Devil in the Detail

by A. J. Cross

  ‘I want you to talk some more about what happened.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The directness of the single word response took him by surprise. ‘You told me last time how events led to you and your husband being in that street and about the man who got into the car.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From what you said, this man appears to have been very much in control of the situation, yet he still used the gun. I’m trying to understand that.’

  She stared at him, saying nothing.

  ‘Did something happen which led him to do that?’

  ‘You’re saying that we caused him to shoot us?’

  ‘No. One person is entirely responsible for what happened that night, the man with the gun, but the police need to understand how and why events occurred in the way they did.’ He waited for a response.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘What do I know, Molly?’

  ‘You know it was my fault.’

  ‘No—’

  ‘It was, Will.’ She clasped her hands at her mouth, her eyes fixed on his. ‘He … he did something … the man.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  She looked away from him. ‘He told me to open my coat. Unbutton my shirt.’

  Traynor’s thinking was in freefall. The investigation was now pursuing the possibility that the attacker was known to one or other of the Lawrences. Now, here, was a further dimension they knew nothing about. One which was giving Traynor a clear message. It wasn’t appropriate for him to pursue it.

  ‘Molly, do you recall Police Constable Chloe Judd who came to see you at the hospital?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘How do you feel about seeing her again, talking to her about what you’ve just said to me—?’

  ‘He touched me.’ Her breathing quickened. ‘He leant over me, put his face against … me, his mouth on my neck, my chest. That’s when Mike lost it. That’s when he shot us.’

  Traynor waited out the silence. ‘Is there anything else you want to say about it?’

  She shook her head.

  Traynor had carried within him for a decade the certainty that his wife had been attacked sexually by whoever had killed her and taken her away. He looked down at his hands, saw the tremor in his fingers, closed down the line of thinking. There was another question he had to ask.

  ‘This man. Was there a physical characteristic, something in the way he moved, his voice or tone, the way he phrased what he said that led you to think he was at all familiar?’

  Watts’ eyes were fixed on Nigel’s face, intent on what Nigel was telling him.

  ‘I’ve done years of security work. I’m no overweight bladder of lard who rocks up to a building site or whatever, does one turn around it in an eight-hour shift then hangs around the office drinking coffee, or sods off home. I take pride in what I do. The shots we told you about. The ones Abdul and me heard that night. You were right when you said they would have got my interest. I usually take the dog for a walk when Abdul starts closing up at ten. I decided I’d go in the direction of the shots.’ He saw Watts’ face change. ‘In the direction I thought they came from.’

  ‘What time was this, again?’

  ‘I’d say around ten fifteen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I walked over to Forge Street. There was a car there.’

  Watts’ head came up. ‘Describe it.’

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t say much about it. Dark-coloured. That whole lousy street was dark and it was raining.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, what? It was there. The car. In the dark.’

  ‘Was one of its rear doors open?’

  Nigel frowned. ‘No, it wasn’t. All the doors were closed and all was quiet. No lights. Nothing.’

  Watts absorbed this. Nigel had either got the time wrong or he hadn’t noticed the small detail in the dark. ‘Did you see or hear anything else that night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see any movement inside the car?’

  ‘No. It had dark windows.’

  Windows, thought Watts. ‘Did you see any damage to them?’

  ‘I didn’t approach it, but not from where I was standing.’

  ‘How close did you get to it?’

  ‘I was on the other side of the road.’

  Watts sighed, gave him a disgruntled look. ‘You should have told me all this before now.’

  ‘Told you what? That I saw a car?’

  ‘You’re sure you didn’t pass anybody on foot or in a vehicle as you walked over to Forge Street?’

  ‘No, nobody.’

  Watts glared at him. ‘I said, think. Think about your walk there. See it inside your head.’

  ‘If you’d been there, seen how dark it was—’

  ‘I was there. I know what you’re saying.’ He watched the big face opposite, saw it crease into a frown.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Watts. It’s all … The more I try to think, the less I remember.’ Watts was on his feet.

  ‘Stay here.’

  Something he recalled Hanson his years-ago psychologist colleague saying about witness recall was inside his head. He opened the door, walked the corridor, saw Reynolds. ‘Get a witness statement form. Bring it here.’

  He came back to Nigel. ‘After you’ve given a statement about what you’ve told me and anything else that occurs to you, I want you to go home, put it out of your head. All of it. Don’t think about it.’

  ‘I thought I’d do some brain-racking later—’

  ‘No. Leave it alone. Relax. Watch the box. Do whatever you usually do. You’ve got my number if anything does occur to you, but what I’m saying is, don’t push it.’ Reynolds arrived with a statement form.

  ‘Sorry I’m no help, Mr Watts. I’ll do what you’ve said.’

  Glancing outside, seeing the Aston Martin, Watts left Reynolds to take the security guard’s statement and headed for his office. He found Traynor inside. He went directly to the Smartboard, started writing, talking over his shoulder to him.

  ‘The security guard has just decided to tell me that he was walking his dog in Forge Street after hearing the nine thirty shots. He’s not sure of the time but he thinks he was there around ten, possibly ten fifteen. He saw the Lawrences’ car parked there.’ He stopped writing, looked over his shoulder. ‘One thing doesn’t add up. He said all the doors were closed … What’s up?’

  ‘Molly Lawrence has told me that they were shot because Mike Lawrence lost control.’

  Watts turned to him as Judd came inside. ‘He lost control because the gunman sexually assaulted her.’

  ‘You said she was holding back. What else did she say?’

  ‘That he unbuttoned her shirt, put his mouth against her neck, her chest, that there was nothing about him that appeared familiar to her. She said he was a stranger.’ He looked up at Watts. ‘As a male, I’m not the appropriate person to talk to Molly about that.’

  Watts looked across at Judd. ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll also pull all the jackets on sex offenders known for armed vehicle invasion.’ She frowned. ‘Hang on. How many days is it since the shooting? If we’d known about this sooner, we might have got DNA.’

  Watts eyed Traynor. ‘DNA might still be there.’

  Traynor took out his phone. ‘This morning, Molly Lawrence took her first shower since leaving hospital.’

  Judd raked at her hair. ‘Didn’t it occur to her to tell us that any sexually motivated contact is something she should have told us about immediately?’

  ‘I want to know what happened to her and her husband’s clothes after they were admitted to hospital.’ He reached for his phone. ‘Mrs Monroe? Will Traynor. Do you have the clothes Molly was wearing on the night of the shooting?’ He glanced at Watts. ‘Yes. We’ll ring them, thank you.’ He ended the call. ‘As far as she’s aware, the hospital still has them. Molly was asked if she wanted them. She said no.’

  Watts snatched up the desk phone.
‘You said it, Judd. If we’d known about a sexual element sooner, we might have him by now. Molly Lawrence must know about DNA. Didn’t she think?’

  ‘I’m guessing that all of her thinking, her critical faculties, were fully taken up with the aftermath of being shot,’ said Traynor.

  Watts eyed him. ‘Is that sarcasm I’m hearing?’

  ‘No. Realism.’

  Watts was talking into the phone. Judd looked across at Traynor. ‘He’s going to be mega pissed off if he doesn’t get those clothes. Yes, I’ll talk to Molly.’

  Watts put down the phone. ‘Can’t fault the hospital’s organization. They parcelled the clothes up for Mrs Lawrence to take home and when she refused them, they put them in store. They’re sending them over now. I’ve requested Mike Lawrence’s clothes as well. I’d better alert Brophy.’

  Judd looked at him. ‘Don’t, Sarge. Don’t tell him you’ve only just requested them. He’ll go on about why we didn’t check them out before.’

  ‘I’ve said it before, Judd, I like the simple world you live in. Unfortunately, I live and work in this one. You know that as soon as those clothes arrive here, they’ll be logged into incident room records, logged again by forensics. Brophy’s strength, if one exists, is that he likes facts, records. He’ll know about it.’ He headed for the door. ‘That’s the least of my concerns. Tomorrow, we start talking to the people who knew the Lawrences.’

  Judd watched him go. ‘The trouble with Sarge is he takes everything personally.’

  Traynor looked up. ‘Probably because his is the name heading the investigation.’

  ‘That wouldn’t get me in a state when I’m in that position.’ She reached for the phone. ‘Want me to ring Molly Lawrence to say I’m available to talk to her whenever it suits her? Will?’

  ‘Leave it with me for now. There are some things I have to think about.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Wednesday 19 December. 10.10 a.m.

  Chong’s gloved hands deftly unsealed the grey plastic bag and removed several others of brown paper from inside it. Watts watched, impatience climbing as she opened the largest of them, reached inside and pulled out a heavy coat. She carefully unfolded it on to the sheet of thick white paper covering the examination table.

  ‘One black winter coat, property of Molly Lawrence.’

  Her hands moved over it, patting its surface, stopping when they reached the pockets. She reached inside one – ‘Left pocket void’ – and reached into the other. ‘Right pocket contains …’ She drew out a dull looking object, laid it on the paper. They both looked at it.

  ‘Her watch,’ said Watts, seeing the thick layer of dried blood covering it.

  ‘It’s probably a nice one if we could see it properly.’ She called to her PM suite assistant. ‘Igor? Camera, please.’

  He arrived with a nod for Watts, stood close to the table, angled the camera downwards and fired off several shots of the watch. She lifted it carefully, peered at it, took a lens Igor was offering, looked again. ‘I can see one fingerprint in the blood … possibly a second.’ She looked up at Watts, his eyes fixed on the watch. ‘I can see that you’re stunned by my expertise.’

  ‘Molly Lawrence said she hid her watch in her pocket so that the shooter wouldn’t get it. I should have been on to it before now.’

  She reached for it and placed it carefully inside an evidence bag. ‘I recall you telling me how heavily stained her hands were at the scene. She probably handled it after she and her husband were shot, maybe to check it was still safe inside her pocket.’ She walked from the table and returned with a small, handheld device. ‘Before I send it and the rest of the clothing upstairs, I’ll vacuum the coat, including the pockets.’

  ‘And once Adam has it all, he’ll do the same.’

  ‘Yup. That’s because we’re anal-retentive, science-y types.’ She looked up at him. ‘I phoned the hospital about Mike Lawrence’s clothing when it didn’t arrive and was informed that it had already been disposed of. Incinerated.’ She watched his colour build.

  ‘They knew he was a homicide victim!’

  ‘I’m merely delivering the news that the disposal is a done deal,’ she said, evenly. ‘Like you, the hospital staff were under pressure that night. It’s just another thing to let go of, Bernard.’

  ‘I’ll check is what I’ll do.’

  ‘Thought you might. Being a compulsive police-y type.’

  Consulting the label on the next bag, she removed its contents. ‘One expensive-looking cream silk shirt, property of Mrs Molly Lawrence.’

  Gently unfolding it, she placed it flat on the paper-covered surface. It was stiff with dried blood on its right side, all of it now a dull rust. A picture of Molly Lawrence slumped against the front passenger door rushed into his head, a detail getting his attention: a small, round hole low on the right side of the shirt, another close to it.

  ‘Entry and exit bullet holes,’ said Chong, carefully folding it and placing it to one side, reaching for another item. ‘Black wool trousers.’ She turned them around to him. ‘Extensive blood-run over the upper back portion from the waistband downwards.’

  ‘I overlooked the possibility of DNA and I should have got on to the hospital and requested these clothes days ago. It’s basic training-manual stuff.’

  ‘They’re here now and they’ll all be thoroughly tested. We might get something.’

  She folded the trousers, returned them to the bag, opened another and removed an item of pale pink underwear. She held up the delicate lace pants, also heavily bloodstained, reached for the matching bra. ‘Molly Lawrence has a subtly expensive taste in clothes,’ she murmured. ‘And you were straight into a high-pressure murder case with all the markers of a non-contact shooting motivated by theft. There was no reason to consider the possibility of sexual contact.’

  ‘You know what I’m saying. I’m losing my edge.’

  He watched her return each item to its relevant bag, hand them to Igor, then methodically fold the thick white paper covering the table onto itself several times, before placing it inside a plastic bag and adding details to its label.

  ‘That’s my job done. I’ll take it all to Adam so he can do his thing with any hairs, fibres and whatever else there might be.’ She regarded him for several seconds. ‘Bernard, his team might find somebody else’s DNA, they might not. I know it’s frustrating but try to lose the “bulldog-with-toothache” look. It doesn’t become you.’

  She shook her head as he headed for the door and out. Removing latex gloves, she rang the hospital and was informed that if an inventory of the Lawrences’ clothes had been taken, its whereabouts was now unknown. Years ago, Chong had worked in an emergency hospital department. People did their best in life-and-death situations. Things got overlooked. It happened to all workers involved in those kinds of situations.

  Going to her desk she consulted her copy of the Lawrence case file, found the home telephone number of the husband’s family. A woman answered.

  ‘Mrs Lawrence? This is Dr Chong, the pathologist at headquarters, Rose Road. I apologize for intruding at this time but I understand that your son and daughter-in-law visited you earlier that evening of the incident? Is there any chance that you recall in detail what your daughter-in-law was wearing?’

  She listened, wrote down details, thanked the woman and put down the phone. From what she had just been told, they had all of the clothes Molly Lawrence was wearing on the evening she and her husband were shot.

  12.10 p.m.

  Mrs Monroe was looking agitated. ‘I had to ring you, Dr Traynor. I’m so worried. She’ll probably tell you she’s feeling much better. She isn’t. She sits upstairs or in here, staring straight ahead. No television. No books. She refuses to talk to her work colleagues when they ring, including this really nice woman who’s her assistant. She doesn’t go out. To be honest, I’m glad about that because if she did, I’d be worried sick about where she was and what she was doing or might do.’ She looked across at Trayn
or. ‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

  ‘Has Molly seen her GP?’

  ‘She refused to go.’

  ‘Then, I’m sorry to say, I don’t think there’s much you can do, Mrs Monroe.’ He guessed that she was not yet aware of what Molly had told him about the sexual assault.

  ‘Can you do anything, Dr Traynor?’

  ‘My work with her is very specific to the police investigation.’

  ‘I understand the police need answers and it must be very frustrating that she’s so reluctant to talk, but …’ She shook her head. ‘There’s just no end to this nightmare.’

  The door drifted open. Traynor stood as Molly came into the room, with a glance for her mother.

  ‘Are you telling Dr Traynor what a lost cause I am?’

  ‘Molly, please—’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you, Will, but it’s not a problem.’

  Mrs Monroe left the room. He watched Molly move slowly to the sofa and sit. To Traynor, she looked deathly pale. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Getting there. Shall we start?’

  He kept his voice and tone low-key. ‘The last time I saw you, you told me about something else that happened to you that night.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Have you thought about speaking about it to one of my police colleagues, the young woman I mentioned whom you’ve met before?’

  She looked up at him, a trace of a smile on her face. ‘The young officer with the spikey blonde hair who came to the hospital? She was nice, really supportive, but …’ She shook her head. ‘I just can’t talk about it.’

  Traynor carefully framed his response. ‘Given the nature of what the man did, if you reconsider, would you ring Detective Inspector Watts?’

  ‘I don’t want more people, police, in my life. I want everything just … normal.’ She glanced in the direction of the front door. ‘How could I be so stupid?’ she whispered. ‘Those two officers who stand outside. I didn’t question why. They’re here to protect me and my mother, aren’t they?’

  Traynor’s response was non-specific. ‘It’s routine in a lot of situations. By the way, your watch.’ She looked up at him, her face expressionless. ‘It’s safe. My police colleagues have it. They’re examining it and it will be released to you as soon as possible.’