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 for him. You lot are harassin’ him – he didn’t do anythin’ to that bloody girl they found.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘Who?’
‘The girl that was found, Julie Ann.’
‘She was a pack of trouble, hoity-toity stuck-up little tart. I threw her out, I said to him not to ever bring any bloody junkie back to my flat. You turn your back on ’em and they’ll soon have their fingers in the biscuit jar looking for the housekeeping money.’
‘So you did know her?’
‘Twice he brought her to my place, and I warned him, but he was besotted. She treated him like he was her servant, wanting the crusts cut off her bleedin’ toast.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
