by Oliver Tidy
‘What happened when you arrived at the garage last night. What time was it? Why were you there? What did you see?’
Brought back to the present, Avery’s features and voice had lost all trace of his earlier cocky playfulness. ‘I always pick her up when she does the night shift. I was there at closing time: tenish. It was locked up, and all the lights were out. They never turn all the lights out. They leave them on all night. She didn’t answer her phone, but I could hear it ringing inside. I spent a few minutes banging on the doors. Got no response, so I called you lot.’
‘And got yourself arrested.’
‘I was upset. They wouldn’t let me in to see what had happened. My girl was in there.’
‘I don’t think you would have liked it if they had.’
‘What happened to her? What did they do?’
‘Did you see anything else? Anyone else? Something that could help our investigation?’
Avery shook his head. ‘I saw no one.’
After a brief pause, Romney said, ‘The place was robbed and there was a serious sexual assault. That’s what you’ll read in the papers, and as you have no lawfully recognised relationship with the victim that’s all I’m obliged to tell you. You want the sordid details of what was done to her, you’ll have to ask your ‘girl’, but I don’t think she’s going to want to talk about it for a while. You can take him back to his cell now, Constable.’
Avery glowered at Romney. ‘When do I get out of here?’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Romney, standing. ‘Assaulting a police officer is a serious offence. You’ll have to wait and see what the superintendent decides in your case. Given the circumstances, you might get off with a caution, but I wouldn’t count on it. He should be in...’ Romney made a show of studying his watch, ‘...in about an hour or so. Breakfast and a coffee. You might get seen by mid-morning.’
The constable encouraged Avery, simmering with anger and frustration, out of the room.
‘You don’t like him, do you, sir?’ said Marsh.
‘He’s a thieving, cruel, ruthless, scrote who’s brought more misery to the people of this town in his short and horrible life than the incumbent Conservative government, and that, Sergeant, is saying something.’
As they made their way back to CID, Marsh said, ‘What were you suggesting in there, sir? Do you really think that this has something to do with him and his business interests?’
‘Probably not, but I’ll take any opportunity to rattle his cage. It’s something that occurred to me last night: there might be more to this than a straightforward rape and robbery.
‘I spoke to a colleague of mine at Area this morning. Seems that Avery might be branching out in his criminal activities. There’s a suggestion he might be getting into bootlegging. With the extortionate taxes the government levies there’s a lot of money to be made in contraband cigarettes and booze these days. A lot of money. It’s also an area of enterprise that some of our longer established, resident eastern European population have an interest in developing for themselves – Kosovans mainly. Perhaps it was a message to him. Some of the methods they’re using to deter others from seeking to gain a foothold in the lucrative business are proving particularly brutal, apparently. Given his connection to the victim, the possibility that the attacker was eastern European and the unusual details of the assault we shouldn’t rule anything out. Ignore possibilities at your peril. Keep an open mind, Sergeant Marsh. Always keep an open mind.’
*
Despite pressures from Romney, forensics was unable to guarantee that the full results of their tests of samples lifted from the crime scene would be with CID before lunch. Fingerprints taken would need to be cross referenced with employees of the garage, and they had yet to be all traced and taken.
A CID meeting determined and settled on several possible avenues of enquiry to be investigated. In order of favouritism based on the facts available these were that the incident was a pre-meditated rape with an opportunist robbery; that the incident was robbery focussed with an opportunist rape; that the incident was part of some kind of turf war.
Enquiries into employees of the petrol station, both current and former, covering the time that Claire Stamp had worked there showed only two males. One was the manager who had been called out the night before. The other was the youth, Carl Park. Both were quickly eliminated from enquiries with solid alibis: the manager had been at a snooker hall all evening with numerous witnesses to testify to his presence; Park’s lack of involvement in anything other than as a pathetic victim was never in doubt.
Marsh learned that Claire Stamp had been released from hospital and had returned home. Marsh got her home phone number from the garage manager and called her. Claire Stamp was made to understand the importance of making herself available to the police at the earliest opportunity. She agreed to have Marsh and her DI call on her at her home.
***
4
Within the hour, Romney and Marsh were standing outside the building in the town centre that had been given to them as Claire Stamp’s address. A florist was trading out of the ground floor shop. The smells wafting out of the open front door in the gloomy breezy winter’s day were both strange and welcome.
Romney admired the renovated structure. ‘Difficult to see how someone earning minimum wage can afford to live in a place like this,’ he said.
They were buzzed in and took the freshly painted and well maintained stairwell to the fourth floor. The woman who opened the door for them was not at all what Romney was expecting. She was attractive in her made-up and contrived way, but she looked much older than he had imagined. There was a hardness around the mouth, and her eyes suggested life had not been kind to her. Marsh saw immediately the resemblance to the younger version she had spied through the hospital door viewing panel in the early hours of the morning.
‘Claire Stamp?’ said Romney.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘Blimey, if you’re who we’re relying on to catch whoever did that to my daughter, I won’t hold my breath. You’d better come in.’
They followed her clicking heels down a narrow, dark passageway and into the lounge. It was bathed in a grey light, which came in through a pair of patio doors that overlooked a small balcony and then rooftops at the back of the high street.
Claire Stamp sat on a white leather sofa. It was one of the few items of furniture in the sparsely furnished room. Her hair was wet and combed. She was wrapped in a thick, white towelling robe. Her feet were tucked up under her.
Romney realised his mistake immediately. ‘Claire Stamp?’ She nodded and didn’t smile. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Romney, and this is Detective Sergeant Marsh. My sincere apologies for having to trouble you so soon after your harrowing ordeal, but, naturally, we want to catch whoever did this to you as much as I’m sure you want us to. To that end we need to get on with our investigations quickly, and while things are still fresh in your mind.’
It was the speech they had agreed Romney, as senior officer present, should deliver. However, Romney didn’t have the training or experience in rape counselling and questioning that Marsh had. Neither would he have that natural connection that women, from whatever their walks of life, would have. Consequently, they had agreed that after his preamble Marsh would lead.
‘Very touching,’ said Claire Stamp’s mother, behind them. ‘Heartfelt I’m sure.’
‘Mum.’ Claire Stamp’s voice didn’t have the roughness of her mother’s, but her rebuke was clear. ‘Make some tea or something, will you?’
The older woman turned without another word and left the room. She shut the door behind her. Her heels tip-tapped over the tiled hallway to the kitchen.
‘Sorry. She’s so angry. It should be me who’s that angry. I am. But, well, it’s not your fault, is it?’ She was softly spoken with the accent of the local grammar school – a stark comparison to her mother.
Marsh said, ‘All right if we sit down, Claire?’
The police took off their coats. The room was hot and stuffy. It could have done with some ventilation and some air, thought Romney.
‘You understand that we’re going to have to ask you all about last night?’ said Marsh. The girl nodded. ‘We can wait for your mother to come back, or if you’d like someone else present, for support, we can arrange it.’
Claire Stamp snorted. ‘My mum’s the last person I’d want in here. She’s only here now because that idiot from the garage called her, told her what had happened and where I was. Sorry, no, there’s no one else I want here. To be honest, the fewer people that ever know what he did to me the happier I’ll be.’
‘I can promise you that we will keep all details of what you tell us confidential, unless we are obliged to reveal them as part of the investigation. I do have to advise you of that fact. I’d like to record what you’re going to tell us, if that’s OK with you, Claire? We’re not here to take your official statement. That will come later.’
Stamp nodded again, and Marsh took out her newly purchased digital recorder.
Claire Stamp’s mother tottered back into the room with a tray of steaming mugs and some wrapped cubes of sugar. There were no biscuits. She set it down roughly on the chrome and glass-topped coffee table.
‘If you don’t need me for a few minutes, I’m going out for some fags and fresh air.’
No one tried to dissuade her.
A minute later the front door banged. Marsh reached across and activated the recording device. She said, ‘Claire, I want you to tell us everything you can remember about what happened last night, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you. Anything and everything in the order that it happened. Take your time. I can switch this off if you need a break.’
The young woman on the sofa took a deep, stabilising breath and said, ‘It was a quiet night. The weather was horrible. There wasn’t much passing trade. We lock up around ten. Start clearing things away and bringing stuff in from outside about nine-thirty. Carl had got everything in. We hadn’t had a customer for a while, and then out of nowhere this bloke walks in. He had a gun. A pistol.’
Romney said, ‘Could it have been a replica or an air pistol, perhaps?’
‘It looked real. It wasn’t an air pistol. My sister had an air pistol when we were kids. I know what they look like. The hole in the barrel was small compared with this. It could have been a replica, I suppose. The thought occurred to me, but then I thought he’d only come to rob the place. I wasn’t interested in finding out how real his gun was.’
‘Can you describe him?’ said Marsh.
‘He was about as tall as you,’ she said, looking at Romney, ‘but not as wide. He was thin. Skinny. He was wearing a hooded top with a ski-mask underneath. I couldn’t see anything of his face.’
Marsh said, ‘How about his clothes? Anything unusual?’
Stamp shook her head, ‘Nothing unusual that I can think of – jeans, dark jacket.’
‘What about his speech?’
Stamp went quiet for a thoughtful moment. ‘He sounded foreign. But,’ she paused.
‘But what, Claire? Everything, remember?’
‘I’m not sure if he was putting it on. Faking it. He didn’t say much. I was so scared. I wasn’t paying much attention to how he sounded. But. He could have been foreign. I’ve heard people in Dover sounding like him.’
Marsh moved her gently on. ‘What happened next?’
‘He told Carl to lock the doors and turn out the lights. Then he made us go into the back room.’
‘Did he look in the till?’
‘No. Not then.’
‘Would you say he was familiar with the layout of the place?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, when he got you into the back room did he hesitate at all? Did you get the idea that it was unfamiliar to him?’
Again, Stamp took her time, trawling her memories. ‘He seemed confident,’ she said. Her voice became quieter. ‘He grabbed me by the hair and pushed me down over the table, putting his weight on me. He threatened Carl to make him strap my wrists and ankles to the table legs.’
She noticed both of them look at her exposed wrists. She raised them up, and the sleeves of her bathrobe fell down to her elbows. The angry crimson welts stood out against her otherwise pale skin.
‘After that, I couldn’t see anything behind me. Carl was standing in front of me. He was terrified and useless. The man threw something at him. He told him to put it over my head and pull the string tight. It was some kind of cloth bag. It must have been thick because when it was on me I couldn’t see any light through it. I could hardly breathe. It stank of mothballs. There was more shouting. I heard Carl cry out and fall. For a few seconds it was silent. I prayed he’d just go to the till, take whatever he wanted and get out. Then I felt his hands on me, and I knew what he was going to do. I had to fight back from being sick into the hood. I started to scream, and then I felt the point of a knife against my neck.’ She turned her head and lifted her hair so that they could see where the blade had nicked her. ‘He pulled my skirt up to my waist, cut and ripped off my tights and knickers. And then he raped me.’ Her eyes filled with angry tears at the memory. She wiped them away, not wanting them to see how a man’s physical violation of her had affected her. ‘He used a condom. I should be grateful for that. And he was quick , and,’ she paused, struggling with how to put it, ‘there wasn’t much of him, if you know what I mean? It didn’t hurt. It was just uncomfortable and unwanted. It’s strange,’ she said, meeting their stares in turn. ‘I was raped: screwed against my will by someone I’ve never met, so why don’t I feel worse about it? I mean, it’s the ultimate violation, isn’t it? I can’t help feeling that I should be hysterical, ruined, a total mess. Isn’t that what happens to women after they’ve been raped? But I don’t feel it. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t enjoy it, and I’d rather it hadn’t happened, but I don’t feel that it’s going to destroy me. That’s not normal is it?’
‘We all deal with traumatic experiences in our own and different ways, Claire,’ said Marsh. ‘The fact that you’re being so strong, so objective about it, shows that you can deal with this. You’re right: for a lot of women who suffer rape it’s a life-altering experience and understandably so. But if you have the inner strength to deal with the emotions, if you can see that it’s not your fault, you did nothing wrong, you are not to blame, then you will be in a much better position to deal with it. Rape is about men’s need to control women, to own and humiliate them. Often the greatest effect of any rape is the mental aftermath. If you can rationalise your unwilling part in it and move on; if you are truly able to do that, you will make a quicker more complete recovery. But you’ve got to be honest with yourself, Claire. You can be supported through this. There are specially trained, experienced, kind and sympathetic counsellors who can really help. I’m going to leave you some phone numbers, including my own. Don’t hesitate to call them, or me, if you need us, OK?’
Claire Stamp nodded and managed a hint of a smile in thanks. Slight though it was, it transformed her features, and it was enough to show both officers how naturally beautiful she was.
‘Can you remember what happened next?’ said Marsh.
She went back, again. ‘I suppose I was in shock. I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on. I was panicking. Inside that hood, I could hardly breathe. I was terrified in case I’d just been infected with something, about what he was going to do to me and whether he was going to kill me. It went pretty quiet. He never said another word. I heard him searching about, and then he was gone. He must have gone into the shop, taken the money and legged it. There is one thing that I’m pretty certain of... ’ She took a deep breath. ‘ ...he filmed what he did to me or at least took pictures.’
‘What makes you say that?’ said Marsh.
‘I heard the electronic sounds. It was the same sound my phone makes when I take pict
ures or video. You know, that’s what bothers me most about this whole thing. He’s got images of me like that. They’re proof that it happened. They could end up anywhere. I’ll never be able to forget it while they’re out there.’
Not wanting to dwell on that, Marsh said, ‘That could be a very important detail. What phone have you got?’
‘It’s a Nokia something or other. It’s still at the petrol station. My boyfriend gave it to me.’ As the words tumbled out of her, the realisation of something unpleasant distorted her features. For a moment, she looked like she might break down. ‘I’ve still got the manual in a drawer in the kitchen.’ She stood and left the room.
Romney and Marsh had little time to exchange more than a look before she was back clutching a handful of paperwork. She handed the operator’s manual to Marsh. Marsh noted the model number and said, ‘And then what happened?’
Claire Stamp sat back down on the sofa. ‘And then I had to lie there across that table until the police showed up. I wish I could have passed out or something. The waiting was horrible. My wrists were agony. I’ve never known pain and frustration like it. In some ways, it was worse than what he did to me.’
Romney said, ‘Your boyfriend called us. Were you aware that he was there?’
Again her face clouded. ‘Yes. I heard someone banging on the windows, and then I heard him shouting my name. I didn’t want him there. I didn’t want him to see me like that. I don’t know how he’ll take it. I haven’t seen him.’
The front door slammed. Footsteps different to the girl’s mother’s approached. The lounge door was thrown open and Simon Avery stood there swaying slightly and leering nastily at the gathering. His face was flushed, and his eyes were bloodshot. The stench of alcohol came into the room with him.
‘How cosy. Is this why you kept me locked up all fucking morning? So you could get round here and get all the juicy details? I heard coppers get off on that sort of thing.’
