Jack in the Box

by Graham Ison

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

DCI Harry Brock is called to Ham Common early on a Sunday morning. But when he arrives at the murder scene, he learns that this killing is far from straightforward: the victim has been stabbed to death, locked in a wooden box and set alight. This very public demonstration of murder leads Brock and his assistant, DS Dave Poole, to suspect gang links - and they are led on a journey through London's underworld.

Release date: October 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

Murder victims are usually discovered out of office hours. Given the cynic I am, it’s probably because their killers have decided to cause my
colleagues and me the maximum inconvenience. It was ever thus, but in my case it was even more of a damned nuisance because I’m currently enjoying an intimate relationship with a gorgeous
blonde actress. She’s called Gail Sutton, and stands – or as often is laid – a statuesque five-ten in her bare feet. I don’t know why she puts up with the constant
disruptions to our social life that my job entails, but she does. Perhaps being an actress, and occasional dancer, she knows what working unsocial hours is all about.

This murder was no different. At nine o’clock on a Sunday morning in early September, we were in bed at her town house in Kingston when my mobile rang.

Swinging her long shapely legs on to the floor, Gail muttered a most unladylike obscenity, but actresses have a reputation for earthy language.

‘Harry Brock,’ I said into my little all-singing, all-dancing mobile phone, with enough venom in my voice to deter all but the most resolute caller. Perhaps I should explain that
I’m a detective chief inspector on the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. At least, that’s what it was called last week. Maybe our masters have changed it yet again; the boy
superintendents at New Scotland Yard take a great delight in changing things. Just to show us poor plebs how clever they are.

We work out of Curtis Green, a grim grey eight-storied building tucked away behind Richmond Terrace Mews just off Whitehall, and most people don’t know we’re there. Including quite a
number of police officers. Our core task, as the wunderkinder are fond of describing it in the strangulated language they learn at Bramshill Police College, is to investigate murders in
that chunk of the great metropolis that stretches westwards from Charing Cross to the boundaries of civilization. Or, in other words, to the perimeter of the Metropolitan Police District. But not
all murders. Some are the preserve of other specialized squads, one of which is called Operation Trident, and has the politically incorrect task of dealing with
‘black-on-black’ gun crime. The simple murders are dealt with on division, but we get the dross, which usually means the most difficult.

‘It’s Colin Wilberforce, sir,’ said the sergeant who ran the incident room.

‘Yes, Colin?’

‘The fire brigade was called to a burning box on Ham Common at eight o’clock this morning, sir. The box contained a dead body.’

‘Are you sure, Colin?’

There was a pause. ‘Yes, sir. There’s no doubt.’

‘But are you sure it was Ham Common?’ It was a valid question arising out of self-interest; Ham Common is at the very edge of that area for which my section of Homicide and Serious
Crime Command is responsible. A few yards nearer Kingston and it would have fallen to HSCC South, and some other poor DCI.

‘I’m afraid so, sir. DI Ebdon spoke to the commander and he said it was down to you.’

‘Was this box a coffin, by any chance?’

‘Not as far as I know, sir. First reports suggest it was a crate. And it was padlocked.’

‘How very interesting. Was the victim perhaps a fire-eating escapologist who wasn’t very good at the job?’

Even after working with me for some years, Colin sometimes has difficulty in recognizing what passes for my sense of humour. ‘There’s nothing to indicate that that is the case,
sir,’ he said stiffly.

‘Has Dave Poole been notified?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s on his way to the scene as I speak. So are DI Ebdon and her team.’

‘Good. Give Dave a call and tell him I’ll meet him there.’ Dave Poole is my bag carrier – what DCIs call the detective sergeants who act as their right hand. And
there’s no one better at it than Dave Poole, who’s saved me from making a fool of myself on quite a few occasions. ‘And Colin, rustle up the usual support team.’

‘Meet who where?’ As I cancelled the call, Gail returned to the bedroom carrying two cups of coffee. My attempt to switch to a macho operational mode was not helped by the fact that
she was still naked.

‘Ham Common, to examine a body. Dave Poole’s on his way already.’

Gail put the coffee on a bedside table, and sighed.

Murder is a funny old business. Half the time you’re rushing about the length and breadth of London in a vain attempt to discover the murderer. And the other half is
spent not knowing what the hell you’re doing, but that’s usually when you’re trying to put together the report. I had a nasty feeling that this topping would be no different.

Despite it being Sunday morning, a small crowd had gathered behind the blue and white tapes on the distant periphery of Ham Common, a few acres of greenery that straddles the road between
Kingston and Richmond. Some of these morbid sightseers were obviously residents from the twee houses on the far side, confirmed by the copies of the Sunday Times they were clutching. I
imagine they all read the Sunday Times in this part of the world.

A small canvas structure had been erected in the centre of the common, doubtless housing the subject of my latest investigation. There were four police cars – God knows why there were four
– and a couple of fire appliances drawn up on the edge of the grassland, their blue lights still lazily revolving. A little convoy of white vans containing the scientific support had already
arrived. They were emblazoned with the latest slogan to emanate from Scotland Yard: Evidence Recovery Unit. Oh, well!

As I alighted from my car, a black BMW drew up and Dr Henry Mortlock got out. He was muttering to himself, and clutching a leather case that contained all the ghoulish instruments of his trade
as a Home Office forensic pathologist.

‘Good morning, Henry,’ I said.

‘What’s bloody good about it?’ demanded Mortlock. ‘I was supposed to be playing golf this morning.’

‘Happy camping,’ I said, as Henry disappeared through the opening in the canvas screens.

An ageing inspector, with Falklands and Long Service and Good Conduct medal ribbons on his tunic, approached, clipboard at the ready. ‘May I have your name, please?’ he asked
politely.

Having told him who I was, I said, ‘Once the pathologist and crime-scene people have finished, Inspector, I shall want the common scoured. Would you arrange for a team of officers to start
on that as soon as possible?’

The inspector tucked his pen into his breast pocket, and looked glum. ‘We’re a bit short of men, being a Sunday, sir, but I’ll do what I can.’

‘Good. And make sure that none of that lot encroaches on the area.’ I waved at the onlookers.

‘Of course, sir.’ The inspector looked affronted by that request, as if I were telling him his job, but I’ve known the public to foul up a crime scene before.

Dave Poole was in earnest conversation with the fire chief, and I strolled across to join them. Dave is black, six foot tall, and weighs in at about fifteen stone. His grandfather, a doctor,
came to England from the Caribbean in the fifties and settled in Bethnal Green to the north-east of the capital. Son of an accountant, Dave graduated in English from London University, but then
decided to join the Metropolitan Police. He frequently says that this decision made him the black sheep of the family, a statement that seems to disconcert our diversity-conscious commander. But
Dave has a weird sense of humour; it goes with the job.

‘Are you the station officer?’ I asked the fireman with the white helmet.

‘We’re not called that any more. They like us to be called watch managers now. It’s supposed to soften our image.’ And just to demonstrate that it had done no such thing,
he bellowed at a fire fighter. ‘Mind what you’re doing with that bloody thing, you idiot. They cost money.’

‘Tell me the story,’ I said.

‘Got a shout at oh-seven-fifty-six to a smouldering crate,’ said the watch manager, now giving me his full attention, and waving at the canvas shelter. ‘When we arrived on
scene, we doused it, just to make sure, but then we noticed that there seemed to be human remains contained in the box. As we don’t deal with cremations, we called your lot.’

‘Thanks a bundle,’ I said. ‘Any idea as to the cause of the fire?’

The watch manager grinned. ‘Well, it sure as hell wasn’t spontaneous combustion.’

I always knew that the fire brigade shared a macabre sense of humour with the police.

‘Initial examination,’ continued the fire chief, ‘indicates the presence of petrol or a similar accelerant. We’re treating it as arson.’

‘Oh, good.’ I hoped that didn’t sound too sarcastic because it wasn’t meant to be. When the fire brigade treats an incident as arson, it means that they treat it with a
view to preserving evidence. ‘My sergeant will want a statement from you.’

‘I’ve already taken a preliminary, sir,’ said Dave, flourishing a handful of official paper. He always called me ‘sir’ in the presence of the public. When he called
me ‘sir’ in private it was usually an indication that I’d made a fatuous comment. ‘I’ll get someone to go to the fire station and take a detailed statement.’

‘Which nick covers this area?’ I asked. I don’t often deal with dead bodies in burning boxes on Ham Common.

‘Richmond,’ said Dave, who always had such information at his fingertips.

‘Any joy with that lot?’ I gestured at the rubbemeckers on the far side of the common.

‘Miss Ebdon’s got some of her people checking them out, sir,’ said Dave.

We crossed to our victim’s funeral pyre just as Henry Mortlock emerged from the canvas structure.

‘What d’you think, Henry?’

‘Can’t tell until the post-mortem,’ said Mortlock, but he always said that. ‘The body’s quite badly burned. Whoever set fire to this man made a good job of
it.’

‘It is a man, then.’

‘I just said that.’ Mortlock put down his case of instruments. ‘I think you’ll be able to get one or two fingerprints from the cadaver, Harry, and from a cursory
examination, I’d say he was probably under thirty years of age. But if you’re going to ask me if he was dead before the fire was started, you’ll have to wait until I’ve
carved him up. Usual place.’ By which, he meant the Westminster mortuary in Horseferry Road.

‘Any clothing?’ I was immediately thinking in terms of identification.

‘It would appear not. It looks as though he was naked when he was barbecued.’ And with that irreverent comment, Mortlock picked up his case and strode towards his car whistling some
obscure aria.

Dave and I went to have a look at what we were dealing with, and ventured inside. As Henry Mortlock had said, whoever had set fire to our corpse had made a good job of it. Although much of the
body had been badly burned, the face was virtually untouched, and one of the hands on the body that the fire brigade had found in the crate might, if we were lucky, yield a set of fingerprints. But
if there were no criminal record with which to match them, we wouldn’t be much further forward in identifying the dead man.

Linda Mitchell, the senior forensic practitioner, made a timely appearance in her sexy all-white outfit. ‘All right for me to do the necessary, Mr Brock?’

‘Yes, go ahead, Linda. Fingerprints would be a help, and a photograph of the face, as well as all the others you usually take. ASAP.’

‘Of course,’ said Linda, rather curtly, I thought. I shouldn’t have said what I needed; Linda knows her job.

‘G’day, guv.’ Kate Ebdon, the DI in charge of the ‘legwork’ team, walked across holding a clipboard. Kate, a flame-haired, ex-Flying Squad officer, is Australian,
and invariably dresses in jeans and a man’s white shirt. Rather than disguising her figure, this outfit tends to emphasize it, and it’s strongly rumoured that she had seduced more than
one detective. Of the male species, of course. Unfortunately, Kate’s mode of dress disturbs the commander, but he hasn’t got the guts to tell her he disapproves. A man of fixed and
outdated ideas, he thinks that anyone promoted to inspector rank automatically becomes a gentleman. Or in Kate’s case, a lady.

The commander was visited upon us some time ago by a genius in the Human Resources Directorate who thought that a Uniform Branch senior officer could become a detective at the stroke of an
official pen. I can tell you that it ain’t necessarily so. It’s also rumoured that upon his own distant promotion to inspector, our beloved chief embarked upon a course of elocution
lessons. But that might just be a malicious story put about by the inferior ranks. And, when the mood takes them, the inferior ranks can be pretty malicious, believe me.

‘What’ve you got, Kate?’

‘There was just one bloke you might like to have a word with, guv.’ Kate glanced at her clipboard. ‘Name of Robert Walker. He was the one who called the fire
brigade.’

‘I don’t suppose he saw anyone dumping a coffin, did he?’

‘You suppose right, guv.’

‘So what did this upstanding member of the community do next, ma’am?’ asked Dave, grinning at Kate.

‘At first, he thought that someone had dumped some rubbish,’ said Kate, ignoring Dave’s sarcastic formality. ‘Apparently they’ve had trouble with fly-tippers
recently, and he considered telephoning the council about it. But then he realized that it was Sunday and there’d be no one there.’

‘God help us!’ I said.

‘After a great deal of soul-searching,’ continued Kate caustically, ‘he decided to call the fire brigade. On account of smoke coming out of the box.’

‘Perhaps we should arrange for him to get a letter of commendation from the Commissioner,’ suggested Dave.

‘Which one is he, Kate?’

‘The one holding the Sunday Times,’ said Kate, with an evil grin, ‘and talking to the PC.’

‘They’re all holding the Sunday Times,’ I muttered.

Dave and I crossed to where an unshaven man in a rugby shirt, jeans and brown loafers was standing on our side of the cordon. He looked to be about forty and had brown, wavy hair and rimless
glasses.

‘Mr Walker?’

‘Yes, I’m Bob Walker, Inspector.’

‘Chief Inspector,’ I said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector.’ That’s the trouble with television. The writers of TV police soaps always allow their chief
inspectors to be called ‘inspector’. Some of these actors even introduce themselves as ‘inspector’, which just goes to show that the writers and actors know nothing about
the coppering lark. The difference between an inspector and a chief inspector is about eight grand a year, and no one gets away with demoting the real ones, even verbally.

‘Oh, sorry, old boy,’ said Walker, which pleased me even less.

‘I’m told that you called the fire brigade, Mr Walker.’

‘Absolutely. Right thing to do, what?’

‘When was this?’ I knew that the call reached the fire brigade at four minutes to eight, but I like to be certain.

‘Um, just before eight, I suppose. I’d driven down to get a paper.’ Walker flourished the Sunday Times. A large amount of advertising rubbish fell out of the
newspaper, and he bent to pick it up. ‘It’s amazing the amount of junk they put in these things,’ he said. ‘Anyway, when I got back, I saw this box in the middle of the
common, and I thought to myself, that’s damned funny. It’s disgraceful the sort of stuff people leave lying about. We often find old mattresses here. But then I noticed it was
smouldering, so pulled out my mobile and called the fire brigade.’

‘Was the crate there when you left to get the paper?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Walker.

I could see this guy was going to be a great help.

‘Did you see anything, or hear anything, Mr Walker?’ asked Dave. ‘Earlier, I mean. Like a vehicle, or voices. Any sort of commotion.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. My partner and I sleep at the back of the house, you see.’ Walker gazed across at the screens surrounding the crate. ‘Is it a murder, d’you
think?’

‘We’re not sure,’ said Dave, who never committed himself without hard evidence. ‘Could be suicide, I suppose.’ But neither of us thought that our victim had locked
himself in a box and then set fire to it. If he had, it would be the most bizarre suicide I’d ever come across.

One of my officers will be across to take a statement from you, Mr Walker,’ I said. ‘Which is your house?’

Walker provided us with his address and telephone number, and we left him to bask in the glory of having been the first to notice our charred corpse.

It was gone midday by the time everything was wrapped up at the scene, and the crate, still containing its gruesome contents, was removed. The duty inspector from Richmond police station had
managed to rustle up seven PCs who had fanned out and meticulously criss-crossed the common in search of evidence. They didn’t find any. The tapes were removed, and the gawping residents were
left with a topic of conversation that would doubtless dominate their dinner parties for weeks to come.

There were two pieces of news awaiting us when we got back to Curtis Green that afternoon.

The first, from Linda Mitchell, was that there was no trace of the victim’s fingerprints in the Criminal Record Office. That meant that he didn’t have any previous convictions, and
so we still didn’t know who he was.

The second snippet was, however, more encouraging, but could yet turn out to be a wild-goose chase.

Colin Wilberforce, that paragon of administration, had already embarked on cataloguing statements, such as they were. Photographs of the scene of the murder, and the crate itself, were already
displayed on a huge board at the end of the incident room. And, I have no doubt, entries on the computer were already logged in. We shall definitely be in trouble if Colin is ever promoted and
posted.

‘We’ve had a message from the CID at Fulham, sir,’ said Colin.

‘What about? If it’s another murder, give it to someone else. I’m busy.’

Colin smiled. ‘It might just be the same one, sir. The DI at Fulham was called by one of their instant-response units at ten this morning.’ He glanced down at his message pad.
‘A Miss Sasha Lovell rang the police at nine-forty to report that the man she shares a flat with had gone missing. She was alarmed to discover what she thought were bloodstains on the carpet,
and smears of blood on the inside of the front door.’

‘Why did the Fulham police think we were interested, Colin?’

‘No idea, sir, but they passed on the information in case it had anything to do with the Ham Common job.’

‘How did they know about that?’

‘Their Q car picked it up on the force radio, sir.’

‘And I suppose they thought they could unload it on us.’ I sighed, but I’d tried unloading jobs a few times myself in the past. Without a great deal of success, I might
say.

I telephoned the DI at Fulham, and asked him for more details. He told me that Sasha Lovell, a twenty-eight-year-old model, shared a basement flat
in Fulham with an artist named Jack Harding to whom she was not married. She had left him at the flat on Saturday afternoon to take part in a photo-shoot session at a studio in Chelsea, but when
she returned on the Sunday morning, Harding wasn’t there. She noticed signs of a disturbance, and then saw what she thought were bloodstains on the carpet, and o. . .