“Mr. Dawson, I am Detective Sergeant Lawrence and you already know WDC Tennison. Can you explain exactly what you are doing here?”
Barry stood up, his face flushed. “I was repairing the bath panel, putting it back into place. I have every right to be here . . . it’s my flat and I need more clothes for myself and Heidi. Perhaps you could tell me what you are doing here?”
“OK, Mr. Dawson, you can get what you need but then you must leave. We’ll contact you as soon as you are allowed access. We’re just having a once-over to be totally satisfied. I am a forensic officer and I have been asked by the coroner to examine the flat.”
“I haven’t finished.”
“Just leave it as it is, Mr. Dawson. WDC Tennison will accompany you to get the items you need.”
Barry didn’t take long. He used an old holdall, taking clothes for his daughter and a few items for himself, and said that he would be returning to work the following day. Jane watched him silently, and when he was ready to leave she walked him to the front door.
“One more thing, Mr. Dawson. I have to apologize as I used your camera while I was here, to photograph the bathroom.” Jane gestured to the small Kodak camera she had left on the coffee table.
“That’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Oh, well, we’ll reimburse you for the reel of film I used. There were some photographs that had already been taken on it.”
Jane went to her bag and took out the envelope containing the images. She selected the three black and white photographs of Katrina and handed them to him. She watched closely as he glanced at them, but he showed no reaction and appeared to be unperturbed.
“I don’t know who this is. I don’t want them.”
He tore up the photographs, tossed them onto the table next to the camera and left the flat carrying the holdall. Lawrence came out from the bathroom.
“Well, it’s still sodden beneath the bath, and the tide mark is clearly shown. I used the screwdriver Mr. Dawson was using—come and have a look.”
Lawrence leaned over the bath and indicated with the screwdriver that the waste pipe was blocked. He felt it wasn’t a recent blockage but was a build-up of hairs and thick soap that had congealed.
“No water could have leaked down below this way—it had to have come from the bath being overfilled.”
“I know the water level was not high because I pulled the plug out, and as you can see from the blood-stained rim it was nowhere near overflowing.”
“Might have happened when she fell backward and the level rose.”
She watched as he tested the small residue of blood still on the central tap, and then looked around.
“No other blood drops. This is the only congealed blood at the scene, so it’s likely that when she hit her head, she subsequently fell backward and slid under the water, drowning.”
“Was she standing up when she hit her head?”
He frowned, then shrugged. Jane watched as he took samples of the blockage and then photographed the bath.
“Barry said he didn’t own the camera and when he was shown the photographs of Katrina he denied knowing her, and then tore them up.”
“Well, that’s interesting . . . but you still have the negatives?”
“Yes.”
“OK . . . now, get into the bath. I need you to show me something.”
“What?”
He laughed. “Just want to test something. I remember when we first met, at the autopsy of that murdered girl, and old Professor Martin asked you to get on the floor as he wanted to demonstrate how he thought the victim had been beaten. He asked you to put up your arm as if protecting your body from the blows . . .”
“Don’t remind me! I was so embarrassed because I thought he wanted me to lie on the floor. I smelt of Dettol for days afterward, it was all over my uniform.”
Lawrence smiled at the memory.
“Right, step into the bath. There was no mat, right, so take off your shoes and in you get.”
He held her hand as she stepped into the bath.
“Now, we are presuming the water was turned off and the bath was filled. So, did she step in and find that it was boiling hot, leaned toward the taps, slipped and cracked her head? Just try it.”
In her stocking feet Jane leaned toward the central tap. She pretended to hit her head, and then leaned back.
“It would be more likely that she would end up forward, on her knees?”
He nodded, then took Jane’s hand to help her out.
“But if she really cracked her head hard she could have lost her balance and been unconscious, falling back into the water,” he said.
Jane put on her shoes and followed him out of the bathroom.
“OK, let me have a good look over the place and take some more photographs.”
Jane was fascinated by how carefully Lawrence moved around the flat. The high chair was still in place and the food remained on the tray. He examined the playpen, then stood at the ironing board. Near to that was a clothes horse with a few items ready to be ironed, with a water spray and some starch in a basket.
The iron was on its side, not placed into the section at the end of the board. Lawrence examined the iron very closely, running his finger along the rim. He took close-up pictures of the iron and Jane smiled as he had a habit of muttering to himself. The iron had been recently cleaned. He looked around to see if there was a rag or something that had been used to wipe it because it had a faint smell of Dettol. He then replaced the iron and checked the flex, bending down to the socket on the wall beside it.
“This is interesting . . . it looks to me as if the plug was wrenched out of the socket because the wires are not only frayed, which could be a result of frequent use, but two of the wires are disconnected so the iron would not be usable. And it could give you an electric shock if you tried to use it.”
He stood up with his hands on his hips.
“OK, I don’t like this. Blouse on the ironing board ready to be pressed . . . baby’s food on the high chair tray . . . next-door neighbor hears the front door buzzer after she has seen a woman pacing up and down outside the basement . . .”
“That was at eight o’clock,” Jane said.
“Right. But we know Barry was calling the payphone on the landing at the hospital trying to reach Shirley at ten or ten thirty, but received no answer. He leaves the hospital and arrives home at eleven to find his wife dead in the bath.”
“One more thing,” Jane added. “His mother said she was going to be here at the flat but didn’t turn up because she was waiting for an engineer. Barry said he made a call to his mother so he would know she was not here with Shirley as arranged. A witness said he appeared to be very anxious and subsequently left the hospital. But surely if he also knew his wife was going to have a hair appointment why was he so anxious that she didn’t answer the phone?”
Lawrence checked his watch.
“OK, I am going to pull in a favor and see if I can get a more experienced pathologist to get over to the mortuary and check Shirley’s body. I’m going to have to move fast before it’s released for burial because I need to know whether her head injury is in fact totally consistent with the fall in the bath.”
Jane could feel the tension mounting.
“I keep thinking about Barry’s reaction to the camera. He said he didn’t know Katrina, but he had to know her from the hospital.”
Lawrence replied, “Maybe he didn’t own the camera. What if it belonged to Shirley? Taking a long shot, what if she had used it to take the photographs of Katrina as she had found out Barry was having an affair with her?”
“Brenda said she had a mystery boyfriend from the hospital,” Jane interjected.
“So, what we have is a possible motive . . .” Lawrence continued. “A love affair, right? She confronted Barry and they had an argument. On the other hand, it could all be inconclusive.”
“I honestly don’t think he killed her,” Jane said, biting her lip.<
br />
“Or perhaps they were in it together,” Lawrence continued. “You need to trace this Katrina and find out if she was involved with Barry. Dig up whatever you can on her, but until we have more we keep this just between ourselves and don’t inform DCI Shepherd. We need to prove that this was not accidental death, but murder.”
“I’ll go back to the station,” Jane said, collecting her bag.
Lawrence grinned. “Well, I’m going to have do a bit of schmoozing to get old Professor Martin on board. He may be a pain in the arse but he’s top notch . . . when he’s sober.”
Jane laughed. She had met “old Prof Martin” numerous times since she had first met Lawrence. She had learned that alongside his drinking and cigar smoking, his jovial and loud bellowing voice was often a cover as he was a very knowledgeable and dedicated man.
Lawrence held open the front door for her as they left.
“We might be in luck. I doubt the coroner will release the body for the undertakers’ embalming before the funeral on Monday . . . let’s hope not.”
They split up outside the Dawsons’ flat and Jane walked the few yards to pass the basement next door. She was going to continue but paused and bent down, looking through the railings. Mrs. Cook was sitting in her wheelchair knitting, but she looked up as if she had heard her footsteps. Jane gave a small wave and Mrs. Cook smiled and waved back. Jane was satisfied that Mrs. Cook was possibly right about the high-heeled footsteps. She was beginning to feel very confident that this was going to be her first murder case with the new station.
Chapter Fourteen
Jane completed her notes on the inquiries at St. Thomas’ Hospital and what she and Lawrence had determined from their visit to the Dawsons’ flat. It was five-thirty and, after checking any messages and details that had been listed for her to oversee, she had nothing left to do. There was a report file disclosing that there had been further bag snatches in Wardour Street and one report from the Marquee Club that there had been a theft of a woman’s handbag, but there was no point going now; better to wait until later as she might catch the manager. She had a few words with the duty sergeant before leaving, then decided that to fill the time she’d do a catch-up at Hackney to see if there had been any developments or if a trial date had been set for Peter Allard.
It felt strange returning to her old stamping ground. DI Moran ran the CID at Hackney very differently to the way DCI Bradfield had done and the atmosphere felt a little strained, even more so when she entered the CID office. DC Brian Edwards was wearing an overcoat and had cotton wool stuck in one ear, with a streaming nose. He looked up when Jane knocked on the door.
“Hi there,” Jane said.
Edwards sneezed loudly.
“Stay well away from me—I’m contaminated. I’ve had this bloody cold for two days. As you can see, everyone has scarpered out of the office.”
“Why don’t you go home?”
“The guv’s asked me to do all this checking into old cases, and wants to see if I can get a result before Allard’s trial.”
“So we haven’t got a date yet?”
“Nope . . . But it can’t be far off. I’ve found out that five years ago Allard used to rent a property in Maidstone, worked as a bus driver, then returned to London after his father died and took over his taxi.”
“What’s this got to do with his trial?” Jane asked.
Edwards became hesitant, blowing his nose. “Moran’s concerned that there might be questions about the confession . . . He reckons the pattern of Allard’s assaults, and the attack on you, means that there could have been more in his past.”
“Have you found anything that might be connected?”
“Give me a break—have you any idea how many sexual assaults take place in these areas . . . Hackney, Peckham, Walthamstow? I haven’t even started on Maidstone yet because that’ll be a different force. And you know how protective forces are about their own information.”
Edwards sneezed loudly again.
“Bless you!” Jane said. “Is DI Moran in his office?”
“No. He went out to buy a christening present for DC Ashton’s new baby.”
Surprised by Moran’s enthusiasm for gift buying, Jane thanked Edwards and went out of the CID office, heading down to the Collator’s Office in the basement. On the way she popped into the ladies’ locker room, giving an affectionate tap to the “LADIES ONLY” sign on the door. Kath’s legacy was still intact. As she came out five minutes later she bumped straight into DI Moran, who was carrying an enormous donkey-shaped piñata.
“Good evening, Tennison. I can only presume you’re here for the celebration drinks for DC Ashton’s baby girl?”
“No, sir. Actually I just came in to see if we had a trial date for Peter Allard.”
“No, we haven’t. Those wankers at the court are taking their bloody time, as usual. The boys will be surprised to see you.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I don’t think a donkey piñata is a particularly appropriate present for a newborn baby?”
Moran chuckled loudly.
“No . . . no, Tennison. We fill it with shillings wrapped in pound notes, and we all take turns in hitting it with a truncheon, but not too hard . . . then hopefully it will be Ashton who smashes it open and collects the loot.”
“That’s a very innovative idea, sir. Whoever thought of that?” Jane replied, clearly thinking that it wasn’t innovative at all.
Moran beamed in response. “I did! And for the baby I’ve got this . . .”
He delved into his coat pocket and pulled out a small pink teddy bear.
“So, are you coming over to the Warburton to have a drink with us?” he asked.
“Thank you, sir.”
As Moran walked away with the huge piñata tucked under his arm he turned back to Jane.
“I’ll let you have the first crack at the donkey!”
Jane watched Moran as he went down the corridor, looking rather ridiculous. She had just had the perfect opportunity to discuss with him her concerns about the blue rabbit fur coat, and couldn’t really understand why she hadn’t done so. But if she spoke to the collator it would probably iron out her queries.
Donaldson was getting ready to go home and seemed surprised to see her.
“How is it at Bow Street?”
“Fine. Rather quiet actually. I was dropping in to see if a trial date had been set for Peter Allard.”
Donaldson shrugged and Jane hesitated before asking him if she could take a look at Janet Brown’s file and record sheet. He looked at his watch and seemed ill at ease.
“It’s nothing important, just for personal reasons.”
She watched him go to a filing cabinet and waited as he sifted through the drawer and then slowly closed it.
“Not here.”
“I don’t understand.”
Donaldson picked up his coat from a hook behind the door, and folded it over his arm.
“I didn’t think files were allowed to be removed from the Collator’s Office,” Jane said, as Donaldson picked up an old battered briefcase left beside his desk.
“I can’t help you, but sometimes one of the detectives might come in. Now, I need to lock up and get home.”
Jane sensed he was being evasive and was certain he was lying, but she didn’t want to question him any further as he was getting impatient for her to leave. She had always found Donaldson to be very helpful in the past and she was disappointed.
She had a light supper in the canteen upstairs and could see the ostracized Brian Edwards sitting in a corner by himself, sneezing loudly. He looked terrible and everyone else was clearly avoiding him. On the next table the young DC Ashton joined a few other officers. He was carrying a tray with shepherd’s pie and a syrup sponge and custard, and was surprised to see her.
“Have you been assigned back here again?”
“No, I just couldn’t resist the food. I hear congratulations are in order, and that you’re a father now.”
“Yes, looking forward to it.”
After applying some lipstick and tidying herself up in the ladies’ locker room, Jane made her way over to the Warburton Arms.
The usual array of sausage rolls, cheese and ham sandwiches and obligatory packets of crisps were being laid out on the bar counter by Ron. DC Donaldson was unloading beer from two crates, and placing the bottles beside the food. Jane wondered if this was the reason he had been in such a hurry to leave the Collator’s Office. She was still confused as to why the file on Janet Brown was missing. Jane crossed over to Donaldson as he poured a beer for himself.
“All these beers are on the house, and we’ve got three bottles of white and three red . . . what’s your fancy, Jane?”
“I’ll have a glass of white, please.”
“Well, go and get the bottle opened, and ask Ron for some ice.”
At that moment the double doors to the pub banged open. Moran led the team in, still holding the donkey piñata. He shouted at Ron.
“Ron, we need to get this thing hung up!”
Ron looked at him in total bewilderment.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a piñata. It’s full of cash and we’re going to take it in turns to hit it with a truncheon, and whoever smashes it open gets the contents!”
“Well, you’re not hanging that pissatto, or whatever it is, in the main bar. You can take it into the snooker room and hang it up from one of the lights in there. But if anyone damages the table or the lights, you’ll be paying for it.”
The celebration for Ashton’s baby was beginning to spiral out of control. Everyone was eager to attack the piñata, but Moran was refusing to allow a truncheon near it until they had consumed all the drinks he had provided. He kept on repeating, to one officer after another, “Don’t bloody hit it hard . . . this is for Ashton. He’s broke, and he needs to get all the cash inside.”
At one point he even put his arm around Jane and repeated his warning to her. “I know you can throw a good whack with a truncheon because of Allard. But just tap it.”
Hidden Killers Page 21
