Chapter Six
‘I still want to revisit the crime scene,’ Love said.
He was leaning back in his chair. He looked relaxed but underneath that casual manner was a brain working overtime. Love knew the importance of catching the assailant before too much time passed. When clues were lost. And leads turned into dead ends.
‘Got something?’ Stuart asked.
‘Not yet,’ Love said as he jumped up from his chair and grabbed his jacket. ‘But we can discuss it on the way, I’m open to suggestions.’
11:00 hours
Five minutes later, the two detectives had joined the throng of traffic and were travelling north.
London at any hour was filled with people and traffic. It had a vibration all of its own. It put out a heady combination of ancient and modern, of architecture, styles and attitudes. Old and new, sitting side by side, embracing a homely, friendly feeling of belonging. Or not.
London could be your best friend or your worst enemy.
For the moment, Love and London got along. He loved it. He hated it. It all depended on which day you caught him. How many of the bad lot he’d caught and how many had got away. Not many. His record was good, excellent in fact.
Dick Love usually got his man. Or woman.
‘Nice lady,’ Stuart said, thinking back to their interview with Ashley Dixon.
‘Interesting,’ Love said. He glanced out the side window. A street vendor was selling hot drinks from his stall. Hot chocolate sprinkled with cinnamon and vanilla essence. He knew the vendor. He was licensed to sell. And he knew the vendor’s hot beverage. Delicious.
The distance from DSBD to Primrose Hill where Monica had been killed was less than five miles away. The journey could take anything between seventeen and twenty-five minutes but on this occasion traffic was being fairly kind as a little over nineteen minutes later, Love was turning right off Regent’s Park Road into Princess Road. He drove all the way to the end until it connected with Gloucester Avenue. He checked for traffic both ways before crossing the road.
He pulled into the car park.
In front of him stood a row of eight large Victorian built warehouse-type buildings. Some were undergoing reconstruction although half were already in use and doing well judging by the amount of cars including BMWs and Jaguars parked outside in the car park.
Love gave them a cursory glance as he drove past an empty house that had been converted into office premises about thirty years earlier. It had a glossy painted “For Rent” sign fixed to the front door giving details of the agent along with a telephone number and website. Stuart had contacted the policeman on duty at the crime scene, got the number of the agency, rung ahead in the car on the way down and had arranged for the estate agent to meet them there.
And the agent was already waiting.
A body, female, was leaning against the side of her gleaming new silver BMW complete with shark fin protruding from the top. They always made Love smile. She looked slim and well dressed and her smile was something that probably cost in the region of three thousand pounds. Business must be booming but then at the rates they charged around here it didn’t surprise him.
Love pulled up next to her, pushed the gearstick into neutral, pulled on the handbrake and turned off the car. He opened his door and stepped out on to the gravel. Or maybe business wasn’t booming, he determined, glancing at the BMW. It was only a Series 3. Or maybe she wasn’t ostentatious or the celebrity cult status held in the States simply for selling houses hadn’t quite reached this part of England.
Yet, he grimaced.
She took a step forward and held out a slim hand in Stuart’s direction. Her pale blue suit was a heavy linen and expensive and her navy shoes were a simple court from Russell & Bromley. Her stockings were pale and made from a fine denier although they could have been hold-ups. Nicely put together but not too obvious.
‘Detective Stuart Le Fanu,’ Stuart said. ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’
‘Not at all, Detective Le Fanu,’ she replied with a professional smile.
‘Detective Dick Love,’ Love said, and shook her hand. It felt cool and firm.
‘I’m Patricia Dawson,’ she replied still smiling. ‘But you know that already.’ She pulled her hand away and tucked her handbag under her arm. Prada. Could have cost anything up to six hundred pounds. Or not. There was a shop on the Internet that sold Prada at a third of the price. Image-conscious.
Love spoke. ‘I appreciate your meeting us here at such short notice. As Detective Le Fanu explained on the phone, we need to ask a few further questions.’
‘Couldn’t you have come to the office?’
‘Would you have preferred that?’
Her eyes flickered. Love knew what she was thinking. ‘I suppose not,’ she replied.
‘Has any interest been shown in recent weeks in this particular property?’ He indicated to the smaller building about thirty feet from their crime scene.
‘Some but nothing concrete.’
‘Who by?’
She spread her hands out in front in a vague manner. ‘Some private companies and a charity.’
‘Which companies?’ Stuart asked.
‘Local. I have their names here.’ She reached in through her open window and pulled out a cheap plastic file. ‘I’ve copied them down for you,’ she said. ‘You can keep the file,’ she added.
Love felt like they’d been put in their place. Plastic files for the not so important clients which included the police. Nicer ones for the more prospective clients. He’d noticed the leather-bound folders stacked neatly on the back seat. Let them know where they stood in the scheme of things.
‘And a charity?’ he said.
‘Yes, they said they were looking to expand and wanted something in this general area.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, they looked round, came back a couple of times but decided it wasn’t for them in the end and left.’
‘Which charity was it? A local one?’
‘No, they weren’t local at all.’ She shook her head and her blonde hair fell across her cheek. ‘They were far from home.’
‘Why, where are they based?’ Stuart asked.
‘That’s the funny thing,’ she said. ‘Cornwall!’ She said it like it was Outer Mongolia.
‘Are their details on this list?’
‘Yes, you’ll find them listed there.’
Love looked at Stuart who was still holding the file. He’d bent it in half.
‘Do you have the keys with you?’ Love asked.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘Would you care to have a look?’
‘Please.’
The two men followed her to the property sitting a little in front and to the side from the main building. It was a neat and compact property but more than a little run-down and Love reckoned it would hold a total of perhaps six average-sized rooms not counting bathrooms and perhaps a kitchenette. Large enough for the employees to boil a kettle and make their coffee, tea, soup and heat up microwave lunches.
‘How long has it been empty?’ he asked.
‘Not long, about six weeks.’ She pushed the key in the lock and the door swung open. A beeping indicated the alarm was on and working. She entered a series of numbers on the pad. The noise stopped. She pulled another key from her ring and opened another door. It led directly into what was once a fairly large reception room.
It smelt musty. It was empty apart from a few telephone connections and an old wooden desk.
Love wandered over to the large window facing the front. It had a good view of Gloucester Avenue, the adjoining road, shops and parking areas.
‘Who leased this building last?’
‘A small company,’ Patricia replied. ‘They went bust.’
‘What did they do?’ Stuart asked.
‘Photocopying, printing, that sort of thing.’
That explained the faint smell of paper that still hung in the air.
Shame about them going bust, Love thought. It happens. The larger companies take over eventually. They offer a cheaper service and the public lap it up. Cheap doesn’t always mean quality. That was his philosophy and one he stuck to.
‘Good view of Princess Road,’ Love said to Stuart.
‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Stuart said, and walked over to the staircase. He took the stairs two at a time with Love close on his heels. They went through each of the rooms, one by one. There was nothing remarkable to see. They were simply empty rooms with views over north west London front and back.
Location counted for everything.
Love stared at the floor and the walls. There was nothing to find apart from a few traces of Blu-Tack stuck to the wall and the dents left in the carpet from desks and filing cabinets where people had once sat and worked.
A dead spider plant sat forlornly on the window sill. It reminded Love of the one back in their office and he made a mental note to water it the moment he got back. The only redeeming feature as far as he was concerned was the bird’s-eye view of the building next door.
Where Monica had been abducted and killed.
‘There’s nothing here,’ he murmured to Stuart.
‘Did you expect anything?’
‘Our job is to expect anything and nothing, Stuart,’ he said sharply.
Stuart looked at him and spoke quietly. ‘What is it, Love?’
‘It’s getting away from us, Stuart, we’re losing it.’
‘That’s not true. We’re on track, why do you think they called us in the first place? The usual Plods were bumbling about in the dark so they call in the cavalry. We’ll find him, Love. We will.’
Love didn’t say anything he simply stared out the window. He rubbed his hand across his forehead before stuffing both hands in his pockets. This case - if it wasn’t driving him crazy!
And not just this case. Lack of sleep was driving him to the brink of insanity.
He hadn’t slept well last night, again.
Last night… last night when sleep was a million miles away and so totally out of his grasp when he found himself tossing and turning like a stranded fish and thought he would go crazy.
Finally, he’d given in.
He got up. Walked over to his chest of drawers, pulled open a drawer, grabbed hold of the contents and went back to bed. The lights of London had filtered in through the open wooden blinds of his large sash windows.
Love sighed heavily.
In the soft light he picked up the magazine he’d tossed on the bed. He flicked it open. He felt his pulse quicken. He turned the page.
Love’s upfront about it like everything else in his life. He has nothing to hide apart from his innermost feelings.
Love and sex with no ties or emotions involved suited the detective.
And magazines don’t break your heart.
It works for him.
‘Damn.’ He raised himself up on both elbows before collapsing back against the pillows.
Why did an image of Doctor Cooper have to show up in his head just at that very moment?
Love turned on his heel walked out the door and downstairs. Stuart stared after him before following a moment later.
They joined the agent in what had once been the reception area. She was standing in the middle of the room speaking on her mobile.
‘Yes, tell him I’ll be there in fifteen, thanks, Louise.’ She snapped her silver phone shut and replaced it inside her Prada bag. ‘I’m sorry about that but I do have another appointment,’ she said, smiling her three thousand pound smile.
‘Of course, thank you, Ms Dawson. You’ve been very helpful and we do appreciate it,’ Stuart said, smiling in return.
The agent almost blushed as she looked from Stuart to Love. ‘You’re both very welcome and I’m sorry if I sounded, well, a little uptight earlier but you did pull me out of an internal briefing,’ she said. ‘Working six days a week means I am a very busy person and on a tight schedule.’
Yes, we wouldn’t know what that’s like, Love thought, but instead said, ‘Thank you Ms Dawson and goodbye. We don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary.’
She opened her mouth to say something, changed her mind, and gestured to Love and Stuart to follow her outside. She locked the inner door, set the alarm and pulled the front door firmly behind her. She smiled briefly before turning sharply to walk across the gravel-strewn parking area. Ten seconds later, she was pulling out with a small dust cloud following her. Five seconds after that she was lost in traffic.
The last thing to see of Ms Dawson was the shark fin on the top of her BMW.
Fine-looking lady, Love thought. Blonde hair, like his own, except hers had artificial assistance to help make it look like the colour of corn. Green eyes. Nicely put together.
So why did an image of a curly-haired doctor with an engaging smile keep creeping into his head?
Love turned to stare at the building where Monica had been killed.
‘Come on,’ he said to Stuart, and together they walked across the car park. His shoes scuffed on the gravel and pebbles, his feet churning up tiny clouds of dust with every step.
The individual compartments of the warehouse were larger than the building they’d just left but were laid out pretty much the same way.
A large sign was visible high up on the front of the building. It told anyone who was interested the property belonged to “Nightingale Fashions”.
Another sign was attached to the front door. It was glossy and good quality. It said “For Sale” followed by the name of the estate agent although not the same agency as Ms Dawson’s, a telephone number and website.
He nodded to the police constable on duty. It was the same one Stuart had spoken to from the car. He nodded in return and lifted up the blue and white police “Do Not Cross” barrier tape for them to walk under. Love ducked and then stopped.
‘Let’s go round the back first.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, just a feeling. I just want to see it again.’
They retraced their steps over to the side of the building and on to a narrow concrete path that led round to the back. The space behind consisted of a tiny courtyard made up of more concrete and gravel. It held a couple of wheelie bins, a few old packing cases and a lean-to that was practically derelict. Love turned his head to look over his shoulder. The photocopying firm had it in plain view but when they vacated the building, so had Nightingale’s unofficial security.
Apart from that, the back door was not overlooked.
The forensics services team, the FST, had removed and taken away the original back door and the owner had wasted no time in replacing it with one that was brand new and solid. It had a good quality lock. It looked impenetrable. Unlike what had been there before.
‘After the horse has bolted,’ Stuart said quietly.
The owners had made entry to the building easy for the killer. At the time, the alarm had been disconnected. The back door had been old and wooden with four frosted glass panels and the lock was nearly as antiquated as the door and of poor quality. The perpetrator had smashed one of the panes of glass, reached through, and unlocked the door from inside. It must have taken all of five seconds.
It meant he could slip in and out unnoticed.
Any time he wanted.
The building had already been emptied. Apart from the odd chair, some office furniture, a few clothes racks. The owners saw no reason to be unduly worried. There was nothing left to steal. And the place was surrounded by individuals. Plenty of action was going on from all the construction work plus the tenants of nearby offices and the property next door which saw people coming and going all day. It was like having a group of unpaid security officers.
‘He had to have come ahead of time, broken in and then brought them here when he was ready.’
‘It’s perfect. It’s an empty building and it’s not overlooked at least not since the photocopying firm w
ent bust and moved out.’
‘Sort of gives us a time frame, doesn’t it. I mean, he couldn’t come snooping round here or breaking in when it was occupied or with the photocopying staff and customers coming and going.’
Security sprung into action every evening. The estate agencies that owned the other six buildings on-site along with the tenants of the remaining offices had formed a cooperative a couple of years back and together they paid for after hours security to patrol the premises from 20:00 hours in the evening to 08:00 hours the following morning. Which gave the possibilities that either the security guards were lousy at their job or they were in on it.
It also meant the killer must have broken in and entered the building after the photocopying firm had moved out.
And who would know that?
For starters, it came back to the agency renting out the building including any prospective clients.
‘It depends on the length of time between Nightingale’s putting their property on the market and to when they actually vacated the premises.’
‘Let’s go,’ Love said. ‘I’ve seen enough.’
They walked back round to the front of the building. Love unlocked the front door and went inside. He pulled a card from his jacket, glanced at it, then typed in the code for the alarm. He unlocked the inner door. He pushed it open. It made a whooshing noise against the carpet. The whole place felt damp and dusty and cold inside. It felt cold as only a house or a building can feel when it’s empty and unwanted.
The room where Timmy and Monica had been found was on the first floor. It was one of the smaller rooms in the building and had one window at the back overlooking the railway line. The room was empty apart from a blind at the window. Love prowled round. His size made the room appear even smaller. Every now and then he’d stop and look far away into the distance.
Stuart pulled his notepad from his pocket and began listing the case history notes to date.
Love listened and made comments. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The flame glowed red as he pulled down hard before exhaling the smoke in curly wisps. He listened to the muted sounds of traffic and the building works from a few doors away. Everyday sounds for London. Suddenly a train thundered past. Nothing unusual. He thought of the “For Sale” sign outside.
‘Has there been any interest in this building in recent weeks?’
‘None. When I got a uniform to interview the agency responsible for selling this property they said they hadn’t had any enquiries for at least five weeks.’
‘Really?’
‘Currently checking the agency but so far coming up clean.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘The length of time?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ his partner replied, and snapped shut his notepad. ‘This area is considered prime location but for some it’s considered to be on the wrong side of the river too close to the tracks and therefore overpriced.’
‘It’s been empty for three months.’
‘Yes, the previous, or I should say current owners want to sell up and retire.’
‘Sure,’ Love said, nodding. ‘Made enough dough from the fashion trade and now they want to get out and enjoy the fruits of their labour.’
‘Something like that,’ Stuart said.
‘Not to mention cash in on the property boom, although, they might have missed the boat in that aspect.’
‘They probably have although I don’t imagine they care, as long as they’ve got enough to retire with and I guess they have.’
‘Don’t tell me. To Dorset?’
‘Close. When I spoke to them they said they want to relocate to where their son is living.’
‘Where’s that?’
Stuart stared at Love. He spoke softly. ‘Cornwall.’