Someone Has Just Been Murdered - Chapter 3

Every pane of glass that helped make up the outer frame of Josephine’s office offered the assurance that nobody outside could hear what she and Suzanne were talking about. All the other officers viewed the dual sets of lips moving. DI Andrews had only been speaking to her mother for a minute or so, but Pickford could tell by the way they were posing that the conversation blended personal and professional considerations. He was a first-class reader of these situations. It was a matter of seconds, though, before DCI Andrews realised he was transfixed on her and her deputy. She softly tapped her knuckles on the glass to get him to cease staring. He switched the focus of his interest to what was lying on his desk.

“So we have a name and a rough idea of how she spent her final hours” stated Josephine. “What else have you found out?”

“Her pal at work, Mrs. Hendry, confirmed that Mr. Cullen sent Samantha out to get his car washed. There was no muck on it when the body was found, so I can only presume that she was strangled after she’d done this chore. I can’t offer any certainties that this scenario is the right one. We don’t have a motive yet, and there is the problem – which I learned when I was in the mortuary – concerning the removal of her tongue.”

“Which couldn’t have been done in broad daylight”, Josephine declared emphatically.

“And it couldn’t have been carried out in the red car itself. I didn’t see any traces of blood.”

“If that’s so, DI Andrews, the main question becomes where was it done?”

“There are a couple of unusual factors I came across whilst Mrs. Hendry was giving me the lowdown on Samantha.”

“What are they?”

“The age she gave Mr. Cullen when her work record was being compiled doesn’t correspond with how old she is in real life.”

“You’d have thought Samantha Williams’ employer would have spotted that – I’m surprised by that.”

“I’m not. There’s not a lot of associating going on between him and his staff at Stalag Cullen.”

“I think you’re exaggerating.”

“I’m honestly not! When I talked to him in his office, he locked the door from the inside. He’s weird!”

“I’ll just have to take your word for it, Suzanne. Now, what is the other oddity you uncovered?”

“It’s more to do with what Mrs. Hendry heard Samantha saying under her breath as she came out of the toilet.”

“Any chance of me being told what Mrs. Hendry overheard”, said Josephine impatiently.

“She’s re-emerged from the dead.”

“She’s re-emerged from the dead?”

“That’s what she overheard.”

“Rather a vague comment!”

“Samantha must’ve meant something by it.”

“Well, we’ll make that one of our main points of the enquiry. What about the mundane facts you established?”

“She’s un-married, always has been. Nothing to indicate she has any living relatives. The personnel file did, however, say she has a god-daughter, Laura Blackwell. I’m going to check through records of all births registered in the general Manchester area to see if I can find Laura’s birth certificate. That should give me her parents’ – if she has any – home address.”

“Dr. Grimes was suggesting the mutilation Samantha underwent could be symbolic.”

“She’s not a detective, mum. I don’t know why she would make such a statement.”

“She was just venturing an opinion, that’s all. Besides, I think she has a point.”

“Seriously”

“The removal of a tongue is hardly the feature of a standard murder. I myself originally baulked at the idea of it being symbolic, but thinking about it some more made me see it has possibilities as a line of enquiry.”

“I so hope you’re not going to say that at any press conferences!”

“Like I would: I completely lost faith in newspaper reporting ten years ago”

“The tabloids or the broadsheets”

“Both!”

“I wondered what happened to my copy of The Guardian when you came round to my flat a few months ago.”

“I wouldn’t become a stand-up comedian.”

“Seriously, though, The Guardian is above reproach.”

“No paper is above reproach!”

“If you don’t think that much of the press, why do you constantly agree to holding conferences where they’re invited?”

Josephine kept DI Andrews waiting for an answer. She had one ready, but was to keen to re-jig it to make the reply more rational.

“Their fabrications can prove useful. I’ve known cases where a half-baked story has caused people being pursued for specific crimes to panic, giving the game away. I was a DC during one of these instances.”

Suzanne decided to backtrack to her mum taking on board the idea this killing had a touch of symbolism. It was apparent to her that DCI Andrews was working up some enthusiasm in Amanda’s belief. She wasn’t fully convinced that it could go anywhere, but it didn’t actually seem unreasonable to entertain the suggestion.

“Okay, let’s gather the team and start filling the board!”

“Phrase-stealer”

“What do you mean?”

“That was Gregson’s motto.”

“It’s part of my inheritance.”

“Crime scene photos?” said Suzanne, mentally shrugging off her mum’s clever-dick remark.

“Crime scene photos” confirmed DCI Andrews. “I’ll collect them from Amanda. You’re in charge of assembling the officers.”

“Do you want me to put the photocopies of the victim’s employment record on there as well as the forensic pictures?”

“Yes I do, DI Andrews. Good thinking, by the way.”

“I’m full of sensible suggestions” said Suzanne, half-jokingly.

The penultimate word of that last remark broke the flow of this discussion in half. A memory of the DI as an eight year-old girl had been accidentally triggered. Its connection with this present moment was to do with common sense being used. The sudden emergence of adult behaviour was unusual for someone that age. It’d manifested itself because she was confronted with peer pressure to participate with her friends in something slightly naughty. Comprehending it was wrong, she resisted the temptation. It didn’t make Suzanne popular with her mates, but it had made her mother proud. This random channelling into the past only occurred if there were some correlation between recollections and reality. The latter overrode it and her thoughts slid back nicely to concentrating on this case.

“Sorry...I fazed-out there for a bit” said Josephine hazily. “What was I saying?”

“You were praising me for suggesting I add photocopies of Samantha’s personnel file to the crime scene photos.”

“Which I don’t yet have, so hop to it: and when you’re done with that, get our officers together, and inform that I require their undivided attention.”

The order was gruffly delivered, but Suzanne had learned to acclimatise herself to it. These surroundings were not her family home. There was no point in expecting motherly cuddles here.

 

By twelve minutes past five, all of the officers who made up this district’s CID division were assembled. Suzanne was standing at the right-hand end of the line of her colleagues. All were facing their superior. DS Pickford felt the most hemmed-in of the lot. He found himself sandwiched between the other Detective Sergeant – Gareth Fitchley – and the three Detective Constables: Ameera Jahil, Rob Newall and Molly Anderson. Their combined attention spans focussed primarily on the wide see-through board and on the mixture of crime scene images and the pages of Miss Williams’ work records now decorating it. Within the spaces separating them was writing that chronicled the most obvious details. The most interested of the assembled detectives was DC Jahil.

Ameera was by far the youngest officer here. She’d beaten the record set by Pickford. He was twenty-three when he swapped his uniform for casua; clothing, but Miss Jahil was a couple of years younger when this transition in her constabulary career happened. However, no-one outside HQ who managed to catch sight of her believed her to be that youthful. She had the face of a thirty-something woman, but remained naturally pretty. Her complexion was so fresh that her looks were in no danger of fading.

DCI Andrews opened her briefing with the single word “Right”. As she said it, she glanced at the board. The gap of a few seconds before she next spoke was the only pause Josephine would permit in order for her audience to be primed to listen.

“Our victim is one Samantha Williams. Here is what we know about her so far. She is in her forties, but her work records present her as ten years younger than this. The reason for this anomaly is unclear – as is the exact moment she was strangled. As pointed out by Dr. Grimes, this killing could well have been symbolic; she sees it as having that ring to it. Miss Williams’ tongue was mutilated: half of it was severed. The weapon used remains a mystery for the time being, until we receive information leading to it being identified. The portion of the tongue that was cut away was deposited into Samantha’s throat, so her assailant might’ve done it under the twisted delusion that one of her misdeeds, if she committed any, should receive a punishment to fit the crime. In this instance, I suspect the symbolic act is connected to a possible secret someone would do anything to prevent being revealed. I refer to the probability of psychotic behaviour because my previous deduction is speculative. We haven’t yet established a real motive, so I am keeping my assumption in the mix. According to Dr. Grimes, gloves were used to throttle her, so forget looking for any fingerprints and matching them to women-hating loonies with previous convictions. DI Andrews learned that Samantha is alone in the world, with one exception: she has a god-daughter – a Laura Blackwell. Suzanne is going to take a look at her birth certificate to find out where she lives. Her family won’t be blood relations of Miss Williams, but we need to speak with them nonetheless. Our main priority, though, will be establishing whereabouts precisely she was killed. We know her murder didn’t take place in the car where she was found. All we do know regarding her location was that she took her boss’s car to be washed, but we have no details as to her movements during and after that. Uncovering what they were is top of the list of things that we have to do. This responsibility is to be shared by all officers. My deputy and DS Pickford will be conducting a thorough search of Miss Williams’ flat tomorrow. We need the widest picture possible of Samantha’s life to be drawn up. Everything that is worth knowing about her is to form part of this murder investigation. There is also a curious statement that she was overheard making by a work colleague, namely “She has resurfaced”. We don’t know what she meant by that, but it is vital we find out its meaning in our bid to apprehend the killer. In the meantime, go home and recharge your batteries. I want you all here by eight in the morning, so remember to set your alarms for an hour or so before then. The reason for an early start is that we have a lot of ground to cover tomorrow, including watching CCTV footage from the multi-storey, amongst other locations, and examining Samantha’s mobile phone to check all incoming and outgoing calls in the past month, so expect some overtime.”

Josephine didn’t close the briefing by saying goodnight. She deemed it too cosy a parting gesture for her colleagues. One by one, the CID officers sauntered back to their desks to collect their belongings to take with them to their houses or apartments. The only two whose departures DCI Andrews delayed were Suzanne’s and Pickford’s. She secured their attention by repeating the word ‘motive’, but without including it in a sentence.

“I need you two to remain here a little longer.”

“Why?” enquired DS Pickford.

Suzanne had no need to ask that question for herself. She already knew why she was being kept behind for a short period.

“Because I need a private word with you, Detective Sergeant”

Josephine led the way into her office cubicle. Pickford’s expression dictated the belief that he thought some reprimand awaited him. As a pupil, he had made a few trips to the head teacher’s office, and this situation felt like that memory. He looked back towards Suzanne, so he could ask her whether the DCI had confided in her about the reason for the random summons. DI Andrews, however, was busy with ascertaining where Laura Blackwell’s residence could be located. Three minutes on the internet came up trumps for her. The downside was that perusing through the official website for all birth and deaths registered turned up no less than 45 Laura Blackwell’s, complete with the same number of different addresses and dates of birth. Three of them were way outside of Greater Manchester’s geographical parameters. DI Andrews looked up briefly at the behind-closed-doors conversation to see if there were any signs that it was coming to an end, but they were still talking after five minutes, so it was easy to conclude there was no possibility of interrupting the discussion until it had run its course. She continued with the task her mum had previously saddled her with and wrote down all the addresses that came up when she entered the name of Samantha’s god-daughter into the relevant database. All of them were potential destinations for her over the next few days, but as there were so many, she was nudged gently into the prediction it would take more than a working week to visit them all. Choice didn’t enter into it, though. They were lines of enquiry, and it was necessary to pursue them. When she wrote down the last address, she glanced upwards to see how Pickford’s and her mother’s discussion was going, but the DS was no longer in the enclosed office. DCI Andrews was seated at her desk by herself, perusing through a file she’d just taken out. The gaping window in Josephine’s schedule was Suzanne’s opportunity to reveal her intention to narrow down the one Laura Blackwell who absolutely figured heavily in this investigation. She knocked three times and waited for her mother to permit her entry.

“Forty-five matches for Laura Blackwell: are you sure?”

“Yep”

“And they’re all in the Manchester area?”

“All but three”

“You still need a photo, DI Andrews – which means that you can’t find the right Laura Blackwell until we have a photograph. You’ll have to get one from Samantha’s flat. The Blackwell family’s identification of our victim is a key point we must use in this enquiry.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Makes a change from when you were hovering between 14 and 15.”

“I was hormonal.”

“And now you’re in control of them, I hope.”

“Complete control.”

Josephine shied away from inflating her comment. She didn’t care for acknowledging the sarcasm in her daughter’s voice. Some of their former domestic issues had yet to be washed away and forgotten.

“Well, DI Andrews, you’d better get off. Any plans for this evening?”

“Attempting to cook – probably badly”

“I’ll see you at the agreed time.”

 

Retrieving her car was an endeavour almost scuppered by a constable. He was taking over from another of his uniformed colleagues and assumed she was a nosy member of the public, or worse – a journalist. She was compelled to display the proof that she had the right to enter an area that was a crime scene. He apologised and gave her back the right to reach her vehicle.

One car journey later, Suzanne was making good on her statement relating to her evening meals and what she needed to do to prepare them. In one corner of the kitchen, a cookery book was open at a page that had clear instructions for a recipe she was having a bash at making. The ingredients were already out and assembled in a way that ensured they were close at hand. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten even as far as measuring the quantity of the first ingredient required. DI Andrews stared at them for a moment before clearing them all away off the kitchen surface. Without delay, she checked her wallet and found sufficient cash to pay for dinner out. This was a common nocturnal pattern for her. It was either restaurant food or ready meals with easily-prepared side dishes. Both choices reflected her bachelorette existence. She inserted two credit cards into a pair of vacant slots within her wallet and exited her flat. This particular option was free of the hassle of having to make her own dinner. She’d tried rising to the challenge, but had, for the umpteenth time, fallen at the first hurdle.

Suzanne was about to press the unlock symbol on her keypad when her mobile rang. By answering it, she faced the prospect of being dragged back into police work: the voice saying her name happened to be Mrs. Hendry.

“I’m off-duty. What can I do for you?”

“Do you know The Swan & Turtle?”

“Yeah I do.”

“Can you meet me there?”

“Do they serve pub meals?”

“Only for another ninety minutes or so”

“Why do you want to meet me?”

“You left me your number to ring you if I had something new to tell you.”

“So?”

“Well, there is something I forgot to mention, and I feel I ought to share it now.”

“Why now?”

“Because it is information that’s rather delicate”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to give a statement through the normal channels?”

“Not really.”

“Ah, I see – you don’t feel comfortable about disclosing this information publicly.”

“That’s the size of it, Detective Inspector.”

It took a few minutes for the two women to choose something from the menu and there was a further wait of nine minutes before the dishes arrived and were placed on the mats in front of them. Neither occupant of the thick-set wooden table approved of one another’s selection. Suzanne’s dinner was indicative of the type of meat dishes she enjoyed the most. She wasn’t fond of fish and Mrs. Hendry had the same feelings about red meat in general. The gammon taking up over half the plate was cooked to liking, and it possessed a filling chunkiness that would take away any pangs of hunger. After over two minutes of joyfully tucking into it, she took a momentary break to find out the purpose Mrs. Hendry had for wanting to speak to her.

“Now, what is it about Samantha Williams you wanted to divulge?”

“I think she was in a toxic relationship.”

“What do you mean by toxic relationship?”

“She was seeing someone who I thought was a bastard!”

“Why did you think that?”

“Unknown to our boss, we devised a Secret Valentine.”

“Like Secret Santa.”

“Yeah, like Secret Santa. Anyway, a group of my work colleagues were discussing the anonymous Valentine cards they’d got, and I saw that Samantha had tears welling up in her eyes.”

“And you reckon this was because of her boyfriend troubles.”

“That’s the impression I got.”

“Do you know the name of this man?”

“No, she never said anything to me about the situation.”

“Well, how do you know her woes were boyfriend-related?”

It then dawned on Mrs. Hendry, as she took another mouthful of the breaded haddock she’d ordered, that her information might well be based on a misguided assumption. Suzanne’s mind then leapt a few paces back to one of the things her fellow diner had mentioned previously.

“You said, Mrs. Hendry, that she told you that someone had resurfaced”

“That’s right, yeah.”

“What do you think she meant by that?”

“I didn’t think anything of it, Detective Inspector. To be quite honest, she may’ve been a workmate but I do reckon she was going through the menopause. My guess was that it made her a bit paranoid, a bit loopy.”

“So you have no idea who this person was or even if she existed at all.”

“No, I...wait a minute...actually she did give me a name.”

“When did she do this?”

“At Patsy Medford’s 35^th – she got bladdered and revealed it to me.”

“How about revealing it to me? If you’ll do, I’ll pay for your meal as well as mine, plus a round of drinks. I’ll even pay for your taxi home.”

The attempt to make the bargain a serious one won Mrs. Hendry over. She nodded, accepting the terms Suzanne had offered.

“Helen Stephenson.”

There was no chance of it ringing any bells for DI Andrews. In spite of that, it was a name: one she could chase up and one which held a good chance of gaining some more information she could then use to open up the enquiry.