Gladys looked down. ‘Winston died a few years ago. He was robbed and banged his head badly on the pavement. They said a bleed on the brain killed him.’
Jane felt embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry, Gladys, I didn’t realize.’
‘It’s all right, dear, you weren’t to know. Your lot caught the thugs who done it — they got ten years each, but I think they should have got life. They stole mine.’
Jane thanked Gladys for her assistance, then went to see how Lawrence was getting on. As she was walking along the corridor towards the first-floor stairs, she came across Moran talking to Gibbs.
‘Edwards is on the way here with more troops. There’s no trace on criminal records for a Ben Smith with the date of birth the manager gave us. This seems pretty cut and dry, guv, what with the body being in Smith’s room and he appears to have done a runner,’ Gibbs said.
‘Let’s hope so, Spencer. How’d it go with the cleaner, Jane?’ Moran asked.
Jane briefed them on what Gladys had told her, emphasizing the finding of the heroin paraphernalia under the bed.
Moran frowned. ‘If Smith was a junkie who was referred to the hostel by social services, then I’d have thought he’d have a record for drugs-related offences.’
‘The manager could have got Smith’s birth date wrong on the residents’ form,’ Gibbs remarked.
‘It’s possible. Run a check with social services later. Let’s have a look at the scene and see what Lawrence has to say.’
They went upstairs to room six. Lawrence had wedged the door open and there was a strong smell of stale alcohol and nicotine in the room. The victim was lying face down. Blood had run through her light brown hair and down the side of her face, forming a deep red pool on the cheap grey carpet. The woman was wearing a brown embroidered knee-length shearling coat, red corduroy skirt and black patent leather calf boots.
Already gloved up, Lawrence knelt beside the body, placing the jagged upper half of a broken white wine bottle in a box to preserve it for fingerprints. Jane could see the uneasiness on Lawrence’s face as he turned and looked at them.
‘Did the bang on the head kill her?’ Moran asked.
Lawrence shook his head. ‘It’s more likely this did,’ he said, and slowly lifted back the collar of her coat to reveal a blood stained white cord. ‘For some strange reason it looks like the killer pulled the collar up in a pointless attempt to conceal the cord on this victim as well as the unidentified one. The cord looks to be the same type and it’s tied in a slip knot as well.’
Moran looked shaken. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He banged his hand on the doorframe. ‘Fucking press are going to be all over this and crucify us...’
‘On the positive side, at least we have Ben Smith’s details and his description now, guv,’ Gibbs interjected.
‘That could be a fucking alias for all we know. Is there anything to identify her?’
‘No. Her coat pockets are empty and there’s no sign of a handbag,’ Lawrence replied.
‘I want you to carry out a thorough fingerprint examination of this room and get every lift checked against criminal records ASAP,’ Moran said anxiously.
‘I was going to do that anyway, sir. I’ll start with things most likely to have been touched recently by the suspect. That said, we will probably get a lot of hits against criminals as the room would have been used by a lot of residents with previous convictions.’
‘Just do it, Paul,’ Moran barked.
‘Good to see there’s peace and harmony in the work place.’ Professor Martin smiled as he approached, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. ‘This has been a busy few days. So what have you got for me this time?’ he asked.
Moran wasn’t amused by Martin’s frivolity.
Lawrence attempted to lighten the tense atmosphere. ‘Our victim awaits you... As do we, with baited breath, Professor.’ Lawrence bowed towards Martin and waved his arm in a subservient manner.
‘Await, yes, but I fear the victim does not breathe, otherwise I would not have been called here,’ Martin replied and looked at Moran, who was still not amused.
Jane remembered being upset by the dark humor when she first joined the police. However, it didn’t take her long to realize it was police officers’ way of dealing with traumatic situations to make them more manageable. She remembered Lawrence once saying to her, ‘If you didn’t laugh, Jane, you’d cry.’
Lawrence confirmed that he had photographed the room and body, then showed Martin an exhibits box filled with bits of broken glass and the jagged half of the white wine bottle.
‘These were on the floor around her and there’s still some fragments in her hair. There was also a pair of torn knickers on the floor, which I’ve packaged.’
Martin knelt beside the body and looked closely at the back of her head and at the rope. He then hitched up the coat and skirt, reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic tube containing a thermometer. Removing the thermometer, he took a rectal temperature of the victim.
Martin stood up. ‘The injury to her head is obviously from the wine bottle, and with her eyes and tongue protruding, I would say she was strangled with the cord. I can be more exact about the mechanics of her death once I’ve examined her at the mortuary.’
Martin asked Lawrence to place a plastic body sheet beside the right side of the body, then they slowly turned the victim onto her back on top of the sheet. Even though Jane knew what to expect, it was shocking to see the woman’s bulging eyes and protruding tongue, which were classic signs of strangulation. The victim’s face was contorted and bloodstained, but Martin estimated she was in her early to mid-twenties. He picked up her left arm and, holding it just above the elbow joint and wrist, he tried to move it up and down.
‘Body’s rigid from rigor mortis, so she’s been dead for at least twelve hours or longer. Taking into account the body temperature and skin discoloration, I’d say she was killed between six p.m. and ten p.m. yesterday evening.’
Moran looked at his notebook. ‘The hostel manager said visiting hours were three to four in the afternoon, so she must have snuck in and come to the room.’
‘She might be a hooker?’ Gibbs remarked.
‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I do a full post-mortem on her, but if I were a gambling man, I’d say that this poor soul was murdered by the same person as your first victim. She’s not wearing any rings, so might be single, but she’s got a distinctive mole on the right side of her lip, which might help with identifying her,’ Martin said.
‘DS Lawrence and the lab have forensically linked Mrs. Hastings’ murder to the unknown victim,’ Moran said.
‘Then you have a multiple killer at large, DCI Moran,’ Martin said coldly.
Moran felt someone looking over his shoulder and turned to see that it was the hostel manager.
‘She looks a bit of a mess. I told you some of the residents here were low life. Hope you catch that bastard Ben Smith. They should bring back hanging for the likes of him. Or burn him at the stake, like the good old days.’
‘You shouldn’t be in this area; it’s a crime scene,’ Moran said in a raised voice.
‘I just came to tell yer Eric’s here.’
‘Who’s Eric?’ a puzzled Moran asked.
‘The warden who was on late shift. Silly bugger said he let a woman in last night to visit Smith.’
Moran and Gibbs went to interview Eric in the manager’s office whilst Jane stayed to assist Lawrence. Edwards had now arrived from the station with six colleagues and they were interviewing the residents in the communal room.
Eric was in his late fifties, grey-haired and softly spoken.
‘It was about seven p.m. when I heard someone knocking on the front door. I opened it and there was a young woman standing there. I’d never seen her before and asked what she wanted.’