All Quiet on Arrival

by Graham Ison

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

When police are called to a house in Chelsea following a complaint of a noisy party, all seems to be quiet - but a short while later, flames are seen coming from the house In the main bedroom, the fire brigade find the body of Mrs Diana Barton, who has been stabbed to death. DCI Harry Brock and DS Dave Poole discover that, far from being the reserved housewife she seemed, Diana was a fun-loving woman who made certain that the party developed into something closer to an orgy. But Diana Barton's murder is not the only killing, and soon the complex enquiry stretches as far as Australia . . .

Release date: October 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 192

Sample

It was a hot and humid night at the end of July. The police immediate response car, its windows wound down, drew silently into the
kerb outside 27 Tavona Street, Chelsea. The crew had seen no reason to activate the vehicle’s siren, or to switch on the blue lights. After all, a call to a domestic disturbance on a Saturday
night in this part of London was a frequent occurrence, even though the property in this particular street was probably more upmarket than most. And that, for Chelsea, was saying something.

When police arrived to deal with this type of incident they usually found it to be a riotous party, fuelled by alcohol and a little heroin or, at the very least, a few joints of cannabis. And in
most cases the disturbance that was the cause of the call had ceased by the time the police arrived. Provided the police didn’t get there too quickly, that is.

The man who answered the door of number 25 – the house whence the call had originated – looked to be in his seventies. For a moment or two he stared at the constable on his
doorstep.

The PC referred to his incident report book. ‘Mr Porter is it?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Ah, the police. I called you.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand you reported a disturbance at the house next door. Number twenty-seven.’

‘Yes, I did. It sounded as though someone was being murdered.’ Porter laughed apologetically, thinking that he was being a little dramatic. ‘There were screams and shouts, and
my wife and I couldn’t get to sleep.’

‘Anything else, sir?’

‘Yes, loud music. I think it’s called reggae or rap or some such thing. I’m not very familiar with this noise that passes for modern music. It could even have been those
Rolling Stones, or the Beaters that everyone makes such a fuss about.’

‘I think you mean the Beatles, sir,’ said the PC, whose name was Wayne Watson. ‘Or maybe The Seekers.’ It was a group that he recalled his mother enthusing about years
ago.

‘Ah, The Seekers, yes I remember them,’ said Porter. ‘No, I don’t think it was them.’

‘It doesn’t really matter whose music it was, does it, sir?’ said Watson, tiring of Porter’s rambling prevarication.

‘No, I suppose not, but as I told you, I’m not familiar with this modern stuff,’ Porter said.

‘Seems to be quiet now,’ said Watson, anxious to finish with the matter in hand.

‘Yes, it does.’

‘All right, sir. But we’ll have a word next door just the same.’

‘Thank you, officer. That’s very good of you.’ Porter closed the door, satisfied that his civic duty had been done. He went upstairs to the bedroom he shared with his wife and
told her that the police were going to deal with the noise.

‘But it’s stopped, Frank.’

‘For the moment, dear,’ said Porter, ‘but they’ll make sure it doesn’t start again.’

PC Watson returned to the car and leaned in through the window. ‘Nothing in it, Charlie,’ he said to PC Holmes, the driver. ‘I’ll just have a word with the people at
twenty-seven.’ He glanced at his watch: it was twenty minutes past midnight. ‘Then it’ll be time for a cup of coffee.’

Watson crossed the pavement to number 27 and rang the bell. But it was some time before there was a response.

‘Yeah?’ A man in his mid-thirties eventually opened the door and stared at the PC. He wore a pair of jeans and was stripped to the waist. His hair hung about his muscular sun-tanned
shoulders untidily; he looked to be the sort who would normally wear it in a ponytail. Around his neck he wore a slender gold chain. And in his right hand, he was holding a woman’s bra.

‘We’ve had a report of a disturbance here,’ said Watson, glancing pointedly at the item of underwear.

‘I can’t hear anything,’ said the man with a confident grin, and cocked his head in an attitude of listening. He too glanced at the bra, and then tossed it aside. ‘Who
put the bubble in?’

‘We’ve been told that there was loud music, and shouts and screams,’ said Watson, declining to answer the man’s question. He took a pace back; the man’s breath
reeked of alcohol.

‘So? We were having a party that got a bit out of hand. But it’s all over now, mate, and most of the gang’s gone home. All right?’

A girl with a gorgeous figure and long black hair appeared beside the man, and smiled at Watson. She showed no sign of embarrassment to be seen wearing nothing but a thong. ‘What is it,
lover?’ she asked, slipping an arm around the man’s waist and leaning into him.

‘Nothing to worry about, Shell. It’s only the Old Bill. Apparently there’s been a complaint about the noise. I s’pose it was some envious neighbour who was pissed off he
hadn’t been invited.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’ The girl winked at the PC, turned, and sashayed provocatively back into the house.

‘OK,’ said Watson, ‘but keep it down in future.’

‘Yeah, sorry, Officer, but like I said, it’s over now. I guess you guys have got enough to do without dealing with noisy parties.’

‘You can say that again. And your name, sir?’ Belatedly, Watson realized that he should take a few details.

The man paused before answering. ‘Carl Morgan,’ he said eventually. ‘Why?’

‘Just for the record.’ Watson afforded the man a crooked grin. ‘And you live here?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Thank you.’ Watson scrawled a few lines in his incident report book, and pocketed it. ‘I’ll not need to trouble you any further.’ He crossed the pavement, and got
back into the police car. Taking out his pen, he wrote ‘All quiet on arrival’ against the entry in the logbook regarding the disturbance call. He put his pen back in his pocket, and
glanced at the driver. ‘I reckon that was some party,’ he said. ‘Some bird came to the door wearing a thong and nothing else. Some people have all the luck.’

‘You could have told me earlier,’ muttered Holmes.

‘A cup of coffee, then?’ said Watson, and yawned.

‘Good thinking,’ said his partner, and putting the car into ‘drive’, accelerated away.

But almost immediately, Holmes and Watson received a call to an attempted burglary in Draycott Gardens.

‘Suspects on premises,’ said the control-room operator. ‘Silent approach.’

‘There goes our coffee,’ muttered Holmes. He turned on the blue lights, but not the siren.

After he had closed the front door of number 27, the man who’d told the police he was Carl Morgan walked into the front room of the house. Briefly parting the closed
curtains, he glanced out at the street. He turned to the girl who was reclining in an armchair.

‘It’s all right, Shell, they’ve gone,’ he said. ‘That was a bit too bloody close for comfort,’ he added, letting out a sigh of relief.

‘Well, what do we do now, lover?’ asked Shelley.

‘There’s something I’ve got to do first, and then we’ll get the hell out of here. And we’ll go as far away as possible. Home, in fact.’ The man laughed
nervously.

‘What about the hotel you booked, lover?’ complained the girl.

‘Forget it,’ said the man. ‘And you’d better put some clothes on. Otherwise there’ll be another complaint.’

‘Only from a woman,’ said Shelley drily.

Donald Baxter was unable to sleep. The temperature was still in the seventies despite it being half past twelve in the morning. He thought about reading for a while, but
realized that the light would disturb his slumbering wife. He slipped out of bed and walked to the window.

‘Christ!’ he exclaimed and, reaching for his mobile phone, called 999.

But his wife woke up. ‘What is it?’ she asked sleepily.

‘The house opposite’s on fire.’

‘What, the Bartons’?’

‘Yes,’ said Baxter.

The emergency service operator answered the call. ‘Which service?’ she asked in a calm voice.

‘Fire brigade.’

Another voice came on the line immediately. ‘London Fire Brigade.’

‘The house opposite me is on fire,’ said Baxter.

‘What is the address, sir?’

‘Twenty-seven Tavona Street, Chelsea. The fire’s on the ground floor, but it looks pretty fierce.’

The operator repeated the address. ‘And your name and telephone number?’

Baxter hurriedly furnished those details, irritated that the fire brigade operator appeared to be wasting time.

‘Is there anyone on the premises that you know of, sir?’ If there were ‘persons trapped’, to use the fire brigade’s term, it was of prime importance for them to
know before they arrived.

‘There’s a married couple called Barton living there, I think, but I don’t know if they’re at home.’

‘Thank you, sir. Appliances are on their way.’

It was that long, hot summer that peaked at the end of July. Children fretted and cried, and managed to get ice cream all over their clothing. Men walked about looking like
underdressed tramps in dirty vests and the cut-off trousers that my girlfriend told me were called cargoes. Overweight women cast aside any dress sense they might have possessed in the first place.
They slopped around in unsuitable tight shorts, crop tops with bra straps showing, bulging bare midriffs and cheap beach sandals. Unfortunately for us men, slender well-shaped girls preferred
not to wear shorts. Such is life.

Regrettably, and despite the weather, convention dictated that I should wear a suit and a collar and tie. There were two reasons for that: firstly I am a detective chief inspector in the
Metropolitan Police, and secondly my commander is a stickler for what he terms ‘officer-like comportment’. He labours under the misapprehension that once the rank of inspector is
attained, the holder automatically becomes an officer and a gentleman . . . or lady. The fact that inspectors and above are not the only officers in the force has somehow escaped him; every
policeman and policewoman is an officer.

I was not, however, wearing a suit on that Sunday morning when my mobile rang; I wasn’t wearing anything. It was early in the morning. In fact, it was five o’clock. My girlfriend,
Gail Sutton, was slumbering peacefully beside me. She and I had been in a relationship for some time now. I’d first met her while investigating the murder of a chorus girl at the Granville
Theatre. Gail was also in the chorus at the time, although she was really an actress.

But there’s a story behind that. She was once married to a theatrical director called Gerald Andrews, and, having felt a little off colour during the matinee, came home early and
unexpectedly one afternoon to find him in bed with a nude dancer. The thing that really annoyed her, Gail said, was that they were making love in the bed she normally shared with her husband, and
it was that, more than anything else, that spelled the end of the marriage. And she’d reverted to using her maiden name of Sutton. Andrews, with typical male chauvinism, harboured an
unreasonable grudge, and did his best to prevent Gail from getting any acting parts thereafter. Hence her appearance in the chorus line of Scatterbrain at the Granville.

That, however, was all in the past. Although our relationship had burgeoned, Gail had declined to move in with me – we neither of us wanted to marry again – but we often spent time
in each other’s beds. It was a very satisfactory arrangement. Until I was called out. I lived in constant fear that she would finally tire of having the man in her life disappear at the most
inopportune moments, like now.

I reached out to stifle the ringing tone of my mobile as quickly as possible, in the hope that Gail would remain asleep. Vain hope. She stirred, cast aside the sheet, turned on her back and
stretched sensuously. I wish she wouldn’t do that every time my phone rang and we were in bed together.

‘Brock.’ I said that because my name is Harry Brock, and I am attached to the Homicide and Serious Crime Command West.

Our remit, as the hierarchy is fond of saying, is to investigate murders and serious crime in that third of London that stretches outwards from Charing Cross to the back of beyond, also known as
Hillingdon. We operate from a building called Curtis Green, just off Whitehall, that was once a part of New Scotland Yard. Most of the general public, and quite a few police officers, are
blissfully unaware of its existence.

Just so that you won’t be confused, the original Scotland Yard was much nearer Trafalgar Square. But in 1890 it moved to the other end of Whitehall. The new building was constructed from
Dartmoor granite quarried by convicts from the nearby prison of the same name, and was christened New Scotland Yard.

However, our illustrious members of parliament eventually wanted that building for themselves, so seventy-seven years later the Metropolitan Police was forced to move to an unattractive glass
and concrete pile in Broadway, Westminster. At the time there was a suggestion that it should be called Brand New Scotland Yard to avoid confusion, but the idea was vetoed. There again,
the Metropolitan Police is all for a bit of confusion from time to time. But just so that you’re in no doubt, there is a wondrous revolving sign telling the world that it is, indeed, New
Scotland Yard. Rumour has it that it’s operated by a police cadet winding a handle in the basement. But don’t believe all you hear about the police.

However, back to the present.

‘It’s Gavin Creasey, sir,’ said the voice of the night duty incident room sergeant.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said wearily. ‘Someone’s found a body that requires my attention.’

‘Yes, sir. To be exact, it was the fire brigade that found it.’

‘And where is this drama unfolding, Gavin?’

‘Chelsea, sir. Twenty-seven Tavona Street. There was a fire – which must make a change for the fire brigade – and when they arrived on scene, they found the dead body of a
woman in the master bedroom.’

‘Did she die as a result of the fire?’ I asked, vainly hoping that this death might not require my attendance.

‘No, sir. She’d been stabbed. And Doctor Mortlock is on his way.’

‘Have you alerted Dave Poole?’

‘Yes, sir, and Linda Mitchell and her forensic team are also on way.’

Dave Poole is my right hand who thinks of the things that I don’t think of. And that happens quite often. A detective sergeant of Caribbean descent, his grandfather arrived from Jamaica in
the nineteen-fifties and set up practice as a doctor in Bethnal Green. Dave’s father is an accountant, but, declining a career in a profession, Dave became a policeman, which, he often says
impishly, makes him the black sheep of the family.

Before that, however, he had graduated in English at London University. It’s a degree that’s had a lasting effect on his use of English, but more particularly, its misuse by others,
including me. Most of the time he’s grammatically fastidious, but has been known to resort to criminal argot when the situation calls for it.

Dave is married to a charming white girl who’s a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet. Rumour has it that she occasionally assaults Dave, but given that Dave is six foot tall, and
Madeleine is only five-two, that story is put down to canteen scuttlebutt. Mind you, it’s well known that ballet dancers of both sexes are possessed of a strong physique.

Gail stretched again. ‘What is it?’ she asked in her most beguiling voice.

‘I’ve got to go out,’ I replied, trying not to concentrate on Gail’s body. ‘A murder apparently.’

‘Oh, another one,’ said Gail. ‘Dammit!’ She’s obviously getting used to my bizarre occupation. She pulled up the sheet, turned over and went to sleep again.

For some reason best known to themselves, uniformed officers of the Chelsea police had closed Tavona Street completely. The red and white tapes of the fire brigade, and the
blue and white of the police vied for precedence, and a PC stood guard at the door of number twenty-seven. Or what remained of it.

‘Who’s in charge?’ I asked, waving my warrant card.

‘Our DI’s inside, sir,’ said the PC, ‘talking to your DS Poole.’

But before I could enter, Linda Mitchell, the senior forensic practitioner – wonderful titles the Job comes up with – stopped me, and presented me with a set of overalls and shoe
covers.

Once suitably attired, and having reported my arrival to the incident officer, I made my way through an inch of water, stepping carefully over pieces of debris. I found Dave Poole in what had
been the kitchen, but which was now completely gutted.

I introduced myself to the local DI who was chatting to Dave. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘First floor front, guv. Doctor Mortlock’s giving it the once over as we speak.’

‘We’d better have a talk with him before we go any further, Dave,’ I said, and made my way towards the staircase. It was badly charred, but apparently still reasonably
secure.

‘Watch the staircase, guv,’ volunteered Dave. ‘It’s a bit dodgy in places.’

I can always rely on Dave to inject an air of pessimism into any investigation, but we reached the first floor without mishap.

Dr Henry Mortlock, a Home Office pathologist, was on the point of leaving. ‘Nice of you to drop by, Harry,’ he said, as he finished packing his ghoulish instruments into his bag.

‘My pleasure, Henry. What’s the SP?’ I asked, culling a useful bit of jargon from the racing fraternity. In detective-speak it’s another way of asking for a quick summary
of the story so far.

‘You don’t have to be a pathologist to determine cause of death, Harry,’ said Mortlock. ‘She was stabbed several times in the chest and abdomen, six or seven times,
I’d say at a guess, and she bled profusely.’ He stepped aside so that I could see the body lying in a pool of blood. ‘It’s ruined the mattress,’ he added drily. Henry
Mortlock has a macabre sense of humour that rivals that of any CID officer. But, given the nature of our respective jobs, that’s hardly surprising. ‘Expensive bed that,’ he
continued. ‘The sheets and pillow cases are black silk. Must’ve cost a fortune.’

The dead woman was naked and lying on her back. She was, or had been, an attractive woman with a good figure and short blonde hair, and appeared to be in her mid-forties. It looked as though she
spent a lot of her time and money at a beauty salon.

‘How long has she been dead?’ I asked.

‘Rough estimate, about five hours, but I’ll have a better idea when I get her on the slab. There don’t appear to be any defensive wounds. Here, see for yourself.’
Mortlock held up one of the woman’s hands, and I could see that her well-manicured nails did not seem to have been used to fight off her assailant. He glanced at his watch. ‘I was
supposed to be playing golf this morning,’ he complained.

‘After you’d been to church to pray for your soul, I suppose, Doctor,’ said Dave.

Having exhausted the customary badinage that takes place between the detectives and the pathologist at a murder scene, Henry Mortlock departed, whistling some obscure. . .