Vengeance Street: An utterly gripping crime thriller

1

It has not taken long for you to find the three lads huddled behind the bus shelter, passing the joint between them. You inch closer, pretending to be reading the bus timetable, but really you’re focusing your attention on the tallest of the three. He’s well built, with shiny, slicked-back hair, and a tattoo of a crucifix that edges past his wrist and onto the back of his hand. They’re all dressed for a night out: crisp white shirts, black jeans, and leather trainers with designer logos that reflect the headlights of oncoming cars. You check your watch. Still early. From experience, you know it will be another hour or so, another trip to the off license for some cheap rum and a bottle of Diet Coke.

It’s nearly ten by the time they finally stumble their way to the harbourfront. It’s a bank holiday weekend, and the crowds are out in droves, the queue outside The Dolphin winding its way past the chip shop two doors down. By the time you make it inside they’ve already finished their first round and are ordering a second. You settle yourself in a far corner, and you watch.

For the next two hours the lads ricochet between mellow and hyper, jostling the Chinese students who are quietly introducing themselves to a pint of scrumpy, or eyeing up the locals who have made it in for 2-for-1 ladies’ night. You’re about to leave, when you notice a small blonde with dark slashes for eyebrows struggling on her way to the bar. The shiny-haired boy marks her approach with a grin, downs his shot, and signals to the bartender for two more. He gives his mates the nod, and they clear off, leaving him to it. The girl smiles shyly as he pulls up a bar stool and helps her on, all the time giving her a greedy once-over. It's as if you’re watching one of those wildlife programmes where they film the shark circling the sea lion. No matter what the outcome, human intervention is forbidden. Nature, after all, must be allowed to take its course.

A while later, outside, the breeze feels cool against your back as you follow them into the darkness. Streetlights glimmer in the harbour, opposite the cobblestoned alley where the boy has led her, where there are no cameras. Her back is against the wall, and he is pushing up against her. She puts both hands on his shoulders.

‘Got a condom?’

‘You kiddin’ me?’

‘Won’t do it without no condom.’

‘It’ll be fine, I promise.’ His voice is soft, persuasive, but there’s an edge to it now. He slips one hand between her thighs, and begins pulling up her (fake leather) miniskirt with the other.

‘Don’t!’

‘What do you mean, don’t?’

‘Stop it!’ She sounds frightened, like a little girl.

‘Come on, baby, don’t fight.’ She tears at his designer shirt. A button pops and spirals to the ground, bouncing off the uneven stone. ‘This shirt cost me a hundred quid!’ He gives her a shake, and then slams her against the wall, her head hitting the bricks with a soft thud.

‘Get off me!’ she screams, and in a moment of inspired desperation she stabs her stiletto heel into the toe of his trainer. You see him stumble, and to your surprise watch as she pushes him away so ferociously that he topples backwards onto the pavement.

Good girl.

Kicking off her heels the girl runs barefoot into the night, her cries echoing the squawks of the ever-present seagulls.

You hear footsteps and slip into a dark alcove just as two long shadows appear.

‘Like a girl wif spirit,’ says one.

‘Don’t take no shite,’ says the other.

‘What’d the message say?’

The larger of the two – bald, six feet plus, and at least twenty stone – checks his phone for the text message you sent only minutes before. ‘Says to make it tidy, not like last time.’

The other – short and tight, ready for a fight – laughs. ‘Reckon we can do that, don’t you?’

Ahead of them a shaky silhouette struggles to his feet. The two shadows move towards him.

‘Like to pick on helpless girls?’ one of them says.

‘Make you feel like a man?’ says the other.

‘Piss off,’ the boy replies, dusting dirt off his skinny jeans.

‘That’s no way to talk to your elders,’ says one.

‘Your betters,’ says the other.

‘Why don’t you just mind your own fucking business?’ replies the boy, squaring up.

The first punch sends him flying. His jaw smashes onto the cobbles, teeth shatter. There is a kick in the chest, then another, the sound of splintering ribs, and red foam on his lips.

‘That’ll do,’ says the small one. ‘Don’t want no first degree on my sheet.’

The larger one hitches his trousers up past his belly button. ‘Me neither. Fancy a pint?’

You wait until they’re gone, and slowly make your way out of the darkness. The boy has tried to crawl his way towards the light, but has only made it as far as a small inlet used by fishing boats to unload cargo. He’s collapsed into a tangle of nets, his shallow breathing overlapping with the soft slap of water against stone. He looks up, his eyes unfocused and unsure. Small mewing noises are coming from his bloody and ruined mouth. His eyes widen in recognition. He tries to speak, mouths something desperate, indecipherable. You lean in closer.

‘Like the water?’ you whisper, before slowly tipping him into the harbour.

2

The high-risk interview room has a particular smell. A mixture of sweat, stale air, and used fat from the tapas bar across the street. I keep a bottle of Neal’s Yard breath spray, Mint & Lemon, in my back pocket, and I often give it a little spritz just before I start the interview.

‘What’s that smell?’

I’m waiting for my first client of the morning – Michael Fellows, a convicted rapist – to take his seat. ‘Good morning, Michael. My name is Grace Midwinter. I’m your new probation officer. Please sit down.’

‘What’s that fucking smell?’

I decide to take a few minutes to let the silence do its job. The trick is not to give them the opportunity to get a handle on you. Reacting too quickly; a raised eyebrow, a tightening of the voice, is always a mistake. It makes them think they can work you, push your buttons. The trick is to remain neutral, calm, and when necessary, absolutely silent. I wait until he’s seated, and I’ve counted ten ticks from the clock on the wall above his head, before continuing.

‘Let’s get to it shall we?’ I glance at the notepad on the desk in front of me. ‘As you were convicted of a serious sexual assault, it’s my job to gain a clearer understanding of your current level of sexual preoccupation before we can put together a realistic risk management plan.’ He yawns indifferently. ‘This may involve asking you a few rather difficult questions.’ I glance up and am struck by how handsome he is: strong jawline, high cheekbones, movie star looks. ‘So, Michael,’ I hold eye contact, ‘how many times a day do you masturbate?’

That’s got his attention.

He doesn’t answer. I give a tiny huff of frustration. I still have two drug dealers and an arsonist to deal with before lunchtime. I scan my scribbles taken from his electronic case file five minutes before. I take in the sketchy case notes, and unsigned consent to share information forms. What was his last PO thinking? I clear my throat.

‘Did your previous probation officer tell you the reason for these questions?’ He gives me an inscrutable shrug. ‘Well then, let me try and explain it to you.’ I’m conscious he is only booked in for a half hour slot, and so far it has been very slow going. ‘A lot of what we do in probation services is based around reducing the risk of re-offending. That’s why I’m asking you these questions about how you spend your time, where you go, what you’re thinking and doing, particularly regarding… inappropriate sexual fantasies.’ A slight smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, and I find my patience fading like shadows in sunlight. ‘In your case this could be viewed as a significant risk.’ I don’t need to say much more. Michael knows from experience how one wrong step will result in an immediate recall to prison.

I hear a loud grumbling noise and realise it’s his stomach. It sounds like he missed breakfast, and lunch at the bail hostel is always an uncertain thing. I reach into my briefcase and bring out the sandwich, crisps, and Diet Coke I bought myself for lunch less than an hour ago. ‘You look starved. When was the last time you had anything to eat?’ His eyes meet mine finally, and for the first time I see the true extent of his uncertainty and fear. I slide the food towards him. ‘Go on.’

I return my attention to my notes. ‘As I understand it, one of the actions you agreed with your previous PO was to attend AA meetings. How’s that been going?’

‘Okay,’ he says, through a mouthful of ham and cheese.

‘I also see that you’re interested in taking part in the restorative justice programme.’

He takes a sip of his drink.

‘While I was inside, you know, I got to thinking.’ There’s a lot of time to think when you spend twenty hours in a ten-by-twenty-foot room. ‘What happened with Chantal. I want to try and do something about it.’

‘That’s good, Michael.’ I could dash his hopes by telling him that the programme is primarily aimed at bringing low-level offenders together with their victims to try and explore what has happened, its impact, and what they need to move forward. Rape is a far more complex issue. ‘You know that for it to work she’ll need to agree as well.’

‘I know.’

‘And probably her family, too. From what I hear they made quite a scene at your trial.’

‘Don’t matter,’ he says. ‘I deserved it.’

‘It’ll take a while.’

‘I’ll wait as long as it takes.’ He looks at me with such sincerity that I just about believe him, but this isn’t his first offence, and it might not be his last. ‘I know I can’t make up for what I’ve done,’ he continues, ‘but at least I can try and take some responsibility.’

I sit back and study him closely. Is he shitting me?

‘I’m really pleased to hear that, Michael.’ If he’s genuinely committed to his rehabilitation this early in the process, I may have a very successful outcome indeed. If not, he’ll be back inside before you can say prison transport. ‘I’ll see what I can do to support you with this.’

He gives me a broad, open smile that I reckon will just about make my day.

‘And how are things with your move-on from the bail hostel?’ No point in softly, softly; it does them no favours. ‘You know you won’t be able to move back in with your mum and stepsister, don’t you?’

‘Don’t need to,’ he says, gulping down the last of the drink. ‘I’ll be moving in with my new missus.’

My eyes travel to my notepad. Was there anything in his case notes about permission to cohabitate?

‘You can’t just move in with anyone,’ I remind him gently. ‘You have to get permission.’

‘From you?’

I nod. ‘But I’m pretty reasonable.’

‘Not what I heard.’ His tone is light, playful.

I smile in response. Being hard-nosed has its moments, but compassion works too.

‘I’ve got a few ideas of how we can support you with what is already excellent progress on your part.’ Michael looks pleased. ‘Along with your resettlement courses, maybe some practical skills training.’

His expression is genuine, open. The mood in the room has eased, softened. Now we’re really going to get somewhere.

3

I’m just making my way back from lunch when I hear the ping of an incoming text. It’s from my line manager, Senior Probation Officer Simon Ellison.

Urgent comms meeting. Briefing room pm. Don’t be late!

‘Dammit,’ I mutter. It’s two minutes to. I take the back stairs two at a time and find myself racing towards the briefing room. Stealing my way through a set of squeaky fire doors I manage to secure a seat in the back corner. The tension in the room is palpable. Unscheduled communications meetings mean something is up. Is it more funding cuts, job losses, the death of a colleague?

‘Good morning, everyone,’ says Simon. He’s medium height, with nondescript features, and sandy-coloured hair that has the tendency to flop into his eyes. ‘Apologies for the short notice, but the Police Protection Unit has requested this meeting to update staff regarding a recent situation.’ The Police Protection Unit, or PPU, is normally comprised of one or two constables seconded to probation services. They have links to the Immediate Response or Management of Sexual or Violent Offenders Team, and step in when things get nasty. ‘However,’ continues Simon, his tone putting my nerves on edge. ‘Due to the serious nature of the situation a member of Plymouth CID will be leading the briefing. I’m delighted to say that one of our very own, a former PPU officer himself, has joined us today.’ I feel my stomach lurch. I have a feeling I know what’s coming next. ‘Let’s give a big welcome home to our very own Detective Inspector Alex Treglann.’

A few of my colleagues applaud jokingly, but I gently ease my chair further back into the corner. DI Treglann takes centre stage, slips off his jacket and lays it over the back of his chair. He is tall and slim, in a long-limbed way. His dark hair is close cropped with a few distinguished flecks of grey. He has intense brown eyes. His gaze catches mine, and for a furious moment I think I might blush.

‘Thank you.’ His expression is grim. ‘It is great to be back at Tamar House, and to see so many familiar faces. Unfortunately, a visit from CID usually means a serious crime has taken place.’ He picks up a remote control from the desk, and the whiteboard behind him glows into life. ‘As you’re all probably aware, there’ve been a number of assaults in the city over recent months.’ On the screen in front of us are the photos of two young men. Both have been badly beaten. ‘To your left, we have Robert Lawson, found unconscious on the morning of 9 February. He has had dealings with the police for a history of domestic violence and common assault, as well as a number of minor possession charges.’ He clicks the remote to highlight the second image. ‘Victim number two, Darren Murphy. Released from Dartmoor Prison in March of this year for aggravated assault. He attacked a shop assistant, who had caught him lifting some cut-price brandy. Fractured her jaw.’ There’s a slight murmur of disapproval from the group, but he continues undaunted. ‘Sometime during the early hours of 15 April, he was beaten up and locked inside a skip on Union Street for nearly twenty-four hours. CCTV was out of order that night.’ Treglann pauses and surveys the room. ‘I know what you’re all thinking, but these were still serious crimes. Murphy is lucky to be alive. Lawson lost the sight in his left eye. This brings me to our current situation.’ He clicks the remote once again. The arrest photo of a young man glowers at us from the screen. ‘Nicky White.’ There is a collective groan. Twenty-two-year-old Nicky White is the youngest member of a notorious Plymouth crime family. Treglann raises his hand for silence. ‘I know you’ve probably all had the pleasure of working with a member of the White family at one time or another, particularly his mum Cath, but let’s stay focused, shall we? Our friend Nicky was out with some mates on Saturday night. He and the lads did their usual pub crawl and ended up at The Dolphin.’ He clicks the remote, and an electronic map of the harbourside area of Plymouth comes into view. ‘From witness reports it appears that sometime after 1am, White left the pub with a young woman, and never returned.’

‘Sorry to interrupt, Alex,’ says Simon. ‘Couldn’t it be that he’s sleeping it off somewhere?’

Treglann scrutinises the senior probation officer. ‘I wish that were the case, Simon, but unfortunately Nicky’s body was discovered at 5 o’clock. this morning floating face down in Sutton Harbour.’ He pauses to let the news sink in. ‘Cause of death has not been confirmed, but it appears that he was badly beaten.’ There is a sudden silence in the room. ‘I’m sure you all know what this means. Every member and associate of the White family will be out for blood. There’s already been considerable tension between the Whites and other local crime families for months. We’re also looking into intelligence, which suggests the family may have been trying to diversify their drug dealing patch into the Stonehouse area of the city.’

‘So, a drugs war?’ comes a voice from the other side of the room.

‘Possibly, but at the moment there’s very little to go on. That’s why I’m asking you all to consider your guys – their previous form, present status – particularly whether they have any links with the White family. It might even be prudent to call some of them in for interview.’ Alex, normally so composed, seems edgy. ‘I’m sure you’re aware that this is all highly confidential. We’ll be making a public statement shortly, but under no circumstances should any of you speak to the press. Thank you.’ He gives a quick nod, throws on his jacket, and makes his way to the exit.

I deliberately take my time leaving the meeting room, so I’m surprised to see him waiting for me in the corridor.

‘Grace.’

‘Alex.’ I feel my heart race, for all the wrong reasons. ‘How are you?’

He runs his hand across the back of his neck. ‘How do you think?’

Colleagues are starting to emerge from a meeting room next door. Alex takes me by the arm and leads me into the empty video conferencing suite opposite.

‘Don’t you want them to see us together?’

‘We’ve been divorced for more than a year,’ he snaps. ‘I doubt anyone thinks there’s anything going on between us.’

‘It was just a joke.’ I don’t want a row, especially not here. ‘Seriously, are you okay? You look awful.’

‘Thanks.’ He gives a wry grin that reminds me of our daughter, of Jodie. His mobile buzzes, and his expression darkens as he reads the message aloud. ‘Initial report suggests cause of Nicky White’s death as drowning.’

‘But you said he was beaten up.’

‘Badly,’ he replies, ‘but alive when he entered the water. According to the forensic evidence at the scene, it also looks like someone put him there.’

‘Jesus.’ I automatically scan my mental list of ex-offenders for any who would be capable of such brutality. Something obvious comes to mind. ‘They’re connected, aren’t they?’

‘What?’

‘The attacks. Lawson, Murphy and now White? Three serious assaults in six months on ex-offenders with a history of violence and sexual offending.’

Alex gives me a look.

‘Why don’t you leave the detective work to me, Grace?’

‘But it can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

‘We’re exploring every angle.’ It’s clear that’s all I’m going to get from him. ‘Do you have anything for me?’

‘Not really. Nicky was one of my guys at the beginning of the year, but after the workload restructure in February, he was handed over to someone else.’

‘Good,’ says Alex, and under his breath he adds, ‘the less you had to do with that little scrote, the better.’ Seeing my surprised look, he quickly changes the subject. ‘So, how is the happy couple? Is Magnus finding my bed comfortable?’

I rein in my temper, knowing full well that he’s trying to goad me.

‘His name is Marcus, as you very well know, and what business is it of yours how he finds my bed?’

Alex gives me a sheepish look that a few years ago would have won me over. Now, I find it irritating.

‘How are things with you and Denise?’

‘We’re not together anymore.’

‘What?’

‘Broke up a few months ago. Didn’t Jodie tell you?’ He lowers his eyes. ‘We were never really right for each other. Not like you and me.’

‘It’s been a while since there was a you and me, Alex.’ The silence stretches out between us, and I find myself grappling to fill the space. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Oh yeah,’ he replies, bitterness clouding his voice. ‘You could invite me over to dinner. I could sit at my old dining room table, in my old house, and enjoy a fabulous meal with you, my daughter, and your new boyfriend. That would really cheer me up.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’ I push past him towards the door.

‘Grace, wait.’ He places his hand firmly on the door, holding it shut.

‘You’re the one who cheated,’ I say, anger overtaking reason. ‘You’re the one who sacrificed our marriage, our daughter and our life together so that you could screw some twenty-four-year-old.’ I’ve got to get out, before I say something worse. ‘Let me out.’

‘Grace, I’m sorry.’

‘Too late, Alex.’ Pushing his hand away, I yank open the door, and stride into the corridor. ‘Too bloody late.’

I head towards the toilets, hoping that I