Authors: Iain Cameron
With a cool pint of Sussex Best in his hand, he was standing with Gerry Hobbs and Harry Wallop and listening to their banter about Brighton and Hove Albion.
While he was a copper with Strathclyde Police, he spent eighteen months in the Football Intelligence Unit, scanning CCTV pictures of fans at Ibrox Park, Parkhead and Hampden, trying to identify trouble hot-spots and see if he could spot well-know troublemakers that were banned from attending matches by the courts. Even though he could claim attendance at many big matches, cup games, league deciders and internationals, he often didn’t have a clue how the game ended or how well or badly the teams played, as invariably he didn’t get much chance to watch the game.
Before leaving
the pub, he received a call from Chief Inspector Harris. Details of Ferris’s arrest were passed up the line and the Assistant Chief Constable and Chief Constable were delighted and sent their congratulations. However, their mood would change in an instant if they knew over twenty officers were still working on the case, as he had been instructed to dismantle the team and allow everyone to move back to other duties. He wouldn’t do that, couldn’t do that and at the risk of being severely censured or fired, he needed to keep them together to find the person he really believed in his heart, was responsible for both killings.
At Beddingham, they turned off the A27 and headed south towards the sea. From a distance
, the waters of the English Channel sparkled and danced invitingly in the morning sunlight, the tops of waves looking like tiny water nymphs diving in and out of the water but alas it was an illusion. When they moved closer, they could see it was grey, choppy and cold with a biting wind that rocked the car as much as the boats at anchor they could see in the distance.
‘I didn’t know passenger ferries ran from here,’ Walters said as they passed a road sign bearing the symbol of a boat.
‘Carol, how long have you lived in Sussex?’ Henderson said.
‘Five, no six years but I
rarely come down to this neck of the woods.’
‘You mean, you can never get out of bed in time to join any operations
down here because in the last couple of years, I can tell you there’s been plenty.’
‘I was wondering when you
were going to get around to that. You managed to hold your piece for at least fifteen minutes. A woman could never do that.’
‘Why do I always have to wait for you? Your neighbours all wave in sympathy as they think I’m your ex-husband, waiting in the car until you send down the kids. Don’t you own a bloody alarm clock?’
‘If I still had all the alarm clocks I’ve owned over the years, I could start a shop. At present, I own three and I must have gone through another ten in the last year.’
‘Three? Do any of them still work.’
‘Of course.’
‘What have you done to the others?’
‘They were all smashed into a thousand pieces by an irate non-morning woman who objects to being woken up at an ungodly hour by an infuriating alarm noise or some prat of a happy-clappy dj going on about the great programme he watched on telly last night.’
‘There must be a positive use for all that
energy and anger but I just can’t think of it as yet.’
‘Where do the
ferries go?’
‘To Dieppe, in northern France.’
‘I suppose you know all that from sailing.’
‘It's certainly something you need to know if you’re sailing around here as it’s not a good idea to bump into one of these things when you’re out for a leisurely sail as one whack from one of their big propellers and my little boat would
be smashed into a million pieces.’
She was just about to say something when the lady in the sat-nav
unit piped up and ordered them to go left. He made the turn and seconds later the electronic voice said: ‘you have reached your destination.’
‘Is this where he lives
, this retired rapist of little girls, among the bungalows and chalets of the retired and less affluent residents of Newhaven?’
‘It wasn’t what I was expecting either to be honest,’ he said as he pulled up outside number twenty-seven, ‘it looks too normal, too suburban somehow.’
After parking the car close to the house, there were no restrictions here, unlike Brighton where they were growing like mushrooms and making residents feel the local council hated cars, they walked to the front door and rang the bell. Unlike many of the houses nearby which were fitted with wooden-framed doors with large areas of glass, the door of Gregor Lewinski’s house was made of thick oak and looked substantial enough to withstand a siege of Visigoths when they were finished sacking Rome.
A few seconds later, the curtains twitched and Henderson held up his ID card close to the glass for him to see. If he was
being mean, he could have shouted, ‘Police’ loud enough to be heard through the double-glazing, but they wanted this man’s cooperation, not to piss him off and have his neighbours coming round tonight with flaming torches and pitchforks.
A bolt unlatched, then a dead lock and then a Yale lock before the door finally opened. Small, balding
, bespectacled and below average weight, he was Henderson’s idea of a science teacher or the officious council official that occasionally showed up at the shops in the Seven Dials area where he lived to warn the Turkish grocer about littering the pavement with his fruit and vegetable boxes. This innocuous attribute was used to good effect, in what they all hoped was a former life, to lure young schoolgirls into his car before raping them.
He was called
The Rover Rapist, not because he moved around the country but because he drove that particular make of car. He was active for five years and was caught when the story was splashed all over the nationals, his photograph was stuck up on every police station wall and a large manhunt was launched to find him. Naturally, he had aged in the ten years since that infamous mug shot but despite the fading hairline and a multitude of little wrinkles, he was still easily recognisable.
‘Good morning Mr Lewinski, I am Detective Inspector Henderson and this is
Detective Sergeant Walters of Sussex Police. We’d like to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘I’m sure you would rather we have this discussion inside the house rather than out here on the doorstep as you never know who’s listening,’ he said, nodding towards the house next door where he could see an old lady watching them through the window.
‘I suppose so. Come in.’
He pointed the way into the lounge and they heard the door being closed and bolts and locks being applied. In contrast with the staid, strait-laced look of the road outside, the room was bright and modern with light coloured IKEA-style furniture, wooden flooring and a large LCD television hanging on the wall. The officers parked themselves on the grey, corded settee while Lewinski sat down on a straight-backed chair, ignoring the more comfortable-looking padded armchair that was covered in the same material as the settee.
‘Having problems with your back Gregor? I noticed you winced when you sat down.’
‘Didn’t you read my file? I was attacked in Wakefield Prison by two evil bastards who said they wanted to kill me, they damaged three vertebrae and gave me this,’ he said pointing to an ugly scar on the left side of his cheek.
He
had read his file and also knew about the substantial compensation he received from the prison authorities for his injuries, money that more than likely paid for the smartly furnished house they were sitting in now. Originally from Poland, he arrived in the UK in his twenties and despite spending nearly forty years here, he still spoke with a strong Polish accent.
‘So what
the hell do you want? Can’t you leave me in peace? I’ve done my time, forget about me.’
‘Our enquiry concerns the murder of two students at Lewes University last month, you might have heard about it.’
‘I saw it on TV,’ he said nodding towards the LCD. ‘So what’s that got to do with me? You think I did it?’ He said laughing.
‘I didn’t say that, this is merely a routine enquiry. Can you tell u
s where you were on two dates, 7
th
March and 25
th
March?’
‘Why do you coppers always ask that? How the hell would I
know as I don’t keep a diary and you don’t see my personal assistant sitting over there in the corner, do you? Why would I need to keep one anyway, I never go out anywhere except to the supermarket?’
Henderson said nothing, waiting for a more reasoned response.
‘Wait, which day of the week was that?’
‘The 7
th
was a Thursday and the 25
th
a Monday,’ Walters said.
‘Ok. On
Thursday’s I always have my old Polish pals around for a poker night so any of them can vouch for me but on a Monday I’m usually here watching TV alone. No wait, the 25
th
of March you said? That wasn’t last Monday but two weeks before that? Yes?’
‘It was,’ Walters said.
‘I remember now. My neighbour, Billy Carter at number forty-five, invited me to a football match. We went to see Eastbourne Borough play Staines and I still have the programme and the ticket.’ He rose wearily from his seat and for the first time, Henderson noticed the limp.
He handed the ticket to Henderson
. It was a home match for Borough and played at their ground, Priory Lane in Eastbourne, on the other side of Sussex from Preston Park, where Louise was last seen. Was it possible to watch the game and then get over to Brighton to abduct and murder her? It was possible but only if he left before the end of the match.
‘How was the
game? Who won?’
‘It was not as fast as the Premier League that I watch on television but it was still good. Eastbourne won two-
one with a goal late on, so my neighbour was pleased.’
‘What did you do after the game? Did you come straight home?’
‘Billy invited me back to his house and we drank Schnapps until two in the morning. It was a very good night,’ he said, a genial smile creasing his face.
Henderson and Walters
returned to the car five minutes later.
‘I forgot to ask
you before we went in, which one was he?’ she asked as they were driving away.
‘Which one was he,
what?’
‘Is he from the ‘grudge against Dominic Green’ pile or the ‘porn site subscriber’ pile?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘I’d say porn site subscriber.’
‘You’re right. He doesn’t have the money to get tangled up with the likes of Green. In fact, I would imagine all the money he has is tied up in that house.’
‘What did you think of him?’
‘Slimy, greasy, scumbag, take your pick.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t him.’
‘Why, because Ferris is already locked up?’
‘B
ecause he has a limp and can barely walk.’
‘He could be faking it. He walked to
a football match.’
‘He
also has a bad back and that’s well documented, which doesn’t make it likely he carried or dragged a dead girl across a golf course.’
‘True but he could still be faking it. It’s one of the most frequently cited reasons for invalidity benefit fraud.’
‘Ok, but he does have a good alibi.’
‘Which you need to check.’
‘Fine. So what’s your opinion?’
‘We need to be cautious with him as he’s been devious in the past and I wouldn’t be sur
prised if all we saw back there, the limp, the strained back and so on was nothing but a sham.’
‘Getting cynical in your old age now, sir?’
‘I don’t think so. He produced that match ticket a bit quick, as if expecting us to ask for it. It might not be the murders he’s trying to shield us from, as I think the logistics of getting over to Brighton after a match at Eastbourne makes it extremely unlikely that he abducted Louisa, and so his alibi will probably check out, but he might be up to some of his old tricks again. I think I’ll call Lewes nick and ask them to keep an eye on our Mr Lewinski. So, where to next?’
If Henderson thought Newhaven was suburban, the Sussex port couldn’t hold a mug of Horlicks to Saltdean. Row upon row of
white, pink and grey retirement bungalows stretched from cliffs beside the English Channel to the foothills of the South Downs in the distance. The man they had come to see, David Samuels obviously didn’t like a sea view as his bungalow was tucked away within a maze of little streets that looked depressingly similar, and all he could gaze upon from his front window were the bungalows on the other side of the road.
Unlike Lewinski, Samuels
didn’t go in for thick oak doors and multiple locks but he did have a sophisticated alarm system linked to floodlights and after knocking on the door, they could hear the barking of what sounded like a large dog. The door opened slowly and a nervy David Samuels came out and looked closely at their ids with one hand, while holding the thick leather collar of a large, ferocious-looking Alsatian with the other.