“Some time yesterday then?” Chalmers said.
“We also found two wine glasses in the kitchen,” Webber said, “red wine residue was found. The strange thing was, we did find prints on both glasses. Two different sets if I’m not mistaken. Also, the residue in the glass wasn’t completely dry yet.”
“What does that mean?” DS Thompson said.
“It means,” Smith rolled his eyes, “that our killer either poured himself two glasses of wine after bludgeoning our Geography teacher to death or Stephanie Braithwaite had company the night she was killed.”
“Anything else?” Chalmers said.
“The rock itself,” Webber said, “it’s not something you’d just pick up on the side of the road. It’s an ornamental rock; the kind you’d buy from a garden centre to use in a rockery for example.”
“Did anyone notice if Stephanie Braithwaite had a rockery in her garden?” Chalmers said.
“She doesn’t have a garden,” Smith said, “just a small yard out the back.”
“Ok,” Chalmers looked at his watch, “it’s getting late. The path report should be ready tomorrow. Go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll make an early start in the morning.”
Smith opened the door to his house and went inside. His Gran had been dead for over three years but Smith still found it strange that she was not home when he walked through the door. He made some coffee and took it through to the living room. He was dog tired but he knew he would not be able to sleep. This was only the second murder investigation he had been involved in and he wanted to make sure he did everything right. He sat down and took a sip of the coffee. He slowly went through everything that had happened in his head. He took out a piece of paper and started to write.
‘Stephanie Braithwaite,’ he wrote, ‘Geography teacher at Cotton Comprehensive School. No husband. No boyfriend we know about.’
He stopped writing there.
No boyfriend? He thought. He put a question mark next to the word, ‘boyfriend’.
‘Killed by a blow to the back of the head,’ Smith carried on writing, ‘killed with a rock. No prints on the rock. The rock was placed on her stomach afterwards.’
“Why did he do that?” Smith said out loud, “Why not take the rock with him?”
He finished his coffee and went to the kitchen to make another cup.
‘Fingerprints found on the two wine glasses in the kitchen,’ Smith continued to write, ‘two different sets of prints. Miss Braithwaite had a visitor the night she was killed. We need to find out who this mystery person was.’
He stopped there; his head was throbbing. There was still something gnawing away at the back of his mind. Something did not make sense but he could not figure out what it was. He finished his coffee and went upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday 12 September 2006
It came to Smith just as the sun was starting to come up. He looked at the clock on the table by the bed. It was six thirty in the morning. He shot up in bed. Even though he had barely slept all night he felt refreshed. He got up and ran downstairs. He quickly read through his notes from the previous night.
The fingerprints, he thought, something doesn’t make sense with the fingerprints. The killer places the rock on Stephanie Braithwaite’s stomach but makes sure there are no fingerprints on it. Why did he leave prints on the wine glass?
He made some coffee and ran upstairs to wash and brush his teeth.
Smith arrived at the station fifteen minutes later. Whitton arrived at the same time.
“Morning,” she said, “You look fresh.”
“My mind is working overtime,” Smith said.
He told her about his thoughts on the wine glasses and the absence of fingerprints on the rock used to kill Stephanie Braithwaite.
“Don’t you think it’s strange?” He said, “Why go to the trouble of cleaning the prints off the rock when you’ve left perfectly clear prints on a wine glass?”
“Unless?” Whitton said.
“Unless what?”
“Unless the prints on the wine glass belong to somebody else; somebody perfectly innocent.”
“What do you mean?” Smith said.
“Let’s say that Stephanie Braithwaite did entertain somebody that night,” Whitton said, “they had a couple of glasses of wine and that was all. This visitor then left. Later that night somebody else arrived and killed her with a rock.”
“That sounds very unlikely,” Smith said, “but that would explain a lot. Damn it, I thought I was onto something there.”
“You still might be,” Chalmers had been listening in to their conversation.
Smith and Whitton had not noticed him walking in.
“At least we have something new to go on,” Chalmers said, “you two will go a long way. Canteen in five minutes.”
Smith, Whitton and Chalmers sat in the canteen waiting for Grant Webber to arrive. DS Thompson had phoned in sick. He was suffering from what he called one of his change of season colds. Webber walked in a few minutes later. He had a huge grin on his face. He was carrying some papers in a transparent folder.
“You’ve got good news,” Chalmers said, “I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile like that.”
Webber sat down next to Whitton and opened up the folder.
“The path guys have excelled themselves this time,” he said, “let me finish before you ask any questions please. Cause of death was due to major trauma to the brain. The head was struck with such force that the skull was fractured in six places. The bone splintered and pierced the brain. They found a three inch long splinter lodged in the parietal lobe. Death would have been instant. Time of death was somewhere between midnight and one on Monday morning. Any questions?”
“You said death would have been instant?” Smith said, “That means she wasn’t killed on the bed. Unless she wasn’t hit with the rock but her head was slammed down onto it.”
“Very good Smith,” Webber said, “No, she wasn’t killed on the bed. She was moved there afterwards; roughly an hour afterwards.”
“An hour?” Chalmers could not believe what he was hearing, “Are you telling us the killer stuck around for an hour after killing this woman? Why the hell would he do that?”
“That’s not my department,” Webber said, “I look at the evidence. What goes through the mind of the killers is for you to find out. Maybe he was filled with remorse, grief even. All I know is the blood was already congealed when she was moved onto the bed.”
“What about the fingerprints on the wine glasses?” Smith said.
“Patience detective,” Webber said, “I’m coming to that. It appears that the rock was cleaned and placed on Miss Braithwaite’s stomach. We found traces of blood in the bathroom sink but there were no fingerprints on the taps or in the sink.”
“But there were fingerprints on the wine glasses,” Smith was not giving up.
“The wine glasses,” Webber paused for effect.
“Go on,” Smith said.
“There, the killer slipped up. We found some real beauties. Stephanie Braithwaite’s prints were on one of the glasses but we really struck it lucky with the other one.”
“What do you mean?” Whitton said.
“We not only have a good set of prints,” Webber said, “we have a situation we rarely get in a murder investigation. We know who the prints belong to.”
“Who is it?” Smith said.
“Liam Fletcher,” Webber said, “thirty three years old. Did a six month stretch for breaking and entering a year or so ago.”
“I remember him,” Smith said, “I was in uniform at the time. I was one of the ones who brought him in. He didn’t strike me as a cold blooded murderer though.”
“I’ve done my bit,” Webber said, “it’s up to you now to decide what he is.”
“Thanks Webber,” Chalmers said, “you’ve done a good job as always.”
“Something doesn’t feel right here,” Smith said.
“Crap,” Chalmers said.
“Liam Fletcher was a sneaky weasel if I can remember,” Smith said, “but I never had him pegged as a murderer.”
“It takes all types,” Chalmers said, “you’ll soon learn that. You and Whitton can bring him in. In the meantime, I’m going to do a bit more digging at the school Miss Braithwaite worked at. Seeing as though Thompson has the autumn sneezes again, I’ll take the new guy with me.”
“New guy?” Whitton said.
“DC Bridge,” Chalmers said, “he’s just joined us from uniform, “he seems to have potential. Find this Fletcher character and bring him in.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“I remember Liam Fletcher,” Smith said to Whitton as they drove to the address they had been given by Fletcher’s parole officer, “he didn’t strike me as the type to murder a woman in cold blood. He was a bit of a wimp if I remember right.”
“Let’s see what he has to say anyway,” Whitton said.
Smith parked outside the house in the council estate at Tong Hill.
“All these houses look the same to me,” Smith said as he got out of the car.
“I’ve never been here before,” Whitton said, “I’ve lived in York my whole life and I’ve never set foot on this estate.”
“You should think yourself lucky,” Smith said, “half the scumbags in York live here.”
He made sure to lock the car door before walking up the path to the front door.
“What are we going to say to him?” Whitton said.
“His fingerprints were found at the scene of a brutal murder,” Smith said, “that’s a good start.”
“Shouldn’t we have some back up?”
“Fletcher is a chicken,” Smith said, “besides, you’ve got me.”
“Very reassuring.”
Smith knocked on the door. It was answered almost immediately by a woman in her late thirties. She was wearing a black tracksuit. Her face looked haggard.
“Morning,” Smith said, “does Liam Fletcher live here?”
“Who wants to know?” The woman said.
“Police,” Smith took out his ID.
“Liam hasn’t done anything,” the woman was instantly on the defensive, “why are you lot always hassling him?”
“We just need to ask him a few questions,” Whitton said.
“Well he’s not here.”
“Who’s at the door Lisa?” A voice was heard from inside the house.
The woman called Lisa rolled her eyes.
“Nice one Liam,” she screamed back inside the house, “well done.”
“Can we come in?” Smith said.
The interior of the house took both Smith and Whitton by surprise. It was tastefully furnished and inside the small living room was a huge television set and a very expensive looking home theatre system. Smith was surprised that Fletcher could afford such luxury items; his parole officer had said that Fletcher had been unemployed for months. Smith sat down on a two seater couch. Whitton sat next to him. A short boy in his teens was playing a video game on the carpet. He glanced at Smith and quickly returned to his game.
“Barry,” Lisa said, “turn that thing off and go up to your room.”
The boy ignored her.
“Barry,” she screamed, “turn that bloody game off and get out.”
The boy glared at her but did as he was told.
“What do you want?” A short man appeared in the doorway, “I haven’t done nothing.”
“Anything,” Smith said.
“Eh?”
“You haven’t done anything,” Smith said.
“Whatever,” the man said.
Smith recognized him.
“Liam Fletcher?” He said, “We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Why can’t you lot leave me alone,” Fletcher said, “I did my time but now I’m clean. I’m looking for a job.”
“Yeh,” Lisa said, “why do you have to keep bothering us?”
“That’s a nice TV system,” Whitton said.
“Forty inches,” Fletcher smiled at her.
His teeth were stained brown.
“I won it in a competition down the supermarket. You can check if you like.”
“Mr Fletcher,” Smith said, “do you know a woman by the name of Stephanie Braithwaite?”
A spark of recognition seemed to appear on Fletcher’s face but as soon as it had appeared it was gone.
“Never heard of her,” he said.
“That’s odd,” Smith said, “are you sure?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory,” Fletcher said.
“She’s a Geography teacher at Cotton Comp,” Whitton said.
“Our Barry goes there,” Lisa said.
“But not today I’ve noticed,” Smith said.
“He’s sick,” Lisa said, “what’s this all about?”
“Miss Braithwaite was found dead at her house yesterday,” Smith said, “she’d been murdered.”
Fletcher’s face seemed to turn an unhealthy grey colour.
“Murdered?” He said, “What’s that got to do with me?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Smith said, “are you sure you don’t know Stephanie Braithwaite?”
“Lisa,” Fletcher said, “put the kettle on will you?”
“I know Stephanie,” Fletcher said when Lisa had left the room.
“What can you tell us?” Smith said.
“Not here,” Fletcher said, “it’s a bit delicate if you know what I mean.”
He winked at Whitton.
Whitton felt like kicking him between the legs.
“What would you suggest then?” Smith said.
“I never thought I would ever say this,” Fletcher said, “but I’d rather talk down at the station.”
CHAPTER SIX
Chalmers and Bridge sat in the staffroom at Cotton Comprehensive School. Duncan Carter was talking on his mobile phone.
“Sorry,” he ended the call, “this thing hasn’t stopped ringing. Things have been a bit crazy around here what with this business with Miss Braithwaite. Can I offer you gentlemen a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks,” Chalmers answered for Bridge and himself, “we need to ask you a few questions about Miss Braithwaite.”
“She taught Geography here,” Carter said, “she’s been here for about three years. Aside from that, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more about her.”
“She wasn’t married was she?” Chalmers said.
“No,” Carter said, “that much I do know.”
“And you don’t know if she had a partner?” Chalmers said, “A boyfriend?”
“I don’t think so,” Carter said, “like I told you before, I know very little about her. I try to keep out of the teacher’s personal lives.”
“Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill her?” Bridge asked.
Chalmers cast him an approving glance.
“Of course not,” Carter said, “it’s come as a huge shock to all of us. I still can’t believe it’s actually happened.”
Chalmers realized they were getting nowhere; they had hit a brick wall. They were not going to find anything useful at the school.
“Thank you for your time Mr Carter,” he stood up, “we may need to speak with you again.”
Chalmers and Bridge walked down the corridor to the exit. Two boys were arguing by the door. The argument sounded very heated. The larger of the two boys slapped the other one on the back of the head.
“That’s enough,” Chalmers shouted.
The bigger boy glared at him and landed a punch in the other boy’s stomach.
“I said that’s enough,” Chalmers said.
“Who are you?” The bigger boy said.
“Who are you?” Chalmers said.
“Charlie Briggs,” the boy said, “what’s it to you?”
Chalmers could not believe what he was hearing.
“My name is detective sergeant Chalmers,” he said
, “and I’ve got a feeling that we’ll be meeting up again in the near future.”
“Whatever,” Briggs said.
“Are you here because of what happened to Miss Braithwaite?” The other boy asked.
“Yes we are,” Chalmers said, “don’t you have a class to go to?”
“It’s lunchtime Granddad,” Briggs said.
Chalmers felt a sudden urge to knock some sense into this insolent youth.
“She was shagging Barry Dunn’s dad,” the other boy said.
“Shut up,” Briggs warned him.
“Well she was,” the boy said, “I saw them out in town together. That’s why Braithwaite used to go easy on Dunn all the time. She was shagging his dad.”
Briggs started to walk away.
“Who’s Barry Dunn?” Bridge shouted after him.
“Barry Dunn,” the other boy said, “weedy Dunn. He’s a real loser.”
“Where is he now?” Chalmers said.
Briggs turned round and glared at the other boy.
“He’s not here today,” Briggs said, “I don’t talk to the filth.”
“Maybe his dad killed him too,” the other boy suggested, “he killed Miss Braithwaite and then killed his kid.”
“It’s not his real dad you arsehole,” Briggs said, “now shut up talking to these pigs before I batter you.”
“I’ll be seeing you Briggs,” Chalmers said.
“Not if I see you first,” Bridge walked out of the door.
Chalmers looked at Bridge.
“Let’s go Sarge,” Bridge said, “that scumbag isn’t worth it.”
Outside the school, Chalmers took out his phone and dialed Smith’s number.
“Smith,” he said, “we might have a lead on the Geography teacher. One of the little scumbags at the school reckons she was seeing one of the kid’s fathers. Barry Dunn. Check it out.”
“Barry?” Smith remembered the boy at Liam Fletcher’s house, “his step dad is with us at the station right now. We’re about to start questioning him. He’s the owner of the prints on one of the wine glasses at Stephanie Braithwaite’s house.”
“Wait until I get there,” Chalmers said, “we’ve got the bastard.”
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