For the umpteenth time, Pemberton pictured the scene of that fatal traffic accident. It was like the rerun of a video film. The speeding car, the noise as it roared past Pemberton and his friends, the headlong dash into that corner, the brake lights, the crash. The car tumbling into the stream, the hissing noises, the smell of petrol, the blood upon the driver and that whispered confession to the priest…he could see it all now, so clearly. Most good detectives possessed the ability to recall scenes of murders in astonishing and almost photographic detail, and now Pemberton was doing exactly that. In this case it was not the scene of a murder but the scene of another death, a fatal road traffic accident. Nonetheless, his mind began to replay the scene that had presented itself…he went over it time and time again, seeking a clue, any clue that would unlock the mystery of the lifestyle of James Bowman Browning. He saw the battered and limp remains of the driver slumped over the steering wheel, the contents of the car tossed out like confetti — and the heavy book of road maps lying in the shallows of the stream.
He’d seen it in the bay at the Road Traffic garage, part of the contents of the devastated little car. It was a thick red-backed atlas with a black spine, the Reader’s Digest Driver’s Atlas of the British Isles. It had been recovered, damp but not entirely ruined, and it was now among Browning’s belongings in the Road Traffic offices, awaiting collection by Mr Browning senior. And although Pemberton had examined other things, such as the briefcase, he had not looked into or even opened the atlas. There had been no reason — until now. That atlas was part of the MG’s life. It had probably travelled everywhere with the car; it had become part of the car’s life and equipment. And what about the car’s own life? How long had Browning owned it, for example?
What was its history? Browning senior said he’d bought it from a friend called Hugh Dawlish. Had it always been red? Had it been restored? Was it in its original state? Where had it been during its long life? Had there been other owners? The car began to assume a higher degree of importance in Pemberton’s opinion, and he decided to research it as well as its owner. A car could reveal a lot.
There must be car documents somewhere. The Scenes of Crime teams had confirmed they were not at Browning’s flat, so where could they be? Had they been kept in the car and destroyed in the fire? There should be a registration document, certificate of insurance, MOT certificate, repair bills, manuals…Could they perhaps have been inside the book of maps? People quite often kept pieces of paper between the pages of their atlas in the appropriate places — hotel brochures, programmes of events, directions to places, marks on the maps showing places they’d either visited or intended to visit. It was quite sensible, and it wouldn’t surprise Pemberton to find the MOT certificate or certificate of insurance there either. Pemberton’s dear departed wife, June, had done that sort of thing — his own road atlas had always been full of scribbled notes and bits of paper, although he had kept his official documents in a much safer place!
His mind turned to June, his lost wife. If she and Mark had gone off to find a National Trust property or a viewpoint or some other place in the countryside, she would read the maps and guide him there, and to aid her map-reading, she would pencil a circle around the intended destination in the road atlas. Sometimes she remembered to erase the mark afterwards and sometimes she forgot. It was these thoughts that made him realise he must have another look at the salvaged atlas before Mr Browning senior removed it. In a trice, he was on his feet and hurrying back to the Road Traffic Department. PC Broadbent was on the point of leaving.
‘Ah, just caught you,’ said Pemberton. ‘Has Mr Browning been for his son’s belongings yet?’
‘No, sir, he’s gone to the registrar’s office. There’s usually queues of bereaved or those wanting to register births or get married. He said if he wasn’t here by five o’clock, he’d call tomorrow. Is there something you want, sir?’
‘I need to examine that road atlas we recovered.’
‘I’ll get it; I know where it is,’ and PC Broadbent returned to the store with Pemberton. Having been examined by Scenes of Crime, the contents of the car were now in a large carton for eventual collection by Mr Browning, and there was a receipt for him to sign.
Pemberton found the atlas and said, ‘I’ll pop a note in here to say I’ve got this; if it doesn’t give me what I want, it’ll be back here first thing in the morning for Mr Browning.’
‘I’m on days tomorrow, sir, like today. I’ll be here.’
‘There are no documents relating to the car among these belongings, are there?’ Pemberton sought confirmation. ‘Registration document, MOT, history of the car, that sort of thing. I wondered if Browning had carried them with him.’
‘No, sir, nothing of that sort. He had a driving licence in his wallet, and a certificate of insurance for the MG. The Rover is insured by Greenwood’s company. But there were no papers in the MG itself.’
‘They couldn’t have been lost in the fire, could they?’
‘Nothing’s impossible, sir, but in this instance, I doubt it. We found no pieces of charred paper of that kind. I reckon we recovered almost everything. Most of it was thrown out of the car on impact.’
‘That’s easily done with an open top, especially when coming to that kind of sudden halt,’ Pemberton had another vision of the crash.
‘Bits of the contents of the boot survived, sir — tool kit, spare wheel, bits of the tow rope. But there were no papers there.’
‘Okay. So what I need now is the history of the MG, previous owners and dates of transfer. I’ll get Inspector Larkin to do that.’
‘DVLC would help, sir, if we can’t find the documents.’
‘I’d like to find the papers if they are around, but that’s nothing for you to worry about. Sorry I’ve detained you.’
‘No problem, sir. See you tomorrow?’
‘More than likely,’ said Pemberton, walking up to his office with the road atlas beneath his arm. Moments later he was settled at his desk to examine it, first flicking through it to ascertain that none of the documents he sought were tucked between the pages. Then he turned to the pages marked with the red ribbon. They displayed maps of this locality — probably Browning had identified the pages because of the meeting he’d arranged just before his death. The pages showed Rainesbury — they also contained Crayton, he noticed — without any pencil marks around the areas in question.
On the first page of the atlas was a dedication from James’s mother: ‘To James with love, Christmas 1988. Mum. XXX’, so the book would now be slightly out of date. He turned the pages one by one, scanning each in turn for signs of markings. The first few pages were lists of contents, followed by advice on coping with a breakdown, then first aid, and after that came the gazetteer. He flicked through the long list of towns and villages and was tempted to give it a mere cursory examination when he noticed a pencilled cross. It was against the name of Kingsleadon, in Gloucestershire, with the map reference alongside. He turned to the map. It was a tiny village on the River Leadon between High Leadon and Upleadon — and it had a pencil ring around it. His heart began to pound. He looked at his watch — six o’clock. His secretary would have gone home, so he buzzed Kirkdale on the intercom, and was moderately surprised when he got a response.
‘Ah, Gregory, it’s Pemberton. I wasn’t sure you were there.’
‘I’ve decided to stay on, sir, probably until tomorrow. I’ve got digs in a local hotel. I’ve just returned from Darlington. Can I help?’
‘Pop in, will you? Bring your files. I want to check something.’
While awaiting Kirkdale, Pemberton checked the list and found two more marked villages, each with a cross beside the name, but hadn’t time to examine the relevant maps before Kirkdale arrived. When he walked in, Pemberton indicated a chair. ‘So your witness is coming to look at Browning this evening?’ he said.
‘Inspector Mitford, sir. I’m expecting him at half-seven. I want to chat with him about the Penthorne killing. I’l
l look after him, sir, I’ll take him out for a pint and a snack. He’s pretty confident that Browning was the man he saw all those years ago. So, what have you for me to check, sir?’
Pemberton opened the atlas and indicated the marked village of Kingsleadon.
‘Does this village mean anything to you?’
‘Kingsleadon? Yes, it’s not far from the scene of one of the deaths, sir; well, to be precise, not far from where the body was found, although we think the victim died there too. That was Kempley Woods, near the boundary with Hereford and Worcester — that’s in West Mercia force area. Are you drawing a chart of the killings? You needn’t, you know; I’ve already done that — with your Crayton murder included.’
‘No, I’m not. I’ve just been glancing through this atlas; it’s from Browning’s car. It seems he’s marked that village for some reason…’
‘Has he, by God?’ Kirkdale exclaimed.
‘How far do you think it is from the scene of the Kempley Woods murder?’
‘Six or seven miles, sir.’
‘So it’s not where the body was found?’
‘No, sir, but close enough to be of interest. Why’s he marked it?’
‘I was hoping you might tell me! How about motor rallies? Rallies of vintage cars? MGs in particular.’
‘In each case, the investigating force was asked to note every public event in the area around the time of the murder, hoping to get lists of participants, especially if they were club gatherings. I’ll check my files.’
It didn’t take long for Kirkdale to turn up details of a vintage car rally that had been held at Kingsleadon the weekend before the Kempley Wood body had been discovered. The rally had concluded on the Sunday afternoon, the body of the murdered prostitute being found the following Tuesday; she had probably died on either the preceding Friday or Saturday.
The snag was that the rally organisers — the Kingsleadon Vintage Car Club — had had no idea who had attended or who was expected to attend. They had advertised the event in the local papers in addition to club circulars; thus it had been open to the public. The police had obtained a list of club members, all of whom had been interviewed and eliminated from the enquiry, but nothing of use had come to light. It had been impossible to trace members of the public who had visited; indeed, they’d all dispersed and gone home on the Sunday afternoon.
‘Is Browning on the members’ list?’ Pemberton asked.
Kirkdale checked. Neither Browning’s name nor that of Bowman was on the list. ‘How about the other villages, sir? Have you checked any more?’
‘Not properly, so let’s look at them together.’
They found eight further villages ringed and marked, and all eight were less than ten miles from the scene of each of the Sandal Strangler killings. They could not check back beyond 1988 because that was the year of publication of the atlas, but there had been only one Sandal Strangler killing before that date. That had been in 1987, the Penthorne murder in County Durham.
‘It’s very good circumstantial evidence, sir, but it doesn’t put Browning at the scene of the crimes,’ Kirkdale pointed out. ‘If this was a living suspect, a good defence counsel would say it didn’t prove anything. They’d dismiss it as nothing more than an atlas with rings around the names of some villages, rings that could have been put around those names after the murders.’
‘But it is a very good lead!’ Pemberton was compelled to say.
‘A lead, sir, yes, but it doesn’t give us the proof we need. But I agree it’s the best clue we’ve had in years!’
‘I accept what you say about it not being proof, but I reckon it would have been strong enough evidence to justify an arrest on suspicion if he’d been alive. And the atlas has his name inside, with an inscription from his mother. We can link the atlas to him, and him to villages very close to all the killings since 1988. From my point of view, it brings him one step nearer to being the Sandal Strangler. I’ll get Paul Larkin to compare your files against Browning’s movements when they’re fully known.’
‘It does strengthen the case against Browning, sir, but what about a DNA test? Did you say you’d arranged for a DNA sample to be taken from his body? We do have samples of semen found in the women, sir, although many of the early samples were not taken with DNA in mind. The procedure didn’t exist at that time, so some of the samples might not be suitable for analysis. But it’s a thought; it could prove our case conclusively.’
‘Looking at it through the eyes of a defence counsel, it might prove he had had intercourse with the women, Gregory, but not that he had either raped or murdered them. They were prostitutes, remember. Browning could have used them before the killer struck — that’s the line a good defence counsel would use.’
‘I realise that, but I still think most courts would accept positive DNA samples as very strong evidence. Rapists don’t often use condoms, but prostitutes normally make sure their clients wear them. That’s an argument for saying any semen found in the women was put there without their consent, possibly by rape.’
‘True. Now, if there was a public event nearby which was attended by Browning, the prostitutes might have been working the area. If we did find his semen, it would be more circumstantial evidence, Gregory, even though it might not be totally conclusive.’
‘So shall I arrange the necessary tests?’
‘I’ve got to think of my budget, tests cost money, but yes. Do that. The snag is that DNA tests can take up to a week to get a result — and that’s rushing things quite a lot. They can take several weeks otherwise. I can’t see them rushing ours through if the suspect is dead! But even with that as a back-up, I’d like to continue my routine enquiries.’
There was a knock on Pemberton’s office door and Lorraine entered to his response. ‘Sit down, Lorraine,’ he said. ‘We’re just finishing.’
He outlined his recent success to Lorraine who smiled and then said, ‘While I had a quiet moment or two, I ploughed through some older sections of the Muriel Brown file, but I can’t connect her death with Browning, sir. Not in any way.’
‘Fair enough, let’s set aside that case for a while. She wasn’t a prostitute, for one thing, and wasn’t killed in a wood for another.’
Pemberton then acquainted Kirkdale with the Muriel Brown murder.
There followed a discussion about the red MG and how Browning might have used gatherings of enthusiasts or rallies of MG drivers to cover his tracks while committing the murders. They bore in mind that the killings had all occurred around Midsummer’s Day or on the weekend closest to that date. And that was the time the rallies were held — except there’d been no rally near the scene of the Penthorne killing and none close to the Rainesbury area this weekend. So where was this year’s rally being held?
It was while they were talking that the telephone rang; it was Detective Sergeant Meadows from Harlow Spa Scenes of Crime Department.
‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘A quick call, sir, just to say we’ve examined Browning’s official car, the Rover. It’s clean, sir. No sign of involvement with the Crayton death or with any killing or rape. It’s a new car, sir, less than a year old, so that rules it out of being linked to any of the other crimes.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant; I’ll give the good news to Mr Greenwood.’
‘I can do that, sir — his office is just around the corner from here.’
‘Right, Sergeant, that would be a great help. You’ll return the car to him now? Another job done, thanks,’ and he replaced the handset.
‘Sir,’ Lorraine used Pemberton’s official form of address as another officer was present, ‘I had no idea Browning had a second car.’
‘Neither did I until very recently,’ he admitted. ‘I only learned about it today. It’s his official car, issued as part of his job.’
‘Where did he keep it?’ she asked.
‘On a hard-standing beside his flat — each tenant is allocated a parking space. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, i
f he parked his Rover there, where did he park his MG, sir? And surely, if he was such an enthusiast, he’d make sure his MG was in a garage or some secure accommodation. I know I would, if I had a lovely vintage car. I’d want somewhere to polish it, gloat over it, and look after it.’
‘God, I’d overlooked that…yes, he wouldn’t leave that car on the street, would he?’ His mind was racing now. If Browning had a garage, there would be a key for it — and the key would be on a key ring, probably with the MG’s ignition key. And that was still in the Traffic Department’s offices.
He rang the duty sergeant, announcing his name.
‘Sarge,’ he said, ‘the fatal RTA, Browning. You know of our interest?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any idea where the keys to the MG Roadster are?’
‘They’re with the car, sir, pending its release when all the teams have finished their examination. They survived the fire.’
‘They’re not with Browning’s other belongings, in the store?’
‘No, sir, I checked myself. I saw the keys on the key ring; they were still in the ignition when we recovered the vehicle. There was one for the ignition and one for the boot, then a third key, sir. A Yale. I guessed it was for his garage. It’s not the same as the one for his flat.’
‘And the garage itself? Has it been traced?’
‘Not by our officers, sir, no. We had no cause to visit the garage.’
‘And has the key an identification on it? Address, door number, name?’
‘No, sir, it’s blank. There’s nothing to indicate what it fits.’
‘Make sure it is not taken from those keys, Sergeant. Thanks. I want that key — and a door to fit it! I’ll collect it later.’
‘Very good, sir.’
When he had replaced the handset, he said to Kirkdale, ‘Somewhere in Harlow Spa, which has a population of around 120,000 people and mile after mile of streets, there is a lock-up garage which Browning used for his MG. How do we find that?’
Confession (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 3) Page 9
