Moon Over Watford Chap 1

8/14/2019 Moon Over Watford Chap 1

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MOON OVER WATFORD

Chapter 1

'Don't come in, Inspector,' I said, 'it's a right mess in here, blood everywhere.'

'What have we got then, Sergeant?' he asked.

We were being formal with each other because of all the uniforms and

forensic bods milling around. Detective Inspector Michaelson and I were

usually much less formal than that. It was always 'Greta' and 'Derek' with us,

except when he was off me then I was 'Pusey'.

Also, it was my first try at being in action with the Scene of Crime

Officer, and Derek was kind of testing me out in this new situation, to see if I

could handle it. I was thrilled with myself, still pleased at having been made

up to Detective Sergeant after passing the exam first go, and this was

another step up in my brilliant career. After only three weeks induction,

SOCO was allowing me to be present at an actual scene of crime! And being

sent on this special course showed that Superintendent Moon had more

confidence in me than I sometimes thought.

'No doubt of it, Guv,' I said, 'it's murder alright. And quite a messy one

'

' any sign of a weapon?'

'I should say so! The victim's head's been bashed in looks as if it was

done with that heavy table lamp. And they've cut off his cock and stuffed it

in his mouth.'


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Moon over WatfordLynn Phillips

There was a moment's silence. Then my friend and colleague,

Detective Sergeant Alfie Partridge, spoke up with his usual wisdom. 'Omerta',

he said.

' do what?' Derek sounded as if he couldn't believe his ears.

'The Mafia,' Alfie rumbled through his beard, positive as always.

'That's what they do when somebody breaks the rule of silence. They call it

omerta, and they cut his dick off '

'Well, thank you, Sergeant Partridge,' Derek said, 'for your valuable

and scientific analysis. I'm sure Mr Moon will be glad to hear of your

contribution. Omerta!' he added bitterly.

I managed not to laugh. Derek and Alfie often crossed swords in this

way. Alfie was one of the old school, heavy, reliable, not quick-thinking.

Derek was much younger, fast-stream, brilliant, handsome, and I loved him to

bits. I'd been pursuing him ever since we first met, but for some reason he

didn't seem to want to get involved with me. I couldn't believe it was only

because I was a good few inches taller than him. Surely such a clever man

wouldn't be put off by a small problem like that? After all, lots of other men

found me attractive enough.

Anyway, at the moment I had to concentrate on this murder. My

instructing officer wouldn't think much of me if I took my eye off the ball now.

I couldn't agree with Alfie's theory, but I was determined not to ignore any

possibilities. I might put it forward myself at the right moment.

Although, come to think of it, the impression I'd got from Hollywood

films about the Mafia was that if someone broke their rule of silence, they cut

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his tongue off. But then what would they cut his cock off for? I put that

puzzle out of my mind, and went on taking directions from my team leader.

MY TEAM! That sounded good, but I wouldn't let it go to my head.

The doc had already been and made his unnecessary pronouncement

that the victim was dead, the photographers had done their bit, and we were

waiting for the body boys to take the corpse to the morgue. I had to put the

penis into an evidence bag, because with all those people tramping about, it

kept falling out of his mouth, and I didn't want anyone to tread on it. I wasn't

sure why. Just my natural squeamishness, I suppose.

I came out of the flat into the corridor, where Derek and Alfie were still

hanging about like spare guests at a funeral, Alfie towering over Derek and

occasionally making useless comments.

Eventually, Derek asked, 'Do we have an identity for the victim?'

I had to give the unhelpful answer, 'Yes and no. We know the name of

the occupant of this flat. What we don't know is whether this is him or, I

mean this was him. But if not, who could it be? There's nothing on him to

give a clue, he's just got money in his wallet, no identification.'

'Well, who called it in?'

'One of the two ladies upstairs. There's only two other flats occupied.

The one who phoned us is a Mrs Dunkerley. Just a sec, here's my notes. But I

expect you'll be wanting to talk to her yourself. And the other one is a Mrs

Winkelhorne.'

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'OK then, Sergeant Partridge,' Derek obviously wanted to keep up the

formality, who knew why, 'you speak to Mrs Winkelhorne and I'll take Mrs

Dunkerley.'

That got them out of the way for a bit while we SOCOs searched and

dusted and hoovered and tip-toed round the wood chippings where the door

had been busted open, and didn't leave an inch of the place unchecked.

After a while Alfie came lumbering down the stairs again, muttering to

himself.

'What's up?' I asked him.

'That Mrs Winkelhorne, what a pain in the neck. First she tells me how

handsome I am and what a pleasure to see such a fine figure of a man, and

went on about my lovely beard, offering me a cup of tea and all that.'

'Well, that was nice. What was wrong with that?'

'She's a big heavy lady, about ninety years old, deaf as a post, and she

wanted to tell me all about her husband. Well, you'd think when an old lady

tells you she's lost her husband, you think he's dead. But it turned out he'd

run off with the Jamaican tart from the newsagents down the road. Then she

had to tell me what he said last time she saw him, and all this time I'm trying

to get her back on about the murder. I couldn't tell if she couldn't hear me or

she was just taking no notice.'

I could see he was well choked, so just to wind him up a bit more, I

asked, 'Well, what did he say last time she saw him?'

Alfie gave me a sharp look. 'He said, "Goodbye Anna, I'm going out to

buy a newspaper. I may be gone for quite a while." Turned out it was the

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truth. She says he's been gone more than three years now. And in case you

want to know, Sergeant Scene of Crime Officer, no, she never heard a thing

last night, didn't know why I was asking her, didn't know anything about us

being all over the place, and the only thing she could tell me was that the

occupant of this flat was a Mr Leonard Gilmore. Talk about wasting police

time!' he finished in disgust.

Luckily, at this moment Derek rejoined us, all business-like.

'Method of entry, Sergeant?' he asked me.

'That's a genuine lulu,' I had to tell him. 'A real puzzle. The downstairs

street door works on an entry-phone you know, the caller speaks into a '

'Yes, yes, we all know what an entry-phone is. What's the problem?'

Derek interrupted. He seemed to have got very testy since he'd interviewed

Mrs Dunkerley. I wondered what she'd said or not said that upset him, but I

knew better than to ask him.

'Well,' I went on, 'maybe the victim knew his attacker and let him in

downstairs with the entry release. But then, why was it necessary for the

assailant to break this lock here on the flat door? Or if he didn't know him,

how did the murderer get in the downstairs door without breaking that lock

too?'

Alfie said helpfully, 'Mrs Winkelhorne didn't let anyone in last night.

What about Mrs Dunkerley, Guv? Did you ask her?'

'It's Miss Dunkerley, and obviously she didn't let anyone in either. That

was a particularly stupid question, Sergeant.'

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'Crikey,' Alfie said, 'what a whopper! After what it's gone through, too.

What must it have been like before, I wonder. Good thing you had a bag big

enough!'

Ignoring these helpful remarks, Derek said, 'At least we can surmise

that this mutilation was done after the murder, judging by the lack of blood in

that area. Although of course we'll have to wait for the final word on that.

What else has your lot got so far, Greta?'

Cheers! He was calling me Greta again, although the others were still

around. Looked as if I was back in favour, and it was Alfie's turn in the dog-

house.

'No whole fingerprints so far, only smudges. No identifying papers no

letters, passport, bank statements, credit cards, photographs. I think I told

you there was only money in his wallet, but there's nothing in the flat either.

Bit of a mystery man, our victim. Unless, of course, he's got nothing personal

here because this isn't his real home. This could be a pied--terre.'

I was quite proud of myself for knowing that expression, but I could see

Derek wasn't impressed.

'He could be a business man who travels up North a lot but needs easy

access to London,' I blundered on. 'Watford's an ideal base for that. Or he

could even be a politician.'

'I see,' Derek said in a voice heavy with sarcasm, 'yes, I see. That

would account for no fingerprints or credit cards, wouldn't it. So, no personal

papers, but are there any documents at all, of any description?'

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'Yes,' I admitted, 'receipts for services, you know, gas, electricity, rent.

And '

' rent? Who does he pay his rent to? That's worth following up.'

I thought, but didn't say, he could have asked his Miss Dunkerley about

that. Perhaps he had. He was being a bit close altogether about his

conversation with her. I couldn't think why. I'd had a few quick words with

her when I'd arrived at the scene, and she'd seemed a very plain ordinary

sort of person.

'Yes, but there's something even more interesting here,' I went on, and

I showed him this cardboard box full of plastic oblongs. 'No fingerprints,

again. We tried every single one of these plastic pieces. But don't you think

they look like blanks for credit cards? What do you think, Guv?'

'There you are, there's your Mafia connection,' Alfie broke in, having

been unusually silent for several minutes. 'Forged credit cards, Mafia, see?'

Good job for him there was an interruption at this moment. One of the

others on my team came and told us something that we should all have

noticed from the first minute. But we hadn't. What it was, the wood chips

from where the door of the flat had been jemmied open were on top of the

blood from the murder, instead of underneath. So the murderer didn't break

the door open to get at the victim, since the door was broken open afterthe

murder.

'Right, otherwise the blood would have been on top of the bits from the

door,' Derek summarised.

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I was blank. 'Does that mean that two different people made unlawful

entry into this place last night? And can that mean that one, known to the

victim, did the murder, and then the second one did the mutilation? In that

case, how did the second one get into the downstairs door? And then have to

jemmy open this door?'

Derek picked up the cardboard box with the plastic oblongs in it, and

dumped them out on to a table. Oh hell, I hadn't thought of that!

But before Derek could do another thing, Julie, my team leader, came

storming up. This was a first, because she was usually a woman of a very

few words.

'Inspector,' she said, all icy, 'are you aware that this is still a scene of

crime? The very fact of your presence and that of Sergeant Partridge is

enough to corrupt any evidence. And now you are handling possibly

important items before we've had a chance to examine them for forensics. I

have to ask you to leave the scene immediately. And as for you, Sergeant

Pusey,' she went on, turning to me, 'this is the end of your training in this

department. You've forgotten everything you learned about contamination of

the scene of crime. I shall report that you are unsuitable material for this

work.'

I was crushed. I'd thought I might have been doing well as a trainee

SOCO, but it seemed as if I'd blown it on my first day in the field. And on

such an unusual case, too. Oh well, it meant I'd still be on Derek's team, so

that more than made up for it.

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Meanwhile I could see Derek was not even slightly bothered by being

told off by a Scene of Crime Officer, even though he knew it meant he'd get it

in the neck eventually from the head of her department. Or worse.

Calmly he turned the box over, and read from the underside, 'Juan

Garcia, 0208 582 3471.'

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Moon Over Watford Chap 1

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