Before she could reply he pulled out a chair with his foot and sat opposite her.
‘There’s been a development. Apparently DI Arnold is now in hospital with a suspected kidney stone. I was thinking of applying for a transfer but if Fatty Arbuckle isn’t returning any time soon, then maybe I could get promoted.’ He shrugged. ‘If not, then I’ll just have to sit it out until my bloody pension.’
Jane smiled. ‘You’ll have a long wait for your pension. You’re only thirty-eight. Besides which, if DI Arnold has been diagnosed correctly, he’ll be back at work in a few weeks.’
Spencer banged the last of an HP Sauce bottle onto his shepherd’s pie. ‘How old are you, then?’
Jane hesitated, finding it a rather uncomfortable question, but then replied, ‘I’m thirty, Spence.’
Spencer shoveled the food into his mouth, mashing the potatoes into the gravy and the HP Sauce with his fork.
‘Did I detect a hint of reservation there, about me being eligible for promotion?’
‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that, but you shouldn’t go on about DI Arnold. He’s a very good detective.’
‘Do me a fucking favor! I hadn’t seen you since we were transferred to this piddlin’ station, so I think you might have got the wrong information regarding my being demoted.’
Jane pushed her half-eaten ham salad to one side. ‘There’s always gossip, Spence; you just have to ignore it.’
He waved his knife in the air. ‘Let me give you the real facts. I admit I was well over the limit, but how many times have you or I been on an investigation when never mind the DI but the DCI has been fed peppermints because their breath stank of booze? So, I admit I had a few jars, but I had done a good gig with the guys in a well-known pub in Islington. I was in Serena’s dinky little pale blue sports car that her dad had given to her for her twenty-first and, as a big guy, I’m crunched up in the driving seat. Maybe I did jump the lights, but I get this traffic prick pulling me over. So I stop the car and he beckons me with his finger, telling me to get out of the car. Like I said, I’m a big guy and getting out took a while, and the next minute I’ve got this second bastard on me, who turns out to be a Black Rat,’ he added, referring to the common slang used by detectives for traffic police, because rats are known to eat their young.
Spencer threw his hands wide as he swung his legs around the canteen chair.
‘I was accused of taking a swing, and of avoiding arrest. The reality is they didn’t really give a shit about me being over the limit. It was all down to my abusive tone of voice and the fact that I had thrown a punch.’
Spencer straightened his chair and gesticulated again with both hands.
‘That’s the truth . . . and I get demoted for it.’
He began to eat his awful-looking green jello as Jane stirred her coffee. There was not a lot she could say. From the gossip she had heard it was not just one accidental swing, he had actually thrown a couple of punches.
‘What are you looking at me like that for?’
‘I’m not looking at you in any way, Spence. I just think the whole incident was unfortunate and you’ve paid a high price.’ Jane glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I should be getting back to work.’
She picked up her plate and took it over to the trolley left out for dirty crockery.
Five minutes later, as Jane was coming out of the ladies’ toilets, Spencer was heading down the stairs.
‘I suppose you know the gossip about you being transferred here from the Sweeney?’
‘I’m really not that interested in any gossip about me,’ she replied firmly.
‘Well, you should be. I wouldn’t like anyone saying I screwed up and as a result of that another officer was wounded.’
Jane stopped dead in her tracks. ‘What did you just say?’
Spencer grinned. ‘Just repeating the gossip I heard, about the Big Boys being on some armed robbery of a security van, and that it started to look like the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Word has it that you were unarmed and came face-to-face with one of the raiders, who took a shot at you with a revolver.’
Spencer was enjoying himself, despite the fact that Jane was seething.
‘I heard you froze, and another officer had to push you out of the way and he got shot in the shoulder.’
Jane had to take a deep breath and lean against the wall. She felt like bursting into tears, but instead she gritted her teeth and snapped at him, ‘Yes, I did freeze, and I admit I was unable to defend myself or anyone near me. But I was not to blame for what happened, even if DCI Murphy said that I was a contributory factor to one of his expert officers being shot.’ She felt herself sagging. ‘He gave me a warning and said that I would be disciplined and might even be demoted.’
Spencer suddenly looked guilty. He tapped a cigarette out from his soft pack and lit it. Even though Jane loathed the smell of tobacco she occasionally smoked when stressed. Her hand was shaking when she took the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘Murphy wanted to get rid of me from the very first day I joined the Sweeney. Well, he got what he wanted. I’ll never forget his sarcasm when he said that after my near-death experience, he felt the Flying Squad was not for me. He told me that if I agreed to a transfer, then his report wouldn’t be so harsh.’
Jane dragged on the cigarette again. She was feeling a little bit calmer but was still very emotional.
‘I had asked to have weapons training, not once but three times. Murphy ignored me. So then when I did come face-to-face . . . ’ Jane dropped the cigarette butt on the ground and stubbed it out with her shoe. ‘Well, there you have it. I did freeze, because I was terrified.’
Jane was taken aback when Spencer drew her into his arms and held her tightly, but it felt comforting.
‘Listen, Jane, don’t blame yourself. If I hear one more prat spreading any gossip about you, they’ll regret it.’ Spencer stepped back and gave her one of his trademark smiles. ‘You’d better pick up that butt and put it in the ashtray on the wall, or I’ll report you.’
Jane did as she was instructed while Spence headed into the office. She had never told anyone before and she was surprised to find how relieved she felt to have let it all out.
CHAPTER THREE
Spencer gave Jane a fresh croissant when he came into the office. It had been a week since their confrontation, and they had both made no further mention of what had occurred, but this seemed like some sort of peace offering. Spencer stood next to his desk and looked over to the still-empty one belonging to DI Arnold. Arnold had been released from hospital and they were expecting him to return shortly. Spence gave one of his long sighs as he shrugged his shoulders and sauntered over to Jane’s desk where she was finishing her croissant.
‘I just want something I can get my teeth into, a decent violent crime. When I think of some of the cases I’ve worked on in the past, and the adrenaline buzz they gave me, it just feels like I’ve now got a bloody tedious nine to five job.’
‘Be careful what you wish for, Spence.’
‘You can’t tell me you enjoy working day in and day out on these petty crimes.’
The reality was that Jane had also contemplated requesting a transfer. In the last week she had only been involved in one case, when she had been on nights, involving a club in Cromwell Road.
The club had been reported numerous times for breaching their alcohol licensing regulations by staying open long past their closing time and well into the early hours of the morning. They maintained that they were entitled to do this due to the fact that they were a private members-only club. The complaints had been made by a young woman who rented the flat above the club. When Jane had interviewed her in her flat, the smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke was overwhelming. The young woman said she could deal with the smell, but it was the deafening thud of the loud music from the live bands that she couldn’t cope with. Jane had taken a statement and promised that she would contact the council. It turned out that the complainant had been offered a
lternative accommodation by the club, and Jane suspected that she might be sitting tight in the hope of being offered financial compensation. The case had been transferred to the station’s licensing officer.
The switchboard put a call through to Spencer. He went back to his desk to take the call, introducing himself as Detective Sergeant Spencer Gibbs.
‘Could I just take your name?’ Spencer asked abruptly.
It was a Mrs. Nora Compton, whose address was in the exclusive Onslow Square.
‘If you could just explain the reason for your call.’ He listened as the anxious Mrs. Compton told him about her neighbor downstairs, in the basement flat.
‘Has something happened to your neighbor?’ Spencer asked curtly.
He rolled his eyes as he continued to listen.
‘I see . . . it’s your neighbor’s dog that you’re calling about? And it’s a long-haired dachshund?’
Mrs. Compton continued, saying that she had become worried because the dog had been barking all night and was still whining this morning. She said that she had gone down to the basement and knocked on the door, but her neighbor, Mr. Charles Foxley, had not answered. The dog had repeatedly scratched at the front door, clearly distressed.
Spencer rolled his eyes again at the tediousness of the call. He suggested to Mrs. Compton that perhaps Mr. Foxley had gone out the previous night and had just not returned home.
Mrs. Compton became very agitated as she explained that Mr. Foxley would always contact her if he intended to leave the dog all night. She said that he had two other dogs that were not at home, but they often slept in his car. He had a very strict regime and always walked them all at about eleven every night, then again at seven every morning.
‘Do you have a key to Mr. Foxley’s flat?’ Spencer asked.
Mrs. Compton replied that she did not, but he had always given her contact details if he was going to be away from home. Spencer thanked her for the call and said that he would arrange for someone to check on Mr. Foxley’s flat.
Replacing the receiver, he held his hands up in the air. ‘Bloody hell! A long-haired dachshund hasn’t been taken for his morning walk. What the fuck has that got to do with us? I’m telling you, the switchboard need a bollocking! Uniforms should be dealing with that.’
Only having heard Spencer’s side of the conversation, Jane suggested that, as it seemed out of the ordinary and the pet owner had a strict routine, perhaps they should at least send a uniform to check things out.
Spencer shrugged. ‘OK, I’ll go down to the duty sergeant and see if there are any uniforms in the area.’ He paused by the door. ‘Perhaps the dachshund is just pissed off the other two dogs have gone off in the car with the owner.’
As Spencer walked out, Jane went back to checking through the reports. DC Gary Dors, the two-fingered typist, made so many spelling errors in his reports that she was going to have to ask him to redo them. He was on night duty for another week and the other DC, Tony Johnson, was in court.
DCI Tyler had been closeted in his office since nine a.m. He was trying to contact the head of security at Harrods to organize a visit from a crime prevention officer as it was not his department. It felt ironic that petty crime seemed to be the priority at his station, even though this was the area where one of the most notorious crimes in England had taken place: the murder of Lord Lucan’s nanny and his Lordship’s subsequent disappearance. Lucan remained on the run, and there had been no sighting of him since the murder had been committed over ten years ago, well before Tyler had taken over the station.
Next, he put in a call to DI Arnold’s home and spoke to his wife, Bronwyn, asking for an update on her husband’s health. She thanked him profusely for his inquiry and his get-well card in her strong Welsh accent, and told him that Timothy had come through his kidney-stone surgery exceptionally well but was still in some discomfort. He was hoping to be able to return to work within a few days. Tyler asked her to pass on his best wishes, and was halfway to putting the phone down when Bronwyn asked if he could ensure that someone watered the plants in the window boxes at the station’s entrance.
‘Yes, of course, it’s all in hand,’ Tyler assured her, having no idea whose job it was to look after the plants. He would ask one of the typists to water them. He checked his watch, deciding it was too early to take a lunch break.
*
PC John Lee, the uniformed officer who’d been sent to investigate Mr. Foxley’s flat, had walked along Exhibition Road from the Natural History Museum, where there had been complaints about a rowdy school party waiting to go in. He turned left into Old Brompton Road, and fifteen minutes later arrived at Onslow Square.
The properties were all exclusive, a few remaining as single-family homes but the majority of them having been converted into elegant flats. As PC Lee descended the steps to the basement flat, the front door above him opened. A lady in her mid-fifties, wearing a tweed skirt and twin set and pearls, came out. She had a ruddy complexion and short, greying hair.
‘I’m Nora Compton. I called the police over an hour ago. Something is very wrong and even the dog has stopped barking now. The curtains are still closed. I’m certain something’s happened.’
PC Lee nodded and continued down to the basement. The front door was painted racing green with a brass lion’s head knocker and a brass letterplate. There was a small framed notice above it: No flyers or junk mail. Beside the front door was a large terracotta planter containing an array of well-tended plants and the patio was immaculately paved with York stone.
Lee rang the doorbell. Mrs. Compton leaned over the railings above him.
‘I’ve been down there ringing the doorbell since early this morning. I can assure you no one is there.’
Lee waited and rang the bell again. He could hear a scuffling sound and a whine, then a hoarse, pitiful bark.
‘That’s his dog,’ Mrs. Compton said. ‘He does have two others, but they’re not always in his flat. One’s a Jack Russell cross and the other is some kind of whippet. It’s quite vicious.’
Lee lifted the lion’s head knocker and banged it repeatedly. Inside the dog attempted to bark feebly.
Lee bent down, lifted the brass letterplate and peered in. He could see a rolled-up newspaper lying on the doormat, which had probably been delivered that morning. A little dog was staring at him and whining pitifully, and he noticed that the newspaper had been shredded at one end. More disturbingly the dog and the newspaper both seemed to be splattered with what looked like blood.
Lee stood and looked up at Mrs. Compton.
‘Do you have access to this flat?’
‘No, I do not – I made that clear to the detective I spoke to on the phone earlier.’
Lee climbed the stairs back to street level.
‘Is there a back entrance, or a garden area?’
‘Yes, Mr. Foxley has his own garden, but no other tenant can gain access to it.’
‘So, there’s no back door from the main property?’
‘I thought I just made that quite clear to you. Mr. Foxley is the only person who has access to the back garden, through his French doors.’
‘Have you noticed anything suspicious recently?’
‘No, I have not. The only reason I’ve been concerned is that the dog has been barking all night and morning, and Mr. Foxley is nowhere to be seen.’
Lee thanked her and walked down the road, hoping that Mrs. Compton would go back inside. He called in to the station and the switchboard transferred him to Jane.
*
Jane listened to his update and made notes, instructing Lee to remain at the property. She then went up to the canteen to find Spencer, who was sitting eating a sandwich.
‘You may just have got what you wished for, Spence. I just took a call from the PC who went over to the long-haired dachshund’s property.’
‘Don’t tell me – he was viciously attacked by the dog?’ Spencer said through a mouthful of sandwich.
‘No, he couldn’t
get into the flat, but when he looked through the letterbox the dog appeared to be covered in blood.’
Spencer’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re fucking kidding me.’
She shook her head. ‘I think you need to get over there, Spence.’
He stood up and walked briskly out of the canteen. Ten minutes later he was on his way to the flat in one of CID’s unmarked red Hillman Hunters, accompanied by DC Gary Dors.
Jane returned to her desk and continued checking through reports and statements until she got a call-out from a uniformed officer about a disturbance at the exclusive Mulberry handbag shop off the Brompton Road. A customer had attempted to run from the shop with a handbag and had inadvertently caused a taxi to swerve into an on-coming vehicle. Although no one was hurt, the taxi driver was furious, and the other vehicle had severe damage down the passenger side.
By the time Jane arrived at the scene, traffic police were already taking particulars and two members of staff had taken the woman back into the shop. She was extremely abusive and had tried to punch and kick her way out of the shop again. Jane tried to calm her down enough to take a statement. In the end she was more shocked by the price of the handbag than the fact that this middle-aged woman had risked getting herself seriously injured by running in front of the taxi. She took all the necessary particulars but the woman was not taken into custody because she agreed to pay for the handbag.
Well, at least I got a break from sitting at my desk looking through tedious reports, Jane reflected.
*
Gary Dors hurried up to her as she walked into the station.
‘Holy shit! You’ve missed the panic going on here. Just before you left, Spence walked into the most horrific murder scene over at Onslow Square.’
‘What? You’re joking.’
‘I’m bloody not. He called in for forensics, pathologists and a doctor.’
‘Is he still over there?’ Jane asked.
‘No, he’s up in the incident room, and more uniforms have been ordered to cordon off the murder site.’
Jane went into the incident room. Spencer was on the phone, his hair looking even untidier than usual.
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