Sam loved the thought of the mystery surrounding that one little word.
‘Mr Armstrong had for many years taught mathematics to the youth of Littlehampton becoming first, deputy headmaster, and finally the headmaster, of the currently named Littlehampton Comprehensive School. Having settled in Littlehampton during the war, he took up his position in 1941 as head of mathematics and remained at the same school until his retirement in 1984. He was a widower of 15 years with no known relatives and lived in the beautifully kept bungalow that he and his wife had bought and cherished when first they married.’
Examining the two coloured pictures of the large bungalow and the near acre of manicured lawns and flowerbeds, Sam said, ‘Got enough money for a gardener’ to no one in particular.
‘Unfortunately, in the last couple of years, his health had taken a serious turn for the worst, and he was unable to walk unaided. He had been forced to employ a local nursing agency to supply carers to assist him in the early mornings and late evenings. Within a short time, Miss Olivia Munroe became the regular nurse to attend his needs. Detective Superintendent Trevor Prodow, the Senior Police Officer leading the investigation into the death of Mr Armstrong, told this reporter that the cause of death had in fact been proven to be poison, and that Miss Munroe has this day been charged with murder. Police have so far been reluctant to disclose any further details of the case, but our own enquiries reveal that Miss Munroe has been with the nursing agency for some time and has on at least two occasions been the subject of complaints. We are also informed, by a reliable source, that she has previously made it known that she attended Mr Armstrong whenever possible as, quote: ‘They got on well together.’
Sam could contain himself no longer. Exclaiming loudly, “I bet she did. He was obviously loaded and she wanted some of it. Probably all of it.”
Chris, who had been busy washing the dishes from breakfast in the kitchen, responded to the loud inexplicable statement, “You’re probably right dear. Another coffee?”
“Yes please. Use the same mug, saves on washing up.”
Chris entered the living room to retrieve the now proffered empty mug, trying to remember the last time Sam had washed up anything in the modern butler’s sink. Striding purposefully back to the kitchen, she prepared to engage in combat with the coffee machine’s various buttons and idiosyncrasies.
Sam read on: numerous people singing Armstrong’s praises and how he would be ‘sorely missed’.
‘One day’ thought Sam, ‘someone will tell the truth about a person and say what a horrible shit they had been throughout their life.’ It was as though it was prohibited from speaking ill of the dead.
Another picture: this time in black and white of Armstrong himself, sitting in his wheelchair holding the cup he had won the previous year.
“I remember that,” murmured Sam, again to no one in particular.
Studying the picture, Sam saw a frail looking old man with drawn features, balding, with tufts of wispy hair mainly falling over his ears. His eyes appeared to be glistening with slight tears of pride even in the black and white photograph and there was a broad smile emblazoned across his face. The caption read, ‘George Armstrong wins the Southern Counties Chess Championship.’
Chris came back into the living room with a freshly made cup of coffee and a small bundle of mail.
“Any for me?” enquired Sam.
“Yeah,” said Chris, “all the bills.”
Sam dropped the paper on the floor as usual, much to Chris’s annoyance and took the mail presented.
“Must you do that?” whinged Chris, “Every morning you read the paper and throw it on the floor when you go to work and I have to pick it up.”
“Sorry” said Sam condescendingly, as he looked through the mail which had now become the prime focus of his attention: but made no effort to pick up the paper.
14
Monday 6th June 2011
There was a slight buzz coming from the gathered horde of men and women crammed into the second-floor room that was being utilised as a temporary major incident office at Chichester Police Station. Normally, the majority of them, Detectives, worked from a modern, spacious and newly refurbished but characterless office known as the Major Incident Suite at Sussex House on the outskirts of Brighton, which they were missing and desperate to return to. They had been spoilt over time with plenty of room to move about and contemporary phones and computers on state of the art desks with comfy chairs and other luxuries. Chichester, on the other hand, was a long way for most of them to travel to work in what they regarded as a dilapidated building with antique fixtures and fittings in a refined backwater of Sussex.
There were several civilian specialists huddled together chatting in a corner as if involved in some dialogue of a conspiratorial nature. Occasionally they had been required to leave the confines of their warm laboratories or snug comfy offices based around Brighton and travel to Chichester and its environs. None of them had appreciated leaving the cosy atmosphere inside their buildings for the vagaries of the English summer climate. Each of them quietly believed that it was their specific expertise that was likely to be the defining ‘nail in the coffin’ which would prove the perpetrator’s guilt.
A few of the Detectives present had been seconded from local stations and were enjoying the change from investigating mundane burglaries and drunken assaults. There were two uniform officers who, with their local knowledge of the people and of the area, had facilitated a lot of the Detectives’ work. As the incident they were all currently tasked with investigating had occurred in Barnham, it would normally have befallen officers working from the MIT (Major Incident Team) in Littlehampton to have taken on the investigation. The senior officer there, DCS (Detective Chief Superintendent) Trevor Prodow, had deemed that his officers were much too busy to deal with yet another murder as they already had several on the go. His decision had been heavily influenced by the fact that he was fully au fait with the work load of the MIT at Brighton who currently only had one outstanding investigation in progress. Put under pressure from his superiors, who knew he was approaching retirement, he had reluctantly agreed to take on the role as the SIO. (Senior Investigating Officer) To assist him, he had taken a typist and a DS (Detective Sergeant) from his contingent at Littlehampton, who he knew and trusted, to be the backbone of the Chichester office.
Barnham was a lot closer to Chichester than Brighton. Even the hierarchy of the force who were not always renowned for their logic realised a base at Chichester would be more cost efficient. The room was on the top floor in the rear part of the Police Station, tucked away from inquisitive eyes and casual passers-by. An Inspector from Brighton had appeared at the Chichester office on the first day of the enquiry and arranged for the office to be furnished with what he considered to be essential equipment and then had not been seen again. In its time, the room had been used as senior officers’ accommodation, Forensic officers’ work stations, Traffic wardens’ parade room, and other civilian unit’s accommodation. It was obviously an office that people did not like as they moved out as soon as they possibly could.
15
Monday 6th June 2011
The office manager who had been seconded by the DCS from the MIT at Littlehampton lived to the west of Chichester and enjoyed the shorter journey to work and easier parking. On the initial day of the enquiry, he requisitioned the first desk by the door as people entered from the corridor in order that he could challenge any unwanted guest, or grant unfettered access to others. He was a man of some twenty-five years’ service who had the ability to understand what senior officers wanted, or should have wanted before they said anything. Some had referred to him as ‘Radar’ in the past which was a name stolen from the film ‘Mash’ and one which he abhorred.
Ensconced behind his ancient desk, which had seen much better days and, over its lifespan, had lost all its drawers, he surveyed the room. A grey rickety two tier in-tray was sitting on the left side of the desk and was full to
the brim with correspondence which all required some form of action. A box file containing indexes and notebooks was standing upright next to the trays. On the other end of the desk stood a black computer monitor with a grubby white keyboard in front of it. In the middle as if warranting pride of place, were a couple of telephones. Their wires draped over the back towards the interior of the office, before snaking their way loosely around the desk towards the sockets set half way up the wall behind him. The unwary passer-by could be guaranteed to catch their foot in one or both of the wires so yanking the phones from the desk.
Paul, the office manager, sat passively observing the gathered officers from his vantage point at the head of the office and cogitated as to what enquiries were still unresolved.
At the opposite end of the room, sitting behind an equally dilapidated desk, was the exhibits officer, Jimmy Green. He was in his late 20’s with trendy cut and gelled blonde hair and designer stubble. Jimmy worked hard on his appearance, visiting a salon weekly where he saw a stylist for his hair and a manicurist to maintain his neat nails. At least twice a week he would visit a health club and be coached by his personal trainer for which he paid a King’s ransom. His face was free of any blemishes and the nearest he had probably come to breaking his nose was not through sport or any assault, but falling over as a toddler. Several times a year, he would visit Spain in order to keep his tan topped up. In his mind, he knew he was handsome and utilised his unbridled confidence to present himself as an accomplished lothario. Others knew: looks could be deceptive.
Jimmy’s real problem was that he didn’t know what he was doing as an exhibits officer, having spent his three years assigned to the CID (Criminal Investigation Department) at Bognor Police Station investigating the more menial enquiries his supervisors could find him and trust him to complete. He was a sociable and likeable person who had the ‘gift of the gab’ and was always ready with an answer. Having been made exhibits officer in preference to one of the officers from the MIT, he had decided on a policy of ‘take the lot’ so he couldn’t go wrong. His desk top barricade, which was concealing the laptop and one telephone on his desk, comprised of stacks of sealed brown paper bags containing various unsavoury items and a few plastic bags with items clearly visible of a less gory nature.
Perched serenely on a corner of his desk swinging her shapely crossed legs nonchalantly, was an exceptionally well-dressed young WPC. (Woman Police Constable) She had on what looked to the other women in the room like a grey designer suit, which had actually been bought off the peg in Chichester’s biggest store, ‘House of Fraser’. Her court shoes were polished and un-scuffed, and other than petite pearl earrings and an elegant gold coloured watch, she wore no other jewellery. Life’s ambition for her was to become a talented CID officer, get promoted to a high rank, preferably CC, (Chief Constable) get married and have children and live happily in a big house in the country.
This was the first murder enquiry that Alison Daines had been seconded to, and she had done well. Having worked with an experienced member of the MIT from Brighton since the inception of the enquiry nearly five weeks earlier, she knew she needed to work with someone else to garner more experience. Still technically a uniform officer, this was she hoped, her passport into the CID. She was a very well educated and clever woman, and for a twenty-five year-old, did not miss much. Her vibrant bright green eyes had casually surveyed those present and she decided she would now learn more if she could latch onto the office manager. In the meantime, a bit of flirting with the exhibits officer seemed harmless enough.
Overall, the office would probably only just be considered a passable facility by a zealous Health and Safety officer. The furnishings which adorned the room were so old an antiques dealer from ‘The Lanes’ in Brighton would likely have taken the lot. The room itself was painted in the obligatory dull government beige so popular in official buildings thirty years previously and the floor covering was in a musty flecked grey that was sticky underfoot. The officers who had come from Sussex House could understand everyone’s desire to get out of the room as soon as possible.
16
Monday 6th June 2011
Sitting behind a smaller desk which had one leg supported by pieces of cardboard for stability was a man in his late-forties with finger combed, suspiciously black hair. A high forehead with more lines on it than Southern Railways didn’t enhance his appearance. Some heartless people would consider it was the sign of impending baldness, but would not have the nerve to tell him. His recovering bloodshot eyes were closed as he recalled his previous evening’s excesses in one of the local hostelries with the licensee. He had managed a few hours’ sleep, a shower and change of clothes, although due to his ample size they always looked slightly scruffy. No one seemed to bother him and he didn’t want to protest.
He’d been a detective for over twenty years and had moved the year previously on a secondment to Sussex Police from the Met. (Metropolitan Police) His task had been to assist in an exceedingly confidential corruption investigation which he had recently accomplished successfully. Whilst he had been completing his paperwork for Sussex, in readiness to return to duties at Scotland Yard, a high ranking senior officer in the Met had called him. John was rather surprised to be told he was being assigned to the murder enquiry to offer any ‘useful assistance’. It was highly unusual for an officer on secondment from the Yard to be attached to a provincial murder team, but on arrival at Chichester he had worked out quite quickly why he was there.
The enquiry was already well into its fourth week when John walked into the temporary office. He was welcomed by Paul who had been his original Sussex liaison officer when he had first been assigned. Each trusted the other up to a point, and discussed the original investigation in hushed tones when the office was practically empty and particularly quiet. Paul queried his attachment to the murder as the culprit was known and charged. John batted off the question with a non-committal answer which partly satisfied Paul. Reading reports, watching videos and a brief trip to the scene of the crime soon brought John’s knowledge of the murder up to speed.
The original attachment to Sussex had suited John down to the ground. He had been born, and grew up, in Bognor leaving aged 16 for the bright lights of London. His knowledge of West Sussex was incomparable, especially the locations of public houses. Appearing to be older than he was when in his teens, he could easily fool licensees as to his age and he soon acquired the taste for real ale. Most of the time his only problem was how far away to leave his push bike so the publicans wouldn’t see it.
In 2009 he’d purchased a luxury flat in Westgate in Chichester in preparation for his retirement, and was gradually furnishing it, when finances permitted, in an opulent manor. He had maintained a small one bedroom flat in Fulham which was known as his ‘registered’ address while he was employed by the Met, but hardly ever used it. If anyone wanted to trace him, they invariably ended up in Fulham. His Chichester flat was to all intents and purposes to remain unrecorded and unknown. On his retirement, he intended that no one other than those he implicitly trusted would be made aware of it. Various theories had been mooted as to why he had been seconded, but only a few senior officers in different forces knew the real reason, and again, he was happy with that.
17
Monday 6th June 2011
DCS Trevor Prodow strode into the room at exactly quarter past four in the afternoon followed by DI (Detective Inspector) Bryan Groves. Those seated, except John Whiles who remained rooted to the spot eyes firmly closed, jumped up virtually to attention.
Prodow, with a dismissive wave of his hand said, “As you were, now let’s crack on and get this job sorted out.”
Groves had noticed the complete contempt that Whiles had shown to the Chief Superintendent’s arrival and was going to mention it to him later. This was Sussex Police where rank was earned and treated with respect, not the Met where anything goes. Whiles expected Prodow was going to be a quarter of an hour late: whenever he had met h
im before he had always been a quarter of an hour late, and never once had he bothered to apologise for his tardy time keeping.
Every member of the team was aware that Prodow was the figurehead for the enquiry. Customarily he would not have been so ‘hands on’ as to the day to day running of the investigation but more concerned with its oversight and with the direction it was to pursue. He was currently the senior investigating officer to six other major enquires, five of which were murders, and three of those appeared unsolvable. Whenever he had a success, he invariably found a congratulatory note in his post from his immediate superior the ACC (Assistant Chief Constable) or more likely a succinct e-mail. If it was deemed that he had committed a misdemeanour or made some perceived error of judgement, it was a personally delivered summons by a staff officer to attend either the ACC’s office, or if serious, the Deputy Chief Constable’s office. Prodow was, however, the person who decided who was to be charged and when in consultation with the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service) as well as giving all the press briefings. Because of this, he was routinely awarded all the plaudits for his junior officers’ work, especially when an offender was convicted.
Paul Brokes, the office manager, moved away from his seat as Prodow walked round the desk towards it. One of the telephones shot off, crashing onto the floor as Prodow’s foot caught the wire.
“That bloody thing gets me every time,” he growled as he plonked himself down into the vacated chair.
Paul picked up the two main pieces, and replaced the phone on his desk. Everyone watched him in silence as he went to the seat next to John which had been left empty for him. Groves was left standing by the door as all the others who had been milling about in the middle of the room seemed to melt to the sides and lean or perch against the walls or desks.
An Urgent Murder Page 4