Chapter 1
ALTERNATIVE FACTS
Two Stories. Only One Truth.
Prologue
PJ – Video log - Saturday 31st March 2018
“Why do you love me?” she would often ask, making me feel awkward and tongue tied for fear of saying something cringey. She would press me by staring, demanding an answer, and I usually end up by saying something like - “I just do.” Or “Too many reasons.”
But as I sit here now, trying to visualise her, I see it at all.
The way her eyes glowed whenever a mischievous thought came into her head. That goofy crossed eyed look she put on when she was messing around. Those luscious lips, her jutting out teeth, her sensuous smell whenever she put on a sweat.
Even the silly irrational stuff like reading the end of a book before deciding if she wants to read it from the beginning. Swearing at inanimate objects when they drop to the floor when she’s tidying up. Even her habit of dancing along to really loud cheesy disco music when she’s had a few too many.
But most all the sheer striking power of her beauty – the warmth and compassion of her personality which released me from the prison of grief and pain I was in. How I wish I could say all this to her now.
Now that Ligia is gone.
Date :
Saturday 8th December 2018
Time :
22:00
Location :
Terminal 2, Heathrow Airport
On the tarmac of Heathrow Airport I sat down and wept. I wept for all the people affected.
But most of all I wept for Zico, out of everyone on that long list of people, he had been hurt the most.
Chapter 1
Is This What They Call A Cold Case?
Day 1 of the Investigation
Date :
Tuesday 20th March 2018
Time :
12:30
Location :
West Byfleet, Surrey
The Sat-Nav sends us deeper and deeper into the green heart of Surrey, a world of neatly clipped hedges, manicured lawns and top end shiny motors. The further we drive, the higher the value of the surrounding real estate.
In the passenger seat next to me is my partner Matt. Both of us were trying to keep our states of high excitement in check. We don’t get calls like this every day.
After a lengthy stretch along a sycamore lined avenue without a pedestrian in sight, the mechanical female voice instructs me to hang a right into a winding Cul-de-Sac. Looking ahead, our final destination becomes clear, it’s the house sectioned off by yellow tape and a uniformed police woman in her mid-twenties standing by.
Next to her on the pillar there’s sign that reads - in a Runic Nordic Font. Set back, behind a twelve foot hedge is a large two storey house, with white walls and three triangular roofs painted in fire engine red.
From the house next door, the branches of a pink blossom tree arched over to create a canopy entrance to the drive-way, and over the head of the waiting WPC.
I recognise her, it’s Gemma Muldrew based at Woking Nick. Her out-going bubbly personality make her a well liked colleague. I, on the other hand, found her alacrity rather forced and irritating.
I pull up next to her and as I scroll down my window, I am hit by a cold blast of icy wind. Readers will remember the ‘beast from the east’ that sent Britain into a deep frost in February 2018. Mercifully the beast had moved on, and the temperature was now thawing. Incidentally this cold weather will have a critical bearing on the forensics of this case.
“Good Afternoon WPC Muldrew,” I say leaning out and trying to sound cool - “what have you got for me?”
“A dead body in the freezer. A woman.”
“Who found the body?”
“The husband.”
“And where is the husband?”
“He’s sat in the kitchen of his next-door neighbour at number 3. I’ve requisitioned the kitchen as an incident room.”
“We need to arrange for someone from the Trauma Treatment Unit to talk to him.”
“Already done Sir. They are on their way.”
“Excellent work WPC Muldrew,” I said getting out the car, hoping to get a smile from her. But she remained ashen faced, her normally rosy cheeks drained of colour, apparently shaken. This may well have been her first murder case.
“Have you seen the body?” I continued.
“No. I haven’t Sir – I’m...not. I’m a bit squeamish Sir.”
I am as well, but I wasn’t going to admit that to her.
“Well we need to check that the victim is definitely dead. That’s procedure.”
I lift the crime scene tape, about to go under when I hear a loud shout of “Wait!”
My head snaps back to see the familiar bespectacled face and lank messy hair of my long-time partner and car companion Matt.
“You don’t want to go into the crime scene until Roy gets here.”
Matt, as he is most of the time, was spot on. Roy was our head crime scene forensics guy – and not a fan of mine. On a number of occasions, he had berated me for contaminating “his” crime scene, and once in front of whole load of people.
But I needed to establish that the body was actually dead. This was in my Regulation Homicide Handbook. The woman might still be alive and requiring immediate life-saving medical attention.
I had myself a dilemma. As I considered it, I paced around on the road looking over at the neighbouring houses – an assortment of twitching curtains and faces at the window.
I did not want to provoke the ire of Roy, at any cost. His public telling off still smarted and I would do most anything to avoid that happening again.
I made my decision. If the victim was still alive and in need of medical attention, there was nothing that the three of us could do. We should wait until a trained medical person arrived. “I need to get an ETA from Roy. If he’s not here within the fifteen minutes, I am going to have to go in check she’s actually dead.
“You call him” – and I handed Matt my phone. “He likes you better. I’m going to see the husband.”
The front garden of number 3 had two more pink blossom trees, in early bloom with the first stirrings of spring. They flanked me as I crunched my way up the gravel drive way and pressed the doorbell. The door was opened by a chunky late middle-aged woman in thick round glasses. I introduced myself and asked to be shown to the man in the kitchen.
The age of the people living here became immediately apparent when she opened the door to an expanse of furry shag pile on the floor, and fussy floral papered walls with pictures of wildlife in ornate frames.
As I passed through the hallway I hear the tick-tocking of a clock from the living room. I look right and observe a tall grey haired, gaunt lined face man, standing up watching me through the open door.
I walk towards him, about to introduce myself, but the women steers me away. “No the kitchen’s this way.” The tall man stares at me as I walk away.
I passed through the open kitchen door and there he was sat at the table.
His head was arched downwards and gazing down onto a mug of tea going cold. He was aged forty-ish, around 5ft 10, slim build with dark brown shoulder length, studiously messy hair and parted in the middle. A ski-slope nose led down to a large crater of a dimple in the middle of his chin. His chestnut brown eyes were moist and appeared foggy with pain. His mouth hung open slightly and he was breathing hard.
He was the picture of a man who has lost everything.
I went straight into it - “Excuse me Sir. I am Detective Chief Superintendent Ferdinand. Are you sure your wife is dead?”
The man did not even look up.
“Are you sure the body is your wife?”
Still no response. Instead he lifted his head to stare gloomily out the window.
“Can I please have your name?”
Nothing. I look out the window with him and see a cherry red Peugeot 205 pulling up next to ours.
“The name of your wife?”
More nothing.
“Sir I realise this is very traumatic, but I do need your help. Medical help is on the way to treat you for shock.”
Silence.
I resorted to pleading - “Can you please tell me what happened?”
He continued to look blankly out the window. He didn’t move, his face didn’t flicker. He wouldn’t even acknowledge my existence. It was as if I was invisible and inaudible, just like an evening at home with the wife.
Presently an ash-blonde woman aged around mid30s dashed into the room. I immediately spotted the chestnut eyes and nose shape as that of the silent man. The pronounced dimple, however, was absent.
“Hullo Madam – and who might you be?”
“I’m Samantha. I’m her sister.”
“And who might he be?”
“His name is...Paul - PJ.” She equivocated before saying his name.
“Paul - PJ?”
“No just PJ.”
“That’s his Christian name?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the surname?”
“James.”
Pause.
“Can I be alone with my brother?”
“Well actually we’ve requisitioned this kitchen as a make-shift incident room.”
Samantha’s eyes glared with fierce defiance.
“Oh – ok then.” And I left them to it.
I shut the door behind me and approached the woman with the chunky eye-glasses. I said whispering – “I will need to take a statement from you at some point.”
The tall man was still standing in the living room as I went out the front door. He had the look of a Nazi War Criminal. I could picture him brandishing a dentist’s drill and asking the question ‘Is it safe?’ over and over.
Outside I sneakily grabbed a peak through the kitchen window that PJ had been staring out of. I saw Samantha’s eyes narrow as she was apparently listening to PJ talking. What can those narrowing eyes mean? Was she wincing – or was it suspicion?
Walking back towards the crime scene at number 5 I call over Matt.
“Call the nick – get them to run a check on a PJ James - resident of West Byfleet.”
The familiar white Vauxhall Astra of Roy our CS Guy pulled up. As he got out, I walked up to him - “Hullo Roy – you’ll be pleased to know we have protected and preserved your crime scene. Nothing has been touched or moved. But you must establish immediately that the victim is definitely dead.”
“Yes, yes.” He muttered at me impatiently. The man really didn’t like me.
“We are going to have to seal off the whole street as a crime scene. Not just the house. And also, the area around the back garden.”
I was about to ask Roy a question when I picked up some movement in my peripheral.
I shouted out - “Oi! Where do you think you’re going?”
It was PJ and Samantha getting into her cherry red Peugeot. I sprinted towards them to prevent them leaving.
“I’m taking him home. He can’t stay here. It’s too upsetting.” Samantha blurted at me as I approached.
PJ was still wearing his vacant shocked expression.
This man was a vital witness, and a highly likely suspect. There is no way I could let him get away from us without being questioned.
“WPC Muldrew will take you to the station. He’ll get treated there for shock and trauma – and he must wait there until I get to take a statement from him. AND NOT BEFORE.”
More uniformed coppers had shown up by this time, the place was now crawling with Old Bill. But Roy was not ready to let me into the crime scene – so I went back to see the neighbour.
Time :
14:00
Location :
3 Odin Court, West Byfleet, Surrey
“What do you say to a man who’s just found their wife dead in a freezer?” Said the woman as she led me into her living room. “I made him a cup of tea. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.” I resisted the temptation to suggest that perhaps a glass of champagne would be more appropriate. In my appraisal my impetuous manner and inappropriate comments had been commented on. I even once had to stop my partner Matt from making a formal complaint about me. Instead I ask - “Did the man say anything to you?”
“Not a dickie bird.”
“So how did you know he’d found his wife dead in the freezer?”
She ponders this before saying – “that nice police-woman told me.”
“So what have you recently seen or heard coming out of that house?”
“I heard nothing from Number 5 since Friday night.”
“And what did you hear Friday night?”
“A row. A massive row.”
Here we go – our first lead. “Right. Who Between?”
“I couldn’t see. I only heard the voices.”
“One male – one female?” Sorry - that was a leading question.
“Yes.”
“Do you know PJ James at all?”
“Who’s that love?”
“Your neighbour. The man that was in your kitchen.”
“Oh him. Only by sight. Never spoken to him. I say hello to her. She seems nice.”
“And what might her name be?”
“I don’t know.”
I recalled the grey haired, lined faced man looking at me from the living room.
“Who was the other man in this house when I came in earlier?”
“Yes – that’s Fred my husband.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s gone to the shops.”
Isn’t that rather dodge? Your next door neighbour is found dead in the freezer and then you decide you need to go to the shops?
“Why has he gone to the shops?”
“He always goes for a walk to the shops in the afternoon. He’s a man of routines is our Fred.”
My phone pinged. A text from Matt – “Roy is ready to let you see the crime scene.”
“I am going to have to take full statements from you both. I will be coming back this evening. It’s very important I speak with Fred as well.”
Time :
14:30
Location :
5 Odin Court, West Byfleet, Surrey
Outside the taped house Roy was waiting for me. He handed me some latex gloves and shoe covers. I quickly put them on and he lifted the crime scene tape for me. The front door was opened and Roy led me inside, telling me -
“No sign of forced entry anywhere.”
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“We haven’t found anything yet.”
Once into the hallway, to the left was the sitting room and in front of me was the doorway to the kitchen. I chose the kitchen.
I was in the same space as number 3, but the interior was stylistically the opposite. There was no shag pile carpets, instead we have gleaming floors, white walls, an open plan Scandinavian style kitchen in sparking white and gleaming chrome.
Coming out of the kitchen and into the living room on one side of the wall there was an assortment of pictures. I recognise the long hair and dimpled chin of PJ in all of them, standing next to a parade of different people, with cameras, clapperboards and lights as props. On more than two of the clapperboards were written the words ‘Shipton Village’. That rung a bell, it’s a popular TV show. The photograph collection gave off an overwhelming whiff of smugness.
I turn left into a dining area with floor to ceilings windows that opened up into a large garden. There were no signs of any children living there. It’s was all too neat and tidy. But I see a cat flap in the bottom corner of the glass.
In the far corner on the sideboard was an open lap top connected to two square Bose speakers about nine inches high.
In between the speakers were three framed photographs. In one - two smiling brown skinned mixed race boys – one aged around 5 and the other around 8 - cherub faces like Botticelli paintings. The boys must be either adopted, or from another partner. The second photograph is of a middle aged tanned couple and a young woman in between them. She has long straight raven black hair and a vivacious smile
The third picture is of one of the mixed race boys in the first photograph. Here he is around 15 with flowing black locks, in front of the woman with the raven black hair.
While staring at the photographs, Roy taps me on the shoulder and
leads me towards the garage. I braced myself. “Do I have to see the body?”
Roy looked back at me with an expression that said - “I can’t believe you’re a policeman.”
As I stepped into the drafty garage, I immediately felt a drop of temperature. The large freezer was against the back wall with a black and silver Mercedez backed up against it.
Fear gripped me as I looked towards the freezer.
Roy lifted up the freezer door. I couldn’t put if off any longer - I took a couple of steps forward and then I saw her.
A complexion once tanned and healthy, was now icy blue with white flecks of ice on her eye-brows and cheeks. From a head injury blotches of red zig-zagged across her frozen face.
While looking at the body, Roy said into my ear “I cannot establish the kill location yet. I am going to run some Luminol around the garage to see if there are any traces of blood that has been cleared up.”
He went on – “When I first lifted up the freezer door I found the body in a zipped up sleeping bag with two thick black dustbin bags over her head. I took photographs. I had to remove the bags. There was lots of blood inside the inner bag.”
“Is the head injury the cause of death?” I asked.
“Can’t say for certain yet.”
This was the fifth corpse I had seen in the course of my duties. All were distressing and I don’t know how anybody gets used to it. This one I found especially distressing because moments before I had seen her so happy and alive in those photographs on the wall.
I looked away and shut my eyes. The image of her frozen blue and red streaked face projected onto my eyelids.
I couldn’t help it, I began to weep.
Yes you didn’t misread that. I began to weep.
I felt an embrace. An embrace of empathy and warmth. It was Roy.
“Come on son. Let’s find the person who did this.”
I often feel an urge to crack a joke at the strangest moments, I think it’s to diffuse the intensity of the situation, and I gave way to it this time.
Rubbing my eyes I said – “is this what they call a cold case?”
Thankfully Roy had walked away me from me by this time and was out of ear-shot.
I walked out the house in a daze and still with moistened eyes when Matt come up to me. “The name of the woman who lived in this house was Ligia James, wife of PJ.”
He pronounced the name Ligia as lij-ee-ah.
“How do you spell her name?”
“L-I-G-I-A.”
“What country is that?”
“Portuguese… I think.”
So we had a name of the victim at last. Though unconfirmed.
As I sat in my car gathering my thoughts, I get a text from WPC Muldrew - “PJ James’s brief has arrived at Woking nick. He’s ready for questioning.”
Chapter 2 – The Harpo Marx Impression
Date :
Tuesday 20th March
Time :
16:00
Location :
Woking Police Station
PJ came into the interview room still wearing his face of abject misery. Next to him was his brief, a familiar face with whom I had jousted with many times in the past – the formidable Jennifer Janus. She tended to get the lion’s share of the juiciest crime cases in this district. I had always known Jenny J as an elegant power dresser, and recently she taken to applying a smokey eye make up, which gave her something of a middle-aged goth look. From her wide eyed unflinching stare I deduced Jennifer Janus had recently had a round of Bottox.
I look at PJ and I put on my best conciliatory voice -
“Thank you Sir. Please sit down. I realise you are suffering from an unimaginable trauma. But I do need to ask you some questions. I have no intention of keeping you here any longer than is necessary.”
PJ took his seat, next to Jennifer Janus on his left.
Gazing at my notes I fired off the first of my prepared questions -
“When did you last see your wife alive?” PJ looked down at the desk.
There was long silence until – “No comment.”
I sucked in air. I wasn’t expecting that.
My next question - “Do you know where your wife had been in the days leading up to her death?”
“No comment.”
“Do you know anyone who might want your wife dead?”
“No comment.”
“Can you tell me about any of her friends?”
“No comment.”
“Where does she work?”
“No comment.”
“How long have you been married?”
“No comment.”
“Will you be prepared to formally identify the body?”
“No comment.”
I sat back reeling with incredulity. I looked at Jennifer Janus to his right, her bottox poker face gave nothing away.
PJ – Video log - Saturday 31st March 2018
In my first encounter with DCS Ferdinand I was in total shock – shut down mode. I couldn’t hear or see people properly. It was like I was underwater, and I just wanted to drown. So I wasn’t able to communicate about anything, let alone process anything that had just happened.
I was numb. I was not hungry for revenge. I was not burning with the desire to know who did it. All I knew was that I had seen Ligia’s lifeless body, and I was never going to see her ever alive again.
But I really wanted to help. I so much wanted to provide the information to help him find who did it.
In that first police interview my impulse was to try and be as helpful as possible. But my lawyer told me to say absolutely nothing to the police. I was told that’s standard. She insisted because, she said, that in my confused state I would tell the police something that wasn’t quite correct or consistent. The police would then pick up on it and use it to force the case of my guilt.
I looked up at the end of the interview and saw the look on DCS Ferdinand’s face, and it did occur to me that by not answering any questions I was helping to cement in his mind that I was the guilty one.
I had lost Kelly, my first wife, through a sudden accident some years before. Back then I went through the most extreme grief, and in the months after Kelly’s death, I tried to comfort myself by thinking that now that I had the most horrible thing imaginable happen to me, I would never experience the same sort of pain again. But I was wrong. The pain I was going through with Ligia was much, much worse.
When I started to think about what might have happened – and who might have done it, I thought this all must have been to do with her recent use of cocaine, and the sort of company she had been keeping because of it. But I couldn’t say that to the police on the record. I didn’t want to smear her name.
I had suspected that she had been a drug mule on a recent visit to Brazil to see her relatives. I remember she had gone somewhere directly after the flight, and not come straight home, and my imagination had dreamed up a scenario where she had held back some of the drugs she had brought into the country from the gang.
But I wasn’t thinking these things during that first police interview. My immediate reaction was shock, and I became numb and unresponsive to everything and anybody around me.
Time :
18:00
Location :
Woking Police Station
After PJ’s no comment interview I paced around the incident room, fuming.
So despite all that shock and grief, within six hours of finding his wife dead, PJ had managed to get it together to get himself the best possible legal representation – and come back with a No Comment strategy.
Barely calming down, I arranged for the paperwork to raise warrants on PJ’s phone and PC. I also was going to arrange a raid on his place of work to search his work PC.
But Matt came back to report that it turns out PJ has no current place of work.
PJ James’s occupation is a TV Director – which explains the shrine to smugness on his living room wall. But he hadn’t worked in over two years. Though his most recent gig was the very popular TV show – Shipton Village.
Maybe high profile jobs like that pay so well you don’t need to work again for several years. Well when we got hold of his bank statements, we’ll find out.
From the incident room window I was looking down into the police station car park and was watching PJ sitting alone in the passenger seat of Samantha’s Peugeot. I couldn’t make out his expression, but I could see he was fiddling with the car stereo. Presently Samantha appeared next to me.
“Something you should know,” she said “Ligia has a son from previous marriage. He’s about 16 or 17 years of age, and called Zico - or something like that.”
That was most likely one of the mixed race boys I had seen in the photographs in the house.
“How do you spell his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Z-I-C-O?”
“I don’t know. That’s all I know.”
I stared at her hard. Her bright chestnut eyes sparkled with intelligence, and I was reminded of the look she gave her brother that I spied through the kitchen window. I thanked her and she exited.
Once out the door I called out - “Matt we need to find the son called Zico.”
I then called WPC Mudrew into the incident room and complimented on her excellent work as first respondent. This time her face lit up with her familiar glowing smile. Her police head-gear had been removed to release her hair in long brown ringlets. I then shared with her my frustration with PJ’s Harpo Marx impression and wanted to know if he had said anything to her before Matt and I had arrived.
“Well it just so happens I turned on my body armour-cam as I approached the house.”
I sat forward.
“Did PJ talk to you?”
“Yes.”
“A lot?”
“A bit.”
I was getting to really like this girl.
“Come on – let’s play back this tape.”
WPC Muldrew pulled out the SD card and put it into my PC. Now none of what I was about to see would be admissible in any trial – but at least I could get some sort of fix of what the hell was going on with our non-speaking victim/suspect.
I leaned forward my chair and we were away:-
The opening was a jerky shot of grey tarmac. The time code display at the bottom of the screen put the time at 13:19. So 15 minutes after receiving the 999 call.
I hear the rustling of clothes as the moving grey tarmac tilts up to reveal the three triangular red roofs of Asgard, the house of PJ. The house gets larger and larger until we push through the unlocked front door.
Off screen we hear WPC Muldrew’s voice calling out.
“Hallo? Hallo?”
Off screen we hear a male screeching voice.
“My wife. My wife. My wife she’s dead.”
The wobbly camera turns into the living room where we see a man with his head in his hands sat forward on a couch. He is wearing the same V-neck jumper and jeans as when I saw him in the kitchen.
“Where is she Sir?” The voice of WPC Muldrew.
“In there. In there!” PJ shouts and points a shaky hand towards the garage door, and then even louder he yells “In the garage. In the freezer.”
The garage door slides open. But the camera jerks back in keeping with WPC Muldrew’s testimony that she didn’t want to see the body.
The next image I see is back on PJ sitting on a couch still covering his head with his hands. WPC Muldrew gets nearer as he scratches his head. She is so close I can see the dandruff flakes flying off.
WPC Muldrew’s says nothing as PJ continues.
“She was doing cocaine. She fell in with a bad crowd! It has got to be something to do with that.” This was said in a change of tone – not screechy, but slower, calmer. His voice had a touch of the mockney.
“Do you know where the murderer would be now?”
PJ shook his head.
“I know her first husband was back on the scene. Eduardo.”
This statement was made while the camera paid special attention to PJ’s Adidas Gazelle trainer.
“They’d been meeting up.” He continued.
“OK Sir. I am going to have to seal off this crime scene. We need to take you somewhere outside of here.” So we had ourselves some leads – a bad crowd who did cocaine and a first husband called Eduardo. But how much did this bodycam footage reveal? There was no way of knowing at this stage. But at least I got to hear the fucker’s voice beyond those two words – No Comment.
“Thank you WPC Muldrew. Excellent work.” I said after the viewing, and WPC Muldrew beamed again.
“It’s been a tough day. I need a drink. Fancy coming along?” WPC Muldrew offers.
“I’d love to,” I say “but I’ve got a mountain of stuff to get through.”
Presently I looked out the window to see WPC Muldrew, now out of uniform, walking out the car park with someone I recognised – the peroxide ambulance chaser journalist for the Surrey Star - Jane Barrow. This set off alarm bells.
I got out my phone and bashed out a text to Muldrew - “Fanx once again for your wonderful work today. Have a well earnt drink on me. Be careful what you say to the vulture lady from the Surrey Star.”
She replied ten minutes later with a – “Jane is very nice. She’s offered to help us with a call out for information. Rest assured I will not reveal any sensitive stuff on the case.”
Was my rest assured? No. Not really.
Time :
20:00
Location :
Woking Police Station
Roy came into the incident room holding up a see-through plastic zip up bag containing the laptop I had seen in the house. Just what I was waiting for.
“My team did some forensic on this. We’ve emailed you the report, but the top line is this - no activity at all since Friday night. A Spotify playlist got activated at 9.35 pm and got switched off at 10.25pm.“
“May I see that playlist?”
Roy fired up the lap top and clicked onto the Spotify playlist. The playlist was titled “Ligia’s Disco Party” and this is what was on in it:-
An eclectic mix of dance music, not just disco, I observed.
I then did a skim of her email correspondence – much of it was in a language I assumed to be Portuguese. Would Surrey Police go to the expense of hiring me a translator? They bloody better. There was a lot of correspondence to Zico, who must be the son that Samantha mentioned, and an Eduardo. That was the name PJ gave as the ex-husband in WPC Muldrew’s body-cam footage. So now we had email addresses for the son and ex-husband.
I asked Roy about her mobile phone.
“It was with her in her jacket in the freezer. The phone was in there for so long it cracked and so we can’t get access to the data. But we are going to run some tests on the state of the phone, so we may be able to tell how long she was in the freezer.
“So can we establish a time of death?”
“Impossible to say – the freezer has monkeyed around with that. As you know, normally a body’s temperature would give you an indication, but the freezer took her body to minus 4 and kept it there. Unfortunately there were no flies inside the freezer to lay any eggs.”
I forwarded the email addresses of Zico and Eduardo to my partner Matt The Stat so he can contact them, while I flicked through her picture library. I always feel uncomfortable looking through other people’s photographs, but I had to do it, especially with the paucity of information I was getting from the husband.
Scrolling through the years, I felt I was getting to know Ligia. The mother, the daughter, the party girl. In most pictures she is dressed down in jeans, trainers and t-shirt, occasionally she’s glammed up for a formal occasion. In every picture she is either smiling or pulling a humorous face.
The picture of PJ and Ligia together were becoming less and less frequent. A constant was the young mixed race lad - I watched him grow up in pictures from an 11 year old to a tall athletic young man. But I only saw one of the boys grow up.
I saw a picture of five young women standing outside a village bar in a country that is not the UK, in amongst them is Ligia, her face is now familiar to me, with the same flowing black hair and the same glowing smile.
I found a relatively recent picture of the married couple together by the mantelpiece in the house. In the middle of them is a trophy - a metallic statue about three foot high of a goldy brass coloured woman with wings holding up a globe. Perhaps it’s some showbiz award. I looked closer at Ligia’s smile, it seemed frozen, doubtful. But that always happens when you stare long enough at the smile in a photograph.
I was in the car making my way back to the crime scene, when I get a phone call from a Matt full of brio telling me that, on Saturday night, the son Zico had filed a missing person report with the Met Police on Eduardo Pinheiro.
“This has got to have something to do with the case.” He said, and sent over a photo of Eduardo Pinheiro to my phone. He was black, with a broad forehead and a wide pronounced jawline. Short back and sides, with a slight quiff. I was also sent a full length picture, which showed him wearing a chef hat and to be very long legged and tall - about 6 foot 3. Not someone who would get easily lost in a crowd.
Date :
Tuesday 20th March 2018
Time :
21:00
Location :
3 Odin Court, West Byfleet, Surrey
It was imperative to speak with the next door neighbours who had heard rowing on the Friday night. With your older witnesses you need to speak with them quickly while the evidence was still fresh in their mind. Leave it a few days and that vital evidence could get lost forever in their foggy brains.
The name of the chunky woman with the thick glasses was Wendy Barraclough. The husband was called Fred – a retired accountant. His voice was a complete contrast to his menacing Nazi war criminal appearance. Instead he spoke in a Yorkshire accent as thick as black pudding.
“She were a ray of sunshine, always cheerful always saying hello – but him – not so much as a dickie.”
A Yorkshire man using rhyming slang? Is that suspicious? Maybe – but let’s move on.
“So when WPC Muldrew brought him over, did he say anything to either of you?”
Wendy and Fred reply to the negative.
“Did either of you see or hear him call his sister?”
Negatives all around.
“Or his solicitor?”
More expressions to the negative.
“So this row you heard from the house on Friday night - male and female voice - could you make out any of the words?”
“You’re a loser! I heard her say that a few times.” Said Wendy.
“And what was the male voice saying?”
“Couldn’t hear.” Says Wendy.
“What about you Fred?”
“I couldn’t hear either.”
“Did you hear them row often?”
Wendy looked over to her husband.
“Every couple of weeks.”
Fred nodded.
“The thing is though,” Fred chipped in “We never could see them rowing, so we can’t be sure if was them two who live next door doing it.”
“But the female voice sounded foreign though.” Wendy chipped in.
“You talked about the night of the last row. Loud music was being played.”
“Yes Love. That stopped suddenly.”
AH! That would be the Spotify play list – I thought.
“You didn’t think to complain?”
“No it wasn’t too loud. That’s why we could hear the rowing over the top.”
“Can you remember any of the songs?”
“No sorry.”
“Come on – can you remember a lyric?”
Rose thought for a bit, scratched her head.
“Anything? What sort of music was it?”
“This bloke was singing Prawn.”
“Prawn?”
“Yes Prawn. Over and over – and then the music stopped.”
“But the rowing went on?”
“No the rowing stopped after the music stopped. It was dead silent after that.”
I showed them the picture of Eduardo on my phone – “Ever seen this gentleman around?” That drew a blank.
I was making to leave when Fred chipped in - “We need to mention the cat.”
“OK. Tell me about the cat.”
“He came into our back garden Friday night.”
“Oh yes. Their cat came in and turned on our burglar lights in the back garden.” Said Wendy.
“OK” I said “why would that be important?”
“It means someone visiting the house next door, because the cat always runs away into our back garden when they get visitors.”
“Nice. You are turning out to be top class witnesses. What time was that?”
Wendy closed her eyes as she thought.
“Oh yes I remember – just as Graham Norton was about to start.”
“Where you watching live TV?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean where you watching as it was being broadcast, or were you watching it on the Iplayer?”
“What’s an iplayer?”
Right a quick reference to the Radio Times shows that on a Friday night Graham Norton comes on at 10.30. So that snippet of info gives us a kick-start to our timeline :-
At just before 10.30 a visitor arrives to the house (maybe).
Time :
22:00
Location :
Woking Police Station
In the reception area I saw a young brown skinned man, aged around 18, being comforted by an out of uniform WPC Muldrew who evidently had been called back from the pub. I instantly recognised the man’s emerald eyes, striking cheekbones and flowing locks from the boy in the photograph. Now his flowing locks had transformed into dreadlocks that were bleached white at the tips. But here there was no smiling. He had clearly been crying.
I approach the young man - “Hello I am Detective Chief Superintendent Ferdinand - Will you answer some questions for me?”
He nods.
He confirmed to me that Ligia’s name was pronounced lij-ee-ah.
“You live with your father?”
The boy nods again
“And I understand you reported your father missing. When did you do this?”
“Saturday night. He didn’t come home Friday night. He’s a chef at a restaurant and when his work called at 7pm asking where he was, I got worried and called the police.”
Zico‘s voice was unusual, it was hard to attach it to any specific region or country. There was little bit of London there and a little of bit of somewhere else.
“The name of your father is Eduardo Pinheiro?”
He nods.
“Is he also Portuguese?” “No Brazilian.”
“Do you know where your father keeps his passport?”
“Yes it’s still there – in the drawer.”
“Does he have any other passports?”
“No. He only has one – Brazilian.”
“Where did Eduardo go Friday night?”
“I don’t know – he went out on a date – but don’t know who with.”
“I date with a lady?”
“I guess so. I think her name was GG.”
“Do you have any contact details for this GG lady?”
“No I will have a look.”
“What do you think of PJ James?”
Zico scowled and then said - “If you can’t say anything good about someone, don’t say anything at all.”
“Well I totally disagree with that. I wouldn’t get very far in my job if everyone stuck to that. So – come on - what do you think of PJ James?”
“No comment.”
Aw – not you as well!
In the incident room, on my PC I pulled up the missing person report on Eduardo Pinheiro. On the Friday he went missing he was wearing a green sweater and blue jeans and drove a White Pontiac. I printed out his photograph and forwarded it to WPC Muldrew who had volunteered to lead the door to door.
On my way out of the incident room, Matt pulls me aside – “We have contacted Ligia’s parents, and they are coming straight over on the first plane from Portugal to look after Zico. But we need to have the body formally identified now. I just spoke with PJ’s sister – he’s refused to identify the body. Can we get the son to do it?”
I shook my head vigorously – “No way. No fucking way. We can’t let the son do it. Get PJ on the phone – he must do it. PJ has already seen her dead.”
PJ – Video log - Saturday 31st March 2018
This was nothing but cruelty. I was at my sister’s home. I had just seen my wife dead and I was trying to sleep and blot out the pain. A phone call comes in late into the night. Sam picks up, and the person insists on speaking to me. They were demanding that I go to the morgue and formally identify the body.
I had spent an hour or more being thoroughly examined by the police for any injuries I may have sustained in an attack. I realised then that I would be a prime suspect. They of course found nothing. I haven’t been in a fight since first year of primary school.
I wanted to co-operate with the police but they were asking too much of me. I could not bear to see Ligia dead again. The police called me again about identifying the body, I just hung up and shut down.
I had already seen the body and called the police. That should be enough for any formal identification.
I just wanted to shut my eyes, go to sleep and never wake up again.
Chapter 3 – The Chablis Trail
Day 2 of the Investigation
Date :
Wednesday 21st March 2018
Time :
07:30
Location :
Woking Police Station
I managed to snatch an hour or two of sleep at home, and returning to the nick early doors I discover that the brass had assigned me a team of three investigators. I’ve worked with these trusty bloodhounds before - I like to call them Huey, Dewey and Lewey. I am not sure if they are too keen on their monikers, their real names are Shakeela, Tom and Vikki.
Burning the midnight oil, Vikki had been busy putting up the incident room wall charts, including this floor plan of the ground floor of Asgard :-
Also on the wall was a map of the streets of the immediate area, and a chart of the four investigation pillars. I filled it in with the info I had after Day 1 of the investigation :-
This to be updated as the case progresses.
Looking up at the boards that now surrounded my desk, I felt a rush of nervous exhilaration - the Murder Investigation was up and running.
Settling down to my first coffee of the day, I was angered by the news that Zico had been made to identify Ligia’s body. He had apparently done it willingly, saying that he wanted to see his mother one last time and say good-bye, but I am sure he would have found the experience traumatic, and something that would scar him mentally for years to come.
We are supposed to be public defenders and we should have protected Zico from that. Why couldn’t PJ identify the body?
Zico was now back at his home in Merton that he lived in with his missing father. His grand parents had arrived at Heathrow from Porto in the early hours and were now taking care of him.
One of my assigned investigators Tom who had managed to get some sleep had been sent to interview Ligia’s parents.
While PJ not talking to me was suspicious, and supremely irritating, on consideration of everything, the missing ex-husband Eduardo Pinheiro was top of my suspect list. It was highly likely that his disappearance was linked to Ligia’s death. Had he escaped the country? Tom had called in to confirm what Zico had told me - that Eduardo Pinheiro’s Brazillian passport was still in the drawer at home. There was no record of him having a second passport.
I forwarded a high-res photo of Eduardo Pinheiro to the team to alert the forces nationwide and put out some WANTED posters. True to their reputation, it appears the Met Police had done next to nothing on receiving Zico’s missing person report on Saturday. But this missing person was now linked to a homicide, and now some proper police (that’s us, Surrey) were taking over.
I get on the phone to Jennifer Janus, PJ’s brief, and left a voicemail – “when is your client ready to come in and give a statement? THIS IS IMPERATIVE! I will be calling again in an hour.”
I was hoping that my second interview with PJ would give him the chance to tell me something about the cocaine, the bad crowd and ex-husband story he mentioned to WPC Muldrew when she first got to the scene.
At a few minutes before 9 am I get an incoming call - “Morning Ferdy – I hear you have a murder case.”
The male voice was in an Indian accent, familiar but I couldn’t immediately place it. He said the words ‘murder case’ like it was some jolly adventure.
“It is me Rupal Chakrabharti – Met Police.”
“Ah Yes! The blood splatter expert.”
Rupal was more than just an expert, he had an evangelical zeal for his job. But his fervour for blood splatter wasn’t from any morbid obsession, it was from a passion for forensic detail and the physics of liquids, and any chance he gets to do it he would. He didn’t care if it was outside his jurisdiction, or even if he did it unpaid.
“Chakka, do you spend all your time trawling the networks and bulletins for murder cases?” “No I just check regularly. Come on - tell me about the case.”
So infectious was his enthusiasm, he made you feel like committing a bloody murder just to give him some splatter to work on.
“At the moment we have no blood splatter. Roy….you know Roy?”
“Course”
“Roy will be running a Luminol test round the crime scene. Rest assured – as soon as a blood splatter turns up, you’ll be at the top of my Rolodex.” “I can also get you the services of Brandi The Cadaver Dog.”
“Nice. Will let you know.”
At fifteen minutes past nine, WPC Muldrew strides into my incident room, holding an A4 piece of paper and in a state of racing palpitation, telling me that the overnight neighbouring door-to-door enquiries and had thrown up something juicy.
“OK what is it then?”
“A white transit van parked up round the corner at 6pm Friday night. Right here on Sanderson Way, just one street from the house.” WPC Muldrew pointed to the spot.on the large wall map :-
“And what about this van?”
“There were three men inside and…..they looked South American.”
“In what way did they look South American?”
“The witness said they looked foreign, and he heard one of them speak - and it sounded Spanish.”
“Did the witness engage with any of them at all?”
“No but one of the gang came out of the van and urinated against the hedge. The witness crossed his path and he gave him a look as if to say – ‘Yeah? What are you going to do about it?’ Then as he walked away, he heard them laughing in an aggressive way.”
“How do you laugh in an aggressive way?”
“Dunno. Those are the witness’s words – not mine. The witness is helping our illustrator put together an identikit. He mentioned that the urinator had a distinctive star tattoo on his left forearm.”
“In what way is it a distinctive star?”
“It’s an eight point star.”
“Eight point star? Is the witness sure it was eight point?”
“Pretty sure. I got the identi-kit illustrator to do a picture.” and she handed me the page of A4 with a star with eight evenly spiked points in the middle of a cross :-
This was good evidence. You often get four, five, and six point stars – but eight point star tattoos are indeed quite unusual and noteworthy.
Muldrew let a silence hang momentarily as I continued looking at the star, then she said – “It could be a drug gang thing.”
“Could well be. I will get onto Interpol. They have a database on drug gangs and their insignia.”
Meanwhile Matt had discovered that Ligia worked for an Events Company based near the Strand called Minerva and Shakeela, had been despatched to Ligia’s place of work and interview her colleagues.
It unfortunately fell to Shakeela to break the news to Ligia’s boss and colleagues that she was now dead. One of the management told Shakeela that on the Friday afternoon Ligia had been told that she and the rest of her department’s job has been put a risk – a predictable consequence of a recent corporate take over.
Time :
11:30
Location :
Woking Police Station
The Bottox goth lawyer Jennifer Janus had been to reception and dropped by an envelope marked for my attention. I ripped open the envelope to release a wad of photocopied receipts from various business establishments in Oxford, all dated over the weekend. Also included was this laser printed letter on A4 :-
I, P.J. James wish to make an official statement. It has now been over 18 hours since I discovered my wife dead. While I am still in a state of deep shock and anguish, which I do not think I will ever recover from, I am at least able to gather my thoughts to give an accurate and detailed account of my movements leading up to the week-end and up until when the body of Ligia was found by me on Tuesday afternoon.
On Thursday morning, Ligia and I took Willoughby our cat, who had been anaemic, to the vet. That evening we had dinner at home and watched television together.
The last time I saw Ligia alive was Friday morning. She got up at usual at 6.30 am – and at 7.30am I gave her a lift to West Byfleet train station to go to her job in Covent Garden.
She did not seem troubled – everything was as normal. I kissed her good-bye as she got out the car and I was never to see her alive again.
At 9am I went for a jog and got back home at 10 am. I made some work related calls and sent out some emails.
At 2pm I set off for Oxford by train. I walked to West Byfleet station. This involved getting a five minute train to Woking, then 20 minute train to Basingstoke and from there a 50 minute train journey to Oxford.
I got to Oxford at around 4pm and checking into the Hotel Malmaison.
I am researching a TV series idea on the lives of students at Oxford University. So I walked around the town and visited the pubs and bars popular with the students.
At 8.34pm Friday evening I got a text from Ligia asking me to pick her up from the station. I texted her back to remind her I was in Oxford.
That was the last contact I ever received from her.
Late on Friday night I drew out some money from an ATM near Magdalene Bridge. It is likely CCTV will have picked me up.
I got up at 7.30 am Saturday morning, had breakfast at the hotel and spent the day walking around the town, taking photographs of potential locations and trying to think up ideas for a TV series.
At 3pm I sent a text to Ligia asking how Willoughby was.
She did not reply.
I called her at 7pm and left a message on her voicemail.
I had dinner alone at a restaurant in Oxford, and stayed another night at the Hotel Malmaison.
Sunday was spent walking around the town – gathering up ideas for the TV Series.
I have a whole raft of receipts from the hotel and various shops and restaurants to verify all of my movements in Oxford over the week-end.
On Monday morning I woke up at 7.30 am, had breakfast, and made my way to Oxford station for the journey home.
I texted Ligia to tell her I was on my way, and asking again for an update on Willoughby. Of course, I got no reply.
I got home at 10 am, alarmed to find Willoughby starving and I fed him immediately.
I assumed Ligia to be at work.
At mid-day I took Willoughby to the vet for a follow up check-up.
When I got home I called Ligia to tell her that Willoughby was responding well to his treatment, but it went straight to voicemail.
I called her place of work, who told me she had not showed up that day. I was now alarmed. Although my concerns were more along the lines of her leaving me, and not that she was dead or in any danger.
I spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening calling her friends. This can all easily be corroborated and verified.
I had a restless night’s sleep and when I woke up went on my usual early morning jog.
At 12am I decided to look in the freezer to see if there was anything there I could have for lunch, which is when I made the horrible discovery of Ligia’s body.
I immediately called 999 and went into a shocked state of shut down.
As for who could have killed Ligia – I cannot say. Ligia had recently been moving in circles unknown to me for about six months. She had been drinking excessively and taking cocaine. I do not know anything about the person or persons supplying that to her. I know also that she had been in regular contact with her previous husband Eduardo with whom they had a son together. But I do not think for one second that Eduardo would be capable of killing Ligia.
This is all I have to say. Can I please ask you to respect my privacy and leave me alone with my grief?
PJ – Video log - Saturday 31st March 2018
My lawyer said it was much better writing this statement than speaking it in a police interview. This way there was total clarity. That letter was pretty much dictated by me verbatim and was as close as possible to a cast iron alibi. Whenever Ligia was killed, I was far away in Oxford and could not possibly have done it. Furthermore, I had a pile of receipts and an electronic trail proving I was in Oxford the whole period. Including taking money out at an ATM near Madgalene Bridge, Oxford. I believe many or even most ATMs have CCTV.
We hoped this letter would convince the officer in charge of my innocence and so he would then look at other suspects. I hated pointing the finger of suspicion in other directions, but the police needed to focus on the real killer or killers.
Because I hadn’t seen Ligia for days I was fearing the worst. It felt strange that she would leave Willoughby our beloved cat alone. Particularly when he had been ill. But I thought it most likely that she had left me.
Time :
11:30
Location :
Woking Police Station
After reading PJ’s written statement several times I called Jennifer Janus. “Thank you for the written statement, but I still need to speak with your client in person.”
“Is that necessary? My client is still suffering from severe shock.”
“Yes and your client has still not said one dickie to me. I appreciate he’s in shock – but I’ve got a job to do. Please bring him into the station tomorrow morning at 10am.”
“But he said everything he’s got to say in that statement.”
“Well that’s exactly what I need to talk him about. See you tomorrow at 10am. Bye.”
My well of sympathy was rapidly drying out for this PJ and his mask of sorrow. There was a whole raft of questions I needed to ask not covered in his statement. For a start – was everything locked up when PJ came home on Monday morning? Roy reported that a set of keys were in a woman’s coat hanging in the hallway. There is no sign of a forced entry, so how did the killer get in? Did the killer double lock when they left? If so, what key did they use? Maybe they exited via the garage. There is a chain inside of the front door, is Ligia in the habit of putting that on?
My next visitor to the incident room was Roy. I offered him a cup of tea, which he declined. He sat down at the big round table and we got down to business.
“Right – cause of death. It wasn’t the severe trauma to her head, of which she had two. While they caused one round shaped wound and one smaller wound and a lot of blood loss, the cause of death is asphyxiation.”
“How can you be sure it was asphyxiation?”
“We found considerable trauma to the neck and damage to the hyoid bone.
We also found purple splotches in her eyes, as well as face, neck and lungs – it’s called petechial haemorrhages and you get them when you die from strangulation. We also found foam in the victim’s airways as she clearly struggled to breath and mucus from the lungs which are also signs of being strangled. We also found an enlarged heart and an altered blood chemistry – all again consistent with a death from asphyxiation.”
“So the blow to the head may have been used to knock her unconscious – and then she was subsequently strangled.” I offered.
“Quite possibly. There was lot of mucus and spittle on the inside of the dustbin bag. So it appears that she was strangled with the dustbin bag over the head. Maybe so that the place wouldn’t be covered in blood.”
“And so the killer wouldn’t have to look into her eyes.” I suggested.
“Forensics at the morgue reveal that there was large amounts of alcohol and some cocaine in her blood stream. She had been consuming both 12 hours before death.”
“Any idea where the sleeping bag she was in had come from?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Our big problem is that we can’t establish if there is a kill location inside the house. With all the upstairs area, the loft, the garage, the garden, the shed – the forensic search could take weeks – even months.”
“Sounds like a job for Brandi the Cadaver Dog.”
“So Rupal called you to- eh?”
PJ – Video log - Saturday 31st March 2018
Samantha was telling me I need professional help, but what could they do? Just plug me with anti-depressants?
The police kept calling, offered me a free PTSD counselling service. But I was suspicious of that. They probably were going to use the counselling to try and get incriminating information on me. If I was going to do anything like this at all, I was going to arrange it privately.
I couldn’t help it, but in the days directly afterwards, I kept playing and re-playing in my mind my life with Ligia.
We had been together for 8 years and my memory of our first meeting is a clear as yesterday – May 2010 – at a bereavement counselling meeting.
She was talking about the pain of losing her youngest son Leandro in a car accident. She spoke English fluently, she was so eloquent it was hard to believe she was not speaking in her first language. But the way she spoke with her Portuguese accent, she was lyrical, enchanting.
We started seeing each other, and exploring beyond her veil of sadness, I found a joie-de-vivre that shone through and energised me. Slowly but surely my sorrow and grief melted away.
When you lose someone you love – you have an aversion of getting close to someone new for fear of suffering that debilitating loss again. So at first I was reluctant to let Ligia into my life, but when I did - she healed my pain. But now she’s brought it back ten-fold by leaving me. I went to sleep hoping never to wake up. I just wanted to be back with Ligia.
I have hundreds of pictures of Ligia, but there is one that I keep seeing when I shut my eyes. In this picture she is smiling knowingly and looking at the lens and raising her finger over her mouth to shush whoever it is who is taking the photograph, most likely me. I have no memory of why she was doing that, but when I see it now as I shut my eyes, I fancy that she’s saying to me now – “there’s no need to get hysterical, stay calm, stay silent. There’s no need to tell the police anything.”
Time :
13:30
Location :
Woking Police Station
24 hours into the investigation, I still had no solid information on Ligia’s movements leading up to her death. So I was very grateful for the next snippet of vital information - the report on Ligia’s bank card activity. On the Friday we had these four entries :-
The last two entries were of particular interest. The Marquis is a pub just off The Strand close to where Ligia worked, while Bestways is an off licence directly by West Byfleet train station.
Looking at the map of West Byfleet, Ligia’s home in Odin Way is a mile and a half from the station. So a thirty minute walk. Ligia was at Bestways at 21.24 and the Spotify play list was activated at home at 21.32. So to get home in 8 minutes, Ligia either got a lift, a taxi, or ran very fast.
The train timetable reveals that a fast train to West Byfleet left Waterloo at 20:53 arriving at West Byfleet 21:21. We would request to see CCTV from British Rail, I needed to find out if Ligia had a companion – or was being followed.
And who was she drinking with at The Marquis? £18.20 is the cost of a bottle of wine or a round of two or three drinks. Surely she wasn’t drinking that quantity of alcohol alone?
Bestways, Food & Wine, being just a five minute drive away was our first port of call.
Time :
14:30
Location :
West Byfleet, Surrey
We spoke to the cheery man who was on the till on Friday night. He recalls Ligia and knows her by sight. He showed us his stock records which reveal that £12.24 bought her a bottle of Chablis - a quality French white wine. The man said she appeared quite jovial, smiling as she usually does. He did not see Ligia get into a car and did not note whether she was with anyone.
The man’s cheeriness turned to distress when I told her I was investigating a murder case, and Ligia was the victim.
Stepping outside Bestways I see a Taxi Rank one door away. We go inside and show the people working there our photograph of Ligia. They recognise her as a woman who used their services from time to time, but their records show that she did not take a cab from them that Friday evening. Did she get an Uber?
So we have a burning question. How did Ligia get home in 8 minutes to activate that Spotify play-list ?
Or did someone else activate the Spotify playlist? According to PJ he was far away in Oxford at the time.
Next Matt and I took a train up to the Marquis, the pub off The Strand. We needed to identify that drinking companion.
Time :
15:30
Location :
The Marquis pub, Covent Garden
The Marquis is a narrow wedge shaped pub, situated on a crescent road turning off The Strand. It had stain glass windows to give the tourists some of that Olde English charm and posters promoting drink promotions and the weekly pub quiz.
I approached the lady behind the bar holding up my police ID and demanded to speak to everyone who worked at the pub on Friday evening.
The bar lady went to the phone, dialled and handed me the phone.
“Hullo this is Ted – I worked Friday evening. How can I help?” The voice sounded keen.
I told I was going to send him a photograph of a woman and I wanted him to tell me if he remembered serving her.
After five minutes I called him back.
“Yes I do. She’s a semi regular. I think she works nearby. What’s this about?”
“Answer the questions first and I’ll tell you. OK. Who was she with?”
“A bloke. He’s a semi regular also.”
“What did this bloke look like?”
“Normal - about 30ish – not fat, not thin.”
I rolled my eyes. Vague descriptions are the bane of my life.
“What was his ethnicity?”
“White.”
So not Eduardo then.
“Do you recall where they were in the pub?”
“They were sat at one of the tables near the bar.”
“Did you overhear any snatches of conversation?”
“No. I’m not one of those nosey barmen.”
“Were they rowing?”
“Not that I noticed, they were just chatting.”
“Were they kissing, or touching each other?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about them?”
“No - nothing.”
“Any observations. Anything?”
“Well yes....err.....”
“Come tell me....”
“I don’t know if I should...”
“Yes you should – you must – what is it?”
“I saw the man hand something to the woman as she went to the toilet. She came back and gave something back to him.”
The lady behind the bar showed me their sales records for the evening. £18.20 bought her a bottle of Chablis. A Chablis trail was emerging.
The lady allowed me to look along the sales records of that evening to find that a second bottle of the same Chablis was bought at 19.02 - some half an hour later. This was put on a different card.
We can now take that card number to the bank, who will hopefully give us the name of the card holder and Ligia’s Chablis companion.
This was a serious lead. This put us on the verge of identifying the man that was with her the night she was most likely killed. This man who was getting drunk with her - and supplying her with cocaine.
