by Jason De'Ath
“This’ll be him, Tony.” said DI Longbridge nudging his sergeant. The car very slowly drew up to them, stopping inches from their car’s bumper. A tall thin man emerged, late fifties, with a somewhat gaunt expression on his face.
“Who’s in charge?” he barked.
“That’ll be me.” informed Longbridge; he reached out his hand to greet the erstwhile doctor, “DI Longbridge. And this is DS Collins.” The doctor initially ignored him, casting his gaze upon the sheeted body; then as though suddenly cognizant, finally shook the inspector’s hand with a brief glance.
“Do we know how long the body’s been here?” the doctor enquired.
“Since early morning, I believe.” said Longbridge, following the doctor over to where Gregg’s corpse lay. Collins stubbed out his cigarette and duly followed suit.
“Who put this sheet on the body.” the doctor asked testily.
“Um?” Longbridge looked at Collins for help, but none was forthcoming. “I don’t actually know. We only arrived an hour ago.”
“I’ll have to remove it.” he said in a grumbly tone.
“You’re the boss.” Longbridge pointed out demonstratively. Forsyth gave him a fleeting look of contempt, before getting down to work.
“This bloke’s a barrel of fun.” whispered Collins in an aside; “Have you met him before?” “No. Usually sends one of his minions. We’re honoured today.” “Feels like it.” quipped Collins.
“I don’t think he gets out much.” contributed Longbridge to the mockery; “What did you do with that cartridge case?” he added, more professionally.
“Here.” Collins produced a small evidence-bag from his pocket.
The coroner’s examination of the body took about ten minutes. When finished, he stood up and turned around to find the two detectives standing back by their car having another cigarette and a joke. This time Collins noticed him approaching and nudged Longbridge: they both promptly stubbed out their cigarettes.
“I would say, given the state of riga and body temperature, that this man has been dead about 10 – 12 hours. Two bullet wounds to the chest area – large calibre; one has probably penetrated the heart – probably died instantly. I would have expected more blood, though...”
“I don’t know that he was killed on that spot, but we’ve not had chance to interview the girl, yet.” advised Longbridge. “Ahhh that explains the bloody dress top I found at his feet. Was she badly injured?” “Shot several times, we believe.” said Collins.
“Okay. Well, we can certainly say that he’s dead. I’ll issue a death certificate and arrange for the body to be taken to the mortuary. I’ll get the post mortem organised for later today. Oh, and I’ll get a photographer down – don’t move the body...”
“We found this cartridge case in the woods. We think it came from the murder weapon. We’ve got men currently combing the ground to try to recover a bullet, or any more cases.” said Longbridge passing the evidence bag to the coroner.
“Yes that looks like a large calibre; some sort of pistol.” Forsyth quickly deduced, then returned the bag. “Is there a telephone I can use?”
“The village pub is being used as a base: they have one there – it’s a bit of a cupboard.” “Did you come across any identification.” asked Collins.
“It’s a bloody mess. Best leave it to the pathologist.” advised Forsyth.
“Fair enough.” conceded Collins gladly.
“I don’t know what the country’s coming to.” Forsyth complained walking back to his car.
“I think we’ll visit my old mate, Ernie Ewhurst.” said Longbridge as he watched Forsyth depart. He and Ewhurst had been colleagues during their early days in the force, until their careers diverged. “Then we’ll go to the hospital. We really need to speak to the girl.”
“Right, gov’ – shall I drive?”
“Yeah, go on then.” granted Longbridge. He then called to Det. Constable Jenkinson (who was standing at the edge of the wood chatting to a uniformed constable): “We’re going – I’ll leave you in charge.” Jenkinson gave the thumbs-up in recognition.
The Godalming Police Station was now running much as usual, having handed over the murder case to the Guildford division. Sgt Knox was now on duty, while Clapshaw and Anderson were out on patrol. Longbridge and Collins wandered into the station waving their warrant cards.
“Your boss in?” Longbridge asked Knox.
“Yes sir. He’s in his office.”
The inspector knocked on the office door, which was slightly ajar and the two detectives walked in. Ewhurst was typing his report; he glanced up disconcertedly. Immediately recognising his old friend Longbridge, he stood up and directed them to sit on the chairs in front of his desk. “Graham – it’s been a while.”
“About six years.” reminded Longbridge. “This is DS Collins. I think you know why we’re here.” “Sadly, I do.”
“We’ve not made much progress, yet. I understand you spoke to the girl?”
“Yes. She was in a bit of a state. I couldn’t really press her; then the ambulance whipped her off to hospital.” “Yeah, we’re just on our way over there.”
“A local woman found her at about 6.30 this morning... Mrs Pomfrey-Jones.” he added checking his notebook.
“Has she been interviewed?”
“Yes. PC Clapshaw took her statement. He’s out on patrol until one; should be back anytime. I’m just doing my report, actually... It’s not that helpful, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Early days, Ernie. We need to get this bastard quick, though.”
“Can I get you a coffee?”
“That’d be great.” replied Longbridge.
“Likewise Sergeant?” Ewhurst asked Collins.
“Yes. Thank you.”
They walked through to the back office, where they kept an electric kettle and various beverages. Collins made himself comfortable at the small Formica table and lit a cigarette. Longbridge took the opportunity to use the toilet.
Ewhurst switched on the kettle: “What’s your first name, detective.” he asked Collins.
“Oh, sorry: Tony.” Replied Collins offering his hand; Ewhurst shook it and smiled purposively and said: “You know they will take this case off you, don’t you?”
“Do you think so?”
“They’ll probably put one of their top bod’s on it. We get the milk, they get the cream.” Ewhurst complained from bitter experience.
“Well, it’s only a job, eh?” countered Collins dryly.
Ewhurst sighed. “You married?”
“I was.”
“The job was it?”
“No. The plumber, actually.” They both laughed.
“That’s one of the reason’s I took this job: better hours.” explained Ewhurst.
“You got kids?” enquired Collins.
“Just the one: eighteen in a few weeks. Going to college.”
“Not Police College, I hope.”
“Definitely not. Art College; joining the bohemian mob.”
“What’s this?” interrupted Longbridge nosily as he sat at the table.
Ewhurst started to make the coffee: “My daughter: she’s going to be an art student.” he stated dispassionately. “Oh dear.” retorted Longbridge. At this point PC Clapshaw entered the room.
“Are we having a party?” sniped Clapshaw.
“DI Longbridge and DS Collins.” introduced Ewhurst.
“Ah. Sorry sir.” said Clapshaw sheepishly.
“I believe you have a statement for me, Constable?” prompted Longbridge.
“Statement...? Oh, the murder case. I gave it to the uniformed inspector: Inspector Ash.”
“I see. Do we have any names?”
“I think the female victim’s name is Vera. The killer may be called Alf Brown – but that’s probably made up.”
“What about the dead man?”
“Sorry, didn’t get that, sir.”
“Looks like we really do need to speak to the victim – and urg
ently.” remarked Longbridge, addressing Collins specifically. The detectives both took a few quick sips of their coffee and got up from the table; then Ewhurst remembered he had noted the names of the victims. He wrote them down for them and they swiftly left the station.
When they reached the hospital in Guildford it was approaching 1.15 PM. It was apparent that the word had got out, as there were several reporters loitering around the main entrance, who eyed-up the two detectives with suspicion, but chose not to bother them. At the reception desk, a large woman in her thirties was on duty; she initially ignored them, until they started waving their warrant cards in her face.
“Oh! What can I do for you?” she asked in slight alarm.
“I believe that a woman was admitted this morning with gunshot injuries...” said Longbridge.
“Ah, that one. Yes – let me get Dr Grier.” The receptionist picked up the phone: “Hello – Dr Grier...? There are some policemen that want to speak to you...” She replaced the phone and turned back to the officers: “He’s on his way down.”
“Thank you.” said Longbridge. The two detectives waited pensively. Eventually they heard footsteps approaching from the adjacent corridor and a young handsome man appeared through the swing doors, wearing a white coat and stethoscope.
“Dr Grier?” Longbridge enquired.
“Yes. What I can do for you two gentlemen?” He was very well spoken.
“DI Longbridge and this is DS Collins, Guildford Division. You have a young woman with gunshot injuries, admitted this morning?”
“Yes, yes. One of your constables is guarding her room. We have her under sedation: you won’t be able to speak to her today.”
“What’s her condition?” asked Collins with concern.
“She has a great many minor injuries: cuts, bruises and such... You best come to my office.” said the doctor, recognising the need for discretion. The officers followed him along a disinfectant scented corridor and into a small office, which had a window onto an enclosed garden. They all took a chair and sat in a huddle, as though discussing a state secret. “As you know, she has been shot several times; she’s lost a fair amount of blood – we’re currently transfusing her.” “Can you give us some details of her injuries, please, doctor.” Collins asked exploratively.
“Yes, of course. She has sustained a bullet wound to the left thigh – the bullet is lodged in her muscle, near the bone; we intend to operate later today. Amazingly, the bullet missed the major arteries, but there is some fragmentation. She was also shot twice in the chest area, but incredibly one bullet deflected off her breast bone and back out; the other passed straight through without hitting any organs or arteries. If that wasn’t enough of a miracle, she was also received a shot to the head, which was essentially superficial: it grazed the skull and did not enter the brain cavity. Her guardian angel was certainly looking out for her, today.” he exclaimed.
“Not quite well enough, though.” commented Longbridge rather disparagingly. Grier acknowledged the point with a concessionary gesture.
“When do you think we’ll be able to speak to her?” pressed Collins.
“She really needs a few days rest, before I can allow that.”
“It is rather urgent.” insisted Longbridge, “There’s a maniac running around out there and we haven’t a clue where to start looking...”
“Of course, I do appreciate the importance, but my patient’s immediate welfare is my primary concern... I promise I will let you speak with her just as soon as is reasonably possible.” “Any evidence of sexual assault?” continued Longbridge.
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Can we have her clothing, please – it’s evidence.”
“Yes, we realised you would want that. We’ve put it all in bag in her room... I’ll get someone to bring it down.” “Where is she being kept, by the way?”
“She’s in a private room off Ward 6... I can’t allow you to disturb her at this time.”
“No, that’s fine. We appreciate your time, doctor.” Longbridge assented. “We’ll wait in reception for the clothes.”
Longbridge and Collins walked soberly back to the reception desk and waited. “The press are going to have a field day with this.” Collins noted with a tinge of animosity.
“Hmm. You’re not wrong, Tony.” Longbridge concurred, “Let’s try to avoid those two out front... This is frustrating:
we don’t even have a description of the car, let alone the murderer. He could be anywhere by now... Let’s get back to the station and hope something new’s come up. We’ll have to extract that statement from Ash, too.”
When they returned to their office at Guildford Police Station they discovered a note left on Longbridge’s desk to the effect that there had been a phone call from a woman relating to her husband having not returned home overnight, and he was apparently with a female work colleague who had also gone missing. It wasn’t local, though: it was a message from Berkshire Constabulary.
“What’s that, sir?” asked Collins inquisitively as Longbridge perused the note.
“It’s from the Berkshire squad. They obviously think it may be connected.”
“News travels fast.”
“Yeah. See if you can find the number of their headquarters.”
It was quickly established that this was indeed the same couple that had been shot. This was a critical lead as they could now get a description of the car.
“Looks like we’re off to Maidenhead.” informed Longbridge putting down the phone to the Berkshire Constabulary’s headquarters in Sulhamstead.
“Maidenhead?” queried Collins, rather mystified.
“The missing persons report originated from the Maidenhead area.”
“What the hell were they doing in Felstave?” continued Collins in puzzlement.
“More to the point, why did they end up in Felstave?” added Longbridge.
DS Collins swung the maroon coloured 2.5 litre Jaguar Mk2 into the car park of Maidenhead Police Station. Longbridge stepped out of the vehicle and straightened his tie; he never liked visiting stations in different divisions and he had not been to Maidenhead station before. The two detectives approached the reception desk with a degree of guardedness.
“And what can I do for you two gentlemen?” asked the duty sergeant, instinctively recognising the demeanour of plain clothes policemen. They showed their warrant cards.
“We’re investigating a double shooting down Guildford way. We think the victims may have come from this neck of the woods.” explained Longbridge.
“I see, sir. And what makes you think that?”
“I got a message saying a man and woman had been reported missing overnight. We think it could be connected.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll get the inspector. Do you want sit in the interview room?” “Sure.” said Collins, “Couldn’t rustle up a cup of tea, could you? Milk and sugar.” “Er – I’ll see what I can do.” replied the sergeant hesitantly.
“Where’s the lav’?” asked Longbridge.
“Again!” exclaimed Collins.
“Shut up: or I’ll get you to make the tea.” threatened Longbridge.
Collins made himself at home in the interview room, immediately lighting a cigarette. A few minutes later a uniformed inspector entered the room. Collins stood up and acknowledged him with a sharp “Sir.” “Where’s your governor?” asked Inspector Jessop.
“He’s just gone for a...He’s just gone to the toilet, sir.”
“Is this about the murder we heard about?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Terrible business.”
“Certainly is, sir.”
Longbridge entered the room and introduced himself. “I believe you’ve had a missing persons report this morning: a man and woman in a car?”
“So I understand.” replied Jessop, “One of our constables had the foresight to report it to your division.”
“Could we have the address, please? It’s rather urgent that we speak wi
th this person.”
A constable entered the room with two cups of tea. “Superb.” Collins proclaimed and then coughed disquietedly, noticing that Inspector Jessop seemed a little dismayed by this behaviour.
“Old school.” whispered Longbridge when Jessop left the room.
“Nice tea.” announced Collins sipping his.
It was gone 2.50 PM by the time they left Maidenhead station to make the short drive to an address in the Cox Green area of the town, on the western outskirts. The Jaguar stopped outside 16 Fern Drive, a 3-bedroom semi-detached house of relatively new build.
“This is the bit I hate.” admitted Longbridge.
“Yes, sir: how to screw-up someone’s day – and some.” said Collins in agreement.
Longbridge reluctantly rang the doorbell. They could hear children laughing and screaming playfully in an upstairs bedroom; this did not make the job any easier.
Chapter Six
The door opened revealing a handsome looking woman in her late twenties; Collins found her to be instantly alluring, with her neatly bobbed blonde hair, her blue-green eyes, and she still had a surprisingly lithe figure for a mother of two. She instantly froze on seeing the two detectives; the colour drained from her face as they introduced themselves.
“May we come in, Mrs Mason?” asked Longbridge softly, displaying his warrant card. She said nothing and stepped aside, her gaze fixed on the floor. They followed her into the living room; Collins shut the door.
“You best sit down Mrs Mason.” advised Longbridge. She slowly lowered herself onto an armchair; tightly clenching her hands together; she nervously raised her gaze to the level of the detectives, who had sat on the 3-seater sofa. “I understand your husband didn’t return home last night?” Longbridge delicately established. “No.” she replied timidly.
