by Sarah Flint
She didn’t need to hear their platitudes, however tactfully delivered. She knew exactly what was coming and suddenly she wanted to hear where, when and how from a friend. Turning towards George, she took a few steps, grasping his outstretched hand as he arrived at her side.
‘She’s died, hasn’t she?’ There was no point trying to hide from the truth, or putting the old man through the trauma of finding the right words.
He nodded and gently extracted his hand from hers, placing his arm instead around her shoulder, clearly desperate to protect her in whatever way he could from what was to come.
‘Come inside and I’ll make you a cup of tea and tell you what I know,’ his voice was hoarse and Amy could hear his heart breaking.
She reached up and squeezed his hand, as he motioned towards the three police officers to follow. Her heart was breaking too, but somehow she blinked away the tears. She had always been strong, at least in company, and at the sight of the approaching police officers she knew instinctively that she would need every ounce of her strength to get through this.
*
The front room of George Cosgrove’s house looked and smelt to Charlie just like her own grandparents’ house. She felt at home, recognising immediately the smell of floor polish and a vague whiff of mothballs and Brylcreem. There was something unmistakably nostalgic about the style and fashions beloved by the older generation. Spread out along the walls and shelves was a series of black and white photos dating back to the 1940s and 50s: the first showing George proudly dressed in a smart army uniform clasping a rifle with a fixed bayonet to his side, the second him sitting chatting to a similarly dressed colleague and in the third, George stood proudly at the side of his bride resplendent in a white, high-necked wedding dress, both smiling broadly towards the camera.
A range of similarly dated historical pictures showed the local high street, an old butcher’s shop complete with several hanging pigs’ carcases and a horse and cart traversing a ford. Adorning the back wall was a dark wood sideboard and next to it a glass inlayed teak cabinet, proudly exhibiting a number of WW2 medals, still in their display boxes, and a selection of ceremonial daggers, the blades kept securely within traditionally decorated sheaths. To the front, two wooden bookshelves stood symmetrically on either side of an old Victorian-style fireplace, containing poetry books and stories from the First and Second World Wars, with a beautifully bound copy of poems by Wilfred Owen to the front. A large settee and several single armchairs upholstered in a faded floral print were spaced out across the room facing towards an old television set.
It was on the settee that the figure of Amy Briarly now sat, listening to George’s account of his meeting with Florence the day before, the arrangements they had made and how he had known something was wrong when she failed to answer the door.
Charlie looked across at her and wished there was something, anything, she could say, other than the details they would soon have to discuss. Amy was Florence’s only child, a professional lawyer, keeping her maiden name even though married, and with two children of her own. She would bear the brunt of the investigative questions and, being the sole daughter, would be the one called upon to identify her mother’s body, deal with any background information and when able, root through the house trying to establish what, if anything, had been stolen. If the post-mortem did establish Florence’s life had been ended violently, she would also be the one hounded by the press for statements and photographs and paraded in front of the cameras to sate the public’s thirst for the minutiae of a murder.
Amy presented as a strong, assertive woman, being in her late forties, with natural chestnut-coloured hair, swept up in a side parting before falling in waves onto the collar of her jacket. Her eyebrows were shaped in a gentle curve over deep brown piercing eyes, shaded with dusky beige shadow and ringed in black mascara. She wore a thin layer of perfectly applied foundation, with rose blusher, dark pink lipstick and a royal blue trouser suit, topped off with a smart black velvet collar. She was every inch the professional career woman, her expression dedicated and serious, but as she sat listening to George’s words, she couldn’t prevent her face setting as rigid as a mask, as if desperately trying to hold her grief at bay.
Charlie watched her with interest as George spoke at length about his recollections. For brief moments as George described her mother’s mischievous words and ready smile the previous day, Amy’s face relaxed and her eyes misted over, before instantaneously returning to the earlier veiled expression as the subject moved on to the scene in her bedroom where Florence appeared to be peacefully asleep. Watching her, Charlie was reminded of her own mother Meg, strong, brave and fearless, but, also like Meg, too frightened to lose control and risk showing emotion.
‘So, tell me again why you think my mother has been murdered?’ Amy Briarly turned towards both Hunter and Charlie before choosing to direct her gaze at Charlie. Her voice was direct and searching but not accusative.
Charlie had briefly explained the reasons for the heavier police presence as they had been ushered into George’s house initially, but George’s words had clearly taken precedence. With both Amy and herself working within the criminal justice system, however, she could well imagine Amy’s need for the police procedure in relation to the discovery of her mother’s body to be explained candidly and analytically. Evidence was what she too would work on. However hard, emotions would have to be set to one side, at least for the time being.
‘We don’t know for definite yet that she has been murdered,’ she met Amy’s gaze. ‘But the scene is very similar in profile to a recent series of burglaries in the area on elderly victims.’
‘Which is why you will not allow me to see my mother?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie dipped her head. ‘At some point, we’ll need you to go in and check whether any of your mother’s belongings are missing, but, yes, for the time being the house is a crime scene. You’ll have to wait while we conduct a full forensic examination, but as soon as your mother’s body has been removed you’ll be able to see her.’
‘Do you have a suspect for the burglaries?’ Amy changed to an easier subject.
‘No, not as yet, but we’re working on it.’
‘Because until now they were not considered that serious.’ Amy commented matter-of-factly, looking Charlie squarely in the face. ‘You don’t have to tell me because, unfortunately, I know. These days, burglary is not a police priority.’
Charlie opened her mouth to speak but shut it promptly on seeing the tears falling all of a sudden, unhindered, across the immaculate foundation on Amy Briarly’s cheeks. She watched as the smartly dressed lawyer stood up, blinking back the tears but making no attempt to wipe them away.
‘Well, I trust now that my mother’s death has upped the stakes way above a straightforward burglary you really will be working on it… in earnest.’
4
‘So what do we have so far?’ Charlie watched her boss as he paced across the glass-fronted office at Lambeth HQ, stopping briefly to stare out across the London skyline towards the Houses of Parliament standing staunchly on the opposite bank of a slow-moving River Thames. Hunter had phoned ahead to get the team updated and ready for a scrum down. Amy Briarly was right. It had taken her mother’s death to elevate the case to a higher priority and he clearly wanted to get on top of it straight away.
She pulled a notepad out from a drawer in her desk, launching a raft of old study papers for the Sergeants’ exam out with it. Having found anything and everything to excuse her from taking the exam last year, this spring she was at least considering giving it a try. Since her thirty-first birthday in November, she’d noticed dismally how many young, useless, politically correct sergeants and inspectors there were pulling rank, and with Hunter and his ilk moving speedily towards retirement, either she had to resign herself to being pushed about or step up and put her head above the parapet. These days, the senior ranks were becoming more PC than the PCs were.
She grinne
d at the pun, before bending down and scooping up a handful of the disgorged papers, squashing them back into the drawer grimly. Time was moving on though and, before she knew it, the time for revising new laws and procedures would be gone. She needed to get started – but the thought of study was depressing. She hated exams. Always had and always would – even though her ability to memorise faces and figures aided the actual process of exam-taking far more than she liked to admit.
Righting herself in her seat, she was suddenly aware that five pairs of eyes were all trained towards her. The team were ready and waiting – and they were waiting for her.
Bet shuffled across, bending down to retrieve a few more sheets of paper from the floor, while whispering hoarsely for her to hurry up, and Paul coughed and winked with amused encouragement for her to get sorted. Naz and Sabira smiled wryly but did nothing more, sitting close to where Hunter now stood looking directly at her.
‘Right, I’ll try again. What do we have so far?’ he repeated, scowling in her direction, before glancing across to where Bet had now taken up position behind her computer screen.
‘Five burglaries in the last month, a few definite possibilities and several dozen which are suspected of being part of the Op Greystream series. There could also be others that either we’re not aware of or were committed before he really honed his methods.’
Bet read from an intelligence summary the Lambeth intel unit had provided. The series had only recently been positively linked and they were already struggling. Three policing boroughs met at Crystal Palace, and just like the various London Boroughs in Greater London, all seemed to be working in competition with the other. Each policing borough was different, in respect of the population and diversity of ethnicities, the concentration and number of private and social housing, and the nature and numbers of violent crime and offences against property. Strategies and priorities were therefore dependant on each borough’s crime statistics and the wants and demands of the areas’ inhabitants. This had proved to be a huge problem. Although working cohesively to fulfil some of the Metropolitan Police Service targets, many of the similarities between the initial reports had been lost in each borough’s burglary reporting procedures. The dots – and there were many of them – had not been joined. While the more sinister aspects of the early burglary reports should have been flagged up, initially they had been ignored. The victims, being elderly, had played down their abject terror, in the usual stoic style of many old-age pensioners. They had tried not to make a fuss. They didn’t want to worry the police.
‘Of the definite ones this month, there are two in the SE19 postcode area,’ Bet continued. ‘Two in SW16 and one in SE27, but all approximately within a two-mile radius. All have occurred at night-time, between midnight and 5a.m. and all have elderly victims who have had their phone lines cut.’
‘What about the possible linked ones?’
‘There are eight that are more probable. They have the same victim profile and their phone lines have been cut, but then there are quite a few others that are slightly further afield, and there are some that happened a long time ago before the various intel units got their heads together,’ Bet replied. ‘They have been much more sporadic; some at night, some in the daytime, and some when the occupants have been out.’
‘Just like we thought.’ Charlie pursed her lips and nodded towards Hunter, who was scratching what appeared to be a particularly bothersome itch on his head. ‘As if our man has been building up to what he really wanted to do. He’s been perfecting his craft, having dry runs at different times of the day and night, before moving on to the real thing.’
Hunter stopped scratching and pulled out a biro, chewing at the end of it. He turned towards Paul. ‘And the stolen property? Anything further of significance? Or are we still thinking that theft is not the main priority of our suspect?’
‘No, nothing further to change our minds.’ Paul flicked through a list of stolen items. ‘There has been property stolen at all the venues, but only of minor value and very little in comparison to what could have been taken. Maybe it’s to try to fool us into thinking he’s just a burglar, or maybe it’s what he really wants – but it’s weird stuff. A little bit of cash here and there, but mainly items of sentimental value,’ Paul squinted towards the report. ‘Old photographs, letters, some war memorabilia, a carriage clock, a working miniature steam locomotive, a few pieces of costume jewellery and cufflinks, some old Tonka toys and some ornamental plates.’ He pulled a face. ‘Real old-fashioned stuff but not necessarily antique. I can’t think why he’d want them.’
‘Me neither. But I think it’s stuff that he really wants, because he clearly likes it and he appears to keep what he steals.’ Charlie repeated her earlier assertions. ‘The burglary squad and local community officers have been round all the likely antique shops and pawnbrokers, as well as putting the word out to some of the flea markets and indoor car-boot sales, and there’s no trace of any of these items turning up or being offered for sale.’
‘We’ll have to widen our search, make it Met wide, and also put it out to some of the local constabularies.’ Hunter rubbed his chin. ‘Some of those items will be unique and should be easily identifiable. If he tries to sell the property on, we need to know straight away.’ He walked over to the window, staring out just as a large cabin cruiser came into view on the Thames, its windows lit up against the grey of the river. ‘Suspects?’ he asked without turning round.
‘None identified as yet,’ Charlie was already up to speed on the main series.
While the government directed police to consider burglary low priority, she believed burglary should be investigated fully and given much higher precedence. The words of her grandfather came to mind whenever she thought of the crime. She could still recall to this day the earnestness in his voice as he’d commented on a news report that a homeowner had been arrested for stabbing a burglar. He’d had no sympathy for the intruder, asserting that an Englishman’s home was his castle, and whatever happened outside in the street, people had a right to know that their house would always be a place of safety – their absolute refuge and one which the law would protect.
‘There’s been no DNA or fingerprints found at any scene and the descriptions are poor,’ she continued. ‘We believe the suspect is male, from his size and the fact that he speaks in a low voice. Heights range from five feet eight inches to around six feet tall and he is described as bulky – some victims saying more muscular than fat, while others think it’s the other way round. His age is unknown because he always appears fully dressed in dark clothing and wears gloves and a mask.’
‘And the mask is described as being like a grinning skull – black and white with slits for the eyes and a hole for breathing.’ Sabira shook her head. ‘Imagine waking up to find that grinning down at you.’
Naz swore out loud. ‘What a bastard! How can anyone do that to an OAP? I swear, if anybody broke into my gran’s house, or mine for that matter, I wouldn’t think twice about using anything I could find to stop him.’
‘I keep a couple of screwdrivers under my bed,’ Bet smiled sheepishly. ‘Just in case my bed needs adjusting, of course.’
‘Mine’s a baseball bat,’ Paul offered. ‘To remind me of my sporting prowess.’ He grinned and straightened his collar. ‘Though these days, of course, all the guys can testify to my prowess being of a different nature.’
‘You wish,’ Naz was about to expand when Hunter spun round and clapped his hands together. He was clearly not in the mood for banter.
‘So, no likelihood of a positive ID and no forensics to help?’ He frowned. ‘This guy knows what he’s doing.’
‘We do have some forensics.’ Charlie took up the thread again. ‘But not much. A footprint in the soil near to where one of the phone lines was cut. Further footprints in another property that match. We know he usually wears a Size 9 Nike Downshifter 7 men’s trainer. Regular price. Nothing too expensive.’
‘And there have been grey fak
e fur fibres found on the bedding,’ Sabira added. ‘Forensics have matched these to the type of fibres that would be found round the hood of a Parka jacket.’
‘Any forensics at the point of entry?’
‘A few bits and pieces,’ Sabira nodded towards Hunter. ‘One implement mark where he forced a side door, but on the whole nothing but a few scuff marks. Going for old people’s homes usually means they’re not so secure. Old doors, windows and locks. No alarms. No CCTV. He’s a dab hand at slipping a regular Yale lock.’
‘What about other CCTV?’ Hunter swung round to Paul, who was somewhat of an expert on the subject, being half his age and more tech-minded.
‘Nothing of note.’ Paul was serious again. ‘The roads he chooses are all quiet residential streets, and, for the record, he’s not averse to returning to the same area. Two of his previous break-ins are on the same street, only a few houses apart. The only roads that have CCTV are the bus routes and main roads, which are still very busy around midnight, and I’m not aware of any private cameras. Without any idea of what vehicle he uses – or if he even uses a vehicle – it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. And, so far, there’s nothing obvious in the early hours when he leaves the crime scenes. He appears to know the CCTV areas and avoids them.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Hunter shook his head. ‘He’s switched on to forensics, cameras and identification and he’s not really bothered about stealing property or selling it on… so we only really have his methods to link his crimes. But what he does is quite unique and it’ll be that that gives him away. We know he always selects the elderly and will sit chatting to them for ages. He’s quite careful not to give anything away about himself, encouraging his victims to talk about the old days. He particularly likes to engage them in stories of wartime heroics and most of his victims so far have been of an age that they remember the Second World War, usually as children but occasionally as servicemen or wives left at home.’
