by Ian Mayfield
‘Best she sleeps, then,’ Sandra said. ‘I just came down to see how she was.’ Her restless gaze halted once more on the sleeping figure. ‘I keep asking myself, should I have stopped her answering that fucking call on her own?’
‘It was a drunk, I thought,’ Lucia frowned. ‘She’s handled enough of those in her time.’
‘Yeah, but after that.’
‘You anywhere towards finding out who did this?’ Lucia demanded.
‘We know who did it,’ Sandra sighed. ‘It’s just catching the bastards. We’re all working on it till we drop, I promise.’
Lucia nodded and said nothing for a while, clutching her sister’s pale, limp hand.
‘I keep asking myself, as well.’
‘Asking what?’
‘I offered to tag along last night,’ Lucia said. ‘Police piss-ups aren’t really my thing, but Nina was in such a tizzy about Paul that... well.’
‘Moral support?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What could you’ve done, though?’
‘Stopped her blacking his eye, maybe,’ she said, shooting Nina a look of poorly disguised admiration. ‘You should see it today. It’s a real beaut.’
Sandra laughed. ‘Attagirl.’
‘Mind you, had to restrain myself from socking him in the other one, after what he told me earlier.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
Lucia looked dubious at the notion of betraying a family confidence. ‘You know why she did it?’
‘All I can think, he must’ve said something pretty spectacular. They seemed to be starting to patch things up.’
‘She got him to tell her who he’d been shagging,’ Lucia said. ‘Only the woman he was engaged to before he met Nina.’
‘Shit! No wonder she fetched him one.’ It explained a lot of things. Sex, romance, friendship, glamour: Nina had been willing to work on anything to salvage the marriage. Anything within her power. Until she’d found out just how desperate things were.
What a kick in the teeth.
Sandra’s arm was getting hot. She stirred. ‘Nina’s coat,’ she said awkwardly, handing it over. ‘She left it at the club.’
Lucia took it. ‘You going?’
‘Better, otherwise we’ll have Florence Nightingale on the warpath.’
‘I’ll tell Nina you came by.’
‘Be back same sort of time tomorrow. Will you be here?’
‘Somebody will. Me or Mum or my sister. She should be more lucid by then.’
‘Hope so.’ On impulse, Sandra leaned over and kissed Nina gently on the cheek. To her surprise, it was almost feverishly warm. She stepped back and frowned at her stricken friend. ‘Then perhaps,’ she admonished her, ‘you can tell us what the fuck you were doing in the Clarkes’ garden.’
‘This is what puzzles me,’ Sophia said, glancing up at the clock on the wall. Since Debbie was a juvenile, they could not question her for much longer today. ‘I get the rationale behind this tableau, making it look like you were dead, but why do it there? Why bring all that stuff in rather than get you away from the squat immediately?’
Debbie looked disorientated. ‘What?’
‘Surely there must have been a suitable space in the house in Leatherhead where they could have set all that up in their own good time.’
‘How would they know about Leatherhead?’
Now it was Sophia’s turn to feel as if she had entered an alternate universe. ‘You told me Porter and Quaife had taken you from the squat in Hackney to the house in – ’
‘It wasn’t them.’
Sophia sat back. Slowly. ‘I’m sorry?’
Debbie said, ‘It was Phil, Billy and Jayne who set all that up. They were all at Guildhall Drama School together. Billy Scofield’s got a diploma in stage and film makeup. That’s how come it looked so convincing.’
Week Three
Monday
So far, Sandra’s promise was being made good. Everyone was in by eight, the office humming with concern and conjecture, desks strewn with notes, statements and evidence. The mood was bleak, yet underneath lay a determination driven by controlled anger. Faces were creased by care and pale with fatigue. Some of the team had been up all night, scouring and rechecking everything known about the Benton enquiry. For once, it was Sophia who was slightly intimidated by them when she came in, instead of the other way round.
‘Right, settle down,’ she said, gazing proudly across the debris of her officers’ industry. ‘I know I’m not the only one anxious to know where we are, and we’ll find out a lot quicker than through the canteen grapevine.’
Conversation stopped. One by one, phone calls were ended, receivers replaced and not touched again. She had their undivided attention.
She said, ‘First of all, I’d like to thank you for the professional way you’ve all knuckled down and got on with your work. I had a meeting with Detective Superintendent Heighway last night and we talked about bringing MIT in.’ There were some muttered expressions of consternation. ‘He’s agreed we should keep the case in-house for now, then review the situation again on Friday if we need more manpower.’ The discontented sound effects continued, but in their hearts the team knew they were stretched thin; the situation was overwhelming as it was. ‘Right. The second piece of good news is that Nina is going to be OK.’ Some relieved sighs, no cheering. ‘She’s awake this morning, and talking to her mother.’
‘Did she say anything?’ Lucky asked.
‘Not about that, no,’ Sophia smiled. ‘That can wait. Sandra’s visiting her tonight.’ She glanced at Sandra, who nodded, but remained impassive. The DCI suspected she hadn’t been forgiven for not calling her in. She said, ‘On to the bad news now, of which there are three main parts. You’ll all have heard about Surrey finding Nina’s car near Redhill. Forensic have now been over it and found no significant trace of anyone except Nina, her husband, two IC3 males who we assume to be Luke Benton and Nick Lynott, and Andrew Clarke - which confirms his explanation for why he turned up at his front door in a cab. We’re still waiting on the Astra, but my bet is that it’s in tiny pieces in a breaker’s yard somewhere. The PNC check Nina asked for has been followed up: last time anyone saw Quaife or the car at the registered address was before he went to prison. Second piece of bad news,’ she modulated her voice carefully to make sure the full implications of what she was about to tell them sank in, ‘we are not only looking for Porter and Quaife in connection with this investigation.’
‘I thought Thrall was just the two of them?’ Jeff Wetherby said, voicing the general consternation.
‘When I’ve told you what I’m about to tell you,’ Sophia said ruefully, ‘you may understand why it is that chief inspectors don’t generally do interviews.’ She gave them a rundown of Debbie’s revelation about the Polaroid. ‘Fact is that Debbie Clarke and I spent most of yesterday talking at cross purposes. Me under the assumption that it was Porter and Quaife who’d set up the fake murder scene, her under the assumption that I knew it wasn’t.’
Marie Kirtland said, ‘Meredith and his mates set it up to make it look like Thrall?’
‘To make sure we went after Porter and Quaife and left Debbie alone,’ Sophia said. ‘She said she went along with it because they convinced her there was no other option.’
‘She was compliant,’ Kim cut in, ‘until Meredith suggested tying her up to make it look more like an execution. They got the ropes onto her ankles and wrists but then she had a panic attack once they tied her to the bedposts. They had to let her free in a hurry ‘cause they were afraid Mrs Brownlie next door might hear if she started screaming.’
‘Accounts for why the ropes were cut square in some places and frayed in others, yeah?’ Lucky remarked.
‘Exactly,’ Sophia said. ‘It also accounts for the blood and the plaster on Meredith’s hand. He cut himself getting her loose. Must have dripped some on the mattress as they got the tarpaulin off it.’
‘Tell you what it doesn’t account for.’ Zoltan Schneider had been silen
t and uncharacteristically grim all morning, but now he spoke up. ‘How Porter ended up with the Polaroid if Meredith and his crew took it.’
‘That Debbie couldn’t tell us,’ Sophia said. ‘She claims she didn’t know Porter had it until her dad got back home after the bus stop stunt and started yelling at her. My best guess is that he found it when he showed up at the squat looking for Debbie, took it; Meredith and co came back later to find Debbie gone, the photo gone, put two and two together, realized there was now going to be a swastika-shaped target on their backs and went to ground.’
‘So now we have to find them before Thrall do,’ Zoltan sighed. ‘Which given our track record of not finding Debbie before they did isn’t an encouraging prospect.’
‘Although,’ Helen Wallace said, ‘I reckon three sporadically homeless political activists stroke petty criminals are likely to be a bit better at not being found than a sixteen-year-old kid.’
Zoltan arched his eyebrows at her and shrugged, conceding her point.
‘Lots to do on both fronts,’ Sophia said. ‘Everyone see Kim and Helen after the meeting and they’ll give you your actions for the day. Before we do that,’ she took a deep breath, ‘the third bit of bad news. The house-to-house.’
Groans went up from those who’d spent Sunday knocking on doors.
‘Same story as with the fire. At least this time they’ve all got an excuse.’ She saw Kim looking furious and said, ‘I don’t suppose many of them were awake at four a.m.’
‘Have we been asking the right people?’ Zoltan said suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Who might have been up around that time?’ Zoltan said. ‘We’ve been running around looking for shift workers, early gardeners, but maybe we’ve forgotten about the most likely witnesses.’
He peered at a sea of blank faces.
‘What,’ he grinned, ‘were we all doing beforehand?’
Sandra snapped her fingers at him. ‘On the razzle.’
‘Exactly.’ He winked. ‘Saturday night, Sunday morning. Half the population of Croydon under the age of thirty out on the tiles till dawn.’
‘And we’ve been mostly talking to older people,’ Sophia concluded. ‘Sandra, get on HOLMES and run a report on all the households in Ballards Way and the next road with young people aged, say, sixteen to thirty. I especially want to know what happened to the man Lucky saw running away. Where did he go? Was he picked up? Et cetera. If someone coming home saw that, find out.’ She paused for breath and a sip of water. ‘Next. Kim, last night after we finished talking to Debbie you shared something you had on your mind. Do you want to bounce it off people?’
Kim stood up and went to the front. ‘Sorry to keep harping on about the Polaroid, but why would Porter want to use it? And especially why use it in a way that made sure Debbie’s dad was gonna see it, after he’d promised to help them?’
‘Doesn’t strike me as the sort to get his rocks off that way,’ Zoltan commented. ‘Quaife maybe.’
‘I still think smokescreen,’ Jasmin Winter said.
Kim turned to her. ‘You mean like for later, but they had their hand forced?’
‘I am thinking if they wished to get her out of the country. If we think she is dead, we stop watching the airports.’
‘Bloody risky,’ Jeff said. ‘People might still recognise her face from the telly.’
He had a good point and a pensive silence fell. Eventually Sophia gave up waiting for anything to come out of it. She said, ‘OK, next contribution. Helen.’
The DS cleared her throat. ‘I’ve had a call from one of the estate agents we spoke to. Apparently, after we’d left one of his colleagues started acting nosy, asking him what we wanted. Name of Stephen Dollis, which rang a bell, so I checked. He’s got previous for GBH, four years back. The victim was Asian.’
‘The firm gave us a list of all the properties they’ve sold in Leatherhead in the past year,’ Lucky took it up. ‘Dollis sold one to a guy calling himself Webster. Four bedroom semi, like Debbie described. They’ve faxed us the blurb on a house they’ve got on the market in the same road, and the room descriptions are very close to Debbie’s.’
‘Is there a photo?’ Sophia said.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Marie Kirtland said, ‘Can’t Debbie tell us where the house is?’
Kim shook her head. ‘She said it was dark when Porter took her there and on the way back he made her lie face down in the back seat until they were well away. Never left the house all the time she was there and he kept the curtains closed.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll show her the photo anyway,’ Sophia said. ‘Ten to one there’s no-one there now, but it might be worth a look. Good work, you two.’ She nodded appreciatively at Helen and Lucky and said, ‘Go and pay this Mr Dollis a visit, see what he has to say for himself. Everyone else, keep ploughing through your assigned actions and think hard. Let’s see if we can’t get a result by Friday.’
PC Tom Walker had experienced his mid-life crisis late. He’d joined the Met at nineteen, and for the next thirty years had patrolled a beat out of Croydon nick, dependable, unassuming, never seeking advancement or promotion. Former colleagues who returned years later were amazed to find him right where he’d always been. Then suddenly, three years ago, he’d decided he wanted a change. The canteen saw him filling in applications left, right and centre until finally his wife, concerned that he was jeopardising his pension by resigning, had persuaded his inspector to get him a transfer. So, aged forty-nine, Tom Walker made his major life change to South East Traffic, based at Catford. It had worked miracles on him. He was a new man.
You still saw Tom around: his patrols sometimes brought him to Croydon with arrests and for refs. So Jeff Wetherby, the only one of the team who’d been there long enough to remember him well, was not overly surprised to see the familiar grey-haired figure walk into the office. He raised a hand and Tom came over, still peering around as if for someone more senior.
‘Eh up, mate.’
‘Busy in here,’ Tom said flatly.
‘Aye, well.’
‘I’m looking for DC Tyminski.’
Jeff gave him a hard stare. ‘That meant to be some sort of sick joke or what?’
‘You tell me, mate,’ Tom said, looking blank.
Angrily, Jeff told him.
‘Shit,’ he sighed, sitting on the edge of Jeff’s desk. ‘Sorry, I had no idea. Me and the missus just got back from Fuerteventura last night.’
‘Don’t you watch the fucking telly?’
‘Not much these days, no,’ Tom said. ‘Anyway, don’t blame me. It was my observer told me I needed to talk to Tyminski. Dozy twat.’
Despite himself, Jeff smiled. The old bugger hadn’t changed that much. Any bobby under thirty was liable, in Tom Walker’s system of reference, to be classified as a dozy twat. He said, ‘So what’d you want her for?’
‘I hear she’s looking for a slag called Mike Bayliss.’
Jeff’s ears pricked up. ‘I’ve been working on that one.’
‘Right, I’ll tell you then.’ He got up off the desk and looked around. Lucky was out with Helen and astonishingly no-one had pinched her chair yet, so Tom did. He settled himself and leaned forward confidentially. ‘You probably know all this already, so shut me up if I’m making a fool of myself. If Bayliss is who I think he is, then I’ve nicked him a few times.’
‘Burglar, ground floor entry, crap locks?’
‘That’s the one,’ he nodded. ‘Only he didn’t always call himself Bayliss, did he?’
‘No?’
‘Vicky, that’s his mum, was a brass when she was younger, and whenever we nicked her she used to give her maiden name - Bayliss. She married an old lag called Ritchie Prosser, and Mike was the fruit of their loins. Seem to remember they’re divorced now.’
‘So what you’re saying is Michael Bayliss might sometimes give his name as Prosser?’ Jeff said, writing ‘MICHAEL PROSSER?’ on the back
of the first piece of paper to hand, which happened to be his gas bill.
‘Most of the time,’ Tom confirmed. ‘But all this must be on file.’
‘His juvenile record’s been shredded. Three year rule.’
‘Bloody red tape.’
Jeff summarised why the team were after Bayliss. Tom nodded and remarked that he wouldn’t put rape past him, but was surprised at his use of an accomplice.
‘Always did fancy himself a clever bastard,’ he said. ‘I tell you what this sounds like. Ever read The Blooding?’
‘Joseph Wambaugh?’
‘That’s the one. First murder case solved by DNA profiling. Fascinating story, but it’s become a sort of sex criminal’s bible.’
‘The message being if you don’t shoot your wad inside your victim, you’re in the clear?’ Jeff scratched his chin. ‘I need to have a word with my DI about this. But if we can find out where he’s living at the minute, d’you want in?’
‘Doubt I can swing it,’ Tom shrugged, ‘but keep me posted.’
‘Least I can do.’ Jeff smiled. ‘You might just’ve helped a dozen-odd women sleep easier at night.’
‘My wife’d be a start,’ Tom said.
Zoltan was out and Tom had to go back on patrol, so Jeff promised he’d get in touch once he knew what was going on. The DI was expected back around two. Jeff filled in the intervening time with some research.
When Zoltan walked into the office Jeff was waiting by his desk. He told him about Tom’s visit. ‘I’ve checked with electoral registration,’ he said, ‘and there’s a Prosser, Michael R., listed on the Handcroft Estate. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure it’s Bayliss.’
‘How?’ Zoltan enquired.
‘I went over to the library. They’ve got back numbers of the voters’ lists. This Prosser first appears at that address four years ago, which if he was eighteen then agrees with the age Camberwell have for him. And there’s a Victoria Prosser listed at the same address.’
He was taken aback suddenly by one of the DI’s fiercest glances, but then Zoltan sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Comes to something,’ he moaned apologetically, ‘when I start viewing an officer’s attempts to catch a serial rapist as procrastinating.’