Be My Girl

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam met his eyes.

  ‘Possibly. Let’s have an intelligence picture built up of him. The usual stuff…finance, associates, habits. You said he had a temper. After we bumped into Louise in the car park.’

  ‘I just remember her saying that he would shout and ball at her,’ Ed said. ‘He never hit her, or if he did, she never mentioned it to me. This was ages ago, when we worked on some job or other, but they were still living together.’

  ‘Bad tempered, though,’ Sam said. ‘Best check if there were ever any reports of domestic violence at Louise’s.’

  ‘Okay, will do. Not sure she would have reported even if there were, though. Too embarrassing… Shit! I’ve forgotten Brian Banks and the list of people in the pub.’

  Ed had thrown up his arms and slapped one hand loudly on his forehead.

  ‘Give him a call now, then,’ Sam said. ‘Once we’ve got that list we can visit each of them and hopefully they’ll recall other people. We need to design a questionnaire so they’re all asked the same questions. I don’t want to waste time having to go back and ask them something we could have got out of the way on the first visit. And we need a question in there asking if they’ve told anyone else what they heard. It’s not something they’re likely to keep to themselves.’

  ‘Will do,’ Ed said, scribbling a note. ‘And hey, I didn’t know Dave went out with Louise years ago. I thought it was a new thing.’

  ‘Me too. I’ve never even heard it mentioned on the grapevine. It was news to me.’

  ‘You think they were in a serious relationship now?’

  Sam tried to remember what Louise had told her when the red wine was flowing.

  ‘Dave was keener than Louise,’ Sam said. ‘That’s the impression I got from her anyway. The bit about Louise contacting him when she split up wasn’t quite right by the way. He rang her, according to Louise.’

  ‘Doesn’t he know you and Louise were mates?’

  ‘We’re both pretty private people. I never made a song and dance about who my friends were. He might know; he might not. That’s why I played dumb about him and Louise.’

  ‘I never found out why he split from his missus,’ Ed said.

  Sam shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Who knows? It happens all the time in this job. Anyway, I keep coming back to the crime scene staging. What else could it be? The killer wants us to think it’s the rapist. But how does he know about the mask? That’s if it is a ‘he’. Those people in the pub are potentially the most important line of inquiry we’ve got.’

  ‘What about June?’ Ed asked.

  Sam replied: ‘I’ll contact uniform and see where we are with that. It’s almost seven o’clock. We’ll leave Spence until tomorrow. Let’s get him first thing. We don’t know if he’s at work, and there’s no way of finding out now. Have someone on his house, but use Bev. Like I said, she knows what he looks like.’

  Ed was already on his feet as Sam fired off more instructions.

  ‘Get someone to call the post office when it opens. See if he’s at work. If he is, we’ll get him when he leaves home. If he’s not, let’s go for the rapid entry.

  ‘Oh and Ed, do me a favour – find out how we’re getting on with Crowther?’

  Terry Crowther had admitted a total of 11 thefts of knickers over the last 18 months. He had no alibi for the rapes, but there was no evidence to link him to any of the attacks. Jill Carver demanded he be released, assuring Jason Stroud she would be delighted to sue the police for false imprisonment if Crowther continued to be held in detention.

  Her threats didn’t impress Jason and neither did her arrogant smile. Like most cops, he had little time for the likes of Jill Carver. He had seen it all before with solicitors, trying to intimidate police officers with their huffing and puffing, the same solicitors who, as he was always willing to point out, made a good living out of state-funded legal aid, defending shit bags they knew were guilty but only interested in the money.

  Jason told her he would call CPS Direct, the out-of-office-hours arm of the Crown Prosecution Service, to seek the go-ahead to charge and bail Crowther.

  ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jason said, doing his utmost to convey as much sarcasm as possible, his heels clicking just enough to make her wonder whether he was coming to attention.

  Sam was back on the blue carpet, having been summonsed to give Trevor Stewart an update.

  He was sat behind his desk wearing a short-sleeved checked shirt. Obviously going straight out, Sam thought.

  ‘You did well with the media, but her mother killing herself adds to the whole sorry state of affairs. How are we getting on?’

  Sam told him about Crowther and Spence.

  ‘So, let me get this correct: as we stand, we’ve got three outstanding rapes, a murder of a police officer, the apparent suicide of the murder victim’s elderly mother, and we’ve managed to arrest someone who steals women’s knickers. Not exactly Christmas, is it?’

  No shit, Sherlock.

  ‘No. It’s not. But Crowther’s probably out of the frame, so we’ve eliminated him. We’re going for Spence first thing, so we’ll see what tomorrow brings.’

  Stewart stood and hitched up his ill-fitting black jeans. ‘Update tomorrow it is. Then I’ll make a decision as to the SIO on the murder of Louise Smith.’

  Sam bit her tongue and swallowed her anger.

  ‘With all due respect, Sir, I’ve just done the press today. How will it look if I’m taken off it tomorrow? What message does that send out?’

  ‘If that’s what happens, we can come up with a script that keeps all concerned happy, reputations intact.’

  I just bet you can, Sam thought as she walked away.

  Parked on a driveway, courtesy of the householder who thought it terribly exciting to have two undercover police officers ‘on a stakeout’ of a neighbour’s home, Bev Summers had an unobstructed view of the front of Spence’s house. She was in radio contact with the two male detectives who had won the toss and were watching Spence’s back garden from the warmth of the helpful householder’s dining room. The gentleman brewed a decent cuppa, too.

  Spence’s living room light went out, throwing the downstairs into darkness, the landing light coming on almost simultaneously. Timing switches might be in use, but Bev Summers didn’t think Spence was the type. She glanced at her watch. 11.30pm. He was off to bed, she was pretty certain.

  Bev remembered how years ago detectives would have just turned up and watched his house. Now thanks to the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act, commonly referred to as RIPA, a simple static surveillance like this required a huge amount of paperwork, and signatures from various ranks to demonstrate it was legal, necessary and proportionate, in accordance with the Human Rights Act, blah, blah, blah.

  Bev smiled. She was sure the police never wanted RIPA and all its bureaucracy, but the civil liberties brigade certainly did. More accountability, they screamed. She sank her head into her fleece hood, pulled the soft material tight around her cheeks, and shuffled in the front passenger seat, trying to get comfortable. Leaning her head on the side window, the cold glass fired a blast of Arctic air into her left temple. She thought of all those left-wing, pious academics talking about the greater good, none of them aware that there were two four o’clocks in the same day, and none of them ever in a position where they were expected to make an instant decision in a fast-moving crisis situation. They couldn’t make a decision to save their lives. Not without talking about it for hours. Tossers.

  Unable to run the engine for fear of attracting attention, and needing a window open to avoid ‘misting up’, Bev’s fingers and toes were already stiffening despite the gloves and fur-lined boots she had picked up from home. Her backside was going numb, and despite the curry and chips she had eaten en route, her stomach was already starting a series of worryingly loud grumbles.

  Whoever thought surveillance was exciting was either deluded or just plain mad. ‘Mobile’ survei
llance invariably meant sitting ‘on plot’ for hours, waiting for the target to move, while ‘static’ surveillance, with absolutely no prospects of going anywhere, was mind-numbing in its boredom.

  At least tonight the thought of locking up Spence would get her through the hours of tedium that lay ahead. The jackpot prize would be Spence coming out, during the night, carrying his rape kit.

  She reached inside the glove box and fumbled for the paperback with its yellowing pages, the back cover barely attached to the rest of the book, the last of the glue stubbornly sticking to the spine; names, addresses, car registration numbers, all handwritten on random pages, in different ink, by different authors, each a reminder of how many surveillances this veteran publication had seen come and go.

  Her mobile phone, held against her knees, cast just enough light on to the page she had aimlessly selected. Without taking her head away from the car window, she said aloud: ‘Which football club used to play at Vetch Field?’

  A quiz was always number one on the ‘how to fill in time on a static surveillance’.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Saturday

  Bev battled the overwhelming desire for sleep from 3.30am, when the quiz, a conversation about the state of modern policing, politics, do-gooders, sport, and gossip of the ‘who’s sleeping with who’ variety, was exhausted.

  Now, as lights started going on in a few of the houses, Bev pushed her feet against the foot well, her knees cracking as she raised her body up the back of the seat. She wriggled her fingers and toes, and tried to ignore the stiffness in her back. Her nicotine levels were at a dangerously low level, and her body craved the hit of an early morning smoke. A lighted cigarette in a parked car at this time of the morning would give her away to anyone who was looking, and the last person she wanted to tip off was Spence. Not long now though, she thought. The smoke would have to wait.

  She picked up her mobile and selected the number for the sorting office, which she had added to the contacts list last night. 6.15am.

  ‘Oh hi. Yes. I wonder if you can help me?’ Bev said to the woman who answered. ‘Can you tell me if Michael Spence is at work today please? He’s my postman. We all know him. Nice guy. Anyway, yesterday he dropped something outside my house, and as I’m in town today I thought I could drop it off for him. Normally I would just wait until he started his deliveries, but I’m going on holiday today, and we’ll be at the airport before he gets to our street.’

  The woman said she needed a minute to check the rosters. In fact, she needed a good three minutes, by Bev’s rough calculation.

  ‘He’s in at eight,’ the woman said when she finally came back on the line. ‘If I could just take your name, and what he dropped, I’ll tell him you called.’

  The next bit was easy – and fun.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Are you still there? Hello?’

  Bev let the woman listen to silence before she ended the call.

  She smiled as the little voice in her head said to her: ‘Ooh, you little liar, Beverley.’

  What would the ‘do-gooders’ make of that? Not only pretending the signal was lost but saying you’d found his property. Oh my! Tut tut! No conception of the real world those clowns.

  She had withheld her number, thwarting any attempt to return her call.

  She had what she needed. The woman might ring Spence at home, but it was more likely that she would wait until he got to work. The calculated risk had been worth taking. The rapid-entry team was on stand by, but this way they could get him with no fuss while he was on the street.

  His lights went on just after 6.30, and immediately her fingers and toes began to warm, the stiffness in her knees and back began to ease, a welcome reaction to the self-induced injection of adrenalin. She savoured the thrill of the approaching arrest, a hungry wolf salivating at the thought of an animal carcass.

  Fifteen minutes later, Spence walked out of his front door and on to the pavement. As soon as she saw him, Bev radioed her colleagues in the neighbour’s house, jumped out of the car, and walked towards him, cursing the lack of movement in the joints of her knees. You’re getting old Bev, but God, you’ll miss this part.

  Spence maintained his steady pace towards her, and when they were within five yards of each other, Bev said: ‘Remember me?’

  He nodded, and Bev immediately told him he was being arrested on suspicion of rape. He stared at the pavement as she ran through his rights and took hold of his arm. He offered no resistance as she led him towards their car.

  Spence hadn’t spoken one word during the arrest, and he stayed silent during the drive to the police station.

  Shuffling into the custody office, head down and shoulders slouched, he stood in front of the Custody Sergeant, his eyes fixed on the black linoleum.

  Answering in a barely audible voice, he gave his personal details: name, address, occupation, date of birth. He declined having anyone notified of his arrest.

  He was advised to have a legal representative, and as he didn’t know any lawyers, he opted for the duty solicitor.

  Bev Summers stood next to him, her eyes locked on him, all thoughts of sleep now gone. Was this muttering excuse of a human being capable of breaking into women’s homes, terrorising them into compliance, and then asking if they had enjoyed him? Could he really exercise that much control?

  Not once protesting his innocence, she questioned whether even a condemned man taking his last walk to the gallows would have appeared any more resigned to his fate.

  Nobody noticed her slight shudder. The permanent odour that seemed to cling to the custody office had been replaced by something new, stronger. The sickly sweet aroma drifted towards her, enveloping her like a stale fog. Her stomach heaved. Could she smell his fear, or were her senses playing tricks on her after a freezing night in the car?

  She looked downwards at the black floor, and saw tiny swirls of steam rising from the small puddle around his feet. Her eyes searched for confirmation of its source – the wet patch around his ankles that led up to his groin.

  She turned away from him and for the second time in 30 minutes, smiled, quite a feat for someone who hated mornings.

  ‘Gotcha!’ Bev’s mind was shouting.

  Sam and Ed met in her office at 7am. They knew the arrest had gone smoothly and were now reviewing the intelligence on Spence.

  ‘No previous. Lives alone, as we knew. Rents a council allotment,’ Sam said.

  ‘Allotment?’ Ed sounded bemused. ‘I didn’t know they still had them.’

  ‘If he has an allotment, that’ll need searching as well,’ Sam said. ‘If we have to dig it up, dig it up.’

  Dave Johnson hurried into the office, speaking excitedly and without apology for interrupting.

  ‘You might want to get yourselves down to Spence’s. The search team’s found a diary, and driving licences. We’ve got him!’

  ‘Fuckin’ marvellous,’ Ed shouted, automatically punching the air with his right fist, euphoric relief charging through him like electricity. They had the bastard, and if true justice existed, he would soon get what was coming in prison.

  Sam rocked backwards in her chair, stretched her legs, put her hands on her head, and allowed the warm, relaxing sensation to run through her body, massaging the stresses from mind and muscles, savouring the almost better-than-sex moment that always swept through her when a major investigation was on the road to conclusion.

  How was he going to explain the licences? What was in the diary? Would he confess?

  Sam knew the rapes were nailed on. Time would tell whether he was also their killer.

  Ed was aware that Dave didn’t seem to be sharing in the euphoria, wearing a slightly worried look on his handsome face, a look that said he had more to say and was going to take no pleasure saying it.

  ‘Something else you need to tell us?’ Ed asked, looking at Dave standing in the doorway, fidgeting with his blue striped tie.

  ‘There is,’ he said, stepping back with hesitation and clos
ing the door. He stood ramrod straight, radiating raw discomfort, a soldier suffering in front of his Commanding Officer.

  ‘Boss, the search team’s found a house key.’

  ‘And?’ Sam snapped, irritated and impatient. ‘Come on, for God’s sake. Just spit it out.’

  ‘There’s a small brown label attached to the key. Attached with string. The label…’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s got your name on it.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Michael Spence sat in his cell on the wide, wooden bench which masqueraded as a bed, back resting against the wall, knees tucked under his chin, one of his trouser legs stuck to his inner thigh.

  This is the end. He knew he’d be interviewed, and while he could stall and deny everything, as soon as they searched his house, they would find his moleskin notebook, and the driving licences. Whatever he said about the licences, they wouldn’t believe him. Nobody would. What could he say? I found them. The notebook was better than a confession, written in his handwriting, detailing the planning, and how he felt during his time with them. They would find the mobile phone, and see the only contacts were the girls. And they would find the key with her name on the label.

  His head sunk further into his knees as the reality dawned on him. It would be a long time before he would be out. What would happen to his house? His job?

  The dirty magnolia cell walls seemed to close in on him with every passing minute, and the stainless-steel toilet in the corner mocked him, daring him to sit on it. Panic pulsated through his veins, like a strobe light in a discotheque, as he contemplated life in prison. He wouldn’t get Michael or Mickey in jail. He’d get ‘nonce’, or ‘beast’. Every prisoner would have carte blanche to attack him, and whoever got to him would be the toast of the prison population, proudly wearing the invisible badge of honour, the badge that proclaimed ‘I did the nonce. I sorted the beast’.