Touch dcs-1

by Mark Sennen

  There had been a knock, knock, knock on the door. Rap, rap, rap at the entrance to his very soul.

  ‘Hello, Matthew. It has been a long time.’ Two figures stood outside in the drizzle sheltering beneath a large umbrella, each wearing cheap tourist-type translucent yellow waterproofs and thin smiles.

  Harry stumbled back from the door, shocked at the apparitions. Ghosts weren’t supposed to appear in broad daylight.

  ‘You bastards!’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Too right we do. Get the fuck inside.’

  Once inside they talked and Harry listened. Like always. They explained, reasoned, apologised, pleaded. Finally they grovelled and begged for the absolution which Harry knew they had come for. Selfish as ever.

  Their words and moans and sobs blended into a cacophony that drilled down through his skull and into his brain. An egg whisk went to work in there, mixing and blending and churning until the only thing remaining was a uniform mush that meant nothing. Harry couldn’t take it any more so he left them in the house and went outside. The earlier rain had stopped and now the air was still, the smoke from the chimney rising in a vertical column. Up in the heavens a formless grey mess hung like a suffocating blanket; no cloud shapes, no sun, only bleak sky.

  And that was how he felt. Empty and cold. But he also knew he could be full again. Like Mitchell said, you had to grasp the moment and then you could be free. Problems, problems, problems, he thought to himself.

  He trudged round to the barn at the side of the cottage, went inside and knelt in the dirt. With his eyes screwed shut he prayed to God to do something, to show a sign, but he knew God would remain silent. God wasn’t merciful and the meek did not inherit the earth: they got fucked while tied to a little wooden bed in a cold attic room.

  Harry opened his eyes and stood up, soggy knees the only sign God had sought fit to give him. Then he noticed a beam of light coming through a hole in the rear wall. The light danced across the space like some sort of primitive laser, illuminating motes of dust in the air on its way. Where the beam hit the far wall it shone on a rusty six inch nail struck in there at a weird angle. Hanging on the nail was a long piece of chain and a couple of padlocks.

  Chapter 23

  Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Tuesday 2nd November. 9.41 am

  Tuesday morning at the station and a feeling of anti-climax hung in the air. Richard Trent’s brief had made an allegation of police brutality and although Trent hadn’t been sprung from his cell, Savage reckoned it was only a matter of time. ‘He was resisting arrest’ Davies had told Hardin. Savage played back the incident in her mind and decided Davies’s account lacked one or two small details. If Trent’s guilt proved short-lived then maybe she would have to have words with Hardin about those missing details. For now she was content to keep quiet.

  DC Carl Denton’s bed for the next few nights would be up at Derriford hospital, but he was doing OK. The surgeons had sorted out his face, although they spoke of a nasty scar being forever on show for his efforts. At the morning meeting Hardin was talking about recommending Denton for a bravery commendation.

  ‘Saved a man’s life and that’s no small thing.’

  ‘Saved a piece of shit if you don’t mind me saying, sir,’ Davies said. ‘World would be better off without the likes of Richard Trent.’

  ‘Ah, but if Mr Trent had succeeded in topping himself we would be in a spot of bother, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘We are in a spot of bother, sir, ‘Savage said. ‘The VODS data was useful intelligence, but the information has zero evidential value. None of the rooms at Trent’s place match the decor or layout of the rooms in the videos and the initial search didn’t find any ropes or bondage equipment. The team are going through the house room-by-room, but so far nothing. And according to a neighbour the BMW gets cleaned once a week, every week. On a Monday. When he heard that Layton headed down to the car valeting place and impounded every vacuum cleaner they own. But if he can’t get something from them or the car we are stuffed.’

  ‘And do you think he can?’

  ‘He reckons if any of the girls so much as glanced at the car he’ll find something.’

  ‘Good, I will keep my fingers crossed. Can we identify Trent in the videos?’

  ‘We are pretty sure in several cases, but the perpetrators are either wearing masks or facing away from the camera. In a couple of the scenes some special software has been used to pixellate the faces and anyway the lighting is not great. To ask a jury to convict without supporting evidence is going to be a no-no.’

  ‘And last night’s session produced nothing?’

  Davies shook his head. ‘DC Jackson and me did a two hour stint and to be honest I expected him to come crying home to mummy, what with the weight of evidence I thought we had.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘As soon as we got word the house was wrong I knew that we were in danger of losing the plot. And Mr clever clogs Ph bloody D knew as well. There was something else though: I reckon he was scared.’

  ‘As well he might be after the kicking you gave him. Mr Trent has some pretty impressive bruises.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Denton and all. Anyway I don’t mean he was scared of me. Every time I asked him a question his tactic was to say nothing, but I got the feeling he wasn’t only worried about implicating himself.’

  ‘Well, the others are still at large, aren’t they?’ Savage said. ‘Possibly a network, perhaps organised crime. He wouldn’t want to be the sneak in the latter case.’

  ‘Figures.’ Davies said. ‘Either way, Trent said zilch because his brief had told him to keep stum. The bitch realises that if the house and car search come up empty then we don’t have anything else.’

  ‘The assault on DC Denton?’ Hardin said.

  ‘He is claiming self-defence, sir,’ Savage said. ‘Nice middle class lecturer is at home having a shave in his bathroom when two men burst in and attack him. He has no idea what is going on and one of the men gets hurt in the struggle.’

  ‘But he was trying to kill himself. What does he say about that?’

  ‘Denies it, sir.’ Davies said. ‘Claims he was shaving and then seeing us he used the razor in self-defence. Doesn’t wash with me, if you’ll excuse the pun. It was late in the afternoon, a funny time for a dig in the grave.’

  ‘This is getting to be like groundhog day,’ Hardin said. ‘First the kinky husband in the car park and now Mr Trent. It would be good for my health if the next arrest you lot make was a bit more clear-cut.’

  ‘I was thinking about Forester,’ Savage said to Davies. ‘Did you mention him? The only information we released is that a body has been found on Dartmoor, no name, no cause of death, no details. The media went with the idea the corpse belonged to a walker who sprained his ankle, so it is possible Trent doesn’t even realise Forester is dead. We might be able to use that.’

  ‘Good idea, Charlotte,’ Hardin said. Then he got to his feet, went over to the window and stared out.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from somebody in the custody centre at Charles Cross. Apparently they have had to place a couple of uniforms down at the front door to prevent anyone getting to Trent. A shocking waste of resources. There are the usual castrators and hang ‘em high brigade, plus a lot of students. A lot of angry students.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Davies said. ‘Not much peace and love by the sound of it.’

  ‘I want you to get over there and try again. Charlotte and DC Jackson this time. The beauty and the beast act, please.’ Hardin continued to look out of the window as if he could see all the way across the city to the station in the centre of town. ‘If that doesn’t work we release him, do you get my drift?’

  *

  Interview room three stank of vomit, the grey carpet tiles in one corner turned a lighter shade by the contents of some drunk’s stomach. A whiff of stale cigarette smoke suggested that somebody had ignored the big red ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall as well. They had be
en scheduled to start at eleven but the interview didn’t begin until nearer twelve since Amanda Bradley, Trent’s brief, had turned up late. Bradley sat down next to Trent, her short skirt riding up to expose chunky thighs wrapped in sheer black tights. The outline of a black bra showed through her flimsy shirt as she removed her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Jackson’s eyes widened as Bradley apologised for her tardiness.

  ‘Had to come in from a previous appointment out of town,’ she beamed through white teeth, glossy red lips and a mouth that was a bit too big. ‘Traffic was horrendous.’

  Savage didn’t believe her excuse. Bitch Bradley had the handle on them. She knew the PACE clock was running and, even allowing for a twelve hour extension, come five thirty the next morning Trent would be out. They might be able to get a further extension following a court application, but if the searches turned up nothing at all it was unlikely.

  Jackson put fresh tapes in the machines and got the formalities out of the way, introducing those present and cautioning Trent. He explained to Trent why they were continuing the interview and went through the rapes one by one asking Trent where he had been on the dates they had taken place.

  Trent sat fidgeting, first with his hair, winding the strands around his fingers like a teenage girl, and then with the zip on the over-sized shell suit he was wearing. Some kind soul had rooted the purple and aqua monstrosity out of the lost property box to replace Trent’s own clothes which were covered in DC Denton’s blood and had now become evidence. In contrast to his body language Trent’s voice came out in a flat monotone and he answered each allegation the same way. The final date brought the same reply.

  ‘Like I told you yesterday, I was at home that night.’

  ‘Mr Trent, we know you were at home,’ Jackson said, bristling with anger. ‘The question is whose home and what you were bloody doing there!’

  ‘My home. Watching TV.’

  ‘What did you watch?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Some reality show, maybe later the news?’

  ‘The news? How convenient. The news is on every fucking night so the fact you watched the programme isn’t exactly an alibi, is it? Next you will be telling me that you went to bed with the bloody Guardian.’ Jackson thumped the table with his fist. Savage could only imagine what the interview had been like the previous night with Davies joining in as well. Time for beauty to step in.

  ‘Richard,’ she said, trying to bring an air of calm to the proceedings. ‘Has anybody told you David Forester is dead?’

  ‘No!’ Trent put his hands together in front of his opened mouth, as if in prayer. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes. Murdered.’

  Trent swallowed and glanced at his brief. Bradley turned to Trent for a moment, her eyes wide, before she returned her attention to Savage.

  ‘I don’t believe I have been informed who David Forester is. Do you mind if I consult with my client?’

  The two heads bent towards each other and a few murmured words passed between them.

  ‘My client doesn’t know who David Forester is,’ Bradley said, her composure restored.

  ‘Bollocks!’ Jackson said, ignoring the solicitor and addressing Trent. ‘You do know, and you killed him!’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Bradley said, putting her arm out in front of Trent as if shielding him from the accusation. ‘Is this a fresh allegation?’

  ‘Did you know David Forester, Richard?’ Savage said. ‘It seemed as if you did a moment ago.’

  ‘I… no. I never met him. Don’t know who he is. I must have seen his name in the papers or on TV.’

  ‘Wrong answer Mr Know-it-all lecturer,’ Jackson said. ‘The papers never reported his death. You just flunked your finals.’

  ‘I don’t know who he is.’ Trent seemed more confident, as if he had weathered the storm. He repeated the denial several times and neither Savage nor Jackson could persuade him to say anything else on the matter.

  Bradley had a smile on her face now, the glee evident. On the desk in front of her a latest model iPhone flashed a little icon on the screen as it recorded Bradley’s own copy of the interview. Savage fancied shoving the phone right in between those big teeth, ramming the hideous pink contraption down her throat until she choked on Trent’s weasel-like words. Instead she decided it was time to move to the back up plan Hardin had proposed.

  ‘OK, Mr Trent, I think we are finished for now. You are free to leave.’

  ‘Interview suspended at 12.13 PM,’ Jackson said and proceeded to stop the tapes and remove and seal them up.

  ‘There’s a bit of a crowd waiting for you outside, but you should be able to get through.’ Savage smiled at Trent and pushed back her chair to get up.

  Trent’s face cracked like an egg hit with a spoon and he turned to plead with his brief. Bradley put a hand on his arm to stop him.

  ‘My client will require an escort away from here.’

  ‘Oh I don’t think that will be necessary. There are only a few photographers and a couple of hundred students. I have no idea what they are doing to be honest. Something about a paedophile.’

  ‘Paedophile?’ Trent said. ‘But they…’

  ‘They?’ Savage said. ‘The girls you mean? Tracy Williams was I believe fourteen. Granted she appeared a whole lot older covered in makeup and wearing a cutesy little skirt. The push up bra helped too, amazing what those things can do. Obviously the press don’t know any of that because we have to shield her identity.’

  ‘You have to protect my client. You have a duty of care.’ Bradley had picked up the phone, but Savage noticed she hadn’t stopped recording.

  ‘Calm down, Ms Bradley, of course we do. We will put Mr Trent in a car and take him home. I believe a few people are hanging around Moor Vale as well, but we can put a uniform on the door. For tonight, at least.’

  Bradley nodded, but did not comment. Trent stared at his hands on the table, almost as if they did not belong to him. The right hand jerked up and down with little shaking movements until he put the left hand on top.

  Savage continued. ‘To be on the safe side we will put out a statement saying Mr Trent cooperated fully with us and has provided some very valuable leads. We will explain that we expect to be making a number of arrests in the next few hours.’

  ‘No!’ Trent said. ‘I mean I don’t want to go home. I want to go somewhere else. Away from here, away from Plymouth. I need a new identity, I need protection.’

  ‘This isn’t a movie, Mr Trent, this is real life, and the last time I enquired Devon and Cornwall Police weren’t running a travel agency. Pity really, I could do with a break.’

  ‘But it’s not safe, they will get me and kill me.’

  ‘Who exactly, Mr Trent? The mob outside or someone else? We can’t do much about either, I am afraid.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Trent leant forward and put his head in his hands. He started to hyperventilate and talk to himself. Then he began to sob. Bradley wriggled on her seat and Savage noted she didn’t make any attempt to comfort him. Cold bitch. After a couple of minutes Trent looked up, his eyes glassy and his face white like a blank sheet of paper awaiting a story. Jackson unwrapped a fresh set of tapes and stuck them in the machine.

  *

  Alice had been in danger of losing track of the days until she hit on the idea of the pips. Every morning she woke to find a tray with fresh fruit and a bottle of water at the door and from the third day she started to secrete apple pips under a corner of the mattress — one for every day. Now she held the little brown seeds in her hand and counted off the days until she arrived at Tuesday. Or Wednesday. She couldn’t quite figure the precise day because she didn’t know how long she had slept at the beginning of the ordeal, but as she put the pips back under the bed she reckoned it was a pretty good guess.

  She lay back down on the mattress and yet again tried to work out what the hell was going on. As each day had come and gone she began to think maybe she wasn’t in the hands of some nutter after all. Perhaps she ha
d been kidnapped and was being held to ransom. If so, then the kidnapper had made a big mistake. Since her mum had died Dad had given up his job in Exeter and now taught part-time at the local college. They hadn’t been well off before then, but now they had no money. That was why she had taken the job at the nursery.

  Thinking about her mum made Alice cry again, but it also gave her some resolve. Mum had said Alice had to be brave and look after Dad and Alfie, her younger brother, and Alice promised she would. She wasn’t going to let some guy make her renege on that.

  She got off the bed and for the umpteenth time took a tour of the room. She touched the wooden shutters and moved on. At first the window had seemed like the obvious way out, but no longer. She had scratched a larger hole in the paint and discovered iron bars set into the stonework on the outside. No way out there. That only left the door. She went over and tried the handle but it was locked, as always. She bent to look through the keyhole expecting to see the opposite wall of the dark corridor she had seen many times before. Nothing. The hole had been blocked up or… the key was still in the lock!

  She remembered a trick her Dad had shown her where you slid a piece of paper under the door and pushed the key out from the inside, retrieving the paper with the key on it. She didn’t have any paper, but she did have the tray from her morning delivery. The tray was a single piece of preformed plastic, the sort you got in a cafeteria, and the gap beneath the door measured about two fingers, just enough to allow it to be pushed under. Now she needed something to poke the key with. She racked her brains, listing things in the room she might use. She had gone through everything and was beginning to despair when… fruit to the rescue again: a banana! She grabbed the peel and felt the woody stalk, perfect. The stalk didn’t fit into the keyhole so she whittled away at it with her fingernails until she had trimmed the excess and then pushed it in. The key wasn’t straight in the lock so it didn’t drop out, but after a bit of wiggling and twisting she heard it fall down and clatter onto the tray.