Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Tom, we might need you to look at some CCTV footage from the club,’ Sam spoke for the first time. ‘See if you can identify the two under the tree.’

  Tom King, tall and brushed with sadness, held her eyes.

  ‘Fair enough, but I’ll only do it with Ed.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Sam’s phone rang. 10.33am.

  ‘Slow down, Bethany. What’s wrong? Wait a minute.’

  Sam waved the phone at Ed, indicating that he pull over, then dropped her hand to dangle the mobile near her ankle.

  ‘She’s really upset,’ she whispered.

  Her finger tapped the icon for speakerphone. ‘What is it, Bethany? Try and speak slowly.’

  The voice was ragged and quick, Sam’s words lost in the girl’s tumult.

  ‘What if Aisha’s ran away and it’s all my fault because I sent her a photograph on Messenger when she was drunk on a bed wearing hardly any clothes and everybody saw it.’

  Racking sobs replaced the anguished torrent, sobs as loud and as quick as the words they silenced.

  ‘Bethany, where are you?’

  ‘Victoria Park.’

  ‘Wait there. We’ll be there in 10 minutes. Can you do that for me?’

  Bethany was sitting underneath a huge sycamore tree like a child upset or sulking, knees under her chin, head down, and arms wrapped tightly around her legs.

  The detectives walked across to her. She looked up, cheeks wet and glistening.

  Sam bent down and ran her hand across the last of the dew hiding under the tree, resisting the sun. She sat down beside the frightened teenager. Her trousers would dry. Ed moved a few steps away.

  Sam put her arm on the girl’s. ‘Bethany, the photograph? Where was it taken? How was Aisha drunk?’

  The girl looked at Sam, eyes damp. ‘We’d been to the Jolly Roger.’

  ‘Aisha?!’ Sam didn’t mean to interrupt but even as a cop some things still shocked. ‘Everybody we’ve talked to said she wasn’t even allowed out.’

  Bethany sniffed and rubbed her nose.

  ‘She wasn’t, but this one time, maybe a week before her mother told her she would have to marry that guy, we went out. An Asian doctor was having a house party. He saw Aisha’s dad and asked if she could come.’

  Aisha’s dad had been pleased, Bethany told them. The doctor had a son a year older than Mia and Aisha’s dad had been happy she was socialising with a doctor, even agreed she could sleep over.

  Bethany heaved in some air and looked back down.

  ‘We went with a couple of lads we met in the pub,’ she spoke again. ‘Ended up in their house. Aisha came over all funny and crashed for a couple of hours on their bed. I was downstairs. I had to give her loads of coffee just to get her back to the doctor’s house. I didn’t know they’d taken a photograph of her until I saw it on Facebook. I sent it to her on the Saturday, the day after she went missing. I forgot about her family taking her phone. I just never thought.’

  Bethany’s slender shoulders shook as the sobs returned.

  Sam looked up at Ed. Words weren’t needed. The photograph, not Aisha’s stolen kiss, may have been the final straw.

  ‘So you sent it on the Saturday,’ Sam said. ‘Okay. Let’s go back. It all happened maybe a week before, but it wasn’t until the Saturday you sent Aisha the photograph. Why?’

  ‘I only just got it that day,’ Bethany answered quietly. ‘I’m not Facebook friends with the lads. Elle sent it to me. Elle’s from college. It was her older sister who showed her the photo. Her sister didn’t know we knew Aisha.’

  Sam felt a surge, a snap that zigzagged through her brain.

  ‘What’s Elle’s sister called?’

  ‘Tracey,’ Bethany said. ‘Tracey Davies. She had been raging, had messaged me to say Aisha wasn’t the only one they’d photographed. She told me not to worry,’ Bethany’s voice was breaking. ‘She told me they’d get what was coming to them. She didn’t know Aisha, but she said it wasn’t right. I wish I’d never sent it.’

  Sam waited for the tears to slow.

  ‘Did you know the lads’ names Bethany?’

  Bethany’s eyes were red, a little swollen even.

  ‘The two who are dead,’ Bethany said, so quietly Sam had to strain to hear. ‘Jack and Glen.’

  Sam and Ed were in Sam’s office at Seaton St George police station. Bethany had declined a lift to college saying she’d walk, that she needed the fresh air.

  Sam was pacing.

  ‘Tracey Davies just keeps coming more and more into the frame,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find her and Elliott on CCTV on Sunday night, see what they were wearing and go and recover their clothes. Get their shoes.’

  Ed looked up from his A4 pad, another scenario taking shape in his mind.

  ‘What if Aisha’s family saw the photo? The shame. The anger. What if they identified Glen and Jack, identified the others?’

  Sam had been running the same thought but still wasn’t convinced the others were linked. They might well have been pushed in, but they could just as easily have fallen. While they had all been on the tow path, only Jack and Glen had head injuries and didn’t die by drowning.

  She kicked off her black shoes with the sensible heels and continued her pacing barefoot.

  ‘The media, students and stupid editors driving around pissed with prostitutes next to them might think we have a serial killer on the loose, but we’re the ones who run the job, decide whether they form part of a series,’ she said. ‘Jack and Glen almost certainly do. Sneak up behind and hit them with a blunt instrument, albeit different weapons. The blow killed Glen outright. Jack gets finished off with a carrier bag. Both ways their deaths were much more certain than just pushing someone in the river.’

  Sam paused and sat down.

  Students sadly did drown in rivers. It happened. And if they were tragic but accidental drownings, what better location for a cold-blooded killer than a place where there had already been four deaths.

  She had been thinking out loud, Ed listening.

  ‘So if Aisha’s family found out about Glen and Jack, about what they had done, they beat the shit out of them, maybe kill them,’ he said when Sam fell silent. ‘Even if the family’s already killed Aisha, what Glen and Jack were part of would still be seen as an insult to the family, a dishonourable act that would have to be avenged.’

  Sam had another moment, struggling to see such a brutal code in play in a small English seaside town in the 21st century.

  ‘Jesus, we’re not living 500 years ago,’ she said.

  ‘Try telling them that,’ Ed snorted.

  ‘Reality is it’s just as likely Aisha ran and that the Sisters of Macavity decided to dish out the punishments,’ Sam was back on her feet, back on the move.

  The ringing phone brought her back to her desk.

  ‘Boss, it’s Sharon Gaskarth, down in custody.’

  Sam didn’t really know the Custody Sergeant. Sharon had not long been promoted.

  ‘Hi Sharon. What can I do for you? I know we’ve made your morning a bit busier than normal.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ the Sergeant said, appreciating Sam’s words. ‘It’s Elliott Prince. He wants to speak to you and Ed Whelan, nobody else. Says he’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

  ‘You lot took your time,’ Prince said, already rising as the interview door opened.

  Ed pulled out a chair from underneath the table, its back legs screeching along the floor. ‘Sit back down.’

  Sam spoke in a quiet and measured voice. ‘You wanted to see us?’

  ‘You might find Glen’s blood on my trainers.’

  Sam pulled her chair closer to the desk. ‘Let me remind you that you are still under caution. We need to put the tapes on.’

  Ed stretched out his legs, put his hands behind his neck, and looked up at the ceiling. Years ago it hadn’t mattered what colour they were painted, within months they were nicotine yellow.
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  The red light went out and the recorder stopped beeping.

  ‘I am DCI Parker. Also present is... ’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan.’

  ‘And... ’

  ‘Elliott Prince.’

  Sam cautioned him. ‘Do you wish a legal adviser present?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sgt Whelan and myself are here because you asked to see us, and us specifically. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when we entered the room, without any prompting from us, you said, we might find Glen’s blood on your trainers. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why might we find Glen’s blood on your trainers?’

  Elliott Prince’s eyes shot upwards and to the left, a sure sign of a liar according to body language experts, although they weren’t allowed to be experts in the Criminal Justice system of England and Wales, no more than polygraph tests were allowed. Body language could still prove a useful indicator to interviewing detectives, though.

  ‘I stood in his blood…’

  Neither Sam nor Ed responded but waited for Prince to carry on.

  ‘... on the tow path. When he was lying there.’

  ‘I think you’d better start at the beginning,’ Sam said. ‘Take your time.’

  Elliott Prince looked from Sam to Ed.

  ‘I was on the tow path. So was Glen. We wanted to catch the killer.’

  ‘What?’ Sam needed all her experience not to laugh.

  ‘That night I hid under a tree,’ Prince went on. ‘Glen walked past me, pretending to be drunk, like we knew Jack was the night he got killed.’

  The plan had been simple, Prince told them. Glen was the bait that would flush out the attacker and they would overpower him. Like avenging heroes, they would hand the killer to police.

  ‘But it all went wrong,’ Prince said.

  ‘Why choose Sunday?’ Sam found it difficult to accept they chose any day.

  Prince shuffled in his seat. ‘We were going to do it on Saturday but your lot were everywhere.’

  Jesus, I hope this is all bull.

  ‘And if nothing happened, what... you’d just keep going back?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Prince answered, eyes down.

  Sam looked at Ed. If he’d been stretched out on a sun lounger in Kefalonia he couldn’t have looked any more relaxed. His face was expressionless, not like a poker sharp’s exactly, more a ‘what makes you think I give a fuck’ look. It came with years of practice.

  ‘So if that was the plan, what went wrong?’ Sam asked now.

  ‘Like I said, I waited under a tree. Glen walked past. We wanted to see who would follow him, but no one did.’

  Prince dropped his head, stroked his thighs. ‘I need a cigarette.’

  ‘I’m sure the Custody Sergeant will let you in the exercise yard later,’ Sam told him, an image of her own cigarettes suddenly flashing.

  Prince didn’t look up. ‘I heard something, you know, like a thud, and I ran from the tree. The further I ran, the more Glen came into view.’

  Sam watched his hands move to the table, watched his fingers tighten around the table, watched the blood drain from them. His eyes closed. He was back on the tow path.

  ‘I screamed his name. Got to him. But his head... ’

  Sam jumped as the edge of his fisted hand banged the table.

  Prince looked up. His shoulders started to shake and a sob more like a hunted animal’s howl came from somewhere deep inside.

  ‘His head,’ he cried. ‘You should have seen his head.’

  Sam had seen it.

  Prince was almost shouting above his tears. ‘I knew he was dead. I checked for a pulse. Nothing. I couldn’t believe it.’

  Neither do I. Sam sat, silent, watching.

  ‘So while you’re talking to me in here, the real killer’s out there taking the piss.’

  Sam winked at Ed, who pushed himself up.

  ‘Anyone with you under the tree?’ his first words since the tapes went on.

  ‘No.’

  Ed spoke again. ‘Under that tree are what I consider to be recently discarded cigarette butts. DNA testing may very well tell us who had them between their lips. You’ve already given a DNA swab. Now if you’re lying,’ Ed dropped his voice, ‘and believe me, I’m far from convinced that you’re telling the truth, but if you’re lying about being alone under the tree, then as far as I’m concerned your whole story begins to fall apart.’

  Prince for the first time flashed defiance. ‘What do you mean?’

  Ed shuffled his seat closer towards Prince. ‘What I mean is that everything you’ve said could be nothing more than answering in advance why we’ve been able to link you with the scene of a murder.’

  Prince opened his mouth. Ed raised his hand, pointed the palm at Prince.

  ‘So you see, from where I’m sitting, it’s like this: we don’t have any forensic evidence yet, but that’s not to say we won’t get any. You asked us down here to tell us Glen’s blood may be on your trainers. So maybe you’re getting your defence statement in first, explaining why we’ve got that forensics on you.’

  Prince was motionless, his face still. ‘It’s not like that.’

  Ed stood up and took hold of the door handle

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ he said, turning.

  ‘Tracey Davies!’

  Two words that sounded like an exclamation of shock.

  ‘What about her?’ Ed said, turning back.

  ‘She was under the tree with me.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The monotony of everyday life is magnified when you’re sitting, headphones over your ears, hearing someone else’s daily domestic routine.

  Sonia Mitchell found herself listening to Parkash tell her husband about the local gossip at the Gurdwara, and what she wanted him to pick up at Akbars Mini-Market.

  The shop, in an area many whites referred to as Little India, had been there since Sonia was a child and it hadn’t changed: bunch after bunch of coriander producing the sweet smell she adored, tins of chickpeas, spinach, okra neatly stacked on the shelves; bags of flour the size of builders’ cement sacks piled on the floor; kilo bags of turmeric, each cheaper than a little glass jar of the same in the supermarket.

  ‘Baljit!’ the mother shouted. ‘Time to get up.’

  Get up? It was noon. She would never have been allowed to lie in bed that long. Her family were very British in their outlook, she’d married a white, but she was still expected to look after the men in the house. You’ve got things to do young lady, her mother used to say.

  Sonia stood up, stretching and yawning as the headphone leads pulled against their jack-point.

  Listening into others’ lives was invariably boring, even if gaining vital evidence was a possibility. How people watched reality TV shows for entertainment was beyond her. A recipe for brain death. Shock value, that’s all they had going, each becoming more outrageous than the last. At least The Truman Show, one of her favourite films, made her emotional.

  Sonia jumped when the front door slammed, lifted the earphones.

  ‘Parkash! Parkash!’ It was her brother, Gurmej.

  Sonia knew the mother was in the kitchen; she could still hear pots being washed. The plan on the wall, courtesy of the council planning department, indicated how long it would take Gurmej to walk along the hall into the kitchen. Not long, especially when you took into consideration the urgency in his voice.

  Sonia dropped into the chair, pen poised, ready for whatever he was about to say.

  ‘Look! Look! Page 7.’

  A newspaper? Sonia scribbled ‘get today’s Post’ on a sheet of paper and held it up to her colleague in the LP.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she heard Parkash speak.

  ‘They’re holding a book festival next week,’ Gurmej told her. ‘The marquees are going up today.’

  In the LP, Sonia’s colleague was already on the phone to the Intellige
nce Cell.

  ‘But it’s not in there,’ Parkash said.

  ‘But it’s close!’ Gurmej shouted, voice raw with panic.

  ‘What’s all the noise about?’ It was Bhandal.

  ‘Read this,’ Gurmej told him.

  Through the headphones, Sonia heard a newspaper rustling.

  ‘Sam and Ed remained in the interview room after Elliott Prince was taken back to his cell. The door was open.

  Tracey Davies, accompanied by the Custody Assistant, walked towards them, back ramrod straight, a don’t fuck with me look etched on to her face.

  A young uniform cop walked into the cell area, his instinctive reaction to stare. Tracey Davies was not your typical prisoner... healthy skin, smart and freshly cleaned clothes, and head-turning attractive – a glamour model mistakenly dropped on to the ugly catwalk of incarceration.

  She caught the young cop’s eyes.

  ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ her own eyes blazing.

  He hurried red-faced behind the custody desk, the Custody Sergeant grinning at the put-down.

  ‘Take a seat, Tracey,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I don’t need a brief, but I’m saying nothing.’

  Sam raised her eyebrows. ‘For someone not used to this kind of situation you seem to know the sketch.’

  ‘I know plenty who’ve been done over by your lot,’ her voice harsh, hostile.

  Ed put the two cassette tapes into the machine.

  ‘It’s 1.15pm. I’m DCI Parker. Also present is... ’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan.’

  ‘And... ’

  Silence.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, please state your name.’

  Davies folded her arms, turned to face the wall.

  ‘Tracey, for the benefit of the tape, state your name.’

  She spun in her chair. ‘Fuck sake. Tracey Davies. Satisfied?’ She spun back.

  ‘Thank you.’ Sam cautioned her and asked if she wanted a legal adviser to be present.

  More silence.