The Trophy Taker

by Sarah Flint

  ‘Thanks, we will do,’ Hunter replied. ‘I presume then, if the handbag is still here and she’s dressed for outdoors, she was probably out already or left her house to meet someone, as opposed to having been abducted. And if there’s no sign of a break-in, we can probably rule out burglary or robbery’

  ‘I’m not so sure, guv.’ Charlie was staring down at the woman, examining every inch of the scene. She pointed to the victim’s left hand, laid out, palm open against the slab. A pool of blood spread out from underneath it, dark crimson against the grey of the stone. ‘The ring finger is missing. It’s been severed from the hand. Maybe the killer was after her jewellery.’

  Hunter peered down at the hand and then scanned the area around the grave. Eventually he turned to the Duty Officer. ‘Any sign of the missing finger or heart?’

  ‘Not as yet, but obviously we don’t want to root around too much.’

  ‘We’ll have to keep the whole cemetery as a crime scene then. I’ll arrange for a specialised search team to come to search the wider area, as and when the Scene of Crime Officer has examined the inner cordon here. We can’t afford not to find either of the missing parts. Is there anything else obvious that the killer has left?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t look like it. He or she has been quite meticulous in tidying up. Everything is laid out precisely.’

  ‘Well in that case, we’ll go to Susan Barton’s address and see if we can establish a definite identification and next of kin. We’ll be able to see if our victim here is the woman in the photographs.’

  Hunter indicated to Charlie and they all turned to leave, the duty officer stepping forward first. A mobile phone started to ring. It wasn’t Charlie’s and both Hunter and the Duty Officer weren’t going for their pockets. Charlie turned back towards the victim. A small light was pulsing out from inside the open handbag. Hunter nodded and she started towards it, reaching carefully into the bag with her gloved hand.

  The name Emma was showing on the screen along with the smiling face of a teenage girl. Charlie pressed the receiver switch and put the phone on loudspeaker. Before she could say anything, a young girl’s voice sang out, bright and enthusiastic.

  ‘Hi Mum, hope I’ve caught you before you get stuck in at work. I’ve got to start a new assignment and I was hoping to pick your brains about it. Can I pop back this evening and have dinner and a chat? I can tell you all about my plan. You’ll love it.’

  She stopped talking and waited. Charlie was dumbstruck for a few seconds. It was obviously the victim’s daughter. How was she going to tell such a young, happy-sounding girl that her mother was laid mutilated in front of her.

  ‘Mum, are you there?’ the girl’s voice sounded curious.

  ‘Hello, this is DC Charlotte Stafford from Lambeth police.’

  ‘Where’s my mum?’ the girl’s alarm was obvious. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘Are you Emma?’

  ‘Yes. I’m her daughter.’

  ‘Emma, where are you? We need to speak to you.’

  The girl was crying now. ‘Why, what’s happened? Why have you got my mum’s phone? Why can’t she talk to me?’

  ‘Emma,’ Charlie dropped her voice, trying to remain quiet and calm. ‘Tell me where you are. I promise I will come straight to you and explain everything.’

  ‘I’m at Roehampton Uni.’

  She had no idea what she could say to explain what she was looking at now, but somehow Charlie knew that she would have to find the right words.

  ‘OK Emma. Go to the office and tell them that the police are on their way to speak to you. We’ll be there as soon as we can.’

  Chapter 6

  The journey to Roehampton University was solemn. Charlie drove with the blue lights on and sirens blaring, navigating through the traffic on autopilot, her mind going over and over what she could say to the girl. Hunter was with her, but she knew it would be down to her to speak the words that would destroy the world of Susan Barton’s daughter; if indeed the body was that of Susan Barton. It did however look increasingly likely. After taking the call, she had compared the photograph on the driving licence with that of the victim and, for Charlie, there was no question they were the same. Identification was really going to be a formality, but the evidential process dictated that it must be done. Viewing the body of a loved one was hard enough in a family home or hospital setting; viewing a body in a mortuary or chapel of rest was infinitely worse, especially when they were there as a result of inhuman violence. She hoped it wouldn’t be Emma who would have to perform this task.

  They were there within half an hour, pulling into the car park slowly, watched by the growing numbers of students sauntering in for lessons. Charlie could feel a lump in her throat as they headed towards the reception. The door was open and a young girl stood waiting. Her blonde hair swept down her back, with a side parting that allowed a long fringe to fall across her face. She flicked it to one side, as the receptionist escorted them through, and fixed startlingly blue eyes on them. She looked like a younger version of the woman they had left. There was no mistaking who her mother was.

  ‘Emma Barton?’ Charlie didn’t need to ask but in the absence of a word from the girl, the question broke the silence. The girl stood rooted to the spot, mute.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘What’s happened to my mother? Where is she?’

  ‘Take a seat, Emma and I’ll tell you what we know.’

  They moved into a small office, with six chairs spaced around a large table. An older woman shuffled in and introduced herself as Emma’s tutor. She was in her fifties, with a rounded body and rounded mannerisms; no sharpness in the way she spoke or moved. She looked like a classic, archetypal grandmother, ready to smooth away every trouble. The news Charlie was about to impart, however, would not be smoothed away; ever.

  Emma sat on the edge of her seat, her body leaning forward expectantly. There was nothing for it but to start.

  ‘Emma, there is no easy way of saying this. We’ve just come from West Norwood, where the body of a woman has been found. She had a driving licence with her photo and name on it. The name is Susan Barton.’

  The girl let out a scream, muffled with cupped hands over her mouth. The colour drained from her face and her hands started to shake. ‘No, no it can’t be my mum. I was only talking to her yesterday evening. She was fine. It can’t be her. You’re mistaken.’ She stood up shakily and started to hoist a rucksack up on to her shoulder. ‘Mum must have somehow lost her handbag. Maybe this woman, whose body you’ve found, picked it up?’

  Charlie took a step towards her but she backed away, her expression rigid. ‘I checked the photo on the driving licence against the lady we found, Emma. They looked the same. I’m really sorry.’

  The tutor moved towards the girl and put both arms around her. Emma’s body crumpled into hers and they sat down together, Emma now sobbing unashamedly. Charlie waited for the girl’s tears to subside a little.

  ‘We do need to make absolutely sure we have the right identification though. Can we take you back to your house to check some of the family photographs? Is there anyone else who lives with your mum?’

  ‘She’s on her own at the moment. I’m in digs with a couple of other girls and my brother is at uni in York. My mum and dad split up recently. They weren’t getting on, so he moved out. He wants to know what’s happening, by the way. I rang him before you got here to say you were coming.’

  ‘Can we speak to him?’

  She nodded and typed into her phone. The name ‘dad’ blinked on and off. Charlie passed the phone to Hunter to speak. He could better explain what they knew so far and what they needed from him.

  Hunter took the phone and moved outside the room. Charlie could hear his deep voice, calm and concise. Emma seemed to calm slightly herself. Maybe the pressure had been removed a little now her father had been informed.

  When Hunter came back in, Charlie already knew what had been arranged. They were all to leave the university and return to th
e family address where Emma’s father would meet them.

  Emma collected her things together and climbed into the police car. She was on her own now, having thanked her tutor and assured her she would be OK and would be with her father soon.

  She sat in the rear of the car, her head resting on the back of the seat. For a moment she closed her eyes as Charlie pulled out into the traffic. As was often the case, now the shock had receded a little she wanted to know everything.

  ‘How did my mother die?’

  Hunter turned towards Emma.

  ‘We don’t know at the moment. We’re doing everything we can to try to find out.’

  ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t look to be an accident.’

  Emma frowned. ‘So, it was deliberate? Are you saying somebody killed her? Or she killed herself?’ She leant forward and buried her head in her hands. ‘She couldn’t have killed herself. She wouldn’t have done that to us. However hard she was finding things. She seemed fine when I spoke to her yesterday evening. She wouldn’t have killed herself.’

  The girl turned towards Hunter, her eyes steely. Charlie was reminded of when she had first told Emma they had found a body; of the way in which Emma had the ability to disregard the evidence in favour of what she herself could accept. For her mother to take her own life was out of the question. Murder, however awful, was clearly more palatable than suicide. She’d seen the same attitude many times before.

  ‘We don’t believe that she took her own life, Emma. I’ll explain a little more of what we do know when we’re with your father.’

  Emma nodded and closed her eyes again.

  ‘What time did you speak to her yesterday?’ Charlie picked up on what Emma had said, trying to focus her mind away from questions about the cause of death.

  ‘About seven. We chatted for fifteen minutes then I said I’d call back in the morning as soon as I had my assignment agreed by the uni.’

  ‘Do you know what she was doing? I mean, did she say that she was going out or had visitors?’

  ‘As far as I knew she was staying in. She mentioned catching up with some stuff she’d recorded on the TV. I think she even said she was planning an early night in bed. Where was she found?’

  Charlie’s mind rocketed back to the cemetery. How could they tell this young girl what they had just seen? But at some stage she would have to be told; before the details got divulged and it was all over the papers. For a few seconds she thought of her own mother, Meg. What if it had been her? How would she cope with the knowledge that the last few minutes of her mother’s life were likely to have been filled with such terror and pain? She hoped that Susan Barton had known little of what was happening; that she had been rendered unconscious before the killer had taken his knife to her. However at this moment in time they knew nothing of the circumstances.

  ‘Do you know how she died?’ Emma’s voice cut through her thoughts.

  ‘Sorry, Emma, we don’t know as yet,’ Charlie spoke the truth softly. She needed to protect Emma from the gruesome details as long as possible and, in any case wouldn’t attempt to speculate on the exact cause of death until after the post mortem. ‘We’ll tell you what we can when we get back. We’re nearly there now. You said she was finding things hard, a little earlier. In what way?’

  ‘I think she felt guilty about the break-up with my dad. She said that she had been unhappy for quite a while, and that since me and my brother had moved out, they didn’t have much in common. She said they’d been leading their own lives for some time.’ Emma clearly wanted to talk. ‘She’s a teacher and has friends in those types of circles that she socialises with. My dad’s a car mechanic. I think he embarrasses her a bit when they go out together, although they do still get on. A few months ago my dad agreed to a trial separation and he moved out. They have stayed friends and I think he still has a key to our house and pops in now and again to see her, but he’s definitely not happy about the situation. He didn’t see it coming and he keeps asking to move back in, but even though she doesn’t want him back, she feels guilty about what the break-up has done to him… and to the family. However much she thinks she’s done the right thing for herself, she still feels bad.’

  ‘And your father? How has he been?’

  She was turning into Chestnut Road, SE27, now. She slowed, searching for the numbers. The road was long and straight with a mixture of large detached and semi-detached houses. A marked police car was parked about halfway down on the left. She headed towards it, pulling up outside a smart, well-kept, red-brick, detached property. A man was standing on the pavement outside next to a uniformed officer.

  Emma started to cry as she looked towards the man. ‘That’s my dad now. Why don’t you ask him?’

  Chapter 7

  Mickey Barton threw his arms open as Emma got out of the car. She ran to him and he pulled her against his chest, stroking her hair clumsily with huge, blackened hands. He glanced up towards Charlie and Hunter as they walked towards him, his expression unreadable.

  Charlie had the distinct impression that he was a man, not much prone to public displays of affection. Her immediate assessment was heightened as he ruffled Emma’s hair, took her by the shoulders and moved her to one side. It was the sort of action a father would do to a son who had just scored a goal at the Little League football match on a Sunday. It just seemed awkward.

  Emma stood next to him as Mickey Barton held out a hand towards Hunter, ignoring Charlie.

  ‘You must be Mr Barton. I’m DI Geoffrey Hunter. We spoke.’ Hunter proffered his hand in return and Barton shook it strongly. ‘And this is DC Charlotte Stafford. Thank you for seeing us.’

  Mickey Barton nodded towards her.

  ‘Alright. You’d better come in, if we’re allowed, and tell me what you know.’ His voice was gruff but a slight quiver in its tone gave away an attempt to maintain control. He was clearly reining in his emotions.

  Hunter nodded. The house had not as yet been designated as a crime scene although it was a possibility at some stage. More essential was the need to firm up the identification of their victim and as both Mickey and Emma appeared to have regular access to the premises it was probable both their DNA profiles and fingerprints would be present anyway. Still, they had to be careful.

  ‘Is there a back door we can use? That way I can leave the front door area undisturbed.’

  Mickey leafed through a bunch of keys and nodded again.

  ‘OK that’s good. Please don’t touch anything unless I ask. I’d like you to have a cursory look to see if you can tell us if anything obvious is missing or has been moved from its usual place.’

  Mickey Barton nodded and set off, walking down the paved driveway towards a side passage which ran between the house and a detached garage. The frontage of the house was smart, with double glazing and lace curtains on every window. The paintwork on the sills and doors looked smooth and freshly painted and the whole house gave the impression of having been well tended and under control. The garden was laid mainly to lawn, with shrubs dotted around the edges at regular intervals. They had been cut back now in readiness for the winter months, their limbs stubby and squat, devoid of the softness bestowed by leaves or flowers. The front door was open to the elements, with only a small tiled overhang to provide shelter to visitors and little chance of providing any forensic evidence that might assist.

  The side entrance had a locked metal gate, with a fixed plate above it preventing easy access to the rear. The security seemed good. Barton unlocked the gate and it swung open, clicking on to a catch on the garage wall to prevent it swinging loose. He nodded towards his daughter as they disappeared towards the rear of the house. Emma was to remain with the uniformed officers initially.

  Charlie watched him as he strode ahead. He looked to be mid-fifties but with a strong body that belied his age. He was about five foot ten, but his stockiness negated his average height and made him appear much larger than he really was and much more imposing
. He had a thick neck, with toned, muscular shoulders and arms, and a full head of blond hair that he kept short and spiky. He was dressed casually in jeans, a heavy navy jumper and a pair of brown DeWalt safety boots.

  Charlie peered into the rear garden while they waited for the back door to be opened. It looked wilder than the front, the grass in need of its last mow of autumn, shrubs and small trees in need of pruning back, their boughs still heavy with leaves and the shrivelled remnants of flowers. A buddleia bush blocked her view further to the rear, its long arching branches and ovate leaves having invaded the space across the pathway that ran the length of the garden.

  As if on cue Mickey Barton nodded towards it. ‘I’ve been keeping the front garden up for Susan. As you can see she’s rather let the rear garden go.’

  He spun round again and opened the back door with another key, ushering them straight into the kitchen. Charlie remembered what Emma had told them about her parents having split. Mickey Barton certainly seemed to be treating the house as if he had never left. She stepped into the house and was immediately hit by the aromas of cooking. A newly baked sponge lay on a wire tray on the work surface, covered over with a clean, red and white striped tea towel. Half a jug of fresh coffee sat on the hotplate of a percolator, cool now the machine was off. A table stood to one side with six chairs spaced round it, a bowl containing a variety of apples, pears and bananas, some slightly over-ripe sat in its centre on a white lace doily, and a stack of paperwork, leaflets advertising local fast-food and charity collecting bags, were spread out to one side. Like the rear garden its appearance was a little messy but Charlie immediately loved it. It was a ‘lived in’ kitchen, the hub of the house, its sole occupant, Susan Barton, the one who breathed her body and soul into it. It was awful that life force was now gone.

  Mickey Barton scanned round the room, shaking his head slightly, before turning to face them. ‘So, who do you think has done it?’

  The question appeared to catch Hunter off guard a little. Barton was certainly direct.