Murder Mile

by Lynda La Plante

  Jane’s breathing quickened. Was that their suspect, Ben Smith? “What happened?”

  “Miss Summers was in the school yard, supervising the children during their morning break. The secretary kept an eye on the children while Eileen took the call.”

  “Did anyone overhear the conversation?”

  “No, Eileen was alone in the secretary’s office when she spoke with the man. The secretary said it wasn’t long before Miss Summers came back out to the yard and she seemed fine. Do you think the call might be connected to her murder?”

  Jane kept her voice neutral. “Obviously I can’t say too much about the investigation, but the information you’ve just given me may be useful and will certainly be followed up. I’ll also need to take a full statement at some point, with more details about Eileen Summers’ employment at the school.”

  Mrs. Rowlands nodded. “That’s fine, and I’m quite happy to do it now, if it would help.”

  It was 7:30 p.m. before Jane completed the detailed statement and left the mortuary, much to the annoyance of the morgue attendant, who had to wait around until she’d finished. Driving home, she wondered if Eileen Summers had been lured to the Peckham hostel by Ben Smith because he intended to kill her. It seemed strange that he had not tried to dispose of Eileen’s body, as he had done with the other two. But Jane’s excitement that the investigation was now moving forward was tempered by frustration: although the murders had been linked by forensics, there was nothing to help them find Smith quickly before he killed again.

  It was just after 8 p.m. when Jane got back to her flat. She didn’t have the energy to cook and opted for a takeaway sausage and chips instead. She’d got to know the owner of the local chippy after an incident one night when a drunk was being obnoxious and Jane had stepped in and told him to get out before he got arrested. As a result, the owner always gave her a larger than normal portion of chips, which she always felt was a bit of a waste as she never ate them all, but she appreciated the gesture.

  After she had eaten, Jane had a long soak in a hot bath. It had been a tiring and emotional day, not only investigating the murders but comforting the grieving friends and colleagues of Eileen Summers. Jane had been impressed by Mrs. Rowlands’ dignified manner at the school, but had seen the pain and hurt come pouring out at the mortuary when she identified Eileen’s body. She wondered how Mrs. Rowlands would cope with informing all the parents, and especially the children who had lost a teacher they loved so dearly.

  Jane was bone-tired when she went to bed, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t sleep. She sat up and read through the notes in her notebook, going over the details of the case.

  As she thought about her conversation with Alice at the Samaritans about the call that “seemed to bother” Mrs. Hastings, she remembered Alice telling her that Mrs. Hastings had written on one of the call sheets and then on a separate bit of paper, both of which she folded up and put in her handbag. Jane jumped out of bed, went to the living room and opened her briefcase containing the Samaritans call logs. She hurriedly removed the call sheet log Alice had made under Mrs. Hastings’ supervision, after the suspicious call. Jane ran into the kitchen and placed the call logs on the table, before getting a torch from the kitchen drawer.

  “Please, please let there be something there,” Jane said to herself. She had learnt about indented writing from an old Hackney case. Lawrence had shown her that when a document is written whilst resting on top of other papers, impressions of the writing were transferred to the underlying sheet and could sometimes be seen if illuminated with side-lighting.

  Jane could have kicked herself for not thinking about it earlier, realizing that even if she didn’t have the original sheet Mrs. Hastings had written on, she had the one that was underneath it. She turned off the kitchen light and shone the torch at an angle across the sheet. There were definitely some faint impressions of writing, but her torch wasn’t anywhere near as good as the forensic ones at the lab, so it was impossible to read what Sybil Hastings had written. Jane carefully placed the two call logs between two pieces of cardboard to preserve them, feeling at least she could get some sleep now, knowing she had found what might be a vital clue in the investigation.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jane woke up early. Despite the fact that she hadn’t had much sleep, she felt buoyant. She phoned the lab to speak to DS Lawrence and was told he’d had a very late night and wasn’t expected in until 9 a.m. Jane then phoned the station and told the duty sergeant she would be in a bit later as she had to see DS Lawrence at the Met lab. As she drove to Lambeth, she looked forward to showing him what she’d found.

  After parking her car in the underground car park, she went to Lawrence’s office on the first floor, where he was writing up a report.

  “Morning, Jane. Always a pleasure to see you. Have you heard? There’s been a big development overnight on the investigation.”

  “No, what’s happened?” she asked eagerly.

  Lawrence smiled and got up from his desk. “Take a seat while I put the kettle on and I’ll fill you in.”

  He shook the kettle to check the water level then switched it on.

  “What brings you to the lab? Something for us to look at?” he asked, sitting back down.

  “Yes, but I want to hear about the big development first.”

  “The fingerprint lab worked all night developing and examining the prints we lifted at the hostel murder scene and Eileen Summers’ flat. Bad news is they didn’t find any trace of the unknown victim, or Mrs. Hastings’ fingerprints. The guys were red-eyed after doing countless side-by-side comparisons against criminal records. Good news is they found a match to prints on Eileen Summers’ jewelry box and bedroom drawers, which also matched a print on the wardrobe door of Ben Smith’s hostel room.” Paul put a spoonful of coffee in two cups. “I’ve got no milk—is Coffee-Mate OK?”

  “Black, no sugar is fine for me. I thought Gibbs ran a check on Smith’s details at the CRO and it was negative?”

  “Smith is an alias.” Lawrence handed Jane a mugshot and criminal record sheet, with the name “Aiden Lang” on it. “Ben Smith was not referred to the hostel by social services. Turns out the hostel manager was letting the room illegally and pocketing the cash.”

  As Lawrence made the coffee, Jane looked at the mugshot of Aiden Lang. He only looked about seventeen, with a fresh complexion and high cheekbones.

  “His hair is light brown, not blond,” Jane commented.

  “That mugshot was taken a few months ago. Lang is currently wanted on warrant for non-appearance at Hampstead Magistrates Court on assault and theft charges, so he probably used the alias and dyed his hair to avoid arrest. He also has previous convictions for possession of cannabis and taking a motor vehicle.” Lawrence handed Jane her coffee.

  “He looks so young. Not at all like I imagined him,” she remarked.

  “Well, I’ve learnt that murderers come in all shapes and sizes, Jane. What’s really sickening is the way he raped those two young women as he strangled them to death.”

  Jane nodded. “He’s a monster, and he’ll undoubtedly keep on killing until he’s caught.”

  “I’ve told Moran about Lang and the fingerprints. He’s arranged a press conference at Scotland Yard, in the lecture theatre at midday. He wants everyone on the team there for an eleven a.m. meeting in the briefing room beforehand, so he can be brought up to speed with everything before facing the press.”

  “I think Eileen Summers might have phoned the Samaritans and Sybil Hastings dealt with the call on the Thursday evening before she was killed on the Friday.” Jane picked up her briefcase and took out the call log, which was still protected by the two sheets of cardboard.

  She briefed Lawrence on her visit to the Samaritans in Soho, and her conversation with Alice Hodges. She then handed Lawrence the call sheet.

  “The details of this call were written by Alice. Mrs. Hastings wrote something on the previous call sheet, which she didn’
t file, for some reason. Obviously I’m hoping the indented writing from Mrs. Hastings’ notes might reveal some details of the caller, or maybe even the suspect. During the conversation there was also mention of a boy receiving treatment somewhere. I looked at the call sheet in the dark using my house torch—there’s something there, but I couldn’t make it out. Can you do a proper examination on it for me, Paul?”

  “Well done for preserving it between the cardboard, but it’ll have to go in the ‘awaits’ pile for now, Jane. I’m up to my eyeballs with forensic work on the case. I still need to compare Mrs. Hastings’ tweed suit with the fibers on the bodies and from the Allegro. And we both need to be at the Yard for eleven.”

  Jane pursed her lips and gave him a “please, just for me” look.

  Lawrence laughed. “You’re very hard to resist, Tennison. There’s a new bit of equipment called the Electrostatic Detection Apparatus—ESDA for short. It was invented recently at the London College of Printing. At present, we’re the only force that’s got it on trial. It’s much better than using a light source, and brings up indented handwriting that’s invisible to the human eye.”

  Jane finished her coffee and followed Lawrence into a room with “Questioned Documents & Handwriting” on the door. In the corner was a blue steel box, about the size of a briefcase, marked ESDA. On the top was a bronze plate covered with pin-size holes and there was a rectangular metal wand attached to the side. Lawrence placed the Samaritans call log, written by Alice, onto the brass plate, then stretched a piece of cling film over the document. He turned on the ESDA. It began to whirr then vibrate, and Jane watched as the air was sucked through the pinholes, pulling the document and cling film firmly down on the bronze plate.

  Lawrence picked up the wand attachment and told Jane to stand back as he was about to run a few thousand volts of static electricity over the document. Jane took two big steps back as Lawrence waved the wand across it. He lifted the brass plate at a 30-degree angle and gently poured black toner from a jar over the cling film. He explained how the toner would bring up the unseen indented areas of the document onto the cling film. He replaced the wand and tapped the plate, removing the remnants of the toner. Jane was transfixed as darker traces showing the indented impressions slowly appeared on the cling film against the grey background, and the indented writing began to reveal itself. She could identify different styles of handwriting, some on top of each other, and it was hard to separate them.

  Lawrence shrugged. “That’s one of the problems: bloody machine is so sensitive it can pick up three or four layers of indented writing, which actually makes it difficult and time-consuming to find what you’re looking for.” Lawrence then made the indented images permanent by placing clear sticky-backed plastic over the toner, thus producing a fixed, transparent image. He then made a second copy and handed it to Jane for the case file back at the station.

  “The documents section will need some samples of Mrs. Hastings’ handwriting, as well as Alice’s, to help narrow down who wrote what.”

  “I’ve got other call logs that Mrs. Hastings and Alice filled out. Will they do?”

  Paul nodded. Jane opened her briefcase and handed him a folder.

  “I’ll get a handwriting expert to look at them and the indented writing. It could be two or three days before they get around to it as they’re examining documents in an IRA case for the Bomb Squad, whose work always takes precedence over everything else.”

  “Thanks, Paul.”

  “Right, it’s just after ten, so we’d better make our way over to the Yard for the press conference. We can grab a sandwich and coffee in the canteen, if you want.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jane said as she put the copy of the indented writing in her briefcase.

  Arriving at Scotland Yard, they went straight to the briefing room, where Gibbs and the rest of the murder team were waiting. Moran didn’t look happy.

  “Where have you been, Tennison? I expect you to be in the office by nine a.m. at the latest.”

  “I spoke to the duty sergeant and explained that I had to go to the lab. I thought he’d have told you.”

  “Well, he didn’t. I need to know what you’re doing so that I can be kept up to speed with developments,” Moran said tersely.

  Gibbs was quick to defend Jane. “In fairness, Jane did phone me several times with updates yesterday, as you were out the office. Her findings were in the report I left on your desk.”

  Moran looked slightly embarrassed. He clearly hadn’t had time to read Gibbs’ report.

  “Well, we’re all very busy, but in future a phone call would be appreciated, Tennison. Is there anything you haven’t told DI Gibbs that I need to know about?”

  Jane quickly updated him, focusing on the indented writing and the phone call Eileen Summers had taken at school, from a man calling himself Mr. Smith.

  Moran nodded. “Good work. I appreciate the labs document section are busy with the Bomb Squad stuff, but keep chasing them up for a result. Right, moving on … Just so you all know, the press are all over the fact that three murders have taken place in Peckham.” Moran picked up a newspaper from the desk and held it up.

  “As you can see, the headlines in the tabloids are ‘Peckham’s Murder Mile’ and ‘Peckham Rye Killer Strikes Again.’ The press is inferring all three murders are linked and are the work of the same killer. It’s also been leaked that Mrs. Hastings’ body was discovered by her son.”

  “Well, that’s obviously come from that prick Andrew Hastings,” Gibbs interjected.

  Moran ignored him. “The press is calling us inept and clueless. The Commissioner is livid and wants DCS Blake and me to explain the complexities of the investigation to the press and release the fact we now have Aiden Lang as a suspect, with forensic evidence to suggest he’s responsible for all three murders.”

  Edwards and another officer entered the room.

  “Sorry we’re late, sir,” he said sheepishly.

  “Where have you two been?” Moran bellowed.

  “Making enquiries at Hampstead Police Station about Aiden Lang’s arrest for assault and theft—just as you instructed us to do first thing this morning, sir,” Edwards replied.

  Moran looked embarrassed again. “Uh, yes, sorry, Edwards. Things have been a bit hectic this morning. What’ve you got for us?”

  Jane noted that she hadn’t got an apology from Moran for his brusque manner.

  Edwards flicked open his notebook. “We spoke with the uniform officer who last arrested Aiden Lang. The circumstances were …” Edwards paused to look at his notes. “The officer was walking past the public toilet block at Hampstead Heath at about two p.m., when he heard a commotion in the men’s. He entered the block and found Lang assaulting the victim—an accountant in his early thirties. The PC broke up the fight, and the accountant said Lang had attacked him and stolen his wallet. The wallet was in Lang’s possession and he was duly nicked.”

  “Did Lang admit the offences under interview?” Moran asked.

  “Yep. His excuse for committing the offence was because he was homeless and needed money.”

  “What address did he give as his last residence for the charge sheet?” Moran asked.

  Edwards turned a page in his notebook. “The Golden Lion pub in Soho. Said he worked there and lived in a small room above it. He didn’t get on with the landlord so left and had been living rough in the West End. He also said he had a married sister who lived in south London, but he didn’t get on with her husband, so he didn’t visit her.”

  Gibbs nodded. “That doesn’t mean he doesn’t keep in contact with her. Find out who she is and where she lives, Edwards.”

  “The Samaritans branch Mrs. Hastings worked at is in Soho,” Jane said.

  “The Golden Lion is a gay boys’ pub in Dean Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue,” Edwards added.

  Gibbs opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. “Didn’t take you for a shirt-lifter, Edwards!”

  Edwards grinned. �
�Takes one to know one, guv. Funny thing is, the officer who arrested Lang said the area on Hampstead Heath where the incident happened is commonly known as ‘Gobblers Gulch,’ where men go cottaging and looking for a blow job in the men’s toilets.”

  “What’s ‘cottaging’?” a young detective asked.

  Edwards laughed. “It’s a term used when referring to anonymous sex between poofters in a public toilet, or where they’re cruising for someone to have sex with. Some toilets have glory holes they stick their todgers through …”

  “Shut up, Edwards, and stop behaving like a school kid,” Jane said sharply, annoyed at the way he was treating the subject as a joke.

  “Anything else to add, Edwards?” Moran asked.

  Edwards adopted a more serious tone. “The arresting PC suspected there was more behind the incident, but he had no evidence to prove it. Lang was charged and appeared at the local magistrates court the next day, where he pleaded guilty and was released on bail pending a probation service report by social services. He obviously did a runner as he failed to reappear at court for sentencing.”

  Moran thought for a moment. “Tennison and Lawrence, I want you two to go to the Golden Lion and speak to the landlord and staff. And do a thorough search of the room Lang stayed in there.”

  Lawrence frowned. “Can I send a local SOCO to meet Tennison there? I’ve got a huge backlog of stuff to deal with at the lab.”

  Moran shook his head. “Sorry, Paul, you’ve been to all the crime scenes and the post-mortems. I value your experience and I know I can trust you not to miss anything of forensic value.”

  Lawrence didn’t look happy, but knew he couldn’t argue.

  Moran continued. “I agree with the arresting PC. Something doesn’t add up about Lang’s arrest in the toilets. Gibbs, I want you and Edwards to visit the accountant who was robbed by Lang. It’s possible they might have met for sex and are old acquaintances. Find out if there’s more behind the incident.”

  “Why do I always get the shitty jobs?” Edwards muttered under his breath.