by Jan Newton
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Day Three
Julie crossed the road from where Swift had dropped her, back to her parked car. The lady from the shop was outside, watering brightly coloured pots of bedding plants with an old-fashioned metal watering can. She waved as Julie got back into the Fiesta.
Resisting the urge to call in at home, Julie followed the Beulah road as far as its ski-run bends and slopes at Troedrhiwdalar, went left for Garth, and then headed for the steep and winding road which led up onto the Epynt. When she’d arrived, just a few months ago, this place had seemed so remote, so alien she’d thought she would never get used to it. Now it was a place she liked to sit, briefly, and contemplate the stunning view, which took in Llanafan and the foothills of the Cambrian Mountains beyond. It still seemed very strange to think of this lonely landscape as home.
The car rattled over the cattle grid and continued to climb until a sweeping series of bends and a huge red flag, hanging limply against its pole, heralded the summit. Julie glanced at the clock. She had a few minutes to spare. She turned the Fiesta into her usual parking slot, facing out over the expanse of countryside, hills and valleys, tiny white houses dotted here and there and the chapel on the road from Garth to Builth, and reached for her phone. The voice that answered her call was loud and cheery and Julie could picture Helen Mitchell at her desk in their old office.
‘By heck, Julie, I thought you’d forgotten my number. How are you doing in the back of beyond?’
‘Very funny. You could phone me, you know.’
‘I’m fed up of trying. Have they not sorted out your mobile reception yet?’
‘It’s random. I don’t think they’re speeding things up just because I’ve arrived.’
‘Well they should. It’s like trying to phone the outback.’ Helen laughed. ‘What’s happening there, then?’
‘We’ve got another body.’
‘What, another murder?’
‘The boss would like to think so. So far all we know for sure is that it’s just another suspicious death. I’m on my way to see the pathologist now, see if there’s any more information she can give us.’
‘You and your post mortems, you always were an odd bugger.’
‘And I miss you too, DC Mitchell. There’s nothing wrong with a good pm. You can learn a lot, and being there just makes it more… vivid.’
‘God, you can say that again. I can never get that manky smell out of my nostrils. Not without extra strong mints, at any rate. It sticks to your clothes for hours.’
‘You’re still honing that legendary sympathy of yours, then?’
‘There’s nowt you can do for the poor buggers when it’s got to that stage, is there?’
‘You can find out what happened to them.’ Julie sighed. ‘Anyway the PM’s already been done.’
‘Aye, well, I’m happy to let someone else do the close work. So, what about the body. Where did you find this one?’
‘Well, strangely enough, on open moorland.’
‘What’s wrong with them round there? Does nobody meet a sticky end in an urban setting?’
‘Not so far. Anyway, there aren’t many sticky ends at all, judging by the statistics, and urban settings aren’t that common either.’
‘You’ve just been lucky then?’
‘Lucky?’
‘In frequency of post mortem terms. Still, at least it’s not all about cats and stolen bicycles, that would drive you mad.’
Julie laughed. ‘Yeah, you’re right there. So what’s happening in Manchester then?’
Helen let out a breath. ‘Let me think. We’ve got a possible gangland shooting, one missing child, some sort of siege going on at a petrol station in Bredbury and the usual other stuff. Why, are you missing it?’
‘Of course I am. And nipping to the Roebuck after work. And the Arndale.’
‘You’re missing the Roebuck? And the Arndale? Dear God, things must be bad. Do they not have shops in Wales then?’
‘Don’t be daft, of course they do. But it’s miles to proper shops from here.’
‘I’m going to have to come and have a look at where you are, lady. I can’t believe it’s as grim as all that.’
‘It’s not grim, it’s just different. Everything’s so spread out. It takes ages to get things done.’
‘Sorry, Jules, I’ve got to go, Parki’s shaking his car keys at me. I’ll phone you tonight, I promise.’
Julie tapped her phone on her teeth. She could imagine the dash down four flights of stairs to the car park, Frank Parkinson hurling his car into the maelstrom of traffic and weaving through cars, buses and trams far too fast, but somehow getting away with it. She pulled back out onto the narrow strip of tarmac.
*
Kay Greenhalgh was flustered, which was as disconcerting as it was unusual.
‘I was just about to phone you, but I’ve not had a chance. We’ve got bodies coming in from upstairs faster than we can park them,’ she said, as Julie peeped round the office door. ‘God knows what they’re doing up there.’ She grinned. ‘Come in and cheer me up. I’m so annoyed with myself.’
‘Why, what’s up?’
‘Do you ever get the feeling that you’re letting a victim down, that you’ve missed absolutely everything that you could have missed?’
‘Are we talking about Rosa?’
‘We are. Not only do I mistake the poor lass for a bloke, but it’s taken me until now to work out that she was a Type 1 diabetic.’ She gestured for Julie to sit down and pulled two mugs from the shelf. ‘Other autoimmune diseases go hand in hand with coeliac disease. I would never have passed my finals if I’d been so dozy then.’ She turned her laptop so Julie could read the screen. ‘And then there’s this.’
Julie read the words aloud. Degraded compound of coal tar. ‘So what’s that then, that grotty yellow soap?’
Kay shook her head. ‘It’s good old-fashioned creosote. Horrible stuff, totally carcinogenic and banned for domestic use years ago.’ She stared at the screen. ‘I should have known what it was from the smell. I’m annoyed with myself that I could have saved you time if I’d been more with it.’
‘Well, we’re only talking the day before yesterday, and we’ve confirmed who she is, so don’t beat yourself up.’ Julie smiled. ‘You’re worse than me at this perfectionist caper.’
Kay poured boiling water onto instant coffee, swished the liquid in both mugs and handed one to Julie. ‘Do you ever wish it was in your nature to just shrug your shoulders and not worry about every precise little detail of a case?’
‘I do, but I would. Worry, that is. Maybe I should phone you at three in the morning to discuss the finer points of bluebottle and maggot development rather than catching up with social media on the iPad.’
‘And maybe your husband would think that was a bit strange,’ Kay laughed. ‘Does he understand the compulsion?’
Julie frowned, blew on her coffee and considered her reply. ‘I’m not sure to be honest. He’s happy to spend far more time than he should on his school stuff, but he can switch off once he’s done his marking or come up with another fabulous project for the kids. I’m not sure he understands obsession per se. Not unless we’re talking about the history of the downtrodden masses.’
‘Mine didn’t either,’ Kay said, peering into her mug. ‘That’s why he’s the ex Mr Greenhalgh.’
Julie spluttered coffee. ‘You didn’t?’
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Persuade him to take your name?’
‘Of course I did. I needed to keep mine because of continuity with the professional thing, and he insisted it would be too confusing if we had different names.’ Kay shrugged. ‘I did say he could hyphenate it, but he didn’t seem too keen.’
‘Why, what would he have been?’
‘Whittingstall-Brown-Greenhalgh.’ Kay snorted.
Julie laughed. ‘Fair point. So, what do you think about this creosote?’
‘Well, there was none in her lungs, so sh
e hadn’t drowned in it, but her head, and only her head, had definitely come into contact with it at some stage. I sent hair samples off for drug analysis and that’s all they’ve come back with, that and a cocktail of agricultural chemicals. No drugs at all in the very recent past, so she definitely wasn’t high. She could have had a hypo though.’
Julie nodded. ‘There was no insulin in her belongings.’
‘So that’s a definite maybe then. I’ve been going through all the possibilities. She could have fallen when she hit her head and landed in water with an amount of creosote in it, but my particular favourite, and totally off the record, maybe someone put a bag, which contained residue from small amounts of the stuff, over her head. That might account for the differential putrefaction of the skin, given our sweltering summer temperatures, especially if the bag was some sort of heavy-duty plastic. Either way, I’d have said for there to be no evidence of drowning or suffocation, whatever it was is likely to have happened post mortem.’
‘And this is off the record?’
‘Totally. I’ll need to work on it a bit more to be completely sure.’
‘So it could still be accidental death. If she fell, due to a hypo or any other reason, and hit her head, picked up the creosote from where she fell but recovered enough to get out of the water, would that explain it?’
‘It would, but we took samples of the water up there where she was found, and there’s nothing in those samples that would indicate that’s what happened. And then, of course, there was nothing like that in her lungs.’
‘But she could have managed to stagger some distance from where she fell, if she fell?’
‘I would have thought so, but I can’t be definite about that.’
‘And it could be murder?’
‘That is just as likely. The main blow is a hefty head injury in its own right, and I would have expected her to be at least a little unsteady on her feet after that, but her clothes weren’t muddy enough to suggest that she’d been tottering about in the bog up there.’
‘So what are you thinking?’
‘I honestly can’t tell you, Julie. I wish I could, but if it were my job to speculate, I would put my money on someone having covered her head with something that had been in contact with these substances and moving her to where she was found after she was dead.’
‘Swift will be pleased.’ Julie smiled at the excitement this would provoke, but the pathologist’s expression made Julie rapidly re-evaluate her facial expression.
‘Craig Swift is one of the best I’ve ever worked with, to be fair,’ Kay said. ‘He’s just as obsessive as we are, but he seems to be able to manage it far better than I do. He won’t be happy until the case is solved and her relatives have closure.’
Julie nodded. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘At least we can do that for her.’
‘And find her killer,’ Kay said. ‘If there is a killer.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Day Three
Adam was feeding the cat when she got home. As soon as the food hit his bowl, the cat began wolfing it, gulping it down like a feline Labrador.
‘He’s definitely gone feral in the food department,’ Julie put her bag on the table and peered into the oven. ‘Rather like you.’ She wrinkled her nose at the brown concoction on the middle shelf and closed the oven door. ‘What is it?’
‘That,’ said Adam, ‘is cauliflower korma.’
Julie’s shoulders sagged. ‘Really? What is it with ruddy cauliflower? Cauliflower mash, cauliflower pizza bases – it’s just cauli squashed into submission. How can you call curried cauliflower a meal?’
‘I’ve made bread to go with it.’ Adam looked hurt and she was sorry for that, but this new food thing of his just wasn’t normal. Was it?
‘That’s more like it.’ She cut two large chunks from the still-warm granary cob and dolloped butter onto them, waiting as it melted into the bread. ‘That’ll do me,’ she said, wiping butter from her chin. ‘I’ve got to nip out again anyway.’
‘Aw Jules, have they never heard of shift patterns in Wales? You never seem to have stopped since we’ve been here.’
‘It’s only to ask a few questions, and then we can get moving again first thing tomorrow.’
‘How long will you be? Shall I keep your curry warm?’
‘I’m not sure. Best not. I’ll sort myself out when I get back’. She put the butter back in the fridge and watched Adam as he tasted his korma and added some sort of oddly lurid green herb. ‘So have you heard any more from Tiffany?’
‘Well, I’m not sure.’ He dropped his spoon onto the draining board and turned to face her.
‘Not sure? How does that work?’
‘The school secretary handed me an envelope today. It was addressed to me and it was marked strictly private and confidential, so she didn’t open it.’
‘And?’
‘Well that’s just it. When I opened it, there was just a blank sheet of paper inside.’
‘Was there a postmark?’
‘It’s a bit smudged, I can’t make out where it’s from.’ He pulled the padded A5 envelope from his jacket pocket on the back of a chair, unfolded it and handed it to her. What do you think?’
‘I think I’ve an aversion to padded envelopes at the best of times. It could have been much worse than a blank sheet of paper in here you know.’ She smoothed the creases and nodded. ‘Definitely illegible. I’ve not a clue where it’s from. She turned it over and inspected the back. ‘And you’ve not ordered anything online? They could have slipped up in the packing department.’
‘I did order a second hand book about the Drovers’ roads.’ Adam grinned sheepishly, and Julie laughed.
‘You always know what to say, don’t you?’
‘But if it is her, what do we do?’
‘Tiffany you mean?’ Julie shook her head. ‘There’s still nothing we can do, even if it is her. It’s not an offence to send someone a blank sheet of paper, and it’s not exactly as though we’ve a huge amount to go on, is it?’ She sighed. ‘Not unlike the situation with our poor lass in the Elan Valley.’
‘Is that where you’re off to now?’ Julie nodded, and Adam took back the envelope and studied it carefully.
‘Let’s have a look at that again.’ Julie opened the flap and retrieved the single sheet of white A4. She held it at an angle, checking both sides, then straight ahead of her, catching the light from the small window.
‘Anything?’ Adam crouched down to look over her shoulder.
‘Nope. No indentations that I can see, no watermarks.’ She picked up her bag, pecked him on the cheek and collected her car keys. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll probably be a couple of hours.’
Looking back as he closed the door, she could see that her advice would definitely not be heeded.
*
The chicken in black bean sauce in the foil container on the dashboard was gently fogging the windscreen. One thing that working with Helen had taught her was to be prepared for any culinary eventuality. In a plastic box in the boot, she kept a spare plate, cutlery and packets of salt, pepper and a selection of little packets of sauces and mayonnaise from various pubs. The tomato ketchup that she added to the fried rice on her plate was from the Roebuck, the pub where they’d sometimes gone after work in Manchester. Without warning, a tear splashed onto the lurid red plastic and she sniffed. Had it been easier then, when Adam was always working late and she and Helen had eaten greasy chips and congealed beans in the pub after work? But he hadn’t been working late, had he, and deep down she had known it, even then. She had just turned a blind eye and hoped she was wrong. She sniffed again and poured the chicken over the rice and ketchup. She ate it alone, in the empty car park on Dark Lane, watching the dog-walkers and wet-haired swimmers on their way home.
*
Mrs Wilkinson opened the door and looked past her. She seemed displeased, or possibly disconcerted that Julie was on her own, but she was civil, with none of the superiority
they had seen earlier in the day.
‘My husband is in here, Sergeant. We thought you ought to have a word with him on his own first, if you don’t mind.’ She glanced at the ketchup stain on Julie’s blouse and smiled. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Could I have coffee, please? The stronger the better.’ Mrs Wilkinson scurried away and Julie turned to her husband, who thrust out his hand. She was surprised how hard the skin was and, although his hands were clean, she noticed that the creases around his knuckles were ingrained with regular contact with soil. So he didn’t just direct operations then. He motioned for her to sit.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Sergeant,’ he said. Julie raised an eyebrow at the subtle shift in their relative positions with this opening gambit.
‘Not at all. I was hoping to be able to speak to your employees.’ She chose the word carefully and noted that Howard Wilkinson bridled slightly before regaining total composure.
