ABOUT THIS BOOK
Trespass
STEPHEN EDGER
VICTIM
September 1989: Beth Roper is a single mother struggling to earn enough money to take care of her four year-old daughter, Lauren. One night, she is followed home by a stranger who forces his way in and brutally assaults her whilst her daughter sleeps in the next room.
ATTACKER
May 1993: Known deviant, Nathan Green is on trial for the violent assault of two women and the murder of a third. The trial forces the victims to confront the man whose eyes they will never forget. He is eventually sentenced to life in prison, but it doesn’t feel like justice for one of the victims.
ACCUSER
November 2013: Following her mother’s passing, a now adult Lauren Roper hires Private Investigator Johnson Carmichael to prove that it was Nathan Green who assaulted her mother back in 1989. The trouble is Nathan Green has just been murdered by a fellow inmate during a prison riot.
With no evidence, no witnesses and only the fragile memory of the client to work with, this is a case Carmichael doesn’t want. However, when he begins to ask questions and his life is threatened, he learns there is more to Lauren’s claims than first thought.
TRESPASS
Fear, murder, revenge, and suspense: Trespass is a gritty British thriller examining the horrifying effects of sexual assault.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Stephen Edger 2013
Stephen Edger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
STEPHEN EDGER
Trespass
08 SEPTEMBER 1989
1
‘Are you sure you won’t catch a cab home with us?’
Beth Roper looked back at her friend’s pleading eyes but shook her head.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she promised. ‘My place is only just up the road…I’ll probably make it home before you lot do.’
‘I know, I know…look, I’m just worried about you. It’s so dark and…’
Beth placed two reassuring hands on her friend’s shoulders and smiled warmly.
‘I’ll be okay, Rose. Now, you two better get going before the driver doubles your fare for keeping him waiting.’
The two friends embraced and said their farewells before the door closed and the taxi pulled away into the cool night air. Beth waited until the car was out of sight and then turned to walk in the opposite direction. She fished in her clutch purse and removed a pair of headphones, placing a fuzzy ear piece on each ear and pressing the play button on her Walkman. Alice Cooper was nearing the end of Poison when the Top of the Pops presenter’s voice cut in to say the song had risen two places to second spot this week. Beth smiled. She knew that recording songs from the radio on a Thursday night was some kind of copyright infringement but, on her low income, it was the only way she could afford the latest songs.
It was quite a walk from the High Spot nightclub in the St. Mary’s area of Southampton back to her small one bedroom flat in Portswood. It was a journey she had made a dozen or so times before in her young adult life, although not as many times as she would have liked. The clock on the wall of the club had indicated it was eleven thirty as they had left, and she knew she would probably be reprimanded by her neighbour Cynthia for being late back again, but it had been difficult to convince her friends that it was time she left. She had told them they could stay on, but that she had to get back to relieve the babysitter.
Cynthia lived in the flat next door and was always happy to watch over little Lauren when Beth had to work. The routine was the same every Friday night: Beth would head to the offices she cleaned at seven and would return at eleven. She had phoned in sick this evening after her best friend Rose had convinced her to go out for a birthday drink. Beth had eventually accepted the invitation with the stipulation that she still had to be home by eleven o’clock so that Cynthia didn’t suspect something was amiss. They had arrived at the club just after nine and the drinks had soon started flowing. Beth had tried to remain sensible, sipping on a club soda, while the others knocked back shots of cheap liquor. As the night had worn on, Rose’s badgering had increased until the only way Beth could stop her nagging was to join in. Every time she had then tried to say it was time to leave, Rose had ordered another round of drinks.
Beth was sure Cynthia wouldn’t have minded watching over Lauren while she went out for an evening, after all it had been too long since she had, however she wasn’t the sort of girl who liked to take liberties with the kindness of friends.
Beth felt a bit giddy as she walked along the quiet footpaths of Bevois Valley. The shops to her left and right had metal shutters drawn down and it was only the occasional orange shimmer of a streetlight and the moon’s arc that guided the way. She was dressed in a denim mini skirt, flat shoes and a crop top. The thin leather strap of her purse was looped across her shoulders like a sash. The Walkman continued to pump pop music into her ears and a cool breeze blowing at her legs hastened the journey.
A couple of occupied taxis drove past, but Beth was oblivious to their noise. She was approaching the quietest part of her journey home, the small stretch of road between Bevois Valley and the bright lights of Portswood’s high street. There was a hidden pathway separated from the road by a large row of trees. It was incredible how the vegetation provided such a sound barrier; it was like walking in a vacuum. It was the part of the journey that Beth dreaded the most; not that anything unusual had ever happened to her along this part of her route, but she had heard stories, more rumours, of women being interfered with here. She wasn’t one to listen to idle gossip normally, but, as she stepped in behind the trees, with only the light of the moon to show the edge of the path, suddenly all those stories flooded her mind.
‘Did you hear what happened in the Valley the other night?’ one of the customers in the newsagent’s had said. ‘Young lass was confronted by a flasher…he had his bits out on display…only wearing a rain mac he was.’
‘My sister’s daughter’s best friend thought she felt someone watching her when she was there,’ said another customer’s voice in Beth’s head.
‘The police reckon there’s all manner of perverts in the Valley,’ said a third voice.
Beth looked around uneasily. It was near impossible to make out the line of trees.
You’re just being silly, Beth told herself. There’s nobody here, just keep walking and get home.
She took a deep breath and continued her walk.
Nobody is watching you!
She hadn’t noticed how slow her pace had become as one tentative foot was placed in front of the other.
Bette Midler’s Wind Beneath My Wings cut in. Beth tried to hum along.
It’s all in your head.
She turned to look at the entrance to the path but could barely distinguish it. Ahead was only more darkness.
Don’t turn back. Just keep going; it will be over with soon enough.
She stopped, pulled the headphones from her ears and listened.
It was deathly quiet.
She took another step forward.
A twig snapped somewhere off to the right. She turned in the direction of the noise but could see nothing.
You’re imagining things.
She took another step forward and paused.
If there really is someone there, you’d be better off running to the end of the pathway.
S
he shuffled forward again.
Leaves ruffled behind her.
Run!
Beth leapt forward, her feet now taking giant strides as she plunged further into the engulfing darkness. Something reached out and scratched her left arm. She threw out a limb to fend it off, causing her feet to divert to the right. This time something scratched her right forearm. Beth kept running, both arms now swinging wildly in front of her, as she vowed not to become a victim.
A light began to grow ahead of her. As she threw one foot down ahead of the other, the light intensified; calling to her. Breathless she fought off her invisible attacker until she burst through the last of the trees and into the orange glow ahead. An approaching car bathed her in bright light. She turned to identify her pursuer but the pathway was empty. She glanced at both arms and saw a small scratch on each where stray twigs had caught her during her snaking sprint.
She remained for another minute, just staring into the abyss and taking deep breaths, but nobody emerged.
Satisfied that her paranoia was now in check, she returned the headphones to her ears and continued the walk home. As she did, she thought about Lauren. Conceived during a drunken tryst at a friend’s free house, her parents had been appalled when their fifteen year old pride and joy had told them she was pregnant. She had been unable to take her O-Levels that year but had shown great determination to return the following year and achieve a pass in both English and Mathematics. As soon as Lauren had arrived, Beth’s mother’s staunch attitude had softened significantly and she had been only too happy to support her. Beth’s father had been less keen and after several violent arguments he had fled the marital home.
Her first sexual experience was one she deeply regretted for so many reasons: it had been very painful, she had not climaxed herself, and the boy involved was a spotty geek with halitosis; not the kind of boy she had imagined settling down with. But every cloud has a silver lining, as the saying goes, and Lauren Marie Roper represented Beth’s proudest achievement. Now four years old, Lauren amazed her every day with the new words she would learn and the way she would share her thoughts with the merest of facial expressions. Every night Beth offered a silent prayer of thanks that she had such a special daughter.
The boy, Darren Watkins, had denied having sex with Beth when the baby-bump started to develop. At one point he even denied being present at the party, until someone else said they had seen him there. In some ways it was a relief for Beth as she really didn’t want to have to settle for dorky Darren. However, she would have preferred for it to be her choice that he had no involvement with their daughter rather than his. She had never told her parents who the father was, claiming she had been too drunk to remember; it was probably this lie that ultimately caused the breakdown of her parent’s marriage. Beth had hoped that Darren was just too drunk to remember his participation in the act, but she knew she was probably lying to herself. He was just a scared little boy, and that was something she just didn’t need in her life: besides, it was his loss, not hers.
Bon Jovi’s’ Lay Your Hands On Me started as Beth turned the corner into her road. Her flat, one of six in the complex was at the far end of the road, but several of the streetlights were out of action, making the last hundred or so metres, almost as dark as the footpath in the Valley. As she walked along quietly, the feeling that she was being watched returned. It was as if someone’s eyes were burning into the back of her neck; it made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
You’re nearly there, just keep going.
Beth quickened her pace, simultaneously pressing the stop button on the Walkman, but leaving the headphones in place. To the untrained eye, it would appear she was still listening to her portable stereo but the truth was she could hear everything around her. The cool breeze whistled as her pace reached its peak. And then…
The unmistakeable sound of footsteps on the pavement behind her. The filter of fuzz on her ears made it impossible to judge the distance, but there was definitely the sound of shoes on concrete.
Keep going.
The sound grew louder.
It’s probably just someone walking home too.
The steps were getting closer.
Beth fished in her purse for her house keys, only lowering her eyes for a split second to unfasten the clasp. Clutching the keys in her right hand she broke into a jog, determined to make it along the final fifty metres. The footsteps grew quieter, but she no longer cared; she had one goal: get to the front door.
She reached the property and plunged the key into the lock, turning and opening the door, before slamming it closed behind her. The complex had a communal entrance with a narrow hallway leading to the ground floor flats and a staircase upstairs to the remaining homes. Beth took several quick breaths before entering Flat 4, closing and fastening the safety catch behind her.
2
‘What bloody time do you call this?’ said a voice, the sudden noise catching Beth off guard.
‘Cynthia, I’m so sorry,’ she replied with a grimace.
‘The office must have relaxed its uniform requirements somewhat,’ Cynthia stated eyeing Beth’s limited attire. Beth’s eyes followed Cynthia’s and she silently cursed as she realised that she had forgotten to change her clothes on the eventful journey home. She tried to think of an excuse, but her imagination let her down.
‘I’m sorry, Cynthia,’ she said, scrunching her face, ‘I should have said something earlier; I didn’t go to work tonight as it was my best friend’s birthday, and…’
‘And girls will be girls,’ Cynthia finished for her, the initial expression of concern softening to her usual warm smile. ‘It’s okay,’ Cynthia continued, moving closer and placing an arm around her shoulders, ‘I remember what it was like to be young. Just don’t go making a habit of it.’
‘I won’t,’ she promised, gratefully. ‘How was Lauren tonight?’
‘As good as gold, as she always is. She went down just before eight and I haven’t heard a peep out of her since.’
Cynthia lifted her coat from a peg near the door and slipped it over her shoulders.
‘What’s it like out? I presume it’s not too cold, judging by what you’re wearing?’
Beth wasn’t even sure she could recall what the climate had been like.
‘Is everything alright?’ Cynthia asked, sensing the younger woman’s confusion.
‘Yeah…I guess,’ she offered.
‘You seem distracted, Beth. I told you not to worry. All I’d ask is, next time just tell me you are going out for some fun. I think it’s a good thing actually. A young girl like you shouldn’t be at home alone every night; you should be fighting off admiring suitors with a stick.’
Beth blushed.
‘I tell you what,’ Cynthia continued, ‘I’ll pop round for a cup of tea tomorrow and let’s see if we can come up with a plan to improve your love-life. What do you say?’
The idea of discussing her intimate desires with her fifty year-old neighbour sounded horrible, but she nodded politely.
‘Go careful, won’t you?’ she said, as Cynthia opened the front door into the hallway. ‘There are some strange people out there.’
‘Heavens, Beth!’ Cynthia replied. ‘I only live two doors away. I’m pretty sure I can make it home in one piece. You kids really do have overactive imaginations!’
With that, the door was closed and Beth was left alone in her hallway. She remained in the same place for a moment, to gather her thoughts and to push the memory of her earlier paranoia to the back of her mind, before moving towards the living room and through to the bedroom she shared with Lauren. She carefully opened the door a crack and peaked in. Lauren was lying in the middle of the double bed, her head resting in the small gap between the two pillows. She stood watching her in a daydream for several minutes before a yawn brought her back.
What needs to be done?
It was practically Saturday morning and her mother was due to come round to watch Lauren while she covered a six
hour shift at the local newsagent’s. The lounge looked a state, with several of Lauren’s toys scattered across the floor. Cynthia always seemed reluctant to tidy up after she had been playing with Lauren but Beth knew that she had no place to criticise, given that Cynthia’s visits were voluntary. She started to collect up the toys and place them in the green plastic box in the corner of the room where all the toys lived. Her neck was aching and she felt exhausted but she knew her mother would be round before nine o’clock and there just wouldn’t be the time to tidy up first thing. Beth’s shift at the shop was going to start at ten as Mr Rajdhani was taking his wife out for the day. He would open the shop at six and prepare the papers, and Beth would relieve him before he returned at four to close up and count the takings.
As she brushed past the small coffee table next to the sofa, the envelope fell to the floor; memory of its contents thumped back to the front of her mind.
The letter had come the afternoon before, in the day’s second delivery. The handwriting had looked vaguely familiar and she had opened it eagerly. Her intrigue had been short-lived, however, when she discovered who had sent it.
Dorky Watkins. Or Darren, as he had signed it.
She had no idea how he had found her address, as it wasn’t listed in the telephone directory. He wanted to meet, so the letter said; he had a new vocation now and had decided it was time for him to take responsibility for his past mistakes. That’s big of him, she had thought. He ended the letter asking for her to telephone him to arrange to meet up. His return address confirmed that he no longer lived with his parents and that he was now living across the city in the Shirley area.
Why now?
Lauren was four years-old, it had been five years since that fateful night. What had changed to make him suddenly want to get acquainted with his offspring, having previously denied her existence?
Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) Page 1