‘So, bogus taxi driver,’ Ed said.
‘Yes.’
‘You know what, Asian taxi drivers have a better intelligence set-up than we do.’ Ed rubbed his eyes. ‘Families use them to spy on their daughters. Any shameful behaviour is then reported back to the family. Can I get a printout of that?’
A key depressed and the printer whirred into life.
‘Cheers,’ Ed said, standing up, pushing the chair and letting it slide towards the wall. ‘Did I ever tell about the time when I was a young PC, a superintendent came into panda control, handed me an envelope and told me to fax it to a superintendent in a neighbouring police station?’
Both detectives shook their heads.
‘I started to open the envelope and he went ballistic,’ Ed told them. ‘Called me a moron and said ‘can’t you read?’, it says private and confidential, you imbecile’.
‘But... ’ I said. ‘Don’t you 'but' me, just fax it, or you’ll find yourself on point duty for the next month. I didn’t fancy directing traffic so I just faxed the envelope.’
The two detectives started laughing.
‘The daft bugger thought he was Doctor Who, fax the envelope and the Super at the other end would open it. He never came back when the other Super no doubt ripped the piss out of him. How would the likes of him manage now?’
He took the paper out of the printer and walked out, the detectives still having a chuckle. They were in a windowless office, more like a cupboard, and did a great job. It was Ed’s responsibility to make sure they kept it up. A little humour went a long way.
Ed’s smiles didn’t last long. He’d barely walked 10 metres along the corridor when he answered his mobile and spoke to a Detective Inspector from Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.
Introductions over, the DI outlined the reason for his call.
‘It was found in a disused lock-up on the outskirts of Plymouth,’ he told Ed. ‘On bricks, stripped. No interior, engine gone, but the VIN plate was still on it. That’s how we identified it.’
Ed terminated the call. Why was Sukhi’s car in a lock-up in Plymouth?
Chapter Eighteen
Ed walked into Sam’s office. His nostrils twitched at the smell of a recently smoked cigarette. Since people had to actually walk off-site to smoke, she’d probably had two.
‘Enjoy them?’ Ed said.
‘I need to quit again,’ Sam sounded like she was trying to convince herself. ‘I hate standing out there, smoking on the roadside.’
The lunatics had finally taken over the asylum. Headquarters was set in acres of its own grounds but people had to walk on to the main road and smoke in front of passing motorists – a great image for the police.
‘Still beyond me why people can’t smoke in the grounds,’ Ed said. ‘You know when I joined for the first time back in 1978, the only non-cops were the cleaners, the typists, and the cooks. That was it. Everybody else was a cop. Chief Inspector in charge of admin and finance at each nick, overseen by one of the ACCs. Now support staff, an oxymoron if ever was there was one, make up a huge proportion of our numbers and complain about everything.’
Familiar rant over, Ed sat down. It was just after 6pm.
‘Sukhi’s car’s been found in a lock-up in Plymouth.’
‘What?’ Sam looked up.
Ed told her the gist of his conversation with the DI.
‘Plymouth?’ Sam repeated. ‘So what does that mean? They drove as far away from the North East as possible? That would make sense.’
Ed wasn’t convinced.
‘Or somebody drove the car there so if it was found, it would throw us off the scent, focus all our enquiries down there.’
Sam was silent, running possibilities through her mind.
‘I can understand why they’d get rid of the car,’ she said at last. ‘It could be used to trace them. Aisha’s family would only need someone working in the DVLA. The car's got to be taxed and tested.’
Both Sam and Ed knew there had been cases around the country of runaway girls being tracked down by distant relatives with jobs working in housing departments, benefits offices, even the police.
‘They couldn’t sell it, not legally,’ Ed was saying now. ‘But it could be moved on for parts to someone who wouldn’t ask questions.’
‘Car ringers?’ Sam suggested.
‘Possible.’
Sam stood up. ‘You know, the romantic in me hopes they’ve got to Devon and are living happily ever after in a little white cottage overlooking the sea.’
‘And the realist?’ Ed asked.
‘Just keeps hoping they’re alive.’
Jamie Telford and Glen Jones had spent the day holed up in one of the sea-front beach huts, their phones off. The huts, run during the summer by the local authority, were locked out of season. Glen had forced the padlock from the end hut months ago and put his own padlock in its place. He knew he’d have the hut until the end of May when the council prepared them for hire.
‘Why did you tell Elliott?’ Glen said, sitting on an old beer crate. ‘You know he’ll only feel more important.’
Jamie lit another cigarette.
‘I couldn’t get hold of you and I was panicking.’
The inside of the hut was like the worst inner-city smog or the infamous smoking rooms in Schiphol airport, fresh air as scarce as rocking-horse dung.
Glen opened the door, the rush of salty sea air a relief even to a devoted smoker like him.
‘Does he know about your letter?’ Jamie said.
‘Nobody knew about it until I told you an hour ago,’ Glen answered. ‘Nobody alive anyway. Jack knew.’
Jamie picked up the piece of paper from the wooden table.
‘And you’ve no idea when this was taken?’
‘None,’ Glen said. ‘How many parties have we been to in the last two years? How many times have we woken up with hardly a clue what happened the night before?’
Jamie looked again the paper. ‘Yeah, but on this one you and Jack are together.’
‘We were always together,’ Glen said. ‘Besides, the pictures could have been taken separately and messed with on Photoshop. There’s no such thing as ‘the camera never lies’ anymore.’
Jamie was still looking at the paper and the photograph it held, Glen and Jack on their hands and knees, a vibrator inserted into each of their backsides. ‘What did Jack say about it?’
‘To ignore them,’ Glen said. ‘Ours never came with a threat to distribute. Never came with a threat, full stop. Just said Sisters of Macavity.’
‘Have you no idea who’s doing it?’
Glen shook his head once. ‘Perm any one from dozens.’
Jamie stubbed his cigarette into a glass ashtray.
‘Are you going to the police?’
Glen laughed with zero humour. ‘And say what? We’ve taken pictures of loads of girls asleep in their beds and sent them out on Instagram and now this has happened? Don’t think so.’
‘But what if these Sisters of Macavity killed Jack?’ Jamie said.
‘I think they did,’ Glen hesitated. ‘When we find out who they are, we might tell the police... or we might solve the problem ourselves.’
Jamie looked hard at his friend.
‘Don’t be daft, Glen,’ Jamie said. ‘What can we sort? We don’t even know who we’d be looking for.’
‘Not every girl on campus hates us, Jamie,’ Glen told him, then fell silent.
Jamie Telford reached for the half bottle of whisky. Maybe he should go to the police himself.
Ed turned into his street and immediately saw the E-Class Mercedes parked on the road outside his house. Eric’s car.
Shit, have I forgotten another night?
He was pulling on to the driveway as Sue rushed out and opened the driver’s door almost before he had stopped.
‘Eric and Leela have popped round,’ she said quickly.
Thank God I haven’t forgotten anything
‘Is everything okay?’ E
d asked her.
Sue was almost whispering. ‘They have some information about Gurmej – Aisha’s uncle.’
‘What information?’ Ed shut the car door.
‘I don’t know,’ Sue said. ‘They want to tell you. They want certain assurances, Ed. They’re scared.’
They walked towards the front door.
‘Have they had a drink?’ Ed asked.
‘Leela’s driving but Eric’s on the whisky.’
Ed looked at his watch. ‘In that case, I’ll have a beer, pet.’
He chanced his arm and playfully smacked her on the bum as she crossed the threshold. Her little shriek and jump meant he was out of the dog house, for now at least.
‘How’s it going, Eric? Leela?’ Ed said in greeting.
They were both sitting around the large farmhouse table.
‘Could be better,’ Eric said, eyes fixed on the whisky in the tumbler he held in his hand.
Sue passed Ed a chilled bottle of Newcastle Brown.
‘We’ll leave you to it,’ Sue said, leading Leela into the living room.
‘What’s up, Eric?’ Ed asked when the two men were alone.
‘Ed, I need certain guarantees,’ Eric told him. ‘What I’m about to say has to be between you and me.’
His hand shook as he raised the crystal tumbler.
‘I won’t make any statements and I certainly won’t go to court. I can’t let it get out that I’ve told you.’
He gulped the whisky and wiped his chin.
‘You know that not everybody in my community approves of your relationship with Sue, or my friendship with you.’
Ed poured his beer into a Wellington glass.
‘You know my thoughts on some of the so-called leaders in that community,’ he said. ‘Self-elected and bigoted misogynists.’
Eric was looking at his whisky again.
‘I know, but Ed, I cannot let them know that my relationship is anything but one of friendship with you. If they thought I passed on information, that I was a police informant... ’
His voice trailed off, his eyes full of doubt and fear.
‘Hang on,’ Ed said. ‘You’re hardly a paid informant and what information you give me is tittle-tattle. Do you want a snack?’
Eric shook his head and swallowed more Scotch.
‘No thank you,’ He said. ‘What I’m about to tell you is not tittle-tattle.’
His shaking hand went to the bottle. Another top-up. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
‘Okay,’ Ed said. ‘I won’t say anything. Whatever you tell me is between you and me.’
‘Can you guarantee that?’ Another gulp. ‘I’m trusting you here.’
Ed nodded.
‘I can Eric. One hundred per cent.’
Eric closed his eyes and took a breath, galvanising himself to overcome his fear.
When he spoke his words were firm.
‘It’s about Aisha’s uncle,’ Eric began. ‘Many years ago, when he still lived in the Punjab, he killed one of the girls in his village for bringing shame on the family. Killed her at the father’s behest... an honour killing. She was 16.’
Ed stepped into the pause. ‘What had she done?’
‘Kissed a boy,’ Eric went on. ‘They dragged her into a field, raped her to rid her of the devil, strangled her and buried her in a shallow grave.’
Chapter Nineteen
Sam adjusted her dressing gown, tightened the belt and pressed the button on the microwave, the kitchen floor cool on her bare feet: another night, another push-button Marks and Spencer special.
Is this it for me now? Ready meals for one?
She’d never cooked a meal from scratch since Tristram died, almost forgotten what it was like to peel vegetables, cook fish, eat a rare steak.
Bending down, she reached for the black plastic container, tonight’s offering a Cumberland pie.
‘Jesus!’
She dropped the food on the granite work top, rushed to the tap, and held her scorched hand under the flow of cold water for the third time in a week. Fingers still red and stinging, she took a knife and rammed it through the plastic film. A cloud of steam billowed around her as traces of mince seeped on to the bench through the pierced hole in the bottom of the container.
Shit!
She put the container on a plate, sat down and gingerly peeled off the rest of the film. Her fork broke through the mash, releasing the smell of the mince and hitting the small piece of metal that seconds ago was the tip of the knife.
She was determined to take her time, determined to spend longer eating than the microwave did cooking. As usual she failed, but at least a glass of wine had been resisted.
Tea brewed, she took her mobile off the bench, scrolled through the contacts, and hit a number. The call was answered on the second ring.
‘Amber, it’s Sam Parker. Sorry to bother you. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. I know it’s late.’
‘Hi Sam.’ Amber’s voice sound friendly. ‘No trouble at all, and as for late, well you know me. I don’t sleep much at night these days. I still sit in the armchair; go to bed through the day if I have time.’
‘How are you managing?’ Sam asked.
There was a short silence.
‘I’m okay,’ Amber told her. ‘It’s a cliché but it really is a day at a time. How are you?’
‘Fine,’ Sam said. ‘Busy.’
‘Yeah, I saw you on the TV.’
‘That’s what I’m ringing about,’ Sam said. ‘Your self-help group.’
She listened for any change in Amber’s tone but heard none.
‘Just a bunch of young women who’ve suffered abuse of varying kinds from men,’ Amber told her.
‘Do you have many members?’
‘About 20.’
‘And the abuse. Is it specifics or general?’
‘General mostly.’
‘And the girls I saw you with,’ Sam said. ‘I know a couple of them.’
‘Yeah, they said.’
‘Have any of them been targets for any abuse?’
Amber took a moment before she spoke again.
‘Sam, we talk about the overt inappropriate sexual behaviour of men in the round and how we can influence change, how we make sure our sisters in the future don’t have to put up with what we did.’
Sam made her move.
‘It’s just that we’ve heard some of the male students were taking photos of girls when they were asleep.’
Amber’s answer was instant.
‘Not heard that Sam,’ she said.
Sam was about to ask if she was sure when her house phone began to ring.
‘Sorry Amber, I’ve got to answer another call,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ll speak to you later. Take care.’
She darted into the living room. ‘Hello.’
‘It’s me,’ Ed said.
‘Hi. Nicely timed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I was just talking to Amber,’ Sam said. ‘Asking about her group.’
‘And?’ Ed asked.
‘I felt she was being evasive in the beginning, lying at the end,’ Sam told him. ‘She denied knowing anything about the photos of the girls but Charlotte’s in her group and so is Tracey. I just can’t see it.’
‘Me neither,’ Ed agreed.
‘And she referred to womanhood in general as ‘sisters’. Now I know that’s not an unusual term these days, but... ’
‘Tracey and Alex would know enough to call themselves Sisters of Macavity,’ Ed finished for her. ‘They study English.’
Sam broke the short silence that followed.
‘Anyway, were you just ringing for a chat? I only left you an hour and a half ago. Missing my velvet tones already?’
‘No,’ Ed said. ‘It’s Aisha’s uncle.’
He relayed his conversation with Eric.
Sam shivered. ‘This just keeps getting worse.’
Sam tossed and turned. Every time she closed her eyes, the images alt
ernated between Jack being hit over the head, a carrier bag drawn over his face before he was pushed into the river and Aisha in the front seat of a car fleeing to Plymouth. She turned on the light. Trying to sleep when she was like this was futile. Years of experience had taught her if her mind was on the job not to fight it.
She sat up, picked up the glass on the bedside unit, and drank. Why she never took an orange cordial to bed when she’d had too much to drink was a question she felt weekend drinkers everywhere would share.
The revelation about Aisha’s uncle was more than troubling. Ed was considered a ‘Subject Matter Expert’ around honour-based violence, even if he played it down. He always believed if Aisha hadn’t got away, she was dead. There was no halfway alternative.
Would Aisha, following the publicity, have come to the police or would she have been too scared? Would she have called her parents after their TV appeal or would she have seen only crocodile tears?
Sam needed to make something happen. Should she seek authority to get a listening device in Davinder Bhandal’s house? Could she do something to spark a conversation? Arrest them perhaps?
Their solicitor, Jill Carver, would love that. At the slightest opportunity she would publicly slag off any investigation if she thought procedures were not being followed. The Butcher, as Ed and many others called her, had built her career on carving up police officers.
And these jobs always had the potential to increase racial tensions, spark disorder, something the Superintendent in charge of Seaton St George would be anxious to avoid.
Jack Goddard was different, but no less difficult. She had one body but there were four more the students and the media wanted to link together as the work of a serial killer. She could only kick that theory into the long grass once Jack’s killer was arrested. There was talk of another student demo and that was making the Superintendent at Seaton twitchy.
‘Can’t you get this sorted Sam? We need it boxed off, pronto.’
She got up, went downstairs, and poured hot water over a teabag. A cat screeched loudly outside. Bloody cats, she couldn’t get away from them. Sisters of Macavity. What was that all about? And Amber? Why was she so evasive?
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