Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane said nothing, but she suspected there was some truth in Edwards’ comment. Just as she was about to follow him back to the CID car, Paul called out: “Can you grab the large roll of Scotch tape from my forensic bag?”

  He and the SOCO had wrapped the body in the white body sheet and twisted each end tight. Jane knew the procedure and helped by rolling the tape several times around each twisted end to secure them. She always found it surreal that a bagged dead body ended up looking like an enormous Christmas cracker.

  “Thanks, Jane.” As the SOCO moved away, Lawrence asked, “Is Moran always so tetchy these days?”

  “Wife had a baby recently; sleepless nights are probably getting to him.”

  “Well, he was wrong to have a go at you and ignore my advice. He should have called out a pathologist.”

  “He was probably just asserting his authority to let us know he’s boss.”

  “He might be in charge, but he’s spent most of his career on various squads like vice, so he’s not had a lot of experience in major crime or murder investigations.”

  “He did solve the Hackney rapes and murder committed by Peter Allard, the cab driver,” Jane pointed out.

  “Yes—but I also recall he was accused of faking Allard’s confession. If it hadn’t been for your dogged work in that case, he wouldn’t have solved it. He showered himself in glory because of you, Jane. He seems to have forgotten that you stuck your neck out for him that night in the park acting as a decoy. You were the one that got attacked by Allard, not him.”

  “I know, Paul, but I think he’s mellowed since our Hackney days. Apart from this morning he’s been OK towards me.”

  “Well, I’d be wary of him, Jane,” warned Lawrence. “He likes to think he knows best, which puts not only the investigation at risk, but the officers on it as well.”

  Chapter Two

  After leaving the murder scene, Jane returned to the station to prepare for the house-to-house. It was 10 a.m. and she was in the canteen with DC Edwards and DI Gibbs, who was still dressed in his rock band gear and looked like someone working undercover in Carnaby Street. She was ready to brief thirty detectives and uniforms—male and female officers—who had been called in to assist with the house-to-house from local stations. Placing thirty blue A4-size folders down on the table, she waited for Gibbs to address the officers first.

  “H-to-H is your show, so tell ’em what you want done,” Gibbs whispered to her, sitting on the edge of a canteen table.

  It was the first time she’d briefed fellow officers as a DS, but despite feeling nervous, she spoke in a loud, firm voice.

  “OK, listen up, please. I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison, in charge of the house-to-house enquiries on this murder investigation. For those of you who are not aware, the body of a white female was found in Bussey Alley at four thirty this morning by a local market trader. It appears she’s been strangled and possibly sexually assaulted. Misper enquiries have so far proved negative and it is imperative that we identify her as soon as possible. Thorough and detailed house-to-house enquiries are critical to the investigation.” Jane paused. The room was silent, then an elderly PC spoke.

  “You really a DS, love?” he asked in a condescending manner.

  Jane was annoyed at being called “love,” but before she could reply, Gibbs stood up and pointed at the officer.

  “Yes, she is, and if you don’t like it then I suggest you bugger off back to your station and tell them DI Gibbs kicked you off house-to-house because of your attitude.”

  There were raised eyebrows around the room. Due to his unusual attire, nobody had suspected that Gibbs was a DI.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the offending officer replied.

  Jane was irritated that Gibbs had spoken for her. “And you can call me Sergeant or Sarge,” she said, looking at the PC, pausing briefly before continuing.

  “Each folder contains a description of the victim. Every resident must be asked if they know or had seen anyone matching that description in the last twenty-four hours. I want full background details of all the occupants in every residence. There is also a questionnaire about their movements and whereabouts on Friday and the early hours of Saturday morning.” Jane pointed to the blue folders on the table in front of her. “Help yourselves to a folder. Each one has the street and premises numbers to be visited on the front. If you feel that anyone is lying, hiding something, or being evasive, then inform myself, DI Gibbs or one of the Murder Squad. Please leave the completed forms and questionnaires in the CID office, which is being used as the murder incident room. I have marked up a desk tray as: ‘In, completed H-to-H.’”

  As the officers stepped forward and helped themselves to a folder, Gibbs leant towards Jane.

  “Well done. Good briefing.”

  “Thanks. I could have handled that PC myself, you know, so next time, please don’t …”

  “Yeah, I know you could, Tennison. It’s just that those mouthy uniforms really get up my nose, especially the old boys who try to impress the crowd.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him while I’m out monitoring the house-to-house.”

  “Edwards can do that. Post-mortem’s set for eleven a.m. and you need to be there.”

  “Will Moran be OK about that?”

  “You were first on scene, so officially you have to ID the body to the pathologist. I’ve not had much dealing with Moran before, other than briefly on that Allard case. Is he always so grumpy and serious?”

  “He and his wife are struggling with a new baby, keeping them up a lot. Edwards thought Moran might take some time off and let you run the investigation.”

  Gibbs laughed. “He probably gets more peace and quiet here. Shitty nappies and sleepless nights don’t appeal to me either. You must be knackered yourself, what with being up all night.”

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll finish writing up my night duty report and give you a lift to the mortuary.”

  “I’m waiting for my girlfriend to bring me in a change of clothes from my flat, so I’ll meet you there,” Gibbs said, walking away.

  Moran, Jane and Lawrence were in Ladywell mortuary, Lewisham, with Professor Dean Martin, the forensic pathologist. Lawrence knew Martin well, having worked with him on countless murder investigations. Jane had met him on previous murders she had been involved in.

  Dean Martin made the usual crack about his name to the audience. “As good looking as I am, I’m not to be confused with the Rat Pack crooner.”

  As Jane watched him put on his green mortuary gown and black wellington boots, she thought that he had put on weight since she last saw him. He was now in his late fifties, the top of his head was bald with thinning grey hair at the sides, his half-moon glasses were perched unsteadily on the end of his bulbous red nose, his cheeks had become ruddier through alcohol consumption and he was walking with a limp.

  “Have you hurt your leg, Professor?” Moran enquired.

  “No, a build-up of uric acid crystals in my foot is giving me hell,” Martin replied gruffly.

  Moran looked confused, but Lawrence whispered an explanation. “The prof has gout due to too much booze. It’s extremely painful so he may be crotchety throughout the PM.”

  The victim’s body was already laid out on the steel mortuary slab, covered with a white sheet. Moran looked at his watch.

  “Where is DI Gibbs? It’s nearly ten past and I told him to be here for eleven.”

  “His girlfriend turned up with some more suitable clothes, so he went to the men’s locker room to get changed before coming here.” Jane thought it was strange that Moran wanted Gibbs to be at the PM. Normally only one senior officer attended, whilst the other looked after the incident room and made sure all the necessary actions were being undertaken.

  The mortuary door suddenly flew open.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Gibbs sauntered in wearing a very fashionable tan-colored tweed suit, matching waistcoat, white button-down shirt, matching wool tie and brown slip-on boots.

/>   There was a stunned silence as everyone took in what Gibbs was wearing.

  “You forgot your deer stalker hat, Sherlock,” Lawrence remarked.

  Gibbs smiled. “I’ll have you know that it’s herringbone tweed and made to measure from a shop in Knightsbridge … Admittedly it’s a second-hand shop where high society locals take their unwanted clothes, but nevertheless, great quality and a bargain.”

  Martin laughed. “It’s probably a dead man’s cast-off.”

  “That may be so, Prof, but it’s better than the creased, shiny-arsed, grey pin-striped suits the rest of CID wear,” Gibbs replied, pulling his tweed jacket forward by the lapels to accentuate how classy he thought he looked. Gibbs saw Lawrence nudge his head towards Moran, who was wearing a grey pin-stripe suit.

  “Of course you’re the exception to that statement, guv,” Gibbs said sheepishly, in an effort to cover his faux pas.

  Moran shook his head. “It’s one extreme to the other where your dress sense is concerned, Spencer. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m sure the professor would like to get on with the post-mortem.”

  Martin pulled the white sheet from the body, in the manner of a magician working an audience when they reveal something during a conjuring act.

  “Do we have a name for this poor girl?” Martin asked.

  “No. A dead set of fingerprints was taken to the Yard. No match so far, but they’re still working on them,” Lawrence replied.

  “Unfortunately the pathologist is unwell, though I suspect it’s an excuse as he was out on the booze last night. DS Lawrence, I’d be grateful if you would assist me as you have a great deal of experience in mortuary procedure.”

  Lawrence gowned up and asked Jane to list and package the exhibits, which she was happy to do. She identified the body as the one in Bussey Alley and confirmed that, as yet, Missing Persons and house-to-house enquiries had still not revealed who she was. Moran added that the divisional surgeon had stated time of death was just before or after midnight. Jane saw Lawrence discreetly raise his eyebrows at Moran’s remark, as Martin lowered his head and glared over the brim of his half-moon glasses at Moran.

  “A divisional surgeon should only pronounce life extinct; comments on injuries or time of death are not their domain. If I’d been called to the scene, I could have taken a rectal body temperature, checked hypostasis, state of rigor mortis, whether it was present, and or affected by weather conditions—all critical factors in determining a reasonably accurate time of death.”

  Moran looked embarrassed. By his silence he clearly knew he should have heeded DS Lawrence’s advice at the scene. Tactfully not looking at Moran, Lawrence took some photographs of the victim before she was undressed and her clothing put in exhibit bags for forensic examination at the lab. Her blue coat, pink blouse and bra were removed first. Lawrence remarked that the clothes didn’t look expensive and the blouse had a Littlewoods label inside the collar. Jane double-checked the blouse and confirmed that, although they had only recovered three buttons, four had come off, so one was still missing. She confirmed that the market trader’s boots had been checked by a DC when he came in to make a statement, but no joy. As Lawrence removed the victim’s pleated skirt, they could all see that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  “Her underwear may have been taken by the killer, as some sort of sick souvenir,” Jane suggested.

  “Or she may not have been wearing any,” Gibbs added politely.

  “Either of you could be right. However, there are no scratch marks around or below the hip area or upper thigh to suggest they were forcibly removed.”

  Lawrence took out the stockings and suspender belt, then handed them to Jane, who had a closer look.

  “There’s not a tear or ladder on either of these stockings, which seems strange if she was attacked in the alleyway and forced to the ground.”

  Martin looked closely at the victim’s hands, knees and face. “Her hands are quite calloused—possibly from some form of manual labor. I can’t see any abrasions consistent with being forced face down onto the pavement, or dragged along it. That’s not to say she landed on her back in the first instance, but we’ll get to that later. There are faint signs of old stretch marks on her tummy, so I’d say your victim has given birth, but not recently.”

  Martin took swabs from the victim’s mouth, vagina and anus to be tested for semen.

  “Has she been sexually assaulted?” Moran asked, pointing to some marks on her inner right thigh.

  “The abrasions on the thigh are linear scratch marks, but there’s no bruising to her vaginal or anal area. The abrasions are parchment-like, the surface is dry and there are no signs of bleeding or bruising, so in my opinion the scratches occurred after death.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not quite sure what you mean, Professor,” Moran said.

  “Her assailant may have committed necrophilia and that’s why there’s no vaginal bruising.”

  There was silence in the room as everyone felt sickened at the thought of such a depraved act. Jane was used to attending post-mortems, and although hardened to some of the horrific sights she saw, she always felt sad for the victims and the fear and pain they must have suffered at the hands of their killers.

  At Martin’s request, Lawrence helped him lift the victim’s head and shoulders to sit her upright, so he could get a look at her back and the knotted end of the ligature on the nape of her neck. Martin pointed to a circular-shaped bruise in the middle of the victim’s back.

  “This is not uncommon when someone is on the floor being strangled from behind: the killer kneels on the victim to get a better grip on the rope and stop him or her getting up or struggling. However, if it happened like this, and she struggled, I’d expect friction abrasions on her forehead or nose from contact with the pavement—but as you can see, there are none, which is very unusual.”

  Lying the victim back down, Martin asked Lawrence for a small scalpel. Gibbs stepped back, thinking Martin was about to cut the body open for an internal examination. The last thing he wanted was anything splashing onto his tweed suit.

  Martin placed the scalpel blade on the rope. “I don’t want to disturb the ligature knot, so I will cut through the rope at the front.” He took his time, slowly cutting through the cord before removing and handing it to Lawrence.

  The deep black and blue bruising imprint of the rope around the victim’s neck was now visible.

  “Considerable force must have been used to strangle her,” Martin muttered.

  Lawrence placed the cord on top of a property bag for closer examination.

  “It’s not hemp, so probably cotton or synthetic. About one inch thick and slightly frayed at both ends, as if it has been cut with scissors or a sharp knife, but I’ll get a scientist to look at it,” Lawrence said.

  “It’s tied in a form of slip knot,” Jane observed, wondering if the victim was attacked from behind in the alleyway.

  “Like a hangman’s noose,” Gibbs remarked.

  Moran leant over. “Looks like a sailor’s slip knot to me.”

  Gibbs and Jane turned to Moran.

  “You’d know, would you, guv?” Gibbs remarked.

  “Yes. I’ve been in The Met sailing club for ten years, so I know a bit about knots and loops. I’d say that if you untied the knot and laid it out flat, the length would be about three foot.”

  Gibbs was impressed. “Good call, guv. Might help when we get a suspect, especially if he’s into sailing.”

  Moran shrugged. “Possibly, Spence, but rock climbers, and even scouts, use the same or similar sorts of knots.”

  Lawrence was deep in thought and didn’t hear Martin ask him for a large scalpel.

  “Is something troubling you, DS Lawrence?”

  “It’s the lack of abrasive injuries on the front of the victim, plus there was some smeared blood on the back of her coat, which may have come from the suspect, yet there were no drops of blood on the pavement at the scene, which is making me wonder if she was mur
dered elsewhere and her body dumped in Bussey Alley?”

  Jane always respected Lawrence’s eye for detail.

  “Very astute, DS Lawrence,” Martin responded. “The settling of blood on the front of the body, known as lividity, is consistent with the position she was found in. However, lividity begins to work through a deceased within thirty minutes of their heart stopping and can last up to twelve hours. Only up to the first six hours after death can lividity be altered by moving the body, but—”

  “So she could have been murdered elsewhere and moved,” Moran impatiently interrupted.

  Martin looked over the rim of his glasses, the habit that inevitably preceded a curt reply. “I wasn’t called to the scene, DCI Moran, to examine the lividity on her body in situ, so in answer to your question, I don’t know for certain, but she could have been. And before you ask, I will give an estimation of time of death after my post-mortem.”

  Moran looked annoyed by the professor’s tone of voice. Martin was often blunt and to the point, but Jane felt he was being particularly condescending, especially as Moran was the senior officer in the room and in charge of the investigation.

  Martin continuously made notes throughout the post-mortem and spent the next two hours dissecting the body, removing the internal organs and brain, weighing them and taking samples of blood and urine to test for drugs and alcohol. When he’d finished, he put down his clipboard of notes and removed his gown.

  “What was the state of rigor on the body at the scene?” Martin asked Lawrence.

  “Pretty stiff, but not fully when we lifted her onto the body bag.”

  “Right, the rigor was fully stiff when we started at eleven, the stomach contents contained some semi-digested food particles, which is common in people who died two to six hours after a meal. This is in no way conclusive, but assuming she last ate between twelve and two, that gives a possible time of death range anywhere between two p.m. and eight p.m., which suggests that your thoughts about the body being murdered elsewhere and dumped in Bussey Alley are correct, DS Lawrence.”