by I K Watson
PC Wendy Booth slid the car back into traffic. Lizzy’s final look had opened a tap of emotion and she swallowed hard before finding her voice. “First time I’ve heard a pimp called a manager.” She threw him a sideways glance. “One in a million, eh?”
“These girls are very astute. You could learn a few things, Wendy Booth.”
“If ever I want evening classes, Skip, I’ll know where to come.” “Don’t you fancy me, then, PC Booth?”
“I do, I do, and I’m having to hold myself back from jumping all over you, but I’m great mates with your wife and I love your three kids to bits so I’ll just have to live with it.”
Sergeant Mike Wilson nodded and said, “Right. So you’re a lesbian then, are you?”
Chapter 9
Eleven years ago Donna Fitzgerald had joined the force as a seventeenyearold cadet. It had been her ambition for as long as she could remember and she had never considered an alternative career. She had passed the interviews, the physical and psychometric tests and joined the force in August, she remembered, the month that produced the worst crime figures. She was also reasonably happy to be one of the few officers at Sheerham schooled in the bedside manner; hers was the sympathetic ear for the victims of rape and domestic violence and other serious sexual assaults. She could have been part of a Sapphire Unit and might even have been a substantive DC by now but that she was still in uniform was her own choice. She had learned long ago that CID was not for her. She had, nevertheless, accepted the role of chaperon and learned the gentle touch technique.
Behind it lay the urgent requirement for information, the gentle prod, encouragement, we're all girls together and all men are bastards, and so on. You made notes afterwards, once you'd milked them and sent them off to Victim Support. It was a job and you'd heard it all before. You were a copper. The freezing process began on day one. Donna Fitzgerald was on the wind-down of her shift when the duty sergeant caught her. She was adjusting her heavy belt kit – extendable metal asp, quick-cuffs, CS spray, torch and radio – non-digital for Sheerham didn’t run to the upgraded 390Mhz and the Tetra network – and was making her slow way to the locker room when she caught sight of his scrawny features, recognized the look in his sly eyes and felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. The prospect of a DVD and a few vods after a Chinese diminished as his footsteps on the corridor floor grew louder.
“Got one that's right up your street, Donna.”
She pulled a face. “Skipper, I'm on my way home.”
He smiled gleefully, enjoying himself. “You mean you were, lass. We're stretched. Another woman has been attacked. It sounds like the same guy.”
She’d already heard. The news had been all over the radio. Twenty-four hours earlier a woman named Carol Sapolsky had been knifed in what appeared to be a seemingly random attack. The police were still looking for a motive and some return from a hastily arranged appeal for information from the public.
She brushed some creases from the leg of her uniform and noticed the front of her body armour was streaked with cigarette ash. She fiddled with her regulation clip-on tie and tried to swallow from a dry mouth.
The sergeant read her thoughts. “Get rid of all that armour and grab yourself a cup of refreshing tea which you can drink on the way. Don’t want you frightening her to death, do we? Not before you get some details. Get down to the North Mid as quickly as possible and get me something before they start. Make sure you don’t catch MRSA or something.”
Once the medical examination began the police would have to wait. In the case of assault by a stranger the trail went cold quickly. It was called the golden hour. An hour could make all the difference. Donna hitched her belt and threw him a tight-lipped look that pleased him no end. He watched her arse all the way out until a door swung shut and cut the view. lain-clothed.
The incident room was makeshift, an old changing room. All the junk had been cleared and the steel lockers were restricting the corridor outside. In their place were VDUs, telephones, desks, and portable screens covered with photographs and maps of the SOCs.
When Detective Superintendent Baxter walked in the chatter stopped. He was an overweight man in dark suit and tie. Spectacles enlarged his brown eyes.
“OK, everyone, thanks for getting here so quickly. It's appreciated.
I know it's Christmas and sixteen-hour days are not an attractive proposition, but think of the overtime. For those of you who don't know, I'm the super. My name's Tony Baxter.” He sounded fine but self-assurance and the keen attention he received from the locals, left his credentials in little doubt. He went on, “This is DI Rick Cole. He'll be SIO on this. Chas Walker is exhibits officer. Peter Wood has come from the Yard to help out. David Carter is from Tottenham. Get this sorted quickly and you can all go home. I'm transferring PC Donna Fitzgerald for the duration. She's going to be chaperon. She's got the hard bit, the victims.”
Chas Walker asked, “So where's Donna now?” He was uneasy.
She'd have a direct line to Billingham, spilling their trade secrets.
Baxter understood DC Walker's concern. Uniform and plain clothes didn't mix. Usually it was no more than healthy competition but the excommissioner's policies had fuelled the friction and blown it out of proportion. CID, particularly in the MET, was fighting for survival.
Baxter answered, “She's at the hospital. She's been there most of the night while you lot were getting your beauty sleep. Now, you've all heard what happened to the latest. Elizabeth Rayner, twenty-eight, single, by all accounts a nice professional woman, on her way home from her health club… DI Cole will brief you. I want progress reports every day at nine and six. And I mean progress.” He turned to Cole.
“I'll leave it to you.”
The others recognized an intimacy between them, something more than the job.
Once the door had shut Cole said, “Right, let's get on with it. Chas has got his work cut out. Peter you look after the indexes. David, take care of the usual faces and the door-to-door. I want to know about Elizabeth Rayner and the first victim, Carol Sapolsky. I want some common ground. So, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, workmates, clubs, the business. The uniforms have made a start but now we want it done properly. So far fingertips have produced zilch but they’re still looking at the drains and bins. Priorities? CCTV footage from the streets, boozers, shops and garages. And let’s have a go at the KCs. They’re not going to come forward without a nudge but if we can find them then they will be very helpful. For those of you who don’t know the Square is our local area of disrepute and it goes without saying that the girls are going to be really pissed off seeing us, the KCs even more, and that will work in our favour. They’ll want to help in order to get rid of us. Concentrate on the local hit list. I want every one of them TIED without exception.”
TIED is traced, interviewed and eliminated. KCs are kerb-crawlers. “We’ve already taken seventy calls regarding Miss Sapolsky and these have produced a dozen possibilities. Let’s have every one of them followed up today. Check with Catchem and Guys, see if anyone has a predilection for Stanley knives and women's breasts. Chas, sort out a desk for Donna. All of you please note that she is part of this team for the duration. I don’t want to hear any plod jokes. Questions?” “What about sexist jokes, Guv?” Chas Walker asked and the secondments shared an anxious moment.
“Sexist jokes I can live with,” Cole said and heard a collective sigh of relief.
Cole found Detective Superintendent Baxter in his office, coffee in hand, open BacoFoil on his desk revealing what was left of six rounds of ham and tomato sandwiches. A knife had left a lane of English mustard across one half of the rounds. The other half was only one step deep. Baxter brushed a crumb from his lips, almost embarrassed, and made a half-hearted attempt to wrap the sandwiches. After a moment he pushed them aside, placed his coffee carefully on the desk and said, “Sod it, Rick. Early lunch.”
Cole glanced at his watch. It wasn't yet ten.
Baxter adjusted his spectacles
and frowned. “I'm not happy with this. A serial slasher?”
“We’re still one light for a serial and the MO might throw something up. They could be unrelated.”
Baxter made a dismissive noise. “Not much chance of that.” “I know it's early days but I was thinking about a profile.” “A bottle-fed psycho. What else do you want to know? What else will we learn? A history of violence, a strong connection with the area, a loner who finds relationships difficult?” Baxter touched the glass of his spectacles then took them off and began to polish. Without them he looked hollow-eyed and older.
“I was thinking of Geoff Maynard.”
“No,” Baxter said too quickly. He replaced his spectacles. “Not yet. The last thing I want is a psychologist muddying the water. We've got rid of one or, at least, nausea gravidarum has. We don't want another. Let's see what we've got at the end of the day.”
It was well known that Baxter did not have much time for psychologists, even one as eminent as Geoff Maynard. Until its disbandment he had been in charge of HOPE, the Home Office Psychological Experimental Unit at Green Park. As far as Baxter was concerned they were detrimental to an investigation. They narrowed the field, called it tunnel vision, and bits of evidence outside that narrow track were lost. Profiling, the concept of the nineties, had gone the way of the magnifying glass. Paul Britton and the judge who kicked Colin Stagg out of court had seen to that. What was more, much of the work was being duplicated at Catchem and the National Crime Faculty at Bramshill.
After a moment's reflection Baxter said, “But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to find out where he is and what he's up to.”
Baxter didn’t catch the look of mild satisfaction that softened the DI’s eyes.
The fire at Buncefield had been more or less extinguished and the sky was clearing but the smell of smoke hung on like a rerun of bonfire night.
Donna Fitzgerald arrived in civvies: short black skirt, black jacket over white shirt, all of it fitting rather snugly. In the corridor a couple of plods paused to watch her until she turned into the IR then they shared a nod and a knowing smile and a lot of wishful thinking. Cole sat on the edge of Chas Walker's desk, arms crossed. They watched her approach and Walker's eyes lingered too long on various places between neck and hemline. She cleared her throat, loudly, and pulled his attention northward. Her glare held an icy threat. Robert Peary would have been proud of her.
Cole enjoyed her response. He asked, “What's happening?” “Surgery is finished but she's still under. I'll get back later. Her mother's arrived.”
“Did we get anything?”
“Guv, she’s too traumatised to give a coherent account, but she did recognize his aftershave. Unfortunately she couldn't put a name to it. Expensive, though, forty quid a shot. It'll come to her.”
Walker said, “He's not short of a few bob then. I make do with Lynx.”
“It notices.”
Cole said, “Injuries?”
“One breast was all but severed. They've had to remove it. Fifty stitches to the abdomen and severe internal injuries. I didn't have much time. He came at her from behind. It was dark. All she saw was his arm. He was wearing a dark jacket, possibly black. He had his arm around her neck and slammed her into a wall. She thinks she lost consciousness.”
“Whatever else you can get will be useful. You know the form. Does she smoke?”
“Not in hospital. Why?”
“If she doesn't she'll be able to tell you if he does. Even forty quid aftershave can't hide it.”
She glanced at Walker. “Nor can Africa.” She looked back at Cole. “Right, Guv. How long do I stay with her?”
“As long as it takes. It's down to you to get us something useful. Did you get to see Carol Sapolsky?”
“Briefly. Nothing more to add. Came at her from behind. She didn't get a look.”
“Try her again, Donna. It's a long shot but if there's a connection between the two women…”
Donna nodded. She hadn't worked with Cole before but she’d heard about him. He came with danger signs. Her sashay from the room was even more decided and Chas Walker found it difficult not to follow. Once she'd gone he shook away her image and said, “Not much.” Cole nodded, “Depends what you’re referring to.”
“Experience, Guv. She’s a uniform. Maybe a more experienced…” “Forget it. Don’t even go there.”
Walker was a copper who went through the motions but he would never climb the ranks. Sooner or later he would move over to security which would suit him better. He'd arrived from the army with a squaddie's attitude and six years on the job hadn't made a difference. Cole headed for the coffee machine. He found Donna standing next to it, head slightly bowed, shoulders stooped, her coffee making waves.
“You all right?”
“I'm all right. I was up late.”
“Of course you were.”
“And the couple of hours I managed weren't good. Just little things. Some bastard holding me around the neck while he…”
Cole stopped her there. “Right.”
“It just got a bit too close. Elizabeth Rayner had everything going for her; looks, job, everything. In thirty seconds, wrong time, wrong place, she's destroyed.”
Empathy was beyond Cole. He was a copper. He put a coin in the slot and pressed 13, with and with. The machine groaned and dropped a plastic cup.
Donna said, “Say something, like do you need counselling, or something.”
Cole picked up his coffee and raised it towards her. “You're very beautiful, you know that?”
Her face broke into a smile. She said, “Not at the moment, but catch me at the right time…”
Cole smiled back.
“What?” she asked.
“You married?”
She flashed him a ring. A tiny diamond glittered. “Engaged,” she said.
“Pity.”
The signs were right.
She said, “Yeah.”
Cole was updating Detective Superintendent Baxter when DS Peter Ward knocked on the door.
“Boss, a result. One of the instructors at the fitness club has come up with a name. Apparently he's been hanging around for some time, using the coffee shop. Elizabeth Rayner complained about the way he was staring at people and they threw him out. He shouted that he'd get her. Quite a few people heard.”
Baxter was on his feet.
They followed Ward to the IR where the team gathered around Carter on the screen. Donna Fitzgerald saw their approach and, remembering her earlier banter with Cole, smiled a quick acknowledgement.
The screen moved upward. Carter said, “Rodney Grant, forty-six. A string of previous. Look at this! GBH, burglary. Bailed. Any takers that he's done a runner?” He hadn't noticed the super. As he made eye contact he muttered, “Right, sorry.”
Defusing it, Cole said, “What else?”
“Here we go. Indecent assault and cruelty, two USIs and a sod on an eleven-year-old boy, did three. Got out last year.”
USI is unlawful sexual intercourse.
Chas Walker muttered, “He doesn't care, does he?”
Cole said impatiently, “Come on, David. Let's have an address?” “Bail address, Guv. Girlfriend.”
Cole nodded thoughtfully.
Walker put in, “Shall I get firearms in, Sir?” The GBH count made the difference.
Baxter spoke quietly, mostly to Cole. “I don't think we need any more Brazilians shot full of holes, do you? They'll just muddy the pitch, as they do. Let's go for surprise. Mess up some paintwork. HET will suffice."
Most coppers treated the firearms support units with a little circumspection.
HET is the heavyweight House Entry Team. They came complete with helmets and shields, secured the house then handed over to the incident team. They were everyone's friends because they took the shotgun in the face.
Cole agreed and glanced at his watch. “Right. Four AM.
Everybody here at three-thirty. No excuses.” He turned to the super. “Anything to
add, Sir?”
Baxter shook his head and smiled briefly. “Let's make this work. Then we can concentrate on Christmas shopping.”
The murmur of laughter and anticipation filled the IR but it was edged with disquiet. It was all too effortless. They hadn't worked for it. It was just a feeling, but it was nagging.
There's a road or street in every district known to Social Services and FPU. It's a place where perhaps people with learning difficulties are housed, where the more vulnerable members of society live, a place where children are more likely to be left unprotected. It's also the place where Schedule One offenders take lodgings, among the easy pickings. In Sheerham, that road was Shephall Way.
Police cars making their way along Shephall Way crunched on the glittering surface. Uniforms led the way to the front and rear of number six. They had their batons out and they wanted to use them. The front of the terraced row was well lit by street lamps.
The officers moved in, crouching low beneath garden walls and hedges, holding their batons like they might have held shotguns. The steel ram, the key, was used and, with two thrusts the front door was smashed aside. Then silence was irrelevant. Commands were shouted, lights were thrown on, heavy boots thumped on the stairs and officers crowded into every room. They found two children in the small bedroom, the adults in the rear. Rodney Grant was allowed to dress while his girlfriend screamed abuse. Cuffed and flanked by two eager PCs he was marched to the nearest police car. Lights in neighbouring houses were switched on. More curious neighbours watched from their front gardens.
In the car in front the buzz increased the volume. It was like alcohol on an empty stomach. The thrill was real. The bust was great and the anticlimax of the paperwork hadn't yet kicked in.
Chas Walker told Peter Ward and anyone else who was listening, “That tart had so many rings on her face you could've hung a fucking curtain on it.” He was referring to Rodney Grant's girlfriend. In the back seat Donna Fitzgerald remained tight-lipped. At the beginning of the day, just like at the end of it, all men were bastards. Right?