The Case I Can’t Forget is a weekly series that hears from the people working at the coalface of public service about the cases they have carried with them throughout their careers.
This week, former Metropolitan Police Homicide Detective Kate London remembers a death she attended that didn’t make the papers.
If you have a story you’d like to tell, email lucy.pasha-robinson@huffpost.com
It’s a grey day in London, a nothing special day. Death is part of the police officer’s territory. There’s the death that makes the news. Then there’s the rest.
The Criminal Investigation Department (CID) office has lines and lines of desks pushed up against each other in banks of eight but there’s barely a detective to be seen. We’re short-staffed again. The carpet is dirty. The room is stuffy, overheated by the tired old computers.
At the desks beyond me two uniformed officers are standing talking to my Detective Sergeant. I’ll call him Lee. I have 23 crime reports and this is a rare moment of downtime when I can catch up on all the outstanding actions: the unviewed CCTV, the applications for forensic examination of evidence, the calls to victims who want to know why I haven’t found out who stole their phone. I sit at my computer trying to be invisible; I don’t want to get dragged into dealing with whatever these officers have brought to the CID.
But being a detective on borough is the experience of being constantly thwarted: 10 minutes later Lee and I are in an unmarked car making our way along a jammed London road. This is not a blue lights call. We must stop and start with the rest of London.
A female constable is standing at the crime scene tape. She is wearing her hat and standing straight. I like her instantly for showing respect. Beside her, a small group of people are huddled together. This is one of the families we encounter in various ways pretty much every week. The brother is there – he’s a drug-user and a burglar. He’s looking pretty wired but the mother is crumpled and tired-looking. I go over and say hello. She knows me and uses my first name. She puts her hand on my arm. She wants to see her daughter. I say, yes, we’ll see what we can do as soon as we’ve done what we have to.
Lee and I get ready in the hallway so that the family cannot see the procedural aspect of this. We pull on white paper suits, blue overshoes, face masks, plastic gloves.
A couple of uniformed officers are in the sitting room. One of them is young and she’s looking very green. I tell her to go into the garden. It’s walled off; if she’s sick there the family won’t be able to see her and it won’t contaminate any evidence. She exits quickly.
The deceased is lying on the sofa. We all knew her. Her death was anticipated; there was even a note on her file that any officers dealing should always consider alternatives to arresting her as her health had become so precarious. All the same, seeing this young woman actually dead is something different. She had two children, still primary school age, but they no longer lived with her.
It is a pitiful death. There are cans of cheap lager on the floor around her; even as she has been dying she has continued to drink. Briefly I wonder about that action and its intention, but such speculation is not my business right now.
We search the body for any evidence of violence. It’s not easy. We are careful and take our time. Vulnerable people die but they also too easily become the victims of violence. We need to be absolutely certain there is nothing suspicious.
We search the small flat too. At some point she has stopped using the toilet and the sitting room where she has died and the kitchen are soiled. There is no food in the fridge. No pictures, no photos. Her last hours seem to have been one of the saddest things I have ever witnessed. She was in her twenties.
We speak to the coroner’s office. There will be a post mortem but before that her mother has asked to see her. Lee and I do our best. We arrange the body neatly, find a blanket that isn’t soiled and pull it over her.
I take the forensic clothing off and check my appearance in the bathroom mirror.
The uniformed officers wait outside. Lee waits in the hallway for me just in case there are any issues. I take the mother through to the body. I stay while she says goodbye to her daughter.
Afterwards Lee and I drive back to the police station in silence. There are nine million people living in London.
Kate London is a former Met Police detective. The incident described occurred when she was working as a borough detective. Her latest novel is Gallowstree Lane, published by Corvus in hardback priced £12.99.
The Case I Can’t Forget is a new series from HuffPost UK that hears from those on the frontline of public service about the cases they have carried with them throughout their careers. If you have a story you’d like to tell, email lucy.pasha-robinson@huffpost.com.