Primal Cut (2 page)

At 4 p.m. the following afternoon, DI Alison Dexter emerged from Peterborough Crown Court, blinking into the sunlight. The trial had been an arduous process: the culmination of five months of intensive police work. She had been the fulcrum of the investigation and it had drained her stamina. Dexter wondered for a moment if this was how the future would be: with each case more demanding and exhausting than its predecessor. She buried the thought before it had a chance to infect her.

At the foot of the steps was a small group of journalists and a local television news camera crew. Dexter disliked the public exposure that sometimes accompanied her job. She usually shunned press conferences, preferring to delegate to more junior officers. Seeing her image on TV or in the newspapers embarrassed her. More importantly, it made her vulnerable. Dexter always tried to resist
the opportunity to raise her head above the parapet. However, on this occasion, contact was unavoidable. George Gardiner from the
New Bolden Echo
recognised her first.

‘Sergeant Dexter!’ he barked. ‘Can we have a quick word?’

Dexter stopped opposite him and tried to smile. ‘It’s Inspector now, George. Maybe you’d get promoted too if you got your facts right.’

Gardiner grinned. ‘Could you give us a comment on the case please? You must be happy with the outcome.’

Dexter shifted uneasily as a local BBC news crew swung their camera towards her. ‘I can read you our official statement. “New Bolden CID is delighted with this verdict. Nicholas Braun, of Gorton Row, Peterborough, is a danger to women and we hope that tomorrow’s sentencing will reflect the gravity of his offences”.’ Dexter had been planning her statement as she left the courtroom – she was rather pleased with its fluency.

‘Could you comment on the nature of Mr Braun’s offences,’ Gardiner continued, ‘and perhaps explain how you caught him?’

‘I won’t comment on the assaults specifically other than to say that they were brutal attacks carried out on women in their own homes. Explaining how we identified Mr Braun is a little
complicated. Read the court transcripts. It’s all in there.’ Dexter tried to move through the group but her path was blocked. Still the TV camera bore into the side of her face.

‘Inspector Dexter,’ asked a female journalist with a microphone, ‘Suzy James from BBC East. Is it true that you took DNA samples from an entire factory in New Bolden?’

‘It’s certainly true that we confirmed Mr Braun was the rapist using DNA sampling,’ Dexter nodded.

‘What would you say was the turning point in the investigation?’ Suzy James continued.

Dexter took a deep breath. ‘Two women raped by Braun had been shopping on the afternoons they were attacked at the Hypermarket on Argyll Street, New Bolden. Both were followed as they drove home. Braun attacked them as they unlocked the doors to their homes and pushed them inside.’

‘You said in court that the timing of the two attacks was a vital clue?’

Dexter winced at the corny expression, recognising suddenly that Suzy James was never likely to win a Pulitzer Prize. ‘Both attacks took place between 1 and 2 p.m. on weekdays. That led us to believe that the perpetrator worked nearby and was opportunistically attacking women during his lunch break.’

‘Why couldn’t any of the victims identify him?’ Gardiner interjected.

‘If you were in court, George, you’d know he wore a mask.’

‘Yeah,’ Gardiner sniffed, ‘you said he wore the mask of a cartoon character. Can you tell us which one?’

Dexter shook her head. ‘No. It’s an unnecessary detail that you will sensationalise.’

‘How did you identify the killer’s place of work?’ James asked.

‘Our forensic analysis showed tiny fragments of copper on the victims. Microscopic amounts. Research showed us that it was the type used in complex electronic components. That led us to look for engineering companies in the immediate vicinity of Argyll Street. As you probably know, there’s only one. We took a chance and DNA tested all the employees of that company.’

‘Was the company Meredian Components?’ asked Gardiner.

‘Yes.’

‘Did Braun give his sample voluntarily?’ another journalist asked.

‘Eventually.’

Dexter noticed that Nicholas Braun’s brother Henry was staring at her from the other side of the road, unseen by the journalists. She had seen him in
court glaring at her when she had given evidence. His neatly pressed white shirt seemed incongruous with his savagely shaved head.

‘Are you linking Braun with any other unsolved sexual offences in the area?’ James asked.

Dexter looked directly at her. ‘Braun’s been found guilty of three rapes and nine indecent assaults. At the moment we have no reason to link him with any other cases.’

‘Did you interview Nicholas Braun’s wife during your investigation?’ queried Gardiner.

‘We did.’

‘Did she know about her husband’s behaviour?’ he continued.

‘No, she didn’t,’ Dexter lied. ‘I have to go now. New Bolden CID will make a formal statement after sentencing tomorrow.’

Dexter finally pushed through the pack of reporters. A TV camera followed her across the main road to her car, which was parked in Draper Street – a narrow side road. As she sank gratefully into the driver’s seat of her Mondeo, feeling the weariness rising behind her eyes, Dexter saw that the news pack had now surrounded Henry Braun. He seemed to be enjoying his new celebrity status. Dexter had suspected him of involvement in his brother’s crimes but had been unable to prove it. She tried not to feel frustrated: putting Nicholas
Braun away had been a satisfactory result.

The car roared to life as Dexter accelerated out of Peterborough and headed south towards New Bolden and she realised that for the first time in months she was free of cases: that she had a second to reflect. She opened the driver’s side window and allowed the bitterly cold East Anglian air to wash over her. It served a purpose. As she drove into the outskirts of New Bolden twenty minutes later, Dexter felt as if the brutalities of Nicholas Braun and the stresses of the trial had been, for the most part, blown out of the back of her head.

She decided not to return to the police station. A free evening was an increasingly rare commodity for Alison Dexter and she resolved to make the most of it. First she would go to the gym, then buy a bottle of red wine and crash in front of her video of ‘Guns ’N Roses Live at Wembley’.

Fifteen miles away, Keith Gwynne finalised the arrangements for Saturday’s double-header with Bob Woollard. The Tosas would fight at 9.30 p.m. The main event would follow shortly afterwards.

‘I don’t want your boy crying off,’ Woollard stressed over the phone. ‘If he does, then you are
responsible for covering the purse.’

The thought made Gwynne’s heart flutter briefly. ‘He’ll be there, Bob.’

‘Good. He better be as good as you say he is. I have a very select audience coming to this one. If Lefty flattens him in the first ten seconds we might have to put you in the ring to kill some time.’

‘I’m telling you, Bob, this bloke will be a handful. He’s fucking enormous. You should see the size of his hands.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s got a good chin though – just because he’s a monster. I’ve seen a lot of fat lads peg out the first time they ride a proper punch.’

‘This bloke isn’t fat. Trust me, Bob.’

Woollard laughed at the thought. ‘That will be the day, Gwynney.’

Gwynne paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. ‘Bob, you know that hundred notes you promised me for sorting this one for you?’

‘I do but don’t think you’re getting any more.’

‘I know. I know. I was wondering if you’re interested in wagering it.’

‘You never learn do you, Keith? Go on then, what are you after?’

‘A simple bet. I’ll stick the hundred on my boy to beat Lefty. You offer me some odds. If I win, you pay me the stake plus the odds. If I lose, you don’t have to pay me at all.’

‘How can I offer odds on a fighter I’ve never seen?’ Woollard asked.

‘You’re confident old Lefty can do the business, aren’t you?’

‘He’s never let me down before,’ Woollard mused. ‘OK. I’ll offer you evens on your boy knocking out Lefty.’

‘That’s not very generous. You just said he’s never been beaten!’

‘Take it or fucking leave it.’

‘I’ll take it.’

Gwynne put the phone down and wondered if he had done the right thing. In some ways Woollard was right: he was a mug punter, betting had gripped him like an infectious disease. He could never resist an opportunity to chuck away his money. On the other hand, two weeks previously he had seen George Norlington labouring at a local farm; throwing 100kg sacks of cattle feed and scarcely breaking sweat. That sight had awed him at the time. Now it gave him great confidence.

At 5.45 p.m. an exhausted Alison Dexter gave up on the cycling machine that she had occupied for the previous twenty minutes. The gym was crowded
and, tiredness apart, she was beginning to find the drifting, invasive eyes of men tiresome. Furthermore, the machines were starting to bore her. She decided to give up.

After a quick shower, Dexter walked into the lobby of the sports centre and bought herself a Lucozade from a drinks dispenser. As she drank from the cold bottle, she became aware of shouting from the main sports hall. Interested, she climbed a flight of stairs to the main viewing gallery and took a seat. A five-a-side football match was taking place between two female teams. Dexter quickly realised that it was actually a five versus four match as one of the teams seemed to be missing a striker. Dexter loved football. A refugee from East London she had the game – and West Ham United Football Club – in her blood. That was only one of the reasons she found her attention fixed on a particular player: a blonde woman wearing the latest West Ham shirt.

The match was of a reasonable standard. Dexter began to think that this might be a better form of exercise than pounding away at a cycling machine in front of MTV. She glugged at her Lucozade and wondered if her motives were appropriate.

As the game scuttled to a close at 6 p.m. and the players began to head for the changing rooms, Dexter tossed her empty bottle away and walked down from the viewing gallery. The girl in the West Ham shirt
was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

‘Don’t suppose you play do you?’ she asked in a strong London accent.

‘I’m sorry?’ Dexter replied uncertainly.

‘We’re always a player short. I saw you watching. I thought you might be interested.’

Dexter’s eyes drifted and evaded. ‘I haven’t played for a while.’

‘Don’t matter. It’s about having a laugh.’

Dexter nodded. ‘I see you’re a Hammers fan.’

‘Born and bred. Yourself?’

‘The same.’

‘No way!’

‘I’m from Walthamstow originally,’ Dexter said, warming to her theme. ‘Then I lived in Leyton.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Wilmot Road.’

‘You are joking me?’

‘No.’

‘I grew up on Dawlish Road.’

‘By the primary school?’

‘I went there as a kid. I’m Kelsi, by the way. Kelsi Hensy.’

‘Alison Dexter.’

There was an awkward moment as the two women considered the peculiar coincidences. Kelsi broke the silence.

‘So can we expect you next week? We can have a
drink afterwards. Talk West Ham and stuff.’

Dexter thought for a second. ‘Yeah. I’d like that.’

‘5 p.m. meet here. We play on Mondays and Thursdays,’ Kelsi smiled. ‘Bring your shin pads. It gets a bit tasty sometimes.’

‘See you then.’

‘I look forward to it,’ said Kelsi Hensy as she pushed open the door of the women’s changing room.

Dexter left the sports centre hurriedly, afraid that she had exposed some terrible vulnerability, afraid that logic might suddenly catch up with her in the car park.

DI John Underwood sat in a meeting room on the first floor of New Bolden police station. He looked out at the scrap of lawn and the forlorn-looking hedgerow that enclosed the station perimeter. A group of birds dropped and twisted across his field of vision, playing in the air, illuminated by electric light. The image made him smile: it was reassuring that a pointless universe could still permit pointless enjoyment. However, that same universe had given him a lump on the underside of his ribcage – a lump that he feared was far from pointless.

The door opened and DI Mike Bevan from Scotland Yard’s Special Operations Executive stepped inside.

‘John! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘No problem. I’ve been bird watching.’

Maybe it was just gristle.

‘Your photocopier must have been designed by Fred Flintstone. It’s taken twenty minutes to copy ten pages.’

Underwood gestured for Bevan to join him at the table. ‘So how was your night in the undergrowth? Make any new friends?’

‘Just a Rottweiler the size of a pit pony.’

Bevan handed over the folder he had spent the previous half hour trying to copy. Underwood opened it. Inside were a handful of gloomy photographs and Bevan’s typed report of his activities. Underwood considered one of the photographs: it showed a group of men in discussion outside a barn.

‘Recognise any of them?’ Bevan asked.

‘Bob Woollard obviously,’ Underwood commented, ‘but you knew that already.’ He turned to another image that showed a slightly built man dropping a dustbin bag into the boot of his car. ‘This could be a little twat called Keith Gwynne. I can’t make out any of the others.’

‘I ran a DVLA check on the car. It does belong to
a Keith Gwynne. Address 3 Simpson Road, Balehurst. That’s an old council property. I checked and Gwynne doesn’t live there any more.’

‘I know Gwynne. He’s a pikey. A slippery customer. Always on the make. He sells, he thieves, he gambles. We arrested him two years ago for selling hooky video recorders. Got a fine and a suspended sentence if memory serves me. Frankly, I’m not surprised to see his ugly mug there. Dog fighting is right up his grotty little alley. Try the gypsy site on the other side of Balehurst. I bet he’s living there with all the other detritus.’