Murder in Hyde Park

by Phillip Strang

  Theresa, the friend, had not fared any better that day. After punishing Bradley, Wendy had grabbed her by the hair and thrust her face down into the cowpat. No one would have known but Theresa, humiliated and upset, had told her mother – leaving out some of the sordid details – who had then complained to Wendy’s father and the headmaster at school. Not that either of them had been under any illusion. Her father was a man of the soil, a farmer. He knew the truth, so did the headmaster.

  In the end, lacking resolution and an apology, Theresa had blabbed to her other best friend in the strictest confidence. But it was a school playground confidence, and one hour later the whole school knew. Wendy was the heroine, Theresa, the tart, and Bradley Lawson was a weakling to some due to a woman besting him, a source of admiration to others in that he had made love to the two of them; not that love was the word used, not in a school, not amongst young men.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ Christine said. ‘I knew it was wrong, but every time Colin phoned, I couldn’t say no.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Two thousand pounds. Not a lot in itself, but my husband, he’s the jealous type.’

  ‘And he would know? Couldn’t you tell him that you had to buy some clothes, some furniture for the house, a surprise for him?’

  ‘You don’t know him, or you wouldn’t even think it, let alone suggest it.’

  ‘Violent?’

  ‘Never, not with me.’

  ‘Capable of murder?’

  ‘You think he might have found out?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. It’s normally the nearest and dearest who commit the murders.’

  ‘He’s the nearest, I’m not so sure about the dearest.’

  Wendy ordered another latte and a slice of cheesecake. Christine ordered the same. Wendy liked the woman, although she couldn’t understand why she had been so foolish. It was increasingly looking as though the woman had been the target of a skilled seduction, and if Colin Young could seduce one, then he could seduce two, possibly more.

  Regardless of who the dead man really was, Wendy’s conversation with Christine Mason revealed one thing: the woman’s husband was a possessive man, a man who probably regarded his wife as one of his possessions. The sort of man that profiling would consider to be a prime candidate to commit murder if he knew. And that was the question that needed to be answered. Wendy looked across at the woman who was starting to drift away, a glazed look in her eyes.

  ‘What is it?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’

  ‘Your problems seem more serious than mine.’

  ‘Tony will find out eventually, won’t he?’

  ‘He will. Have you told me the whole truth?’

  ‘I think so. Can I see Colin?’

  Christine Mason excused herself for a couple of minutes. Wendy could see that she wanted to cry.

  ‘Stay with her,’ Isaac said when Wendy phoned him.

  ‘She might remember something else, or she might be holding back. Ask DI Hill to check out her husband. He could be dangerous, and when he finds out, he could attack his wife.’

  ‘Are you suggesting she gets away from him?’

  ‘It’s not for me to suggest. We need to document what she’s told me, what I’ve said to her, just in case.’

  ‘Make sure it’s in your report when you type it up, or should I say when Bridget does. Just get the facts straight, that’s all.’

  ‘We’re going to look at the body.’

  ‘Have they been told?’

  ‘I phoned Pathology. They’ll attempt to make him look presentable.’

  ***

  Neither Roy Eardley nor Adrian Clark was as whippet-thin as Dean Cousins, the jogging police officer. Larry thought Cousins looked anorexic, but he knew that wasn’t the case, having seen him on a couple of occasions eating with gusto.

  ‘Burns the calories, jogging,’ Cousins had said that day in Hyde Park. Which to Larry sounded great in principle, not so much in reality.

  ‘Dean’s a legend,’ Eardley said. A thick-set man, he looked to be of average build to Larry, not the archetypal jogger, but then he wasn’t sure what the archetypal jogger was. Around where Larry lived, there they were every day running up and down the street: some with dogs on leashes, even a woman pushing a pram, the baby inside gaining the benefit of bouncing up and down, whether it liked it or not. There was one hardy individual who’d been out there, rain or sun, snow even. The man had lived two doors down from Larry, a friendly enough person in his sixties, always ready for a chat when he wasn’t jogging or using the side of his house for stretching exercises. In the end, he had suffered a heart attack; too much exertion was the reason given.

  ‘Legend’s not an accolade I would have ascribed to Dean Cousins,’ Larry said.

  ‘London Marathon, two fifty-three. That’s a great time.’

  ‘What have you run it in?’

  ‘Three times, I’ve started, not finished one yet. I got close, real close the last time. This is my year, I’m determined to get to the end.’

  ‘And you, Adrian?’

  ‘Three twenty-six, not as good as Dean, but he’s determined, never misses a day, and that run once a week from his home. Not sure I could do it.’

  Larry thought back to the man two doors down from him, six feet under, imagined the epitaph: Herein lies a fool. Thought he was fit, but found out the truth – the hard way.

  Cynical, Larry realised, but he had had enough of the get fit brigade, knowing that his wife would be enamoured of them and that she’d be out buying him the shirt and the shorts, the running shoes. He had tried cycling once, didn’t mind it, but it was dangerous on the road, an idiot in a red car had caused him to swerve and had put him in a ditch. Jogging was the last thing he needed now.

  ‘Both of you run around Hyde Park?’

  ‘During the week. We both work in an office not far from here. There’s a group of us, four most days, sometimes five.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘Dean thought we’d be the most likely to be able to help you. We’ve seen a few strangers running around the park, not sure if one of them is your man.’

  ‘Would you recognise him?’

  ‘Difficult,’ Roy said. ‘We’re focussing on the run, and if he’s wearing glasses, or has a cap on his head, then it’s not likely.’

  ‘You’d recognise a serious athlete, someone super-fit?’

  ‘We see them from time to time, not that we’d ever talk to them. Maybe a nod of the head.’

  ‘Are you two up to having a look at a dead body?’

  ‘If it’s important,’ Adrian said. ‘When?’

  ‘Now. Thirty, thirty-five minutes, no more.’

  ‘Don’t hold out too much hope, but we’re willing to help if we can,’ Eardley said.

  Chapter 6

  Graham Picket, the pathologist, was a tall, thin man who regarded humour as a wasted commodity, civility as a marginal necessity. He did not appreciate the two women coming through the door and into his inner sanctum.

  ‘Don’t worry about the pathologist,’ Wendy said as the man came towards her and Christine Mason.

  ‘You’re DCI was on the phone. Told me I’ve got to let you see the body,’ Picket said.

  ‘I’m sure that DCI Cook would have followed procedure.’

  ‘We’re busy here.’

  ‘Mr Picket, may I introduce Mrs Mason. We believe that she knew the deceased.’ Wendy said.

  ‘Very well,’ Picket said, ignoring Christine Mason. ‘And now I’ve got DI Hill coming here with two more. I hope you won't be long. I’ll get someone to take you in. Sign the book on the way in, on the way out.’

  ‘We will.’

  ‘Unpleasant man,’ Christine said when Picket was out of hearing range.

  ‘Too much time in here. It gets to them all in the end. Too depressing seeing dead bodies, then cutting them up.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘How do you think they con
duct an autopsy?’

  ‘I’ve never thought about it. A check of the body, take DNA, check the teeth, a sample of blood.’

  ‘Check out YouTube if you’ve got the stomach for it. They do what you’ve said plus more. The organs are removed, so is the brain. Then they stitch the body up, make it presentable for the family.’

  ‘Colin?’

  ‘Sorry. A bit too close to home for you, I suppose.’

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘If it becomes too much, exit the area as soon as you can. They don’t like the place dirty.’

  ‘Do many? I mean…’

  ‘I know what you mean and yes. Some people look stunned as if they were a dead fish, some will break down in tears, others will bring up their lunch. You’re the teary type.’

  ‘You can tell?’

  ‘Yes. If you’re holding back on me, I’ll know after this. Everyone feels guilt, wants to talk. The easiest way to loosen tongues, not the most pleasant.’

  ‘I’m not holding back the truth. We had something special. You’d not understand.’

  Wendy said no more, realising that the woman had it bad. The first flush of ageing when she was no longer the young woman with her choice of men, no longer as firm in the body as she had once been, no longer able to turn a man’s head with a swish of her hair, a wiggle of her hips.

  Wendy had passed that stage in her twenties, by then married with two sons, a career in the police force. She had been content, even when the sons had gone through the rebellious stage, coming home drunk, attempting to sneak in a random female, their first tattoos. And her husband had always been there for her, attentive, decent, never looked at another woman, apart from the Christmas party at the council offices where he had worked. She had seen him there, the mistletoe, one too many glasses of wine. The next day, sober, he remembered nothing, never fully understanding why Wendy hadn’t spoken to him for a week, hadn’t shared his bed for two.

  And now, she was standing beside a woman, more attractive than she had been, although Christine Mason was only eight years younger than her. Yet Christine Mason, the accounts manager at the Fitzroy Hotel, was not a happy woman. Further checks on her husband, the erstwhile Tony, had revealed that the man was taciturn, well respected for his negotiating skills, his ability to successfully bring back a contract for his company’s products from countries that did not fare well for their human rights records. A contact, name not given, had updated Richard Goddard about the man. Isaac was sure that it was Lord Shaw, the previous commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police, who had passed on the information after consulting with senior people in the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

  Lord Shaw had mentored Richard Goddard from the first year of his career, and now Isaac was being mentored by Goddard.

  Christine Mason said nothing, only looked around her at the clinical and cold surroundings. Wendy could tell she was regretting her request to see the body, but she had come so far, she was going to continue. Wendy was determined on that. The woman still needed to open up to her, to lay bare her innermost thoughts, her fragility, her need for a younger man, the reason why she thought that Colin Young was interested in her for herself, and not using her for his perverted pleasure.

  A young woman came through the swing door at the end of a long corridor and walked up to the two women. She was wearing a surgical gown. ‘You’re here to see Colin Young?’ she said.

  ‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Christine Mason,’ Wendy said.

  ‘We’ve prepared him for viewing. Are you up to this, Mrs Mason?’

  A pause before replying. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  The badge pinned to the young woman’s gown said Siobhan O’Riley, although her accent was not Irish, but London cockney.

  Inside, the viewing room was bare apart from the table where the body lay, a sheet covering it.

  ‘I’ll uncover the face,’ Siobhan O’Riley said. Slowly she drew the sheet back, revealing the face of the dead man.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Christine said, her legs going weak. Wendy put her arm around the woman to steady her.

  ‘Do you want a chair?’ the young pathologist asked.

  ‘No. It came as a shock,’ Christine said. ‘He was always so tanned, so fit, so alive.’

  ‘But now he’s pale, is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yours is a normal reaction. You’ve handled it well.’

  ‘Can I see more?’

  ‘Only the face, I’m afraid. Standard procedure.’

  Wendy knew that if the sheet had been pulled further back, it would have revealed the mutilated body where it had been sliced open. Even so, the man lying there seemed peaceful, inert, and Christine Mason had not vomited or shed a tear. The woman was transfixed, focussing on the face, not wanting to go, not wanting to stay.

  In the end, Wendy took hold of her arm and led her out of the room. ‘A good cup of tea is what you need,’ she said.

  The English answer to everything, Wendy thought. A cup of tea. Her mother had sworn by the remedy.

  ***

  Thankfully, Larry Hill didn’t have to deal with the acerbic Picket on arrival at the viewing room. As Wendy was leaving, Larry was coming in – a cursory acknowledgement of each other.

  Larry could see that Wendy had the bit between her teeth and that the woman she was with – it could only be Christine Mason – was in tears. And besides, he had his own problems. Roy Eardley was holding up, although Adrian Clark was looking green around the gills. Larry could see him throwing up.

  ‘Busy today,’ Siobhan O’Riley said when she introduced herself to the three of them.

  ‘Mr Eardley and Mr Clark may be able to help to put the pieces together,’ Larry said. ‘Anything else you can tell us about the body?’

  ‘You’d need Mr Picket for that.’

  ‘Good or bad mood?’

  ‘The usual,’ Siobhan said with a grimace.

  ‘Bad, then.’

  ‘Your friend, is he going to be alright?’ Siobhan asked, looking over in the direction of Adrian Clark.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Clark said. ‘It’s like a hospital in here, and I’ve never liked them.’

  ‘You’ll not be the first,’ the young woman said as she gave him a bag to hold. ‘It’ll be me cleaning up afterwards.’

  A mouthed ‘thank you’ from Adrian Clark.

  ‘A hot drink may steady him,’ Larry said to Siobhan.

  ‘Unfortunately, it won’t. Get him out as soon as you can, then a walk around the block.’

  She handed Clark a mint. ‘Suck on this, it’ll help.’

  The four moved through to the viewing room, the sheet pulled back. Clark moved back, managing to get his bag in place in time.

  ‘It would have been a hot drink as well,’ the young woman said.

  ‘I’ve made a fool of myself,’ Clark said after he rejoined the group. The bag was left on the floor behind them. A faint odour from it pervaded the air. Nobody in the room looked well, not even Siobhan.

  ‘You never get used to it totally,’ she said.

  ‘It’s causing me some problems,’ Larry said. ‘Too much misery, too many unpleasant sights.’

  ‘We get counselling if it becomes too much of an issue. Have you considered it?’

  ‘Not yet. We’re meant to be strong, to rise above it, to be professional.’

  ‘We’re still human. Even Mr Picket gets upset sometimes, especially if it’s a child killed by the parent.’

  ‘Give me the name of the person you use. I’ll consider following your advice.’

  ‘Don’t consider, do.’

  Larry could see that the woman could hold her own with Graham Picket, though he couldn’t. He was pleased that the man had not shown his face.

  Roy Eardley looked at the face of Colin Young, studied it for a while. ‘I can’t recognise him. As we said, glasses and a cap, and the man’s unrecognisable.’

  Adrian Clark swallowed, taking down the taste of his vomit.
He approached the body and looked at the face. He said nothing for twenty seconds, before taking two steps back. He then rushed to the toilet, grabbing the bag from the floor.

  ‘Thanks,’ Larry said. ‘I believe that we’ve taken enough of your time.’

  ‘My pleasure, do come again,’ Siobhan said. ‘And remember, talk to the counsellor. No point allowing it to get to you.’

  ‘I’ll take your advice, but for now, I’d better look after Mr Clark.’

  Outside the building, a cold nip in the air. The three men walked along for ten to fifteen minutes, the colour in Clark’s face returning. ‘I could do with a drink and something to eat now,’ he eventually said.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Larry said. ‘Are you sure you didn’t recognise him?’

  ‘Not him, but her.’

  ‘Whom?’

  ‘One of the two women coming out as we were going in. The blonde-haired one.’

  ‘The other one was Sergeant Wendy Gladstone.’

  ‘I’ve never seen her, but I’ve seen the other one.’

  ‘When, where?’ Larry said excitedly.

  ‘Some food first, and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘You didn’t mention it at the time.’

  ‘At the time, I wasn’t speaking. I was trying to keep my breakfast down, waste of time that was.’

  McDonald’s was not a favourite of the serious jogger, but it was what Adrian Clark wanted and needed. He ordered a Big Mac, as did Roy Eardley.

  ‘I was feeling queasy in there, as well,’ Eardley said.

  Larry assumed that even the athletic needed a break from routine once in a while. Protein bars and fruit juices had to become boring in time, as he, Larry Hill, knew only too well. His wife, always thinking of his well-being, had fed him enough strange diets, most of them faddish, over the last few years. He was a man who worked hard. A man who needed chips with his steak, a pint of beer with his pub lunch.

  ‘Make that three Big Macs,’ Larry shouted to the person behind the counter. Tomorrow, he’d worry about his weight.

  Adrian Clark gulped the Big Mac down, almost stuffing the chips into his mouth. He then took hold of his milkshake, chocolate-flavoured, and sucked on the straw. He looked over at Larry.