by J M Gregson
Lambert sighed. “So all the entrances were open?”
“No. Only one. But I’m afraid it was the most convenient one for your killer. I’ll show you.”
He led the way up the stairs from the crypt, across the front of the Lady Chapel, and across the south-east transept of the great building to a solid oak door with a cloistered walk beyond it. “This is the St John’s door. We shut all the main doors to the Cathedral but leave this one open, to allow the choir members only to get in through here. It’s the easiest access for the disabled as well — we have three or four wheelchair people who enjoy singing in the Three Choirs Festival. I’m afraid, as you see, that it is also the nearest entrance for anyone going to the Lady Chapel.” The Dean spoke apologetically, as if it were a personal omission on his part which had left this loophole for a killer.
Lambert smiled wryly. Life was difficult enough for detectives, without the complication of two hundred people rehearsing at the scene of a crime. At least there might be some witnesses to any suspicious behaviour. They could put out an appeal, if only they had any idea of the appearance of the person they were looking for. “We can probably assume that our killer came into the building this way, whether he came before the rehearsal or while it was actually taking place, and whether he brought his victim here already dead, or alive and unsuspecting.”
The Dean shuddered involuntarily. He had heard the great music of the choirs on that evening, soaring in the vast spaces to the vaulting roof of the Cathedral. Now he had to contemplate the picture of the killer, shielded from view by the high altar, laying out his obscene tableau in the dark serenity of the Lady Chapel whilst the sacred chords poured forth behind him. He said, “I’m sorry. I should have remembered the Three Choirs rehearsal at the outset.”
Lambert shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, I should still have wanted to look at the ground, and everything we said earlier still applies. The rehearsal just makes entry and exit that much easier for a killer, especially one who knows the building and its activities. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll be in touch again if we need more information. In the meantime, you could keep your ears open for me among the Cathedral staff. It’s possible they might have seen something they didn’t realise was significant at the time, or which they think might incriminate someone they know. People talk more easily among themselves than they do to police on an official inquiry.”
The Dean promised eagerly to help. He spent the rest of the morning in different sections of the building with his ears alert to the gossip of workers excited by the drama of the body in the Lady Chapel.
Now that the identity of the victim had been revealed as Tamsin Rennie, the ancient walls were full of speculation, and the Dean, licensed to eavesdrop by his role of assistant to the CID, shamelessly gathered as much of it as he could to his innocent bosom.
It was in the unlikely setting of the Cathedral Library, while the public queued to see the priceless medieval Mappa Mundi in the room next door, that he picked up the most startling piece of information. The bespectacled girl who worked amidst the Cathedral archives was so excited as she spoke to the girl on the desk that she could not control the decibel level of her whispering.
The figure laid out so demurely in death before the altar of the Blessed Virgin Mary had apparently in life been “quite a goer”.
***
While the Dean was conducting his unofficial research, Lambert was comparing notes with Bert Hook on his way back to Oldford CID.
They were agreed that the killer, with victim alive or dead, had almost certainly entered the Cathedral by the St John’s door on the south side of the Cathedral, since all other entrances, including the equally convenient but more public north door, would have been closed by the time of entry.
“What about access to that entrance from the town outside?” asked Lambert.
“Too easy, from our point of view,” said Hook gloomily. “Two quiet old streets behind the Cathedral give easy access for pedestrians and vehicles at night. St Ethelbert Street has the Cathedral Junior and Nursery Schools and the Choir School on it — all places which are often busy by day but very quiet in the early evening, especially in August, when the schools are on holiday anyway. There’s also St John’s Street, which runs directly down to the back of the Cathedral past the Old Deanery. A quiet street, even more so in the evenings.”
“How close could you get a vehicle to the St John’s door?”
“Very close, unfortunately. There’s an extensive House Yard adjacent to that door, behind the Cathedral. It’s not a public parking place, but it’s not manned and you certainly wouldn’t be challenged if you drove into it in the early evening. By day it would be filled by the cars of people who work in the Cathedral, but in the evenings there would be plenty of room.”
“That might be to our advantage, if we can find anyone who was around. A lone car stays in the memory much more than one anonymous in a full car park.”
Hook shook his head glumly. “On most evenings, you’d be right, but there was this damned rehearsal for the Three Choirs Festival next week. Choir members who knew of the existence of the House Yard park are sure to have used it.”
“True. We’ll have to try to find anyone who witnessed the departure of a vehicle while the rehearsal was still in full swing. Of course, we still have no idea whether the body was brought there in a car or van. Or whether the victim and her murderer walked into the Cathedral, either separately or together.” They were thoughts which completed the gloom and emphasised how they were still at the very beginning of the investigation, twenty-eight hours after the body had been found and around forty hours after the murder had been committed.
The Chief Constable, Douglas Gibson, was scarcely more cheerful at the midday conference he called for the newly constituted CID team. “The media boys were delighted to find out from me this morning that we have not one but two maniacs at large. They’ll make the most of that and then go to town as usual on police bafflement. ‘Copycat Killer’ will be all over the headlines tonight and tomorrow. What’s more, they quizzed me about the implications of that.”
There was silence in the crowded room.
It was the Chief Constable who concluded his briefing of the team with the worst thought of all: “You must bear in mind that copycat killers are as likely to be psychopaths as the serial killers they choose to imitate. That makes them just as prone to kill again, if they are not caught quickly.”
Five
By three o’clock on that Friday afternoon, house-to-house enquiries in Hereford had revealed the address of the dead girl. By four o’clock, Lambert and Hook were ringing the bell of the three-storeyed terraced house.
17 Rosamund Street was a fine, large house which had come down a little in the world, so that its windows had a variety of ill-matched curtains and the once handsome front door was scratched and in need of paint. It was a solid enough barrier, however, and they heard no sound from behind it until it opened abruptly and an alert but rather squat woman of about forty con-fronted them. “Mrs Jane King? We’re here about the murder of Tamsin Rennie,” said Lambert, showing his warrant. “I’m Superintendent Lambert and this is Detective Sergeant Hook.”
“I’ve already spoken to the police this afternoon,” she said resentfully. “I said all I’ve got to say to the lad in uniform.”
“Really? Well, you’ll need to say it all again to us, I’m afraid. And to answer whatever questions DS Hook and I might find to put to you. Do you want to do it here on the step or somewhere more comfortable?”
Jane King looked at him evenly for a moment, as if measuring an adversary. Even with the advantage of the substantial stone doorstep on her side, her blue eyes were still a little below the cool grey ones which studied her face so unblinkingly. Then she said, “I suppose you’d better come in,” and led them through a rather cluttered hall, with a wheelchair and an old-fashioned hat-stand, and into a surprisingly comfortable ground-floor sitting room at the back of the house.
She gestured without a word at a chaise-longue, and the two big men sat stiff and upright, facing a low Georgian window, through which they could see a neatly clipped lawn and a garden where roses climbed the wall behind a bed of bright red geraniums and light blue lobelia. It was an enclosed area which had probably not changed much in two centuries.
Lambert said without preamble, “Tamsin Rennie was murdered. You’ve probably heard or read about where her body was found. We know very little about her, as yet. We’re here to remedy that situation. No doubt as a responsible member of the public you will be anxious to assist us.”
Jane King’s face showed no reaction. She was sitting forward, as unrelaxed as they were, on an elegant matching armchair. She wore navy trousers and a short-sleeved lighter blue silk blouse. She was lightly made up, but what cosmetics she wore had been carefully applied to the rather square face beneath the short dark hair. Lambert wondered if, despite her grudging attitude, she had known all along that she would sit here at some time and talk to men like them.
She said, “I warn you, I don’t know much about the girl. She paid her rent on time and didn’t cause any trouble. If they do that, I don’t want to know much about them. They’re entitled to their privacy.”
“‘They’ being your tenants? You let rooms?”
“Yes. Six bedsits and a small basement flat.”
“And Tamsin Rennie had one of the bedsits?”
A moment’s hesitation. “She did when she first came here.”
“Which was when?”
“About eighteen months ago.”
This was rather like drawing teeth. “But she wasn’t living in one of your bedsits at the time of her death?”
“No. She moved into the basement flat. Eleven months ago.”
They noted the precision of that. “Presumably the rent for that is higher than for the bedsits?”
“Yes. I charge almost twice as much for it. It has a separate bedroom and kitchen. And before you ask me, I don’t know where her money came from. She didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. I told you, so long as my tenants obey my rules, they’re entitled to their privacy.”
“An admirable system, I’m sure. But not very helpful to harassed policemen, in these circumstances.”
If she detected his irony, she did not choose to register it. Instead she said stiffly, “One does not envisage such circumstances when setting up a system.”
“Why didn’t you come forward and say the girl lived here, Mrs King? Her body was found not five hundred yards from here. Her identity was released last night.”
“I was away yesterday. Visiting a friend in Cardiff. I didn’t know it was Tamsin until I heard the name on the television news this morning.”
Did the reply come a little too pat, as though it had been prepared? Of course, it might be information she had already given to the uniformed man who had come here earlier, but he doubted that: the young officer would scarcely have asked her about her movements on the previous day; he would have been too eager to radio in with the news of his discovery of the victim’s address. And even this morning, when the girl’s identity had been announced, Jane King hadn’t come forward; it had been the house-to-house that had revealed where the girl had lived, at about three o’clock. Lambert did not follow up her absence in Cardiff; the woman was merely helping the police voluntarily with their enquiries, and could easily become even less cooperative. Instead, he let the unspoken query hang in the air between them in a moment of silence. Then he said, “When did you last see Tamsin Rennie?”
Jane King allowed her face to relax into a smile, so that it became immediately more attractive. “Alive, you nearly added, didn’t you? Well, just to satisfy you on that one, I haven’t seen the poor girl dead; nor have I any idea who killed her. The last time I saw her was on the day of her death, at around ten on Wednesday morning. I can be so precise because I’ve already been through it with the uniformed lad who came here at lunchtime.” She was confident, almost amused; her blue eyes seemed to mock the futility of this routine, repeated question.
“How do you know the day she was killed, Mrs King?” Lambert could play games too, if it disconcerted his subject.
For a moment, there was a gratifying degree of alarm in those revealing blue eyes. “Well, surely, if she was found—”
“She was found yesterday morning. There was no revelation in any of the accounts that she had died on the previous evening. We haven’t yet released the time of death.”
Her smile had disappeared abruptly, but it didn’t take her long to recover some composure. “Well, it must have been implied in the accounts I read that Tamsin had been dead overnight. They said she was found in the Lady Chapel of the Cathedral, laid out ready for discovery like one of those carved effigies on the medieval tombs in there. I assumed she’d been killed on the previous night and left there.”
“Well, you assumed correctly. We don’t know precisely when she died yet, but it was certainly some time on Wednesday night.” Lambert smiled a little, watching her relax. “Where were you on Wednesday night, Mrs King?”
Placed where it was, the question came almost like an insult, and the square face flashed with anger for an instant. “I was out for dinner. With friends, on the edge of the town. I can give you their names and phone number. If you think it’s really necessary.”
“Oh, I do. And we’d better have the address as well, please. The more people we can eliminate early from this inquiry the better, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”
The last sentence was conciliatory, and she accepted it as such and gave the details readily enough to Bert Hook, who recorded them in his round, rather slow hand on a new page of his notebook. By the time he had done so, she was drumming her fingertips impatiently on the arm of her chair, but Hook added his own, unexpected query, “And what time would you say you arrived at the house of Mr and Mrs Fraser, Mrs King?”
“Oh, I couldn’t be precise. I didn’t expect to be questioned about it by the CID, did I?” Her attempt at a sardonic laugh was not a success. “About twenty past seven, I should think. You could check it with the Frasers, I expect.”
Lambert said abruptly, “You must forgive me for mentioning this, but you may understand that I have to. You do not seem to be very much upset by this death.”
She was startled more by his directness than by the question itself, for which she had evidently been prepared. “I didn’t know the girl well. As I say, my view is that my tenants are allowed their privacy. If I see anything of their comings and goings, it is by accident rather than design. And Tamsin Rennie had the basement flat, with its own entrance, even its own number, 17a. I saw even less of her than the others.”
“So you won’t be able to tell us much about her lifestyle? You understand that in a murder case the first thing we have to do is to build up a full picture of the victim. That is especially important when the death does not appear to be one of those murders within a family which, as you may know, are very common.”
“I understand. I can’t help you, that’s all.” She looked as though that thought gave her some satisfaction.
“Do you know where she worked?”
Jane King hesitated, as if wondering whether to regard even this as some sort of assault upon her autonomy. “She worked at Brown’s Bookshop, last I heard.”
Lambert knew it. It was a rather appealing old shop which dealt mainly in secondhand books, about half a mile from this house. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have thought that her salary there would pay the rent of your flat.”
“I’ve told you, that wasn’t my concern. It wasn’t up to me to ask her where the money was coming from when she paid her rent, was it?”
“Indeed it wasn’t. It’s just that it would have been useful, now that she’s been killed, if you had known where the extra money was coming from.”
“Well, I don’t. Perhaps her parents were helping her out.”
“I doubt it, Mrs King. There seems to been some sort of
domestic rift. Her mother didn’t even know exactly where she was living.”
She shrugged. “A lot of them leave home because they can’t stand it there. They’re better off here than on the streets, aren’t they?”
“Indeed they are. If they can afford it, without breaking the law to raise the rent.”
The blue eyes were wary, meeting his challenge, watchful for any assault upon her air of invincible ignorance about the activities in the life of this girl, who had become so troublesome in death. “No one who lives here breaks the law, not that I’m aware of.”
“But as you say, you might very well not be aware of it. You make it a policy not to ask questions, not to find out too much about the lives of your tenants.”
“I told you: they’re entitled to their privacy.” She was repeating it doggedly, like a piece of dogma from which she could not afford to deviate.
Lambert studied her for a tiny, insulting moment. “What would you say if I told you that Tamsin Rennie was a drug user?”
She raised her eyebrows high above the clear blue irises. “I’d say I was surprised. But only mildly, I suppose. They tell me that pot is commonly smoked among the young nowadays. Some people even say that the police turn a blind eye to it.” She smiled, like one who had scored a small but definite point in an amusing game.
“We’re not talking about cannabis here. We haven’t had the full post-mortem results yet, but I’d be pretty sure myself that Miss Rennie was a hard drug addict. Probably heroin, but we shall know soon enough.”
“You surprise me. But then, I wouldn’t know the symptoms to look for like a police person, would I? And I told you, I had very few dealings with the girl. If I’d known about this, she’d have been on her way.”
“I see. Well, you will no doubt know enough about the subject to be aware that it isn’t a cheap habit. It makes it even more difficult at this moment to see where she got enough money both to support this habit and to pay her rent.”
