Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  “I wanted to apprise Mr. Graham, sar. I noticed there was a fingerprint on the shoe that was not the young lady’s. I was just wonderin’ …”

  Trewe pursed his lips. “The police national computer should have that information by now. They’ll know if there’s a match in the system or not. They haven’t called.”

  “Yes, sar.”

  Trewe crumbled the rest of the biscuit into his coffee. “It’s all so blasted frustrating.”

  Jon broke in, “I saw the collections list from the beach on that morning. The thought crossed my mind, why not create a DNA profile from the spittle scraped off the seawall? Why else scrape the spittle in the first place?”

  Trewe looked surprised. He took his time answering. “We collect everything. If it isn’t needed for the present investigation, it is stored in case something else comes up.” Trewe held up the package of biscuits for inspection. “Someone’s licked the chocolate off some of these.” He gave Perstow a look and threw the package into the bin. “Unfortunately we have nothing on the girl’s body to compare it to. Chance is nothing to waste time on.”

  “She may not be the only one he’s murdered,” Jon said. He held his breath to see what would happen.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been reading about the other girls found in this area. Had some files faxed—”

  “Absolutely not!” Trewe was a regular volcano, Jon thought, seething at something new every few minutes. “Those have nothing to do with this case.”

  Jon sucked in patience. This volatile individual was definitely someone to handle with kid gloves.

  A knock sounded at the station door. Trewe opened it. A blond man dressed as a walking advertisement for the latest trends and fashion entered the station.

  Trewe nodded toward Jon. “Mr. Sam Ketterman, this is Detective Inspector Jon Graham. I’m glad to see you’ve come. Apologies for my not being able to attend the last appointment. Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to come back.”

  Sam nodded. “Apologies accepted.”

  “Let’s go into an interview room for privacy.”

  Mr. Ketterman backed up slightly. “You’re going to interview me?”

  “This is a murder investigation, after all. Aren’t you here to help us?”

  “Do you mean ‘assist the police with their inquiries’?” Long fingers made invisible quotation marks in the air.

  “Procedure,” Trewe said and nodded in Jon’s direction. “DI Graham will be observing. Sergeant Perstow, if you’ll remain out here in case we need you?”

  “Yes, sar,” Perstow said.

  Trewe went into the interview room which was basically another jail cell that had had the long wooden bench removed. Jon stepped aside and gestured for Mr. Ketterman to enter. Save for the lone, high-set window opposite the door, there was nothing but a rectangular table and four chairs arranged like naked women in a cubist painting. On the table, a dual cassette machine with open bays waited for new tapes to be inserted.

  Jon waited for Mr. Ketterman to sit before taking his own chair. The room didn’t invite one to relax. Trewe put tapes into the recorder and switched it on. “This interview is being recorded. I am Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe with the Devon-Cornwall CID. Also present is Detective Inspector Jon Graham. This interview is being conducted in an interview room at Perrin’s Point Police Station. What is your full name?”

  “Samuel Walter Ketterman.”

  “The date is five, May. And the time is half past four in the evening. Mr. Ketterman, at the end of this interview I will give you a notice explaining what will happen to the tapes. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  “Why in God’s name are you cautioning me?”

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are entitled to free and independent legal advice, which includes the right to speak privately to a solicitor in person or on the telephone. This interview can be delayed for you to obtain such legal advice. Do you want to have a solicitor present at this interview or speak to one on the telephone?”

  “Completely asinine.”

  “Do you wish to contact a solicitor?”

  “I am a solicitor.”

  “You have continued to waive your right to legal advice. Would you like to tell me why you don’t want legal advice? You are not obliged to give any reasons.”

  Sam spoke through clenched teeth, “I can represent myself here.”

  “You are not under arrest,” Trewe said, “and are free to leave at any time. Do you understand?”

  “Did you need to practice your technique and found no other volunteers?” Sam folded his arms. “I’ve come because you asked me.”

  “Do you understand?”

  Sam Ketterman looked down and muttered, “Someone from St. Lawrence’s needs to come with white jackets.”

  “Do you understand?” Trewe persisted.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “Have you got anything to add at this time?”

  “Yes. I’ll add that you’ve flipped off your bleedin’ rocker.” Sam sat back, his lips twisted into a sardonic smirk.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” Jon asked. Someone needed to keep on his good side.

  “A diet cola.”

  Jon went to the door. Perstow was still in. He said he’d get a diet cola for Mr. Ketterman.

  “Mr. Ketterman,” Trewe continued, “you’re here voluntarily, and we’re grateful you’ve taken time to come. Questioning you apart from Mrs. Butler frees you to express yourself in—perhaps—a less restrictive manner.”

  “I’m certain that’s why you put the recorder on isn’t it? And I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wouldn’t hide a thing from Ruth. She can know anything she wants to know about me.” Sam Ketterman uncrossed his arms and brushed his fingers casually through his thick blond hair. “I’ve nothing to hide from you gents.”

  “Of course, Mr. Ketterman, I didn’t mean to imply you had.” Trewe’s deep voice had turned silky. He smiled.

  “The idea you would consider me a suspect!” Ketterman folded his arms tightly across his chest, leaning back in the chair. “Me, with a good job and a fine roof over my head.”

  “Who ever told you you were a suspect? You’re here to help us. In retrospect, is there anything about Annie’s disappearance you recall now and haven’t told us?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Ketterman,” Trewe’s words came sharp as knives, “what is your relationship to Mrs. Butler?”

  “As if that’s any of your business!” Sam snorted. His eyes were wide, wary as they darted between Jon and Trewe.

  Trewe leaned toward him, still smiling, his voice silky again. “Of course, it isn’t. Would you answer the question?”

  Sam’s arms went limp. “I hoped to ask her to marry me.”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “I haven’t found a good opportunity.” Sam grabbed the edge of the table. “But what has this to do with Annie?”

  “Where were you on the morning of the twenty-eighth? It was a Sunday.”

  “Asleep. And unfortunately, I was alone.”

  “How did you feel about Annie?”

  “She was a lovely child, I suppose.”

  “Suppose? You suppose? You don’t know, Mr. Ketterman?”

  The sweat stood out on Sam’s brow.

  “Was she sweet, Mr. Ketterman?”

  “Of course. She was a good girl.”

  “A really good girl?” Trewe said, “Or did she just bat those pretty lashes at just about everyone?”

  Sam went pale. “What are you implying?”

  “Did she get on your nerves, Mr. Ketterman?”

  “No more than any other kid.”

  “Oh!” Trewe pressed, still smiling. “Kids get on your nerves, do they?”


  “Of course not! You’ve only got to be patient. I haven’t thought about my feelings towards Annie. Not to put into words.”

  Trewe’s face darkened. He leaned to within inches of Sam’s face and lowered his voice to a growl. “You haven’t thought about it? You want to ask a woman to marry you, but you haven’t thought about how you feel about her child? I wonder about you, sir.” He leaned back, keeping his icy gaze centered on Sam.

  Sam let go of the table. He glared at a corner of the room.

  “Did you think she was a problem, Mr. Ketterman? A problem that would go away if you didn’t think about it?”

  “You’re reading more into this than there is.”

  “Do you wish to add anything?” Trewe asked.

  Sam rose from the table shakily. “I do have a solicitor, as a matter of fact. And you’ll be hearing from him. You’d better watch it. I can make something of this, you just wait and see.”

  “I’m sure I will, Mr. Ketterman,” Trewe said. “Do you wish to clarify anything you’ve said?”

  “No.”

  “This,” Trewe waved a sheet of paper, “is the notice I told you about at the start of the interview.”

  “Yeah! Yeah! Good-bye!” Sam stalked out.

  “Thank you for coming.” Trewe called after him. “Interview terminated at sixteen forty-two.” He switched off the recorder.

  The diet cola had arrived and sat dripping condensation in a neat ring onto the interview table.

  Jon sat back. “I’m certainly glad I’m not a suspect.”

  Trewe gave a brief shake of his head. “He deserved it. I have questions about his purpose in the entire scheme of things. He’s a bad penny. Let him stew. He’s all talk, no action—a man of thirty-five and never married. A bloody old maid is what he is.”

  Jon squirmed in his seat. “Well—and I was going to ask how you really felt about him.”

  “We all have our prejudices about something.” From his pocket, Trewe produced a folded piece of paper. “Don’t be so quick to rule yourself off my suspect list, Mr. Graham. I think you know who gave Mrs. Butler this photo. Am I right?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I have questions about it, such as where and when and how?”

  The phone jangled.

  Trewe stood abruptly and walked toward the front. “Perstow! Answer that. I’m not here.”

  The slam of the front door left Jon wondering how in the world Trewe had gone on this long without splitting in two.

  21

  THE COUNTY COMBINED COURTHOUSE

  Saturday afternoon

  Jon had to report on the discovery of the body, hence his inclusion in the inquiry into the death of Annie Butler. Though this building adjoined the old post office, the post office was the newer part. This part of the building had originally housed a castle’s garrison and had withstood several centuries to become a combined courthouse that held the magistrate’s courts and the postoffice.

  In the open foyer was a souvenir shop the postmistress had cleverly opened as part of the postal cubicle. Today, a “closed” sign across the darkened window reflected the general atmosphere.

  The inquest would likely be well attended. He glanced around at the white walls, dark floors, and threadbare carpet strip that ran up the center aisle to the coroner’s podium which stood like an exclamation point.

  The coroner sat behind the podium like a sleepy bullfrog. His round, puffy eyes barely cracked open, and his broad mouth stretched across the lower half of his face in a thick-lipped frown. At the side of the room, behind a squat partition set in place to disallow a peek up skirts, the jury was seated.

  Jon picked out the people he knew by name. His sergeant had left excellent notes, with photos. Mrs. McFarland, the hostess of the Hasten Inn B&B, sat next to Mr. Little, the potter. According to his notes the bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked older woman was a regular whirlwind of movement. Today, she sat very still, her pale face staring straight ahead, while the very large Mr. Little, notorious for being taciturn, appeared to be entangled in animated conversation with the barman from the Spider’s Web, Harold Sonders. Harold held a hand across his mouth and his shoulders jerked in mirth at something Mr. Little said to him.

  He continued his scan of faces. Tavy gave him a nod from the back of the room. He wondered if the dog lay by his feet, because he could not imagine the man without the dog. His gaze continued all the way around to the man seated next to him, a lanky, middle-aged man with white and green paint splotches on the shirtsleeve of his training suit. Jon had no idea who he was. A squat, typically thick-set Cornish man of indeterminate age sat in front of him, a tear in the shoulder of his knit cardigan and the words “Trevellen Paint Works” in faded script across the back. His dark, wavy hair stood on end at the back of his head as if he’d just removed a cap.

  In contrast, he recognized county magistrate Mr. Quentin Malone, neatly trimmed in a gray, worsted suit. He sat in the front row, next to his perfectly coifed blond wife. The magistrate’s head turned and Jon saw he had glasses perched low on the bridge of a distinctly sloped nose, an odd hook at the end like the beak of a gull.

  Jon’s attention was drawn to an acrid odor. He leaned forward to look. A girl a few seats away from him had begun to varnish her nails. Cheeky. Across the aisle sat a row of young girls possibly Annie Butler’s age, possibly school chums. Two of them were crying and holding hands. He wondered at parents who would allow their children to attend such a gruesome thing as an inquest. A funeral yes, but this?

  The coroner opened with the warning, “This is not the investigation of a crime but of a death, in order that the manner of the death of Annie Grace Butler be decided.” The coroner’s wheezy, falsetto voice squeaked. He didn’t pronounce his r so he wasn’t from the West Country.

  Jon shifted in his seat.

  Massed at the back of the courtroom, other spectators were silent. Jon glanced around. Titillation rippled at the expected horror of the day’s proceedings. The day before, he had overheard the postmistress state this was the most sensational happening since old Mr. Poindextor drove his BMW over the cliff in a botched suicide attempt in 1993. The old man had lived; the BMW had died.

  Full of helpful information, the postmistress knew a lot about people in the village. It was the perfect job for a spot of blackmail on the side. Given her demeanor, he wouldn’t put it past her. It was surprising she hadn’t been a victim of murder.

  The inquest was in progress. Trewe was speaking. The man was an enigma. After their first encounter, Jon had decided the cold bastard could steal the crown jewels without a second thought. But since then, he’d seen flashes of humility and perhaps even humanity—quite a puzzle.

  Trewe explained the police investigation, cutting to the chase, which was definitely his style. He mentioned that he himself had been at the beach briefly that morning and had seen nothing. He said it was a regular habit of his to stop before traveling on to the Treborwick station. If only to stay in the loop of information, Jon listened, all the while wondering how to get around Trewe’s obtuse lack of sharing.

  A commotion arose from the back of the courtroom. A troop of parents marched to the row of young ladies and motioned for them to leave. One man leaned forward and whispered loud enough to be heard down the row, "This is not the place for you." There were squeaks of protest and tears shed. But in the end the parents won out, and the girls filed out behind their red-faced parents.

  It was a good thing. The soft-spoken doctor, pathologist Roger Penberthy began to describe the condition of the body. Jon had seen the same report. He could hardly bear it.

  “… crabs. There is no identifiable face. Cause of death … is undetermined.” His description was incongruous coming from a man who looked like Father Christmas, with his silver hair, rosy cheeks, and white brush of a mustache.

  Jon wondered how cause of death could not be identifiable with all the forensic experts there were in the world. He glanced around hoping Mrs. Butler didn’t have t
o listen to this.

  “Cuts and small incisions covered what flesh was left. There were needle marks. Chemical analysis of the flesh showed signs of long-term narcotic use. The toes of one foot on the body were printed as there was not enough flesh left on the fingers for fingerprints. The front teeth were missing and the molars had never had any dental work; consequently, dental records are moot. The body had been drained of blood, which is a possible cause of death. A tissue sample was taken for DNA. What blood there was type-matched Mrs. Butler’s. Clothing, size, and hair color matched Annie Butler’s.”

  The part about long-term narcotic use doesn’t fit, Jon thought. The torso, though intact, offered little more information except that she had never had sexual intercourse. Jon knew from talking to the officers assigned to the case they took solace in the fact that the monster who killed Annie hadn’t made things worse. He knew most of the investigating officers couldn’t help but think of their own loved ones. That night those in this room would go home and make a special effort to give their families extra attention.

  Impotent anger had him picking his nails until they bled. He sat up straight with a quick intake of breath and rubbed his burning eyes. He thought about the comparisons he’d been making between the old case files he’d requested from London and the missing persons notice he’d found on the Internet. There were discrepancies, but there were also similarities. It was truly bizarre.

  The noise in the room turned predictable and the building was warm. He hadn’t been sleeping much and desperately needed it. He fought weariness by focusing on things around the room. On the ceiling there were fourteen light bulbs in each of four chandeliers. Eight light bulbs were out and two were flickering. Woodwork around the windows and doors gave an air of elegant respectability to an otherwise unremarkable room. He concentrated on the words from the various officials at the front of the room.