Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2) (15 page)

Carmichael picked up an ash tray from the corner of his desk and threw it in Benold’s direction. It narrowly missed as he ran out of the door.

Two hours later and Carmichael’s mood had not improved, nor had his headache. He was used to suffering the effects of too much alcohol and not enough natural hydration, but still he never learned the lesson. He had been munching on Melissa’s chocolate digestive biscuits all morning, which had at least curbed his hunger, but the painkillers he had been washing down with tea were doing nothing for the ache in his head. Melissa had jokingly suggested he try the ‘hair of the dog’ remedy but he had embraced the suggestion and that was why he had been in the
King’s Arms
for the past ten minutes staring at the pint of lager he had ordered.

The pub was virtually empty but that was hardly a surprise given the time of day. There were a couple of older men at a small table, deep in conversation, and something about them suggested that they were regulars. The fact that they would engage the bartender in their discussions periodically affirmed this thought. It was quiet and that was what he needed. It felt like he had a hundred thoughts whizzing through his mind, all vying for his attention. Benold’s statement earlier frustrated him immensely.

How could Frankie take him back
?
Surely she knew the kind of monster he was
?

The potential impact on his own business was what troubled him most. Sure, he would rather be out there solving the crimes that the police could not, but the honey-trapping business paid the bills. If it got out that he had slept with a client and had thus blown her chances of achieving the divorce she sought, business would swiftly dry up. How could he have been so stupid?

He kept trying to figure a way out of it. If he could just speak to Frankie, tell her about the whipping incident that Melissa had been exposed to, maybe she would see sense. Ultimately, did it really matter that they had slept together? After all, it was only
after
she had exposed her husband and demanded the divorce. It wasn’t like they had been having a fling for months on end; not like
him
.

He was still weighing up whether to phone her when a man in his fifties approached his table and held a hand out. Carmichael immediately noticed the hand had the word ‘HATE’ tattooed between the knuckles. He eyed the man suspiciously, not quite sure who he was or what he wanted. Eventually he took the hand and shook it.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

The man took a seat across from him and introduced himself.

‘The name’s Stan. Stan Pensa. You’re Carmichael, right? Some private investigator or something?’

‘That’s right,’ Carmichael confirmed cautiously. ‘Have we met before?’

‘No, no, I don’t think so. We do have a mutual friend though.’

‘Oh yeah? Who’s that then?’

‘Nathan Green. I used to be his cell mate in Parkhurst…well, a couple of years ago, anyway.’

‘I think you must be mistaken, I didn’t know Nathan Green.’

‘Oh really? I heard you had been asking some questions about him.’

‘Sorry…but who are you?’ he demanded, raising his voice slightly. ‘Who have you been speaking to? What do you want?’

‘Steady on, fella,’ Pensa whispered, ‘no need to get angry.’

‘What. Do. You. Want?’

Pensa ignored the question and went to order himself a pint. When he returned, he retook the seat opposite Carmichael and began to ask what the investigation into Green was all about.

‘I can’t discuss that with a third party,’ Carmichael argued.

Pensa accepted the reluctance and changed tack.

‘Why don’t I tell you what I know and then maybe we can discuss this like men,’ he began. ‘I met Nathan three years ago inside. We were placed in a shared-occupancy cell as I was nearing the end of my sentence. We were both deemed
good
inmates and so we were buddied up. You need to understand that some like having their own space and want to live independently, but me and Nathan weren’t like that: we liked bunking in with someone as at least then you had someone you could chat to. Do you understand?’

Carmichael nodded.

‘Anyway, it turned out we had a lot in common. We both liked reading and would chat about books that we had enjoyed as well as films, that sort of thing. I grew up in Southampton too and had been a Saints fan since I was a boy, so we talked about the city and the football club, and in fairness we became pretty good friends, all things considered. He was a nice guy.’

‘He was a convicted rapist and killer,’ Carmichael interrupted.

‘So am I,’ Pensa stated matter-of-factly. ‘Doesn’t make me a bad person, though.’

Carmichael was tempted to interject that it was precisely this that
did
make him a bad person, but resisted the urge.

‘I spent a lot of time chatting to Nathan, and we had several conversations about the nature of our crimes. He told me that he had felt certain urges for as long as he could remember and that it was beyond his control. He had to dominate women; that was who he was. It was in his nature to pick out vulnerable women and attack them. I really empathised with him. I, too, have urges that I struggle to control.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘Because you shouldn’t believe everything you read about him. The press made him out to be a monster, but he wasn’t. He was troubled, yes, but inside he was learning to suppress those urges.’

‘Learning how?’

‘Inside they run various courses and provide therapy for those inmates who display anti-social behaviours. He signed up for the lot. He was a man who wanted to change. He wasn’t proud of the crimes he had committed, but as I said, he just wasn’t able to control his urges.’

‘Can you control yours?’

Pensa snickered, ‘I’m taking it one day at a time.’

Carmichael took a long drink of his lager. Pensa grabbed his wrist as he lowered the glass.

‘Listen to me, mate,’ Pensa said, a sinister tone to his voice. ‘You ought not stick your nose in somebody else’s business, you hear me? There is no sense in digging up the past; it should remain buried. People are just going to get hurt.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Yes I bloody am, mate! I heard you been round Nath’s dad’s place asking questions. You should understand that you are following a dangerous path.’

Carmichael pulled his wrist free of the vice-like grip.

‘Nobody threatens me.’

‘
I am
! I’m not the sort of person that you want to get on the wrong side of. I have killed men better than you before, and wouldn’t hesitate again. This woman you’re working for needs to watch her back.’

‘How do you know about her?’

‘I know a lot more than you do, mate; you’d be wise to remember that.’

‘Like what?’

‘I know that she thinks Nath had something to do with the attack on her mother. Let me assure you that he didn’t! Inside he told me the names of every woman he ever attacked. He knew their names, where it had happened and the month he had done it. Part of his therapy was to accept responsibility for his actions. Her name was never on the list. You see? It wasn’t him.’

‘Forgive my cynicism if I don’t believe the word of an ex-con.’

Pensa slammed his fist down on the table, startling Carmichael.

‘Consider yourself warned, Mr Carmichael. If you persist on this course, you will only find trouble. That’s not a threat: it’s a promise.’

With that, Pensa left the pub, leaving Carmichael to ponder the exchange. What struck him initially was the fact that he hadn’t thought about the Roper case since he had seen Frankie Benold the night before. He had finally managed to get it out of his mind, and now it was firmly back in there.

He didn’t know quite what to make of Stan Pensa. On the one hand, the man came across as a coldblooded psychopath, but the humane way he had spoken of Green came across as genuine. What if he was right? What if Green hadn’t attacked Beth Roper all those years ago? That would put Lauren back to square one.

What is it with this case
?

Still, if Green wasn’t responsible, why the need for such a violent threat? And who had told Pensa about him? How many people had Tony Green told about their confrontation?

He picked up his glass to finish the drink and couldn’t help but notice his hand was shaking. He slammed the glass down and headed for the door. It no longer mattered that Lauren had no money, he was on a mission. There was far more going on than he had first thought and he wanted to prove one thing: who attacked Beth Roper twenty-four years earlier. It wouldn’t be easy considering how much time had elapsed so he headed to the one place that would allow him a look back in time: the library.

Winchester Discovery Centre
is found on Jewry Street in the heart of the city and is a mere stone’s throw from the
Winchester Reference Library
, and these were the two locations that Carmichael worked from for the rest of the afternoon. He wanted to read any newspaper reports that had been printed at the time of the three known attacks to elicit any additional detail about the assailant that had not come out during the trial. He knew the basics, but he was convinced that somewhere buried in the print would be the key to solving the mystery of who had actually assaulted Beth Roper twenty-four years ago.

It wasn’t a quick task. He had expected the library to house a microfiche reader with copies of historic newspapers. He was out of luck. Instead, the librarian, a petite woman in her late fifties steered him to one of the library’s internet PCs and showed him a host of sites that now stored historic newspapers.

‘Is there something in particular you are looking for?’ she whispered.

‘I’m after copies of local newspapers reporting a series of rapes that occurred in the late eighties.’

The librarian looked shocked by his response, but muttered that she would see if there were any reference books that might be able to help.

The Southern Daily Echo
had been reporting local Hampshire news since 1888 and always focused on articles impacting the local community. He found a website that held historic copies of the paper and he began to skim read editions from January 1989 onwards. After an hour he was barely through February. Reading the fine print was making his eyes tired and not helping his ever-present headache. He decided to break for a coffee, but left his coat on the back of the chair to discourage any other users from approaching the desk.

If it’s good enough for the Germans
, he figured.

The
Discovery Centre
had a café bar attached to it known as the
Wizard of Winchester
. As tempting as it was to order a pint, he knew it wouldn’t be conducive to what he was trying to achieve and opted for a black coffee instead. He asked the barista to add a shot of espresso for good luck. He returned to his workstation and was relieved to find nobody had taken his seat. The librarian came over and told him that she hadn’t managed to locate any reference books to help him and by the tone of her voice, he sensed she disapproved of the subject he was researching. He decided not to question it and settled back in.

The coffee helped to focus his eyes but his mind would not follow suit and kept wandering. In the end he decided that this exercise was fruitless and found a search bar on the website into which he typed ‘rape’, ‘assault’ and ‘sex’. He applied a filter to show only results from 1989 to 1993 and, within an instant, he had editions covering the arrest and trial of Nathan Green. He read these cover to cover, and then looked for any additional stories of women being attacked that didn’t name Green in the story. There were none. It was hardly surprising given that nobody had come forward to report an incident to the police at the time; why would they tell the local newspaper?

The biggest story was published on Tuesday 25 May 1993; the day after Green was convicted. The article included photographs of each of the victims, as well as a small part about their history. Until this point he had not seen what any of the women looked like. Cat Jurdentaag had shoulder-length dark hair. The photograph was black and white so it was impossible to tell if her hair was dark brown or black. Patricia Tropaz’s hair was much shorter, but again, dark in colour. When he loaded Sarah Hanridge’s photo, he nearly spilled his coffee. Her hair was much lighter and cut in a bob. It wasn’t the dissimilarity that shocked him, quite the opposite in fact. She looked about twenty years younger in the photograph and a little plumper, but there was no doubting that Sarah Hanridge was the librarian he had just been speaking to. He turned to look at her behind the desk near the entrance and found her staring back at him. She looked away as soon as their eyes made contact.

No wonder she was a bit off with me
, he thought.

Carmichael approached her desk but wasn’t sure where to begin.

‘Sarah?’ he asked.

She ignored him and avoided eye contact.

‘Miss Hanridge?’ he asked softly. ‘Excuse me, are you Sarah Hanridge?’

When she eventually turned to look at him, he could see tears welling in her eyes.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he offered, ‘but would you mind speaking to me privately?’

‘Who are you?’ she said, her voice strained with emotion.

‘My name is Johnson Carmichael,’ he said, passing her a business card. ‘I am a private investigator looking to prove that Nathan Green assaulted the mother of my client. I have read so much about you, but I am wondering whether you would speak to me about what happened to you. I appreciate it might be very painful but you could be the key to helping me prove my case. Please?’

The librarian dabbed her eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath.

‘I finish at four,’ she said. ‘Meet me in the
Wizard
then and I will spare you half an hour. If you ask me anything too personal, I will leave. Do you understand?’

‘Totally. Thank you so much, Sarah.’

He returned to his desk and felt an excitement in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in a long time. What were the chances of actually meeting one of Green’s victims? He tried to continue reading but again lacked the concentration. He had an hour until they would meet, but she would probably be able to provide much more than any news story, so he decided to pursue the other reason he had come to Winchester that afternoon.

Winchester Records Office is a five minute stroll from the
Discovery Centre
and houses records of all births, marriages and deaths in the county since July 1837. Lauren had briefly mentioned her father when they had first met, but had said she never knew the man. She had not disclosed his name or occupation and she would probably be unwilling to tell him, even if she did know, considering why he wanted it. He still maintained that most sexual assaults were not stranger-attacks. He knew very little about Beth Roper’s friends and family, so it was as good a place to start if he could just discover who
he
was. He was hoping that Beth Roper had had the foresight to list Lauren’s father on the birth certificate.

He thanked his lucky stars for the second time that day. The record confirmed the father as one Darren Watkins. It didn’t list his age or address, but given that Beth was only fifteen when she gave birth to Lauren, it seemed plausible that he was probably someone she knew from school, which narrowed his age range to within three years of Beth’s. It gave him something to look at later on.

The records search had taken longer than he had expected and it was nearly four by the time he arrived back at the
Wizard
. He had looked in at the library desk on his way back but had not seen Sarah inside. At ten past four he began to worry that she had only said she would meet to get rid of him and would not show up at the meeting. He was relieved to see her walk in a minute later.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she offered. ‘The library is open until seven but my relief was late arriving. Would you mind if we sit in a corner, so nobody can overhear us?’

He agreed and they moved to a small table at the back of the café. He ordered another coffee and Sarah ordered a glass of wine for her nerves.

‘You must understand,’ she said when the drinks arrived, ‘what I am going to tell you is not easy. For a long time I denied that it had ever happened. As the years have gone by, I have seen a number of therapists to help me accept…what that…man…did to me. I am now in a happy place in my life and, although I will never be able to forget what happened, I have at least accepted that it wasn’t my fault and I’ve found the courage to speak to other victims about the crime. I now volunteer at a local
Rape Crisis
centre in Southampton. It gives me great satisfaction that I am able to help new victims of that
inhumane
crime.’

‘My client’s mother was attacked in her own home back in September 1989,’ Carmichael began quietly. ‘My client was only a child but she witnessed some of what happened and recalled a man in a balaclava attacking her mother. She is convinced that Nathan Green is the man responsible but as her mother never reported the crime, she cannot go to the police about it. I wanted to understand from you what you remember about your attacker: his smell, look, feel; those sorts of details. I need anything that she can corroborate to put him in the frame.’

‘The man who attacked me approached me from behind. It was like one minute there was nobody there and then suddenly he had a hand around my throat and one over my mouth. I remember his hands felt soft and smooth; not a working man’s hands. He was wearing cologne and the smell of that and his body odour filled my nostrils. I later identified the brand as
Brut
, but the police said that was too common a brand at the time to narrow their search.’

Carmichael scribbled notes that he could try and verify with Lauren later.

‘He was strong. I can remember the hand on my throat causing my feet to lift a little, yet he didn’t seem to be straining. He whispered in my ear that he was going to allow me to have sex with him: like I should feel privileged or something. He told me that if I didn’t obey him, he would kill me. I was petrified, and powerless to stop him pushing me to the floor. I remember his breath smelled sweet, like he had been eating wine gums or something fruity. He made me lie on my back so that I could see his mask. I remember how white his eyes looked, like they were ready to burst out of his head. He showed me his knife too and used it to make cuts on my thighs and my arms. They weren’t deep cuts, more like paper cuts. They stung more than hurt. Is this helping?’

Carmichael looked up from his notes, ‘More than you can imagine. Thank you.’

‘Good. Well…he then…’

‘It’s okay, Sarah, you don’t need to tell me what he made you do, but can you tell me anything about what happened once he had finished?’

‘I remember feeling scared when he climbed off me. He had said he would let me live if I did as he told me, but I wasn’t sure he would stay true to his word. He had throttled me during the act to the point where I thought I was going to pass out so I didn’t believe that he would let me live.’

A thought struck Carmichael, ‘Did he take any of his clothes off during the attack? Did you see any skin blemishes or anything that might help identify him?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. As I said, I was frozen with panic and I kept my eyes closed while he was on top of me so that I could try and force the memory from forming in my mind. I imagined lying on a sunny beach that I had been to as a child. It didn’t work. He must have at least pulled his trousers down at some point but I didn’t see it. By the time I re-opened my eyes he was fully clothed. I remember him pointing the knife at me again and saying I had done well. Even after he had left the room, I still thought he would come back in and kill me anyway so I laid still for a long time before I dared tidy myself up.'

‘In all that you have told me,’ he said, ‘you haven’t once mentioned
his
name. Why is that?’

She laughed slightly, ‘It’s silly really.’

‘What is?’

‘Well, to this day, I really couldn’t tell you who attacked me that morning. The police said it sounded like the same M.O. as the other two ladies, but I really couldn’t be sure. They said it was him who did it but I will never know for sure. How much can you tell about a man wearing a dark mask? I couldn’t see his hair, nose or ears. It could have been anyone under that balaclava.’

Carmichael thanked her for taking the time to speak with him and went and paid the bill. When he looked back at the table, she had already left.