They put it all into the Samsonite case on top of the wardrobe and went down to reception, asking for the manager.
“We’ve put everything into his suitcase and will take it away with us. We shan’t need to go in the room again so I think that’s all we can do here. Oh, by the way do you have records of phone calls in or out?”
“Nothing booked to the room but that’s not unusual, most calls are from mobiles now,” said the manager.
*
They set off back to Hatfield, Mick was very quiet and Bob asked him if there was a problem.
“Sorry,” said Mick. “My father is in the hospice in Stevenage, I should have gone to see him on Sunday.”
“Well if you drop me off in the town centre I’ll make myself useful checking any CCTV camera locations between the Service Yard and where he parked his car.”
“OK Bob, but extend your search to anywhere the major may have parked. I’ll give you a call when I’m leaving the hospice and you can tell me where to pick you up.”
Mick dropped Bob off and carried on to the hospice, deep in thought. His relationship with his father had never been close. His mother had died when he was thirteen and his father had brought him up in on his own, well sort of. His father had a friend, Sandra, who often spent the night when they had been out together, either dancing or down the Trumpet Major, a local pub that stayed open until the early hours for the regular customers. As a teenager, Mick could never understand how a woman could look so different on a Sunday morning to how she had looked on the previous Saturday night. As he grew older he learnt their secrets, the tricks they employed. That was one of the things he loved about Sue, she might have looked a bit bleary eyed on a Sunday morning but she was still good to look at it.
He pulled into the hospice car-park and parked under the chestnut tree. Walking towards the entrance door he became aware of the smells and sounds around him, the wet grass underfoot, the white roses looking somewhat bedraggled, their petals curling at the edges. A Landrover with a trailer was parked at the end of the drive, a women dressed in jodhpurs and an old jumper was shovelling out horse manure. Apparently she ran a riding school and her husband had died in the hospice, this was her way of giving something practical to them, the gardener certainly appreciated it.
He went into the lobby, wiped his feet and approached the desk.
“Good morning Mr Joyce, if you want to go straight up, the doctor has finished his rounds although I don’t if your father is awake or not,” said Mrs Carmichael, the lady at the front desk. Mrs Carmichael was the perfect receptionist for the hospice, an attractive fifty something, smartly dressed and friendly but very efficient at the same time.
Mick walked up the stairs and along the corridor, past the watercolour pictures on the walls, mostly scenes of the Lake District. The carpets were fairly new and had that distinctive smell that new carpets have. He reached the room where his father was spending the last days of his life and slowly opened the door, looking into the room when it was opened far enough. The room was nicely decorated in neutral colours, a beige carpet and flowered curtains and two upholstered armchairs for visitors.
He could see his father, asleep in his bed near the window, and quietly went in.
“Hello dad,” he said but there was no answer of course. He sat down in the armchair and leaned back, looking around the room.
“Is this what it’s like for everybody,” he thought to himself, “the last days of your life sleeping a drug induced sleep until the inevitable moment arrived.”
He thought about how Phillip Austen had died, bleeding to death in a supermarket service yard. Just a different way to die he thought to himself. He sat there for about an hour, then stood up, said “bye dad,” and left.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mick got into his car and rang Bob on his mobile. “Any joy with the CCTV?”
“I’ve got the locations of four or five possibles, I’ll get the recordings this afternoon and see if we can see anything,” said Bob.
They drove back to Hatfield, parked and went in through the secure yard and then the rear door.
“One of these days I’m going to forget all of these security codes and have to stand here in the rain till somebody lets me in,” said Mick.
*
Mick entered the incident room where Matt and Emma were tapping away at their laptops. He waited for Bob to join them and announced
“We now have more information on our victim. He is definitely Captain Philip Austen of the Royal Military police based in Paderborn, Germany and we have a photo of him, probably with his wife and sons. That suitcase contains his belongings in his hotel room. We have his passport which gives his address in Guildford, together with his security pass for the Garrison base in Germany and a file with some sort of coded references. His passport gives his next of kin as Ann Austen. You and I will go there in the morning Emma and do the necessary. Anything from the car yet?” he asked.
Matt replied “Mileage reading was four thousand six hundred and one so just two hundred and sixty five miles since he picked it up. Oh and a waterproof coat on the backseat with a receipt for coffee and Danish at a place in Cambridge.”
*
On the Wednesday morning, as they drove to Guildford Mick asked Emma to get the passport from his document case on the back seat.
“When was it issued?”
“Six years ago,” she replied.
“Let’s hope Mrs Austen still lives there.”
As they turned into the road looking for number forty nine Emma remarked that these houses were in the half to three quarters of a million pound bracket. “I didn’t think even Captains earn that sort of money.”
“You can never tell these days, it’s quite common now for people to inherit serious money if they were only children for instance and they were left even a relatively modest detached house,” replied Mick.
Suddenly Mick pulled in and stopped outside a Victorian semi-detached house.
“This is only number twenty seven boss.”
“I know but look at that man getting out of the blue Rover, even without his tie or epaulettes showing his rank, he is definitely a senior police officer. That white shirt and those trousers are standard police issue, I’m sure of it.”
Mick got out and crossed over to the man, produced his warrant card and introduced himself.
” I wonder if you can help me, do you know if Mrs Ann Austen still lives at number forty nine?”
“I think so, come inside, my wife will know.”
Mick followed him into the house and was immediately struck by the smell of last night’s curry. Inspector Reynolds introduced DI Joyce to his wife.
“Does Phil Austen’s wife still live at number forty nine dear?”
“Yes she does, but we don’t speak much since Phil left her.” Without going into detail Mick said that Phillip Austen had died and it was his sad duty to notify next of kin. Mrs Reynolds gasped and clutched a handkerchief to her face
“I am very sorry,” he said and turned to leave.
Inspector Reynolds showed him to the front door. As they went outside he pulled the door to behind him.
”A bit unusual isn’t it for a DI from Hertfordshire to come to Surrey to notify next of kin?”
“Captain Phillip Austen was murdered on Saturday night in Stevenage. We’ve only just established his identity. I thought it a good opportunity to find out more about him if I could meet his wife and see where he lived.”
“Fair enough, actually I know, or rather used to know Phil Austen quite well, we used to play squash together twice a week and we were in the same golf club.”
Mick said, “did you know anything about his work in the Military police in Germany?”
“Not really, I know he was promoted to captain and moved to Podderbon or some such place.”
“Paderborn,” said Mick
“Right. He would never go into any real details about what he was doing even though we were both in the same job in a manner of spe
aking. Did you know he was in the police for five years, fraud squad I think, before he joined the army?”
“No I didn’t, well thanks for the information, we’d better and go and see if Mrs Austen is at home.”
Inspector Reynolds took a card with his contact details and handed it to Mick,
“Don’t hesitate to ring me if you need anything else Inspector Joyce.”
Mick handed him his card in turn.
*
They pulled up outside number forty nine, an imposing Edwardian detached house and the door was opened almost immediately by Mrs Austen, a striking red-head in her forties Mick guessed.
“Mrs Austen? Mrs Phillip Austen?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“My name is Detective Inspector Michael Joyce and this is Detective Constable Emma Stavely. Can we come in?”
They both offered their warrant cards for inspection but Mrs Austen did not even look at them.
“We had better sit down” she said “and you can tell me what this about.”
“I am sorry to have to tell you that your husband Phillip was found dead on Saturday night.”
“Saturday” she shouted, “it’s now Wednesday!”
“We only established his identity for certain late yesterday Mrs Austen. He died in suspicious circumstances and he had no identification on him.”
“How did he die?”
“I can’t say too much at this time, and unfortunately the body cannot be released to the next of kin just yet.”
Mick took the photo they had recovered from the hotel room from his document case and showed it to Mrs Austen.
“I can see that you’re the lady in the photo Mrs Austen, can you confirm that the man is your husband, Phillip Austen?”
“Yes it is, taken about four years ago, and they are my two boys, they’re both at university now. Christopher is at Exeter and Paul is at Durham. Where did you get it?”
“It was on his bedside cupboard at the hotel he was staying in.”
“Before you go any further I must tell you that I might not actually be the next of kin.”
“Sorry,” said Mick, “I thought you were his wife?”
“We separated about two years ago and I am filing for divorce. To be honest I’m not too sure where we have got to, there were some complications about the house which I inherited from my father. I suppose you want me to take responsibility for the funeral and so on when you release his body?”
“Well we have to notify next of kin at the appropriate time. More importantly we need somebody, preferably a close relative, to formally identify the body.”
“Unless it’s absolutely necessary, I’d rather not do that. Christopher was always the closest to him. If you can wait until this evening when I’ve had a chance to tell the boys I’m sure he’ll do the necessary. I’ll get his contact details for you.”
Mick said he would contact Christopher the next day unless he heard anything from Mrs Austen before then.
“Perhaps you should also have Phillips brother’s details although he lives abroad.”
She went to a drawer in the desk in the corner of the room and wrote down a name, address, and phone number. Mick took the note from her and inwardly groaned, the address was in South Africa. Still it wouldn’t be his problem, the coroner’s court dealt with any problems of that nature.
“We are sorry to be the bearers of bad news Mrs Austen,” who just shrugged her shoulders and opened the front door to show them out.
“Funny that he had a picture of his wife at his bedside if they were separated,” said Mick.
“The photo was also of his two boys,” Emma pointed out.
CHAPTER SIX
They got back to the station and were met by Bob.
“We’ve had a visitor boss. That manager from the Peking Palace has been in. He remembered that there was a birthday party in on Saturday night and they didn’t leave until eleven.”
“So?” said Mick
“Well he remembers that they were taking lots of photos and there might be one of the two people at table six.”
“Well can we find out who they were and get these photos?”
“Ahead of you boss, the manager said they booked a table for nine people at eight-thirty in the name of John Wilson, from an address in Stevenage. I’ll go round there on my way home tonight,” said Bob, obviously trying to get back into good books.
He went up to the door of the address given and it was opened by a young woman, blond, slim and far too much eye make-up Bob thought. He introduced himself and offered his warrant card, the young woman took it from him and examined it in minute detail.
“What have I supposed to have done,” she said.
“Absolutely nothing as far as I know,” said Bob smiling.
“Is Mr John Wilson at home?”
“Oh god,” she said, “What’s he done now?”
Bob said “nothing we know about. We understand that he was at a birthday party at the Peking Palace last Saturday night.”
“Yes it was my eighteenth birthday said the young woman.”
“Is he in?” asked Bob.
“Dad, Old Bill want a word with you,” she said showing Bob into the kitchen. Mr Wilson looked suitably alarmed.
Bob said, “sorry to trouble you Mr Wilson but we understand from the manager at the Peking Palace that your party took several photos during Saturday night and we are anxious to establish if a particular person, who we believe was dining there, appears on any of these photos.”
“Actually it’s my camera,” said the young woman.
“Do you have it here now?” said Bob.
“Sure if you like I can download them onto a memory stick for you.”
“That would be brilliant,” said Bob and she went upstairs.
” What’s it all about,” said Mr Wilson.
“I can’t really go into detail,” replied Bob.
“Is it about that fella that who was murdered at the back of the shops?”
“I can’t really say.”
“Fair enough but my mate Eddy works near there and everybody was talking about this fella who went round the back to have his fifty quid’s worth with some tart who done him in.”
“Well as I say, I can’t really comment Mr Wilson.” The young woman came down and gave Bob the memory stick.
“Thank you Miss…?”
“Zoe Wilson,” she replied.
Bob took out a ten pound note and gave it to her, “will that cover the cost of the memory stick?” he asked.
“It might,” she said, “Twenty definitely would.” Bob gave her another ten.
*
The next morning, Thursday, Bob connected his laptop to the large TV screen they used for presentations at meetings and inserted the memory stick with the photos on it. The four members of the team gathered round and Bob clicked on slide show.
The first few were of five girls posing for the camera.
“The one on the right there in the sparkly blue top is Zoe Wilson, it was her eighteenth birthday party and it’s her camera,” said Bob.
There were several more of Zoe with her dad, John Wilson and an older woman, there were also two young men who, by their behaviour, would appear to be boyfriends of two of the girls. There were several photos showing other people in the restaurant in the background, men and women, old and young, some laughing, some serious, some expressionless like long married couples with nothing left to say to each other.
“This is all very interesting Bob but we haven’t really seen anything apart from the birthday party at their table but nobody anything like Phillip Austen.”
“Well it’s a long shot boss but there might be something, there are still ten or twelve pictures to see.”
Suddenly Emma said, “pause it there Bob, look it’s the picture of the dragon on the wall behind table six where our man and his guest sat.”
They could see the back of a man’s head which might be Phillip Austen but it was partly obscur
ed by one of the boyfriends. The next picture came up, taken from the same spot but without the boyfriend this time.
“That’s Phillip Austen all right,” said Mick and they all studied the photo intently. They could see Phillip Austen’s face side on and an arm and part of the left shoulder of somebody sitting down and leaning towards him. She was wearing a dark coloured jacket, possibly maroon or navy blue, it was difficult to tell as the light reflected from the picture of the jade green dragon was quite bright.
The next photo was the one they had hoped for, the woman , in a what was clearly a dark blue trouser suit, red blouse and silver necklace with matching earrings, was getting out of her seat, rising and turning to show her face, not exactly full on but certainly a three quarter shot.
“Right,” said Mick, “I want large size photos of Phillip Austen, the one from the hotel but without his wife and sons, together with one of our mystery major.”
*
The door opened and Rachel Bond walked in.
”I’ve just had a call from one of the national newspapers, somebody has offered them photos, and I quote, ‘of the fat bloke in the grey jacket and black trousers who was murdered in Stevenage and the prostitute who stabbed him’. Did we want to comment? I told him that I wasn’t aware of a fatal stabbing in Stevenage, by a prostitute or anybody else come to that. And I certainly wasn’t aware of any photos. I suggested he check his facts before publishing anything and ring me back.”
“We are just looking at the photos now ma’am. They came from a birthday party in the restaurant that Saturday night. We can confirm that the murder victim is on a couple of the photos and we think we have a good photo of his dining companion, the major.”
“Who supplied these photos?” she asked.
“A Mr John Wilson,” replied Mick.
“So it’s probably him who’s trying to sell them to the press?”
“Almost certainly,” said Mick.
“Or his daughter,” added Bob, “although there is no way they could know which photos show the victim or the major.”
The Paderborn Connection Page 3
