A Question of Identity (15 page)

The police officer had clicked his fingers.

Gone.

He didn’t exist. There was no trace left of him.

But he was sitting here. Breathing. Drinking a cup of tea out of a plastic beaker. Hand on the table in front of him. His own hand. The same hand he’d always had.

‘I‘m still me. This is my flesh and blood.’

‘It is,’ the officer said, closing his file. ‘And then again, it isn’t.’

Kept me awake that one did.

Still does sometimes.

SIMON PUT A
mug of tea carefully down on the bedside table. Rachel was asleep, head turned away from him, one arm flung out. He touched her hair.

‘It’s seven o’clock.’

She stirred slightly but did not wake.

‘Rachel . . .’

No response.

They had enjoyed three days together, the rest of his leave after Norfolk. They had spent most of it in the flat, Rachel cooking, listening to music, reading, watching Simon sort his new drawings. Plus a night in the hotel where he had first taken her to dinner. It had been a time out of time, they had seen no one else.

When he returned this evening, she would be gone. Kenneth returned from his respite care today and Rachel was adamant that once he was home he deserved her presence and full attention. Kenneth knew about their affair. He was an honourable man. He loved Rachel, enough to free her, so long as she did not leave him. How long his illness would drag on, no one knew. Years? Possibly, though Rachel did not seem to think so. It was not something they discussed. For now, Simon was content but he knew he would not always be so. And Rachel? How did she really feel about dividing her life and betraying her husband? There was no chink in the face she presented to the world, but he was under no illusions. It would wear her away. Ultimately, if nothing changed, it would destroy her.

He put on his jacket. Phone in his inner pocket. Keys from the small silver dish his mother had given him when he had made Inspector. He paused and looked down. Rachel breathed gently, peacefully, arm still flung out.

Simon bent and kissed her cheek. Then he scribbled a note and put it next to the mug of cooling tea.
Love you x
.

Driving to the station for the first time in almost a fortnight, he anticipated what he might have missed, speculated on the papers that would be piled on his desk, the email load on his computer. He knew there had been a ram raid, just before the snow had more or less blocked off the town centre, that two school kids of fifteen had been caught red-handed trying in a hopelessly inexpert way to hold up a post office, and that there had been a flasher out and about in the back gardens of the Dulcie estate. Other than that, the weather had deterred a lot of criminals and the force had been busy on emergency traffic duties.

There would be the usual welcome, the sarcastic jokes about Norfolk, the wry comments about everything running a lot more smoothly than when he was at work . . .

Other than wishing Rachel could be in the flat when he returned that night, Simon wanted nothing more than to be back in harness. He had loved his time with Sam, he felt refreshed and energetic. He swung the car into his space and ran up the stairs, into one of the DCs running down.

‘Morning.’

‘Guv.’ The man shot past Serrailler barely glancing at him.

‘Everything OK?’

The DC paused. ‘Nasty one.’ He ran on.

Along the corridor, DS Ben Vanek was heading out of Simon’s own room. ‘There you are, guv. About to ring you.’

‘What’s up?’

‘A death. Came in half an hour ago. Incident room’s being set up.’

The DCS’s room looked bare, clean and tidy, but there was a neat stack of files on the desk and his coffee machine was already filled up – his ever-efficient secretary, Polly, welcoming him back.

‘Fill me in.’

‘Duchess of Cornwall Close, the new sheltered housing . . . lady aged eighty, only just moved in, tied to a chair in her bedroom with electrical flex, and strangled.’

‘Who’s on the scene?’

‘Patrol were first, Steph – sorry, DS Mead – and DC Dotman are there now, forensics and pathologist on the way.’

‘Where’s the DI?’

‘Ah, you don’t know – he had an RTA . . . very smashed up, still in intensive care at BG.’

‘Who’s acting?’

‘No one. You were coming back so –’

‘Right, consider yourself Acting DI for now. I‘ll clear it with the Chief later.’

‘Guv . . .’ Ben flushed pink.

‘Right, I’m over there. What else is going on?’

‘Ram raid on the post office in Burley Road. The owner was on scene and they beat him up, lots of stuff taken, mainly booze and fags, bit of money, plus a load of chocolate Easter eggs.’

‘Wankers. Is the man conscious?’

‘Yep. Nasty head wound and a broken wrist but nothing life-threatening.’

‘OK, I’m leaving that to you.’

Serrailler was back on the road a minute and a half later.

Duchess of Cornwall Close was stacking up with police vehicles, and crime-scene tape had already marked out number 12, its front path, the whole of the grassed area around it and the bungalows on either side. Everyone was stopped at the tape to give names and details to the uniform on duty. A pressman and his photographer, sticking out a mile from everyone else, were turned back but the tape was lifted for Serrailler. He nodded at the pathologist who was coming in behind him.

‘Good holiday, Simon? Sun and sea?’

‘Thanks. North Norfolk. Snow and sea.’

‘Good God, man, you could have got that staying at home. Morning, Sergeant.’

Nick de Silva’s voice boomed out cheerfully as they entered the bungalow among the forensics in white coveralls, but as they
walked through into the small bedroom, he fell silent. Among so many of his gung-ho, sometimes ghoulish pathologist colleagues, Nick was well known for his care once in the presence of the dead. ‘This is a corpse,’ Serrailler had heard him say one time to a lecture hall full of police and students. ‘This is a victim, and unless it is proved otherwise, it is an innocent victim. But whether innocent or guilty, it is the body of a fellow human being. Treat such bodies as you would treat one of your own loved ones and as you would wish to be treated yourself.’

Now, he looked at Simon and sighed. Forensics evaporated to take advantage of a break.

The chair was in front of a mirrored dressing table. Serrailler saw the reflections – Nick’s, his own. The woman’s.

‘He put her there so she could watch.’

Nick nodded. He leaned forward, touching nothing, and looked closely at the woman’s neck. The piece of electrical flex was wound round it three times and pulled tight and the loose ends had been tied to the chair back with several knots.

‘Reef knots,’ Simon said. ‘Unusual?’

Nick shrugged. ‘Statistically, probably not significant but you’ll obviously check.’

She wore a pink fleece nightdress which was rucked up to her knees. Her feet were bare. Her head hung forwards, eyes bulging.

Simon left the pathologist to his job and went slowly round the bedroom. New paintwork, new wallpaper, new carpet. Wardrobe with a few clothes on hangers, boxes full of more clothes below. Nothing had been disturbed so far as he could see. Bedside table. Lamp. Pack of tissues. Glasses beside their open case. Nail-clippers. Pack of prescription tablets for arthritis with a few already removed. Neat. Everything was neat.

In the kitchen, crockery and cutlery were in drawers and cupboards. A few things in the draining rack. Tea towel folded over the rail. Lino tiles were spotless.

DS Steph Mead, aka Mrs Ben Vanek, was in the hall.

‘Guv, the front door was on a chain and a security bolt. Not touched. Entrance was by the sitting-room window which also has a bolt but it hadn’t been dropped down. I wonder if she’d forgotten. Seems unlikely.’

‘Maybe not. Hadn’t she recently moved in?’

‘Day before yesterday.’

‘Then she might not have got the hang of all the security fastenings.’

‘I’ll get a check on whoever fitted them and how they were left. She wouldn’t have had a window open in this weather.’

‘What do we know about her?’

‘Mrs Elinor Sanders, aged eighty, widow, moved down from Newcastle where she’d lived for fifty years. Apparently she has a relative in Lafferton but we haven’t an address yet.’

‘When forensics have finished look through everything to find one – that’s urgent.’

‘Guv.’

‘Neighbours?’

‘Only four have moved in so far. We’ve spoken to all of them briefly. The lady at number 1 saw her last night – had a coffee together. She’s extremely upset.’

‘Questioned?’

‘I didn’t want to go in too hard yet, guv, I don’t think she could cope.’

‘Get the doc in to her now, we’ve got to have everything she can tell us asap.’

‘Man in number 8’s a bit of a curtain twitcher, knows all about Mrs Sanders moving in. Knows about everything.’

‘Odd – men aren’t usually interested but he might prove useful. Let’s hope he’s an insomniac.’ He went into the front room. The curtains were still drawn but he lifted a corner carefully and looked out. Two men were taking a short cut across the grass towards the bungalow opposite.

‘How the hell did they get under the wire – bloody
Gazette.
We’ll have the TV vans and the men with furry mikes here any minute.’

He shot out of the front door, yelling across. ‘Get off there, you should bloody well know better, this is a crime scene, yes, Baxter, you, and if I catch you lifting a finger to any of these door bells I’ll have you in for trespass. You know the rules, press conference later, now bugger off.’

His voice was less angry than his words. One of the reporters
raised an arm in acknowledgement. Two minutes later, they were driving off. Simon phoned the station press officer to organise a conference for noon, then went back into the bungalow.

Nick de Silva was peering at the flex round the dead woman’s neck, touching it lightly with his gloved finger. He straightened up as Serrailler came in.

‘She died somewhere between midnight and five this morning – I’ll know more when I get her in. Strangulation, obviously. No evidence of sexual assault, no other injuries visible . . . there are some faint bruises coming out on her hands. She might have tried to hold him off, but she couldn’t put up much of a fight – she’s old and she isn’t a very big woman, and there’s marked osteoarthritis in the hands and finger joints. Her grip wouldn’t be strong. The boys and girls will be back in here once we’ve moved her but at a glance he was very clean and tidy indeed. Knew what he was about. No mess, no obvious traces. He’ll have worn gloves, possibly left his shoes outside . . . doesn’t look like any sort of burglary – she’d left a couple of rings there on the dressing table. Hasn’t touched them. Rest of the place?’

Simon shook his head.

‘No, this is just killing for killing’s sake. Poor woman.’ Nick touched his finger gently to her cheek, his face tender. ‘She can go now. Sooner I have her on the table the better.’

Steph Mead stood aside as the pathologist went out. ‘Forensics say they’re doing the kitchen next.’

‘What about the neighbour?’

‘Daughter’s on her way, GP says he can’t call till after morning surgery, doesn’t do many house visits, can she be taken in there?’

Simon exploded. ‘Tell him no, she’s in no fit state, she needs a medical check before we can question her and we have to start that within the next hour. Kick his arse.’

Steph made a face and went out as Simon’s phone rang.

‘Simon, I presume you’re SIO on this murder? Brief me please.’

‘Morning, ma’am.’

The Chief Constable had been on sick leave for several months and there had been rumours that she would move from there seamlessly into retirement. She had not and once back she seemed to have doubled her old energy and focus, was up to
speed with every detail in every corner of her force and had dished out timely warnings to any slackers and coasters. Simon got on well with her, partly because he genuinely liked and respected her, partly because he had worked hard to do so.

‘I wonder if you should hold off a press conference until this neighbour has seen a doctor and been cleared to talk to you?’

Paula Devenish was a stickler for protocol and under everyday circumstances would never presume to give instructions to an SIO, but Serrailler knew well enough that a suggestion with a question mark at the end from the CC should be treated as an order.

‘Agreed. I’m trying to get the doctor here, but he isn’t being very cooperative.’

‘Go and fetch him. Don’t give him an option.’

‘I can’t arrest him, ma’am.’

‘Of course you can’t. You won’t need to.’

THE RELUCTANT GP
had arrived in a patrol car, spent two minutes taking Rosemary Poole’s blood pressure and pulse, written a prescription for diazepam and been driven back. Harry Fletcher had been working out at Starly but dropped everything and was in the kitchen making tea and taking mugs out to every member of the force. Rosemary had a cup untouched beside her. Karen was sitting up close.

‘How do you feel now, Mum?’

Rosemary shook her head. She was weaving her fingers together in her lap.

‘You ought to eat something.’ Harry came in from the kitchen. ‘Just a biscuit. Or a square or two of chocolate. Have you got any? Shall I pop down the road and get some?’

Rosemary shook her head again, her fingers moving ceaselessly. Harry went back to the kettle.

‘Mrs Poole, I’m DS Steph Mead. I know this is very hard and I do understand what a terrible shock you’ve had. But now the doctor says you’re up to it, I need to ask you a few questions. We have to find who did this dreadful thing and you may have seen or heard something, anything – that could be vital to us.’

Rosemary shook her head to and fro several times. Karen took her hand and held it tightly.

‘I know. I wish I could leave you quietly for the rest of the day to try and recover and I promise I’ll keep my questions to
the absolute minimum and then leave you with your family. But I have to do this now. Do you understand?’