An Unfamiliar Murder (2 page)

Chapter Two

Detective
Chief Inspector Helen
Lavery
was standing beside the
toilet, watching her fifteen year old son retch and cast out the poisoned
contents of his stomach like an overflowing drainage pipe, when her mobile
phone rang.

“Damn! Hold on a minute, Matthew,” she said, patting his shoulder before
walking out of the room. He looked up helplessly. The truth was that he
couldn’t hold on even if he had wanted to.

She reached into her pocket as she crossed the landing, answering on the
fifth ring, just before the voicemail kicked in.

“Yes?”

 
“Ma'am, this is Inspector
Henton
. I’m sorry to bother you this evening, but you are
the duty SIO.” It was a statement more than a question, as if he sensed her irritation,
the intrusion into her evening.

“Yes, I believe so,” she replied, reaching down to grab a notebook and
pen from her bedside table. “What do you have for me?”

“Uniform were called to a flat in Little Hampstead at 6pm this evening,
where they found a body with multiple stab wounds. Paramedics have certified it
dead and the Duty DI is on the scene.” The control room Inspector’s voice was
rushed, keen to pass on this information, as if the end of his shift were
approaching.

“Any suspects?” Helen asked as she opened her wardrobe, her fingers
flicking through the endless hanging clothes, most of which hadn’t been worn in
years.

“Only the informant, an Anna Cottrell, who claims she arrived home from
work to find the body of a stranger in her flat.”

“Who is the Inspector on the scene?” she said, as she crossed the room
and rummaged through the washing basket, pulling out a white, jersey shirt.

“Acting DI Townsend.” Helen closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and sat
down on the edge of the bed, tucking a stray strand of her dark, bobbed hair
behind her left ear as she dug through the archives of her brain, recalling her
memories of Simon Townsend.

During her first year in the force they had worked on the same shift. His
nickname was ‘Cuff’ because he was known for cuffing off jobs, choosing to do
as little as possible. His reputation for being lecherous was legendary and
none of the female officers liked to be crewed up with him. But there was one
incident that was soldered onto her brain cells.

On one particular night shift he was paired with a junior WPC, Janet
Bland, a new recruit just out of training. They were tasked with staking out an
industrial estate which had experienced a number of burglaries in recent
months. They arrived by car and were required to patrol the area on foot every
couple of hours.

Whilst alone on patrol the WPC was accosted by three male assailants.
Although she managed to shout for assistance on her radio, by the time
emergency support arrived, she had been badly beaten. Townsend claimed that it
had happened while he had momentarily broken contact to relieve his bladder
nearby.

Bland was in hospital for six weeks afterwards, and did not return to the
force. Helen never found out whether this was due to the extent of her injuries
(which included cracked ribs, a broken femur and a detached retina), or as a
result of the mental trauma the incident had caused. Janet, while refusing to
make a formal complaint, later confided to her colleagues that Townsend had chosen
to sleep in the car, rather than accompany her on patrol. The episode cast a shadow
over the whole station for many months afterwards.

Whether or not Townsend was disciplined, Helen was too junior in rank at
the time to know. However, he transferred to the Metropolitan police shortly
afterwards. She’d heard that he had been promoted to sergeant a couple of years
ago and then returned to the
Hamptonshire
force last
year when his marriage broke up, but their paths had not crossed. Until now.
She wondered how anybody, even a reformed character, with Townsend’s background
could rise through the ranks to Acting Inspector.

 
“Ma’am?” The voice at the other
end of the line jolted her back to the present. “Would you like his mobile
number?”

“No, I have it,” she lied. “Is there a Duty DS on scene?” she asked,
hopeful.

“Yes, DS Pemberton.” Helen blew out a long breath, casting her eyes to
the ceiling in relief. “I will take his mobile number please.” She scribbled
down the digits, clicked to end the call and quickly changed out of her jeans
and sweater into the tired looking suit she had picked out, breathing in to
fasten the size twelve trousers. She threw the shirt over her head, donned the
jacket and reached over to grab her mobile phone, punching in DS Pemberton’s
number. He answered on the second ring.

“DS Pemberton?” The thick, Northern accent disclosed his Yorkshire roots.

“Sergeant, this is DCI
Lavery
. I’m the duty SIO
this evening. What do we have?” she said as she scrambled around the bedroom,
lifting the remote, moving books off the bedside table, in search of her watch.

“Have the control room not briefed you?” he asked, an indication of
surprise in his voice.

“In your own words, Sergeant.”

“Certainly, ma’am
 
. . . Well,
control room were called to 22a Flax Street, Little Hampstead at six o’clock
this evening by a twenty four year old female who claimed that she had returned
home from work to find the door forced and the stabbed body of a white male,
approximately fifty years old, in her flat. An ambulance was called who
certified death at six fifteen, and I arrived while the paramedics were on
site.” He articulated these facts efficiently and she was impressed by his
competence, as always. Helen had worked with DS Pemberton for a couple of
months on ‘Operation Sandy’ the previous year, where she had led a team seeking
to reduce the number of distraction burglaries in
Hamptonshire
.
He was an old school detective with plenty of experience.

“What action has been taken, so far?” she asked authoritatively, as her
eyes found her watch, laid on top of the bookcase.

“DI Townsend is with me. Would you like a word?”

“In a moment, Sergeant, please continue.” Helen reached over and grabbed
her watch, precariously balancing the phone between her chin and neck whilst
fastening the catch.

“Err
 
. . . Of course.” There was a
trace of perception in his voice, betraying his awareness of the Inspector’s
reputation. “Uniform cordoned off the area, preserving the crime scene. They
called out the Force Medical Examiner who is here now and the Scenes of Crime
officers, who have just arrived, and took an initial account of events from the
suspect. We have started house to house within the vicinity and are just
waiting for the pathologist.”

“What do we know about the suspect?”

“Very little, ma’am, she has no previous record. She works as a teacher
in a local school, has lived in the flat for two years and claims that the
victim is a complete stranger to her.”

 
“Any weapon, Sergeant?”

“A carving knife was found at the scene.”

Helen narrowed her eyes in concentration as her pen briskly scribbled
notes on the pad. “Where is the suspect now?”

“She has been arrested and escorted to the station. She was found by the
entrance to the room where the body was found, ma’am, knife beside her.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t let anybody move anything
and make sure the Crime Scene Manager logs every movement, both into and out of
the house. I’m sure that I don’t need to stress to you, Sergeant, that we don’t
want any contamination on potential evidence.” Helen cringed as the words flew
out of her mouth before she was able to stop them. DS Pemberton was a seasoned
detective who would be well aware that this was the first time she had headed a
murder investigation. Coupled with the fact that she only served a short spate
in CID as a Detective Sergeant during her ten year service (a constraint of the
accelerated promotion scheme), she knew that she had a lot to prove. And she
also knew that her every move would be scrutinized not only by her superiors,
but also by her own team.

She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Sergeant. I will speak to Inspector
Townsend now.”

“Of course, ma’am.” She could hear a momentary shuffle in the background
as the phone was handed over. Townsend must have been standing right next to
him.

“Good Evening, ma’am. I
 
. . .”

Helen cut in. “Good Evening, Inspector,” she said and, not wishing to
invite conversation, quickly continued, “When you have familiarized yourself
with the crime scene can you please get back and secure us an incident room? I
believe Cross Keys is the nearest station to the

“It is,” he replied.

“Good. Then I’ll leave it to you to set things up. The press will be
crawling all over this very soon and we need to be prepared. And then start
calling in the DCs,” she paused for a moment, rubbing her forehead. “I’ll call
you back before you do that. OK?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you at the station.” She clicked the button to end
the call and started jotting down names of particular detectives for her homicide
team.

*
* *

Just over
twenty minutes later Helen flashed her badge at the PC, who was blowing hot air
into his hands, rubbing them together and stamping his feet in an effort to
keep warm. He moved aside, allowing her to walk through the gap between the
houses and climb the rear steps which led to the entrance of Flat 22a. As she
arrived at the entrance hall she could see DS Pemberton, talking to a gentleman
in a long, black coat with his back to her.

“Detective.” She nodded to DS Pemberton and immediately the black coated
figure turned to face her.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed.

“Good Evening Charles,” she said, relieved that out of the limited number
of pathologists that serviced their area she had struck gold. Dr. Charles
Burlington was captivated by his work, his lengthy career providing him with a
wealth of experience.

“Helen, my dear, how lovely to see you!” His face lit up as he stretched
out his hand, but she didn’t miss the glint of surprise in his eyes. She shook
his hand warmly and smiled.

“How are those little boys?” he asked, as he recovered himself and stood
back to survey her fully.

“Oh, you know, teenagers,” she replied, the smile still tickling her
lips.

“Teenagers. Really?” he raised his eyebrows. “Then it really must be
quite a few years since we saw each other. Do give them a slap on the back from
their uncle Charles. I’m sure I must owe them both a rugby tackle.”

“I think Matthew would give you a run for your money these days. He must
be six inches taller than you,” she laughed. A warm feeling encased her. It was
good to see Charles. He had been a great friend to her late father, and the
family. They had resolved to stay in touch after the funeral though work,
family routine and moving house had restricted their contact for many years to Christmas
cards. She noticed that his thick, curly brown hair had transformed to white
and crows’ feet had crept in around the eyes, but in spite of his age he still
kept himself trim.

“How is Sarah?” she asked, creasing her forehead, trying to think when
she had last seen her.
It must have been
John’s funeral,
she thought to herself. John, Helen’s husband, had died
suddenly in 2000. Helen remembered Charles’ devoted wife fondly. She was one of
those women who had given up her job as soon as their first child had been
born, and once they had grown up and left home, had dedicated her life to
gardening, home cooking and exercising the family Collie.

“Simply marvelous, running around after the grandchildren these days,
reliving her childhood,” he replied. Silence followed as he started to look
around the blood-bathed room. “And what do we have here?” He was focusing on
the corpse now, sat up against the large sofa which dominated the room. “Are
you working on this one?” he added, turning his attention back to her.

“Heading the investigation actually,” she replied, watching the surprise
in his eyes warm to comprehension. “So, I’m going to need your help Charles.”

“Well, well. We are doing well. Following in your father’s footsteps, I
see?” James
Lavery
had dedicated the majority of his
career to the Homicide Team in
Hamptonshire
. It was
his stories, his enthusiasm for the job, sheer tenacity and desire to make a
difference that had rubbed off on Helen during her formative years. Leading the
Homicide Team had been her ambition for as long as she could remember.

His eyes spanned back over the room. “We’d better get started then.” She
watched him move over towards the body, encased in his own world of forensic
pathology and turned back to face the Sergeant.

DS Pemberton was an imposing sight, a bear of a man in height and width
with a shiny, bald head. The last ten of his twenty years in the force had been
served as a detective and, having worked on the homicide team for five years
before moving out to Area, he was completely comfortable in this environment.

“Good Evening, ma’am,” he said, his voice so deep it sounded as though it
had been lifted from the pit of his stomach. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Sean. And you?”

He nodded. “Can’t grumble.”

Helen turned and looked over the scene properly for the first time. “So
what do we know about this chap?” Pemberton started shaking his head before she
even completed her sentence. “No wallet? Doesn’t anybody recognize him?” she
asked. With the amount of police staff and civilians that had passed through
this room in the last hour, it was very possible that somebody might have recognized
him.