An Unfamiliar Murder Read online

  “The removal of the tattoo bothers me,” he interrupted, rubbing his chin.

  Helen considered this point. Further examination of Jim McCafferty’s police record confirmed that he had a ‘love heart’ tattoo at the top of his left arm. Officers at the time had reported that there was some illegible writing inside the heart (the letters were all smudged together) and McCafferty had refused to clarify. Helen pondered the significance of its removal herself. Why did the killer remove it? Did it have anything to do with the words contained within the heart?

  “We’ve run it through the police national computer and carried out checks with national agencies,” Helen said. “So far, we cannot find any cases which share the same characteristics, either an obsession with tattoos or skinning in general.”

  “I still don’t like it,” he continued. More chin rubbing. He stared into space. “Helen, I think you might benefit from some assistance on this case, perhaps from an experienced Senior Investigator?”

  She stared at him warily. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if it is more complex than we originally thought, as it certainly appears . . .” He rubbed his chin again. “I wonder if George Sawford would be free for a few days?”

  A feeling of dread hit Helen. She had rubbed shoulders with DCI Sawford in the past and whilst she had to agree he boasted a wealth of experience at managing murder investigations, he was certainly not known as a team player. If George was brought into the investigation, with her lack of knowledge and experience she would almost certainly be marginalized. “I don’t think that’s necessary, sir. We still have plenty of leads to follow and I’m confident that the victimology profile will lead us to the killer.”

  He sat back and surveyed her for a moment. “This is not a criticism, Helen. George would work alongside you, as a mentor more than anything. We need to be sure that we don’t miss anything that a possible Review Team might pick up.”

  “It’s a bit early for a Review Team, sir.” Independent Review Teams carried out an audit of investigations that reached a dead end, usually between two and six weeks after the crime.

  “I’m quite aware of that Helen. But we need to show that, at every stage, we have taken the correct course of action. Imagine if there is a complaint to the Police Complaints Authority? They’ll home in on this being your first major inquiry and scrutinize your every move.”

  Helen took a deep breath to keep herself calm and chose her words carefully. “I appreciate the offer, sir. And yes, perhaps it would help to have somebody to bounce ideas off, should I need it. But I don’t need another SIO on the case yet. Give me a chance. Please?”

  He sat back and stared at her. “Fair enough, I’ll give you a few more days. Keep me updated on any developments. I’ll have June email you George’s number, just in case.”

  That’s you covering your back in case I mess up, thought Helen.

  “Anything else?”

  “I wanted to have a word with you about Acting Inspector Townsend.” She emphasized the word ‘acting’ hoping it would add some weight to her argument.

  “Sean Townsend. Good man by all accounts, just joined us from the Met.”

  “Yes, but rather lacking in motivation.” She was tempted to include his lack of experience, but, in view of the Super’s reservations in her own abilities, decided against it.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll pull him round.”

  “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be my Deputy, but he spent half the briefing smoking a fag in the car park the other night.” Superintendent Jenkins’ eyes widened at this remark. She’d finally got his attention. “Look, sir, in view of what you’ve just said, I think assigning a dedicated DI, with major incident experience, within the team would be a better idea . . .”

  “Helen, I don’t need to tell you that we have a real shortage of substantive Detective Inspectors at the moment,” he interrupted, dismissively. “Hell, your own DI is on extended leave in Australia. And I’ve still got officers investigating the train crash near Worthington at the weekend. That’s without all the officers we’ve lost, or are about to lose - those leaving the provinces, lured by the inflated pay packages of the Met. We need to encourage more people like Townsend back.”

  “But, sir, I . . .”

  “I’m sure it’s just teething problems. Show him who’s boss and he’ll soon pull into line.” He jumped up, making it clear the conversation was at an end.

  “Let me know as soon as you have anything. We need something to feed to the press, and fast. As soon as they find out our principle suspect has been released they’ll be all over this like a rash. This is sensational heaven for the pen boys.”

  “Yes, sir.” She slumped back into her chair, defeated, as he left, shouting ‘Morning’ across the office to Townsend, no doubt to rub further salt into the wounds. Whatever happened, she needed a result fast.

  Helen fiddled with her papers, then grabbed her bag and headed out of her office, through the incident room, and out of the building into the fresh air. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of Dunhill’s and an old blue, plastic lighter that she kept there for emergencies. She stood under the doorway, sheltered from the damp drizzle as she lit the cigarette and took a long, deep drag. It felt good. She hadn’t been a regular smoker in years, but, every now and then, she needed to indulge.

  There was a flurry of activity in the incident room when she returned a few minutes later. When she reached her office, DS Pemberton and DI Townsend were waiting for her. She looked around at them, anger still clouding her vision. “Is there a problem?”

  “Ma’am, the DNA results are back,” Townsend said, handing her a buff, A4 file. There was a change to his attitude. A certain enthusiasm he had lacked previously. Perhaps the Super has had a quiet word with him after all?

  “No forensics?” she asked.

  “No, not yet, but these are just in and you really need to read them,” Pemberton interjected, failing to disguise the excitement in his voice. She stared at them. They were both glowing, like delighted little boys on Christmas morning.

  “What do you mean?” she asked as she opened the file.

  “You are not gonna believe it,” Pemberton said.

  She looked up at the detective, frustrated. “Well, spit it out, whatever it is. It’s going to take me a good ten minutes to read this and you’ve obviously already . . .”

  “There’s a family link.”

  “What?” She screwed up her forehead, perplexed, not sure whether to listen to the detective or start reading the report first.

  “There’s a link in DNA between the suspect and the victim.” Pemberton looked triumphant.

  Helen stared at him in astonishment. “How do you mean?”

  “Jim McCafferty is a member of Anna Cottrell’s family. A very close member.”

  * * *

  It seemed to Anna that a dark cloud of mist had descended over the Cottrell household when she got up the next morning. Breakfast in the kitchen with her father was a sober affair. Few words were spoken and those only out of necessity. After lunch, the day before, her mother had retired to her bedroom with a migraine, not to be seen again. Her father had disappeared into the garden until dark, then gone to bed under the pretence of an ‘early night’. He appeared cagey, as if he were walking a tightrope of despair, as if at any moment she would ask an awkward question and he would tumble off into doom. But she didn’t feel like asking questions today. In fact, she was probably the only person in the country who was really looking forward to going to work on this Monday morning, restoring some kind of normality to her life. Questions could wait until later.

  She had just finished her coffee when she heard the phone ring. Her father answered it and passed it over. “It’s your boss.”

  Anna reached for the handset and wandered into the lounge. “Hi, Jason. I’ll be there in a half an hour,” she said, reaching down to stroke Cookie’s head.

  “How are you, Anna?” His tone sounded
uncomfortable. Cookie purred and nestled up closer to her ankles.

  “I’m OK,” she hesitated, not too sure how much he knew. No doubt the grapevine would be well at work already, and that was if the police hadn’t spoken to him. “I just want to get everything back to normal really.”

  “No problem. I can see that. But I’m sure that you’ll need some time to sort out your home and things. We can arrange some special leave, Anna, in view of the circumstances.”

  “Oh that’s alright. I’m staying with my folks at the moment. I don’t need . . .”

  “I insist, Anna.” The interruption startled her. Her hand froze. “You’ve had a huge shock. We, that is . . . I would rather you took some time to get yourself together and return to work when all of this is behind you.” That explained the awkwardness.

  Cookie nudged her hand, but she kept it still. “Oh.”

  “Do you have any lesson plans for today?”

  “In the top draw of my desk. It’s unlocked.”

  “Take the week to sort yourself out.” Anna blinked. This was a command, not a request. “Just keep me informed, will you? And let Erica know if you have any lesson plans for the rest of the week?” Erica was the school secretary.

  “Of course.” She watched as the cat wandered away into the kitchen. “Err. Thanks Jason.”

  “No problem. Take care.”

  “Bye.” She switched the button to end the call and stared at the handset, perplexed. She was beginning to feel alienated. Suddenly she remembered her arrangement with Ross, grabbed her new mobile from her pocket and selected his number, hoping to catch him before he left.

  “Hi, Anna.” He sounded as if he were still half asleep. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “That’s why I’m ringing, Ross. I’m not going in today. There’s no need to pick me up.”

  “Oh . . . Everything alright?”

  “I’m not sure really. I was just getting ready when Randle phoned and told me to take the week off . . .” She stuttered over her rush to deliver the words. “Special leave. To sort out my life, I think.”

  “Wow. That’s generous for Randle.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She fidgeted, suspicion creeping into her head.

  “They’re probably waiting for it all to die down a bit. The kids are bound to have heard about it in the news. If they put two and two together . . .” He hesitated.

  “They wouldn’t know my address,” Anna said defensively.

  “It’s probably just a precaution. Don’t worry. I’d better go. I’ll pop in tonight after work.” As he rang off she heard something on the radio and headed back into the kitchen, straining to hear the news report.

  Her dad had left the room and she stared at the radio as it bellowed the words out. “The dead body of a middle aged man was found on Friday evening in a flat in Little Hampstead. A young woman, known to be a local school teacher, is currently helping police with their enquiries . . .”

  She leant forward and switched off the radio as realization hit home. It was only a matter of time before the press tracked her down and connected her with Carrington Grange. Perhaps Randle was right. The school certainly wouldn’t welcome any disruption caused by press attention.

  Anna walked back into the lounge, looking out of the front window absentmindedly. She was starting to feel very alone. It reminded her of when she was back at junior school, in Year 6. A group of fellow students were penning graffiti on the back of the bike sheds. She hadn’t been keen to join them at first, but they cajoled and persuaded, flattering her artistic talent. Although she knew it was wrong, she believed them when they said they were in it together and they would stand together when caught. But on the day it was discovered she was there alone, silently putting the finishing touches to a drawing of a rock guitar. As she was brought out into the middle of the playground and confronted by her form teacher, she watched her classmates stepping away as if they had nothing to do with it, leaving her to face punishment alone. In the same way today she could feel more and more people gradually retreating, although this time she had done nothing wrong.

  And then she saw it, through the front window. The police car indicated and turned into her driveway in all its glorious bright colors. Her stomach bounced. Maybe they were bringing her bike back? She hoped so. She really needed some good news today. She made her way to the front door and opened it before the policeman in uniform had time to ring the bell.

  “Morning officer,” she said brightly.

  “Anna Cottrell?” The seriousness in his inflection was disconcerting.

  “Yes.” She felt her face fall.

  “I need you to come down to the station with me. We have some more questions for you . . .”

  * * *

  Anna watched two detectives enter the room and close the door behind them. She was baffled. The only contact she had had with the police since her release on Saturday was a telephone call requesting her bike back. What on earth could they possibly need to ask her now?

  She continued to stare at them as they arranged their paperwork on the table and fiddled with tapes and recorders. Anna recognized the oversized detective from her first interview, but the female detective who sat opposite her was new. She was dressed in a charcoal suit, the white shirt underneath open at the collar, and had an air of practicality about her. She wore no jewelry, her dark, bobbed hair tucked neatly behind her ears, her face showing only the tracings of mascara, perhaps a little blusher.

  “Good morning, Anna,” she said finally. “You’ve met Detective Sergeant Pemberton already,” she said nodding to her colleague, “and I am Detective Chief Inspector Lavery.” There was a squeak as Will adjusted himself in his chair next to her. She glanced sideways at him. His face suddenly looked very alert. She shot him a puzzled look, which he failed to notice, and turned back to the detective.

  “Anna, I would like to ask you some more questions about Friday evening,” DCI Lavery continued.

  “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “I realize that this is difficult for you, but it would be most helpful if you would just help us with a few more issues.”

  Anna shrugged. “OK.” What else could there be?

  The detective placed three sheets of paper face down on the table. One by one she turned them over, her fingers squeaking on the glossy paper. They were photos of the dead man, taken from various angles. Anna cringed. Her stomach churned and she averted her gaze, just as acid bile rose into her mouth, forcing her to swallow.

  “Have you ever met this man before Friday evening?” the detective asked, once all photos were face up.

  “No, I’ve already told you . . .”

  “Are you sure? Take a closer look.”

  Anna forced herself to look at the pictures again, then looked up at the detective alarmed. “What is all this?”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Jim McCafferty. Your colleague here told me on Friday evening.” Anna looked from one detective to another. What now?

  “Have you heard that name before?”

  “No. Not before Friday. Never.” She started to shake her head.

  “I’m afraid I’m struggling to believe you.”

  Anna looked back at her defiantly. “I don’t care what you think. I’m telling the truth.” She could feel the tone of her voice increase as she struggled to keep her composure.

  “His name has never been spoken in your house before Friday?”

  “No.” Not before Friday. She wondered at the significance of this.

  “Then you may be surprised to discover that the DNA results are back and they are very puzzling.” Anna continued to return the detective’s stare. It was as if they were the only two people in the room. “They reveal a familial link with the victim.”

  “What?”

  “He is a member of your family.”

  “What?” Her body jolted as if it had been hit by a bolt of lightening. She sat forward. “Do you mean …?
Is that why my mother and father have been acting strangely?”

  “Excuse me. May I have a word with you, Detective?” Everyone’s eyes focused on Will at the sudden interruption. “In private?” he continued, “It’s important.” DCI Lavery’s face creased into a frown. “It’s important,” he repeated, pressing every syllable.

  DCI Lavery sat back in her chair and sighed. “OK.”

  “Will,” Anna cried, “what’s going on?” He put up his hand to silence her.

  Her face clouded over as the DCI announced a break in the interview. The tape was switched off and both detectives rose and left the room followed by Will, closing the door behind them. She felt outraged and, not for the first time, as if she were being treated like a child in an adult’s world. Wasn’t Will supposed to represent her? What was so secret that he couldn’t discuss it in front of her?

  The door opened and a WPC in uniform stepped in. She glanced over at Anna and then looked away, standing just inside the door. Her brown hair had been highlighted with a russet tone and she wore it scraped off her face into a bun at the back, lifting her eyebrows slightly. She stood so still that she reminded Anna of a shop mannequin.

  Restlessly, Anna fidgeted in her chair and then looked at her watch. It was eleven o’clock. She wondered if the police would be speaking to her parents about Jim McCafferty. Perhaps they were here now?

  She shuddered as she remembered the chilling look on her mother’s face when she mentioned his name. What could have terrified her so much? And her behavior afterwards? Usually, when Kathleen Cottrell got upset, she got angry and shouted – she shouted a lot, but to sob like a baby? No, that was definitely not her style. And those words, “What have I done?” Was she referring to Jim McCafferty when she uttered those words? Anna swallowed hard.