The Body in the Snow

by The Body in the Snow (retail) (epub)

  ‘This is standard City speculation,’ Gillard said. ‘We’ve been in contact with Mr Lam’s firm, but he hasn’t got back to us. However, at this stage I don’t see any connection to the murder. The Roy family and the company trust between them control a majority of the shares.’

  ‘That’s all very well for you to say, Craig. I’m hearing a lot of talk from some senior figures at the National Crime Agency and the Met who say that we’re just out of our depth.’

  ‘I’ve heard that whistling buffoon Norman Champion saying exactly that.’

  ‘I’m not too concerned about him. But as things currently stand investigative journalists seem to be making most of the running.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well this, for example, from The Times yesterday morning. Simon Parr-Fielding, the partner of Prisha Roy, has a conviction for Class B possession. He is barred from being a director of a company after repeated failures to meet the listing requirements given by Companies House and is also, according to the paper, in considerable debt.’ She tossed the newspaper across to him. ‘Did you know this?’

  ‘No ma’am. I haven’t had a chance to interview all the members of the family and their spouses. That isn’t the direction that the evidence is leading,’

  ‘Oh, and in which direction is the evidence leading?’

  ‘We have a suspect in custody whose DNA was found at the scene of the crime and happens to work at a bicycle shop. He also lives within five minutes’ walk of where Mrs Roy’s body was found.’

  ‘Does he have a motive?’

  ‘We’re still working on that, ma’am.’ Gillard knew that this very moment Claire and a CSI team were going over Jason Waddington’s home with a fine-tooth comb. He was sure that they would turn something up.

  ‘The point is, Craig, that in the absence of anything for the press to get their teeth into, we are looking like we are stumped. How soon do you think you’ll be able to charge the suspect?’

  ‘I’d rather not do that, ma’am, until we are sure. For example, it’s not impossible that as the suspect is a regular user of the common, Mrs Roy’s coat may have innocently picked up one of his hairs when she fell. I’d prefer to see what else we can get from the murder weapon and the search of his home. We can hold him for another day or so.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, picking up the phone. ‘I’m going to ring Christina McCafferty. I want her to get a statement out there that we have someone helping us with inquiries.’

  He waited while Rigby rang the press officer and gave her a concise thirty-second set of instructions. Gillard would rather have waited for the DNA results from the murder weapon, but he was in no position to contest the chief constable’s judgement. She had good reasons to move fast.

  * * *

  Back at his desk, Gillard took a quick break to ring Sam. She was on duty in the control room, and called him back as soon as she was able. ‘Hi, it’s me, what’s up?’

  ‘Sam, I just had a really strange and unsettling experience. I was interviewing Prisha Roy, one of the daughters of our murder victim, and she seems to know a lot about me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. My exact date and place of birth, which I suppose you can look up in the General Register Office, but then the weirdest thing. She knew that I had a terrible year in 1986. I don’t know how she could have known that. Any ideas?’

  ‘Maybe she knew Liz Knight. How old is she?’

  ‘Too young to be a school classmate. It’s really strange. She says she’s cast a horoscope of me. Said she needed to know that the man in charge of the investigation had the personal qualities required to find the culprit. Do you know anything about astrology?’

  ‘No. It’s probably just guesswork, or she asked someone about you.’

  ‘I suppose she could have dug up the newspaper coverage of the Knight murder trial. That mentioned my relationship with Liz, didn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, Craig. She’s probably just playing mind games.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ He blew her a kiss down the phone, and was about to hang up when she spoke.

  ‘Craig. You know I really trust you, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Oh shit, he knew where this might be going.

  ‘Well, the conversation with that woman, if I may say, sounds a bit intimate. How did she come to be discussing personal things like this with you?’ Before he could reply she added, ‘You don’t fancy her, do you?’

  ‘Not at all, Sam.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  Gillard could hardly give her the truth, which was that she was tall and slim, with dazzling come-hither eyes, full lips and glossy dark hair that most women would kill for. Like most men, he could see that she was trouble and all the more enticing because of it. So he gave her the more palatable half of the truth: ‘She’s not my type. Nasty, snide, controlling.’

  ‘Those aren’t looks, but good.’ The pause was not good news, Sam was circling the issue to approach from a fresh angle. ‘So, this Prisha Roy, she said all those personal things in an interview room, in front of Claire and some lawyer?’

  Gillard tried to laugh, but it came out like a cough. ‘No. She’s not a suspect. It was an informal chat.’

  ‘At her house?’

  ‘No.’ He might as well tell her. This wouldn’t look good.

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘At the Orion Hotel, Heathrow.’

  ‘In reception, I damn well hope, not in a room.’ Sam’s voice had acquired an edge he could have shaved with.

  ‘It was a room, a conference room. It’s one she uses frequently, apparently.’

  ‘I bet she does.’

  ‘Sam, stop being jealous. There’s nothing to be jealous about.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be jealous if you weren’t so damned evasive. Why did you agree to meet her there?’

  ‘Because she asked to, Sam. Because I needed to see her quickly, and it was the only gap in her diary. Because I thought I could get more information in an informal setting.’

  ‘Then you should have booked a bloody double room with champagne and chocolates, she would have told you everything.’

  * * *

  Gabby Underwood arrived in the incident room to find her detective chief inspector staring in a puzzled fashion at the telephone receiver in his hand. She could hear the dialling tone.

  ‘You have to hit the buttons if you want to make a call, sir,’ she said, with a smirk.

  Gillard shook his head. ‘Sorry. Someone just hung up on me.’

  She guessed who, but decided to keep her lip buttoned. As an experienced liaison officer she knew exactly when to stay quiet. She was just back from visiting Harry Roy at his flat in Walton-on-Thames, her second visit. Once she finally had her boss’s attention she described the luxurious penthouse apartment with extensive views of the river.

  ‘So how did he seem?’ Gillard said.

  ‘Depressed,’ she replied. ‘Definitely very down. He was sitting in his dressing gown in this beautiful flat with the curtains drawn just binge-watching DVDs. He hasn’t been to work for days, and he hasn’t even shaved. I get the impression there is a big backlog of work building up, which somebody needs to do. I had rung him earlier and his landline answer machine and mobile voicemail are both full. He wasn’t answering, not to me at least.’

  ‘Nor me. I really need to interview him again,’ Gillard said. ‘I got a call back from Morag Fairburn, who said that his doctor won’t let him be put under pressure. I really can’t wait much longer though. So did you find out anything?’

  ‘Not from him. He didn’t pay me any attention, just watched TV while I ran round making him tea and fetching biscuits from the kitchen. He is the sort of man who looks like he’s been used to being waited on hand and foot. I think his bride-to-be should be warned,’ she laughed.

  ‘Did he ask you about the investigation?’

  ‘Not really. Just at the beginning – he asked “Got him yet?” And that was i
t.’

  ‘Did you get much chance to look around the flat?’

  ‘A little. It’s not too messy because he has someone come in to clear up for him, but it’s clear that he is not looking after himself. I think he totally depended on his mother. I tried asking him about his fiancée to cheer him up, and he just groaned. Sonali’s a feisty little woman apparently, and she’s on his case every day, dozens of texts and emails.’

  ‘Well, I do sort of see her point, the wedding was supposed to be next week.’

  ‘I don’t think he was looking forward to it. It seems to me his entire life has been in thrall to strong women. He’s just got rid of one, his mother, now he’s about to have another foisted upon him.’

  ‘When you say “got rid of—”?’

  ‘Oh! I didn’t mean in that way, boss. He’s bereft, honestly, without his mother. Worse than either of his sisters.’

  ‘So, your intuition would be that he’s not capable of murder?’

  ‘I doubt it, frankly. And particularly not that particular murder. He’s just a big kid. He showed me pictures of him teaching disabled kids to play cricket. It was the only time I was there that he really smiled. I think that is what he’d like to do. He’s clearly bored by his job, but has got used to the money that comes from being in the family firm.’

  ‘Well, thank you as always, Gabby, for your insight.’

  He was about to ring off when she said; ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. The most interesting thing that happened was before I even got there, as I was coming up in the lift. The doors had opened onto the top floor and I heard someone shouting, and it wasn’t Harry, but I think it was at Harry. I didn’t really understand it, but perhaps it means something to you.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘It was: “—if you learned to keep it zipped, you wouldn’t have to worry, would you? So you’re in no position to threaten me. I’m making you all a fortune, remember? Not that I get any thanks for it.” Then the door slammed and the man who said it walked past me and into the lift. He did seem angry.’

  ‘Did you recognise him?’

  ‘No, but I did lean out of the window and get a photograph of the car he drove away in. With a bit of enlargement we should be able to get some clue about the number plate.’

  ‘Well done,’ Gillard said. ‘So what was your take on it?’

  ‘Harry is having an affair, presumably.’

  ‘I wouldn’t rush to that conclusion. He could have meant that Harry should have kept his mouth shut. Keep it zipped can also refer to that.’

  ‘Maybe it’s about Morag?’ she said enthusiastically. ‘That fits into the idea of the private detective watching him and her.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I still don’t get what was so unsuitable about Morag, why they hated that relationship so much. I take it you didn’t ask Harry about what you overheard?’

  ‘I think that’s above my pay grade, sir.’

  Gillard laughed. ‘Quite right, Gabby. I’m sure you wouldn’t have got a straight answer anyway, and neither would I. But at least what you overheard gives us a handhold to get on the inside of this family.’

  ‘I’m good at listening, sir.’

  He gave her an approving look. ‘Yes, I know you are.’

  * * *

  Claire Mulholland’s search of Jason Waddington’s terraced house went smoothly. The warrant was issued quickly and there was nobody present at the property to get in the way. A CSI transit van was backed up to the house so that bin bags full of bedding and the plastic bags containing his electronic gear could be quickly loaded. Claire peered into the spare bedroom, where a female member of CSI was on her hands and knees in a Tyvek suit, going through the wastepaper bin at the side of the single bed.

  ‘Have you found any trainers?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Yes, downstairs I think,’ she said, without turning round. ‘And jogging bottoms. But they are black, not grey. And they don’t seem to have any dog bites in them.’

  Claire laughed. ‘He’d have to be really dim not to have chucked them. Oh, did you see that?’ Claire said, pointing at the windowsill, where a bodybuilder’s supplement bottle sat.

  The woman eased herself up to her knees, sighed heavily and asked: ‘Did you want me to take that as well?’ She pulled out a paper evidence envelope.

  ‘That’s not what I mean. If this guy is a bodybuilder, which that seems to indicate, we might find some weights around the house.’

  The woman looked blankly at her.

  ‘Remember what the murder weapon was?’ Claire asked, folding her arms.

  ‘Ah. See what you mean.’ The woman scratched her head. With a Tyvek hood and gloves, it was as noisy as someone rustling for sweets during a love scene in the cinema.

  Claire left her to it. In the end the weights were not found in the bedroom, but in the garage. Substantial gym weights, a stand, a bench press, and a cross trainer. The hand weights were modern and cushioned, not at all like the crude cast iron weapon that had been smashed into Mrs Roy’s skull. She looked around her, and found another connection. There were three bicycles hung on hooks on the wall. Each was as light as a feather and probably highly expensive. The tyres were of a tubular high-pressure road variety, quite unlike the wide mountain bike tyres whose impression was left at Ashtead Common. Nonetheless, this was quite encouraging. The DNA put him at the scene, he lived nearby, he was a cyclist, seemed to be a bodybuilder and owned hand weights. The one fly in the ointment was that there was no obvious motive. Perhaps it could really have been an argument about the dog. Perhaps Jason Waddington had a temper. Considering the damage he had done to Mrs Roy’s skull, that would be some tantrum. If so, then he certainly deserved to be locked up for a very long time indeed.

  * * *

  Nearly five o’clock on Thursday, and the promised forensic results on the murder weapon had yet to arrive. Gillard rang the forensic lab’s operations manager and was told that they had managed to extract enough DNA, but the comparison process was not yet complete.

  ‘My problem is that I’ve got someone here who has to either be charged with a crime or released in one hour’s time. I really need to know if the hair on the victim’s raincoat matches any sweat samples you’ve managed to lift from the hand weight. Can you get it to me before then?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she replied. ‘But I can’t promise.’

  ‘Okay,’ Gillard sighed. He then read out the unique reference numbers for the two pieces of evidence. The manager said he would pass the message along.

  The moment he hung up, he saw DI Mulholland and steered her into a meeting room.

  ‘All right, Claire. The press release has already gone out that we’re holding an unnamed thirty-three-year-old man in connection with the murder.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I want your gut feeling about whether we should go ahead and charge him.’

  Claire nodded. ‘I assumed we would,’ she said. ‘When I spoke to the CPS this morning, and mentioned the DNA, they said they didn’t need any more details, they were more than happy to go ahead. We can get him in front of the magistrates first thing tomorrow and ask for him to be remanded into custody. Waddington’s only alibi is his girlfriend, but the statement Hodges got from her seems a little noncommittal. With the forensic connection, it’s clear the lawyers think we have enough evidence.’

  ‘What about his home?’

  ‘There is some circumstantial stuff: the weightlifting equipment, the bikes, his proximity to the crime scene. We found plenty of trainers and bike shoes, all Nike, and more upmarket than the Adidas print we have linked to the scene. But there is no smoking gun.’

  The DCI shook his head. ‘Something about this just doesn’t feel right. The way Waddington reacted to the allegation seemed to me entirely natural. Underneath the anger was a wounded innocence. Part of me keeps saying: I don’t think he was lying.’

  ‘Then we should let him go.’

  He blew a sigh. ‘I’m under huge pressure from Rigby. The talking heads
on TV, people like Norman Champion, and all those sneering Met officers who are friends with the crime reporters on the nationals, are briefing the press that this is a shambolic investigation. Yesterday the Daily Express ran a headline saying: “What a Pickle”, with a picture of a spilled jar of brinjal chutney, and a headline inside saying: “Curry Up and Find the Killer”.’

  ‘Well, I can guess why Rigby wants a quick result. The annual police chiefs’ conference is next week, and she wants something to brag about in front of the sneering men.’

  ‘Yes, it could be that.’ He could see she was trying to cheer him up.

  ‘Hey, did you see this?’ she asked, plucking a cutting from her jacket pocket. ‘It’s from Tuesday’s edition of The Sun, and headlined “The Hero of the Hour”.’

  Gillard sighed and looked at the half-page photograph of Mrs Roy’s dog Bertie looking, with Churchillian steadiness, into a camera lens held at dog height.

  While the police are floundering in their attempt to bring to justice the killer of our Empress of Spice, brave Bertie the boxer did not hesitate to defend her to the last. While the attacker laid about his mistress with a hammer, the doughty animal became her personal bodyguard, and despite being bludgeoned by the same deadly weapon that killed Mrs Roy, Bertie fought back, snapping and biting at the assailant and then guarding the body until the eventual arrival of the police. What about a Victoria Cross for our brave Bertie?

  ‘What’s this “eventual” arrival of the police?’ Gillard said. ‘We had a CSI officer there within one minute!’

  Claire rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Craig, this is just froth. Don’t take it personally. We’re nearly there, aren’t we? All the evidence is building up.’

  ‘Not quite enough.’ Gillard looked at his watch. It was 5.53 p.m. and there were no results from the lab. ‘I’ll ring them to see what the hold-up is.’

  The detective rang, and his call transferred automatically to the out-of-hours extension. He left a message, but knew then that with only a few minutes left to charge or release Jason Waddington, he had no alternative.