Deadlock

by Graham Ison

  ‘A young couple,’ said Dave, and gave a sly grin. ‘I’ve taken statements, but they’re sitting in the back of that police car if you want to have a chat with them,’ he added, pointing. ‘The girl’s name is Janet Smith. She’s eighteen, and her boyfriend John Brown is twenty.’

  ‘Janet and John? Smith and Brown? You’re having me on.’

  ‘They produced ID, guv. It’s kosher.’

  ‘So, what’s the SP, Dave?’

  ‘They parked their car in Queen’s Road and came through the pedestrian gate; they eventually admitted that they were intent on a bit of nookie. Privacy, a balmy night, making passionate love under the stars, and just when they thought they’d found the perfect spot under these trees, they came across a dead body.’ Dave laughed. ‘Quite dampened their ardour, that did.’

  ‘You’re a cynical bugger at times, Dave,’ I said.

  ‘It’s mixing with policemen that does it, guv.’

  ‘Did they see anything of use?’

  ‘No fleeing felon, if that’s what you mean,’ said Dave. ‘I reckon our killer had long gone by the time the Richmond Park Romeo and Juliet turned up on the scene.’

  ‘I might need to talk to them later on, but in the meantime send ’em home.’

  THIRTEEN

  It was one o’clock in the morning before I got home after wrapping up the crime scene in Richmond Park. Consequently I was in the office an hour later than I usually liked to arrive. I’d not been at my desk longer than five minutes when the DAC walked in.

  ‘Morning, Harry,’ he said, settling himself in the only armchair with which my office was equipped. Furnishing is by rank in the Metropolitan Police, and I’d need to go up a few ranks before I qualified for more chairs.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘I know it’s on HMCC South’s patch, but are you willing to take on this Vandenberg murder, Harry?’ It was born of a genuine concern, rather than a veiled suggestion that a quadruple murder investigation was beyond my capabilities. If I declined, he would have given the entire caseload to a senior officer with more experience. But I had no intention of giving up now. It had, I suppose, become personal. No detective likes being beaten by a villain, and whatever you might think, a murderer is a villain, just the same as a common or garden robber. Or for that matter, a white-collar employee of a City of London merchant bank engaged in insider trading.

  ‘If you’re happy for me to carry on, sir, I’m more than willing,’ I said. ‘It would probably cause more problems than it solved if I were to hand it over to someone else.’

  ‘I agree, Harry. Ring me if you need anything else: manpower, equipment or a flea in the ear of anyone who gets in your way.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I’m all right for the time being.’ I knew exactly who he meant when he talked of someone getting in my way, and his next sentence as good as confirmed it.

  ‘Is the commander in?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘When he does turn up, ask him to see me at the Yard. Immediately.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Something told me that our beloved commander was in for an uncomfortable interview. I’d heard on the grapevine that he’d previously received ‘words of advice’ about allowing Mrs Commander to dictate that he should only work from ten to six. But if that were the case, it looked as though our commander was even more frightened of his wife than of the DAC. Something of a dilemma.

  It was on the stroke of ten, as usual, that the great man arrived. I almost trod on his heels following him into his office.

  ‘Ah, Mr Brock, tell me about this suspicious death you dealt with last night in Richmond Park.’

  ‘Before I do that, sir, I think I should tell you that the DAC was here about an hour ago. He wishes to see you at Commissioner’s Office as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Ah, yes, well. I’ll get you to brief me on this suspicious death when I get back.’ The commander swept past me and made his way downstairs. He certainly didn’t look a happy man, and I thought that awarding him a commendation for good police work was not one of the items on the DAC’s agenda.

  With the commander out of the way, I could now get on with the job in hand.

  Dave parked the car immediately outside the Dutch Embassy in Hyde Park Gate, a turning off Kensington Road, close to the Royal Albert Hall.

  There was a Diplomatic Protection Group constable stationed at the gate leading to the embassy’s main entrance. He appeared to take our modest Job car and its flagrant disregard of parking regulations as a personal affront. Deliberately deigning not to emerge from the safety of the embassy’s grounds, he waited until we had alighted and approached him.

  ‘You can’t park there,’ he proclaimed importantly.

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’ asked Dave naively.

  ‘Well, it’s diplomatic premises.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s the Dutch Embassy, and we’ve got important business with an official.’

  ‘Don’t make no difference. You can’t park there.’

  ‘I’ll bet if it was a police car you’d let it park there,’ said Dave.

  ‘Ah, well, that’d be different, see,’ said the PC, still not realizing that Dave was winding him up.

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Dave, and produced his warrant card. ‘I’m DS Poole, and this officer,’ he continued, indicating me, ‘is Detective Chief Inspector Brock.’

  ‘Oh, you should’ve said, Sarge,’ muttered the PC.

  ‘I just did,’ said Dave.

  ‘You can park inside,’ said the PC, suddenly becoming terribly helpful, and opened the gate.

  In the entrance hall of the embassy, the attractive young lady at the reception desk smiled. ‘How may I help you?’ She spoke with an intriguing Dutch accent.

  ‘You speak very good English,’ said Dave, ever the flatterer.

  ‘So do you,’ replied the receptionist drily.

  ‘I have to inform the next of kin of the death of a Dutch national,’ I said before Dave could come up with one of his witty ripostes. ‘Is there someone here who can advise me of the procedure?’

  ‘May I say who you are?’ The young lady reached for the telephone.

  I introduced myself, and gave her brief details of the case with which I was dealing. She made no comment and I assumed that embassy people are trained not to make comments, or to show any emotion.

  A few moments later a young man appeared through a door at the back of the entrance hall. He was of medium height and had what is known as a ‘round’ beard, a sort of extended moustache that encircled his chin. For a moment or two he inspected us through slightly tinted circular lenses. He shook hands and introduced himself, but I couldn’t quite grasp his Dutch name, much less remember it.

  We followed him into his office and I explained about the murder of Danique Vandenberg.

  Like the young lady at the reception desk, his face remained impassive. He carefully noted all the details of the murder, examined Danique’s passport and assured me that the Apeldoorn police would inform the victim’s parents today. I got the impression that he had dealt with similar situations before, but mostly traffic accidents rather than murders, I guessed.

  ‘The parents may wish to come to this country, Chief Inspector, to escort Miss Vandenberg’s body back to Apeldoorn. Would you wish to see them?’

  ‘If they’re willing to be interviewed, yes,’ I said. It’s always useful to obtain some background knowledge about a murder victim, although I doubted that enquiries about friends or enemies would yield very much as Miss Vandenberg was a visitor from abroad. I gave the young man one of my cards and he gave me one of his, promising to call me and arrange an appointment should Mr and Mrs Vandenberg come to this country. ‘They wouldn’t be able to take Miss Vandenberg’s body back to the Netherlands until it’s released by the coroner,’ I added.

  ‘Yes, this I know,’ said the young man.

  Having received a call over the air, Dave and I went straight from the Netherlands Embas
sy to Pamela Hatcher’s mortuary examination room.

  ‘I’ve read all of Henry Mortlock’s notes, Harry, and there’s no doubt in my mind that the Vandenberg girl was the victim of the same killer,’ said Pamela. ‘Surprised from behind, and no indication that she struggled against her attacker. The marks on her neck are almost identical to those on the other three victims. Incidentally, she wasn’t a virgin.’

  ‘At the scene, Pamela, you said that the body was moved after death.’

  ‘Yes, it was, and that would appear to be the only variation in the modus operandi. But why that should have happened is a matter for you rather than me,’ she added with a smile.

  One way and another, it had been a frustrating morning. The visit to the Dutch Embassy had been necessary, but in terms of advancing my investigation it served no useful purpose. Unless Mr and Mrs Vandenberg knew of a maniac who knew their daughter – but that wouldn’t help with the other three murders.

  And Pamela Hatcher’s contribution had not been helpful, although that was no criticism of her expertise. If the scientific evidence didn’t exist, there was nothing that any of us could do to produce it.

  Dave and I had lunch at our favourite Italian restaurant and returned to the office. Linda Mitchell was waiting for us, talking to Kate Ebdon.

  ‘I hope you’ve got something for me to work on, Linda,’ I said as I escorted the two women into my office.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that the casts of the footprints were useless, Harry,’ Linda said, ‘but I guessed that when I saw them.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It was too much to hope for. Anything else?’

  Linda shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Harry. Nothing.’

  ‘What about you, Kate? Have you got any good news for me?’

  ‘The same goes for me, Harry. The search team went over the ground twice, but there was absolutely nothing.’

  I shook my head, almost in despair. ‘As I said at the scene, this guy is either very clever or very lucky. I suppose I’d better bring the commander up to speed.’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ said Kate drily.

  And she was right.

  ‘You had to go to the Yard this morning, sir, when I was about to brief you on the latest murder.’ But having taken the trouble to keep the commander in the loop, I found him in an unusually uncommunicative mood.

  ‘Were you really? I don’t remember. I’m sure you’re quite capable of getting on with it without any assistance from me, Mr Brock. Perhaps you’d let me know when you’ve solved these four suspicious deaths.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The commander waved a hand of dismissal, but as I reached the door he said, ‘By the way, I’ve decided to arrive at the office at nine o’clock each morning in future. It’ll avoid the traffic and will enable me to catch up on the paperwork, which seems to increase every day.’

  ‘Very wise, sir,’ I said diplomatically.

  ‘That’ll be all, Mr Brock.’ And with that, the commander withdrew another of his beloved files from the in-tray.

  In my job one gets to be a fairly good assessor of character, and judging by his reaction to my arrival I reckoned he had received a monumental carpeting from the DAC about his keeping of ‘gentlemen’s hours’, in addition to being told not to interfere in my investigation. He certainly couldn’t get me out of his office fast enough. His claim that coming to work earlier would avoid traffic was a fallacy, and as for paperwork, he absolutely adored it. If there was a surfeit of it on his desk he had only himself to blame, but in any case he went through it like a hungry mouse devouring a piece of Cheddar cheese.

  I was intrigued that our killer had suddenly lighted on a Dutch woman. The only reason that I could think of was that in appearance she was very like the first three victims. But my musing was interrupted by Colin Wilberforce’s appearance in my office.

  ‘I’ve just heard from the police in Apeldoorn, sir. Mr and Mrs Vandenberg will arrive at Heathrow from Schiphol at ten past six this evening.’

  ‘Obviously the Dutch get a move on when the situation demands it, Colin.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. I’ve arranged for a car to pick them up, and Liz Carpenter will be there to meet them. In the circumstances I thought it best that a woman officer should go. She’ll arrange with Border Control for the Vandenbergs to be brought straight through without delay.’

  ‘Thank you, Colin.’ As usual, Wilberforce had thought of everything, put it together seamlessly and hadn’t sought permission to do so when he knew he didn’t need to. As I’ve said many times, it’ll be a bad day for us if he ever thinks of trying for promotion.

  ‘By the way, sir, their full names are Lars and Nina Vandenberg, and Danique was their only daughter.’

  Whatever the DAC had said to the commander about the hours he kept, it obviously hadn’t made any difference to the time he left the office. Having discovered that he had disappeared on the stroke of six, I decided to entertain the Vandenbergs in the great man’s office, commanders being afforded far superior furnishings to those of a mere DCI.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Vandenberg, sir.’ The man and woman ushered into the office by Liz Carpenter were probably in their early fifties, given that their daughter had been twenty-seven.

  I shook hands with each of them and offered them coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry that you had to come to London in such sad circumstances,’ I began.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us what happened to our daughter, Chief Inspector,’ said Lars Vandenberg. Like all the Dutch people I’d met he spoke perfect English.

  I explained, as succinctly as possible, the circumstances as we knew them so far, but emphasized that the investigation was still in its early stages. I also told them that their daughter appeared to be the fourth victim of a killer we had yet to catch. It was not a pleasant admission to make, but it was better that they heard it from me than from some speculative article in the British gutter press.

  ‘Why was your daughter in England?’ I asked. ‘Was it a holiday?’

  ‘Not altogether,’ said Nina Vandenberg. ‘She was a nurse at a hospital in Apeldoorn, but she was thinking of applying for a post in England. She didn’t want to stay here permanently but to get some experience of nursing in another country. She said it would help when it came to being considered for promotion back home.’ Danique’s mother was quite controlled, and there was no sign of a tear.

  ‘Do you happen to know where she was staying?’ I asked.

  ‘She arrived four weeks ago,’ said Lars Vandenberg by way of a reply. ‘She telephoned from Heathrow Airport to say that she had arrived safely. Her idea was perhaps to stay at a hotel for a few days, and if she was lucky enough to get a post at a hospital in London she would be able to move into the nurses’ accommodation. She said she would give it a week, and if she hadn’t found anything she would come home. However, she telephoned the following day to say that she had been fortunate to obtain accommodation in a house with other nurses at a place called Richmond, and had an interview at a hospital today.’ He shrugged, and looked immeasurably sad. Recovering, he handed me a slip of paper bearing Danique’s address. ‘You know this place, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ I was tempted to say that it was a nice part of Greater London, but in the circumstances decided to say nothing about it. ‘Did your daughter have a boyfriend in Holland?’ I asked.

  ‘Several. But only one at a time. She was a very attractive girl,’ said Nina, and smiled. But I got the impression that the smile was an effort.

  We talked for a further half an hour or so, but nothing the Vandenbergs told me was of any assistance in getting me any nearer finding her killer. Not that I expected it would. Danique’s parents were as mystified by the whole business as I was. I explained that I would apply to the coroner the next day for the release of her body so that they could take her home to Apeldoorn. In the meantime, I told Liz Carpenter to give them any assistance they needed to find a hotel, and assured them that we were ready if n
ecessary to help ensure the safe return of their daughter’s body.

  Had I but known that later that evening an event would take place which would enable me to escape the stalemate of the four murders I was investigating, I would have stayed on at the office. Instead, I telephoned Lydia and went home to a decent meal.

  When I got in Lydia, wearing a cotton maxi dress that must have cost a fortune, was stretched out on the sofa.

  ‘I decided it was too hot to do anything, so I put together a salad.’ Having said that, she stood up and pressed herself against me to give me a lingering kiss.

  ‘Don’t overdo it, now,’ I cautioned, and was rewarded by another of her playful punches.

  After the salad – which, given the hot weather, was the perfect meal – we relaxed over coffee and brandy.

  It was at the point where I was about to suggest going to bed when my mobile phone came to life.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Lydia, ‘not again.’

  ‘Brock,’ I said, and mouthed ‘sorry’ at Lydia.

  When Gavin Creasey, the night-duty incident room manager, had finished telling me the tale, I asked him to get Kate Ebdon to meet me at Kingston police station.

  ‘Already done, guv, and there’s a car on its way to you,’ said Creasey.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Where to, guv?’ asked the driver cheerfully.

  ‘Kingston nick.’

  It wasn’t far from Surbiton, and I was at Kingston police station in the High Street within minutes.

  ‘I’m DCI Brock,’ I said to the civilian manning the front office. ‘You have a witness here for me.’

  ‘Indeed, we do, sir. It’s a Miss Heather Douglas, and she’s in the interview room. I’ll show you the way.’

  ‘There’s no need. I know where it is. Has DI Ebdon arrived yet?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him, sir.’

  ‘DI Ebdon’s a woman,’ I said. I didn’t think she would have got to the station before me. New Malden, where she has a flat, is further away than my place at Surbiton. ‘Tell her I’ll be in the CID office when she arrives.’