Secrets and Shadows

Chapter 16-1

The West Garside Police had previously been housed in Endeavour House in West Garside town centre. Constructed in 1928, it was a brick and stone purpose-built police station on four stories with cast-iron columns and beams, small casement windows, slow elevators, poor ventilation and insufficient toilet facilities.

Almost as soon it was built, it proved inadequate for purpose, with cramped quarters, limited parking and insufficient storage for the mountain of paperwork that a police investigation generates. However, it was not until 2011 that the authorities finally recognised that Endeavour House was no longer suitable for modern policing and new premises were constructed on a riverside site located off the dual carriageway leading to the industrial estates.

Concordia Court was designed by an award-winning architect, a gleaming 3 storey vision of glass, white marble and stainless steel, energy efficient to LEED Gold standard, light bright and airy and almost universally hated by those working there and many wished they were still housed in Endeavour House, despite its inadequacies.

Also, Endeavour House was close to ‘The Mulberry, ’ a pub on Mulberry Street which had been the watering hole for West Garside coppers for eighty years, whereas the nearest pub to Concordia Court was a car ride away, another (major) cause of dissatisfaction,

But for Grace, the new building was ideal.

She had arranged with the Office Manager for a MIR (Major Incident Room) as well as an adjacent briefing room, As the investigation progressed, the numbers at the daily briefings could increase, attendees might include Crime Scene Managers, SOCO’s, blood spatter and DNA analysts, Office Manager, Scientific Support, Search Coordinator, Behavioural Investigative Advisers, Press Officer or Community Awareness Specialist, upwards of fifty officers could be working on the case, but for this first briefing Grace kept the numbers limited to the initial investigative team as suggested by Terry Horton and agreed with the Office Manager and would be held in the briefing room.

Grace hated lateness in others but found herself running late. She had risen at 6am, showered, ate two slices of buttered wholemeal toast, drank a glass of orange juice and two cups of M & S instant coffee and set out in what she thought was ample time.

However, the traffic through Sheffield town centre had been brutal with hold-ups by St Mary’s Gate, road works on Penistone Road reduced traffic to a crawl and an endless line of heavily laden trucks and lorries on the A629 slowed her even further. It was nearly 8.40 by the time she finally made her entrance into the MIR.

‘Apologies, everybody, for keeping you waiting but I hope you’ve had time to bring yourselves up to speed on this case’, pointing to the three whiteboards behind her. Photographs of the face and bodies of Donald and Janet Jarrett were posted on separate boards whilst the third board showed photos of the scene, a map of the area together with sketch layouts of the kitchen and the garage. Terry Horton had been busy setting all of this up and she nodded her thanks to him.

‘OK, people, let’s get to it. For the record, I am DCI Grace Swan, on temporary detachment from Sheffield CID following the unfortunate death of DCI George Chatham. So, for the records, please identify yourselves.’

DS Terence Horton’

‘Thank you, Terry.’

‘DS Fred Burbage, ma’am.’

Burbage was in his late fifties but looked older, his once ginger hair had thinned out to straggling lengths which he vainly brushed over the top of his head in a comb-over. He was wearing a grey flannel shirt with the top button missing, so that his tie, a dark red with white diamond motif and what looked like egg yolk, hung loose about his neck and it was doubtful if his grey woollen suit had been pressed since the millennium. He looked a mess, but according to Terry Horton he was a good detective, very precise in his record keeping, belying his scruffy appearance.

‘DC Emma Cox, good to meet you, ma’am.’

Emma was 27, a moon-faced, size 20 brunette with a ready smile and easy manner, comfortable in her size and appearance. She was wearing a pink sweater with a V neck, pink trousers, pink trainers and pink nail-varnish and a more intimate examination would have revealed that her underwear was also pink. Looking at her, Fred Burbage idly wondered if she even dyed her pubic hair pink?

The next to speak was Brian Endcliffe, he was 32, married with a 7-year-old daughter and 18 months old twin boys, he was 6.4’’ tall with boyish good looks marred by a broken nose from his rugby playing days. He was dressed in a white shirt and plain blue tie, blue corduroy jacket, black trousers and black shoes.

DC Brian Endcliffe, ma’am.’

‘Grace, not ma’am. Ma’am makes me sound very ancient. That applies to all of you.’

Jessica Babalola spoke next, at 5’2’’, she was a petite 25-year-old beautiful woman of Nigerian heritage with gleaming white teeth, her hair in braided corn rows and wearing a pale green blouse, tailored short black jacket, black trousers and grey trainers.

‘DC Jessica Babalola, ma’am.’

‘Grace!’

‘Yes, sorry, Grace.’

The final member of the initial investigative team was a fresh-faced young man who wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking. ‘I’m Pc Daniel…Danny Moss. I’m on a 3-month detachment from uniform, ever since I joined, my aim has been to make CID and this assignment is part of that process.’

‘There’s no glamour in it, you know, son.’ Fred Burbage said disparagingly, ‘You’ve been watching too many detective shows on telly. You mark my words, son, you’ll be askin’ to get back to uniform by the end of the month.’

‘You call me son again, granddad, and I’ll put you through that window.’ Danny Moss snapped back at Fred,

‘Just saying, best you know now,’

‘Leave the lad alone, Fred,’ Terry remonstrated. ‘You were young and green behind the ears once.’

‘At least I got me boots broke in before I made CID’ Burbage continued, determined to have the last word.

‘OK, enough, thank you,’ Grace said sharply. ‘Meanwhile, as you can see, we have a major incident to deal with. This is the first briefing of the operation that central computer has designated ‘Operation Snowdrop.’ Again, for the record, I am the SIO, DS Terry Horton the Deputy SIO. This day one following the discovery of the bodies of Donald Jarrett and Janet Jarret.

Operation Snowdrop.’

We will hold a briefing every day at 8.30 am. Additional meetings will be called as necessary. Now, without wanting to teach you investigative strategies but again for the record and to go into the Policy File, I am going outline the strategy to be followed, which I’m sure you will recognise from the Murder Investigation Manual.’

Grace walked over to the third whiteboard, picked up a black Sharpie and wrote:

WHAT + WHY +WHEN + WHERE + HOW + WHO.

‘Firstly, what? What type of homicide? The manual gives us three offences classified as homicide; murder, manslaughter or i*********e. We can rule out i*********e and manslaughter seems unlikely.

Why? The motive, or motives, are what we must establish as soon as possible.

When? Yesterday and once we have the information from the post mortem, a clearer time line can be established,

Where? Apparently, the kitchen and garage at 27 Blackmires Road, Fallswood, West Garside.

How? Presumed blunt force trauma to the head and death by hanging, to be confirmed or otherwise by post mortem.

Who? The 20-million-dollar question and why we are all here.

Now, we have two bodies, Donald Jarrett,’ rather obviously pointing at his photo, ‘apparently battered to death with a hammer in his kitchen by a person or persons unknown. However, the son, David Jarrett, is pointing the finger at his mother, Janet Jarrett, who was found hanging in the garage of the house in an apparent suicide. Currently, I am not buying into this scenario.

Emma and Brian, you made preliminary enquiries yesterday, what have you got?’ Grace asked, ‘Emma?’

‘Yes, OK …Grace,’ she answered checking notes in her pocketbook, ‘According to the immediate neighbours Darrell and Susan Blakeney, the Jarrett’s were ‘a lovely couple’, good neighbours, they rarely seemed to quarrel or argue, ‘not like some round here.’ Janet teaches at Fallswood Primary School, has done for years, ever since they moved into the house maybe twenty years ago.

Donald Jarrett ran an accountancy business,’ Emma checked her notes again, ‘at 74 Denmark Street, trading as Donald J Jarrett and Partners, Accountants, Financial and Mortgage Advisors. They do the books and tax returns for local businesses as well as, as it says, act as financial advisors and mortgage facilitators.’

‘We’ll need to go to his office and look into his business dealings, to see if there could be a motive there,’ Grace said, making a note. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, about 5 years ago he had a heart attack and so began doing work from home, he always has done so apparently, but since the heart scare, he spent as much time working at home as in the office.’

‘OK, what else?’

‘Donald Jarrett was well thought of in the neighbourhood, in fact they both were. They were polite, friendly without being intrusive but readily willing to help anybody. The entire neighbourhood is, as might be expected, shocked and disturbed by their deaths.’

Emma checked her notes once more. ‘However, from about the middle of last week, there have been the fiercest arguments, mostly it seems, Janet screaming at Donald. According to another neighbour, Mary Edison, this stems from a séance or spiritualist meeting that the Jarrett’s attended at the Easedale Community Centre last Wednesday night. Janet Jarrett was very much into such things following the death of their daughter Julia from an overdose. About 4 or 5 months ago, somewhere in North London,’

‘And?’

‘Apparently, and this is their interpretation, not mine, that ‘from beyond the grave’, Julia accused her father, Donald Jarrett, of sexually molesting her.’

‘Right, we want full details of this, whatever, séance, if there was s****l molestation it could offer a potential motive.’

‘Ma’am’, said Jessica, restraining the urge to raise her hand. ‘I…’

‘Grace! Not Ma’am, I told you.’

‘Grace, sorry. I read something about this in the local paper, the ‘Garside Gazette’ using almost the same words, headline something like ‘Accusation from beyond the Grave.’ I didn’t read it, the Gazette always sensationalises everything, like the ‘Sun ’or ‘Daily Mail’ but I do recall the headline.’

‘Good, do you still have this newspaper?’ Grace asked.

‘No, but my Dad will still have it, he never throws a newspaper out until the night before the blue bin collection, I think he’s afraid of breaking some ludicrous council regulation.’

‘Excellent. Of you go,’

‘Grace, sorry?’

‘Haste ye yonder to your father’s house.’

‘Er…I don’t have a car.’

‘You drive? Have a licence?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Grace picked up her handbag, rooted around and then tossed her car keys to Jessica, who taken by surprise, dropped them. She picked them up and stared at them before looking beseechingly at Grace, not sure of what to do or where to go.

‘And?’, asked Grace, but not unkindly, simply frustrated that here was a piece of information she could not immediately get her hands on and letting Jessica take her precious Alfa was a lot quicker than signing out a pool car.

‘Sorry, but I don’t know what your car is.’

‘It’s an Alfa. A red Alfa Romeo Guilia Quadrifoglio. Speed all you want but don’t scratch or otherwise mark it, if you do, don’t bother coming back, just put in your transfer papers. And just in case you still don’t recognise the car, there is a handy notice in the parking space with my name on it. OK, be as quick as you can.’