The Major Crimes Team - Vol 1: Lines of Enquiry (10 page)

Davies didn’t say anything, but Bhaki could see his words were having the desired effect.

‘Tell you what, if you promise to give me total co-operation, I’ll do what I can to lean on Mr Trent so he doesn’t hold you to the penalty clause.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘I will if you can tell me of anyone you think may be behind this.’

Davies slumped back into his chair and fell silent as his mind started to work.

Bhaki fell silent and let his eyes wander around the office as he waited. He was confident Davies would make the right decision, but could tell the man needed a moment to think.

‘There’s two people I think could have done it, but I don’t believe either would.’

‘You’d be surprised what some people will do because of jealousy or because they feel a need for petty revenge. Who are they?’

‘One is Frank Young who owns Wetherington’s Building Supplies in Keswick and the other is my wife’s brother Eric, Eric Sampson.’

‘Why do you think they might have done it?’

‘They’re the only two people I’ve fallen out with for years.’ Bhaki raised an eyebrow. ‘Frank Young threw a wobbler when I returned a whole batch of timber because it wasn’t good enough for the job. He called me worse than shit so I told him to stick his business up his arse and that I’d get materials elsewhere.’

‘And your brother-in-law?’

‘He blames me for my wife’s death. Reckons if I’d been home to help with the kids more, she wouldn’t have been so tired she fell asleep at the wheel.’ Davies’ voice fell to a whisper. ‘Perhaps he’s right.’

Bhaki didn’t know how to answer so he didn’t try.

Davies scribbled on a scrap of paper. ‘That’s Eric’s address. He used to work in the woods but gave it up a few years ago when his back got too bad. I dunno if he’s still got his chainsaws but I know he’s capable of doing it. As for Frank, he could easy get his hands on a chainsaw and a bit of wire rope if he wanted.’

Bidding Davies a goodbye with a reminder against taking the law into his own hands Bhaki walked back to his car with his mind whirling.

He now had two possible suspects with the means and a possible motive. The weather and the restaurant’s isolated location had provided the opportunity.

*    *    *    *

Travelling towards Keswick, he pulled into a lay-by to grab a fried egg roll from a roadside burger van. While not the most nourishing of foods it would fill a hole and let his mind concentrate on the task at hand.

The brother-in-law seemed too ideal a suspect and if it was him he may have a very hard time proving it. Unless there was a way chainsaw cuts could be attributed to a particular chain, it would be nigh on impossible proving an individual had committed the crime.

Finishing off the roll and wiping his hands on the paper napkin, he decided to check if Chisholm had any news for him.

Hanging up the call he digested the information he’d just been given. Chisholm’s digging into Trent’s wife had unearthed a new suspect.

Deciding to follow the leads from Davies first due to the fact he was only a couple of miles from both Frank Young and Eric Sampson he started the engine and pointed the car towards Keswick.

Visiting Wetherington’s Building Supplies to see Frank Young he found the man absent. According to his staff he was currently holidaying in America. A quick call to Chisholm confirmed Young had been out of the country for the last week.

Parking underneath the branches of a beech tree, Bhaki examined the rows of bungalows with their neat gardens. There was a feeling of community and respect permeating the air. Residents here would be respectable citizens of a certain age.

When Eric Sampson answered his door, Bhaki’s heart sank. There was no way the man before him could have felled the trees. The plaster cast on his right arm showed the discolouring synonymous with at least a fortnight’s wear.

Introducing himself, Bhaki followed Sampson inside, refusing the offer of a cuppa. While Sampson himself was unable to wield a chainsaw, he may have organised others to do his dirty work.

‘I’m sorry lad, but I have no idea why you’d want to speak to me.’ Sampson’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s nowt to do with that Mrs Hughes across the road is it?’

‘No. It’s to do with your brother-in-law, Oliver Davies.’

‘What’s up, is he all right’ Concern showed in his eyes. ‘We’ve had our differences but he’s all them kids have.’

‘It’s nothing like that. A building site he was working on has been deliberately flooded and we’re looking for the person who did it.’

Sampson fell silent for a moment as he considered Bhaki’s words. When he spoke it was with a measured tone and intelligent insights.

‘So you think that Oliver may be the target of whoever flooded the area and you’re looking for anyone with a grudge against him. Therefore you’ll already know we fell out after Denise died.’

Bhaki said nothing, letting the silence grow until Sampson felt compelled to fill it.

When Sampson did speak his voice was filled with remorse. ‘I regret what I said to him at the time. Some of the words I used then were unforgivable. He was filled with grief and like an idiot, I heaped more misery onto him in an attempt to find someone to blame. There was an inquest into the accident and it was found that the other driver was to blame. Because of my poor judgement I didn’t just lose a sister, I lost a brother-in-law and two nephews.’

‘Haven’t you tried to reconcile with him?’ Bhaki couldn’t stop the question despite it being nothing to do with the case. Sampson’s pain was all too evident and it tore at him.

‘He won’t speak to me and after what I said and I don’t blame him.’

‘I see.’ Bhaki excused himself and left Sampson to his regrets.

*    *    *    *

Having checked in with Chisholm once more, Bhaki now had the details he needed on his final suspect. Everything the DS had unearthed pointed to Richard King being the culprit. Now it was a case of building evidence against him.

Knocking on King’s door got no answer. It was possible he was out on a job, but a Transit van bearing his name and the words ‘Landscape Gardener’ was parked askew in his driveway.

Twice more he knocked on the door, each time harder and longer. Still his knocks went unanswered. A light on from a downstairs room gave him hope someone was home so he pressed his face against the glass to peer inside. What he saw made him run back to the front door and throw his shoulder at the lock side.

It took four attempts before his slight weight burst the lock and allowed him access to the house. Dashing into the lounge he checked the pulse of the man lying on the couch. There was one. Faint, but there all the same.

As he recited the address to Control with a request for an ambulance, he started to take in the clues offered by the prone man. There was no attempt at finesse with the makeshift bandage tied over the right thigh of his jeans. A large amount of blood had seeped from the wound it covered and had soaked into the fabric of the couch. The man’s bare left shoulder bore a dark bruise which showed the scratches of a glancing blow delivered by a heavy object. On the table by the couch lay a set of car keys and an empty blister pack of aspirin.

To Bhaki’s mind it looked as if King – if that was the man on the couch – had been caught by a tree he was felling and had cut his leg with his chainsaw. Patching up the wound with his shirt he’d returned home and passed out on the couch too afraid to call an ambulance. Blood loss had drained him more than anticipated and now he was unconscious, unfeeling of his pain.

Aware he had a perfect opportunity to do a bit of unofficial snooping, Bhaki went into the man’s office. The computer was on and when he moved the mouse he found a number of folders on the desktop. Most bore the usual records expected of any business but three had women’s names as their titles. One of those names was Fiona Trent.

Clicking on the folder, Bhaki was met with a two other folders, one titled ‘Pictures’, the other ‘Correspondence’.

Clicking on the pictures one first, he found a lot of pictures of Fiona Trent which appeared to have been taken without her knowledge. Some of the pictures showed her with her husband at various functions.

Checking the other folder he found emails between Fiona and King. Scanning through them he found the first email from Fiona stating her husband was too busy to take care of their garden and she needed to hire a landscape gardener.

Realising what had happened; Bhaki tried the other folders bearing female names and at first found them to be similar to Fiona Trent’s. Yet when he looked at the correspondence folders he saw King’s replies had gone from businesslike to flirty before becoming professions of love. Both women had turned him down flat and had severed all contact.

As paramedics entered the house, Bhaki saw the whole picture. Obsessed with Fiona Trent, King had flooded the restaurant in an attempt to keep her husband busy. No doubt he’d planned to make a play for her affections at some point in the near future.

Final Days

John Campbell pushed the sheaf of papers into a file and added it to the growing pile on the right hand side of his desk. Today was his last day as a detective inspector for Police Scotland. All things being well, he planned to coast through the day finalising paperwork and completing his research on the team he’d be taking over.

‘Guv?’ DC Anderson’s head poked round the faded door casing. ‘We’ve got a shout and Bawbag says he wants you to lead.’

Campbell kept the grumble to himself. It was typical of DCI Colin ‘Bawbag’ Venters to thrust a case on him on his last day. Venters was a ladder climber whose next promotion was his only concern. Robotic in his understanding of human emotions, he had tried to make Anderson work a back shift the day she’d buried her mother. In a former life he would have been the one whipping pyramid-building slaves.

‘What’s the shout?’

‘Marie Mason is saying she’s been raped.’ Anderson’s expression answered his next five questions.

Marie Mason was a familiar name to the whole team. She’d made regular claims and allegations against persons known and unknown to her. An attention seeker of the highest order she had allegedly been raped six times, indecently assaulted a dozen and had filed more than a hundred complaints about a neighbour she thought was spying on her. Not once had a conviction been brought against any of her claimed aggressors.

About a year ago, her calls to the police had stopped, prompting bad-taste jokes about her having died.

‘She’s been too quiet for too long. Who’s she pointing the finger at this time, the neighbour?’

A shrug. ‘I dunno, she called the station direct, said she’d been raped, gave her address and then hung up.’

‘If Bawbag wants us to respond then we’ll respond.’ Campbell lifted a couple of files from his desk. At this time of day it would take at least twenty minutes to get to Marie’s tenement flat. He could do a spot of reading on the way.

As Anderson drove along the traffic filled streets he turned the volume of the car’s radio to a muted background level. Irony was in full flow today as the first song he recognised was a-ha’s ‘Cry Wolf’.

Chancellor Street was crowded with parked cars and vans bearing the names of a construction firm. Workmen were trailing in and out of a property shrouded with a large scaffold. Crisp new windows were being carried in as old ones were being hauled out and thrown into one of the three skips arranged haphazardly by the kerb.

Walking along to Marie’s address, Campbell lifted his eyes to the buildings and soaked in the sight of the sandstone frontages. Bathed in sunshine, the once proud buildings looked downtrodden and depressed. Decades of grime and pollution soiled their faces, sullying them in a way that was absorbed by their inhabitants.

Those who lived in these tenements were strong people whose iron constitutions were rusted by bad diets, bigotry and alcohol dependence. Their life aspirations nothing more than a week in Blackpool, an Old Firm win or the next bottle of Buckfast.

Campbell knocked on the door with resignation, expecting tears and the usual unfounded allegations.

It was a few years since Marie had last filed a rape allegation. Even she would have to admit that anyone raping her was a bit of a stretch. Standing five foot high and three wide, Marie Mason wasn’t your typical rape victim. Pulling sixty, she was a hard woman chiselled into a gargoyle by an unrelenting life of disappointment.

When the door opened he couldn’t stop the gasp of amazement escaping his pursed lips.

Marie’s face was a mass of bruised tissue and fresh cuts. One eye was swollen closed and beginning to show the first signs of discolouration. Her nose was squashed flat and a trickle of blood from each corner of her mouth gave her a pair of red fangs.

Her one good eye sparked in recognition. ‘Good. An Inspector.’

Campbell followed the shuffling woman into her home. Like Marie the tenement displayed the marks of a vicious attack. Magazines littered the threadbare carpet, chairs were overturned and smashed crockery littered the floor of the kitchen.

In keeping with every other Glaswegian woman of her years, Marie Mason took a perverse pride in keeping her home tidy and clean. She may not have a pot to piss in, but what she did have, she kept spotless.

What surprised him was the plasma TV thrown onto the floor and the boot-print covered remains of a laptop. He could only surmise that like so many others in city, she would be in line for a loyalty card at the black market.

Every instinct Campbell possessed as a copper told him Marie’s latest claim was for once genuine. Yet he’d been tricked before by people injuring themselves to play the role of victim.

‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Campbell righted a chair for Marie and squatted down on his haunches so as not to tower over her.

‘I answered the door and this ugly bastard shoved me. I tried to push him back but he was too big. Fucker hit me a few times and then pulled me onto the bed.’ A look of shame washed over her face before a look of determination replaced it. ‘Bastard pulled my skirt up and my knickers down.’

Marie’s telling of her rape was matter-of-fact. She delivered details with the conviction of certainty.

Campbell took down the details while Anderson called for an ambulance and a rape consultant.

When Marie finished, Campbell had what he thought was enough information to identify her alleged rapist.

‘Marie, I have a question for you.’ He swallowed. ‘You’re not going to like it, but in light of every other claim you’ve made I have to ask it.’

‘Whit is it son?’

‘Are you sure this really happened because if we have you examined by a doctor and she says you haven’t been raped then you will be given a bill for the doctor’s time.’ Campbell spread his hands wide. ‘It’s the way things have to be done with all the budget cuts we’ve had.’

Marie levelled her gaze until she met his eyes with a fierce one-eyed stare. ‘Get the doctor son. I’ll no’ be getting any bill.’

Campbell’s lie had given him the information he needed. People like Marie lived in fear of another bill. There was no way she would risk having to pay a penny because of a fabrication. Therefore the rape was genuine.

A paramedic arrived and escorted Marie downstairs to the ambulance as the CSI team arrived.

Leaving them to do their jobs, Campbell rounded up Anderson and began knocking on neighbouring doors.

Of the five other doors in the building only one yielded an answer.

The man who answered carried a few days worth of beard growth, a visible hangover and breath rank enough to fell an elephant. Campbell threw a few questions at the man but the answers slurred back at him were of no help.

After summoning a couple of DCs to do a more thorough job of the door to doors, Campbell and Anderson set off back to the station.

They hadn’t driven a hundred yards before his nose was back in the file on Harry Evans.

The man he was due to replace was everything he wasn’t, a rule-breaker who followed gut-instinct rather than procedure. He knew the type only too well. His first DI had been just like Evans, coarse, unruly and almost impossible to work for. His ways had been stuck in a time when confessions were extracted with a closed fist or the threat of being held responsible for every unsolved crime since Cain killed Abel.

The team backing Evans up all showed decent qualities, but they too had a history of renegade ways. He would need to exert his authority from day one and stamp out any inclination to disregard the rule book.

‘I said, what do you think about Marie’s story?’

‘Sorry.’ Campbell brought his mind back to the case at hand. ‘I think it’s genuine, but you never know with her.’

‘I heard what you said about the doctor. That was a clever test.’

‘Thanks. I want you to drop me off at the station and then head over to the CCTV control rooms. Marie was specific about the time her rapist arrived. If she’s telling the truth you should be able to pinpoint him pretty easily.’

‘OK.’ Anderson’s voice wasn’t filled with enthusiasm for the task. ‘Do you think we’ll get lucky?’

‘You never know. There’s cameras there, so we might.’

*    *    *    *

Reaching the station, Campbell grabbed a coffee and a bacon roll from the canteen and headed back to his desk. Until he heard from the doctor, the crime scene manager or Anderson, there was little he could do to progress the case.

He was looking forward to his transfer to the Major Crimes team at Carlisle. Not only would it provide a fresh challenge, it would remove the hour and a half commute he faced at each end of his shifts. Living at Gretna and transferring to a more local force had been his new wife’s idea. Sarah hadn’t wanted to leave her hometown for Glasgow and he’d had his fill of policing a city inhabited by bampots, neds and gangs intent on preserving a hold on their territory.

It had taken a year for the right transfer to come along, but when it did, he applied that very day. It had been a fraught process almost thwarted by the one black mark in his career, but the planets aligned and his transfer went through.

Now everything in his life was perfect, a new wife; a baby due within the month and a new challenge just fifteen minutes from home. He’d even made a twelve grand profit on the house he’d sold when moving to Gretna.

He shuffled paper for a half hour before his phone rang. It was the Crime Scene Manager with a preliminary report.

The CSI team had given the flat a cursory sweep in line with the guidelines on the extent of detail to be searched for. Modern policing was about accounting for budget, managing resources and following the most probable leads.

The CSM wanted to know how many of the dozens of samples he was supposed to analyse. Flipping a mental coin Campbell made his decision and asked for all the hair samples to be tested. Other forensic samples could be tested at a later date if necessary. The most telling samples would come from the doctor who examined Marie. In rape cases there was almost always transference of hair or skin caught under the victim’s nails.

It was this evidence on which most rape cases were tried.

Hanging up the phone, Campbell’s mind returned to Marie and her behaviour at the tenement. Like the hypochondriac who has ‘I told you I was ill’ engraved onto their gravestone, there was a triumphant satisfaction about her. After all those false calls, she now had a genuine reason to make a complaint.

The physical invasion had been shrugged off with typical Glasgow fortitude. ‘Ah’m jist glad his tadger was nae bigger’n his thumb.

This time when the phone rang it was the doctor who’d examined Marie. Every word she’d spoken about her ordeal was backed up by the doctor’s examination.

Marie Mason had as claimed, been raped both vaginally and anally. The verification of her claim kicked the investigation up a gear. Her track record had meant Campbell’s initial steps had been tempered with cynicism. The last thing he wanted to do on his last day was be tricked by a serial hoaxer. Now the brakes were off, he could throw extra manpower and resources at the case.

Calling the CSM, he informed him of the samples collected from the doctor. Next he called the DCs canvassing the area where Marie lived and urged them to leave no door un-knocked on.

As he finished that call, Anderson rang him with excitement filling her voice. Hearing her news, he instructed her to come back and collect him.

While he waited Campbell booted up his computer and started a search. Five minutes later he had the information he needed and was striding down to the car park ready for Anderson’s return.

*    *    *    *

Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, Campbell felt the thrill of the chase kicking in. Just three hours ago he was shuffling paper. Now he was on his way to arrest a potential rapist. Moments like these were the reason he loved his job.

This was the meat of the daily sandwich and he wondered what kind of man he was going to confront. Marie Mason was nobody’s idea of a desirable woman even before she’d been assaulted. It would take a special kind of twisted deviant to find her sexually attractive enough to rape.

It hadn’t needed fantastic detection to follow this lead. Marie’s description of her rapist and the time of her assault had given them a solid clue. CCTV cameras had shown a man in his fifties entering her tenement building at the prescribed time. After that it was a matter of waiting until the man came out and tracking him. Like so many criminals in the city he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He’d walked out of the door, taken twenty paces along the street and climbed into a dirty Mondeo. A little bit of a zoom on the image had brought up the number plate in clear definition.

Baillieston was one of Glasgow’s middle ground areas, the people who lived in this area were solid working class. Imbued with a work ethic passed down through genetics, they were the people whose hard graft kept the city running. None of their jobs could be considered a profession, but they all had aspirations for their children to do better than themselves.

Anderson pulled in behind the Mondeo from the CCTV tape. The house it was parked outside had small patch of neatly cut grass.