Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  Lawrence had more forensic evidence to reveal. “I found a half-full can of petrol in the boot of the Allegro. There wasn’t a single fingerprint on it, just what appears to be glove marks.”

  “If the killer wore gloves to hide any fingerprints, then they might already have a criminal record,” Jane remarked.

  Moran nodded. “Good point, Tennison. I’ll have a word with the collator and get him to draw up a list of everyone on our patch who has form for assault on females.”

  Lawrence continued. “I’m surmising here: if the petrol can didn’t belong to Mrs. Hastings, it’s possible the killer may have intended to drive her body somewhere secluded, pour petrol over her and the car, then set light to the vehicle. But as Edwards suggested, the flat tire prevented that outcome.”

  “If that had happened in another police force area like Kent or Surrey, then we’d never have had any reason to connect the two murders,” Moran said.

  “I’ll ask Agnes about the petrol can,” Jane said.

  “Call her now, please, Tennison, while we all take a quick break. You can use my office phone. In the meantime, the rest of you can grab a tea or coffee from the canteen. I want you all back here in ten minutes.”

  After the break, everyone was back in the office, waiting for Jane to return. When she walked in, all eyes were on her.

  “Agnes confirmed that Mrs. Hasting had a tweed outfit, but she doesn’t think she’s worn it since last winter. She often went grocery shopping with Mrs. Hastings and has never seen a petrol can in the boot of the Allegro.”

  Lawrence responded, “I’ll need to go to Mrs. Hastings’ flat to seize the tweed outfit as evidence. The lab can do a comparison to the tweed fibers we recovered in the Allegro and on the victims. If they don’t match to Mrs. Hastings’ clothes, it’s even more likely they came from something the killer wore.”

  “Maybe Andrew Hastings has a tweed suit?” Gibbs asked, noticing that Moran was frowning. “I’m just saying. He may have driven his mother’s car at some point, and tweed suits tend to be worn by the posher gentleman.”

  “Not always—you wear one,” Edwards said wryly to Gibbs.

  “DI Gibbs has made a valid point,” Lawrence remarked.

  “You could get Blake to ask Hastings?” Gibbs looked at Moran.

  “I’ll see. We all need to step up our game and identifying our unknown victim will be a big step forward. I think it’s time we set up a full press conference and reveal to the public that both murders may be linked. Edwards—arrange for an artist’s impression of the unknown victim’s face to be made for the press release. Somebody out there must know her.”

  “They might be too scared to come forward,” Jane suggested.

  Moran agreed. “I’ll ask Blake if we can offer witness confidentiality and a reward. We need to catch this bastard before—”

  The duty sergeant walked in looking very somber. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we just received a call from the manager of the Peckham Rye homeless hostel on East Dulwich Road. The body of a young woman with a possible head injury has been found in one of the rooms. I’ve got a uniform panda car with two officers en route to check it out and seal the scene, pending your attendance.”

  “Is she a resident?” Moran asked.

  “I doubt it, sir. The hostel is for men only.”

  There was an unnerving silence as Gibbs drove Moran and Jane to the East Dulwich hostel. Although just over a mile from Peckham Police Station, which was surrounded by deprived housing estates and urban decay, East Dulwich was a very different area, with many large detached and terraced Victorian and Edwardian homes. It was a short distance from Peckham Rye Park and Common, which together made up 113 acres of open recreational grassland, ornamental and water gardens, a lake and woodland. Sadly, the East Dulwich Road end of the park was still littered with rotting rubbish due to the dustbin strike and was a stinking eyesore for the residents.

  As they passed Bussey Alley, Jane noticed the look of anxiety on Moran’s face. The silence was broken by a call on the car radio from the PC who was at the hostel scene. Moran picked up the radio and told the officer to go ahead.

  “I’ve had a quick look at the victim, sir. She’s clearly dead and the hostel manager has put a blanket over her. She’s lying on the floor, face down. There’s blood around her head and on the carpet next to her is a broken wine bottle, as well as a pair of ladies’ knickers.”

  “Seal the scene off. I’ll be with you shortly.” Moran banged the radio mike against the dashboard. “I hope to Christ this isn’t connected to the other two murders!”

  Neither Gibbs nor Jane said anything, wondering if the killer had struck again. Gibbs parked in the street outside the three-story red-brick Edwardian house, which had been converted to a hostel eight years ago by the local council. Lawrence pulled up behind them in his own vehicle and took his crime scene case out of the boot. An elderly uniform PC was standing on the white washed stone steps of the building waiting for them. He opened his notebook as Moran approached.

  “Good morning, sir. My colleague is standing guard outside the scene. The hostel cleaner, Gladys Jackson, a fifty-two-year-old black female, found the body in room six this morning. She’s currently with the hostel manager in his office. All the residents on the premises have been told to remain in their rooms until informed they can leave by the CID.” The officer paused as he flicked over a page in his notebook. “The hostel has twelve bedsit-style rooms over three floors, and provides accommodation for male-only residents—down-and-outs, alcoholics and drug abusers. The manager lives in the basement area.”

  “Good work. Radio the station for me and get them to send Professor Martin to the scene, please.”

  Lawrence smiled to himself, knowing that Moran was calling Martin to the scene to avoid incurring his wrath again.

  Moran turned to Lawrence. “Paul, you can start photographing the scene and commence a cursory examination before Prof Martin arrives. Myself and Gibbs will speak with the manager.”

  “Would you like me to assist DS Lawrence?” Jane asked enthusiastically.

  “No, I want you to speak to the cleaner, Tennison.”

  As they entered the building through the large wooden door, the pungent smell of stale smoke and damp permeated the air. The interior was grubby, with stained and torn white woodchip wallpaper and a threadbare carpet. The manager’s office was small and cramped, even more so now with five people in it. The room was unkempt, with two chairs and a wooden desk that was propped up with some folded cardboard under one leg to stop it wobbling. A rotund man in his fifties, wearing a coffee-stained white polo shirt and black trousers, was sitting at the desk with a cigarette in his mouth, reading the Sun newspaper. The distraught-looking cleaner was sitting opposite him, still wearing her light blue button-up housecoat and headscarf. Her hands shook as she sipped at a cup of tea.

  Moran stepped forward. “I’m DCI Moran from Peckham CID. This is DI Gibbs and WDS Tennison. I take it you’re the manager?”

  The man put the paper down. “Yeah. This is Gladys, the cleaner. She found the body. I knew something was up when I heard her screaming.”

  “You heard the victim screaming?” Moran asked.

  “No, Gladys screamed when she found the poor girl in room six.”

  Moran turned to Gladys. “It must have been a terrible shock, Gladys. WDS Tennison will need to ask you a few questions, if you feel up to it?”

  A nervous Gladys nodded. Moran asked the manager if there was another room that WDS Tennison could use to interview the cleaner. The manager stubbed out his cigarette and said there was a communal room down the hallway. Jane smiled at Gladys, helped her up and the two of them left the room.

  “Who occupies room six?” Moran asked the manager.

  “I’ve already got his hostel residents’ form out.” He handed it to Moran, who moved closer to Gibbs so that he could read the details as well. The form showed room six was let six weeks ago to a Ben Smith, aged 19, date of b
irth August 26, 1959.

  Gibbs got out his notebook and jotted down the name and date of birth. “Can you describe him to me, please?” he asked.

  “Ben’s a skinny lad, about five ten, with blond hair—I reckon it was dyed cause his eyebrows were dark. Oh, and he had a tooth missing at the front, about here,” the manager said, pointing to the left side of his teeth, just off the center.

  Gibbs noted the details. “Did you speak to him much?”

  “Nope, only when I filled out his registration form. Told me he couldn’t read or write. From what I heard, he kept himself to himself and didn’t mix with the other residents, though I don’t blame him, as some of ’em in here are right low life. Half of ’em use the sinks in their rooms to piss in, some even have a dump in ’em. Dirty bastards, they are.”

  “Why was Ben Smith here?” Moran asked.

  “Social services referral. He was homeless and had a drugs problem.”

  “How many residents are in their rooms at the moment?” Moran asked.

  “Most of them! The lazy bastards don’t get up until after midday, when the pubs open. Or they stagger down the road to the off-licence, then get pissed in the park.”

  Gibbs closed his notebook and put it back in his pocket. “I’ll nip out to the car and radio the station to tell everyone in the CID office to come to the hostel right away so we can interview all the residents.”

  “And get a criminal record check done on Ben Smith,” Moran added.

  Gibbs nodded and left the room.

  “You reckon Smith killed her then?” the manager asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Moran replied, irritated by the manager’s manner and attitude.

  “I read in the paper about that bird who was murdered in Bussey Alley. That bastard Smith could have done her as well, you know. She were strangled, weren’t she?”

  “Can we stick to this incident, please. Are women allowed on the premises?” Moran asked.

  “Rules is residents ain’t allowed any guests outside of visiting hours, which is ten to eleven in the morning and three to four in the afternoon in the communal room, and one visitor only. But it’s almost impossible to enforce. We have a hostel warden on duty day and night, but the residents bring people in through the fire exit doors, or someone distracts the warden so they can sneak people in. All the residents have a front door key and a room key, but often the front door is just left on the latch because the druggies and drunks amongst them regularly lose their keys and start banging on the door at all hours of the night.”

  “I’ll need the details of the day and night duty wardens.”

  “No problem. I could ring Eric and get him to come in early—he’s on the late shift all this week.”

  “That would be helpful. In the meantime, I’d like you to remain on the premises while I view the scene. Where is room six, please?”

  “First floor, turn right and it’s the end room on the left.”

  Jane was in the communal room with Gladys. Like the entrance area, it was shabby, but reasonably neat and tidy. There was a TV and pool table, as well as a small kitchen area with some tables and chairs at the far end. Jane sat the trembling Gladys down at one of the tables.

  “I’m sorry, love, but I didn’t catch your name earlier,” Gladys said with a Jamaican accent.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison.” Jane reached out and held her hand. “I know it must have been an awful shock for you this morning. The good thing is I don’t need you to tell me what you saw as the uniform officer has already informed me.”

  Gladys squeezed Jane’s hand and started to cry. “It was awful, officer. There was a lot of blood and her knickers was on the floor.”

  “Did you know the man who occupied room six?”

  “He said his name was Ben. Young lad, he was, face like a baby and lovely blond hair, though I think it was dyed. I can’t believe he’d do a thing like that,” Gladys said, becoming more distressed.

  “Did you ever chat to him?”

  “A few times. He was always very pleasant and asked how I was and if I had any grandchildren. I told him I didn’t—me and my Winston couldn’t have kids, you see. He said he had a young niece and nephew, but didn’t get to see them or his sister very much as he didn’t get on with his brother-in-law. He seemed quite sad about not seeing them.”

  “Did he say where they lived?”

  “No, never.”

  “Any signs he’d had women in his room before?”

  “Not that I noticed, but I think he was a heroin user. I found a burnt spoon and rubber tube under his bed one morning while he was out. You get to know what those things is used for when you work in these sorts of places. Mind you, the people ain’t as bad in here as you’d think, they just don’t have anyone to love and care for ’em, and sometimes choose the wrong path in life.”

  Jane warmed to Gladys, who was becoming less distraught. She seemed to be an honest and upright woman with a kind heart, and clearly didn’t judge people for the problems they had.

  “When did you last see Ben, and how did he seem?”

  “I’m not sure exactly when it was—maybe a couple of days ago. I was putting on me coat, about to leave, and he was on his way out. He asked me how I was. I said fine and he left the hostel.”

  “I’ll need to get a full statement from you, Gladys, but I think you’ve been through enough today and probably want to get back home to your husband.”

  Gladys looked down. “Winston died a few years ago. He was robbed and banged his head badly on the pavement. They said a bleed on the brain killed him.”

  Jane felt embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Gladys, I didn’t realize.”

  “It’s all right, dear, you weren’t to know. Your lot caught the thugs who done it—they got ten years each, but I think they should have got life. They stole mine.”

  Jane thanked Gladys for her assistance, then went to see how Lawrence was getting on. As she was walking along the corridor towards the first-floor stairs, she came across Moran talking to Gibbs.

  “Edwards is on the way here with more troops. There’s no trace on criminal records for a Ben Smith with the date of birth the manager gave us. This seems pretty cut and dry, guv, what with the body being in Smith’s room and he appears to have done a runner,” Gibbs said.

  “Let’s hope so, Spencer. How’d it go with the cleaner, Jane?” Moran asked.

  Jane briefed them on what Gladys had told her, emphasizing the finding of the heroin paraphernalia under the bed.

  Moran frowned. “If Smith was a junkie who was referred to the hostel by social services, then I’d have thought he’d have a record for drugs-related offences.”

  “The manager could have got Smith’s birth date wrong on the residents’ form,” Gibbs remarked.

  “It’s possible. Run a check with social services later. Let’s have a look at the scene and see what Lawrence has to say.”

  They went upstairs to room six. Lawrence had wedged the door open and there was a strong smell of stale alcohol and nicotine in the room. The victim was lying face down. Blood had run through her light brown hair and down the side of her face, forming a deep red pool on the cheap grey carpet. The woman was wearing a brown embroidered knee-length shearling coat, red corduroy skirt and black patent leather calf boots.

  Already gloved up, Lawrence knelt beside the body, placing the jagged upper half of a broken white wine bottle in a box to preserve it for fingerprints. Jane could see the uneasiness on Lawrence’s face as he turned and looked at them.

  “Did the bang on the head kill her?” Moran asked.

  Lawrence shook his head. “It’s more likely this did,” he said, and slowly lifted back the collar of her coat to reveal a blood stained white cord. “For some strange reason it looks like the killer pulled the collar up in a pointless attempt to conceal the cord on this victim as well as the unidentified one. The cord looks to be the same type and it’s tied in a slip knot as well.”

  Moran
looked shaken. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He banged his hand on the doorframe. “Fucking press are going to be all over this and crucify us …”

  “On the positive side, at least we have Ben Smith’s details and his description now, guv,” Gibbs interjected.

  “That could be a fucking alias for all we know. Is there anything to identify her?”

  “No. Her coat pockets are empty and there’s no sign of a handbag,” Lawrence replied.

  “I want you to carry out a thorough fingerprint examination of this room and get every lift checked against criminal records ASAP,” Moran said anxiously.

  “I was going to do that anyway, sir. I’ll start with things most likely to have been touched recently by the suspect. That said, we will probably get a lot of hits against criminals as the room would have been used by a lot of residents with previous convictions.”

  “Just do it, Paul,” Moran barked.

  “Good to see there’s peace and harmony in the work place.” Professor Martin smiled as he approached, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. “This has been a busy few days. So what have you got for me this time?” he asked.

  Moran wasn’t amused by Martin’s frivolity.

  Lawrence attempted to lighten the tense atmosphere. “Our victim awaits you … As do we, with baited breath, Professor.” Lawrence bowed towards Martin and waved his arm in a subservient manner.

  “Await, yes, but I fear the victim does not breathe, otherwise I would not have been called here,” Martin replied and looked at Moran, who was still not amused.

  Jane remembered being upset by the dark humor when she first joined the police. However, it didn’t take her long to realize it was police officers’ way of dealing with traumatic situations to make them more manageable. She remembered Lawrence once saying to her, “If you didn’t laugh, Jane, you’d cry.”

  Lawrence confirmed that he had photographed the room and body, then showed Martin an exhibits box filled with bits of broken glass and the jagged half of the white wine bottle.

  “These were on the floor around her and there’s still some fragments in her hair. There was also a pair of torn knickers on the floor, which I’ve packaged.”