She stepped into the classroom, desks arranged in a U shape and chairs facing the white board.
‘Well you’re a dark-horse.’ Liz Jacobs’s personality matched her size – huge.
‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked, pulling out a chair, knowing exactly what Liz meant.
The eyes of the other five classmates were on Sam.
‘Working for the Local Authority indeed,’ Liz said. ‘We all saw you on the TV last night. Detective Chief Inspector. Same rank as Morse, higher than Rebus.’
Sam smiled as she sat down. ‘I just wanted to keep a low profile, enjoy the course without being asked about whatever murder or high-profile crime story was in the papers. And I’m impressed you know so much about the ranks of the fictional detectives.’
‘Well done you,’ said Jean Stones, the grey-haired self-appointed grandmother of the group. ‘I think it’s wonderful that a young girl can climb the ladder in a man’s world. It would never have happened in my day.’
She pulled herself closer to the desk and turned down the volume of her voice. ‘I wanted to burn my bra in the early 70s but by then I’d breast-fed three kids and believe me, I needed the support.’
The women in the group laughed. Steve Jenkins, a thirty-something IT worker went crimson.
Stella Burton burst through the door. ‘Evening class,’ she boomed.
Sam shook her head in wonderment; what God-like mix-up had happened that bestowed such a petite young woman with a Brian Blessed voice?
Stella’s eyes settled on Sam. ‘Ah, our very own undercover agent. Our very own Robert Jordan.’
‘Not quite,’ Sam said. ‘Robert Jordan’s identity was known to the group. Pablo, Maria, Anselmo etcetera.’
‘Well, it seems our very own Jane Tennison, our Prime Suspect, has read Hemingway’s book.’ Stella grinned as she walked into the middle of the horseshoe. ‘Good for you, Sam.’
The booming voice filled the room.
‘Let’s make a start.’
She turned and walked towards her desk, speaking with her back to the students.
‘You were asked to consider whether Pablo was a coward.’
Sam was so absorbed in the session, so entranced by Stella’s passion and skill, she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach when Stella called time.
Two hours had passed. She would soon be back in her car and her thoughts would turn from Hemingway’s characters to the reality of Aisha and Jack Goddard. It had been good while it lasted.
‘Anyone up for a drink,’ Liz asked.
A few murmured yes.
‘Sam?’ Liz’s eyes were almost pleading.
‘Sorry. I need to get an early night.’
Sam saw the disappointment on Liz’s face but couldn’t be bothered with the ‘what’s-the-worst-case-you-ever-dealt-with?’ scenario tonight.
‘Maybe next week,’ she said
Sam rushed out and almost knocked the coffee out of the hand of a passing student. ‘My God, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Tracey?’ Sam said.
Sam watched Tracey Davies’s eyes glaze, knew her brain was frantically searching through the filing cabinets of her short-term memory bank.
Sam had the advantage; she didn’t have a massive hangover when they last met, wasn’t the one running to the bathroom.
‘Sam Parker. Detective... '
‘Oh hi. Sorry for not recognising you. I was a bit, you know, worse for wear the last time.’
Sam glanced at the three women grouped around Tracey. It was her turn to search her memory.
‘Amber?’ she said, staring at one of the girls.
‘Hello Sam.’ She turned to the others. ‘I’ll catch up, girlfriends.’
Tracey and the girls headed towards the doors.
‘What are you doing here then Amber?’
‘I could ask you the same.’
‘I’m doing a literature course. What about you?’
‘I’m a facilitator with an unofficial self-help group... girls, students, who’ve been subject to sexual harassment, indecent assaults, rape.’
Amber Dalton had been one of the victims of a serial rapist last year, attacked in her own bed. After her ordeal she had told Sam she wanted to help other victims.
‘That’s great,’ Sam said. ‘But why is the group unofficial?’
‘I’m not sure the university would approve,’ Amber told her. ‘They should be doing more, Sam.’ She glanced around. ‘Let’s talk outside.’
The cool April evening made them both shudder.
‘After the attack, I had a choice... go back to Bristol or stay here,' Amber said. 'I decided to stay but I couldn’t face going back to work at the council. That’s when I decided to do another degree.’
‘Good for you, Amber.’
‘It wasn’t much of a choice really,’ Amber said. ‘Waste my life thinking about him and asking myself ‘why me?’ or move on. I’ve moved on. Then I heard stories about girls suffering harassment and set up the group. It’s a word-of-mouth thing. Like I said, the university probably wouldn’t approve. Most of the time they’re in denial about what goes on.’
They stopped by Sam’s car.
‘What sort of harassments, Amber?’
‘Sam, I tell the group they can report to the police, report to you. I tell them my experience with the police was nothing but positive. But you know what it’s like. I can’t breach confidences.’
Sam nodded.
‘These girls don’t want to report because they don’t want it going public. They feel they’ll be judged. Got drunk so it’s their fault, they asked for it. Look at the way the Press gets mileage out of students on a session... Friday nights or bank-holiday weekends. Most of the photographs they use are of girls pissed, lying on pavements, showing their knickers or flashing their boobs. Just as many lads are pissed but the girls make a better story. Drunken girls equals fair game and it doesn’t matter what sex offence laws the Government brings in. It’s all about perception.’
Sam could see the fire in Amber’s eyes.
‘So is it as big a problem?’
‘Bigger than I thought. Over 50% of female students say they’ve been touched up when they’re out or had to put up with vile comments. It’s outrageous, Sam, an absolute disgrace.’
Sam knew decades of violence against women strategies and zero tolerance towards domestic abuse had failed to hold back the tide.
Social media had only made things worse.
‘How did it ever get to this?’ Sam said, shaking her head. ‘Changing the subject, did you know Jack Goddard?’
‘The guy in the river?’ Amber asked. ‘No. I knew of him. Part of some sick misogynist group. What did they call themselves?’
‘Mortimers.’
‘Yeah that’s it,’ Amber said. ‘Sick bastards. Got what he deserves.’
‘Did he?’
‘Too right,’ Amber said, full of defiance. ‘When he got pissed and drowned in that river, if there’s a God, he did his job.’
‘And if he didn’t fall?’ Sam asked.
‘Someone did God’s job for him,’ Amber said. ‘Either way it’s a win-win. I’ll see you later Sam.’
Sam got into her car, watched Amber catch up to the others, and saw Tracey look over her shoulder. The group were obviously discussing her.
Chapter Fourteen
Wednesday 16th April 2014
‘Morning,’ Sam said, popping her head around the HOLMES room door. ‘Got a minute, Ed?’
Ed followed her into her office, mug of tea in hand.
‘Driving in this morning I couldn’t get that Christmas photo out of my head.’ She took off her blue Mac and gave it a shake, the light spray of water flying into the air before vanishing like the vapour of an e-cigarette.
‘Why’s that?’
Sam opened her drawer, took out a brush, and ran it through her hair.
‘There just seemed somet
hing wrong. Not only that they were smiling just after Aisha had gone missing, but something else. Then I realised.’
She sat down and switched on her computer.
‘Realised what?’
‘They were on a different sofa to the one we were sat on,’ Sam said.
Ed tried to picture the Bhandals’ living room.
‘People do change settees,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Sam told him. ‘The one in the photo seemed fairly new. It’s probably nothing. Liked you said, make a change. Anything new?’
Ed took a drink from his still steaming mug.
‘Search team’s finished at the riverbank. Nothing.’
‘I wasn’t holding out much hope. Anything else?’
‘Thirteen calls saying there’s a serial killer on the loose,’ Ed said. ‘All anonymous. Seven males, six females. Three made from phones in the university, the rest from public phone boxes.’
‘Anything we can do with the university phones?’ Sam asked.
Ed shook his head.
‘Could be any internal phone. A few girls from the university have called to say Goddard was a sexual predator who didn’t like being turned down. They’ve been actioned out. Bev’s going to see them and we’re going to see Tom King, the doorman, in 30 minutes.’
‘What?’ Sam demanded. ‘How did that come about?’
‘A mutual acquaintance set it up for me.’
‘I won’t ask.’
‘He’ll meet us by the pier,’ Ed told her.
‘In this weather?’ Sam said.
‘Better that than chase our tails looking for him. Apparently if he doesn’t want finding, he can be very elusive.’
Sam was surprised.
‘What, a 19-year-old with no previous and we couldn’t find him?’
‘We’ve not managed up to now.’ Ed was already at the door. ‘We’ll get a coffee down there. He’s not a suspect. We can bring him if we want the interview on tape but I’m not sure it’ll be necessary.’
Sam stood up and put her wet Mac back on. ‘Why?’
‘From what I’ve heard he’s not the type to hit someone from behind and especially not with a hammer,’ Ed said. ‘Everyone says he’s good enough to take people on face to face, and certainly someone like Jack Goddard.’
The rain was fine, persistent and penetrating and the mist patchy, swirling around like the set of a B-movie horror. Wet trousers as tight as Lycra clung to their thighs and strands of Sam’s hair were plastered to her head. Ed’s bald scalp was a wet sheen.
In the 10 minutes they’d stood on the esplanade, backs to the pier, they had seen only a middle-aged woman jog past with her black Labrador, his pads splashing water as he ran. The promenade coffee shop was empty. No one had gone in since they’d bought a flat white and a cappuccino.
‘Looks like a no-show,’ Sam said, hands wrapped around the paper cup, the dregs of the cappuccino failing miserably to warm them.
Ed squinted, eyes searching for a silhouette appearing out of the grey, dreich shadows. ‘Give him another five.’
‘Ed Whelan?’ Two quiet words conveyed politeness and confidence.
Ed and Sam spun around. Neither expected him to emerge from the unprotected pier, not in this weather. He must have been on there before they arrived.
Ed wasn’t used to looking up at people. ‘Yeah, that’s me. You must be Tom.’
Tom King, all 6’8” of him, wore a blue-and-yellow Berghaus jacket and black waterproof Berghaus trousers. He kept his hands in his pockets and nodded. ‘I hear you want to speak to me about Saturday night?’
‘You heard right. Coffee?’
‘No thanks.’
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Parker. She’s in charge.’
‘Hi Tom, thanks for coming.’
‘No problem. What do you want to know?’
‘You had an argument with a man on Saturday night... ’ Ed said.
‘I’ll stop you there,’ Tom King interrupted. ‘I argued with nobody. A group of lads who were being dicks needed to leave. One of them squared up then threw beer over me. I just smiled at him. I’ve seen him before. He’s the original King Dick. He left with his mates and I’ve not seen him since. He was pissed. If he fell in the river, tough shit.’
Sam spoke. ‘So you know he’s dead?’
‘It’s obvious,’ Tom said calmly. ‘Why else do you want to see me?’
‘You don’t feel any sympathy for him?’ Sam said.
Tom’s eyes were steady, his tone neutral.
‘You wouldn’t feel any sympathy for him if you knew him,’ he said. ‘Treats women like dirt. Don’t get me wrong, I’d have loved to give him a good kicking. His sort deserves it. Arrogant and no manners, especially around women. No loss to society as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Did you not fancy university?’ Sam said, trying to read him.
‘No. I work the doors to pay my way. I do landscape photography, a bit of sport photography. Best way to learn is by getting out there, not sitting in some class. Those who can, do, those who can’t, teach. You know the saying.’
‘What did you do when you finished work Saturday?’ Sam asked.
‘Straight home,’ Tom told them. ‘Taxi. Ate some chicken and beans then went to bed. I was at the gym for about 10 on Sunday.’
‘Anybody verify that?’ Sam said.
He stiffened and the veins on his neck stuck out. Politeness was suddenly replaced with aggression.
‘What, like my mother?’ Tom said. ‘Locked away because the system failed her.’
He looked over his shoulder, towards the invisible sea, now covered in a blanket of fog. When he next spoke, his voice was again quiet and controlled.
‘I live by myself. The taxi driver, Eddie, I think he’s called, should remember dropping me at home. We use the same firm all the time from work.’
‘But nobody can verify you stayed at home all night,’ Sam said.
‘No they can’t.’
‘We’ll need to get a witness statement,’ Sam told him. ‘When’s a good time?’
‘Today, I suppose.’
‘I’ll send someone round to your house if that’s okay?’ Sam said.
‘Yeah, no problem. That it then?’
‘That’s it,’ Sam said. ‘Thanks for coming to meet us.’
Tom was already walking away.
‘Coffee?’ Ed asked.
‘Definitely. I’m damp to my bones… polite lad.’
She made no attempt to move. ‘But the way he turned when I asked about verifying his alibi… the aggression in his voice… and we know he can handle himself.’
‘Which is why I tend to believe him,’ Ed said. ‘He doesn’t need a weapon, and we’re never going to be flavour of the month in his world. His mother’s beaten almost daily and ends up in prison because every time we go round it was just another domestic and we did nothing.’
‘Things are different now, thankfully,’ Sam said.
‘Are they? Do you believe that Sam? Everybody might say the right things at your level in morning prayers when the previous night’s jobs are being discussed but are you convinced the rank and file on the streets are dealing with domestic violence, sorry domestic abuse, any better than we were years ago? I’m not.’
Ed started walking.
‘Well I hope so,’ Sam said, bending down, pulling at her trousers, trying to get them to part from her thighs.
‘You have more faith than me,’ Ed told her. ‘There are plenty of solid, hard-working cops, the ones who stay dedicated to the job, but there’s still a smattering of lazy bastards who’ll do anything to do nothing.’
‘Flat white?’ Sam asked.
‘Go on then.’ Ed answered his mobile. ‘Alright?’
He stood away from the counter. ‘Make it half an hour…okay, I’ll see you there.’
He took the coffee off Sam, who had opted for proper cups, and walked to the table furthest away from the counter. The shop was still empty.
He waited until they were both sitting.
‘That was Elliott Prince,’ Ed said. ‘Wants a meet. Says it’s urgent.’
‘Did he say what about?’ Sam asked.
‘He didn’t want to talk on the phone,’ Ed told her. ‘He was bricking it, though. We’re meeting in 30 minutes in the last lay-by before the Golden Eagle.’
Sam sipped her coffee. ‘All a bit clandestine.’
‘Like I said, he was bricking it.’
Elliott Prince stepped out of his battered Vauxhall Corsa as soon as Ed pulled into the lay-by and was in the back of the police Ford Mondeo before Ed switched off the ignition.
Ed looked over his shoulder. ‘You remember Detective Chief Inspector Parker.’
Elliott blushed and nodded. ‘I thought it was just going to be you.’
‘Sorry to disappoint, but I was already out with the DCI,’ Ed said.
Using someone’s rank, especially a rank above Sergeant, normally unnerved people who had something to worry about in the first place.
‘Now what was so urgent?’
Elliott reached into his inner coat pocket and handed Ed a piece of A4 paper.
Ed looked at it before passing it to Sam.
‘Who’s the lad?’ she asked.
‘Jamie Telford.’
Jamie Telford was on all fours, naked from the waist down, trousers and underpants around his ankles. A sex toy was inserted in his backside.
Chapter Fifteen
Sam twisted in her seat and looked at Prince.
‘And has it?’ she said, referring to the written message on the piece of paper.
‘What?’ Prince looked non-plussed.
‘Appeared everywhere today?’
He nodded quickly.
‘I’ve had calls to say that there are loads going around the university. Jamie’s nowhere to be found now. Not surprising, I suppose.’
Elliott Prince explained how Jamie had contacted him after receiving the photograph and then brought it to him. Since then Elliott hadn’t been able to contact him.
‘The message is signed by the Sisters of Macavity,’ Sam said. ‘Any idea what that’s about?’
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 40