Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Page 18

  ‘I’d have killed him,’ she whispered. ‘I’d have killed him if he’d touched my little boy.’

  Jane Carter took the female paramedic aside. ‘We have a rape suite at the station with a doctor,’ she said softly. ‘She’ll get full medical attention there but also, if she has been assaulted, it’s the best place to hear her story and gather evidence. It’s completely private and all the doctors are female.’

  The paramedic nodded. ‘Can she take the child?’

  ‘Of course. We’ve got female constables trained in this sort of thing. I’ll call one now.’

  ‘All right. But we’ll stay with her until the doctor arrives.’ The paramedic turned back to the woman, who still sat clutching her child, her arms trembling with shock. She held out a blanket. ‘Lizzie, my love, we’re going to take you to a doctor, all right? She’ll check you over and see you’re all right. You can bring your son too - have a ride in the ambulance, ok? Look out of our special windows - would you like that, Davy? Just like on TV. And this policewoman’s coming with us to keep us all safe.’

  Several hours later, DS Jane Carter briefed Terry Bateson on what she had learned at the rape suite. Jane looked tired, but fired with a grim determination that gave her energy. She paced up and down as she spoke.

  ‘The good news first, if there is any in a crime like this. She wasn’t raped or badly beaten in any way. Just a few bruises on her neck and arms from the struggle. And the shock, of course. That’s what’s really going to take time to get over. If she ever does, that is.’

  ‘And the little boy?’

  ‘He wasn’t touched as far as we know. His name’s Davy, his mum’s Lizzie - Elizabeth Bolan. She’s a single mum, apparently; Davy’s dad left a couple of years ago. Lizzie’s an accountant - works from home on her computer, she says. Anyway, this afternoon she’d been for a run on the Knavesmire - despite all the warnings we’ve issued over the past week - then came back in time for a shower before the neighbour brought her kid back from playschool. They take it in turns, apparently, alternate days. She was drying herself in front of the mirror when she saw a face peering over her shoulder. Not a normal face - something awful. She spun round and saw a man in her bedroom, near the door. He was wearing a sort of thin black anorak with the hood pulled up, and under the hood was a mask - the Scream! mask, she says, from that painting by Munch.’

  ‘My God,’ Terry said softly. ‘No wonder she was shocked.’

  ‘He wasn’t just wearing a mask - he was wearing gloves as well. And he had a sort of rope or cord in his hands. She thinks it was her dressing gown cord. He came round the bed towards her, holding it out. She was petrified, poor woman.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. What happened then? He didn’t rape her, you say?’

  ‘No. He told her to strip - she was only wearing a towel anyway - and wrapped the cord round her neck. He twisted it tight so she couldn’t breathe and held her in front of the mirror like that. His face in the mask leering over her shoulder, hers going red as she struggled for breath. She thought she was going to die. But then he pulled her back towards the bed, and she panicked and started fighting to get away. She clawed at the cord with her hands, and grabbed his mask as well by mistake, pulling it sideways so he couldn’t see. She didn’t mean to do that, but that’s probably what saved her, she thinks.’

  ‘She didn’t get a look at his face?’

  ‘No. But he loosened his grip on the cord to try and get the mask straight, so he could see probably, and she wriggled free and started throwing things at him, anything she could lay her hands on, she says - perfume, pictures, whatever. Then she snatched a pair of scissors from her chest of drawers. She held them in front of her and said she’d stab him if he touched her again.’

  ‘Brave woman,’ Terry said. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Well, it stopped him for a second, apparently, and she thought she might escape out the door, but he was standing in front of it. Then she realised he had a sort of hunting knife in a sheath at his waist and he was just about to pull it out when she heard the door open and her little boy calling from downstairs. And that scared her more than anything, she says, because she thought he might harm her little Davy. So she screamed at Davy to watch out, and then her neighbour shouted back up the stairs to ask if everything was all right. That’s when the intruder took flight and ran. That’s the last she saw of him. He went straight downstairs and out of the house. Then the neighbour came upstairs with Davy, she put on her dressing gown, and they rang 999.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ Terry said softly. ‘How is she now?’

  ‘Traumatized, as you’d expect. The hospital are keeping her in overnight. For observation, they say. Her kid’s staying with his granny in Heworth. Lizzie wanted to take him home, but I told her the SOCOs would still be there - tomorrow as well as today probably. And she’ll feel safer knowing her mum’s looking after him. Anyway she needs to sleep.’

  ‘She’s a lucky lady,’ Terry said. ‘Plucky, too. If she hadn’t fought back ... and if the neighbour hadn’t turned up just when she did ...’

  ‘She’d have stabbed him, sir. That’s what she kept saying, over and over. No doubt in her mind at all. If he went for that knife she’d have stabbed him with those scissors. Not so much for herself, but for her kid.’

  ‘Well, good for her.’ Terry grimaced, imagining the scene. ‘Maybe that’ll help her get over it. To think she fought back, and won.’

  ‘It’ll help even more if we catch him.’

  ‘Quite. This looks like attempted murder, with the cord,’ Terry said. ‘Attempted rape, too, presumably.’

  ‘Well, obviously it looks like it, doesn’t it? The way he pulled her back towards the bed. But ... her real fear was that he was going to kill her. She said he was muttering something as he held her in front of the mirror - something about being ugly, she thinks - but with the mask on she couldn’t really hear what he was saying. She wasn’t focussing on it anyway - she was in a panic, thinking she was going to die.’

  ‘Of course.’ Terry pondered for a moment. ‘Ugly, she thinks? That’s a strange word to use, in the circumstances. Do you think he meant her, or him?’

  ‘Who knows. The point is, he’s a dangerous maniac.’

  ‘And he wasn’t just a burglar who thought the house was empty. He broke in, looking for her.’

  ‘Almost certainly. After all, it was the middle of the day - he had no reason to expect the house would be empty. She’s a single mum, and works from home. Which he would have known, if he’d done any research.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have worn the mask if he’d thought the house was empty. He had the gloves too, and the knife, though thank God he didn’t use it. He knew what he wanted, and went there looking for her. At a time when he thought her kid wasn’t there.’

  Terry nodded in agreement. Both, inevitably, were thinking the same thing. ‘And since she was out jogging, he may even have followed her home. On his bike.’

  Jane shuddered. ‘It’s creepy. You know, when I was a girl, I didn’t believe there were men like this. Women don’t do these things.’ She scowled at him accusingly.

  ‘Nor do 99% of men,’ Terry replied. ‘Come on now, sergeant, we’re dealing with a seriously weird individual here. And it looks more than likely it’s the same one we’ve come across before.’

  ‘You think it’s Peter Barton, don’t you?’ Jane asked.

  ‘More than likely,’ Terry said. ‘There’s too many similarities to ignore. Single mother, alone in the house. He came and went on a bike, the house backs onto the Knavesmire where there are cycletracks everywhere. He didn’t take any trophies this time, but then he didn’t get much chance.’

  ‘It has to be Peter,’ Jane said. ‘Maybe this time the SOCOs can prove it.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Terry said. ‘In that struggle, he must have left a trace somewhere, however careful he was. I’ve already been to his work, the young bastard, but he didn’t turn up today. No one knows why. So I think we
should pay another visit to his mother, don’t you? And talk to anyone else who’s had anything to do with the nasty little pervert. We’ve got to find this lad, sergeant, and soon. Before we have another assault on our hands. It could be murder, next time.’

  27. Gone to Ground

  ‘HE’S NOT here,’ the woman said, peering at them round the half-open door. ‘And you’re not welcome.’

  ‘We have a search warrant, Mrs Barton.’ Terry waved it under her nose.

  She studied the document suspiciously, still propping the door half shut. It was the second time in a month that the police had visited her house. ‘So? Search for what?’

  ‘Evidence.’ Terry put his hand on the door. ‘We’re investigating a serious arrestable offence and have reason to believe there may be material on these premises relevant to our inquiry. So please let us in.’

  ‘My Pete’s done nothing. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Wasn’t where?’

  ‘Wherever you say he was. He was home here with me.’

  Terry eyed the woman with contempt. He pushed back the door and squeezed past her into the narrow hallway. Her protests came sharp in his ear. ‘Just because he’s slow, doesn’t make him nasty. It’s a free country, he can do what he likes.’

  ‘Not if it involves assaulting defenceless women,’ Terry said, heading for the stairs. ‘Look, Mrs Barton, we’re investigating a serious crime here. Not just a naughty boy stealing some knickers, not any more. A woman was nearly raped in her own home. Would you like that to happen to you?’

  ‘Threatening me now, are you?’

  ‘No, just asking you to think. If your son did this he should give himself up, right now. Before something worse happens.’

  ‘Probably asked for it, the slag.’

  Terry shook his head in despair. ‘No, she didn’t. This happened in her own home, to a decent young mother with a child. The man who did this is dangerous and probably sick.’

  ‘Well then, it’s not my Peter.’

  ‘No? Then why did he attack those other women?’

  ‘He didn’t. You stitched him up.’

  ‘Let’s ask him then, shall we? Where is he now?’

  ‘At work, of course. Where else?’

  ‘No he’s not. We went there and asked. Hasn’t been in for two days.’

  ‘No? Well, he’s sick.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Lying upstairs in bed, is he?’

  ‘No. Sick of you, more like. Pestering him about that girl. You scared him witless!’

  Terry turned, halfway up the staircase. ‘So he’s not here?’

  ‘Look for yourself. Maybe he’s under the mattress.’

  Terry shrugged and went on up the stairs. If Peter Barton had run away, it was a further indication of guilt. The boy’s bedroom was much as Jane Carter had described from her earlier visit. The black curtains, the red light bulb, the posters of big breasted fantasy women were all there, with the hunting knives pinned up beneath them. The curtains were drawn, the windows were closed, there was a stale, unpleasant smell. Two porn mags lay open on an unmade, rumpled bed. Shoes, clothes and cigarette ash were strewn across the floor. Several drawers were open as if clothes had been taken out.

  For half an hour they searched diligently. Under the bed, in the drawers, in the pockets of his clothes. They lifted the carpet and looked for loose floorboards. They lifted the mattress and checked inside the pillowcases and duvet cover. They flicked through magazines and picked up clothes from the floor. All the time Mrs Barton hung in the doorway, smoking and jeering at them.

  ‘Put it back neat and tidy, won’t you? Take me hours to clear up the mess you make.’

  ‘We’ll leave it just as we found it,’ said Terry, dropping a grubby teeshirt on the floor. ‘Where’s he gone, anyway?’

  ‘Told you, I don’t know. And if I did I wouldn’t tell you.’

  Jane climbed on the bed, leaned across to the top of the wardrobe, and let out a whoop of triumph. ‘Guv?’ she said. ‘Look at this.’ A plastic facemask dangled from a string in her hand. It was a Dracula figure. Fake blood dripped from fangs, vacant eye sockets leered at Terry grotesquely.

  ‘Is this your son’s?’ Terry asked.

  ‘Might be. So what?’

  ‘This woman’s attacker wore a mask.’

  ‘So? You can buy ‘em in the costume shop. People hire ‘em for parties.’

  ‘Go to a lot of parties, does he, your son?’

  ‘He’s been to a few.’

  ‘Bag it up,’ Terry said to Jane. ‘What about the knives then? And the survival magazines? Are those normal interests?’

  ‘Normal to some. It gets him out of the house.’

  ‘What about his friends? He must have some.’

  ‘A few. Lads from work, friends from school.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Don’t remember. Not my business.’

  ‘Oh come on, Mrs Barton! You must know some of your son’s friends.’

  ‘They’re his friends, not mine. Don’t talk to me anyhow.’

  ‘Look, love, he’s already skipped bail,’ Terry said grimly. ‘If he’s got nothing to hide, he ought to hand himself in. The longer he stays on the run, the worse all this gets.’

  ‘If I see him, I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Does he have a mobile? Can you call him on that?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t got one.’

  ‘Must be the only lad in the country who hasn’t, then. Mrs Barton, you’re lying to protect your son.’

  ‘Can you tell me a better reason for lying? He’s a decent lad, I tell you! He didn’t do none of these things.’

  They went back to Peter Barton’s work to interview his colleagues. They were less obstructive than his mother, but little more helpful. He was a loner, they said, with few friends. He did his job, talked little, kept himself to himself. The only person who seemed to know much about him was an underchef called Roger Clark. He was a short, wiry man in his mid thirties. He had a short, military style haircut, a deep barrel chest and muscular arms with a snake’s head tattoo on his left bicep. He stared at Terry suspiciously.

  ‘Peter? Yeah, what d’you want with him?’

  Terry studied the man thoughtfully. ‘People say you’re a mate of his.’

  ‘Me?’ The man laughed. ‘Daft git. I’m not his mate. I took pity on him, that’s all.’

  ‘Why pity?’

  ‘Have you met him? Then you’ll know.’ The man shook his head slowly. ‘We get a few like him in the army. They don’t last long. Lots of tough ideas, soft as butter underneath. No idea what the real world’s about. Say boo too loud and he’ll shit his pants.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘His magazines, his hobbies. He knew I’d been in the army, we talked about that.’

  ‘His hobbies being what, exactly?’

  ‘Survival. Military stuff, weapons, living rough, that sort of thing. Kid’s stuff, really. He had these books about the SAS - he showed me once.’

  ‘You encouraged him, did you?’ Terry asked. ‘Told him stories of military life?’

  ‘Do me a favour. I was in the catering corps, me, snug and warm in the kitchen. Think I want to crawl around in mud and shit with guys trying to blow your head off? No thanks. But Peter, yeah. That’s what he’s interested in - or thinks he is. Goes off at weekends, stalking people, spying on them, or so he claims. In the woods, on the moors. Lives rough at night, so he says. Got a hideout somewhere.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Sorry, no idea. His big secret, that is. Just grinned when I asked.’

  ‘But he’s left home now. His mum won’t say where he’s gone.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ The man shrugged. ‘Gone to ground then, I guess.’

  Terry looked out of the window. It was cold, damp, windy. At four thirty it was almost dark. ‘You really think he might be living rough? At this time of year?’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past him. If you lot are after him, might
be all the motivation he needs. He’d see it as a game. Peter Barton against the world.’

  Especially against women, Terry thought. They’re the victims in all this. ‘What about girls? Does he talk about them?’

  ‘Peter? No, not much. Doubt if he’d know where to start, to be honest with you. Is that his problem, then? That why you’re looking for him?’

  ‘He’s been pestering women.’ Terry gave a few details of the assault on Lizzie Bolan. ‘So if it was Peter who did this, we need to find him urgently before he does it again. Or something much worse. You see the point?’

  ‘Sure.’ The man shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘But there’s not much I know. Like I say, he loved secrets. Made him feel big, I guess. Though if he was doing that to women ...’ He shook his head. ‘Not something you’d boast about, is it?’

  ‘He never mentioned that to you? About his arrest, I mean?’

  ‘Not a word. Poor sick bugger. I can see him pinching knickers, but that other - you wouldn’t think he’d have the guts.’

  ‘It may not be him; until we’ve found him we don’t know. What about his mobile, can you ring him on that?’

  ‘Sorry, no. Don’t think he had one. He’s not like, talkative, this lad. Probably hasn’t got anyone to ring.’

  ‘So where might he be?’

  The man studied the ground for a moment, thinking. ‘Look, if he’s really done these things, I’d help you, ‘course I would. Though I can’t see it myself. He’s all bluff, just a jelly inside.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘He comes to work, he does his job, hardly speaks to anyone. Only reason he speaks to me is because I feel sorry for him. But where he goes after that, I haven’t got a clue. He may have friends I don’t know, though I doubt it. Maybe he’s got a hideout in the country ... though at this time of year, be bloody cold, wouldn’t it? Or a squat somewhere in town. I could see that, him fantasizing about being a spy on the run, that sort of thing. But where, I couldn’t tell you.’

  Stumped, Terry and Jane drove back to Bishopthorpe Road. The young woman, Lizzie Bolan, had gone to stay with her mother. Blue and white police tape sealed off house and garden. Neighbours walked past along the street, rubbernecking at the white overalled SOCO team who were packing up their equipment for the day. Terry talked to the team leader, Sergeant Dave Tanner.