‘What is your impression of Mr Trent himself?’
‘Weasely, isn’t he? No confidence. Of course the news came like a bolt out of the blue when he was arrested, but on reflection it figures. Sneaky kind of guy like him. Unattractive. Wife probably keeps her legs shut and I wouldn’t blame her.’
‘So you had suspicions?’
‘No, of course not. I am just saying now you have got him I am not entirely surprised.’
At that point a woman entered the room with a jug of coffee and cups on a tray. Long blonde hair framed a model-like face and a white towelling dressing gown hugged her full-figure. As she walked across the room Riley glimpsed a flash of golden thigh.
‘Ah, Catherine. Meet Chief Inspector Morse and Sergeant Lewis. There has been a murder. Ha, ha, ha!’
Riley introduced himself and Enders and explained the reason for the visit. Mrs Mitchell nodded and poured the coffees. Then she went to sit on the sofa next to Mitchell. The top of her dressing gown fell open and her left breast slipped into view. She made no attempt to cover herself and Riley averted his gaze.
‘Oh come now, Mr Riley. Don’t be shy. My wife isn’t.’
Riley wondered how much longer he would be able to refrain from hitting Mitchell. He was turning out to be an annoying little shit. But then there were a lot of them about these days. Riley turned to Enders, the cue for him to take over the questioning.
‘Mr Mitchell. Do you know a man by the name of David Forester?’
‘David. Forester.’ Mitchell’s face crinkled in puzzlement for a moment. ‘Ah, David Forester. Yes, of course. Nasty guy. Met him at the Snappers. Photography club in Plymouth. Didn’t take to him. He likes young models. Girls. If you get my drift.’ Mitchell patted his wife’s leg. ‘I prefer something a little more mature myself. Ha, ha!’
‘Did he ever come here?’
‘Forester? Good God no. I wouldn’t let scum like him in my house. As I said, I only met him the once.’
‘Mr Mitchell. Your business interests.’ Riley took over again.
‘Ah, I thought it wouldn’t be long before you got onto that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Everybody buys it, everybody uses it, but those of us providing the stuff are viewed as little more than pariahs.’
‘I don’t care what you get up to as long as it is legal. What I want to know is have you ever got involved in harder material? Mock rapes, that sort of thing.’
‘You don’t get it do you? I sell porn, yes. Explicit, yes. But the sex is clean, above board. Your assumption is because I am in the industry I must be a paedophile rapist animal buggerer. It is like me labelling you and your colleague sadistic thugs because of the violent behaviour of a tiny percentage of police officers.’
‘And Forester? Your business had nothing to do with him?’
‘Forester!’ Mitchell shook his head. ‘So if you can’t get me on the dodgy porn you’ll try and link me to some scrote drug dealer? Give me a fucking break.’
‘Mr Mitchell,’ Riley decided to try a change of tack. ‘We had a report of some bright flashes of light from one of your upstairs windows. As if someone was taking photographs in the middle of the night. Can you explain that?’
‘Of course.’ Mitchell seemed unperturbed, got up from the sofa and went to a bureau where he opened a drawer and took out a small camera. ‘I used to make the films, years ago, but now it is cheaper to buy them in. Still, me and the wife, we like to take a few pictures for old times’ sake, don’t we love?’
Mitchell strode across to Riley and showed him the screen on the back of the camera. Riley’s heart beat a little quicker when he saw the screen showed a naked woman tied to a bed, but the bed and the room did not look anything like the scene in Forester’s videos. And the woman was Catherine Mitchell.
Mitchell pressed a button on the camera and another picture appeared. This time Catherine sat topless on the bed. Click. Mitchell himself, naked and tied to the bed. Click, click, click. The pictures streamed by, each one either of Mitchell or his wife. There were ropes, handcuffs, dildos, whips, candles and other paraphernalia, but Riley’s overriding impression was of flesh.
Mitchell was chuckling now and a giggle came from Mrs Mitchell too. When Riley looked across at her she smiled and opened the lower half of her dressing gown; she was wearing nothing down there either. Enders was gawping and Riley began to wonder if they were losing control of the situation. He pushed the camera away and stood up.
‘Mr Mitchell, we would like to take a look upstairs, if you don’t mind.’
‘Because I took a few photographs for my personal use and some peeping tom wanker reported it? Do me a favour.’
‘It is a request, that is all. We can go and get a warrant.’
‘Sorry I do mind.’ Mitchell raised a hand to his forehead, wiping an almost imperceptible bead of sweat away before he continued. ‘Our daughter is upstairs. She has not been feeling well so she slept in our bedroom last night. I would hate for her to be disturbed.’
‘We will be back, Mr Mitchell.’ Riley beckoned to Enders and they left the house to the sound of Mitchell’s raucous laughter.
As they walked to the car Enders was laughing too. Riley gave him a look of disapproval.
‘No, no, boss, this is serious. I need some professional advice. What the hell do I tell the wife when she asks how was my day?’
Riley shook his head. He was more concerned with what he would tell DI Savage. Maybe it might be better to skip over the part with Mrs Mitchell and her dressing gown and only mention the pictures and the fact Mitchell wouldn’t let them upstairs because of his daughter. Then something came to him.
‘Patrick, we need to get back to the station pronto, there is a hunch I want to check. If I am right then I think we might have the bastard.’
Harry woke late and took a shower. Truth be told the shower in the cottage was pretty ineffectual. The water dribbled out like pus from a sore and could hardly clean the dirt away, let alone the shame.
Last night. Again.
Strange, Harry thought, how the problems came the morning after the night before. Like a drunk, he never regretted his actions at the time, sorry came later.
Never mind. He hoped Emma would be OK, but she would need to learn not to be naughty like that.
When he had seen her out of her room he’d gone a bit mad and lost his temper. Guests shouldn’t go nosing about in other people’s houses as if they owned the place. And her seeing him with Lucy, he didn’t like that at all. What she must have thought of him he had no idea, but he reckoned she had been disgusted as well as scared and that was why she tried to run away.
She didn’t get far. At the top of the stairs he had managed to grab her foot and she fell face down on the landing. He forced his body on top of hers, feeling the delicious skin-to-skin contact as she squirmed beneath him. He regretted to admit it but he nearly had her there and then. Shameful, disgusting, but of course Emma was to blame. He hoped she wouldn’t prove too troublesome, but either way there were only another six days and then the process would be done. God had only needed seven days to create the world, true, but Harry reckoned he needed fourteen to clean the girls and get all the badness out of their systems. Two weeks of fruit and water would purify their bodies and then he could test them.
After the business with Emma he couldn’t bring himself to go back down to Lucy for quite a while, worried about what she would say. He knew she would have guessed what had happened, for naked girls did not turn up in the living room unannounced as a general rule.
When he got back to her she sat still and said nothing. Harry decided not to try and explain. He simply kissed her, gave her a quick cuddle and said goodnight.
Goodnight, Harry.
Was the voice in his head Lucy or Trinny?
Lucy, Harry.
Strange. Where had Trinny gone?
She’s gone for good. She left me to deal with you now.
Thank goodness, Harry thought. Then he went to bed, leaving Lucy alone in the living room for the night.
After taking the shower in the morning he thought about getting Lucy up to the bathroom so he could prepare her for her leaving. He had showered in order to save the hot water for her. She was heavy and uncooperative when he carried her up, but she seemed to brighten up a little when he plopped her in the bath.
Nice smell
.
The bath overflowed with bubbles. Harry had tipped in half a bottle of Lucy’s favourite peach infusion.
How sweet of you.
He had wanted to make the occasion special since this was their last day together.
Is it?
Yes. He was sorry it hadn’t worked out.
I am sorry too, Harry. I saw the new girl.
Shit.
Harry felt guilty now and the anger returned. Emma had spoilt things between Lucy and him. He tried to explain to Lucy, but she went all silent and moody. Still, he thought she was listening when he told her he still loved her and that he would never forget her.
Thank you, Harry. I won’t forget you either.
Good. He started to wash Lucy, rubbing the foam all over her and trying to ignore the patches of blue and purple skin.
Harry. The little whore Emma isn’t the one you know?
He hoped Lucy was wrong about that, but he knew he would have to wait and see.
Harry washed her all over and then removed her from the bath. He dried her thoroughly, and because she had been a bit naughty in mentioning Emma he decided to fuck her once more. He moved inside her, trying to be gentle and came with a gasp after only a few seconds. His eyes brimmed with tears as he looked down on Lucy’s face, knowing he would not have her again. He rolled off and then took his sewing kit and did his work, making sure nobody else could have her either.
All this time Harry had had the radio playing a local music station to try and take his mind off things. But just after he finished dressing Lucy, the bitch newsreader went and ruined the whole day.
Mitchell.
The police were closing in on him. The bulletin said Richard Trent had been arrested and the police had questioned his neighbours. Harry wished he had never got mixed up in Mitchell’s little game. If the police got Mitchell they would break him and then Harry knew he would lead them to him. Mitchell would be able to talk his way out of their hands, feed them some candy and fuck them over.
Harry thought Lucy looked worried, but he told her it was going to be OK, that everything would be fine.
Then, because Lucy was leaving, he thought of Trinny. How it wasn’t so fine for her. They had never had the time together she wanted and Harry had to leave her in the cold wood. He was truly sorry for her death and, although beyond his control, he had always thought somebody should pay for it.
He looked at Lucy and saw she was smiling, a great big grin on her face as if she had thought of something ingenious. He asked her what it was.
Mitchell
, she said. Then she told him what to do.
Crownhill Police Station, Plymouth. Wednesday 3rd November. 1.35 pm
Savage moved the phone another six inches away from her ear in an effort to reduce the volume of the tirade coming from the earpiece. Hardin had called ten minutes ago and the bellowing hadn’t stopped long enough for her to get a word in.
‘Results, Charlotte. Yesterday would have been fantastic. Today would be good. By the weekend fucking mandatory. Understand?’
She did and she knew the reason for the anger too. A couple of the Sunday papers had sent reporters down from London looking for titbits and they had been trawling round the city. They had even contacted one of the victims. If any of the papers went front-page with the murders and rapes on Sunday, the Monday morning briefing would be hell. Might be better to call in sick.
Hardin’s rant continued but he began to veer into a more general moan about budget cuts and pressure from above to deliver, and Savage put her mouth on a ‘yes, sir, no, sir,’ autopilot setting, kicked off her shoes and put her feet up on the desk. When Hardin went off on one of his political diatribes the one-sided conversation could continue for a good half an hour.
The return of Riley and Enders to the Major Crimes suite interrupted the rhetoric and Savage cut Hardin short, mentioning a possible new piece of evidence coming to light. Riley stuck his thumbs up and Enders nodded, a big smile painted across his face. Hardin told her to get back in touch. Soonest. Savage hung up and asked Riley what was up.
‘Mr Everett Mitchell is up,’ Riley said.
‘Aye,’ Enders said, ‘and from what we have just seen “up” is how he likes it. Priapic. A permanent condition.’
‘There’s the wife as well. She is, ah, well you might say she is not shy about coming forward.’
‘Darius is right, ma’am. Mrs Mitchell is a bit of a stunner. No. I meant to say she is quite a lady. Well, maybe lady isn’t the right–’
‘I don’t do cryptic, Sergeant Riley and Constable Enders,’ Savage said. ‘Could you please tell me in plain English what the hell you two are talking about?’
Riley explained about what happened with the camera and Mitchell’s refusal to allow them upstairs.
‘Well, I don’t think I would want a couple of strange men snooping around my house if Samantha was tucked up in bed. Maybe his daughter really
is
ill.’
‘I somehow doubt it, ma’am.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I did some checking and Mr and Mrs Mitchell don’t have any children.’
‘Well, well, looks like Mr Mitchell just perjured himself. The only thing worrying me is his eagerness to show you those pictures.’
‘I can tell you, ma’am, it worried me too!’
‘No. What I mean is you said the room in the pictures did not match the room in Forester’s videos.’
‘Those houses are four beds, ma’am.’ Enders this time. ‘They might have a special room for that kind of stuff. Lots of couples do.’
‘Do they?’
‘Well, no, I mean not me and the wife. We haven’t got the space, not with–’