The London Tram Murders

CHAPTER 1 BECKENHAM, GREATER LONDON Oliver Waterman, a creature of habit, walked his cocker spaniel, Luna, the same way every early morning. Their relaxed stroll allowed plenty of time for the amiable b***h to satisfy her olfactory curiosity and to re-establish her territory by sprinkling it with urine. An endearing creature with a sensitive nature, the well-groomed spaniel often succeeded in rescuing her owner from moments of deep despair by putting her head on his knee and staring up at him with soft, half-moon eyes. Since redundancy had left Oliver feeling worthless and embittered, for he considered himself an expert at his job of twenty years, it was easy for him to lose hope of further employment as a precision grinder in this period of economic recession. One of his few reasons for living, after a messy divorce, was the little animal bouncing by his side, occasionally distracted by tufts of grass sprouting from the pavement in this generally well-kept residential area between Penge and Beckenham. Their morning perambulations took the owner and his dog along a path flanked by tidy allotments, where Oliver paused with a half-formed idea of applying to the council for a plot. His gaze swept over the admirable rows of tight cabbages and white-topped cauliflowers and he imagined how much soil preparation had gone into producing these pristine green sentinels standing to attention. He enjoyed gardening at the rear of his small semi-detached house, but there was not enough room for a vegetable patch; besides, his ex-wife had severely vetoed anything other than a floral contribution. Now, he had grown fond of his gladioli and dahlias and would be loath to exchange them for onions and carrots. Luna barked at him to snap him out of his reverie and to continue their walk. Still, he thought, an allotment would give him something worthwhile to pass the time and stop him from brooding about his future. At the end of the allotments, he and Luna came to an old, abandoned railway bridge where a tight curve of the disused line passed over the road. Now, the overhead bridge had gone, but either side’s high brick walls remained, flanked by a pair of neat, black, cast iron bollards. Passing through, Oliver considered, we might as well be on the moon; there’s not a living soul around. They continued until they came to another forsaken bridge, this time in the form of a tunnel. Ordinarily, Luna loved sniffing around the delightful odours that her owner found so repugnant because less civilised humans than himself tended to use the secluded underpass as a urinal. Today, though, Luna dug in her heels and whined. “What’s up, girl?” Oliver had a bad feeling. His little dog never behaved like this. She trembled and whined continuously so he bent to comfort her, but, so unlike his little girl, she wriggled free and, nose pointing to the tunnel, began to bark, stopping only to turn her head to stare at him as if asking why he did not understand. Then, once again, she bristled, hackles erect, gave a series of short yips, and the whining restarted. A dreadful presentiment gripped Oliver Waterman. Commanding the spaniel to sit, he reached into his tweed jacket pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, switched on the torch facility and headed into the gloomy tunnel, only slightly lit at the entrance by the early-morning light. His torch beam picked out a huddled form on the ground. There was no doubt, it was a body. The corpse of a young woman, her blonde, braided hair stretched behind her, lay head towards him. He presumed she was dead. Common sense told him not to touch her. He caused a booming echo by calling out, but there was no response from the inert form, so, refusing to approach too closely, he dialled 999 and asked the operator for the police and an ambulance. He gave directions and told the professional-sounding operator that he thought the young woman was dead, but hadn’t gone close to avoid contaminating the scene. At New Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Vance of the Criminal Investigations Department had just finished lamenting his lack of recent activity with his ex-Sergeant, Brittany Shepherd, now promoted to his rank, ostensibly for her role in saving the Commissioner’s nephew’s life, but on merit for her superb intuitions and lively intelligence. She still considered Jacob Vance her boss, although they shared equal grade. Old habits die hard; besides, they were good friends with an almost telepathic relationship as colleagues. Vance looked at the ringing phone on his desk with the expression of a ravenous wolf in the harshest winter. Action at last? He was tired of routine reports and staff assessments. “Do you want to share this one with me, Brit? It might be something or nothing, but if Francis Tremethyk smells a rat, that’s good enough for me.” “Count me in, Jake. I’m bored out of my mind in here. What is it? What’s alerted our dear old Cornish medic?” “A young woman in her thirties. Dr Tremethyk says it looks like a heart attack, but his instincts tell him there was foul play.” “Where is it?” “Under the tramway at Avenue Road.” Brittany Shepherd frowned. “That’s a quiet part of town.” she murmured. “Will you drive, or shall I? I won’t bother my sergeant. We can deal with this.” Vance grinned. “Just like old times, hey, lass?” “Except that I can safely give you more lip to keep you in line!” She giggled. “I take it I’m driving?” Once inside the vehicle, an unmarked BMW, Vance asked casually, “You said it’s a quiet part of town. Do you know that area? I can’t bring it readily to mind.” “Not really, but I connect Avenue Road with the tramway. Surely you remember the disaster at Croydon, the derailment that cost several lives and injured scores of passengers? That was in 2016 and since then, they’ve introduced loads of safety measures. I reckon the tram’s the best way to transport people without pollution and it’s so smooth for the traveller. I don’t know why they did away with them in the first place.” “Before you go off on a long ecological ramble, Brit, maybe you could stick to the point.” “Oh, yeah, well…” She turned her sapphire blue eyes on him momentarily. He knew that look. She used that when she was annoyed with him, so he smiled into her pretty oval face and gave her an encouraging nod. Her attention returned to the busy road, and she continued, “… that catastrophe didn’t put me off riding the tramway. I use it regularly to go from Merton Park to Gravel Hill.” “Merton Park, I get that, but why would you regularly go to Gravel Hill?” “My brother lives there. His wife died of cancer two years ago.” “I’m sorry, how come you never mentioned it?” Brittany’s jaw tightened. “There are some things you don’t bring to work.” There followed a long silence broken only by traffic noise, until Shepherd swore at a motorcyclist cutting in front of her vehicle. Vance seized the opportunity. “So, what about Avenue Road?” “There’s nothing there, Jake. The station is composed of only a green footbridge and a couple of litter bins, while very few people come and go there. I’ve read that it’s the least-used tram station, with an average of only about one hundred and sixty-nine passengers a day.” “You’re a bit of an expert on trams, I see. I suppose most of those will be at peak times, too.” They lapsed into thought, but soon, Shepherd pointed out the station sign: blue writing on a white background and a thick green stripe above, the logo of the London Tramways. “Here’s the station. I’ll leave the car. We can take the famous footbridge and walk to join the others.” This they did. Jacob Vance made mental notes of the station. It looked like a perfect place for anyone who loved solitude. Brittany’s description had been spot-on. His first thought was: ideal for anyone who planned to commit murder undisturbed. They entered the tunnel from the opposite direction to Oliver Waterman and found white-kitted officers around the body of a young woman. Vance’s instincts ran wild. For him, this was a murder scene. There were too many combinations for it to be a natural death. The Chief Medical Examiner, a middle-aged gentleman, Dr Francis Tremethyk, looked up as the two detectives approached. “My, my, two inspectors! Welcome, me-dears.” The marked Cornish accent meant that the doctor was troubled. Vance spoke first. “What have you got for us, Doc?” “Female, foreign extraction, eastern European I’d say, early thirties and, at face value, a heart attack. Dead ten or eleven hours. But it’s all wrong, boy.” Vance was used to that form of address, common to southwest England, so passed over it to say, “What’s going on in that grizzled head?” Tremethyk grinned. “I’ve got competition in that area, I can see.” He referred to the distinct greying at Vance’s temples. “I have to ask myself, a heart attack, here in this tunnel? It’s too conveniently deserted and if my time of death is accurate, which it’s sure to be, it would have been pitch black down here. Besides, there’s no apparent trace evidence, and the poor lass made no effort to call for assistance. Her phone was in her handbag when we got here. It’s all too neat.” “Was?” “Aye, was. The remarkable Markham has her mobile bagged up along with a pocket diary. Ye’ll be wanting to see that, me-dear. That puts the lid on it for me. This is murder. All tidy, as I said, but it’s murder, and I’ll confirm it as soon as possible.” “So, do we have identification?” “Passport. The photo matches, so she’s Gundega Krūmina, a Latvian citizen aged thirty-two.” “Who found the body?” “A chap walking his dog. Nice enough fellow, sensible, too. He didn’t contaminate the scene of the crime. He’s over there by the entrance with a cocker spaniel—the hound alerted him to the body.” “Thanks, Doc and—” “Don’t say it, me-dear. I’ll get the results to you as soon as humanly possible. Cheerio!” The doctor’s assessment of the dog walker was one Vance could agree with. He mentally eliminated the responsible Oliver Waterman from his inquiries. Shepherd, a dog lover, spent time petting Luna whilst her colleague sauntered over to Dr Markham, the attractive Head of Forensics. Vance greeted the competent specialist in her forties with a cheery grin. The large brown eyes, which had won the heart of the department’s computer expert, Max Wright, fixed on the inspector. “Oh, hi, Jacob, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for her personal effects. I’ll be as quick as thoroughness allows. I’ll bring them over from Lambeth myself. You’ll be wanting to read the diary we found in her pocket. I’ll lay odds on this being murder.” Vance snorted, his face a mask of frustration. “That’s what Doc Tremethyk said. Don’t withhold the damned diary a minute longer than necessary, Sabrina.” “You know that I’ll be in the Yard as soon as possible—to see Max! Has he told you yet?” “Told me what?” She laughed happily. “It’s up to him to tell you! I’d have thought he’d have done so by now.” “Well, whatever it is, he hasn’t,” Vance snapped. “It seems everyone’s withholding information from me.”