‘Who said life was ever easy.’
2
The blue and white police tape had been wrapped taut between two lampposts across 24 Cullen Lane in Dulwich. Whilst waiting for his coffee order, Ramouter had done his research. All thirty-two houses on Cullen Lane were privately owned, valued no less than £2 million and had become a popular haunt for car thieves. Ramouter adjusted the sleeves of his protective suit and made his way to the crime scene. The signs of a burglary gone wrong were visible in the driveway of number 24: a drying pool of blood a metre from the front door, a broken watch next to the overgrown hydrangea bush, a broken plant pot, visible footprints in the grassless border and a phone – the screen broken – in the grey gravel. And yet a sixty grand Lexus was still parked on the driveway, plugged into the charging point.
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?’
‘A postwoman, or maybe that should be post person? No one knows anymore,’ said PC Keith, flicking the pages of his logbook. ‘Postwoman, Frankie Duloise, twenty-six years old. She’d bolted her mail trolley to a lamppost at the junction of Cullen Lane and Druce Road and started her route. She said she had her headphones on and was listening to a podcast. True crime.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She pushed the front gate open and tripped over the victim. Then called 999.’
‘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 freshfig 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.’
