The Body in the River Read online

  He continued his examination until he came to her feet. Examining the soles, he said,

  ‘Look here, Superintendent.’

  Brookes did so. ‘I can’t see anything; what am I looking for?’

  ‘That’s the point; there is no debris of any kind on her feet. If she had been walking outside on a pavement or stone, I’d expect to find some debris; wouldn’t you?’

  Brookes nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes I would, unless of course her footwear came off after she was in the water.’

  Turning to his assistant, Bryce-Phillips said, ‘Take her feet, George; let’s turn her over.’

  He took a further ten minutes examining the back of the corpse before looking up again.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I would suggest she was put in the water soon after death as there is no sign of lividity in any one place on her body.’ Looking at Brookes, he added, ‘You know of course that when the heart stops pumping the blood around the body the blood sinks to the lowest point. Had she lain on her back, for example, we would see bruising under the skin and there is none.’

  Brookes frowned. ‘What happens to the lividity if she’s in the water then?’

  ‘A good question. If the water is cold then the blood coagulates quickly. Then of course if the current spins her body around, it remains evenly distributed, which is no doubt why we can see no obvious bruising.’

  Brookes nodded, somewhat dubiously.

  Bryce-Phillips took a pace back. ‘Right, let’s open her up.’ He signalled to his assistant, who pushed the trolley containing his tools closer.

  What followed was not for the squeamish, but Brookes and his DS stood stoically, watching until it was done.

  *

  An hour later, Bryce-Phillips finally snapped off his medical gloves.

  Pulling down his mask, he said, ‘Well that’s it, Superintendent, I can’t find any trace of internal injury beyond that caused by the pantyhose. All her organs are in good nick; no sign of disease anywhere. She did have a meal a short time before her death: looks like some kind of red meat and green veg. Oh, and a glass or two of red wine. We’ll do the usual tests of the stomach contents etcetera; the results should be with us in a few days.

  ‘As far as I can make out, she was a perfectly normal healthy young woman. Sexually active but there’s no sign of recent activity. The cause of death was strangulation caused by the hose tied around her neck. You have a murder on your hands.’

  Brookes frowned. ‘You say she had a meal; how long before her death?’

  ‘Well, the digestion process was not well-advanced; no more than an hour, two at most.’

  Brookes nodded thoughtfully. ‘So if we put it all together, what do we have? From the way she was dressed – formal blouse and skirt and an old cardigan – it appears she may have got home from work, put on the cardigan, and cooked a meal. Then some evil so-and-so kneels on her chest, strangles her with her tights, and throws her in the Thames.’

  Bryce-Phillips nodded. ‘That’s a possible scenario, yes. Maybe she had her boyfriend round for dinner and he didn’t like her cooking.’ He chuckled at his own bad joke.

  Middlemiss spoke for the first time, ‘What I can’t get my head round, boss, is that she lay there and let him do it. Don’t make sense to me.’ He spoke in the broad dialect of his native Bermondsey.

  Bryce-Phillips added, ‘Who knows, perhaps they were into S and M; it’s not that uncommon these days, is it? But wait and see what the lab tests tell us; it is possible that she was drugged.’

  Neither of the detectives answered.

  Eventually, Brookes said, ‘Anything’s possible I suppose. But let’s not speculate too much at this stage. What is certain is that she didn’t strangle herself then throw herself in the river.’ He added, ‘Thanks for your help, Doctor. Please let me know as soon as you have the test results.’

  *

  Chapter 3 – The Identification

  ‘What’s in a name? that which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet.’

  William Shakespeare – Romeo and Juliet

  Detective Inspector Derek Short was Brookes’ office manager. Of medium height and stocky build, he looked more like a solicitor’s clerk than a policeman, and in his early fifties, he was approaching retirement. After a long career as a thief taker he was content now to send others to do the leg work while he used his knowledge and experience to point them in the right direction. With an excellent memory, he made the ideal office manager, and as he was long-divorced and with two grown-up children who’d long flown the nest, he was usually first in the office and last to leave.

  He’d already organised the incident room and gathered the murder team together. Brookes was fussy about who he had on the team. Not counting himself, Short, and Middlemiss, there were six detectives who worked in pairs.

  To help collate the information generated, Sally Barnes, a young clerical officer, manned the computer. She was a tubby girl in her late teens and a wizard on the machine. She had a sharp mind and a ready wit; the older detectives knew her worth and treated her like a favourite niece.

  Short sat at his desk in front of a huge whiteboard. It was blank at the moment but would soon be covered with all the salient points of the investigation as they came in. Displaying it where all team members could see it provided a constant reminder to them of where they were at and where they were going.

  As Brookes and his DS entered the room, the detectives perked up; all were eager to get the show on the road. Brookes nodded to them in passing as he headed for Short’s desk.

  The old DI smiled a greeting. ‘Morning, boss, Fred; how did it go?’

  Brookes replied, ‘Morning, Derek, I’ll fill you in when I brief the team. Anything on mispers yet?’ He used the police shorthand for missing person reports.

  Middlemiss had headed in the direction of the coffee machine, which was the first item of equipment set up in any major enquiry.

  Short nodded. ‘Yes, boss; apart from the usual nutters, there’s one possible. I’ve sent Bob Parrot and Stumpy Gerrard to look into it.’

  ‘Good, anything else come in?’

  ‘We’ve run the victim’s prints; no matches I’m afraid. The rest you know. We got a good response from the TV and press; the statement Press Bureau put out is all over the news. The phones haven’t stopped ringing. But apart from the dross, there’s just the one possible.’

  Middlemiss appeared at Brookes’ elbow and handed him a cup of steaming black coffee.

  Brookes took it. ‘Thanks, Fred. Put the PM details on the board, I’ll start the briefing.’

  Short coughed nervously. ‘There’s one other thing, boss. They’ve given you a flyer to look after, a DS Rose. I’ve put her file on your desk.’

  ‘Shit! That’s all I need; where is she?’

  Short smiled. ‘I’ve sent her up to the canteen for some grub.’

  ‘OK, I’ll deal with her later; I need to get this moving first.’

  Short insisted, ‘You might want to look at the file first, boss, there’s a note on the front from the commander asking you to phone him ASAP.’

  The frown on Brookes’ face deepened. The area commander, Bert Mclean, was a personal friend as well as his boss. There must be something special about this DS that she had been sent to him.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘first things first. I’ll do the briefing then see her.’

  Looking around, he saw that all his team were present with the exception of DI Brigid Jones, who he knew was on leave. He called for attention and briefed them on the information they had so far.

  He finished by saying: ‘We’re waiting for an ID but there are a few things to note at this stage. First her clothing: she was wearing no jewellery and there were no ring marks on her finger. Her nails were well-manicured and she’d had some expensive work done on her teeth. She was wearing a formal skirt and blouse and an old woollen cardigan; as if she’s just come home from work in an office.

&
nbsp; ‘Next there are no defence wounds, despite the fact that the killer appears to have been facing her as he strangled her. She had no footwear on yet there was no debris on the soles of her feet, nor are there any drag marks. That leads me to think she was indoors when she was killed. That’s all we’ve got at the moment; hopefully Bob and Stumpy will come up with an ID.’

  As if on cue, Bob Parrot walked through the door.

  Brookes greeted him. ‘Excellent timing, Bob, what can you tell us?’

  ‘A Miss Joan Wilson, boss, a close friend of the victim. Stumpy and I took her to the morgue; we just missed you there. She’s made a positive ID. The victim’s name is Alison MacPherson: lived in Limehouse Causeway, right on the river. Miss Watson says she last saw Alison Saturday lunchtime. They had lunch together, then Alison had to go back to work. She worked at Canary Wharf for some upmarket holiday company.’

  Parrot looked at his notebook and continued, ‘Miss Wilson phoned the victim Sunday morning, as they’d arranged to spend some time together that afternoon. She got no reply. She thought Alison may have met someone on Saturday night and got lucky, so she did nothing more about it then. But she kept phoning her home and got no reply. Finally, this morning she phoned Alison at work and was told she hadn’t come in. She’d seen our request for help on the news, put two and two together, and contacted us.

  Brookes smiled. ‘Well done, Bob. Where is she now?’

  ‘Downstairs in the interview room with Stumpy, boss.’

  ‘Good, I’ll talk to her just now.’ Turning to Short, he said, ‘I want Fred to take a team and the forensic people to the address straight away. I want the flat gone over with a fine-tooth comb; treat it as a crime scene until we know different. Get another team on house to house locally. Phone the place she worked and find out what you can. Then I want background enquiries on the victim, the friend, and the company. You know the form, Derek; let’s get the show on the road.’ Raising his voice, he said to the group, ‘Right, let’s move it, people.’

  Then to Middlemiss he said, ‘OK, I’ll have a word with the witness then join you at Limehouse Causeway.’

  *

  Chapter 4 – Joan Wilson

  ‘Speaking to a friend is like thinking aloud.’

  The interview room at Leman Street Police Station was sparsely furnished. It contained one government issue wooden desk and three sturdy chairs; beneath the desk was a metal waste bin. A tape recorder was bolted to the desk and a video camera mounted on a bracket above the door.

  There was no window, the only illumination a florescent strip on the ceiling. It was not a pleasant place and smelled of strong disinfectant and tobacco. Despite the prominent sign on the door, the inside rim of the waste bin bore evidence of the countless nervous smokers who had stubbed out their cigarettes there.

  It was in this room that Brookes found Joan Wilson and DC ‘Stumpy’ Gerrard. At a bare 5’ 7½” in his stocking feet, Gerrard was the shortest man in the CID office; he anyway preferred the nickname to his given name, Albert. His build was stocky, his features regular, and he had a ready wit; he was popular with the women on the team. More to the point, as far as Brookes was concerned, he was a first class detective and well worth his place on the team.

  Joan Wilson was an attractive brunette in her mid-twenties. She wore a fashionable version of a donkey jacket, blue in colour, with a bright yellow T shirt, blue jeans, and a jumper. The bottoms of the jeans were tucked into black leather boots. The effect was one of casual elegance; despite her obvious distress she was an attractive young woman.

  Brookes opened the door and walked into the room. Like most detectives, he had many faces. The one he chose to wear at this moment was of the concerned, sympathetic policeman who had a sad duty to perform. He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the woman. When he spoke, his tone matched the expression on his face.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Wilson. My name is John Brookes. It is my duty to investigate the unfortunate death of your friend. I am very sorry for your loss and that you have been put through this experience.’ He paused for a moment, then added, ‘I’m sure you appreciate it is important for us to find whoever did this to Alison.’ He paused again, this time waiting for a reaction.

  She nodded and mumbled, ‘Yes, that’s OK.’

  ‘I’ll be as brief as I can; I know you have already spoken to my officers. But I do need to go over things with you again. Is that alright?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘I understand you have known Alison for some time?’

  ‘Yes, we were at Manchester University together. We’ve been friends ever since.’

  ‘Really, Manchester?’ Brookes asked. ‘I have a son who is about to go there. Is it a good university?’

  A nod; ‘Yes, very good.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘Fine art. Alison studied computer science and business administration.’

  ‘Were you in the same year?’

  ‘Yes, we came down together three years ago.’

  ‘And what do you do for a living, do you paint?’

  ‘I do but I can’t earn a living from it yet. I design greetings cards; that pays the rent.’

  ‘And Alison?’

  ‘She works for a holiday company. I mean worked, of course.’

  ‘Who did she work for, is it a well-known company?’

  ‘No, it’s a small company that specialises in holidays for the very rich. It’s called Luxury Homes Abroad; I’ve already told your detectives this.’

  ‘Yes I know you have, Miss Wilson, please bear with me. I just need to make sure that we have everything. She must have been doing very well; those Thames-side flats are expensive.’

  ‘She was; she had just been given a raise. But she had a small inheritance that paid the deposit on the place.’

  ‘Where do you live; nearby?’

  ‘Not far away, I have a studio flat in Bow.’

  ‘When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘Lunchtime Saturday, about two pm. She had to go back to work, they were very busy.’

  ‘I see. How did she seem, was there anything on her mind?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, she seemed fine.’

  ‘Can you remember what she was wearing that day?’

  She frowned for a moment, then said, ‘Oh yes, she was wearing her navy suit and a white blouse, she looked lovely.’

  ‘When you say a suit, can you be more specific?’

  ‘A jacket and skirt.’

  ‘It may seem a strange question, but I must ask: what about on her legs and feet?’

  ‘She always wore pantyhose and black high heels to work.’

  ‘Do you remember if she was wearing them on Saturday?’

  ‘No, why do you ask? Is it important?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that at the moment, Miss Wilson, but it might prove to be. Please try to remember if you can.’

  ‘I remember she had high heels on. But I didn’t exactly examine her from head to foot.’

  ‘Of course not. If she had been wearing tights, what would she normally do with them when she got home? Would she keep them on in the house until she went to bed?’

  She smiled despite the circumstances. ‘Mr Brookes, you obviously don’t know much about women’s habits. Tights are expensive. When we shared a room at uni, she would always take them off when she got home and if they weren’t laddered, she’d wash them and hang them on the radiator to dry so she could wear them again the next day. Alison was meticulous about her appearance; I expect she still did that.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Wilson, that’s helpful. Did you arrange to meet again?’

  ‘Not exactly. She said she was going to have an early night after work, I said I would ring her in the morning; we often spent Sundays together.’

  ‘And did you? …ring her I mean?’

  ‘Yes, but there was no reply.’

  ‘How many times did you try?

  ‘Three or four times during
the day.’

  ‘Did she often work on Saturday?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only occasionally, when they were very busy. You know the winter is their high season, that’s when the rich take their trips to the tropics.’

  ‘What about her social life; did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘No. She had one till about six weeks ago but she finished with him. He was very jealous and acted as if he owned her.’

  ‘How long were they together?’

  ‘A month or so.’

  ‘Was the break-up amicable?

  ‘Not really, no. He kept phoning her. But that stopped two weeks ago, I think he found someone else.’

  ‘Was he a violent person?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing like that.’

  ‘Could he have gone to see her on Saturday evening?’

  ‘I don’t think so; she wouldn’t have let him in. Do you think it was him that killed her?’

  Brookes smiled and shook his head. ‘I have an open mind at the moment, Miss Wilson, I’m looking at all the possibilities. When she didn’t answer your calls Sunday morning, what went through your mind?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think. Then I thought she may have changed her mind about the early night and gone out for a drink after work. Maybe she met someone.’

  ‘Would she normally have done something like that, on the spur of the moment?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t like that at all. But I didn’t know what else to think.’

  ‘Was she seeing anyone else at all, casually?’

  ‘No, no one.’ She smiled wanly. ‘When we were having lunch on Saturday at the Greedy Grape, we were laughing at the men there; you know, the posers? She was saying that she would leave men alone for a while, they were more trouble than they were worth.’

  Brookes smiled. ‘Yes, I know what you mean; you can’t live without us but we’re sometimes difficult to live with. What about you, do you have a boyfriend?’