‘Anymore you can tell us?’ Sara Stanforth asked the paramedic as he removed Stephanie Chalmers from the murder scene, knowing full well that the paramedic’s responsibility was to the seriously injured woman, not to the police.
‘Knife wound to the lower body, loss of blood. No more than that for now.’
‘We will need to interview her.’
‘At the hospital, but not today.’
‘When?’ Sara Stanforth asked.
‘Not for me to say. You’ll need to check with the doctor.’
It had only been a brief conversation, but DI Stanforth knew that the paramedic had been correct. However, this was her case, her first murder as the senior police officer, and she did not intend to let anyone else take it from her.
‘Constable, Sean, what else can you tell me? At least, before the crime scene examiner and his people move us out.’
‘It’s not a suicide pact.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘If you look again, you will see some clothes stuffed in a corner and some footprints made in the blood. There was a third person.’
‘The murderer?’
‘That would be the assumption.’
‘What else?’
‘Female, judging by the discarded clothes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘There is a number carved into the male’s chest.’
‘What does that mean?’ Sara Stanforth asked.
‘No idea, but there it was. Number 2.’
The crime scene examiner arrived, briefly spoke to the DI and the PC, donned his overalls, put gloves on his hands, protectors over his shoes, and commenced his work.
‘A full report as soon as possible,’ Sara Stanforth said.
‘You’ll have a preliminary within two hours. The full report sometime tomorrow,’ Crime Scene Examiner Crosley replied.
Stanforth phoned DCI Bob Marshall. ‘I want this case,’ she said.
‘It’s yours. Don’t stuff it up.’
‘I won’t.’
Sara could see that PC Sean O’Riordan was a good man, and his analysis of the murder scene had been spot on. If he wanted, she would see if he could transfer over to her team.
The DI donned a similar outfit to the crime scene examiner and re-entered the murder scene. PC O’Riordan intended to remain at the scene as well. A murder investigation excited him, even if the sight of the blood had not.
***
It had been forty-eight hours since Gregory Chalmers had been murdered.
CSE Crosley had filed a preliminary report: verbally at the crime scene, in writing later that night. The full report would be coming through within a couple of days, subject to forensics.
‘Gregory Chalmers died as a result of multiple knife wounds to the chest; in his case, a Mundial carving knife, with death as a result of severe blood loss. The number 2 was carved on his chest after his death,’ he had said.
‘How long after?’ Sara Stanforth had asked.
‘Difficult to be certain, but less than five minutes. And a different knife to the one that killed him. Almost certainly the knife that was used on Stephanie Chalmers. Forensics can confirm.’
‘And the third person?’
‘Female, mid-twenties, blonde hair.’
‘Any more you can tell me about her?’
‘Not really. I am only confirming the blonde hair and that it was a female. The age is assumed due to the style of the clothing found at the scene. She used a downstairs shower and helped herself to some clothes from the wardrobe upstairs. She was probably in the house for another fifteen minutes after the crime was committed. We can ascertain that she acted calmly after the earlier violence.’
‘How?’
‘The shower was still wet. On getting out of the shower, she dried herself and hung the towel on a hook. She also wiped the bathroom floor. Not the actions of someone frantically attempting to leave a crime scene.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No sign of forced entry, so we are assuming it is the woman in the photo that we found in one of the children’s bedrooms.’
‘Is there a name?’
‘Not on the photo, although the young boy who dialled 999 mentioned an Ingrid.’
‘The photo shows a woman in her twenties,’ Sara Stanforth said.
‘The assumption is that the murderer and the woman in the picture are one and the same,’ Crosley said.
‘That’s it at the present moment, an assumption?’ Sara asked.
‘You’re the lead detective on this case. It’s for you to find out.’
***
‘It was her,’ the heavily-bandaged woman said as she sat up in the hospital bed.
‘Her?’ DI Stanforth asked. She had been warned that Stephanie Chalmers was still under sedation and had nearly died on the operating table. According to the doctor, she had only just made it; a miracle, he had said, which, to Sara, were not the words that she expected to hear from a doctor. Besides, she had no time for miracles. To her, there was no such thing, only hard work and sheer dogged perseverance. She realised that she was a driven woman, and the only time that she would relax her guard was in the confines of the small apartment that she shared with her DCI, and then only when the door was closed.
‘Ingrid. I trusted her with my children.’ It was evident to Sara that the woman’s slow speech was a result of the sedation. Apart from that, she appeared coherent.
‘I need to ask some questions.’
‘I want that bastard woman brought to justice. She killed Gregory.’
‘Yes, I know. I need your help,’ Sara said. She was not an overly sentimental woman, but she could feel a profound sadness for Stephanie Chalmers.
She had noticed the two children outside and had briefly spoken to the woman who was looking after them. Stephanie Chalmers’ sister had told her that the children were as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Sara Stanforth could only agree; the first time she had seen a dead body, fished out of the River Thames, bloated and naked, its hands tied behind its back, she had been upset for weeks. And the young boy, a sensitive soul according to his aunt, had seen his father covered in blood, his mother dying.
It was remarkable that he had the clarity and the intelligence to phone the emergency services and to give an address, Sara thought.
The aunt had said that she would have expected no less, but now Billy Chalmers and his sister Emma were detached from reality. They had seen their mother, asked when she was coming home, and where was Daddy.
‘Ingrid?’ Sara asked the woman lying in bed.
‘I took her on to help with the children.’
‘Did she?’
‘The children loved her. She would pick them up from school. Not every day, as sometimes I would make the time for them.’
‘What else did she do?’
‘She would make sure they had something to eat, as well as do their homework. I trusted her until…’
‘Until?’
‘Do I have to tell you this?’ The doctor had come in to tell Sara that she had five minutes only, no more, as Mrs Chalmers was still critically ill and in need of rest.
‘If you want us to find her, bring her to justice.’
‘It was Gregory.’
‘Yes.’
‘He couldn’t help himself.’
‘Take it slowly,’ Sara said.
‘Gregory strayed.’
‘Other women?’
‘Not that I gave him any reason, but that was Gregory. Any bit of skirt, and he wanted some of the action.’
‘Ingrid?’
‘Not for the first three months that she’s with us, and then he’s using our bed.’
‘With Ingrid?’
‘With her.’
‘Did you confront him?’
‘I had become used to his behaviour, but not to him using our bed to seduce the hired help.’
‘You said nothing?’
‘No. I know it seems silly, but he
was a good man, and I did like Ingrid. After that night, I assumed they had cooled the relationship, and I had not seen any reason to doubt for some time.’
The doctor returned. ‘Two minutes, no more. I must be firm.’
‘What happened at the house?’ Sara asked. She still needed to know, two minutes or no two minutes.
‘I entered the kitchen, and Ingrid was standing over Gregory. She was holding a knife. I shouted out to her. She came over to me, grabbing me, forcing me to the ground. She was wild and out of control. I pushed her away. After that, I do not remember.’
‘Why do you think she killed your husband?’
‘He probably told her that the relationship was off. They only last a few weeks with him, anyway.’
‘A lover’s tiff?’
‘I assume it was, but Ingrid was always so placid. If I had not seen her there, I would not have believed her capable.’
Sara left soon after. A nurse came into the room and administered an additional sedative to the wife of the murdered man.
Chapter 3
‘This is your case. How are you going to handle it?’ Bob Marshall asked. He was sucking a mint, careful not to let Sara know that he still enjoyed the occasional cigarette. There’d be hell to pay if she knew, he knew that, and for two months he had gone cold turkey, but the occasional drag, he thought, would do no harm.
In the office, Bob was always demanding of Sara. Everyone knew they were living together, and it had led him to receive a warning from Detective Superintendent Rowsome about fraternising in the office.
Not that it was any of his business, Bob had even told him, but the superintendent was a pedantic man who worried obsessively about the Key Performance Indicators in his department.
‘Look here, DCI, you can sleep with whoever you like, but stuff up and you know what happens,’ Rowsome had said. ‘Just make sure it doesn’t impact on the efficiency of your department.’
Bob Marshall, keenly aware of his senior’s concerns, and also conscious of the other members of his department, kept the pressure up on Sara. Not that he had any concerns, as she had proven herself to be competent; she had even acquired begrudging respect from DI Greenstreet, a curmudgeonly old-school police officer. He did not hold with the modern ideas on policing with their emphasis on graphs and charts and performance indicators. In his day, the police dealt with the criminals using a kick up the arse and a slap around the head.
Nowadays, they had to read them their rights, accord them respect, and then lock them up in prison, three meals a day, and the luxury of a three-star hotel. He knew what Sara Stanforth represented the moment she joined the department: political correctness, policing by the book, female equality.
Still, he had to concede that she had done well dealing with a serial rapist in the area; even arrested him on her own and brought him to the police station in handcuffs.
Not many men would have stood up to him, he had thought at the time. Even Keith Greenstreet had to admit she was a good police officer, although, to him, her relationship with their DCI was something else. The sideways glances in the office, the passing too close to each other, the occasional whisper in each other’s ear. Greenstreet knew what they were talking about, even if it was a long time since he had experienced any of it.
‘Find Ingrid Bentham,’ Sara replied to Bob’s earlier question.
‘Do you need any help?’ Bob Marshall asked.
‘DI Greenstreet, if he’s willing. Also, the police constable at the Chalmers’ house, Sean O’Riordan. I know he is keen to get into plain clothes. He was there at the scene; he’s a smart man to have with the team.’
‘Okay with you, Keith?’ Bob looked over at Greenstreet.
‘Fine by me.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Sara said. ‘Thank you, DI.’
‘Don’t go wasting my time,’ Keith Greenstreet replied. He was approaching sixty, not in the best of health: high blood pressure, an irregular heartbeat, and carrying twenty pounds more weight than was healthy. His temperament in the office varied from morose to cheerful and back to morose; it spent more time at morose. He was not sure why Sara Stanforth had chosen him, and besides, he was the more senior of the two officers. He knew that he should be leading the investigation, but then he reasoned, DI Stanforth had something that he did not: a tight arse and the bedroom ear of Bob Marshall.
***
Police Constable O’Riordan arrived in the office at the police station later in the day. He had thanked Sara earlier when she had phoned to offer him a position in Homicide.
No longer expected to wear the regulation police uniform, he arrived in the office dressed in a dark blue suit.
Keith Greenstreet shook his hand limply. Another young upstart, he thought.
Sara had set up a crime board close to her desk; she was excited, and it looked like being a long night ahead. She had phoned the hospital. Stephanie Chalmers was recovering but suffering from delayed shock. Her house was still a crime scene, and on release from the hospital, she would go and stay with her sister.
‘What’s the plan, guv?’ Sean O’Riordan asked Sara. He had found himself a desk in the far corner, as well as a police-issue laptop.
‘Find Ingrid Bentham.’
‘Easier said than done. She will have scarpered by now,’ Greenstreet said.
Ignoring Keith Greenstreet’s negativity, Sara focussed on the facts.
‘We have an address for Ingrid Bentham, although she is not there.’
‘What did you expect? That she would be at home waiting for you with a cup of tea.’
Sara knew why she had brought Keith Greenstreet on board. His experience would compensate for Sean O’Riordan’s youthful enthusiasm, even hers. She knew that he did not respect her, other than begrudgingly, but when it was needed, it would be him who would find the woman.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Sean asked.
‘What did you find out about Ingrid Bentham?’
‘Twenty-four, blonde, spoke with a northern accent.’
‘Northern is a bit vague,’ Keith said.
‘It’s the best we’ve got.’
‘If the woman has disappeared, she will probably head back home to the nest. You need to be more specific.’
‘Do we have a recording of her voice?’ Sara asked.
‘Not sure,’ Sean said.
‘Well, then you’d better find one. Run it past someone who knows about regional accents,’ Keith said.
‘Keith’s right. Can I trust you to deal with this?’ Sara asked.
‘Leave it to me,’ the constable responded with his usual youthful enthusiasm.
Sara realised that this case was different. Usually, a murder would not give a definite murderer, only suspects, but in this instance there was a known killer: fingerprints and foot marks at the scene, and enough DNA to prove a case. However, the murderer had disappeared.
Stephanie Chalmers had provided an address for Ingrid Bentham. Two officers from the department had visited the address after Sara had phoned them, only to find that the woman was not there, although her flatmate was.
Sara and Sean O’Riordan visited later after their meeting at the police station had concluded.
Her flatmate confirmed that Ingrid was a quiet, pleasant young woman, friendly at the college she attended, liked by all that knew her, no boyfriends. The two women had met at college and had decided to pool their resources and to rent a small two-bedroom apartment. Apart from that, they had not socialised, other than the occasional Friday night at a local pub, where both had drunk too much on a couple of occasions.
‘What else can you tell us?’ Sara asked Gloria, the flatmate.
‘Not much. Ingrid did not speak about her family or her childhood. I told her my life story: how I came here from Nigeria as a child, everything there was to tell. I talk too much sometimes, but with Ingrid, nothing.’ Gloria spoke pure London, even though she had been born in Africa.
‘Did she phone anyone?’
; ‘Not to my knowledge. She had a mobile, but she did not use it much. She had a laptop.’
‘Is it here?’
‘Nothing is here; not even last week’s contribution for the rent. She even took a bottle of wine that belonged to me.’
‘Clothing, personal belongings?’ Sara asked.
‘She took all hers as well as some of mine.’
Sara had asked Crosley and his crime investigators to check the flat. The fingerprints and the DNA found at the apartment matched the crime scene at the Chalmers’ house.
On leaving the flat, Sara phoned Keith Greenstreet. ‘Can you follow up on Ingrid Bentham’s movements after she left the flat: buses, railway stations, taxis, the normal?’ Sara asked.
‘Leave it with me,’ he said. Even though it was late in the evening, he put on his coat as protection against the inclement weather and ambled out of the office.
‘Thanks,’ Sara said.
‘Don’t thank me now. Friday night, you owe me a pint.’
‘If DI Greenstreet can work late at night, then so can I,’ Sean said.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to the Chalmers’ house. There may be some recordings of Ingrid Bentham’s voice. It’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.’
‘Let me know how you go,’ Sara said.
‘What about you, guv?’
‘Paperwork for now, and then I need to talk to Crosley.’
‘The crime scene examiner?’
‘Yes. See what else he can tell us,’ Sara said.
***
Sara left the office late, way past midnight. Bob Marshall had waited for her.
‘You’re on your own on this one,’ he said as they left the office. ‘I’ll need to ride you hard, and I can’t protect you.’
‘I know, Bob,’ she said. It was strange: in the office, he was officious and demanding, but outside, and in the bedroom, he was caring and considerate. That was what she loved about him: his devotion to work and fair play, his ability to separate work from home. Sara knew that she had not attained that ease yet; not sure if she ever would. She would go to sleep and dream of the murder of Gregory Chalmers, the attempted murder of Stephanie. She knew that she would wake up during the night and start writing notes, surfing the internet looking for insights into the mindset of someone, in this case, female, who could murder with extreme violence, then detach herself mentally, take a shower, clean herself up, go home, pack and leave.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 63