What Would Wimsey Do? Read online

  What Would Wimsey Do?

  Guy Fraser-Sampson

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Boyo was a border collie cross, which was how he had come by his name. The crackhead who had given him to his owner, Ben, as a puppy had been convinced that Boyo was a proper noun much in evidence among Welshmen, rather than an antiquated form of address. Not that Boyo himself was particularly worried one way or another, for two reasons. First, he was on the whole preoccupied with satisfying his pressing need to find something to eat. Second, as a dog he was incapable of abstract conceptual thought.

  Ben was currently lying blind drunk on an old blanket in a shop doorway in Wood Green. Unlike Boyo, he was capable of abstract conceptual thought, but it was an intellectual ability that he rarely chose to indulge. For one thing, any rational assessment of his situation would have prompted deep depression and possible suicide. For another, he was frequently either drunk or drugged to the eyeballs, and occasionally both at the same time.

  Having been awake for some time, Boyo had been viewing the corpse-like appearance of his master with stern disapproval. For some days now, since the last night they had spent in a hostel, Ben had been smelling so strongly that even other humans had begun to notice. From the stertorous noises drifting towards him, Boyo knew that it would be impossible to wake Ben until he recovered consciousness of his own volition, and this fact was rapidly becoming most inconvenient, since his bladder was sending him urgent messages. He experimented with a few plaintive yaps but found that, as expected, these produced no response.

  He gave a little pull on his lead, and found to his surprise that it yielded slightly. Ben had forgotten to tie it around his wrist, as he usually did when bedding down for the night, but it was trapped beneath the snoring bulk of his sleeping body. Getting up, Boyo threw his weight onto his back legs, braced his front ones, and pulled mightily. Slowly but surely the old cord gradually emerged, and suddenly he was free. With the lead dragging along the ground behind him, he sped round the corner into a small alleyway, and urinated contentedly against the wall.

  After answering the call of nature, he became aware that a woman was lying on the ground further back in the alley, shortly before it gave onto a service area behind the shops. He approached her and sniffed, cautiously at first but then more eagerly. It was apparent that this woman was just as immoveable as his master. He licked her face, but this produced no response. He had a sudden instinct that something was wrong. Her eyes were open and staring unblinkingly upwards towards the grey North London sky. He drew back and whimpered uncertainly. Then he trotted back to the entrance to the alley, sat on the pavement, and began to bark determinedly.

  Arriving on the scene some time later, Detective Chief Inspector Tom Allen found that both the alleyway and a stretch of pavement on either side had been fenced off with blue-and-white police tape. He pushed his way through the inevitable small crowd of onlookers that always formed on these occasions. Didn’t these people have lives of their own to lead? Perhaps it was simply his persistent head cold that prompted this feeling of resentment, but in truth Tom Allen was a man who found little in the world of which he truly approved, and much towards which he was deeply antipathetic.

  The young constable did not recognise him, but once he had peered at Allen’s identification he lifted the tape to allow him to duck underneath it, and pointed to where a little knot of people, some in white boiler suits, had gathered around two or three vehicles that were parked ostentatiously on a double yellow line.

  “Morning, Bob,” he said as Detective Inspector Metcalfe saw him coming, and walked towards him. “What have we got?”

  It was a private joke between them that they often resorted to clichés from old police films and television shows. A couple of years previously, a drug dealer whom they had pursued through the streets of Brixton had been surprised, as he lay prone on the pavement being cuffed, to hear Allen say, “Book him, Danno,” at which Metcalfe had lent over him and said, in a passable imitation of John Thaw in The Sweeney, “Right, sunshine, you’re nicked.”

  “SOCO thinks it’s the same guy,” Metcalfe replied, “but of course they won’t commit to anything until they get the body back to the lab and do their stuff. Single head wound, no knickers, and he’s pretty sure there are chloroform burns around the mouth.”

  “Sounds the same,” Allen agreed. “Let’s take a look.”

  Together they walked the few yards into the alley. Seeing the Chief Inspector, the group of people around the body parted and fell back. Allen was relieved to see that the duty pathologist was Brian Williams; he knew his job and, what’s more, he had already worked on at least one of the previous victims.

  “Morning, Brian. What do you think?”

  “Morning, Tom. Officially, you’ll have to wait for my report. Unofficially, I’m pretty certain it’s the same killer. Same MO, anyway.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Sometime after midnight, I’d say, and that’s good because it hasn’t rained, and nothing’s disturbed the body apart from the dog that found it, so this is our best chance yet of getting some good forensic samples.”

  “It’s time we had a break,” said Allen dourly. He squatted down on his haunches to inspect the body. He saw an ordinary-looking brunette, body twisted, legs apart, eyes gazing sightlessly at nothing in particular. He knew without even having to look that there would be a savage hammer wound at the back of the head. Some poor sod’s daughter, he thought. Then he saw the rings; some poor sod’s wife.

  He stood up. “On a night out, do you think?” he asked nobody in particular.

  “Unlikely, I’d say,” said Williams. “She’s not wearing any make-up or perfume as far as I can tell without my lab equipment. More like a chance encounter, I’d say.”

  “I agree, guv,” Metcalfe chipped in. “She’s wearing flat shoes, not heels, nothing fancy. Anyway, there are no bars in the immediate area.”

  “Always assuming this is where she was killed,” countered Allen, “or met her killer, at any rate.”

  “Again, I’ll need to examine her properly in the lab,” Williams said, “but for what it’s worth, Tom, I’d say she was killed here. There’s nothing I can see with the naked eye to suggest that she’s been moved after death. The position of the body’s all wrong for that, as well. I’d say that not only was she killed here, but raped here too.”

  “Hmm,” said Allen. “That would be consistent with the others, anyway—rape, I mean.” He pulled a packet of throat lozenges out of his pocket and put one in his mouth absent-mindedly while he carried on looking at the body.

  “Any ID?” he asked Metcalfe.

  “Driving licence in her handbag. Also credit cards.” He held up two or three sealed and tagged plastic bags. The Scene of Crime Officers had worked quickly. “Katherine Barker, home
address Lyndhurst Gardens in Hampstead. I had the station run a computer check—her husband tried to report her missing at 4 a.m.”

  “Tried? Oh yes, of course.” Allen rubbed his eyes tiredly. Police procedures did not allow an adult to be treated as missing unless they had been unaccounted for over at least a twenty-four-hour period.

  “Got Mr Barker’s address?”

  “I have. It’s Dr Barker by the way. He’s part of a group practice in Belsize Park.”

  Allen leaned back against the wall and wished for the thousandth time that he had never given up smoking. Sometimes the relentless grind of the job threatened to overwhelm him.

  “Well, come on, Bob,” he said quietly. “Let’s go and give the good doctor the news.”

  “Have you finished here, Tom?” Williams asked. “If so, can I take the body? We’ve finished with photos.”

  “With pleasure,” Allen replied, as he blew his nose for the umpteenth time already that morning. “Let me have something as soon as you can.”

  Colin Barker looked as though he had not slept for some considerable time. He also looked heavily hungover. Certainly he had not shaved, and the hand with which he had motioned them into the ground-floor flat after they had identified themselves at the front door was trembling perceptibly. They followed him into the living room and as he sat down so too did they, perching awkwardly on the edge of the sofa. Bob Metcalfe already had his notebook out.

  “I presume,” said Barker, after the briefest of pauses, “that when two senior detectives come knocking on your door in these situations, it’s not good news.” He managed a grim smile.

  “I am very sorry, sir,” Tom Allen began. “Very sorry indeed.” He stopped for a moment. It was funny how in these situations he always found himself thinking about Mary. His colleague eyed him sympathetically. He was all too aware that Allen had never properly come to terms with his daughter’s death. On a previous occasion during this very case Allen had been forced to leave the room briefly while breaking the news to another bereaved spouse.

  “I am afraid to have to inform you, sir,” Metcalfe said, cutting in smoothly as though Allen had simply stopped to allow his partner to pick up the story, “that we have discovered the body of a woman whom we have reason to believe is your wife.”

  Total silence greeted his announcement.

  “Is there anyone we can call for you, Doctor?” asked Allen with a hint of desperation. “Anyone you would like to have with you?” God, how he hated these situations.

  “No—no, thank you.” Barker gazed at them dully. “Is that all you can tell me?”

  “We still have a lot of enquiries to make,” Allen temporised formally. “Until you’ve identified the body we cannot say for certain that it is your wife.”

  “Is there any doubt?” asked the doctor with sudden hope in his voice.

  “It’s unlikely, I’m afraid, sir. Not unless somebody stole her handbag and everything that was in it.”

  As he spoke, his eyes were moving around the room. As with so many small London flats, there was a curious sense of impermanence. There were chairs and a sofa; a mirror and some prints on the walls. Yet while they filled the room they somehow did not furnish it. It was as if the entire contents of the room, including the people, might be swept up into large cardboard boxes at any moment, ready to move to their next location. At last Allen found what he was looking for. He heaved himself off the sofa and picked up a framed photograph from a side table by the window.

  “Is this your wife, Doctor?”

  “Yes, that’s Kathy.”

  Allen and Metcalfe looked at each other.

  “Then I’m afraid there really is no hope, sir. The identification will only be a formality, for the coroner’s records.”

  “Is this a recent photo, sir?” asked Metcalfe.

  “Pretty recent—six months or so back, I think.”

  “Do you mind if we keep it? You’ll get it back, of course.”

  “Yes, do, if you think it will help.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Metcalfe placed it carefully in a plastic wallet and slipped it underneath his open notebook on his knee.

  “Now then, Doctor,” Allen said. “If you’re feeling up to it then, there are some questions we need to ask. Only if you’re feeling up to it, mind. We can easily do this tomorrow if you prefer.”

  “No, no, let’s do it now,” Barker replied at once. “By all means, let’s get it over with.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Allen said encouragingly, “but might I suggest we let my colleague slip into the kitchen and make us all a cup of tea while you and I begin?”

  This was a well-practised ploy that the pair had used before. Metcalfe would make a great noise about filling the kettle and then slip away quietly for a look round.

  “Yes, of course. By the way, how did she die? You never said.”

  “No, we didn’t, did we?”

  Another meaningful glance passed between the two detectives. They had both been wondering how long it would take him to ask. Failure to do so could be ascribed to shock, but sometimes had a more sinister explanation.

  “We’re treating the case as one of murder, sir,” Allen said carefully. “I’m afraid I really can’t say any more than that at this stage. You’ll appreciate that our enquiries are only just beginning. Now, when did you last see your wife?”

  “At about 11.30 last night. She went out at about that time.”

  “Went out?” asked Allen blankly. He heard Metcalfe slip out of the room behind him and close the door. He opened his own notebook and started jotting things down. “Did she often go out so late? Did she work night shifts?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Barker said. He seemed embarrassed. “If you must know, we’d had a row.”

  “Did you often have rows with your wife, sir?” Allen was careful to keep his voice non-committal.

  “It’s happened before,” the doctor said drily. “You can check with her sister. She lives in Wood Green. Kathy usually goes to her when she storms out late at night. She must be getting pretty tired of it by now—” He caught himself using the present tense and stopped.

  “And yet you tried to report her missing at”—he consulted his notebook—“about 4 a.m. Why was that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you thought she was safe and sound at her sister’s, then why did you try to report her missing to the police?”

  “I know it sounds strange, but I had a queer feeling that something was wrong, that something had happened to her. I can’t explain it; it was like an instinct or something. I tried phoning Angie—that’s her sister—but couldn’t get any reply.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “Not really. She’s a nurse and has to work some strange hours. That’s why Kathy has a key to her flat. It’s supposed to be if anything happens while Angie’s away, but really it’s so Kathy has a bolt-hole available whenever she wants to get away from here.”

  “Would Kathy have answered Angie’s phone?”

  “I wasn’t sure. Certainly she’s done so before when I’ve called the flat and she’s been on her own.”

  “So, having called, you were still worried?”

  “Yes. I waited for a bit and brooded some more—I was, er, drinking actually. I’d had a few. Then about two I tried again. This time I let it ring twice and then rang off, then did the same thing again. That’s a sort of code we’ve used before, to let the other know that it’s you who’s calling. Then I let it ring quite a long time, but there was still no answer.”

  “But that was two hours before you called the police.”

  “I know. I tried to watch a film on TV after that, but I was getting more and more twitchy so eventually I phoned the police. They said they couldn’t do anything at this stage except log the call.”

  “Yes, sir,” Allen said evenly. “Procedure, I’m afraid. Had it been a child, it would have been different. Most adults turn up sooner or later, you see—and usually
sooner.”

  He looked up from his notebook. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Doctor, but do I take it from what you tell me that there isn’t anybody who could vouch for your movements between, say, 11 p.m. last night and 7 a.m. this morning?”

  “No, of course not. I was here alone after Kathy went out, like I told you. Why should I need an alibi? I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “Just routine, sir,” Allen said soothingly. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we have to ask these questions, if only to have something for the file.”

  Bob Metcalfe came back into the room, pushing the door open with his elbow and holding a tray with three mugs of tea on it. He broke the awkward silence by saying “Here you are, sir,” as he handed the doctor one.

  “This is another difficult question,” Allen went on as Metcalfe flipped his own notebook open again, “but I’m afraid I have to ask. Were you aware of your wife seeing anybody else, another man, I mean?”

  “No, not at all.” There was a short silence. “Not as far as I was aware, anyway.”

  “Any family, other than the sister?”

  “Her father died some years ago. Her mother lives in South London, but they’re not close. Hardly ever even speak, let alone see each other. So far as I know, Angie’s all there is. Certainly nobody else from her side came to the wedding, apart from a few girlfriends from work.”

  “So she did work at one time, then?”

  “Yes, but she gave it up when we got married a couple of years back.”

  “What was it—her work, I mean?”

  “She was a secretary with a firm of solicitors—a big one in the City. Or executive assistant, I should say. She was always very insistent about that. Executive assistant to one of the partners.”

  “Did she miss not working?”

  “She claimed not, but actually I’m pretty sure she did. She’d always liked the idea of being a ‘lady of leisure’ as she called it, but she was used to being busy at work all day, and when she was at home she didn’t have anything to take its place. I sometimes used to think that was part of her trouble—boredom, I mean. Sitting around at home all day with nothing to do, and then giving me a hard time when I got in.”