by Damien Boyd
‘They must have the sluice gates open at Dunball.’
It was just after 1 p.m. when they turned into Express Park.
‘There’ll be plenty of spaces on the ground floor,’ said Jane. ‘And we’ll be under cover.’
‘Good thinking.’
Working on Christmas Day had its advantages. And no shortage of parking spaces in the staff car park was one of them. It was also just about the only positive thing she could think of when it came to the budget cuts.
The station was eerily quiet, except for the CID area on the first floor. As she headed over to the coffee machine, Jane spotted Harry Unwin, Dave Harding and Mark Pearce, all engaged in an animated conversation with DCI Lewis. She also recognised the press officer, Vicky Thomas.
‘Well done, Janice,’ said DCI Lewis.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘We’ve got a press conference lined up for 6 p.m.’
‘Has someone told the husband?’ asked Janice.
Jane was listening from the coffee machine.
‘Family liaison are with him now.’
‘Good. Well, let’s make a start.’
Jane followed Janice across the landing to meeting room two and placed a coffee on the table in front of her.
‘Right, let’s start with the forensics. What evidence have we got placing him at the scene?’ asked Janice.
‘We’ve got a DNA profile off the cigarette butt on the landing,’ replied Harding. ‘It’s clear and it matches John Stanniland on the database.’
‘And there’s ash on her body and on the congealed blood . . .’ said DCI Lewis.
‘So, we can prove it came after the murder.’
‘We can,’ replied Lewis.
‘Anything else?’
‘No. The cigarettes in the lane are the same brand, but that’s it,’ replied Harding.
‘And nothing from the vomit?’
‘No.’
‘What about trace DNA?’
‘Plenty from her husband and from her, of course. Hair, skin, saliva. Nothing else though,’ replied Harding.
‘What about under her fingernails?’
‘To be confirmed.’
‘So, we can assume no one else was there then,’ said Janice.
‘Possibly,’ replied Lewis.
‘What about the footprints in the back garden?’
‘We’ve got imprints off them but they don’t match any of his shoes. Right size, but that’s it.’
‘He’s probably got rid of them,’ said Pearce.
‘Same for his clothes,’ said Harding.
‘What about the van?’ asked Janice.
‘Reported stolen yesterday at 5.32 p.m. Not turned up yet though.’
‘When was it stolen?’
‘Sometime in the previous forty-eight hours. That’s all he could say, apparently.’
‘Anything on the traffic cameras?’
‘We’ve got a white van getting on the M5 at junction 24 and going north at 2.12 a.m. but there’s no number plate visible.’
‘Why not?’
‘Covered with mud, I expect. Either deliberately or . . .’ replied Harding. ‘We’re getting it enhanced now.’
‘So, he headed south to go north?’
‘Avoids all the cameras in the town,’ said Lewis.
‘What about further north?’
‘We’ve got him getting off at 21 then nothing after that,’ replied Harding.
‘What about his neighbours?’
‘Fully paid up members of the “see no evil, hear no evil” brigade,’ said Pearce.
‘Don’t they know this is a murder investigation?’ asked Janice.
‘Saw nothing, heard nothing. And they gave that answer before they even heard the question.’
‘Gits,’ said Harding.
‘What about the murder weapons?’ asked Janice.
‘Murder weapon,’ said Lewis.
‘There were two knives, Sir. One made the visible injuries and then a longer knife was inserted into a wound in her back. That’s the one that went into the heart and killed her.’
‘Have we had Poland’s report then?’ asked Lewis.
‘Not yet,’ replied Janice. ‘Jane went to the post mortem last night.’
Lewis looked at Jane and nodded.
‘What do we think happened then?’ he asked.
‘His knife wasn’t long enough so he got another from the kitchen, perhaps?’ asked Jane.
‘He could have just cut her throat, surely?’
‘He’d stabbed her twice in the neck and it had made him sick, don’t forget.’
‘He’s not got a strong stomach, has he?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘What about motive?’ asked Lewis.
‘We’ll need to speak to the husband again. See if their paths have ever crossed but, apart from that, we don’t have one,’ replied Janice.
‘Burglary gone wrong,’ said Pearce.
‘There’s always that possibility,’ said Lewis. ‘Drives out to a rural area, picks a remote cottage he thinks is empty . . .’
‘Surely he’d take the cash out of her purse?’ asked Jane.
‘Not necessarily, if he’s smart,’ replied Janice. ‘Stolen goods might connect him to the murder and cash can be traced from serial numbers.’
‘Does he look smart to you?’ asked Jane.
‘No, but let’s go and find out, shall we?’
‘Well?’
‘No comment,’ replied Janice, throwing her empty coffee cup in the bin. ‘No bloody comment to every single question.’
DCI Lewis sighed, loudly.
‘He didn’t even offer an alibi?’
‘No.’
‘Who was his solicitor?’
‘Duty solicitor from Taunton. Harrison. It was a bit of a struggle to get him to come out at all, until he found out it was a murder.’
‘Twat.’
‘A fair assessment,’ replied Janice.
‘Was there any reaction to anything?’
‘Not really . . .’
‘Only when we asked him about the two knives,’ interrupted Jane. ‘He looked . . .’ she hesitated.
‘What?’ asked Lewis.
‘Surprised.’
‘That we knew or that there were two knives?’
‘I couldn’t tell,’ replied Jane, shaking her head.
She noticed Mark Pearce standing behind Janice, so she nodded in his direction. Janice turned round.
‘What?’
‘They’ve found his van.’
‘Where is it?’
‘In a field off,’ Pearce looked down at a piece of paper, ‘East Dundry Lane. It’s south of the city.’
‘Burnt out, I suppose?’
‘Incinerated is probably a more accurate description. They’re emailing over some photos now though.’
‘We’ll get nothing off that then,’ said Janice.
‘Did they find anything at his flat?’ asked Lewis.
‘No, Sir,’ replied Pearce.
‘So, have we got enough to charge him?’ Jane and Janice recognised the rhetorical question. They waited. ‘We can place him at the scene,’ continued Lewis, ‘standing over the body on the landing and smoking a cigarette. We’ve got a white van matching the description of Stanniland’s getting on the M5 at junction 24 and heading north. At or near the time of death . . .’ his voice tailed off.
‘And we’ve got a suspect who’s offered no alibi,’ said Janice.
Lewis grimaced.
‘We need more, I think. Let’s get an extension and see what else we can find. We’ve got time,’ said Lewis. ‘Then we’ll do the press conference, Janice. All right?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’ll ring the husband now.’
Jane was standing in the large windows on the first floor at Express Park, looking down at DCI Lewis. He was flanked by Janice and Vicky Thomas, who were holding umbrellas, and was talking to a group of reporters. Some were holding Dictaphon
es in front of him while others were pointing television cameras at him. Several flashes were also going off at regular intervals. The press conference, such as it was, did not last long, the agreed script having been short and to the point.
A forty-one year old Bristol man had been arrested that morning on suspicion of the murder of Mrs Elizabeth Perry, who had been killed by an intruder at home in the early hours of Christmas Eve. A more detailed statement would follow in due course and, in the meantime, the members of the press were asked to respect the family’s request for privacy at this difficult time.
Fat chance.
She could just about make out muffled shouts from below and guessed from the animated gestures of some of the reporters that they were now firing questions at DCI Lewis. Jane watched him turn and walk back into the station. Then she watched a male reporter standing under an umbrella talking into a television camera. She recognised none of them, but then she rarely watched the news.
‘C’mon, Jane. I’ll give you a lift home.’
‘Thanks, Jan.’
‘Let’s go and see what’s left of Christmas, shall we?’
Jane hesitated on the pavement outside the cottage, watching the rain bounce off the roof of Janice’s car as she drove off. She looked across at the Red Cow. It was closed, so Dixon must be at home, although it struck her as odd that Monty was quiet. He usually barked at the slightest noise outside.
She wondered if Dixon had got her text message telling him she was on her way, but then he was probably fast asleep on the sofa with Monty curled up on his lap. It was just before 7 p.m. and too early for them to have gone to bed, surely?
Jane inserted her key in the lock, turned it and the door swung open. It took her a moment to recognise that it was Monty standing in front of her. Perhaps it was the pair of reindeer antlers he was wearing? He looked none too pleased about it either.
‘There you are,’ said Dixon, thrusting a tumbler into her hand before she had even closed the front door behind her. The bottle of Bombay Sapphire in his other hand confirmed the glass contained a gin and tonic.
‘You’ve got twenty minutes till supper,’ he said.
‘You’ve cooked?’
‘Roast turkey and all the trimmings. With a little help from Aunt Bessie,’ replied Dixon, grinning.
Jane smiled. She could get used to this. She could even overlook the frozen roast potatoes.
‘I thought you’d be legless by now.’
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Only your text message was a bit garbled.’
‘That was my gloves.’
‘I thought you’d had a few.’
‘We went up the hill for a change. Then it started pissing down so we had to shelter in the Red Cow.’
‘Of course, you did.’
‘You got him then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who made the arrest?’
‘Harry Un . . .’ Jane stopped mid-sentence. She had not told Dixon that Harry was involved in the investigation.
‘Harry Unwin? Harry bloody Unwin?’ shouted Dixon, from the kitchen.
‘Yes.’
‘You never said he was on the team.’
‘I knew how you’d react.’
‘There’s a gang of Albanians who know where we live thanks to that prick.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘I can’t, but if I could . . . let me rephrase that. When I can . . .’
‘Look, this is a separate investigation. And besides, I’m working with Janice.’
‘Keep it that way.’
‘I will.’
Dixon appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He was carrying a large spoon and a jug.
‘D’you like bread sauce?’
A hot shower and a gin and tonic later and Jane tiptoed down the stairs wearing a pair of jeans and one of Dixon’s shirts. She squeezed between the sofa and the Christmas tree, which was far too big but Dixon had insisted, and placed her empty glass on the side in the kitchen with a bang. Dixon started refilling it right on cue.
‘What’s on telly tonight?’ she asked.
‘You choose.’
Chapter Seven
Jane arrived at Express Park just before 8 a.m. the following morning. There were a few more cars in the car park but she was still able to get a space on the ground level. The skeleton staff on for Boxing Day was bigger than the day before but not that big.
She glanced through the window of the staff canteen as she walked past and spotted Janice sitting alone in the corner, so she poked her head around the door.
‘Are you all right, Jan?’
‘Yeah fine.’ She replied without looking up from her coffee, so Jane walked over and sat down next to her.
‘Everything all right at home?’
‘He did at least wait until the children went to bed, I suppose. How about you?’
‘Fine. Look, he married a police officer. What the bloody hell does he expect?’
‘You try telling him that.’
‘Gladly.’
Janice shook her head.
‘He was just disappointed, I think, but I could’ve done without all the histrionics. He was drunk too, which didn’t help.’
‘He didn’t hit you, did he?’
‘God, no.’
‘Twat.’
‘We’ll get through it. Tell me about your evening.’
‘Nick had cooked roast turkey,’ replied Jane.
‘Detective Inspector Dixon cooked?’
‘He did. Then we sat and watched a film and polished off a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.’
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘It was. Till Monty was sick on the carpet. Too much turkey, I think.’
Janice laughed.
‘Which reminds me,’ continued Jane, ‘have we had SOCO’s report yet?’
‘No. I asked Watson. He’s dictated it and it’ll be typed up today. We’ll get the post mortem report tomorrow too.’
‘What about the lab report?’
‘We’ve got PGL’s. That’s how we made the match with Stanniland.’
‘What does it say about the vomit?’
‘Too much stomach acid and rainwater to get a decent profile, apparently. But the cigarette’s a good match. It’ll be in your email.’
‘When are our labs open again?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘And Stanniland?’
‘Special sitting of the mags later this morning. We’ll get another twenty-four hours to hold him.’
‘What’s the plan for this morning then?’ asked Jane.
‘We need to have another word with the husband, I think. Then her parents.’
It would have been easy for Jane to have got lost in the maze of new bungalows on the outskirts of Trull, a small village to the south-west of Taunton, had it not been for the four large vans with satellite dishes mounted on top parked outside one particular property. She counted at least six camera crews and several other journalists waiting patiently in the road outside the bungalow, all of them standing under umbrellas and most of them smoking.
Jane turned into the cul-de-sac and hooted at the journalists gathered at the gate. They moved to the side, allowing her to park in the drive. She looked up at the bungalow. It was small, possibly two or three bedrooms at most, with bay windows either side of the front door. Roses had been planted in large tubs on either side and a small tree, possibly a magnolia although it was difficult to tell at this time of year, grew in the middle of the lawn. The bungalow itself was built of red brick and looked no more than a few years old.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ said Janice, sitting in the passenger seat of Jane’s car.
They had telephoned ahead and the Perry family were expecting them so they jumped out of the car and made the short dash down the side of the bungalow to the back door without bothering with umbrellas and ignoring the shouted questions from the journalists at the gate. The back door opened as they stepped into the porch
.
‘Come in.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Janice, looking up to see Tom Perry’s father standing in the doorway.
‘Leave your coats over those chairs,’ he said. ‘Tom’s in the living room. Down the hall, on the left.’
Jane left her coat over the back of a kitchen chair and followed the hallway towards the front of the property. She pushed open the door on the left and peered into the room. The curtains were closed and there was only one small lamp, making the room all but dark. She recognised Tom Perry sitting in an armchair by the fire. He was wearing jeans and a green sweatshirt with ‘Exeter, probably the best university in the world’ written on it. To his right was his mother, sitting on the sofa, and next to her was the family liaison officer, Karen Marsden.
‘Let me make some tea,’ said Karen. ‘Tom?’
‘Yes, please.’
Jane and Janice sat down on the sofa either side of Mrs Perry. Jane sat nearest to Tom Perry.
‘Hello, Tom,’ she said.
He nodded.
‘I gather DCI Lewis has spoken to you?’
‘He has. And Karen’s been great.’
‘Good,’ replied Jane. ‘We need to know if either of you ever met John Stanniland before.’
Tom Perry shook his head.
‘It’s very important, Tom.’
Janice took a photograph out of her handbag and passed it to Jane. Mrs Perry craned her neck to see it as it was passed in front of her.
‘Is that him?’ she hissed.
‘Yes,’ replied Jane, holding the photo in front of Tom Perry.
‘Do you know him, Tom?’
He stared at the photograph for several seconds before shaking his head.
‘I’ve never seen him before.’
‘What about online? Has he ever got in touch with you over the Internet? About politics perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Where does he live?’ asked Perry.
‘Bristol.’
‘That’s not even in the constituency.’
‘What about Elizabeth? Did she know him?’ asked Jane.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘She never mentioned his name?’
‘No.’
‘I thought you went to Reading University, Tom?’
‘Lizzie went to Exeter.’
‘You called her Lizzie. I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ said Jane.
