Trespass (P.I. Johnson Carmichael Series - Book 2)

by Stephen Edger

  He pulled up outside her block of flats at six p.m., but it looked like she still had not made it home from work as there were no visible lights inside. He took the opportunity to check his emails and to review the day’s news stories on his phone. He had received gas and electric bills, and hoped that Melissa had remembered to cash the cheque that Frankie Benold had provided to pay her bill. The firm’s accounts were less buoyant than he would have liked and the cheque would need to clear before he could settle with the utilities company.

  He had bought a takeaway baguette before he had left the Wizard and now seemed as good a time as any to eat it. He followed that up with a bottle of water and for the first time all day his mind felt clear. The fog of the morning’s encounter and hangover had passed and he was longing for his bed. Although he had sent Lauren packing earlier, he was pleased with the research he had undertaken today and hearing Sarah Hanridge’s account of her attacker made him even more determined to find the man who had attacked Beth. Whether the man would be Green or someone else, he was determined to identify whoever he was.

  There was still no sign of Lauren by half past seven, and it suddenly dawned on him that given her chosen profession, she might be on a late shift this week. He pulled his phone out, found the telephone number for the General Hospital and dialled it. An irritated-sounding woman answered and asked how he wished his call to be directed. He asked to speak with Lauren Roper, but the woman would not transfer his call until he confirmed which department she worked in. He couldn’t recall if she had mentioned what area she specialised in and eventually hung up. She had said that morning that she was on her way to work, so he had assumed she would have been finished by now.

  He waited another hour before deciding that he would have a walk around the building and see if there were any lights on at the rear of the property. He locked his car up, put on his coat and gloves and crossed the street. The block of flats had a communal entrance way secured by a key-code and there were dim lights inside. He knew her property was on the ground floor and judging by the positioning of the flats, hers was at the back of the building. There was grass to the rear of the property that was fenced off from the general public with a wooden gate securing entry. He was able to climb over the gate without too much inconvenience and walked round the back. He could just about make out which property was hers, and was pleased to see that she had left a window open a fraction. The window was a couple of feet above his head so he moved a nearby flowerpot over. Standing on the rim of the ceramic pot, he was able to pull the window open wider and clamber through. He crashed down the other side into a bath tub and realised he was in the bathroom. He hoped at that point that she wasn’t home as the sound of him landing would have been enough to startle even the heaviest of sleepers.

  He pulled his phone out again and selected the torch app. The room lit up, and as he surveyed the scene, there was nothing of particular interest he could see; aside from a patch of damp in the corner of the room. Opening the bathroom door, he moved further into the flat. There were no lights on anywhere and when he tried a switch he was surprised when the light in the narrow hallway did not come on.

  A power cut would explain the darkness, he presumed.

  He continued to shine the torch around and was able to identify a small lounge-diner and a bedroom barely large enough for a double bed and small wardrobe. His own flat wasn’t a big step up from this one, but he couldn’t imagine living in such cramped confines. He looked around the lounge-diner first and considered the pictures that were hanging from the walls. They were all of two women, Lauren and her late mother. Beth Roper had had dark hair like Patricia Tropaz and Cat Jurdentaag and her frame was also slight like those women. She matched Green’s preference and in fact, it now seemed like only Sarah Hanridge didn’t meet the criteria.

  Maybe she was right to question if her attacker had been Nathan Green, he thought.

  He found a picture of a younger looking Beth and removed the photograph from its frame and placed it in his pocket. He was sure Lauren wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it to do further comparison with the other victims. He scanned the rest of the room but again there was nothing of interest with the exception of a calendar hanging near the television. He looked at it casually and noticed that she had written each of her shifts on it. It said ‘10:00-18:00’ next to today’s date and it struck him as odd that she was still not back over two hours later.

  A horrible thought entered his mind.

  He shone the torch ahead of him as he left the lounge-diner and headed for her bedroom. As he opened the door he saw a dark patch spreading out across the bedroom floor and his worst fears were confirmed. The semi-naked body of Lauren Roper was lying on the bed. A pool of blood had stained the sheets around her abdomen and her lifeless eyes stared back at him. He tried the light switch in this room but it did not work either. He moved closer to the body to check for a pulse but the body was cold. She must have been dead for several hours, suggesting she had never made it into work in the first place.

  He instantly regretted the argument they had had that morning in his office. Maybe if he hadn’t turned her away she would still be alive now. She must have left the office too distraught to go to work and phoned in sick.

  Oh God, why?

  Her arms were outstretched above her head and had been tied to the headboard with nylon rope. The binds were tight and had left purple bruising around the wrists. He shone his torch over her body. There were various cut marks along her arms and legs and it was impossible for him to see which blow had been the fatal one. He leaned over and closed her eyelids. He left the room and shut the door behind him. He turned the torch app off and began to dial ‘999’ when the strangest thing happened. There was a sudden flurry of flashing blue lights emanating from the main window in the lounge-diner. He ran over to see what the fuss was about and saw two police cars pulling up directly outside the property.

  He froze with fear.

  He would be in big trouble if he was found to have broken into the property where a recently deceased murder victim was discovered. He did the only thing he could think of, and ran back to the bathroom. He clambered into the bath tub again and tried to hoist his body up onto the window ledge. He had managed to get one leg out of the window when the front door to Lauren’s flat flew open and three police officers stormed in. He managed to drop out of sight just as they saw his shadow in the bathroom.

  He landed awkwardly on the concrete below, his landing interrupted by the ceramic flower pot. He felt a rush of pain shoot up his right ankle, but knew he didn’t have time to worry about it. He had two options, run for the gate, which undoubtedly would be surrounded by officers in a matter of seconds or head for the row of trees at the far side of the garden. He opted for the latter but as his feet hit the wet grass a security light overhead lit up, bathing him in yellow light.

  ‘Oi, you, stop!’ shouted an officer watching him from the bathroom window.

  Carmichael tried to ignore the pain in his ankle and continued to move towards the trees, hoping that there would only be a small fence between him and freedom.

  He didn’t hear the officer approaching who mercilessly rugby tackled him to the ground and buried his face in the sodden grass.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, mate?’ the officer whispered into his ear.

  Carmichael cursed his luck. Why had he run? It only made him look guilty.

  The officer hoisted him to his feet and marched him back towards the window from which he had jumped. They waited there until one of the officers inside poked his head out again and said, ‘We’ve found the body. You better hang onto him for a bit.’

  Carmichael knew from experience that if he began to try and talk, and to explain himself, they would immediately arrest him and read him his rights, just so anything he said would be admissible in court. He decided to remain quiet whilst they searched him for identification. The officer who had tackled him found his wallet, and opening it, found his driving l
icence. Unfortunately he also found the driving licence of one of Carmichael’s aliases: Phil Turnbull.

  ‘Which is it then? Are you Johnson Carmichael or Phil Turnbull?’

  He ignored the question and kept his head down. The officer asked him a handful of other questions and, when answers remained unforthcoming, he led Carmichael through the now broken gate to the front of the property. Once there, he was placed into the rear of a waiting police car. The six officers secured the rest of the property with police tape. A call had been placed to the local forensics team and the residents of the neighbouring flats had been told to remain indoors. One officer stood guard outside the flat to stop anyone else from entering and a second remained outside the bathroom window to protect the rear.

  Carmichael was still in shock at discovering Lauren’s body. He couldn’t believe she was dead and could not understand why. Two theories immediately sprang to mind: the first was that she had been killed out of revenge for what she had claimed Green had done. Pensa had been pretty clear that he was not a man to be messed with, so was it possible that he had paid Lauren a visit after the exchange in the pub at lunchtime? The second, and more alarming, theory was that the person who had assaulted her mother all those years ago was still at large and had decided to kill the one remaining witness to his crime.

  The car door opened and the same officer poked his head in and said, ‘Do you have anything to say yet?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Carmichael replied looking him square in the eye. ‘I want to speak to Jack Vincent.’

  29

  Detective Sergeant Kyle Davies was in the canteen, eating a plate of pie and mash when he was called to the Communications Command desk. The station had received a phone call from an anonymous source claiming that a woman had been murdered in her home in the Shirley area. He had been told that three patrol cars were en route to the location and that he should get over there pretty sharpish. Disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to finish his supper he had jumped into a waiting squad car and made his way there. It was only ten minutes from the station.

  The three squad cars were already in position and were cordoning off the property when he arrived. He spoke to one of the uniforms who confirmed that the body of a young woman had been found in the property, and that initial examination suggested that the circumstances of death were suspicious. He was surprised when they told him they had caught a man fleeing the premises and he was currently in the back of one of the cars.

  ‘Has he said anything yet?’

  ‘Not yet. We caught him leaping from the bathroom window. There was no sign of forced entry at the main door so it would suggest the bathroom window was the entry and exit point for our killer.’

  ‘Have you read the guy his rights yet?’

  ‘No, Guv. We thought we’d give him some time to stew first.’

  A second officer approached them from the direction of the car.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Davies asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the officer. ‘The perp says he will only speak to D.I. Jack Vincent.’

  Davies recoiled slightly at the name of his former mentor.

  ‘He’s in for a bit of a disappointment then,’ Davies remarked, moving off towards the car, leaving the two officers watching.

  Detective Inspector Jack Vincent had first plucked Davies from uniform a couple of years ago, and had helped him fast-track him through the Sergeant’s examination board the year before. Vincent had been diagnosed with a terminal illness earlier that year and had retired from the force and gone abroad to enjoy his retirement. Davies had received one postcard three weeks after Vincent had left but hadn’t heard from him since and feared the worst. The doctor’s prognosis had certainly not been good.

  Vincent had been like a teacher to Davies, and he had learned so much about delivering justice from the older man that he was filled with sadness every day, not knowing if the great man was gone. Vincent’s replacement had still not been appointed, and so D.C.I. Jan Mercure was currently overseeing all operations in the team. Davies had approached her to ask if she would consider an application from him but she had laughed and told him he was too young and inexperienced. It was fair comment and he had felt embarrassed for even proposing it.

  Davies climbed into the back seat next to Carmichael. ‘Hi,’ he said, showing his identification. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Kyle Davies and you are?’

  ‘I want to speak to Jack Vincent,’ Carmichael repeated.

  ‘That’s a shame. Detective Inspector Jack Vincent no longer works for us. He’s retired. You’re just going to have to put up with me instead.’

  Carmichael watched him, trying to decide if he was telling the truth or not.

  ‘What is it you were expecting Vincent to do? Do you know him?’

  ‘Our paths have crossed before,’ Carmichael confirmed.

  ‘I see. Well, as I said, he’s not around anymore, so why don’t you tell me who you are and what you know about the victim in that flat?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he replied quickly.

  ‘But you know that she is dead, so tell me what you were doing in her flat. Were you stealing stuff? Was she a friend? A lover?’

  ‘She was a client,’ Carmichael replied.

  ‘A client? And just what sort of business are you in?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator. She hired me to do some digging for her.’

  ‘Oh really? You don’t look like a P.I. You’re no Phillip Marlowe.’

  Why does everybody say that?

  ‘So if this woman was your client, you’ll be able to provide me with a signed contract between the two of you confirming the relationship, right? Can you tell me where your office is so I can get a search warrant and go and collect the contract?’

  Carmichael didn’t care for the facetious tone in Davies’ voice.

  ‘Look,’ he said evenly. ‘Check my identification. I am a private investigator. I was due to meet my client this evening and to provide her with an update on the investigation. We were supposed to meet at six, but I was running late. When I arrived there were no lights on so I sat and waited for her to appear. A couple of hours went by and she had not returned, so I went in to see what was going on.’

  ‘And you’re in the habit of breaking into your clients’ homes, are you?’

  ‘No, but I was concerned that something might be wrong?’

  ‘Oh really,’ said Davies with a disbelieving laugh. ‘And what made you think that, Poirot?’

  ‘A threat had been made to her life earlier today.’

  ‘That’s funny; nothing was reported to us. Your story is full of holes.’

  ‘Look at me. Look at my clothes. Is there any blood on them? I saw her body in there. That much blood would have left at least a trace on me. Can you see any?’

  It was a fair argument but there were a number of possible explanations for his tidy appearance.

  ‘That doesn’t mean you weren’t involved. You were also caught trespassing on the victim’s property. I think we’ll detain you a little longer if you don’t mind.’

  With that Davies got out of the car and headed back to the two officers who were chatting about the excitement of the evening.

  ‘Are forensics on the way?’ he asked, shivering in the cold night air.

  ‘Yes, Guv. Should be here in the next ten minutes.’

  ‘Great! The guy reckons he’s a Private Eye, if you can believe that?’

  ‘In fairness, Guv, one of his I.D.’s confirmed that, but the other claimed he was a journalist. There’s something about him I don’t trust.’

  ‘There’s a lot I don’t trust about him,’ Davies agreed. ‘I think we should arrest him and take him down the nick for questioning. Are you two alright to transport him?’

  The two officers agreed and told their colleagues what was going on. Davies approached the property and waited for the forensics team to arrive to collect samples for evidence. Fifteen minutes later, and wearing a white protective suit an
d latex gloves, Davies entered the flat and had a look around. He was able to confirm the victim’s identity as Lauren Roper and, from her identification, she appeared to be a nurse at the local hospital. Her body was covered in knife slashes and the way her wrists were bound suggested something sexual had been involved. Whether it had been consensual was not apparent and wouldn’t be confirmed until an autopsy had been undertaken.

  D.C.I. Mercure arrived an hour later. She had been at home with her family when Davies had called her. He didn’t need her there to coordinate matters, but she’d always had something of a hands-on approach to work, and he had not been surprised when she had informed him she would be there in twenty minutes. He explained everything that had been learned so far, and that a suspect had been arrested and was being held at the station. Davies had looked up the suspect’s details online and had found a website confirming the private investigator-identification. It also meant he had an address for the firm. Mercure agreed it was worth requesting a search warrant for the office ASAP and gave him the name of a local magistrate who could sanction the search.

  ‘He’s a good friend,’ she added. ‘He won’t mind your call this late at night. Get it done!’

  ‘What about Carmichael?’

  ‘We’ll leave him to stew in a cell overnight. Get the warrant now and take a couple of uniforms to turn his place over. Get as much information on him as you can and see what links him to the victim. We’ll interview him first thing in the morning and take it from there.’

  Davies nodded his understanding and returned to the station to prepare the search warrant paperwork.

  *