Edwards sullenly continued climbing the stairs. Arriving at Eileen’s flat on the top floor, he peered through the letter box. An elderly male, in his mid-seventies with a hunched back and walking stick, came out of the flat next door.
“What you doing snoopin’ about? I’ll call the police.”
“We are the police.” Edwards showed his warrant card. “Who are you?”
“I’m Frank, Eileen’s neighbor.”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Tennison. We’re making enquiries about Eileen Summers. She’s been reported missing, so we’re just checking to see if she may have returned to her flat.”
The neighbor looked surprised. “I saw her last night. She’s a lovely young lady. Gets me newspapers and does me shoppin’, as I’m pretty much house-bound these days. I was a prisoner of war, you know—captured by the Japs and held in Changi prison until the end of the war. They treated us terribly and killed a lot of me mates. Me right leg was badly broken while I was being tortured for information.” He gasped for breath and had a coughing fit before he could continue.
Jane felt sympathy for the old man but was keen to find out more information about their latest victim.
“When did you last see Eileen?”
“About five last night. She was going to the chippy down the road—got me a lovely bit of plaice and a portion of chips. I offered to pay but, bless her, she refused to take me money. She’s a teacher, you know. Loves her job, and the kids. You sure she’s not in?”
“We tried knocking but there’s no answer.” Jane didn’t want to upset the old man by telling him that his neighbor was now dead. “Obviously we’re concerned she might have had an accident indoors, so we’ll have to force entry to check it out.”
“There’s no need to do that—I’ve got a spare key. Eileen leaves it with me in case of emergencies, and I also water her plants when she’s away.” The old man went into his flat and returned a minute later with the key.
Jane took it. Lawrence had taught her that it was always worth keeping latex gloves in her bag. She pulled some out and handed a pair to Edwards. They both put them on and then let themselves into Eileen Summers’ flat. There was a strong smell of joss sticks, which Jane knew was sometimes used to cover the smell of cannabis, but she doubted Eileen was a user. The first room, to the right of the corridor, was the kitchen. It was very tidy, with a spotless electric oven and spotless work surfaces. It reminded Jane of her own small kitchen and it suddenly struck her that Eileen was very similar to her, being a single professional woman who was enjoying her career whilst maintaining her independence.
Jane noticed a knife, fork and plate in the kitchen sink, with remnants of white fish and tomato sauce on it. She opened the bin and saw the discarded fish and chip newspaper.
Edwards called out to her. “Someone’s turned the place over, Sarge.”
Jane hurried into what was obviously Eileen’s bedroom. The dressing table and bedside cabinet drawers were all half open, or pulled out completely. The mattress had been pulled off the bed and on top of the cabinet there was an open and empty jewelry box.
“No forced entry, so whoever did this must have had a key,” Jane remarked.
“Well, I think we can rule out the old boy next door,” Edwards replied.
“Eileen Summers didn’t have any house keys in her pocket, and no handbag or purse was recovered,” Jane stated.
“Then that bastard Ben Smith must have burgled the place after he murdered her. You need cash or valuables to sell if you’re a heroin addict on the run.”
“It’s possible, but we don’t know that for certain.” Jane looked around the room.
“It’s bloody obvious, I’d say,” Edwards exclaimed, going over to pick up the empty jewelry box.
“Don’t touch it! You might smudge any prints on it,” Jane said firmly. “We need Lawrence down here to start fingerprinting the place.”
Edwards nodded.
“I want to speak to the neighbor again. Edwards, you go and radio the station for DS Lawrence to attend.”
Frank’s living room was filled with military memorabilia and photographs, of which he was clearly very proud. He picked one up of himself and his colleagues and showed it to Jane.
“Most got killed in the war or died in the prison camp.”
Jane was unsure about telling Frank that Eileen was dead, but she knew he would eventually find out through the newspapers or TV. She gently encouraged him to sit down.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Frank: Eileen was killed last night, and we’re treating her death as murder.”
Frank was beside himself and tears rolled down his face.
“Is there anyone I can call to be with you?” Jane asked.
“I ain’t got no family … Eileen was like a daughter to me … She was so kind … What am I going to do without her?” Frank wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jumper.
Jane comforted Frank, sitting on the edge of the chair with her arm around him. She didn’t know what to say and it was terrible to see a man who’d survived horrific torture and the horrors of war in such emotional pain. A feeling of sadness overwhelmed Jane as she thought about her parents and remembered the pain they suffered when her younger brother had drowned. She had cried at the time but had been too young to really understand what grief was. It was clear that Frank’s only connection with the outside world had been through Eileen Summers, and now that world had ended for him.
Edwards entered and realized that Jane had informed Frank of Eileen’s death. He took Jane to one side.
“Lawrence is attending Summers’ post-mortem. I spoke to Gibbs and he’s sending a couple of SOCOs down to start printing the flat. I’ll stay with Frank for a bit whilst I wait for them to arrive. You may as well head off to the Samaritans.” He handed Jane the CID car keys.
“Thanks.” Jane looked at her watch. It was quarter to three. She felt physically and emotionally drained, and would have liked to go home and execute the Samaritans warrant the next day.
“Did you have a look in the living room for an address book?” Jane asked Edwards, about to hand him Eileen’s flat key.
“You said not to touch anything.”
“I’ll have a quick look before I go.” Jane held onto the key.
Eileen’s living room had also been ransacked, but Jane noticed a phone on a small side table and next to it was an address book. Wearing gloves, she picked it up and flicked through it, but didn’t see the names of Ben Smith or Sybil Hastings. There was also the latest edition of Woman’s Own magazine on the table, which Jane flicked through to see if any phone numbers or names had been scribbled in it. She suddenly came across a Samaritans advert giving a phone number, and Jane could see that the top right corner of the page had been folded over, as if to bookmark it. She wondered why Eileen Summers had done this and whether there could be a connection to Sybil Hastings.
Chapter Eleven
Moran and Lawrence were once again in attendance at Ladywell mortuary. Professor Martin was concluding his post-mortem on the hostel victim as the coroner’s officer entered and told Moran that DI Gibbs was on the phone.
After speaking to Gibbs, Moran returned to the mortuary, looking slightly less stressed. He told Martin and Lawrence that the body was believed to be that of Eileen Summers, a 23-year-old teacher from Chalk Farm, and explained the circumstances that had led to the headmistress reporting Summers as missing, finally updating them on Jane’s subsequent visits to the school and Eileen Summers’ flat.
“Tennison’s having a pretty productive day,” Lawrence remarked.
Martin laughed. “At this rate, she’ll be the first plonk in the Met to make DCI and run a murder squad.”
“Yeah, and pigs might fly,” Moran retorted.
Martin handed Lawrence the blood and urine samples he had taken during his examination. “There was undigested fish and chips in the stomach. Your victim must have eaten them shortly before her death.”
“No sig
n of fish and chips wrappers at the crime scene,” Lawrence said.
“Edwards told Gibbs that Eileen Summers bought herself and her neighbor fish and chips at about five p.m. last night,” Moran put in.
“My time of death estimation is pretty good then.” Martin smiled.
The pathologist had removed the brain and placed it on a small work table, where Martin now proceeded to examine it.
“There’s no major damage to the skull or brain. The blow to the head with the wine bottle didn’t kill her, though it would have knocked her out. The hyoid bone in her throat is broken due to strangulation, which is the primary cause of death. Like your first victim, the suspect straddled her from behind as he strangled her. The cord is the same type as found on the first victim, as is the slip knot, and both ends are cut and frayed.”
“Sexual assault?” Moran asked.
Martin nodded. “The torn underwear at the scene was an obvious indication, but there are also scratch marks on her inner thighs and vaginal bruising consistent with rape. I’ve taken swabs for semen. I also suspect, from the injuries to her back, that the rape occurred whilst she was face down and unconscious, which may explain why no one heard any screams.”
The duty leader at the Soho Samaritans was polite and helpful, but had clearly been very shocked to hear about Sybil Hastings’ death.
“Would you like something to drink while you go through the paperwork?” he asked Jane as he pulled out copies of all the sheets relating to Sybil Hastings’ duties for the previous six months.
“A coffee would be nice,” she replied.
“I’ll get one of the volunteers to bring you one. I was wondering,” he added, “can I tell the other volunteers about Mrs. Hastings?”
“Well, seeing as they’re all trusted Samaritans … But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go into any detail.”
He looked relieved. “Of course. Now I’ll leave you to it.”
Jane decided to start looking from the previous Thursday, when Sybil Hastings was last on duty, and work backwards. As she looked through the records of calls and one-to-one meetings, Jane saw nothing that leapt out at her. Two of the calls Sybil dealt with were from women and one from a man who had become paralyzed after a serious car accident. The names Ben Smith and Eileen Summers weren’t recorded anywhere, and there was nothing to suggest any of the callers were teachers or homeless drug addicts.
She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling exhausted, and knew that it would be better to look at the documents back at the station, with the assistance of Edwards and Gibbs.
There was a knock at the door and a pretty young woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a turtleneck jumper, came in carrying a cup of coffee and some biscuits on a plate. She looked as if she’d been crying.
“Are you OK?” Jane asked.
“Yes … sorry … I just heard about Mrs. Hastings. I can’t believe anyone would want to harm her. She was so gentle and kind.” She put the coffee and biscuits down on the desk.
Jane picked up her coffee and took a sip. “Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Alice. Alice Hodges.”
“Had you known Mrs. Hastings long, Alice?”
“A few months. She was training me to be a Samaritan, so we worked the same shifts.”
“Were you working together last Thursday?”
Alice nodded.
“How did she seem to you?”
“She was fine to start with. Then she took a call that seemed to bother her. It was unusual because one of the most important parts of our training is not to show any emotion or distress when dealing with a caller.”
“What time did the call come in?”
“Between quarter past and half seven, I think.”
Jane checked the call log for that evening. “According to the records, the last call Mrs. Hastings dealt with was at 7:10 p.m., from a woman whose husband had repeatedly assaulted her. After that there’s no record of her dealing with another call before she finished at eight p.m.”
Alice closed the office door and sat down opposite Jane. “Mrs. Hastings started to make some notes on a call sheet. Then she picked up a bit of paper, put it on top of the call sheet and started writing on it. I thought it strange at the time, as she told me every call should be logged and filed.”
Jane realized the importance of the information and instantly forgot about her tiredness. She took out her notebook to make some notes. “Did you hear what was said during the call?”
“Only bits. I was sat next to Mrs. Hastings at the time, completing the paperwork from the last call for filing. It was a female caller, and I think she had a northern accent.”
Jane remembered Mrs. Rowlands telling her that Eileen Summers was from Manchester. “I need you to take your time and think hard, Alice. Try to remember anything strange that was said during the conversation.”
Alice sat quietly, her eyes closed, trying to remember the call.
“She asked the caller if the boy’s mother was aware of the situation, and the last thing she said before she put the phone down was: ‘When you find out where he was treated, you must tell the police.’ That’s really all I can remember.”
“Did you hear any names during the conversation?” Jane asked.
Alice shook her head. “No names, and Mrs. Hastings didn’t say anything to me about the call afterwards.”
“What did Mrs. Hastings do with the notes she made?”
Alice paused. “She folded the call sheet and bit of paper up and put them in her handbag.”
There had been no call sheets in Mrs. Hastings’ handbag when she had searched it. Jane wondered if her killer had destroyed the notes because it linked them to Sybil Hastings. She also realized the note could be somewhere in Mrs. Hastings’ house and decided to contact Agnes about it later.
“Did you or Mrs. Hastings deal with any other calls or visitors that night?” Jane asked.
“I dealt with the next two calls, under Mrs. Hastings’ supervision. I think you have copies of the call sheets?”
Jane looked through them and saw the two calls. She heard sniffing and looked up to see Alice wiping tears from her face.
“I should have told the leader about that call, shouldn’t I? Do you think if I had, Mrs. Hastings might still be alive?” She looked distraught.
Jane leant forward. “Don’t blame yourself, Alice. You’re in no way responsible for what happened. You’ve done the right thing by telling me about the phone call. It could really help the investigation. As far as I’m concerned, this conversation is just between us, and you won’t get into any trouble.”
Alice smiled gratefully, as Jane jotted down her office phone number. “Call me if you remember anything else about the call or just anything you think might be significant.”
Jane was keen to get from Soho to Ladywell mortuary before 5 p.m., to make sure everything was ready for Mrs. Rowlands to identify Eileen Summers. She turned on the CID car siren but didn’t like driving at high speed. Other officers found it exhilarating, but Jane constantly worried about having a police vehicle accident or “POLAC,” as it was known in the police.
She arrived at the mortuary at ten to five and was shocked to see that Eileen Summers’ body had been left on a trolley in the storage area, with just a white sheet over it. She pulled back the sheet and could see that Eileen’s tongue was still slightly protruding from her mouth and her face still had blood smears on it. Seeing the morgue attendant, Jane asked him to make the body presentable and take it to the small chapel for identification by the victim’s head teacher.
The attendant casually leant over and pushed the victim’s tongue back in her mouth. “I should get more warning about preparing a dead body to be taken to the viewing room. There ain’t anything more I can do to make her look better without proper notice,” he said gruffly.
“Please go and get the viewing room ready,” Jane said sharply.
The disgruntled morgue attendant walked off, muttering to him
self.
Jane soaked a sponge in water and used it to wipe the blood from Eileen’s hair and face. She could now see how pretty Eileen Summers had been, almost angelic.
“What a waste of a young life,” she said sadly, patting Eileen’s hair and face dry with a towel.
She took her own hairbrush from her handbag and gently brushed Eileen’s hair, then used a rubber band she found in a drawer and tied it in a ponytail. She had never touched a dead body so intimately before and began to feel quite emotional. She applied a bit of make-up to Eileen’s face and placed the white shroud over her neck to cover the strangulation marks, then stood back, satisfied that the young woman now looked at peace.
Mrs. Rowlands wept as she stood beside Jane and formally identified Eileen Summers’ body. It was the first time Jane had seen the dignified headmistress really break down. Mrs. Rowlands leant forward and kissed Eileen’s forehead.
“If I’d had a daughter, I’d have wanted her to be like Eileen. She was a wonderful woman and teacher, so kind and thoughtful. She loved all the children and they loved her. I don’t know what the school will do without her. She’s irreplaceable.”
Jane could feel herself welling up. The identification of a body in a murder investigation had become a routine task since she’d been in the CID and she had become desensitized to it. But somehow this was different. She reached out and took hold of Mrs. Rowlands’ hand, squeezing it.
“I promise you we will do our very best to find whoever killed her.”
Mrs. Rowlands wiped the tears from her cheeks and looked at Jane. “I spoke with the school secretary, who told me something about Eileen that might be relevant to your investigation.”
Jane lead Mrs. Rowlands to the coroner’s office so they could speak in private, then took out her notebook and nodded that she was ready.
“On Monday morning, just after ten a.m., the secretary answered a call from a well-spoken man who said he was a friend of Miss Summers and needed to speak to her about a personal matter.”
“Did he give his name?” Jane asked.
“He said he was Mr. Smith, but he didn’t give a first name.”
Murder Mile Page 14