Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Thank you. We just want her back home. To see her again.’

  Sam couldn’t see Ed’s right hand, it was out of her line of sight, tucked under his leg, but she saw his forearm tighten.

  ‘We will go back to the start. Review everything,’ she said.

  Davinder’s head jerked up. ‘Why? She’s with that boy. The one she was in the town with. He’s vanished. He took Aisha, kidnapped her. I wanted to say she’d been kidnapped on the TV but Ms Carver didn’t think it was a good idea.’

  Sam knew that Jill Carver wasn’t foolish enough to allow allegations to be broadcast without some substance. Better to concentrate on the lack of progress rather than throwing in spurious, unsubstantiated claims.

  Sam said: ‘We will look at everything. Start again. Make sure we have missed nothing. Everybody wants the same result, Mr Bhandal, the safe return of Aisha.’

  He held her gaze.

  ‘My wife cannot sleep. Our other daughter won’t sleep in the bedroom she shared with Aisha. Baljit wishes he’d done more to protect his sister. All because of some boy she’d met. This is what happens.’

  Ed sat forward. ‘In the press conference on Saturday you said you wanted Aisha to enjoy everything the UK had to offer.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Davinder said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If you wanted her to enjoy everything the UK had to offer, surely that would include allowing her to walk around the town with a friend, boy or not.’

  Davinder stood up. ‘Mr…’

  ‘Whelan,’ Ed said.

  ‘Mr Whelan.’ His shoulders were stiff, chest inflated, hands in his pockets, the I’m-the-master-in-this-house stance. ‘By that I meant education, better standard of living, good place to raise a family, but we still believe in certain traditions, certain behaviours that perhaps white people don’t. There are certain standards expected from our daughters.’

  ‘Izzat,’ Ed said.

  Davinder’s hands shot out of his pockets. The heel of his hand hit his forehead. His words were quick, accusatory. ‘Yes of course. Is it such a bad thing? Everybody should have honour.’

  He sat down and shook his head, his words measured. ‘There are so many temptations today.’

  Sam stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Bhandal.’

  In the hallway she stopped at the photograph on the tall, narrowed-legged table. A family photograph: mother, father, Baljit and Mia sat on the sofa in the living room, a Christmas tree the background. Where was Aisha?

  ‘Last Christmas?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Yes, although a far from normal one, as you can imagine,’ Davinder said. ‘My brother-in-law took it before Mia went to stay with him. She was too upset to stay in her own bedroom with Aisha going missing.’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said.

  Sam and Ed walked back to the car, feeling Davinder’s eyes on their backs before he closed the front door.

  ‘What do you make of him, then?’ Sam asked as she slid into the passenger seat.

  Ed depressed the clutch and started the engine. ‘Same as I did when I saw him on TV. You saw his reaction to Izzat. To them, it’s the most important thing in their lives. More important than everything, including their own kids.’

  Ed turned left into another terraced street, glanced at a group of youngsters bouncing a football towards each other, and saw the women talking by front doors, heads covered with scarves.

  ‘Every one of these people is a potential gatekeeper.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘East Germans grassed on their neighbours to the Stasi. Same principle here, everybody spying on everybody else. Anybody causing shame, report back to the family. Gatekeepers of Honour, Sam.’ He accelerated. ‘They’re all self-appointed Gatekeepers of Honour.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jamie Telford opened the fridge door and took out a can of Fosters. The fridge was packed with lager. If they weren’t eating take-away food, they ate tins which allowed the fridge to be the alcohol cupboard.

  He pulled the ring. Lager fizzed, shot out of the can on to his hand. ‘Bollocks.’ He rubbed his hand against the pink cotton of his Mortimer T-shirt, gulped the lager, and flicked through the letters on the kitchen table. There were two for him. One from the bank. That could wait. He didn’t need to read a statement to know he was skint. The other was handwritten, addressed to ‘Mr. J Telford’.

  He put the can on the wooden table, opened the envelope, and pulled out the folded piece of paper.

  The wind wouldn’t have flown out of his body any quicker if a boxer had punched him in the gut.

  He jumped up, knees ramming into the underside of the table. The can flew through the air, its contents exploding across the floor as it hit the washing machine. The envelope’s contents, in contrast, fluttered like a stalling paper aeroplane on to the table.

  When had that photo been taken?

  He ran to the can, kicked it hard against the wall, and then slumped into a chair. Taking hold of the paper, he stared at the photograph and handwritten words, the writing like a child’s, undoubtedly disguised by the author. This wasn’t the work of a child.

  TOMORROW THIS WILL APPEAR EVERYWHERE. SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.

  He stared again at the photograph but didn’t recognise the room or remember the night... just another party, only this time his drink, or at least one of them, must have been spiked. He had no recollection, his memory a blank.

  His hands were shaking as they repeatedly ran through his tight, curly hair. Rohypnol, Jamie’s panicked mind was shouting. No other explanation. He fumbled in his pocket for his smartphone, jabbed the call register, and hit the entry for Elliott Prince.

  Bev Summers walked into Sam’s office.

  Yeah, Sam was right. Ed thought. Fresh as a daisy.

  ‘Got the info from Jack Goddard’s phone. Right charmer.’ She sat down, passing a folder to both Sam and Ed.

  Sam flicked through the pile of sheets, about 20 in total: lists of calls, texts, and photographs.

  The printing department had quartered the pages, each segment showing a photograph of a young woman in bed, alone, the bed covers pulled back. Most of them were topless.

  ‘Who do we think they are?’ Sam said.

  ‘University students,’ Bev said. ‘Those rooms are in the Halls of Residence. The students are asleep, unaware the photo’s being taken. Look at page 5. Look at how many followers he’s got on Instagram. More than 200.’

  Horrifying. Sam thought. Thank God social media wasn’t around when I was at uni.

  Ed stiffened in his chair. ‘The most well-connected generation in history and the loneliest. Don’t know how to converse outside their Facebook groups. They’ll get a hell of a shock when they have to step into the real world.’

  Ed had seen two pictures just the other day. One showed a young soldier on a landing craft approaching Normandy with the caption ‘A 19-year-old in 1944. High chance of certain death.’ The next showed a lad of this generation sitting alone, knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. The caption read ‘Because words hurt’.

  To Ed, it confirmed what he had long thought. Moral cowards who leave university with bags of debt and a Mickey-mouse degree that would get them a job behind a bar or a shop counter.

  ‘The arseholes taking the photos want stringing up,’ he said quietly.

  Sam stood up and stretched, her headache not as fierce but the furry carpet on her tongue a lingering reminder of the hangover.

  ‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ she said. ‘What if there’s a link between the deaths of these students. We may have just found a connection. Check if any of the deceased were following Goddard on Instagram. Check his Facebook account as well. What’s this then?’

  Sam had turned to a photograph of nine clearly drunk young men. Ed turned to the same page. Students, all holding cans, arms around each other, all wearing the same blue T-shirts. The printed logo, a play on Facebook and in the same font, said ‘Freshers
’ and in the rectangular search bar ‘hashtag slags and beer’.

  ‘Are they all like that?’ Bev asked, shaking her head. ‘The so-called educated generation?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re not,’ Sam said. ‘But unis seem to get their fair share these days.’

  ‘Half of them just want a good bat,’ Ed scowled. ‘Look at this lot. Arrogance personified. We can do what we want, sod the rest of society. To think my family fought in two world wars to give these tossers their freedom. Why did they bother? They’ll all run home crying to mummy when the nasty policeman asks them questions.’

  Sam and Bev smiled.

  Bev pointed at the picture in Ed’s bundle. ‘We’ve identified Goddard, Elliott Prince, and the others who live in the house with them. There are a couple of unknowns.’

  ‘I’ll go and see the bold Elliott Prince tomorrow,’ Ed said. ‘He’ll name them for me.’

  Sam looked at Bev. ‘Nothing from Tom King?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Another thing on the list for tomorrow,’ said Sam. ‘But I’m not being late tonight. It’s my course.’

  ‘Can’t tempt you for one then?’ Bev said.

  ‘No. Take Ed.’

  ‘I’m in enough shit,’ Ed shook his head. ‘Straight home for me. I need some brownie points.’

  Sam strolled through the campus, all Tarmac, concrete and gleaming new buildings. The University of Seaton St George, USG, with the inclusive motto ‘Generation Us’, had been a polytechnic until 1992.

  The rise in tuition fees had seen it grow almost as quickly as the vice-chancellor’s salary. Almost.

  Tonight’s two-hour session would involve a discussion about Hemingway’s ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’, in particular whether Pablo was a coward because he didn’t want to blow up the bridge.

  Sam walked down the sterile corridor; plain cream walls without pictures or posters, light grey floor covering, and the sound of her heels echoing. She’d been home, changed into jeans and a light blue cashmere V-necked sweater.

  She stepped into the classroom, desks arranged in a U shape and chairs facing the white board.

  ‘Well you’re a dark-horse.’ Liz Jacobs’s personality matched her size – huge.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked, pulling out a chair, knowing exactly what Liz meant.

  The eyes of the other five classmates were on Sam.

  ‘Working for the Local Authority indeed,’ Liz said. ‘We all saw you on the TV last night. Detective Chief Inspector. Same rank as Morse, higher than Rebus.’

  Sam smiled as she sat down. ‘I just wanted to keep a low profile, enjoy the course without being asked about whatever murder or high-profile crime story was in the papers. And I’m impressed you know so much about the ranks of the fictional detectives.’

  ‘Well done you,’ said Jean Stones, the grey-haired self-appointed grandmother of the group. ‘I think it’s wonderful that a young girl can climb the ladder in a man’s world. It would never have happened in my day.’

  She pulled herself closer to the desk and turned down the volume of her voice. ‘I wanted to burn my bra in the early 70s but by then I’d breast-fed three kids and believe me, I needed the support.’

  The women in the group laughed. Steve Jenkins, a thirty-something IT worker went crimson.

  Stella Burton burst through the door. ‘Evening class,’ she boomed.

  Sam shook her head in wonderment; what God-like mix-up had happened that bestowed such a petite young woman with a Brian Blessed voice?

  Stella’s eyes settled on Sam. ‘Ah, our very own undercover agent. Our very own Robert Jordan.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Sam said. ‘Robert Jordan’s identity was known to the group. Pablo, Maria, Anselmo etcetera.’

  ‘Well, it seems our very own Jane Tennison, our Prime Suspect, has read Hemingway’s book.’ Stella grinned as she walked into the middle of the horseshoe. ‘Good for you, Sam.’

  The booming voice filled the room.

  ‘Let’s make a start.’

  She turned and walked towards her desk, speaking with her back to the students.

  ‘You were asked to consider whether Pablo was a coward.’

  Sam was so absorbed in the session, so entranced by Stella’s passion and skill, she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach when Stella called time.

  Two hours had passed. She would soon be back in her car and her thoughts would turn from Hemingway’s characters to the reality of Aisha and Jack Goddard. It had been good while it lasted.

  ‘Anyone up for a drink,’ Liz asked.

  A few murmured yes.

  ‘Sam?’ Liz’s eyes were almost pleading.

  ‘Sorry. I need to get an early night.’

  Sam saw the disappointment on Liz’s face but couldn’t be bothered with the ‘what’s-the-worst-case-you-ever-dealt-with?’ scenario tonight.

  ‘Maybe next week,’ she said

  Sam rushed out and almost knocked the coffee out of the hand of a passing student. ‘My God, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Tracey?’ Sam said.

  Sam watched Tracey Davies’s eyes glaze, knew her brain was frantically searching through the filing cabinets of her short-term memory bank.

  Sam had the advantage; she didn’t have a massive hangover when they last met, wasn’t the one running to the bathroom.

  ‘Sam Parker. Detective... '

  ‘Oh hi. Sorry for not recognising you. I was a bit, you know, worse for wear the last time.’

  Sam glanced at the three women grouped around Tracey. It was her turn to search her memory.

  ‘Amber?’ she said, staring at one of the girls.

  ‘Hello Sam.’ She turned to the others. ‘I’ll catch up, girlfriends.’

  Tracey and the girls headed towards the doors.

  ‘What are you doing here then Amber?’

  ‘I could ask you the same.’

  ‘I’m doing a literature course. What about you?’

  ‘I’m a facilitator with an unofficial self-help group... girls, students, who’ve been subject to sexual harassment, indecent assaults, rape.’

  Amber Dalton had been one of the victims of a serial rapist last year, attacked in her own bed. After her ordeal she had told Sam she wanted to help other victims.

  ‘That’s great,’ Sam said. ‘But why is the group unofficial?’

  ‘I’m not sure the university would approve,’ Amber told her. ‘They should be doing more, Sam.’ She glanced around. ‘Let’s talk outside.’

  The cool April evening made them both shudder.

  ‘After the attack, I had a choice... go back to Bristol or stay here,' Amber said. 'I decided to stay but I couldn’t face going back to work at the council. That’s when I decided to do another degree.’

  ‘Good for you, Amber.’

  ‘It wasn’t much of a choice really,’ Amber said. ‘Waste my life thinking about him and asking myself ‘why me?’ or move on. I’ve moved on. Then I heard stories about girls suffering harassment and set up the group. It’s a word-of-mouth thing. Like I said, the university probably wouldn’t approve. Most of the time they’re in denial about what goes on.’

  They stopped by Sam’s car.

  ‘What sort of harassments, Amber?’

  ‘Sam, I tell the group they can report to the police, report to you. I tell them my experience with the police was nothing but positive. But you know what it’s like. I can’t breach confidences.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘These girls don’t want to report because they don’t want it going public. They feel they’ll be judged. Got drunk so it’s their fault, they asked for it. Look at the way the Press gets mileage out of students on a session... Friday nights or bank-holiday weekends. Most of the photographs they use are of girls pissed, lying on pavements, showing their knickers or flashing their boobs. Just as many lads are pissed but the girls make a better story. Drunken girls equals fair game and
it doesn’t matter what sex offence laws the Government brings in. It’s all about perception.’

  Sam could see the fire in Amber’s eyes.

  ‘So is it as big a problem?’

  ‘Bigger than I thought. Over 50% of female students say they’ve been touched up when they’re out or had to put up with vile comments. It’s outrageous, Sam, an absolute disgrace.’

  Sam knew decades of violence against women strategies and zero tolerance towards domestic abuse had failed to hold back the tide.

  Social media had only made things worse.

  ‘How did it ever get to this?’ Sam said, shaking her head. ‘Changing the subject, did you know Jack Goddard?’

  ‘The guy in the river?’ Amber asked. ‘No. I knew of him. Part of some sick misogynist group. What did they call themselves?’

  ‘Mortimers.’

  ‘Yeah that’s it,’ Amber said. ‘Sick bastards. Got what he deserves.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Too right,’ Amber said, full of defiance. ‘When he got pissed and drowned in that river, if there’s a God, he did his job.’

  ‘And if he didn’t fall?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Someone did God’s job for him,’ Amber said. ‘Either way it’s a win-win. I’ll see you later Sam.’

  Sam got into her car, watched Amber catch up to the others, and saw Tracey look over her shoulder. The group were obviously discussing her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday 16th April 2014

  ‘Morning,’ Sam said, popping her head around the HOLMES room door. ‘Got a minute, Ed?’

  Ed followed her into her office, mug of tea in hand.

  ‘Driving in this morning I couldn’t get that Christmas photo out of my head.’ She took off her blue Mac and gave it a shake, the light spray of water flying into the air before vanishing like the vapour of an e-cigarette.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Sam opened her drawer, took out a brush, and ran it through her hair.

  ‘There just seemed something wrong. Not only that they were smiling just after Aisha had gone missing, but something else. Then I realised.’