An Urgent Murder

by Alex Winchester

  21

  Monday 6th June 2011

  Displayed on the screen in pin sharp colour and perfect focus, was the picture of a road with a few entrances on either side but mainly greenery in the form of trees, bushes and hedges. A small square semi-transparent panel in the top right hand corner superimposed onto the film showed the operation name; ‘Heartstring’ the date, 3rd May 2011 and rolling time including seconds and a compass point which was indicating east. The picture panned slowly round 180 degrees to view the road to the west, which was similar to the first view. Noticeable by their absence was the lack of visible buildings. Zooming in and turning to the north, the picture was directed at one specific entrance that had a long and large laurel hedge to the right side of it running parallel to the footpath and a large privet type bush to the other. All those watching had visited the scene of the murder at least once and knew roughly the layout of the premises and the surrounding area. Whichever photographer had taken the film kept it running at all times as he moved about zooming in at some things and out at others.

  The opening grew larger on the screen until it could be clearly visible as a reasonably maintained tarmacadam driveway that ran northward at a right angle from the road for over a hundred yards to a bungalow situated on the right hand side of it. To the left of the driveway, as the pictures showed, was an overgrown beck with a continual trickle of running water in the bottom which seemed to disappear under the privet bush and the roadway beyond. Large bushes, some bearing flowers and fruits were next to the stream providing a border between the bungalow of George and Chaplin’s house and grounds. This formed one boundary of the property. On the right of the drive was a large garden with various bushes and trees scattered about in the extensive and orderly well-kept lawn, which was in its turn bounded on the east side by a large conifer hedge reaching in places to at least twenty feet high. Two-thirds of the way towards the rear of the plot sat the large and beautifully maintained three bedroomed bungalow with a substantial sized conservatory overlooking the front garden. A garage was attached to the rear of the premises which then led into more manicured lawns unfolding northwards. An ornamental pond stretched from the end of the driveway on the west side boundary to the large conifers on the other, and behind it at the northern most curtilage of the property was another large hedge comprising of closely planted evergreen flowering trees interspersed with colourfully leaved trees and climbing plants which assured that the property was not overlooked at all.

  The bungalow may only just have been visible to a pedestrian on the pavement (had there ever been any) if they had stopped at the driveway entrance, and walked in a few yards.

  Prodow said to no one in particular, “That is one bloody big pond.”

  John retorted, “And not a fish to be seen in it.”

  Slowly the picture moved on showing the complete perimeter of the house, its outside lighting, and burglar alarm box and a well concealed wooden shed at the rear of the garage to the east of the bungalow with the door propped open. Clearly displayed within were various garden implements arranged on racks, some resting against the walls, a couple of white plastic folding garden chairs and table and an old wooden chest of drawers at the opposite end to the door. Standing on the floor just inside the shed nearly out of sight to the casual observer was a small jam-jar about a quarter full of a clear liquid.

  The image lingered on the jar a while and then moved back to the closed door of the garage which as if by magic swung up and into the roof space to reveal no vehicle but about ten racks around the walls filled with full bottles of wine. Both Prodow and Whiles had spent a little time in the garage when they were there, not because it afforded any clue about the murder, but because they both loved good wines and there were plenty in the racks to look at. In front of the garage was a smoothly compacted gravel compound surface leading to the driveway and the camera moved down to show a tyre mark a few inches onto the grass next to the gravel.

  Moving on to the closed front door, the camera disclosed that at some time it been painted over and as a result had become stuck and no longer used. A hand had appeared in the picture trying to open it as if to prove the point to any viewers before moving around to the kitchen door which had been left open for the cameraman to enter.

  Inside the kitchen was a table with a ring binder on it open at the first page showing a headed nursing agency form displaying George Armstrong’s details and medical condition.

  Jimmy happily said, “That’s an exhibit now governor” and then realised that everyone knew that anyway.

  Everything seemed to look alright in the kitchen, utensils were where one would expect them to be, a neat pile of papers were on a work surface with a paper pad and pen next to them and a couple of cups and saucers in the washing up bowl in the sink. Jimmy was happy; he had seized and exhibited all the items filmed. Prodow was starting to believe he had seized everything in the house.

  The cameraman left the kitchen via a glazed door, and started down the hallway entering the first room on the right which was a bathroom that had been converted into a large shower room in order that it could be entered by someone in a wheelchair going straight into a specially adapted shower cubicle. Nothing out of place, towels on their rails, and even the flannels in the washbasin were folded.

  Further along the corridor and next was the wheelchair adapted toilet and then the corridor doglegged to the right into a bedroom, which was simply decorated and contained a single made up bed, a dressing table and a built in wardrobe. A simple neat and tidy room. Alison noted the curtains were from Laura Ashley, exactly the same as were in the bedroom she used when she visited her parents.

  Back into the corridor and into the next bedroom, which was the furthest from the kitchen, and the biggest bedroom in the bungalow and the one that George Armstrong utilised. There was a double bed which seemed higher than most beds, a freestanding wardrobe and a built in wardrobe which contained expensive looking clothes all tidily arranged on hangers. Two chests of drawers containing more clothing all perfectly folded and arranged and a dressing table with relevant grooming accessories all aligned on the top. Next to the head of the bed attached to the wall was a panic button for the alarm.

  Alison saw again curtains similar to the ones in her parents’ house and said, “He bought his curtains at Laura Ashley.”

  No one else seemed to care about where the curtains came from.

  Moving into the third bedroom, the image showed another single made up bed and built in wardrobe and dressing table. Then it was back into the hall and towards the kitchen.

  Prodow said, “Stop a second” and the video image froze immediately. “Where is his dirty washing?”

  Jimmy said, “In the bathroom was a laundry basket behind the door that the camera has missed. He did have some in it, all folded.”

  Prodow said, “It would have been” to the slight amusement of Jimmy. “Keep going” and the film re-started promptly, passing the front door and the cupboard housing the alarm control box and digital keypad and back into the kitchen through the glazed door.

  It turned immediately right into the dining room as all those present drew unintentionally closer towards the screen. Alongside the wall on the right as the camera entered was a beautiful French oak wall unit with glazed displays showing crystal glasses in all their glory and against the opposite wall a matching oak sideboard at least seven feet long with crystal ornaments and an antique clock on a Swiss lace runner on the top of it. In the middle of the room was an English oak table covered in a matching lace tablecloth supporting crystal candelabra and surrounded by six carved English oak chairs. Alison was enchanted with the room and mesmerised by its style. It was closest to her dream idea of what a dining room should be. Then the picture moved towards the door next to the sideboard leading to the lounge and conservatory from the dining room.

  22

  Monday 6th June 2011

  Vilf had hidden the gun in the engine compartment of his stolen car. From prev
ious experience, he had noted that when the Police stopped cars they tended to search the inside and the boot. He had never seen them look under the bonnet. They probably did infrequently, but he’d never seen them do so. If they stopped him, he knew the car had been expertly cloned and would pass a basic PNC (Police National Computer) check, even without a displayed tax disc. His new clothes, courtesy of Harrods, although not paid for, portrayed him as reasonably prosperous and consequently in his mind, affluent and respectably middle class.

  From his extensive knowledge of the Police, he believed they would have completely forgotten about him within a fortnight of his illegal departure from Ford. He knew that they would have checked his old haunts and acquaintances within a few days, and having drawn a blank would have given up as other matters became imperative and needed prosecuting. The stolen identification was not so good, and would be a last resort as a diligent check would reveal its probity. Vilf could talk for England, and was of the opinion that he could talk his way around any Policeman asking for ID. Hence, he was confident it was highly unlikely he would be identified having being ‘on the run’ for the best part of five weeks.

  Parking in the Earl of March car park in Lavant, Vilf strode into the restaurant section of the pub as though he were a regular. Waiting at the sign, ‘Please wait here to be seated’ he picked through the few old papers that were still in the rack selecting the Chichester Post. A tall thin lady with a strong foreign accent wearing a tight black trouser suit and an excessively large dark blue apron which went around her twice rushed to meet him.

  “For how many?”

  Vilf replied, “Just one at the moment. I might be joined by my friend John Whiles if he can get here. Do you know him?”

  The woman was still learning her English and Vilf had confused her by not saying a set number. She had been told by the landlady if she had any problems, to call her.

  “Wait here” and she practically ran off to fetch the landlady who was serving behind the bar.

  After what seemed like an eternity to Vilf but was only five minutes, the woman and the landlady approached him.

  “I’m so sorry for the delay. Can I help you?”

  “I was just saying I might be joined by a friend, John Whiles, and asked if she knew him.”

  “It’s not a name I am familiar with. Do you want a table for two?”

  “Yes. Just in case he can make it.”

  Vilf was escorted by the landlady with the foreigner in tow clutching a tri folding menu to a table, and after ordering a drink and a main course by pointing at the relevant items from the list of options, he settled down to read the paper.

  He believed he had plenty of time. A contact in London had told him that Whiles had left the Met and was working somewhere in West Sussex. There were a large number of pubs in the county and he knew Whiles liked real ale and deemed their paths would cross eventually. Vilf had planned to eat all his main meals in them during the evenings and visit others during the day. Most served coffee and tea as well as alcohol, so he didn’t worry about drinking and driving. He couldn’t afford to be involved in an accident. His Mother’s reliance on alcohol had never rubbed off on him, nor had her other vices for that matter. Someone would know John Whiles and when they did, he would wait for him. For some illogical and unspecified reason, he automatically assumed that he would be told the truth immediately when somebody knew him. His plan had already fallen at the first fence!

  The landlady watched Vilf from time to time via a mirror that allowed her to see part of the restaurant while she was serving behind the bar. She had deliberately placed him at a table that she could monitor. Whenever she checked, Vilf was either eating or reading the paper as though without a care in the world. Something was worrying her and she couldn’t immediately put her finger on it. He looked presentable, and he was polite and other than confusing her new Polish ‘greeter’ had not caused any problem.

  Vilf was so engrossed in reading the paper, he didn’t see the landlady hand the bar duties temporarily to her deputy and go to the phone. She was no longer than two minutes, punching a number into the keypad from memory and leaving a voicemail message. The paper was carrying the details of George Armstrong’s murder which Vilf found fascinating. Who would want to kill a ninety-one year old guy who apparently was about to ‘pop his clogs’ anyway? In his life, Vilf had met some very weird and dangerous people with some exceptionally bizarre ideas, but he couldn’t think of one who would consciously set out to kill a defenceless cripple who would probably be dead within the year. Even the thought of a mentally deranged nurse seemed unlikely to him.

  It was practically the same thought that John had had from his first day on the enquiry and it was in his mind now as he was watching the video.

  23

  Monday 6th June 2011

  It was a large well-decorated room. The far end of which was opened up as a conservatory overlooking the front garden. Two large picture windows faced the drive, and a large decorative Portland stone fireplace was inset into the opposite wall. Each side of which had three flat polished stone surfaces: lowest of which was largest, decreasing in size with height like a set of steps. A couple of matching book cases were against the wall separating the lounge from the dining room and were mainly filled with books in height determined order. Two neat piles of postcards from people around the world rested on the same shelf as various assorted unopened bottles of spirits.

  There was a large three-piece suite in the room which really looked quite lost in the endless space available, and within the conservatory, practically in the centre next to the wall of glass were two cane chairs either side of a matching table accommodating a carved wooden chess set resting upon it. George’s electric wheelchair was parked in a corner well out of the way.

  Next to the fireplace towards the conservatory end was a small table, which housed a telephone sitting on top of a ‘Lifeline’ box and an angle poise table lamp that was arranged to illuminate a ‘riser/recliner’ chair that was currently raised to its highest point. At the other side of the fireplace was a large old fashioned Sony cathode ray television on a moveable handmade wooden stand. On most of the flat stones of the fireplace were several ornaments and the small ‘lifeline’ button on its cord which should have been around George’s neck. Nearest the phone table, a paper pad was on top of a neat pile of four paperback books alongside a wallet.

  “All that expensive gear and not a penny in the wallet” said Jimmy.

  The film having panned around the room, slowly sank lower. Lying face down on the floor in front of the fireplace as though having been thrown out of the raised chair was a body dressed in an immaculate suit. The body’s right arm was raised above its head and the hand appeared to be reaching for a small diary about two inches from its grasp. Nearer the chair and furthest from the grasping hand was a pencil that was broken and splintered. The camera hovered above the diary which had one word written on an otherwise blank, dated page, ‘Pois’ and a squiggle which tailed off to nothing.

  The picture faded sluggishly to black and Paul turned the video off. “That’s the end.”

  Prodow said, “The photographer did a good job with that. Would you send him a note thanking him from me?”

  “Be done first thing in the morning.”

  “Before you all disappear, has anyone got anything they want to say or ask?”

  John, after about 5 seconds realising no one was going to speak said, “I have been right through the exhibit books and checked the charge sheet of Munroe and briefly checked the bungalow and there are some items missing.”

  Everyone was focused on John as Prodow quizzically said, “Go on?”

  “He was really neat and tidy, he had two piles of postcards from people on holiday all over the world, and he was a very popular person. Postcards do not usually have the sender’s address on but letters normally do. Why are there no letters anywhere: if he keeps postcards why not letters? And why is there no address book?”

 
Silence.

  After what seemed like an age to Alison who was amazed that John could come up with this when everyone else had missed it, Prodow said, “What do you understand by their absence?”

  “Easy really: whoever poisoned him probably thought that their name might be in his address book or on a letter, and we may have come across their identity as we trawled through them. So, to prevent that occurring, they stole them.”

  Prodow spoke quietly, slowly and softly and chose his words carefully, “What you are saying then, if I understand you correctly, is that you do not believe Munroe did it?”

  “That sir is correct.”

  Groves could contain himself no longer, speaking without thinking, “Jesus, are you stupid or what, it is irrelevant about letters and address books, Munroe must have taken them trying to cover her tracks.”

  Prodow did not want Groves in this conversation, “Mr Groves, I think you are not understanding the relevance of these facts. Munroe is probably the one person who would have no reason to steal these items. She is recorded at the Nursing Agency every time she attends Armstrong, and her details are in the binder that were in the kitchen and her time sheets were also in the binder which are signed by Armstrong in order that she be paid. If someone other than Munroe did it, by removing these items, they may believe we would not trace them. As I think about it, I don’t know anyone over about the age of 12, except the proverbial hermit, who does not keep some kind of address book. I think we need a further search of the bungalow, and a further search of Munroe’s home address. John, what else should we be looking for?”

  Prodow was correct in assuming there was more to come.

  “Having seen the way that this man lived and how organised he was,”