“I don’t know what I would do without your more than capable hands, Edith.”
Shepherd turned to Jane and asked if she had seen DI Gibbs as he was not in his office or in the canteen. Jane recalled Gibbs’s abrupt departure and suspected he’d left the station but she didn’t want to get him into trouble. “Sorry, sir, he said he needed to go.”
Shepherd put his hands on his hips.
“Bugger it . . . Edith, are there any other detectives about? I’ve had uniform officers calling in a suspicious death at a flat in Aldwych.”
“I’m so sorry, sir, but we have two court sessions today and the other officers are dealing with investigations.”
Shepherd was clearly irritated by everyone’s absence, and was annoyed that he would have to attend himself when he was so busy with paperwork and reports. He looked at Jane.
“Tennison, leave a message on Gibbs’s desk telling him to be at the scene as soon as he returns.”
He walked briskly out of the office. Edith handed Jane her official notebook and two sharpened pencils.
Jane said softly, “I wish he’d asked me to attend . . .”
“Good heavens, it’s only your first day! You’ve got a lot to learn . . . he’s not going to entrust you with a sus death yet.”
Just as Jane was wondering if she should have asked DCI Shepherd whether she could accompany him, he popped his head back into the room and said, “You haven’t got time to chat, Tennison . . . Grab your coat and get a move on!”
Edith pursed her lips. Obviously she had been mistaken and this new WDC knew how to get ahead. It hadn’t been like that in her day, not that she would ever think of returning to uniform. She’d had enough; and it was only a suspicious death, so hardly anything to get excited about.
It was a short walk from Bow Street Station to the flat in Aldwych. Shepherd walked briskly, with Jane keeping up beside him, as he spoke about his wife and children, and how in his book “family always comes first.” Jane nodded, getting an impression of her new DCI as a family man—a hard thing to be in the police force, what with the long, irregular hours and the frequent after-hours get-togethers in the pub.
They arrived at a four-story building split into flats. The PC at the front door stated that a Barry Dawson, aged twenty-six, had returned home from work earlier that morning to find his wife Shirley, twenty-three, dead in the bath while his baby daughter was sleeping in the playpen.
“Where is he now?” Shepherd asked impatiently.
“Mr. Dawson is in a highly distressed state, sir. Both he and the child are currently with the next-door neighbor in the basement flat. The police doctor arrived to pronounce ‘life extinct’ and is already upstairs. He requested the attendance of the laboratory liaison sergeant but he was busy dealing with another scene, sir, so we’ve been waiting for backup. There’s also a dog, sir, in a cage. We haven’t let it out as we’re not sure what to do with it—he’s a bit nasty.”
DCI Shepherd looked at his watch and told the PC that he would like to speak with Mr. Dawson, but first he wanted to view the scene and talk to the doctor. As they stood outside the flat the DCI said, “Tennison, don’t touch or disturb anything.”
He put his hands in his coat pockets and lifted them up toward Jane, somewhat reminiscent of a flasher, demonstrating his method of allaying the urge to touch anything at the crime scene. Jane took a pair of thin leather driving gloves out of her handbag and put them on.
They proceeded together up to the top floor, passing a payphone mounted on the wall. On the top-floor landing there was a collapsible Maclaren pushchair leaning up against the wall. The front door was open and they went inside into the narrow hallway. There was a double bedroom to the left, a single spare room beside it, a bathroom on the right, and a living room, kitchen and dining area ahead. No lights were on apart from inside the bathroom. Shepherd tapped on the open bathroom door and walked in, followed by Jane. The doctor, dictated by procedure, was crouching down by the bath feeling for a pulse on the victim’s left hand. She was motionless and face up in the bath, her eyes wide open, as if frozen in time and staring into space. Her long, thick dark hair floated around her head in the scarlet blood-stained water. The tap end of the bath had a blood smear down it. A dressing gown was on the floor next to the bath. DCI Shepherd introduced Jane to Dr. Henry, who gave her a noncommittal glance as she took out her notebook.
Dr. Henry lifted the victim’s head out of the water, then let her head go, and it sank slowly down into the water. Suddenly a few bubbles escaped from her mouth and nose. Jane gasped.
“She’s breathing!”
Dr. Henry laughed and explained that the bubbles were just some trapped air in the chest, which had been released by him moving her. It was difficult for Jane to take everything in. The small bathroom was full of various shampoos, medications and creams, numerous baby lotions and a bucket of dirty nappies. There was a towel rack holding some grubby towels, and the lino floor was stained and marked as if it had been laid many years ago. The washbasin was cracked with a dirty rim around it, and on the edge of it stood a plastic cup containing toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste.
“Right, your victim—she may have had an underlying heart condition that caused her to fall, but doubtful at her young age. From the injury to the forehead it looks like she slipped in the bath and fell forward and may have knocked herself out and subsequently drowned. The wound is not that deep and there is a blood smear on the main tap but she could have bled freely from it. The water is cold so most likely she was originally taking a bath sometime in the early morning.”
“So nothing suspicious?” DCI asked, as he looked at his watch.
“Not that I can see,” the doctor replied, and started to fill out a form, adding that the water on the floor had probably come from the splash overflow when she slipped and banged her head.
Leaving the doctor to complete his forms, Jane and DCI Shepherd moved out of the bathroom and went toward the bedroom. Shepherd glanced into the room from the doorway. The curtains were closed, the bed unmade and the room smelt musty. It was very scruffy and untidy. There was a baby’s cot near the bed with filthy sheets, and piles of dirty clothes were strewn around the floor. Shepherd could see nothing untoward. Nor was there anything in the second small box room. It looked as if the occupants were starting to redecorate, but it was full of odd bits and pieces of furniture.
They moved on to the living room, which contained a baby’s playpen scattered with toys, and a high chair with a full bowl of food, a spoon and a baby’s bottle of milk that looked untouched. A three-bar electric fire was burning bright orange and nearby was a laden clothes horse. Beside it stood an ironing board with an unplugged iron and a blouse draped over it, ready to be pressed.
Through an archway Jane noticed an old dark velvet sofa and a worn armchair. Off to one side was the kitchen area with a sink and a draining board stacked with dirty pans and crockery. Old-fashioned cupboards lined the wall around the cooker and fridge, and the floor had a threadbare carpet with large gaps showing the floorboards beneath. Behind the sofa was a dog in a small cage which began leaping up and down, snarling and growling as Jane approached. Jane froze as it leaped toward her, trying to get through the bars. The DCI pointed out that the sofa was covered in white dog hairs so it was obvious that the dog must have usually been free to roam around the flat.
“Don’t let it out—that’s a bull terrier. We’ll have to get the owner to come in and sort it out . . . they can sometimes be very aggressive.”
Shepherd looked at his watch again.
“We’re just treating this as a non-suspicious accidental death.”
“Should I get the uniform PC to radio the station and see if a lab liaison sergeant is now available, sir?”
DCI Shepherd glanced at her as if she was stupid.
“What for? There’s no forced entry, no signs of a disturbance . . . totally non-suspicious. And you heard the Doc say that it’s accidental?”
Jane hesitated.
“Yes, I know, sir . . . Should I get a photographer to the scene?”
Shepherd ignored her. He was obviously eager to leave and went to the open front door shouting down to the PC to radio the station and ask them to see if a SOCO was now available to take some snaps of the body.
“Snaps?” Jane thought, appalled. She felt that his manner was incredibly uncaring and insensitive, considering that the victim’s husband might be able to hear him shouting.
Shepherd turned back to Jane and told her he would return to the station and call the coroner’s officer to let him know about the death.
“The coroner’s officer will arrange for undertakers to attend and remove the body to Westminster mortuary. Tennison, you take a statement from the husband. It doesn’t have to be here and now, but we’ll need it for the coroner’s report.”
He turned and walked out before Jane could ask any further questions, leaving her unsure about exactly what to do next.
She returned to the bathroom and the doctor handed her his scene examination report. Jane noticed a rolled up bath slip mat by the washbasin, next to a child’s potty, and remarked to Dr. Henry how tragic it was that they had a slip mat and hadn’t used it. He was as eager to leave as Shepherd, and pointed out that the mat was probably for the child. Jane hovered as he closed his medical case, and tentatively asked what she should do.
“The coroner’s officer will sort everything and advise you accordingly. Now, I have to dash, my dear—I’ve got a prisoner to examine at West End Central.”
It was a very eerie feeling for Jane to be alone with the dead body in the bath. She still couldn’t get over the young woman’s eyes, curious as to why they were open, staring at her as if crying out for help in the last moments of death as she drowned. The dog was still barking in its cage and Jane was relieved when DI Gibbs walked into the bathroom, despite him smelling like a brewery.
He held up the note she had left and anxiously asked what she had told the DCI.
“That you’d had to go out.”
“OK, thanks . . . So what’s going on here?”
Jane told him what Dr. Henry had said and that the DCI had gone back to the station, instructing her to treat the death as non-suspicious and complete a report for the coroner.
Gibbs moved past Jane and crouched down to examine the dead woman.
“I’ll bet any money on it that the DCI has no intention of going back to the station. He got the PC downstairs to radio in and inform the coroner’s officer of the details. He finds excuses to slip away so he can get home to his wife and kids. He doesn’t socialize or drink much either. His nickname is ‘Timex’ because he’s always looking at his watch!”
Jane smiled, glad of him being with her. Gibbs sat back on his heels and took a closer look at the victim’s face.
“I hate it when they have their eyes open like this . . . freaks me out. Did the Doc say how long she’d been dead?”
“No, all he said was that she must have got into the bath early this morning as the water’s cold. She slipped forward, I think, and hit her forehead and he said she might have knocked herself out and then fallen back into the water.”
“So what’s he saying . . . ? She steps into the bath, slips forward, smacks her forehead against the middle tap? Funny . . . I would think that if she fell forward she would be face down in the bath. Unless she was standing up when she fell and hit her head, then recoiled backward?”
Gibbs dipped his fingers into the water, then reached up to the towel rail to dry them.
“Ughhh, these are soaking wet . . . that’s odd . . . Did the husband say he used them to mop up the water at all?”
“I haven’t spoken to him yet. The wound might have bled so she was still alive when she fell in the bath,” Jane said, gesturing with her hand toward the body.
Gibbs sighed and looked around the dirty bathroom. The PC from downstairs appeared, and shouted toward them from the open front door. The dog started barking hysterically again.
“There’s still no photographer available. The coroner’s officer has been informed and undertakers should be here in about an hour. I’m supposed to be off duty at 3 p.m. and the station has radioed asking if they want another PC to relieve me here at the premises.”
Gibbs walked out of the bathroom. “I’ll authorize you four hours of overtime, even if you only end up doing two.”
“Thank you very much, sir. The neighbor has contacted Dawson’s mother and she’s on her way over from Rotherhithe in a cab.”
Gibbs turned to Jane. “The victim’s husband is a Barry Dawson. His wife’s name is Shirley,” she told him, glancing at her notebook.
“OK, well, I should be getting back to the station.”
“I’m unsure what to do at the scene, Spence. I mean, do I just stay here and wait for someone to come and help me?”
“Draw a sketch plan of the bathroom scene in your notebook. As we can’t get hold of a photographer, take as much detail as you think they’ll need.”
The dog started barking again and Gibbs went into the sitting room. She saw him bending down to the cage and shouted for him not to open it. The dog went berserk again, hurling his body at the cage bars.
“Do you think I should call the dog section to take it to Battersea?” Jane asked.
“No, Dawson can take the vicious thing with him to his mother’s, it can’t stay here. We don’t know if it’s been fed or how long it’s been caged up.”
He walked back into the living room and stood with his arms folded. He glanced around the room, and then crossed over to some shelves where there was a stereo system alongside a ringed record holder. He thumbed through the albums and pulled one out.
“Jim Morrison . . . The Doors . . . Well, at least he’s got good taste in music, which is more than can be said for the state of this dump . . . This was Bradfield’s favorite band.”
Jane watched as he carefully replaced the album into the record holder and quickly changed the subject.
“Do you want to speak to the victim’s husband?” Jane asked.
“No I don’t, unless he wants to say something. If so, it’s your job and you need to gain experience in dealing with these kinds of situation.”
“I’d be grateful if you came with me, Spence.” Jane didn’t want to make a mistake on her first case.
Gibbs cocked his head to one side and grinned.
“OK, where is he?”
“With Mr. Cook, the next-door neighbor.”
Jane and Gibbs left the same officer manning the front door of the house and went next door. The neighbor, a retired bus driver, lived in the basement with his invalid wife. When Gibbs knocked Jane could hear a baby crying. Mr. Arnold Cook opened the door. He had so far been very accommodating but from the expression on his face he was now clearly eager for everyone to leave.
“My wife is very frail and I need to get her lunch. They’re in the front room, and the baby has done nothing but cry. Barry is distressed . . . such a terrible thing.”
“Thank you very much, sir. I’m Detective Inspector Gibbs and this is WDC Tennison. If we could just have a few words with Mr. Dawson I’m sure we can be out of your way quickly.”
Mr. Cook led them to the sitting room doorway. His wife was in a wheelchair in the hall by their open kitchen door.
“Are they still here, Arnold? I can hear the baby crying . . . have you given them a cup of tea?”
“Yes, love, now you go back into the kitchen.”
“You’ll have to push me . . . I can’t turn this chair.”
Mr. Cook waved his hands for Gibbs and Jane to go into the sitting room as he tended to his wife.
Barry Dawson had long, mousy blond hair tied in a ponytail, with blue eyes that were set wide apart. He had a very fit physique and was rocking his baby daughter in his arms. The little girl was clearly distressed, and was red faced from crying. She kept calling out “Mama” between screams and was probably also hungry. Jane gave
the baby a sympathetic smile.
Dawson paced up and down trying to soothe her, then stopped by a tea tray with a plate of biscuits. He picked one up and gave it to the little girl who eagerly grasped it in her tiny hand and started sucking at it.
As the baby was now placated, Gibbs and Jane introduced themselves and gave their condolences.
“I believe you found your wife, Mr. Dawson, is that right?”
Dawson gritted his teeth and looked as though he was about to break down, but took several deep breaths to calm himself.
“Sorry . . . I’m so sorry. She needs changing, and my wife . . . Oh God! I can’t believe this has happened . . .”
“It’s all right, sir . . . it can’t be easy for you. We’ll try and get this over with as quickly as possible. When you found her, was she lying back in the bath, not face down?”
“When I opened the door she was lying there in the bath, facing upward . . . And dear God, her eyes were wide open . . .” he sobbed.
It took a short while longer before he was able to compose himself enough to give them a clear statement of what had happened. As he did so the little girl fell asleep in his arms and Jane began to take some cursory notes in her pocket book.
Barry Dawson stated that he was a porter at St. Thomas’ Hospital. He had been on an early shift and said that when he had left their flat in the morning his wife hadn’t been feeling well, and had recently been complaining of headaches and dizzy spells. Barry had tried phoning the communal phone in their building a number of times in the morning to see how she was, but there had been no answer. He said that he usually always called at around 10 a.m. to check that she had taken the dog out for a walk. Desperately worried about her and the child, Barry had asked his boss to let him leave at around 11 a.m. and on returning home he had found his wife’s body in the bath. In a state of shock, and not knowing what to do, he had run to his neighbor, Mr. Cook, who had dialed 999.
Jane held up her pencil.
“Excuse me, Mr. Dawson . . . Could I just verify the timings? You called home at 10 a.m., but there was no reply?”
Hidden Killers Page 14