by Deborah Bee
‘How’d you manage to open the window? They’re jammed shut. And there’s nothing bad about it, except there’s a no-smoking rule in the house, which is why they have a designated smoking area out the back, which you know all about. Let’s back up one moment, because pardon me if I state the blindingly obvious, you don’t smoke!’
‘Kitty had some cigarettes.’
‘And?’
‘It just seemed like a good idea at the time. She unjammed the window with a penknife she had in her bag.’
‘And you thought you’d just hang out of the window now it was open and start smoking even though you don’t?’
‘Not now, Sally, OK?’
‘When, then?’
‘Just leave me alone, would you? You’re not my mother.’
I don’t know what she’s on about, but she looks like shit.
‘Come on. Let’s go up,’ I say to her. ‘Let’s get some tea or something.’
‘Did you see me go for the phone call?’
‘I heard them come to get you. Wish they’d come to get me!’ I say. ‘Why, what’d they want?’
‘Susan left a message for me to call her. Said she had something urgent to talk to me about.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I say, thinking that I haven’t phoned her today. We’re through our front door, and Clare flops down onto the sofa with her dressing gown drawn up over her knees.
‘So I call her back and she says she’s got a load of names for me – from some emails that they’ve found. Wants to know if I know any of them.’
‘And did you?’
‘Never heard of any of them. But then she said they’d found a T-shirt. The forensics people. Wanted to know if I was missing one. Or if I’d had an accident wearing a T-shirt. An injury to the neck or something.’
‘And did you.’
‘D’ya know what, Sally? I could have done. I’m not sure of anything anymore. I guess not recently. My injuries tend to be burns and bruises.’
She said that so matter-of-factly, it was shocking. I looked away. She’s just a kid.
‘Man’s or woman’s T-shirt?’ I say.
‘I dunno! I couldn’t understand what she was on about.’
‘What does she mean, “injury to the neck”?’ I say.
‘That’s just what she said. She said they’ve been bleached away, the stains. But not entirely bleached away. She wanted to know if I knew anything about it.’ She looks at her hands. ‘He always wanted everything bleached. He was mental about hygiene. Had to bleach the floors, every day. All the work surfaces. The bathrooms. The toilets. Bleached all his white shirts.’
‘That why your hands . . .?’
‘He wouldn’t let me wear gloves. She said it’s too late to see me today but they would be over tomorrow and that I might have to go to the police station.’
Talk about jumping the fucking gun. They can’t just go from finding a bit of blood to assuming someone’s been stabbed, Gareth I mean, that’s what they must think. ‘He could have nicked himself shaving, cut himself on a broken glass or something. I mean, for heaven’s sake, you could have dropped the fucking Sunday roast down your own T-shirt.’
‘It wasn’t a bit of blood,’ she says. ‘It was quite a lot of blood. Spattered. It’s hard to get rid of blood. That’s what Susan said.’
Thirty-Six
DS Clarke
DS Clarke can see the blue-and-white police tape as soon as she turns into Oval Road, and the two forensics vans parked either side of the silver Lexus, also taped off, outside the house.
An officer she’s never met before is under the bonnet of the Lexus, and another newbie is holding one of those inspection mirrors under the passenger side.
She smiles to herself. She’s about to tell the officer that she doesn’t think he’ll find Gareth James under there, but then doesn’t. Not the time for levity.
It’s hard to get rid of blood, she thinks. Most people think all you do is get a bit of bleach and you’re sorted. But you need to get the right bleach. Chlorine bleach makes the bloodstain disappear, but the forensics team use Luminol and then it’s back, clear as day. You have to use oxygen bleach to properly get rid of blood. With hydrogen peroxide in. Really buggers up evidence, does oxygen bleach.
DS Clarke nods to PC Chapman who’s standing like a sentry by the front door, strides over the doorstep and onto the black-and-white tiled floor, now patterned with the muddy treads of many police boots.
‘Shouldn’t we have . . .?’ she starts.
‘Documented,’ calls a voice from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Come through, DS Clarke. We’re waiting for you.’
Josie Byron, DS Clarke’s most trusted Scene of Crime Officer is suited up, and turns to face DS Clarke in the doorway of the kitchen.
‘The markers represent the extent of the blood evidence,’ she says. An area, a metre across, has been sectioned off in the centre of the kitchen and running alongside the cupboards beneath the work surface.
‘What about on the drawers?’ asks DS Clarke.
‘Getting there,’ comes the reply.
‘Best guess?’ says DS Clarke.
‘You know I don’t do best guesses.’
‘Something, though?’ says DS Clarke. She knows that face.
‘Well,’ says Josie Bryon. ‘A crime definitely took place, I’m 99 per cent sure it’s human blood. The spatter pattern is not clear yet. You’ll have to wait on it.’
DS Clarke nods. ‘And?’
‘And it’s been badly cleaned up.’
‘That’s it? Badly cleaned up? Done in a hurry?’
DS Clarke had been hoping for more.
‘Or done by someone who just wasn’t bright enough?’
DS Clarke thinks about Clare and Gareth. Neither fit that bill.
‘What about if they were really bright? says DS Clarke.
‘That’s what I thought. Given the amount of cleaning fluids they have in this house . . .’
‘What,’ says DS Clarke, frowning, ‘You think it was left deliberately?’
‘I’m saying it’s an option.’
‘Or they were in a hurry . . .’
‘Or they were too confident.’
‘I’ll await your report. Thanks, Josie,’ DS Clarke says quietly. ‘Call me on my mobile if there’s anything else.’
*
When DS Clarke gets back to the office, the report on the T-shirt is waiting in her inbox.
DNA profile from Clare Chambers (43872641)
289, Oval Road, Camden
‘Have you seen the DNA result?’ shouts PC Chapman, from her desk.
‘Reading it now,’ she calls back.
In this case, all the bands present in the profile obtained from the T-shirt are not represented in the profile of Clare Chambers.
The results from the DNA profile . . .
‘Great,’ says DS Clarke.
‘What?’ says PC Chapman.
‘It says the result of the DNA profile obtained from the T-shirt is approximately twelve million times more likely to originate from someone unrelated to Clare.’
‘Really? Twelve million?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So probably not her then,’ PC Chapman says, sitting down in the chair opposite.
‘Probably not . . .’
‘Or her dad.’
‘Unless, of course, her dad wasn’t her dad,’ says DS Clarke. ‘We do know her dad was her dad, right?’
‘Yes, they’ve been DNA matched.’
‘Good that they’ve given us something to work with though, right? We’ve got someone’s DNA. Possibly Gareth’s.’
‘What about the kitchen floor?’ says PC Chapman.
‘Human, but no DNA report yet.’
‘So, we’ve got significant signs of a violent crime, but no perpetrator and apparently no victim, except Clare – who doesn’t match.’
DS Clarke returns to her inbox.
‘If we believe we have a cr
ime, then we must have a perpetrator and a victim. What about if there were two victims?’
PC Chapman’s eyes grow wide.
‘What, another victim? Someone else?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Clare would have said.’
‘Would she? You seem very confident, Dawn. Clare doesn’t seem to be able to remember anything much about the night before she turned up at the station. Or the days or the weeks before that. I’m not sure we know who Clare really is.’
‘With the greatest respect, Detective Sergeant . . .’
DS Clarke, still scrolling through her inbox, interrupts.
‘Never trust a person who starts a conversation with that phrase. With the greatest respect what, Dawn?’
‘Look, you’ve run far more cases than . . .’
‘Yes, Dawn, I have. Hence, when I hold up a red flag, you need to take note. Just because criminals appear nice, doesn’t make them innocent. Some of the nicest people I’ve ever met have ended up being guilty.’
‘Really?’
‘Well no, not really – but you catch my drift.’
‘I’m only saying that . . .’
The phone rings, and DS Clarke is almost grateful because Dawn, bless her, is actually starting to annoy her. It’s hard to think straight when everyone around you is . . .
‘Sarge, it’s Walker. I’ve just got back from the wedding shop as instructed. Would you like me to bring in my report or email it?’
‘Bring it in now, Walker. Chapman and I are both here.’
DC Walker hands DS Clarke one printout and another to Chapman. She’s trying to appear efficient.
‘At approximately 11.03 hours, I visited the The Wedding Boutique in Chiswick High Road, London W4 5RG. I met the owner, Ms Meering. Ms Meering . . .’
‘How old?’
This process is too drawn-out for DS Clarke.
‘Who?’
‘Ms Meering?’
‘Oooh, I don’t know, quite old.’
‘Mid-sixties? Mid-fifties?’
‘Early fifties,’ she nods.
‘Middle-aged, then,’ says DS Clarke.
‘Right. She says she has owned the lease for the shop since 2001, and that previously she had leased premises in New King’s Road, with a similar business.’
‘Are you just going to read out the whole thing?’ DS Clarke says to Walker.
She nods and continues.
‘Ms Meering sells bespoke wedding dresses. She says that brides-to-be book an appointment, try on different styles, select a style, then a dress is created from scratch. Ms Meering says prices range from two and a half grand for a simple, man-made fibre dress, to up to fifty grand for an Italian silk dress.’
‘Can we cut to the chase, Walker?’
‘I am,’ she says, nodding again.
‘Ms Meering remembers a couple matching the description of Ms Clare Chambers and Mr Gareth James. She particularly remembers Mr James as she says she spent more time with him than Ms Chambers, who was trying on gowns with her assistant. She remarked that Mr James was a charming young man who had offered to give her some advice regarding the interior design of the store. She said that he had commented that he was an architect but had also studied interior design. She said that he had called himself “The Full Package” and she laughed and said that she had agreed. I asked if she was always this familiar with grooms; Ms Meering said that she had been joking.’
‘And she thought that was funny, did she?’ DS Clarke says, looking up at Walker.
She nods and continues to read from the printout.
‘She was unable to confirm what date the couple had come into the shop. She said that they had walked in off the street, and that it was evening time, just before she shut shop, which was unusual as most brides-to-be make an appointment and go when there’s daylight. So they can see the dresses better,’ she said. ‘The light is better during the day, you see,’ she added. She goes back to reading.
‘She said it was also more normal for a bride-to-be to bring a friend or a relative – the mother of the bride, most usually, but that Mr Gareth James had revealed Clare had no living relatives. She seemed most disturbed by that.’
‘What does that mean? “Disturbed”?’ says DS Clarke.
‘She asked if Clare was in some sort of trouble.’
‘And did she ask about Gareth?’
‘No, but she did say that she saw him a few weeks after the initial meeting.’
‘Presumably when he went to collect the dress?’
‘No, she said she had bumped into him socially. “Purely by chance”,’ she said.
‘Did she actually say “Purely by chance”?’
‘She did,’ says Walker, snapping shut her laptop, with a perfunctory smile.
‘And?’
‘And I left, saying that I would call her if I had any further questions.’
‘Walker. Where did she bump into him socially? For heaven’s sake.’
‘Is that pertinent . . .’ begins Walker, then nods and turns to leave.
‘What do you think?’ DS Clarke asks Chapman, once Walker has sidled out and closed the door.
‘I think that there’s something a bit odd about a woman who chats up bridegrooms.’
‘Not as odd as a bridegroom who chats up a fifty-year-old shop owner, even if she scrubs up like a dream, while his fiancée is trying on wedding gowns. Tell me you’ve got something good on Gareth’s laptop. Tell me we are getting sodding somewhere with this case.’
‘I’ve brought you a memory stick. Take it home with you. Maybe the cats can help.’
Thirty-Seven
Clare
Mrs Henry woke us up.
God knows what time.
I didn’t hear the door.
Sally answered it.
Said to let us know that DS Clarke was on her way with Celia.
It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.
But I’d rather get it done with.
‘Look,’ says Sally. ‘Why don’t you let me come in with you, so I can help you if you feel upset or anything?’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong. Why would I get upset? It’s just stressing me out.’
Babe.
I’ve got this friend.
He could give you some vitamin shots to help calm you down.
‘I know you haven’t done anything wrong, but it doesn’t sound like . . .’ She runs out of steam.
‘Doesn’t sound like what?’
‘Look, all I’m saying is that if you want me to be around, I can be around, and if you find you are getting freaked out, I can be waiting for you with a pizza or something, doughnuts, coffee, neat vodka, cigarettes . . .’
‘Cigarettes?’ I say, giving her a face.
‘Well, she’s a freak, that Kitty, and you know it. About as much use as a cock-flavoured lollipop.’
I pull a face.
‘She’s not that bad,’ I say, trying to imagine a cock-flavoured lollipop.
‘I’ll admit she gets my knickers in a twist,’ she says, ‘but I have my reasons. I don’t like her.’
‘She has more of a life than we do,’ I say. ‘Going to dance class. Shopping! Hanging out in bars. All the stuff I used to do when I was young.’
‘Says the ancient twenty-four-year-old!’ laughs Sally.
Prashi’s eldest bangs on the door.
‘Mum says whoever it is that’s visiting you is here!’ she calls.
You know what I’ve noticed as well.
You forget stuff.
So, like yesterday, I told you to clean the floor, with bleach.
And you know what, I think you forgot to use the bleach.
Standards, babe, standards.
My face must have registered something.
‘You haven’t done anything, so stop looking so damn glum and get down there and be confident,’ Sally says.
She looks better without her makeup.
&nbs
p; That’s what Gareth always used to say about me.
Said I looked like a hooker in lipstick.
Even if it was just lip salve.
What’s that scab doing on your lip?
You look like a smack addict.
What do you mean?
Babe, I never even touched you.
I never will touch you, either, with a face like that.
Go put some lipstick on or something.
Cover that thing up.
Is it a sore?
Have you been sucking dick again?
‘Hello, Clare, it’s good to see you. I’ve brought Celia with me, she’s just getting a coffee.’
I don’t know what to say to Detective Sergeant Clarke.
Susan.
I feel like she’s switched sides.
At first, she was all nice. Now she doesn’t even like me, let alone believe me.
She puts her bag next to the table. A proper briefcase. Like official. She has files and forms and stuff in it.
And her laptop.
She sees me looking in her bag.
‘You OK? Finding your feet here?’
‘I’d rather be at home. Have you found Gareth yet?’
‘No, not yet, Clare. He’s still top of our priority list.’
She’s lining her stuff up on the table. Straightening things.
‘Checked the hospital CCTV again yet?’
‘Yes,’ she says slowly. ‘We have someone on that. As I’ve said numerous times.’
Rustling unnecessarily in her bag.
‘But they still haven’t found anything?’
‘We don’t believe he was there. There are over five hundred cameras. There’s no one meeting his description.’
Taking things out of the bag, then putting them back.
‘I love the way you say you don’t believe he was there. Not definitive, is it? Pathetic. You’re not getting very far then, are you?’
‘Shall we not start out this way, Clare?’
She drops a file on the floor and bits of paper go everywhere.
‘I’m not trying to give you a hard time,’ DS Clarke says. ‘I’m trying to find out what happened.’
‘I told you what happened.’
No one will ever believe you, babe.
You don’t even know when you’re lying.
