Cold Winter's Morning

by Alan Bexley

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the amplified voice of the superintendent. ‘Thank you for your attendance today. I am here to talk to you about the tragic death of Victoria Crosby. My name is Detective Superintendent Griffin and I am Senior Investigating Officer for the case.’ He gestured towards Altman. ‘This is Inspector Altman who is based at the local police station.’

  He continued, ‘Ms Crosby was hit by a Volkswagen Golf at 7:30 this morning in Goldsmith Road as she set out for work. The vehicle then left the scene of the collision but was subsequently seized by police officers. She died at the scene as a result of the injuries she had sustained. She was 24 years old and our thoughts go out to her family and friends at this tragic time. The Sussex Joint Major Crime Team are pursuing several lines of enquiry and we have suspects under investigation. This was a horrific crime and we are appealing for anyone who has information to contact the police by using the 101 telephone number and asking for the Operation Kefalonia team. You can also give information in complete confidence on the Crimestoppers phone number. You appreciate that there is little more I can tell you at this early stage of the investigation but I will take a few questions.’

  A man near the front stood. ‘John Carson, The Times. DS Griffin, do you have a description of the car’s driver?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to comment at this time.’

  ‘Is it true he was wearing a superhero mask?’

  Altman interrupted, ‘That’s one line of enquiry.’

  The Times man sat and another reporter rose. ‘Is it true that Vicky was a drug addict with convictions for possession?’

  ‘Vicky was a young woman who had used drugs in the past in common with many people of her age but to categorise her as an addict would be inaccurate,’ Griffin said.

  Another shouted, ‘Is it true that Vicky was bisexual?’

  ‘I’m not going to comment on that.’

  ‘Is it true she was run over three times, Inspector Altman?’

  Altman leaned forward to the microphones, ‘I cannot give details as this could hamper the ongoing investigation. I’m sure you will understand this.’

  ‘Is Simon Hayward a suspect?’

  ‘That will be all for today,’ Griffin said, and the photographers jumped to their feet to get photographs before the session ended. ‘Thank you very much.’ He stood up and pulled out the press officer’s chair as she got up. The three of them left the stage.

  The meeting broke up and Frank slipped out the door to walk back along Arundel Road while a car whisked away Griffin, Altman and the press officer from the rear exit, even though they only had yards to travel.

  Frank was just flicking through screens on the HOLMES information system to bring himself up to date when Altman burst in the door.

  ‘Damn press,’ he yelled, as he approached Frank’s desk. ‘How do they manage to be so well informed?’

  The inspector didn’t wait for an answer and continued on to his office. Frank decided to follow him. He realised the rest of the CID staff were watching him, waiting for a response. He chose not to react and headed for the open door.

  The lights came on and Altman was standing behind his chair pulling off his jacket when Frank entered.

  ‘Do we have a mole?’ Altman whispered, as he draped his jacket over the chair back.

  Frank closed the door. Altman dropped into his chair and flapped his hand to indicate that Frank should sit.

  The inspector leaned on his elbows and said, ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s possible that someone is tipping off a journalist for extra cash but I don’t think anyone on my team would do it. Someone could’ve let something slip to family, I suppose. It could be a uniform or civilian worker. Who knows? That’s assuming there is a leak. The press have their own resources and can talk to people who wouldn’t speak to us. They also have plenty of cash to splash around.’

  Altman studied Frank. ‘OK, but I want you to keep this in mind.’

  Frank smiled, ‘You have my assurance that if there was a leak, it didn’t come from me.’

  Altman snorted. ‘Sorry, I’m letting my feelings run away with me.’

  ‘Jade came up with an interesting angle. She suspects the couple - the Quinnans - who lost their baby. It’s a distinct possibility.’

  ‘Good old Jade. You’ll question them next?’

  ‘Shortly. I’d be careful referring to Jade as old. She’s getting sensitive about her age.’

  ‘Why do you think she’s never gone for sergeant?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘She’s found her niche. Nothing wrong with that. And she’s bloody good at her job.’

  ‘Found her niche, eh?’ Altman stared at Frank. They had often discussed the fact that Frank would retire as a sergeant and Frank had always been clear that he did not wish to rise higher. He was determined to avoid the politicking of the higher ranks. Sergeant allowed him out of the office to get on with the real job.

  The Quinnans lived in a red brick semi-detached house built in the 1930s but only the wife would be at home as the husband was at his office. Jade had phoned ahead and established that Mrs Quinnan worked mornings as a dentist’s receptionist but this was her day off. Frank decided they should approach her first.

  He rang the doorbell, and they stood looking up at the house. Helen gently stamped and shuffled in an effort to keep warm. A distorted image showed through the frosted glass of the door.

  Mrs Quinnan was a woman in her mid-forties dressed in white slacks and a blue blouse.

  She led them into her front room which looked out onto the street. She sat in a chair and the detectives took the sofa.

  ‘Is this about Victoria Crosby?’ she asked.

  ‘It is,’ Frank said.

  ‘We thought you might want to talk to us as we had a reason for hating her.’

  ‘Explain that,’ Frank said.

  Mrs Quinnan stared at Frank for several seconds and then turned her attention to Helen. ‘I would cheerfully have strangled that bitch for what she put me through. She was drunk, you know, when she ran into the back of our car. Did a lot of damage, a lot of damage.’

  She scrubbed her face with both hands.

  ‘This must be very painful for you,’ Helen said.

  ‘Painful? Painful? You have no idea. I had our Heather when I was twenty and she’s got a job and her own flat now. The pregnancy took us by surprise. We’d given up on the idea of having more kids. Thought that was behind us. Then that stupid bitch crashed into us. They breathalysed her, the police officers, and she was over the limit. She started to take things seriously then.’

  ‘You said you would like to have strangled her,’ Frank said. ‘Did you have anything to do with her death?’

  Mrs Quinnan returned her attention to Frank. ‘No, of course not. I was angry. I’m still angry. But I don’t have it in me to do something like that and neither does Ian.’

  ‘Where were you both at 7:30 this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘Ian hadn’t left for work so we were both here.’

  ‘You realise we’ll check?’ Frank asked.

  ‘We had nothing to do with what happened to Vicky Crosby,’ she said.

  ‘Did you make any phone calls around that time?’ he asked.

  She thought. ‘No.’

  Frank watched her face but did not ask another question.

  ‘Please describe what happened on the day of the accident,’ Helen said.

  ‘God, I could do with a ciggy. I’ve given up. A month now.’ She put a palm on her forehead as she gathered her thoughts. ‘We were in the car returning from a pub lunch. Back in July last year during the great weather. Ian drove, and he drank mineral water while I had a glass of orange juice. We drove back into town down the London Road and waited at the lights on the junction with Bowers Road. We were chatting when suddenly the car lurched with a wallop. The impact knocked me back, and I twisted and hit my head on the door. The seatbelt didn’t help. I felt a sharp pain but didn’t think too much of it. We g
ot out to check the damage. She got out of her car, apologised and wanted to exchange insurance details but we could smell the alcohol on her breath. Ian called the police, and they arrived within five minutes and soon arrested her. I started bleeding the next day and during the early hours of the following morning I miscarried. The police encouraged us to make a witness impact statement and submit it to the court but she still only got a driving ban, and whatnot. After what she’d done to us that was all the punishment she got. It’s just not fair.’

  Tears flowed down her face.

  Frank walked down the garden path and Helen pulled the front door closed behind them.

  ‘That was pretty intense,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll speak to the neighbour on this side,’ Frank said. ‘You try the other side.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, and they split up at the garden gate.

  The semi-detached house was the mirror image of the Quinnan’s. He rang the doorbell and then used the knocker when he didn’t get a response.

  The door opened on a chain and an elderly woman’s face peered at him through the gap. ‘What do you want?’ her angry voice asked. An almost skeletal hand pulled her collar closed.

  ‘Police,’ Frank said. He held up his warrant card.

  The door closed again for her to release the chain.

  ‘I can’t move so fast these days,’ she said. ‘There was no need to make so much fuss.’

  ‘I apologise,’ Frank said. ‘I’m just impatient.’

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It’s about your neighbours - Mr and Mrs Quinnan - I would like to know if you saw either of them this morning, say around 7:30?’

  ‘I saw the husband drive away just before eight o’clock but I didn’t see her.’

  ‘How can you be so sure of the time?’

  ‘Because I heard him start the car and looked out as he drove away. I had the radio on, the pips had gone and the news headlines had started.’

  ‘Could you tell it was him driving?’

  ‘He drove past slowly. It’s not far to the end of the road so he doesn’t get up much speed.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude but how good is your eyesight?’

  She tapped the arm of her spectacles. ‘When I have these on my sight is perfect.’

  ‘And you were wearing them this morning?’

  ‘Yes, I put them on first thing in the morning. I can’t do much without them.’

  ‘Did you see Mrs Quinnan later in the day?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Frank said. ‘Can I just make a note of your name?’

  ‘Mrs Sprake.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have taken up your time.’

  He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me what this was all about?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t. You’ve been very helpful and I appreciate it.’

  The woman stood in the doorway and watched him walk to the car. Helen stood leaning on the side.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she asked.

  ‘The woman next door says the husband drives to work in that direction and she saw him pass just before eight.’

  ‘I got nothing,’ she said. ‘There was no one in.’

  Frank unlocked the car and Helen walked around to the passenger door.

  As they drove to the end of the street, Frank said, ‘We can place him here when Vicky was killed but we have no confirmation that Mrs Q was at home. Besides, they could have hired someone to carry out the attack.’

  Helen stared out the windscreen. ‘Do we have hitmen in Westchapel?’

  ‘You may joke but there are low-lifes who’d murder their grannies for a twenty.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I think the Quinnans have to be on our list of suspects.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re the sort to arrange a murder but who knows?’ She exhaled. ‘Time for some music.’

  She turned on the CD player and soon Another One Bites the Dust played.

  Chapter 6

  The CID team sat at their desks looking towards the whiteboard. They had written the Quinnan’s names up and images taken from their Facebook pages stared out.

  Frank tapped the husband’s photograph with a whiteboard marker pen. ‘We can rule out Mr Quinnan because he was seen leaving home just before eight o’clock so he couldn’t have committed the killing, burnt the car, and had time to return home. But we’ve only got Mrs Quinnan’s word she was in the house at the time.’

  Jade asked, ‘Do you think she killed Vicky?’

  Frank said, ‘My gut feeling is not, but we need facts, evidence. Besides the actual killing may have been carried out by another member of the family, perhaps.’

  Altman was sitting beside Jade. ‘You spoke to Haywood. Is he a likely candidate?’ he asked.

  ‘Officers went to the flat shortly after the incident,’ Frank said. ‘He was at home and seemed relaxed. Could he be so composed if he’d just killed Vicky in such a violent way? Again, I doubt he had time to set light to the car and get back.’

  ‘Unless he had an accomplice,’ Altman said. ‘When did you get to the burning car?’

  ‘At eight-thirty and by then the fire was under control.’

  ‘Ingermann could have done it,’ Helen said. ‘The owner of the car. We need to talk to his neighbours but he could have done everything and been home by the time we called. He may have been faking the, “I’ve just dragged myself out of bed” act and he has ties to the Morgans.’

  ‘He’d have to be an excellent actor,’ Frank said. ‘Do you think he was faking it?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘A team from Hastings has interviewed the seven other staff members at the building society,’ Jade said. ‘The statements are on the system. I could look through them and check their backgrounds. See if anything jumps out at me.’

  Altman said, ‘I’ll ask you and Helen to examine those next. I’m not seeing any obvious candidate for top of the suspect list so far. Concentrate on her co-workers. Check if any of them had a relationship with Vicky outside work. What did the manager think of Crosby?’ He swivelled in his chair. ‘Yalina, I want you to do what you’re best at. Trawl the rest of the HOLMES information and build up family trees for all the players. See what relationships there may be that aren’t obvious.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Yalina Kazim said. Frank smiled at Yalina’s enthusiasm. She was the newest member of his team at 19-years-old. She was recruited as support staff to be the team’s social media and mobile phone person. She was of Pakistani heritage, slim with long black hair and dazzling quick eyes.

  ‘Right, I need to offer Griffin ideas for tomorrow’s strategy by the end of the day so let’s get on with it. One last thought, is anyone aware if Hastings have any CCTV?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jade said. ‘They pulled in CCTV from the shops on the High Street and the council cameras on the High Street, Queens Road and South Street. They’re trying to spot the car before the incident.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Altman said. ‘What about ANPR? Did the cameras register the Golf?’

  ‘No,’ Frank said. ‘Not since it was stolen as they’d removed the licence plates.’

  ‘There was an eye witness report from Shoreham Street shortly after her death which gives us further confirmation that the burnt out Golf was the vehicle used,’ Yalina said. ‘It was the mask that caught the dog-walker’s eye.’

  Frank said, ‘That’s the route I’d favour. Left out of Goldsmith Road into Chaucer Street, right into Shoreham Street, over the crossroads into Stewards Rise and right into Station Road, and then left into Victoria Avenue. How long in the early morning? Ten to fifteen minutes? There are other routes. He could have used the tail end of London Road. Yalina, can you make sure Hastings have our best guess for the route taken and suggest they concentrate on the High Street and the Shoreham Street junction? Any other sightings would be useful, particularly if Ingermann wasn’t driving.’

/>   Yalina nodded.

  Altman’s mobile bleeped, and he checked the screen. ‘Dr Scaman will stay on for us and perform the post mortem at six. Frank, will you do the honours?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  ‘OK, thanks everyone. Frank, come through to my office, will you?’

  The two men sat facing each other. Altman leaned back in his chair and Frank leaned back in his, steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips.

  ‘This will be a tough one to crack,’ Altman said. ‘The forensics will prove the Golf was the murder weapon but they will be damn all use for anything else. And the killer was masked.’

  Frank said, ‘Surely he didn’t drive through Westchapel wearing it. Maybe we’ll get lucky with our appeals and someone will have noticed the Golf this morning. We just need one person to have got a clear look at the driver without his mask.’

  Frank drove over to the mortuary with Helen and they signed in. They walked through to the post mortem room, knowing the way. The walls were painted beige - intended to be neutral but so depressing - and there was the strong smell of disinfectant.

  Two hours later, the painstaking procedure was over and Helen was bagging the clothes Scaman cut from the corpse. Frank stood beside Dr Scaman and looked down at the sight on the steel table. Vicky’s crushed body was a bloody mess with tyre marks, and bones protruding from it. He was grateful to turn away when Scaman walked over to lean on a counter looking back at the corpse. The pathologist was in his fifties with a full head of silver hair and steel, wire rim glasses. He was wearing his usual blue scrubs and green apron.

  ‘I’ve done the best I can,’ Scaman said, addressing them both. He continued, ‘She died of extreme trauma caused by the crushing weight of a motor vehicle. The vehicle travelled at speed and the injuries are so severe that she would have known little about it. A mercy, I suppose. It’s difficult to see what I can tell you that will be useful. The samples are ready to go off. The rubber traces from the body will match the car tyres which survived the fire. I found paint flakes which can be matched to the car. As the assailant didn’t leave the vehicle, as I understand it, there will be no trace of him or her. It was reckless running her over on the street but I understand he wore a mask. Not that it’s a serious problem but her mobile phone is destroyed.’ He pulled a grimace. ‘If you’ve no questions. I’ll press on with my next victim. You’ll have my report emailed tonight and a hard copy courier'd in the morning. I am sorry I can’t be much help. The bastard who did this needs catching.’