Mark Sennen - Touch

‘And do you think he can?’

‘He reckons if any of the girls so much as glanced at the car he’ll find something.’

‘Good, I will keep my fingers crossed. Can we identify Trent in the videos?’

‘We are pretty sure in several cases, but the perpetrators are either wearing masks or facing away from the camera. In a couple of the scenes some special software has been used to pixellate the faces and anyway the lighting is not great. To ask a jury to convict without supporting evidence is going to be a no-no.’

‘And last night’s session produced nothing?’

Davies shook his head. ‘DC Jackson and me did a two hour stint and to be honest I expected him to come crying home to mummy, what with the weight of evidence I thought we had.’

‘So what happened?’

‘As soon as we got word the house was wrong I knew that we were in danger of losing the plot. And Mr clever clogs Ph bloody D knew as well. There was something else though: I reckon he was scared.’

‘As well he might be after the kicking you gave him. Mr Trent has some pretty impressive bruises.’

‘Yeah, well, Denton and all. Anyway I don’t mean he was scared of me. Every time I asked him a question his tactic was to say nothing, but I got the feeling he wasn’t only worried about implicating himself.’

‘Well, the others are still at large, aren’t they?’ Savage said. ‘Possibly a network, perhaps organised crime. He wouldn’t want to be the sneak in the latter case.’

‘Figures.’ Davies said. ‘Either way, Trent said zilch because his brief had told him to keep stum. The bitch realises that if the house and car search come up empty then we don’t have anything else.’

‘The assault on DC Denton?’ Hardin said.

‘He is claiming self-defence, sir,’ Savage said. ‘Nice middle class lecturer is at home having a shave in his bathroom when two men burst in and attack him. He has no idea what is going on and one of the men gets hurt in the struggle.’

‘But he was trying to kill himself. What does he say about that?’

‘Denies it, sir.’ Davies said. ‘Claims he was shaving and then seeing us he used the razor in self-defence. Doesn’t wash with me, if you’ll excuse the pun. It was late in the afternoon, a funny time for a dig in the grave.’

‘This is getting to be like groundhog day,’ Hardin said. ‘First the kinky husband in the car park and now Mr Trent. It would be good for my health if the next arrest you lot make was a bit more clear-cut.’

‘I was thinking about Forester,’ Savage said to Davies. ‘Did you mention him? The only information we released is that a body has been found on Dartmoor, no name, no cause of death, no details. The media went with the idea the corpse belonged to a walker who sprained his ankle, so it is possible Trent doesn’t even realise Forester is dead. We might be able to use that.’

‘Good idea, Charlotte,’ Hardin said. Then he got to his feet, went over to the window and stared out.

‘I’ve just had a call from somebody in the custody centre at Charles Cross. Apparently they have had to place a couple of uniforms down at the front door to prevent anyone getting to Trent. A shocking waste of resources. There are the usual castrators and hang ‘em high brigade, plus a lot of students. A lot of angry students.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Davies said. ‘Not much peace and love by the sound of it.’

‘I want you to get over there and try again. Charlotte and DC Jackson this time. The beauty and the beast act, please.’ Hardin continued to look out of the window as if he could see all the way across the city to the station in the centre of town. ‘If that doesn’t work we release him, do you get my drift?’

*

Interview room three stank of vomit, the grey carpet tiles in one corner turned a lighter shade by the contents of some drunk’s stomach. A whiff of stale cigarette smoke suggested that somebody had ignored the big red ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall as well. They had been scheduled to start at eleven but the interview didn’t begin until nearer twelve since Amanda Bradley, Trent’s brief, had turned up late. Bradley sat down next to Trent, her short skirt riding up to expose chunky thighs wrapped in sheer black tights. The outline of a black bra showed through her flimsy shirt as she removed her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Jackson’s eyes widened as Bradley apologised for her tardiness.

‘Had to come in from a previous appointment out of town,’ she beamed through white teeth, glossy red lips and a mouth that was a bit too big. ‘Traffic was horrendous.’

Savage didn’t believe her excuse. Bitch Bradley had the handle on them. She knew the PACE clock was running and, even allowing for a twelve hour extension, come five thirty the next morning Trent would be out. They might be able to get a further extension following a court application, but if the searches turned up nothing at all it was unlikely.

Jackson put fresh tapes in the machines and got the formalities out of the way, introducing those present and cautioning Trent. He explained to Trent why they were continuing the interview and went through the rapes one by one asking Trent where he had been on the dates they had taken place.

Trent sat fidgeting, first with his hair, winding the strands around his fingers like a teenage girl, and then with the zip on the over-sized shell suit he was wearing. Some kind soul had rooted the purple and aqua monstrosity out of the lost property box to replace Trent’s own clothes which were covered in DC Denton’s blood and had now become evidence. In contrast to his body language Trent’s voice came out in a flat monotone and he answered each allegation the same way. The final date brought the same reply.

‘Like I told you yesterday, I was at home that night.’

‘Mr Trent, we know you were at home,’ Jackson said, bristling with anger. ‘The question is whose home and what you were bloody doing there!’

‘My home. Watching TV.’

‘What did you watch?’

‘Can’t remember. Some reality show, maybe later the news?’

‘The news? How convenient. The news is on every fucking night so the fact you watched the programme isn’t exactly an alibi, is it? Next you will be telling me that you went to bed with the bloody Guardian.’ Jackson thumped the table with his fist. Savage could only imagine what the interview had been like the previous night with Davies joining in as well. Time for beauty to step in.

‘Richard,’ she said, trying to bring an air of calm to the proceedings. ‘Has anybody told you David Forester is dead?’

‘No!’ Trent put his hands together in front of his opened mouth, as if in prayer. ‘Dead?’

‘Yes. Murdered.’

Trent swallowed and glanced at his brief. Bradley turned to Trent for a moment, her eyes wide, before she returned her attention to Savage.

‘I don’t believe I have been informed who David Forester is. Do you mind if I consult with my client?’

The two heads bent towards each other and a few murmured words passed between them.

‘My client doesn’t know who David Forester is,’ Bradley said, her composure restored.

‘Bollocks!’ Jackson said, ignoring the solicitor and addressing Trent. ‘You do know, and you killed him!’

‘Wait a moment,’ Bradley said, putting her arm out in front of Trent as if shielding him from the accusation. ‘Is this a fresh allegation?’

‘Did you know David Forester, Richard?’ Savage said. ‘It seemed as if you did a moment ago.’

‘I… no. I never met him. Don’t know who he is. I must have seen his name in the papers or on TV.’

‘Wrong answer Mr Know-it-all lecturer,’ Jackson said. ‘The papers never reported his death. You just flunked your finals.’