‘You don’t happen to have any evidence bags with you, I suppose?’ Webb asked.
Williams was helping Raymond to lead the man, whose arms were now handcuffed behind his back, to a patrol car which had just screeched to a halt by the entrance to the mews, its blue lights still flashing.
‘Sorry, guv,’ Williams called over his shoulder. ‘Didn’t think I’d be needing one up in the canteen.’
Webb smiled. He had been holding the handle of the knife as delicately as he could under his raincoat. With any luck there would still be a print or two left on the handle, and the rain had not entirely removed the blood from the blade; there would be something left for Forensic to look at.
A few feet away from him the ambulance crew was still working feverishly on the woman, huge wads of gauze applied to her wounds in an attempt to stem the tide of blood, an impromptu intravenous drip inserted into an arm, the bag of fluids held high by one of the crew. All in vain: hopeless. Their leader had told him as much when they arrived, with a single shake of the head. It would not be long before they admitted defeat and removed her body to the ambulance.
Very gently, Webb slid his handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wrapped the knife in it, and walked over to the patrol car. The man was now sitting in the back seat, motionless, staring down at the floor. Webb opened the boot, removed a wheel jack from its cloth cover, and converted the cover into a makeshift evidence bag for the knife. He closed the boot and leaned against the side of the car with Raymond and Williams, watching the ambulance crew begin their disengagement.
The street was busy now. Two more patrol cars had arrived, the officers standing by uncertainly. There was nothing obvious for them to do. Scenes of crime officers would soon arrive to take control of the site. But they would not leave until Webb, the senior CID officer present, dismissed them. Next to one of the cars, the ambulance waited, its back doors open. On the other side of Dombey Street, a few people had opened doors and windows to see what was going on. One or two had ventured out into the street. A single officer stood in the middle of the street to make sure they did not encroach on the scene, though no one was showing even the slightest interest in coming any closer. The neighbours seemed calm and incredulous. It was a Wednesday afternoon, not long after lunch: not the time when you would expect something like this. But then again, when would you expect something like this?
‘Did he say anything?’ Webb asked.
‘Not a word, sir.’ Raymond replied. ‘He didn’t resist when we put the cuffs on him, either. He went completely limp. I thought we were going to have to drag him to the car, but he did manage to walk on his own.’
Webb shook his head.
‘Well, I hope he has something to say for himself. It looks like he’s made a real mess of her. Do we know who he is?’
Raymond made a tent of a fold in his raincoat and took two items from his jacket pocket, keeping them dry while allowing Webb a quick look.
‘Driving licence and cheque book in the name of Henry Lang, with an address in Alwyne Road, N1. Where’s that?’
Webb shrugged.
‘It’s off Canonbury Road, sir,’ Williams offered. ‘Bit of a posh residential area. You wouldn’t expect to find people carrying knives up there.’
‘I’m not surprised by anything very much any more,’ Webb replied.
‘There’s a business card in the name of Mercury Mechanics, with an address in King Henry’s Walk, N1,’ Raymond added.
‘Not far from Alwyne Road,’ Williams ventured, ‘a few minutes’ walk at most.’
‘He didn’t have any car keys with him,’ Raymond said. ‘Strange for a mechanic, wouldn’t you think?’
‘Perhaps he liked to walk, or take the bus now and then,’ Williams suggested. ‘Just a thought, sir,’ he added in due course, having received no reply.
‘Perhaps someone here knows him,’ Webb continued, after a silence. He looked across the street. The neighbours were still looking on, but no one seemed to be in a rush to volunteer information. The houses on both sides of the street were four storeys tall and all had windows overlooking the narrow street. Surely to God, someone must have seen something? He pushed himself up from his leaning position against the car.
‘Did she have anything with her?’
‘A handbag, sir,’ Williams replied. ‘It’s in the car.’
‘All right. This patrol car can take Mr Lang to the nick and get him booked in. We will talk to him when we get back. Tell them to leave her handbag on the desk in my office. Start talking to those people over there and see if anyone saw or heard anything. If they did, make sure you get statements.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when you’ve done that, knock on the other doors up and down the street, and see if there’s anyone who’s a bit shy about coming outside, but may have been peering through the lace curtains. If you need more help, call in and tell them I authorised it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The ambulance crew had lifted the woman on to a stretcher and removed the IV. They were carrying her slowly the short distance out of Harpur Mews towards the ambulance. Only the pool of blood, which seemed barely diminished despite the rain, remained to suggest that anything untoward had occurred to interrupt a peaceful Wednesday afternoon. Three scenes of crime officers had arrived. Webb knew them; he had worked with them before and they were thorough. If there was anything to find, they would find it. He saw them conferring with one of the uniformed officers. If they were lucky, the rain would have left them something to work with, some trace of evidence to seize and analyse. If not, they would have to gather evidence wherever they could.
Webb allowed his gaze to rest on the houses in front of him. As he watched, the front door of the house immediately across the street from the mews opened, and the figure of a woman appeared slowly and hesitantly. She stood for some time with the door slightly ajar before emerging fully into view. She was slightly built, with dark brown hair, dressed in a long, flowing white cotton skirt and a beige blouse, around her neck a thick silver-coloured necklace, rigid and unadorned, her feet in brown sandals with a slight wedge. Webb’s first impression of her age was vague, somewhere between 30 and 40, but difficult to pin down more precisely. He could see little of her face, which was almost covered by the large white handkerchief she was holding up to her eyes. Her distress was obvious. He nudged Raymond, and they made their way across the street to her.
‘Are you the police?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes, madam. We are from Holborn Police Station. I am Detective Inspector Webb, and this is Detective Sergeant Raymond. And you are…?’
‘Wendy Cameron.’
‘Can you help me at all about what happened here?’
She nodded and pushed the door open.
‘I saw it all,’ she replied, ‘through the window. You’d better come in.’