CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9)

by NICHOLAS RHEA

  ‘Cold as ice,’ he said gently. ‘She’s dead all right, been dead a while by the look of it.’

  As he visually examined the body, I looked around the kitchen. The window over the sink was broken, and I could see slivers of glass in the sink. The catch was unfastened and the window, of the transom type, was open, but not wide enough to admit the average-sized person. I saw a torch on the floor too, not far from her right hand, and her walking-stick lay under the table. The table was set for breakfast with a packet of cornflakes and a bowl, a jar of marmalade and some butter, with a sugar bowl standing near a large mug.

  On the mantelpiece, a tea caddy was standing with its lid off, and a corner cupboard had its door standing wide open, with the lids off several tins and jars.

  ‘What do you make of it, Nick?’ Gerry turned to me, not moving from his position.

  ‘It looks as though somebody’s broken in during the night, Sergeant. The glass in the sink shows the window was smashed from the outside. The villain opens it and climbs in through that window — it’s large enough, then he closes it slightly once he’s in. He begins looking for money, I think — all those lids off jars — and she hears him. She’s in bed but gets her torch, comes downstairs, collects a walking-stick on the way, possibly from that stand in the passage, and comes in here to investigate. She’s a brave lady. He goes for her — hits her with something, or she falls and smashes her head against the door or something else. A forensic pathologist will help determine that. And having done the foul deed, chummy leaves, by either the front door or the kitchen door.’

  ‘Not the kitchen door, Nick. She’s lying against it. It wouldn’t open, so he couldn’t leave that way. It would be the front door, then. Is the key in?’

  I went to have a look. It was hanging on a string behind the letter-box. So many people made their keys available in this trusting manner, but with only one key to a household’s front door, this was often the only convenient method of letting more than one person use it.

  I then wondered if this lady lived alone, or whether she had a family, or even lodgers. That would have to be established very soon.

  Gerry Connolly was saying, ‘That seems to be the sequence of events, but we’ve a lot of work to do before we can definitely establish that. Now, we need our scenes-of-crime men, official photographer, two uniform constables to seal the rear and front entrances to everyone except investigators. The doctor’s been called. I’ll have to inform the D/C/I, get the official wheels in motion. And now what, Nick?’

  I was puzzled for a moment, but recovered to say, ‘Interview that youth, Mr Flint. It seems he found her.’

  ‘Right, that’s vital — and Nick, always remember that the person who finds the body, or the person who was last to see the victim alive, is the prime suspect. Lots of killers seem to think suspicion is removed from them if they report finding the body. Never forget that likelihood. So I will interview Mr Flint, but you can sit in; it’ll be good experience.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

  ‘And what else must we do immediately?’

  I thought we had covered most of the immediate actions, and he smiled.

  ‘We need to search the house, Nick, in case the killer’s still here, hiding, sleeping off a drunken stupor . . . villains do that, you know. And don’t forget there could be another body in the house . . .’

  Together, without touching the areas that might bear fingerprints, we searched every room, every wardrobe, cupboard and hiding place, under beds, in the toilet, in the loft and then outside in the coalhouse and outside loo. No one was hiding there, and there was not another dead body in the house.

  ‘Won’t be a moment, Mr Flint,’ Gerry called as he caught sight of the anxious youth who was still waiting outside. ‘We’ll have a word with you in a second.’

  Using the official radio in his car, he called the office and said, ‘It’s a murder investigation; address 16 Driffield Terrace, Eltering. Elderly lady found dead in suspicious circumstances after the house has been broken into. Please notify all departments and ask them to liaise with me at the scene. Call D/S Barber and ask him to establish an incident room; we can use the billiard room at Eltering nick. And I want immediate house-to-house enquiries — get Barber to recruit some teams straight away.’

  In the force control room, there was a pre-arranged list of experts who had to be called to the scene of a suspected murder, and they would now be summoned. An incident room would be established and the whole drama surrounding a murder would now be set in motion.

  Dr Stamford, who served as police doctor for Eltering, arrived and was shown the body. He was prepared to certify death but not the cause; that would be determined later that day by a post-mortem examination.

  ‘Right,’ said Connolly when Dr Stamford had gone. ‘We’ll talk to that man Flint now, Nick. Let’s get him seen and on his way before the cavalry arrive.’

  This meant an interview about the circumstances of his discovery of the body, followed by a written statement from him in which all the essential points were incorporated. That would be filed in a statement file, and all the relevant facts extracted for inclusion in a file index system. No detail was too insignificant in such an enquiry, and the interrogation of any witness would inevitably be dramatic for them, sometimes giving them the feeling that they were under suspicion. If they could not appreciate the lengths to which the police had to go to catch a murderer, then it was unfortunate.

  Sitting in the front passenger seat of the CID car, with me in the rear, Connolly interviewed Nigel Flint. He was twenty-two years old and lived alone in a flat at No. 14A Market House, Market Place, Eltering. He was a clerk with a large-scale haulage contractor who operated from spacious premises on the outskirts of Eltering. He told us that the dead lady was Miss Edith Holt, who was in her seventies, and said he would be prepared to make the formal identification.

  ‘I know, er, knew, her as Aunty Edie,’ he told us. ‘She was a close friend of my mother’s. My mother lives on that new estate off Strensford Road, St Hilda’s Way, Number 3. Anyway, she isn’t a real aunt, she’s not related to us, Mr Connolly, but ever since I was tiny, I’ve called her Aunt Edie.’

  ‘That establishes your links with her,’ said Connolly. ‘So tell us about finding her this morning.’

  I could see that this was going to be a traumatic time for Flint, but he took a deep breath and said, ‘I always pop in to see her on my way to work. Every morning. Mum asked me to do it, to see if Aunt Edie wanted anything. Groceries, rent paid, bits and pieces for the house. Last week, she was on about getting a new toaster, that sort of thing.’

  ‘So you called this morning. What time?’

  ‘Just before quarter to nine. Twenty to, or thereabouts.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘Well, the first thing was the paper. It was still in the letter-box, so I thought she must still be in bed. She did lie in late sometimes.’

  ‘Was the door shut?’

  ‘Yes, closed, but not locked. I tried it. I don’t have a key, but she leaves one on a string behind the letter-box, so I can let myself in if I have to. Anyway, it was open, Mr Connolly, which I thought was funny, seeing the paper was still there. When I got inside, I shouted upstairs but there was no reply, so I went through to the kitchen . . . she always had her breakfast in the kitchen . . . and, well, there she was.’

  ‘You didn’t see her before you got to the kitchen?’ Flint was puzzled at this, so Connolly elaborated.

  ‘Was the kitchen door closed or open as you approached it?’

  ‘Oh, closed — well, not latched, if you know what I mean. Closed almost completely. I hadn’t to turn the handle to open it, I just pushed it open and . . . saw her.’

  ‘Look, Nigel, I know this is painful, but what exactly did you do next?’

  ‘I could see she was dead, all that blood . . . I just ran out and called you from the kiosk.’

  ‘Which kiosk?’

  ‘At the end of t
his street, on the corner.’

  ‘Did you touch her? Speak to her? Look upstairs to see if there was an intruder about? Anything like that?’

  ‘No, nothing. I just panicked and ran.’

  Having recorded Nigel Flint’s account, Gerry let him go; he had the awesome task of informing his own mother of this because, until now, he had not spoken to anyone save ourselves. But already a crowd of interested onlookers was gathering outside Edith Holt’s little home, and by this time the cavalry — the mass of police and scientific investigators — was beginning to assemble.

  ‘Right, Nick, you go back to the office and join the staff of the incident room. A typist will be allocated, so get her to type up this statement and distribute copies to all key personnel. Make sure the D/C/I gets one. We’ll need to interview Flint again, I’m sure, about Aunt Edie’s life-style, whether she encouraged visitors or whether she was rumoured to have money around the house, that sort of thing.’

  I nodded my understanding as he went on, ‘And make a statement yourself, get it typed up and entered into the system. Detail the facts you noticed in the house — the Daily Mail, the state of the kitchen, the window and so on.’

  When I returned to Eltering Police Station, it was almost eleven o’clock and a detective inspector, detective sergeant and detective constable had already arrived in a large van from Headquarters to begin the setting-up of the incident room. Two GPO engineers were installing outside lines for the public to use, and Barbara, a strikingly beautiful typist, had been drafted in. The CID had brought a massive box of stationery, statement forms, pens and pencils and all the requirements of an office. They had produced a blackboard, two typewriters, a photocopying machine, a duplicating machine and even a couple of desks. I introduced myself and they gave me a statement form so that I could begin to compile my own statement. Barbara was already installed at a desk and had boiled a kettle, also brought by the CID, along with coffee, tea and two bottles of milk. Teams of detectives from all over the county had been drafted in, and they had been instructed to report at Eltering for the first conference at 2 p.m.

  As this was happening, the body was being photographed, as was the house and especially the kitchen and its broken window; fingerprint experts were examining the house too, and a forensic scientist was studying the corpse in its position before moving it to a mortuary for a post-mortem. The coroner had been informed, and the press had now heard of the death and were clamouring for news.

  The next two or three hours were a whirlwind of activity, and I found myself heavily involved in helping to set up the incident room. Having been to the house and seen the body, I wrote the facts on the blackboard so that all the incoming CID officers could see it. It said: 8.45 a.m., Monday, 18 April. Body of Miss Edith Holt, seventy-two years, spinster, found at No. 16 Driffield Terrace. 5’4” tall, slim build, grey hair with hairnet, blue eyes. Dressed in white nightdress and pink slippers, and found lying in kitchen. Death believed from a head wound. Intruder had entered via kitchen window by breaking in; not known if anything stolen. Scene visited by doctor, forensic pathologist, SOCO, photographers, detective superintendent and assistant chief constable. (In fact, the ACC had travelled all the way from Northallerton to pay his visit.) The notes on the blackboard also included Nigel Flint’s name and address, and a brief physical description of him. As he was the finder of the body, we needed to know if other residents had seen him entering or leaving the house, or whether someone of a different description had been observed.

  ‘Nick,’ said Connolly a few minutes before two o’clock, ‘pop round to the murder house in the car, see if any of our lads are still there; if so, tell ’em to get themselves round here to the CID conference. It starts at 2 p.m.’

  I drove round to Miss Holt’s house, now the scene of immense public interest, and the constable on duty recognised me and allowed me inside. The front door was closed to prevent peeping in by ghouls; ghouls always gather at the scene of a dramatic death, a fire, traffic accident, air crash and similar event. I went to the kitchen where the scenes-of-crime officers were still working and told them of the conference; one would attend while the other two worked. The volunteer said he would come back with me in the car. The body had now been removed, and there was no one else in the house.

  On the way out, I halted, for I had noticed a trilby hat hanging behind the front door. It looked fairly new. With the door standing open, it had not been noticed, and I could not recall seeing it that morning when I had noticed the Daily Mail. But I could not say for sure whether or not it had been there, for the door had been standing open all the time I had been in the house on that first occasion.

  ‘That hat,’ I said to my SOCO companion. ‘It’s odd, eh? In a spinster’s home . . .’

  ‘We’ll need to have it identified,’ he said with no more ado. ‘Find out whom it belongs to, how it came to be here. We can trace its sale through the manufacturer, and you might even trace the buyer through its retail outlet.’ He lifted the grey felt trilby from the hook at the back of the door, popped it into a large plastic bag and labelled it as an exhibit. We took it back to the incident room.

  The first conference was conducted by Connolly, who outlined the facts. He read out Flint’s statement, and then mine, and said that the preliminary opinion of the pathologist was that Miss Holt had died from several blows to the head with a blunt instrument of some kind. That afternoon’s post-mortem would confirm or refute that, but no murder weapon had been found. The assembled detectives, thirty in all, were divided into teams of two, and each team was given a specific action. Many were already involved in house-to-house enquiries in the area; one ‘action’ was to find out Miss Holt’s financial position, another was to interview night people, such as bakers, other policemen, early-morning travellers in lorries that passed through, to see if anyone had been seen in suspicious circumstances. Another team had to make discreet enquiries into the background and character of Nigel Flint.

  I then mentioned the trilby hat.

  ‘Right, Nick. Action for you. Trace the owner. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  And so the murder investigation got underway.

  I began my action by noting the manufacturer’s name and address from the label inside the hatband; the hat was size six and a half, and it was in almost new condition. The scenes-of-crime people took a photograph of it, but the felt texture would not reveal any fingerprints. I found it had been made in Bradford, and so I rang the CID of Bradford City Police and asked them to visit the factory to determine its history since manufacture. This could be done by a code number I discovered inside the leather headband.

  ‘I’m going to ask Flint if he saw it this morning,’ I told Gerry Connolly. ‘It might belong to somebody who called regularly on the old lady.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said. I went to his home address, but there was no reply, so I went to the office where he worked. He was at his desk, pale and quiet, and the manager had no objection to my speaking with him. I showed him the trilby, still in its plastic bag.

  ‘It was hanging behind the front door,’ I explained. ‘Do you know if it belongs to any of your aunt’s visitors?’

  ‘Are you saying the killer left it behind?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s possible,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to find out more about it — who put it there, for example, whether it was there when you went in this morning.’

  He thought hard and then said, ‘Yes, it was there. It doesn’t belong to her and I’ve never seen a friend wearing it. When I walked in, I pushed the door open, but the draught blowing from the kitchen blew it shut. When I ran out to phone, I had to open that door — and I saw the hat . . . it didn’t mean anything then, Mr Rhea, but, well, is it the killer’s?’

  ‘Let’s say it might lead us to a suspect,’ I said. I got him to make a written statement confirming the presence of that hat and he signed it, asking, ‘But can you honestly find out who it belongs to?’

  ‘It won’t be
easy,’ I admitted. ‘In fact, it might be impossible, but we’ll do our best.’

  ‘They say every murderer leaves a clue behind,’ he said.

  ‘It’s often the case,’ I agreed, leaving him to his work.

  When I returned to the incident room, Connolly hailed me.

  ‘Ah, Nick, old son. Just the chap. That bloody trilby of yours. We’ve found the owner — or rather he’s found us.’

  ‘Oh?’ This sounded interesting.

  ‘It belongs to the assistant chief,’ he laughed. ‘He came to visit the scene of the crime at lunchtime and, being the gentleman he is, he took his hat off and hung it behind the door. Then he forgot it! It’s his, Nick, so cancel that action. If that had been any of us doing such a daft thing, we’d have been bollocked up hill and down dale!’

  I looked at the hat in my hand, and I remembered the words of Nigel Flint.

  ‘Sergeant,’ I said, ‘I think Nigel Flint is our killer. He’s just stated to me that he saw this hat behind the door this morning, when he found Edith dead. He can’t have, because it wasn’t there then. He’s lying. Is he trying to throw suspicion onto the owner of the hat?’

  ‘I think we’d better have another word with Nigel Flint,’ he said.

  I did not go to that interview, for it required the skills of a very experienced detective, and so Gerry Connolly went to see Nigel once more.

  Nigel admitted killing her. Desperately short of cash, he knew Aunt Edith had cash hidden all over the house and had broken in to steal some of it, intending to make it look like a burglary. He’d broken in during the night hours, around two o’clock in the morning, but she had caught him — in his panic to avoid discovery, he’d picked up the electric iron which had been on the draining-board and had repeatedly struck her with it. She never knew it was him, he was sure, and that gave him some relief, but he had run off, taking the iron with him. He’d thrown it in the river to get rid of it. He wept as he gave his statement to Gerry Connolly, saying over and over again that he’d had no intention of killing Aunt Edie . . .