‘God, what are you wearing, love?’ I couldn’t help myself saying. In her big flowery dress, thick tights and heavy shoes, she could have been heading to the Ballroom of Romance.
She turned left onto Waterloo Bridge. The next camera captured her on the bridge, from above, the murky old Thames flowing lazily beneath. The song ‘Waterloo Sunset’ drifted into my mind. I banished it out of respect.
She walked efficiently, without fear – never once checking behind her. This wasn’t a woman worried about her wellbeing. No one appeared to be tracking her. Time-lapsed stills recorded her ghost-like progress across the ants’ nest concourse of Waterloo station. Again, she didn’t check behind her and had no obvious pursuer.
She must have caught an overground train because the next tape came from Clapham Junction train station. The time read 17.32 as she turned right at the main exit, setting off up St John’s Hill. The fuzzy frames revealed no potential stalker/killer. She looked oblivious to what lay ahead. She crossed at the traffic lights, just yards from the entry to Strathblaine Road, turned left – and that was the last frame we had of her.
The empty screen flickered and shuddered, as if aware somehow of the grave magnitude of what happened next. I thwarted all emotions by fixing upon cold, hard facts and ordering them in my mind: Whoever murdered Marion had waited for her on Sangora Road. The question is, was it someone she knew or an opportunist maniac? At that time of day – rush hour – someone must have seen something.
Back at the computer, I clicked open the door-to-door enquiries file. The team had asked neighbours on Sangora Road if they’d seen anything suspicious on the afternoon/evening of Marion’s murder. What a stupid question, I thought. I mean, what’s suspicious? You might as well ask if they’d seen any maniacs running about brandishing blood-soaked, five-inch knives. Surely they should just ask people what they saw that day. It’s up to us to decide if any of it points to a suspect. I made a note of this. It was something to toss Shep’s way if I failed to come up with anything better.
Unsurprisingly, the officers’ limited questionnaire yielded nothing. I was running out of time, and decided that the most likely place to find anything incriminating against Peter would be in his supposedly rock-solid alibi.
He and Karen had made brief statements on the night of Marion’s murder, then detailed statements two days later. The devil is always in the detail, so I focused on the latter.
I laid their longer statements out side-by-side. By switching between the two, I could check more easily if and when their stories didn’t tally.
Peter described how he first met Marion at the Archway Tavern when she was seventeen: he was twenty-three. No doubt she was swept off her feet by this square-jawed Irishman with worldly charm, roguish self-confidence and big plans to make money and move back home. They married last year in her parents’ home town in Kilkenny.
Peter worked as an assistant purchasing manager and gardener at the Pines, a private home for the elderly in Lambeth, South London. Karen Foster was also employed at the home as a trainee nurse and resided on-site in staff accommodation. I found this a little odd. She’d told me herself that her family live in Lee, just a few miles down the road. I knew from Aidan, my flatmate, how little trainee nurses earn: why didn’t she save money by staying at home? Then I thought about the anti-social shifts they have to work and moved on.
On the morning of the murder, Peter took the overground train from Clapham Junction to Waterloo with Marion, which was their usual routine. He arrived at the Pines just before nine a.m. He always put the keys to the flat in his briefcase, which he kept next to his desk in the shed/office in the grounds of the Pines: they were too big to carry about in his trousers. He left work just once during the day.
At about 15.45 p.m., he took a ten-minute walk to the street known as The Cut where, each fortnight, he bought fifty pounds’ worth of feed, tank cleaner and water treatment granules for the home’s fish tanks.
He went on to explain that every second Monday evening, he did a couple of hours’ overtime for extra money, cleaning and replenishing the home’s fish tanks. He was helped by his colleague and friend, Karen Foster.
I turned over ‘colleague and friend’ in my mind. It struck me as oddly formal, a little defensive.
On the evening of Marion’s murder – Monday, July 1st – he met Karen as usual at around six p.m., just outside the main ward at the home. They finished just before eight p.m. when Karen gave him a lift to Sangora Road. He didn’t own a car and Karen often dropped him home when they’d worked late.
An appendix showed that Peter’s movements during the day had been verified by the manager of Pet Fish, London SE1 and a work colleague at the home. The man from Pet Fish recalled the day particularly well because Peter had forgotten his chequebook. The manager accepted a signed IOU which he was able to produce later. This sounded to me like an alibi being created before the crime had even been committed. A colleague at the home claimed he chatted to Peter as he came back in with the fish supplies, at about 16.45 p.m. This left a window of one hour unaccounted for in Peter’s afternoon. I felt sure Shep would have picked up on this already, but made a note of it anyway. At least it showed that I was thinking the way he’d instructed me to.
I flicked over to Karen’s statement.
I finished work at about 17.15 p.m. when my younger sister Laura called to say she was arriving at the home. We’d arranged to watch a soap on TV with Bethan in her room at 17.30. Bethan Trott is a colleague at the clinic and we watch this show together most days because I don’t have a TV in my room. She lives in the room four doors down from mine in the staff halls of residence. I met Laura at reception. As we came upstairs, we saw Bethan in the communal kitchen and went with her to her room. We had a cup of tea and watched TV until six when the show ended. I went to the main ward and met Peter. Every second Monday we clean and re-stock the fish tanks in the wards. He pays me ten pounds in cash. It’s extra money and I’ve always liked fish.
I thought it odd that Peter hadn’t mentioned paying her. Karen went on to say she had an upset stomach and, before leaving the home, went to the toilet.
The journey to Sangora Road took fifteen minutes at the most. I couldn’t park on Sangora Road because it was already full. I had to park on the side road. I don’t know what it is called.
She and Peter walked to the flat. Because of her upset stomach, she wanted to use the toilet again before returning to the Pines. Classy girl, I thought. She also intended having a quick chat with Marion, who was a friend. On top of that, Peter wanted her to take two flower pots from his flat to the home. They were too heavy for him to take on the train. When Peter put his key in the communal front door, he found that the mortise lock was not on. This was so unusual that he remarked upon it – Marion always kept it double-locked. He then unlocked the door to the flat and walked upstairs.
Karen described coming up the stairs directly behind Peter. At this point, she broke down. Glenn’s officers felt sorry for her and let her take a break.
Next, they jumped forward to the nature of Karen’s friendship with Peter. I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t pressed Karen about discovering Marion’s body. Clearly, Glenn’s team had already concluded Karen couldn’t have had anything to do with this murder. I made a note to check out how they’d made this seismic leap.
Karen said she first met Peter at work and they became friends. When Peter and Marion moved into the clinic’s staff accommodation after their marriage, she became friends with Marion. They visited each other’s rooms. She and Marion sometimes went to the pub. She visited them in January after they rented the flat on Sangora Road.