his actual thirty-eight years.
Harker clicked his fingers in her direction. ‘Please do not open the file yet. I will tell you when to do so.’
Jane flinched, mumbled an apology and noticed he had cold, slate-grey piercing eyes. Kath had said he was attractive, interesting and worth listening to, but in his stiff white-collared shirt, bow tie and grey, creased trousers, Jane found him rather pompous.
Harker took his time, placing his folder on the lectern before turning to an officer and asking him to close the blinds and turn off the neon strip lights. He had a very cultured, aristocratic tone.
‘In your folders are some of the relevant statements from a major investigation, such as the pathologist’s and my forensic report. There are copies of the crime scene photographs, but I will be showing you slides of the scene and bodies as well. Some of you may find them disturbing, but at some time in your career you may well find yourself attending scenes of a similar nature. I hope you have enquiring minds as there will be a Q and A session at the end of my lecture for me to clarify anything you feel necessary. However, I will be asking you questions relating to the murders during my talk as it will show me whether or not you are paying attention.’
Curious to see what was in the file, Jane sifted through the paperwork in front of her, while Harker placed a sheet of acetate paper on the overhead projector, then covered it with a blank piece of paper so as not to reveal all the contents. He switched on the overhead and, as if conducting an orchestra, used a broken telescopic radio antenna to point at the words projected onto the wall. Jane settled back in her seat, listening intently as the lecture began.
*
At the station Kath was at the front desk dealing with an irate Nancy Phillips who was demanding to speak with someone in authority about her grandson being slapped about. She wore a crossover apron under her cardigan, and a pair of fur-lined ankle boots. Her thick stockings fell in folds around her swollen ankles.
‘You bleedin’ lot don’t have any idea what happens when you keep nosyin’ around and drivin’ up in yer patrol cars. There’s some nasty villains livin’ around me, and God forbid you’d ever take them in. Instead yer just harass my poor Eddie when he’s done nuffink wrong. He’s entitled to a solicitor, you know, like me he knows his rights. I know he’s got drug problems, that’s why he’s livin’ with me, so I can keep an eye on him, unlike his bleedin’ mother . . . the no-good bitch, and—’
Kath slapped the desk with the flat of her hand.
‘Mrs Phillips, if you would just let me get a word in edgeways I can write down the particulars and deal with your complaint appropriately.’
‘That’s what I’m fuckin’ here fer, you dozy cow.’ The duty sergeant walked in behind Kath.
‘Hello, Nancy, what are you creating about?’
‘I want to speak to that Detective Birdbank that’s dealin’ with me grandson.’
‘It’s DCI Bradfield,’ Kath said.
It took a while longer to placate Nancy Phillips before she was taken in to speak with Bradfield. At first he had refused to talk to her, but Kath said that perhaps he should just have a few words to appease her as she was a tough old broad who knew that her grandson should have had access to a solicitor.
‘We’ve only had him in for questioning, for Chrissake! We’ve not pressed any bloody charges, and he was withholding evidence about the phone call, Big Daddy and another dealer Dwayne somebody or fuckin’ other. I’ve got a hundred and one things to do so send her packing.’
‘Just a short chat, guv. You never know, she might even be able to help us.’
‘I’ve got officers from the drug squad coming here in a quarter of an hour so I’ll give her ten minutes, that’s all – bring her up.’
*
Jane was frantically scribbling down notes as Harker explained that a mother in her seventies and a daughter in her forties lived together in Biggin Hill and were murdered in their home. He brought up different slides as he described entering the victims’ premises. The class were shown small blood drops on the living-room carpet and blood smears on some of the objects removed from drawers. There were also blood drops in the hallway and some blood smears on the walls leading to the three bedrooms at the back of the cottage.
Jane felt as if she was the first officer at the scene, moving slowly and cautiously through the house, her adrenalin pumping as she feared the worst for the two female occupants.
‘Can any of you tell me about Locard’s principle of exchange?’ Harker asked, but there was silence in the room.
He sighed and glibly remarked, ‘I see that forensic awareness still isn’t taught at Hendon Police College.’
He walked to the blackboard and wrote, ‘Dr Edmond Locard, 1877–1966, French criminologist and forensic scientist – Contact Equals Trace’.
He turned back to the class. ‘He was a pioneer in forensic science and stated, “Every contact leaves a trace.” His theory is that when two objects come into contact with one another, each will take something from the other object or leave something behind. So what does that mean in the context of our unfolding crime scene?’
Jane got in first. ‘That the killer will have left traces of themself behind and taken traces from the house with them.’
‘Correct, but what I’m interested in is the wider meaning for the officers who first entered this horrific scene.’
There was a brief pause for thought in the room before a constable suggested that it meant the police officers had also left traces of themselves as they searched the victims’ cottage. Harker nodded and stated that was why you always needed to be careful about where you stood, what you touched, how you opened something like a door, so as not to damage or destroy any evidence the suspect had left behind. He told them that they should make a note of everything they did at a scene as soon as possible after the event.
Jane flicked to an empty page in her notebook and wrote down, ‘Red fibres, Julie Ann’s socks’.
*
Kath got a coffee for Bradfield and a cup of tea for Mrs Phillips before taking her to his office. Bradfield told Kath to stay and as the disgruntled Mrs Phillips sat on the chair in front of him she took a few deep sniffs, her nose twitching up and down like a rabbit’s.
‘It smells of Dettol in here,’ she remarked as she took out a cigarette from a packet in her apron pocket and lit it.
Bradfield gave her a cynical grin. ‘That’s thanks to your precious grandson, Mrs Phillips, he puked—’
She was shaking her finger at him before he could finish his sentence. ‘I know he’s got troubles, I know he’s been a pain in the backside, but he’s been on that substitution stuff methalene.’
‘I think you mean methadone,’ Bradfield said, raising his eyebrows in despair.
‘Metha . . . lene, dean, done, whatever . . . He’s been trying to get clean and been out lookin’ for work. I got to keep me eyes peeled for him cos his mother’s a tart and my son wouldn’t even put his name on the bleedin’ birth certificate. I’m all he’s got and I got to stand up
