CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
It was not tomato sauce, nor any other sauce that stained the rags found in the rubbish bin by Maguire and Walden. It was menstrual blood and as it turned out it was crucial evidence.
The identification of the menstrual blood was the result of speedy forensic examination of the bloodstains.
In the forensic report which once again landed on Superintendent Ford’s desk far more quickly than anyone anticipated, it was spelt out in great detail just how important the find was.
The report explained that menstrual fluid tends to be brightest red during the heaviest flow, but as it slows down it takes longer to exit the vagina and consequently the blood component loses its oxygenated red hue and becomes darker red, then brown and at times practically black. In highly technical language matrix metalloproteinase-11 is a kind of protease which degrades the extracellular matrix.
The report added that arterial and venous blood, proteolytic enzymes, remnants of endometrial glands, stromal cells, leukocytes and red blood cells are present in menstrual fluid.
The detection of epithelial cells in dried bloodstains by what the experts explained as “reverse transcriptase-polymerase chain reaction” is based on cell- and tissue-specific gene expression. It further pointed out that experts use what are called “mRNA markers” suitable for the identification of menstrual blood and that these are then evaluated.
The result is that the identification of body fluids can be of crucial importance in forensic casework and the detection of cell- and tissue-specific mRNAs is a suitable technique to identify menstrual blood and semen.
“You don’t have to understand all this technical information,” Superintendent Ford told the group of detectives seated before him. “It’s sufficient to know that we now know the identity of the female who this blood came from.”
Her name, he said, was Florence Hurd. She was aged seventeen, worked as a junior secretary in a camera shop in Tottenham Court Road, and lived at home with her parents in Camden.
“As we speak officers are now checking her work place as well as where she lives,” he said. “I hope that she is in fact at either location. If not…..” he left the sentence unfinished.
Walden spoke up: “It’s significant that these stained rags were found dumped in a rubbish bin on the other side of the river. A long way away from where this girl lived and worked.”
“Right,” said Ford. “That’s why we are treating this as important.” He leafed through a few pages he had on the desk in front of him and then went on. “This person Bartholemew is said to live alone. He is said to be a bit of a loner. Or at least his neighbour considers him in that way. Though we should not forget that this Flanagan too is a little unusual.”
“Mister Marple,” said Walden. The others in the room laughed lightly.
“That maybe so,” said Ford, “but the fact remains that if this Bartholemew does live alone, that there is no female living with him, and if he did in fact drop these blood stained items in a rubbish bin up the road from where he lives, then we need to take a closer look at him.”
“It will take time to get a search warrant,” commented Maguire. “But I think we need to act fast on this. Anything we can do to expedite one?”
“Already in hand,” answered Ford. “I agree. We need to act on this one. I hope to get the go ahead within the hour.”
There was a low murmur around the room as the detectives exchanged personal thoughts. The general feeling was that at last there appeared there might be some light at the end of the tunnel.
It had been a long dark tunnel and everyone was glad that even if the outcome of this latest discovery did not result in the arrest of the murderer it at least gave hope and brought to light a potentially positive change. So far there had been not a single piece of evidence that pointed to the culprit. And that meant they all feared more deaths were inevitable.
Obtaining a search warrant looks easy on television. In fact there is much more to it than the CSI folks would have us believe.
First, police can only enter a premises without a warrant if a serious or dangerous incident has taken place such as dealing with a breach of the peace or to prevent one, enforcing an arrest warrant, to recapture a person who has escaped from police custody or to arrest someone in connection with certain offences, or to save a life or prevent serious damage to property. In the instance of preventing injury to life the police have to have reasonable grounds for believing that the person in danger is actually on the premises.
The information relating to Bartholemew had been insufficient to justify a warrant being issued as things stood. But the forensic report on the menstrual blood and the information that Bartholemew apparently had been seen to dump the stained rags in a rubbish bin some distance from where he lived, could be sufficient to enable the granting of a search warrant.
There were additional conditions as well. The law states that police should enter property at a “reasonable hour unless this would frustrate their search”. And if the occupant of the premises is present the police must ask for permission to search the property, again “unless it would frustrate the search to do this”.
Finally, when police do carry out a search they must identify themselves clearly and explain why they want to search the premises as well as explain the rights of the occupant.
Forced entry can only be gained if the occupant refuses entry or if he is absent or the premises is in fact unoccupied, or if the police have reasonable grounds for thinking that if they don’t make a forced entry it would hinder the search or put someone else in danger. Once they are inside the police are empowered to seize goods if they are evidence in relation to an offence or there is a risk of their being lost, stolen or destroyed.
“I believe we have sufficient grounds,” Ford said. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Stay close. I’ll chase it up again.” He gathered his papers together and left the room. The detectives stretched, yawned and generally made small talk. Very few of them discussed the case.
*
“Some things move at snail pace,” said Maguire. “Thank god not all.”
“This was handled pretty smartly,” said Walden. “I reckon Ford called in a few favours.”
“Whatever he did, it worked.”
Maguire and Walden had been the two detectives in the team who had been involved in every one of the murders. There was one other officer who had been involved as well but the others had all been added over time. So they were the two delegated to carry out the search of the flat in Brockley.
“Do you think he’ll be there?” asked Walden. “It’s only half four.”
Maguire sniffed. “There’s a chance he won’t be. That other guy reckons he’s only home in the evenings mostly.”
“We haven’t got enough for a forced entry so we better hope he’s there.”
“Right. I’m getting fed up with not being able to put an end to this. It’s gone on far too long and too many people have suffered. This is the best lead we’ve got and I just hope it leads to the right place.”
They drove on in silence, each with their own thoughts, each correctly suspecting that the other was going over all the events and suspicions since the first body had been found. They both clearly remembered Kay Roberts. She was the twenty-eight-year-old school teacher from Earlsfield. On her way home from a party in Finchley on the day after Christmas Day she met her fate. Her body was found in Mill Hill miles away from the friend’s house and nowhere near where she lived. The other bodies of the women were also strewn around the city, the furthest away being in Gerrard’s Cross.
As they approached their destination Walden pointed and said: “There. That’s him. He’s just leaving the place.”
Ahead of them they saw Bartholemew walk out through the front gate of the property and head down the pavement.
Maguire steered up along side him and leaned out the window. “Mr Bartholemew?” he called.
Bartholemew stopped and without approaching the open window of the car replied: “Yes. Can I help you?” Then he stood up straight. “You’re the police officer who was here before.”
Maguire nodded and said only that they wanted to speak with him again.
Bartholemew frowned. “I’m just on my way out to meet a friend. Is it important?”
“Yes it is,” said Maguire, still in the car with the motor idling. “It won’t take long. You’ll still be able to see your friend.”
Bartholemew reluctantly nodded and turning on his heel began walking back to the building. Maguire swung the car against the kerb, he and Walden quickly alighted and they jogged and caught up with Bartholemew just as he was approaching the door to his flat.
Bartholemew turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open inwards. “Will this take long?” he asked impatiently. “As I said, I have an appointment to go to.”
“And as I said, we need to speak with you,” replied Maguire. “It should not take long. Can we go inside please.”
Once inside he handed Bartholemew the search warrant.
“I don’t understand,” said Bartholemew and handed the paper back to Maguire after he had scanned it. “Why on earth do you want to search my flat? What am I supposed to have done?”
“It won’t take long sir,” Walden said. “We have some questions to ask you and we need to have a look around your flat. That’s all.”
Bartholemew looked like he was about to object but instead sat down heavily on the sofa in the lounge and said: “Alright then. Let’s get it over with then please. I have to go out.”
Maguire and Walden separated, Maguire moving around the flat opening drawers and cupboards and examining their contents.
Walden spoke with Bartholemew asking general questions about his background, his work and broadly his activities when he was not working. Bartholemew answered each question firmly while at the same time noting where Maguire was and what he was doing.
When they were all back in the lounge Bartholemew remained seated while Walden and Maguire stood facing him. As he came back into the room from the short corridor Maguire caught Walden’s eye and shook his head.
“You live alone here,” said Maguire.
“I already told this officer that,” Bartholemew replied.
“Do you have friends staying with you from time to time?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Why not? Most single men have friends staying over sometimes, even if it’s not that often.”
“I prefer not to.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t. Why is that important anyway? If this is my lifestyle what’s it got to do with the police?”
“It’s just a little odd, that’s all,” said Walden. “A single man never having friends around.”
“I didn’t say friends never came to visit,” Bartholemew countered. “I said they don’t stay over. Look, what is this all about please? What am I suspected of?”
“Ever have a girlfriend spend the night?” Maguire enquired. He watched Bartholemew closely as he answered.
“No. Not overnight.”
“That sports shirt,” said Maguire switching the subject. “The one you showed us the last time we were here. I didn’t see it in your room or the bathroom.”
“I don’t have it any more,” Bartholemew replied.
“Why not?”
“It got damaged at the gym and I threw it away.”
“When? Where?”
“A few days ago. I threw it in a dumpster near the gym. Why? Why are you still interested in my shirt?”
Walden and Maguire kept silent for a while and then Maguire said: “Where do you put your rubbish?”
“My rubbish?”
“Yes. Where do you dump your rubbish? You do have a bin outside don’t you? A wheelie bin.”
“Yes of course,” said Bartholemew.
“So you put all your rubbish in that do you?”
“Yes.”
“Nowhere else?”
“What do you mean?”
Walden asked: “Do you ever use other bins in the street? Maybe when yours is full.”
Bartholemew shook his head. “I live alone like I told you. I eat out a reasonable amount. The wheelie bins are large. I never fill one. So why on earth would I put rubbish in someone else’s bin?”
Bartholemew was clearly becoming more impatient.
Again the detectives remained silent for a time. Then Maguire said bluntly: “You were seen dumping something in the bin at the end of the street on the island where that large tree is. Why?”
“That’s rubbish,” Bartholemew said. “I mean it’s not true. I have never done that. Who said I did and what rubbish am I supposed to have put in it?”
Maguire and Walden kept their eyes on Bartholemew without answering.
Finally Bartholemew said: “This is ridiculous. If I’m supposed to have done something wrong tell me what it is. Otherwise I think I’ve answered all your questions. And I have to go out.”
Still the detectives said nothing.
“A sheet and rags,” Maguire said suddenly. “With blood on them. Female blood. You were seen dumping a black plastic bag of something in that bin and a search found blood stained materials. The blood is menstrual. Tell us what happened.”
Bartholemew just stared at Maguire. His face remained impassive. The only change was when he squinted his eyes very slightly before saying: “I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment. I have no idea what you’re talking about. But even if I did have a woman here and if…if it was that time of the month for her, the idea that I would have blood stained sheets and other rags and that I would have to go up to the end of the street to hide them secretly is absurd.” He paused and went on: “What you’re saying is offensive and I take exception to it. I think you should leave. Now.”
Bartholemew stood and walked straight to the door and opened it. “Thank you,” he said and stood by the entrance.
As they were passing Walden stopped and looked him straight in the eye. “I hope you’re not keeping something from us. If you are it’s a serious matter. Are you absolutely certain that you did not deposit blood stained materials in that bin?”
“Thank you,” repeated Bartholemew and began closing the door.
Walden joined Maguire on the step outside and watched Bartholemew as he slowly closed the door. He heard the key turn in the lock inside.
“Looks like he’s not going out to meet his friend right away,” he said.
“I saw nothing suspicious,” Maguire said. “The rooms were completely normal and I could see nothing that suggests he’s got anything there that could be construed as illegal or dangerous. The place is clean. And that damn sports shirt made of that special material is gone. Or if it’s not gone it will be now.””
“Shit,” Walden said.
“Mmmm,” murmured Maguire. “He’s too cool. No sweating. No nerves. A mite short tempered when we pressed him, but otherwise in control.”
“Me too. That’s my thinking.”
They reached the car and Maguire tossed the keys to Walden. “You drive Martin. I just want to make a quick call to Joan. We’re going to be held back at the office a while tonight I reckon.”
When he ended the call with a “see you whenever” he sat quietly for a minute or two. Then he said without turning his head: “We should keep an eye on him. There’s more there. Something ….. just something.”
It was half an hour later when they were back on the north side of the river that Maguire slapped himself in the forehead.
“Fuck,” he exclaimed. It was so sudden that Walden who was driving and was himself deep in thought instinctively took his foot off the accelerator and moved it across to the brake pedal.
“What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s lying,” said Maguire. “That bastard Bartholemew is lying through his teeth.”
“Why? About what?”
“He says he has no girlfriend. That no woman has been to his flat. He knows nothing about the menstrual blood found on the sheet and the rags that that old guy said he saw him take to that rubbish bin.”
“Right.”
“But we know he went to a pharmacy and bought tampons. He’s been lying to us. He’s fucking covering up.”
*
There are some programmes on the television that I do my level best not to miss. I love the CSI and comedy shows and the films on some of the Freeview channels. And nature and science programmes I find fascinating, not that I can truly say I completely understand all or even most of the science ones.
Unfortunately there is also a lot of dross. Reality shows were interesting when they began a decade or so ago, but for the past six or seven years they have become in my view an indictment of the viewing public’s intelligence. Such absolute junk pandering to the lowest common denominator.
Which was why I was at a loose end. I had no good book on the go – I had finished Jo Nesbo’s latest mystery set in Oslo a few days before and had not been bothered to search Amazon for a replacement. Which was why I had resorted to the television for the past hour and a half. Or it may have been four hours because it seemed that long. And that’s why I picked up the BlackBerry and dialled Detective Maguire. He answered it on the fifth ring, just as I expected it to go to voicemail.
“Detective Maguire.”
“It’s Zack. Zack Tighe.”
“Uh heh.”
“I just thought I’d give you a call to see if there had been any developments.”
“Right.”
Lulls in telephone conversations like the one now were lethal. It usually meant the person I speaking to either was distracted on the other end and was not listening to what I was saying or that I could expect the conversation to end very quickly.
“I got an update from Lawrence. The MP,” I said to keep things moving along. “His EDM is really catching attention.”
“OK.”
I was getting little in return.
“He has more than three hundred signatures and has already had a couple of reporters giving him a call. So far nothing’s appeared in the papers but Lawrence is confident it will very soon.”
“I hope it’s more helpful than your latest column,” said Maguire.
“How do you mean?” I replied.
“You seem to have gone off the boil. Have you lost interest?”
“Lost interest? Of course not. Why would I call you tonight if I had?”
“Your column was pretty interesting – if you were a tourist coming to London for the first time.”
“So?