One Last Lesson

by Iain Cameron

  He turned to Walters. ‘Carol, take Mrs Holmes back to her car and I’ll walk up to the crime scene with Mr Franks and he can show me where he walked. Thank you for your help Mrs Holmes.’

  While Walters took Mrs Holmes by the arm and guided her back towards the car, Henderson and Franks made their way towards the wall of incident tape. Suddenly, he stopped walking and gripped the younger man’s arm.

  ‘Mr Franks, in situations like this when we find an unnamed girl in the middle of nowhere, my job is hard enough without people like you giving me the run-around.’

  ‘What d’ya mean? I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘No you’re not. Mrs Holmes was with you when you went into the bushes, wasn’t she? I could see it in her face.’ He leaned over and moved his face closer to his. ‘Wasn’t she?’

  A sly smile crossed his face. ‘It’s true! You coppers really can read people’s faces and tell if they’re lying, and all that, can’t you? Tell me how you do it, as I’m a big fan of ‘Lie To Me.’

  ‘It wasn’t so hard, I assure you. Well was she?’

  ‘I didn’t want to say owt but yeah she was. We come out here once a week for a bit of nookie and that. It’s what she likes, you know, the outdoor stuff. Is that what you wanna hear?’

  ‘If it’s the truth.’

  ‘It is. We both come up here and I was looking for a good place to put the blanket down when I saw the body, I swear that’s what happened.’

  ‘I believe you. So why did you lie to me before?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘Because she’s married but not to you?’

  ‘Got in it one, Mr Detective.’

  ‘So, I take it you never made it to the bit where you put the blanket down, or did you spot the body afterwards?’

  ‘Give me a break mate, that would put me off for life if I knew we was shagging beside a stiff… I mean a dead body. Nah, we were just about to put it there,’ he said pointing to a spot close by, ‘when I shone the torch around because like I heard a rabbit or something. Then I saw her. The rest of it is what we told you before. I never touched her, I swear. The bit about being spooked after I saw the body and all that was true as well. I was well scared, I’m telling you, we both were.’

  The look of contrition on his face was enough for Henderson. Franks was telling the truth and was now giving him a true picture of events. He asked him to repeat the story once again and when there was nothing more to tell, let him go but not before warning him they might need to speak to him again. He called over a constable to escort him down to where DS Walters and Mrs Holmes were, and then moved up the hill towards the crime scene.

  The pathologist had been in situ for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, enough time perhaps for even Mrs Singh to draw some preliminary conclusions. He ducked under the incident tape and knelt down beside her. ‘Evening Doc.’

  ‘Good evening, Inspector Henderson. I hope you know, I interrupted my monthly book club meeting to be here.’

  ‘Your book club’s loss is our gain. From the quick look I took earlier, she looks depressingly similar to the girl in Mannings Heath, Sarah Robson.’

  She carried on working, her gloved hand feeling around the neck for broken bones. ‘I would be forced to agree with you. Death by what looks like a severe head wound, bruises on her face indicating a sustained assault, bruises and scratches on her stomach and legs indicating sexual assault and left naked with no evidence to help trace her or find her attacker. It is as close to Sarah Robson’s MO as you would hope to find.’ She looked round at him and for the first time, he saw softness in her eyes. ‘I’m bound to say Detective Inspector, I do think you now have a major problem on your hands.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  In the space of a few days, Henderson with assistance from his MSA, Eileen Hayes and the Senior Support Officer at Sussex House, Tony Monaghan a no-nonsense Belfast-boy with a wicked sense of humour and a serious body odour issue, scraped together enough desks, office space and the officers necessary to equip and staff up yet another major murder enquiry.

  Despite striking similarities between the two cases, they would be investigated by two separate teams, both under his direction, as even though they shared a strikingly similar MO, there was no definite evidence yet to point to the same killer and the spectre of a serial killer haunting the lanes, byways and golf courses of Sussex did not bear thinking about. In any case, it didn’t make much difference to the amount of work required as there still was a murder scene to analyse, a post-mortem to attend, a girl’s family to deal with once they discovered who she was and numerous forms, folders and procedures to complete, authorise and file, which were unique to each case.

  At ten-thirty, DS Walters walked into his office wearing a solemn face and her coat, his signal to get the hell out of there. No sooner had they edged out of the Sussex House car park, before a hand snaked across to the radio and changed the station from Radio 4 to Southern FM. Before he could object to the loss of Woman’s Hour, Rachel’s attempt to keep him in touch with his feminine side, whatever that might be, she turned to face him. ‘We got a lucky break when we identified Sarah Robson so quickly,’ she said. ‘Do you think the same thing will happen here?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. From what I saw, she didn’t look homeless or uncared for, so I think it’s only a matter of time before somebody reports her missing.’

  ‘Hopefully, but you read so many stories in the papers about all the single girls living alone in anonymous apartment blocks because of work, family or personal relationships that have broken down. You never know, we could be in for a long slog.’

  ‘Is this the part when I ooze sympathy for your sad and lonely existence in that cold and draughty flat of yours in Queens Park?’

  ‘God no, I love my little flat. It’s a sanctuary from all the mayhem that’s out there, I can tell you.’

  At the junction of Crowhurst Road and Carden Avenue they approached a queue of traffic waiting at the roundabout, and for a couple of minutes they were stuck behind a white van which looked badly in need of a wash just as much as his car did. He was staring blankly out of the side window, looking at nothing in particular and trying to think about even less, but the constant buzz in his brain wouldn’t allow it.

  ‘Let’s think the unthinkable,’ he said as they began to inch forward. ‘After the P-M, have your lunch, that is if your stomach can stand it, and then take a picture of the girl over to Lewes University and show it to the registrar, or whoever deals with the student body and find out if she’s a student there. But listen, on no account show it to Jon Lehman or Alan Stark or broadcast the fact that we’re trying to identify a dead girl.’

  She didn’t say much for a few minutes. ‘So you think this girl might be a student and by implication, might have appeared on Lehman’s porno web site?’

  ‘I didn’t say that and I don’t want it to be true as that would mean we have a serial killer on our hands but we would be remiss if we didn’t.’

  ‘It’ll ruffle a few feathers if anyone finds out. It could create panic.’

  ‘That’s why you need to be discrete and make up a story as to why you’re looking for her and not alert them to what we’re doing, but if you think mere rumours will upset them, just think what’ll happen if it turns out to be true.’

  They were now in the busiest section of the Lewes Road where a few years ago, blind and deaf town planners allowed the construction of a Sainsbury’s supermarket alongside a B&Q superstore, several petrol stations and numerous small shops and businesses and as a result, they crawled along in nose-to-tail traffic, something they did every time they came this way. Somewhere in the midst of this slow moving dance of metal and glass was the turn-off to the Brighton and Hove Mortuary and despite the nature of their visit, Henderson was pleased when it finally appeared just after Newmarket Road.

  It was always a shock to drive through the entrance gates and enter this oasis of serenity, full of flowers, grass, trees and twittering bird
s and leaving all thoughts of traffic jams, snarl-ups and exhaust fumes far behind but although greatly appreciated, it was largely ignored by the detectives as they steeled themselves for what was to come.

  If Girabala Singh spoke little when she attended a crime scene, she was positively loquacious in her own domain, the bleak and scrubbed down walls of the mortuary room. In some respects, it was difficult for her not to as she was recording her findings with a head microphone. To one side of the stainless steel table on which lay the body recovered from West Hove Golf Course, a small audience was standing close by and hanging on to her every word.

  In addition to Henderson and Walters, it included the Crime Scene Manager, Pat Davison, the Coroner’s Officer, Davis Mason and mortuary assistant Sonya Feya. Moving slowly around the prostrate body and taking pictures to add to those already taken at the golf course, was Jamil Ahmed, forensic photographer from the Crime Scene Team. He was dressed sombrely in black shirt and trousers and his measured behaviour was a world-away from the brazen paparazzi that harassed actors, pop stars and errant footballers, a dose of which he occasionally received on the steps of a court building or while escorting a high-profile prisoner into custody.

  Mrs Singh was working her way down from the top of the girl’s open skull. One time, after attending an ear, nose and throat specialist for a broken nose, his father once remarked that it was a gruesome job to look in someone’s ear or nose all day long and wondered what sort of conversations it sparked at the dinner table or at a party. Obviously, he had never stood in this room or watched the plethora of CSI-style programmes on television which presented a watered-down version of this without the putrid smells or the grating noise of the bone-cutting saw that always made his teeth sit on edge, or else this would have made it to the top of his list.

  As she worked, he was mentally ticking off the similarities between her and Sarah Robson and how alike the two girls appeared: in height, build, hair, and drop-dead good looks. Her hair was short and dark, two rows of even, white teeth and a beautiful, attractive face, although it was hard reconciling the image he was constructing in his mind with the pale, lifeless cadaver in front of him.

  There was something else which took a few seconds for him to spot. If he could ignore the bruises, the scratches, the bite marks and all the other consequences of the attack, her skin was flawless with no tattoos or metal piercings, and coupled with larger than average boobs, slim waist, long legs and no pubic hair, she was ideal fodder for Lehman’s porn site. His face reddened; he needed a wall to kick or a Business Studies lecturer to punch.

  ‘Inspector Henderson?’

  ‘Sorry Doctor Singh, what did you say?’

  ‘I was saying, come over here and take a look at this. You won’t be able to see it from where you are standing.’

  Christ, this woman was in the wrong profession. She should be teaching seven year-olds how to behave in the lunch queue, as that was the age she made him feel. He dutifully walked over as she lifted an arm of the body to show him a wide ring of deep bruising, almost replicating the grip of a hand.

  ‘This is indicative of her being grabbed forcibly.’

  Henderson put his hand over the bruising and spread his fingers. The hand that made this was much larger than his.

  ‘Pre-death?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly, yes.’

  ‘Could you get prints, the bruising is quite extensive?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. As I indicated to you earlier, I think the person who did this was wearing rubber gloves, but I should be able to make up a hand cast which will give us an indication of the assailant’s height.’

  ‘Good. That would be helpful.’

  The rest of the P-M passed by in a blur, his mind analysing and processing what information he had learned, only to stop when the pathologist was saying something, although he made an exception when it involved recording the weight and size of internal organs as that was something he didn’t want to know. What the p-m did, was to establish beyond all doubt that the killer of Sarah Robson killed this girl as well. He suspected as much ever since he saw the body at West Hove but to have it ratified in such a cold, clinical way was gut wrenching.

  The date of death was put at Monday, 25th March, only eighteen days after Sarah, give or take a day. Would he stop at two or go on murdering a new girl every fortnight? His head felt heavy at the very thought of it and his heart went out to any parent who was forced to experience the agony and torment of losing a child in such a callous manner. Especially in Sarah’s case, when they believed their daughter had only come down to Brighton to receive an education and broaden her horizons.

  In the changing room, he de-robed from his green coverall suit and said little to Walters as they made their way back to the car. The traffic on Lewes Road was even more intense than it had been earlier, if such a thing was possible, but this time there was no cathartic banging on the steering wheel or involuntary arm gestures aimed at an ignorant motorist as both detectives were silent and lost in their own thoughts.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A blue Rolls Royce Phantom Coupe was Dominic Green’s daily transport but not today, as it would have brought unwanted attention and looked out of place in this bleak backdrop of dull terraced houses and pock-marked roads in this anonymous part of South London. Instead, he was travelling with Lester and Spike in Lester’s wife car, the one she used for her home make-up business. He did wonder about the proprietary of some of the goods she was touting because far from smelling flagrant and enticing, it reeked like the inside of a hooker’s knickers.

  While Lester drove and ‘Spike’ Donovan made guttural noises from the back seat as he laughed at jokey texts on his stupid smart phone, he was looking over plans drawn up by an architect to redevelop the swimming pool at Langley Manor. His aim was to transform it from a bland rectangular pool, which essentially could only be used for swimming up and down, into a leisure complex with tub, spa and a wide range of exercise equipment for all the family to use.

  He looked up as the car turned right into yet another anonymous street with row upon row of terraced houses. ‘Can you believe these people?’ he said. ‘Most of them don’t have two pennies to rub together and their arses are hanging out of their trousers but the street is chokkers with cars and you can’t see the windows for satellite dishes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Lester said, ‘and you know who’s paying for that, you and me.’

  ‘Come off it Les,’ Spike said without looking up, ‘we all need the fucking telly. Can’t sit looking at the missus all night long, can you? Man, that would give me bloody nightmares.’

  ‘I agree with you there mate,’ Green said, ‘her face could strip wallpaper and has a voice that could grate cheese but there’s plenty I would.’

  ‘Name ‘em,’ Lester said.

  ‘Well, there’s the bird that reads the news on the BBC with the big titties and the other one who does the footie programme on Sky Sports, the one with the big, wide hips and who always wears tight dresses, for starters.’

  ‘Oh yeah her,’ Spike said, ‘I would too. According to the Sun, so it must be true, she doesn’t wear any knickers when she’s on camera and I know...’

  ‘Hold the front page fellas,’ Lester said, ‘this is the place.’

  Due to the number of old bangers and the odd skip, they couldn’t park directly outside the house but that suited Green, as it didn’t do to advertise their presence and have their man skedaddling over the back fence. For him, this street was a microcosm of the failure of Council-led town planning as the tightly packed streets and dank alleyways fostered urban decay and inner city rot, exemplified by gardens with no grass, doorways that were littered with bits of car engines and broken toys, windows that looked as if they were never cleaned and loads of stray dogs and cats.

  To any local resident that happened to be awake at this early hour, which was practically none as they would still be enjoying their drug and booze-addled sleep or couldn’t tear their eyes away f
rom Good Morning Britain or another Bargain Hunt repeat on some obscure digital television channel, watched by half a dozen people, their smart clothes and brisk manner would keep them behind the curtains. They could easily be mistaken for a team of debt collectors, a drug gang intent on settling scores with rivals, and if they didn’t look too closely at Spike’s long facial scar, Mormons, and he was confident no one in this street fancied a visit from any member of that incongruous trinity.

  Lester knocked on the door gently but firmly as a postman or delivery driver might do if they were holding a package that was too big to slide through the letterbox. Through force of habit, Green moved to the side while Spike hung back on the path, so the man inside would only see one visitor if he peered out of the window or through the little glass panel at the top of the door.

  Lester knocked again, louder this time and a few seconds later they could hear movement inside and the sound of two people arguing. The front door swung open and a man with grey hair and glasses and wearing a brown cardigan that was at least twenty years old, took one look before saying, ‘what the hell do you want?’ Green moved forward.

  ‘Henry, it’s so good to see you again.’

  In an instant, the arrogant look melted, replaced by instant panic as he reached for the door and tried to push it closed but the immovable bulk of Lester’s foot prevented it. Green stepped over the threshold, shoved Henry Neville aside and walked into the house but before he could entertain any thoughts of scarpering, Lester grabbed his arm and pushed him forward. Spike stepped inside and after taking a quick look up and down the street to ensure no one was clocking them or making a move to help poor Mr Neville, he slammed the door behind him.

  On entering the lounge, Green immediately reached for the TV handset to turn the bloody racket off. He liked Marilyn Monroe as much as the next man, maybe more but he liked to watch Some Like It Hot, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and his personal favourite, Let’s Make Love in the comfort of his home cinema in front of a large plasma screen, wall-to-wall sound and with a nice glass of Chablis in his hand, and not sitting in some poxy two-up-and-two-down, looking at an old Sony LCD and listening to Marilyn’s heavenly voice through a dodgy loudspeaker.