‘DCI Brock, sir?’ queried the voice.
‘Yes, this is Harry Brock.’
‘It’s Gavin Creasey at the incident room, guv’nor. Did I disturb you?’
‘No, I had to get up to answer the phone,’ I said sarcastically. I knew that Creasey thought he might’ve been disturbing something else. ‘What is it, Gavin?’
‘A burglary and murder at Tarhill Road, West Drayton, guv. A private dwelling. One male victim.’
‘Wonderful! Just what I need. Arrange for a car to pick me up, Gavin.’
‘It’s on its way, guv.’ Creasey paused. ‘You are at Miss Sutton’s place, aren’t you?’ he enquired archly.
It was an open secret among the members of my team at Homicide and Serious Crime Command West that I was in a relationship with a shapely blonde named Gail Sutton, and was more likely to be in her bed than in my own.
‘Strangely enough, Gavin, I’m in my own flat.’
‘Oh, I’ll get on the air and divert them to your address, sir,’ said Creasey, sounding rather surprised. ‘I’ve alerted the principal actors and the supporting cast in this latest drama, and they’re on the way.’
‘Thank you, Gavin.’ The people he was talking about comprised Detective Inspector Kate Ebdon and Detective Sergeant Dave Poole, as well as the other members of my Murder Investigation Team. Dr Henry Mortlock, the Home Office pathologist, and Linda Mitchell, a senior forensic examiner, and her assistants, would also have been invited to the party. It was the standard turnout procedure and swung into action like a well-oiled machine.
The traffic unit car arrived five minutes later.
‘Good morning, sir. A lovely morning for it,’ said the driver, with an exuberance that I found quite nauseating.
‘Matter of opinion,’ I muttered, regretting that I’d been obliged to don a jacket and a tie, and was perspiring already.
The driver covered the fifteen miles from Surbiton to West Drayton in as many minutes, blue lights blazing and siren blaring, although neither seemed necessary at that time of the morning. Emerging somewhat shakily from the high-powered BMW, I concluded yet again that this near-maniacal driving was a deliberate ploy on the part of the Black Rats to test the nerves of CID officers. I shouldn’t really worry; the Met’s drivers are among the finest in the world. But I do worry. Only about my personal safety, though.
‘Good morning, sir. Mr Brock, isn’t it?’ Amazingly, the smart young lady inspector holding a clipboard and pen recognized me. I couldn’t recall ever having investigated a murder in West Drayton before and I didn’t know why she should have known me.
‘Yes, I’m DCI Brock.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the inspector, as she made a note on her clipboard. ‘DI Ebdon, DS Poole and Doctor Mortlock are here already. And Miss Mitchell and the evidence recovery unit are working in the house somewhere.’
Obviously lady incident officers were more wide awake at twenty minutes to two on a Sunday morning than were their male counterparts. We could use someone like her in the Department, and that prompted a thought.
‘Have you ever considered a transfer to the CID, Inspector?’ I asked.
‘Good God, no!’ exclaimed the inspector, as though I’d just made an indecent suggestion.
I was saved from further discussion on the subject by the approach of a youthful individual dressed in an expensive linen suit.
‘Morning, guv. I’m Tom Watson, the hat DI.’
When Watson described himself as ‘the hat DI’, he didn’t mean that he wore a hat; in fact he was bareheaded. HAT is yet another of the many acronyms to emerge from the Metropolitan Police ‘funny names and total confusion squad’ and indicated that he was a member of the Homicide Assessment Team. Its members comprise a select group of CID officers who patrol around the clock and are called to the scene of suspicious deaths by the local CID.
It is up to the HAT officer to decide whether or not a murder is of sufficient complexity to require an investigator from HSCC. Like me. But they’ve yet to do me the favour of deciding that the murders that occur when I’m next on the list could have been dealt with by the local detectives.
‘What’s the SP, Tom?’ I asked, culling a useful bit of shorthand from the racing fraternity, although to a CID officer it doesn’t mean ‘starting price’ but ‘what’s the score?’, or in English: ‘Be so good as to bring me up to date on what has occurred so far.’
‘It’s a funny one, guv,’ said Watson predictably.
‘Aren’t they all?’ I replied, hoping that one day someone would come up with a newer cliché with which to start a conversation about a murder.