A Time to Kill (P&R14), Page 2

  Butterfield Spire used to be called a high-rise, a tower block, a concrete monstrosity among many other unflattering names. Of course, that was until property entrepreneur – Israel Voss – had saved the eyesore from demolition. He had refurbished it, and then re-packaged it as more than the sum of its parts, and advertised the apartments as cool homes for cool people – no children permitted. It was within commuting distance to London. The young and successful high-flyers filled up the apartments in droves. Butterfield Spire had become a desirable location.

  She pressed the button on the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Jerry Kowalski.’

  ‘Come on up – Apartment 17/7.’

  The door lock buzzed and clicked.

  Pushing it open with her shoulder, she walked into the lobby. Then realised she wasn’t breathing. Took a tentative breath . . . then more . . . and a bit deeper. As far as she could tell, there was no smell. In fact, she caught a whiff of air freshener.

  She’d expected . . . What had she expected? She thought that maybe it had fallen into disrepair, that seagulls would be circling above the apartment block as if it was a landfill site, that there’d be green mould and black slime running down the walls, or overflowing waste bins were clattering against the graffiti-daubed walls in the blustery wind outside. There was none of that. The building looked clean, well-maintained – normal.

  The lobby was pleasant with a marble floor, honeysuckle coloured walls and fresh flowers in a clear glass vase on a window sill. It was bright and airy. Somebody gave a damn.

  She pressed the button for the lift, half-expecting it not to be working, but the down arrow lit up above the doors, and she could hear the whisper of a well-oiled machine as it began to descend.

  As she waited, a man in a dark suit carrying a briefcase came into the lobby from the stairs, smiled at her, opened his postal box to collect his mail and left through the front door.

  The lift arrived.

  She entered and pressed for the seventeenth floor. The doors closed and the lift began to ascend. Where was the bad smell?

  Her preconceptions were being challenged. She’d arrived with a set of prejudices and biases, which were gradually being eroded. Where was the smell that Illana Fraser was complaining about?

  The lift eased to a stop on the seventeenth floor. The doors opened and she stepped out.

  So far, she hadn’t seen any graffiti, criminal damage or evidence of neglect. The building was living up to its billing as a cool place for cool people. In fact, if she was looking for a place to rest her weary head – this had a lot going for it.

  She tapped softly on Apartment 17/7.

  The door opened.

  Illana Fraser was stunning. Lustrous black hair hung in waves past her shoulders, bright red lipstick bled from her lips, and her eyes were like grey lights in the darkness. Next to her, Jerry felt old and plain, which was an unusual experience to say the least.

  ‘Yes, come in,’ Illana said, turning and walking back into her apartment as she buttoned up a white silk blouse over an even whiter lace camisole top. ‘I have to go in about fifteen minutes. My boss wants me there for a lunchtime meeting with clients.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t take that long for me to experience the smell you’re talking about.’

  ‘I keep getting whiffs of it, but it’s not as strong this morning as it has been. Last night, about ten o’clock, I could smell it, but then, as soon as I got out of bed to identify where it was coming from it had disappeared.’

  ‘How long have you been here, Illana?’ Jerry took out her little pink notebook and pencil.

  ‘Five months.’

  ‘And how long after that did you begin to notice the smell?’

  ‘Probably a couple of months.’

  ‘You didn’t smell anything before that?’

  ‘I was working all the hours God sent to get myself established as a player. So, the smell might have existed, but I was probably too worn out to notice it.’

  ‘You’re a stock market trader?’

  ‘Yes. A junior equity trader at Lehman Commodity Trading in the City.’

  ‘A high-pressure job?’

  ‘I’ll say, but the rewards are worth it. You can’t do it for long, of course, otherwise you’d die, but that’s the point – you don’t need to. People come into it, make a fortune and get out while they’re still alive and sane.’

  ‘Have you made your fortune yet?’

  ‘I’ve moved a couple of rungs up the ladder, but I will.’

  ‘I wish you all the luck in the world.’

  ‘Yes, there’s certainly an element of luck involved. Being in the right place at the right time helps as well.’

  ‘Okay. I have to tell you that I haven’t seen or smelled anything that would suggest you have a case yet.’

  ‘The smell comes and goes. Let’s go into my bedroom – that’s where it’s most noticeable.’

  She followed Illana into the bedroom.

  ‘Excuse the mess.’

  ‘It’s a lovely apartment.’

  ‘It is – you’re right. I pay a fortune each month for it, and if it wasn’t for the smell, the apartment would be perfect.’

  Jerry walked around the room sniffing, but couldn’t smell anything untoward.

  After a nod from Illana, she opened the sliding doors of the built-in wardrobe and sniffed some more - nothing. She was beginning to feel like a building inspector, maybe a person who came and checked for damp, or a bug exterminator. She hoped it wasn’t cockroaches – they were her worst nightmare.

  On the same wall as the wardrobe was what appeared to be an air vent a foot from the floor.

  She knelt down, and just for a moment, she thought she caught a whiff of something strange. What? – She had no idea. She moved her face closer to the vent and sniffed again – nothing.

  ‘There was something, then . . .’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. I smell it, and then it’s gone.’

  ‘And you’ve reported it to the building supervisor?’

  ‘Willie something or other. Yes – a dozen or more times. He says it’s nothing, everything checks out, the building is perfect. Maybe it’s me, maybe my nose is too close to my arse . . .’

  ‘He said that?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but that’s what he’s inferring all right. I’m not bothered about that. I work with male pricks all the time – I can hold my own in the foul language, sexism and sarcasm departments if required. It’s just that I get a whiff of the stench, but he can’t – or won’t – find where it’s coming from. It makes it sound as though it’s all in my head and I’m going slowly crazy. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s what’s happening.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Look, I have to go five minutes ago.’

  ‘Can I have a spare key?’

  ‘Sure. You’ll need the front door access code as well – it’s 78965.’

  They went back into the living room. Illana found a spare key in a drawer and passed it to her.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll speak to some of the tenants, and ask the supervisor if I can arrange for someone to come in and carry out some tests.’

  ‘Okay. See you soon.’ She rushed out through the front door towards the lift.

  Jerry locked Illana’s apartment door and wondered where she should start first.

  Chapter Two

  Richards knocked on Cathie Prosser’s door.

  It opened so quickly that it made her jump.

  ‘Oh!’

  A woman in her early thirties wearing a pink dress with a plunging neckline that revealed her ample breasts stood in the opening. She had long dirty-blonde hair, thick-rimmed glasses and wedged between the first two fingers of her right hand a half-smoked cigarette. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she said.

  ‘You called the police, Mrs Prosser?’ Richards said, holding out her warrant card.

  ‘I certainly did.’ She took a drag of her cigarette and let the smoke drift out of her nost
rils and into the corridor. ‘And for your information it’s Ms Prosser – I’m a lesbian.’

  Richards gave a sideways glance at Parish. ‘Oh! Okay.’

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s been going on in Catrina’s apartment?’

  ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ She stood to one side and let them enter before shutting the door. ‘Go on through into the living room.’

  They both perched on the edge of a red corduroy sofa in a spacious living room with a wooden floor mostly covered by shaggy rugs.

  Cathie Prosser stubbed her cigarette out in a half-full astray and then sat in a matching red corduroy chair. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that Miss Golding is dead,’ Richards said.

  ‘Guessed as much. It was those bluebottles that tipped me off. Seen something similar on the television. Those forensic dramas are pretty graphic and realistic nowadays. How long?’

  ‘We think about a week. What can you tell us?’

  ‘Well, I guessed there was something wrong because she’s a bit of a screamer, and me and Abby – that’s my lesbian partner – haven’t heard her screaming for a few days.’

  Richards took out her notebook. ‘She had a boyfriend?’

  ‘A couple. She was fairly attractive, I suppose – in an obvious sort of way.’

  ‘You don’t know their names, do you?’

  ‘Didn’t really take much notice, to be honest. Abby and I like to keep ourselves to ourselves, you see. Although, I think that one of them was possibly called Jimmy Landers. He lives at 15 Friarscroft Road in Spitalbrook. And the other one might have been called Donald Dewsbury from 75 Stanstead Road in Pinehurst.’

  ‘That’s very helpful. Thank you, Ms Prosser.’

  ‘I’m not one for burying my head in the sand. Would either of you like a drink of something?’

  Parish shook his head. ‘No, we’re fine.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else during the past week?’ Richards continued.

  ‘Not really. I mean, living in an apartment makes it difficult to see what your neighbours are doing. Not that I’m interested in what they’re doing, of course. But the windows look out onto the road, and you can’t actually see into your neighbour’s apartment. I mean, yes we heard the screaming, and sometimes we heard shouting, but most couples argue, don’t they? Abby and I argue from time to . . . Anyway, I’d opened the front door to let in some fresh air – as you do, and I happened to see a man . . . Come to think of it – was it a man? Yes, I’m sure it was . . . Mmmm! It could have been a woman, you know. Some women look just like men from the back these days, don’t they? It used to be that you could tell them apart, but now . . . Well, whether it was a man or a woman, they must have come out of Catrina’s apartment and were just stepping into the lift. Now, I didn’t really take that much notice because it was nothing to do with me, but I think he or she was wearing faded jeans, lime green Nike trainers – you know, the ones with air bubbles in the soles, a dark blue coat with a light grey hoodie underneath that was pulled up to hide their face . . .’

  ‘What about their hands?’ Parish interrupted the flow.

  ‘Stuffed in the coat pockets.’

  ‘How did they walk? What I mean by that . . .’

  ‘Yeah. Did they walk like an old or a young person?’ She was quiet for a minute while she lit up another cigarette. ‘It was a normal walk – they didn’t have a limp, and there wasn’t the scraping sound of a false leg. They weren’t shuffling along holding onto one of those walking frames my mum has got, but I’d say the spring in their step was beginning to fade. That’d put them around the late thirties, I’d say.’

  Parish smiled. ‘Very good. You’re the type of witness we like.’

  ‘Oh yeah! What type would that be?’

  ‘Observant. Most people wouldn’t notice a car crash if it happened right in front of them.’

  She smiled at Parish as if her opinion of him had miraculously changed for the better. ‘That’s true. I don’t want you thinking I’m nosey, or anything like that, but I do like to know what’s going on. I pride myself in noticing things.’

  ‘What about their shoulders . . . ?’

  ‘I thought it was a bit strange because they had a coat on in the summer. Mind you, it’s not as if we’ve had much of a summer this year . . . or any year, for that matter. It wasn’t that hot on Saturday . . .’

  ‘Last Saturday?’ Richards said. ‘August 2nd?’

  ‘That’s what I said . . . Yeah, it wasn’t that hot, so I suppose they could get away with wearing a coat . . .’

  ‘What type of coat was it?’ Richards interrupted again.

  ‘Look lady, I’m answering his question first. The shoulders were hunched up. Now, whether that was because the hands were stuffed in the pockets – I don’t know, but I remember thinking that the person was a bit round-shouldered anyway, which makes me wonder whether it was a woman. I don’t think it was a woman. I mean, yeah they have round shoulders, but there’s round shoulders and there’s round shoulders – if you know what I mean, and these round shoulders weren’t anything to write home about.’

  ‘And the coat?’ Richards reminded her.

  ‘One of those quilt-type coats that weigh next to nothing. The collar was pulled up, and the coat went down to just below the backside. And that’s another reason why I’m not sure the person was male or female. The backside would have told me what sex they were. Women have lumps of cellulite beneath the cheeks of their backside, but men don’t seem to have them. Maybe it’s because of the babies, although I know some women who have never had babies and they’ve still got the lumps of cellulite. Maybe they just appear as everything starts to drop, that doesn’t explain . . . Anyway, women also walk as if they’ve got a cork stuck up their backsides.’

  ‘You didn’t see the face?’ Parish asked the obvious.

  ‘No – not a glimpse.’

  Richards said, ‘Can I just confirm the details?’

  ‘Of course, fire away.’

  She read from her notebook: ‘Possibly a male; possibly aged in their late thirties; wearing faded jeans; lime-green Nike trainers with air bubbles in the soles; a dark-blue thigh-length quilted coat; and a light grey hoodie with the hood pulled up?’

  ‘Don’t forget the rounded shoulders.’

  Richards added that to the list. ‘And it was on Saturday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘About what time?’

  ‘Four-thirty in the afternoon.’

  ‘How tall?’ Parish said.

  ‘I’d say five-nine or five-ten.’

  ‘Fat, thin . . .’

  ‘Thin to medium.’

  ‘Were they carrying anything?’

  ‘Not that I saw. Remember – hands stuffed in pockets of coat.’

  ‘Did Miss Golding have any female friends?’

  ‘You want to look on the social networking sites. Not that I know much about them, you understand, but she was pretty friendly on Facebook . . . Twitter, LinkedIn, Pinterest, Google Plus+, Tumblr, Instagram . . . Oh, she liked taking selfies, and some of them were . . . a bit risqué, if you know what I mean. Some of those celebrities had nothing on Catrina Golding.’

  Parish stood up and offered his hand. ‘Thanks very much for your invaluable help, Ms Prosser.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richards said, and shook the woman’s hand as well.

  ‘Anything else you’d like my help with – just ask.’

  They were shown out.

  Richards grunted. ‘For someone who didn’t know a lot, she seemed to know a lot.’

  ‘Lucky for us.’

  ‘Do you think I’ve got cellulite underneath my bum?’

  ‘Enough to fill two beer barrels and a spittoon.’

  ‘Liar. What about the way I walk – does it look as though I’ve got a cork up there?’

  ‘Everybody says you cork walk.’

  ‘You’re the biggest liar.’

  �
��If you didn’t want to know the embarrassing truth – why ask?’

  ‘I don’t know why I ask you anything.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ***

  The young woman’s name was Giselle Hamill. The duty staff in A&E had given her a sedative and sent her up to the ITU for observation.

  ‘You gave her a sedative?’ Xena said to a middle-aged bony nurse who had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I didn’t give you permission to give her a sedative.’

  ‘Are you a doctor?’

  ‘No, but I’m the senior investigating officer in charge of the case.’

  ‘Does it entitle you to hand out medical advice?’

  ‘We need to talk to her.’

  ‘I thought not.’ The nurse leaned towards Xena and whispered, ‘So, as far as I’m concerned you can fuck off.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I accept your apology.’

  ‘Did you just fucking swear at me?’

  ‘Nurses aren’t allowed to swear at police officers who think it’s all right to come in here and throw their weight about.’

  She turned to Stick. ‘You heard her swear at me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘This fucking bitch here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the nurse said. ‘As much as I’d like to stand here swapping expletives with you, we’re very busy. So, I suggest you go up to the ITU and stop abusing a member of the nursing staff before I call security.’ With that, she spun on her heel and returned to the emergency room.

  ‘A fat lot of use you were.’

  ‘You bring it on yourself. If you could just manage to be civil to people.’

  ‘You heard her swear at me, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not saying another word until my solicitor arrives.’

  ‘I’m going to trade you in for an inflatable Michelin man.’