Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  Tracey flashed a big smile, looked Ed up and down, and fixed her eyes on his. ‘English Lit.’

  Sam stood up. ‘Thanks for your time. Somebody will take a statement from you tomorrow.’

  Tracey shook Sam’s hand then Ed’s, her hand lingering on his just a little longer than needed.

  Walking down the path, Ed’s stride was longer than normal as he rushed to the car. He bleeped it open, pushed the key in the ignition, and had the engine running before Sam sat next to him.

  She pulled her seat belt towards her and looked at him.

  ‘Well how much was she flirting?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. She’s the same age as my daughter.’

  Sam patted his thigh. ‘Her eyes were devouring you.’

  Ed’s face flushed. He shoved the gear stick into first and hit the accelerator harder than necessary. The car shot forward, the engine whining, demanding second gear.

  ‘Oh Ed,’ she cooed. ‘You’re embarrassed!’

  ‘Look, over the years it’s happened, women coming on to you, thinking you have an exciting life. But when it’s young lasses like that, well, it makes me uncomfortable.’

  ‘She’s very confident alright.’

  ‘Maybe, but there was something about her,’ Ed said. ‘The way she spoke about what happened in the pub, really spat the words out. Her eyes gave nothing away but she’s one aggressive young lady. Almost regressed back into that situation, a cognitive interview without any prompting from us.’

  At the turn of the millennium more and more academics became involved with police interview techniques. Ed had undertaken the nationally recognised witness interviewing training that cascaded out of the academic research.

  The cognitive interview revolved around getting the witness to describe sounds and smells, in an effort to put them back in the moment, the theory being it would maximise the information.

  ‘So what’s your point?’

  Ed said: ‘Not sure there is one, except there’s more to her than meets the eye.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Ed said, removing his jacket, pulling out a chair from underneath the table in the kitchen, his stomach reminding his twitching nostrils how hungry he was. The two guests nodded. His wife glared.

  ‘We’re used to it,’ Sue said, in a monotone voice without a hint of humour.

  Roast beef and Yorkshire puddings were off the menu; today it was chicken curry, lamb curry, dhal, and roti.

  Surinder, or Sue to almost everyone, was a wonderful cook and over the years all of Ed’s friends and colleagues had jockeyed for invites to his famous home curry nights. Indian restaurants were fine, Punjabi restaurants better, but nothing beat the curries Asians made at home.

  Sue, like Aisha, was of Punjabi Sikh heritage, but while Sue had been able to choose her own husband, Ed doubted the same would apply to Aisha.

  Ed spooned chicken curry on to his plate and tore his roti.

  ‘Do you know this family, the Bhandals?’

  ‘Not personally,’ Sue said. ‘But Leela and Eric do.’

  Sue glanced at her lifelong friend. They’d met on the first day of infants, two Sikh girls in a predominantly white school.

  ‘You still think she ran away?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Not unheard of and there’s nothing to say otherwise,’ Sue said. ‘Why you asking?’

  Ed picked up the ice-cold Kingfisher, the condensation wetting his fingers. ‘We’re doing a review of the initial investigation,’ he told her. ‘Nothing unusual in that, but that press conference yesterday... ’

  ‘Yeah, I saw that,’ Ekbir, Eric to his friends, said. ‘The CCTV with the boyfriend. I thought that was a bit iffy at the time.’

  ‘How?’ Ed asked, picking up some chicken with a piece of roti. There were no knives and forks when they were eating curry.

  ‘The father’s at the Gurdwara nearly every day. Then his daughter’s on the TV walking around a shopping centre with a boy.’

  Leela nodded.

  ‘Nobody around this table is a practising Sikh,’ Eric said. ‘I don’t wear a turban, but even I might find it difficult if my daughter is supposed to be at college and then she’s seen walking around the shops with a boy. It’s deceitful, disrespectful.’

  ‘Multiply that by a hundred, a thousand if they’re strict,’ Leela said, dabbing her napkin around the corner of her mouth.

  Ed raised the bottle to his lips and drank a little. This was a social occasion but he couldn’t let it drop.

  ‘You obviously know him, know the family. What are they like?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a leader in the community,’ Eric said. ‘Not the go-to guy, but a respected member. Had an arranged marriage, wife came from the Punjab. Her brother followed her. He’s anti-Western everything where Sikh women are concerned. Like the mother, thinks all white women are trash.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You don’t need to scream your views from the rooftops,’ Eric said. ‘You know that. Body language, throw-away sentences... it’s hard to hide your attitudes and beliefs.’

  ‘Another bottle, Eric?’ Sue said, her chair scraping across the tiles as she pushed it away from the table. At the fridge, out of sight of Leela and Eric, Sue raised her eyebrows, the non-verbal communication for ‘Back off Ed'.

  Ed nodded.

  ‘So do you think she ran away?’

  He would just have to deal with the domestic argument that would follow.

  ‘Everything’s possible,’ Eric said, nodding his appreciation at the lamb curry. ‘I’ve no doubt she’s not at home but whether she removed herself or was removed, I don’t know. That’s your job, Ed, not mine, but after the TV today, I did hear that she was promised.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ Ed said, trying to stop his voice rising.

  ‘Ed, we have been friends for many years and I respect you. Our wives went to school together but there are some things you cannot ask me because I will offend you when I refuse to answer, and I have no desire to offend you.’

  ‘The arranged marriage. Aisha’s. Was he in India?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eric said. ‘Same village as her mother. There was an engagement party when Aisha was four, although I suspect if she remembers it, she’ll just remember a party.’

  ‘In India?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘Ed!’ Sue exclaimed.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Eric said. ‘As I see it, she either ran away, was shipped off to India, or was… you know, look, well I don’t want to make wild accusations.‘

  Sue’s voice was just loud enough to be above conversational, it’s tone slightly aggressive.

  ‘And you weren’t invited round to do anything of the sort. That’s quite enough, Ed. Our friends have come around for a pleasant evening, not to be given the third degree like one of your police interviews.’

  ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking about,’ Sue shouted as soon as she slammed the front door, goodbyes exchanged. ‘It was bad enough being an hour late but then you start interviewing them about that poor girl.’

  She followed Ed into the sitting room where he flopped into an armchair. ‘You’re always at work,’ Sue raged. ‘You were there yesterday, today, all weekend you’ve been there.’

  Her hands were on her hips, voice getting louder. Ed stared at one particular spot on the wall.

  ‘Today was meant to be a couple of hours and you were there all day. You see more of Sam Parker than you do of me.’

  Ed jumped up and side-stepped around Sue.

  ‘It’s my job,’ he shouted, walking to the door.

  ‘That’s right. It’s always the job.’

  Ed climbed the stairs as Sue rushed into the hallway.

  ‘Go on,’ she shouted. ‘Go to bed. Half 10 and you’re off to bed. Funny how you can stay out all hours when you’re working or down the bloody pub but when you’re here with me, you’re straight to bed.’

&nb
sp; Ed slammed the bedroom door.

  ‘I’ll sleep down here tonight.’ He heard Sue’s parting shot.

  Ed undressed, slipped into bed. Another day in paradise.

  Ed was under the duvet before Sam left the office.

  Her whiteboard was full. She had split the board in five columns, each column representing a student who had died in the river. The columns covered the usual: name, date of birth, date of death, where discovered, who by, where they’d been on the night of their death, toxicology results, visible injuries, physical characteristics.

  Once she had gleaned that information from the respective files, she had sat for about 30 minutes on the edge of her desk trying to establish if there was a connection.

  Were they known to each other? Nothing in the files to answer that question either way. Had they come into contact with the same people when they were out? Another unknown. All had drunk to excess. All were male. Was there something in that? Physically, none were as big and muscular as Jack Goddard.

  There was no apparent pattern regarding the days of their deaths – they didn’t all happen on a Saturday night, Sunday morning.

  Only Jack Goddard had injuries inconsistent with falling into the river and drowning. He was the only one not to have drowned.

  She stood up. It was late and on a Sunday this corridor in Headquarters was deserted. The Force Control room was on the other side of the building. She opened the window, lit a Marlboro Gold, and inhaled deeply before walking back to the board. She drew a line underneath the last of the entries and wrote MOTIVE. She stared at the board. Nothing. She couldn’t think of one. Sexual? No evidence. Theft? Nothing stolen. A random need to throw people in river? Why? Nothing linking the victims.

  The serial killer theory might gain some momentum in tomorrow’s press conference, but here, in her office, it was slowing quicker than a bobsleigh with the brakeman doing his job.

  The first four deaths, while tragic and avoidable, appeared to be down to drink.

  Sam re-read the names on her white board, thought of the devastation to the families; without any evidence she would never publicly agree to even the remotest possibility of a serial killer. Doing that would cause a media storm, and heap more suffering on to the deceased’s loved ones, more unanswered questions. Here in private?

  Jack Goddard was a big physical specimen. But what if the others had been pushed in?

  Chapter Nine

  Friday 13th December 2013

  Sukhi sent me a text. Told me not to worry. Told me to meet him at the end of my street. He’d be in his car. We’d go wherever I wanted. Where would that be? London? Plenty of jobs and miles away from here.

  It’s always the same when you’re in a rush, more people than usual getting on and off at every stop, people without the right money waiting for change, old people taking ages. I thought about getting off, running, but I forced myself to stay where I was. Even with the stopping and starting, the bus would still get me there quicker.

  Gurmej, my uncle, had a mobile but my mother, who would be down the Gurdwara, didn’t and dad would be at the factory until six. The best my uncle could do was an answer-phone message for dad. Gurmej didn’t have a car. The next bus wasn’t for half an hour and the journey itself was 25 minutes. He couldn’t get to me before 5.55 and my dad would still be at work at that time.

  I turned my wrist. 5.15. I opened my purse: a couple of £2 coins. That wouldn’t get me very far.

  I stared out of the window, the familiar sights rolling past... the shops, banks, the streets of my childhood, of my teenage years. People shuffled past the brightly lit shop windows, heads deep in collars, the flashing lights hypnotising them. The Christmas decorations, stretching between the lampposts, twinkled above the cars.

  Christmas? I hadn’t even given it a thought, not since those numbers, not since 4 3 7.

  I was born here, know nowhere else. Now I was about to leave it all behind, not a student on a gap-year adventure, but a shameful whore on a lifetime of family exclusion. I’d never return. Never see these landmarks again, never see my friends again, never see Bethany…Bethany, a true friend, the type who is bridesmaid at your wedding. I rubbed my eyes. The type of wedding where you chose your husband. I was leaving everything.

  I pressed my nose against the cool glass and saw Christmas trees blinking brightly in windows.

  I loved Christmas. Would I be able to buy a tree wherever we ended up? Presents?

  I pressed the bell and stood as the bus slowed. Time seemed to be going faster. I checked my watch. 5.29pm. Today of all days it had to be four minutes late. It was never late. I couldn’t rely on the next one being late.

  I stepped down off the bus, clutched my bag into my side, and ran.

  Monday 14th April 2014

  Sam walked into the HOLMES room at 7am and said: ‘You’re early.’

  Ed looked up from the computer.

  ‘Yeah, sometimes it’s easier to jump in the shower and skip breakfast. Saves all the post-argument analysis.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Sam said, flicking the switch on the kettle. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Please. Bit of intell on Aisha.’ Ed said, getting out of his chair.

  ‘Go on,’ Sam said, sniffing the milk.

  ‘Nothing we can use at the minute. Strict father. Big in the community. Suggestion that she was to have an arranged marriage.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, and the CCTV of her with a boy, as I said, a potential trigger for honour-based violence. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to go and see this Bethany Stevens. She mentioned a marriage in her statement. I’ll sort the bouncers out with Bev when I get back. I’ll get Paul Adams to draw up an interview plan for them.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve got the press conference at 9.30. I stared at the whiteboard in my office for ages last night. Five columns, one for each of the lads that drowned in the river.’ She poured the hot water into the mugs.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing. Jack Goddard’s the only one with unexplained injuries. He was attacked. The others. Nothing. Drowned. All drunk.’

  ‘As we thought then,’ Ed said.

  ‘But what if we’re wrong? What if the students are right? What if they didn’t fall in? What if they were pushed?’

  Ed used the dirty teaspoon to press the tea-bag against the inside of the mug. ‘And your evidence of that comes from where?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ Sam said. ‘I’m just posing the question. Jack’s too big to be pushed but I’ve looked at photographs of the others and full of drink, they could definitely be shoved into the river.’

  ‘And you are posing this question because?’ Ed leaned back against the windowsill and drank from the mug.

  ‘Five in six months,’ Sam said. ‘Do you know how many people, students or otherwise, fell into that river and died in the last year, last two years, last three years?’

  ‘I do now. Obviously none.’

  ‘Correct. So are we saying that students have suddenly started getting drunker? I just think we need to keep an open mind.’

  ‘Have there been any inquests?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Not yet. First one shouldn’t be long though. What are your thoughts on Jack Goddard?’

  ‘Argumentative. Aggressive. That’s clear on the CCTV from the Jolly Roger… A misogynist? Probably. Certainly no charmer around the women. Look at the T-shirts.’

  ‘Get his phone examined asap,’ Sam said.

  Bethany Stevens lived at home with one parent. Her mother, a woman in her early 40s, opened the door. Ed followed her rounded shoulders down a long narrow hall, his enforced short steps making him focus on her bowed head, her chin obviously tucked into her chest. The printed skirt looked washed out; the mules barely had a sole.

  ‘I’ve heard of this girl, Aisha,’ she said in a voice so quiet Ed was straining to hear. ‘But of course I’ve never met her. I do hope she’s alright? Would you like a cup of tea?’

  The kitchen was plain
shabby, not shabby chic. The dark brown units belonged to the 60s, the free-standing cooker with its solid door, was probably new in the 70s, and Ed hadn’t seen a twin-tub washer since he was a kid.

  ‘Yes please. No sugar, and with help from people like Bethany, we’ll find out if Aisha’s okay.’

  He sat at the table, the strip of veneer peeling away from the side, and glanced at the brown carpet with its frayed edges. ‘Have you lived here long?’ When had he last seen a carpet in a kitchen?

  ‘Bethany and myself moved in here about two years ago. My grandparents bought this house when it was first built. My nana’s death coincided with my divorce, so we moved in.’

  She placed a mug of tea in front of Ed. The mug was chipped, her hand shaking.

  ‘Of course we need to spend some money on it, but it’s a solid house.’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ Ed said. ‘Beautiful.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘You must be Bethany.’ He stood up.

  ‘I am and you must be Sgt Whelan.’

  Bethany extended her arm, shook his hand. ‘I see you’ve got tea.’

  She smiled at her mother. ‘You can go now, mam. I’ll be fine. I’ll shout if I need you.’

  ‘Okay pumpkin.’ She rubbed her hand on her pink Paisley apron, nodded at Ed, and walked out.

  What a contrast, Ed thought. Introvert mother, confident daughter.

  ‘Always been a stay-at-home mam, but bad with her nerves now.’ Bethany sat next to Ed. ‘Devastated when that bastard of a father of mine shacked up with another woman. Much younger of course. My mam should have left him years ago. I told her to leave when I was 15. Anyway, how can I help? I’ve already made a statement.’

  ‘As I explained on the phone we are going right back to the beginning, make sure we haven’t missed anything,’ Ed said. ‘In your statement you mentioned a marriage.’

  Bethany nodded. ‘Yeah. I thought she was joking at first: 18 and getting married off. It was only when I saw how upset she was, I realised she meant it. I couldn’t believe it. And did you see her dad on the TV, crying buckets? It’s his fault she’s run away.’