Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  The men laughed. “Wilkie’s been off twice already. He’s round the back now waiting for the mechanic from Taplow to come out with a new clutch lever.” Poor old Sergeant Wilkinson, he only rode a motorbike once a year – and always gave the regular riders a good laugh.

  Their little reunion was cut short by the local Chief Superintendent marching into the yard and calling for everyone to form up in their units.

  An impressive looking ex-Scots-guardsman, Superintendent Jackman, was the Silver (i.e. local operational) Commander that year. The Gold Commander was an Assistant Chief Constable who remained back at HQ, so Jackman was effectively the officer in charge. He had issued all the men and women attending the event with copies of his operational order.

  He had also ensured that they had all received meal tickets to hand in to the caterers when they obtained refreshments. Therefore, everyone should already be aware of what his or her role in the proceedings was to be; however, it was a tradition that the officer commanding carried out an inspection of the turnout of the troops before giving them a final briefing.

  “Right, you lads,” he bellowed in his resonant Scottish accent, “and lasses,” he added a bit belatedly, “I’m sure you know what to do, but I’ll tell you anyway.”

  Don, who had heard it all before, tried not to look bored. “You’d think he was addressing the esplanade at the Edinburgh Festival,” he muttered.

  But, on it went: Remember the royal family and high-ranking government officials will be all around the place, stay out of the Royal Enclosure, watch out for the telephoto lenses of the BBC, do not congregate in groups of more than two, keep a low profile when not actually performing duty, no visible betting, and so on and so forth. Then finally:

  “No doubt some of you will be seeking liquid refreshment. You are to stay out of licensed premises, we have a perfectly good beer tent of our own set up down in the Donkey Field. If you must spend your money, at least do it in support of our own sports and social club.”

  Don met Ian’s eyes and winked.

  The briefing was over and, together with more than a hundred other uniformed officers, Don and Ian made their way downhill along High Street towards the Silver Ring where the police caterers had set up a huge marquee tent.

  “Looks like the first pull of the day,” said Ian, pointing across the road to where two burly police officers frogmarched a fat little man in a loud check suit towards the local police station. One of the officers was carrying a green baize fold-up table, revealing the prisoner to be one of the many card sharps that haunted the streets outside the event.

  “His lookouts must have been asleep to let him get nabbed so early,” said Don. “He’s hardly had time to make enough to pay his fine.”

  “Don’t bet on it!” quipped Ian, and they both laughed.

  They arrived at the feeding station and squeezed in at the end of a long line of men and women queueing for the tea and coffee urns.

  Don glanced around the throng of people who were milling around inside the marquee and, to his horror, instantly recognised someone he had hoped never to see again. Diane’s back was towards him, but there was no mistaking the blonde ponytail that seemed to dance above a pair of shapely shoulders.

  “Oh, God, no,” he said softly, but not softly enough, for Ian caught the words and saw the look on Don’s face…

  “I take it you know her?” Ian said.

  The remark seemed innocent enough, but Don knew that his marital problems and subsequent posting away from Traffic had been the subject of much gossip across the area – and the quick-witted Ian would have instantly guessed the cause of his friend’s discomfort.

  “If you’d rather make yourself a bit scarce, mate, I don’t mind fetching your tea outside to you.”

  Don fought the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Thanks, Ian, I appreciate it, but I’m okay. I’m not going to spend all week hiding in a corner.”

  As if on cue, Diane turned away from the small group of young men she had been chatting with and looked straight at Don. To his amazement, she smiled over to him and gave him a brief wave before returning her attention to her friends.

  Don wasn’t sure what reaction he’d been expecting from her when she spotted him, but her simple, brief acknowledgement of him, as though he were no more than a casual acquaintance, left him somewhat stunned.

  He was, he realised, after all, just another colleague. Their shared past meant nothing to her. Casual sex had apparently not made him special.

  After a couple of minutes, Diane walked out of the tent without so much as a glance in his direction. Don watched the swing of her hips as she walked, and he tried not to remember them without the long skirt. He suddenly felt ashamed of his unexpected feelings of rejection. He determined instead to be grateful that she no longer represented a threat to his marriage.

  Don and Ian each sat down at one of the places that had been set up on the long trestle tables. They ate their lunch in virtual silence, which they washed down with the traditional half-pint bottle of Courage light ale; then it was time to report for duty.

  The operational order had informed the two men that they were assigned to general patrol of Ascot Heath. So, together, they walked to the stands then negotiated the long narrow tunnel that ran under the track and linked the Silver Ring with the large open area known as the Heath.

  “Bit of a come-down for you, isn’t it, young Don?” Sergeant Williams was the fat, scruffy and unpopular Welshman who commanded the team that Don and Ian had been detailed to join. He smirked at Don. “You’re better used to flashing it about with the nobs in their Rollers on a fancy motorbike, aren’t you? Not so used to slumming it on the Heath with the local riff-raff like the rest of us, eh, boyo?”

  Don just grinned good-naturedly; no way was he rising to this idiot’s bait. Not yet anyway, but it looked like being a long week ahead…

  The crowds now began to arrive in their thousands, and at 1 pm, Don and the rest of his team marched in a line through a gate in the crowd barriers, then they walked along the grass track itself to eventually take up position, several yards apart, as “route liners.”

  Emily Davison, the suffragette who had thrown herself under the king’s horse at Epsom Derby all those years before, had cast a long shadow and, since her day, the crowds had to be watched whenever royalty was present.

  This duty meant that Don and the other officers faced the crowd and were under strict instructions to observe the public and keep their backs turned toward the ornate coaches and horses of the Queen’s procession as it made its majestic way along the final straight, before alighting on the grass in front of the Royal Enclosure. Ironically, it wasn’t the nobs in the Grandstand but the ordinary folk on the Heath who had the best view of the spectacle – and the Queen usually rewarded them with a brief wave.

  With the Queen and her guests safely inside the Royal Box, the route liners marched back off the track to take up general patrol positions among the racegoers. However, Sergeant Williams was waiting like a coiled snake for Don as he walked back through the gate.

  “Don, I’ve just had a message on the radio. You’re to make your way immediately to Ascot Police Station.”

  He paused, waiting for a reaction, enjoying the obvious stress he was creating.

  “What, me? Why’s that then, Sarge?”

  “There’s a detective inspector waiting to see you.” Williams gave an oily smile.

  “Any idea what it’s about, Sarge?” Don was perplexed and a bit uneasy,

  “I’ve no idea, mate. You might be in the shit, you might not. You’ve not been shagging any young woppsies again, have you?”

  Don wanted to punch the sergeant in the mouth but, instead, turned on his heel and, with his mind spinning, he began the long walk back up to the local nick.

  As Don approached the busy area around the rear door of the small police station, he saw uniformed officers of all ranks to-ing and fro-ing from the building in an endless stream. He slowed down and
wondered to whom he should report.

  “PC Barton?” came a voice from behind. Don spun around to see who had spoken and saw a middle-aged man of medium height, wearing a smart business suit, who was smiling at him in a friendly manner. The sun glinted from the man’s dark hair.

  “DS Dave Johnson, Headquarters CID.” The hatless man held out his hand. “I thought it must be you when I saw you coming up the road.”

  Don shook the man’s hand and thought: Old-fashioned detective, very professional, what the Hell’s going on?

  “Let’s pop inside, shall we? DI Braden is waiting upstairs in the inspector’s office.”

  Don was aware who DI Braden was, he’d seen him before for various reasons and knew that he oversaw the CID office in Slough. Not a bad governor, known to like a drink.

  “Come in Mr Barton, take a seat,” the DI said when they reached the office. “I see you’ve already met Sergeant Johnson. I suppose you know what this is all about?”

  Why did they always say that? Don thought. Of course I don’t bloody know, you haven’t told me anything yet!

  “No, sir, nobody’s said anything to me,” he replied. Then he noticed that the Occurrence Book from his section office was sitting open on the desk in front of the DI.

  “Did you make this OB entry?” asked Braden, indicating the couple of paragraphs Don had penned following the domestic at the Hoskins house.

  “Yes, sir,” said Don, totally puzzled.

  “And Mrs Hoskins was alive and well when you last saw her?”

  “Absolutely, it was a something and nothing domestic, some damage but no violence – by either party. Why, has she been hurt or made a complaint or something?” Don knew only too well that she wouldn’t have been the first marital partner to call the police only to throw them out when they got there – then later complain that they’d done nothing to help her.

  “So, it comes as a complete surprise that her body, at least we’re assuming it’s her body, was found bludgeoned to death in the area known as Bluebell Wood, on the Weston-to-Hampstead Norreys road earlier today?”

  “Oh, dear God!” Don was visibly stunned and took a moment to recover his composure. “Yes, sir, a complete surprise.”

  “The body was found by the owner of the land, a lady out walking her dogs. I believe she’s an acquaintance of yours, a Miss Anne Wilson?”

  Don shook his head. “Never heard of her,” he said.

  “Well, she knows you. Apparently, she helped you with a runaway horse the other night.”

  I knew I should have taken her bloody name! “Oh, her! She stormed off before I could get her name. It was actually the same night as the domestic with the Hoskinses. She was brilliant – but a bit volatile. I had no idea she owned Bluebell Wood. Is she involved at all, do you think?”

  “We don’t know who’s involved at the moment,” DS Johnson said.

  “And Mr Hoskins, the husband, what does he have to say about it?”

  “That’s what we need to find out. Problem is, he’s done a runner, disappeared completely. Did you see a car when you were at the house?” DI Braden asked.

  “Yes, sir, a blue XJ6.”

  “Well, that’s gone as well. You don’t know where it is, I suppose?”

  “No, sir, not a clue.”

  “Right, well, Mr Johnson here is going to get you to make a full statement while it’s all fresh in your mind – and before you pick up any outside influences. I believe it’s already been on the telly once today. After that, you’re to go back to Newbury with him and make a formal identification of the body. Continuity, you understand.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  Johnson took Don to the small dining room and sat him down at a table that was already equipped with statement form. He gave Don his instructions, then left him to it.

  A few minutes later Johnson said goodbye to Braden who returned to his office in Slough. Johnson took the inspector’s place at the desk in the office and phoned Newbury to speak to his boss, Detective Superintendent Merryweather, the senior investigating officer for the murder.

  “Hello, Guv, how’s it going?” he said when the guv’nor answered his phone.

  “Hi, Dave. Pretty good, actually, the incident room is just about set up, dog search is ongoing, the forensic pathologist is finished at the scene, and the body is en route to the mortuary. How did you get on with Barton?”

  “No problem, he’s making his statement as we speak. I’ll get it typed up then go through it with him.”

  “What do you make of him?”

  “Pretty reasonable sort of chap, he seemed shocked when we told him about the killing. My first impression is that he’s straight.”

  “Well, of course, I respect your judgement, you know that. On the other hand, Barton is the last person we know for sure to see Mrs Hoskins alive. At best, he may have abandoned her to her fate, and, at this point, I don’t want to think what the worst-case scenario is. Apparently, he fancies himself as a lady’s man, so who knows?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s significant, but he also denied knowing Anne Wilson when DI Braden told him it was her that found the body.”

  “Did he, indeed? That might be interesting.”

  “Are we leaving him over here or shall we pull him back to Division?”

  “Er, no, leave him to carry on at Ascot. We know where he is if we want him and he’ll be out of the way while we’re working the villages. Oh, and by the way, there’s some very interesting stuff already coming back from SOCCO at the victim’s house.” He said, referring to the Scenes of Crime officers who were painstakingly searching the property for forensic evidence. “This whole thing looks like being a bit more complicated than we thought. I’ll explain when I see you. Meanwhile, total press embargo, got it?”

  “No problem, guv, I’ll make sure Barton knows to keep his trap shut as well.”

  “Thanks, Dave, I’ll see you later.”

  Don toiled over his statement for an hour and a half, labouring over every phrase. Johnson had told him to write down absolutely everything from the moment he received the radio call sending him to meet Mrs Hoskins, to the time he booked off duty.

  “Forget about the rules of evidence,” Johnson had ordered. “I want the ins and outs of a duck’s arse. Everything you saw on the way to and from the house, details of other traffic on the road, any pedestrians, and so on. Oh, and include a weather report and, whatever you do, make sure you write a full description of everyone you saw or spoke to – and any comments you want to make about them, just stick them in brackets next to the description. Soon as you’re finished, take it down to Brenda, the CID typist. She’s waiting downstairs.”

  When Don finally completed his task, Johnson carefully and slowly went through the statement. Occasionally, he paused to clarify some point or to make a brief comment, but he mostly read in silence.

  “Not a bad effort,” he said grudgingly. “Have you done these before?”

  “No, not for a murder, but I’ve dealt with a fair few fatal accident on the roads.”

  Johnson allowed himself a smile. “Fatal road accidents? Of course, you’re ex-Traffic, aren’t you? We sometimes forget that you lads actually do a bit more than just hound hard-working detectives for driving a couple of miles an hour over the limit.”

  “Well, speeding may be a minor offence, probably on a par with minor theft; however, shoplifters rarely kill anyone, do they?”

  Johnson laughed. “You’ve got me there, Don. Anyway, let’s get back to Newbury and look at this body. My car’s in the field next door; you can drive if you want to.”

  Don grinned. “No thanks, Sarge. It’ll be a treat to be chauffeured for a change.”

  As it turned out, DS Johnson was an excellent driver with an impressive, and smartly turned out, two-year-old Mark 3 Ford Cortina.

  “Is this yours or is it a job car?” asked Don.

  “It’s mine, but I use it for work and get paid mileage. Have a look in the glove bo
x.”

  Don did as he was bid and found the car was equipped with a VHF force radio. Johnson explained that the provision of this radio was a condition of being on mileage.

  “The main wireless gubbins is in the boot,” he said. “They’ve drilled holes all over the place to fit it all in. Shame really, but they reckon they can fill them all in when they eventually take the set out for me to sell the car.”

  The conversation continued in this vein for the hour it took them to get back to Newbury town centre where Don had to give directions to the local mortuary.

  PC Pete Smith, the local police Coroners Officer, was waiting for them when they arrived. He made a record of the time of their visit in a log on a clipboard then took them into the examination room where a body was lying on a long metal trolley, covered with a sheet.

  “Here she is, gents. A bit of a mess after the post mortem I’m afraid.”

  Smith lifted the sheet back as far as the cadaver’s waist. Don could see that the body had been completely opened for the pathologist’s examination. The vital organs had been removed, and the chest had then been roughly stitched back together in a jagged line from the throat to the groin. The top of the head had also been removed then replaced, and the face was contorted by a mass of black and blue bruising.

  “I see what you mean about the PM.” Don said.

  However, with all the road deaths he had witnessed, he was well used to seeing mangled bodies. He took his time to look carefully to see if this was, in fact, what remained of the attractive woman who had sat next to him in his police car just two days previously. He felt a tinge of sadness as he recalled the incident and he wondered what could possibly have happened to destroy a life in such brutal fashion.

  Once satisfied that there was no possibility of error, he indicated to the others that this was, without doubt, the body of the woman known to him as Suzanne Hoskins.

  Chapter Five