Never Forget

Chapter 1

20th September

‘Dozens of separate stab wounds and it appears that none of them would have killed her. It’s possible she died because she drowned in her own blood… Come in, Nina. Welcome to Operation Guard.’

I hadn’t even been aware that DCI Nottingham knew my name – but then, as I was the only one who hadn’t made it to the briefing on time, I guessed he’d worked it out. The man wasn’t a detective chief inspector for nothing.

About half an hour earlier, my detective sergeant, Sandra Beckensale, had called me into her office and, with her usual look of disdain, broken the news that I was to go and work with Serious Crime. ‘You’re to get yourself over to Divisional HQ as soon as you can. They want someone who can work long hours for the next couple of weeks and can be spared here. I told them that you’re opinionated, loud, often aggressive, and that quite frankly I’d be glad to be shot of you.’

Cheers, you old hag, I thought to myself. Usually I would say it to her face too, but I wanted to avoid a row and get going. If she’d really said all that, it was a wonder they hadn’t told her to send someone else.

‘I did add, though…’ she paused as if the next words were bile in her throat ‘…that you are a good worker, seem to get on with most people and can be relied upon to deal with anything competently, from mortgage fraud to our favourite shoplifter Joe. So you’re to go, and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Oh, and of course,’ she added, rummaging through her handbag for a lighter to accompany the cigarette she was already holding, ‘give us a call if you have any welfare issues.’

Not likely. The miserable cow didn’t even look up as she said it. I went out into the main office and looked for my friend Laura. I wanted to tell her I wouldn’t be around for a couple of weeks, and also to find out how she was fixed if it turned out that they needed any extra help. She wasn’t at her desk by the window, so I scribbled her a note, grabbed my stuff and left for Divisional HQ.

On the way I thought about the defrosting dinner in my kitchen sink, the Pilates class I wasn’t going to make it to and how I really hated getting to briefings late. It always made the boss focus on you, and that usually meant that a griefy job was more likely to come your way. I also thought about long-time criminal Joe Bring. Before my speedy departure had been arranged, I’d been assigned to interview Joe. He’d been arrested coming out of Tesco Express with three chickens down the front of his joggers. Tesco didn’t want their chickens back. That had made me smile. It was the little things in this job that cheered me up. That, and of course walking down the steps of the Crown Court following a jury’s guilty verdict. I’d been quite looking forward to asking Joe a few questions under caution. Although he smelt bad – as if he had poultry in his pants – he was actually quite a laugh. He never gave me a difficult time and usually didn’t want a solicitor. There wasn’t really much point when you’d been caught with food secreted in your underwear.

When I got to the conference room at Divisional HQ, it was already packed. There must have been sixty people there. Some I knew, but most I didn’t. I’d never met DCI Nottingham but I had heard of him – it was hard to not hear of people in a force the size of ours. We were a county force, bordering London, but with our own crimes and problems keeping us as busy as the capital.

The room contained a handful of uniform lads and lasses – I knew all of them as they, like me, were local – but there were a lot of older detectives in the room too. As a group, I reckoned that we had over a thousand years’ policing between us. Pretty scary when you put it like that.

As I squeezed my way to a space at the back, I spotted John Wing, another detective from my nick. I was pleased he was here as we got on well. He also had a few years’ more experience than me in CID and had worked on a number of murders. I stood next to him and whispered, ‘Fill me in later, Wingsy?’

‘No worries, Nin.’

The huge white projection screen in the room was showing a map of the area where the body had been discovered.

‘For those who have just come in, this is where our victim, Amanda Bell, was found.’ DCI Nottingham pointed to a large green area on the map and explained that it was the site of an old hospital, recently burnt down, and shortly to be turned into a new housing estate. ‘The body was here, behind some bushes, fairly well hidden, and was found by a member of the public, Graham Redman, who was out walking his dog.’ The DCI pointed to a corner in the northwestern part of the site close to the edge of the green area. ‘Mr Redman has been spoken to by local officers and his statement taken. Absolutely no reason to suspect him of anything at this stage. We haven’t had the post mortem yet, but early indications are that death was some time before Miss Bell was found. I’ll let you know more when I return from the PM.

‘She was found at 7.45 this morning and patrols were called straight away by our witness at the scene, using his mobile. Nearest patrol was on the dual carriageway the other side of the old hospital site and took three minutes to get there. Crime scene investigators have taken photos and I’ll show you where the body was found and images of Miss Bell’s body in just a minute. Right – Kim, I know that you’ve had an update from Harry Powell, the family liaison officer who’s with the family now. What has Harry passed on to you about Miss Bell?’

The DCI was addressing a woman dressed in a white shirt and crisp black suit, about thirty-five years old, blonde, and unfamiliar to me. She was sitting by the door and sixty or so heads turned to look at her as she spoke, amid a rustle of paper as notebooks were opened and pens poised.

‘Well, boss, her full name is Amanda Janine Bell, born 19th July 1978, last known address of 127 Upper Bond Street, Berrybourne. She had no recent boyfriend or partner and has one young son, an eight-year-old boy, Kyle Bell, who lives with his dad. While that’s unusual, from what I can glean it all seems to be very amicable, but I’ll find out more later from Harry when I speak to him again. Kyle is understandably very distressed. The ex, James or Jim Hamilton, is on hand to identify the body as we haven’t been able to locate any other relative nearby – but we’re working on it.’

I was distracted by Wingsy passing me a piece of paper. It was a list of names and phone numbers, with DCI Eric Nottingham at the top, then DI Simon Patterson, followed by the details of everyone in the room, except the latecomers like me. I added ‘DC Nina Foster’, my phone number and ‘Borough Staff’. Above my name was that of DS Harry Powell, presumably added by someone other than Harry, since he was elsewhere coping with the grief of an eight-year-old who was never going to see his mum again. Not the job for me. I could cope with the dead just fine, but the grieving were too much for me. Harry and I went back several years, professionally. Sadly for me, he was another happily married man. He’d been my first DS, and a more decent bloke you’d be hard pushed to meet. I hoped that I’d catch up with him at some point during the investigation.

Kim, who I learned from the contact list was Detective Sergeant Kim Cotton, continued with a very brief history of Operation Guard’s victim. Amanda Bell had few relatives, a couple of close friends, and had been arrested on four occasions: once as a teenager for shoplifting, once as an adult for shoplifting, once for drunk and disorderly and the final time, a month ago, for assault. As a result, establishing her identity had been simple. Her most recent arrest had been by PC Ollie Murphy, who had also been the nearby patrol on the dual carriageway that had been called to the body at 7.45am. He had thought he’d recognised her but, because of the blood and the position of the body, he hadn’t been certain. He hadn’t moved the body or turned it over to identify her, as minimum disturbance at the scene of an obvious death was always the correct procedure; anything else might destroy evidence.

I listened as Kim explained that Amanda was known to have worked as a prostitute in the area and had mainly used the money to buy alcohol. Drugs, unusually, did not seem to be her vice of choice. Despite the four arrests, Amanda’s police record consisted only of one caution for shoplifting and a marker for being on police bail for the assault. It wasn’t much of a criminal record in the scheme of things. We did however have her DNA, photograph and fingerprints.

‘Thanks, Kim,’ said Eric Nottingham when Kim finished reporting Harry Powell’s insight so far into Amanda Bell’s life. ‘Harry is, of course, getting the ex-partner’s movements to rule him in or out.’ He said the last to Kim, receiving an efficient nod in return, before continuing, ‘Here are the photos from the hospital site, or scene one as it now is.’

The area had a bank of trees running along its perimeter, separating it from the dual carriageway on one side and school playing fields on the other. Amanda had been found several metres from the trees, hidden among low bushes and shrubs. Without passing by close to the body, it would have been unlikely for anyone to stumble across her lonely grave. The photos taken from the most obvious approach path showed her lying among the thorns. If she had been alive when thrown into the scrub, I could imagine her wondering if there was anywhere lonelier on earth. What an awful way to go.

Next, Amanda’s face filled the screen. The crime scene investigator had taken a close-up of the head and shoulders. Her expression wasn’t scared, at peace or terrified. She just looked dead. As the photos scanned out from the facial close-up they showed the broken, dumped body of a prematurely middle-aged woman, dressed in a dirty, tattered skirt which was raised slightly, caught on the low-lying branches. The thin, thorny extensions held berries coloured bright red, in stark contrast to Amanda’s exposed flesh, her white legs, streaked dark with a mixture of dried, smeared blood and mud.

She was lying on her left side but with her right leg extended, as if to stop her toppling forward on to her face. Her left arm was out in front of her and her right hand tucked underneath her. It was as if she’d been reaching for something, with maximum effort, but then it had all became too much.

My thoughts were interrupted by Nottingham’s voice as he said, ‘The dark marks you can see here on her legs are stab wounds. They cover her body. It’s difficult to see from the way Miss Bell is lying, but her navy blue top is open at the back. It would appear it’s been cut with a knife as there’s a single, clean slit. The CSI had difficulty taking photos from behind the body, as you can see, because of this very dense and spiky scrubland.’

By the time he’d finished talking us through the evidence, Nottingham looked energised, well up for the task. Solving murders had that effect. ‘We have loads to do. I’ve declared this a Category A murder, and that means pulling out all the stops. Right now we believe we’re dealing with a stranger murder, a body in a public place, which may either be the kill site or the dump site. However, I’m not ruling anything out at the moment. There is no obvious motive and we’re talking multiple injuries so the press are bound to pick up on that soon; the media release from our press office is being put together. I’ll leave Kim to assign roles and tasks to you all. I’ve kept it short, as time is getting on and I want you out on the ground. We’ll have another briefing in here at six. Either be here or call Kim with your updates and reasons why you won’t be. Someone take the contact sheet and make copies for everyone, so we can keep in touch with you all. Thanks, everyone. It’ll be a late one.’

We began filing out of the room towards fresher air, some people pausing to talk to those in charge, check details and submit paperwork.

‘Wingsy, long time no see. How’ve you been?’ I asked as I leant over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

‘I’m good. Great to see you, Nin. How did you manage to get on this enquiry?’

‘Right place, right time, I suppose. I was just off to interview Joe Bring when my DS told me to get to Divisional HQ to help out.’

‘The great farmyard thief of the county. Nice one. See if we can work together, shall we? You can tell me all about that Portuguese bloke you were seeing.’

‘He was Russian and also married. Oh, yeah, and a total wanker to boot.’

‘You do pick ’em, Nin. Come on, let’s have a word with Kim and see what she’s got for us.’

Photocopying the contact list was my first job. I made seventy copies just in case, while Wingsy continued to wind me up. ‘Well done, Detective Foster. Your first job in the murder investigation team and you appear not to have cocked it up. If only your love life was so easily solved.’

‘Or this murder, you jug-eared halfwit.’

Chapter 2

‘How long are we going to give this bloke to come home?’ I asked Wingsy, forty minutes later. Our first enquiry had taken us to the registered home address of a vehicle seen travelling close to Amanda Bell’s body. We were sitting in our unmarked car outside an attractive, well-kept detached house on one of the county’s many new housing estates. The lights were off and it appeared to be empty. There were only a few other vehicles parked on the street: a painter and decorator’s van about five doors away from our target premises, and a couple of other cars outside various houses.

‘We’ve only been here twenty minutes. Stop being such a miserable fucking cow and have some patience. No wonder blokes keep chucking you.’

‘I think you’ll find, dickwad, that I finished with the last one.’

‘What, the married last one?’

‘Yes, the married last one. I’ve missed working with you, you know. Why’d you leave our team?’

Wingsy and I had known each other for about ten years and had a pretty good working relationship. You couldn’t really call it a friendship as we never saw each other out of work, apart from the occasional leaving do, but whenever we worked together we got on well. It was just… easy being with him.

Wingsy let out a lengthy sigh. My attention had been focused on the house so I turned my head sharply to look at him and saw something flicker across his face: exasperation? Annoyance? I waited for him to speak. When at last he did, it wasn’t what I was expecting him to say.

‘Remember Amber?’ he asked. I probably looked puzzled, partly because I wasn’t quick enough to stop my facial expressions reflecting everything I was thinking when I was in the company of someone I completely trusted, and partly because I really didn’t know who this Amber was. I gave a small shake of my head rather than speaking; I didn’t want to stop him from telling me something that was clearly troubling him. ‘The PC who came to work with us for about two months in the summer? Pretty, redhead, well fit.’

‘Oh, John, you didn’t?’ Wingsy was married with three kids; I hadn’t had him down for that sort of thing.

‘No, I bloody didn’t. I’m not you, you old slapper.’ I laughed, then punched him on the arm. ‘No,’ he continued, ‘haven’t got the fucking energy for an affair. I walked in on her and someone else. Someone else who should have known better. I immediately asked for a move. Well, not immediately, ’cos he still had his dick out at that stage.’

‘Oh, crap, Wingsy. Would this person happen to be your father-in-law?’ No wonder he’d gone so quickly and it had all been kept so quiet.

‘Yep, Inspector Matheson. Makes family Christmas a bit awkward. But he did buy me a new golf driver this year. Definitely the most expensive present ever. Oh, and Mel doesn’t know. Apart from an old schoolmate, me, you and the guilty parties, no one else knows.’

I watched Wingsy run his hands through his thinning, greying hair. He let out another sigh, then he seemed to pull down the shutters that twenty years of policing had forced him to acquire.

I wasn’t really surprised that he had confided in me. I was used to hearing gossip and I never passed it on. I liked to hear juicy titbits of other people’s lives, but I’d also done some stuff that I wasn’t particularly proud of, and I always put myself in the position of the person being talked about. To be fair, if you were embarrassed about something and didn’t want others to find out, you shouldn’t have done it in the first place. However, police officers were only human and that meant weakness. Chris Matheson was a pretty decent man. I’d worked for him from time to time and found him reasonable and approachable. A bit patronising, but fundamentally a decent bloke. Perhaps it had been a mid-life crisis, a one-off? I hoped so, as I didn’t want to think about who else he’d been getting his nuts in with.

I caught a movement in the corner of my eye and glanced back at the road. ‘There’s a car coming,’ I said. ‘Seems to be slowing, too.’

A grey Ford Mondeo came to a stop outside the house we were watching. The driver was the only occupant, and he looked our way as he turned the ignition off. He didn’t react to seeing the two of us feet from his front door, but got out of the car, shut the door and began walking up the path. Wingsy and I were both out of our vehicle by the time he’d taken two steps. As we headed towards him, Wingsy said, ‘David Connor? Police.’ He got no further than opening his warrant card when the man we’d come to see headed full pelt up the road in the direction he’d just come from.

It startled both of us. We were used to people running from us, used to people not opening front doors, used to people lying, but why pull up in front of your home in your car, see two suited people in a vehicle outside your house and then go to walk into it first? Still, if you were going to run from the police, clearly you’d done something wrong; the man had just upgraded himself from witness to suspect.

Fortunately, Wingsy and I were a bit quicker and fitter than him. He’d made a distance of about fifty metres from his driveway when Wingsy tackled him to the ground. I was a couple of seconds behind, and got there just as Wingsy was pulling his cuffs out from his harness inside his jacket and saying, ‘You’re under arrest for the murder of Amanda Bell. You do not – ’

He was unable to finish the caution; Connor turned his now scarlet face to the side, saliva falling from his lips, and shouted, ‘What the fuck are you on about? Who the fuck is Amanda Bell? Let me go.’

I came around to the side of Connor so that he would see me and tried to calm him, while Wingsy cuffed him with his hands behind his back. ‘David Connor, we’ve arrested you on suspicion of a murder and so you’re being handcuffed.’ I knew that this would hardly stop him struggling, but at least it distracted him long enough for Wingsy to finish what he was doing. When he’d got Connor restrained, he looked at me and nodded. I called the DCI. He was on his way before I’d hung up.

By the time Eric Nottingham arrived, along with a van full of uniform PCs to search Connor’s house, we’d got our number one suspect into the back of our Golf and he’d at least stopped foaming at the mouth and swearing. Following a quick search of his pockets in case of weapons or drugs, he’d been fairly compliant and even seemed to be finding the whole thing slightly amusing. ‘A fucking murder,’ he said – well, perhaps he hadn’t totally abandoned the swearing. ‘Who am I supposed to have murdered? I don’t know anyone called Amanda.’

‘David,’ I said, ‘you’re under arrest and we’ve cautioned you, so we can’t question you about the offence until we get you back to the nick. We’ve got your house keys from your pocket and, now that the other officers are here, we’re taking you to the custody area and leaving them to search.’

I took my pocket notebook out and made a note of what he’d said. I planned to ask him to sign it later, as his hands were currently handcuffed behind his back.

While I was talking to the prisoner, I could see Wingsy updating the DCI. It was a short exchange as we hadn’t much to tell – got to the house, bloke got out of a car, ran off, we nicked him. Then we’d waited for the search team and senior investigating officer to arrive. That was unusual in itself. SIOs were usually in meeting after meeting when something like this happened, so the fact that Nottingham had come out himself at such a crucial point in the investigation was intriguing.

‘Nina, I want you to stay here with the search team and call DI Patterson with any updates from the house,’ shouted Nottingham, before taking his phone from his pocket and answering a call. ‘Hello, Eric Nottingham… Just on my way.’ He walked away back to his car.

Wingsy came up to me and beckoned me away from the open police car window where I’d been talking to Connor.

‘Why do you think this knobcheese ran away from us?’ I asked him. ‘He strike you as a murderer?’ I just wasn’t getting a feel for him. We’d only been told to go and see him because his car had been seen on the dual carriageway near to the body. He’d been a priority as the cameras had picked him up three times that morning half an hour before the body was found, twice northbound and once southbound. The pathologist still hadn’t given a time of death, so, for all we knew at this point, he might have been driving along totally innocently, a clear twenty-four hours after Amanda was murdered. If he hadn’t done anything wrong it seemed madness to have run from us, but then this job had introduced me to so many halfwits over the years that little about human behaviour struck me as out of the ordinary.

‘No idea, Nin. Probably hasn’t paid for his TV licence and is a bit nervy. DCI wants me to take him back with another PC – ’ he pointed at the van ‘ – and you’re to stay here. I don’t expect we’ll be interviewing him. Probably a job for Serious Crime. Doubt you and I will get a look in.’

‘But we nicked him.’

Wingsy just shrugged at me. Showing him my notebook, I told him Connor’s earlier comments and we went back to the car. ‘David,’ I said. ‘I’ve written down what you told me; can I get you to sign this as an accurate account of what you and I said?’

‘Sure, love, it’ll pass the time.’

Wingsy recuffed his hands in front so that he could read and sign the notebook, while I passed the keys to the uniform PC who was taking him back to the nick. Wingsy asked the usual questions: whether anyone was in, whether there was any burglar alarm or a huge dog in the house that was likely to jump out and bite anyone. Once reunited with my notebook, I followed the search team to the front door. The only woman in the group, Lila Armstrong, was removing exhibit bags, labels and tags from the rear of the van.

‘Wotcha, Bill,’ I said to the sergeant.

‘’Lo, Nin. How you been?’ he asked. Bill Harrison was six feet tall, well-built, with a bit of a soft heart – you wanted him on your side, as he could be pretty useful in the right situation. ‘Any idea what’s in this place?’ He waved in the direction of No. 82.

‘No. Dozy git just legged it when we said police, and then you arrived.’ I shrugged back at him. I’d always had a bit of a crush on Bill. I couldn’t even tell you why, but I sometimes blushed like a teenager when talking to him. I had never worked out if he knew the reason or if he thought I just had high blood pressure. In fairness, either would have been a safe assumption to make, as I was no spring chicken and I did drink a lot.

To try to avoid eye contact with Bill, and in an attempt to stop myself blushing, I turned towards the house. I had the key ring in one hand and my notebook in the other. One of the two keys appeared to be a back door key and the other was for the front door. I unhooked the back door key from the ring and passed it to one of the officers heading for the side gate.

As Bill and I walked along the gravel driveway, I glanced up at the top floor of the house and ran an eye over each of the windows, then did the same for the ground floor and the glass-partitioned front door. No signs of movement; it looked as if the premises were empty. My heart was beating just a little bit faster. No, not Bill this time – this was in a professional context only. I was excited at the thought of who or what might be inside our murder suspect’s house.

Bill peered through the frosted glass panel into the hallway. ‘Can’t see anyone in there,’ he muttered.

I put the key into the lock, opened it with one turn and pushed the door inwards, shouting ‘Police. Anyone home?’

‘Police. We’re at the front and back door,’ bellowed Bill. The hallway stretched to the back of the house, where we could see into a vast modern kitchen. The two officers who had taken the back door key from me appeared in the kitchen. Bill and I made a cursory search of the downstairs in case anyone was at home but keeping very quiet about it, while the other two went upstairs.

‘This bloke’s got a couple of quid,’ Bill commented as he looked admiringly around the front room. ‘Huge wicker bar in the corner’s a bit much, though. Just goes to show that money can’t buy taste.’

‘I’ve got one of them, Bill. Only stocked it with Baileys and Babycham before I came to work today,’ I said, hands on my hips and mock indignation on my face. My cheeks reddened again. Now I was annoyed with myself in case he did actually think I was embarrassed because I owned such a piece of crap.

He was unable to answer, though, as one of his team from upstairs shouted, ‘Sarge, up here. You’ll both wanna see this.’

I followed Bill upstairs, trying not to look at his backside. What was wrong with me? I had serious work to do. I wasn’t much of a women’s libber but I made a note to insist that it be ladies first in future. Less distracting.

Once we reached the top of the stairs, Phil and Jerry, the other half of the current search team, confirmed that no one else was in the house but said again that they had something to show us. Phil, the taller one of the two, was standing in the doorway to the rear bedroom. ‘Notice anything odd about this room?’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the bedroom overlooking the back garden.

‘Hardly, Phil, we’re not even in it yet,’ replied Bill. He spoke slowly and patiently to the young, clearly overexcited officer. In a kind and manly way, I thought.

‘There’s only one door into it, sarge,’ gabbled Phil.

‘Oh, right, good observation, Phil. Like most bedrooms, though.’ Bill nodded encouragingly as he answered. ‘What’s special about this room?’

‘It’s two rooms and I think that someone’s bricked the other doorway up. I noticed from the back garden that there are two windows up here but only one in this room. There’s a wardrobe and another door behind it.’

David Connor had run from us as we identified ourselves as police officers outside his front door. Earlier that same day, his car had been seen on the road passing a disused site shielding the body of a murdered woman. The fact that he had a hidden room in his house looked very interesting. It was also disturbing; I wondered if there was another victim hidden behind the wall.

My personal mobile phone vibrated in my pocket. Bloody Russian moron, I thought; if that’s you, I don’t think much of your timing. The break-up had been straightforward: I’d just walked out one day and ignored him ever since. Even if he hadn’t have been married, I hadn’t been all that impressed with our ‘early diners eat as many jacket potatoes as you fancy’ dinner date. He hadn’t exactly been an oligarch.

‘Let’s get in there, Bill,’ I said, pushing past him. I found myself in a double bedroom with built-in wardrobes on my right-hand side. The doors of the wardrobe were heavy, solid wooden doors. Soundproofed, I thought to myself. I wondered if Connor lay in his bed at night with a dead or dying woman the other side of the door. That really would be perverted.

Bill opened one wardrobe door. ‘There’s another sliding door behind this one,’ he said, loudly enough for the other officers to hear, and probably also anyone positioned on the other side of the chipboard door. The whole house was quiet as he slid it to one side with one hand, torch in the other. ‘Bloody hell. Can’t see anyone, but this man’s a big football fan,’ I heard him say, voice slightly muffled by the clothing he was shouting through. ‘Phil, Nina, I’m going through. Clear the clothes and follow me in.’

Chapter 3

What I saw, on stepping through the opening, was a room filled from ceiling to floor with cabinets and shelves of football memorabilia, photographs, programmes and an impressive collection of