An Unfamiliar Murder (7 page)

Helen couldn’t resist a quick grin. Jane
Lavery
was a very ‘hands on’ grandmother. Then, thoughts of her own day darkened her
face. “You know, the usual. Frustrating - hindered by the fact that I have an
incompetent Inspector who is negative in front of the staff and conspicuous by
his absence, most of the time.”

“Oh. Not good. Anyone I know?” Married to James for the majority of his
service, Jane
Lavery
had become the quintessential ‘police
wife’. Together their social circle was dominated by faces or partners of faces
from within the force. A circle which reduced slightly after James’ retirement
and more so after his death, but there were still a few names that she
maintained contact with, from time to time.

“Townsend. Simon Townsend. Just come back from the Met. He used to work
here eight years ago.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“Anyway,” Helen said, keen to change the subject, “we are not going to
discuss work tonight. I’m making dinner.”

“I was thinking we should have a takeaway. What about Chinese?”

Helen looked at her mother in surprise. “You, eat Chinese on a Sunday?
Are you feeling alright?”

She shrugged one shoulder, tilting her head to the side. “Forgot to take
the meat out of the freezer.”

Helen stared at her for a moment. It wasn’t like Jane
Lavery
to be so disorganized. Her mother was still talking about the meat, the
freezer, her day, when Robert walked into the room, breaking her train of
thought. “
Ahhh
, Robert, fancy a Chinese?” Jane asked
quickly.

“Yeah, great!” he said. Helen wondered at how easily her children could
be persuaded by the lure of a takeaway.

“Oh! But I was going to cook . . .” She watched them share a glance, a
smile. She felt the conspiracy, could see it in their eyes.

 
“Aww come on, Mum,” pleaded
Robert.

“OK, OK,” she replied, lifting her hands in the air. “I’ll admit defeat.
Chinese takeaway it is.”

As Robert dashed out of the room to look for menus Helen’s mother looked
back at her, her eyes holding the kind of intimacy you only experience with the
closest people in your life. “How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” she said. “How’s
Matty
been?”

“Back to normal. We haven’t let him out of our sight all weekend.”

“He just grunted at me in the hallway.”

Her mother rolled her shoulders. “Hormones. A teenager’s prerogative.”

Just then Matthew and Robert crashed into the kitchen, already arguing
over the menu that Robert clutched fervently. It would appear that the takeaway
was a very popular idea.

An hour later, they all sat down to a wide selection of Chinese food, all
helping themselves to portions of their favorite dishes, all talking at once.
Even Matthew seemed to have relaxed. Helen opened a bottle of red wine and
everybody laughed when Matthew balked at the smell. She sat back and surveyed
her family. They each looked so happy, so healthy. She thought of Jim
McCafferty
and his sad life, his bare home. Right now, she
felt truly blessed.

When dinner was over she helped Robert with his homework whilst her
mother stacked the dishwasher. Bodies started to disappear. Robert went up to
bed and Matthew retreated to his room.

Her mother finished her wine and placed her glass on the table. “Well,
that’s me,” she said, her voice slurring slightly.

“Sure you don’t want to share the last few drops?” said Helen, holding up
the bottle, tilting her head to one side cheekily.

“I think I’ve had enough.” Jane
Lavery
rose
from her seat, wobbling slightly. “That was a lovely evening. Thank you,” she
said.

Helen chuckled to herself. Her mother had never been able to take her
drink. “See you in the morning,” she said as she watched her shuffle out of the
room, then called after her, “Take it easy!”

After pouring the remainder of the wine into her glass she relaxed back
into her chair. It had been a pleasant evening. Her family were fed and
content. She pressed her lips together as her mind wandered.
Family, it’s a funny thing.
You can’t choose your blood relatives. In
fact, it’s a bonus if you get along with them at all.

She took another sip of wine and let her mind wander further. What was
missing? A partner. Someone to cuddle up with on cold nights, share the last
few drops of wine with, someone to have dinner with her family, watch a DVD, go
to the theatre, make love – she couldn’t remember the last time that had
happened.
How sad is that?
Over the
years she had indulged a few affairs, but they were restricted to quick flings
on training courses and petered out soon thereafter. Where would she meet
anyone like that? Somebody she could truly share her life with?

Not in the job, that’s for sure. The police force was well known for its
incestuous relationships. It was also renowned for the fact that it had the
highest divorce rate of any profession in the UK. No, it would need to be
somebody outside of the job, she was convinced of that. And who would want to
have a relationship with a thirty six year old widow with two teenage kids who
still lived with her mother? Not exactly an exciting prospect. Her sad relationship
prospects still on her mind, she reached for her laptop, pulled it out of the
bag and switched it on.

The investigation. They had no real leads, were in pursuit of no
recognized suspects. She had seen the concern in her mother’s eyes earlier,
recognized that same look before as Jane
Lavery
watched her own husband, in the midst of a murder enquiry, work painstakingly
around the clock in pursuit of that hidden clue, that small scrap of evidence,
that would lead him to the killer.
What
would James do?

Helen chewed the side of her lip. This was the reason that Helen joined
the police force. For
this
job. She
wasn’t ambitious in the material sense. She had never wanted to attend
meaningless meetings, making meaningless decisions, chase meaningless
statistics to impress her superiors or the politicians that ultimately called
the shots. To lead a murder investigation, to catch the bad guy, to be like her
dad. But what if she wasn’t good enough? What if she had just been kidding
herself all these years?

Whilst the
battery was coming to life she looked up at the kitchen clock. It was ten
o’clock.

Chapter Six

Cross Keys
police station was located just off the main ring road roundabout, a brick
built 1980s construction, originally intended to be the new Hampton HQ.
However, by the time the building was complete the trend for out of town
headquarters had begun. Instead it became a new sub-station to address the
needs of a rapidly expanding city. Over the years it had been extended in the
form of two portable units, erected on the tennis courts at the back of the
building, next to the car park. It was one of these units that housed the
incident room.

By the time Helen had reached the car park a drizzle had started, the
result of soft rain clouds moving in overnight. It was that kind of fine,
constant rain that deceived you into not using an umbrella, but soaked you in
minutes. She crossed the car park quickly and entered at the back door.

The incident room was dark. She switched on the main lights and made her
way into her office, hung her damp jacket over the back of the chair, tucked
her wet hair behind her ears and leant down to fish her notes from her
briefcase. Resting her elbow on the table, head on hand, she went through her
log book from beginning to end, making endless lists and notes that would form
the basis of her morning briefing. If she was going to miss anything, it wasn’t
for the want of trying.

Some time later a phone rang in the distance and she looked up to see
that, oblivious to her, the office had come to life. So consumed in her work,
she had ignored the gentle hum of computer fans, the murmur of voices, the
sound of keyboards clicking.

A few moments later there was a knock on her office door. She looked up
as DS Pemberton peered around the door before she had time to respond.

“Morning!”

“Morning Sean. What can I do for you?”

He lifted a pad and read notes from it. “Miss Cottrell called to ask when
she can have her bike back, Andrew Steiner phoned from The Hampton Herald and
the Super’s on his way over. He flashed his eyes up at her as a warning at the
last remark.

 
“Thank you, Sergeant.” She nodded
as Pemberton retreated, quickly moving papers around her desk to represent some
kind of tidiness. Although having worked for Superintendent Jenkins for three
months, Helen could not claim any more acquaintance with him than on the day
they had first met. An acutely private man, he never discussed his personal
life. She often wondered if he even had one. His dark eyes penetrated the
surface, as if to read your thoughts, but gave nothing away in return. His
intensity, only rarely broken by the odd smirk or joke (usually of his own
making), and lack of personal contact made for an awkward working relationship.

When she looked up again Superintendent Jenkins was strolling across the
incident room to her office. In his mid fifties, his head boasted a full head
of grey hair which was remarkable in contrast to his thick black eyebrows and
lashes.

“Morning, Helen. How’s it going?”

She stood and nodded at him. “Morning, sir. Fine, thank you.”

“You’ve charged your suspect then.” He looked across at her in mock
surprise.

She forced a polite smile and asked, “Did you read the report I emailed
you?” as they both seated themselves, either side of the desk.

“Yes.” He wiped a fleck of dust from the sleeve of his jacket and raised
his head to look at her. “Any developments? Some new evidence, a sudden
breakthrough, maybe?” A crooked smile tickled his lips. He continued to tease
her, although she picked up the serious undertone. It was certainly in
everyone’s interests for this case to be cleared from the statistics as quickly
as possible – and Superintendent Jenkins was well known for his dislike of
protracted investigations.

“No, sir, no change. We are waiting on forensics and DNA which I have
fast tracked so they should be back this morning.”

“Fast tracked,” he replied, nodding to himself. “Good. “

“From what I understood, this looked like an open and shut case,” he
said, his brow creasing as he adjusted his position and crossed one leg over
the other, a gesture which made his body appear at an angle.

“As you can see there appears to be much more to it,” she replied.

“Your report was certainly very detailed.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure whether or not this was a compliment.

“Why don’t you brief me on what I need to know?” His eyes, now serious,
fixed upon her.

He hasn’t read it
, she thought.
She considered mentioning that she had stayed up until midnight preparing it,
but decided against it.

Helen sighed inwardly, then relayed an overview of the case. As she
finished she added, “We are now looking at the possibilities that our victim
may have been killed by a third party, since Anna Cottrell appears to have a
substantiated alibi. We are building up a profile of the victim and looking
into Miss Cottrell’s background . . .”

“The removal of the tattoo bothers me,” he interrupted, rubbing his chin.

Helen considered this point. Further examination of Jim
McCafferty’s
police record confirmed that he had a ‘love
heart’ tattoo at the top of his left arm. Officers at the time had reported
that there was some illegible writing inside the heart (the letters were all
smudged together) and
McCafferty
had refused to
clarify. Helen pondered the significance of its removal herself. Why did the
killer remove it? Did it have anything to do with the words contained within
the heart?

“We’ve run it through the police national computer and carried out checks
with national agencies,” Helen said. “So far, we cannot find any cases which
share the same characteristics, either an obsession with tattoos or skinning in
general.”

“I still don’t like it,” he continued. More chin rubbing. He stared into
space. “Helen, I think you might benefit from some assistance on this case,
perhaps from an experienced Senior Investigator?”

She stared at him warily. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if it is more complex than we originally thought, as it certainly
appears . . .” He rubbed his chin again. “I wonder if George Sawford would be
free for a few days?”

A feeling of dread hit Helen. She had rubbed shoulders with DCI Sawford
in the past and whilst she had to agree he boasted a wealth of experience at
managing murder investigations, he was certainly not known as a team player. If
George was brought into the investigation, with her lack of knowledge and
experience she would almost certainly be marginalized. “I don’t think that’s
necessary, sir. We still have plenty of leads to follow and I’m confident that
the
victimology
profile will lead us to the killer.”

He sat back and surveyed her for a moment. “This is not a criticism,
Helen. George would work alongside you, as a mentor more than anything. We need
to be sure that we don’t miss anything that a possible Review Team might pick
up.”

“It’s a bit early for a Review Team, sir.” Independent Review Teams
carried out an audit of investigations that reached a dead end, usually between
two and six weeks after the crime.

“I’m quite aware of that Helen. But we need to show that, at every stage,
we have taken the correct course of action. Imagine if there is a complaint to
the Police Complaints Authority? They’ll home in on this being your first major
inquiry and scrutinize your every move.”

Helen took a deep breath to keep herself calm and chose her words
carefully. “I appreciate the offer, sir. And yes, perhaps it would help to have
somebody to bounce ideas off, should I need it. But I don’t need another SIO on
the case yet. Give me a chance. Please?”

He sat back and stared at her. “Fair enough, I’ll give you a few more
days. Keep me updated on any developments. I’ll have June email you George’s
number, just in case.”

That’s you covering your back in
case I mess up
, thought Helen.

 
“Anything else?”

 
“I wanted to have a word with you
about Acting Inspector Townsend.” She emphasized the word ‘acting’ hoping it
would add some weight to her argument.

“Sean Townsend. Good man by all accounts, just joined us from the Met.”

“Yes, but rather lacking in motivation.” She was tempted to include his
lack of experience, but, in view of the Super’s reservations in her own
abilities, decided against it.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll pull him round.”

“That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be my Deputy, but he spent half the
briefing smoking a fag in the car park the other night.” Superintendent
Jenkins’ eyes widened at this remark. She’d finally got his attention. “Look, sir,
in view of what you’ve just said, I think assigning a dedicated DI, with major
incident experience,
within
the team
would be a better idea . . .”

“Helen, I don’t need to tell you that we have a real shortage of
substantive Detective Inspectors at the moment,” he interrupted, dismissively. “Hell,
your own DI is on extended leave in Australia. And I’ve still got
officers investigating the train crash near Worthington at the weekend. That’s without
all the officers we’ve lost, or are about to lose - those leaving the provinces,
lured by the inflated pay packages of the Met. We need to encourage more people
like Townsend back.”

“But, sir, I . . .”

“I’m sure it’s just teething problems. Show him who’s boss and he’ll soon
pull into line.” He jumped up, making it clear the conversation was at an end.

 
“Let me know as soon as you have
anything. We need something to feed to the press, and fast. As soon as they
find out our principle suspect has been released they’ll be all over this like
a rash. This is sensational heaven for the pen boys.”

“Yes, sir.” She slumped back into her chair, defeated, as he left,
shouting ‘Morning’ across the office to Townsend, no doubt to rub further salt
into the wounds. Whatever happened, she needed a result fast.

Helen fiddled with her papers, then grabbed her bag and headed out of her
office, through the incident room, and out of the building into the fresh air.
She reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of Dunhill’s and an old
blue, plastic lighter that she kept there for emergencies. She stood under the
doorway, sheltered from the damp drizzle as she lit the cigarette and took a
long, deep drag. It felt good. She hadn’t been a regular smoker in years, but,
every now and then, she needed to indulge.

There was a flurry of activity in the incident room when she returned a
few minutes later. When she reached her office, DS Pemberton and DI Townsend
were waiting for her. She looked around at them, anger still clouding her
vision. “Is there a problem?”

“Ma’am, the DNA results are back,” Townsend said, handing her a buff, A4
file. There was a change to his attitude. A certain enthusiasm he had lacked
previously.
Perhaps the Super has had a
quiet word with him after all?

“No forensics?” she asked.

“No, not yet, but these are just in and you really need to read them,”
Pemberton interjected, failing to disguise the excitement in his voice. She
stared at them. They were both glowing, like delighted little boys on Christmas
morning.

“What do you mean?” she asked as she opened the file.

“You are not gonna believe it,” Pemberton said.

She looked up at the detective, frustrated. “Well, spit it out, whatever
it is. It’s going to take me a good ten minutes to read this and you’ve
obviously already . . .”

“There’s a family link.”

“What?” She screwed up her forehead, perplexed, not sure whether to
listen to the detective or start reading the report first.

“There’s a link in DNA between the suspect and the victim.” Pemberton
looked triumphant.

Helen stared at him in astonishment. “How do you mean?”

“Jim
McCafferty
is a member of Anna Cottrell’s
family. A very close member.”

*
* *

It seemed to
Anna that a dark cloud of mist had descended over the Cottrell household when
she got up the next morning. Breakfast in the kitchen with her father was a
sober affair. Few words were spoken and those only out of necessity. After
lunch, the day before, her mother had retired to her bedroom with a migraine,
not to be seen again. Her father had disappeared into the garden until dark,
then gone to bed under the pretence of an ‘early night’. He appeared cagey, as
if he were walking a tightrope of despair, as if at any moment she would ask an
awkward question and he would tumble off into doom. But she didn’t feel like
asking questions today. In fact, she was probably the only person in the
country who was really looking forward to going to work on this Monday morning,
restoring some kind of normality to her life. Questions could wait until later.

She had just finished her coffee when she heard the phone ring. Her
father answered it and passed it over. “It’s your boss.”

Anna reached for the handset and wandered into the lounge. “Hi, Jason.
I’ll be there in a half an hour,” she said, reaching down to stroke Cookie’s
head.

 
“How are you, Anna?” His tone
sounded uncomfortable. Cookie purred and nestled up closer to her ankles.

“I’m OK,” she hesitated, not too sure how much he knew. No doubt the
grapevine would be well at work already, and that was if the police hadn’t
spoken to him. “I just want to get everything back to normal really.”

“No problem. I can see that. But I’m sure that you’ll need some time to
sort out your home and things. We can arrange some special leave, Anna, in view
of the circumstances.”

“Oh that’s alright. I’m staying with my folks at the moment. I don’t need
. . .”