They made love against the wall.
When it was over, his knees threatened to buckle under him. She smothered his face with kisses, and for several long moments, he bathed in her adoration and the feeling that, once again, it was good to be alive.
Later, in the heat of her bed, fully naked and again spent, he drifted into the untroubled sleep of the exhausted and sated.
*
The insistent trilling of Romney’s mobile phone dragged him slowly up from his state of deep sleep. He fumbled around in the darkness for it, cursing quietly. The station’s number flashed on the panel. Reluctantly, he answered it.
‘Sorry to disturb you, guv,’ said the duty sergeant.
Romney knew immediately that for him to be woken at this time it must be important. ‘What is it, Tony?’
‘There’s been another rape, guv.’ When Romney didn’t immediately answer, the duty sergeant said, ‘It looks like a carbon copy of the attack at the garage last week.’
‘Where? Who’s there?’
The sergeant said that at present only uniform were in attendance. He gave the address.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Get DS Marsh there too.’
He ended the call.
‘I know,’ said Julie, from beneath the duvet. ‘You have to go.’
‘I’m sorry. I really am.’
She reached out a slender warm hand and stroked his face. ‘I understand,’ she said, and he felt that she meant it. ‘Call me, soon.’
*
Despite having thrown water over his face to both wake himself up and rid himself of the residue of his encounter with Julie Carpenter, Romney could still detect the faint musky hint of sex in the air around him. He hoped that this was extremely localised. He stuffed several pieces of gum into his mouth to compensate for it.
A heady blend of emotions swirled inside his head as he drove the few miles to The Dour Nursing Home. He was unable to prevent his thrilling, recent sexual exertions playing out again in his mind. His union with Julie Carpenter was proving to be something of a fantasy realised. Overshadowing this feeling was the spectre of what he was about to encounter at the old peoples’ home.
A second rape. A carbon copy the sergeant had said. The probability that there was a serial rapist in the town concerned him greatly, as he made his way along the hedge-flanked back roads. The only comfort he could derive from that prospect came from the knowledge that those who repeat their crimes were more likely to be caught. Sooner or later a mistake would be made: something left at a crime scene, a neighbour or family member made suspicious. Romney had conceded to Superintendent Falkner that with the Claire Stamp rape investigation they had come to a dead end. If this was a crime committed by the same person then he would have to take whatever it offered for finding the man responsible.
***
21
In the time it took to travel from Julie Carpenter’s home to the crime scene, Romney’s mood underwent the transition from ecstatic to grim. By the time he could see the flashing lights of the emergency services lighting up the sky and surrounding woodland with its pyrotechnic display he was, he felt, somewhere back near to the objective and focussed police officer he needed to be.
Romney’s headlights swept across the scene in front of him, like some swinging searchlight as he rounded the turn in the driveway. He recognised faces as his tyres crunched over the gravel: a uniformed constable from Claire Stamp’s death plunge and a paramedic from the petrol station incident.
He felt their eyes on him as he walked across the pea-beach. Were they thinking that maybe this was partly his fault. That if he were a better policeman none of them would be here, being forced to witness the worst side of Human nature.
A car came swooshing across the stones behind him, like a wave up a shingle beach. Romney caught a glimpse of a tired looking Marsh at the wheel. He waited for her to join him before going in. They didn’t exchange pleasantries.
‘Is it the same man?’ she said.
‘I’ve just arrived.’
As they entered the front door they heard a woman’s raised voice. ‘Take your hands off me.’
She was answered in calm, soothing tones. Rounding the corner of the hallway, Romney and Marsh were confronted by a ghostly apparition of an old woman flailing her feeble arms in her flannelette nightgown at a woman constable who was blocking her descent from the staircase. There was something of an animated Miss Haversham about the woman. Her sparse grey hair had fallen loose from its confinement to swish about her like a skewed wedding veil.
‘Problem, officer?’ said Romney.
The harassed but patient constable said, ‘The lady refuses to go back to her room for the moment, sir.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ shouted the woman at Romney, emboldened by her elevated position on the staircase.
Mustering as much sternness as he was able to in the face of this pathetically sad spectacle, he said, ‘Detective Inspector Romney, madam. Please go back to your room and remain there until someone comes up to speak with you.’
‘You can’t order me about.’
‘I’m not ordering you. I’m asking you, madam. If you come down here, you will be in the way.’
‘That’s right. Get me out of your sight. I’m always in the way. You sound just like my son. Did you stick your mother in a home for the walking dead too?’
‘No, madam.’
‘Arrest me will you?’
‘If we have to,’ chided Romney, gently.
The woman noted his serious expression, turned on her slippered heel and began stomping back up the stairs. ‘Fascist pig,’ she muttered.
‘Are there anymore like her loose down here, Constable?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘See to it that none of them get past you. That’s all I need, a bunch of lunatic geriatrics tearing around.’
The SOCOs in their powder-blue disposable jumpsuits, painstakingly going about their business, always gave Romney a sense of calm and order at a crime scene. He liked the way they worked with silent and focussed purpose, performing their allotted tasks without the need for conversation, engrossed only in their responsibilities.
One of them got up from where they were kneeling and came across to Romney and Marsh. The androgynous form lowered its mask to reveal an attractive young woman. She smiled and said, ‘Hello, Detective Inspector.’
Romney thought her greeting was rather friendly given the occasion, and that he had no idea who she was.
Unflustered by the lack of recognition, the woman said, ‘I’m Diane Hodge. It was me you spoke to about the possibility of there being a saliva sample on that contraceptive packet.’
‘Ah, yes. Sorry. I didn’t recognise you.’
‘No reason why you should,’ she said, smiling widely.
Romney indicated to where her colleagues worked. ‘What happened here? Is it the same man?’
Diane Hodge looked surprised and then pleased to be asked her opinion. ‘It certainly bears the hallmarks of the incident at the petrol station.’
‘Go on.’
‘Right. Two victims, again, one woman was raped, the other – her co-worker – knocked unconscious. She was restrained over the table with electrical cable ties, which appear to be exactly the same as those used at the garage. Same position from what I understand: face down. I believe that he also used a hood. We can’t find any trace of the attacker. I suspect he wore a condom again, but he’s been more careful about what he did with the packaging. He doesn’t seem to have helpfully ripped the top off with his teeth and spat it out for us to find.’
‘Do we know how he got in?’
‘That’s a strange thing. No sign of a forced entry anywhere. He might have walked straight in the front door.’
‘Thank you,’ said Romney.
‘My pleasure.’
If Romney didn’t recognise it, Marsh did. Maybe her woman’s intuition gave her that added edge. Diane Hodge
seemed interested in Romney on more than a professional level.
Romney and Marsh viewed the scene from their temporary exclusion zone, each occupied with their own but similar thoughts. A uniformed officer entered the room behind them. ‘Excuse me, sir.’
Romney recognised the constable beside him as the one who had been at the petrol station. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘The couple who own the place have just arrived.’
Romney and Marsh exchanged a look. ‘Tell them we’re coming.’
It had begun to rain and so the officer had thought it best to ask them into the building, seeing as they owned it. They stood just inside the front door looking frightened and bewildered. Romney made a good job of filling the corridor with his size as he approached them. Marsh trailed in his wake.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Romney. This is Detective Sergeant Marsh. You are the owners?’
‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘Clive and Dorothy Logi.’
‘What’s happened?’ said Mrs Logi.
‘Do you mind telling me who called you?’ said Romney.
‘Peter did. Peter Roper. He works for us on the night shift.’
Romney turned to Marsh. ‘Find out where he is, will you? Hang on.’ Turning back to the couple, he said, ‘How many staff have you got on tonight?’
‘Two. Same as every night,’ said Mr Logi. ‘Peter and Jane Goddard. They do most of our night shifts.’
Romney turned back to Marsh. ‘Both of them.’ When Marsh had left, he pointed in the direction he’d come from and said, ‘We can’t go up there for a while. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘We have rooms here,’ said Mr Logi. He took out a small bunch of keys and went to a door to the left of them. He unlocked it, reached in and flicked on the lights. He stepped aside for his wife and Romney to precede him.
It looked a comfortable little bolt hole, thought Romney. Nicely furnished, creature comforts, magnificent original fittings in the fireplace and panelling of one wall. His eye was drawn to a bookcase where interesting spines stood uniformly to attention encouraging further investigation.
‘Very nice,’ said Romney. ‘Shall we sit?’
The couple sat together and to the front of the settee. Their hands were clasped in front of them. Anxiety distorted their features. Romney took a wing backed chair and slumped down into it. Something caught his eye on his trousers. To his horror, he saw evidence of his recent coupling with Julie Carpenter. Romney quickly covered the stain with his coat. He looked up to glimpse what seemed like a knowing disapproval lurking in Mrs Logi’s expression.
‘What were you told on the phone by...?’ he’d forgotten the man’s name already.
‘Peter,’ prompted Mr Logi.
Marsh entered. They all looked at her. She said, ‘Both have been taken to hospital.’
Fresh concern attached itself to the Logis’ faces.
‘You were saying,’ said Romney.
‘He rang us and said that there’d been an intruder.’
‘What time?’
‘One fifteen. No wait, we set our bedside clock five minutes fast. One ten.’
‘Was that his word, intruder?’
Logi thought. ‘Yes, I’m sure it was.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said there’d been an intruder and that Jane and he had been attacked. He said that he’d phoned the police and that we should get here as quickly as we could. He sounded very frightened. Very shaken. He’s a good lad. They both are. Good I mean.’
Romney said, ‘I don’t want you talking about what I’m going to tell you outside of this room. Is that clear?’ They both nodded. ‘It appears, and I only say appears at the moment, that there was an intruder tonight, that he knocked unconscious the man who works here and then raped Mrs Goddard.’
Mrs Logi inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with both hands.
‘Oh, bloody hell. Poor Jane,’ said Mr Logi. He put his arm around his wife.
‘How many residents do you have?’ said Romney.
‘Sixteen at the moment,’ said Mr Logi.
‘You’ll be wanting to see them,’ said Romney. ‘A constable has been keeping them upstairs. Perhaps you should go and reassure them. They’re quite safe, but they must be made to understand they cannot come down until we say so.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Logi.
Romney said to Marsh, ‘Go with Mr and Mrs Logi. If anyone saw anything useful I want to speak to them. Is the front door locked at night?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Logi. ‘We’re most insistent about that. Residents’ security is of paramount importance.’
They all rose. Romney held his coat across his trousers.
‘Has this got anything to do with that rape at the petrol station?’ said Mrs Logi.
Romney met her frightened stare. ‘I’m not at all sure about that, Mrs Logi, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t share that theory or anything of the details that you will probably find out about tonight.’
The Logis and Marsh moved off towards the staircase. Romney revisited the kitchen. He was standing there thinking when he heard a familiar voice coming from the hallway. He braced himself.
‘Hello, Tom,’ said Superintendent Falkner. Falkner, who appeared to suffer from a total lack of appreciation of the concept of personal space, sidled up to Romney so that their shoulders were touching.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Romney, trying to hide his disappointment at the station chief’s arrival.
Falkner spoke quietly in Romney’s ear. ‘I hate the stink of these places. Cabbage and piss; the odour of God’s waiting room.’
‘What brings you out here, sir?’
‘You know how it is, Tom. Anything with a whiff of serial about it and we’ve all got to look particularly concerned. Talking of whiff, can you smell that?’
‘Smell what, sir?’
‘Sex, Tom. Reeks of it in here.’ Romney drew his coat tighter about him. ‘Same as the other one?’
‘It looks like it, sir. Similar MO, but until we can speak to the victims we won’t know for sure.’
‘You need help?’
‘No, sir. Thank you.’
Romney wasn’t at that stage yet, and he hoped that Falkner wasn’t about to insist. To Romney, asking for or having outside help forced upon one could suggest incompetence on the part of the senior investigating officer, or just as bad, a lack of confidence in him on the part of his senior officer.
‘OK, Tom. I’ll back you for now. I’ll give you a week or until he strikes again, then we’ll have to see. We’ve got to play the game, Tom. You know that. We’ve all got to play the bloody game. Take my advice: stop wasting your time on that suicide. If this does turn serial we’ll all come under scrutiny from Area, and it won’t look good if it seems you’ve been flogging a dead horse, so to speak, while some pervert’s been raping his way around Dover.’ He sniffed the air again. Romney flinched. ‘Right, that’s all. I’m back to bed. See me tomorrow, Tom.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
He breezed out as quickly as he’d blown in, and after a minute Romney was left wondering whether the visit had been a figment of his imagination.
Marsh entered the room and came to stand by him. ‘I thought I heard the super down here, sir.’
‘You did. Just putting in an appearance. Showing his support. Playing his part.’
Marsh sniffed. ‘Can you smell that, sir?’
Romney reddened and felt it. It made him awkward. ‘Don’t you start. Anyone upstairs got anything to say?’
Marsh looked at him strangely. ‘No, sir. Apparently, none of them saw or heard a thing until we arrived.’
‘Well they’ll all need interviewing properly, but that can wait till the morning. Diane?’ he called to the three similar figures. She looked up from under the kitchen table that Jane Goddard had been strapped to and raped. ‘How much longer do you think that you’ll be?’
‘An hour.’
He nodded his thanks and smiled. To Marsh, he said, ‘I’m going home. Tell the Logis not to come in here until this lot have finished with it. Then get off. I’ll organise a uniform to stay here tonight. Nothing else is going to happen, but I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.’
Romney sat in his car and reflected on it all. A serial rapist. In all his years of policing he’d never encountered a serious serial criminal. He hoped that the newspapers didn’t get wind of it.
***
22
‘Hello Peter. I’m Detective Inspector Romney and this is Detective Sergeant Marsh.’
‘Sit yourselves down, won’t you?’ said the lad’s mother. ‘Would you like tea?’
‘Thank you. That would be very kind,’ said Romney.
Romney and Marsh removed their coats and settled themselves into the good leather furniture.
‘How’s the head?’ asked Romney.
‘Sore.’
‘Stitches?’
Peter Roper shook his head. ‘They glued it.’
‘We appreciate you talking to us so soon, Peter,’ said Romney. ‘How do you feel? Must have shaken you up?’
‘I’m OK.’
The youth perched on the sofa opposite the police officers reminded Romney a lot of Carl Park. The same gawky features, spindly limbs, spotty face and aura of apathy. It added to the surreal nature of the similarities surrounding the two rapes. Rapist aside, the fact that both were committed at night and at work premises; both attacks were made on locations where only the victim and a co-worker were present; both attacks used the co-workers – both young men and similar in age, appearance and character – who were forced to restrain the victims before being bludgeoned unconscious. Such similarities should have narrowed the tracking of the assailant significantly. How many people would know the shift and logistical details of the two places of work and the patterns of the employees that went with them? But, so far, even after all their digging around, not one link could be found to tie the two businesses together.
‘We need to know exactly what happened last night. The quicker we’ve got that information, the better our chances of catching whoever is responsible before they do it again.’