An Unfamiliar Murder (3 page)

“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 adding, “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.

Later, Helen pulled her jacket around her to prevent the chilly air from
biting into her chest as she crossed

“Hello?” a voice whispered.

“Hi, it’s me. How’s Matthew?” she asked, as she climbed into her car.

“He’s okay. Don’t worry. He’s sleeping now. How about you?”

“Will you make sure he’s laid on his side?”

“He’s fine, really. I’ll go check on him again in a moment. Are you OK?”

“Yeah, fine thanks. Looks like I’m going to be late though, and probably
in for most of the weekend.”

“I kind of guessed that. Look, don’t worry, I can handle things here. You
just do whatever you need to and I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it. See you later.” She pressed her lips
together, clicked the button to end the call and turned the key to start the
engine. It was going to be a long night . . .

*
* *

People show
an amazing array of different reactions to a dead body. Some are frightened,
afraid that the dead corpse will return to life and try to get revenge on their
attacker, like in a film; some are horrified at the scene, the circumstances in
which a person lost their life; some are sad, they grieve for the victim, think
of their friends, their family, the lost years of life and opportunity; others
are matter of fact, like the emergency services who are more accustomed to such
sights and whose senses have numbed over the years as a result. Anna hadn’t
felt any of these emotions. In fact she hadn’t thought about the body at all. Until
now.

As she finished talking to her solicitor and watched the cell door bang
closed, she realized that, so far, her mind had focused on her incarceration,
consuming her with anger tainted by the fear of being imprisoned. It had
blocked out all earlier events which felt like a blur, a whirlwind. An extraordinary
out of body experience.

She recalled the blood splattered all over her lounge. It was like a
scene from a horror film.
Who would have
thought that one person’s body could contain so much blood?
She thought for
a moment - a person. This blood had belonged to somebody. An overwhelming
feeling of shame engulfed her. She had been consumed with the incomprehensible
inconvenience to her life. He had lost his . . . Her stomach churned, but this
time her bladder did not call out to her – it seemed to have frozen.

Anna forced her mind to push further into its depths. A lacerated body
had sat facing her on the floor.
The eyes
. . .
She shuddered, physically shaking as she recalled the eyes open wide,
staring at her. Eyes that had belonged to someone. Panic pulsed through her
veins as realization set in. The victim of this atrocity belonged to someone.
The brutal truth of this fact made the pain in her head seer until her brain
felt as if it were splitting in two. This was somebody’s father, brother,
husband, son . . .

Somewhere, some family would be disturbed this evening. Possibly watching
a film, or putting the kids to bed, or maybe sitting down to dinner – a normal
routine family evening, ruined by a knock at the door.

As they answered the door and saw the police officers wearing their hats,
speaking in a solemn tone, - “May we come in?” - their minds would race,
overwhelmed with questions. Who was it? What has happened? They would brace
themselves for bad news. Maybe they would think that their car had been stolen?
But the police officers’ tone would be too serious, their manner too empathetic
and, once invited into the sitting room, they would ask them to sit down. Then,
they knew it was serious – an accident, maybe even a death. Anna shuddered
 
. . .

She imagined then that the questions would start. “Was your husband
wearing a certain color jacket when he left home today? Did he leave the house
wearing casual, grey trousers?” And this may instill an element of hope in the
victim’s family. Anyone could match that description, it was nothing
significant. But then the mention of something personal like a white gold,
engraved wedding ring would crush all ambiguity - and they would know, there
would be no doubt.

The breathing would stop, they would clutch their head and in one moment
their world would be shattered to pieces – all because of that knock at the
door. And they would gaze up at the clock, reading the time when their life had
changed irrevocably.

Tears streamed
down Anna’s face, her eyes fixed in space. Would they think that it was her?
That she could even be capable of causing such pain, such devastation? The
thoughts made her head go hot and dizzy. Sweat coursed down the back of her
neck as she jumped off the bed and rushed to the cold toilet in the corner, pushing
strands of hair out of her face as she retched.

Chapter Three

Helen closed
the door to her office and looked around the room, surveying her team. Most of
them were enthusiastic detectives with a wealth of experience between them. However,
this didn’t prevent the dark shadows which appeared under many a pair of eyes
and the odd stifled yawn. They had been called in from not only the end of
their shift, but the end of their working week. Most of them wore weary
expressions, already knowing that they were facing a very late night, aware
that the weekend would not offer much respite.

“Good Evening everyone,” Helen spoke loudly, scanning around the room at
her company, some of which were seated, others perched on the edge of desks, a
couple standing at the back. “First, thank you very much for giving up your weekend.
I really appreciate your help.” Twelve pairs of eyes focused on her.

She moved across to the whiteboard and methodically summarized the
evening’s events, jotting down key points. Once complete she turned to face
them, “Any questions?” The room was silent. She could almost feel them
digesting the facts so far. “I want you all to know that I value each and
everybody’s opinion, so if anybody has any theories or information that might
help, then please speak up.”

“Ma’am,” the soft voice came from a short, middle aged Detective
Constable at the back of the room whom she recognized as DC Steve Spencer, “Is
there any evidence that this was a burglary that went wrong? Maybe she came
home and found him?”

“It’s possible,” she said. “The front door is damaged, looks like it had
been forced using something like a crowbar. There was only an old fashioned
Yale lock, so it wouldn’t have been that difficult. Forensics should be able to
clarify that. No sign of the tool though.”

“Was there any bag left there?” A female detective, Rosa Dark, piped up.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“It does seem unlikely that somebody would break in without some sort of
bag - something to carry any stolen goods. Perhaps it was a druggie, looking
for cash or jewelry to sell?” Rosa continued.
Helen looked across at her and smiled inwardly. She was barely out of probation
a year and the youngest detective on the team, having only recently passed her
exams. But any shortage of experience was compensated in abundance by her
overwhelming enthusiasm.

At this moment DS Pemberton walked into the room. Helen nodded to him, “Good
Evening, Sergeant. I’ve just been briefing our team on the evening’s events so
far. Anything to add?” Pemberton glanced at the whiteboard and was silent
momentarily as he considered the bullet points.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and turned to address the room. “I arrived just as
the suspect was being led down to the car and something struck me.” He frowned.

“Yes, Sergeant?” Helen prompted.

“Well, she didn’t have much blood on her clothing. A few smudges, that’s
all.” He looked over at Helen. “You saw the crime scene. It was like a blood
bath. You would expect her be covered from head to toe.”

“Could she have changed?” asked DC Spencer.

“If she did, then we didn’t find any blood stained clothing at the
address. She must have got rid of it pretty quickly.”

“Interesting point, Sergeant. Get uniform to do a thorough search of the
area. We’ll find them if they are still there. And make sure they check the
drains too, with any luck they might even locate the murder weapon.” She
nodded. “Thank you. Anything else?”

“Yes, we have an ID on the body, ma’am. I tried to call your mobile, but
you must have already started your briefing. His name was Jim
McCafferty
.”

“Excellent. Is he known to us?”

“I’ve only had a chance to check very quickly, and yes he is known but
only for petty stuff – shoplifting, theft, drunk and disorderly - that sort of
thing.”

“Good work, Sergeant. Right then, guys,” Helen addressed the whole room
now, “we need to find out all the background we can on Jim
McCafferty
– where he lived, who his friends were, where he worked and what he does in his
spare time – let’s build up a picture of him. We also need to find out what we
can about Anna Cottrell. She has no previous and we know very little about her.”
Helen paused momentarily and glared at the clock, “It’s almost nine thirty so
tread delicately there please. I don’t want any complaints from ageing grannies
about being called by Hampton
police late at night,” she added, a smile tickling her lips.

“DS Carter will coordinate events in here and get us set up on the Holmes
system so that we can collate our findings.” The Home Office Large Major
Enquiry System is a computer system which derived from complex cases such as
that of the Yorkshire Ripper in the 1970s, when mounds of paperwork had made
the investigation difficult to manage. Information is collated by Holmes
software which cross references all data input. Helen was keen to get started
on Holmes at the earliest opportunity.

“
DS Pemberton and DC Spencer
will interview the suspect and Inspector Townsend and I will be watching from
the room next door. Right, that’s all for now.” Helen glanced around the room
as her team busied itself with their tasks, suddenly puzzled. Where was Townsend?
She was sure she had seen him at the beginning of the briefing – yes he had
been standing at the back. She looked over at Pemberton. “Sean, can I have a
minute please?”

“Sure.” Sean Pemberton followed her into her office, closing the door
behind him.

“Sergeant, have you seen Inspector Townsend?” she asked, sitting on the
edge of her desk to face him.

“Yes. He was outside having a cigarette when I came back,” he replied,
casting his eyes downwards.

“During briefing?”

He looked up at her. “Well, unless you had just started, then
 
. . .”

Helen cut in, she had just spotted Townsend waltzing back into the main
office casually, “Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all. It appears he is back
now.” Pemberton turned around and looked through the open blinds, following her
gaze. “Would you tell him I would like a word?”

“Of course,” he replied. She didn’t miss the rolling of his eyes as he
turned to leave the office, even if he did drop his head discreetly to do so.
It seemed she wasn’t the only one on the team disappointed in the Inspector’s
behavior.

Moments later Townsend walked through the open door. “You wanted to see
me?” Helen was looking out of the window behind the desk, at the lit car park
below. A man and women were laughing together, walking towards a red Toyota. He had his arm
around her shoulders. Helen felt a pang of envy. They looked totally relaxed as
if they had a whole weekend of fun to look forward to. She slowly turned to
face him, placing one hand on the back of her chair, the other loosely on her
hip. Was she imagining the sneer on his lip?

“Yes, close the door please, Inspector, and take a seat,” she said
curtly. He followed her words and sat opposite. In spite of the desk between
them obstructing her vision slightly, she couldn’t fail to notice how he slung
himself over the chair opposite her.

“Inspector, do you have a problem with this investigation?” she asked,
staring him straight in the eyes.

This time a definite sneer appeared on his lip. It curled up before he
spoke. “No.”

“Is there somewhere else you would rather be?”

“Well the Coach and Horses is my usual haunt at the end of a busy week.”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes hard, boring into him.

He put up his hand. “Look, I’m only joking,” he replied, a conciliatory
note in his voice.

She pulled out her chair and sat down before continuing, “Would you like
to tell me your take on the investigation? What are your theories?”

“Well it all seems pretty obvious to me. She arrived home and apprehended
a burglar, they had a tussle and she stabbed him to death. Pretty straight
forward. We just need to charge her so that we can all go and start the
weekend.”

“What about the murder weapon?”

“Simple, found at the scene, next to her body,” he replied, sighing and
sinking back further down into his chair, a conceited look of triumph on his
face.

“Would you like to tell me why the carving knife found at the scene is
not concurrent with the victim’s wounds?”

“What?” Now he sat forward, looking puzzled. He looked her up and down,
as if they were meeting for the first time. “What are you talking about?”

“If you had been present at the briefing you would be aware of all the
facts and information we have so far,” she said, holding eye contact.

“When was this discovered?”

“The pathologist revealed it at the scene, in his initial findings. It
appears the actual murder weapon was more akin to a hunting knife.” He
continued to stare at her.

 
“I only went for a smoke while you
updated the troops,” he said, defensively.

“Inspector, you are my Deputy here. I need your support at every stage of
the investigation.”

He glanced away and mumbled something quietly under his breath.

Helen could feel her blood staring to boil. She stood up, resting her
hands on the edge of the desk, fingers splayed. This was probably the only time
that she would ever be able to tower over him. “What did you say?”

Townsend met her eyes. “Nothing.”

There was something in his gaze, behind his eyes, that she couldn’t make
out. “Listen, if you don’t wish to work with me on this investigation then I
will call Superintendent Jenkins and get him to send a replacement immediately.”

“There’s no need for that.” Townsend continued to stare at her, but sat
up in his seat. The mere mention of the Superintendent wiped the smile right
off his face.

Her eyes were still glued onto him. She took a deep breath and let it out
slowly in an effort to control her racing heart beat. When she finally spoke
her tone was more measured and relaxed. “Then pull yourself together. Make sure
you are fully up to date with where we are and get yourself ready for the
interview.”

He looked up surprised, “You want me to conduct the interview?”

Helen raised her eyes to the ceiling, wondering if he was being
deliberately obtuse. “No, Inspector,” she replied, enunciating every syllable. “You
and I will be listening next door.” Did she have to explain everything? He
nodded his understanding. “But, be clear on this,” she added fighting to keep
her composure, “I want all or nothing on this investigation. You need to show
me that you can contribute and give full commitment, or you are off!” Townsend
looked away and nodded. “That will be all.”

As he stood and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him,
Helen gripped the edge of the desk hard in anger and clenched her teeth. She
made a mental note to speak to Superintendent Jenkins at the earliest
opportunity. She sighed out loud as her blood pressure started to drop and
looked down absentmindedly at her notes. That would be Monday - Superintendents
rarely worked weekends
 
. . .

*
* *

Despite her
practical nature, Anna had always felt uncomfortable in the presence of police
officers. Even watching them work from afar, they had always managed to make
her feel guilty. It was as if she could be breaking the law without even
realizing it. On the odd occasion that she had borrowed her father’s car she
had slowed down deliberately when approaching a police vehicle, even if she
wasn’t exceeding the speed limit. Perhaps it was the thought of being restrained,
locked away behind all those closed doors which made her so nervous?

“Let’s go over this again.” Anna stared at the detective opposite her
aghast as he looked down at his notes. She guessed they must have been in the
interview room for around an hour now, and they had spent the entire time
asking her useless questions. How long she had lived in the flat in Little
Hampstead? How long her lease was due to run? What her neighbors were like?
Where she worked? Her morning routine? One question kept screaming in her head:
‘Why don’t they ask me about the murder?’

The thick set detective sat directly opposite was as bald as a light
bulb, towering above her, even though they were both seated. His colleague next
to him had a thick head of short, wavy hair, dark brown streaked with grey,
dandruff peppering his shoulders. He was a short, slender man with dark, pointy
features. In different circumstances the contrast between them would have been
comical.

Anna fidgeted with the zip buckle of her jogging suit jacket, already
feeling at a disadvantage opposite the two black suits. She glanced up at the
camera in the corner of the room. A rush of emotion pulsed through her. Were
they watching her now? Were they scrutinizing her body language, looking for
clues that may betray guilt? The thought made her sit bolt upright in her
chair.

She glanced sideways at her solicitor who was staring at the DS
thoughtfully and recalled how relieved she had been when he arrived earlier,
how she thought he would resolve everything, put them right and she would be
released. But as he had walked into the cell she caught the austere look on his
face and her dream of a quick release immediately shattered. Although Will
Southwold
had been a family friend for many years, she
fought the temptation to hug him as usual. It hadn’t seemed appropriate and his
face certainly hadn’t invited it. He had just stared at her through bespectacled
eyes and said, “I have spoken with an officer in the case and I cannot pretend
to you, Anna. This is serious. Now, let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”

And despite them drafting a statement together, outlining her movements
earlier in the evening, an alibi which didn’t allow time to commit murder, she
still found herself in this small, airless room, two tapes recording her every
word simultaneously. She pondered at how she had woken up this morning and
begun a perfectly normal, routine day. How could she have gone from sublime
living to a state of ridicule, in a matter of twelve hours?