The scenes of crime officer was the same one who had worked on the Michelle Simms murder. Freeman hadn’t met her then but she recalled that the crime scene evidence had been very well-presented and crucial in building that case, and so this was a contact she wanted to make secure. The two of them chatted for five minutes, agreeing what was feasible given the circumstances in which the body had been found, and then Sally Lonsdale had got on with it quickly and without fuss. She was still here, finishing her notes, and now there was another doctor with the body in the doorway.
Freeman stood close by as he prepared to examine the dead man. Greene had informed her that this was not Robinson, Lake Central’s regular pathologist – he was teaching at the University of East Anglia. But Dr Westwood had worked with Robinson, and he was qualified to do what needed to be done here this morning. Westwood had a beard and a ponytail, which Freeman thought quite novel for a doctor, but she was entirely reassured when, after an initial viewing of the body, he told her there had been “a considerable exsanguination” some hours ago. Any moment now, Westwood and one of the uniformed officers would turn the body onto its back. Then she’d know exactly what she was dealing with.
Finding a phone number for the Royal Anglian Regiment had been easy – everything after that had not. She’d been passed around from extension to extension until a Major Fogarty admitted that he might be the person she was looking for regarding the records of discharged personnel. She had imagined he was simply an administrative officer, a sort of office manager in a fancy uniform, but when she gave the service number and Christian name, something changed. After a few seconds and the sound of keyboard clicks, she had the sense that Major Fogarty knew the man concerned. She had not said he might be dead, only that the man might be part of a line of inquiry. When Fogarty said, ‘May I ask what this is about?’, Freeman had politely declined to say. Fogarty had then made his own strategic withdrawal, saying he was unable to give further information over the phone for security reasons – he was sure she would understand. She had said, ‘Yes, of course. I could be anyone, couldn’t I? You’re at Bury St Edmunds, aren’t you? When can we meet? This afternoon would be good. Take the name of my superior officer so we can deal with the authorisation beforehand.’
She had given him Detective Chief Superintendent Allen’s name and number, and ended the call. Major is a fairly senior rank, isn’t it? It’s easy to make the wrong assumptions but the dead man didn’t look as if he’d been much more than a squaddie. What were the odds that they knew each other? Maybe they didn’t…
Through the opening in the screen, Freeman could see that her two teams were still inside the bookmaker’s shop and the florist; it was best to be thorough in these first approaches, build some rapport with the local community. Someone here would know something useful to the investigation, and it was a matter of unearthing it, preferably with their full cooperation.
Denise and Chris seemed as if they might get on, and that was crucial to the success of the new squad. Murray had kept his distance from her conversationally as they drove to the scene, giving her brief but precise directions, but that was all right. She’d prefer to have a doer rather than a talker, and Murray’s record shows he’s utterly reliable when it comes to getting things done. Fancy him being the only one to get all those contacts into his phone this morning!
It looked as if the doctor still had a note to finish, so examining the front of the body was going to take another minute or two. Freeman took a deep breath and allowed herself a metaphorical step back. She had staked everything on this new venture – every unit of credit and credibility she had earned over the past seven years. She had called in favours and got important people to make unofficial calls supporting her plan for a new murder squad. She had made promises she would not normally have made, and the result was that she had a year, one year to make it work. Assistant Chief Constable Devine had said it nicely enough – “Naturally, we’ll get together and review how things are working out. I was thinking, in about a year’s time?” Freeman knew the squad’s budget was also for only one year in the first instance. It didn’t take a genius to see that if the squad had not impressed the right people in that time, it would be absorbed, assimilated into someone else’s empire. No one else understood the situation, not even Greene, and she wouldn’t tell them; she was putting them under enough pressure as it was.
‘Ma’am?’
The uniformed officer behind the screen indicated that the doctor wanted her attention. She stepped inside and found that the two men had already turned over the corpse. The doctor’s gloved hands were ready, hovering over the torso – he was waiting for a nod to continue. Freeman looked down. The front of the coat was sodden with congealed dark brown blood. It had also seeped up beneath the neck and onto the side of the cheek that had been pressed against the floor of the restaurant’s doorway, so that the face was bi-coloured ox-blood red and grey wood-ash, like the work of some avant-garde artist trying to say something different. The man had a short, untidy growth of beard, lank, thin hair and the lifeless eyes were half open.
Freeman thought, bodies don’t bother me but death does. Untimely death does. It doesn’t matter whose it is – you don’t get to end another’s life unless it’s in the service of your country, and even then… Which is just a little bit ironic, isn’t it, mate? She took one picture on her mobile, nodded and the doctor began to undo the buttons of the coat, one by one.
‘OK. I think we’re all here. This is not where I was expecting to hold our first case briefing. Somewhere a bit drier would have been good.’
But the rain had almost ceased for now – it was a fine, grey drizzle, really just low cloud over Kings Lake, late on a September Monday morning. Waters had dropped the hood of his jacket and Murray had put away his umbrella.
Freeman continued, ‘So, I’ll go first with what we have behind the screen. Doctor Westwood has found two significant puncture wounds on the front of the chest, in this area,’ pointing with her right forefinger, moving it just an inch or two as she indicated one and two. That’s high up, thought Waters, and just to the left of the centre of the chest.
‘Doctor Westwood thinks it likely these wounds were the cause of death – or rather they led to the bleeding which caused death. If the blade was long enough to reach the heart, and if it did so, then this man – I suppose we can call him Michael – then Michael would have bled out in a matter of a very few minutes.’
A knife wound to the heart. Waters became aware of his own breathing. When he glanced around, he found that Murray was already watching, waiting for him to make the connection. It was a couple of weeks short of nine months since they had found Smith with a similar injury, last Christmas Eve at a few minutes after midnight.
Freeman said, ‘Explaining how I want us to work as a team was supposed to be happening in our office back at Lake, not out here on the street in the rain. Somebody has to be in charge and it’s me, but that doesn’t mean I do all the thinking. I could, obviously, but I’m not going to… So, any observations on what I’ve told you about the injuries?’
Waters could see that Denise Sterling had something to say; when she looked in his direction he raised his eyebrows, inviting her to go first.
‘Ma’am? It’s not easy to stab somebody in the heart, not intentionally.’
‘Good. Why not?’
‘The ribs, ma’am. They’re close together, and they’re strong and flexible. It’s what the rib cage does, protects what’s inside.’
‘Fair enough. So?’
Freeman’s eyes went around the rest of the group as they stood in a semicircle a few yards away from the screen that concealed the body. She was small, not much more than five and a half feet tall, and lightly built, but you rarely had the time to notice this when you were working with her.
Waters said, ‘If that’s your intention, to stab in the heart, you have to know where it is and you have to choose the right blade. Something strong but narrow enough to pass betwee
n the ribs, something very sharp and several inches long.’
‘And the two key words in what Chris just said are… Is everyone OK with first names? When it’s just us? I mean, me using them. Obviously, you don’t get to use mine unless we’re having an unusually intimate moment. And don’t get your hopes up.’
She looked about and no one was objecting. ‘So, two key words?’
By this time, Waters was trying to remember exactly what he’d said, and then Maya Kumar spoke voluntarily for the first time that day – ‘“Intention” and “choose”.’
Freeman hardly acknowledged this – she went quickly on with, ‘And those two words go together here like ham and egg. We know life on the streets anywhere is risky. Nasty things happen a lot more often than nice ones, and violence isn’t uncommon. It’s usually mindless, spontaneous and messy…’
She didn’t need to say the rest of it. After a moment – ‘So, knives are the weapon of choice for drug dealers. Is that what we’re looking at? Did he owe someone? He doesn’t look like he was making any money. Is he a user? In my experience, no one is ever allowed to get away with a drug debt, not even a homeless bloke. The rest have to be encouraged, don’t they?’
Waters said, ‘The woman in the florist’s shop said she didn’t think he was using. She thought he was a drinker sometimes, but not drugs.’
Sterling asked then, ‘Was that the blind girl or the other one?’
‘The blind girl. Miriam Josephs.’
The questions were unspoken but obvious – how would she know if he was an addict when she had never seen him?
At the far end of Eden Street another vehicle was crawling slowly towards them, an ambulance, here to remove the body. Feral pigeons clattered into the air ahead of it, and the man from the noodles restaurant came out of the alleyway, stared gloomily at them all and looked at his watch.
Freeman said, ‘Well, toxicology will resolve that one. You lot spent over half an hour in the bookie’s and the flower shop. At that rate, this street will take you until…’ And then she stopped, made a quick count, did a rough calculation and said, ‘until about eleven o’clock tonight. You can either speed up or we call in some more bodies from Central.’
Denise Sterling explained that the businesses further away should take less time, and also that the man in the betting shop had told them something useful. On Saturday afternoon, after the last race at Kempton it must have been, he’d seen the two boys from the Turkish barber’s having a row in the street with the man whose body had been found.
Freeman said, ‘Boys?’
‘Mr Sullivan – he’s the bookie – said he thinks they’re in their late teens or early twenties, ma’am. There was some shouting and swearing going on for a few minutes.’
‘CCTV?’
‘No, ma’am. He doesn’t have any pointing at the street.’
Waters saw Freeman’s gaze travelling along the shops until she found the barber’s place. It was forty yards further north but still had a view of the doorway where Michael had died. Would she take this herself? Presumably she would automatically be the senior investigating officer in all their cases, something he hadn’t yet considered. That had implications.
Then Freeman said to Denise, ‘Good. As far as I’m concerned they’ve skipped witness and gone straight to person of interest. Make that your next port of call. Chris, you and John take the place next door, just in case you’re needed. I’ll be here – I’ll have to sign something before this body is removed. John Wilson has found several CCTVs already and isn’t finished yet. We need to go wide on CCTV, so keep asking about that everywhere you go. Michael whoever-he-is didn’t inflict those injuries on himself. This is our first case.’
Chapter Seven
Waters had looked at his watch and found he’d already completed almost two hours of unpaid overtime in his new job, and it was still only the first day. He hadn’t been surprised by the fact, only by the realisation that the lights in the shops were coming on and that there was a steady stream of people leaving the town centre and making for the bus and railway stations – the afternoon had gone and he hadn’t noticed. The two teams of detectives completed the final interviews a few minutes before six o’clock in the evening. Lunch had been sandwiches eaten on the run, and takeaway teas and coffees from the same Kingsgate delicatessen where they now stood together as Waters made another call to DI Thomas Greene.
He was told to wait on the line while Freeman was consulted, and Waters wondered what she would do – she could call them back into the office for an update before anyone went home or she could accept the report he had just given to Greene. If she wanted to underline the commitment needed for the new squad she might take the former route but Waters doubted whether it was necessary – he hadn’t seen a team of detectives work harder than they had this afternoon.
When Greene came back onto the line, he said, ‘You’re all done for the day, no need to report in but there’s a briefing at eight thirty tomorrow. Anything else as useful as the two Turkish boys?’
No, Waters said, nothing as potentially significant but plenty of material that needed sifting through – and he realised too, in that moment, that Freeman had kept Greene fully informed, just as she had instructed them all to do. Waters asked about the post mortem, and was told it was to be on Wednesday morning, but Freeman had conducted a search of the man’s pockets before the body went into controlled storage – they had found his military ID card. Greene said, ‘It’s damaged and blood-stained but we’ve got his full name from it. Corporal Michael Wortley, Royal Anglian Regiment. I’ve arranged a meeting in Bury for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon but I don’t know who’s going yet. Anything else you need?’
Greene’s manner was level and calm, and it wasn’t like talking to a new line manager; thinking about the files and paperwork in the morning meeting, Waters began to see why Greene had caught Freeman’s attention wherever and whenever it was they had met. If he was what he appeared to be, the DCI could take a more active role in investigations than most senior officers.
Waters said, ‘No, but I’m calling in to the office tonight, I’ll be there in half an hour, sir.’
The “Sir” was experimental. Greene didn’t react at all, other than to say he’d be gone by then himself as he needed to make an early start to prepare for the eight thirty briefing. The conversation was coming to an uncertain end, and then Greene closed it down with, ‘Anyway, a good first day. Pass on my appreciation to the rest.’
It was a quarter to seven when Waters climbed the stairs to the second floor and went towards the new offices. The lights were on and he expected to find more people there than he did – Serena Butler was sitting at one of the workstations but she was alone. Waters wondered idly whether Mike Dunn had risked paying her a visit today.
She said, ‘Hello, boss. Had a nice day shopping? It’s been hell in here, I can tell you.’
Waters had learned to ignore Serena’s opening remarks long ago. He looked around the room and hardly recognised it. Three new tables had arrived and these had been lined up against the longest wall, the one opposite the doorway. Papers and files were already grouped together on them in neatly arranged piles. The mobile intelligent whiteboard looked familiar and Serena confirmed that Freeman had ‘borrowed’ it from the main CID office downstairs until their own arrived – this, she added happily, hadn’t gone down well at all. There were three new monitors and three new keyboards to match, all already connected to the central database, where, Serena told him, they had their secure space for material that could not be accessed by other teams without going through Detective Inspector Greene.
Waters didn’t try to hide his surprise, and Serena said, ‘Remember that DC could be a little bit, er, fussy when it came to detail? Well, this is a whole new ballgame. He had me locating blueprints – I mean actual architect’s blueprints – for the Kingsgate shopping centre this afternoon. It took me two hours on the phone. In the end, I found them in bloody Cardiff! They’re
making scale copies and sending them by special despatch overnight.’
Waters had walked across to the tables and was examining the files. Most were empty but they were already labelled – proper printed adhesive labels: Initial Witness Statements; Autopsy Results – Michael Wortley, 12/09/19; Attending Officers’ Statements; CCTV Kingsgate and Surrounding Area.
He said, ‘Why the blueprints?’
‘CCTV. When Wilson started phoning in with where they’d found the next lot of cameras, the DI said that as someone who didn’t know the area, he’d be completely lost without a map showing them, and so, he said, would a jury. So he wants every camera marked and numbered on the proper blueprint so we can demonstrate the level of coverage.’
Day one and Greene is thinking about the jury. Or was it Freeman, telling the DI what to do? This was meticulous all right and Greene was obviously highly experienced but is it a little bit previous, as Smith might have wondered? We’ve not had a single official briefing on the case yet, not formally interviewed a single individual who might be a person of interest, not properly, here in the station. We don’t know for certain how the man died until the autopsy is done – all we have is his name. And his rank and serial number, someone added in, for good measure.
Waters said, ‘You’re here late. What are you working on?’
‘I’m not, off duty an hour and a half ago. I did a bit on a list of the homeless organisations in Lake in case we need to follow him up that way. There’s more than you think. I reckon we’ve got one support organisation for every two homeless people. I’m only still here because I’m playing squash at eight. Sold your flat, yet?’
‘I doubt it. It’s been on the market for two days.’
Serena stood up and stretched, dropping her mobile into her bag. Then she began the usual search for her car keys. While that was taking place, she said, ‘You’re putting it on at the wrong time of year. My sister works for an estate agent. She says the market’s tanked, it’s over-supplied.’
On Eden Street Page 6
