Comply or Die

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, Tracey Davies is now shaking her head.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She spun to face Sam. ‘No, I don’t want anybody here. Alright?’

  Sam ignored the attitude. ‘I want to ask you about your whereabouts last Sunday night. Where were you after 10pm?’

  Davies stared at the ceiling.

  ‘We intend to ask you a series of questions,’ Sam told her. ‘It is your right not to answer, but as I said when I cautioned you, failing to answer now... ’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Sam relaxed back into her chair.

  Ed hadn’t moved. He was back in his reclining position, legs outstretched and hands behind his head. He stayed that way as he spoke.

  ‘Tracey, we have interviewed Elliott Prince,’ Ed said. ‘He has given us certain information... ’

  ‘Don’t think I’m falling for that,’ she snarled. ‘Is that the best you’ve got? Keeping me in here for sod all, that’s what this is about.’

  The anger was sweeping off her like heat from a wildfire.

  ‘I can assure you there is nothing to fall for,’ Ed told her, his tone patient, unhurried, almost gentle. ‘Your friend, Elliott Prince, has given us certain information. As we speak, scientific tests are being conducted and an examination of your phone has already been completed. Amazing what information can be retrieved. Why any criminal uses them is beyond me.’

  Davies slouched forward, leaning across the desk towards him.

  ‘Did you get off on the bits where we were talking about you, saying what we’d do to you,’ her laugh dark, humourless. ‘I’ve got news for you. We just wondered what it would be like with a father figure, somebody old.’

  She ran her tongue around her lips.

  Ed had let the hate wash over him like dead air but now he sat up and moved to the edge of his seat, much closer to her. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

  ‘Phones, cigarettes, things people take for granted,’ his eyes never left her. ‘They can yield so many forensic opportunities.’

  He paused and saw the flame in Tracey Davies’ eyes flicker.

  ‘We will be able to put you on the tow path on Sunday.’

  Ed sat back.

  Geronimo and his Apaches believed that after death the spirit left the body. Ed and Sam saw Davies’ arrogance float out of her. They’d seen it in interviews all their careers – resignation followed by admission.

  ‘You don’t get it do you?’ she said, her voice changed.

  Sam and Ed waited.

  ’Yes, I was on the path. Yes, I was with Elliott. Glen was pretending to be drunk. We weren’t trying to kill anybody. We were trying to stop someone killing.’

  Sam already knew the answer to her next question.

  ‘Who, Tracey? Who were you were trying to stop?’

  She looked at the floor, closed and opened her eyes in a slow heartbeat, and whispered. ‘Amber.’

  They had restarted the interview after a 30-minute break, Sam and Ed grabbing coffees and regrouping.

  By the time Ed set the tapes rolling again, some of Davies’ anger had been rebooted.

  ‘What that sick bastard did to Amber... ’ She was spitting out the words, the veins in her neck bulging. ‘Raped in your home by some masked arsehole who sticks a knife at your throat and then rings you up afterwards.’

  Sam had been the first person Amber had told about the attack, a memory of that day shooting into her mind.

  ‘I know how hard it was for her,’ Sam said, meaning it. ‘She went through something unthinkable and came out the other side. She even told me she was going to start a self-help group.’

  Tracey slid down the chair.

  ‘That’s what Amber did and it was good,’ she said. ‘She understood. None of us had been through what she had but she got it. We’d talk about sexual harassment, the online bullying, and those fucking photographs. 21st century yet it’s worse than it’s ever been, even at uni and that’s supposed to be full of the educated.’

  She shook her head and glanced at the ceiling before her eyes settled on Sam again. ‘Actually, half of them are thick as pig shit. The place is full of immature lads who can’t see past what’s in their pants. It’s why lots of us go out with older men.’

  She glanced at Ed, no lip-licking this time.

  ‘Did nobody think of reporting it to the university authorities?’ Sam asked.

  ‘What, for nothing to be done?’ Her bone-cold laugh again. ‘What would be the point? Anyway, things changed when Amber got back in touch with Elliott. She told him and that’s when the photographs of the lads started. Tit-for-tat, Amber called it. Elliott did the photo shop trick.’

  ‘What trick?’ Sam asked her.

  ‘They were on their hands and knees but the dildos were photo shopped,’ Tracey said. ‘The camera never lies and all that.’

  When she asked for water, Sam paused the interview, recording that Ed was leaving the room. A minute later he was back and gave Tracey a plastic cup filled with cold, filtered water. She gulped it down in a rush.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan is back in the room,’ Sam said for the tape. ‘You were telling us how things changed when Elliott came on the scene.’

  Tracey took a deep breath, remembering, laying out the path that had led her here.

  ‘Amber wanted to do more,’ she said. ‘Talking never achieved anything and she wanted to be, what she called, pro-active. Her favourite phrase from then on was ‘nothing was ever resolved over a cup of tea and a biscuit’. We thought that was funny at the time. Amber told us we needed action. Elliott volunteered to set them up. Rohypnol and us girls did the rest. Next thing, the photographs.’

  Tracey fell silent but her face stayed fixed on Sam, defiance glowing deep in her eyes.

  ‘Amber reckoned you had to fight fire with fire, and I agreed with her,’ she said. ‘Sending those photographs was liberating, ‘girl power’ and all that.’

  Sam asked another question she had already answered herself.

  ‘Was the group called Sisters of Macavity?’

  ‘Yeah, that was just a laugh,’ Tracey said. ‘I can’t remember who came up with the name. It might even have been me.’

  Sam knew it was still a leap to turn Amber from a victim spreading photo-shopped revenge to a ruthless killer, no matter how much fire she had been ready to light.

  ‘Why do you think Amber was responsible for the murders?’ she asked now.

  Tracey looked surprised, and said: 'Who else could it be?'

  ‘Amber always said posting the photographs wasn’t enough for Jack and Glen. They needed worse. Me and Elliott both thought she’d killed Jack. It just fit.’

  ‘And if she’d turned up the night you were all on the tow-path?’ Sam asked.

  Tracey said they wouldn’t have gone to the police.

  ‘We weren’t going to grass. She needed help so we would have tried to get her to a psychiatric hospital. If that got us into trouble further down the line, so be it. Amber never admitted any murder but we thought she needed re-wiring. Now there’s two dead.’

  When Sam asked about the others who had died, Tracey said the Sisters of Macavity were just a ‘talking shop’ then, that Elliott wasn’t yet on the scene.

  Sam steered the interview back to the photographs of the sleeping girls, aware that Tracey had slipped into a comfort zone, everything about her now radiating control.

  ‘Amber was furious with Glen and Jack for sending out those photographs, I mean, fucking furious, and when she found out about the young Asian girl running away because of them, she was even worse.’

  ‘When did she find about the Asian girl?’ Sam asked.

  ‘A couple of days before Jack got killed.’

  Sam glanced at Ed. ‘But when we spoke to Bethany Stevens, that’s your younger sister’s friend, she said she sent the photo to Aisha on Saturday 14th December.’

  Tracey’s defences began to trigger on reflex.

  ‘That might be r
ight, but I’m not talking about, what was her name, Bethany,’ the voice edged. ‘I’m talking about Amber.’

  Sam pushed. ‘But Bethany says you told her not to worry, that, and I quote, ‘they’d get what’s coming to them'. Do you recall saying that?’

  ‘Hey, I might have done,’ Tracey said. ‘Sounds like the type of thing I’d say when I’m pissed off, but you’re talking about December. Elliott and Amber hadn’t even met up then. Nothing had happened.’

  Sam smiled, watched Tracey fold that comfort zone back around her. It was time.

  ‘You see, Tracey, the problem I have, I’m not sure I believe anything you say.’

  Tracey jumped up, sudden fear powering an adrenaline surge and panic masquerading as outrage.

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Her voice was too loud, too forced.

  ‘Sit down, Tracey,’ Ed said, his voice slow, as if she’d just disturbed him from an afternoon nap.

  ‘It’s her, calling me a liar!’

  ‘Sit down, you’re giving me a bad neck looking up at you.’

  Tracey theatrically dropped on to the seat, her outstretched arms and open mouth resembling the footballer who can’t believe the referee thinks he took a dive.

  ‘I happen to agree with her,’ Ed said.

  Tracey glared at him.

  ‘What night do you have your Macavity meetings?’ Sam said.

  ‘You know, you saw us. Tuesdays.’

  ‘So every Tuesday you meet, and yet you only mention the Asian girl to Amber a couple of days before Jack gets killed, even though you told Bethany not to worry back in December.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘This all sounds a bit convenient.’

  Tracey pushed against the desk, the chair legs screeching against the floor.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Ed said.

  Tracey relaxed her arms but her voice was still tense and loud. ‘She’s calling me a liar again.’

  ‘Going back to Sunday,’ Sam said, unmoved. ‘You tipped Amber off that Glen was out. Then what?’

  Tracey took a breath. ‘We hid under that tree and then Glen staggered past, pretending to be drunk. Nobody followed but then we heard something, like somebody running. Glen never shouted or anything but I just knew something had happened, I just knew.’ She wiped her left eye. ‘When we got there it was horrible. Glen dead. Amber vanished.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  It would be another 40 minutes before the Intelligence Manager could get hold of Sam and Ed for a face-to-face meeting. While Tracey was in the mood to talk, they had wanted to get as much information as possible.

  The story was on page 7 and written by a reporter whose name Ed didn’t recognise. The story told how Lord and Lady Farquarharson opened the land at Highmounde Hall, their ancestral home, for many events, among them classical music concerts, charity garden parties, and an annual book festival now in its fifth year. Ed read and made notes on an A4 pad.

  ‘If we start searching just hours after they were talking about it, they’re bound to get suspicious,’ Sam sipped a black coffee; the milk in the CID office was so far gone, it was cheese. ‘We need a way of doing a covert search. I don’t want a media frenzy, I don’t want anybody being tipped off, and I certainly don’t want to be sent on a wild goose chase by people who’ve sussed we’re listening to their conversations.’ She sat on the edge of a desk.

  ‘I might be able to help.’ Ed blew across the top of his coffee and delayed saying anything else just long enough to make sure he had her attention. ‘Brian Banks is doing the security for the literary festival and... ’

  ‘Jesus, he gets where a draught won’t,’ Sam butted in. ‘I thought he was scrap metal and property?

  She bit on her bottom lip and shook her head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Diversification.’ Ed slurped his coffee, black and bitter. ‘Look, whatever he is or isn’t, I’ve known him for years.’

  ‘What you suggesting then?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Get a couple of security uniforms off him and send a couple of our search team in to have a look around. Better than going in all guns blazing.’

  Sam’s brow creased with concern, wary of getting a helping hand from someone like Banks.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Ed reassured. ‘I always keep him at a safe distance. We’ll make something up about what we’re doing, counter terrorism maybe. He’ll love that. Leave it with me. And you know, if there is a body close to the marquees nobody will try to move it for fear of being spotted. We’ve got as long as the literary thing is on to find it.’

  Sam squeezed shut her eyes, a headache ticking like a time bomb at her temples.

  ‘I can’t drink that.’ She stood and placed the mug on the desk.

  ‘Okay, work up a plan, the usual stuff, including a risk assessment. Let me see it before we put people at the hall. Did you find out how we’re doing with your mate Eric?’

  Ed told her Eric had done a video interview that gave up nothing they didn’t already know.

  ‘Bev Summers has found Elliott and Tracey on CCTV,’ he went on. ‘Listed their clothing. She’s gone to recover it.’

  Sam felt like her head was bursting.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, trying to ignore the pain. ‘Next steps, you sort Banks and I’ll go for Amber. I know her. No need to make a big show. In and out.’

  Ed told her to be careful, that if she’d already killed two...

  ‘What, she’ll kill me?’ Sam said. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Well take a radio with you just in case.’

  ‘Yes Dad.’

  Ed sat in the car, enjoying 10 minutes solitude, his jaw barely moving as he worked on a steak and kidney pie. His hand reached for the ice-cold Pepsi in the drinks holder. Pity it wasn’t in a glass bottle; much nicer, or was he just harking back to his childhood?

  He swirled the fizzy drink around his mouth, the pie gone too soon even though he’d chewed slowly. He was still regretting not asking the butcher for two when he drove into Brian Banks’ scrap yard. Banks was expecting him.

  ‘Ed Whelan, as I live and breathe. Long time no see. What’s this favour you’re after then?’

  His huge hand enveloped Ed’s, the cordial handshake a sign of mutual respect.

  They walked to Banks’ cluttered office, both standing as Ed laid out what he needed.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ Banks said. ‘You want to put two cops in my uniforms to, what was that phrase, sweep the area for devices? Like bombs you mean?’

  Ed nodded, sipping the Glenfiddich and water.

  ‘Pardon my ignorance but does Health and Safety allow that?’ Banks demanded. ‘Are my staff going to be in danger?’

  Ed said to let him worry about health and safety and risk assessments.

  ‘It’s a precaution, Brian, belt and braces job,’ he said easily. ‘There are a couple of high-profile international authors attending. Bomb sweeps are becoming standard practice.’

  Banks’s face darkened, his mouth a scowl.

  ‘Fucking world we live in. Who do you blame? Bush? Blair? Muslims?’

  He downed his drink and set the crystal tumbler on one of the dust-surrounded circles on the silver tray.

  ‘Enoch was right,’ Banks grumbled. ‘If they’d listened to him, we wouldn’t be in the sticky stuff. Jesus, the garbage they’ve allowed into this country. Left-wing do-gooders. Shoot the lot of them.’

  Ed was familiar with the invective, always amazed Banks in his ingrained hatred could swat aside Ed’s own domestic situation.

  ‘So I take it that’s a yes then?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘Always happy to be of service.’ Banks raised his refilled glass. ‘Just do me a favour and keep some of those enthusiastic young detectives off my back.’

  Ed raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Since the powers that be stopped us buying with cash, they’re in the yard twice a week,’ Banks told him. ‘Half of the lads who come in here selling stuff have never had a bank account.’
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  Ed knew the law had been changed because too many dealers – Banks maybe among them – were conveniently forgetting to ask where the so-called scrap had last resided.

  ‘My heart bleeds,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now where do the lads pick up the uniforms?’

  Sam knocked on the black door. It had been painted since her last visit and the garden was well kept.

  ‘Amber.’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She was across the threshold and walking into the sitting room before Amber had time to answer.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’ Amber questioned, perplexed as she followed.

  Sam stayed standing, legs apart and hands on hips.

  ‘I need you to come to the police station with me, Amber, to answer some questions about the murders of Jack Goddard and Glen Jones.’

  Amber sat on the arm of the chair. Her voice was shaky and quiet. ‘Am I being arrested?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘What does that mean Sam?’

  ‘It means not at the moment,’ the voice clipped, commanding. ‘Now get your coat. Let’s go.’

  They walked in silence down the path and got into Sam’s car.

  Amber pulled the passenger door; it was heavier than she expected. ‘What’s this all about, Sam?’

  Sam turned to look at her.

  ‘Let’s cut the shit, shall we?’ She turned the ignition. ‘Put your belt on.’

  Sam pulled the Audi from the kerb, the sound of the engine a symphony to power and German engineering.

  ‘You’ve not been totally honest, Amber. You knew about the photographs of the girls, knew the name of the group, your group. I’ve cut you some slack. I’ve come for you. I didn’t send anyone else to arrest you and search your house.’

  She flicked one of the stalks on the steering column and turned left at the junction, Amber silent and still in the passenger seat.

  ‘I’m giving you a chance here. Elliott and Tracey are under arrest.’

  Amber jolted. ‘Elliott? What for?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘No way.’ The response was instant. ‘Not Elliott, not Tracey. They’re all talk.’