On Eden Street

by Peter Grainger

  ‘Well, don’t worry. I’m not saying you get used to it but you get used to dealing with it. We’re going to need a list of the people who work along the street who might have seen something, like the women in the florist’s shop. You can make a start on that. We need names and contact details. And ask about CCTV.’

  She went without another word but not to the nearest premises – Waters watched her heading to the Fairhills end of Eden Street so she could begin with the first shop on the right. Maybe she had a very logical mind.

  Denise Sterling was waiting for him, sitting back on her heels now. He returned to the doorway and she said, ‘Prince Charming was right – there’s a lot of blood underneath the body. It’s congealed, with that sort of skin on it? He bled out several hours ago, I’d say.’

  ‘Can you see the face? Any injuries on it?’

  ‘Not as far as I can tell. Nothing on top of the skull, either. You’d have to guess he’s been stabbed.’

  They were not using each other’s names yet, and Waters wondered how long that would take. For now, it didn’t matter. A new thought came to him and he said, ‘He might have cut his wrists. He wouldn’t be the first to decide he’d had enough of this.’ He lifted a hand to the street, which was dismal with the light but steady rain. Maya Kumar had taken the umbrella with her.

  Sterling considered it with raised eyebrows before saying, ‘Could be… But I doubt it, not with the dog.’

  ‘What difference does the dog make?’

  ‘Something that depended on him. It was looked after all right.’

  Waters moved a couple of steps closer so he was getting some shelter from the awning above the entrance. There was the smell of stale food here, of stale beer and of clothes unwashed for weeks or months. Sterling didn’t seem bothered – she was on her knees inside the porch as if she was about to say a prayer for the departed.

  He said, ‘Maybe. But people with children still slit their wrists or step in front of trains.’

  ‘True.’

  Waters looked at the new watch on his left wrist – he’d stuck to his recent resolution not to rely on his mobile for every time-check. It was an expensive indulgence, a Hamilton Field Auto, and he hadn’t yet got over the fear of losing it. 10.14. Freeman must be leaving them alone intentionally.

  Sterling said, ‘The sooner we get a proper look at him, the better. We need a medic to pronounce him first. What about your pathologist?’

  Waters shook his head. ‘He’s never available at short notice. I’ll get the DI to call a GP from the nearest practice – there’s a list in the office. This rain isn’t helping but there’s no sign of blood anywhere else. He didn’t stagger in injured and die. We’d better declare this a crime scene until we’re told differently. Just in case.’

  Sterling got up and stepped past the body to stand alongside Waters. She looked over at Wilson and O’Leary and said, ‘What about Tweedledum and Tweedledee? They’ll be off to get a coffee soon.’

  This was always going to be awkward from the day it was announced that the new squad would be based in Kings Lake Central, but Waters hadn’t anticipated this degree of awkwardness this quickly. His answer to Sterling was to walk across to them now.

  ‘John? You were right about the blood, so we’re treating it as suspicious. I’ve sent DC Kumar along the street to get a list of contacts. Could you and Simon check out the public CCTV and make a note of the cameras we need access to?’

  Wilson had his hands in his raincoat pockets. He took his time before, ‘You want us to walk about in the rain looking for cameras?’

  ‘Yes. They’re all waterproof these days. They should still be working.’

  Wilson almost certainly heard the echo of the past in those words, and another voice saying something very similar. O’Leary said, ‘We’ll get bloody soaked…’

  Wilson said, ‘I’ve called DI Terek, and he’s gone to have a word. I’m not sure we’re on this case, see. We might be needed elsewhere. Detective Sergeant.’

  Wilson was making it plain – they were of equal rank, the three of them, and no one had authority at this moment in Eden Street. And Wilson would enjoy nothing more than arguing the point in front of Denise Sterling.

  Waters said, ‘Fair enough. I’ll pass on your thoughts to DCI Freeman when I speak to her. If you do spot any cameras on your way out, the info needs to go straight to DI Greene. Denise and I will take over this one from here.’

  What do you need, Greene had said, and Waters had given him a list. Within twenty minutes, things began to arrive; not bad for a man who had only walked through the doors of Central for the first time a couple of hours ago. The GP had been in his car on the way to his surgery. He was young and not someone Waters recognised but he was brisk and efficient. The paperwork was done in a matter of minutes and handed over to Waters.

  ‘We’re guessing he might have been stabbed or that we’ll find his wrists slashed,’ Waters said, more in hope than expectation.

  The doctor said, while he ignored yet another call on his mobile, ‘I couldn’t speculate on that, but certainly there has been significant blood loss. Your pathologist will tell you more but it’s my feeling that he died some hours ago. As I’ve said, I haven’t made any attempt to turn over the body but rigor has begun in the neck and jaw. Do you need me for anything else?’

  Waters thanked him and watched him go – only to see the first marked car driving slowly along the paved area from the Fairhills end of the street. He put up a hand and they continued towards him. He had asked Greene for everything needed to secure the area and screen it from the public gaze, and within five minutes the three uniformed officers had done exactly that; from the outside, thought Waters, this probably looks highly organised.

  He saw Maya working her way down the opposite side of Eden Street now, just about to enter the florist’s shop. It was called Flower Power. Lola the dog was presumably safely in Ben’s cage, fed and watered, waiting for – what did the girl say? – the nice detective to come and interview her. Waters looked along the street and calculated that there were between thirty and forty businesses here, and every single one would need a visit and probably a statement recorded. It seemed that ‘Michael’ was well-known, which meant many potential witnesses.

  ‘DS Waters?’

  Denise Sterling stood near the screen that had been erected and she was waving to him. When he reached her, she pointed inside the doorway. There was a man on the other side of the door, trying to open it, an Asian man in an ill-fitting suit. Waters raised both hands and his voice enough to get the man’s attention – in all the activity, they had forgotten there might already be people inside the building. The man was looking at him now, peering from behind a faded blind. Waters signalled with a circular motion that he needed to go around to another entrance. The man replied with gestures of his own, a finger pointing at the door.

  It was Sterling who understood first. She said, ‘He’s saying he has to open. On the door, that notice. He wants to open for half past ten!’

  Without really thinking, Waters said, ‘Oh well. At least we won’t have far to go for lunch…’

  Laughter in these situations is merely a coping mechanism, of course, and Sterling sounded as if she was well-practised in it – but she kept it within professional bounds. Waters made the turn-around signal to the man again, and he disappeared from the door but still with apparent reluctance.

  Sterling said, ‘Want me to go and find him? There has to be a back way.’

  ‘It’s down on the right side of the street if I remember, an alleyway. How’s your Mandarin?’

  She was already on her way as she said, ‘In about the same shape as my satsuma,’ and laughed again. Be very, very grateful for small mercies, the wise teacher used to say. It looked as if his new opposite number was alright.

  Waters took out his notebook and wrote down who had been into the doorway and how many times – something had caught his attention, something that meant he needed to go and look
for himself. Denise Sterling hadn’t spotted it which suggested that the doctor had shifted the bedding covering the body and revealed the edge of a piece of cardboard. There was writing on it, the left-side beginnings of hand-written words. He pulled on the gloves and was close enough to reach it now but before he did so, Waters took a picture with his phone – after a while, the precautions become second nature.

  He pulled it out carefully, half-expecting it to be blood-stained but there was no trace. It was the side of a cardboard box that had once contained a well-known brand of tinned peas. On the blank side, in square, awkward capitals three or four inches high, had been written “Homeless ex forces (please help) rn 92245588 Royal Anglian trying to raise money for a hot meal or possibly accommodation, b&b or hostel, thanks for your kindness. God bless.”

  Waters had a cousin in the Royal Anglians. It was an infantry regiment and he knew the first and third battalions had deployed in Afghanistan between 2009 and 2012. He looked again at the huddled remains in the doorway and couldn’t help wondering whether this man had been there, fighting in the deserts of that distant country. Had he travelled half way across the world, survived a war and then come back again to die here on the streets of Kings Lake? How does this happen to a man who was a soldier, and who has served his country?

  Removing the piece of cardboard from here was further compromising what might be a crime-scene, but this is as much a judgement call as anything else in an investigation. Freeman might decide on a full SOCO presence and DNA work but the location could hardly be more public – it was already contaminated. Waters stepped carefully past the body and out into the rain, and then hurried into the neighbouring entrance – a dingy travel agents’ shop which seemed to specialise in trips to The Philippines; it wasn’t open and didn’t look as if it had been for quite a while. A few drops had fallen onto the piece of cardboard. He crouched, propped it up against the door, angled it and then took two more images on his mobile so the information it contained could not be lost.

  If the service number was genuine, and he had no reason to doubt it was, they had an unusually quick and effective means of identifying the body. Just a phone call, he thought initially, and then realised that the military might well insist on seeing some identification of their own before releasing details of past personnel. Even so, it was a local regiment, and this ought to be straightforward.

  He studied the writing again. Everything was spelled correctly – Smith would be pleased. And he would think it interesting too, that the man who wrote it was literate enough to spell ‘accommodation’ with the requisite double consonants. B and B? Did the homeless ever stay somewhere that provided them with a breakfast before they returned to life on the streets? Any more coffee, sir, before you head back to the pavements? It hardly seemed likely.

  Waters turned in the doorway and saw Maya leave the florist’s and turn to her right before going into a betting shop. She’d been a long time in Flower Power. The two women should be useful witnesses even though one of them was unable to see. He thought about the blind girl again, how she had behaved confidently, assertively even, and the way she had almost been able to look at him, at where he was standing in her darkness. How does she manage with flowers? Some are scented, some are not – he knew that much. Can she tell them apart by touch?

  He shrugged the questions away, turned again into the doorway and picked up the piece of cardboard. He needed to find a way of keeping it dry. Then he held it at arm’s length and studied it again. People say ‘God bless’ but it’s a meaningless habit, an empty phrase for most of us. And where was God’s blessing last night, my friend?

  And then, from behind him in Eden Street, a familiar voice said, ‘If I’m not much mistaken, that looks like a clue.’

  Chapter Five

  Freeman had brought John Murray with her. They both had umbrellas, and Waters was beginning to feel left out – mental note to self, buy one to leave in the boot of the car. Murray’s was man-sized and there was just about enough room for Waters to stand under it with him and not get wet. The three of them looked at the piece of cardboard again, and Freeman said, ‘I like this. I think all victims should be made to carry ID with them.’ Then she read it through again, aloud, slowly, beginning to process it as Waters already had.

  He looked at Murray and found the usual impassive face. Freeman would have noticed which of the former Smith team appeared to be least engaged in this new project, and that’s why she had brought him out of the office and spent time alone with him as they drove here. This way also meant that Serena would be bonding with Greene and Clive Betts – Freeman wasn’t allowing old loyalties to get in the way of new responsibilities.

  Murray looked along the street and said, ‘Any CCTV yet?’

  Waters said, ‘I’ve only been in this spot, and I can’t see anything focused on this doorway. I asked Wilson to have a look around. I’m assuming he did…’

  The two men exchanged an understanding glance but Freeman had got ahead of them again. She said, as she examined the back of the piece of cardboard, ‘He is now. We met them as we came through the shopping centre, loitering with intent near to a Costa.’

  Murray nodded and Waters caught the suggestion of a wry smile on his face.

  Freeman went on, ‘Is he always such a ray of sunshine?’

  Waters said, ‘DS John Wilson, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d say that he is, yes, ma’am.’

  She looked mildly surprised. ‘Really? How long has he been at Kings Lake Central?’

  Only Murray could answer that. Freeman gazed up at his six feet and several inches, a direct and disconcerting stare that made you want to answer quickly to bring it to an end.

  ‘At least ten years, ma’am. He was there when I arrived.’

  She didn’t pursue it then but Waters already knew that Freeman never asked a question without a reason. She handed the cardboard back to Waters.

  ‘Right. Where’s Denise?’

  Waters explained and said he expected her back soon. Freeman turned her attention to the doorway and frowned. ‘I don’t like this, though – a body in a very public space. Chris, bring me up to speed. Tell me everything you’ve got so far.’

  When he had done so, Freeman shook her head. When you have a new boss, you have to learn what all these signals mean. Had he made mistakes, handled it badly?

  She said then, ‘So, we could have most of the half-a-day-old murder squad out on the streets with what might be a suicide? If it is, we could hand this back to DI Terek, return to the office and get on with some proper team-building exercises. I like the one where you form a circle around someone and they have to lean back and let themselves fall, and you catch them before they hit the ground.’

  Waters caught Murray’s eye again and saw the look of alarm.

  Freeman said to Waters, ‘What do you think? He slit his wrists?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, ma’am. There’s a lot of blood – enough for that, I suppose. I’m no expert.’

  ‘And the GP didn’t examine him that far?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  She handed the umbrella to him, and he held it over her while she reached into the pocket of her smart, red waterproof jacket – Waters read “Seasalt Coverack” discreetly embroidered on one sleeve. She took out a pair of plastic disposable gloves and pulled them on with a resigned but business-like expression. She realised they were both watching her and said, ‘A woman’s work is never done.’

  When they had lifted the quilt – all were wearing gloves by then – they found that the body was prone with the arms at its sides. It was a simple enough matter to lift each stiffened arm a little and see that the wrists were undamaged. Freeman asked Waters to take pictures of what they had done, and then she stared down at the corpse, her mouth working as she considered her next move. Murray offered to turn the body onto its back, and Freeman said, ‘No thanks, John. We have to assume now that he has injuries somewhere on the front. If he does, th
ose are probably not self-inflicted, are they?’

  She looked up at Murray, waiting to show that she wanted his opinion. Murray leaned over the body. Waters knew he was trying to see whether the throat had been cut – it hadn’t, Waters already knew – and Murray answered, ‘I doubt it, ma’am. It’s my guess there are stab wounds to the chest or abdomen.’

  ‘That’s my feeling, too. In which case, we’ll now do things by the book – better late than never. I’m going to ask DI Greene for a photographer, SOCO and the pathologist. I’ll make that call now.’

  They stepped out of the doorway and back into the rain. Periodically a knot of people gathered on the other side of the street and then the uniformed men would move them on again. Waters said, ‘If he needs any help, ma’am… That’s a lot to sort out on your first morning.’

  Freeman already had her mobile in her hand. She said, ‘Thanks, but no. I was planning to explain to the squad this morning how we’ll be working cases – I didn’t expect we’d actually have a live one. Or a dead one. Anyway, Tom Greene will run the desk. It’s what he does. He’ll be the lynchpin in our investigations, and that’s why I stressed to everyone that all info gets back to him quickly. Today, not tomorrow, not as an afterthought next Monday morning. Hello? Tom? We’ve got our first one. This is what I need…’

  Freeman stepped a few feet away under her own umbrella. Murray looked as if he might have something to say, but before the words formed into sounds Denise Sterling reappeared. She stood next to them and they all exchanged good mornings again, as if they’d just met on the street and there wasn’t a body in a doorway a few feet the other side of the screen. Then Sterling said, ‘I met Mr Zhang. God knows if I’ll spell it right. Mr Zhang’s first question was “You move body soon?” That was also his second and third question. In fact, it was Mr Zhang’s only question. You’d think he’d have said, what’s happened or something, wouldn’t you?’