Someone Has Just Been Murdered - Chapter 4

The time display on Josephine’s bedside alarm read about 5:54am. She glanced at it as the beeping continued. Her eyes were only half-open; it was still a struggle to get them to open fully. Eager to cut off the shrill, irksome noise it was making, she tried to press the button to switch it off, but her fingers kept missing their target. It consequently took two or three goes to bring silence back into her bedroom. She didn’t have a headache, but her means of being woken up at the correct time could easily bring one on. Sharp sounds were frequently the catalyst. The only cure to bring her out of dreamland was a shower. Taking off her night gown, she headed in the direction of the appropriate room. The diagonal streams of hot water invigorated every part of her body. Her scalp received the most benefit. Hot water seemed to awaken her mental processes, which needed a jump start at such an early hour. Her coordination had improved too. She was striding instead of stumbling. Eating breakfast and dressing were compartmentalised into two quarter of an hour periods, making sure there was a gap in which her stomach started doing its job. The routine had a regimented feel to it, but the outcome was decent time-keeping, and she’d kept this domestic rule in place for the past seven years. She was applying dark pink lipstick when the doorbell rang twice. This was an indication that her daughter was calling by on her way to work. One of her firmer house rules was for any visitor to sound the bell once and wait for the occupant to open the door. Judging it as too fastidious, Suzanne regularly ignored this rule. On this occasion, Suzanne pushed her luck a little further and gave the doorbell a third ring. It then swung open and Josephine’s expression was somewhere between her asking the question “Why are you here so early?” and a glance radiating disapproval.

“Aren’t you going to let me in, mum?”

Josephine backed away from the door, giving her daughter free passage into the hallway. DI Andrews had to wait until the front door was shut again before a comment could be made pertaining to her arrival.

“You usually visit here on Saturday. Why are you choosing to call round during the week?”

“Because I got a name relating to Samantha’s mysterious comment: a Helen Stevenson.”

“How did you come across this name?”

“I learned of it over a meal with Mrs. Hendry. I don’t think they were friends outside work, though. She wasn’t that sympathetic to Miss Williams’ state of mind – made her out to be a bit paranoid.”

“Does that mean she thought her friend was being over dramatic about this Helen Stevenson?”

“That’s the impression I got. Although...no, it’s probably nothing.”

“No, out with it, DI Andrews”

“I kind of got the feeling she’s left something out of what she told me. Mrs. Hendry said that Samantha burst into tears during a Secret Valentine for the officer workers. Her take on it was her blubbing was because of someone she was, or has been, seeing. She didn’t give me much background info. In cost me the price of two meals, two drinks and a cab fare.”

“I hope you didn’t exceed the legal limit!”

“FYI, I didn’t have a single alcoholic drink. Mine was an orange juice and tonic.”

“If you think she was holding back on vital details, you should talk to her again as soon as you get a chance to.”

“Staying on this subject, mum, I don’t think Miss Williams was being paranoid. My reading of Mrs. Hendry is that she’s a one-way friend.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“She expected interest in her life to be shown by Samantha, but I don’t think she ever returned the favour.”

“If that is what you are presuming, your previous theory about Mrs. Hendry hiding something is wrong.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, think about it – if she was that blasé about her friend’s life, she wouldn’t have noticed anything momentous for her to keep from us.”

“Perhaps I’m reading her wrong” admitted Suzanne.

“Sussing people out can still be hard to do, even if you’re proficient in that skill.”

“Yeah, I get it – people are complex!”

“Sometimes they are; the rest of the time they’re obvious, shallow and stupid.”

DCI Andrews wasn’t lacking in any conviction when she delivered her assessment. She had plenty of stories to tell where she had come across behaviour that was dumb. There was one example that was almost comical. An eighteen year-old from one of the council estates had decided to mug several people. Unfortunately for him, he’d shown a sharp drop in intelligence and a high level of ill-advised vanity. The young criminal demonstrated it by taking photos on his mobile of him and what he’d stolen. This was back in 2003: a year that saw her ascend to the position of Detective Sergeant and one when mobile phones were at a certain level of sophistication, and had yet to gain a higher one. Oddly, this was a memory attached to her police career she hadn’t shared with Suzanne.

“What did you have there?”

“Here we go!” said Suzanne sourly. “Are you in charge of the food police too?”

“Can’t I just be naturally curious?”

Josephine’s tone was almost pleading. She had been hoping for something she’d said not to prompt an argument, but it was slightly irrational to want that. They were adults and the comfort to be derived from prohibiting her daughter to answer back or argue her corner wasn’t there anymore. Rows – be they small or excessive – were one of the pitfalls of her only child growing up.

“You’re never naturally curious, mum.”

“No I’m not – are you?”

“Exactly: it’s the detective we take home with us. It always pushes us into asking questions with a purpose.”

“Okay, Suzanne – I get your point. I have an agenda for asking you about your evening meal, I admit it!”

“Gammon, chips and a fried egg”

“Vegetables”

“Peas and a small quantity of salad”

“What happened to that sudden burst of enthusiasm for making a home-cooked meal?”

“It deserted me.”

“One of these days I’m going to temporarily suspend my ‘hands-off-your-life’ rule and make you a proper meal. I’ll bet your oven hasn’t been used for a year. Am I right?”

“Half-right – eight months.”

The DCI pulled herself out of the conversation, as she remembered to check the time on her mobile phone’s display screen. Suzanne instinctively copied her mum’s action, movement-for-movement.

“We’ll be late if we don’t set off now.”

It wasn’t Josephine who came out with this announcement, but Suzanne. She had pre-empted her mother’s bid to ensure punctuality. They both entered their vehicles. DI Andrews’ vehicle was the first to set off.

 

Suzanne and Pickford approached a door that was situated to the left of the pizza parlour’s front window. A police car pulled up, and out got the two constables the officers required to assist them. DI Andrews was about to take out the set of keys that had belonged to Miss Williams, when the manager, who’d seen Suzanne’s car pull up to the kerb outside, came rushing out.

“That door’s out of bounds to...”

He was about to say “customers”, but he saw two constables approach them. Non-compliance was no longer a matter of choice. A question occurred to Suzanne which hadn’t materialised in her head until this minute.

“When was the last time you saw Samantha Williams?”

The owner of this pizza take-away business had been caught off-guard by the query. He rummaged around in his thoughts to forge a response that didn’t make him sound like a twat.

“She’s dead?”

“Murdered; strangled, to be exact.”

“You’re not pulling my chain!”

“Would we be here if we were messing you about?”

The question came from a special breed where once asked it answered itself. This prevented any chance of the pizza parlour’s proprietor from putting his foot in it even more.

Further conversation was suspended as the officers and constables carried on with their intention to enter and search Samantha’s apartment for whatever information it might give up. DI Andrews took out the key to the flat’s front door. It was the first thing to be found whilst Miss Williams’ body was being photographed. She kept hold of it as she, Pickford and one of the constables went on through. The owner of the fast food business tried to go through the open door with them, but a WPC who was, due to orders issued earlier, meant to stay outside, guarding this doorway stopped him.

“The flat’s above my pizza shop. I have a right to go with you.”

“What for, sir?”

“To see if any mail meant for me was delivered to Miss Williams by mistake.”

The WPC assigned to keep nosy members of public at bay didn’t buy that explanation for a second. She’d heard that excuse before, and it sounded just as implausible this time around. Inside, the staircase that took the three of them up to where Miss Williams resided was the victim of mediocre carpeting. Cack-handed cutting was in evidence where it was meant to be neat and screwed down securely, but DI Andrews felt where it was the baggiest with the tips of her shoes.

“Accident waiting to happen” said Suzanne without caring whether or not it would warrant a response. She got one, nonetheless, from the man who was a CID rank below her.

“Only if you watch where you’re going”

She partially glanced back at him because she thought his tone was antagonistic.  That was a definite mistake. Suzanne almost tripped, and was steadied by Pickford and the male constable. She had fallen down a flight of stairs twice before she joined the police force: both occasions were painful enough to make her cry. She was glad she hadn’t, on this third instance, exposed a frailty that embarrassed her. The top of the stairs had only one direction they could go – directly to the left. The corner of her left eye viewed the front door, behind which awaited information about Samantha that visiting her boss and her colleagues hadn’t turned up. The key was thrust into the crooked crevice to the right of the letterbox and one clockwise turn led to a gentle push of the door completing their entry to this apartment. The interior was an amalgamation of three rooms, including the kitchen but excluding the one where the bed was supposed to go. That piece of furniture doubled as a sofa: its outward structure camouflaging its alternate function. A visual sweep for any photographs of the murdered woman detected just one. There were others, but even stood in the middle of the apartment, Suzanne could make out they all were of Laura. Pickford, meanwhile, was more interested in some of the bank statements that he’d took the trouble to find. He was looking for motive and he’d opted to begin with examining the probability of a financial angle existing. It may’ve been the 21^st century, but money still ranked as one of the top reasons why people resorted to taking someone’s life. Suzanne returned her attention to the sofa/bed. She spied something sticking vertically upwards from the left-hand side, where one of the seating cushions had been replaced during the last ever morning Samantha would live to see. Its pointed edge showed it to be a pad used for keeping a journal. Under normal circumstances, DI Andrews would never stoop to reading someone else’s private thoughts in written form, but she had to be objective: the nature of Samantha’s demise had stripped away any issues of discretion. These details, together with the contents of the personnel file she’d borrowed from Mr. Cullen’s office, had turned into viable clues. The right to secrecy no longer existed. Suzanne’s mindset had shifted towards the journal being evidence, and any insight into this murder victim’s life could not be ignored.

Noticing the desk to the right of the TV, DI Andrews walked across the one-room flat to get a closer glance. She tried all the drawers on either side, beneath the desk’s surface, but there were only bank statements. Not one document veered away from the monetary considerations she had to deal with before her death. Acknowledging Pickford’s momentary obsession with Samantha’s financial records, she removed all the bank-related documents and took them over to him.

“More of your favourite read.”

She placed the ones she’d located in his right hand. He folded them up collectively and slid them into the neat pile he’d made on the coffee table. Situated several inches short of the room’s centre, this piece of furniture suddenly aroused Suzanne’s interest. The reason being was that it was devoid of anything resting on it, and had been for probably over a twelve-month period. There were no thick, dark brown circular stains from where coffee cups had been, and a year’s worth of dust had accumulated around its pointed corners and the borders of the table itself.

“What about her passport? Did you find it in her desk drawers?”

“I didn’t, DS Pickford. It wasn’t in the...oh, hang on a minute.”

She crossed to the kitchen. It only took her a matter of seconds to see a row of cookery books on the left-hand side of the kitchen’s surface. Instinctively fingering the publication in the middle, she picked it out and opened it. DI Andrews was following the line of logic in which people hide the possessions that can lead to them being financially worse off, especially in places where they believed them to be safe from burglars. Suzanne knew that the opposite happened, but she wasn’t here to secretly comment on how to keep one’s belongings safe. Her hunch paid off. Whilst flicking through the pages, the passport and another photo fell out onto the kitchen floor. Leaving the book on the surface, she picked them up, using several pieces of kitchen roll, in case they had Samantha’s fingerprints all over them already.

“One evidence bag needed – like right now, Pickford!”

He feverishly fumbled in his left-hand pocket, pulling one out after a few seconds. With the hand that was free, she took it off him, opened it using her index finger and thumb, and deposited both items into it, without touching them. Suzanne’s palms felt a little sweaty afterwards. The diligence required was the culprit for the perspiration stains on the amount of kitchen torn off. She ran the tap, and washed away the greasiness from her open palms, drying them on a tea towel. It wasn’t the most hygienic thing to do, but there was nothing else to hand she could use. She was about to tell Pickford that they were done here, for the moment, but she rapidly recalled the single photo of Samantha on display, and DI Andrews again commanded him to issue her with another clear plastic pouch to house evidence. He was quicker in complying this time. Once the additional item was safely stored away, DI Andrews said “We’re finished here” to Pickford and the PC. The constable thought this meant him too, but Suzanne instantly added “I need you to stay here and keep watch on the flat’s interior, PC Hammond. We’re only done here for the time being, but there is a good chance we’ll be coming back here. I’ll have WPC Wiseman and PC Shore take-over this afternoon.”

Hammond was mono-syllabic in his acknowledgement of Suzanne’s order. All that came out of his mouth was “ma’am”. He took up a standing position similar to that of a Buckingham Palace guard, preparing himself for over seven hours of being stood in one spot.

A detour was taken back to the front window of the pizza parlour. Looking in, Suzanne saw the proprietor checking the contents of the cash register. She knocked on it to get his attention. He paused what he was in the middle of and came to the door, pointing to the ‘closed’ sign. From within, he said “We open at five-thirty!” Suzanne had to raise the level of her voice when informing the man inside that the two constables here needed lunch.

“I can give them a slice of pizza each!” he replied through the glass.

A quarter of an hour after DI Andrews and DS Pickford had returned to headquarters, the solitary photo depicting Samantha in her twenties was stuck to the board’s precise centre. Its positioning was both strategic and psychological. A new set of arrows pointing away from the photograph had been put down, with fresh but brief notes between them. DI Andrews only glanced at them for a second or two. She was trying to get a firm sense of what the picture of Samantha seated next to Laura was subtly relaying. The one obvious fact about it was where she had retrieved it from. It had to be of immense sentimental value, which she judged as strange, considering Laura was merely her god-daughter. Suzanne had another face to store away in her mind, but it was consigned to an area of it that promised swift access if it were needed to be remembered urgently. Jumping on the expression Samantha had whilst staring at Laura, DI Andrews hurried back to her desk and re-examined the list of addresses and birthdates she’d amassed yesterday afternoon. The index finger of her right hand descended the piece of paper. It came to rest on one that was near the bottom and tapped on it twice. It wasn’t the address that prompted her selection of it, but the D.O.B underneath. She murmured the date low enough for it not to reach anyone’s ears, “14^th February 1995. In a split-second, she saw the connection between that date and Mrs. Hendry’s account of Samantha shedding tears on Valentine’s Day. The notion of there being a lousy boyfriend somewhere in the background was brusquely swept aside. Suzanne was on the verge of telling her mum the conclusion she’d just entertained, and rose from her desk. In a flash, she changed her mind. She worked out a specific plan in her brain for when she reached the address she believed to be the one where the victim’s god-daughter resided. DI Andrews managed to summon Ameera to tell her mum that she was going to the address she had copied down onto another spare sheet of paper. The DC immediately wrote it down in her own notepad. She then noticed that the location of the address was Kendal in the Lake District.

“That’ll take you all day to get there” said Ameera.

“If I set off now, I should be back by this afternoon.”

“More like the evening. It is miles away from the Greater Manchester area.”

“I can’t help that. Tell my mum that I’ll fill her on my reasons for going so far out of my way when everybody’s busy!”

“What if you don’t find out what you’re hoping to learn?”

Suzanne smiled but declined an answer to Ameera’s question. She felt a little guilty for doing that, but if she’d replied, any kind of answer would have made her seem too overconfident – and that in no way correctly represented how she was feeling about this excursion. She had put two and two together, but it could still be a likelihood her arithmetic might let her down here. Suzanne automatically made the decision to say as little as possible about the nature of her journey to anyone other than Ameera for the moment.