The Trophy Taker

by Sarah Flint

  Every now and again she’d seen an image that made a chill run down her spine. His was one of them. She clicked on the forward-facing photo and looked at it closely, letting her mind take in the shape of his head, hairline, set of his jaw, the size and shape of his lips, nose and ears, every wrinkle, every nuance. She wouldn’t forget him after she’d done this; ever. His eyes were the most startling feature; black, fixed and soulless, devoid of any emotion. He stared straight at the camera, as if challenging anyone to find an ounce of guilt for the offence for which he’d been arrested. She had a look at previous arrest images. His appearance had barely changed from one to the next. Barring a few signs of ageing he was the same now at nearly fifty as he had been at eighteen.

  She reminded herself of the last few words she had said, about being professional. Looking at his face now, she felt sick to the core, thinking about what he had done in the past. She would need to concentrate hard to put her words into action, when everything in her head wanted to lock him in a cell with a group of his now adult victims and leave him to their mercy.

  She stared back at his image, wondering whether he would show the slightest bit of emotion when told he was to be arrested for the crime they were investigating. Somehow she doubted it.

  Within the next hour, they would find out.

  Chapter 15

  Camberwell was a forgotten area, squeezed to the east of Lambeth and to the west of Peckham. It sat within the borough of Southwark and housed Camberwell Green Magistrates Court, first stop for all criminals charged in the neighbouring boroughs.

  Other than regularly attending the courthouse, Charlie knew only two facts about the area; the first one being that Carter Street police station, now renamed Walworth police station, had had a reputation for treating their customers roughly in the nineteen seventies and eighties. Her mate Bill Morley had often told her about times when suspects arrested on the borders of Lambeth and Lewisham would plead to be taken to Brixton, rather than Carter Street because they feared a beating. That was in the old days though, when summary justice was meted out regularly and criminals accepted that was the price they paid for getting caught. Things had changed a lot since then and, according to Bill, not all for the better.

  The only other thing Charlie knew about Camberwell was that some of her distant relatives had come from the area. One day she’d do some research and see if any of them were likely to have had experience of Carter Street. With the family history she had been made privy to, it was likely they had.

  Her mind was idly thinking about this now as their convoy passed Elephant and Castle and travelled along Walworth Road towards Camberwell. They passed Walworth police station, recognisable by its distinctive red-brick walls and blue lantern, like all the old police stations in London, and turned left into East Street. This was home to a daily, bustling market; closed now for the night, its stalls empty and locked up. An array of discarded rotten vegetables and fruit, empty food containers and boxes lay in piles, awaiting the attention of the night cleaners. A few stray dogs sniffed around the debris, looking to hoover up any scraps before the night-time rat population graced the pavements.

  A few lefts and rights and they were there. They parked up in the next road along and quietly made their way, with Sabira heading off first to the rear of the premises. Paul donned his crash helmet and prepared to leave. A number of trees would give cover for the line-up of police officers, as they waited for Paul to make his enquiries. Hunter stood back watching from behind. He would be taking the call from Paul and issuing the command to go, or re-bus as the case may be.

  Charlie moved to the middle of the line of police officers. She wanted to be one of the first in, after the entry team. Whether arresting Abrahams or not, she needed to know that they had done everything they could to obtain justice for Emma Barton and her brother. Her earpiece crackled into life, just a check that everything was ready and communications were working correctly. Her heart was pumping almost as loud as the radio broadcast. It always did. It was this part of the job that she loved the most.

  ‘There’s a light on at the rear in the first-floor flat but I haven’t seen any movement as yet. I can also see people in the ground-floor flat.’ Sabira’s voice was loud and clear.

  Paul’s voice followed. ‘Standby. I’ll check the front door.’

  There was silence for what seemed like hours, before he addressed Hunter again. ‘The front communal door is locked. Boss, do you want me to deploy in my pizza delivery gear now?’

  ‘Yes, please. Give his flat a try. You know what you need to do.’

  ‘All received. Will do.’

  ‘Standby! Everyone in position?’

  Charlie moved forward with the line to their allotted spot behind the row of trees at the side of the property and confirmed for the benefit of Hunter and the others they were all in place. Sabira verified she was still in position and was ready. Hunter was at the rear of the line.

  She could see her breath fanning out in front of her in the cold Autumnal air, her heart beating fast and rapid. She tried to hold her breath.

  ‘Paul, go ahead now.’ Hunter instructed.

  Paul moved forward to the front door. He had the crash helmet on, but had pulled the visor up and was holding a large red bag, with its zip open slightly, to show a pizza box. Charlie could just see him, from behind a tree trunk. He pressed the doorbell and she heard a short conversation.

  After a few moments a buzzer sounded and Paul pushed the door open, moving forward into the hallway and wedging it ajar. A light came on and he disappeared up the stairs and out of sight. Charlie held her breath waiting as the seconds lengthened. Two minutes later he walked back into view, holding the door wide open in the light from the hallway, his tabard shining eerily.

  ‘To confirm,’ Paul’s voice piped back up on the radio. ‘It’s a positive ID. Oscar Abrahams is in his flat and I have the communal door open.’

  ‘All received. Everyone else go, go, go!’ Hunter commanded.

  The line moved forward, up the steps and into the front door, across the hallway and up, to the first-floor flat. One punch through with the enforcer did the job. The interior door was flimsy and easily gave way. And then they were in, the rapid entry team shouting loudly to disorientate their quarry.

  Abrahams was in the back room, lounging on a settee, a can of beer by the side of him and a laptop open on his knees. He snapped it shut as they streamed in and tried to throw it down under the table to his side. He was too late. The first two officers through the door took hold of each arm and Charlie, who was right behind them, grabbed the computer.

  After initially attempting to resist, Abrahams’ arms were forced up behind his back and handcuffs prevented any further movement. He relaxed and smiled suddenly towards his captors, a brief twitch of the lips that didn’t extend to his cheeks or eyes.

  ‘You are macho, aren’t you boys! Just how I like ‘em.’

  Charlie watched as the two officers lifted his arms up behind him, the tiny adjustment forcing him on to his toes, calling out in pain, as his shoulders took the brunt.

  ‘Alright officers, you win.’ He smiled again as he spoke, his words slurring into a drawl which made his speech difficult to understand.

  They released their grip and he slid back down on to his heels.

  Charlie looked him up and down. His head glistened with sweat, even though the temperature in the room was cool. His tattoos could be clearly seen, inked in black against the paleness of his neck. He was tall and well-built, but with more fat than muscle. A navy T-shirt barely covered a large beer belly, which hung over the top of grubby, beige cotton slacks, straining to be freed from the tight waistband. His zip was open. He was disgusting.

  Hunter nodded towards her so she stepped up to speak.

  ‘Oscar Abrahams, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you d
o say may be given in evidence.’

  Abrahams didn’t flinch, nor did his expression change. It was as if he didn’t care what was said to him, or had known what was coming. He stood staring at her, with exactly the same look on his face as in the images she had recorded in her memory. Somehow, seeing him now in person, made them that much more ugly. There was something about the man that was dead. If anyone could do the sort of things that Susan Barton had had done to her, he could.

  ‘Murder, you say?’ He appeared nonchalant. ‘Yet another police stitch-up. Am I to be told who I am supposed to have murdered?’

  ‘A female called Susan Barton.’

  ‘Really? Is that the best you can do? You should know I don’t like women. So, what now?’ Even his voice was flat and lifeless.

  ‘You come back to the police station with us.’

  ‘Oh, what a surprise,’ he snorted with derision. ‘Then you interview me, realise it’s a pile of crap, dust me down and bail me out and then after six months you bring me back in to say there’s no further action!’

  She hated his sarcasm. He was nothing more than a sick paedophile. She didn’t like the man and she wasn’t going to even attempt to sweeten him up.

  ‘If you think I am going to dust you down and NFA you, you’d better think again. I promise you I will get officers here, who will tear your flat apart to find every little thing of interest to us. So you may as well tell us if there’s anything here before we do.’

  ‘Look, officer,’ he turned to face her. ‘You can try and scare me as much as you want. I’ve been arrested a dozen or more times and been to prison for seven years, so if you think you’re going to find anything incriminating here, you must be more stupid than you look.’

  She stepped in so close she could smell the beer on his stinking breath. ‘And if you think we’re not going to find every single thing we need to get you sent down, then you’re more stupid than you look, if that’s possible. I promise you that every single one of us here will not stop until we get what we need to bang you up for a lifetime.’

  ‘You can try.’

  Abrahams made a point of staring individually at each officer in the room. She knew what most of them would be wishing they could do. She did too.

  Hunter didn’t wait for Abrahams to get to him. Stepping forward he stretched out his fingers and pushed the man, not hard, but with enough force to make him lose his balance, teetering ungainly before falling backwards on to the settee.

  ‘Sit down and shut your mouth, you sick shit. I can guess what you were doing when we came in and if it’s what I think, I’ll make sure I, personally will get you charged.’

  Abrahams lay across the cushions, unable to push himself upwards into a sitting position, his arms still pinned behind his back with the metal restraints. His T-shirt rose up, exposing his belly still further as he struggled to move, like a seal, floundering pathetically on pack ice. The fly of his trousers gaped. His eyes flicked up to a large painting on the wall and he smiled lazily. The painting showed a Christ-like figure, surrounded by children, some sitting on his lap, some at his feet, all looking up at the man adoringly.

  ‘What’s on the computer?’ Hunter indicated the laptop that had been thrown down on their arrival.

  Abrahams opened his mouth, as if to remonstrate but then said nothing, instead staring at them both intently.

  Charlie picked it up and placed it on the table, opening the lid. It hadn’t had time to shut down and was still showing the page he’d been viewing. A video clip was playing, on an endless loop. She heard the voices first before she saw what was on display. The voice was that of a young boy crying as his face was forced forward into the crotch of a grown man. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of the boy’s face, his mouth forced open, his eyes wide with pure fear. As Charlie realised, with horror, just what they were all watching, the man took hold of the young boy by his hair, pulled his head forward and grunted loudly one last time.

  *

  Oscar Abrahams ignored the Detective Inspector. He was just a bully.

  Instead he watched the policewoman. He hadn’t liked her when she’d first spoken but now he was watching her with delight. It turned him on, the way her sight was concentrated on his favourite viewing. It was special; a man’s expression of love towards a boy. What was wrong with it? The boy was just a little upset because it was all so overwhelming. Little did he know how good it could be with an older man to show him the way? Youngsters were the future; they needed to be moulded, taught. They needed to experience the love between two people. They needed to start young, to learn from the beginning. It was pure and beautiful and it was how all his group of friends felt.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the opposite wall and tried to sit up and suck in his stomach. He needed a bit of work, but he was still pretty impressive and manly. Everything a young boy could want. Everything a young boy could aspire to.

  The policewoman had snapped the laptop shut again. Her expression had turned from mild curiosity to disgust, almost within seconds. He didn’t like it; not one bit. She was like all the others who didn’t understand and wanted him to stop. She was looking down on him now, judging him.

  A swell of pure anger rippled through his body, burning like a red-hot poker in his brain. His head was pounding. Why wouldn’t the police leave him and his friends in peace? Why couldn’t they understand he would never stop? Why should he? He didn’t want to change and if anyone ever tried to prevent his life continuing as it had, he would be forced to take action.

  He glanced at the officers, finishing at the policewoman, DC Stafford. She was a bitch and he hated her for judging him. He wasn’t hurting the boy. He never intentionally did. Anyway these days when he did join in, he made sure he hid the evidence. He’d been arrested enough to know the score. Whatever he did would not be discovered. She was a fool to insist they’d find what they wanted.

  He turned his eyes towards her and fixed her with a stare, trying to remember her face. One day he might bump into her out on the streets and have the opportunity to put her straight. One day all the judgemental bitches would leave him alone. He thought about what he might do to them. One day.

  Chapter 16

  It was early morning when Charlie walked into the churchyard to visit Jamie’s grave. The gate creaked behind her as she entered, enclosing her in its silence. She knew the way with her eyes shut. It was dark and the sun was low, only its uppermost edges able to push weakly through the low-lying clouds. A dusting of frost lay on top of the trees and bushes, ice-topped needle grasses growing liberally from the edges of the tombstones. The trees were still. Everywhere was quiet; even the birds sat mutely on high branches, their beaks closed in silent despondency.

  As she walked, Charlie gazed around at the piles of dull, fallen leaves. She hated autumn. The green vibrancy of the spring and summer foliage had disappeared and the world seemed bathed in decay. At the sound of the alarm that morning she had so wanted to roll over and fall back to sleep but she couldn’t, her guilt forced her up. She had to come, every week, on a Wednesday, whatever the weather and however much she wanted more sleep. She owed it to her brother. Besides she needed to be there to remind herself of the injustice of his death and to give herself the motivation to fight for every single victim who had ever been let down by the judicial system.

  Her mind rewound to the events surrounding his death as it did whenever she entered the graveyard; her and Jamie in a boat with her stepfather Harry and his mate Arthur, both drinking, both unaware of the fast-approaching storm. Then the fear, the panic, the freezing water as the boat went down with no working bilge pump, no flares and just one life jacket given to her as the only girl aboard. Nothing to save her little brother being swallowed into the blackness of the ocean. She would never forget being hauled from the sea alongside Harry, knowing that Jamie was still within its depths, the agony of waiting; waiting for hours and hours before his cold, lifeless body was recovered.

  A
rthur too drowned that day, his death preventing her and Meg ever receiving the justice they craved for failing to maintain a seaworthy boat and for being drunk when, as the skipper, he should have been alert to the dangers. Harry chose to forget his part in the tragedy, Arthur’s demise allowed him to place the blame squarely on his mate’s failing.

  It had been Charlie who had suffered the most though. It had been she who had wanted the adventure, who had persuaded Jamie to come. Now it was she who was constantly wracked with survivor’s guilt.

  So every Wednesday without fail, she turned up alone and lonely, her trek also serving to emphasise the gaping hole that still existed between her and her mother, who she was sure blamed her for her brother’s death.

  Today however seemed worse than usual. The arrest of Oscar Abrahams had been well executed but they hadn’t as yet found the car. Cornell Miller was still on the loose. Her mother was still as distant as ever. Even the fact that Ben was on the road to recovery and doing well raised its own issues. A sense of dejection descended on her shoulders like a thick, heavy cloak, which she was powerless to shift. Everything looked dead and everything felt dead.

  She stepped forward into the copse where Jamie’s gravestone was situated and tenderly ran her finger along the carving of his name. The air was freezing within its sanctuary and the stone, too, felt cold. She slid down and sat on the frozen earth, with her back against it, imagining her brother’s cold body underneath her, spiralling downwards into the iciness of his watery grave. She couldn’t tear herself away from the image. Normally being in his presence motivated her and stirred her into action, but today nothing helped.