by Oliver Tidy
For the first time since she’d been at the station she saw Romney approaching real anger.
Marsh rang Park’s home number. Again the mother answered. Again she was testy. Carl hadn’t returned home, she said. Marsh coerced his mobile phone number out of the woman and tried it. It rang a dozen times without answer.
Marsh had tracked down some photographic quality paper and using the printer in Romney’s room finished churning out the pornographic glossy A4 images of the two rape victims. She gave them a cursory glance. Gawping at them alone made her uneasy. She scribbled on the back of each, separated them with sheets of ordinary paper and slid them into the file. She tried Park’s phone again. It was ringing as the DI came back into his office.
‘Got him?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve got his number, but he’s not answering. His mother said he hasn’t been home. I’ve printed off the images of Claire Stamp and Jane Goddard. They’re in the folder on your desk.’
Romney looked at it as though it might bite him. He opened a drawer and hid it away. ‘Ring the mother again. Find out where he could be. Go round there if you have to. I want him in here this afternoon.’
*
Marsh returned to the station with Carl Park just over an hour later. She hadn’t given him any idea of what the DI wanted to talk to him about.
Having phoned ahead to let the DI know she’d caught up with him at his home and was bringing him in, Marsh knew to lead the lanky youth up through the building and to Romney’s office where he was waiting for them.
Romney looked up from the file he was studying when Marsh tapped on the glass. He fixed a smile for Park and waved them in. ‘Hello, again, Carl. Sit down.’ Marsh positioned herself off to one side, but with a clear view of the youth’s face. ‘Sorry to drag you back in like this, but we have a bit of a complication I hope you can clear up for us.’ The youth stared intently at the DI. ‘Do you remember that I asked you if you knew of any hanky-panky going on in the back room of the petrol station?’ Park nodded. ‘You told me no. Do you remember that?’ More nodding. ‘Do you know what happens at a crime scene when a serious crime has been committed, Carl? A team of specially trained people go in there and they scour it for evidence that could help bring someone to account for that crime. That’s what happened after Claire Stamp was raped. The team that went in there, Carl. They found something we believed could help us find whoever did it: a clue, evidence. They found the top off a condom packet.’ The officers were to agree later that Park’s face altered colour at this point to be more in tune with a fluorescent lighting bulb than a human being. ‘It appears that whoever opened that packet did it with their teeth. We know this because they left traces of their saliva on it. Guess whose saliva matches that trace exactly, Carl?’
‘I want a lawyer,’ said Park. ‘I’m not saying a word without legal representation.’
Romney looked seriously at the lad. ‘Are you sure?’ He nodded and Romney realised that he shouldn’t even try to press him further. ‘Take him downstairs, Sergeant. Book him in and get him the duty solicitor. Let me know when all’s ready.’
Romney didn’t take his eyes off Park as Marsh led him away.
Marsh was back inside thirty minutes. ‘They’ll ring us when he arrives.’
‘What do you make of that?’ said Romney.
‘I don’t know what to make of it, sir. He’s not the rapist. His sample doesn’t match the sample taken from Jane Goddard’s body. He’s scared though.’
‘He’s been watching too much bloody TV. All that I want a lawyer crap. That boy is trying my patience, Sergeant. And I’m not in the mood for it.’
*
The duty solicitor duly arrived. The interview room was set up and the cast took their number ones. With the tape rolling and recording Romney took up where he’d left off in his office.
‘So, Carl, I’ll ask you again about the top of the condom packet found at the petrol station rape scene – the evidence that has your saliva sample all over it.’
‘What do you want to know?’ said Park.
Both officers would later remark that he had shrugged off something of the pathetic demeanour that had typified his character in previous meetings. Something had also changed in his eyes.
‘I want to know if you can give me an explanation for how it came to be there? I’ll remind you for the benefit of the tape that you have already told me during the early days of our enquiry that you have no knowledge of any goings on of a sexual nature in the petrol station.’
‘I lied.’
‘Go on.’
‘Claire Stamp and I were having an affair. I lied to you before to protect her honour. It was nothing to do with the rape.’
Romney stared at him for so long that the youth began to fidget. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that that good looking young woman, whose boyfriend is a particularly unpleasant and jealous character, was having sex with you in the back room of the petrol station?’
‘It’s true.’
‘Impossible,’ said Romney. ‘Why would she?’
‘She was lonely. We got on well. She disliked Avery. It got boring at nights and one thing led to another. It happens.’
Romney actually laughed out loud, but his eyes showed no trace of humour.
‘If she were alive, you could ask her,’ said Park, whose confidence, Marsh sensed, was growing by the minute.
‘But she’s not alive is she Carl? She’s dead. And you know that with her dead there is no way that we can disprove your claim.’
‘You don’t need to answer that,’ said the duty solicitor.
Park remained silent.
Romney regained some of his composure. ‘So, Carl, how long had this ‘affair’ been going on?’
‘A couple of weeks.’
‘And when was the last time you imagine you and Claire Stamp had sexual intercourse?’
‘The night of the attack.’
‘About what time?’
‘Nineish.’
‘Until what, nine-o-oneish?’
The smile that Park turned on Romney revealed a very different young man to the one that Romney and Marsh thought they had been dealing with. A combination of malevolent sneer, supreme confidence in his position and contempt for his interrogators. It was all Romney could do to stop himself going for him across the table that separated them. As Romney’s mind and judgement was clouding with aggression, Marsh’s remained logical enough to make some fantastic leaps.
‘Do you know a Peter Roper?’ she said.
Park turned his gaze that had gained in intensity on her. ‘Yeah, I know Peter. We use the same employment agency. Why?’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Couple of months ago. I don’t use the agency since I found a full-time job.’
‘So you weren’t friends outside the agency?’
‘No, not really.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I saw him around now and again. I’d always stop and say hello. He’s a bit of a loser.’
Marsh said, ‘Mr Patel, told us you don’t work at the petrol station any longer.’
‘No, I found it all too upsetting after what happened to Claire. I really liked her.’
‘Is that why you were at her funeral, because you really liked her?’ said Romney.
‘That’s right. No law against that is there?’
There was a long pause during which Romney and Park held each other’s stare. Romney said, ‘Any further questions, DS Marsh?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’m sure that we will want to speak to you again, Mr Park,’ said Romney. ‘Don’t go leaving Dover without telling us, is that clear?’
Park smiled at his interrogator. ‘Why would I want to leave Dover? It’s my home.’
*
Slumped in his office chair, Romney looked tired. Marsh sat across from him waiting.
‘I still can’t believe what just happened in there,’ said the DI. �
��I refuse to accept that he and Claire Stamp were shagging regularly in the back room.’
‘But he knows we can’t disprove his claims. What other explanation could there be for the condom packet top? I’m not disagreeing with you, sir,’ she said in answer to his look. ‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate.’
‘Maybe you’re not too wide of the mark there. Did you see the look he gave me? I think I’ve drastically underestimated Carl Park. In answer to your question there can be only one other answer: he was the rapist at the garage or at least involved in it.’
‘But Claire Stamp told us that there was someone else, that’s not just his testimony, and his sample does not match the second sample taken from Jane Goddard. She was definitely raped by someone else – someone whose appearance and MO were identical to those used at the garage.’
For a few long moments they listened to the noises outside the room and explored their thoughts.
Then Romney said, ‘So, there’s more than one rapist.’
‘Peter Roper,’ said Marsh. ‘Park has admitted knowing him. They’re of a similar age and build.’
Romney considered it. ‘That’s incredible. It fits, but it’s incredible.’
‘Not necessarily, sir. Statistical evidence shows that rape between work colleagues is not unusual. People who might otherwise never normally socially interact with each other get thrown together in a work environment. They observe the accepted ethics of that environment and get to know each other. Before long – usually for the male involved – sexual fantasies develop out of a misinterpretation of woman’s simple work place friendliness. Mostly, these can remain just that: fantasies. But sometimes a misreading of signs can make a man think that some sort of suggestion is being made and one thing leads to another and there’s a rape.’
‘Even so, these two are little more than boys.’
‘Carl Park is twenty-one, sir, and Peter Roper is twenty. They’re adults. Both would know the layout of the locations and the timetables. They take it in turns. One walks in, speaks in some phoney eastern European accent, and the one we thought was a terrified and unwilling participant is really involved in the event. It would explain the hood being put over the victim’s head. Once the victim is restrained, and to all intents and purposes blindfolded, the two of them could have just pretended that the one who worked in the particular place was struck down unconscious. But they weren’t. It was their fantasy and their turn to rape their work colleague. Look at them, sir, is there any way you could imagine either woman voluntarily having sex with either of them? And think of the women’s descriptions of the acts. Claire Stamp said it was quick. The way Jane Goddard described it, she said it was as though her attacker wanted her to enjoy it – like he was making love with her rather than violating her.’
Romney put his face in his hands for a moment, rubbed hard and stood up. ‘It would also explain how both women’s phone numbers came to be known. Most people have their contact details freely available at work. If it’s true then Roper is going to be the key. He’s the one who was stupid enough to leave traces of himself. With Jane Goddard still alive, if a sample from him matches then he won’t have the same defence as Park to fall back on. You’ve got to hand it to them. It’s clever. It’s devious. Who are the last people we would suspect of committing the offences?’
‘The two poor youths unwittingly caught up in some sordid attack. Park’s been lucky. If Claire Stamp were still alive we’d have him already.’
‘Get on to downstairs. I want every available person looking for Peter Roper. Spare nobody and nothing. And make sure that everyone is aware that he might be in possession of a firearm. Have Carl Park picked up again. We need to have his home searched. He knows that we’re on to him. I’m going to have to talk with the super.’ He picked up his phone to make an appointment that Marsh did not envy him.
*
Superintendent Falkner sat grim faced through Romney’s sharing of ideas and theories.
‘It’s fantastic,’ he said, when Romney had finished. ‘I can see how you’ve arrived at the point you’re at. It’s logical, but it’s just fantastical. This boy, Roper, where is he?’
‘We’re looking for him.’
Falkner checked his watch. ‘I won’t be here much longer, Tom, but the moment you have him in custody, I want to know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And then I want to be kept informed of any developments. I don’t care what time it is. I’m only at some dreary civic function in the Masonic hall.’
As Romney rose to leave, Falkner added, ‘Careful, Tom. If your beliefs turn out to be well-founded this is going to make national news. Let’s not spoil things with any procedural foul-ups.’
*
On returning to his office, Romney was disappointed to discover that, despite a substantial force actively searching for both, neither Park nor Roper had been apprehended.
He got himself a coffee and stood a moment at his window, which looked out over the rear of the high street. He could see in the radiance cast by the police car park floodlighting that a fine snow had started to fall. It wouldn’t lie, he thought – not with all the rain they’d had lately.
Snow made Romney nostalgic. For a few moments he indulged himself in memories that would surface at the merest hint of the white stuff; memories of his own childhood and that of his only daughter in those first few years when he and his first ex-wife had been as happy as they ever would be. Thinking of domesticity led his train of thought to Julie Carpenter. Was he going to get another chance at all that? Did he want it? Really want it enough? He released a lungful of air that clouded the glass and turned back to his desk. He’d text Julie something appropriate and settle in for the wait, however long it was.
By nine o’clock neither youth had been located and unsurprisingly neither was answering their mobile phones. Both mothers claimed that neither of their sons had been home. With every minute that ticked by the likelihood of the theory that both youths were culpable in the Dover rapes grew in Romney’s mind.
An officer was detailed to discover anything of mobile phone communications between the two in an attempt to determine how much contact they had with each other. Unmarked police cars with freezing occupants were stationed outside the young men’s addresses. At nine-thirty Romney, tired of waiting, applied for search warrants for both the young men’s homes. Marsh accompanied by DC Grimes left for Peter Roper’s home. Romney took DC Spicer to Carl Park’s.
*
Park lived with his mother in a small flat above a newsagent’s shop on the outskirts of the town centre. Mrs Park took her time answering the door, although it was clear from the street that someone was home. Romney kept his finger on the intercom until he got some response.
‘Who is it?’ she barked over the entry system.
‘Detective Inspector Romney, Dover CID. Open up please, Mrs Park.’
‘He’s not here. I told the last lot.’
‘We’re not here for Carl. We have a search warrant and you have thirty seconds to open this door and let us in to do our job before we sledge-hammer it open. The police don’t repair them these days. It’ll be very expensive.’
They were buzzed admittance. They took the gloomy, uninviting staircase, Romney, Spicer and two uniforms: one male one female. The noise of their boots thumping up the concrete treads was enough to intimidate most.
Mrs Park stood behind her ajar door. The chain was on. ‘Show me,’ she said. Romney held it up for her. ‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘Open the door, Mrs Park.’ Romney’s patience was wearing thin. She must have sensed it. The door shut, the chain was slid across and the door opened wide.
Before any officer crossed the threshold, Romney said, ‘Is your son here?’
‘No, I haven’t seen him for hours.’
They went in.
Romney said, ‘Which is Carl’s room?’
After a brief hesitation she pointed down the narrow hall. Romney indicated that DC
Spicer and the male uniformed Constable should go and investigate.
‘Let’s go into your sitting room, Mrs Park,’ said Romney. ‘I want to ask you some questions.’
She looked at the backs of the retreating officers and then back at Romney and then turned and went into her lounge.
An electric fire was pushing out two bars of warmth and an old television was muted with one of the popular soaps playing out on the screen. It was a small dingy room, untidy with the detritus of daily life. The decoration was shabby and grubby. It gave a good impression of being unloved.
Carl Park’s mother sank down into a worn and stained chair in front of the fire. She was older than Romney would have expected. Her appearance blended seamlessly with the fatigued and dated setting. She picked up a cigarette that had been smouldering in an ash tray and held it. Romney turned off the television and perched himself on the edge of a settee to her right. He wasn’t about to start competing with Barbara Windsor. Mrs Park kept her eyes on him.
When she spoke her voice had lost some of its hostility, but it was still far from friendly. ‘What’s he done?’
‘We’ll get to that, Mrs Park. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is he often out for long periods without you knowing where he is?’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, he’s not a child and I’m not as young as I used to be. He does what he likes. Comes and goes as it pleases him.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘This morning. I went out just before lunch. I came home about one. He wasn’t here and he hasn’t been in since.’
‘When he’s not here, where does he go? Has he got any friends? Places that he hangs out?’
She snorted at the questions. ‘You think he tells me where he is every minute of the day? Have you got kids? Up until a few days ago he had a job at that petrol station. I knew where he was then. Work until eleven, home and bed. He never was much of an early riser. He said they got rid of him.’