by Damien Boyd
‘What about the murder weapon?’
‘If he didn’t take it with him, it’ll be in the river and there’s no way we can get divers in there at the moment.’
‘It just doesn’t seem right somehow,’ said Jane.
‘What? Going home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look, it’s all under control, Jane. And there’s nothing else we can do now anyway. So go home and relax for a bit. Mark will be here until midnight and Dave’s back on at six in the morning so we’ll get a call if anything crops up.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Anyway, I’m off,’ said Janice, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. ‘Happy Chris . . . no, perhaps not.’
Jane rang Dixon back. She watched Janice walking towards the lift and turned away when Dixon answered.
‘Everyone’s gone home,’ she said.
‘No one’s gone to the PM?’
‘No.’
‘You’d better go then,’ said Dixon. ‘Just look in and see if Roger’s found anything interesting. Give me a buzz when you’re on your way and I’ll put the supper on.’
‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife,’ said Jane.
‘Don’t just sit there. You know the drill,’ said Poland.
Jane closed her eyes. For a moment there she thought she might have got away with it but Poland had spotted her sitting in the anteroom. She opened the door and walked into the pathology lab.
‘That’s better. You won’t see anything skulking about in there.’
‘Thanks, Roger,’ said Jane, rolling her eyes.
‘Janice not here?’
‘Gone home. It was either that or divorce, I think.’
‘I keep forgetting it’s Christmas Eve. Hardly feels like it, does it?’
‘No.’
Jane looked down at Elizabeth Perry lying on the slab. A large incision ran the full length of her torso and abdomen. It had been stapled up so Jane had missed the internal examination. She breathed a silent sigh of relief.
‘Was she pregnant?’
‘Three months.’
‘And the time of death?’
‘Early hours of this morning. Say between midnight and 3 a.m.’
Jane stood at the end of the slab, looking down at Elizabeth Perry. Her brown hair was swept back and her eyes closed. There was bruising on her upper arms and some lighter bruising was now visible just above her wrists.
‘What d’you think happened then, Roger?’
‘An attempt at restraint first. That’s the bruising. Then she was stabbed in the neck.’
‘She survived that?’
‘It missed the carotid artery so she would have been able to walk the few steps out onto the landing.’
‘Where she collapsed . . .’
‘Yes. Then she was stabbed in the back.’
‘Cold blooded.’
‘Very,’ replied Poland. ‘A determined effort to finish her off.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s your department.’
‘And the murder weapon?’
‘There were two knives . . .’
‘Two?’
‘The first one penetrated to a depth of about six centimetres. The blade’s two centimetres wide at the base and coated in pink paint. There are tiny deposits left behind where it hit bone. I’ll get them off to the lab after Christmas.’
‘Pink paint?’
‘Yes. I had a quick look online and you can get pink kitchen knives, believe it or not,’ replied Poland.
‘And the second knife?’
‘Longer and thinner. It was inserted into the wound in the left side of her back and then pushed down into her heart. You can see where the incision changes shape as it goes deeper and the sharp edge switches sides too.’
‘So, he used a second knife to make sure?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Anything else?’
‘She’s lost a fair bit of blood too, so there would have been a few minutes while her heart was still pumping. Between the initial flurry and the fatal injury.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s your . . .’
‘I know, that’s my department.’
‘That’s about it, really,’ said Poland. ‘How was the husband?’
‘Not good.’
‘Poor sod.’
‘Well, hopefully, we’ll have a result for him pretty quick,’ replied Jane, walking towards the door. ‘Assuming we get a DNA match.’
‘Tell Nick I’m sorry about the curry but I’m gonna be another couple of hours here.’
‘I will. Happy Christmas, Roger.’
‘You too.’
Jane turned up the collar on her coat and stepped out into the darkness of the small staff car park behind the pathology lab. She had run a few paces before she noticed that it wasn’t raining so she took out her phone and tapped out a text message as she walked, hitting the ‘Send’ button just as she reached her car.
On way J x
She listened to the music drifting across from the houses on the far side of the car park. ‘Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town.’
Maybe he was. But she didn’t feel terribly festive, all the same.
Chapter Six
It had been a nice evening. Nice. It was an odd word. She remembered her old English teacher telling her never, ever to use it. ‘What does it mean? What does it really mean?’ Her reply, ‘Nice means, er well, nice’, had not gone down well. Still, she knew what it meant and it applied to last night. Her English teacher could just get stuffed.
Nick had done his best. It had been a nice meal, with a nice bottle of wine and even her choice of film. He had been making a real effort and she had done her best not to let on that she wasn’t really in the mood. She’d rather have gone to the Red Cow and got drunk.
She had been lying awake since just after 5 a.m. listening to Monty snoring and was dozing when she thought she heard a car in the road outside the cottage. It was confirmed when Monty woke up and started barking.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Dixon.
‘Someone outside.’
‘What time is it?’
Jane looked at her phone. ‘Nearly seven,’ she said, jumping out of bed and peering out through a gap in the curtains. ‘It’s Janice.’
She threw on her dressing gown and ran downstairs, opening the front door just as Janice was reaching up to knock on it.
‘It’s Christmas Day, Janice.’
‘It is. And we’ve got a match.’
‘Come in.’
Janice stepped into the cottage and Jane closed the door behind her.
‘He’s fine,’ said Jane, as Monty came tearing down the stairs.
‘We’ve met before,’ replied Janice.
Dixon appeared at the top of the stairs. He had thrown on a pair of jeans and was pulling a polo shirt over his head.
‘Hi, Jan.’
‘Happy Christmas, Nick.’
‘I thought you were supposed to come down the chimney?’
‘Very funny.’
‘Tell me about this profile,’ said Jane.
‘It’s off the fag butt on the landing. They got nothing off the cigarettes in the lane and there was too much acid in the vomit, apparently.’
‘Who is it?’
‘John Stanniland. Previous convictions for burglary and possession with intent to supply. Class A. And according to DVLA he drives a Vauxhall Astra van. A diesel. We’re on our way to pick him up now.’
‘Where does he live?’ asked Jane.
‘He’s got a flat in Bristol. Apsley Road. It’s off Whiteladies Road.’
‘Nice part of town.’
‘It is.’
‘Why don’t we just get the Bristol lot to pick him up then?’
‘No way. This is my case and I’m making the arrest.’
‘But . . .’
‘They’re watching the flat now. Harry’s picking up Mark and we’re gonna meet them up there.’
‘I’
ll get changed,’ said Jane, walking over to the stairs.
‘Coffee, Jan?’ asked Dixon.
‘No. Thanks.’
‘You’ve got stab vests?’
‘In the car.’
Dixon nodded.
‘Well, good luck.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Janice. ‘I’ll turn the car round, while I’m waiting.’
‘OK.’
Jane came down the stairs to find Dixon peering through a gap in the lounge curtains. He was watching Janice doing a three point turn in the road outside the cottage.
‘I’d better go,’ said Jane.
‘Janice is turning the car round.’
Jane put her arms round Dixon and kissed him. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Wear your stab vest and be careful,’ replied Dixon.
‘Yes, Sir.’
Dixon pulled Jane towards him and kissed her.
‘I’ll see you when I see you,’ she said, picking up her coat.
‘Text me.’
‘I will.’
Dixon watched the door slam and listened for the sound of the car accelerating away. Then he knelt on the floor next to Monty.
‘Well, it’s just you and me, old son. I hope you like turkey.’
The M5 had been all but deserted and Janice had got her old car up to over one hundred miles an hour coming down the Avonmouth Bridge. Jane felt sure that she saw the flash of a speed camera but thought it best not to say anything. The sun had been flickering on the railings and she could have been wrong.
Jane had spent the journey north looking at Apsley Road on her iPhone. Number 67 was a four storey Georgian end terraced property with a balcony on the first floor. It was built of yellow sandstone and judging by the four grey rubbish bins lined up on the pavement outside, had been converted into flats at some point. She followed Google Street View along the full length of Apsley Road and then back again. It looked a nice area. Far too nice for the likes of John Stanniland.
It was just after 8 a.m. when Janice turned into Apsley Road. Jane spotted two marked police cars parked behind a van about one hundred yards along Apsley Road. A dog van was parked on the nearside, just inside the junction, and she could see several officers, all wearing stab vests, gathered around a police van, which was parked on the pavement outside number 67. More worrying still was the ambulance parked in the middle of the road with its lights flashing.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asked Janice.
‘They’ve gone in already,’ said Jane.
‘They’d bloody well better not have done.’
Janice parked on the wide pavement opposite number 67 and got out of the car, just as Mark Pearce appeared from behind the overgrown vegetation in the front garden.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ shouted Janice.
‘Harry said we couldn’t wait any longer . . .’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the garden. A paramedic’s seeing to him.’
‘Where’s Stanniland?’
‘In the van.’
Janice wrenched open the back door of the van. Stanniland was wearing black jeans, an orange fleece and a pair of Crocs. He had clearly dressed in a hurry. He was sitting in the back of the van with his left eye closed, prodding a dressing on the left side of his forehead.
‘Resisting arrest,’ said Pearce, grinning.
‘Forensics?’
‘On their way. There’s no sign of his van. He says it was stolen on Monday.’
Janice slammed the door and marched across to number 67. Jane followed.
Harry Unwin was sitting on a low wall in the front garden watching a paramedic dabbing the back of his right hand with cotton wool. He looked up.
‘I thought I told you to wait until I got here,’ shouted Janice.
‘We couldn’t wait all day, Jan.’
Janice took a sharp intake of breath but Jane took hold of her elbow and pulled her away.
‘Can I have a word, please, Jan.’
Janice followed Jane back out onto the pavement.
‘Take a deep breath, count to ten. Not here, not now. All right?’
Janice was biting her top lip. She took a deep breath through her nose, nodded, then turned and walked back into the front garden.
‘What happened?’
‘The local lads had another shout to go to and we were about to lose the van and the dog. I thought we’d better go in while we had the chance.’
‘I told you . . .’
‘It might have been hours before they could get back. And what if Stanniland tried to go out in the meantime? We’d have had to take him on our own.’
‘You should’ve rung me.’
‘I didn’t have time.’
‘Was he armed?’
‘No.’
‘No sign of the knife?’
‘No.’
‘So, why’d you hit him?’
‘Self defence.’
‘Anyone see it?’
‘No. Look, I’m not the one being arrested for murder here, Jan. It wasn’t my DNA at the scene remember. I went in there, he took a swing at me, I hit him. Job done. All right.’
‘No bones broken,’ said the paramedic. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Unwin, clenching his fist.
‘Don’t do that, you’ll have the dressing off.’
‘Sorry.’
Jane tapped Janice on the elbow.
‘Let’s go and have a look in the flat.’
‘Has Stanniland been checked over?’ asked Janice.
‘Yes, he’s fine,’ replied the paramedic.
‘Let’s get him transferred down to Bridgwater. And I will be interviewing him. Is that clear, Harry?’
Unwin nodded, without looking up.
Jane followed Janice into number 67 Apsley Road. Stanniland had the ground floor flat and the door was open at the bottom of the stairs. Jane looked up.
‘Anyone spoken to the neighbours, I wonder?’
‘Mark can organise that.’
Jane stood in the doorway of the flat, peering over Janice’s shoulder, neither of them too keen to venture further in. The door opened into the lounge and the floor was strewn with rubbish; empty beer cans, pizza boxes and other takeaway debris. A glance through the door to the left confirmed that the bedroom was in much the same state. There were piles of newspapers and magazines along the walls and rugs pinned up at the windows.
‘What’s that smell?’ asked Janice.
‘Cat shit.’
‘Where’s the cat?’
‘Probably moved out. I would.’
‘I have never understood how people can live like this.’
‘Scientific Services are going to earn their money with this one,’ replied Jane, squeezing past Janice and following a narrow path through the debris towards the kitchen. She reached into her handbag and took out a pair of latex gloves as she tiptoed across the floor.
‘Holy shit.’
‘What?’ asked Janice.
‘You won’t believe this kitchen.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Pink knives,’ replied Jane, pulling open the kitchen drawers one by one. She shook her head. ‘There aren’t any.’
‘What did you expect to find? A set with one missing?’
‘Yes,’ replied Jane, with an exaggerated shrug of her shoulders.
‘Not even Stanniland’s that stupid.’
They walked back out into Apsley Road to find that the ambulance had left and been replaced by a Scientific Services van. The police van that Stanniland had been sitting in had also gone.
‘Where’s . . . ?’
‘On the way to Bridgwater,’ replied Pearce. ‘Harry’s gone with them.’
‘What about his car?’ asked Jane.
‘I said I’d drive that back.’
‘Before you go, check if he reported his van stolen and see if it’s turned up anywhere. All right?’
‘Will do.’
‘Morning
all, or should I say Happy Christmas.’
Jane and Janice spun round to find Donald Watson standing behind them. He was dressed in white overalls and was carrying a large briefcase.
‘What’re you doing up here?’ asked Janice.
‘It was either that or sit at home on my own all day. Thought I might be of some use here.’
‘On your own?’
‘Long story.’
‘I may be on my own next year at this rate,’ said Janice.
‘Oh, and ring Lewis,’ said Watson. ‘The press have got hold of it and he needs something for the evening news.’
Jane glanced across at Brent Knoll as they sped south on the M5. There were several tiny figures on the top of the hill and she wondered whether one of them was Dixon, taking a lunchtime stroll with Monty. More likely they were on the beach, stuffed full of turkey, no doubt. She took out her phone and sent him a text message.
Got him. On way to Bridgwater J x
Her phone buzzed before she could put it back in her handbag.
Weel don
Jane smiled. Dixon had made an early start on the beer.
‘Get everyone lined up for a meeting,’ said Janice, looking at her watch. ‘Room two, twenty minutes.’
‘OK.’
Jane was tapping out a text message when she was distracted by the smell of concentrated screenwash and the clunk of Janice’s windscreen wiper.
‘That came in quick.’
‘It did,’ said Janice, switching on her headlights.
Jane looked up at the sky ahead. It was a mass of thick grey cloud, swirling much as the water in the River Parrett had been doing yesterday and was no doubt still doing today. She clicked ‘Send’ on the text message and then checked the weather on her phone. A small black cloud with two raindrops underneath it denoting heavy rain was forecast for the rest of Christmas Day and Boxing Day. She scrolled down. The forecast was the same right through to New Year’s Eve.
‘It’s going to be pissing down for days.’
‘Well, we’re not going to be out in it, are we?’ replied Janice.
Jane looked down at the King’s Sedgemoor Drain from the elevated motorway roundabout at junction 23. The usually still and clear water was chocolate brown in colour and flowing fast.
‘I’ve never seen that before.’
Janice leaned over in her seat and peered out of the passenger window.