The London Tram Murders

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

METROPOLITAN POLICE HEADQUARTERS, NEW SCOTLAND YARD, LONDON

Vance slammed the phone receiver onto its cradle with enough force to break the heavy-duty plastic. The same violence used to shut his office door rocked the partition wall, threatening lesions to the plasterwork. Anyone familiar with Jacob Vance’s moods should have been diving for cover at that moment. As it was, he stomped straight towards Max Wright’s computer station. Max was the resident computer expert and the envy of the other informatics operatives, because such was his standing that he always obtained whatever sophisticated equipment he asked for.

DS Wright sensed rather than saw or heard his superior arrive. He looked up with a sincere grin that faded at the aggression on the detective’s face.

“Bad day, is it, sir?”

Vance’s sour expression contorted into a snarl. “What is it with you lot? Dr Markham tells me you’re sitting on the news you should have given me days ago. If you’re—”

Max Wright laughed, cutting his inspector short. “Oh, that! It’s just that I hadn’t found the right moment, you know. It’s that we’re engaged! We haven’t fixed a wedding date yet, but when we do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Bloody hell, Max! You old dog! And what a catch! Congratulations, and I’m sorry if I stormed at you. People are withholding crucial information, and you know how that bugs me.”

“So, will you consider being my best man, sir?”

“No, I won’t. No need to consider. I’d be honoured.”

Max Wright leapt to his feet and, to the inspector’s surprise, caught him in a rib-crushing hug. “Sabrina will be delighted when I tell her.”

“Tell me what?” A faint Manchester accent broke up the man-hug.

“Sabrina!” they exclaimed in unison before Vance grumbled, “About bloody time!”

Max quickly explained the reason for the embrace, so that for the next few minutes police work firmly took second place to congratulations and excited wedding chatter, with lots of banter from Vance to embarrass the loving couple.

At last, the Detective Inspector put on a serious face. “Before I come to you, young lady, what have you got for me, Max?”

“Nothing unsavoury about our poor victim. Quite the opposite. Her grandparents, refugees, came over from Latvia in the twenties. Like many of their compatriots, they settled in Glasgow. Her grandfather worked in the Clyde shipyards. Instead, her parents transferred to Swinging London as a young married couple in the Sixties. No criminal records in the family. Indeed, her father held a steady job on the Tube up to early retirement for ill-health in 2019. He died last year, unfortunately. It’s sad, isn’t it? I mean, when a bloke works for years, gets retirement and then doesn’t get a chance to enjoy it. What’s worse,” he sighed, “is that we have to contact a widow about losing her only daughter.” He uttered the last sentence with a hangdog expression and a wince whilst passing an address to Vance.

“OK, I’ll see to that. But what can you tell me about the victim?”

“Gundega Krūmina, an only child, the star of the family. Upper second-class degree in Computer Science and Information Systems from Imperial College London and worked at Harrods. She held a responsible position as an Online Concessions Assistant. Her task was to meet planned sales targets. You have to be bright for that. I could do it, for example, because it involves data processing, trading, analysis and reporting. I’d say our Gundega will be a big loss to her employers.”

“You have been busy, Max. Well done! I’ll send my sergeant to Harrods for the usual info-gathering about our victim. As for you, Dr Markham,” he had simmered down throughout Wright’s detailed briefing; Jacob Vance needed to be surrounded by efficiency and not caprice, “please come with me to my office and enlighten me about your findings. All in your own good time, naturally,” he added, dripping sarcasm as he marched off.

Max and Sabrina exchanged conspiratorial grins before she placed a chaste kiss on his forehead and hurried after the occasionally irascible inspector.

“This is what you want, Jacob. Look, I’ve brought it as quickly as my scruples would allow.” She slid a plastic envelope containing a small diary towards him across the desk. “It’s an almost unused and outdated Lett’s Legacy Slim Pocket Diary. We found it in the victim’s coat pocket. But I can say with certainty that the killer put it there.”

Vance stared at the dark blue diary and grumbled, “I still haven’t heard from Doctor Tremethyk, and until I do, I can’t assume foul play.”

“Not until you open the diary, that is, Jacob,” Doctor Markham purred sympathetically.

He snatched up the plastic evidence bag, opened the seal and slid out the small book. Flicking through the pages, the puzzlement on his face grew. “But it’s empty!”

“Not quite. Keep going!”

Then he came to it. Feeling absurdly like Conan Doyle’s hero, he took a magnifying glass to read the minuscule printing of a square of white paper pasted onto a page.

“It’s typed in Microsoft Word, Jacob, Times New Roman’s smallest font—five-point. The gum is a standard paper latex glue, and, as with the whole diary, there’s no trace evidence. I believe that our murderer knew exactly what he—or she, more likely—was doing.”

Detective Inspector Vance was too absorbed in his reading to follow her with sufficient attention. Several expletives were followed by, “Eh, sorry?”

“Now that you’ve read it, you can see why I’m sure the woman was murdered.”

“There’s no doubt at all. Now, would you mind repeating what you said? I was distracted by the implications.”

Sabrina Markham nodded and repeated her words.

“It looks that way, Doc. But why do you think the killer is female?”

“You need Miriam Walker on it for a professional opinion, not me. Mine’s instinct.”

The forensics specialist referred to a psychologist the Met used as a profiler. She had been of great help in several high-profile cases.

“You’re right, but share your thoughts with me. I always find them invaluable.”

“Max always says that’s what makes you a good copper,” she beamed fondly at his stressed face, “your ability to listen and analyse. He’s right. So, look at the meticulousness in typing so small, without any errors, although she could have done it, say, in twelve-point then reduced it. But it’s the concept—it strikes me as unmasculine. Then, she cut the square of paper so carefully. Study the piece again, Jacob. What can you see? Anything?”

“Do you mean here?” He raised his magnifying glass and pointed to the paper.

“Exactly! Indentation caused by a pair of tweezers. Our murderess placed it accurately into position with the kind of implement I use for plucking my eyebrows.”

Vance couldn’t keep himself from staring into the pretty expert’s face. The large brown eyes twinkled as he studied her shapely brows.

“It seems our killer is right-handed,” he said, slightly embarrassed at his over-appreciation of her comeliness.

“You would think so,” she agreed, “otherwise, the indentations would have been on the other side.”

“But listen, Sabrina, science apart, what does this document make you think?”

“The same as you, by the look on your face. Tibbet?”

“We’re on the same wavelength, Sabrina.” He reached for his phone, dialled an internal number and barked, “Shep? Get your carcass up here double-smart!”

Dr Markham protested, “Jacob! That’s no way to treat a colleague, let alone a lady.”

“Lady? It’s Brittany Shepherd I was talking to.”

“I know. And if there’s anyone more ladylike on the Force, I’d love to meet her.”

“If you’d had to work in close contact with Brit, you’d soon change your music.”

The object of their exchange knocked and entered, the pretty oval face and turned-up nose under dark hair cut in a 1920s straight bob, confirming Markham’s assessment. As was her way, DI Shepherd went directly to the point. “Has the pathology report come through? It’s murder, isn’t it?”

“No, it bloody hasn’t! But yes, it’s murder, as our remarkable Doctor Markham can confirm.” Mention of the autopsy caused him to use Dr Tremethyk’s moniker for the forensic scientist, whose name the CME invariably preceded, out of respect for her professional ability, with remarkable. Vance picked up the diary, turned to the pasted passage and read, with the aid of his magnifier:

Arnold Tibbet was innocent.

The Met Police are inept bunglers.

Reopen the case.

Prove his innocence—

Or others will die.

The detective inspector paused for dramatic effect, then read:

Signed, one whose name is writ in blood.

Brittany Shepherd leapt to her feet. “Bloody hell!” she yelled, confirming Vance’s earlier statement, questioning her ladylikeness. He gave Markham a smirk and received a wink in return.

“And that is why I want you to work with me on this case, Brit. I know it’s been assigned to me, but given the circumstances—”

“Just try to keep me away from it! This note is bloody serious!”

“Only someone close to Tebbit would have ended with that sign-off. Somebody who knew the contents of his diary.”

“Exactly, or someone in the know on the Force,” Brittany muttered.

“Damn it, Brit. Are you suggesting a bent copper?”

“I’m just keeping an open mind. Don’t you think you should hassle Doc Tremethyk for the post-mortem results?”

“The good doctor has his timeframe, Brit. We’ll have to wait on it.”

The three occupants of Vance’s office drank coffee and chatted about Sabrina’s forthcoming wedding. “It’ll soon be news of the day all around the department,” Brittany laughed, after offering her congratulations.

A knock came on the door to interrupt this scene of conviviality.

“Am I disturbing a party, me-dears?”

“No, come in, Doc,” Vance beamed at the pathologist. “We were just congratulating Dr Markham on her engagement.”

The Chief Medical Examiner did a double-take of the forensics expert’s pretty face.

“Well, boy, you could knock me over with a twig.”

“I believe the expression is a feather, Doc,” Vance chuckled. “I must say, I was just as surprised. No offence, Sabrina, but I’d always considered you married to your profession.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Jacob, but there’s room in my life for Max.”

“The remarkable Max Wright?” the pathologist asked.

Tremethyk looked puzzled when all three laughed.

“The very same, Francis.” Sabrina smiled.

“They’ll be a remarkable couple, won’t they?” Vance couldn’t resist. “Now, Doc, what have you got for me?”

The Cornishman’s benign face suddenly became grave. “Murder, as you already knew. I’m afraid it throws up more problems than it solves. You’ll have noticed that the autopsy took me longer than usual. That’s because the crafty so-and-so nearly convinced me it was a heart attack. Although I say it myself, I’m to be congratulated on fathoming this one.” He stuck out his chest and beamed around the room, scowling only at Shepherd, whose attempt to transform her laughter into a cough hadn’t succeeded.

After a pause for his hurt dignity, the good-natured fifty-four-year-old resumed, “Almost certainly, the killer followed the victim silently into that infernal tunnel, where she used a cotton wad, like chloroforming the poor lassie, but not with chloroform, with something more sinister, and therein lies the problem.” As if to accentuate his perplexity, he scratched his grizzled locks at the nape of his neck.

Again, he paused, cleared his throat, looked around and, content that he had everyone’s undivided attention, continued, “Hydrogen cyanide is a clear colourless or blue liquid; its pre-evaporation time on the wad a mere two or three minutes, so our murderer moved swiftly, sure of himself. The result: seizure, slow heart rate, low blood pressure, loss of consciousness and cardiac arrest. The poor girl would have died almost instantly. Had the body lain there any longer, our killer would have got away with the perfect crime. Finding the cause was challenging. In the end, a blood sample showed a minuscule trace of the substance. You see, it decays— just enough remained to confirm my suspicion which was initially triggered by finding almost invisible cotton fibre in the nasal passage.”

Like a professor addressing a tutorial for university students, he expounded, “You see, not anyone can lay hands on liquid hydrogen cyanide. I’d go as far as to say that it’s impossible for the general public to get hold of. I’d start my inquiries at Porton Down if I were you, Jacob.”

“Good heavens! Are you serious? The government’s top-secret biological and chemical warfare research station? I thought our lot had signed up to abandon chemical weapons.”

“They did, in 1957,” Sabrina Markham intervened, “and since then, they’ve eradicated stockpiles. In 1996, Britain ratified the Chemical Weapons Convention, but Porton Down is still active, mainly in developing effective countermeasures to chemical and biological threats. You’ll certainly find hydrogen cyanide in liquid form there.”

“I’ve got an awful feeling about this case,” Vance grumbled.

“Here’s my full report, Detective Inspector. If you want my opinion, this was a random killing. The young woman was of good character.”

“What makes you say that, Doc?” Brittany asked.

“The poor lassie was a virgin. There aren’t many of those aged thirty-two around nowadays.”

Dr Markham smothered a laugh, remembering the seriousness of the victim’s death, but felt compelled to say, “Dr Tremethyk, I’m not sure whether to categorise that remark as old-fashioned or sexist.”

“No, no, me-dear gal, you should label it as respectful if anything, but I must be on my way.”

When the door closed behind him, Vance summed up everyone’s feelings with, “Dr Tremethyk is as old-fashioned as they come, a gentleman, and a damned fine pathologist, but he’s given me a right headache with this one.”

Dr Markham opened her case and pulled out another plastic evidence envelope. It contained the victim’s mobile phone. “I’ve typed you a list of names that featured in recent calls, Jacob. Nothing unusual strikes me. You’ll have to find out who they are. The most frequent is to Anete Krūmina, I presume that’s her mother.”

“Talking about which, Brit, do you have a female officer available to go round to this address?” He passed her Max’s Post-it note. “It’s time we informed the poor lady of her loss. Whoever you send should take Dr Markham’s list—maybe her mother can clarify whether they are friends, relatives, or colleagues. Notice there are no men on that list. I don’t think that she was in a romantic relationship, going by that.”

As soon as Sabrina Markham left, Vance and Shepherd chewed over the implications of the latest developments. “I’ll have to bring in Big Mal, Brittany.”

“Agreed. We’d better do that, given the Tibbet connection. I’m worried.”

“With very good reason. Me, too.”

Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Ridgeway joined his officers in Vance’s room. Deep-set eyes under marked eyebrows, a firm jaw and well-shaped lips under a slightly crooked nose—an old rugby injury—gave him an uncanny resemblance to the late flamboyant soccer coach, Malcolm Alison: hence, his nickname. All he lacked to be a perfect doppelganger was a straight nose, fedora and fat cigar.

“What’s so urgent, Jacob? Good day to you, Brittany.”

“It’s the Avenue Road incident, sir. As I suspected, it’s a homicide, but it’s taken a worrying turn.” He hurriedly filled in his chief on the diary and the lethal substance used for the killing.

“Good grief! What have we got here, a copycat killer on the loose?”

“That’s what it looks like and, after the Quasimodo case, I think we should be alarmed. If you recall, sir, that series of deaths also began with the murder of a thirty-two-year-old blonde. But if Porton Down is involved, we’re going to need some high-level clearance.”

“Not only that, Jacob, but remember that Tibbet’s intended ninth victim was the Commissioner’s nephew. I’m going to bring her in on this chop-chop.”

No sooner had he gone out of the room than Brittany snorted, “Did he really say chop-chop?”

“It’s a generational thing, Brit. Your grandchildren will take the mickey out of the way you speak before you realise it.”

“Bit of a tricky one, that, Jacob. Having grandchildren contains a whole series of implications.”

“Right, sorry I mentioned it.” He looked so contrite that Shepherd decided to let the matter drop. There was too much sorrow involved in that argument.

In a phone call from Ridgeway, the DCI confirmed that all three detectives were summoned into the Commissioner’s reception room, a plush affair illuminated by blue lighting, as with all the top-floor spaces. Seen from the outside, the blue light at the top of the building reminded the general public that they were under police tutelage. Vance—who rarely came into direct contact with The Black Swan, as he thought of her but would never dare put into words for the motive of political correctness and sheer cowardice, although he occasionally referred to her simply as The Swan—gazed at the profile of a Greek goddess. Aalia Phadkar, admired for her career and looks but feared for her iron fist, turned her gaze on him and demanded an update.

He obliged whilst trying and failing not to sound troubled. She picked up on it right away.

“I think we were all disturbed by the Tibbet case, Jacob, but we have to think positively now. There’s no reason to suppose that this new killer will possess his skills and cunning.” Her large black eyes turned on Ridgeway. “Malcolm, I think that Miriam Walker would be of great help to us with this case. Bring her in immediately. Another thing, you can have as many uniforms as necessary should matters become more complex. I’ll see to that myself. And Jacob, good thinking bringing Brittany onto the case. I’ll get priority clearance for the two of you and a detective sergeant for Porton Down. I want this matter sewn up as soon as possible. Arnold Tebbit was as guilty as Cain. There’s no question of reopening the case. Now, down to work, all of you.”

Her jaw set in the stubborn expression Vance had seen before when she refused to apologise for her inaugural speech, which he knew she had got wrong, but secretly admired. After all, in his book, where criminals were concerned, scum was indeed scum. He would never fault The Swan for her plain-talking, however undiplomatic for an inaugural speech.