Suddenly at Home

by Graham Ison

  ‘Are either of you authorized to carry firearms?’ I asked.

  ‘I am, guv,’ said Liz.

  ‘So am I, sir,’ said Appleby.

  ‘Good. I want you both to draw weapons and get up to Cuyper’s apartment ASAP.’

  ‘There are two of our people there already, guv’nor,’ said Carpenter.

  ‘I know, but they’re not armed. There’s a chance that someone, unaware of Cuyper’s murder, might call. We know already of a woman, thought to be French, who has a key to the apartment and has been seen by Mrs Maxwell letting herself in. She might also be the woman who travelled up in the lift at about the time of the murder. We’re clutching at straws, but anyone who knew Cuyper well enough to have been given a key might be able to tell us more about him than we know already. And right now we know precious little. There is also the possibility that the murderer might return, looking for something, so be on your guard. I’ll arrange for a night-duty team to relieve you, and I’ll ask the concierge to give you a call if anyone enquires for Cuyper and to send them up. Keep in touch.’

  From there, I went to the commander’s office with an authorization form.

  ‘Ah, Mr Brock.’

  ‘I’d like your authority for four officers to be issued with firearms, sir. They will be—’

  ‘Granted,’ said the commander and almost snatched the form, without waiting to hear the reason. The DAC had told him to give me anything I needed and, like I’ve said before, the commander is terrified of the DAC.

  After Dave and I had taken a break for lunch, we got back to the office at about two. DS Wilberforce was waiting for us.

  ‘I’ve located one of the four names that were in the Belgian report, sir. Bernie Stamper is in Stone Mill prison doing five for burglary. It was his seventeenth offence.’

  ‘You mean it was the seventeenth time he’d been caught, Colin. How long’s he been inside?’

  ‘Two years, sir. Due for release in six months’ time. Provided he’s been of good behaviour.’

  ‘Should be very cooperative then,’ I said. ‘Give the prison governor a bell and see if we can see Stamper this afternoon.’

  I didn’t even have time to drink a cup of coffee before Wilberforce was knocking on my door again.

  ‘I’ve spoke to the governor at Stone Mill, sir, and she said you can go up as soon as you like.’ Wilberforce laughed. ‘She said that Stamper is quite willing to be interviewed.’

  ‘Decent of him to grant us an audience,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll get the car up, guv.’

  I’d met Kelly Johnson, the governor of Stone Mill prison, once before, but at a different prison. Aged in her mid-forties, she was attractively dressed in a grey trouser suit, with an open-necked white shirt, and her long black hair was fashioned into a ponytail.

  ‘Long time no see, Mr Brock.’ She levered herself off the desk upon which she’d been perching and shook hands firmly. The last time we’d met, I’d concluded that she was of the old school, more of a governor than a social worker. These days, many of the graduate-entry recruits come from outside the prison service, are fast-tracked straight into assistant-governor posts, and believe they are there to reform their charges. Believe me, the number of reoffenders I’ve dealt with over the years undermines the theory that they can be reformed.

  ‘What sort of guy is Stamper, Mrs Johnson?’

  ‘He’s a bloody villain, of course, Mr Brock, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. Curiously enough, he’s one of the few who doesn’t claim he was wrongly convicted or “I never never done it”. And he’s been as good as gold while he’s been in stir. Doesn’t mix much with the other inmates, and talks about trying for a Classics degree.’ Kelly Johnson laughed at the thought. ‘To be honest though, I think that’s just chat. But at least it’s one step up from finding God, which is what a lot of them do when they’re nearing parole.’ She laughed at her own cynicism. ‘Maybe I’ve been in this job too long. Anyway, he’s in an interview room ready to talk. I’ll get one of the officers to show you along there.’ She walked round the desk and flicked down a switch on her intercom. ‘Ask Mr Willison to see me, Janet.’

  ‘The governor said you wanted to have a chat, Mr Brock, and you an’ all Mr Poole.’ Bernie Stamper was a wizened, balding little man with the foxy features of the career criminal. According to his file, he was a month away from his sixtieth birthday and had spent a large portion of his adult life behind bars, mostly for burglary, theft and taking motor vehicles without the owner’s consent. Anyone less likely to be on the brink of acquiring an academic degree was difficult to envisage. ‘Mrs Johnson said you was from the Murder Squad. I dunno as how I can help you with no murders. Murdering ain’t my game, not since my old man got topped.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it, Bernie?’ I asked, as Dave and I sat down opposite Stamper.

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have known about that, Mr Brock, what with all them files you’ve got up the bladder-o’-lard.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me about it, Bernie.’ It was ages since I’d heard the phrase ‘bladder of lard’. Cockney rhyming slang for Scotland Yard, it was very much a term used by villains of Stamper’s generation.

  ‘It was like this, Mr Brock,’ Stamper began, adopting a conversational tone. ‘My old man – he was called Charlie Stamper – got caught up in an armed blagging on a warehouse down London docks, when I was about two, I s’pose. But the nightwatchman turned out to be a have-a-go hero, so my old man give him a bit of a tap on the head with a sash weight, just to keep him quiet like. Trouble was, this old geezer’s skull was thinner than usual, see, and he snuffed it. I mean to say, Mr Brock, they shouldn’t go about employing geezers with thin skulls as nightwatchmen on account of everyone expecting ’em to get hit on the head from time to time. It’s all part of the job; an occupational hazard, you might say. That’s what life’s all about. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Can we get on with it, Bernie?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Mr Brock. Well, while all this was going on, your lot had got the warehouse surrounded. My old man tried to leg it by jumping in the river, but the river coppers dragged him out and nicked him. Course, next thing he’s up the Bailey and nine months later he gets topped in Wandsworth nick. Mind you he did have Pierrepoint, him what was the official hangman, to do the job. But it quite put me off doing armed blaggings when I grew up, Mr Brock.’ Stamper’s face remained expressionless as he delivered that humourless understatement.

  ‘That’s all very interesting, Bernie,’ I said, ‘but I’m not here to talk about your long form for burglary, or how your old man finished up taking the drop. How well did you know Richard Cooper?’

  ‘Who?’ Stamper looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Villain is he?’

  ‘You might know him better as Dirk Cuyper, a Belgian.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Brock, don’t ring no bells with me. Never heard of him.’

  I’d had a feeling all along that the name wouldn’t register with Stamper, and I was more inclined to my original thought that Cuyper had found Stamper’s name and probably the other three, from reading back-copy newspaper reports of trials. Nevertheless, I got Dave to read the other three names to Stamper.

  Bernie Stamper listened intently, but after some consideration shook his head. ‘Don’t mean nothing to me, Mr Poole. They sounds like characters in one of them Damon Runyon books.’

  ‘How do you know about Damon Runyon, Bernie?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Well, I’m studying the classics, ain’t I, Mr Poole? When I gets me degree, I’m going after one of them jobs lecturing English up one of them universities. Better than doing porridge. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I’m sure that would be a very good career change, Bernie,’ said Dave.

  THIRTEEN

  On Saturday morning, I was sitting in my office shuffling through the meagre pile of statements that had been taken, wondering what the hell to do next. One after another, my enquiries and those of my team had finished up in an investigative cul-de-sac.


  The interview with Bernie Stamper had turned out to be a complete waste of time and tended to confirm my original thought that Cuyper – or even de Jonker – had culled these names from newspaper reports. Even so, I decided I’d better pursue the other three names, because if I didn’t bother it’s a racing certainty that one of them would have fast-tracked me to the Belgian’s killer. On the other hand, if I went to the trouble of interviewing them – wherever they were – I knew, deep down, that I’d get nowhere. I describe this unenviable and in my case seemingly recurrent situation, where everything goes pear-shaped, as Brock’s law of criminal investigation. But putting speculation aside, there was an overriding problem: I didn’t know where the three were, even though Wilberforce’s best efforts were being concentrated in that direction.

  However, all that was to change in the next few minutes. I had wandered out to the incident room to see if Wilberforce had anything new to report, and to get myself a cup of coffee from the illegal coffee machine. I say ‘illegal’ because the Commissioner’s electricity police are ever alert to the misuse of the Commissioner’s power supply and carry out daring raids on the offices of poor innocent police officers. And not only is the Commissioner concerned: our beloved commander worries about this malpractice and the effect it has on the police budget, as if his own money was under threat. Consequently, the illegal coffee machine is well hidden and only a few chosen detectives know where to find it. And they’re all in my team.

  ‘I was just on my way to see you, sir.’ Colin Wilberforce stood up and waved a piece of paper in my direction.

  ‘What about, Colin?’

  ‘We’ve a report, from the HAT DI at the scene in Hampstead, that Victor Downs has been murdered, sir. As you interviewed him in connection with the Cuyper murder, Superintendent Dean has assigned you the investigation.’

  It seemed a pretty slender reason for lumbering me with a second murder, but Patrick Dean was right to make that call because there might, just might, be a link to Cuyper’s murder, although right now it appeared to be no more than coincidence. When Dave and I had interviewed Downs, I’d immediately come to the conclusion that he was up to no good, even though Wilberforce assured me that Downs had no criminal record. To undertake such searches of records was routine for anyone coming to our notice in the course of an enquiry. Therefore Downs was ostensibly as clean as a whistle, and his activities were probably limited to shady property deals. Maybe. ‘Where is everyone, Colin?’

  ‘Dave Poole is on his way to the scene, sir. Miss Ebdon is in her office, and Mr Driscoll is directing those members of the team who aren’t here already to go straight to Hampstead.’

  I poured a cup of coffee for Kate and took her cup and mine along the corridor to her office. ‘Victor Downs has been murdered, Kate,’ I said, placing the coffee on her desk. ‘The owner of the health club where Kat Thompson worked.’

  ‘I’d better get things rolling, then, Harry.’ Kate stood up, but I waved her down.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ I said. ‘He’s dead, so drink your coffee.’

  Outside Downs’s Hampstead house a uniformed sergeant clutching a clipboard was talking to an inspector.

  ‘DCI Brock, HMCC,’ I said to the sergeant, ‘and this is DI Ebdon.’

  ‘The HAT DI’s inside, sir,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Jane Mansfield, sir. Your DS Poole arrived a few minutes ago and is with her, and Doctor Mortlock is here already.’

  ‘Good grief!’ It was not often that Henry Mortlock, the pathologist, got to the scene of a Saturday murder before I did.

  Kate and I entered Downs’s elegant house and met the HAT DI in the hall.

  Detective Inspector Jane Mansfield had the appearance of being too young for her rank, and looked more like the head girl of a public school. But she was obviously on top of her job, otherwise she wouldn’t have been on the Homicide Assessment Team. She was petite, with short brown hair and a cheerful smile. I had a feeling she’d be a frighteningly good hockey player.

  ‘We’ve not met before, have we? DCI Harry Brock, HMCC, and this is DI Kate Ebdon.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ Mansfield’s handshake was firm and her eye contact didn’t waver. She ignored Kate. ‘I don’t know if you got my latest message, but you have a double homicide here.’

  ‘That’s all I need,’ I said. ‘Who discovered the bodies?’

  ‘Police were alerted by a private firm of carriers. Their driver tried to deliver a parcel yesterday afternoon at about four o’clock, but got no answer. He thought it a bit strange because he’s made several deliveries here before and he noticed that Downs’s car was outside. Downs has a resident’s parking permit. The driver tried again this morning, but there was still no reply. He called the local police and they effected an entry at nine twenty-four.’

  ‘So these two could have been topped any time yesterday,’ I said.

  ‘Possibly, sir. The body of the manservant, name of Ram Mookjai, was found halfway up there.’ Mansfield pointed at the manservant’s slumped body, lying face down on the curve in the flight of stairs. ‘Downs’s body is in the bedroom on the first floor and that, presumably, was why Mookjai was on his way upstairs. Both had been shot at close quarters, Mookjai in the back. Downs was stark naked, and it doesn’t look as though he’d made any attempt to defend himself.’

  ‘Looks as though he didn’t see it coming, mate,’ said Kate, stating the obvious conclusion. Her Australian accent was a little more noticeable, and I thought I detected an element of hostility between these two women DIs. Perhaps they’d met before.

  ‘That was the view I came to, Miss Ebdon, that the murderer was known to the victim.’ Mansfield’s response was cold, and tended to confirm my original impression of a mutual enmity. There was definitely a remoteness between these two, as though they were separated by a thin sheet of ice.

  ‘Judging from the position of the body, it looks as though the manservant was shot first, Jane,’ I suggested.

  ‘I would think so, sir.’ Mansfield glanced at Ram Mookjai’s body as though making a fresh assessment. ‘He probably admitted the visitor and was shot as he went to inform his master of the visitor’s arrival. Which is more or less what I said just now.’

  ‘Thanks for the rundown, Jane. We’ll take it from here.’

  ‘Right, sir. If you think of anything else I might know, give me a call. That’s my mobile number.’ I noticed that it was Dave to whom Mansfield handed her card. Perhaps my dislike of mobile phones and computers had now spread forcewide. ‘Doctor Mortlock’s in the bedroom on the first floor, and Linda Mitchell is here somewhere, along with her team.’

  Kate, Dave and I went upstairs to the master bedroom in time to see Henry Mortlock packing his ghoulish instruments into his bag. Linda Mitchell was nearby waiting for the signal to start.

  ‘These two killings are not unlike the murder of Cooper or Cuyper, or whatever the damned man’s name was, Harry. Two shots to the chest in the region of the heart for Downs. Two in the back for the manservant. Mind you, I might be completely wrong in making that comparison,’ Mortlock added, making an uncharacteristic admission of fallibility. ‘Further and better particulars when I’ve got them on the slab.’

  ‘Anything else? The fact that he was naked might indicate sexual intercourse.’

  ‘Very likely, Harry. I’ve taken swabs and handed them to Mrs Mitchell for analysis.’ Mortlock nodded in Linda’s direction. ‘I don’t know if you want to send the bedclothes to the lab as well, but I’d advise it.’

  ‘When are you likely to do the post-mortem, Henry?’

  ‘It’ll have to be tomorrow morning, I suppose, as you chaps are always in such a tearing hurry for results.’

  ‘On a Sunday, Doctor?’ queried Dave sarcastically. ‘Won’t it interfere with you going to church?’

  Mortlock gave Dave a withering glance that seemed to despair of his reason. ‘No, it won’t, Sergeant Poole. It’ll int
erfere with an important golf match.’

  Kate Ebdon organized a house-to-house enquiry team, not that either of us thought that much would be learned from talking to the neighbours, and we waited while Linda Mitchell’s merry band went about their business. Her murder technicians began videoing and photographing every aspect of the crime scene, as well as dusting for fingerprints and collecting the slightest pieces of scientific evidence that might help me find the creator of my latest problem.

  By the time Linda had declared herself reasonably satisfied – she was only ever reasonably satisfied – that she had gathered all the trace evidence it was almost nine o’clock. We gathered in the tiled hall to determine how to proceed next.

  ‘All right to shift the bodies, Harry?’ asked Linda.

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘Nothing from the house-to-house, guv,’ said Kate, having just received the reports from her enquiry team. ‘Nobody heard anything or saw anything. More than a few of the drums they called at had a distinct waft of cannabis, but this is Hampstead after all.’

  ‘I didn’t expect the locals to be falling over themselves to offer valuable information that would lead us immediately to the culprit, Kate. And as far as cannabis is concerned, it’s not worth the cost of a phone call to the local nick. But now that Linda’s finished, we can get going on a thorough search of the property.’ I paused until Dave was out of earshot. ‘Kate, have you met Jane Mansfield before?’

  ‘No. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘I got the impression that you hated the sight of each other.’

  ‘She’s a bloody wowser, Harry. A stuck-up cow. Some graduate entrants are all right, but some – like her – get right up my nose.’

  ‘How d’you know she’s a graduate entrant, Kate?’

  ‘You can tell.’

  There was no point in arguing with that definitive statement, but fortunately any further discussion on the matter was interrupted by the return of Linda Mitchell.