by T J Walter
Thoreau, Walden quoting Confucius
It was now 6pm on Monday, fully 46 hours since the violent death of Alison MacPherson. Brookes’ team was gathered in the murder room, awaiting a briefing. Brookes called them to order and conversation stopped. There were a few shuffling noises whilst the team settled down, then complete silence.
Brookes stood beside Short’s desk. Behind him, the whiteboard was now covered with information. He had a broken billiard cue in one hand that he would use to point to relevant items on the board as he talked; not all the team’s equipment was state of the art.
‘Right, first let me introduce DS Jacqui Rose to those who haven’t yet met her. She’s now part of the team and I expect each of you to help her settle in.’ He glanced in her direction and there was a chorus of hellos. She smiled at the faces around her then looked back at Brookes.
He continued, ‘Right, now let’s get down to business. First the victim: Alison Vera MacPherson, twenty-six years old, white Caucasian, born in Aberdeen. Single and with no current boyfriend. She lived at flat twenty-two, Riverside Mansions, Limehouse Causeway; a second floor flat that backed directly onto the Thames. She worked as an accountant for a firm called Luxury Homes Abroad. It’s an up-market company that does holidays for the very rich in exotic parts of the world. Alison was a graduate with bright prospects. The company offices are at Canary Wharf, one stop up the Dockland Light Railway. She had no car and travelled to work by rail, according to her friend, Joan Wilson, who ID’d her body at the morgue this morning.
‘We know she worked on Saturday, the day she was murdered. Between one and two that day, she had lunch with her friend Ms Wilson. They had lunch in the Greedy Grape, a wine bar on the Canary Wharf complex. Then Alison went back to work. The Wilson woman confirms Alison was dressed in a navy skirt suit, a white blouse, and black high-heeled shoes; you will see the relevance of this in a moment.
‘According to the office manager, Alison left work just before six. We next have a sighting of her in a convenience store in West India Dock Road, a few hundred yards from her flat. She appears in the shop alone at six fifteen pm on a security camera. She bought some lamb chops and green veg. From the PM, we know she ate a meal shortly before her death. We’re fairly sure she cooked it herself and ate alone.
‘It seems she washed up immediately after. There was just one plate, knife, and fork together with the cooking pots and utensils on the draining board beside the sink. There were also empty food wrappings in the bin and the vegetables she didn’t use in the fridge.
‘Now, here’s the first significant anomaly. The PM shows that she also had a glass or two of red wine a few hours before her death. But there were no glasses on the draining board and no sign of the bottle the wine came from in the flat, and she had no time to stop for a drink on the way home.’ He looked around the faces in front of him.
No one spoke.
‘This of course raises the question: what happened to the glass she drank from and the bottle? There were a set of six wine glasses in the cupboard, all clean; that seems to me like a full set. Why would she put the glass away after washing it and not the crockery?’ He waited a moment then answered his own question. ‘One answer could be that the killer had a glass of wine with her and then, after killing her, wiped both glasses clean then put them away, thereby making sure his prints weren’t on one of them. If that is the case, he no doubt took the bottle with him.’
Stumpy Gerrard said, ‘Was there any sign of a cork, boss?’
‘Good question, Stumpy; the answer is no and the corkscrew was in the cutlery drawer. It could well have been a screw-top bottle; either that or the killer was meticulous enough to put the corkscrew away after him and take the cork away with him.’
DC Liz Foreman said, ‘Was there any debris on the dining table, sir; anything that might suggest a bottle had been opened there?’
Brookes smiled. ‘Another good question, Liz; according to the CSI the answer is no.’
He waited a moment, but there were no more questions so he continued, ‘The other thing is her clothing. When she was fished out of the river she had her navy skirt and blouse on but no jacket; instead she wore an old woollen cardigan. Her legs and feet were bare. I think it’s safe to assume that when she got home she took off her jacket, shoes, and tights and put on the cardigan and house slippers. That indicates to me that she wasn’t expecting visitors; all the women I know want to look their best when entertaining.’
Rose frowned at his sexist remark; exactly the same could be said of men. But she said nothing.
Brookes continued, ‘At about eight pm, a neighbour across the hall heard Alison’s doorbell ring, then she heard the murmur of voices; she thinks that one voice was male and one female, presumably that of the deceased. But she couldn’t swear to that nor could she hear what was said. The neighbour neither saw nor heard anything else after that so she can’t confirm that Alison invited the visitor in. She said that she had her TV on later and wouldn’t have heard much from outside unless it was very loud.
‘From our examination of Alison’s flat, we can say that there was some kind of a struggle. A coffee table was overturned in the lounge and a chair cushion was on the floor. One carpet slipper was found in the bedroom, one on the balcony. And in the bedroom, there were indentations on the bedclothes that suggested someone had lain on top of them. There were smears of lipstick on the pillow and what look like boot marks on the duvet.’
He pointed with his billiard cue to a plan of the flat on the whiteboard. ‘So, we have signs of a struggle in the bedroom and the lounge and a slipper found on the balcony. Now you can see that the balcony actually overhangs the river. Access to the balcony is through these sliding glass doors from the lounge.
‘Now, forensics. Behind the leather cushions on the settee, George Hadley found a few hairs and dandruff that are not the victim’s. He’s confident he can get the DNA from them. Of course, they may or may not be the killer’s. But if we find a suspect and they are his, at least we’ll be able to put him at the scene.
‘Alison’s spare room was set up as her computer workstation; there was a printer and other accessories but no computer. We know from her friend she had a laptop. There was also an empty memory disk rack on the desk. There is clear evidence that the flat had been searched before we got there and various surfaces wiped, presumably to remove fingerprints. But nothing else seems to be missing. There was even cash in her purse and an expensive camera and mobile phone, to say nothing of the TV and music centre. None of this stuff was taken. What kind of thief leaves those things behind?’
He didn’t wait for an answer but continued, ‘The next thing we know is that at six pm on Sunday, two Thames Division officers on river patrol discovered Alison’s body floating in the river at the top of Limehouse Reach. The body was dressed in a white blouse, navy skirt, and green woolly jumper. Her underwear was intact but she had bare legs and feet. Tied in a granny knot around her neck was a pair of tights.
‘I attended the PM this morning. Cause of death, asphyxiation; she was strangled with her own tights. There was no sign of sexual assault but there was a bruise on her chest consistent with someone kneeling on her. The time of death is estimated as nine pm on Saturday, give or take an hour. As I’ve already mentioned, her stomach contents show that she had eaten a meal and drunk one or two glasses of red wine within two hours of her death. The body was identified this morning by a Miss Joan Wilson, Alison’s best friend.’
He consulted his notes. At the rear of the room, Fred Middlemiss whispered to Jacqui Rose,
‘There you go, Jacqui, the full Monty. The boss would ‘ave made a good general.’
Rose nodded but reserved judgment.
Meanwhile, Brookes had continued. ‘OK, Liz and Bob may have come up with something useful on their house to house enquiries. There’s an old biddy who lives opposite Riverview. She says that on Saturday evening she saw two strange cars parked outside Alison’s building. She’s o
bviously not an expert on cars but, when she was shown the photos of makes and models, she did identify a black BMW saloon with tinted windows.
‘The other she’s not so clear about except for the colour – yellow – and the shape – she called it a box car. Could be a Fait, Renault, or any of the Japanese cars, but the distinctive colour should help. Liz and Bob are going back this evening to re-interview residents to see if any of them had visitors Saturday evening.’
He paused again; the room was quiet. ‘OK, that’s what we know. Now let’s try to reconstruct the crime. The victim came home alone to an empty flat. We can be fairly sure of that; there was no sign of a break-in and there’s only one other key which the Wilson woman has. And Alison only cooked for one by the look of it and changed into something more comfortable: a woolly jumper and carpet slippers.
‘Then, at approximately eight pm, someone rang her doorbell. I think it’s safe to assume that she let him in; the killer must have got into her flat somehow. It seems that they may have had a glass of wine together so she may well have known him. Then there was a struggle, which ended with him strangling her on her bed. He then carried her body through to the balcony and threw her in to the river with her pantyhose still tied around her neck.
‘Next, he searches the flat. Then he carefully wipes his fingerprints from everything he touched. He closes the balcony doors but does not re-arrange the furniture to erase the signs of a struggle. Then he leaves, closing the front door behind him and taking the laptop with him, and maybe some memory discs.’
He looked up. ‘Now the speculation. He may or may not have arrived in a small yellow box-shaped car or a BMW. He may or may not have brought a bottle of wine with him and taken the empty bottle away with him. He probably did take the laptop with him but ignored the cash and other valuables.
‘We have one or two possible motives – either a frustrated lover or someone who simply wanted the information she had on her computer files. There may of course be other motives we don’t know about; we must keep our minds open at this stage. According to her friend, she was careful and there was a deadlock on the front door. She would hardly let a stranger in. So it’s not unreasonable to assume she knew her killer.
‘I think that’s about it. Now it’s your turn; let’s have your ideas and comments.’
There was silence in the room for a few moments. Then DC Bob Phillips spoke.
‘This visitor that she let in. It’s the timing that gets me, eight o’clock. She’s already eaten so he wasn’t invited to dinner and she was dressed in her woolly jumper and carpet slippers. Why did she let him in?’
‘That’s a good question, Bob. It doesn’t look as if he was expected. Anyone else any ideas on that?’
No one had.
DC Liz Foreman asked, ‘The computer files, boss. What could she have had on them that would cause someone to kill her?’
Brookes smiled. ‘That could well be the sixty-four thousand dollar question, Liz. If that’s the motive it would probably tell us who the killer is. We can only speculate. Perhaps he was an old flame; maybe they had an argument and he lost his temper and killed her but guessed that she had details about him on the computer. So he takes it to protect his identity. But there could be several other explanations. We’ll have to get warrants to check her phone and bank records; hopefully when we get to those tomorrow that will shed some light on things. Any more points?’
There were none.
Brookes closed the meeting. ‘OK then. The house-to-house team has some work to do this evening; they need to re-interview the neighbours to see if any of them had visitors Saturday evening that would account for the strange cars. The rest of you get an early night; I want you all here by eight in the morning. Fred and Jacqui, see me before you leave. That’s it, folks.’
Middlemiss and Rose joined their boss as the other detectives dispersed.
Brookes said, ‘Fred, I want you to find out all you can about the victim; her childhood, education, friends, associates, the lot. See what there is on the Internet about her; perhaps she’s on Twitter or Facebook.’ To Rose he said, ‘I shall be a while yet. Sit down with DI Short and tap his brain; he’ll tell you how we put together a computer murder file and make sure nothing is missed. Once we’re done, you run me home and take the car home with you. I hope you haven’t too many plans for the next few evenings, we’ll be working long hours on this.’ He didn’t wait for a reply but turned and disappeared into his office.
Middlemiss smiled. ‘No time for cocktail parties on this squad, Jacqui.’
She returned his smile. ‘Never mind, Fred, I’m sure your friends will understand.’
Short smiled too. ‘The only cocktail party he’d get an invite to would still have feathers on it.’
The three laughed.
*
Brookes spent the next two hours going through the notes of interviews and other information the team had already acquired. When he’d finished, he was satisfied that the team had been thorough and missed nothing. But he was no closer to finding a suspect. The only additional thought that came to him was to wonder whether the killer had put something in her wine. There were no defensive wounds or skin under her fingernails. Yet he’d strangled her whilst facing her. Why hadn’t she put up a fight?
His mobile rang. He frowned as he saw who the caller was.
He answered and said into the mouthpiece, ‘Yes sir, sorry I never got back to you.’
The voice of Bert Mclean, his divisional commander, said, ‘So you damned well should be. How’s young Jacqueline getting on?’ Despite the words, there was no rancour in his tone.
‘She seems bright enough.’
‘Do you know her father, Quentin Rose?’
‘Only by reputation, never appeared before him.’
‘Well he’s a friend of mine. Give her a chance, John.’ He paused then added, ‘How’s the case going?’
‘Slowly; doesn’t appear to have been a domestic.’
There was a long silence as Mclean waited for him to expand on that. But Brookes didn’t.
Finally, Mclean said, ‘I hope you’ll have more than that to say to the press tomorrow; they’re already baying like wolves. It’s not drugs-related, is it?’
‘Not as far as I know; why do you ask, sir?’
‘After the last lot with the Russians and the Jamaicans we can do without more of the same.’
‘Well I’ve got my hands full with this murder case. I’ll leave the drugs to the Drug Squad.’
Mclean laughed. ‘Single-minded as well as bloody minded. Where are you; I tried your home number.’
‘Still at Leman Street but I’m just about to leave. Your young Jacqueline can drive me home so I can have a pint on the way.’
Mclean laughed again. ‘Bloody typical, I send you a rising star and you use her as your personal driver.’ Then, in a more reasonable tone, he added, ‘Give her a chance, John, she’s got potential; that’s why I sent her to you.’
‘Yes sir, but she’ll have to earn her spurs first; I can’t afford to carry any passengers.’
‘Just remember she’s got a future ahead of her. And not as a Class One driver.’
‘That’s why I’m keeping her with me, sir. I go where the action is so that’s the best place for her to learn and she might as well make herself useful.’
‘OK; keep in touch. We’ll go out for a pint when I get the chance.’
The line went dead and Brookes got up and put his coat on. Walking into the main office, he saw Rose deep in conversation with Derek Short. The only other person in the office was Fred Middlemiss, who was on the telephone.
Walking over to Short’s desk, he said, ‘Has everyone booked off, Derek?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Good, get your coat on, I’ll buy you a pint.’ Turning to Middlemiss, who’d put the phone down, he said, ‘Fancy a pint, Fred?’
‘Might as well, boss; the missus will be in bed by now.’ He was happily married to a very und
erstanding wife and had four young children.
The four detectives adjourned to The Princess Alice, a pub just a few doors from the police station.
*
Half an hour later, Rose sat at the wheel of the pool car with Brookes in the passenger seat beside her.
After giving her directions, he said, ‘Well, how was your first day on a murder squad?’
‘Fascinating, sir, DI Short is a mine of information. I can’t wait for tomorrow.’
Brookes gave her an appraising glance and decided she was genuinely enjoying the experience. ‘Good, the pace can get a bit hot and the hours are long, but I’m sure you see the urgency at the beginning of an investigation. People have short memories and the colder the trail gets the harder it gets to catch the villain.’ He added, ‘Take the next right, I live just past the second lamppost on the left. Pick me up at seven in the morning.’
*
Chapter 7 – The Third Day
‘Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.’
Thoreau; journal Nov. 1850
The shrill ringing of the telephone broke through the veil of sleep. Brookes groped for the receiver on the bedside table.
‘Yes?’ he said, gruffly, into the mouthpiece. Then, ‘OK, I’m up, thanks.’
The clock beside the phone showed the time to be 6.30 on the dot. He swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees and head in his hands, waiting for the cobwebs to clear. After a few moments, he got up and headed for the shower. His heavy frame was well-muscled but showing signs of a paunch. Not enough exercise and too many snatched meals were having their effect.
Twenty minutes later, he was sipping his first coffee of the day. His team would spend the day gathering information: examining records, searching dustbins, and talking to people; what the pundits called routine enquiries. In fact, there was nothing routine about them. The people being questioned certainly didn’t find it routine. Some were flattered by the attention, others were reluctant to help, worried that the skeletons in their own cupboards might be rattled, some were just plain annoyed at the interruption to their own busy schedules. And the detectives themselves couldn’t treat them as routine or they might miss the clue they were looking for.