Chapter 1: Domestic
To the officer first on the scene – who had been despatched alone because it seemed from the call that it was merely a case of pacifying an up-tight woman – it was anything but ‘normal’. As his somewhat pretentious notes later described it, he certainly considered that there were signs ‘of a violent episode’. There was a bloody towel and an equally gory woman’s t-shirt and denim skirt shoved half in half out of the opened over-flowing washing machine; there was broken crockery and glass strewn everywhere; what seemed like the shattered remains of several bottles of red wine were causing a red lake around the kitchen floor, in which floated the debris from a meal of some kind of rice-based dish. All in all, it was a picture of chaos and devastation. Since there had been no report of mini earthquakes or twisters in London, let alone solely in this very ordinary house in this very ordinary street in an affluent, middle class but unremarkable London borough, it was not difficult for DS Clifford Collins to concur with the considered and succinctly expressed opinion of PC Toby Robertson. Robertson had been first on the scene with W.P.C Jean Aitken, and his first words to Collins when the detective arrived was ‘it looks like bloody mayhem, and somebody’s gone bleedin’ berserk’.
In answer to a barrage of question from an odd looking D.I. Collins, who was sweating profusely, and very flushed and breathless P.C. Robertson told Collins he had taken a ‘bit of a scout around’ the house. No, he’d not been upstairs, as yet. Didn’t want to leave the scene – stayed here, waited for CID to arrive. Didn’t want, to leave …. Mrs…. Jenkins – no Jennings – on her own. She was a bit shaken by it all – no wonder. No, no. As far as he could see nobody else was about. Yes, he had kind of looked into the garden too, but had not had a real proper look – thought it best to call it in, and just wait here – in case. No, he didn’t actually go into the garden – but he could see right back as far as their fence. A bit of the fence was broken, but there was a pile of old wood built up - like somebody was going to light a bonfire…. Christ knows what the neighbours would have made of that ’cos it is right close to their property! No, there was no sign of a ‘victim’ - indeed there was no sign of anybody except the woman who had called 999. She had told them that she was Carole Jennings, a cousin of Beverley Wrightson, who, together with her husband, Maurice Wrightson, were the house-owners.
Constable Robertson was now getting as embarrassed by D.I. Collins as he was excited to be at the forefront of such a situation. It may not even be a crime, but it was a step up from collecting shoplifters and moving on drunks! Collins was looking at him very oddly now. Robertson was talking as much to cover his own ill-ease as to genuinely impart information. To a large extent, he found himself talking for talking’s sake, since he did not know what else to do. Collins was saying nothing. Just frowning and looking puzzled and – yes, scared! Robertson, forged on regardless, to fill the void …. “Mrs. Jennings was nothing if not loquacious ….” He continued, almost without taking a breath and trying not to look at Collins. He repeated ... virtually word for word what Carole Jennings had told him. She lived quite locally ’though not in such a snobby area’. She usually called in at least every Friday – and sometimes during the week, depending - to help Bev clear up the accumulated evidence of a week in which too many bone-idle people had stomped around the place, and ’no bugger had had the common decency to clear up after themselves’. It was rare for Maurice Wrightson (or that bloody lazy Mo, as she really referred to him) to ask his so-called ‘workers’ to do anything helpful like wash up, or clear away after themselves. Hell would obviously freeze over before he lifted a finger himself. It was true, she professed grudgingly, (though her tone smacked more of rebuke than empathy), that Bev, left to her own devices, was not a domestic goddess either, so by the end of the week it always looked like a bomb had hit the place. …… But not like this! This was something else again – and those blood-stained things, those were not a good sign either. Neither was there any sign of Bev. Carole had not been able to get her on the phone, which was not at all usual. Bev was constantly on the phone asking her to bring in cigarettes, or butter, or toothpaste, or ... half her bloody larder sometimes …. because she was a hopeless housekeeper and ran out of things constantly. ‘His lordship’ was good at demanding, but not so good at supplying the wherewithal to buy anything!
So that was the initial report – an amazingly detailed account – virtually verbatim – as repeated by P.S. Robertson, resulting from his first contact with Carole Jennings. They were the extraordinarily accurate first impressions, via PC Robertson, of Carole Jennings’ reactions and thoughts when she had arrived at the house and witnessed the chaos and more alarmingly the blood. She had, naturally, been concerned that all was not well. The next few hours proved less efficient and straightforward, however. Within hours, the investigation was further complicated by the fact that D.I. Collins, a man of just 41 years old, and to all intents and purposes a fit, healthy – indeed fitness obsessed – marathon runner and cyclist, had collapsed following a heart attack. An undiagnosed and long-dormant time-bomb waiting to explode, apparently, through his childhood, teen years, and now finally deciding that it was time to make itself known. He was fortunate that though his discomfort had been witnessed by others over the preceding hour or so, he finally collapsed as he walked up the steps of police headquarters, so there were people around to react appropriately to the emergency. Clifford Collins was removed to hospital, still alive, but only just. He had ‘died’ in the ambulance, and though he had been revived by skill - and the speedy use of the defibrillator - he was nonetheless still in a very precarious state between life and death.
So, unfortunately, all of PC Toby Robertson’s exemplary reporting and note taking had somehow got side-lined and valuable first impressions were destined to be down-played in the aftermath of such unexpected and concerning consequences.
The powers that be were left in a quandary. Out of desperation, they were hell bent on persuading themselves that since young Toby Robertson was still wet behind the ears, he had probably exaggerated. After all he would not yet have experienced very many ‘violent episodes’. He had not learned yet that some people lived in chaos most of the time anyway, so to them it was perfectly normal. It was just the great unwashed’s feckless lack of discipline that Robertson was witnessing. He would learn! Give him a few more years on the job and he would get used to the perpetual disorder that was the great ‘General Public’! He would learn to be a cynic and all the better a copper for that!
For practical and strategic reasons in any case it was more advantageous – and easier - for them to talk down the incident. If they ran with it, there was only one alternative. They were decidedly still very unsure and wary of the benefits of having John Roche on their payroll. His ‘genius’ certainly came with many strings, not least his complete lack of any notion of hierarchy or even delegation. He worked to all intents and purposes more as a one-man-band, sometimes using minions to do the real foot-slogging donkey work, but seldom truly taking people into his confidence let alone divulging his motivation or reasoning. They could not just let him kick his heels around the place when they were so short of manpower. They had to bite the bullet and turn him loose on what was being dubbed within the station as the Totteridge Celeste, given the fact that all inhabitants of a swanky house in Strathmore Avenue, Totteridge, in the London Borough of Barnet, seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. The decision was made even more difficult because Totteridge was a relatively affluent part of the city – in a borough on the perimeter of the capital - virtually not in the capital at all - but on the fringe of Hertfordshire. People in that neck of the woods certainly had a few bob! People with money were heeded when they complained. The Press took notice; the Police Commissioners took notice. Caution and diplomacy were required. But those were words not likely even to be in Roche’s personal dictionary!
Roche himself knew only too well that the decision to let him run with the case was taken through gritted teeth, but it bothered him not at all. He fully understood his reputation and was used to the chagrin that his very existence caused within the upper echelons. It was not even a case of Marmite – since some people actually liked Marmite!
