An Unfamiliar Murder Page 2

  “Any suspects?” Helen asked as she opened her wardrobe, her fingers flicking through the endless hanging clothes, most of which hadn’t been worn in years.

  “Only the informant, an Anna Cottrell, who claims she arrived home from work to find the body of a stranger in her flat.”

  “Who is the Inspector on the scene?” she said, as she crossed the room and rummaged through the washing basket, pulling out a white, jersey shirt.

  “Acting DI Townsend.” Helen closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and sat down on the edge of the bed, tucking a stray strand of her dark, bobbed hair behind her left ear as she dug through the archives of her brain, recalling her memories of Simon Townsend.

  During her first year in the force they had worked on the same shift. His nickname was ‘Cuff’ because he was known for cuffing off jobs, choosing to do as little as possible. His reputation for being lecherous was legendary and none of the female officers liked to be crewed up with him. But there was one incident that was soldered onto her brain cells.

  On one particular night shift he was paired with a junior WPC, Janet Bland, a new recruit just out of training. They were tasked with staking out an industrial estate which had experienced a number of burglaries in recent months. They arrived by car and were required to patrol the area on foot every couple of hours.

  Whilst alone on patrol the WPC was accosted by three male assailants. Although she managed to shout for assistance on her radio, by the time emergency support arrived, she had been badly beaten. Townsend claimed that it had happened while he had momentarily broken contact to relieve his bladder nearby.

  Bland was in hospital for six weeks afterwards, and did not return to the force. Helen never found out whether this was due to the extent of her injuries (which included cracked ribs, a broken femur and a detached retina), or as a result of the mental trauma the incident had caused. Janet, while refusing to make a formal complaint, later confided to her colleagues that Townsend had chosen to sleep in the car, rather than accompany her on patrol. The episode cast a shadow over the whole station for many months afterwards.

  Whether or not Townsend was disciplined, Helen was too junior in rank at the time to know. However, he transferred to the Metropolitan police shortly afterwards. She’d heard that he had been promoted to sergeant a couple of years ago and then returned to the Hamptonshire force last year when his marriage broke up, but their paths had not crossed. Until now. She wondered how anybody, even a reformed character, with Townsend’s background could rise through the ranks to Acting Inspector.

  “Ma’am?” The voice at the other end of the line jolted her back to the present. “Would you like his mobile number?”

  “No, I have it,” she lied. “Is there a Duty DS on scene?” she asked, hopeful.

  “Yes, DS Pemberton.” Helen blew out a long breath, casting her eyes to the ceiling in relief. “I will take his mobile number please.” She scribbled down the digits, clicked to end the call and quickly changed out of her jeans and sweater into the tired looking suit she had picked out, breathing in to fasten the size twelve trousers. She threw the shirt over her head, donned the jacket and reached over to grab her mobile phone, punching in DS Pemberton’s number. He answered on the second ring.

  “DS Pemberton?” The thick, Northern accent disclosed his Yorkshire roots.

  “Sergeant, this is DCI Lavery. I’m the duty SIO this evening. What do we have?” she said as she scrambled around the bedroom, lifting the remote, moving books off the bedside table, in search of her watch.

  “Have the control room not briefed you?” he asked, an indication of surprise in his voice.

  “In your own words, Sergeant.”

  “Certainly, ma’am . . . Well, control room were called to 22a Flax Street, Little Hampstead at six o’clock this evening by a twenty four year old female who claimed that she had returned home from work to find the door forced and the stabbed body of a white male, approximately fifty years old, in her flat. An ambulance was called who certified death at six fifteen, and I arrived while the paramedics were on site.” He articulated these facts efficiently and she was impressed by his competence, as always. Helen had worked with DS Pemberton for a couple of months on ‘Operation Sandy’ the previous year, where she had led a team seeking to reduce the number of distraction burglaries in Hamptonshire. He was an old school detective with plenty of experience.

  “What action has been taken, so far?” she asked authoritatively, as her eyes found her watch, laid on top of the bookcase.

  “DI Townsend is with me. Would you like a word?”

  “In a moment, Sergeant, please continue.” Helen reached over and grabbed her watch, precariously balancing the phone between her chin and neck whilst fastening the catch.

  “Err . . . Of course.” There was a trace of perception in his voice, betraying his awareness of the Inspector’s reputation. “Uniform cordoned off the area, preserving the crime scene. They called out the Force Medical Examiner who is here now and the Scenes of Crime officers, who have just arrived, and took an initial account of events from the suspect. We have started house to house within the vicinity and are just waiting for the pathologist.”

  “What do we know about the suspect?”

  “Very little, ma’am, she has no previous record. She works as a teacher in a local school, has lived in the flat for two years and claims that the victim is a complete stranger to her.”

  “Any weapon, Sergeant?”

  “A carving knife was found at the scene.”

  Helen narrowed her eyes in concentration as her pen briskly scribbled notes on the pad. “Where is the suspect now?”

  “She has been arrested and escorted to the station. She was found by the entrance to the room where the body was found, ma’am, knife beside her.”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t let anybody move anything and make sure the Crime Scene Manager logs every movement, both into and out of the house. I’m sure that I don’t need to stress to you, Sergeant, that we don’t want any contamination on potential evidence.” Helen cringed as the words flew out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. DS Pemberton was a seasoned detective who would be well aware that this was the first time she had headed a murder investigation. Coupled with the fact that she only served a short spate in CID as a Detective Sergeant during her ten year service (a constraint of the accelerated promotion scheme), she knew that she had a lot to prove. And she also knew that her every move would be scrutinized not only by her superiors, but also by her own team.

  She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Sergeant. I will speak to Inspector Townsend now.”

  “Of course, ma’am.” She could hear a momentary shuffle in the background as the phone was handed over. Townsend must have been standing right next to him.

  “Good Evening, ma’am. I . . .”

  Helen cut in. “Good Evening, Inspector,” she said and, not wishing to invite conversation, quickly continued, “When you have familiarized yourself with the crime scene can you please get back and secure us an incident room? I believe Cross Keys is the nearest station to the

  Flax Street?” “It is,” he replied.

  “Good. Then I’ll leave it to you to set things up. The press will be crawling all over this very soon and we need to be prepared. And then start calling in the DCs,” she paused for a moment, rubbing her forehead. “I’ll call you back before you do that. OK?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you at the station.” She clicked the button to end the call and started jotting down names of particular detectives for her homicide team.

  * * *

  Just over twenty minutes later Helen flashed her badge at the PC, who was blowing hot air into his hands, rubbing them together and stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. He moved aside, allowing her to walk through the gap between the houses and climb the rear steps which led to the entrance of Flat 22a. As she arrived at the entrance hall she could see DS Pembe
rton, talking to a gentleman in a long, black coat with his back to her.

  “Detective.” She nodded to DS Pemberton and immediately the black coated figure turned to face her.

  “Good Lord!” he exclaimed.

  “Good Evening Charles,” she said, relieved that out of the limited number of pathologists that serviced their area she had struck gold. Dr. Charles Burlington was captivated by his work, his lengthy career providing him with a wealth of experience.

  “Helen, my dear, how lovely to see you!” His face lit up as he stretched out his hand, but she didn’t miss the glint of surprise in his eyes. She shook his hand warmly and smiled.

  “How are those little boys?” he asked, as he recovered himself and stood back to survey her fully.

  “Oh, you know, teenagers,” she replied, the smile still tickling her lips.

  “Teenagers. Really?” he raised his eyebrows. “Then it really must be quite a few years since we saw each other. Do give them a slap on the back from their uncle Charles. I’m sure I must owe them both a rugby tackle.”

  “I think Matthew would give you a run for your money these days. He must be six inches taller than you,” she laughed. A warm feeling encased her. It was good to see Charles. He had been a great friend to her late father, and the family. They had resolved to stay in touch after the funeral though work, family routine and moving house had restricted their contact for many years to Christmas cards. She noticed that his thick, curly brown hair had transformed to white and crows’ feet had crept in around the eyes, but in spite of his age he still kept himself trim.

  “How is Sarah?” she asked, creasing her forehead, trying to think when she had last seen her. It must have been John’s funeral, she thought to herself. John, Helen’s husband, had died suddenly in 2000. Helen remembered Charles’ devoted wife fondly. She was one of those women who had given up her job as soon as their first child had been born, and once they had grown up and left home, had dedicated her life to gardening, home cooking and exercising the family Collie.

  “Simply marvelous, running around after the grandchildren these days, reliving her childhood,” he replied. Silence followed as he started to look around the blood-bathed room. “And what do we have here?” He was focusing on the corpse now, sat up against the large sofa which dominated the room. “Are you working on this one?” he added, turning his attention back to her.

  “Heading the investigation actually,” she replied, watching the surprise in his eyes warm to comprehension. “So, I’m going to need your help Charles.”

  “Well, well. We are doing well. Following in your father’s footsteps, I see?” James Lavery had dedicated the majority of his career to the Homicide Team in Hamptonshire. It was his stories, his enthusiasm for the job, sheer tenacity and desire to make a difference that had rubbed off on Helen during her formative years. Leading the Homicide Team had been her ambition for as long as she could remember.

  His eyes spanned back over the room. “We’d better get started then.” She watched him move over towards the body, encased in his own world of forensic pathology and turned back to face the Sergeant.

  DS Pemberton was an imposing sight, a bear of a man in height and width with a shiny, bald head. The last ten of his twenty years in the force had been served as a detective and, having worked on the homicide team for five years before moving out to Area, he was completely comfortable in this environment.

  “Good Evening, ma’am,” he said, his voice so deep it sounded as though it had been lifted from the pit of his stomach. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you, Sean. And you?”

  He nodded. “Can’t grumble.”

  Helen turned and looked over the scene properly for the first time. “So what do we know about this chap?” Pemberton started shaking his head before she even completed her sentence. “No wallet? Doesn’t anybody recognize him?” she asked. With the amount of police staff and civilians that had passed through this room in the last hour, it was very possible that somebody might have recognized him.

  “Nothing. We’ve checked his pockets, ma’am, and there is nothing on his person that indicates his identity.”

  “Can I move him?” Helen turned around, following the voice. It was Charles, bent over the body, calling to one of the Scenes of Crime officers.

  “Yes, we’re done in that area,” he called back.

  “Excellent,” Charles replied, shuffling around the corpse, absorbed in his work.

  Helen looked back at Pemberton, her thoughts racing. “Has anyone taken prints, Sergeant?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am, not so far.”

  “Get somebody to bring down a mobile fingerprint machine, would you?” she said. “At least then we could get the prints run through the system to see if he is known to us. We could do with identifying him as soon as possible.”

  Pemberton nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a mobile phone. He turned and walked into the hallway as he made the call.

  Helen stood surveying the walls showered in blood, then moved to the floor, finally focusing on the corpse. Male, she guessed aged around mid fifties, with grey, thinning, hair. She tried to look underneath the blood wounds and extensive stains on his body. His appearance was generally unkempt, his hair greasy and in dire need of a wash, his clothes ragged, as if they had seen better days. Yet he didn’t look like a tramp. He wasn’t dirty enough for that.

  She glanced over at Pemberton as he strode back into the room. “What did the FME say about time of death?” The Force Medical Examiner or FME was a local GP who attended murder scenes to certify time of death.

  Pemberton stifled a chuckle. “Sometime within the last four hours,” he replied, raising his eyebrows.

  “What?” Helen said, incredulous. “What good is that?”

  “Let’s hope he comes up with something more accurate.” Pemberton nodded towards Charles who was now on his knees, suitcase opened, hard at work. Helen walked over to him.

  “What do you have for me, Charles?” she asked.

  “Well, of course it’s very early to say,” he replied, as he turned his head sideways to look up at her, “but I would say that this killer knew exactly what he was doing.”

  “How do you mean?” She bent over to look as he turned the body over onto its back.

  “Look here, and here.” He pointed out the large stab wounds which were surrounded by congealed blood. “The knife was inserted from the front on all the wounds. He was facing his assailant the whole time.”

  “Interesting.” Helen knitted her brows.

  “And look where the wounds are placed. In my experience of stabbings, the assailant is almost whipped into a frenzy, providing far too many wounds because they panic and don’t know when to stop. This is not the frenzied attack, it initially appears. It looks as though our killer was going for main arteries and organs, hence the blood spatter,” he gesticulated to the walls adding, “I would say that this was probably his first blow.” He lent over and pointed at the heart. “The first and the fatal blow. Nobody could put up much resistance to that.”

  “Are you saying it was somebody skilled, a Doctor perhaps?”

  “Not necessarily, you don’t even need A level Biology to work out where the major arteries and organs are placed. All you’d have to do is read a few books. You could get it all on the internet these days. No. What I’m saying is that he went for a quick death. He wanted him dead quickly and only continued to wound to make sure he was dead.” DS Pemberton had joined them now and they were all staring at the victim, wide eyed. It felt as though they were the only three living people in the whole room.

  “And look at the smear marks over there,” Charles pointed across the floor, “The victim would probably have crumpled and fallen face down, in a ball like configuration, from these wounds. But the killer did not leave him there. He dragged him over to the sofa and sat him up against it, to face whoever walked through that door,” he said, lifting his head to look over at the entrance ad
ding, “eyes open deliberately, for maximum effect. He was intent on creating quite a show.”

  Helen stared at Pemberton and then back at the body, “What about time of death?” she asked eventually, breaking the silence.

  “Difficult to be exact,” Charles said, shrugging apologetically.

  “Some indication would be useful.”

  “Well, he’s pretty much bled out. Considering the cold weather conditions and the lack of heating in here, his size and the pooling of the blood . . .” He looked at his notes, “body temperature and rigor mortis just setting in around the neck and shoulders . . .” He appeared to be talking to himself at this point. “I would say he has been dead for about three hours, estimating time of death anytime before five o’clock. But that is only an estimation,” he looked up at Helen, as if to confirm this statement, “I’ll be more sure when I open him up tomorrow.”

  “Okay, thank you,” she said.

  “I understand from your officer here that you possibly have the murder weapon?” Charles asked as he carefully packed the last remaining items into his briefcase.

  “Yes, a carving knife was found next to the suspect,” DS Pemberton broke in.

  Charles fastened his briefcase and rose to standing. “A kitchen carving knife? Are you sure?” He stared at the Sergeant, perplexed.

  “I believe so. That was what it looked like to me, sir. We’ve had it measured and sent back to the station for forensic examination.”

  “What’s the matter, Charles?” Helen asked.

  “Well, I can’t be sure until I perform the autopsy tomorrow, but I’d say that the blade that caused these wounds was rougher than a mere kitchen carving knife. More like that of a hunting knife.” He stood up as he spoke, pulled the rubber glove off his right hand and held it out. As Helen reached to shake it he added, “I guess I’ll see you at the autopsy in the morning. We’ll firm everything up then.” He nodded at Pemberton and waved to the rest of the Scene of Crime Team, before exiting the flat.