by Nigel Cooper
Rhodes was glad to see the back of that case, what a horrible case it was too. Half the team of a local rugby club had decided to play the ‘soggy biscuit’ game after a few too many drinks at a local ‘lock-in’ pub drinking session after closing time. Thing is, they didn’t have a biscuit, so they’d used a cold slice of pizza instead, only the loser didn’t want to eat the pizza after losing; understandably. One of the other guys picked the cum-sodden pizza slice up off the table and slapped him in the face with it, which led to a major punch up. The guy with semen all over his face – who played tough prop position – retaliated by breaking the scrum-half’s jaw and nose. But, what made the assault more far more serious was the fact that the scrum-half had fractured his skull when his head hit the table as he went down.
‘Ok, I’ll get right on it,’ said Rhodes.
* * *
Rhodes, reluctantly, rang on Stanton’s doorbell on Thompsons Lane. Figuring that this would be the easiest part of his newly assigned case.
‘Mr Stanton, I’m Detective Sergeant Rhodes, Cambridgeshire CID. May I come in?’
‘What’s it about, detective?’ said Stanton, cagey, still not inviting Rhodes into his house.
‘We have reason to believe you might be in danger. I think it would be better if we talked inside.’
Stanton didn’t say anything; he just backed up into his hallway to allow Rhodes in.
‘How am I in danger, exactly?’ he said, not inviting Rhodes any further into his house than the hallway.
‘Well, we don’t have any definitive evidence per se, but we do, however, have reason to believe that somebody might try to cause you harm, or possibly worse.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information, not at the moment anyway.’
‘Is this a serious threat, detective?’
‘Enough for me to come here to give you an Osman warning. Again, we can’t be one hundred per cent certain at this stage, but we’re still obligated to let you know. Typically threats don’t ever come to anything, but because of the seriousness of this case, we have reason to believe that there’s a strong chance of the this person going through with their threat.’
‘I’m assuming that this has got something to do with the Kramer boys case?’
Just hearing Stanton say the word, ‘Kramer’ in his sinister tone, with no emotion, made Rhodes feel sick, in fact it made him want to punch the sick son of a bitch. Stanton’s voice wasn’t exactly sinister, it just didn’t seem to have any emotion or life to it or any dynamic range, you could say that it was the opposite to one of those sing-song like up and down Italian accents. Also, knowing what Stanton had done, the evil act of torturing, abusing and killing those two young boys, well, it was hard to hear his voice any other way but sinister.
‘I’m afraid I can’t say,’ said Rhodes.
‘The father?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t say, I’m simply here to inform you of a potential threat to you.’
‘Relative … friend … mother perhaps?’
‘Mr Stanton, I’m not here to divulge any information, I’m simply here to offer you police protection.’
‘Did you draw the short straw in this messenger boy detail, detective?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Well I can’t imagine they were lining up back at the station to come around here to offer me police protection?’
‘Mr Stanton, under the human rights act we’re obligated to do everything we can to protect you. We can take you into protective custody, but at the end of the day it’s up to you if you want to accept it, it’s your right, but you’re under no obligation to accept it,’ said Rhodes, hoping the son of a bitch wouldn’t take him up on his offer. The fact is the police did believe that Helen Kramer might try to hurt, or kill Stanton, or maybe even arrange for somebody else to. The police had intelligence to suggest such, be this intelligence was only the words of Helen’s husband so it was a little flimsy, but he had convinced the FLO of Helen’s serious intentions and the FLOs DI had thought it serious enough to act. However, the police didn’t have enough evidence to justify arresting the person who’d made the threat, not that anybody knew where Helen Kramer was to arrest her anyway, hence the Osman warning. Also, there probably wasn’t a single copper in the Cambridgeshire constabulary who would shed a tear if anything did happen to Stanton; quite the opposite in fact, they’d probably all go out for a huge piss up and celebration if Stanton were to be assassinated in some way or another.
‘I’m a free man, detective, the judge said so, my case was thrown out.’
‘Your point is?’
‘My point is, detective, why should I be taken into protective custody. Sounds a little bit like incarceration to me. This person, if there is a person, who’s planning to harm me, or kill me, well, don’t you think your time and resources would be better spent catching and incarcerating them?’
‘Mr Stanton, I’m offering you police protection, either you want it or you don’t. I’m not going to stand here debating with you. This is my final offer, yes or no?’
Stanton stepped past Rhodes and opened the door, said, ‘Goodbye, detective.’
Rhodes, happily, stepped out of his house and left.
* * *
So, Rhodes pondered on the facts. Helen Kramer had dropped off the map, nobody had heard or seen anything of her since she stormed out of her family home just over two weeks ago. Family, relatives, friends, work colleagues, nobody had heard or seen anything. Not only was her phone switched off, but the sim had been removed also, making that line of communication rather difficult.
Where was she staying, or who was she staying with? This was going to be tricky for DS Rhodes. Where to start? Ok, credit card transactions, it’s as good a place as any.
Chapter 27
It had been a good few weeks since Dean got the old Baikal pistol from Stitch, yet he still hadn’t been able to find Derek Stanton to be able to put his new gun to use. Dean was hardly the sharpest tool in the box at the best of times, and given that he’d upped his drug intake considerably since he and his stupid friend, Snowy, lost the twins over a year ago, and upped it even more since finding out they were both dead, and upped it once again upon finding out that the evil torturer-cum-child-killer had been released. A constant flow of heroin being injected into his veins and, when he wasn’t shooting up, copious amounts of hashish being inhaled into his lungs, was blunting his brain function even more, and finding out where Stanton lived would mean engaging his brain and right now that was proving to be a difficult task. Realistically, the only way Dean would find Stanton would be if he walked up to Dean’s front door, rang on the bell and introduce himself. Then, and only then, would Dean have any chance of being able to blow him away with his Baikal.
This was all going to have to change and Dean – deep in that tiny little remaining conscious part of his brain – knew it. He was wrapped with remorse and barely able to live with himself for what he’d done. Sure, he hadn’t physically been the one who’d abused and tortured them for twelve months and he certainly wasn’t the one who’d slowly, and brutally, killed them with a selection of sharp or pointy metal implements, but it was because of him that the twins had eventually ended up in the hands of Derek Stanton, so there was blood on Dean’s hands, and lots of it.
The heroin was meant to give Dean a feeling of warmth and well-being, that everything was ok, but everything was pretty fucking far from ok in Dean’s mind. Yes, he felt warm and fuzzy, very relaxed on the heroin, and the hashish sent him even further into his own world, but it wasn’t enough to totally kill off his guilt, his thoughts and the images of tortured, bloody, five-year-old boys, seeping into his brain like a rapidly spreading cancer, a cancer that had to be cured, and cured it would be.
Enough of this shit, he was going to have to get clean, cold turkey style. He looked into the middle distance – the loaded Baikal on the coffee table in front of him, be it slightly out of foc
us – and dug deep into the far reaches of his mind in an attempt to find that little part that he still had any conscious control over, and then he made an irrefutable decision: never to put needle to vein and never to put roach to lips again, well, maybe that was a bit optimistic, so he at least made the decision to stay clean and keep a clear head until he’d found, and taken care of, Derek Stanton.
Just as he was contemplating, deep in his brain, he heard a distant noise; it was his front doorbell, or was it? He didn’t get up, he sat there, motionless, listening for confirmation, the effects of the recently injected heroin still lingering. There it goes again, longer this time, yes, it was definitely his front doorbell.
* * *
DS Damon Rhodes had had zero luck trying to track Helen Kramer down via her credit/debit card transactions. Since she abruptly walked out on her husband she hadn’t made a single card purchase, not even for petrol, nothing. However, the day after she’d moved out she had withdrawn quite a large amount of cash, certainly enough for her to live on for a while without having to use her bank cards. Essentially, although she technically wasn’t missing, Rhodes was treating Helen Kramer as a ‘missing person’ and going through the same police procedural motions to find her. He’d gone about the usual ‘fast time’ checks, the main ones being credit and debit card transactions and mobile phone call history and cell site locations, in the hope of getting a list of incoming and outgoing phone numbers and off the back of those, a list of potential witnesses to speak to with the hope of finding out just what contact the people on the list had had with her and, more to the point, what was said and where she could be. The cell site data could also tell Rhodes what masts her mobile phone had hit and when any calls had been made or received. But, mobile phone masts can cover a huge area and are not that accurate, giving only a general area of coverage from five to twenty miles depending, so cell site data certainly wouldn’t tell Rhodes which house she was in when a call was made or received, far from it, it wouldn’t even tell him what street. As with the bankcard transactions, there had been no calls to or from Helen’s mobile, Rhodes suspected it was switched off, and if she was clever, she might have even removed the sim card too. Whatever checks he made, Rhodes kept hitting brick wall after brick wall, he was getting nowhere fast. At least if she’d made a card transaction in a shop, a petrol station, anything, Rhodes would have known the exact date and time of the transaction and he could have popped along to the shop and viewed the CCTV footage, seen her on camera at the check-out, then spoken to any witnesses who were there at the same time i.e. the shopkeeper or salesperson, in case she’d said anything to them, given anything away, regarding her whereabouts, asked for directions perhaps, but it was not to be, you simply cannot trace cash transactions. He’d also gone down the ANPR route, but Helen’s car had not flagged up anywhere, so no joy there either. Rhodes figured it was possible that she could be on foot, bicycle, or she might have even borrowed a friend's car…
A bunch of detectives had also searched in and around the Kramer family home to look for clues as well as making sure that she wasn’t actually buried in the back garden or stored away up in the loft in several taped up bin-bags, stranger things have happened. But, in this case, she wasn’t and, in all honesty, the police didn’t actually expect her to be either, but these things still needed to be checked.
Rhodes was beginning to think that Helen Kramer knew exactly what she was doing, that she didn’t want to be found, she wasn’t staying with family or friends, they’d checked pretty much everybody she knew and was associated with and she hadn’t logged into her Facebook account since the day before she walked out on her husband. She’d obviously taken steps and Rhodes knew that he had to credit her with having some intelligence. She could be anywhere, staying in a cheap hotel somewhere perhaps, paying cash having given the hotel staff a false name and address, or she could even be sleeping rough or in homeless shelters and eating at soup kitchens and the like, if this was the case, it would be next door to impossible for Rhodes to find her. However, Rhodes somehow doubted that a woman like Helen Kramer would be happy roughing it on the streets of Cambridge or in homeless shelters – as she, like her husband, was obviously a professional person – but he could not discount it, after all, if she was hell-bent on harming, or killing, Stanton, then maybe there was nothing she wouldn’t do to achieve her goal.
Rhodes figured that there could be a possibility that Helen Kramer was staying with somebody she knew, a friend, somebody she trusted to let her hide out in their house, a friend or relative who would not say anything, to anybody, not even the police, maybe one of them had already lied to the police when asked about Helen’s whereabouts. Rhodes had come up with a shortlist of people who fell into that camp, the first on the list was Helen Kramer’s own younger brother, Dean Fairhead, who, as luck would have it, lived in Cambridge.
Rhodes took DC Midori Sakurai along with him, not necessarily for backup, as he doubted he’d need it while visiting people who might know the whereabouts of Helen Kramer, it was more a standard procedure thing where two cops are better than one. One, in this case, Rhodes, would ask the questions while Sakki would simply observe, listening to the answers, watching the body language and facial giveaways etcetera. Quite often, the observing officer would spot things, inconsistencies for example, that the questioning officer might not. As well as watching his body language and facial expressions while he answered Rhodes questions, she could also check out his pad.
Rhodes rang the doorbell to Dean's terraced house on Histon Road. He and Sakki waited, no answer, he rang the bell again, longer this time. He looked towards the windows on the ground floor and upstairs, no sign of movement. Then he saw a shadow behind the door and heard the catch unlock. The door opened a crack and a haggard looking face with gaunt eyes peered out.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Dean Fairhead?’ said Rhodes.
‘Maybe, who wants to know?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Rhodes from Cambridgeshire CID,’ he said, holding up his warrant card, ‘This is Detective Sakurai. We’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘What’s this about?’ said Dean.
‘It’s about your sister, Mr Fairhead, we’re concerned about her, may we come in?’
He thought about it for a moment, he looked rather nervous, but eventually said, ‘Sure.’ Dean turned around and started to walk back into his house, leaving the door open for Rhodes and Sakki to follow him into the lounge.
Dean didn’t offer them a drink, or a seat. But, after looking at the clutter on the couch, Rhodes and Sakki decided, for the sake of hygiene, to stand anyway.
‘Mr Fairhead, your sister’s been missing for a few weeks now and we wondered if you’d heard from her, been in contact with her during this time?’ asked Rhodes.
‘No, no I haven’t,’ he said. Sakki studied him closely.
‘Did you know that your sister had moved out of her house in Abbotsley?’
‘No, no I didn’t.’ Sakki started to scan the living room, scrutinising it for evidence of Helen Kramer. He could certainly do with hiring a cleaner for a few hours that much was clear. She noticed the ashtray on the coffee table, brimming with cigarette ends and roll-up ends complete with roaches torn from the king size red Rizla packet sitting next to it. Sakki didn’t need the small block of hashish resin, that also sat on the coffee table in full view, to tell her that Dean Fairhead was something of a pothead, a stoner, she could tell that just by looking at him, and smelling him. Dean looked over at Sakki, then at the hashish on the coffee table. Now he looked even more worried, but not as worried as he would have been had he not had the foresight to stuff the Baikal pistol behind one of the sofa cushions before answering the door. If he’d known it were cops at the door he would have hidden it away good and proper. When he invited them in, he wasn’t thinking straight; a combination of heroin and hashish tends to do that to one’s brain. And, when he invited them into the lounge, well, that was just plain stu
pid. All he could do was stand there and pray that neither of them decided to shift the pile of clothes and magazines off the sofa to sit down, and perhaps feel something hard digging in their back – Dean was sweating now.
‘You seem nervous, Mr Fairhead? Is everything ok?’ said Sakki.
‘Yeah, course, I’m fine.’
‘Mr Fairhead, we’re not bothered about your bit of dope on the coffee table, we’re here to find out where your sister is,’ said Sakki.
‘I don’t know where she is, I already said, I haven’t heard from her.’
‘When was the last time you did hear from her?’ said Rhodes.
‘Erm, not sure, can’t remember,’ he said, letting out a nervous grunt.
‘Do you mind if I use your toilet, Mr Fairhead?’ said Sakki.
‘Go ahead, it’s at the top of the stairs.’
Sakki left Rhodes alone – Rhodes knowing damn well what his colleague was up to – to question Dean, and went upstairs. She glanced into the bathroom and figured it was just as well she didn’t genuinely want to use the toilet, given the state it was in. She tiptoed past and entered the first of two bedrooms, which didn’t have much in it: a rickety pine bed complete with a stained mattress, a cheap white particleboard chest of drawers and a wardrobe. Sakki quietly opened the top drawer, empty, save a crusty pair of socks and a few equally crusty pairs of Y-fronts, yuk! She opened the wardrobe door, the hinge at the top coming away from the cheap particleboard and almost falling to the floor. She caught it, in time, and quietly pushed it back into place and prayed it stayed put. There was nothing of importance, or value, in it anyway, what looked like junk. She went into the next room, which looked more lived in, but in a messy way.
The single bed was unmade, a quilt (which was screaming out loud to be washed) bunched up at one end and a pile of dirty clothes and an old copy of Loaded magazine – with a picture of Christine Martin posing naked on the cover in such a way that her essential bits were not quite visible. The Naked Issue, the cover boasting internal pictures of Christine Martin 100% nude for the very first time – at the other. Sakki didn’t even want to go anywhere near that lot, let alone touch any of it.