Deadlock Page 2

‘Anything else on her person?’ I asked, ignoring Dave’s sideswipe.

  ‘A smartphone,’ said Linda. ‘We’ll check her contact list and let you have details of the numbers, and any photographs there are on it. You never know, she might have taken a selfie with her killer.’

  ‘That’d be a first,’ said Dave.

  ‘All right to have a look at the body?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, we’ve done most of the close quarter stuff. I don’t know if the pathologist mentioned it, Harry, but there are marks on her shoulders and her back that indicate she was wearing a bra when she was killed. No bra was found in the vicinity of the body, but it might be somewhere else in the park, of course.’

  ‘It looks as though the killer took it with him,’ said Dave.

  ‘You’re assuming the killer was a man, then, Sergeant,’ I said, determined to have a little tilt at Dave.

  The body of Rachel Steele was lying on its back, in an attitude almost of repose. She had long brown hair and appeared to be about five foot seven or eight, but Mitchell would let me know the woman’s exact dimensions in due course. Her left hand, palm down, displayed a wedding ring and a rather ostentatious engagement ring. The only jarring features about the whole scene were the livid fingermarks around the woman’s throat that Mortlock had described. As far as I could see, her shirt had not been ripped off, but had been carefully undone so that it was off the shoulders and arms, leaving her naked breasts exposed, presumably to facilitate the removal of her bra. If it had been removed by her killer – and I couldn’t think of anyone else who might have done so – it presented us with a disturbing possibility: that we could be looking for a trophy-hunting homicidal maniac.

  ‘Any chance of fingerprints from those marks on her neck, Linda?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Harry, but I’m not making any promises at this stage. He might’ve worn gloves.’

  ‘What, this weather?’ asked Dave.

  Mitchell gave him the sort of sorrowful look that she reserved for non-scientists. ‘Persons of a malevolent disposition have been known to wear gloves to avoid being identified, Dave,’ she said, and then smiled.

  ‘We’ll have a word with the witness who found her now, Dave,’ I said.

  On our way back to the car, I stopped by the clipboard-wielding inspector.

  ‘As a matter of interest, Inspector, have you questioned the police who were on duty yesterday? They might have seen something of significance.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have done, sir.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  The inspector lowered his voice and looked furtive. ‘There was only one PC on duty in the park yesterday, sir, and he spent the day in the police post at Holly Lodge fielding daft enquiries.’

  ‘One PC to cover two thousand five hundred acres?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said the inspector, ‘but don’t blame me. Blame the budget cuts.’

  A barking dog greeted our knock when we arrived at Annette Kowalska’s house. Seconds later a woman opened the door, holding a struggling Jack Russell in her arms.

  ‘Horris is quite safe,’ said the woman. ‘The worst that will happen is that he’ll lick you to death.’

  ‘Are you Ms Annette Kowalska?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Kowalska.’ She was in her late forties or early fifties, soberly dressed in a tweed skirt, a long-sleeved sweater and what my mother would’ve described as sensible walking shoes. It struck me that she was overdressed for the current warm weather, but maybe she was accustomed to a tropical climate and felt the cold of an English summer.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock, Mrs Kowalska, of the Murder Investigation Team, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’

  ‘You’ve come to see me about that poor woman, I suppose. You’d better come in. Would you like some coffee? I’ve just made some.’ We followed her into her comfortable sitting room, and she invited us to take a seat.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Coffee would be most welcome. Has the police officer who brought you home gone now?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was very kind of her but quite unnecessary. I must admit that I had a large whisky when I got home.’ Annette Kowalska afforded us a quick smile of guilt. ‘I never drink until the evening, and not always then, but it was such a terrible shock, seeing that poor young woman, that I had a double the minute I got in. I won’t be a tick.’

  She returned a few minutes later with a cafetière on a large wooden tray, together with cream, sugar and cups and saucers, and set it down on a coffee table between the sofa on which Dave and I were seated and the armchair in which she settled.

  ‘I understand that you were out walking your dog.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a morning ritual, winter and summer,’ began Mrs Kowalska as she poured the coffee.

  ‘What time was this?’ asked Dave, pocketbook at the ready.

  ‘The park opens at seven o’clock, by which time Horris is sitting by the front door, letting me know it’s time for his walk. Unless it’s raining. He doesn’t like going out in the rain. He’s a very intelligent dog and loves the television, particularly country life programmes. He’ll sit quietly and watch everything. Most mornings,’ she continued, hardly pausing for breath, ‘I drive up to the car park by Broomfield Hill Wood, just inside the park gates, and leave the car there. It was quite by chance that I went into the Isabella Plantation this morning; I don’t always go that way. We like to vary our morning walk. In fact, Horris usually dictates which way we go.’ Mrs Kowalska leaned down to fondle the dog’s ears. ‘Don’t you, Horris?’

  ‘As a matter of interest, what did you do when you found the dead woman?’ From what the inspector had said about understaffing, I knew that she wouldn’t have accosted a passing copper; there wasn’t one to accost.

  ‘I called the police, of course.’ Mrs Kowalska adopted a surprised expression that implied that as a police officer I should have known that. ‘On my mobile phone.’

  ‘How long did it take you to walk from the car to where you found the body, Mrs Kowalska?’ asked Dave, as he busily wrote down the woman’s answers.

  ‘I did tell all this to that young lady detective in the park,’ protested Mrs Kowalska mildly. ‘A Miss Mansfield, it was.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ I said, ‘but this is a murder inquiry and we have to make sure that everything is as accurate as we can possibly make it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Does Mr Kowalski ever take the dog for a walk?’ asked Dave innocently. It was an oblique attempt to discover if Mrs Kowalska was married, it being in a detective’s nature to collect apparently useless information.

  ‘There is no Mr Kowalski,’ said Mrs Kowalska tartly, and left it at that. And so did we.

  ‘What time would it have been when you actually found this young woman, Mrs Kowalska?’ I asked.

  She considered the question before answering. ‘It would have been about half past seven, or maybe a quarter to eight, I suppose. I didn’t think to look at my watch. I was so distressed at finding her. I’d never seen a dead body before.’

  It didn’t matter; the time of her emergency call would have been recorded by the police operator.

  ‘Did you touch her at all?’ I asked. And before the inevitable protest, I added, ‘We have to be sure, just in case the body had been moved, even in the slightest way. It could make a difference to our investigation, you see.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens, no!’ Mrs Kowalska shuddered slightly at the thought. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything else,’ I said, as Dave and I stood up. ‘If there is, we have your telephone number. And thank you for the coffee.’

  ‘Have you found out who she is?’ Mrs Kowalska asked as she conducted us to the front door.

  ‘Not yet, no.’ We knew the identity of the victim, of course, but these days the first thought anybody seems to have is how much a newspaper would pay them for the story. Even ostensibly respectable ladies like Mrs Kowalska may b
e tempted by chequebook journalism.

  ‘Well, that didn’t tell us much, guv,’ said Dave, as we got into the car. ‘What now?’

  ‘Superior Drive, Camden Town, Dave.’ I rang the incident room and told them where we were going.

  TWO

  After grabbing a quick lunch, Dave and I made our way to Camden Town. Considering the state of London traffic these days, we reached there in a remarkably short time.

  The house at 25 Superior Drive was a terraced dwelling and the gentrification that had taken place appeared to be superficial, but we had yet to see the inside. The white-framed double glazing had plastic strips inserted between the sheets of PVC to create what is known as the cottage effect. The house number was white on a small enamel plate in French blue, a design popular in France and much loved by the chattering classes, who liked to give the impression of being much-travelled Francophiles. Alongside the house number was a wind chime which probably so infuriated the neighbours that it must be overdue for vandalization.

  I rang the bell with little hope that I’d find anyone at home at this time on a Tuesday afternoon. But I was surprised.

  The man who came to the door was tall, thirtyish and would probably have been described by some women as good looking. He wore khaki shorts, a T-shirt and glasses with heavy black frames. There was a crumpled copy of the Guardian held loosely in one hand, and a fierce expression on his face. Perhaps he was expecting itinerant salesmen and was prepared to repel boarders.

  ‘Mr Steele?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Daniel Steele. What is it?’

  ‘We’re police officers, Mr Steele. May we come in?’

  My statement evinced no surprise. In my experience, the reaction to such a visit was often fear that some wrongdoing had been discovered and an arrest was about to take place, or concern that such a visit heralded bad news. But in Steele’s case nothing, and that made me immediately suspicious.

  ‘I am rather busy,’ said Steele. ‘Will it take long?’

  ‘It’s about Mrs Rachel Steele,’ I said. ‘I take it she’s your wife.’

  ‘She is at the moment.’ Steele adopted a hunted look and glanced past me as though expecting someone else. ‘You’d better come in,’ he said, hurriedly pulling open the door. It seemed that even in Superior Drive the neighbours were not above earwigging. He showed us into the small front room of the house and invited us to sit down. The room was not very well furnished, at least not by my standards. On the bare floorboards were two weirdly shaped wooden armchairs which appeared too weak to support a human; a metal-framed sofa which looked distinctly uncomfortable – and proved to be so; a metal shelving unit holding a number of ‘coffee table’ books, doubtless displayed to impress visitors; and a television set. It looked more like a furniture warehouse than a living room. Needless to say, there were one or two abstract pictures on the walls that looked like the daubings of a five-year-old. Perhaps they were.

  ‘You said Mrs Steele was your wife at the moment, Mr Steele,’ I began, after I had introduced ourselves. ‘What exactly did you mean by that?’

  ‘We’re going through a rather messy divorce, Chief Inspector. It seems to be dragging on and on, mainly because of a dispute about the division of the spoils.’ Then, somewhat belatedly, Steele asked, ‘But why are you asking questions about Rachel?’

  There seemed to be no point in breaking the news gently – in fact, there’s never a gentle way – but in this case, I got the impression that the death of Rachel was not going to burden him with grief. ‘Your wife was found dead this morning in Richmond Park, Mr Steele. She’d been murdered.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ As I’d anticipated, Steele’s face displayed no signs of shock or distress at the news of his wife’s death. Perhaps he was trying desperately to avoid looking pleased that he would now keep all his own possessions, as well as inheriting his late wife’s assets. Unless he had murdered her, of course. If that were the case, he would get nothing but a lengthy prison sentence. ‘What on earth was she doing in Richmond Park?’

  ‘We have to ask where you were yesterday, Mr Steele,’ said Dave, countering Steele’s question with one of his own.

  ‘I was at work, all day.’

  ‘Where is work?’

  ‘I work for a firm of financial traders in the City, and I was there from seven yesterday morning until about nine last night.’ Steele ferreted about in the back pocket of his shorts and eventually handed Dave a dog-eared business card. I wondered why he carried business cards in his shorts, but policemen are naturally curious creatures.

  ‘And after that?’ Dave was like a dog with a bone once he started asking questions.

  ‘I took a girl out to dinner.’

  ‘We’ll need her name.’

  ‘Why on earth should you want that?’ demanded Steele, staring at Dave. ‘There’s nothing underhand about it. My wife and I have had an open marriage for several years now.’

  ‘We’re not marriage guidance counsellors, Mr Steele,’ I said. ‘Your wife has been murdered and it’s our job to find out who was responsible. Unless I can satisfy myself that you have an alibi for the period in question, I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this interview at Kentish Town police station.’

  ‘Are you arresting me?’ The expression on Steele’s face betrayed a mixture of amusement and apprehension.

  ‘Not unless I have to.’

  ‘Her name’s Stephanie Payne,’ he said with apparent reluctance. ‘She sits at the next workstation to mine. We’ve been dating for about a year now.’

  ‘What time did you and she part company last night?’

  ‘She stayed the night, and we parted company at about six o’clock this morning.’ Steele’s face assumed a lascivious smirk, presumably at the memory.

  ‘I take it your wife no longer lives here, then,’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh, but she does. We have a Doodle on our smartphones, you see.’

  As far as I was aware a doodle was an absent-minded scribble, but before I had a chance to make a fool of myself Dave stepped in with one of his cynical observations. ‘I suppose it saves making embarrassing double-bookings. And did your wife say that she would be out yesterday, or more particularly yesterday evening?’

  ‘I’d reserved last night on the Doodle, so Rachel knew I’d be making full use of the bedroom here,’ Steele said with a superior lift of his chin. ‘Anyway, she was probably shacked up with her current squeeze. We don’t enquire into each other’s relationships.’

  ‘Have you any idea who the man was that she was seeing?’ I asked.

  ‘No idea at all, I’m afraid, although his name might be on her smartphone,’ said Steele, as though he didn’t give a damn. ‘As I said earlier, we’ve been living separate lives for some time now. I don’t ask who she’s screwing and she doesn’t ask me. It’s a very civilized agreement.’

  ‘Do you know the names of any of the men she’s been seeing?’ I was beginning to become a little exasperated with the supercilious Steele who, together with his late wife, appeared to have been in a marriage governed entirely by modern technology.

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, why aren’t you at work today?’ asked Dave.

  ‘I’m having a break for a few days. Catching up on things, you know.’

  ‘We’ll probably need to see you again, Mr Steele,’ I said, as Dave and I eased ourselves out of his uncomfortable sofa.

  ‘One other point, Mr Steele,’ said Dave. ‘Did you and Rachel Steele enter into a prenup agreement before you married?’

  There was a short pause before Steele answered Dave’s question. ‘Er, no,’ he said, and moved swiftly on. ‘I suppose I’ll have to arrange the funeral.’ He looked thoroughly fed up at the prospect. ‘I’ll have to contact her parents as well. They live in Guildford.’ He sighed, probably at the disruption this would cause to his cosy little closeted world.

  ‘You won’t be able to do anything until the coroner authorizes the release of the body,�
� said Dave, ‘but in the meantime you can give me the name and address of Rachel’s parents.’

  Afterwards we walked out to the car. Suddenly the air seemed fresher, even for Camden Town.

  ‘What d’you think, Dave?’

  ‘He could be guilty, the callous, snooty bastard,’ muttered Dave. ‘How many toppings have we investigated where the husband turns out to be the killer, guv’nor?’

  ‘I’ve lost count, but if that’s the case with Steele, surely he’d try to put on a show of being devastated?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a double bluff,’ said Dave, as he started the engine. ‘Anyway, we’ll be able to check his alibi with Stephanie Payne.’

  ‘He’s probably on the phone to her right now, fixing up a story.’

  ‘Yeah, probably.’ Dave laughed; he knew how to deal with that sort of collusion.

  ‘No time like the present to speak to the aforesaid Ms Stephanie Payne, Dave. Drive on.’

  We entered the underground car park of the tower block where Steele’s firm had its offices and rode up to the ground floor. A security guard directed us to a bank of lifts and told us which floor we needed.

  We were confronted by another security guard at the entrance to the firm of traders where Steele worked. His officious attitude turned rapidly to one of sycophancy the moment we identified ourselves and told him who we wished to see. He promptly directed us to the office of someone he described as the grand fromage.

  The woman into whose office we were shown seemed remarkably young to be holding down such a responsible post but Charlie Flynn, the former Fraud Squad officer on my team, once told me that people in this sort of business are burned out by the time they’re forty.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. We’re attached to a Murder Investigation Team at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I’m Jessica.’ Unfazed by my awesome announcement, the woman shook hands with a strong grasp. ‘Please sit down.’ I presumed that financial trading was the sort of business where first names were considered sufficient of an introduction. ‘Who’s been murdered?’ There was a smile on her face, as though we were all taking part in one of those murder mystery evenings where the feckless and bored like to pretend they’re detectives but without getting their hands dirty.