Suddenly at Home

by Graham Ison

  Kate Ebdon is an attractive thirty-something flame-haired Australian who had left her native Port Douglas in Queensland at the age of seventeen. She frequently talks about her home on the coast of the Coral Sea, and unashamedly boasts that she enjoyed skinny-dipping there. Following a few false starts as a layout artist with an advertising agency and then a spell as a clerk in hospital administration, she had joined the Metropolitan Police.

  After two years’ street duty in Hoxton, she was selected for the CID and served in London’s East End. Proving herself to be a good thief-taker, she was rapidly promoted to detective sergeant and served for a few years on the prestigious Flying Squad. Somewhere along the way she’d found time to acquire a black belt in judo, and I once saw her put a six-foot villain on his back with about as much effort as she would’ve used to swat a fly.

  ‘Yes, have a word with him, Kate, and take Dave with you. See if Jones will open up. And I think you should interview him at the local nick so that you can record what he says.’

  ‘Shall I dust him with the frightening powder, guv?’ queried Dave, raising a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Or on the other hand take a statement under caution?’

  ‘Depends what he says, Dave. You know the rules. If he coughs, caution him and give me a ring and I’ll decide what to do next. Meanwhile, I’ll stay here and follow up on anything Linda finds, but I’ll probably be back at Belgravia by the time you’ve finished with Jones at Richmond nick.’

  A few moments later Dennis Jones, a worried frown on his white face, was escorted from the bedroom where he had been waiting and taken down to one of our cars.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been lucky enough to come across a firearm of any description, have you, Linda?’ It was a jocular question – the only occasion I’d found a firearm at the scene of a murder was when the killer had tried to make it look as though the victim had committed suicide and the weapon had been in plain view.

  ‘No such luck, Mr Brock.’ Linda Mitchell turned to face me, and afforded me one of her impish smiles as if to suggest that I’d just asked a stupid question.

  ‘When are you likely to be finished here?’

  ‘We’ll probably be here until midnight. And very likely again tomorrow, I should think. There’s a host of fingerprints that’ll take some time to process. There was no sign of forced entry, so I imagine that the killer was known to the victim and was admitted by him.’

  ‘Or maybe was here first.’

  ‘Provided he or she had a key,’ said Linda. ‘I’ll come and see you when I’ve got something to tell you, but I can’t promise a time.’

  ‘Of course. Whenever suits you.’ There was no point in attempting to rush Linda. She was a painstaking expert and I knew that if there was anything of evidential value to be found, she would find it. ‘In the meantime, Linda, I’ll have a word with the concierge.’

  According to Detective Constable Sheila Armitage, one of Kate’s house-to-house team, the Cockcroft Lodge concierge’s name was Mark Hodgson. She had spoken to him briefly during the course of the original canvass and had marked him up as worthy of further interview. Given that concierges are often a mine of information, I chose to speak to him myself, rather than let one of the team take a statement.

  The concierge’s lodge was in a strategically advantageous position near the main entrance to the estate and had windows on three sides. There was a rising ramp set into the road and a stand-alone card reader that allowed residents to gain access by inserting an authorization card. I was pleased to see that focused on the entrance there were CCTV cameras which I hoped might assist in our investigation.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?’ The concierge’s voice was firm and gave the impression that he was a man with whom it would be unwise to trifle. I guessed that he was not much older than forty; and his immaculate appearance, in a navy-blue uniform with crossed keys on the collar and a short, neat haircut, seemed to indicate a military background.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of the Murder Investigation Team.’ I showed the concierge my warrant card before he had a chance to ask for it. He was the sort of man who undoubtedly would want to see some identification before answering any of my questions.

  ‘Please take a seat, sir.’

  ‘My DC Armitage said that your name is Hodgson. Is that correct?’ I asked, as I seated myself in the chair in front of his desk.

  ‘That is so, sir. Mark Hodgson, late of the Royal Military Police,’ the concierge said, confirming my belief that he was an ex-soldier.

  ‘You obviously know that I’m investigating the murder of Richard Cooper, who lived in Apartment E.’

  ‘A strange man was Mr Cooper, sir.’

  ‘In what way strange?’

  ‘In the army he’d have been known as a loner. Very polite – couldn’t find fault on that account – but he never opened up, if you know what I mean. Now, many of the residents here,’ said Hodgson, waving a hand at the window as if to encompass all the inhabitants of Cockcroft Lodge with the gesture, ‘are usually very chatty. You get to know an awful lot just by listening. But Mr Cooper would just pass the time of day, and that’s all.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t have much to do with him, Mr Hodgson.’

  ‘Hardly anything, sir. A lot of the people here are at work all day, and if any deliveries or registered letters or the like come for them I take them in and they collect them when they get home. But Mr Cooper didn’t have anything to pick up. Mind you,’ Hodgson added thoughtfully, ‘he seemed to be at home most of the time during the day. Of course, that’s not unusual because a fair number of the residents work at home. You get security firms delivering data and that sort of thing. Mr Cooper would go out in the evenings quite a lot, but his car rarely left during the day.’

  ‘His car? Any idea where it is?’ None of the house-to-house team appeared to have picked up that Cooper had a car.

  ‘In the underground car park, sir.’ Hodgson’s expression implied that that was the obvious place to find a car. ‘D’you want to inspect it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a key?’

  ‘No, sir, Mr Cooper declined to leave one with me. It’s purely optional, but we ask the residents if they’d care to leave a key here, in the lodge, in case of fire or in case their car alarm goes off. Those alarms sometimes go off for no apparent reason. Mind you, quite a few of them that live here have refused to leave keys so Mr Cooper wasn’t the only one.’

  I rang Cooper’s apartment and got hold of DC Appleby, who was standing by in case any immediate evidence needed to be ‘bagged and tagged’.

  ‘It’s Brock, John. Have a look round and see if you can find a car key.’

  ‘There’s one on a hook in the kitchenette, sir.’

  ‘Good. Bring it down to the concierge’s lodge as quick as you can.’

  Five minutes later, a breathless Appleby appeared in the doorway and handed me the key to a BMW.

  ‘Before we go, Mr Hodgson,’ I said, ‘do you know if Mr Cooper was away for any length of time recently?’

  ‘Soon tell you, sir.’ The concierge turned to a desktop computer. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, moments later. ‘He drove his car out of the gate at ten forty-three hours on Wednesday the tenth of July and returned at twelve fifty-seven hours on Friday the twenty-sixth of July.’ He looked up. ‘That’s today, of course. That’s all the CCTV cameras tell me, but there’s nothing to say he didn’t go out on foot at other times. There’d be no record of that unless he happened to call in here, in which case I’d make a mental note, so to speak, but we don’t log the comings and goings of the residents, only their cars.’

  ‘What about CCTV cameras?’

  ‘Yes, pedestrians might be picked up coming and going. And there are cameras on each of the block entrances and in the lifts. I’ll arrange for the tapes to be ready for you whenever you need them, but we only keep them for two weeks, otherwise we’d be snowed under. I’m afraid that we won’t have anything before that.�
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  Hodgson looked into a back office to tell his deputy to take over the desk, then escorted Appleby and me to the underground garage. Once there, he led us straight to a black BMW Gran Turismo saloon. I surmised that Cooper wouldn’t have got much change out of forty grand for that little beauty.

  Donning a pair of latex gloves, I opened the driver’s door, but only to make sure that this was Cooper’s car, or at least the car for which Appleby had found a key.

  Locking the car again, I gave the key back to Appleby. ‘Ask Mrs Mitchell to get one of her people to examine this vehicle as a matter of urgency, John, if you please.’

  ‘Anything else I can help you with, sir?’ asked Hodgson, once we were back in his office.

  ‘Yes. Would you know if any non-residents who drove in here were visiting a specific resident?’

  Hodgson looked mildly affronted. ‘Absolutely, sir. They’re not allowed in until we’ve communicated with the resident in question and got his or her clearance. Then we log it,’ he added smugly.

  ‘Is it possible that you could tell me if Mr Cooper had any such visitors recently?’

  ‘Again I can only go back two weeks, sir,’ said Hodgson triumphantly. ‘I’ll print the details and give you a bell if you’d like to leave me your phone number. And I’ll have sorted out the relevant CCTV tapes by then.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘I’ll get one of my people to collect them. How long will it take, d’you think?’

  ‘About half an hour, sir,’ said Hodgson, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘And there’s one other thing before you go, sir. Mr Cooper issued permits to two friends of his to use the swimming pool. Personally I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I can’t argue with the directors.’

  ‘D’you know the names of these friends of Mr Cooper?’

  ‘The only ones I have listed are a Mr Dennis Jones and a Miss Chantal Flaubert.’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘Not really, sir,’ said Hodgson, with a sly grin. ‘I guessed you’d come to see me at some time, so I looked it up.’

  THREE

  ‘We are recording this interview in order to establish the facts while they’re still fresh in your mind, Mr Jones.’ Dave Poole switched on the tape recorder. ‘Present are Dennis Jones, Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon and Detective Sergeant David Poole. The time is sixteen fifteen hours and the date is Friday the twenty-sixth of July.’

  ‘Should I have a solicitor here?’ asked Jones nervously, obviously disconcerted by the formality of Dave’s introduction to the tape. In addition, he was noticeably overawed by the stark surroundings of the interview room in which he now found himself. Kate thought that it was probably the first time he’d ever been in one.

  ‘Why, Mr Jones? Have you committed a crime?’ Dave adopted his innocent expression.

  ‘No, of course I haven’t,’ said Jones, ‘but why have you brought me to a police station and why are you recording everything? I’ve already told you all I know about this dreadful business.’ His face took on an even more worried expression than hitherto; more, Kate thought, than making a witness statement warranted, albeit a recorded one.

  ‘I think you ought to be clear about one thing, Mr Jones,’ said Kate. ‘We are dealing with a murder, and when eventually we make an arrest and go to trial everything has to be as right as it’s possible to get it. What you tell us could be vital, and that’s the main reason we’re recording it. If we then decide to take a written statement, Sergeant Poole will put it down in writing and ask you to sign it.’ Her quietly spoken but uncompromising attitude did little to afford Jones any comfort.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ It was the first time Jones had heard Kate Ebdon say anything more than a few words, and he was obviously surprised to hear that she was Australian. He could see that she was an attractive woman, but was taken aback by her sexy outfit: skin-tight jeans and a white shirt. It was a style of dress that didn’t accord with his pulp-fiction idea of what a detective inspector should look like, and it certainly didn’t accord with what the HMCC’s stuffy commander thought a ‘lady inspector’ should wear. Despite his wimpish appearance, Jones imagined himself to be quite the ladies’ man, but if he thought for one moment that Kate would succumb to his charms and be a pushover he was sadly mistaken. She was very good at countering sexism.

  There was a story going back to her days as a uniformed constable when an inspector had cornered her in an office one night duty and started physically to come on to her. She told him very calmly and very quietly that if he persisted or ever tried it on again, she’d rip open her blouse, run out of the office and scream rape at the top of her voice. ‘After I’ve kneed you in the balls, sir,’ she added, to emphasize her point.

  The inspector rapidly retreated and was very careful to make sure thereafter that he only spoke to her when other people were present. As he was an unpopular officer, the story had not only quickly circulated around the station but, thanks to the social media, it went ‘viral’ throughout the Force. From then on, Police Constable Kate Ebdon was treated very respectfully. Employment tribunals or official complaints of sexism were not for her; she had her own methods, and whingeing to authority wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Let’s begin at the beginning, then.’ Kate pulled her chair closer, linked her fingers and rested her arms on the table as though about to start a cosy chat. ‘Tell me exactly what happened, starting with when and how you came to meet Richard Cooper.’

  ‘It was about a year ago, I suppose.’ Jones looked into the middle distance as he thought about what he had just said. ‘Yes, it must have been about this time last year. Actually, I think it was June.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘At a swimming pool.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Jones paused again. ‘It was a private one in Richmond, part of a health club, but it’s closed now. I think it was bought by some property developers, but I don’t know if that’s true. But by then Dick had moved into his apartment at Cockcroft Lodge. There’s an underground pool there and he invited me to make use of it as often as I liked. He told me that the residents are allowed to give two named guests admission cards.’

  ‘Where did Mr Cooper live before he moved in to Cockcroft Court?’ Kate asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where d’you live, Mr Jones?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Munstable Street in Petersham, but I told you that. I showed you my driving licence. It’s only about five or six miles from here.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  There was a distinct pause before Jones spoke. ‘No.’

  ‘Were you in a homosexual relationship with Mr Cooper, then?’ Dave asked the question suddenly and bluntly.

  ‘Certainly not.’ Jones replied with a vehemence that bordered on outrage. It may have been contrived or, as Kate and Dave had each suggested, he was a good actor.

  ‘There’s no need to get so excited, Mr Jones. It’s not uncommon these days.’ Nevertheless, Dave wondered if Jones was protesting too much.

  ‘Well, I’m not.’ Jones reacted like a spoilt schoolboy who’d just been falsely accused of committing some transgression of school rules.

  ‘Was Richard Cooper in a relationship?’

  ‘He never mentioned having a girlfriend, if that’s what you mean, but I don’t think he was gay.’

  ‘But you don’t know for certain.’ It was a statement not a question. Dave was slowly discovering that for someone who claimed to have known Cooper for a year, Jones knew remarkably little about his so-called ‘friend’. And that increased Dave’s suspicions.

  ‘You said that Richard Cooper was allowed two named guests who could use the swimming pool downstairs. Who was the other one?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know if there was another one.’ Jones obviously hadn’t met Chantal Flaubert, the other pass holder.

  ‘Can we now get to today’s events, Dennis? You don’t mind if I call you Dennis, do you?’

  �
�No, of course not.’

  ‘You told Mr Brock and me earlier what had happened, but perhaps you’d repeat it for the benefit of my inspector.’

  Jones recounted, with no variation from what he had said previously, his version of events prior to the arrival of the police.

  ‘Mrs Maxwell, the woman in the flat opposite,’ said Dave, ‘told me that you’d banged on her door and said there’d been a terrible accident.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But surely it must have been obvious to you that a dead man with blood all over his shirt front had been murdered.’

  ‘Well, I thought it was an accident.’

  ‘What sort of accident, Dennis? What sort of accident results in a man dying in his own home with blood all over his shirt?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Jones began to look decidedly shifty. ‘You’re trying to confuse me.’

  ‘So to summarize,’ said Kate Ebdon, when Dave had finished labouring the matter of Jones’s description of Cooper’s murder as an accident, ‘you met Richard Cooper at a swimming pool that no longer exists. You’ve no idea what he does for a living, you don’t know whether he’s in a relationship, and you’ve no idea who this person is who was so dangerous that Cooper claimed he was in fear of his life. Finally, he asked you to meet him at his apartment at one o’clock, but you didn’t turn up until half past one. And you’ve known each other for a whole year.’ She made no attempt to hide the cynicism in her voice. ‘Is that about the strength of it, mate?’

  ‘Yes, but I was held up by an accident on the M4.’

  ‘Did you see this accident?’

  ‘No, not exactly, Inspector,’ said Jones and smiled at Kate in what he believed to be a beguiling way.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, I assumed it was an accident. That’s what usually causes hold-ups, isn’t it?’ Jones stared at Kate, the expression on his face imploring this tough Australian inspector to believe the implausible. He didn’t have long to wait to realize it was a vain hope.

  Kate scoffed. ‘D’you seriously expect me to believe any of your story, Dennis? Because frankly I don’t.’