by Alex Clare
‘No, I’m just going to get a cup of tea.’ Stung, Robyn kept moving, blaming the dim light in the narrow entrance hall for another thing for her to worry about. She turned left, through the archway to the new cafe which had been built onto the back of the house. As the only customer, she took her tea and scone to a corner table.
When her phone rang, she had a mouthful so was relieved it was only Khalid. ‘Hi.’
‘Robyn, are you in the station?’
She swallowed. ‘No but I can talk, go ahead.’
‘It’s all go here.’ Khalid tutted. ‘That bloody Bergmann woman has demanded and got a meeting with the Kent Police and Crime Commissioner. It’s set for tomorrow and I’ve got to do a briefing covering all violence against women for nine am and we don’t seem to have any progress. Help.’
Robyn tried to sound sympathetic. ‘Well, we’ve identified we’ve probably got a single attacker and we’re prioritising it as a case. I’ve just spoken again to one of the victims. I’m sorry, there’s no more progress. Oh, and the death of the suspect was definitely suspicious.’
‘OK, well can we talk about how many officers we have assigned? Something to makes us sound like we’re taking this seriously.’
‘Taking it seriously?’ Her voice echoed against the beamed ceiling. ‘For Christ’s sake, Khalid, what do you think? When I try to get someone arrested I get told to let him go again because of politics and when I ask you if we can put a general safety alert out, you tell me no.’ She knew part of her anger was because of the guilt she had not spotted the pattern before.
‘Yes, sorry about that.’ Khalid paused. ‘Is there any more you can tell me about the suspect?’ His normal brisk tone had returned.
‘Stocky, always wore black.’
There was a pause.
‘Is that it?’
Robyn felt her anger fading. ‘I’m afraid so. We’re trying.’
‘I know.’ Khalid sighed. ‘In the meantime, what am I going to say to the PCC?’
A clatter came from behind her. A waitress pushed a trolley stacked high with crockery and began laying things out on a long table at the end of the room.
‘Tell her don’t walk on her own at night.’
Robyn cut the call and immediately regretted the outburst. Khalid had given her strong support and she was not helping herself by antagonising him. As her phone was out, she dialled her voicemail.
Good morning Ms Bailley. The voice was female and young, with a slight lisp on the s. My name is Dr Vanatu – we haven’t met, I’ve only been at the practice for three months. After your last visit, I discussed your case with Dr Hargreaves and we’ve agreed that you’ll move to my patient roster. I understand you are seeking a referral to a specialist gender identity clinic – I’ll be honest, I haven’t done one of those before but, if you’d like to make an appointment, we can go through the form and work it out together. Please call the surgery to fix a time.
Surprised, Robyn pressed the button to listen to the message again, wanting to make sure of the doctor’s name. A broad grin spread across her face as she pressed to call back.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Roger?’
Startled, Robyn jumped, feeling the phone slip between her fingers and clatter against the tea cup. ‘Coronation Road surgery. Hello?’
Julie stood in the doorway of the cafe. One finger twined a strand of hair around and around.
‘Hello, caller? Can you hear me?’ Killing the phone, Robyn stood up.
‘I said, what the hell are you doing here? Are you stalking me?’ Julie took a few steps forward. ‘Of course, you found out I’m giving a talk and came to spoil it.’
‘Hello, Julie.’ Robyn gripped the back of the chair, one nail finding a ridge in the varnish. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here for your talk. I was working just up the road and came in to get out of the rain.’ Even though it was true, it sounded weak.
The frown lines deepened on Julie’s forehead. ‘You’ve ruined everything else of mine. Why wouldn’t you want to mess this up as well?’
Robyn began to gather her things. There would be nothing she could say that wouldn’t end up being twisted.
‘Oh, so now you’re leaving. Just walking away again when things get tough?’
Swinging her handbag to her shoulder, Robyn forced herself to smile. ‘Goodbye, Julie. I hope your talk goes well.’ She wasn’t prepared for the tears on Julie’s face.
‘You really don’t care, do you? I’ve lost everything.’ Julie brushed her glasses from her nose, letting them drop on their beaded chain. She ran her hands across her eyes. ‘I don’t even know where Becky is.’
Robyn stopped. A large part of her wanted to point out to her exwife that this was how she felt all the time because of the hurdles Julie had put in the way of any relationship with their daughter. That, like so many other things, was in the past now. She faced Julie. ‘I know where Becky is.’ Julie’s eyes widened. ‘She’s safe. Not exactly happy, because I don’t think she considers either of us is acting like a role model at the moment.’
‘Where is she?’ Julie’s hand shot out and grabbed Robyn’s forearm, her turquoise nails hard against the skin.
‘I think if Becky wanted you to know, she’d tell you.’ The grip on Robyn’s arm tightened. ‘Isn’t that what you want, her to be a strong, independent woman?’
‘Now you’re mocking me.’ Drawing away, Julie wrapped her shawl tight across her chest. Her eyes were again filling with tears.
Robyn was caught between wanting to get away and the fact that she would not leave a stranger in distress, so she shouldn’t do that to her ex. She pulled out a chair for Julie and managed to catch the waitress’s eye. ‘Could we get another pot of tea here, please?’
Julie sank into the chair and accepted a tissue.
‘So what’s your talk about?’ Robyn told herself she was being polite to Julie for her daughter’s sake.
Still sniffing, Julie pulled a paper-filled plastic wallet from her bag. The top sheet was a poster: Villains or Victims: The Role of Men in a Feminised Society.
‘I hope you think they have one.’ Robyn saw Julie’s face tighten, lips pursing into a thin line. ‘I just meant, it would be hard to get rid of fifty percent of the population.’
‘Such rubbish.’ Julie sat up straighter as the waitress put a pot of tea in front of her. ‘You have no idea what you are talking about.’
‘Thank you.’ Robyn raised her voice to be sure the waitress heard her as she walked away. ‘Well, now you’re feeling better, I’m going to go and let you prepare. Hope it goes well.’ She turned towards the door.
‘There’s no role for people like you.’ Julie’s voice echoed around the room.
Robyn stopped, swallowed and turned around. ‘Why did you have to say that?’ The frustration of the last few days was too close to the surface to do the sensible thing and walk away. ‘You may not agree with what I’m doing but, here’s the thing, it’s nothing to do with you and if you want to do something for women, maybe you could get out of your library?’
Julie was on her feet now. ‘I did. I protested against men getting away with rape and you arrested me.’
‘You were arrested because you were violent. Violence never solves violence, only makes it worse.’ Robyn held onto her handbag strap: her nails were digging into her palms.
‘Any woman could’ve told you that.’ Julie scraped hair back from her face. ‘You know what happens when a woman fights back against oppression? You men take it as a personal insult if a woman won’t do as she’s told because that makes him the victim, so he’ll lash back twice as hard.’
‘Good luck with the talk.’ Robyn didn’t trust herself to stay and she started again the door.
‘Where’s Becky? What have you done to her?’
Robyn gained the exit before she turned back. ‘I talked to her.’ She took a breath. ‘Instead of shouting at her.’
‘Well, what do you know about her life, what she gets
up to? You weren’t there when she came in late or didn’t come in at all.’
Keeping one hand on the door like a talisman to secure escape, Robyn faced Julie. ‘No, I wasn’t as involved as I would have like to have been in her growing up.’ She emphasised the words, thinking of all the times when paternal visits had been cancelled at the last minute. ‘I did my best. That’s all parents ever can do, their best under whatever circumstances they find themselves.’
‘And you call pretending to be a woman doing your best?’ Julie advanced, hand moving from chair back to chair back. ‘Oh, my daughter’s a woman now, so I’ll be one too?’
‘This isn’t about Becky.’ Robyn saw Julie’s mouth start to open and kept talking to fill the space. ‘Or about you. And what you call pretending, it’s real. I do my job as who I’m meant to be. If the police can accept me as I am, why can’t you?’
‘Oh yes, the police.’ Julie’s smile was more disturbing than her anger. ‘Let’s see, well known for protecting their own, aren’t they? And for only investigating the crimes where nice people get hurt because they don’t want to go to places where they’ll get their hands dirty. And can you really stand there and tell me you take crimes against women and girls seriously? What about what happened at the Lady Ann – is anyone going to be punished for that?’
‘I can’t talk about an active case.’ It was the sort of evasive answer Fell would give and Robyn felt her own frustration. ‘Not every case can be brought to a successful conclusion, just like not every problem in life can be solved. Sometimes there isn’t enough evidence and we have to be sure because we’ve got to convince a court. The burden of proof is high because it’s better to let a guilty person go free than lock up an innocent.’
‘And never mind if a few more innocents suffer? If some victims get hurt, that’s what they’re there for, isn’t it?’ Julie stiffened, looking over Robyn’s shoulder.
‘Excuse me. Is this where the talk is to be held?’
Robyn turned. Behind her stood a short man with grey hair pulled back into a pony tail. In the confined space of the doorway, the smell of tobacco was overpowering. ‘Yes, let me get out of your way.’ She raised her voice. ‘Hope the talk goes well.’ Julie had sat down and was fumbling through her papers. Robyn hurried through the lobby and into the street where the rain had faded though the air was still damp. Marching up the street, she put the frustration and anger into movement, swinging her arms and walking fast, even when a puddle around a blocked drain soaked her shoes.
29
The atmosphere in the incident room was gloomy. Lorraine picked at a bag of crisps, Chloe was stapling pieces of paper together.
‘OK, let’s get together.’ Robyn sat on the edge of her desk. ‘I think we’re close to resolving a few things. Let’s start with the death. What you got from Trudwick helps to narrow things down. I’m sure if we can work out why Newman risked another arrest by driving to the Docks, we’ll crack this.’
‘Did Newman know about the rape before you told him in the interview room?’ Chloe looked at Lorraine.
Lorraine finished chewing. ‘No, he didn’t. Why does that matter?’
Chloe put her chin on her hands. ‘Maybe, if he only found out what happened from you, he’d want to know more, wouldn’t he? He’d try to talk to someone who’d been there. Like Bartholomew, maybe?’
‘Why wouldn’t he just call?’ Taking the final crisp, Lorraine scrunched the packet.
‘Because, how about, if Newman suspected Bartholomew had been the one who’d raped Shazia, he would want to find out for sure. If you’ve been arrested for a rape you didn’t commit, you’re going to be pretty keen to find out who had really done it.’ Robyn followed the chain and her smile broadened. ‘Good work, Chloe, I think you’ve got it. Newman gets a scare at the station, realises how people will treat him if they think he’s a rapist. He goes to the pub to recover then maybe he remembers something Bartholomew said and decides he must be the guilty one. Because it’s someone he thinks of as a friend, he would go in person to confront him.’
‘Bartholomew had a black eye when we saw him.’ Lorraine put her hand to her head. ‘He told us it was an accident on Sunday morning. Newman must have punched him.’
‘There were marks on Newman’s knuckles.’ Chloe began flicking through a copy of the forensic report. ‘Yes, contusions to left knuckles consistent with striking something. Pictures, pictures.’ Chloe scanned the evidence board. ‘Here.’ She pointed to a shot of the ushers raising their glasses in a toast. ‘Newman’s got his glass in his left hand.’
‘So Newman comes round, accuses Bartholomew.’ A sudden burst of energy drove Robyn to her feet. ‘Maybe Bartholomew boasted about him and Shazia but, either way, there’s a fight. Hah! Got him.’ She smacked Bartholomew’s picture on the board, sending paper fluttering to the floor.
Lorraine held up her hand. ‘OK, Guv.’ She moved forward and began gathering the fallen material. ‘We get him by being sure of our facts. For a start, we need to ask questions like, if Bartholomew put Newman in the van, why aren’t his fingerprints there? Instead, we’ve got an unknown person.’ Lorraine reattached the pictures and turned back to Robyn, head cocked on one side.
‘You’re right’ Robyn held up her hands. ‘Now you’re speaking as a sergeant. Between you, you have the measure of this. What should we do?’
‘No doubt that Bartholomew is strong enough to carry a body downstairs: the question is, was Newman dead before he was put in the van?’ Lorraine’s pen tapped on the desk.
‘Probably not.’ Chloe flicked through the report. ‘Where is it – ah, here. There were traces of solvents on the inside of his nose consistent with breathing them in. Newman was alive when he went into the van.’
‘Right. So first, we double-check those fingerprints.’
‘I’m on it.’ Chloe was already typing.
‘Then, we go and see Lyndsey and get her story about Saturday night. That should be a nice surprise for her.’ Lorraine caught Robyn’s nod of approval and smiled.
Into the positive feeling from action came a nasty thought. Robyn realised if Becky was out and about in town, she could run into Julie and then face exactly the situation she’d tried to avoid. Hunkering down at her desk, she tapped out a text.
Becky, I ran into your mother in town earlier – she is here for the Loveless conference. She was not happy to see me again so I wanted to warn you. Hope you are finding things to do, not sure what time will be back. Love, Dad.
‘Oh boy!’ Chloe clapped her hands. ‘This is our lucky day. You know you suggested going to see Lyndsey?’ She swung the monitor round so Lorraine could see it. ‘When we go, we can ask her why her fingerprints are the only ones on the door of Newman’s van.’
‘They were Lyndsey’s?’ Robyn made sure the text had gone.
‘I swear they weren’t in there when I searched before – I ran it again and just got a match.’
‘They must have come from the rubbish you took from Bartholomew’s flat, Guv.’ Lorraine looked ready to go.
‘Every now and again, you get a break.’ Robyn smiled. ‘The lab must have added them to the database after the forensic report was written. Let’s go. And Chloe, we need you. After all, this is your idea.’ Her phone buzzed.
Dad, I watched the whole clip from Saturday. Let’s talk this evening. B.
She had to read it again to be sure. A surge of relief mixed with joy. On top of the doctor’s message, everything seemed to be slotting into place.
‘Ah, Guv?’
Robyn became aware of Chloe and Lorraine both waiting by the door looking back at her.
‘If you’re ready, Guv?’ Lorraine opened the door. ‘How do you want to play this?’
Robyn grabbed her bag. ‘Well, first we’ve got to get Lyndsey on her own. If Bartholomew is in, we’ll have to ask him to leave and, if he gets cocky, I’ve got no problem with taking him down to the station on an assault charge. If he’s serious about health and fitness,
twenty-four hours of our nutrition regime should have him prepared to say anything.’ They walked into the corridor.
‘I’ll challenge him to a press-up competition.’ Chloe laughed. ‘At kick-boxing, the instructor makes us do a hundred just for the warmup. He sounds like the type who won’t be able to resist beating a girl.’
Robyn stopped. For the first time in days, her brain felt as if it was working, a story coming together in her mind.
‘Aren’t you coming, Guv?’ Chloe took a step towards her.
‘Change of plan – let’s check a couple of things first.’ Robyn smiled at Lorraine’s raised eyebrow. ‘If Bartholomew is in, that’s a good thing because while Lorraine interviews Lyndsey about Newman, Chloe and I can talk to Bartholomew about the street attacks.’
‘What – really?’ Lorraine shot back down the corridor. ‘OK, explain.’
‘Come on.’ Robyn led the way back into the office. ‘We’ve been looking at the hotel attack as if it was an isolated incident. But what if it wasn’t?’ Digging around on her desk, Robyn found a picture of Shazia. ‘What if the rape was actually the latest in the series of attacks? Someone said to me today, if a man is knocked back by a woman, the next time he’ll strike twice as hard.’
‘That’s a big step though, from grabbing someone on the street to rape in a hotel room?’ Lorraine frowned.
‘He’s done this before.’ Certainty made Robyn speak faster. ‘Each time somebody fought back, he’s changed his approach. I found out today that the fourth victim, Meredith Fuller, broke his nose when she struggled and he was nearly caught. So, for the next one, he changes his plan and drags them into a car where he thinks he can operate out of sight. Then Dominika used pepper spray on him and he doesn’t dare use the car anymore. So, he takes advantage of the hotel room.’
‘It makes sense.’ Lorraine put her bag down with a thump. ‘Again, can we prove it’s Bartholomew?’
Robyn spread the photos out on her desk, looking at images of Bartholomew in football kit, at the wedding and selfies showing off his muscles. ‘Damn, none of these have dates on. We need to find out when he broke his nose.’