Senseless, p.10
Senseless, page 10
‘Fair enough.’ He nodded.
‘And you?’ she asked.
‘And me what?’ he questioned.
‘Shopping for your family?’
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Sorry, no. Just for me. No wife. No children. Just me.’ He lifted the last of her bags and carefully placed them in her boot. ‘All done.’
‘Thank you,’ she said to him and smiled flirtatiously. That triggered a feeling he’d never felt before – like pins and needles in his stomach and chest. After a moment of uncertainty, he decided he liked the feeling. ‘I shop here same time every week,’ she told him.
‘I… I don’t,’ was all he could think of to say, before realising it wasn’t the best response. ‘But maybe I will now.’
‘Well then,’ she said, her eyes piercing deep into his own and making his groin coil and tighten. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around.’
‘I hope so,’ he told her as he watched her climb into her car and start the engine. He watched her all the way as she drove from the car park, hoping she knew he was. He’d had encounters with women before, but never like this. Such a strong and instant impact. The only time he’d ever felt anything similar was with the woman in the woods. He stood as still as a statue for several minutes – frozen by confusion until he was able to shake himself back to reality – jumping quickly into his car and driving at speed from the car park.
Jameson and Cahill pulled up outside an ugly-looking low-rise block of flats in Sutton, that had been thrown up in the seventies as part of some urban regeneration project, but that was now only inhabited by those needing to be housed at the expense of the local council. It was just the sort of place you’d expect to find someone like Brian Cramer. The satnav confirmed they’d reached their location, so Jameson parked on a single-yellow line and tossed the logbook in the window to warn off any parking enforcement officers before they both decamped from the car.
‘Nice place,’ he said sarcastically.
‘The Probation Service got him a flat here after his release,’ Cahill explained. ‘Number twenty-three. On the second floor.’
‘Shall we?’ Jameson asked and headed to the front entrance, and was about to ring the intercom when Cahill reached past him and pulled the unlocked door open – the locking mechanism clearly damaged beyond repair.
‘Looks like some of our colleagues have been here before,’ she suggested.
‘Yeah,’ he agreed – a little embarrassed he hadn’t thought to try the door before the intercom that he now looked at accusingly. ‘I doubt the damn thing works anyway.’
‘Probably not,’ she replied as she entered the ground-floor communal area and headed to the lift followed by Jameson, only to find an Out of order sign stuck to it that looked like it had been there for a long while. ‘Great,’ she complained as she looked around for the stairs.
‘Over there.’ Jameson pointed to a fire door with a jut of his chin. A few minutes later, they arrived slightly breathlessly outside flat number twenty-three.
‘I need to get fitter,’ Cahill complained. Jameson gave it a second before knocking on the door and taking a deep breath as he prepared to meet the man who could have killed Lucy Harris. He listened for the sound of movement coming from inside, but could hear nothing, so when the door was suddenly opened it made him jump a little. A tall, athletic-looking man in his early forties peered suspiciously through the gap.
‘Yes?’ he said in little more than a whisper.
‘Brian Cramer?’ Jameson asked, slightly surprised by the man’s pleasant appearance. His charging photographs had made him look far more sinister and dishevelled, as they did to everyone, but in the flesh he looked anything but the sexual predator he was.
‘Who wants to know?’ the man still whispered, as if he was in hiding and didn’t want anyone else to discover he was there.
Jameson opened the warrant card he had at the ready in his hand and lifted it for the man to see as Cahill did the same. ‘Police. Can we have a word?’
‘What sort of police?’ Cramer asked, a little more boldly in a voice that had no discernible accent.
‘We’re from the Special Investigations Unit,’ Jameson told him. ‘We need to talk to you.’
‘Special Investigation,’ he mimicked. ‘I’ve never heard of that one.’
‘You are Brian Cramer, right?’ Jameson demanded, losing patience.
‘Yes,’ he finally admitted. ‘I’m Brian Cramer.’
‘Is it all right if we come in and speak to you?’ Jameson pressed. ‘It’s not a conversation I want to have out here.’
‘What’s it about?’ Cramer asked, still peering through the gap in the door.
‘Let us in and I’ll tell you,’ Jameson bribed him.
Cramer looked them up and down for a few seconds before pulling the door wide open and stepping aside. ‘Please,’ he beckoned them inside before closing the door behind them and leading them to his small, neat, ordered living room, albeit sparsely furnished. Jameson scanned the place and noticed there seemed to be no signs of a history of a private life. No photographs, ornaments or any other of the pointless things people gathered throughout a lifetime. There were just a few soft furnishings, some books, magazines and a cheap-looking TV sitting lifeless in the corner.
‘Take a seat,’ Cramer offered, gesturing to the small, ragged-looking sofa that looked less than inviting.
‘We’re good thanks,’ Jameson declined.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Cramer asked. ‘Tea or something?’
‘We’re not here on a social visit,’ Jameson told him.
‘Straight down to business, eh?’ Cramer smiled.
‘If you don’t mind,’ Jameson replied.
‘And what is your business?’ Cramer asked before suddenly back-tracking. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your names.’
Jameson glanced at Cahill before he answered. ‘I’m DI Jameson and this is DC Cahill – from the…’
‘The Special Investigations Unit,’ Cramer interrupted him. ‘Yes, you told me that.’
‘We need to ask you some questions,’ Jameson told him as he felt his dislike for Cramer growing by the second.
‘About what?’ Cramer asked, not appearing too concerned.
‘About being in Langley Park on the morning a woman was sexually assaulted and murdered there,’ Jameson said bluntly, hoping to knock his calmness.
‘Langley Park?’ He shrugged, disinterested. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Out past Heathrow,’ Jameson answered.
‘I don’t remember being anywhere like that,’ Cramer insisted, with a slight smile of satisfaction on his lips.
‘Look, Brian,’ Jameson warned him before Cramer cut him off once again.
‘Mr Cramer,’ he told them. ‘I prefer to be called Mr Cramer.’
Jameson and Cahill glanced at each other again. Neither had expected things to go this way. Cramer wasn’t playing the role they’d anticipated.
‘Fine,’ Jameson agreed. ‘Mr Cramer, there’s no point playing games with us. You were seen, with your car, in Langley Park on the morning of the murder. We have the CCTV images. It’s not up for discussion.’
‘Oh,’ Cramer suddenly seemed to remember, as if it was all an amusing game. ‘Langley Park. Big place. Did it show me close to where the actual murder took place?’
‘We’re here to ask the questions,’ Jameson reminded him. ‘Not answer them.’
‘I need specifics if I’m going to answer your questions accurately,’ Cramer insisted. ‘I wouldn’t want to accidentally incriminate myself.’
‘A woman was murdered close to where you were seen,’ Jameson said, trying to wrestle back control. ‘And you’re a convicted rapist and sex offender. You need to start answering my questions.’
‘Does your CCTV show me leaving before this woman was killed?’ Cramer said, ignoring his demands. ‘Well? Does it?’
‘Why were you there?’ Jameson recovered.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Cramer declared, with a satisfied smirk. ‘So what you’ve got is CCTV footage showing me leaving the area before the woman was killed. Rather proves my innocence, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Think you’re pretty fucking clever, don’t you?’ Jameson snapped. ‘But you’re not. You went there that morning to check the lay of the land. Then you moved your car somewhere else and crept back to wait for the right victim to come your way.’
‘How was she killed?’ Cramer asked. ‘Tell me how she was killed.’
‘What?’ Jameson bit. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, tell me how she was killed?’ Cramer repeated.
‘Why?’ Jameson snarled. ‘So you can fantasise about it? So you can get your kicks imagining it?’
‘If you think I did it, then I already know all about it,’ Cramer argued. ‘You won’t be telling me anything I don’t know – if you’re right.’
‘I never said you did it,’ Jameson reminded him.
‘But that’s why you’re here,’ Cramer insisted. ‘Asking questions about why I was in the park.’
‘We’re just trying to eliminate you from our enquiries,’ he said, using an old police cheat.
‘I don’t think so.’ Cramer shook his head.
‘If you’ll just answer some questions then I’m sure we can sort this out,’ Jameson lied.
‘Then if you’re going to question me about a murder, shouldn’t I be cautioned?’ Cramer argued. ‘Arrested and interviewed at a police station? Given the right to legal representation?’
‘Have it your own way, Mr Cramer.’ Jameson lost patience. ‘Brian Cramer. I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Lucy Harris. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
‘I understand perfectly.’ Cramer smiled and held out his hands in a gesture that made it clear he wished to be handcuffed – looking like he was enjoying every second of the encounter.
‘Happy to oblige,’ Jameson told him as he stepped forward, taking his quick-cuffs from their belt holster and snapping them around Cramer’s wrists before pulling him so close their noses were almost touching. For a second, he could see the first flash of fear in Cramer’s eyes. ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing,’ he whispered to him. ‘But I’m going to find out and then I’m going to bury you.’
Cramer raised his cuffed wrists in front of his face. ‘Shall we?’ he asked smugly.
‘Take a last look around,’ Jameson told him as threateningly as he could. ‘You won’t be seeing home for a while.’
‘We’ll see.’ Cramer just smiled. ‘We’ll see.’
Chapter Nine
A five-year-old Martin Thomas still lived with his drug-addicted mother, albeit in a different council flat which was just as squalid as all the other places they’d moved around from in his short life. Only now they shared their home with Chloe’s crack-head boyfriend, Graig Mitchell, who was as much his mother’s drug supplier as he was her partner – his addiction only surpassed by his extreme propensity for cruelty towards Martin. He would regularly beat and torture the boy for his amusement – often just to relieve the boredom of his own pointless existence. His particular favourite was to stub cigarettes out on the boy’s skin, grinding them in until the wound it caused extinguished the burning end. But no matter how horrific the torture or the beatings became, he never cried or even whimpered much. He’d learnt to do so only encouraged Mitchell to hurt him more and more as he seemingly revelled in the boy’s suffering. It was better to take the pain until Mitchell grew bored and his drug-ravaged brain became distracted by something else.
His mother had also started to beat and torture him now – encouraged to do so by her boyfriend. She took no pleasure in it, but neither was she particularly bothered by the suffering she caused. It was more important to keep Mitchell happy and ensure her supply of drugs wasn’t threatened. The boy had only ever been a source of income or benefits for her anyway and joining in with Mitchell was just another way of gaining from his existence. Until one day when they beat him so badly that he collapsed unconscious. Fearing he may be dead or dying, they dragged him to the bedroom and locked him inside with nothing more than a bottle of tap water.
Over the next few days his tiny, malnourished, broken body slipped in and out of consciousness as he managed to take swigs of water and even eat some of the scraps of food he would find on a plate next to his filthy mattress – left, he assumed, by his mother as they waited to see if he would recover or die. But somehow he managed to stay alive until finally the police and social services came calling, tipped off by his primary school teacher who’d become concerned about his continued absence and had received no reply from his mother’s phone. He lay motionless on the mattress, in too much pain to move or even call out as he listened to the voices getting louder – his mother telling the strange voices he didn’t recognise that he’d gone to stay with his grandmother. But the voices got louder and louder – especially his mother’s, until finally the door to his tiny room was forced open – the wood around the lock splintering as light poured in and stung his eyes, making it impossible to see anything other than the silhouette of a man wearing some sort of hat, who kneeled down next to him. He could hear the man softly speaking to him, but he couldn’t understand what he was saying as he concentrated on the sound of his mother screaming and Mitchell shouting. He tried to make sense of the confused blurry scene taking place behind the man by his side, but pain and exhaustion soon took him as he passed out.
As he was being rushed to hospital, Chloe and Mitchell were dragged to the nearest police station where more than just a few of the cops would have liked to have administered a special kind of justice to the couple before they were charged with multiple offences of assault and child cruelty. Two days after her initial arrest, Chloe was released and three after that decided to try heroin for the first time, but her body was weak and the drug was strong. She died alone after hours of writhing on the floor of her squat in unimaginable agony. Several weeks later, Graig Mitchell was stabbed multiple times in the stomach while exercising in the prison yard, begging for his miserable, worthless life. The prison officer who’d left the door open that separated Mitchell and other segregated prisoners from the general population, allowing his assailant access, stood just out of view of the CCTV cameras, watching him bleed slowly to death.
Chapter Ten
Jameson and Cahill were in an interview room at Sutton Police Station, interviewing Cramer who’d declined the mandatory offer of a solicitor. Jameson completed the repetition of the caution and other procedural requirements as he rushed to begin the actual questioning.
‘Do you know why you’ve been arrested?’ he asked.
‘Not really,’ Cramer replied, leaning back with his arms folded.
‘On suspicion of murdering Lucy Harris,’ Jameson told him, his eyes squinting as he tried to get the measure of Cramer.
‘Oh yes.’ Cramer smiled unpleasantly. ‘You told me that. I remember now.’
‘She was sexually assaulted and strangled to death in Langley Park,’ Jameson said, trying to rattle him.
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Cramer asked, unaffected by the seriousness of the allegation.
‘You were in Langley Park the morning of the day she was murdered,’ Jameson reminded him. ‘You and the car that is registered in your name were captured on CCTV.’
‘Was she killed in the morning?’ Cramer shrugged.
‘No,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘We believe she was killed later that afternoon.’
‘Then it appears you have provided me with the perfect alibi.’ Cramer laughed. ‘Assuming the CCTV shows me leaving the park hours before she was killed.’
‘It does,’ he agreed.
‘There we are then,’ Cramer insisted. ‘I am an innocent man.’
‘Innocent?’ Jameson grunted. ‘You have multiple convictions for sexual assault, including your most recent one for attempted rape.’
‘You can’t use those convictions against me,’ Cramer said, reminding him of the law. ‘You shouldn’t even mention them in this interview.’
‘We can use them,’ Jameson disagreed. ‘It’s called bad character evidence.’
‘Which you can only use if I base my defence around being the sort of person that would never and has never committed any offence of a sexual nature, which I do not,’ Cramer argued. ‘I know the law, Inspector. I had plenty of time to study locked up in prison.’
‘So I see,’ Jameson observed. ‘But you still haven’t told us what you were doing in Langley Park.’
‘Walking,’ he answered cheerfully. ‘Such beautiful weather at the moment.’
‘It’s a long way from where you live,’ Jameson pointed out. ‘Why drive miles to walk there when Sutton is full of similar parks?’
‘I like it there,’ he answered.
‘Or maybe you went there to check things out?’ Jameson accused him.
‘You accused me of this at my flat,’ Cramer reminded him.
‘I don’t think so,’ Jameson quickly answered, aware that his questioning of Cramer at his flat, without cautioning him was a breach of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act that could prejudice any subsequent interview. ‘You were told the allegation and then arrested,’ he lied, glancing at Cahill to make sure she wouldn’t accidentally contradict him. She said nothing.
‘So, it’s like that?’ Cramer grinned. ‘Very well.’
‘Shall we move on?’ Jameson asked.
‘Please do,’ Cramer invited him.
‘As we speak, your flat and car are being searched and forensically examined,’ Jameson explained. ‘If you feel we’re going to find something incriminating, it would be better for you to tell us now.’
‘You’ll find nothing,’ he assured them. ‘Nothing at all.’
Cramer’s confidence bothered him, but he managed to hide it. ‘And your computer,’ he added, ‘and your phone. They’ll both be sent to our technical laboratory to be examined. I can promise you that we’ll find everything on them. Everything.’
