Senseless, p.21
Senseless, page 21
‘I see you’ve started early today,’ he told them, causing them to look at one another, before all eyes returned to him. ‘Drinking, I mean.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ one of the men demanded, his dull eyes narrowed with intent. ‘You from a fucking homeless charity or something? Because we don’t want your fucking help.’ The entire group mumbled in foul-mouthed agreement.
‘I’m not here to help you,’ he replied, just about managing to control his fear and prevent his voice from trembling. ‘Why would I want to help a bunch of losers like you scum?’
‘You what?’ another of the men asked, laughing through his chapped, cracked lips in disbelief at what he was hearing.
‘You heard me,’ Cramer insisted.
‘Just fuck off,’ another told him before taking a long swig from a bottle of cheap cider.
‘Yeah,’ another voice added. ‘Fuck off before you get hurt, mate.’
‘A bunch of pissed-up losers like you couldn’t hurt me,’ he said, forcing a smile despite the fact that all his instincts were screaming at him to flee.
‘You mad or something?’ the man with the cracked lips asked. ‘You got some sort of death wish?’
‘No,’ he told them, stepping ever closer. ‘I just enjoy fucking people like you up.’
‘What?’ Cracked Lips asked, looking to the group for support as they stood in stunned silence.
‘You heard me,’ Cramer said, suddenly throwing a punch that connected with Cracked Lips. ‘I’m here to fuck you up.’
He staggered back, but quickly recovered, pressing the back of his hand to his lips and checking for blood – his face becoming enraged when he saw a thin smear of it. ‘You’re fucking dead,’ he told him, as he again looked to the stunned group for support.
‘Come on then,’ Cramer said, spreading his arms wide open. ‘Do it.’
‘Fuck you,’ Cracked Lips replied in confusion.
‘Do it,’ Cramer demanded, stepping so close to the man that he could smell his rancid breath. ‘Do it.’
‘Do the bastard,’ one of the group shouted in support.
‘Fucking do him,’ another incited him.
Spurred on by the crowd, he finally threw a punch that connected with Cramer’s face. But it was a weak punch of a ravaged wretch, although it did excite the others who began to move closer, the ring of human wreckage closing around him. ‘Pathetic,’ Cramer spat at him, firing Cracked Lips to throw another weak punch that connected with his cheekbone. ‘Pathetic.’ His assailant threw yet another punch, harder this time, fuelled with fury, drawing blood from Cramer’s nose.
‘Yes,’ one of the mob screamed as another got around the back of him and managed to kick him hard in the small of his back, causing him to drop on one knee. Cracked Lips took his opportunity, the experience of endless brawls having taught him to always kick his opponent when he was down, which is exactly what he did – his foot smashing hard into Cramer’s face – his nose virtually exploding as he fell backwards to the ground. The feral mob swarmed in on him, punches and kicks suddenly raining down on his stricken body, some screaming to kill him, others calling to check for a wallet. But as bad as the pain and fear were, he was smiling inside. Everything had gone exactly as he’d hoped.
Jameson and Jones knocked on the front door of the small, terraced house in Herne Bay and waited in silence for it to be answered. After a few seconds it was opened by a white man in his late fifties with a balding head and pot belly.
‘Yes?’ he asked guardedly.
‘Andrew Stoker?’ Jameson asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied.
Jameson opened the warrant card that was in the palm of his hand and raised it towards him. ‘DI Ruben Jameson and DS Sally Jones from the Special Investigations Team of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘You the ones investigating the murder?’ he asked almost cheerily.
‘Yes,’ Jameson confirmed. ‘I understand you have some information for us?’
‘Is that all you’ve been told?’ he asked, sounding almost insulted.
‘Not necessarily,’ Jameson said, hiding his frustration. ‘But it’s better for us to hear it from you directly. So we can be sure we get the full facts.’
‘I see,’ Stoker replied with a nod. ‘You’d better come in then.’ He moved aside and allowed them to enter before leading them to his lounge. ‘Take a seat,’ he invited them, sounding excited by their presence.
‘I’m good,’ Jameson told him. ‘It was a long drive to get here.’
‘I’m good too,’ Jones added.
‘Oh,’ Stoker said, suddenly looking a little awkward as the three of them stood in the relatively small room. ‘Okay. So, what do you want to know?’
‘Whatever you know,’ Jameson told him, looking around the ordered, cosy room, taking in the photographs of Stoker at various stages of his life. Many with a woman he assumed was his wife, along with others of two children as they grew older and older until the pictures stopped a good few years ago he guessed by the style of the photographs. He wondered if his wife had also left him along with his children or maybe she’d even passed away like his own wife.
‘Well,’ Stoker said. ‘It’s like I told the person I spoke to when I called the information line, I was coming back from my walk along the cliffs, getting in my car in the car park, when I saw a man sitting in his car on his laptop.’ He looked at them as if waiting for their gratitude at the information he clearly considered to be valuable.
‘Is that it?’ Jameson asked, glancing at Jones.
‘It’s important, isn’t it?’ he asked, sounding disappointed at their reaction.
‘Are you even sure it was the same day Emily Connor was killed?’ Jones checked.
‘Yes,’ he said positively. ‘I remember seeing the news in the morning after seeing him and thinking, oh my God, I was there the day before.’
‘But you didn’t report it straight away,’ Jones queried. ‘You waited until now.’
‘Well,’ he stammered, ‘I didn’t think it was important. I mean I just didn’t think about it. I was busy with other things.’
‘So what’s changed?’ Jameson asked. ‘What suddenly made you report it?’
‘There was something on the news,’ he explained. ‘About the murder. It made me think of the man I’d seen in the car park and I thought I should report it.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Jones encouraged him.
‘Just a few days too late,’ Jameson said, remaining unimpressed. ‘However, what was it about the man that made you think he could be involved?’
‘I just thought it was a bit strange,’ he answered. ‘Sitting in his car up there. It’s a bit off the beaten track. You have to go out of your way to get there. Funny place to drive to work on your laptop.’
‘Maybe he’d been for a walk,’ Jameson said, pouring cold water on Stoker’s suspicions. ‘And just needed to use his computer before heading off home.’
‘I suppose.’ Stoker shrugged.
‘So what was it about him that made you suspicious?’ Jameson persisted. ‘Was he looking around? Did he try and hide his face from you? Did he drive off quickly when he saw you?’
‘No,’ Stoker said, shaking his head, looking flustered. ‘He wasn’t doing anything. He was just on his laptop.’
‘Well, did he look strange?’ Jameson tried again. ‘Did he look out of place?’
‘I – I couldn’t say,’ he answered. ‘What do you mean, strange?’
‘Like a wrong ’un,’ Jameson tried to clarify. ‘A weirdo.’
‘How would I know?’ he asked. ‘I’m not a cop.’
‘Never seen someone who gives you a bad vibe?’ Jameson said, changing tack. ‘For some reason, gave you the creeps?’
‘Well,’ he said, looking at Jones for support. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And did this man make you feel like that?’ Jameson asked.
‘I – I suppose,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘So what was he doing to make you feel like that?’ Jameson wouldn’t let up.
‘I don’t know,’ he almost pleaded. ‘Nothing. He was just there.’
‘Just there?’ Jameson practically mocked him. ‘He was just there?’
‘Yes,’ he said, sounding desperate. ‘On his own. Close to where the woman was killed.’
‘So were you,’ Jameson reminded him.
‘What?’ Stoker asked, tensing even more.
‘You were there.’ Jameson spelt it out. ‘A man on his own. Or were you with someone?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I was on my own. But I walk there a lot.’
‘So you know the area?’ Jameson asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered nervously. ‘So what?’
‘We believe the killer knew the area,’ Jameson told him. ‘That he’d seen the victim before. Watched her.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ he panicked.
‘If you go there a lot, then you could have seen her yourself,’ Jameson accused him.
‘I’ve never seen her before,’ he quickly replied.
‘How do you know?’ Jameson pressed him.
‘Because I saw a photograph of her on the news,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t recognise her.’
‘You go there all the time,’ Jameson persisted. ‘How could you not have seen her?’
‘Because I don’t go there to look at women,’ he answered. ‘I’m married. I go there to walk.’
Jameson and Jones looked at each other before he moved on. ‘Okay,’ Jameson said. ‘What did this man in the car look like?’
Stoker took a calming breath before answering. ‘He was white. Maybe between thirty and forty.’
‘And?’ Jameson asked, glancing at Jones.
‘That’s about it,’ he shrugged.
‘Colour of his hair?’ Jameson tried to prompt him to give more.
‘Brown,’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘Style? Length?’ Jameson coaxed him.
‘Short,’ he responded. ‘I suppose. No particular style.’
‘Clean-shaven? Bearded?’ Jameson continued the tortuous questioning.
‘Clean-shaven,’ he answered more confidently.
‘You sure?’ Jameson tested his certainty.
‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘I’m sure.’
‘How tall was he?’ Jameson moved on.
‘I couldn’t say. He was sitting down.’
‘You can still get an impression,’ Jameson told him.
‘All I can say is he didn’t strike me as being particularly tall or short,’ he explained. ‘So, if I had to say anything, I’d say he was average height. Possibly a bit taller.’
‘What makes you say, “possibly a bit taller”?’ Jameson seized on it.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s just now I think about it.’
‘And build?’ Jameson asked. ‘Take your time. Visualise him sitting in the car.’
‘Normal,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘From what I could see. Definitely not obese or really skinny or anything.’
Jameson again glanced at Jones as Stoker’s description sounded more and more like Cramer. ‘Do you think you could work with one of our artists or photofit people to try and create a picture of what he looked like?’
‘I can try.’ He shrugged. ‘But it was only a passing glimpse. I didn’t stop to stare at him.’
‘It’s still worth trying,’ Jameson told him. ‘We’ll arrange it. What about the car? What can you tell us about his car?’
‘His car?’ he echoed as his eyes darted around. ‘It was a saloon car. Dark. Not a bright colour. Nothing flash. A typical salesman’s car. Bland.’
‘But can you remember what type of car it was?’ Jameson asked. ‘The model? The make?’
‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I’m not really interested in cars.’
‘A Ford?’ Jameson pressed. ‘Vauxhall?’
‘I really don’t know,’ he insisted, shaking his head. ‘I’d just be guessing.’
‘Can you give me more about the colour?’ Jameson asked.
‘Maybe dark grey,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘Something like that.’
‘New?’ Jameson continued. ‘Old?’
‘I didn’t get the impression it was particularly new,’ he answered. ‘But not very old either. Same as most cars, I suppose.’
‘I don’t suppose you can remember the number plate?’ Jameson asked as a matter of course.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I even looked at it.’
Jameson looked at Jones and pulled a face that told her that although he was disappointed, there was a glimmer of hope as the car’s description could have been Cramer’s. ‘Anything else you can think of?’ Jameson asked, having exhausted his own questions.
‘No,’ he shook his head slowly. ‘Not really.’
‘Not really usually means there is something else,’ Jameson told him.
‘Well, it’s just,’ he began before stopping.
‘Just what?’ Jameson asked.
‘Just,’ he said, still shaking his head, ‘just if I’d stayed longer or maybe taken more interest in him, the woman would still be alive. If he’d seen me looking at him more intently, perhaps I would have scared him off. Made him think twice.’
‘Maybe,’ Jameson agreed with a shrug. ‘I guess we’ll never know.’
‘No,’ he agreed mournfully. ‘I don’t suppose we ever will. So what happens now?’
‘We’ll be in touch,’ Jameson told him. ‘For the photofit and a statement. Maybe we can get a decent likeness.’
‘Anything to help,’ he replied.
‘And you have been a help,’ Jameson assured him, despite having given him a rough ride. ‘If it leads to anything, we’ll let you know.’
Brian Cramer lay on a trolley bed in the Accident and Emergency department of his local hospital waiting for further treatment, having been assessed. His injuries diagnosed as being non life-threatening, he’d been shunted into a curtained cubicle and left to wait to be patched up. He’d had plenty of time to examine the drying, crusted blood that covered his hands and clothes and even managed to take some selfies, despite his extremely painful fingers, so he could take stock of the wounds to his face and head. He planned to post them on social media later, but not until he’d worked out what words would accompany them. Whatever they were, they had to be designed to cause maximum damage. He was growing increasingly impatient to receive his treatment and be free to go about his business. Finally, the curtain was swished aside as a young male doctor entered accompanied by an even younger female nurse, their features largely hidden behind masks.
The doctor lifted the clipboard from the end of his trolley bed and read the patient notes without even looking at him. ‘Can I just confirm you’re Brian Cramer?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Cramer answered, his voice distorted by his nose that was blocked with congealed blood.
‘It says here you’ve refused to have a Covid test,’ the doctor accused him.
‘I can’t,’ Cramer replied, not trying to hide his annoyance. ‘How am I supposed to let anyone stick a bloody swab up my nose? Have you seen my nose?’
The doctor just raised his eyebrows and carried on. ‘Well it looks like you’re going to survive,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood, but Cramer just stared at him. ‘Looks like cuts and bruises mainly. Your nose has taken a nasty blow, but I don’t think it’s fractured. You’re going to have a couple of shiners as well and that split lip is going to be sore for a while. Your most serious injuries are to your hands. Probably from where you were trying to defend yourself. The ring and little finger on your right hand look to be fractured. An X-ray should confirm it. The ring finger and middle finger on your left hand are probably just sprained, but again an X-ray will tell us more. We’ll have to strap both sets, so using your hands will be tricky for a while. Is there a partner who can help you for a couple of weeks?’
‘No,’ Cramer told him. ‘I live alone.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ll try and set them to give you as much movement as possible, but it won’t be easy for you.’
‘I’ll manage,’ Cramer replied rudely.
‘I’m sure you will,’ the doctor said, losing interest in his abrasive patient. ‘Have you already reported the attack to the police?’
‘No,’ Cramer snapped at him. ‘I came straight here.’
‘You should report it as soon as you can,’ the doctor told him as a matter of course more than care.
‘I can’t,’ Cramer insisted as he winced with the pain of speaking.
‘Oh?’ the doctor asked. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it was the police that did this to me,’ he lied. ‘It was DI Jameson from the Special Investigations Unit. He did this to me.’
‘All the more reason to report it,’ the doctor told him, without sounding shocked or convinced by Cramer’s accusation.
‘I’ll report it all right,’ Cramer hissed. ‘But not to the police, and then he’ll pay for what he’s done to me. I’ll make him pay. I’ll make him pay for everything.’
‘You were a bit hard on him,’ Jones told Jameson as they drove back towards London.
‘Just trying to get him going,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Some witnesses need a kick up the arse. You know that.’
‘Still,’ she argued. ‘You were close to stepping over the line.’
‘People like Stoker wind me up,’ he told her. ‘He didn’t want to get involved, then he changes his mind and expects us to be eternally grateful for a bit of scratchy information.’
