A Commonplace Killing (5 page)

“They ain’t no friends of mine, Mr Cooper.”

“Really? We’ll see what they have to say about that.” Cooper turned to look at the scowling kid, fixing him with a penetrating gaze for as long as Johnny met it. “Well,” he said, as the spiv looked away first, “I shan’t keep you any longer, Johnny. I know how busy you tycoons are.”

He motioned to Policewoman Tring to move on.

“It makes me sick, spivs like that getting away with it,” she said, as she changed gear and sped a little faster along the empty road towards Nag’s Head.

“I suppose you’ve never had a pair of stockings or a lipstick from a blacketeer?”

He felt a little caddish, but moral indignation always made him tetchy.

She was quiet for a few moments.

“The world’s in a pretty bad way, isn’t it, sir?” she said.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

He watched the dusty misery of Seven Sisters Road slip past the window, marking the back alleys, the pubs with their grimy saloon bars, the cafés with their fly-blown sugar bowls: he knew it all with an unseemly intimacy and it had touched him,
insidious
, infecting. He sighed. It was too late now for insight. The fact of it was he was tired of it all, and the future was not any longer his problem.

M
aking herself presentable for the baker took some
considerable
amount of time; for, although she enjoyed catching the attention of men, she was always careful to avoid being seen as the sort of woman whom men regard as a “possible”. In any case the baker was a respectable married man whose daughter helped in the shop: she just wanted to look her best for him, so that he would be inclined to be good to her, in an under-
the-counter
sort of way. She wasn’t going to give herself for a loaf of bread, like those German housewives selling themselves on the streets.

Her girdle was on its way out and the suspenders were unreliable, so she slipped a tatty old garter over her leg. There was nothing worse than having your stockings hanging down. A wave of despair washed over her. People shouldn’t have to live like this, she thought. And for a moment she wondered if she might actually cry. If she started she might never stop, so she pulled herself together and put on her skirt and jacket and inspected herself in the mirror. Motherhood had not ruined her figure, like it did for so many other women; when she was dressed – ideally with a good foundation garment – she still had the semblance of a good figure.

She tied a patterned scarf around her hair in a sort of
artistically
arranged turban. It was hard to believe that there had ever been a time when she would no more dream of going out without a hat on than she would of flying to the moon and back; the war had caused so many standards to slip. She checked that her seams were straight and slipped on a pair of high-heeled black and white calf shoes; a pair of white lace gloves and the pigskin handbag completed the look. She checked the whole ensemble in the mirror. Coo, what it is to have sex appeal, she thought as she went downstairs.

The hall was damp and gloomy: brown linoleum worn at the edges, ochre wallpaper. The whole house was hideous, dingy, a dead or dying thing, breathing a redolence of shell-shock,
abandonment
, neglect.

“I’m off!” she cried. Her voice resounded in the indifferent silence. She stood there for a moment, at the top of the stairs, acknowledging the turmoil of her nerves, her frustration; the injustice of her situation. She closed her eyes telling herself that she could scream. Curiously, the thought settled her.

Outside was bright and warm, the breezeless air thick with gasometers and railway smuts. In the heat there was the smell of something decaying. As she walked along the road, she thought how there was a terrible loneliness about the abandoned houses; how it was impossible to believe that things might ever be nice again. As she prepared to cross towards Nag’s Head, she could see that the line of badly dressed women formed outside the baker’s shop already extended past the tobacconist’s and the draper’s. Some people have nothing better to do than to stand in a queue all day, she thought. A few of the women, the narrow-minded ones, were looking her up and down as she took her place at the back of the queue. They were thinking how there was nothing austerity about her: how the powdered nose and the slick of black-market vermillion marked her out as one of those women who had had “a lovely war”. How she pitied them, with their headscarves tied under their chins like Russian peasant women and their patched and darned stockings kept up with threepenny bits. A bus passed by on the other side of the road, a flash of red breaking the monotony of the greyness of everything else. Muswell Hill, it said on the front, and briefly she wondered what it would be like to cross the street and board it; she was picturing herself alighting somewhere that had been largely untouched by the war, somewhere green and airy:
somewhere
nice. She could find a nice little room somewhere and a job in a hat-shop. On Saturdays she would go to the pictures. She would have lunches in nice places. She would meet gentlemen for cocktails. Nice men; handsome men, who were looking for a little harmless diversion. It would be just like the war again, only without the bombs and the filth.

She snatched an admiring glimpse of herself in the draper’s window, the pigskin handbag swinging from her arm with elegant insouciance. Why shouldn’t she have those things? Other people did, so why not her? She dwelt gloomily on the drabness of her life, wishing Mother dead, Walter gone. Why were there always so many obstacles in her life? Why did nothing ever go right for her? She knew that she ought to be grateful for them all having come through the war when so many others hadn’t; she ought to be grateful, but she really wasn’t. This was the deep, dark secret of her soul.

T
hey had crossed the Holloway Road and now they were turning down a depleted side street over which hung a thick cloud of engine steam, through which, as it dispersed, Cooper could see DI Lucas. He was standing on the pavement in front of a house-sized gap, smoking a cigarette, with the perpetual air of dismay he always exuded. The poor chap ought by rights to have been pruning the roses in his bungalow garden, and it was a great misfortune to him that he was that rare commodity: a hard-working and dependable copper in a time of national emergency. A short distance from Lucas, a group of
headscarved
women and scruffy kids marked the arrival of the patrol car with a slight stirring of interest. Lucas ground his gasper underfoot and removed his hat – not as a sign of respect, but because he needed to fan his beetroot face.

It was immediately apparent to Cooper, as they pulled up alongside, that the murder scene was in the grip of a deep torpor: the uniform on sentry duty was stifling a yawn; a detective sergeant was standing idle in the shade of a shrapnel-scarred tree; and a couple of other flatfoots were poking a rubble-strewn area in front of a sort of makeshift doorway constructed out of corrugated iron, in what could only be described as a desultory fashion. It was uncommonly hot for the time of day, but this alone did not account for the general apathy. Fact was, there was none of the excitement that attends a crime scene when it is replete with evidence.

Cooper pinched the corners of his eyes between a thumb and forefinger. He was already out of his depth and he hadn’t even left the car.

Lucas leaned in at the passenger window.

“The pathologist is already here, sir,” he said, “and I took the liberty of summoning someone from the fingerprint department.”

Cooper made a little moue of disapproval. He was as
fastidious
in his work as he was careless with his appearance, and always preferred a scene of crime to be as unharried as possible. They never were, of course – what in life is? You must always adjust to the precedents set by others.

“Run along and fetch a cup of tea for the guv’nor,” Lucas instructed Policewoman Tring, who had come round to open the passenger door. “There’s a good girl.”

“Milk, please. No sugar,” Cooper said.

“I’ll try and dig up a sandwich for you as well, sir,” she said.

He glanced up at her, meeting her crystal-clear green eyes. He was surprised to see that she was smiling at him, and shaking her head.

“Whoever is supposed to be looking after you,” she said, “is doing a rotten job.”

He stepped on to the pavement, self-consciously smoothing back a slick of hair. He was thinking, I must look positively distempered. He was long overdue a haircut and it was easier to find a piece of the True Cross than a jar of ruddy Brylcream.

“Thanks,” he said. “A sandwich would be just the ticket.”

He glanced back at her as he followed Lucas towards the relative safety of the murder scene. She had retrieved his
mackintosh
from the back seat of the motor and was shaking it out. He watched her fold it neatly and place it on the passenger seat. The action made him feel momentarily benign, then he
remembered
that he was about to visit a murder scene. He sighed, and braced himself against the inevitable proliferation of doubt and disappointment.

You could say that the first visit to a crime scene was a sort of fresh start: a prelude of calm, organisation and procedure, before the descent into the chaos of human entanglement. For the next few hours all he would have to do was scrutinise the surface for physical evidence, finding sanctuary in the forensic analysis of telling details. Murder is, of course, an all-too-human matter, but on the first visit to the scene of a murder a detective is obliged to detach himself from the muck and confusion of feelings. And nobody appreciated more than Jim Cooper how a detective flourishes best in a solitude that is uncontaminated by the traces of others.

They pressed through the piece of corrugated iron, lighting upon a stretch of wilderness where brambles and nettle patches vied for space with shattered masonry. A few yards from where they stopped he could see a plane tree with a piece of old door propped against its trunk. There was a tarpaulin draped over the whole structure.

“What the dickens is that?” he demanded.

Lucas rocked on the toes of his shoes.

“Ah yes,” he said. “I’m afraid that one of the witnesses is responsible for that, sir. He was anxious to preserve the victim’s modesty.”

“Good grief! You mean the body’s in there?” It beggared belief. “Who else has been tramping over my murder scene? The Arsenal first eleven?”

Lucas brought his lips together shrewdly.

“It’s rather hot today, sir,” he said, “and the body’s been out all night.”

Cooper sighed.

“Who was the first on the spot?”

The first on the spot always interfered; always left some blasted trace, fouling up the whole of the investigation.

“Some kids found her.”

“Kids, eh? Did they touch anything?”

Lucas shrugged.

“Take them down to the station and get a statement. Tell their mothers to expect a home visit some time in the next couple of days.” He sighed again. “Thought I could rely on you to keep us out of trouble, old man,” he said.

A couple of hundred yards from where they were standing, from deep beneath a steep bank, a train screeched past, filling up the vacant space with the pungency of burning coal in a heavy goût of damp, sooty debris. As it cleared, Cooper could see the pathologist emerge from behind the tented structure. He stood next to the plane tree, addressing an attractive girl assistant who made a note of everything he said. Cooper watched him enviously, kicking over a patch of dust with the toe of his shoe. Must be nice to deal in scientific certainties, he thought.

“Any idea who she is?”

Lucas shook his head.

“No handbag?”

Lucas shook his head again.

“There would have been a handbag.” Cooper was as sure of that as he could be of anything. The victim would have acquired the Blitz habit of keeping everything of any value or importance in her handbag, which she would have kept close by her, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. During the Blitz he had instructed countless officers to find the handbags before they did anything else when attending a bomb-site. It helped with identification, of course, but also prevented all those coupons and identity papers falling into the wrong hands.

Lucas had removed his hat and was mopping the sweat from his forehead with a large damp handkerchief.

“I should say it’s fairly obvious what we’re looking at here, sir,” he said.

“Always beware of the obvious,” said Cooper.

“We were on this street just a few days ago,” the DI continued. “There’s a house just along the road there – very badly bombed. The landlord called us in to clear out squatters.” He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Deserters.” He paused to allow the significance of this to sink in. “Of course, the buggers moved back in again as soon as we’d gone.”

Cooper appreciated his DI’s line of thinking, and considered ordering a raid on the property. The landlord was sure to oblige. They could bring in anyone who failed to give a good account. They might find the handbag, or the victim’s papers; but even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t take a lot to make it stick.

“This is murder, Frank,” he said.

Lucas shrugged.

“They’re deserters, sir,” he said. “Bloody deserters.”

Cooper let the implication hang in the air between them, and looked about him at what remained of the street. He
remembered
the night – eighteen months ago – when the V-weapon had fallen there, killing eight people. One of his men had found a human head on top of a shed roof. If he remembered correctly, two elderly spinster ladies had lived in the house that had occupied the murder site. They dug out one, dead, from the rubble. The other one was never found. There was that faint odour of sewage that hung over everywhere that had been badly bombed; those houses that remained were mostly Class “B”s awaiting demolishment.

“If I had just murdered someone,” he reasoned, “and had all the advantages a stolen handbag might afford, this is the last place I would stay.”

Lucas nodded shrewdly.

“I would have headed for the nearest main road – Caledonian Road – less than half a mile away that way, Holloway Road the same that way. A tuppenny bus ride and you have the whole of London at your disposal; within twenty minutes it would be as if you had never been here.” Cooper took out his pipe and began to clean it with a matchstick.

He would have liked to have put in motion a dragnet of sixty men, strung out at two-yard gaps, slowly moving forward, eyes locked to the ground. He could hear the gales of laughter from Upstairs. Sixty coppers! If they could muster sixty coppers in the whole of London it would be a blasted miracle.

“Organise a search of every front garden and dustbin between here and the main bus routes,” he said.

“Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?”

“Clues, Detective Inspector.”

“Like a handbag?”

“Well, that would do for a start.” He sucked on the empty pipe a couple of times until it squeaked. “And have someone get on to the missing persons bureau at the Yard.”

A short distance away a fingerprint chap was delicately twirling a brush over the surface of a wall. He felt almost as jealous of him as he did of the pathologist. The chances of either of them telling him a thing of any use that he couldn’t have figured out for himself were, he reckoned, pretty remote. The infallible was nearly always the least part of it.

“I say! DDI Cooper, isn’t it?” The pathologist was coming towards him, with his Harley Street drawl. He dusted off his pin-striped knees with an immaculate handkerchief which he handed to the girl assistant, then peeled off and handed her his rubber gloves. “Well, well! Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, old man,” he said. He made a half-turn towards the body and gestured elegantly in its direction. “Death probably occurred eight to twelve hours ago – not more than fourteen, but I would hate to stake my reputation on that. It was quite warm last night which always buggers up the readings. Should be able to tell you a bit more when I’ve got her on the slab, old man; but at first glance I’d say it’s a classic case of right-handed strangulation. There’s a fair bit of bruising on the knuckles of her right hand. Would have left a nice shiner on the receiving end,” he said. “Bit like the one you’re sporting, Cooper, old bean.”

Cooper stroked his cheek. He’d almost forgotten about the bruise he’d sustained the previous night.

“So there was some sort of a fight then,” said Lucas.

The pathologist gave them both his bedside smile.

“Ah! That’s for you fellows to deduce,” he said.

Cooper filled his pipe.

“Nothing unusual about a tart getting into a fight with a customer who refuses to pay her,” said Lucas. “It happens most Saturday nights. Sometimes, every so often, it goes too far.”

The girl assistant handed the pathologist his hat and helped him into his beautifully cut jacket. She brushed specks of soot from the shoulders with the flat of her hand.

“Well, I had better get back to my Sunday lunch,” the
pathologist
was saying, “else the good lady wife shan’t be too happy with me!” He made his way towards his shiny motor with the girl assistant. “See you in the cold-store tomorrow, old man,” he said.

Cooper struck a match and puffed on his pipe until it was alight. Unless the prof found her name and telephone number tattooed upon her backside, the post-mortem was probably an irrelevance. The woman had been strangled after some sort of fight and sexual assault. That much was obvious to all but a blind fool. He turned his attention back to the murder site. Everything he needed to know was there, somewhere; it was simply a question of knowing where to look. The problem was, it all took time and time was the one thing he did not have.

Lucas handed him the murder bag and the pair of them made their way towards the makeshift tent. Cooper had a pretty good idea what he would find there. He looked at the body as dispassionately as possible, but, as always, a wave of ineffable sadness lapped over him. No matter how many times you came upon it, death was always what it was: pointless and
unedifying
. All through the war, bodies found beneath piles of rubble with their legs blown off; once a sleeved arm found in a street shelter. He’d seen a prostitute strangled with her own stocking on a seedy divan (sex murderers had feeble imaginations) and a respectable mother of three children dumped in a filthy alley following an abortion gone wrong. He might have supposed that it would all be different now that the world was at peace, but the people of Holloway were still dying stupid, unnecessary deaths: they were still committing suicide; they were still being run over; they were still burning in fires, and they were still being stabbed, battered and strangled.

He enumerated the tell-tale signs, every one of them a cliché. Blouse open; breast exposed; skirt pulled up over the thigh; legs spread apart, left one at a right angle to the other where it had fallen away; tongue distended, emerging from the corner of the mouth; tell-tale specks of blood discolouring the eyes, which were wide open. This one had a cut on her chin just as the pathologist had said. And her drawers were lying on the grass next to her.

“That’s odd,” he said. The drawers of sex murder victims were usually found torn to ribbons and wrapped around one or other ankle. “And look at the blouse: unbuttoned, not ripped apart.”

“According to the neighbours,” Lucas said, “this yard is
regularly
used as some sort of a lovers’ lane.” He sniffed. “People behave these days like they were in the back row of the pictures. Everyone knows what went on in the blackout.”

Cooper knelt on the ground beside the body.

“She’s lying on her mackintosh,” he noted.

“Protecting her clothes while they did the business.”