The Cold Light of Dawn (Gaffney and Tipper Mysteries Book 1)

by Graham Ison

  *

  The investigators of the Gendarmerie Nationale at St Brouille had very little to go on, they had circulated photographs of the dead girl’s face, which they would have had to do — crime or not, but there was no response. People who had reported the disappearance of friends or relatives whose description seemed to match that of the girl with the red hair, were interviewed. None identified the body which had so mysteriously appeared on the beach at St Brouille.

  The bikini briefs which the girl had been wearing were sent to the forensic science laboratory for examination. All that the scientists could say was that there had been a label once, but it had been cut out, and that the briefs had probably been manufactured in England. That was no great help; since the advent of the Common Market, many English products were on sale in France, and the fact that the woman had been wearing briefs made in England did not necessarily mean that she was English.

  At Doctor Vernet’s suggestion, the gendarmerie’s consultant odontologist examined the dead body’s teeth. His findings were much more positive. The dentistry work had, without doubt, he said, been carried out by an English dental surgeon.

  ‘In that case,’ said Courbet, ‘send a set of her fingerprints to Scotland Yard.’

  The result was disappointing. She had not been convicted of any crime in Great Britain, and so her fingerprints were not on record. Neither had the British police any record of a missing person whose description matched that of the girl with red hair.

  All the short cuts had failed. There was only one thing left: solid, painstaking and tedious detective work. And it could, and often did, take a very long time. Inspirational detectives, alas, had no place in the real world of crime.

  Chapter Two

  ‘The French seem to have got their knickers in a twist over some dead body they found on a beach in Brittany,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Harry Tipper. ‘Or at least,’ he continued, prodding the scaled plastic package with a pencil, ‘somebody’s knickers.’

  ‘What are we supposed to do with those, then?’

  ‘It might help if you read the report first, Charlie.’ Tipper handed his detective sergeant a copy of the French report which had been translated into English by the Interpol office on the floor below.

  Charlie Markham read what the French had to say and then looked up. ‘What the hell’s all this about the Brides-in-the-Bath case — that was years ago, before the First World War I should think.’

  ‘Nearly,’ said Tipper. ‘Nineteen-fifteen.’

  ‘Well, whenever. What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘It could be a murder — that’s what they’re getting at. First thing’s to try and identify these for them.’ Tipper pushed the package towards Markham.

  ‘Some hope,’ said Markham. ‘According to the report there’s not even a label in them.’

  ‘Life’s like that. Get them over to the lab and see what they can make of them.’

  *

  Doctor Susan Gardiner was the fabrics expert at the Metropolitan Police Forensic Science Laboratory in Lambeth. Although she was still in her early thirties there were few scientists who would argue with her findings, and she had delivered several papers on her subject to learned societies. From an analysis of the bikini briefs, she identified the material and the manufacturer within twenty-four hours. Her report, and the briefs, were returned to Detective Sergeant Markham. The rest was up to the police.

  Charlie Markham, who had quite enough work of his own, had no great enthusiasm for helping the French police solve a suspicious death. He made several telephone calls, and one or two visits. The sum total of his exertions was to discover that the briefs were one half of a bikini sold widely in the south-east mainly at multiple outlets. The chances of finding out who had purchased that particular bikini were so remote that he didn’t even try.

  Some aspects of criminal investigation are better classified as calculated guesswork, and the fact that the bikini in question was likely to have been sold in south-east England, caused Tipper to believe that the purchaser might live there. It was a short cut. It would be Tipper’s luck for the woman to have travelled to London from Scotland just once, and to have been awkward enough to buy a bikini on that one visit. Nevertheless, he circulated her photograph in Confidential Informations, a police-only publication circulated to all forces in the south-east, in the hope that it might produce an identification. He also asked the General Dental Council to circularise their practitioners, sending a copy of the chart prepared by the gendarmerie odontologist.

  *

  ‘Cracked it, sir,’ said Charlie Markham, three weeks later. Harry Tipper looked up. ‘Penelope Lambert, she’s called. Got an address in Wimbledon.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing, sir — not yet.’

  ‘Well you’d better get down there — see what you can find out.’

  ‘I was just going.’ Markham looked hurt.

  ‘Miss or Mrs?’

  ‘Mrs.’

  ‘Well she might have a husband sitting there, wondering where the hell she is. Anyway, if it is a murder, the French’d like to know a bit more than her name and address.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Markham, looking put upon. With the discovery of the dead redhead’s identity he had hoped that that was the last he’d be bothered with her. It rather looked as though he was only just beginning.

  *

  It was a large Victorian house in Wimbledon which had been converted into flats. There was no response when Markham pressed the bell-push marked ‘Lambert’ at the front door. He knew that there wouldn’t be. He already had that sort of feeling about this enquiry. He tried another marked ‘Mason’, and eventually a woman’s voice crackled through the intercom, asking who was there. Clearly unhappy about the single word ‘Police’, she opened the front door a fraction on the chain.

  Markham held up his warrant card. ‘Good morning, madam. Police, New Scotland Yard.’

  Reluctantly satisfied, the woman released the chain and admitted him to the hallway.

  ‘I’m making enquiries about a Mrs Penelope Lambert.’

  ‘She lives upstairs.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘so I believe.’ He nodded to the open door of the woman’s flat. ‘I wonder if I might come in and talk to you?’

  ‘She’s away, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He paused. ‘It’s Mrs Mason, is it?’

  ‘Yes — Letitia Mason.’ She said it as though he ought to recognise the name. ‘Won’t you sit down? I expect you’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you? I know policemen usually do.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ Charlie Markham would actually have preferred a Scotch, but Mrs Mason didn’t look like someone who’d have a bottle tucked away.

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble, Mr …?’

  ‘Markham — Detective Sergeant Markham, and thank you.’

  The room was what Markham’s mother would have described as chintzy. Cluttered with ornaments, flowery loose covers on the three-piece suite, and photographs and pictures, all of which seemed to contain depictions of ballet dancers.

  Mrs Mason set down the tray on a side-table. Even that went with the room: a lace tray-cloth, and flowered china. ‘I see you’re admiring my pictures, Sergeant.’

  ‘I take it you’re a ballet enthusiast?’

  ‘I’m a ballet mistress,’ said Mrs Mason, ‘and I bet you I can still kick higher than you, even though I can probably give you ten years. Do you take sugar and milk?’

  ‘Do you know, by any chance, if Mrs Lambert’s husband is likely to be home later — or perhaps you know where he works?’

  Mrs Mason looked up sharply. ‘She doesn’t have a husband. She’s divorced. Why d’you want to know?’

  Markham took a photograph from his pocket. ‘Would you take a look at that, Mrs Mason, please.’

  She stared at it for some seconds. ‘Yes, that’s her. It’s not very good of her though, she’s much
prettier than that.’

  ‘It’s a passport photograph,’ said Markham. ‘They’re never very good.’ The first thing that Tipper had done was to get a copy from the Passport Office; he knew from experience that a photograph of a corpse tended to upset witnesses. ‘I’m afraid that Mrs Lambert is dead, Mrs Mason.’

  Letitia Mason set her cup and saucer down carefully on the occasional table at her side. ‘Oh, no!’ she said. ‘The poor girl — how dreadful. What happened?’

  ‘She was drowned — in France; in Brittany as a matter of fact.’ There was no point at this stage in telling this woman that the police were regarding it as a suspicious death.

  ‘How awful. I knew she was going away, but I didn’t know where — or for how long. She didn’t say.’

  ‘And how long has she been away?’

  Mrs Mason pondered for a moment. ‘It must be getting on for five weeks, I suppose. Actually I was beginning to get a little worried, although she tended to go away quite often. Her job, she said.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘What was her job?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, yes. She worked at the Foreign Office.’

  ‘Really? In what capacity, do you know?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I got the impression she wasn’t a typist or anything like that. She never talked about her work. Well she wouldn’t, would she, not doing something like that? But she would mention when she was going off to a conference — sometimes it was abroad. She used to tell me that she wanted to be stationed overseas; in an embassy in some exotic place. She used to joke about it and say that with her luck it would probably be somewhere quite awful.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going this time?’

  ‘No — she didn’t — other than to say she was going on holiday.’

  ‘You say she was divorced; did you know anything about her ex-husband?’

  ‘Well I’m not one to pry, Sergeant, but she did tell me things from time to time, and you can’t stop people talking, can you?’

  Fortunately no, thought Markham.

  ‘She would come down here sometimes,’ continued Mrs Mason. ‘In the evenings — we’d have a cup of something, or occasionally even a glass of sherry.’ She wrinkled her nose and smiled as though she was revealing something excessively naughty. ‘And she would sit there, where you’re sitting, and chat away. I think she was lonely, you know. Of course, she’d had a lot of tragedy in her life, even though she was only a young girl.’

  ‘Tragedy?’

  ‘Oh yes. There was the child. They had a son, she and her husband, and the poor little mite was drowned …’ She paused. ‘That’s ironic, isn’t it? It was in a swimming pool, at a friend’s house. She’d been over for a cup of tea and a chat, I suppose. This friend had a big house and a swimming pool in the garden. Apparently he’d strayed off — you know what children are like — and he fell in the pool and drowned. It must have been awful for her. You can’t let them out of your sight for a minute, and I should know — I had two. That’s my eldest.’ She pointed at a photograph that stood on the television. ‘Of course, he’s nearly forty now …’

  ‘And that was the cause of the break-up?’ He brought her back on course.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I suppose so. It was so unfair really. Just when she needed support he abandoned her — so cruel. But men are like that, at least in my experience. I had the same problem. My husband ran off with some young thing in the corps de ballet who fluttered her eyelashes at him.’

  ‘I didn’t think the world of ballet was like that,’ said Markham.

  ‘Oh, you’d be surprised, Sergeant. A big strong ballet dancer will pick them up and throw them around — you’d be amazed the effect that has on some girls. Ballerinas are no different to anyone else — some of them will run after anything in tights. Well they can see what they’re getting, can’t they?’ She suddenly put her hand to her mouth and coloured slightly. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, that wasn’t a very ladylike remark, was it?’

  Markham smiled. Mrs Mason was turning out to be something of an enigma; perhaps she did have a bottle of Scotch tucked away somewhere. ‘You were saying — about Mrs Lambert …’

  ‘Yes, well this husband apparently turned on her. And she so desperately wanted a family, you know. What a waste — such a lovely young girl. But that was that. They split up and got divorced.’

  ‘Did she have any boy friends?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. She never talked about them — not directly. She’d sometimes mention that she’d been out somewhere nice for dinner — that sort of thing. And she’d occasionally be brought home in someone’s car — or in a taxi. I never asked her about them, naturally. I mean, it wasn’t my place to.’ Letitia Mason pointed suddenly across the room. ‘She bought me that on one occasion for looking after her flat.’

  Markham’s gaze followed her extended finger. She was pointing at a china figurine of a ballerina in a place of honour on the mantelshelf.

  ‘I told her it was much too expensive. I know what these things cost; but she said that she wasn’t short of money. I can only assume that the divorce settlement left her reasonably well off — no more than she deserved, poor child. Her husband was an absolute swine, by all accounts.’

  ‘She left you her keys on this occasion, I presume, Mrs Mason?’

  ‘Yes, yes she did.’

  ‘I need to examine her flat, you see.’

  ‘Oh! Well I suppose that’s all right.’

  ‘Did she have any relatives — anyone she mentioned?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. Strange that, but I got the impression that there were some parts of her life she never mentioned. I really don’t know.’ Mrs Mason sounded as though she had failed in some way. ‘I’ve got the keys in my bag — I’ll get them. Do you want me to come up with you?’

  ‘No thank you, Mrs Mason, that won’t be necessary. You’ve been most helpful, and I mustn’t take up any more of your time.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble. I don’t get many visitors.’

  ‘I may need to talk to you again, Mrs Mason.’

  ‘Of course, Sergeant — any time at all. Oh, by the way …’ She paused. ‘Do you know anything about the funeral arrangements? She was such a lovely girl,’ she said again. ‘I really would like to go.’

  ‘No I don’t. You see her body is in France still, so it may be some time. But I will let you know. One other thing. Do you know if Mrs Lambert had a car?’

  ‘Yes, she did — a little silver thing, Japanese, I think. Here, I’ll show you — it’s outside.’ She walked to the window and drew aside the net curtain. ‘There — there it is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Markham. ‘You’ve been most helpful — and thank you for the tea.’

  *

  Charlie Markham didn’t really know what he was looking for. The flat consisted of a sitting-room on the front of the house, a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchenette. He started from the middle of the sitting-room, surveying and absorbing. He wondered whether he ought to be searching at all — at this stage, anyway. The place would have to be gone over by a scenes-of-crime officer, given that this was supposed to be a murder — possibly, and he might do more harm than good if he started messing about now. He shrugged his shoulders. He knew what he was doing. With twenty years service behind him, and involvement in more murders than most people had had hot breakfasts — and that included a fair few of his senior officers — he thought that a preliminary examination would do no harm.

  On the unremarkable grey fitted carpet stood a natural pine three-piece suite with the sort of canvas upholstery that abounds in shops in Chelsea and Hampstead. Just as common in such shops was the black ash bookcase and cabinet that stood against the wall opposite the door. But it was the secretaire, just to Markham’s left, that was likely to prove the most interesting. It was unlocked and he moved the dining-chair next to it so that he could sit down.

  It was at that moment that the telephone rang, so harshly that it ma
de Markham jump, and he swore.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Markham defensively.

  ‘It’s Tipper here.’

  ‘Blimey, guv’nor, you nearly scared the life out of me.’

  ‘How’re you getting on?’

  ‘Just got into the flat — about to have a poke about, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Well don’t — just leave it until we get a team down to do the complete business.’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘I’ve just got the result of your enquiry from the DHSS at Newcastle.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Penelope Lambert worked for the Foreign Office.’

  ‘I know,’ said Markham. ‘The woman in the flat downstairs told me. Why? Does it matter?’

  ‘It may have no bearing on her death,’ continued Tipper, ‘but then again, it might. If there is something more sinister in this, we want to do it right from the beginning.’

  ‘D’you want me to hang on here, then?’

  ‘Yes — I’ll see you shortly.’

  *

  Within the hour Harry Tipper had arrived at Wimbledon, together with a scenes-of-crime officer, a fingerprint man, and the inevitable photographer.

  ‘Anything of interest?’

  ‘Not as far as I can see. Just an ordinary sort of pad. If there’s going to be anything, it’ll be among that lot, I should think.’ Markham pointed at the secretaire. ‘There’s all sorts of stuff in there. Loads of papers, bills, letters — that sort of thing.’

  Tipper pouted. ‘Wrap it up and bring it with you. If you start going through it now you’ll be here for ages.’

  ‘There’s a car, guv’nor,’ said Markham. ‘Outside in the street. I suppose we’d better have a look at that.’

  ‘How long’s it been there? Since she went away?’