by T J Walter
‘Not steady. I’m seeing someone but I’m not that keen.’
‘Did she have other friends, anyone close?’
‘Not really; we’ve got lots of casual friends but no-one close.’
‘What about her colleagues at work, did she socialise with them?’
‘She used to have the occasional drink after work with the girls there, the usual thing. But nothing outside work. She and I spent most of our spare time together.’
‘Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Alison?’
‘No. Everyone liked her. She didn’t have an enemy in the world.’
‘And her family, were they close?’
‘Not really. Her parents live in Aberdeen; she didn’t see much of them and she was an only child.’
‘How did she get on with her parents?’
‘Not that well. Her mother was OK but she didn’t get on with her dad.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, they seemed to disagree all the time; they were very much alike, strong-minded.’
‘Did he abuse her?’
‘No, nothing like that, they just didn’t see eye to eye.’
‘As I’m sure you realise, Miss Wilson, I’m looking for a reason someone might have killed Alison. Was she rich? Did she have any valuable possessions: jewellery, anything like that?’
‘No, she wasn’t rich. The only thing of any value she had was her laptop; that was an expensive one. Oh, and a digital camera.’
‘What about TV or music player?’
‘Yes, she had those, but not expensive ones.’
‘So it’s unlikely that theft was the motive?’
‘Yes, most unlikely.’
Brookes sighed. ‘Is there anything at all you can think of that might help us with our enquiries, anything out of the ordinary that happened recently, anything discordant?’
‘No, nothing. We were good friends, I would have known. She was having a busy time at work but she was enjoying that. She seemed happy.’
‘Thank you, Miss Wilson, you’ve been very helpful. If anything does come to mind, please contact us. DC Gerrard here will see that you get home safely.’
Leaving the room, Brookes slowly climbed the stairs up to the room set aside for the investigation of major incidents, known by the station staff as ‘the murder room’, deep in thought. There was every indication that this case would not be easy to solve.
*
Chapter 5 – The Crime Scene
‘The mirror reflects all objects without being sullied.’
Confucius
Back in the murder room, a young woman stood patiently, waiting to be introduced to her new boss. Just promoted Detective Sergeant Jacqueline Rose, graduate from Oxford University in European Languages, had joined the job three years ago, having been accepted into the force on the graduate entry scheme; a scheme that guaranteed her fast promotion through the lower ranks. She was the flier Short had mentioned earlier.
As Brookes walked in, she was deep in conversation with DI Short and he had time to take a good look at her. She was tall for a woman; five seven or eight and with a good figure. In her mid-twenties, he reckoned. Her hair was cut in an attractive page-boy style with a curl on each cheek. She was dressed in a smart navy blue trouser suit and white blouse. The overall impression was of an intelligent, attractive young woman.
Short introduced them and they shook hands; her grip was firm but not assertive. For the first time he noticed her eyes. They were a deep shade of grey, bright and enquiring. He’d barely had time to glance at her file before interviewing Joan Wilson but knew she was a graduate entrant destined for the top. Like most career police officers, Brookes was sceptical about the accelerated promotion scheme, especially when he was given one of the fliers to groom; they were no sooner with you than they were moved on. But he didn’t let these thoughts show as he faced her.
He said, ‘Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you, Sergeant, I’m sure DI Short has told you what’s happening.’
‘Yes, sir, he briefed me.’ She spoke with no discernible accent, and Brookes inwardly sighed with relief. Those few words were proof of a good education untainted by the affected speech of those who tried to impress others with their so-called breeding. Busy police officers had no time for such affectations. Brookes took an immediate liking to her despite his scepticism.
‘Good,’ he said. Then, turning to DI Short, he asked, ‘Have we got a pool car available, Derek?’
‘Yes, boss.’ He handed him a key.
Turning to Rose, Brookes said, ‘I hope you can drive?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I’ve had the conversion course.’
‘Good, we can talk as we drive. Let’s go and see how DS Middlemiss is getting on at the victim’s flat.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Grab two of those evidence suits, we’ll need them.’
They found the car in the station yard.
Brookes asked, ‘Do you know the area, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir, this is my first posting to the East End.’
‘Right, you drive and I’ll navigate. Now, I can’t keep calling you, Sergeant; is it Jacqueline or Jacqui?’
‘Most people call me Jacqui but I don’t mind either, sir.’
‘OK, young Jacqui, turn left and left again then right onto the Commercial Road; we’ll take the high road.’
Once she had familiarised herself with the car and they were on the move, Brookes said,
‘I haven’t had a chance to look at your file; we’ll deal with your antecedents later. Let’s deal with the here and now. Have you any CID experience at all?’
‘None, sir, I’ve just finished the detective course at Hendon, otherwise only uniform experience on the streets.’
‘Well, that’s a good grounding, but you’ll find our ways a bit different. We have a murder investigation on our hands and it’s already thirty-six hours old. We are going to what may be the scene of the crime; we’ll treat it as such unless or until we know different.
‘Your brief at this stage is to watch and listen, tread where I tread, and don’t touch anything without first asking. My DS, Fred Middlemiss, and his team know what they are doing; your job is to watch them and learn. And that includes the DC’s; I won’t have anyone pulling rank on the team, you can learn as much from them as you can from me.’ He paused, then, ‘Turn right there into West India Dock Road. Limehouse Causeway is a turning on the right; it runs parallel with the river.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Now, bearing in mind what I’ve said, you’re here because someone thinks you have a good brain; use it. If you’ve any questions as we go along, then ask them. You’ll no doubt get a ribbing from the lads; all newcomers do, especially fliers. But that’s the way things are and you have to live with it. Better to ask a silly question than stand there wondering what the hell is going on. Are you OK with that?’
‘Very much so, sir.’
‘Good; park anywhere along here, that’s the place there. Anything you want to ask before we get to work?’
She smiled. ‘A hundred or so things, sir, but nothing that won’t wait.’
The unimaginatively named Riverside Mansions was a converted warehouse standing between Limehouse Causeway and The River Thames. Its interior had been gutted and turned into luxury flats but its exterior remained much as it had been for the last two hundred years.
A uniformed PC stood at the entrance. As Brookes approached, he straightened up and said,
‘Flat twenty-two, sir, first floor.’
‘Thanks, Chambers, any press yet?’
‘No, sir, I don’t think they’re onto it yet.’
‘Good, don’t let anyone in unless they are a resident or with us.’
‘Right, sir.’
They crossed the entrance lobby and mounted the stairs to the first floor. Another uniformed constable stood at the doorway of flat 22; he carried a clipboard close to his chest.
Brookes said, ‘Afternoon, Harris; you kn
ow me and this is DS Rose.’ He held out his hand. ‘Show me the list please.’ He noted the names on it and handed it back. ‘Thank you.’ Then to Rose he said, ‘OK, Jacqui, robe up.’
When they both had their evidence suits and overshoes on, Brookes led the way into the flat.
Facing them was a short hallway with doors to left and right. Moving forward, Brookes looked through the open doorway on his left. It was a lounge; the furniture was modern and fashionable, good quality but not overly expensive. He noticed that a coffee table had been overturned and a chair cushion lay on the floor beside it. Everything else seemed tidy and in its place. Half of the wall opposite was taken up with sliding glass doors that led out onto a balcony overlooking the Thames.
Moving into the room, he recognised the green paper-clad figure of George Hadley, the team’s senior crime scene investigator.
‘What have we got so far, George?’
‘Hello, sir, I’m pretty sure we have the crime scene. It looks as if there was a struggle here and in the bedroom. The bedclothes are disarranged and there are marks on the duvet and pillow. I’d say that she was strangled on the bed then dragged through here to the balcony and thrown off. It overhangs the river so she would have gone straight in. One of her slippers was found in the bedroom and one on the balcony. It also looks as if the whole place has been searched before we arrived.’
Brookes was looking around him as the CSO was speaking. ‘When you got here, were the sliding doors open?’
‘No, sir, they were closed.’
‘What about the curtains, were they drawn?’
‘No, they were open just as they are now.’
‘Any prints or other forensics?’
‘Lots of prints but not on the sliding doors or the door handles to the rooms, and some of the surfaces have been wiped clean. It looks as if whoever was here cleaned up after himself. Fred’s in the bedroom I think, sir; he might have a better idea of what went on.’
‘Thanks, George, you carry on, we’ll have a look around. This is DS Jacqui Rose by the way, a new member of the team.’
George looked at her, smiled, and said, ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’
Meanwhile, Brooke’s attention had turned to the room around him. There were two paintings on the walls. He looked at one closely; it was a scene, probably the view from the balcony, with the river in the foreground and the South London skyline opposite. In the bottom right hand corner was a signature and a date: ‘J. Wilson, 2010’. The other painting was also a London scene.
‘These are pretty good, Jacqui. It looks as if they are by the victim’s friend, the woman who identified the body.’
She replied, ‘Yes sir, they are good.’
Turning, Brookes led the way onto the balcony. He leant over the railing, careful not to touch it. Beneath him, the black waters of the river flowed quickly past. The wall of the building fell sheer to the river’s edge, the water lapping at the stone foundations of the building itself.
‘Hmm. If she was tossed in here, the river would take the body whichever way the tide was running. Make a note to get the Thames Division sergeant, Williamson his name is, to come and have a look from here. See if his theory on the tides and where the body was found is consistent with the body entering the water here.’
She nodded, struggling to get notebook and pen out from under her unfamiliar evidence suit.
In the bedroom opposite the lounge, they found DS Middlemiss sitting at a dressing table, making notes.
He looked up as they entered, and said, ‘We must stop meeting in ladies’ boudoirs, boss, people will start to talk.’
Brookes smiled. ‘I hesitate to ask what they might say, Fred. This is our new DS, Jacqui Rose. Now what have you got?’
The DS said, ‘‘Ello, Jacqui, we’ll ‘ave a chat later.’ Then he flicked through the pages of his notebook. ‘We’ve got a murder scene, boss. The way I read it is that she got home from work and cooked herself a meal and ate it. She was a tidy girl, she washed up after; there’s one of everything on the draining board. Then it seems that someone called and she let them in. There’s a deadlock on the door as well as a Yale and that’s the only way in unless you climb up the wall from the river. There’s no sign of forced entry.’
Brookes interrupted; ‘So there’s no fire escape?’
‘Not in the flat, boss. But there’s one in the corridor at the opposite end to the stairs, it leads down to the river. You can see it from the balcony in the other room. There’s no way anyone could get in from there.’
Brookes nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Then there was some kind of struggle, probably started in the lounge, ended up ‘ere in the bedroom. We’ve bagged everything but there were smears of lipstick on the pillowcase and what looks like boot marks on the duvet. I reckon we’ll get a match when we find the bastard’s shoes. So ‘e strangles ‘er on the bed, drags ‘er through to the balcony, and bungs ‘er in the drink. And Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt. All we’ve got to do now is find the bastard.’
Brookes smiled. ‘Your command of the English language never ceases to amaze me, Fred. Strangely enough, I did have an Aunt Fanny. She died years ago, though her husband’s name was Cyril, not Bob. Now, what else have you found?’
‘Well, there’s a jacket in the closet there that matches the skirt she was wearing. And someone went round and wiped the obvious places of prints. One slipper ‘ere in the bedroom and one on the balcony, it looks cut and dried to me.’
Another green-clad figure poked his head around the doorframe, Brian Mills, another CSI. ‘Got a minute, sir?’
‘Yes, Brian, what is it?’
‘The spare room, sir, it’s set up as a computer work station with all the attachments but no computer.’
‘Well according to her friend she had an expensive laptop. Have you searched the whole flat; she also had a digital camera and of course a mobile phone.’
Middlemiss interrupted, ‘Her mobile’s here on the bedside table, boss.’
The CSI added, ‘Her camera’s in the other room.’
Brookes frowned. ‘What about cash, and the TV and music centre?’
Middlemiss answered, ‘There’s about forty-five quid in her purse and the TV and music centre are in the lounge.’
‘What kind of thief would take the laptop and leave all the other stuff behind?’
‘None that I know, boss.’
‘So it’s probably what was on the computer he wanted.’
‘There’s also a rack for memory disks and that’s empty,’ the CSO added.
Brookes nodded. ‘Well done, Brian. So we may have a motive, we’ll have to find out what she kept on her computer. Joan Wilson was close to her, she might well know. Make a note, Jacqui; we’ll interview her again tomorrow. It’s coming together.’
‘One other thing, boss,’ Middlemiss said. ‘In your briefing, you mentioned that the pathologist said she drank some wine just before she crocked it. There’s no sign of an empty or ‘alf empty bottle in the flat. There’s a rack of full bottles but none of them opened.’
Brookes nodded. ‘I suppose she might have stopped for a drink on her way home. What about a wine glass, was there one on the draining board?’
‘Nope, lots in the cupboard but none among the washing up.’
‘What about in the rubbish bin; any sign of a cork?
‘No, boss, we thought of that. There’s not a cork or a screw top there.’
There was silence for a long moment whilst the detectives thought over the various possibilities. Then Brookes turned to Rose.
‘What do you think, Jacqui, anything from a woman’s point of view?’
She frowned. ‘If he strangled her with her tights, she can’t have been wearing them. So she must have taken them off when she got home.’
Brookes smiled at her. ‘Well-spotted, that’s exactly what her friend said; she always took them off and rinsed them ready to wear the next day.’
Encouraged by the complim
ent, Rose continued, ‘And she hadn’t washed her lipstick off; maybe she was expecting a visitor, sir.’
Middlemiss chuckled, nodding to Rose. ‘She’s not just a pretty face is she, boss?’
Brookes ignored the comment. The three detectives stood for a while in silence, each thinking through these conclusions.
Then Brookes said, ‘OK, three things we need to know: what time she left work, whether she stopped off for a drink on the way, and what time she got home. I doubt she brought anyone home with her; she wouldn’t have taken her tights off and put on the old woollen cardigan if she had.’
‘Or cook a meal just for herself,’ Middlemiss added.
Brooked nodded. ‘Then, sometime later, she let someone in through the front door; that means she probably knew him and wasn’t frightened of him. There’s a spy-hole in the front door isn’t there, Fred?’
‘Yes, boss, I checked, and the door’s self-locking. Anyway, you can’t get in through the street door downstairs without a key unless some buzzes you in.’
Brookes nodded. ‘OK, she lets him in. Then there’s a struggle in the lounge. Then in the bedroom, he kneels on her chest and strangles her with her tights; the pathologist found a bruise on her chest which supports that theory. Then he drags her through to the lounge and tosses her into the river. Next he searches the place, finds her computer, and takes that with him.’ After a moment he added, ‘OK, I don’t think we’re too far from the truth of what happened here. Who’s talking to the neighbours, Fred?’
‘Liz and Dave are on that, boss. I’ve told them just to do this building and the ones either side. Do you want them to spread out more?’
‘Not at this stage, no. Just one thing; find out when the dustbin men call. If the killer did bring the wine with him and then took the bottle away with him, he might have dumped it in the vicinity. OK, I'll have a look at the rest of the flat then see you back at Leman Street.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’ll have a full team briefing at six and put it all together.’
*
Chapter 6 – The Full Monty
‘To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge.’
