An Unfamiliar Murder (4 page)

The detective spoke again, breaking through her thoughts. “What time did
you leave work this evening?”

Anna took a deep breath. “I’ve already said this in my statement,” she
said, exhaling with her response in an effort to give a definitive answer. Will
had presented her statement to the detectives at the beginning of the
interview. The larger detective read it out for the purpose of the tape and suspended
the interview for a few minutes whilst he had taken it out, she presumed to his
superiors. When he returned he said that the matters raised would be
investigated and then, instead of releasing Anna, returning her clothes,
apologizing for the inconvenience to her evening, allowing her to go home, he
had commenced the interview, questioning in his own way.

“In your own words please,” he said, solemnly.

“I left work at four thirty. You can check with my colleagues.

I
 
. . .”

“Names?” She looked up as he interrupted and then sighed.

“Erica Smith was in the staff room when I left. My boss, the school
headmaster, is Jason Randle.” The smaller detective was scribbling down the
names on his pad.

“OK and where did you go at four thirty?”

“I retrieved my bike from the back of the building and rode it to the
Tesco store on Cross Keys roundabout.”

“What time did you arrive at the Supermarket?”

“I’m not completely sure, but I think it was around a quarter to five. I
locked my bike and went into the shop to get some serviettes for my mother’s
dinner party.”

“How long were you in the shop?”

“Again, I’m not exactly sure, but it was probably around three quarters
of an hour. As I told you, my till receipt will be in my rucksack, that will
tell you what time I reached the checkout.”

The detective raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “That’s rather a long
time to shop for some serviettes!”

“Well, as I said in my statement,” she enunciated every syllable here,
nodding at the detective as she spoke, “I saw an old school friend in there.”

“Yes,” the detective now referred to a copy of the statement which he
held out in front of him, “A girl named Charlotte?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know her surname?”

“No, she’s married now and I didn’t think to ask it.”

“Maiden name?”

“I can’t remember,” Anna replied, shaking her head.

“And you can’t recall what she was wearing?”

“No,” Anna said weakly. For the first time she realized how unreal this
might sound, as if she were trying to dig herself out of a hole.

“Did she give you her number?” the detective asked, breaking the silence.

Anna closed her eyes and rested her fingers on her temples in an attempt
at coherence and rationality. She couldn’t afford to lose it now. She kept her
eyes closed as she answered the question, “I haven’t seen Charlotte since we were in sixth form
together, six years ago. It was a chance meeting. I didn’t have a pen, so she
punched my number into her phone. She kept me talking for ages, catching up,
and that’s why I was so late leaving the store.” When she opened her eyes the
smaller detective was staring at her as if she were an obscure painting in a
gallery.

“How did you pay?” the larger detective asked finally.

“By cash.” She realized the reason for his request immediately, guessing
they would probably be able to trace a credit card purchase. But there would be
no way of tracing a cash transaction. “They were only a couple of pounds,” she
added, as if to justify her actions.

“Which till did you use?”

“One near the main entrance.” Anna cringed at her response, frustrated at
her inability to remember minutiae. She had never possessed that gift of
recalling particular items to memory like what somebody was wearing, what time
she had seen them, what make of car they drove. It always amazed her how
witnesses to crimes would remember those details. Her friends often teased her
at her lack of observation. A work colleague had recently given birth and,
having been one of the first friends to visit, other colleagues had asked her
if the baby had hair. She couldn’t remember.

Anna looked up and met the detective’s eyes as he spoke. “Anna, are you
sure that there isn’t anything else you would like to tell me?” She stared at
him, puzzled.

“What do you mean?”

“You are telling us you left work at four thirty, went to the supermarket
until five thirty, and arrived home at six o’clock to find the stabbed body of
a complete stranger in your flat. Is this right?”

“Yes,” she replied, weakly. She was starting to doubt herself.

“Are you sure that you didn’t recognize the dead man?”

“No, I told you so,” she said, quietly. The detective glared at her, as
if she were hiding something. She fidgeted in her chair uncomfortably.

“Do you know a man named Jim
McCafferty
?” Anna
was silent for a moment, as a shiver rippled down her spine.

“No.” Both detectives continued to stare at her in silence. As she looked
back at them a chord struck in her brain. “Was that him?” she asked, her voice
barely a whisper.

“The dead man? Yes. His name was Jim
McCafferty
.”
The name made him sound so real, so alive.

At this point Will interrupted. “Look, my client has co-operated fully
and given you an alibi for her movements this evening which, I’m sure you can
see, demonstrates that she could not have committed this murder.” He paused for
a moment. “Unless you have anything new, I feel it is far time she is released.”

“That’s my problem,” said the larger detective, ignoring the solicitor,
instead addressing Anna direct. “Your alibi is not straightforward.”

“What do you mean?” Anna gasped, fear rising within her.

“We have checked your personal belongings and, while there is a packet of
serviettes in your bag, there is no receipt indicating when and where you
bought them.” She stared at him wide eyed. “With respect Miss Cottrell, we need
to investigate your alibi thoroughly before it can be substantiated. You have
told us that you met an old school friend in the store but cannot even remember
what she was wearing or what her surname is. You have also told us that you do
not know the victim. Unless you can tell us anything else, anything that can be
confirmed this evening, then we will be forced to detain you overnight while we
continue with our enquiries.”

Anna could feel her hands quiver, her body start to shake all over. When
she finally spoke her voice was barely audible, “I haven’t done anything wrong.
Please?” She turned to face her solicitor. “Will, I can’t go back into that
room. Do something.” The words caught in her mouth.

She could see movement around her, smell the familiar bleach in the air,
hear voices in the background, but couldn’t decipher the words. It was as if
they were speaking in a foreign language. Doors were banged shut, walls closing
in. She was confined in an ever decreasing space, choking behind all those
closed doors
 
. . .

Finally, she felt a hand on her shoulder, heard Will’s words as he slowly
spoke, “Anna, breath. Try to be calm.” She gulped in huge mounds of air,
staring into space as the oxygen filled her lungs and fed her brain, allowing
the panic attack to pass. As the color returned to her face he asked, “Can I
get you anything?”

“Some fresh air,” she said, looking up at him longingly.

“Unfortunately, that is the one thing I cannot help you with at the
moment . . .”

*
* *

He drove
slowly down the dirt track towards the edge of the lake. With headlights
extinguished, the ride was tricky, but thankfully the recent icy weather meant
that the ground was hard. He pulled up at the end, got out of the car and
stood, listening for any sound in the darkness. All was silent. He had chosen
this area because the water was deep, from within a couple of meters from the
edge.

Quietly, he opened the boot and, as he lifted the dirty hold all, winced
slightly. The bricks inside made it heavy and he congratulated himself for
deciding to drive down. It would have been cumbersome to carry any distance.
Walking towards the water’s edge he started swinging the bag, gently at first
and then faster and faster until he eventually swung it out into the water. It
sat there for a split second, the surrounding water bubbling at its side, examining
its new gift, before encasing it, pulling it from sight.

Breathing a
sigh of relief he stood there momentarily, again listening for any sound of
life. He heard a rustle in a nearby tree, from where a bird emerged, disturbed
on its roost by the splash of water. Then nothing. Walking back over to the
car, he placed a hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a box. Removing a
short stalk of wood, he struck it and threw it onto the backseat of the car.
Hovering a few feet away, he watched as the flames licked through the interior,
fascinated by the power and destruction contained within one match. Finally,
satisfied, he turned up the back collar of his jacket and started walking back
up the track. Round one complete, and now for round two.

Chapter Four

Killers never
look as you expect them to. The job had taught Helen to be non-judgmental.
There is no stereotype in murder. She knew that most victims were actually
killed by someone they knew but it never ceased to amaze her, what could lurk
beneath a normal, healthy skin.

As she lay in bed the following morning, these thoughts occupied her
mind. She methodically considered the limited evidence before her. It was
fraught with difficulties, little holes that prevented one piece linking to
another. Firstly, Anna was a size 8, 10 at most – how would she be able to move
a middle aged man almost twice her weight? Also, the knife on scene didn’t
appear to match with the wounds applied to the victim, so where was the
original murder weapon? And, if Anna had committed this crime she should be
drenched in blood from head to foot, so why did her clothes only contain small
traces? Then there was her alibi - why hadn’t she told the police at

She tried to turn the evidence around, to look at the flip side. Perhaps
Anna didn’t arrive home and encounter a burglar, maybe she had an accomplice?
She knew that the murder took place in her flat, in the afternoon, and a man
was stabbed, possibly with a hunting knife. Why her flat? What was her link to
this man? Was Anna mixed up in something and somebody was sending her a
message? She wasn’t known to the police and her background and profile certainly
didn’t fit this explanation. It didn’t add up.

Helen sighed. Was she missing something? Her brain was starting to feel
like it had been bashed about like mashed potato. She opened her mouth and
yawned deeply then raised her hands, allowing her fingers to massage her
temples. As she rested her arms down she glanced at the empty bed next to her:
the crisp clean, creaseless pillows, the undisturbed duvet. A pang of
loneliness shot through her chest.

Gently, she turned over, pulled back the bedclothes and climbed out,
reaching for her dressing gown and pulling it around her shoulders as she
crossed the landing, her slippers softly creeping over the carpet. She peered
around Robert’s bedroom door. He was fast asleep, his body completely still.
She marveled at how his face looked astonishingly childlike whilst sleeping.

Matthew had taken to closing his bedroom door in recent months. She
opened it gently, just enough to squeeze her body through. The room was dark,
forcing her to blink twice to allow time for her vision to adjust before
bending down beside his bed. Drawing a deep breath in relief, she saw that he
lay on his side, his breathing slow and regular.

Many years ago she had been on holiday in Spain when a teenager in the hotel
next door had choked to death on his own vomit. The memory made her shudder. If
she closed her eyes she could still see the despair in his mother’s face. Your
children weren’t meant to die before you, even the thought was inconceivable.
Perhaps the hangover would teach him a lesson against future bouts of binge
drinking? Resisting the huge temptation to lean down and kiss his forehead she
made her way slowly back to the door. He wouldn’t welcome the intrusion into
his room or the interruption to his sleep.

Helen walked downstairs, gingerly lifting her feet as if they were
crossing hot coals. Although they had lived in this new build for almost twelve
months, she still half expected the odd squeaky floorboard or creaking door and
moved around the house gently, as if to avoid them. When she finally reached
the kitchen, she flicked the light switch, turned and instantly gasped, lifting
her hand to her mouth.

“You startled me!”

Jane
Lavery
sat at the kitchen table, her hands
cradling an almost empty mug of warm milk. She looked up at her daughter. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing, sitting in the dark?”

“Can’t sleep, legacy of old age,” she replied, staring into space.

“Why didn’t you put the light on?”

“Didn’t want to disturb the boys.” That was just like her, not wanting to
disturb the children. Both boys slept at the back of the house, directly above
the kitchen. Whilst Matthew would need to be physically roused in the middle of
an earthquake reaching eight plus on the Richter scale, Robert was a light
sleeper and easily disturbed.

Helen cocked her head to read the station clock on the kitchen wall. It
was 6.30AM. She turned and flicked the kettle switch. “Want some coffee?”

“No thanks,” her mother replied, removing her hands from the mug to rub
her eyes and smooth back her grey hair. Jane
Lavery
had a classic appearance, one of those few women who could still wear their
hair pulled off their face at sixty-five and look attractive. She was blessed
with kind, grey eyes and softly defined cheekbones. “What time did you get in?”

Helen turned to look at her. “Just after midnight.”

“How are things?”

“A bit manic. We’ve got lots of work to do.”

“I’ve ironed you some shirts and aired you a couple of suits. They’re
hanging in the utility.” She nodded towards a door at the back of the kitchen.

Helen breathed a smile. “Thanks, Mum, you’re a star.” She finished making
her drink, sat down opposite her and swallowed a huge gulp of milky coffee.

To move back in with her mother after John had died had seemed the
obvious thing to do. John’s Army pension barely paid the rent and Helen had
battled with the demands of looking after her children, getting a job to pay
the bills, running a home. It had been a compromise, but one heavily outweighed
by her mother’s devotion to the boys and her flexibility when it came to
childcare: helping with homework, driving them to clubs, collecting them from
school when necessary. It would have been very difficult to find a nanny so
committed and flexible enough to withstand the anti-social shifts imposed by
the police force.

They were so close that Helen could not imagine life without her. But sometimes
that closeness inevitably meant arguments, disagreements, as they got under
each other’s feet. Two women from different generations, wrestling with their
contrasting lifestyles. And, as the years passed, they found themselves
clashing more and more.

Over the years the compromise had become habit, but Helen became aware
that they couldn’t continue like this forever. Finally, twelve months ago, they
bought this new house together, building a granny flat on the side with
adjoining doors for access, both up and down stairs. Jane
Lavery
now had her own living room, bedroom and bathroom; a gesture intended to give
both women their independence. But, in spite of this, she still spent the majority
of her time in their shared kitchen.

She looked across at her daughter. “What time is Robert’s football this
morning?”

“Eleven o’clock,” she replied. “Perhaps you’d better take Matthew with
you? He’s in no state to be left on his own.”

“No problem. What time do you think you’ll be back?”

“No idea I’m afraid.”

“The golden hours.” Jane
Lavery
sighed and
pushed her lips together. Having lived with a senior police officer for most of
her life, she was well versed in police terminology.

“You’ve got it. Anything could happen. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Two teenage boys and a footy pitch,” her mother’s lips curled up into a
smile, “I think we’ll manage.”

Helen rose and moved around the table to place her empty mug in the sink.
She placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll keep in touch.”

Jane
Lavery
lifted her own hand and placed it
over her daughter’s. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

*
* *

Hampton
Mortuary was a grey, pebble dash building located in the west of the City, the
opposite side to Cross Keys station. In normal circumstances the journey would
take around half an hour, but the traffic was busy this Saturday morning, due
to early onset of Christmas shoppers, and it was well after 10am by the time
Helen and Townsend battled through the congestion.

The monitor on the wall buzzed as Helen pressed it. A voice answered and
she announced their arrival, watching as the door clicked open. Inside, the
Mortuary was surprisingly modern, having benefited from an injection of cash
the council needed to spend at budget year end, the previous year. The work had
only just been completed. The newly tiled floor shone in the reception area,
the desks looked as if they were straight out of IKEA and the walls were
gleaming in freshly painted magnolia.

They made their way up to the lab. As they donned gowns, overshoes and
gloves they could see Charles through the lab windows. The naked corpse was
laid out flat on its back on a waist height table and Charles hovered around
it, examining and measuring external wounds, recording his findings into a tape
recorder which was cast aside as he photographed the body from various angles.

“Good Morning, Charles!” Helen said, as they walked through the doors.

“Morning!” he replied, without looking up.

Helen looked at the corpse and thought how different the victim looked
unclothed. Older somehow. It was surprising how clothes masked a multitude of
sins. The skin on his stomach was sagging into wrinkles, the cheeks of his face
sunken deeply and his hair seemed thinner than the previous night. The
lacerated wounds across his torso sat like leeches on the blue tinged skin.

Charles continued to photograph the victim from different angles. “I’ve
already started, I’m afraid,” he spoke finally, his eyes focusing on his work. “Came
in early and stole a march. I’ve only got until midday. Sarah has this
Christmas
Fayre
thing organized and I’m supposed to
be selling the mulled wine.” He turned sideways and smiled up at Helen
sheepishly. “Simply forgot all about it, so I’m in the dog house!” He noticed
Townsend and stood up to face him, holding the camera away at an angle, as if
it smelt badly.

“Charles this is Inspector Simon Townsend, my Deputy on the
investigation,” Helen said. Charles nodded at Townsend who lifted his head
slightly in acknowledgement.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t,” Charles looked down at his gloved hands
which were already smeared with stodgy blood. As Townsend nodded, Helen allowed
herself a gentle smile. Charles had always been the archetypal gentlemen. He reminded
her of her father in so many ways.

“How is it going?” Helen asked as he placed the camera down on a table
behind him.

 
“Fine, thank you.” He turned back
to survey his work, leaving them standing there silently.

She glanced around at the pathology lab and felt a rippling shiver run
down her spine. The labs always felt chilly, although it wasn’t particularly
cold in there. No matter how many corpses she had seen during her service,
there was something unnerving about the smell of dead people which chilled her
to the bone. A strange, clinical, musty smell. Years ago, a friend, Clare, had
married into a family of butchers. When her new husband came home at the end of
the day Clare would insist that he shower immediately because he always smelled
of mince. It was as if it were deeply embedded in the pores of his skin. She wondered
what Charles smelled of when he finished a busy day and shuddered. Was it
possible for the living to smell of the dead?

“It is as I thought,” Charles said eventually. “There are six wounds in
all and I think it very unlikely they were made by a regular kitchen carving
knife. Look here and here.” He moved his fingers gently over the lacerations. “You
see on one side the wound is a smooth cut, but on the other the edge is torn. I
would say you are looking for a knife with a smooth side and an opposing
serrated side – possibly a hunting knife.”

“Any signs of a struggle?” Helen asked, watching Charles avidly.

“No. No defensive wounds to speak of and not much under the fingernails
either. It seems that he knew his attacker.”

“Is it possible he was drugged and lured into the house?”

“No reason to suggest that from his external condition. It looks as
though he was standing facing his attacker for the blows, but I will, of
course, run toxicology tests.”

Helen became aware of Townsend’s silence and glanced sideways at him. He
stood wide eyed, although his eyes were completely averted from the
examination, focusing instead on the grey, speckled flooring. He was frozen to
the spot, taking very definite breaths in, slowly exhaling. Surely this couldn’t
be his first autopsy? She looked away and allowed herself a wry smile. She had
thought she was doing him a favor by inviting him to attend, building some
bridges, whereas really she was putting him through hell.

When she looked back at him she noticed that the color had now drained
from his face. He looked decidedly green around the gills but, no doubt, his
pride was not going to allow him to say anything. In many ways it was strange,
but post mortems never affected her like that. The only time that she had
experienced nausea was during her first pregnancy when the smell of cheese, any
variety of cheese in fact, made her retch. She hadn’t been able to go near a
delicatessen counter for three months.

“Inspector, would you pop outside and give the station a ring to see how
they’re getting on with things?” she asked generously, fully aware that use of
mobile phones inside the building was forbidden.

“Certainly, ma’am,” he nodded and left the room with haste.

Charles ignored his exit, immersed in his work. Several minutes passed
before he finally spoke, “You will see that all six wounds are concentrated in
the torso area. I would say that the blow to the heart was definitely the first
– it was a good hard incision, the others were more like firm, quick jabs.” He
pointed to the bottom right hand rib cage. “This one here appears to have
splintered the rib, but I doubt completely broken it.”