by M. C. Dutton
WHAT HAPPENED TO ALICE
At 10 a.m. the call came in. Jazz nearly missed it. It was only hearing the name Alice Watson and the address in Wards Road, Newbury Park that made him rush to the desk where the information was coming in.
“It’s not for you, Jazz, it’s a death of an old lady who looks like she has fallen over and bashed her head, not a crime scene.” The officer tried to dismiss him and get on with the logistics of arranging for an officer to stay at the house until the ambulance arrived. Jazz didn’t care and was having none of it. It was like a bolt had struck him in his back and he hunched his shoulders for comfort. He felt a tightness in his chest and his breathing was laboured with the shock. Poor Alice, that sweet old lady he had known since a child and spent precious evenings with when his mother died was now dead. It was all so unfair. He had to go there to see she was handled respectfully, she had no one else.
He was full of remorse. He remembered he promised to keep in contact with her but he didn’t. He could conjure up all the excuses on why he had never rung, but he was too ashamed to bother. The least he could do was to be there at the house.
Feeling muddled and strangely confused, he took himself off to the CID room to tell Sharon and Tony to get on with the shoplifting cases and he would be back later. He told himself to get a grip; the sadness, and the tears nearly ready to spill, was not how he wanted the CID room to see him. His depression would have to wait until he had time alone to deal with it. It was a sombre drive to Wards Road, Newbury Park. He hadn’t been there for years and he expected it to look the same.
When he arrived outside Alice’s house, he had to park a little way away. The ambulance had just pulled up and a panda car was sitting outside. Jazz got out quickly and took control. No, he insisted, the body was not to be moved yet. He wanted to look at the scene. He made the officer who attended the call – who was obviously still fairly new to the job – stay by the door and told him not to let anyone in without his say so. The smell as he entered the hallway said it all. Once you have smelt death, it never leaves you, you always know it. He shouted to the officer to send the ambulance men away because a mortuary van was needed. Irrationally, he felt a swell of anger at the police officer for ringing for the ambulance.
“Fucking idiot, she is stiff as a board and smells like she has been here for days. Yeah gods! Where do they find the imbeciles?” He realised he was going over the top and tried to calm down. He stood for a moment, looking around.
The house was as he remembered it. The multicoloured runner in the hall with lino underneath. Her house was from a bygone age of carpet beaters, floor scrubbing and all the things that never got done in this day and age in quite the same way. It didn’t smell of lavender polish like he remembered; the pervasive smell of death had taken over the house. He walked into the front room and saw her. She was lying with her head on the tiled surround of the fireplace.
He remembered years ago sitting with his mother in this very front room balancing a cup and saucer in one hand and a matching tea plate in the other hand. She always gave them chocolate digestive biscuits, which were his mother’s favourites. Alice was such a kind, genteel lady. It was always her bone china cups with flowers on them, wide rimmed and so very thin that he remembered being scared to hold the cup too tightly in case it broke in his hand. Alice always made a point of getting her best china out when he and his mother called to visit. She would never put a tea bag in a mug and fill it with hot water; he remembered it had to be loose tea leaves, which she kept in a special tea caddy tin that had pictures of what was supposed to be Ceylon on it. She used a special spoon that measured the correct amount of tea leaves to go in the teapot, and she had a stainless steel strainer which sat on a purpose built saucer ready to be used when tea was required. It was a long ritual that was very comforting to watch and he wished she was making him a cup of tea now and asking all the silly questions about his schooling and what he was doing. He smiled at the thought that she had no idea about schooling and everything he told her seemed to go over her head but she would nod and smile and still make him feel very important.
Now here she was lying in an undignified way, lifeless and not the Alice he remembered. When she was alive, she was always smiling and nodding and moving around doing bits and pieces. Jazz looked at Alice, prone and very dead, and felt a mistiness that could have become tears. The house felt cold and lifeless, like Alice. The front door was flung open wide allowing anyone to walk in and out without the courtesy of knocking. It felt wrong to Jazz; Alice wouldn’t have liked it. He shouted, “Close that fucking door” to the officer outside.
Professionalism kicked in and he went into work mode. There would be time for mourning later; for now he would do his job. Something was wrong here, though he didn’t for the moment quite know what. It wouldn’t take him long to pick up what had first given him a sense of unease. He owed it to Alice to do right by her. He stood still and just looked. He wasn’t himself, he knew that, this felt personal, but he was sure he wasn’t making more of this. Of course Alice could have fallen and the big gap in the back of her head could have been caused by hitting the fireplace. She was an old lady, these things happen. Again, he wasn’t convinced and he didn’t know why.
Jazz, now totally in control, looked up when the ambulance men suddenly appeared in the doorway of the front room. Having been called here, they decided to ignore the officer on the door and come in and just check for themselves that she was dead. Jazz said airily that they could check for themselves if they wished. The fact that she was stiff as a board and not smelling particularly nice was evidence enough. They saw for themselves it was not an ambulance job and left to check in to their control and inform them it was not their call. Jazz shouted to the officer on the door to ask if he had called for the mortuary van and where was it.
He wanted to cover her, to give her dignity but something stopped him. The police officer shouted that the mortuary van would take some time, they reckoned about an hour. The officer came into the hall and poked his head round the door into the front room. The smell was getting to him. He wasn’t used to dead bodies.
“Skip, the milkman who rang us is sitting in his float outside. I told him to wait. Do you want to see him?”
Jazz nodded, he thought that would be a good idea and made his way out the front. He told the officer to stay put at the front door and not to let anyone in unless he said so. Again, he said to keep the door on the latch but nearly closed. He didn’t want the place full of flies.
The milkman had sat patiently for the past hour waiting to be told what to do. Jazz got into the front of the float and sat beside him. He introduced himself as Ernie, adding very quickly that he knew what Jazz was going to say, “Ernie, the fast milkman in the West.” Jazz didn’t know what he was talking about. Embarrassed, Ernie, babbled on saying it was a Benny Hill song. Again, Jazz looked nonplussed. Ernie lit a cigarette and dragged deeply.
“She was a lovely old dear you know,” he said quietly. “I looked through the letter box and called her name and then that smell hit me. I know what that smell means.” He looked at Jazz and then away. “I have found a few dead bodies in my time on this round but she was lovely and always had a cup of tea for me on a Friday when I collect the money.” That answered Jazz’s question of why he had knocked at the door: it was Friday.
“Did you know she had been dead for a few days?” Jazz asked.
“She couldn’t have been because I left milk for her and it was gone the next day. She took it in as usual,” answered Ernie.
Jazz looked at him and checked to see if he was sure he had left milk every day. Ernie nodded a yes. Now into his stride, he hesitantly added, “You know, something wasn’t right yesterday or the day before. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now.” He looked at Jazz for encouragement.
Jazz looked directly at him and said, “Go on, what wasn’t right?”
Infuriatingly, Ernie sat smoking and looking ahead, deep in thought. Jazz want
ed to shake him but held back. They both had this feeling that something wasn’t right, they both knew Alice and he needed to know what Ernie was thinking.
After smoking the cigarette down to the filter tip. Ernie threw it out into the street. He turned to Jazz and said, “I have figured out what it was. She always took her milk in early. I deliver about 7.30 a.m. each morning and she used to take it in about 8 a.m., or that is what she told me. She told me often that she liked a cup of tea when she sat to watch Jeremy Kyle on the TV in the morning and fresh milk always made it taste better. She was a sweet old dear.” He smiled at the thought. Jazz was getting impatient. He wanted to know what he had figured out. “She always made me a cuppa on a Friday you know. Always a nice biscuit with it too,” he added conversationally. He looked at Jazz and saw that look in his eyes and thought he had better get to the point. “Well, when I finished my round, which was about 10.a.m, I had to come down this road to get back to the dairy and when I went past Alice’s house, the milk was still on the door step. It wasn’t there the next morning so I never thought anything about it. Still,” he hesitated for a moment, “you know, it was strange. Never happened before.”
Ernie tried to brighten up and smiled wistfully. “She had a good innings,” was the best he could come up with.
“So, what time did you knock on the door today?” Jazz wanted to get this sorted and bring it back to a more businesslike style. It was getting all too personal for him.
“It was exactly 9.30 a.m., Sir.”
Jazz thanked him and asked him to call into Ilford Police Station just to make a statement after work, which Ernie said he was happy to do.
He went back into the house and thought he would take a look in the kitchen to see if the milk was there. It could have been stolen off the door step, he supposed. On the worktop he saw three bottles of milk. Two of them looked like they had gone off. The cream at the top had that separated look that milk gets when it turns sour. The third bottle looked OK. There was also a pile of letters and leaflets that had been slung in a corner. It was not right. Who would have put the milk and post in the kitchen with a dead woman in the front room and not call the police.
It was then that he realised what he felt uneasy about. He went back into the front room and looked at Alice. There were two things here that were not right: firstly, the back of her head was caved in but there was hardly any blood around, that wasn’t right; and secondly, Alice was a woman from the generation that always wore vests, hairnets in bed and had something on their feet at all times – slippers in the house and shoes when going out. Alice always wore slippers in the house. Jazz could see she had nothing on her feet. She had been killed elsewhere and put in the front room to look make it like an accident. Again, he asked himself if he was making a mountain out of a molehill.
He started a search for her slippers. She always wore the sturdy ones that often had a pom pom-like bobble on the top, the ones that always seemed to be in a boring tartan brown. He never understood why such unattractive slippers were sought after in the shops by old ladies. He started to be careful about what he touched. Again, not sure why, but just in case. He pulled rubber gloves out of his pocket. A standard procedure, he told himself. He always carried a couple of pairs of the thin plastic gloves with him. He found what he was looking for under the stairs. A pair of the pom pommed tartan slippers were found neatly together just inside the understairs cupboard. Another thing he noticed, Alice did not have her pinny on. It was her badge of honour. Alice always wore a pinny indoors and in the garden. She had a large array of aprons. She always referred to them as pinnys. Again, he felt a well of emotion threatening to rise up from his chest and into his throat, so he told himself to buck up and be professional. Alice must have been going out. If she was going out, where was her pinny? He looked behind the kitchen door and there it was, in the place it would always be when she took it off to go out. It was hanging on the hook on the kitchen side of the door.
Again, he looked at Alice to see what she was wearing. She was wearing a thick smart cardigan, possibly something she would put on if she was stepping outside. She would have put on a coat if she was going to the shops. Alice looked after everything she had, he remembered, so he supposed she hadn’t bought any new coats, it would have been the beige macintosh as usual. The cardigan made him presume she hadn’t been going far. Where would she be going, he asked himself. To visit a neighbour perhaps. He asked the police officer if any neighbour had called to see what had happened. The answer was no. Someone was discreetly looking from behind curtains, but no one as yet had said anything to him.
So where are her shoes, he wondered. Perhaps by the front door in readiness for going out, he told himself, but on searching, he found nothing. He looked in the kitchen but there was nothing there. He did see that the back door was unlocked and he thought that strange. Alice’s bag was in the back room and he checked it for keys but could find none. Where were her keys? They were not in the kitchen or upstairs, he checked. It was all very strange and worrying. He stood looking at Alice again and softly asked, “Alice what has happened to you? Did you fall or did something else happen here?” Of course there was no answer but Jazz, in that moment, decided there was more to this than a fall. He took his hip flask from his pocket and unscrewed the top. He took a good swig and waited as the clear liquid slid down his throat creating a stinging warmth that made him close his eyes as he savoured the feeling. He felt better for it and took another illicit swig before putting the screw top back on and hiding it quickly inside his jacket pocket. He could think clearer now. He popped a peppermint into his mouth and walked purposefully to the front door.
The police officer turned to see Jazz on the phone calling for a SOCO team to be sent immediately to this address. When he had finished, Jazz briskly addressed the Officer and, now in full control, barked, “Don’t touch a fucking thing in the house, SOCO are coming. Don’t let anyone in and the mortuary van will have to wait. No one touches the old lady until SOCO have finished. Do you understand?”
The officer nodded and wondered what on earth was going on. It was boring standing outside the house and this looked as if it would get interesting. “I will have to call into the station sir to inform my sergeant.” Jazz nodded, not interested in those minor details. “Just make sure no one except SOCO come into the house, comprende?” The officer nodded. For a moment Jazz felt for the officer, who was going to have to stand outside for a lot longer than first thought. “See if someone from the station is passing and can bring us a cup of tea. Bet you could do with one?” And as an after thought he added, “See if they can get a cake or something to eat, its going to be a long day” The officer was grateful for the thought and said he would ring through to Ilford and see who was about.
Jazz went through the house to the back door. He wanted to know why it was unlocked and where the keys were. He also wanted to now where Alice’s shoes were, and then there was the milk. It was all stacking up into something and made Jazz think there was a lot more to this than a fatal fall. His phone rang and when he looked at his mobile, DCI Radley’s name flashed on the screen. At that moment he couldn’t fully explain his reasoning and he knew he would be asked to account for his actions. He decided to ignore the call.
He didn’t know what he was looking for when he went into the garden. Any clue would do. To be honest, he was glad to be outside. The house felt cold and disturbingly empty and the smell of death was choking him. He stood outside and bathed in the warm sun and breathed in some decent air. By the back door were some gardening implements and a bucket. Alice was an extremely tidy person and he wondered why they were not in the shed at the back of the garden. Perhaps she was going to do some gardening and she went indoors and fell. That would account for the back door being unlocked. But it still didn’t account for the milk getting into the kitchen or the fact that Alice had nothing on her feet or the keys being missing and the lack of blood around her head. He needed to think clearly.
He
needed to find her shoes, they had to be close by because she had taken her slippers off and placed them neatly under the stairs. Anyone else would say that perhaps she wasn’t wearing her slippers that day. Not everyone wears slippers in a house, he wasn’t stupid, but he knew Alice. She always wore her slippers in the house. Thinking back, he seemed to remember something about keeping feet warm and stopping getting rheumatism or something like that. He knew she did it for a reason. He took his flask out of his pocket and quickly took a small swig, just to help him think clearly.
The garden was lovely and just as he remembered it. How she kept it so nice at her age, he didn’t know. The grass was cut and the flower borders around the lawn were full of flowering bushes and roses. He saw she still had the strawberry patch on the left. He remembered sitting in her garden as a child eating strawberry sandwiches on what were always warm sunny days. He told himself to stop doing that; he was thinking about the past again. There was no room for emotion at the moment, he needed pure logic. He walked down the path that went through the middle of the garden to the table and two chairs that sat three quarters of the way down. The garden shed was tucked neatly on the right-hand side next to the fence. The table and chairs were so old. He fingered the table top and smiled; did nothing ever wear out in her house? He walked past the bird table, which was now empty. With more sentiment than he should have felt, he wanted to go back into the kitchen and look for some bread for the bird table. He needed to stay professional, the bread would wait. He opened the shed door and looked in. There was nothing extraordinary in there that he could see. Again, it was neatly arranged with all the garden bits and pieces in their proper places. They don’t make women like Alice anymore, he thought. He could have eaten off the floor in her shed, it was so clean.