nightmare.
Nothing evidential was found in any of the sparsely furnished downstairs rooms, and the upstairs bedrooms were all empty, with one exception.
That bedroom contained a bed with a black duvet in a heap on top of it and a white sheet, patches of which were as tight and rigid as stone, the dried yellow stains suggesting it hadn’t been washed since the day it was bought. The stench of stale sweat swept into the nostrils of the two officers.
‘God, I feel like I’m sniffing the insides of a tramp’s socks,’ the female officer said.
‘Make a habit of that. do you?’ her male colleague teased deadpan.
‘You know what I mean.’
On the bedside table, a lamp, surrounded by a deep veneer of dust, stood next to a semen-filled condom. Discarded socks and stained white underpants were strewn across the floor, surrounding four empty cans of lager and an empty take-away tin foil container.
‘Dirty bastard,’ said the male officer.
Wearing thin transparent gloves, the officers removed the duvet, and having searched inside the cover, the woman picked up the only pillow, finding a pair of lacy white knickers underneath. She dropped them into a clear bag which was sealed and had an exhibit label attached, on which was written a description of the item, together with where, when, and by whom the knickers were found.
‘Fuckin’ perv,’ said the female officer.
The search yielded nothing else of evidential value: no driving licences, no additional mobiles, no SIM cards, and no diaries or notes; a pair of black trainers and a black Puma tracksuit were recovered, though.
Thirty minutes after the white knickers had been ‘bagged and tagged’, Jamie Hampton had identified them as being similar to those that were stolen from her at the swimming baths.
Mass-produced with no singular unique feature, the knickers couldn’t be identified as Jamie's to the legal satisfaction of a court, but ‘similar’ was a good starting point in a police interview.
At the office, Sam and Ed called it a day. Crowther was in custody and would be interviewed tomorrow. Disappointed at the outcome of the searches of his house and car, they hoped for better in the interviews tomorrow.
Stepping out into the dark, cold night, frost already forming on the remaining cars, they shuddered in unison.
‘Will you be okay tonight, Sam?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Sam lied. ‘Don’t worry. Get home to Sue.’
Turning on the ignition, the bright interior light dimmed, leaving the car in darkness except for the dashboard lights and their cosy glow.
She answered her mobile.
‘Sam. It’s Trevor Stewart. Just ringing for an update. I understand you’ve had a busy day.’
‘We’ve got someone in custody. Early days yet. I’ll come and speak with you tomorrow, give you a full briefing.’
‘Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Any plans tonight?’
‘Early night.’
‘Get your PJ’s on. Hard frost forecast. Not the weather for anything skimpy.’
‘Thanks, but I’m a big girl.’
‘It would be remiss of me to comment. See you tomorrow. Goodnight.’
Creep.
Driving home, the 9.30pm news bulletin temporarily diverted her thoughts from the investigation and Slimy Stewart.
Desperate to eat, then sleep, she walked through her front door, locked it, and put the key on the hall table, simultaneously kicking off her shoes. She took a deep breath and pressed her spine against the door.
Maybe she should have told Ed the truth; she was frightened. He would have volunteered to stay again even though she knew it would cause him grief at home. Standing rigid against the door, tears started to drip down her cheeks. Truth is, I didn’t want you in the house again, Ed. I need to keep things professional. I don’t want any complications and certainly not with a married man.
She took another deep breath, marched across the hall and flung open every door, hitting the light switches as soon as she could get her wrist through the gap. With every downstairs light on, she checked every window. Nothing. She checked them all again. Same result.
Thankful for the timer on the boiler, the wall of heat meant the double bed won what was a no-contest over food.
She dragged herself upstairs, and flung open the bedroom doors. She turned on every light, checked every window. Twice.
She forced herself to go back downstairs and turn all the lights off. Back in her bedroom she stripped, and dropped her underwear into the basket in the en-suite bathroom. Naked, she tied her hair into a ponytail, put on the extra large, powder blue cotton T-shirt she had pulled from under her pillow, and collapsed on to the bed, tugging the duvet under her chin.
Throat parched, stomach tight, legs heavy, head throbbing, she was physically and mentally drained. As her eyes closed, she had a nagging doubt she had forgotten something and through a fog of tiredness, she tried to revisit again in her mind every window, every door.
An anaesthetist’s injection would have been slower. She was snoring within seconds.
No part of her brain sounded the alert to reset the panic alarm.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Friday
His strides, like a long-jumper on his run-up, covered the length of the drive in four steps. He pushed his back up against the front door. His tongue ran around the inside of his mouth. Slow deep breaths, he told himself. He looked left and right and listened, like a child obeying the Green Cross Code. Nothing. Where had he read that people were in their deepest sleep around 4am?
He turned the key slowly. Pushing the door, he opened it just enough to step inside then closed it behind him. Slipping the key back in the right-hand side pocket of his blue tracksuit bottoms, he froze, a wax dummy in her hallway. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, waited while his ears took in the silence. He slithered into the kitchen and found what he needed. Back in the hall, his black training shoes were silent on the oatmeal staircase carpet. There would be no warning of his impending arrival.
It was a large bedroom with plenty of room to walk either side of the double bed. The duvet covered her legs, but the flawless skin of her arm was visible. He allowed his eyes to savour the contours of her upper body, the baggy T-shirt not doing justice to her curves. She looked younger; perhaps it was her brown hair tied back in a ponytail?
Laid on her left side, she faced into the middle of the double bed. He inched towards her beautiful back. Breathing through his nose, he could smell lavender. Her soap? Lavender drops on her pillow?
As his right knee touched the side of the bed, she rolled over and bolted upright. She stretched for the bedside lamp and had it on in an instant, the pearlescent bulb illuminating both of them.
‘What the fuck?’ she screamed.
As if playing the children’s game of musical statues,
he froze on the spot. Within a split second the ‘music’ leapt into his head, and he dived on her, knocking her on to her stomach, his weight sending the wind whooshing out of her. His left hand pressed into her shoulder as he pushed himself up and he plunged the knife deep into her right shoulder.
Fire erupted in her flesh as he ripped the blade out, leaving an egg-shaped wound as wide as the hilt of the blade.
Off balance, his body weight shifted, allowing her to force her knees under her stomach, thrusting her back into an arch and flipping him off her. Spinning around, she drove her left knee into his stomach, and as he toppled sideways, groaning, she instinctively rolled to the right, desperate to get off the bed.
Her movements were too sluggish and a searing pain bolted through her scalp as he yanked her ponytail. She squealed but as her head was jerked backwards, the sound was cut off in mid-flow as the moulded steel chef’s knife was driven three times between her shoulder blades.
Scrambling for leverage, she stretched and grabbed the side of the bed, and with her hands gripping the underside wooden frame she twisted her upper body and smashed her right foot into the side of his face.
She collapsed to the floor and clawed at the bedside table, heaving herself up into a crouching position. Dizzy, disorientated, her heart pumping blood that was shooting from her body, she toppled backwards, pulling the table towards her, bringing it crashing on to her shins.
The table lamp lurched in mid air, its electric cord still plugged into the wall, before it crashed and shattered, the bulb exploding, throwing the room back into darkness.
The thick hardback book describing the battles of the First World War, which sat on the table, made a dull thud as it hit the floor, unlike the police warrant card, which barely made a sound as it fluttered, confetti like, on to the carpet.
She rolled over and crawled on her hands and knees towards the bottom of the bed, the taste of warm blood flooding her mouth, her blurred vision focussed on a piece of carpet under the windowsill where her mobile was charging in a socket.
Be My Girl Page 20
