As part of his new image, he had married a delightful young actress, and the publicity shots of them together in their current bliss did seem to suggest he had reformed. Certainly, it made the old ladies and the middle-aged ladies who were his chief fans think he was wonderful, kind, considerate and generally quite charming. But we knew he was an out-and-out bastard, a womanizing drunkard, and that he beat his wife without mercy. Time and time again our men had been called to the cottage he rented on the moors to quell the violent disputes he created at his home. And then, next morning, he would be his usual charming self.
Oddly enough, one of his fans was D/PC Wharton, with whom I worked in Eltering CID. He had seen the programmes that featured the VFTVP, and we knew that he modelled himself on the man. The clothes, the hair-do and even some of the jargon he used had come from the screen image of that appalling man. He knew of the rape conviction but reckoned that the worst of men could be reformed and redeemed. And that is what he felt about our VFTVP. It required a murder investigation to change his mind.
The body of a woman had been found in woodland close to Eltering, and she had been strangled. Her clothes had been scattered around the area, she had been savagely raped and her life had ended with her own tights being tied around her neck. She was twenty-four years old and the daughter of a local racehorse trainer.
The body was found at four o’clock one August afternoon, and we managed to keep the news of the discovery out of the regional TV and news programmes; it would be released at nine o’clock in readiness for blanket coverage in the following day’s newspapers. Our aim was not to deny news to the public but to try to trap her killer.
We reckoned that lack of news that evening would compel the killer to return to the scene, just to see if his handiwork had been discovered. Several of us were therefore detailed to keep observations in that forest. I found myself doing the 8-to-10-p.m. stint with Paul Wharton. Our mission was simple — we had to conceal ourselves in the forest so that we could overlook the patch of land where the body had been discovered. As a forest track passed between that patch and our hiding place, we had also to note the registration numbers and descriptions of cars which passed along that route.
There were no incidents of major interest until at almost 9.30 p.m., a Rover 2000 eased to a halt outside our patch of forest. We could see it contained two people, a man and a woman. Then it reversed into the trees. It moved along a wide track covered with pine needles, and we could see the two people talking for a few minutes, and then they climbed out and got into the rear seat. There were further animated movements of arms, lots of kissing and passion and then, with a scream, the woman flung open the car door and ran into the trees, her clothing torn and flying behind.
The man ran after her, shouting obscenities which rang through the woodland as the girl was calling, ‘No, don’t, no . . .’
‘Time for Sir Galahad to rescue a fair maid, you think?’ said Wharton.
‘You take the girl, I’ll get him,’ I said, more in hope than expectation.
Wharton ran. We did not need torches in the half-light, and as I galloped to head off the chasing man, he called after the girl, ‘It’s all right, it’s the police . . .’
I was closing on the man with great speed, for it was clear that he was physically out of condition. When I was behind him, I called for him to halt, but he refused. He was clearly terrified of me and Paul Wharton, not knowing what he had let himself in for.
‘Police!’ I shouted as I closed in. ‘Halt . . .’
He replied with a stream of abuse, and so I accelerated over those closing yards and brought him down with a flying rugby tackle. We crashed head first into the soft carpet of pine needles, his body acting as a cushion for mine as I knocked the wind out of him. I picked him up and snapped my handcuffs on him before he could do any more harm, then held his manacled arms as I steered him back to his own Rover. He never spoke during that walk. As I approached the car, I saw that Paul had caught the girl and they were walking back together, Paul supporting her with his arms.
‘So,’ said Paul as my man sank against the car for support, ‘what’s all this?’
‘He tried to rape me, that’s what! I know I agreed to a cuddle and a spot of music on the radio, but he went berserk.’
‘She led me on, I thought she was game . . .’ and the face turned around to reveal his identity. It was our VFTVP.
‘I did no such thing, you evil bastard . . .’ she bellowed at him. ‘You are filthy, you are evil, you want locking up . . .’
Paul, his dreams shattered, was horrified. ‘But it’s . . . you are . . .’
‘Sod off, you stupid copper!’ snapped the VFTVP. ‘I want my solicitor. This cow is a prostitute . . . I’ve paid her to come here tonight . . . I’ll ruin her in court, so help me . . .’
‘I’m not, I’m not, I thought you loved me!’ wept the girl.
‘You are under arrest for attempted rape,’ said Paul, his face as grim as the granite rocks which surrounded us. ‘You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be taken down in writing and given in evidence.’
‘That bitch is a slut, a cow and a pro. Put that in your notebooks and see if I care.’
We radioed our control room to report this arrest and, in view of the fame of our prisoner, were told to take him to the Divisional Headquarters, where a detective chief inspector would interview him.
For Paul Wharton, there had been the shattering of an illusion, and he no longer believed in the truth of screen images. For me, there was disappointment too. In spite of what we had witnessed, we could not proceed against the VFTVP because the girl refused to make a formal complaint and declined to be a witness. This case occurred many years before the anonymity procedures which now protect victims and suspects alike, and the girl did not want her name dragging through the courts and newspapers. She did not want to be regarded as a loose woman, a slag, a prostitute or a rich man’s plaything. And so we could not prosecute him — besides, it was a very doubtful case of attempted rape anyway. We might have secured a conviction for indecent assault — but we got nothing.
For the general public and all his thousands of adoring fans, the VFTVP continued to charm those who saw him in action on their screens. None knew of his darker side but I did learn, two or three years later, that some of the tabloid press were quietly investigating his life-style and were compiling a dossier. One day, I felt, all would be revealed.
And for the detective chief inspector, there was hope.
‘I think he killed that lass,’ he said to me many days later. ‘That story told by your girl, about him ripping off her clothes and so on, well, it all fits with the murdered lass.’
‘Did you ask him about his whereabouts at the time of her death,’ I asked.
‘We did. He said he was in London, reading scripts at his flat. Alone. He won’t say anything else without his solicitor present. I’d love to nail him for that job, you know. I’m sure as hell he’s guilty.’
‘But what a way to return to the scene of a crime, sir, to bring another woman and have a go at her . . .’
‘Exactly, young Nick. Exactly what I thought. By doing it like that, no one would suspect his part in the first crime, would they? Except experienced CID men . . . What a clever sod, what a cunning bastard he really is . . . How he can come over in such a charming way on screen beats me, it really does . . .’
‘So what are you going to do now, sir?’
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Wait with my eyes open and with that file never closed.’
And that file is still open.
Chapter 10
A brief reflection solves the mystery.
BISHOP WILLIAM STUBBS, 1825—1901
AS I MENTIONED EARLIER in this book, I’m sure most young constables have ambitions to arrest a suspected murderer. Certainly, many fostered this dream when I joined the service, so when I started work within the CID, I looked forward to such an occasion.
I knew that if another murder was reported, I would be drafted onto the enquiry as a member of a team. For those purposes, a team comprises two detectives. They are either two detective constables or a detective sergeant with a detective constable. They are based at the incident room, which is an office established for the duration of the investigation. Each team is allocated specific tasks which are called ‘actions’, and in this way each team investigates a particular aspect of the crime until that aspect has been totally exhausted and, if possible, clarified. The outcome of this action is made known to those in charge of the incident room, so that the result can be filed and recorded. The result of one team’s enquiries may have relevance to another action being dealt with by another team — collation of such links is the work of the clerical staff within the incident room.
The incident room can be established in a police station, perhaps by using a recreation room or even a games room — anything will suffice so long as it is large enough to accommodate all the stationery and paraphernalia of a big investigation, in addition to some forty or more detectives working in teams of two. In remote situations, the incident room may even be based in a village hall, community centre, schoolroom or any other suitable accommodation. A detective sergeant runs the administrative side of the work in this room, while overall charge of the work of the incident room, and allocation of actions, is in the hands of an experienced detective inspector or chief inspector. In charge of the overall enquiry will be a detective superintendent or perhaps a detective chief superintendent, depending upon the size of the police force involved or, of course, the nature of the investigation.
I knew that all detectives felt the thrill of the chase when instructed to attend a briefing following the report of a murder; it meant working a twelve-hour day, usually from 9 a.m. until 9 p.m., until the killer was caught or the enquiry ended. But the camaraderie and excitement of this vital aspect of crime investigation are never exhausted, even in the most experienced of detectives. And, fortunately for the expansion of my police experience, albeit with the utmost sympathy for the victim, we did receive a report of a murder while I was an Aide.
It came at 8.45 a.m. one Monday morning, just as we were all arriving for the day’s work. PC John Rogers took the call.
I heard him say, ‘Just a moment, Mr Flint. I think you ought to speak to the CID.’
Detective Sergeant Gerry Connolly heard this interchange, nodded his understanding of its nature and went through to his office to take the call. He came back a few seconds later and said to us, ‘I think we’ve got a murder on our hands, lads. I’m going round to have a look — No. 16 Driffield Terrace. Nick, you come with me. John, send a car round to that address, will you? With a uniformed man to seal off the house. Tell him to liaise with me there. Don’t do anything further until you hear from me, and don’t tell the press, not at this stage. And John, call the doctor; ask him to meet me there urgently.’
He asked me to go with him because I happened to be the only other CID man present on duty; Paul Wharton was working a late shift, and it was Ian Shackleton’s day off. On the way to the house, which was a five-minute drive, Gerry told me that the first thing was to examine the body without touching it and without touching anything else in the house. The doctor would be required to certify death, however, and as the local police doctor, he would be advised on the need to touch as little as possible and not to move the body. It was vital that the scene of a murder be interfered with as little as possible.
We arrived to find a youth standing in the doorway of the terrace cottage. He looked pale and ghastly, and I guessed he was suffering from shock. He came to meet us, recognising Connolly.
‘In there,’ he said, almost sobbing the words. ‘In the kitchen . . .’
‘You’re Mr Flint, are you?’ asked Connolly.
‘Yes, I’m . . .’
‘Wait here,’ Gerry said to the youth. ‘Nick, follow me and don’t touch a thing; in fact, put your hands in your pockets.’
The front door led directly off the street into a narrow passage, and I noticed a Daily Mail stuck in the letter-box. Inside, I was tempted to pull it from the letter-box but resisted in time. I could see the date — it was that morning’s edition. Inside, the stairs ascended to the left while the passage continued through the building. On the right was the front room, with a door opening into it from that passage; further along was a dining room, also with the door standing open. The passage was carpeted with a long, dark maroon runner and bore one or two pictures along its walls; there was a mirror, too, and a small stand for walking-sticks.
At the end of the passage was the kitchen. This was at the back of the house, and as I peered beyond Gerry’s bulky shape, I could see the legs of an elderly lady who lay on the floor.
‘I’ll have to go in,’ he said gently. ‘You stand at the door and look into the kitchen; keep your hands in your pockets and just look around. Note things in your memory, the position of everyday things . . . Has she washed up? Used the kitchen table? Had a meal? Is there anything odd about the scene?’
As Gerry entered the kitchen with all the caution of his years in CID work, I stood and watched. The dead lady was in her nightdress and was laid with her head touching the outer door and her neck at an awkward angle, twisted savagely to the left. Blood covered the tiled floor in the region of her head; it was dark and congealed. She wore slippers but her legs were bare and her hair was covered with an old-fashioned hairnet. Gerry stood at her side, mentally noting a hundred and one tiny details before he carefully leaned forward to touch her forehead.
‘Cold as ice,’ he said gently. ‘She’s dead all right, been dead a while by the look of it.’
As he visually examined the body, I looked around the kitchen. The window over the sink was broken, and I could see slivers of glass in the sink. The catch was unfastened and the window, of the transom type, was open, but not wide enough to admit the average-sized person. I saw a torch on the floor too, not far from her right hand, and her walking-stick lay under the table. The table was set for breakfast with a packet of cornflakes and a bowl, a jar of marmalade and some butter, with a sugar bowl standing near a large mug.
On the mantelpiece, a tea caddy was standing with its lid off, and a corner cupboard had its door standing wide open, with the lids off several tins and jars.
‘What do you make of it, Nick?’ Gerry turned to me, not moving from his position.
‘It looks as though somebody’s broken in during the night, Sergeant. The glass in the sink shows the window was smashed from the outside. The villain opens it and climbs in through that window — it’s large enough, then he closes it slightly once he’s in. He begins looking for money, I think — all those lids off jars — and she hears him. She’s in bed but gets her torch, comes downstairs, collects a walking-stick on the way, possibly from that stand in the passage, and comes in here to investigate. She’s a brave lady. He goes for her — hits her with something, or she falls and smashes her head against the door or something else. A forensic pathologist will help determine that. And having done the foul deed, chummy leaves, by either the front door or the kitchen door.’
‘Not the kitchen door, Nick. She’s lying against it. It wouldn’t open, so he couldn’t leave that way. It would be the front door, then. Is the key in?’
I went to have a look. It was hanging on a string behind the letter-box. So many people made their keys available in this trusting manner, but with only one key to a household’s front door, this was often the only convenient method of letting more than one person use it.
I then wondered if this lady lived alone, or whether she had a family, or even lodgers. That would have to be established very soon.
Gerry Connolly was saying, ‘That seems to be the sequence of events, but we’ve a lot of work to do before we can definitely establish that. Now, we need our scenes-of-crime men, official photographer, two uniform constables to seal the rear and front entrances to everyone except investigators. The do
ctor’s been called. I’ll have to inform the D/C/I, get the official wheels in motion. And now what, Nick?’
I was puzzled for a moment, but recovered to say, ‘Interview that youth, Mr Flint. It seems he found her.’
‘Right, that’s vital — and Nick, always remember that the person who finds the body, or the person who was last to see the victim alive, is the prime suspect. Lots of killers seem to think suspicion is removed from them if they report finding the body. Never forget that likelihood. So I will interview Mr Flint, but you can sit in; it’ll be good experience.’
‘Thanks, Sarge.’
‘And what else must we do immediately?’
I thought we had covered most of the immediate actions, and he smiled.
‘We need to search the house, Nick, in case the killer’s still here, hiding, sleeping off a drunken stupor . . . villains do that, you know. And don’t forget there could be another body in the house . . .’
Together, without touching the areas that might bear fingerprints, we searched every room, every wardrobe, cupboard and hiding place, under beds, in the toilet, in the loft and then outside in the coalhouse and outside loo. No one was hiding there, and there was not another dead body in the house.
‘Won’t be a moment, Mr Flint,’ Gerry called as he caught sight of the anxious youth who was still waiting outside. ‘We’ll have a word with you in a second.’
Using the official radio in his car, he called the office and said, ‘It’s a murder investigation; address 16 Driffield Terrace, Eltering. Elderly lady found dead in suspicious circumstances after the house has been broken into. Please notify all departments and ask them to liaise with me at the scene. Call D/S Barber and ask him to establish an incident room; we can use the billiard room at Eltering nick. And I want immediate house-to-house enquiries — get Barber to recruit some teams straight away.’
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 72