All the Rage (DI Fawley)

by Cara Hunter

  ‘And there’s no suggestion, is there,’ he says eventually, ‘that it was someone this girl knew?’

  I shake my head. ‘Much as I want that to be the answer –’

  ‘Or someone who’s aware she’s transitioning?’

  ‘Again, we’re looking, but right now we can’t find anyone outside the family who knows.’

  He taps the printout. ‘So you want to know whether this could be your man.’

  ‘And if not him, then who.’

  He gets up and edges round the desk to a stack of cardboard boxes heaped one on top of the other on a table under the window. He must have packed them a hell of a sight better than I would have managed because it only takes him a few moments to locate what he wants.

  ‘Fairly basic, but adequate for the layman,’ he says, tossing a book on to the desk in front of me.

  Profiling Sexual Offenders: Theory, Research, and Practice in Investigative Psychology. The author is American, if the surname is anything to go by.

  ‘So what’s this going to tell me?’

  He sits down again. ‘A lot of what you know already. This sort of crime is primarily about power. Power and fear. This man wants to dominate, and he wants to terrorize. Sexual assault is just a means to that end.’

  ‘Even though these Incel boards are all about sex?’

  ‘They’re about the absence of sex,’ he says, holding my gaze. ‘And what that absence deprives them of: status, self-esteem, autonomy.’

  Sexual assault as taking back control. Jesus.

  ‘In that case, what sort of profile should we be looking for?’

  ‘Tediously predictable, I’m afraid. Almost certainly white, and low-to-middle class. At least average intelligence – perhaps even slightly above.’ He picks up the printout. ‘He uses contractions like “cdve”, but he spells “realized” correctly, and puts the apostrophe in “didn’t”. And he likes wordplay – YeltobYob, tashhag – that degree of linguistic dexterity suggests the upper end of the educational range generally seen with crimes of this kind.’

  He puts the paper down again. ‘My guess is he’s holding down a job, though probably not one he considers “good enough” for him. A female boss is a possibility – someone who doesn’t promote or “appreciate” him. He’s likely to live alone and almost certainly struggles to maintain any sort of meaningful long-term relationship with women.’

  Classic loner misfit. Just what I bloody needed.

  Gow is eyeing me now. ‘Using “yob” in his username is very revealing. On the face of it, just your typical “Men Behaving Badly” casual thuggishness, but I suspect it springs from a deep albeit unacknowledged self-loathing.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Despite the “boy” reference, I suspect he’s more like thirties or forties.’ He gestures at the book. ‘Read that. I’m sure you’ll find it fascinating.’

  ‘And the fact that the assault was frustrated – what difference will that make?’

  Gow raises an eyebrow. ‘Frustrated as in interrupted, or frustrated as in thwarted?’

  I shrug. ‘Either. Both.’

  He sighs. His face has darkened. ‘I’m afraid that may well exacerbate matters. To have been so close to getting what he wanted, only to have it snatched from him at the last minute. Things will be a lot more urgent now. And he will be a lot angrier.’

  I get to my feet. I already knew we were up against it, but there’s a cold, sick feeling in my gut now that wasn’t there before.

  As I get to the door, Gow calls me back. ‘One more thing, as Columbo would say. I’d get the ever-dependable Baxter to do a search on your man’s MO. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find he’s done something like this before.’

  * * *

  Graeme Scott turns the lights out in the art room and starts to fumble in his pocket for the keys, then remembers he’s forgotten to turn off his sodding PC and has to go back in again. When he finally locks up five minutes later the neon strip in the corridor is still flickering on and off above his head. It’s been doing it for at least a month and the caretaker hasn’t even bothered to come and look at it. Scott doesn’t need reminding that Art comes very much lower down the pecking order than Information Technology or Media Studies but no one likes their inferiority thrust so blatantly in their face.

  He rams the jangle of keys back into his pocket then heads out towards the car park. Most of the students have already left, just a few still lingering by the gates waiting for lifts. There are a couple of stringy lads hovering near a group of girls that Scott only now realizes includes some of Sasha Blake’s friends.

  Scott feels the colour coming to his face and is thankful they’re too far away to notice. He reaches the car, opens the doors at the back and starts stowing away his materials as fast as he can manage. He can hear laughing now, a sudden gust of guffaws. It might be nothing to do with him – just an accident of timing – but paranoia has become a habit. The piss-taking about his clothes and his car, the nasty hurtful nickname. Just his luck that Scott rhymes with spot; though most of the acnefied little shits who call him that are pots calling the kettle black as far as he’s concerned. And as for the car, if they don’t have the basic intelligence to realize this is a classic, well, that’s their problem, not his. Only it isn’t, of course, because they’re at it again, right now. He can see the two lads out of the corner of his eye – one is pretending to crank a starter handle as the other makes farting noises. The girls are hysterical with laughter. Leah Waddell with her high heels and Isabel Parker with that ridiculous hair dye she’s done to herself. He’s amazed the head is letting her get away with it. And as for Patsie Webb with her fuckwit stupidly spelt name. Too clever for her own good, the nasty, vindictive little cow. He doesn’t like the idea of Sasha Blake hanging out with the likes of her. She’s worth better than that – she actually has some talent, some potential –

  He shoves a can of paint aside to make way for the rolls of card, then yanks the doors shut and goes round to the driver’s side and gets in. He sits there a moment, gripping his keys, willing the damn thing to start first time.

  * * *

  ‘My name’s Jed Miller, I’m calling from Achernar Internet Services – can I speak to DC Anthony Asante?’

  Asante sits up in his chair – this is it, this is what they’ve been waiting for.

  ‘My boss said you were after some metadata from us, right? For yesterday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’ve got what you need right here – though I’m not sure how much help it’s going to be –’

  ‘Just send it over, Mr Miller – the rest is down to us.’

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  2 April 2018

  19.10

  It’s gone 7.00 when Gislingham puts his head round my door.

  ‘Just heard back from the team at the allotments, boss. Basically, nada.’

  Quinn used to say that a lot when he was DS; I hope Gislingham grows out of it before I have to beat his head against a brick wall.

  ‘Only thing they do seem to be managing is pissing off a lot of old chaps who’ve no longer got a good excuse to get out of the washing-up, by the sound of it.’ He grins. ‘I think we should prepare ourselves for some irate compensation claims for parsnips trampled in the line of duty.’

  ‘What about the shed Faith was taken to – who owns that?’

  Gis whips out his notebook. ‘A lady called Cheng Zhen Li.’ He stumbles over the pronunciation then spells it out for me. ‘No prizes for guessing she’s Chinese. Apparently she’s lived in Marston for about thirty years and has had the allotment for at least ten. Quite a fixture, by all accounts. Used to be there regular as clockwork every morning and evening with her little trug for a bit of pricking out and potting on.’

  I’m starting to wonder if Gis might be angling to get an allotment of his own; he’s certainly up on all the lingo. Though from what I know of his wife, I can’t see her having much trug with that idea.r />
  ‘What do you mean, “used to”?’

  He makes a face. ‘That’s just it. She’s been in hospital. Broken hip. She’s back at home now but she hasn’t been to the allotment for the last two weeks.’

  ‘And the shed – was it locked?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Seems not. It was just on a latch. She doesn’t keep anything of value in it, and in any case, she said the allotment owners share each other’s stuff. It’s the done thing, apparently. In allotment circles.’

  So that’s not going to get us anywhere either. Marvellous. Absolutely bloody marvellous.

  ‘What about the Incel board?’

  ‘Ah, good news and bad news on that one. Turned out the Yeltob bloke was using a public Wi-Fi, just like Asante said. He’s logged in at the same place every time he’s posted in the last few weeks.’

  ‘Is that the good news or the bad news?’

  He makes a face. ‘Sorry, boss. It was a Starbucks on the outskirts of Southampton.’

  So it’s not our man.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Have we passed it on to Hants Police?’

  Because this piece of shit needs apprehending, even if not by us.

  He nods. ‘Somer’s going to call that bloke of hers – he’ll know who to send it to. If that Starbucks has CCTV there’s a good chance they can narrow down who it was.’

  * * *

  Alex Fawley takes another quick look down the road, then pulls the curtain back in place. Still no sign of Adam. She moves over to the sofa and sits down carefully, feeling the baby move, then settle. She’s trying not to worry, trying to carry on as normally as possible, but some days the temptation to crawl under the duvet and stay there becomes almost overwhelming. She’s negotiated to work from home for the final few months but now even her own house feels like a minefield – an assault course of inanimate objects out to cause her harm. Rugs she could slip on, steps she could trip over. She keeps telling Adam that she’s fine, joking with him in that easy repartee they’ve developed over the years. But the minute he leaves the house the fear comes down and she spends most of the day too paralysed to move.

  She gets up and goes to the window again. But outside, the road is deserted.

  * * *

  When Erica Somer gets home she spends a long time under the shower. Something about this case is getting under her skin, and she’s not quite sure why. She’s met victims who’ve suffered worse, victims who deserve at least as much pity. But she’s never had to deal with a crime against a trans person. She thought she was well-informed, and sensitive, and attuned to the issues – of course she thought that. Every intelligent person probably thinks the same. But she knows now that it’s far more complicated, far more nuanced, than she ever allowed for. Even Fawley, who she likes and admires and has gone out of his way to promote and encourage her, seems to be struggling with it. And what about Giles? She tells herself he’s not a misogynist, not even a mansplainer, but how can she be sure, when she knows him, as yet, so little?

  When she goes back into the bedroom there’s a message from him on her phone, asking her to call. She knows it’s probably about the Starbucks thing but her heart still lifts – then lifts again as she realizes how instinctive that swell of happiness was. Maybe her unconscious is trying to tell her something. Maybe it really is as simple as it seems.

  * * *

  Adam Fawley

  3 April 2018

  08.15

  It’s 8.15 a.m. The temperature dropped to below freezing last night, but according to the station central heating system, April is officially ‘spring’ and the radiators have gone off. Quinn has his scarf round his neck in that loop knot thing that’s clearly de rigueur these days. Several others are in their coats. And it’s pretty obvious the weather has turned inside as well as out. The mood is harder, colder. There’s a frown line cut across Everett’s brow and Baxter has that stern look to his jaw I’ve seen far too many times over the years.

  I finish telling them what I got from Gow and turn to Asante; this is something I need to do in public. ‘Good work on the Incel board, DC Asante. Even if it wasn’t our man.’

  He smiles. Not too much, because that would look smug; not too little, because he knows full well that he’s done a bloody good job and he’s not about to let that be undervalued. Or perhaps I’m reading far too much into it, and he always smiles exactly that way.

  ‘Keep an eye on those boards, though, would you? Just in case something else surfaces.’

  Somer looks up. ‘By the way, Hants Police did manage to identify YeltobYob. There was CCTV at the Starbucks so they could see the bloke who was using his phone at the exact times the posts went up. And he paid by card, so they know they have the right man. They’re pursuing it as a possible hate crime.’

  The mood in the room lifts a little: we’ve achieved something, at least.

  I turn to Gislingham. ‘OK, so where are we with forensics from the allotments?’

  ‘Er, right, there were two usable fingerprints on the Tesco bag,’ he replies, struggling to find the right notes. ‘Along with a couple of partials and some smears. Nothing came up in the database though, so they aren’t from anyone we know about already.’

  ‘And DNA?’

  ‘Several different profiles. No matches on the database there either – it could be anyone – shop assistants, shelf stackers, delivery drivers –’

  ‘But one of them could still be our man?’

  Gis shrugs. ‘Sure, it’s possible. But personally I can’t see him going to all that trouble and forgetting to wear gloves when he handled that bag.’

  Neither can I, frankly. But the pathological stupidity of the criminal classes has been our salvation before, and may well be again.

  ‘And we did that house-to-house in the area round the garages,’ he continues, ‘but no luck, I’m afraid.’

  Baxter looks up. ‘Speed cameras on the Marston Ferry Road didn’t turn up anything either so I checked with the school, in case he went that way, but nothing doing: you can’t see the road from their cameras.’

  ‘What about the CCTV at the petrol station?’

  He nods. ‘Yep, done that too. Over a dozen vans either bought petrol or went past at around the right time –’

  ‘And?’

  He makes a face. ‘Trouble is, you can only see the reg numbers if they actually pull into the forecourt. Most of those going past are just your average white vans with nothing on the side to identify them. Either that or they’re half hidden by bloody buses.’

  ‘Did you check the number plates of the ones you saw?’

  He gives me a look that says What do you take me for?

  He flips open a notebook. Which, unlike Quinn and Asante, he still uses. ‘Of those where we either have identifying marks and/or reg numbers we’re looking at one plumber, three builders, two self-drive hire vans, a locksmith, a pest control firm, a carpet cleaners and one of those companies that rents out pushbikes.’

  ‘Bloody things,’ grumbles Quinn. ‘They’re all over the sodding place in Jericho – people just chuck them on the pavement and walk off. Bane of my bloody life.’

  I’m trying to ignore him. I keep looking at Baxter. ‘And?’

  ‘The pest control guy was on call-out,’ he says, ‘as was the plumber. Two of the building vans can account for their movements that morning and I’ve been able to verify that with ANPR. Same goes for the bike bloke.’

  He flips the book shut. ‘That’s as far as I’ve got. A whole heap of sod all, basically.’

  When I look round the room it seems his apathy is infectious. And I can’t afford to let that happen.

  ‘Focus on the self-drives,’ I say. Firmly. ‘Our man might be using a hired vehicle. To stay under the radar.’

  Baxter considers. ‘OK, yes. I guess that’s a possibility. I’ll get on it.’

  ‘No,’ I say, looking at Quinn, who’s now fiddling about on his iPad. ‘DC Quinn can do it.’

  Quinn practically gapes a
t me. ‘Oh, come on, surely Asante can handle that –’

  ‘Just do it, please.’

  If I sound rattled, there’s a reason. An email just pinged in on my phone. It’s from Alan Challow, and it’s marked URGENT. There are plenty of people in this job who up their own importance by marking everything top priority, but Alan Challow isn’t one of them.

  We go back a long way, him and me. He started at Thames Valley barely eighteen months before I did. We’ve worked the same cases, made the same mistakes, known the same people. I’ve backed him up more than once over the years and he’s done the same for me. Though I wouldn’t call us friends, and he takes an inordinate pleasure in winding me up.

  But that’s not what he’s doing now. I read the email and for a second – just a second – my heart contracts. But I’m being ridiculous. It’s just a coincidence – a random accident of chance –

  Quinn is watching me, frowning a little. He heard the phone, watched me look at it, just like the rest of them. ‘Fine,’ he says eventually. ‘Fine.’

  Gislingham glances at Baxter and then at me. ‘I was also wondering, sir,’ he begins slowly, ‘whether we could think about issuing an appeal.’

  I look up. ‘What sort of appeal?’

  He hesitates. ‘Look, it’s only a matter of time before this gets out. Then it’ll be the works – the whole Twitter shitstorm. So why not get in first and issue an appeal for witnesses? We could ask Harrison –’

  ‘Ask him what, precisely?’

  ‘You know, whether he thinks a TV appeal might be helpful –’

  I take a deep breath. ‘If we start announcing that young women are being randomly dragged off the streets and assaulted we’ll have panic on our hands, and the odd snide comment on Twitter will be the least of our bloody worries. I’m not about to provoke that sort of class-one mass hysteria unless and until we have completely discounted the possibility that this was a hate crime, perpetrated by someone Faith knew.’

  I look round the room, drilling in the point. ‘So where are we with her friends? Her classmates – her wider circle?’