by Graham Ison
We chatted for about half an hour before she stood up. ‘If you show me your kitchen, I’ll get supper under way,’ she said, and handed me her champagne flute. ‘Be a dear and fill that up again.’
I watched her at work in the kitchen-diner, occasionally taking a sip of champagne as she moved about the confined space. She seemed to have no problem finding the necessary plates, cutlery and napkins, and within minutes had laid the table and served the starter.
‘Smoked salmon on thin slices of walnut bread,’ I said. ‘It looks wonderful, and very cordon bleu.’ My sole contribution had been to find wine glasses and uncork a bottle of Chablis.
‘I’m afraid there’s only a chicken Caesar salad to follow.’
‘Only? I thought you said it was a simple supper.’ I held up my glass of wine. ‘Here’s to us.’
‘Here’s to us,’ she agreed. ‘But don’t get too carried away with what you seem to think is my culinary expertise, Harry. I couldn’t manage to bring a pudding, so you’ll have to go without.’
Despite Lydia’s self-deprecation, the meal was really superb. ‘That salad dressing was wonderful,’ I said.
‘It was nothing special, just something I put together myself.’
After supper we relaxed in the sitting room. It was still stiflingly hot and I opened the French doors that were a feature of my first-floor flat. There was no balcony, however, just an ornamental railing.
‘Cognac, Lydia?’
‘Just a small one, please.’
We talked about all manner of things, occasionally touching on the two murders at Cockcroft Lodge in North Sheen which had been instrumental in bringing us together. We talked also of our mutual friends Bill and Charlotte Hunter.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost eleven o’clock.
‘Have you booked a taxi to take you back to Esher yet?’ I asked.
‘No, Harry, I haven’t.’
‘I’ll see if I can get you one from the rank at Surbiton station, shall I?’
‘I’m not in a hurry. Unless you’re keen to throw me out.’
At twenty-two minutes past seven the following morning my mobile woke me with its loud, distinctive tone.
Moving Lydia’s arm from across my chest, I reached over to the bedside table for the phone. She mumbled, turned over, but didn’t wake up.
‘Brock,’ I said.
‘Harry, it’s Alan Cleaver.’
‘Guv’nor?’ I was wide awake in an instant. Cleaver was the detective chief superintendent in charge of Homicide and Major Crime Command, and he didn’t ring up this early on a weekend without a damned good reason.
‘Sorry to spring this on you early on a Sunday morning, Harry, but the body of another woman has been found.’
‘When and where, guv?’
‘Canbury Gardens, Kingston upon Thames, half an hour ago. Police from Kingston were called by a man whose dog ran into the trees there. The dog’s owner followed and found the body. I know it’s on HMCC South’s patch, but the victim is similar in age and appearance to the other two you’re investigating.’
‘Who came to that conclusion, sir?’
‘Jack Noble. He’s at the scene and he’s familiar with the other two toppings,’ Cleaver continued, ‘although he only attended the Ham Common one. But he reckons this latest victim was strangled in the same way as the other two. It makes sense for you to take this one as well. It looks like we’ve got a serial killer on our hands, Harry,’ he said, confirming what I’d thought after the second murder. ‘If you want any additional manpower or any more equipment, just give me a bell.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll get down there as soon as I can.’ Jack Noble’s opinion was worth listening to. As the HAT DI, he knew how to weigh up the situation accurately and rapidly.
‘Good man, Harry.’ Cleaver paused and chuckled. ‘I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important,’ he enquired airily.
‘No, sir,’ I said unconvincingly.
‘Liar,’ said Cleaver, and chuckled again. ‘I’ve arranged for a traffic car to pick you up. In fact, it should be outside your place right now.’
‘I’m on my way, guv’nor.’
Lydia was now wide awake. ‘What’s happening, Harry?’
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been called out. It’s another murder.’
‘Oh!’ She pouted. ‘Can’t they send someone else?’
‘It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid,’ I said, as I rolled off the bed and gathered the various pieces of my clothing that had somehow finished up strewn across the bedroom floor. ‘There should be a car outside as I speak.’
‘Well, you’re not going without a cup of tea.’ Lydia threw back the duvet and stood up. Without bothering to put anything on, she walked through to the kitchen and filled the kettle.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t walk about like that when I’ve been called back to duty, Lydia.’
She just laughed.
By the time I’d dressed she’d made a pot of tea and put two slices of buttered toast on the worktop.
‘I can’t promise when I’m likely to be back,’ I said. ‘If you’d like to stay here, that is.’
‘I’d love to stay, Harry love.’ Lydia squeezed my arm. ‘I’ll go shopping, and if you ring me when you’re leaving, I’ll have a decent meal ready for you when you get in.’ She smiled coyly as a sudden thought occurred to her. ‘I’m not outstaying my welcome, am I? I wouldn’t want you to think I’m pushing myself on you.’ She sounded genuinely concerned.
‘On the contrary, I think you’re spoiling me.’ I opened one of the kitchen drawers and handed her a key to the flat. ‘You can put that on your keyring, and keep it there for as long as you like.’
She took the key and smiled, but said nothing.
As Cleaver had promised, there was indeed a car waiting outside.
‘Morning, guv,’ said the driver brightly. ‘Lovely day for it.’
‘Yes,’ I said, somewhat tersely. Traffic Unit drivers were always sickeningly cheerful at any time of the day or night, but they were among the best drivers in the world. This one immediately set about proving it: it was about two miles from my flat to Canbury Gardens, and I arrived three hair-raising minutes after leaving home.
Four or five police cars and an ambulance were lined up in Lower Ham Road. Canbury Gardens, where the body was found, lay between there and the River Thames.
‘We can’t keep meeting like this, guv’nor,’ said Jack Noble, the HAT DI, as I dismounted shakily from the traffic car. ‘I gather that Alan Cleaver gave you the SP. In the circumstances I thought it wise to ring him direct, it being a Sunday morning and all that.’
‘Yes, that’s fine, Jack,’ I said. ‘Has she been identified?’
‘Yes, she’d still got her handbag complete with cash, credit cards, passport, house keys and driver’s licence.’ Noble flipped over a page of his pocketbook. ‘She’s Denise Barton, aged twenty-five, with long brown hair and the same sort of neat figure as the other two. And she lived in Cobham.’
‘Did she have a mobile phone with her, Jack?’
‘No, she didn’t. Unusual these days, and I wondered if the killer took it.’ Noble paused, as though wary of putting forward an opinion. ‘I know this isn’t my case, but I wondered if he’d heard about the enquiries you’d been making about names and selfies on Rachel Steele’s phone.’ He shrugged. ‘Only a thought, guv.’
‘It’s worth mentioning, Jack, thanks. Was this girl wearing a bra?’
‘I don’t know, but she’s not wearing one now, and she’d been stripped to the waist.’
‘How did you know she’d been strangled in the same way as the other two, then?’ It wasn’t a criticism, just curiosity.
‘She’s lying on her back and the fingermarks on the front of the neck are plainly visible, which seems to indicate strangulation from behind,’ said Noble. ‘Ah, here’s the good doctor now. He should be in a joyful mood at this time on a Sunday morning.’
Dr Henry Mor
tlock proved to be the first of the murder technicians to arrive. He was followed quickly by Linda Mitchell and her evidence recovery team. A taxi pulled up and Kate Ebdon leaped out.
‘Morning, Kate. How did you know about this?’
‘You can blame me, guv,’ said Noble. ‘Once Alan Cleaver confirmed he was giving the job to you I phoned your incident room and gave them the heads up.’
‘I told Dave Poole to meet us at the office, guv,’ said Kate. ‘There didn’t seem much point in him coming down here from Kennington only to go all the way back to Belgravia, but as I live in New Malden it was no problem to get here. Don Keegan’s the incident room manager, and he’s assembling the rest of the team.’
‘What did you tell him to do with them?’
‘To hold them at Belgravia until you decide what you want done next.’ She glanced around the area. ‘There’s a block of flats overlooking the gardens, so we might get lucky with house-to-house enquiries. Interesting, that, because with the other two toppings there weren’t any places from which anyone could’ve seen anything.’
‘I’ll leave you to put that in hand, Kate. Now we’ll wait to see what Henry’s got to say about the body.’
The local police had already taped off the area, and Linda’s people were laying stepping plates between the road and Denise Barton’s body and erecting screens around the corpse.
‘Paul Smith is the guy who found the body, and he’s on a big white cabin cruiser just across from here. You can’t miss it, it’s the only one there,’ said Noble. ‘I got a brief rundown on what he saw and did, which wasn’t much, and told him to go back to his boat and wait.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’ I turned to Kate. ‘We’ll have a word with Smith while Henry Mortlock’s looking at the body.’ We crossed Canbury Gardens to Paul Smith’s cabin cruiser, ensuring we walked well wide of the crime scene.
‘Mr Smith!’ shouted Kate.
‘Hello?’ A suntanned man wearing just shorts appeared from a hatch in the stern cockpit.
‘We’re police officers,’ I said. ‘We’d like a word with you.’
‘Come aboard.’ Smith offered to help Kate, but she placed one hand on the narrow deck and vaulted aboard. ‘You’ve done that before,’ he said.
‘A few times,’ said Kate, as we followed Smith into the cabin.
‘This is my wife, Trixie.’ Paul Smith indicated a young blonde in a black swimsuit. Smith was about thirty, but I guessed that his wife was no more than twenty-two.
I introduced Kate and me, and accepted Smith’s offer to sit down.
‘I’ve just made a pot of coffee,’ said Trixie. ‘Would you like a cup?’
Once the coffee was served, we got down to the matter in hand.
‘Tell me the order of things leading up to your finding the body, Mr Smith.’
‘It was a bit of a shock, I can tell you,’ said Smith. ‘Our dog Tammy jumped ship, something he’s always doing, I’m afraid. I went after him, but he shot across straight into the trees. I called him, and I heard him barking, which he only does when he’s excited. When I found him, he was standing by this young woman’s body. I could see she was dead, and so I rang the police. Within minutes several police cars and an ambulance arrived. One of the policemen told me to wait, and a little while later a detective inspector asked me a few questions and said I could go back to the boat. He said that someone would be along later to interview me. I suppose that’s you.’
‘Yes, Mr Smith, I’m the senior investigating officer. Have you been moored here all night?’
‘Yes, we have. Actually, we’ve been across to Amsterdam for a fun week. It was fun, wasn’t it, sweetie?’ Smith smiled at his wife, and she laughed and nodded vigorously. ‘And now we’re on our way back home to Henley.’
‘Did you hear anything unusual during the night?’ asked Kate.
‘Such as?’ asked Trixie, and giggled.
‘We’re working on the theory that whoever murdered this woman killed her where she was found, and did so during the night.’ Kate spoke in clear, concise tones, and her voice became a little sharper. She’d obviously dismissed Trixie Smith as an airhead.
‘Murdered?’ Trixie seemed shocked, and it confirmed my original assessment of her as a woman who’d married a wealthy man – if the size of the cabin cruiser was anything to go by – and who had never come up against the hard knocks of life.
‘No,’ said Paul Smith. ‘We are both sound sleepers. I certainly didn’t hear anything.’ He glanced at Trixie. ‘Did you hear anything, sweetie?’
‘No.’ Smith’s wife shook her head.
‘Was there anything at all that you noticed, Mr Smith?’ I asked.
Smith considered the question for a moment or two. ‘Only that the poor young lady wasn’t wearing a bra. She’d been stripped to the waist, you see.’
‘Yes, well, you would notice that,’ said Trixie drily.
‘If I can have your address, Mr Smith,’ I said, ‘we may have to contact you again, although I doubt it. And then you’re free to go on your way to Henley.’
That done, and having learned nothing, we returned to the crime scene.
TEN
As Jack Noble had predicted, Dr Henry Mortlock was in a foul mood.
‘How many more of these damned bodies are you going to find this early in the morning, Harry?’
‘If you can tell me who the murderer is, my dear doctor,’ I said, ‘I’ll pop out and nick him. Then, in future, I won’t have to bother you before breakfast.’
Mortlock muttered something which though unintelligible sounded vaguely obscene, and stood up. ‘The mixture as before, Harry. Manual strangulation, attacked from behind. And before you ask, yes, she had been wearing a brassiere but isn’t wearing one now. Further and better particulars after I’ve carved her up. Satisfied?’
‘Nearly. Time of death, Henry?’
Mortlock took off his pince-nez and, gazing unseeing at a tree, pursed his lips. ‘I’d say around about ten o’clock last night, but with a leeway of an hour either side,’ he said, realigning his gaze on me.
‘All right to move the body?’ asked Kate.
‘Indeed, young lady, and be so good as to have it delivered to my usual address.’ Mortlock packed the remainder of his ghoulish instruments into his bag and departed whistling a passage from Handel’s Dead March in Saul, which seemed particularly apt, both for the occasion and the hour.
‘We’ve almost finished the photography and video, Harry.’ Linda Mitchell was outside the tent when Kate and I emerged. ‘I’ll get one of my team to take the victim’s fingerprints, just in case. Jack Noble arranged for the uniforms to do a fingertip search of the area, but nothing evidential has been found so far.’
‘No cigarette ends this time?’
‘No, and no bra either, although Dr Mortlock said that she had been wearing one when she was killed or shortly before.’
‘Yes, he mentioned that. I’ll leave you to it, Linda.’ I’d decided to send for Len Driscoll and a few members of the team to oversee the crime scene while Kate and I went to the address in Cobham that was on Denise Barton’s driving licence.
Driscoll arrived just before eleven o’clock and I gave him a quick résumé of what had been done so far. He just nodded, almost giving the impression of being uninterested. But those who knew him – and it had taken me some time to get his measure – knew that he was complex of character, often irritable and always demanding. Tall, well dressed and well spoken, he possessed the superior attitude of a man who was efficient at his job and scathing about the inefficiency of anyone working for him. Or with him. I firmly believed that his suave, occasionally condescending, demeanour frightened even the commander.
By the time I’d briefed Driscoll it was midday, and Kate and I were able to get away from Canbury Gardens.
According to the address on her driving licence, Denise Barton had lived in a small cottage on the outskirts of the Surrey village of Cobham. Two identical Mini Cooper convertibles wi
th sequential index marks were parked outside.
We’d brought the keys that had been found in her handbag, but I rang the bell in the hope that the owner of one of the two Minis lived there and was at home. He was.
‘Yes?’ The man who answered the door was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, tall and slender, and had the distracted, studious appearance of someone who could have been a teacher or a university lecturer.
‘We’re police officers,’ I said, and Kate and I produced our warrant cards. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock and this is Detective Inspector Ebdon.’
The man put on a pair of glasses. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, apparently satisfied that we were who we said we were. Suddenly he realized that we weren’t there on a Sunday afternoon for some trivial reason. ‘Oh God! Something’s happened to Denise.’
‘I think it’d be better if we came in, Mr …?’
‘Malcolm Warner. I’m Denise’s fiancé.’ He showed us into the small front room of the cottage and invited us to sit down. ‘Now, for God’s sake tell me what’s happened. Has she been in an accident?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Miss Barton is dead, Mr Warner,’ I said.
‘Dead? She can’t be. I was talking to her only yesterday afternoon. What happened? A car accident? She was only twenty-five.’
Those were the sort of spontaneous comments often made by people in shock, and it certainly appeared that Warner had been severely shocked by what I’d just told him. Either that or he was skilfully disguising a fear that he was about to be arrested in connection with her death. But by the very nature of their profession policemen in general, and detectives in particular, are hard-bitten cynics.
‘She was murdered, Mr Warner,’ said Kate gently.
‘Murdered? But who would want to murder Denise? She was a lovely girl. We were engaged. We were going to be married next month. Oh God! I’ll have to tell her parents. And there are the bridesmaids, and all the guests. We’ve already sent out the invitations. And there are wedding presents to return. Oh hell, I’ll have to deal with all of that.’ The words tumbled out, jumbled and disconnected as various thoughts occurred to him. Suddenly, he stopped. ‘Where did this happen?’ he demanded almost accusingly, as though he thought we should have done something to prevent it occurring.