Peters arrived back and thus the information so vital was eventually passed to Doris Scott-Ling. Of Kinsella, Hallam later commented, “she was there but missed it.”
It was an hour later that the procedure was completed and Peters, found himself standing outside the office of her Majesty’s Coroner, Colonel Travers.
Superintendent Kinsella and Doris were seated reading their copies of the post-mortem report.
No mention was made of Kinsella passing out, though two calls form the Chief Constable were batted off by Doris after a shake of the head from Superintendent Kinsella.
Chapter 2
The next morning at nine o’clock sharp, the combined office of the heads of the Chester Crime Team was about to witness the investigation into a case which would set into motion a train of events leading to the revelation of intrigue, trauma with political consequences, resulting in intense scrutiny of two of the country’s highest profile public services.
The room was typical of any such office in any department. That is to say, tidy desks, computers positioned in the front of the user’s swivel chair and coats neatly hung on the hangers provided.
Gone were the days of the old CID office with its photographs of ancient detectives, trilby hats thrown at angles onto curved wooden hangers, coats thrown over chairs. The desks littered with partly read files plus highly stacked trays marked in, out and pending, this being the top and highest stacked one of the three.
The previously used cups of coffee were now replaced by the plastic variety, not from the station kitchen which was brought up by the duty policewoman. There being no crime against women or children current, they were employed typing or making drinks for the male officers. Normally, it was for the station commander down to sergeant level. Any cups now were from the pay as you go machine, once empty they were now cast into a waste bin. Except of course where some honoured guest or witness required a decent drink.
Superintendent Kinsella and Detective Inspector Scott-Ling were seated opposite each other at their joint desk. Both computers live, they were studying the post-mortem report from Professor Janet Hallam, the Home Office appointed Criminal Pathologist.
Once completed Kinsella looked out of the side window at the busy street below. The commuters and shoppers were scurrying to and fro; they had it easy and didn’t know it, she thought as she now had wished she had already left to attend the forthcoming Senior Command Course
It had all been very well at University, even at Headquarters, scrutinising the efforts of others, inevitably making critical comments in green ink, the colour used by superintendents. Doris would have used red, the colour designated to Chief Inspectors and Inspectors. A silly system used from time immemorial to seemingly give the reader instant knowledge who the writer had been and then speedily follow any instruction left.
She had to smile, casting her mind back to an entry she had seen in an occurrence book from the sixties. There was a note from the Divisional Superintendent to the Station Inspector. The station boss had committed the sin of making a comment in green. The visiting Super., had written, “Inspector, green is my colour, keep to red in future,” nothing as petty as that would ever arise on her watch she thought. There was of no course no longer any occurrence book or officer bothered to make such an entry or any other.
Seeing the Chief Constable drive by, and then turn into the car park, she sighed. Looking across, she saw the various spaces all signed by rank, no-one dare park there even on a Sunday, a non working day, just in case the owner of the space should decide to call in.
Today was her day. The investigation of her first murder, it was she who was at the helm, upon her any praise would shower if the mystery was successfully solved. Failure as always brought the burden of criticism from above. The long held police system of blaming the rank below was alright to a point, but behind the scenes in the confines of the offices of the “Almighty,” future promotions were decided, often with a shake or the nod of a head. What a topic of discussion it would be at the forth coming Senior Command Course at the Police College, her first murder and detected at that.
Seeing her gazing outside at the crowds dashing to and fro, her eyes fixed but observing nothing, Doris realised only too well what was going through the mind of her boss. She herself had a similar background. Attending University having decided on a police career, she had joined only to return to the same educational department for further lectures on police procedure, the political fall out, Home Office requirements and the dealing with the political masters, the Police Commissioners. Nothing at all was imparted upon the criminal element, their evil minds, and their skill in being that one step ahead of the police. Neither had there been imparted any knowledge of the devious lawyers out there, making vast profits at the expense of the tax payer financing the legal aid system.
She recalled how on leaving university as an Inspector and arriving here in charge of a shift of coppers who may not have had degrees in law but what they did have was a wealth of practical experience of those currently walking the streets outside. The villains, their contacts and devious ways, the violence and threat they had in their arsenal, both attacking and imposing their will on the weak in society, especially any potential witnesses against them..
She recalled how these everyday rank and file coppers had run rings around her, getting her to make the tea, bring and fetch for them. Looking back she had been ridiculed for being so highly qualified in law but so ignorant in practical policing and the problems that came with it.
Placing her pencil into her mouth thinking what to say to break the silence she thought of her mentor,
Jack Richards, he was known by anyone who mattered in the country’s police or legal system if it came to that, as he carried the name, Jack the Hat. The most famous detective that had ever served at New Scotland Yard.
Having retired he had moved north to the up market place of Tarporley here in Cheshire and not so far away, his wife wishing to be near her family.
She, Doris, had been fortunate when Jack had been recalled as an adviser in the case of the six dead police officers. Seemingly unsolvable, as a last resort he had arrived by special request from the various chief constables and the Home Secretary. She, being unwanted by her then Superintendent, was given to Jack to get her out of the way in the guise of “assisting him.” That case and others since solved, she had learned much. The immediate problem however was to give some assurance to Miss Kinsella without offending her.
It was Doris who broke the silence, “I take it Madam, as the report from Professor Hallam indicates, Mrs Iris Carter’s cause of death was suffocation. You would wish me to call out the Crime Scene Investigation team. And of course, we will then visit the scene to check on the situation, the usual.”
Doris was attempting to use as much discretion as possible, being at loggerheads with her boss at this early stage was the last thing she needed.
After a moment’s hesitation Kinsella spoke, “Yes of course Inspector, I had assumed you would have already put that in operation, basic detective work, I believe.”
Doris smiled and thought, “Ungrateful, arrogant bitch.”
She picked up the telephone and made the call to the Information room, or the Information Assessment Centre as it was officially referred to in this modern day of bullshit, over simple language and acts.
Moments later her telephone rang. She answered, it was the civilian manager of the Crime Investigation Unit. Much of this work had been civilianised as was Jock Peters in the Coroners office. Initially the crime scene department had been no different, for those appointed were experienced but retired detectives from the then Scene of Crime department. As time passed new inexperienced civilians had been brought in, working cheaper and not qualifying for the good police pension, saving on expense of course.”
“Inspector Scott-Ling, I take it, would you please send the details of the suspected Murder scene at, “Four winds, Oak Lane, Kelsall.”
“Yes, I have alread
y done so, please note the key holder, Mrs Heather Morris, she will be brought to the scene by a uniform.”
Police slang for a uniformed constable, much better she thought than calling them, “Wooded Tops,” as some detectives did. They, forgetting they had once been ordinary coppers, told to stand outside crime scenes or by the door during interviews like silent statues seen on any television news broadcast and in all fictional detective thrillers.
The call was concluded and so Doris then requested the control room that a uniformed police officer should be directed to collect Mrs Morris.
Kinsella was now seated, she and Doris read Hallam’s report, it concluded that the victim Mrs Iris Carter had been suffocated, there had been no signs of violence, bruises, cuts or broken bones. The most likely scenario was that she had been asleep and something covered her face to stop her breathing.
Doris was now pleased she had taken it upon herself to get the force photographic department to video and take stills of the scene prior to the removal of the body. This would prove to be a great asset as the enquiry developed.
Glancing at Kinsella, Doris saw her look down at her empty cup and then at the machine. Taking the message Doris stood and walked over then placed in a disc, the coin was not recognised and there was the tinkle as it slipped through having no effect.
“Blast,” she thought, “this bitch is no better than Tom Striker and his men, her attitude mirrors theirs when I first arrived. Striker and his cohorts were a rank below; this madam was more than one rank above. Such was life she thought, bringing the now filled cup of coffee. She had not inserted the additive which Striker and his men received in theirs, still, there was time yet.”
An hour later Kinsella stopped her car inside the driveway of, “Four Winds.”
The two large vans signed, Crime Investigation Unit were parked a little farther up the drive and another one, a local general patrol vehicle.
Kinsella walked ahead empty handed, taking the lead, Doris Scott-Ling carrying the briefcase, walking the regulation distance of two paces behind. An old English system many years old and still operated by the Royal Family to this day, the Queen in the lead, her consort taking the rear some two paces behind.
The two senior ranked detectives stopping at the front door was a blessing to the uniformed constable on guard, scene preservation duty it was officially referred to. He had been told by the Crime Investigation Unit senior manager, now within the dwelling, that no-one would be permitted entry.
That was easier said when you are a civilian manager who dined in the force senior officers mess at Headquarters. It was much more difficult for an ordinary copper on general patrol duties to direct a no entry order to the area Detective Commander, let alone the Inspector, highly trained in martial arts, with her.
A further blessing was to descend upon the young officer for the front door opened and immediately two white sets of protective clothing were held out, as if like magic.
Doris Scott-Ling had put down her briefcase, her previous investigations assisting Jack the Hat had been a learning curve.
Taking the items she handed one set to her boss.
Both recipient officers now put on the clothing, including the disposable face mask and footwear coverings.
Once fitted, a voice from within called, “Ah, yes Superintendent please come in.”
Arriving inside, Doris saw that the usual procedures were being carried out.
There was the black fingerprint dust around the door casement, concentrated patches by the light switches and door handles.
One officer was vacuuming the furniture, carpets and walls, whilst another was checking the kitchen waste and the paper bin.
When this was done all efforts were now concentrated on the contents of the drawers and cupboards.
The Crime Scene team Manager announcing that the examination would take two days to complete and that samples and items taken would be sent to the Regional Forensic Science Laboratory.
The service, for many years coming under the auspices of the Home Office, such places had recently been sold to private companies, who the government said could provide the same or better service, much cheaper. In reality it was the same officers who had been taken on by the companies. The on the ground coppers failed to see this so called advantage. If the private companies were to provide as good a service and also make money for the company shareholders, how could they do it? Presumably, some said, like the police by paying rock bottom salaries and with poor or no pensions to civilians. The result being, eventually they would have staff to match what they paid and conditions of service they offered. Similar to the Crown Prosecution Service which appeared to employ those solicitors that private practices would either not employ or accept as partners.
Kinsella had no such concerns for being so young in service years the old system was not known to her. As this was her first murder investigation she would accept what she was told without question, lacking the knowledge or practical experience to know anything different.
Having visited the scene, there was nothing the investigating duo could do there but await the results of the forensic tests, still they had been that was all that mattered when the file went in.
Arriving outside and de-robbing, Kinsella turned to the uniformed officer still standing and said, “Constable, put all this stuff into the one day file,” a police jargon phrase, meaning, “the bin.”
He looked at her and then at the waste bin left for such receptacles, he knew what she meant.
The detectives turned and walked to their car, the uniformed officer did as directed but added a mumble, “lazy, snobbish bitches.”
He was over zealous for Miss Kinsella turned, and called, “What did you say constable?”
The officer looked and then with a smile he replied, “Me, Maam, why nothing.”
Arriving outside the front gate, a look left and right revealed no approaching traffic in either direction. As they set off they realised the chances of many if any witnesses being traced was slight.
This was an isolated area, “I will get uniform to send some "wooden tops," out to do some foot slogging for witnesses, draw up a list Inspector of the items we will require. I will contact and update Chief Constable Watkiss.
Doris knew only too well her boss was as ignorant of the action required as she had been when she had first arrived.
When they arrived in their office Doris left Kinsella to speak with the Chief. She ran down the stairs and eventually arrived outside the office of Tom Striker the uniform station Inspector.
Striker was a completely different character. A man of many years experience, an ex army man, a force firearms officer, known in police circles as authorised shots. He had been a sergeant when Doris arrived and together with other officers her lack of practical experienced had caused them to look down on her and treat her in a similar manner as Kinsella had done with the officer on guard at the scene.
It had been her later experiences working with Jack Richards on the several cases that she had learned and thus gained the respect of her colleagues. Striker had been the subject of a discipline enquiry and was almost discharged save that Doris had spoken up for him, due to his outstanding ability.
As a result, the axe was buried and the two now got on fine and so seeing him standing looking into a filing cabinet she admired him. He was tall, over six feet, slim, a slight moustache, he stood erect, a single crease in his trousers as he turned she noted his tunic, as immaculate as any guardsman.
“Inspector Striker, please apologise to the young officer standing guard at the scene of the murder at Kelsall," A little humility always went down well, she had learned this from Jack Richards.
Striker looked, file in hand, “her highness Superintendent Kinsella performing eh, wanting a door opened for her did she?”
“Almost as bad, she spoke to the young copper on the front door like a piece of shit, telling him to put our disposable clothing into the bin, we could easily have done it ourselves
. It was just a higher and lower rank thing.”
Striker sniggered, “how can the wooden tops help you Doris,” he replied, adding,” that is a phrase she uses for the uniform branch, I believe.”
Doris didn’t respond, she felt guilty, she could have put her own items into that bin and her boss’s also if she had wanted to do so. In truth she was windy of Kinsella and so early in the enquiry. If things subsequently went wrong in the investigation, any fallout would descend upon her, antagonism with the senior officer was not a wise move.
“If possible, could you arrange for some patrol officers to visit the area of the murder and do the basic house to house enquires and then report back to us.”
Striker looked and called, as he now glanced down at his open file, “Yes, very well, I will get the local copper onto it right away.”
“Thank you,” she replied, turned and left, making her way along the corridors and eventually upstairs to her office.
The Judas Murders Page 4
