Within an hour, the CID had arrived in a succession of vehicles. The force photographer, a detective chief inspector, scene-of-crime experts and other officers gathered to examine the body and commence their own specialist work.
The car park and bracken area were cordoned off as we awaited a forensic pathologist, and in the meantime official photographs were taken of the body, the location and the car, with its empty flower wrappings. The full might of a murder investigation was launched as die car park seemed suddenly full of police officers and official vehicles.
And then, as the formal investigation got under way, I remembered the circumstances of that blue Morris. About a year or eighteen months earlier, I had parked my police motorcycle here for a few moments during a patrol, and a woman had approached me with a purse she had found.
She’d found it on this car park a few moments before my arrival, and it had contained several pounds, a pair of silver earrings and other jewellery. As she was touring the area, she would not retain the purse, and so I entered it into our Found Property system. Before leaving the car park, however, I had approached the drivers and occupants of all the parked cars to see if it belonged to any of them. It did not — and the only two cars that remained empty were this blue Morris and a small green Austin Mini.
I had noted the registration numbers of each, so that I could later trace the owners and contact them about the found purse. But before that need arose, a woman had reported losing the purse and it had been returned to her. I had never tried to trace the owners of the blue Morris and the green Mini. But I had noticed the green Mini parked beside the blue Morris on several successive occasions at the very spot, and those sightings had occurred over a period of around a year. The green Mini was not here today, it was not parked close to the Morris — and that was the missing item.
I would have to examine my old notebooks to trace those numbers but said nothing to the other officers at this stage, just in case my theories were incorrect.
The pathologist had examined the body and expressed an opinion that the fellow had been having sex with a woman immediately prior to his death. The flowers, the pants around the ankles and evidence of some seminal fluid found by the scientist supported that theory. The body, its mode of dress and position had all the hallmarks of such a situation.
In the pathologist’s words, ‘He was going at it hammer and tongs; he was right here with his fancy woman, just reaching the exciting bit, when his heart stopped. He literally died on the job, gents, and rolled off her, or she heaved him off, dead as a door nail. What a way to go. She’s fled the scene, terrified . . . It’s just a theory, mind, but I’ve seen it all before.’
‘You mean this often happens?’ smiled Forman, intrigued.
‘Illicit affairs like this happen everywhere,’ continued the pathologist. ‘Poor old sod. You’d be surprised how many old codgers die on the job when they’ve found a young bit of stuff to keep their peckers up. But at least he died happy. I’ll have to do a PM, but I’ll bet my cotton socks it’s natural causes, heart failure. The excitement was too much for him. If so, there’ll be no need for an inquest, no need to drag his name through a coroner’s court, or hers if you can find her.’
When the scientific examinations were finished, the body was searched and a wallet containing a driving licence added strength to the belief that this was indeed the remains of Mr Halliwell, but we still needed a positive identification. And so the body was removed to a mortuary at Eltering as discreet efforts were made by Scarborough police to determine whether or not this was the late George Frederick Halliwell. A CID officer drove his car to Eltering Police Station, and the wrapping-paper was removed; Mrs Halliwell, if there was a Mrs Halliwell, would never see that scrap of evidence of her husband’s unfaithfulness. The enquiries to confirm his identity had to be undertaken before his family was told of his death, and I wondered what the newspapers would make of it all.
I went home after a full day, and after my meal unearthed my old pocket-books. I searched every page for my notes on that purse and found them, having made the entry fifteen months earlier. The two car numbers were there — one agreed with that of today’s blue Morris and the other was the green Mini. Tomorrow I would check that Mini number with the Taxation Department.
Next morning I learned that the man had been positively identified as George Frederick Halliwell. He was a county councillor and restaurant owner from Scarborough. His wife had had the awful task of viewing the body to confirm his identity, but she was not told of his reason for being at Lover’s Leap. She was simply informed he had had a heart attack there, for that was the result of the pathologist’s post-mortem examination. In other words, it appeared that his death was from natural causes, even if the circumstances were a little unusual. For us, the state of his clothing continued to be a worry, for it could be an indication of a struggle of some kind, instead of the aftermath of sex. Could his death be the result of manslaughter? Had there in fact been a struggle, a fight to the death? About a woman, even?
The morning paper carried a brief note of the death, saying only that we were investigating the death of a man found at a local beauty spot in Ryedale. The paper did not name Halliwell because, at the time of going to print, we could not confirm his identity. I was pleased that no sordid details were published. Having read the account, I rang Taxation and learned that the owner of the green Mini was a Mrs Dorothy Pendlebury, from a village near York, also a county councillor. I told Gerry Connolly of my findings.
‘That’s great, Nick, a real piece of detective work. Well done! Now, let’s go and see her,’ he said. ‘You come with me, and we’ll do it during the day, when her husband’s at work. She’ll never tell us if he’s hanging around listening to every word. If she was the last person to see Halliwell alive, we need to know what happened.’
Dorothy Pendlebury was a tall, heavily built woman who was handsome rather than beautiful; in her early forties, she had a head of fine blonde hair and a bearing which could be described as almost aristocratic. In expensive clothes, she answered our knock and promptly assumed we were brush salesmen.
‘I’m not seeing anyone today.’ There was a haughtiness in her voice which was perhaps a means of covering her current uncertainty and misery. ‘You’ll have to see my husband if it’s anything to do with the house, and he will be at work till seven.’
Gerry Connolly was all charm. ‘Mrs Pendlebury, we are not salesmen, we are police officers,’ and he introduced us by our names and ranks. ‘I believe you knew the late George Frederick Halliwell of Scarborough, the restaurateur and county councillor.’
His opening words were designed to shock. There was but a moment’s hesitation before she snapped, ‘Yes, of course, I know him. We’re on the county council, we serve on the same committees.’
‘Mrs Pendlebury,’ said Gerry in his quiet voice, ‘I would like to have a word with you about him, in confidence.’
‘Really? Why, might I ask?’
‘I would prefer to talk inside the house if you don’t mind,’ continued Gerry.
She hesitated; I realised later that her mind must have been in turmoil at that moment, but her face never revealed anything of her emotions.
‘I have an appointment in half an hour,’ she said. ‘I cannot break it . . .’ but she stepped back into the house and we followed her into the kitchen.
She indicated two chairs at the pine table but did not offer us coffee or tea.
‘Well?’ She stood near the window, looking out, her face away from our scrutiny. It was a clever move on her part.
I wondered how Gerry Connolly would tackle this interview, for I could guess she would deny any allegation he made. She was the sort of woman for whom appearances and social acceptance were of paramount importance, and any hint of a scandal, particularly a sordid sexual one, would be ruinous. There, in her mind, it would never happen — it had never happened . . .
‘I have reason to believe,’ he said slowly, ‘that you were
the last person to see George Frederick Halliwell alive.’
Her head dropped slightly forward at this, but her face remained out of our sight as she gazed from her window.
‘Is he dead?’ her voice was hoarse now. ‘No one told me.’
Gerry, in his soft, friendly voice, explained the circumstances surrounding the discovery of Halliwell’s body, and he ended by repeating his earlier remark: ‘I have reason to believe you were the last person to see him alive, Mrs Pendlebury. I have reason to believe you were with him at Lover’s Leap.’
‘We were good friends.’ Her voice was a mere whisper now. ‘He was a fine man . . .’
‘But yesterday were you with him at Lover’s Leap?’ Connolly stood up to ask the direct question.
‘No!’ she flung the answer at him. ‘How dare you make such insinuations! I am a respectable married woman, the mother of two adult children, and a councillor; how dare you suggest that I was with him, on a secret liaison . . .’
‘I did not suggest any such thing, Mrs Pendlebury. I merely suggested you were the last person to be with him, to see him alive. You might have met there for business reasons, to discuss county council matters . . .’
‘I have nothing more to add, Inspector,’ she snapped, and added, ‘Now I must go. I have an urgent appointment to keep.’
Gerry stood his ground. ‘Mrs Pendlebury, I need to know your movements yesterday around lunchtime. Mr Halliwell is dead, and his death is being investigated as suspicious. We know that he was not alone when he died.’
He allowed those words to register in her mind before he continued: ‘And furthermore, we have every reason to believe that he was engaged in the act of sexual intercourse with a woman at the moment of his death. If that is true, his death will be regarded as being due to natural causes — there will be no inquest and no publicity. If, however, we have to make more detailed enquiries, probably along the lines of a murder investigation, of course there will be publicity.’
He paused again to allow his words to take effect, then said, ‘Now, so far as you are concerned, we could demand the clothes you were wearing yesterday, for fibres were found clinging to Mr Halliwell’s clothes; we could ask you to submit to a medical examination to determine whether or not you engaged in sexual intercourse yesterday, and a forensic test might even confirm it was with Mr Halliwell . . . our forensic experts are very clever at matching stains and fibres — and we could make very searching enquiries about your movements over the past year or so.’
She did not say a word but remained on her feet, staring out of her kitchen window; she was totally composed and in command of her own emotions.
‘If he did die in the manner you describe,’ she said quietly, ‘and if his death was due to a heart attack, there will be no inquest, no publicity? That is what you said?’
‘That’s true. But we do need to know the truth, and we will respect anything confidential.’
‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said suddenly, moving across to the cupboard for some mugs. Connolly winked at me but said nothing more as she busied herself in the kitchen. Finally, with three steaming mugs in her hands, she settled at the table, tearless and utterly composed, and faced Detective Sergeant Connolly.
‘What do you want me to say, Inspector?’ she asked.
‘Just the truth,’ he said.
‘I panicked,’ she licked her lips now. ‘I ran away and I am ashamed of that; I am not ashamed of my liaison with him. I needed him and he needed me; there was no love, no risk of marriage breakdowns on either side, just sex. We fulfilled each other, Inspector, we made each other happy. Yes, I was with him yesterday, and yes, we were making love when he collapsed. I did my best to revive him but failed. Then I heard someone climbing towards us through the bracken, so I ran away, leaving him to find George. I recognise a heart attack when I see one. So what happens next?’
‘I need a written statement from you, to complete my investigation — I need no more than what you have just told me.’
‘But will it reach a court of any kind?’
‘No,’ he promised her. ‘I must submit a report to the coroner, but as you have explained how he came about his heart attack, how you were present at his death, and as the pathologist’s findings agree with your story, there will be no inquest. His death will be recorded as natural, not suspicious.’
‘His wife will have to be told that he died during an act of adultery, will she?’
‘No,’ said Connolly. ‘She has been told he died at Lover’s Leap, but we have spared her the details.’
‘And my husband?’
‘He need never know of your involvement unless you tell him.’
‘I will not tell him,’ she said. She paused a long time as she sipped her coffee, then continued: ‘You must both think I am evil, leaving him like that, running away, but I knew he was dead. I was a nurse, you know. I ran off to protect him from scandal. There was nothing I could do, nothing could be done to save him, and he did give me pleasure and happiness, and I gave it to him. There is nothing wrong in that, is there, Inspector? Not when you have an impotent husband . . .’
‘We are not concerned with the moral aspects of your relationship, Mrs Pendlebury, just the facts. Now, can we get this statement written down officially?’
‘Yes, of course,’ and I thought I detected a note of relief in her voice.
But there were no tears, no signs of sorrow and no hint of any regret. She was an amazing woman and I did wonder whether the hinted aristocratic breeding in her bearing was genuine. Whether she would cry when we left, I could not say, but she did not mention her appointment any more. Instead, she allowed Gerry to write down her statement, and it catered for those final minutes of George Frederick Halliwell. As he had rolled off her, dead but happy, she had tried to re-establish his clothing for decency’s sake, but the weight of his body had defeated her.
She bade us farewell, still addressing Gerry as ‘Inspector’, and we were all relieved.
‘I wonder why she left the sweet peas behind,’ said Gerry as we drove away.
‘They were probably her wreath,’ I said. ‘She won’t attend the funeral, will she?’
‘She will,’ he said firmly, ‘but as a county councillor and a colleague, not as his mistress. She will regard that as her duty,’ he smiled.
‘You know, Sarge, I think you are right,’ I added.
And he was. She turned up at the funeral looking splendid and self-assured, but sorrowful. And she donated another wreath, this time without any sweet peas.
Chapter 3
The law’s made to take care o’ raskills.
GEORGE ELIOT, 1819—80
DURING ONE OF THOSE quiet moments in the CID office, it dawned on me why I might have been selected as an Aide to the constabulary’s detectives. It was surely the outcome of two cases in which I had been involved during my very youthful days. At the time I was patrolling a town beat as a raw and unconfident constable at Strensford, but my actions had been recorded in my personal file and, indeed, I received a chief constable’s commendation following one of the investigations. I guessed that, on the strength of these, I was thought to possess Sherlockian qualities, and so these cases are worthy of record here, even though they did not occur during my attachment to Eltering CID.
The first story began one New Year’s Eve. In the North Riding of Yorkshire, this is a time of celebration. There are lots of parties, dancing, feasting, drinking and general bonhomie. As the desire to have a good time manifests itself in constables as well as ordinary mortals, most of us tried to avoid working night shift as the old year became the new one. Often lots were drawn to avoid argument and hints of favouritism but even then there were grumbles. To be off duty on New Year’s Eve was indeed a bonus; to be on duty was a real chore.
On this particular New Year’s Eve, a colleague of mine, who was doing his best to woo the lady of his dreams, had an invitation to a dinner dance with her family. He desperately wanted to go. The sergea
nt said he could have the night off provided someone worked his night shift for him. He asked me. At first I was horrified at the thought but, with an understanding wife who was a close friend of his lady-love and who wished to see a successful conclusion to this ardent wooing, I capitulated. We swapped shifts and I found myself patrolling the deserted streets to the sound of happy people making merry behind closed doors. There is something akin to real distress within one’s soul while patrolling a town alone, listening to the sounds of happy voices in warm interiors along every street. It produces a massive feeling of being unwanted, and it echoes the loneliness of the diligently patrolling police officer.
In spite of being on duty as the old year became the new, we did have a good time. In the chill of that happy night, girls kissed us to wish us a Happy New Year, we honoured the time-old tradition of First Footing and we joined in many parties, albeit with the decorum of the constabulary uppermost in our minds. We regarded it as a good public relations exercise, a social mingling of the police and the people whom they serve and for whom they care.
By two o’clock that morning, with the first hours of the new year now history, it was snowing. The fall was gentle but it was dry, and it rapidly covered the ground with a blanket of beautiful white. Soon the entire landscape was glistening in the flickering lights of partying households and traffic-free streets, but we knew that on the lofty moorland roads there would be drifting in the bitter north-east wind.
My refreshment break that cold morning was timed to begin at 2.15 a.m. and to finish at 3 a.m. I welcomed the warmth of the police station with its blazing coal fire, a blaze that was never allowed to go out between 1 October and 31 May. It burned for twenty-four hours a day, and it was a wonderful tonic during a chill night duty. I settled down with my bait-bag, which contained my snack of sandwiches and an apple, plus a flask of coffee. My only companion was the office duty constable, Joe Westonby. We chatted about the cheerful events of the night; even Joe had had visitors from the nearby houses, people who came in to wish him a Happy New Year in his lonely job.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 6-10 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 58
