Rock'n'Roll Suicide (Jack Lockwood Mystery Series Book 1)

by Geoffrey West

  Chapter 14

  DEATH IN MOUSEHOLE

  How had she died? The last I’d heard, Miranda Prowse had moved to London with Clive Semple, her married boyfriend. I hadn’t seen her for over a year, so why on earth were the police contacting me?

  “I’m sorry Mr Lockwood. This is obviously a shock for you.”

  “Yes.” I remembered the holiday Ken and had had in Mousehole, just after I’d left St Michael’s. I’d been in love with Miranda, but she’d never turned up for our date on my last night. And I’d never forgotten her.

  “I’m sure you’re a busy man sir,” Willow continued. “But do you have time to talk to me?”

  “Of course, how about now?”

  “I’m staying at the Wheatsheaf in Canterbury. Can you meet me in the bar?”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  The Wheatsheaf was a historic old inn on the outskirts of town. The bar was one of those gloomy rooms dominated by dark wood and leather upholstery, where daylight fights for survival. There was only one other person there, a short, balding man of around 40, wearing a dark suit and reading a newspaper. As I entered he looked up and smiled.

  “Mr Lockwood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  When we were settled at a corner table, he showed me his warrant card, and I stirred my black coffee.

  “Miranda dead, I can’t believe it. What happened?” I asked.

  “Firstly, sir, can I just confirm in what capacity you knew Miranda Prowse?”

  “Just over a year ago my friend and I had a fishing holiday in Mousehole, and we chartered the fishing boat owned and captained by Miranda’s brother, Nikki Prowse. The three of us got on well, Nikki joined us socially in the evenings, and that’s when I met his sister.”

  “Did you have a relationship with her?”

  “Not a physical relationship, no.”

  “Let’s be clear on this. You’re saying you didn’t have sex with her?”

  “Is that any of your business?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Then the answer is no. I went out with her, I think, four times in all.”

  “So it was just a brief holiday romance that led nowhere?”

  “No it wasn’t, not at all. At least not on my part…”

  “Go on.”

  “I really was smitten by Miranda. Maybe that’s why I didn’t try to push things for some casual sexual encounter, because I wanted more than that. But I lived here and she lived at the other end of the country. I’d specially arranged to meet her on our last night in Cornwall. I was hoping I could persuade her to see me regularly – maybe I could travel down at weekends or something, so we could get to know each other better, with a view to something long term. At least that’s what I wanted: a proper relationship with her. But on that last evening, she never turned up. I went round to see Nikki, and he told me that the family were furious with her, because Clive Semple, the married man she’d been threatening to run away with, had disappeared too, and she’d left a note explaining what she’d done. She wasn’t answering her phone, so we assumed she was too embarrassed to talk to her family, because they didn’t like Clive, Nikki had almost got into a fight with him. I was upset, broken up emotionally, but what could I do about it? She’d decided she wanted him and not me.”

  Willow nodded. “That’s more or less what Nicholas Prowse told us.”

  “Please, Mr Willow, what happened to her? How did she die? And why are the police involved?”

  “She was murdered, and I’m part of the investigative team. We’re following up all the people who knew her at that time.”

  “At that time? But you said she’s been murdered. I assumed this happened recently. Presumably in London – that’s where they said Clive Semple took her to.”

  “She didn’t die in London. It appears that she never went there, as you and the Prowse family assumed. We traced Clive Semple, and it turns out he went away on his own after she’d told him she wanted to end their affair because she’d met someone else. His marriage was over in all but name and he’d been asking her to run away with him. So when Miranda dropped him, he said he couldn’t face his old life and took the opportunity to make a clean break from his wife – apparently she was just as glad to be rid of him. Mr Semple found himself digs at an address in Penge, South London and got a job nearby. We’ve checked it all out. I’m planning to talk to him on my way back home.”

  “She never left Cornwall?”

  “No sir. Her body was found by builders who were excavating the front drive of a house on the outskirts of Penzance. They were digging for foundations for an extension, had to go down a couple of feet and that’s where her body was found. The previous house owner confirmed he’d had the drive built just over a year ago, in fact the same August in 2007 that you knew her – that’s why I’m here. You were amongst the last people she spoke to in her final days. Forensics confirm that the timescale corresponds with the state of the corpse. We’ve interviewed the previous homeowner, but it appears he had the drive constructed while he was on holiday in Spain, so he’s been cleared of any involvement. The builders are still being questioned, but by all accounts they’re not involved.”

  “And that’s why she never turned up for our date.” I said angrily. “All along I knew, I knew that she wasn’t the kind of girl just to abandon me without a word! I could accept that she’d gone off with another man, but I thought I knew her well enough to at least tell me, or even leave me a note to me, not just to Nikki.”

  “Precisely, sir.” He took a sip of his beer. “I’m sorry to land this on you, it’s obviously been a shock.”

  “Too right.” I stirred my coffee. “I used to be a BIA. I know that 14 months is a long time lag, but can you tell me if you’ve got any live leads?”

  “I’m not allowed to give away information like that, sir, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “Of course.” I thought for a few moments. “God, it was August. The high season. The place was chock full of tourists. Where the hell do you start? I mean it could have been, literally, any bloody maniac.”

  “Not quite anyone, sir. We’ve already released the general details to the press, so there’s no harm in me filling you in on a few details. Her body was buried under hardcore – quite heavy concrete blocks and bricks and stones, and concealed so effectively that the builder didn’t even notice before he poured the concrete on top, to build the driveway. At least that’s his story and so far the facts seem to fit. That means the concealment was planned and arranged, and it would have involved considerable strength to remove so much of the hardcore and dig down below it, precluding, for instance, an average-size female, or a man who was weak or elderly. Nikki Prowse and his family were left a typewritten note, allegedly from her explaining why she was leaving, so it had to have been typed by someone who knew Miranda, who knew she’d been seeing Clive Semple, and that this would have been a believable reason for her leaving. As a matter of routine we’ve tried to match her murder with other unsolved killings in the surrounding area, with no success. But 14 months isn’t necessarily a long time between crimes for a serial killer. We’ve investigated all the usual avenues: partners, family members, friends, enemies, work colleagues and so on, and to all intents and purposes ruled them out. Although it hasn’t been possible to find out if she was sexually attacked, we’re working on the most likely assumption that her killer was not someone within her immediate social circle, but he knew something about her circumstances, and that it was probably a spur of the moment sexual attack that ended badly. The kind of person who did a crime like this is likely to do it again.”

  I took a deep breath and then a sip of coffee. “I wish I could help.”

  “Would you mind giving us a sample of your DNA, sir?”

  “Of course not. But you surely don’t think that I…”

  “We’re not ruling anything out sir. You understand that this is an ongoing enqui
ry, and we’re simply asking for your cooperation.”

  “An over-a-year-old corpse, buried under concrete. You might get DNA traces from her clothes, if she was wearing any. But as I told you, I did go out with her a few times. We kissed. For all I know I might have cut myself, bled on something she was wearing.”

  “Come on, that’s hardly likely, is it? Look, sir you were a BIA, I hope I don’t have to spell it out? The scenario we envisage is matching the DNA from semen stains found on her clothes. And since you say you didn’t have sex with her, that won’t be present, will it?” His voice had a hard edge, the friendly banter had gone.

  “My God, I’m a suspect, aren’t I? You think I killed her?”

  “We’ve done some checking up on you, Mr Lockwood. Shortly before your holiday in Cornwall you were being held in a psychiatric hospital. You’d only just been released.”

  “I had a breakdown.”

  “You were psychiatrically disturbed, I quote from the hospital records, you suffered from fears that you might have homicidal tendencies… That you had fantasies about being unable to stop killing people…”

  He told me he’d make arrangements for me to go to the local police station to have the DNA sample taken.

  “So, Mr Lockwood, for the record, can you tell me how well you knew Ms Prowse, and on what times and dates you met her?”

  I gave him chapter and verse from what I could remember. Aside from semen deposited inside a victim’s body by a rapist, I knew from experience that these men were often inadequate, sometimes even impotent males, who could only achieve orgasm by masturbation, an act they might typically perform on the clothes or the naked body of their dead victim. Indeed in some cases the killing might be done simply because the man was unable to achieve or maintain an erection, and his consequent fury is taken out on the woman, blaming her for their own inadequacy – ironically the scenario that DS Hollamby had suggested to me a few days ago. My guess was that Miranda’s killer must have performed this act of onanism, or else raped her and left semen on her clothes, never expecting her body to be discovered. If the police had a DNA profile from her garments, all they had to do was find someone to match it.

  As Willow had said, the outside possibility that I might have spat on, or bled on, an item of the clothes Miranda was wearing when she’d been murdered was probably one in a million, also forensic science could distinguish semen stains from blood or other bodily fluids. To arrest me, they’d need some kind of evidence of my guilt, and if they’d had that, Willow would have arrested me there and then.

  I was scared and upset. When I got home I rang Ken and told him what had happened. He explained that the police had come and taken a DNA sample from him too, and similarly asked him about his movements. He reassured me there was nothing to worry about, that they were just covering every angle. We speculated about who might have done such a terrible thing to that lovely girl.

  * * * *

  After going to the police station and giving a sample of my DNA, I was taken into an interview room. Not long afterwards there was a knock on the door. DS Hollamby and another detective, a tall thin younger man called DC Ranger, came in.

  It was similar to last time, when they’d picked me up and it had been Jane sitting beside Hollamby. Like a rerun of the past I was looking at two police officers who were questioning me.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the night of Friday, 21st November,” Hollamby began.

  What was this about? I looked from one to the other of them.

  “I was in London. With Shelly Hart.”

  “We know that from your previous statement, Mr Lockwood. I’d like you to go through what happened on that evening once again.”

  I took a deep breath and told them everything I’d told them before.

  “And what about almost a week later, Thursday the 27th?”

  “From eight in the evening onwards I have two friends who’ve testified that I was in Whitstable. As you know.”

  “Dr Lockwood, is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  He stared at me.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “As you know, we’re liaising with DS Willow, from Penzance CID, the officer you talked to this morning. A woman’s body has been found, they estimate that she died in the August of 2007. Where were you during that month Dr Lockwood?”

  “On holiday.”

  “Where?”

  “Cornwall. Mousehole to be exact. And yes, I knew Miranda. We went out four times. I told Mr Willow all the details.”

  “And she was murdered.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a coincidence? You’re a man who used to be a BIA, you’re disillusioned with the police, you had a serious mental breakdown following a blunder you made on a case, then you were in a psychiatric institution for several months.”

  “That’s all true.”

  “Is it also true that it was straight after that you went on holiday to Cornwall, and subsequently became emotionally involved with Miranda Prowse?”

  “Yes.”

  “And at around that time she was murdered.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He leaned back in his chair, took out a pair of spectacles, put them on and picked up a file, and began looking at it.

  “Peter Janson. The man we charged with Shelly Hart’s murder. He’s been released without charge. He always claimed that he was in Birmingham at the time of her murder, but we thought he was lying because a witness claimed seeing a man answering his description near her flat at the time she was killed, the pair of them had a history, and forensics tied him to the murder scene. That’s why he was charged. But he always denied it, and two witnesses at the Birmingham club where he claims to have been that night have now come forward – they were away on holiday until yesterday. One of them is a woman who says he assaulted her. She reported the assault to the police, and it’s verified in their records. So you see? He has a cast-iron alibi.” He held up the file. “Now this is the postmortem results on Shelly Hart’s body. The time of death meant that you were originally cleared of any possibility of involvement because you were here, in Kent, when she died.”

  “Right.”

  “But things have changed. As you know, time of death is arrived at using the body’s rectal temperature at the time of discovery and calculating backwards, using the ambient temperature as a controlling factor. When we examined the body the room was heated to a comfortable 25 degrees. Since then, we’ve discovered that the central heating had only cut in half-an-hour before the body was discovered by Mrs Thomas, the cleaning lady. It appears that there was a fault with the central heating thermostat, meaning the heating wasn’t operative during that freezing cold night, when the bedroom window had been left open. During that period we estimate that the temperature in the room where we found her body probably dipped to below freezing. Mrs Thomas entered the flat that day and put on the heating just before she discovered Mrs Hart’s body. Forensics estimate that that means that the time of death could have been up to three hours earlier than we previously thought. Giving you enough time to have killed her in London, and come back to help your friends fix the car in Whitstable by 8pm.”

  “I see.”

  “Miranda Prowse was a woman you claimed to be in love with who was murdered. And Shelly Hart is another woman you had a relationship with, and she was subsequently murdered, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she was strangled not long after making love to you?”

  “Almost making love. We never actually did so.”

  “Don’t you think there’s a pattern emerging here?”

  “Look I can’t explain… I just don’t know…”

  There was a long pause while Hollamby stared at me unblinkingly.

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell us, Dr Lockwood?”

  “I don’t know what’s happening. I’m as confused as you are. But I swear I
had nothing to do with the deaths of either of those two women.”

  He didn’t answer, remaining impassive, continuing to stare at me.

  “And you’re sure there’s nothing you want to say to us?”

  “There’s nothing.”

  He pushed his face closer to mine. “I’ll tell you something Mr Lockwood. 21 years of experience in this job tells me that you’re connected with the deaths of Shelly Hart and the woman in Cornwall.”

  “I swear to you—”

  “—You swear all you like, Jack, but it’s not going to help you.”

  He leaned back in his seat. “By the way, do you know a woman called Melanie Gallica?”

  I closed my eyes.

  “I knew someone who called herself Melanie Deeprose, whom I believe is the same person. She claimed to have been a psychology student, who was studying Edward Van Meer, the man who almost killed me, and she wanted my help.”

  “And did you help her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that she died two days ago? She jumped off the roof of a department store in Dover. At first we understood she was alone, made her way up to the roof and tragically took her own life – apparently she has a history of depressive illness. But since then we’ve been talking to shoppers who were in the store that morning. One lady said that a man answering your description knocked her aside on the stairs, as he raced up them. She had the impression that he was chasing after someone.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “People in the store thought they heard gunfire. And we found a Ruger Blackhawk revolver abandoned on the roof. Powder residue on her fingers and prints on the weapon itself indicate that Melanie Gallica fired the gun shortly before she fell to her death.”

  “Did she?”

  “Do you want to tell me anything?”

  “No.”

  “Listen, Jack!” he leaned forward again. “The clock’s ticking. They’re gathering evidence on the Miranda Prowse case in Cornwall, and they’ve got your DNA for analysis. You’ve already admitted to being with Shelly Hart a matter of days before she was killed, and if you’re lying, and you did make love to her, your DNA is already in evidence on her body. Right now we can’t charge you because we haven’t got enough evidence for the CPS, but as soon as the DNA results come back I anticipate we will have. You’re an intelligent man, you must know the position you’re in is unsustainable. If you’re honest with us now, just tell us everything that happened, we can clear everything up right away and you can save yourself a lot of soul-searching and hassle. Because we’re on to you, Jack. You’ve got no chance of getting away. Why don’t you think about it? Talk to a solicitor, tell him all about it, and come back and see us? You were being treated for a psychiatric disorder before Miranda Prowse’s death. Perhaps you never recovered. A plea of diminished responsibility seems like a realistic possibility to me.”