Murder in Hyde Park

by Phillip Strang

  ‘A mistress,’ Wendy said, this time louder than the first. She had seen the distant look in her DCI’s face, realised what the problem was. Of all those in the department, she had known him longer than anyone else, even longer than Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard. Isaac had been in uniform when she had first met him, a lowly constable attempting to make his mark. Back then, he had been irresistible to the women in the station: over six feet tall, black complexion, always immaculately dressed, even in his police uniform. And now, many years later, the looks had not changed, only aged a little and become more distinguished, and now he wore a suit.

  Isaac, embarrassed that he had drifted away for a few seconds, refocussed on the meeting. ‘Yes, of course. Do we know who?’

  ‘It’s another prepaid,’ Bridget said. ‘I’ve found out where it was bought, although not a name.’

  ‘Local?’

  ‘Paddington.’

  ‘Wendy, Larry, focus on finding the owner of this phone. Any more you can give us, Bridget?’

  ‘Not so difficult now with the number. I can tell you where the phone calls to and from the jogger were made.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The dates go back six days. The jogger phoned the number four times, the other end phoned him twice, plus a couple of messages.’

  ‘We’ll check where the other phone number’s SIM was purchased, and then it’s legwork,’ Larry said. ‘Any more you can give us, Bridget?’

  ‘The other mobile’s relatively static. I’ve got the SIM provider checking further, but we’re assuming Paddington, and we should be able to narrow it down to two to three streets, maybe a bit more.’

  ‘That’s still a lot of territory to cover. We’ll be looking forever. Any other phone calls made from the other number?’

  ‘Only to the jogger, which indicates that Wendy is right. Clandestine lovers indulging in subterfuge.’

  ‘It got the man killed,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It’s a good enough motive.’

  ***

  ‘Do you know how many SIMS we sell in a day?’ Brent Anderson said. He was standing behind a shop counter at Paddington Station. In front of him, a glass-fronted kiosk had an array of cheap mobile phones. Behind him, hanging on hooks, SIM cards for all of the major mobile phone networks.

  ‘The phones you’re selling? Fakes or stolen?’ Larry said.

  ‘I’ve got receipts for all of them. This is a respectable business.’

  ‘Respectable, I don’t think so,’ Wendy said. She didn’t like the look of the man. He had a great location in the railway station, a lot of passing traffic, yet he stood there with unkempt hair, a one-week beard growth.

  ‘If I have to close you down, get your stock checked out, I will,’ Larry said.

  Anderson looked away, took a puff of a cigarette.

  ‘No smoking in here,’ Wendy said. ‘Can’t you see the signs.’

  ‘Is this your store, or are you just an employee?’ Larry asked.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘We came here in a civil manner, showed you our warrant cards. If you don’t want to help, then we’ll call in some people from the station to close you down, check your records.’

  Wendy had got to know the previous station master well during another murder enquiry. She knew what he would have thought of the man selling phones. The station master had been a stickler for rules and regulations and for keeping the trains on time, the station modern and efficient. Although in his office it was like stepping back in time, the leather chair where Wendy had sat recovered from a carriage on the last steam train to leave Paddington. Now the trains were slick and fast and clean, Wendy was not nostalgic for their smelly and slow predecessors. She imagined that Anderson would have liked them. Back then everyone smoked, and there were no restrictions.

  ‘Tell us what we want, and we’ll leave you to it,’ Wendy said. She didn’t want to indulge in a slanging match; she was there with Larry for information. Later on, she would make a phone call to the new station master, mention her friendship with the previous incumbent who had since retired. She’d make sure that a smart-arse like Anderson got his comeuppance.

  ‘How long ago?’ Anderson said with a resigned look on his face.

  ‘Eight to nine days ago.’

  Larry handed over the phone number.

  ‘It depends whether the person paid cash or not. Male or female?’

  ‘We can’t be sure.’

  Anderson ran through the records on his computer where he had activated the SIM, entering the information into Vodafone’s database. ‘Found it. Christine Hislop, 24 Talbot Square, Paddington. A two-minute walk from here.’

  ‘It’s also the Fitzroy Hotel,’ Larry said.

  ‘That’s the address the woman gave.’

  ‘Do you remember her?’

  ‘If she was a looker, I might have, but no.’

  ‘Bogus address?’ Wendy said, not appreciating Anderson’s derisory comment, not that she had expected more of the man.

  ‘That’s not my concern, is it?’ Anderson replied. ‘I gave you what you wanted. The woman paid cash. Now if you don’t mind.’

  ‘We do,’ Larry said. ‘If there’s anything more we’ll be back. You’ve got a driving licence, proof of address?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘We’re not saying you have, but if we find the woman, we may ask you to have a look at her photo, let us know if it rings any other bells.’

  ‘Have it your way,’ Anderson said as he handed over a driving licence, still valid, just, as well as a utility bill, overdue, good address.

  ‘Your parents’ place?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Mine and paid for. I got lucky with a lottery ticket. Bought myself this hole in the wall, paid for the house.’

  ‘Then why work here?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Schizophrenic, if you must know. If I sit at home, I’d be smoking more than twenty Marlboro Gold a day. This keeps me sane.’

  Wendy could see that the unpleasant man had some redeeming features, not many though, although he had reasoned that sanity was preferable to the alternatives. ‘Thanks for the help,’ she said, even managing a weak smile.

  ***

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you,’ the neatly-turned-out man said at the Fitzroy Hotel’s reception said. ‘The woman could have been a guest.’

  ‘She may still be. The first phone call in this area was six days ago, the last thirty-six hours,’ Larry said.

  ‘As I said, we don’t have a Christine Hislop here.’

  ‘Do any of the staff live on the premises?’

  ‘A few, but I don’t recognise the name.’

  ‘Can you check?’ Wendy asked. She had looked around the hotel as she had entered, seen that it cost over five hundred pounds a night for a small double, more than she spent in a month on her half share of the house she shared with Bridget.

  ‘Sure, no trouble.’

  Wendy compared the man behind the hotel reception to Brent Anderson. The latter would have had more money but didn’t deserve it. The receptionist was probably paid a pittance, worked long hours, yet remained civil and friendly. Life wasn’t fair, Wendy knew, but sometimes the injustices of the world got to her – the reason that the television at home was switched off when the news was on, which appeared to be most of the time. She no longer wanted to hear about corrupt right-wing politicians and their agendas, the starving in Africa, those fleeing war zones. Not that she couldn’t sympathise with the downtrodden and the neglected; it was just that there was too much closer to home, too much in the area to deal with. A man, not missed by anyone yet, lay dead; that was enough for her to deal with for the present.

  ‘We’ve got a Christine Mason on the books.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘She handles the accounts. I’ll give her a call.’

  ‘Don’t bother. Just point us in the right direction,’ Larry said.

  ‘Behind me, second door on the lef
t down the corridor. Is she in trouble?’

  ‘Routine enquiry, that’s all.’

  ‘But you’re from Homicide.’

  ‘We’ve not come here to arrest anyone, just to ask a few questions. How long are you on duty for?’

  ‘Another three hours. Why?’

  ‘We may have some more questions for you.’

  ‘She’s a good person, is Christine.’

  No doubt the dead man was, Wendy thought, but he’s still dead.

  Larry and Wendy walked through the door at the back of reception. The impressive décor out front soon degenerated into drab white-painted walls. The first office along the corridor had a sign on the door stating it belonged to the assistant manager. Across from there, on the other side, two printers occupied an alcove. The corridor did not stretch far, only six offices from what they could see. On the second door on the left, the sign said accounts manager. It wasn’t an impressive brass plaque; this was plastic and cheap, held on by a couple of screws.

  Wendy knocked; a voice came from the other side. ‘Come in.’

  Wendy showed her warrant card first, Larry second.

  ‘You’ve come about the body upstairs? I’m not the person to see. You’ll need housekeeping. They deal with the occasional guest that dies on the premises, two in the last three months.’

  ‘We’re from Homicide,’ Larry said. He took a seat, as did Wendy. ‘Are you Christine Hislop?’

  ‘I was a Hislop once,’ the woman said, no longer sitting comfortably, no longer working on her accounts.

  ‘You purchased a SIM card from a vendor at Paddington Station nine days ago. A scruffy-looking individual.’

  ‘I may have. Sometimes for the guests, a special favour.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Some of them struggle with English. It’s easy enough for me to do, gets me out of the office for a while.’

  ‘We need to be blunt, Miss Mason,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Mrs.’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Mason. The phone that was activated with the SIM you purchased had sent some messages, as well as a number of phone calls, to one phone number in particular. The English on the messages was perfect.’

  Larry held his phone out of sight of Christine Mason. He dialled one number, the number they were now discussing. A delay of five seconds, and then the ringing of a mobile.

  ‘Mrs Mason, who were you phoning? Who did you call “lover”? Please think carefully before answering.’

  ‘We were friends, nothing more.’

  ‘We’re not here to discuss whether you were friends or lovers. We’re from Homicide, investigating a murder,’ Larry said. ‘We need a name.’

  ‘My husband, the children. I can’t.’

  ‘It’s more serious than that,’ Wendy said. ‘We need his name.’

  ‘He was a guest here once or twice. We got to talking, and then, well, it wasn’t too good at home. My husband’s a good man, but he leaves me cold.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but we must insist on a name. Afterwards, we can discuss the right and wrong of it, how you met, and so on.’

  ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Did you suspect that something had happened?’

  ‘Not really. I phoned him one day ago, maybe two. We had arranged to meet, but when he didn’t turn up, I didn’t think too much about it. Sometimes we don’t see each other for months, and then three times in a week. My husband travels, so did Colin, overseas a lot of the time.’

  ‘Colin who?’

  ‘Colin Young.’

  ‘An address?’

  ‘We decided when we became involved not to talk about our home life or where we lived. I didn’t love him, not that much, but he was kind. Two lonely souls, to use a cliché.’

  ‘We need to find his next of kin.’

  ‘Colin? I thought you were referring to someone else.’

  ‘You seemed to understand before.’

  ‘It’s just that I can’t…’

  ‘Believe it, is that it?’ Wendy said.

  ‘He was so fit, so full of himself.’

  ‘A jogger?’

  ‘Serious, every day, wherever he was. We snuck in a couple of nights away once, and five in the morning, he’s out there running around. And I’m there waiting for him, and now he’s dead, and I’ll never see him again. How will I survive? He kept me going, and now he’s gone. How?’

  Wendy could see the woman resolutely holding back the tears.

  ‘Hyde Park, near the Serpentine.’

  ‘But why? He wasn’t staying here. Where was he? He doesn’t live in London, I know that, and he always comes to see me.’

  Larry could recognise the truth. Colin Young was a player, a man that had more than one woman, the married and susceptible his speciality. Not that it explained why Christine Mason, also known as Christine Hislop, would have been attracted to him. She was in her forties, blonde hair, articulate and educated.

  Chapter 4

  The team in Homicide had a name and an address that the man had used when he had signed in at the Fitzroy Hotel on four separate occasions, even at the small and discreet hotel in the countryside where Colin Young and Christine Mason had enjoyed a romantic two-day tryst. But that was it.

  Isaac was frustrated. The case had been split wide open with the naming of the dead jogger. Pathology had confirmed that he had been semi-conscious in the water and he had swallowed sufficient water to drown. The blow to the back of the head with something heavy was clear enough, and the force had thrust him backwards into the Serpentine, and that it was still murder.

  The team met early in Isaac’s office. The weather outside was miserable, interminable rain, the clouds heavy and dark.

  ‘Colin Young, what do we know?’ Isaac asked.

  Wendy sat quietly; a late night the previous day and back at six in the morning didn’t sit well with her. Larry, without the customary few too many pints of beer at the end of the day, was more alert.

  ‘Christine Mason, I suppose we should call her that, rather than the name she used when she purchased the SIM card, is forty-seven years of age. She must be fifteen years older than Colin Young,’ Larry said.

  ‘You’re still trying to make out that Christine Mason is a floozy, desperate for a man,’ Wendy said accusingly.

  ‘I agree that the woman didn’t seem to be that sort, but what do we know about her? Profiling would indicate that she’s not the type for a young lover, but the facts are the facts. You’ve checked out her story, confirmed that her husband, a salesman for an engineering firm, travels a lot, and that there are two children, old enough to look after themselves.’

  ‘What kind of engineering?’ Isaac asked. He was in a better mood than the previous day. He and Jenny were talking again, though not yet loving, and the relationship was going to survive; he was sure of that.

  ‘Military,’ Larry said. ‘Something to do with weapon guidance systems.’

  ‘No more than that?’

  ‘Not that I could understand. Tony Mason is a high-powered salesman, trips into the Middle East, Saudi often. And then, he travels to other countries in the region, some that the British Government doesn’t approve of.’

  ‘Illegal?’

  ‘Even with sanctions imposed, it still continues.’

  ‘So the man’s secretive?’

  ‘We’ve not spoken to him yet. We don’t know what his reaction will be when he finds out about his wife and her lover.’

  ‘Not pleasant, we’d assume,’ Isaac said. ‘He’ll need to be interviewed at some time. In the country?’

  ‘According to Christine Mason, he’s due to leave again in a couple of days,’ Wendy said.

  ‘’Very well. Focus on Colin Young. What do we have?’

  ‘An address in Bristol, bogus,’ Bridget said. ‘No point going there unless you want to enter a convent.’

  ‘Sense of humour, our Mr Young.’

  ‘Sense of something,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s hardly humour if he has been stringing
along other women.’

  ‘Apart from that, we know that the address is bogus. Payment at the Fitzroy?’

  ‘Credit card, valid. It was in the name of Colin Young. The bank that issued it has an address, this time in Bath.’

  ‘Which indicates that he comes from around there?’

  ‘The address in Bath is a secretarial service. We’ve been on to them, although all they do is receive the man’s correspondence, put it into a post office box.’

  ‘Which he picks up from.’

  ‘It’s a busy location, a lot of pedestrian traffic. We can start by asking people on the street if they’ve seen anyone open the box, but it’s a needle in a haystack. The man wouldn’t have stood out from the crowd.’

  ‘Coming back to London,’ Isaac said. ‘The man’s in jogging gear near to the Serpentine. It’s early morning, so that tells us he spent the previous night in London, and somewhere close. If it’s not the Fitzroy, then where?’

  ‘We’ve had people out door knocking the hotels, although we got nowhere. We’ll continue, widen our search if we have to,’ Wendy said.

  ‘He had no money on him,’ Larry said. ‘He must have been staying nearby, within walking or jogging distance.’

  ‘Which could mean for a man so obviously fit, anywhere up to five miles, even more.’

  ‘Needle in a haystack, as you say,’ Isaac said, aware Jenny would be disappointed that the murderer was not going to be found soon.

  ‘We’ve asked other people to check on the clothing,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Focus on finding out what you can about this man. It’s no use chasing red herrings, interviewing Christine Mason’s husband unless we have reason to suspect him.’

  ‘He must be a suspect,’ Bridget said.

  ‘He is, but of what? He may not have known about his wife. What do we know about her? Is this behaviour of hers out of the ordinary? Is Colin Young her first lover?’