Raw material, p.1
Raw Material, page 1
part #2 of Beatrice Stubbs Series
RAW MATERIAL
JJ MARSH
Copyright © 2012 by JJ Marsh
Kindle Edition
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
Cover design: JD Smith
Published by Prewett Publishing.
All enquiries to admin@beatrice-stubbs.com
First printing, 2012
ISBN 978-3-9523970-5-3
Chapter 1
Twenty minutes after the alarm blasted her out of a profound sleep, Fernanda dragged on her uniform and locked the flat. Her eyes were open but yet to wake. She trudged down the path in the dark, squeezed past the wheelie bins and out onto Biggerstaff Street. The cleaning contractors’ depot was a good half hour away. Thirty minutes walking in the cold would liven her up, as it did every morning. Not much movement on Fonthill Road. She gave a long, creaking yawn, before getting into a determined stride towards the Tube station. Her teacher had taught the class a new expression this week – no rest for the wicked. She liked that. Sounded like there was some fun involved.
Despite her fatigue, her main feeling was one of relief and optimism. Luis would sleep until she returned. His fever had broken and now came the easy part. And Rui could answer any fretful calls. He was a caring man. A fine father and such a kind husband, insisting she go to bed at midnight and taking over the watch. She was grateful; three hours’ sleep was better than none.
The railway bridges loomed above and Fernanda picked up her pace. These new lights meant you could see the length of the tunnel, check there was no one waiting in the shadows – no one following some paces behind – and relax as you walked. Fernanda never relaxed. She scurried under those bridges as fast as she could without running. Denim on her inside legs brushed a regular beat, while her heels ticked in syncopation. The street lights at the other end beckoned her to safety and her breathing was short. She was awake now – eyes, ears, everything. Clearing the last of the bridges, some of her tension dissolved and she began to climb the ascent to the main street. That was when she heard the voice.
“Hello. I’ve been waiting for you.”
She snapped around, her breath tiny, fearful puffs. There was no one behind her. The sodium light created shadows on the banks rising from the underpass, but she could be sure no human shape hid there. Electric pulses buzzed through her, even between her fingers. She turned and began hurrying away, just short of a run.
“Aren’t you even going to say hello?”
She whipped back, the voice so close, so intimate. A light clicked on. Her eyes flew upwards. Balanced on the railway bridge, above the security camera, a man stood with a torch in his hand. A baseball cap kept his face in darkness, but his naked white thighs and abdomen were exposed in the torchlight. One hand provided the illumination, the other worked rhythmically at his groin. The images took their time to reach Fernanda’s consciousness. He grunted, like Luis passing a stool, and something spat onto the tarmac near her feet. These random elements connected in her frightened mind and she realised what she was watching.
Her stomach contracted and bile rose. She turned to run, tears of shame filling her eyes, when she heard his satisfied voice.
“Thank you, darling. See you tomorrow?”
She finally stopped running on Seven Sisters Road and vomited at a bus stop. The birds were singing.
Chapter 2
Surf and snoring, in a perfect call and response rhythm. Soughs and sighs, breaths and breakers. Deeply soothing. The creaking of the wooden ceiling added an irregular percussion to the symphony. Nothing could be more conducive to relaxation. A long weekend by the sea, Matthew asleep by her side and an excellent forecast for the day. Beatrice looked at the clock. 05.03. She’d slept a full six hours. The sea air must be having the right effect.
She shifted onto her side and gazed at the moonlit contours of Matthew’s profile. The slope of his forehead, bulb of his nose and bump of his chin were striped with pale grey; eye sockets, cheeks and mouth in shadow. She squeezed her eyes almost shut and wondered, if his profile were not so dearly familiar, what he would look like. The chiaroscuro hinted at Radcliffe’s murderous monk, or Bronte’s brooding Heathcliff, or a lantern-jawed swashbuckler called Cliff Hanger ... He stopped snoring. His eyes remained closed as he spoke.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“I was imagining you as the hero of a Gothic romance.”
He opened his eyes, looked past her to the digits on the clock and returned his blinking gaze to her. “How did I do?”
“Marvellously. Murder, passion and swordfights, but tragically you fell off a cliff.”
“Could be worse. Can’t you sleep?”
“No, but you can. I’ll get up and read awhile. It’ll be light soon.” She threw back the heavy eiderdown and dragged on her bathrobe. Cool air chilled her ankles.
Matthew heaved himself up on his elbows to look out of the window. “It could be a glorious sunrise. Should we get down to the beach and carpe diem quam minime credula postero?”
“What a lovely idea! I’ll go along with the seizing the day bit, but I’m afraid I insist on keeping my belief in the future.”
He stretched and yawned. “As you’ve just fantasised about pushing me off a cliff, that sounds rather ominous.”
“I didn’t push you, you fell.”
“That’s what they all say.” His martyred expression, in the half-dark, made Beatrice snort with laughter.
The expedition was precarious. Although the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path was immaculately kept, it was intended for those who walked by daylight. A bright flash in the sky made them both stop and listen for thunder, but none followed. Probably car headlights on the other side of the bay. Being caught in a storm in the dark on top of a Welsh cliff ... Beatrice could imagine the ‘stupid tourist’ headlines.
Birdsong anticipated the dawn, yet the sandy path and its attendant obstacles were lit by nothing more than the moon and Matthew’s Maglite. Beatrice appreciated the faint glow as she navigated the metal steps leading down to the bay. The scent of surf hit her at the same time as the saline dampness in the air. Her hair would be uncontrollable. She dismissed the thought and embraced her irrational excitement at the pull of the sea. When they finally reached the sandy cove, Beatrice slipped off her shoes, wriggling the cold, damp grains between her toes. She hunched her shoulders against the wind and smiled at Matthew.
“I feel practically pagan.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, my love, but at this moment, you look it.”
Beatrice laughed and moved into his arms to watch the paling moon, its reflection in constant flux with the restless sea. The white tips of the waves, black headland, and opalescent moon gave the impression of a silver lithograph in motion. As the sky expanded, the sea began changing from black to grey, as if someone were adjusting a monitor. The density of the cliffs took on shapes, a large mass separated and became individual rocks, and clouds on the horizon basked in rosy light. Vapour trails scored the growing saffron glow from behind the cliff. The smoky swirls of clouds, the immense canvas of colour, the shades of hope and morning inevitably brought Turner to mind. Beatrice resolved to visit the Tate on her return home. As the sun hit the sea, flashes of precious metals refracted back to the beach. Coarse calls of seabirds announced the start of the day.
“Worth getting out of bed for, I’d say,” Matthew murmured. “Would you pass me the camera?”
She rooted in her bag and handed him the dinky device. “You won’t do it justice.”
“Certainly not. But I might be able to capture the essence of pagan Stubbs. Look at me.”
Beatrice did so, her smile already in place. He stood in the sand, legs apart, took a shot, fiddled with the settings and took another. His hair blew upward in a spectacular peak, tipping his appearance towards the rakish.
“My turn,” she called, and caught a couple of inexpert shots on her phone. Matthew with mad hair, the sunlit beach, a boat in the distance and a seagull overhead. Perfect.
They compared results. Beatrice was unimpressed with her photogenic qualities – the face of an ancient Celtic warrior in a jumper from British Home Stores.
Matthew examined the small image of himself on the screen. “Oh dear.”
Her stomach gurgled. “Yes. Photographic proof that Professor Bailey has bad hair days. Now, shall we head back? I’ve worked up a tremendous appetite.”
“How unlike you. Would you put the torch in your handbag? I’ll hang onto the camera.”
“You use me like a pack horse.”
“I think of you more as a kangaroo. A female with a handy pouch.”
They retraced their route back up the metal steps, which was brighter, warmer and far steeper. Conversation was limited to the odd grunt as they neared the top. On their final ascent, a vehicle stopped on the lane above. Seconds later, a hooded youth appeared, making his way downwards. His face was barely visible. Hot and out of breath, Beatrice offered no more than a nod as he passed. A sudden wrench threw her sideways and she slipped down several step
“Beatrice! Are you hurt? What happened, did you fall?”
“My bag! Matthew, he’s got my bag!”
Beatrice lay awake, frowning.
I always like talking to drivers and people when I’m here. Very Welsh thing.
It was 03.22, pitch dark, and a line from her book looped through her mind. Beside her, Matthew slept the sleep of the just.
I always like talking to drivers and people when I’m here. Very Welsh thing.
Amis was right; she wouldn’t have the time or inclination to make small talk in London, but as soon as she was on holiday – bar staff, shopkeepers, taxi drivers – she became loquacious in the extreme.
Especially with that policeman. PC Johns of the Fishguard force had stayed a good hour, drinking tea and comparing notes on their respective jobs. Someone had found her handbag in a rubbish bin and taken it to the station. PC Johns kindly returned it to its owner and with the proud air of achieving a precedent, said it was the first case of physical mugging he’d ever seen. Beatrice rifled through her bag, which looked considerably more battle-scarred than when she’d last seen it. Apart from eighty pounds in cash, nothing was missing. A friendly sort of chap, with a steady sense of procedure, PC Johns ensured the paperwork was complete before accepting Earl Grey and a Hobnob and asking fascinated questions about life with the Met.
Beatrice sighed, pondering the experience once more. A mugger, on a remote Welsh beach just after dawn. Did bad luck simply follow her around? Why them? Why then? Local hoodies preying on dopey tourists. The first case of physical mugging I’ve ever seen. No, it made no sense at all. Assaulting someone on cliff steps was foolhardy in the extreme. A simple bag-snatching could result in serious injury to either party, or even a fall and subsequent murder charge. It was personal. That hoodie wanted her handbag and took an extreme risk to get it. What on earth for? Her eyelids drooped. Matthew’s breathing had a soporific effect, so Beatrice ordered her mind onto standby and wriggled back down under the duvet. Bloody mugger wouldn’t rob her of sleep as well as eighty quid.
Her eyes flew open again at a noise from the kitchen. Something breaking. Or rather, somebody breaking something.
Beatrice tensed and drew shallow breaths. She replayed the sound to find an explanation while listening for more. Broken glass, certainly, but more of a crunch than a shatter. Waves hushed and rushed outside, yet the house remained silent. It was not her imagination; she’d heard it whilst wide awake and repeating a line from The Old Devils. She nudged Matthew, whispering in his ear, in case he woke with one of his Lazarus-type gasps.
“Get up. Quietly. There’s someone in the kitchen.”
After a moment’s blinking, he obeyed, easing out of bed and retrieving the Maglite from her bag. She picked up her phone and followed him to the landing. No light, no movement, no sound from below. But she knew with total certainty someone was down there. Matthew clutched the heavy torch more as a weapon than for illumination and they listened from the landing. Beatrice breathed through her mouth and waited.
Someone banged into a chair. Unmistakeable! The graunching of wooden leg on tile, followed by an intake of breath. The tiny hairs on her scalp rose in fear and anger, as Matthew charged down the stairs, wielding his torch and bellowing.
“Get out of my house, you bastards!”
As they rounded the corner to the kitchen, a figure fled out of the kitchen door, knocking over a chair. He glanced over his shoulder, revealing himself as a frightened young man, rat-faced with a weak chin and the oddest haircut. Short and dark at the front and long at the back with blonde highlights. He looked ridiculous. Like an 80s pop star.
Matthew lurched into a half-hearted pursuit, but Beatrice grabbed his pyjama top. They stood still, panting, as the sound of running footsteps faded away. Although her hands still trembled from the rush of adrenalin, all Beatrice’s fear had evaporated after that glimpse of the intruder’s face.
Matthew locked the door with a wry look. She’d left the key in the lock. All a burglar needed do was break the glass and he was in. How incredibly stupid of her. She righted the chair and checked for losses as she dialled the police for the second time that day. Her handbag and laptop were safely upstairs; their keys, her Kindle, Matthew’s iPod and his mobile still remained on the kitchen table. But the camera had gone.
“Dyfed-Powys Police?”
“Good morning. I’d like to report a burglary. My name is Detective Inspector Beatrice Stubbs.”
Chapter 3
“Good weekend, Beatrice?”
“Not exactly. How was yours?”
Melanie’s face softened. “Oh, it was lovely! We went to Bluewater on Saturday and looked at bridesmaids’ dresses. On Sunday, we went to my mum’s for lunch and finally worked out the guest list. So I spent Monday designing invitations. I am so excited, it feels real now.”
Beatrice smiled at the team’s admin assistant. Melanie was never anything but perennially delighted. A ray of continual sunshine whose whole life was filled with plans, hopes and happiness. Pollyanna of the Yard.
“I imagine it would. It’s only fourteen months away. Shall we have a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about it before I make a start on my emails?”
“You haven’t got time. Hamilton wants a meeting at nine.” Melanie pointed a decorative nail at the whiteboard.
COOPER, RANGARAJAN, STUBBS, WHITTAKER – MTG TUES 9AM SHARP – REALLOCATION OF RESOURCES
Beatrice didn’t like the look of that.
Dawn Whittaker was the only person in the meeting room. Something to be grateful for. Busy composing a text message, Dawn looked up from her mobile and greeted Beatrice with a sad smile. As always, she looked like an abandoned Labrador. Only a few years younger than Beatrice, but saddled with a plethora of personal problems, Dawn’s face had prematurely aged. Despite her worry lines, she had a gentle air one couldn’t help but trust. Her straight grey bob and smart suit should have been intimidating, but her face radiated kindness and sympathy. Small wonder she had achieved such success in her campaign to encourage rape victims to come forward. Dawn was the closest thing on the force Beatrice had to a friend.
“Hello Beatrice. Did you have a fun weekend?”
The graze and bruises on Beatrice’s hip seemed to flare up as a reminder of her ‘fun’ weekend. “Don’t ask. How about yours?”
“Similar. Any idea what this is about?” She stuffed her phone in her bag as Beatrice sat beside her.
“No clue. I’ve been with Cooper and Ranga for the last few weeks. Maybe you’re the extra pair of hands we need for the knife crime op?” Like every other officer involved, she refused to call it by its formal title.
The door opened and DS Cooper entered, followed by DS Rangarajan. They both raised eyebrows but said nothing – a tacit signal to indicate the presence of an authority figure. Hamilton strode in behind them, closed the door and began the meeting while walking to his seat.
“Good morning everyone, hope you’re all refreshed after the Bank Holiday. Thank you for attending so promptly. Situation is, we need to rearrange personnel. Whittaker, taking you off the missing twins case. You’re to join Operation Sheath.”
Dawn seemed lost for words; a state of affairs Russell Cooper had clearly never experienced. He leant his arm over the back of his chair. “Good news, for a change. Thank you, sir.”
Hamilton fixed Cooper with cold eyes. “You will remain a team of three. Stubbs is coming off the team and joining a special project with British Transport Police.”
“But sir!” All four voices rose in protest. Cooper, the loudest and deepest, won.
“Sir, with all due respect, if a female detective is required by BTP, why not Whittaker? It makes no sense to replace Stubbs at this stage. No offence, Dawn.”
“None taken. I agree with you. Is there a reason for this, sir?”
Deep creases appeared between Hamilton’s brows and his voice was low and acidic. “What do you think, Whittaker?”
