by Alex Clare
‘Hi, Guv. How did it go with Fell?’ Lorraine ripped open her salad pot.
‘Better than expected. This looks good, Chloe.’ Robyn gestured to the board. ‘When you’ve finished your lunch, you can talk me through what you’ve found here.’
From the depths of her bag, Lorraine’s phone rang. Shoving a forkful into her mouth she reached down.
‘Let’s do it now, Guv, I’ve got some ideas.’ Chloe stood up, leaving her sandwich on the desk.
‘OK.’ Robyn’s stomach rumbled.
‘I’ve been through the old cases you identified, Guv, and all the evidence we have is now on here. Once you start looking at it, we don’t have a lot to go on. So, I’ve been trying to think laterally – what kind of person would do this sort of thing?’ She slipped back to her desk and returned with a book. ‘I’ve been reading this.’ She held it out. The cover was streaks of fuchsia pink and black, the title picked out in gold. Gender, Power, Sex – Who Goes on Top?
Robyn felt a trace of the sickness returning. ‘You’re reading a book by Felicity Bergmann?’ Within those pages there were likely to be condemnations of anything related to transgender people, particularly trans women like herself.
‘Oh I know she’s a bit of a fruitloop about some things. I saw the report of the panel in the paper this morning and she refused to condemn the violence on Saturday – said something stupid like “the war on inequality will not be won in one battle” or whatever.’ Chloe opened the book at a marked page. ‘But she’s an expert in gender studies and some of the stuff she says does make sense. Listen to this: The victim-male will seek to lay blame elsewhere for his own inadequacies, be they intellectual, social or sexual. Where this is combined with physical power, it creates a risk of suppressed feelings being released in a torrent, which may break legal and social taboos. The constructs of this victim-hood are typically laid early on and the architects of this are his parents, particularly the mother.
‘Mmph. Dat’s wert dat…’ Lorraine swallowed. ‘The bouncer said the same thing earlier. We’re looking for a mummy’s boy, who gets so spoiled he’s got no social skills but expects every woman to fall at his feet.’
‘Exactly.’ Chloe put down the book and reached behind her. ‘That’s why I think it’s worth looking here. Lives with his mother, record of violence against women, regularly out late. I reckon it’s him, Guv.’ She held up a picture of Trudwick.
‘He’s got blue eyes.’ Lorraine stared at the picture. ‘The prostitute said he had blue eyes.’
‘And when the taxi driver said “tan skin”, what he could have seen was –’ Chloe pointed to a photo on the evidence board showing the men in football kit with bare arms. ‘– freckles.’ She folded her arms, looking up at the picture with a grin on her face.
Robyn looked across both. There was no beam of light telling her this was the correct solution but, given the thickness of her hangover, it wasn’t surprising. There was the nagging point she had missed this whole case – she could hardly now dismiss a potential solution on the basis of her dislike of Dr Bergmann with her extreme views. Whatever she did, she had to be positive and not discourage Chloe whose smile was fading, the longer she waited for an answer.
‘Good work.’ She smiled, watching Chloe’s grin reappear. ‘I won’t say I agree with all of your research methods but if they work for you, then go for it.’ She glanced down at the book, still open on her desk, then gave herself a mental shake. She could not let her own self-inflicted illness affect the team.
‘Can we go and talk to him, Guv?’ Chloe was already reaching for her jacket.
‘Hang on.’ Now Robyn felt more sure of her ground. ‘You’ve outlined a good theory but if you’ve got the opportunity, test it first. Before we go and talk to him, be sure of your facts. For example, does he have a car?’ Robyn turned back to the other board. ‘Somewhere – yes, there.’ She pointed to a printout from the number plate recognition camera. ‘At the moment, we believe he only has a moped. There’s another one of the things we still have to follow up – why he was snapped heading to the Docks area on the night Newman was killed when he said he was in London?’
‘I’ll find out, Guv.’ Chloe sat down and pulled her keyboard towards her.
‘And another thing to check. The attacks have been between midnight and three am. We know Trudwick works on the door at the Quiksilva club, find out when they open and get them to check their shift records.’
‘I’m on it.’ Lorraine tapped something into her keyboard. ‘Yuck. I’ve got the club’s website up and it’s enough to induce a migraine just looking at it – says they’re open ‘til two every night, then Friday and Saturday to three.’
There was a pause.
‘So he couldn’t have done anything before, well maybe two-thirty?’ Chloe’s voice had lost its confidence.
‘We can’t be certain. Those could be new opening hours, he could have had a night off. All these are things we can check beforehand.’ Robyn smiled. ‘Do you see what I mean about testing first? If you line up this information before you go and see him, you’ll be in charge of the interview, not him.’
‘OK, if I keep on with Bartholomew’s contacts – can you do this?’ Lorraine looked around her screen at Chloe.
‘Right.’ They both began typing.
Robyn frowned. She tried to remember what she had said about Shazia. ‘Lorraine. There’s no need to follow up on Bartholomew. The family has decided they don’t want to pursue a case.’
‘What?’ Lorraine stood up. ‘But you said the meeting with Fell had gone better than you’d thought. Didn’t you mean we keep going?’
‘No. I meant because Professional Standards won’t be coming.’ They stared at each other for a second. ‘Unfortunately, it looks as if there is no chance of Shazia recovering so her life support machine will be switched off.’
‘So a bloke we know raped a girl with a bottle gets to swan around because we can’t touch him?’ Lorraine’s voice was too loud, she was almost yelling.
‘And if we cannot prove it?’ Robyn kept her voice low, she didn’t want this to turn into a shouting match. ‘If we drag the family through an investigation and then he walks free from court? What then?’
‘And if he strikes again? What do we say to his next victim?’ Lorraine slapped her hand on her head. ‘Oh silly me, it’ll be fine because she’ll be dead.’
‘Chloe, can you give us a moment?’ Robyn kept her eyes locked on Lorraine and heard rather than saw Chloe amble to the door. She waited until the door closed, watching Lorraine’s chest rise and fall as she took quick, shallow breaths. ‘Two things, Lorraine and then I suggest you go home and hit something. Number one.’ She paused, waiting for Lorraine to look up. ‘Nothing you say is going to change the family’s decision, so you are wasting your breath. I don’t like it any more than you do but I’ve found out the hard way, you can’t win them all.’ Lorraine’s mouth was set in a tight line. ‘Having principles is good – it’s what sets you apart from the people we lock up, just you cannot let them blind you to the fact we’re working in the real world not Valley Village.’ She saw Lorraine’s eyebrows go up. ‘Second, just because we are not prosecuting Bartholomew for the assault, doesn’t mean we forget about him. You can start by letting your Emerald colleagues about his unlicensed drugs.’
‘Assuming I’m still on the project.’ Lorraine’s spoke through gritted teeth.
‘I spoke to Fell. He knows these things happen. So your start on Operation Emerald wasn’t what we all hoped it would be but that’s no reason to give up on it.’ Robyn held up a hand as Lorraine opened her mouth. ‘And this is how I will introduce your bid to be sergeant to Fell, by stressing you are the right person for this responsibility. It may be only information gathering at the moment but it’s how to get the exposure and contacts you need.’
Blinking, Lorraine sat back on the desk behind her. ‘Is it worth it, Guv?’
‘Definitely. It’s how you deal with setbacks that sho
ws you’re ready to be a sergeant. When you go in front of Fell, tell him your plan for making sure a problem like this doesn’t occur again and he’ll lap it up.’ Robyn tried to smile, willing Lorraine to do the same. ‘I told you, I think you deserve promotion and I will support you but you need to make sure you are acting like a sergeant from now on. Deal?’
The edges of Lorraine’s mouth twitched before relaxing. ‘Deal.’ Crossing to the board, she stared at Bartholomew’s picture. ‘We will get you for something. Even if it’s just for having bad breath.’
Robyn snorted. ‘If his isn’t a crime, it should be.’
26
Robyn left at five, after sending off an attempt at a team budget. She made a point of shoving a copy of Newman’s crime scene report into her handbag to show she would still be working. It was a relief to leave: her headache was still a dull throb.
On the way home she stopped at a small supermarket. As she was browsing, there was the realisation she didn’t know what Becky liked any more. With a growing sense of frustration, she walked up and down aisles picking up things she thought would make it look as if she was being healthy: yoghurt, brown bread, a net of lemons. It was now a habit to go to the self-service tills, avoiding someone’s opportunity to stare. With everything rung through, she realised there was nothing to eat tonight and grabbed a couple of pizzas because they were nearest.
Letting herself in ten minutes before Becky’s train was due to arrive, Robyn hurried to clean up the mess in the kitchen and put away the shopping. With a restless energy, she roamed the house, looking for anything out of place. A buzz from her phone made her jump.
Dad, not sure when I’m going to get there – fatality on the line so all trains stopped. B.
She stared at the screen, not wanting to believe the words. Robyn knew the drill: the lines would be closed for a couple of hours while body parts were photographed and removed. Everything seemed to be conspiring to stop her seeing her daughter. In need of something to do, she found the train operator’s site on her phone. There were few details, just saying a person had been hit by a train, which made it sound like an accident rather than a deliberate act by a person whose only concern was stopping their pain.
She flung the phone down onto the sofa. There was nothing she needed to do and nothing she wanted to do. In desperation, she reached into her handbag and pulled out the crime scene report. Opening a page at random, she found a close-up image of Newman’s pale face. She blinked to bring back some moisture to her eyes. His head was at an odd angle, a pile of rags the only thing between his face and the struts on the van’s metal floor. She let her mind drift. Something had made the family man who was trying to settle down take the huge risk of driving his van again when he was drunk. There was a possibility Newman had realised how stupid he was being and had bunked down in his van rather than drive home but to lie directly on a metal floor with just a dust sheet for cover even though there was a sweatshirt in the cab – the man must have been paralytic. Something Chloe had said earlier rang in her mind and she flicked through the report until she found the details of the fingerprint search. She read it and read it again: there was only one set of fingerprints on the van’s back doors. She remembered how dirty the van was. It seemed odd the door handles were clean. There should have been Newman’s prints on the doors because that was the bit he touched most.
Even though Robyn had been expecting, waiting, hoping for the doorbell, it made her jump because her mind was still in Flotilla block’s car park. The only possible conclusion was that someone else had put Newman’s body in the van. The question she had to work out now was whether he was dead or alive when he was put there. The doorbell rang again. She checked her watch: it was only half-past seven so it was probably someone collecting a subscription for Neighbourhood Watch. Force of habit made her check the spy-hole. Her daughter was a few steps away, up the path, as if studying the house. Robyn had a weird sensation, as if Becky’s gaze was going through the wall and examining her as well. Her hand was shaking a little as she opened the door.
‘Sweetheart. How lovely to see you. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour at least. Where’s the cab? I’ll pay him.’
There was no car outside.
‘Oh, I walked from the station.’
‘Becky! I told you to get a cab. It could be dangerous.’
Becky took half a step backward. Robyn could feel the full force of her daughter’s stare. The hazel eyes came from her mother and there was a hint of the same judgement.
Robyn stepped forward, taking the holdall. She did not want anything to take place on the street. Already, she was annoyed with herself for treating her adult daughter like a child. ‘Let’s get this in.’ She walked into the house, determined not to turn around, to give Becky space. ‘I’ll take the bag up to your room.’ To give herself a second, Robyn popped into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. Her foundation was smudged and she dabbed it away with a tissue, feeling glad she had kept the make-up light today.
Downstairs, there was a noise she hoped was the front door closing. She came down the stairs to see Becky standing in the hall, looking around her.
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Robyn moved into the kitchen, raising her voice slightly. ‘It’s all changed since you were last here.’ She held the kettle under the tap.
Becky appeared in the doorway. ‘They put on some buses to replace the trains. I got all kinked up ‘cos the seats on the coach were so tight, so I wanted to walk. And it got my steps up for the day.’ She held up her left wrist where a purple fitness band stuck out from string bracelets. ‘You’re just like grandma.’
Robyn stared at Becky, until something cold on her hand drew her gaze back to the sink and she realised she’d filled the kettle to overflowing so water was pouring down the side.
‘I mean, putting the kettle on was always the first thing she did too.’
Robyn gave the kettle a cursory wipe with a tea towel and set it to boil. She leaned on the counter, hoping she looked relaxed rather than needing support. ‘It’s good to see you. It’s been too long.’ The moment she said it, she regretted the words. It made it sound like Becky’s fault, when, being honest, she had hidden herself away in the long pondering towards her transition. ‘Well, there isn’t a lot in Meresbourne to draw you back, is there? Nothing ever happens around here. The usual, sleepy place.’ She was horrifying herself at the rubbish she was talking.
At least Becky had relaxed a little. She was leaning on the door frame rather than standing rigid, a faint hum of music coming from the headphones around her neck. She looked like any other student, with rips in her jeans and a long, slouchy t-shirt for a band Robyn had never heard of.
‘I hardly recognise the place.’ Becky looked around. ‘Can still smell the paint.’
Robyn smiled. ‘This has been keeping me out if mischief for the last few weeks. It really needed doing.’
‘I remember.’ Becky seemed to be looking everywhere except at Robyn. ‘The last time I was here was Grandpa’s funeral. Do you remember, it was that horrible cold day and even with the lights on, everything was so dark?’
‘That was a dismal day. I’ve been living here two years now and finally got around to making some changes.’ The kettle was getting noisier now. To continue the conversation, Robyn would have to raise her voice. Everything she could think of to say was so trivial, it didn’t seem worth the effort. She added tea leaves to the pot, waited until the kettle boiled then poured on the water. The mugs, sugar and a packet of biscuits were already on a tray: she reached into the fridge for the milk carton. ‘Come and see the lounge.’
‘Wow.’
It was a positive first reaction. She let her daughter roam around the room while she sat on one end of the sofa and got coasters out of the drawer in the small table.
Becky chose to sit on the floor, her back against the armchair and pulled off her ankle boots. ‘You are the only person in the entire world who still uses a teapot.’
‘Some of us have standards.’ Robyn smiled. ‘Your grandmother would never serve milk without a jug or biscuits straight from the packet. They’d have to have their own plate and napkins.’
‘And a spoon to take the sugar from the bowl and another one to stir the tea with.’ Becky smiled for the first time. ‘I tell people at Uni and they just laugh at me.’
Robyn put on a mock-serious tone. ‘You’ll be telling me you don’t use a separate knife for butter anymore.’ She put her hand to her head, palm-upwards. ‘I feel faint.’
She realised she had gone too far when she saw Becky freeze. Determined to keep going, she bent over the tea tray. ‘This should be ready now.’ She poured the tea, taking time over doing it to give Becky a chance to recover. She wondered if this was how it was going to be with her daughter, a constant feeling of being just a step away from disaster.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t say. I don’t take milk anymore.’
Robyn stopped, the mug half-full. She hadn’t seen her daughter for nearly a year: she had to get used to the idea Becky had her own tastes and preferences.
She finished pouring. ‘Two for me then.’ She stood up. ‘You open the biscuits.’ She walked into the kitchen and reached for the mug tree. Behind her, she heard a mobile ring.
‘Hello, Mum.’ Becky’s voice was wary.
Robyn loitered in the kitchen, not wanting to interrupt.
A scrabbling sound must have been Becky standing up. ‘Mum, we’ve been through this. I can’t, I’m sorry.’
Another pause. ‘No. It’s not a good idea.’ Robyn counted to ten. ‘No, Mum, I’m sorry, it won’t work. I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.’
Robyn put the mug down and went to the cupboard getting out two wine glasses. Even though more alcohol was the last thing she needed, she grabbed the bottle of white from the door of the fridge. Becky was staring out into the garden. When she turned around, Robyn held up the wine. ‘Shall we forget the tea?’