Good Friday

by Lynda La Plante

  “If she’s been out drinking she’s probably collapsed from hypothermia in this bloody weather. Or maybe she’s been mugged?” suggested Edwards.

  “Let’s just hope she’s OK,” Jane said.

  Rye Lane ran between the High Street and Peckham Rye. In its heyday it had rivaled Oxford Street as a major shopping destination and was known as the “Golden Mile.” It was still a busy area, with a large department store, co-op and various small shops and market traders selling home-produced and ethnic goods from their stalls. During the 1970s, Peckham had gradually become one of the most deprived areas in Europe, with a notorious reputation for serious crime, especially muggings, which were a daily occurrence.

  Jane and Edwards arrived at the scene within two minutes. A man who looked to be in his mid-fifties was standing under the railway bridge at the entrance to Bussey Alley, frantically waving his hands. He was dressed in a dark-colored thigh-length sheepskin coat, blue and white Millwall football club scarf and a peaked cap. Edwards pulled up beside him and opened the driver’s window.

  “I thought you might be the ambulance when I heard the siren.” The man crouched down to speak to them. “Poor thing’s just up there. She’s lyin’ face down and ain’t moved. I put one of me stall tarpaulins over her to keep off the sleet and cold. I was hopin’ she might warm up and come around . . .”

  Jane put on her leather gloves, got the high-powered torch out of the glove box and picked up the portable Storno police radio.

  “There’s quite a lot of rubbish been dumped on one side of the alley, just up from where she is—be careful of the rats,” the market trader said as they got out of the car.

  Jane grinned at Edwards. He hadn’t looked too happy at the word “rat.” “You get the details,” she said. “I’ll check on the woman.”

  She turned on the torch, lighting up the dingy alley. The narrow path ran alongside the railway line. In the arches underneath were small lockups where the market traders stored their stalls and goods. Jane walked at a brisk pace, until about forty feet along she could see the green and white striped tarpaulin. Crouching down, she lifted it back and shone the torch. The woman beneath was wearing a thigh-length blue PVC coat, with the collar up, covering the back of her neck.

  Removing her right glove, Jane put her index and middle fingers together, and placed them on the side of the woman’s neck, in the soft hollow area just beside the windpipe. There was no pulse and the woman’s neck felt cold and clammy. Jane felt uneasy. She stood up and slowly shone her torch along the body, revealing dried blood smears on the back of the blue mac. The woman’s knee-length pleated skirt was hitched up to her thighs revealing garters and black stockings. Near the body the torch beam caught three small shirt buttons. Peering closely at one of them, Jane could see some white sewing thread and a tiny piece of torn shirt still attached. It looked as if the button had been torn off, possibly in a struggle.

  A little further up the alleyway Jane noticed a cheap and worn small handbag. Wearing her leather gloves, she picked it up and opened it carefully, looking for any ID. All she found was a lipstick, handkerchief, a small hairbrush and a plastic purse. Inside the purse were a few coins and one folded five-pound note. There were no house or car keys inside the handbag or purse. Jane picked up the handbag and placed a ten pence coin down on the spot where she’d found it; it would go in a property bag later to preserve it for fingerprints.

  Next, Jane shone the torch around the body. It was strange: she couldn’t see any blood on the pavement around or near the victim, or on the back of her head. She crouched down and slowly lifted the collar on the PVC mac back, revealing a knotted white rope round the victim’s neck and hair.

  Shocked, Jane got to her feet and pulled out the portable radio.

  “WDS Tennison to Peckham Control Room. Are you receiving? Over.” She spoke with confidence and authority, despite the fact she’d only been promoted and posted to Peckham a few weeks ago.

  “Yes, go ahead, Sarge,” the comms officer replied.

  “Cancel the ambulance. The woman in Bussey Alley appears to have been strangled. I’ve looked in a handbag for possible ID, but can’t find any. I need uniform assistance to cordon off and man the scene at Rye Lane, and the far end of Bussey Alley, which leads onto Copeland Road.”

  “All received, Sarge. A mobile unit is en route to assist.”

  Jane continued. “Can you call DCI Moran at home and ask him to attend the scene? I’ll also need the laboratory Scene of Crime DS here—oh, and the Divisional Surgeon to officially pronounce life extinct . . . Over.”

  The Duty Sergeant came on the radio. “Looks like a quiet week just got busy, Jane. I’ll call Moran and tell him you’re on scene and dealing . . . Over.”

  Jane ended the transmission and replaced the tarpaulin over the body to preserve it from the sleet that was still falling, although not as heavily. Then she walked back to Rye Lane.

  Edwards was still speaking to the market trader, and making notes in his pocket book. As she approached him, she gave a little shake of her head to indicate this was more than a collapse in the street or hypothermia and went to the rear of the CID car. Taking out a plastic police property bag, she placed the handbag inside it.

  “Is she all right?” the trader asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid she’s dead, sir. Did you see anyone hanging about or acting suspiciously before you found her?”

  The man looked shocked. “No, no one . . . Oh, my—the poor thing. What’s happened to her?”

  “I don’t know, sir, I’m afraid. Further investigation is needed.” Jane did not want to reveal more.

  “Can I get me gear out the lockup and set up for business?”

  “Sorry, not at the moment, but maybe in an hour or two,” she said. “We’ll need to take a more detailed statement off you later.”

  Jane took Edwards to one side.

  “I take it you’re thinking murder?” he whispered.

  Jane nodded. By now their hair was soaking and their coats sodden. “Looks like she’s been strangled and maybe raped. I’ve spoken with the Duty Sergeant who’s informing DCI Moran. The market man’s up a bit early—does his account of how he found her sound above board to you?”

  “Yeah. His name’s Charlie Dunn, he’s sixty-two and he’s been working the markets since he was twelve. He’s always been an early bird. He said he’s just been over to Spitalfields fruit and veg market to get fresh stock for the day. That’s his white van under the railway bridge. He was unloading it to his archway lockup in the alley when he saw the woman on the pavement. I checked his van, it’s full of fresh goods. He also showed me the purchase receipt for the fruit and veg and his market trader’s license. He sounded and acted legit to me.”

  “Well, she’s stone cold, so it looks like she’s been dead awhile anyway.”

  “Any ID on her?”

  “Nothing in the handbag I found, not even keys. I haven’t had a chance to check her coat pockets yet. I want to get both ends of the alleyway sealed off and manned by uniform first—all the market traders will be turning up soon and wanting access to their archway lockups.”

  Edwards nodded and blew into his freezing hands. He didn’t question her authoritative tone; on the contrary, he liked the fact WDS Tennison was taking responsibility for the crime scene.

  The market trader went to his van and returned with a Thermos flask.

  “Hot coffee? You can have it if you want. I’m going to go home and come back later.”

  “Thank you!” Edwards took the flask and poured some coffee into the removable cup and handed it to Jane. She took a mouthful, swallowed it, then let out a deep cough and held her chest.

  “There’s more brandy in that than coffee!”

  Edwards promptly held the flask to his lips and took a large gulp.

  “So there is,” he said with a grin.

  “Put it in the car, Brian. We don’t want Moran smelling booze on us—you know what he’s like abo
ut drinking on duty.”

  Edwards took another gulp, then put the flask in the back of the car and got a packet of lozenges out of his pocket.

  “‘Be prepared,’ as we used to say in the scouts. You see I remember some famous quotes as well.” Edwards took one for himself, and offered the packet to Jane.

  “What are they?” Jane asked.

  “Fisherman’s Friends. They’ll hide the smell of the brandy and warm you up at the same time. I take them fishing with me when it’s cold like this.”

  Jane reached into the pack, took out one of the small, light brown, oval-shaped lozenges, popped it in her mouth and immediately began taking deep breaths. The menthol flavor was so strong her eyes began watering, her nose started running and her throat tingled.

  “They taste awful!” she exclaimed spitting out the lozenge and placing it in a tissue to throw away later.

  Just then, two police constables arrived in an Austin Allegro panda car. They got out and approached Jane.

  “What do you need us to do, Sarge?”

  “I need the Rye Lane and Copeland Road entrances to the alley sealed off with tape and one of you to stand guard at each end.”

  “Will do, Sarge.” They both set off and then one of them turned back. “Oh—the Duty Sergeant said to tell you DCI Moran’s been informed and is on his way with DI Gibbs.”

  Edwards looked at Jane. “I thought DI Gibbs wasn’t due to start at Peckham until Monday?”

  Jane shrugged. “That’s what I thought as well.”

  “Maybe Moran wants him to run the investigation.”

  “Why? Moran’s the senior officer—he’s in charge of the CID at Peckham,” Jane pointed out.

  “Don’t tell anyone I told you this,” said Edwards. “But I was in the toilet cubicle when I overheard Moran talking to the Chief Super. Moran said his wife was suffering from the ‘baby blues.’ Apparently, the baby was crying a lot and he didn’t know what to do. The Chief suggested he take some time off when DI Gibbs arrived—so maybe Moran’s called Gibbs in early to familiarize himself with everything before he steps back to spend time at home.”

  “I didn’t know his wife had had a baby.”

  “Yeah—about a month before you started at Peckham,” Edwards paused. “I’ve not seen Spencer Gibbs since our Hackney days, but I heard he went off the rails a bit after Bradfield was killed in the explosion during that bank robbery by the Bentley family.”

  Jane immediately became tight-lipped. “I worked with Gibbs in the West End at Bow Street when I was a WDC and he was fine,” she lied. At the time Gibbs was drinking heavily to drown his sorrows, but managing to hide it from his other colleagues. She had always had a soft spot for Gibbs and didn’t like to hear his name or reputation being tarnished. She suspected he must have overcome his demons, especially if he’d been posted to a busy station like Peckham. She also knew DCI Moran would have had to agree to Gibbs’s transfer.

  Jane and Edwards returned to the alley. Edwards went over to look at the body, while Jane picked up the coin she’d used as a marker and replaced it with the handbag, now inside the property bag. Then they both checked to see if there was anything in the victim’s pockets to help identify her; there was nothing.

  Edwards pulled up the left sleeve of the victim’s PVC coat.

  “She’s wearing a watch,” he said. “Looks like a cheap catalog one, glass is scratched and the strap’s worn. There’s no engagement or wedding ring—they might have been stolen?”

  “Possibly,” said Jane, “but there’s no white patch or indentation on the skin to suggest she was wearing either. Plus the handbag was left behind with money in it.” Jane got the radio out of her coat pocket and handed it to Edwards.

  “Call the station and ask them to check Missing Persons for anyone matching our victim’s description. I’ll replace the tarpaulin, then we’ll do a search further up the alley toward Copeland Road to see if there’s anything else that may be of significance to the investigation.”

  Edwards hesitated. “What should I tell Comms?”

  Jane gave a small sigh. “Brian—just look at the victim and describe her when you speak to them, OK?”

  “Oh, yeah. OK, I see.”

  Jane watched Edwards disappear down the alleyway, leaving her alone with the body. It was still dark and now the initial adrenalin rush was wearing off she was even more aware of the cold. She stamped her feet and flapped her arms across her chest to generate some warmth. A sudden noise made her jump, and swinging her torch round revealed a rat scurrying from a pile of rubbish that had been left rotting in front of one of the arches. She thought about the woman lying on the ground in front of her. What had she been doing here? Had she been on her own, like Jane was now, or was her killer someone she knew?

  Footsteps approached from the Rye Lane end of the Alley. Jane looked up, shone her torch, and saw Detective Sergeant Paul Lawrence from the forensics lab approaching. He was accompanied by a younger man in civilian clothes. Even if she hadn’t seen Paul’s face, she’d have guessed it was him. As ever, he was dressed in his trademark thigh-length green Barbour wax jacket and trilby hat. Paul Lawrence was renowned as the best crime scene investigator in the Met. He had an uncanny ability to think laterally and piece things together bit by bit. Always patient and willing to explain what he was doing, Jane had worked with him several times and felt indebted to him for all that he had taught her. Now she felt relief at the sight of his familiar figure.

  Paul greeted Jane with a friendly smile. “I hear it’s Detective Sergeant Tennison now! Well done and well-deserved, Jane. As we’re the same rank, you can officially call me Paul.” He laughed. She had always called him Paul when not in the company of senior officers.

  “You were quick,” Jane said.

  “I’d already been in the lab typing up a report from an earlier incident in Brixton,” he said. “Victim stabbed during a fight over a drugs deal. Turned out the injury wasn’t as serious as first thought and the victim didn’t want to assist us anyway, so there wasn’t much to do. No doubt there’ll be a revenge attack within a few days.”

  Jane explained the scene to him, starting with the market trader’s account and exactly what she and DC Edwards had done since their arrival at Bussey Alley.

  “Good work, Jane. Minimal disturbance of the scene and preservation of evidence is what I like to see and hear. Peter here is the Scene of Crime Officer assisting me. He’ll photograph everything as is, then we can get the victim onto a body sheet for a closer look underneath.”

  The SOCO set to work taking the initial scene photographs of the alleyway and body. He stopped when the Divisional Surgeon appeared. Although it was obvious, the doctor still checked for a pulse on her neck before officially pronouncing that she was dead. As he was getting to his feet, Detective Chief Inspector Moran arrived, carrying a large red hard-backed A4 notebook, and holding up an enormous black umbrella. Dressed smartly in a gray pin stripe suit, crisp white shirt, red tie, black brogues and thigh length beige camel coat, he nonetheless looked bad-tempered and tired.

  “So, DS Tennison,” he said. “What’s happened so far?” He sounded tetchy.

  Jane had worked with DCI Nick Moran when she was a WPC at Hackney in the early seventies, and he was a Detective Inspector. She knew to keep her summary brief and to the point so as not to irritate her superior.

  “The victim was found in here by a market trader. Edwards spoke with him and is satisfied he wasn’t involved. I called DS Lawrence to the scene and the Divisional Surgeon who’s pronounced life extinct. From my cursory examination it appears she’s been strangled and may have been sexually assaulted. I haven’t found anything to help us identify who she is, though a handbag was nearby which I checked—”

  Moran frowned. “I had expected you to just contain the scene until I arrived. It’s my job to decide who should be called and what action should be taken. You should have left the handbag in situ as well. It’s not good to disturb a scene.”

>   Jane felt Moran was being a bit harsh. She, like everyone else, was working in the freezing cold and soaking wet. He should have realized she was trying to obtain the best evidence and identify the victim. She thought about saying as much, but wondering if his mood was connected to a sleepless night coping with the new baby, decided to say nothing.

  Lawrence looked at Moran. “It’s standard procedure for a lab sergeant to be called to all suspicious deaths and murder scenes at the earliest opportunity. Preserving the handbag for fingerprints showed good crime scene awareness by WDS Tennison.”

  Moran ignored Lawrence and spoke to the Divisional Surgeon. “Can you give me an estimation of time of death?”

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “There are many variables due to the weather conditions, breeze in the alley and other factors which can affect body temperature. It’s hard to be accurate, but possibly just before or after midnight.”

  Just about managing to keep his umbrella up, Moran wrote in his notebook. Jane could see Lawrence was not pleased. She knew his view was that Divisional Surgeons were not experienced in forensic pathology or time of death and should confine their role to nothing more than pronouncing life extinct.

  Lawrence looked at Moran. “Excuse me, sir, but now the sleet’s stopped, it would be a good idea to get a pathologist down to see the body in situ. He can check the rigor mortis and body temp—”

  Moran interrupted him, shutting his umbrella. “The weather’s constantly changing, and more snow is forecast, so I want the body bagged, tagged and off to the mortuary as a priority for a post mortem later this morning.”

  Lawrence sighed, but he didn’t want to get into an argument about it. Opening his forensic kit, he removed a white body sheet and small plastic ring box and latex gloves. Using some tweezers, he picked up the three buttons beside the body and placed them in a plastic property bag. Then he unfolded the body sheet and placed it on the ground next to the body.

  Lawrence looked up at Jane and Edwards. “I want to turn her over onto the body bag. If one of you can grab her feet, I’ll work the shoulders. Just go slow and gentle.”