Songbird

Book 9: A DC Smith/Kings Lake Investigation

by Peter Grainger

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Detective Sergeant Chris Waters got the call at 05.29 that July morning. This is it, said DCI Reeve, you’ll be first there, it’s all yours, you’re the crime scene manager. Suddenly, after months of waiting and wondering, Waters finds himself in at the deep end, and alone at the scene of a puzzling murder. As the investigation proceeds, the detectives at Kings Lake Central find themselves visiting familiar places and talking to some familiar faces, while old enemies reappear in the incident room. Before this is over, Chris Waters will need to make a career-changing decision, and another member of the CID team will find herself facing an unexpected challenge. And DC Smith? Gone, but not forgotten? Surely, he would say, you cannot write me off with a worn-out cliché like that . . . 

Publisher: Union Square & Co.

Print pages: 576

Sample

At that time of the morning the roads were clear of traffic even though the holiday season was about to hit its peak, and at first Waters drove quickly. In the half-light, a roe deer had crossed the road ahead of him as he passed through the woods of the Royal estate near Snettingham, and moments later a cock pheasant had launched itself up from the roadside and into his speeding path, the bird’s long tail brushing the windscreen inches from his face. After that he had slowed a little, just enough to make sure he arrived in one piece.

The call from Detective Chief Inspector Alison Reeve had woken him at 05.29 – the digits were imprinted on his memory and he had the feeling he was never going to forget them. Reeve herself had said it after giving him all the information she had so far – she had said, ‘Well, this is it, Chris. Apart from the two uniformed officers from Hunston, you’ll be first on the scene. As soon as DI Terek gets in, we’ll be sending other people up, depending on what you think is required, but that won’t be for at least an hour…’

Depending on what he thought was required, depending on his assessment of the situation. For an hour, maybe more, he would be in control of a crime scene for the first time, in command of it. Reeve had continued, ‘… you remember everything that needs to be done? Want me to run through it?’ No, ma’am, he’d said politely, and she hadn’t insisted.

When he reached the edge of the town, he dropped his speed to the legal limit. Already there were a few people on the pavements, some carrying newspapers or loaves of bread as if they were in France and not here on the East Anglian coast, but the heatwave had lasted for almost a month, so it wasn’t hard to imagine now that you were on the Costa del Norfolk. The people were in shorts, sandals and T shirts, enjoying the cool of the morning, holidaying, idling the time away, with no idea what was waiting for him not a mile from the centre of this small seaside town.

The turning was on the left, immediately after the traffic lights, at the corner with the only amusement arcade. The little land train that takes visitors the three quarters of a mile out to the beach was parked up at its mock station, and when Waters slowed again for the first speed bump he could see the elderly driver in his Victorian railway cap, polishing the brass bell that signalled arrivals and departures. Without a doubt, it was the same driver as it had been when he and Clare stayed here on the Pinehills caravan site more than three years ago, stayed in the caravan, which was, and still is, up here on the right, the third turning…

He shook his head a little to get his thoughts straight, and fixed his eyes back on the gravel track between the caravans. Of all the places in all the world, this had happened here. He could see the site office buildings ahead, and there were two cars. He thought about pulling in and seeing if Shirley Salmon, who still owned the place as far as he knew, was here and aware of what was taking place, and then decided against it – check with the uniformed officers first. The priority was always to get control of the crime scene.

If indeed it was a crime. People die of natural causes and that can happen as easily in the countryside as indoors. Or it might be a suicide, and for some reason those often do take place outside. All he knew for certain was that a woman’s body had been found on the edge of the pinewoods, close to a busy public footpath. Two uniformed officers from Hunston had arrived, confirmed that this was no hoax call – it had come from a dog-walker, naturally – and then the matter had reached the duty desk at Kings Lake Central.

The track, by now more sand than gravel, took a turn to the left. Waters drove past the small café that sells ice-creams and tea, plastic buckets and spades, little windmills and paper flags for sandcastles, and then, at the far end, where the track becomes a footpath, he could see the patrol car.

A small, elderly woman with two pedigree pugs on a single lead came towards him as he made his way along the footpath; it was narrow here and he stood aside for her. She said crossly, ‘You can’t get through. The police have closed it off.’

Waters said, ‘Yes, I know. I-’

‘They wouldn’t say why. They should at least tell you why. Especially if it’s going to be all day like they just told me. And we don’t know where else we’re going to go for a walk, do we girls?’

He looked down at the dogs. One was breathing so heavily its own demise might soon need investigating, and the other stared up at him. It had crossed eyes, the first dog he’d ever seen with such an affliction.

The woman said, ‘So you’ll have to turn around. You can’t get through.’

Having been sent back herself, she was plainly determined that no one else was going along the footpath.

Waters said, ‘I’m actually with the police…’

She looked dubious, so then he had to take out his ID card and she checked it.

‘Well, alright. Is it going to be closed all day?’

‘I couldn’t say, not until I’ve been up and had a look for myself.’

‘A look at what? What’s happened?’

‘I’m afraid that I really can’t discuss it. But-’

‘And do you get to decide? Are you in charge? You don’t look old enough.’

There was no point in carrying this on. Waters gave her a vacuous smile and waited. The woman turned away, took two or three steps and then turned again. She said with more menace than one might have expected, ‘Just don’t forget.’

‘Forget what, madam?’

‘Who pays your wages.’

He watched her go then, still muttering to herself and the girls, and wondered how things might have gone differently if she had met his old boss on this footpath.

He didn’t recognise either of the uniformed officers who stood together on the footpath just a matter of yards before it entered the pinewoods, but his ears were sharp enough to hear one say to the other, ‘Look up, the suits have arrived.’

It was true about the suit, he was wearing one. Nothing specific had been said but Terek always had a suit on, and since he had arrived most of the junior detectives had taken this as a hint. But there were times, like this one, when it felt out of place – six thirty on a sunny morning out in the dunes and pinewoods. And other times, too, when it was the wrong thing to be wearing, such as on the mean streets of Lake, when you wanted to get some sort of relationship going to gain some intelligence but a pinstripe seemed to represent the very authority that the people who had the intelligence most despised. He’d heard the snide comments about Smith’s ‘shabby chic’ but like most things concerning him, the longer you were in this job, the more sense it made.

When he reached the officers, Waters introduced himself, held up his ID and said, ‘I just met the old lady with the dogs. Have you sent many back that way?’

The constables glanced at each other. The younger of the two was as tall as Waters himself but much broader, a younger version of John Murray; the other was short, almost shaven-headed, in his forties and unsmiling. Eventually the older man said, ‘She’s the first but she won’t be the last, not along here. You need to get on top of this or they’ll be taking short cuts around, trampling over God knows what.’

Waters looked about him. From here he could not see the body but the tall grass to his left had been recently trodden down – there seemed to be a new path into a patch of low brambles and elder bushes. It must be there.

Encouraged by the silence, no doubt, the same officer said, ‘You all they’ve sent, then?’

‘No, I’m just the first to arrive. Is this the place?’

He pointed to his left. The constable nodded, not bothering to conceal a smile.

‘Yes, she’s in there. You go and fill your boots any time you like, son.’

They were both watching him again, and the man’s lack of respect was grating. All Waters needed was a few seconds to think, and their cooperation – surely not too much to ask.

The same officer continued, ‘But the thing is, this isn’t just a local footpath. It’s part of the coastal path. End of July? You could have dozens along here in a couple of hours, with kids and dogs all over it. Hell of a mess if you’re not careful…’

‘We need to tape it off to prevent that, straight away.’

‘Where d’you want us to do that, then?’

‘Back where the path leaves the caravan site.’

The constable nodded slowly, as if the instruction had passed some sort of test in his head, and then he said, ‘But what about the other end? People come both ways along here. It’s the coastal path, y’see?’

Waters sensed that his face was giving away some of the irritation he felt but he kept his voice as level as possible.

‘So we’ll need to tape it off from both directions.’

‘But where? This path runs all the way to Hunston!’

The man was laughing openly now, and plainly encouraging the other officer to join in – and Waters was wondering how this had all become awkward, and how soon Terek or Reeve would be calling him for an update.

He said, ‘Well, you’re the people with the local knowledge. Use your own judgement.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. We don’t get a lot of practice with that where CID is concerned, do we Steve?’

The younger officer still seemed unwilling to join in with it. He looked directly at Waters, who saw the opportunity and took it, saying to him, ‘OK, tape it off in both directions and one of you stays at each position until I can get more people out here. Where’s the person who found the body this morning?’

It was the younger officer who answered now.

‘We let him go. He said his wife is disabled and he needed to get back but he’s staying on the caravan site. We got his phone number and the address.’

‘Good, I’ll need those. Do you have enough tape? There’s some in my car if not.’

The older officer said, ‘I expect we’ll manage to find some tape and that.’

Waters stepped off the path, steeling himself for what had to come next. He took three or four steps, stopped, turned and walked back to the man who should have known better. Their eyes met and Waters said, ‘I think you meant to say, “I expect we’ll manage, sir”.’

He saw a bare arm first, the hand palm up with fingers curled inwards. Then he stopped and took a few breaths. He could hear the two constables making arrangements before they separated, one saying he’d bring the other some tape from the car, and then it was just the early summer morning quiet again.

The training isn’t as long as people might imagine but it is intensive. He has already made mistakes, so stop and go through the list in your mind. Save and preserve life; the woman is dead and there are no other lives at obvious risk. But which of the two officers checked the body closely enough to ascertain that she was dead? He should have asked, and were they wearing any protective clothing – clothing to protect the integrity of the crime scene? Where is his own protective gear? In his pockets and his car.

He retreated a few steps, took out the disposable blue plastic shoe covers – which are never disposed of until a case is completed and all possibility of appeal is over – and pulled them over his shoes. From another pocket, he took a pair of matching gloves.

Provide emergency first aid for those injured at the scene. Too late for this poor woman, and there’s no suggestion of anyone else being around. But, of course, it isn’t impossible there is another victim… Nevertheless, he cannot conduct a search for one because that could compromise the crime scene.

Ensure the scene is safe for investigators and forensic examiners. Some of those bramble bushes look as if they could make a right mess of a plastic suit – he can hear Smith’s voice and tells himself to focus again. A lot could depend on this, on someone saying after today that Detective Sergeant Waters is a safe pair of hands.

Secure and preserve the crime scene, keeping a record of everyone who enters and leaves. This he can do. The tape is already going up and the public are being kept away. Make sure you get the names of those officers and a record of exactly where they went and what each of them did when they arrived on the scene.

He moved forward again slowly, step by step, placing each foot where there was already an indentation in the grass. He saw the arm again, pale against the dry, straw-coloured vegetation. This heatwave will soon turn into a drought… It was her left arm and there were rings on the third finger, gold rings. Don’t just look – make sure you see as well. He narrowed his eyes and saw an engagement ring, a wedding ring and bright red varnish on long nails.

Two more careful steps and he could see the rest of her. She lay on her back, her head turned to the left and resting on her shoulder-length, copper-red hair. The right leg was straight, the left was half bent at the knee, exposing her groin. Waters looked away for a moment because she was uncovered there – when he looked back he could see her underwear looped around her right ankle. A short, blue skirt was rucked up around her waist, and a white blouse looked as if it had been torn and pulled open, partly exposing her breasts. There was a bra but it had been pushed up and lay across the top of her chest. Finally, he looked at her feet. One silver, high-heeled shoe, the right, was half on the foot, the other lay in the grass, a few inches away from her left foot.

He looked away again, breathing deliberately slowly. This was not the first victim he had seen, but… But it’s different when you’re on your own and when you know that the last but one person to see this awful thing was the individual who had done it, who had done this to the poor woman.

A glance at his watch told him ten minutes had passed since he parked his car. Then he took out his phone and found he had a signal, one bar, which out here was a minor miracle. He debated whether he should call Reeve or Terek, and then he thought about what he might be asked if he did so. What else should he have done by now?

He took one more step into another depression in the grass, almost certainly made by whichever officer had come this far, and leaned down towards the body, close enough to examine a wrist for a pulse. There was no colour in the face and her eyes were partially open – funny how they never are in films or on the television. There is something profoundly disturbing about sightless eyes – maybe that’s why. The mouth was open and her swollen tongue protruded a little, lolling to the left. There was an extensive mark on her right cheek which was probably a bruise, and her neck was heavily discoloured. No blood visible anywhere, and Waters guessed she had been strangled.

In the end, he didn’t touch her because he had never seen anyone more obviously dead, but he made himself look over the corpse again. He had no personal experience of rape investigation but that was surely in part what they were dealing with here, and his training had involved the collection of evidence in such cases. He had seen and studied photographs, albeit in a lecture theatre with thirty other detectives.

So, the bruising on her face suggested a violent assault, probably a punch or punches, and being on her right side might suggest a left-handed assailant. The parts of her breasts that he could see bore no marks. Then he looked at her legs, the insides of her thighs, and finally at her crotch. Nothing out of the ordinary – as if doing such a thing as this on a bright July morning could ever be anything but extraordinary. No further bruising, no scratches or cuts anywhere.

Waters returned to her face then, trying to come to some conclusion about her. She had put on plenty of make-up the evening before. There was light blue eyeshadow, finely plucked and pencilled eyebrows, foundation and blusher, and lipstick that matched her nail varnish, but when the blood drains away beneath the skin after death, the effect of all this artifice becomes the opposite of what was intended – the underlying pallor produces a ghastly, unnatural, doll-like appearance. And the final irony was the usual one; she had been an attractive woman anyway, without all that, probably in her thirties. He felt suddenly quite sorry for her, aware of the impulse to reach out and touch her arm in some odd gesture of reassurance, as if to say it will be alright, but of course it never would now.

As he stepped back onto the footpath, his mobile began to ring. It was Detective Inspector Terek – he wanted to know what the situation was on the ground and whether there was a phone signal where the body had been found. As they were having this conversation, Waters thought, the second question was superfluous, until he realised what Terek was driving at – if the woman had had a mobile, the signal could be used to follow her movements, and, if they were lucky, the movements of anyone else they were questioning about her death.

After listening to Waters’ account of what he had seen and done, Terek said, ‘Good, it sounds as if you’ve followed protocols to the letter. I’m at Central now but I’ll be out with you as soon as everything is moving here. Scenes-of-crime and the photographer should be there by nine o’clock. Nothing at all on the woman’s identity?’

No, said Waters, but the chances were that she was from the caravan site – she probably hadn’t walked far in those shoes.

‘Really? That’s useful. You need to stay close by the victim until the teams have arrived but then we’ll find the site manager. Hunston have been told to send up every spare officer as they come on shift, so you should have more people there soon. If you – oh, stay on the line, here’s DCI Reeve.’

Waters could hear a conversation taking place back in Kings Lake. Should he tell Terek that he knew the owner of the caravan park, that he had even stayed here on a couple of occasions? Terek is funny about procedures and propriety sometimes. He has this thing about professional distance and-

‘Chris? I’ve relayed everything to DCI Reeve. She is saying you’ve done a great job.’

Waters knew that Reeve would still be standing by Terek’s desk. Then the detective inspector said, ‘She’s coming out with me, we’ll be leaving shortly. And she’s making you crime scene manager on this one.’

And that, he told himself as he walked back along the footpath towards where he had parked his car, is a serious responsibility. It means that if anyone is charged and the case comes to court, every aspect of how the crime scene was investigated will come under the closest public scrutiny. One error, one omission, and the guilty might walk free. One error, one omission, and you are marked forever as someone who cannot handle that sort of pressure.

It was the younger of the two uniformed officers who had come back to the beginning of the footpath. The tape was already in place across it, and the officer stood on the other side – it was too low for Waters to duck his six feet something under it, so he lifted over first one leg and then the other. They stood together and Waters told him that he was now managing the crime scene, and he’d need to know their names and exactly what each of them had done since they arrived. On his own, this uniformed man was friendly and cooperative, and he told Waters he was the one who had approached the body closely and established that there was no sign of life – Waters had assumed it would have been the older, more experienced officer.

‘I checked her wrist and her throat but she was cold. I’d say she’s been dead a good few hours, sir.’

‘I agree. Have you turned anyone back yet?’

‘No. But it won’t be long. This is a busy old path in the summer.’

‘I’m just wondering whether we could get the names and details of anyone who walks the path every day, you know, the dog walkers and such? Anyone who went along here yesterday evening might be worth speaking to at some point. Would you mind asking them about that, and passing anything interesting on to me?’

Not at all, said Police Constable Steve Hannam, and if anyone had anything really useful, he’d hold them by and send for the detective straight away. Waters thanked him and said reinforcements from Hunston were on their way – then he headed for his car and his notepad, relieved that not every uniform in west Norfolk had some sort of a grudge against young upstarts in suits.

He had turned the notepad so the pages were landscape instead of portrait, and he had drawn grids as neatly as he could freehand. There are, naturally, proper proformas for all this, but no one had told him when he left the station last night that he would be managing a crime scene tomorrow morning. If he’d had the PDFs on his iPad, even better, but he didn’t for the same reason. He recalled as much as he could and would transfer what he was collecting now as soon as he was back in Kings Lake Central.

He wrote “PC Steven Hannam” and then stopped and wondered whether it was a “ph” instead of a “v”. Presumably a defence counsel wouldn’t be able to make too much of that… Then he noted down that Hannam had touched the body in two places to ascertain that the woman had no pulse; Hannam’s prints would be on his personnel file for the purposes of elimination in these situations. Waters made sure every significant time had been recorded, before filling in spaces in the left-hand column with the roles of those he knew would soon be here – “SOCO”, “Photographer”, “Doctor” and so on. He added columns that would show the times of arrival and departure for everyone who would be involved.

When all that was done, he went to the boot of his car and opened it. Months ago, he had put a full plastic overall into his car, just in case, never imagining the day would come. He found it in its cover, wedged down in the space beside the spare wheel. As crime scene manager, should he be wearing this? The absurd realisation came that he was worrying about appearing over-dressed at a murder scene. Waters concluded that he himself was one of the people who needed to be kept away from the body, however, and the plastic covers over his shoes would do for now.

And it was going to be hot again, you could feel it in the air already. That would be a factor in the management of the case today – the processes of putrefaction begin earlier and take place much more rapidly in high temperatures. He frowned as he took off his jacket, trying to order his professional thoughts and his personal ones at the same time. Yesterday the victim had been a living individual, breathing, moving, interacting with others that she knew, making plans for tomorrow, and now she was a corpse beginning to decay as the sun rose in the sky on that tomorrow.

Murder is theft of the most precious thing we ever own, and all crimes in the end are brought about by selfishness. Our job is to make sure that the selfish are brought to justice as a lesson to the rest of us – if we fail in that, the world begins to spin off its axis. So, no pressure, then, sir!

Waters put the plastic overall back into the boot and closed it. He could hear a vehicle approaching through the caravan park, the gears changing as it moved quickly through the ninety-degree bends. Squinting up at the sun, he thought, it’s going to be hotter than ever. Then he took off his tie as well and put it with the jacket onto the passenger seat of the car, hanging the lanyard with his ID around his neck. If he’d wanted to wear a suit all day, he could have become an accountant and earned more money. The thought and the actions had given him an unexpected lift, a little burst of confidence. This might prove to be reckless but sometimes one must live dangerously – especially when you have just looked into the sightless eyes of death.

When he got back to Steve Hannam, the police BMW was just parking up. Two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, got out and came towards them. Waters took their names and explained what he wanted them to do. They followed him back along the footpath to where it was closest to the body and positioned themselves twenty yards either side of that point, in case anyone managed to avoid the areas already taped off. Then, notepad in hand, he set off to interview the older officer, the one who’d said “Look up, the suits have arrived.” If his attitude hadn’t improved a little, the crime scene manager could probably make sure he was the last to leave.

‘I’m sorry, I’m not very good with names and I’ve forgotten yours already. But of all the days, and at this unearthly hour as well. It’s not good enough. And my daughter’s getting married tomorrow…’

The photographer put out his arm again, which was a signal for Waters to stop moving while another image of the footpath was taken. Then the man shambled forward again, lens cases swinging from the specialist’s utility belt that barely managed to meet around his middle.

‘Detective Sergeant Waters. Congratulations are in order, then. Is it a big wedding?’

‘It had better be, the amount it’s costing me. Primitive bloody tradition.’

‘Marriage?’

‘Yes, that as well, but I was referring to the fact that the bride’s father is expected to pay for most of it. Not the bride’s mother. She just flies in from Florida the day before – today –’ with a dark look at Waters as if he really was in some way responsible for the timing of this – ‘plays a leading role in the emotional feeding frenzy over one weekend, and then flies off back to The Sunshine State. Marvellous, eh?’

Plainly this was a rhetorical question but Waters felt compelled to make another effort to interact with this fellow professional.

‘So, who is the lucky man?’

‘Philosophy lecturer. An idiot with three degrees, no money and even less common sense. Is this the spot?’

The photographer had seen the female police officer on the footpath ahead of them. Waters explained that it was another twenty yards beyond her, and Gervaise Fraser seemed to take this as another personal insult. He waddled on past the woman without a good morning, and Waters made a half-apologetic gesture on his behalf before following. It would be easy to dismiss the man but Waters had not forgotten the shovel in the grass at Lowacre, the shovel that had mysteriously appeared several days after the murder of Mark Randall. The morning it was found, Smith had specifically asked for Gervaise Fraser to photograph the scene if he was available.

‘Right, I can see it now. Stand aside unless you want to be in this, sergeant. Video record of the approach and the measures you’ve taken to protect the scene.’

Fraser held up a miniature video camera, little bigger than an iPhone, and swung it slowly through a hundred and eighty degrees, ending with the faint but now unmistakable pathway that led towards the body.

‘Done. Now I suppose I’d better take some protective measures myself. Help me with these damned things, would you?’

He was referring to foot coverings like the ones Waters was still wearing from his previous visit to the crime scene – Fraser had a set in his right hand. There was nowhere for him to sit, and he had considerable difficulty when he attempted to bend forward so that he could slip them over his shoes. In the end, he balanced alternately on one leg, a hand on the detective’s shoulder while Waters pulled on the covers.

‘Thank you. I’m hoping that soon they’ll declare me medically unfit for this. Right, in we go. Follow me, please.’

Fraser switched on the video again, and moved slowly towards the body. Waters had an interest in photography and he recognised the manufacturer’s name on the DSLR that Fraser was holding in his other hand now, but the model was far more sophisticated than anything he owned himself. Every shot taken was a potential item of evidence, and not only for the prosecution – defence lawyers have the right to see each one, whether used in evidence or not, and so every image had to be documented. Waters tried to keep count but soon gave up. Digital time and date-stamping mean that ensuring a full record has been kept is a relatively straightforward matter nowadays.

Fraser worked silently, methodically and surprisingly quickly. He took pictures of the body from all four sides before moving in to make close-ups of the obvious things – the bruised face and throat, her hands and feet, the tears around the buttons of her blouse. Only when the camera moved close to her exposed private parts did Waters feel his stomach turn over a little. This was necessary but it still felt intrusive; then he remembered how much more intrusive things would become when she lay on the metal table in the police mortuary and Dr Robinson picked up the first of his instruments from the tray that Olive Markham had prepared for him.

For a moment, Waters had forgotten the notepad in his hand. Then he flipped to a new page and wrote down the time the photography had begun. On the same page, he drew a quick sketch of the scene with a rounded oblong at the centre to represent the body, followed by an arrow to show the direction of travel as Fraser worked his way around the victim. There was no back-tracking to get a different shot, and not a single unnecessary footstep. Waters realised two things then – one, he was watching an expert at work, and two, Smith had come to the same conclusion years ago.

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