by J M Gregson
He had already slid out the drawer in the steel cabinet of death to allow him to extract the relevant corpse and move it into the room they used for identifications. At least this way the corpse gained a little individuality, instead of being one of many immersed in the anonymity of death. Now he asked the older man at his side if he was ready, received a nod of assent, and drew back the sheet cautiously from the young head.
They had sewn up the skull skilfully after the cuts of the post-mortem; with the hair combed forward over the white brow, the necessary indignities visited upon the head of the corpse were not very visible. He was careful to keep the sheet tight under the chin. There was no need for a stricken father to see the black marks of strangulation around the throat, let alone the huge incision from the chest to the pubis of the slender body to allow the removal of the vital organs for investigation by the pathologist.
He heard the sharp snatching of breath from the man beside him, watched him nodding vigorously, unable to trust himself with words. Then he drew the sheet swiftly back over the head as Brendan Murphy led the father away.
Frank Dunne signed the certificate of identification with a hand he had to force into the formation of the familiar letters. He stood still until his wife, face wet with tears, came to clutch his arm. Then they went out again to the police car and began the worst week of their lives.
Father Devoy found Tuesday nights the worst of all.
There were no confessions to hear in the booths of the high, gloomy Victorian church, built as a proud statement of freedom in the decades following the Catholic Emancipation Acts of 1851. It was the junior night at the youth club, and he had stopped going there since the revelations about paedophilia among Catholic priests had set tongues wagging in the early years of the new century.
That was ironic. He had never been tempted by children of either sex. And he told himself that he was better than those priests who committed adultery, destroying families and bringing contumely upon the Church.
There were other people before him who had ventured out among the women of the night. There was Gladstone, for one: a man who had commanded a great following in Brunton in those far-off days. But Gladstone had been taking soup to the prostitutes, bringing them home and offering them spiritual comfort. The Lord Jesus Christ above, who saw everything in pitiless detail, would know that John Devoy wasn’t offering either of those.
He was gratifying his own beastly instincts, those thrusting sexual urges he had promised to abandon when he became a priest.
But within his despair and self-loathing, a small voice put another argument. Were they really as helpless as they had been in Gladstone’s day, these women who offered their bodies for hire upon the street? They didn’t have to do it: there was a welfare state now, which would not let them starve, even the worst of them. They were putting temptation in people’s way. Oh, he knew he was weak, was much worse than weak, but these women were contributing to his sins, to the sins which pierced the side of his Lord as surely as the Roman soldier’s lance when he was upon the Cross.
They were irretrievable, these women, these creatures of the night. They deserved to suffer, even to die, if they persisted in the ways of Satan. It was even good that someone made that happen: it might prevent other weak women from following the same evil path.
Somewhere in the maelstrom of the priest’s whirling emotions, the word Charity belatedly presented itself. With a capital letter: the greatest of the Christian virtues. He stood up unsteadily and walked over to the heavy oak-framed mirror on the wall of his room. The face he saw there was trembling so much that it took a few seconds for it to become clear. It was a grey face, with wild blue eyes set deep within it: it did not seem to belong to the man who ministered so ably to his flock during the day.
Sometimes John Devoy thought he was going mad.
Eight
The post-mortem report was on Peach’s desk by nine o’clock on Wednesday morning, not much more than thirty-six hours after the body of Sarah Dunne had been discovered.
When it was put together with the results of the house-to-house enquiries which were being collated on the police computers, they were able to make a surprisingly accurate assessment of the time of death. The body found in the shed on Monday evening had been dead for at least two and a half days and not more than four. The stomach contents revealed a meal of fish and chips consumed some three to five hours before death: the fish was cooked in batter, which indicated that the food had almost certainly been purchased in a local fish and chip shop.
The latest sighting of Sarah Dunne so far established was at four thirty on that Friday evening, when she had purchased milk and bread at a small shop near to her rented accommodation. However, a girl answering her description was remembered by the proprietor of the Jolly Fryer fish and chip shop. This girl had bought fish and chips over the counter at around six o’clock on Friday evening.
Putting this together with the evidence of the stomach contents, it looked as if Sarah Dunne had died between nine and eleven on the evening of Friday, the fourteenth of November. But whom had she been with during the evening, after her purchase of her fish and chip meal at six o’clock?
The girl had been killed with her own scarf, tightened fiercely round her neck, almost certainly by someone standing behind her and twisting the ends of it. No great physical strength was necessarily involved: by twisting the scarf around a stick, a woman or even a child could have killed Sarah Dunne. Peach’s lips twisted sardonically as he read this; it was forensic’s duty to set out the facts, but no one had a woman in the frame for this one, and still less a child.
Sarah Dunne had had sexual intercourse not long before her death. There were female sexual fluids on the inner side of her upper thighs and on her underclothing. A stocking had soaked up a semen spillage. There was no evidence that she had not been a willing party to sexual congress, no bruising around the genital area, no cuts or abrasions elsewhere on the body. There was no skin or other matter beneath the girl’s nails which would give a clue to her attacker.
Peach said to Lucy Blake when she had read the PM report, ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean that she was a willing party to the sexual exchange, of course. Some rape victims are so terrified that they offer no resistance in the hope of escaping further violence.’
‘But we know from the girl I interviewed, Karen Jones, that Sarah was trying her hand at prostitution. This could be a customer who went wrong, perhaps a man who simply didn’t want to pay.’
Peach shook his head. ‘Unlikely. She still had twenty-five quid in the pocket of her anorak when those kids found her. Even if he didn’t pay her, someone like that would probably have rifled her pockets.’
‘Unless he didn’t really mean to kill her. Perhaps he panicked when she died and just wanted to get out quickly.’
‘I don’t think so. For one thing, the evidence indicates a quite deliberate and cold-blooded killing with that scarf. For another, he didn’t kill her in the shed but saw her off somewhere else and dumped her there. So he didn’t panic and run away as soon as he found himself with a corpse on his hands. We can’t even be certain yet that the person who had sex with her was also her murderer: it’s probable, but not by any means certain.’
‘So who are we looking for?’
‘Too early to say. We need to answer two questions. First, was this premeditated or was it a killing improvised on the spur of the moment? Secondly, was the murderer a stranger to Sarah Dunne, or someone known personally to her before last Friday night?’
David Strachan might have been interested in DCI Peach’s thoughts on the death of Sarah Dunne. But for the moment he had other things on his mind.
Strachan was a computer salesman. Every industry needs computers nowadays, and because many people made handsome profits in the early days of the trade, the public thinks selling such electronic wizardry is an easy path to affluence. David Strachan could have swiftly removed such delusions.
Selling computers and
their associated software was as difficult as selling anything else; perhaps more difficult, indeed, as the competition among makers and distributors was now so intense. In the last years of the twentieth century, profit margins had been comfortable and there had been enough business for all, as firms realized they could not do without the newest technology and sales exploded. In the first decade of the twenty-first century, life had become much more difficult.
The people responsible for replacement machines were much better informed than the people who had bluffed their way through in the old days. David had often sold then to people who had no idea what questions they should ask. Now senior executives met him armed with a sheet of questions about what they needed and what his machines could do for them. And they had probably put the same questions to someone else earlier in the week.
On the afternoon of Wednesday, the nineteenth of November, David Strachan was going through what he regarded as the ultimate nightmare of the sales representative. He was having to behave as if he was nonchalant whilst trying to clinch an order which was crucially important to him.
He was forty-six now: old for a rep on the road. He had hoped to be a sales director by this stage of his career, planning policy in a comfortable office, setting targets for different areas, sending out his salesmen to achieve them. Instead of that, he was still a rep himself.
And he was having to sell nowadays to men much younger than he was, who sometimes felt themselves better briefed about what he had to sell than he was himself. The man on the other side of the low table, where the coffee dregs had long gone cold in the cups, was such a man. Each time David made a point about what his system could do, the man smiled patronizingly, as if he had heard all this before and recognized it for the advertising copy it was.
When David now pointed out how swiftly and efficiently the wages for this large printing concern could be handled, the man said, ‘Oh, of course – I would expect no less than that,’ and nodded his squat, complacent face beneath the neatly coiffured brown hair. ‘What kind of discount do you offer on an order of this size, which must be worth quite a lot to a small company like yours?’
David wanted to wipe the smug smile off that face which was ten years younger than his, to tell him that the margins had already been cut to the bone, that he wouldn’t do better anywhere else. It was probably true, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain of that, and this cocksure young puppy knew it. David gave him his ‘we’re men of the world together’ smile to acknowledge how clever he was and massage his ego. ‘You’ve already shown me how well-informed you are, Jason. So you must realize that we’ve already offered you a very good price.’
The man lifted a hand to that immaculate hair, as if to reassure himself that it was still in place. He was pleased with the compliment he had just been offered, despite himself. Flattery was still an Achilles heel for young go-getters like him. He steepled the fingers of his hands and leaned back contemplatively in his chair, as he had seen a director of the firm do in an interview with him on the previous day. ‘I have a duty to get the very best price for my company, you know,’ he said with a smile of complicity.
It was good to hear him say that. David knew that you were near to clinching a deal when they said things like that. He took a deep breath and made the sacrifice for the deal he must take away with him, taking two per cent off his already slender commission of five per cent. He forced a wide smile. ‘I’m confident you won’t do better than that anywhere, Jason. You drive a hard bargain, but you know enough about this business to be aware that I’m speaking the truth.’
The younger man pursed his lips for the ritual three seconds, nodded as if he were digesting Strachan’s statement and finding it convincing, and said, ‘All right, it’s a deal. I should probably be looking at other offers. But we’re very busy and I prefer to rely on our relationship, David.’
He stood up and offered his hand with a wide, practised smile. David Strachan shook the hand firmly, struggling not to show the measure of his relief, hoping the wetness of his palm would not be apparent. He tried to look as if he secured orders of this size every day of the week
But both of them knew that he wouldn’t still be on the road if he did.
‘Have you rounded up the local perverts?’ Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker was nothing if not conventional.
‘Doubt if it’s one of them, sir. Not their style,’ said Peach glumly.
‘And what is their style?’ said Tucker with heavy scepticism.
‘Flashing and groping. Not killing,’ said Peach.
‘You mark my words,’ said his chief. ‘Men who start off by flashing go on to rape and murder.’
As a generalization, it wasn’t true. Peach remained silent, looking at the ceiling and nodding steadily.
‘Well? What are you doing?’
Peach returned to a contemplation of his chief. ‘I was marking your words, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘What are your thoughts, then, if you haven’t yet made an arrest?’ Tucker leaned forward over his desk, doing his impression of a keen-eyed man whom nothing escaped.
‘Don’t like it, sir. It’s no ordinary murder, this. By which I mean that it doesn’t have an obvious motive. I don’t like those.’
‘Surely this was someone in pursuit of sex or money? You’re too subtle sometimes, you know, Peach.’ Tucker had never thought he’d hear himself saying that to this man. He immediately wished he hadn’t.
Percy beamed delightedly at him. ‘Always been one of my faults, that, sir. That’s what the lads and lasses at the crime face downstairs tell me. “You’re much too subtle,” they tell me. “You should learn to go for the vulgar and the obvious, if you want to reach the top in the CID.” I think they may be right, sir. It’s good to have it confirmed by you.’
Tucker glared at him, but the DCI’s attention was on the wall behind his chief’s head, his face fixed in that relaxed but inscrutable expression which he reserved for Tommy Bloody Tucker. The Superintendent said heavily, ‘So have you any thoughts at all, then?’
‘Don’t think it’s a local sex offender with previous convictions, sir. They’re too lightweight, our local sex men. I’ve had the computers looking for similar crimes elsewhere. That’s to say, killings without any obvious motive and using a similar modus operandi.’ He produced the full Latin phrase instead of the usual police initials: it was always good to surprise Tommy B.T.
‘And what has this profound research revealed to you?’ Tucker tried to be heavily sarcastic, but sarcasm was always difficult when it produced no reaction in the victim.
‘Three killings in the last year which look similar to this one. Prostitutes killed with a piece of rope or something similar, taken from behind and killed within seconds. Not conclusive. I’m getting further details from the investigating officers involved and keeping an open mind.’
Tucker sighed. He had thought of this as a sordid, straightforward crime and hoped for a swift arrest and a trumpeting on his part of a rediscovered efficiency. ‘Any other thoughts?’
‘Just one, sir. This one could be related to those other killings in a different way. It could be a local after all, wanting us to think this was done by someone who’s killed previously in other parts of the country.’
‘A copycat killing?’
‘Precisely, sir. I knew you’d have the phrase for it.’
David Strachan enjoyed his modest meal at the Happy Eater, lingering over his mixed grill, reading the paper his nervousness had prevented him from studying earlier in the day.
He’d got the contract: that was the main thing. He was pretty sure that his Sales Director back in Birmingham hadn’t thought he could get it. And if he hadn’t, he’d have been out on his ear. No one had said so, but when you’d been in this game as long as he had, you could read the signs. He was safe for a year now, in all probability. Well, six months, at least.
He’d had to cut his commission precious hard to clinch the sale, but it was well worth it. And
he’d make it up on other jobs, now that the pressure was off him. You couldn’t sell well when you weren’t relaxed: those pricks at head office should realize that. But you couldn’t tell those people anything. Experience counted for nothing, these days.
He didn’t want to move out of the bright warmth of the eating place into the cold and damp of the night outside. He treated himself to a custard tart, went and ordered a second coffee when he thought he caught the girl behind the counter looking at him impatiently. She had good breasts, tight behind her uniform, the way he liked them, and a cheeky smile that said she knew what he was thinking when he looked at them and almost touched them as he reached out for his change.
It was good to feel randy. He’d had too many anxious days lately to enjoy the pleasure of a little harmless lechery with his meals. Perhaps he should celebrate what he had done today. It would cost him, because he always seemed to have to pay for it these days; that old idea of the commercial traveller who put it about a bit was long out of date, as far as he could see.
But what he’d achieved against the odds in that printing company merited a reward. Some woman was going to be lucky tonight! David Strachan felt a stirring within his loins which deserved to be sated properly. He went into the gents and washed his hands and face. He slicked back the thinning hair and gave his teeth a quick scrub with the brush he kept always in the pocket of his car coat. No harm in offering a woman a little hygiene, even if you were paying her for her favours.
He’d been coming to Brunton for years, so he knew where to look for what he wanted. He drove his car slowly along the street below the park. But not too slowly: there was no point in risking being picked up for kerb-crawling. A girl had died near here less than a week ago, so the police would be vigilant.
