by Simon Hall
‘Maybe you should feel proud of me, eh? Has that occurred to you? That your husband has caught a man who was terrorising women in this bloody city? An evil bastard of a rapist! That he’s got to interview him to make sure the case against him is watertight so he goes to prison for a long, long time? Maybe you should think of that!’
She’d cut the call and wouldn’t answer when he’d rung back. Hadn’t answered all morning, mobile off and no one at home. He hoped she’d taken Tom to the worm-charming at Blackawton, hoped too her anger had calmed and she’d been kind, told him Dad was ill, or had been called away. Not that he didn’t care, or other things were more important to him. Please not that.
Maybe she had a point. He was here, at Charles Cross, wasn’t he? Not in the quaint Devon village of Blackawton, buying ice creams, explaining to Tom about the mystic art of worm-charming, holding Annie’s hand, laughing with her at the contestants’ bizarre antics.
But it was the right decision. He knew it was. It had to be. It was his case. He was the senior officer and it was up to him to make sure they did it right, that Godley couldn’t be freed for a long time. He wanted to enjoy the man’s face as he charged him with the rapes, wanted to see Godley led down to the cells.
Suzanne and Claire could have handled it, but Godley was a woman hater. Adam wondered if he would even talk to them. He had to be there, had no choice. But still he thought of Annie and Tom, watching those wonderful idiots pouring their potions into the ground, or playing trumpets or singing into it in their ludicrous attempts to entice as many worms as possible from the safety of the warm and quiet earth. Sometimes a worm’s life could seem so very appealing.
They jogged down through the Deer Park, towards the embankment. Dan couldn’t stop his mind filling with hope that the answer could lie in Plymouth Road. He was prepared for disappointment after what had happened before, but he couldn’t suppress that resurgent swell of excitement and anticipation. And anyway, what was there to lose? It was a beautiful day. He could do with a run and Rutherford was enjoying his exercise. Checking out El’s hunch could just be a part of it. That was a good safety net for disappointment.
The mud track they followed was dry and flashes of bluebells lit the hedges as they ran past. A pair of magpies hopped across the rough tarmac of the road next to them, chattering to each other, circling, dancing, showing off their ink and white wings. A car slowed as it approached the birds, but they took no notice, went on with their embrace, oblivious. The driver hooted his horn and they flapped off to the roof of a red-brick house to continue their courtship.
The mating season, Dan thought as he puffed up a gentle hill. Springtime and the world is feeling determinedly frisky, not interested in the impertinent distractions of cars and people. On the subject of which, what would he do about Claire now?
She seemed keen to see him, and he wanted to see her. He could wait until next weekend. That would be the cool thing to do. But why wait? Follow the example of the magpies perhaps and flutter his wings, take her for a drink this week? For dinner even? He was a messy eater though, wasn’t he? That’s what comes of living alone and heating up the fridge’s contents, rather than cooking. Maybe just a drink then.
Rutherford had found a fascination in a hedgerow, his head half buried in the leaves, his tail wagging fast, a black and brown blur in the spring air. Just as Dan was almost upon him, the dog yelped and jumped back, turned to his master, whimpering, jerking his head from side to side in spasms of pain.
Oh no, what’s he done this time? Dan thought. Rutherford was a serial victim of curiosity-induced injury. In the last year, he’d managed to badly cut his nose on an old tin can and poke himself in the eye with a tree branch when chasing a stick. Both required expensive trips to the vet. It was worse than being a parent. At least with kids you had the NHS. No such help for a stupid, disaster-prone dog.
‘Come here boy, come here,’ Dan soothed, and cupped the dog’s head in his hands, checked his eyes, nose and mouth. Nothing obviously wrong, though his nose was dripping. He didn’t seem to be in real pain now. Maybe just the shock of a poke from a protruding stick?
The hedgerow rustled furtively and the dog looked round, but didn’t plunge his nose back into the undergrowth.
‘So you do learn lessons then?’ said Dan, trying not to chuckle with the relief of finding Rutherford wasn’t badly hurt. He leaned over carefully and looked into the grass and leaves, moved some aside with a tentative hand. A snarling fox? A growling cat? A movement made him flinch back, but then he burst out laughing. Curled up at the bottom of the bank was a hedgehog, two black eyes peering suspiciously from within its ball of spines.
‘There’s your conquering foe, you pathetic hound,’ he said. ‘Seen off by a hog eh? I don’t know, what use would you be against a burglar?’
Dan knew exactly what had happened, had seen it before. The hog had got fed up with the dog sniffing at him and had sprung upwards, spiking Rutherford’s nose. It was a shock, but nothing serious.
‘Come on then, you great warrior,’ he called to the dog, jogging on again. ‘Let’s leave the victor in peace.’
They ran on down the hill and into a maze of streets. Dan stopped to check the map, wiped the sweat from his face with a sleeve. Just on the left here he thought. They turned a corner and came out into Plymouth Road.
It was a long one, probably one of the city’s earlier streets, busy until the dual carriageway embankment was built to usher the rushing traffic in and out of the city centre. There were houses down both sides, long lines of terraces. The River Plym sparkled behind, a ribbon of diamonds in the sunshine. The tide was low, black dots of birds pecking busily at the wizened mudflats. Dan put Rutherford back on his lead and they walked along, counting down to number 225. His excitement was growing again, he couldn’t help it. Hope was irrepressible. Maybe this time.
Godley hadn’t asked for a solicitor, a good sign, thought Adam. He wanted a confession, a signed statement, no need for a trial. He didn’t want to see those women in the witness box, reliving their ordeal, listening to the defence counsel suggest they’d given Mr Godley the come on, that they’d lured him into doing what he did.
Offensive, repellent, so hard to sit there quietly and take, but that was what they did. Godley couldn’t very well deny he was the attacker. They had all the evidence they needed. But if he was the misogynist Adam thought, he would enjoy his day in court, his one last triumph over his victims. He could delight in their distress, savour the wounds he’d inflicted. And there was always the chance the trauma would be too much for the women to continue with their testimony and the case would collapse. That had happened before, too many times. He couldn’t risk it here.
Most suspects they had in this interview room sat slumped over the table, looked defeated, sullen. Some sat upright, tense and angry, silently stiff with defiance. With a few it was hard to stop them talking, so relieved were they to finally confess their crimes, a lancing of the toxins that had festered within them.
Will Godley was none of those. He sat on the plastic chair, legs crossed, humming a tune, looking relaxed and writing a couple of notes on a piece of paper. Adam pressed the record button on the tape machine and sat down opposite him. Suzanne stayed standing by the door, alongside a uniformed officer.
‘So, Mr Godley, what have you got to tell us?’ asked Adam, as neutrally as he could.
‘I’ll tell you exactly what I’ll tell the jury,’ the man replied, calm and easy, looking Adam in the eye.
The look of a rapist, he thought. Authors would tell you the eyes were cold, emotionless, cruel. That you could see his crimes in them. They’d tell you the hardened detective shivered at the sight. Nothing like it. His eyes are perfectly normal, if anything sparkling with amusement. The beautiful imaginings of his fists pummelling Godley’s face roared back, ricocheted around his mind.
He pushed th
em away, calmed himself, thought of the worm-charming at Blackawton. It had become a family tradition for them to visit. The insanity was wonderful. That man he saw last year, the one with the little drum kit, beating out an insistent rhythm on the earth, imploring the worms to come to him.
The distraction blunted his anger and cleared his mind. Adam focused back on Godley’s smug face. He knew he had to stay as calm as the detested man he was facing.
‘And what would that be, Mr Godley?’ he asked. ‘What are you planning to tell the jury?’
Number 225, semi detached, next to a playground patch of hilly grass covered in dry mud tracks and with a lopsided football goal at the far end. The house first then. What was there about the house?
A strange thought came to Dan of it being like something he used to draw at junior school. There were four windows, two up and two down, and a door in the middle with a crazy-paved path leading up to it. It was whitewashed, with a grey slate tiled roof and there was nothing in any way remarkable about it. The garden was grassy with a few pink roses and other plants he didn’t recognise colouring the earth beds around its edges. It was absolutely ordinary.
Dan stood back and again looked it up and down. Rutherford sat patiently at his feet, tail thumping on the ground. Still nothing came to him. He looked through the notes and pictures he’d brought, crumpled now and with the odd trail of sweat sliding off them, but still clear.
Could any of this refer to the house? Nothing in the numbers that he could see, and nothing in the imagery, no matter how devious he encouraged his mind to be. Nothing at all. Try a hard learned trick then. Walk away for a bit, let the power of your subconscious chew it over and see if it spits anything out. Let’s try the playground.
He kept Rutherford on the lead as there were kids about and climbed up onto one of the grassy mounds. A couple of young lads wandered carefully over from the football goal.
‘Is this your dog mister?’
Tempting, oh so tempting, but it was a lovely day and the kids were pleasant enough. No need for sarcasm. ‘Yes, he’s mine, and no he doesn’t bite. So yes, you can stroke him.’
They looked at each other in amazement.
‘How did you know we was going to ask that?’
Dan was going to tell the truth, that it’s what every youngster asks, but why spoil the illusion of genius? He didn’t get to experience it very often.
‘Because I can read minds,’ he said in his best mystic voice.
‘Cool.’ They weren’t listening, were too busy rubbing Rutherford’s head and patting his back. The dog tolerated it, as he did.
Dan looked around again. Was there anything here that could possibly relate to any of the pictures? Could the paths in the play area resemble a snake? He knew it was hopeless even as he thought it. He couldn’t see anything that could possibly be a clue. Oh well, another futile attempt he thought, but a pleasant run anyway and at least my hangover’s cleared.
‘Cheers, mister!’ shouted the kids, running back to the goal. The goal… Could the goal be his goal? Tenuous, but worth a try.
He followed them, stood watching the kick about, dodged the odd badly directed shot and knocked the ball back to them. Dan thought he made a nonchalant but thorough job of looking round the posts, but he couldn’t see anything useful at all.
Time to give up, jog back home and have a shower. The sun and his sweat were a potent combination. Better get home before I start to smell.
Then he saw it. The back garden of number 225, small and neat and next to the bird table a metal figure of a red-legged, red-beaked bird. A chough.
His heart started up again and Dan walked across to the wooden fence, looked over. Yes, it was certainly a chough, frozen as though hopping over the earth beneath it. Earth that looked like it had been disturbed recently. Had someone else found the answer? Or was it evidence that it was buried here?
He looked around. No one about. He could hear a radio playing in the house. So there was someone in. He couldn’t very well hop over the fence and start digging, could he? Certainly not with Rutherford to keep an eye on. So could someone have buried the answer here? Why not, if they did it at night? The garden was easy to get into. His heart was still pounding. So how to check? He wasn’t going home now without at least having a look.
He didn’t like to admit it, but this time the honest and obvious solution was going to have to be the one. Dan pulled Rutherford alongside and walked up the paved path. He stared at the door for a moment, then knocked.
Adam sat still, breathed regularly, didn’t fidget. He kept his eyes on Godley, stayed focused. From behind he heard a scrape as Suzanne ran a shoe across the concrete floor, but he remained motionless, eyes locked on the man in front of him.
‘You see, Detective Chief Inspector, I know women. I’ve always been good with women. I’ve always known what they’re thinking.’ The man was talking easily, as if telling the story of a relaxing fishing trip he’d just returned from. ‘And I know what they want. Some women like playing a part you see. I like playing a part myself. So when we get together, it can have very pleasant consequences if you know what I mean?’
Godley smiled, knowing and understanding, one experienced man of the world to another. Again, that image screamed in Adam’s mind, the fists he was clenching under the table beating into Godley’s face, Sarah watching, nodding approvingly. Calm it, control it.
‘I’m not sure I do… sir.’ Neutral tone again, the best he could manage. ‘Please, explain it to me.’
Godley’s smile grew. He stretched out an arm on the table, spread his fingers, yawned.
‘Then perhaps I have more experience of life than you, Chief Inspector.’ Godley paused, waited for a bite, but Adam stayed silent. ‘Some women like it rough, you see. Some women have the oddest fantasies. And they’re more common than you think.’ He paused, scratched an ear with a well-trimmed nail. ‘And do you know what one of the most common is?’
Again that image, Adam’s fists pounding into the man’s face. Push it away, calm, control.
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ he managed. ‘Do… please… tell me.’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ Godley continued smoothly. ‘And don’t be shocked here, Chief Inspector. I was a little when I first found out, but you get used to it. I came to enjoy it in fact. I was glad to help them.’
Again he smiled, waited for a reaction. Still the detective remained impassive.
Godley nodded gently, then spoke. ‘Some women have this fantasy about sex with a stranger you see. And not just as simple as that. Oh no… nothing quite so easy. They like a little bit of security to go with the excitement. So they want to do it in their homes. And you know what makes them even more excited? If they pretend to themselves they don’t know the man’s coming and he has to break in to get to them. They just love that. It really… gets them going. Oh, it gets them going so much.’
Again the smile, again a pause waiting for the reaction that Adam knew he couldn’t give. Godley leaned forward across the table and dropped his voice, a whispered confidence between old friends.
‘And do you know what they like most of all? The icing on the cake, as it were? They like to pretend they didn’t arrange it all, they didn’t want to do it, that they were forced to. And they like to get the police involved, to give their little fantasy that delicious added reality.’
Godley sat back on his chair. He crossed his legs again and beamed at Adam.
‘Strange, isn’t it? But it’s true, so very true. And I help them with it.’
A balding man in his mid 30s opened the door. He was wearing a green Plymouth Argyle football shirt and tracksuit bottoms, flecked with white paint.
‘Yeah?’ he said suspiciously, looking from Dan to Rutherford. ‘Can I help you?’
For once in his life, Dan was at a loss to explain what h
e wanted. ‘Errm, yeah,’ he said, but was interrupted by a peroxide blonde older woman joining the man at the door.
‘Here!’ she exclaimed. ‘Aren’t you that guy off the telly?’
An opening, Dan thought. Being recognised could be useful for once. ‘Yes. Yes I am.’
‘Well, come in. Bill, don’t keep guests waiting on the doorstep. I’ve told you about that before. And yes, bring your dog in too. We love animals.’
Dan was ushered into a kitchen which looked out over the garden, and was given a cup of tea. It was old-fashioned, but tidy and clean. An African grey parrot sat on a perch in a silver cage on top of the fridge. It eyed them balefully. ‘One nil to the Argyle,’ it squawked and cackled. Dan tried not to stare.
‘Quiet, Jake,’ the woman said. ‘So what do we owe this honour to?’ she asked as Dan blew steam from his tea. ‘Are you going to put us on TV?’
She was doing all the work here, he thought.
‘You know, I just might,’ he replied. ‘It rather depends. May I ask you an odd question?’ They both nodded. ‘Has anyone come knocking at your door, asking to dig up part of your garden?’
From their obvious bafflement, Dan knew he was the first. Another kick of adrenaline hit him.
They stood in the garden beside the chough, Dan and Bill both with spades in their hands. He’d explained, they’d grown excited, then businesslike. After some bartering, they’d reached a deal. If the answer was here, they’d be interviewed for the TV news and get five thousand pounds.
The one thing that was worrying him was whether someone had beaten him to it. Bill and his mum said no one had come asking to dig up the garden, but what if it had happened at night? The earth looked like it had been disturbed, but Bill said he’d probably done that when he was gardening.
First Dan checked the chough. Nothing, not a hint of a clue. Then they started digging up the ground beneath it, each shifting a spadeful of earth at a time. If there was something important here, he didn’t want to damage it.
