Murder Mile

Chapter Three

It was cold outside. Jane had the engine running and heating on as she sat in her car facing the entrance to Viceroy Court. The brick-built 1930s modernist building consisted of eighty luxury apartments, laid out in the form of an elongated ‘H,’ with an underground garage and a white four-column porte-cochère covering the main entrance. The apartments overlooked Regent’s Park and, even though it was winter, the surrounding lawns and hedgerows were well maintained, and the flowerbeds were filled with an abundance of color from winter pansies, violas and cyclamen.

Looking at her watch, Jane realized that it was 9:15 a.m. and Gibbs still hadn’t arrived. She wasn’t sure if he was running late or had changed his mind about accompanying her, so she decided she’d make the enquiry at Mrs. Hastings’ flat herself. Standing at the main entrance, she pressed the buzzer and a smartly dressed uniformed porter came to the door. Jane introduced herself and showed him her warrant card.

‘Follow me, madam.’

The reception area had a thick red carpet, a desk area for the porter and two large floral displays either side of a wide marble staircase to the upper floors. The porter, who looked to be in his late fifties, turned out to be a bit of a nosy ‘jobsworth,’ making Jane sign the visitors’ book and asking what the purpose of her visit was. Jane told him it was a minor enquiry regarding the theft of property from a resident’s car.

‘May I ask which resident, madam?’

‘I’m sure the resident will reveal his or herself to you if they feel inclined to do so,’ Jane said as she walked towards the lift.

‘Would you like me to accompany you, madam?’ he asked as he opened the old-fashioned sliding grille gate of the lift and ushered Jane inside.

‘No, thanks,’ Jane replied, smiling as she closed the gate and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

Apartment 42 was to the left. Jane pressed the doorbell and after a few seconds the door was opened by a woman in her mid-sixties, wearing a floral pinafore apron over a white shirt, calf-length tartan skirt, dark tights and flat-sole black house shoes. Jane held up her warrant card.

‘Mrs. Hastings, I’m Detective Sergeant Jane Tennison.’

‘I’m no’ Mrs. Hastings, dear. She’s no’ in just noo. I’m Agnes Anderson, her housekeeper. I thought you might be Mrs. Hastings, or her son Andrew. I phoned him earlier. Did he call you?’ The woman spoke quickly, but in a soft, almost melodic, Scottish highland accent.

Jane was confused by what Agnes was saying, and thought she seemed rather anxious about something.

‘Is her husband in?’ Jane asked.

‘He’s no’ alive, dear. Passed away a few years ago now from a heart attack.’

Jane reached into her coat pocket and got out the bit of paper she’d written the details on. ‘Does Mrs. Hastings own a light blue Vanden Plas Princess Allegro, registration TLY 2—’

‘Yes. Oh my goodness. Has she been in an accident? Is she in hospital? Have you told Andrew?’ Agnes looked very worried as she fired her random questions at Jane.

Jane didn’t want to say she was investigating a murder, but needed to know more about the car. ‘There was a minor car accident that we believe Mrs. Hastings may have been involved in, but failed to stop and exchange details with the other driver. Can I come inside and speak with you, please?’

Jane followed Agnes down the interior hallway into a large, plush living room, which had two white sofas and two armchairs, with hand-embroidered cushions scattered over them. An expensive Persian rug lay at the foot of a large white marble fireplace, the centerpiece of which was a Regency-style brass and chrome electric fire, with colored glass coals that gave off a flickering flame effect. Carved teak cabinets and chests had porcelain and china ornaments displayed on them, as well as what appeared to be family photographs. Various oil and water paintings were hanging from the walls, and in front of the long balcony, which overlooked Regent’s Park, was a carved eight-seater teak dining table and matching Regency-style chairs. It was clear that Mrs. Hastings was a woman of considerable wealth.

‘Do you have any idea where Mrs. Hastings might be at present?’ Jane asked.

‘Noo. She went out late Friday afternoon in her car an’ I havnae seen her since. To be honest, I’m a wee bit worried. It appears she’s nay been home and usually she’d leave me a message. Mind, I was out Friday night and stayed over at a friend’s, I got home late last night and went to bed, then this morning I went to check on Mrs. Hastings, to see if she wanted breakfast, but she was no’ in her bed. I even checked the underground car park and her car was no’ there. Where did this accident happen?’

Jane told Agnes it was in Peckham.

‘Peckham? But her golf course is over in Coombe Hill. Ohh, now I’m confused. I cannae remember if she said on Friday that she was going to see a friend from the golf club or she was going to the golf club to see a friend Or was she going to see Andrew...?’

Jane was finding it hard to keep up with what Agnes was saying. ‘You mentioned you phoned Mrs. Hastings’ son, Andrew?’

‘Aye, I called him about eight thirty this morning to say I was worried about his mother’s whereabouts. Andrew said to stop worrying as his mum was probably visiting friends for the weekend, or decided to have a night or two away on her own in a hotel, which she has done before... Normally she’d always tell me or leave a wee note if she was going anywhere. Andrew said he’d make a few phone calls and get back to me.’

Jane asked if Mrs. Hastings had any friends in the Peckham or Dulwich areas. When Agnes said that she didn’t know of any, Jane, now becoming a bit concerned, asked Agnes what Mrs. Hastings looked like. She doubted, due to the apparent age of their victim, that it was Mrs. Hastings who had been murdered. Agnes went over to one of the teak cabinets, picked up a photograph and handed it to Jane, who could see it was two women and two men, standing by a putting green holding golf clubs.

‘That was taken last summer at Coombe Hill in the mixed four-ball competition. Mrs. Hastings is on the left — she’s a good golfer — and that’s her son Andrew next to her — he’s her only child. I don’t know who the other two are.’

‘How old is Mrs. Hastings?’

‘She’s sixty-six now.’

Jane estimated Agnes was a few years younger than Mrs. Hastings. It was clear from her age and the photograph that Sybil Hastings was not their murder victim. Jane realized there wasn’t much more she could ask Agnes and it would be best to ring later to see if Mrs. Hastings had returned home. However, she could see Agnes was still worried so decided to stay and chat with her. Just then the doorbell rang, which made the nervous Agnes jump.

‘I’ll get it. It’s probably my colleague, Detective Inspector Gibbs,’ Jane said in an effort to calm Agnes.

Gibbs looked disheveled and hungover. Jane introduced Agnes to him as Mrs. Hastings’ housekeeper and Gibbs asked if he could have a glass of water. Agnes went off to the kitchen to get him one. Jane wondered if Gibbs was still drinking heavily, or had recently fallen off the wagon. He stood beside Jane, his hands deep in his coat pockets.

‘Dickhead porter wanted to know the ins and outs of a duck’s arse... “May I ask why you are here, sir?”’ Gibbs said, exaggerating the porter’s ostentatious manner and tone. ‘The pretentious git shut up when I told him we’d had a complaint that someone in a porter’s uniform was flashing at elderly women in Regent’s Park.’

Jane refrained from laughing. Only Gibbs could come out with quick put-downs like that. She told him she hadn’t mentioned anything about the murder they were investigating to Agnes as she didn’t want to unduly worry her. Jane showed Gibbs the photograph she was still holding and pointed to the woman on the left.

‘That’s Mrs. Hastings and her son Andrew next to her. As you can see, she’s clearly not our victim. Sybil Hastings owns the blue Allegro, but she’s been away since Friday afternoon. Her son thinks she could be with friends or having a weekend away somewhere on her own.’

Gibbs shrugged his shoulders. ‘Then we’re wasting valuable time here. The priority is identifying our victim.’

Jane replaced the photo on the cabinet. ‘Seems strange she should just leave her car in Peckham without contacting her son or Agnes.’

‘She’s a grown woman who can do as she pleases. She might even have a secret toy boy lover over Peckham way. Her whereabouts are not our problem,’ Gibbs said.

Agnes came back into the living room with a glass of water and handed it to Gibbs, who gulped it down. Jane thanked Agnes for her assistance, asked for the flat phone number and said she’d ring back later to see if Mrs. Hastings had been in touch. Suddenly they heard an aristocratic voice bellowing down the hallway.

‘Have you heard from Mother yet, Agnes? I phoned a few of her friends but no luck.’

‘That’s Andrew,’ Agnes whispered nervously to Jane and Gibbs.

‘I was supposed to be playing golf this morning, you know, and I’ve had to ruddy well cancel it,’ Andrew said as he entered the living room. He looked every inch the sophisticated golfer in a white nylon turtleneck top, with a woolen magenta jumper over it, hound’s-tooth pattern golf trousers and black brogues. He was good-looking, in his late thirties and six-foot tall, with swept-back blond hair, which he ran his hand through as he looked inquisitively at Jane and Gibbs.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, looking at them in a disparaging manner.

‘They’re police officers, Andrew,’ Agnes told him.

Andrew gave Agnes a stern look. ‘I told you not to call the police.’

‘I didn’t,’ Agnes replied timidly, and gesticulated towards Jane. ‘Sergeant Tennison is investigating a car accident your mother was involved in. She’s no’ hurt, but she drove off without stopping. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why she hasn’t come home...’

‘Utter nonsense, Agnes. You know as well as I do Mother is as honest as the day is long. She’d never drive off after an accident.’ He looked at Gibbs. ‘And who, may I ask, is Tennison’s sidekick?’

Jane could see from the way Gibbs pursed his lips that Andrew’s sidekick remark had irritated him.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Gibbs and we’re here—’

‘On false pretenses, I suspect,’ Andrew interrupted. ‘I’m friends with a very senior police officer, so I know for a fact detectives wouldn’t be investigating a minor car accident. So why are you really here?’

Jane looked at Gibbs, wondering if she should say something. She intended to be polite and tactful, but Gibbs, who had clearly taken a dislike to Andrew, spoke up before she could.

‘We are investigating a murder of a female in Peckham.’

Agnes gasped, then Gibbs continued with a hint of disdain towards Hastings. ‘Having seen a photograph of your mother, she’s clearly not the victim, so you can go and play your golf match if you want.’

Andrew looked offended. ‘I find your attitude most rude, officer!’

Gibbs smiled. ‘When your mother returns, could you ask her to contact Peckham CID so we can have a quick chat with her about why she was in Peckham and why her car is there?’

‘Why do you need to speak with her? Why did you even think she might have been a murder victim?’ Andrew asked in a raised voice.

Jane thought things were getting out of hand, but as objectionable as Mr. Hastings was, he deserved to know about his mother’s car being the real reason for their visit.

‘We didn’t think she was a murder victim, Mr. Hastings. Her car was found near the scene of a murder in Peckham. It is standard procedure to check out nearby parked cars and speak with the owners in case they may have seen something suspicious,’ Jane said.

‘Peckham? My mother doesn’t have friends in rundown places like Peckham,’ Andrew said indignantly.

‘She might know someone in Dulwich Village, which is nearby and more upmarket,’ Gibbs remarked.

‘If she did, I think I’d know,’ Andrew replied.

‘This is all rather distressing,’ Agnes said, looking close to tears.

‘The car was parked neatly up against the curb and locked. Apart from a flat tire, it looked in good condition,’ Gibbs said.

‘I can’t see my mother leaving her car in Peckham for two days without contacting me.’

‘If you’re worried about your mother then I suggest you report her missing,’ Gibbs said bluntly.

‘Then you’d better take down her details, hadn’t you, Inspector Gibbs?’

Gibbs looked at his watch as he spoke. ‘Reporting her missing is entirely up to you, but it needs to be done at your local police station, which is St. John’s Wood. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hastings.’

‘I find your attitude insensitive and unhelpful. Where exactly is my mother’s car, so I can arrange for it to be brought back here before it gets stolen or damaged?’

‘If you have a spare key, we could drop you there on our way back to Peckham, then you could drive it back here yourself,’ Jane suggested, trying to be helpful.

‘There’s a spare key somewhere in the kitchen,’ Andrew said and went to look for it, closely followed by Agnes.

Gibbs glared at Jane and whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have offered Little Lord Fauntleroy a lift. Egotistical people like him look down on the police, as if we’re uneducated and only exist to do their bidding.’ He held his right thumb and index finger close together. ‘I’m that close to sticking my fist down his posh gob!’

Jane suggested he wait outside and calm down a little, but Gibbs decided he’d make his own way back to the station, rather than put up with any more of Hastings’ arrogance, and left.

Andrew returned with the car key in his hand. ‘Where’s Inspector Gibbs gone?’ he asked Jane.

She decided to lie. ‘He’s running late for a meeting at Scotland Yard and had to go.’

‘I find his attitude very unprofessional. He’d better hope that no harm has come to my mother.’

‘Would you like me to come with you to Peckham, Andrew?’ Agnes asked.

‘No, I would not. You stay here in case Mother calls. And the house looks like it could do with a clean...’

Jane looked around the room, which was spotless. She thought to herself it was the pot calling the kettle black after his remarks about Gibbs being rude.

Outside, when Jane pointed to her car, she could see Andrew Hastings looked somewhat shocked.

‘Is this really a police car?’ he asked, looking at the vehicle with disdain.

‘No, it’s a Jaffa Cake on wheels, according to my colleagues.’ Jane smiled.

As she drove out of Viceroy Court, Andrew cleared his throat and looked at her in what she felt was a haughty manner.

‘Do you know Detective Chief Superintendent Michael Blake?’

Jane knew he was deliberately name-dropping and sensed he wanted her to ask how he knew DCS Blake.

‘I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know him,’ she said politely.

‘He’s a senior officer in the Serious Crime Office at Scotland Yard.’

Although Jane had never worked with Blake, she was aware he was commonly known to many officers, especially females, by the nickname ‘WHAT,’ which was an abbreviation for Wandering Hand Trouble. He often tried to touch female officers inappropriately.

‘Michael and I are good friends. We’re members of the same golf club and often dine out together with our wives. He’s very professional in everything he does — unlike your DI Gibbs. Michael would have taken my mother’s details for a missing person’s report if I’d asked him,’ Andrew sneered.

Jane thought Gibbs was right about Andrew Hastings being an insufferable, arrogant arsehole. She wished she’d never offered him a lift, but realizing Andrew’s remark was a veiled threat to tell Blake about Gibbs, she slipped her notebook and pen out of her jacket pocket and handed it to Andrew.

‘If you’d like to write down your mother’s details, date of birth, height etc. at the back of my notebook, I’ll get a telex misper report sent to St. John’s Wood from Peckham. I’ll need your home address and phone number as well, so an officer can contact you as well as Agnes.’

‘There, that wasn’t all that difficult after all, was it, DS Tennison?’ Andrew said with a smug grin as he started to write in her notebook.

‘When did you last see your mother?’

‘Last Sunday, when I played golf with her.’

‘Bit cold for golf, isn’t it?’ Jane remarked.

‘We’re not just summer golfers; we play all year round, unless the course is closed due to severe weather conditions,’ Andrew replied condescendingly.

‘Hopefully your mother will have had a relaxing weekend somewhere and return home later today.’

‘Well, she’ll have ruined my day if that is the case.’

Jane was appalled by his remark. She knew she should ask him to write down details of his mother’s last known movements, but she couldn’t bear to be in his company any longer.

Arriving at Copeland Road, Jane pulled up in front of the Allegro. Andrew confirmed that it looked like his mother’s car, and on trying the key in the driver’s door, the lock popped open. He looked at the flat front offside tire and kicked it.

‘Flat as a pancake.’

Jane wondered why men always felt the need to kick a flat tire when it was fairly obvious it had a puncture.

‘Too flat to get it back to my mother’s without damaging the wheel. I’ll have to change the tire for the spare in the boot. Don’t suppose you could help me, DS Tennison?’

‘Sorry, I’m a woman — as you know, we don’t have a clue about changing car tires. I need to get back to the station.’ Jane returned one of Andrew’s irritating smiles as she walked back to the car, laughing to herself.

Suddenly Jane heard Andrew cry out and turned to see him stumbling backwards, away from the boot of the car, a look of sheer terror on his face. Jane ran to the boot. Inside was a body lying in a fetal position, wearing a full-length mink fur coat. There was an awful stench radiating from it. The face, the body and the coat were heavily blood stained, and Jane could see stab wounds and cuts to the face and back of one of the hands.

‘My mother, my mother... Oh dear God... Who’s done this to her?’ Andrew fell to his knees on the road, gasping for air and clutching his chest.