by Chris Simms
'I don't think so. We got the mum out of the front room as quickly as we could. I brought her in here and made her a cup of tea...' She pointed to the draining board at the side of the sink.
Jon saw that she wasn't pointing at the sink full of dirty cups and glasses. 'Where did you find the mug?'
'Just there sir, washed up on the draining board. Next to that other one.'
'Washed up? You mean still wet?'
'Yes, I dried it with the tea towel.'
Jon ran his fingers through his cropped brown hair in a gesture of disappointment. 'Go on.'
Aware that she was now being questioned, the officer went on more carefully. 'She smoked three or four cigarettes. Stubbed them out in the ashtray on the table.'
'Yeah, they were Lambert & Butler.' Jon looked into the ashtray and said almost to himself, 'The daughter smoked Marlboro Lights, I think. There's Silk Cut and Benson & Hedges in there, too.' The urge to light up suddenly hit him. He turned away from the ashtray and its stale smell that should have been so unpleasant. 'OK, get her to the station; we'll need her fingerprints, a DNA swab and samples from her clothes. Her fibres will be all over the body.'
'So it's definitely suspicious then, sir?' She sounded thrilled. 'I thought she might have had a heart attack or something.'
'Don't get too excited – you're in for a bollocking from your sergeant out there. You forgot to check for a pulse. But yeah, I'd say it looks dodgy. The neighbour described her as a ravehead and there are signs of her smoking heroin in the bedroom. And whatever that stuff is blocking her throat, it doesn't look or smell like puke to me.'
As soon as he was alone, Jon went back into the kitchen. Balanced on top of the soiled glasses and cups in the sink was a bowl and spoon, fragments of bran flakes clinging to the surfaces. If the cups and glasses were left over from the night before, and the bowl was from breakfast, why were there just two freshly washed up cups on the draining board? Had someone else been here that morning? Someone she had offered to make a drink for?
He pulled his phone out and called his base. 'Detective Chief Inspector McCloughlin, please. It's Detective Inspector Spicer.'
After a few moments his senior officer came on the line. 'DI Spicer, I hear you were the first plain clothes officer at the scene of a suspicious death. What have you got?'
'Young female, appears to have choked to death on something. We'll need a post-mortem to ascertain what. My guess is that, if we have a killer, he came in and went out by the front door. It appears the person was let in, so she probably knew them. There's certainly no signs of forced entry or any kind of struggle.'
'So you don't think the case will turn into a runner?'
'I doubt it. My guess is it will be the usual – a friend or family member. I think it should be fairly clear-cut.'
'Right, how do you want to play it?'
'Well, until we've established cause of death, there's no point panicking and calling the whole circus out. We need to photograph her and get a pathologist down to pronounce her, so we can get the body to Tameside General for an autopsy. The scene is preserved here, so I'll call in a crime scene manager to make sure it stays that way. Then, if cause of death turns out to be suspicious, we can start worrying about calling in a SOCOs and the full forensics rigmarole.'
'Sounds like a good way of playing it. Which other cases are you working on?'
'My main one is the gang hooking car keys through people's letterboxes.'
'Operation Fisherman?' asked McCloughlin. 'How many officers are assigned to it?'
'Seven, including me.'
There was a pause as McCloughlin mentally divided up manpower and caseloads.
Jon knew his senior officer was deciding whether to move him to the murder investigation. Before he could decide, Jon said, 'I'd really like to remain on Operation Fisherman, if only in a minor role, while this murder investigation is ongoing.'
'Your partner's still off with his back problem, isn't he?'
'Yeah,' Jon replied.
'Listen. It's time you led a murder investigation yourself. This one seems like it should be quite straightforward. I think it'll be a good one for you to cut your teeth on.'
'You're making me Senior Investigating Officer?'
'You've got it. Just keep me up to speed on everything.'
'And Operation Fisherman?'
'They can do without you while you get this one wrapped up.'
A mixture of excitement and disappointment ran through him. The gang stealing high-performance cars had taken up so much of his time over the last few months, but now he had his own murder case. 'Will do, boss,' Jon replied.
Next he called his base. 'Hello, Detective Inspector Jon Spicer here. We need a pathologist, a photographer and a CSM at Fifteen Berrybridge Road, Hyde. Who's available for scene management?'
'Nikki Kingston is on duty,' said the duty officer.
Jon immediately smiled – the case had just become a whole lot more attractive. 'Send her down please,' said Jon, flipping his phone shut and popping a stick of chewing gum in his mouth.
The pathologist and photographer arrived less than fifteen minutes later. While they were still clambering into their white suits, Nikki's car pulled up. She climbed out and went straight round to the boot, opened it up and put on a large red and black jacket that looked like it had been designed for scaling Everest in. As she walked over, the bulky garment only emphasized how petite she was and Jon found himself wanting to scoop her up and hug her.
Looking Jon up and down she said, 'You not freezing your nuts off in that suit?'
Jon grinned. 'Good to see you, Nikki.'
She was already looking at the house. 'So come on then: scores on the doors, please.'
'OK, the two CSOs over there are passing the house on a foot patrol when they hear a commotion inside. They go in to find what turns out to be the victim's mother in the front room hugging the body. One officer retires immediately to call for supervision; the other officer manages to get the mum away from the daughter and into the kitchen. I arrive, check over the rest of the property...'
Nikki interrupted, 'So you've been round the rest of the house?'
Jon nodded.
'OK,'said Nikki. 'I'll probably need a scraping from your suit for fibre analysis at some point.'
'No problem,' Jon replied. 'On realizing the body hadn't been checked for a pulse, I re-entered the house and, using a load of magazines for footplates, got to the body. Obviously she was dead.'
Nikki raised her eyebrows. 'Magazines for footplates? Nice bit of improvisation.'
Jon smiled briefly. 'One other thing. There's a cup on the draining board next to the sink and another on the kitchen table with a kiddy-style picture of a snail on it. They're worth bagging up as potential evidence – someone was drinking out of them recently. Problem is the CSO made a brew for the mum in the one with the snail on the side.'
Nikki shook her head. 'We'll be lucky to get anything off that.'
At that moment the ambulance pulled up, so Jon moved his car to allow it to reverse into the mouth of the driveway.
The pathologist and photographer approached the house, pausing on the front doorstep to put on white overshoes, caps and face masks. Laying rubber footplates out before him, the pathologist led the way inside. Almost immediately the front room was filled by white flashes as the photographer went about his work. Ten minutes later the pathologist reappeared in the doorway and beckoned the ambulance men in with the stretcher. Stepping carefully on the footplates, they disappeared into the property.
Nikki and Jon moved round the side of the vehicle, out of sight of the small crowd of onlookers who had now gathered.
'How's giving up going then?' asked Nikki, still looking towards the house.
He thrust his hands into his pockets as if to stop them scrabbling around for a cigarette. 'Doesn't get much easier. I haven't had one since before the Commonwealth Games though.'
'That's bloody good. How long is that –
three months or so?'
'Yeah, about that. Did you find it a nightmare for this long?'
'Did? Still do. Though on fewer and fewer occasions. Pubs are the place to avoid for me. That and meetings about the divorce with my solicitor.'
'Your ex is still acting the prick then?'
'Oh yes, he's really honing that skill of his nowadays.'
Jon's lips tightened in sympathy and he said, 'Well, just thank God no kids are involved I suppose.'
Nikki let out an incredulous laugh. 'There's no way that's ever going to happen. I've seen too many friends go on Prozac immediately after they give birth. Motherhood? No bloody thank you. Anyway.' She clapped her hands together softly to end that part of the conversation. 'You're still using chewing gum. Is that to fight your cigarette cravings or to make sure your breath smells sweet for me?' Impishly, she glanced up at him.
Enjoying the game, Jon caught her eye then looked skywards, only to see Alice's face in the clouds above him. Quickly he looked down and said with a smile, 'In your dreams, Nikki – you know I'm way out of your league.'
'Cheeky bastard,' she laughed, and went to jab him in the ribs.
Jon caught her fist just as the ambulance men reappeared with the body, the pathologist following along behind. Clicking instantly back into professional mode, Nikki pulled her hand free and walked back round the ambulance. Once the body was safely inside, she got the ambulance men to sign their names in the log book for people who had entered the crime scene. Meanwhile Jon had stepped over to the pathologist. 'Any ideas?' He pulled off his face mask and started removing the white shoe covers. 'Well, I'd say death occurred due to suffocation. All the signs are there: bluish lips, ears and nails, petechiae – burst capillaries around the eyes and on the eyeballs themselves.'
'And the white stuff blocking her airway?'
'It's not any sort of secretion I've seen. I'd say she's had the stuff pumped down her throat somehow, but until I've seen in her lungs and stomach, I can't say for sure.'
'Can you start the autopsy?'
'Yes, that's fine. Of course, I'll hand over to the home office pathologist as soon as I can confirm it wasn't natural causes.'
'OK – can one of you call me as soon as you know?' said Jon, handing him a card.
He turned to Nikki. 'I need to get away and interview the mum. Can we completely seal the house until the autopsy result is confirmed? If it's suspicious you can arrange for forensics to come over.'
In a voice kept low so none of the onlookers could hear, she said, 'Tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm.'
Jon winked in reply and walked over to his car.
After a bit of persuasion Mrs Mather had accepted the fact that her fingerprints, a swab from the inside of her cheek for DNA testing and combings from her clothes for fibre analysis were needed. After that, she answered Jon's questions about her daughter, Polly.
Twenty-two years old, single, keen on music and clubbing, worked in the Virgin Megastore on Market Street. As was often the case with people hovering at the edge of an industry, she had ambitions for a more central role. In Polly's case she was lead vocalist of a band, The Soup.
The beer cans and full ashtrays in Polly's front room were the result of the band having been round at her house the night before. Because he had recently been her daughter's boyfriend, Mrs Mather had a phone number for the band's bass player, Phil Wainwright. She asserted that the split had been amicable – the result of Polly wanting to travel round the world while he wanted to concentrate on gigging and trying to find a record deal.
Shortly after Jon had arranged for a patrol car to take her home, his mobile went. It was the home office pathologist. The autopsy had been handed over to him because there were only small amounts of the white substance in the oesophagus and trachea, and none in the lungs or stomach. This meant it had definitely been introduced from the outside, probably while she was still alive. What was confusing the pathologist was how it could have got there. He explained to Jon that, for the cough reflex not to function, a person would have to be in a coma or under very heavy sedation. In his opinion this was the case – the substance had formed a neat plug at the back of the girl's throat with almost no evidence of her choking and spluttering. Therefore, with the victim unconscious at the time of the substance being introduced, a third party had to be involved.
'So we'll need a toxicology report then?'
'Yes. If she was subdued with a hospital anaesthetic – propofol or maybe sodium thiopentone – it should be present in her blood in the form of metabolites, but I haven't found any marks so far to suggest she's been injected. Of course, in order to find evidence of narcotics, a full toxicology analysis will be needed. We haven't got the necessary facilities here.'
'Right – can you prepare a blood sample for me? I'll get it sent down to the forensic science lab at Chepstow.'
Next he called DCI McCloughlin. 'Boss? It looks like murder.'
'OK, open an incident room. Ring round and see which stations have any rooms available and I'll start getting a team together for you.'
'Will do.'
After finding a room at the divisional headquarters in Ashton, Jon decided to give Phil Wainwright a ring. As soon as the phone was answered Jon could hear loud talking and music in the background. A second later a gruff voice said, 'Hello?' It was spoken loudly, as if the person was anticipating not being able to hear very well.
'Is that Phil Wainwright?'
'Yeah! Who's this?'
'Detective Inspector Jon Spicer, Greater Manchester Police.'
'Oh, hang on.' The voice disappeared and Jon could hear only background noise until a door shutting caused it to suddenly grow fainter. 'Sorry, you caught me behind the bar. This is about Polly?'
Emotion made the last syllable wobble and Jon thought, he knows already. 'Yes.' 'I thought it would be. Her mum rang me an hour or so ago. You're going to question me, aren't you?'
'Not formally, no. But I need to talk with everyone who was at her house last night. Where are you now, Phil?'
'Peveril of the Peak. I'm a barman here.'
'Nice boozer. Any chance of chatting to you?'
'Well, the evening rush hasn't started yet, if you can get over here.'
'I'll see you in a bit.'
It was dusk as he crossed over the junction for the M60 ring road, a steady stream of cars gliding by beneath him. Following the signs for Aldwinian's Rugby Club, he entered Droylsden. The perfectly straight road stretched far off into the distance, regularly interspersed by traffic lights shining red, amber or green. Flanking each side of the road was an endless terrace of the chunky redbricked houses with grey lintels that made up so much of Manchester's Victorian estates.
Abruptly the built-up area came to an end and he emerged into the open space of Sportscity, Manchester City Football Club's new stadium dominating the facilities around it. Then he was past and the road dipped, only to start rising upwards to dark mills that loomed forlorn and empty, brickwork crumbling and broken windows gaping in silent howls. Reaching the crest of the slope he could see beyond them to where the lights of the city centre twinkled, Portland Tower and the CIS building clearly visible. Jon felt an itch of adrenaline as he looked at the city and contemplated all that was happening in its depths.
Dating from the mid 1800s and one of Manchester city centre's proper pubs, Peveril of the Peak was a strangely shaped wedge of a building. Clad in green glazed bricks and tucked away on a little triangular concrete island, it was closed in on all sides by towering office buildings and apartment blocks. Jon parked by some recently completed flats and slipped through the side door of the pub. The bar was in the centre, various rooms leading off to the sides. He looked round the smoke-filled interior, surprised by the lack of people: his mobile phone had made it sound like the place was packed. Instead just a few students and real-ale types were dotted about. Jon glanced over the three bar staff, eyes settling on a youngish man with about four days' stubble. He was dragging
nervously on a cigarette and wearing a T-shirt from a Radiohead concert.
'Phil Wainwright?'
'Yeah,' he replied, grinding the cigarette out with a bit too much urgency. 'Fancy a drink? The Summer Lightning is a great pint.' His finger pointed to the tap marked 'Guest Beer'.
'Tempting, but no thanks,' said Jon. 'Is there a quiet room we could ...?'
Phil lifted up a section of the wooden counter and stepped into the customers' side of the pub. 'This room's empty.'
They sat down on some ancient and battered chairs, the upholstery rubbed smooth through years of use. He pulled another cigarette out of a packet of Silk Cut and offered one to Jon.
Another show of hospitality. Another attempt to break down the occasion's formality. Slightly irritated, Jon waved it away and took out his notebook.
'So, how are you feeling?'
Flicking a lighter, Phil dragged hard on the cigarette. 'Pretty numb, actually.' Smoke crept from his lips by the second word.
Jon's eyes strayed to the tip of the lit cigarette and he reached into his pocket for a fresh stick of gum. 'Giving up,' he explained, unwrapping it and regretting the fact he had allowed Phil an angle into him as a person, not a police officer. Before the insight could be seized upon Jon continued, 'Now, you were round at Polly's last night? What time did everyone leave?'
'Just before midnight.'
Noting this down, Jon continued, 'And was anyone else there apart from the members of your band?'
'No, just us.'
'Did anyone stay the night?'
'No, we all left together. Ade walked back with Deggs – they share a flat. I went about halfway and turned off to go to my own place.'
'How did Polly seem to you last night?'
'Fine.' He paused and frowned. 'Although she's been up to something lately. She's had the odd call on her mobile that she's been really shifty about.'
Jon kept quiet to tease another comment out of him.
'Walking off to have conversations – it was really annoying. I assumed she had started seeing someone else.'
