All Quiet on Arrival (2 page)

It was that long, hot summer that peaked at the end of July. Children fretted and cried, and managed to get ice cream all over their clothing. Men walked about looking like underdressed tramps in dirty vests and the cut-off trousers that my girlfriend told me were called cargoes. Overweight women cast aside any dress sense they might have possessed in the first place. They slopped around in unsuitable tight shorts, crop tops with bra straps showing, bulging bare midriffs and cheap beach sandals. Unfortunately for us men, slender well-shaped girls preferred
not
to wear shorts. Such is life.

Regrettably, and despite the weather, convention dictated that I should wear a suit and a collar and tie. There were two reasons for that: firstly I am a detective chief inspector in the Metropolitan Police, and secondly my commander is a stickler for what he terms ‘officer-like comportment'. He labours under the misapprehension that once the rank of inspector is attained, the holder automatically becomes an officer and a gentleman … or lady. The fact that inspectors and above are not the only officers in the force has somehow escaped him; every policeman and policewoman is an officer.

I was not, however, wearing a suit on that Sunday morning when my mobile rang; I wasn't wearing anything. It was early in the morning. In fact, it was five o'clock. My girlfriend, Gail Sutton, was slumbering peacefully beside me. She and I had been in a relationship for some time now. I'd first met her while investigating the murder of a chorus girl at the Granville Theatre. Gail was also in the chorus at the time, although she was really an actress.

But there's a story behind that. She was once married to a theatrical director called Gerald Andrews, and, having felt a little off colour during the matinee, came home early and unexpectedly one afternoon to find him in bed with a nude dancer. The thing that really annoyed her, Gail said, was that they were making love in the bed she normally shared with her husband, and it was that, more than anything else, that spelled the end of the marriage. And she'd reverted to using her maiden name of Sutton. Andrews, with typical male chauvinism, harboured an unreasonable grudge, and did his best to prevent Gail from getting any acting parts thereafter. Hence her appearance in the chorus line of
Scatterbrain
at the Granville.

That, however, was all in the past. Although our relationship had burgeoned, Gail had declined to move in with me – we neither of us wanted to marry again – but we often spent time in each other's beds. It was a very satisfactory arrangement. Until I was called out. I lived in constant fear that she would finally tire of having the man in her life disappear at the most inopportune moments, like now.

I reached out to stifle the ringing tone of my mobile as quickly as possible, in the hope that Gail would remain asleep. Vain hope. She stirred, cast aside the sheet, turned on her back and stretched sensuously. I wish she wouldn't do that every time my phone rang and we were in bed together.

‘Brock.' I said that because my name is Harry Brock, and I am attached to the Homicide and Serious Crime Command West.

Our remit, as the hierarchy is fond of saying, is to investigate murders and serious crime in that third of London that stretches outwards from Charing Cross to the back of beyond, also known as Hillingdon. We operate from a building called Curtis Green, just off Whitehall, that was once a part of New Scotland Yard. Most of the general public, and quite a few police officers, are blissfully unaware of its existence.

Just so that you won't be confused, the original Scotland Yard was much nearer Trafalgar Square. But in 1890 it moved to the other end of Whitehall. The new building was constructed from Dartmoor granite quarried by convicts from the nearby prison of the same name, and was christened
New
Scotland Yard.

However, our illustrious members of parliament eventually wanted that building for themselves, so seventy-seven years later the Metropolitan Police was forced to move to an unattractive glass and concrete pile in Broadway, Westminster. At the time there was a suggestion that it should be called
Brand
New Scotland Yard to avoid confusion, but the idea was vetoed. There again, the Metropolitan Police is all for a bit of confusion from time to time. But just so that you're in no doubt, there is a wondrous revolving sign telling the world that it is, indeed, New Scotland Yard. Rumour has it that it's operated by a police cadet winding a handle in the basement. But don't believe all you hear about the police.

However, back to the present.

‘It's Gavin Creasey, sir,' said the voice of the night duty incident room sergeant.

‘Don't tell me,' I said wearily. ‘Someone's found a body that requires my attention.'

‘Yes, sir. To be exact, it was the fire brigade that found it.'

‘And where is this drama unfolding, Gavin?'

‘Chelsea, sir. Twenty-seven Tavona Street. There was a fire – which must make a change for the fire brigade – and when they arrived on scene, they found the dead body of a woman in the master bedroom.'

‘Did she die as a result of the fire?' I asked, vainly hoping that this death might not require my attendance.

‘No, sir. She'd been stabbed. And Doctor Mortlock is on his way.'

‘Have you alerted Dave Poole?'

‘Yes, sir, and Linda Mitchell and her forensic team are also on way.'

Dave Poole is my right hand who thinks of the things that I don't think of. And that happens quite often. A detective sergeant of Caribbean descent, his grandfather arrived from Jamaica in the nineteen-fifties and set up practice as a doctor in Bethnal Green. Dave's father is an accountant, but, declining a career in a profession, Dave became a policeman, which, he often says impishly, makes him the black sheep of the family.

Before that, however, he had graduated in English at London University. It's a degree that's had a lasting effect on his use of English, but more particularly, its misuse by others, including me. Most of the time he's grammatically fastidious, but has been known to resort to criminal argot when the situation calls for it.

Dave is married to a charming white girl who's a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet. Rumour has it that she occasionally assaults Dave, but given that Dave is six foot tall, and Madeleine is only five-two, that story is put down to canteen scuttlebutt. Mind you, it's well known that ballet dancers of both sexes are possessed of a strong physique.

Gail stretched again. ‘What is it?' she asked in her most beguiling voice.

‘I've got to go out,' I replied, trying not to concentrate on Gail's body. ‘A murder apparently.'

‘Oh, another one,' said Gail. ‘Dammit!' She's obviously getting used to my bizarre occupation. She pulled up the sheet, turned over and went to sleep again.

For some reason best known to themselves, uniformed officers of the Chelsea police had closed Tavona Street completely. The red and white tapes of the fire brigade, and the blue and white of the police vied for precedence, and a PC stood guard at the door of number twenty-seven. Or what remained of it.

‘Who's in charge?' I asked, waving my warrant card.

‘Our DI's inside, sir,' said the PC, ‘talking to your DS Poole.'

But before I could enter, Linda Mitchell, the senior forensic practitioner – wonderful titles the Job comes up with – stopped me, and presented me with a set of overalls and shoe covers.

Once suitably attired, and having reported my arrival to the incident officer, I made my way through an inch of water, stepping carefully over pieces of debris. I found Dave Poole in what had been the kitchen, but which was now completely gutted.

I introduced myself to the local DI who was chatting to Dave. ‘Where's the body?'

‘First floor front, guv. Doctor Mortlock's giving it the once over as we speak.'

‘We'd better have a talk with him before we go any further, Dave,' I said, and made my way towards the staircase. It was badly charred, but apparently still reasonably secure.

‘Watch the staircase, guv,' volunteered Dave. ‘It's a bit dodgy in places.'

I can always rely on Dave to inject an air of pessimism into any investigation, but we reached the first floor without mishap.

Dr Henry Mortlock, a Home Office pathologist, was on the point of leaving. ‘Nice of you to drop by, Harry,' he said, as he finished packing his ghoulish instruments into his bag.

‘My pleasure, Henry. What's the SP?' I asked, culling a useful bit of jargon from the racing fraternity. In detective-speak it's another way of asking for a quick summary of the story so far.

‘You don't have to be a pathologist to determine cause of death, Harry,' said Mortlock. ‘She was stabbed several times in the chest and abdomen, six or seven times, I'd say at a guess, and she bled profusely.' He stepped aside so that I could see the body lying in a pool of blood. ‘It's ruined the mattress,' he added drily. Henry Mortlock has a macabre sense of humour that rivals that of any CID officer. But, given the nature of our respective jobs, that's hardly surprising. ‘Expensive bed that,' he continued. ‘The sheets and pillow cases are black silk. Must've cost a fortune.'

The dead woman was naked and lying on her back. She was, or had been, an attractive woman with a good figure and short blonde hair, and appeared to be in her mid-forties. It looked as though she spent a lot of her time and money at a beauty salon.

‘How long has she been dead?' I asked.

‘Rough estimate, about five hours, but I'll have a better idea when I get her on the slab. There don't appear to be any defensive wounds. Here, see for yourself.' Mortlock held up one of the woman's hands, and I could see that her well-manicured nails did not seem to have been used to fight off her assailant. He glanced at his watch. ‘I was supposed to be playing golf this morning,' he complained.

‘After you'd been to church to pray for your soul, I suppose, Doctor,' said Dave.

Having exhausted the customary badinage that takes place between the detectives and the pathologist at a murder scene, Henry Mortlock departed, whistling some obscure aria as he descended the staircase.

Having decided that there was little else to be learned from the corpse, I glanced around the bedroom. It was sumptuously equipped. Carpet, curtains, furniture and bed linen were carefully co-ordinated, and undoubtedly had cost the owner a huge amount of money.

Dave summed it up. ‘There's a bit of cash here, guv,' he said.

‘Any idea who she is, Dave?'

‘The local DI said that the house belongs to a Mr and Mrs Barton: James and Diana. Presumably, that's Diana Barton.' Dave waved a hand at the body. ‘If it is, that makes James Barton her husband.'

‘Any sign of him?'

‘No,' said Dave. ‘The fire brigade are satisfied that our dead body was the only one in the house.'

‘We'd better let Linda get on with it, then,' I said, and we returned to the ground floor.

Linda Mitchell entered the house followed by her team of fingerprint officers, video-camera recordists, photographers, and all the other technicians of murder. I never quite knew what they all did, but the results were always outstanding.

By now, a few members of my team had arrived, having been called out by Gavin Creasey.

Standing on the pavement outside the house was Kate Ebdon, one of my DIs, and the one with whom I work the closest. Kate is an Australian, and a somewhat fiery character. She came to us on promotion from the Flying Squad where, it is rumoured, she gave pleasure to quite a few of its officers. Male ones, of course. She usually wears a man's white shirt and tight fitting jeans, a mode of dress that looks great, but doesn't please our commander who doesn't have the bottle to tell her about it. When she first arrived, he asked me to ‘discuss' her mode of dress with her, but I preferred not to risk it. Kate herself is blissfully unaware that she's making a mockery of the commander's oft-quoted desire for the ‘officer-like comportment' I've already mentioned.

‘How many have you got, Kate?' I asked.

Kate looked around at the assembled detectives. ‘Six, guv.'

‘Good. Get them on house-to-house enquiries,' I said, and gave her a brief rundown on what was known so far.

Dave and I stopped for breakfast on the way back to Curtis Green, and arrived at the office at about half past eight. That gave us an hour and a half to get organized before the commander arrived. The commander, a sideways import from the Uniform Branch who thinks that he really is a detective, could be relied upon not to arrive before ten o'clock, and would leave not a minute later than six. There is a theory among the troops that Mrs Commander nags him, but if the photograph of the harridan that adorns the commander's desk were actually of his wife, I'd be inclined to stay out all night.

Dave obviously knew what I was thinking. ‘At least the commander won't be in today, guv.'

‘Why not, Dave?' I wondered if our boss was on annual leave.

‘It's Sunday, guv.'

You see what I mean about Dave thinking of things I don't think of?

Colin Wilberforce, the incident room manager, and an invaluable administrative genius, had already begun the task of documenting our latest murder. So far, he had declined to take the inspectors' promotion examination, even though I keep encouraging him to do so, but only half-heartedly. It will be a sad day for HSCC West if ever he's promoted and posted elsewhere.

‘Message from Doctor Mortlock, sir,' said Colin. ‘Post-mortem is at twelve noon at Horseferry Road.'

‘But I've no doubt he'll have managed to get his eighteen holes in,' said Dave.

‘What have you to tell me, Henry?' I asked. We'd arrived at the mortuary at twelve only to find that Mortlock had completed his examination.

‘Bloody disaster, Harry,' said Mortlock, peeling off his latex gloves.