Saturday 9 October 1971
Mr Ensley, the managing director of the property management company responsible for the building containing Conrad Rainer’s flat, met DI Webb and DS Raymond, and the two uniformed constables they had brought with them, at the front door just before 8 o’clock. Webb showed him the search warrant. He admitted them reluctantly, shaking his head and muttering to himself, but escorted them to the lift. He continued to talk to himself under his breath as they rode, otherwise in silence, up to the fourth floor.
‘I don’t know about this, Inspector,’ he said as they arrived at the flat. ‘I don’t know about this at all. This is the Barbican, you know. We don’t expect this sort of thing – not with the class of tenant we have here.’
Webb and Raymond exchanged tired smiles.
‘We’ll behave ourselves, sir,’ Webb promised. ‘We’ll be nice and quiet. We just need to have a chat with Sir Conrad about one or two things; shouldn’t take long.’
‘Police! Open up, Sir Conrad, please!’ Raymond called out, banging loudly several times on the door.
There was no response. He tried again, with the same result. Suddenly, he bent down and put his head against the door. He pulled away and turned to Webb.
‘There’s a bit of a funny smell, sir.’
Webb swore under his breath.
‘Open the door,’ he ordered Ensley brusquely. ‘Now.’ His tone of voice made clear that he expected to be obeyed, without any further references to this sort of thing not happening in the Barbican.
Ensley complied and stepped back. Raymond entered first. The source of the smell was immediately obvious. Gingerly he opened the door of the storage area. He recoiled violently.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he spluttered hoarsely. He turned away abruptly, pulled out a handkerchief to hold over his mouth, and leaned against the wall by the door, fighting for breath.
Webb gestured to the two constables with a nod of his head. They entered the flat. Raymond had left the door of the storage area open, and they had a clear view of what was inside. The younger of the two constables turned pale and walked slowly back out into the corridor. Ensley was hovering by the door, trying his best to catch a glimpse of what they had found. Webb pushed him away.
‘Please go back downstairs, Mr Ensley, and keep the front door unlocked. Some colleagues will be joining us.’
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘Please do as I say, sir.’
Ensley walked away towards the lift, shaking his head.
Webb looked around him. He took in the haphazard arrangement of the furniture, a sofa and a table obviously out of place and at unnatural angles to the other furniture. He registered the blood stains on the floor, the sofa, and on the bust of Mozart.
‘You all right, Phil?’
Raymond turned back from the wall and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. He nodded.
‘I’ll be fine, sir.’
The younger constable had not returned. Webb turned to the older officer.
‘Take a quick walk through the flat, just to make sure there’s no one here. Keep your eyes open for evidence, and stay away from the area in the middle there, where the blood stains are. Call me if you find anything.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Phil, you’d better borrow the phone and get the pathologist and the scenes of crime officers here.’
‘I thought this was supposed to be a theft case,’ Raymond complained.
‘So did I,’ Webb replied.
Treading as lightly as he could, doing his utmost not to step on anything that might interest the scenes of crime officers, Raymond made his way to the small circular table on which Conrad Rainer kept his phone, and dialled a number. He began to talk quietly. Webb forced himself to look more closely at the body of Greta Thiemann and noted the wound on her head. He looked again at the bust of Mozart.
‘Interesting choice of weapon,’ he mused to himself. ‘He couldn’t do it with a candlestick or a bottle, could he? Couldn’t have that kind of vulgarity, could we, Mr Ensley? Not in the Barbican.’
The older constable returned, shaking his head.
‘Nothing, sir, except a big pile of clothes on the bed, and all the drawers open. It looks as if he may have packed and left in a hurry.’
‘He killed her and ran,’ Raymond said. He had finished on the phone. ‘But who is she, and what’s she got to do with stealing cheques from barristers?’
Webb shook his head.
‘He didn’t kill her last night, Phil. We don’t need the pathologist to tell us that, do we? Just look at her. She’s been dead for some time.’
He looked around him again.
‘Get on the phone again and put out an alert to all ports and airports. Rainer is to be apprehended on sight on suspicion of murder.’
Raymond nodded.
‘I can’t help thinking… you know, sir, last night… if we’d.’
Webb pointed a finger at him.
‘Don’t say a word,’ he ordered. ‘Not a bloody word.’