A Commonplace Killing by Siân Busby Page A

brambles and nettle patches vied for space with shattered masonry. A few yards from where they stopped he could see a plane tree with a piece of old door propped against its trunk. There was a tarpaulin draped over the whole structure.
    “What the dickens is that?” he demanded.
    Lucas rocked on the toes of his shoes.
    “Ah yes,” he said. “I’m afraid that one of the witnesses is responsible for that, sir. He was anxious to preserve the victim’s modesty.”
    “Good grief! You mean the body’s in there?” It beggared belief. “Who else has been tramping over my murder scene? The Arsenal first eleven?”
    Lucas brought his lips together shrewdly.
    “It’s rather hot today, sir,” he said, “and the body’s been out all night.”
    Cooper sighed.
    “Who was the first on the spot?”
    The first on the spot always interfered; always left some blasted trace, fouling up the whole of the investigation.
    “Some kids found her.”
    “Kids, eh? Did they touch anything?”
    Lucas shrugged.
    “Take them down to the station and get a statement. Tell their mothers to expect a home visit some time in the next couple of days.” He sighed again. “Thought I could rely on you to keep us out of trouble, old man,” he said.
    A couple of hundred yards from where they were standing, from deep beneath a steep bank, a train screeched past, filling up the vacant space with the pungency of burning coal in a heavy goût of damp, sooty debris. As it cleared, Cooper could see the pathologist emerge from behind the tented structure. He stood next to the plane tree, addressing an attractive girl assistant who made a note of everything he said. Cooper watched him enviously, kicking over a patch of dust with the toe of his shoe. Must be nice to deal in scientific certainties, he thought.
    “Any idea who she is?”
    Lucas shook his head.
    “No handbag?”
    Lucas shook his head again.
    “There would have been a handbag.” Cooper was as sure of that as he could be of anything. The victim would have acquired the Blitz habit of keeping everything of any value or importance in her handbag, which she would have kept close by her, ready to be grabbed at a moment’s notice. During the Blitz he had instructed countless officers to find the handbags before they did anything else when attending a bomb-site. It helped with identification, of course, but also prevented all those coupons and identity papers falling into the wrong hands.
    Lucas had removed his hat and was mopping the sweat from his forehead with a large damp handkerchief.
    “I should say it’s fairly obvious what we’re looking at here, sir,” he said.
    “Always beware of the obvious,” said Cooper.
    “We were on this street just a few days ago,” the DI continued. “There’s a house just along the road there – very badly bombed. The landlord called us in to clear out squatters.” He stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Deserters.” He paused to allow the significance of this to sink in. “Of course, the buggers moved back in again as soon as we’d gone.”
    Cooper appreciated his DI’s line of thinking, and considered ordering a raid on the property. The landlord was sure to oblige. They could bring in anyone who failed to give a good account. They might find the handbag, or the victim’s papers; but even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t take a lot to make it stick.
    “This is murder, Frank,” he said.
    Lucas shrugged.
    “They’re deserters, sir,” he said. “Bloody deserters.”
    Cooper let the implication hang in the air between them, and looked about him at what remained of the street. He remembered the night – eighteen months ago – when the V-weapon had fallen there, killing eight people. One of his men had found a human head on top of a shed roof. If he remembered correctly, two elderly spinster ladies had lived in the house that had occupied the murder site. They dug out one, dead, from the rubble. The other one was never found.