CID were contacted and arrived along with the scenes of crime officers. It was all a bit of a blur for Sara. They needed her coat, they explained, for possible fibre transfers; a sample of her hair to compare against any others they found; and they needed a swab of her face to see if they could get DNA from the offender in case he hadn’t been wearing gloves. The officers told her that anything at this stage was worth a try to identify the person responsible.
‘This is all because of your flaming job,’ Frances whispered to her husband as he followed her into the kitchen. She switched the kettle on and collected cups from the draining board. She could see her daughter speaking to an officer. ‘Don’t you realise, she could have been killed. What if he had a knife? What if he had raped her?’ she said, suppressing a cry. ‘We’ve had a lucky escape this time but I’m not going to chance this happening again. I want you to resign from the force, and I want you to resign this minute.’
‘There you go again. It’s always the bloody job’s fault, isn’t it? You know I can’t do that. I’ve too much service in to walk away now – we’ve got to think of my pension. The last thing Sara needs is to hear us arguing,’ Tim said in a hushed tone. He picked steaming cups of coffee from the worktop and marched into the lounge. Frances watched him hand them to the officers and walk back to her.
‘This isn’t just another incident, and it’s not about the money,’ she said, handing him the milk and the sugar bowl. He grabbed hold of them but she held on tight. ‘This is our daughter’s life we’re talking about,’ she said, her voice rising. He turned his back. She stood close behind him. ‘Oh, it’ll be the same tomorrow and the day after that. There is always going to be someone wanting revenge because of you, you arrogant bastard,’ she said.
‘It’s only arrogance when you’re wrong. I’m never wrong.’ Tim Whitworth turned to his wife and stepped forward. Reaching the coffee table, he slammed the milk and sugar down and flopped in his easy chair. His only ambition at that moment was to find out who had threatened his daughter – because once he had found out he would ensure that they wouldn’t ever be able to threaten anyone again.
‘If you won’t do anything, I will,’ Frances continued, much to the other officer’s surprise. ‘I’m taking Sara to Mum and Dad’s and we’re not coming back till you catch the bastard who did this to Sara, and put him behind bars, or you put your ticket in, do you hear me?’ She grabbed Sara by the hand and, pulling her up from the settee, she headed for the stairs.
What did this say about him, them, their marriage? he wondered. Tim looked across at the two officers, who sipped their drinks in an embarrassed silence.
‘Mum, I’m okay. Don’t fuss,’ he heard Sara say. ‘I’d rather go to school and be with my mates. Really, I’m alright.’
‘Just for a few days,’ she said, as she pushed her daughter into her bedroom and slammed the door behind them.
Tim Whitworth raised his eyebrows to the ceiling at his colleagues who rose from their seats, shook his hand and wished him the best of luck as they left.
Tim climbed the stairs, knocked on Sara’s bedroom door and opened it with trepidation. He found Frances throwing clothes into a hold-all. Tim sat beside his daughter on the bed. She blew out a breath of exasperation before getting up and walking out of the door. Settling on the top step, she leaned heavily against the wall as tears ran freely down her face.
‘I’ve got to ask you, love,’ he said. ‘Did he touch you?’ Tim asked as he sat beside his daughter and handed her his handkerchief.
‘He put his hand on my stomach and down towards my legs,’ she whispered, mimicking his actions. Tim closed his eyes and looked heavenward.
‘But it was over my coat, Dad. He didn’t DO anything,’ she said, her face turning mottled shades of red.
‘Oh my God,’ Frances screeched, rushing out of the bedroom. Tim laid a hand around his daughter’s shoulders.
‘And you’re sure you don’t know who it was?’ Frances said, as she stood behind them, clothes hung over her shoulder and dangling from her arms.
‘A lad from school, perhaps? Did you recognise the voice?’ Tim asked.
‘No, Dad. If I knew who it was I would have said. Do I really have to go to Gran’s with Mum?’ she said with a whine. ‘I want to stay here with you.’ She turned her head into his shoulder.
‘It might be for the best, love,’ Tim said, looking round at his wife. ‘Just for a few days, to put your mum’s mind at rest.’ He squeezed her tight.
‘Who’ve you been upsetting who knows our Sara?’ Frances said.
‘No one that I can think of,’ he said.
‘Trouble with your dad, Sara, is that he has lulled himself into a false sense of competence and for once in his life he needs to stop talking and get something done, because until he does we won’t be coming back. Nobody in their right mind threatens a young girl just because their dad’s given them a speeding ticket. So whatever he’s done, it must be bad.’
‘For God sake, woman, what are you saying? I’m doing my job,’ he yelled. ‘Running away to your mum’s is hardly gonna help, is it?’
‘Help who? You, the job, our daughter, or me? If you think I’m gonna sit around here waiting for our daughter to get raped, then you’ve another thing coming,’ she said as she flew past them, bags in hand, down into the kitchen and two minutes later she stood waiting in the hallway with the car keys in her hand.
‘I’ll ring you to let you know we’ve arrived,’ she said, beckoning her daughter. ‘This needs sorting, Tim, and quick,’ she said, grabbing Sara’s hand in one of hers and the bags in the other before heading out of the front door.
‘Bye, Dad,’ Sara sobbed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Tim ran after them. The front door slammed and locked behind him. He looked back in despair.
‘Think, did you see anything at all, anything that was out of the ordinary,’ he begged as Frances slammed the passenger-side door, her daughter safely inside.
Sara wound down the window. ‘No, I just left school as usual. There were crowds. There were cars. But the only one I remember was Pam Forrester’s friend’s car. He papped his horn as he went past,’ she shrugged.
‘Okay. If you remember anything else, let me know,’ he said as their car pulled away. ‘I’ll sort it, I promise,’ he called out after them.
He took the police car keys from his trouser pocket and got in. He turned the ignition on. Putting frighteners on a young girl could only be the actions of a coward. Who did he know who fitted that description?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Brian Stevenson was late, and Dylan was just beginning to think he wasn’t coming, when his office door was flung open. ‘I’ll take him straight into the front office, sir,’ DS Spiers said, her hand still on the door handle.
‘And I’ll be with you in a few minutes if you want to get started taking down his details,’ Dylan said, as he put the top on his pen.
The door slammed behind her.
As she set eyes on Brian Stevenson in the foyer, Taylor Spiers noted that he was dressed smartly in an expensive suit, complemented by a cashmere scarf. The strong bergamot aroma of his Vera Wang eau-de-toilette filled the small interview room. This wasn’t a man who bought cheap, she knew, as the very same scent had put her back a good few pounds on many occasions.
‘Now, how do you think I can help you, my dear?’ he said, staring at her for a moment before cocking his head in a way that reminded her of a bird listening for worms in the ground. He very slowly put his hands together on the table, showing off gold cufflinks, and gave her a sickly smile. At their first meeting she had thought him quite attractive. Her instinct now told her that before her was a smooth-talking man who looked nothing more than a snake in the grass.
‘We need clarification on one or two issues, Mr Stevenson.’ Taylor cleared her throat as she opened the file and pulled out several pieces of paper. ‘Please bear with me until Inspector Dylan arrives,’ she said with authority.
&nb
sp; ‘Of course, sweetheart,’ he said as he pulled his seat nearer the table. The sound of the chair’s feet dragging on the tiles set her teeth on edge and she shuddered involuntarily.
‘Did you happen to locate the business documents I asked you about last time we spoke?’ said Taylor.
Mr Stevenson opened his mouth to speak just as the interview room door opened and Dylan walked in. Taylor blew out a relieved breath.
‘Can I introduce my boss, Detective Inspector Jack Dylan, to you, Mr Stevenson,’ she said politely and Dylan nodded in Brian Stevenson’s direction.
‘Please continue,’ Dylan said.
‘Where were we, Inspector?’ Stevenson asked Taylor, looking slightly confused.
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Spiers, Mr Stevenson, as I keep reminding you. Documents?’ she said, tapping her pen impatiently on the table.
‘My accountant assured me he’d send them to you,’ he said looking surprised.
‘Well, he hasn’t. One thing I need to understand, and perhaps you can help me with in the meantime, is why you’ve had such large amounts of money deposited into your bank account this year.’
‘Oh, I understand,’ he laughed a smoke and whisky laugh. ‘Money, you see, my dear, is paid into my account from several companies and then I pass this on to my clients. Business has been good.’
‘Talking of your clients, Mr Stevenson, you told me previously that Mildred Sykes had released equity from her property. Can you tell me how much that was?’ continued DS Spiers.
‘Oh, quite a lot,’ he mused. ‘Several thousand pounds.’
Dylan sat quietly watching Brian Stevenson’s body language as he answered the questions put to him.
‘I did warn her not to keep money in the house,’ Brian Stevenson said, shaking his head.
‘You mean you paid her in cash?’ asked a wide-eyed Taylor.
‘Yes,’ he said, nonplussed. Taylor appeared lost for words.
‘So, what you’re telling us, Mr Stevenson, is that there is no paper trail?’ said Dylan.
‘That’s the way she wanted it. She was a cute old bird, Mildred was.’
‘Obviously not cute enough,’ mumbled Taylor under her breath. ‘Do you have any idea why she wanted the money?’ she asked.
‘No. Mildred wasn’t for small talk. Different as chalk and cheese were Grace Harvey and her. In fact, she could be quite abrupt, to the point of being rude, at times,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Do you think she was killed for her money?’
‘It’s as good a motive as any, don’t you think?’ said Taylor.
‘And you’re sure she never hinted to you why she wanted the money?’ said Dylan, with furrowed brows.
‘No,’ he said shaking his head.
‘Your gain from this equity-release transaction would be what, commission, a fee?’
‘It depends. Most financial advisors charge a fee as well as receiving commission from the lender.’
‘In Mildred’s case?’ Dylan asked.
‘I managed to negotiate Mildred a free valuation survey. The lenders charged a one per cent fee and they paid half of this to me. I also got her a solicitor whose fees she had to pay.’
‘And what happens then?’ Taylor said.
‘The interest payment is rolled up until the house is sold either by her or her beneficiaries.’
‘And the solicitor’s fee is?’
‘Usually between four and five hundred pounds.’
‘She paid that how?’
‘I took her to the cash machine to draw the money.’
‘When you visited Mildred, which rooms did you visit in her house?’ Dylan enquired.
‘The lounge, the kitchen and the bathroom. Why?’ he asked, bottom lip protruding like a sulky child.
‘How often did you visit?’ Dylan went on.
‘Depends.’
‘Regularly?’ Taylor said with a smile. ‘No, doubt your elderly clients look forward to your visits?’
‘Yes, I think they do,’ he said, with a satisfied grin on his face. He glanced across at Dylan, who was watching him intently with a steely glare. Stevenson smiled and when it wasn’t returned it faded.
‘The flowers,’ Taylor said. Brian Stevenson looked quickly back at her. ‘When did you give her the flowers?’
‘I can’t remember when,’ he said.
‘Where did you get them from?’
‘The Flowerpot Emporium, I always get flowers from Stephanie. Look, how long am I going to be here?’
‘I’d like you to come with me so that I can take your fingerprints and DNA for elimination purposes, Mr Stevenson,’ Taylor said, pushing her chair back and standing up.
‘Oh,’ he said, obviously taken aback. ‘I hope it’s painless.’ He laughed waspishly as he stood up.
‘Sorry, just before you do, DS Spiers,’ Dylan said, ‘Mr Stevenson, I’ll need a list of your current clients, please.’
‘Er … er, yes,’ he stammered.
‘In fact, no, send me a list of your clients over the past five years and mark it for my urgent attention when you do,’ Dylan said, thoughtfully, as he rubbed the forming stubble on his face. ‘I want them as a matter of urgency.’
‘Yes, I’ll see to it directly,’ Stevenson said, sitting back down.
‘Sooner rather than later, please,’ Dylan said, waving him away to join Taylor. ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ Dylan said to the retreating Brian Stevenson, who stopped suddenly in his tracks. ‘Are a large percentage of your clients elderly?’
Stevenson turned. ‘Well, yes, they are. That’s not a crime is it?’
‘No, not that I know of,’ Dylan said. ‘But if you continue to lose them at this rate you’re not going to have a business, are you?’
‘Oh, of course. I see what you mean.’ Brian Stevenson stepped in Taylor’s direction and she opened the door.
‘Have you had a burglary at your home lately?’ Dylan asked. Mr Stevenson didn’t reply or turn around to face Dylan. ‘Because DS Spiers tells me that she saw damage to your door when she visited but you told her there hadn’t been a break-in. Then you told another officer there had, so which is it?’
Brian Stevenson pivoted around to face Dylan. ‘I thought someone had caused a bit of damage to the door. Later I discovered someone had been inside,’ he said.
‘I understand you told my officer you’d reported it, but you haven’t, have you? Why not?’ Dylan continued. He could see Brian Stevenson was becoming agitated.
‘I meant to, but …’ he said, dropping his shoulders and letting out a tired sigh.
‘So, have you reported it now?’ Dylan asked.
‘Yes, I … I telephoned the non-emergency number on a leaflet that was pushed through my letterbox and someone took details and gave me a number,’ he said, apparently thinking deeply. ‘A crime number, I think they said, that I would need for insurance purposes.’
Dylan made a mental note to get his story checked out.
‘What did the thieves steal, Mr Stevenson, anything?’
‘Cash and a clock that was left to me.’
‘Not a television?’
‘No, your officers asked me about that, but I … I sold it. Look, do I need a solicitor?’
‘Do you think you need a solicitor?’
‘No.’
Dylan smiled. ‘Then you’re free to go when you’ve given DS Spiers your fingerprints and allowed her to take a buccal swab.’
Dylan followed them into the fingerprint room and stood leaning against the doorjamb while Taylor opened drawers and extracted forms to be completed. Opening the fingerprint ink pad, she reached for Brian Stevenson’s hand.
‘Any idea who might’ve broken into your house?’ Dylan asked.
Brian Stevenson concentrated hard as Taylor Spiers rolled his fingers one by one on the fingerprint ink and then on to the designated places on the form. Without looking at Dylan, he shook his head.
‘Do you know, DS Spiers, I once knew someone who took the same finger
print for each space on the form as the others were in plaster,’ Dylan said. Brian Stevenson didn’t flinch. ‘Did you see anyone acting suspicious around your house, Mr Stevenson?’ he asked.
Taylor Spiers handed Brian Stevenson a cloth to wipe his hands.
‘Look,’ he said, impatiently. ‘I’ve got an appointment to keep. When can I go?
‘In a minute, sir,’ said Taylor as she extracted an implement with a cotton swab on its end from a DNA collection kit. ‘Can I just check you have nothing in your mouth.’
Brian Stevenson opened his mouth wide. ‘Now can you swallow for me and open again so I can buccal swab the inside of your cheek.’
Brian Stevenson did as he was told and Taylor inserted the swab. ‘Just the same pressure as brushing your teeth, sir. It should only take about thirty seconds to scrape the inside of each cheek lightly.’
‘The term “buccal swab” derives from the Latin, bucca, meaning cheek and a swab, therefore, refers to a DNA collection process involving cells taken from the cheek,’ Dylan informed him.
‘All done,’ Taylor said, as she inserted the swab into a tube to keep it sterile and snapped the top shut.
‘Now, can I go?’
‘Yes, but before you do, can you just tell me about the clock that was stolen from your house. Was it identifiable?’ asked Taylor.
‘I’d definitely know it if I saw it again.’
‘Good. Don’t forget the documents. We don’t want to have to get a warrant to search for them now, do we?’ Dylan said, as he reached out and took the fingerprint forms and the swab off the desk. DS Spiers silently guided Mr Stevenson out of the office.
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