‘A guy called Sidney Miller,’ Watson began, referring to his pocketbook, ‘put up a 999 call at eleven forty-five to say that he’d heard a woman screaming. He went outside and eventually found that it came from this house.’ He cocked a thumb of indication. ‘It belongs to a couple called Gregory. Miller’s house is next door,’ he added, pointing. ‘Going to investigate, Mr Miller discovered that the front door was ajar. Just inside, on the floor in the hall, he found Mrs Sharon Gregory, the occupant, lying on the floor, stark naked and trussed up with rope. She claimed that she’d been attacked by a burglar.’ He paused ominously. ‘Miller took a look around the house to make sure that the intruder was no longer there, and found that Mrs Gregory’s husband, Clifford, was dead in the couple’s bed in the master bedroom. First signs indicate that he was bludgeoned to death. But so far there’s no sign of the murder weapon. At least, it wasn’t anywhere near the body.’
‘Was Mrs Gregory attacked, Tom? Physically, I mean.’
‘It would appear not, apart from being tied up,’ said Watson, ‘but she’s still a bit shaken up.’
‘D’you reckon she’s fit to be interviewed?’
‘I think so. She had a couple of brandies to steady her nerves. You’ll find her upstairs in the second bedroom with a woman officer. Incidentally, the whole place has been trashed.’
‘Trashed?’
‘Every room, as far as I could see. The first officers on the scene thought that a rave party had been held here, but then they found the body.’
‘Have you seen Dave Poole, my sergeant, Tom?’
‘He’s in the master bedroom with Doctor Mortlock. And the body.’ Watson paused. ‘That’s a pretty smart skipper you’ve got there, guv. He got to grips with the job the minute he arrived. He certainly knows what he’s doing at a crime scene.’
‘Of course he does; I trained him. As a matter of fact, he’s the best sergeant I’ve ever had working with me,’ I said. ‘And he’s got a degree in English from the University of London.’
‘What’s he doing in the Job, then?’ asked Watson, raising his eyebrows.
‘He told me it’s what he always wanted to do,’ I replied.
‘Must be mad,’ commented Watson, appearing to take the view that anyone who had been to university would be insane not to seek better paid employment in a cushier sort of job.
Dave Poole is of Caribbean origin. His grandfather, a medical doctor, arrived in this country from Jamaica in the 1950s and set up general practice in Bethnal Green. Dave’s father is a chartered accountant, but Dave, describing the pursuit of a professional career as a tedious occupation, joined the Metropolitan Police. He often claimed, to the discomfort of those who worried about diversity, that it made him the black sheep of the family. And just to pile it on, he frequently referred to himself as a colour-sergeant when talking to the more pompous officers. Like our beloved commander.
‘Where’s this neighbour now; the one who found the body? Sidney Miller, did you say?’ I got the conversation back to the task in hand. ‘Is he still around, Tom?’
‘I sent him back to his own house,’ said Watson, ‘but I told him that you’d want to see him at some time. The guy’s obviously a key witness. Not to the murder, of course, but he’s the best we’ve got so far.’
‘Where’s DI Ebdon?’ I asked, but Watson didn’t have to reply.
‘G’day, guv.’ Right on cue, my Australian DI, Kate Ebdon, emerged from behind the Metrolamps that were illuminating the front of the house; not that I could see any reason for turning the crime scene into something akin to a son-et-lumière. Kate was attired in a set of white coveralls, a pair of overshoes and the sort of mob cap that made her look like an escapee from a TV hospital soap opera. She was joined by one of Linda Mitchell’s assistants who handed me a similar set of garments.
‘Come with me, Kate, and we’ll see what’s going on.’ I donned the coveralls, but refused point-blank to wear the mob cap. ‘I understand that Mrs Gregory’s upstairs in the second bedroom.’
‘Yes. It seems to be the only room that hasn’t been turned over.’
‘Turned over?’
‘Whoever this drongo was, he’s wrecked the place. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
I was gradually learning Australian slang – or Strian, as Kate sometimes called it – and gathered that the burglar to whom she was referring was a total idiot.
‘Yes, Tom Watson told me it had been well and truly trashed.’ On the way into the house, I stopped to examine the front door. There was a standard rim lock, but no sign of a forced entry. No splintered woodwork surrounded the lock area and there were no broken panes in the glass panels, one of which bore a Neighbourhood Watch sticker.