Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  Whitehead was visibly shocked and seemed close to tears. “My God … Poor Andrew, losing his father and now his mother, in such a horrific way. Sybil was a member here for many years. She was a private woman but incredibly generous, and helped with charity events and parties at the club. She was a very accomplished golfer, as was her late husband. How is Andrew? Is there anything I can do for him?”

  “He’s obviously distraught and in shock, but he’s bearing up. I need to ask a few questions.” Gibbs took out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me who Mrs. Hastings regularly played golf with?”

  “Well, Andrew, for one, but mostly at weekends with him. Then there were two or three local women that she regularly played with.”

  Gibbs asked for their names and addresses, but the major said he wasn’t sure if he was able to provide personal details of members without their permission. Gibbs couldn’t be bothered to argue with the pompous major and asked him to contact the women personally to request that they ring him at Peckham CID.

  “Was Mrs. Hastings friendly with any of the male golfers?”

  “If you are asking whether she was in a relationship with any of them, no, not that I know of. She was friendly with everyone, male or female. Even after her husband died, she continued supporting the club by attending functions with her son.”

  “I believe Andrew Hastings played golf last Friday, in a competition?”

  “Yes, that’s right, in the winter medal. He came second. Plays off a two handicap, you know.”

  Gibbs didn’t have a clue what that meant, and wasn’t about to ask.

  “Yes, it was a pity he couldn’t stay for the dinner and collect his medal.”

  Gibbs felt his heart race. “Oh, why was that then?” he asked casually.

  “Apparently one of his children was taken ill, so he had to shoot off home.”

  “Oh dear. What time was that?” Gibbs continued.

  “I’m not sure exactly. The meal started at five p.m., and I remember asking Michael Blake—he’s one of your chaps, senior officer at Scotland Yard. Do you know him?”

  “Yes. What was it you asked DCS Blake?”

  “Where Andrew was. It was DCS Blake who told me he’d gone home, and why. I gave him Andrew’s runner-up medal so he could pass it on to him. Gosh, you don’t suspect him, do you?” The major’s eyes widened.

  “No, not at all. Seems he and his mother were very close. Right, that’s all for now. Thanks for your help. We haven’t released any details about Mrs. Hastings’ murder to the press yet, so I’d appreciate it if this conversation remained confidential.”

  “As a fellow officer, you can rely on me, Inspector Gibbs.” The major saluted.

  Gibbs suspected that no sooner had he driven out of the car park that Whitehead would be in the bar boasting to everyone that he was assisting police in a murder investigation. He chuckled to himself at the way the major had inadvertently dropped Andrew Hastings in the proverbial shit, making him a possible suspect in his mother’s murder.

  If Sybil Hastings and the unknown victim’s murders were linked, Gibbs was now even more determined to find the connection.

  Chapter Six

  Many of the back streets in Soho, and in Marshall Street itself, were strewn with piles of rotting rubbish due to the bin men’s strike. Jane was struggling to find a parking space, but eventually squeezed into a space between overflowing rubbish bags. The stench that filled the air as she made her way to the Samaritans branch reminded her of being at a post-mortem.

  After ringing the doorbell, Jane was let into the building and approached a smiling young lady sitting behind a desk.

  “I’m afraid all our volunteer listeners are busy at the moment, but if you’d like to take a seat in the waiting room, I’ll get someone to come and see you as soon as I can.”

  Jane took out her warrant card and introduced herself to the young lady, who looked embarrassed.

  “I’d like to speak to the manager, please. It’s police business, not personal.” Jane smiled.

  “We have a leader on duty—I’ll show you to her office.”

  After being shown Jane’s ID, the leader shook her hand and invited her to sit down. She was a portly woman in her mid-fifties.

  “How can I help you, Sergeant Tennison?”

  “Does a Mrs. Sybil Hastings work here?”

  “Yes, but she’s not on duty today. Is she in trouble?”

  “I’m sorry to have to inform you that she’s been murdered. I’m part of the investigating team and we’re trying to piece together her last known movements.”

  The leader was very distressed. “Sybil? Murdered? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m very sorry. Can you tell me when she was last on duty here, please?”

  The leader’s hand shook as she opened a calendar that was on her desk. Flicking through the pages, she stopped and looked up at Jane, her voice trembling with sadness as she spoke.

  “It was last Thursday evening. Sybil did a two to eight p.m. shift.” She closed the calendar.

  “Do you keep a record of the calls Mrs. Hastings dealt with?” Jane asked.

  “Yes, the details of all the calls we receive are recorded on a Samaritans call logging sheet.”

  “Could I have a look at them, please?” Jane asked politely.

  The leader shook her head. “I’m sorry but it’s Samaritans policy to treat all calls as highly confidential. I understand the seriousness of your investigation, but I’m not at liberty to divulge any information to you—unless you have a court order.”

  Jane was disappointed but understood the leader’s position. “What was Mrs. Hasting’s role with the Samaritans?”

  “Sybil was a listening volunteer. She took phone calls and had one-to-one meetings with drop-in visitors who needed someone to talk to. Like all our volunteers, she was patient, open-minded and a good listener. As a leader I helped train Sybil. She knew never to discuss her conversations with anyone outside the branch.” The leader’s eyes welled up as she spoke of her colleague.

  “How long had she been a volunteer?”

  “About eighteen months now. She did a four-or six-hour shift per week, depending on what time of day it was. Every volunteer also commits to one unsociable shift a month—working late at night, or the early hours of the morning.”

  “You mentioned dealing with drop-in visitors. Did Mrs. Hastings see anyone on Thursday?”

  “I’ll need to check the callers log, but as I said, I can’t give you any details if she did. To be honest, we don’t get as many visitors as we do callers.” The leader stood up and went over to a filing cabinet. She unlocked it and removed a file, which she put down on the desk. Sitting down, she opened the file and removed a few sheets of paper, which were clearly call logs.

  “She had no drop-in meetings that day, but she dealt with several calls.”

  Jane asked when Mrs. Hastings had last dealt with a visitor and was told it was just over a week ago.

  “Was it a male or female?”

  The leader put the paperwork back into the folder. “I’m not supposed to say, but it was a male, aged in his twenties, who didn’t give his name.”

  “Would a Samaritan ever meet up with someone away from the branch?”

  “No, they shouldn’t. But I suppose it’s possible … I’m sorry I’ve not been able to help you much. I would love to give you the information you have asked for, especially if it will help your investigation, but I hope that you can appreciate our rules of confidentiality. What I will do is prepare a folder containing a copy of everything Sybil has dealt with in the last three months. Then, as soon as you have a court order, I’ll hand it over to you. Often callers and visitors don’t give us their names, or they use a false name.”

  Jane was frustrated. It was clear that the only way she could get the information she needed was if everything was done by the book.

  On her return to Peckham, Jane went to see Moran about her visit to the Samaritans. As she updated him
, she thought he looked tired.

  “Shall I get a court order for disclosure of Sybil Hastings’ Samaritans work?” Jane asked.

  “It sounds as though we could be chasing a dead end if the callers give false names, or none at all.”

  “There are probably a lot of mentally ill people who call them, so her work with the Samaritans might be linked to her murder,” Jane remarked.

  “There’s lots of ‘ifs and buts,’ Jane. Gibbs will be back from the golf club soon, so hold off on the court order until I’ve spoken with him. In the meantime, go through the completed house-to-house reports for anything that needs following up or might help progress the investigation.”

  Jane spoke up. “It won’t take me long to get a court order. The Samaritans leader said she’d prepare all the documents relating to Sybil Hastings right away, and that there might be something useful …”

  “I’m the one running this investigation, Tennison! Just do as you’re bloody well told and don’t argue with me,” Moran barked.

  The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up.

  “DCI Moran … I’ve already told you, Fiona, I’m dealing with a double murder and don’t know when I’ll be home … I’m not neglecting you and the baby … I’ll do whatever you need me to do when I get home, but please stop calling me at work.” Moran put the phone down and sighed, looking crestfallen.

  Jane was surprised at Moran’s sudden change in temperament. It was as if he felt guilty about not being there for his wife.

  “Are you OK, sir?” Jane asked hesitantly.

  “Yes … My wife and I had been trying for children for years and now we have a little boy. He’s our pride and joy, but it’s all a bit of a nightmare. He cries a lot, Fiona is constantly trying to breastfeed him, and he doesn’t sleep well. Poor Fiona is exhausted all the time. I want to be there for her, but I can’t just drop everything and bugger off home every time she rings.”

  Jane smiled. “It must take its toll on you as well, sir. Maybe DI Gibbs could run the investigation for a few days while you take some time off and—”

  Moran frowned. “Time off? I’ve got a double murder investigation to run. I’m not having people think I can’t cope.”

  Jane realized she’d offended Moran’s male pride and, under the circumstances, thought she should try and be a bit sympathetic.

  “My sister’s just had a baby boy and she and her husband are finding it really difficult as well. My mum says newborns are hard work, but it gets easier. What’s your son’s name?”

  “Arthur. He’s six weeks old now. He’s lovely and we’re so lucky to have him. It’s the shitty nappies I can’t stand. Fiona insists on using the toweling ones instead of disposables—they’re not very absorbent and the poo leaks out the sides. Sorry, Tennison, I’m sure you don’t want to hear all about dirty nappies.”

  “To be honest, having children is not high on my list of priorities …”

  Moran smiled. “Probably best, if you want a long career and further promotion in the police service.”

  Jane didn’t reply. She knew it was rare for a policewoman to return to work after having a child, and many male officers still thought a mother’s place was in the home. As she turned to leave, Moran spoke again.

  “One other thing: DCS Blake is coming over to see me. He’s still pissed off with you and Gibbs about the way in which you handled Andrew Hastings, so you might want to keep out of his way.”

  “Does Blake know Andrew Hastings well?”

  Moran nodded. “Hastings’ wife told Gibbs they were in the same Masonic lodge and play golf together a lot.”

  Jane frowned. “So he must know Sybil Hastings as well?”

  “Yes?”

  “Surely there’s a conflict of interest, if Blake is so close to Andrew Hastings and he also knew the victim?”

  Moran looked displeased. “You should keep your opinions and thoughts to yourself, Tennison. It’s not your place to question the rights and wrongs of Blake’s involvement …”

  “I’m just concerned that Blake’s close relationship with Andrew Hastings might hinder the investigation.”

  Moran pointed his finger at Jane and raised his voice. “Blake’s a seasoned senior detective and knows what he’s doing. The fact he knows Andrew Hastings might actually help the investigation. If Hastings is involved in any way, Blake is better placed than us to know if he is lying or hiding something.”

  “I didn’t mean anything derogatory, sir, I was just thinking about the investigation—”

  Moran interrupted her. “Blake is a lot older and wiser than you, so don’t go questioning his relationships with members of the public. As I recall, you screwed up a big Vice Squad operation due to personal feelings towards a young Colombian girl. Then there was that Natalie Wilde woman you befriended, who turned out to be a bloody IRA sleeper. Those incidents totally screwed any chance you ever had of getting on the Flying Squad, and that’s why the Dip Squad didn’t keep you on either. You don’t know how close you were to getting kicked back into uniform—for the rest of your career!”

  Jane was shocked at Moran’s verbal attack. She was surprised he even knew about the Regina Hernandez and Natalie Wilde incidences, which had happened nearly three years ago. Even if the phone calls from his wife were making him irritable, Jane felt Moran was being a bit harsh.

  “I know I’ve made mistakes, sir, but I have learnt from them. I’ve never taken people on face value since then, or got emotionally involved in a case. As for coming off the Dip Squad, DCI Church told me at the time he couldn’t keep me on due to financial restrictions and he had to cut his numbers down on the team.”

  “Church lied. He had a soft spot for you and didn’t want to hurt your feelings. If it was me, I’d have told you straight and got you back in uniform directing bloody traffic. Now go and check the house-to-house files.” His manner made Jane feel even more offended and upset.

  Biting back a further comment, she left Moran’s office, closing the door firmly behind her.

  As Gibbs drove back to the station, he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Andrew Hastings had lied to his wife about where he was on Friday evening. There was a good chance he was seeing another woman, and Gibbs considered the possibility that Andrew Hastings had been involved in his mother’s death, and that maybe the unknown victim was his mistress. It would be interesting to hear what Hastings would say when asked directly by Moran about his whereabouts on Friday evening. If Hastings claimed that he was at the golf dinner, then DCS Blake’s own words, relayed to the major, would prove that he was a liar.

  Gibbs smiled to himself at the thought of Andrew Hastings squirming in an interview. He sat back in the driving seat and thought of Jo Hastings. He couldn’t get her out of his mind because he found her incredibly sexy and was certain that she had been coming on to him.

  Gibbs stopped at the traffic lights by Camberwell Green. It suddenly struck him that it was strange that Blake hadn’t told Moran he was playing golf with Andrew Hastings on the Friday, or that Hastings had gone home before the dinner because one of his children was unwell. Stranger still was the fact that, as an experienced detective, Blake would know that Hastings would be considered a suspect until he could be eliminated from the inquiry. Therefore his exact movements would be crucially important and would need to be corroborated. As the lights changed to green, Gibbs cut in front of the car beside him and turned right into Denmark Hill, towards King’s College Hospital. It was time Andrew Hastings was confronted about his whereabouts on Friday night.

  As Gibbs approached the main hospital reception area, he caught sight of Jo Hastings leaving, on her own. It was clear from the look on her face that she was upset. Although Gibbs called out to her, she didn’t see him and climbed into her Mercedes station wagon. Gibbs ran up to the car door and could see she had been crying.

  “Jo, have you just been to see your husband?” he asked.

  “Yes. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him you’d come
to the house and I pretended I knew nothing about his mother’s murder. He told me about finding her body, saying how rude and incompetent you and some woman detective were. He also said the body of a younger woman was found near to his mother’s—is that right?”

  “Yes. I didn’t tell you earlier because we’re not sure yet if the two murders are connected or just coincidence. And we haven’t been able to identify the other woman yet.”

  “Please tell me honestly: do you think Andrew was involved?”

  “I need to check out, in more detail, what he was doing on Friday. And obviously he has yet to make a statement,” Gibbs replied.

  Eager to continue their conversation, he suggested that he get into the passenger seat of her car. Jo nodded. Once he was inside she told Gibbs how desperate she was to find out if Andrew was having an affair. She had come to the hospital to try and trick Andrew by telling him she had smelt another woman’s perfume on the shirt he had been wearing on Friday night.

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He was angry. Accused me of having a wild imagination, and saying that I was being very insensitive considering his mother had just been murdered, and that he was still in terrible shock.”

  Gibbs thought about telling Jo that Andrew hadn’t been at the golf dinner. He knew she’d find out in the long run, but was worried if he told her now she’d storm back into the hospital and confront her husband, which could ruin the element of surprise in any later interview with him.

  Jo shook her head in disgust. “I know he’s lying. The idiot gave himself away by suggesting the perfume I smelt had rubbed off from a waitress when she leant over him to serve his meal at the dinner. I told him I wasn’t stupid and didn’t believe him. He told me to ask Blake, as he was with him the whole evening, then changed the subject back to himself. He went on and on about how distraught he was, how he thought he’d had a heart attack and that they were keeping him in for observation. He’s very good at laying on the ‘poor me’ sob story. A few minutes later Blake walks into the room, much to Andrew’s surprise by the look on his face.”