by Ian Jarvis
‘There are a couple of Bob Dylan albums in the desk.’
‘Oh, whoopee!’
Watson gazed around the room as Morning Mood began to play. Shelves of directories and books lined one magnolia-painted wall and a filing cabinet stood opposite. Only one of the drawers held files, the emptiness echoing the fact that Quist had been working here for just six weeks. He spooned coffee into the mugs. As usual, it was decaffeinated and the milk was soya.
‘This is the job of a detective’s assistant, is it?’ he muttered. ‘Making coffee? What you need is a secretary.’
Quist snapped the file shut. ‘The answerphone suffices. Unfortunately it’s incapable of making drinks.’ He uncrossed his legs and stood up. ‘Perhaps I should send the answerphone to photograph fraudsters too. It couldn’t do much worse.’
Watson sneered at the sarcasm. ‘Will yesterday’s pictures be enough evidence to show the medical board that he lied about his accident?’
‘I suppose they’ll have to be.’
‘Why didn’t you stop off at Garbutt’s on your way to the office?’
‘His house is on your morning bus route.’
‘Ah, right, and you were too busy rushing in to sit on the desk like Buddha?’
‘I came in early to finish the report. They need it before Christmas and the sooner I post it, the sooner we get paid.’
‘Post? Oh yeah.’ The youth pulled the Yorkshire Post along with the card and envelope from his jacket. ‘Here’s this morning’s mail and a newspaper from Patel’s.’
Quist flopped into the leather chair behind the desk. ‘Mmmh, a doctor from York.’ He drew on his cigarette and skimmed over the front page. ‘The police have released details of the birdwatcher who was murdered on Saturday. A biochemist named Lisa Mirren, killed near the village of Lamberley in the Wolds. Looking at this photograph, she was a very attractive young lady.’
‘Yeah, I saw the picture. I noticed in the shop that it’s made headlines in all the national papers.’
‘Good Lord! According to this, her throat was torn out.’
‘That’s right.’ Watson brought over the coffee and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘Nasty, eh?’
‘Quite an understatement. The police are warning that the man they’re seeking is dangerous, presumably in case the public haven’t already guessed.’
‘The tabloids are calling it the Vale of Death.’
‘I’ve no doubt,’ said Quist, sourly. ‘The killer will soon have an enigmatic name too; Yorkshire Butcher, or Wolds Slasher.’ He blew cigarette smoke. ‘I assume Rippers, Doctor Deaths and Black Panthers sell papers, but I shudder to think what the grieving relatives must think.’
‘Aren’t there laws on smoking in the workplace?’ Watson wafted a hand. At least it was a cigarette. Quist also enjoyed cigars, and there was a ludicrous-looking calabash pipe somewhere in the desk. ‘Do you know I inhale twenty percent of that shit?’
‘With today’s prices, you must owe me a fortune. Here, you can open our mail.’ Quist passed him the letter and picked up the Inverness-postmarked card.
‘I bet that’s from your pal Larry in Scotland.’
‘Astounding deduction.’ Quist smiled thinly at the picture of the stag, as though it were a private joke, then turned the card. ‘Mmh, Larry spent the past week in the Cairngorm Mountains.’
‘Winter up there? Lovely!’ Watson opened the envelope. ‘Oh, here we go again, Guv. It’s another reminder asking when you want your double glazing fitted? Isn’t it time you told them you’re not interested?’
‘I’ve already tried that.’ Quist had recently made eye-contact with a salesman from the Brightshield showroom downstairs and mentioned the cold. The man had naturally taken this to mean: Please replace my windows and relieve me of several thousand pounds. He finished reading the postcard. ‘Larry’s calling to see me on his way back from Scotland. That should be sometime today.’
‘Your pal wanted a holiday after his move to Oxford and he chose Scotland in December?’ Watson heard the familiar tinkle of the detective’s ring finger tapping against the coffee mug, something he often did when deep in thought. The ancient signet ring bore the worn initials: RQ. ‘He had a Scottish break in October. Not big on variety, is he?’
‘I’m going to miss Larry.’ Quist sipped his drink and turned to the window as distant wailing grew louder. ‘It’ll be so different without him here in York.’
‘Police sirens,’ said Watson, peering out to see patrol cars hurtling past below. ‘Something’s happening somewhere, Guv.’
‘Yes, deduction comes naturally to you,’ said Quist. ‘We’ll make a consultant detective of you yet.’
Chapter 4
The police cars that sped by Quist’s office had been parked near the Holgate Road railway bridge for three hours when Inspector Katie Bradstreet pulled up behind them. St. Paul’s Church stood on her left and a saturated Constable performed pavement sentry duty by a cordon of blue-and-white tape. Buttoning her coat, Katie glowered at the weather as she clambered out; the sleet had turned into freezing rain which beat a dreary tattoo on her short fair hair.
The Inspector nodded a moody greeting to a young man who appeared from the churchyard, although if anyone had a right to moodiness it was Tariq Aslam. Dark curls lay plastered to the Sergeant’s head, and his green windcheater looked as if it had spent the day in a pond. The label claimed it was windproof, waterproof and made in China. Aslam had found only the latter to be true.
‘So we have another body?’ said Katie. Attractive and slender, she was ten years older than her thirty-year-old Sergeant. She gestured to the plastic evidence pouch he carried containing a red handbag. ‘That doesn’t match your shoes. I’m assuming it belongs to the victim?’
‘Diane Woodall is her name,’ said Aslam. He led his superior through the church gate and helped her negotiate the waist-high fence onto the railway banking. ‘She’s down on the tracks. The Scenes of Crime Officer has finished, so we don’t need forensic suits.’
‘Speaking of forensics, I’ve seen the SOCO report on Lisa Mirren and it isn’t good. Apart from cat hairs on the body, they found no alien DNA whatsoever at the Wolds crime scene...’
‘Nothing?’ Aslam shook his head. ‘Lisa must have struggled with her killer, so how could they tear her throat without leaving trace evidence behind?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Katie pushed through the leafless bushes and descended the slope beneath the bridge. ‘I interviewed Lisa’s colleagues this morning, but they didn’t give me anything useful. She had no enemies and no boyfriends that they’re aware of.’
‘Do we know anything yet about the fiancé that Lisa broke up with?’
‘The Avon police are checking him out. Did you make any progress in Lamberley before the Superintendent pulled you away?’
‘Yes. Ralph Copley owns Black Leys Farm on the outskirts of Lamberley village. He found a Range Rover abandoned in one of his outbuildings. Turns out it was stolen from York on Saturday morning. I have a SOCO working on it.’
‘A promising lead at last. The police divers have finished searching that shallow river and there’s still no sign of Lisa’s binoculars.’
‘So there’s a good chance the killer has them.’
‘Yes, but it’s a little odd, wouldn’t you say? Our victim went photographing birds, someone killed her and took the binoculars, but left a fortune in camera gear. Then again, this isn’t a thief, as such. Muggers don’t prowl the countryside and they wouldn’t kill to steal; certainly not in such a hideous fashion. I’d say we were looking for a lunatic, or someone who went there intending to murder Lisa. I want to speak to those seven motorcyclists again. I know they were in the village pub when the murder took place, but they may have seen something.’ Katie’s expression grew darker as she reached the tracks and saw the white tent
erected over the closest of the four lines. ‘This is Diane Woodall, you say?’
‘Yes.’ Aslam opened the flap of the shelter. ‘Twenty-eight years old.’
‘Good God!’ whispered Katie. Diane lay face-down on the line. Chest-down was more accurate, for her neck terminated in a grisly scarlet mess. ‘I assume a train did this?’
Aslam nodded. ‘The seven-fifteen commuter this morning. These two lines are still closed, but the far two are moving slowly now under caution.’ He left the tent and gestured to a huddle of police further down the track. ‘Her head is over here.’
‘Morning, Ma’am,’ said Katie’s Detective Constable. Turning from the forensic team, the ginger-haired Martin Gregson tugged aside a tarpaulin for the approaching officers. ‘The train bounced it along and it isn’t pretty.’
Katie had to agree. Diane Woodall stared up from the gravel, one eye hanging from its socket and her nose spread across lacerated cheeks.
‘Life is definitely extinct, Katie,’ said an elderly bearded man, pushing through the wet congregation. ‘I think I’ve established the cause of death.’
‘Decapitation?’ sighed Katie.
‘Good Heavens! Have you had medical training?’ Jay Mortimer’s humour had developed over the years to combat the horrors of his pathologist job. ‘Yes, almost certainly decapitation; it usually does the trick.’
‘I take it the blood has been washed away?’ asked Katie.
‘Ah, you’ve noticed the rain.’ Mortimer rustled his saturated anorak. ‘Yes, I’m afraid this weather is perfect for destroying evidence.’
‘We have a statement from the train driver,’ said Aslam. ‘He looked up from his controls and there she was, lying in front of him. There are no signs of struggle or foul play and all the footprints belong to Diane.’
Constable Gregson opened his notebook. ‘Her address on Southmoor Road is just around the corner from Holgate Bridge. This is the closest stretch of line where she could...’
‘Suicide,’ said Katie. ‘So why was our team called to this when we’re on the Lisa Mirren investigation?’
‘This was in her purse.’ Aslam passed her an evidence-bagged payslip.
‘Ebor Pharmaceuticals?’ said the Inspector, raising an eyebrow. ‘Ah!’
‘Diane was a researcher at Lisa Mirren’s lab,’ said the Sergeant. ‘I thought you’d been told. That’s why the Super’ called me away from Lamberley.’
‘I see.’ Katie frowned contemplatively at the bag he carried. ‘I wonder why she brought that? Who takes their handbag when they go to commit suicide?’
Chapter 5
By mid-afternoon the band of dismal weather had left Yorkshire, but gunmetal rainclouds were still unloading themselves three-hundred miles to the south in Devon. Despite the downpour, Rex Grant wore expensive mirrored sunglasses as he sat in his car at Lympstone Commando on the Exe estuary. He gripped the wheel tightly, unconsciously digging nails into the leather as he waited by the gatehouse for the exit barrier to be raised.
Twenty-five-years-old, Rex had always been popular with certain types of beautiful female and this wasn’t entirely due to his wealth. Blue eyes, short black hair and a toned physique placed him in the young Tom Cruise division when it came to looks and sex appeal, but his current expression was suicidal and the sunglasses concealed the redness of weeping. Fighting back a sob, he glanced in the mirror at the Royal Marines Training Centre behind him. Lympstone Commando had been the focus of his dreams for the past ten months, but he now wished he’d never heard of the place.
The first day of the Potential Officer’s Course–the gruelling selection process that has to be completed before the Admiralty will consider a commission–hadn’t gone entirely to plan. Press-ups, pull-ups and sit-ups had filled the morning and, following a bolted meal, Rex had been sprinted back onto the fitness field for the assault course and regurgitation. No, the first day wasn’t at all what he’d imagined, especially the interview he’d just had with the recruitment officer.
A Corporal appeared from the gatehouse and ran an envious eye over Grant’s black F50. Ferraris are normally red, but excessive wealth liberates people from the confines of normality and REX 1G resembled a bulimic Batmobile. Rex had never been conventional, but friends had noticed new eccentricities over recent months. Black clothing had taken over his designer wardrobe, although the outlets he frequented never used the word black. Just as the car paint was Nero Daytona, his leather jackets were Midnight Panther, his jeans Ebony Graphite, shoes and trainers November Sable, and sweaters Evening Charcoal.
The Corporal smirked as he raised the barrier; the new clothes coupled with the Armani shades, gave Rex the bizarre appearance of a Sicilian hitman. Word of his being here had travelled around camp and the soldier recognised him; the Ferrari was a bit of a giveaway. Thanks to his family wealth and the company he kept, Rex enjoyed a certain amount of celebrity status. He was occasionally photographed leaving clubs with other pointless celebrities: ex-girlfriends of footballers, and models who slept with people and sold their stories to tabloids.
‘Sorry to hear they turned you down, mate,’ said the Corporal, trying not to laugh. ‘Still, with that all-in-black look, you can always get a job as a ninja or something.’
Rex groped for a witty reply and came up with a surly ‘Fuck off!’ before accelerating out onto Exmouth Road. ‘This can’t be happening to me,’ he groaned. He’d been trying his brother’s telephone number every few minutes and thumbed the redial on his mobile. ‘I don’t believe this.’
‘Hi, this is Raoul Grant,’ announced the voice mail. ‘I’m sorry I’m not in...’
‘Where the hell is he?’ Rex tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and thought again about his predicament. Those idiots had kicked him off the selection course. He’d been rejected! What were the words that imbecilic Captain used?
From the macho ramblings on your application and the observations of my officers, it appears you’re living some Walter Mitty secret agent fantasy. Far too imaginative and not the sort of material we’re seeking.
‘I can’t believe this.’ Heading north for Exeter, Rex lit a cigarette and gave a bitter laugh. ‘Walter Mitty? What was he talking about?’
This was a nightmare. What was he going to tell all those friends who wished him good luck at his party two days ago? He stifled another rising sob. Even his father would have expected him to last longer than this. After all the arguments over him joining the Marines, he could imagine what the old man would say when he heard the news. Thankfully, his parents were in America until Christmas Eve, but the twenty-fourth was less than a week away. What the hell was he going to do?
He snatched the phone and scrolled the contacts to a Marlborough number.
‘Grant Homes.’ The girl’s polished tone spoke of expensive handbags and older, married boyfriends. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m trying to reach Raoul.’
‘I’m afraid Mister Grant isn’t here at...’
‘If I wanted that, I’d ring his mobile again. It’s switched off. Where is he? This is his brother and it’s important.’
‘Mister Grant has been at the police station in Bath for most of the afternoon.’
‘Police station? What time will he be back?’
‘He’s going straight from there to a Mister Mirren’s house. I understand he recently lost his daughter. It was quite tragic.’
‘Lisa Mirren is dead?’ gasped Rex. ‘Er, right. Look, if you see him, just tell him to call me, okay? Tell him to ring Rex.’
He thumbed off the phone. Good God! His brother’s ex-fiancé was dead? The shock and disbelief lasted for almost five seconds before Rex sank back into his miserable abyss of self-pity.
Chapter 6
Katie Bradstreet had spent most of her morning interviewing Lisa Mirren’s colleagues at Ebor Pharmaceutic
als and hadn’t expected to return so quickly. A modern two-storey building, flanked by similar looking offices and companies, the York laboratory complex stood behind a conifer screen on Jefferson Road on the eastern outskirts of York. The detective Inspector sat at a table, watching the rain stream down the cafeteria windows, as her Sergeant spoke to a middle-aged man in a blue suit and two female doctors sitting opposite. The Minster rose beyond the conifers like some huge ethereal wedding cake. The largest Gothic cathedral in Europe, there were few places in the city where it wasn’t possible to see the spectacular twin western towers soaring two-hundred feet above the rooftops.
‘So basically,’ said Tariq Aslam, ‘you don’t know of any reason why your colleague would take her own life?’
The more striking of the girls ran a hand through her long dark hair and tutted, her manner suggesting she’d answered enough questions. She checked the clock and rolled her eyes; this would make her late.
Will Gillette shook his head. Huge spectacles gave the slender research director the appearance of a startled owl. ‘I’m sure Di would have come to me if anything at work was troubling her. She seemed happy and had no problems at home that I’m aware of.’ He gestured to the doctor who’d tutted. ‘Would you agree, Becca?’
Both girls were in their late twenties and wore white laboratory coats over blouses and jeans. Their identity badges read Amy Clarkson and Becca Travis.
‘I’ve been here a year,’ said Becca. ‘I knew Di better than Amy, but God knows why she’d kill herself.’
‘You were interviewed this morning,’ said Aslam. ‘You told my superior here that you both worked with Lisa Mirren. It now turns out that Diane Woodall was part of your team too.’
‘You don’t suppose there’s a connection between Di’s suicide and Lisa’s murder?’ asked Gillette.
