Unnatural Wastage

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘He’s probably after some massive amount of compensation,’ said Sukey.

  ‘They say he’s a millionaire several times over,’ Vicky pointed out.

  Sukey grinned. ‘Maybe he’s keeping an expensive mistress.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Let’s nip to the canteen for a cuppa.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  At that moment, Detective Sergeant Greg Rathbone strode through the door of the CID office and bore down on them. ‘Forget the cuppa; put whatever you’re doing on hold and be in DCI Leach’s office in ten minutes. That includes you three as well,’ he added to the other members of his team, DCs Mike Haskins, Tim Pringle and Penny Osborne, who were seated at their desks working on similar assignments. There was a note of anticipation in the chorus of ‘Right, Sarge!’ that greeted the instruction.

  ‘Something interesting happened, Sarge?’ asked Vicky.

  ‘Something big by the looks of things,’ Mike remarked as he closed his case file and slid it into a drawer.

  ‘You’ll soon find out,’ Rathbone snapped and marched out of the room without another word.

  ‘He didn’t look very happy,’ said Penny. ‘I wonder if there’s been some sort of cock-up and someone’s pointed the finger at us.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Sukey. ‘He may have personal problems – he’s been on edge for the past few days.’

  ‘Well, you seem to know him better than we do,’ Vicky remarked, not without a hint of resentment.

  ‘He has confided in me once or twice,’ Sukey admitted. ‘But I don’t ask questions – I just leave it to him if he wants to get something off his chest.’

  Vicky shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  When the team entered his office, DCI Leach was seated at his desk with a mug of coffee in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other.

  ‘Any of you know Sycamore Park?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes sir, it’s a rather posh block of flats just north of the Downs,’ said Penny. ‘They have a Neighbourhood Watch arrangement with PC Dandridge from the local nick. It’s pretty quiet, so he tells me – just an occasional case of theft from an unlocked car or attempt to break into one of the garages.’

  ‘You know Dandridge then?’ said Leach. Behind his steel-framed glasses his keen blue eyes held a sympathetic twinkle.

  Penny blushed. ‘Yes, sir, we’ve been out once or twice.’

  ‘Good. He should have some useful first hand information from their Neighbourhood Watch rep. You and he can liaise in the enquiry into something a bit more serious than the odd theft from a car.’ The team waited expectantly as he paused before saying, ‘Murder, in fact. The caretaker at Sycamore Park, a chap called Wilkins, found one of the residents – a woman – lying on a heap of plastic bags of rubbish in a skip. He thought at first she’d been taken ill while dumping some rubbish in the skip and just toppled in. He called an ambulance, but when the paramedics arrived they found the woman was dead and called the police. Uniformed are already in attendance, securing the scene.’

  ‘Do we have any idea of the cause of death, sir?’ asked Sukey.

  ‘According to initial reports, the body was partially covered by a bag of rubbish that the caretaker heaved into the skip before he noticed it. When they moved it to one side to check her pulse they noticed a knife between her shoulder blades.’

  ‘Well, that saves us the trouble of hunting for the weapon,’ Rathbone commented. ‘What’s the betting it’s a standard kitchen knife anyone could buy from a high street store anywhere?’ he added gloomily.

  ‘We may be lucky there, Greg,’ said Leach. ‘The initial report mentions that the handle is quite distinctive – it could be oriental.’

  Rathbone shrugged. ‘Well, there are quite a few of those around as well. Some people bring them home as souvenirs. How many flats are there in Sycamore Park, by the way?’

  ‘Forty, in two separate blocks; that means a lot of house-to-house visits. I’ve had a word with the Super and he’s given me the OK to draft in extra uniformed to get statements from all the residents and pass them to you. You will weed out anything that looks remotely useful and farm them out among your team.’

  ‘Right, sir. Has Doc Handley been informed?’

  ‘Yes, he’s on his way to the scene, so you get down there ASAP with one of your DCs.’

  ‘As they say, there’s not much doubt about the cause of death, Sarge,’ said Sukey as she surveyed the body. The woman was lying half on her side across a heap of black plastic bags full of household waste that were piled almost to the top of a large green skip, one of three standing against the brick wall of the shed. A knife with an elaborately carved handle protruded from her back. ‘A pretty distinctive weapon, too – there can’t be that many of that particular design around.’

  Rathbone grunted. ‘Let’s hope you’re right. With luck someone will recognize it and come forward.’ He swung round on his heel and spoke to the nearest member of the team of uniformed officers who were enclosing with plastic tape an area that included a wide space round the shed as well as the tarmac path leading to it. ‘Tell that lot to get out of the way!’ he shouted at the nearest police officer, indicating with a wave of his hand the curious crowd of onlookers who were trying to see what was going on. ‘This is a crime scene and we don’t want people trampling around destroying evidence.’

  ‘Right, Sarge.’ The officer raised his voice a fraction and said, ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, keep well out of the way. If any of you saw anything, or has any information that you think will help us, please wait to speak to a detective. Otherwise, give us your names and addresses and then go home. There’s nothing for you to see. A statement will be issued later.’ He made shooing gestures with his hands and the crowd, which by this time numbered fifteen or so, reluctantly withdrew a short distance, stopped beside a line of parked cars, and waited.

  ‘Here’s Doc Hanley,’ said Sukey, nodding in the direction of a white Ford Focus backing into an empty parking space. The pathologist got out and strode towards them, bag in hand.

  ‘That was quick,’ Rathbone commented. ‘I don’t recall anyone saying it was urgent.’

  A faint smile flickered across Hanley’s thin features. ‘I was on my way to the morgue when I got the message and it only meant a short detour so I thought I’d come straight here. Where’s the body?’

  ‘In here.’ Rathbone indicated the skip. Its hinged lid had been left open by the paramedics and had not, so far as he had been able to ascertain, been touched since they left.

  Hanley studied the body in silence for a few moments. Then he glanced upwards and said, ‘I take it you want the lid of the skip left open?’

  ‘That’s how it was when the paramedics found it. We haven’t questioned the caretaker – the man who found the body – so we don’t know if that’s how the killer left it.’

  Hanley grunted. ‘Better get a tent up in case it rains. That roof doesn’t look very waterproof.’

  ‘I’ve already ordered one.’

  ‘Good.’

  For the next few minutes the two detectives stood and watched as the pathologist, with long, delicate fingers, gently probed the area round the neck and eyes. After a few moments he straightened up. ‘It’s more than likely the cause of death was the knife wound,’ he said, ‘but I can’t be sure until I get her on the slab.’

  ‘What about the time of death?’ asked Rathbone.

  ‘There’s dried blood on the clothing round the wound, but not enough of it to give an accurate estimate at this stage.’

  ‘Any idea if she was killed here, or brought here after death?’

  Hanley’s grin included both Rathbone and Sukey, who had been taking careful notes. ‘You’re the detectives. Send her along once the CSIs have done their stuff and I’ll do my best.’

  Rathbone nodded. ‘Thanks Doc, will do.’ The containment of the scene had been completed and the team were awaiting further instructions. He went over to the sergeant in charge and said, ‘What
about the man who found the body?’

  ‘That was the caretaker.’ The sergeant referred to his notebook. ‘His name’s Frederick Wilkins and he has a flat on the ground floor of the other block. According to the paramedics he seemed calm enough when they arrived – he didn’t see the knife as it was concealed by the bag of rubbish he’d just lobbed into the skip – but when he heard the woman was dead he had a bit of wobbly so they told him to go and sit down over there.’ The sergeant pointed to a wooden seat, one of several placed at intervals round the lawn.

  ‘Well, he’s not there now,’ said Rathbone.

  ‘One of the residents –’ at this point the sergeant referred again to his notebook – ‘a gentleman called Marcus Ellerman, went over and spoke to him. He asked me if it would be OK to take him into his flat and give him a drop of something to calm him down as the poor chap was really shaken up. I agreed as long as they both waited in Mr Ellerman’s flat – that’s number sixteen on the fourth floor of this block – until someone from CID called to take a statement. As a matter of fact,’ the sergeant added, ‘I was quite glad to get Ellerman out of the way. He’s an officious type; he kept demanding to know what had happened. Once he left the scene the rest of the ghouls became a bit more amenable.’

  ‘Right, we’d better have a word with both of them. Flat sixteen, I think you said?’

  The door was opened by a well-built man with a tanned complexion and thick, iron-grey hair. He was wearing fawn trousers and an open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing tanned and muscular forearms. Sukey guessed his age at somewhere in the mid or late forties.

  ‘Mr Marcus Ellerman?’

  ‘It’s Doctor Ellerman. Who wants to know?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Rathbone and Detective Constable Sukey Reynolds.’ The two held up their IDs, which Ellerman scrutinized carefully. He looked for a second time at Sukey’s and remarked with evident approval, ‘Your mugshot doesn’t do you justice!’ before standing aside to admit them.

  ‘As you have already heard, sir,’ Rathbone began, ‘the caretaker, Frederick Wilkins, discovered a woman’s body two or three hours ago.’

  ‘That’s right. According to Wilkins it’s that of Fenella Tremaine, a resident here. She lives – lived – in flat number thirty.’

  ‘The victim has not yet been officially identified, sir, but we shall be very grateful for any information you can give us. Now, I understand that as Wilkins appeared to be in some distress you obtained permission from Sergeant Drury to allow him to wait in your flat until our arrival.’

  ‘That’s right. He’s in here.’ Ellerman led them into a spacious sitting room with windows overlooking the gardens. ‘Wilkins, the police are here. They want to talk to you.’

  A man of about his own age, somewhat leaner and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, hastily got to his feet. ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ he said in a tremulous voice. ‘I hardly knew the lady, so why would I murder her?’

  ‘What makes you think she was murdered?’ said Rathbone.

  ‘I heard one of the paramedics say something about a knife.’ He glanced at Ellerman. ‘You heard it too, didn’t you, sir?’

  ‘I did. And these two –’ he gestured at the two detectives beside him – ‘wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t murder.’ He swung round and said, ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir.’ Sukey sensed that it gave Rathbone a certain satisfaction at being able to contradict him. ‘The CID are called in to investigate any unexplained or suspicious death, but it doesn’t always turn out to be murder.’

  ‘Let’s not split hairs. Just get on with your questions so that Wilkins can go home.’

  ‘An excellent suggestion, sir,’ said Rathbone. ‘We’ll escort him there.’ He went over to Wilkins, who was still on his feet and fiddling nervously with the handkerchief with which he had been wiping sweat from his hands. ‘All we need at this stage is for you to tell us exactly what happened, but I dare say you’ll feel more comfortable in your own place. Am I right?’

  Wilkins nodded. His relief was evident and Sukey guessed that he found Ellerman intimidating. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘We shall, of course, need a statement from you as well, sir,’ Rathbone told Ellerman as he showed them out.

  ‘Naturally.’ The tone was curt and the manner unfriendly. Sukey sensed that he had been hoping to be present while Wilkins was being questioned. ‘I’ll be in for the rest of the evening.’

  In the modest living room of the caretaker’s flat an armchair was positioned facing the window. Beside it was a low table on which stood a plate and a mug, both empty, suggesting that the caretaker had been eating a meal while enjoying the view across the garden.

  Wilkins picked up the used crockery and cutlery with a mumbled apology. ‘Excuse me while I put these in the kitchen. Please sit down.’

  The detectives sat on a couch and waited. Wilkins returned a moment later and turned his chair round to face them.

  ‘Right, Mr Wilkins,’ said Rathbone. ‘I understand that when you saw Ms Tremaine lying in the skip, your first thought was that she’d been taken ill?’

  ‘That’s right. That’s why I called the ambulance.’

  ‘How did you suppose she got in there?’

  Wilkins passed a hand over his forehead. ‘I . . . I don’t know . . . I didn’t think,’ he said hesitantly. ‘My first thought was that she needed help. It never entered my head that she was dead, let alone murdered. Then I heard that talk about a knife in her back – is that really true?’

  ‘I can confirm that we are investigating a murder,’ said Rathbone, ‘and the murder weapon was a knife – one of a somewhat unusual design, possibly oriental. Full details will be issued to the media and naturally the public will be asked if they recognize it.’ He leaned forward and fixed Wilkins with a direct stare. ‘Do you happen to own a knife that might answer that description?’

  The caretaker met the gaze without flinching. ‘No, Sergeant,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Or have you seen anything like it? In one of the residents’ flats, for example?’

  This time Sukey noticed a momentary hesitation before Wilkins replied, ‘I hardly ever go into any of the flats.’

  Rathbone nodded. ‘I see. Now, according to what you told the police, you thought she must have been taken ill while throwing a bag of rubbish into the skip, overbalanced and fallen in.’ He paused for a moment before saying, ‘That’s a bit unlikely, don’t you think? The skip must be at least four feet high – anyone of normal height would have to be standing on something to lean over the edge and just topple in.’

  Wilkins’ brow puckered and he shook his head. ‘I suppose so, but I didn’t stop to think . . . I mean, I just opened the skip, threw in the bag of rubbish and went to close the lid . . . and then I saw her lying there and called nine nine nine on my mobile.’

  ‘What time was this?’ asked Rathbone.

  ‘Some time after two – I don’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Is that your normal time for taking rubbish to the skip?’

  ‘No, and it isn’t even my usual day. The residents leave their bags of rubbish outside their front doors and I pick them up every morning from Monday to Friday, put them on my barrow and wheel it to the skip.’

  ‘And today’s Saturday, so why were you there this afternoon?’ asked Sukey.

  ‘I had some rubbish of my own to get rid of and I wanted to get it out of the way.’

  ‘What kind of rubbish?’

  ‘I’m redecorating my spare room and I spent this morning stripping off the wallpaper. After I’d had my lunch I put it all with some other stuff into one of the black plastic bags we use and carried it to the tip.’

  ‘Now, Mr Wilkins,’ said Rathbone, ‘I want you to think very carefully and tell me exactly what you did when you entered the shed where the skips and rubbish bins are kept. I counted four skips, by the way, and the body was found in the one farthest from the entrance
. Why did you go to that particular one?’

  ‘I knew it was the only one that still had some room in it, although it was very nearly full. I reckon if it’d been half empty I mightn’t even have seen the poor lady.’

  ‘Presumably the lid was closed when you got there?’

  ‘Yes. I raised it and threw the bag in, and I was about to let the lid fall when I happened to look down and . . . there she was.’ Wilkins momentarily closed his eyes at the recollection. ‘I called the ambulance and it came very quickly and . . . that’s all I can tell you. Honestly!’ He looked from one to the other, his expression apprehensive, as if expecting his story to be challenged.

  ‘It must have been quite a shock,’ said Sukey sympathetically. Wilkins responded with a nod and a faint smile.

  ‘I presume you collected the rubbish and took it to the skips yesterday morning as usual. Did you go there again that day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or this morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever noticed anyone else going there?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sergeant. Some of the residents take their own bottles and paper and so on to the recycling bins. Sometimes I see them, but of course I’m not always around.’

  ‘Presumably Ms Tremaine used to take her own stuff to the bins?’

  Wilkins nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you remember the last time you saw her there?’

  Wilkins pondered for a moment. ‘I can’t remember exactly, but I’ve a feeling it was quite late one evening not long ago, when I was coming home from a visit to The Swan. That’s the pub in Hope Lane.’

  ‘And you’ve seen her alive since?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure I have.’

  ‘Has she lived here long?’

  ‘All I can say is she was here when I came, about eighteen months ago.’

  ‘So you’ve known her for some time. Have you noticed anything different about her behaviour recently?’

  Wilkins compressed his lips and appeared to be thinking. ‘I wouldn’t say as I know her exactly,’ he said after a moment. ‘To be honest, Sergeant, I’ve never had much to do with her. She doesn’t stop to chat like some of the other folk who live here.’