CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
David Maguire and Martin Walden were disagreeing.
“What makes you think that?” asked Walden. “You don’t have anything to go on. At least if you do you haven’t shared it with me.”
Maguire was getting angry. More angry. Not so much at his partner but at himself. The reason was he did not have an answer. At least not an answer that would satisfy Walden. He knew that. He knew also that had the roles been reversed he would be challenging Walden.
“I know, I know, I know,” he said. “It’s just…it just doesn’t feel right.” He shook his head. “The pieces just don’t fit.”
Maguire and Walden had been friends since their youth and had worked together for a number of years in the police. They knew each other as well as two men who had been friends for well over two decades could. They were close and had insights into each other’s characters, moods, tempers, thought processes. Much of the time anyway. There were times when one would have a sense of something that the other needed an introduction to. And even then there were occasions where no matter how detailed and lengthy the explanations were there would be no budging, no meeting of the twain. The current discussion was heading in that direction.
“The guy’s a prick,” said Walden. “A prick of the worst kind. He has a record as long as your arm with pretty well all of it for exactly the kind of thing he is now banged up for. He fits the profile perfectly. So what’s the problem?”
“I can’t tell you exactly,” replied Maguire.
“Jesus Dave, I don’t get it. How much do you want before you accept it? He fits the bill, he denies everything but then they always do, he claims not to have ever been in some of the places where they were found, yet we know from talking to others that he is lying. Even with what we’ve already got it’s enough to follow thorough on. And the longer we hold him the more we are going to find. Surely you know that inside you.”
“That’s just it,” said Maguire. “I don’t know it deep down. My gut tells me he’s just not right.”
“What’s not right about it?”
“For a start,” Maguire said, “this guy does not go around befriending new women all the time. His profile shows him to be a one woman man. He….”
“One woman? Shit Dave the bastard has had a harem of women over the years and he has beaten the shit out of all of them. And cut them badly, just as was done to our victims in the case.”
“But one woman at a time and for a period of time. Not different women for short periods of time. He gets one, shacks up with her or at least keeps her on tab for as long as she’ll stand him or until he knocks her about so much she pisses off, and only then tries to find another one.”
“What about the cutting and the chunks taken out of some of them? That fits James to a T.”
Maguire nodded vigorously. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. But he does not cut them up and then dump them all over the country.”
“So far, or not that we know of. These victims could very probably be in addition to his women friends and those he really takes his aggression out on. The guy’s a real case and you know it. He’s capable of anything.”
“There’s one more thing,” said Maguire. “James hits his women. He kicks his women. He stabs his women. He slashes his women.”
“Like I say, he is a major prick.”
“How many of our victims have been stabbed? How many show any sign of being brutally assaulted either with punches or kicks? Or being hit with anything?”
Walden stared at his friend. “You’ve seen what he did to these women Dave. He did worse than knock them about a bit.”
“But that’s the point,” said Maguire. “He obviously did not knock them about.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“These women have been mutilated I agree. Their injuries have been horrific. I give you all that. But not one of them, and tell me if I am wrong here, not one of them has any signs of being abused in the usual sense. Not one has been covered in bruises or even shown signs of ever having been knocked about in that way.”
Walden looked into the distance. One thing he did know about Maguire was that he was methodical. He pretty well all the time considered all aspects of a case. That was why he was good, why he was highly regarded as a good investigative detective. He didn’t go through the motions. He looked at cases from all angles.
“So, what you’re saying is that because none of our victims showed signs of physical abuse, apart from the injuries that are pretty damn clear, you reckon James is not our man.”
“Yes. Maybe,” said Maguire.
Walden remained silent for a few minutes. Maguire said nothing and waited.
“Bloody hell Dave,” Walden said eventually, “what you’re saying is you believe we have the wrong guy. That in taking this prick to court and with all the fanfare about that, that we are have to go back to square one. That the real killer is still out there?”
“I guess I am,” Maguire said.
“Shit,” said Walden. “What a bloody mess. If you are right, and I need to be convinced a little bit more I have to say, this will turn very messy indeed.” He stopped. Then added: “What the hell do you think the Super is going to say? Hang on, you are thinking that we have to go back to Ford aren’t you?”
Maguire looked squarely at his friend and partner. “I think we have to. If I am right, and if James is not the bad guy, and if this draws out as it looks like it might, we and everyone else are going to look like shit.” He then added: “Seriously, what do you think?”
Walden was quiet for quite a time. Maguire could almost hear the mental cogs grinding. “OK,” he said finally. “By your reckoning, correct me if I am wrong, James is definitely a candidate. A prized prick who beats and cuts his women. And while he cannot account for his whereabouts completely, and he denies ever being in the places of interest even though we know he is lying, and he has just murdered his wife after knocking her about and cutting her up, and he fits the psychological profile as well as anyone, you think he’s not our guy. And your reason is simply because our victims show no signs of brutality. Apart from numerous mutilations.”
“I guess that’s about it,” Maguire answered. “My principal thinking is the victims show no signs of battery. James is a thug who batters his women. Badly. Why not these?”
Walden sighed. “Fuck.”
*
Superintendent Alasdair Ford’s office was sparsely furnished.
The general public might have imagined that with all the money being loosely floated around the Met over the years that his office would be rather salubriously decked out with plush chairs, long mahogany tables, prints on the walls.
It did have a long table but it was not mahogany. Oak perhaps. And it sat ten at most.
Along one wall there was a bookcase but even that was not crammed with legal tomes and such like. And the walls did have pictures hanging, but they were certainly not original. The most prominent in fact was a simple montage of alphabet graphics that in three rows of three spelt out the words Change Can Happen. Pot plants in two corners brought a semblance of the outdoors indoors.
Ford was sitting at one end of the table under the montage. He did not look very pleased. Maguire and Walden sat to his right. There was no-one else in the room.
“Tell me again,” said Ford.
For the second time in fifteen minutes Maguire began. He leaned his elbows on the table, coughed softly, and said: “What I am positing is that Rocky James does not fit the bill for our serial murderer. I think we might have the wrong man. I think we need to look further afield.”
Ford placed both palms on the table and appeared to concentrate on just how they should be spread. Without looking up he said: “No. What I mean is, tell me again from the beginning. I got the last bit. Tell me how you reached that conclusion.”
Maguire glanced at Walden who looked uneasy.
“We know how our victims look,” he began over. “We’ve seen their injuries. Some of the worst we’ve seen. If not the worst. Not the ordinary run of the mill as it were assault and battery. Far, far worse. So bad we don’t dare let on to the public.” He paused to swallow hard. “Whoever did that, not once but numerous times to numerous women, is not a normal human being. He, or she, though I think we must all agree it is a man and not a women who is responsible, is one of the worst kind. The injuries are horrific. But given that, they are not what we would expect to see as the result of what we have all seen in assault and battery cases. There is nothing random or frenzied about any of the wounds. They are all designed to inflict the worst pain. The worst disfigurement. They are all….predetermined wounds. Not something that would result from the normal woman beater’s fists and feet. Quite the opposite. Apart from the wounds there are no injuries. No bruises. No abrasions. Nothing.”
Maguire stopped. Looking squarely at Ford who had kept his head down and continued scrutinising his splayed hands, he said: “These are not the trademark injuries caused by Rocky James or anyone like him. This is, in my view, the handiwork of someone very different. Very different to anyone we’ve encountered up to now.”
Maguire stopped talking. He felt he had covered all the bases he had in his mind. What he considered fact intertwined with opinion. No more than that. No more than fact and opinion based on a lot of detective experience and professional knowledge.
The room was silent.
Walden shifted in his chair. “Sir,” he said. “Dave might have a point. More than one actually. Rocky James is a nasty piece of work there is no doubt. But as Dave says his trademark is knocking his women about. He leaves terrible injuries – hell the last one, his wife, he killed – but there’s nothing thoughtful about the way he attacks them. He loses his head and beats the living daylights out of them. He doesn’t think about it and methodically set about the damage he wants to cause. He’s just ruthless. So maybe…..”
Superintendent Ford drummed his fingers on the table. He was a tall man with more than twenty five years experience in the police. He was a good police officer with an excellent track record. His dedication to work and the hours he devoted to the job could in part explain why his two marriages had not worked out. Separations were amicable but his former wives had finally tired of his eighteen hour work days and the brevity of his small talk. Police work was his life. The Met was his wife.
“On one hand you worry me Maguire,” said Ford at last. “Nothing quite sits with you comfortably does it? There always seems to be something you are not satisfied with.” He then lifted his head and looked at Maguire. “On the other hand, there are times when your unhappiness is justified. I am not convinced that on this occasion you are right. But I am convinced that we should double check our facts, our information, underline what we have, before we go any further.”
He paused and again concentrated on his hands. “So, what I suggest is this. Get a closer look at Rocky James. Go over what we have about the victims. Have a look at anyone else that might be on the radar.”
“Sir…,” Maguire began.
Ford held up a hand. “And finally, do all of this quietly. James has appeared in court. The word is out that we are considering charging him with these other murders. If we have to change our position on this I want us to be absolutely clear why. After the recent street disturbances our reputation can take no more hits. I trust I make myself clear on this.”
Before Maguire and Walden could answer, Ford pushed back his chair and stood: “Right.”
*
Superintendent Ford’s concern was not misplaced. The Met had faced, and still faced, strong criticism. In the latest broadside a former senior officer from one of the main riot affected areas claimed that better preparation by senior police could have stopped the riots at that point, but which he pointed out were then copied across England. Indeed he went even further by stating that there was a disgraceful absence of leadership and strategy which shamed the Met.
And community leaders weighed in with their own criticism by making it known publicly that they warned local police about the risk of violence at a meeting hours before it began.
As a result of the mishandling of the riots, and the subsequent criticism levelled at the police, the Home Secretary met with senior police officers and executives from the major social networks to discuss the situation. It was said that social networks had played a key role in the rioters being able to organize and co-ordinate their activities in various locations at different times. The plan was to get the assistance of Twitter, Facebook and BlackBerry to work together to stop people plotting violence online.
But this was not expected to be easily done. For example the BBC reported that at least one social media executive had said the networks were keen to co-operate but that the idea of trying to block communications was what he termed ludicrous and actually had not been thought through. Nevertheless, a number of people who had been arrested had appeared in court in recent weeks for organising or attempting to organise disorder on social networks.
In the aftermath of the riots the Prime Minister announced the government might look at disconnecting some online and telecommunications services. But only if similar circumstances arose in the future. Then the Acting Commissioner, in place of a Commissioner yet to be chosen, also said that he considered requesting authorities to switch off Twitter during the riots. Yet he conceded that the legality of such a move was very questionable and that the service was a valuable intelligence asset. Things were not all that comfortable for the police or for the government.
“Right,” Walden said. He and Maguire were heading towards Stoke Newington in the north of the city. They were on their way to where Dennis Quilter lived. The last time Quilter appeared on their radar he had merely been under surveillance. Now the plan was to pick him up, take him back to the Yard for more questioning and depending on what they learned either keep him in custody or after releasing him look further into the Rocky James case.
The suburb sits between Stamford Hill which is slightly further north and Highbury a little further away to the south. Like pretty well every district in the metropolitan area Stoke Newington has its good parts and its not so good parts. It is part of the borough of Hackney and nestles against the district of Dalston which it has to be said is not one of the most upmarket areas in London. In fact it is largely the poor who have gravitated to Dalston and this does little to enhance the status of its nearest neighbour.
But Stoke Newington is surprisingly endowed with a lot of green open space. One of the landmarks is the West Reservoir which no longer serves the purpose for which it was built. The entrance to the facility is itself a bizarre example of architecture called the Castle Climbing Centre which was originally designed to look like a towering Scottish castle. And to the south of these facilities is Clissold Park, an extensive park that has a menagerie, an aviary and Clissold Mansion itself, a grade II listed building from the late eighteenth century.
As pleasant as this might be, there are streets in Stoke Newington that do not attract buyers searching for mid level quality. There are properties that are home to many more people than there are beds and for which they were designed, and Dennis Quilter had settled in one such residence. While quite a lot of residents in the area were transient, in some cases dedicated squatters, Quilter was a longer term local. He had lived in a number of flats in the area over the years but the one he now occupied had been his home since he was released from prison.
“Déjà vu,” said Maguire who had been driving the Honda Civic. Once off the lengthy Green Lanes and then right into Stoke Newington Church Street with the park on their left, Maguire navigated down into the denser streets until they drew up outside an ordinary looking row of terrace flats. Near the entrance of the flat where Denis Quilter lived were six large black bin bags of rubbish. One had burst its sides and cardboard milk cartons and pizza boxes had spilled out onto the doorstep.
“Grubs,” said Maguire and kicked a milk carton to the side.
“Rats more likely,” Walden commented. “Thank god I live in an area where the council provides wheelie bins. These bags just invite dogs and urban foxes and cats and rats. Disgusting.”
Maguire rang the bell to the flat with no name assigned to it but which he knew was where Quilter lived. It was well before noon and too early for even Quilter to head to the local Red Lion. He pressed the button again. Then a third time, stepping back and looking up to see if any of the windows on the second floor were open or if anyone would lean out to see who was below. As he was about to step forward again and press the buzzer once more, the door opened inwards and Quilter almost shouted: “What? What the fuck do you want?”
“Dennis Quilter,” said Maguire.
“Who the fuck wants to know?” replied Quilter who was dressed in a vest and undershorts. He leaned further out and glanced past Maguire and Walden to the car parked at the kerb. “Shit, what do you want now?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like you to come with us. We have a few questions we would like to ask you,” and with that he stepped forward, forcing Quilter to step back. Walden followed and closed the door behind him.
“Now just a fucking minute,” Quilter blurted. “This….”
“No,” said Maguire. “Get up the stairs there, get some clothes on and come with us. No ifs and buts, just do it. Now.”
Quilter continued his stream of expletives but did as he was told and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When he reached his open door he stopped and turned and said: “Stay away from the bedroom. That’s private.”
But no sooner had he said it than the door to what was obviously the bedroom opened and a woman stood squarely in the door frame. Without a stitch of clothing on and with a cigarette clutched in one hand she just stood there without saying a word. Then she took a drag on the cigarette, mumbled “fuck me” and turned and disappeared into the room.
“Stay here,” said Quilter and followed her into the room.
“Leave the door open,” called Walden. “And stay away from the windows.”
Various mumbled phrases could be heard in the room, but Maguire and Walden did not know exactly what was being said. Whatever it was it was not long before Quilter emerged wearing jeans and T shirt.
“Let’s make this quick,” he said and headed for the entrance. “I’ve got business I have to attend to.”
“We can see that,” Walden said. “Your business doesn’t look like she is going anywhere right now though.”
They drove back to police headquarters in silence. Quilter had apparently exhausted the number of expletives he knew and limited himself to slumping in the back seat and occasionally stamping on the floor. Maguire and Walden remained deep in thought.
Once back in the interview room Maguire and Walden took turns at firing questions at Quilter, many of which they already had the answers to but some which they wanted clarification on. What became clear early into the interrogation was that Quilter was only too eager to answer each and every question put to him. In fact he on more than one occasion pre-empted the question by giving information voluntarily. As an experience criminal he had considerable experience in dealing with the police. What also pretty early on began to take shape in the opinions of both detectives was that Quilter was looking less and less likely to be the serial killer they sought.
Certainly some of the information they wanted remained unknown, but the details of Quilter’s whereabouts at certain times, give or take the odd day, his explanations for other gaps that needed filling, and just his manner were too open to be seriously questioned. To be sure, Quilter was a seasoned criminal and some serious criminals were very adept at covering their tracks, handling police interrogations, looking like butter would not melt in their mouths, and generally leaving the police if not empty handed certainly grasping in the dark for pertinent incriminating information. But Quilter there, then, had gone a long way to convincing Maguire and Walden he was not their man.
So with no alternative they cut him loose. But not without a final shot.
“How am I getting back,” asked Quilter. “Are you going to drive me?
“You must be joking,” Walden said. “Take the bus or something.”
“I’ve got no money,” said Quilter. “I left so quick with you fuckers I just grabbed my pants and a shirt.”
“Then walk. Or call your business partner and get her to come and get you.”
“Bastards,” said Quilter. Maguire and Walden escorted him to the front of the building and watched as he wandered off in the direction of the St James’ Park underground station opposite.
“What’s the bet he jumps the barrier?” said Maguire.
“If he tries to he’ll find himself back in custody.” Walden laughed. “It’s almost worth following and seeing what happens.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have the time,” said Maguire. “Let’s go over the Rocky James case. My head’s on the block there.”
“Both of us,” said Walden. They walked back inside and rode the lift to their office on the third floor where the Rocky James files had been delivered and sat at their shared desk facing each other.
*
Rocky James.
He had a crime sheet he would be proud of.
The information included in a criminal
record varies between countries and even between jurisdictions within a country,
though in Britain
they are standardised. In most cases the record lists all non-expunged criminal
offenses and may also include traffic offenses. In some countries the record is
limited to actual convictions where the individual has pleaded guilty or been
found guilty by a court. In others it also includes arrests, charges dismissed,
charges pending and even charges where the individual has been acquitted.
The latter policy is often argued to be a human rights
violation since it works contrary to the