Make Them Pay

by Graham Ison

  Not that all senior officers are as agreeable as me; in some I’ve known the similarity to an orang-utan springs to mind: the higher they go the more of their less attractive features become apparent. Even so, an overbearing senior officer will often dig himself a big hole while his acolytes stand round silently waiting for him to fall into it. But in Dave’s case he frequently spotted something I’d missed, thereby saving me a great deal of aggro, to say nothing of veiled hints from the commander of neglect of duty.

  Dave’s grandfather came to this country from Jamaica in the fifties and set up practice as a doctor in Bethnal Green, and Dave’s father was a chartered accountant. But Dave, after graduating in English from London University, spurned a professional career and decided to become a policeman thus making him, in his own words, the black sheep of the family. He then compounded the offence by marrying a delightful white girl called Madeleine who is a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet. The suggestion that Madeleine occasionally assaulted Dave was put down to canteen scuttlebutt. Dave is six-foot tall and well-built, whereas his wife is a petite five-two. Nevertheless, ballet dancers are renowned for their strength, so perhaps . . .

  ‘How far have we got, Dave?’

  ‘Not very far, guv. Doctor Mortlock’s just finished poking about.’ Dave indicated a black saloon car parked behind an ambulance, the presence of which was clearly unnecessary. Unless, that is, a callow young policeman happened to faint from the sight of dead bodies. It never seemed to affect the women officers; they just gritted their teeth and got on with the job.

  ‘Good morning, Henry.’ Mortlock, our pet forensic pathologist, was sitting in his car making notes. I slid into the passenger seat beside him.

  ‘There’s nothing bloody good about it,’ muttered Mortlock testily, ‘and before you ask, I can’t tell you a thing, other than that both bodies are well and truly done to a turn. What the French would call bien cuit. I’ll need to get them on the slab before I can come up with anything. Try to get your people to move them in one piece, there’s a good chap. From the state of them they’ll likely fall apart when they start to shift them, and it’s a bloody nuisance trying to put them together again.’

  ‘When are you going to do the post-mortem?’ I asked.

  ‘This afternoon, I suppose. Once I’ve had some sleep.’ And with that pithy rejoinder, Mortlock whistled a few snatches from some obscure aria, started the engine and drove off. I only just managed to get out of his car in time.

  ‘I understand that this job’s all yours, guv.’ The local detective inspector looked extremely pleased with himself, presumably because he was aware that what had all the signs of being a tortuous investigation had been taken over by HSCC.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Couple of bodies seriously overcooked, but we haven’t found any ID so far. By the way, the camper van’s got German number plates. The index starts off with a letter E and the dealership’s details on them show it was supplied by a firm in Essen, so I suppose that’s where it’s registered.’ The DI was obviously a detective who quickly got to grips with the basics.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I said with a hint of sarcasm. It was as well that I spoke German fluently, the only advantage of my marriage to Helga, because it looked as though I was going to need it. ‘Who called the fire brigade?’

  ‘A man called Guy Wilson at number 21.’ The DI pointed at a house opposite the scene of my latest investigation.

  ‘Anyone spoken to him?’

  ‘Not as yet, guv. By the way, the fire brigade reckoned there was an excess of petrol fumes. The chief thinks the fire was started deliberately.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That much I’ve heard.’

  Making a mental note to have Wilson interviewed later in the day, I crossed to the camper van and gave it a cursory visual examination. There was nothing much to see beyond what I’d been told already. The fire had left little of the van’s interior intact, so much so that there was hardly anything to learn just by looking at it. Two blackened corpses, their sex not immediately apparent, occupied the front seats and from their posture appeared to have been overtaken by the flames before they could do anything. A strong odour of petrol still pervaded the air, but given what the fire chief had said that was to be expected.

  The presence of an abandoned jerrycan on one of the rear seats caused me to wonder why it was there and why the cap was open. Not for the first time I was to discover that things aren’t always as they seem.

  A smart white van had been parked just inside the tapes. It was emblazoned with the words EVIDENCE RECOVERY UNIT, a snazzy slogan doubtless created by the boy superintendents who staff the funny names and total confusion squad at the Yard.

  Linda Mitchell, the senior forensic practitioner, walked across to join me. Unlike the crime scene investigators in American television shows, she was not wearing high-heeled shoes or attired in one of the latest designer creations to emerge from New York. Neither had she come straight from a fashionable hairdressing boutique. She was instead dressed in unflattering white coveralls. ‘Is it all right for me to make a start, Mr Brock?’

  ‘By all means, Linda,’ I said, ‘but from what Doctor Mortlock said, I doubt you’ll find very much.’

  ‘He’s a pathologist, not a forensic scientist,’ said Linda dismissively. ‘And unlike TV, he doesn’t try to do my job and I don’t try to do his.’ This was a sharp and uncharacteristic reaction from the normally equable Linda, and I got the impression that she was no happier than the rest of us at having been called out this early in the morning.

  But on this occasion, Mortlock was right. Very nearly.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do until we get the vehicle to the lab, Mr Brock,’ said Linda, having made a brief visual examination of what remained of the camper van and its gruesome contents. ‘I’ll arrange for a low-loader to take it to the Amelia Street lab in Walworth. I think the best idea would be to move it as it is, bodies and all, and then they can be shifted to the mortuary in sterile conditions.’

  I wasn’t about to argue with that, and it would mean less hanging about in Richmond, even on a warm summer’s morning as this one was turning out to be. The first fingers of dawn had already crept over the eastern sky.

  THREE

  I’d decided to go straight to the office and Dave and I arrived at about seven o’clock. Dave immediately disappeared to rustle up two cups of coffee.

  My first job was to establish the identity of the two bodies that had been found in the camper van. I presumed that any identification documents the couple might have had were destroyed in the blaze. I set Gavin Creasey the task of finding the telephone number of the Essen police in North Rhine Westphalia.

  A few minutes later, I was talking to their duty officer, Kriminalhauptkommissar Horst Fischer, and told him who I was and what little we knew of the two deaths that were about to occupy a great deal of my time.

  ‘Perhaps you would give me a description of this vehicle, Herr Chief Inspector,’ said Fischer, ‘and its registration details.’

  ‘Ah! One moment.’ I paused, realizing that I’d started the conversation without having this vital piece of information to hand. But fortunately Dave handed me a slip of paper on which were the requisite particulars. As I’ve already mentioned, he thinks of things I don’t. ‘It’s a red and white Volkswagen California T5, Hauptkommissar,’ I said, and gave the Essen policeman the registration details.

  ‘One moment, Herr Chief Inspector, while I interrogate my computer,’ said Fischer.

  I heard the telltale tapping of keys and twenty seconds later Fischer came back with the information.

  ‘The Volkswagen is registered to a Herr Wilhelm Weber. According to our computer, he lives with his wife Anna in Kettwig. I will give you their address.’

  Although I would never have admitted it to Helga, you’ve got to go a long way to beat German efficiency.

  ‘Whereabouts is this place Kettwig?’ I asked, as I wrote
down the names and addresses.

  ‘It is a town on the Ruhr between here and Düsseldorf, but it is part of outer Essen, a suburb if you like.’ I wasn’t surprised I’d not heard of it. My visits to Germany had been confined to Cologne, where my ex-wife Helga came from, and I’d only been there a couple of times to visit her parents. And that was under duress. The Büchners were not the most likeable of people and regarded a lowly British uniformed constable as a highly unsuitable match for their daughter. In the fullness of time that became my view too.

  ‘Are you able to contact the Webers’ next of kin, Hauptkommissar,’ I asked, ‘and inform them of the deaths of Wilhelm and Anna Weber? Assuming that’s who they are.’

  ‘It will be done immediately. I will call you back.’ Fischer paused. ‘You speak excellent German, Herr Brock,’ he said eventually, and somewhat hesitantly.

  ‘Thank you, Herr Fischer.’ I forbore from telling him that fluency in his language was the only benefit of my marriage to Helga. On reflection it would’ve been cheaper to have gone to night school. I replaced the receiver.

  ‘Got a result, guv?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Of sorts, Dave,’ I said. ‘At least we know who the dead people are.’ But that assumption proved to be short-lived.

  I decided it was time that Dave and I had some breakfast. An empty stomach is definitely a drawback when it comes to investigating suspicious deaths.

  Deciding on a brisk walk, we cut across Parliament Square and into Victoria Street where we adjourned to the upstairs restaurant of the Albert public house. I had breakfasted there many times and knew that we’d be assured of a good meal.

  Contrary to prevailing dietary advice, and sly hints from Gail, I indulged in their excellent kedgeree, bacon and eggs with mushrooms, hash browns, and freshly brewed coffee. But Dave appeared to be consuming twice as much as me. It’s a wonder that he manages to keep so slim, but he’d probably say that it’s because he’s always running about after me.

  Now replete and more or less ready for the inevitable long day ahead, we returned at half past eight. Kate Ebdon and the rest of the team had arrived and were catching up on the night’s events.

  Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon is a flame-haired Australian who had come to HSCC on promotion from the Flying Squad. It was strongly rumoured that she had given pleasure to a number of the Squad’s officers, male ones of course, but you shouldn’t believe everything that policemen tell you.

  Kate usually dresses rather provocatively in tight-fitting jeans, a man’s white shirt that strains at the buttons, and high heels. It’s a mode of attire that displeases our beloved commander, but he hasn’t the bottle to tell her. When she first arrived at HSCC he asked me to have a word with her about her dress, but I pointed out that it could amount to sexism or even racism, given that she hailed from the Antipodes. The commander is very keen on diversity, whatever he means by that, and the matter was quietly dropped. That said Kate can turn out in a stunning and very feminine outfit when she gives evidence at the Old Bailey. She certainly knows how to charm the menfolk, and although that includes High Court judges, she doesn’t seem to have much sexual impact on the commander.

  I explained to the team what we had learned so far, but everything now hinged on Henry Mortlock’s findings at the post-mortem, and what the fire brigade’s arson investigator had to say about the cause of the conflagration. Until we had that essential information, together with Linda Mitchell’s input, there wasn’t a great deal more we could do, except to start on a few local enquiries.

  ‘Kate, would you arrange for house-to-house enquiries in the area. Get someone to start with a local resident named Guy Wilson who called the brigade. Dave will give you the address.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him myself, guv,’ said Kate. ‘He might have something important to tell us as his house is right opposite the scene of the incident.’

  By now, Detective Sergeant Colin Wilberforce, the day-duty incident room manager, had arrived. He immediately set about organizing everything, as only he can do. Wilberforce is an absolute wizard at office work and it’ll be a sad day if he ever gets promoted and is transferred. His desk is a classic example of administrative efficiency; even his pens and pencils are arranged with military precision. And God help anyone, including me, who interfered with his little empire.

  At midday, Wilberforce came into my office. ‘I’ve just had a call from Linda Mitchell, sir. The remains of the bodies have been delivered to the Horseferry Road mortuary.’

  ‘A bite of lunch, Dave,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll be off to Henry’s carvery.’

  Dr Henry Mortlock was sitting at his desk tapping away at his computer when Dave and I arrived at the mortuary.

  ‘When are you going to start, Henry?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve finished, dear boy,’ said Mortlock, swinging round on his office chair, ‘and you’ll be delighted to learn that both your victims – a man and a woman – had been shot. A single round to the back of the head in each case. But there was no exit wound. A low calibre bullet, I should imagine.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell!’ I exclaimed. Two suspicious deaths had now become a double murder enquiry.

  Mortlock afforded me an owlish grin. ‘I was lucky to find the rounds,’ he said, pointing at a kidney-shaped bowl containing two bullets, ‘given the state of the bodies.’

  ‘I almost wish you hadn’t,’ I said. ‘So it wasn’t the fire that killed them.’

  ‘I thought that’s what I just said.’ Mortlock shot me the sort of patronizing glance that forensic pathologists reserve for explaining things to thick coppers.

  ‘Any chance of getting a DNA sample, Henry?’ I asked.

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, Harry. How lucky can you get, eh?’ Mortlock peered at me over his spectacles. ‘But there’s not a cat in hell’s chance of getting fingerprints. There isn’t much left of the fingers.’

  At four o’clock, I received another telephone call from the highly efficient Horst Fischer of the Essen police.

  ‘Herr Brock, I have some interesting news for you. One of my officers called first at the Webers’ address in case there were relatives who shared the house with them. But Wilhelm and Anna Weber were there, as alive as you and me.’

  ‘The bodies we found were not the Webers, then?’ I said, half to myself.

  ‘That is so, Herr Brock,’ said Fischer, politely avoiding any hint of sarcasm. ‘It seems that Herr Weber lent his Volkswagen camper van to a friend of his. This friend was called Hans Eberhardt.’

  ‘It looks as though he’s our victim, then.’

  ‘I would think that is a possibility.’

  ‘And was Eberhardt’s wife the woman who was with him?’

  ‘Not as far as we know. Herr Weber does not think that Eberhardt was married. He believes the female to be Fräulein Trudi Schmidt, a girlfriend of Eberhardt. We are now trying to trace this couple’s next of kin to inform them of the tragic accident. There is likely to be some delay because Herr Weber does not know of any relatives of either Hans Eberhardt or Trudi Schmidt.’

  ‘I see.’ I paused before committing myself, but I was talking to another copper and there is a trust between policemen, no matter what their nationality. ‘I’d be grateful if you kept this to yourself for the time being, Herr Fischer,’ I said, ‘but we now have evidence that this couple had been murdered.’

  ‘Are you able to give me the details, Herr Brock?’ Fischer responded calmly to this announcement, as though it came as no surprise.

  ‘Yes, the pathologist found that each of the people in this Volkswagen had been shot, killed by a single round to the head.’

  ‘It sounds very much like an execution, a revenge killing perhaps,’ said Fischer. ‘I shall find out what I can about this Eberhardt, discreetly of course, and keep you informed.’

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, Herr Fischer,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep you up to date with our investigation.’

  ‘One other thing, Herr Brock . . .’

>   ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is it possible to obtain a DNA sample from the bodies of your victims? Just to be certain of the identification. Also we might have a record of these people in our DNA database.’

  ‘They were badly burned, but the pathologist said that he is fairly confident. There’s no possibility of obtaining fingerprints though.’

  ‘That is hardly surprising in the circumstances, but thank you. If there is anything else we can do to assist from this end, please tell me.’

  ‘Does this mean a trip to Germany?’ asked Dave, once I’d finished talking to Fischer.

  ‘I doubt that the commander would sanction it,’ I said.

  ‘The DAC might though.’ Dave obviously knew, as did I, that the commander had a fear of making such a decision without reference to higher authority. Or, for that matter, any decision.

  FOUR

  Three hours after Kriminalhauptkommissar Horst Fischer’s last phone call, I received another from him. I was not surprised to find that he was still on duty. Having been saddled with my enquiry in the first place it was obvious that he was now seeing it through. Like me, he was a detective, and once tasked with a job our periods of duty knew no bounds.

  ‘There are some interesting developments, Herr Brock. After we spoke earlier, I learned from our records that Hans Eberhardt is of interest to this department.’

  ‘Oh, in what way?’

  ‘He has a criminal record, Herr Brock. Three years ago he was before the court in Düsseldorf for being a confidence trickster. He was imprisoned for eighteen months for selling tickets for a lottery that did not exist. But now it would seem that he has moved up in the world; into what I think the Americans call “the big time”. We visited his house today and of course received no reply. I empowered my officers to force an entry and we found what you would call an Aladdin’s cave.’