All Quiet on Arrival (3 page)

‘In what way?' I asked innocently. After all these years, I should have known better.

‘I sliced into the rough at the very first hole, and it just went downhill from then on.'

‘Should play on a level golf course, Doctor,' observed Dave quietly.

‘Tough,' I said, ‘but what about her?' I pointed at the body of the woman we believed to be Diana Barton.

‘As I said at the scene, Harry, death was due to multiple frontal stab wounds, and my original assessment of death having occurred about five hours previously still stands.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Yes.' Mortlock smiled a lascivious smile. ‘She'd recently had unprotected sexual intercourse.'

‘How recent?'

‘Sometime during the two or three hours preceding her death, I'd say. And before you ask, I've recovered a semen deposit.'

‘T
ell me about this suspicious death that you're dealing with, Mr Brock.' On Monday morning the commander appeared in the incident room on the stroke of ten o'clock. He would never call a murder a murder just in case it turned out to be manslaughter or suicide, or was eventually proved to be an accident that did not call for police action. In common with real detectives, I call a murder a topping, but the commander is not only a careful man, he is one who abhors slang. He would never call me Harry either. I suppose he was afraid that I'd address him by
his
first name, and that would probably cause him to have a seizure.

I explained what we knew of Diana Barton's death, which wasn't very much. In fact, we weren't even sure that she
was
Diana Barton. Linda Mitchell had taken fingerprints from the body, but there was no match in the central records. No surprise there; I didn't expect her – assuming it to be Diana – to have any previous convictions.

‘Doctor Mortlock has recovered semen from the body, sir,' I told the commander, ‘and we're awaiting the result of DNA tests.'

‘House-to-house enquiries?' asked the commander loftily, as though he were thoroughly conversant with what we call ‘first steps at the scene of a crime'.

‘Enquiries are ongoing, sir,' I said. ‘The only witnesses, if they could be called witnesses, were a man called Porter who lived next door, and a Donald Baxter who lived opposite. He was the one who called the fire brigade.'

‘Good, good. Keep me informed,' said the commander, and turned on his heel, doubtless to take refuge in his piles of paper. He loves paper, does the commander. I doubt that he'd be much good in the field of criminal investigation, but he can write a blistering memorandum when the mood takes him.

What I hadn't told the commander, because he would immediately think of disciplinary sanctions, was that Mr Porter of 25 Tavona Street had earlier called the police to a disturbance at the Bartons' house.

I was now awaiting, with eager anticipation, the arrival of the two officers who had attended. They were off duty today, but murder enquiries take no account of officers' welfare. First thing this morning, Dave Poole had sent a message to Chelsea police station demanding their attendance at Curtis Green at three o'clock.

At five past three, Dave ushered the two PCs into my office.

‘PCs Holmes and Watson, sir,' said Dave, a broad grin on his face.

‘You wanted to see us, sir?' asked one of the PCs nervously. Both were dressed in what passes for plain clothes among young coppers today.

The PC's apprehension was understandable. There is a constant fear among policemen that whenever a senior officer from another unit sends for them, they immediately think ‘complaint'.

‘Are you really called Holmes and Watson?' I asked, as I indicated that Dave should remain.

‘Yes, sir,' said Watson.

‘How come you finish up doing duty on the same instant response car? Coincidence, is it?'

‘No, sir,' said Holmes. ‘It's the duties sergeant's idea of a joke. Unfortunately, whenever I say I'm PC Holmes, and this is PC Watson, people think we're having them on.'

I laughed, and putting aside the Chelsea duties sergeant's impish sense of humour, got down to the business in hand. ‘Which one of you called at twenty-seven Tavona Street on Saturday night? Or did you both call?'

‘It was me, sir,' said Watson. ‘And it was actually Sunday morning. We got the call at twelve ten and arrived on scene at twelve sixteen.'

‘I'm the driver, sir, and I remained in the car,' said Holmes, ‘in case there was another call.' He seemed pleased at having made such a decision now that Watson's actions were being questioned.

‘Of course,' I said, and turned to Watson. ‘So tell me about this disturbance.'

Having heard that a dead body had been found at 27 Tavona Street not long after he had called there, Watson was justifiably anxious. I suppose he could visualize disciplinary proceedings for neglect of duty, and everything else that went with such a charge. He was probably wondering whether he should ask for the attendance of his Police Federation representative. Believe me, once an investigating officer starts digging, you'd be surprised what he can come up with. Like incorrectly completed forms, inaccurate incident report book entries, a disparity between the times in said document and in the car's logbook, and Lord knows what else. I know because I've been on the wrong end of a disciplinary enquiry, and it's not a comfortable experience. And to think that the public is convinced that we whitewash complaints.

Personally, I felt rather sorry for Holmes and Watson – there but for the grace of God et cetera – but their commander would probably take an entirely different view once the facts were laid before him.

‘A man called Carl Morgan answered the door, sir,' said Watson, referring to his notes.

‘Did you verify that name?' I asked. ‘Did you ask for proof of identity, for example?'

‘Er, no, sir. I didn't think it was necessary.'

‘Go on.'

‘The man Morgan was wearing jeans, and was stripped to the waist. Oh, and he was holding a woman's bra, sir.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He apologized for the disturbance, and told me that it was now quiet, and that most of the guests had left the house. Then a woman appeared, sir. She was dressed in a thong and nothing else. Oh, and she had two butterflies tattooed on her stomach.'

‘Did the bra he was holding belong to this woman?' asked Dave as though it were of vital importance.

‘I don't know, Skip.' Watson, in common with many others, including me, didn't always appreciate when Dave was exercising his sense of humour. ‘Anyway, the man Morgan called her Shell, presumably short for Shelley. She only stayed at the door for a minute or so, and then went back into the house.'

‘How old was this woman?' I asked.

Watson thought for a moment or two. ‘Middle to late twenties, I should think. She had long black hair, shoulder-length,' he added, as though that might help. ‘And she had a bit of meat on her. Good figure, not like some of those anorexic models you see in women's mags.'

‘And I suppose you didn't take her full name,' suggested Dave, with sufficient scepticism in his voice to imply that Watson had not done his job properly.

‘No, Skip.' Watson was beginning to look quite miserable by now. Meanwhile, Holmes stood silently aloof, undoubtedly thankful that he'd stayed in the car while Watson was making his enquiries. Even so, he probably wasn't too hopeful that he'd escape any flack that was going. He knew instinctively that once an investigating officer started issuing Forms 163 – notice of complaint – that he'd get one too.

‘And you marked the log “All quiet on arrival”, did you?' I asked, well knowing the answer.

‘Yes, sir,' said Watson unhappily. I imagined that he was thinking how easy it was for blokes like me to be wise after the event. ‘It's all right for the bloody guv'nors' is a phrase often heard among ‘canteen lawyers'.

‘We've not told the press that this is a murder enquiry, so I don't want them to hear about it from you. Understood?' Regrettably, there were coppers who'd happily part with confidential information for the price of a large Scotch, but perversely would be outraged by the offer of a straightforward bribe.

‘Yes, sir,' said the two PCs in unison. They were probably hoping that no one else would hear about it either for fear that a finger, most likely mine, would point in their direction.

I turned to Dave. ‘Take these two officers into the incident room, and get as full a description as possible of the two people at Tavona Street he spoke to.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Dave, and frowned. He always called me ‘sir' in the presence of strangers: police and public. If he called me ‘sir' in private it usually meant that I'd made a ridiculous comment. As for his frown, I assumed that was because I'd ended a sentence with a preposition.

‘And then take Watson to the mortuary. I want to be certain that the woman he spoke to was not the woman whose body was later found in the master bedroom.'

‘From Watson's description, sir,' said Dave, ‘there would appear to be quite a disparity in the ages of the two women.'

‘I know,' I said, ‘but from what we know of Watson's action so far, he could have been mistaken about that, too.'

Watson looked decidedly dejected, as well he should.

‘Yes, sir,' said Dave.

As Dave and the PCs departed, Colin Wilberforce came into my office. ‘I've just taken a call from Chelsea, sir. A Mr James Barton went into the nick about ten minutes ago, wanting to know why his house was boarded up, and what had happened.'

‘Tell Dave Poole to hand over those two PCs to someone else to take descriptions, Colin, and to get hold of a car. Oh, and tell him not to bother about getting someone to take Watson to view the body. At least, not yet. I think we might be about to solve that particular problem.'

Minutes later we were on our way to Chelsea police station.

James Barton was a tall, spare, silver-haired man of advancing years. He stood up when Dave and I entered the lobby of the police station. We escorted him into an interview room.

‘I'm Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Mr Barton, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. Please sit down.'

‘What on earth has happened, Chief Inspector?' asked Barton. ‘I got home from a trip abroad this morning, and found that my house had caught fire. The police here seemed unwilling to tell me what had happened. Either that or they don't know. And where's my wife?'

This was the difficult part, the part that policemen dislike the most. Over the years I've had occasion to tell many people of the death of their nearest and dearest, and it doesn't get any easier. The worst is having to tell parents that their young daughter has been the victim of some paedophiliac killer.

‘After the fire was put out, sir, one of the brigade officers found the dead body of a woman in the main bedroom. We think it might be your wife,' I said quietly.

‘It couldn't have been anyone else. We live there alone.'

‘So I understand, sir,' I said. ‘However, before we can be certain that the body is that of your wife, I'm going to have to ask you to identify it.'

‘Was it the fire that killed my wife, Chief Inspector?' Despite not having seen the body, he seemed convinced that the victim
was
his wife.

‘No, sir, it wasn't the fire. The brigade put it out before it reached the upper floors.'

‘Was it smoke inhalation, then?' Barton asked the question in an absent manner, as though he was having great trouble in taking in this news.

‘She had been stabbed several times, Mr Barton.'

‘You mean murdered?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid so.'

‘But who could have done such a thing?'

‘That's what I'm trying to discover, sir.'

‘It couldn't be anyone else but my wife, surely?' Although Barton looked at me with a piercing, questioning stare, he was really expressing his thoughts aloud.

‘As I emphasized just now, Mr Barton, we shan't know until the body's identified. What's more, our enquiries are being hampered to a certain extent because there had been a party at your house,' I said, and went on to tell him about the call to a disturbance that Holmes and Watson had attended.

‘A party? But why on earth should there have been a party at my house? We've always lived a sober existence. Perhaps this isn't Diana that was found. I mean she might have gone away for the weekend. Is it possible that someone could have broken in and held a party? You hear all sorts of things these days about people just turning up somewhere, and holding one of these … what do they call them, a rave party?'

‘Perhaps you're free to go to the mortuary now, sir?' I suggested. I felt sorry for Barton. He was obviously hoping against hope that the dead body was not his wife. But it was time to remove his doubt, and put his mind at rest. Not that learning it
was
Diana would do that.

‘Yes, I suppose so. How do I get there?'

‘We'll take you, Mr Barton,' said Dave.

‘All right, then.' Barton stood up, and glanced at his watch. He now appeared more stooped than when we had entered the interview room, but that was hardly surprising.

‘Had you been abroad on business, Mr Barton?' I asked, as we escorted him out to the police station yard where Dave had parked the car.

‘Yes. I'm a director of a hotel chain, and I visit our hotels abroad from time to time.'

I was surprised at that. Given Barton's apparent age, and having seen the house in which he had lived, he was obviously not short of money. Had I been in his position, I think I'd've called it a day years ago, and enjoyed myself doing nothing.

The identification at the mortuary took only a few seconds. The attendant flicked back the sheet – just enough to uncover the victim's head – and stood back.