My sister drives and DS Maguire’s unmarked gunmetal-grey Ford Edge follows. The moment we arrive to the place that without Steven no longer feels like my home, DC Pierce, her sidekick ushers Faith and my niece into the kitchen and closes the door behind them. DS Maguire continues into the lounge, stopping abruptly beside the sofa, waiting for me to invite her to take a seat. I nod and we sit down together. I’m impatient to learn why the witness has requested anonymity.
‘Our protocol for vulnerable witnesses is to ensure their safety which is why I cannot name the person who claims to have seen the incident.’
‘Look, if you don’t really have anything more to say to me, then what did you come back with us for?’
‘I need to request you do not speak to anyone who we’ve already interviewed, including Steven’s friends. In case they’re called to court to testify.’
So the female witness the passer-by saw is a female friend of Steven’s, of which there is only one. Natalie’s cautious, slightly mischievous smile, her long false eyelashes, and sleek oiled hair come to mind. ‘Natalie.’ Steven’s friend Jerome’s sister. ‘She’s the witness?’
DS Maguire doesn’t reply, but I take her silence as a yes. Natalie saw the person who killed my son.
‘She denied knowing anything when you questioned all his friends then tells you she was the unknown girl stood on the pavement watching it all happen before running off into the night. Aren’t you going to charge Natalie for obstructing the course of justice?’ I hiss, voice filled with spite.
‘We have no credible evidence at this stage to reasonably suspect that Natalie has failed to provide a testimony relating to your son’s murder.’
‘Why has she only decided to come forward now?’ Just when they’d reported they were going to begin scaling down the investigation.
‘I can’t answer that. But rest assured we will be questioning the person regarding their motive for withholding information for so long if it proves valuable.’
If Natalie is the witness, and she wishes to protect her identity then she must have kept quiet in order to protect someone she cares about. I think then of her brother, Jerome. Steven’s school friend. And immediately decide he must be the culprit.
‘Have you arrested him?’
She gives me a slight frown then says, ‘Who?’
‘Jerome.’
‘We have no reason to believe Jerome had anything to do with Steven’s death, Miss Bennet.’
I suddenly feel deflated. After three excruciatingly long months that have produced no forensic proof or voluntary admissions as to who would have done this to my son, to me, to my family, or what’s left of it, finally DS Maguire has acquired a useful lead to act on. And though it should please me, my already hardened heart feels as stone-cold as it felt fragile thirteen weeks ago when I first heard the words: your son has been the victim of a serious attack. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he died as a result.
Who would do that to him?
My suspicious mind has already gone into overdrive a million and one times, convinced anyone could be the culprit, but when DS Maguire leaves the room to collect her colleague from the kitchen, they both exchange a sad smile and I feel a tug of intuition.
I sense the detectives suspect whoever took Steven’s life is someone I know. It’s in the way that DS Maguire’s eyes search mine before she turns and steps out the front door, as though afraid to leave me there, in the house, with my sister and niece. And once again, I fear I can’t trust my friends, neighbours, or colleagues. But worse of all is being unsure if I can depend on my own judgement. Am I being paranoid to think my son’s killer could be someone close to home? Is it unrealistic to think I may have sat beside this person in church, watched them play with Steven when he was small, took their money in the salon I haven’t been able to open in ninety days, or fed a freshly prepared meal to?
What drew the female witness to come forward now? Why had she kept quiet about what she saw all this time? What was she afraid of? Who was she protecting?
I watch DS Maguire and DC Pierce exit the road in their car and close the door on the sound of a child’s laughter from a nearby garden, the smell of woodsmoke and barbequed chicken in the air. I wonder if my son had ordered food, or been inside the restaurant when his assailant had decided to strike, would he still be alive? Or would the offender have killed him anyway because Steven was his target?
DS MAGUIRE
Croydon, London
Natalie is seated in front of me, her eyes roaming the interview room with suspicion. I can tell she’s nervous, afraid. But whether that is of being here in such a formal space, because I am about to ask her some tough questions, or because she is scared to reveal what she saw the night of Steven’s murder, I cannot say.
Natalie’s whispered phone call in the early hours of this morning, just half an hour before we were due to leave the station to attend Steven’s memorial, caught me off-guard, I must admit. Just when I’d become resigned to the possibility that I’d never get the breakthrough I needed to move the case forward a notch she approached me, troubled, and demanded I invite her in for questioning. ‘I saw him. I know who did it. I lied to you. You need to arrest me.’
‘It doesn’t work like that. There are protocols to follow.’
‘I won’t help you if you don’t lock me up.’
‘Is someone threatening you?’
‘No one yet. But they will. The moment I speak out. You have got to keep me safe. Please?’
She sounded desperate. I knew her history, had already discovered she’d been excluded from mainstream school, referred to an educational unit, and transferred to temporary foster care for several months a year prior, and had secured a couple of minor convictions for what was now considered ‘petty crime’. She was vulnerable, and I had nothing else to go on.
There are ninety-six CCTV cameras installed throughout Croydon. The final two had been mounted in the town after a teenage boy had been stabbed beneath the underpass and a woman had been raped on the Tube. There are a further twenty-six owned by Transport for London covering the train station and bus station. They were all in operation on the night. We were hoping one of them would have picked up Steven’s assailant, but none of them have as far as we know. If we can establish what she says holds any weight, then we’re relying on Natalie’s witness testimony to identify the individual. ‘Okay, we’ll come and speak to you but once you’re with us we’ve only got twenty-four hours. You need to tell us everything you know, or we won’t be able to help you.’
‘Who’s us?’
‘Myself, and Detective Constable Pierce. We’ll have to interview you formally with a responsible adult present. Is there someone you’d like us to contact to sit with you? It’s to ensure procedure is followed as you’re only sixteen.’
‘My social worker. But only if she doesn’t tell my mum.’
‘We’ll have to notify her that you’re here.’
Detective Inspector Rawlings signed the consent form allowing us to bring her in. To create an authentic ‘arrest’ I didn’t tell her when we’d arrive to collect her. If she was hungry, tired, or hanging out with her friends she’d probably react with annoyance or hostility. Our approach would appear genuinely unwanted, her resistance realistic. Though we didn’t know who we were supposed to be performing the act for. And as far as she was concerned that’s what it was: a scene. Nothing more.
She entered the building dragging her feet and complaining that her mother would ‘go mad when she finds out’ which she would because we brought her into the station conspicuously. She’d demanded we conduct her arrest with as little discretion as was legally possible. And word got around the area fast. Plus, with a little phone call to a local crime news reporter I was hoping some press attention might reignite public interest in the investigation and invite some new lines of enquiry. I’m not used to such a heinous act eliciting not one false lead.
I switch on the audio and hit record, noting her ey
es widen as it dawns on her that what she is about to do is speak to an officer of the law, implicating a dangerous criminal, likely someone she knows and is afraid of.
She’s been let down by adults most of her life. Has experienced things a lot of children her age couldn’t envisage. Her tense shoulders as she picks at a thread of cotton from her sweater tell me she’s nervous, but her hard eyes suggest she still resents the police, doesn’t respect anyone in a position of authority. I gently foster a rapport, use open questioning, and gradually build her trust.
This is what I know. Steven was murdered as he stood on the pavement sixteen feet away from the entrance to a fast food restaurant on a busy, balmy, late summer night on Tuesday 3rd July at approximately 10.15 p.m. The unknown suspect thrust an eight-inch blade into Steven’s chest and stomach nine times, scarpering once he’d fallen to the ground.
The server inside the takeaway witnessed a black vehicle pull away from the kerb and speed off about a minute before a member of the public dashed through the doors of the restaurant and screamed at him to ‘call an ambulance.’ When patrolling the streets for information the police officers in attendance had been unable to find the girl that the witness had described seeing stood on the corner, the girl I suspected – when I was assigned the case an hour later, taking over from the uniform – had witnessed Steven’s attacker and would be able to identify him or her. DC Pierce had looked just as relieved as I felt when the desk clerk had received the call at 9.25 from an anonymous female requesting ‘to speak to the detective in charge of the case involving Steven Bennet’. Just as we’d begun to lose hope of ever discovering who had stabbed him to death, we learned Natalie had vital information that could have assisted us in locating the culprit weeks before.
I offer DC Pierce a sideways glance now that goes unnoticed by Natalie. Although he retains a professional exterior, I can see an element of irritation disguised behind his tight jaw as he speaks in a controlled monotone. ‘Thank you for your presence here today.’
It’s usually at this point that an arrestee would inform us they had no choice but to come. Had been handcuffed, instructed to sit inside the police vehicle and driven to the station involuntarily. But Natalie is here of her own volition.
After she confirms her name, date of birth, where she lives, and her relationship to the victim, DC Pierce asks her what happened.
‘I was waiting for my boyfriend, Leighton. He was late, so I called him. He said he’d be there soon.’
‘There as in the chicken place?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What time were you expecting him?’
’10 p.m.’
‘Did he show up?’
A shake of the head.
‘So what happened?’
‘I saw the car first. He jumped out and headed straight for Steven. He jabbed him, I thought. But then I saw the blood.’
‘Okay. I’d like you to repeat that but slow it down a notch as if you’re telling someone who knows nothing about the incident. Try and recall as much detail you can, okay?’
She emits a sigh. ‘This car appeared, parked up fast, facing oncoming traffic a few metres from the chicken shop. This man jumps out and legs it towards Steven. He jabs him three or four times in the chest and stomach. Steven fell to the floor and… he struck Steven another four or five times? He… stopped moving. The man ran back to the car, slammed the door, and sped off. I waited until the car was out of sight, moved towards Steven, saw that there was blood everywhere and that’s when I knew he’d stabbed Steven. I saw there was nothing I could do to save him but I didn’t want to leave him on his own so I waited for someone to find him and about a minute later someone did. A woman. She ran into the restaurant and I heard her yell at someone to call for an ambulance. But I couldn’t run in case she saw me. And then the police arrived so I had to stay hidden until I could get away with being viewed as part of the crowd who gathered shortly after.’
Who is he?
‘Did you get a good look at the man who attacked him?’ says Pierce.
‘I saw his face.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
He’s asking this for the tape. Natalie had implied she knew the perpetrator during her phone call, but to retain transparency we’re forced to decrease the pace of our questioning because seated beside her is Natalie’s social worker. And despite her profession and the fact she’s here to support her, Natalie finds her presence intimidating. We don’t want to push too hard and scare her off.
‘No.’
‘Could you describe him for us?’
She looks to me for reassurance, and I prompt her with a tilt of my head.
‘He was short, stocky, and had dark hair.’
‘Can you describe the vehicle the man was driving?’
‘I was scared. I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know it would be relevant.’
‘Can you recall the colour?’ says DC Pierce, leaning away from the desk in a relaxed pose to insinuate nonchalance.
She hesitates a moment before replying. ‘It was white with blacked out windows.’
‘Was there anyone else in the vehicle?’
‘No.’
Tripping her up was always going to be our only hope of extracting valuable information from someone who claims to know the unknown but appears unsure about what to admit to knowing.
‘So you saw the interior of the car well enough to know that when the driver left it and returned to it there was no one else seated within it despite the fact the windows were blacked out and it was getting dark outside due to the time of night?’
She glances quickly at her social worker whose eyes remain glued to mine. ‘Yeah.’
‘Can you tell us anything about the make, model, serial number—’
‘It was big. Uh, a V-Volkswagen.’
‘Okay.’
The server working inside the restaurant saw a ‘small black car’ driving away from the scene about a minute before the female witness entered the takeaway commanding him to dial 999. The woman had only seen Steven lying on the pavement, so no one could corroborate the server’s description of the car the offender was driving. However, Natalie’s description contradicts the server’s.
‘Did you notice any identifiable marks on the vehicle?’
‘Such as?’
The girl is trying my patience. I can feel my shoulders tensing each time she hesitates or a lie slips from her lips. I force my limbs to soften to contain the flood of irritation that’s bubbling up inside me.
DC Pierce saves me from having to speak, giving me a few seconds to calm down. ‘Distinguishing features, stickers, lowered suspension, skirting, spoilers?’
I give him a look that says: ‘You’re insinuating the driver was a boy racer with a souped-up car our witness hasn’t reported.’ But he doesn’t lay off the presuppositions we’re not supposed to fill Natalie’s head with by leading her to answer questions she hasn’t drawn herself.
‘It was a five-door family car.’
Right, now we’re getting somewhere. The unknown male suspect was driving a Volkswagen hatchback. Unless of course she’s lying. Which she and the server could both be.
‘When the man stopped the car how long did it take for him to vacate the vehicle?’ says Pierce.
She turns to me and narrows her eyes. ‘Why is that relevant?’
‘It is,’ I say without offering her an explanation.
‘A few seconds, I guess.’
‘Were there any lights on the vehicle?’
‘Uh, yeah? It was late.’
‘What colour were they?’
‘Well, I could only see the back lights, but they were red.’
‘And getting back in, how long did it take the driver to “speed off”?’
‘He left the engine running so it didn’t take him long at all.’
An automatic then. No manual engine would remain running once you’ve taken your foot off the pedal long enough for the driver to vacate the vehicle
, attack someone, then return to it minutes later. It would eventually stall. And would therefore take longer than ‘seconds’ to restart.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us about the car?’
‘It was shabby. Needed a clean. And it had a scrape on the, uh, rear wheel arch.’
‘Which one?’
‘Left.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘You were standing with a view to the front right-hand side of the vehicle, yet you were able to see a scrape on the rear left wheel arch of the car?’
She doesn’t reply.
‘Can you give us a more detailed account of the man’s movements?’
Fifteen minutes pass, then DC Pierce resumes his questioning of the girl. ‘So where were you stood again?’
She huffs and rolls her eyes, repeats her story a third time. Only now she sounds bored, or perhaps her words are rehearsed. Someone has told her to come forward to claim she saw Steven’s killer. Had that same someone also told her what to say? Had she even seen the murder?
‘What did you do during the attack?’
She says she was there when the police responded to the call-out. On arrival she was standing on the corner, stiff and quiet, shadowed by a moss-covered billboard. Not shaking and frantic as would have been expected. She left the area alone – Leighton didn’t arrive – without offering Steven assistance or disclosing what she’d seen to help identify the unknown male suspect to the police when they arrived. Why?
‘How did you feel while it was happening?’
‘Nothing. I don’t really think I felt anything.’
An odd thing to say, having no emotion while watching your brother’s friend being stabbed to death in front of you.
Sensing my curiosity and confusion, she backtracks. ‘I didn’t know how to feel. I panicked and ran as soon as I realised the man had seen me watching him, knowing I’d witnessed what he’d done.’
We can’t let her go if someone’s going to come after her now that she’s spoken to us.
I Know You (DI Emma Locke) Page 2
