Scream, You Die

by Fowler, Michael

  She and Tarn had spent the majority of the previous day interviewing him. Over three probing interrogation sessions he had refuted responsibility for any of the assaults, denied being the cyclist seen repairing a puncture and denied ever being in the grounds, other than on the night of his arrest. When pressed for an alibi for each of the attacks he had repeated that he was a single man who lived alone. Coming to the part when he had attacked undercover detective Ella Bloom he had calmly replied that it was she who had approached him, offering herself, and he had thought her to be a sex worker, and being offended by her proposition he had “merely grabbed hold of her and pushed her away,” insisting “he hadn’t attacked her”. She and Tarn had pressed and pressed but they had been unable to budge him from his story and mid-afternoon, drained and frustrated, they had led him back to his cell.

  Scarlett had become even more frustrated when she had presented the evidence to CPS and requested a holding charge of attempted rape with an application for a remand to prison. The CPS lawyer turned it down without hesitation, and it had led to some intense debate, during which the lawyer told her if she could get some supporting evidence he would reconsider. Scarlett scrambled back to the office and allocated Tarn and the other members of her syndicate the task of poring back over the witness statements and video evidence, while she searched out the female student who had seen the cyclist by the campus gates. She finally tracked her down to her boyfriend’s house in Richmond and sent a car for her, and while that was ongoing she hastily assembled a series of video mugshots for an identification parade. The twenty-year-old student viewed the footage twice, picking out James Green without hesitation. They had charged him yesterday evening and in celebration the squad had decamped en masse to the pub.

  Suddenly feeling buoyed, Scarlett settled back into the seat and began to read the newspaper report as Tarn pulled away from the kerb to begin the journey into work.

  Three

  On the way to the station Scarlett and Tarn called off at a deli for a tall latte each before continuing on their way through Wimbledon on heavily congested roads. In steady bumper-to-bumper traffic Scarlett bemoaned her previous night’s mugging again until Tarn interrupted.

  “If it’s any help, as soon as we get done on this job, I’ll help you find your muggers, personally torture them and then dump their bodies in the Thames. Now, will that shut you up?”

  Scarlett glanced sideways at her colleague. He was steering the car one-handed. In the other he gripped his cardboard cup of coffee.

  “Am I going on?”

  “Sergeant, you’re going on.”

  “You want me to shut up about my mugging?”

  “We’ve got a remand file to do for this afternoon’s court appearance. And we’ve got a fair bit of evidence to go through. I think we’ve got enough to worry about.”

  Scarlett pulled back her gaze, fixed her eyes on the slow-moving traffic. After several seconds of silence she said, “I promise I’ll not say another word about my mugging. And I’d be very grateful for your help when we’ve finished this job, but will you promise me one thing?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll let me do the torture?” Out of the corner of her eye she caught Tarn cracking a grin.

  ****

  The Homicide and Serious Crime Unit occupied the top floor of Sutton police station – a grand Victorian redbrick building on Carshalton Road. Two years ago the station had been renamed Patrick Dunne House in memory of a PC who was shot dead while following up the sound of gunfire in a street in which a nightclub bouncer had been murdered.

  Tarn managed to find a slot in the rear yard to park his car, and still clutching their coffees he and Scarlett made their way up the back stairs to the office.

  They entered a squad room exuding an atmosphere of unusual calm. The phones for once were silent. Scarlett noted that not everyone had made it in yet. Those that were in were chatting across desks, nursing warm drinks. No one had even booted up a computer. As she made her way to her desk she smiled to herself. She knew that in another half an hour all this would change, with everyone in full flow, each member playing their part in delivering justice.

  Dumping her bag on her desk and slipping her outer coat off she thought she’d take up the initiative of being the first to start up a computer, but as she reached across to switch on her desktop a voice from the back of the room stopped her in mid-action.

  “The DI wants to see you.”

  She recognised the voice of DS Gary Ashdown, her counterpart and supervisor of the other syndicate of detectives in the squad, but she still glanced over her shoulder to where he was seated. As usual, Gary’s wavy mop of dark brown hair was fashioned Liam Gallagher style and the knot of his tie hung below an unbuttoned collar. He was reclining back in his chair, holding a mug two-handed against his chest. A wry smile was playing on his lips. “Said to tell you as soon as you came in, and he didn’t sound best pleased.”

  She met his gaze. Something about Gary always made her shore up her defences. Sure, he was cheery enough and a good DS who got results, but there was this other side to him, this cocky air, as if he was better than everyone else, which grated on her. And he was always sucking up to the detective inspector, which she couldn’t abide.

  Scarlett dropped her bag onto her desk and rolled up her eyes, “When is he ever in a good mood?”

  “You’ve not been up to anything, have you?”

  “Nothing that you wouldn’t do, Gaz.” She returned with her own sardonic smile. Then, with a heavy sigh, she picked out a green elastic hairband from her top drawer, dragged back her hair from her face, gathered it into a ponytail and flicked the bunch over the back of her collar. As she strode towards the door she called back, “Best make myself presentable for Mein Führer.”

  Detective Inspector Hayden Taylor-Butler occupied an office two doors down from the squad room. As Scarlett approached she could see his door ajar. She stopped a metre before it and took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. She could feel her heart banging against her breastbone and she wasn’t even in his office yet. She dreaded being in his company, especially on her own. It wasn’t just that he was a bigoted, sexist, set-in-his-ways gaffer: they had history. The first time she introduced herself to the team he had made a snide comment about her being in the fast-track promotion system. She had occasionally experienced this during her time in uniform and in her early days in CID, and knew that to some, especially those in the latter years of service, her being groomed for early promotion was an irritation. Although it grieved her deeply that they should respond so bitterly she had learned to live with it. So when the DI had had his dig she had laughingly responded with, “We can’t all be blessed with brains as well as beauty.” It had been intended as light-hearted repost, but from the look on his face she knew she had pissed him off. Since then he had taken every opportunity to demean her and that had recently manifested into him sexually assaulting her. Four months ago, at Gary Ashdown’s barbeque, which she had reluctantly agreed to attend, he had pinched her bottom and told her that he could help her get her next promotion. She’d reacted by throwing lager all down his shirt and pretending it was a drunken accident. Half an hour later he confronted her on the upstairs landing when she came out of the toilet, pressed her against the wall and leaned in close to her face, his drunken and stale tobacco breath assaulting her nostrils. In a menacing tone he made it quite clear he had the power to destroy her career should she ever make anything of it. There had been many days since when she had considered calling it a day, but she reminded herself she had joined the job for a reason, and she had reached her position not just because of her law degree, but because she was a bloody good copper.

  She took another deep breath, held it for a good few seconds, exhaled slowly until she stopped shaking, and then stepped forward, rapping lightly on the DI’s door.

  Upon hearing a low muttered “Come in,” she pushed the door open.

  In the small narrow room
, DI Taylor-Butler was seated behind his sizeable desk. It took up a good proportion of the room and was a desk quite the opposite of her own – neat and uncluttered – and every time she viewed it, it always made her wonder what he actually did on a daily basis, especially when a job wasn’t running.

  She stepped into his office, already beginning to feel claustrophobic. “You wanted to see me?”

  The DI lifted his head slightly and gave her a scornful look. He didn’t offer a seat.

  Eyeing him carefully she couldn’t help but think that his heavily lined moustached face and balding head, with its pelmet of greying hair, gave him the appearance of being older than his forty-two years.

  He dropped his gaze to a piece of paper he was holding across his jotter. “I found this on my desk this morning. A copy of a report, by you, into the loss of your warrant card. You don’t need me to remind you that losing your warrant card is a discipline offence.”

  She knew only too well the problems that could arise were it to fall in the wrong hands. “Of course. But I didn’t lose it – it was stolen. In fact, if you’ve read my report properly you’ll see that I was robbed.”

  He shot up his gaze. “I hope that isn’t insolence, Detective Sergeant!” He flicked the sheet of paper. “Of course I’ve read it, that’s why I wanted to see you.” He locked eyes. “Is this really how it happened?”

  She bit her lip. “What do you mean, ‘Is this how it happened’? Of course that’s how it happened.”

  “Not pissed up? You were out celebrating last night.” He dropped his gaze back to Scarlett’s memo.

  “No I wasn’t ‘pissed up’! I only had two halves of lager. You can check with the team if you want. In fact, Detective Chief Inspector Harris was there – ask her if you don’t believe me.” She speared a finger towards the document he was holding. “That’s exactly how it happened. And for your information I haven’t been pissed up, as you put it, in years. That was a long time ago – unlike some of us.”

  His balding head shot up like a bolt. He fixed her with a vicious stare. “And what is that meant to infer?”

  Scarlett wanted to mention the incident at the barbeque but knew that wouldn’t be a good move.“Nothing.”

  “And it had better not be.”

  There was a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. The DI glared across his desk.

  She saw his eyes drift downwards and felt that he was looking at her cleavage. She immediately felt uncomfortable. She pulled her waist-length jacket tighter and folded her arms protectively. “Now that we’re settled this did happen, can I go?”

  He returned his gaze to meet hers. “Can I go what, DS Macey?”

  “Can I go, Sir?”

  “That’s better. You may be the blue-eyed darling following this latest job but just you remember your position in the team, Sergeant. And before you go back to the office tidy yourself up.”

  “Tidy myself up?”

  He pointed towards her face. “What have I said about that muck you insist on trowelling on each day? This is a place of work, not the cosmetics department of Debenhams. Now go and make yourself decent and look the professional you’re paid to be.”

  ****

  In the ladies washroom Scarlett gripped the edge of the vanity unit and stared into the mirror. She was livid. Her face and neck were covered in blotches and tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She fought back the urge to cry, taking a deep breath and holding it in, in an effort to regain her composure. Examining her reflection, she cursed herself for allowing that low-life shit of a DI get under her skin. Scarlett reminded herself again why she had joined this job.

  Keep it together. Don’t do anything silly.

  Out on the streets she could easily handle the likes of Taylor-Butler, but his superior rank prevented her from publicly tearing a strip off him. And she knew if she reported him it might make things worse – it was her word against his.

  What did Dad used to say?“Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

  Within a minute she could feel the calm returning. Releasing her vice-like grip and watching the colour return to her fingers she picked off a paper towel from the pile by the hand basin and dabbed at her lower lids. Then she returned her gaze to the mirror. Examining her face, it sometimes felt as if she was looking at another person. A little bit like Eleanor Rigby, from the Beatles song, “wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door”.

  And I’m buggered if I’m going to remove my make-up for that arsehole. He can just go and fuck himself!

  She cracked a grin back at her image. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to get her work done. She had a complex court remand file to prepare and a pile of exhibits to sort out.

  Four

  Grazyna Sabalis awoke to the sound of music. Pop music. Muted. Distant. She could recognise the tune but didn’t know the words. For a few seconds she lay there, staring up at the ceiling, letting the song wash around inside her head, then roamed her eyes around the room taking in her new surroundings; she’d been too tired last night. In fact, spotting her battered nylon suitcase propped against a wardrobe she realised that such had been her lethargy that she hadn’t even had the energy to unpack. She mentally pictured the few possessions that were inside the case and hoped that new clothes came with the new job.

  Grazyna continued surveying the bedroom. The limp curtains were translucent, allowing through a great deal of light, letting her see most of the room. There wasn’t much in it: the single bed she lay in, a battered bedside cabinet, dressing table and wardrobe, a yellowing landscape print on the wall opposite, but at least the carpet was fitted, and it was much warmer than the room she shared with her two sisters and three brothers back home. The thought of her family instigated a slideshow of memories to run inside her head, provoking a sudden tinge of sadness. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but allow herself a little smile; if this was the luxury she was to experience, things already looked positive and it jolted her into reminding herself the reason why she was here, in England: not only to make a good life for herself but to be in a position to provide for her loving family back in her village.

  For that she was grateful to Andrius. She wouldn’t be here had it not been for a chance encounter with him and Henrikas.

  ****

  Two months ago, she and her friend Kofryna had bumped into the two good-looking young men from the next village while out shopping in Alytus, the main town in Dzukija region of Lituania. Andrius and Henrikas had quickly made an impression and followed them around for the best part of an hour, charming them into going for coffee. It had not been difficult saying yes, especially when they had offered to pay, and she and Kofryna had spent two hours in their company being captivated by their stories of travel through Europe, especially of how they had found work in London, England, and made themselves a small fortune. They had been so enthralled by the pair that they had missed the last bus home, throwing them into a panic. Andrius had been so kind and offered to give them a lift home in his Mercedes. She had returned to her remote farming village feeling like a princess. It had been such a special moment, and before he had driven away he had given her his mobile number and told her to give him a ring. That night, as she lay in her shared bed, listening to the soft snores of her brothers and sisters beside her, she toyed with the piece of paper Andrius had written his phone number on and replayed the stories that he and his friend Henrikas had regaled them with. She had been unable to shake his vision from her head and became overwhelmed by a sensation she had never felt before. Her stomach had turned-turtle so many times that night and she ached to see him again. Not only was he handsome, but far more wealthy than any other person she knew, and his lifestyle had sounded so idyllic in comparison to the future she had before her. After a restless night she met up with Kofryna and while toiling in the fields talked of nothing else but their meeting with Andrius and Henrikas. She hadn’t been alone in her feelings. Kofryna was also smitten with Henrikas, and so after finishing work that day s
he made the call and arranged to meet up with them again.

  ****

  The following Saturday, Grazyna took her time getting ready, bathing herself for longer and sneaking away a little of her mother’s “special” perfume before donning her best cotton dress. She was embarrassed about her scuffed shoes but she couldn’t do anything about them – they were the only “best” pair she had. She rubbed them against the back of her calves, trying to put a shine onto the toes, hoping that Andrius wouldn’t notice them.

  She met Kofryna on the edge of the village, looked her up and down and told her how good she looked, especially how much she liked her cardigan. Kofryna repaid the compliment about her dress, and with big smiles the pair linked arms and excitedly skipped their way along the dirt track the half mile to the metalled road where the bus stopped.

  As usual it was late and overcrowded, and they had to squash themselves into the aisle and remain standing throughout the three-quarters-of-an-hour journey into Alytus.