Missing Pieces. K L Harrison
There was a child’s bike with trainer wheels lying on its side near the front door. Enough, thought Spence, time to get involved.
Spence walked straight through the hallway to the kitchen. It was bedlam.
“What the hell?” he muttered. “How many cops can squeeze into one room?” And coming from the next room was the sound of a hysterical woman – the victim’s wife, he assumed.
His eyes searched for Ferguson but to no avail. A new kitchen, observed Spence, dark grey marble surfaces, a new-style stainless steel fridge and look at the size of that microwave! This place had a bit of style. An expensive-looking slate floor, brown with cream flecks.
The usual gallery of family holiday photographs – Florence, Lake Louise –“What’s wrong with Weston or Weymouth?” He left the kitchen and headed to the front of the house. Despite the money, this was quite an old fashioned house Spence thought to himself. Each room was quite separate. Where’s all the open planning that young urban professionals are supposed to like so much?
Reaching the living room, he discovered his DS. Spence leant against the door jamb and looked around. Very comfortable but not ostentatious was Spence’s considered view. A LED TV with surround sound speakers, but not too big. Black leather couch and armchairs, would have cost something. Decanters on the sideboard with what looked like scotch and port. A few pictures hanging, Turner prints.
“Nice,” said Spence, “do you know that one Ferguson? It’s called ‘Rain, Steam and Speed’. It’s in the National Gallery?”
He enjoyed doing this sort of thing. Spence never let anyone forget his proletarian origins, the times his father was on strike growing up but he was no fool. And it was a great way of riling Ferguson. His DS may be many things; what he was not was a man attuned to the finer things of life - intelligent, driven, meticulous, but a man for whom art, music and books were merely ‘pointless distractions’ as he put it. Ferguson looked up with a decidedly pissed-off look on his face.
“I’ve been ringing you for over an hour Spence.”
“Sorry Ferguson. I must have had my mobile turned off. You know I don’t like those things,” replied Spence, thoroughly enjoying the contemptuous look on the face of his DS.
“All right, so, what have we got?”
Ferguson stood up, staring at the body as he proceeded to give his boss the essentials. Tall, slim and smartly dressed as always, Ferguson had only two facial expressions: earnest and very earnest. “But he’s making progress,” thought Spence, “It used to be just very earnest.”
Ferguson didn’t waste words; he had long ago learned that Spence wanted things short, sharp and to the point.
“This is an odd one Spence. The throat has been cleanly cut from end to end. Presumably this is what killed him. Josie can tell us more later.”
Spence leant over to take a closer look. No matter how gruesome a scene, he was unaffected. His mind immediately went into overdrive – how, why, who knew, a random attack or well-planned, why here, why now….. He loved it all. He often asked himself if he should be bothered by that.
Ferguson continued his report. “This was expertly done, clean, quick. Look around: there is not a drop of blood anywhere. Not a drop. And look at the room, no sign of a struggle, everything in its place, no scuffed carpet. Even the magazines on the table are neatly piled.”
Spence picked up the one on top of the pile. “Education Today – Professor Ian Williamson on the impact of modern pedagogy in a post-modern world”.
“Oh my god,” said Spence. He had read this sort of drivel years earlier.
“So he was a teacher was he? Pissed off too many of his fifth formers?”
Ferguson pulled out his notebook. “His name’s Roger Davidson. He’s the Deputy Headmaster at Woodlands near Cirencester, one of those new academies. Married to Felicity – she’s next door with WPC Grant.”
“Have you and WPC Grant…..?”
Ferguson glared at Spence. “Married to Felicity, a daughter, Rebecca, aged four; the wife is pregnant, just a few weeks I believe. It was the wife who found him. She had been visiting her sick mother at the Great Western Hospital – cancer. It would seem the mother is having a tough time. The little girl was being looked after next door.”
“Have you spoken to the wife yet?”
“No chance, you can hear what she’s like. Joanne, I mean WPC Grant, is having a real job dealing with her.”
“We’ll leave her with WPC Grant for now then,” said Spence with a wry smile. With that Josie Collins stroke in.
“Ah, the woman of my dreams, my fantasies –“
Josie Collins was clearly not in the mood for any of Spence’s attempt at amusing banter. Late forties, widowed for three years, for Josie Collins only two things mattered in life: bringing up her two teenage children and her forensic work. She was the epitome of the no-nonsense professional and she was one of the few people who knew how to keep Spence in his place.
“Not tonight Spence, just had a prang getting here, road’s as icy as hell.”
Josie Collins was Spence’s favourite forensics person; he never bothered with specialist titles. They had known each other for several years and she had learned to ignore his flirting. He had learned to ignore the fact she did not find him the least bit attractive. Things never went further than deep mutual respect.
“I trust you haven’t trashed the crime scene as usual Spence.”
“Don’t worry Josie my orange-uniformed, forensic peach. DS Ferguson has everything under control.”
“How do you put up with him Nigel?”
There was almost a semblance of a smile on Ferguson’s face. Almost.
“Leave it with me Spence. I’ll get a report on your desk as soon as I can. Sounds like you better get in the next room and settle things down.”
Josie knelt down and started examining the body as Ferguson filled her in. Spence headed into the hallway.
CHAPTER TWO
Felicity Davidson’s hysterical screaming had finally subsided to a constant whimpering. WPC Grant was doing her best to bring the woman under control. He sat down and pulled Felicity Davidson’s hand close to him.
“Mrs Davidson, I’m Detective Inspector Hargreaves. I’m so sorry about what has happened. If there is anything we can do at this moment, please ask. Anything.”
Felicity Davidson seemed touched by Spence’s show of concern. “Thank you, Inspector.”
“Mrs Davidson, I know this is an awful time but we will need to ask you some questions. Are you up to talking to me?” He squeezed her hand gently and looked her in the eye with the most sympathetic look he could manage.
“Yes, of course Inspector.”
Felicity Davidson was casually dressed, jeans and a cashmere jumper, but here was a woman who looked good, knew she looked good and worked at maintaining that. She was not the sort of woman who shopped in Marks and Sparks or Matalan. Spence had never forgotten the advice of an older DI years before: “Styles of music, fashion, house design, anything, learn it all Spence, remember it.”
Perhaps it was his working class dislike of people who shopped at Harrods or holidayed in Tuscany, maybe it was his sixth sense that here was a lady who “doth protest too much, methinks”, but Spence had a strong feeling that the emotions were being put on display for others to see.
Spence did not come straight out asking for details of her movements that evening nor did he start asking if her husband had any enemies. Neither was he going to betray his quickly growing distrust of this woman. He was not going to ask how the hell a school teacher