by Sally Rigby
‘Okay. I’m ready whenever you are.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Have you got your car with you?’ Whitney asked as they left the incident room and headed to the car park. She had a good feeling about this group. The more she thought about it, the more she realised it could definitely be their work.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I thought it would be nice to drive in comfort for a change, if you don’t mind taking it. It’s about thirty minutes to this guy’s workplace.’
Whitney was envious of George’s top of the range Land Rover, which was in stark contrast to her old Ford Focus. It also amused her how much of a petrol-head George was. She’d never have guessed if she didn’t know.
‘Happy to take my car if you like. Let’s stop for a pub lunch if we have time,’ George suggested.
‘We’ve all got to eat,’ Whitney said.
They left the station and headed to the Land Rover. Whitney slid into the passenger seat, running her hands over the soft black leather seats. George expertly drove them to the Thorplands area, which meant driving through the centre of the city to the outskirts, and on to an industrial development which had been built about fifteen years ago.
Hamilton’s was a huge operation and employed hundreds of people in the area. The locals weren’t happy when the company first moved to the city and took the largest warehouse and office space on the Thorplands Industrial Estate. But they’d turned out to be a good employer and had become accepted. They parked in the large car park and walked into reception.
‘We’d like to speak to Len White please. I’m DCI Walker, and this is Dr Cavendish,’ Whitney said to the woman on the reception desk, flashing her warrant card.
‘I’ll see if he’s available.’
They listened while she called him on the phone.
‘He’ll be with you shortly, if you’d like to take a seat,’ she said, after ending the call.
They headed over to a waiting area, where there were a few easy chairs. Neither of them sat.
‘The usual drill, I assume. You speak, and I listen,’ George said.
‘Like you need to ask.’
‘I’m just checking. One day you might actually trust me enough to contribute.’
‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. I prefer you to focus on what isn’t said. It’s what you’re best at. It’s a case of you sticking to your area of expertise and me sticking to mine. Okay?’
Had she said enough to pacify George? She hoped so. It wasn’t as if she didn’t mean it. She’d spoken the truth.
‘How can I not agree, as you put it so eloquently?’
Their attention was diverted as a man in his early forties appeared. He was a few inches shorter than George, stocky with a round, shiny red face and cropped dark hair, dotted with grey flecks.
‘I’m Len White,’ he said.
‘DCI Whitney Walker and Dr George Cavendish. We’d like to have a word with you.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Justice Hunters. Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?’ Whitney said.
‘My office.’
They followed him into a small room, which had his name and title, Warehouse Manager, on the door. The space was sparse and contained a cheap looking office desk, a four-drawer metal filing cabinet, and three chairs around a small coffee table. On the wall was a Chelsea Football Club calendar.
‘We’d like you to tell us more about the group,’ Whitney said once they were all seated.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘We’re investigating the murder of a man who had been grooming young girls.’ As they hadn’t yet announced the second death to the media, she wasn’t prepared to tell him, unless necessary.
‘And you think we could have something to do with it?’ He put his foot on the table and leaned on his knee, staring directly at Whitney.
‘We’re investigating all possibilities, including it being the work of a vigilante group.’
‘My group doesn’t murder people. Our aim is to find and expose these men. We’ve reported them to the police in the past, but they haven’t bothered to investigate. So we use our own persuasive tactics instead.’
‘The police can’t always do anything, unless a crime’s committed,’ Whitney said.
‘Or they don’t have the resources or the inclination to,’ he said in a well-rehearsed patronising voice, ignoring what she’d said.
‘This isn’t the time for a discussion on police involvement. We’d like to know more about your group and what activities you’re involved in,’ she said.
He sighed, removed his leg from the table, and sat back in his chair. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘How many members do you have?’ Whitney asked.
‘There are twenty-five of us.’
‘And how did you recruit them?’
‘It depends. Sometimes they’re people I’ve met when I’ve been out or through places I’ve worked. Other people join after being introduced by a member. We vet them first. We don’t want any nutters in there.’
‘Do they pay to belong?’
‘Yes. Five pounds a meeting, and that covers the cost of drinks and nibbles.’
‘How very sociable,’ Whitney quipped, glancing at George and arching an eyebrow.
‘We’re a social group. Like any other.’
Yeah, right.
‘I’d like a list of names of everyone in the group and their contact details,’ Whitney said.
‘Do I legally have to?’ he asked.
‘Legally no. But if you don’t, we’d consider you to be obstructing a murder enquiry and take you to the station for questioning.’
He gave a sigh. ‘Fine. I’ll get it for you, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. My people wouldn’t murder anyone.’
‘How often do you meet?’ Whitney asked, ignoring his protests.
‘Once a fortnight, in a pub near where I live. We hire a room they have at the back.’
‘And what’s on the agenda?’
‘We discuss sexual predators online and how we’re going to expose them. We also exchange any information we’ve received about offenders in the area. Whether anyone’s heard of someone abusing children. Anything we discover, we talk about and decide what we’re going to do.’
‘And you don’t think to involve the police with any of this?’ Whitney asked.
‘I’m sorry, DCI Walker, but as I’ve already said, going to the police doesn’t work. Bringing groomers to justice is our aim. When I lived in London, I was a member of a group. We tried a number of times to get the police involved, and there was always a reason why they couldn’t. In particular, they didn’t have the resources to tail someone just in case. It seemed to me the only way of dealing with these people was to dish out the punishment ourselves, especially in respect of paedophiles who’d been released from prison and put into the community without any discussions whatsoever with the residents. Anyone like that should be kept separate from the rest of us. In fact, they should all be kept together in the same area. Away from parks. Away from children. Away from schools. They shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near normal families.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit unfair?’ George asked. ‘People can change. If they’ve done their time and undergone treatment, surely they should be allowed to live wherever they want.’
‘I take it you don’t have any children?’ he asked.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘The fact you have to ask says it all,’ he said, his voice flat.
‘And when you say you dish out the punishment, what exactly does that entail?’ Whitney asked.
‘Nothing physical. We speak to them and make it clear they’re not wanted around here.’
‘And if they ignore you?’
‘We make it our business to go where they are. We follow them, make sure they know we’re there.’
‘Intimidation, you mean,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘You call it i
ntimidation. I call it protecting our community.’
‘And was Russell Atkins on your radar at all?’ she asked.
‘No, he wasn’t. The first I heard of him was when his death was on the news.’
‘What were you doing on the evening of Thursday the tenth, between six and ten?’ Whitney asked.
‘I’ve already told you I don’t know him.’
‘We need to eliminate you from our enquiries. The date?’
‘I had a day off work to take my wife to the hospital and look after the kids.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘She had a biopsy which took a couple of hours. Then we came home and I stayed with her, apart from when I went to meet the kids from school. She can vouch for me. We would have gone to bed around ten, which is our usual time.’
‘We’ll need to speak to other members of your group. When’s the next meeting?’ Whitney asked.
‘Saturday at eight.’
She looked at George. ‘Are you free?’
‘I can be.’
‘Right. We’ll be there. What’s the name of the pub?’
‘The Red Lion. On the corner of Lincoln Street and Spencer Road. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ A worried expression crossed his face.
‘I think it’s a perfect idea. And don’t mention we’re coming, or who we are when we arrive.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. If I find out you’ve tipped them off, I’ll haul you in for obstruction. I’d also like the list of group members please.’
‘I don’t have it here. I can give it to you on Saturday, if that’s okay?’
‘It will have to be. That’s all for now.’
They all left his office, and he showed them out of the building.
‘Do you approve?’ George asked as they made their way across the car park and to her car.
‘Of vigilante groups? No, of course not. But I understand why they do it. Was he telling us the truth about how they operate, do you think?’
‘I didn’t see anything in his manner to suggest he was lying. It doesn’t eliminate the rest of the group, though.’
‘Exactly. Well, we’ll soon see. One thing’s for sure. I’ve never spent a Saturday night with a group called Justice Hunters before. Who the fuck came up with that name?’ she said.
‘It sounds like something from a cowboy film,’ George said.
‘Although it could’ve been worse. They could’ve called themselves something like the nonce nobblers.’
Chapter Seventeen
When George arrived at work on Thursday morning, she stopped at her pigeon hole to collect her post. She hadn’t checked for a couple of days, as most of her correspondence came via email. There were only two envelopes in there, both coming through the internal mail, and she put them into her brief case.
When she got into her office, she hung her coat on the hook on the back of the door and sat at her desk. She opened the first letter, which was from the university grant application office, confirming receipt of an application she’d put into the European Research Fund. Why they couldn’t send it electronically, she didn’t know. She picked up the second envelope and opened it.
Dear Dr Cavendish,
Thank you for your interest in the position of Associate Professor in the Department of Forensic Psychology. Unfortunately, your application has been unsuccessful.
This is no reflection on your undoubted ability, however, there was a very strong field of applicants.
I hope you will continue with your good work in the department.
Yours sincerely,
Robin Delaney
Head of Department
What. The. Fuck.
She stared at the letter, reading the words over and over again. This was unbelievable on so many levels. First, she’d virtually been promised the job. Second, she was hearing the news via a letter. A damn letter. Wasn’t she a valuable member of the department? Did that count for nothing? Shouldn’t she have been given the courtesy of being told face-to-face before the letters were sent out?
She reached for a cigarette in her drawer, then changed her mind. She’d pay the head of department a visit, first. The man whose arse she’d covered so many times in the past, because of his ineptitude.
She grabbed her bag, stormed out of her office, and headed down the corridor until she reached Delaney’s outer office, where his secretary, Sophie, sat.
‘Is he in?’ she barked.
‘Yes, but…’
George didn’t listen to the rest of what she was saying, as she’d already reached his door. She knocked twice and marched in without waiting for a response. She closed the door behind her.
‘What’s this?’ she said, standing in front of his desk and holding out the letter. Her tone was icy cold.
‘I hadn’t realised you’d got it already. I was going to speak to you about it,’ he said, avoiding eye contact.
She sat on one of the chairs facing his desk. ‘I’m here now. Speak.’
‘You know you’re one of our most highly valued members of staff. Your research is exemplary. Your courses are among the most popular in the department…’
‘But,’ she interrupted.
‘I wasn’t the only person on the Selection Panel. We also took into account feedback from the presentation and the familiarisation informal lunch, which you missed.’
George sucked in a breath. She wasn’t going to lose it. It wouldn’t achieve anything.
‘I had an emergency and couldn’t make the lunch. According to the selection criteria, it shouldn’t have been considered. It wasn’t as if I didn’t already know everyone.’
‘That’s beside the point. You’d agreed to be part of the familiarisation and, as such, were expected to take part in all aspects of it.’
‘So you’re saying I didn’t get the job because of missing the informal lunch. If that’s the case, I’m taking it further.’ She leaned forward in the chair and locked her eyes with his. He lasted about two seconds before looking away.
‘It wasn’t that. I didn’t mean to mention it.’ He was clearly flailing.
‘Explain. Did I do badly in the presentation?’
‘No. Your presentation was excellent. As I’d expected. You made some interesting observations regarding your work with the police.’
‘Observations which I’m intending to follow up with a research study. I’ve already applied for funding. If it wasn’t the presentation, it must have been the interview.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You answered the questions very well. But you did spend a lot of time on the work you’ve been doing with the police. Maybe you should’ve focussed a little more on the wider application of your discipline and the successes of your students on the programme in pursuit of their degrees.’
Now she was getting to the bottom of it. They didn’t like her involvement with the police. Which was ridiculous.
‘What you’re saying is real world application of theory isn’t considered to be important.’
‘This is an academic university. Second only to Oxford and Cambridge. Practical applications, while viewed as important, are more the domain of the newer, less established institutions.’
She understood where he was coming from, even though she didn’t agree. If working with the police was going to have a bearing on her research output, then she couldn’t see what was wrong with stepping foot outside of the academic ivory tower in which they inhabited.
‘I believe we can do both.’
‘Yes, but the emphasis has to be on the academics.’
‘So, to clarify, my performance in the interview was the reason I wasn’t selected for the position,’ she said.
‘It was everything combined. The presentation, the formal interview, and feedback from others.’
She noted he’d chosen not to mention again any part of the familiarisation.
Never in her career had she bee
n unsuccessful in achieving her goals. This was something new, and she didn’t like it.
‘Are you saying my colleagues gave negative feedback, causing me to lose out on the position?’
Okay, she didn’t mix much with others in the department, mainly because she was too busy. But also because she felt uncomfortable when with people, especially socially. She had an aversion to small talk.
‘Not negative in so many words. Their main area of concern is you’re not as committed as you used to be. Your attention is more focussed on working with the police.’
‘Is that what you think, too?’ she challenged.
He shifted awkwardly in his seat.
‘Well, it doesn’t help your case by keeping to yourself all the time and not being a contributing member of staff.’
‘I object to your comment. I contribute very much. I’m head of the departmental research committee. I regularly have my research findings published in the local and national press. My students perform very well. But because I don’t hang out in the staff room gossiping, I don’t count as a contributing member of staff? Frankly, you have your priorities all wrong.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way. If it’s any consolation, I wanted you to be offered the position. But I was outvoted.’
‘Who did get the position?’ she asked, not sure if she cared.
‘Greg Barnes.’
‘The Scottish guy?’
‘Yes.’
She shook her head. This wasn’t happening. She’d worked so hard for this promotion, and some jumped up nobody from Scotland, who she hadn’t even heard of, secured the post. She’d had it with him; she was getting out of there.
‘Thank you for your time,’ she said as she stood.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Robin said.
Stupid? What did he mean? Was he expecting her to attempt suicide or something? She’d never entertain anything like that. Her best friend in school did, and George found the body. She remembered it as if it was yesterday. No. Suicide would never be on her agenda. Ever. Nothing was worth that much.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, wondering if she’d made an unwarranted leap by thinking he meant suicide.
