Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) (11 page)

An hour later, Carmichael was back behind the old mahogany desk, in his much worn favourite, leather-upholstered swivel chair. It was where he was at his most creative. Whenever he had a problem he couldn’t solve or he needed to plan a tricky operation, he would come to this chair, and stare out of the window absent-mindedly until the answer presented itself. It could take hours, but the answers always came.

He and Melissa had left Benold’s hotel and walked the short distance to his car. She had tried to hide the obvious discomfort she was feeling from the lashing, and it was her refusal to accept his help that had troubled him. He had insisted on driving her to the Accident and Emergency Department at Southampton’s General Hospital. She had tried to dissuade him but even she had to admit that stitches might be required.

She had eventually relented and told him to drive there but to drop her outside of the hospital.

‘Why?’ he had asked.

‘You know what these places are like. It doesn’t matter what story I give them about what happened; they are going to assume I am in some kind of abusive relationship, and if they see you they will put two and two together and accuse you of doing it. They’ll probably report the wounds to the police and then you’d be in all kinds of shit. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re my
Mr Grey
, do I?’ she added, smiling.

Despite his reservations, he had dropped her at the entrance to the hospital and slipped her thirty pounds for a taxi home. She had grabbed the pile of clothes she had scooped up before leaving the hotel room and had headed in. Carmichael had felt bad for abandoning her but she had made a valid point. The last thing he wanted was the police poking around in his affairs.

A short, sharp knock at the door caught his attention. The door was ajar, so he invited his visitor in. A woman in her late twenties with light brown straggly hair entered. She was wearing tight denim jeans, a woollen sweater and a rain mac. She looked anxious, not quite certain if she was in the right place. Her face was small and unconventionally pretty.

‘Mr Carmichael?’ she asked nervously.

‘Yes,’ he said warmly, standing and offering out a hand to shake.

His answer seemed to bring some relief and she shuffled forward and shook the extended hand.

‘Oh good,’ she said, placing a large brown leather handbag on the floor and removing the rain mac and hanging it from the back of the chair in front of her. ‘I’m Lauren. I wasn’t sure if I had the right place. I was expecting a dark and shady room, like something…’

‘Out of a Philip Marlowe novel?’ he finished for her. ‘I get that a lot. Please take a seat.’

The woman obliged and then sat in silence as if uncertain where to begin. He found that it was always best for the potential client to explain what they wanted and then he could decide if it was a case he was prepared to take. The woman had sounded scared on the phone earlier, and he had been considering what she could possibly want him to do that would warrant a fee of fifty thousand pounds. He had had several enquiries in the past as to whether he would be prepared to kill cheating spouses for the right price. He was always very careful with his response to that particular question, just in case the person suggesting it had some kind of hidden agenda.

The woman’s eyes darted around the office as the awkward silence continued.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?’ he eventually asked when he could stand it no more.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said.

‘Well why don’t you tell me what it is you are after and we can start from there. You sounded worried on the phone earlier. Is someone following you?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ she said.

‘So, what then?’

The woman took a deep breath.

‘I’m not sure where to start.’

‘Okay, well why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself and then see what happens?’

The woman smiled thinly at him.

‘Okay, my name is Lauren Roper. I’m a nurse at the General Hospital and I’ve lived in Southampton all my life.’

Carmichael grabbed a pen and started jotting notes on a blank piece of paper.

‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m twenty eight.’

‘Married? Single? Divorced? Kids?’

‘I’m single at the moment,’ she said blushing, ‘and I don’t have any children…maybe one day.’

‘I’m not trying to chat you up, Miss Roper, I just need to establish who you are. Please don’t read anything into my questions.’

She blushed slightly again and her expression became more serious.

‘Most of the people who hire me do so because they have a cheating spouse or partner that they want exposed. What’s your reason for being here?’

She took another deep breath.

‘This is hard for me to talk about. You see…I’ve never told anybody what I am about to tell you.’

‘That’s okay, take your time.’

‘My mother was raped in our home twenty-four years ago and I witnessed it.’

Carmichael sucked air in through his teeth.

‘Twenty-four years ago? So that would be…’

‘1989. September 1989.’

‘So that would have made you?’

‘Four.’

‘Was the assault ever reported to the police?’

‘No. My mother was a very private person and…she kept the whole thing to herself for many years.’

‘So what is it you want me to do? If your mother has suddenly decided to come forward and report an assault from nearly a quarter of a century ago, she’s going to struggle to convince anyone of her story; not to mention the total lack of available evidence.’

‘My mother is dead, Mr Carmichael. She passed away this time last year with cancer. She was only forty two.’

Lauren wiped a small tear away from the corner of her eye.

‘Forgive my bluntness, Miss Roper, but if you were four when this incident happened, how can you remember it? Four year-olds aren’t renowned for having the best retention skills.’

‘Two months before she died, my mother opened up to me and told me what had happened to her all those years before. I had always sensed that something bad had happened in her past, but when I had previously tried to confront her about it she had clammed up and refused to discuss it. I can remember having nightmares when I was younger about a man in a black balaclava hurting my mother. She used to tell me it was nothing to worry about and that they were just dreams, but I used to have the same dream regularly.’

Carmichael continued to scribble notes down. He would ask Melissa to type them up later: she had become a very good decipherer of his handwriting.

‘She spent the last three months of her life in a charitable hospice. The cancer took a lot out of her and she had become weak and frail. There was no way I could continue to support her and work, and she hated being a burden, so she voluntarily registered at the hospice. I would go and visit her every day, take her flowers, that kind of thing. One day in early September I took her for a picnic up on Southampton Common. It was a warm day but there was a slight breeze that meant it wasn’t too hot. She looked frail and anxious, but we sat and ate what I had prepared. Eventually she looked me in the eye and said there was something she needed to tell me. She looked troubled and I wondered whether it would be something about my father, whom I had never met. What she told me broke my heart.’

She wiped another tear away. Carmichael wondered whether he should encourage her to proceed, but there was no need.

‘She told me she had been attacked in our home by a masked stranger, that he had beaten and attempted to strangle her and had then…forced her to do things to him. She wept quietly as she told me of it, and I just wanted to reach out and hug her. She told me that I had woken up and disturbed the attack at one point and had evidently seen him hurting her. She told me it was only when he threatened to harm me that she caved into his demands. How can anyone be capable of such…such brutality?’

‘Why now?’ Carmichael interrupted. ‘Why have you come to find me now? What is it you are hoping to achieve?

‘After my mother passed away, I was very troubled by what she had told me. I mean, in a way, it made perfect sense. She had always been so protective of me, rarely went out on her own and certainly never entertained men at home. Don’t get me wrong: my mother was a wonderfully warm and loving parent, and more than made up for my absent father, but it always felt like she was trying to live her life through me. I suppose, in hindsight, she probably was in a way. Anyway, I started having terrible nightmares after her funeral…I would wake up dripping with sweat. The dreams seemed so real but in them it was me that I could see being attacked by the masked man. A doctor friend of mine suggested I visit a therapist, which I wasn’t keen on doing, but he recommended a specialist who was happy to meet me and listen to what I had to describe. I really opened up to her: I told her everything my mother had said and described what I was seeing in the nightmare. She told me that the child’s brain is not always able to process things it does not understand and that if I had actually seen the attack on mum, then maybe there were still open wounds in my psyche. She told me to visit a hypnotherapist friend of hers and attempt post-hypnotic regression to the night of the attack. I reluctantly agreed and in February of this year I was regressed.’

He still couldn’t quite tell where she was going with her story. It was already twenty past three and he was eager to start to prepare the report he needed to provide Frankie Benold with.

‘Lauren, look,’ he said, ‘I am sorry for the pain you have clearly gone through in the last year. Losing your mother was clearly a painful experience for you, as it would be for anyone, but I still don’t see what you think I can do for you. You are probably best going to speak with the police if you have anything that might be tangible but, in my experience, testimony based on hypnosis is prone to intense scrutiny in court…’

She wasn’t listening to him.

‘But I know who it is. I know who raped my mother!’

‘How? If he was wearing a balaclava, how can you identify the face of the man you saw when you were four?’

‘His face was covered but his eyes weren’t. The man in the mask had the most intense, bulging white eyes and the brightest of blue pupils. I can see them now in my mind.’

‘But what use is that, Lauren?’

‘Because I saw those same eyes a couple of weeks ago. The man in the mask was Nathan Green!’

Carmichael stared blankly back at her.

‘Who the hell is Nathan Green?’ he asked. ‘Why does that name sound familiar?’

‘He was a serial rapist in the late eighties, convicted of three assaults and one murder twenty years ago, but the police always suspected he was guilty of more.’

‘Okay, so you know the name of a rapist, it doesn’t mean he attacked your mother. Convince me why you believe it’s him’

‘Okay, well there’s the fact that the three crimes he was convicted of were all in Southampton around the same time as my mother’s attack. He was living in the city at the time…and his eyes.’

Carmichael remained dumbfounded.

‘His face was on the news a couple of weeks ago. He was killed in that prison riot over on the Isle of Wight. They showed a picture of him on the news and I swear to you, when I saw his eyes, I just knew: It’s him!’

‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes, he died of a heart attack or something I think.’

‘So what is it you want me to do? If he is dead and your mother is dead, surely the book is closed?’

‘I want you to find the evidence that proves he was the son of a bitch who attacked my mother and ruined her life!’ she shouted.

‘Calm down, Lauren,’ he said defensively.

‘I’m sorry, but I know it was him. I feel it.’

‘What you need to understand is that, because your mother never reported the crime, the police will not even consider looking into what happened now that she has passed away. Even more so since the possible culprit is also dead. The case won’t ever get anywhere near a courtroom so what is the point?’

‘But I will know. I will know that the scumbag is dead and cannot come back to get me,’ she said bursting into tears.

Carmichael passed her an open box of tissues from the edge of his desk and she gratefully accepted one, wiping her eyes and apologising for her outburst.

‘The hypnotherapist told me that I had confirmed waking up and seeing the masked man with his hand on my mum’s throat, and that she had told me everything was okay and had tucked me back in bed. He also said that I told him I didn’t go back to sleep because I could hear strange sounds coming from the living room. Apparently I got up a second time and opened the bedroom door. I saw my mum laid on the floor with the masked man on top of her. She was squealing slightly and he was grunting. As he attacked her, his dark sweater lifted slightly and I saw a dragon-shaped tattoo on his lower back. Apparently they did not see me and so I returned to bed and went back to sleep. But I saw him! I could identify him.’

‘What else do you remember?’

‘His hands. He was wearing dark leather gloves but they looked big and strong.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I’ve got the hypnotherapist’s report here,’ she said opening the large handbag and pulling out a small paper folder. She slipped the folder across the mahogany desk. ‘You can read it, I don’t mind.’

He left the folder where it was and looked back at her.

‘Do you know that most rapes are carried out by people already known by the victim? Whilst there have been and will be cases where rapists carry out attacks on total strangers, the majority of the time, the victims are carefully chosen. The easiest targets for rapists are those victims closest to them. Did your mother know Nathan Green?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied glumly.

‘There’s no way they could have come into contact in passing?’

‘Not that I’m aware of…I don’t know.’

‘What other men were in your mother’s life?’

‘I don’t know…why is that relevant?’

‘All I’m trying to understand and establish is whether the man in the mask, the man you observed, could be anybody other than Nathan Green.’

‘But it
was
him!’

‘I’m trying to play devil’s advocate here, Lauren. Bear with me a moment.’

She looked puzzled but shrugged her shoulders.

‘You mentioned earlier that your mother had raised you single-handed. Where was your father?’

‘I know very little about him to be honest. My mother rarely spoke of him.’

‘Have you ever met him?’

‘No. I don’t think my conception was planned; let’s put it that way.’

‘Do you have a name? A photograph? Anything?’

There is probably a photo of him in my mother’s things; I can take a look for you.’

‘Where did they meet?’

‘They were at school together; I know that much. He was a boy in her class, they slept together at a party and nine months later I was born. Although I wasn’t planned, she always said I was the best thing that ever happened to her and she didn’t regret her decision to carry me full term.’

‘So he didn’t pay any maintenance towards your upbringing?’

‘Not that I was ever aware of…as I said, she rarely mentioned him, and I don’t remember him ever visiting?’

‘Were there any special friends in your mother’s life? Anyone she ever referred to as
Uncle
somebody?’

‘No. None! I told you: I was my mother’s priority. She shut out the rest of the world.’

‘What about your grandparents?’

‘I saw my grandmother a lot, until she died. She used to help babysit me when mum was working.’

‘Where did your mother work?’

‘She did an office job in the evenings for a bit and also worked in a newsagent’s during the day. She gave up the evening job after the attack but remained at the newsagent’s until I started school, at which point she got a job in a local grocer’s shop. She used to drop me at school, go to work, pick me up and then we would go home. Things were good. Sometimes she would do some overtime in the shop and, on those days, my grandmother or a neighbour watched me.’

‘Did your mother have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No, she was an only child.’

‘So no cousins were ever around?’

‘No,’ she replied evenly, growing frustrated with the questions. ‘I told you: it was just us. There was nobody else who could have attacked her.’

‘What about neighbours? Were there any male residents in the flat when your mum was attacked?’

‘I’ve no idea! She never mentioned any.’

‘And did she get on okay with her neighbours?’

‘I guess…there was a lady called Cynthia who used to watch me sometimes. I think she had a son but he was away in the navy and I don’t think we ever met him.’

Carmichael stared at his notes; all he could see were possible leads with a line scrawled through them. He felt like he had exhausted every possible angle, but that didn’t mean that Lauren was telling the truth when she said there were no other men in her mother’s life. Clearly, she was fixated on the idea that Green had been responsible for the attack, and any suggestions to the contrary would not be welcomed. Even if she was telling the truth, there was no guarantee that her memory could be wholly relied upon, given how old she was at the time of the attack.

Lauren smiled thinly at him, her expression challenging him to think of more questions to knock her theory.

‘If, and I must stress
if
, I were to take the case I would need as much detail about your mum as possible. I’d need to know the address where the attack happened, any other homes she had lived in, the details of where she worked, names of contacts I could speak with, that kind of thing.’

‘I can tell you everything I know,’ she said enthusiastically.

‘You still haven’t told me why you have come forward now. You said you recognised his eyes when his death was reported on the news, but that was weeks ago. What made you come forward now? And why me?’

She stared blankly back at him.

‘Mr Carmichael, I want to see justice served to the bastard who stole my mother’s innocence. I won’t sleep until I can be certain that it was him and that he cannot get back at me.’

‘But why me? Why not another private investigator?’

‘Your name was passed to me by someone I know.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter. This person said you were good at your job and had a real nose for digging up dirt.’

Carmichael wasn’t sure whether he should be flattered or insulted. Either way, he was keen to know who had proposed him for such a strange case. It seemed more hassle than it was worth. Then again…

‘So, to get it straight in my mind: you want to pay me fifty thousand pounds to try and prove that Nathan Green broke into your home and assaulted your mother? Even though he will never be formally recognised as the culprit?’

‘Well, sort of.’

‘Which bit did I get wrong?’

She smiled meagrely and began to talk quickly, ‘I don’t actually have fifty thousand pounds. I was keen to get your attention and thought the figure would mean you’d see me sooner. I’m sorry I lied to you but I still want you to help me prove it was him.’

He was annoyed that his golden ticket had just floated away but remained calm, ‘What do you have?’

She shrugged her shoulders, ‘I don’t have anything at the moment…but I’m doing some overtime so I should be able to get money to you soon, just…’

‘I’m sorry Miss Roper,’ he said standing, ready to show her the door. ‘I don’t work for free. Now you’ve already wasted enough of my time, please leave!’

‘Please, Mr Carmichael?’ she pleaded, ‘You are a brilliant detective. Surely you can see the truth of what I have told you? I just want you to prove he had no motive for that night and could have been guilty of the crime. Please?’

But it was too late, he had already made his mind up. Although he genuinely did pity the woman before him, there was no way he could work for free.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Roper. I wish you the best of luck with it, but I am not the one to help you.’

He showed her to the door and then closed it behind her. He returned to his chair, screwed up the notes he had scribbled and tossed them towards the wastepaper bin; they bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and lifted a paper folder out of the way. He found what he was looking for underneath and lifted the half empty bottle of
Jack Daniels
out. He grabbed his empty coffee mug from the edge of the desk and blew into it to get rid of dust. There was a horrible dark stain staring back up at him where his previous coffee had congealed. Ignoring this, he poured a generous serving of the bourbon into the mug and sipped it slowly. It was still early in the day but he felt he needed something to clear his mind of the frustration endured during the last twenty minutes.

The cheek of the woman
, he thought.

He put the mug down and turned his computer on. He opened a new document and began to type up the notes of what he had witnessed with Benold that afternoon. It was a struggle to maintain his concentration as his mind kept wandering back to Lauren Roper. She was so absolutely convinced that Green had perpetrated the crime that he felt compelled to believe her, even though the evidence was at best flimsy.

Concentrate,
he reprimanded.

After an hour of trying to write up the report, he decided enough was enough. Knocking back the last dregs of his whisky, he turned the computer off and headed for the exit door.

A good night’s sleep is what I need
, he told himself.

When he got back to his flat, he opened up a new bottle of
Jack Daniels
and vowed to drink until he passed out. He achieved his goal three hours later.