by Roger Keevil
“Be that as it may, if they've got some results already, let's go and find out what they are. And no dreadful jokes about the lady's name when we get there, sergeant, or there will be trouble.”
Copper adopted his most innocent expression. “Me crack bad jokes, guv? As if.” He started the car.
Under the harsh glare of neon lights in the windowless laboratory, several individuals were poring over computer screens and peering into microscopes as the detectives pushed open the door at the foot of the basement stairs. In the glass-walled office to one side of the door, a competent-looking woman in her forties, wearing heavy-rimmed glasses and a white lab-coat, rose from behind a desk and advanced to meet them.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” A glance at her watch. “Make that afternoon. If there's one thing we need to have around here, it's accuracy. I take it you're Sergeant Copper.”
“That's me, ma'am. And this is my guv'nor, D.I. Constable.”
“Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector.” The woman held out her hand.
Constable smiled as he shook it. “And I assume you're Dr. Sicke.”
“For my sins, yes,” smiled the woman in reply. “It's the cross I bear. So shall we make it easy on ourselves by saying that all the jokes have already been made a thousand times, but if you can come up with a new one, fire away.”
Constable turned to his junior. “Copper … anything?”
“Not a dickybird, sir.”
“Excellent,” responded the woman. “I can see that we shall be friends. And since my friends all call me Fran, short for Francesca, why don't you do the same?”
“In which case, please call me Andy.”
“Short for Andrew?”
“Short for nothing in particular,” said Constable hastily. “And sometimes I soften into calling this young lout David, but you'd better stick to 'sergeant' for him, or else he'll be getting ideas above his station.”
“But as we're in the basement, guv, ...” remarked Copper with a grin. And at a look from his superior, “I'll just shut up, shall I?”
“Ignoring the mutterings of the lower ranks, Fran,” said Constable, “I gather you have some information for us.”
“Some,” agreed Fran. “But I shouldn't get too excited at this stage – it's early days. But you may as well come and take a look.”
“And all this whatever-it-is came from the premises of the 'Palais de Glace'?” asked Constable, as he followed the scientist to a bench at one side of the lab.
“Yes,” said Fran. “The bins, mostly. Amazingly fruitful source of forensic material, bins. People seem to think that throwing something away is the same as obliterating its existence. Fortunately for us, they couldn't be more wrong. So, here's our haul.” She indicated a group of items encased in clear plastic evidence bags.
“And what exactly do we have?”
“There's a knife.” Fran held up a bag containing what looked like a sturdy all-purpose kitchen knife with a steel blade and a wooden handle.
“Which, considering we seem to have a stabbing on our hands, is a very good start.” Constable looked more closely. “Those look like initials stamped on the blade. Am I right? Looks like 'something … L'. Is that first letter a G or an O? Copper, what do you think?”
Copper peered at the knife. “Difficult to tell, sir. Could be either. It's not easy to see with all that muck on the knife.” He looked enquiringly at Fran. “Where did it come from?”
“It was in the waste food bin in the wash-up area of the restaurant kitchen.”
“Any chance that it could be the murder weapon?”
“That,” said Fran, “is going to be very difficult to tell. Not knowing the nature of the wound, I couldn't express an opinion. And with all the food residues on it, we are going to find it extremely challenging to isolate any possible DNA traces from the victim, even if there are any.”
“Fine.” Andy Constable grimaced. “So far, so bad. What else?”
“A pair of rubber gloves.” The yellow household gloves were held up in turn for inspection.
“And these were where?”
“Discarded behind one of the dustbins in the rear yard.”
“Could have been used by the murderer to hold the knife to avoid fingerprints, sir,” theorised Dave Copper. “And then chucked in the bin on the way out afterwards – except that someone didn't have a very good aim, and missed.”
“Not impossible,” agreed Constable. “Except that surely the dimmest criminal knows these days that the fingerprint is not everything, and we'll get much better identification from the DNA which is bound to be found on the inside of the gloves.”
“I can see you've done this kind of thing before, Andy,” said Fran with a smile. “And you're absolutely right. As long, of course, as they haven't been worn by more than one person. That will complicate your job, no doubt. We'll be getting on to that as quickly as we can. And if there's any relevance, we'll know soon enough.”
“That's rather better news. So, moving right along, what's exhibit C?”
A large plastic-encased sheet of paper was produced.
“I recognise that, guv,” said Copper.
“As do I, sergeant,” said Constable. “The top sheet of the blotter pad from Angelique Delaroche's desk. Complete with bloodstain.”
“Quite,” said Fran, “but it's not quite as simple as that. Yes, it looks like a bloodstain, except that there's something not quite right about it.” She frowned. “Can't tell you exactly what at the moment, but something. Anyway, there's probably nothing to stop us confirming that it's the victim's blood, once we've had a chance to do an analysis. Not that there's any reason to suppose it isn't, I assume. But it's another thing I'm going to have to let you know.”
“Okay.” Constable sighed gustily. “Any better news on the next one?”
“That's rather more straightforward, you'll be pleased to hear,” replied Fran. She handed across the next bag. “And in apparently pristine condition too, apart from the fact that it's been neatly torn in half, which may make matters less perplexing.”
The plastic bag contained a cheque, evidently drawn on the business account for the 'Palais de Glace' at the Sydney Street branch of Barcloyds Bank, just across the road from the restaurant. The cheque was signed, a bold flowing signature clearly legible as 'Angelique Delaroche', and the amount inserted in both words and figures was 'One Thousand Pounds', ostensibly in the same handwriting. Just one detail remained blank – the name of the payee.
“And this was discovered where?” asked Constable.
“In the waste-paper basket underneath the owner's desk in the office, I'm told.”
“Dated yesterday, guv,” observed Copper. “But not made out to anyone. And then chucked away unused. Why would that be, I wonder?”
“Could be any one of several reasons,” surmised Constable. “Change of mind as to whether the payment ought to be made or not, or maybe the amount was wrong and Miss Delaroche didn't want to make a mess by altering this one, so she wrote a substitute.” He looked enquiringly at Fran. “Do we have the chequebook?”
“Not here, I'm afraid,” answered Fran. “I assume my people saw no reason to take it.”
“Pity,” said the inspector. “Because it would tell us if she did make out a replacement, or if this was the last cheque she wrote. In which case, it might be significant. I'd love to know who it was intended for.”
“We could take another look in the office next time we're at the restaurant, guv,” suggested Copper. “You'd think she'd keep the chequebook handy around the office somewhere, so it shouldn't be too hard to find. Unless something funny's going on, that is. Because if there is a replacement cheque, surely the payee's name will be on that.”
“Excellent point, sergeant. We'll do exactly that. And I for one have a little idea whose name it might be. But for now, we'll carry on with what we have here. And it looks as if we're coming to the end of the trail.”
“We are, Andy,” said Fran. “J
ust one thing left. And I'm afraid I've saved the worst until last.” She proffered a bag which held a quantity of tiny square scraps of cream paper.
“And what on earth is that?” asked Constable.
“That,” explained the scientist, “represents the contents of the shredder bin in the victim's office. The good news is that, as far as we can tell, it is the product of a single sheet of paper. A business letter, to judge from the colour and quality of the stationery. But the bad news is that, unfortunately, Miss Delaroche had invested in an extremely efficient cross-cut shredder, so instead of a series of strips of paper which any two-year-old could reconstruct in about five minutes, we have a delightfully complicated mosaic job on our hands. It's likely to take quite a while to reconstitute.”
“But are we sure it's relevant?” asked Copper. “It might have nothing to do with the murder.”
“You're absolutely right, sergeant,” agreed Fran. “We have no way of knowing. But I prefer to proceed on the assumption that anything inexplicable found within three feet of a murder victim may have something to do with that murder, so we shall simply have to grit our teeth and check it out. I'll put one of the team on to it straight away.”
“Do you have provision for extra staff overtime in exceptionally urgent cases?” enquired Constable with a smile.
“All requests required in triplicate, countersigned by the Police and Crime Commissioner,” responded Fran in similar fashion. “Don't worry, Andy – we shan't be dragging our heels. I'll let you know the minute I have something.”
“Then we'd better get out of your way,” said Constable. “Come on, sergeant – let's let these people do their job.”
“And I expect we shall be seeing more of each other in future,” said Fran, shaking the inspector's hand in farewell. “As long as you can keep providing us with interesting items to analyse. I shall look forward to it.” There was no mistaking the warmth in her words.
“Er … yes … me too.” As Andy Constable turned to leave the laboratory, Copper was sure he could detect a faint reddening at the back of the inspector's neck. He decided that it would probably be wisest to refrain from comment.
“Well, that's that.” Outside, Constable's words were brisk and purposeful.
“I reckon you're right, guv,” said the sergeant. “I don't know there's a lot more we can do at the moment. We've had a word with everyone we can get hold of so far, and forensics and the body shop aren't going to come up with anything soon. Looks like we're stymied.”
Constable drew a long deep breath and came to a conclusion. “Right. Drop me back at my car at the restaurant. You and I are going to take the rest of the weekend off, and come back to the whole thing, refreshed and reinvigorated, first thing on Monday morning.”
“You're convinced of this, are you, guv?” grinned Copper, climbing into the car.
“Absolutely. And the first thing I'm going to do when I get home is get out of this suit, into some scruffy jeans and a pair of sturdy boots, and head back out to the country for a long walk. Clear my head.”
“Never had you down as a country boy, guv.”
“Maybe I've acquired a taste for it.”
“More badgers, then, is it?”
“Not at this time of day. But maybe the odd pint of Badger's Ale. Don't just sit there doing nothing – drive.”
*
On Monday morning, Andy Constable was faintly surprised to find that Dave Copper had beaten him to the office.
“What's this, then, sergeant? Unusually eager, aren't we?”
“Woke up early, sir. Couldn't get back to sleep, what with all sorts of things charging round in my head about this Angelique Delaroche business, so I thought I might as well come in. Just as well I did – there's a fistful of messages.”
“Do tell.”
“For a start, they want to get the post-mortem under way, but for some reason they want you to take a look at the victim first. Soon as you can, is the request. Oh, and it's not the normal doctor either. Apparently he's still off fielding his daughter who's having an attack of the hysterical habdabs at being away from home for the first time at university, so they've drafted in his old predecessor as a stand-in. Dr. Mortice, they said.”
“What, old 'Rigor' Mortice?” laughed the inspector. “Oh good lord! You're in for a treat, sergeant. I don't think you ever met him, did you?”
“No, sir. He must have gone by the time I came here. I only know our usual chap. What's the matter with this Doctor Mortice?”
“Oh, merely the fact that he takes the existence of every corpse as a personal affront to his professional dignity,” explained Constable. “Not exactly what you'd call the caring approach to his clients. As you will discover. We'll get over there now. What else was there?”
“Your new friend at the forensics lab called, guv.” There was a hint of a smile on Copper's face.
“I'm assuming you are referring to Dr. Sicke, sergeant,” enquired the inspector with a touch of ice in his tone.
“Er … that's right, sir. She just wanted to let you know that they're making some progress, and she hopes to let you have some more details later this morning. Oh, and there was a call from Mrs. Eagle, and would you ring her back at her office.”
“I'll do that when we've found out what the score is with the late Miss Delaroche. Anything else?”
“Miss Peel has been on. She says her editor wants her to cover the story for the local rag as she was more or less on the spot, and she wonders if there's any chance of an interview.”
“Journalists!” tutted Constable. “They can't even wait until the body is cold. I've got much better things to do at the moment than talk to the press. She can go to the bottom of the pile. Is that the lot?”
“Just one other thing, guv. I took it upon myself to get in touch with the cleaner from the restaurant, as she was the one person we haven't had a chance to talk to yet, and she's going to come in to the restaurant this morning. I hope that's okay.”
“Very resourceful, sergeant,” said Constable. “She can be number 2 on the list. In the meantime, let's get over to the mortuary and see what's exercising Rigor.”
Dr. Mortice inhabited a world of brilliant white lighting, gleaming stainless steel, and the sharp glint of a fearsome array of surgical instruments, all to a gentle background music of steadily trickling water. As the detectives, swathed in the obligatory white overalls and footwear which the department rules dictated, entered the laboratory, the doctor greeted Andy Constable with a loud bark of recognition.
“Constable! There you are! Heard you were in charge of this case. Last time I saw you, you were a rather diffident sergeant who kept apologising for the number of corpses you were always turning up for me to sort out. I see nothing's changed now they've promoted you to inspector. And now you're here, we can actually get on. Not before time!”
“The promotion or the examination, doctor?” enquired Constable, exchanging a quiet smile with Copper.
“Bit of both,” replied Mortice. “Right, come and take a look at this woman who's been stupid enough to get herself murdered. At least she's reasonably fresh – if there's one thing I could never stand, it's cold cases where I had to delve around in human mush.”
“It's very good of you to stand in like this, doctor.”
“Oh, needs must when duty calls, laddie,” boomed the doctor. “And I don't suppose it's a bad thing to do the odd p-m from time to time – keeps my hand in!” He chortled at the remark as he snapped on a pair of thin blue latex gloves. “She's over here.” Portly but brisk in his movements, and with a shock of white hair and a bushy moustache which lent him a unsettling resemblance to Albert Einstein, he turned and headed for the bench in the centre of the room where the outline of a sheet-draped body lay.
“I understand you wanted me to take a look at the body before you made a start, doctor,” said Constable. “Any special reason?”
“Course there is,” responded Mortice. “No point in wasting your time or
mine otherwise. I could have had her spread around the room in bits by now if I hadn't been cooling my heels waiting for you to turn up. You know the score – No. 1 scalpel at the ready, a nice big Y-incision, and then it's in with my little circular saw and away we go.” Dave Copper, in the background, began to look faintly nauseous. “Don't worry – the reason I haven't made a start yet was that I wanted you to have a look at this.” He drew back the sheet, to reveal the features of the corpse.
Constable stood looking at the face for a moment. “So that's Angelique Delaroche.”
“That's right, sir,” confirmed Copper quietly.
“I never saw her,” explained Constable to the doctor. “She was long gone before I arrived on the scene.”
“So I gathered,” said Mortice. “Which is why I wanted you to see this.” He pulled the sheet lower, exposing the stab wound in the centre of the chest. “Initial visual examination indicates a single blow which has disrupted one or other of the vital organs – can't confirm exactly which until I get a closer look.”
“I'm still not sure why you needed me to see this, doctor. I've already been told she was stabbed. What else is there to know?”
“Nature of the wound, dear boy,” replied the doctor. “Not just your ordinary knife-blade. Thicker, and it looks to have had a slightly odd shape. Can't be more precise at the moment. But I thought you ought to take a look, because as soon as I start making incisions, all that lot will be gone. We'll have photographs, of course, but it's never the same.”
“Excuse me, doc,” piped up Copper from the background. “I was just wondering – have you cleaned her up at all?”
The doctor frowned. “What an extraordinary question. Of course we haven't. Why on earth do you ask?”
“Oh … it's just that ...” stammered Copper, intimidated.
“Go on, sergeant,” said Constable. “If you've got a question, ask it. As the doctor will tell you from my own dealings with him in the past, it's the only way to learn.”
