Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  The police allowed her to take as much time off as she needed. She was offered any posting she wanted, but she didn’t want to leave the CID. When a vacancy arose on the Major Incident Team she successfully applied. Now work was a welcome distraction.

  Achievement to Sam didn’t mean climbing the ranks. It meant solving crimes, bringing some sort of sense of justice to victims. It also meant getting that true sense of satisfaction when the bad guys were convicted. She liked the feeling of making a difference. To her, that was what policing was all about. Being able to put her head on her pillow, knowing that she had, in some small way, made a difference.

  She hurried inside, thankful the central heating had automatically come on.

  She turned on some music, crashed into the deep armchair and allowed the sounds of Amy Winehouse to drift over her.

  Monday

  Startled, Sam looked around to discover where she was. Home. Feeling very cold and with absolutely no idea of the time, her blurry eyes sought out the clock on the living room wall. 2am. The central heating had long since switched itself off.

  Dragging herself upstairs, she hurriedly undressed, dropping all of her clothes on the floor. She was in bed within minutes, without brushing her teeth or washing her face. She could concentrate on nothing but sleep.

  And yet as soon as her head hit the pillow, her eyes were as wide as dinner plates. Sleep wouldn’t come easy, but it was nothing to do with this latest investigation. She had already formulated the lines of inquiry, had a media strategy in mind, and knew how many people she needed.

  Sleep would be difficult because she was a woman alone in her home at night. She was only too well aware she was dealing with a serial rapist, a monster who struck in the dead of night, and she knew he would never stop until he was caught.

  He was comfortable operating on the Gull and Conifer Estates, so maybe he lived on one of them. Eventually, Sam knew, he would travel further but not yet. It was too soon. His type liked to stay close to home at first, living in the midst of his victims, watching them, learning their habits, establishing when they would be home alone.

  Shooting bolt upright, her whole body stiff, she asked herself the question she had been avoiding all day. What if he’s watching me? It wouldn’t be the last time that night she found herself checking every window in her house. Like a young child with an overactive imagination, she saw shadows and shapes everywhere.

  The fact no windows were broken did nothing to ease her anxiety. Wishing she had a German Shepherd police dog, she left the landing light switched on and the wall lights shining above her head. She would sleep at some point, but not now.

  The fear she was feeling tonight was going to spread tomorrow. Other single women would feel it when she released carefully chosen details of this latest attack to the media. There was a balancing act between increasing the fear of crime and getting the information they needed to progress the investigation. She needed to warn people to report anything suspicious, and she needed women who lived alone to report broken windows immediately to the police.

  While the investigation worked to discover his identity, she had to do her best to thwart any further attacks.

  The balancing act would no doubt fail tomorrow.

  Ed also tossed and turned in his bed that night. Sue slept soundly next to him, her earlier outburst not affecting her sleep, but his mind was a whirl of thoughts. Not that he was thinking about her words. His mind had a single focus. Waiting for the rapist to make a mistake wasn’t an option. Nor was waiting for him to be confronted in a victim’s house because a woman wasn’t alone on the night he decided to strike. Ed needed to think of a way to catch him, and catch him quickly. Any delay would mean more victims, no question. Forget any potential outrage from the press if the rapist kept offending. There were senior cops who would deal with the media. He just wanted to catch the bastard as soon as possible, and glare into his eyes. He hated these bastards. He knew on a personal level the deep devastation they caused.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ed rolled over, closed his eyes, and a vision of his niece filled his head. Her whole personality had changed after she was attacked in a town about 26 miles to the west of Seaton St George. That was two years ago. Where did the time go? She was 19 and on her way home from a nightclub. Separated from her friends, she was looking for a taxi. Ed shuddered at the thought of her out there, alone, remembering he too had been at a party enjoying himself that night.

  The bastard sprinted up behind her and before she realised what was happening, before she had time to react, he had grabbed her hair, spun her around, and repeatedly punched her in the head and body. Dazed and off balance, she was dragged 10 yards into an alleyway.

  Ed could willingly have beaten her attacker senseless at the time. He probably still could. He rolled over again and glanced at Sue, envious of her deep sleep. She always slept well, whether she went to bed on an argument or not.

  His niece had told his daughter she felt her attacker’s breath on her ear as he spat out the words in a whisper. ‘I’m going to give you a good fuckin’.’ Her face had been pushed against the alley wall, and she was punched so hard in the ribs that she doubled up, unable to breathe. Her head was rammed down towards her thighs, and holding it there with his right hand, the bastard thrust his left hand up her short summer dress.

  She was terrified, semi-conscious, too frightened to scream.

  Thankfully, two lads in their early 20s had seen her being dragged into the alleyway and came to her rescue. Two public-spirited, decent young men. Thank God they had been there. Both keen boxers, they were part-time doormen at one of the clubs. Not only had they stopped her being raped, they beat the shit out of him, and held on to him until the police arrived.

  The bastard had been sentenced to nine years. The crown court judge commended the two young men. His brother’s family would be forever in their debt. Ed smiled as he recalled tracking them down to the club where they worked and shaking their hands. He had bought them each a drink and told them his only regret was that he hadn’t been with them when they saved his niece. He still felt like that.

  Jess had gone from being a bubbly young girl to a recluse. Always full of fun and outgoing, she was transformed now into a tiny timid shell, her sunken eyes telling everyone how much weight she had lost but telling nobody what was going on behind them. Ed shuddered. Yesterday her arms and legs were even skinnier.

  He turned on to his stomach, doubled over his pillow, and considered snuggling into Sue. He thought better of it.

  He remembered Jess’s hair. What a mess. She didn’t go out anywhere after dark, and certainly not to pubs and clubs. She barely went out at all. She even had to go through the ordeal of a trial because the bastard had pleaded not guilty. Not guilty! Her face was black and blue, her jaw broken. Who the fuck consented to that?

  The defence lawyers were just as bad, putting her through the cross-examination. No better than the shit they defended. God, I’ll never get to sleep if I start thinking about fucking barristers. He rolled over again, pushing his body just a little closer to Sue.

  What the hell was Sam talking about when she said the rapist wanted a relationship? He was still not totally sold on this categorisation business. That said, they needed to catch him, and Sam seemed to know what she was on about.

  Not every girl would be as lucky as Jess. Lucky? What the hell was he saying? She went to a club and was almost raped on her way home. She would have been but for those two lads. How the hell was that lucky? What type of society were we living in when a seasoned detective like him could describe his niece as being lucky because she only had a broken jaw and a few bruises? A just and proper society should have allowed her to walk home at any time in total safety. But, of course, that society doesn’t exist. Ed had spoken to many rape victims over the years. Deep down he knew it could have been so much worse for Jess.

  He slid out of the bed, glanced at Sue, and went downstairs for a cup of tea.

 
A busy day lay ahead. He woke early but stood under the hot shower longer than he intended, thinking of each of them in turn. Barely dry when he put on his white dressing gown, he rushed into the bedroom, his wet feet leaving footprints on the green diamond-patterned carpet. He was filled with an overwhelming desire to check on his girls. He flopped on to the bed, rolled on to his stomach, and reached across to the bedside drawer. He handled the licences with the care of an antiquarian book dealer, puckered his lips, and kissed each photograph. Unlike the soldier overseas, he would, in all probability, not be reunited with his absent sweetheart, but the intensity of his longing to see them again was no less fierce.

  A self-satisfied smile spread across his face as he read the newly written passages about his time with Danielle.

  Were the contents of this drawer his most treasured possessions? The phone was important, but the licences, the pen, and the notebook, were without a shadow of a doubt, his most valued; with the exception of the football programme, they were also the most incriminating.

  Ed was at the office for 7am wearing a dark blue Italian suit, a light blue shirt and a red-and-gold-striped tie. There was a time when he couldn’t afford so-called labels but now, mortgage free with a reasonable amount of disposal income, he indulged himself.

  Walking into the HOLMES room, he saw Sam sitting at a computer terminal, eyes fixed on the keyboard, her two index fingers jumping across the keys. The full mug of tea on the desk suggested she had become so engrossed in what she was doing she had forgotten to drink it.

  ‘Morning, Sam. You’re nice and early.’

  ‘Hi Ed. You know the score. This job needs sorting.’

  And not because Stewart said it had to be, she thought to herself. She wanted to catch him before others were raped. Then she conceded that Stewart’s implied threats were at the back of her mind.

  ‘We’ve got a briefing at nine with the ACC.’

  Sam, like Ed, was much more business-looking today, wearing a light grey pinstripe tailored trouser suit, with black patent leather shoes with a slight heel. At 5’8’, Sam didn’t need to wear big heels, although Ed had seen her wearing seriously towering stilettos at various functions. Her white blouse looked good against her light-brown skin tone, and the make-up around her brown eyes was as flawless as ever.

  ‘What’s with the ‘we’ Sam?’

  ‘I think it’s best we both go. There’s a fair amount of information to give them, and two heads are better than one.’

  Sam knew Ed would guess why she wanted him to go to the briefing. Over the last few weeks she’d been talking to him about applying for promotion to Inspector. He’d passed the national qualifying exam, so all that stood in his way was the local process. Detective Sergeants didn’t get too many opportunities to sit around the table with Assistant Chief Constables and discuss an ongoing operational matter. Sam was very loyal to those who were loyal to her. She appreciated good investigators who contributed to the investigation process, and believed in doing what she could to help them advance their careers.

  She knew Ed was good. She valued his opinion. He had the ability to not only contribute but to bring new thoughts to the discussions. Not wild, off-the-wall thoughts, but the sensible thoughts of a thinker; the thoughts of a problem solver, the thoughts of a good detective. If in some small way she could remind the hierarchy of the existence of Detective Sergeant Ed Whelan, then she would do so. The police needed people like Ed at Inspector rank. Too many of them at that level said the right things in promotion interviews or internal meetings but when it came to making an operational decision, at a critical moment in an unfolding event, many were found wanting. Whether that was a lack of training, or a lack of experience, wasn’t her concern. She felt everybody on her team was capable of operating at least one rank above their present one and she would do her best to give her people whatever advantage she could.

  ‘Okay. Thanks,’ Ed said. ‘What time did you say the briefing is?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘That’ll give us time to speak with Peter Hunt first.’

  ‘Yeah, we need to formulate a press release with him. I want to appeal for witnesses to the attack on Danielle and remind everyone to report any crime, however small, and that includes broken windows.’

  ‘You’re going to be popular with the Crime Managers on the Districts if their reported crime figures start going up,’ Ed said.

  ‘I don’t care. We need as much information as possible. If that affects the figures, I can live with that and they’ll have to. Anyway, don’t we want figures that really reflect what’s happening out there?’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ Ed said with mock seriousness, and for added sarcastic emphasis, he saluted.

  Sam laughed. She knew Ed cared for internal politics as little as she did.

  Peter Hunt burst into the HOLMES room with a beaming smile and directed a loud ‘Morning!’ at them. Sam smiled at the dapper, cheerful man, who she held in such high regard. His wispy, brown hair flopped around the wrinkled brow, a brow that was now just three years short of state retirement age.

  A lifelong print journalist, Peter had been with the police as Head of Media Services for four years and was a valuable asset to the SIO on major inquiries. He understood the media, their agenda, and was able to advise accordingly.

  As far as Sam was concerned, filling media services departments with marketing gurus was fine until a major incident broke, when they were as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike. If the Press was clamouring for information, Sam wanted a Peter Hunt, not someone with a degree in spinning good news and maintaining a nice force website.

  Peter sat next to Ed, one leg crossed over the other, pen hovering over the little black notebook, and listened as Sam brought him up to speed on the attack on Danielle Banks.

  ‘Finally, our appeal should seek any witnesses who saw anything suspicious at the time Danielle was attacked, anyone who lives on those estates and has had a window broken in the last six months,’ Sam stressed. ‘We want anyone who has any information about either attack, anyone who has any suspicions of male family members, friends or neighbours. We should also remind people to keep windows and doors locked and not to leave the door keys in the locks.’

  ‘Are you going to say you believe the assaults have been committed by the same man?’ Peter asked.

  ‘No. If that’s raised directly, which I am sure it will be, I can only say we are investigating both attacks, but that doesn’t mean there’s only one offender. I’ll tell them we have to keep an open mind. Let’s be righ,t Peter. If there is more than one rapist, and I say that there’s only one, I’ll look a fool.’

  ‘Do you think it is one person?’

  ‘One hundred percent.’

  ‘You do realise asking people to report their suspicions might lead to an avalanche of names,’ Peter said, looking up from his shorthand notes, staring at Sam.

  ‘I do. But to be fair, I’d rather be worrying about setting some parameters around elimination, having been given loads of names, than have no names as I do at the minute.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll write something up. Can I log on to one of these terminals?’

  ‘Course you can,’ said Ed.

  Peter was soon busily typing, but not in the double-digit way of most detectives.

  The team would soon be arriving. Ed decided to fill the kettle. Plentiful amounts of tea and coffee were going to be drunk while the detectives waited for their briefing, the room would be filled with conversations about football, soaps, topical news, and police gossip. Everyone would be eager to learn about the new investigation but they were all experienced enough to understand how these things worked. They were used to waiting.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the Assistant Chief Constable’s personal assistant showed them in, Sam and Ed saw that Detective Chief Superintendent Chris Shaw, the Head of Crime, was already there with Trevor Stewart.

  The office had a plush, high-quality blue carpet, the type your
shoes sank into. The same carpet was fitted in the corridor outside, a silent but powerful psychological indicator of who was occupying the offices in this part of HQ: two Assistant Chief Constables, a Deputy Chief Constable and the Chief Constable. Everywhere else in the building, the corridors were fitted with linoleum.

  The ACC, sitting behind his impressive desk, was on the telephone. A long table with four seats either side was pushed up against the desk. Chris Shaw was on one side of the table. Opposite Chris and next to Ed, Sam’s eyes scanned the numerous photographs and certificates adorning the walls, and the usual collection of memorabilia from other police forces, both national and international. There were police caps, plaques with police crests on them, and other items, all reminders of past encounters. More souvenirs, Sam thought.

  Replacing the receiver, Trevor Stewart smiled and said: ‘Morning guys. Thanks for coming. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?’

  Sam and Ed declined.

  ‘Okay,’ Stewart continued. ‘Tell me what we’ve got, and what your thoughts are. I did say he would attack again. I just didn’t think when I said it he would do it the next night. I hope we haven’t missed any opportunities to get him in custody before this latest attack. The Press will have a field day if we could have prevented it.’

  Walking to his office, Sam remembered the words of David Greene, the Head of ‘CIVITAS’, The Institute for the Study of Civil Society, at the time of the London Riots of 2011.

  The present generation of police leaders gained promotion by mastering the art of talking about ‘issues around’ racism or bearing down on hate crime ‘going forward’. Learning the management buzz words of the last few years has not produced leaders able to command men in a riot. The injuries sustained by officers show that we have plenty of men and women prepared to be brave when needed, but they are lions led by donkeys who listened a bit too intently to the sociology lectures about ‘hate crime’ at Bramshill police college.