by Zach Abrams
“I'm Irene. I gather you've come to see Mrs Stevenson and that you've got some bad news for her.”
“Yes, I'm afraid that's right. Her son's been killed and we've come to inform her. It would be good if you could be with her when we speak with her. I'd like to ask you a few things first.”
“How terrible, she'll be devastated. I'll be happy to do anything I can to help. We all would. She's such a sweet old lady.”
“First of all, can you tell me about her? What's her state of health like? Is she strong enough to take the news and is she mentally able? Will she understand?”
“Physically, she's quite able for her age. She's seventy-six years old, been with us for about two years. Her knees are bad with arthritis and she can't get about without a zimmer or a wheelchair. It's considered too risky for her heart to have knee replacement surgery but I reckon that's borderline because she's reasonably fit otherwise. She's also a bit deaf and a hearing aid doesn't help much, but that's not unusual at her age. Mentally, she's bright as a button which could be a mixed blessing as she doted on her son”
“What can you tell me about her son? Did you know him? Did he visit regularly?
“Yes, I knew him, but not well. He came to see his mother on a regular basis. It was quite strange really. He came every Monday morning at 9.00 am and would stay for about an hour. The he would return later the same day, usually about 3.00 pm and stay for half an hour. It was the same thing every week, like clockwork. You could rely on his visits.”
Sandra and Alex exchanged quizzical looks before Irene continued. “He didn't come any other times, even on holidays or her birthday. Only once, when she had a fall, about six months ago, we phoned him and he came to see she was okay, but that was the only time. Any other visit has been on a Monday at the same times every week. Besides that, he always kept money in his mum's account so she could buy newspapers and have her hair done every week”
“Can you tell me anything else about him?”
“No, not really. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but I really didn't like him. I don't know what it was. He had this way of looking at you that made you feel uncomfortable.”
“Did Mrs Stevenson have any other visitors?”
“No, not really. Her daughter, from England, and her family come up every now and then, maybe once or twice a year, but that's all. The daughter phones as well. Not too often, maybe once or twice a month.”
“Did anyone else phone?”
“Yes, I think there was a cousin in Australia, but it was only once or twice a year.”
“Thank you. That's been very helpful. Now could you please take me to meet Mrs Stevenson? Is there somewhere private where we can talk?”
“Yes, of course. I'll take you through to the conservatory, then I'll bring Mrs Stevenson through to talk with you.”
Irene led them along a corridor lined with doors, rather like a hotel. Each door had a name label outside. They passed through a set of double doors into a very spacious bright and airy lounge. Large armchairs were laid out along one wall and in two large rectangles, with the chairs from each rectangle pointing in the direction of large LCD television screens. The same programme was showing on both televisions. There was also a large birdcage in one corner of the room with a brightly coloured budgerigar chirping away to anyone who'd listen. Only a few of the residents seemed to be watching the TV as others were either reading, talking or sleeping in their chairs. Alex was pleasantly surprised to see that all the residents he saw were smartly dressed, clean looking and seemed well cared for. There were a number of carers in the room attending to the residents' needs. Having only recently watched a television documentary on some of the deplorable conditions in a few of the nursing homes that had been investigated, Alex was comforted by the thought that they might have been extreme or unusual examples.
The layout of the two rectangles of chairs created a makeshift corridor between which Irene led them and opened the door into the conservatory. She bade them to sit on the couch and said she would go and collect Mrs Stevenson.
A few minutes later the door opened again and Irene backed a wheelchair over the threshold and turned it round to sit facing them. Looking up from it was a very alert looking little old lady. Although difficult to tell from her sitting position, Alex judged that she couldn't have been more than five feet tall. She was slim without being thin with a full head of well cared for, shoulder length white hair. A large pair of tortoiseshell-framed spectacles partly obscured her contented looking round face, which had a surprisingly unwrinkled skin.
“Okay, Maggie, these two police officers have come to speak with you,” she called out quite loudly and then turned to close the door before sitting herself in an upright chair next to her patient.
“Hello, Mrs Stevenson, my name's Alex Warren and this is Sandra McKinnon. We've come to talk to you about your son, Scott”
“Oh, my Scott. He's a lovely boy and so good to his Mum. He comes to see me every few days and he always brings me a packet of Jaffa cakes. He knows they're my favourites.”
“I'm sorry to tell you we have some very bad news for you. There was an incident in Scott's shop. He was attacked and I'm sorry to tell you that he's dead.”
“What, what did you say? This hearing aid's not very good. It sounded like you told me that Scott's dead.”
“I'm really sorry. That is what I said.”
Maggie started to shake and tears formed in her eyes. Irene moved closer and took hold of her hand.
“What happened?” she managed to blurt out as tears now started to flow down her cheeks.
Just at this point, the door opened and another of the residents walked in. “Sammy, I thought it was you. I knew you'd come to see me,” she called making her way towards a horrified Alex. Just then, another carer followed her into the room and Irene rose to prevent her further approach.
“No, Jean, that's not Sammy. This is someone who's come to see Maggie,” Irene said as she and the other carer ushered the woman back out of the door. Irene returned then closed and locked the door. “I'm sorry about that. Jean's a little bit confused.”
Alex returned his attention to Mrs Stevenson. “We're still trying to work out what's happened. Do you think we could ask you a few questions? It might help find out what's taken place.”
“I don't think I can help, but I'll try,” Maggie whimpered.
“That's very good of you. I'd like you to tell me about Scott. I'm trying to get a better picture of what he was like and who he knew.
“He's always been such a good boy. Who would want to hurt him? He's taken good care of me. After my Arthur died and I couldn't look after myself at home, he got me in here. He's made sure I've always got money to pay for anything I need. I didn't want to take anything from him but he told me he's been really successful in business and he can afford it. He's been really good to his sister too. He gives her money, and when her husband needed an operation last year, Scott insisted he went private and paid for it all. I couldn't have asked for a better son.”
“Has he ever told you about having any trouble or problems with anybody?” Sandra asked.
Concentrating on talking about him seemed to settle Maggie down and the tears gradually subsided. “Oh no! Well, not for a long time, anyway. Way back when he was young, he got in with a bad crowd. I remember they were caught stealing from one of the big shops in town. Woolworths, I think it was. Anyway, Scott had nothing to do with it, but because he hung about with them, he got into bother. It was never his fault though.
“The only time after that was when that bitch of a wife he had created a fuss. She just wanted his money and she claimed he'd hit her, but he never did. She just said it to get at more of his money and that was years ago.”
“And there's not been anything after that?” Sandra persisted.
“No, nothing at all.”
“Did Scott ever discuss his work with you or tell you about the people he worked with?” Sandra enquired.
“He'd sometimes tell me he'd had a good week or that a deal had gone really well but he never said more than that. He never said who he worked with or for.”
“I believe Scott came to see you regularly,” Alex asked.
“Oh yes, he was here all the time. I told you he was a good boy.”
“Yes, you did say,” Alex replied, trying to hide his true feelings. “Did he ever bring anyone or anything with him?”
“He always came alone, except for when his sister came up to visit. But every time he came, he'd bring me another packet of Jaffa cakes, every single time. He'd take them up to my room for me. He'd put this wooden box inside my wardrobe and every time he came he'd go up to my room and check there was enough biscuits for me in the box. It was our little joke. I can take some out whenever I want but every night I have one before I go to bed.”
“This might sound funny, but would you mind if we had a look in the box before we left?” Alex asked.
“Yes, that will be okay and you can have a Jaffa cake each. But only one, mind you.”
Irene said she would get a carer to show Alex and Sandra to Maggie's room, and while Maggie and Irene remained in the conservatory, they followed the carer through a set of double doors then through a key code operated door and out to a lift. They took this up to the first floor then had to pass through another key code operated door to access a corridor. Maggie's room was about half way along.
“There's better security here than we have at Pitt Street,” Sandra whispered.
Maggie's room was well proportioned. It had a large double-glazed window looking out over the car park. There was a hospital-style adjustable bed, a wall mounted LCD television and a set of teak fronted bedroom furniture comprising a double wardrobe with top box, two chests of drawers and a bedside table which held a number of framed photographs. There were two different ones of Scott, smiling and dressed casually, as if on holiday. There was one of Maggie standing next to an elderly man, presumably her now deceased husband, and one showing a family fitting the description of Maggie's daughter.
“The Jaffa cake box is in the lower section of the wardrobe,” said the carer.
Alex opened the wardrobe and pushed aside a number of hanging garments to find the large wooden box. He pulled it out and opened the top. Inside were four packets of Jaffa cakes, one of which was open. Underneath there was a wooden tray. When he removed the tray he found a key underneath. It was a precision-tooled security key, nothing like a door key, being flat on both sides with no grooves, square cut teeth, an embedded microchip and a number engraved on the outside. “Bingo!” he called out.
Sandra realised it was a breakthrough and wanted to ask Alex about the significance of what he'd found but knew she had to wait until they were in the car and could not be overheard.
They returned downstairs and asked Maggie about the key but she had no idea what it was or how it got there. She happily gave her permission for the key to be taken away hoping it might help the police solve the mystery of why Scott had ended up dead.
Chapter 5
Once they were back out in the car, Alex and Sandra compared notes.
“The moment she told us about Scott visiting twice every Monday and at no other times, I knew there was something fishy,” Sandra said. “I think he must have come by in the morning, collected the key to lock away money or photos or something and then come back to replace the key in the afternoon.”
“Yes, I think you're absolutely right. Now what we need to do is find out where the key fits.”
“Perhaps it's a safe or it could be for premises or for a safe deposit box. It will be tricky finding out what it's for and where it is,” Sandra continued.
“No, it's better than that,” Alex corrected. “I recognise the type. It's used for bank safe deposit boxes, but only of a certain sort. Often there are two keys required to open a box. Nearly all banks now keep both keys for the boxes in a tamper proof container and you have to prove your identity every time you access the box. There's only a few left with a system where the owner keeps one key and has free access. That ought to make it easier to trace.”
Alex started the car. “Let's get back and see whether there's been any other developments,” and with that he guided the car back through the gateway.
Before long they had collected McAvoy, the box of photos, the ME's report and the newly arrived scene of crime documentation and were on their way to their office in the regional police headquarters.
Before starting with the photos, they pored over the reports, first making copies so each could work with their own version.
Alex read the detailed ME report but found little more than Sandra had already précised for him. The two reports from scene of crime were more illuminating.
Not surprisingly, there was an abundance of prints found in the shop. These were being catalogued and checked against a database to see what links could be made to known felons who had been working with Stevenson. The office of the shop only yielded prints from Stevenson and Findlay. Some surfaces and the floor had been freshly washed down with disinfectant and there were no fibre traces or DNA. There were a number of smudge marks that seemed to have been made by a gloved hand, probably from rubber gloves. The security system had worked by three separate CCTV cameras sending their signals to an old-style VHS video recorder but with a secondary signal being captured on a tower-style computer. There was no videotape in the machine although there were tapes in boxes labelled for each day of the week lying next to it. Thursday's box was empty and the tape was nowhere to be found, so the murderer had undoubtedly removed it. The computer had also been tampered with. A program had been run to delete all current files and format all disks but, not content with that, the machine had been opened and the hard disk removed. There was no sign of the back door being used and there were no footprints outside. The front door had not been tampered with and there were no signs of blood on or near it. It was fitted with a Yale barrel-style lock which had only to be pulled shut from the outside. There was a lot of blood spilled and spread on and around the body. There were some bloody footprints in the close vicinity but nowhere else. One or two tread-marks were distinguishable and it was consistent with a size eleven of a particular style of Clark's brogue, so quite large feet, but the shoes were fairly commonplace and not easily traceable.
“Doesn't this strike you as odd?” Sandra asked. “The murder shows all the signs of being an act of anger, impromptu, nothing premeditated, yet the murderer obviously knew how to cover up, and he found what he needed to do it or he had it with him. He must have known a fair bit about police procedures and not just the sort of thing you'd pick up from watching CSI. He knew his way round a computer. He had or found the tools to open it up. He had or found gloves and disinfectant. Bloody footprints discovered only close to the body suggest he took his shoes off, probably before entering the office, and that was cleaned to avoid leaving traces. Why on earth would he do that? The guy's most likely been covered in blood and not wearing shoes, he's been carrying the shoes, the tape and bits of computer then walked out the front door trying not to be noticed. I can see that if his shoes were bloody, he'd have not wanted to leave footprints at or near the entrance, but I don't follow why there aren't any other signs and, if he's covered in blood anyway, why bother? Once he's already out the shop without being noticed it would hardly matter if the footprints were seen. The only risk would be the body might be found a bit sooner.”
“Good work, Sandra,” Alex said before continuing. “It's not a busy street but he must have had a car and been parked close. He couldn't have been walking about in Great Western Road or he'd surely have been spotted.”
“Maybe he found a change of clothes in the shop, or he had one in the car,” McAvoy added.
“That's a possibility,” Sandra continued. “If his car was right outside the front door, he might have risked going out in his stocking soles to get the tools he needed and the change of clothes. He's probably used a bag or something to
carry everything in”
“Too late now to check for footprints at the entrance as there's been far too many people in and out, but we can concentrate questions on anyone seeing a car parked at or close to the door around that time,” McAvoy speculated.
“Worth trying, pass it along to the team,” Alex instructed. “Now, what about the house?”
“Similar story,” Sandra began. “It was expertly taken apart by someone who knew what he was looking for. No prints, just glove smudges. The alarm system, such as it was, was deactivated first and the phone lines were cut as well. He was taking a bit of a risk there because a more sophisticated alarm system would have triggered at the point the phone-line was cut. He must have been in the house for quite a long time so it was odd for him to take that sort of risk, unless he knew…?”
“You could be on to something there. But how could he know? He'd need to either be familiar with the house or have something to do with the alarm company or the police.” Alex's words were followed by a long pause as they each digested the possibilities.
“There's more if you read on,” McAvoy added. “Stevenson had an internal system. He had webcams set up around the house recording onto his computer; they were all movement activated so they ought to have caught the intruder. The computer also had a regular online backup set up. So there would have been a safe recording of anyone moving about in the house. The only problem was the phone line being cut so the backup was never transmitted and, same as the shop, the hard disk's been removed from the computer. This can't be coincidence. The murderer couldn't have been that lucky. He must have known what he was doing cutting the phone line to stop the backup.”
“So what you're saying is the murderer knew exactly the system that Stevenson had before he entered the house. How does that fit in with the way the murder was done?” Alex asked.
“I don't know. I haven't a bloody clue.”
“There's far too much that doesn't make sense, but at least we're making some headway.”