She sat down and switched on her computer.
‘Realised what?’
‘They were on a different sofa to the one we were sat on,’ Sam said.
Ed tried to picture the Bhandals’ living room.
‘People do change settees,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Sam told him. ‘The one in the photo seemed fairly new. It’s probably nothing. Liked you said, make a change. Anything new?’
Ed took a drink from his still steaming mug.
‘Search team’s finished at the riverbank. Nothing.’
‘I wasn’t holding out much hope. Anything else?’
‘Thirteen calls saying there’s a serial killer on the loose,’ Ed said. ‘All anonymous. Seven males, six females. Three made from phones in the university, the rest from public phone boxes.’
‘Anything we can do with the university phones?’ Sam asked.
Ed shook his head.
‘Could be any internal phone. A few girls from the university have called to say Goddard was a sexual predator who didn’t like being turned down. They’ve been actioned out. Bev’s going to see them and we’re going to see Tom King, the doorman, in 30 minutes.’
‘What?’ Sam demanded. ‘How did that come about?’
‘A mutual acquaintance set it up for me.’
‘I won’t ask.’
‘He’ll meet us by the pier,’ Ed told her.
‘In this weather?’ Sam said.
‘Better that than chase our tails looking for him. Apparently if he doesn’t want finding, he can be very elusive.’
Sam was surprised.
‘What, a 19-year-old with no previous and we couldn’t find him?’
‘We’ve not managed up to now.’ Ed was already at the door. ‘We’ll get a coffee down there. He’s not a suspect. We can bring him if we want the interview on tape but I’m not sure it’ll be necessary.’
Sam stood up and put her wet Mac back on. ‘Why?’
‘From what I’ve heard he’s not the type to hit someone from behind and especially not with a hammer,’ Ed said. ‘Everyone says he’s good enough to take people on face to face, and certainly someone like Jack Goddard.’
The rain was fine, persistent and penetrating and the mist patchy, swirling around like the set of a B-movie horror. Wet trousers as tight as Lycra clung to their thighs and strands of Sam’s hair were plastered to her head. Ed’s bald scalp was a wet sheen.
In the 10 minutes they’d stood on the esplanade, backs to the pier, they had seen only a middle-aged woman jog past with her black Labrador, his pads splashing water as he ran. The promenade coffee shop was empty. No one had gone in since they’d bought a flat white and a cappuccino.
‘Looks like a no-show,’ Sam said, hands wrapped around the paper cup, the dregs of the cappuccino failing miserably to warm them.
Ed squinted, eyes searching for a silhouette appearing out of the grey, dreich shadows. ‘Give him another five.’
‘Ed Whelan?’ Two quiet words conveyed politeness and confidence.
Ed and Sam spun around. Neither expected him to emerge from the unprotected pier, not in this weather. He must have been on there before they arrived.
Ed wasn’t used to looking up at people. ‘Yeah, that’s me. You must be Tom.’
Tom King, all 6’8” of him, wore a blue-and-yellow Berghaus jacket and black waterproof Berghaus trousers. He kept his hands in his pockets and nodded. ‘I hear you want to speak to me about Saturday night?’
‘You heard right. Coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Parker. She’s in charge.’
‘Hi Tom, thanks for coming.’
‘No problem. What do you want to know?’
‘You had an argument with a man on Saturday night... ’ Ed said.
‘I’ll stop you there,’ Tom King interrupted. ‘I argued with nobody. A group of lads who were being dicks needed to leave. One of them squared up then threw beer over me. I just smiled at him. I’ve seen him before. He’s the original King Dick. He left with his mates and I’ve not seen him since. He was pissed. If he fell in the river, tough shit.’
Sam spoke. ‘So you know he’s dead?’
‘It’s obvious,’ Tom said calmly. ‘Why else do you want to see me?’
‘You don’t feel any sympathy for him?’ Sam said.
Tom’s eyes were steady, his tone neutral.
‘You wouldn’t feel any sympathy for him if you knew him,’ he said. ‘Treats women like dirt. Don’t get me wrong, I’d have loved to give him a good kicking. His sort deserves it. Arrogant and no manners, especially around women. No loss to society as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Did you not fancy university?’ Sam said, trying to read him.
‘No. I work the doors to pay my way. I do landscape photography, a bit of sport photography. Best way to learn is by getting out there, not sitting in some class. Those who can, do, those who can’t, teach. You know the saying.’
‘What did you do when you finished work Saturday?’ Sam asked.
‘Straight home,’ Tom told them. ‘Taxi. Ate some chicken and beans then went to bed. I was at the gym for about 10 on Sunday.’
‘Anybody verify that?’ Sam said.
He stiffened and the veins on his neck stuck out. Politeness was suddenly replaced with aggression.
‘What, like my mother?’ Tom said. ‘Locked away because the system failed her.’
He looked over his shoulder, towards the invisible sea, now covered in a blanket of fog. When he next spoke, his voice was again quiet and controlled.
‘I live by myself. The taxi driver, Eddie, I think he’s called, should remember dropping me at home. We use the same firm all the time from work.’
‘But nobody can verify you stayed at home all night,’ Sam said.
‘No they can’t.’
‘We’ll need to get a witness statement,’ Sam told him. ‘When’s a good time?’
‘Today, I suppose.’
‘I’ll send someone round to your house if that’s okay?’ Sam said.
‘Yeah, no problem. That it then?’
‘That’s it,’ Sam said. ‘Thanks for coming to meet us.’
Tom was already walking away.
‘Coffee?’ Ed asked.
‘Definitely. I’m damp to my bones… polite lad.’
She made no attempt to move. ‘But the way he turned when I asked about verifying his alibi… the aggression in his voice… and we know he can handle himself.’
‘Which is why I tend to believe him,’ Ed said. ‘He doesn’t need a weapon, and we’re never going to be flavour of the month in his world. His mother’s beaten almost daily and ends up in prison because every time we go round it was just another domestic and we did nothing.’
‘Things are different now, thankfully,’ Sam said.
‘Are they? Do you believe that Sam? Everybody might say the right things at your level in morning prayers when the previous night’s jobs are being discussed but are you convinced the rank and file on the streets are dealing with domestic violence, sorry domestic abuse, any better than we were years ago? I’m not.’
Ed started walking.
‘Well I hope so,’ Sam said, bending down, pulling at her trousers, trying to get them to part from her thighs.
‘You have more faith than me,’ Ed told her. ‘There are plenty of solid, hard-working cops, the ones who stay dedicated to the job, but there’s still a smattering of lazy bastards who’ll do anything to do nothing.’
‘Flat white?’ Sam asked.
‘Go on then.’ Ed answered his mobile. ‘Alright?’
He stood away from the counter. ‘Make it half an hour…okay, I’ll see you there.’
He took the coffee off Sam, who had opted for proper cups, and walked to the table furthest away from the counter. The shop was still empty.
He waited until they were both sitting.
‘That was Elliott Prince,’ Ed said. �
�Wants a meet. Says it’s urgent.’
‘Did he say what about?’ Sam asked.
‘He didn’t want to talk on the phone,’ Ed told her. ‘He was bricking it, though. We’re meeting in 30 minutes in the last lay-by before the Golden Eagle.’
Sam sipped her coffee. ‘All a bit clandestine.’
‘Like I said, he was bricking it.’
Elliott Prince stepped out of his battered Vauxhall Corsa as soon as Ed pulled into the lay-by and was in the back of the police Ford Mondeo before Ed switched off the ignition.
Ed looked over his shoulder. ‘You remember Detective Chief Inspector Parker.’
Elliott blushed and nodded. ‘I thought it was just going to be you.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I was already out with the DCI,’ Ed said.
Using someone’s rank, especially a rank above Sergeant, normally unnerved people who had something to worry about in the first place.
‘Now what was so urgent?’
Elliott reached into his inner coat pocket and handed Ed a piece of A4 paper.
Ed looked at it before passing it to Sam.
‘Who’s the lad?’ she asked.
‘Jamie Telford.’
Jamie Telford was on all fours, naked from the waist down, trousers and underpants around his ankles. A sex toy was inserted in his backside.
Chapter Fifteen
Sam twisted in her seat and looked at Prince.
‘And has it?’ she said, referring to the written message on the piece of paper.
‘What?’ Prince looked non-plussed.
‘Appeared everywhere today?’
He nodded quickly.
‘I’ve had calls to say that there are loads going around the university. Jamie’s nowhere to be found now. Not surprising, I suppose.’
Elliott Prince explained how Jamie had contacted him after receiving the photograph and then brought it to him. Since then Elliott hadn’t been able to contact him.
‘The message is signed by the Sisters of Macavity,’ Sam said. ‘Any idea what that’s about?’
‘No.’
‘What’s going on, Elliott?’ Ed pushed. ‘Is this something to do with your little group?’
‘I don’t know,’ Elliot Prince said slowly. ‘Maybe. Jack dead. Jamie getting this.’
‘So Jamie was in your Mortimer group?’ Ed asked.
‘Yes,’ Elliot answered. ‘He doesn’t live with us, but he’s in the group.’
‘The note says, ‘see how you like it’. What’s Jamie done?’ Ed went on.
Elliot looked at the carpet.
‘Some of the lads take pictures. You know, of the girls when they’re asleep, pissed up.’
‘And then you circulate them on social media,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve seen some of them.’
Her voice was cold with contempt and disgust.
Elliot didn’t look up. ‘We never harmed anybody.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Ed shouted. ‘Circulating pictures of girls? Pictures you had no right to take let alone spread around. Some might say this Jamie Telford character is getting what he deserved.’
Elliot’s shoulders shook and his breathing resembled an asthmatic reaching for their inhaler.
‘There’s a difference between taking photographs of them sleeping and what they’ve done to Jamie.’
The condensation on the windows was hiding everything outside. Ed turned the ignition key, depressed the switch for the windows, and opened them all a crack. ‘Tell that to the girls.’
Sam spoke. ‘Elliott, do you think there are photos of you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There could be. Jamie couldn’t remember anything about that photo. He says he must have been drugged. He’s convinced of that.’
‘So what do you think then Elliott?’ Sam said.
His jaw tensed and his eyes grew dark.
‘People are after us,’ he said. ‘I can’t get hold of Jamie. Glen’s not answering his phone. Jack’s dead.’
‘Elliott, I want you to drive Ed to the police station,’ Sam told him. ‘He’ll take a statement from you. I want to know the name of every girl you photographed... ’
‘There are loads,’ he said in a whisper.
‘Well you better start racking your brains then, and I want the name of every member of this pathetic group of yours. Is that understood?’
He nodded, rubbed his eyes and sniffed.
‘Good,’ Sam said. ‘And Ed will show you a photograph of a group of you wearing T-shirts with the hashtag ‘slags and beer’ written on them. I want the name of everybody in that group.’
‘I don’t know which photo you’re talking about,’ Elliot told them.
‘Ed will show it to you,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sure it will jog your memory.’
Elliott Prince had given Ed the names of 14 girls before they reached the police station. In the interview room he identified every lad in the hashtag photograph.
‘Glen will give the names of any girls I’ve forgotten or didn’t know about,’ he said. ‘Glen was there every time with Jack.’
Ed wrote the girls’ names on a piece of paper, the boys’ names he wrote on the photograph.
‘Do you think any of them had anything to do with Jack ending up in the river?’ Elliott said.
‘Do you?’
‘I don’t know. It was only supposed to be banter. It wasn’t about killing people.’
Ed finished with Elliott and found himself walking along Aisha’s terraced street. He walked past her house, got to the junction, turned around and watched. He had no idea what he was looking for. Inspiration?
Friday 13th December
He was at the end of the street. I was worried he wouldn’t be there. What if he hadn’t come? Then what? I didn’t know whether to walk or run. Running would attract attention. My bag felt heavy, but that was more to do with my heart than its actual weight.
I’d lived in this street all my life: played hopscotch, hide-and-seek, street games. It was great until I reached puberty, then wallop. Everything changed. I’d known about Izzat since I was about seven, but by the time I entered my teenage years, the levels of expectation around my behaviour increased massively.
And the thing was, you had absolutely no idea who was watching you and reporting back. The only way to stay out of trouble was to conform. But how many teenage girls brought up in England want to do that? Have a guess. Exactly. Zero.
So you ended up in No Man’s Land. We did the First World War at school, so I understand the concept. That’s where I was; caught between the land where I’d been born, and the land that was dictating my behaviour. My No Man’s Land might have been invisible but it was no less real.
The car lights were off but I could make out Sukhi behind the wheel. The car was parked directly under a lamppost.
I had no idea where we’d go. South, I supposed. Not Birmingham or Leicester, way too many Asians. As soon as you turned up they’d be asking where are you from, who are your parents, what village are they from? That’s what it’s like. Everybody is linked, everybody knows someone in your family. Not London either. Too big and I like being by the sea.
I remembered watching holiday programmes on the TV. Cornwall always looked nice. Bethany’s been there, said she had a great time. The sea is warmer than it is up here. And that Rick Stein’s from there, you know, the chef on the TV who cooks fish.
I liked the sound of Cornwall. Suggest it to Sukhi. It’d take a few hours to drive there, maybe three? I was just guessing. I’d got no idea. Hey, we might be there in time for fish and chips. That’d be good, especially if Rick cooked them.
And it’d be worth the journey because I’d never heard my family talk of any Sikhs living there. No Asians, no questions. And if people were looking for us, we’d be miles away.
Sukhi would have to get rid of his car. They’d be able to trace us through that. I saw a programme once. It might have been on the news, or was it a short documentary? Anyway, a girl like me had r
un away. The family didn’t report her missing. They reported a theft, said she ran off with a load of money. Police saw her car, arrested her. Family dropped the charges saying they would take her back, forgive her. What happened? You guessed it. She was never seen again.
Sukhi was out of the car now, stood by the passenger door. I was memorising as much as I could, even the colours of the doors. It’d be a long time before I was back in this street. Probably never.
Cornwall. We might need to buy a map.
Wednesday 16th April 2014
Sam’s intention was to drive straight back to HQ, not park up, but she was distracted, fishing the rivers of her memory, trying to catch Macavity.
The Sisters of Macavity? The answer was swimming in there somewhere.
She found Classic FM, turned the blown air to high and pulled out of the lay-by. Johan Strauss seeped from the speakers, emptying her head of everything except a school trip to Vienna, a life of first dates and friendships, dead boys and missing girls not on her teenage radar.
She headed out of town, concentrating on the music, trying to forget about Aisha and Jack Goddard.
Her fingers tapped the wheel. Strauss and Vienna... theatres, costumes, darkened auditoriums. Her mind lingered – theatres, costumes, dark auditoriums.
Strauss was still playing when her left palm slammed the wheel, a bite on her metaphorical rod. Eliot, not Elliott. She dropped into third gear, sped towards the university, and called Stella Burton en route.
Stella, in the corner of the canteen, stood up when Sam walked in.
‘Sam. Good to see you.’
They air kissed each other’s cheek. ‘Coffee?’
‘That’ll be great. White. No sugar. Thanks.’
Sam sat on the metal chair and took in the soft yellows and earthy browns on the walls, glancing at academics huddled in twos and threes and talking in whispers. Stella was standing perfectly still in the queue, a 50-year-old spinster with frizzy, mousey hair, thick-framed black glasses, and a heavy-duty, ankle-length, olive-green, knitted skirt that probably weighed more than she did.
She walked back towards Sam, greeting a couple of people as she negotiated the tables.
Comply or Die Page 10
