Persecution

by R. C. Bridgestock

  After the morning briefing Charley’s thoughts moved from one thing to another, like a stone skipping across water. With Annie in the passenger seat, as they travelled together to Cordelia’s home, she instructed the young detective.

  ‘Remind me to check we’ve got the external and internal footage of the house ready to show at the next briefing,’ Charley said.

  ‘Already done!’ Annie looked pleased with herself.

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  The purpose of the house visit was to gather information from Cordelia’s home that would give them a pen-picture of her movements; hopefully enough to create a timeline for the last few days of her life. Some people kept diaries, others showed appointments on a calendar. The more technical used their mobile phones, laptops or tablets to record their activities.

  ‘Where do you think Cordelia would keep her diary?’

  ‘Probably in her head.’

  Charley turned to Annie and scowled. ‘That’s a bit negative…’

  Annie protested. ‘I’m not,’ she contradicted. ‘We’ve not exactly been overrun with people wanting to help us with the enquiry have we? Let’s face it, those that have come forward would have us believe that she sat outside the Medway begging every day.’

  ‘That’s true and maybe she did,’ agreed Charley ruefully.

  The SIO hoped that seeing how Cordelia lived would lead her to finding out how she had died. Was it plausible as was believed, that she had no relatives, and no one she called a friend? In Charley’s experience, everyone had someone.

  The detectives entered the house by the back door.

  Cordelia’s home was small, neat and well organised, providing all the comforts one could ask for. All was still and intensely quiet, so much so that Charley felt sure that if the proverbial pin were to drop, she would hear it. The SIO stood perfectly still for a moment or two in each room, and scanned her environment. This purposeful act enabled her to absorb the surroundings. Charley sniffed. There was a hint of lavender in the air, perhaps the essential oil had been added to the polish used to create the high shine on the rich mahogany wood of the furniture. Cordelia was, it appeared, house-proud.

  The next two hours were spent searching Cordelia’s personal property, some of the correspondence that the detectives came across was in the name of Cora Jones, however there were others in the name of Heidi Bodie, Candy Kane, Emily Delaney, Anna Harris. It appeared that Cordelia Le Beau had several aliases.

  Annie raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Why on earth would a beggar need so many different names?’

  ‘A person can use whatever name they wish, however, legal documents issued, such as drivers’ licences require proof, such as a birth certificate and may require a legal change of name if the alias is used,’ said Charley.

  ‘All of which appear to be missing, so as yet we don’t actually know for sure, the name she was given at birth?’

  ‘True, and it is important that we know what name she started life with.’

  Certificates, showed that Cordelia had obtained three A-levels at college, in the name of Cora Jones, but there was no sign that she had gone to university. There were many diplomas in business studies, all with distinctions. She was, it appeared, nobody’s fool.

  ‘Have you come across any bank, credit card or mobile phone statements?’ Charley asked, after not having discovered them herself.

  Annie shook her head. ‘No, but I guess she could have chosen to have them sent online?’ When she realised that Cordelia could have as many online accounts in as many names, if not more, her jaw dropped. ‘That’s going to cause the techies a pretty bad headache.’

  Charley looked about her. ‘You’re not kidding. Have you seen a computer?’

  Annie showed her her bottom lip. ‘Nope, I haven’t.’

  The SIO looked thoughtful. ‘I realise we have had to delay to get her car to HQ on a low loader before searching the car. Do you know if they found a mobile phone, or a purse in Cordelia’s car?’

  Annie pulled a face. ‘There’s no invoices or receipts here to help track her recent movements either.’

  ‘That’s buggered part of the financial investigation into her background which would’ve revealed to us her financial status then. Although if she owns this property, that’ll be a good source of intelligence.’

  Charley’s mobile phone rang. It was Wilkie updating her on the arrival at HQ garage of Cordelia’s car, and to inform her that internal and external examinations had begun.

  ‘Ask them to check for a mobile phone or a purse will you asap, and if anything of importance is found I want to know immediately. Make sure we have a photograph of the vehicle, which we can use in the future if necessary to revitalise the media interest. We might also use it to try to obtain information about possible sightings in the area. If there are any pay-and-display tickets in the vehicle have them bagged and tagged, the dates may tally with information, or give us information as to where she was on specific days. We don’t know what evidence will be significant in the future.

  ‘I’m satisfied about one thing,’ Charley said as she turned at the back door before opening it.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the younger woman.

  ‘This house is not a crime scene.’

  Everything had its place in the house, which told Charley that Cordelia was an organised person who perhaps enjoyed routine, and so with what appeared to be a lack of family, or friends, did this give them a clue as to why she was seen begging outside the Medway? Had begging become a way for social interaction without commitment because she was lonely?

  * * *

  At eight o’clock that evening the debrief began in the Incident Room, which was now up and running. The debrief was an opportunity to collate, share and discuss everything the team members had discovered so far during the initial stages of the investigation.

  The room was full, and the atmosphere expectant. Charley’s assumptions were right. The energy within was tangible. There was nothing like a murder enquiry to increase the adrenalin levels. Every officer present was aware that the next person they spoke to was the possible murderer. Everyone wanted to be that person who felt the murderer’s collar.

  Charley gave a brief résumé outlining what they knew.

  ‘Cordelia Le Beau had several aliases, all these will need to be checked out. She was, it is thought, thirty-four years of age when she was brutally murdered. We have not as yet found her birth certificate, or any type of formal identification. She lived alone in a terrace house at 4, Mill Lane, in a quiet area of Slaithwaite. The car she drove was a mini, which we have recovered in the town centre, and is being examined. It was parked up not far from where she was found. We haven’t come across any relatives or partners. We know from her neighbour that she had left her home the morning before her body was discovered.’

  After a brief pause to let people digest what she had told them, she continued.

  ‘We know her body was discovered by Dennis Mugglestone, a postman. We also know that at least two people were involved in the attack upon her. The owner of the Medway had seen her driving a car and suspected her deception. According to a witness, he also said that Cordelia was a whore, but there is nothing to suggest that as far as we can tell. He shared this information with his staff. Recently, he threatened her to move from outside his premises, and initially, for whatever reason, he failed to disclose this information to the officers who spoke to him. Therefore, it will be a priority for us to see Mr Marsh tomorrow morning, when perhaps he will explain why.

  ‘I want pictures of Mr Mugglestone, Mr Marsh and his staff available to us, so that the CCTV operators can identify them. We also need their shoe sizes, and hopefully the prints we are having developed, showing the pattern and size of the shoes worn by those that stamped on Cordelia, will be available for matching purposes soon.

  ‘Cordelia Le Beau’s house was clean, and tidy,’ Charley told them. ‘There was a distinct lack of photographs about the place, and nothing to s
uggest a partner; ready meals for one in the fridge and a lone toothbrush in the bathroom. However, we know that people can be very inventive when they want to hide things. The house is not a crime scene. I’m of the mind that the killer may not even know where she lived. The clothes she was wearing when she was found indicate that they were her work clothes, just like you and I have. Annie made a comment to me that she had never seen a tidier wardrobe, and let me tell you, there was nothing in that wardrobe that would be suitable for begging. I was thinking we would find old, worn, crumpled, warm clothing, scruffy items, including hats, scarves, gloves. Instead what we found were smart, designer numbers, including evening wear. So at the moment we need to keep an open mind as to the motive for this brutal killing.’

  Detective Constable Ricky-Lee told those present that along with CSI, he had searched her car. ‘The keys we already know have been found resting on the wheel of the driver’s side. Inside, we recovered a handbag, which contained her purse and a mobile phone. The phone was password protected. The purse contained two ten-pound notes. Apart from these two items there was nothing. Her car, like her home, is clean and tidy.’

  ‘Have you generated an enquiry about her mobile phone with her service provider?’ asked Charley.

  ‘I have,’ he said.

  ‘Any sign of a laptop in the car?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  Mike Blake was on his feet. ‘The known CCTV in the area has been collated, and where possible collected. There are a couple of call-backs to be done, and viewing will start in earnest early doors tomorrow by an identified team of four.’

  Charley consulted her notes. ‘Any update regarding the female caller, believed to be drunk, who called the Incident Room last night?’ she asked.

  ‘No, nothing yet.’

  ‘All the staff at the bakery appear to have seen Cordelia at some time or other, but like I said earlier, the boss didn’t tell us everything he knew, which is a mistake on his part if he thinks that we will stop there. You don’t lie to a murder enquiry. He must be naive, or stupid,’ added Charley. ‘Tomorrow is another day, so I’ll bid you goodnight. Thanks for your efforts today, and I’ll see you all bright and early in the morning.’

  Charley walked towards her office, and Mike followed. Before they left, they had to have a discussion with regard to their joint approach at the interview with Mr Rodney Marsh.

  ‘I think we should invite him into the station to interview him, don’t you?’ said Mike.

  Charley raised an eyebrow at her detective sergeant. ‘That all sounds innocent enough. However, we both know that we will have actually misrepresented the nature and purpose of the discussion to disarm him, and reduce his resistance.’ Her tone held a teasing note to which Mike reciprocated.

  ‘The soundproofed room with armless, straight-backed chairs, thereby removing any sensory stimulation and distractions. By physically and socially distancing him, we can begin to subtly exert pressure on him to talk.’

  ‘Soften him up using flattery, and build a rapport, ask benign questions and engage him in pleasant small talk, you’re good at that.’

  Mike almost laughed. ‘What’re you trying to say?’

  Charley smiled at her detective sergeant. Office banter showed her a happy team.

  Mike stood, closed his notebook with a snap, and prepared to leave. ‘And, if he is happy to mess us about, then I am more than happy to reciprocate,’ he said in a more professional manner.

  Charley raised her eyebrows as she looked up from her desk at her detective sergeant. ‘I have no doubt about that, and every confidence in you,’ she replied.

  Chapter 12

  Early the next morning, DS Mike Blake and DC Wilkie Connor approached the Medway Bakery, whose shop had been customised to serve coffee and tea to customers who wished to consume the food baked on the premises. The purpose of their visit was to invite the owner, Rodney Marsh, down to Peel Street Police Station to answer a few questions.

  There was an aroma of warm bread and baking floating in the air. Without a word, and moving with sharp, precise strides, Mike seized the door handle and pushed it wide enough to enter. Wilkie followed him over the threshold, sniffing the air appreciatively.

  Marjory Lettice, the buxom, apple-cheeked shop assistant, stood with her back to the detectives, busying herself behind the counter. The bell alerted her to their presence. ‘I’ll be with you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ she called out cheerily. When she turned, she appeared surprised to see two men in suits flash their warrant cards at her. Both had a look of concern on their faces at the disturbing guttural sound coming from the rear of the premises.

  Tilting her head to one side Marjory paused, listening carefully. After a few moments she narrowed her eyes at the men, then started chuckling. ‘Don’t look so worried. I don’t think he’s murdered anyone today, yet,’ she said with a chuckle.

  With a straight face Mike stared questioningly at her.

  ‘Ahhh… It’s Rodney. He says it eases his chest. I know this to be true, because my father and his sailor pals made much the same noise whilst hoisting a sail,’ she said, as she took them through to a passage where a sallow-looking Angelica D’Souza stood, forlorn, with her back to the wall like a scarecrow covered in flour, biting her lip. The air was hot and humid and filled with tension.

  The sweating Rodney Marsh was swearing and cursing as he removed a burnt batch of bread from the oven. Another man tipped trays of ruined delicacies into the bin. Mr Marsh’s face was like thunder.

  Marjory stopped at the door, turned and spoke over her shoulder in a hushed voice. ‘Although characteristically bakers are known to be misanthropic, morose and very unstable, so you never know…’

  When Marsh looked up momentarily from stretching the dough with the heel of his hand, he saw the detectives’ eyes upon him, but, rather than stop what he was doing, he continued to fold the dough, repeatedly rotating it through 90 degrees, aggressively patting and folding it in turn.

  It was apparent to the detectives that they would have to make a move if he were to engage with them. Taking their warrant cards out, they vocally introduced themselves, but still his focus remained on knocking back the dough and punching it down, as if it was his arch-enemy and not the person who had burnt the products. A few moments later, Marsh began to knead the dough gently. Wilkie took a step towards him. ‘My father was a baker, and he used to say that if a man kneaded dough whilst in a bad temper he put bad temper in the bread, and that bad temper goes into the person who eats it.’

  Folding the sides of the dough into the centre with the hand of someone who could clearly do it in his sleep, Rodney Marsh finally made eye contact with Wilkie. ‘I don’t know where you source your information, but it’s obviously not from the right place.’ Then he looked back down at the dough on the large wooden table. After a few moments he stopped to pat it and enlightened Wilkie Connor further. ‘For your information the more firmly the dough is kneaded, the better the bread.’

  Taking advantage of having caught Rodney’s attention Mike Blake interrupted. ‘We’d like you to accompany us to the station to answer a few questions.’

  Marsh stopped, and scowled at him. ‘You’re having a laugh? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘Perhaps if you’d been honest with us from the outset Mr Marsh, a visit to the station wouldn’t be necessary, but as it is we would like you to come with us,’ Mike Blake said firmly.

  Marsh set his lips momentarily. ‘What if I refuse?’

  ‘Then you’ll be arrested on suspicion of murder and taken to the cells, where you will wait until we are ready to interview you.’ Mike’s voice was harsh.

  ‘Much easier and quicker if you come along with us voluntarily,’ added Wilkie levelly.

  The baker was silent, reflecting that the request was not negotiable. He smacked his hands together, casting flour in all directions. ‘I’ll be having a word with your boss,’ he said angrily whilst he undid his apron. He threw it down on the
table, muttering under his breath something which they couldn’t make out.

  Mike moved impatiently. ‘That’s right y’will, because I know she wants a word with you too.’ The detective sergeant’s eyes found the coat hooks behind the door in the bake room. He looked at him sternly. ‘Come on, what are you waiting for? The sooner we get to the station to further matters, the better all round.’

  Hands plunged deep into his coat pockets, and eyebrows dragged downwards, Rodney Marsh followed the detectives out of the bakery, into the shop.

  ‘Keep an eye on things will you,’ he said to Marjory, jerking his head in the direction of Angelica. ‘Don’t let them fuck up the next batch. M’lad will be back from his rounds soon.’

  Sitting in the rear of the CID car, Rodney Marsh’s face resembled a death mask. At that moment, the young butcher’s boy, and the baker’s lad, hired to deliver their wares, both rode their bikes onto the pavement at precisely the same time. Marsh shouted to his son, ‘It’ll be okay,’ but all he could do was stare. Mike was struck by the stark contrast between the hardy, ruddy-cheeked butcher’s boy and the haggard, sallow baker’s boy, as he pulled away from the kerb and drove off.

  Twenty minutes later the three entered the dingy, windowless interview room; Wilkie Connor flipped a switch and the lights flickered into action. When Marsh was seated, Detective Inspector Charley Mann entered the room and had a few words with Wilkie, who then left, shutting the heavy door behind him. She appeared to be as pleased to be there as he was, when she slid into the chair opposite him, next to Mike. The SIO introduced herself, before getting straight to the point.

  ‘It concerns me that you think it’s okay to lie, and withhold information from us, on a murder investigation Mr Marsh.’ With eyes like steel, she held his gaze before continuing. ‘On top of that, I hear that you were also reluctant to come into the station today.’