Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Jonny White.’

  ‘No, no way.’ Jones sounded sure. ‘I think Jonny might have been in hospital that night. He did his leg playing football. He wasn’t out that night. It can only be Aaron Leech. He was definitely out with us that night and he’s the only face you can’t see on the photo.’

  Bev studied the picture again, ‘Was Aaron a member of your silly little group?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Jones answered. ‘I don’t know why.’

  Bev already knew which group Aaron had joined.

  He was a member of ‘The Drowners’.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Do you think Amber’s lying?’ Sam’s brow was furrowed, elbows on her desk, hands cupping her chin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ed’s answer was honest. ‘Maybe the group doesn’t have a name, maybe she doesn’t normally socialise with them. I suppose they’d have her number in case they wanted to talk to her. She’s putting herself about as a counsellor. Maybe going to meet them is business, not pleasure. Maybe she just happened to be reading Cats. Maybe it’s coincidental that all their phones are out and about when Jack Goddard dies.’

  ‘All ifs, buts and maybes.’

  ‘But more than enough to lock them all up.’

  Bev poked her head around the door. ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘Course,’ Sam said.

  ‘Aaron Leech.’

  ‘One of the ones who drowned?’ Sam said.

  ‘Yes. He’s in the Hashtag photo.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, Jamie Telford identified him, wrongly according to Glen Jones. You can only see the person’s arm. Jones says it’s Leech. He remembers drinking with him that night. He told me Jonny White was in hospital. I’ve checked. He was.’

  ‘Why?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Injured his leg playing football,’ Bev said. ‘They kept him in.’

  ‘Get a crew checking on the known associates of the five who drowned,’ Sam said quickly. ‘I know it’s been done but let’s redo it. There’s now a connection between Goddard and Leech we didn’t know about, even if it is nothing more than they were photographed together. The bigger connection is that they were wearing the same T-shirts.’

  Ed clasped his hands around his neck, stretched and looked upwards.

  ‘Could we really have a bunch of vigilante women killing men who have wronged them on social media? Women serial killers are rarer than rocking horse shit, and we’re contemplating a group of them.’

  ‘We’ll follow the evidence, but at the minute…I want to delay everything with them,' Sam said. 'When we go for them, I want as much evidence as we can get, but I don’t want any more students dying on that tow path. Tonight, and tomorrow I want as many uniforms as they can spare us along that tow path.’

  Ed knew the likely reaction.

  ‘Bloody hell, Sam, the uniform Superintendent’s going to have to open a new box. We already want a presence in Aisha’s street tonight.’

  ‘Well he’ll have to borrow a box of uniforms from another policing area if necessary, but he won’t need to. We can use the same crew. We want them in Aisha’s street from 5.30pm. We can be done there by 11, give them an hour’s break, then they can do midnight until daylight on the tow path.’

  ‘I’ll sort a couple of mounties out for the tow path,’ Ed told her. ‘Just in case there’s a chase.’

  Sam nodded once. ‘Job’s jobbed then. Let’s have a cig, Bev.’

  Admin, the unseen and often boring part of police work, filled the afternoon. Year on year, it increased, more forms to be completed, successive governments wanting ever more data and statistics on every conceivable facet of the job.

  Then there was the change in status. When police officers stopped being Servants of the Crown and became employees, Health and Safety legislation kicked in. Risk assessments had to be carried out for every policing activity.

  Ed sat at a desk completing the Operational Order for the door to door. In the old days it was done under the initials IIMAC – Information, Intention, Method, Admin and Communication. Now he had to add R – IIMARC – for a Risk Assessment.

  He shook his head. All this to knock on a few doors. When he joined for the first time back in 1978, they just got on with it. Now, a minority of cops wouldn’t move until a job had been risk assessed. How some of the recruits joining in the new millennium would have managed with just a radio and a wooden truncheon was beyond him. Now it was stab-proof vests, batons, quick-cuffs, CS gas, tasers, and more firearms officers than ever yet still everything had to be assessed. There comes a time when a police officer just has to get on with it, Ed firmly believed. Thankfully, most still fell into the ‘getting on with it’ camp.

  Ed also needed to liaise with the Neighbourhood Inspector and discuss a Community Impact Assessment.

  All part of the fun in the modern day police force. No, police service, he reminded himself.

  In another office, at another desk, Sam sat writing reams about the investigations, recording every decision made in relation to each major inquiry, her reasons for making that decision, what other options she had considered and why she had dismissed them in favour of her chosen one. Her Policy File was her shield against hindsight, and hindsight was a stick that could be used to beat her in any judicial proceedings or internal investigation.

  If an army marched on its stomach, the police service was mobilised by keyboards and ink.

  Both front windows were fully open as Ed drove to Aisha’s street, the fresh air a natural coolant to the stuffy offices they’d left.

  ‘Do you think we’ll get a reaction here tonight?’ Sam said.

  ‘Guarantee it.’ Ed applied a little pressure to the brakes, hoping to avoid coming to a complete standstill as he approached the red light. The lights changed and he gently accelerated. ‘But just before we came out I sat down with the Inspector handling Neighbourhood Policing and did a Community Impact Assessment. He doesn’t expect trouble on the streets. Like me, he thinks any reaction will come from Aisha’s family, especially if they’ve got something to do with her disappearance.’

  Copies of both the operational order and impact assessment were with the control room Inspector, giving the early heads up in case trouble broke out.

  In the street, seven uniformed officers were knocking on doors, clipboard in hand, Ed’s prepared questionnaire on top.

  The borrowed Fiesta was slowly driving up and down.

  Sam opened her door and hadn’t even started to get out when Darius Simpson appeared. He bent down. ‘The family are kicking up a shit storm Sam.’

  ‘Good evening to you too,’ Sam said tightly. ‘What’s up?’

  Putting her left leg out of the car forced Darius to step back. She knew he’d love to get close to her.

  ‘Mr Bhandal’s been outside, demanding to know what’s going on, who’s responsible,’ Darius said. ‘He’s going to make a complaint about us being here taking photos, says he’s writing to the Chief Constable and the local MP, plus he’s knocking on neighbours’ doors after your lot have left.’

  ‘Pity he wasn’t so proactive when his daughter went missing,’ Sam said. ‘Leave him to me.’ She stepped away from the car and walked towards Bhandal. He was closing the gap between them much quicker than she was.

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Sergeant Parker? It’s an outrage.’

  She ignored the demotion, an old tactic employed by people trying to get the upper hand and rile the officer concerned.

  ‘We are simply revisiting everything we have done in relation to Aisha’s disappearance,’ Sam told him, holding his angry eyes. ‘It’s been over four months now and what better place to start than where she went missing.’

  Bhandal was shaking with rage.

  ‘Nobody round here knows anything,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘Find her boyfriend then you’ll find her. He’s a kidnapper. You won’t find her knocking on the doors here, bringing shame upon my family because we cannot control who our daughter sees.
’

  Sam’s calm was the ice to Bhandal’s heat.

  ‘Shame, Mr Bhandal? We’re not trying to shame you. We are trying to find your daughter.’

  ‘My wife is very upset,’ Bhandal went on. ‘This is reminding her of what has happened.’

  Suddenly his son, Baljit, quick-marched across the road, fists clenched. The shouting started before he was halfway across.

  ‘What the fuck are you lot doing? Call this lot off.’

  Sam waited until he was standing by his father.

  ‘I’m not calling anybody off,’ she told him. ‘Now I suggest you go back in the house before you overstep the line and force me to consider arresting you for obstructing a police officer in the execution of their duty.’

  ‘Execution?’ Baljit shouted. ‘The only execution likely around here is yours.’

  Ed glided up behind him, gripped his arm, and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Listen, sonny, go back inside before you’re arrested for threats to kill, there’s a good boy.’

  Baljit pulled away.

  ‘Keep your hands off me,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll do you for assault.’

  Ed smiled as Baljit slinked off.

  Bhandal pointed his finger at Sam. ‘I will be contacting my solicitor.’

  ‘You do what you feel you must,’ Sam said, smiling at him as the Fiesta drove slowly past.

  He stormed off after his son. A third man, the uncle, Gurmej, was standing on the footpath directly outside the house, watching everything. The three of them went inside, Bhandal slamming the door.

  ‘Told you there was going to be a shit storm.’ Darius and the photographer were next to them now.

  ‘Did you get any photos of that little interaction?’ Sam said.

  ‘Plenty,’ the photographer grinned.

  ‘Any chance of getting copies?’

  ‘No problem, Sam,’ Darius jumped in.

  Ed smiled. Put your tongue back in son!

  The Asian woman, a few streaks of black in her predominantly grey hair, was about 50 metres away when Ed saw her. He counted seven bulging carrier bags in her hands. He stepped away and walked towards her.

  'Sat-sri-akaal, Mrs Maan.’

  ‘Sat-sri-akaal, Ed.’

  He had known her almost as long as he’d known his wife. ‘Let me help you.’ He reached towards her bags but she took a step backwards. ‘I can manage.’

  The sudden movement caused the aromatic smell of fresh coriander to envelop Ed and his stomach rumbled. Mrs Maan’s curries were legendary.

  He put his hands in his pockets and walked alongside her as she continued her way home.

  The Fiesta drove past.

  ‘Still looking for that girl, Aisha?’ she asked.

  Ed told her they were.

  ‘Lovely girl,’ Mrs Maan said quietly. ‘Known her since she was a baby.’

  With each step, Ed’s foot paused mid-air, trying to match his strides with her shuffle.

  ‘Terrible what has happened, Ed,’ she said. ‘Her running away like that. The girls are Westernised these days, don’t want to carry on the traditions. You should know that better than most… I remember the day Sue’s mother told me she was seeing a white boy.’

  She giggled, an old woman suddenly a schoolgirl again.

  ‘Lucky for you her family were forward thinking. Not everybody was. Not everybody is.’

  The Fiesta drove past again.

  ‘Why is that car driving up and down?’

  ‘It’s the same make as the one Aisha’s boyfriend had,’ Ed answered. ‘Have you seen it in the street before?’

  Mrs Maan looked around, checking for twitching curtains.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said in a whisper. ‘But I cannot talk here. Get Sue to meet me in the Gurdwara tomorrow morning, about 10. I’ll talk to her.’

  She reached her red door, opened it.

  ‘What can you tell Sue?’ Ed asked.

  Mrs Maan nervously scanned the street again.

  ‘The weekend Aisha went missing I did see a car like that,’ she said. ‘People were fighting, shouting.’

  She stepped inside and turned to Ed. She was already closing the door when she said: ‘I know who was fighting.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘It’s full of risks and ethical issues.’

  Sam was staring out of the office window over the rim of her mug of coffee, the car parks of Headquarters almost empty.

  ‘What have we got to lose?’ Ed said. ‘Mrs Maan will never make a statement. It’s a piece of intelligence, a potential pointer in the right direction, something we might never get otherwise.’

  Sam nodded. She couldn’t argue with Ed’s logic. Nothing had come from the door to door. That’s not to say nobody would contact the police on another day. There were times when people didn’t want to be seen talking on their doorsteps but would later get in touch.

  Mrs Maan only talked because she knew Ed. Had she not seen him, it was doubtful she would have said a word.

  ‘At least speaking to her might give us a steer,’ Ed went on. ‘That’s more than we’ve got now, more than we’ve got in four months.’

  Sam knew he was right.

  ‘Don’t mention it to anybody,’ Ed said. ‘The only people who know are you, me, Mrs Maan and Sue when I tell her. If she has information and it has to go in the system, I’ll put in an Officers Report, something to the effect I’ve been told by a source. Not a proper CHIS, just a source in the community.’

  Covert Human Intelligence Sources were still informants, snitches, snouts, grasses and narks to Ed. He was using the term ‘source’ in its literal sense... where something began.

  Sam sipped the coffee.

  ‘Look,’ Ed said, ‘let’s just see what she has to tell us. Nobody up to now has even mentioned seeing the car in the street, never mind a fight. If there was a fight, I’d rather know about it. Then at least we can start to look for some corroboration.’

  ‘What about Sue?’ Sam asked him, still uneasy.

  Ed smiled. ‘She’ll love the opportunity to catch up with Mrs Maan.’

  ‘Tell me you’re joking,’ Sue said, eyes wide. ‘Tell me you don’t want me acting as your Special Constable.’

  She was standing by the cooker, stirring a big pan of chicken curry, Ed’s stomach grumbling more now than when he smelled Mrs Maan’s coriander.

  ‘All I’m asking is for you to have little chat with her,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing unusual.’

  Sue glared at him, spoon frozen in mid-stir. ‘Except I’m reporting back to you.’

  ‘Mrs Maan knows that,’ Ed said. ‘It was her suggestion. She wants to tell us something but can’t be seen talking to police. We both know what the community’s like.’

  Sue had her back to him, the wooden spoon again going around in slow circles.

  ‘What if I miss something out? I’m not trained to remember things like you are.’

  ‘We’re not trained to remember,’ Ed said, sensing success.

  ‘You could have fooled me.’ Sue’s tone had lightened. ‘You still remind me of the night me and Leela came home drunk and that was five years ago.’

  Ed came up behind her, put his arms around her waist, and whispered into her ear.

  ‘It could go a long way to finding out what’s happened to Aisha,’ he said. ‘And at least it’ll stop you moaning at me for going into work on another Saturday.’

  She spun around and pointed the spoon at his face. ‘In with your girlfriend again are you?’

  Ed didn’t respond. Sometimes it was best just to stay quiet.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it, but only because it might help Aisha, and I know Mrs Maan,’ Sue said. ‘Not because it’ll get you in Sam bloody Parker’s good books.’

  Sam was walking along the tow path. It was 11.30pm but she had no desire to rush home. She wasn’t tired and she had declined Bev’s suggestion to go to the pub... too much going on for her mind to be dulled by alcohol.

>   She wanted to speak to the cops who were down on the tow path at her behest, thank them for their time and effort. Sometimes she did ask people to do pretty joyless tasks.

  She had a quick word with the two mounted officers. As always, she admired the size and beauty of the two massive horses – one black, the other grey. If she remembered correctly, a primary school pupil had named the grey horse in a competition organised with Darius and the Seaton Post. She couldn’t remember the horse’s name.

  She wondered how Ed was getting on with Sue and began wrestling with her decision to allow her to become part of the investigation. But what choice did she have? The fight might have involved Aisha, her boyfriend or both of them.

  The blood results from the settee were due tomorrow.

  Then there was Sukhi’s car. Who had driven it into the garage? What if Sukhi wasn’t capable of driving?

  Sam stopped and leaned her shoulder against a tree, its bark rough, and examined the river, the grass bank sloping towards its edge. At this point, and for a half-mile in either direction, there was a drop of about four feet into the water. Had the students just fallen in drunk and been unable to get back out? There was no safety equipment as such, no red life-saving belts, but even if there were, they’d be no good to a lone student. Who’d throw the rings in to them?

  But what if they hadn’t fallen? What if they’d been pushed? And if they had, who’d done the pushing?

  Tracey, Charlotte, Alex and Amber had all been in the vicinity the night Jack Goddard died. Correction, Sam told herself. Their phones had been there. Was she really looking for a group of female vigilante serial killers?

  She started to walk again, getting further away from her car.

  Was Amber’s group called the Sisters of Macavity? Had they sent the photographs? If so, how had they taken them? How had anybody got the boys to pose? Drugs? Rohypnol? Payback time was one thing, but killing?

  And Aaron Leech, the arm in the Hashtag photograph. He had drowned. But was he pushed? Even the slightest suggestion of that and the media circus would come to town. Was it just a coincidence? No Senior Investigating Officer in the country believed in them. Coincidences happened but only after SIOs had exhausted every other hypothesis.