by Norma Hanton
Cotton groaned, and started back towards Broom. That’s all he needed. It sounded so messy in there he wished he could wait in the car and let someone else go in his place. Turning back he asked PC Kent,
“Where’s the roofer now?”
“He’s sitting in the garden, sir.”
Kent followed him outside. He pointed to a garden seat where a small, thin, white faced young man sat. His hunched shoulders were covered with a car blanket, and he sat holding firmly onto the hand of a WPC.
“He’s so shocked, sir, he’s unable to speak at all now.” she informed Cotton. “I couldn’t make any headway at all. We’ve left him until the ambulance gets here. It‘s on it‘s way, eta ten minutes”
“OK. Good work. Kent, you and Smith go and get yourselves a cuppa, but I want your reports on my desk - today.”
The two constables needed no second bidding.
“I can’t see any signs of forced entry, no broken windows or locks anywhere.” Broom said, as they exited the lift. “Whoever it was either had keys or they were let in by the occupants.” On receiving no reply from Cotton he added, “Well, that’s the way I see it anyway.”
“Use your brain, Joe,” Cotton said, after a long pause, “PC Smith told you, the door was unlocked and the chain was off. Whoever did it didn’t need a key, they were let in.”
At that moment they heard a voice and they peered into the gloom of Apartment Five.
“Hello, Inspector Cotton, come along in. Don’t be shy. I’m afraid we’re going to have a lot of trouble with this one.” the pathologist announced with a grin, as he stood writing in a notebook. “Not your usual slash and dash, Inspector, a cold blooded murder if ever there was one.”
Cotton recognised the voice and wasn’t particularly enamoured at Sam Dickson’s jovial attitude when he was present at a crime scene, but he knew that this guy was the best in his field. The gruff, sometimes ill mannered pathologist was like an overweight bloodhound when he got his teeth into an interesting case.
Cotton reluctantly circled the bed, trying his best to keep his eyes averted. After the shock of his first clear look at the woman’s faceless head, he didn’t want a second viewing. Broom, made of sterner stuff, moved forward and began making a closer examination of the dead women while Dickson made his initial report to Cotton.
The women on the bed were once strikingly beautiful, Broom was sure of that. Even the brutal disfigurement of the faceless victim could not hide the slim, sleek body that had clearly been kept well in shape. The long limbs had him thinking that both women might have been models, but why had the killer disfigured the blonde haired one and not the redhead? Was he disturbed and had to leave her? Did he have a thing about fair haired women? Or did he just hate all women in general? Why were they dressed in white? Were they supposed to look like brides? Could it be some kind of sick religious ritual, or the revenge of some spurned lover? How could anyone in their right mind do something so brutal to such a beautiful young woman? Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by Dickson.
“Whoever did this was here, in the apartment, for some time, Inspector, perhaps days. To do all this, and then tidy up after himself was no quick feat.” He shook his head in disbelief, “You’ll not believe this but, both bodies have been thoroughly cleansed, hair brushed, nails cleaned and polished. They even had a few dabs of perfume applied to their necks by the smell of it. They both seem to have died without a struggle. Why the mutilation of one and not the other, I really couldn’t say.” He pulled Cotton to the bed and pointed to the disfigured gore. “Look here, Inspector, can you see how neatly the instrument, whatever it was, was so professionally used. The killer took his time doing this, believe me,” he ushered Cotton forward and Broom grinned to himself as his governor’s face paled. “Wouldn’t even like to hazard a guess at how long they’ve been dead I’m afraid,” Dickson went on, “What I will guess at, and it’s only a guess at this stage,” he stared pointedly at Cotton, “is, that they died here, in this flat. There are no signs of the bodies being bashed about, but they must have been carried somehow because I’m pretty sure they did not die on this bed. Whoever did this is strong, very muscular. If you want my opinion it was probably a man, or even men. I will of course be able to tell you more after the post mortem. Now I’m off to have my lunch and I hope that this time I’ll be lucky enough to finish it in peace.”
Cotton stared at him in disbelief, his own stomach churning.
“How can you possibly think of food after looking at them?” He pointed at the bodies that were in the process of being prepared to be moved to the local mortuary.
“My dear Inspector, after all the years I have spent ‘looking at them’ I have learnt not to let it get between me and my stomach. Young as you are you would do well to do the same. You are, if I may say so, looking very thin and very haggard lately.” he winked at Broom, “Besides, Inspector Cotton, compared to some these two ladies appear to be a nice clean problem.” Cotton cringed as Dickson put an arm around his shoulder and laughed, “That should make you, with your moralising about food intake, and this fancy suit of yours, feel so much better.”
When the pathology team, and the bodies, had left, with a cheerful wave from Sam Dickson, Inspector Cotton and his Sergeant were able to have their first real look at the apartment.
Cotton walked slowly towards a forensic officer, inviting comment.
“There’s nothing in here to identify either of the two women, sir. There seems to be no fingerprints, apart from a partial one we found on a Frank Sinatra tape that had been left in the music centre. The whole place has been scrubbed and disinfected, even down to the drains in the sinks. The u bends have all been removed, cleaned and replaced. The bath and shower are equally spotless. The toilet - ditto” He turned in a circle looking around the room. “There are no bills or correspondence of any kind. No passports or driving licenses, nothing at all to identify them.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Have you noticed, sir, that there’s no television or telephone? Hence no phone bill to check. It’s a weird one alright.” He shook his head bemused, “Everyone has a television in this day and age, sir. Don’t they?”
“Surprisingly, constable, no, not everyone in this day and age has a television. Some people can‘t afford them”
“Sorry, sir, but, I noticed that the flats were all wired up for them and, by the looks of it, they could afford to have one. Surely the must have wanted to watch the coronation.”
“Some people, my self included, find them an irritating intrusion at home.”
“Oh? Well I wouldn’t be without mine, sir” said the officer, “It’s wonderful. I can keep in touch with the whole world through television.”
At this the two officers moved on, going from white room to white room placing items into brown paper evidence bags.
Cotton stood in the middle of the lounge and surveyed just how immaculate the apartment was.
“Take a good look around you, Joe, this place is like minimalism gone mad. I’ve never seen such a modern place like this outside of a magazine. Have you?”
The bare beauty of it all amazed him. In what was obviously the master bedroom one long, white wall was entirely dedicated to cupboards. Each one ran from floor to ceiling, with handle free doors. Cotton opened each cupboard in turn by simply pressing gently on each door, releasing the pressure and letting it spring open. The cupboards were so neatly filled it took his breath away. Every item, he noted, on each individual shelf was the same colour. Red jumpers, red sweat shirts, red shorts and red tee shirts.
On the rails the hangers were also colour co-ordinated. Blue skirts, blue trousers, blue blouses, blue dresses, blue coats and jackets. Each colour had its own space, its own identity; they were definitely well organised women. In one of them, on the top shelf, he could see at least thirty handbags, on the shelf below, a glass fronted box of gloves, and below that, assorted hat boxes.
The bedside table, merely a small glass shelf, contained a ne
at, petite crystal alarm clock and a pair of shimmering diamond earrings. As Cotton’s gaze fell on each item, he watched as they were placed carefully into brown evidence bags.
He walked over to the king size bed which was framed with a rather dull, black, metal bedstead. It looked like a reproduction of a Victorian bedstead. It was covered with bright white, silk sheets and pillow cases. A pure white, satin, quilt lay over the bed and hung to the floor.
Above the bed hung a stunning modern painting of a nude woman lying on a red couch. Her back was arched; her tousled blonde hair spread itself around her beautiful face, pale blue eyes stared down at them with a hint of mockery. Both men stood in silence, mesmerised by her beauty. Could this possibly be the brutalised woman they’d seen lying on this bed today?
“If that’s the one whose eye has been removed the person who did this should be hung.” Broom murmured.
The white sheets were now crumpled but showed no sign of the shocking sight the roofer had encountered. It was a wonder the poor man hadn’t fell off the scaffolding with fright.
Joe Broom waved Cotton into the bathroom. “You’ll never believe this, sir, but someone has even cleaned the walls, the windows, and their inside frames.” Broom whispered.
“Why are you whispering, Joe?” Cotton stared at him.
“I don’t really know, guv. It just feels sort of ‘unnerving’ somehow, the cleanliness of it all,” Broom shivered and looked around him, “and I keep feeling like I’m being watched. Don’t ask me why.”
“You’re letting your imagination get away from you, man, pull yourself together.”
Broom nodded and they moved on.
Two further bedrooms were empty, except for three racks of evening wear. Expensive looking dresses hung in neat rows looking for all the world as good as any display to be found in Harrods. Fur coats hung on a rack furthest from the door. They all look brand new. The women obviously loved shopping so much they had run out of space in the bedroom.
“Check out the labels on these, Joe, we might find one or two designer labels to follow up on,” he whistled. “Like this sable coat and that fox fur stole. My God! They must have cost a fortune. Yet they don’t look as if they’ve ever been worn.”
Going into the sparse looking kitchen Cotton was very impressed.
“My God, get a load of this. Come in here, Joe. Have you ever seen such a fantastically clean and tidy area? There’s nothing on show here except the kettle on the Aga,” he stood looking around the room, a thoughtful smile lighting his face. “Do you know, I think I could get quite used to living like this? Look, this is that white Formica. Feel how smooth it is. I might try this on my own place one day. This is definitely my style.”
“Well I definitely couldn’t, and wouldn’t, guv. Give me my Joan’s messy, warm, inviting kitchen anytime,” Broom replied, “Seems to me there’s not much work goes on in here, not much loving and,” he sniffed loudly, “definitely not much cooking either.”
“Don’t forget the whole place has been disinfected and scrubbed, Joe,” Cotton reminded him, then he grinned, “Though, on second thoughts, I, like you, would prefer Joan’s kitchen,” he acknowledged.
“I like to live in a proper house,” Broom continued, “all mess and happy memories, plus a lot of DIY and gardening, and a front door to call my own.”
They found nothing at all in the apartment to identify the two women or how they had worked and lived and were about to give up for the day when Police Constable Evans tapped at the open door.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’ve been interviewing one of the tenants on the ground floor, flat one, and I think you’ll be interested in hearing what she has to say. Her name is Mrs Agatha Moorhead. She’s a widow and she’s lived here for quite a while.” Looking like the cat that got the cream, Evans added, “She told me that not both the women live in this apartment. One lives in apartment six, over the landing.” He looked expectantly at Cotton.
“Well, what are you waiting for, Evans? Let’s go and take a look,” Cotton, was already heading for the landing at a brisk pace and instructed the forensic team to follow.
Cotton and Broom followed Evans to the door of apartment six and were as surprised as he was when he turned the handle and the door opened.
Ringing the bell and receiving no answer, they entered cautiously, calling out, ‘Police’. After checking each room for signs of life, they found none, they looked around.
“This is as clean and tidy as the other place, guv. Yet it’s still a bit more homely, don’t you think?” Broom commented. “More lived in”
Cotton had to agree. Unlike apartment five there were little touches here and there that made the rooms a bit more cheerful. The odd wall of colour, photographs in silver frames, all of them included an absolutely stunning young woman, probably the mutilated girl. Knick–knacks of all kinds stood on thin glass shelves. They looked like the kind of thing that travellers brought back from holidays. Brightly patterned cushions adorned two large, black leather sofas. Beautiful porcelain dolls, in various national costumes, sat on a shelf above the bed, their bright eyes seeming to watch the men at their task.
However, the search of the apartment did not enlighten them in any way as to the daily life of its occupant any more than apartment five had. Other than the few photographs, the fact she was not into colour co-ordination and, was a bit untidy compared to her neighbour, they found nothing at all to tell them who she was or what she did in her life.
“What was she doing in apartment five, Joe?” he ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Was she the blonde one in these photographs? Were they just close friends or, perhaps, sisters?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, guv.”
“Let’s leave the forensic boys to it and go for a pie and a pint,” Cotton suggested.
“Sorry,” Broom said, “If we’re finished here. The wife and I are celebrating our anniversary tonight and I don’t want to be late, so with your permission?”
“Well! Congratulations, Joe!” He shook the sergeant’s hand. “Off you go and remember to give my regards to Joan.” He pulled out his wallet, “Here, buy her some champagne from me. She deserves it, having put up with you all these years.”
Constable Evans looked hopefully at Cotton.
“All right, Evans lets go and have a chat with your Mrs Moorhead.”
Chapter Three
In flat one Cotton was introduced to Mrs Agatha Moorhead, a sprightly fifty something. She was a smartly dressed, if rather plump, woman wearing a gingham apron, who seemed only too happy to have them come in. Displaying no signs of distress at their being there, she hurried into the kitchen.
“A nice cup of tea will help to oil the wheels“, she said.
They sat down on comfortable armchairs, and looked around the homely room as they waited for her return. Fresh flowers, chintz patterns and soft pastel shades, all reflected in the cushions, made it a pleasure to be there. A framed photograph of a handsome, grey haired man stood on the sideboard.
After the tea was poured into elegant Royal Albert chinaware Cotton cleared his throat and began.
“So only one of the women lived in flat five, Mrs Moorhead, would that be the fair-haired one or the redhead?” Cotton asked setting down his cup.
“It was the redhead that lived in five, Inspector, and the younger, blonde one, in six.”
“Did you know them well?”
Her thick, grey streaked hair bounced as she shook her head.
“No, Inspector, I’m afraid not. They were not ones for chatting. They would just nod on passing. A bit stuck up, I thought, not to speak ill of the dead of course, but they never spoke to anyone that I know of.” A smile lit up her face. “Now the previous tenant of the flat, he was very different. He was a really nice young man, so kind and caring.”
Her statement made both men perk up and Cotton asked with ill-concealed excitement,
“Do you remember him, his name for instance?”
&nb
sp; “Of course I remember him, such a dear man. He always had time to talk, and that’s a rarity these days. He helped me with my shopping trolley on more than one occasion,” she held out her hands, “Arthritis you know, doesn’t care who it attacks. He wasn’t in the least stuck-up.” She looked first at PC Evans then at Cotton. “He’s not in any trouble is he?”
Cotton was quick to reassure her that, as far as knew, he was in no trouble at all.
“We just want to know if he knew the dead girls personally, that’s all.”
“Inspector Cotton, I usually keep my opinions, and myself, to myself, but, on this occasion, I’ll gladly tell you what I know.”
Agatha poured them a second cup of tea and sat down again. After she’d made herself comfortable she sat waiting patiently.
At a signal from Inspector Cotton PC Evans put down his cup and picked up his notebook.
Agatha took a deep breath and began.
“The gentleman in question was called Patrick Donovan. As the name suggests he originated from Ireland. He’d lived here, so he told me, since his university days. He often said he wanted to go back home to Ireland one day. He sounded quite wistful about it.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Mrs Moorhead. Did he ever say which part of Ireland he was from?” Cotton asked her.
“Of course he did, silly me, he came from Ballymena. Oh, and the way he used to describe it, Inspector, it sounded so wonderful I wouldn’t mind living there myself.” Agatha beamed at them. “This is so exciting. Just ask me whatever you want.” She waited.
“You’re doing so well I’d like you, if you don’t mind, to just carry on and I’ll ask any questions that arise as we go along,” Cotton encouraged her.
“Very well, Inspector. Are you ready, constable?” She addressed this to Evans who was still trying to finish his cup of tea.
Evans blushed slightly and put down his cup, “Ready when you are ma’am.”
