Authors: Patricia Hall
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Debbie said. ‘I’ve had a dozen calls this morning already from newspapers and TV.’
‘Have they suspended you from the school or something?’ Laura asked.
‘Not formally. The governors are meeting as we speak. They really have no grounds for suspending me, though that doesn’t mean that Peter Maxwell won’t put pressure on them to try their best. In the meantime, the chair has advised me to stay at home, ostensibly so he can deal with the press. Fat chance. My phone number’s in the book and the phone’s never stopped ringing since the
Gazette
story appeared. Even my neighbours are looking at me a bit oddly. They’ve never seemed the least bit bothered by us before.’
‘Unplug the phone,’ Laura advised. ‘You’ll get no peace otherwise.’
‘I need to keep the line open for the school,’ Debbie objected.
‘Let them use your mobile.’
‘Of course, silly me. You can tell I’m a novice in this sort of crisis. And my head’s all over the place.’
‘Are you all right? I thought you might have taken my advice and gone away,’ Laura said.
‘My partner has, and to be honest I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll ever come back. She was even less prepared for this sort of campaign than I was. She’s appalled, terrified even,
though no one’s even arrived on the doorstep yet.’
‘They will,’ Laura said. ‘I know for a fact that Vince Newsom of the
Globe
is heading in your direction. Take my advice. Don’t let him over the threshold. He’s all charm on the surface, can do sympathy like a born-again agony aunt, but he’s a snake. Don’t trust him an inch, or you’ll find yourself on the front page of every red top in the country tomorrow morning. Once one gets its teeth in, the rest will follow like night follows day.’
‘Oh God,’ Debbie said, and Laura could tell that she was on the verge of tears, but she knew she had to tell her the truth. Nothing less would prepare her for what might follow.
‘Do you know who outed you to these radical parents?’ Laura asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Debbie said. ‘Not many people knew I was gay – we were very discreet – and those who did have always seemed completely supportive. I knew we had a few Christian fundamentalists around as well as some Muslims, but they’ve never given us any trouble until now. I can only think that someone mentioned it innocently to someone who was shocked.’
‘Or someone who was looking for a weapon to use against you in the school row. Did Peter Maxwell know? He could easily have told David Murgatroyd. He certainly has issues with homosexuality, being the sort of born-again Christian he is.’
‘I don’t think Peter Maxwell knew. He was on the panel at my interview for the job, but your sexuality is not something decent employers ask about these days. It’s very much off limits.’
‘But it won’t be with Murgatroyd,’ Laura said. ‘One way or another, he’ll make sure it’s on the agenda. And the tabloids
will go along with it given half a chance. They still enjoy a bit of queer-bashing if they think they can get away with it. And a real live row gives them the chance.’
‘With so many Muslims in the school it’s the perfect issue for Murgatroyd, isn’t it?’ Debbie said.
‘Perfect for anyone who wants to keep you out of the academy headship,’ Laura agreed. ‘This leak is no accident, Debbie. Someone has told Bob Baker deliberately to scupper your chances of the job.’
‘I didn’t know I had enemies like that,’ Debbie said, her voice forlorn.
But before she could respond, Laura heard a slight gasp at the other end of the phone.
‘There’s a car pulling up outside and a guy getting out, a blue BMW, I think,’ Debbie said.
‘What does he look like?’ Laura asked.
‘Tall, blond, that floppy hair public schoolboys have, good looking…’
‘Sounds like Vince Newsom,’ Laura said, realising that Newsom might have lied to her about how far up the M1 he had actually driven when he had called her. ‘Batten down the hatches, and unplug the phone,’ she said.
‘Give me your mobile number, quickly, in case I need some advice,’ Debbie said, and gave Laura her own number in exchange.
‘Good luck,’ Laura said before they cut off. ‘You’ll need it.’
Laura went back up to the newsroom feeling seriously depressed. She could not help feeling responsible in some way for Debbie Stapleton’s predicament although she had done nothing wrong. Bob Baker was still not at his desk and she realised that Debbie’s description of her visitor could have just
as easily described Bob as Vince Newsom, and that made her feel slightly better. She disliked Bob and some of his methods, but he was not in the
Globe
’s league of intrusive unpleasantness yet, although she guessed he harboured serious ambitions in that direction.
She sat down at her desk again and called Councillor Peter Maxwell’s office.
‘What’s it about?’ his secretary asked with what Laura felt was unwarranted suspicion.
‘We’ve been talking about Sutton Park,’ she said. ‘I’ve a few questions about the latest developments.’
‘I’ll see if he’ll talk to you,’ the secretary said, and eventually put her through.
‘I wondered what your reaction was to this new parents’ campaign,’ Laura said. ‘It all seems to be getting pretty nasty.’
‘Oh, that,’ Maxwell said, and Laura wondered why there seemed to be a note of relief in his voice. ‘The governors are meeting this morning and my impression is that they’re not best pleased. It’s not my responsibility, but off the record, I should think the story in the
Gazette
has scuppered her chances with David Murgatroyd. He won’t go for a gay head teacher. No chance.’
‘Did you know she was gay before yesterday’s story, as a matter of interest?’ Laura asked, trying to keep her voice level.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Maxwell said flatly. ‘And don’t you or Bob go suggesting I did. To be honest, I’ve no idea where Bob got the story from, but it wasn’t from me or anyone in my office. You know what the council’s policies are on sexism, racism and all the other isms.’
‘And yet you’ll hand over a school lock, stock and barrel to a known homophobe?’
‘There’s no evidence that Sir David Murgatroyd has ever discriminated against anyone,’ Maxwell said. ‘The Government would not have allowed him to set up so many academies if there was. So as far as the council is concerned, that’s the end of it. So if that’s all you wanted to ask me, I’ll get on. I’ve a lot on my plate this morning, as it happens. Nice talking to you, Laura. Really nice.’
And with that Maxwell hung up, so quickly that Laura wondered what exactly he was trying to hide.
‘Well, you seem to have all the symptoms of a pregnancy, as you seem to know already, and you missed your pills. I’ll do the tests but I think you can take it that you definitely have a baby on the way,’ the doctor said, peeling off her plastic gloves. Laura swung her legs off the examination couch and rearranged her clothes. The doctor looked at her sharply as she waved her into the chair by her desk and consulted the notes on her computer screen.
‘You’re not married?’
Laura shook her head.
‘No, I’m not married. I have a partner – off and on.’
‘Is he the father?’
‘Oh yes,’ Laura said, but she knew the dullness in her voice was betraying her.
‘But there’s a problem?’ Dr Mariam Ali suggested. She was a comfortably plump middle-aged woman with her dark hair fastened back from a round face faintly lined by life, her dark eyes full of concern. Her consulting room was almost preternaturally tidy, and she dressed with elegant understatement in dark trouser suits and bright silk shirts, but Laura knew that she had faced difficulty in the practice
because some patients still disliked a woman doctor and others took against anyone Asian, especially in the aftermath of terrorist outrages.
‘He doesn’t want the baby. He lost a child a long time ago and doesn’t think he can do it all again.’
‘And you? What do you want?’ the doctor asked.
Laura shrugged dispiritedly.
‘If my partner will stay with me, then I want the baby,’ she said. ‘Without him, I’m not sure I can do it alone. It’s a huge responsibility.’ Laura wondered what Dr Ali’s position was on abortion. It was not a thought that had ever crossed her mind before, but now it might be crucial. But the doctor showed no sign of censoriousness.
‘It is a very big responsibility, bringing up a child on your own,’ she agreed. ‘Two parents are better. Do you have family locally who could help?’
Laura shook her head.
‘Only my grandmother who needs all the support she can get. My parents are abroad. I’m an only child.’
‘I can’t advise you, Laura,’ the doctor said. ‘If you decide to seek a termination, that has to be your decision and there will be some counselling we can offer. All I can say is that you need to come to a decision soon. Late terminations are not advisable, on health grounds.’
‘Right,’ Laura said, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Can you really not reconcile your partner to the idea of being a father again?’ the doctor asked. ‘Why don’t you talk to him again?’
‘I’ll try,’ Laura said.
‘Make an appointment to see me again in about a week,’ Dr Ali said. ‘We’ll need to arrange antenatal care at the
maternity unit if you are going ahead with the pregnancy, and other things if you’re not.’ She looked at Laura for a moment. ‘I’m sorry. I like to see my expectant mothers happy, not depressed.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ Laura said, regaining some of her normal sharpness. ‘But I’m not sure I can help you there. If I end up having to choose between the baby and my partner that will be the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, and happy’s not the likeliest outcome. Thanks for your time, Doctor. I’ll see you in a week.’
‘I need to go to London, guv,’ DS Kevin Mower announced later that day when he presented himself in DCI Thackeray’s office to report on progress. ‘My contact at Paddington Green has tracked down Leroy Green’s sister living in Archway and I reckon we need to see her face-to-face. He has to be our prime suspect, in spite of the other parties involved with Karen that night.’
‘Do you need to take anyone with you?’ Thackeray asked.
‘Nope. Doug Mackintosh is happy to come with me, and as he’s got all the background, that seems to make sense. If you could clear it with the Met I could get down there this evening and arrange to see her in the morning. I’d be back tomorrow afternoon, unless she pins him down to a location in London. But that seems unlikely as he was up here so recently.’
‘Right, I’ll talk to the Met,’ Thackeray said. He sighed. ‘I’ve just been going through these statements from the people we picked up in the forest. What a sleazy lot they are, exhibitionists gone rancid. But so far not one of them’s admitting they had sex with Karen the night she went missing.’
‘There’s a lot of garbage in there,’ Mower said. ‘I wouldn’t think you can believe more than a fraction of what any of them say. Particularly the blokes. The women don’t seem to be so bothered about covering up. Most of them have less to lose, I guess. They seem to be living boring lives in pretty loveless relationships and just out for a bit of what they regard as fun. The blokes are a definite cut above that, and have a hell of a lot to lose if all this becomes public.’
Thackeray nodded.
‘Quite a gathering of the great and the good, looking for a free brothel, effectively,’ he said, not disguising his contempt. ‘The perfect scenario for a predator, as it turns out.’
‘Did you see where Sharif’s tried to analyse who told who, what and when?’ Mower asked. ‘As far as I can see the word-of-mouth trail leads back to Peter Maxwell about eighteen months ago, and he claims he found a site on the Internet, first of all and didn’t manage to get anything off the ground. I’ve got someone having a browse of sites for swingers and doggers, to see if we can track down what he claims he saw, but the chances of uncovering who’s behind anything like that are pretty remote. It could originate anywhere.’
‘We’ll have to get them all in again. And I intend to start with Maxwell personally, whatever the chief constable thinks,’ Thackeray said. ‘I didn’t believe half of what he was telling me last night. And this time we’ll ask them all to volunteer a DNA sample and fingerprints – for elimination. If they refuse, we’ll have to consider our options, but I don’t believe none of them had sex with Karen. According to most statements there were only four women there that night and about ten men. Are they really trying to convince us that Karen was just a spectator? Has anything come in about
similar cases elsewhere?’ Since recent disasters concerning communication between police forces, big efforts had been made to ensure that similar cases could be tracked around the country through a national database, but both men knew that even now it was not foolproof.
‘There are no cases with bodies tortured and mutilated like Karen’s,’ Mower said soberly. ‘It would have been front-page news in any case, just as it will be here now we’re releasing some of the details to the press. But I’m having missing persons cases looked at as well – young or middle-aged women who’ve gone AWOL and never been found, though there are hundreds of them. It’s not uncommon, after all. A few cases have been regarded as potentially suspicious, husbands have been interviewed and then ruled out just as we’ve pretty well ruled out Terry Bastable, for the moment at least. But no bodies have ever been found. We’re pulling out records for anyone who has anything in common with Karen, but there’s not a lot to go on. Apart from an enthusiasm for outdoor sex, she seems to have led a pretty ordinary life.’
‘But the sex is an obvious means for a predator to gain access to a victim, anonymous, secretive, either behind closed doors or in remote places. Perfect. We can’t rule out the possibility that there are other cases, even without bodies. He may just have been unlucky with Karen’s body being found so quickly. Anyway, we obviously need to talk to Leroy Green. He’s been off the radar for the best part of ten years. Where’s he been and what’s he been doing during that time, before turning up in close proximity to Karen Bastable’s dead body? Get yourself off to London and see if his family know where he is. We need to trace him – fast.’
‘Right, guv,’ Mower said, turning away to hide the flicker
of anticipation in his eyes. Even after years in the north, a night out in his native city was an attractive prospect. He would hit the night spots before pursuing his quarry in the morning, and just hope the hangover was not too dire.
Peter Maxwell’s fury was obvious as soon as DCI Thackeray opened the door of the bleak interview room, with DC Mohammed Sharif close behind him. He had deliberately left Maxwell to stew for half an hour after he had accepted his request to present himself at police headquarters for a further chat. The executive councillor was obviously not used to being kept waiting and his face was flushed with annoyance.
‘I only have a forty-five minute window,’ he said. ‘I’ve an executive committee meeting at two.’
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to intrude on your day for as long as it takes, Mr Maxwell,’ Thackeray said, waving the councillor into a seat as he and Sharif took the two chairs opposite and the DC set up the tape recorder. ‘There are several things we need to clarify with you about the group you and Karen Bastable were members of, and about what happened exactly on the night she disappeared.’
Maxwell scowled.
‘Are you accusing me of something, Chief Inspector?’
‘You mean apart from using what amounts to an outdoor brothel?’
‘No money changed hands,’ Maxwell said, evidently unabashed.
‘Well, I’m not accusing you of anything else. Not yet, Mr Maxwell. We are still at the stage of getting the events clear, in some sort of chronological order, that’s all.’
‘Exactly what, for instance?’ Maxwell challenged him.
‘Well, we’ve now had a chance to analyse all the statements that were taken last night and it seems clear from those that the attention of several people was drawn to the dogging group by you. And they told other people, in a fairly clear chain. Two of the women, Karen herself and her friend Charlene, were told about it by a manager at their work. You are the only person who claimed not to remember who drew your attention to the activities in Bently Forest. Did you initiate them, Mr Maxwell? Was the whole thing your idea, after you picked the idea up from the Internet? Or did someone else introduce you to the group?’
‘Of course it wasn’t my idea,’ Maxwell almost shouted. ‘I just went out of curiosity once or twice, no more than that. Someone showed me an advertisement in the
Gazette
and said he knew where it was all happening. I can’t even remember who it was now…’ He trailed off, as if not expecting Thackeray to believe what he was saying. But Thackeray did not challenge him on that.
‘How long ago was that, Mr Maxwell?’ he asked. ‘Can you remember that? We have a series of dates fixed by the ads in the newspaper, so we know roughly how many of these meetings there have been. How many have you been to exactly? Did you go to the first one last June?’
‘I wasn’t counting,’ Maxwell said. ‘It was just a casual thing, a couple of times.’
‘Some of the group remember the Lion King as a more regular attender than that,’ Thackeray said.
‘No, no, not really. Not regular at all.’ Maxwell glanced around the cramped interview room with its furniture bolted to the floor and its high window of opaque glass as if seeking an escape route that did not exist. The high colour in his
cheeks had receded now and he looked increasingly pale and ill.
‘So let’s concentrate on the last meeting, the night Karen disappeared. We have two witnesses who say that the Lion King had sex with Karen that evening. Is that true?’
Maxwell swallowed hard and then shook his head.
‘I don’t know,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t know who the women were, what they were called. None of us did. It was intended to be anonymous. It was more enjoyable that way. You could do whatever you liked with no possibility of a comeback.’
Thackeray was aware of Sharif moving uneasily in his chair beside him and flashed him a warning look. He did not want Muslim sensibilities muddying the water.
‘Some people knew who Karen was, not least the man she worked with, so it was not necessarily completely anonymous,’ Thackeray said. ‘I have a description of what Karen was wearing when she got out of her car – as far as that goes. Perhaps you would recognise…’ he glanced down at his notes ‘…hot pants, no bra, but a loose semi-transparent top in a thin purple material. It didn’t hide much, apparently. Does that ring any bells?’
Maxwell shook his head and said nothing.
‘Mr Maxwell, we have Karen Bastable’s body, and there may very well be traces of whoever she had sex with that night. A DNA sample from you will prove one way or the other whether you were intimate with her. There’s really no point in prevaricating about it.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Maxwell said so quietly that Thackeray could barely hear him. He glanced at the tape recorder.
‘Could you repeat that for the tape, please.’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ Maxwell said.
‘We’ll come to that later,’ Thackeray snapped. ‘Did you have sex with her?’
Maxwell nodded, wringing his hands together.
‘I must have done. I told you I didn’t know her name.’
‘Did you use a condom?’
Maxwell nodded, and gazed around the room again in near desperation and embarrassment.
‘And where exactly did you and Karen do this? In your car?’ Thackeray persisted, with no trace of sympathy for the man across the table, who was beginning to shake slightly.
‘No, in hers. It was a cold night. We used the back seat.’
‘So if there are traces left by this activity, that’s where we’ll find them?’
‘I suppose so,’ Maxwell said.
‘I ask that for a reason, Mr Maxwell,’ Thackeray said. ‘Karen didn’t apparently leave the forest in her own vehicle. As you probably know, it was found there and it’s now being examined for forensic evidence. But we would also like to know whose vehicle she did leave in, either alive or dead. If you have no objection, I would like to have my forensic team examine your car as well. If you’re telling me the truth, you have nothing to worry about. Their examination will corroborate your story. As will the DNA sample and fingerprints that I am sure you are going to volunteer after we finish this interview.’
Thoroughly deflated now, Maxwell nodded helplessly.
‘I need a solicitor,’ he said dully.
‘That’s up to you,’ Thackeray said. ‘You’re not under arrest and I only have one more question for now. I want you to think back very carefully to last summer and try to remember who drew your attention to the ad in the
Gazette
that first
took you to Bently Forest. We know pretty well who you told, and who they told, right down the chain to Karen Bastable and Charlene Brough. But who told you, Mr Maxwell? You must remember. I’m sure an invitation to an orgy is not something which crops up every day in the corridors of local government. Somebody set this up, and if it wasn’t you, then I need to know who it was.’
‘I don’t know,’ Maxwell said. ‘I really don’t know. The newspaper was being passed around in the Clarendon bar, getting a lot of smutty comment, and someone said they thought it all went off up at Bently. I simply went up there out of curiosity. I don’t know who placed the ads. I never have known. I don’t know anyone who does know. And that’s the truth.’
When they had delivered Maxwell downstairs to have his fingerprints and DNA swab taken, Omar Sharif followed the DCI back upstairs to the main CID office.
‘Do you think he’s telling the truth, sir?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘He’s probably telling us part of the truth,’ Thackeray said. ‘Unfortunately, the ads in the
Gazette
were dropped in by hand, paid for in cash, and no one seems to remember anything about who placed them. One of the staff thinks she recalls speaking to a man but that’s about all we’ve got.’
‘Surely they keep a record of advertisers,’ Sharif said.
‘In theory, but they handle thousands every week. They’re looking at their records but with the number of ads going through the system it’s time-consuming, and I don’t suppose the person gave his or her real name anyway,’ Thackeray said. ‘What I want you to do next is have a quiet look at Maxwell’s background. Apart from the fact that he’s one of the council’s high-flyers, we know absolutely nothing about him. Is he
married, divorced, cohabiting, has he a family, where does he live? If he’s the mastermind behind this group I want to know everything there is to know about him. We may have to do the same checks for every single one of them, but he seems to be the end of the chain so we’ll start with him.’
‘The prime suspect then?’
‘Well, that’s a bit premature. We need the forensics, as always,’ Thackeray said.
‘You reckon whoever set it up did it with the express purpose of finding a victim?’ Sharif asked. ‘In which case it could be someone who’s never revealed himself at all, couldn’t it? Someone placed the ads and got the doggers up there and then waited his chance to abduct a woman.’ Thackeray could see the distaste in Sharif’s face and wondered how someone from such a puritanical tradition could cope with the excesses of modern Britain, but Sharif did seem to cope with some equanimity with the drink and drugs and sexual licence and inevitable violence that was every police officer’s lot. He balanced on his cultural tightrope very effectively, Thackeray thought, and should go far.
‘It could be,’ Thackeray agreed. ‘If the advertising people at the
Gazette
can just come up with a name or address or phone number for that first ad last June, that will give us a lead to explore. In the meantime we’ll just have to follow up the ones we’ve got. Log this new task and then get on with it. You’ve met Maxwell, so that should give you a head start.’