Hidden Killers

CHAPTER NINE

Jane had spent Sunday tidying her room, changing the bed linen and generally preparing for her new job at Bow Street. She had meant to allow herself plenty of time on Monday morning but her alarm didn’t go off. She dressed hurriedly, glad that she had taken the time to lay out her new suit and blouse the previous night, and was on her way within fifteen minutes.

Remembering her father’s instructions, she took the Underground to Covent Garden, which was just a short walk from Bow Street. She passed the Royal Opera House, with its beautiful white pillars and marble steps, having picked up her pace to cut across from the big fruit and vegetable market. The wonderful heady scent from the huge array of flower stalls was enough to lift anyone’s senses, but Jane was just intent on reaching Bow Street Station as quickly as possible as delays on the Underground meant she was running late.

As she waited to cross the busy road she looked at the station building. It didn’t remind her of Hackney, but it was of the same era – the heavy station doors with the iron blue lamp above them. No wonder Conan Doyle used it in his story – it looked like a very intimidating Victorian building.

Jane hurried in through the main entrance. Inside it was a similar layout to her old station. There was the reception desk with the wooden counter, and a flap that could be lifted to allow officers to pass in and out, and very worn red leather chairs lined one wall.

The desk sergeant was terse and suggested that, as she was late, she should go directly to be introduced to her DCI and wouldn’t have time to be shown around. He didn’t introduce himself, or give her the chance to ask if she could use the ladies’ cloakroom to tidy herself up. Instead he banged up the counter flap and gestured for her to follow him. He strode ahead through the annexe room, and then along a stone tiled corridor. Jane struggled to keep up as she desperately tried to tuck stray strands of hair back into place and make herself presentable. She was still carrying her raincoat and shoulder bag as they climbed a small flight of stone stairs onto the first-floor landing. Numerous offices led off the corridor and she could hear the sound of telephones ringing and the officers manning the comms room radioing out to the patrol cars. She might be in the glamorous West End now but the inside of a police station remained the same wherever you were. The familiarity was reassuring and Jane was comforted by the faded, yellowing walls and the vast array of posters. They reached the DCI’s office and the duty sergeant turned to face her. Jane asked if he could just give her a moment to tidy her hair but he seemed totally uninterested. He held out his hand for her raincoat as he knocked on the DCI’s door.

‘I don’t usually do this… show you to his office. But you’re late and… There’s a WDC Jane Tennison to see you, sir.’

Jane glanced at the plaque on the door: ‘DCI P SHEPHERD’.

‘Come in.’ The voice was quiet and authoritative.

Jane entered the DCI’s office. She was surprised to find that Shepherd was a diminutive and unassuming man. He was about five foot eight with a very pallid complexion and an unlined, boyish face. He had thick wavy hair that was parted to one side, with short sideburns, giving him an even more youthful appearance. His desk and walls were adorned with pictures of his wife and teenaged kids, with not one police photo, badge or crest. Before he could say a word there was another knock on the door and the sergeant ushered in DI Spencer Gibbs.

Shepherd introduced the two of them to one another. Jane was surprised that Gibbs barely reacted as he explained to the DCI that they already knew each other from Hackney. She was shocked by his gaunt appearance and slightly offended by his refusal to look at her. They both drew up chairs to sit in front of Shepherd’s desk.

‘Jane, I am sure you know that after a long period of sick leave, followed by light duties at NSY, Gibbs was recently promoted to DI and sent here to Bow Street. I am obviously aware that you must have both had a very emotional period after the explosion that killed DCI Len Bradfield and WPC Kath Morgan. However, I feel sure that, although the experience will have left an indelible scar, it was more than eighteen months ago. Time is a great healer and I trust that you can now both concentrate on your future here at Bow Street and that working together will not be a problem.’

Jane noticed Gibbs tense up at the mention of the explosion, and saw him grip the side of the chair seat with both hands. It was still very raw for them both and Jane, unlike Gibbs, had remained at Hackney where the two of them had been based at the time of the incident. In many ways she agreed with what Shepherd had said about time being a great healer, but she knew instinctively that perhaps she had coped far better than Gibbs.

After a brief talk about what DCI Shepherd expected, and how he encouraged his officers to be a team and always share information, he asked DI Gibbs to show Jane to the CID office and introduce her to the CID clerk, Edith, who would allocate her a desk. Jane and Gibbs both replaced their chairs, shook the DCI’s hand and left his office.

As soon as the door closed behind them Gibbs gave Jane a sidelong glance, gesturing for her to follow him. He was even thinner than she remembered and his hair still stood up like a wire brush. He was wearing a smart suit with a thin tie, a fashionable small-collared shirt, with the cuffs a bit short over his skinny wrists and long tapering fingers. He was also wearing rather smart shoes with tassels and moved like a dancer as if he was about to spin round to face her on his heels.

‘How’s your rock band?’

‘We broke up.’ He changed the subject. ‘You look very smart and ready for business.’

‘Thank you… you look very dapper yourself.’

‘Dapper?’

‘I like your shoes.’

He looked down at his feet, and then back up at her.

‘I ordered this suit from Mannie Charles… d’you remember him?’

‘Not really.’

‘He was the tailor who was selling all the hooky suits to the CID. We all ordered them, and found out later they were nicked from Horne Brothers’ warehouse and the labels were switched. We’d all got them made to measure and paid up front… he delivered them after…’

Gibbs turned away, pulling at the knot in his tie.

‘Kath Morgan had one made, and the guv… he’d wanted this flashy lining, with six buttons on the breast… old Sergeant Harris took it cos he was the only man as tall as Len. I didn’t know what to do with it, and Harris said, you know the way he was, “I’ll have that”, and it was still in the plastic wrapping. Anyway, I reckon when he saw the striped silk lining he knew he’d never wear it…’

Gibbs turned on his heels before Jane could reply. She followed him as he headed down the corridor and a few uniform officers passed them. Jane asked him how he was, but he ignored her. She continued speaking.

‘I understand how you must feel about Bradfield and Kath… I think everyone has found it really difficult.’

Gibbs came to an abrupt stop and spun to face her.

‘No, you don’t know how I feel… It just threw me a bit to see you. I’ve got to go. The ladies’ locker room is straight ahead and the CID room, DCI’s and DI’s rooms are all on this floor. See you later.’

Gibbs strode off, then paused to turn back.

‘The duty sergeant, Eric Fuller, is a bit of a pompous prat and just like old Sergeant Harris – but a foot shorter!’

Jane found her way to the ladies’ locker room. She was surprised at the number of lockers that had been allocated. There were obviously more female staff members than there had been at Hackney Station. She took the key from locker 12, placed her handbag inside, and hung her jacket on the relevant hook. She then quickly tidied up her hair and made her way to the CID office.

The door was halfway along the corridor, and the room itself was far larger than the cramped and dated office at Hackney. Not that this office had any modern equipment, but it was much lighter and the desks were newer. She remembered the embarrassing incidents when she had snagged her stockings on the wooden desks at Hackney, and hoped she wouldn’t be doing the same in this office.

The two clerical women on the far side of the room were busily typing reports. The matriarch of the office was a very solid, stout woman with small round spectacles and had her grey hair in a tight bun. She rose to her feet, removed her spectacles and in a very loud voice asked, ‘Are you WDC Jane Tennison?’

‘Yes,’ Jane replied nervously.

‘I am Edith Pickard, a former policewoman. I never liked being thrown in at the deep end with integration… I preferred the specialist role in the women’s force, which I’ve now worked in for many years. I was very disillusioned as I was only ever given a day’s warning that I was to be assigned to full shift duties with the men.’

Jane was puzzled at to why Edith needed to tell her all of this.

‘I am very pleased to meet you.’ Jane extended her hand.

Edith gripped her hand and shook it vigorously.

‘I’ve allocated you a desk at the back. You’ll be the only WDC here at Bow Street. We have twelve male detectives and two detective sergeants.’

Jane made her way towards the empty desk, which had a rather dilapidated-looking office chair with one wheel missing. There was a wilting pot plant on the desk.

Edith patted the sleeve of her mauve jumper.

‘I’ve always had a tinge of regret that I left the force, and I have to admit that I am a tad jealous that such a young girl has been assigned to us… But I’m sure we will get along very well. The two ladies on the far side are Gillian Thomas and Irene Marsden, both diligent and hard-working clerks. With a DCI like Shepherd we all have to keep on our toes. Right, let me explain the functioning of the office and the shifts. The CID duty book is kept in that drawer, and the crime book in that drawer.’

Jane looked up as a figure appeared in the doorway. Edith glanced over.

‘Good morning, sir. I was just introducing young Jane Tennison here to the workings of our office, and how you like to keep it very ship-shape.’

DCI Shepherd gave her a wan smile.

‘I don’t know what I would do without your more than capable hands, Edith.’

Shepherd turned to Jane and asked if she had seen DI Gibbs as he was not in his office or in the canteen. Jane recalled Gibbs’s abrupt departure and suspected he’d left the station but she didn’t want to get him into trouble. ‘Sorry, sir, he said he needed to go.’

Shepherd put his hands on his hips.

‘Bugger it… Edith, are there any other detectives about? I’ve had uniform officers calling in a suspicious death at a flat in Aldwych.’

‘I’m so sorry, sir, but we have two court sessions today and the other officers are dealing with investigations.’

Shepherd was clearly irritated by everyone’s absence, and was annoyed that he would have to attend himself when he was so busy with paperwork and reports. He looked at Jane.

‘Tennison, leave a message on Gibbs’s desk telling him to be at the scene as soon as he returns.’

He walked briskly out of the office. Edith handed Jane her official notebook and two sharpened pencils.

Jane said softly, ‘I wish he’d asked me to attend…’

‘Good heavens, it’s only your first day! You’ve got a lot to learn… he’s not going to entrust you with a sus death yet.’

Just as Jane was wondering if she should have asked DCI Shepherd whether she could accompany him, he popped his head back into the room and said, ‘You haven’t got time to chat, Tennison… Grab your coat and get a move on!’

Edith pursed her lips. Obviously she had been mistaken and this new WDC knew how to get ahead. It hadn’t been like that in her day, not that she would ever think of returning to uniform. She’d had enough; and it was only a suspicious death, so hardly anything to get excited about.

It was a short walk from Bow Street Station to the flat in Aldwych. Shepherd walked briskly, with Jane keeping up beside him, as he spoke about his wife and children, and how in his book ‘family always comes first’. Jane nodded, getting an impression of her new DCI as a family man – a hard thing to be in the police force, what with the long, irregular hours and the frequent after-hours get-togethers in the pub.

They arrived at a four-storey building split into flats. The PC at the front door stated that a Barry Dawson, aged twenty-six, had returned home from work earlier that morning to find his wife Shirley, twenty-three, dead in the bath while his baby daughter was sleeping in the playpen.

‘Where is he now?’ Shepherd asked impatiently.

‘Mr Dawson is in a highly distressed state, sir. Both he and the child are currently with the next-door neighbour in the basement flat. The police doctor arrived to pronounce “life extinct” and is already upstairs. He requested the attendance of the laboratory liaison sergeant but he was busy dealing with another scene, sir, so we’ve been waiting for backup. There’s also a dog, sir, in a cage. We haven’t let it out as we’re not sure what to do with it – he’s a bit nasty.’

DCI Shepherd looked at his watch and told the PC that he would like to speak with Mr Dawson, but first he wanted to view the scene and talk to the doctor. As they stood outside the flat DCI said, ‘Tennison, don’t touch or disturb anything.’

He put his hands in his coat pockets and lifted them up towards Jane, somewhat reminiscent of a flasher, demonstrating his method of allaying the urge to touch anything at the crime scene. Jane took a pair of thin leather driving gloves out of her handbag and put them on.

They proceeded together up to the top floor, passing a payphone mounted on the wall. On the top-floor landing there was a collapsible Maclaren pushchair leaning up against the wall. The front door was open and they went inside into the narrow hallway. There was a double bedroom to the left, a single box room beside it, a bathroom on the right, and a living room, kitchen and dining area ahead. No lights were on apart from inside the bathroom. Shepherd tapped on the open bathroom door and walked in, followed by Jane. The doctor, dictated by procedure, was crouching down by the bath feeling for a pulse on the victim’s left hand. She was motionless and face up in the bath, her eyes wide open, as if frozen in time and staring into space. Her long, thick dark hair floated around her head in the scarlet blood-stained water. The tap end of the bath had a blood smear down it. A dressing gown was on the floor next to the bath. DCI Shepherd introduced Jane to Dr Henry, who gave her a noncommittal glance as she took out her notebook.

Dr Henry lifted the victim’s head out of the water, then let her head go, and it sank slowly down into the water. Suddenly a few bubbles escaped from her mouth and nose. Jane gasped.

‘She’s breathing!’

Dr Henry laughed and explained that the bubbles were just some trapped air in the chest, which had been released by him moving her. It was difficult for Jane to take everything in. The small bathroom was full of various shampoos, medications and creams, numerous baby lotions and a bucket of dirty nappies. There was a towel rack holding some grubby towels, and the lino floor was stained and marked as if it had been laid many years ago. The washbasin was cracked with a dirty rim around it, and on the edge of it stood a plastic cup containing toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste.

‘Right, your victim – she may have had an underlying heart condition that caused her to fall, but doubtful at her young age. From the injury to the forehead it looks like she slipped in the bath and fell forward and may have knocked herself out and subsequently drowned. The wound is not that deep and there is a blood smear on the main tap but she could have bled freely from it. The water is cold so most likely she was originally taking a bath sometime in the early morning.’

‘So nothing suspicious?’ DCI asked, as he looked at his watch.

‘Not that I can see,’ the doctor replied, and started to fill out a form, adding that the water on the floor had probably come from the splash overflow when she slipped and banged her head.

Leaving the doctor to complete his forms, Jane and DCI Shepherd moved out of the bathroom and went towards the bedroom. Shepherd glanced into the room from the doorway. The curtains were closed, the bed unmade and the room smelt musty. It was very scruffy and untidy. There was a baby’s cot near the bed with filthy sheets, and piles of dirty clothes were strewn around the floor. Shepherd could see nothing untoward. Nor was there anything in the second small box room. It looked as if the occupants were starting to redecorate, but it was full of odd bits and pieces of furniture.

They moved on to the living room, which contained a baby’s playpen scattered with toys, and a high chair with a full bowl of food, a spoon and a baby’s bottle of milk that looked untouched. A three-bar electric fire was burning bright orange and nearby was a laden clothes horse. Beside it stood an ironing board with an unplugged iron and a blouse draped over it, ready to be pressed.

Through an archway Jane noticed an old dark velvet sofa and a worn armchair. Off to one side was the kitchen area with a sink and a draining board stacked with dirty pans and crockery. Old-fashioned cupboards lined the wall around the cooker and fridge, and the floor had a threadbare carpet with large gaps showing the floorboards beneath. Behind the sofa was a dog in a small cage which began leaping up and down, snarling and growling as Jane approached. Jane froze as it leaped towards her, trying to get through the bars. The DCI pointed out that the sofa was covered in white dog hairs so it was obvious that the dog must have usually been free to roam around the flat.

‘Don’t let it out – that’s a bull terrier. We’ll have to get the owner to come in and sort it out… they can sometimes be very aggressive.’

Shepherd looked at his watch again.

‘We’re just treating this as a non-suspicious accidental death.’

‘Should I get the uniform PC to radio the station and see if a lab liaison sergeant is now available, sir?’

DCI Shepherd glanced at her as if she was stupid.

‘What for? There’s no forced entry, no signs of a disturbance… totally non-suspicious. And you heard the Doc say that it’s accidental?’

Jane hesitated.

‘Yes, I know, sir… Should I get a photographer to the scene?’

Shepherd ignored her. He was obviously eager to leave and went to the open front door shouting down to the PC to radio the station and ask them to see if a SOCO was now available to take some snaps of the body.

‘Snaps?’ Jane thought, appalled. She felt that his manner was incredibly uncaring and insensitive, considering that the victim’s husband might be able to hear him shouting.

Shepherd turned back to Jane and told her he would return to the station and call the coroner’s officer to let him know about the death.

‘The coroner’s officer will arrange for undertakers to attend and remove the body to Westminster mortuary. Tennison, you take a statement from the husband. It doesn’t have to be here and now, but we’ll need it for the coroner’s report.’

He turned and walked out before Jane could ask any further questions, leaving her unsure about exactly what to do next.

She returned to the bathroom and the doctor handed her his scene examination report. Jane noticed a rolled up bath slip mat by the washbasin, next to a child’s potty, and remarked to Dr Henry how tragic it was that they had a slip mat and hadn’t used it. He was as eager to leave as Shepherd, and pointed out that the mat was probably for the child. Jane hovered as he closed his medical case, and tentatively asked what she should do.

‘The coroner’s officer will sort everything and advise you accordingly. Now, I have to dash, my dear – I’ve got a prisoner to examine at West End Central.’

It was a very eerie feeling for Jane to be alone with the dead body in the bath. She still couldn’t get over the young woman’s eyes, curious as to why they were open, staring at her as if crying out for help in the last moments of death as she drowned. The dog was still barking in its cage and Jane was relieved when DI Gibbs walked into the bathroom, despite him smelling like a brewery.

He held up the note she had left and anxiously asked what she had told the DCI.

‘That you’d had to go out.’

‘OK, thanks… So what’s going on here?’

Jane told him what Dr Henry had said and that the DCI had gone back to the station, instructing her to treat the death as non-suspicious and complete a report for the coroner.

Gibbs moved past Jane and crouched down to examine the dead woman.

‘I’ll bet any money on it that the DCI has no intention of going back to the station. He got the PC downstairs to radio in and inform the coroner’s officer of the details. He finds excuses to slip away so he can get home to his wife and kids. He doesn’t socialize or drink much either. His nickname is “Timex” because he’s always looking at his watch!’

Jane smiled, glad of him being with her. Gibbs sat back on his heels and took a closer look at the victim’s face.

‘I hate it when they have their eyes open like this… freaks me out. Did the Doc say how long she’d been dead?’

‘No, all he said was that she must have got into the bath early this morning as the water’s cold. She slipped forward, I think, and hit her forehead and he said she might have knocked herself out and then fallen back into the water.’

‘So what’s he saying…? She steps into the bath, slips forward, smacks her forehead against the middle tap? Funny… I would think that if she fell forward she would be face down in the bath. Unless she was standing up when she fell and hit her head, then recoiled backwards?’

Gibbs dipped his fingers into the water, then reached up to the towel rail to dry them.

‘Ughhh, these are soaking wet… that’s odd… Did the husband say he used them to mop up the water at all?’

‘I haven’t spoken to him yet. The wound might have bled so she was still alive when she fell in the bath,’ Jane said, gesturing with her hand towards the body.

Gibbs sighed and looked around the dirty bathroom. The PC from downstairs appeared, and shouted towards them from the open front door. The dog started barking hysterically again.

‘There’s still no photographer available. The coroner’s officer has been informed and undertakers should be here in about an hour. I’m supposed to be off duty at three p.m. and the station has radioed asking if they want another PC to relieve me here at the premises.’

Gibbs walked out of the bathroom. ‘I’ll authorize you four hours of overtime, even if you only end up doing two.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. The neighbour has contacted Dawson’s mother and she’s on her way over from Rotherhithe in a cab.’

Gibbs turned to Jane. ‘The victim’s husband is a Barry Dawson. His wife’s name is Shirley,’ she told him, glancing at her notebook.

‘OK, well, I should be getting back to the station.’

‘I’m unsure what to do at the scene, Spence. I mean, do I just stay here and wait for someone to come and help me?’

‘Draw a sketch plan of the bathroom scene in your notebook. As we can’t get hold of a photographer, take as much detail as you think they’ll need.’

The dog started barking again and Gibbs went into the sitting room. She saw him bending down to the cage and shouted for him not to open it. The dog went berserk again, hurling his body at the cage bars.

‘Do you think I should call the dog section to take it to Battersea?’ Jane asked.

‘No, Dawson can take the vicious thing with him to his mother’s, it can’t stay here. We don’t know if it’s been fed or how long it’s been caged up.’

He walked back into the living room and stood with his arms folded. He glanced around the room, and then crossed over to some shelves where there was a stereo system alongside a ringed record holder. He thumbed through the albums and pulled one out.

‘Jim Morrison… The Doors… Well, at least he’s got good taste in music, which is more than can be said for the state of this dump… This was Bradfield’s favourite band.’

Jane watched as he carefully replaced the album into the record holder and quickly changed the subject.

‘Do you want to speak to the victim’s husband?’ Jane asked.

‘No I don’t, unless he wants to say something. If so, it’s your job and you need to gain experience in dealing with these kinds of situation.’

‘I’d be grateful if you came with me, Spence.’ Jane didn’t want to make a mistake on her first case.

Gibbs cocked his head to one side and grinned.

‘OK, where is he?’

‘With Mr Cook, the next-door neighbour.’

Jane and Gibbs left the same officer manning the front door of the house and went next door. The neighbour, a retired bus driver, lived in the basement with his invalid wife. When Gibbs knocked Jane could hear a baby crying. Mr Arnold Cook opened the door. He had so far been very accommodating but from the expression on his face he was now clearly eager for everyone to leave.

‘My wife is very frail and I need to get her lunch. They’re in the front room, and the baby has done nothing but cry. Barry is distressed… such a terrible thing.’

‘Thank you very much, sir. I’m Detective Inspector Gibbs and this is WDC Tennison. If we could just have a few words with Mr Dawson I’m sure we can be out of your way quickly.’

Mr Cook led them to the sitting room doorway. His wife was in a wheelchair in the hall by their open kitchen door.

‘Are they still here, Arnold? I can hear the baby crying… have you given them a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, love, now you go back into the kitchen.’

‘You’ll have to push me… I can’t turn this chair.’

Mr Cook waved his hands for Gibbs and Jane to go into the sitting room as he tended to his wife.

Barry Dawson had long, mousy blond hair tied in a ponytail, with blue eyes that were set wide apart. He had a very fit physique and was rocking his baby daughter in his arms. The little girl was clearly distressed, and was red faced from crying. She kept calling out ‘Mama’ between screams and was probably also hungry. Jane gave the baby a sympathetic smile.

Dawson paced up and down trying to soothe her, then stopped by a tea tray with a plate of biscuits. He picked one up and gave it to the little girl who eagerly grasped it in her tiny hand and started sucking at it.

As the baby was now placated, Gibbs and Jane introduced themselves and gave their condolences.

‘I believe you found your wife, Mr Dawson, is that right?’

Dawson gritted his teeth and looked as though he was about to break down, but took several deep breaths to calm himself.

‘Sorry… I’m so sorry. She needs changing, and my wife… Oh God! I can’t believe this has happened…’

‘It’s all right, sir… it can’t be easy for you. We’ll try and get this over with as quickly as possible. When you found her, was she lying back in the bath, not face down?’

‘When I opened the door she was lying there in the bath, facing upwards… And dear God, her eyes were wide open…’ he sobbed.

It took a short while longer before he was able to compose himself enough to give them a clear statement of what had happened. As he did so the little girl fell asleep in his arms and Jane began to take some cursory notes in her pocket book.

Barry Dawson stated that he was a porter at St Thomas’ Hospital. He had been on an early shift and said that when he had left their flat in the morning his wife hadn’t been feeling well, and had recently been complaining of headaches and dizzy spells. Barry had tried phoning the communal phone in their building a number of times in the morning to see how she was, but there had been no answer. He said that he usually always called at around 10 a.m. to check that she had taken the dog out for a walk. Desperately worried about her and the child, Barry had asked his boss to let him leave at around 11 a.m and on returning home he had found his wife’s body in the bath. In a state of shock, and not knowing what to do, he had run to his neighbour, Mr Cook, who had dialled 999.

Jane held up her pencil.

‘Excuse me, Mr Dawson… Could I just verify the timings? You called home at 10 a.m., but there was no reply?’

‘He just said that, Tennison,’ Gibbs interjected.

At that moment the doorbell rang and on answering it Mr Cook returned to say that a Mrs Dawson was at the front door.

‘Oh thank God, it’s my mum… MUM!’

Mr Cook stepped back from the sitting room door as Rita Dawson hurried into the room. She was very overweight, and only five foot two, with badly dyed red hair. She was wearing a floral midi skirt with open sandals and white socks.

‘Oh Jesus, God… I can’t believe this…’

There was an outburst of grief between them. The child started crying and Mrs Dawson took her from her son’s arms.

‘Oh you poor little soul… she’s sopping wet, Barry! Have you fed her? She must be hungry.’

Rita calmed and soothed the child, who stopped crying when she was given another biscuit to suck on. Rita asked what had happened as Barry slumped into the winged-back chair, holding his head in his hands.

‘Dear God, Ma… I found Shirley… She was in the bath… I kept on ringing her and when I got no answer I came home from work.’ He broke down in tears again.

Jane explained what the police doctor had said and also advised them that she needed to get a statement from Barry. He was becoming more and more upset, repeating over and over that he shouldn’t have gone to work knowing she wasn’t well.

‘What are you talking about? What’s going on?… I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ Rita said.

‘It’s my fault, Mum… it’s all my fault…’ Barry replied.

Jane quietly explained that there had been a tragic accident and that it wasn’t Mr Dawson’s fault.

‘But I will need to take a full statement from you, Mr Dawson,’ Jane explained.

‘Do I have to do it now?’

Jane was sympathetic and said that he didn’t have to do it straight away, but then Gibbs stood up.

‘It would be helpful if you could do it now, sir, so that we have all the facts written down.’

‘Listen, I think poor Barry has been through enough at the moment and needs to be with his daughter. They should both come home with me,’ Mrs Dawson said, suddenly protective of her son and grandchild.

Gibbs glanced at Jane and shrugged, saying that tomorrow or the next day would do.

‘I need to get some clothes… but I can’t face going into the flat again,’ Barry replied.

Rita comforted him. ‘I’ll stay with you, darlin’, but I’ve got to get some of my granddaughter’s possessions too… She needs nappies, pyjamas, and some of her toys, her bottles… I need her pushchair…’

Gibbs, by now becoming rather frazzled, instructed Jane to accompany them to the flat and mentioned his concerns about the dog.

‘What’s the matter with the dog? He’s not got out, has he? Is he lost?’ Mrs Dawson said.

Jane quickly replied, ‘No, he’s in the flat. It’s just that he was getting very agitated, growling and snapping at us in his cage.’

‘Well, it’s no wonder with all the comings and goings… It’s not in his nature to be vicious, he’s usually a softie, even with strangers. He’s probably hungry and wondering what’s going on as he’s been locked in his cage all day.’

Something about Mrs Dawson’s reply jarred with Jane, then she realized that Mrs Dawson seemed more concerned about the dog and had hardly reacted to the fact that her daughter-in-law had been found dead in the bath.

By the time they had been let out of the basement by Mr Cook and had returned to the Dawsons’ flat the little girl was screaming again. Mrs Dawson tried to calm her, jiggling her up and down in her arms. Jane found the noise wearing, making it hard for her to think.

They headed up the stairs, with Barry lagging behind. Mrs Dawson displayed a toughness about her as she firmly told her son that whatever he was feeling he had to help get everything sorted to take over to her place. They all went into the flat and Gibbs quickly closed the bathroom door. Mrs Dawson fetched a large, scruffy suitcase and collected her granddaughter’s belongings. She instructed Barry to pick up some dog food and gather whatever clothes he needed.

Jane and Gibbs stood to one side.

‘She’s a tough broad, isn’t she?’ he said quietly.

Jane nodded. ‘Yes… But I think right now they’re both in shock. They’re sort of acting on automatic pilot.’

Gibbs ran his hands through his hair. ‘Yeah, tell me about it…’

Mrs Dawson picked up feeding bottles and nappies, and threw a few baby toys into the suitcase. She did everything while the little girl was balanced on her hip. Barry handed a few of his own personal items to his mother to add into the open case on the bed. He crossed over to the dog’s cage. The dog had not barked once since they had returned and was now cowering in the cage, shaking. Jane noticed that in Barry’s presence he seemed completely submissive, his tail between his legs. ‘See, I told you he’s a softie,’ Mrs Dawson said, sticking a rather dirty dummy into the child’s mouth.

‘Go and shut the case, love, and ask them to get us a ride home. I’ll start going down with the pushchair.’

Barry clipped a lead onto the dog’s collar and went into the bedroom to get the suitcase.

Jane offered to help but Mrs Dawson shook her head and then looked slowly around the flat.

‘You know, she was a shockingly lazy girl… young, you see, never done housework, and to be honest I’ve not really taken it all in, but she was a good mother… God knows how it happened.’

‘She may have fallen while she was getting into the bath, and hit her head.’

‘Terrible thing is I was supposed to come by early this morning. I had a problem with my washing machine and had to wait in for an engineer to fix it. Shocking to think that if I’d been here I would’ve found her.’

‘Do you have a set of house keys, Mrs Dawson?’

‘Yes, but I was going to babysit… I often come by and help out when I’m not workin’. I take Heidi to the local playground and walk the dog.’

Barry closed the suitcase and, with the dog following on the lead, he went out of the bedroom and handed Jane his wife’s key to lock the door behind them. Jane asked him if he could come into the station the following afternoon to make a statement. Mrs Dawson was still by the open front door.

‘Have you told them at work yet, Barry? You’d better, because you’re in no fit state to go in.’

Barry replied that he hadn’t told them yet, and had only come home because he was worried when Shirley hadn’t answered the phone. He seemed to be in a daze, standing with the suitcase in one hand and the cowering dog on the lead in the other. Gibbs told them he could take them over to Rotherhithe, but told Barry that he needed to make sure the dog was kept on a lead in the back of the car.

As they headed down the stairs Gibbs turned to Jane.

‘Listen, I’m going to go straight home after I’ve dropped them off.’

‘What?… Am I going to be left here on my own then?’

‘You’ll be all right. Just call it a day once the body’s been taken to the mortuary by the undertakers. I’ll see you in the morning and we can go over what you should put in your report for the coroner.’

Jane stood uncertainly in the doorway for a while, then decided she would make a few enquiries with the other tenants. She went outside to find the uniform officer who was still standing patiently in the street by the main entrance to the building, which was one of a substantial row of Victorian houses divided into large high-ceilinged flats.

‘Look, I’m going to see the tenants, but call me if the undertakers arrive, OK?’

‘Will do,’ said the PC, hoping he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Now he’d had the promise of overtime regardless, he was keen to head back to the station.

Jane knocked on the door of the ground-floor flat but, as she’d expected, there was no reply. She had already been told that the couple left for work early and she just wanted to make sure. She was about to walk up to the first-floor flat when Mr Cook appeared at the front door.

‘Is everything all right?’

Jane nodded and he stepped further inside the hall.

‘The people in that flat won’t be back until after six.’

‘Do you know their names?’

‘Yes, Mr and Mrs Johnson. But I only know them to say hello to… nice couple… they work in the City.’

‘Do you know who lives in the first-floor flat?’

‘Nobody, it’s empty. You’d have to contact the landlord. I think he’s going to do it up because the previous tenants moved out a good few weeks ago. Same as the basement, it’s empty and full of old furniture.’

‘Thank you very much. Do you know how long Mr and Mrs Dawson have lived in the top flat?’

‘Why, do you think something’s not quite right?’ he asked.

‘No… obviously there has been a tragic incident, but I need some family background details to give to the Coroner’s Office.’

Mr Cook explained that they had moved in about a year ago and seemed a nice couple. He said that he got on quite well with them, but they didn’t really socialize as such.

‘My wife is wheelchair bound and I’m her main carer. I’m always very busy, so I don’t really know them all that well.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘My wife?’

‘No, Mr Cook, Shirley Dawson.’

‘Well, not today, obviously. To be honest I can’t remember if I saw her yesterday, but she did walk the dog regularly. Then today Barry banged on our door in a dreadful state, rambling incoherently that something had happened to his wife. I told him to stay at my place while I went up to their flat, and when I opened the bathroom door I saw Shirley in the bath. I was going to check for a pulse on her neck, but when I put my hand in the bath I could feel that the water was cold and it was obvious she was dead. So I thought it best not to touch her. I found little Heidi sleeping in the playpen in the living room.’

‘So their daughter was in the flat?’

‘Yes, I picked Heidi up and took her downstairs so that I could call the police. Barry was in a terrible state and he said that he had tried to call his wife. It was a regular thing he did, you know. Like I said, she would walk the dog of a morning. Barry works at St Thomas’ and Shirley stayed at home to mind the child, so when I got back to my place I called 999…’

Jane continued making notes, then hesitated. She found it strange that Barry hadn’t dialled 999 himself, or picked up his daughter before going to Mr Cook’s flat. She also underlined the note she had made that Mr Cook said he opened the bathroom door.

‘The bathroom door was closed when you went into the flat, Mr Cook?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you very much, you have been very helpful. Do you recall the landlord’s name?’

‘No, he’s not my landlord. All I know is that he’s a nasty piece of work, and a real cheapskate. He owns the head lease and charges heavy money for doin’ maintenance work… but as you can see it’s not that clean on the stairs and landings, and the gutters are all in bad shape.’

‘Thank you, Mr Cook.’

Jane went back upstairs to the Dawsons’ flat and half closed the front door behind her. She checked her watch and wondered how long she would have to wait for the undertakers. She thought about making herself a cup of tea but didn’t think she should, and the filthy sink full of dirty cups was not very appealing. She looked around the room and opened her notebook to write about the state of the flat. She flicked back and forth, looking at what she had written when questioning Mr Cook. Something else struck her as being unusual. The high chair tray had a bowl of cereal and a bottle of milk that looked untouched on it, but when Mr Cook had entered the Dawsons’ flat to check on Shirley he said he found the baby asleep in the playpen. Jane wondered if Shirley had run a bath for herself, prepared the child’s breakfast and then at some point later decided to have a bath, leaving Heidi in her playpen.

As Jane sat on the edge of the dog-haired sofa she noticed a camera partly hidden behind a cushion. It was a little Kodak 126 Instamatic. The reel had twenty-four photos but only five had been used. She hesitated, then decided that rather than making detailed notes and drawings of the flat she would use the camera to record the scene. She felt certain that Barry Dawson wouldn’t mind her using it.

Jane started in the bathroom. She lifted up the dressing gown left beside the bath, and hung it on the back of the bathroom door. Under it was a pair of panties and a bra. She placed them on the same hook as the dressing gown. Using the camera she then took two photographs of the deceased. She felt queasy looking at the dead woman’s eyes wide open, and backed out of the bathroom deciding to use up the rest of the film on the other rooms.

The PC from downstairs appeared and asked how much longer she was going to be. Jane explained that she was waiting for the undertakers and when they arrived he could go.

‘I’m sorry, you’ve been here a long time. I don’t know your name?’

‘Arthur Miller, Detective.’

Jane smiled. ‘Very auspicious name, if you have literary ambitions.’

He shook his head, obviously not having a clue what she was talking about.

‘Runs in my family. Father was Alfred, my grandfather was Albert – all of us are AM. Used to get some laughs just using our initials, and my sister was called Pamela, PM.’ He chuckled, then hitched up his trousers.

‘Truth is I need to use a bathroom… I’ve been on duty since ten this morning.’

‘I don’t think you can use this bathroom, but I’m sure Mr Cook in the basement flat next door will oblige as he’s been very helpful.’

‘Thanks… If I go there now, I’ll come straight back.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

PC Miller left Jane finishing the reel of photographs, but there was still no sign of the undertakers. She was about to go and use the communal payphone to check back with the station when Miller returned and said he was now back on duty at the front door. He stood staring at her as Jane remained by the open bathroom door, then sighed and joined her, looking into the bathroom.

‘How do you intend to get the body out of the bath?’

‘Well, I don’t… The undertakers will do that.’

‘No they won’t, because that’s not their job, if you don’t mind me saying so. It’s your role and you have to bag and tag as you’re dealing with the scene. The undertakers will take the body to the mortuary, but in all my years I know they won’t move a body. They really are “more’n my job’s worths”. But far be it from me to tell you what you should do.’

Miller turned to walk off. Jane was so unsure of herself that she touched his arm as he went.

‘Please don’t go… I mean, I really don’t know what I should do. I’ve never been in this situation before.’

‘Well, I can send out for a body sheet, and bring it up to you. But I’d say that first up you should pull the plug out of the bath.’

‘Right, yes. I’ll do that. How long will you be before you bring up a body sheet? Or could I just use one of the sheets from the flat?’

‘No, you’d better wait. It’s got to be plastic. I’ll radio in for one to be brought over. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘I’d love one… but I don’t think we should use the kitchen, besides which it’s not very clean.’

‘Mr Cook’s bringing me one over. Nice chap, letting me use their toilet. His wife’s crippled, you know, and he’s her main carer.’

‘Yes, I know. I would really love a cup of tea.’

She heard him thudding back down the stairs and went into the bathroom. She looked at the bath and noticed that the plug chain was broken and not connected to the overflow waste pipe. There were no blood stains anywhere around the lip of the bath, only the still visible smear on the tap. She had no choice other than to remove her jacket, take off her leather gloves, roll up her sleeve and stick her hand in the cold blood-stained water to pull out the plug. The victim’s legs were either side of her hand and she closed her eyes as she felt for the chain and gave it a jerk. The stained water gurgled and then began to seep down the plug hole.

Jane was sitting on a chair in the living room writing up her notes when Miller came back. He was carrying a large white plastic sheet under one arm and two cups of tea.

‘Thank you so much.’ She took the tea and sipped. It was very sweet, very strong and not particularly warm but she drank it all before placing it down on the coffee table. Miller waited, then helped her unfold the wide plastic sheet, which was the size of a small double bed.

‘Right, let’s have a look at her and work out the best way to get her out.’

They stood side by side at the bath tub. The body was wrinkled from being in the water for so long, her long wet thick hair dripping around her shoulders.

‘Well, good thing is she looks a bit underweight. First, lift her hands above her head and I’ll get her feet. On the count of three we’ll lift her body up and over the bath rim and onto the sheet.’

Jane asked Miller if he’d got any rubber gloves. He shook his head. It didn’t seem to bother him but it made Jane feel very queasy.

‘I’m going to the kitchen to see if there are any washing-up gloves to wear.’

Miller shrugged and waited, his hands on his hips. Jane returned, saying that she couldn’t find any.

‘Right, we’ve got no choice. On the count of three… one… two… lift her arms up, and three.’

Jane used her bare hands to lift the body. The arms were slippery and cold and on the first attempt Jane lost her grip and toppled forward. Miller was holding on to Shirley’s feet and ankles.

‘A dead body is always heavier than you think, even when it’s a petite female. Right, let’s go again. One… two… three, lift.’

They managed to lift the body onto the sheet.

‘Now put her arms at the side of her body, wrap the sheet over and twist and tape the ends, so you end up with what looks like a big Christmas cracker.’

Miller left Jane to finish wrapping up the ends as he went back on duty. Jane waited impatiently for the undertakers to arrive.

Several hours later, feeling tired and emotionally drained, Jane left the mortuary having booked in the body and been told to prepare a report for the coroner. As she left through the rear yard, she saw DS Paul Lawrence, the lab liaison sergeant, outside smoking with a cup of tea. She didn’t approach him immediately, wanting a few moments to prepare herself as her heart beat rapidly. She had this reaction almost every time she saw him, since he had been the one to tell her that neither Kath nor Bradfield had survived the explosion.

Lawrence glanced up and saw her. He took in the strained look on her face.

‘Hi there… Are you coping all right?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. Please don’t give me the spaniel eyes.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve moved on, Paul, and I really don’t want to talk about what happened,’ she said sharply.

‘Um, spaniels have brown eyes… mine are blue. I was told you got a thrashing from some bastard when you were acting as a decoy?’

‘Oh, sorry… yes. I’m sort of recovered from that. I thought you were referring to what happened at Hackney.’

‘I doubt if any of us will ever be able to fully recover from that nightmare. You know what Sergeant Harris always says? “They were marked”, and you either come through to the other side of it, or you lose it.’ Seeing her stricken face he changed the subject.

‘I heard you were at the scene of an accidental death as well? Never pleasant… I think I’m due to do a forensic search at the victim’s flat. I’ve been dealing with a PM from a homosexual murder in Knightsbridge. I’m getting sick and tired of being shuffled from one station to the next, and spending hours in the lab. What are you doing here?’

‘I brought the body in with the undertakers. PC May, who was on duty, was really rather unpleasant and abrupt… He told me that I needed to type up a sudden death report. I also need to get a reel of film developed at Boots, with photos of the scene on it.’

Lawrence looked puzzled and asked why she was taking scene pictures to the chemists and not the lab. Jane explained that there had been no photographer available at the death scene, so she’d used a camera she found at the flat. Lawrence laughed.

‘Listen, when I’m finished at the mortuary I’ll be walking back over Lambeth Bridge to the Met lab so I’ll take the film to the photographic branch for development.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ Jane handed him the roll of film.

‘I’ll contact you at Bow Street when they’re ready.’

‘I’m sorry if I sounded rude earlier. I didn’t mean to. I’ve been on this case all day and I’m exhausted. Do you think I could make out the report first thing in the morning? DS Gibbs said he would walk me through it, but he’s gone off duty.’

Lawrence shrugged. He finished his tea, dropped his cigarette end into the dregs and threw the polystyrene cup into the bin.

‘Look out for Gibbs. He took Bradfield’s death badly… Had a bit of a meltdown. His attachment at Bow Street, and working under DCI Shepherd, will be very different for him. Shepherd’s a “go by the rules” and “get off home” time watcher. He won’t tolerate Gibbs’s old ways.’

Jane smiled and nodded, as Lawrence patted her arm.

‘Good to see you, Jane. As you were on the non-suspicious death and I’ve just been called back to do a forensic search, I presume that it’s conclusive?’

‘Well, I’m not too sure exactly what the next step is. Her husband, Barry Dawson, mentioned that she had been very anxious and had been feeling unwell.’

‘Did you find any medication at the flat?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Well, you should maybe check that out. If you like I can be over there tomorrow, when I have some free time.’

‘I’d appreciate that, thank you.’

As he walked off Jane felt relieved that Lawrence would be at the flat the next day. Right now she just wanted to get back to her room at the section house and have a long bath. She needed to cleanse herself from the grime and the terrible smells in the Dawsons’ flat, as well as the experience of having to lift the body out of the bath. She looked at the bloody water stains on the cuffs of her shirt and shuddered. She thought of the body and changed her mind – she’d have a shower instead.

Marie Allard had just put her children to bed and was making herself an omelette and a cup of tea when the phone rang. Her heart started racing every time the phone rang at this hour. She knew it would not be her mother-in-law and, as she had arranged with her husband that he would call from prison mid-morning, after the children had been taken to school, she knew it couldn’t be him either.

Marie went into the hall towards the ringing phone. She slowly picked up the receiver and took deep breaths as she heard the coins drop and knew who the caller was.

‘Hello?’ she said, nervously.

It was the same horrible sing-song voice again, coming through the receiver quietly at first. Marie began to shake as the voice got louder.

‘Angie, Angie…’

‘Leave me alone! I paid you… I did what you asked… just leave me alone!’

‘Can’t do that. I want another five hundred. Unless you want him to be put away for rape. Same procedure… get off the bus, put the envelope into the rubbish bin and get on the next bus. Need it by Tuesday… you got the time to get the money.’

Marie was in tears as the caller hung up. She replaced the receiver, then ran into the kitchen as she remembered she had left the pan with the butter on the gas ring ready to cook her omelette. It was burnt and smoking and she hurled it into the sink. She couldn’t eat anything now, and felt the bile come up from her stomach as she retched. Since Peter’s arrest she had lost a lot of weight, and she had been unable to sleep. She knew deep down that she had to tell someone what was going on but she was scared. She was even afraid to mention it to Peter when he called. He always sounded so depressed and often broke down weeping because he missed the children. He constantly told her how much he loved her, and how sorry he was for all the distress he was putting her through. He protested that he was innocent and had been fitted up by the police. He also told her repeatedly that she must not blame herself, and her inability to be intimate, for his behaviour. It did, stupidly, make her feel that it was her fault. As they only ever had a few minutes for each call she hadn’t told him about this ‘Angie’ person and the blackmail, but she knew she would have to soon as she couldn’t cope any more. The constant questioning in her mind never stopped. She did blame herself and the guilt was consuming her.

Her mother-in-law had succeeded in finding a driver to rent Peter’s cab and give her a cut of his takings, so there was some money coming in. But paying off this ‘Angie’ was eating into their savings. Sitting in her immaculate kitchen, filled with the smell of burnt butter, Marie didn’t even have the energy to wash the pan. She closed her eyes, telling herself over and over that she should go to the police. She had to tell someone, but what if this ‘Angie’ did have evidence to prove Peter had committed a rape? She doubted that she would be able to cope or face the consequences.

Marie went upstairs, checked that the children were sleeping and then undressed and cleaned her teeth. She hadn’t washed her hair or worn makeup for days. She crawled into bed and curled up into a ball. But she couldn’t sleep as all she could hear playing over and over in her mind was that raucous voice screaming, ‘Angie, Angie, Angie, Angie…’