Murder Mile

Chapter Two

After leaving the murder scene, Jane returned to the station to prepare for the house-to-house. It was 10 a.m. and she was in the canteen with DC Edwards and DI Gibbs, who was still dressed in his rock band gear and looked like someone working undercover in Carnaby Street. She was ready to brief thirty detectives and uniforms — male and female officers — who had been called in to assist with the house-to-house from local stations. Placing thirty blue A4-size folders down on the table, she waited for Gibbs to address the officers first.

‘H-to-H is your show, so tell ’em what you want done,’ Gibbs whispered to her, sitting on the edge of a canteen table.

It was the first time she’d briefed fellow officers as a DS, but despite feeling nervous, she spoke in a loud, firm voice.

‘OK, listen up, please. I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison, in charge of the house-to-house enquiries on this murder investigation. For those of you who are not aware, the body of a white female was found in Bussey Alley at four thirty this morning by a local market trader. It appears she’s been strangled and possibly sexually assaulted. Misper enquiries have so far proved negative and it is imperative that we identify her as soon as possible. Thorough and detailed house-to-house enquiries are critical to the investigation.’ Jane paused. The room was silent, then an elderly PC spoke.

‘You really a DS, love?’ he asked in a condescending manner.

Jane was annoyed at being called ‘love,’ but before she could reply, Gibbs stood up and pointed at the officer.

‘Yes, she is, and if you don’t like it then I suggest you bugger off back to your station and tell them DI Gibbs kicked you off house-to-house because of your attitude.’

There were raised eyebrows around the room. Due to his unusual attire, nobody had suspected that Gibbs was a DI.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the offending officer replied.

Jane was irritated that Gibbs had spoken for her. ‘And you can call me Sergeant or Sarge,’ she said, looking at the PC, pausing briefly before continuing.

‘Each folder contains a description of the victim. Every resident must be asked if they know or had seen anyone matching that description in the last twenty-four hours. I want full background details of all the occupants in every residence. There is also a questionnaire about their movements and whereabouts on Friday and the early hours of Saturday morning.’ Jane pointed to the blue folders on the table in front of her. ‘Help yourselves to a folder. Each one has the street and premises numbers to be visited on the front. If you feel that anyone is lying, hiding something, or being evasive, then inform myself, DI Gibbs or one of the Murder Squad. Please leave the completed forms and questionnaires in the CID office, which is being used as the murder incident room. I have marked up a desk tray as: “In, completed H-to-H.”’

As the officers stepped forward and helped themselves to a folder, Gibbs leant towards Jane.

‘Well done. Good briefing.’

‘Thanks. I could have handled that PC myself, you know, so next time, please don’t...’

‘Yeah, I know you could, Tennison. It’s just that those mouthy uniforms really get up my nose, especially the old boys who try to impress the crowd.’

‘I’ll keep an eye on him while I’m out monitoring the house-to-house.’

‘Edwards can do that. Post-mortem’s set for eleven a.m. and you need to be there.’

‘Will Moran be OK about that?’

‘You were first on scene, so officially you have to ID the body to the pathologist. I’ve not had much dealing with Moran before, other than briefly on that Allard case. Is he always so grumpy and serious?’

‘He and his wife are struggling with a new baby, keeping them up a lot. Edwards thought Moran might take some time off and let you run the investigation.’

Gibbs laughed. ‘He probably gets more peace and quiet here. Shitty nappies and sleepless nights don’t appeal to me either. You must be knackered yourself, what with being up all night.’

‘No, I’m fine. I’ll finish writing up my night duty report and give you a lift to the mortuary.’

‘I’m waiting for my girlfriend to bring me in a change of clothes from my flat, so I’ll meet you there,’ Gibbs said, walking away.

Moran, Jane and Lawrence were in Ladywell mortuary, Lewisham, with Professor Dean Martin, the forensic pathologist. Lawrence knew Martin well, having worked with him on countless murder investigations. Jane had met him on previous murders she had been involved in.

Dean Martin made the usual crack about his name to the audience. ‘As good looking as I am, I’m not to be confused with the Rat Pack crooner.’

As Jane watched him put on his green mortuary gown and black wellington boots, she thought that he had put on weight since she last saw him. He was now in his late fifties, the top of his head was bald with thinning grey hair at the sides, his half-moon glasses were perched unsteadily on the end of his bulbous red nose, his cheeks had become ruddier through alcohol consumption and he was walking with a limp.

‘Have you hurt your leg, Professor?’ Moran enquired.

‘No, a build-up of uric acid crystals in my foot is giving me hell,’ Martin replied gruffly.

Moran looked confused, but Lawrence whispered an explanation. ‘The prof has gout due to too much booze. It’s extremely painful so he may be crotchety throughout the PM.’

The victim’s body was already laid out on the steel mortuary slab, covered with a white sheet. Moran looked at his watch.

‘Where is DI Gibbs? It’s nearly ten past and I told him to be here for eleven.’

‘His girlfriend turned up with some more suitable clothes, so he went to the men’s locker room to get changed before coming here.’ Jane thought it was strange that Moran wanted Gibbs to be at the PM. Normally only one senior officer attended, whilst the other looked after the incident room and made sure all the necessary actions were being undertaken.

The mortuary door suddenly flew open.

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Gibbs sauntered in wearing a very fashionable tan-colored tweed suit, matching waistcoat, white button-down shirt, matching wool tie and brown slip-on boots.

There was a stunned silence as everyone took in what Gibbs was wearing.

‘You forgot your deer stalker hat, Sherlock,’ Lawrence remarked.

Gibbs smiled. ‘I’ll have you know that it’s herringbone tweed and made to measure from a shop in Knightsbridge... Admittedly it’s a second-hand shop where high society locals take their unwanted clothes, but nevertheless, great quality and a bargain.’

Martin laughed. ‘It’s probably a dead man’s cast-off.’

‘That may be so, Prof, but it’s better than the creased, shiny-arsed, grey pin-striped suits the rest of CID wear,’ Gibbs replied, pulling his tweed jacket forward by the lapels to accentuate how classy he thought he looked. Gibbs saw Lawrence nudge his head towards Moran, who was wearing a grey pin-stripe suit.

‘Of course you’re the exception to that statement, guv,’ Gibbs said sheepishly, in an effort to cover his faux pas.

Moran shook his head. ‘It’s one extreme to the other where your dress sense is concerned, Spencer. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m sure the professor would like to get on with the post-mortem.’

Martin pulled the white sheet from the body, in the manner of a magician working an audience when they reveal something during a conjuring act.

‘Do we have a name for this poor girl?’ Martin asked.

‘No. A dead set of fingerprints was taken to the Yard. No match so far, but they’re still working on them,’ Lawrence replied.

‘Unfortunately the pathologist is unwell, though I suspect it’s an excuse as he was out on the booze last night. DS Lawrence, I’d be grateful if you would assist me as you have a great deal of experience in mortuary procedure.’

Lawrence gowned up and asked Jane to list and package the exhibits, which she was happy to do. She identified the body as the one in Bussey Alley and confirmed that, as yet, Missing Persons and house-to-house enquiries had still not revealed who she was. Moran added that the divisional surgeon had stated time of death was just before or after midnight. Jane saw Lawrence discreetly raise his eyebrows at Moran’s remark, as Martin lowered his head and glared over the brim of his half-moon glasses at Moran.

‘A divisional surgeon should only pronounce life extinct; comments on injuries or time of death are not their domain. If I’d been called to the scene, I could have taken a rectal body temperature, checked hypostasis, state of rigor mortis, whether it was present, and or affected by weather conditions — all critical factors in determining a reasonably accurate time of death.’

Moran looked embarrassed. By his silence he clearly knew he should have heeded DS Lawrence’s advice at the scene. Tactfully not looking at Moran, Lawrence took some photographs of the victim before she was undressed and her clothing put in exhibit bags for forensic examination at the lab. Her blue coat, pink blouse and bra were removed first. Lawrence remarked that the clothes didn’t look expensive and the blouse had a Littlewoods label inside the collar. Jane double-checked the blouse and confirmed that, although they had only recovered three buttons, four had come off, so one was still missing. She confirmed that the market trader’s boots had been checked by a DC when he came in to make a statement, but no joy. As Lawrence removed the victim’s pleated skirt, they could all see that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

‘Her underwear may have been taken by the killer, as some sort of sick souvenir,’ Jane suggested.

‘Or she may not have been wearing any,’ Gibbs added politely.

‘Either of you could be right. However, there are no scratch marks around or below the hip area or upper thigh to suggest they were forcibly removed.’

Lawrence took out the stockings and suspender belt, then handed them to Jane, who had a closer look.

‘There’s not a tear or ladder on either of these stockings, which seems strange if she was attacked in the alleyway and forced to the ground.’

Martin looked closely at the victim’s hands, knees and face. ‘Her hands are quite calloused — possibly from some form of manual labor. I can’t see any abrasions consistent with being forced face down onto the pavement, or dragged along it. That’s not to say she landed on her back in the first instance, but we’ll get to that later. There are faint signs of old stretch marks on her tummy, so I’d say your victim has given birth, but not recently.’

Martin took swabs from the victim’s mouth, vagina and anus to be tested for semen.

‘Has she been sexually assaulted?’ Moran asked, pointing to some marks on her inner right thigh.

‘The abrasions on the thigh are linear scratch marks, but there’s no bruising to her vaginal or anal area. The abrasions are parchment-like, the surface is dry and there are no signs of bleeding or bruising, so in my opinion the scratches occurred after death.’

‘Sorry, but I’m not quite sure what you mean, Professor,’ Moran said.

‘Her assailant may have committed necrophilia and that’s why there’s no vaginal bruising.’

There was silence in the room as everyone felt sickened at the thought of such a depraved act. Jane was used to attending post-mortems, and although hardened to some of the horrific sights she saw, she always felt sad for the victims and the fear and pain they must have suffered at the hands of their killers.

At Martin’s request, Lawrence helped him lift the victim’s head and shoulders to sit her upright, so he could get a look at her back and the knotted end of the ligature on the nape of her neck. Martin pointed to a circular-shaped bruise in the middle of the victim’s back.

‘This is not uncommon when someone is on the floor being strangled from behind: the killer kneels on the victim to get a better grip on the rope and stop him or her getting up or struggling. However, if it happened like this, and she struggled, I’d expect friction abrasions on her forehead or nose from contact with the pavement — but as you can see, there are none, which is very unusual.’

Lying the victim back down, Martin asked Lawrence for a small scalpel. Gibbs stepped back, thinking Martin was about to cut the body open for an internal examination. The last thing he wanted was anything splashing onto his tweed suit.

Martin placed the scalpel blade on the rope. ‘I don’t want to disturb the ligature knot, so I will cut through the rope at the front.’ He took his time, slowly cutting through the cord before removing and handing it to Lawrence.

The deep black and blue bruising imprint of the rope around the victim’s neck was now visible.

‘Considerable force must have been used to strangle her,’ Martin muttered.

Lawrence placed the cord on top of a property bag for closer examination.

‘It’s not hemp, so probably cotton or synthetic. About one inch thick and slightly frayed at both ends, as if it has been cut with scissors or a sharp knife, but I’ll get a scientist to look at it,’ Lawrence said.

‘It’s tied in a form of slip knot,’ Jane observed, wondering if the victim was attacked from behind in the alleyway.

‘Like a hangman’s noose,’ Gibbs remarked.

Moran leant over. ‘Looks like a sailor’s slip knot to me.’

Gibbs and Jane turned to Moran.

‘You’d know, would you, guv?’ Gibbs remarked.

‘Yes. I’ve been in The Met sailing club for ten years, so I know a bit about knots and loops. I’d say that if you untied the knot and laid it out flat, the length would be about three foot.’

Gibbs was impressed. ‘Good call, guv. Might help when we get a suspect, especially if he’s into sailing.’

Moran shrugged. ‘Possibly, Spence, but rock climbers, and even scouts, use the same or similar sorts of knots.’

Lawrence was deep in thought and didn’t hear Martin ask him for a large scalpel.

‘Is something troubling you, DS Lawrence?’

‘It’s the lack of abrasive injuries on the front of the victim, plus there was some smeared blood on the back of her coat, which may have come from the suspect, yet there were no drops of blood on the pavement at the scene, which is making me wonder if she was murdered elsewhere and her body dumped in Bussey Alley?’

Jane always respected Lawrence’s eye for detail.

‘Very astute, DS Lawrence,’ Martin responded. ‘The settling of blood on the front of the body, known as lividity, is consistent with the position she was found in. However, lividity begins to work through a deceased within thirty minutes of their heart stopping and can last up to twelve hours. Only up to the first six hours after death can lividity be altered by moving the body, but—’

‘So she could have been murdered elsewhere and moved,’ Moran impatiently interrupted.

Martin looked over the rim of his glasses, the habit that inevitably preceded a curt reply. ‘I wasn’t called to the scene, DCI Moran, to examine the lividity on her body in situ, so in answer to your question, I don’t know for certain, but she could have been. And before you ask, I will give an estimation of time of death after my post-mortem.’

Moran looked annoyed by the professor’s tone of voice. Martin was often blunt and to the point, but Jane felt he was being particularly condescending, especially as Moran was the senior officer in the room and in charge of the investigation.

Martin continuously made notes throughout the post-mortem and spent the next two hours dissecting the body, removing the internal organs and brain, weighing them and taking samples of blood and urine to test for drugs and alcohol. When he’d finished, he put down his clipboard of notes and removed his gown.

‘What was the state of rigor on the body at the scene?’ Martin asked Lawrence.

‘Pretty stiff, but not fully when we lifted her onto the body bag.’

‘Right, the rigor was fully stiff when we started at eleven, the stomach contents contained some semi-digested food particles, which is common in people who died two to six hours after a meal. This is in no way conclusive, but assuming she last ate between twelve and two, that gives a possible time of death range anywhere between two p.m. and eight p.m., which suggests that your thoughts about the body being murdered elsewhere and dumped in Bussey Alley are correct, DS Lawrence.’

‘If that occurred, I am somewhat confused about the number of buttons we discovered at the site where we found the body. We found three buttons and, on checking both her overcoat and the torn blouse, it appears there was a fourth button that was not recovered.’ Lawrence said.

Jane nodded. ‘The missing button could possibly have been left at the actual scene of the murder, unless she lost it before.’

Lawrence glanced towards her but no one else seemed interested.

‘The alleyway would be regularly used by the public and train commuters on a Friday night, yet the body wasn’t found until early Saturday morning. Makes sense he’d dump her after midnight when there’s less likely to be anyone about,’ Gibbs added.

‘He may have used a car and travelled some distance, or the murder scene may be in nearby premises and he carried her out to Bussey Alley,’ Jane stated, unintentionally yawning as she looked at the mortuary clock. It was just after 2 p.m.; she’d had no sleep for nearly twenty-four hours and was beginning to feel nauseous.

‘Might be a good idea if Jane went home and got some sleep,’ Lawrence suggested to Moran.

Moran shook his head. ‘Not at the moment. Our priority is finding out who our victim is, as it may well lead us to her killer and the scene of her murder. House-to-house is critical to this investigation. I want the forms that have been completed so far checked for anything that might assist or need urgent attention. A DCS will be appointed to oversee the case by Monday. I’d like unanswered questions resolved by then — even better, her killer in custody.’ Moran closed his notebook and left the room.

Jane returned to Peckham with DI Gibbs. The three-story red-bricked Victorian station was like Hackney, but much bigger, with a warren of small overcrowded offices. The stone-flagged floors, metal staircases and high windows cast a dull greyness inside the building. Even the array of wanted and missing persons’ posters looked well worn, like parts of the building itself that needed repair and a lick of paint.

The large green corkboard on the wall in the far corner of the CID office was now covered with photographs the SOCO had taken in Bussey Alley. The victim’s facial description was written up with an approximate age of late twenties to early thirties. Next to her name, address and time of death were large question marks. Gibbs picked up a black felt-tip pen and started to write down Professor Martin’s observations about the time of death span and the fact the body was dumped. He also wrote: Murder scene unknown.

DC Edwards sat at the indexer’s desk, looking through some of the house-to-house forms. He looked up at Jane.

‘Hope you don’t mind, Sarge, but I’ve been checking the completed H-to-H forms the uniforms brought in. Being a Saturday morning, a lot of people were at home...’

‘Which is where I wish I was right now, Brian.’

Edwards lifted a pile of the forms. ‘Me too. Anyway, I’ve been through half of these questionnaires, but so far there’s nothing to help us identify the victim. A few people had friends, or knew other residents, who were similar in description, but they were all checked out and none of them are missing or unaccounted for.’

‘Thanks, Brian. I’ll have to go through them anyway and sign each one off as correctly completed.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Gibbs said.

‘Yes, I do. Not that I don’t trust Brian’s abilities, but you heard what Moran said at the mortuary. If something gets missed, I’m the one he’ll will have a go at, not you or Edwards.’

‘You don’t have to because I will check them. You’re so tired you could easily miss something. Go on, the pair of you — scoot and get some sleep. Give me your home numbers, then if anything important comes in I’ll ring you so you won’t miss out.’

Jane was about to leave when the uniform PC who had called her ‘love’ at the earlier briefing walked in with more completed house-to-house forms. He asked her if she’d like them or should he put them in the appropriate tray. Jane held out her hand to take them but Gibbs stepped forward and took them from the officer.

‘Anything of interest for me?’ Gibbs asked the PC.

Jane frowned at Gibbs, feeling that he was undermining her. ‘Or that needs my urgent attention as the house-to-house supervisor?’ she said.

The officer took out his notebook from his jacket breast pocket and glanced at them both. ‘There was a light blue 1976 Austin Allegro outside 86 to 96 Copeland Road — they’re a two-story block of flats that I visited on my house-to-house enquiries—’

‘And?’ Jane interrupted, wanting him to get to the point.

‘The vehicle looked a bit out of place as—’

Gibbs looked bemused as he interrupted, ‘Allegros are one of the most common cars on the road. It may have missed your attention but virtually every police force in the country uses them because they’re so cheap to run.’

‘It was a top-end Allegro, 1976 Vanden Plas Princess 1500 automatic, deep-pile carpet, leather seats and walnut trims — all in pristine condition. I asked in the flats and no one owned it or had seen it there before. Admittedly it did have a flat front offside tire with a screw stuck in it.’

Jane wondered if the PC was trying to impress them in an effort to make up for his earlier behavior towards her.

‘Have you recorded the details about the Allegro in your house-to-house folder?’ Gibbs asked, hoping he’d say ‘yes’ and so wouldn’t have to listen to the matter-of-fact, boring tone of the officer anymore.

‘No, I couldn’t find an owner for it in the flats, so I wrote my observations down in my notebook. The vehicle’s reg is tango, lima, yankee, two, two, five, romeo. All the doors and boot were locked and it did not appear to have been hotwired. The radio was missing and the connecting wires were exposed, so it may have been nicked.’

Jane took a deep breath. ‘Have you done a computer check on the car to see who the owner is, or if it’s been reported lost or stolen?’

‘Not yet. Wanted to report it to you first before any further action. I’ll nip downstairs and do that right now,’ the PC said and started to walk off.

Jane tried not to smile as Gibbs clenched his fists towards her, indicating his frustration with the PC.

‘No, no, we’ll do the checks and make further enquiries about the car. Thanks for informing us — very diligent of you,’ Jane said, forcing a smile.

The PC handed Jane the copy of his notes and left.

‘I’ll pop over to Copeland Road and have a look at the vehicle on my way home, see if there’s anything untoward and get it brought in if necessary.’

Gibbs shook his head and took the notes. ‘You get off home. I’ll make further enquiries, but looks like the PC, as irritating as he is, did a good job checking it out. If it’s got a flat tire, that may be why it was left there. We should also check into the missing radio because it doesn’t quite make any sense if it was stolen and then the thief locked up the car.’

Jane struggled to concentrate whilst driving home along the Marylebone Road. She pulled up at the red traffic lights by the junction with Gloucester Place and nodded off whilst waiting for them to turn green. The sound of repeated beeping of the car horn behind made her muscles tense as she jerked awake. For a split second she wondered where she was, then raised her hand in an apologetic manner and pulled away, turning right into Gloucester Place, then into Melcombe Street, where she lived in a top-floor flat of a three-story Victorian building. Thankfully, being a weekend, the parking restrictions were lifted so she didn’t have to drive up and down the back streets looking for a residents’ space.

Jane had grown to like Melcombe Street, with its narrow three-story white stucco-fronted houses and its proximity to Regent’s Park, where she regularly jogged. Baker Street tube was virtually on her doorstep and was handy for getting into central London, shopping in Oxford Street or a night out in the West End. It wasn’t so great for getting to Peckham, however, which is why she used her car to travel to and from work. Spotting a space close to her flat, Jane parked the car, got out and locked it. Her first car had been a second-hand VW that was an unfortunate bright yellow, but she had now traded it in for a newer version, which the team had jokingly nicknamed ‘the Jaffa Cake’ due to its orange body and black roof.

As Jane headed for her flat, she contemplated popping into the Spar shop to buy something to cook for supper, but she was so tired that she decided she would just heat up some leftovers.

She smiled to herself as she stopped to catch her breath on the stairs. She was fit and could normally manage the three flights at a brisk pace, but her body was physically drained from lack of sleep and food.

The flat had been in good condition when Jane first moved in almost three years ago. Other than a lick of paint here and there, and a few pieces of furniture, she’d done little to it by way of further maintenance. Although small, it had two bedrooms and a well-equipped kitchen incorporating a small dining area. There was no sitting room and her mother was always saying ‘the place is so small you can’t even swing a cat in it.’ Despite the fact she’d nearly been murdered in her flat by an active member of the IRA, she felt safe there.

Natalie Wilde had deliberately befriended Jane to cajole police information out of her about IRA suspects, whilst at the same time planning to bomb Scotland Yard’s annual CID Good Friday party. On realizing Jane had discovered her deceit, Natalie tried to murder her, and if it weren’t for the intervention of one of her colleagues she would have died. At the time, she felt emotionally drained and depressed, but after the experience with Natalie she’d learnt to develop her own coping mechanisms, and face her demons head on.

Jane ate some reheated spaghetti bolognese, had a relaxing hot bath and went straight to bed. She was woken by the bedside phone ringing and, looking at her alarm clock, saw that it was only 6:30 p.m. Feeling groggy, she stretched out for the receiver, picked it up and heard her mother’s voice.

‘Hello, dear. I know it’s a bit last minute, but your father and I were wondering if you’d like to come over for Sunday lunch? Pam and Tony are coming with baby Nathan.’

‘I’d love to, Mum.’ Jane’s mouth was so dry she paused to lick her lips before continuing.

‘Great. I’ll do roast beef, Yorkshire puds and veg. We’ll eat at one o’clock.’

‘Mum, I’m sorry, but I can’t come as I’ve got to work tomorrow.’

‘I noted on the wall calendar that you were off this weekend, after a night shift?’ her mother replied brusquely.

‘We had a murder last night, Mum. I’m on the investigation team, so—’

‘You’ve only been at Peckham two weeks and already someone’s been murdered?’

‘I don’t think my arrival at Peckham has anything to do with it.’

‘Don’t be flippant, dear. You know I worry about you, especially if you are having to arrest people who commit such violent crimes... Was it a woman or man that was killed?’

‘A woman. I’m in charge of the house-to-house enquiries, not the arrest team, so don’t worry yourself. I’m really tired and need to get some sleep, so I’ll ring you later.’

Jane didn’t dare worry her mother more by telling her any details about the murder, especially as the victim was around the same age as her.

‘You always seem to be busy with work, Jane. The family haven’t seen you in ages. You should at least make the effort to see Pam and your new nephew.’

‘I saw Pam and the baby last weekend. I went round to her place and she did my hair before I started night shift.’

‘Oh, Pam didn’t mention your visit to me,’ Mrs. Tennison replied, sounding annoyed that she wasn’t told.

Jane was irritated. ‘Why should she, Mum? It was just a haircut. Look, I really need to get some sleep. I’m sorry about tomorrow but I’ll let you know when I’m next free and can come over.’

‘It would be nice if you offered to babysit for Pam and Tony so they could have a night out together. Honestly, Jane, sometimes it feels like you put the needs of the police force before your family. I’m sure the CID could cope without you now and again...’

‘So can you, Mum. I’m sorry if my work inconveniences you,’ Jane replied abruptly.

Mrs. Tennison said nothing and put the phone down. Jane instantly regretted her thoughtless remark. Despite her tiredness, she wondered if she should ring her back to apologize. However, not wanting to get into another argument, she decided not to until she’d had a decent sleep. Jane pulled the duvet over her shoulders and snuggled into the fetal position. No sooner had she closed her eyes than the phone rang again.

She picked up the receiver. ‘I’m sorry for upsetting you...’

‘You haven’t,’ a surprised Gibbs replied, curious about who Jane had just been speaking to.

‘Sorry, I thought you were my mother. I was tired and I snapped at her... Has there been a development in the case? Do you need me to come in?’

‘No. Just thought I’d let you know I’ve been up to Copeland Road to have a look at the Allegro car and it’s not reported lost or stolen. It was locked, the ignition was not hotwired and the front tire was as flat as a pancake. I doubt the radio was nicked as the loose wires had tape on the end to stop them sparking if they touched. Definitely not the sort of thing a thief would do if they’d just nicked it.’

‘Do you think the car could belong to our murder victim?’ Jane asked as she sat up in bed.

‘No. Clean as a whistle inside, pair of driving gloves on the front passenger seat, with a tartan rug and cushions on the back seat. It’s more an older person’s type of car. The registered owner is ex-directory, lives in St. John’s Wood, just by Regent’s Park. It’s probably not connected to the investigation, but you need to find out why it’s been left in Peckham.’

‘I know where it is, but I’m in bed now. I’ve hardly slept...’

‘You can do it in the morning on your way in. The address is—’

‘Hang on, let me get a pen and paper.’ Jane opened the bedside cabinet drawer. She had quickly learnt that having a pen and notepad close to hand was crucial, even in bed. She told Gibbs to go ahead and he gave her the car registration as TLY 225R. The owner, shown on the police national computer, was a Mrs. Sybil Hastings, flat 42, Viceroy Court, Prince Albert Road.

‘Have you checked her name against missing persons?’ Jane asked.

‘Of course. She isn’t reported missing and there’s no one on mispers matching our victim’s description either.’

‘Anything else, or can I get some sleep now?’ Jane asked irritably as she tore the bit of paper from the notepad.

‘I’ll meet you there at nine a.m.,’ Gibbs said.

‘I’m quite capable of doing a simple vehicle enquiry on my own, you know.’

‘Yes, but I need a lift as my Triumph Stag’s in the garage having a new head gasket fitted. Tamara’s flat is in Mayfair so I’ll get her to drop me off at Viceroy Court. We’re doing a gig at a pub in Belsize Park tonight — why don’t you come along, Jane?’

‘No thanks, Spence, I just need to get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’ Jane put the phone down, realizing, with slight annoyance, that Gibbs had given her the vehicle enquiry so he could get a lift in to work. She didn’t mind too much as he’d at least been to Copeland Road to check the vehicle out and someone would have to have spoken with the owner anyway.

Pulling the duvet over her head, Jane was in a deep sleep within seconds, all thoughts of the investigation pushed from her mind for the time being.