“This shouldn’t take too long, Mr. Dawson. I just need to have a clear time frame of exactly what happened yesterday. I’m sorry if it distresses you, but if you could give me the details of when exactly you left for work . . .”
“Six o’clock in the morning. I was on early shift. We do alternate two weeks, of days and then nights.”
Jane jotted in her notebook, while Barry continued. “I was quite busy up to around my break time, then I went into the canteen for breakfast.”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, it’d be about seven thirty. Then at ten o’clock I went to use the payphone in the casualty department. It was a regular thing I did . . . call home to see if Shirley was OK. Usually she would be waiting with Buster and Heidi to go out for a walk. Anyway, I rang, but got no reply. I remember I had to ask one of the other porters for some change, so it might have been a bit after ten when I called. As I got no answer I stood around awhile, then I started to get worried.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, she hadn’t answered and the night before she’d not been feeling very well. She used to get these sort of anxiety feelings, which was why I always made sure I called her. I started to get worried. I’m not sure how many times I tried the number. You see, she was still in bed when I left for work, and so I really got concerned.”
Jane waited. Barry clasped and unclasped his hands, then gave a long sigh.
“I left the hospital and got the bus home. I’m not sure of the exact time but I let myself in and called out to her, but got no reply. Heidi was in her playpen fast asleep, so I went into the bedroom and then . . .” He bowed his head as his eyes filled with tears.
“I went into the bathroom and I found her . . .” he sniffed, trying to control himself. “I’m sorry, but I still can’t really take it all in. It all seems like a blur, you know . . . running next door and getting the old bloke to go and see Shirley . . . He went over and the next minute he’s got Heidi and he’s calling 999.”
“Why didn’t you call the police yourself?”
“I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . . it was seeing her in the bath . . . Oh God! If only I’d come home earlier, you know, not waited, because she really wasn’t herself the night before. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone into work . . . I just keep on asking myself these questions, over and over . . . what if . . . what if . . . ?”
“Did Shirley suffer from depression?”
He looked up and gave a small shrug. “Not really, it was just that she would get very anxious.”
“Was she on any medication?”
“No, just took something from over the counter at Boots.”
“Did she see a doctor about her anxiety?”
“No. We have a local GP, but I don’t think she’d been to see him recently.”
The door opened and Mrs. Dawson walked in carrying a mug of tea and a tea towel. She crossed over to a small coffee table and lifted it up to put it beside her son. Then she picked up a magazine to place down on the polished surface and put down his mug.
“Are you all right, son?”
Barry’s face crumpled and he stood up, saying that he needed to go to the bathroom.
“Excuse me,” he said to Jane and left the room.
“He’s taken it very badly . . . done nothing but cry. I mean, for all her faults he loved Shirley. He was a good husband and dotes on Heidi.”
Mrs. Dawson picked up one of the wedding photographs and, with almost a compulsive need to clean, wiped the glass and frame.
“She was lovely looking, but oh dear . . . shocking at keeping the flat clean. I was always going over there to give it a good vacuum and dust. I’ve even taken home bags of washing for Heidi and Barry. I was there one time and she was ironing his best shirt. I told her that wasn’t the best way to iron, that you should always start on the sleeves, then the two sides and lastly the back. Then use a spray starch for the cuffs and the collar. Shirley says to me that it was a waste of time as who sees all of the shirt when you wear a jacket. Lazy she was, but he didn’t mind. Not even when it was more takeaway than anything cooked.”
“So did this create friction between you and your daughter-in-law?”
“Oh no, she was a lovely girl . . . just not used to looking after the flat. To be honest, Barry was always about to do some redecorating, but working such long hours he never really got around to it. Shirley never had a mother to teach her anythin’ domestic . . . well, she obviously had one but she was placed in foster care when she was Heidi’s age . . . she was shoved from pillar to post until she was in her teens . . . that’s how they met.”
“I’m sorry . . . how did they meet?”
“One of my best friends, Norma, is a foster carer. God knows how many kids she’s looked after in her lifetime. She’s a bit too old to take on any more kids now . . . But she brought Shirley around here a few times, and they got on well, and the next thing he’s got engaged to her.”
Jane remained silent as Mrs. Dawson picked up one framed photograph after another, dusted it and replaced it in exactly the same position. She then turned to look toward the door and moved closer, lowering her voice.
“You know, one time there was a bit of a rumor that Heidi wasn’t his—Shirley was a few weeks gone when they married, you see—but he wouldn’t have it. Worships that little girl, and she’s got his blond hair and blue eyes. Shirley was . . . well, we never really knew anything about her background, but she was not all white.”
“So was there someone else Shirley was seeing?”
“Now listen to me . . . don’t go adding two and two and making it five. It was just a rumor. Shirley was engaged to Barry at eighteen and there was never anybody else since they were married. She might have been a bit jealous and that made her anxious, but Barry never messed around. He loved her and I’ve been out of line saying anything against her. The way I like to keep everything spick and span was the way his dad used to like it. He always said he could eat his dinner off my kitchen floor.”
Barry walked in and she immediately straightened up.
“What you been saying, Mum?”
“Nothing . . . I was just saying how your dad liked the house immaculate. He’d come in from work and straight into the bath for a scrub up, because being a mechanic he wore greasy overalls and had filthy hands.”
“I don’t think this is the time to go into that, Mum. He’s been gone a long time and you know how grateful I am, and always will be, for what he did for me and Shirley.”
Mrs. Dawson realized she had said too much and gestured to his mug of tea.
“Don’t let that go cold, Barry.”
Jane watched as he ushered his mother out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“She’s always had a few things against Shirley, me marrying her for one. She reckoned she was too young, but she paid for the wedding, her frock and everything. Shirley had no family and had been in foster care for most of her life, but I never wanted anyone else.”
Jane watched him as he stared at his wedding photographs. He was close to tears, and Jane stood up, closed her notebook and picked up her handbag.
“I’ll type this up and then you’ll be asked to sign the handwritten copy. I have to inform you that you will be required to make a formal identification at the mortuary.”
“What? I don’t understand . . .”
“I’m afraid it’s necessary. Maybe you could ask your mother to accompany you? Or she could make the identification herself?”
“But I’ve already seen her. I really don’t want to do this . . . I can’t . . . I mean, I don’t want to have to see her again!”
“I can make a call from here and order a car to take you to the mortuary. Or if you agree I can make an appointment for later this afternoon, and meet you there? May I use the telephone to arrange it?”
Jane was shown into the hall and used the telephone on a small table to call the Coroner’s Office.
She was relieved when Barry agree
d to make his own way to the mortuary and said he could be there at two o’clock. He was obviously distressed but said that he needed his mother to stay at home to look after Heidi. As he went upstairs to get ready, Mrs. Dawson came into the hall.
“Let me show you out, dear. He’s taken this very badly . . . I keep on thinking that if I hadn’t had trouble with my washing machine, I’d have been there, and I would have found her instead of poor Barry.”
“Yes, you said you were going to babysit . . . ?”
“That’s right . . . but my washing machine went on the blink so I had to wait for the engineer. Shirley had a hair appointment so I was going to their flat to look after Heidi. She used to get her hair straightened, because it was so curly. I was relieved, I can tell you, when Heidi was born and had Barry’s blond hair. It’s impossible to get a comb through those curls . . . I know because some of the kids at the school need a special type of Afro comb.”
Jane tried to steer her back onto the subject.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson, I’m just trying to piece together the time frame. So, you were going to go to your son’s flat on the morning that Shirley was found in the bath?”
“Yes . . . I did try to call her, you know, to let her know I wouldn’t be coming, but she didn’t answer the phone.”
“What time was that, Mrs. Dawson?”
Rita hesitated, then shrugged.
“Well, it would’ve been early . . . like a quarter to nine . . . but like I said, the phone rang and rang. Maybe she didn’t hear it because she was running a bath . . . but I wasn’t that worried.”
“Why not?”
“Well, if I didn’t turn up she would’ve taken Heidi to the salon with her . . . to Pearls and Curls, over in Brick Lane by the market.”
“Did Barry know you were going to be at the flat?”
“Yes—like I said, I often go over there to give Shirley a hand—”
She suddenly stopped and took a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh God! . . . I can’t believe she’s never going to be there again!”
After comforting her Jane thanked Rita and went to the front door to leave. As the door closed behind her she took out her notebook and jotted down some notes, including the name of the hair salon. Something didn’t quite add up.
Jane went back to the station to type up the statement ready for Barry to sign when they met at the mortuary. Edith was in the incident room and told Jane that DS Lawrence had called and wanted to speak to her regarding some photographs. There were a number of detectives working in the room at the various desks. The two clerks were busy as there had been a spate of break-ins and a complaint from market holders about being threatened.
Edith was carrying an overflowing ashtray across to the waste bin. Pulling a face in disgust she emptied out the cigarette butts into the bin.
“The DCI wanted to see you as well. There’s been a pickpocket incident on a female tourist in Soho—the perp is slashing handbag straps with a razor. DCI wants you to go to the Marquee Club on Wardour Street to interview the manager about it.”
Sighing, Jane checked her watch and grabbed her coat.
Jane was sitting on a bar stool taking notes from a young barman with a Newcastle accent. The nightclub was being vacuumed and the dingy bar was filled with dirty glasses and bags of empty beer bottles being removed to the bins.
“So are you aware of anyone inside the club being robbed?”
“No, but I only work on certain days of the week . . . I mostly do clearing up in the mornings, and different staff come in for night work.”
“Do you know what time they will be coming on duty?”
“No, you’ll have to ask the manager as he lists the staff. But he’s not here right now.”
Jane took down what few details she could report and left the club, walking back down Wardour Street. She passed a seedy strip club called “Dolls House,” with a heavy-set bouncer standing outside, his arms folded across his huge chest. There were afternoon and lunchtime shows advertised outside: “Live Girls, Live Dancers, Live Girls, Live Dancers,” flashed the neon signs. Loud music was thudding from the narrow entrance that was concealed with cheap plastic curtains.
As Jane stepped off the pavement into the road to avoid the bouncer, a woman came out of the club. Jane stopped and stared. The woman was wearing the same, or similar, blue rabbit fur coat that Jane had worn when she had acted as a decoy. She looked at the woman’s face, certain it was the same woman she had seen in the photographs, the woman who had been pushing the baby stroller. But before Jane could even contemplate approaching her the woman hailed a taxi and climbed inside, passing within feet of Jane.
“See ya later, Angie!” the bouncer yelled. Jane was confused for a moment, then she recalled the list of aliases on the charge sheet and knew it had to be Janet Brown, aka Angie, who had been held at Hackney Station. She watched the taxi disappear then walked back to the strip club as the bouncer ushered in the nervous punters. There were various sexy photographs of the strippers in provocative poses displayed in a cracked glass cabinet.
Jane looked over the photographs and noticed a semi-nude shot of the woman. The bouncer swished through the plastic curtains and confronted her.
“Live girls, you want to see live girls, darlin’?”
Jane turned away abruptly and could hear him laughing.
“Takes all sorts, love! . . . Live girls, dancing jig jiggy.”
Jane caught the bus back and finished her half-eaten sandwich. She had so many things to think about. Having to show Barry Dawson the body of his wife, detail the so-called bag snatcher, and yet uppermost in her mind was the woman called Angie. There was something that kept on niggling her about her arrest. The photographs of her beaten face, and why Jane had been asked to wear her coat the night she had been assaulted. Lastly she thought about the forthcoming trial of Peter Allard. There was no confirmed date but she knew it would be announced soon and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
Jane sighed. “Why do you care?” she muttered to herself. After what he had subjected her to, she felt angry with herself for wasting time thinking about him. She had loathed being grilled by his defense council and she knew the interrogation was likely to be worse at the trial. But what really worried her was the fact she was certain Moran had planted the knife and lied about the confession. She wondered if Moran had also lied about Janet Brown, or Angie; and why he had her rabbit fur coat?
Jane opened her notebook and jotted down a reminder to contact old Donaldson from Hackney Collator’s Office. She knew he would have the home address of Janet Brown because she remembered seeing it on the charge sheet. She couldn’t recall it offhand but just for her own peace of mind she wanted to have an off-the-record meeting with the woman in the blue rabbit fur coat.
Chapter Eleven
The prison visiting room was jam-packed, and the noise was deafening. Uniformed prison officers patrolled between the small tables allocated for the visitors. As most of the prisoners were on remand waiting for their trial, they allowed children to accompany the visitors.
Marie Allard sat anxiously opposite her husband. She had made an effort with her appearance and had washed her hair and put on some makeup, but she still looked gaunt and unwell. Peter was also bothered by the din. He was clearly very tense and kept on twisting his head, complaining that his neck hurt and they wouldn’t give him anything for the pain.
“They took away what I brought in at reception . . . your mum has sent in a package,” Marie said, unsure how to broach the subject of the blackmail.
Wanting to put it off as long as possible, she discussed the kids and Peter was adamant that they should not be brought in to see him. After what felt like an interminably long time he leaned forward and looked directly into her eyes.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m OK. Your mum is handling rent from taxi and we also getting a cut of the fares.”
“I know that, she told me that when she came in. And
you’ve got our savings if there’s any major funds you need for the house. The mortgage is being paid direct from the account. You’re not sick, are you?”
“No, no . . . but I need to tell you something . . .” She was close to tears. “I not know what to do . . .”
“Do about what?”
Marie took a deep breath. “I got a phone call . . . I not know if it man or woman . . . they sing words, at first quiet then shouting. I don’t know what to do . . . they scream out someone’s name . . .”
“What?”
“On the phone. I get scared to pick up the phone again in case it them. You know someone called Andy?”
“Who?”
“It’s maybe a woman . . . strange accent . . . like some kind of song, over and over . . . then in horrid voice saying she know something about you.”
Peter straightened up in the chair.
“I dunno anyone called Andy. Are you sure you heard it right?”
“Maybe Andy, or Angie . . . I don’t know.”
“Angie? Was it Angie?”
“Yes, maybe . . . you know a woman with that name?”
Peter clenched his fist and shook his head as Marie took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
“She say she got evidence against you for that rape charge and that she could have you put away for long time.”
“What? Are you crazy? You know I was fitted up by the cops! I never signed that confession, it was a lie! I swear before God I am telling you the truth, Marie.”
“She want more money . . .”
“What?”
“I said she want more money. Please don’t shout at me! I paid her five hundred so she not go to police.”
“Christ Almighty! You already paid her? Are you out of your mind? Just repeat exactly what this bitch is saying to you, because this is blackmail! You know that, don’t you? It’s bloody blackmail!”
Hidden Killers Page 17
