Victim Support

By Piper Terrett

When twin boys go missing, DI Sam Cree and her colleagues on the Norsey Force are already overstretched. Then, a student and an elderly woman are gunned down and evidence suggests a sniper is at work.

In the background of each murder is an unsolved crime. Is revenge the motive or something deeper?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piper Terrett
• Release date: Sep 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452373492

Piper Terrett

Piper Terrett is a financial journalist, blogger and author and lives with her partner DJ and pet chickens in Essex, England. She writes the popular Frugal Life blog for MSN.co.uk which charts her adventures as she lives on a smaller budget, grows her own vegetables and undergoes moneysaving challenges. A former FT Group journalist and contributor to the Investors Chronicle Magazine, she is author of The Frugal Life: How to spend less and live more (2009) and Bedroom DJ: A Beginner’s Guide (2003). In October 2009 she was crowned Green Voice of the UK by the Energy Saving Trust. In the voluntary role she investigates and represents the man on the street’s views on green issues.In her spare time she writes crime fiction. Victim Support, an Inspector Sam Cree mystery set in Essex, is her first novel.

Book preview

Victim Support

An Inspector Samantha Cree novel

by

Piper Terrett

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Piper Terrett on Smashwords

Victim Support

Copyright © 2010 by Piper Terrett

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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There are a few people I’d like to thank: Lesley Grant-Adamson for all her encouragement, support, advice and editing over the years, Peter for his expert insight, Doug Newlyn and Sylvia Kent for their support, John Kontos for creating an amazing cover, Douglas for all his love and moral support and my parents – especially Dad for telling me never to give up. Who dares wins!

Chapter One

The barrel of the rifle was wet with sweat and his hands shook so obviously that he was ashamed. The others had offered to assist him – to take his place. Perhaps he should have agreed. He was sick, they said, and there were others who were stronger and more suited to the task. But how could he? He would never forgive himself if someone else carried out this assignment. It was his burden and his alone, not anyone else’s. He owed the past that much.

Against his arm, the window pane in the disused chemistry lab felt like cold steel despite the warmth of the autumn afternoon. A breeze played lightly through his thinning hair as he fidgeted, trying to find a more comfortable position. In the distance, through the rifle scope, a group of students were enjoying a game of rugby on the playing fields, unaware of his presence. As he stood there with the rifle stock tucked tightly into his shoulder, he thought about them and the other students at the university wandering to their lectures. Soon, if his courage held, their lives would be shattered - just as his had been all those years ago.

Take your time, there’s no hurry, said his companion, who sat back on one of the benches lighting a cigarette. "Remember – I’m here. But when you have the target clearly in your sights, then you know what to do. And be decisive."

He nodded in reply. Remember your training, he told himself, trying not to inhale the sickly sweet smoke from his friend’s cigarette. Holding his breath, he gazed through the scope and wondered how much longer they would have to wait until the target showed himself. It could be hours or, worse, if he didn’t show at all they might have to come back another day. Could his nerves stand it? He sighed and leaned in closer to the rifle stock. The cramp in his leg that had troubled him earlier that afternoon was beginning to return. With his free hand he tried to massage the muscle.

The target appeared from behind the music block. The man – although he looked barely more than a boy – was walking slowly, weighed down with a heavy bag. If their intelligence was right, he had an English literature supervision soon. Through the rifle scope he could see the man’s lips were pursed together as though he were whistling.

It’s him – the target, he whispered hoarsely, his breathing shallow. What do I do now? His mind was a blank, as though the weeks of sniper training at the secret range had happened to somebody else. "What do I do?!"

His companion remained calm. Nothing ever seemed to shake him – least of all the prospect of annihilating another human being. Easy, now, remember your training – and don’t lose your nerve, he said in a reassuring voice. Breathe deeply.

He took a breath, exhaled slowly and forced himself to look again through the scope. The target had changed direction and was now wandering through a landscaped part of the grounds, slightly off the main path, which was dotted with bushes and shrubs. He must be early for his tutorial and killing time by taking a circuitous route. The man looked just like his photograph. Dark hair, swarthy skin and a small skullcap on the back of his head glinted in the early evening sun. He bounded along without a care in the world, not realising that metres away stood his would-be executioner.

There was no one else around. No one to witness the killing or to be hurt accidentally if his bullet should veer from the target. Must the man die, he wondered for the thousandth time. But he knew it had to be done. If the conditions were right, all it would take was one squeeze of the trigger. The man had stopped for a moment. Now was his chance. A motionless target was a better bet than a moving target. He wiped the palm of his hand on his dirty jacket and tried to compose himself. Had the breeze dropped? He checked the makeshift flag they’d tied to a tree to measure the wind speed. Then he squeezed the trigger, giving up a silent prayer.

His aim was perfect. The man fell as though in slow motion, disappearing behind the row of shrubs. It was like watching a silent movie. The rifle blast had rung like a klaxon in his ears but nothing around them on the campus stirred. And there was no detectable movement from behind the shrubs. In the distant playing fields the rugby players were celebrating a drop goal. Was that all there was to killing a man? It seemed no different from a playing a computer game. He felt numb.

Well done, said his companion, placing his hand on his shoulder. It’s not an easy thing to do – to take a man’s life. Especially the first time.

The enormity of what he had done began to sink in. In his mind’s eye he could still see the student falling behind the bushes. Today he had killed a man. Vomit burned the back of his throat and he began to gag.

Quickly, in the paper bag, said his partner, urgently. We mustn’t leave any trace for those who come after us. And they will come. Have no doubt about that.

As he wiped his mouth, he watched as his companion took his carefully saved cigarette butts and placed them in a paper bag. Then, he took others from a sealed freezer bag and scattered them around the lab. After that, he took the rifle and put it in a large golf bag. He worked methodically, like a technician dismantling scenery. They stripped off their overalls and thrust them into their rucksacks, revealing casual golfing clothes. Next, they made their escape from the disused building and out into the sunshine. If anyone challenged them, they had come to use the university pitch and putt range but had got lost, his companion reminded him. In the golf bag, the rifle felt like a lead weight as he dragged it along behind him. There would be no turning back. He had crossed the threshold into the darkness, and was surprised to find little relief in the shadows.

Where was that damned fool Oliver Reingold? thought Professor Welch, crossly. It was getting on for ten past six and there was no sign of him. The other students were growing restless and shifting in their seats, their minds on anything but the imagery of Piers Plowman, one of the Medieval term’s set texts and hardly the most popular. Reingold was meant to be presenting a paper on it.

Welch’s students often had trouble managing a nine am tutorial but even his laziest ones usually showed up at six on the dot. And considering what a tedious plodder Reingold was, frankly it was surprising he still hadn’t showed. Does anyone know where Oliver has got to? Welch asked in a bored voice, leafing through some papers on his desk. Perhaps it’s slipped his mind he’s presenting this week.

Dunno, Professor, piped up Sammy, a well-heeled student despite his attempts to resemble Kurt Cobain. "Maybe he fell asleep like the dreamer in Piers Plowman."

"Or fell asleep over Piers Plowman," murmured a girl known as Jude, who was sucking a strand of her purple hair. The students sniggered.

Hilarious, said Welch. Could somebody call Oliver’s mobile and rouse him from his slumbers, then? More sniggers followed. Did these kids do anything but giggle to themselves all the time, he thought. They certainly hadn’t produced any decent work yet.

Smirking, Jude took a minute handset from an oversized purple handbag, which matched her hair and was swathed in a mess of beaded charms. She pressed a few buttons. It’s ringing but there’s no answer, she said.

Welch got up from his chair and perched on the edge of his desk. Right, in that case we shall have to do without Mr Reingold’s scintillating insights this evening, he drawled. Let us get on. Time is against us. Well, damn you, Reingold, he thought. But he knew he would enjoy having it out with his tutor later.

Chapter Two

All day Sam Cree had longed for the moment she could go home and forget about being a police officer. Meeting and greeting members of that exclusive club known as the local sex offenders register was not how she’d hoped to spend her day. And now all she wanted to do was go home and have a long hot shower to wash those people out of her head.

Not that there was anybody to go home to since she’d split with Rob and undergone a custody battle over the cook book collection and cat. Luckily, while she’d lost out in the Jamie Oliver stakes, she’d easily secured full custody of Fingers. The day they’d split, the little black and white tom sunk his teeth into Rob’s ankle, rapidly weakening his affections for the feline.

You little bastard, Rob had howled, nursing the throbbing limb. I won’t miss you one bit. It served Rob right. At least one male was rooting for her - even if he had fleas and spent his spare time licking his backside.

But though there was only Fingers for company now in her lonely flat, for once there was something decent on the telly tonight - a good old-fashioned spy thriller. Sam relished a good spy story. She’d tried to write one once when she was a student but gave up. The mistake was asking her supervisor at Cambridge to read it when it wasn’t ready. Ghastly was how Isabel had described it, her thin lips curled with distaste. But then Isabel thought that of anything that wasn’t penned by Henry James.

Yes, lighting a few candles and slobbing out on the sofa seemed tempting. Perhaps it might blot out the horror of her first few days on the Norsey force after transferring from Cambridge. Sam toyed with the vision, hoping it would stave off the air of gloom only just being relieved by her workload. In reality she knew it was unlikely anyone would be allowed home tonight. The day began with what sounded like cries of a wounded animal echoing through the corridors. The primal screams emanating from the station reception turned Sam’s stomach to water. But it wasn’t some wild creature making the noise but Wendy Fisher. Get my little boys back! I want my boys! she screeched, lighting cigarette after cigarette with shaking hands. Nobody had the heart to tell her she couldn’t smoke inside the police station. The heart of every parent there reached out to her.

Her twin boys had disappeared that morning from the Arkfield estate. Jason and Robin were only four and should never have been playing alone in the local playground, but the parents on that estate never seemed to learn. Not even when a known paedophile, Mickey Docherty, lived nearby. But if they were thinking along these lines, none of Norsey’s police officers let on. How could they? Wendy Fisher was a wretched sight. With black roots showing through white bleached hair and her eyes raw with tears, she resembled an exhausted basset hound. You will find them, won’t you? she pleaded with the officers. Promise me?

A quiet, thin man had accompanied her to the station and tried to calm her. Sam couldn’t work out whether he was the boys’ father or another in a line of boyfriends, typical of women from that estate, she thought, wracked with guilt for her class prejudices.

Sam’s new boss, a tanned Chief Inspector Bill Irons, had recently returned from a week in Marbella and was still in holiday mode despite the grim case on their hands. His oversized Hawaiian shirt, stretched taut over a swollen belly, induced nervous titters in the meeting room. Nothing else clean, he shrugged. Now let’s get down to business. He handed out tasks with the confidence of the long time copper. Kirkby, you organise a search of the area around the playground. Cree, I want you and Sergeant Rowen to go through the sex offenders’ register and rule out our friendly local paedophiles.

Yes guv’, said Kirkby.

Now, remember – as soon as they get a whiff of this, the media will be on our backs, Irons warned. So we have to do this by the book. Be meticulous.

Yes, sir.

They rushed out of the meeting room, each spurred on by the image of Wendy Fisher’s tortured face. Out in the corridor Sam felt hot breath on her neck and shivered. She turned around to find Inspector Roland Kirkby grinning at her. He was so close she could see the tiny spikes of stubble bursting from his weak chin. Better watch yourself with those paedophiles, love, he leered. You look like a little boy yourself with that short hairdo. He swaggered off down the corridor in his cheap blue suit, hooting to himself with laughter.

Bernard Manning lives, thought Sam.

You know, you ought to report him for that, ma’am, snapped a woman’s voice beside her. Sergeant Rowen’s face was white with anger.

Perhaps you’re right, Rowen, said Sam, sighing. But we’ve got enough on our plate without wasting time on idiots like him.

Please, call me Sylvia, said Rowen.

OK, Sylvia, let’s get down to work, said Sam, grateful for her help.

Right you are, said Sylvia, nodding.

Heading back to her desk, Sam grabbed a computer printout of the local sex offenders register. You know this patch better than I do, Sylvia, she said, waving it under Rowen’s nose. So, tell me, who out of all these names would you be calling on first?

Sergeant Rowen scanned the names. Mmm, what a collection of beauties, ma’am, she said. If you ask me, this incident has Mickey Docherty written all over it. He likes to hang around playgrounds and tries to drag kids into his car. Little boys are his usual preference and he was only released from jail a few months back.

In that case, let’s pay him a call, shall we? said Sam, pulling her car keys from her handbag. Where does he live?

With his sister, said Rowen. It’s not far from here.

Rowen drove them to a lonely tower block on the outskirts of the Arkfield estate. Well, he would certainly have had the opportunity, said Sam when they pulled up outside. The playground Jason and Robin went missing from isn’t far from here.

Sylvia nodded. That’s exactly what I was thinking, ma’am. The lift wasn’t working so they panted their way up the stairs to the fourth floor.

Mickey Docherty was at home watching TV.

Nice to see you again, Mickey, said Rowen. This is Inspector Cree.

Sam nodded at him.

What do you want? said Docherty as he flattened himself against the narrow hallway to let them in. He wore grotty tracksuit bottoms but no shirt and as she passed by him, Sam caught a whiff of stale body odour. An enormous widescreen television was blaring in the lounge.

"I didn’t think Deal or No Deal would be your cup of tea, Mickey," said Rowen as she took a seat on the sofa with Sam.

Docherty shrugged, reaching for a cigarette. Nothing else on and I can’t get a job, can I? he complained. Not with my record. What do you expect?

My heart bleeds for you, Mickey, it really does, said Rowen, getting out her notebook. What Inspector Cree and I want to know is, have you been up to your old tricks again?

What do you mean? he sniffed.

Have you been hanging around Arkfield playground again looking for little boys? Sylvia demanded.

Docherty pulled a face. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I ain’t supposed to go near the place. Anyway. I’ve put all that behind me now. Ask my psychologist.

Sam shot Rowen a sceptical glance. Where were you today between 8 and 10 this morning, Mr Docherty? she asked.

Where do you think? Having a kip. What else have I got to do?

Sylvia scribbled in her notebook. Can anybody verify that, Mickey?

He coughed on his cigarette. My sister. She was here then. She don’t go to work until 11? Why, what’s all the fuss?

Two children went missing from the playground this morning, Mr Docherty, said Sam. Do you know anything about it?

Of course I bleedin’ don’t, he said. I just told you, I put all that behind me. I’m a changed man.

Rowen got up from her seat and began poking around the flat. I’ll just have a quick look round, Mickey, if it’s all the same with you.

Docherty became agitated, turning his head to see what she was doing. Don’t you need a warrant for that? Fine, knock yourself out, Sergeant. Where the hell would I hide two kids in this dump anyway?

Mickey had a point, thought Sam, looking around. The flat was tiny. But they couldn’t take any chances. Rowen reappeared from the front bedroom and shook her head at Sam. We’ll be seeing you again soon, Mickey, she warned as they made their way back to the front door.

I bloody well hope not, he snapped. Next time ring ahead, I’m a very busy man, he said, slamming the door behind them.

Well, it looks like we can cross Docherty off the suspect list, then,