The Frame - from the author of the Sanford Third Age Club (STAC) series (A Feyer and Drake Mystery Book 2)

by David W Robinson

  The sun had risen half an hour or more ago, but heavy cloud dimmed the daylight, and along the seafront, the headlights of early traffic cut through the murky September morning as the occupants made their way to their daily work, ignoring the traffic officer’s urgent signals for them to get a move on, the drivers slowing down to take in the scene on the beach.

  Outside the taped-off area, Barker, Larne and Czarniak were gathered in a small group hugging the harbour wall, as if trying to shelter from the wind and rain. All three were drawing on cigarettes.

  Sam greeted them silently, and focused her attention on Barker. “What have we got, Frank?”

  The chief inspector stubbed out his cigarette underfoot. “Olivia Bradley. It’s bad. Every bit as bad as Barbara Shawforth.”

  She disregarded the bulk of the opinion. “Positive ID? How?”

  “We know her. She’s one of the harbour girls.”

  “Prostitute?” Sam did not really need to ask the question, but it gave her a brief moment to formulate her thoughts. “Carrying anything?”

  Barker nodded down to Larne’s feet, where a small, black handbag was contained in a sealed evidence bag. “CSI have all the bits and pieces that were in it. Not much. No phone, but her purse with fifty quid and some change, and the usual woman’s crap: make-up, lipstick, johnnies.” He delivered a humourless laugh. “You’d expect a tart to be carrying rubbers, wouldn’t you?”

  Sam looked to the tent. “The doc with her?”

  “Yep. He got here about ten minutes ago.”

  She took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s have a look at her.”

  Wooden duckboards had been laid to give a common pathway to the crime scene, preserving such evidence as may be present in the sand. As they walked along, Sam asked, “What’s the state of the tide?”

  “Coming in. I sent Dom up to the harbour control office, and got the official SP from Colin Ranworth, the harbourmaster. We’ve got about two hours before she’s under water. CSI will have to move like shit off a shovel if they’re gonna find anything in the sand.”

  “The tide could have been in when she was hit, then?” Sam asked.

  “You’ll have to ask the doc. All I can tell you is she didn’t look too wet.”

  They entered the shrouded area, where the Medical Examiner crouched over the body, taking his blood and other samples, while the official photographer took pictures from all angles.

  Olivia Bradley lay where she fell, arms reaching out ahead of her, legs slightly splayed and crooked at the knee, her miniskirt ridden up, exposing her bare behind. Her head was turned to one side, and for all that she had only seen photographs of Barbara Shawforth in death, Sam could see what Barker meant about a mirror image of that crime. There was little left of the face, the eyes were bruised, puffed up, and closed, and for all Sam knew, there may be nothing under the injuries. Her entire head, including the tangle of damp, dark hair, was a mass of blood, with bits of bone sticking out here and there.

  She had seen many such sights in her time, and they no longer brought the urge to vomit. Instead, the pitiful sight of this young woman’s body filled her with anger. Regardless of the girl’s chosen profession, what kind of monster could treat a fellow human being like this?

  The doctor stood up, and turned to face them. A short, stocky individual, who nevertheless appeared fit and agile, he was about forty-five years of age, but aside from a pair of dark-framed glasses there was nothing more of him to be seen. He was swathed in forensic overalls, the hood pulled tight over his head, and a surgical mask in place.

  “Ah. Good morning, Samantha.”

  “Not so good for her, Trevor.”

  “Quite.” Trevor Anderson, official pathologist for Landshaven, held up his gloved hands. “You’ll forgive me for not shaking hands.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  Anderson pondered the question for a moment. “Echoes of Barbara Shawforth four years ago. Single blow to the side of the head which put her down, and then beaten until she’s unrecognisable. But I believe Frank knows who she is.”

  “He’s told me. Sexual activity?”

  Anderson held up both hands as if testing for rain. “In this weather, I won’t know for sure until I get her on the slab, but if there was, the client used a condom. No semen.”

  “Time of death?”

  Sam thought she detected a frown beneath the hood behind the mask. “Difficult, but not impossible. According to my information —” He nodded at Barker as the source of his knowledge “— these young women usually congregate in the Trafalgar across the road.”

  Barker agreed. “Unless they get a punter, Sam, they’re usually in there until quarter past eleven; chucking out time.”

  “Which tallies with my assessment,” Anderson said. “I’d say sometime between eleven o’clock last night, and three o’clock this morning, but I hasten to add, it’s nothing more than an educated guess. She’s damp, but not wet. That means she was on the sand after the sea had retreated.” The doctor looked upwards, indicating the harbour wall visible on the other side of the tent. “Colin Ranworth will give you the proper tide times, and his people will have a good idea of when this part of the beach would be free of water. Curious thing, though. No knickers. Given her trade, I don’t suppose it’s that much of a surprise, but there weren’t any in her bag, either. Exactly like Barbara Shawforth. At this time of year, you’d expect her to be wearing something under her skirt… something more than a pair of hold-ups.”

  Much of the final announcement was lost on Sam. She was stunned. She had read the Shawforth case file thoroughly, and there had been no mention of Barbara’s underwear.

  “You were the ME at the time of the Shawforth murder?”

  “Yes. Sorry. I thought you knew.”

  “I’ve only been here six months, Doc, and if someone told me, I obviously wasn’t paying attention. Just let me clear this up, are you saying that Barbara Shawforth’s underwear was missing on that day?”

  “Absolutely. We found all her clothing, but no drawers. And again, given the nature of the assignation, it might not have been a surprise, but I remember it was chilly and raining that day – just like today – and she walked from the harbour car park —” Anderson nodded again in an upward direction, but this time his face was aimed towards the road and the harbour pay and display car park. “— to the Bellevue. Only a matter of a couple of hundred yards, but enough to let her feel the draught.”

  Sam rounded on Barker. “How come this was never mentioned in the initial report?”

  Barker shrugged. “Buggered if I know. At that stage of the inquiry, it was down to JJ, but even so, I never picked up on it, and neither did anyone else. Does it matter?”

  Sam mentally counted to three. “Frank, you’re an experienced detective, not a probationer. You know as well as I do that at the outset of any investigation, everything, absolutely everything should be noted. I don’t know whether it’s important, but it could be.” She turned her attention back to Anderson. “Thanks, Trevor. Let me know as soon as you have anything.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  The conversation over, Anderson returned to the body as the two detectives stepped out into the drizzle.

  Drake had arrived and stood talking with the two sergeants. Sam and Barker greeted him with a curt nod. He made towards the forensic screens.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  Sam was hesitant. “As long as you don’t disturb anything. But honestly, I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s not very pretty.”

  He rounded on her. “You think I can’t handle it?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back and made his way into the shrouds.

  Sam marshalled the two junior men. “All right. Czarniak, you’re in charge of the crime scene, and the door-to-door enquiries. The Trafalgar first. The landlord will probably open early for deliveries. The minute the doors are open, get over there. I want this woman’s movements tracked.” She pointed out along the p
romenade opposite the harbour. “A good number of those chippies, restaurants, and cafés would have been open late last night. The minute they turn up today, get people in there asking questions. Finally, and do this personally, Larne, get to the harbour control office. I want accurate tide times, and I want footage from all their cameras especially,” she pointed upwards, “that one.”

  They all looked up at the single wide-angle security camera attached to the wall of the dock shed. It looked like a small lamp, but they were so commonplace that it was readily recognisable.

  Larne, a man with a reputation for cockiness, exercised due caution when speaking to her. “All due respect, ma’am, but that camera concentrates on the pathway on that side of the docks. They keep a lookout for thieving scroats trying to climb over the fence.”

  Sam, too, looked up. At the top of the sea wall, an eight-foot wire fence, topped with barbed wire, was in place. From the top of the fence, she glanced at the camera, and back down again.

  “I know those cameras. They have a wide field of vision, and they will have caught this part of the beach. All right, the dock lighting points inward, covering the sheds, and much of the sands would be pitch dark, but with luck, it may have caught something. I want the footage.”

  “Ranworth will want an official requisition, Sam,” Barker pointed out.

  “And he’ll get one, but it’ll be later today. I want that footage now.” She turned to Larne. “Make sure he understands that, and if he resists, arrest him for obstructing our enquiries.”

  The instruction shocked the younger men, and when Barker shook his head Sam turned on him. “Problem, Frank?”

  “Ranworth is a pain in the arse, and if we try to arrest him, he’ll kick up a stink all the way from here to Trinity House and back. And he’s a big mate of Neville Trentham’s.”

  “For all I care, he can report me to the Admiralty and I don’t give a toss if he’s shagging Neville Trentham. I want that footage, and I want it now, not in three days’ time.” She faced Larne again. “If he gives you any trouble, Sergeant, get on the horn to me, and I’ll deal with him.”

  Drake reappeared alongside her in time to catch most of the debate. “I’ll go with Larne if you like.”

  Barker was immediately on guard. “What is it you think you can do?”

  Drake chuckled. “Something you can’t, Inspector. Scare the living hell out of him.” He gave Larne friendly smile. “Come on, Sergeant, you’re the copper. I’m just a hanger on.”

  Sam watched the pair of them make their way back to the road and turned towards the harbour. Then she too made for the road. “Frank, with me.”

  Barker hurried to follow. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll have to tell me. You know where Rachel Jenner’s living.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The harbour control room was similar to an airport control tower, only in miniature. The staff of four, three men and one woman, manned the various pieces of equipment, including radar screen and radio. The tinted windows were angled to prevent glare from the sunlight, and gave a 360-degree view of the harbour, marina and beach. The final angle was – to Drake’s way of thinking – pointless. All he could see was the roof of the shed immediately below the control room.

  Colin Ranworth greeted them with a frown. “What do you want now?”

  Drake judged him to be in his mid-fifties, about five feet eight inches tall, portly, his hair greying, jowls hanging loosely either side of a small, irritated mouth, his grey eyes narrowed to points of authoritative irritation.

  Larne’s response was only just the right side of simpering. “I’m sorry, Mr Ranworth, but Chief Inspector Feyer wants the overnight security tapes, and she wants them now. She’s ordered me to arrest you if you refuse.”

  Ranworth gave full vent to his annoyance. “Well she can carry on bloody wanting, can’t she? When I get the official requisitions, I’ll arrange it, but until then—”

  “What are you hiding?”

  Drake’s interruption cut Ranworth off in full-flow. He ran his eyes up and down Drake, his brow knitted into a quizzical frown. “Who the hell are you?”

  Drake smiled easily. “Oh, my name’s Wes Drake. I’m a civilian consultant attached to the Landshaven police. I’m a specialist in motive and motivation. So, Mr Ranworth, I repeat, what are you hiding?”

  “Bugger off. Get out of here. You have no business—”

  Drake interrupted again. “I told you I’m a specialist in motive and motivation, and I look at you and I’m asking myself, are you just a bog standard jobsworth, so desperate to protect his cosy little sinecure that he’s willing to stall an investigation into a murder, or are you actually hiding something? My money’s on the latter.” He remained casually at ease. “Obviously, you don’t have to answer my questions, but if you don’t, I’ll leave it to the police to ask them, and you won’t be able to refuse them. Now what are you hiding?”

  The colour rushed to Ranworth’s cheeks and his fury erupted. “Get out. Now.”

  Drake did not move but threw down the gauntlet. “You throw me out.”

  The other was obviously not accustomed to such a direct challenge, and he floundered helplessly.

  By now the exchange had attracted the attention of everyone in the room, but Drake remained steadfast.

  “I suppose you could call the police, ask them to escort me from the building, but Sergeant Larne’s already here.” He took a single step towards Ranworth, and the older man’s eyes widened in fear. “Look me up, Ranworth. You’ll find that I don’t take no for an answer. I loathe violence, I detest cowardly men who turn on young women, like the poor girl left on the beach outside. I tend to take it personally, and I can tell you that Sam Feyer won’t hesitate to arrest you, and when she’s interrogating you, I will be monitoring your performance and guiding her.”

  Larne appeared to have recovered some of his composure and courage. “Mr Drake, sir, please back off a little. Mr Ranworth, this is urgent. Chief Inspector Feyer wants that tape. The paperwork will follow. I’ll make sure of that, but please get us those recordings now.”

  Ranworth barked an order across the room, and one of his assistants inserted a CD in the necessary hard drive, and began downloading the footage.

  The controller turned back to Drake. “Neville Trentham is a close friend. Rest assured, he will get to know about this.”

  Drake dipped into his coat pocket, and retrieved his mobile. He offered it to Ranworth. “The police station number’s in the directory. Use my phone. It’ll save you the cost of the call. Talk to him now. While we’re waiting for the videos.”

  Ranworth licked dry lips. “I’ll speak to him in my own good time.”

  “To paraphrase Chief Inspector Feyer, you can speak to the Home Secretary for all I care. I don’t know what you’re hiding, but I’ll make it my business to find out.”

  There was a delay of about ten minutes before the CD was finally prepared. Larne took it from the assistant, and with a little more apologetic grovelling, he and Drake left the control room.

  “He could cause us a lot of trouble, sir.”

  As they reached the dockside, and made their way back towards the main road, Drake disagreed. “He could cause me a lot of trouble, Sergeant, but I don’t give a flying one, and if you’ve learned anything about your new boss, you should be aware that she won’t care either. My old man’s an MP, did you know?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “Not something I bandy about willy-nilly, but there are times when it’s useful for bringing pricks like Ranworth into line. What do you know about him?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Not a lot. He’s worked on this dock for… Well, since forever, really. Been in charge about ten, fifteen years, and he’s a pain in the arse when it comes to admin, but he and his boys work closely with us, especially when we get foreign boats in.”

  “Drugs?”

  “And illegal immo’s. We’re only a small port, sir, so it’s not
like we get much in that way, but it happens occasionally, and Ranworth is responsible for security on the dock.”

  “Interesting. Thank you, Sergeant. I’m on my way back to my hotel now. Time I was having breakfast, and no doubt, by the time I turn up at Landshaven House, our friend Ranworth will have spoken to Trentham. But it’s not something you need worry about. If your boss asks, just tell him exactly what happened. I don’t need you to cover my arse.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  And with that, Drake climbed into his car, fired the engine, and began the slow drive, through rush-hour traffic back to his hotel.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Barker changed his footwear, and then handed his car keys to Czarniak instructing him to detail someone to get the car back to Landshaven House. Sam allowed the chief inspector time for a smoke before they climbed into her Volvo, Barker behind the wheel, and joined the increasing, morning traffic for the two-mile journey to the lodging house where Rachel Jenner was staying.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t order her arrest the minute I rang you,” Barker commented as they made their way slowly along the seafront towards a roundabout half a mile from the dock, where they would turn right, and climbed the hill to the town centre.

  “We can’t arrest her. It’s that naughty little thing called evidence. We don’t have any.”

  “MO? This hit is the same as Barbara Shawforth.”

  Sam tutted. “Come on, Frank. You’re better than that. Jesus, she was freed on Friday afternoon, here we are, Monday morning, and if we pick her up for a crime which is similar, but without a scrap of evidence implicating her, her lawyers will nail us to a cross for harassment, and double her compensation claim. We have to speak to her, yes, but we have no grounds for an arrest.”

  Hassling with the morning traffic, Barker simply shrugged. “Suit yourself. I still say she did Barbara, four years ago. She’s been free, what, four days? And she’s at it again.”