Lee Weeks: Frozen Grave

‘The owner of the grey Ford over there said he parked here at 8.10 last evening and he didn’t see it then.’

Carter squatted down by the driver’s side and felt beneath the wheel arch.

‘I checked there, sir,’ the patrol officer said. ‘No keys.’

Carter stood and peered in through the windows.

‘No sign of her shoes, coat. Nothing left on the seats. But, it looks messy and there is a definite print on the driver’s door frame,’ he said as he cupped his hands against the glass to keep out the glare. ‘Some kind of substance on the back passenger’s window; smears on the seat covers. Someone’s been in here who shouldn’t have. Plus…’ He stood and looked down the street. ‘She wouldn’t have walked from here – too far.’ He looked back at the car and up at the tree above it. ‘She didn’t park it here either. Even if she only intended to park here for an hour, she wouldn’t have left it here like this. Not at that time of night when the pigeons are roosting, and she’d have parked it straight.’

Carter moved round to the back of the car and looked through the rear window, before stopping to listen to the noise of people coming from further down the street.

‘What’s down there?’ he asked.

‘The Church of Light, sir. It’s a multi-denominational church,’ replied the officer.

Willis began looking it up on her phone. ‘It’s also a bad-weather shelter run by a religious charity called Faith and Light,’ she said, reading off the information.

Carter turned to her. ‘Did you remember seeing any religious stuff at Olivia’s flat?’

Willis shook her head. ‘No, no crucifixes, no Buddhas. Not sure what else to look for. What does multi-denominational look like?’

‘Let’s find out,’ said Carter as he locked up the car.

They walked down the road and crossed a car park to a flat-roofed, two-storey block next to a small steepled church. Three people were sharing a cigarette in the church entrance.

Willis kept reading the information from her phone:

‘It has accommodation for up to twenty people sharing rooms.’

‘That must be in one of those buildings behind,’ Carter said, glancing around the car park.

The smell of breakfast greeted them as they opened the door into the hostel. It was coming from a small canteen, just a handful of tables, straight ahead. Immediately to the right was a busy area where there were three PCs and people sitting around waiting to use them. There was the noise of dishes and chatter. The place was busy.

‘Hello, mate – sorry to interrupt. Who’s in charge here?’ Carter asked a young man waiting for the computer.

‘Simon. Over there.’ He nodded in the direction of the café counter and to a dark-haired man in a white overall disappearing through double doors behind.

‘Appreciate it.’

They walked behind the counter and through to the kitchen beyond. There were two women inside, clearing up, loading a dishwasher. The man they’d followed in was about to start drying pots from the draining board.

Carter showed his warrant card. ‘Simon – are you in charge? Can we have a word?’

‘Yes, of course.’ His voice was soft public school. He put down his tea towel, took off his overall and hung it on a row of pegs to the right of the door.’ We can talk in my office.’ He had curly dark hair, long on the top, almost shaved at the sides. He had a pensive look with a ready-made frown line across his forehead. His dark eyebrows and brown eyes gave him a Spanish look, although his skin was too pale to be Mediterranean. He was very young-looking, thought Carter.

He escorted them through to a room off the kitchen and closed the door after him.

‘I’d ask you both to sit but there’s only one chair, which you’re welcome to. Please?’ He smiled. His eyes flitted from one detective to the other.

‘No need.’ Carter smiled. The room was small enough to have been a storeroom at one time. It had no window. ‘We won’t keep you long.’

He sat with his back to his monitor, his hands in his lap, waiting.

‘How can I help you?’

He pushed his hair away from his forehead. The floppy collar on his polo-shirt was half sticking up.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Carter and this is Detective Constable Willis. You are Simon…?’

‘Smith. How can I help?’

‘A woman died near here last night, Mr Smith – on Parade Street,’ said Carter. ‘Do you know it?’

‘Yes, I do. What happened?’

‘We don’t know exactly. Her body was found this morning after a tip-off from an anonymous caller. We think she went into the building early yesterday evening. What do you know about the street?’

‘There are problems there all the time, fights over drink. It’s where the younger drug addicts congregate as well as the older drinkers. It’s not somewhere you’d expect a woman to sleep. It’s too dangerous.’

‘We are pretty sure we know the identity of the victim,’ began Carter. ‘Her name was Olivia Grantham. She was a lawyer working in London Bridge. Does that name mean anything to you, Mr Smith?’ Simon shook his head. ‘We think several people would have seen what happened to her and might have been involved. Her car was parked just down the road from here. As this is the nearest homeless centre to Parade Street, we were hoping that someone here might know something. Did you notice anything that made you think that something wasn’t right yesterday evening or this morning?’

‘No, sorry. Last night there were the usual in. It’s always chaotic. And I’ve been rushed off my feet this morning. The cold weather is bringing everyone in for some hot food.’ He paused, looked at Carter’s face and shrugged. ‘Sorry. I tend to be so busy with the hostel I don’t have time to look a couple of streets away. But a lawyer sleeping rough? It wouldn’t be the first time – it can happen to anyone, you know.’

‘Yes. But she wasn’t homeless.’

Willis could see the tension building in Carter’s shoulders. He had the same problem talking to Sandford when they first started working together. Carter had an issue with posh accents.

‘We believe that there would have been a substantial amount of blood,’ said Willis. ‘Both from the victim and from fighting that seems to have gone on around the time she was killed.’

‘They would have been high on drink and other substances,’ added Carter.

‘It’s not likely to be someone from here then. Substance abuse is carefully monitored her. We don’t allow people in here who are high on anything.’

‘What about any of your staff? Might one of them be able to help us – they might have seen something?’ Carter’s stocky presence filled the small office, his feet planted wide in his expensive shiny shoes, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He tipped his weight slightly forward over the desk, where Simon was now sitting half-turned towards his PC monitor, his hands rested on a pile of papers on his desk.

He shrugged. ‘Ask them, by all means.’

Willis said little. She was trying to guess Smith’s background: expensive public school, family money. The kind of person you would expect to be in a job with a massive salary for doing very little. But this wasn’t the set of Made in Chelsea . This wasn’t the least bit glamorous.

‘How does it work here?’ she asked. ‘How does someone find you?’

‘People are referred to us, by their GP, by the local police, council homeless department, mental-health crisis management – several ways. There are forms to fill out and then they have to pay in advance for their next-day accommodation if they want to secure it. If we have room, we take them in.’

‘So who are the ones that don’t get a place in here?’ asked Carter.