S. Bolton - Dead Scared

It was over, the killer caught and locked away, but as any officer who deals with violent crime will tell you, emotional closure doesn’t happen overnight.

I’d thought I was coping. The truth was I’d kept myself so busy I hadn’t had time to think of it. I’d been staying up late, only risking sleep when I was exhausted; I’d been exercising hard because being in control of my body had given me the illusion of being in control of my life. Now, the support structure of routine and familiarity had been stripped away and I was drifting in a sea of vague concerns and half-formed problems. I was getting too much time with no company but the contents of my own head.

I was starting to get seriously cold by this time and decided to head back. I turned round and stared, almost in awe.

The day had been cold and the sky clear, and the sunset was the dark orange of ripe fruit, an unbroken wash of colour that stretched as far as I could see. The river in front of me shimmered like light on a polished old sovereign. Breaking the two swathes of gold were the silhouettes of the trees on the far bank, layer upon layer of deep brown, glossy black and soft charcoal. Beyond the trees and directly ahead of me, like a castle from a fairy tale, were the four pinnacles of King’s College Chapel.

As I watched, a boat drew up alongside me; a long, narrow sheaf of fibreglass that couldn’t possibly be strong enough to support the two men perched on top of it but somehow was managing to do so. The oarsmen – they had two oars each so I guess, strictly, they were scullers – slowed the boat and then, with the grace and precision of a ballerina, turned it on the spot. They barely disturbed the water.

And I remembered. Rough, calloused hands on my bare shoulders. Hit it , he’d said, meaning let’s go and then swing it , meaning we’ve come to a bend and have to turn. Both were rowing terms. The long-haired bloke from last night was an oarsman.

I’d have to hurry. I cycled back towards college and found my car. Ten minutes later I was making my way on foot down to the St John’s boathouse. Only one crew, the women’s coxed fours, had returned.

The men’s coxed fours came back next, glowing pink with the cold and the exertion. They drifted to the bank, climbed out and lifted the boat from the river. None of them was the man I was looking for.

The women’s eight came back and then the men’s appeared from round the river’s bend. They came at a fast pace, only letting up at the last second, and the boat struck the bank hard. One by one they climbed out, visibly tired, hair dank with sweat. I got up and slipped away to the front of the boathouse where I knew that, eventually, after showering and changing, they’d emerge.

I’d found him. The hair, even slick with sweat and river water, was unmissable. He’d rowed in stroke position, at the front of the boat, the team member who was traditionally the strongest and who set the pace for the entire boat.

Twenty minutes later, when I’d spent so much time clenched up and shivering I was in pain, he came out. He was wearing jeans, suede boots and a thick hooded sweater. His hair was dry now and looked exactly how I remembered. What I hadn’t realized the previous night was that he almost certainly wasn’t an undergraduate student. This man was in his mid to late thirties, a post-graduate, possibly, more likely a tutor or a lecturer. I watched him walk up the road, climb inside a red Saab convertible and drive away.

I followed, allowing at least two cars to stay between us. In the city, I had to concentrate hard to keep up with him but once we left town it became easier.

Would a lecturer really dress up like Zorro, break into student accommodation and assault a young female just for fun? Somehow, that didn’t strike me as too likely.

We were heading east out of Cambridge along an A road and I was just starting to wonder how long I could reasonably tail him when he indicated left and turned off the main road. I followed and, a few minutes later, saw the red Saab turn into the main road of an industrial estate.

It was early evening by now and I pulled over by a large sign listing the various units housed on the estate. A quick count told me there were around fifty or so. The Saab had turned into a smaller side road a couple of hundred yards ahead.

Most of the units I could see around me had been constructed in the last ten years. They were warehouse-type spaces mainly, with corrugated steel walls and gently sloping apex roofs. Most had massive cargo doors. Several had windows at second-storey level, indicating office space or possibly showrooms. Some of the units were brick-built, shabby and obviously much older. Peeling paintwork and faded fascia signs told me a few were probably vacant.

I set off again, turned into the side road and slowed to a crawl. The Saab was parked at the far end. I watched the long-haired oarsman stride the few steps to the front door of the unit and let himself inside. I turned the car and drove back to the sign at the estate’s entrance. My quarry had gone into Unit 33, JST Vision.

There was a small cul de sac just a few yards away, one used for turning lorries, I guessed. I reversed my car into it and was almost hidden from the bigger road by some overhanging trees. Behind me was a sign leading to a riverside public footpath. I waited thirty minutes and decided, personal vendetta or not, I couldn’t really justify spending my evening in the car. So I pulled out my phone.

‘DC Stenning,’ said the voice that could always bring a smile to my face.

‘Pete, it’s Lacey.’

‘Good God, Flint, what are you doing? We were told you’d gone deep, deep, deep.’

‘I am,’ I said. ‘I need a favour. No questions asked. Can you help?’

‘Go on,’ he drawled and I knew he wasn’t sure. The case we’d worked on last autumn had got me the reputation of something of a wild card. Pete Stenning, on the other hand, was as straight as they came. I could practically hear him wondering what I was getting him into.

‘Romeo Echo Five Nine,’ I said. ‘Golf Tango Lima. Red Saab convertible. I need to find out who it’s registered to and where he lives.’

Silence for a second, just as I’d expected. The system records all such enquiries. If Stenning traced any vehicle without good reason, he could find himself in trouble.

‘Do it with my details,’ I said, giving him my log-in name and password.

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘Are we talking beer or sexual favours?’

‘Oh, like I’m going to mess with Joesbury,’ came back Stenning. ‘How is he, by the way?’

‘On sick leave as far as I know,’ I said. ‘Will you do it?’

‘Hold on, system’s a bit slow today. OK, here we go. Nice car, by the way. Registered to a Scott Thornton. 108 St Clement’s Road, Cambridge. You’re in Cambridge?’

‘If you tell anyone we had this conversation, it’ll be shit that I’m deep in, Pete.’

‘I won’t. Now, whatever you’re up to, be bloody careful.’

TWENTY-TWO MINUTES AFTER getting home from work, Evi could no longer resist the temptation that had been nagging away at her for days. She opened up Facebook, typed Harry Laycock into the search engine and waited. The system churned and … of course he was on Facebook, anyone as hip as Harry was bound to be.

Harry Laycock, Anglican minister, with 207 friends. His birthday was 7 April. She hadn’t known that. The photograph was one she hadn’t seen before: outdoor clothes, mountains in the background. The system invited her to send him a message. Evi closed the page down.

She opened up her mail account and the email message she’d received earlier from the policewoman. She wanted details of students who’d attempted suicide in the last five years. Easier said than done. Nick hadn’t exactly been encouraging that afternoon. And his was one of twenty GP surgeries in Cambridge, each of which was likely to have a number of the 22,000 student population on its patient base. Each surgery operated independently. Data was rarely shared and patient confidentiality was sacrosanct. Anything she did find, she couldn’t pass on to the policewoman without risking her entire career.