‘That scratch.’ She pointed to an inch-long mark on the back of the right wrist. ‘How old would you say it is?’
Yates made rumbling noises in his throat while he considered the question. ‘It’s quite recent,’ he said after a moment or two. ‘Sustained just a few days before death, I’d say. Funnily enough, he’s got a similar one on his backside which probably occurred about the same time. We thought it might have happened when he was pruning his roses. It’s easily done – roses can be vicious things.’
‘Why would he be pruning his roses in the middle of June, I wonder?’ said Sukey thoughtfully.
The pathologist shrugged. ‘There you have me. Why are you so interested?’
Sukey laid the hand back on Bayliss’s chest and took out a fresh sheet of inked paper. ‘Someone got into the Chants’ house and robbed it the day Mrs Chant was murdered,’ she explained. ‘The intruder entered through a ground-floor window with roses under it… strong roses with big sharp thorns growing up to the height of the sill. A thread from the overalls we believe he was wearing was found on one of the thorns. And we think he,’ she indicated the form beneath the sheet, ‘was the dead woman’s lover and that she was planning to elope with him.’
What was visible of Doctor Yates’s features above the mask registered puzzlement. ‘Are you suggesting it was this laddie who did the breaking and entering?’
‘It looks very like it.’
‘But if he was her lover, why did he have to climb in through a window? Wasn’t there a garden door he could have used, if they didn’t want him to be seen calling at the front?’
‘I can’t answer that one, I’m afraid,’ said Sukey, who had been asking herself the same questions. ‘All I know for sure is that prints we believe to be his were found in the bathroom – which is why I’m here, of course – and that the intruder didn’t have to literally break in because the window had been left unfastened. I thought at the time there was something fishy about that. It looks to me as if the supposed burglary was all part of the elopement plan.’
‘You should be in the CID, lassie,’ commented Doctor Yates. ‘I take it you want pictures of those scratches as well as the prints?’
‘Please.’
‘Right. Darren!’ The attendant came hurrying over. ‘Roll him over, will you. This lady wants a picture of his bum.’ When Sukey had finished her work on the corpse of Hugo Bayliss she checked with the control room and was informed that Inspector Castle wanted her to meet him at the Chants’ house in Marsdean. She sent a message back that she was on her way, but was making a short detour to pick up the negatives of the Bayliss property that Inspector Mahony had requested. She then headed for home.
There were fewer than a dozen houses in the little cul-de-sac where she lived and every one had a deserted appearance. Several of her neighbours were, she knew, on holiday; the absence of cars on the other drives indicated that people were either at work or otherwise away from home. It all looked very pleasant and peaceful in the warm afternoon sunshine. Birds fluttered to and fro in search of food for their ravenous broods, closely watched by a tabby cat sitting on an ornamental wall. June, Sukey thought, was the month when everything appeared at its best, with the flowering trees still retaining some of their springtime freshness and the gardens awash with multicoloured roses in their first flush of blooms.
She parked the van, went up the path and put her key in the front door. Fergus’s cricket kit was still lying in the hall; evidently he had not yet called in to pick it up. Closing the door behind her, she dropped her handbag on the bottom stair and headed for the kitchen. Then she stopped short, her body tense and her pulse rate quickening as she noticed that both the kitchen and sitting room doors were open. She was absolutely certain that she had closed them before leaving the house. Her father had hammered into her from childhood that internal doors should always be kept closed at night and when the house was empty, to contain the fire that he seemed convinced would one day break out but had never actually done so. He had kept up the practice until the day he died and it was second nature to Sukey to do the same. Fergus had been less easy to indoctrinate. Had he been in to collect his kit, he would almost certainly have gone to the kitchen to raid the biscuit tin and ten to one would have left the door open.
With her heart leaping in her chest like a frog in a rain barrel, Sukey stood for several seconds, holding her breath and straining her ears. Taking the precaution of reopening the front door to be sure of an escape route if anyone came charging at her while making a getaway, she called, ‘Is anyone there?’ No one answered and she called a second time. Then, assuming that whoever it was had grabbed what he wanted and left, she plucked up courage to push the sitting room door fully open.
It was a sight she had seen many times before in other people’s homes – drawers pulled out, cupboards standing open, their contents scattered over the floor. Surprisingly, the television, video and hi-fi system were still there, her stock of CDs appeared undisturbed and the silver frames containing portraits of her parents and Fergus were in their normal places on the mantelpiece. She stood in the centre of the room for several seconds, considering. This was no ordinary, opportunist break-in. Whoever it was had been looking for something particular.
She heard a stealthy sound behind her. Whirling round, she confronted a masked figure with its right arm upraised, the hand grasping the largest of her own kitchen knives. The arm began its descent, the knife travelling in a swift, deadly arc towards her throat. Instinctively, she flung herself sideways and ducked, caught a glimpse of her assailant’s legs, registered that he was wearing cut-off jeans that revealed the livid remains of a deep graze along the right shin-bone, and knew that this was the man who had attacked her in the house of Hugo Bayliss. Who he was, what he could be doing in her home or why she should be his intended victim she had no idea – might never know. The only thought in her mind in that moment of terror was that she was once more fighting for her life – and that this time the odds were against her.
She made a snatch at his right wrist with the object of forcing the knife from his hand and throwing him down, but he was ready for the move. His left hand shot out and locked round her throat, holding her at arm’s length and forcing her backwards, pinning her against the far wall. She kicked out at his crotch, but he half-turned and took the impact on his thigh. In the forlorn hope that someone was within earshot she tried to scream, but the grip on her throat was tightening by the second and all she could utter was a faint, choking gasp. She clawed first at his fingers and then at his arm in an effort to relieve the pressure, but it continued, relentlessly, to increase. There was a drumming in her ears, her assailant’s right hand was once more uplifted and the knife directed at her chest. She flung up an arm and managed to deflect the blow, but in an instant the weapon was raised for the third time. She parried again and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder. Her knees were buckling, the breath was being squeezed out of her body, she had no strength left to resist. She shut her eyes as the knife was poised for the kill.
It never reached its target. Instead there was a sharp sound like wood striking wood and the murderous grip round her throat relaxed. She heard a heavy thud as something crashed to the floor at her feet, and strange rasping noises that she was dimly aware came from her own mouth as she dragged life-giving air into her tortured lungs. From somewhere out in space a frantic voice was calling, ‘Mum! Mum! Are you all right?’ She opened her eyes. Her bewildered gaze focused first on her assailant, sprawled face downward and motionless on the hearthrug, and then on Fergus, who was standing over him, white-faced, eyes dilated with fear, the handle of his cricket bat grasped between violently trembling hands.
For several seconds mother and son stared at one another above the recumbent form. Fergus spoke first. ‘I came by to collect my gear,’ he said shakily, as if some excuse for his presence was required.
Despite her ordeal, Sukey managed a smile. ‘You never put it to better use, my son.’ Her own ha
nds were unsteady as she pulled out her radio and gave her call sign. ‘Urgently request assistance and an ambulance at number 6 Bramble Close,’ she said. ‘And please tell Inspector Castle I’ve been delayed.’
Twenty-Five
‘Oh Mum, d’you think he’s dead?’ asked Fergus in a thin, unsteady voice.
‘Let’s hope not.’ The same fearful thought was in Sukey’s mind as she bent over the man who had been so determined to kill her – and who had so nearly succeeded.
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘No idea… except that this is the second time he’s had a go at me.’
‘You… what?’ His eyes were wide and fearful. ‘When? You never said …’
‘Didn’t want to scare you. I never dreamed he’d come and find me here.’
‘But why?’
‘Wish I knew.’ She squatted down and grasped the unconscious man’s wrist, searching for a pulse and finding it. It was on the slow side, but steady enough. ‘He’s alive all right… probably only stunned.’
‘When they feel for a pulse on the telly, they go for the one under the jaw,’ Fergus remarked with a shaky attempt at humour.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said his mother drily. ‘I’d do the same, except that I can’t be sure this one isn’t shamming and getting ready to grab me if I give him half a chance.’ She straightened up and stepped back out of reach of the muscular arms. ‘As it happens, he’s landed in the recovery position, so we’ll wait for the paramedics to take care of him.’
‘Why don’t we take his mask off, see if we recognise him?’ As he spoke, Fergus took a step forward with one hand outstretched.
‘Get away from him! What did I just say?’ Sukey shouted.
‘Sorry.’ He shot her an apologetic smile which changed to a look of consternation. ‘Mum, he’s cut you… you’re bleeding!’
Bemusedly, Sukey glanced down at the dark stain on her sleeve, aware for the first time of the warm stickiness trickling from the gash on her shoulder.
‘So I am,’ she said, trying not to show the alarm she felt at the sight.
‘I’ll get a towel.’ Fergus dropped the cricket bat on the rug and started for the door.
‘Come back here and pick that up, dummy! He might leap up and go for it, and while you’re at it, get that thing out of his reach. No! Don’t touch it, kick it!’ Sukey’s voice rose in exasperation as Fergus stooped to pick up the knife that had landed within a foot of the man’s head.
Dumbly, the lad obeyed, sending the knife skimming across the carpet and picking up the bat with hands that shook more violently than ever. He was plainly in shock; his whole body was trembling and he seemed unable to take his eyes from the blood running from his mother’s wound. ‘You’ll bleed to death!’ he said in an anguished, terrified voice. ‘Let me get something to bind it up with… please!’
‘No! Stay there… I’ll be all right… wait till someone comes.’ She put pressure on the arm with her other hand in an attempt to staunch the flow. She, too, was beginning to feel the effects of the life-and-death struggle, but until help arrived she had to keep a clear head and be strong for both of them. Acting in the heat of the moment, Fergus had unhesitatingly struck a man down to save his mother from a murderous attack. Now the reaction was setting in and he might keel over at any moment. ‘Just keep an eye on him in case he tries any tricks,’ she ordered. ‘The police will be here any minute.’ Please God, she added silently. With one arm out of action and Fergus all but traumatised, she had no idea how they would cope with a second attack. Many times she had heard her police colleagues speak of apparently lifeless villains leaping to their feet and seizing anyone who happened to be within reach to use as a hostage or a human shield – or worse.
Her heart gave a lurch as the man on the floor gave a feeble groan and began to stir. She planted a foot between his shoulder blades and, injecting all the aggression and confidence that she could muster into her voice, said, ‘Lie still, Buster. You’re nicked.’ At that moment, to her intense relief, came the sound of the first siren.
She had lost more blood than she realised. The minute the two police officers came rushing into the room, the floor heaved under her feet and the pictures on the walls began spinning in mad circles before vanishing in a grey mist. When she came round she was lying on the couch with Fergus leaning over her, bathing her forehead with a cold sponge while a girl with ‘Paramedic’ embroidered on her shirt bound up her left shoulder. ‘Hi, my name’s Kelly,’ said the girl. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘OK… I think.’ She tried to sit up and Kelly put a hand on her uninjured shoulder and pushed her back against the cushions.
‘Stay there while I finish this dressing,’ she commanded. She had curly fair hair and a round, rosy face dusted with freckles, and she manipulated the bandages with deft, gentle hands. ‘There, that’ll do for now,’ she said when she had finished. ‘Fergus, go and make your mother a cup of tea – good and strong, with plenty of sugar.’
‘You’d better have one too,’ Sukey told him, noticing with relief that his colour was back to normal.
‘We’ll get you down to casualty presently,’ Kelly informed her, ‘but there’s a policewoman here would like a word with you first, if you feel up to it.’
‘Of course I feel up to it – I’m fine – but I can’t waste time in casualty, I’ve got a job to do.’
‘It’s only first aid I’ve given you. You ought to let a doctor see that gash – it’s going to need stitching.’
‘It’ll have to wait. Where’s the police officer?’
‘Here I am,’ said a cheerful voice that Sukey instantly recognised. ‘WPC Marshall, Gloucester Constabulary.’
‘Trudy!’ Ignoring discouraging noises from Kelly, Sukey struggled into a sitting position to greet her colleague. ‘Quite a change for you to be on the scene before us, isn’t it?’ said Trudy, sitting down beside her. ‘Do you feel like telling me what happened?’
‘I came home to find the place in a mess and I realised someone had been in. Next thing I knew, there was this man in a mask going for me with a knife. That one.’ She pointed to where it lay, half hidden under the chair where Fergus had kicked it.
‘Has anyone else touched it?’ Sukey shook her head, relaxed now and able to smile at the memory of how she had yelled at Fergus. Trudy nodded approval. ‘Should have known better than to ask, shouldn’t I? Then what?’
By the time Fergus appeared with the tea Sukey had ended her account and he was only too happy, now that he knew he was not a murderer and that his mother was not going to bleed to death, to add his version.
‘And you say there’s nothing missing?’ said Trudy when she had finished scribbling in her notebook.
‘None of the things you’d expect from a normal burglary… it’s obvious he was looking for something else,’ Sukey said. ‘I can’t think what,’ she added, frowning.
‘And you’ve no idea who he is?’
‘Only that he’s the same man who attacked me once before.’ Trudy’s eyebrows shot up and she reopened her notebook. ‘Don’t bother to write this down. DI Mahony in Cheltenham has my statement. I never saw the man’s face – the first time he was wearing a crash helmet and today it was a mask. I didn’t think to pull it off; once I’d made sure he was still alive I kept well out of his reach.’
‘Very wise,’ said Trudy. ‘Now, are you sure you won’t follow Kelly’s advice and go to casualty? I can take you… I have to give her a lift back anyway. Her ambulance has left with your attacker and my partner has gone with him.’
‘No thanks, I’ll be fine. There’s something I have to get for DI Mahony, that’s what I came back for.’ Cautiously, Sukey got to her feet and was relieved to find that the room was no longer going round. With Fergus hovering anxiously at her elbow she made her way to the kitchen. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the confusion. Every drawer had been pulled out and the contents spilled on the floor. ‘Oh, hell!’ she exclaimed.
‘It’s not the mess I’m worried about,’ she said grimly. It took only a moment to confirm what was missing. She hurried back to the sitting room. ‘Trudy, will you please call your partner and tell him the prisoner is thought to be in possession of some photographic negatives urgently wanted at HQ,’ she said. ‘Say he’s to get them off him right away, before he has a chance to destroy them.’
‘Roger.’ The policewoman whipped out her radio and gave her call sign. ‘Anything else?’ she asked when she had delivered the message.
‘Tell him I’m on my way to collect them.’ Sukey turned and grinned at Kelly. ‘What do you know – I’m going to casualty after all!’
When the front doorbell at The Laurels sounded, Auntie Gwen exclaimed, ‘My, Bren, that was quick work!’
Brenda Foss, happy to be rid once and for all of the name that Charlie had foisted on her, looked up from her copy of Hello! magazine and said, ‘Don’t be daft, he can’t be here yet. I told him not to go too soon.’
‘Wonder ’oo it can be, then? You expectin’ anyone else?’
‘No.’ Brenda yawned and settled herself more comfortably on the couch. ‘Why don’t you go and see?’
Auntie Gwen heaved herself up from her chair and lumbered out of the room. She was back in no time, looking as if she had seen a ghost. ‘It’s the Old Bill and they’ve got a bleedin’ dawg wiv ’em!’ she wheezed.
‘What!’ Brenda threw the magazine aside and sat bolt upright. Behind her aunt were what appeared to her alarmed gaze to be the entire Gloucestershire Constabulary, but turned out to be just four uniformed policemen, one leading a black-and-white spaniel. ‘What the hell d’you mean, busting in like this?’ she demanded.
‘Sergeant Fleming and Constables Cross, Peace and Starkey,’ said one of the officers, who appeared to be in charge. ‘We have a warrant to search the house.’
Death at Hazel House Page 23
