Scream, You Die

by Fowler, Michael

  Suddenly, Jamie Hill leaned forward. “Me and Dane killing a woman? You have got to be kidding!”

  Scarlett never flinched. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  Jamie pointed a finger. Scarlett noticed his dirty fingernail.

  “Look it’s not me and Dane you need to be talking to. It’s that geezer with the four-by-four who was there that morning.”

  Scarlett froze for a second. “What did you say?”

  Jamie broke into a wry smile and wagged his grubby finger. “That’s got you hasn’t it, Miss Smart Arse? You didn’t know about him did you? Trying to stitch me up instead.”

  “Jamie, tell me who you saw on River Lane. This is important.”

  “Ha! Treating me different now aren’t you?”

  Sternly, Scarlett said, “Jamie, just tell me about the man you saw on River Lane the night you stole the BMW.”

  He rubbed his face vigorously and took a deep breath. He let it out with a prolonged “Harrumph.” Then he said, “Look, alright, me and Dane did nick that BMW. And, like you say, we did have a bit of fun with the traffic cops and had a bit of a chase. But that’s what it was – a bit of fun, nothing else. You’re also right about trying to fire it.” He sighed, “I can’t really deny that seeing it was my T-shirt. But we had nothing to do with dumping any body. Fuck me!”

  “Just tell me what happened that night, Jamie. Especially about who and what you saw on River Lane.”

  “Well, after we had that chase, we decided we should dump the car, so we drove around looking for a good place to leave it. That’s when we came to that lane. Dane knew the area and he said there was this jetty down there. We were going to drive down and push it in the river, but as we got near the bottom we spotted this black four-by-four. It had its brake lights on. We thought at first it was a cop car, then realised it wasn’t – it was this Audi, top-of-the-range job. Anyway, the driver’s door was open – it was lit up inside, and this big fucking geezer was standing by the door. Dane was driving, spotted the car last minute ’cos we were larking about, and he braked too hard and we skidded. That’s when the bloke looked round at us. I tell you the way he looked at us was scary. He looked like he wanted to fucking kill us. And he was built like a brick shit house. Not the type you wanted to mess with at all, I tell you. So I told Dane to get us the fuck out of there. He slammed the car into reverse and we fucked off. That’s when we drove to that car park where you found the car. We waited there for a good hour, ready to leg it, the first sign of the four-by-four, but it didn’t come so we decided to fire it and fuck off. You’ve already mentioned the rest. We went along the towpath, just checking the four-by-four had gone, and then made our way to the main road and caught the bus. That’s when we bumped into that man walking the dog.

  Scarlett leaned in. “Jamie, just going back to the man with the four-by-four in River Lane – did you know him?”

  He shook his head. “Never seen him before. And never want to meet him, thank you very much.”

  “Would you be able to describe him?”

  “I’ve told you about him already.”

  “No, I mean do you think you’d be able to do an e-fit for us.”

  “You mean like a witness?”

  Scarlett nodded.

  “Fuck me, I don’t know about being a witness. I ain’t no fucking grass.”

  “We might be able to pull some strings regarding the burglary charge.”

  Jamie turned to look at his solicitor.

  With arched eyebrows Trevor Campbell nodded.

  Jamie returned his gaze to Scarlett. “You mean some kind of deal?”

  “We can put in a good word for you, Jamie.”

  He flashed a cocky grin. “Drop the charges and I’m interested.”

  Scarlett smiled. There was some work to do yet but this latest piece of information would certainly kick-start the murder enquiry.

  Thirty

  “Latest update,” said DCI Diane Harris, pointing the remote at the large interactive screen in the incident room. An image appeared. It was full body e-fit of a squat, heavy-built man, clean shaven, with a shaven head, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing, consisting of a mid-length leather jacket and jeans. She continued, “New suspect.” She turned to face her seated team, “As you can see the facial features are not good, but this is a start. This man was seen on River Lane by both Jamie Hill and Dane Rolletts in the early hours of the morning before our body in the suitcase was found. He was standing beside a dark, believed black, Audi Q7. We haven’t got a reg number for that vehicle but it was definitely an Audi Q7, described as being the latest model. Both of them were interviewed separately and gave us the same make and model – and these two toerags know their cars.” She let the information settle in the thoughts of the team for a few seconds. “After they nicked the BMW from Hounslow they say they drove down River Lane with the intention of dumping the car in the river off the jetty, but they came across this car. It was stationary in the middle of the road and our suspect was standing beside the open driver’s door and he turned round as they approached. Rolletts braked, skidded and reversed back up the lane, and then drove the car to where it was later found abandoned in the car park at Ham House. One of the interesting things Rolletts said is that he also saw the passenger door of this four-by-four open, and he got the impression that our suspect had been watching someone before they disturbed him. Now this could be completely innocent, but I think you know where I’m going with this. My thoughts are that whoever was the passenger in that vehicle was dumping the suitcase, and this guy” – she aimed the remote back at the e-fit – “was keeping a lookout.”She lowered the remote. “This e-fit, together with the make and model of the Audi, will be circulated to all Metropolitan Police areas this afternoon for sightings and report. There will be a fresh action allocated to monitor and chase up any responses.” Diane Harris triggered the remote again and three head-and-shoulders images of white females appeared. She glanced at them briefly and then returned her gaze to the room. “Okay, moving on. These are the three young women who were detained following the house fire in Camden Town last December. Because of the raids and arrests yesterday I decided to shortcut things and got DS Ashdown to phone Immigration and do the initial enquiry that way.” She nodded at her detective sergeant on the front row. “Can I bring you in Gary – tell everyone what you learned.”

  DS Ashdown remained seated. Pushing his fingers through his hair he angled his body so that he could talk to most of the team. “As the gaffer says, I contacted Immigration at Dover yesterday morning and spoke with a supervisor in their intelligence unit and told him what I was after. It didn’t take him long to find these girls’ files. We’ve already heard that the officer who investigated the fire said that two of the girls were from Slovakia and one from Lithuania, but whereas the officer didn’t get their full details, because they wouldn’t fully cooperate, Immigration did.” Gary Ashdown flicked his head toward the screen. “Going left to right we have Bozka Reznick, twenty-two years old, and Danika Kovac, twenty-one. These are Slovakian. In a nutshell, the girls told Immigration that they were tricked into believing that they had a job in the UK and willingly flew across here, only to be forced into prostitution once they had arrived. They say they were both raped by their abductors and repeatedly threatened. They were moved around several addresses for about eighteen months and had been in the house where the fire was for only a couple of weeks. They refused to name any of those involved in the trafficking, other than to say they were Albanian, and wouldn’t divulge any of the addresses where they had worked for fear of reprisals against them and their families. Although their passports had been taken by their abductors they gave full details of where they were from and chose to be returned home. They were flown back to Slovakia within weeks following the fire and didn’t come back for the inquest. Immigration has supplied me with their details and I have faxed Interpol with a view to them being traced and interviewed.” He flashed a glance at DCI Harris and
continued. “The last girl is Greta Aglinsky. She was nineteen when this photograph was taken. Greta wasn’t as forthcoming as the other two. In fact the Immigration intel officer says she was petrified at what might happen to her family back in Lithuania. So other than give her personal details and confirm she was Lithuanian, she wouldn’t tell them where she was from in Lithuania, and she wouldn’t give any details of how she had been brought to this country. He told me that because they couldn’t confirm anything and that because she hadn’t got a passport they were obliged to release her after the customary three months. She was put up in a B&B in Dover but she disappeared within days. They have no idea where she currently is. She could be back out on the streets, and so with that in mind I’ve spoken with a couple of my ex-colleagues in Vice and sent them her details.” The DS nodded his head at DCI Harris, indicating he had finished.

  Diane Harris stepped towards the screen and slapped a hand over the photo of Greta Aglinsky. “There is an outside chance that Greta here could be our victim. Certainly in terms of her build and her age she fits the profile. So with that in mind we are cross-matching her DNA with that of our victim. I have asked for it to be prioritised, so we should know within the next two days if it is her or not.”

  Thirty-one

  After morning briefing Scarlett grabbed a coffee and set to work on her report, detailing the outcome of the previous day’s raids and arrests of Jamie Hill and Dane Rolletts, while her partner Tarn teamed up and went out with Ella Bloom on murder enquiries, chasing up possible suppliers of the suitcase the body had been found in.

  Following Jamie’s and Dane’s confessions, and after getting the e-fit of the shaven-haired man on River Lane together with witness statements, she had handed over the pair to Southall CID to finish off the interrogation. Now she had to chase things up, so she put in a phone call to the DS leading the investigation. He proudly told her that Jamie and Dane had gone on to admit another ten burglaries and car thefts and had also given up the two other members of their team. They had been released on bail late last night and this morning detectives were currently out hunting down the other two thieves. Finishing the conversation Scarlett thanked him, but as she hung up she sighed. On the one hand, the information and result would make for good reading, but on the other she knew all she was doing was justifying the cost of resources used on the operation. She thought it was quite sad that everything boiled down to money these days.

  Scarlett finished the report just before midday, and pushing back her chair took in the office. Only the office team were in: DS Brent Collins and DC Carolyn Young were at their desks, both of them on their computers. DI Taylor-Butler was sitting at Gary Ashdown’s empty desk, on the phone. She knew that protocol determined that her report should first be seen by him, but following the debacle with the Lycra Rapist file she no longer trusted him with important paperwork. Deciding to bypass him, she headed off down the corridor and dropped it in the DCI’s tray on her way out for lunch, during which she texted Alex to see if he had anything on the address they had tracked Rose’s friend to. He didn’t reply and she returned to work feeling slightly deflated.

  The day went slowly. Scarlett ploughed through her backlog of paperwork and began work on the Lycra Rapist Crown Court file. She still hadn’t heard back from Housing or Benefits and chased that up but the enquiry still hadn’t been done. Biting her lips she asked if it could be prioritised. The woman she was speaking with said she’d put it to the top of her list, but detecting a lack of enthusiasm in the woman’s voice, Scarlett ended the call with a heavy sigh.

  Tarn and Ella returned late afternoon with no positive news. They had been unable to trace suppliers of the suitcase or even its country of manufacture. And so evening briefing was a quick affair, with nothing of note being offered up by anyone from the team. Afterwards, the majority decamped to the pub, but Scarlett wasn’t in the mood to stay, and after a swift lager she bid everyone goodnight and left for home.

  ****

  Unlocking the front door, she had just switched on her hallway light and deactivated the house alarm when her BlackBerry rang. Back-heeling the door shut she whipped out her phone and, recognising Alex’s number, answered.

  He said, “Sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier Scarlett, I had to go into the office and follow up on some enquiries.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. No problem,” she lied. “I just wondered if you’d heard anything.”

  “I have, actually. My contact from the council got back to me this afternoon. I couldn’t speak with her but she left me a voicemail. Got some quite interesting info.”

  After a couple of seconds silence Scarlett prompted, “Come on then, don’t keep me on tenterhooks. What have you learned?”

  “I was going to tell you next time we meet.”

  “Don’t you dare, Alex King.”

  He let out a short laugh. “I don’t know, you’re so impatient.”

  “Only because this is my sister. You don’t know what it’s like. I’ve been trying to find her for years, not knowing if she’s alive or dead. This is the closest I’ve got.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you the gist of what she’s told me and then we’ll sort something out.” He paused. “It seems that guy we followed is part of a ragtag of squatters – street musicians and artists. Well I say ragtag, but they’re actually very well organised. It would seem that they’ve occupied the flat we followed him to for the last couple of months. The owner died, and because he’d got no family the council had to clean it out. Apparently they left the window open after finishing one night and this group got in. Since then they’ve paid the bills and reconnected the utilities and the council are now having to go through the courts to get them evicted. Not surprising, it’s not the first time this bunch have done this.”

  “Any names?”

  Alex let out another short laugh, “A Mr John Smith is the name everything’s billed to.”

  “Very original.”

  “Anyway, the council have done a doorstep visit and they’ve reported that at least a dozen people occupy the place. Now I guess this is not something you’re going to be able to tackle legitimately with a posse of cops, so given the numbers living there you’re going to have to come up with something pretty resourceful to get inside.”

  Scarlett lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ve already given it some thought and I think I’ve come up with something to get us inside.”

  “Why don’t I like the sound of the word ‘us’. Is this going to end in pain?”

  “Course not. Trust me, I’m a cop,” she laughed, ending the call.

  Thirty-two

  The next morning Scarlett was out with Tarn, on enquiries, when the call came through that a body had been found in a dumpster on the Patmore Estate in Battersea. Uniform were already on scene and Communications were requesting that she attend. She set the postcode into the dashboard computer and Tarn began weaving his way through heavy traffic, occasionally leaving the main thoroughfare and using side streets as shortcuts, but in spite of some fast and erratic driving it still took them half an hour to get to their destination, a housing project comprising of a series of medium-rise flats and apartments only a stone’s throw from the old Battersea power station.

  Entering the estate, it wasn’t hard to find the precise location of the discovery – directly in front of them the place was swarming with Uniform and a large number of the residents were milling around in disparate small groups.

  Scarlett could see that a barrier of crime scene tape had been wrapped around a number of street lamps, sealing off-road access, and fencing in a good section of footpath and grassed area, either side of two blocks of flats. Several officers were doing their best to corral the nosy group of onlookers into the left-hand area of the cordon.

  Tarn nosed their unmarked car toward the kerb and parked.

  Scarlett got out. It was beginning to rain. She looked up, took in the heavy obsidian clouds dominating the sky and groaned. It looked like she w
as in for another soaking. She was fed up; it had done nothing else but rain for the best part of the week. She reached back inside the car and dragged her coat off the back seat, and as she slipped it on took in the theatre playing out before her, sympathising with the plight of the officers who were doing there level best to prevent contagion of the crime scene by a group of residents who were doing there level best to get the best view of whatever was happening on their estate.

  Taking out their protective suits from the boot, Scarlett and Tarn headed toward the left-hand block of flats, where they spotted an active clump of uniformed officers. As they neared, a slim dark-haired female sergeant peeled away from the group and came to meet them. Scarlett recognised her: Abbie Wilson. She had been on the same group at Hammersmith when she had joined the police force nine years ago.

  The sergeant greeted her, “Hi Scarlett. Long time, no see. I heard you’d gone into Homicide and Serious Crime.”

  “Hi Abbie, yeah, been there just over two years.” She patted three fingers across her upper arm and said, “I see you’ve made sergeant. Congratulations.”

  Abbie smoothed a hand over the three stripes on her left sleeve and smiled proudly. “Yeah, eighteen months now. Took me four attempts, though. Time flies, eh? Doesn’t seem two minutes since you and I were patrolling together.”

  Without warning a flashback of images cascaded from her subconscious. Seventh of July 2005. She and Abbie had been on patrol together when the first calls came in of a series of explosions on the London Underground and then later on a double-decker bus. She and Abbie had been whisked across to Tavistock Square to deal with the aftermath of the bus blast. Scarlett had nursed quite a number of seriously injured people that day following the suicide bombings. Occasionally, when she least expected it, like now, the imagery still visited her. She chased away the spectre, and tightening her mouth said, “Doesn’t seem five minutes ago, hey Abbie? Some things you can’t forget.” Then, unpursing her lips, said, “Anyway, what have you got for us? Communications said something about a body in a dumpster.”