Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

  “Yes . . . yes, it’s Shirley.”

  Jane gave a small nod to the assistant who covered Shirley’s face and slid back the drawer. Barry remained standing and she had to gently take his arm and guide him out of the room. Back in the reception area he started to cry.

  “They will be doing a post-mortem this afternoon, Mr. Dawson, and—”

  “I need to go to the flat to get things for Heidi. Can I go back there?” She was surprised by his question.

  “I’ll contact you as soon as we have clearance.”

  He nodded and wiped the tears on his face with the back of his hand. He was obviously deeply distressed.

  “Would you like me to get you a taxi?”

  “No . . . no, I need to get some fresh air, walk for a while. I can’t quite cope at the moment.”

  Barry left and she saw him hurrying down the road, only then remembering that she should have told him about using the camera she had found in his flat. She was disinclined to hurry after him so instead she turned in the opposite direction to make her way to the Dawsons’ flat to meet up with DS Lawrence.

  Jane had become more resilient since her initiation in the morgue with DCI Bradfield. She had been at the identification of the murder victim Julie Ann Collins. Nevertheless, it could not be described as easy and she completely understood why Barry Dawson had been so distraught. By the time she got to the Dawsons’ flat it was almost four o’clock. She buzzed the entry bell for the top flat. The lock clicked back loudly as she entered the hall and made her way up the stairs. The front door to the flat was wide open and as she stepped through the entrance there was the flash of a camera.

  “Hi . . . it’s only me,” she said, as Lawrence turned and smiled.

  He had long, thick blond hair with a center parting. It often fell forward so he had a habit of continually running his fingers through his hair to keep it off his face. Lawrence was always well dressed, but was rather old-fashioned in comparison to many of the Met police. He wore cord trousers and cotton shirts, with a tweed jacket that had leather elbow pads. He often had a woolen tie drawn down to the second button of his shirt. Jane had also noticed that his brown brogues were always rather scuffed, but despite his traditional appearance he had a very youthful manner.

  “I expected you earlier . . . I had to get the keys from the duty sergeant as Gibbs said they would be left there for me. I’ve been taking some decent photographs. I picked up the ones you took with the Kodak but they’re not that clear.” He indicated a brown envelope left on the small coffee table as he packed his camera away.

  “I’ve done a good check over the place, and if it’s OK with you I’ll be getting back to the station.”

  Jane was sifting through the photographs. As Lawrence had pointed out, they weren’t good quality.

  “This one I took of the dressing gown on the bathroom floor,” she said, holding up the photo.

  “What about it?”

  “Well, it’s just odd . . . if you were taking a bath and wearing the dressing gown, that would come off first, then the underwear. But the knickers and bra were folded underneath it.”

  Lawrence glanced at the photo. “Well, it’s on a hook in the bathroom now.”

  “Yes, I did that.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Shouldn’t do that . . . I mean, not that I think there’s anything suspicious. Maybe that’s just the way she undressed.”

  Lawrence stood beside her as she thumbed through the rest of the photographs until she reached one with a woman turning toward the camera.

  “Is that the victim?” he asked, and Jane shook her head.

  “No, I don’t know who she is. There were a few photographs already on the roll of film . . . same woman again . . . and another one.”

  Lawrence leaned closer as she fanned out the three photographs. They all seemed to have been taken as if the woman was unaware of being photographed.

  “Maybe a friend? But it’s odd that the woman is never looking into the camera and seems unaware she’s being photographed. Mind you, I’ve seen a lot stranger . . . and some pornographic ones that beggar belief . . .”

  “Did you really mean it when you said you were becoming fed up with working as a forensic liaison?”

  “Yes. We’re always strapped for finances and there’s a lot of new scientific experiments coming on board. I’m finding it more and more frustrating because I spend most of my life checking fingerprints or, like today, looking over a crime scene that basically isn’t one. I’ve applied to work with CID but the reality is forensic sections are deemed more important, and probably they are. It’s just frustrating because I’d like to become more involved in the investigations instead of being stuck in a lab twenty-four-hours a day.”

  Surprised at his outburst, Jane asked, “But what you do is becoming more and more vital to investigations, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I know . . . but try telling that to DI Moran . . . even DCI Shepherd isn’t that encouraging. You know, the only person who really drew me in, and encouraged me, was Len Bradfield. After what happened to him I sort of allowed myself to get buried in the lab. Part of that was because of the guilt, and I still feel it.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Yes. I had the chance to stop him going ahead with the operation. I knew early on that he was taking risks, but he persuaded me . . . he even had me on the team. I’ve never felt such adrenalin . . . Facing the outcome has been hard because I keep on thinking that if I had intervened he might still be alive.”

  Lawrence smiled sadly, running his fingers through his hair as Jane replied.

  “But you can’t blame yourself, Paul. If you do, then how do you think I feel? If I hadn’t recognized that voice on the tape, if I hadn’t identified the bank robber and his family, the operation would never have taken place.”

  He touched her shoulder. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes. I don’t dwell on it, I can’t . . . but it took me a long time to get over the awful feeling of guilt.” Jane thought about the way her heart would suddenly beat rapidly, and her breath quicken. How reminders, even seeing Lawrence today, brought back the feeling of helplessness and panic that she’d had to teach herself to control.

  “You are very young, and were just a probationary officer then. I think both Spence and I carry the responsibility within us because of our positions . . . it rears up when you least expect it. All I really want to do now is get onto an investigation and prove myself capable of handling it.”

  There was a moment of embarrassed silence, as if he felt he had disclosed too much of himself, and he gave another sad smile.

  “Sorry . . . didn’t mean to lay that on you, Jane. Can you lock up and organize getting the key back to Mr. Dawson?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Lawrence left as Jane put the photographs and negatives into her bag. She felt depressed, but at the same time pleased that he had confided in her as she had always liked him. Now even more so. She checked the time and realized she would soon be off duty, so might as well return to the section house. As she locked the front door and headed down the stairs the door of the flat below opened and a thick-set, swarthy man wearing a fawn donkey jacket gestured toward her.

  “Are you anything to do with the flat above? Only I need to check something out in their bathroom.”

  Jane introduced herself and explained that there had been a tragic incident and that Mrs. Dawson had been found dead.

  “What?”

  “Mrs. Dawson had an accident and—”

  “Is their bath water running?”

  She found it extraordinary that he showed no reaction whatsoever and said sharply that she was certain the bath water was turned off.

  “Well, it might be turned off now but you come and take a look at this. I don’t have a key to the Dawsons’ flat because they own the place but I might need to put in a claim for water damage.”

  Jane followed the objectionable man into the flat, which was stripped dow
n to the floorboards with ladders and tins of paint lined up in the entrance hall.

  “I’m having the place refurbished and redecorated but this is really bad damage.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

  “Eric de Silva. I own this place, plus the head lease of the entire property. Come on through here.”

  Jane dutifully followed him into the bathroom, which was directly below the Dawsons’ bathroom.

  He pointed up to the ceiling. “Look at that. This was only painted a week ago.”

  The ceiling was wet and a pinkish water mark covered one side of the wall. He then pointed at the floor.

  “See, it’s dripped down the wall onto the floor. That’s water damage. Their mains water tap needs to be turned off in case this is from their water tank as it’s directly above this bathroom.”

  Jane agreed but refused to hand over the keys to him. She couldn’t wait to get away from him and returned upstairs saying she would double-check that all the taps were turned off.

  The bath taps were off, and the kitchen taps likewise. She located the water tank and mains tap in the airing cupboard and made sure these were also turned off. Returning to the bathroom she stood in the doorway. Something didn’t make sense. The water marks in the flat below were obviously recent, and when she checked the water level rim still obvious in the bath it was in no way reaching the overflow or top of the bath. The pinkish color of the water down in the flat below could be caused by the blood from Shirley’s head wound. But when her body was found there was no way the bath had overflowed. Jane had pulled out the plug so she knew exactly what level the water had been.

  Bending down she could see that part of the board surrounding the bath was quite loose, and when she gave it a hard tug a section moved back easily. Jane jerked and pulled again and this time the old cheap tile came away. Leaning it against her legs she could see that there were pools of water still beneath the bath. The corking was sodden and wet. She propped the board back and decided that she needed to speak with de Silva again. She hurried down the stairs but the flat door was locked and there was no answer when she knocked. She went back upstairs to get her handbag and was about to leave when she saw the tea mug left on a side table. It had been brought in for her by the duty officer, from the next-door neighbor, when she was first there. She picked up the mug to return it, locking the door behind her.

  Jane headed down to the basement flat and rang the doorbell. Mr. Cook opened the door. Jane explained she was returning the mug.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s the policewoman, love. Come on in, the wife’s on sentry duty.” He laughed, opening the door wider and gesturing with his hand for Jane to follow him.

  “I really have to get back to the station.”

  “Be nice if you gave her an update on what happened next door.”

  “Yes of course, you were very helpful, Mr. Cook,” Jane said, as she went into their sitting room. His wife was in her wheelchair positioned by their basement window. This was the room where Barry had been with the baby and his mother.

  Mrs. Cook wheeled herself round to be able to face Jane, and indicated for her to sit on the sofa.

  “Make us a cuppa, will you love?”

  Her husband nodded and walked out. Jane perched on the edge of the sofa and gave Mrs. Cook a few details about the incident, and explained that they were waiting for a post-mortem report but it appears to have been a tragic accident.

  “Shockin’ . . . I had spent ages in the kitchen cos poor Barry was in here in a terrible state. Then he had the baby with him howlin’ . . . give me a headache. Mind you, it was more action than I seen for years. That poor girl, drownin’ like that.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “No, just to give a wave. I sit by the window . . . not that I can see that much, bein’ in the basement. But I always saw her with the dog of a morning. Sometimes she’d bend down and give me a smile.”

  “She went out regularly in the morning, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, always about ten o’clockish, baby in the pushchair . . . pretty little thing . . . tragic now, havin’ no mother. But he’s a good lad.”

  “How well did you know Barry?”

  “Not well. He’s come in a few times, but they were just a young couple. He always said if we ever needed him he’d be over, but my husband takes care of everything.”

  Mr. Cook walked in with a tea tray and a packet of ginger biscuits.

  “I really can’t stay, but thank you.” Jane half rose, wanting to leave.

  “Did you tell her about the door?”

  Mrs. Cook waved her hand. “No, I hadn’t got around to it. Being in the basement we can hear it, you know, if any of the tenants next door buzz their door open. What they do is ring the bell for who they’re seein’ and they can buzz the front door open from their flat.”

  Jane had used it and Lawrence had opened the door for her. Mr. Cook came back in with a teapot.

  “I don’t know if she did go in but I heard the buzz. What time did I say it was?”

  Jane was becoming impatient and looked at Mr. Cook.

  “She’s talking about the morning, you know, when Barry found the poor girl.”

  “That’s right . . . I was sitting here having my morning cup of tea, in me dressing gown. I can tell if there’s any post for us or if the paper boy’s delivered, but it was about eight, was it?”

  Mr. Cook poured the tea, and held up the milk jug. Jane smiled, thanking him.

  “So, at eight o’clock . . .”

  “Yes, or maybe a bit earlier. First, there was the woman, up and down, up and down . . . you can hear quite clearly down here . . . you know, footsteps on the pavement outside, click, click, click . . .”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow. You saw a woman outside?”

  “That’s right. She went back and forth, and then I heard the clunk from next door . . . you know, like I said, as if someone had let her in.”

  “Can you describe this woman?”

  “No, love. Look for yourself, I can only see the feet and up to the knees.”

  “You are sure it was a woman?”

  “Yes, dear . . . men don’t go wearin’ high-heeled black patent leather shoes now, do they?”

  Jane smiled but the shoes caught her interest. “Was there anything else you noticed about the shoes? Were they unusual in any way?”

  “Expensive I’d say, pointed at the front and with very high heels . . . maybe four or five inches.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cook, you’ve been very helpful. Just to make sure I’ve got it right . . . you saw this woman pacing up and down, then you heard the buzzer from next door, and it was around eight o’clock on the morning that Shirley was found . . .”

  “Yes, dear, that’s right . . . I don’t know if it means anything.”

  Jane smiled politely and thanked the couple again for their hospitality. As it was already after 6 p.m. she didn’t return to the station but went back to the section house. In her room she spent time compiling her notes before getting an early night. As she reflected on her findings, the Cooks’ information about the mystery caller and the water-stained ceiling, she knew it wouldn’t make her popular but tomorrow morning she would discuss her concerns with DCI Shepherd.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jane was eager to share her thoughts with DI Gibbs but he wasn’t in his office, or in the canteen, so she took her coffee and toast back to the incident room. She had just sat down at her desk to type up her report when Paul Lawrence walked in carrying notes for Edith to pass on about another case he was working on.

  “Can I have a quick word, Paul?” Jane asked.

  He looked at his watch, then smiled. “Sure, but make it fast as I’ve got a date with some blood tests.”

  Jane gave him a brief rundown about the water marks in the flat below the Dawsons’, and then told him about the neighbor hearing the door release buzzer allowing someone to enter. She also explaine
d that the owners of the ground-floor flat had left for work, and the middle flat was empty, so she believed it was possibly Shirley who let the woman in. As she was describing the black patent leather stiletto shoes seen by Mrs. Cook from the basement window, DCI Shepherd walked in and interrupted.

  “I just spoke with PC May at the mortuary. Pathologist agreed with me and Doc Henry. He concluded that the Shirley Dawson case was accidental death by drowning. There was water in her lungs and stomach, and the injury to her head was consistent with a fall in the bath.”

  Lawrence looked at the DCI. “It might not be that straightforward, sir. Tennison has raised a couple of things that she thinks are out of place. I’d like to visit the scene with her.”

  “What things?”

  “Just some inconsistencies. Tennison was at the victim’s flat yesterday and there appears to be water damage to the flat below the Dawsons’—”

  The DCI interrupted. “Well, obviously the bath water splashed about and overflowed after she’d slipped and cut her head open.”

  “There’s also the possibility the victim may have had a female visitor that morning,” Jane said.

  “How do you know that?” the DCI asked, looking annoyed.

  “I spoke with a neighbor, sir, Mrs. Cook. She saw a woman who she believes rang the doorbell at the flats, and then she heard the buzzer for the door latch go . . . I believe the woman was let in by Shirley Dawson—”

  “Hang on, Tennison, just stop right there. The neighbor saw a woman yet only ‘believes’ she rang the doorbell and went in . . . What nonsense is that?”

  Jane explained the circumstances of Mrs. Cook being in a wheelchair, and being able to see people’s feet from her basement flat.

  “They were very expensive-looking patent leather shoes, with pointed toes and a high stiletto heel, and . . .”

  The DCI raised his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head. Even Lawrence looked at Jane rather surprised by what she’d just said, though he didn’t doubt it was true.

  Shepherd smiled at Jane and quietly said, “So our new WDC wants to challenge my opinion, the police doctor’s opinion and the wisdom of a pathologist in favor of a woman in a wheelchair who saw a pair of patent leather shoes?”