White Lilies (16 page)

Bill Forrester wasn’t the only father in the neighbourhood rushing to his daughter’s aid. PC Tim Whitworth switched on the sirens on his police vehicle and sped as fast he could to his home address when he got the call.

Braking hard, the car screeched to a skidding halt outside his house and he struggled, due to his size, to disembark in haste. Sara sat shaking in his wife’s embrace as he walked through the door.

‘This is your bloody fault,’ Frances, his wife, said. ‘Someone’s attacked her because of you,’ she spat out the words with pure venom.

‘Be quiet woman,’ he said.

Sitting down on the footstool in front of his daughter, he reached out and laid a caring hand on his daughter’s knee. ‘What’s happened, love?’ he asked, softly.

Sara looked at him with her big brown cow eyes that appeared sunken in her pale face. ‘I was careful, like you always tell me to be walking home, dad,’ she snivelled. ‘But, he came from nowhere. I didn’t hear, or see him before he...’ she gulped. ‘He grabbed me from behind and put a hand over my mouth,’ she swallowed as she struggled to get the words out between sobs. ‘… then he told me to tell you to stop bullying people or next time he’d rape me,’ she cried.

‘And what happened then?’ Tim asked.

‘He pushed me and told me to run,’ she sobbed. ‘So I did, as fast as I could, and I didn’t stop until I got home.’

‘Did you see who it was?’

‘No, I just remember the smell of alcohol and cigarettes and his stupid laugh,’ she said, grimacing.

‘For God’s sake Tim, she told you he grabbed her from behind, what kind of a policeman are you?’ Frances scowled at her husband. ‘Don’t you ever bloody listen?’ she cried, laying her daughter’s head to her bosom as she rocked her gently.

There was a knock at the open front door and uniformed officers walked in. Tim Whitworth nodded to his colleagues. The story was related to them and they began a search of the area where the offence had taken place.

CID were contacted and arrived along, with the scenes of crime officers. It was all a bit of a blur for Sara. They needed her coat, they explained, for possible fibre transfers; a sample of her hair to compare against any others they found and they needed a swab of her face to see if they could get DNA from the offender in case he hadn’t been wearing gloves. The officers told her that anything at this stage was worth a try to identify the person responsible.

‘This is all because of your flaming job,’ Frances whispered to her husband as he followed her into the kitchen. She switched the kettle on and collected cups from the draining board. She could see her daughter speaking to an officer from where they stood. ‘Don’t you realise, she could have been killed. What if he’d have a knife? What if he had raped her?’ she said, suppressing a cry. ‘We’ve had a lucky escape this time but this isn’t going to happen again. I want you to resign with immediate effect.’

‘There you go again. It’s always the bloody jobs’ fault isn’t it? The last thing Sara needs now is to hear us arguing,’ Tim said in a hushed tone. He picked steaming cups of coffee from the worktop and marched into the lounge. Frances watched him hand them to the officers and walk back to her.

‘This isn’t just another one of your incidents,’ she said handing him the milk and sugar bowl. He grabbed hold of them but she held on tight. ‘This is our daughter’s life we’re talking about,’ she said with her voice rising. He turned his back. She stood close behind him. ‘Oh, it’ll be the same tomorrow and the day after that. There is always going to be someone wanting revenge because of you, you arrogant bastard,’ she said.

‘It’s only arrogance when you’re wrong. I’m never wrong,’ Tim Whitworth turned to answer his wife as he stepped forward. Reaching the coffee table, he slammed the milk and sugar down and flopped in his easy chair. His only ambition at that moment was to find out who had threatened his daughter – because once he had found out they wouldn’t be able to ever threaten anyone again.

‘If you won’t do anything, I will,’ Frances continued much to the other officer’s surprise. ‘I’m taking Sara to mum and dad’s and we’re not coming back till you catch him or you leave the Force, do you hear me?’ she yelled grabbing Sara by the hand and pulling her up from the settee, she headed for the stairs. What did this say about him, them, their marriage? He wondered. Tim looked across at the two officers, who sipped their drinks in an embarrassed silence.

‘Mum, I’m okay. Don’t fuss,’ he heard Sara cry. ‘I’d rather go to school and be with my mates. Really, I’m alright now.’

‘Just for a few days,’ she said, as she pushed her daughter into her bedroom and slammed the door behind them.

Tim Whitworth raised his eyebrows to the ceiling at his colleagues who rose from their seats, shook his hand and wished him the best of luck as they left.

Tim climbed the stairs, knocked on Sara’s bedroom door and opened it with trepidation. He found Frances throwing clothes into a holdall. Tim sat beside his daughter on the bed. She blew out a breath of exasperation before getting up and walking out of the door. Settling on the top step, she leaned heavily against the wall as tears ran freely down her face.

‘I’ve got to ask you love,’ he said. ‘Did he touch you?’ Tim said as he sat beside his daughter and handed her his handkerchief.

‘He put his hand on my stomach and down towards my legs,’ she whispered mimicking his actions. Tim closed his eyes and looked heavenward.

‘But it was over my coat Dad. He didn’t DO anything,’ she said, her face turning mottled shades of red.

‘Oh my God,’ Frances screeched rushing out of the bedroom on hearing her daughter’s admission. Tim laid a hand around his daughter’s shoulders.

‘And you’re sure you don’t know who it was?’ she said, as she stood behind them, clothes hung over her shoulder and dangling from her arms.

‘A lad from school perhaps, did you recognise the voice?’ Tim asked.

‘No Dad. If I knew who it was I would have said. Do I really have to go to Gran’s with mum?’ she said with a whine. ‘I want to stay here with you,’ she said, turning her head into his shoulder.

‘It might be for the best, love,’ Tim said, looking round at his wife. ‘Just for a few days, to put your mum’s mind at rest.’ He squeezed her tight.

‘Who’ve you been upsetting who knows our Sara?’ Frances said.

‘No one that I can think of,’ he said.

‘Trouble with your dad Sara is that he has lulled himself into a false sense of competence and for once in his life he needs to stop talking and get something done, because until he does we won’t be coming back. Nobody in their right mind threatens a young girl just because their dad’s given them a speeding ticket. So whatever he’s done, it must be bad.’

‘For God sake woman, I’m trying,’ he yelled. ‘But running away to your mum’s is hardly gonna help is it?’

‘Help who, you, the job, our daughter, or me? If you think I’m gonna sit around here waiting for our daughter to get raped, then you’ve another thin
g coming,’ she said as she flew past them, bags in hand, down into the kitchen and two minutes later she stood waiting in the hallway with the car keys in her hand.

‘I’ll ring you to let you know we’ve arrived,’ she said, beckoning her daughter. ‘This needs sorting Tim, and quick,’ she said, grabbing Sara’s hand in one hand and the bags in the other before heading out of the front door.

‘Bye Dad’, Sara sobbed. ‘I’m sorry.’

Tim ran after them; the door slammed and locked behind him. He looked back in despair.

‘Think, did you see anything at all, anything that was out of the ordinary’, he begged as Frances slammed the passenger side door, her daughter safely inside.

Sara wound down the window. ‘No, I just left school as usual. There were crowds. There were cars. But the only one I remember was Pam Forrester’s friend’s car; he papped his horn as he went past,’ she shrugged.

‘Okay. If you remember anything else, let me know,’ he said as their car pulled away. ‘I’ll sort it, I promise,’ he called out after them.

He turned and secured the front door, retrieved the police car keys from his trouser pocket and got in. He turned the ignition on. Putting frighteners on a young girl could only be the trait of a coward. Who did he know who fitted that description?

Brian Stevenson was late, and Dylan was just beginning to think he wasn’t coming, when his office door was flung open.

‘I’ll take him straight into the front office, sir,’ DS Spiers said, her hand still on the door handle.

‘And I’ll be with you in a few minutes if you want to get started taking down his details,’ he said, as he put the top on his pen.

The door slammed behind her.

As she set eyes on Brian Stevenson in the foyer, Taylor Spiers immediately noted that he was smartly dressed in an expensive suit, complemented by a cashmere scarf. The undeniably strong bergamot aroma of his Vera Wang eau de toilette filled the small interview room. This wasn’t a man who bought cheap, she knew, as the very same scent had put her back a good few pounds on many occasions.

‘Now, how do you think I can help you, my dear?’ he said,
staring at her for a moment before cocking his head in a way that reminded her of a bird listening for worms in the ground.

He very slowly put
his hands together on the table, which  showed off gold cufflinks, and gave her a sickly smile. At their first meeting she had thought him quite attractive. Instinctively she now saw before her a smooth-talking serpent-like man who looked like nothing more than a snake in the grass.

‘We need clarification on one or two issues, Mr Stevenson.’ Taylor cleared her throat as she opened the file and pulled out several pieces of paper. ‘Please bear with me until Inspector Dylan arrives,’ she said with authority.

‘Of course, sweetheart,’ he said as he pulled his seat nearer the table. The sound of the chair’s feet dragging on the tiles set her teeth on edge and she shuddered involuntarily.

‘Did you happen to locate the relevant business documents I asked you about last time we spoke?’ said Taylor.

Mr Stevenson opened his mouth as if to speak just as the interview room door opened and Dylan walked in. Taylor blew out a relieved breath.

‘Can I introduce my boss, Detective Inspector Jack Dylan, to you Mr Stevenson,’ she said politely and Dylan nodded in Brian Stevenson’s direction.

‘Please continue,’ Dylan said.

‘Where were we Inspector?’ Stevenson asked Taylor, looking slightly confused.

‘It’s Detective Sergeant Spiers, Mr Stevenson, as I keep reminding you. Documents?’ she said, tapping her pen impatiently on the table.

‘My accountants assured me he’d send them to you,’ he said with a surprised look upon his face.

‘Well he hasn’t. One thing I need to understand, and perhaps you can help me with in the meantime, is why you’ve had such large amounts of money deposited into your bank account this year.’

‘Oh, I understand,' he laughed a smoke and whisky laugh. ‘Money, you see my dear is paid into my account from several companies and then I pass this onto my clients. Business has been good.’

‘Talking of your clients, Mr Stevenson, you told me previously that Mildred Sykes had released equity from her property. Can you tell me how much that was?’ continued DS Spiers.

‘Oh, quite a lot,’ he mused. ‘Several thousand pounds.’

Dylan sat quietly watching Brian Stevenson’s body language as answered the questions put to him.

‘I did warn her not to keep money in the house,’ Brian Stevenson said, shaking his head.

‘You mean you paid her in cash?’ asked a wide eyed Taylor.

‘Yes,’ he said, nonplussed. Taylor appeared lost for words.

‘So, what you’re telling us, Mr Stevenson, is that there is no paper trail?’ said Dylan.

‘That’s the way she wanted it. She was a cute old bird, Mildred was.’

‘Obviously not cute enough,' mumbled Taylor under her breath. ‘Do you have any idea why she wanted the money?’ she asked.

‘No. Mildred wasn’t for small talk. Different as chalk and cheese were Grace Harvey and her. In fact she could be quite abrupt, to the point of being rude, at times,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Do you think she was killed for her money?’

‘It’s as good a motive as any, don’t you think?’ said Taylor.

‘And you’re sure she never hinted to you why she wanted the money?’ said Dylan, with furrowed brows.

‘No,’ he said shaking his head.

‘Your gain from this equity release transaction would be what, commission, a fee?’

‘It depends. Most financial advisors charge a fee as well as receiving commission from the lender.’

‘In Mildred’s case?’ Dylan asked.

‘I managed to negotiate Mildred a free valuation survey. The lenders charged one per cent fee and they paid half of this to me. I also got her a solicitor whose fees she had to pay.’

‘And what happens then?’ Taylor said.

‘The interest payment is rolled up until the house is sold either by her or her beneficiaries.’

‘And the solicitor’s fee is?’

‘Usually between four and five hundred pounds.’

‘She paid that, how?’

‘I took her to the cash machine to draw the money.’

‘When you visited Mildred, which rooms did you visit in her house?’ Dylan enquired.

‘The lounge, the kitchen and the bathroom, why?’ he said,  bottom lip protruding like a sulky child.

‘How often did you visit?’ Dylan went on.

‘Depends.’

‘Regularly?’ Taylor said with a smile. ‘No, doubt your elderly clients look forward to your visits?’

‘Yes, I think they do,’ he said, with a satisfied grin on his face. He glanced across at Dylan, who was watching him intently with a steely glare. Stevenson held his gaze and when it wasn’t returned his smile faded.

‘The flowers,’ Taylor said. Brian Stevenson looked quickly back at her. ‘When did you give her the flowers?’

‘I can’t remember when,’ he said.

‘Where did you get them from?’

‘The Flower Pot Emporium, I always get flowers from Linda. Look, how long am I going to be here?’

‘I’d like you to come with me so that I can take your fingerprints and DNA for elimination purposes, Mr Stevenson,’ Taylor said, pushing her chair back and standing up.

‘Oh,’ he said, obviously taken aback. ‘I hope it’s painless,’ he laughed waspishly as he stood.

‘Sorry, just before you do, DS Spiers,’ Dylan said. ‘Mr Stevenson, I’ll need a list of your current clients, please.’

‘Er … er yes,’ he stammered.

‘In fact, no, send me a list of your clients over the past five years and mark it for my urgent attention when you do.’ Dylan said, thoughtfully as he rubbed the forming stubble on his face. ‘I want them as a matter of urgency.’

‘Yes, I’ll see to it directly,’ he said, sitting back down.

‘Sooner rather than later, please,’ Dylan said, waving him away to join Taylor. ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ Dylan said to the retreating Brian Stevenson, who stopped suddenly in his tracks. ‘Are a large percentage of your clients elderly?’

Stevenson turned. ‘Well, yes, they are. That’s not a crime is it?’

‘No, not that I know of,’ Dylan said. ‘But if you continue to lose them at this rate you’re not going to have a business for long, are you?’

‘Oh, of course. I see what you mean.’ Brian Stevenson stepped in Taylor’s direction and she opened the door.

‘Have you had a burglary at your home lately?’ Dylan said. Mr Stevenson didn’t reply or turn around to face Dylan. ‘Because DS Spiers tells me that she saw damage to your door when she visited but you told her there hadn’t been a break-in. Then you told another officer there had, so which is it?’

Brian Stevenson pivoted around to face Dylan.

‘I thought someone had caused a bit of damage to the door. Later I discovered someone had been inside,’ he said.

‘I understand you told my officer you’d reported it, but you haven’t, have you? Why?’ Dylan continued. He could see Brian Stevenson becoming agitated.

‘I meant to, but…’ he said, dropping his shoulders and letting out a tired sigh.

‘So have you reported it now?’ Dylan asked.

‘Yes I … I telephoned the non-emergency number on the leaflet that was pushed through my letterbox and someone took details and gave me a number,’ he said studying for a moment. ‘A crime number. I think they said that I would need for insurance purposes.’

Dylan made a mental note to get his story checked out. ‘So what did the thieves steal Mr Stevenson, anything?’

‘Cash and a clock that was left to me.’

‘Not a television?’

‘No, your officers asked me about that, but I... I sold it. Look, do I need a solicitor?’

‘Do you think you need a solicitor?’

‘No.’

Dylan smiled. ‘Then you’re free to go when you’ve given DS Spiers your fingerprints and allowed her to take a buccal swab.’

Dylan followed them into the fingerprint room and stood leaning against the door jamb while Taylor opened drawers and extracted forms to be completed. Opening the fingerprint inkpad, she reached for Brian Stevenson’s hand.

‘Any idea who might’ve broken into your house?’ Dylan asked. Brian Stevenson concentrated hard as Taylor Spiers rolled his fingers one by one on the fingerprint ink and then onto the designated places on the form. Without looking at Dylan he shook his head.

‘Do you know, DS Spiers, I once knew someone who took the same fingerprint for each space on the form as the others were in plaster,’ Dylan said. Brian Stevenson never flinched. ‘Did you see anyone acting suspicious around your house, Mr Stevenson?’ he asked.

Taylor Spiers handed Brian Stevenson a cloth to wipe his hands. ‘Look,’ he said, impatiently. ‘I’ve got an appointment to keep, when can I go?

‘In a minute, sir,’ said Taylor as she extracted a cotton bud-like implement with cotton swab on the end of a longer reach from a DNA collection kit. ‘Can I just check you have nothing in your mouth.’

Brian Stevenson opened his mouth wide. ‘Now can you swallow for me and open again so I can buccal swab the inside of your cheek.'

Brian Stevenson did as he was told and Taylor inserted the swab. ‘Just the same pressure as brushing your teeth, sir, it should only take about thirty seconds to scrap the inside of each cheek, lightly.’

‘The term ‘Buccal swab’ derives from the Latin, Bucca, meaning cheek and a swab, therefore, refers to a DNA collection process involving cells taken from the cheek,’ Dylan informed him.

Brian Stevenson swallowed and licked his lips. ‘All done,’ Taylor said, as she inserted the swab into a tube to keep it sterile and snapped the top shut.

‘Now, can I go?’

‘Yes, but before you do, can you just tell me about the clock that was stolen from your house. Was it identifiable?’ asked Taylor.

‘I’d definitely know it if I saw it again.’

‘Good. Don’t forget the documents. We don’t want to have to get a warrant to search for them now do we?’ Dylan said, as he reached out and took the fingerprint forms and the swab off the desk. DS Spiers silently guided Mr Stevenson out of the office.

‘Nice job,’ said Dylan to Taylor when she joined him. Taylor looked a little confused. ‘The question you put to him about the clock?’ She smiled at him knowingly.

‘Do you think it is the one that’s in the picture?’

DS Spiers shrugged her shoulders. ‘Could well be,’ she said.

‘Get the photographic department to blow the shot of the clock up for us and let’s see if he identifies it. I want to see the clock that was recovered from Denton and Greenwood’s flat as soon as possible,’ continued Dylan.

‘Fancy a quick one Boss?’ DS Spiers asked, as she collected her coat from the back of her chair in the CID office.

Dylan flashed her a wide-eyed glance.

‘Drink?’ she smiled.

‘Okay, just the one,’ he said, slightly flustered. ‘I’ll see you at the Kings Head in a minute.’

‘Last one there pays,’ she said, grabbing her bag as she hurried out. Dylan watched her out of his office window as she ran to her car.

Just calling for a drink on the way home. See you soon pretty lady x,
Dylan texted Jen.

Dylan’s mobile rang just as he placed a pint of beer and a glass of wine on the table in front of Taylor. She took the opportunity to shuffle on the seat closer to him as she removed her jacket.

‘Somebody’s popular,’ she said grabbing his thigh with one hand as she picked her wine glass up with the other. She smiled at him with her perfectly painted red lips.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he said, furiously wiping the beer he spilled down the front of his coat.

‘Come on, all work and no play,’ she said seductively. ‘You could do with a relaxing massage.’

‘Yeah, and I’m going home in a minute to the woman who knows just how I like it, so don’t bother,’ Dylan said.