While Pemberton was examining the flat near Harlow Spa, the investigation into last night’s accident was proceeding in a normal manner. The post-mortem on Browning’s body had been arranged for 2.00pm and the coroner had been informed. The photographs taken at the scene of the fatality were being developed, sketch-plans were being compiled, an officer from Staffordshire police had located the father of the deceased to break the dreadful news of his son’s death, and the little red MG Roadster, having been examined by Detective Superintendent Pemberton and the local Scenes of Crime officers, was next subjected to vehicular tests which concentrated upon its brakes and steering, its tyres having been destroyed in the blaze.
From enquiries at Greenwood’s, it had been confirmed that Browning was visiting a client, Mr Joseph Phillips, at Halton shortly before the accident; in turn, Mr Phillips had confirmed that Browning had been with him at his office from 7.00pm until shortly after 8.00pm during which time he had behaved quite normally. The timing of his meeting and the route back to Harlow Spa coincided with the known facts of the accident. Browning had left his own office at 5.45pm for the drive to Halton.
Lorraine Cashmore, meanwhile, was ploughing through the accumulated data of the Muriel Brown murder, first checking those portions that had been entered into the computer, and then examining the file index cards of the original enquiry, scanning records that had not yet been computerised. She sought anything that might point to the involvement of James Bowman Browning. But all her careful searches produced nothing to link him with the murder of Muriel Brown. Lorraine felt she had done a thorough job, her effort being very conscientious because Pemberton was relying upon her.
By the time Pemberton returned at 5.00pm, several new factors had been established. The post-mortem showed Browning had died from severe internal and head injuries, plus shock, consistent with being the driver of a car that had suffered a head-on impact at high speed. He had been fit and healthy, and there was no medical reason for him to have lost control. He had not suffered any kind of attack while driving and there was no evidence of an excess of alcohol, although further tests of his stomach contents would be necessary to confirm that.
Examination of the car, even in its severely charred condition, suggested that failure of the front brakes was the likely cause. There was a weak point in the couplings of the pipes at the front; it was known that these could chafe through and a sudden exertion upon the brakes could cause a burst — and that car had not been fitted with a dual braking system. Traffic experts said that they were satisfied he had crashed for that reason — a sudden and violent application of the brakes had probably produced the failure. The steering was in good condition for a car of that age and none of the tyres had suffered a blow-out. Examination of the wheel rims had confirmed that. Instead of trying to turn the corner, it was suggested Browning had panicked at the last moment due to his loss of control and while struggling to activate the non-existent brakes. This analysis helped to discount suicide as the reason for his death.
There was nothing to indicate the car had struck another vehicle or collided with a pedestrian before the accident, further proof that Browning had not killed anyone with his MG.
Mr Browning senior had rung to confirm he was leaving Stone in Staffordshire very early tomorrow morning for the drive to Rainesbury. He would come to the police station’s Traffic Division offices, and he would stay in a hotel in Rainesbury rather than at his son’s flat near Harlow Spa. Mr Browning — Frederick Joseph — added that he would inform the other relatives and close friends of his son’s tragic death.
As Pemberton scanned the various notes, memoranda, and reports, there was a knock on his door. ‘Come,’ he called.
It was Lorraine.
‘Come in and sit down,’ he smiled. She always made him want to smile. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
He signed some of the letters that had been left by his secretary and then said, ‘Well, what have you to report, Detective Constable Cashmore?’
She raised her eyebrows at his fake formality and said, ‘I’ve had a really boring day ploughing through really boring old records; it’s going-home time and I could do with cheering up!’
‘Then let’s eat out, shall we?’
‘I thought you’d never ask!’
Lovers, partners at home and at work, they left the office together, she a tall, slender woman in her early thirties and he, at just over six feet in height, a taller man in his forties. He was renowned for his smartness and was now at peace with himself following the early death of his wife. Lorraine and Mark had a pact — they would never discuss work while they were off duty — and so, during the fifteen-minute drive home, Pemberton updated her on everything that had happened so far as Browning was concerned.
‘So you’re going to forget it, are you?’ she challenged him before they reached their home.
‘I am not!’ he stressed. ‘Once I’m satisfied there’s no local murder that could have been committed by Browning, I shall delve into the information I receive from other forces. If he did commit murder, Lorraine, we’ll clear up somebody’s crime for them — it’ll be another detection recorded.’
‘We’re home, Mark,’ she said, implying that he should stop talking about his work. ‘Bags I the bath first!’
‘I might jump in with you!’ he grinned, parking the car.
‘I wouldn’t complain.’ She kissed him on the cheek as she climbed from his Vauxhall.
Afterwards, they drove to a moorland inn that was popular with hikers and ramblers where they ate a snack from the bar while sitting outside in the warm evening sunshine. Pemberton was relaxed in smart but very casual clothes while Lorraine sported shorts and a sleeveless top. As they enjoyed their meal with a single glass of wine each, they were happy enough not to talk unnecessarily. They savoured the expansive views of the dale spread below them, the quiet of the evening with the sun setting on the moors and above all, their own company. After their meal, they went for a short walk through the heather, not yet in bloom. In August, this would become an immense sea of rich purple flowers, a stunning sight.
‘That was really nice, Mark.’ In the car after their stroll, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek as they prepared for home.
It was the middle of summer and not yet nine-thirty so darkness had not yet enveloped the moors, but the setting sun was casting long shadows across the undulating landscape.
‘I was just thinking, out there with the moorland breeze touching my cheeks, that I could be very happy as a retired man,’ he said. ‘Just imagine having the time to do this sort of thing whenever we wanted, without the cares of office…’
‘It’s up to you,’ she said. ‘You’re approaching your twenty-five years’ service. You could soon retire…’
‘I’m far too young to even think of retiring.’ He fastened his seat belt and started the engine. ‘Men — people — of my age shouldn’t retire — they’d stagnate!’
‘You don’t retire, Mark; you leave the police service with a small pension and use that to finance whatever you want to do with the rest of your life. You’d find some interesting part-time work — you could become a consultant or take up watercolour painting or study wildlife. There’s plenty of ways of making life interesting and even earning enough to top up a police pension!’
‘Don’t forget I’ll not get my pension immediately — they keep it in cold storage until I’m fifty-five. But in any case, I think I’d miss the excitement, the uncertainty of police work.’ He engaged first gear and began to move out of the car park. ‘Even retirement can become boring, like an everlasting holiday.’
‘It doesn’t have to be boring,’ she countered. ‘A happy retirement is what you make it and, let’s face it, people who retire before they are fifty should seek some kind of active interest.’
‘I do enjoy my work,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of anything else I’d rather do. Being a private detective, snooping on adulterers and unearthing moles who sell industrial sec
rets, doesn’t have the same appeal as solving a complicated murder or fraud case.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘one day you’re going to have to make up your mind. You can either spend your days worrying about crime statistics and pressures from chief constables, or you can enjoy outings like this.’
‘Or I can do both!’ he laughed. ‘Like tonight!’
And then, as he gathered speed out of the car park, his car phone rang. Lorraine looked at him, and he looked at her, each thinking they should ignore it.
‘I hope it’s not work,’ he said. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Shall I leave it?’ She rather hoped he would say yes.
‘No, you must answer it. You never know what it might be. Family wanting help…’
Lorraine lifted the handset and said, ‘Pemberton.’
‘Is Detective Superintendent Pemberton there?’ asked a male voice.
‘Who’s calling?’ she asked before giving an answer.
‘It’s Force Control Room. It’s important.’
‘I’ll put him on,’ she said as Pemberton brought the car to a standstill on the wide, sheep-shorn verge.
‘Pemberton.’ He picked up the receiver, a look of anxiety on his face.
‘Control Room, sir, duty inspector speaking. I’m sorry to have to call you when you are off duty. I tried your home number, sir, and thought I’d try the car phone…’
‘I’m on the moors, Inspector, above Rossetdale. What’s the problem?’
‘We’ve a report of a body, sir, a woman. Found by a man walking his dog. She’s in a ruined building beside the River Raine, quite off the beaten track, sir, just outside Crayton village. A beat man has been to carry out a preliminary investigation and confirms it’s a suspicious death. Strangulation, by all accounts. I’ve called out Scenes of Crime, the scene has been secured, sir. I thought you should be told.’
‘Of course. Any CID attending?’
‘Detective Sergeant Linton from Rainesbury is on duty, sir; he’s en route to the scene now.’
‘Good. Tell him I will rendezvous with him there. Have you a map reference?’
The inspector provided the necessary reference and Pemberton said, ‘I’ll leave immediately. I should be there in three-quarters of an hour. I’ll provide you with a sit. rep. once I have examined the scene.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Work?’ asked Lorraine, who had not heard both sides of the conversation.
‘A body,’ Pemberton told her. ‘A woman’s body, near the river at Crayton, not far from Rainesbury. Found in suspicious circumstances, apparently strangled. I wonder if our deceased Mr Browning had anything to do with this?’
Chapter Four
The young woman’s body lay in the sparse ruins of a derelict mill which occupied a wooded corner overlooking the River Raine. Once a busy place producing flour by the power of the flowing water, it now lacked its ancient mill wheel and was roofless and windowless. It was little more than a haphazard pattern of broken stone walls, a secret venue for lovers and vandals and a refuge for wild creatures. Birds nested in the ivy, owls sought their prey among the ruins and bats slept their days away in crevices among the stones.
Pemberton, after identifying himself to the uniformed constable on duty, entered through a gap in the wall that had once contained a door. Teams of officers were waiting nearby, Detective Sergeant Linton having decided not to proceed until the boss had viewed the scene and the body. Pemberton saw the dead woman was lying on her side on the earthen floor in a corner of the ruin, almost as if she was asleep, except that her face was grossly swollen and highly discoloured and there was a sturdy and knotted white nylon rope around her neck. There were some flies around. A few nettles and weeds partially obscured her remains, but she seemed to be fully clothed. At first sight, her plum-coloured dress had apparently not been interfered with, although Pemberton saw that she did not wear any shoes.
His heart stopped. This was no ordinary murder: it bore all the familiar hallmarks of the Sandal Strangler. From where he stood, he could not see her footwear lying anywhere within the ruin. A detailed search would be necessary and he hoped the shoes would be found but had a gut feeling they would not be recovered here. After a few minutes’ silent contemplation, absorbing the details of the scene, he went outside to talk to DS Linton.
‘Thanks, Ray, you can start now. No shoes, eh?’
The import was not lost on Linton. He had read the circulars too. ‘There’s no sign of them near the body, sir. If what I fear is true, this will be number ten or eleven. I’ll check with Records. She’s been certified dead, by the way. Dr Fairbrother.’
‘So the Sandal Strangler has paid us a visit,’ muttered Pemberton with a feeling of near despair. ‘How long’s she been here? Any ideas?’
‘Not long, judging by the appearance of the body. Two days at the most, I’d say. Fairbrother couldn’t be more precise — he says the pathologist might provide a more accurate estimate.’
‘Let’s hope so. Has she been raped like his other victims? Reports said he’d used excessive violence on the others.’
‘We won’t know until the pathologist has examined her,’ said Linton. ‘We haven’t touched her, but her clothing doesn’t look disturbed.’
‘He always leaves his victims as if they’re sleeping, all very neat and tidy,’ Pemberton reminded him. ‘Any clues to her identity?’
‘Not yet; her handbag isn’t with the body.’
‘Any girls reported missing locally?’
‘None’s been reported, but she’s no child. She’s in her mid-twenties, I reckon, sir, probably from the locality — local people, kids especially, know this place. And, if the killer is the Sandal Strangler, she’ll be a prostitute. He always kills prostitutes.’
‘You’re saying she brought her killer here? It’s usually the killer who brings his victims to their deaths, not the other way around. Is that a hallmark of the Strangler?’
‘Local courting couples know about the old mill — they often come here for a bit of nookie; it’s tucked nicely out of sight, well off the beaten track. It’s unlikely that a stranger would find it. It’s not the sort of place a casual visitor would come across or take a girl into — unless the Strangler’s a local too, which I doubt. Although no one has any idea of his identity, we’ve never had reason to think he lives on our patch.’
Pemberton, with James Browning in mind, wondered whether Harlow Spa could be considered ‘local’ even though it was thirty miles away. ‘Could a car get this far into the wood? Are there other ways of approach to the mill?’
‘No, sir. There’s only that lane from Crayton — it terminates in a small parking area, and then there’s a stile over the railings. The path comes into this wood.’
‘The place where I parked?’
‘Yes, sir. Access is by foot only from that point; there’s no other route into this place. In its heyday, there was a track from Crayton Hall — that’s in the opposite direction from here — but that route ceased to be used years ago when the Hall was sold. It’s fenced off now — the old path is totally overgrown. You’d never get a pedal cycle through there, let alone a car. This is the only way into the mill, a rather neglected footpath through the woods. We could consider a search of the car-parking area for tyre marks, but it’s surfaced with tarmac as you know. It’s doubtful if we could isolate tyre marks on that; it’s a busy place and the weather’s been dry for a week or so. But of course we’ll search it for dropped or cast-away objects.’
‘House-to-house enquiries might produce descriptions of any cars seen there in the last few days. Or we might learn about people seen walking in the woods or towards the mill. And what about fishermen? Do they use this stretch of the river?’
‘No, sir, it’s private water. The open fishing ends a mile downstream. I’m having enquiries made at the estate office to see if anyone’s been given specific right of access to the woods or the river in recent days.’
‘Okay, Ray, you kno
w your job, but don’t overlook the value of quizzing poachers and water bailiffs. So it’s full steam ahead. Will you set up the incident room in Rainesbury police station?’
‘No problem, sir. There’s available space and it’s convenient for this scene. I’ll radio Control to get things moving.’
‘Has the pathologist been called?’
‘Yes, he’s on his way.’
‘Good, then I’ll wait,’ said Pemberton. He started to walk away from the mill with Linton at his side. ‘I’ll liaise with Lincolnshire police on this one. They’ve a collator working on these Sandal Strangler killings, I’ll call him first thing in the morning. His name is Kirkdale, Detective Inspector Kirkdale.’
‘It couldn’t be a copy-cat killing, could it?’ suggested Linton.
‘I don’t think so. The business about the missing sandals has never been given to the press or the public. Only the killer and the other teams know about that trade mark. It means this is no copy-cat murder — it’s the real thing, Ray.’
Pemberton glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty on a midsummer night and the light was fading fast. He decided that the scene should be thoroughly investigated as far as possible tonight, even by floodlight if that was possible. If not, the wooded surrounds could be sealed by uniformed officers until daylight. A more detailed search of the woodlands would be conducted tomorrow. Tonight’s work would include examinations by the pathologist, forensic scientists and Scenes of Crime officers while the incident room could be assembled for commencement of its work at nine tomorrow morning. Heading across to Lorraine, who was chatting to the recently arrived force photographer, Pemberton explained his plans, saying he’d remain here until the pathologist had conducted his examination and Scenes of Crime had concluded their search of the immediate surrounds of the old building. Once the body had been removed, Pemberton could go home. Lorraine said she would wait with him.
Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3) Page 4
