Murderer in Shadow

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  Constable Hillary Ware forced a smile. For five minutes she had not been able to force a question in edgewise. She grabbed Peg’s wrist, startling the bar maid, forcing her to stop in mid-word.

  “Did you see Mabel today?” Ware asked. “That’s what I want to know. Anybody who’s listened two seconds to her knows how cruel life has been to her. What I want to know is if you saw her.”

  “Oh sure, I saw her.” She continued cleaning as Ware let go of her wrist. “Strange, though, her coming in like that with all that bad blood between her and her cousin, though she sometimes does.”

  “When was that?”

  “When?” She shrugged. “Couple hours, maybe less. Really was not paying attention. Busy, you know.”

  “What did she do here?”

  “Do?” Peg again shrugged. “Poked here, poked there, caged a few drinks from people she knew. You know Mabel.”

  “I thought she didn’t come around the pub.”

  “She don’t, not when Peter’s here,” Peg said. “He really don’t like her in the pub at all, not after all the trouble she’s caused, all the things she’s said, some not even behind his back. They been at it years, you know. Probably shouldn’t let her hang around, but I feel sorry for her. Sad life, hers. Unlucky stars, you know.”

  “How long was she here?”

  “Not long. Maybe a half-hour, not more.”

  “And she was out here the whole time?”

  Peg looked around the nearly empty pub. “Think so. No, wait. I looked up and saw her come out the back. It was right after the post come and I took back some letters. I remember thinking, ‘Oi, what’s Mabel doing in Peter’s office?’ He’d be right peeved if he was to know about that, believe you me.” Peg sucked in a breath.

  “What is it?”

  “Maybe Peter did know, come to think of it,” Peg said. “When Peter come in, I thought of telling him about Mabel, but I didn’t. I feel sorry for the old thing. But then he come running out his office and kept on going. He was carrying an envelope, so it must have been something what was in the post.”

  “Sealed?” Ware asked. “Was the envelope sealed or open?”

  Peg shrugged, then said: “Oh, wait! No, it weren’t sealed. Torn open. it was. I could see the ragged edges.”

  “Listen, Peg, this is important. Was Mabel carrying anything?”

  “I was really busy, and it was just a glance.”

  “Did you see anything in her hand? Think.”

  Peg grimaced under the exertion of thinking and remembering, both only occasional activities for her. She slumped to the overly polished bar, as exhausted as if she had run a marathon.

  “Maybe a white sheet of paper,” Ware suggested.

  Peg raised from the bar. “That’s right. White paper. I remember thinking, ‘Oi, what’s Mabel got in her hand?’, but then Carney Thorne wanted a whiskey, and you know how he gets if he don’t…”

  “Did you notice anything about the paper?”

  “Well, it was hanging funny.”

  Ware frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t hanging straight, but was angled, like it was folded.” Her face darkened. “Oh! Could it have been from that envelope Peter had? No wonder he was all put out and…”

  But Hillary Ware was gone, heading out the door.

  “Well, some people.” Peg poured a wee brandy under the bar, then gulped it when no one was looking. “Give a girl a uniform and a title, and don’t she get all jumped up?” She returned to polishing the bar, then stopped and looked toward the door. “Still, she does look very smart in that uniform, don’t she? Very smart indeed.”

  * * *

  Peter Vogt froze when he heard his name. He let go the handle, but the door of his Ford Zodiac Mark IV saloon remained cracked open. He had, as he always did, left his car in the farthest corner of the rear car park, astride two spaces so no one could park next to him. Feeling an icy ball in his gut, he turned.

  “Hillary! How is our new resident constable?” he said. “Not letting those two strapper detectives push you around, I hope.”

  “I need to talk to you, Mr Vogt.”

  “That sounds very official.”

  “I need to talk to you about Mabel.”

  “I don’t think I can say more than I did when I first learned what happened to her.” He took the door handle again. “A terrible thing and very sad, but we live in a terrible and sad world, which is why we try to transform the world through magic.”

  “My father always told me magic was all about power.”

  Vogt smiled. “Your father was a fine man, rest his spirit, but he wasn’t the ambitious sort. He observed, but never partook.”

  “I have a few questions for you.”

  “Ask them.”

  “At the constabulary.” She did not like the car park’s loneliness, that it was overlooked by so few windows, that a copse abutted it.

  “Can it wait?” He displayed an ingratiating grin worthy of a publican of classic cinema. “It’s a little inconvenient. I’m on my way to Stafford to pick up a few things.”

  “I’ll try not to detain you long.”

  “Aren’t you taking this a little too seriously?” he suggested. “Albert Dorry was more respectful of his betters.”

  “He overlooked a lot he should have seen. This way, please.”

  “Ask your questions or get out of my way.”

  The man before her was twice her mass. All traces of amiability, ever his hallmark, vanished.

  “You didn’t mention Mabel had been by the pub.”

  “Was she?”

  “She left with a paper from your office, one that had come in the post.” Ware tried to hand Vogt the photocopy, but he did not take it, merely stared at it dumbly. “What was this for?”

  Ware’s mobile chimed, a call from Ravyn. As she turned from Vogt to answer it, he slapped it from her grasp, then smashed it to bits under his foot. Ware pulled her baton, but he chopped her wrist. The defensive weapon clanged away.

  “You don’t get a chance to do to me what you did to Lebbie.”

  He smacked her hard, sending her flying. Air whooshed out her lungs when she hit the ground. She saw him looming gigantically, a massive boot jetting toward her face.

  Then she heard a solid thunk sound, and he was gone.

  Ware tried to rise, then realized someone was helping her. She saw a round face and thick spectacles, the forensics technician from the constabulary. She realized the girl was speaking.

  “…so I thought, why not take Mr Powell-Mavins’ suggestion, because pubs can be very respectable places, then I saw you and was going to ask you about…”

  “Where is he?” Ware demanded.

  Bates pointed into the copse. “I hit him with my evidence kit, but not hard enough it seems.”

  “Well enough,” Ware said. “You saved my life.”

  “Me?” Bates said. “Saved your life?”

  Chapter 15

  When the Magic Fails

  “I’m fine, really,” Ware protested. “A little bruised, a little scraped, and very humiliated, but otherwise okay. If not for that forensics technician (Bates, is it?) I might have ended up in a shallow grave down among the trees and shrubs there.”

  “I’m afraid Angus will be quite insufferable,” Ravyn said. “Not only does he have minions, he has heroic minions.”

  “He’ll probably ask the Chief Constable to pin a George Cross on her,” Stark said as he approached.

  “For her sake, let’s hope not.”

  “I put out a description of that Zodiac of his,” Stark said. “If he passes through any town or village, he’ll be spotted right away.”

  “You think so?” Ravyn asked.

  “It’s an eye-catching car, he’s in a panic,” Stark said. “Probably driving faster than a bat out of hell. It’s only a matter of time before he’s stopped or wraps that car around a tree. After all, it’s not like he can make himself invisible.” He looked to Ware. “He
can’t do that, can he? Make himself invisible?”

  “Perhaps you can spare Constable Ware your humour for a bit,” Ravyn suggested. “Considering the circumstances, she might not appreciate it as much as do I.”

  Stark sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Aside from looking for the car?”

  “The usual notifications,” Stark said. “Rail termini and stations between. Buses. Surrounding counties. Air and seaports. If he’s smart, he’ll lose the car, but it’s not going to help him if he does.”

  Ravyn’s mobile chimed. He looked at the screen, grimaced, then answered: “Yes, Superintendent Heln.”

  Stark turned away, headed for the Broken Lance. He knew if he stayed his stomach would churn with acid and disgust. He had to, he knew, get his feelings under control. Ravyn was correct. Heln was not going away, and Stark was determined not to either.

  The constable at the entrance wrote Stark’s name on the access log and opened the door. The pub was vacant except for Peg Wolfe who stood behind the bar, elbows on the polished wood. By her were a half-full snifter and a half-empty bottle of Lamberhurst brandy. She should have been put out with the others, but it proved easier to let her be.

  “If you’re looking for your mates,” she said, jerking a thumb in the general direction of east, “they’re in poor Peter’s office.” She emptied the glass and filled it again. “Poor. poor Peter.”

  “Don’t you want to go home, luv?” Stark suggested.

  She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “Poor, stupid Peter. I don’t believe a word of it.”

  He left her to join the SOCO team.

  “Quite an active little village you have here, lad.”

  Stark scowled at Powell-Mavins. “Not my village, thank you.”

  “Not more than a thousand souls, and it gives us three corpses and four crime scenes, all in one day.” His face split in a wide grin. “And one of my people saves Constable Ware’s life.”

  “Vogt did get away.” Stark tried to keep a peevish note out of his voice, but did not try hard. “She should have hit him harder.”

  “You can’t have everything, lad.”

  “Come up with anything?”

  “Aye.”

  He gave Stark him a laminated sheet. Paper fragments had been pressed against its adhesive surface, restoring wholeness to the page, except for a torn corner. A second sheet had been pressed to the first, sealing it.

  “I’ll bet a monkey the fragment taken from the Link woman’s hand matches that lacuna.”

  “The what?”

  “A lacuna is…”

  “Never mind.” Stark read the printout. It was from Amos’s Car Hire in Denby Marsh, invoicing Peter Vogt for body damage on a returned green Renault. “That explains a lot.”

  Powell-Mavins shook his head. “Smart enough not to use his own car, but then stupid enough to hire it from the next village over, return it damaged, and let them invoice him rather than pay cash.”

  “Mabel must have found it, put one and one together, and knew she finally had Vogt by the shorts,” Stark said.

  “She knew about the attack?”

  “Everybody knew; it’s that kind of village.”

  “Might have lived longer had she tried blackmail.”

  “Blackmail isn’t revenge. From what Ravyn told me, that’s all she wanted.” Stark looked around. “Bring him down, maybe put him in prison, all this might become hers, as she felt it should be.”

  “Poor old thing.” The SOCO chief shook his head. “Think she had an inkling of the whole story?”

  “Doubt it.” He paused. “Maybe, just before the end.”

  Ravyn entered, and Stark gave him the reconstructed printout.

  “The man was a fool, just tearing it up and throwing it in the bin,” Powell-Mavins said. “Even my ten-year-old nephew knows better from watching Midsomer Murders and CSI.”

  Ravyn sighed and handed the paper to Powell-Mavins. He was generally dismayed by what appeared on television and more so that parents would allow someone so young access. Whenever he would wonder if he missed anything by not owning a television, someone inevitably made a comment validating his choice.

  “How was Mr Heln?” Stark asked.

  “In a mixed frame of mind,” Ravyn replied. “On one hand, his public assertions now seem prophetic and his stock has risen. On the other, our stock is on the rise as well. Probably higher.”

  Stark made no effort to suppress a smirk.

  “I also received a call from ACC Ramsey,” Ravyn said. “The Chief Constable is quite pleased that a thirty-year-old blot has been seemingly erased from our books.”

  “All is well with the world.”

  “As long as we take Vogt into custody and present CPS with the evidence certain to convict him,” Ravyn said.

  Stark reddened. “Well, yes, there is that.”

  “Arthur, I want to put Bates in for the George Cross.”

  “Me?” cried a voice from under a desk. “The George Cross?”

  “Back to work, Bates.”

  “Yes, Mr Powell-Mavins.”

  “I thought you might help me write it up,” the SOCO chief continued. “After all, when you got…”

  Ravyn’s mobile chimed again.

  “We’ll talk about it later, Angus.” He hoped to do the girl a favour by talking Powell-Mavins out of such a course of action. He returned to his mobile. “Yes, Dr Penworthy?”

  “We’re almost to Stafford and I’m…just a second.” A moment later, Penworthy said: “Andy wants to know how Stark’s ankle is. He never got to wrap it, you know.”

  Ravyn fought a natural response and said: “Fine, I’m sure he’s going to give it a good soak once he gets home.”

  “Sorry, Arthur, but you know how Andy… Keep you eyes on the road! Anyway, Arthur, I’m performing all three post mortems this evening, starting at six.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, I know how important this is.”

  “And it does give you a ‘three-fer’,” Ravyn noted.

  “If you can be present…”

  “I’ll let Sergeant Stark know.”

  “Yes.” At the other end of the connection, Penworthy nodded and let out a small, inaudible sigh. In all the years she had known him he had attended a post mortem only once. So much for the supper she had hoped for afterwards. “I’ll see him then.”

  “Post mortem?” Stark asked when Ravyn put away his mobile.

  “All three,” Ravyn said. “Starting at six.”

  “Aeronwy will not be happy about that.” Then he sighed. “Not happy about much these days, so maybe it won’t be so bad.”

  “Go home,” Ravyn said. “Have Aeronwy wrap your ankle.”

  “Almost no pain now. Just a little swollen.”

  “She can’t mother you and be mad at the same time.”

  “Yes, sir.” He started to leave. “What are you going to do, sir?”

  “Learn the ways of magic.”

  * * *

  “That’s the last, Sergeant, and I can’t say that any of the bodies held surprises as to cause of death.” Penworthy stripped off her gloves, degowned and washed her hands as the assistant cleaned up after her. “However, there were some other surprises.”

  “What about Winsell?” Stark asked.

  She frowned. “Why ask about the most mundane of all?”

  “Well, it’s just that… I mean, with that circle… I wondered if there was… Well, you know…”

  Penworthy gave a little snort of exasperation. “Don’t hem and haw, Sergeant. If you want to know if he was killed by magic, ask.”

  “Was he killed by magic?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what killed him?”

  “He had a massive coronary.”

  “A heart attack?”

  Penworthy nodded. “A combination of stress and shock.”

  “But, surely, Vogt…”

  “There is not a single bruise or scrape on his body,” she said. “
Had be been found in bed instead in a magic circle, I would certify natural causes without hesitation.”

  “But he was found in a magic circle.”

  “Still natural causes,” she said. “I did not find anything during the post mortem to contradict that finding. I can’t deny that Vogt’s attack on the other man might have had some affect, but, remember, he has been living with a debilitating phobia for years. That kind of stress, day in and day out, can be deadly.”

  Stark nodded.

  “Disappointed?” she asked.

  “No, not at all,” he replied. “I expected as much.”

  “Did you really?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Magic isn’t real. Only the gullible and the foolish believe in magic. I do not believe.”

  She crossed her arms and stared mildly at him, wondering if he were trying to convince her or himself.

  “Mabel Link died exactly as I stated at the time, asphyxiation from the direct application of pressure on her throat.”

  “With the reconstructed printout from his office and the scrap from Mabel’s hand, should be easy to connect him to it.”

  “A bit more than that, Sergeant.”

  “Oh?”

  “I exposed the deceased’s throat to a cyanoacrylate mist…”

  “A cyano-what?”

  “Super glue in vaporous form.”

  He nodded.

  “I was able to detect and preserve several fingerprints from the bruises,” she continued. “I sent them to forensics for processing.”

  Stark beamed. “We’ll have him bang dead to rights.”

  “Now, it’s the last man that I find so interesting.”

  “I would have thought his cause of death obvious.”

  “And so it was, beaten and stabbed, loss of blood, but that’s not what I found interesting,” she said. “I compared the stab marks to those recorded in the post mortems in the original Stryker case. The profile of the weapon is identical.”

  “I thought the knife used was common.”

  “It is, but knives come with points.”

  Stark looked puzzled.

  “The victim was stabbed in the left ulna, a defensive wound most probably,” Penworthy explained. “Normally, that would leave a triangular indentation from the point entering the bone. Instead, I found a long, flat depression. I’ve sent the measurements to Angus, but I am certain he’ll verify they match the dimensions of the knife-tip recovered from the spine of Dale Stryker.”