Hidden Killers

by Lynda La Plante

“He just said that, Tennison,” Gibbs interjected.

  At that moment the doorbell rang and on answering it Mr. Cook returned to say that a Mrs. Dawson was at the front door.

  “Oh thank God, it’s my mum . . . MUM!”

  Mr. Cook stepped back from the sitting room door as Rita Dawson hurried into the room. She was very overweight, and only five foot two, with badly dyed red hair. She was wearing a floral midi skirt with open sandals and white socks.

  “Oh Jesus, God . . . I can’t believe this . . .”

  There was an outburst of grief between them. The child started crying and Mrs. Dawson took her from her son’s arms.

  “Oh you poor little soul . . . she’s sopping wet, Barry! Have you fed her? She must be hungry.”

  Rita calmed and soothed the child, who stopped crying when she was given another biscuit to suck on. Rita asked what had happened as Barry slumped into the winged-back chair, holding his head in his hands.

  “Dear God, Ma . . . I found Shirley . . . She was in the bath . . . I kept on ringing her and when I got no answer I came home from work.” He broke down in tears again.

  Jane explained what the police doctor had said and also advised them that she needed to get a statement from Barry. He was becoming more and more upset, repeating over and over that he shouldn’t have gone to work knowing she wasn’t well.

  “What are you talking about? What’s going on? . . . I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Rita said.

  “It’s my fault, Mum . . . it’s all my fault . . .” Barry replied.

  Jane quietly explained that there had been a tragic accident and that it wasn’t Mr. Dawson’s fault.

  “But I will need to take a full statement from you, Mr. Dawson,” Jane explained.

  “Do I have to do it now?”

  Jane was sympathetic and said that he didn’t have to do it straight away, but then Gibbs stood up.

  “It would be helpful if you could do it now, sir, so that we have all the facts written down.”

  “Listen, I think poor Barry has been through enough at the moment and needs to be with his daughter. They should both come home with me,” Mrs. Dawson said, suddenly protective of her son and grandchild.

  Gibbs glanced at Jane and shrugged, saying that tomorrow or the next day would do.

  “I need to get some clothes . . . but I can’t face going into the flat again,” Barry replied.

  Rita comforted him. “I’ll stay with you, darlin’, but I’ve got to get some of my granddaughter’s possessions too . . . She needs nappies, pajamas, and some of her toys, her bottles . . . I need her pushchair . . .”

  Gibbs, by now becoming rather frazzled, instructed Jane to accompany them to the flat and mentioned his concerns about the dog.

  “What’s the matter with the dog? He’s not got out, has he? Is he lost?” Mrs. Dawson said.

  Jane quickly replied, “No, he’s in the flat. It’s just that he was getting very agitated, growling and snapping at us in his cage.”

  “Well, it’s no wonder with all the comings and goings . . . It’s not in his nature to be vicious, he’s usually a softie, even with strangers. He’s probably hungry and wondering what’s going on as he’s been locked in his cage all day.”

  Something about Mrs. Dawson’s reply jarred with Jane, then she realized that Mrs. Dawson seemed more concerned about the dog and had hardly reacted to the fact that her daughter-in-law had been found dead in the bath.

  By the time they had been let out of the basement by Mr. Cook and had returned to the Dawsons’ flat the little girl was screaming again. Mrs. Dawson tried to calm her, jiggling her up and down in her arms. Jane found the noise wearing, making it hard for her to think.

  They headed up the stairs, with Barry lagging behind. Mrs. Dawson displayed a toughness about her as she firmly told her son that whatever he was feeling he had to help get everything sorted to take over to her place. They all went into the flat and Gibbs quickly closed the bathroom door. Mrs. Dawson fetched a large, scruffy suitcase and collected her granddaughter’s belongings. She instructed Barry to pick up some dog food and gather whatever clothes he needed.

  Jane and Gibbs stood to one side.

  “She’s a tough broad, isn’t she?” he said quietly.

  Jane nodded. “Yes . . . But I think right now they’re both in shock. They’re sort of acting on automatic pilot.”

  Gibbs ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah, tell me about it . . .”

  Mrs. Dawson picked up feeding bottles and nappies, and threw a few baby toys into the suitcase. She did everything while the little girl was balanced on her hip. Barry handed a few of his own personal items to his mother to add into the open case on the bed. He crossed over to the dog’s cage. The dog had not barked once since they had returned and was now cowering in the cage, shaking. Jane noticed that in Barry’s presence he seemed completely submissive, his tail between his legs. “See, I told you he’s a softie,” Mrs. Dawson said, sticking a rather dirty dummy into the child’s mouth.

  “Go and shut the case, love, and ask them to get us a ride home. I’ll start going down with the pushchair.”

  Barry clipped a lead onto the dog’s collar and went into the bedroom to get the suitcase.

  Jane offered to help but Mrs. Dawson shook her head and then looked slowly around the flat.

  “You know, she was a shockingly lazy girl . . . young, you see, never done housework, and to be honest I’ve not really taken it all in, but she was a good mother . . . God knows how it happened.”

  “She may have fallen while she was getting into the bath, and hit her head.”

  “Terrible thing is, I was supposed to come by early this morning. I had a problem with my washing machine and had to wait in for an engineer to fix it. Shocking to think that if I’d been here I would’ve found her.”

  “Do you have a set of house keys, Mrs. Dawson?”

  “Yes, but I was going to babysit . . . I often come by and help out when I’m not workin’. I take Heidi to the local playground and walk the dog.”

  Barry closed the suitcase and, with the dog following on the lead, he went out of the bedroom and handed Jane his wife’s key to lock the door behind them. Jane asked him if he could come into the station the following afternoon to make a statement. Mrs. Dawson was still by the open front door.

  “Have you told them at work yet, Barry? You’d better, because you’re in no fit state to go in.”

  Barry replied that he hadn’t told them yet, and had only come home because he was worried when Shirley hadn’t answered the phone. He seemed to be in a daze, standing with the suitcase in one hand and the cowering dog on the lead in the other. Gibbs told them he could take them over to Rotherhithe, but told Barry that he needed to make sure the dog was kept on a lead in the back of the car.

  As they headed down the stairs Gibbs turned to Jane.

  “Listen, I’m going to go straight home after I’ve dropped them off.”

  “What? . . . Am I going to be left here on my own then?”

  “You’ll be all right. Just call it a day once the body’s been taken to the mortuary by the undertakers. I’ll see you in the morning and we can go over what you should put in your report for the coroner.”

  Jane stood uncertainly in the doorway for a while, then decided she would make a few inquiries with the other tenants. She went outside to find the uniform officer who was still standing patiently in the street by the main entrance to the building, which was one of a substantial row of Victorian houses divided into large high-ceilinged flats.

  “Look, I’m going to see the tenants, but call me if the undertakers arrive, OK?”

  “Will do,” said the PC, hoping he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Now he’d had the promise of overtime regardless, he was keen to head back to the station.

  Jane knocked on the door of the ground-floor flat but, as she’d expected, there was no reply. She had already been told that the couple left for work early and she just wa
nted to make sure. She was about to walk up to the first-floor flat when Mr. Cook appeared at the front door.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Jane nodded and he stepped further inside the hall.

  “The people in that flat won’t be back until after six.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. But I only know them to say hello to . . . nice couple . . . they work in the City.”

  “Do you know who lives in the first-floor flat?”

  “Nobody, it’s empty. You’d have to contact the landlord. I think he’s going to do it up because the previous tenants moved out a good few weeks ago. Same as the basement, it’s empty and full of old furniture.”

  “Thank you very much. Do you know how long Mr. and Mrs. Dawson have lived in the top flat?”

  “Why, do you think something’s not quite right?” he asked.

  “No . . . obviously there has been a tragic incident, but I need some family background details to give to the Coroner’s Office.”

  Mr. Cook explained that they had moved in about a year ago and seemed a nice couple. He said that he got on quite well with them, but they didn’t really socialize as such.

  “My wife is wheelchair bound and I’m her main carer. I’m always very busy, so I don’t really know them all that well.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “My wife?”

  “No, Mr. Cook, Shirley Dawson.”

  “Well, not today, obviously. To be honest I can’t remember if I saw her yesterday, but she did walk the dog regularly. Then today Barry banged on our door in a dreadful state, rambling incoherently that something had happened to his wife. I told him to stay at my place while I went up to their flat, and when I opened the bathroom door I saw Shirley in the bath. I was going to check for a pulse on her neck, but when I put my hand in the bath I could feel that the water was cold and it was obvious she was dead. So I thought it best not to touch her. I found little Heidi sleeping in the playpen in the living room.”

  “So their daughter was in the flat?”

  “Yes, I picked Heidi up and took her downstairs so that I could call the police. Barry was in a terrible state and he said that he had tried to call his wife. It was a regular thing he did, you know. Like I said, she would walk the dog of a morning. Barry works at St. Thomas’ and Shirley stayed at home to mind the child, so when I got back to my place I called 999 . . .”

  Jane continued making notes, then hesitated. She found it strange that Barry hadn’t dialed 999 himself, or picked up his daughter before going to Mr. Cook’s flat. She also underlined the note she had made that Mr. Cook said he opened the bathroom door.

  “The bathroom door was closed when you went into the flat, Mr. Cook?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you very much, you have been very helpful. Do you recall the landlord’s name?”

  “No, he’s not my landlord. All I know is that he’s a nasty piece of work, and a real cheapskate. He owns the head lease and charges heavy money for doin’ maintenance work . . . but as you can see it’s not that clean on the stairs and landings, and the gutters are all in bad shape.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cook.”

  Jane went back upstairs to the Dawsons’ flat and half closed the front door behind her. She checked her watch and wondered how long she would have to wait for the undertakers. She thought about making herself a cup of tea but didn’t think she should, and the filthy sink full of dirty cups was not very appealing. She looked around the room and opened her notebook to write about the state of the flat. She flicked back and forth, looking at what she had written when questioning Mr. Cook. Something else struck her as being unusual. The high chair tray had a bowl of cereal and a bottle of milk that looked untouched on it, but when Mr. Cook had entered the Dawsons’ flat to check on Shirley he said he found the baby asleep in the playpen. Jane wondered if Shirley had run a bath for herself, prepared the child’s breakfast and then at some point later decided to have a bath, leaving Heidi in her playpen.

  As Jane sat on the edge of the dog-haired sofa she noticed a camera partly hidden behind a cushion. It was a little Kodak 126 Instamatic. The reel had twenty-four photos but only five had been used. She hesitated, then decided that rather than making detailed notes and drawings of the flat she would use the camera to record the scene. She felt certain that Barry Dawson wouldn’t mind her using it.

  Jane started in the bathroom. She lifted up the dressing gown left beside the bath, and hung it on the back of the bathroom door. Under it was a pair of panties and a bra. She placed them on the same hook as the dressing gown. Using the camera she then took two photographs of the deceased. She felt queasy looking at the dead woman’s eyes wide open, and backed out of the bathroom deciding to use up the rest of the film on the other rooms.

  The PC from downstairs appeared and asked how much longer she was going to be. Jane explained that she was waiting for the undertakers and when they arrived he could go.

  “I’m sorry, you’ve been here a long time. I don’t know your name.”

  “Arthur Miller, Detective.”

  Jane smiled. “Very auspicious name, if you have literary ambitions.”

  He shook his head, obviously not having a clue what she was talking about.

  “Runs in my family. Father was Alfred, my grandfather was Albert—all of us are AM. Used to get some laughs just using our initials, and my sister was called Pamela, PM.” He chuckled, then hitched up his trousers.

  “Truth is I need to use a bathroom . . . I’ve been on duty since ten this morning.”

  “I don’t think you can use this bathroom, but I’m sure Mr. Cook in the basement flat next door will oblige as he’s been very helpful.”

  “Thanks . . . If I go there now, I’ll come straight back.”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  PC Miller left Jane finishing the reel of photographs, but there was still no sign of the undertakers. She was about to go and use the communal payphone to check back with the station when Miller returned and said he was now back on duty at the front door. He stood staring at her as Jane remained by the open bathroom door, then sighed and joined her, looking into the bathroom.

  “How do you intend to get the body out of the bath?”

  “Well, I don’t . . . The undertakers will do that.”

  “No they won’t, because that’s not their job, if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s your role and you have to bag and tag as you’re dealing with the scene. The undertakers will take the body to the mortuary, but in all my years I know they won’t move a body. They really are ‘more’n my job’s worths.’ But far be it from me to tell you what you should do.”

  Miller turned to walk off. Jane was so unsure of herself that she touched his arm as he went.

  “Please don’t go . . . I mean, I really don’t know what I should do. I’ve never been in this situation before.”

  “Well, I can send out for a body sheet, and bring it up to you. But I’d say that first up you should pull the plug out of the bath.”

  “Right, yes. I’ll do that. How long will you be before you bring up a body sheet? Or could I just use one of the sheets from the flat?”

  “No, you’d better wait. It’s got to be plastic. I’ll radio in for one to be brought over. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I’d love one . . . but I don’t think we should use the kitchen, besides which it’s not very clean.”

  “Mr. Cook’s bringing me one over. Nice chap, letting me use their toilet. His wife’s crippled, you know, and he’s her main carer.”

  “Yes, I know. I would really love a cup of tea.”

  She heard him thudding back down the stairs and went into the bathroom. She looked at the bath and noticed that the plug chain was broken and not connected to the overflow waste pipe. There were no blood stains anywhere around the lip of the bath, only the still visible smear on the tap. She had no choice other than to remove her ja
cket, take off her leather gloves, roll up her sleeve and stick her hand in the cold blood-stained water to pull out the plug. The victim’s legs were either side of her hand and she closed her eyes as she felt for the chain and gave it a jerk. The stained water gurgled and then began to seep down the plug hole.

  Jane was sitting on a chair in the living room writing up her notes when Miller came back. He was carrying a large white plastic sheet under one arm and two cups of tea.

  “Thank you so much.” She took the tea and sipped. It was very sweet, very strong and not particularly warm but she drank it all before placing it down on the coffee table. Miller waited, then helped her unfold the wide plastic sheet, which was the size of a small double bed.

  “Right, let’s have a look at her and work out the best way to get her out.”

  They stood side by side at the bath tub. The body was wrinkled from being in the water for so long, her long wet thick hair dripping around her shoulders.

  “Well, good thing is she looks a bit underweight. First, lift her hands above her head and I’ll get her feet. On the count of three we’ll lift her body up and over the bath rim and onto the sheet.”

  Jane asked Miller if he’d got any rubber gloves. He shook his head. It didn’t seem to bother him but it made Jane feel very queasy.

  “I’m going to the kitchen to see if there are any washing-up gloves to wear.”

  Miller shrugged and waited, his hands on his hips.

  Jane returned, saying that she couldn’t find any.

  “Right, we’ve got no choice. On the count of three . . . one . . . two . . . lift her arms up, and three.”

  Jane used her bare hands to lift the body. The arms were slippery and cold and on the first attempt Jane lost her grip and toppled forward. Miller was holding on to Shirley’s feet and ankles.

  “A dead body is always heavier than you think, even when it’s a petite female. Right, let’s go again. One . . . two . . . three, lift.”

  They managed to lift the body onto the sheet.

  “Now put her arms at the side of her body, wrap the sheet over and twist and tape the ends, so you end up with what looks like a big Christmas cracker.”