A Commonplace Killing - Siân Busby Read online

  She snatched an admiring glimpse of herself in the draper’s window, the pigskin handbag swinging from her arm with elegant insouciance. Why shouldn’t she have those things? Other people did, so why not her? She dwelt gloomily on the drabness of her life, wishing Mother dead, Walter gone. Why were there always so many obstacles in her life? Why did nothing ever go right for her? She knew that she ought to be grateful for them all having come through the war when so many others hadn’t; she ought to be grateful, but she really wasn’t. This was the deep, dark secret of her soul.

  7

  They had crossed the Holloway Road and now they were turning down a depleted side street over which hung a thick cloud of engine steam, through which, as it dispersed, Cooper could see DI Lucas. He was standing on the pavement in front of a house-sized gap, smoking a cigarette, with the perpetual air of dismay he always exuded. The poor chap ought by rights to have been pruning the roses in his bungalow garden, and it was a great misfortune to him that he was that rare commodity: a hard-working and dependable copper in a time of national emergency. A short distance from Lucas, a group of headscarved women and scruffy kids marked the arrival of the patrol car with a slight stirring of interest. Lucas ground his gasper underfoot and removed his hat – not as a sign of respect, but because he needed to fan his beetroot face.

  It was immediately apparent to Cooper, as they pulled up alongside, that the murder scene was in the grip of a deep torpor: the uniform on sentry duty was stifling a yawn; a detective sergeant was standing idle in the shade of a shrapnel-scarred tree; and a couple of other flatfoots were poking a rubble-strewn area in front of a sort of makeshift doorway constructed out of corrugated iron, in what could only be described as a desultory fashion. It was uncommonly hot for the time of day, but this alone did not account for the general apathy. Fact was, there was none of the excitement that attends a crime scene when it is replete with evidence.

  Cooper pinched the corners of his eyes between a thumb and forefinger. He was already out of his depth and he hadn’t even left the car.

  Lucas leaned in at the passenger window.

  “The pathologist is already here, sir,” he said, “and I took the liberty of summoning someone from the fingerprint department.”

  Cooper made a little moue of disapproval. He was as fastidious in his work as he was careless with his appearance, and always preferred a scene of crime to be as unharried as possible. They never were, of course – what in life is? You must always adjust to the precedents set by others.

  “Run along and fetch a cup of tea for the guv’nor,” Lucas instructed Policewoman Tring, who had come round to open the passenger door. “There’s a good girl.”

  “Milk, please. No sugar,” Cooper said.

  “I’ll try and dig up a sandwich for you as well, sir,” she said.

  He glanced up at her, meeting her crystal-clear green eyes. He was surprised to see that she was smiling at him, and shaking her head.

  “Whoever is supposed to be looking after you,” she said, “is doing a rotten job.”

  He stepped on to the pavement, self-consciously smoothing back a slick of hair. He was thinking, I must look positively distempered. He was long overdue a haircut and it was easier to find a piece of the True Cross than a jar of ruddy Brylcream.

  “Thanks,” he said. “A sandwich would be just the ticket.”

  He glanced back at her as he followed Lucas towards the relative safety of the murder scene. She had retrieved his mackintosh from the back seat of the motor and was shaking it out. He watched her fold it neatly and place it on the passenger seat. The action made him feel momentarily benign, then he remembered that he was about to visit a murder scene. He sighed, and braced himself against the inevitable proliferation of doubt and disappointment.

  You could say that the first visit to a crime scene was a sort of fresh start: a prelude of calm, organisation and procedure, before the descent into the chaos of human entanglement. For the next few hours all he would have to do was scrutinise the surface for physical evidence, finding sanctuary in the forensic analysis of telling details. Murder is, of course, an all-too-human matter, but on the first visit to the scene of a murder a detective is obliged to detach himself from the muck and confusion of feelings. And nobody appreciated more than Jim Cooper how a detective flourishes best in a solitude that is uncontaminated by the traces of others.

  They pressed through the piece of corrugated iron, lighting upon a stretch of wilderness where brambles and nettle patches vied for space with shattered masonry. A few yards from where they stopped he could see a plane tree with a piece of old door propped against its trunk. There was a tarpaulin draped over the whole structure.

  “What the dickens is that?” he demanded.

  Lucas rocked on the toes of his shoes.

  “Ah yes,” he said. “I’m afraid that one of the witnesses is responsible for that, sir. He was anxious to preserve the victim’s modesty.”

  “Good grief! You mean the body’s in there?” It beggared belief. “Who else has been tramping over my murder scene? The Arsenal first eleven?”

  Lucas brought his lips together shrewdly.

  “It’s rather hot today, sir,” he said, “and the body’s been out all night.”

  Cooper sighed.

  “Who was the first on the spot?”

  The first on the spot always interfered; always left some blasted trace, fouling up the whole of the investigation.

  “Some kids found her.”

  “Kids, eh? Did they touch anything?”

  Lucas shrugged.

  “Take them down to the station and get a statement. Tell their mothers to expect a home visit some time in the next couple of days.” He sighed again. “Thought I could rely on you to keep us out of trouble, old man,” he said.

  A couple of hundred yards from where they were standing, from deep beneath a steep bank, a train screeched past, filling up the vacant space with the pungency of burning coal in a heavy goût of damp, sooty debris. As it cleared, Cooper could see the pathologist emerge from behind the tented structure. He stood next to the plane tree, addressing an attractive girl assistant who made a note of everything he said. Cooper watched him enviously, kicking over a patch of dust with the toe of his shoe. Must be nice to deal in scientific certainties, he thought.

  “Any idea who she is?”

  Lucas shook his head.

  “No handbag?”

  Lucas shook his head again.

  “There would have been a handbag.” Cooper was as sure of that as he could be of anything. The victim would have acquired the Blitz habit of keeping everything of any value or importance in her handbag, which she would have kept close by her, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. During the Blitz he had instructed countless officers to find the handbags before they did anything else when attending a bomb-site. It helped with identification, of course, but also prevented all those coupons and identity papers falling into the wrong hands.

  Lucas had removed his hat and was mopping the sweat from his forehead with a large damp handkerchief.

  “I should say it’s fairly obvious what we’re looking at here, sir,” he said.

  “Always beware of the obvious,” said Cooper.

  “We were on this street just a few days ago,” the DI continued. “There’s a house just along the road there – very badly bombed. The landlord called us in to clear out squatters.” He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Deserters.” He paused to allow the significance of this to sink in. “Of course, the buggers moved back in again as soon as we’d gone.”

  Cooper appreciated his DI’s line of thinking, and considered ordering a raid on the property. The landlord was sure to oblige. They could bring in anyone who failed to give a good account. They might find the handbag, or the victim’s papers; but even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t take a lot to make it stick.

  “This is murder, Frank,” he said.

  Lucas shrugged.

  �
��They’re deserters, sir,” he said. “Bloody deserters.”

  Cooper let the implication hang in the air between them, and looked about him at what remained of the street. He remembered the night – eighteen months ago – when the V-weapon had fallen there, killing eight people. One of his men had found a human head on top of a shed roof. If he remembered correctly, two elderly spinster ladies had lived in the house that had occupied the murder site. They dug out one, dead, from the rubble. The other one was never found. There was that faint odour of sewage that hung over everywhere that had been badly bombed; those houses that remained were mostly Class “B”s awaiting demolishment.

  “If I had just murdered someone,” he reasoned, “and had all the advantages a stolen handbag might afford, this is the last place I would stay.”

  Lucas nodded shrewdly.

  “I would have headed for the nearest main road – Caledonian Road – less than half a mile away that way, Holloway Road the same that way. A tuppenny bus ride and you have the whole of London at your disposal; within twenty minutes it would be as if you had never been here.” Cooper took out his pipe and began to clean it with a matchstick.

  He would have liked to have put in motion a dragnet of sixty men, strung out at two-yard gaps, slowly moving forward, eyes locked to the ground. He could hear the gales of laughter from Upstairs. Sixty coppers! If they could muster sixty coppers in the whole of London it would be a blasted miracle.

  “Organise a search of every front garden and dustbin between here and the main bus routes,” he said.

  “Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?”

  “Clues, Detective Inspector.”

  “Like a handbag?”

  “Well, that would do for a start.” He sucked on the empty pipe a couple of times until it squeaked. “And have someone get on to the missing persons bureau at the Yard.”

  A short distance away a fingerprint chap was delicately twirling a brush over the surface of a wall. He felt almost as jealous of him as he did of the pathologist. The chances of either of them telling him a thing of any use that he couldn’t have figured out for himself were, he reckoned, pretty remote. The infallible was nearly always the least part of it.

  “I say! DDI Cooper, isn’t it?” The pathologist was coming towards him, with his Harley Street drawl. He dusted off his pin-striped knees with an immaculate handkerchief which he handed to the girl assistant, then peeled off and handed her his rubber gloves. “Well, well! Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, old man,” he said. He made a half-turn towards the body and gestured elegantly in its direction. “Death probably occurred eight to twelve hours ago – not more than fourteen, but I would hate to stake my reputation on that. It was quite warm last night which always buggers up the readings. Should be able to tell you a bit more when I’ve got her on the slab, old man; but at first glance I’d say it’s a classic case of right-handed strangulation. There’s a fair bit of bruising on the knuckles of her right hand. Would have left a nice shiner on the receiving end,” he said. “Bit like the one you’re sporting, Cooper, old bean.”

  Cooper stroked his cheek. He’d almost forgotten about the bruise he’d sustained the previous night.

  “So there was some sort of a fight then,” said Lucas.

  The pathologist gave them both his bedside smile.

  “Ah! That’s for you fellows to deduce,” he said.

  Cooper filled his pipe.

  “Nothing unusual about a tart getting into a fight with a customer who refuses to pay her,” said Lucas. “It happens most Saturday nights. Sometimes, every so often, it goes too far.”

  The girl assistant handed the pathologist his hat and helped him into his beautifully cut jacket. She brushed specks of soot from the shoulders with the flat of her hand.

  “Well, I had better get back to my Sunday lunch,” the pathologist was saying, “else the good lady wife shan’t be too happy with me!” He made his way towards his shiny motor with the girl assistant. “See you in the cold-store tomorrow, old man,” he said.

  Cooper struck a match and puffed on his pipe until it was alight. Unless the prof found her name and telephone number tattooed upon her backside, the post-mortem was probably an irrelevance. The woman had been strangled after some sort of fight and sexual assault. That much was obvious to all but a blind fool. He turned his attention back to the murder site. Everything he needed to know was there, somewhere; it was simply a question of knowing where to look. The problem was, it all took time and time was the one thing he did not have.

  Lucas handed him the murder bag and the pair of them made their way towards the makeshift tent. Cooper had a pretty good idea what he would find there. He looked at the body as dispassionately as possible, but, as always, a wave of ineffable sadness lapped over him. No matter how many times you came upon it, death was always what it was: pointless and unedifying. All through the war, bodies found beneath piles of rubble with their legs blown off; once a sleeved arm found in a street shelter. He’d seen a prostitute strangled with her own stocking on a seedy divan (sex murderers had feeble imaginations) and a respectable mother of three children dumped in a filthy alley following an abortion gone wrong. He might have supposed that it would all be different now that the world was at peace, but the people of Holloway were still dying stupid, unnecessary deaths: they were still committing suicide; they were still being run over; they were still burning in fires, and they were still being stabbed, battered and strangled.

  He enumerated the tell-tale signs, every one of them a cliché. Blouse open; breast exposed; skirt pulled up over the thigh; legs spread apart, left one at a right angle to the other where it had fallen away; tongue distended, emerging from the corner of the mouth; tell-tale specks of blood discolouring the eyes, which were wide open. This one had a cut on her chin just as the pathologist had said. And her drawers were lying on the grass next to her.

  “That’s odd,” he said. The drawers of sex murder victims were usually found torn to ribbons and wrapped around one or other ankle. “And look at the blouse: unbuttoned, not ripped apart.”

  “According to the neighbours,” Lucas said, “this yard is regularly used as some sort of a lovers’ lane.” He sniffed. “People behave these days like they were in the back row of the pictures. Everyone knows what went on in the blackout.”

  Cooper knelt on the ground beside the body.

  “She’s lying on her mackintosh,” he noted.

  “Protecting her clothes while they did the business.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” He was thinking that taking the time to spread out a mackintosh on the ground was hardly compatible with violent assault.

  He took out a magnifying glass from the murder bag and bent over the woman’s body, running the glass slowly back and forth across the dark bruising on her neck. When he’d seen enough he stood up and composed a detailed mental picture of the prostrate figure at his feet. Then he lit his pipe and took a few ponderous draughts.

  “I want a complete set of photographs showing the location of the body,” he said, “and the position of the paths and roads around the site. There’s a fair bit of undergrowth which we shall need to search.”

  “Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?” asked Lucas, wiping a line of sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

  “I don’t suppose we shall know until we find it, Detective Inspector. Have someone make a scale drawing of the scene.”

  It was occurring to him that she didn’t look like a tart. She was – had been - a good-looking woman of about forty, and tarts of forty did not in general look all that good. He noted the peroxided and carefully waved hair, the lacquered nails, the smart well-fitted skirt and jacket, the neatly laundered blouse, the undarned nylons, the high-heeled shoes. This was a woman who had evidently taken good care of herself.

  Somebody somewhere will be missing her, he thought.

  He looked back towards the piece of corrugated iron marking the entrance to the murder scene
and tried to visualise her coming in there with her murderer. He walked towards the entrance and, stopping halfway, crouched down to inspect the ground. It was hard and dry. There was no evidence that he could see of anyone having been dragged through the scrub and the dust.

  “Looks like she came in here of her own accord.”

  Lucas nodded in agreement.

  “There’s hardly a woman in London who doesn’t have a secret. Bastard kids and VD – that’s the real legacy of the war for you.”

  Cooper puffed on his pipe in a non-committal way and looked about him once more, mentally tracing the route they might have taken towards the tree. Spotting something, he stooped to inspect a patch of ground a few yards in front of the body, two or three feet square, beside a pile of stones. The vegetation beneath the shelter of the tree was well trodden.

  “I’d say they came to a stop here,” he said. The grass and plants were only just beginning to wilt, and among the pile of stones scattered about here and there was a large piece of limestone, part of the foundations of the bombed house, he assumed. Squinting against the plume of smoke from his pipe, he squatted beside it. “Probably stood here for a while before lying down on the ground.”

  “And doing the business,” said Lucas.

  There were a couple of blades of grass on the surface of the stone, most likely transferred from the ground. Without being asked, Lucas handed him a pair of tweezers, then unrolled a leather strip from the murder bag and selected a glass test tube. He held it out towards Cooper and received a blade of grass from the tweezers.

  Cooper now shifted his focus to two cigarette stubs that were lying in close proximity to a couple of used prophylactics, beneath the thicket that had grown up around the base of the tree. He picked up one with the tweezers and examined it closely. The end was coated in dark red lipstick.

  “That looks like the same shade she’s painted her nails to me,” he observed. “What do you think?” Lucas nodded, unconcerned one way or the other, and deposited the stubs into another test tube. Cooper was examining the soles of the dead woman’s shoes, from where he had retrieved another blade of grass.