CHAPTER FOUR

Trevor had only managed two hours sleep before he walked into the station at eight o’clock. He went to his office and checked his e-mail and voicemail before walking down the corridor to the incident room Sarah had organised. She was working on one of a bank of computers.

‘Have you been home?’ Trevor asked.

‘I’m not tired, sir.’

‘It’s Trevor in the office and that wasn’t what I asked.’

‘Chris and I decided to record what information we had before returning to the street to interview any residents who are home during the day. Chris is in the canteen.’

‘You eaten?’

‘Yes.’

‘Less than him evidently.’

She turned her swivel chair to face him. ‘I’m not keen on fry-ups, sir.’

‘Then you’ll never make a real police officer.’

‘I’ve downloaded the photographs the pathologist e-mailed us and printed them off with the ones that were taken at the crime scene last night.’

‘Thank you.’ Trevor took the file she offered him. ‘Any stay-at-home mothers in the street?’

‘No, sir and just one part-timer.’

‘Kacy Howells,’ Trevor guessed.

‘She worked in the same office as her husband for twenty hours a week.’

‘After you’ve finished the interviews, you and Chris go home and get some sleep. That’s an order.’

‘But …’

‘Be back at eight thirty this evening for a case conference. The PM results should be in and we might have some information from forensics.’

‘We’ll be here.’

Trevor’s immediate superior Dan Evans entered the room with Peter. Peter was heavily built and six feet two inches but Dan dwarfed him. The Welshman was massive and looked intimidating, yet he was the gentlest man Trevor knew.

‘Good morning, I see you’ve heard the news.’ Trevor opened the file Sarah had given him and spread the photographs on a table.

‘Peter wants to work on the case. Do you have any objections?’

‘Not if upstairs know he’s related to a witness and are happy about it.’

‘I’ll talk to them this morning. First photographs?’ Dan looked over Trevor’s shoulder.

‘Patrick e-mailed some of these. He’s doing the PM this morning. The others were taken at the scene last night.’

Trevor moved a couple onto a glass screen. Sarah had already pinned up a scale sketch of the house, garden, deck and shed.

‘Relatives been informed?’ Dan checked.

‘In the early hours. The husband was on one of those management consultancy team-building courses the civil service are so fond of and private business gave up on years ago. In the Lake District. We found a contact number next to the phone in the Howells’ house, which was just as well as the organisers had confiscated the participants’ mobiles. I left it to the locals to tell him about his wife’s murder. Two of our constables are bringing him down today.’

‘Has he an alibi for last night?’ Peter asked.

‘Cast-iron,’ Trevor revealed. ‘He and twenty colleagues spent the night camping next to one of the lakes.’

‘Rather them than me in this weather,’ Peter said.

‘Rather them than me in any weather,’ Dan added in his slow Welsh lilt. ‘I’m not built for camping.’

‘His children are with their maternal grandmother. She’s been told that her daughter has been murdered. A family liaison officer is with them.’

‘How old are the children?’ Dan asked.

‘Four and six. The father wants to break the news to them.’

‘Poor souls. So, what have you got?’ Dan asked.

‘Hopefully, later this morning some useful information from Patrick and forensics. I have appointments with both.’

‘Any suspects?’ Dan checked.

‘It’s early days but we already know that her two immediate neighbours disliked her. She wasn’t a popular woman – apparently,’ Peter added the last word when Dan gave him a hard look.

‘First case conference?’ Dan checked.

‘Eight thirty this evening.’

‘I’ll be here.’

‘Thought you were working on the drug war murders. I heard the tally was up to seven dead.’ Peter moved a chair in front of the screen.

‘Four corpses, three missing, they could be in hiding but I doubt it. The case won’t stop me from keeping an eye on other investigations in the department.’

Trevor glanced through the rest of the photographs of the murder scene. ‘There’s nothing in these that I didn’t see last night.’ He picked up the photographs Patrick had taken in the mortuary. ‘These, I’ll go over with Patrick when I see him this morning.’

‘If you need help, phone.’ Dan went to the door.

‘Good luck with your case.’

Dan nodded. ‘We’ll get the villains responsible.’

Trevor and Peter didn’t doubt he would. Dan had one of the best clean-up rates in the station.

‘If you’re helping – help,’ Trevor admonished Peter after Dan left.

‘I’m studying the sketches of the murder scene.’

‘Through closed eyes?’

‘I was resting them for a moment.’

‘Rest over; drive me to the morgue.’

‘Now that’s an invitation from a superior no officer can resist.’ Peter patted his pockets for his car keys.

Trevor had worked with Patrick O’Kelly on several cases and valued his expertise. He was one of the best and most highly respected pathologists in the country. But Trevor had never entirely become accustomed to Patrick’s idiosyncrasies. He found him and his attractive blonde assistant, Jenny, sitting side by side on a dissection slab, drinking latte from specimen beakers and munching chocolate biscuits.

‘Coffee?’ Patrick asked Trevor and Peter when they walked in.

‘No thanks,’ Trevor refused.

‘Go on, live dangerously. I’ll get Jenny to rinse out a couple of beakers that haven’t even been used to hold specimens.’

‘I’ve just had breakfast,’ Trevor refused firmly. ‘What you got for us?’

‘Not much more than I had last night. Want to see her again?’

‘Not unless you think it will help.’

‘Injury pattern might.’ Patrick jumped down from the slab, walked across the mortuary and opened a door that led into a small, cold room dominated by a bank of drawers. He checked the tags before pulling one out and folding back the sheet that covered the body. He pointed to one particular cut on the head. ‘The blow that killed her. As you see it practically cut the brain in two.’

‘Delivered with force?’

‘I’d say so, yes. Now look at these other blows.’

‘Not as deep, slighter …’

‘This one is glancing.’ Patrick took a pair of gloves from a pack on top of the drawers, slipped them on and parted the corpse’s hair.

‘Which means our attacker wasn’t physically fit?’ Peter guessed.

‘Possibly not as in weight-training gym fit, no,’ Patrick replied cautiously.

‘So, it could be a woman?’ Trevor suggested.

‘Or someone trying to fool us that the killer was an older, weaker person or a younger one …’

‘Is there anyone we can rule out?’ Peter enquired testily.

‘I’m not a clairvoyant, Sergeant.’

‘Pity.’

‘If I were, you and the inspector would be out of a job. To recap on what I told you last night, Trevor, death was as I described, one axe blow killed her, the others were unnecessary extras.’

‘First blow?’

‘From the pattern I’d say third.’

‘Because she struggled?’

‘The only evidence we have that she fought back is the severed hand. Bruising on back of neck occurred before she died. From the pattern of the blows and the angle of the wounds, I’d say she was kneeling when she was killed. DNA samples, her own and those found on her and on the deck and the shed are with the lab. No semen or obvious sign of sexual assault. The murder was brutal and lacked finesse.’

‘Any identifying marks on the axe?’ Trevor asked.

‘None I saw.’ Patrick answered. ‘You’re thinking the murderer brought it with him?’

‘It’s worth finding out.’

‘If it didn’t belong to the Howells it would be a give-away,’ Peter said. ‘On the other hand, a man carrying an axe up a cul-de-sac would risk being noticed.’

‘If it did belong to the Howells and it was lying on the deck, it could be that someone lost their temper and lashed out,’ Trevor mused. ‘Where’s the axe now?’

‘Forensics.’ Patrick picked up the sheet.

‘Our next stop.’ Trevor took a last look at Kacy Howells’ head before Patrick covered it.

‘Lot of help aren’t you?’ Peter grumbled good-naturedly at Patrick.

‘Try to be. If you stumble across any more bodies, put them in your car and drop them outside my jurisdiction, there’s good fellows.’

‘There are five distinct sets of fingerprints on the axe.’ Alison, the middle-aged senior technician in the laboratory replied to Trevor’s question. ‘Also smudges that suggest it was handled by someone wearing gloves. Patrick sent us through the victim’s DNA and prints. We’re waiting on her husband’s, children’s, other members of her family and visitors to the house.’

‘Might be an idea to fingerprint the neighbours,’ Peter suggested.

Trevor nodded. ‘Tell Sarah to organise it. What else have you found?’

‘A false panel that concealed a cupboard in the shed. These were behind it.’ Alison led them to a table in the centre of the room. She pulled away a sheet of thick plastic.

Peter covered his eyes. ‘I’m too young to see this lot.’

‘I knew you’d want results fast, Trevor, so they’ve all been checked for DNA and prints. They’re safe to handle.’

‘The last time I saw this many sex aids was in a display case at Anne Summers.’ Trevor picked up a set of handcuffs.

‘Two sets of those were fastened to the panel at ankle level. There were also leather belts attached to the wall at neck and waist height and two above head height, probably wrist straps. The whips were hung on a bracket besides the fastenings.’

Trevor replaced the handcuffs on the table. ‘Looks like Kacy Howells had at least one sexual partner who was into sado-masochism.’

‘I didn’t know vibrators came in so many shapes, sizes and colours. A bunny for God’s sake!’ Peter held up a purple plastic rabbit. ‘Where do you put its ears?’

‘Ten of these were new, clean, and still packed in the proverbial brown envelopes,’ Alison told them.

‘Which leads us to surmise what exactly?’ Peter asked.

‘Did you work on that massage parlour murder, Alison?’ Trevor checked.

‘Yes. And congratulations on getting your man.’

‘Your department deserves the congratulations. You found the DNA and effectively handed us the villain on a plate. But, if I remember correctly, there were fewer toys there and they had a dozen girls working out of those premises.’

‘So, why would one suburban housewife want this lot?’ Peter picked up one of a set of identical spray cans and read the label. ‘One can of nipple dust I would find peculiar, fourteen seems downright weird.’

‘You finished with the shed?’ Trevor asked Alison.

‘Yes, we stripped out what we wanted so it’s safe for you to go in there without contaminating the scene. We lifted the decking and brought in the planking, together with the furniture and cushions. We’re running tests on them.’

‘And the house and garden?’

‘The team is still working there.’

‘You’ll …’

‘E-mail or fax results through as soon as we get them. Constable Merchant gave us our orders on the telephone first thing this morning.’

Trevor’s phone rang. He stepped away from the bizarre display to take the call. When he finished, he turned to Peter.

‘We need to get back to the incident room. Thank you, Alison. You’re doing a great job. If there’s anything to be found I’m one hundred per cent convinced you’ll find it.’

‘Do I get a bunch of flowers when you solve the case?’

‘And a box of chocolates,’ Trevor called back.

Sarah Merchant had tracked down a dozen copies of the amateur porn magazine and distributed them to the senior officers working on the case; she’d also handed out computer print-outs of a website that was carrying the advertisement that had attracted her attention.

Peter opened his copy of the magazine at the marked page and saw a photograph of Kacy Howells’ head transposed on to a computerised, pornographic image of a naked female body, under the heading,

Want fun? Send me a present and your phone number and if the gift is large enough, I’m yours. Cheese on toast can be arranged.

Below it was a telephone number.

Trevor looked up from his own copy. ‘“Cheese on toast?” Am I missing something here?’

‘You’ve never been offered any when you’ve taken Lyn down the pub?’ Peter asked.

‘No.’

‘I’m surprised. Lyn’s very tasty. “Cheese on toast” is a euphemism for wife-swapping.’

‘How the hell do you know that?’ Trevor asked Peter.

‘Because I lived in hope when I was married. Not that anyone ever offered. Or that I was surprised. One look at my ex’s face was enough to put anyone off.’

‘You checked the phone number?’ Trevor asked Sarah before Peter could elaborate. Peter and his first wife had been divorced for seven years but the memory had remained bitter – on Peter’s side.

‘Supplied by the magazine, sir. It’s an answering service provided by them.’

Trevor didn’t prompt her to call him by his Christian name again. Old habits died hard and he realised it was going to take time. ‘Did Kacy Howells place the ad?’

‘We have people looking into it, sir. I spoke to the editor of the magazine. He was asked to forward all messages to Kacy Howells’ landline and mobile number at weekly intervals. The numbers he’d been given are the Howells’. But their landline number is in the directory and the mobile number is on the answer phone so anyone could have picked it up by calling the Howells when they were out. The magazine has a safety policy. They insist ads are paid for by a credit card in the name of the person being advertised.’

‘Was it?’

‘Yes, sir. The application for the card was made a month ago and the credit card company has a record of it being used twice. Once, two weeks ago to pay for this ad, which was placed online, and to pay for sex toys and aids, again bought online. It was a sizeable order of sex aids. Over two hundred pounds’ worth. The balance on the credit card was paid off over the counter of a local bank in cash yesterday. I asked the cashiers if they can recall who paid it. So far I haven’t had any luck but I have requested the bank’s CCTV tapes.’

‘So, Mr and Mrs Howells could be swingers?’ Peter looked from Sarah to Trevor.

‘It’s possible, sir.’

‘There’s something else?’ Trevor sensed.

‘You saw the sex toys forensics found in the shed, sir. We found more in unopened packages in the house. We also found chocolates and enough flowers to stock a florist.’

‘When did this ad go in?’

‘Magazine came out three days ago, sir.’

‘Which would explain all the newly stamped plain brown envelopes. Popular lady or a set-up?’ Trevor turned his chair around and threw the question at Chris and Peter as well as Sarah.

‘Could be either,’ Peter observed. ‘But the only ones who could have sent her presents are people who knew where she lived. There’s no address with the ad, and although the magazine agreed to forward messages, I doubt they’d send on gifts. Am I right?’ he asked Sarah.

‘You are, sir. I checked with the editor as soon as I heard about the sex toys.’

‘How did you find this?’ Trevor held up the magazine.

‘I asked an officer to visit the office where the Howells worked and carry out a routine search of George and Kacy Howells’ desks. She went there first thing this morning and found the magazine in a bin bag. The cleaner couldn’t remember which bin it had been in. She empties them all into one sack. The officer found over two dozen copies of the magazine in the building.’

‘Don’t tell me, they’d been sent anonymously?’ Trevor didn’t know why he’d phrased it as a question.

‘According to the magazine editor they’d been ordered and paid for along with delivery when the ad was placed. And on the same credit card,’ Sarah confirmed.

‘It has to be a set-up,’ Trevor said, ‘no outwardly respectable civil servant would advertise his wife and his services for wife-swapping in a porn magazine and send copies to the office. They’d risk losing their jobs, and that’s without the ridicule and snide remarks they’d be subjected to.’

‘The entire staff of the office could be at it, in which case it would pay to advertise.’ Peter pulled a chair out from a table and sat on it.

‘Has the husband arrived here?’ Trevor asked.

‘He was taken to his mother-in-law’s house, sir,’ Sarah informed him. ‘He wanted to see his children.’

‘Bring him in this afternoon. I’ll question him here. If he objects, tell him we’re doing it to save his blushes. In the meantime we carry on interviewing the neighbours. Starting with your cousin, Peter.’ He went to the door and turned back. ‘I thought I’d ordered you and Chris to go home and get some sleep, Sarah?’

‘You did. We decided to work through.’

Realising there was no point in trying to force them to go home, Trevor said, ‘Don’t forget to put in your overtime sheets.’

‘We won’t, sir.’

‘I’ll telephone Alan,’ Peter volunteered.

‘Ask him to come in at lunchtime. That will give us an hour to go over the information Sarah and Chris have come up with.’

‘Oh joy,’ Peter said tonelessly.

‘This would be a good one to start with, sir.’ Sarah pushed a computer print-out across the table towards Trevor and handed out copies to Peter and Chris.

Trevor read the name on the top. ‘Mrs Walsh?’

‘I talked to her again this morning. She was very helpful.’

‘She even gave us a diary, not that it proved easy to prise it away from her. I had to promise to copy it and get it back to her ASAP as well as give her a new notebook.’ Chris handed Trevor a small red book. ‘It’s a breakdown of every tradesman who comes into the cul-de-sac, the time they usually arrive, the time they actually arrive, which doors they knock on and how long they spend in every house.’

Trevor flicked through the pages. ‘This is the original?’

‘Yes, but I’ve already copied it,’ Sarah told him.

Trevor noted that the pages were dated. He turned to the day before. ‘I see the paperboy went to about half the houses in the street and NO MILKMAN is written large on every page.’

‘Mrs Walsh was upset when he retired. He used to deliver fresh vegetables and dairy products as well as milk.’

‘When did he retire?’

‘Five years ago.’

Trevor couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen a milk-float on the street. Did everyone order their milk along with their groceries on the internet these days and have it delivered as Lyn did?

‘The window-cleaner went to seven houses and stayed an hour and half at the Howells’ house?’

‘Their windows must have been very dirty,’ Peter observed.

‘The window-cleaner’s not the only one who made long visits to the Howells’ house, sir. If you look back, there’s mention of visits that range from half an hour to two hours in length from the fishmonger, postman and various delivery van drivers.’

‘How reliable is your Mrs Walsh?’ Trevor asked Sarah.

‘I’d say a hundred per cent, sir. She didn’t stop writing the diary when we were with her. She keeps a stop watch on the table next to her. And it wasn’t just the routine of the Howells she timed. She watches all her neighbours and clocks them all in and out, including Alan Piper the journalist who lives the other side of the Howells. Apparently he lost his wife fairly recently, and since her death he has taken to visiting a divorcee who lives in the street several times a week.’

Trevor looked at Peter. ‘That is one you can question Alan about, Peter.’