Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  Hopefully the only comments would be sarcastic – the words ‘working party’ and ‘headquarters’ laughable bedfellows to plenty.

  Working the night shift, two officers were sitting, headphones on and machines recording, in an office in the secure compound which Sam and Ed had visited on Saturday.

  The Bhandals' house came alive shortly after the family’s release from custody.

  Doors slammed, the father shouted in a mixture of Punjabi and English, the son shouted predominantly in English. The mother was inaudible.

  Then it was over. Ten minutes of activity. Then nothing. Only silence.

  Had everybody gone to bed?

  In a warm office, no matter how bright, silence equates to boredom for the listeners and a subsequent struggle to stay awake. There is only so much tea, so many quiz questions. Sleep goes to war and becomes a sly, merciless enemy. Many a cop has fallen on the unforgiving fields of ‘The Battle of Stay Awake’.

  Just after 4am, Davinder Bhandal spoke, in English.

  The cops, hearts jump-started by the surge of activity, bolted upright and rubbed their eyes.

  Bhandal was in the kitchen. Water was running. A kettle being filled? ‘Where’ve you been?’

  The son spoke. ‘Out. Clear my head. Get rid of the smell of that stinking place. What are you doing up?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Bhandal answered. ‘I will go and see old man Singh today, put him right.’

  The sound of a clicking switch. The kettle?

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘He needs to be reminded of the dates, make sure he gives the police the correct information,’ Bhandal told his son. ‘That the settee was delivered on Thursday.’

  ‘And what if he goes to the police? Tells them you’ve been round?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Why?’ Baljit’s voice rose. ‘Because those from the mother country don’t talk to the police? They close ranks, protect their own community? I’ve got news for you – he’s already talked to them. And have you thought the police might be watching us, watching this house?’

  The two officers smiled, gave each other the thumbs-up.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ Bhandal was asking now. ‘You seem to have all the answers.’

  ‘I don’t, but I say do nothing. Let the dust settle. The police haven’t got anything. If they had, we wouldn’t have been let out.’

  Footsteps. Flowing water. A cup being filled?

  PC Ranjit Singh was writing as fast as he could. It was true what they said. If you lost one of your senses, the others compensated. If you lost four out of five, the survivor was bordering on extra-terrestrial.

  A spoon bashed against the sides of a cup. Sugar?

  ‘And what if they come for us again?’ It was Bhandal’s voice.

  ‘I think they will,’ Baljit answered. ‘So what? What have they got? Just tell mum to keep saying nothing.’

  ‘What if they find her?’

  The officers pulled their chairs closer, sat up, and clocked the time.

  ‘Aisha?’ Baljit said. ‘Don’t be stupid. How will they do that?’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ A new voice, a woman speaking Punjabi. Baljit answered in the same.

  ‘Dad wants to go round to see old man Singh.’

  ‘What for?’ the woman demanded. ‘What can the police do? They’ll never find Aisha. It will all just go away.’

  Silence.

  Ranjit Singh, three years into the job, desperately wanted to be a detective. He would never get another opportunity like this. Sam Parker’s opinion carried a lot of weight. Impress her and he was on his way. Drop a bollock and the chances of getting Detective Constable on his warrant card would vanish quicker than the setting Indian sun.

  He brought DC Ian Wilson up to speed.

  ‘That can be taken more ways than one,’ said the older, shorter, fatter detective with the cheap trainers and a sweatshirt Ranjit wouldn’t wear to wash his beloved black Golf GTi.

  The tall young cop with expensive taste in shoes and clothes could never envisage a day, no matter how old he got, when he would be seen in crap sportswear. Ian Wilson had obviously never heard of Adidas or Nike. Did detectives have a style transplant when they hit 50? In fairness, Ed Whelan had dodged it. He was still a sharp dresser.

  The DC continued. ‘They’ll never find her because we’ve hidden her, or hidden her body, or if we can’t find her, the police have no chance.’

  He pushed his chair back away from his desk, allowed its wheels to glide across the floor until they lost momentum. He reached sideways for the bag of toffees.

  ‘By the way, do these families use bounty hunters to track them down?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ranjit told him. ‘There are people who make it their living. In your culture you’d call them private investigators, searching for missing persons. This is slightly different. These are looking for people they know are going to be punished, perhaps even killed, once they are found. Often they’d be distributing photographs among the community in the area the family thinks they’ve gone to.’

  Wilson propelled himself forward and passed his colleague a sweet.

  Ranjit took a liquorice toffee, talking again as he struggled with the rapper.

  ‘That’s bothered me about this case,’ he said. ‘Not the distribution of photos but the fact the family hasn’t hired any bounty hunters.’

  ‘Would you know if they did?’

  Ranjit raised his eyebrows. ‘Me, probably. My wife? One hundred per cent. No bounty hunters are looking for Aisha. What does that tell you?’

  He looked at Wilson.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘They’re not bothered,’ Ranjit said. ‘They know she’s dead.’

  ‘Haven’t even put him in the water this time,’ Sam said, walking along the tow path with Ed. ‘You get any grief for getting called out?’

  ‘Nothing that I’m not used to,’ Ed shrugged.

  They had already crossed the outer cordon, a lone young police officer, clip-board in-hand, writing the names down of every officer who passed through. The instructions had been simple – nobody passes unless it’s DCI Sam Parker. Sam knew there would be another police officer at the other end of the tow path doing exactly the same.

  Aware it was always the youngest officers on duty who copped for the Scene Log, Sam unfailingly made time to explain the importance of their task; how, for example, any allegations of cross-contamination could be refuted by the scene log. When a job was boring, it was vital that those performing it realised how much it mattered. Sam knew as far as those officers were concerned nothing got the circulation flowing better than being told you were important by a senior officer.

  She didn’t make time for the young cop today. She managed a cursory nod, no more. She knew she was walking towards a disaster zone, had known that since the call. Her own professional disaster zone.

  There was a slight drizzle – ‘wet rain’ Sam called it – and only their footsteps disturbed the early morning silence.

  Although the body had not been identified, Sam knew it was a young male. She didn’t doubt for a second he would be a student.

  ‘The press will have a field day,’ she muttered.

  Ed didn’t respond.

  She kicked a small stone, which skimmed across the ground and rolled down the bank, dropping into the water.

  ‘How long can we say they’re not linked, deny a serial killer’s on the loose?’ Sam wondered aloud.

  She knew there’d be recriminations from the young man’s family. Christ, she had organised extra patrols along the tow path for Friday and Saturday night. The original plan had been to arrest the girls – the suspected Sisters of Macavity – yesterday. Aisha’s bank card had changed all that and she’d forgotten to organise extra tow path patrols for last night. She’d taken her eye off the ball.

  ‘You could have saved my son, you incompetent bitch.’ Sam could already hear the grief-stricken
voice.

  Professional Standards would have a field day with her. The force might even involve the Independent Police Complaints Commission, although Ed always maintained they were next to useless.

  Trying to get extra officers to patrol the tow path at such short notice would have been a nightmare, but that wasn’t the issue. She should have got them anyway, or at least tried. She hadn’t... end of.

  Sam launched the next stone with her right foot, watched it land in the water with a plop and sink without a trace. The arc of the stone replicated her career – rapid rise, dive to the depths.

  The path followed the meanderings of the river and as they rounded a bend, ducking under a wet, overhanging hawthorn bush, the white tent and the people scurrying around in white paper suits with cameras and other equipment came into view.

  ‘We’re on candid camera,’ Ed said.

  Sam looked across the river, seeing Darius Simpson and a photographer from the Seaton Post.

  ‘At times I think he’s got my bloody phone bugged,’ Sam muttered.

  Julie Trescothick, the Senior Scenes of Crime Officer, came to greet them, a paper suit in each hand.

  ‘What we got, Julie?’ Sam asked as she reached the inner cordon, waist-high tape running around the exterior of the tent.

  ‘Young male, head injury, looks like he was hit from behind. Plenty of blood. We’ve put the plates down.’

  Sam could see the metal plates, the size of small patio paving stones around the tent.

  She noticed a couple of plastic bags tied around two branches of a bush.

  Julie followed her look. ‘There’s blood on the branches. Best we could do for now. Better to preserve with a couple of Tesco carriers than not preserve at all.’

  Sam nodded. She managed a smile. All the high-tech equipment they had at their disposal and they were using supermarket carrier bags.

  ‘All the photographs are taken,’ Julie told her. ‘We’ve done the video. There’s a plate in the tent, but you can get in.’

  ‘To be fair, Julie, we’ll just look in through the tent door,’ Sam said. ‘We can see what we need to from there. Jim Melia’s on his way.’

  ‘Right on cue,’ Ed said, looking over his shoulder, the pathologist striding towards them, bright green moleskins tucked into his black Hunter Wellingtons.

  ‘What we got then?’ Jim said, hands in the pockets of his waterproof, looking like he’d been awake for hours.

  ‘Head injury by the sounds of it,’ Sam said.

  ‘Best have a look then.’

  The three of them put on the white suits and overshoes. As ever, Ed, 6’4”, and broad shouldered, struggled to turn himself into a Teletubby lookalike.

  Julie pulled the tent flap back. They all couched down and peered inside. The body was laid on its side, facing away from them, hair matted with blood, a gaping wound in the back of the skull just above the neckline.

  His clothing – jeans and a T-shirt – suggested he’d been on a night out.

  Jim stepped inside on to the metal plate and knelt down by the body, looking at the head but touching nothing. Sam was still at the entrance to the tent and he spoke to her without looking up or turning around.

  ‘I was at a body the other night, different force, not naming names,’ Jim Melia said. ‘New SIO asked me about time of death. I told him I could stick as many thermometers into as many holes as he wanted, but it’s still a guess. He looked devastated. Really thought I was going to say time of death between X and Y, to the second almost. I told him this was real life, not TV. No voodoo mumbo jumbo.’

  Jim shot back on his haunches. ‘Jesus, Ed, you made me jump.’

  Ed had walked around the tent, removed a metal peg and thrust his head under the canvas. ‘Thought so. Sorry Jim.’

  ‘Thought what?’ Sam said.

  Ed walked back around the tent, hands in pockets, head down.

  ‘Luminous orange trainers,’ he told her. ‘It’s Glen Jones.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘There’s a big rock over here, covered in blood,’ a white-suited SOCO shouted, emerging from the long grass. He was 20 metres away, 20 metres closer to the student accommodation block.

  Sam and Ed walked over to him.

  They remained on the path, the SOCO, back in the grass, photographing the stone in situ. It needed to be recovered before the drizzle washed it clean.

  ‘Good spot that,’ Sam said.

  She remembered the discovery of Yorkshire Ripper Peter Sutcliffe’s hammer. Thorough search or another search officer taking a leak?

  Jim exited the tent and walked to Sam and Ed.

  ‘Skull crushed, probably one solid blow but I’ll know better when we get him to the mortuary.’

  Sam pointed to the orange plastic box crate covered in brown paper, which the SOCO was now carrying towards them. Sam marvelled at the odds and sods SOCO carried in their vans.

  ‘What about what’s in this crate?’ she asked Jim Melia.

  He glanced under the paper.

  The large stone looked like it belonged in a garden rockery, something of a size not many would be able to carry in one hand. The small, dark brown stain was a dirty blemish on the smooth pale grey surface, a couple of strands of matted hair moving in the cool breeze. Anything more than a drop was ‘covered’ as far as SOCOs were concerned.

  ‘That would fit the bill,’ Jim said, bending forwards for a closer look. ‘You’ll know for certain when you do your tests on the blood and hair.’

  He straightened his back. ‘Nothing more for me here.’

  He strode off and didn’t look back when he shouted: ‘See you at the mortuary.’

  ‘Not a hammer then,’ Ed said, as he and Sam walked back towards their cars.

  ‘Maybe more spontaneous, maybe the killer didn’t have another hammer, but it’s another Mortimer, another link.

  The dampness magnified the smell of the grass and bushes, but the cold and wet were hindering her thought processes. She hated being cold, hated being wet. Fine on a yacht, not at work. The two together were a nightmare as far as she was concerned.

  ‘Why carry the rock, what, 20 metres? What was that all about?’ Ed said.

  ‘Who knows?’ She kicked another stone, sunk her hands deeper into her North Face jacket. ‘We’re missing something here. I know we are, but what?’ She pulled her hood up, bowing her head as the drizzle turned to rain. ‘I feel we’re one piece short. Find the last piece and we can start to put the jigsaw together. How are we doing with Amber and Elliott?’

  ‘They need a bit more time,’ Ed told her.

  ‘That’s one thing we’re pretty short of.’

  She answered her phone. ‘Morning Darius. How are you?’ She tapped Ed’s arm and pointed to a large oak tree.

  ‘Give me a minute.’ They sheltered under the huge tree. Sam put the phone on speaker.

  ‘Hi Sam. Fine thanks. Listen, just to give you the heads up: the editor’s going to slate you in his editorial.’

  ‘Just what we need,’ Sam said, heart rate increasing, thoughts racing.

  ‘Knobhead,’ Ed mouthed.

  ‘Incompetent investigation, serial killer on the loose, you know the drill,’ Darius was saying. ‘He’s not particularly well liked and everybody knows he has a beef with the police... goes back to his leftie student days when he was locked up at some rally, but he’ll run with it Sam. He sees it as his civic duty.’

  Ed mouthed ‘Tosser’.

  ‘Okay, thanks for the heads up,’ Sam said into the phone. ‘I’ll let you know if we get anything. No doubt we’ll have a press conference later.’

  ‘Bound to happen,’ Ed said, as they started walking.

  Sam’s pounding heart and clammy forehead were a reaction to the self-doubt racing like river rapids through her veins. Pilloried in the press would be just the beginning. Soon it would be police officers whispering in corners, stealing glances as Sam walked past.

  ‘Yeah, suppose so.’ She stopped again,
took a deep breath, spoke slowly. ‘Would cops walking along here last night have made any difference?’

  ‘Look at it,’ Ed told her. ‘Two miles of path, two miles on each side that is, four miles to cover in total. If we had a cop every 100 metres maybe, but what would that be? Something like 60 cops? We had four on mountain bikes and a couple on horses, and getting that many was a bloody miracle.’

  Sam knew even those resources were really an exercise in trying to reassure a nervous public.

  ‘The media will still say we could have caught him,’ she said.

  Ed wiped rain of his shaved head.

  ‘Years ago, when everybody was clamouring for more cops on the streets, I read somewhere that a bobby on the beat would catch a burglar red-handed once in their career, so once in 30 years in other words… Come on, I’m getting soaked.’

  They went to their cars.

  Ed turned the key in the ignition and adjusted the climate control to high. His trousers clung to his thighs as he depressed the clutch, his leather-soled shoe slipping on the rubber pedal.

  What had Sam said? A piece missing from the jigsaw?

  He pulled away, the noise of the blown air fading as he lost himself in the mental search going on through the fog of his brain. The piece he was after was floating around, a fuzzy shape he couldn’t quite grab.

  His wasn’t concentrating on the road; he was a child again, running around, trying to catch the bubbles his mother was blowing through a red plastic circle on the end of a red plastic stick.

  He saw the teenager sprint, zigzagging across the road, dodging puddles, a cigarette clasped between his teeth.

  ‘Fucking idiot,’ Ed muttered, the palm of his right hand slapping the top of his forehead. He didn’t mean the teenager.

  His eyes darted between the rear-view mirror and both wing mirrors before he swerved into a junction, spun the wheel and re-emerged back on the main road, now travelling in the opposite direction. The surveillance team called a 180-degree turn a reciprocal.