POETIC JUSTICE & A KILLER IS CALLING: The DCS Palmer and the Serial Murder Squad series, cases 3 & 4.

by B. L. Faulkner

‘Sergeant, it is a given in my life that nothing Mrs P. does saves me money. Right then,’ he said, shifting his mind back to the case. ‘Where do we go from here, eh? Can’t just sit and wait for another victim; there’s a tie up somewhere between these murders, and I’m blowed if I can see it, other than the bits of paper and names of days.’

  The office door opened and Assistant Commissioner Bateman popped his head round. Bateman was the complete opposite to Palmer, and they often crossed swords; the last time being when Bateman tried to transfer Sergeant Singh away from Palmer into the newly formed Cyber Forensics Department, a move neither Palmer nor Gheeta wanted. A compromise had been found, after a lot of threats and counter-threats; the only threat Palmer could not use was to threaten to resign, as Bateman would jump at the opportunity to get rid of him. Bateman was a commissioned officer out of university, with degrees in everything and experience in nothing. Palmer often compared him to politicians: ‘Never had proper jobs, and think they can run the country.’ Bateman was obvious material for the top floor executive offices: forty-five years old and folically challenged, or in Palmer speak, ‘bald as a badger’s arse’. His liking for focus groups, departmental mission statements and other management tools that Palmer had never heard of, let alone participated in, set the two of them well apart in their ideas of how modern policing should be carried out. He nodded to Sergeant Singh.

  ‘Just passing, so I thought I’d check on the hotel murders case, Justin. How’s it going? Any leads?’

  ‘None so far, sir. Doesn’t seem to be any links between the victims, except bits of paper left at the murder scenes; but we know there must be one or two more somewhere. Bit of a brick wall – unless you know what MCDA stands for?’

  ‘Multiple Criteria Decision Analysis.’

  Palmer was taken aback.

  ‘Blimey.’

  ‘It’s a way modern management differentiates between a number of decisions that could be taken on a problem, to assess the effect each might have. What has that to do with this case?’

  ‘One of the victims had those initials on a T-shirt she was wearing.’

  ‘Interesting, but I wouldn’t think they stood for that; bit obscure. I would think it more likely to be the initials of a pop group or similar.’

  ‘We can’t find a match anywhere. We are getting the Victim Support Officer to ask the family if they can shed any light on it.’

  ‘Good idea. Okay, keep me in the loop.’

  Another perfunctory nod to all, and Bateman was gone.

  ‘Keep him in the loop, guv,’ Gheeta mocked. ‘Better add him to your Skype friends; be able to chat to him from home and bring him up to date each evening. You’d like that.’

  ‘The only loop I’d want to keep him in is one hanging over a gibbet!’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him about the link to the poem?’

  ‘Take too long explaining it. He’d only ask for a written update, and we can’t spare the time for that.’

  Chapter 12

  George duly arrived that evening, and as Palmer cradled his latest grandson in the hospital ward, with Mrs P. and the rest of the family cooing and tickling his cheek – George’s that is, not Palmer’s – he couldn’t help thinking of the future, and where this little Wednesday’s Child would plough his furrow. Would he follow his grandad into the police? Probably not; none of the other Palmer children had, and none of the grandchildren were showing any interest either; if the standard issue weapon of the Force was a Star Wars Lightsabre instead of a baton, they probably would be interested. Other than that, his mind was continually churning over what was likely to be the killer’s next move.

  Friday and Saturday passed uneventfully as far as any new bodies turning up in hotel rooms was concerned. So, Friday’s Child and Saturday’s Child seemed to be safe for another week; but Palmer couldn’t help thinking that perhaps these murders weren’t related to the poem, and it was just a coincidence that the victims’ professions matched their death days in the poem. Trouble was, that if you let your brain struggle with that conundrum, it just began to hurt. Palmer knew from experience to keep focused on the ‘modus operandi’ of the crime, and to keep to the well-proven method of feeding Sergeant Singh’s computer programmes with every snippet of information about the victims and the crimes they could get, and that would, sooner or later, come up with a viable lead; reciting a poem wouldn’t do that.

  Information, information, information was a well-worn Palmer mantra, that was, in his book, the basis of all police work; and far better than an aching brain trying to work out riddles.

  Chapter 13

  ‘We have lift off, guv!’

  An excited Gheeta bounced into the office from the team room. It was Monday, half way through the morning, and Palmer sat at his desk, his chair leaning back against the wall and his feet on the desk, looking through the crime scene photos yet again for anything he might have missed when he looked through them the other dozen times over the weekend.

  Gheeta put a large family photo album on his desk, as his chair came into the upright position with a bang that sent a sciatic needle of pain through his left thigh, and he waited to be told what he was looking at.

  ‘This, guv, is the model’s family photo album. Our Victim Support Officer with them broached the subject of the MCDA T-shirt, and guess what?’

  She opened the album to a page showing a large photo of a big group of teenagers, many wearing similar T-shirts.

  ‘The Milner College of Dramatic Art, class of 1984,’ Gheeta said, pointing to a figure. ‘And there’s our model.’

  A large weight was beginning to move from Palmer’s shoulders.

  ‘Well, well, well; what a turn up, eh?’

  Gheeta was bubbling. She moved her finger to another figure.

  ‘And there’s our ballerina…’

  Pointing to another figure:

  ‘And that is Rosalind Kirby; or as we know her, Madame Geneelia.’

  Palmer was smiling now.

  ‘This is it then, Sergeant – the missing link. The one thing they all had in common: MCDA, The Milner College of Dramatic Art.’

  ‘And the class of 1984, guv.’

  ‘Yes, so we might well be looking at Friday’s Child and Saturday’s Child in this very photo.’

  ‘And maybe the killer, too.’

  ‘We need some names and addresses. Is this college still going?’

  Gheeta nodded.

  ‘Yep, housed in a large Victorian residence off Red Post Hill, Herne Hill; and the car I ordered to take us there should be waiting downstairs any minute now.’

  ‘You know, Sergeant,’ Palmer joked thoughtfully, as he took his Prince of Wales check jacket from the coat stand and perched his trilby on the back of his head. ‘I’ll make a copper out of you yet.’

  Chapter 14

  The Milner College of Dramatic Art was quite an imposing four-storey red brick Victorian building in its own grounds; a short, narrow, leafy drive led from the main road to a crunching pebble turning circle, in front of wide stone steps leading up to a pair of modern glass revolving doors. Inside it changed from Victorian to ultra-modern, with a large open plan foyer, a reception desk, and several rehearsal rooms leading off.

  Gheeta had rung ahead and spoken to the Principal, Mr Hawley Timms-Beddis, who greeted them with a limp handshake and a worried look before ushering them into his plush office. He reminded Palmer of Benji; sixty-something going on thirty-two in tight jeans, with a skinny frame and a ponytail. He was clearly upset by the news that his ex-pupils had been murdered.

  ‘It’s awful, absolutely awful’.

  He steadied himself with a glass of what Palmer took to be brandy from a tray of various bottles on the desk. Palmer declined the offer of a glass for himself. Hawley Timms-Beddis poured a refill.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Superintendent?’

  ‘No, not while I’m on duty, thank you sir.’

  ‘Oh of course,’ he said, before taking
a large gulp. ‘I suppose the same goes for you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes sir, but thank you for the offer.’

  ‘This news is awful, awful. I knew all those young ladies, you know; I knew them all. I’d just started here as Assistant to the Principal Drama coach.’

  He took a large drink.

  ‘Stars of the year, they were. Well, I mean, look how well they all did; and then to be murdered. Oh, how awful. Who could have done such a thing?’

  ‘Well, that’s why we are here, sir.’

  Palmer held out his hand to Gheeta, who pulled the photo from her shoulder bag. Palmer passed it to Timms-Beddis, who went distinctly white and took another large gulp of his drink.

  ‘Oh no. No, no, no. You think one of our ladies is the murderer, don’t you? Oh no. Oh my God.’

  He clasped his hands together in front of his chest as he gazed at the photo.

  ‘The College will close. Nobody will want to enrol after this news breaks.’

  Palmer was beginning to think that Timms-Beddis was getting into character a bit now, and thought about giving him a slap. He’d never had much time for ‘theatrical luvvies’ and their world. Mrs P. liked the period dramas on television; Palmer hated them. ‘The BBC has spent so much on the costume department that they have to use them,’ he’d argued. ‘Same old storyline: posh titled family with large estate, whose youngest son falls in love with the local blacksmith’s daughter; panic in the family, followed by murder, arson, or a baby, and an ending that leaves it open for a second series. Hackneyed rubbish.’ That was Palmer’s considered view of most of the Beeb’s Drama department’s offerings; and his opinion of the reality shows would make a Thames Docker blush. So Timms-Beddis’s wringing of hands didn’t get a caring reaction from Palmer; just a quick memory of Charles Hawtrey in the Carry On films.

  ‘You’re jumping the gun a bit here, sir.’

  Palmer gave him one of his reassuring smiles.

  'We are at a very early point in the investigation, and right now we are just seeking information. There’s no need for any of this to leave the room.’

  Timms-Beddis was a little relieved at this.

  ‘How can we help you?’

  Gheeta took up the reins.

  ‘Do you have the roll-call for 1984 anywhere – on a computer or disk?’

  Timms-Beddis was not the person to ask.

  ‘I have no idea. We must have a record somewhere, but it will be in the Accounts section. I can ask them to look?’

  Gheeta smiled.

  ‘I think it best if you just take me along to the Accounts section and let me do the asking; be much quicker, and I’m sure you’d like us to be as quick as we can and go away before tongues start to wag?’

  She was learning fast, thought Palmer.

  ‘Far easier if I download the information we need and work on it at our office,’ Gheeta continued. ‘Are you agreeable to that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Timms-Beddis just wanted them out of his College before tongues started to wag.

  Chapter 15

  Miss Jacobs, the Head of Accounts for the Milner College of Dramatic Art, was far more help than Timms-Beddis; although well beyond retirement age, she displayed a calm outlook of complete control, and Gheeta had warmed to her as soon as she had spoken.

  ‘Oh my dear, don’t bother with Timms-Beddis in future; just come straight through to me. He may be the bee’s knees in the artistic community, but like so many great men he has a great woman behind him. Me.’

  She smiled sarcastically as she tapped at her keyboard.

  ‘Class of 1984 you said, yes?’

  Gheeta nodded.

  ‘What information would you still have on them?’

  ‘Well, everything my dear; names, addresses – that is, the addresses from back then. Of course, most will have moved on by now; married, divorced, become famous, sunk without trace. Got a proper job…’

  She smiled at Gheeta.

  ‘Lots of egos get crushed at a college like this.’

  Gheeta noticed that the computer screen was showing names, addresses, fees, certificates, and a lot more. Miss Jacobs inhaled loudly.

  ‘Oh. It was that year, was it? Oh dear.’

  ‘What do you mean, that year’?’

  ‘1984 is known as the ‘problem’ year, dear. Is that what this investigation is about?’

  ‘Could be but it’s just a general search for information on a couple of the year’s students. What was the problem?’

  Gheeta tried to appear uninterested, but inside she was bursting with anticipation.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t employed here at that time; I started in ’86, but as far as I have gleaned over the years, it was rather a nasty affair. One of the girls fell out of the sixth-floor window of the props warehouse; that’s a building behind this one. Poor girl was dead as soon as she hit the concrete.’

  ‘She fell?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe?’

  ‘Suicide, so the rumour mill has it; but the coroner gave it as accidental death. You can’t open a window five feet above the floor and fall out of it, can you?’

  She sat back in her chair.

  ‘You see, my dear, all these girls come here with great expectations; they all think they are the next Judi Dench, and that agents will be falling over themselves to sign them up, and off they’ll go to life of stardom and riches. But it doesn’t happen. This is a fee-paying college, so if mummy and daddy can afford the fees their offspring gets in, talented or not. No audition piece to be done, just a cheque to be signed.’

  ‘You make it sound a bit tacky.’

  ‘Not tacky, my dear; it’s business. At the end of the financial year there’s a profit and loss account like any other business, and so far we’ve been on the profit side of the page. Do you want a print out of this 1984 information?’

  ‘No,’ Gheeta said, taking a data stick from her shoulder bag. ‘I’ll download it, if I may? We have cleared it with Mr Timms-Beddis; saves a lot of time. ’

  ‘Of course, help yourself. Sit here.’

  Sergeant Singh took over the chair as Miss Jacobs moved off it. She pushed the data stick into a side USB port and hit the keys. In a few seconds the screen was scrolling down at speed, as the information passed from the hard drive to the stick.

  ‘That’s it, all done. Bit faster than printing off pages, eh?’

  ‘Too right, my dear. I may be of an age that was brought up on the typewriter and carbon paper, but I do love the new technologies. Accounts and spread sheets on the computer; click click, done.’

  Gheeta laughed.

  ‘I get the impression, Miss Jacobs, that the Milner College of Dramatic Art might well grind to a halt were you to retire.’

  ‘Retire? Me? Don’t mention that word; if forty is the new twenty, my dear, then seventy is the new thirty-five. Do I look a bit too old for thirty-five?’

  Gheeta was well pleased with the way she’d handled Miss Jacobs; everything she wanted and more was now on the data stick nestling in her shoulder bag. So the class of 1984 had been disrupted by a student’s unusual death; interesting, seeing as three more had met the same fate recently.

  Chapter 16

  It was late in the day, so Palmer decided to wait until the next day, Tuesday, to start looking in depth at the ‘Class of 1984. He sat at a desk in the team room, leafing through the photo album again as Sergeant Singh and Claire hit the computer programmes and uploaded the Milner College information: names, addresses, and anything else about the students of that year went in.

  ‘It’s all very straightforward stuff, sir,’ Gheeta said, shaking her head in a resigned manner. ‘Nothing exciting popping out of the information. They seem to be a very boring class.’

  Palmer looked up from the photos.

  ‘Nothing about suicides? No name disappearing off the roll after half the year?’

  ‘Quite a few didn’t make the full year, but no reasons given. Could have been a nu
mber of reasons, I suppose. Maybe they didn’t make the grade, or mummy and daddy may have run out of cash; or maybe they found that a career in the arts wasn’t for them?’

  Palmer nodded in agreement.

  ‘Well, we shall just have to go back and find out which girl it was that fell out the window.’

  ‘No, hang on…’

  Gheeta hit a different programme.

  ‘Miss Jacobs, the Accounts lady, said that the coroner gave a verdict of accidental death on that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Coroner’s Court records will have all the information.’

  She tapped excitedly on her keyboard as Claire and Palmer watched.

  ‘For that area and that year it came under the Camberwell Coroner’s Court. 1984… Blimey, there are hundreds of verdicts here – busy court… Let’s try Accidental Death, can’t have been too many of them… Eight; have to read them individually to find our girl.’

  Palmer had been down this road with Sergeant Singh’s bespoke computer programmes before. He gave a little cough into his hand.

  ‘Ahem, I take it that logging into a Coroner’s Court Archive is totally legal, Sergeant?’

  Claire tried to conceal a large smile, and Gheeta winked at her as she answered. Both Palmer and Claire knew what was coming.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, sir.’

  ‘Hmm… Because I couldn’t possibly sanction illegal hacking, were it to be brought to my attention. However, were it not to be brought to my attention, then I wouldn’t know about it, would I?’

  ‘No sir, you wouldn’t. Her name was Angela Bennett; nineteen years-old, doing a Combined Arts Course – I suppose that’s a bit of everything. Enrolled January 1984, and death occurred on September 19th. Parents attended the court on October 4th, as did the pathologist, and – this is interesting – the parents questioned the court’s findings and the verdict.’

  ‘Hang on a tick.’

  Claire had been busy on her PC and suddenly spoke up.