Chapter 2
Ramouter turned to the uniformed police officer keeping a log of everyone entering and leaving the crime scene, and asked, ‘Who was first on the scene?’
‘Any idea how long the victim had been there?’
PC Keith closed his logbook. ‘I didn’t see the victim. The paramedics had already taken him to King’s College Hospital. But I was told he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt when he was found. For all we know he could have been laying here from last night.’
‘Thanks,’ Ramouter replied. He turned around but found his way into the property blocked by a woman standing in the doorway with her arms crossed defensively.
‘You don’t look like one of my lot,’ she said firmly, unmoving, curls of red hair escaping from the hood of her oversuit.
‘DC Ramouter,’ he replied.
The woman’s face broke into a grin. ‘The Serial Crimes Unit. I didn’t think they were going to send anyone. I’m DC Copeland. So do you think this is one we can hand over to you?’
‘I haven’t stepped through the front door yet, so it’s impossible to say.’
‘Sorry, sorry. I’m always jumping ahead of myself. Overeager but you know, if this case qualifies—’
‘It seems as though every CID room is determined to palm off every aggravated burglary case in London to the SCU but, like I said, I haven’t been inside yet,’ Ramouter replied. He placed his right foot on the doorstep.
‘You can’t exactly blame us,’ Copeland replied, still stuck rigidly in place in the doorway. ‘Everyone’s caseload is ridiculous. You can tell people to stop committing crimes but you’re just pissing in the wind really.’
Ramouter smiled politely as Copeland continued spouting her views on work overload.
‘Right,’ Copeland said brightly as she finally moved to the side, her back against the open door. ‘You better come in, but be careful where you’re stepping. We’ve got broken glass, water, oil and blood all over the floor.’
Ramouter paused in the doorway. The macabre scent of fresh fig and cassis essential oils mixed with the coppery overtones of spilled blood filled the air.
He tracked the blood trail that continued from the doorway, along the hallway floor and into the kitchen.
The large ornate mirror to Ramouter’s left was lopsided and strands of brown hair stuck in the blood splatter that had settled in the cracks that spider-webbed on the glass.
He walked through the hallway observing the jagged wood of the broken spindles on the bannister to his right. ‘A lot of violence,’ he said.
‘Isn’t that what you expect from an aggravated burglary?’ Copeland mused as a forensic officer, exhibits bags in his hand, made his way down the staircase.
‘Not for the cases we’re investigating,’ said Ramouter. ‘The homeowners we’ve been dealing with haven’t been harmed in any way.’
Copeland stopped in her tracks and stared at Ramouter; disbelief contorting her tone. ‘I’ve seen the updates on HOLMES for your home invasion investigation. You call being dragged from your bed, tied up and threats to douse you with petrol as not being harmed?’
‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant. You’ve mis—’
‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you over at the SCU, but I would call that the epitome of violence.’
‘What I meant to say is that the violence in our cases is psychological. But look around you. This violence is physical.’
Copeland pursed her lips as she stepped back; broken glass crunching under her feet. ‘Who knew the SCU only took on cases where they don’t have to get their hands dirty,’ she muttered.
Ramouter ignored her and walked into a large open plan kitchen and living area.
‘From what we can work out, the burglar entered from the rear and forced the back patio door open, here,’ Copeland said. She moved swiftly in front of Ramouter and pointed at the bifold door, the windows smeared with grey fingerprint dust.
Ramouter crouched down. ‘This has a multi-point locking system.’ He ran a gloved finger across the locking mechanism in the door frame. ‘They’re not usually so easy to break into.’
‘No, they’re not,’ Copeland agreed. ‘But the door was open when we came in.’
‘The garden gate faces the street,’ said Ramouter.
‘Makes me think that whoever forced entry must have carried out some kind of reconnaissance. I saw the neighbourhood watch signs when I was walking along the road and most of the houses either have video doorbell monitoring or CCTV cameras. I’d be surprised if there weren’t recent reports of suspicious activity. ’
‘We’ve just started door-to-door enquiries and, so far, no one has said they saw anything suspicious either last night or this morning.’
‘There’s still time,’ Ramouter replied, walking over to the kitchen counter.
Slices of cold and hardening garlic flatbread were on a wooden chopping board next to a bowl of wilting salad.
A large wine glass, dregs of red wine staining the sides, was next to a bottle, the cork stuck on the corkscrew beside it.
‘Your victim is a man, right?’ Ramouter asked, pushing the base of the wine glass with his finger, turning it around.
Copeland nodded. ‘We haven’t formally confirmed his identity, but we believe him to be the homeowner, Dr Graham Ashcroft.’
Ramouter pointed at the pink lipstick on the edge of the glass.
‘Ah, I didn’t notice that,’ Copeland said.
‘And there’s another wine glass on the dining table. Is our victim married, girlfriend?’
‘We haven’t established that yet.’
Ramouter pointed at the knife block on the counter. ‘There’s a knife missing.’
‘Paramedics said the wounds of our victim were consistent with a knife, and the postwoman described cuts and bruises to the victim’s face but it’s impossible to say if that particular missing knife was used in the attack or—’ Copeland shrugged– ‘just missing. You know what it’s like.
I’ve lost count of the number of forks I’ve thrown in the bin. ’
‘I’m assuming your officers have done a search of the area?’
Copeland narrowed her eyes. Ramouter wasn’t sure if she was annoyed at the question or was now annoyed with him. The question remained unanswered.
Ramouter left the kitchen area and made his way into the middle of the open-plan room.
A seventy-inch TV was on the wall above a brand new PS5 on the wall-mounted TV unit.
To Ramouter’s left was a solid oak table.
In the middle of the table was an open laptop next to two bowls stained with dried pasta sauce.
A second wine glass was on its side, in a pool of now-sticky red wine.
He walked along the bespoke bookcase filled with recent bestsellers, modern classics and prize winners.
Ramouter pulled out a book from the top shelf and turned the pages, causing Copeland to say, ‘This ain’t a library. What are you looking for?’
‘Your victim is a collector. This is a first edition, first printing copy of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises,’ he said, replacing the book on the shelf. He reached into his oversuit and removed his phone.
Copeland stared blankly at Ramouter. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘That copy of The Sun Also Rises is valued at just under four grand.’
Copeland whistled.
‘Don’t you find it odd there’s no ransacking?’
‘Not at all. The burglar didn’t get a chance because our victim was home.’
‘Mind if I go upstairs?’ Ramouter asked.
‘Knock yourself out, but be careful. CSI haven’t made their way up there yet. I’ll be outside if you need me.’
There were three bedrooms upstairs. Two large doubles and a single room that had been converted into an office.
Ramouter poked his head into the office where a dual monitor screen stood on top of a teak-coloured standing desk.
A treadmill and oak rowing machine were on the right facing a smaller version of the television downstairs.
‘This isn’t a burglary,’ Ramouter muttered to himself as he walked into the main bedroom and saw the designer bags on the shelves of the opened wardrobe.
The closed drawers in the wardrobe and the jewellery on the dressing table confirmed to Ramouter what his gut had been telling him from the moment he saw the Lexus on the driveway.
Whoever had forced their way into the house wasn’t interested in stealing anything of value.
The only thing that had been on their mind was violence.
‘DC Ramouter.’
Copeland’s loud voice travelled to the first floor, quickly followed by the sound of her feet landing heavily and rapidly on the stairs.
‘What is it?’ Ramouter asked. Copeland appeared in front of him, the red flush in her cheeks deepening as she placed a hand on her chest.
‘I need you to come with me. Our aggravated burglary might have just turned into an attempted murder.’
‘Homeowner’s name is Patsy Howe. Sixty-two years old,’ said Copeland. She ran her hand through her hair and attempted to smooth down her wayward curls. ‘She’s a retired teacher but she works as a tarot reader.’
‘You’ve rushed me down here to see a psychic?’ Ramouter asked incredulously.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Copeland as they made towards the front door of number 31 that had been left on the latch.
Copeland pushed the door open and gestured Ramouter inside. ‘Mrs Howe,’ she called out. ‘It’s DC Copeland.’
‘Give me a sec,’ came a disembodied voice.
A few seconds later, a petite woman with striking grey hair cut into a harsh bob, wearing purple-rimmed glasses, entered the hallway.
‘Mrs Howe, I’m DC Ramouter.’ He removed his warrant card and held it out.
‘Oh, it’s Patsy,’ she replied. She looked at his warrant card and smiled. ‘Nice picture.’
‘Mrs Howe,’ Copeland continued. ‘The footage.’
‘Of course, but you’ll have to excuse the mess,’ said Patsy. From the bottom of the stairs, she pushed aside a basket of unfolded clothes, bundles of toilet paper and a shopping bag filled with toiletries.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Ramouter followed her upstairs.
‘Through the door on your left,’ said Patsy once they’d reached the landing.
Ramouter was momentarily stunned as he walked into the bedroom that faced the front of the house. A large telescope was pointed at the window, along with a separate camera on a tripod and on the shelves was a multitude of photography equipment and smaller telescopes.
‘What did you teach before you retired?’ he asked.
‘Astronomy,’ Patsy answered proudly. ‘I’d been teaching for thirty years and one day I decided enough is enough. Academia isn’t what it was. It’s all business.’
‘Patsy, could you show DC Ramouter what you found.’ Copeland sounded impatient.
Patsy sat down at her table and woke her computer up from sleep mode.
‘I had the telescope, which is attached to the camera, running automatically because I was hoping to catch the Draconids meteor shower. I usually close the door because I’ve got a crazy cat who likes to jump on anything that resembles a tree, but I must have forgotten because the cat got in and the stupid thing knocked the tripod and detached the camera.
So instead of my camera recording the meteor shower it caught this. ’
Ramouter’s breath caught in his throat as Patsy enlarged and reorientated the video. ‘The camera cost me a fortune but it’s the absolute best,’ Patsy said quietly as the image of a star filled sky quickly fell away and was replaced with Cullen Lane.
‘What time was this?’ Ramouter asked.
The footage showed a fox on the pavement as a white man, bleeding, barefooted and wearing jeans and a short-sleeved top, ran into shot.
Patsy right clicked and brought up the video’s time stamp. ‘12.16 a.m.. That’s why I didn’t hear a thing. Our bedroom is at the back of the house.’
‘Watch,’ Copeland said. ‘There’s no sound but you don’t need it. You can feel everything.’
The man stopped in the middle of the road and the fox ran between the planters.
The man leaned forward and placed his hands on his thighs as the bright strobe of car headlights quickly filled the street.
He paused for a split second before turning to run as a black car came into view.
The car rammed into the man. His body hit the windscreen, propelled off the bonnet and onto the road.
The car skidded, the right-side tyres hitting the kerb before braking.
The man rolled over onto his back and placed his arm across his chest as his legs moved slowly.
The driver’s side door opened, and a person dressed all in black, their face concealed by a balaclava, ran out into the road and towards the man.
Ramouter leaned closer to the screen as the man in black grabbed the arms of the man on the ground and dragged him back towards the car.
He opened the rear passenger door and manoeuvred the man onto the back seat.
He quickly ran around the rear of the car and got back behind the wheel.
A light switched on in the upstairs window of a house two doors down on the opposite side of the road as the car drove off the kerb and quickly out of view.
‘Shit,’ Ramouter said. ‘And that footage is definitely from this morning?’
‘Absolutely,’ Patsy replied. ‘If I fast forward it, you’ll see my husband leaving for work just after six.’
‘And are you able to identify the man who—’
‘Dr Graham Ashcroft’ Patsy said, nodding. ‘My husband is a cabbie and he’s driven Graham many times. That’s definitely him.’
‘I was told the victim was found on the driveway this morning,’ said Ramouter once Patsy had closed the front door behind them.
‘He was,’ confirmed Copeland.
‘So how did he get there after he was run off the road? Did the driver dump him there or did Graham manage to get out of the car but collapsed before he could get inside and call for help?’
‘Hopefully, we’ll be able to answer those questions once we’ve received the street’s CCTV footage.’
‘Either way, you’ve definitely got an attempted murder on your hands.’