"Some of the bruises to her body, such as this one here, are yellowish brown and diffuse see?"
They looked as Foster stubbed out his cigarette on a saucer.
"It means," he said, 'that, unlike these bruises here which happened on the day she died, these yellower bruises are a couple of weeks old.
Quite severe ones, too. Not the normal knocks a kid gets playing around. Now contents of stomach .. "
He strolled over to his desk and flipped open a file.
"According to Mallory, our little lady had cereal and orange juice for breakfast. The stomach also had traces of milk proteins and nuts could be an ice-cream eaten some time before she died."
Walker looked over Foster's shoulder, squinting at the report.
"Can't you give us a time of death, or near enough?"
"Death occurred between three and seven on Thursday, that's the best I can do."
"Any chance of telling us if it definitely was ice-cream?"
Foster lit another cigarette and shook his head.
"You need to talk to forensics. But if she did eat an ice-cream and they had a wrapper or, even better, a stick, there could be some of her DNA on it, couldn't there?"
Barridge had been in turmoil ever since he'd found Julie's body.
Flashbacks of her face kept exploding in his mind, and tears were never far away. He'd cried openly when they'd taken the child's body from him.
This afternoon he was with Brown and Phelps on the search for the child's clothing. It was a more dreadful, because less hopeful, task than the search they'd been carrying out yesterday. Now they were back at the row of derelict houses into whose flooded cellars he had got a ducking on the Thursday night.
He was wearing chest-high waders again as he inched his way through the water, examining every disgusting object that floated on the water. There was plenty of clothing. He thought the worst was the knitwear. It seemed to absorb the most stomach-turning smells and when you lifted it from the water it exhaled them into your nose. Or was he imagining this?
His torch started to flicker. He banged it against his
hand and it came on again. He flashed it into a corner of the cellar where a wardrobe was standing drunkenly askew. He saw a piece of air-filled clothing, floating half concealed behind the wardrobe. It looked red. Then his torch went off again.
"Can you bring some more light over here, in this corner?"
Brown and Phelps started to work their way towards him. They shone their torches at the wardrobe.
"What colour was her anorak?" asked Barridge.
"Red."
Slowly, he began to force his way towards the soggy lump of red material bobbing in the black water.
The rest of Julie's clothing had turned up in the cellar and, with the anorak, it was bagged and sent down to the forensic science laboratory in Lambeth, where the shoes, pants and post-mortem swabs, as well as ground samples taken from the area around the sewage pipes were already undergoing tests.
Driving to the same destination that afternoon, immediately after their meeting with Foster, North was at the wheel with Walker alongside her. He was smoking and staring out of the window and hardly saying a word. The more the traffic on London Bridge impeded their progress the more fiercely he inhaled the smoke. Here was a man heading for a heart attack, thought North. But then, show me a senior police officer who wasn't.
Sweeping into the labs. Walker was told Arnold Mallory had left for the Old Bailey.
"Great. We come all this way and the man we want to talk to is attending court. Bloody great!"
The next most senior scientist working on the Julie Harris case was James Haggard. When he appeared, Walker demanded a report on the deposits on Julie's shoes. He needed to know where she went after the playground, he needed to know where she might have died.
"And. what about the rope? Where did it come from? Are there any prints?"
Walker was like an impatient businessman, chivvying a sluggardly supplier for early delivery of an order and this, as it happened, was close to the truth. In these cost- conscious times, the forensic service is operated as a business, a profit centre. Every test carried out by them, every report printed out or appearance by an expert witness, was cos ted and charged to the account of the investigation in this case, to Walker. And the Detective Superintendent constantly had to remind himself that the old profligate, scattergun days when an investigating officer simply ordered any test he wanted, were over.
Now he had to work within a budget; he needed, in short, value for money.
Patiently, Haggard parried the questions as best he could.
"All in good time, you know, Mr. Walker. We're pulling out all the stops."
"According to Doctor Foster she was sexually assaulted. Can't you even give me anything on that?"
Haggard was a grizzled old scientist, close to retirement. He'd had all this a thousand times before pushy detectives demanding instant results. He sighed.
"Detective Superintendent, you'll get all we get as soon as we get it.
You know Mallory's heading the team. He's so an ally retentive, nothing comes out of here before he's satisfied. "
He looked around a shade furtively. It was a cheerfully clinical room, with laminated tables ranged in rows. At one table, two forensic biologists were microscopically examining the clothing for blood and other stains. At another, chemists were analysing mud from the shoes and other environmental samples. Haggard set off for a corner where no one was working, beckoning the police officers to follow. The section of rope, which the detectives had last seen wrapped around Julie Harris's neck, lay flat on an unattended table. The scientist gestured down at it.
"It was wound round her throat twice and pulled. No knot was tied.
Just what you see, a loop one end. The free end has been cut. No touching please. "
Going over to a pin-board with a display of photographs of the exhibit, he started fishing in his lab coat pocket. He tapped a close-up of the small loop and began unwrapping the sweet he'd taken from the pocket.
"The loop has traces of paint on the inside layer structure, brown over green. It's as it would be if the rope had been attached to a post."
"So? What are you saying?" asked Walker.
"Find the post--' " And you can match the paint? "
Haggard popped the toffee into his mouth.
"Oh, yes no problem there."
Back in the Incident Room, Satchell was having a go at anyone who'd listen about the late finding of the clothes. Catching sight of Pat North he strode up to her.
"Somebody should give your lot a bollocking. That cellar had been officially searched. We could have had those clothes yesterday. Bloody incompetence!"
Yeah, yeah, thought North. Local yokel plod. This was the type of thing that gave AMIP its name for abrasive elitism. She was just about to react when she heard Reg Cranham's voice, with a note of real urgency in it.
"Guy! Call just came in from a Mrs. Enid Marsh Howarth Estate."
Walker remembered the name but he couldn't quite place it.
"And?"
"Well, she was questioned the night the victim went missing. Said she didn't know anything then but now she's seen the TV news and, well--' " Well. what? What? "
"She said she saw the victim, guy, with a man in the playground. She then described the clothes exactly Peter James's appearance long hair, long dark coat..."
"What time? Did she give a time?"
Cranham smiled, with a hint of triumph. He didn't like Peter James.
"Yep! Just after one o'clock, so she says."
There was a momentary pause, then North murmured, "So it's the stepfather. Do we bring him in?"
"And call off the search for Michael Dunn?" Walker held up his hand to check the outbreak of chicken- counting.
"No. If we find Michael Dunn we still hold him."
"On what?"
"Stolen videos. Come on, Inspector, let's go and talk to Enid Marsh."
T
he old lady insisted on serving them with tea which, at her speed of movement, could not be done within ten
minutes. Impatiently Walker and North sat on the sofa while the wherewithal was assembled on the low table in front of them. At last, Mrs. Marsh was ready to tell her tale. And it was better than Walker had dared hope. Not only had she seen the child she'd seen her with a man.
"The first time I saw her, it was like she was playing a game. You know, covering her eyes and peeping through. She was laughing. That was a quarter to one."
Walker took a sip from his tea. It was a good cup, he gave her that.
"And did you see her again?"
"Yes, I did. At exactly five past one."
She levered herself out of her chair and stood before them in something like a pose. Her sitting room had turned, for her, into a stage.
"He was reaching out, like that."
She let go of her walking frame and demonstrated. Then she turned and began a long shuffle towards the balcony.
"But anyway, you know, I wasn't paying attention. I was looking for Mrs. Wald, waiting for my dinner. I was hungry."
She had reached the door and was leaning on the handle.
"I went outside. From my balcony I've got a view of a bit of the playground. I often look at the kids down there. And I..."
She paused and leaned forward with a small jerk. Her voice flipped up to a higher register.
"But look, that's him! That's him, down there."
She opened the door and started to shuffle outside. Walker and North were beside her.
"Who?"
"The man. The man who was with the little girl!"
Down below the roundabout was revolving. There was not a child in sight, only a man of about twenty-five, with long matted hair and a shin-length coat of dark material. He had got the platform turning and was now standing dangerously on top of it, swaying and singing as loud as he could. In his fist he gripped a can of extra strong lager.
Detective Superintendent Walker moved like lightning, with Detective Sergeant Satchell at his side. Dunn seemed unaware of their presence until Satchell almost ripped his arms out of their sockets as he grabbed the iron rail to stop the roundabout. Dunn fell backwards laughing, the lager spraying from his can. Droplets spattered across Walker's face. He never lifted a hand to wipe them away. He never took his eyes off the drunk's face.
"Michael Dunn, I am arresting you in connection with the theft of videotapes."
chapter 8
SUNDAY 8 SEPTEMBER
IT being Sunday made no difference. At half-past five, like most mornings. Pat North left her boyfriend Graham in bed, still wrapped in several layers of sleep and snoring gently. He was unwakeable before seven- thirty nine at weekends. Even then, he'd take an hour to come to, mooching around the flat like a wounded bear, slurping tea and growling at his post or the paper. It was better to be out of his way.
She knew, if ever they should marry and have kids, this would be the most difficult bit for him getting up in the small hours, the family breakfast, the carefully timed school run.
Night time was when Graham reached his best. The previous evening they'd gone out to the pub and she'd told him about the arrest of Michael Dunn that afternoon, how he'd fallen about and sung "Bohemian Rhapsody' for hours in the cell. They'd been back at home in time for the news but there was no mention of Dunn's arrest and afterwards Graham was eager to speculate about the murder.
"Is it this Dunn character, though? Sure, he's a drunk and he's disreputable, so all the neighbours point at him. But is he the only suspect?"
Pat remembered the dressing-down Walker had given in front of the whole unit, reminding her unnecessarily that about fifty per cent of child murders are committed by someone inside the family. She didn't elaborate, just mentioned the possibility of Peter James, Julie Ann's stepfather. Graham asked about the real father, and by now Pat was becoming loath to discuss it further, saying that Thomas Harris was a soldier in Ulster and had already been checked. To her irritation Graham continued to ask what evidence they had against Michael Dunn. It appeared almost as if he was siding with him.
"For God's sake, Graham. This isn't bloody Cluedo. A five-year-old girl is dead. She was molested. The man who did it will do it again unless we stop him. It could be Michael Dunn, it might not be. Our job is to find him. Which is why I need to go to sleep. You may not have to, but I'm working tomorrow."
She'd gone straight upstairs, leaving Graham to his beloved Match of the Day. But what she'd said must have had some effect. He brought her a cup of tea, which she didn't really want. He set it down on the bedside table, leaning forward to stroke her head.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to sound like a prat, but you know sometimes it's good to talk about it. It was the only way I knew how to get you to open up. You may not even be aware of it, but since this little girl case started you've been on edge, biting my head off."
He smiled, missing Match of the Day. She sat up and lifted her arms.
It was a hug she needed, and caught in his arms she whispered, "She was so tiny, Graham." And the tears she would never allow any of the men or women at the station to see now gave her a much needed release.
Driving across London from west to east, she focused on the issue that would dominate the rest of her day. They had a suspect but not a crumb of evidence. They needed time for forensics to search his flat minutely, they needed time to question him. For this, a pretext was necessary, and the best they had was the stack of hopefully stolen videos found in Dunn's flat, which lay on the seat alongside her.
She drove on to the Howarth Estate and past the parade of shops until she came to the news agent She opened the passenger door and carried the videos inside. It was six-thirty. Mr. Shah was organizing the newspaper boys, giving them their loads of Sunday papers. He glanced at the pile of ten video feature films, running his finger down the titles Aladdin, My Little Pony, The Terminator, The Lion King, Die Hard, Child's Play and checked for his security mark scratched on the plastic casings.
"Yeah, these were all mine."
"We found them at the flat belonging to a Michael Dunn. You know him?"
"Yes. He " He stole them from you? They are stolen, Mr. Shah? "
Shah shook his head and smiled, with his eyes wide.
"I always like to help the police, Inspector, but I'm sorry to say these were not stolen."
North was aghast.
"Not stolen? But you said they were yours."
' Were. Michael Dunn did an occasional paper round for me. I was replacing or running down my stock of videos. Some of them had snowy pictures The Terminator very bad. Customers were complaining. So I gave them to Michael Dunn instead of money for his paper round. "
"Did he say why he wanted the kiddies' films?"
"No."
"Or the violent ones?"
Shah shook his head.
"People don't generally say anything about the films, you know. They just take them and leave."
He shrugged and North briskly gathered up the tapes.
"Since they are not at the present moment yours, you won't object if I take these away again right?"
As she walked into the AMIP Incident Room she could hear Skipper Donaldson giving Barridge a bollocking.
"You cocked up, you know that? Enid Marsh house to house. Ring any bells? You questioned her. Now she's come forward as our identifying witness ..."
Barridge blinked miserably.
"Sorry, sarge."
But Donaldson was only just getting into his stride.
"Plus you were doing the search at the cellar. You only missed her clothing. And you missed her shoe by the pipes. How come, Barridge? If you'd been more diligent, we might have got to her sooner. You do know that?"
Barridge looked as if he might cry.
"I wasn't the only one there. I--' " Don't answer me back, son. I'm telling you, you screwed up. She was alive in that sewage pipe for almost two hours. "
Barridge swivelled sli
ghtly, looking for support from others in the room. Detective Superintendent Walker was
standing just behind him. In his panic, he appealed to the AMIP Superintendent.
"Jjit Dunn, sir? I mean. Sergeant Donaldson says But the Superintendent appeared not to hear. He was checking some names on a memo, then looked up to see if the constables in question were present. He pointed to Brown and Phelps and then Barridge.
"You two, and you, are on house to house inquiries."
There was an audible groan from Brown. Walker shot a look at him that would have stalled the Wall Street Crash. He held up an index finger.
"I want you to check every washing line on that estate. Every washing line. We're looking for a match to the one found around Julie Ann's neck. It's there on the board, check it out. We want to know about any washing lines or similar plastic-coated rope that may have gone missing."
He looked hard at PC Barridge.
"Don't screw up this time it's the murder weapon we're talking about, got it?"
Barridge's mouth fell open so the Super had heard Donaldson's tirade.
"It wasn't my faulty he muttered to Phelps.
"I wasn't the only one there. Bloody hell!"
Walker took North by the arm and guided her to one side.
"Dunn's still sleeping it off- Christ, it must have been some hinge.
Where'd he get the money? Anyway, it gives us more time to find something on him for Julie Ann. You seen the news agent Can we charge him for those videos? "
North shook her head.
"Fraid not, guy. They're all ex- rentals."
"Dunn bought them?"
"No, Dunn did a few paper rounds and he took the videos instead of cash."
"Shit! There must be something!"
Walker fished out a Marlboro, broke off the filter tip and stuck the ragged end in his mouth.
"Guv, you know how we got those videos, don't you?"
Walker made a face, removed the cigarette and picked a flake of tobacco from his tongue.
"Yeah, yeah. Pretext was checking for damage." Walker reversed the cigarette and lit it.
"Well, there were a number of toys kids' toys there as well. One of them was a doll."
Walker's eyes sparked.
"Doll? Haven't we followed it up with the family? Haven't we checked if it was the victim's?"
TR01 - Trial And Retribution Page 8
