Director's Cut (8 page)

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.