Senseless, page 9
‘Nothing from the scene itself,’ DC Jesson answered. ‘Checked all the car parks in the area as well, but nothing that stands out. No suspicious single males. Women alone. Women with dogs. Women with kids. Couples, but nothing that looks interesting.’
‘If he’s as careful as we think he is, he wouldn’t have parked in an area obviously covered by CCTV,’ Jameson explained. ‘He came on foot or maybe bike. If he used a car, then my guess would be he parked a distance away and walked the rest. Check further afield,’ he told Jesson, who just nodded in agreement. ‘And get TFL to check relevant train stations and bus routes. Get them to do the donkey work for you. They know their systems better than we do. Witnesses,’ he changed tack without warning. ‘Any witnesses yet?’
‘No,’ Zukov piped up from his position, half-sitting on the desk directly in front of him. ‘We’ve had people covering the park – stopping walkers, joggers, everyone we can find, but no one’s coming up with anything useful yet. Haven’t even found anyone who can remember seeing the victim, let alone anything like a suspect. We’ll keep trying.’
‘Do that,’ Jameson told him. ‘Someone must have seen something.’
‘Maybe it’s time for a public appeal?’ Jones suggested.
‘Sure,’ he agreed without enthusiasm. ‘Might not be easy getting TV space with this pandemic thing making all the headlines, but we’ll try. Run it past the Press Office, Sally.’
‘This Covid thing will blow over soon enough,’ Zukov insisted. ‘It’s just the TV ramping it up. They love the doom and gloom.’
‘Maybe.’ Jameson wasn’t so sure. ‘We need to keep an eye on it though. I don’t know how it’s going to affect the investigation yet. What we do know is that plenty of people would have used the car parks in Langley Park close to the time when Lucy Harris was killed, even if the killer didn’t. Let’s use the CCTV from the car parks to get the registration numbers and find the owners. Everyone is a potential witness. Paulo,’ he said to get Zukov’s waning attention. ‘You’re in charge of tracing witnesses, so best you take this on board too.’
‘That’s a lot of work, boss,’ Zukov complained.
‘I’m not asking you to do it on your own,’ he told him. ‘Take who you need. Right now, it’s probably our best chance of an early breakthrough.’
‘Okay.’ Zukov shrugged.
‘And remember,’ he said, ‘these types of offenders are known to return to the scene of the crime to relive the experience, so let’s keep an eye out for anyone acting strangely while you’re canvassing for witnesses in the park or checking CCTV.’
‘No problem,’ Zukov agreed, sounding like it was anything but no problem.
‘Has anyone been checking the local Sex Offenders Register for the area?’ he asked.
‘Yes, boss,’ a detective with short blonde hair, in her early thirties, answered confidently.
‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘DC O’Neil,’ she replied. ‘Maggie O’Neil.’
‘What you got, Maggie?’
‘It’s a large borough,’ she explained. ‘There’s a lot of people on it. It would take me forever to go through the whole thing, so I’ve added a few details from our case that should narrow it down to people of real possibility. The search is running on my computer as we speak, but it might take a little while to complete. Hopefully I should have some names for you soon.’
‘Good work,’ he nodded appreciatively. ‘As soon as you get something decent, I want to know.’
‘Yes, boss,’ she assured him.
‘Ashley Goodwin?’ he asked the room.
‘Here, boss,’ a good-looking black guy in his late twenties identified himself.
‘You done the national search for similar crimes yet?’ Jameson demanded.
‘Yes, boss,’ Goodwin answered. ‘Didn’t take long, because no one else is investigating anything like this. We’re on our own.’
‘As usual,’ Jones added, drawing the usual moans and groans from the other detectives.
‘So it’s down to us,’ Jameson said, raising his voice above the protest. ‘And personally, I wouldn’t want it any other way. So, let’s get on with it. Report anything of note immediately to me, DS Jones or DS Zukov. Let’s find this bastard.’ He headed back to his office, letting the team break up organically – the noise level rising instantly as the team discussed what they’d heard between themselves. No sooner had he reached his office and sat down, when Jones entered. ‘You need something?’ he asked.
‘Just wanted to say I thought that was a good briefing,’ she told him.
‘You didn’t think I know how to brief a team?’ he asked.
‘Just letting you know I thought it was a good job,’ she replied, apologetically.
‘I lost count of how many briefings I gave on Anti-Terror,’ he explained. ‘Some of them were major too. Over two hundred cops and assorted others once. Almost shit myself.’ He suddenly grabbed his phone with a sense of urgency and checked for messages from Jenny. He frowned with concern when there were none. Jones noticed it.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked.
‘My daughter,’ he told her. ‘She’s home alone now the schools are shut.’
‘Call her,’ Jones encouraged him.
‘Not that easy,’ he replied. ‘She’ll get pissed off if she thinks I’m checking up on her.’
‘Do it anyway.’ Jones shrugged before moving on. ‘In fact, there’s someone else you might want to call.’
‘Someone else?’ he asked with suspicion.
‘In some of our other investigations,’ she answered, ‘we’ve used a psychiatrist and criminologist. She was able to provide some insights that were useful.’
‘I don’t need a shrink to tell me I’m looking for a madman,’ he said, dismissing it.
‘She was useful at suggesting the killer’s motivation,’ Jones argued.
‘Working out his motivation is my job,’ he insisted.
‘These people aren’t like terrorists,’ she argued. ‘Their motivation can be difficult to understand.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he assured her, looking back down at his phone’s screen. ‘I’ll work it out.’
Geoff Jackson walked through Hyde Park with his long-time police contact, DCI Ryan Ramsay. They talked as they walked so as not to break the new Covid-19 rules and attract unwanted attention. Ramsay’s career could be over if anyone spotted him talking to Jackson and he knew it.
‘Why couldn’t we have sorted this out over the phone?’ Ramsay complained. ‘There’s too many people around and it’s too hot. Feels more like August than April.’
‘Be glad of it,’ Jackson told him. ‘I hear Covid doesn’t do so well in hot weather, apparently.’
‘Covid,’ Ramsay grunted. ‘I’m sick of it already. You having to work from home?’
‘No,’ Jackson answered with a smile. ‘Essential services, thank God. I can’t imagine being stuck indoors with Denise twenty-four-seven. Especially now they’ve shut all the theatres. Poor cow. She’d just got herself a decent gig on a show,’ he said as he pulled a photograph from inside of his linen jacket and slipped it to Ramsay. ‘Do you know him?’
Ramsay glanced at the picture. ‘Yeah. I know him,’ he replied. ‘He’s the new man at the SIU. Corrigan’s replacement.’
‘That much I worked out for myself,’ Jackson told him. ‘I need a name. Background.’
‘His name’s Ruben Jameson,’ Ramsay explained. ‘I was on the investigation into him a couple of years ago, only he was a DS then, not a DI.’
‘You were investigating him?’ Jackson asked – surprised. ‘What for?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Ramsay insisted. ‘It’s highly confidential. Not just background shit.’
‘Come on, Ryan,’ Jackson encouraged him. ‘You know I know how to protect my sources. What you got on him?’
‘If anyone finds out, that’s my job and pension gone,’ Ramsay argued.
‘I’ll make it worth your while.’ Jackson resorted to what had always worked on Ramsay in the past. ‘Double your usual.’
‘Jesus.’ Ramsay lamented his own weakness. ‘You remember the shooting of Saheed Sarwar, a couple of years ago?’
‘I remember it.’ Jackson nodded, intrigued.
‘The cop who shot and killed him was referred to as Officer X for the investigation and inquiry. Standard practice,’ Ramsay reminded him. ‘Well, Officer X is your man Jameson.’
‘Well, well.’ Jackson nodded again, although he’d already worked it out before Ramsay had finished.
‘He was cleared of anything criminal,’ Ramsay continued. ‘The shooting was lawful, but there were some technical issues around it that didn’t look good. Anyway, someone in high places pulled some strings and got him a move out to New Zealand. Auckland, from what I remember.’
‘Nice,’ Jackson interrupted.
‘It was thought best to keep him safe and out of sight,’ Ramsay continued.
‘And now he’s back,’ Jackson said to himself more than Ramsay. ‘After less than two years and as the DI in charge of the SIU no less.’
‘I heard he was involved in something heavy in New Zealand,’ Ramsay concluded. ‘But I couldn’t tell you what. D’you want me to try and find out?’
‘Sure.’ Jackson nodded. ‘But keep it subtle. I’m smelling a story here. I don’t want anyone tipping Jameson off that someone’s been asking about him – here or in New Zealand. I want to be able to sneak up on him. Besides – I have a contact there that should be able to help without making too many ripples. Keep me posted,’ he suddenly told him before veering sharply left and walking away at a pace.
‘Hey,’ Ramsay called after him as quietly as he could while still being heard. ‘What about my money?’
‘I’ll get you next time,’ Jackson called back over his shoulder. ‘Just get me the information.’
Ramsay stopped walking and watched him disappear into the crowd. ‘Shit,’ he said to himself. ‘How did I ever get involved with this prick?’
Chapter Eight
Jameson was alone in his office checking on the progress of the investigation when a tall, elegant-looking woman in her late thirties, with short brown hair, appeared at his door and made him look up. ‘Yes?’ he asked, sensing her excitement.
‘DC Fiona Cahill,’ she introduced herself with a husky, well-spoken voice, as she entered his office. ‘I was helping DS Zukov check the CCTV from Langley Park,’ she explained. ‘I decided it might be useful to run the names of any single men seen parking in the car parks with the names DC O’Neil was running from the Sexual Offenders Register – just in case.’
‘DS Zukov said there were no single males captured on CCTV,’ he reminded her.
‘There’s not many,’ she said, trying to excuse Zukov’s clumsiness, ‘but there are some. Although this is the only name that’s had a hit with the sex register.’
‘You telling me you’ve identified someone who was in the area when Lucy Harris was murdered?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ she answered bluntly.
‘When was he there?’ he hurriedly asked.
‘The day she was attacked,’ she told him. ‘In the morning. Several hours before.’
‘Checking the lay of the land,’ he said to himself.
‘Excuse me?’ Cahill asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said, dismissing it.
‘I’ve already pulled his file,’ she continued. ‘To see if the man in the CCTV footage was the same as the one on the register and not just someone using his car.’
‘And?’ he rushed her.
‘It’s him,’ she declared triumphantly.
‘And who is he?’ he demanded.
Cahill stepped closer and lay two images on his desk – side by side. One of the man in the CCTV footage and one from the Sexual Offenders Register. He could see for himself it was the same man. From the CCTV footage, he estimated the man to be about six foot tall and athletically built. From the other image he could see he was in his early forties. ‘Brian Cramer,’ Cahill announced. ‘Recently released from prison for serious sexual assault and attempted rape of a woman in her thirties while she was out walking.’
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Cramer has a long history of offending going back to his teenage years,’ she detailed. ‘Once he hit his early twenties, his sexual offending got a lot more serious and he ended up with numerous convictions.’
‘Makes you wonder how he ever got out,’ he moaned. ‘Where does this joker live?’
‘Sutton,’ she replied.
‘Sutton?’ he repeated, growing ever more interested. ‘Langley Park’s a long way to go just for a walk. Now why would he do that? Tell me everything you know about his last conviction.’
‘I don’t have much more than what I’ve already told you,’ Cahill explained. ‘Other than the attack took place in Nonsuch Park – not far from where he was living.’
‘Another park then,’ he said to himself. ‘Do you have any photos of the crime scene?’
‘No,’ she replied.
‘Any of the victim of the attack?’
‘No,’ she said again. ‘That sort of thing wouldn’t be in the Sexual Offenders Register. Why, do you want me to get the case file back from General Registry?’
‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘I need to see whether she was as attractive as Lucy Harris. I think their appearance would be important to the killer. If Cramer’s victim was similar to ours, then that would interest me. Same goes for the scene. Tell DS Zukov to pull the case file and have images of the scene and victim sent over as a matter of urgency. Then get your things together.’
‘Am I going somewhere?’ she asked, a little surprised.
‘Yes,’ he told her as he jumped out of his chair. ‘We’re going to pay a little visit to this Brian Cramer. See what he’s got to say for himself.’
Martin Thomas was loading groceries into the back of his car in the car park of a large supermarket in West London when he noticed a petite blonde woman growing ever nearer as she struggled with a small, but heavy-looking trolley laden with too much stuff. She stopped by the car next to his own and popped the boot with a press of the car fob before pushing the trolley up against the back of her car. He could see she was pretty and probably in her mid-thirties. Not as athletic as he liked, but undeniably attractive. She smiled at him, reminding him that he was looking at her, making him quickly return to loading his boot.
‘Jesus,’ she suddenly said to him. ‘Queuing just to get in a bloody supermarket. What a nightmare.’
‘I guess,’ he managed to force himself to reply as he battled against the panic that surged through his body. Normally he could comfortably engage what would pass for reasonable conversation, but that was after he’d had time to prepare – when he knew he would soon be expected to do so. But she had effectively ambushed him.
‘At least I got some toilet roll.’ She smiled. ‘They only had the recycled stuff left. It doesn’t look too good. You?’
‘No,’ he stuttered. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘What’s with that anyway?’ she continued to chat away as if they were old friends. ‘What are people doing with the toilet rolls? Crazy.’
‘I don’t know,’ he clumsily replied before returning to the sanctuary of loading his shopping bags. But a few seconds later the sound of her clearly struggling with her own made him turn back towards her. He allowed his eyes a few seconds to fall all over her – drinking in her beauty. She seemed so alive he was sure he could see a beating pulse in the side of her slim neck. He took a deep breath as she reached for another of the heavy-looking bags. ‘Please,’ he managed to force himself to say. ‘Let me.’
‘I’m fine.’ She shook her head, blushing slightly.
‘They look heavy,’ he argued, feeling increasingly more comfortable.
‘That’s very kind,’ she told him. ‘But you don’t have to.’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ he assured her. ‘Please.’
‘Okay,’ she relented after a few seconds with another smile. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ he promised, taking a heavy bag in each hand and hauling them into the boot of her car. ‘Heavy,’ he confirmed and managed a small smile.
‘Yeah,’ she agreed, shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know why I always overload them. Too busy daydreaming at the checkout.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he agreed as he lifted another two bags.
‘I should really spread the weight between the bags,’ she said, ‘but it’s too much like hard work, so I just stuff everything in as it comes.’
‘Me too,’ he said, managing to keep the conversation going.
‘Doesn’t look like you have to worry about the weight,’ she observed, clearly looking at his muscular arms. He liked her looking at him the way she was.
‘Not really,’ he agreed, lifting two more of her bags. ‘You have a lot of shopping. Shopping for your family?’
‘No,’ she replied, stiffening a little. ‘There’s just me.’ He looked down at the numerous bags in her trolley. ‘It is for a whole week,’ she explained, before realising the weakness of her excuse. ‘And I may have bought a few more things than usual. Just in case. You know, with this Covid thing. Wine, mainly.’
