The Major Crimes Team - Vol 1: Lines of Enquiry

by Graham Smith

  Campbell took down the details while Anderson called for an ambulance and a rape consultant.

  When Marie finished, Campbell had what he thought was enough information to identify her alleged rapist.

  ‘Marie, I have a question for you.’ He swallowed. ‘You’re not going to like it, but in light of every other claim you’ve made I have to ask it.’

  ‘Whit is it son?’

  ‘Are you sure this really happened because if we have you examined by a doctor and she says you haven’t been raped then you will be given a bill for the doctor’s time.’ Campbell spread his hands wide. ‘It’s the way things have to be done with all the budget cuts we’ve had.’

  Marie levelled her gaze until she met his eyes with a fierce one-eyed stare. ‘Get the doctor son. I’ll no’ be getting any bill.’

  Campbell’s lie had given him the information he needed. People like Marie lived in fear of another bill. There was no way she would risk having to pay a penny because of a fabrication. Therefore the rape was genuine.

  A paramedic arrived and escorted Marie downstairs to the ambulance as the CSI team arrived.

  Leaving them to do their jobs, Campbell rounded up Anderson and began knocking on neighbouring doors.

  Of the five other doors in the building only one yielded an answer.

  The man who answered carried a few days worth of beard growth, a visible hangover and breath rank enough to fell an elephant. Campbell threw a few questions at the man but the answers slurred back at him were of no help.

  After summoning a couple of DCs to do a more thorough job of the door to doors, Campbell and Anderson set off back to the station.

  They hadn’t driven a hundred yards before his nose was back in the file on Harry Evans.

  The man he was due to replace was everything he wasn’t, a rule-breaker who followed gut-instinct rather than procedure. He knew the type only too well. His first DI had been just like Evans, coarse, unruly and almost impossible to work for. His ways had been stuck in a time when confessions were extracted with a closed fist or the threat of being held responsible for every unsolved crime since Cain killed Abel.

  The team backing Evans up all showed decent qualities, but they too had a history of renegade ways. He would need to exert his authority from day one and stamp out any inclination to disregard the rule book.

  ‘I said, what do you think about Marie’s story?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Campbell brought his mind back to the case at hand. ‘I think it’s genuine, but you never know with her.’

  ‘I heard what you said about the doctor. That was a clever test.’

  ‘Thanks. I want you to drop me off at the station and then head over to the CCTV control rooms. Marie was specific about the time her rapist arrived. If she’s telling the truth you should be able to pinpoint him pretty easily.’

  ‘OK.’ Anderson’s voice wasn’t filled with enthusiasm for the task. ‘Do you think we’ll get lucky?’

  ‘You never know. There’s cameras there, so we might.’

  * * * *

  Reaching the station, Campbell grabbed a coffee and a bacon roll from the canteen and headed back to his desk. Until he heard from the doctor, the crime scene manager or Anderson, there was little he could do to progress the case.

  He was looking forward to his transfer to the Major Crimes team at Carlisle. Not only would it provide a fresh challenge, it would remove the hour and a half commute he faced at each end of his shifts. Living at Gretna and transferring to a more local force had been his new wife’s idea. Sarah hadn’t wanted to leave her hometown for Glasgow and he’d had his fill of policing a city inhabited by bampots, neds and gangs intent on preserving a hold on their territory.

  It had taken a year for the right transfer to come along, but when it did, he applied that very day. It had been a fraught process almost thwarted by the one black mark in his career, but the planets aligned and his transfer went through.

  Now everything in his life was perfect, a new wife; a baby due within the month and a new challenge just fifteen minutes from home. He’d even made a twelve grand profit on the house he’d sold when moving to Gretna.

  He shuffled paper for a half hour before his phone rang. It was the Crime Scene Manager with a preliminary report.

  The CSI team had given the flat a cursory sweep in line with the guidelines on the extent of detail to be searched for. Modern policing was about accounting for budget, managing resources and following the most probable leads.

  The CSM wanted to know how many of the dozens of samples he was supposed to analyse. Flipping a mental coin Campbell made his decision and asked for all the hair samples to be tested. Other forensic samples could be tested at a later date if necessary. The most telling samples would come from the doctor who examined Marie. In rape cases there was almost always transference of hair or skin caught under the victim’s nails.

  It was this evidence on which most rape cases were tried.

  Hanging up the phone, Campbell’s mind returned to Marie and her behaviour at the tenement. Like the hypochondriac who has ‘I told you I was ill’ engraved onto their gravestone, there was a triumphant satisfaction about her. After all those false calls, she now had a genuine reason to make a complaint.

  The physical invasion had been shrugged off with typical Glasgow fortitude. ‘Ah’m jist glad his tadger was nae bigger’n his thumb.

  This time when the phone rang it was the doctor who’d examined Marie. Every word she’d spoken about her ordeal was backed up by the doctor’s examination.

  Marie Mason had as claimed, been raped both vaginally and anally. The verification of her claim kicked the investigation up a gear. Her track record had meant Campbell’s initial steps had been tempered with cynicism. The last thing he wanted to do on his last day was be tricked by a serial hoaxer. Now the brakes were off, he could throw extra manpower and resources at the case.

  Calling the CSM, he informed him of the samples collected from the doctor. Next he called the DCs canvassing the area where Marie lived and urged them to leave no door un-knocked on.

  As he finished that call, Anderson rang him with excitement filling her voice. Hearing her news, he instructed her to come back and collect him.

  While he waited Campbell booted up his computer and started a search. Five minutes later he had the information he needed and was striding down to the car park ready for Anderson’s return.

  * * * *

  Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, Campbell felt the thrill of the chase kicking in. Just three hours ago he was shuffling paper. Now he was on his way to arrest a potential rapist. Moments like these were the reason he loved his job.

  This was the meat of the daily sandwich and he wondered what kind of man he was going to confront. Marie Mason was nobody’s idea of a desirable woman even before she’d been assaulted. It would take a special kind of twisted deviant to find her sexually attractive enough to rape.

  It hadn’t needed fantastic detection to follow this lead. Marie’s description of her rapist and the time of her assault had given them a solid clue. CCTV cameras had shown a man in his fifties entering her tenement building at the prescribed time. After that it was a matter of waiting until the man came out and tracking him. Like so many criminals in the city he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He’d walked out of the door, taken twenty paces along the street and climbed into a dirty Mondeo. A little bit of a zoom on the image had brought up the number plate in clear definition.

  Baillieston was one of Glasgow’s middle ground areas, the people who lived in this area were solid working class. Imbued with a work ethic passed down through genetics, they were the people whose hard graft kept the city running. None of their jobs could be considered a profession, but they all had aspirations for their children to do better than themselves.

  Anderson pulled in behind the Mondeo from the CCTV tape. The house it was parked outside had small patch of neatly cut grass.

  It was a new build, as was
every other house on the street. White and red brick boxes topped with brown tiles and finished with while plastic where once timber would have been used.

  While each house looked presentable enough, the conformity would have driven Campbell insane. The entire street was the same, like a row of soldiers standing to attention. Campbell guessed the architect got bored after the first house and just copied and pasted the rest of the street so he could make his tee time.

  ‘Let’s do this.’ Campbell strode to the door fingering the collapsible baton in his pocket.

  The door opened to reveal a woman in her fifties. Well presented, she had a toddler on her hip who looked at Campbell with innocent eyes. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘DI Campbell, I’m looking for Bill Osbourne.’

  Concern hit the woman’s face in an instant. ‘Is it our Vicky? Is she OK? Please tell me she’s OK.’

  Campbell softened his face wondering who Vicky was. ‘It’s not about Vicky. Is Mr Osbourne here?’

  ‘He’s in the back garden.’ The woman turned to the child with a relieved smile. ‘Do you hear that Chelsea? Mummy’s okay.’

  ‘May we?’ Campbell gestured through the house.

  ‘Of course.’

  The worry on the woman’s face had been replaced with puzzlement. Now she knew her daughter was safe, she’d be expecting something juicy to discuss over the garden fence or down the bingo. Being the prime source of a new piece of gossip would raise her status for a few days.

  Campbell felt a pang of pity and guilt. It wasn’t just the victims who suffered. The lives of the perpetrator’s family members always changed when a loved one was convicted. The more horrific the crime, the deeper the societal backlash would be.

  First it would be shaming looks and turned shoulders. These would be replaced with pointed fingers and insults. Depending on the crime, the final steps could range from ostracism to graffiti and broken windows.

  Osbourne’s wife led them along the hallway into the kitchen and out of a back door into the small garden. A man was trimming a rose bush with a pair of secateurs.

  Before Campbell could speak, Mrs Osbourne called out to her husband. ‘Bill, there’s an Inspector here to see you.’

  The man’s head snapped round. Fear and guilt decorated his eyes before he recovered his composure. His hands moved to remove the gardening gloves he wore, but stopped.

  Campbell flicked his eyes at Anderson who gave a short nod to confirm Osbourne was the man captured by the CCTV. ‘Can we talk inside?’

  It was a favoured tactic of Campbell’s. Suspects would often reveal more in the comfort of their own homes than they would if hauled down to the station and interviewed on record. Once admissions had been made, an arrest would follow and the whole process would be repeated in the interview room with its cameras and recording equipment. The formal interview simplified by the knowledge gathered in the comfortable setting.

  Osbourne’s wife caught the seriousness of the situation for the first time. ‘Bill, what’s wrong, why do they want to talk to you?’

  ‘Leave it Annie.’

  They followed Osbourne into the kitchen where Annie fussed around offering cups of tea.

  Osbourne dismissed her. ‘Away upstairs hen, I’ll deal with their questions.’ When she left the room he half sat against the kitchen table.

  Anderson started things off. ‘Can you account for your whereabouts this morning Mr Osbourne?’

  ‘I went to get a new pair of secateurs at Dobbies. Other than that I’ve been at home.’

  Campbell held back the smile from his lips at the rehearsed lie.

  ‘So you didn’t visit Chancellor Street?’

  A shake of the head. ‘I’m not even sure where that is.’

  Anderson pressed forward. ‘It’s where Marie Mason lives.’

  ‘Who?’

  Campbell stepped into the conversation. ‘She’s a woman who was raped this morning.’

  ‘What’s that got to do wi’ me?’

  ‘The description she gave of her rapist matches you. You were caught by CCTV coming out of her house and climbing into a car. The car is registered to your name at this address.’

  Osbourne’s eyes flicked to the door his wife had left through. When he spoke his voice was restrained to the barest whisper as he looked at Campbell ‘I’ve a wee piece down there. I slipped along to see her while the wife was getting Chelsea dressed.’ A shrug accompanied his words while his expression was set to ‘we’re all men of the world’.

  Campbell looked him up and down making a point to focus on his still gloved hands and the tattoos on his bare arms.

  ‘So you don’t know Marie Mason then?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘That’s odd because you bear an uncanny resemblance to the description she gave of her attacker.’

  ‘I do?’ Osbourne’s question was a bluff and everyone in the room knew it.

  Campbell moved in for the kill. ‘DC Anderson, can you remind me point by point the description Miss Mason gave of her attacker?’

  ‘A mole on the right cheek.’

  ‘Check.’ Campbell pointed at Osbourne’s mole.

  ‘A bald head.’

  ‘Check.’

  Osbourne tried to dismiss their evidence. ‘Lots of people have a bald head and a mole on their cheek.’

  ‘Silver moustache.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Still not uncommon.’

  ‘A Rangers crest tattooed on the right forearm and the name ‘Vicky’ tattooed on the inside of the left forearm.’

  ‘Check and check. Would you take of your gloves please Mr Osbourne.’

  Osbourne hesitated but capitulated under Campbell’s stare. One by one he pulled his gloves off with an obvious reluctance.

  Campbell tried without success to keep the smile out of his voice when he spoke. ‘You have marks on your right hand synonymous with having punched someone Mr Osbourne. Coupled with the fact you were recorded on camera entering the building where Miss Mason lives, and the fact you are a perfect fit for the description she gave of her rapist and attacker I’m left with no choice but to arrest you for the rape and assault of one Marie Mason.’

  Campbell read Osbourne his full rights before pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

  ‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand Mr Osbourne. Why?’

  What little bravado was left in Osbourne drained away as he contemplated the trouble he was in. When he spoke it was with the self-pity of the wronged, the victim harmed by life’s injustices.

  ‘I wanted to make her pay for what she’s done to my little girl. My Vicky had just turned eighteen when she got hooked on the shite that woman sells. Now she’s a junkie who sucks cocks just to get enough money to buy her next fix. For the last two years she’s been whoring herself to anyone in possession of a few quid and a hard on. Every penny she makes goes to that evil bitch. She hasn’t seen Chelsea since she was six months old and the way she’s going we’ll be burying her before long.’

  Campbell stayed quiet. Waiting until Osbourne was ready to continue with his explanation. ‘I wanted that bitch to see what it was like to be shagged by someone she didn’t want to shag. I needed to show her what my little girl has to endure to feed her habit.’

  ‘So you forced yourself on her?’

  ‘Damn straight, I did. I even popped a Viagra to make sure I was up to fucking the evil bitch.’

  Campbell’s heart went out to the man. Osbourne’s worry and grief for his daughter’s plight had driven him to seek revenge of the basest kind. When his story was retold in court, he would be deprived of his freedom, as the justice system added further insult to an already grievous injury.

  Campbell led a disconsolate Osbourne out to the car while Anderson placated a distraught Annie.

  As soon as the wheels of the car started turning Campbell put a call into the CSM who’d been at Marie’s flat. Not getting the information he was hoping for he called the station and issu
ed a terse set of instructions to the Duty Sergeant.

  * * * *

  With Osbourne deposited in a cell until the results of the forensic tests came back, there was time to kill before interviewing him. Postponing the paperwork, Campbell was the first through Marie Mason’s door, a warrant in his hand.

  The shock on her face when she read the warrant wasn’t deep enough to hide the fear in her eyes.

  Her protestations of innocence had the ring of falsehood as she tried to bluff her way out of trouble.

  ‘Marie.’ Campbell held her eye with a stern gaze as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘These guys can tear your home apart looking for the stash of drugs we all know you have, or you can save us the trouble and tell us where to find them. Because believe you me, we will find them.’

  Campbell watched as Marie’s good eye passed from one determined PC to another. Each one armed with a wrecking bar or some other tool which could be used to dismantle anything they wanted to look behind, inside or under.

  While it wasn’t her house they’d be wrecking, it was her home. When her landlord learned of the mess they’d make, she’d be evicted. Homeless, until a kindly judge gave her a new home. A home that was eight feet by twelve, with barred windows.

  ‘Well?’

  A sigh forced its way through pursed lips. ‘There’s a loose floorboard under the bed.’

  Two of the PCs brushed past Campbell as they went to investigate. A minute later they returned with a paper bag in each hand. Looking into the bags Campbell saw wraps, pills and small blocks of dope.

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘Yes Marie the money.’ Campbell waved a hand at her belongings. ‘I can see you haven’t spent much of the money you’ve made, so I ask again, where have you stashed it?’

  Defiance leaked from Marie for the second time in as many minutes. Lifting a seat cushion from an armchair, she pushed her hand through a tear in the fabric into the bowels of the chair and pulled out a carrier bag. Bundles of twenty pound notes showed through the thin plastic walls.