‘We found a ring, a gold ring. Did you ever see her wearing a ring?’
‘I remember it. I asked her once about it.’
‘What was her reply?’
‘She said it was from her mother. It was the only time she spoke about her.’
‘Her father?’
‘Nothing. She would always walk away if her parents were mentioned. I don’t know what the secret was, but on reflection there was always something dark about her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hindsight. Most people are easy to read. You can tell from how they move, how they talk, whether they are educated or not, gregarious or introvert, willing to chat or more silent. With Ingrid, I was never sure. Almost as if she had an impenetrable veil in front of her.’
It became clear that Stephanie Chalmers was starting to fall asleep, and her children were waiting patiently outside with their aunt. Sara left them alone and went to see the hospital administration. In her sedated condition, the widowed woman could have mumbled something; something that one of the hospital staff could have sold to the newspapers.
***
Keith had remained in the office. His skills with a computer were limited, but he persevered. One of the things he intended to conquer once he retired. He knew that retirement meant another milestone in his life, and there was only one more after that: a quiet spot in the cemetery with a headstone, the only remembrance that he had ever existed. It was not as if anyone would be coming to place flowers on his resting place. As miserable as he appeared in the office, he knew that it was the one place where he felt at peace; the one place where he could feel content.
An engraved ring presented problems. It was not the easiest item to trace, and apart from the engraving on the inside, there was nothing more, certainly no indication as to who had manufactured it, and where it had been engraved.
The police database was comprehensive. If someone had spent time in prison, for instance, he should be able to check their personal possessions on the date of imprisonment, although there was no indication that Ingrid Bentham had spent time inside.
On the contrary, the woman gave every impression of being an average woman, friendly and attractive, except for one undeniable fact: she was a vicious murderer. But why?
Keith Greenstreet had encountered a few murderers over the years, arrested a few. With them, it had been easy. Virtually all had shown aggressive tendencies, or else they were in an abusive relationship, or they had a long history of criminal activity, but with Ingrid Bentham, nothing.
The woman did not fit the mould, yet her slaying of Gregory Chalmers and the attempted murder of Stephanie Chalmers indicated a savagery he had not seen before. And then, the woman calmly walks out of the door. It was as if she was two people. Keith could see severe psychological tendencies in Ingrid Bentham.
Keith realised that a criminal psychologist would be a good person for the team to contact. He would let Sara know on her return.
As much as he wanted to dislike his senior, at least in this case, he could not. Sure, she could be overbearing, pushy sometimes, but she was a good police officer, determined in her pursuit of justice. He would put aside his prejudices, outdated he knew, and give her all the assistance she required. He would also apologise for his earlier outburst when he inferred that she was not trained well enough to conduct the investigation.
***
Sean, eager and keen, had found a speech analyst; in fact, a person who trained actors in how to speak regional and foreign accents. The man was on the books, approved by the police for their use.
Sean made an appointment for one o’clock in the afternoon. He decided on an early lunch, and then he would take the train up to the centre of London; no point in taking a car, as the traffic was horrendous and parking was a nightmare, even with a police pass.
Anton Schmidt – an unusual name for an expert in the English language – opened the door to his office in Mayfair.
‘My father was German, but I was born in England, not far from here. A true Cockney. My mother said that I was born within earshot of the bells of St Mary-le-Bow, but I’m not sure if it’s true,’ Schmidt said.
‘I have a video recording of a birthday party. A woman is speaking. I need to know where she is from,’ Sean said.
‘Fine, let me see it.’
Sean put his laptop on Anton Schmidt’s desk and pressed the play button once the recording was ready. Ingrid Bentham’s face was clearly visible.
‘That is the woman in question?’ Anton Schmidt asked. ‘She is very attractive.’
‘And deadly.’
‘The woman in the newspapers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nasty business. Let me watch it for a few minutes, and then I can give you my considered opinion.’
Sean moved out of the office and left Schmidt with the recording. He took the opportunity to purchase coffee from a café below the office. He returned after ten minutes.
‘Northern,’ Schmidt said.
‘Anything more specific?’
‘Originally from the Newcastle area.’
‘Age when she left?’
‘Newcastle, up to her late teens.’
‘And then?’
‘Hard to say. There are indications of London idioms, but they are formed relatively quickly. She has probably been in London for some time, but the original accent remains noticeable. Most people’s accents are formed in their youth. It’s unlikely to stay hidden, no matter how hard they try to conceal it; at least, not to me.’
***
After the first couple of days, progress slowed. Sara and her team now had a clear idea as to where the woman had come from, although no firm information as to who she was. Ingrid Bentham was the name she had been using, but there were no bank accounts in that name, at least none that had any money in them, and the only address they had was the flat she had shared with Gloria. The Chalmers always paid Ingrid in cash, and there was no record with HM Revenue & Customs that any tax had ever been paid.
When questioned, Stephanie Chalmers had said that was what Ingrid wanted. It was a minor point, and the murder investigation team were interested in solving the murder of Gregory Chalmers, not indulging in a tax investigation. The ring, so far, had drawn a blank, other than the assumption that it could have been from the mother, but an uppercase ‘M’ did not seem conclusive.
Bob Marshall, as the DCI in charge of the team, was feeling the heat. It was on record that he and his lead detective in the murder investigation were involved in a personal relationship. Detective Superintendent Rowsome was being questioned by his superiors as to whether this would impact on the effectiveness of the investigation. He had allayed their concerns with a ringing endorsement of his DCI. He knew he had lied. As far as he was concerned, Bob Marshall was after his job, and he did not intend to let him have it. Rowsome knew that he had climbed the promotion ladder as far as he could. There were still another ten years before retirement, and he was hanging on for dear life.
‘I’ve gone out on a limb for you,’ Rowsome said in his phone call to Bob Marshall, two minutes after receiving a grilling from his seniors.
‘The investigation is going well,’ Bob Marshall said. It was not entirely correct, and he half-expected Rowsome to fire back at him.
‘Not from where I’m sitting,’ Rowsome said before hanging up his phone.
Bob Marshall knew that his decision to appoint Sara as the lead instead of Keith Greenstreet was sound, but defending that decision was not so easy. Unless there was a result within the week, he would need to consider replacing Sara. He knew what her reaction would be. He hoped it would not affect their relationship, but if he had to do it, he would.
Sara, increasingly frustrated, wondered what they could do. Each day they met and discussed what to do next. Each day they went over the evidence so far, but there was precious little.
There was no shortage of fingerprints, no question as to the murderer and no stone had been left un
turned, but Ingrid Bentham had disappeared. They had traced the name back, only to find that it had come into existence four years earlier. That aligned with Anton Schmidt’s analysis of the woman’s accent. A check of births in the UK had revealed no Ingrid Bentham, other than a woman in her seventies.
It was clear that Ingrid Bentham was not the woman’s birth name, but what was it? Keith had considered travelling up to Newcastle, utilising some of the contacts he had made over the years in other parts of the country.
Sara believed it to be a good idea, only to have it rejected due to budgetary constraints.
‘Sorry, but that’s how it is,’ Bob Marshall had said in the office that day. Sara knew that he had refused not out of any concern over the budget, but because he thought it would be a wasted trip. He received a cold shoulder that night in the bed they shared.
Sara knew that he was under pressure to rein in costs, and under pressure to remove her from her position, but he had no right to place restrictions on her. She was angry and rightly so.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Keith said when told of Bob not approving his trip.
‘We need a breakthrough,’ Sara said, not mentioning the cold shoulder and the cold bed to Keith.
Sean had visited Gloria on Keith’s suggestion. Keith had felt that a young man would have more success in finding out information than he had. Sean had knocked on the door, introduced himself, asked a few questions, and then made a quick retreat as the overly-amorous Gloria had come on to him.
Next time, the two men agreed, Sara could accompany them.
‘I still reckon the number carved on Chalmers’ chest is significant,’ Keith said.
‘We have checked,’ Sara said. ‘There is no record of another body with the number 1.’
‘Maybe she only intended to kill one person, so there was no need for a number. With the second one, it reminded her of the first, and she decided to keep a count.’
‘Keeping score?’ Sean asked.
‘Why not?’ Keith said. ‘What is the state of this woman’s mind? She’s clearly unhinged.’
‘She’s still smart enough to disappear.’
‘Maybe she’s done it before.’
‘What do you mean?’
Keith leant back in his chair; not a pretty sight, Sara thought, but did not intend to mention it. She valued her DI’s experience, even his dry humour, and the man had been big enough to apologise to her for his earlier behaviour.
‘She wouldn’t be the first murderer who acted and looked normal,’ Keith said.
‘We know that, but what are you suggesting?’ Sara asked.
‘She’s clearly psychotic. We need an expert to analyse her behaviour.’
Sara consulted Bob; he approved the cost.
Chapter 6
Grace Nelson seemed too young to be a criminal psychologist. At least she did to Keith, although Sara had checked and found her to be in her early forties. The police database showed that she was highly qualified and able to give evidence at a trial.
Keith had to admit she had enough initials after her name. He had none, apart from two General Certificates of Education, one for geography, the other for religious studies, but as he had not travelled far, other than to France and Spain, and he professed to no strong religious views, they both seemed irrelevant. They had, however, allowed him to join the police force as a junior constable. From there on, it had been hard work that had allowed him to rise to the rank of detective inspector.
‘I’ve studied the case,’ Grace Nelson said. Sean thought her accent was from the west of the country. He had been reading a book on the subject, but he knew he could be wrong. Regardless, she was remarkably well educated.
Sara, an ambitious woman, envied Grace her education, but the idea of sitting down to study was anathema to her. She had managed to secure a BSc in Policing and Criminal Investigation, but it had been hard-won.
So much so that she had crammed the last six months, and had completed the degree in under three years. Bob Marshall was working on a Master’s, and often when she was fast asleep, or in need of attention, he would be slavishly sweating over his studies. She knew that DCI would be the limit of her career. It was not because she did not want more, but she had come to realise that a Master’s degree was beyond her, and besides, she had decided that she wanted a child, Bob’s child, in the next couple of years. Her biological clock was ticking, and it was winding down.
‘What are your thoughts?’ Sara asked Grace Nelson.
‘Carving a number with a knife indicates a logical mind.’
‘Sane?’ Keith asked.
‘Unlikely,’ the psychologist replied.
‘It may be best if we let Dr Nelson present first,’ Sara said.
‘My apologies,’ Keith said.
‘Paranoid schizophrenia would be my preliminary diagnosis. Ingrid Bentham displays some of the behavioural traits. Of course, my analysis is incomplete. Without seeing the woman, it is hard to be precise. Was she on medication? Have you managed to ascertain that?’
‘She was on medication, but we don’t know what it was.’
‘It’s important.’
‘There’s only one person who would know.’ Keith looked over at Sean.
‘Okay, I’ll go with Sean and hold his hand,’ Sara said. Her mood had improved with the psychologist in the office.
‘You mentioned medication,’ Sean said.
‘There are some antipsychotic drugs: Chlorpromazine, Thorazine, Loxapine, Fluphenazine are just a few. There may be more than one drug, and they would need to be taken on a regular basis. The patient would need to be checked every few months, in case of issues.’
‘And if the medicine is not taken on a regular basis?’ Keith asked.
‘Hallucinations, delusions, anxiety, anger, suicidal thoughts, obsession with death and violence, plus a few more.’
‘Are you saying that Ingrid Bentham fits the profile?’ Sara asked.
‘I am raising the possibility. Without a close and detailed examination of the person, I can’t be sure.’
‘What causes paranoid schizophrenia?’ Sean asked. He knew he would be reading up on the subject that night.
‘Yet again,’ Grace Nelson said, ‘there are a number of possibilities: family history, stress, problems during the mother’s pregnancy, sexual or physical abuse. There are more, but until you have the woman, my analysis remains speculative.’
***
‘Come on in,’ Gloria said in a friendly voice upon seeing Sean in her doorway. She was dressed provocatively, almost as if she had been expecting him. ‘It’s great to see you,’ she said. The tone of her voice changed when Sara poked her head round the door.
‘Detective Inspector Sara Stanforth. We have a few questions for you.’
Reluctantly, the door was opened, and the two police officers entered. It was clear that Gloria had been entertaining, a few empty wine bottles testament to the fact.
‘What do you want? It’s my weekend. Don’t you ever take a rest?’
‘Not when someone has been murdered,’ Sara said as she looked around the room. She could not claim to be the world’s greatest housekeeper, but compared to Gloria, she was fastidious.
It was evident to Sara that Gloria was high on something, and it was more than alcohol. Sara could see that the woman was a vulture when men were around. She understood why Sean had been reluctant to approach the woman again without a chaperone.
‘Maybe, but what do you want from me?’ Gloria said. ‘I haven’t seen Ingrid since she walked out. I told him that.’ She looked over at Sean. He was not sure whether it was the look of anger or of disappointment. Although he knew what he felt: relief.
‘Ingrid was on medication. Is that correct?’ Sara asked.
‘I told the old man that.’
‘Detective Inspector Greenstreet,’ Sara corrected her.
‘Yes, him.’
‘Do you have any of that medication here?’
‘She took i
t all when she left.’
‘Are you sure? You lied about the ring.’
‘The ring would have covered her rent money.’
‘Gloria, we need the name of the medicine.’
‘Something “zine”; that’s all I know.’
‘And the name of the patient?’
‘Ingrid Bentham, who else?’
‘Did you see the name? It’s important.’
‘Not really. As I told the old man, sorry, Detective Inspector Greenstreet, I was not interested. Ingrid paid her rent, and we got on well enough. Apart from that, she left me alone, I left her alone. Satisfied?’
‘Not yet,’ Sara said. ‘Do you have a man in the other room?’
‘What if I do? None of your business.’
‘As you say, none of my business, but if you want to get back in there with him, you’d better answer our questions, or we’ll take you down to the police station.’
‘You can’t do that. I’ve committed no crime,’ Gloria shrieked. A man’s head appeared at the bedroom door.
Sean flashed his badge. ‘Police.’ The head retreated back inside the bedroom.
‘Okay. The name was scratched off. I don’t know where she got it from, or what it was. I never asked, and she never told me.’
‘Did she take it every day?’
‘How would I know? She was a good flatmate, nothing more. Some of the others have wanted to take my men, but with Ingrid I was safe. Not that she couldn’t have if she wanted; she was beautiful, I’m not. Just an easy lay, that’s me.’
‘And the medicine’s name?’
‘Only what I told you.’
***
‘Not so easy to obtain high-potency prescription drugs,’ Keith said back in the office. He had stayed back, pleased that he had not been asked to accompany Sara to meet Ingrid Bentham’s flatmate.
Not that interviewing the promiscuous Gloria was a problem, but she had reminded him of certain unassailable facts: he was getting old and he was not an attractive man. It had not worried him when he had been younger; unattractiveness had a particular lure for certain women, especially his wife. Back then, he had been young and fit, even played rugby for the local police station every weekend; just friendlies with the other stations in the area. Always good fun, always a few too many beers afterwards.
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 65