when the later two took place.”
“So we believe that the person responsible for the attacks in Bristol and Reading has struck again?” suggested Tony Sutton.
“Actually, we suspect not. The other three attacks took place in June, August and November of 1997.”
“It seems a long time between attacks. Why would he suddenly resurface?” asked Karen Hardwick.
“The attacker was convicted in May 1998 and sent down for eighteen years. The attacks occurred in and around the village of Stennfield, a couple of miles north of here.”
Tony Sutton, who had been at Middlesbury CID longer than anyone in the room, gasped audibly. “You’re kidding? You’re talking about Richard Cameron? That case was ongoing when I was a rookie DC. He got eighteen years back in 1998 — he’d be due parole pretty soon, I’d have thought.”
Hastings nodded. “Released on licence this time last year. Bloody big coincidence, don’t you think?”
With the name of a potential suspect on the table a strategy was needed to bring the man in for questioning. Richard Cameron was a convicted serial rapist living on licence in a tiny village to the north of Middlesbury. Like all such ex-offenders he was required to report his current address to the police and maintain contact with a probation officer. Current police records on Cameron were sketchy and largely out of date, with interest in him minimal in the thirteen years since he’d been sent to prison. Prior to his release, the files had been updated with a more recent mugshot and details of his current whereabouts, but for the most part he was the responsibility of the probation service.
Sam Pargeter was a no-nonsense ex-submariner. A gruff, bullish Yorkshire man with a salt and pepper haircut, he was candid about why he’d joined the service as he helped himself to a cup of jet-black coffee from the CID urn.
“I got meself a reputation in the Navy as a bit of a hard bastard. Hard but fair. They stuck me in charge of whipping the less responsive boys into shape. Some of them see it all as a bit of a laugh when they’re training. ’Course, as soon as they come aboard a boat, and it finally dawns on them that they won’t even see daylight for the next six months, some of them start to play up. That’s where I came in.”
After loading his cup with several heaped spoons of sugar he followed the two detectives back to Warren’s office, where he continued his story.
“They called it ‘Pargeter’s detail’ and the kids were named ‘Pargies’. I don’t take bullshit from nobody, but I also don’t give it out. They stuck them with me for a week. For most of that week, they hated me — some of the names they called me when they thought I wasn’t listening would make your hair curl. Of course, by the end of the week, they thought the sun shone out of my arse. They realised that I was right and they was wrong — simple as. Some of them still write to me, letting me know about their latest promotions. Wouldn’t want to name names, of course, but there’s more than one flag officer who still sends me a Christmas card and a bottle of rum each year and calls himself a ‘Pargie’.
“Anyhow, eventually it was time to leave the service. A mate of mine asked if I fancied helping out in one of those places out in the sticks where they hide out-of-control teenagers. I did about twelve months there, but found it too depressing. Everybody’s just marking time until the kids turn sixteen, get turfed out then stab their way into an adult prison. Then I saw a programme one night about the National Offender Management Service. It talked about how their job was to stop reoffending — by any means necessary — and try and get some of these folks back into doing something useful in society.
“So I contacted them, went for an interview and here I am. They found out that I’m good with young lads and so I tend to specialise. A lot of these boys never really had a father figure, or if they did he was a drunk or an abuser. I keep an eye on them. If they don’t do what they’re told I’ll come around unannounced and smack ’em round the ear. If they’ve got a job interview and I’m free, I’ll turn up and hammer on the door until they get out of bed. I’ll even throw them in the shower and turn the water on them fully clothed if I have to.”
Pargeter shrugged and took a large swig of his coffee. “Some of them don’t like it and neither do some of the more liberal-minded folk in the office, but my re-offending rates are thirty to forty per cent lower than the average and I have a wall full of pictures from my former boys showing me what they’re up to now. Can’t argue with results like that.”
Warren eyed the man closely. Coming from most people, Sam Pargeter’s little speech would have sounded self-serving. Yet there was something about the way that he said it — calmly and matter-of-factly in a no-nonsense northern burr that seemed to invite trust in the man. Warren thought he could see why so many wayward youths responded to his methods.
Sutton also seemed impressed, or at least as impressed as he ever did. “So why did you end up with Richard Cameron? He hardly seems to fit your usual profile.”
“Well, ultimately, we have to deal with what comes our way. Cameron was released last year and I had space on my list, so I got him. He’s unusual and that’s why I’ve come to speak to you. Your call surprised the hell out of me.”
Warren glanced at Sutton.
“Why so surprised? Repeat offending in these cases is pretty high — we’ve all seen the stats.”
Pargeter nodded. “Normally I’d agree with you, Chief Inspector, but I thought Cameron was different.”
Warren’s face must have betrayed his scepticism.
“Look, Richard Cameron was sentenced to eighteen years for three rapes back in 1998. He did twelve years and was released on licence this time last year. When he entered the system he was a dangerous man, no question, with priors for drink-driving, domestic violence and petty theft. When the rapes occurred he lived with his wife, Angie, and teenage son, Michael, in a small farmstead about three miles north of Middlesbury, just outside the village of Stennfield. It isn’t much, a couple of acres of potatoes, a handful of pigs and a few chickens. He wasn’t a farmer by any stretch; he just inherited it from his old man, who inherited it from his old man et cetera.
“He basically left school at fifteen and drifted in and out of odd jobs before meeting Angie in about 1980. They had Michael in 1982. The farm was paid off by his father and he owns the land, so even when he didn’t have a job they always had a roof over their heads. Anyway, he wasn’t really on the radar as far as the police were concerned; he had a file, like I said, and Michael’s school raised warning flags with social services but nothing ever happened.
“And then the rapes occurred. You’re familiar with the details; suffice to say, it was luck as much as detective work that nailed him in the end. Michael was barely sixteen when Cameron was sentenced. The girls were all local and everyone knew who his dad was. In the end he finished his GCSEs, changed his name by deed poll to his mother’s maiden name and switched schools for sixth form. By all accounts the move was successful and he went on to get a decent set of A levels and go to university.
“Angie divorced Cameron and reclaimed her maiden name but stayed at the farm with Michael. Cameron apparently signed over the lease without much fuss. He told me when I first met him it was his first step in trying to repair the damage done to his family.”
Sutton looked pointedly at the clock on the wall; where was all this going? he wondered.
Warren
