A way finally opened and she followed a patrol car out into the village.
With its Georgian shops, old pubs and green spaces, Highgate still felt much like a village, though hemmed in by the London boroughs of Islington and Haringey. Judge Jarvis lived in a back lane in a mellow-brick eighteenth-century house that would have looked at home somewhere out in the shires. A woman police officer answered Kathy’s knock.
‘The doctor offered him pills, but he’s refused to take anything. He changed his shoes and washed his hands—he got muddy on the Heath—and made one phone call to his sister-in-law, who’s on her way over.’
‘Have you got his shoes?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She led Kathy to a sitting room in which the elderly man sat stiffly in an armchair on one side of the fireplace, staring at its empty partner on the other side.
He looked up at Kathy. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kathy Kolla, sir, in charge of the unit that’s handling this case. I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘Yes, yes. Anything? Any developments?’
‘A senior pathologist and the forensic unit are there now. We’re deploying a large team and will do everything we can to find those responsible as rapidly as possible. I’ll give you my details and you can contact me at any time, day or night.’
As she spoke she was struck suddenly by a memory—Selwyn Jarvis not as a High Court judge, but as a criminal prosecutor, relentlessly grilling a witness in a case she’d been involved in with Brock. Which one was it? Maybe ten, fifteen years ago.
He said abruptly, ‘Sit down,’ and she pulled over a chair from a side table rather than take his wife’s armchair. ‘I don’t want to be soft-soaped, understand? Treated as a victim, with kid gloves. None of that. I want to be informed.’
‘I understand.’ She could see that he was holding himself tightly together, determined to keep a grip, but his left hand was betraying him, tapping ceaselessly on his knee.
‘Can you tell me your wife’s movements this afternoon?’
‘We had a cold lunch in the kitchen, then a quiet couple of hours in this room. Caroline sat there, in that armchair, reading a novel—that’s it open on the stool—while I went through some court documents. At about three thirty she put down her book and said she needed some fresh air, a walk on the Heath. I …’ His voice faltered and he tried to cover it up with a cough. ‘I said I wanted to finish the document I was reading, if she would wait half an hour, but she was impatient and said she would go. We were aware of the terrible business with the Giannopoulos woman earlier in the week, of course, but she insisted she wasn’t going to let a thing like that stop her walks. She loved them, her walks on the Heath. I foolishly let her go.’
He paused for a moment, face set. Then, ‘We didn’t know all the details of the other case. Is this … similar?’
‘Yes. Very similar.’
He whispered, ‘Dear God.’
‘Do you have any idea where on the Heath she would have gone?’
‘Well … she loved walking up to Parliament Hill. The sun was out between showers, a fine autumn afternoon, and she loved that wonderful view across London, the distant towers of the City … Yes, I think she would have gone up there. Not sure where else.
‘But when dusk fell I tried to phone her. Went to messages, couldn’t understand why. Then it was dark, and I tried again, same thing, and I began to worry. I thought she might have stopped in the village for something, so I went out to see. When I couldn’t find her there, I went on to Merton Lane—knew she would have got onto the Heath that way. I kept calling her number and hadn’t gone too far in when I thought I heard her ringtone, from among the bushes over by the pond. That’s where I found her. I had a torch. I saw …’
And then he lowered his head and his hand stopped tapping.
Kathy waited while he pulled out a large handkerchief, coughed, wiped his eyes.
She said, ‘I’m sorry to put you through this.’
‘No, no. Go on.’
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘Um … there were other people around, but I didn’t pay them any attention. I was just looking for her.’
‘No one you recognised?’
He thought, shook his head.
‘Anyone carrying a bag or backpack of some kind?’
He looked puzzled. ‘No. I’m sorry, I really can’t recollect anyone. Actually … I only remember seeing people in the village, not on the Heath itself.’
‘Her bag was lying to one side, opened.’
‘Yes … Yes, I do remember that.’
‘Did you touch it?’
‘No. I didn’t touch anything, except … I crouched down beside her and put my hand on her arm, called her name. Then I saw her face and realised there was nothing to be done. I called 999 immediately.’
He swallowed and Kathy asked if they could get him anything—a glass of water, a cup of tea—but he shook his head. The front doorbell rang and the constable went to answer it.
‘That’ll be Audrey.’ Jarvis sighed. ‘They were very close. Two beautiful sisters married to two difficult old men.’
She burst into the room as Jarvis got to his feet, enveloped him in her arms. ‘Selwyn, is it true?’
‘I’m afraid so, Audrey.’ He stood awkwardly in her embrace, and finally eased away. ‘I must speak to the detective here without delay. Be a darling and get yourself a drink and I’ll be with you shortly.’
Audrey wiped her eyes, took a deep breath. ‘I’m staying right here, Selwyn. I need to know everything.’
She turned to Kathy, ‘I’m Audrey Gowe, Caroline’s sister.’
Kathy introduced herself and they shook hands.
‘Is it as bad as the other one?’
‘I’m afraid it looks similar, Mrs Gowe.’
‘Oh my … poor Caroline. Would she have suffered?’
‘No. I believe it would have been over very quickly.’
She nodded. ‘Have you contacted the boys, Selwyn?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Do you want me to do it?’
‘No, they should hear it from me. Please, Chief Inspector, go on.’
Kathy said, ‘Judge, at the moment we’re assuming these are random attacks, but I have to ask: do you think it’s possible that Caroline could have been deliberately targeted?’
Jarvis began shaking his head, but his sister-in-law said quietly, ‘Of course she was deliberately targeted.’
They both turned to her. Jarvis said, ‘What are you talking about, Audrey?’
‘She was white, relatively wealthy and living in Highgate-Hampstead. You wait, that’s what everyone will be saying tomorrow. They’ve been whispering it ever since that billionaire Greek’s wife was murdered. There have been several brazen attacks—four thugs on two scooters rode up to that Chinese tycoon who bought Byron House and mugged him in broad daylight outside his home, ripped off his gold jewellery and watch and disappeared.’ She turned to Kathy. ‘You check it out. The watch cost sixty thousand pounds. Obscene, isn’t it? The watch, I mean. But people are saying it’s a class war. The poor have had enough of the excesses of the rich and they’re on the warpath.’
Jarvis broke in, ‘Audrey, that’s nonsense. Please, Chief Inspector Kolla needs to talk quietly to me. There’s a bottle of brandy in the kitchen. Why don’t you get us both a glass.’
She got to her feet reluctantly and went out, and Jarvis said heavily, ‘Mind you, she’s probably right. No doubt that is what they’ll be saying tomorrow, the locals and the right-wing press. But no, to answer your question, Caroline had no enemies. Everyone loved her. But I, on the other hand, am a judge. Is it possible that she was killed to punish me? If it weren’t for the Giannopoulos case I might have thought so.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Kathy …’
Kathy looked at him in surprise.
‘Kathy, we are professionals in the same line of business. I was a Crown prosecutor for many years. We und
erstand each other. I want you to feel free to share your thoughts with me, and I with you. We may be able to help each other.’
‘Thank you, Judge.’ Kathy was thinking that was the last thing she wanted—that and having a cabinet minister as the victim’s brother-in-law. ‘So can I confirm that you’ve had no threats made against you recently?’
‘Absolutely none.’
‘There will be formalities. We’d like you to check whether anything was taken from Caroline’s bag. We’ll need your fingerprints and DNA and the clothes you were wearing when you found Caroline, and we’ll want to borrow Caroline’s computer.’
‘Of course. I suppose there were no CCTV cameras in the area?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Caroline was dead set against them. She belonged to a group that protested vehemently against the installation of the first ones on the Heath, said they were against the spirit and history of the place. I told her she was wrong, but she wouldn’t have it. To her, cameras on the hills where Keats once wandered and Constable sketched were an abomination.’ He stared bleakly at the other armchair.
‘Are your sons nearby?’
‘Chris is an academic in California, presently at a conference somewhere I can’t recall. Teddy’s somewhere on a boat in the Pacific. Caroline kept track of all that. Dear God, how will I manage without her? I’m helpless.’
‘No you’re not, Selwyn.’ Audrey came striding back in with two large tumblers. ‘You have a million friends and relatives to help you. But first we need quiet time to come to terms with what’s happened.’
The judge frowned at his sister-in-law. ‘That I will never be able to do.’
Kathy checked her watch and told them she must go. She gave them her contact details and drove back to Hammersmith, where her team was based. Around Shepherd’s Bush the traffic slowed to a crawl, and she tapped impatiently on the wheel, seeing her destination in the distance up ahead, the squat glass building they called the Box, glowing in the night. Efficient and unlovely, its stack of open-plan office floors could hardly be more different from the warren of rooms in Queen Anne’s Gate where she used to work with Brock’s team, and she felt a small pang of regret.
Finally the traffic began moving again and she drove into the basement car park of the Box and took the lift up to the fourth floor, where the area occupied by the Giannopoulos investigators was being rapidly expanded to cater for a multiple victim inquiry. Zack, the computer suite manager, was directing the placing of equipment over in one corner, while whiteboards, graphic screens and work tables were being set up nearby. Kathy called Phil, the action manager, into a small office in the corner and began to get to grips with the logistics of it all.
Brock settled down on the couch with a glass of Scotch and switched on the TV. He’d been spending more and more time at Suzanne’s place in Battle, near the Sussex coast, since he retired, and was feeling distinctly ambivalent about it. Of her two grandchildren who lived with her, Miranda, fifteen, had happily accepted his presence and was good company, with a quirky sense of humour and a passion for horses. Stewart, two years older, was another matter. He said little and sullenly resisted all attempts to communicate. But it was comfortable here, sociable; the food was excellent, the village community agreeable. And yet … Suzanne had a purpose, running her antiques business in the high street of the small town. By contrast, Brock was feeling bored, useless, a layabout.
Suzanne said that many people felt like that when they retired, and it was only to be expected that he’d be grieving for his old life after thirty-five years in the Met. He was still waking suddenly in the night, hearing his phantom phone ringing. And it was sad these days, going back to his house in London, which seemed more and more like a mausoleum, a relic of older, more exciting days with like-minded comrades.
Being a practical man, impatient of self-pity, he had tried to think of some kind of project to occupy himself. Not golf like Roy and his mates, or fishing like old Dick Sharpe, or growing roses like Peter White. And not the local wood-turning group that Suzanne had suggested, although that might still be a possibility. For a while he’d flirted with the idea of taking up gliding again, something he’d done long ago at a club in Kent, and had wondered about ever since the Verge case. There was an excellent gliding club not far away, over by Lewes; he’d paid them a visit, got enrolment forms and had a good look around. But when he told Suzanne she was alarmed at the idea and had put her foot down. There was volunteering, or further education—a degree with the Open University perhaps, but what should he study? Marking time, he’d thought about all those books lining the walls of the staircase in his old house, so many of which he’d never got around to reading, and with Suzanne’s help had drawn up a list of all those he really should have tried.
So far it hadn’t been a great success. With most of them his interest had died by page fifty, and that was that. The Name of the Rose had been a bright exception, although he’d found himself, around page 300, mentally yelling at Brother William to take a closer look at the bloody library.
The Ten O’Clock News came on, and his attention suddenly focused. Detective Chief Inspector Kathy Kolla was seen emerging from dark woods, her face caught in the dazzle of TV camera lights, as a reporter announced, in those urgent tones usually reserved for terrorist attacks and plane crashes, that a second gruesome murder had been discovered on Hampstead Heath. Abruptly the scene changed to the Palace of Westminster, where Oliver Gowe, Defence Secretary, was emerging from a late sitting of Parliament. Looking strained and irritated, he pushed past yelling reporters and said, ‘No comment at this time,’ and got into a waiting car.
‘Suzanne,’ Brock called, ‘come and look at this.’
3
Soon after midnight, Kathy was sitting in her corner of the office with the crime scene manager from Forensic Services, a dour Scot, examining diagrams and video of blood spatter made to luminesce by the application of luminol spray.
‘This is just a preliminary thought now,’ the CSM murmured, ‘but compare the spread around the head of the second victim, here, and this one around the first. Do you see the difference?’
Kathy studied the images. ‘There’s much less spread around Caroline Jarvis’s head.’
‘Aye, and yet the injuries were just as severe.’
‘So … he’s learning? Improving his technique?’
‘Possibly, but how—’
He stopped in mid-sentence and Kathy turned to see what he was looking at. She was surprised to see her boss, Commander Steven Torrens, head of Homicide and Serious Crime Command, accompanied by his boss, the assistant commissioner in charge of the Specialist Crimes and Operations directorate, both dressed as if for a banquet—he in black tie, she in a sleek cocktail dress and heels—approaching through the desks and computers, staff staring as they passed.
The CSM stood up hurriedly and muttered, ‘I’ll be off then, ma’am,’ and made a run for it.
Torrens said, ‘Ah, Kathy, do you know Assistant Commissioner Cameron?’
‘No, sir. Ma’am.’
They shook hands. Sally Cameron, something of a legend, was shorter and older than Kathy had imagined, but her presence was as formidable.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Kathy,’ she said, ‘but we were at a rather tedious function and I thought we should do something more important. Brief us, will you?’
So Kathy did, starting with an update on the essential facts of the case, then taking them to the large map and explaining the logistical difficulties of Hampstead Heath.
‘We’re concentrating on the main part of the Heath east of Spaniards Road, within which both murders took place. Although there are only three CCTV cameras within the Heath itself, there are at least fifty in the immediate perimeter area. There are twenty-six path entries and exits into the East Heath that they could have taken, and many more off-track ways of getting in and out. From first light we’ll have teams door-knocking the perimeter roads and alerting passing traffic
for any sightings of strangers on the two occasions. We’ll be checking overflights and satellite images for parked vehicles in the vicinity.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Torrens barked.
‘Any vehicle that was in the area at the time of both murders, and someone carrying a bag.’
The assistant commissioner asked why.
‘The problem for the killer is that with the gross type of wounds inflicted he’s bound to be covered in blood. We assume he won’t want to emerge from the park like that, and that he would have been wearing some kind of protective clothing which he’d remove and carry out in a bag.’
They discussed this, then moved on to close-up maps of the two murder sites. Kathy showed them the preliminary forensic results. ‘We’ve found one possible trace so far—a single hair, blonde.’
‘DNA?’ Torrens asked.
‘Yes, but not human, they think. Probably a dog. There are a lot of dog-walkers on Hampstead Heath, so it may have nothing to do with the murderer.’
She expanded on her plans for the next day, outlining optimal manpower needs.
‘Granted,’ Torrens said. ‘For three days you have carte blanche, all the resources you need. Then we’ll review the situation.’
The assistant commissioner stayed for another five minutes before shaking Kathy’s hand and wishing her good luck. When she’d gone, Torrens drew Kathy aside. He was a big, beefy man, not unlike Brock in build, Kathy thought, but much more aggressive in manner.
‘You’ve kept abreast of the press coverage?’ he demanded.
‘Not really, sir. I’ve been concentrating on the investigation.’
‘Get someone working full-time with the press bureau, and make sure we’re covering all the media and responding immediately to misinformation. You realise the sensitivity of this case, don’t you? We need it resolved damn fast. It’s unfortunate you’ve been hit with this in your first month as a team commander; I’m considering whether you need additional help.’
The Promised Land Page 2
