Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  Had he spilt semen when he was putting the condom in the sandwich bag? No! Stop being stupid! Stop panicking. They’ve got nothing. Calm down.

  Altering his position on the bed, he stretched out on his back and replayed the police TV interview in his head, visualising the whole thing. That Sam Parker was a real looker. Older than he would normally go for, but he had to concede that she was fit. How much of a man would he be if he were able to get into her bed? That would be something. To make love with, what did they call her? The Senior Investigator, that’s it. To make love to the Senior Investigator who was trying to catch him. Letting out a slow, long whistle, enjoying his own building heat, he could almost smell her. He closed his eyes. How good would it be in her bed? What did her bedroom look like? He had no idea how any of the rooms in her house looked.

  But he knew where she lived.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tuesday

  Sam announced the number of the dedicated mobile during every media interview. While it wasn’t something she would do on all major investigations, she had used this tactic before with good effect. She was hoping for a twofold result: information about the attacker and giving a helpline for rape victims still too fearful to report.

  Of course, there was always a chance she would get an abusive call but it had never happened yet.

  With the media interviews complete, Sam and Ed travelled to a scheduled 10am meeting with the Crown Prosecution Service to discuss an impending murder trial.

  When it was over, Sam suggested they go for a walk around the marina and clear their heads.

  ‘Good idea,’ Ed said. ‘Listening to that lot in there, it’s a bloody miracle we ever get anyone to court. They want a shed load of work doing.’

  ‘We’ll just have to get it done then, won’t we?’

  ‘Bloody CPS. They should be called the Criminal Protection Society. Christ, these days they want an eye witness, an admission, and bomb-proof forensics. If it’s not nailed on, they won’t take it to court. I could flaming well prosecute the cases.’

  Sam smiled, teasing him and his endless harking back to his so-called golden age.

  ‘You’ll remember the days when the police prosecuted their own cases,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody right! Much easier then.’

  ‘No independence, though,’ Sam reminded him. ‘That’s what led to so many miscarriages of justice.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but still. If they had to run around doing all this work, they might think twice. But no, they just give it to us daft buggers, and tell us to get on with it. And you know as well as me, when we’ve done what they ask, the defence won’t even be arsed to look at it.’

  ‘Are you going to stop moaning, you old goat?’

  ‘Well, it’s such a bloody waste of time. No wonder we moan about them.’

  ‘And I’m sure they whinge about us.’

  ‘Probably.’

  After two tough hours with the CPS, a walk in the fresh sea air would let them refocus on the rapes.

  Seaton St George marina was a purpose-built facility containing yacht berths, shops, bars, restaurants, residential flats, and office units. Within walking distance were a cinema and an array of fast food outlets.

  Leaning against the railings, looking across the water, Sam and Ed were taking a battering from the wind, which Sam estimated was blowing a steady, strong Force 6 on the Beaufort scale. Yachts of all sizes were in the water, their masts swaying from side to side, the standing wire rigging rattling in unison, a cacophony of sound. The low-flying squawking seagulls, drowned out by the wind and rigging, were today contributing little more than background noise.

  ‘Could you fancy sailing away into the sunset Ed?’ Sam asked, having to raise her voice.

  ‘Not me. I got seasick on a pedalo in Kefalonia. You?’

  ‘Couldn’t think of anything better, at least back in the day. Leave everything behind. Just you, the sea, and whoever you invite aboard. Your own world, no outside intrusions. Bliss.’

  Pausing, she turned her head to Ed. ‘I used to sail with Tris.’

  ‘I know.’ Ed looked away.

  ‘Yeah. We did quite a few of the Royal Yachting Association courses. Got some qualifications. You know, navigation and things. We went on a few flotilla sailing holidays. Loved it. We both did. Good times.’

  Ed thrust his hands into his pockets and pushed his chin into his chest. ‘You should think of going again.’

  Sam lowered her head, her voice barely audible. ‘Yeah… One day.’

  Ed stood still, not wanting to break the temporary silence. His tongue licked the walls of his dry mouth. ‘You want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head, took a deep breath. ‘You don’t like the water, then?’

  ‘It’s not the water,’ Ed said. ‘It’s the motion of the sea I can’t cope with. I’ve done dinghy sailing in the Lakes, body-board surfing in Cornwall. I enjoyed doing those, but I get really sick out at sea. I learned years ago when I went sea fishing. Sick as a dog all day. I can see the appeal, but it’s not for me.’

  ‘Pity. It can be so tranquil.’

  ‘Or not, depending on the weather.’

  The blood rushed to his face, his head about to explode. ‘Sorry.’

  Sam closed her eyes, concentrating on the sounds of the boats and the sea and found herself drifting into foreign waters, Tristram scampering across the deck in shorts and a polo shirt.

  A quick sniff stopped her eyes glassing over.

  ‘Right. Back to business,’ she said, banging the black railing and standing up straight.

  ‘Okay. Well, I admit I’m still not 100% sold on these categorisations you like so much,’ Ed said, leaning on the railings, staring down into the water.

  ‘Any reason in particular?’

  ‘It’s the whole 'wanting a relationship' thing I can’t get my head around. It just seems, well…’ His voice trailed off.

  Sam’s ears were straining to hear each word as he continued.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone else this, and I would ask that you don’t repeat it.’

  ‘Goes without saying,’ Sam reassured him, wondering where this was going.

  Ed looked down at the water, his words so quiet that Sam bent down, moved her head closer to his.

  ‘My niece was attacked three years ago.’

  ‘Oh Ed. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  His right palm wiped both eyes. ‘Bloody wind… No reason why you should. It happened in a different force area. She’s my brother’s daughter. He and his wife divorced years ago and my niece uses her step-father’s name.’

  ‘Was she okay? Is she okay now?’

  Sam’s genuine concern let his words to tumble out, the momentum in his speech getting ever faster.

  ‘She’s changed. She’s gone from being a confident girl into a recluse. She wasn’t raped as such. Dragged into an alley after being repeatedly punched in the face, her jaw broken in the process. He just came up behind her and punched her. Got her into the alley and punched her in the ribs. Told her what he was going to do to her. Luckily two bouncers saved her. Kept him until our lot arrived.’

  He drew breath as he raised his head, and when he spoke his words were much more audible.

  ‘I’d have given him a kicking like he’d never known given half a chance.’ Ed turned, looking directly into Sam’s eyes. ‘So tell me, Sam, does that sound like a guy wanting a relationship?’

  She took in the hurt and the hatred and chose her words carefully.

  ‘No. But the man you’ve just described is a totally different kind of person, a different kind of rapist. Ours is using surprise and serious planning. In your niece’s case, he ran up and just started hitting her before she knew what was happening. Even the words he used suggests a lot of anger. He doesn’t like women. He wants to punish and degrade. He uses unnecessary force to try and satisfy all that rage. Your niece was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  She pulled up the collar
of her coat, and pushed her hands into her pockets. ‘Think about it, Ed. Your niece’s attacker was an opportunist, ours is a planner. The type who attacked your niece is referred to as ‘Anger Retaliatory’. He’s a lone wolf, but not a loner. Our guy’s a real loner. Ours will undoubtedly be single, perhaps having been around a domineering female. Your niece’s attacker may have been married and was probably openly angry with women in general. He was impulsive but ours isn’t. There are differences, Ed, both in the style of attacks, and the type of personality that commit them.’

  Ed considered what Sam had said, listing the differences he now saw with clear eyes.

  ‘He did live with someone,’ Ed said. ‘He was the life and soul according to his barrister. It’s just hard to get your head around the fact that according to you, some want a relationship. Jesus. They’re still all bastards. Sick bastards, whatever tag you hang on them ‘

  Sam held his eyes. ‘As a woman, I know what I would do with them, but as a cop, I have to put that emotion to one side, just as you do Ed. Just as we all do.’

  She paused and allowed her hand to lightly touch his forearm.

  ‘Ed, I really hope your niece comes through this. There’s lots of counselling out there. Some of it’s very good.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ed straightened, rubbing his hands together. ‘In some way these girls are linked. They don’t know each other, so the rapist is the common denominator. It’s him who links them all together. What is it that he knows about them? How does he know it? If we find the link, we find him. It’s that simple, Sam. Find the link, catch the bastard.’

  ‘That’s why I’m keen to hear at the debrief what we’ve turned up on Terry Crowther.’

  ‘Terry Crowther,’ Ed repeated slowly. ‘Might just be our man.’

  Sam took a last look at the grey, churning sea.

  ‘Sometimes we just need to get lucky. And I’ve always believed you make your own.’

  Terry Crowther hadn’t woken until almost 11am. As soon as he opened his eyes, he reached under his pillow, smiling as his fingers touched soft lace, remembering every curve of her body.

  He rolled on to his side, marvelling once again how something so everyday could provide such an instant hit of satisfaction and relief, the type a smoker feels when he draws on that first cigarette outside the airport after a long-haul flight.

  He decided to go for a run. He wasn’t at work until 5pm.

  Selecting one of his tracksuits, he dressed quickly. His training shoes were by the door, and once they were on his feet, he pulled on a woollen hat. Opening the front door, the cold air attacked his throat as he jogged down the path. He turned right, into the wind, his eyes streaming before he had run 10 metres.

  It was colder than he expected, wind chill no doubt playing its part, and it wasn’t long before he was wishing he had worn his thicker gloves. Increasing his stride, his feet pounding on the pavement, the jog now a run, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he forgot about the weather.

  Sam was now carrying two mobiles – her everyday one and the one she described to the media as the ‘dedicated SIO phone’. It was programmed with a different ringtone so she knew what it was as soon as it rang. She instinctively hurried towards the row of shops where she hoped the buildings would provide some shelter from the buffeting wind.

  A female voice spoke to her and the brief conversation ended with Sam saying that she and Ed would be at the caller’s house in 20 minutes.

  Sam put the phone back into the pocket of her electric-purple Jaeger pea coat. Her face seemed blank, distant before a hardness hit her eyes.

  ‘That was a woman who thinks her husband might have something to do with the rapes.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ Ed said, increasing his stride, walking towards the car.

  ‘I said that we’d be there in 20 minutes. Ed. The call. It was from Jason Stroud’s estranged wife.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ed stopped walking and whipped his head around to face Sam. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Wish I was. That call’s the last thing we need.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Ed, shaking his head.

  They continued to Ed’s car without speaking.

  ‘Where to then?’ Ed asked as he clicked the remote and opened the Golf’s doors.

  ‘24 Dundee Street.’

  ‘Well at least that’s the opposite side of town to the Gull and Conifer estates,’ Ed said with relief in his voice.

  ‘As I said, they’re estranged. They don’t live together. She moved out of the marital home about five months ago. Jason Stroud lives on Alnwick Road. He lives on the Gull estate.’

  ‘Shit. Why does she think it’s him? That’s one hell of an accusation.’

  ‘Said she’d give us her reasons when we get there. Wants to do it in person. Wouldn’t do it on the phone.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Ed said, his thoughts flying around like a scrap of paper caught in a gale. How would they play this? How would it pan out? A cop? A cop he knew, albeit not very well. He recalled police officers being convicted of rape, but he had never worked with them. Could Jason really be the bastard they were looking for? No way. Not a chance.

  ‘He’s too shy. He hasn’t got it in him,’ Ed said, his voice quickening with every word. ‘I often wondered how he got through his two-year probation. He’s not confrontational. Bloody hell, Sam, he’s not a rapist. He hasn’t got the bottle. Break into their houses wearing a mask, and then rape them? Jason? It just doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Think about it,’ Sam said. ‘That shyness would fit the ‘Power Reassurance’ profile.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sam. That doesn’t mean he’s the one.’

  ‘I agree, but we need to keep an open mind and see what she has to say. Treat this information no differently to any other piece. The fact that he’s a cop, and a cop we know, shouldn’t cloud our judgement.’

  Ed scowled, hands tight on the steering wheel.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. And it won’t. But I cannot stomach the thought that this bastard could be one of us. I detest bent cops. They’re far worse than criminals as far as I’m concerned. We’ve both seen more bent cops than we’d have liked. Jesus, I don’t want this bastard to be a cop.’

  His plan for this morning was simple: identify as many houses as possible where the ‘Mrs Muck Out’ cleaning ladies visited. He had already seen two of the green Vauxhall Corsas on the estate. Tracking them on foot wasn’t going to be easy, but if he followed their general direction, he knew once they were at a house, he would have about an hour to find them. This wasn’t an exercise he would complete today. It might take weeks, but time wasn’t an issue. Time invested in finding a girlfriend was time well spent.

  Assuming the cleaners followed the same routine, he had no interest in the houses they went to after lunch. He needed sufficient time to take the key, get it copied, and replace it. He didn’t want to be replacing keys when the schools turned out.

  There may still be problems once he had ‘borrowed’ a key, some unforeseen reason why he couldn’t get a copy. Would the key cutter ask for an address? A utility bill as ID? It was good practice to challenge every theory. Challenging, chess-like, each move, be it in the planning or the execution phase, kept him out of prison.

  When he had mentally wrestled with how to get the used condoms out of their houses without spilling any of the contents, it had taken a number of false starts before he had come up with the idea of taking a sandwich bag with him. He would put the condom in the bag as soon as he had removed it.

  Taking that move to its next logical step, he needed a prepared script to explain the sandwich bag in his pocket in the unlikely event of him being stopped and searched by the police. Trying to think of something to say on the spot would prove disastrous. And lying was impossible, resulting in a tongue-tied stutter, saying whatever came into his head. He couldn’t do it at school, and he certainly couldn’t do it with his mother.

  He repeated the words, which now flowed as easily as
a childhood nursery rhyme.

  ‘I picked it up off the street rather than leave it for a child to discover in the morning. We don’t want children picking it up. Perhaps throwing it at another kid. Just as well I had the sandwich bag. Disgusting people, throwing used condoms on the streets. The bag? Oh I put my unwrapped energy bar in that before I leave home for my run. I find it easier to open the sandwich bag with my gloves on than I do trying to open the wrapper with them on’

  'Fail to plan equals plan to fail’ was a sentence continually shouted by Mr Radford, a frightening disciplinarian of a man, whenever someone forgot their homework. Perhaps this teacher would be pleased to know that at least one former pupil applied his maxim so often.

  What made the plan around the key so brilliant was that Sam, during her radio appeal, told people not to leave theirs inside the door. Thanks to her, any key he got cut would enter the lock with no resistance from one on the other side. She had done him a huge favour.

  What would be worse than getting a key for a house with the right girl inside, only to find you couldn’t open the door because another key was already in the lock? He should thank Sam Parker.

  Did she have a cleaner? A rich fucker like her must have one? Could he really get away with ‘visiting’ her? A thought came into his head that triggered a smile. Maybe he could have some fun with her after all.

  Turning a corner, he mentally broke out into song, that song, as he saw one of the Corsas parked on a driveway.

  Chapter Nineteen

  They walked up the path of the small pre-war terraced house, which would have a back yard leading on to an alley. Years gone by it would have had an outside toilet, what north-easterners often called the ’netty’.

  A woman in her late 20s, with blonde shoulder-length hair, opened the door. Sam took in the tight skinny grey jeans, and the loose fitting pale green V-necked cashmere sweater.