by James Nally
I laid their longer statements out side-by-side. By switching between the two, I could check more easily if and when their stories didn’t tally.
Peter described how he first met Marion at the Archway Tavern when she was seventeen: he was twenty-three. No doubt she was swept off her feet by this square-jawed Irishman with worldly charm, roguish self-confidence and big plans to make money and move back home. They married last year in her parents’ home town in Kilkenny.
Peter worked as an assistant purchasing manager and gardener at the Pines, a private home for the elderly in Lambeth, South London. Karen Foster was also employed at the home as a trainee nurse and resided on-site in staff accommodation. I found this a little odd. She’d told me herself that her family live in Lee, just a few miles down the road. I knew from Aidan, my flatmate, how little trainee nurses earn: why didn’t she save money by staying at home? Then I thought about the anti-social shifts they have to work and moved on.
On the morning of the murder, Peter took the overground train from Clapham Junction to Waterloo with Marion, which was their usual routine. He arrived at the Pines just before nine a.m. He always put the keys to the flat in his briefcase, which he kept next to his desk in the shed/office in the grounds of the Pines: they were too big to carry about in his trousers. He left work just once during the day.
At about 15.45 p.m., he took a ten-minute walk to the street known as The Cut where, each fortnight, he bought fifty pounds’ worth of feed, tank cleaner and water treatment granules for the home’s fish tanks.
He went on to explain that every second Monday evening, he did a couple of hours’ overtime for extra money, cleaning and replenishing the home’s fish tanks. He was helped by his colleague and friend, Karen Foster.
I turned over ‘colleague and friend’ in my mind. It struck me as oddly formal, a little defensive.
On the evening of Marion’s murder – Monday, July 1st – he met Karen as usual at around six p.m., just outside the main ward at the home. They finished just before eight p.m. when Karen gave him a lift to Sangora Road. He didn’t own a car and Karen often dropped him home when they’d worked late.
An appendix showed that Peter’s movements during the day had been verified by the manager of Pet Fish, London SE1 and a work colleague at the home. The man from Pet Fish recalled the day particularly well because Peter had forgotten his chequebook. The manager accepted a signed IOU which he was able to produce later. This sounded to me like an alibi being created before the crime had even been committed. A colleague at the home claimed he chatted to Peter as he came back in with the fish supplies, at about 16.45 p.m. This left a window of one hour unaccounted for in Peter’s afternoon. I felt sure Shep would have picked up on this already, but made a note of it anyway. At least it showed that I was thinking the way he’d instructed me to.
I flicked over to Karen’s statement.
I finished work at about 17.15 p.m. when my younger sister Laura called to say she was arriving at the home. We’d arranged to watch a soap on TV with Bethan in her room at 17.30. Bethan Trott is a colleague at the clinic and we watch this show together most days because I don’t have a TV in my room. She lives in the room four doors down from mine in the staff halls of residence. I met Laura at reception. As we came upstairs, we saw Bethan in the communal kitchen and went with her to her room. We had a cup of tea and watched TV until six when the show ended. I went to the main ward and met Peter. Every second Monday we clean and re-stock the fish tanks in the wards. He pays me ten pounds in cash. It’s extra money and I’ve always liked fish.
I thought it odd that Peter hadn’t mentioned paying her. Karen went on to say she had an upset stomach and, before leaving the home, went to the toilet.
The journey to Sangora Road took fifteen minutes at the most. I couldn’t park on Sangora Road because it was already full. I had to park on the side road. I don’t know what it is called.
She and Peter walked to the flat. Because of her upset stomach, she wanted to use the toilet again before returning to the Pines. Classy girl, I thought. She also intended having a quick chat with Marion, who was a friend. On top of that, Peter wanted her to take two flower pots from his flat to the home. They were too heavy for him to take on the train. When Peter put his key in the communal front door, he found that the mortise lock was not on. This was so unusual that he remarked upon it – Marion always kept it double-locked. He then unlocked the door to the flat and walked upstairs.
Karen described coming up the stairs directly behind Peter. At this point, she broke down. Glenn’s officers felt sorry for her and let her take a break.
Next, they jumped forward to the nature of Karen’s friendship with Peter. I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t pressed Karen about discovering Marion’s body. Clearly, Glenn’s team had already concluded Karen couldn’t have had anything to do with this murder. I made a note to check out how they’d made this seismic leap.
Karen said she first met Peter at work and they became friends. When Peter and Marion moved into the clinic’s staff accommodation after their marriage, she became friends with Marion. They visited each other’s rooms. She and Marion sometimes went to the pub. She visited them in January after they rented the flat on Sangora Road.
I’ve always been suspicious of men and women claiming to be friends. In my experience, one of them always has some sort of romantic designs on the other. But none of this was proof. None of this provided the fresh plot twist Shep craved. I’d seen the bloodlust in his eyes. I dreaded having nothing juicy to throw his way. He might devour me instead. I had to find something – anything – to impress him.
I asked my frosty new colleague if I could take a look at the exhibits recovered from the murder scene. Wordlessly, he handed me a numbered list, led me to a cupboard, unlocked the door and stomped off. I pulled the door open, my eyes fixing instantly upon the grisly familiarity of Marion’s handbag, jacket, keys and post. A shiver fizzed across my neck, making my shoulderblades rattle.
I reminded myself that these were inanimate objects, nothing macabre, and got stuck in. Soon, all that remained unsearched was the very first thing I’d clapped eyes on in the chaos – Marion’s flowery plastic handbag. It was the usual dumping ground for receipts, make-up, a brush, some loose change. She smiled out at me from a Reuters security pass: demure, poised, gentle – a far cry from the crazed harridan who had been attacking me. I pulled out a tissue with a bright pink impression of her lips. I held it reverentially, this last remnant of her living body, and let a fresh band of melancholy pass through me. Marion’s Turin Shroud. I thought about how much an item like this would mean to her family, yet here it is, stuck in a sterile cupboard, destined for the skip. I knew it would never be evidence in the case, so I folded it carefully and pocketed it: one day I’d send it to her mum Mary.
A small gold zip on the back of the bag revealed a thin compartment. I could barely slide my fingers in. Right at the bottom, I felt something long and thin. More prodding revealed that this object was trapped within the inner lining. I looked inside the handbag again. I noticed for the first time a barely-visible little compartment – lining on lining and stitched in the middle. I tried the small opening on one side and could only get two fingers in. I pulled out the object: a tampon. I realised this was Marion’s secret compartment. There was nothing else on this side of the stitching, so I slid my fingers into the small gap on the other side. I felt a thin scrap of paper. I dragged it up and out.
It was a folded page ripped out of a small notebook. I opened it.
‘Dear Andrea,’ began the undated, unfinished letter, clearly from Marion to a close friend. My eyes popped: the contents of this note changed everything.
Chapter 17
Church Road, London SW19
Thursday, August 8, 1991; 21:01
I hadn’t seen Gabby since intercepting Dom’s deranged love note a couple of weeks back and packing her off to Kent.
Earlier today, she left a message on my home a
nswerphone.
Hi Donal, Gabby here, from Salcott Road, you know the woman men can’t stay away from. Anyway just to say I moved into a house share in Wimbledon on the first of the month with some old friends from Uni. They happened to have a room free so it felt like it was meant to be really. Anyway, thanks for all your help these past couple of weeks. If you could drop my post around some evening this week, that’d be great. If you’d like to call me at work to let me know when you’re coming, that’d be even better because then I can thank you personally and maybe introduce you to everyone. I’ve told them all about you! But don’t worry if you can’t do an evening. Hopefully see you soon.
By the time I got to Church Road SW19 it was already after nine p.m. I couldn’t wait to see Gabby and tell her about my breakthrough today. On the downside, I felt knackered and wasn’t sure I could handle her no doubt highly educated and very chatty friends. These days, I seemed to have about ten per cent of everyone else’s puff.
But her bundle of post included a couple of large packages – books of course – that wouldn’t fit through her post box. I buzzed and reassured myself that I could hold my own with these people if I had to. I’d discovered that my accent acted as an impenetrable shield against what certain English people wanted to do most: pigeonhole you by class and education. It was impossible for them to judge whether I was educated or thick, rich or poor. So long as I avoided the subject, they might not even be able to tell that I’d never been to university.
The door was flung open by a lady with spiky blonde hair who asked me what I wanted. I held up the bundle and explained I was dropping round Gabby’s post. She turned, shouted, ‘Gabby, someone for you’, and disappeared. So much for the hero’s welcome.
Gabby bounced down the stairs in denim shorts over black tights and a tight white vest, all indie rock and beaming. Sharing with Uni friends had clearly made her regress.
‘Evening, Officer. Do please, come in.’
She got to the bottom of the stairs and strode confidently towards me, a new woman. I couldn’t understand why her familiarity made me uneasy: maybe I found it easier to empathise with victims.
‘Well, what do you think of the place?’ she said, arms outstretched. Before I had time to answer, she ordered me to follow. I got the grand tour of a grand old sprawling Victorian family home, complete with wonky chandeliers, oriental rugs, vanity watercolour portraits, a grand piano, vast leather couches, school corridor radiators and a mossy-glassed, off-kilter conservatory.
Robert Johnson played on an old-school record player stained with candle wax.
Her flatmates lounged about with music magazines, red wine, rolling tobacco and Rizlas, clearly determined to test my law enforcement convictions.
‘Hi everyone, this is Donal,’ Gabby announced, and I felt like I’d gatecrashed cool.
The goth girl squeaked: ‘Hello, Donal’ and I couldn’t tell if she was taking the piss.
‘Hi,’ smiled spiky blonde, as if she’d just met me for the first time.
The man – skinny, blonde and more feminine than either of the girls – cut straight to the quick: ‘How would you feel, Officer, about me engaging in some doobie, here in my own home?’
‘That’s Ricky,’ said Gabby, in a manner that suggested everyone else in the world would have known already, ‘he’s a session player.’
‘Rick, is that short for prick?’ I thought better of saying, opting for the more convivial: ‘Yeah you go for it, man. I’m only a bastard on duty.’
That seemed to calm everyone down no end. Before long, I was red-wining them under the table while enduring their stories. I foolhardily took several tokes on several joints – declining to tell them the one about the last time I sampled drugs, you know, when one person died and another ended up in prison.
They were all completing Masters’ degrees or PhDs, had jobs they felt beneath them and no real idea what they wanted to do with their lives. I resisted the temptation to say: ‘Find something you like and just go for it.’
At some point in the night, one of them mentioned Sylvia Plath. When I asked if she was the woman who sang ‘Je Ne Regrette Rien’ they nearly died laughing.
Just as they recovered, I said, a little bitterly: ‘I guess not then.’
They slid like capsized Alps into balls of hysterics: Gabby’s convulsions the most pronounced and cutting of all.
Not wanting to appear petulant, I waited fully five minutes before making my excuses to leave. As Gabby went to grab my coat, friendly goth said: ‘We haven’t seen her laugh like that in years. You’re really helping her come out of herself.’ The others concurred and insisted I come back soon.
‘Any time you like, dude,’ drawled Ricky.
At the front door, Gabby inspected my tatty old coat and asked when it had last been to the cleaners.
‘No gumshoe worth his salt sports a dry-cleaned coat. Look at Marlowe, Sam Spade, Columbo?’
I slipped it on. Before I knew it, she was buttoning me up like a schoolboy.
She fastened the top button and gazed up at me, well inside my personal no-fly-zone. Her eyes glazed, mischievous, sexy, her scent netting me like a helpless mackerel. ‘Get in there,’ I ordered myself. Instead, inexplicably, I spouted a line of Larkin poetry.
‘But they were fucked up in their turn. By fools in old-style hats and coats.’
‘You read it!’ She smiled, her eyes ignited, loving. A seal formed, somewhere, inexplicably. Everything had changed. She leaned in and kissed me, hard. She pulled away only after several seconds, smiling coyly. The earth tilted.
‘Well he’s like Morrissey aged seventy, isn’t he? What’s not to love?’ I laughed.
‘Friday night, would you like to come round for dinner?’
‘I’d love to,’ I said, but the moment had fled. ‘Now I really must go. I can’t drive like this. I’ve got to find a bus. Good night.’
I clung onto various parts of the door until it opened, bundled my body out and focused hard on putting one foot in front of the other.
My car looked so inviting. I put the key in the lock, then told myself not to be stupid and walked on. I slowed before crossing the road. Behind me, footsteps stopped suddenly. I pretended not to notice. Halfway across the road I stopped dead. A single footfall echoed behind. I spun around.
No one. I sniggered. The pot had made me paranoid.
I turned and walked on, my ears on high alert. Feet click-clacked in time with mine, but on the other side of the road. I stopped. They stopped. My chest froze. I was being followed.
I walked on, heart pumping like a thresher. How the fuck had Rogan found her? Had he followed me here? Had I put Gabby in danger? I badly wanted to teach Rogan a lesson. The cowardly fucker had floored me once, from behind. It was time for payback. I came to a skip. Walking on the spot, I peered in and grabbed hold of a brick. I rounded the front of the skip then launched three giant strides across the street.
‘Hope you like the taste of masonry, fucker,’ I roared.
A high-pitched scream stopped me dead in my tracks.
I spun around to where it had come from. A woman stood next to a bin holding a rubbish bag, jaw hanging.
I scanned the pavement. Empty.
‘Fuck,’ I said, jogging back the way he’d come, checking left and right. That scream had given him the second he needed to duck in somewhere.
Now I had a decision to make: should I tell Gabby that Rogan may have tracked her down, or should I just hope the weed had been playing tricks on me?
Chapter 18
Clapham Police Station, South London
Friday, August 9, 1991; 12:00
At noon on the dot, Shep strode into the incident room.
‘Morning Guv,’ we all bleated.
That simple tribute turned his stride to swagger. He looked scalpel-sharp in a gunmetal-grey woollen suit, Italian for sure, a sky-blue tie, pressed white shirt and shiny black brogues. You could tell he was a man worshipped and served by his dear wife
.
Earlier, Mick and Colin – the detective sergeants seconded from Shep’s team – introduced themselves. Stout, with a bushy moustache and side-parted mousy hair, Mick could only be a cop. Balding, tall Colin looked more like an accountant or a tax inspector.
Officers of varying rank slunk in like wounded strays. I recognised the Big Dogs, Barratt and McStay, who took my statement, and the piss, the day after Marion’s murder. They didn’t even recognise me. The grunting psycho who did so little to help yesterday pointedly blanked me. I recognised a couple more from the Feathers. They acknowledged me with the faintest of hostile nods. I understood. They were hurting. Our arrival had endorsed their failure to catch Marion’s killer. We were a rubber stamp stain on their proud record.
‘Sorry I couldn’t get in first thing,’ Shep addressed the room. ‘Detective Sergeants Mick Mulroney and Colin Gibson have come across with me on this. Stand up and say hello, gentlemen.’
They stood up and grunted
‘And we’ve a newcomer. Where are you, Acting DC Donal Lynch?’
I stood up.
‘Welcome aboard, Lynch, probably not the best name for a cop in some of our rougher estates.’
The laughter – thin and forced – spelt tough crowd.
Shep dipped another comedy toe in the freezing water: ‘I met an American cop once called Lou Tennant. Can you believe that?’
Silence.
Quicksilver Shep changed tack.
‘Okay, so we don’t have a weapon. We don’t have a witness who heard the incident or saw any suspects on Sangora Road.
‘We’ve run all the prints found at the scene: none matches anyone with previous convictions or any potential suspects.
‘The lab has come up with nothing else from the crime scene.
‘CCTV shows nothing.
‘We don’t have a motive: according to colleagues, friends and family, Peter and Marion were blissfully happy. Neither has any enemies or buried skeletons. Peter has no history of violence and a watertight alibi for the day.