Invasion of Privacy

Chapter 3

Breathlessly, DI Jenny Price lowered her umbrella and flashed her warrant card at the police constable blocking the entrance to the tall, glass-clad office building. The PC acknowledged her as “Ma’am”, a phrase that always made her feel like an old maid. She pushed the revolving door.

The entrance was imposing, with high ceilings, a large, stone reception desk, and three cream leather suites placed to one side. In the centre of the foyer, a spherical water feature drew the eye momentarily from a large glass block structure standing proudly behind the reception area. Set in a brickwork layout, each rectangular glass tablet had a different company logo etched into it. There were about thirty in total.

Regaining her composure, Jenny recognised DS Alan Coombs leaning on the reception desk, his back to her. He was attempting to interview the receptionist sitting behind, but she was talking to someone on her headset. 

Alan turned around and saw Jenny. “Ah Jenny, you’re finally here.” There was no sarcasm, just genuine relief in his voice. 

Jenny automatically formed a catalogue of reasons for her lateness in her mind. She could list at least five traffic black spots she’d inched her way through in the journey across London. But she should have accounted for the Monday morning rush hour. Or she could blame the satnav, which had outsmarted her once again, taking her to South Wharf Road instead of North Wharf road. Hence her recent battle with the elements as she’d been forced to negotiate a wet and windy footbridge over Regents Canal. But blaming the satnav was akin to admitting her technophobia.

“I swam all the way,” she offered, shaking out her umbrella.

Alan looked her up and down. “You’re soaking. You’ll catch your death.”

“Al, don’t worry, I’ll dry off quick enough.”

The fifteen years Alan had on Jenny seemed to define the fatherly manner he adopted with her, overriding any seniority she had over him in rank. She found this trait in him endearing when it was just the two of them. But when he exhibited it in front of other coppers, she wanted to scream at him.

“What’s the situation, Al? All I’ve heard from Karim is that a young woman’s body was found here this morning.” She was referring to DC Karim Malik, another member of her team, who’d phoned her earlier. 

Alan filled in Jenny with what he knew. The corpse was in a meeting room on the top floor. From her belongings, she had been identified as Anna Parker, a second-year Music student from Trinity Laban Conservatoire in Greenwich. Her throat had been slit with a knife. No weapon found. Initial observations were that she had probably been brutally raped before being killed. 

He concluded, “Poor kid.”

Jenny’s barriers had instinctively risen as she listened to Alan's dispassionate recount of events. She’d survived two years as a Detective Inspector in the Camden Borough Murder Investigation Team by projecting an invisible, impenetrable shield that kept the horrors of the job out and the emotions buried inside. 

“Any idea when she was killed?”

“That’s what I’ve just been checking at reception. According to this,” he held up a large transparent evidence bag, a visitor’s book inside, “she signed into the building last Friday at 5:20 p.m. The pathologist just arrived a few minutes ago. He should be able to confirm time of death.”

“Does the visitor book show who she was here to see?” 

“Yes, a W. Webber of WMA Associates for a 5:30 meeting.”

“Does the receptionist recall the victim?”

“No, she only works mornings. Job share. I’ve got the details of Friday afternoon’s receptionist.” Alan handed her the evidence bag. “Here, you take this upstairs. I’ll track down the other receptionist.”