‘So I won’t weep anymore, because you are now in a better place than you were before,’ said the vicar with much heartfelt regret and resignation at his parishioner’s awful fate.
At the rear of the congregation Taylor stood looking up at the stained-glass window designed, according to the card next to her on a small lectern, by William Morris. According to legend, said a mounted plaque above, the original foundations for the church were laid in a flat, easily accessible site but every morning were found transferred to the hill where the church exists today. Eventually the builders gave up building it in the planned location and built it on the hill.
The congregation stood in sombre fashion at the graveside. The sun was hot, there wasn’t a breath of air, birds sang and the atmosphere was tranquil. There was no traffic noise and it seemed to Taylor that the whole of mankind had stopped for that moment, as she stood on the periphery of the mourners, looking in.
It was her duty at the funeral to see what she could glean from people who attended. Already she had noticed that Donald Harvey didn’t appear distressed, just agitated. He kept looking around as though searching for someone in the crowd. Interestingly, there had been no bitterness nor words of anger from him towards the party that had done this to his mother, only towards the man who he believed had taken her money. She needed to speak to him regarding her conversation with Brian Stevenson and she would when she could get him alone.
However, no sooner had Grace been lowered into the ground than she watched Donald Harvey sprint across the graveyard towards a solitary figure standing beneath a large oak tree. To the amazement of the mourners, within seconds he had knocked him to the ground and was raining blows on him.
Taylor hitched up her tight skirt and ran best she could across the grass in her stilettos, until her heel caught in the earth and she toppled face first to the ground. Picking herself up as fast and graciously as she could, she discarded her footwear and continued in bare feet.
‘Pack it in! Have you no respect?’ she yelled at the top of her voice.
The man lying flat on his back had blood covering his face and running profusely from his nose, along his cheek and down the side of his neck by the time she reached Donald Harvey’s side. To her astonishment, it was Brian Stevenson who attempted to raise his head from the ground and wipe his face with the back of his hand. He coughed and spat blood on the ground. Taylor knelt at his side.
‘Are you okay?’ she said.
Donald Harvey panted heavily. ‘It’s you who should be six foot under, you robbing bastard,’ he yelled.
‘Last warning, Mr Harvey, otherwise I’ll arrest you for assault,’ Taylor warned.
‘You’re a dead man, Stevenson. You’re a fucking dead man,’ Donald Harvey called over his shoulder as he turned and walked away. Taylor offered her hand to help Mr Stevenson to his feet.
‘I’m fine, fine … I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just wanted to show my respects,’ he said. ‘I’ve known Grace a long time. I thought a lot about her even if her inheriting son doesn’t think so,’ he said, as he attempted to tidy himself up. He took a clean, neatly pressed handkerchief from his trouser pocket and sneezed before he could open it. Blood sprayed across Taylor and she jumped back with a squeal. She looked down at her new Jacques Vert jacket with horror.
‘Sorry,’ he said, wiping his face.
‘Do you want to make a complaint?’ she asked with more composure than she felt. ‘If you do, I’ll go and arrest him.’
‘No, I appreciate his emotions will be running high, which has to be understood,’ he said. ‘And, let’s face it, he’s got to blame somebody, so it might as well be me. I’ll live,’ he said gallantly.
Taylor attempted to blot the blood off her jacket with a tissue, only to find her fingers covered. ‘The lack of closure is frustrating for some,’ she said, impressed by his compassion.
‘Please, let me pay for the cleaning,’ Brian Stevenson said, reaching out to try to wipe her jacket.
Taylor jumped back. ‘We’ll see,’ she snapped. ‘If you’re all right, I’ll go after Mr Harvey and let him know just how lucky he is that he isn’t heading back to the police station with me in a pair of handcuffs.’
Taylor walked precariously on the grass around the gravestones to Grace Harvey’s burial spot, where Donald Harvey stood morosely looking in. She picked up her shoes along the way, only to find one of the heels hanging by a thread. As she passed a bin she tossed them in. Glancing back to the old oak tree, she saw that Brian Stevenson had disappeared. Donald Harvey looked across at her as she approached him. When she didn’t speak he turned and walked away. She followed.
‘Are you going to tell me what the hell that was all about?’ she demanded.
Donald’s pace quickened down the hill towards the car park but he remained silent. She ran barefoot to keep up with his long, purposeful strides.
‘You’re very fortunate, you know, that Mr Stevenson doesn’t want to press charges,’ she said, hobbling behind him down the hill path. ‘Shit,’ she said under her breath as she trod on a sharp stone. Donald Harvey turned and saw her trying to balance on one leg as she as she rubbed her bleeding foot.
‘Why’re you shouting at me? It should be him you’re reading the riot act to,’ he said, stepping forward and offering his hand to help her gain her balance. She took it gratefully and stared at his suited chest before looking up into his distraught face.
‘This isn’t over,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s just lucky you were about this time.’
Taylor looked into his deep-set, hooded brown eyes and held his gaze for a moment or two. Unblinking, he turned and walked off to his car. She stood still and ran her fingers through her hair in exasperation, forgetting they were coated with dried blood. ‘What a bloody mess’, she whispered.
‘I don’t understand,’ she shouted after him. ‘He says he only did what your mum wanted him to do so she could fund your lifestyle.’
He stopped in his tracks and turned. ‘What?’ he asked, walking back towards her. ‘What did you say? I didn’t need her money,’ he yelled, through gritted teeth. Taylor pulled herself up to stand as tall as she could.
‘He says she took the equity out of her home for you.’
‘Where’s the money then? I certainly haven’t seen it,’ he said. ‘And that pariah hasn’t seen the last of me either,’ he growled.
‘Look, I’m the detective, not you. I’ll get to the bottom of this. You stay away from him. Do you hear?’ she called after Donald Harvey as he got into his car.
He slammed the car door shut. He drove towards her and, pulling alongside her, he opened his window.
‘I’ll need you to sign some authorities so that I can check into your mum’s bank accounts,’ she said.
You know where I am,’ he replied. ‘And tell Mr Stevenson, if you see him, he’d better keep looking over his shoulder because one day I’ll catch up with him.’
As she saw Donald Harvey’s car vanish through the village she could feel goosebumps rise on her arms and she shivered. Who was she to believe? She stepped from the shade of the trees that lined the path to the church and into the warmth of the sun. She looked at her watch, she needed to head for the mortuary to see what secrets Mildred Sykes’ post-mortem would reveal about her death. First though she had to buy some ‘practical’ shoes, as Dylan would have said, on her way and drop her jacket off at the cleaners – her skirt and top would just have to do for the mortuary.
Chapter Eleven
‘What a day,’ said Taylor as she ran across the car park to the mortuary. The tarmac seemed newly laid and, in the midday heat, she could feel the heels of her new shoes sinking in. She had dragged her brush through her hair briefly, glanced at herself in her hand mirror and run a covering of gloss around her lips.
There was no time to fret further about her appearance she thought, pushing the door wide open; she’d have to do. She zipped up her bag, put it under her arm, tossed her hair over her shoulder and s
moothed her skirt down with sweaty palms, as she stopped for a moment at the top of the steps.
Taylor took a deep breath before she entered the mortuary’s office. This was the moment she had been dreading since she had seen the body of Mildred Sykes lying on the floor of her insect-ridden bedroom. Watching some pathologist butcher a body was not her idea of fun, never mind a decomposed one. However, like Dylan said, it was a necessary process she had to witness for the good of the investigation. She just hoped the pathologist wasn’t Professor Bernard Stow, who thought he was a comedian. She opened the door and walked in. Professor Stow stood in the adjoining room. Her heart sank and she groaned.
‘Good timing, Taylor. Do you want coffee or tea?’ asked Dylan who stood at the vending machine, waiting for his cup to be filled.
‘Tea, strong and sweet, please, preferably with a shot of brandy,’ she replied, sitting down with a thud on the only seat available in the mortuary attendant’s office, which just happened to be the most uncomfortable old wooden ladder-backed chair with a flat piece of red material posing as a cushion.
‘You remember Jasmine from SOCO who was at the scene, don’t you?’ Dylan said, ignoring her manner. Taylor nodded at the petite, pretty, dark-haired, composed-looking young woman, who smiled at her from across the room as she tucked into a large bacon bap.
‘I think you and I will stay in the police observation area for this one, so we don’t have to suffer the smell,’ said Dylan.
‘Thank you,’ Taylor said, smiling briefly before looking heavenward with a sharp intake of breath. There was a God after all.
‘Lucky you,’ Jasmine drawled as she wiped her greasy hands on a napkin, put the remainder of her sandwich on a plate and picked up her camera to check its settings.
‘Well, at least the pathologist will be a laugh, Jasmine. It’s Professor Stow,’ said Dylan.
Taylor closed her eyes briefly. ‘Oh, joy…’ she mumbled. Dylan passed her a cup of tea and she reached out for it. ‘Thanks.’
‘You took my advice,’ he said, nodding at her sensible black pumps that had the smallest pointed heel. She smiled sarcastically. ‘That’s a nasty mark,’ he said, pointing to her blouse. ‘You been in a scrap?’
‘Blood from this morning,’ she said, standing up to show him the full extent of the damage to her clothing before she went on to explain the eventful morning she’d had.
‘So, who do you think is telling the truth?’ Dylan asked.
Taylor shrugged her shoulders and tentatively took a sip of her drink. Looking down into her polystyrene cup, she noticed the blood and dirt that still clung to her fingernails. She grimaced and walked over to the sink to scrub her hands.
‘Decisions, Taylor, the job’s all about the consequences of the decisions you make,’ Dylan said, beaming. ‘And when you’re a boss, remember they’re always the right ones, cos there ain’t no one above you to tell you you’re wrong. Any luck in locating the hit-and-run vehicle yet?’
‘No, and believe it or not, either one of the men could be involved yet too.’
Dylan raised his eyebrows.
‘Both Donald Harvey and Brian Stevenson have recent damage to their cars by their own admission. I need the accident investigation branch to let me know that they are a hundred and ten per cent positive of the make of the car that we’re looking for before I take it further.’
The door swung open dramatically and in walked Professor Stow.
‘Good afternoon, everyone. Cheer up,’ Professor Stow trumpeted with a theatrical wave of his chubby hand in front of their solemn faces. ‘Anyone would think someone has … Oops, they have,’ he roared. ‘Back in five minutes,’ he said. His big fat red cheeks wobbled as he laughed. ‘The old ones are always the best,’ he chuckled as he took his coveralls from the peg. ‘Got to smile once in a while,’ he continued, struggling to tie the green disposable plastic apron around his cumbersome frame.
‘Well, Dylan, what have you got for me today?’ he asked. ‘Hello there, Jasmine. Taylor, isn’t it?’ he said, not waiting for either to answer before enthusiastically pulling plastic gloves out of a Kleenex-style box and shaking off the excess talcum powder. He commenced to blow them up like a balloon.
‘Yes,’ said Taylor, bemused. She cringed as he slowly let the air out of the glove, making a farting sound. He chuckled, shook each glove and fought to get them on to his huge hands. This accomplished, he rubbed his hands together and grinned, showing off crooked, yellow teeth.
‘Thought so, never forget a good body,’ he chortled, eyeing her up and down. Her face was a picture. Dylan and Jasmine smiled knowingly at each other.
‘Only joking,’ he said, looking seriously over his half-rimmed glasses at her. ‘So, what have we got?’ he said, turning to Dylan. Professor Stow’s face mask hung round his neck, waiting to be strung behind his ears as he entered the mortuary. He stood with hands on his hips as Dylan outlined in detail the discovery of Mildred Sykes’ badly decomposed body.
‘A bit of a rotter then?’ quipped Professor Stow as he launched at the mortuary door elbows first to keep his gloves sterile. Jasmine managed to carry her equipment into the room behind him before the doors swung shut.
Dylan knew from experience that Professor Stow’s post- mortems were quick and thorough. Insensitivity and bad jokes aside, he knew they wouldn’t have to suffer him for long. Taylor was grateful to Dylan for allowing them to use the observation room. It was about time one of the bosses was concerned about people who had to attend mortuaries for post-mortems.
‘A mint, Taylor?’ said Dylan, offering her one.
‘Tea and now mints. Thank you, sir,’ said Taylor, as she dragged a battered old grey plastic chair from a pile in the corner of the room and positioned it as far away from the mortuary observation window as possible.
‘What does a seventy-five-year-old woman have between her breasts that a twenty-five-year-old doesn’t?’ Professor Stow asked Jasmine. Jasmine shook her head. ‘Her navel,’ he laughed.
Although in a nauseous state and with her heart leaping every so often into her mouth, Taylor found she couldn’t take her eyes off the examination, gruesome as it was. At first, she dared only look through her fingers as she had done as a child at horror movies but eventually the need to know what information the post-mortem could give them overrode her disgust. Before long, she felt brave enough to stand behind Dylan and peer past him as he stood at the window, to see what was happening in the next room.
‘She’s got maggots big enough for my fishing box in here,’ Professor Stow said, picking one up with a pair of tweezers and holding it up for all to see before dropping it unceremoniously in a plastic bowl on the trolley next to him. He continued to relay his thoughts and findings into his dictaphone as he examined Mildred’s body.
‘Okay,’ he said at last, with a big sigh. I reckon good old Mildred here’s been dead for some…’ he pondered, ‘six weeks or thereabouts. There’s some bruising to both her wrists, possibly as a result of being held, and she has suffered a serious skull fracture, which I’ll confirm shortly. Can opener please,’ he said, holding out his gloved right hand to his assistant. The top of the skull, referred to as the ‘cap’, was removed.
‘Yes, there is no doubt about it, it’s a severe fracture to the skull,’ he said, looking up at Dylan over the mask. ‘I know it’s not what you wanted to hear and it’s not consistent with falling either – much too severe. She was struck with a blunt instrument and with some force,’ he said. ‘Poor old dear,’ he sighed. ‘But it would have been instant death, if that’s any consolation.’
All the necessary samples were taken, along with photographs, and two hours later it was all over, much to Taylor’s relief.
Professor Stow had nothing more to tell them in his debrief.
‘Your first murder as a DS and a deputy SIO,’ said Dylan to Taylor who walked down the steps with him.
‘Yes, boss,’ she said with a smile.
‘All you need to do now is f
ind who did it,’ he grinned. Her heart sunk. Where did she start?she thought, as she looked at Dylan expectantly.
‘Let’s get forensic to Mildred’s house, the incident room up and running and do a press release,’ Dylan said as if reading her mind as they walked towards the door. He stopped as the sun found his face and he took a large gulp of clean air into his lungs.
‘Isn’t it good to be alive, Taylor?’ he said.
Taylor stood for a moment smiling. Everything he’d said, except ‘press’, had faded to oblivion. There was going to be a press conference, which she was going to be part of.
Chapter Twelve
Pam couldn’t wait for the weekend to come. What should she wear? Nothing in her wardrobe seemed to look grown-up enough, she thought, as she looked despairingly at the pile of discarded clothing on her bed and the empty wardrobe. Why did no one but Danny realise she was a young woman not a child?
Meanwhile, Danny and Billy were planning their next move. Danny suggested he’d keep Pam occupied, ask about her family and gather information about their movements, while Billy searched her bag and pockets for house keys.
The two were observing the solitary white house in its own grounds belonging to the man with the Porsche.
‘It doesn’t look like there’s an alarm,’ said Billy.
‘No, and we can drive around the back of the house out of sight, by the looks of it,’ Danny said. He peered in his rear-view mirror, then spun the car around and drove through the open gates. Quickly they gained access via the rear patio doors by forcing them off the rails.
‘Nice pad,’ said Billy, as he strolled around the lounge.
‘Look for cash and jewellery and then we’ll think about the electrical stuff,’ Danny called while he took the stairs two at a time. He peered over the banisters from the gallery landing. ‘Don’t forget before you touch anything to put ya socks on yer hands so you don’t leave prints.’
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