by J G Alva
Helen had left her welcome cakes on the table in the Briefing Room.
The room was being modelled into what Ben thought of as capitalist moderne: fluorescent strip lighting, cupboards built into walls, a screen and projector overhead, a collection of tables in a U shape around the screen, all in variations of blue and blue-grey.
In contrast, the view out of the main windows was very impressive. Perhaps the room’s only saving grace.
Ben and Sarah sat next to each other at the table, opposite the unfurled projector screen, and eyed the stodgy offerings from the Bekstone kitchen in front of them. With trepidation, Ben thought, waiting for the others to arrive.
Ben indicated the cakes and said, “do you…?”
Sarah shook her head.
“I’m on a diet.”
“Right.” Of course.
At that moment, Kip Taylor entered the room, clutching a large desk phone, a laptop, and various folders, all of which looked as if it would spill from his hands to the floor…until he was actually able to drop them onto the table, which he did, with an arresting clatter.
“Kip,” Ben said, with surprise, and rose.
“Ben,” Kip said, pushing his glasses up his nose. He shook Ben’s offered hand, and Ben clapped him on the shoulder. “Alan said you were on the team.”
“Alan?”
Kip smiled.
“DCI Brown.”
Kip was only twenty four, an asthmatic, thin, red haired man, who worked in the IT section of the MCIU.
“You’re in this too?” Ben said, returning to his seat. “Well. That’s good to hear. You still doing those Krav Maga classes on the side?”
“Yep,” Kip said, trying to sort the file folders and equipment into some sort of order. “Got twenty four members now, three classes a week. You should come.”
“I should,” Ben said. “But as soon as I get home, the wife has to put me in chains.”
“Why’s that?” Kip asked, completely serious.
“Afraid I’ll shit on the neighbour’s lawn, I think,” Ben said, and after a moment in which Kip looked genuinely shocked, he broke into a high wheezing laugh.
Sarah shot him a disapproving frown.
Helen preceded DCI Brown into the room, Brown shutting the door behind them. She sat next to Ben and whispered, “have you had a cake yet? What do you think?”
Ben patted his stomach.
“I’ve just had breakfast. But I will. I can promise you that.”
Helen dimpled and patted his arm.
Brown stood in the centre of the U of tables, his half-moon glasses perched on his nose, shuffling through some paperwork in his hands.
Almost as if he had forgotten everyone else was there, he looked up suddenly and said, “oh. Right. This is Francis Taylor, our IT civilian support.” Brown indicated Kip. He looked at him then. “Do you know when the computers’ll be in, Francis?” He asked.
“This afternoon,” Kip said, nodding vigorously.
“Uh-huh.” Brown went back to his paperwork.
“It’ll take me a good couple of hours to set up the network though, so don’t expect anything until early this evening.”
Brown looked at Kip. He did like to give people the old beady eye, Ben thought.
“Right,” Brown said, and he sounded slightly disappointed with Kip. That’s how he got things done, Ben thought: made you feel bad for letting him down. That, and the stare.
“Helen Bekstone I think you already know,” Brown continued. “She’s our Head Administrator.” Brown smiled when he said, “I managed to pinch her from MCIU. Don’t ask me what I had to promise to secure her.” Helen giggled. “And over here” – Brown indicated Ben and Sarah – “are Detective Inspector Benjamin Lewis, and Detective Constable Sarah Goodchild. I’m sure you can all get to know each other better later. Right. For now, it’s down to business. Why we are all here.”
Brown put down the paperwork and stared at them all in turn. He seemed oddly amused, as if this was an audacious prank he had somehow managed to pull off.
“Well. To start, let’s go back. About a year ago, I went to our Detective Chief Superintendent with an idea. This idea was in part inspired by recent events within the Avon and Somerset Constabulary’s jurisdiction, and in part by events of a more personal nature. However, it transpired that this idea had not been in my mind alone, but also in the minds of other Chief Superintendents…as well as in the minds of certain men in the government. The idea, to put it simply, was to form a new division within the constabulary, dedicated solely to respond to prolific multiple murderers. That is, to serial killers.”
The room was silent a moment as that sank in. Ben looked at Sarah; she was wiping her nose with a handkerchief.
“Statisticians would have us believe that there are two serial killers active in the UK at any one time. It is my belief – shared by DCS Graham and a few others – that this is perhaps an optimistic figure. Optimistic in the sense that it would be nice if it were so few. I believe that there are more. A lot more. But due to certain…deficiencies shall we say, both in the police force and in the way that statistics are compiled, this figure is not accurately captured, if you’ll forgive the pun. Well, we voiced our concerns, both at home and in London, and it must have reached the right ears because, about three months ago, we secured funding from the government to create a new task force, separate from CID. We run parallel with CID, we work with them, but we are not answerable to them. We are answerable only to the Detective Chief Superintendent himself. And of course you” – and here Brown indicated his audience with a sweeping gesture – “are answerable to me, as your supervising officer. Everything clear so far?”
Heads nodded.
“So. That covers why you are here. Now let’s cover the why you. Specifically.” Brown turned away from them, rubbing his hands together. His head cocked to one side; he seemed to be thinking. Before he turned, his hands linked themselves behind his back, and Ben had the sneaking suspicion that he might have been a man of rank in the army. Maybe not a Colonel, but certainly a Captain or a Major. He gave off that air.
“Each of you have been chosen because you each have a unique skill. Helen, we worked together in Gloucestershire; so you know that I’m well aware of how efficiently you can support a department. I’ll expect nothing less here.” Helen nodded seriously. “Francis, of course, you provide very necessary IT support. In the past, it has been my failing not to appreciate the importance of IT within a working police department. That will not happen again. Francis” – and here Brown looked to Ben and Sarah – “comes highly recommended from the MCIU.” He turned back to Kip. “But we only have you on loan, is that correct?”
Kip nodded.
“How long for?” Ben asked.
“I’m going to flit between departments,” Kip explained. “But on paper I’ll belong to the MCIU. That’s who I’ll report to. You shouldn’t see any decrease in IT support though. For you guys, I mean.”
Brown paused, but then continued, “DI Lewis, you were chosen for three reasons, and it’s those three reasons, I believe, that put you slightly ahead of some of your equally proficient colleagues.” He began counting them off on his fingers. “One, your experience as a detective. I believe it’s been five years now, is that correct?”
“Six this month.”
Brown nodded, as if he already knew it.
“Two, your extensive knowledge of firearms, both professionally and personally. You’re an Authorised Firearms Officer. And I see you spent some time in the Armed Response Unit?”
“Yes, I did.”
“For those who don’t know much about the Armed Response Unit, can you elaborate?”
“Of course. Principally, we dealt with incidents involving firearms, or with siege situations.”
“Can I ask why you left?”
Brown was looking over his half-moon glasses at him. It seemed Ben had his full attention for the moment.
“Yes. The Armed Response Unit
was good work, but it wasn’t…enough.”
“Oh. How so?”
“I wanted to be a Detective.”
“To detect, no doubt.”
“I wanted to stop the bad people, DCI Brown.”
“And starting a family didn’t factor into your career decisions at that time? The Armed Response Unit is dangerous work, after all.”
Ben rubbed his chin, in part to cover a smile. There was no fooling this man.
“They might have done,” Ben admitted.
DCI Brown nodded, smiling himself, and then leant over to look at a sheet of paper he had left on the table beside Kip.
“And where does your personal interest in firearms stem from?”
“My father had guns. He was in the army. A Brigadier. He’d used them all his life, and it was something he wanted to pass on to his son, I suppose. I ended up sharing his interest.”
“I see you shot in competitions,” Brown said, reading the sheet.
“Only when I was younger.”
“And why did you stop?”
Ben smiled when he said, “the handgun ban in the UK in 1997 made practical shooting competitions for handguns almost impossible. I favoured handguns. That was my forte. My father was more of a rifle man. Between us we covered the scope of most practical shooting competitions.”
“You were in a team with your father?”
“Yes. Together, we reached UKPSA level 3.”
“Which is?”
“Championship matches. They usually consist of twelve stages, and use different scenarios, and different equipment.”
Brown nodded.
“Are we to be an armed response unit?” Ben asked.
Brown smiled.
“Yes. We will have authority to carry firearms. I’m not a hundred percent sure that we will need them, but I like to err on the side of caution. You, DI Lewis, will be our Authorised Firearms Officer. DC Goodchild does not have that training. As of yet,” he added, with a smile directed at her.
“Very well.” Brown turned back to him. “The third reason I wanted you on this team is a little more vague. There’s mention of it in some of your reports, but I got more from DCI Stohp. You’re good with people, I’m told. You have a knack. You put them at ease. They talk to you.”
Ben shifted uncomfortably under his gaze…and the compliments.
“I was watching you when came in,” Brown said, pointing in the direction of his office. “Through the window. Did you know the workman you were talking to? Beside the skip?”
Ben shook his head.
“His name is Steven Childs,” Brown said. “He is the supervisor for all the men you can see out in the main part of this floor. They’ve all been working shifts around the clock to get this place finished for us.”
Sarah sneezed, wiped her nose.
“He is not a happy man,” Brown continued. “He’s getting compensated for his time, but time away from family is never happy time. And yet you got him to laugh. What did you say to him?”
Ben cleared his throat.
“It’s probably best if I don’t say,” Ben said. “In polite company.”
His eyes flicked to Sarah.
Brown understood, nodded, his smile winking on and off.
“Trade secrets, no doubt,” he said. “Detective Constable Sarah Goodchild,” Brown continued, reading again from the sheet on the table next to Kip. “I think you know why you are here.”
“Yes.”
“For those who don’t know,” Brown said, looking at the others in turn, “Sarah has a PhD in Psychology. Which you can all understand will come in handy in our line of work. I also believe” – here Brown checked the paper again – “a BA in English Literature as well?”
“Yes.”
“And then you joined the police.”
“Yes.”
“Can you enlighten us as to the particular circumstances for this rather unusual journey into her Majesty’s finest?”
“Well…” Sarah cleared her throat. “I took a BA in English Literature because of my mother. You may already know that she was an author. A very well respected, if not a particularly successful, one. She wrote two books in the seventies. I suppose she hoped I’d continue the family business.” Sarah shrugged awkwardly.
“And Psychology?”
“People are the greatest mystery of all.”
Brown nodded. He seemed amused. He indicated Ben.
“Not to DI Lewis, it would appear. But that doesn’t explain what brought you to us.”
Sarah seemed to ponder this question for a moment.
“When I was growing up, a young woman, a young woman who lived three streets away from me, was murdered, by a friend of her father’s. In fact, the whole family were murdered. I believe it was drug related. I didn’t know the girl, except to see on the street, but the whole thing…it affected me. In contrast, a literary career didn’t seem very…relevant. At least not in comparison to such a tragedy.”
Sarah shrugged again.
“Very well. Right. Now to the final member of our team. Me. Why am I here?”
Brown went and stood by the wall, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I’ve been a DCI for four years, which means that I have experience in running a police department. Before I joined the police, I was in the army – a Major.” Ben thought: bingo. “I did a tour in the Falklands. You’re probably too young to recall, but it wasn’t a…happy time. As this new division was partly my idea, I suppose they – and by they, I mean my commanding officers – felt duty bound to offer the position to me. But I do have one more notch on my belt that recommends me: in 1994, I was one of a handful of detectives investigating a delightful couple from Gloucester who were suspected of killing a young girl. Several young girls, in fact. Their names were Fred and Rosemary West.”
There was a small shocked silence. Brown took in each of their faces. There was a grim look on his face, as if he had just disposed of something rotten…with nowhere to wash his hands.
Pushing himself off the wall, Brown said, “as we are becoming more and more analogous with the USA – God knows, after Halloween, I expect all of us to be celebrating Thanksgiving soon – the powers that be have decided to give us what I would say is a rather dubious acronym. We are to be the Fast Investigative Research and Response Strategic Taskforce. Or to quaintly put it, F.I.R.R.S.T.” Brown smiled without much humour. Slightly sarcastically, he continued, “we can now consider ourselves to be the newest member of a very select group of other more ominous alphabet agencies that you have heard so much about…unless of course we don’t all drown in alphabet soup first.”
Brown cleared his throat, stepping closer to them.
“You must understand, this type of department, it is a test run for an idea that may be rolled out nationally, were it to be proven successful. As such, the budget we secured is frugal, at best. After all, you don’t bet too much money on a horse that you’ve never seen run before. This might go a little way to explaining why we are here, in this part of Bristol, in an office block, instead of in an annex to the Bridewell Station.”
“You mean it was cheap,” Ben said.
“I mean it’s government owned,” Brown said, with a wry smile, and Ben flashed to the board above the reception desk downstairs: Wessex Water. “It’s not cheap. It’s free.”
Of course, Ben thought. The police budget was only either tight…or non-existent. There was seemingly never more money to go round, only less.
“Anyway,” Brown continued, “the reason your transfer has been so rushed, and the reason why you are sitting here today amongst sawdust and cement, is that we have a new case almost tailor made for this department. The powers that be felt that we couldn’t wait, and I agree with them. We have a murder. Sorry, three murders. Francis has the details. Francis?”
Kip got up and began passing out the file folders he had brought in with him.
“Before we begin,” Brown continued, “let me just give you a few d
etails about how this case came to my attention. The bodies were discovered at six o’ clock this morning, by a colleague of the deceased. In between then and now, CID processed most of the crime scene, and at that point certain…aspects of the crime meant that SOCA had to be alerted.” SOCA being the Serious Organised Crime Agency of course. “SOCA then came to me, and I then in turn set various wheels in motion to bring you all here. However, SOCA’s involvement did not end there. As of this very moment, one of their detectives is en route to us. He’ll be assisting us with this investigation. He should be here sometime this afternoon.”
“Why is SOCA sending a detective to work with us?” Ben asked.
“Because this recent murder ties in to a cold case that SOCA – or rather, this detective – has been working on.”
“How many victims?” Sarah asked. “I mean, previous to the ones last night?”
“Seventeen,” Brown said.
There was another shocked silence. Ben felt a definite shiver pass over him.
“In a moment, you’ll visit the crime scene,” Brown continued, “but for now, if you go to the files in front of you, we can review the particulars…”
◆◆◆
The Aldershot house was a big block of grey Georgian concrete; it looked cold and uninviting in the bright June sunlight.
A steady flow of Forensic scientists and police leaked from the front door. Police tape had been strung around the front of the building, from the iron railings on one side, to the wall bracketing the other. A couple of PCs, looking bored and uncomfortable, stood sentinel beyond the paved front lawn, keeping back onlookers. On the front lawn itself were parked a Forensic van, a Saab and a Rover, the latter two probably owned by Detectives.
The morning was crisp and the light sharpened everything. Ben got out the car and felt the bite of the weather, unusual for June. Sarah didn’t feel it, or didn’t seem to, but her nose started running; she wiped at it fretfully with her handkerchief, as they crossed the road to the house.
The PC checked them before letting them under the tape. One of the Forensic team jostled Ben rudely as they wove between the cars, his or her identity concealed behind their all-in-one white coveralls. There were steps up to the front door, and at the top of them, Detective Inspector Brund, an overweight, balding, miserable, but very good detective, stood waiting. Ben had worked with him in CID. He was newly married, Ben recalled, to a tiny woman from Thailand.