Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  Like so many times before, Sam saw the concrete floor, the long, metal examining table, the draining hole, the knives and scalpels laid out in sequence, and the hosepipe on the floor ready to send water flowing around the body and down the plug hole, keeping the table free of blood and small matter.

  Louise was the difference, her naked body on the table, lying on her back, arms pressing against the raised sides, feet either side of the draining hole. Even the local idiots, stumbling in here accidentally, would be in no doubt where they were.

  The mortuary technician had prepared everything, and Sam did wonder how a petite, thirty-something female, ended up doing a job like this. Did they advertise in the Job Centre?

  The technician, towards the end of the examination, would use the hand-held power drill with the circular bladed saw to remove the back of the skull. Always the worst sound, thought Sam; a screeching that made her clamp her teeth together, the blade overcoming the resistance of the skull, sending particles of bone dust into the icy air.

  Sam tried to view the bodies as nothing more than carcasses, no different to animals in a slaughterhouse, and it was a mindset that generally worked, but in the inevitable silences that occurred during the post-mortem, there was no hiding the fact you were looking at a body that had recently been a living human being. She knew only too well this one was going to be tough. She looked away from Louise’s lifeless eyes, and the image of her drunken, barefoot friend flashed through her mind again.

  The Crime Scene Investigators were already milling about preparing for the examination. Under the instructions of the pathologist they would photograph each injury from a multitude of angles and label all samples that were taken.

  Post-mortems varied in length, but Sam knew this one would take a long time; cataloguing, measuring, and photographing all the injuries during the initial external examination would, in her experience, take over an hour.

  Standing less than a metre from the table, Sam swallowed hard and fought to put her emotions to one side. The first flash bounced off the camera. The examination had begun.

  Manoeuvring her car through the hospital grounds, Sam mulled over the post-mortem.

  Four stab wounds to the heart. Thirty-two wounds in total. A rage killing. The killer was in such a hyped-up state, even when Louise was dead and still, the frenzied stabbing continued.

  The blood on the bedroom ceiling confirmed the vicious unrelenting nature of the attack, but it was during the post-mortem that the sheer force was brought home. The four wounds to the heart were such the knife had gone clean through and penetrated her back

  Was this the same man, if Louise’s killer was a man, who was the rapist? The rapist asked if he had been a good lover. Would removing his mask turn him into a butcher?

  There had been no rape this time and no torn tissue suggesting non-consensual anal sex.

  The more she replayed the murder scene on her mental DVD player, the more convinced she was that they were hunting two different people.

  The Press would no doubt link the murder and the rapes, jumping to conclusions; buzzing about like wasps around the dregs of a pint of a lager. The 24-hour news society of 21st -century Britain was a hungry beast that needed feeding, and if the media sharks weren’t fed, they’d feed themselves. Sam knew she needed to manage them.

  The so-called ‘red tops’ would sensationalise the investigation if they sniffed a connection, and more importantly, if they believed there was a lack of progress. Sam would need her wits about her at the press conference if she wanted to avoid a media circus baying for organisational blood.

  Walking into the station, the smell of fish and chips rolled down the stairs like mist floating down a hillside. Sam’s stomach lurched. When had she last eaten? In the office, detectives were eating as they typed; some had a bread bun on the side, and all had a mug of tea or a can of fizzy pop.

  ‘Alright for some,’ Sam said as she walked into the HOLMES room, raising a smile from her colleagues, smiles that quickly vanished. As she walked past a detective who had his mouth crammed with food, she grabbed a couple of chips from his polystyrene tray, regretting it immediately as one of them fell and landed on her blouse.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, louder than she intended, causing the whole office to look in her direction. Examining the stain, she cursed her lack of foresight in not having a change of clothes in the office. Thirty minutes to a press conference, and her mind was now focussing on whether the stain would be visible on TV. Not the ideal preparation, Samantha.

  ‘How’s it going with Crowther?’ she asked.

  Jason Stroud was stood beside a new board, examining the still photographs provided by the surveillance commander; they had been divided into two categories, those inside the coffee shop, and those outside.

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘No coughs, then?’ Sam said, now standing next to Jason.

  Jason smiled. ‘Some people wouldn’t cough if they had bronchitis. He’s not one of them. He’s like little boy lost. He’s gone ‘no reply’ in the first interview on his brief’s say so. She said outside the interview room he’ll cough the knickers, but not the rapes. She looks fairly confident.’

  ‘Who’s his brief?’

  ‘Carver. Jill Carver.’

  ‘Pretty fit,’ said one of the interviewers.

  Sam didn’t respond to the sexist comment, but her raised eyebrows and steely stare left him under no illusions he was treading on dodgy ground. She turned back to Jason who was on more dodgy ground than he realised.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jason said. ‘He meant it from the point of view that it’s unnerving Crowther. He’s keeping his eyes down most of the time during the interview. Can’t look at her.’

  ‘Jill Carver,’ Ed boomed, walking into the office, looking around to steal a chip.

  ‘Otherwise known as the butcher, because of the cases, and detectives, she’s carved to pieces. Watch her, Jason. She’s got more faces than the town-hall clock, and she’s not averse to flashing those eyes to get what she wants.’

  ‘I gathered that much, but to be fair, watching him in the interview, I don’t think he’s our man,’ Jason said.

  Ed waited until he reached them and lowered his voice. ‘Well, just be careful with her. The butcher nickname is double sided. When it’s to her benefit, she’ll happily use her womanly charms and handle some male meat if it will help her cause.’

  ‘Ed!’ Sam said, eyes wide and blazing, her voice taut with shock and disgust but without rising above a whisper.

  ‘Sorry, Sam, but it needed to be said. I know lifelong vegetarians that worry about that particular butcher. Forewarned etcetera.’

  Ed paused and rubbed his eyes, trying to remember what a decent night’s sleep felt like, but when he spoke, his tone was alert.

  ‘You wouldn’t get her off the duty solicitor’s rota. He must have asked for someone from her practice. Why would someone like Crowther ask for a brief like her? Maybe there’s more to him than we think. Where’s Dave?’

  ‘We’ve not seen him this morning,’ Jason said. ‘Just presumed he was with you.’

  ‘Not with us,’ Sam said.

  Turning the rest of the room, she shouted to no one in particular: ‘Anything on Crowther’s computer?’

  ‘Just the usual porn sites. Nothing criminal,’ someone piped up.

  Sam glanced at the board displaying the surveillance photographs. ‘There are more stills than I thought. Any joy yet?’

  A seated detective answered: ‘Not really. Some identified. Nothing yet. Early days. We’ll get them sorted.’

  Sam spoke to Ed. ‘Find Dave. Make sure he’s alright. Whatever his relationship with Louise, the guy’s going to be in shock.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Thirty minutes later, make-up reapplied and teeth brushed, Sam, accompanied by the Head of Media Services, Peter Hunt, walked on to the raised platform in the media briefing room and cast her eyes over the assembled print, local radio and regional TV rep
orters. The nationals were also out in force.

  Concentrate Sam.

  Silence descended. Eleven sets of eyes watched her sit down behind a table littered with mobiles and digital recorders. notepads were poised. TV cameras watched impassively from tripods while two photographers were on their feet, flashbulbs lighting up Sam’s face.

  I hope they can’t see that stain.

  Sam looked at her prepared statement and began.

  ‘Just after 7am this morning police were called to an address in Rothbury Close where the body of a 34-year-old female was found. She has been identified as Louise Smith, a serving police officer, who lived alone at the address. Louise was separated from her husband.

  ‘June Harker, her mother, discovered Louise this morning. Louise had been stabbed multiple times.

  ‘A Home Office Forensic Pathologist has carried out a post-mortem, and extensive scientific tests are being carried out at Louise’s home. Over 40 personnel are actively engaged on this investigation.

  ‘I urge everyone to be vigilant when it comes to the security of their homes, and to contact the police if they notice anything untoward.

  ‘I would ask anyone who has any information, or who saw or heard anything suspicious between 8pm last night and 7am this morning, to contact the incident room. Thank you.’

  The reporters looked up, the photographers sat down.

  Here we go.

  The reporter from Sky got in first.

  ‘Two single women have been sexually assaulted in their homes. Now a single woman has been killed in her home. Is it the same man?’

  I knew that was coming.

  ‘These attacks are being investigated separately. It’s too early to say if they are connected.’

  ‘Surely you must have some indication,’ Sky man pushed.

  ‘As I said, it’s too early to be making those investigative conclusions.’

  Sam looked at Sky man as she answered his question. He was now in a position of strength. Everyone else was an observer. He was having a conversation with her.

  ‘Was the police officer targeted?’ he asked.

  ‘We are following a number of lines of inquiry. That is one of them. The alternative is that she was subject to a random attack. I don’t believe that to be the case.’

  Sam could sense some hostility in the room. Nobody else could get a word in. Not my problem, she thought to herself.

  ‘Why would a serving police officer be targeted?’ he asked.

  He’s after the terrorism angle.

  So-called ‘Islamic State’ had declared their desire to murder a serving police officer.

  ‘Louise may have been targeted because she was a police officer, but equally, she may have been targeted because she was Louise. As I’ve said, these are lines of inquiry we are following.’

  More likely the latter, Sam thought silently.

  Sky man crossed his legs. Others would now get the chance in their media scrum.

  ‘You said the victim had multiple stab wounds. How many?’ asked a blonde woman at the front, who Sam knew was a journalist from one of the ‘red tops’.

  When would the less experienced reporters realise that where you sat was key? Those at the front always dominated the conference.

  ‘As I am sure you can appreciate, there are some details we need to keep back for a suspect interview. Suffice to say that Louise was stabbed multiple times.’

  Questions were asked about which room Louise was found in, when she was last seen alive, how her mother was coping, whether she had any children, siblings, and how her colleagues were coping with the news.

  It was Darius Simpson from the Seaton Post who dropped the bombshell question.

  ‘Any suggestion that the killer was wearing a ski mask like the sex attacker?’

  Everybody in the room sat up at the potentially sensational revelation.

  How the hell does he know about the ski mask?

  Sam felt her face redden.

  ‘I am here today to appeal for information about the murder of Louise Smith, and I repeat, if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious after 8pm last night to contact the incident room.’

  ‘But can you confirm that the previous attacks were committed by a man wearing a ski mask?’ Darius asked.

  I’m going to kill whoever leaked this.

  Sam was relieved to hear calm and steadiness in her voice.

  ‘No, I can’t, but while we are talking about the previous attacks, I would urge everyone to be vigilant about their household security, and report anything suspicious to the police.’

  Sam had learnt a long time ago that the secret in press conferences was to respond to a question, not answer it. Politicians did it all the time.

  The blonde was back, picking up from Darius.

  ‘A masked man represents a serious threat to single women. Are you any nearer to catching him?’

  Sam stuck to her ‘respond’ tactic.

  ‘Every intruder represents a threat. That is why I urge people to be vigilant around their security, and that is why I am keen to seek any information from the public, however small they may deem it to be. With regard to arresting the person or persons responsible, we are following a number of lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Which you have presumably been following since...’ the blonde said, looking at her spiral-topped notebook, ‘November. What assurances can you give the public that you will catch this man?’

  Sam silently thanked Peter Hunt, himself a hack from the old school who had long-ago coached Sam through just these skirmishes. Press cons were battles for control, a fencing duel played out – for the police at least – on a minefield. One careless move…

  ‘Firstly, there may be more than one man. At no time have I said that all these attacks are linked, committed by the same perpetrator. We will leave no stone unturned. We will exhaust all lines of inquiry, but I am here to appeal for information into the murder of Louise Smith. I would reiterate that I am keen to hear from anybody who saw or heard anything suspicious between 8pm last night and 7am this morning.’

  Peter Hunt stood up, his timing practised to perfection.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gents. I will arrange one-on-ones for those of you that are interested.’

  The TV and radio preferred to have their own interview with the SIO.

  Everyone, including Sam, was on their feet.

  Darius Simpson shouted out a further question, throwing the room back into silence, and everyone’s attention back on to Sam.

  ‘Do we know if the knife used to kill this victim was the same type as used to threaten the victims of the sex attacks?’

  Where’s he getting his bloody information?

  With her blood pressure rocketing, Sam’s response was short and measured.

  ‘As I said earlier, we are not linking the murder of Louise Smith to the sexual assaults at this time.’

  Sky man was first to respond.

  ‘Were the other attacks carried out by a man with a knife?’

  ‘Those investigations have not as yet been linked to Louise’s murders, and as such I am not going to comment today on the details of those attacks.’

  ‘When will you link them?’

  ‘When – and if – there is evidence to do so.’

  Peter Hunt spoke again.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gents. I have a photograph of Louise available for those who want it.’

  Sam was out of her seat. The one-to-one interviews could wait. She walked after Darius.

  He stopped and turned around when Sam called his name. They had a mutual respect for each other, based on a professional relationship built up over many investigations, over many years, and neither had ever lied to each other.

  ‘I need a word,’ Sam said, taking hold of his arm and ushering him into a corridor with access restricted to police staff.

  Turning to face him, she said: ‘Darius, how did you know about the ski mask and knife?’

  He looked into her eyes, his hand
s in the pocket of his brown corduroy jacket, his scarf, of varying tones of red and black, hanging loosely around his neck.

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Sam. I’ve got to protect my sources as much as the next guy.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ Sam said, keeping the eye contact, ‘as we’ve never put into the public domain the attacker was wearing a ski mask, it’s a fair presumption that your source is the rapist. That means you’re obstructing, maybe even conspiring to pervert, the course of justice.’

  ‘Now hang on, Sam,’ Darius said, his right hand now out of his pocket and scratching his thick, floppy blond hair.

  She moved closer to him, her nose almost touching his, her minty fresh breath invading his personal space, and the sharp authority in her voice thrumming with underlying anger.

  ‘I’m not hanging anywhere, Darius. I trust we both want the same result here, and if I think you are withholding evidence…’

  She paused, a great believer in using silences to unnerve people.

  Darius’s shoulders dropped very slightly, and he bowed his head. Quietly, he answered, his right hand playing with his scarf.

  ‘Fair enough, Sam. Brian Banks was shouting his mouth off in the pub the other night. Everyone who was in there must have heard him. But look, you didn’t get that from me.’

  Banks. Fucking idiot, she thought.

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘The Golden Eagle.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly. I went in early doors. Probably around six. He was telling his mates his daughter had been raped, and the guy was wearing a ski mask and had a knife. He’s put five grand up for any information.’

  ‘Jesus. Did you know anyone else in there?’

  ‘No. Not by name anyway. I know them by sight. Seem a regular crowd on a Wednesday.’

  ‘Right. I‘ll keep you posted if we get any breakthroughs.’

  ‘Thanks. And Sam. Really, you didn’t get any of this from me. He’s a dodgy bastard.’

  ‘Get what?’ she said, looking at him over her shoulder, walking away from prying eyes and ears.