Stalkers

Chapter 42

Gemma’s eyes snapped open to the trilling of a telephone bell.

She lay confused for a few moments, before focusing on the neon numerals of the clock on the other side of the darkened bedroom. It was just past midnight — she’d turned in relatively early because she’d wanted a quick start the following morning. She fumbled on the bedside table and finally found the offending article.

She put it to her ear. ‘Yes, Piper.’

‘Ma’am, it’s me.’ It was Des Palliser.

Gemma sat up. ‘Have we got something?’

‘Yeah … I think we do.’

‘Well?’

‘How soon can you get over to Hampstead?’

‘Hampstead?’

‘Belsize Park, to be precise?’

‘Belsize Park?’ Gemma’s thoughts were still fuddled. What on earth could take them to that exclusive neck of the woods? ‘This is related to Heck, yes?’

‘I think it could be.’

‘Could be?’

‘Ma’am, this is serious.’

Gemma was now fully awake. Palliser’s tone was one of suppressed excitement, but she didn’t like the sound of that last comment. ‘How serious, Des?’

‘As in … “do you want to check a fresh murder scene yourself before local plod get their dirty paws all over it” serious.’

She leapt from the bed. ‘I’m on my way.’

Gemma made it to Belsize Park in record time. She lived in Highbury, but a blue spinning beacon on top of her BMW meant that she could hurtle down Camden Road and up Haverstock Hill without being intercepted by uniforms, and allowed her to pull straight in alongside the crime scene tape now deployed across the driveway entrance to sixteen, Templeton Drive.

‘Ma’am?’ one of the local detectives said. He’d been standing behind the tape, jawing with a couple of uniforms, and looked astonished to see her.

‘Hello Tony,’ she replied.

Detective Sergeant Tony Gibbens was close to retirement. His stained tie, scruffy brown mac and cynical attitude indicated that he was a creature from another era. He was balding, with tufts of white hair behind his ears. He scratched at one of these as she approached.

‘Fancy letting me take a look, Tony?’

‘Yeah, course. Surprised to see you, though, ma’am.’

‘What have we got?’

Gibbens turned and regarded the house, every window of which was now brightly lit. ‘Well … it’s a two-hander. Unusual circs. But if someone’s called your mob in, they were a bit previous. Lab team haven’t even got here yet.’

‘Who’s Crime Scene Manager?’

‘DI Jeffries. When he arrives.’

‘Alex won’t mind me having a quick shuftie, will he?’

‘Don’t suppose so, ma’am.’ Headlights flooded over them. ‘This is probably him.’

But the beaten-up Chevrolet that pulled in alongside Gemma’s BMW did not belong to DI Alex Jeffries. When DI Des Palliser climbed out, Gibbens looked even more surprised.

‘Something we should be told about, ma’am?’ he asked, looking suspicious.

‘If there is, Tony, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?’

‘Sure.’ He lifted the tape.

‘So what is this?’ Gemma asked, as she and Palliser headed up the gravel drive.

‘That bloke I interviewed at Goldstein amp; Hoff?’ he said quietly.

‘Blenkinsop … yeah?’

‘This is his house. And apparently he’s one of the APs.’

She stopped and stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

He nodded.

‘Come on.’

They flashed their warrant cards to the uniformed sergeant at the front door, then donned Tyvek coveralls from the sterile container in the porch and pulled on pairs of latex gloves and shoe-covers, before being guided towards an internal door connecting with the garage. Neither of them was quite sure what to expect, but then no officer ever was when he or she first approached a murder scene.

Even to sensibilities as battle-hardened as theirs, the sight of the impaled man was a sobering shock. He was still transfixed mid-way up the steel spike. What looked like several bucketfuls of blood had spilled across the cement floor beneath him, and were now slowly coagulating. The lower section of the spike was crusted crimson. Blenkinsop’s waxen face, which they could only see upside down, was a rigid grimace of agony. Gemma glanced to the ceiling, where someone had gone to great trouble to saw out a large square section of boarding.

‘Whoever set this up wasn’t taking any chances,’ she said.

Palliser couldn’t at first reply. He’d turned a shade green as he surveyed the punctured body. It was always difficult, even with years of CID experience, to be cool about a corpse, which, a few hours earlier, you’d seen walking around and had engaged in conversation.

‘Remind me what it was that bothered you about this fella?’ Gemma said.

‘Well …’ Palliser cleared his throat, making an effort to get it together. ‘He was way too nervous. Wouldn’t even let us take a DNA sample.’

‘He’s hardly the sort to be involved in routine crime.’

‘Nothing routine about this, ma’am.’

‘Agreed. Let’s have a look at the other one.’

They moved through the house, the uniformed sergeant still chaperoning them, and descended to the cellar. This was a more conventional crime scene: wrecked furniture, and a deceased party who had clearly been dispatched by gunshots. Gemma picked her way as close to the body as she dared. A wallet lay open beside it, and personal documents were strewn around. She crouched to get a closer look.

‘Brian Hobbs,’ she said, reading the name on the credit cards. ‘This a genuine ID?’

‘We don’t know that yet, ma’am,’ the sergeant responded. He’d remained on the stairs, not wanting to trespass on the scene.

Gemma nodded, before beckoning Palliser to the far side of the room, where they were out of the uniform’s earshot.

‘How’d you actually get onto this?’ she asked quietly.

‘Force radio. Was on my way home when it came over. Sixteen, Templeton Drive. Remembered it straight away. Blenkinsop.’

‘There was no reference in Heck’s paperwork to Blenkinsop?’

Palliser shook his head.

‘What about this guy, Hobbs?’

‘Not as I noticed.’

‘Because I think I’ve seen him before. On a couple of crime scene glossies in one of Heck’s folders.’

Palliser looked startled. ‘Okay … okay, now I’m getting excited.’

‘Well don’t get too excited. Half this fella’s head’s been blown off. I can’t be absolutely sure.’

‘On the FR they thought this might be a robbery-homicide.’

‘What … Blenkinsop killed one of the robbers then fell through a trapdoor they’d prepared for him earlier?’ She looked scornful as she turned to the uniformed sergeant. ‘Have we found a firearm anywhere?’

‘Not yet, ma’am. We won’t do a thorough search until the Lab get here.’

Palliser nodded towards the wallet. ‘That’s what probably gave the first impression.’

Gemma shook her head. ‘There’s still money in it. Whoever got that wallet out wanted to know who this guy was and where he was from.’

Palliser eyed her. ‘Three guesses who that was.’

She crouched again to analyse the spilled documentation — and to check the address on the driving licence, which was fifty-eight, Rentoul Street, Coventry.

She thanked DS Gibbens on her way out.

‘You done, ma’am?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Absolutely, Tony. Thanks very much.’

‘That’s it?’

‘For the moment.’

‘See you then.’

‘See you,’ she said, climbing into her BMW.

Before Palliser jumped into his Chevrolet, he heard Gibbens muttering to the uniforms on the tape about the privileges of special squads, and how ‘those lucky buggers will be back in bed before one’.

‘I wish,’ Palliser said, as he sped away after his boss.