Page 9

chapter nine

“We found the body there.” Mr. Stanhope, a thickly-accented northerner, pointed to a rough-dug trench running through the middle of an allotment, and James saw a few pieces of crime scene tape were still tied around some of the trellises.

He stepped closer, and then turned as DC Hartridge pushed through the squeaky gate into the urban garden, and came to stand, stiff and uncomfortable, at his side. He’d been that way since the night Galbraith had hunted him down.

“Good morning, sir.”

James nodded to him, then focused back on the ditch. “You found her face down, I heard?” He glanced at Stanhope.

“Face down, and partially buried,” Mr. Stanhope said. “Like they tried to fill the trench back up, as if we wouldn’t notice after we’d just spent all day digging it for drainage. Bloody idiot.”

“So they started to bury the body, and then abandoned the effort?” James crouched down, but there was nothing in the trench now but mud, probably because it had rained through the night. He hadn’t been able to come yesterday or the day before, when he’d wanted to, and five days was a long time for a crime scene.

He’d had to dance around the bureaucracy all day yesterday and the day before, and still didn’t have permission to take this case on as his own. But he had eventually been granted access to the files and permission to interview witnesses.

“Did you know the victim?” James asked. She was still listed as unknown, but what he’d seen of the investigation so far was so haphazard, he didn’t take it for granted that the officer in charge had done his job and asked if any of the people who’d found the body recognized her.

Mr. Stanhope shook his head. “Nah, poor lass. I thought at first she’d wandered in by mistake and fallen in, you see. But then I saw the soil over her, and she’d hardly have tried to cover her own body up, now would she?”

“No.” James pushed back to his feet. “You see anyone lurking about recently?”

“Looking it over, like? As a good place to dump a body?” Mr. Stanhope’s eyes were hard as he spoke. Then he gave a quick shake of his head. “Not that I saw. Wish I had. Wish I knew who did this. They’ve ruined this place for some of the old timers.”

“Old timers?” DC Hartridge asked, and Mr. Stanhope gave a chuckle.

“You’re thinking, aren’t you an old timer, old man,” he said, then his laughter turned into a hacking cough.

Hartridge blushed. “No, sir.”

Mr. Stanhope thumped his chest and took a breath. “I’m old enough,” he said. “But I’m talking about those who lived here during the war. I’m a relative newcomer to the allotment. This place was an old factory during the Blitz. Went up in flames and they found someone dead inside once the fire was out. Some of the current gardeners live in houses overlooking this place and were there when she was found, so this is bringing it all back.”

“How many people have access to the allotment?” James asked. “How does it work?”

“There’s twenty plots,” Mr. Stanhope said. “See the markers? That’s how we divide it up. But it keeps flooding with all these storms we’ve been having, so we dug this trench through the middle, so all of us only give up a little land, you see?”

“And no one knows who the victim could be?” James asked.

Mr. Stanhope lifted his shoulders. “Not everyone saw her. Only me, Mrs. Henderson, Jimmy and Patrick. The others weren’t here until after the ambulance took her away.”

He would have to come back with a picture of her, show it around. But first, they could check her against the list of eight names they had on their missing list.

The last two days had been frustrating, but at least they’d been able to take two names off the list they’d compiled.

“Thank you for your time,” James said.

“You’re all right,” Mr. Stanhope said. “Better than the other copper who came. You at least look like you want to find out who she was. T’other one didn’t care, either way.”

That was the impression James had got, as well, but he didn’t say it. He thanked the gardener again, and then led the way out of the gate.

“We don’t have the case officially,” he said to Hartridge as they walked toward the local station, “but Officer Wilcox is so disinterested, we’ll have free rein.”

“Where are we going now?” Hartridge asked.

“To find out where the body was taken, and who performed the autopsy.” James wished it could have been Dr. Jandicott, but he was the lead pathologist for the Met, and this case had not been assigned to New Scotland Yard headquarters. It was being handled by the local station.

The walk to the Hammersmith nick was short and relatively pleasant. The weather had cleared, and although the air was cold, the wind had dropped and the sun was shining. It was as good as it was going to get on a London morning in autumn.

Once inside the station, James got the same sense of grievance and hostility in person as he’d gotten over the phone the day before from Constable Wilcox.

The man didn’t want to stir himself to actively investigate the case, but he didn’t want James to have it, either.

“Do you think it will look bad on your file if I take this over?” James asked him.

“Why would you say that?” Wilcox stood in a sudden movement, like a fox scenting the hounds.

“Because I’ve read your report so far, and you don’t appear to have much curiosity about the victim or her death, but you seem very focused on stopping me from looking into it. I can’t think of any other reason.” James usually took the diplomatic route where he could, but he was tired of the hoops Wilcox had forced him to jump through since yesterday.

“A slapper took the wrong customer into a dark corner, and got herself dead. It happens.” Wilcox shrugged.

Beside him, James sensed Hartridge stiffen.

“A slapper? So you know her as a local prostitute, do you?” James took out his notebook and got his pencil ready. “What’s her name, because it isn’t in your report?”

Wilcox drew in a whistling breath through his nose. “I’ve never seen her before, but how else did she get there?”

“So she’s not a known prostitute?” James kept the pencil hovering over the page.

“I just said I didn’t know.” Wilcox made a face. “But if you’re so keen, fine, take the case.” He scooped up a thin file on his desk, shoved it at James. “Knock yourself out, laddie.”

“Thanks.” James ignored the disrespect and tucked the file under his arm. “Where’s the body? When did you attend the post mortem?”

Now Wilcox looked a little nervous. “Eh?”

“Who’s the pathologist, and where’s the victim now?”

Wilcox glanced at the door, and then back.

“You don’t know, do you?” James could scarcely believe it.

“I’ve got other work, you know.” Wilcox pushed off from his desk and walked out to the station’s front desk. Leaned in close to the sergeant on duty and then came back. “She was taken to Royal Masonic in Ravenscourt.”

“Thank you for your help, Constable.” James gave a polite nod and he and Hartridge made for the door.

As soon as they were outside, he blew out a breath.

“What a tosser,” Hartridge said as they walked away.

James chuckled. “A tosser who eventually gave us what we wanted.”

“Are you joking?” Hartridge asked. “He was happy as Larry to hand it over. It was eating into his tea time.”

Hartridge sounded a little more like himself.

It made something tight and worried inside James unclench a little.

“Let’s get to the Royal Masonic,” he said. “But let’s have some breakfast, first.”