Sophie White had changed all that. She lived in Twickenham, worked in Brixton as a social worker. As Isaac was wrapping up the case at his boss’s insistence, she had come forward with new information. She had seen a person running away from the alley, his arm covered in blood.
The inevitable questions had come up when she walked into the police station: Why had she waited so long to come forward? Why did she believe it was not gang-related? Did she recognise the person?
She had answered them all with aplomb. One, she had just finished work and was heading to the airport. Her sister in Canada was getting married, she was the maid of honour – it was checked out, found to be true. Two, the person she saw did not dress like a gang member. There was no hooded jacket, no trainers, no surly look about the individual - in fact, he was dressed well in a suit. Three, did she recognise the person? – No, was her answer, although it was not an area where you saw men wearing suits too often.
With the case reopened and his boss none too happy, it was left to Isaac to do the legwork, to further interview Sophie White and to wrap up the case, tout suite. His boss had just bought a renovator’s delight in France as a retirement project and was continually trying out his basic French. Isaac, who had studied French at school and spoke with a reasonable fluency, ended up the recipient of some very crude French with a pronounced Cockney undertone. It grated on Isaac’s nerves, but he said little, only offered encouragement.
Sophie White proved to be a good witness with a remarkable skill. She had a photographic memory and was able to give an accurate description of what she had seen. She was able to remember the detail in the clothes of the assailant, the scuff mark on his shoes, his hair, which side it was parted, what colour and so on. It had been half-light, dusk when the attack had taken place. She had not seen the attack although she had seen the blood. As she explained, it happened all too often in the neighbourhood. Normally, she would not have stopped at the shop across the road from the alley, but she was feeling at ease, and her sister had asked for some favourite chocolates, not the sort they sold out at the airport.
The hooligan’s name had been Michael O’Leary. He had been born in the area, ran with a gang of ne’er-do-wells down by the water’s edge. Nineteen and barely literate, but apart from a few run-ins with the police he had not been in a lot of trouble. He was of a lost generation with no hope of redemption. He had been cocky in his early teenage years, bragging as to why he didn’t need an education and how he had wagged school. ‘What do those cock-sucking teachers know? It’s out on the street that matters,’ he would say.
Those he bragged to had ended up on the street as he had, indulging in gang-related warfare, partaking in petty theft when they could, and major theft if they had the brain power for such an activity, which most did not.
It transpired that he had managed to get a casual job as a runner for an illegal gambling syndicate. They would organise the dogs for fighting down in an old warehouse close to the docks. He would collect the money, transport it as required and receive a commission for his efforts. He thought he was smart in creaming off another one per cent. It was an easy scam, virtually undetectable. An intelligent person could have made an easy one hundred pounds every few days, but O’Leary was not smart; he had got the percentages wrong. He had taken ten percent, due to his inability to listen to the ‘cock-sucking teachers’ that he had been so critical of.
The syndicate knew immediately. They sent in one of their people to teach him a lesson: a severe beating, a few broken bones and don’t do it again. The story, or, at least, the confession once they had picked up the killer - an on-again, off-again stand over merchant, threatener from up north - was that he had been brought down by the syndicate to teach O’Leary a lesson. And that, O’Leary, was not willing to take his punishment and had drawn a knife. The killer stated it was self-defence; he received ten years for manslaughter.
Sophie and Isaac became an item, and she had moved in with him for a while, but she was damaged goods. A brutal childhood, a violent marriage in the past - domesticity did not suit her. She felt love for Isaac, he felt a fondness for her, but she could not commit and had decided that she needed a man and sex, but on her terms.
She and Isaac had formed a deep bond, and a phone call from either would often result in a coupling of bodies, no commitment. It suited Isaac, although he found sex without love intimidating. For Sophie, it proved an ideal arrangement.
She had been the ‘see you in one hour’ SMS.
***
Farhan took the opportunity the next day to meet up with Robert Avers, the now apparent long-suffering husband of the missing woman. This time, Avers had agreed to meet at his house in Belgravia. The detective inspector was more relaxed than his previous encounters with the husband and certainly more sober than their time at the Churchill Arms in Kensington – he did not want to repeat that experience.
Avers, accommodating as usual, welcomed him into the house. ‘Detective Inspector Ahmed. Pleased to see you.’ Still polite, still friendly, but the previous Bon Vivant was missing. The man, dressed as usual in a suit, had a dejected appearance.
‘Detective Inspector,’ he confided, ‘I’m worried. It’s just been too long.’
‘Is there any reason to worry?’ Farhan asked.
‘The messages are not coming through as regular as they did in the past.’
‘But, you said she has done this in the past.’
‘Not for this length of time,’ Avers replied. Farhan could see the man was visibly distressed.
‘I realise I am a little insensitive,’ Farhan said diplomatically, ‘but there have been more than a few men over the years.’
‘That’s right…’
‘And ideally, you would have preferred none?’
‘It’s how she’s wired. She needed the men, the thrill, the sexual encounters.’
‘So, you didn’t approve?’
‘I loved her, still do. I always assumed in time the need would pass and then all would be fine.’
‘Has that time passed?’
‘I believe so, but why this disappearance? I just don’t understand it.’
‘It’s giving us concern now. Is there any reason to be suspicious? Sorry, I need to ask.’
‘There had been some lovers in the past; some before we met who are now influential men in this country.’ Avers felt the need to talk; Farhan willing to let him continue. Avers was tense, sitting upright on a hard chair in the sitting room, Farhan sat back on the comfortable sofa. His posture showed relaxed; he was not. He could see that Marjorie Frobisher’s husband was in a mood to talk. He ensured his phone was switched off. The worst distraction was it ringing at the moment of confession or revelation. He had learnt that lesson the hard way.
Chapter 9
In less than two years after graduating from Police Staff College, Farhan had been out of uniform and a Detective Sergeant. Along with Detective Inspector Alex Greenock, they had brought in a dissolute, and scruffy youth for the suspicious death of a woman found face down in the river. Both the victim and the scruffy youth were known to the police. Investigations confirmed they squatted in a property five miles out from Ipswich, a large town in the region, with other dissolute youths.
Emma Watling, the dead woman, had been an attractive teen before she had become addicted. Two years later, the clear drug abuse and tattoos had rendered her features sallow, her complexion, pale and anaemic. Alex Greenock did not believe her boyfriend Barry Robertson’s statement as to why she was down at the river.
Apparently, they had been sharing a bed or, at least, a filthy mattress in what had been the third bedroom of the house, but they had changed it into a hovel within a short period of time. There had been disturbances in the past at the house: loud parties, frolicking in the garden naked and discarded needles for injecting drugs thrown over the front fence into the street. The neighbours had complained vigorously; one even sat on the local council.
The police had visited the
house, complained about the noise and the needles, even the naked frolicking, but the owner cared little for the building as it was a disputed property. It was still in his name, although the ex-wife was almost certain to claim it as part of the divorce settlement. He even set up a lease for the inhabitants, nominal rent of five pounds a week to ensure they stayed.
The councillor, Agnes O’Loughlin, a stalwart of the area, in her fifties and matronly could do little apart from seethe that her house was losing value while the troublemakers lived next door. Once they found out that she was the ringleader of the locals attempting to get them evicted, they ensured that the rubbish headed her way, and the music was on full blast with the speakers pointed in her direction. There was nothing she could do except call the police, who would quieten it down for a while, but ten minutes after they left up went the volume.
Forensics had conducted an autopsy on Emma Watling - the results were ambiguous: Heavy intake of alcohol, traces of heroin, water in the lungs. As far as Forensics were concerned, it was death by drowning, while under the influence of alcohol and drugs.
DI Alex Greenock didn’t hold with the report. He was sure there was foul-play, but how to prove it? ‘Too many years in Homicide, too many villains,’ he had replied when questioned by Farhan.
According to Forensics, there was no sign of bruising on the body - an assumption if she had been held down. Alex Greenock reasoned that she would have been unconscious when she had inadvertently stumbled into the river, a fast flowing stretch as it channelled between two protruding hillocks and a couple of willow trees. It was shallow, no more than ankle deep. He was certain that the inebriated and spaced-out woman would have lifted her head instinctively as the cold of the water hit her body. Even, if she hadn’t, she would still have floated downstream for another twenty metres past a pub located on the river’s edge. It had been a bright night, full moon, and it was still half-light due to the relatively early hour. Someone would have seen the floating woman, or maybe a corpse by that time, but the body had wedged itself in between some rocks on the river bank not far from where she had entered the water.
Alex Greenock had nominated Farhan to test his theory. Farhan, stripped down to his underwear re-enacted the death of the woman. It was clear, at least to his senior, that from her entry point - the broken reeds at the side of the river, a clear indication – to where she had been found, ten metres further down could not be correct. Farhan had entered the river at the entry point, simulated a collapse, face down and had let the current take him. At the point where he made contact with the bank, very close to the victim’s final resting place, he had momentarily touched before the rushing current had swung him around and out into the main flow again.
With Farhan aiming to get warm after his reluctant watery re-enactment ‒ he was close to hypothermia and shivering ‒ Alex Greenock spoke, oblivious to his constable’s suffering, excited with what he believed to be the true story.
‘She was held under and secured on the bank,’ the jubilant detective inspector said.
‘She was a smaller person than me, fully clothed and maybe the water was flowing slower last night,’ Farhan had replied, although his speech was slurred and the heater of the car, not the most efficient at the best of times, was struggling to get the heat into him.
‘I checked,’ Alex said. ‘Last night the water was higher, flowing faster.’
‘What do you reckon happened?’ Farhan asked.
Alex Greenock prided himself on his analytical skills. Where other cases had been put in the ‘too hard basket’ in the past, he had come along, spent time going through the records and sometimes, he had come up with a conclusion or a different direction in which to take the enquiry. There were some in the department who appreciated his skill; there were others, not willing to admit that they were incompetent, who felt he was interfering,
‘Alex, assuming you’re correct.’ The DI, finally taking sympathy on his Sergeant, had bought Farhan a hot chocolate in a café not far from the murder scene. ‘How are you going to prove it? Forensics won’t back you up on this.’
‘That’s where the serious policing comes in. We dig deep, ruffle a few feathers and make some people sweat. They’ll give themselves away soon enough, mark my words.’
‘Let’s get back to basics,’ Farhan said. He was almost back to normal, his mind was fully focussed again. ‘If she had not been murdered, she would almost certainly have drowned.’
‘I’ll not dispute that. She was far enough out of it to have probably succumbed. If she had come round momentarily, would she have had the strength to lift herself out of the water?’
‘Even I was feeling the effects. The cold saps the strength very quickly.’
‘Then why would someone bother with murder and if so, was it premeditated or spur of the moment?’
‘I’d rule out premeditated,’ Alex Greenock said. ‘Unless someone had lured her down to the river intent on killing her.’
‘We never found any sign of anyone else, did we?’
‘Spur of the moment would indicate that the murderer was there with her and seized the opportunity.’
‘No bruising, no sign of struggle. You’ve remembered that,’ Farhan said.
‘Another five minutes in the water and I could have held you under water without bruising.’
‘That’s true. So what do we do now?’
‘Find where the other person entered the water.’
‘As long as that involves looking at the water, not entering it,’ Farhan quipped. He had found Alex Greenock a great person to be assigned to. There were some in the office who rarely ventured out, wrote reports, conducted cases by committee and achieved very little in the way of tangible results. With Alex Greenock it was out in the field, looking for the minutiae that others missed. Farhan knew that back in the office, they would be wrapping up the paperwork on the woman’s death. He also knew that Alex Greenock was not going to be popular when he reported in.
By the time they reached the river, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. It had not been great when Farhan had had his impromptu swim, but now the rain was cold, the wind gusting. Alex could not be deterred. Farhan would have come back another day; he was still feeling the effects of the cold, and a couple of days off work, warm and inside, would have suited him fine. It was only a passing thought, as he was usually as enthusiastic as his senior, but anyone after a heavy soaking and almost hypothermia could be excused a momentary lapse.
‘Farhan, you’ll be better once you get moving,’ Alex shouted from outside the car. He was a sympathetic man, aware of how his junior felt, but he was also a man hot on the trail of a murderer. The killer, at least for the moment was more important.
Farhan slowly made his way out of the car, put on a heavy raincoat, shrugged his shoulders and followed Alex down to the river.
‘We’ll start twenty metres up, although I think the person entered closer to where the woman fell in.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Farhan asked.
‘The woman was clearly out for the count and not focussed on her surroundings. She probably would not have seen anyone, even if he or they were standing right behind her.’
‘Okay, twenty metres, and then we walk down slowly, looking for any signs.’ Farhan felt better for moving, the circulation was returning, and whereas he was cold and miserable, he was functional.
It did not take long before the signs of the other person became apparent: a muddy bank, some footprints, clearly large, man-sized. Alex recognised the pattern from the sole of a size 10 boot. He only knew of one person with such a shoe size at the house where she had slummed - Barry Robertson, her supposed boyfriend.
Brought in for questioning, Barry Robertson sat in the interview room protesting his innocence, ‘It wasn’t me, she fell into the water. Isn’t that what the report said?’ He was a good-looking individual, but by the age of twenty-one, he had already adopted a surliness about him. He sat back on the chair, metal and uncomfort
able, his arms folded. He had declined legal representation, free in his case, as he was unemployed and of no fixed abode, although that was debatable as he was squatting with the landlord’s permission.
‘We know you were sleeping with Emma Watling,’ Alex persisted.
‘So what? It’s not a crime, and anyway, she was a good sort.’
‘We also know you argued not more than thirty minutes before she left the house, not more than sixty minutes before she drowned.’
‘What does that prove? She wanted me to get high on heroin like her. I didn’t want to.’
‘You’re not into heroin?’
‘Not me. Some marijuana, cocaine maybe, but heroin, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s not legal, is it?’ The surly individual smirked. It was obvious to Farhan, Alex as well, that Barry Robertson was not uneducated. He was not going to be an easy nut to crack. Alex was convinced of his guilt; Farhan was not so sure.
‘Don’t give me that rubbish. When did you care about the law? Why did you not want the heroin?’ Alex had leant over the youth aiming to intimidate.
‘I don’t inject, don’t need to.’
‘Why?’
‘I take the occasional drug, smoke some weed, but I’m not a drug addict. Emma was crazy for the stuff, but me? No way!’
Frustrated with the individual, certain of his guilt, Alex intensified the questioning. Three hours of constant interrogation and Barry Robertson was close to tears. Alex and Farhan had taken turns to exit the interview room for a bite to eat and a cup of coffee. Robertson had received none ‒not strictly by the book ‒ but it was late at night, there were few people in the police station and those that were, kept well out of the way. They knew how Alex Greenock operated. They also knew how he would make their lives unpleasant if they got between him and a suspect when he was on a roll.
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 7