Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) (31 page)

‘Nina?’

She
shook her head, as violently as she dared. ‘When I woke up - I think I sort of
just woke up, like - well, it wasn’t gradual, put it that way.’ Sandra had to
lean close to hear. Her voice was little more than a whisper, and kept cutting
out like a ropy outboard motor. ‘One moment I was, I dunno,
somewhere
; then suddenly I’m awake,
aware. All these tubes and machines and... and oh, my God, it was all so
clear
... like I was on speed or
something. As God is my witness, I’ve never had so much clarity in my whole
life - like my whole life was all crammed into that single second... And
then...’ She took in a deep, painful breath. ‘Then I just realised all this -
all this
junk
was for
me
.
Plugged into
me
,
like I’m some fucking domestic appliance. Like it was all that was keeping me
alive. I kept expecting somebody to come along and - and pull the plug out and
I’d be gone, and I couldn’t stop them, and that, and...’

‘OK,’
Sandra whispered.

‘And,’
Nina said with extreme difficulty, ‘I was all alone. Like I didn’t have a clue
where I was or what was happening and there was
nobody there
. Oh, God, Sandra, I’ve never
been so fucking frightened. Never. Not even when - ’

Her
mouth slammed shut like a disturbed clam.

‘When
what?’ Sandra prompted.

But
all Nina did for a long time was subside into silent misery. By now Sandra
could see a large damp patch on the pillow. She snapped out of the semi-daze
she was in, took a clean tissue from the box on the bedside cabinet and
attempted to stem the flow.

At
last Nina spoke.

‘Mum
and Dad warned me,’ she said. ‘They’ve been dreading this since the day I
joined up. I’d no right to put them through it. It’s my fault. I walked into
it.’ Her body shook with a violent sob: a moan of agony, or anguish, escaped
her.

‘What
are you saying - you what?’ Sandra pleaded. ‘Nina, what happened?’

‘What
happened?’ she repeated vaguely, as though the question filtered down to her
through a dull, turgid mind. She said, ‘I’m done for.’

‘You’re
gonna be fine. Out of here in no time.’

‘No.’
She looked across at Sandra, and her expression carried such sadness it put a
lump in her friend’s throat. ‘The Job, I mean. I’ve had it.’ She licked her
lips. ‘I - I - I don’t - I don’t think I can do it any more.’

‘You
can’t let those bastards win!’

‘What
bastards?’

  
Sandra could feel the back of her
neck burning in impotent anger. She said, ‘We know it was Porter.’

‘What?’

‘Him
and Quaife. We’ve got eyewitness statements from Debbie and her dad. Every
bobby in the country’s out looking and the ports and airports are sewn up
tighter than an Eskimo’s nipple. They’re going nowhere.’

‘Please
don’t, Sandra.’

The
sudden plea brought her back to her senses with a jolt that snatched her breath
away. She stared.

‘I
don’t care,’ Nina whispered. ‘I don’t fucking care.’

Sandra,
thinking she understood, closed her eyes and passed a hand over her face. She
said, ‘I saw Paul outside.’

‘Thought
you must’ve.’ She tensed. Nina said, ‘It’s OK.’

‘He
is your husband.’ She didn’t know what else to say.

‘Yeah.
For now, that’s enough. I need him. Just concentrate on getting out of here,
then worry about...’

There
was a sharp knocking. Sandra craned round. Two faces were framed in the glass
pane of the door. One was Lucia’s; the other, tight lipped and irate, belonged
to Nurse Aziz. Sandra nodded irritably and turned back to Nina, who looked
exhausted. She said, ‘I’m sorry, mate. That was right out of line.’

‘Doesn’t
matter,’ Nina said, barely audible. ‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’

‘Tell
me what?’

‘Who,’
she smiled.

Sandra,
mystified, shrugged.

‘I
can see the funny side now.’

Light
dawned. ‘I’ve got to admit,’ Sandra sniggered, ‘that black eye is a fucking
work of art.’ She was delighted to see Nina’s lips twitch.

Nurse
Aziz came into the room, followed by Lucia, who appeared to have been
attempting to restrain her. She snapped, ‘OK, officer, I’m afraid you’ll have
to leave now.’

‘Tell
her not to make me laugh,’ Nina pleaded. ‘It hurts.’

‘I
was just going,’ Sandra grinned. She leaned over to Nina and said, ‘You’ll be
OK, you.’

Nina’s
lips moved.

Sandra
leaned closer.

‘Don’t
forget me.’

‘Don’t
be daft. We’re all rooting for you.’

Nina
smiled and closed her eyes. Nurse Aziz bent over, noticed the damp patch and
started muttering about fluids. As Sandra went to the door Lucia smiled
anxiously and flashed her a tentative thumbs-up sign. Sandra frowned, held her
hand out flat and tilted it.

‘Nasty?’
Jasmin giggled. ‘Jeff?’

‘He
got really nasty,’ Zoltan repeated. ‘“Sorry, I should’ve asked before using
your loo.” And glib with it. I didn’t know you had it in you, constable.’

‘Aye,
well.’ Jeff wasn’t sure he was that keen on Jasmin finding out about his dark
side just yet. It was his loss that Zoltan had adjusted the rear view mirror
for a better sweep of the road behind, so rendering her admiring smile
invisible to him.

‘I’m
not complaining,’ the DI said. ‘Even in Special Crime, an occasional bit of
old-fashioned, heavy-handed bobbying has its uses. Gave Vicky Prosser the nudge
to think she’d put one over on us, anyway.’

‘Hopefully,’
Jeff sighed, looking at his watch. It was after one and they’d been in
Glazebrook Road for two hours without much happening. The flat looked empty,
curtains open, windows resolutely black.

‘I
think still that there is someone in the garden over there,’ Jasmin said.
Twenty minutes ago she’d reported seeing movement in the shadows behind some
railings. They’d watched, but none of them could be certain. Wishful thinking,
possibly.

‘Sure
we shouldn’t go and check, guv?’ Jeff said.

Zoltan
shook his head. ‘I want him in the building when we take him.’

‘Bang
to rights, huh?’ Jasmin said, gleeful at a chance finally to use the phrase.

‘We
hope.’

‘As
if we were sure he’ll turn up,’ Jeff said gloomily. ‘What if he knows Pegley’s
been nicked?’

‘They
haven’t seen one another for years, remember?’

‘Pegley
says.’ He tensed. ‘Eh up.’

A
car was pulling up outside the flats. The front passenger door opened and a
woman got out. They heard the word ‘cheers’ in an Irish accent.

‘Colleen
O’Dwyer,’ Zoltan said. ‘Funny sort of time to be out.’

‘She
has been working, I think,’ Jasmin said, as the car drove off again. ‘Those are
scrubs she is wearing.’ Suddenly she pointed. ‘I was right. Look.’

They
turned and saw a tall, thin figure emerge from behind the railings and hurry
across the road. O’Dwyer, oblivious, had gone indoors. The figure pushed open
the door and slipped through.

‘He’s
going to use her to get into the flat,’ Zoltan said. ‘Right, let’s go.’

They
got out of the car and followed O’Dwyer and her shadow into the building.
Jingling could be heard on the first floor landing, a key being turned in a
lock, then shuffling and a startled scream, quickly muffled. By then they were
racing upstairs. Jeff, with his long strides, got a foot in the doorway just
before it slammed shut. He braced it with his shoulder against efforts to close
it from the other side. Shrieks issued from inside the flat, and sounds of a
struggle. Zoltan and Jasmin added their weight to Jeff’s and the door burst
open. In the shaft of light from the landing they saw a man hopping away,
nursing his foot with one hand and trying to stop O’Dwyer escaping with the
other. Jasmin shut the door and switched on the hall light.

‘Let
her go, Michael,’ Zoltan said. ‘She’s an impoverished temp. Probably doesn’t
have anything of value you could use.’

At
this moment O’Dwyer did two things. The first was to scream so loudly Jeff felt
his eardrums cringing. The other was to kick the tall man very hard in the
shin. He yelled and loosened his grip. Jeff moved in and restrained him.

‘Who
the fuck are you?’ Colleen O’Dwyer had fled and was cowering behind the first
heavy object she had come across, which was the living room door. Her eyes
danced like a chased hare’s from one intruder to the next. ‘Who’s this prick?’

‘Good
question.’ Zoltan stepped round, looked the tall, gaunt, sneering young man in
the face and was sure. He said, ‘Michael Robert Prosser? You’re under arrest.’

Anne White was not
surprised to be woken by the sound of Zoltan’s key in the door. He was the only
man who’d ever been allowed a key to her life, the only one she’d encouraged to
consider her flat an open house. She levered up a gummy eyelid and peered at
the luminous red digits of the radio alarm. Ten to three. It could only mean
they’d booked their prisoner in and were sitting on him until the morning. The
buzz of excitement was quickly dulled. Bayliss was no longer her concern. Be
that as it may, she couldn’t just switch off her interest, especially now.
Zoltan was her link to the team. Pretending to be asleep as he tiptoed into the
bedroom, she started planning a conversation in her head.

‘You
with flights of angels?’ he murmured.

She
grunted sleepily.

‘Excuse
the hour.’

‘Was
expecting you.’ It was broadly true. Zoltan, in the morning, would have to go
and talk to a serial rapist. Recently he’d confided that it was getting
steadily easier to come here rather than crash at home. His own flat was
starting to look unlived in. Not conducive to preparing his mind for such an
interview.

He
finished undressing and climbed into bed, his body cool from the London night.
‘Sorry,’
 
he said, feeling her
tense.

She
tutted and drew him close. ‘I’m awake now,’ she said. ‘Mind if we talk?’

‘Of
course.’

The
ambiguity threw her. She said, ‘Um...’

‘Been
meaning to ask anyway,’ he said. ‘Is your offer still on?’

She
felt like laughing. He’d stolen her thunder again. ‘About moving in?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure,’
she squealed, and kissed him in delight. ‘Worked out what to do with all your
stuff, then?’

‘I
thought about it,’ he said, ‘and then I realised most of it’s here already. By
a process of gradual migration.’

‘Cluttering
up the place,’ she grumbled.

‘I
could do a car boot sale or something.’

‘I
was joking.’

‘Not
entirely, I suspect.’

‘Zoltan?’
she said. It was the moment of truth.

‘Mmm?’

‘Before
you jump in feet first.’

‘I
can swim.’

‘No,
listen. Hear me out before you decide anything.’

‘Let’s
have it.’ He ran his fingers through her hair.

‘I’ve
got a confession to make.’ She felt it coming out in a rush. ‘I had sex with
Roy Gillam.’

‘Was
rather afraid you might have.’

Anne
struggled to overcome the double take, and groaned. ‘I thought I’d kept it
really well hidden.’

‘I
know. That’s why I’m a DI and you’re a DC.’

‘Acting
sergeant, thank you.’

‘But
no longer a detective.’

She
let it drop. Something was missing from this conversation. ‘You’re not angry?’

‘No.’

She
waited, but it was all he was going to say. She wanted him to rail at her, but
then she realised what his game was. He’d keep those feelings to himself, so
that she would never know if her sleeping with other men hurt him or not.
Especially now they were living together, she would always have to think twice.

She
stared at him in the dark.

‘You
astonishing bastard,’ she said affectionately.

Tuesday

Lucky’s journey to
work felt like a procession to the gallows. If she was honest with herself,
this whole enquiry had been suffused with a dull sense of impending doom. She’d
kept it in her head that as long as she could forget, things would be OK. She’d
survived crises before. She’d got over Dad’s leaving, she’d got over Julia’s
moving out and she would get over the shock of finding Nina. She would -

But
it was the little things, the nagging imps that tormented her, kept knocking her
down just as she was struggling upright. How had she even
dreamed
she could be impartial? She’d
been all right in herself, but what about all the idle remarks of her
colleagues when they discussed the case, the mindless snap diagnoses of a dozen
armchair shrinks? What did they know? Several times she’d been unable to stop
herself carping back at them, a coded cry, ‘Look, this is what it’s
really
like.’ And no-one had twigged.
Not even Juliet, and she’d been bladdered then, for crying out loud.

She’d
half-known who they were looking for after they’d spoken to Mrs Beckett, and
even before then the victims’ consistent descriptions ought to have given her a
hint. But the MO… it was nothing
like
. It couldn’t be him. She told herself it would be too
much like a sick joke. Even the name was wrong.

But
it
was
a
sick joke. That had been obvious from the moment she’d seen what was written on
the back of Jeff’s gas bill. They were on their way to pick Prosser up. When
they questioned him he’d tell them, and she would be finished.

No-one
said anything when she walked into the office. No-one stared, or asked her if
she was OK, and there was no summoning note from Sophia. Everything seemed the
same as yesterday, grim faces talking into phones or scowling at computers, persisting
despite all the odds with their hunt for Nina’s attackers. She felt
disorientated.

‘Lucky.’

She
whipped round as though someone had kicked her. Sophia stood behind her,
holding a large buff envelope, and Lucky knew without being told what was inside.

‘Ma’am?’

‘I’d
like you to fax this to Rye,’ Sophia said, handing her the envelope, ‘then ring
Miranda Beckett and warn her there’ll be someone calling round with a picture
for her to identify.’

‘Right,’
Lucky heard herself saying. She was shaking like a washing machine on spin and
the guv’nor surely must see it. ‘We’ve got a body, then?’

‘Zoltan
arrested Michael Bayliss last night. He’s just about to start interviewing him.
The reason we weren’t able to find him before is that he’s been using the name
Prosser.’

She
felt her knees go. She grabbed the edge of a desk for support. Then she turned
and dashed out of the office, dropping the envelope and trying not to imagine
the expression that must be etched on Sophia’s face.

Sergeant Bob Price
was nearing completion of the tedious forms that were required for DCs Winter
and Wetherby to remove Michael Prosser from his cell when the sound of running
footsteps distracted all three of them. It is the last sound a policeman who
cherishes peace of mind wishes to hear in a cell block because his immediate
fear is that it means either a breakout or a death in custody. When he looked
up the first thing he saw was Jasmin Winter being barged aside by someone with
long black hair, a grey top and blue jeans. Bob didn’t remember anyone of that
description being booked in and besides, they were running
towards
the cells. Muttering, ‘What
the fuck...?’ he got up and hurried after the figure. ‘Oi!’ Jeff and Jasmin
turned to watch.

Breathing
laboured, Lucky shambled down the cell corridor checking names. Prosser was in
number three, on the right at the far end. She skidded to a halt and slammed
the Judas hole open. She let slip a strange little noise. Bob stepped aside in
alarm as she fled past him.

Jeff
and Jasmin glimpsed the ghastly look on her face and both had the same thought.
They broke into a run and joined Bob as he reached the door, braced himself and
peered through the hatch.

Michael
Prosser hadn’t hung himself, suffocated on vomit or run head first against the
wall. He was sitting laughing at them. Bob opened the door.

‘That
stupid little bitch,’ Prosser said, ‘thinks I raped her.’

It wasn’t hard to
tell where Lucky had gone. Jasmin just had to follow the pointing arms. A
middle aged civilian clerk was the only visible occupant of the locker room
when she walked in.

‘Have
you seen - ?’ The clerk pointed to a closed cubicle. Jasmin said, ‘Is it OK for
you to leave, please?’

‘Sure,’
the clerk said, wiping damp hands on her skirt. ‘I was just finishing up
anyway.’

‘Thanks.’

The
clerk nodded and went. Jasmin looked around for some way of keeping people out,
but there didn’t seem to be anything. She’d just have to hope. She cleared her
throat, stepped up to the cubicle and knocked on the door.

‘Lucky,
are you in there? It’s Jasmin.’ There was no reply, but Jasmin could hear her
breathing. She tried again. ‘Lucky?’ Suddenly the sobriquet didn’t seem
appropriate. She called gently, ‘Larissa, come on. I want to talk to you.’

There
was movement, and the bolt was drawn. Cautiously she pushed the door open.
Lucky sat on the toilet seat, hugging herself. Jasmin could smell the fear
coming off her, like a wind.

‘Hi,’
she said. Lucky stared at her knees. Jasmin sat cross-legged on the floor in
front of her and tilted her head, coaxing her into making eye contact. The hand
that finally allowed itself to be taken in hers was cold and trembling. She
whispered, ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s
him,’ Lucky said with a sob. ‘Oh, God, it’s him.’

The rules state
that the supervising officer in an investigation of rape must be of the rank of
inspector or above. Even in the 21
^st
century that generally means a
man: one who, while he will have been on all the requisite courses and be
sincerely sympathetic, will find it difficult even to come close to appreciating
what this most humiliating and personal of crimes means to the victim. For that
reason he will find a female officer to talk to her, at least to begin with; an
experienced policewoman, not always a detective, but specially trained in the
craft of separating facts from the pain, distress and confusion that accompany
them in the victim’s memory. She will not always succeed, but at the very least
she is often the only person who can convince the woman that, in spite of all
the cruel questions they must ask, the police are on her side.

It
was this principle that was under hot debate in the office of Chief
Superintendent Coleridge, the borough commander. Coleridge, on hearing the
news, had immediately called in his boss, Assistant Commissioner Parmiter, and
it was them, as well as DCI Summerfield, against whom Sophia Beadle was
defending her corner.

‘Sir,
you agreed to let me continue the Benton enquiry even after one of my officers
was injured,’ she said to Parmiter. ‘Why am I considered competent to handle
that and not this?’

‘DC
Tyminski was attacked in the line of duty,’ Coleridge butted in. ‘She was
following up a lead.’

‘Nina
wasn’t on duty.’

‘You
know what I mean.’

‘The
point is,’ Drew Parmiter raised his voice just enough, ‘Tyminski was attacked
in her capacity as a copper. PC Stephenson was raped in her capacity as a
woman.’

‘That’s
the general idea,’ Sophia snapped, and wished she hadn’t. ‘Look, sir, no-one’s
even interviewed Lucky - PC Stephenson - yet. We don’t know what happened, or
why.’

‘That’s
it exactly,’ Summerfield said. ‘All we know is Prosser sat in his cell and told
Bob Price he’d raped Stevens.’

‘He
said nothing of the kind.’

‘He
implied it.’

‘What
he said was, “She
thinks
I raped her.” You know as well as I do that consent is the only viable
defence against a rape charge.’

‘You’re
too close,’ Summerfield said.

‘Oh,
put your handbags away.’ AC Parmiter sat back and unwrapped a stick of gum. In
spite of his elevated rank, he still liked to portray himself as laid back, one
of the troops. His manner was irritating Sophia; he was acting as if the
carpeting he’d given her only four days ago over the DNA result had never taken
place. He pushed the gum langorously into his mouth as if it were a square of
expensive dark chocolate and looked at them. ‘I’m not calling Sophia’s ability
to conduct an impartial enquiry into question. Point is, through no fault of
their own, two of her officers have come a cropper one after the other. Not a
good hit rate.’

‘So
this is down to image, is it, sir?’ Coleridge, to both Sophia’s and
Summerfield’s surprise, sounded genuinely outraged by the notion. ‘Never mind a
young woman’s human dignity.’

‘Sometimes
image is important, Simon,’ Parmiter said. ‘Within a very few hours I’m going
to be fielding cries from inside and outside the service for Special Crime to
be disbanded. We all know the circumstances are bad luck, but a lot of people
won’t see it that way.’

‘I
see,’ Coleridge said. ‘Delicate little ladies who shouldn’t be exposed to the
dangers of high risk policing?’

‘There
is that to it,’ Parmiter replied, unperturbed. ‘Of greater concern to me are
the implications of Special Crime’s existence for Larissa’s welfare. Or the
welfare of any female officer under my command who’s unlucky enough to be on
the receiving end of something like this.’ He surveyed their uncomprehending
faces and smiled. ‘Matthew,’ he said to Summerfield, ‘how many women have you
got in CID at the moment?’

‘None,’
Summerfield said. You don’t have to sound so happy about it, Sophia thought
angrily.

Parmiter
pointed at him triumphantly. ‘And Joe Gottlieb up at Gipsy Hill has only got
one,’ he said. ‘These two BOCUs have got fewer women in regular CID than
anywhere else in the Met. Why?’

‘They’re
all in bloody Special Crime,’ Summerfield said nastily.

‘I
recruited eight women because eight women were the best people for the job,’
Sophia argued. It occurred to her to hope Coleridge or the AC didn’t think she
was including herself in that number. It further occurred to her that it might
be a subliminal way of reminding them the team still wasn’t back up to
strength. One of her original DCs, Sarah Craig, had lasted barely a month
before resigning to move to America with her physicist husband, who’d been
offered the job of a lifetime at MIT, and she had never been replaced. They
needed another body, and they needed a DC, not – Sophia felt a little
stab of guilt for thinking this – another trainee.

‘Still
looks a hell of a lot like affirmative action,’ Summerfield commented.

‘Bottom
line,’ Parmiter said, raising his hand for peace, ‘when Special Crime was set
up nobody imagined this was going to happen. The specific problem now is we
have eight women in Special Crime - counting yourself – ’

Damn
it, Sophia thought.

‘ -
all trained in handling rape victims, but who all have a conflict of interest.
Which leaves us with Marian Southworth from Gipsy Hill...’

‘...who
Lucky knows from her last posting,’ Sophia finished for him resignedly.

‘What’s
wrong with bringing a WPC… someone in from another BOCU?’ Summerfield wanted to
know.

‘Here’s
what we’ll do.’ Parmiter puffed happily on his cigar. ‘Matthew, d’you think you
can take charge of this?’

Summerfield
glanced at Sophia before answering. ‘It’s no secret I don’t particularly
approve of women police, sir,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got two daughters and my
younger one’s about the same age as WPC Stevens. I wouldn’t wish rape on any
woman.’

‘You’ll
do an impartial and thorough job, in other words?’

‘Yes,
sir.’

‘Be
sensitive about it?’

‘Of
course.’

‘Even
if I give you a DC from Special Crime to talk to Larissa?’

Summerfield’s
reply missed a beat. ‘No problem, sir.’

‘Three
things,’ Parmiter said to him, winking at Sophia. ‘One, the suspect’s already
had his collar felt, so you shouldn’t need long. Liaise with DI Schneider, who’s
got him in custody for other offences.’

‘Right,’
Summerfield grunted, not best pleased.

‘Second.’

‘Sir?’

‘We
dropped the W many years ago.’

‘I
know, sir. Force of habit.’

‘And
three,’ Parmiter said, ‘for Christ’s sake get the kid’s name right. It’s Stephen
son
.’

The rape suite was
tucked away in a quiet corner of the admin floor, which was populated largely
by clerical staff and so well away from the raucous banter of coppers. The
surroundings were a world removed from the spartan, regimented rooms and corridors
of the rest of the nick. This was tasteful and quiet, done up in pastel shades,
floral curtains, pictures on the wall, a three piece suite, a coffee table, a
lamp, books, plants; all done with a woman’s touch, and striving hard to look
like a comfortable domestic scene. It had always struck Jasmin Winter as rather
contrived: it was too clean and tidy and cosy, trying slightly too earnestly to
put you at your ease.