The Razor Gang Murder

by Simon McCleave

  Lucy smirked, opened the door and beckoned Ruth to go into Laboratory 4. ‘We’ll see. It’s not our job to stand in the way of progress or modernisation.’

  Ruth sneered at her. ‘Lucy?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Ruth said with a forced laugh.

  On the other side of the large laboratory was Martin Hill. He gestured for them to come over. ‘Ladies. Twice in two days,’ he said as he handed them a mask each.

  Putting on her mask, Ruth remembered that she didn’t like them – they made her feel claustrophobic. ‘We got your message. Something interesting.’

  Hill rubbed his chin and said, ‘Well, there’s good news and bad news.’

  ‘Bad news first,’ Lucy said immediately.

  ‘There was no DNA match on the bones we recovered. That means the only way of getting any idea of date is to have them carbon dated,’ he explained.

  ‘How long does that take?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Could take a week, I’m afraid.’

  Ruth shrugged. It wasn’t as if the case was particularly time sensitive. ‘What’s the good news?’

  ‘Two bits of good news actually,’ Hill said as he turned, took a clear evidence bag from a nearby counter top and held it up. To Ruth it looked like a small locker key of some sort. ‘We found this under the hip bones. My guess is that it was in a trouser pocket. We’ve had a go at cleaning it up.’

  Lucy moved a step closer and peered at the key. ‘What is it exactly?’

  ‘I’ve asked around. I think it’s a car key,’ he explained.

  But it doesn’t remotely look like a car key, Ruth thought.

  ‘Really. Are you sure? It’s tiny,’ she said, hoping she didn’t sound rude.

  Hill nodded. ‘I asked one of the older sergeants earlier. He thought it looked like a car key from the 50s. Apparently they were much smaller. There was a serial number on it, but it’s been rusted away. However, if you turn it around you can see this symbol on the other side.’

  Ruth looked carefully. There was an image of wings cut into the metal. ‘Any idea what car make that is?’

  Hill shook his head. ‘Sorry. No one seems to know.’ He grabbed another small evidence bag. ‘We also found this signet ring as well.’ He held it up. ‘We cleaned it up but there’s nothing engraved on it. I was hoping for some initials or something.’

  Ruth looked a little closer. The ring was gold with a black rectangle in the middle. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Onyx. Very fashionable in rings of that type in the 50s.’

  Ruth nodded – the two bits of evidence meant they could start to narrow down when the murder had been committed.

  RUTH AND LUCY PARKED up outside Marson’s, the scruffy old garage at the far end of Peckham High Street which had been there for decades. Getting out of the car, Ruth put on her sunglasses and puffed out her cheeks. It was unbearably hot and the air was thick with heat and oil fumes from the garage.

  Lucy looked at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Shall we just go and drink cider in the park?’

  Ruth snorted. ‘If only.’

  A man in his 40s, shaved head, in grease-stained overalls came out of a Portakabin wiping his hands with a cloth. ‘Can I help, ladies?’

  Ruth pushed her sunglasses up, pulled out her warrant card and showed it to him. ‘We’re from Peckham CID. Wonder if you can help us?’

  The man chortled and put his hands up. ‘Whatever it is, darling, I didn’t do it. Honest.’

  Lucy rolled her eyes at Ruth and then showed the man the key inside the evidence bag. ‘Wonder if you can help us and have a look at this key?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, love,’ the man said as he studied it.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell us about it?’ Ruth asked.

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s old. Could be forties ... actually, more like the 50s.’

  Lucy turned the key to show him the sign. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s the old Chrysler sign. Before they changed it,’ the man explained.

  Lucy looked at Ruth and pulled a face. Neither of them were particularly well-informed about cars.

  ‘And when you say Chrysler, what type of car is that?’ Ruth asked.

  The man gave a condescending laugh. ‘A big, bloody American car. Like you see in the films. V8 engine, great big wings at the back.’

  ‘We’re trying to track down the owner of the car that matches that key,’ Lucy explained.

  ‘You looking around this area?’ the man asked.

  Lucy nodded. ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘You won’t have much problem finding out who owned it then,’ he said.

  Ruth frowned. ‘Why’s that then?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Hardly anyone had a car in Peckham in the 1950s. If you had a car, it meant you had money. And if you were driving around in a bloody Chrysler, then everyone would know who you are. There were probably only a handful in London. You’re looking for someone who used to be a right flash bastard with a decent amount of dough.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ruth said. ‘That’s very helpful.’

  ‘This bloke still alive is he? The fella who owns that key?’

  Ruth put her sunglasses back on. ‘We’re not sure yet.’

  CHAPTER 4

  Opening the file in front of her, Ruth looked at the HM Land Registry file that had been sent over that morning. It was a record of who had owned Dixon’s Timber Yard and if there had been any change of use. The first record of the property that Ruth could find was December 1863 where the word Warehouse had been handwritten to describe the building. In 1903, the premises had been bought and expanded by the London Milk Supply Company, who developed the site as a small bottling plant and creamery. Finally, in 1948, Mr Arnold Dixon had purchased the site and created Dixon’s Timber Yard.

  Scribbling down notes, Ruth wondered if Arnold Dixon was still alive. It was likely that the site had been Dixon’s Timber Yard when the body had been buried there. Even though it was nearly fifty years ago, she wondered if Arnold Dixon remembered anything. If they could identify the remains they might get a clearer idea of when the murder had taken place and, possibly, why.

  Noticing that Gaughran was heading her way, Ruth prepared herself for an inane comment or insult.

  Here we go, she thought.

  As he reached her desk, she noticed the large sweat patches developing on his blue shirt. Lovely.

  Ruth gave him a forced smile. ‘How can I help, Tim?’

  ‘The guv told me you’d found a car key with those remains that dates back to the 50s,’ he said.

  Ruth gave him a suspicious frown. It was rare for Gaughran to say anything that didn’t involve a dig or an infantile double entendre. ‘Erm, yes. The key belongs to a Chrysler, which would have been pretty rare round here back then.’

  Gaughran nodded. ‘Yeah, it would. My old man was on the beat in Peckham in the 50s. Do you want me to mention it to him? You never know.’

  Ruth looked at him. ‘What’s the catch?’

  Gaughran shrugged. ‘There is no catch. He took early retirement and does a bit of security work. But he loves talking about the old days. He might remember something.’

  Ruth was curious. ‘That would be helpful, Tim. But you haven’t made a stupid homophobic joke or been sarcastic yet?’

  ‘I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.’

  Ruth snorted. ‘Bloody hell. How long is that going to last?’

  ‘No idea,’ Gaughran said. ‘Let me know if you want the old man to come in though.’

  ‘Will do,’ Ruth said.

  What the hell just happened?

  Sitting back for a second, she sipped her coffee and stretched her back. The office was baking hot and she could feel sweat on her top lip. The fan that was spinning on a nearby table just seemed to blow hot air around the office. She needed to get outside hoping there would be some kind of breeze. She spotted Lucy striding purposefully into CID holding a fax, and hoped
she had something that would get them out of the building.

  Lucy waved the fax at her as she arrived at Ruth’s desk. ‘Bingo.’

  Ruth gave her a quizzical look. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Spoke to the DVLA in Cardiff,’ Lucy said as she handed her the fax to look at. ‘This is the only Chrysler registered in South East London in the 50s. It was bought by a Charlie Wise in 1954, and the registered address at that time was in Marmont Road.’

  ‘Brilliant. Let’s go.’ Ruth got up from her chair and grabbed her jacket. Marmont Road was less than ten minutes away.

  NUMBER 81 MARMONT ROAD was in the middle of a long row of small terraced houses that were in relatively good condition. As Lucy got out of the car, she felt a warm breeze against her face mixed with Ruth’s cigarette smoke. A hundred yards opposite the houses in Marmont Road was one of Peckham’s dilapidated housing estates. Built in the 1970s, it was five floors high with concrete stairwells. The litter-strewn grass area at the front had a large black patch where there had clearly been a fire, and two abandoned wheel-less cars that were now resting on bricks. The loud bass of some music vibrated from high up and filled the air.

  Ruth spotted Lucy looking over at the estate. ‘Remember when we found that weed factory on the fifth floor?’

  Lucy pulled a face. ‘It stank. I don’t know how the neighbours put up with it.’

  ‘Free weed,’ Ruth said sardonically.

  ‘Is that ragga or reggae?’ Lucy asked.

  Ruth shook her head with a smile. ‘Oh my god, you are so white.’

  Lucy laughed. She had got used to being patronised by Ruth for being unfashionable and uncool. ‘And you’re not?’

  Lucy approached number 81, which had a smart new door, and knocked.

  They waited for a minute before Lucy knocked again. They weren’t counting on Charlie Wise, or a relative of his, still living in the same house forty years later, but it might give them a lead. Otherwise, they were going to have to track down every Charlie Wise in London and find out if he once owned a Chrysler. Of course, there was also a strong possibility that the bones they had found in Dixon’s Timber Yard belonged to Charlie Wise – why else would he have the car key in his pocket?

  Moving over to a ground floor window, Lucy cupped her hands to look inside. The sunlight was too bright on the glass and all she could make out were the shapes of furniture.

  ‘Anything?’ Ruth asked.

  Lucy shook her head. ‘Nope.’

  Now Ruth tried knocking on the door, but louder.

  The noise had clearly alerted the next door neighbour to their presence. A tall Afro-Caribbean woman in her 60s came out of her front door and looked over at them with a smile. ‘They’ve gone to work, dear. Won’t be back until six.’

  Lucy got out her warrant card and showed it to her. ‘Can you tell me who lives in this property?’

  ‘Fiona and Patrick,’ the woman said. ‘Houston. Young couple.’

  ‘Have they lived here long?’ Lucy asked.

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, no. Couple of years, that’s all. Do you want me to pass them a message?’

  Lucy shook her head. ‘No, thank you. Can I ask how long you’ve lived here, Mrs ...?’

  ‘Jenkins.’ The woman thought for a moment and gave a little laugh. ‘I’ve lived here for forty three years now.’

  Lucy moved a few steps closer so they didn’t have to speak in raised voices. ‘I wonder if you can help us then. We’re trying to track down a Charlie Wise who used to live at this property.’

  Mrs Jenkins’ face lit up at the name and she shook her head. ‘Charlie, Charlie. Long time ago. But yes, Charlie lived here. Lovely Charlie.’

  Ruth looked over. ‘Could you tell us when he moved out?’

  Mrs Jenkins shrugged. ‘Maybe it was thirty years ago? 1970s? Something like that.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you kept in touch, did you? Or do you know where he went?’ Lucy asked hopefully.

  ‘Yeah, he comes back here every once in a while. Does a lot for the local community. Of course, I don’t call him Charlie anymore. He doesn’t like that.’ Mrs Jenkins put on her best upper class accent. ‘It’s Sir Charles ... That boy done good. I saw him on the television last week.’

  Sir Charles Wise?

  Lucy frowned at Ruth. She knew the name from somewhere.

  Ruth’s eyes widened. ‘Sir Charles Wise. Bloody hell.’

  Mrs Jenkins went back to her front door with a beaming smile. ‘You won’t have a problem finding him. Someone told me he’s got a big house that overlooks Wimbledon Common now. Ten bedrooms, swimming pool. He got the lot and good luck to him.’ She went inside and closed the door.

  Going over to Ruth, Lucy was still none the wiser. ‘Why do I know the name Sir Charles Wise?’

  ‘Multi-millionaire businessman. Made his money in retail. Owned all those department stores for a while.’

  Lucy nodded slowly as the penny dropped. ‘He did that programme about young entrepreneurs on the telly?’

  ‘Exactly ... I wasn’t expecting that.’

  Lucy turned towards the car. ‘Neither was I. Looks like we’re going to Wimbledon.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Turning right along West Side, Ruth gazed over at Wimbledon Common which was full of people walking dogs, picnicking or playing games in the sunshine. An aeroplane flew low overhead as it descended west towards Heathrow. It seemed to glide effortlessly above the clouds, with a graceful ease that contradicted its size and speed. She wondered where it had been, and imagined an exotic location such as Barbados or the Maldives. It’s where she assumed the residents of SW19 went for their summer breaks.

  Glancing left, she saw a series of large mansions that were set back behind fences and neatly trimmed hedges. Gravel driveways were populated with expensive 4x4s or gleaming sports cars.

  They were less than ten miles away from Peckham, but it might as well have been a thousand miles. It was a different world.

  ‘Wonder what it costs to live around here?’ Lucy asked no one in particular.

  ‘Millions.’

  ‘So, The Wombles were loaded were they?’ she said with a laugh. She was referring to the BBC children’s television series set on Wimbledon Common.

  ‘I guess they must have been.’

  ‘And tree hugging environmentalists long before anyone else.’

  Ruth frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘The Wombles roamed undetected across Wimbledon Common picking up litter out of the goodness of their own hearts,’ Lucy said, and then made the peace sign. ‘They were eco-warriors before their time, man.’

  Ruth laughed. ‘Fair point. But you are aware they’re not real, aren’t you, Luce? There aren’t actually furry little animals roaming around litter picking just over there.’

  Lucy shook her head ironically. ‘That’s it Ruth. Shatter all my childhood memories, why don’t you? You’re such a bitch ... My favourite Womble was Tobermory.’

  ‘Oh no. Uncle Bulgaria was mine.’

  Lucy pulled a face. ‘Really? Uncle Bulgaria? I thought there was always something creepy about him. You know, like he was a kiddy fiddler or something.’

  Ruth rolled her eyes. ‘Did you actually just say the phrase ‘kiddy fiddler’? You’re a police officer.’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘Okay. I thought that Uncle Bulgaria might have been a paedophile. Is that better?’

  Ruth sighed. ‘Really not.’

  Slowing down, she spotted the address that Brooks had been given by the Wimbledon police and pulled onto a large gravel drive. Parked to one side was a dark blue Bentley and a black Range Rover.

  Ruth and Lucy got out of the car and gazed up at the enormous house that had recently been painted and repointed. There were white shutters at every window, and the brickwork was shrouded in orderly swathes of dark ivy. As Ruth reached the imposing front door, she saw there was an entry phone. She supposed that if you lived in a house like this, you wouldn’t answer the door to just anyone.<
br />
  Pressing the buzzer, she immediately heard the deep sound of a barking dog from inside.

  Bloody hell, that made me jump!

  Lucy, who was holding a case folder, looked at her and pulled a face. ‘It sounds friendly.’

  ‘And very big.’

  ‘Hello?’ said a man’s voice from the entry phone. His accent was distinctly London.

  ‘Hi there. It’s DC Hunter and DC Henry from Peckham CID. We’re looking for a Mr Charlie or Charles Wise?’ Ruth said.

  ‘Yeah, hold on a sec. I’ll just get rid of the dog,’ he said in a friendly tone.

  A few seconds later, the door opened and a man looked out at them and frowned. He was in his early 60s, handsome, slim, with silver swept-back hair. His face was tanned, teeth white, and he wore a pressed pink Ralph Lauren shirt, jeans, and a gold Rolex and bracelet.

  ‘Peckham, eh? Bloody hell,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘How can I help?’

  Ruth showed her warrant card and said, ‘We’re looking for a Charlie or a Charles Wise?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s me. You’d better come in,’ Charlie responded with a cheeky grin. He gestured for them to come inside. ‘Do I need my brief?’

  Ruth looked over at Lucy and frowned.

  ‘I’m only joking. Come through and I’ll put the kettle on,’ he said in a confident, warm tone.

  The house was refreshingly cool inside. It was fashionably decorated with antique furniture and large oil paintings on every wall. They came to a vast kitchen and dining area that had floor to ceiling windows which led out to an immaculate garden.

  Wow. This is nice, Ruth thought with a slight touch of envy.

  Charlie gestured for them to sit at the large oak dining table. ‘Have a seat. Coffee or tea? Although you’ll have to bear with me as my better half is out and she usually does all that stuff.’

  Lucy smiled at him. ‘We’re fine actually, Mr Wise.’

  ‘It’s Charlie. Well, it’s Charlie if you’re south of the river. People north of the river call me Sir Charles, but you know what they’re like,’ he said with a knowing laugh as he came over and sat down opposite them. ‘Sure I can’t get you anything?’