What she had to do was ensure the scene was managed properly, that evidence was preserved — and not destroyed by a procession of size 10’s — that everything was properly documented and she didn’t show her arse.
She scrunched out the cigarette she had been smoking, took things slowly and made sure her eager beaver detectives did not rush her.
Firstly she looked at the outside of the premises.
It was a garage. One of those one- or two-man operations found in back streets or on small industrial estates and the like. Peter’s Motor’s was the miss-spelt name on the hand-painted sign. There was one big sliding door — closed — next to which was a normalsized door — open. Adjacent to the building was a small tarmacked area with a sign, again hand-painted, which read MOT/Repair’s only. A couple of old bangers were parked thereon.
Danny was already beginning to draw conclusions about the sort of person she expected this Peter, the owner of Peter’s Motor’s, would be.
A uniformed Constable stood by the door, clipboard in hand, logging the comings and goings. A DC told her that this particular officer had been first on the scene. She approached him, listened, asked a few questions, probed deeper on some issues and told him what a good job he had done. He appeared suitably pleased.
Danny entered the garage after skim-reading the officer’s log.
She was glad that neither a pathologist nor scientific support had yet landed on the scene. Not that their input and observations weren’t crucial. It was just that they were becoming increasingly a pain as more and more films and books appeared portraying them as detectives; they all wanted to solve the crimes these days, were always coming up with theories — usually wrong or just misguided — and were sometimes convinced they had more investigative skills than real detectives.
Time spent simply observing a scene, drawing conclusions and hypotheses, was invaluable to a detective. And the more people there were crawling round, the harder that was to do.
Danny stood inside the threshold, took a deep breath, used her eyes.
It was not a big garage, but was divided into three distinct areas. To her right were two hydraulic run-on car ramps, one straddling an inspection pit. From where she stood she could not see into the pit and did not want to — yet. The next section of the garage was an area of concrete long and wide enough to fit a car on comfortably; beyond that a massive sheet of polythene hung down from the roof like a huge curtain, dividing off the third section of the garage. Danny guessed this was the paint shop. She winced when she thought about the quality of resprays done in there. Hardly a clinical environment.
Immediately to her left was a door marked Storeroom. In front of her was a rickety wooden staircase leading up to an office above the store. She could hear voices and movement up there. She ignored that and looked around the garage again. It was a typical backstreet set-up. Tools scattered around. Cutting and welding gear. Tyre-repair equipment. Oily floors. A dirty sink. A kettle and grubby cups. An old radio with a circular tuning dial. Overalls hung up on hooks. Copies of the Sun on a work-bench. A disgusting four-year-old calendar on the wall.
And a vehicle inspection pit.
Two chairs were set near to it, one with a puddle on it, the other smeared with what was obviously excrement. A metal pipe lay discarded on the floor, next to the chairs. Two planks of wood had been placed parallel to the pit, one lying on top of the other.
Think evidence preservation, Danny instructed herself.
She had been informed there were three bodies in the pit, all with head wounds, probably caused by a firearm. The oily floor surrounding the pit — surely a health and safety hazard — had shoeprints in it. They could be vital. Danny wondered if she really needed to go and look into the pit at this stage of the game and risk ruining evidence. Obviously police officers had been to peer in prior to her arrival, so did she really need to add her footprints as well?
As senior officer on the scene, she decided she did. She bit her bottom lip, considering how best to do this without destroying evidence.
In the end she decided that no one else who was not essential to the investigation would enter the premises. Bobbies were nosy by nature, but they would have to be kept at bay. Secondly, she would indicate a route to the edge of the vehicle inspection pit which everyone would use until all the necessary surrounding evidence had been lifted.
She leaned back out of the door and spoke to the PC who was acting as doorman. ‘No one else comes in here, Tom. My orders — no one. Got that?’ He nodded. ‘Go to the CID car and get that roll of cordon tape from the passenger footwell, please.’
Danny decided on the route to the pit — a straight line from the door which she marked by laying two lengths of cordon tape parallel to each other on the floor, about a foot apart. When the path was marked she walked down it and peered into the dark pit which was about four and a half feet deep.
Her eyes closed momentarily. ‘Oh, Cheryl,’ she said sadly, ‘just what I feared. Shit!’ She shuddered a deep sigh of revulsion and squatted down on her haunches, spending several quiet minutes in that position, gazing down at the three bodies lying one on top of another. Initially she had been looking through sheer fascination, then her detective mind clicked in and took her on to analysis and evidence.
‘ Hell of a sight for a woman to see,’ a voice said behind her. Danny recognised the dulcet tones of Dave Seymour, one of the detectives on her team. He was very close to retirement, had been on CID for most of his service and was one of the most persuasive arguments for disbanding the whole department. He was everything that was bad about the CID: overweight, sexist, racist, homophobic, narrow-minded and difficult to supervise. Henry Christie could get Seymour eating out of his hand; Danny, however, had a lot to prove to Seymour and the biggest hurdle she faced was that she was a woman. And women should not be detectives, particularly not Detective Sergeants — at least, as far as Seymour was concerned. ‘Let’ em do what they’re good at,’ he often said. ‘Looking after kids and brewing up.’
Danny rose to her feet and noticed Seymour was standing outside the path margins. She knew, however, he had been up in the office talking to the garage proprietor, Peter Maynard. Danny scanned Seymour. In response to his opening remark, she said, ‘Yes, Dave, you are a hell of a sight, but you’ve got to make the best of what God gives you.’
Seymour’s mouth dropped. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘ I know you didn’t, sweetheart.’ She gave him a triumphant grin, then indicated the cordon tape. ‘This is the route to the scene from the door, Dave. For the time being, until somebody tells us different, that’s what we’ll all keep to. What does the owner have to say?’
‘ Denies all knowledge, as he would. Says no one but himself has keys to the place and he doesn’t recognise any of the deceased.’
‘ Do you believe him?’
‘ No. First of all, there’s no sign of a forced entry, which tells me the place was either left open, or someone does have the keys. Secondly, he’s a fly bastard — but he’s very, very nervous.’
‘ As he should be… he’s our first suspect. Let’s speak to him in the five-star comfort of the copshop.’ Danny raised her eyebrows, then had a thought. Her original intention had been to take Peter down to the station. That, however, presented problems in terms of dealing with him thoroughly. If he was not under arrest, he had the right to get up and walk away at any point if he so wished. It would be better if he was arrested. That way he couldn’t go anywhere, and it gave the police more powers to search and seize evidence, including bodily fluids and tissue — which might be a good idea. ‘Lock him up,’ she told Seymour.