“If that occurred, I am somewhat confused about the number of buttons we discovered at the site where we found the body. We found three buttons and, on checking both her overcoat and the torn blouse, it appears there was a fourth button that was not recovered.” Lawrence said.
Jane nodded. “The missing button could possibly have been left at the actual scene of the murder, unless she lost it before.”
Lawrence glanced towards her but no one else seemed interested.
“The alleyway would be regularly used by the public and train commuters on a Friday night, yet the body wasn’t found until early Saturday morning. Makes sense he’d dump her after midnight when there’s less likely to be anyone about,” Gibbs added.
“He may have used a car and travelled some distance, or the murder scene may be in nearby premises and he carried her out to Bussey Alley,” Jane stated, unintentionally yawning as she looked at the mortuary clock. It was just after 2 p.m.; she’d had no sleep for nearly twenty-four hours and was beginning to feel nauseous.
“Might be a good idea if Jane went home and got some sleep,” Lawrence suggested to Moran.
Moran shook his head. “Not at the moment. Our priority is finding out who our victim is, as it may well lead us to her killer and the scene of her murder. House-to-house is critical to this investigation. I want the forms that have been completed so far checked for anything that might assist or need urgent attention. A DCS will be appointed to oversee the case by Monday. I’d like unanswered questions resolved by then—even better, her killer in custody.” Moran closed his notebook and left the room.
Jane returned to Peckham with DI Gibbs. The three-story red-bricked Victorian station was like Hackney, but much bigger, with a warren of small overcrowded offices. The stone-flagged floors, metal staircases and high windows cast a dull greyness inside the building. Even the array of wanted and missing persons’ posters looked well worn, like parts of the building itself that needed repair and a lick of paint.
The large green corkboard on the wall in the far corner of the CID office was now covered with photographs the SOCO had taken in Bussey Alley. The victim’s facial description was written up with an approximate age of late twenties to early thirties. Next to her name, address and time of death were large question marks. Gibbs picked up a black felt-tip pen and started to write down Professor Martin’s observations about the time of death span and the fact the body was dumped. He also wrote: Murder scene unknown.
DC Edwards sat at the indexer’s desk, looking through some of the house-to-house forms. He looked up at Jane.
“Hope you don’t mind, Sarge, but I’ve been checking the completed H-to-H forms the uniforms brought in. Being a Saturday morning, a lot of people were at home …”
“Which is where I wish I was right now, Brian.”
Edwards lifted a pile of the forms. “Me too. Anyway, I’ve been through half of these questionnaires, but so far there’s nothing to help us identify the victim. A few people had friends, or knew other residents, who were similar in description, but they were all checked out and none of them are missing or unaccounted for.”
“Thanks, Brian. I’ll have to go through them anyway and sign each one off as correctly completed.”
“No, you don’t,” Gibbs said.
“Yes, I do. Not that I don’t trust Brian’s abilities, but you heard what Moran said at the mortuary. If something gets missed, I’m the one he’ll will have a go at, not you or Edwards.”
“You don’t have to because I will check them. You’re so tired you could easily miss something. Go on, the pair of you—scoot and get some sleep. Give me your home numbers, then if anything important comes in I’ll ring you so you won’t miss out.”
Jane was about to leave when the uniform PC who had called her “love” at the earlier briefing walked in with more completed house-to-house forms. He asked her if she’d like them or should he put them in the appropriate tray. Jane held out her hand to take them but Gibbs stepped forward and took them from the officer.
“Anything of interest for me?” Gibbs asked the PC.
Jane frowned at Gibbs, feeling that he was undermining her. “Or that needs my urgent attention as the house-to-house supervisor?” she said.
The officer took out his notebook from his jacket breast pocket and glanced at them both. “There was a light blue 1976 Austin Allegro outside 86 to 96 Copeland Road—they’re a two-story block of flats that I visited on my house-to-house enquiries—”
“And?” Jane interrupted, wanting him to get to the point.
“The vehicle looked a bit out of place as—”
Gibbs looked bemused as he interrupted, “Allegros are one of the most common cars on the road. It may have missed your attention but virtually every police force in the country uses them because they’re so cheap to run.”
“It was a top-end Allegro, 1976 Vanden Plas Princess 1500 automatic, deep-pile carpet, leather seats and walnut trims—all in pristine condition. I asked in the flats and no one owned it or had seen it there before. Admittedly it did have a flat front offside tire with a screw stuck in it.”
Jane wondered if the PC was trying to impress them in an effort to make up for his earlier behavior towards her.
“Have you recorded the details about the Allegro in your house-to-house folder?” Gibbs asked, hoping he’d say “yes” and so wouldn’t have to listen to the matter-of-fact, boring tone of the officer anymore.
“No, I couldn’t find an owner for it in the flats, so I wrote my observations down in my notebook. The vehicle’s reg is tango, lima, yankee, two, two, five, romeo. All the doors and boot were locked and it did not appear to have been hotwired. The radio was missing and the connecting wires were exposed, so it may have been nicked.”
Jane took a deep breath. “Have you done a computer check on the car to see who the owner is, or if it’s been reported lost or stolen?”
“Not yet. Wanted to report it to you first before any further action. I’ll nip downstairs and do that right now,” the PC said and started to walk off.
Jane tried not to smile as Gibbs clenched his fists towards her, indicating his frustration with the PC.
“No, no, we’ll do the checks and make further enquiries about the car. Thanks for informing us—very diligent of you,” Jane said, forcing a smile.
The PC handed Jane the copy of his notes and left.
“I’ll pop over to Copeland Road and have a look at the vehicle on my way home, see if there’s anything untoward and get it brought in if necessary.”
Gibbs shook his head and took the notes. “You get off home. I’ll make further enquiries, but looks like the PC, as irritating as he is, did a good job checking it out. If it’s got a flat tire, that may be why it was left there. We should also check into the missing radio because it doesn’t quite make any sense if it was stolen and then the thief locked up the car.”
Jane struggled to concentrate whilst driving home along the Marylebone Road. She pulled up at the red traffic lights by the junction with Gloucester Place and nodded off whilst waiting for them to turn green. The sound of repeated beeping of the car horn behind made her muscles tense as she jerked awake. For a split second she wondered where she was, then raised her hand in an apologetic manner and pulled away, turning right into Gloucester Place, then into Melcombe Street, where she lived in a top-floor flat of a three-story Victorian building. Thankfully, being a weekend, the parking restrictions were lifted so she didn’t have to drive up and down the back streets looking for a residents’ space.
Jane had grown to like Melcombe Street, with its narrow three-story white stucco-fronted houses and its proximity to Regent’s Park, where she regularly jogged. Baker Street tube was virtually on her doorstep and was handy for getting into central London, shopping in Oxford Street or a night out in the West End. It wasn’t so great for getting to Peckham, however, which is why she used her car to travel to and from work. Spotting a space close to her flat, Jane parked the car, g
ot out and locked it. Her first car had been a second-hand VW that was an unfortunate bright yellow, but she had now traded it in for a newer version, which the team had jokingly nicknamed “the Jaffa Cake” due to its orange body and black roof.
As Jane headed for her flat, she contemplated popping into the Spar shop to buy something to cook for supper, but she was so tired that she decided she would just heat up some leftovers.
She smiled to herself as she stopped to catch her breath on the stairs. She was fit and could normally manage the three flights at a brisk pace, but her body was physically drained from lack of sleep and food.
The flat had been in good condition when Jane first moved in almost three years ago. Other than a lick of paint here and there, and a few pieces of furniture, she’d done little to it by way of further maintenance. Although small, it had two bedrooms and a well-equipped kitchen incorporating a small dining area. There was no sitting room and her mother was always saying “the place is so small you can’t even swing a cat in it.” Despite the fact she’d nearly been murdered in her flat by an active member of the IRA, she felt safe there.
Natalie Wilde had deliberately befriended Jane to cajole police information out of her about IRA suspects, whilst at the same time planning to bomb Scotland Yard’s annual CID Good Friday party. On realizing Jane had discovered her deceit, Natalie tried to murder her, and if it weren’t for the intervention of one of her colleagues she would have died. At the time, she felt emotionally drained and depressed, but after the experience with Natalie she’d learnt to develop her own coping mechanisms, and face her demons head on.
Jane ate some reheated spaghetti bolognese, had a relaxing hot bath and went straight to bed. She was woken by the bedside phone ringing and, looking at her alarm clock, saw that it was only 6:30 p.m. Feeling groggy, she stretched out for the receiver, picked it up and heard her mother’s voice.
“Hello, dear. I know it’s a bit last minute, but your father and I were wondering if you’d like to come over for Sunday lunch? Pam and Tony are coming with baby Nathan.”
“I’d love to, Mum.” Jane’s mouth was so dry she paused to lick her lips before continuing.
“Great. I’ll do roast beef, Yorkshire puds and veg. We’ll eat at one o’clock.”
“Mum, I’m sorry, but I can’t come as I’ve got to work tomorrow.”
“I noted on the wall calendar that you were off this weekend, after a night shift?” her mother replied brusquely.
“We had a murder last night, Mum. I’m on the investigation team, so—”
“You’ve only been at Peckham two weeks and already someone’s been murdered?”
“I don’t think my arrival at Peckham has anything to do with it.”
“Don’t be flippant, dear. You know I worry about you, especially if you are having to arrest people who commit such violent crimes … Was it a woman or man that was killed?”
“A woman. I’m in charge of the house-to-house enquiries, not the arrest team, so don’t worry yourself. I’m really tired and need to get some sleep, so I’ll ring you later.”
Jane didn’t dare worry her mother more by telling her any details about the murder, especially as the victim was around the same age as her.
“You always seem to be busy with work, Jane. The family haven’t seen you in ages. You should at least make the effort to see Pam and your new nephew.”
“I saw Pam and the baby last weekend. I went round to her place and she did my hair before I started night shift.”
“Oh, Pam didn’t mention your visit to me,” Mrs. Tennison replied, sounding annoyed that she wasn’t told.
Jane was irritated. “Why should she, Mum? It was just a haircut. Look, I really need to get some sleep. I’m sorry about tomorrow but I’ll let you know when I’m next free and can come over.”
“It would be nice if you offered to babysit for Pam and Tony so they could have a night out together. Honestly, Jane, sometimes it feels like you put the needs of the police force before your family. I’m sure the CID could cope without you now and again …”
“So can you, Mum. I’m sorry if my work inconveniences you,” Jane replied abruptly.
Mrs. Tennison said nothing and put the phone down. Jane instantly regretted her thoughtless remark. Despite her tiredness, she wondered if she should ring her back to apologize. However, not wanting to get into another argument, she decided not to until she’d had a decent sleep. Jane pulled the duvet over her shoulders and snuggled into the fetal position. No sooner had she closed her eyes than the phone rang again.
She picked up the receiver. “I’m sorry for upsetting you …”
“You haven’t,” a surprised Gibbs replied, curious about who Jane had just been speaking to.
“Sorry, I thought you were my mother. I was tired and I snapped at her … Has there been a development in the case? Do you need me to come in?”
“No. Just thought I’d let you know I’ve been up to Copeland Road to have a look at the Allegro car and it’s not reported lost or stolen. It was locked, the ignition was not hotwired and the front tire was as flat as a pancake. I doubt the radio was nicked as the loose wires had tape on the end to stop them sparking if they touched. Definitely not the sort of thing a thief would do if they’d just nicked it.”
“Do you think the car could belong to our murder victim?” Jane asked as she sat up in bed.
“No. Clean as a whistle inside, pair of driving gloves on the front passenger seat, with a tartan rug and cushions on the back seat. It’s more an older person’s type of car. The registered owner is ex-directory, lives in St. John’s Wood, just by Regent’s Park. It’s probably not connected to the investigation, but you need to find out why it’s been left in Peckham.”
“I know where it is, but I’m in bed now. I’ve hardly slept …”
“You can do it in the morning on your way in. The address is—”
“Hang on, let me get a pen and paper.” Jane opened the bedside cabinet drawer. She had quickly learnt that having a pen and notepad close to hand was crucial, even in bed. She told Gibbs to go ahead and he gave her the car registration as TLY 225R. The owner, shown on the police national computer, was a Mrs. Sybil Hastings, flat 42, Viceroy Court, Prince Albert Road.
“Have you checked her name against missing persons?” Jane asked.
“Of course. She isn’t reported missing and there’s no one on mispers matching our victim’s description either.”
“Anything else, or can I get some sleep now?” Jane asked irritably as she tore the bit of paper from the notepad.
“I’ll meet you there at nine a.m.,” Gibbs said.
“I’m quite capable of doing a simple vehicle enquiry on my own, you know.”
“Yes, but I need a lift as my Triumph Stag’s in the garage having a new head gasket fitted. Tamara’s flat is in Mayfair so I’ll get her to drop me off at Viceroy Court. We’re doing a gig at a pub in Belsize Park tonight—why don’t you come along, Jane?”
“No thanks, Spence, I just need to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” Jane put the phone down, realizing, with slight annoyance, that Gibbs had given her the vehicle enquiry so he could get a lift in to work. She didn’t mind too much as he’d at least been to Copeland Road to check the vehicle out and someone would have to have spoken with the owner anyway.
Pulling the duvet over her head, Jane was in a deep sleep within seconds, all thoughts of the investigation pushed from her mind for the time being.
Chapter Three
It was cold outside. Jane had the engine running and heating on as she sat in her car facing the entrance to Viceroy Court. The brick-built 1930s modernist building consisted of eighty luxury apartments, laid out in the form of an elongated “H,” with an underground garage and a white four-column porte-cochère covering the main entrance. The apartments overlooked Regent’s Park and, even though it was winter, the surrounding lawns and hedgerows were well maintained, and the flowerbeds were filled with an abun
dance of color from winter pansies, violas and cyclamen.
Looking at her watch, Jane realized that it was 9:15 a.m. and Gibbs still hadn’t arrived. She wasn’t sure if he was running late or had changed his mind about accompanying her, so she decided she’d make the enquiry at Mrs. Hastings’ flat herself. Standing at the main entrance, she pressed the buzzer and a smartly dressed uniformed porter came to the door. Jane introduced herself and showed him her warrant card.
“Follow me, madam.”
The reception area had a thick red carpet, a desk area for the porter and two large floral displays either side of a wide marble staircase to the upper floors. The porter, who looked to be in his late fifties, turned out to be a bit of a nosy “jobsworth,” making Jane sign the visitors’ book and asking what the purpose of her visit was. Jane told him it was a minor enquiry regarding the theft of property from a resident’s car.
“May I ask which resident, madam?”
“I’m sure the resident will reveal his or herself to you if they feel inclined to do so,” Jane said as she walked towards the lift.
“Would you like me to accompany you, madam?” he asked as he opened the old-fashioned sliding grille gate of the lift and ushered Jane inside.
“No, thanks,” Jane replied, smiling as she closed the gate and pressed the button for the fourth floor.
Apartment 42 was to the left. Jane pressed the doorbell and after a few seconds the door was opened by a woman in her mid-sixties, wearing a floral pinafore apron over a white shirt, calf-length tartan skirt, dark tights and flat-sole black house shoes. Jane held up her warrant card.
“Mrs. Hastings, I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison.”
“I’m no’ Mrs. Hastings, dear. She’s no’ in just noo. I’m Agnes Anderson, her housekeeper. I thought you might be Mrs. Hastings, or her son Andrew. I phoned him earlier. Did he call you?” The woman spoke quickly, but in a soft, almost melodic, Scottish highland accent.
Jane was confused by what Agnes was saying, and thought she seemed rather anxious about something.
Murder Mile Page 4