Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘So, you’re interested in Macavity.’

  ‘I am,’ Sam said, pulling the coffee towards her.

  ‘Thomas Stearns Eliot. T.S.Eliot. Genius of a man. Macavity was the only villain in Eliot’s Cats. You know, the mystery cat, the flying paw, the master criminal, baffling Scotland Yard, driving the Flying Squad to despair.’

  Again Sam was entranced, lost in Stella’s almost musical voice. She might consider a degree in English Literature.

  ‘So if I aligned myself to Macavity, am I saying I’m a criminal, albeit an educated one?’

  Stella said: ‘I think it’s more subtle than that. Educated to the extent that the individual knows about T.S.Eliot’s Cats. Macavity was outwardly respectable.’ Stella leaned across the table and whispered.

  ‘Although they say he cheats at cards.’

  She laughed and rocked back in her chair.

  ‘When the police arrive at the crime scene, he’s not there. So it’s more than just being a criminal. It’s about a criminal who never gets caught.’

  Worrying, Sam thought.

  ‘The cats had colours, didn’t they? What colour was Macavity?’

  ‘Tall, thin, and ginger,’ Stella said.

  An image appeared... a tall, redheaded English Literature student Sam had recently met.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The middle-aged Sikh man ignored Ed as he walked past. Ed didn’t ignore him. He stared long and hard: grey stubble, thin lips, maroon turban. His heart rate increased. It always did when he made his own luck.

  He’d seen that combination of stubble, thin lips and maroon turban before.

  His eyes never left the short man with the un-pressed black trousers and scuffed dark brown shoes, willing him to knock on Aisha’s door.

  Ed held his breath. The Sikh was about three doors away, four, tops. If he walked past, Ed would follow him.

  The Sikh didn’t walk past. He didn’t knock. He walked straight in.

  Jackpot. He’s family.

  The man in the background of the photograph Bethany Stevens had taken as a joke, the photograph showing Aisha kissing Sukhi, is family. The Kiss of Death scenario had just seen its odds slashed.

  Ed walked slowly towards the house. It would be considered incredibly rude not to introduce everyone inside if you were the head of a Sikh household. Get inside and he would know who was in Bethany’s photograph.

  He knocked. Davinder Bhandal answered.

  ‘Sergeant, come in please.’

  Ed looked at the photograph on the table. Sam was right. The settee Mia and Baljit were sitting on did look new.

  In the living room, thin lips was on his feet. It was a different sofa to the one in the picture.

  ‘Gurmej, this is Sergeant Whelan. Sergeant Whelan, this is my brother-in-law Gurmej.’

  Ed held out his hand. Gurmej shook it, albeit with some reticence.

  ‘Tea, Sergeant?’ Davinder asked. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger?’

  ‘No thanks. I won’t take up much of your time.’ Ed sat down, the others followed. He looked at the father. ‘In the initial report you said Aisha had her mobile with her when she went missing.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Had you ever considered she had more than one?’

  ‘I’d never thought of that, Sergeant. I don’t think she’d have had any money for phones, but I’ll ask my wife.’

  ‘It’s just with her not using the number you have for her, I wondered if anybody ever suggested she may have had another one.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge Sergeant, but I will ask the family, see if it could be a possibility.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ed stood up. ‘I’ll not keep you any longer.’

  Ed was shown to the door. Pleasant good-byes followed.

  Ed grabbed his mobile. He needed a lift back to HQ. His face was gleaming, his body glowing. It was always like this when a plan came together. Whether Aisha was alive or not, and he still hoped she was, the family were of the belief Ed thought she was. That’s exactly what he wanted them to think.

  He burst into Sam’s office.

  ‘The guy in the background of the photo, the one Bethany took, it’s Aisha’s uncle.’

  ‘Really? Oh my God.’

  Ed filled Sam in with the details of his visit.

  She stood up and walked to the window. It was still one of those miserable days you get in April, although this April had been warmer than most, but at least it had stopped raining a couple of hours ago.

  ‘Macavity was the bad guy in T.S.Eliot’s Cats,’ Sam said. ‘The criminal who never got caught.’

  Ed sat down. ‘Very clever. Goddard’s group’s called Mortimers. A play on Mickey Mouse? I’m shooting from the hip here.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Feel free.’

  ‘Motto – if you love the mouse, chase the pussy. One of the Mortimers gets a compromising photo, sent by the Sisters of Macavity. Sisters, suggesting women, and Macavity’s a cat. Cats chase mice. Is this making sense?’

  Sam turned around and leaned against the window.

  ‘Absolutely. Plus Macavity suggests a decent standard of education. And Macavity was a skinny, tall, ginger cat. Not unlike... ’

  Ed smiled. ‘Our very own feline Tracey Davies.’

  ‘Well you certainly made her purr,’ Sam teased.

  ‘Ha ha, very funny, but seriously, it’s all a bit far-fetched, tenuous bordering on the ridiculous.’

  ‘I agree.’ Sam sat down.

  ‘That said, I did say that there was more to Tracey than meets the eye, and she was aggressive, but murder?

  Sam was lost in thought.

  ‘And she was with Amber Dalton at the university last night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Did I not tell you?’ Sam said. ‘Sorry. I’ll fill you in on that later. Okay, let’s check out Tracey’s movements for Saturday night after Goddard was thrown out of the Jolly Roger. And the girl who got tapped up…Charlotte. What was her name?’

  ‘Swains, plural of the guy who played for Villa years ago – Kenny Swain. That’s how I remembered it.’

  ‘And Alex O’Connell,’ Sam continued. ‘She found the body. Get their phones done. I know Alex said she was checking up on Charlotte, so no doubt she did text her. Question is, was Alex’s phone in close vicinity to Charlotte’s when the text was sent?’

  ‘Will do,’ Ed said. ‘We need to know where we stand with these girls.’

  ‘And we need to check out Aisha’s uncle,’ Sam added.

  Ed was at the doorway.

  ‘By the way, you were right,’ he said. ‘The settee in the photograph does look new.’

  Tracey Davies opened her front door. The look of disappointment on her face was instant and obvious.

  ‘Can I see some ID please?’

  Bev Summers showed Tracey her warrant card.

  ‘Sorry about that, but I was expecting Ed.’

  Obviously, Bev thought.

  Tracey’s eye shadow was subtle, the pale red lipstick accentuated her plump lips, the swirl of perfume just a little heavy for 2pm.

  ‘He sends his apologies,’ Bev said.

  She followed Tracey into the living room, watched her short red skirt ride up her long thighs as she sat down.

  ‘I just need to ask a few questions about Saturday,’ Bev said as she sat in an armchair. The room was a lot tidier than Sam had described, probably down to ‘The Ed Factor’.

  ‘Sure, fire away. I was expecting to do this on Monday.’

  ‘Sometimes things happen in an investigation that take priority,’ Bev told her. ‘After you spoke to Jack Goddard in the Jolly... ’

  ‘Hardly spoke. He came up to us.’

  ‘My apologies. After Jack Goddard left your company, what happened during the rest of your night?’

  ‘We saw him get thrown out by the doormen,’ Tracey said. ‘We stayed a bit longer, probably until about 10. Charlotte and me got talking to a couple of lads in there. We arranged to meet
up with them later and go to a party. We went to Rendezvous club about 11. Left there with Charlotte and the lads about half three then went to the party. It was crap.’

  She reached across the floor and picked up her cigarettes and disposable lighter. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Not as long as you don’t.’ Bev said, reaching into her handbag.

  They both lit up.

  Tracey blew smoke and spoke again.

  ‘Left the party about half four, got a kebab from the all-night takeaway and came home. Knew no more until I saw Alex’s post on social media and then when Ed and the woman came round. I saw her last night at the uni.’

  Bev took a piece of folded A4 from her bag and rummaged for a pen.

  ‘Okay. The lads first. What were their names?’

  ‘No idea,’ Tracey said behind more smoke. ‘I mean, I knew at the time, but not now. I couldn’t remember the next day. Charlotte might know.’

  ‘Had you met them before?’

  ‘Seen them around,’ Tracey said. ‘But never spoke to them.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Did you see Jack Goddard or Glen Jones again that night?’

  ‘No,’ Tracey said, tapping her cigarette on a clean tin ashtray.

  ‘Okay, I’ll just get a quick statement,’ Bev told her. ‘It won’t take long.’

  She stubbed her cigarette and began to write.

  Charlotte Swains was shorter than Tracey but no less attractive. They were making Bev feel old. Where did the time go? It only seemed like yesterday when she was their age. It was as if she’d closed her eyes for a moment and shot forward 20 years or more in a time machine. Now standing in the small kitchen, watching Charlotte make the coffees, she felt like a granny, more years behind her than in front. Maybe it really was time to start planning retirement.

  ‘So, Saturday,’ Bev said. ‘Tell me about your night.’

  ‘We all went to the Jolly Roger at eightish. Me, Alex, Tracey, Anastasia and Juliette. Left there about 10 and went to Rendezvous.’

  She handed the mug of instant to Bev.

  ‘We left with a couple of lads about half three,’ Charlotte went on. ‘Went to a party with them, left there half four or so and came home.’

  Charlotte reached for her cigarettes. She offered one to Bev, who accepted.

  ‘Do you remember the lads’ names?’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘It wasn’t that kind of night. We were just having a laugh. Nothing serious. I couldn’t tell you their names.’

  She agreed she had seen them around town and would be able to provide a rough description.

  ‘Where did you meet these lads?’ Bev asked. ‘Rendezvous?’

  ‘No. The Jolly Roger.’

  ‘Jack Goddard.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The drunks in the Jolly Roger.’

  ‘Oh, them,’ Charlotte said, studying the glowing tip of her cigarette.

  ‘Did you see them again that night?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Charlotte answered. ‘Poor Alex obviously did.’

  ‘So did you meet the lads before or after the drunks?’

  Charlotte gave that some thought.

  ‘After,’ she said.

  ‘There’s something not right about them,’ Bev said, standing by the kettle in the HOLMES room.

  ‘In what way?’ Sam asked.

  ‘It’s just a feeling in my water,’ Bev shrugged. ‘Mind you, you were right about Tracey. Dolled up to the nines. You should have seen her face when she saw me. Even told me she was expecting Ed.’

  Sam rolled her eyes.

  Bev smiled and whispered: ‘Walls have ears.’

  Ed walked in. ‘What did you make of those two then?’

  ‘I was just saying there’s something not right about them.’ She poured the hot water into two mugs. ‘Want one, Ed?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Their stories were too similar, the times too precise, the vague descriptions of the two lads could have fitted half the under 25s of the UK.’

  ‘When was the last time they said they saw Jack Goddard?’ Ed asked.

  ‘In the Jolly Roger.’

  He took the mug from the windowsill. ‘You best follow me.’

  The three of them stood around a TV monitor in a small adjoining office. Paul Adams was sitting in front of it.

  ‘Show them, Paul.’

  He pressed play and the screen flickered into life. Seaton St George town centre.

  ‘Look at the time,’ Ed said. ’11.30.’

  The picture quality wasn’t great, but it was good enough.

  ‘The time is about five minutes out,’ Ed said. ‘The tower clock is showing 11.30 when the timer shows 11.35. Look,’ Ed said, pointing at the screen. ‘Here’s Tracey and Charlotte.’

  Sam and Bev stood either side of Paul and leaned closer to the screen.

  ‘Keep watching,’ Ed said. When he next spoke, his voice was louder. ‘There.’

  Paul froze the screen.

  ‘Well, well,’ Sam said.

  ‘I knew they were lying,’ Bev said.

  Both girls looked at ease with Jack Goddard and Glen Jones.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ed unwrapped a Twix.

  ‘The best lies are always the ones closest to the truth.’ He turned the confectionery in his hand. ‘Jesus, if these shrink any more The Borrowers will be able to eat them…Tracey and Charlotte say they went clubbing with two guys they met in the Jolly Roger.’

  ‘Goddard and Jones?’ Sam said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Paul.’ Sam was on her feet. ‘Sort out the CCTV from the front door of Rendezvous. See if we can get Tracey and Charlotte going in and more importantly, coming out.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Start with them coming out,’ Sam told him. ‘Look after three. Maybe Jack Goddard was in there…Christ, wouldn’t you think someone would have a conscience and tell us? The calls from the public are a joke. I’ve seen more calls on prostitute murders.’

  It was well known within murder teams that the type of victim often dictated the amount of help coming in from the public. A child abduction and the phones were melting but with prostitutes, the attitude often seemed to be ‘so-what’, despite the best efforts of SIOs to humanise their victim.

  ‘They either despised Jack Goddard and don’t want to get involved, or they were so pissed they genuinely can’t remember seeing him,’ Ed said.

  ‘Or high on whatever and don’t want us poking around in their business?’ Bev ventured.

  ‘Nonetheless, a young man is dead... murdered,’ Sam said. ‘I want Jamie Telford and Glen Jones locating. Bring Jones in. Can we have a have quick heads-up?’

  Nods all round.

  ‘My office in 10.’

  Sam threw the Manila folder into the centre of the table. A4 paper with four photos to a sheet slid out. Each photo a different girl, all taken from Goddard’s phone.

  ‘I don’t want these photos being shown to all and sundry, but we need to identify these girls,’ Sam said. ‘Some will be too embarrassed to want anything doing but some might.’

  Bev thumbed through them and stopped on the third sheet. She pointed at the girl in the bottom left corner. ‘That’s Charlotte Swains.’

  Sam held out her hand, took the sheet from Bev, and studied the picture.

  ‘She was with Tracey Davies and Amber Dalton when I saw them in the university on Tuesday night.’

  Paul looked at the photograph.

  Ed looked at Sam. ‘You got on well with Amber, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did.’

  Paul Adams’s only involvement in that rape and murder investigation was as a Family Liaison Officer. He put the paper on the desk.

  ‘Amber reported to me,’ Sam said. ‘She was the rabbit in the surveillance and I kept in touch with her up to trial.’

  ‘Perhaps you should pay her a visit,’ Ed said. ‘Could the group she’s involv
ed with be Macavity?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘One thing’s for certain,’ Ed continued. ‘Elliott Prince never mentioned Charlotte Swains when he gave me the list of girls they’d photographed.’

  Bev jumped in, her words rapid.

  ‘Another two of these photographs,’ she said, ‘They’re women I visited who’d rang in to say Goddard was a predator.’

  ‘But,’ Sam said. ‘They never mentioned the photographs.’

  Paul spoke. ‘As we’ve all said, maybe they were embarrassed, and if they thought we didn’t know about them, they may have just chosen to not tell us.’

  Sam moved that slice of the investigation to one side and turned the attention back to Aisha.

  ‘Tomorrow I want samples of Aisha’s handwriting,’ she said. ‘Get them from college or even better from friends but not from her home. I don’t want the parents antagonising. Not yet anyway. If something has happened to Aisha, I want them to think we’re on their side, that we believe them. If something has happened to her, we’re not going to sort it overnight, but just in case she writes to us, or anybody else, I want to be ahead of the game.’

  Ed walked along to the small office where the Intelligence Cell was located. It wasn’t the biggest intelligence set-up, but it was, for now at least, dedicated to both investigations.

  Two detectives, late 40s, were sat behind desks, writing in the A4 books next to their computers.

  ‘Stand by your beds,’ Ed said, closing the door behind him.

  The two greeted him with the look of tired, hungry men.

  How’s it going guys?’

  ‘I’m just about finished with Aisha’s uncle,’ one answered.

  Ed wheeled the spare chair alongside the detective, sat down and looked at the screen.

  In the centre was the name Gurmej, a spider’s web of lines spreading out from it.

  The strands showed his address, properties and vehicles he had access to, and his associates. He hadn’t come to the attention of the police, but some of those associates were already known. He was unemployed and moonlighted as a taxi driver, but as the Licensing Authority had no record of him, he was probably driving someone else’s car and using their hackney carriage licence.