Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam watched him. He was good; Oscar statue good.

  ‘My wife was heartbroken. I told everybody not to worry. I would get another settee. You were, of course, correct. I sold that one to a man, and having slept on it, yes, perhaps his name is Sanderson. I did not tell him to burn it although I did explain that there was human blood on it. I think I saw him in the pub on the Sunday. On Monday I saw Mr Singh, chose another settee and he delivered it that day. Mr Sanderson picked up the ruined one on Monday morning. Came with a big trailer. He said the blood would wash out.’

  Bhandal paused and looked at Carver, who nodded.

  ‘Mr Sanderson bought it off me. To suggest I paid him to take it is ridiculous, but as everyone knows he is a common criminal. Nobody in this room has a single conviction between them, whereas Mr Sanderson has them going back years. Surely you don’t take the word of a man like that? No court in the land would believe him.’

  ‘Mr Singh keeps records,’ Sam said.

  ‘Which he writes himself, often days later,’ Bhandal countered smoothly. ‘Ask his family. He’s always behind on the paperwork. He always gave me my receipts late and there’ll be plenty of people who’ll say the same thing. He’s a lovely man, a fair man, respected in the community, but he is forgetful. I would not want you to go to court on the say-so of someone who could be discredited.’

  Jill Carver jumped in, clearly not wanting her boy to over-egg the dish.

  ‘I hope that clears up the misunderstanding,’ she said, a statement, not a question. ‘Mr Bhandal has apologised, but given his mental state yesterday, what with the shock of his and his wife’s arrest at the station, it’s not surprising he was confused.’

  Ed spoke. ‘Why did you say last night that the first new settee, if I can put it like that, was delivered on the Saturday after your daughter went missing, the same day Mr Singh said he delivered it to you?’

  ‘I was upset.’ Bhandal opened his palms again. ‘I didn’t want you thinking that Aisha had run away because she had bled on the settee. Once I knew you had the settee then it was incumbent upon me to tell the truth.’

  Sam glanced at Ed, saw his fist clench and knew that at that moment, he wanted to punch Bhandal. She nodded at him as she reached across to the tape machine.

  ‘Interview terminated 9.45am.’ She pressed stop and packaged the tapes in silence.

  ‘Will you be conducting more interviews with my other clients?’ Carver asked, packing her A4 pad into a Radley bag that looked very new.

  ‘Not me personally, but they will be interviewed,’ Sam said.

  Outside the custody office she spoke to Ed. ‘Well how nice and tidy was that little lot?’

  ‘Very, but all the better when we prove he’s lying,’ Ed said. ‘Christ, I wished we’d done it on video, got the smarmy bastard on film.’

  Like Ed, Sam knew their time hadn’t been wasted.

  ‘He’s lying,’ she said. ‘We can put the son in Plymouth once we can use the UC to identify him, and nobody’s going to believe the mother’s story of a day trip to London to see people she won’t name, where she just happens to accidentally use Aisha’s bank card the day after our door to door.’

  ‘Yeah, all rubbish,’ Ed agreed. ‘We just a need a bit more.’

  Sam looked around, stopped walking, and dropped her voice to a whisper.

  ‘The probes are in, one in the kitchen, one in the living room. Let’s see what they have to say to each other when they get home.’

  ‘Everything sorted in the listening post?’ Ed asked.

  He hoped the bugs would deliver and that they would remain safely hidden, despite Sam’s reassurance.

  Sam telephoned Bev and told her what she wanted doing in the final round of interviews.

  She turned to Ed. ‘I’ll meet you back at the office… we need to find out the connection between Amber and Elliott?’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll go and see Glen Jones on the way back. Speak in vague terms. Might drop in on Billy Wilson as well. Doormen know all sorts.’

  Glen Jones, wearing nothing but a pair of red-spotted boxers, was sitting in a plastic chair in the back garden. One of his flatmates had let Ed in.

  ‘I need a word.’ Ed was speaking before he was through the kitchen door. ‘Get dressed.’

  Jones looked around. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just get dressed. Me and you are going for a walk. Hurry up. I haven’t got all day.’

  Jones pushed himself out of the chair, sloped past Ed with his head down. He looked like he was walking to his execution.

  Ed waited in the garden and wondered who cut the lawn. It wasn’t Wembley, but it wasn’t bad. A bird chirped away in one of the mature trees by the fence.

  Jones returned, grey joggers and a plain white T-shirt added to the boxers.

  ‘Bit boring isn’t it?’ Ed nodded towards him. ‘Your T-shirt. No witty messages today?’

  Jones kept his head down, a young child being rebuked by a parent. ‘Where we going?’

  ‘Let’s have a nice walk along the pier,’ Ed told him. ‘I can get a coffee with our Sunday stroll.’

  Twenty minutes later they were walking out to sea along the Victorian pier. Ed had a flat white in his hand. The local yacht club was staging some sort of race, boats of various sizes on different tacks approaching marker buoys. The boats made Ed think of Sam but he pushed her out of his head.

  ‘I’m pleased I haven’t got a hangover,’ he said, looking at Jones. ‘Your trainers are dazzling me and that’s with a clear head.’

  Ed remembered the trainers of his teens, Adidas Sambas, the only non-black part being the three white stripes. Nobody would have dreamt of day-glo orange, a shade so bright they could probably spot them from space.

  ‘Mortimers,’ Ed said, back to business. ‘How many of the members have girlfriends?’

  ‘What, like a steady relationship?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ed stopped, raising the disposal cup to his lips.

  Glen Jones gave that some thought.

  ‘None,’ he said finally. ‘It’s not about being tied down.’

  He looked away, out to sea.

  ‘It’s about, you know, as much sex as you can get with as many different girls as possible. It’s all about the numbers.’

  ‘What about Jack?’ Ed asked him. ‘Did he have a steady girlfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jamie?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘Elliott?’

  ‘None of us did,’ Jones told him. ‘It wasn’t like that. Out drinking, chat them up, have sex, move on.’

  ‘One of my colleague’s saw Elliott last night with a girl,’ Ed said. ‘Linking arms. He looked pretty close to her, as in relationship close.’

  Jones gave that some time, too.

  ‘Don’t know who that could be,’ he said after the thinking was done. ‘He was out last night, but with a girl? He never said anything. You sure it wasn’t his sister?’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘Sister?’ Sam said, looking up from the witness statements she was reading.

  ‘That’s what he said.’ Ed pulled out a chair.

  ‘But she was an only child.’

  ‘Was she?’ Ed said. ‘After the attack she said she couldn’t talk to her mother and she had no sisters? Did we ever ask her about a brother?’

  Sam realised they hadn’t. There had been no reason.

  Ed was speaking again. ‘So let’s just work on the premise for the minute that she has a brother, it’s Elliott Prince, and he knows his sister was attacked in her own home by a man who is now in prison, a man he can’t get reach. Would that make him attack students who were arseholes around women?’

  Sam put her pen down. Was that too much of a stretch? Or might Prince let his rage go on the ones who were just a step back from rapists in his eyes?

  ‘Who knows what goes through your mind if a female relative gets sexually assaulted, or worse,’ she said.

  Ed bit
his bottom lip, clenched his right fist.

  ‘Sorry, Ed, that was insensitive of me.’

  Ed had told her last year his niece had been dragged into an alley and only saved from rape by two sharp-eyed doormen; she was badly beaten in an ordeal that changed her whole personality,

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ed said. ‘Don’t worry about it…I tell you what it does, though: it makes you want to rip their heads off, terrorise them as they terrorised your family. You want revenge. If I’m honest, I still don’t know how I’ll feel when he gets out. Will I go after him? I’ll be retired then.’

  He looked away, lost in thought, then returned his eyes to Sam. ‘Sorry.’

  She shook her head, raising her right palm.

  ‘But would I use what happened to my niece to launch attacks on sexual predators in general? I’m not sure I would.’

  ‘Could give you some serious motivation, though,' Sam said.

  ‘It could,’ Ed agreed. ‘But Elliott Prince? Really?’

  ‘Keyser Söze,’ Sam told him.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Sam explained.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ she went on. ‘Luke Wylam and Glen Jones said Prince was the leader. Maybe what you see isn’t what you get. I know everybody’s snowed under, but can you get somebody to look at the relationship between him and Amber? Starting with why they’ve got different surnames. Amber said she’d never been married. I did ask her that.’

  Progress was slow. Bev re-interviewed the Bhandal family; the mother and brother went ‘no reply’ to every question about the settee. Davinder Bhandal himself, smile a permanent fixture, said he could be of no further assistance.

  The intelligence cell started to look at Elliott Prince’s social media and his mobile history. They had completed their content checks of Amber’s phone but found nothing of significance other than the texts on the night of Jack Goddard’s murder. It was the same story with her social media.

  Paul Adams began to look at the relationship between Amber and Elliott, but getting answers on a Sunday was often impossible. He started researching Amber’s family tree online. The Internet never took a day off.

  Sam and Ed were a couple of miles from the office, sitting with Karan Singh and his two grandsons. Sam had called him. He told her where he was.

  Ed accepted Karan’s offer of a pint. Sam had a pineapple juice. The youngest boy fetched the drinks.

  The mid-afternoon sunshine meant the bar was quiet, one of the less attractive Premier League fixtures playing out on the only TV, the sound muted.

  ‘Mr Bhandal is of the opinion that you made a mistake, that the first settee was delivered on the Thursday, not the Saturday,’ Sam said.

  Karan shook his head. ‘Impossible. The receipt books.’

  ‘Mr Singh...’ Sam leaned across the copper-topped round table and spoke quietly, ‘...do you fill those receipts in at the time or later.’

  He looked at her. Everyone at the table waited for his answer. Silence.

  Karan drank a mouthful of beer, put the half-pint glass down, and moved on to the tumbler keeping it company. He raised the tumbler to his mouth and drained the remains of the whisky.

  ‘I can’t say that I wrote them out at the time,’ he said slowly. ‘Probably didn’t, but I would have written them out within a couple of days.’

  Sam kept her disappointment off her face.

  ‘Could you have been mistaken, Mr Singh?’

  He picked up the beer.

  ‘I would be lying if I said I never made a mistake,’ Karan said. ‘But I wasn’t wrong this time. Our van was in for service. Goes in the same time every year. It went in on the Wednesday and we got it back on the Friday afternoon. The garage’s receipts are computerised. I paid by card so there’ll be records.’ He took another mouthful of beer, froth clinging to his beard.

  ‘So we couldn’t have delivered anything to Mr Bhandal on Thursday. We only have the one van. I am afraid it’s him who’s mistaken.’

  Sam could have kissed him.

  Back in the car, it was Ed who spoke first. ‘Do you want to have another interview with Bhandal?’

  Sam said no, what would it achieve?

  ‘We have him lying about the settee,’ she said. ‘We’ll tie that up nicely in statements from Mr Singh – isn’t he lovely, by the way? – and the statements from the garage where his van was serviced. We’ve started to build up a nice case but we’re a long way short yet.’

  They would release them on police bail with the usual ‘while we conduct further enquiries’ send off. Carver would have a little rant, demanding to know why they weren’t being released unconditionally. Then the listening probes would come into play.

  ‘What about the daughter, Mia?’ Ed asked.

  ‘She’ll go back to them,’ Sam said. ‘There’s no way we can suggest she’s at risk.’

  Ed’s face became tight with concern.

  ‘But she’s going to be, Sam. She’s 15. Aisha’s gone. There’s a promise to be fulfilled to a family in India. Mia will have to take Aisha’s place.’

  Sam had never thought about that. Why would she?

  ‘We have a duty of care to her,’ Ed went on. ‘She’s at risk.’

  ‘When’s that new law coming in?’

  ‘The Forced Marriage Act?’ Ed said. ‘June this year. Potentially too late for Mia.’

  Sam looked for another solution.

  ‘The civil courts,’ she suggested. ‘Forced Marriage Protection Orders.’

  Ed was all cold water.

  ‘You know the difficulties with them,’ his voice trailing away. ‘Police getting mixed up in civil law.’

  Not for the first time, Sam was struck by Ed’s passion.

  'Okay,’ she told him. ‘We’ve got the probes in the house. If her level of risk increases from anything we hear, we’ll go in and get her. She’ll be fine Ed.’

  He said nothing but his grim face spoke for him.

  Sam’s hand ached, the pen so fast it barely touched the paper, the handwriting more illegible with every word. Notes on both investigations, separate sheets for the different investigations: lines of enquiry that needed to be completed or developed further; witnesses that needed further interviews; Persons of Interest who may become suspects; identified suspects that needed interviewing; inquiries into people’s backgrounds; technical examinations, as well as the covert operation which would start as soon as the Bhandals were released.

  Logistically, it wasn’t possible today, but first thing tomorrow Charlotte, Tracey, Alex and Amber would be arrested and brought in.

  Ed came into Sam’s office and talked through the arrest strategies... which officers would go to which address... what time... which stations the suspects would be taken to... who would interview them... who would co-ordinate the searches of their houses... what the search teams would be looking for.

  The pre-arrest briefing would take place at 6am, everybody at the respective addresses no later than 7am.

  Sam called Paul into her office and agreed the interview strategies. He had made little progress with Amber’s family tree but would get on to the various agencies tomorrow.

  It was 8pm. Sam had survived the day on a bacon sandwich and a pineapple juice. She was tired, hungry, and her head was pounding. She needed home, food and bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  She ate yet another ready meal in front of the TV, poached breast of Scottish salmon, king prawns, cream cheese and asparagus. I’m spoiling myself tonight, Sam thought as the microwave sang its siren song. Sid James’s laugh filled the room, a camping field the setting for the ‘Carry On’ film she’d seen countless times before.

  Twenty-five minutes after walking through the front door she dragged herself upstairs, undressed and dropped on to the bed. Her legs ached; her head felt like the big, green watermelon from ‘The Day of the Jackal’, Edward Fox already having done his worst. Still sleep wouldn’t come. Each time she looked at the bedside clock another 15 minutes had passed. 11.50 w
ere the last numbers she saw on the red display.

  Monday 21st April 2014

  Disorientated, she stretched for the phone and glanced at the clock – 4.03am.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, boss.’

  She pushed herself up, rolled on to her side, and reached for the pad and paper that were always on the bedside table. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a Body. On the tow path.’

  Fuck.

  ‘Male. Early 20s. Looks like a head injury. Found by a passing student. Uniform are in attendance. SOCO en route.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  While Eastern Police, like every other force across the country, had failed miserably in its target to recruit, and then retain, more officers from minority ethnic groups, the surveillance team had one Asian officer who spoke Punjabi fluently.

  Yesterday, Sam made sure that Sonia Mitchell was attached to the ‘listening team’ on the Aisha Bhandal investigation. Another three Punjabi speaking officers from uniform had also been drafted on to the investigation, having first been warned of the consequences of disclosing the true nature of their duties.

  Two officers were required to work each shift. Ideally it should have been four, two to each device, but cuts had every department straining at the seams. The four Asian officers would work different shifts so there would always be one Punjabi speaking officer on duty.

  Any officer removed from normal duties drives the rumour mill into overtime, colleagues asking where they’ve gone. If they’re fobbed off – ‘nothing to do with you’ or, even worse, ‘it’s on a need to know’ – they started speculating.

  Sam was only too well aware that educated guesswork could sometimes hit the mark and if the officers with big mouths started speculating, the investigation could be compromised.

  Three uniform officers from the same ethnic background would only be petrol to the curiosity flame... and a flame could become an inferno.

  Sam had brought this up with Assistant Chief Constable Monica Teal in a phone call yesterday. The ACC contacted various superintendents, informing them the three officers were required to work under the supervision of DCI Parker for the foreseeable future. She told them the officers were to form a headquarters working party, responsible for developing Eastern Police’s response to forced marriages in view of the impending legislation.