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Prologue
After fetching the letter from the post office box, she had the last thing she needed for her plans: her name change had come through. Now she could do the other important thing that was necessary before she could leave the town: transfer her account to her new name and location.
A few hours later, she returned to her place, satisfied.
She packed a small bag with things she didn't want to leave there. Not many clothes, for her plans included less use of silk and more use of simple cheap cotton, plus only two extra pairs of shoes that fitted the personality she wanted to become. The letter with her name change also went into the bag, plus the few documents that now contained her new name. She would need them to get a job in Oxford.
She didn't know where to stay yet, but that would come up. Thankfully, she had a bit of money saved to get her through the first few weeks, until she had a flat and a job.
What was important was that now she could leave this place. She would go into hiding, away from the pain, the fear and the humiliation.
Taking a deep breath, she put on her coat, took her bag, closed the front door behind her and went to the train station.
The moment the train left the station, she was sure she breathed more easily.
It would work.
It had to.
One
A house in Oxford, not in the old part of town where never ending groups of tourists stared at ancient buildings, but in one in the newer parts of town. The house was located in a street where small family homes stood next to each other. It was painted in beige and showed a bit of age, but was well cared for.
In this house, on the ground floor, there was a living room, a kitchen and a small dining room. The second floor consisted of two rooms, plus a bathroom. You wouldn't find any designer furniture in the house, but what furniture was there was good quality and selected with taste.
Like the other houses in this street, this one also had a back garden. It wasn't big, but big enough to have some grass, a few flower beds and room for a well-sized rotary clothes dryer. Which was exactly why there was one in this garden.
It was a summer's day and someone was using the rotary clothes dryer. There were a few shirts on it already, plus a pair of jeans and some bed linen. Any moment you'd expect someone to come out of the open back door to hang up more laundry. Only this time, you'd be mistaken, because the user of that dryer, a woman, was lying at its base and not moving.
A moment later, a slender, young woman rushed out of the back door. She had straight black hair which was held back from her face with a silver hair slide. She was wearing a dark blue blazer, a cream coloured shirt, jeans and comfortable shoes. She looked like she had just come home from an office job or something similar.
She knelt next to the body by the rotary. “Kim,” she called out, “are you all right?” Touching Kim's shoulder, she noticed that there were big red spots on her friend's throat. Finally realising what she was dealing with, she called 999.
Two
Cars were parking outside the house as Lewis arrived, and his sergeant was already waiting for him.
“I was just getting ready to have me dinner, Hathaway,” Lewis said by way of greeting, sounding a little grumpy as he got out of his car.
“Sorry, Sir. Was it something good?,” Hathaway asked and handed Lewis a bag with the standard protective blue overall.
“Eh, just a ready meal. It'll wait,” Lewis muttered while he suited up.
Following his sergeant into the back garden, Lewis first noticed the open back door, then the amount of people in white scene suits in the garden. Dr. Hobson was amongst them, kneeling at the foot of the rotary clothes dryer, next to the body.
“What do you have for us?” Lewis asked Dr. Hobson as they arrived next to her.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Dr. Hobson answered. Standing up, a slight smile on her face, she added, “It's pretty straightforward. Female victim, strangled. Her attacker used their bare hands. There's already signs of the typical bruising forming at her throat. Though she tried to fight back.” Dr. Hobson showed them a small oval transparent box with something in it. “There's residue under her nails. She probably scratched her attacker.”
“Time of death?” Lewis asked.
“Three hours ago, give or take,” Dr. Hobson answered.
“Do we have an ID?” Lewis asked.
“Kimberly Smith, born in Aston, age 50.” Hathaway threw in. “Her landlady, Alexandra Stewart, found her. She's also her housemate and is waiting for us in the living room. Constable Sharma, who was first on the scene, is with her.”
Wanting to talk to her next, Lewis thanked Dr. Hobson and walked towards the open back door, Hathaway at his side. “Did anyone break in?“
”No sir, according to Constable Sharma, there was no break-in. The murder was either very random, or very personal.”
“Aye,” Lewis said, agreeing.
*
As they entered the living room, they saw immediately that nothing had been disturbed inside. The moment they approached Alexandra Stewart, who was sitting on the sofa with her back to the garden, Constable Sharma walked a few steps away from them and stood a little at the side, respectfully assuming a waiting position.
“Hello, Miss Stewart. I'm Inspector Lewis, this is Sergeant Hathaway,” Lewis said calmly. “We'd like to talk to you about what happened.”
“Of course,” she began, trying to compose herself and looked up at them. Gesturing to the armchairs of the three piece suite, she added, “Have a seat.”
When they had sat down, Lewis asked, “Could you tell us in your own words what you did when you returned home?”
“I can try.” She frowned, as if concentrating. Slowly, she started, “I opened the door with my key and entered. Since it wasn't locked, I thought Kim was home. I called out for her and looked around, which was when I saw her...” She stopped, closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as if she was trying to calm herself down.
“Are you all right, Miss?” Hathaway asked, slightly fearing that their witness would break down.
“No,” Alexandra Stewart said, sounding angrier by the minute. “I liked her. I liked Kim. She was like a friend to me. She mothered me sometimes, sure, but she was still a friend. Why would anyone want to kill her? She barely knew anyone here, besides me.”
“We'll find that out, Miss Stewart. Don't worry,” Lewis tried to comfort her. “What can you tell me about Miss Smith?”
“Kim moved in with me shortly after she'd arrived in Oxford.”
“When was that?” Lewis asked.
“About seven months ago. You see, we have a proper tenancy agreement. She rents a room from me and she can use the rest of the house too, if necessary. Only my own room is off-limits.” She suddenly stopped, realising she had kept on using the present tense in reference to Kim. Sighing, she added, “I probably should say had now.”
The two men didn't comment on that, only exchanged a glance between them.
“Is there anything else you could tell us about her?” Lewis asked. “Where did she live before she moved to Oxford? Do you know if she had any living relatives?”
“Actually, I have no idea.” Alexandra Stewart almost looked surprised as if she was just realising that now, and had never before thought about it. “Kim never told me.”
Thanking Miss Stewart for her help, Lewis and Hathaway went upstairs to the victim's bedroom.
*
The bedroom was sparsely furnished: a bed, made, with bed linen that had a flowery print, was near the door. A nightstand was next to it, with a small lamp. There was a cupboard in a corner, opposite the door. At the other side of the bed was a window. Next to that window, there was a small desk and a wooden chair. On the desk was a reading lamp, some papers and a bowl with a few keys. Next to the desk were two bookshelves on the wall, fitting right in between the desk and the cupboard. The top shelf held a few books, the second a few folders.
“No photos,” Lewis said, immediately noticing their absence. “See if you can find a photo album or anything relating to her identity.”
Hathaway nodded and went to the desk, while Lewis started with the cupboard.
“Sir?” Hathaway turned to Lewis, holding up a folder containing letters. “Bank statements and related correspondence - she had a safe deposit box.”
In the end, the lead to the safe deposit box remained the only one. There was nothing else in the room that gave them further information on Kimberly Smith's identity and family.
“We need a court order,” Lewis said.
*
The court order was easily accomplished, partly due to the bank statements that determined that the safe deposit box was part of the victim's property. Aside from that none of the usual databases had revealed any information on Kimberly Smith prior to her arrival in Oxford, which assisted in their demand.
The opening of the safe deposit box revealed documentation of a name change, telling them that Kimberly Smith's previous name had been Catherine Urquhart. Additionally, they found 500 pounds in cash, a few pieces of expensive jewellery and a photo of their victim with a man, but no indication of who this man was.
Three
A few days later, when Lewis arrived at work he watched Hathaway talking to Constable Sharma. Smiling a little, he let them talk and walked over to his and Hathaway's office.
He considered having a look at the autopsy report that had arrived this morning to see what it would add to the murder board. Lewis remembered that Laura had taken samples from the victim's fingernails, so those would probably give them something to compare with possible suspects. Once they had any that is.
However, James was still talking with Constable Sharma, both of them standing in the middle of the squad room. Lewis' curiosity got the better of him and he watched them through the office window.
Hathaway and Sharma were standing close. She was gesturing a lot, occasionally putting a hand on Hathaway's arm. Hathaway didn't respond to the touches. From his stance, he suspected that his sergeant was getting angry. Finally, Sharma wrote something down and gave it to Hathaway, who then looked up and directly at Lewis. Feeling himself blush a little, Lewis watched Hathaway walk back to their office.
“Good morning, Sir.” Hathaway smiled slightly. “We have a tip. A local PI has seen the news about the Kimberly Smith murder and is willing to talk to us. Constable Sharma knows this PI personally.”
“He's from Oxford?”
“She is, Sir. Sharma's her girlfriend.”
Lewis grabbed the keys to the car and offered them to Hathaway, who immediately took them without a word. “You drive,” Lewis said.
*
“Are you Janet Fielding?” Hathaway asked as they arrived at the PI's office, somewhere in downtown Oxford.
“Yes.” Janet Fielding rose from behind a desk. She was middle-aged, slender and had short, mousy hair. “You must be the colleagues Kari told me about. Inspector Lewis and Sergeant Hathaway.”
Both men identified themselves to her. “I'm Lewis,” Lewis said. Pointing at his sergeant, he added, “He's Hathaway.”
With a smile, she pointed to the chairs in front of the desk, “Please.” When they were seated, she continued, “How much did Kari tell you?”
“Just that you were hired to find Kimberly Smith,” Hathaway said, not mentioning how long he had talked to Sharma to find out the full truth.
“I knew her as Catherine Urquhart.” Lewis and Hathaway exchanged a meaningful glance as Fielding walked over to an office cupboard.
As their victim's previous name had been withheld from the press and since Constable Sharma didn't know about it either, there was no way that Fielding could have known that Kimberly Smith and Catherine Urquhart were the same person.
“You do?” Lewis asked.
“Yes, Inspector,” she answered, while she pulled out a folder. “About four weeks ago, a man called Martin Dawson asked me to find Catherine Urquhart.” She gave the folder to Lewis, who glanced into it, then handed it to Hathaway. “Everything I know about her is in that folder. Do me a favour and nail that bastard,” she said, sounding angry.
“Not that I mind you giving us all this information, Miss Fielding, but why are you doing this?” Lewis asked. “Usually you PIs are all about client confidentiality and that stuff, and wouldn't answer a copper's question if their life depended on it.”
She looked away for a moment, then continued in a rather low voice, “I was once that woman who had to run away and hide.”
Four
Lewis and Hathaway visited Martin Dawson at his office. Immediately, they noticed that Dawson was the man in Kimberly Smith's photo from the safe-deposit box. Lewis showed the photo to Dawson.
“Yes, that's me,” Dawson said. “How did you get this? I didn't notice that Catherine took a photo with her when she moved out.”
“Catherine?” Lewis asked, curious as to what Dawson would tell them.
“Catherine Urquhart. We lived together for a few years. After a quarrel, she moved out. I haven't seen her for a long while.”
“Mr. Dawson, have you recently seen the news?” Hathaway threw in.
“No, not really. I've been too busy. Why? You still didn't tell me why you have Catherine's picture, Inspector.”
“The woman you know as Catherine Urquhart was found dead a few days ago,” Lewis said, watching Dawson's reaction. “We found this photo among her belongings.”
“Oh, no,” Dawson remarked, trying to sound surprised. “What happened?”
“She was strangled in her home,” Lewis answered. “Since you were so close, would you come with us to identify her?”
“Certainly,” Dawson said, “Let me just get my secretary to cancel all my appointments and I can accompany you.”
*
After the formal identification, it was easy to get Martin Dawson into one of the interrogation rooms under the guise of asking him some related questions.
“Thank you for your help in identifying Miss Urquhart, Mr. Dawson,” Lewis said politely.
“I was glad to help, Inspector. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“You mentioned earlier you hadn't seen Miss Urquhart for a while,” Lewis began. “However, someone told us that you contacted a private investigator to find her after she vanished from your home. This private investigator found her for you and gave you Miss Urquhart's new name and address.”
“What?” Dawson started to get annoyed. ”I've just come to help you, for Catherine's sake, and you're practically accusing me of murder!”
“Yes, Mr. Dawson,” Lewis said, his voice even. “I'm doing that.” As Dawson wanted to interrupt him, he added, “Let me tell you why I think so: we have credible evidence of you receiving Miss Urquhart's new name and address. This witness is ready to testify against you in court. We also have the murderer's DNA. It's a man. My sergeant and I think it's you. We have enough evidence to arrest you.”
“You can't do that,” Dawson insisted, “I wasn't there.”
“I think you were. You visited Miss Urquhart, but she didn't want to see you. She was afraid of you. You didn't like that. You still wanted to own her. She ran into the garden to flee, but you caught up with her by the laundry line. There you strangled her.”
At that moment, Dawson had become angry. He pointed at Lewis with his outstretched arm, revealing scratches on his lower arm. “You can't prove that. I was never anywhere near that rotary dryer.”
Hathaway grabbed Dawson's arm before he could withdraw it and asked, “Where did you get that from?”
“A cat,” Dawson said.
“That doesn't look like it was made by a cat,” Hathaway said grimly. “More like it was made with human fingernails. Did you know that Catherine scratched the man who killed her?”
Dawson pulled his arm away.
“Mr. Dawson,” Lewis said, “I never said anything about a rotary dryer.”
Realising his mistakes, Dawson deflated. “I want a lawyer.”
Epilogue
Having walked down to one of their favourite pubs after wrapping up the paperwork for the Kimberly Smith case, Hathaway wanted to go to the bar and get their pints, but Lewis said, “Nah, my treat, James.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Hathaway smiled and watched Lewis get their drinks, never letting him out of sight. As he returned, Lewis slid into the chair opposite Hathaway.
Noticing that Hathaway was more silent than usual, Lewis watched his sergeant stare into his beer. “Something bothering you? I'm sure, despite his lawyer, he'll be in for life.”
“I'm just wondering how long it took her to realise that she was abused. Dawson didn't break her bones, but he hurt her until she couldn't take it anymore. She had to change her name to leave, always fearing he'd find her - which he did anyway. Fielding chose to be with a woman instead, to prevent herself from getting hurt.”
“I don't think she chose to be with a woman. She's...” Lewis paused, searching for a terminology he'd learned. “She's bisexual, right? Whatever it is - if you love someone, it doesn't matter what gender that person has as long as you treat each other right.”
Looking right at him, Hathaway asked, “Can I ask you a hypothetical question?”
“Sure,” Lewis said, meeting the gaze.
“If I were to tell you I wanted to be with a man, but because I'm sure he'd reject me, I choose to be with women instead. What would you tell me?”
“Are you sure you'd be rejected if you asked?”
“I don't know,” Hathaway said earnestly.
“Until you ask, it'd always be an if,” Lewis suggested. “When you do ask, James, and he really rejects you, point me to the man, so I can tell him he's a bloody idiot!”
“I certainly will.” Hathaway smiled and took a sip of his beer.
END