Her maiden name had been Althea Emma Synon, born 1984, married one David Moore at Camden Town Hall in August 2005.
‘Aged all of twenty-one,’ said Guleed. ‘How old was he?’
According to his side of the marriage certificate, David Moore had been forty-four, having been born in Handbridge, Chester, wherever that was, went to Manchester University and described himself on his social media as a social entrepreneur, whatever that was.
‘Professional freelance charity worker,’ said Guleed.
‘Does that make us Social Cohesion Entrepreneurs?’ I asked.
‘Depends on the shout,’ said Guleed. ‘Doesn’t it?’
Althea Emma Moore, née Synon, lived in the basement flat of a semi-detached Victorian villa on Onslow Road, whose owners, like most of the local residents, had concreted over the front garden the better to create off-road parking for their 4 × 4. Guleed mercifully found a space one house down and we parked up while the inside inquiry office finished texting us the remains of the IIP report.
We’d only been there for five minutes when an IRV pulled up beside us – which was a record even for me and Guleed. Now, personally, I just flash my warrant card, give a ‘we’re all comrades together’ grin, and let them drive on. But Guleed always feels the need to make a production out of it. I reckon it’s because she’s a sergeant and feels beholden to set an example.
She was thwarted this time because, before the PC on the passenger side got a chance to ask Guleed why she was loitering while wearing a hijab in a built-up area, the driver leant forward to get a look at us and recognised me.
‘Is that you, Peter?’ she said. ‘You on a job?’
Her name was, I kid you not, Tiffany Walvoord, and she had been part of the emergency response team that helped extricate me from that unfortunate business in Kew.
‘Don’t worry, Tiff,’ I said. ‘Just a notification and statement.’
‘Promise?’ said Tiffany.
‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘If it gets interesting, do you want me to call you?’
‘No,’ said Tiffany. ‘I want you to wait half an hour until I’m off shift.’
I said I’d see what I could do, and Tiffany drove off. Which was a lucky escape for her mate.
‘You’re far too easy about this sort of thing,’ said Guleed, but she left it there while we pieced together Althea Moore’s life from the random driftwood of her electronic presence. Once we thought we had enough for an interview strategy, we climbed out of the Hyundai and headed for the steps down to the basement.
As we did, I caught site of a pale face in a first-floor window of a neighbouring house. This was probably the person who’d reported our presence earlier, but they pulled back before I could get a good look.
Because it was a Victorian town house it had a half-basement, which meant that the original denizens, usually servants, could have a bit of a view. Although, in this modern enlightened age, that view was of the recycling bins and the rear end of a Toyota Land Cruiser. It also meant that the occupant got a good view of us clambering down the narrow tradesman’s steps to the front door, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise when it was opened as soon as we arrived.
‘Have you heard the good news about Jesus?’ she asked.
She was a tall, hippy white woman in a green tracksuit bottom and black T-shirt with an anthropomorphised half-peeled banana in dark glasses on the front. Her blonde hair was half hidden under a red and white polka-dot scarf. She had wide-set blue eyes and a big, patently fraudulent, smile. We both recognised her from her social media pictures as Althea Moore.
‘No,’ I said as I showed her my warrant card. ‘I am the servant of a higher power.’
‘You’re police?’ asked Althea cautiously.
‘Yes,’ said Guleed, and she gave me a dirty look. ‘I’m DS Guleed. I work at Belgravia Police Station, and this is DC Grant. Are you Althea Moore?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but I thought you were Mormons.’
‘May we come in?’ said Guleed. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news.’
Althea remained steadfastly in the doorway and narrowed her eyes.
‘What kind of bad news?’
‘The kind you might want to sit down for,’ said Guleed.
‘Oh dear,’ said Althea, and she turned and led us inside.
The basement flat was a bog-standard London conversion, with what had once been the kitchen and the servants’ quarters knocked through into two rooms separated by a wooden shutter screen, kitchenette in one corner, bathroom and toilet in an extension out into the back area.
‘Watch out for the carpet,’ said Althea.
The non-kitchen area had been carpeted at some point in the Neolithic, but it was impossible to tell what colour the shag pile was because it was smothered in foam. A three-piece suite had been piled up against the wall with a coffee table, TV, cheap turntable, amp and speakers piled on top.
Guleed was about to say that Althea might want to sit down, but it was obvious that wasn’t going to happen in the front room.
‘Yeah,’ said Althea, looking around. ‘You’ve kind of caught me doing a bit of a spring clean.’
And not a bad job for an amateur, I thought, although she needed to get into the corners with a J-cloth on a stick. We ended up in the bedroom with Althea perched on a bare and, I guessed, recently flipped-over mattress. She had to move a roughly folded pile of freshly laundered bedding and a plastic bag full of jumble to make enough room. Me and Guleed tried to stand back so we wouldn’t loom. As police, we have nothing against looming in principle. But you’re not supposed to do it during a notification.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news,’ said Guleed again – just to get us back on track.
‘Oh,’ said Althea, and because she’d watched the same police dramas as everyone else, ‘Who?’
‘David Moore,’ said Guleed. ‘Who we believe is your former husband.’
Althea stared up at Guleed and repeated, ‘Oh.’
You never know how someone is going to react to a notification, so we gave her about a minute of staring blankly before trying to move the conversation on.
‘I’m afraid he was found dead this morning at the London Silver Vaults,’ said Guleed.
We were watching carefully for a reaction, but not a sausage.
Althea shook her head as if trying to clear her thoughts.
‘How?’ she asked.
‘He was murdered,’ I said.
I’ve done my share of notifications. I’ve been shouted at, cried on, and on one memorable time a relative broke into song. But this was the flattest response I’d ever seen. I wasn’t sure the news had sunk in yet.
Or, said the little policeman in my head, she’s trying to work out what lies to tell.
Althea told us that they’d separated ten years ago, and got divorced largely by post. There weren’t any kids or property worth talking about, so nothing to fight over.
‘He went his way and I went mine,’ she said in the same tone she’d described moving into the basement flat – which she’d inherited from her grandmother.
It wasn’t until Guleed asked her when she’d last seen her ex-husband that Althea reacted. Not much of a reaction, just a bit of a start and quick look around as if checking to see if we were being overheard.
‘He came over last night,’ she said.
Given that she hadn’t seen him for years, it had been a bit of a surprise to find him ringing her doorbell – Althea hadn’t even been sure that he had her address.
‘How did he seem?’ asked Guleed.
‘What?’
‘Was he upset, happy, calm?’ said Guleed. ‘What was his mood?’