The Trophy Taker

by Sarah Flint

A low buzz and a slight vibration in her trouser pocket roused her from her thoughts. Her work phone was ringing. She checked her watch. It was far too early for normal work calls. Pulling the phone from her pocket, she saw a name illuminated on the screen. It was Moses Sinkler. She pressed the button and put the phone to her ear, recognising immediately the low gravelly voice of her friend.

  ‘Hello, is that Charlie?’ His voice was tremulous and she could feel his fear crackling through the line.

  ‘Yes, Moses, it’s me. Are you alright?’

  ‘No, not really.’ He paused briefly. ‘He’s been here. He’s left a handwritten note threatening to torch the house and that he would laugh as he watched us all fry.’

  ‘OK Moses. I presume you mean Miller? Do you know if he’s still there? I’ll get help straight away if he is.’

  ‘Yes it’s Miller, he even signed his name on it, but I’m pretty sure he’s gone. I heard a clatter from the letter box about an hour ago when I was still in bed, but when I heard nothing more I went back to sleep. I’ve just found the message since getting up, but I don’t really want to leave the house to check.’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’m coming but I’ll be about an hour. If he comes back in that time, call 999. I’ll let the control room know to deal with all calls to your address as urgent. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thanks Charlie. Be quick.’

  She heard the phone click off and stood up, dusting the earth from the seat of her trousers. A sudden gust of wind teased the top-most branches of the trees that surrounded them. She looked up as the breeze rippled across the conifers and noticed suddenly the green of their leaves, contrasting with the bright red of the berries of a holly bush that was competing for light with a large oak, rising majestically behind. There was life thriving all around her after all.

  She started to run from the graveyard, knowing instinctively that Jamie was the one who had sent the phone call from Moses, breathing new energy into her and her surroundings. She kissed the end of her fingertips and blew the kiss back towards his gravestone, whispering a word of thanks to her late brother. If Cornell Miller wasn’t already on the daily briefings, he soon would be. They would be on his tail every step of the way, until he was banged up for good. She would make sure of that.

  *

  Moses Sinkler saw Charlie pull up directly outside his house from his vantage point behind the curtains in the front room. He had been sitting there for just on an hour, glued to the spot, watching in case Miller came into sight.

  He was so frightened he hardly dared breathe. He watched as the detective slammed the car door shut and strode up the path to the front door before getting up and letting her in.

  ‘Quick, Charlie, come in,’ he wanted the door shut as soon as possible. He called to his wife who he could hear moving about in the kitchen. ‘Claudette, Charlie’s here, can you put the kettle on, love?’

  He led the way back to his little front room, casting a glance anxiously towards the window and offered Charlie a seat. From the first time he had set eyes on her she had been his saviour, sometimes sitting for hours dealing with his fears. He was glad she’d come so quickly now. The letter lay on the table, written in a barely legible scrawl on a scrappy piece of paper. He pointed to it and watched as Charlie pulled on blue plastic gloves and threaded it carefully straight into a see-through evidence bag, before reading it.

  ‘You’ve obviously touched it, Moses. Has Claudette?’

  ‘No, just me. I showed it to Claudette, but she hasn’t touched it. It’s been there on the table since I read it. I keep coming back and looking at it.’ He moved across to join Charlie. ‘Look he’s even signed his name.’ He pointed to the bottom of the note. There, clearly on display in large, bold letters was the name ‘Cornell’ with a smiley face drawn after it. ‘He’s sick in the head, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right but we’re on to him, Moses.’

  He watched as she spoke. The words were upbeat but her face told a different story.

  ‘We’ve tried his family addresses, but he’s not stupid. He won’t go to the obvious ones that we know about. He’ll find other places to go, but we’ll get him soon.’

  ‘How long do you think it will take?’ He could hear the tremble in his own voice.

  ‘That’s the trouble; we don’t know. We could strike lucky and find him at one of his old haunts; sometimes we’ll get information as to where a suspect is and can go straight there. Sometimes we’ll catch them in the act of another crime.’

  ‘Has he done another?’

  ‘Yes, we believe so.’

  He watched as she picked up the evidence bag and read through the note again.

  ‘So what do you want to do, Moses?’ She placed the bag back on the table and sat down.

  He followed suit, sitting forward on his favourite chair opposite the TV. All around him were the trappings of his life, photos of his children and grandchildren, mementos of places they’d visited, gifts from friends, family and even the kids he’d coached at football. In the centre of the mantelpiece were images of his parents, standing tall, in black and white print, faded over the years but with the undeniable pride of a generation born into the knowledge that everything they achieved and owned was the result of their own toil.

  Claudette shuffled in with a tray holding a steaming mug of tea for each of them and a small plate of Charlie’s favoured biscuits. He looked on as she took the cup from his wife and helped herself to three biscuits. This was what his life was about; his wife, his home, his family.

  ‘What can I do?’ He knew what the answer would be.

  ‘Well, obviously Miller will also now be wanted for threats to kill, which means we will have greater powers to track him and his phone, but, having said that, at present we don’t have a number for him. We’ll put the word out to try and get a new number from anywhere we can. We are doing everything else we can to track him down, but sometimes it just comes down to luck. In the meantime there are measures we can take to help you. We can move you to a different address.’

  He felt his panic spike at the thought. This was all he’d known for nearly thirty years. His own little fortress against the outside world; until Cornell Miller had attacked and everything had changed. He’d withdrawn into its safety, pulling the drawbridge up as he retreated. Only recently had he dared to leave the place, venturing out locally to buy bits and pieces, gradually feeling the confidence begin to return. Now, every rampart of his castle was under attack again and it scared him to the bone. But at the same time he didn’t know if he could leave.

  ‘Or if you don’t want to leave here we can have panic alarms fitted so that you can press a button at the slightest suspicion that Miller is nearby and all calls will be treated as urgent. We are also able to get cameras and mikes fitted and I’ll see if we can put on extra patrols around your area. I will personally make sure this is done today, if this is what you choose.’

  He liked this option better. At least here he knew the place, every nook and cranny where someone could hide, every place that he could secrete a stick or pole to defend himself and his wife. He looked up at his partner of nearly forty years, settling down in her own favourite chair, pushing her long, white hair back over her ears. They both loved this house, this road, their neighbours and everything about the place. How could he drag her away from everything she had known?

  His reverie was broken by the sound of Charlie’s voice again.

  ‘Obviously the threat is arson which is quite hard to deal with. He could pour something through the letter box or throw something through a window in a matter of seconds; so if you choose to stay you will need to take as many precautions as possible. Board up your letter box or at least have nothing flammable nearby. I can arrange for you to have a couple of fire extinguishers to keep near you at all times. Make sure you have a plan of what to do if he does turn up; have keys to escape routes on hand. If the worst comes to the worst, have an area that yo
u can remain as safe as possible, until fire crews get you out.’

  ‘You think it could come to that?’ He was appalled.

  ‘I’m looking at the worst case scenario Moses, but it is a possibility, if Miller really does have a point to make; however sick and twisted that point is.’

  ‘He might still do that even if we moved out.’ His mind was racing now. ‘We could be sitting in a strange place and hear that our house has been torched. We could have everything we’ve worked so hard for destroyed without even having the chance to fight for it. This is our home, where our children were born and raised. We have every right to live here in peace.’

  He saw Claudette turn her head towards him and tried to read her thoughts. She trusted him to make the right decision. She always had. Now as he looked at her he saw the merest nod. Her eyes held his and at that moment he could sense her inner strength and knew what she would want to him to do.

  He stood up and walked to the window, standing with his back to Charlie and Claudette. It was becoming clearer now. He had a choice, even though the choice was an unenviable one: stay and try to save his house if attacked, or leave and possibly come home to a burnt-out shell, their whole life destroyed in the strike of a match. An elderly neighbour hobbled past and waved cheerily towards him with her walking stick; the show of friendship echoing Claudette’s thoughts. He felt the pressure lifting from his shoulders. The feeling of helplessness was receding and in its place the first stirring of strength was creeping back into his body. He waved back, his mind made up.

  ‘Charlie, can you arrange all those things for us. We’ll make some back-up plans like you suggest.’

  She got up and came across to join him, patting him on the back gently, before placing her hand on his shoulder. He was so glad she had made the time to come and speak to him, but now he needed to do something himself. It was his turn to take back control. He reached up, placing his hand on top of hers and his confidence soared.

  ‘I’m not going to let this vicious bully drive us out of our home. Cornell Miller is not going to beat us.’

  Chapter 17

  Hunter was in his office when Charlie walked in.

  ‘What time do you call this? I’ve been waiting for you. We need to interview Abrahams and the time is moving on.’

  He looked her up and down with an expression that alternated between full-blown professional irritation and a hint of paternal tolerance and amusement. She thought he was going to launch into one of his ‘dragged through a hedge backwards’ monologues but instead she saw his eyes flick between the desk calendar and his watch. He knew where she always went on a Wednesday.

  Still it was nearly ten o’clock and she did have to admit to having a muddy seat to the back of her trousers and some tea stains where the third biscuit she’d dunked at Moses’ house had disintegrated in her hands on to the front of her shirt, before rolling down over her bust in a gingery mudslide. No manner of soaking and wiping by Claudette had been able to fully remove the path of the biscuit.

  ‘Sorry, boss. I had a call from Moses Sinkler. Miller had been to his house in the early hours of the morning and left a note threatening to torch it and anyone in it. Naz and I are in the process of setting up special measures to give him as much protection as possible. He didn’t want to leave.’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘Must be a hard decision for Moses. I can’t believe Miller’s still terrorising that poor man. We wouldn’t drop the case now, even if Moses wanted us to. Miller’s too much of a threat. Do what you have to, quickly though. We need to get him nicked. I know Naz is taking the lead at the moment. Brief her and then we’ll go and speak to Abrahams in…’ He checked his watch and raised his eyebrows, ‘about fifteen minutes. Oh and try to smarten yourself up just a little. You look like you need a bib.’

  She felt the colour rush to her cheeks, but he was right. She did look a mess. She’d chucked the bag of clean clothes her mum had left by the front door straight into her locker when she’d arrived. As she started making her way towards the locker room, she hoped there’d be a few nicely washed and ironed shirts in it.

  The locker door barely closed with the amount crammed into its base. Christ! She needed to sort it out. Her old uniform still hung from the rails, old white shirts; now replaced by smart polo shirts in an attempt to bring today’s uniform up to date. Her epaulettes sat on the top shelf, with her old shoulder number still spelt out in white metal numerals. Since becoming a detective, it still felt strange being referred to by name, not number. She preferred the anonymity of numbers; they felt safer. These days with the popularity of social media, names were too easy to trace.

  She pulled the nearest bag out from the bottom of the locker, gave it a quick sniff test that confirmed it was the latest addition and selected a checked shirt. That would have to do, though it looked more outside casual than cutting-edge smart. There were no clean trousers; she’d just have to sit down as often as she could so that no one could see the muddy marks.

  Back in the office, she spoke with Naz and Sabira. There was another robbery that looked to be attributed to Miller just coming in, reported a day after it had happened by the hospital after the victim, an illegal immigrant, had eventually staggered in with open wounds from the previous day’s attack. By all accounts he had been too afraid to come in at the time for fear of being deported. It had all the hallmarks of Miller; excessive violence and racist abuse for little actual gain. She felt sick at the thought. Naz and Sabira were following up Moses’s wishes, making sure all the contingency plans agreed earlier were being actioned.

  She herself would phone Moses later to check that everything was in place and he was as prepared as he could be for all eventualities but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

  Bet and Paul were sat in front of several computer screens at Bet’s desk, a pile of DVDs in evidence bags on either side. An array of nibbles lay in front of them, ranging from Tortilla crisps and peanuts with a savoury sour cream dip, to Jaffa cakes, chocolate Minstrels and Skittles, crowned in the centre with a large bag of jam doughnuts.

  ‘Great spot yesterday, you two. What are you doing now? It looks like you’re set up for the day.’

  Paul looked up as she spoke, a slight chocolate residue from his last Jaffa cake, still at the corner of his lips. ‘We are. Bet’s got her savoury bits and I have my sweet bits. We have to keep going with the CCTV stuff and try to track the car before and after the murder as far as we can. Hunter is hoping we can plot it coming from, and going in the direction of Abrahams’ flat, though I’m not sure how many cameras there are out that way.’ He leaned towards the pack of doughnuts and held them out towards her. ‘Here you go. We’ve got a pack of eight, extra jammy, haven’t we, Bet?’

  ‘Don’t you dare, young lady.’ Hunter was marching towards them.

  Charlie snatched her hand back quickly, reddening slightly again and the others laughed.

  ‘She looks relatively tidy now. I’m not going to interview a murder suspect and be distracted by a big jammy stain down the front of my colleague’s clean shirt. She can’t be trusted; at least, not when it comes to food and drink.’

  ‘You’ve got a point there, boss,’ Bet laughed. ‘No doughnut for you, Charlie, until you’ve got an admission.’

  ‘Well, that’s an incentive if ever I needed one.’

  Hunter had already started walking towards the door. Charlie turned to follow him, lifting her shirt at the back as she walked. Bet burst out laughing. Hunter turned round and she shrugged, pretending not to have seen the big dirty smudge on the seat of Charlie’s trousers.

  *

  Oscar Abrahams was finishing a consultation with his solicitor when Charlie and Hunter entered the custody office.

  The door to his interview room opened as she moved past and she caught a glimpse of the man, leaning back in his seat, with legs splayed out in front of him and hands clasped together at the back of his head as if he didn’t have a care in the world. She thought back to the
recording of the young boy, crying as he was abused. She remembered the sight of Susan Barton’s body ripped apart. Those memories would be the thing that would spur her on to getting an admission.

  He turned towards her as she passed and his lips turned up in a smirk but his eyes remained dead. She felt a wave of revulsion roll over her. She had rarely had such a strong instantaneous reaction like it. The man disgusted her. She heard the sound of his solicitor telling Abrahams to stay where he was. Though how anybody could defend someone like him was beyond her.

  She stopped to get an idea of whether they were ready to start and waited for the solicitor to leave. A shock of white hair in a ponytail belonging to the tall, debonair figure of the solicitor emerged first from around the edge of the door. His skin was tanned and he wore an expensive-looking navy pinstripe suit, with a cream shirt; open at the neck in an obvious attempt to appear less formal. She recognised him immediately as Justin Latchmere, a disgraced barrister with whom she’d had previous, unpleasant dealings.

  As he turned, she saw, with amusement, the top of a designer ‘Mont Blanc’ pen sticking out from the breast pocket of his jacket. He just couldn’t help himself; money was patently more important to him than morals.

  The door shut behind him and he turned to face her.

  ‘Well I never. How the mighty have fallen. I didn’t think I’d see you again in this line of work.’

  He fixed her with an imperious expression and held his hand out for her to shake. She declined.

  ‘I may have been down, but I am certainly not out. I have been found not guilty of any criminal behaviour or misconduct, except maybe a little impropriety, and I therefore intend to continue my career within the law profession. I aim to speedily regain my previous position, but for the time being I am quite happy to defend individuals who have had spurious allegations levelled against them by police.’

  He turned his back on her and paused before opening the interview room door.

  ‘Now, if you’re ready to interview my client, DC Stafford, perhaps you can inform the custody sergeant and we can get on, without any further ado.’