Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  Martin knelt beside the body and looked closely at the back of her head and at the rope. He then hitched up the coat and skirt, reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic tube containing a thermometer. Removing the thermometer, he took a rectal temperature of the victim.

  Martin stood up. “The injury to her head is obviously from the wine bottle, and with her eyes and tongue protruding, I would say she was strangled with the cord. I can be more exact about the mechanics of her death once I’ve examined her at the mortuary.”

  Martin asked Lawrence to place a plastic body sheet beside the right side of the body, then they slowly turned the victim onto her back on top of the sheet. Even though Jane knew what to expect, it was shocking to see the woman’s bulging eyes and protruding tongue, which were classic signs of strangulation. The victim’s face was contorted and bloodstained, but Martin estimated she was in her early to mid-twenties. He picked up her left arm and, holding it just above the elbow joint and wrist, he tried to move it up and down.

  “Body’s rigid from rigor mortis, so she’s been dead for at least twelve hours or longer. Taking into account the body temperature and skin discoloration, I’d say she was killed between six p.m. and ten p.m. yesterday evening.”

  Moran looked at his notebook. “The hostel manager said visiting hours were three to four in the afternoon, so she must have snuck in and come to the room.”

  “She might be a hooker?” Gibbs remarked.

  “I’ll be able to tell you more when I do a full post-mortem on her, but if I were a gambling man, I’d say that this poor soul was murdered by the same person as your first victim. She’s not wearing any rings, so might be single, but she’s got a distinctive mole on the right side of her lip, which might help with identifying her,” Martin said.

  “DS Lawrence and the lab have forensically linked Mrs. Hastings’ murder to the unknown victim,” Moran said.

  “Then you have a multiple killer at large, DCI Moran,” Martin said coldly.

  Moran felt someone looking over his shoulder and turned to see that it was the hostel manager.

  “She looks a bit of a mess. I told you some of the residents here were low life. Hope you catch that bastard Ben Smith. They should bring back hanging for the likes of him. Or burn him at the stake, like the good old days.”

  “You shouldn’t be in this area; it’s a crime scene,” Moran said in a raised voice.

  “I just came to tell yer Eric’s here.”

  “Who’s Eric?” a puzzled Moran asked.

  “The warden who was on late shift. Silly bugger said he let a woman in last night to visit Smith.”

  Moran and Gibbs went to interview Eric in the manager’s office whilst Jane stayed to assist Lawrence. Edwards had now arrived from the station with six colleagues and they were interviewing the residents in the communal room.

  Eric was in his late fifties, grey-haired and softly spoken.

  “It was about seven p.m. when I heard someone knocking on the front door. I opened it and there was a young woman standing there. I’d never seen her before and asked what she wanted.”

  “What was she wearing?” Moran asked.

  “Pardon?”

  Moran sighed. “You’ve never seen this woman before, but you let her in?”

  “I’ve let lots of people in I’ve not seen before.”

  “Out of visiting hours?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Can you describe what she was wearing?” Moran asked.

  “Oh right. Yes: a long dark coat and red dress, I think. She was a young lass, pretty with brown hair. It was cut in a bob style like me daughter’s. She said she’d come to see Ben Smith. I told her visiting hours were over, but she said it was urgent she speak to him.” He went silent.

  Moran was becoming irritated. “Well, go on, then what happened?”

  “She seemed a bit anxious and I said I’d go get him, but she said it was a private matter. She knew he was in room six …”

  “So you just let her in?”

  “Yes. I thought she might be his social worker, because in God’s truth, we do have some right tarts coming in and out, but she looked quite respectable. Was she a social worker?”

  “We don’t know yet, Eric, but we’ll check it out. Did you hear any noises coming from the direction of Smith’s room, or see him at all that evening?” Gibbs asked.

  “No, nothing. I never saw Ben. I was in the communal room for a while, chatting with some of the residents and playing cribbage. I didn’t think any more about the woman and assumed she’d left after she’d seen Ben.” Eric’s eyes started to well up and he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Will I lose me job over this?”

  Moran put his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “You could never have anticipated what happened to her and what you’ve told us is very helpful. If there’s anything else you think we should know, then please contact me at Peckham CID, OK?”

  Eric nodded and blew his nose again.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir.” Jane entered the room. “DS Lawrence has found something of significant interest that he wants you to see.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Moran turned back to Eric. “Do you know if Ben Smith was ever visited at the hostel by other woman?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Have you ever seen him out and about with other women?”

  “No. The few times I’ve ever spoken with him he’s always been polite and well mannered.”

  Moran smiled. “Thanks for your help, Eric. I’m sure the manager won’t mind if you want to take the rest of the day off.”

  “No, thanks, I’d rather work, to be honest.”

  When Moran and Gibbs arrived back at room six, Lawrence held up a tweed jacket.

  “This was in the wardrobe. Not the kind of thing you’d expect a homeless junkie to wear.”

  “It’s probably nicked,” Gibbs remarked.

  “Or bought from a charity shop, like yours was, Gibbs,” Lawrence jested. “I’ll need to get it examined at the lab, but under my magnifying glass it looks to be very similar to the fibers we found on the other two bodies and from the Allegro. Talking of which …” Lawrence motioned towards Jane, who held up a set of keys on a fob.

  “I found them wedged up behind the basin in here,” she said, displaying the badge on the fob. It had a blue background with a red crown and large silver italic style “VP” on it.

  “Does the badge mean anything to you?” Lawrence asked.

  Moran and Gibbs looked at each other and in unison said “no.”

  “It’s the Allegro Vanden Plas Princess badge, and I’ll bet these are Sybil Hastings’ keys,” Jane said.

  “You little beauty, Tennison,” Gibbs exclaimed.

  “Good find, Jane,” Moran added.

  “Thank you, sir. There’s no purse, house or car keys in the room that might belong to the victim, so the suspect might have nicked them.”

  “There’s still a holdall and men’s clothes in the wardrobe, as well as in the chest of drawers. Looks like Smith left in a hurry,” Lawrence added.

  Jane looked pensive. “I was just thinking …”

  “Don’t spoil the moment, Jane,” Gibbs interjected wryly.

  She continued: “There’s a high mortality rate amongst the homeless, not just due to drugs and alcohol, but also from suicide due to depression. People contemplating suicide often call the Samaritans.”

  “And your point is?” Moran asked.

  “Maybe Ben Smith phoned Samaritans and spoke with Sybil Hastings. She could have arranged to meet him?”

  “She’s really on a roll today,” Gibbs said, impressed by her train of thought.

  Moran agreed. “Get a court warrant to seize the call logs from the Samaritans, and check out the people Mrs. Hastings dealt with.” He patted Jane’s shoulder. “Good girl, Tennison.”

  Chapter Ten

  Jane and Edwards had driven the CID car straight from the hostel t
o the magistrate’s court to obtain a warrant, and were now on the way to the Samaritans branch in Soho to seize the documents relating to the callers Mrs. Hastings had dealt with.

  “Moran looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders at the moment,” Edwards said.

  “That’s hardly surprising—he’s got a maniac on the loose and three murders to deal with,” Jane replied.

  “WDS Tennison from DI Gibbs … you receiving, over?” Gibbs’ voice boomed from the radio.

  Jane picked up the receiver. “WDS Tennison receiving, over.”

  “Where are you?” Gibbs asked.

  “En route to the Samaritans in Soho with a warrant.”

  “OK. An ‘all stations’ telex we sent out has turned up a call to Kentish Town nick about a missing teacher, Eileen Summers, aged twenty-three,” Gibbs relayed.

  Jane looked at Edwards. “Pull over while I get my notebook out.”

  “Did you get that, Tennison?” Gibbs asked impatiently.

  As Edwards parked at the side of the road, Jane opened her notebook and pressed the radio transmitter button. “Yes, guv. Go ahead with the details. Over.”

  “Summers works at Southfield Primary school in Kentish Town. She was reported missing by the headmistress, Mrs. Rowlands. I’ve a gut feeling Summers is the East Dulwich murder victim. The misper form described her as having a mole beside her right lip and a bob haircut. She also wears a coat that matches the victim’s,” Gibbs said.

  “What are the circumstances of her going missing?” Jane asked Gibbs.

  “Summers was at work yesterday but didn’t turn up this morning. Mrs. Rowlands repeatedly tried ringing Summers’ flat but got no answer. She was concerned, so called Kentish Town.”

  “Shall I delay executing the warrant at the Samaritans … over?” Jane said.

  “Yes, go to the school first and get back to me as soon as you’ve spoken to the headmistress.”

  “On way, guv … Tennison out,” Jane said and replaced the handset on the radio holder.

  “Looks like things are starting to step up,” Edwards said as he put the car into gear and moved off.

  The two-story Victorian-built school was imposing, with its English Renaissance-style features, fancy gables, colorful brickwork and terracotta ornamentation. As they walked across the playground, the noise of happy children enjoying their afternoon break filled the air. Groups of boys were kicking a football about and the girls were playing hopscotch or skipping to the song “Pease pudding hot, pease pudding cold.” Jane smiled to herself, fondly remembering her own primary school days. Edwards couldn’t resist stepping into the boys’ football game and trying a bit of “keepie uppie.” He only managed three and lost control of the ball, which caused the boys to mockingly chant “rubbish.”

  “Oi, watch this, mister!” a young boy shouted. Flicking the ball into the air with his foot, he proceeded to make Edwards’ effort look lame. The other boys counted, shouting out the numbers for Edwards’ benefit, and by the time they had reached the school entrance, the young footballer was already up to twenty.

  “I hate kids,” Edwards said jovially, as he held the door open for Jane.

  Mrs. Rowlands was in her office doing some paperwork. She was in her early fifties and looked rather dowdy, dressed in an ankle-length heavy brown skirt, white frilly shirt and grey cardigan. Jane informed her that they were police officers and had come about Eileen Summers. Mrs. Rowlands stood up and, with a warm smile, shook their hands and invited them to sit down.

  “That was quick. I only reported Eileen missing at Kentish Town a few hours ago. The officer I spoke to took down Eileen’s details, but said that because she was an adult, and there’s no evidence she’s in immediate danger, police enquiries wouldn’t commence until twenty-four hours had elapsed.”

  “There’s been a development, Mrs. Rowlands, but we’re not sure yet if it involves Miss Summers. Do you have a photograph of her I can have a look at, please?” Jane asked.

  “Has something happened to Eileen? Was she involved in a car accident on the way to work?” Mrs. Rowlands nervously asked, walking over to a filing cabinet in the corner of the room.

  “I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve seen the photograph.” Jane didn’t want to unduly alarm her.

  “Eileen’s never missed a day since she’s been here. She teaches the nine-to ten-year-olds, and is one of the best young teachers I’ve ever come across. The children absolutely adore her, as do the parents and staff.” Mrs. Rowlands spoke with a tremor in her voice, anxious about what could have happened. She pulled out a folder from the cabinet with “Year Five—Class Photographs” written on it. She took out the most recent picture and handed it to Jane. “That’s Eileen, in the middle.” Mrs. Rowlands pointed.

  Jane looked at the photo of the young and attractive teacher, her face glowing with warmth and pride as she sat amongst the smiling young children. Jane thought of the poor victim strangled to death in room six at the hostel, her bulging eyes and bloodstained face flashing into her mind as she looked at the picture. She was in little doubt that Eileen Summers was the murder victim in Ben Smith’s room. Jane looked at Edwards, who hadn’t seen the body, and nodded.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Mrs. Rowlands exclaimed.

  Jane had been in this position many times before, but this time it felt different. She knew Eileen Summers’ death would have a devastating effect on the entire school.

  “We are investigating a murder that occurred in Peckham last night. Having seen the body, I’m almost certain that it is the same woman in this photograph.”

  Mrs. Rowlands was close to tears, but kept her composure and asked Jane what had happened. Jane gently told her that Eileen had been strangled and that they had a suspect they were currently looking for. Jane asked if she could have Eileen’s parents’ contact details, and Mrs. Rowlands went back to the filing cabinet.

  “Here we are … Her parents live in Manchester. Eileen came to London to teach a couple of years ago and lives on her own in Chalk Farm. I think she may have gone up to see them over half term.”

  Edwards took the folder from Mrs. Rowlands and jotted down Eileen’s address, as well as the parents’ details, in his notebook.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?” Edwards asked.

  “Not that I know of. But she could have done.”

  “Did she ever mention the name Ben Smith to you?” Jane asked.

  Mrs. Rowlands paused. “Not that I recall … Is he the suspect you spoke of?”

  “It’s a name that has come up in the investigation and he’s someone we’re interested in tracing.” Jane was keen to change the subject and asked how Eileen had seemed on Monday.

  “She was in good spirits and was happy to be back teaching the children. She really did love them so much.”

  “Did Eileen have a car or did she use public transport to get about?” Jane asked.

  “She had a car—a green 1973 Morris Minor. She hadn’t had it long.”

  Jane jotted the details down.

  “I appreciate your help, Mrs. Rowlands. I know Eileen’s death must be a terrible shock to you. Could I ask that, for now, you say nothing about this to anyone as we’ve yet to inform Eileen’s parents or make a press release.”

  “Yes, I understand, officer. I’ll do whatever is best under the circumstances.”

  “Mrs. Rowlands, it is a very difficult thing to ask of you, but would you be prepared to identify the body for us? The mortuary is in Lewisham,” Jane asked tentatively.

  “Yes, of course. I could be there after school, at about five o’clock, if that’s suitable?”

  Jane nodded and thanked her again, whilst Edwards jotted down the mortuary address and handed it to Mrs. Rowlands.

  Before leaving the school Jane phoned the office and asked to speak to Moran. She was informed that he’d gone to the post-mortem, but that Gibbs was available. Jane updated him on what had happened at the school and told him that she now had an
address for Eileen Summers as well as for her parents in Manchester. Gibbs took down the details and said he’d contact Manchester CID to instruct them to inform the parents.

  “Mrs. Rowlands has agreed to ID the body at the mortuary after school today. Edwards and I are now going to the Samaritans, if that’s OK?” Jane told Gibbs.

  “Go and check out Eileen Summers’ flat first. Force entry if you have to.”

  “Another gut feeling?” Jane asked.

  “No, but there could be some paperwork or something that might help us find Ben Smith.”

  Eileen Summers lived in Ferdinand House, near Chalk Farm tube station. It was a 1930s grey and red brick, four-story, council-owned building with no lifts.

  “Christ! Is there nowhere in London that’s rubbish-free?” Edwards remarked, observing the large overflowing council rubbish bins.

  “Mind the rat!” Jane shouted.

  “Where?” Edwards exclaimed in a squeaky voice, jumping to one side.

  “It’s just darted under the bin over there,” Jane said, trying not to laugh.

  “I thought things might be a bit better this side of London, but it’s just as much of a shithole as Peckham.”

  “At least there’s no burnt-out cars or graffiti here, and once the rubbish is cleared away this place won’t look half as bad.”

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Edwards asked, as they climbed the stairs to Eileen’s flat.

  “Anything that might help us. Hopefully she’ll have something that can help us trace, or link her to, Ben Smith, such as an address book with names and contact details,” Jane replied.

  “He’ll be well gone by now,” Edwards remarked unenthusiastically.

  “Well, if he killed all three women, he didn’t run off after the first two, did he?”

  “Then maybe he’s hiding out somewhere. We should be back in Peckham, hassling the drug dealers for info, not wasting time here.”

  Jane was becoming annoyed with Edwards’ attitude. “Just stop moaning about what we should be doing and get on with the job at hand.”