Technicians lifted the chair, revealing a mostly empty whisky bottle underneath. This was rapidly put into an evidence bag and logged.
‘Any sign of whatever the petrol was in? To bring it in here?’ Looking around, Dan was met by blank faces.
‘Could have been carried out and dumped,’ LeJuan said.
Dan knelt beside the body with Molly while LeJuan stood behind them. ‘Do we know who she is?’ Dan asked. Shiny congealed blood spread under her head and streaked the hearth. More blood had settled beneath the right shoulder where it was twisted forward, partly on the hearth, partly on the highly polished oak floor. Hair, some thick with blood, obscured the face. He looked up at Molly who beckoned an assistant over.
‘Her name?’ Molly said.
The man consulted notes. ‘Driving license in the name of Darla Crowley. Ah—32. Brunette. Blue eyes. 5ft 3ins. This is the address listed. Plenty of mail addressed to her, too, sometimes using the last name, Pullinger.’
‘Say that again.’ Dan eased back to sit on his heels. ‘Crowley was also known as Pullinger, is that what you said?’
‘Yes, sir.’
That was the last name he’d expected to hear. ‘Other personal effects?’ Dan asked. Very carefully, he moved enough hair aside to get a look at her. ‘Poor woman,’ he muttered.
‘When this officer told me about the names, that’s when I wondered … well, we’ll see,’ Bill Lamb said, coming through the door from the landing. ‘They’re taking it slowly. Being very careful. There’s an office of sorts one floor up. Looks like a tip. Someone’s been at it, unless the deceased decided to have a turn out. I’d put my money on whoever did that—’ he inclined his head to the body – ‘having a sort through upstairs.’
‘You saw the name?’ Dan asked.
Bill nodded. He glanced around at the others in the room. ‘I thought we’d get to that later. It’s on some of her mail and on the bills. But not on the driving license. I’ll call in to have someone dig deeper.’
‘I saw the name, too,’ Molly said. ‘Bit of a coincidence – or not a coincidence at all.’ She carried on working.
‘Pretty woman,’ Dan said. ‘Nasty blow to the temple but it didn’t bleed enough to do all this.’ Dan indicated the blood beneath her shoulder. He bent closer. ‘Whisky.’ He searched around. ‘We’ve got the bottle. Lagavulin. Find any used glasses? There’s several on the tray by the sofa.’
‘Scalp wounds are bloody,’ Molly commented. ‘And these are extensive.’
‘Unused,’ a technician announced. ‘No prints. We haven’t seen any other glasses like this, including in the kitchen. Looks like it was drunk from the bottle so we may get saliva at least.’
‘The sooner I get her on the table, the sooner we’ll have some answers for you,’ Molly said.
‘Small woman,’ LeJuan said, almost to himself. ‘Must have been easy to knock her around.’
Dan glanced at him. LeJuan had a short fuse when it came to men rough-handling women. Dan liked him for it but hoped it wouldn’t put his career on the line one day.
‘So, tell me it’s more than the petrol, kerosene, or whatever, that makes you think this is connected with the death at the building development yesterday.’
‘Much more,’ Bill said. ‘That’s a sideshow. There’s much more. I know we need to keep this out of the press for as long as possible if we want an advantage, so I thought it best not to be too specific. I was surprised no one leaked anything to the media last night.’ He met Dan’s eyes and they both raised brows. ‘Someone’s got connections.’
Dan grunted. ‘Anything strike you, Molly?’
‘You first,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Why did I expect you to say that? Caution could be your middle name. Does the victim have more than one injury to the skull?’
‘Yes,’ she answered simply. ‘As soon as you’re done here, we’ll both have a clearer idea what happened.’
‘She could have fallen and hit her head, then tried to get up and fallen again,’ LeJuan said. ‘That could account for two blows.’
‘Bit convoluted, maybe?’ Dan said. ‘But don’t stop thinking.’
Molly was making comments for the recording. She finished and turned back to Dan. ‘I think we can bag this one?’
He nodded and stood back while SOCO snapped out a plastic body bag and unzipped it. With their usual efficient economy, they transferred the remains of Darla Crowley, or Pullinger, inside, closed the bag and lifted it onto a gurney.
Dan looked, not at the departing body, but the floor where it had lain.
‘Remember I told you the scalp bleeds profusely,’ Molly said, patting his shoulder on her way out. ‘Check in with the morgue later and we’ll tell you when we’ll be ready. Not that you aren’t welcome at the party anytime, of course. We’ll save you some cake.’
Shaking his head, he watched her go before studying the angles and blood spatters again, more drips than spatters. ‘Get this, will you,’ he said to the photographer – superfluously since the clicking was already underway.
‘Upstairs, then,’ he said to Bill. ‘You, too, LeJuan.’
‘Boss,’ Bill said, stopping on the landing. ‘I didn’t reach Alex but Tony’s on it and he didn’t seem worried about her.’
For all that he tried not to be with her too much, he couldn’t pretend – not to himself – that Alex Duggins wasn’t important to him. Just because she’d made it clear in the past that there couldn’t be anything between them didn’t mean he’d managed to turn off every vestige of what he felt for her. ‘Did you explain to Tony that there have been new developments in the case and we want to impress on Alex that this is potentially very serious?’
‘Yeah. If she doesn’t show up, he’ll call me. I arranged to meet them later.’ Bill grimaced. ‘I told Tony we could be late but one or both of us would catch up with them. I didn’t mention tracking down the rest of Bob Hill’s family.’
‘Why would you?’
‘Only that it could put it even later before we get to Tony and Alex again,’ Bill said.
Dan nodded. ‘We need Alex to stay away from Hill. Even when she’s trying to mind her own business she mixes things up.’
‘She means well,’ Bill said, surprising Dan.
The flight to the next floor was even narrower than the last one. They went, single file, to a small office where, as Bill had warned, there was chaos.
‘What do you think on the two Pullingers?’ Bill asked. ‘Married? Brother and sister?’
‘Cousins?’ Dan added. ‘Major coincidence? I didn’t see that coming. How come Hill didn’t mention it, I wonder.’
‘He must have known we’d find out,’ Bill said.
‘Yeah,’ Dan said. ‘If he knew, and he’s innocent. But if he’s our killer who knows what stories he’s whisked up?’
‘Bloody mess here,’ Bill said.
There were heaps of scattered papers, books pulled from a wall of shelves and tossed wherever they fell, a filing cabinet spilling contents from sagging open drawers and desk drawer contents visible where drawers had been yanked out and dropped; beneath all this they could see an expensive antique desk and leather swivel chair. A small floral armchair faced the desk and between the detritus a silk Asian rug showed.
‘So, someone mislaid their bus pass,’ LeJuan said, deadpan.
With effort, Bill scraped the door shut over fallen papers. ‘How long do you think we can keep the truth about last night from the public, boss? You can only plead accident for just so long, especially with this second body in the picture.’
Dan had known this was coming. If Bill hadn’t asked, he’d have introduced the topic himself. ‘I didn’t think we’d make it this far without the media overrunning us. But since we have, I hope we can put them off until we talk to Molly later.’
‘As soon as it gets out, we’ll lose our advantage,’ Bill said.
LeJuan shifted restlessly. Waiting to be put in the picture. He knew enough not to ask
what he didn’t know about the previous night.
‘True, but only part of it. The trick then will be vigilance. We’ll expect movement from somewhere and we’d better be watching to see where that is. But I don’t see the connection between last night’s and today’s victims.’
‘You will.’ Bill pulled an evidence bag from an inside pocket and held it up. ‘Whoever did this search was sloppy. Otherwise they would have found this.’
Dan frowned. ‘Is that logged in?’
‘No,’ Bill said. ‘But it will be when it’s eventually found.’
‘Christ,’ Dan said. ‘Just don’t tell me, or anyone, how you intend to reintroduce it.’ He moved closer and peered through the plastic bag at a passport opened to the bearer photograph. ‘Where was this?’
‘Passport dropped down behind the bottom desk drawer, probably when the top drawer was manhandled out.’
‘I don’t know this man,’ Dan said and LeJuan shook his head, no.
‘Just read the name. You know that.’
Dan fished out glasses and peered closer through the distorting bag. ‘Holy hell,’ he said in a harsh whisper. ‘Lance Pullinger. Now we need to find Darla’s passport.’
Getting Molly Lewis out of the morgue to talk about a case wasn’t easy. When she finally came toward Bill and Dan in the deserted Remembrance Garden provided for grieving families, she moved at a trot, her blue puffer coat turning her into a small blimp on tiny ankles and feet. A black wool cap covered her short blond hair.
Bill and Dan stood up. ‘Thanks for coming, Doc,’ Dan said. ‘Take a pew.’
She planted her feet apart. ‘I’ll stand. Why the cover-up?’
An expert at innocent expressions, Bill’s pale blue eyes popped wide.
‘That’s why we wanted a word now,’ Dan said. ‘This is the first opportunity we’ve had to get you on your own. We don’t know how long we can let the press run with their assumptions but we’re making the best of it while we can. We couldn’t tell you in there, but Lance Pullinger’s passport was found in Darla’s house – not her house. We now know it belonged to Pullinger. He bought it eight or nine months ago. But her name was on monthly bills, credit card bills and everything else left there. Sometimes she’s Darla Crowley and sometimes Darla Pullinger. If the men’s clothing in a closet and men’s toiletries aren’t Pullingers we’ve got another puzzle but we’re pretty sure they are. We think Lance and Darla were in a close relationship.’
‘And I couldn’t have been told as soon as you knew?’
‘When would we have done that, Molly? We didn’t know till after you left the Winchcombe cottage.’
She skewered him with her eyes and raised a single fine brow. ‘Let me guess, you both lost your mobiles. You’ll have to do better than that. The more details I have, the better job I can do. It might not make any difference but it could.’
Dan dug in his raincoat pocket for a bag of sherbet lemons – his drug of choice – pried one of the sticky sweets free and put it inside his cheek. He sucked fiercely for a few seconds.
‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘Sometimes it’s kinder not to be blunt but here it is, bluntly. A lot gets said during a post-mortem and it isn’t all strictly professional. Doesn’t matter a damn to me except we’re scrambling to keep what we now know quiet, and hoping someone will say what they shouldn’t know. There, that’s it. The whole story.’
Molly sat and he dropped down beside her. ‘You don’t want anyone to know the truth about—’
‘That’s right,’ he said quickly. ‘And if I’d had a chance to explain in person I’d have asked you to keep schtum until it was common knowledge anyway. A word in the wrong place and we’ll have a different ball game. We’ll deal with that when it comes. When the first body was found, it was dark and the firemen who dealt with it had the sense to ask us what we wanted said. Were your people surprised by the condition of the body? Did they say anything?’
‘No. They don’t tend to get surprised – at anything. Apart from generalities there was no discussion ahead of time.’
‘So, what do you feel like sharing with us?’ Dan asked.
‘Nothing.’ She smiled and her face became the impish one Dan liked so much. ‘But, since it’s you two. Darla was body number one, not body number two.’
Dan and Bill stared at one another. ‘And neither of them was a suicide?’ Dan asked.
‘Absolutely not. A lot of rage went into both killings. I avoid saying this, but I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. Similarities in both cases, but if Lance Pullinger hadn’t been drunk out of his mind – which he was, soused to the gills – he might have fought it off.’
‘Appropriate description,’ Bill said mildly.
Another smile pulled at Molly’s mouth. ‘Very funny. Didn’t I hear you were fond of a nice mackerel?’
Bill grimaced and shrugged inside his trench coat. ‘I may never touch another one.’
‘As I was saying,’ Molly continued. ‘Pullinger was fit, a strong, muscular man. If he had been in possession of his faculties, the outcome might have been different. I think he was incapable of doing more than thrashing around. Now, are you going to tell me the reason why he’s not burned to a cinder and why there are multiple bone fractures and he’s got cuts all over his face – and inside his mouth? And throat?’
That bought her blank stares. Frowning, Bill said, ‘We don’t have the complete report from Arson, but they think a petrol bomb exploded and he was blown through the back window – that big, wide affair – with minimum fire contact.’
‘Fits,’ Molly said.
‘Makes sense the blast and subsequent impact could cause the broken bones. Glass from the window is the obvious reason for the cuts.’
‘More or less,’ Molly agreed. ‘But we’ve got work to do on the oropharynx. The base of the tongue and the vallecula – that’s the space between the base of the tongue and the epiglottis. About at the level of the hyoid bone. Lacerations are random and … why don’t I show you what I mean? I left them working on the areas in question and it’ll take some time. You can get an up-close look.’
‘I think we’ve got the general picture,’ Dan said. ‘You’ll spell it all out in your report. If and when we need more detailed explanation – probably in court – I’m sure you’ll be there to make everything crystal clear.’
This time she didn’t smile. ‘I don’t think Darla’s death was planned. It has all the marks – and again, we’re not finished with the finer points – of looking like another wild reaction to the unexpected. The only thing that didn’t fit that scenario was the petrol. You’d expect that to have been planned and brought in. But you’ll want to see if that was already easily at hand and an afterthought. Could be the perpetrator had a fleeting thought to burn the place down with the body in it, then changed his mind. The second time around, he went prepared.’
Dan would kill for a pint and a pork pie. There hadn’t been time for lunch and from the way things looked, they wouldn’t get dinner either. He squeezed his features together and rubbed his face. ‘How long between the two deaths?’
Molly pulled off her wool hat, scraped her fingers through her blond hair, and jammed the hat on again – all the way down to her eyebrows. ‘I don’t have a bloody crystal ball. How many times have you asked me questions like that and how many times have I said I need more time?’
‘Just a guess please, Molly?’ Dan wheedled.
She thought about it, propped her chin on a fist and thought some more. ‘Not really so long, I’d say. But don’t quote me,’ she added rapidly. ‘I think he didn’t intend to kill her, went mad about something and did it, then didn’t know the hell what to do. But Lance knew something that could be a threat to giving everything away so within hours the killer found and killed him, too. The killer isn’t professional, or practiced even. All just a theory, of course. And the question would remain, will he run? Has he already run?’
Dan avoided acknowledging Bill’s knowing l
ittle grin. But he knew his partner was thinking how much people like Molly liked to lay out their interpretation of a crime pattern, then step back to admire it and wait to be proved right.
Sometimes they were.
He didn’t think Molly was this time and dread turned him cold. He wished whoever did these things would make a run for it – fast – and that they’d catch him before he fixated on the next victim, the next one he feared could give him away.
NINE
This was usually Alex’s favorite time of the business day; after the early evening rush but while the Black Dog was still busy, filled with happy customers and decidedly mellow. The prospect of Bill Lamb arriving with questions designed to unnerve her spoiled the mood. The detective inevitably made her edgy and awkward.
Things at the Dog were good. She no longer worried whether the business was making enough money and she’d come to feel warm about the regulars, the folks who came in most nights to relax and share their good and bad times.
This evening, each time someone came in, she checked to see if it was Tony. He’d had to deal with an emergency at the clinic but she hoped he’d get back before Lamb arrived.
‘Thoughtful, hmm?’ Juste Vidal said in her ear. She stood behind the counter, watching the activity and Juste, her frequent help over several years, stood beside her, tray in hand. ‘A good night, I think.’
‘Good, yes. I have nothing to complain about.’ Other than the heap of unpleasant questions that had piled in during the past couple of days.
Juste was French, from a town on the Loire, just hours south of Paris. He was in his final year as a divinity student in Chichester. He’d become a fixture at the Dog and much loved by many.
Alex had started to feel grim about the day when they’d have to do without him.
‘I read the papers,’ he said, and pushed his round, wire-framed glasses up his nose. ‘It is too bad you happened upon one of these horrible deaths again. I believe it must happen because you have something to offer – for the good, Alex. You’ll argue with me, but I see you are troubled.’
Whisper the Dead Page 6
