Fraser-sampson - Death in Profile

DEATH IN
PROFILE

DEATH IN
PROFILE

GUY FRASER - SAMPSON

The First Volume of the Hampstead Murders

urbanepublications.com

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Urbane Publications Ltd
Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleamingwood Drive,
Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ
Copyright Guy Fraser-Sampson, 2016

The moral right of Guy Fraser-Sampson to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents
Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher
of this book.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual
persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-910692-93-6

EPUB 978-1-910692-94-3

KINDLE 978-1-910692-95-0

Design and Typeset by Julie Martin
Cover by Tash Mountford
Printed in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wiltshire

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The publisher supports the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest-certification organisation. This book is made from acid-free paper from an FSC-certified provider. FSC is the only forest-certification scheme supported by the leading environmental organisations, including Greenpeace.

Classy and sophisticated if you thought the golden age of crime writing was dead, then read this.

Ruth Dugdall

Comfortingly old school crime fiction with a twist.

Chris Brookmyre

Contents

CHAPTER 1

Boyo was a border collie cross, which was how he had come by his name. The crackhead who had given him to his owner, Ben, as a puppy had been convinced that Boyo was a proper noun much in evidence among Welshmen, rather than an antiquated form of address. Not that Boyo himself was particularly worried one way or another, for two reasons. First, he was on the whole preoccupied with satisfying his pressing need to find something to eat. Second, as a dog he was incapable of abstract conceptual thought.

Ben was currently lying blind drunk on an old blanket in a shop doorway in Wood Green. Unlike Boyo, he was capable of abstract conceptual thought, but it was an intellectual ability that he rarely chose to indulge. For one thing, any rational assessment of his situation would have prompted deep depression and possible suicide. For another, he was frequently either drunk or drugged to the eyeballs, and occasionally both at the same time.

Having been awake for some time, Boyo had been viewing the corpse-like appearance of his master with stern disapproval. For some days now, since the last night they had spent in a hostel, Ben had been smelling so strongly that even other humans had begun to notice. From the stertorous noises drifting towards him, Boyo knew that it would be impossible to wake Ben until he recovered consciousness of his own volition, and this fact was rapidly becoming most inconvenient, since his bladder was sending him urgent messages. He experimented with a few plaintiff yaps but found that, as expected, these produced no response.

He gave a little pull on his lead, and found to his surprise that it yielded slightly. Ben had forgotten to tie it around his wrist, as he usually did when bedding down for the night, but it was trapped beneath the snoring bulk of his sleeping body. Getting up, Boyo threw his weight onto his back legs, braced his front ones, and pulled mightily. Slowly but surely the old cord gradually emerged, and suddenly he was free. With the lead dragging along the ground behind him, he sped round the corner into a small alleyway, and urinated contentedly against the wall.

After answering the call of nature, he became aware that a woman was lying on the ground further back in the alley, shortly before it gave onto a service area behind the shops. He approached her and sniffed, cautiously at first but then more eagerly. It was apparent that this woman was just as immoveable as his master. He licked her face, but this produced no response. He had a sudden instinct that something was wrong. Her eyes were open, and staring unblinkingly upwards towards the grey North London sky. He drew back and whimpered uncertainly. Then he trotted back to the entrance to the alley, sat on the pavement, and began to bark determinedly.

Arriving on the scene some time later, Detective Chief Inspector Tom Allen found that both the alleyway and a stretch of pavement on either side had been fenced off with blue and white police tape. He pushed his way through the inevitable small crowd of onlookers that always formed on these occasions. Didnt these people have lives of their own to lead? Perhaps it was simply his persistent head cold that prompted this feeling of resentment, but in truth Tom Allen was a man who found little in the world of which he truly approved, and much towards which he was deeply antipathetic.

The young constable did not recognise him, but once he had peered at Allens identification he lifted the tape to allow him to duck underneath it, and pointed to where a little knot of people, some in white boiler suits, had gathered around two or three vehicles that were parked ostentatiously on a double yellow line.

Morning, Bob, he said as Detective Inspector Metcalfe saw him coming, and walked towards him. What have we got?

It was a private joke between them that they often resorted to clichs from old police films and television shows. A couple of years previously, a drug dealer whom they had pursued through the streets of Brixton had been surprised, as he lay prone on the pavement being cuffed, to hear Allen say, Book him, Danno, at which Metcalfe had lent over him and said, in a passable imitation of John Thaw in The Sweeney, Right, sunshine, youre nicked.

SOCO thinks its the same guy, Metcalfe replied, but of course they wont commit to anything until they get the body back to the lab and do their stuff. Single head wound, no knickers, and hes pretty sure there are chloroform burns around the mouth.

Sounds the same, Allen agreed. Lets take a look.

Together they walked the few yards into the alley. Seeing the Chief Inspector, the group of people around the body parted and fell back. Allen was relieved to see that the duty pathologist was Brian Williams; he knew his job and, whats more, he had already worked on at least one of the previous victims.

Morning, Brian. What do you think?

Morning, Tom. Officially, youll have to wait for my report. Unofficially, Im pretty certain its the same killer. Same MO, anyway.

Time of death?

Sometime after midnight, Id say, and thats good because it hasnt rained, and nothings disturbed the body apart from the dog that found it, so this is our best chance yet of getting some good forensic samples.

Its time we had a break, said Allen dourly. He squatted down on his haunches to inspect the body. He saw an ordinary looking brunette, body twisted, legs apart, eyes gazing sightlessly at nothing in particular. He knew without even having to look that there would be a savage hammer wound at the back of the head. Some poor sods daughter, he thought. Then he saw the rings; some poor sods wife.