Bad idea, Harry. Those pills kept you normal, didn’t they? Stopped you from seeing things?
Trinny’s tone of voice was mocking, but she was right. The pills kept him cocooned in his own little world. Snug. The pills stopped the voices too. Like the doctor said they would. But the clever doctor smiled with too many teeth and had an arrogant manner along with a flash car and a pretty secretary who wore a skirt just short enough so when she bent over you could see the tops of her stockings. Harry liked the skirt even as he despised the man.
Who is the dirty one now, Harry?
It was always the same way with women. When they dressed like dolls with flesh poking out his eyes went wandering. Still, no harm done, he only took a little peek, a brief gaze at something forbidden.
There are things beyond looking, Harry. That is the problem.
Yes. A problem. One he blamed Mitchell for. Mitchell was out of control. Saturday nights. Drunk girls getting into trouble. Party time. Harry was disgusted with himself for playing Mitchell’s games, but then disgust was becoming a habit now.
No, Harry? Why is that?
Mitchell let him touch the girls. Harry didn’t want to at first. Later on he couldn’t stop.
And then?
And then Mitchell went and killed Carmel which meant Harry didn’t have any friends anymore. He hadn’t liked her dying, hadn’t liked it at all. Seeing the blood spoiling the girl’s pretty hair made him angry. Pretty things should not be spoilt. They should be kept. Forever.
Like me!
No. Not like Trinny at all. He wouldn’t keep Trinny forever. He needed to get shot of her and soon. Maybe even tonight. They would drive somewhere together and on the way he would tell her in the nicest possible manner. If he let her down gently perhaps she would forgive him. You had to be cruel to be kind, didn’t you? A sad way to end their time together, but Trinny wasn’t right. And anyway only yesterday he noticed she was no longer beautiful. Some of her skin had gone a bit saggy. That happened when you got older, but even so Harry didn’t think he could make allowances. Not now. Not when there were others waiting their turn.
Chapter 3
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Monday 25th October. 8.30 am
Davies had been right, and the shit hit the fan first thing Monday morning. Savage had just grabbed a cup of coffee and taken it to the Major Crimes suite when it all kicked off.
The double doors crashed open and Detective Superintendent Conrad Hardin entered the room as if leading a drugs raid. Although unarmed and lacking a battering ram, his entrance could not have been more dramatic. With the muscles and build of a heavyweight street-fighter he had the language and temper to match. His face burned bright red and he looked as if he would explode as he barrelled onwards, pushing past anybody foolish enough not to move out of his way.
‘Rosina Salgado Olivarez,’ his voice boomed out, the delivery of the words sounding official, like a vicar performing a wedding ceremony or a judge addressing a guilty prisoner. The noise level in the room dropped to zero and Hardin marched forward holding a large sheet of paper in his hands. Savage hoped he would save his anger for the briefing of senior officers, scheduled to take place later that morning. Her hope was misplaced.
‘What sort of fucking piss-taking amateur outfit are we running here?’ Hardin sneered and slammed the piece of paper against one of the whiteboards, holding it up for everyone to see.
‘A source emailed me the afternoon special the Herald are printing. An eight page pull-out with the headline 'Sex Crime City: Now It’s Murder As Well'.’
Hardin looked around the room, his eyes picking out each individual, one by one. Savage drew breath, bracing herself for the next onslaught.
‘This morning I have had the ACC onto me. He in turn has had the mayor, both city MPs, the university Vice Chancellor, some worm from the Foreign Office and, of course, the Chief Constable on the phone. To say he is not happy would be the bloody understatement of the year. Neither, you will not be surprised to learn, am I. Nor are the poor parents of Ms Olivarez or any of the other girls. We have a duty of care to the people who live in and visit this city, and in this case we have discharged that abysmally. How many of you have daughters at home?’ Hardin stared at Savage again. ‘Ask yourselves if you would be satisfied with our work. Go on askyourbloodyselves!’
Hardin turned and stomped out of the room.
‘Phew!’ Someone whistled. ‘Wouldn’t like to be here when he got out of bed on the wrong side.’
Savage didn’t spot who made the comment, but it brought smiles to a few people’s faces and a couple of the usual suspects began trading wisecracks. Savage could only think of her impending meeting, in her mind comparing it to a trip to a headmaster’s office to receive a beating. Still, Hardin had every right to be angry because Operation Leash had become a joke, and with one of the victims dead, farce now slipped into tragedy.
Earlier Savage had pondered the latest development on her drive to the station. Thirty minutes of typical Monday morning traffic had given her plenty of time to think. A drain had blocked on the eastern side of the Laira Bridge and the dual carriageway was reduced to one lane, vehicles crawling along and surging through the almost knee-high water. People sat in their cars looking miserable, and with the Olivarez girl dead Savage couldn’t help feeling down too.
Operation Leash had been created twelve months ago after the police had linked a series of rapes together. Since then the rapes had continued, the victims always sharing the same characteristics of being under twenty-five and students, often foreign, picked up from clubs and bars in the heart of the city. A car ride took them from the centre to a large house where two or more men gang raped them. After being assaulted for several hours the women would be dumped somewhere in the suburbs and told if they kept quiet no further harm would come to them. The parting threat from the attackers made the Leash team suspect a number of victims remained too scared to report the crime. The girls were duped into leaving the safety of the clubs because their drinks had been spiked with gamma-hydroxybutyrate, otherwise known as GHB. The drug had a plethora of street names including the incident room’s current favourite, Easy Lay. Savage considered the tag politically incorrect, but apt. In a last ditch attempt to reduce the number of attacks uniformed patrols had taken to giving out free drug detection kits and assault alarms. With thousands of students in the city the task was hopeless.
The inquiry occupied a huge proportion of Major Crimes’ time, more time than desirable or necessary, as Hardin had pointed out to the team last week. His latest brainwave was an undercover operation with as many bodies as could be mustered. They would sprinkle the clubs with officers posing as students, not as honey traps, but as discreet observers who might spot something as it happened. The Big Night Out, a name coined by some of the younger officers, was planned for Saturday and already the talk at the station was of what everyone would be wearing. Savage thought it was a waste of time since anyone over their mid-twenties would stick out and the chances of seeing anything in a crowded, noisy club were minuscule. Still, as Hardin had said, they were down to clutching at straws now. And if the Big Night Out did not produce a result then the next Monday morning he would be in a worse mood than ever and looking for a scalp or two to serve up to the ACC. Savage didn’t think she would blame him for wanting to do that either.
With Hardin gone the noise in the room rose to full volume again with phones ringing, keyboards clattering and people bustling this way and that. At one of the whiteboards DC Enders scribbled some notes next to a new picture taped slap bang in the centre. Pride of place now rather than just one of the other nine victims. He looked up as Savage approached, his young face beaming out from beneath a dishevelled mop of brown hair. Enders always appeared to Savage more like a member of a boy band than a hard-working detective, but she couldn’t fault his passion and enthusiasm for the job.
‘Remind me of the unlucky girl’s details again, Patrick,’ Savage said.
‘Rosina Salgado Olivarez, twenty-one, Spanish national, student, lived in a shared flat in Mutley. Raped eight months ago on 15th February, a Saturday night. Someone dropped her outside the entrance to Saltram Park first light Sunday morning. Unbelievably, considering the state she was in, she managed to walk all the way from there back to her flat. When she got in she collapsed and slept for the whole day. Told her housemate about the assault in the evening and the flatmate phoned it in.’
