by Sarah Flint
She shook her head but smiled at Nick, before picking up the doughnut and sinking her teeth into it. After her night in the open air, the shower was calling, but before she made herself presentable she’d check for any new emails.
Her eyes were immediately drawn to a reply from the laboratory technicians entitled, ‘Samson Powell – Phone download.’ They didn’t usually respond so quickly; maybe the phone had been too badly damaged for any data to be retrieved.
She opened it apprehensively and scanned the message. The tech guy who had sent it was well known to her, they often spoke at length if Charlie needed anything explained. It was because of this friendship that he had taken the time to examine the exhibit before he left work the previous evening. The phone was still being dried out and the SIM card was damaged but careful examination had revealed the contact list was intact. It showed only one number, one number that was saved into its memory under the name ‘ICE’, a word that she recognised as the acronym for an emergency contact, ‘In case of emergency’.
Quickly she opened the interim report on Powell’s suicide and flicked to the phone data file from the personal phone found at his flat. She copied the number into the search machine and waited while the record was scanned, before reading the result she was expecting. The number was not known. The name was not known.
Charlie could hardly contain her excitement. It was the type of phone a drug dealer, like Samson might use… but why would it have just the one number? Could he have had the burner phone because he was planning to go out on another kill? To make or receive one call, before then disposing of it. She read through the message several more times, noting that an update would come if the phone itself wasn’t too badly damaged. With any luck this would confirm the details they had from the SIM and any further call data to link Powell definitively with the phone.
Until then she would get some checks completed on the number herself, obtain a registered keeper, if there was one, and any instances where it was known on police systems.
She logged in to complete a subscriber’s check immediately, her pulse quickening at the thought. Could the number belong to the one person who was always there for him, in case of emergency? Whom Powell was keen to please, who he listened to? Could that number hold the key to what, or who was behind Powell’s murderous spree?
The answer was in identifying its owner.
*
It was Paul who gave Charlie the warning.
‘Hunter expects your interim report in today and he’s not in a good mood.’
Bet edged up behind Paul. ‘And you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Could I suggest you smarten yourself up?’ She shot a glance over to the calendar on Charlie’s desk. ‘Ah, it’s Wednesday. I forgot. Is everything OK?’
‘It couldn’t be better actually,’ Charlie grinned up at their mirrored expressions. ‘Though I doubt Hunter will think so, but I need you two to do me a favour.’
Quickly she brought them both up to speed on what she needed, before disappearing into the steamy recess of the shower. Within fifteen minutes she returned, her cheeks glowing red from the heat and her eyes alive with expectation. Whether it was the offer of dinner, she didn’t know, but she had taken a little extra care with her appearance, tying her usually unruly hair neatly off her face to reveal a beautiful complexion and stunningly bright green eyes. Even she had been pleasantly surprised at the transformation.
Bet nodded approvingly. ‘Looking and smelling good! We’re already making headway on your enquiry. Get on with finishing your report for the boss and we’ll have an answer for you by this afternoon.’
Charlie thanked her and sat down at her desk. She knew better than to argue against Bet’s wisdom, and anyway, Bet and Paul were right. The interim report had to be done.
As if on cue, Hunter came through, his face serious, the vein on his forehead at full stretch.
‘Is your report done yet?’ he snapped.
‘It’ll be on your desk by lunchtime, guv.’ Charlie tried to keep her voice business-like but it was difficult to keep the edge of concern from it. He looked so stressed. In the end she blurted out what she’d been asked herself earlier. ‘Are you OK?’ Hunter rounded on her angrily. ‘I would be if you’d done your work, like I asked.’ He turned away, his shoulders slumping immediately, and sighed heavily. ‘Sorry, guys. You know what I’m like when the management are on my case. I just want to get on with the job.’ Without facing them, he straightened. ‘The DCI is threatening to discipline me for insubordination because I missed the interview with DS Boyle yesterday, but I’ll be buggered if I’m going to keep going over and over the same details. I made one error but I more than compensated for it afterwards and I’m not going to be strung up for it. It seems to have become a bit of a crusade for them, but I’m not backing down. They can do what they want.’
‘I thought they’d have had everything they needed after I spoke with her.’ Charlie was about to offer to speak to DS Boyle again but thought better of it. Hunter was more than capable of fighting his own battles. He didn’t need, and more to the point, wouldn’t appreciate his subordinate sticking her oar in. ‘Well you know we’re all behind you. I’ll have Powell’s report ready for you ASAP,’ she said instead.
Hunter walked wordlessly back to his office before pausing briefly. ‘Thanks,’ he said, before pulling the door to. ‘Make sure you do.’
*
Charlie was as good as her word. The interim report into Samson Louis Powell’s death was on his desk by midday, all the various files from his earlier life précised and attached. The facts were clearly laid out. In the absence of a suicide note though, it would be for the Coroner to decide whether the act was deliberately planned or the spontaneous act of a drunken murderer who knew his time was up.
That done, she had the afternoon to dwell on her earlier findings.
Naz and Sabira were continuing with their honour-based acid case. Another morning spent in the specialised burns unit at Roehampton hospital with the young female victim, Preet Bakshi, had convinced them both to keep up the pressure for information.
Preet had now agreed to make a statement, but as her attacker had been standing in a group of men immediately before the acid was thrown, she wasn’t able to say conclusively which man was guilty. The Punjabi community, as was the way with many other minority groups, had closed ranks; none of the other male witnesses being prepared, at this point, to assist, so Naz and Sabira were left trying to establish which man had the greatest motivation. Most of the group had now been eliminated, leaving only a couple of credible suspects, but they needed more… and that required one single man in the group being persuaded to step forward and talk. They were working on a plan of action to do this when Paul beckoned Charlie over to where he and Bet were sitting.
‘I think I’ve got what you’re after, so to speak.’ He winked at her before ripping off the corner of a piece of paper from a pile on his desk. ‘Here you go. Saffron Bolt, now retired but living in the same area.’ He scribbled down the contact details. ‘There can’t be many ladies of a similar age with that name around. Do you want me to come with you?’
Charlie clapped him on the back. ‘You’re a star, Paul and yes please. I’m not quite ready to spend too much time alone with Nick yet, or let him in on anymore of my theories.’
*
It was good to get away from the cool sterile environment of the office; it was much warmer outside than she realised. Very soon the car windows were wide open and the hot air was flowing across Charlie’s face. She breathed in sharply as a fly caught her on the cheek, before flicking it away and watching as it was sucked back out of the window in a jet stream of dust and pollen spores, barrel-rolling several times before regaining its flight wings.
Bromley Borough was as far removed from the boroughs of Lambeth and Peckham as was possible. Gone were the bleak, grey tower blocks and estates, replaced instead by long avenues of emerald-and olive-green trees, shielding the
well-heeled inhabitants of the mainly privately owned detached suburban houses from prying eyes.
Ms Saffron Bolt lived in a smart bungalow at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac. Each window was draped with swathes of colourful fabric, framing glass that sparkled in the bright sunlight, spotlessly clean. Brilliant-white net curtains undulated their way horizontally across each expanse of opening, bringing privacy and shade to its interior. The front garden was immaculate and two pots of bright pink petunias stood sentry on the doorstep, their cornet-shaped flowers trumpeting out a welcome to any callers.
Paul parked against the kerb outside and together they headed towards the bungalow. Charlie pressed the bell and the door was answered by the tall, slender figure of an elderly lady. Her gait was upright and her expression serious but her skin and pupils glowed with such honey-beige intensity that she exuded warmth.
‘Ms Saffron Bolt?’ Charlie held up her warrant card. ‘I’m DC Charlotte Stafford and this is my colleague DC Paul Parker. Could we speak to you about a former pupil of yours, Samson Powell? We’re hoping you remember him.’
Saffron Bolt’s expression darkened. ‘How could I forget Samson?’ She stood to one side and opened the door. ‘I’ve been watching the news. You’d better come through.’
She showed them through to a paved area at the rear. A dark green parasol filled the space, shielding a large patio table and chairs from the strongest of the sun’s rays. The garden exuded colour and life.
‘You have a beautiful garden,’ Charlie started.
‘Thank you,’ Saffron Bolt chose a seat and indicated with a movement of her hand for them all to sit, like she would a class of unruly children. ‘I work hard at it.’ She turned towards them and stared directly at Charlie. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I count myself lucky. I had an extremely happy childhood and I have been gifted a beautiful life. Not every child is that fortunate.’
‘You mean Samson?’
Ms Bolt nodded. ‘Yes, I mean Samson, and other boys and girls like him. He lost so much at such a young age. Is it any wonder that he turned out like he did?’
Charlie returned the teacher’s gaze, their eyes locking in mutual understanding. ‘I’ve read about his background. He did have a terrible start to life… he was lucky to survive.’
‘Maybe there are those that wish he hadn’t now?’ Ms Bolt looked away, fixing her sight instead on a spider weaving an intricate web through the air.
‘Maybe there are. But he didn’t have to end up like he did. Many children lose loved ones and experience loss.’ The teacher swung back around and their eyes locked again. ‘Many have horrific upbringings but thankfully don’t turn to murder. What do you think made Samson turn the way he did?’
‘Everybody gave up on him. Plain and simple. He didn’t care for himself and he didn’t care about anyone or anything else. He was never able to form any sort of bond… with anybody.’
‘Except you?’
‘Yes, perhaps.’ Ms Bolt bit on her bottom lip. ‘For some reason, Samson grew very attached to me. I don’t know why. Possibly because I gave him time, or because he said I looked like his mother, but I would find Samson hanging about outside my classroom at the end of school most days. I would let him in and he would help me sort out the room ready for the next day, stacking books, clearing away, that sort of thing. He didn’t say much; in fact he hardly spoke at all. I did all the talking, but I think he just liked to be with someone that accepted him and enjoyed his company, you could see it in his eyes; a sort of wretched adulation. It was pitiable really. It’s a shame others couldn’t see through his bad behaviour. He was damaged, but he was a sweet kid really.’
Charlie raised her eyebrows and she saw Paul do the same. She couldn’t imagine the man who had committed such brutal murders ever being described as ‘sweet’, but just as quickly, she recalled her inexplicable feeling of pathos at the scene of his suicide.
‘I gather he would do anything for you.’
‘Yes, he would, even the smallest things. He worked harder for me than any other person probably in his life and it was beginning to reap rewards. It was a shame when I had to leave so quickly.’ She turned away from them both again. ‘You see, I got pregnant, which wouldn’t normally be an issue, but I had health problems. There was no way I could continue teaching. It was badly timed, certainly as far as Samson was concerned. Such a shame too, just when it seemed as if my work with him was yielding results.’
‘He took it badly then?’
‘Yes extremely. I only had a short time to try to explain, but it was if he’d been waiting for that moment to come. Everybody in his young life had gone and I was no different. He smashed up the classroom the next day.’
‘And beat up another boy.’
‘Yes. Ashley Pitcorn was his name.’
‘So, Samson was prone to violence then, even at that age?’ Charlie tilted her head towards the retired teacher.
‘Maybe he was, like a lot of young boys from damaged backgrounds trying to find their place in a world from which they already felt isolated and alienated. But this was different; Samson beat Ashley up mercilessly. I was told he could have killed him if he hadn’t been stopped. He had no concept of what his actions could lead to and no conscience to stop himself.’
‘Did he give any reason for it?’
Saffron Bolt stood up and looked down the garden, her gaze far away from the flowering shrubs and colourful stems in her eyeline.
‘No, he said nothing; apparently just shrugged when he was arrested and smiled when he was told he was being expelled.’ She paused briefly. ‘But I know why he did it, though I’ve never told anyone else.’
Charlie waited, not wanting to break into the silence.
‘It was because I gave him the idea; inadvertently of course.’ She dropped her gaze to the floor. ‘When I was in the process of telling Samson that I was leaving, Ashley kept interrupting us, popping in and out of the room and laughing at Samson. All the other kids knew that he had a soft spot for me. I snapped on the last occasion. I just wanted to give Samson my full attention. I said that I wished somebody would just sort the boy out properly; meaning of course to come and get him and deal with what he needed. Samson must have taken my words literally and in his mind decided that he should be the one to “sort” Ashley out.’ She paused again and sighed heavily. ‘I should have been more careful how I’d phrased my frustration about the boy. I knew Samson always followed my every word.’
‘Even as far as beating up this boy?’ Charlie was intrigued.
‘Yes I believe so. He would have done anything for me that I asked.’
‘Anything?’
Saffron Bolt nodded, before turning her gaze towards them, flicking between her and Paul, before coming to rest on Charlie again. Her expression was etched with pain.
‘When I read the news about what he’d done, I didn’t want to acknowledge it could be Samson. I didn’t think he’d be capable of such brutality, but then I remembered this incident… and how he would do everything I asked, down to the last detail. I might be wrong, but I’m not sure he would be capable of planning the killings himself, to the degree that appears apparent.’
‘But if there was someone else that he’d grown close to, who was suggesting what to do; someone who was planning his exact actions, pulling his strings, so to speak…?’ Charlie held her breath.
‘Then yes. I think he would be capable of anything.’
Chapter 28
Thursday 6th July 2017
The volume of squabbling was getting louder as each party box was served. A long table set out for a birthday party was crammed on both sides with nine-year-old boys, each vying for the attention of the waitress. The poor woman had a thankless task, trying to keep the recipients of each ‘Happy meal’ happy. He watched as one of the bigger boys with bright red hair, climbed on to the table, drumming his fist against his chest and squealing with laughter, much to the consternation of the frazzled mother in charge. A smaller
, younger boy, with the same distinctive red hair tugged on his sleeve, urging him to climb down. With a jerk of the material and a kick to the younger boy’s arm, the older one dismissed his plea with barely a thought. He was clearly used to calling the shots.
The man continued to watch the two boys. They looked like brothers and they acted like brothers. It reminded him of his own.
The minutes ticked by as he waited for the call. Thursday afternoon was dragging and he wanted to get it over with. He chewed slowly on the burger he’d ordered, too nervous even to taste the ketchup in which it was smothered. His cheap Nokia mobile phone pinged into life and he jumped, squeezing a globule of blood-red sauce around his mouth. He licked it away quickly, wiping the last of the redness on his sleeve.
Pressing the phone to his ear, he strained to hear the voice over the background noise. It was calm, almost hypnotic, the intonations of its pitch those that he’d known for so long. The instructions were spoken clearly, repeated several times. He was to walk from the restaurant, through the underpass and into the centre of Wandsworth roundabout, dropping down into its bowels, unseen through the high walls that shielded its view from the five lanes of traffic. He knew the area well. Only the odd person traversed its hidden depths, most preferring the busier, more public crossings above.
Once there he must go past the sculpture of white entwined rings that stood at its centre, to an area of grass and shrubs, next to which he’d see the hollow remains of a dead chestnut tree. It was the only one there. Inside he would find a black plastic carrier bag with its contents wrapped in brown paper. He was to don the gloves he’d bought earlier and lift the bag out, taking it intact and unopened, to his room. Only then could he unwrap the package and only with the face mask and gloves on. There would be a new phone and SIM card which he must make ready. The one he now used must be destroyed. There could be no slip-ups. He had done well so far, but now he should prepare to kill. His fingerprints and DNA must not be left on anything in the bag. No risks were to be taken. His identity must remain unknown.