Murder Mile

Chapter Five

Jane and DS Lawrence were together in her car, driving to Viceroy Court.

‘You still going out with what’s his name?’ Lawrence asked.

Jane grinned. ‘Which “what’s his name”’ would that be, Paul?’

‘The male nurse at St. Thomas’.’

‘Michael. No, we split up some time ago.’

‘Sorry to hear that. He seemed like a nice chap.’

‘He is. In fact, he’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever met — second to you, of course.’

Lawrence laughed. ‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Sergeant Tennison.’

Jane smiled. ‘It all finished amicably. To be honest, our different shift patterns meant we weren’t really able to spend much time together. Michael got offered a senior charge nurse’s position in Liverpool. We discussed it and I told him to take it. Truth is, we were both more interested in advancing our careers than settling down. I miss him, but we keep in contact on the phone. So I’m footloose and fancy free... What about you?’

‘Still haven’t found the right one.’

‘Good things come to those who wait, Paul.’

‘Knowing my luck, that will probably be when I’m in my eighties!’

Jane had always had a soft spot for Lawrence. He was very amiable, willing to help others and had taught her so much about forensics and crime scenes since she’d joined the Met. She had rarely ever heard him complain, despite the stress of having to deal with dead bodies and horrific crime scenes. Few officers would have the stomach to handle what he did, day in and day out.

At Viceroy Court, the same jobsworth porter let Jane and Lawrence in through the main entrance. Jane informed him her colleague was a fellow detective, but the porter insisted on seeing Paul’s warrant card and requested that they both sign the visitors’ book.

‘What’s the purpose of your visit, madam?’

‘The same purpose as last time,’ Jane replied, walking towards the lift.

Agnes answered the door and immediately said that she hadn’t heard from Mrs. Hastings. Jane and Paul followed her into the lounge and Agnes turned to look at Jane.

‘It’s no’ good news, is it, officer?’

Jane shook her head and asked Agnes to sit down. As Jane told her about Sybil’s murder, Agnes broke down in floods of tears. When she explained that Andrew had discovered her body in the boot of the car, Agnes started wailing loudly, rocking back and forth on the sofa.

‘Would you like me to call a doctor?’ Jane asked, putting her arm around Agnes’ shoulder.

‘No, no, thank you. I’ll be all right in a wee minute.’ Agnes wiped her tears away with a tissue then blew her nose on it. ‘It’s all such a terrible shock. Who could do such a thing to Mrs. Hastings? And why? She’s never harmed anyone... She was such a kind and generous woman.’

Lawrence went to the kitchen to get some water for Agnes.

‘DS Lawrence is here to look through Mrs. Hastings’ personal belongings, to see if there’s anything that might help the investigation.’

Agnes nodded. Lawrence returned with the water and handed it to Agnes, who took a sip before addressing him.

‘All Mrs. Hastings’ paperwork is in a small filing cabinet in the spare room, out there on the left,’ she said, pointing to the hallway.

Jane took hold of Agnes’ hand as Lawrence left the room. ‘I need to ask some questions that may seem a bit probing, but it’s a necessary part of the investigation.’

Agnes nodded. Jane took it slowly, to cause as little distress to Agnes as possible.

‘How long have you worked for Mrs. Hastings?’

‘I became Mr. and Mrs. Hastings’ live-in housekeeper at their house in Coombe Hill about fifteen years ago. Andrew was there too, until he married Jo. After Henry died, they sold that house and Mrs. Hastings went to live with Andrew and Jo for about a year. I lived with my sister until Mrs. Hastings moved into Viceroy Court a year ago. She asked me to move back in as her housekeeper again.’ Agnes sipped some water.

‘Have you spoken to Andrew’s wife since Friday?’

‘Noo. I rarely have reason to phone their house, and as far as I know Jo has never rung here. Between us, Mrs. Hastings and Jo didn’t get on. They never have, really.’

‘Why was that?’ Jane asked.

‘I don’t know all the reasons, and it wasn’t my place to ask. Seems to me that Mrs. Hastings thought Jo wasn’t good enough for her son.’

‘How did Andrew feel about his mother and Jo’s relationship?’

Agnes shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I never asked him. He never said anything to me, but I can tell you that he loved and cared for his mother very much. He took her in when she was grief-stricken after her husband’s death and he dealt with the sale of the old house and the purchase of this place.’

Jane asked Agnes if she knew of anyone Mrs. Hastings had fallen out with recently. Agnes shook her head and said that Mrs. Hastings was not the sort of person who upset people. She also told Jane that Mrs. Hastings didn’t really socialize with other residents in Viceroy Court, although she still played golf regularly with friends at Coombe Hill, where she was a member. Jane made a note of the names Agnes gave her in her notebook.

‘Did Mrs. Hastings have any young female friends in their late twenties or early thirties?’

Agnes shook her head. ‘Not that I know of... But maybe at the Samaritans.’

‘Samaritans? Was Mrs. Hastings upset about something?’ Jane asked, wondering why Mrs. Hastings might need emotional support from the Samaritans.

Agnes smiled. ‘Noo, Mrs. Hastings didn’t have any problems. She was a volunteer with the Samaritans.’

Jane was surprised, but knew this could be important to the investigation. ‘Oh, right, I misunderstood you. What exactly did she do there?’

‘She was a listening volunteer for a few hours a week, at the branch in Soho. She didn’t talk about her work there, as it was obviously confidential. But I know she found the work very rewarding and she said it made her realize how fortunate she was compared to others who were suffering terrible misery.’

Jane asked Agnes if she knew the address of the Soho branch, but Agnes shook her head.

‘Do you know if she kept a timetable of the hours she worked?’

‘Aye, she did, in a date book that she kept in her handbag. She used the same date book for appointments with her friends as well. As I recall, she was at the Samaritans last Thursday.’

Having already examined the contents of Sybil’s handbag, Jane knew the date book wasn’t there. She left the distraught Agnes sipping her water and went to find Paul. He told her that he had checked the kitchen, bedrooms and bathrooms, but couldn’t see anything that suggested Mrs. Hastings’ murder had taken place in her own flat.

‘Well, that’s some form of relief, I guess. If it had happened here, it might have pushed poor Agnes over the edge.’

‘I’m not saying categorically that it didn’t happen here, Jane. There’s a marble floor in the kitchen and bathroom, which could easily have been cleaned up if there was blood on it. I did some KM testing, but got no positive hits for blood. While we were in the lounge, I couldn’t see any signs that areas of the carpet had been cleaned or furniture moved.’

‘Do you need more time here?’ Jane asked.

Lawrence nodded. ‘It would be helpful if you could take Agnes to the kitchen so I can have a closer look in the lounge. I removed some documents from Mrs. Hastings’ filing cabinet relating to her bank and savings accounts.’ He handed Jane an opened envelope. ‘Her will is inside. She’s left a couple of grand to Agnes and everything else to Andrew Hastings. Looking at some of her bank statements and taking into consideration the value of this place, she was more than well off.’

‘You didn’t see a date book in the spare room, did you?’ Jane asked.

‘No, and I had a good look inside the car before it was taken to the lab and it wasn’t there. Is it important?’

‘Agnes says that Mrs. Hastings kept one, but it seems to be missing. Her killer may have taken it because there was something in it about him. Also, she was a volunteer for the Samaritans, at their Soho branch.’

‘I imagine there are a few unstable people who seek help there. Could be she met up with one of them on Friday?’

Jane nodded. ‘I’ll phone Moran and update him.’

Using Mrs. Hastings’ bedroom phone, Jane dialed DCI Moran’s direct office number. When he answered, Jane filled him in about Sybil Hastings’ will, her connection with the Samaritans, and the date book.

‘We need to find that date book,’ Moran said.

‘It doesn’t appear to be in the house and it definitely wasn’t in her handbag or in the car. I wonder if her killer may have taken it.’

‘Or disposed of it, if his name’s in it,’ Moran remarked.

‘Lawrence doesn’t think Mrs. Hastings was killed here,’ Jane told him.

‘Gibbs rang to say that Andrew Hastings’ wife is alive and well. Apparently Hastings has an alibi for his movements on the Friday. According to his wife, he was at a golf club do that went on late into the evening. Gibbs is going to the club to check it out.’

‘Looks like we might be wrong about Andrew Hastings then,’ Jane reflected.

‘Yes, but on the positive side at least we can eliminate him from our enquiries. I’d like you to go to the Samaritans in Soho, find out exactly what Sybil Hastings did there, and the details of anyone she was dealing with.’

Jane recalled that Moran used to work in the West End. ‘Do you know the address of the Soho branch?’

‘Forty-six Marshall Street — it’s just off Beak Street.’

Jane jotted down the address in her notebook. ‘I know Beak Street — it’s near the trendy shops in Carnaby Street.’ She was about to put the phone down when Moran continued.

‘I’ve had an artist’s drawing done of our unknown victim. Can you get a recent picture of Sybil Hastings so I can release the details to the press?’ He put the phone down.

Jane asked Agnes if they could have a cup of tea in the kitchen, leaving Lawrence to check out the lounge, although he didn’t find anything of interest. Before they left, Jane asked Agnes if she could have a close-up photograph of Sybil, which she duly provided. Then Jane dropped Lawrence off at the lab in Lambeth before continuing to the Samaritans branch in Soho.

Gibbs arrived at Coombe Hill golf club, turning off the A238. He couldn’t help noticing the instant change in surroundings. It was like driving into the countryside, with an abundance of oak, pine and sycamore trees, and a few houses, even bigger and more expensive than Andrew Hastings’, set back off the road amongst the trees. Gibbs was surprised at how many golfers were in the grounds, particularly as it was winter. Some were carrying their clubs to and from their cars, whilst others practiced on the putting greens and chipping areas. He searched for a parking space amongst the Jaguars, Bentleys, Rolls Royces, Mercedes and other sports cars, chuckling to himself about how out of place the unmarked CID Hillman Hunter was. Spotting a space next to the entrance, Gibbs parked and got out the car.

‘Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?’ an authoritative Surrey accent boomed, in a haughty manner. Gibbs looked up to see a tall, balding man in his mid-sixties standing by the entrance to the clubhouse. He was dressed in a blazer, blue shirt and striped tie, with beige trousers that were an inch too short and revealed his white socks. He marched forward with a stern expression and as he approached, Gibbs recognized the badge on his blazer as that of the Blues and Royals, part of the Household Cavalry.

‘You’ll have to move your car — that’s the captain’s space you’ve just parked in.’

Gibbs held up his warrant card. ‘DI Gibbs. I’m here on official police business.’

‘It wouldn’t matter if you were the Commissioner, young man — you’d still have to move the car. Park it over there in the area clearly signposted for visitors.’

Gibbs took a deep breath. Not wanting to risk another complaint about his attitude, he bit his tongue, apologized, and went to move the car. Returning to the steps of the clubhouse, the secretary introduced himself as Major Whitehead and asked how he could help. Gibbs responded that it was a delicate matter and that he needed to speak to him in private.

‘Very well. I’m just finishing dealing with an important matter, but perhaps you could wait in the players’ lounge.’ Whitehead pointed to a sign in the hallway, turned and walked off.

The players’ lounge overlooked the well-manicured eighteenth green and its attractive tree- and heather-lined fairway. The large room was filled with leather easy chairs, sofas and small circular tables, whilst cabinets of trophies and engraved honors plaques lined the walls. Gibbs noticed that the Club Captains Board for 1979 had A. W. Hastings written on it. The bar was busy with golfers chatting to each other about their handicaps, how well they had played and about the stock markets. Some wore club blazers and ties, whilst others were more casual in club motif woolen sweaters. A couple of men were dressed in plus fours with knee-length socks. There were no women in the room.

Gibbs had no interest in the game and had only ever played mini golf when he was a kid on a family holiday at Butlin’s. He thought it ironic that Sybil Hastings, who lived and socialized in this upper-class world, should be found stabbed to death in the boot of a car in Peckham.

Gibbs went over to the bar and ordered a pint of lager.

The barman smiled. ‘Are you a member, sir?’

Gibbs smiled back. ‘No, just visiting.’

The barman frowned. ‘Then I can’t serve you, sir, but a member can buy you a drink.’

Gibbs took out his warrant card and showed it to the barman. ‘Major Whitehead said I could have a pint on the house. We wouldn’t want to upset him, would we?’

The barman was very apologetic and poured Gibbs a pint. He downed it quickly, licking his lips satisfactorily. Placing the empty glass on the bar, he asked for a refill. As the barman placed the replenished pint on the bar, Whitehead walked over.

The barman smiled. ‘Should I put the officer’s two pints on your tab, major, or on the club hospitality account?’

Whitehead glared at the barman and was clearly not pleased. Gibbs didn’t help matters by raising his glass and saying ‘bottoms up’ before gulping half of the contents.

The disgruntled major led the way through to his large office, which also overlooked the eighteenth green. The walls were oak paneled and covered with an array of golfing photographs. Amongst them were pictures of George VI, Winston Churchill and celebrities such as Jimmy Tarbuck, Bob Hope and Sean Connery. The floor was covered in a thick red carpet and at the far end of the room were period leather armchairs and a sofa. The major’s large Jacobean writing desk had a leather-inlaid top and matching oak high-back chairs either side of it. He pointed to the chair opposite him and invited Gibbs to sit down.

The major proudly puffed out his chest. ‘Before this golf course was built, the area was known as Gallows Hill. Many highway men and nefarious villains met their maker on the scaffold on Coombe Hill.’

‘Really? How interesting,’ Gibbs replied drily.

The major wafted his hand at the pictures on the wall. ‘As you can see, we have had Royal members as well as—’

Gibbs interrupted. ‘I’m investigating the murder of one of your members.’

The stunned major listened as Gibbs continued.

‘Mrs. Sybil Hastings was found stabbed to death in the boot of her car in Peckham.’

Whitehead was visibly shocked and seemed close to tears. ‘My God... Poor Andrew, losing his father and now his mother, in such a horrific way. Sybil was a member here for many years. She was a private woman but incredibly generous, and helped with charity events and parties at the club. She was a very accomplished golfer, as was her late husband. How is Andrew? Is there anything I can do for him?’

‘He’s obviously distraught and in shock, but he’s bearing up. I need to ask a few questions.’ Gibbs took out his notebook and pen. ‘Can you tell me who Mrs. Hastings regularly played golf with?’

‘Well, Andrew, for one, but mostly at weekends with him. Then there were two or three local women that she regularly played with.’

Gibbs asked for their names and addresses, but the major said he wasn’t sure if he was able to provide personal details of members without their permission. Gibbs couldn’t be bothered to argue with the pompous major and asked him to contact the women personally to request that they ring him at Peckham CID.

‘Was Mrs. Hastings friendly with any of the male golfers?’

‘If you are asking whether she was in a relationship with any of them, no, not that I know of. She was friendly with everyone, male or female. Even after her husband died, she continued supporting the club by attending functions with her son.’

‘I believe Andrew Hastings played golf last Friday, in a competition?’

‘Yes, that’s right, in the winter medal. He came second. Plays off a two handicap, you know.’

Gibbs didn’t have a clue what that meant, and wasn’t about to ask.

‘Yes, it was a pity he couldn’t stay for the dinner and collect his medal.’

Gibbs felt his heart race. ‘Oh, why was that then?’ he asked casually.

‘Apparently one of his children was taken ill, so he had to shoot off home.’

‘Oh dear. What time was that?’ Gibbs continued.

‘I’m not sure exactly. The meal started at five p.m., and I remember asking Michael Blake — he’s one of your chaps, senior officer at Scotland Yard. Do you know him?’

‘Yes. What was it you asked DCS Blake?’

‘Where Andrew was. It was DCS Blake who told me he’d gone home, and why. I gave him Andrew’s runner-up medal so he could pass it on to him. Gosh, you don’t suspect him, do you?’ The major’s eyes widened.

‘No, not at all. Seems he and his mother were very close. Right, that’s all for now. Thanks for your help. We haven’t released any details about Mrs. Hastings’ murder to the press yet, so I’d appreciate it if this conversation remained confidential.’

‘As a fellow officer, you can rely on me, Inspector Gibbs.’ The major saluted.

Gibbs suspected that no sooner had he driven out of the car park that Whitehead would be in the bar boasting to everyone that he was assisting police in a murder investigation. He chuckled to himself at the way the major had inadvertently dropped Andrew Hastings in the proverbial shit, making him a possible suspect in his mother’s murder.

If Sybil Hastings and the unknown victim’s murders were linked, Gibbs was now even more determined to find the connection.