by Damien Boyd
Jane closed her eyes.
Please don’t let me be teamed up with Harry.
The open plan CID area was all but deserted by the time Jane arrived on the first floor. She spotted a bald head behind a computer screen on the far side of the workstations.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Meeting room two.’
Jane sighed. Gone were the days of crowding around the whiteboard in the CID Room.
Nick will hate it.
She opened the door, crept in and sat down on an empty chair between Dave Harding and newly appointed DI Janice Courtenay.
‘Glad you could make it, Jane,’ said DCI Lewis.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Jane glanced across at Janice. They had worked together some years before when they had both been detective constables, Janice having been more aggressive in her pursuit of promotion since then. Their paths had crossed again more recently, when Janice had shared an office with Dixon at the old Bridgwater Police Station.
It would be her first murder as senior investigating officer and Janice looked nervous. Not a good start. Jane looked around the table and wondered whether anyone else had spotted it.
‘Elizabeth Perry. Multiple stab wounds. Found by the milkman just before six this morning. That’s about as far as we’d got. All right?’ said DCI Lewis.
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Jane, trying to shrug off all thoughts of deep ends and sinking or swimming.
‘Scientific Services are on scene,’ continued Lewis. ‘Did someone get the pathologist out of bed?’
‘Roger Poland is on his way over there now, Sir,’ said Janice.
‘Good.’
‘What about the husband?’ asked Dave Harding.
‘Thomas Perry. He’s the parliamentary candidate for the Conservative Party and, as we know, we’re right in the middle of a by-election.’
‘Surely that’ll be called off now?’
‘I doubt it. Nominations haven’t closed yet. He may stand down, in which case the Tories will have to select another candidate, but the election will go ahead.’
‘Seems a bit harsh,’ said Pearce.
‘And having your wife murdered isn’t, I suppose,’ said Janice.
‘No, I meant . . .’
‘We know what you meant, Mark,’ said Lewis. ‘The fact is that’s incidental as far as we’re concerned.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Unless it becomes relevant to the investigation, of course. And keep your politics to yourselves. A woman’s been murdered and no one’s interested in how you vote. All right?’
‘Where is he?’ asked Janice.
‘London. He was working yesterday and driving down this morning, apparently. I’ve been on to the Met and someone from family liaison is with him now. He’ll be brought straight here later today. As soon as he’s fit to travel, that is.’
‘Was he on his own last night?’ asked Harding.
‘To be confirmed,’ replied Lewis. ‘I know where you’re going with that though, Dave, and we’re gonna do this one by the book. OK?’
‘He could’ve . . .’
‘Of course he could. So we check.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘While I think about it,’ said Lewis, turning to Janice, ‘check his bank statements. If he did drive from London to Bridgwater and back in one night, chances are he’ll have stopped for petrol.’
Janice rolled her eyes.
‘Teaching you to suck eggs, I know. Sorry,’ said Lewis.
‘It’s fine, Sir,’ replied Janice.
‘Right, let’s talk about the press. There’s usually bugger all to report on at this time of year, except the Queen’s speech, and we’ve got the by-election angle so they’re going to be all over this story. The nationals too.’
‘It’s going to be a nightmare,’ said Janice.
‘It is,’ replied Lewis. ‘I suggest we meet with the press officer, Janice. I’ll set it up for this afternoon, when you’ve got more of a handle on what’s going on.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘In the meantime, no one says anything to anyone. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The phone rang on the sideboard behind Dave Harding. He leaned back on his chair and answered it.
‘Chief constable’s here, Sir,’ he said, replacing the handset.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ said Lewis, standing up and walking towards the door. ‘Let me know when Perry gets here and ring me if you get anything in the meantime.’
‘Yes, Sir,’ replied Janice.
She waited for DCI Lewis to close the door behind him.
‘OK. Dave, I want a full background check on Mrs Perry. Mark, you take the husband. Business dealings, bank accounts, mobile phone records, everything. Friends, known associates. I want to know everything about them before I speak to the husband.’
Dave and Mark reminded Jane of nodding dogs on the parcel shelf of a car.
‘Harry, you liaise with the house to house team. I want a complete timeline of their movements for the last forty-eight hours to begin with. We may have to go back further but we’ll see. All right?’
‘What time does it start?’
‘Nine, but there aren’t that many doors to knock on so it shouldn’t take too long.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m going over there now,’ said Janice. ‘Jane, you’re with me.’
Thank God for that.
‘How’s Nick?’
Jane was sitting in the passenger seat of Janice’s car as they drove over the M5 at Huntworth, over the canal and on towards Moorland. She was watching the windscreen wiper and thought it odd that Janice’s car only had one. It was working twice as hard to do the same job, much like being a police officer after the latest round of budget cuts, but she decided to keep that thought to herself.
‘He’s fine.’
‘How did his interview go?’
‘OK, I think,’ replied Jane. She looked at her watch. It was just before 8.30 a.m. and no doubt Dixon was still in bed.
‘We’d all have done the same thing in his shoes,’ said Janice. ‘And I preferred sharing an office with him to this open plan crap any day.’
They arrived in Moorland to find the left turn to Northmoor Green closed opposite the church. A patrol car was parked across the road, blocking the junction. Janice waved her warrant card at the uniformed officers sitting in the patrol car, but neither of them seemed keen to get wet. Next she tried improvised sign language and a yell of ‘Shift!’, which appeared to do the trick.
Jane used the opportunity to read the road signs: ‘Northmoor Green, No Through Road’; ‘Unsuitable for HGVs’; ‘No Turning Area’; and last but not least, a homemade ‘SAT NAV WRONG, DEAD END’. Then she noticed that all of the bungalows either side of the junction had ‘Dredge the Rivers!’ signs in their windows.
‘The cottage is down at the far end,’ said Janice, waiting for the patrol car to pull forward. ‘Waterside Cottage, so I imagine it’s by the river.’
‘That explains the signs,’ replied Jane.
They followed the lane, the red brick bungalows on either side giving way to traditional stone cottages, a line of new houses and then to open fields. Another patrol car was blocking the road further ahead, just beyond the entrance to a farmyard, which contained two more patrol cars, two Scientific Services vans and Roger Poland’s Volvo.
‘Looks like we go the rest of the way on foot,’ said Janice, turning into the yard.
They walked along the lane, sheltering under Janice’s umbrella, although it needed both of them to hold onto to it in the wind. Waterside Cottage was at the far end, just where the road finished at a steel barrier, forming a T junction with the gravel track that followed the River Parrett. The cottage was facing the lane on the left and sideways on to the river. It was painted white, with what looked like terracotta roof tiles, and a timber framed entrance porch, which was just visible behind the tent that Scientific Services had
set up to cover the garden path. Another tent had been set up in the lane outside.
Jane peered into the tent covering the lane.
‘Wait there!’
Janice put her umbrella back up and stepped back into rain.
‘Best do as we’re told, I suppose.’
‘Right, you can come in now.’
Once inside the tent they were greeted by Donald Watson, the senior scientific services officer. He was holding two sets of white overalls and blue disposable overshoes.
‘Put these on,’ he said, handing one set of each to Jane and Janice. ‘You’ve got your own gloves?’
‘Yes.’
Janice finished first. ‘What’ve we got then?’ she asked.
‘Two cigarette butts over there,’ replied Watson, pointing to an area on the far side of the tent cordoned off with tape. Two small red flags had been stuck in the mud on the edge of the grass verge. ‘They look fresh so we’ll check them out.’
Janice nodded.
‘Follow me,’ continued Watson. ‘And stick to the approach path.’
They followed him along the line of metal plates that had been placed on the ground like stepping stones, through the garden gate and into the adjacent tent. The front door and porch of the cottage were glazed with stained glass windows and a wisteria was now visible growing along the front of the cottage. It was the sort of place that you might take a photograph of in different circumstances.
‘There was a small pile of vomit there,’ said Watson, gesturing to a small area on the lawn off to the right of the path. ‘We’ll see what we can get from it, but it’s been raining since threeish. The same applies to the fag butts in the road.’
The sickly sweet smell of congealed blood overpowered them as soon as they stepped into the porch. Janice turned away. Her hand was over her mouth, with her nose clamped between her index finger and thumb.
‘Are you . . . ?’
‘I’m all right, I’m all right.’
‘Do you want a mask?’ asked Watson.
‘No, really.’
Jane looked into the hallway. There was a large bloodstain on the carpet and a red line down the white painted wood panelling above it, where the blood had trickled down from the landing at the top of the stairs. She looked up and recognised Roger Poland kneeling next to the body. He was peering at Mrs Perry’s upper arms and mumbling into a Dictaphone.
‘Came in through the kitchen,’ said Watson, following the steel plates along the hall, ‘We’ve got a broken pane of glass but no fingerprints, sadly.’
‘Any footprints?’ asked Janice.
‘Two sets in the back garden but nothing after that.’
‘Tyre tracks?’
‘We’ve got some in a field gateway about seventy yards down the lane, but that’s it.’
Watson stopped just inside the kitchen door. Jane was standing in the doorway, peering over Janice’s shoulder. They watched a scientific services officer crouching down by the back door picking up bits of glass and placing them in evidence bags.
‘Seen enough?’
Janice nodded.
‘Up the stairs then,’ said Watson.
They retraced their steps back along the hall. It was an old cottage with low ceilings, which made for a short flight of stairs. Jane counted twelve. She hesitated at the bottom.
‘Can we go up?’
‘Yes, there’s nothing on the stairs,’ said Watson. ‘Keep to the plastic though.’
Jane was standing on the top step before Poland noticed her. He was still kneeling over the body, with his back to the stairs.
‘Hello, Jane,’ he said, looking over his shoulder.
‘Hi, Roger,’ replied Jane. She stepped over his legs and onto a steel plate on the landing. ‘D’you know DI Janice Courtenay?’
‘No,’ replied Roger, rocking back onto the balls of his feet and standing up.
Janice nodded without looking up. She was now standing on the top step, staring at the naked body of Elizabeth Perry lying face down on the landing. Her hands had been wrapped in plastic bags, sealed at the wrists, but it was the knife wounds that Janice was staring at. Two in the side of the neck and four in her back. A trail of congealed blood led across the wooden floor to the bannister and off the edge of the landing.
‘They missed the carotid artery in the neck,’ said Roger, ‘so this looks like the fatal one.’ He was pointing at a stab wound in the left side of Mrs Perry’s upper back. ‘Probably straight through to the heart but I’ll need to open her up to confirm.’
Janice turned, pushed past Donald Watson and ran back down the stairs. Then she followed the approach path back out into the lane, her heels clicking on the metal plates.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Jane.
She caught up with Janice in the car park. Janice was leaning on the bonnet of her car with her left hand and vomiting into the undergrowth.
‘I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine.’
‘What’s up then?’ asked Jane.
Janice vomited again.
‘You must have seen a body before?’
‘And more besides,’ replied Janice. ‘I dunno. I wasn’t feeling well before we came out.’
‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid.’
‘Out on the piss last night?’
‘Not really,’ replied Janice, shaking her head. ‘I just felt a bit sick, that’s all.’
Jane sighed.
‘Look, it’s my first murder as a DI. All right?’
‘But . . .’
‘And it would have to be this one. We’ve even got the chief constable turning up. Not to mention every journalist within a three hundred mile radius.’
‘You’re doing fine. Stop worrying,’ said Jane. ‘Now, let’s get back in there. We’ll tell ’em you’ve got a hangover.’
Jane took a packet of mints out of her handbag and passed it to Janice.
‘Here, have one of these. Dog breath.’
‘Thanks!’
They walked back along the lane and Janice stopped outside the tent.
‘You won’t . . .’
‘Of course, I won’t,’ replied Jane.
‘Sorry, bit of a hangover,’ said Janice, walking back up the stairs. Jane was following behind her.
‘Christmas piss up, was it?’ asked Watson.
‘Something like that.’
‘I’m almost ready to move her,’ said Poland, standing up. ‘Sometime between midnight and 2 a.m. is the answer to your question, but I’ll confirm that.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Janice.
‘No defensive injuries but there’s bruising on her upper arms, so it looks as though she was restrained at some point. There are some fibres under her fingernails too.’
‘Where was she killed?’
‘There’s blood spatter in the bedroom,’ replied Watson. ‘It’s on the wall by the door. From the height, she was stabbed in the neck in there and then came out here and collapsed.’
‘She was still alive here, there’s no doubt about that,’ said Poland. ‘So, she came out here, collapsed, and then was stabbed in the back four times.’ Poland turned to Jane. ‘For good measure, as Nick would say.’
Jane rolled her eyes.
‘All this is to be confirmed, of course,’ continued Poland.
Watson turned around and pointed to a small circle of spray paint on the wooden floor behind him.
‘We found another cigarette butt there,’ he said, ‘Same brand. And some ash.’
‘Let’s have a look in the bedroom,’ said Janice.
‘Follow me,’ said Watson.
They managed to squeeze past Roger Poland’s large frame and into the bedroom. It was a small room with a low ceiling and a double bed that had only been slept in on one side.
‘See the blood spatter?’ asked Watson, pointing to the wall just inside the door. ‘Looks like she got out of bed and met her attacker in the doorway.’ Watson looked up.
‘There’s lighter spray on the ceiling, possibly from the knife as it was thrust . . .’
‘We get the picture,’ said Janice.
Jane looked out of the window at the back garden. A scientific services officer was looking in the shed at the bottom of the garden and another was photographing one of the panels in the wooden fence that ran along the right hand boundary. An area of flowerbed in front of him had been taped off. On the other side of the fence was a gravel track and then the River Parrett. It looked much narrower than Jane remembered it and was certainly narrower than it was in the middle of Bridgwater, which explained the ‘Dredge the Rivers!’ signs, perhaps.
‘We found this on the bedside table,’ said Watson.
Jane looked back to see him handing a black and white photograph to Janice. It was a snapshot of an ultrasound scan. Janice looked at it and handed it back.
‘Roger will confirm if she was pregnant,’ said Watson.
‘Has anything been stolen?’ asked Janice, looking around the room.
‘Not as far as we can tell,’ replied Watson. ‘Her handbag’s on the floor in the living room. Her purse is still in it and her watch is there, look, just sitting on the bedside table.’
‘She’s still got her rings on,’ said Jane.
Janice nodded.
‘Your van’s here, Mr Poland.’ The shout came from downstairs.
‘We’ll wait outside while they move her,’ said Janice.
The lane outside was blocked by a black van when they got outside so Jane ducked back inside the tent. ‘Can we get out that way?’ she asked, pointing to the far wall.
‘Er, yes.’
Watson unzipped a door in the wall of the tent and Jane stepped out on the far side. Janice followed.
‘Where are you going?’
Jane walked up the slope to the gravel track and looked at the steel barrier. It was padlocked in the open position and was wide enough for a lorry, let alone a car.
‘National cycle network,’ said Jane, reading from the sign on the gatepost. Then she walked across to the river and looked down at the water. It was racing past the cottage, swirling as it went, and was getting perilously close to the top of the bank.
‘Tide must be in,’ said Janice.
