'The Case of a not-so Jane Doe'

DI William Grey took another puff of his cigar before letting out a long and heavy sigh. Now in his mid-fifties, he was used to dealing with the most dangerous and disgusting lowlifes that London had to offer. His many years of experience had changed him and he was now emotionally withdrawn in all aspects of his life. Unmarried and childless, he takes everything in his stride and is socially inept with a disregard for authority. Despite being an intellectual and observant man, Grey is reserved and ignorant which aids his inability to conform to the social norms.

By his side is DI Christian Smith. Smith is a young detective in his early twenties who has a passion for life. Longing to deliver justice in all that he does, Smith aims only to find the good in people. Like that of his partner, he too is unmarried yet, unlike Grey however, Smith is sociable and caring, a healthy contrast in their partnership.

Outside the sky was dark with the threat of rain as heavy grey clouds began to draw together, insisting upon a fruitful downpour. DI Smith fumbled with the collar on his trench coat before looking up to the daunting scene above. Looking to Grey, who had since put out his cigar, Smith spoke with moderate curiosity.

"What d'ya think we'll find in there?" Smith asked, turning to face the tall, menacing structure which sat opposite them.

"I don't know" Grey replied, his voice rough and tired.

Reaching into his pocket, the veteran officer lifted out a small sheet of folded off-white paper which revealed an address written in cursive with black ink. Looking up at the house, the detective slipped the page back into his pocket and tipped the front of his hat before proceeding towards the house on the other side of the street.

It was midnight and the sound of London played on in the background. The smell of fading smoke from long put-out home fires filled their nostrils as the two men made their way over to the subdued house. The neighbouring houses, and those parallel to it, were in complete and utter darkness. A single bright spark lit up the street, making the house in question an interesting spectacle. Walking towards it with apprehension, DI Smith paused as he approached the large wooden door. The faint sound of a long forgotten piano melody could be heard playing from inside of the house.

"Maybe we should call for back up, yanno, let the guys at the station know what's happening?" Smith asked innocently.

With a stern look, DI Grey scouted his partner from the corner of his eye, yet said nothing.

Stepping up to reach the knocker, Grey placed one heavy hand on the solid wooden frame and rapped it half-heartedly with his knuckles. The large portal gave a high-pitched squeak as it creaked open. The two men gave each other a concerned look as they stepped haphazardly inside.

The house smelled of damp and the deceased. DI Smith shivered instinctively as an eerie breeze blew through an open window on the upper floor.

They paced wearily throughout the house, each step resulting in a ghostly floorboard creak. Surveying each room with a small black torch, DI Smith walked timidly towards the lit room which was blocked by a closed door. Fearing what was behind it, Smith let out a rattled breath before stretching out his hand slowly and locking it onto the handle. He glanced at Grey who nodded, before twisting the dusty brass knob and allowing the heavy door to fall open.

Within seconds, their lungs filled with dust as the scent of blood and death embedded themselves in the men's nostrils. Smith's face became contorted as he looked anxiously to his partner,

"Sir..." he began.

Without speaking, Grey nodded and pushed past his younger partner, venturing out further into the room. With a quick scan, Grey confirmed that they were in fact alone, and beckoned for his timid partner to follow suit. At first begrudgingly, the young man complied yet entered the room with a new surge of confidence. Looking around, he speedily located the source of the music, an old fashioned record player, and removed the needle.

The room was large and rectangular in shape. The decor looked almost Victorian in style, furnished with two elegant looking Persian red sofas, numerous beige lampshades, three dark cherry bookcases, a carmine coloured footstool and various paintings and portraits which coloured the cream papered walls with their contrasting gold frames.

Looking to his partner, Grey placed one long finger to his lips before gesturing with his other hand in the direction of a large red swivel chair which faced a lit brick fireplace at the far end of the room. Smith nodded slowly in understanding as both men tiptoed cautiously towards the direction of the chair.

As they got closer, Grey noticed a hand leaning lifelessly over the side of the armrest. Placing one hand out to signal for his partner to stop, Grey warned the young detective of the possible oncoming threat by silently placing his hands to his holster which lay under his large beige trench coat. Acknowledging this warning, the young man quietly slipped his gun out of its holster, holding it in prime position.

Wondering how he had missed this before, Grey scowled in defeat.
The mysterious figure had made no attempt to communicate with them which the seasoned officer understood to mean one of two things; either the figure was deaf and therefore could not have heard them enter or, they were dead, and therefore most definitely wouldn't have any acknowledgement, or objections, to the intrusion.

Standing a few feet back from the chair, Grey strained his neck in an attempt to get a better look at the figure. Through the dim light of the room he could make out a set of freshly painted fingernails which signified to him that this John Doe was, in fact, a Jane Doe.

At this time, DI Smith peered out from behind a dusty old cream coloured curtain which hung ripped and exhausted from one of the two barred windows located within the room. Confirming that they weren't being watched, Smith signalled that all was clear as Grey finished his brief inspection.

The two men turned to face one another. Grey tipped his head in the direction of the occupied armchair and motioned with his hand for Smith to corner the figure at one side. Smith nodded in agreement as both men began to journey towards the crimson smoke screen. Creeping quietly, guns still drawn, the two detectives traipsed softly across the old wooden floorboards.

As he approached, Grey pondered every possible outcome. He knew that the figure had yet to show any signs of life and so option two of being dead seemed more realistic than that of the first. If so, then the sight concealed behind the chair was sure to be one of utmost unpleasantness.

Gulping in terror, Smith readied himself for the sight before him, as Grey lifted one hand and placed it onto the headrest. With his gun at the ready, Smith pointed it anxiously and waited. Grey glanced at his partner one last time before using force to pivot the chair around to face them.

There was an audible gasp from the young man as revealed was a woman, roughly the same age as the detective himself, who had long straggly brown locks and wore a pale pink airy dress.

Her skin was discoloured which Grey assumed meant that she had been dead for a number of hours. Her shoes were covered in mud and her wrists showed faint bruising, implications of a struggle. Her lips were thin and pale and her nose stood out as the prominent feature to her otherwise delicate face. She was tall in height yet had a small frame which made her body look disproportionate and contorted in the murky light which emanated from the fireplace.

"Is that...?" Smith began, his eyes wide in disbelief.

"Why yes," Grey paused in reply, "I believe it is."

"I'll call it in" Smith stumbled, struggling to tear his eyes away from the deceased.

"Very well then" Grey stated solemnly, lifting his eyes from the body with ease before turning and making his way towards the door at the other end of the room.

Smith used to struggle with the lack of expression and remorse shown by his partner in these kinds of situations and he had soon gotten used to Grey's odd lack of empathy. This time however, it was different, much different, for the young woman covered who they had found dead in the armchair and covered in bruises was Grey's niece, Catherine Blackburn.
Grey never spoke much of his family, but when he did, he spoke fondly of Catherine. Smith had noted that Catherine was the only person in the entire world that Grey ever spoke about with admiration. Grey adored Catherine, of that he knew, and so upon discovery of the body, Smith was taken aback to find that no loss or hurt could be unearthed from Grey's blank expression. He knew that his partner was different from most other men he had met but surely the loss of someone he held dear would be able to warm the frozen icicles which seem to bar his heart?

The young man followed suit and joined his comrade outside as the forensic squad arrived. Puffing on another cigar, William Grey stood outside the front door of the house as he thought to himself. His young partner stepped quietly to his side before placing his hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, saying nothing. Breathing in the sounds and smells of London at night, the men remained silent as they attempted to block out the sound of camera shutters and the hustle and bustle of their fellow crime scene operatives as they went about their duties.

"It's a curious thing, you know" Grey said between puffs.

"What is?" his protégé replied.

"Why the case of course!" Grey said calmly waving his hand about in a rotary motion.

"How so?"

Before Grey had a chance to reply, an unmarked police car pulled up in front of the steps and out emerged two more detectives who proceeded then to approach the men.
The first was a small woman in her early forties with swarthy skin, brown ringlets and bright red lips. The other, was a tall man with dark hair and a thin piercing expression.

"Evening detectives," the woman crooned, offering a half-smile in the direction of her older comrade, "my condolences."

Without saying anything, Grey returned her sympathy with a slight nod and placed the cigar back into his mouth.
"I know you haven't had much time to wrap your head around what has happened yet, but I was just wondering if..." the male detective began before being interrupted.

"If I had any thoughts on who might have wanted her dead?" Grey stated matter-of-factly.

"Precisely" the man breathed, his stone-like expression refusing to erode.

"I have indeed," Grey replied innocently, "I noticed that she had bruises on her neck and wrists and, after closer inspection, I have concluded that they were in fact from that of a man."

"Presumably male" Smith butted in, "we never actually saw the assailant, so we can't be sure."

"Oh, I am sure," Grey said bluntly, "the marks left were too large to be administered by the hands of the average female.
Also, she would have to have been quite strong to have been able to both strangle a woman to death and drag the body here."

"You mean to say that she was killed somewhere else and then brought here on purpose?" the male detective questioned shifting his weight between his feet.

"Why yes, I believe so. I haven't yet worked out why it would be staged in this particular house, but I'm sure the murderer had his reasons" Grey replied scratching an itch at the corner of his eye.

"Why do you think that sir?" Smith asked quizzical.

"Her shoes tell it all really."

"Her shoes, sir?"

"Indeed. Have you had a look at them? They are soiled with mud."

"That doesn't mean anything. Surely she could have been outside beforehand?"

"Highly unlikely" Grey said drawing on his cigar, "there are no gardens or grass areas within miles of here. The mud embedded in the back of her hair matches that found on her shoes and seeing as it seems to be dry already, this leads me to believe that she was attacked someplace then dragged here afterwards."

The three detectives gathered there looked at Grey in a mixture of awe and confusion.
Turning around to look at the house once more, Grey placed the cigar back between his teeth,

"Oh," he started, turning back around to face them again, "and I believe that he also took one of her finger nails."

"So the sociopath takes souvenirs too? Great!" the woman exclaimed shaking her head in disgust and throwing her arms up in the air.

"Wait, he removed her nail?" Smith asked while scrunching up his face sourly.

"Oh no, not her actual nail. They weren't real. But I suspect that if you find the nail, then you will find the man responsible."

"Do you believe she fought back then?"

"I believe she attempted to, yes."

"Any idea as to the motive then? We need something more if we are to attempt to start searching."

"Unrequited love detective," Grey began, putting out his cigar, "and you haven't to look far as the place to search is the pockets of my young friend here where you will find a small red fingernail belonging to that of my dead niece."

Silence filled the air between them as the two detectives stared from one man, expressionless and high on tobacco, to the other who was young and pale with an irate look covering his fine features.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Smith yelled at him, demanding the withdrawal of his accusation.

"Not entirely," Grey smiled at him, "you loved Catherine but she did not feel the same. I know this because she told me so."

"And that makes me a killer?"

"No, no," he went on, "but when I motioned for you to draw your gun earlier, I noticed that you found it hard to raise it to the appropriate position."

"So?"

"So, it seemed to me that you had been hurt and I knew for sure when you tried, albeit awfully, to disguise that pain as artificial intimidation. You knew that someone was here from the beginning. You knew who it was and you knew that she was dead because you were the one who killed her. And that is why you weren't truly fearful of what was to come when you entered the house" he took a pause before continuing, "also, you kept rubbing your wrists beneath your shirt sleeves when you thought I wasn't looking" Grey stated calmly, shrugging amusingly.

"This is outrageous!" the young man exclaimed, raising his voice in an unsuccessful attempt to convince those gathered otherwise.

"Quite the opposite actually. Now, Miss Belstaff, Mr Wood, if you would be so kind as to arrest this man, I have other engagements to attend to."

Obeying, the two detectives lunged at the man, one grabbing hold of his arms and the other removing his gun from the holster.

"But what about her finger nail?" the female detective questioned, "if it came loose then she must have been fighting back, but I see no obvious marks on him."

"Check his wrists, if I am right, he will be hiding some painful-looking scrape marks underneath his shirt cuffs."

Following instructions, the detectives confirmed what Grey had already known to be true.

"But how did you know that was there?"

"The wrists are the opportune place to leave tracks."

"You taught her well" the female detective smiled.

"That I did" Grey said, pursing his lips.

As he began to walk off, Grey turned called back to the two detectives who were now reading rights to the young man.
"Oh and don't forget to check the pockets!"

Plunging her hand into the young man's jacket pocket, Detective Belstaff pulled out a small blood red fingernail.

"Well, I'll be darned!" she chuckled in disbelief, "would you look at that now, he was right!"

"He's always right," Wood commented, "it's nauseating."

The detectives turned once more to see Grey elegantly puffing smoke as he disappeared off into the night.

"I don't know how he does it, you know, how he manages to stay so emotionally withdrawn all of the time."

"He's a machine. He operates the same both inside and out" Woods quipped, "and, to him, this is just another murder in London."