by Graham Smith
‘I can explain, Dad.’
‘You have nothing to explain. The reason I’m calling is to let you know that your mother and I are very proud of you. Our little girl has grown up to become a force to be reckoned with. You’re a warrior in the war against injustice, and your brains as well as your tenacity will see you catch this killer. Like I said, we just wanted to say we’re very proud of you.’ He paused. ‘Well, that was all. I’ll say good night now. Let you get some rest.’
‘Good night, Dad.’ Beth had to cut the call before her father heard the catch in her throat.
She knew her parents loved her; they just didn’t express it very often. For her father to call her like this was unprecedented, although very welcome.
As Beth laid her head on the pillow she wore a big goofy grin. The combination of Ethan’s texts, her parents’ pride in her, the idea of helping Forster establish the charity for rape victims, as well as her potential breakthrough in the case, had made this day – which had started off so badly – a lot better than she’d ever imagined it could be.
Forty
Both O’Dowd and Thompson arrived in the office ten minutes after Unthank. To Beth, Unthank was the only one who looked as though he’d slept. Thompson’s lack of sleep was no mystery due to what was going on with his wife, but she wasn’t sure about O’Dowd.
The DI’s teenage daughter, Neve, was filled with an independent spirit and Beth knew that O’Dowd was increasingly concerned about her daughter’s behaviour, worrying about her on a daily basis. Even when she was having a few calm days, the DI was always wondering about what was to come when the girl had her next adventure. She knew O’Dowd also feared that the way her daughter was going, it wouldn’t be long before she would be dabbling in one kind of drug or another.
The scowl O’Dowd tossed at Beth told her that she still hadn’t been forgiven for the scene she’d made during the press conference.
‘Ma’am, I’ve something to tell you.’
‘It had better be good. You needn’t think coming in early will get you off my shit list.’
‘Would the name of a solid suspect be classed as good?’
Beth knew she’d been a little too glib, but the news she had to share ought to be more than good enough to get her off O’Dowd’s list, therefore she didn’t worry about it as much as she might usually.
‘If you have found our killer, I’ll have your babies and pay your mortgage for a year.’ O’Dowd joined Thompson and Unthank in staring at her. ‘Come on then, out with it. Who’re you pointing the finger at, and why?’
‘His name is Tom Gracie. He’s a birdwatcher who was interviewed by the team investigating the murder of Christine Peterson. He was at the wildlife reserve the day she went missing. One of the investigating officers had a father-in-law who was showing an interest in the hobby, so he got a list of good places to watch birds. Lacking another piece of paper, he wrote the list in his notebook. On that list were Buttermere for ospreys and the Solway marshes for oystercatchers.’
Unthank pulled a face as he bent an arm behind his back and began scratching. ‘It’s a bit of a stretch.’
‘Oh ye of little faith. You should know that she’ll have something better than that otherwise she’d have warned us it was tenuous.’
‘Ahh that’s better.’
‘Shush you sad sack. I’m trying to listen to Beth.’
Beth ignored the commotion as Unthank bickered with O’Dowd. ‘Naturally I checked him out on the PND. He has had three warnings for being a peeping tom; he was also assaulted two years ago. The guy who beat him up said he’d been following his wife, hence the fact he got a kicking.’
‘Good work, Beth. I take it you’ve got an address for him.’
Beth handed over a request for an arrest warrant. ‘More than that, ma’am. I’ve got this filled out ready for you to get approved.’
‘Consider yourself moved from the shit list to top of the want-to-buy-a-drink-for list.’ O’Dowd tossed a look at Thompson. ‘See, girls are better than boys.’
‘Very funny.’ Thompson didn’t share O’Dowd’s change of mood. He pointed upwards. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
The smile left O’Dowd’s face as she faced Beth. ‘The chief super wants to see you at nine sharp.’
‘Ma’am.’ Beth didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know what the summons was about. It was sure to be a dressing-down over the press conference. ‘Exactly how mad was he?’
The chief super was famed for his ability to give the most thorough bollockings of all the senior officers in Cumbria. He wasn’t a shouter or a ranter. He never raised his voice; in fact the angrier he got, the quieter he spoke. There were tales of officers failing to hear his admonishments which prompted another round of whispered accusations. His favourite weapon was the asking of unanswerable questions that damned you whichever way you answered them.
‘I’d say it’s fair to expect a few of his deep-shit questions coming your way.’
A check of her watch told Beth that the meeting was a half hour off, so she tried her best to prepare some kind of defence, although she knew it would probably be a waste of her time. At the very least, it stopped her brooding about the impending interrogation.
It was typical that just when everything was going right for her, something would go wrong. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but speculate as to the outcome of her meeting with the chief super. At best she’d get reprimanded and made to feel like she was five years old. The worst-case scenario would be a suspension and a black mark on her record. The black mark would be the worst thing as it would prevent her from climbing the ranks the way she intended to.
Forty-One
Beth had never learned what Chief Superintendent Hilton’s first name was and this wasn’t the time to ask. She was standing at attention in front of his desk. Off to one side, Mannequin of the PSD was also in a parade-ground stance, but that was his norm.
Hilton surveyed her with a detached expression. He had one of those faces that never gave anything away. Whether he was walking his daughter down the aisle or witnessing the death of his parents, his face would presumably adopt the same form.
‘Do I need to explain why you’re here, Detective?’
‘No, sir.’
O’Dowd had warned her to keep her answers short, and it was advice Beth planned to stick to.
‘So you’re aware of the furore your little outburst at yesterday’s press conference has caused?’
Beth didn’t know anything about a furore. The way Hilton had said the word, he’d made it sound like he was talking about an Italian sports car. Still, she didn’t want to admit that she wasn’t any the wiser. Rather than speak and admit her ignorance, she kept her mouth shut.
‘I asked you a question. Would you like me to repeat it, or did you hear it the first time?’
Beth had had enough of playing nice; it wasn’t going to get her anywhere. It was time the truth was told. All the same, she kept her tone respectful.
‘I heard you, sir. I’m just not sure I follow you. I know I shouldn’t have lost my temper the way I did, but the truth is that if I hadn’t, we’d probably have had to explain why no senior officers had picked up on the fact there was a serial rapist and murderer at large in Cumbria.’
‘I know about that. I read the transcript of the press conference. Your rant saved you having to criticise senior officers, myself included. All in all, it was very timely, if ill-advised.’ Hilton’s voice lowered a little. ‘I’m talking about something different. You either know what I’m talking about, and you’re playing dumb, or you’re covering for the fact you don’t know. I’d like to know which it is.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Hilton lifted a sheet of paper from his desk. ‘Five thousand shares on Facebook, one hundred and eight thousand retweets. It would seem that your little rant has gone viral.’ The emphasis Hilton put onto the last two words made it sound as if going v
iral was on a par with war crimes. ‘Thankfully, the public seem to like your spirited rant and there are calls for, and I quote, “more coppers like you”.’
‘Sir.’ Beth didn’t know what else to say, but she could tell the chief super was expecting a response from her.
‘I’m not one to pander to public opinion and neither is the chief constable. However, your little outburst has drawn a lot more attention to your case than anyone wanted. From now on, you will lead all press conferences related to your case. I must warn you though, now the press know that they can get a reaction from you, they’ll all be doing their best to provoke you into saying something untoward. I’m glad you kept your wits about you the last time and didn’t give away any sensitive details. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that if you had, there would be a formal disciplinary hearing instead of this friendly word.’
‘Sir.’
‘That is all.’
As Beth made her way back to the office she tried to work out what had just happened. Instead of the industrial-strength bollocking she was expecting, she’d been almost praised.
She supposed Hilton’s comments about the press conferences were her punishment for speaking out the way she had. The way he’d dangled the threat of disciplinary proceedings was him exerting control over her in the future.
This would only be a real issue if Tom Gracie turned out not to be the Lakeland Ripper. If he was the Lakeland Ripper, there would be a short press conference to announce they’d caught the killer and then she’d go back to her normal life, away from the glare of the public. If Gracie wasn’t the killer, she’d have to admit to the assembled press that they’d wasted their time on a dead end. She expected that if she did so, the press would turn on her and criticise not just her work but that of the entire FMIT.
Forty-Two
Tom Gracie lived in Penrith which made things simpler in terms of getting to his house. Working all around the county often meant long drives on narrow rural roads with all the hindrances they held, but at least they didn’t have to do that today.
Before they left the office, Beth had run the suspect’s name and address through a couple of databases and got his national insurance number and the licence number for his van. Gracie was employed as a maintenance man at the Whinfell Forest holiday camp on the outskirts of the town.
Beth and O’Dowd had established that Gracie wasn’t at home, so they were now at the security gate of the holiday camp. A guard checked their warrant cards and directed them to the maintenance sheds. If Gracie wasn’t there, his manager would be able to let them know where he was.
The maintenance sheds were in a small clearing in the towering pine trees. They were low buildings clad in panelling which matched the bark of the surrounding pines. A small forklift was parked to one side of the sheds and there was a long greenhouse like those found at plant nurseries beyond them. As they rounded the sheds, they saw a man loading a four-wheeled barrow with pointed posts and some timber rails. A large hammer lay on the barrow and there was the smell of fresh-cut timber in the air.
The man stopped what he was doing and looked their way. His eyes danced past O’Dowd and settled on Beth. The examination he gave her made her skin crawl as he ran his eyes over her body. Every instinct and piece of intuition she possessed told her that the man giving her a lecherous look was Tom Gracie. He was mid-fifties, thin and had shoulder-length grey hair that looked as if he’d dipped it in chip fat.
O’Dowd strode forward. ‘Are you Tom Gracie?’
‘Yeah. What of it?’
As soon as the DI flapped her warrant card open and introduced herself, Gracie’s whole manner changed. Instead of looking at them with affability, he took on a look of panic.
The barrow was shoved at them as Gracie wheeled away and sprinted towards the door at the back of the maintenance shed.
While O’Dowd grabbed the barrow before it crashed into her, Beth was off and running; she skirted a pile of timber and navigated her way past a row of lawnmowers and strimmers. When she got to the door at the back of the maintenance shed, she saw Gracie disappear into the greenhouse. Beth surmised he knew of another door out of it and plunged after him.
Forty-Three
The computer on Forster’s desk was logged into Facebook, and while he didn’t use the social-media site much himself, he knew of its power. He had a second window open and that showed his Twitter account. He’d been alerted to the fact Beth’s rant at the press conference had gone viral by the member of staff who managed his social-media profile. Since he’d found out, he’d checked the stats every hour and was pleased to see they were still rising at a consistent rate.
It had been a no-brainer for him to use the clip for his own agenda and he’d written a short message praising Beth and calling for more police officers to share her zeal. He couldn’t wait to see her deliver the speech she’d handed to him last night. In terms of impact, it would make this already viral clip seem like a bland after-dinner speech delivered by an adenoidal trainspotter.
For perhaps the tenth time since she’d handed it to him, he read the statement again. He didn’t need to look at the paper as he’d memorised every word, but he found that when he looked at the page, he could picture her delivering the words to camera.
The statement was handwritten in a neat cursive script that was easy to read.
My name is Beth Young. I’m a detective constable and I would like you to listen to what I have to say.
As I’m involved in (insert name of charity) you’re no doubt thinking that I have been raped. That I have suffered the soul-stealing indignity that so many women, and yes, some men, have endured. I haven’t; I’m one of the lucky ones, and yes, not only do I know how lucky I am, I give thanks for that good fortune on a daily basis.
You have probably noticed the scar on my face by now though. My story is this: I was in a bar four years ago when two guys started to throw punches at one another. One of them picked up a bottle. The man he thrust it at deflected the bottle and it smashed into my cheek.
I had five different operations and skin grafts to repair the damage that bottle did to my face.
The men who were fighting were never identified or punished for what they did to me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That doesn’t matter, I got no justice.
Until I could join the police, I was a model. My looks were taken from me. I got no justice.
I had the love and support of my family. That helped more than I’ll ever be able to tell them.
I had offers of counselling. I said no. Looking back, I know that it might have been better for me if I’d said yes.
That’s why I’m urging you to contact one of (insert name of charity)’s advisors. They are here to help. They’ll give you emotional support and legal advice. Please, I implore you, don’t feel that you’re alone, don’t think there’s no one to help you. That’s what (insert name of charity) is here for. To help you.
Contact (insert name of charity) and talk to one of our advisors.
You will receive confidential counselling.
You’ll be advised on how best to proceed if you want to report your attack and get justice.
We will help you find a lawyer who’s experienced in dealing with sexual assault cases.
We will support you emotionally.
We will be there for you.
I’m not going to lie to you, it will be tough. But we’re here to make it easier for you.
I didn’t get justice, but you can. Contact (insert name of charity and phone number, website etc) and you can get the counselling I refused, and the justice I was denied.
The person who sexually assaulted you chose to do it. Now it’s your choice as to whether or not they face justice. Take the power back, let your rapist rot in prison while you embark on an exciting new chapter of your life.
As soon as he’d read Beth’s statement, Forster had recognised its power, how it laid Beth wide open. Now that her rant had gone viral, he had to har
ness her popularity and cash in on the goodwill that was flowing her way as soon as possible.
He lifted the phone and called a friend who ran a small charity for the homeless. To fully maximise the ‘Beth effect’, as he thought of it, he’d have to move quickly before the world became fixated on something else.
Forty-Four
Beth dashed into the greenhouse after Gracie and was hit by a wave of sweltering heat. It was filled with the heady aroma of peat and the chemical smell of a less-natural fertiliser. Gracie was twenty yards ahead of her and pulling plants off the timber benches that filled the greenhouse as he tried to escape. Beth couldn’t reach anything like her top speed as she had to hurdle the plants as she went.
Her work shoes were sensible flats, but they had smooth soles which didn’t offer a fraction of the grip the trainers she wore for her morning runs did. Try as she might to increase her pace, she could feel her feet slipping a little whenever she had to make the slightest turn, or when she planted a foot to leap over one of the obstacles Gracie was scattering in her path.
She exited the greenhouse and saw Gracie ahead of her. He was heading for the treeline and his back was straight as his arms pumped at his sides. On this gravel area Beth could get more traction and by the time she got to the treeline she’d gained five yards on Gracie. Rather than waste her breath shouting after him, Beth concentrated on getting her breathing right as she lengthened her stride.
Beth’s morning runs were about building stamina and staying fit. Her competitive nature had her trying to improve her times for the various routes she ran, but she was a distance runner rather than a sprinter. If she was to catch Gracie, then she’d have to get him soon before she blew herself out.