Authors: Elizabeth Corley
It would all be useful for building a case against a suspect. Fenwick’s problem was, he reflected ruefully, that he had no suspects. He turned to the report on the partial fingerprints.
They were too small for forensic to estimate size or shape of
finger and they had no way of telling whether it was from the right or left hand. The good news was that the prints appeared to contain a delta and the core. There was an inner terminus and part of what appeared to be a scar on one edge. No way would they be able to produce the required minimum sixteen points of resemblance that would enable Fenwick to use the print as evidence of identity in court. What they could do, and had done, was confirm that there was no match to Katherine Johnstone. It would have taken hours and hours of painstaking checking to be sure of just that one fact and Fenwick jotted a note to remind himself to call the lab.
But it was in a sombre mood that he turned the pages to the blood analysis. The SOCO team had found five drops of blood on the bedroom carpet and bedspread and they had all been analysed. There was page after page of detail, most of it over Fenwick’s head and then one sentence: ‘Therefore, notwithstanding the fact that full DNA analysis has yet to be completed, it is possible to state categorically, as described on pages 3, 9, 10 and 14, by reference to serology tests conducted thus far, that the semen samples from the scene and those of blood and follicular tissue found at the address set out and in the circumstances described on page 1 derived from different individuals.’
There were two people after all.
Fenwick could feel his head start to spin. He reread the key pages: even at the basic level there was no match; the semen was from a man with blood type O, the blood in the bedroom type A. And Cooper had taken the reports to the incident room! Jesus Christ, the investigation would be in turmoil by now. He had to get there and calm them down, fast. Just as he was leaving, the phone rang.
‘Yes!’ He yelled hard into the receiver, impatient to leave.
‘Is that Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick?’ It was a young girl.
‘Yes, who’s that?’
‘It’s Melanie White. You said to ring if I remembered anything. It is all right, isn’t it?’
He forced himself to calm down: ‘Yes, of course. Go on, what is it?’
‘Well, it may be nothing but—’
‘Go on, don’t worry.’ He was biting his tongue with impatience.
‘OK. It was on Tuesday evening, as I was going into the pub.’
‘The White Lion?’
‘Yes, right. Well, I saw Miss Johnstone as she was walking home. She didn’t see me because I hid, didn’t want her to see me. But I watched her walk down Elm Drive and I think – well, I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty certain – I saw a man following her. He’d been sitting on a bench by the pond on the corner opposite the pub and as soon as she’d passed him and gone a little way he got up and followed.’
‘It was a man? You’re sure? What did he look like?’
‘He was tall, well over six foot, which is why I assumed he was a man. He was quite slim, athletic-looking and he had dark hair. That’s all I saw.’
‘Nothing else, not his age, his face, how he walked – anything at all.’
‘No, like I said, I didn’t really look at him. I was more concerned about Miss Johnstone not turning round. Is it no good then? No use?’
‘It’s very helpful, very helpful. Can you come in and give us a statement. We’re all at the school still, the large room next to the art room. Please, come by. What you’ve seen is exactly what we needed.’
‘OK.’ She sounded doubtful.
‘Melanie, really, this could be very important. And, Melanie? Thank you, for remembering and bothering to make the call. Some wouldn’t.’
As he drove to the incident room Fenwick worked through the implications of the forensic results. Did this mean that the killer and the intruder were different men? Had they worked together? Had one been at the school whilst the other was at her home waiting for the key? But there had been no sighting of
two men on bikes. On the other hand, was this a deliberate attempt to confuse them even more. Melanie White’s call made it look almost certain that the murder had been premeditated and very carefully planned. But how could he have got semen from another man. Was he homosexual? Were there two of them involved right from the start, there in the music room – one excited, staying to do whatever it was he had to, while the other one went to the house? Which meant the other one could be a man or a woman. They had no idea what he or she looked like. In his rush to reach the incident room he hadn’t finished reading the report. Did the shoe prints match the shoe sizes even?
Cooper was alone in the incident room, reading the same report that had caused Fenwick such consternation.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘House-to-house; interviews; talking to cycle shops in the area, you name it they’re on it.’
‘But what happens if something develops here?’
‘Nightingale and Taylor are on a bun-run, elevenses. They’ll be back soon.’
Fenwick ignored the reference to the time, glad to have Cooper to himself.
‘What have you told them about that?’
‘Not much. I’ve emphasised that it looks as if this was premeditated, well planned – and perhaps the work of two people. They’re redoing the house-to-house in Hedgefield just in case, and they’re to ask everyone they interview for a list of visitors to the teacher’s house so we can start getting samples of hair for elimination. You can imagine the idea of a team has given them the blues but there’s no panic. I played it down.’
‘Well done. Spot on. I need to call forensic but I want to be sure there are no other surprises in there.’
‘None that I’ve found. Shoe prints are different, the cast from the house is a half-size smaller than that taken from the prints in the shrubs at the school. Different tread. They’re starting to try and identify type and brand. I’ve suggested they
look at overshoes to match against the prints from the school. The rest looks pretty standard.’
‘I’ll make the call then.’
Morale in the investigation team was falling prematurely. Response to press articles in the nationals had been poor by any standards and the completed house-to-house had produced no further information. Fenwick sent the despondent policemen and women home early in the evening and was leaving the incident room when the telephone rang.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, this is Octavia Anderson. May I speak to Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick, please?’ A fluid woman’s voice trickled down the line.
‘Speaking, Miss Anderson.’
‘Chief Inspector, you rang me yesterday and left a message on my answering machine. How may I help you?’
‘Thank you for calling back so promptly. I am afraid I have some bad news for you. Were you a friend of Katherine Johnstone’s?’
‘Kate? Yes, I am. Why, what’s the matter with her?’ The voice was anxious but not overly concerned.
‘Miss Anderson, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but she’s dead. She died on Thursday.’
There was silence at the end of the phone.
‘Miss Anderson, are you still there?’
‘Yes … I’m here. Go on, Chief Inspector, tell me how it happened. For such a senior policeman to be involved, there must be something more to it.’
‘I’m afraid there are suspicious circumstances and the likelihood is that she was murdered. We have, as yet, no idea by whom or why and at this stage we’re keen to talk to anyone who knew her, including you.’
It transpired that Octavia Anderson was in the country for only two days before setting off on her next tour. She seemed shocked but controlled, and keen to help the police in any way. Mindful of his Monday morning appointment with the specialist,
Fenwick arranged to see her on the Sunday. He suggested meeting at her house in London – anything to be out of the claustrophobic incident room at the school. His famous intuition failed him as he replaced the receiver. There was no tingle of anticipation, no excitement to alert him to the importance of this rendezvous.
He was deeply angry. Furious. There could be no excuses for the mistakes he had made. He had taken too long, fumbled the encounter and become careless at her house. At any stage, he might have failed to complete his mission, or worse, have encountered the police.
Back in the rented house in South London the killer mentally retraced each step of the murder. The scratches on his hand and face would heal; the bruising to his groin and thigh, from her umbrella and stout walking shoes, were already turning yellow, but he still hurt inside. She had damaged his self-esteem and had struck a blow at his confident assumption that the things he wanted to do would always go to plan.
He ran through an inventory of mistakes in his mind. He had failed to kill her in his initial attack; he’d had to resort to using his knife when he wanted to avoid any trace of a weapon; he’d not locked the door on her – no excuses for that, just plain carelessness; he had ignored the threat of the cat; he had stayed too long at her house, missing the police only by minutes.
There was one consistent reason. He was losing his touch. It was months since he had left the unit, first travelling to Australia to arrange the clearance and sale of the estate, then returning, much wealthier but with few material possessions, to England. In that time, his training had slipped. Some good habits remained, and his instinct was still sound, but his reflexes were a fraction of a second slower, his judgement was just starting to blur, hesitation was creeping in.
Ideally, he should retrain and impose a tight discipline on himself but there was no time. The letter he had taken from Johnstone’s house confirmed that he had only three months in which to complete his work – or lose the opportunity of the most important kill.
He turned the pages of the five-year diary. They were all neatly filed in order again – only one page missing. He had been sure that he would find confirmation in her house and he’d been right. Page after page of adolescent drivel had changed abruptly into guilty self-torment which went on for months. And in Johnstone’s misery of self-reproach, he found all the evidence he needed to justify the verdict and sentences he had taken on himself to execute. He now knew with certainty the final names: two down, two to go.
Fenwick arrived for his meeting with Octavia Anderson in good time; the train for once had delivered him promptly at Victoria. She had a small house in a road off Ebury Street, not far from the station. It was painted white with black railings and a colour co-ordinated window box like all the others in the terrace.
He was kept standing a few moments on the Edwardian tiles at the top of the short flight of white-painted steps, before a breathless maid answered the door.
‘So sorry to keep you waiting,’ she bowed. She had peach-shaded skin and dark almond eyes in a faintly Indonesian face. ‘Madame, she is nearly ready. Just finishing her dressing. Please to come in.’
He was led into a small elegant sitting room, not the formal drawing room the exterior of the house had made him expect.
‘Coffee, tea, a cold drink?’
‘Coffee, please, black, with sugar.’ The maid dipped a short bow and withdrew.
The room smelt of jasmine and his curious eyes found the plant, in full bright sunlight, on a marquetry table to one side of a window which looked on to the street. The walls had been painted a soft coral red and were covered in paintings, prints, drawings – no one larger than 2 × 3 feet but all arranged to create the impact of three huge abstract canvases. He found the effect disorientating and moved closer to a wall to allow himself to focus on the individual works of art.
He was following the minimalist lines of a nude torso, trying to establish whether it was male or female, when he sensed a presence behind him. He waited a moment before turning around, conscious that she would be studying him all the while, curious to know why she felt it necessary to do so, why the delay in announcing her arrival. Fenwick could feel her eyes on him, not just at the back of his neck but across his shoulders and down his spine. He was aware of her perfume, a floral spice, heavier than the jasmine in the room, but linked to it in subtle accents.
Eventually he turned round. She was stunning; five feet ten or eleven, slender, long black hair pulled back into a geometric pleat away from a face that could never be beautiful in the classical sense but was compelling in its intensity. In his mother’s words, she had presence. She was used to being appraised. It was obvious that for her every act, every day would be a performance in which she would expect to be noticed. She was standing now, perfectly at ease, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, one long suede-trousered leg extended to the side, regarding him with interest and light amusement. She did not introduce herself.
‘Is it a woman?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘To me, yes. I like to know what I’m dealing with.’
‘It’s entitled
Torso II
. No clues.’ She smiled enigmatically.
‘Personally, I have always thought of it as a man. The power in the shoulders, the sense of strength.’
‘Funny, my first impression was of a woman.’ He smiled back and extended his hand. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick, Miss Anderson.’
‘How do you do?’ The touch of fingers, a slight shock; more interest from dove-grey eyes.
‘Won’t you sit down?’
The coffee arrived and she spent some minutes putting on a performance of the perfect hostess.
‘Miss Anderson, you know the reason I’m here?’
‘Poor Kate’s death. It was a big shock.’
‘Kate? You mean Katherine Johnstone? Yes, that’s right. I understand that you’d recently been in touch with her.’
‘Yes, about a concert in September. It’s the school’s anniversary and I had, purely by chance, a short gap in my calendar so I agreed to take one of the solo parts.’
‘Why did you? I mean, you’re well known, famous even to someone like me who is hardly an opera buff.’ She smiled at the compliment.
‘Sentiment, I suppose – and gratitude. If it hadn’t been for the school and its strong musical tradition, I would never have got to where I am now. You see I came from a poor family – not poverty-stricken but struggling – my mother was always ill, my father always tired. At least I was an only child but even so, I had to do my bit as soon as I was old enough to earn any money. And there certainly wasn’t enough for singing lessons. It was good fortune I ended up at Downside, but virtually from day one, my life changed.’