Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  She heard him breathe deeply, wondered if Ed’s blood pressure would survive the rage.

  ‘Hell, what’s rattled your cage?’ Sam said.

  ‘The lunatics,’ Ed snapped. ‘They’ve finally taken over the asylum. They’ll be dancing in circles on the grass next, bollock naked with daisy chains on their heads.’

  The wooden planks of the pier were soaking. They were standing at the end, leaning against the railings, land behind them, looking out across the grey North Sea, tankers on the horizon heading in and out of Teesport.

  They’d agreed to come here as often as they could, an acknowledgement that Sam needed to get over Tristram’s death, needed to enjoy the sea again, not fear it.

  Ed opened the white paper bag containing his mayo-free sandwich. The wrapper informed him a ‘sandwich artist’ called Craig had created it with his own hands. Ed knew that already. He had watched Craig make the bloody thing.

  Sandwich artist? He was definitely getting too old. He examined his prawn and tomato offering as he chewed the first mouthful. Not exactly a Rembrandt but nice enough, he had to admit.

  Sam spoke in between mouthfuls of Tuna savoury.

  ‘You finished whinging for the day?’

  Ed nodded, mouth full.

  ‘Good,’ Sam said. ‘So let me get this straight. Amber Dalton is Elliott Prince’s step-sister.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the size of it,’ Ed told her. ‘He was the result of an affair his mother had with a merchant seaman. Hubbie had already gone for the snip after they had Amber. Mother tried to explain it away... the operation mustn’t have worked properly... but when he threatened DNA tests, she coughed. Elliott was put up for adoption as soon as he was born.’

  ‘And they got in touch how?’ Sam asked.

  Ed told her he didn’t know but it could be done easily enough through the wonders of social media, especially if you had a name

  ‘Seems like Elliott’s adoptive parents told him everything,’ he said.

  ‘And once he finds her,’ Sam said, taking it up, ‘if she confides what happened to her, you’ve got a decent motive for attacking the creeps photographing the girls.’

  Ed said that would fit.

  ‘Could explain why he never received a retribution photograph of himself,’ Ed reasoned. ‘Potentially he’s infiltrating. He’s another Gatekeeper, this time avenging his sister’s honour, as opposed to enforcing honour in Aisha’s case.’

  Sam knew the theory was still a stretch. Killing the person who raped his sister would have serious weight but killing people who hadn’t raped anybody, even if they were taking those pictures?

  She watched Ed roll the paper bag into a ball and put it in his coat pocket. ‘Remind me not to leave it there.’

  They decided to head to Surf Shack for coffee, Ed telling Sam on the way the Bhandals now knew he could speak Punjabi

  ‘Give them something to think about,’ she said.

  They placed their take-out cups on the wooden table, the rich aroma of the dark, strong Colombian coffee drifting upwards, their noses twitching in anticipation. Sam lit a Marlboro Gold, the smoke ruining the smell of fresh coffee for Ed as he stepped back from the table.

  ‘Quarter to two,’ Sam said, studying her watch. ‘Do we go for the girls now, or leave it until tomorrow? We’re not getting any more from the phones?’

  ‘What about the chewing gum and the cigarettes?’ Ed asked.

  Sam shook her head.

  ‘Even if we wait to see if we get a profile, we’ll have to get their DNA. None of them are on the database.’

  Ed took the cup from the table.

  ‘So it’s either today or tomorrow,’ he said after a mouthful. ‘Early doors tomorrow and we should definitely get them... can’t think any self-respecting student will already be out of bed by then. Go now and we might not get all of them. Your call.’

  Sam was reluctant to keep delaying but doing it now would mean working late and the overtime budget taking a hit.

  She worked on her cigarette.

  ‘Say we get them this afternoon, we’ll probably only get one interview with each of them today by the time they get briefed up. 8am start tomorrow and we’ve got them until 3pm before we need a Superintendent’s extension. If we go for that option, we’ll waste time because we can’t interview them in the early hours. Then we’ll be at court Wednesday morning going for a Warrant of Further Detention.’

  She inhaled again.

  ‘But if we leave it for tomorrow morning, we’ve got them all day before they need their eight hours rest. Then if needs be, get a Superintendent’s extension Thursday morning until 8pm Thursday.’

  Sam was saying out loud what she would later write in her Policy File, explaining her decision-making thought processes.

  Ed waited. ‘What’s it to be then?’

  Sam stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Logistically, from an interviewing perspective it makes more sense. Some of their phones are down by the tow path, so they’ve potentially lied. Tracey and Charlotte go into the club with Jack and Glen, both dead now. Alex rings in Jack’s death. They’ve got plenty to answer so let’s lock them up for his murder.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ed agreed. ‘What about Amber?’

  Sam found herself tempted by another cigarette but resisted.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Amber,’ she said. ‘She runs a support group that may or may not be the Sisters Of Macavity, but even if it is, so what? We can put her phone in the town centre at the relevant time, but unlike the others, there’s nothing to link her to the victims, other than they may have cropped up in her support sessions. Not a lot really. Let’s leave her for now. See what the others have to say.’

  ‘And Elliott?’ Ed asked.

  Sam thought about it, searching for a solid reason to bring him in as well.

  She realised it wouldn’t work. Yes he might be raging to learn his new found step-sister had been raped – who wouldn’t? – but after that?

  She paused, took a slurp of coffee and gave up the fight against another cigarette.

  ‘What if Elliott buddies up with Goddard and Jones and the likes after he meets up with Amber?’ Sam said. ‘Expands on your theory of the Gatekeeper of Honour, just more like the vengeful angel.’

  She gripped the cigarette in her teeth as she fumbled for her ringing phone. ‘Sam Parker…Hi Bev.’

  Sam listened for a few seconds.

  ‘Really? See you soon. We’re on our way back.’

  She inhaled and blew out smoke.

  ‘I asked Bev to check out Elliott Prince’s phone,’ Sam paused, Ed waiting. ‘On the nights Jack Goddard and Glen Jones were murdered, it was on the tow path.’

  Ed’s eyes went wide.

  ‘Jackpot!’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  By the time Ed was driving home his head felt like a balloon a jab from exploding. The Op Order spelling out which cops were going to which address, who was interviewing who, had taken time and a methodical brain, and while most of it had been done yesterday, the additions, staff changes and what those entailed, needed covering. Every officer’s role and responsibility had to be spelled out to avoid major cock-ups.

  He’d spent time with Paul Adams, the Level 5 Interview adviser, discussing and preparing the interview strategies for all suspects.

  Everything was in place for tomorrow’s 6am briefing. All Ed wanted to do now was sit in front of the TV, watch the second half of the match on Sky’s Monday Night Football, and eat. Other than the prawn sandwich, he’d had nothing since Richie’s fry-up more than 14 hours ago.

  He groaned when he saw Eric and Leela’s car parked outside, considering turning around and driving away.

  Sue had the front door open before he was out of the car. She walked towards him, her voice quiet but urgent.

  ‘Eric needs to speak to you. He looks really worried. Leela’s here, but he hasn’t told her what the problem is.’

  ‘Okay, o
kay. I’ll have a word.’

  He followed Sue inside, whispering to her back. ‘I’m sure it can be sorted, whatever it is. Unless he’s got another speeding ticket, in which case he’ll have to take the points and the ban that will come with it.’

  They stepped inside, Sue pointed Ed towards the sitting room and Eric jumped up. Sue was right. He looked terrified.

  ‘Eric, what’s up?’

  The man was visibly trembling.

  ‘Ed, I overheard something this afternoon in the Gurdwara, something really bad,’ he began. ‘I’m scared.’

  Ed’s voice was soothing, hypnotic almost, years of dealing with stressed victims allowing him to drop automatically into ‘concerned’ mode.

  ‘Okay Eric, sit down. I’ll fix us a drink.’

  The bottle of whisky was on top of the drinks cabinet. He poured two large ones, handed a crystal tumbler to Eric and sat down. Ed had flown through turbulence where glasses hadn’t shaken as much as the one Eric was holding.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you, Eric?’

  Eric stared into the glass. ‘Today, this afternoon, I was looking for something in the kitchen cupboard of the Gurdwara, the walk-in cupboard. Davinder Bhandal and that brother-in-law of his came in. Never liked the look of him. Anyway, they shut the kitchen door.’

  He hesitated. Ed shuffled forward on his seat, but said nothing, waiting for Eric.

  ‘They didn’t know I was in the cupboard,’ he went on. ‘I just froze on the spot. They said they’re frightened the house is bugged. Davinder said that.’

  They’d be right there.

  ‘They can’t believe you speak Punjabi. Davinder now knows you are the Gora married to Sue. The brother-in-law, I don’t even know his name... ’

  ‘Gurmej,’ Ed said.

  ‘Well, he was outraged a Sikh woman was with a white man, kept saying it was shameful, that Sue should have married within her own community and that this was what happened when you let girls get Western ideas. They had no respect, no shame and that women like Sue should have been whipped off to India and married.’

  He downed the whisky in one.

  ‘Did they say what happened to Aisha?’ Ed asked, taking the glass from Eric’s hand.

  Eric shook his head. ‘Not in so many words, no.’ He took the refilled glass Ed held out. ‘But she’s dead. I just know she is. Davinder said they should move the body but the brother-in-law said you’d never find the suitcase.’

  Shit! Ranjit at the LP said there was a domestic. Mia couldn’t find her suitcase.

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘No. The more I heard, the further I backed into the cupboard.’

  ‘Did they say where the body was?’

  Eric shook his head.

  Ed poured him another drink. ‘Eric, tomorrow I’m going to need you to make a statement.’

  He nodded.

  ‘We’ll do it on video. That way it’ll just be like a conversation. Is that okay?’

  Another nod.

  Where the hell am I going to find a Level 3 Interviewer tomorrow?

  After an hour of reassurance, Eric went home with Leela.

  Ed immediately made a phone call.

  ‘Sam, it’s me. I’ve had another visit from Eric, my Sikh mate. He overheard a conversation today between Aisha’s father and uncle. We’ll get a video interview off him tomorrow. He’s terrified. Thinks Aisha’s dead and so do I. They’ve buried her in a suitcase.’

  Saturday 14th December 2013

  It was dark again. I was lying on the bed; my head still hurt and my throat felt like it had closed up. I needed a drink of water. For some reason I remember Bethany telling me how some girl she knew had her own en-suite bathroom. How cool is that? I started to giggle, thinking about getting a drink of water from my own bathroom.

  The whisky bottle was still on top of the drawers. It wasn’t full now. I’d drunk about quarter of it, hoped it would help. It hadn’t.

  I had thought about running and jumping into the window, hoped the whisky would help me do it, but even with the drink I knew I wouldn’t survive, or if I did, I’d be in a wheelchair. Marrying off a cripple is not easy. I’d end up with someone older than my father.

  I thought about agreeing to the marriage. It was better than being a prisoner, or so it seemed until I realised I’d only be swapping one prison for another, and the thought of being imprisoned with Quasimodo as my gaoler…

  I could pretend to agree to the marriage. Hopefully that might get some of my freedoms back. Then I would escape again. Go to the police. I’d heard of those Forced Marriage Protection Orders, read about them in some magazine left in the school, but I just wanted to be away. I knew things would never be the same with my family now.

  If I could just convince them into thinking that I’d go along with it.

  Maybe it was the sound of my giggling. Whatever it was, I heard the thumping of heavy feet on the stairs. More than one set of feet.

  The noise of the bolts being flung back sounded like rifle shots.

  I scrambled up, forced myself into the corner, put my knees up to my chest, and covered my nakedness as best as I could. The room was spinning. Maybe the whisky hadn’t been such a good idea.

  I thought the door was going to come off its hinges. My father filled the frame, his face as red as the Indian sun at dusk, my mother right behind him.

  ‘Look at the drunken slut,’ shouted my mother and she pushed past my father, rushed into the room, grabbed my hair, pulled me towards her, swung her arm right back and slapped my face. If the window had been open, you’d have heard the slap across the street.

  She bent down, screamed at me. Her face was so close to mine I could feel her spit hitting my cheek. ‘We have raised a drunken whore, no better than the white trash she goes to school with.’

  My brother and uncle appeared at the doorway.

  My cheek was on fire. I covered my face with my hands, screamed as my mother grabbed my hair again. She yanked me up. My shoulder cracked as it hit the floor. Before I could move, hands grabbed my arms. My mother still had hold of my hair and she banged my forehead against the floor, three, maybe four times. I thought my head would crack like an eggshell.

  My arms were yanked above my head and I was spun on to my back. I blinked, focussed, and saw that my uncle had one of my arms, my father the other. I was trying to scream ‘get off me’ but my parched throat wouldn’t let the words out.

  My back was in agony, on fire again, as they dragged me across the bedroom and on to the landing. I could see my mother at the bottom of the stairs.

  They forced me to my feet. A hand shoved me forward. I tumbled, cried out, rolled, and somersaulted. I hit the hallway floor and whimpered. Instinctively I curled myself into a ball.

  I couldn’t breathe. Were my ribs shattered or was it just because I had never been so frightened? How many people would ever be this scared?

  My mother had stood above me as other footsteps descended. The steps were loud, but they weren’t hurried. They didn’t have to be. I doubted I could have stood up, never mind run.

  I squealed when the tops of my arms were gripped again and I was pulled to my feet. I could taste the salt from my tears. My cheek was numb. I felt battered.

  I had tried to scream ‘help’ but still nothing came out.

  The uppercut punch flew into my stomach. I doubled up, only the grip on my arms stopped me collapsing. I don’t know who hit me, but my mother couldn’t punch like that.

  My head was swimming. I lolled forward. I wanted to crash to the floor. That old band from the 80s flashed into my mind – Tears for Fears and that song ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’. I didn’t want to rule anything, just my own destiny, just a say in my own life, a life I wanted to fight for... but my fight had gone. I had nothing left.

  My dad and uncle hauled me into the sitting room, my legs dragging behind me, my toes burning against the carpet. They threw me on to the settee. The new settee. I la
nded on my stomach.

  Somebody punched me in the back of the head. I was spun on to my back, my eyes blinked repeatedly trying to focus. The blurred outline of my mother, the only sound her rapid breathing.

  ‘Soon it will be you who has to protect the family honour,’ she gasped.

  I tried to sit-up but a fist smashed into my nose: a massive crack, a blinding white light, gushing blood.

  My father put one knee on my chest. Both his hands gripped my throat. I think I peed myself. I focussed on his eyes but they were blank, nothing behind them. He started to squeeze. Blood was trapped in my throat and I retched. The vomit couldn’t get past my windpipe, couldn’t escape my throat.

  The hazy shapes of my brother and uncle had come into view. They were standing behind the settee looking down, just watching. I was past caring about my nakedness. Then fingers had grabbed my nose.

  What had I done wrong?

  Wanted to go to university.

  Wanted to choose my own husband.

  Wanted to have my own life.

  Was that so wrong?

  Was I so bad?

  Was that such a crime?

  I couldn’t move my legs, couldn’t breathe. My back arched and again my eyes felt they were going to pop out of my skull.

  Where was Mia? Was she okay?

  ‘Get Mia’s suitcase.’ The shouted, breathless, order had come from my father.

  Why did they want Mia’s suitcase?

  Mia came into my head. Mia and her smile. The last thing I would remember as my light went out.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Tuesday 22nd April 2014

  Ed did the 6am briefing, allowing Sam another hour in bed, but neither the extra sleep nor the early morning sun did anything to lighten her mood. She’d tossed and turned all night, wondering what the editor was going to say in print.

  She walked into the HOLMES room. ‘Morning. Everybody okay? How did the swoops go?’

  ‘All in the traps.’ Ed got out of his seat and flicked the kettle the on. ‘Elliott and Tracey want a brief. Charlotte’s weighing up her options and Alex had daddy notified of her arrest. He’s had a solicitor from down south instruct one from up here. Never heard of him.’