Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  Ed knocked on Tom King’s door. All the curtains were closed but as he knocked louder, he heard the footsteps thud down the stairs.

  ‘Can I come in, Tom?’

  His white boxers looked new, the green T-shirt creased.

  ‘What now? I was working late last night. I should still be in bed. It’s Friday, a bank holiday, and I’ve got a busy night ahead in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Ed slapped down the attitude.

  ‘If you prefer, we can do this down the nick and you won’t be anywhere near work tonight,’ he said. ‘You can have bed and breakfast on the Queen and catch up on your beauty sleep. Now, can I come in?’

  Tom King turned around, leaving the door to the bungalow open. Ed followed and sat down in the large lounge.

  ‘Nice place.’

  ‘It’s mum’s,’ Tom told him. ‘Once I got out of care, we used the money from the house, our house, you know, the house where it happened. It was sold when I was a kid. Mum wanted a bungalow for when she gets out. I printed the photos off for her. She liked it and I bought it. But I’m sure you’re not here to talk about my mum’s bungalow.’

  He sat down.

  ‘Tom, look, if it’s any consolation I... ’

  ‘It’s not,’ Tom stopped him.

  He was sitting on the edge of the settee, back straight, his muscular defined arms flexing slightly.

  Ed stretched his legs and leaned back into the armchair.

  ‘What I mean is I knew your mother, and... ’

  Tom jumped in again. ‘It doesn’t matter. Forget it. He beat us up all the time. You’d know that if you knew my mum. I was 12 when she killed him. But we used to talk, me and mum. We couldn’t understand how he never got charged. He’d get arrested sometimes, but not often. Even then he’d be out next morning.’

  Ed sat up. Domestic violence had always been difficult for the police. There always seemed to be a new initiative... zero tolerance... changing the name to domestic abuse… a recognition women didn’t need to be physically beaten to suffer. Women’s groups were quick to point the finger and Ed felt the police could do better.

  ‘I’ve been to too many so-called domestic murders over the years,’ he told Tom. ‘We should be more proactive when women tell us they don’t want to continue proceedings.’

  Tom’s face flushed.

  ‘My mother never asked to drop the charges and she ended up with a simple choice – kill or be killed. My father once said he had immunity. If she didn’t behave herself, he’d beat her to a pulp and nothing would happen to him.’

  Ed stared at the young man. Tom King was getting ready to deliver some sort of punch-line.

  ‘My father was a police informant and it didn’t matter how much he beat me and mum, he was looked after. Well, whoever was looking after him didn’t count on my mother crushing his fucking head with a spade.’

  Ed didn’t move, watching Tom’s eyes mist.

  ‘Their precious information was more important than my mother’s health.’

  His shoulders suddenly heaved and his voice, fighting to keep the sobs in the pit of his stomach, sounded like it was at the end of a bad mobile phone connection. ‘Never mind her happiness.’

  Ed stayed silent and motionless. He would wait, let the young man compose himself.

  Tom lifted his T-shirt and rubbed his eyes and nose.

  ‘Sorry. You still haven’t said why you’re here.’

  ‘I want your work shoes.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I want your shoes,’ Ed told him. ‘Take them away for tests. If there’s nothing on them, you can have them back.’

  ‘And if there is something on them?’

  Ed’s voice was calm. ‘You might be in the shit.’

  Tom sat back and looked around the room.

  ‘Well you can’t have them then.’

  ‘Then I’ll arrest you on suspicion of assault, search your house under Section 18 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act and take your shoes,’ Ed said. ‘If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Either way, I’m not walking out of this bungalow without checking every pair of shoes here.’

  ‘What, so you just took his shoes?’ Sam said.

  Ed was in her office, washing down two paracetamol with a mouthful of lukewarm tea.

  ‘Luke Wylam doesn’t want to make a complaint, according to you,’ he said. ‘Besides, he wasn’t bleeding. All we’ve got on Tom up to now is the fact that on the night Jack Goddard was killed he lied about being at home. Let’s see if Jack’s blood’s on his shoes.’

  Sam nodded. They’d both worked on investigations where offenders had burned their clothing. Those who were clever, who knew they may have been captured on CCTV, even bought identical clothes to those that they’d burned so they could give the new ones to the police. But many criminals forgot about burning their shoes – thought a polish, or a wash in the case of trainers, would do. Sam and Ed had come through with some great results where tiny amounts of blood had been trapped behind the eyelets.

  ‘Didn’t he ask why you wanted them?’

  ‘I told him it was about an assault,’ Ed said. ‘He didn’t bat an eyelid. If I’m honest, I don’t think it’s anything to do with him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He thinks the world of his mother,’ Ed said. ‘He’s sorted the purchase of a really nice bungalow. Well kept. The lawn was immaculate. She’s serving time for murder, but she’ll be out in a couple of years. Would he really risk serious time because some arsehole was rude to women? He might not like bad manners... who does? But would he sacrifice his liberty for some shit-bag? I don’t think he would. If we find Goddard’s blood on his shoes, we can go and get him and we’ll have a bit more to talk about than the fact he was seen coming out of a club when he said he was tucked up.’

  Two hours later, Sam picked up the office phone and punched the numbers.

  ‘Darius, it’s Sam…’

  Christ, I must get this phone cleaned before I catch something.

  ‘Fine thanks. Tonight, from about 5.30pm, we’ll be in Aisha’s street, doing door to door… Yeah, we want to do it again to see if anyone remembers anything… I’m just trying to jog people’s memory.’

  She waved Ed into her office, jammed the phone between her ear and shoulder, held her arms out in front of her and rotated her hands as if she was steering a car.

  Ed nodded.

  ‘I’m going to put a Fiesta, identical colour to Sukhvinder’s, at the top of the street. It’s just been confirmed we’ve borrowed one. If Aisha did run away with Sukhi, then it’s inconceivable he didn’t use his car. He might not have driven to her door, but he must have driven where she would at least have seen him.’ Sam paused then spoke again.

  ‘Course you can take photographs,’ she said. ‘We want maximum publicity. It’s all about trying to find Aisha… you’re right, I don’t know which end of the street he would have parked, so every 20 minutes I’ll have a police officer drive it to the opposite end.’

  Ed smiled. Genius. Much better than leaving it parked up. If Aisha’s family had anything to do with her disappearance, if they knew Sukhi had a car, this would make them very uncomfortable. Every resident in that street would grasp Sam’s tenacity; every resident would see that car.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam continued. ‘Peter Hunt from the press office is chasing up the local TV. I think they’ll send a crew... good visuals, a car like the boyfriend’s and a dozen uniforms knocking on doors... that’ll be great, see you there…I’ll be there, of course, and so will Ed.’

  She replaced the receiver.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Ed said.

  ‘Sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  One of the detectives from the Intelligence Cell appeared at the door.

  ‘Boss, we’ve got the subscriber check through.’ He said. ‘Amber University is Amber Dalton. We’re just waiting to see what we can get from her ph
one.’

  Sam closed her eyes for a moment before she spoke again.

  ‘While you’re on, check the Facebook accounts of all the girls,’ she said. ‘Any joy with Mortimers and their accounts?”

  ‘Still ongoing,’ the detective told her. ‘Open source Internet examinations can take a bit of time boss.’

  Once the detective had left, Sam brought Ed up to speed.

  ‘So the big news of the morning,’ she said. ‘Tracey and Charlotte’s phones are on the tow path, Alex’s is in the town and also out and about is Amber’s.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘I’m sick of chasing these two,’ Bev said, as she drove out of HQ. ‘All day yesterday on and off looking for them and back out this morning. It’s not as if we’ve got nothing better to do. It’s their mate who’s been killed, Telford who had his picture taken.’

  Paul Adams was trying to turn Bev’s rant into white noise when he suddenly sat bolt upright.

  ‘Quick, pull into the bus lane,’ he shouted. ‘There’s Jones!’

  Glen Jones was walking among the few pedestrians.

  Paul flung the door open and was running before the car stopped.

  ‘Glen.’ Paul had his hand on Jones’s shoulder before the student had turned around. ‘We need a word. You’ve been telling porkies and we’re not happy about it.’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Jones spluttered, taking half a step away.

  ‘Get in the car,’ Paul ordered. ‘We’ll sort this out it in private, away from the street and law-abiding citizens’ phone cameras.’

  He ushered Jones towards the kerb, pushed down on his shoulder and shoved him into the back seat. Bev activated the child locks and pulled swiftly away when Paul jumped in.

  Jones was agitated, squirming around on the back seat and trying to maintain an air of aggression. The timidity in his shaky voice showed he was failing miserably.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘The truth,’ Paul demanded. ‘We know about you going into Rendezvous with Tracey and Charlotte, after you were seen being very luvvie-duvvie with them in the town centre. Marvellous thing close-circuit-television. So cut the bullshit.’

  Jones’ hands shot up to his face and he began to cry.

  ‘Save it, Glen,’ Paul said. ‘Your mate’s dead and you can’t even tell the truth.’

  Jones was shaking and hitching sobs from his throat.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ He croaked. ‘Me and Jack got a letter... a picture more like. No threat but it wasn’t nice.’

  ‘Where’s the picture?’ Paul demanded

  ‘In the flat.’

  ‘Let’s go and get it,’ Paul told him. ‘Let’s get it now.’

  Amber Dalton had moved since Sam had last visited her in February of last year. No longer renting, she had bought her own house after deciding against a return to Bristol. She had resigned from the planning office at the local council, immersed herself in various part-time counselling courses as well as her degree and was now helping victims of abuse.

  Sam and Ed were on their way to Amber’s new home.

  ‘I just feel we’re not getting anywhere fast enough,’ Sam said, staring out of the side window as Ed negotiated yet another town centre contra-flow system.

  ‘Always the same,’ he said testily. ‘No repairs done all year, come March the council miraculously finds some money they need to spend before the financial year ends and bang – roadworks everywhere …sorry, what did you say?’

  Sam wearily shook her head.

  ‘I said, Mr Angry of Tunbridge Wells, I feel like I’m running through treacle. We’re getting nowhere fast. Bloody hell, we can’t even find Glen Jones and Jamie Telford.’

  Ed scowled as he joined a queue at temporary traffic lights.

  ‘I’ve sent Paul and Bev out looking for them. It’s only 11 o’clock. Plenty of time. We’ll get the girls in after we’ve seen Amber. They’ve got a lot to answer now. I’ll knock up a quick questionnaire later for the door-to-door teams. Now wind down the window, light a cigarette and chill!’

  Sam had chain-smoked two by the time they pulled up outside Amber’s home.

  Walking up the driveway, Sam noticed Amber still kept the garden beautiful. The same pale blue bench was underneath the front window, although she had taken the precaution of setting it into concrete.

  ‘Morning Amber,’ Sam said, when the door opened. ‘You remember Ed.’

  ‘Oh, hi Sam. To what do I owe this pleasure? I was expecting a parcel, not you…sorry, that sounded rude! Come in, come in.’

  She led them into the kitchen and pointed at the glass-topped table, and the four moulded plastic chairs, each a different vibrant colour. Sam took the lime green one, Ed the purple.

  ‘Tea?’ Amber said.

  ‘We’re fine. Look, we’ll not keep you. It’s just a quick one.’

  Amber sat at the table.

  ‘I felt our conversation was a little rushed the other night when we talked about the girls being photographed,’ Sam said. ‘Do you know personally of it happening to anyone?’

  ‘Lots, but I’ve told you Sam, it’s not my place to report,’ Amber said. ‘I would have been devastated if a third party had reported my rape. The girls have got to report it themselves.’

  Sam said she understood and moved on.

  ‘Do you socialise with any of the girls.’

  Amber moved her eyes from Sam to Ed and back again.

  ‘Not really,’ she told them. ‘We might go for a drink after a group session but that’s it. I never see them at any other time.’

  ‘And your group,’ Sam asked. ‘Does it have a name?’

  ‘Nothing as formal as that Sam,’ Amber smiled.

  ‘Okay, thanks for your time,’ Sam said, standing to leave, Ed rising too. ‘Please stress to your members – do you call them that? – we’ll deal sensitively with any allegations they make.’

  Sam pushed her chair under the table and pointed to a book on the kitchen bench, a book she’d seen as she walked in.

  ‘Good read that,’ she said lightly. ‘My favourite character was always Macavity.’

  Glen Jones sat, head bowed, looking at the black lino on the interview room floor.

  ‘So you lied about meeting up with Charlotte and Tracey,’ Bev said.

  ‘I panicked.’ He was sniffling. ‘Jack was dead. I didn’t kill him. I had no idea who did, so I just said I went home. I’m sorry, but that’s why I did it.’

  ‘And what do you think now?’ Bev asked him. ‘About his death?’

  ‘Sisters of Macavity,’ Jones answered quietly. ‘I can’t get their name out of my head. What does it even mean?’

  Bev ignored the question. ‘When did you first hear about them?’

  ‘When I got that photograph,’ Jones told her. ‘I’ve tried to find out about them. I’ve asked girls I know but no one had heard of them. They’re like a secret society. I think they did it though... killed Jack. What if I’m next? At least with Jamie they sent the photos out. They didn’t do that with Jack’s, and they haven’t done it with mine.’

  He reached for a plastic cup of water and drank slowly.

  ‘Mortimers,’ Bev said. ‘Your little group. Who was the leader?’

  ‘No one. We’re all the same.’

  Bev leaned towards him and lowered her voice. ‘Every group that ever existed had a leader. Who’s yours?’

  Jones rubbed moisture from under his nose, stared at her through glassy eyes, and inhaled deeply.

  ‘Elliott,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Jack wanted to be, but it was Elliott. He just had the way about him. He got people to do what he wanted without ever forcing them. Half the time he didn’t even ask them outright. He just nudged them along with his smooth words.’

  Bev glanced at the two photographs laid side by side on the wooden table framed by desk-top graffiti; previous prisoners writing obscene messages about the cops who’d arrested them. Who had been stupid enough to leave prisoners
alone in the interview room, and who the hell gave them a pen?

  The first photograph showed Glen Jones and Jack Goddard naked on all fours. Jones had told the truth. There was no threat to make the picture public.

  ‘And you have no idea where these were taken, what night?’

  ‘No. It could be anywhere, any night.’

  ‘Can you give us a list of the parties you’ve been to in the last two months?’

  He raised his head, eyes wide open and still red.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you which parties I’ve been to in the last two weeks. We probably go to about three a week, maybe four. It’s not like you get a written invitation.’

  ‘So you’ve no recollection of the, how shall I say it, pose?’ Bev asked him.

  ‘No, but looking at it, I think somebody’s put something in our drink,’ Jones said. ‘I would never do that, no matter how pissed I got.’

  He looked at the floor again.

  ‘What would they put in your drink?’

  ‘You know... roofies.’

  Bev tapped her biro against her upper teeth. Rohypnol – roofies – the date-rape drug.

  ‘Many roofies knocking around the university?’ she asked.

  Jones looked up. ‘I’ve never bought them so I wouldn’t know. I suppose you can get them. You can get most drugs.’

  ‘This picture here,’ Bev pushed it across the desk. ‘The charming image of you all wearing matching ‘hashtag slags and beer' T-shirts. Write the names across each body.’

  She slid him a pen and sat in silence as Jones printed each name. Nine in total.

  When he’d finished, Bev took the photograph, removed a piece of paper from her jacket, and compared it to Jamie Telford’s list.

  ‘This lad here,’ Bev pointed to a hairy arm on the edge of the group. ‘You can only see this guy’s arm. You’ve written down a different name to Jamie.’

  ‘Who did he say it was?’