‘They taste awful!’ she exclaimed, spitting out the lozenge and placing it in a tissue to throw away later.
Just then, two police constables arrived in an Austin Allegro panda car. They got out and approached Jane.
‘What do you need us to do, Sarge?’
‘I need the Rye Lane and Copeland Road entrances to the alley sealed off with tape and one of you to stand guard at each end.’
‘Will do, Sarge.’ They both set off and then one of them turned back. ‘Oh, the duty sergeant said to tell you DCI Moran’s been informed and is on his way with DI Gibbs.’
Edwards looked at Jane. ‘I thought DI Gibbs wasn’t due to start at Peckham until Monday?’
Jane shrugged. ‘That’s what I thought as well.’
‘Maybe Moran wants him to run the investigation.’
‘Why? Moran’s the senior officer — he’s in charge of the CID at Peckham,’ Jane pointed out.
‘Don’t tell anyone I told you this,’ said Edwards, ‘but I was in the toilet cubicle when I overheard Moran talking to the chief super. Moran said his wife was suffering from the “baby blues.” Apparently the baby was crying a lot and he didn’t know what to do. The chief suggested he take some time off when DI Gibbs arrived — so maybe Moran’s called Gibbs in early to familiarize himself with everything before he steps back to spend time at home.’
‘I didn’t know his wife had had a baby.’
‘Yeah, about a month before you started at Peckham.’ Edwards paused. ‘I’ve not seen Spencer Gibbs since our Hackney days, but I heard he went off the rails a bit after Bradfield was killed in the explosion during that bank robbery by the Bentley family.’
Jane immediately became tight-lipped. ‘I worked with Gibbs in the West End at Bow Street when I was a WDC and he was fine,’ she lied.
At the time, Gibbs was drinking heavily to drown his sorrows, but managing to hide it from his other colleagues. She had always had a soft spot for Gibbs and didn’t like to hear his name or reputation being tarnished. She suspected he must have overcome his demons, especially if he’d been posted to a busy station like Peckham. She also knew DCI Moran would have had to agree to Gibbs’ transfer.
Jane and Edwards returned to the alley. Edwards went over to look at the body, whilst Jane picked up the coin she’d used as a marker and replaced it with the handbag, now inside the property bag. Lifting back the tarpaulin, they both checked to see if there was anything in the victim’s pockets to help identify her, but there was nothing.
Edwards pulled up the left sleeve of the victim’s PVC coat.
‘She’s wearing a watch,’ he said. ‘Looks like a cheap catalogue one; glass is scratched and the strap’s worn. There’s no engagement or wedding ring — they might have been stolen?’
‘Possibly,’ said Jane, ‘but there’s no white patch or indentation on the skin to suggest she was wearing either. Plus the handbag was left behind with money in it.’ She got the radio out of her coat pocket and handed it to Edwards.
‘Call the station and ask them to check Missing Persons for anyone matching our victim’s description. I’ll do a search further up the alley towards Copeland Road to see if there’s anything else that may be of significance to the investigation.’
Edwards hesitated. ‘What should I tell Comms?’
Jane gave a small sigh. ‘Brian, just look at the victim and describe her when you speak to them, OK?’
‘Oh, yeah, OK, I see.’
Jane watched Edwards disappear down the alleyway, leaving her alone with the body. She replaced the tarpaulin on the body, then searched the rest of the alleyway, but found nothing of interest. It was still dark and now that the initial adrenalin rush was wearing off she was even more aware of the cold. She stamped her feet and flapped her arms across her chest to generate some warmth. A sudden noise made her jump, and swinging her torch around revealed a rat scurrying from a pile of rubbish that had been left rotting in front of one of the arches. She thought about the woman lying on the ground in front of her. What had she been doing here? Had she been on her own, like Jane was now, or was her killer someone she knew?
Footsteps approached from the Rye Lane end of the alley. Jane looked up, shone her torch and saw Detective Sergeant Paul Lawrence from the forensics lab approaching. He was accompanied by a younger man in civilian clothes. Even if she hadn’t seen Paul’s face, she’d have guessed it was him. As ever, he was dressed in his trademark thigh-length green Barbour wax jacket and trilby hat. Paul Lawrence was renowned as the best crime scene investigator in The Met. He had an uncanny ability to think laterally and piece things together bit by bit. Always patient and willing to explain what he was doing, Jane had worked with him several times and felt indebted to him for all that he had taught her. Now she felt relief at the sight of his familiar figure.
Paul greeted Jane with a friendly smile. ‘I hear it’s Detective Sergeant Tennison now! Well done and well deserved, Jane. As we’re the same rank, you can officially call me Paul.’ He laughed. She had always called him Paul when not in the company of senior officers.
‘You were quick,’ Jane said, smiling back at him.
‘I’d already been in the lab typing up a report from an earlier incident in Brixton,’ he said. ‘Victim stabbed during a fight over a drugs deal. Turned out the injury wasn’t as serious as first thought and the victim didn’t want to assist us anyway, so there wasn’t much to do. No doubt there’ll be a revenge attack within a few days.’
Jane explained the scene to him, starting with the market trader’s account and exactly what she and DC Edwards had done since their arrival at Bussey Alley. She also told him about the handbag and buttons.
‘Good work, Jane. Minimal disturbance of the scene and preservation of evidence is what I like to see and hear. Peter here is the scene of crime officer assisting me. He’ll photograph everything as is, then we can get the victim onto a body sheet for a closer look underneath.’
The SOCO set to work taking the initial scene photographs of the alleyway and body. He stopped when the divisional surgeon appeared. Although it was obvious, the doctor still checked for a pulse on her neck before officially pronouncing that she was dead. As the doctor was getting to his feet, Detective Chief Inspector Moran arrived, carrying a large red hard-backed A4 notebook, and holding up an enormous black umbrella. Dressed smartly in a grey pin-stripe suit, crisp white shirt, red tie, black brogues and thigh-length beige camel coat, he nonetheless looked bad-tempered and tired.
‘So, DS Tennison,’ he said. ‘What’s happened so far?’ He sounded tetchy.
Jane had worked with DCI Nick Moran when she was a WPC at Hackney in the early seventies, and he was a detective inspector. She knew to keep her summary brief and to the point, so as not to irritate her superior.
‘The victim was found in here by a market trader. Edwards spoke with him and is satisfied he wasn’t involved. I called DS Lawrence to the scene and the divisional surgeon, who’s pronounced life extinct. From my cursory examination it appears she’s been strangled. I haven’t found anything to help us identify who she is, though a handbag was nearby, which I checked—’
Moran frowned. ‘I had expected you to just contain the scene until I arrived. It’s my job to decide who should be called and what action should be taken. You should have left the handbag in situ as well. It’s not good to disturb a scene.’
Jane felt Moran was being a bit harsh. She, like everyone else, was working in the freezing cold and soaking wet. He should have realized she was trying to obtain the best evidence and identify the victim. She thought about saying as much, but wondering if his mood was connected to a sleepless night coping with the new baby, decided to say nothing.