“It would certainly seem so, old girl. And it does seem a bit of a coincidence, doesn’t it, that he seems to have changed his name at much the same time that his family – assuming they were his family -seem to have disappeared?”
“And despite your well-known views on synchronicity,” Metcalfe said with a grin, “as police officers we don’t like coincidence.”
“It would certainly seem likely that the two things are connected, yes. And once we know what happened, and why, we can begin to build a psychological picture of our victim. We know he was a recluse, for instance. Was he always a recluse, or was this in some way a response to something that happened? Was he psychologically damaged by the experience, or did he just not like people very much?”
“We know that he did have some limited interaction with at least one of his neighbours,” Metcalfe proffered.
“We also know from two different sources that Raj seemed very unhappy with that contact, and did his best to deter it,” Willis added.
“All good stuff, mes amis, but you need to dig deeper – or more deeply, should I say. Whole families don’t just disappear, after all.”
“Bob, I remember the guvnor saying that something from the victim’s past might be relevant to the murder. It looks like he could be right, doesn’t it?”
“Now let’s not get carried away here,” Metcalfe said calmly. “Remember we do have a prime suspect who seems to have had it away on his toes and vanished without trace. Innocent people don’t usually run, do they? Remember that vile woman who attacked Lisa; she ran out of the flat the second the deed was done.”
“I take it that ‘to have it away on your toes’ means to run away, does it? Good, I must make a note of that.”
One of Peter Collins’s several current hobbies was the compilation of a dictionary of Metropolitan Police slang. Willis saw him reach for his notebook and sighed. The problem with Peter’s hobbies, she knew, was that they tended to grow into obsessions.
“But let us also remember,” Collins went on, having noted the reference and closed his notebook, “that the most obvious suspect is never the criminal.”
“In crime fiction perhaps, Peter,” Willis said firmly, “but not in real life. In our job we normally have a pretty good idea right from the outset who the criminal is. It’s simply a matter of proving it.”
Metcalfe nodded his agreement.
“And, of course, in a case like this, finding them first.”
“How do you go about that, as a matter of interest?”
“Well, some of it’s very old-fashioned. We circulate his details to every police station, and the transport police at ports, airports, railway stations, and so on. Some of it is more up-to-date. For example, it’s very difficult for anybody to do anything these days without leaving some sort of electronic signature behind them. Using an Oyster card on the tube, taking cash out of an ATM, that sort of thing. The problem is that we don’t know at the moment which signature to look for. We haven’t been able to trace any record of him having any credit or debit cards. It also seems that he may have been operating a number of different identities. But we’ll get him. One way or another, we’ll get him. And then we’ll see what he has to say for himself.”
CHAPTER 10
“So I think we’re making progress,” Collison said encouragingly at the morning meeting. “We now believe it’s possible that the family who previously lived at Wentworth House was in fact that of the deceased himself, who seems to have changed his name – anglicised it anyway – at about the same time. It therefore becomes even more pressing that we find Mr MacKenzie and get him to tell us anything he might know about what happened at that time. We should probably re-interview Mr Rowbotham as well, and jog his memory as best we can.”
He looked down at his notes.
“As you know we now have a photo of the deceased with Raj, who is currently our main – indeed our only – suspect. DI Metcalfe has had these blown up as best we can, so at least we have something to show to people. Priya, any luck with the LGBT liaison officer?”
“Nothing yet, guv, but it’s early days. It didn’t mean anything to him, but he’s going to show it around in some gay bars this evening.”
“OK. We have also asked the Yard if there is anybody, preferably somebody prominent, we could speak to within the Tamil community here in London. We’ve drawn a bit of a blank there. They have sent round their official Tamil translator, but I’m not sure how much she can actually help us. Priya, I’m sorry, I didn’t really feel I could say no since the Yard probably believe they’re doing us a favour, so could you see her please? It doesn’t need to be a long interview.”
“Right you are, guv. When’s she coming?”
“10 o’clock, they said, so any time now. Anything else, Bob?”
“No, I don’t think so, sir. As you know, people, we now have the post-mortem report which you will have seen on the system. It’s pretty much as we expected. It looks like the deceased was struck from behind with a single blow, which killed him instantly. SOCO haven’t as yet found anything which could be a murder weapon, but their examination of the house is ongoing.”
Now it was his turn to consult his notes.
“Timothy, where are we with the invoice you are following up?”
“I’m expecting to hear something today, guv. I did stress it was a murder enquiry.”
“Very good. While we are on the financial front, I’m also expecting copies of our victim’s bank statements this morning. I’ll go through them myself in the first instance, and see if there is anything which looks worth our serious attention.”
He glanced enquiringly around the room and, when nobody said anything, said “right then, let’s get on with it.”
As the meeting broke up, Priya’s phone rang. It was the desk Sergeant reporting that her guest had arrived. She thanked him and set off down the stairs. As she walked into the reception area he caught her eye, and nodded at a young woman who was sitting on one of the chairs along the side wall. She was slim, wearing a dark blue trouser suit, and looked Chinese. As Priya approached she looked at her, smiled, and stood up.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Sophie Ho. I’m the Met’s official Tamil translator. My supervisor at the Yard said I might be able to help you with something.”
“Well, you might at that. I’m working on a murder enquiry and we believe our chief suspect to be a Tamil.”
“And you want me to translate while you interview him I suppose?”
Desai shook her head.
“If only it was that simple. He’s done a runner and we haven’t caught him yet. I was hoping you might be able to tell me a little bit about the Tamil community, just in case it might give us any useful pointers to where he might be. Why don’t we go somewhere where we can talk?”
She briefly considered the interview rooms, but was then struck by a thought.
“Why don’t we go to my office upstairs? It’s empty at the moment because while we’re working on an investigation we use the incident room instead.”
“OK, that sounds good.”
“Would you like a coffee or something?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
She scooped up her bag and looked expectantly at Desai, who turned and led the way upstairs.
“I probably should explain,” the translator said as she sat down in front of Desai’s desk, “that I don’t actually know the Tamil community here in London. I’m from Singapore you see.”
“And you’re a Tamil? Forgive me, but you don’t look like one.”
She laughed.
“I’m not. I’m actually part Chinese and part Malay. Singapore is a bit like Switzerland in that it has four official languages – English, Malay, Mandarin, and Tamil. But unlike Switzerland, where everybody speaks all four of the languages, in Singapore people tend just to speak their own, with English as a backup. If you can’t speak English at all, that’s pretty bad. You’re pretty much excluded both socially and in the wo
rkforce. It happens with some of the young Malay men, and sometimes Chinese as well. They’re called ‘ah beng’ and they tend to drift into crime, partly because they can’t get any decent jobs. So if you can speak all four you’re pretty useful to the police, which is what I did there: translating for the Singapore police. Then I had a chance to come to England and it seemed logical to apply to Scotland Yard.”
“That’s interesting, I never knew any of that. My family are originally from India, although I was born here and be honest I’ve never been there. I keep meaning to take a holiday. My mum keeps in touch with all my aunties and uncles of course, but I’ve never actually met them.”
“Oh really? I can speak Hindi as well.”
“Please don’t,” Desai said quickly. “I can’t.”
For some reason this struck them both as very amusing and they both went off into peals of giggles. Collison, who was passing in the corridor at the time, paused in mid stride and gazed at the closed office door in consternation. Was that really Priya in there?
“Well, of course I’ll help you in any way I can,” Sophie said once their giggles had subsided. “What would you like to know?”
“Well, there’s this for a start,” Desai said. “Can I show something on my computer?”
She brought up the scanned images of the two envelopes addressed to Raj. Sophie came around to her side of the desk and lent over her shoulder to peer at the screen.
“What am I looking at?”
“These are two envelopes that were found at the crime scene. As you can see, they both seem to be addressed to the same man, but in different names. Any thoughts?”
Just as Desai, who was very wary about her own personal space, became uncomfortably aware of just how close their cheeks were to each other, Sophie drew back and went round to her chair again.
“Oh yes, I can explain that very easily. You see, most Tamils don’t actually have a surname, a family name in the same way that we do. Most of them use the form of name on that second envelope there, which is the initial of your father’s name followed by your own. His name is Rajarshi of course, which is why it appears in both forms. Presumably his father’s name began with a G.”
“Gosh, doesn’t that make life rather difficult? For the police, for example?”
“It certainly does. It’s a problem here too with people like the NHS, or local authorities, or the tax people. The traditional form of Tamil name simply doesn’t fit any of their forms or IT systems.”
“So what happens then?”
Sophie shrugged.
“If people want you to have a surname but you don’t have one, then you make one up. Subramanian is quite a common one actually, but there are lots of others. That may be one reason why you’re having problems finding this bloke. That’s almost certainly not the name on his birth certificate.”
“Actually he wasn’t born here anyway. We’ve found a record which we’re pretty sure relates to him, an immigration record. Apparently he’s from Sri Lanka and he arrived here during the civil war, claiming asylum from the oppression of the Tamils back home.”
Sophie looked sceptical.
“Did he actually have a Sri Lankan passport?”
Desai brought up the relevant entry on her computer and gazed at it intently.
“Yes, he did.”
“Is there any record of immigration actually checking its authenticity with the Sri Lankan Embassy?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
Sophie laughed and crossed her legs.
“I wouldn’t mind betting it’s a fake. Southeast Asia is awash with them. It was a real problem in Singapore. A lot of the local Tamil population were buying them in the back streets for precisely that reason. Where did his incoming flight originate?”
Desai looked back at her screen and whistled.
“Singapore,” she confirmed. “Well, what do you know?”
“And presumably he never turned up for any of his immigration interviews and just vanished into thin air?”
“Got it in one. So you’ve come across this before then?”
“Yes. Like I said, it’s a pretty well-known racket. Normally they go underground within their own community and try to find some way to arrange a fake identity. But presumably he didn’t do that?”
“We don’t know what he did originally. We know that he lived for a while with our murder victim right here in Hampstead; just round the corner actually.”
“And now he’s disappeared again?”
“Yes. Any thoughts?”
“Well, for someone to vanish without trace and survive without leaving any sign of their existence, suggests one of three things: either he’s dead, living under an assumed identity with all the proper paperwork, or he’s being hidden by someone. But as to who that might be, I really can’t help you. As I said, I don’t know any of the local Tamil community here in London. I don’t know many people at all actually; I’ve only been here six months.”
“Well, at least you’ve sorted out the name thing anyway. Thank you for that, at least. Shall I show you out?”
“Where do you live in London?” Desai asked as they walked down the stairs.
“Earls Court. And you?”
“Oh, Colindale.”
“Why do you say ‘oh’ like that? What’s wrong with Colindale?”
“There’s nothing actually wrong with it. It’s just not very exciting, that’s all. There’s a big Indian community there and my parents felt comfortable being part of it I suppose.”
They reached the door and turned to look at each other. Suddenly Desai became aware that there was a tension in the air, a tension which she couldn’t identify. What was the matter? Had she said something out of place? She started to speak, to find the right form of farewell, but found that she couldn’t think what to say.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to go out for a drink one evening would you?” Sophie asked casually.
Desai heard a little girl somewhere say “Oh, yes, thank you, that would be very nice.”
“Great. Give me a ring why don’t you? Here’s my card.”
Then she was gone and there was only the door swinging gently behind her. Desai stood for a moment wondering what on earth had just happened. Then she shook her head and walked briskly up the stairs. She should have gone straight back into the incident room but for some reason she didn’t. Instead she went into her office and stood uncertainly in the middle of it, gazing at nothing in particular. She looked at the white business card in her hand and then reached forward to slide it gently into her shoulder bag, which she had left on the desk.
As if from a long way away she heard someone ask “Priya, is everything all right?”
She came to with a start and saw Collison standing at the open door, a slight smile on his face.
“Oh, yes,” she said, slightly flustered. “I’m sorry, guv, I was miles away. I was just thinking about something.”
Knowing that she had recently lost her father, it was now Collison’s turn to be embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not,” she said, shaking her head determinedly. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
CHAPTER 11
Just as she was beginning to think about leaving for the day, Desai received a phone call on her direct line.
“Hello, Constable Desai? It’s Jack Rowbotham.”
“Actually it’s Sergeant now but yes, it’s me.”
“Does that mean you’ve been promoted? If so, congratulations.”
“Well, sort of, yes, but never mind. What can I do for you?”
“Well, you’re not going to believe this but I think I saw Raj this afternoon and I thought I’d better let you know straightaway.”
“Yes, of course, thank you. Where was this? And when?”
“Just outside Belsize Park tube station. I came straight home to call you – I don’t have a mobile – so probably no more than about 20 minu
tes ago. He was away off in the distance and, although I hurried down the hill as quickly as I could, he’d gone by the time I got there. I had a quick look in the tube station but he wasn’t in the ticket hall. Presumably he’d gone down to the trains.”
“Well, thank you, that’s very helpful.”
“Wait, there’s more. It suddenly struck me that he might have gone into the little corner shop there – you know the one that’s open late and sells just about everything – because I think that’s where he does his shopping. I asked the man who runs it if Raj had been in. He asked who I meant and I remembered that he used to have a very distinctive old airline bag which he used for shopping. As soon as I mentioned it he said yes straight away. I took the liberty of giving him your card, which I still had in my pocket, and asked him to call you immediately should he come in again.”
“That’s extremely good of you, Mr Rowbotham. Thank you very much.”
“That’s all right. Always happy to help the police you know. Anyway, I lead a pretty boring life you know, and it’s not everyday that one of your neighbours gets his head bashed in. How’s it going by the way? Are you making any progress?”
“I can’t tell you that I’m afraid. But while you’re on the line I was meaning to ask if I could come and see you again. There’s a lot we need to find out about what happened in the past – a long way in the past I mean – and we’re hoping that we may be able to jog your memory a bit. It seems that the family who lived there might actually have been Conrad Taylor’s own family, in which case we are naturally anxious to find out what has happened to them. He may well have changed his name at much the same time as they disappeared, which is odd to say the least.”
“I’m very happy to extend an open invitation, Constable – or Sergeant, I should say. But I’m really not sure how much help I’m going to be able to be to you. Like I said, I don’t remember there being a family next door when I moved into the house. It’s always possible there was when I bought it, but it was empty for quite a long time while all the work was being done. I was living somewhere else.”
The House on Downshire Hill Page 7