Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first to hit on that tactic,’ Sam agreed.

  ‘Could be,’ Dave said. ‘I’m still waiting to hear from the officers who’ve gone to the sports shop to check the CCTV footage for last Sunday.’

  Dave held up a piece of A4 paper.

  ‘I’ve saved the best ‘til last. I’ve just got this off the techies examining Louise’s computer. Obviously there’s a lot still to do, but this is significant. It’s an email sent to Louise by Smith on the day she was killed.’

  He passed it to Sam, and Ed moved from his seat, stood next to Sam’s chair, and began reading over her shoulder.

  You Fuckin’ bitch. That house is half mine so you either sell it or remorgage. I want my share of the profit. You sit there and tell me on the phone that Im not getting anything cos you paid the deposit and morgage. Fuck you I contributed. Im not waiting fuckin’ five years for a divorce. I want a divorce now. Julie’s 10 times the woman you are. She’s good to be with and she is fuckin’ great in bed. Get my money you greedy stuck up cow

  Sam read the words again and ran a hand through her hair.

  ‘A lot of anger there,’ she said, looking up at Ed.

  ‘A lot of motive as well,’ he responded.

  ‘Sent yesterday morning,’ Sam noticed, weighing up the significance of the timing.

  ‘Are there any more?’ She rubbed the paper between her thumb and fingers.

  ‘There might be more, but that’s the most recent,’ Dave said. ‘I told you he’s a nasty bastard.’

  More swearing, Ed thought.

  Looking at Dave, the woman in Sam listened to her intuition. Dave wanted more from the relationship than Louise. Shame, Sam thought. Dave’s a really nice guy. Still, you can’t force anyone to commit. If it was Smith who’d killed her, Louise might be alive today if had decided to stick with Dave for the long haul.

  ‘He can’t spell mortgage either,’ Sam said, looking up at the two of them, immediately kicking herself for her insensitivity. It was hardly the time to have a pop at Dave’s spelling limitations.

  ‘But there’s no disguising the anger and a potential motive in the words,’ she said quickly, trying to distract Dave, while the phrase ‘overkill’ flashed in her head like the blue light on a traffic car.

  Overkill - an emotional attachment. The greater the evidence of overkill, the closer the relationship. It certainly ticked the boxes.

  ‘Alan Smith’s just elevated himself to the status of ‘person of interest’,’ she said. ‘Time will tell whether he’ll be elevated to the status of suspect.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ Ed said. ‘This email is sent after she was killed. If it’s down to Smith, why send it to someone who’s dead?’

  ‘Throw us off the scent?’ Dave wondered aloud. ‘If it is him, he could use your very point in an interview. ‘Why would I send an email to a dead woman, especially one like that?’

  Sam nodded slowly, reading the email again, noting that it was sent before the police had notified Smith of Louise’s death.

  Jason Stroud, sitting in the HOLMES room, hands cupped around a steaming mug of black coffee, had been in the office with the interviewing team since 6am. Jacket draped across the back of his chair, top button undone, tie loosened, he felt he could carry his holiday luggage in the bags under his eyes.

  He was consumed with one thought: was Spence the killer? He wasn’t convinced by Sam and Ed’s reasoning. Were they overcomplicating matters? What if Louise had managed to get his mask off him? Had that caused him to erupt?

  ‘All okay with the interview plans?’ Sam asked as she walked into the room, Ed close behind her.

  ‘Yeah, fine. Did you know he pissed himself when he was getting booked in? That must be a good sign,’ Jason told them, grinning as he looked up at her. ‘We’ve planned out the interviews. Unless he admits everything straight off, we’ll have three interviews with him.’

  ‘Any reason for three?’ Sam asked, as Ed flicked the switch on the kettle.

  ‘The first one we’ll go through each of the attacks. Then we’ll have a break. In the second we’ll question him about the property the search teams recovered. The third will be the challenge interview,’ Jason explained.

  ‘Sounds good,’ Sam nodded, taking a mug of tea from Ed and tentatively putting it to her lips. ‘Presumably you’re geared up in case you get an immediate admission?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jason said. ‘The three of us have spent a long time consolidating our knowledge about the attacks. If he coughs straight away, that won’t be a problem.’

  Ed smiled as he lowered the mug from his mouth. He could remember, in the days before political correctness, detectives mischievously nicknaming the bad interviewers ‘bronchitis’ - the only time they got a cough. His particular favourite was calling them ‘Tixylix’, after the child’s cough medicine.

  ‘Can I have a word with you in your office, Boss?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Sam said, already walking out of the HOLMES room. ‘Alright if Ed’s there?’

  ‘No problem,’ Jason told her.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ Sam asked.

  ‘The murder. I’ve not planned to interview Spence about that yet.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Sam told him, switching on her computer, knowing the emails wouldn’t stop just because she was in the middle of a major inquiry.

  Jason moved his eyes from Sam to Ed before he spoke again.

  ‘I’m just not convinced about the rationale for believing Spence is in the clear on the murder,’ Jason said.

  Sam took another sip of tea and settled the mug on her desk.

  ‘Yeah, I get that, but I don’t think Spence is the killer. A rapist, yes, and one capable of careful planning, but not the killer. That’s not to say I’m right. Let’s see where we are after the interviews, and then we can decide whether to arrest him for murder.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine,’ Jason said. ‘I’ll keep you posted on how the interviews are going. The solicitor will be here for 9.15. He has no problem with it being monitored so I’ll be in an office watching the interviews on a TV.’

  As Jason walked towards the door, Ed spoke in a quiet, monotone voice.

  ‘Jason, if Spence’s the killer, where are his planning notes on Louise?’

  Jason turned and nodded, clearly considering the question as he walked out without saying another word.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Michael Spence was in a private consultation with his formally suited solicitor, a man whose grandfatherly air was accentuated by blue pinstriped trousers pulled high around his football-shaped stomach.

  Sitting on a black plastic seat bolted to the floor and continually shuffling, Spence was still trying to fathom how they had come to arrest him. But one thing that wasn’t hard for him to understand was his future. He knew he was finished.

  Head bowed, notepad on crossed knee, the solicitor scribbled furiously as the broken man opposite mumbled his confessions in a long monologue.

  Spence had his fingers in his mouth, and his hunched shoulders and glassy eyes were a vivid contrast to the masked rapist who crept so confidently into women’s homes in the middle of the night.

  The solicitor’s jaw dropped in astonishment when Spence reached the driving licences and moleskin notebook, and his whole body pushed back into the chair when the flowers and the key took their bow.

  After 20 minutes, his aching wrist demanded his pale, podgy fingers drop the pen and notepad on to the light-coloured wood veneer desk. He removed his gold-rimmed spectacles, closed his eyes, pinched his nose between his finger and thumb, and considered the fact opportunities to represent this type of client didn’t come along often. It would be a tale worth telling at the next Law Society dinner.

  Spence’s position was worse than hopeless. It would need a magician to have all the exhibits excluded from the evidence, and that could only happen if the police had made massive breaches in procedure. He knew that was very unli
kely on a major investigation.

  Not that he would tell Spence that. Everyone was entitled to a defence, even those who were better locked safely away from society. If he gave this sexual predator no hope, Spence might try to take his own life. He made a mental note to pass his concerns to the Custody Sergeant and suggest Spence be placed on ‘suicide watch’.

  He told Spence his best chance lay in making a full confession at the earliest opportunity, and then entering – or at least indicating – guilty pleas at his first court appearance. The law meant he would have to be given at least some credit and almost certainly a reduced sentence, his small reward for sparing his victims the ordeal of giving evidence and, no less important, saving the system time and money.

  Of course, he knew Spence was going to prison for a very long time.

  Dave popped his head around the open door.

  ‘Just a quick one, Boss,’ he said as Sam looked up. ‘I’m sorry, but the key. It opens your front door.’

  ‘We guessed as much, but thanks for letting us know,’ Ed said.

  Ed looked at Sam, her eyes fixed on the wall, the colour draining from her face, and told her in a quiet, empathetic voice: ‘They’re only confirming what we already knew. Try and forget it. We’ve got him now.’

  He needed to change the subject, as much for him as for Sam.

  ‘By the way, Sue’s asked if you fancy coming to ours tonight? Have some food, maybe a curry, and a drink. She’s made up the spare room for you.’

  Sue hadn’t asked. She was hostile to the idea and had only reluctantly agreed when Ed shouted: ‘Jesus Christ, who brings the other woman home for dinner with his bloody wife?’

  Sam had expected the key to open her door, but the confirmation still made her throat to go dry, images of a masked man dancing around her mind.

  He had been coming for me. Would I have resisted? Been beaten or killed? Would I have capitulated? If he had raped me, I would have been a case study in every police training classroom in the country, forever known as the SIO raped by the rapist she was hunting.

  ‘You alright?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Fine. I’d love to. Thanks. Thank Sue as well.’

  ‘Great. I’ll let her know.’

  Ed stood up, answered his phone, and spoke to the detective who was interviewing the licensee of the Golden Eagle. ‘Thanks Jim.’

  He put the phone on the desk, sat down, and said: ‘Guess who was in the Eagle when Banks was running his mouth off?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Alan fucking Smith,’ Ed said, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Are they sure?’ Sam replied, her eyes widening as her eyebrows strained to reach the top of her forehead.

  ‘One hundred per cent. He’s the brewery rep for that pub. The licensee’s known him for years. He was sat at the end of the bar closest to Banks and his cronies. If they could hear Banks, it’s a fair guess Smith could earwig as well.’

  Sam allowed herself to slide down her chair, and spoke in a slow, thoughtful voice.

  ‘So we have the emails which may show motive, and certainly demonstrate hostility, or as Dave suggested, manufacturing an alibi. We’ve Smith potentially overhearing the information from Banks. We know that Smith gave his house key to June, but of course we know now, if we didn’t already, how easy it is to get a copy.’

  She sat up straight, and her voice quickened.

  ‘We need that intelligence picture on him as soon as. If he’s our man, we need to get his clothing quickly. One lot of burnt clothing’s enough for any investigation.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ed agreed. ‘We need his car as well. If it’s Smith, he’s had to get here from Newcastle. He’s not going to use public transport covered in blood, so he must have driven. We need the car examining for Louise’s blood.’

  ‘We do, but if he had the same car when he was still with Louise, he’ll be able to explain away any traces of her blood. What we could do with knowing is whether his car was in the Seaton area last night or this morning. That would be a nice piece of corroboration. We need to establish whether any of the ANPRs were operating.’

  ANPR, thought Ed. Automatic Number Plate Retrieval. A simple box of electronic tricks that took photographs of the number plates of passing traffic, a souped up version of the system that let supermarkets know whether anyone had stayed too long in the car park.

  ANPR was a relatively new addition to the crime-fighting armoury but as ever, Ed knew, it was another technical advance for the far left and civil liberty brigade to moan about.

  ‘What you shaking your head at?’ Sam asked him.

  ‘Oh, just the usual,’ Ed said, putting his hands behind his head before continuing. ‘You know, who do the lefty academics represent? Ask any law-abiding Jill or John and they’ll be cheering for DNA databases, CCTV, electronic surveillance, and anything else that helps the good guys. But I suppose the hush-puppy brigade needs a reason to get up in the morning, and they kid themselves what they’re doing is for the greater good, like they’re superior to us mere mortals, saving the world from state intrusion.’

  ‘And your point is?’ Sam asked, never surprised when Ed moved his heart from sleeve to mouth.

  ‘What would happen to their high-and-mighty stance if one their own was murdered, raped or kidnapped; CCTV, ANPR, technical and human surveillance, they would expect the lot! They don’t want us to do the so-called dirty stuff, the intrusion into people’s lives, but they would expect it like a shot if it was them or one of their family was the victim. Hypocrites. It’s all 'human rights' bullshit. What about the victim’s human rights? That lot never speak up for the victims, no mileage in that. The ‘Big Brother’ bollocks doesn’t fit with looking after victims.’

  Sam could have retired and joined the rich list if she’d pocketed a pound every time she had heard Ed on his favourite soap box. He would never change.

  Now she smiled and told him: ‘You need to get out more, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. Oh, I forgot you need a heart to have a coronary.’

  ‘Ha ha. Very funny,’ Ed told her, before slipping back the business at hand.

  ‘I’ll get someone on ANPR straight away but if Smith’s car is in the area, we’ll have to make a decision on what to do with him.’

  ‘I know,’ Sam said. ‘Do we go for him and look to secure any forensics but tip him off that we are looking at him? Or do we wait and try to get more evidence for the interviews? If there’s no forensic in the house and he goes no reply, we haven’t got anything.’

  Ed nodded: ‘See if we can put him in the area and we can decide from there.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Sam said. ‘There’ll be hell on if we lock up the estranged husband and it’s not him, so let’s be as sure as we can.’

  Ed stood up and stretched, putting his arms high above his head and exhaled. ‘He’s a good bet, though, after reading those emails. If we can place his car in the right place at the right time, I say we take him.’

  Sam said: ‘You might be right. Let’s just see what we’ve got before we make the decision.’

  Jason appeared in the doorway.

  ‘We’re about ready to start with the interviews. His brief mentioned to the Custody Sergeant Spence might be a suicide risk. It’s recorded on the detention log.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Sam answered.

  ‘I think he’s going to cough in the first interview,’ Jason said, confidence in his voice.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ Sam told him.

  ‘I’ll crack on,’ Jason said, turning away from the door.

  Sam reached into the top of her in-tray and picked up the brown, tatty internal envelope. Her name was handwritten in box 27. Glancing at the names in boxes 1-26, it was possible to track the sequence of the multiple journeys the envelope had taken across the force. It had been delivered to someone in the Telecommunications Department before her, so she knew what the envelope contained.

  ‘I had the techies knock of a spare copy of the data from Lo
uise’s phone,’ she said, as she untied the string and took out three sheets of paper. She gazed at each, but lingered on page three.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said, as her finger moved down the list. ‘Makes and receives a few calls on a daily basis, but gets 14 calls from the same number on the evening she was killed.’

  She passed the documents to Ed.

  ‘The number looks familiar. It looks like a job phone,’ Sam said.

  ‘Could be,’ Ed said, scanning the numbers.

  Sam picked up her mobile. ‘Shout out the number.’

  She punched the numbers, pressed call, and read the name on her screen. Her thumb jabbed end-call so hard a stinging sensation shot through it.

  ‘What is it?’ Ed asked, staring at her open mouth.

  ‘It’s Dave Johnson’s phone.’

  ‘What! Shit!’ Ed said, jumping up from his chair. ‘Dave’s just walked past. How much of that did he hear?’

  ‘Fuck!’ Sam muttered under her breath.

  Ed hurried to the door and shouted: ‘Dave, hang on a minute,’ but Dave Johnson, already 20 metres further down the corridor, looked like an Olympic speed walker, long strides, weight switching between heel and toe, forearms parallel to the ground, elbows sticking out. He was headed towards the exit door.

  ‘Dave!’ Sam called as she appeared in the corridor, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to stop.

  They both ran towards the glass door that led to the car park, still swinging after Dave had burst through it, and saw him jump into his car, a plume of thick black smoke shooting out of the exhaust as he accelerated away.

  ‘Shit!’ Sam said, throwing open the door. ‘Come on, we’ll go after him in mine until we get a traffic car on him.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  ‘Try his phone,’ Sam shouted, tyres squealing as she floored the accelerator, the smell of burning rubber filling Ed’s nose as he slammed shut the door.

  Speeding out of the car park, she flung the car into a left turn and saw Dave Johnson two cars ahead.