The Beatrice Stubbs Series Boxset One

by JJ Marsh

  Amid the large refuse containers, Lyndon sat on an upturned beer crate and lit a cigarette, watching Adrian.

  “I only have a few minutes for a fag break. But I wanted to catch you to explain. A police detective was here today, asking about the same bloke. There were two of them and they had exactly the same photograph. That’s why Gary freaked. The detective said to keep it quiet, but now someone else turns up.”

  “A police detective? Did he say why he was looking for this guy? Tim, I mean?”

  “It was a she. No, not that I know of. She might have said something to Gary, but she only asked me if I’d seen him before. Which I had. Like I told her, they come in about once a month, two of them and I think they’re Irish. Only ever seen them on a Saturday night. You wouldn’t forget a ponytail like that, would you?”

  “Did the detective give you her name?”

  “She gave me her card.” He stood, retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and extracted the card.

  Detective Inspector Beatrice Stubbs, Metropolitan Police.

  Despite knowing what it would say, Adrian shivered as he read the words. He handed the card back.

  “Two detectives, you said? Did you get the other one’s name?”

  “No. But I can give you her description. Tall, peroxide blonde and right rampant, she was. Tried to pull me. But she’s not my type.”

  Adrian picked up his cue.

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  Lyndon stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “Because you are exactly my type. Is that bloke really your uncle?”

  “No, but something very similar. Listen, we have to leave tomorrow, but I may well be back in the next couple of weeks. Can I take your number? Just in case.”

  “Here, I’ll write it on the back of her card. Call me, OK?”

  Matthew turned with a smile as he heard Adrian approach.

  “I planned to give you another two minutes before beating a subtle retreat. Were you successful? I don’t need details.”

  “Yes, but wait till you hear this. It seems we’re not the only ones being devious. The police were here today, asking about the same guy, using the same photograph. The detective left her card.” He held it under the street lamp.

  Matthew’s eyes boggled. “Good God! So much for, ‘I have to work, I’ll be busy all weekend’. Of all the bare-faced subterfuge! That wretched female never ceases to amaze me.”

  “Nor me. But if there was anything here to find, she got in first. Let’s get some sleep. And I suggest we head back to London first thing in the morning. This trail is cold.”

  “Absolutely.” Matthew shook his head as they made their way back towards their lodgings. “The most infuriating thing is ...”

  Adrian finished his sentence. “... we can’t complain that she lied to us. I know. But I still can’t believe she did that.”

  “She takes the biscuit, she really does. The only advantage we hold is she has no idea we’ve been here. However, we know all about her duplicitous double-cross. Information is power.”

  Adrian’s mind whirred. Power, yes. But how to use it?

  Upstairs at The Clipper Inn, Gary Powell reached into his tunic. The copper’s card was a bit greasy and smelt of onions. He picked up the phone. Half eleven on Saturday; no one was likely to answer, but he could leave her a voicemail message. He had a feeling she’d like to know.

  Chapter 26

  Shells tinkled a light melody along the beach and the sun sank, turning clouds rosé. Inch by inch, Matthew unzipped her wetsuit, shaking his head with regret. Her dread swelled like a jellyfish in her throat, but she did nothing to stop him. Finally, he yanked open the two edges and stared in horror at what he saw.

  “How long have you had that?” he exclaimed, his expression aghast. She tried to open her mouth but her tongue had died of shame.

  He shook her by her shoulders. “How long? How long!”

  “Beatrice! Beatrice!”

  She shot upright in bed, eyes wide and pulse pounding. There was no wetsuit. Her tartan pyjamas were warm, dry and buttoned-up. The sound of waves was coming through the B&B window and Matthew looked like Virginia Lowe. Beatrice closed her eyes and opened them again.

  Virginia perched on Beatrice’s bed, grey light washing her complexion to nothing. Without make-up and wearing a long white T-shirt, she could frighten a weak-hearted individual into an early grave. She placed a reassuring hand on Beatrice’s shoulder.

  “Beatrice? Look, I’m sorry to wake you.”

  “What is it? Was I snoring?”

  “No, no. But we have to go. Did you not hear your phone?”

  “My phone? What time is it? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s almost half eight. We’ve got to get back to London now. Our man’s just done another one.”

  Beatrice’s mind accelerated and changed gear. “No! He couldn’t have! He was at work, we made sure of that.”

  “Looks like he did this girl on his way home.”

  Beatrice threw back the duvet, but something in Virginia’s voice made her teeth clench.

  “What does ‘did this girl’ mean?”

  “She’s sixteen, doing work experience at the newsagent’s in the station. She left home about an hour ago and that filthy bastard was waiting for her in the back lane. He put his penis into her mouth.”

  Beatrice grimaced and couldn’t conceal the wobble in her voice. “Oh my God. The disgusting, vile ... is the girl all right? Stupid question.” She threw back the quilt. “Right, I’ll be ready in less than ten minutes. If we leave now, we can be back by lunchtime.”

  Virginia didn’t move, but continued her glazed stare at the buttons on Beatrice’s pyjamas.

  “What? Virginia? What is it?” She hunched to peer at Virginia’s face.

  Virginia looked up, her eyes flooded and she bit her bottom lip.

  “Beatrice, the girl’s autistic. And that sick fucker knew.”

  Every muscle in Beatrice’s body went limp.

  Chapter 27

  Their previous encounter at the Family Centre gave Beatrice the impression that Maggie Howard was in permanent control. Sensitive, thoughtful, professional and positive. So when Maggie entered the BTP office on Sunday afternoon, it shook Beatrice to see her puffy eyes and tight mouth.

  A veteran weeper herself, Beatrice offered tissues and a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, as she closed the door to Virginia’s office. She poured them both a glass of water.

  “Thanks for coming, Maggie. I appreciate it. Virginia is still interviewing the newsagent, but will join us when she can. I’d like to hear what you managed to find out from the victim this morning. Is she ... is she all right?”

  Maggie shook her head and clenched her jaw tighter. Beatrice feared something might break. She breathed deeply.

  “Right, I think I’m ready to start. Look, Beatrice ...”

  “Don’t. If the next thing to come out of your mouth is an apology, just don’t. There’s no need and we’re only human. I gather this morning was hellish.”

  Maggie’s make-up was smudged and her hair disobedient. She looked like a rock star the morning after.

  “I’ve heard some nasty stuff in this job; some really twisted thinking. This goes straight into the top five of the Shit Parade. Cherry James is sixteen and has PDD-NOS. Yeah, I know. Wait till you hear what it stands for. Pervasive Development Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. Not quite Asperger’s Syndrome, not quite autism, but displays many similar behavioural patterns. All these disorders fall under the umbrella of Autism Spectrum Disorder.”

  “I’ve heard of Asperger’s and autism, but confess my ignorance as to what either really means. I have some vague memories of Rain Man?”

  “That’s potentially helpful, actually. The clue’s in the name. It’s a neurological developmental disorder. People with this condition don’t behave the way we expect them to, don’t acknowledge social codes and can often be obsessive.”

  “About people?”

/>   “Oddly, that’s the least likely target. PDD-NOS sufferers tend to be solitary, absorbed in their own interests. And those interests often become compulsive. Dinosaurs, planets, internal combustion engines, toys, video games, anything. Cherry’s into sharks. Films, toys, models, pictures and books, so many books about sharks. Which is how this despicable scumbag bastard found a way in.”

  “Via sharks?”

  “He groomed her, Beatrice. He spotted Cherry, working her summer job at the station’s newsagent, doing menial tasks but earning her own wage. It seems she loved the job, and became a favourite with some of the locals. She has some communication difficulties, but more social than verbal. She has problems reading emotions and signals, so extends a simple ‘Good morning, how are you?’ into a lecture on the physiology of hammerheads.”

  “And one of the people she lectured ...”

  “... saw an opportunity. He gave her little presents, pictures he’d downloaded. Never in the shop, she says. Sometimes on her way to the shop or on her way home. Her memory is amazing on some points and entirely absent on others. She knows exactly which images he gave her but couldn’t even give us a halfway coherent description of the guy. She just doesn’t notice. And yes, the pictures are already being finger-printed. He chatted to her and learned her routines, her timetable. Not difficult, as it’s another of her obsessions.”

  Maggie’s voice remained steady, calm and analytical, betraying no hint of her former distress.

  “When did this start?” Beatrice’s skin cooled.

  “We can’t be sure – her time awareness is imprecise – but more than a month ago. This is classic grooming. He prepared this girl. And this morning, as she left home, he met her and offered her a deal. He must have thought it would be easy, but like many people on the autistic disorder spectrum, she hates to be touched. Even by those she clearly loves.”

  “In that case, how did he manage to do what he did?”

  Maggie’s eyes squeezed closed for a second, as if she’d rather not see. When she spoke, her voice sounded less even.

  “He traded. A set of shark tattoo transfers for her, a little favour for him. She had no idea what to do, so apparently he talked her through it. First, he put one of the transfers on her skin. Clever. These kids generally hate to be touched. But she let him, for the sharks. Then he explained what he wanted in return. She’s good at following explicit instructions. But that stupid fucking perverted arsehole tried to touch her head. You just can’t do that with a kid like her. She reacted violently; screaming, lashing out and rocking, which frightened him off.”

  “Oh dear God. Did she go home or did someone find her?”

  Maggie frowned and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “No. And this is another shitty thing. He met her as she was coming out of her own back gate. They didn’t go far. Just up the back lane. Her mother heard the screams.” She inhaled deeply and blew out a long breath.

  Beatrice attempted to empathise with Cherry’s mother, but decided to close the door on that emotion. It wouldn’t do for her to get distressed as well.

  Maggie looked up, eyes weary, lines deeper. “Catch him. Do it soon. And when you do, let me into his cell one night. I’ll show him justice.”

  Tired from the tense drive, overflowing with sympathy for Cherry, her mother and for Maggie, and wretched in the knowledge that she had been pursuing her own agenda, Beatrice sensed a chasm below.

  She swallowed. “Fair enough. I’ll hold him down.”

  Maggie pulled cleansing wipes from her bag and started to repair her make-up. “While I cut off his dick and make him eat it.”

  To Beatrice, that sounded reasonable.

  On entering the meeting room at Finsbury Park Control Centre, Inspector Kalpana Joshi’s face gave everything away. She nodded to Beatrice and Virginia, but could not even force a smile.

  Virginia began. “Thanks for coming in on a Sunday, Kalpana. We’ve talked to most staff members, and with at least two victims making a positive ID, we think we need to make a move.”

  Kalpana did not react, but stared at the opposite wall.

  Virginia threw a worried frown at Beatrice.

  Beatrice spoke gently. “Kalpana?”

  “You ever experienced something like this? Where a member of your law enforcement team uses the advantages of his position to abuse and assault?” Despite her soft pitch, Kalpana’s voice sounded harsh and sore, as if she’d been shouting. Her beautiful burnished skin had an underlying redness. Beatrice wished she could give her a hug.

  Instead she answered the question. “Not a member of my team, no. But someone I regarded as an ally, someone I trusted, turned out to have my worst interests at heart. It shakes your faith.”

  “Yeah. That’s it. My faith is shaken to its foundations. So how must Cherry James’s family feel?”

  The three women sat in silence for a moment.

  Virginia tried another tack. “Kalpana, he’s out there, now. Maybe at this minute, he’s on the street with his list of women. He’s making plans for the next one. It could even be today. We need to dig into the backgrounds of a couple of suspects.”

  Kalpana’s chocolate eyes turned to them and all her softness dissolved.

  “A couple of suspects? I thought you got positive IDs from two of the victims?”

  Beatrice twisted her mouth to an apologetic smile. “We did. Of two different men.”

  “Right, let’s check their work records, personal details, track record, anything we can find.” Kalpana shrugged off her jacket and unpacked her laptop. “You got people keeping an eye on them, just in case?”

  “Of course,” Beatrice assured her. “They’re watching; we’re thinking.”

  Virginia opened the first file. “Nathan Bennett has worked the shift patterns that fit with our man. He’s the right age, build and lives in Crouch End. Practically a local.”

  Tapping commands onto the keyboard, Kalpana shook her head. “Can’t see Bennett doing this. He’s ambitious, focused on the career ladder.”

  Beatrice rested her chin on her hand and her gaze on Kalpana. “Can you see any one of your team doing this?”

  Kalpana’s fingers froze and she angled her head to Beatrice. Her eyes flicked down in thought and she shook her head. “You’re right. Let’s stick to facts.

  “Nathan Bennett, joined the BTP in 2009, and has been raking in praise from superiors, colleagues and instructors. Came over here in May 2010. Looking for promotion. Married, no kids. Wife works as a personal trainer.”

  “Our profiler saw this man as single,” Virginia said. “Not to say the profile is perfect, but ...”

  “No, but I know what you mean. The wedding was Christmas 2011, we went to the evening party. It has to be one godawful car crash of a marriage if he’s flashing strangers less than a year later. Who’s the other one?” Kalpana looked at Beatrice.

  “Paul Avery.”

  Something happened to Kalpana’s face. Barely registering as an expression, her nostrils twitched and her eyes dropped to the right. She entered the details without comment, but Beatrice’s curiosity was piqued.

  “I asked before if you could see any one of your team doing this. Your reaction to this name makes me wonder if you are still as convinced.”

  Kalpana sat back, lifting her chin to Beatrice and Virginia. “I dislike Paul Avery, I admit. He lacks social skills, he can be over-zealous and his personal hygiene has earned him an informal warning. I had a feeling certain fingers might point in his direction. He’s a geek, but a harmless one. I stand by what I said. I can’t see any member of my team as a potential sexual offender. Not even this one.”

  Virginia’s narrowed eyes met Beatrice’s stare. Virginia asked the question.

  “Personal hygiene? Does he have a problem with body odour?”

  “No. Halitosis. His breath stinks.”

  Scotland Yard was eerily calm on a Sunday afternoon. Beatrice stood outside Hamilton’s office and sighed. She was prepared to take her verbal
thrashing; it was no more than she deserved and she knew it was inevitable. Although she was surprised to receive her summons so soon. Obviously Hamilton couldn’t wait till Monday.

  She knocked, waited for Hamilton’s curt bark of permission and opened the door, expecting an incandescent Norse warrior to unleash bolts of fury.

  The late afternoon sun caught his hooked nose, the grooves of his constant frown, and lit a halo behind his grey hair. Yet his eyes, as he lifted them to hers, seemed to contain no anger. His forehead motioned to the chair. She sat.

  “You have a suspect.”

  “Yes, sir. Two, in fact, but one looks like our man.”

  “Plan of action?”

  “A team tailing him every minute of the day. Harrison, our lure, remains in place. He will try something, without a doubt, and when he does, we’ll be waiting.”

  “Your case is not strong enough to take to the CPS as is?”

  “Sir, we need concrete evidence. As yet, everything is circumstantial. But we’re onto him. He’s going to step right into our trap, I’m sure of it. Really, sir, we won’t fail.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you already have. Cherry James.”

  Dark wing-beats hovered over Beatrice. She met Hamilton’s eyes and waited.

  “I understand you were in Wales. With DI Lowe.” He forestalled any explanation with a dismissive hand. “I am not interested. Multi-tasking is a marvellous skill around the house. But you are at work. Focus, Stubbs. On your job. Should this man assault or expose himself to anyone else, I will replace you with someone more effective. Thank you for your time.”

  Beatrice left Scotland Yard with a heavy tread. Fatigued, miserable and dragging a weighty sense of guilt behind her, all she needed was home and bed. But she hauled herself up the road to Transport for London HQ. She owed it to Cherry James.

  Ty Grant’s usual expression of sardonic amusement was absent. He scrambled to his feet and snatched a file from his desk, meeting her halfway to Virginia’s office.