Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

“There’s a surprise.”

He didn’t rise to the sarcasm. “Dorothy Field on the death certificate but we’ll stick to Mitzi, that’s what she was known as, to the few who did know her.”

“She was found in Grand Drive ten days before Christmas three years ago. Dead of repeated blows from something with sharp angles, most likely a brick. I see her getting into some curb crawler’s car, and he drove her to where she was attacked. Saw red—wanted what she wouldn’t provide, she tried ripping him off, plenty of possible reasons—snatched the nearest weapon, bashed her as she turned to run, kept bashing.” The theory was delivered with pointed lack of emotion, Superintendent Haggard back in full control.

“Drove her there... the car was seen?” Jill held up a hand. “Sorry, not thinking straight.” Mount Wolfe was one of the city’s best quarters, Grand Drive its best address.

“Exactly,” said Haggard. “Mitzi had started living rough, so she looked tatty. She’d had a mattress in a squat, that old factory on Victoria Quay, but the council demolished it the week before her death. The docks were her beat. She was wearing those big boots, like the movie—”

“ Pretty Woman ,” Jill suggested.

“Those’re the jokers, long boots and hot-pants and a ratty leather jacket with her chest hanging out—in December! The boots were borrowed from another girl, too tight, had to be sliced off her feet. Walking two miles from the docks to where she was found would have crippled her. And okay, it was dark, but a feller and a blatantly obvious hooker didn’t foot it all the way up the Mount and along to the end of Grand Drive without being noticed. Which they were not, house-to-house checks established that.”

Taking another, rationed sip of champagne—the pub sold it by the glass, else Haggard might not have stood for the drink of her choice, she suspected—Inspector Tierce frowned doubtfully.

“Grand Drive’s the last place a working girl would pick for business. It’s a private road, and they’re very territorial round there—sleeping policeman bumps every fifty yards to stop cars using it for a shortcut, and if a non-resident parks in the road, somebody rings us within minutes, wanting him shifted...”

“Stresses that the punter was a stranger here,” Haggard argued. “Businessman on an overnight, or he tired of motorway driving, detoured into town for a meal and a change of scene. Mitzi wasn’t a local, either. Londoner originally, family split up after she was sexually abused. Went on the game after absconding from a council home when she was fifteen. Summer before her death she worked the transport cafes. Reading. Bath, Bristol, drifted far as here and stayed.”

“For my money, the punter spotted her at the docks. Then they drove around. She had no crib, did the business in cars or alleys. Maybe this punter was scared of getting mugged if they stuck around the docks. Driving at random, they spot a quiet-looking street, plenty of deep shadow at the far end where the trees are. Must have seemed safe enough, and so it was—for him. Nobody saw them arrive or him leaving. Some pet lover daft enough to walk the dog in a hailstorm found Mitzi’s body that night, but she could have lain there till morning otherwise.”

“All known curb crawlers were interviewed and cleared. Ditto the Dodgy List.” Superintendent Haggard referred to the extensive register of sex offenders whose misdeeds ranged from assaults to stealing underwear off washing lines. “Copybook imperfect crime: guy blew a gasket and got the hell out. Ensuring the perfect result for him.”

“Thanks for hyping me up,” Inspector Tierce responded dryly. She’d been right, ambitious Haggard wanted to distance himself from defeat. Cutting corners to achieve it: in theory, if not always in practice, the assistant chief decreed what files she studied. Unless she made a stand, final disposition of the Dorothy “Mitzi” Field case would rest with her rather than the superintendent.

“I haven’t finished.” But he stayed silent for a moment before seeming to digress. “Know the old wives’ tale about a murderer having to return to the scene of the crime? Laughable! Only I’ve got a screwy notion that superstitions have a basis in fact. Anyway, a man has been hanging about in Grand Drive recently. Sitting in his car like he’s waiting for somebody... right where the kid’s body lay. He’s a local, which blows my passing stranger stuff out of the water—still, I’m not proud, I am happy to take any loose end offered.”

But that’s the point, Jill parried mentally, keeping a poker face, you’re not taking it. And a helpful colleague giving loose ends a little tug just might end up under the pile of rocks they release.

“This fellow,” Superintendent Haggard continued doggedly, “has been haunting Grand Drive. Uniformed branch looked into it after several complaints from residents. They’re a bit exclusive up there, not to mention paranoid about burglars, scared the bloke was casing their houses. What jumped out at me was one old girl being pretty certain the same chap, leastways somebody in an identical car. did the same thing at Christmastime last year. She was adamant that he was there for an hour or more every day for a week.”

He treated her to a phony’s smile. “Got to be interesting. Because whatever this man is, he’s no burglar. A pest and a pain in the arse, but no record and a steady job, good references. Uniforms didn’t have to trace him, they just waited, and sure enough, he rolled up and parked at the end of Grand Drive. Nowhere near his house, incidentally, and well off the route to it. He gave them a cock-and-bull yarn about birdwatching. They pressed him, and he mouthed off about police harassment, started teaching them the law.”

The smile turned into a sneer. “The man is Noel Sarum, you’ll have heard of him. Yes, the Noel Sarum. Spokesman for the Wessex chapter of Fight for Your Rights, does that disgraceful column in the local paper, born troublemaker. Very useful cover if he happens to have a down on hookers and let it get the better of him three years ago.”

Inspector Tierce set her flute of champagne aside. “You forgot your oven gloves. Ought to have them on, handing me a hot potato.”

Lance Haggard spoke a laugh. “You can deal with it. Routine review of the Field case, search for possible witnesses overlooked in the original trawl. Sarum can’t object to an approach on those terms—he’s always banging on about being ready to do his civic duty without knuckling under to mindless bullying.”

“You tell him that, then. It was your case.”

“Ah.” Superintendent Haggard took a long pull at his draught Guiness. “It wasn’t, you see. I’ve kept myself au fait , but... no, it’s not down to me.”

Shifting restively, he went off on another tangent. “My daughter... Beth was nearly eighteen back then, but her mental age is nearer six or seven. Lovely girl, couldn’t ask for a nicer, but never mind the current jargon, simpleminded. You knew about that,” he accused edgily.

Jill hadn’t, but she nodded and waited.

“Beth used to go to special school, homecraft and so forth.... She may have to look after herself when me and the wife have snuffed it. I couldn’t give Beth a lift every day. No problem, bus stop outside our house. Nell sees the girl aboard, three stops later, out she gets. But one night a water main burst, and the bus went a different way. Beth was set down two streets from us. It confused her.

“Nell phoned me, frantic, when the girl was an hour overdue. I pulled rank, had the area cars searching. What we hadn’t imagined was Beth getting on another bus, she thought they all went to our house. This one’s terminus was the docks, and the driver made her get out. She was crying but he didn’t want to know.”