Murder in Hyde Park

by Phillip Strang

  Of the four of them, Ben, Sally, Archie, and Isaac, Ben was now an inspector at a station in the north of the country, Sally was teaching law at a university, Isaac was standing by the side of the Serpentine, and Archie had died one night, a hit and run driver.

  At the Christmas Day race, it had been Archie, the most unlikely of the four, who had taken the bronze medal, the other three just finishing.

  A wave of nostalgia swept over Isaac, good times past. One of the police divers surfaced and came over to where he was standing.

  ‘Not much to see down there,’ the diver said, once he had removed his mouthpiece. ‘No visibility, not that it’s deep, but it’s the mud. As soon as we probe around, up it comes.’

  ‘No sign of a wallet?’

  ‘An old bike, even a shopping trolley, a few sad looking fish, but no wallet. We’ll try for a couple more hours, and then we’ll have to call it quits.’

  ‘Thanks for trying,’ Isaac said as he moved away. He hadn’t expected them to find anything; a serious jogger always travels light, although not finding a debit card inside the mobile phone cover was unusual. Even he carried little cash nowadays, preferring to flash the card across the machine when he was buying fuel or even a lifeless ham and cheese sandwich, as he had that day.

  And now the trip to Jamaica was off, and he had to phone the travel agent, and then phone Jenny, and then…

  After the look on her face when he had left, he wasn’t sure what to say to her. She deserved better, but he had a murder enquiry, although many would say that a personal relationship took precedence over work, and his leave had been approved, and that he should go. But that wasn’t how he was wired, he knew that. To him, a murder enquiry was personal, and whoever was responsible, they were answerable to him. It was he as the senior investigating officer and his team who would solve the crime and bring the perpetrator to account.

  ***

  It was late on the first day, and the team were in the office in Challis Street. The clothes and the shoes were good quality,’ Bridget said. ‘I’ve seen an initial report from Forensics.’

  ‘I’ve not,’ Isaac said. He was leaning back on his chair, not unusual for him when the heat was on. He had just finished speaking to Jenny back at their flat. She had sounded fine, but he was sure she was not. He knew that when he finally arrived home, much later, she would want to talk, whereas he would not. It wasn’t directed at her, but after a hard and long day, with a surfeit of facts to digest, an attempt to separate the murder from his personal life was necessary, even if he rarely succeeded.

  He knew that Larry would use alcohol as the means of separation, but he had never been a drinker, not even in his youth. Larry wasn’t the first police officer who had used alcohol as a crutch. But Larry was on his team, and he didn’t intend to lose the man due to alcoholism, an easy way to be drummed out of the police force.

  ‘You will soon,’ Bridget said. ‘I’ve got a contact down there, let’s me see it before it’s been signed off by the Forensics officer.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The clothing and shoes could have been purchased in England, as well as overseas. I’ll work on it tomorrow, contact the importer, find out where the stock had been dispatched.’

  ‘Any more, seeing that you have friends in high places?’ Isaac said, a smile on his face, not that he felt jovial.

  ‘The SIM card in the phone. Vodafone, purchased in a supermarket probably, prepaid.’

  ‘A tourist?’

  ‘We can’t be certain. Plenty of people don’t want to tie themselves to contracts, others have more than one phone.’

  ‘And some toss the phone and the SIM card out after a week.’

  ‘Criminals would, but the man had the latest iPhone,’ Larry said. ‘If he were a criminal, then he would have purchased something cheap.’

  ‘The media?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘A death in Hyde Park, Chinese tourists, no more than a five-minute walk to Kensington Palace. It’s touched the public’s imagination, the fear that the man’s death was not random, and there’s a madman on the loose,’ Larry said.

  ‘Just what we need, public hysteria.’

  ‘Not yet, but it could become that if there are more.’

  ‘It would have needed something for him to have stayed in the water,’ Larry said.

  ‘Have you swum in there?’

  ‘Not likely. Too much dirt and duck poo for me.’

  ‘The dirt’s on the bottom, but it’s cold, freezing cold.’

  ‘You’ve been in?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Not recently. The water comes from three bores in the park; it used to be fed from the River Westbourne, but that’s been diverted underneath and around the lake. If he wasn’t a good swimmer, the cold would have sapped his strength on contact with the water, and then panic sets in, and if it was dark, the man, uncertain of his bearings, strikes out for shore. Confusion, fear, possibly jet-lagged if he’s a tourist, and then death.’

  ‘Sad way to die,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Who was he? We need to know and within twenty-four hours,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Six in the morning meeting?’ Bridget said.

  ‘Until we solve the murder.’

  ‘Jamaica?’

  ‘It’s off for the time being.’

  ‘Someone will be disappointed,’ Wendy said.

  Isaac chose to ignore Wendy’s comment, true as it was. He stood up, put on his jacket and left the office. Tomorrow was another day; he knew that tonight at home was another problem.

  ***

  Torrential rain greeted Isaac as he left his flat at five o’clock the next morning, but it was a welcome relief from the frosty atmosphere inside.

  He knew that he’d have to make it up to Jenny, and as soon as the current murder investigation was over, he’d rebook the flight to Jamaica, even pay extra if necessary.

  One advantage of the rain was that Hyde Park would have fewer tourists, although one or two joggers would be winding their way through, determined that without their early-morning hit they’d never get through the day. However, any remaining evidence at the murder scene would no longer be available. He pitied the two uniforms still at the site.

  In the office, the team were there. Even though they had all been in the office five hours previously, the early-morning meeting was a rule that Isaac rarely broke during an investigation.

  In the small kitchenette, Bridget had prepared tea for everyone, even bringing a homemade cake with her.

  In his office, Isaac, after the customary ‘thanks for coming’, led off. He had a mug of tea in his hand, no sugar, although Larry had two spoons, and Bridget and Wendy had sweeteners, the two of them attempting to lose weight for their upcoming week in the South of France, the hope of finding love or lust, joking mainly about the unlikeliness of either.

  ‘We need to know who this person is,’ Isaac said as he took a sip of tea.

  ‘I’ll focus on the clothing, Inspector Hill can focus on the SIM card,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Also, the iPhone. Bridget’s running it through the system for me, although without it switched on, we’ve not much to go on,’ Larry Hill said.

  ‘Needle in a haystack if it was purchased overseas or on eBay.’

  ‘Worth a shot,’ Isaac said, glancing over at Larry who wasn’t looking the best. He would have to have that talk soon with him.

  ‘The SIM’s a better chance. Although the serial number may not help much. Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard, we can expect his dulcet tones in here soon?’

  ‘Sometime today. The media attention will ensure his becoming involved,’ Isaac said.

  A short meeting, it was still too early to start making phone calls, knocking on doors. Bridget went back to her computer. Larry researched how easy it was to get hold of a SIM card for a mobile; remarkably easy, as it turned out that few checks were conducted.

  Wendy busied herself with checking the suppliers of the clothes and the shoes the dead man had been wea
ring. She soon realised that there were more than she could ever door knock or phone, and if they were counterfeit, brought from a shady seller down a dark lane and off the back of a truck, then they would be impossible to trace. According to Forensics, the fabric in the shorts the man had been wearing indicated that they were genuine, although they couldn’t be sure with the shirt. The shoes seemed genuine as well.

  The dead man was either a saint or a rogue, or possibly somewhere in between, but no one had reported him missing. Not a concern in itself, as it was only twenty-four hours since he had died. Missing Persons would contact Homicide if anything came in. Bridget had scanned their website, sad to see so many people there with no names, other than John or Jane Doe: washed up on the shore, three months floating around in the sea, dead under a bridge, some in their teens, others old and unwanted. People who had loved or been loved, now forgotten.

  And now one more to add to the list, a man in the Serpentine, but Wendy was sure the day would reveal his identity. After all, he had been carrying a late-model phone, he had been dressed appropriately for jogging, he was not a tramp or a refugee. He must have money and loved ones somewhere. Wendy realised that that was the soft-hearted side of her, the side that looked for the best in people and circumstances. The man could have been a savage killer, an abuser of children, a villain, but until that was known, she would only think the best of the man who was lying on a metal table waiting for the pathologist to conclude his autopsy and to update the team.

  Wendy scrolled down the list of clothing that had been provided by the crime scene investigators.

  Shoes. Nike Air Zoom Pegasus 35 Shield – Black – Size 10.

  Shorts. Nike Challenger – Black – Medium.

  Nike Dri-FIT Medallist – Short-sleeve – Black – Medium.

  All of it one brand, which indicated that a Nike shop or a section in a department store might be able to supply the details, assuming a credit card was used. Cash was unlikely. Who carried cash these days, Wendy thought, although she still preferred money in her wallet, not fully trusting the card to work when she wanted it to, not always sure if there were sufficient funds in the bank account to cover whatever she purchased.

  Larry sat at his desk, realising that the iPhone would not be of much use unless it was powered up. The phone was with Forensics, drying out. No attempt would be made to switch it on until the process had completed.

  ‘You’ll fry what little’s left of it if you try,’ the smart and eager young man in the white lab coat had said when Larry had stuck his nose around the door the night before. Forensics wasn’t too keen on working on a Sunday, the same as everyone else, but for a murder the person on standby duties had been brought in.

  Larry looked at his watch. 7.20 a.m. He’d give it another ten minutes, and he’d be over to Forensics, no doubt making a nuisance of himself, hopeful of a result.

  Chapter 3

  ‘It’ll cost you a pint,’ Jerry Blaxland said. He had arrived at the Forensics lab at eight in the morning, expecting to have a chance to grab a cup of coffee and check his emails. It wasn’t to be as Larry had arrived ten minutes earlier.

  Blaxland, a man in his forties, with jet-black hair, had a perpetual frown as though the world was about to end. His initial comment, ‘it’ll cost you a pint’, said before the usual courtesies, did not concern Larry. Apart from Blaxland being a good forensics laboratory officer, he was also a drinker, and he and Larry had often shared a few glasses of beer.

  ‘I’ll buy you two if you can get the phone to work,’ Larry said.

  ‘Five minutes while I log in, check a couple of emails and grab a coffee. One for you?’ Blaxland said, not willing to forego the early morning ritual.

  ‘One sugar.’

  ‘Cutting down?’

  ‘I’m trying to, but you know how it is.’

  Blaxland was another man who struggled with his weight, not helped by five pints of beer every night at his local pub, a predilection for McDonald’s hamburgers, the biggest they had, every lunchtime.

  ‘The wife?’ Blaxland said.

  ‘She’s complaining, and I’m waiting for my DCI to have another go at me.’

  ‘Tough.’

  ‘Sometimes we see things that no man should see.’

  ‘Not in here,’ Blaxland said. Larry looked around the laboratory, could see what the man meant. The area was sterile, with hardly anything to show for what passed through the doors: blood-stained clothing, guns and knives, some still bloodied, some that had killed, and sometimes body parts, heavily decayed and writhing with maggots. Yet, each day, the fear of contamination and disputed evidence ensured that the place was left spotless. A faint smell of chemicals pervaded the air.

  ‘We’ve had the phone on low heat for twenty-three hours,’ Blaxland said. ‘If it’s going to work, it’ll be now or never.’

  ‘The memory, any chance of finding out contacts from it, images?’

  ‘Do you remember back in 2016 when the FBI tried to unlock an iPhone belonging to a suspected terrorist and Apple wouldn’t help?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ Larry replied, not sure of the relevance.

  ‘The FBI managed to unlock it in the end. We may have a password on this phone as well.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Fifty-fifty. It’s a prepaid card, so if someone stole it and made a long-distance call to a relative in Australia, the money would have run out soon enough. Depends though.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Whether whoever this phone belonged to was neurotic, or he used it to phone a girlfriend while his wife sat at home with the kids.’

  ‘Assume the best. Just switch it on.’

  Blaxland set the phone on one of the benches in the lab. He then connected the charging cable – nothing.

  ‘It’s dead,’ Larry said.

  ‘You’ve got a phone. What happens when the battery goes flat?’

  ‘It switches off.’

  ‘And when you connect it to the charger, it thinks about it for a short while before anything happens. I’m only applying a trickle charge, the lowest setting that I can. It’ll take a few minutes. Time enough for another coffee.’

  ‘I’d rather stay with the phone.’

  ‘A watched kettle never boils. You must have heard that saying?’

  ‘My mother, all the time.’

  ‘Your mother had more sense than you. A coffee and then it’ll be ready to try.’

  The two men retreated to the coffee machine, Larry not keen to go, but complying with Blaxland. The man was good, Larry knew that, and if anyone was going to have success, it would be him.

  Five minutes later, the two men were back at the phone. The screen was illuminated, a charge of eight per cent indicated.

  ‘It’s a bit low, but it’s promising,’ Blaxland said.

  Larry wanted to pick up the phone and scroll through it, find out the phone’s number, instigate a search on the calls made. ‘Can’t you try it now?’ he said.

  ‘It cost the FBI a fortune to break the password on that phone in America,’ Blaxland said.

  ‘The most I can manage is a couple of pints of beer if that’s what you’re hinting at.’

  ‘That’ll do. There’s no password.’

  ‘What’s the phone’s number?’

  Blaxland scrolled through to the settings to show the number. Larry messaged Bridget; she’d know what to do.’

  ‘A list of phone numbers called, received?’

  ‘You’ve got the phone’s number. It’s easy from here on.’

  ‘Humour me. Give me the last ten with times, also any messages. Are there images?’

  ‘No images, two messages. “See you soon, can’t wait”, “Ready and waiting, lover”.’

  ‘Phone numbers for the messages?’

  Blaxland typed the information on his laptop. Not long after, Larry left Forensics with a printed sheet of paper containing the details of the two messages complete with their phone numbers and eight phone numbers di
alled, but no emails, as the phone had not been fully set up.

  ***

  Wendy had to admit relief in that the focus had turned from the clothing the dead jogger was wearing to the phone calls, especially the two messages. Of the eight phone numbers dialled, four of them were the same as the messages.

  ‘A wife?’ Isaac said in the office.

  ‘You’ve a trusting nature, DCI,’ Wendy said. ‘The man had a fancy woman, a bit on the side. That’s why the prepaid phone, the coy messages, the short phone calls.’

  Isaac knew that Wendy was probably right.

  He had had a troublesome night, with Jenny wanting to talk for hours on end, and just as he was dropping off to sleep, she’d nudge him in the ribs and start on again about the need for commitment, the time to prioritise what was important in his life.

  She was right, he knew that, but what could he say? There was a murder enquiry. He had had no words, and it had been the first time that she had complained. He hoped it would blow over, but he wasn’t confident that it would.

  She was only exercising her right as the person who shared his life. In the end, she had left the bed and had gone to sleep in the other room. When he had left early in the morning, he had tiptoed past her, not sure if she was asleep or whether she was pretending. He felt sorry, but he couldn’t say that they’d leave for Jamaica as promised, nor could he say that he loved her and all would be well. He had been down this road before, and it was invariably rough before it got to the end. He wished it could be different.