Scream, You Die (5 page)

Half asleep, Grazyna heard the sound of screams. At least she thought they were screams, because as she flashed open her eyes and awoke, there was only silence. She strained her ears for the best part of a minute. Nothing. It made her wonder if she had been dreaming.

For a few seconds she began to study the confines of her room, wishing that all this really was a dream. Without warning, ghost-like images of her ordeal burst into her inner vision again and she snapped shut her eyelids, squeezing them tight, attempting to shut out the horrific mental pictures, but they hung on in there, refusing to budge.

Will this torture ever end? I don’t deserve this. I’m not a bad person.

Then another scream forced her eyes open. This time she knew it wasn’t a dream. It had come from somewhere below and it sounded like Kofryna.

Kofryna! A vision of her own ordeal came to her again.

Grazyna drew up her knees and covered her ears, but the action didn’t block out all the noise and she picked up the sound of a door slamming followed by heavy footsteps running up the stairs.

She started to shake.
Please God, not again.

Withdrawing her hands, she heard the key in the lock. The door flew open, crashing against the edge of the wardrobe, making her jump.

Two men stormed into the room. One of them was big and bulky with a shaven head like Skender. He had so much fat below his chin that it gave him the appearance of having no neck. The other was slim but well toned like an athlete and had an army-style crew cut. They were both dressed in T-shirt and jeans.

In a state of panic she started to push herself up into a sitting position, but they were on her in seconds, grabbing at her wrists and restraining her.

A feeling of dread and despair overcame her. She stiffened but didn’t resist, and turned away her head and closed her eyes.

After a few seconds when the mauling didn’t continue she slowly opened her eyes. Her two attackers weren’t even looking at her. They were focussed on something the overweight one was holding. At first she couldn’t make sense of the object. Until the burning smell, which she associated with that of an iron, assailed her nostrils. Then she realised what the big man was pushing towards her.

As the soldering iron made contact with her right shoulder she began to scream.

On the way home from work Scarlett got Tarn to drop her off in Richmond town centre; she needed something for her evening meal. At M&S she bought an oven-ready chicken, mushroom and mozzarella pasta bake and a bottle of Soave, then walked the short distance home, occasionally looking back over her shoulder, still unable to shift the thoughts of her mugging, even though it had now been the best part of a week since her encounter with the two thieves.

Entering her home, she deactivated the alarm, toe-heeled off her shoes in the hallway and made her way into the kitchen, turning on the oven and cracking open the wine. Pouring out a generous measure she took a swig, tilted back her head, swilled it around her mouth to activate her taste buds and then swallowed slowly. Savouring the sharp fruity tang she could already feel herself beginning to unwind as she tore away the outer sleeve of the pasta bake. Then, sliding it into the warming oven, she set the timer and made her way into the lounge, where she snatched up the remote and activated the TV. The opening moments of
X-Factor
emerged onscreen as she flopped down onto the sofa.

Mindless viewing – just what she needed after the day she’d had.

In actual fact, it wasn’t just that day she was unwinding from. For most of that week she had endured a hectic schedule and an intense workload. She had supervised the search of James Green’s council flat, though the evidential pickings and information from that had been minimal. The search team hadn’t found any form of computer or his mobile, though they had found a charger for one, which had led to frustration. And despite emptying every drawer of every sideboard and cupboard and rifling through his wardrobe they hadn’t discovered any other cycling or Lycra-type clothing. Similarly, they had established very little out about him, other than what they already knew. Scarlett not only found this strange but also very disturbing. Door-to-door enquiries had not helped much either. Surprised and shocked by the news, neighbours described him as a very pleasant man who kept himself very much to himself, though one neighbour had informed them that she had seen him on a number of occasions recently burning what she thought to be rubbish in an old metal bin beneath the flats. Following that revelation, she and Tarn had hot-footed it down to the refuse area, where they had found a battered and rusted oil drum, the inside of which was heavily sooted, half full of burnt detritus. Sifting through it they found blackened and shrivelled remnants of Lycra, and although nothing of significance could be gleaned forensically from them, it did confirm Scarlett’s thoughts about the type of villain James Green was. Particularly, how forensically aware he was. And as she bagged the burnt nylon pieces it quantified, in her head, that she and her team had a long way to go before they could put the case before a court. But rather than be down-hearted about the lack of evidence, she had returned to the office in a determined frame of mind and drawn up an action plan. Two days ago, together with Tarn, she had returned to the university with the purpose of determining if there were any more victims who, for whatever reason, had so far not reported their attacks. Inside the beautiful Gothic-style building, the pair had met with the head of the university, and then briefed department heads, teaching staff and student union reps on the current status of their investigation. From there they had sought approval and gained access to lectures, where Scarlett had delivered a heartfelt plea to the female students. During these appeals she had drawn on her eighteen months’ experience of working with Sapphire Command, the Metropolitan Police’s rape and serious sexual assault unit, highlighting some of the cases she had previously worked on, with special emphasis on the care and support she had provided to victims. Scarlett had delivered the requests to packed theatres but no one had come forward. Then, a day ago, they got a breakthrough. Overnight, a girl had left a message anonymously on the incident room helpline asking if she could meet DS Macey and had left her mobile number. Over the phone, Scarlett had spoken briefly with a very nervous-sounding young woman who was willing to give scant details about herself and what happened but did not want to talk about her ordeal at a police station, and so Scarlett arranged to meet her that morning in a coffee shop by Richmond Bridge, overlooking the Thames. It was a place she had been to many times before, its interior warm and welcoming, and although popular she knew there would be enough space between tables for a private conversation.

Shortly after ten a.m. she and Tarn entered the coffee shop. They saw that a few tables were taken, and briefly scanning the room, they spied the only girl of the age they were looking for tucked away in a corner, hunkered over a large white mug, staring into space. Nineteen-year-old Claudette Jackson had a glowing tawny complexion and glossy black shoulder-length braided hair. Her attractive face bore an anxious look. Making eye contact, Scarlett issued a reassuring smile and approached slowly. Pulling up a chair opposite, Scarlett softly introduced herself and Tarn and sat down. Tarn followed, pulling himself closer to the table and resting his arms. Ordering three fresh coffees, Scarlett opened up by telling Claudette that she was really glad she had been brave enough to contact them, and went on to explain that although James Green had been remanded to prison, it may only be temporary, that they were still some way off getting enough evidence to put him before a court. She added, “That’s why, Claudette, it really is important that you tell us your story. With your help we can put him away for a very long time.” In between sips of coffee, Scarlett drew on her training to put her at ease, spending time asking her about the course she was doing at university, about her family background, and whether she was going home for Christmas. Claudette said she was going home, though she didn’t know what she was going to say to her family. She had not told anyone about what had happened. Scarlett saw this as her opening. “You’ve made a big start contacting us. We can support you through all this. You don’t need to be alone and suffering. Trust me, I’ve spoken to many girls who’ve gone through what you’ve gone through and they’ve come through it and become much stronger as a result.” Keeping eye contact and studying her features she finished the last of her coffee. Then, putting down her cup, she said, “Do you feel able to talk to us about the attack?”

At first Claudette just stared. For the best part of thirty seconds she was silent. Then she spluttered, “I can’t help think I’m somehow to blame for what happened to me.”

Scarlett hadn’t expected that response. She probed, “What makes you say that?”

“Well, he bought me drinks, didn’t he, and was nice and I just fobbed him off and flirted with some other guys I knew.”

Scarlett straightened, “You knew him then?”

Claudette’s nut-brown eyes drifted a second and then returned. “Not exactly knew him in the sense of his name and everything. He came into the bar where I worked.”

“Which bar is that?”

“The Red Cow.”

“I know that pub.” Scarlett scrutinised Claudette’s face, trying to recall if she had seen her there. Her mind was blank. She continued, “The team I belong to regularly go in there, but I can’t remember seeing you there.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I work behind the bar. It’s not regular hours. I fill in when they’re short. Occasionally I do weekends.”

“And it was there you first met James Green?”

“I didn’t know his name. I’ve since found out his name from the piece in the papers. He came into the pub a couple of times. One night when it was quiet he just started chatting, asking me what I did. I told him I was a student. He said he’d been a student at the university and that he now worked in the city in banking.”

Scarlett responded by shaking her head. “He’s unemployed, Claudette.”

“Well I wasn’t that convinced to be honest. He didn’t dress well enough for someone in banking. But you get all sorts chatting to you when you’re behind the bar, so I just let him rabbit on and he paid on a drink for me, so I was nice to him and listened.”

Scarlett interrupted, “When was this, Claudette?”

Her forehead screwed into a frown. She thought about the question for a couple of seconds and then answered, “Probably about a month before he attacked me. I remember it was Thursday evening. Quiz night. He didn’t do the quiz, that’s why we were chatting. It wasn’t that long, to be honest. I got serving again and that was the end of it. Until the following week, that is. He came in again, didn’t do the quiz and we chatted on and off while it was on.” She paused. “I say chatted. He really did the talking – said he'd had a busy day and then started waffling on about this multi-million deal he was involved in. To be honest, I switched off, just pretended I was interested. He was a bit of a bore and not my cup of tea. Anyway, he paid on a drink for me, I thanked him and then I got busy again. This second time, before he left, he made a point of coming up to the bar and saying cheerio to me and said he’d see me again. I just said cheerio and nodded and that was it. He turned up the following week, but this time my room-mate and some friends were in. I told them to stay close, that I thought he fancied me, so they hung around. He bought his usual lager and stayed at the end of the bar. In between serving, whenever I glanced up, I could see him watching me. It made me feel uncomfortable, and when I served him again and he asked me if I wanted a drink I turned him down, thanked him and told him some friends had paid on a couple for me. After that I spent as much time as I could with my friends and pretended to flirt with one of the guys. Just jokey stuff to put him off. When I looked up again he’d gone.” Claudette’s face changed. Her lips tightened and her chin quavered. “The Thursday after, that’s when he raped me. I finished in the bar just after twelve, walked back to the university and he was waiting for me near some trees.” She took a deep breath. “He grabbed me from behind and put a knife to my throat! Said he was going to kill me if I screamed or struggled!” Claudette’s eyes started to glisten.

Scarlett reached across and touched Claudette’s hand, “Try and relax Claudette. Talking to us like this has got the hard part over with.” She patted the back of her hand. “And let me tell you, none of this is your fault. James Green is a rapist. Full stop. You know from the papers that you’re not the only one he’s done this to and if we hadn’t had caught him there would have been a lot more girls like you who he would have attacked. Telling us this now will help us put him behind bars for a long time. A very long time.” Scarlett gently squeezed her hand. “Before we finish talking, Claudette, can I just take you back a bit. I just want to get something clarified. Are you absolutely sure that the man who raped you was the same man who chatted with you at the bar? I’m not trying to dissuade you, but the university grounds are not that well lit and you did say he was waiting behind some trees.”

Claudette nodded. “I know it was him. He had a scarf covering his mouth and nose, trying to hide his face, but we weren’t that far from one of the paths, which are quite well lit, so I got quite a decent look at him. And I recognised his voice.” She held Scarlett’s gaze. “Anyway, you’ll be able to tell if it’s him, won’t you?”

Scarlett threw her a puzzled look. “How will we? I don’t understand.”

Claudette squeezed back Scarlett’s hand, “I put the clothes I was wearing, when he attacked me, in a plastic bag and I’ve kept them under my bed. I’ve watched CSI and I’m right in thinking you’ll be able to get his DNA from them, aren’t I?”

Scarlett’s eyes lit up, she shot a sideways glance at Tarn. He was displaying a wide grin. She could have punched the air.

The rest of that day had been spent video-interviewing Claudette at a victim and witness suite and then she had been examined by a female force medical examiner. After that they had driven Claudette back to her room at the university and recovered her bagged clothing from beneath her bed, leaving her in the company of her room-mate for support, before returning to the office late that afternoon, where they had delivered the good news to the squad. The week’s hard work had paid off and consolidated their enquiry. Now all she wanted to do, especially tonight, was chill in front of the television, get a good night’s sleep and then rejuvenate herself tomorrow morning in the gym. She took another mouthful of wine and sank back against the cushions. Dermot O’Leary was introducing contestant Sam Bailey, a prison officer. She’d heard her sing twice already on previous episodes she had recorded and thought she stood a very good chance of winning the competition this year. She glanced at her watch – she should just have enough time to listen to her before the pasta bake was ready.

Abruptly her BlackBerry rang. She diverted her gaze to the coffee table, where she eyed the brightly lit screen of her work mobile. This usually meant only one thing: a call out. Her shoulders sank. “No!” she groaned. Reaching across she set down her glass and snatched up the phone. She glanced at the screen before she answered but there was no name, only a mobile number, and although she couldn’t put a name to it she was familiar with the line of digits.

Narrowing her eyes, racking her brains as to who it was, she answered, “DS Macey.”

“It’s me,” said the male voice.

She recognised the voice. Her face lit up. “Hello, It’s Me.”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you since Thursday. I’ve left umpteen messages on your phone. I didn’t know if you’d changed your mobile or not so I contacted your work. They weren’t going to give me your number so I had to tell them I was your cousin and I needed to get hold of you urgently.”

She pushed herself back on the sofa. “Oh sorry, Alex. My mobile’s been nicked. I was mugged last Friday night. I’ve lost all my contacts.”