Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  As Pluke approached the waiting group, taking care to avoid any route which might have been used by the killer or his victim, a uniformed constable came forward.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ It was PC Singleton, the village constable from Barughdale. This farm and quarry were upon his patch. ‘I have secured the scene pending your arrival.’

  ‘Well done, PC Singleton. So who has been to the graveside?’

  ‘I have, sir, and so has our local GP, sir, Dr Tomlinson from Barughdale. I allowed him to attend the woman, sir, just in case she was still alive. He took great care not to destroy any evidence that might be there. I noted his route to the graveside – he used the same approach as I did which in turn was the one used by the man who found the body. The woman was not alive, sir, and he has certified the death.’

  ‘Good. And who is the person who found the body?’

  ‘Mr Michael Wardle and his dog, Sam. They are waiting to talk to you, over there near our cars. He is a hiker, he was passing through here on a long trek. Scenes of Crime are also awaiting your arrival before they begin their work, but the pathologist hasn’t arrived yet. He told us he should be here within the hour. And the shell has been ordered; the Task Force is standing by too.’

  ‘Good. Now show me the body. Come with me, Wayne,’ Pluke called to his deputy who detached himself from some earnest discussion with an attractive policewoman. PC Singleton escorted Pluke and Wain to the remains, taking the circuitous route he’d previously used.

  They approached the grave, Pluke making mental notes as he progressed, and then they halted.

  ‘That is exactly how she was found, sir,’ said PC Singleton.

  Pluke saw the upper torso of a young white woman with blonde hair. In life, she would have been beautiful and for some reason he realised it was Monday, thinking of the verse ‘Monday’s child is fair of face’, but she was no child and she might not have been born on a Monday. Whatever her past, she was now lying in a shallow grave with only her shoulders, neck and head exposed, the lower half of her body being covered with soft earth. There was no apparent decomposition of the flesh and the grave was only some two feet deep. It had been dug in soft grass-covered earth, then filled in and re-covered with turves, some of the surplus soil being scattered across the grass.

  From his vantage point, Pluke could see what appeared to be a puncture wound in her right temple. It was roughly circular in shape, about the size of a little fingernail and marked by a tiny patch of dried blood, its edges softened with dampness. Very little blood had apparently escaped to mark her skin although one or two particles of earth were adhering to the wound. A lack of blood was sometimes a feature of deep and dangerous puncture wounds and he did not lose sight of the fact that this could have been caused by a large-calibre bullet. If so, it did not appear to have made an exit wound.

  ‘From external appearances, it does seem she died from that wound, Wayne,’ Pluke said softly. ‘And very recently too.’

  ‘It is too early to speculate about the precise cause of death.’ Wayne exercised all the necessary cautions. ‘We must await the post-mortem.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right of course, Wayne,’ Pluke smiled. ‘Now, is there any sign of a digging implement or the murder weapon? Or other people hanging about the scene?’

  ‘The surrounding area has not been thoroughly searched yet, sir,’ PC Singleton told him. ‘I did a brief visual examination, eyes only, sir, but did not see any weapons or tools, and there was no one here when I arrived. Apart from Mr Wardle, that is.’

  ‘Right,’ said Pluke. ‘I think we had better not disturb anything until the forensic pathologist has made his examination, then we’d better call in the Task Force to undertake a fingertip search of the scene. The Task Force is standing by, I am told. Call Control and have them sent here, will you, Wayne? While I’m waiting, I can speak to Mr Wardle. Introduce me to him, would you, PC Singleton?’

  Michael Wardle was a slender man in his mid-fifties with a balding head of dark brown hair, a small dark moustache and gold-rimmed spectacles. With a healthy tanned face and standing about five feet nine inches tall, he was dressed in hiking gear – light brown boots, corduroy trousers, a multi-coloured sweater – and he carried a small haversack containing his provisions for the day. His dog, Sam, was a black and white border collie, and it lay at his feet, patient and well-behaved.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Wardle,’ Pluke greeted him after the introduction. ‘Thank you for being so patient on our behalf.’

  ‘I am just passing through. I am not restricted to a particularly tight schedule so time is not too important.’ Wardle’s smile revealed his nervousness. ‘It was such a shock, dreadful… but if I can help at all…’

  ‘The person who finds a dead body is always of help in our enquiries,’ returned Pluke. ‘So what time did you make this awful discovery?’

  ‘About three-quarters of an hour ago, perhaps. I reported it immediately.’

  ‘Good, I am delighted no time was wasted. Now, if you would be so kind, can you tell me how you came to find this unfortunate young lady?’

  ‘Well, it was pure chance, really. Sam, that’s my dog, found her, not me. I went into the trees, the call of nature you understand, and while I was there Sam wandered off. He found his way into the old quarry, it’s only a few yards behind the copse of trees and there is a gentle descent into the floor of the quarry, not a vertical cliff face as there is at the other side. Anyway, Sam began to dig and bark… I went to see what he was doing and, well, that’s it. I saw the young woman he’d partially uncovered… A terrible shock, Inspector Pluke, and I touched her. She was cold… buried like that… I made Sam sit as I brushed a bit of earth away from her, just to be sure it was a real woman and not a dummy or a wax head. I carry a mobile telephone, as it happens, in case I fall and break a leg or get delayed for any reason… So I rang the police, 999. That’s all I can tell you… What an awful shock, inspector… dreadful…’

  Each time the dog’s name was mentioned, it pricked its ears and thumped its tail on the ground, but never moved from its master’s side. A well-trained animal, Pluke thought, but it was showing no undue distress in the presence of violent death. Indeed, it was behaving perfectly normally. Pluke was acutely aware of stories of dogs seeing ghosts or being afraid to enter haunted places, or howling and whining in the presence of sudden or violent death. But this dog was showing none of those signs.

  ‘I am obliged to you for your courtesy in ringing us.’ Pluke’s appreciation was genuine. ‘Now, can you show me the precise route you used to reach the grave? PC Singleton has shown me but I would like you to show me too. I need to know exactly where you placed your feet, and if you can bear it, I would like you to show me how you brushed away the dirt from her face…’

  ‘Must I do that again?’

  ‘It would be of immense help to us,’ said Pluke.

  It was with some reluctance that the hiker retraced his steps and repeated his actions, but his acquiescence did please Pluke who noted his route, signified his approval and thanked Mr Wardle for his courage.

  ‘Now,’ continued Pluke, ‘I will need your full name and home address, and something to prove your identity. Then we shall need a formal written statement from you. My sergeant will attend to that, and once that is over, I need not detain you any longer. We might want to talk to you at length in due course, just to clarify any further points that might arise. You’re just passing through, you said?’

  Wardle provided Pluke with his full name and address – Michael John Wardle, 77 Wolverdale Avenue, Parkland Estate, Portrack-on-Tees, adding, ‘I was made redundant – I was a process worker in the chemical industry, Imperial Chemicals. Now I occupy my time walking. I got the bus to the road end this morning, and will catch one home this evening. In the meantime, I hope to do about twenty miles. I’m doing all the footpaths in North Yorkshire, one by one. I need to achieve something in my dotage!’

  ‘Far more satisfying than sitting at hom
e watching television!’ nodded Pluke.

  ‘I never expected to find a dead body, though. What a shock! I’m not used to such dramas. I prefer to look for interesting examples of wildlife. I do try to identify the birds I see…’

  ‘Clearly a man of the countryside! Now, I must ask you this – is the young lady known to you?’

  ‘Good heavens no! I’ve never seen her before, ever.’

  ‘You’ve done this walk before?’

  ‘A long time ago, fifteen years perhaps. With a party from our ramblers’ club. The Tees Valley Ramblers.’

  ‘And you were alone on this occasion?’

  ‘Yes, most of my friends are still holding on to their jobs. I join them at weekends for organised rambles.’

  ‘You are not married then?’

  ‘No, I never found anyone who could make me happy. Except my dog.’

  ‘Well, Mr Wardle, before I hand you over to Detective Sergeant Wain, I need to complete one unpleasant task,’ Pluke told him.

  ‘Unpleasant?’

  ‘I need to search your haversack, Mr Wardle.’

  ‘Am I under suspicion?’ A look of horror crossed his face.

  ‘In the case of a suspected murder, Mr Wardle, everyone is under suspicion until formally eliminated. I have to see if there is anything in your belongings which might have been used to either kill the woman or bury her.’

  ‘Good heavens… I mean to say… I’m not sure I like this…’

  ‘If there is nothing in your bag, Mr Wardle, it would indicate you are not under suspicion.’

  ‘Well, of course I am not guilty… by all means search my haversack!’ and he swung it from his back and held it out for the detectives to take. Wayne Wain carried out a swift but thorough search before saying to Pluke, ‘Nothing incriminating, sir. Food, drink, extra socks, a bird book and a map.’

  He returned it to its relieved owner.

  ‘That pleases me immensely, Mr Wardle. So, Detective Sergeant Wain, can you take Mr Wardle to our car and obtain a statement?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Wayne, indicating the car to Wardle. Mr Wardle, with his obedient dog at his heels, walked towards the knot of police vehicles at the quarry entrance as Pluke turned to PC Singleton.

  ‘So, PC Singleton, you were the first to meet that man. What do you make of him?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘He seems very genuine to me,’ returned the constable.

  ‘You are new to this kind of major enquiry?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘I’ve never been on a murder enquiry before, sir.’

  ‘Then I hope you can learn from this experience. The first thing to appreciate is that I have not yet confirmed this is a murder enquiry but in spite of that, we shall mount a murder-type investigation. The next thing to learn is that the person who finds the body is automatically a prime suspect, an important fact which the investigating officer must bear in mind. We shall examine Mr Wardle’s life, movements, personal friends and contacts in very great detail. I must admit he could have killed her – a middle-aged man not married… his sex life must inevitably be of interest to us – but before we tear his life apart, we need to have the scene photographed as it is now in advance of the arrival of our forensic pathologist. Can you call Sergeant Tabler and ask him to come here? He’s waiting at the entrance.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Before you go, PC Singleton, note the condition of the grave. At the moment, it is virtually as it was discovered. Once the forensic pathologist arrives, he will eventually brush away the remaining earth. He will change the appearance of the grave and of its sad occupant. So I need to have everything recorded on film as we see it at this very moment. Now, as you were the first police officer to arrive at the scene, will you inform the coroner on my behalf? Do it through the control room, give him my compliments and ask if he will approve a post-mortem examination.’

  And so began Detective Inspector Pluke’s formal murder-type investigation.

  Chapter Three

  As Pluke awaited the pathologist, Wayne Wain returned, having interviewed Michael Wardle and released him.

  ‘Well, Wayne, what do you think of Mr Wardle?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘An honest man, I believe, sir. An ordinary fellow who happened to find a person dead in suspicious circumstances. It happens all the time – lots of murder victims and suicides are found by ordinary people.’

  ‘He’s not a suspect, you feel?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. But I do appreciate his background will have to be researched.’

  ‘That’s a good job for one of our incident room teams when we assemble them. Now, PC Singleton,’ and Pluke addressed the constable. ‘I understand this quarry is owned by Eric Burholme, who also owns the adjoining farm. He was in Crickledale when I left to drive here, so he is not aware of our presence or the reason for all this unseemly activity on his land. Can I ask you to inform him when he does return?’

  ‘He is back, sir, just. He drove in minutes ago. I explained matters to him and assured him we’d keep him informed of developments. He raised no objections to our presence and said he would be around the premises all day if we wanted to talk to him. This farm is on my beat, sir, as you know; I am known to him.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. So what do you know of Mr Burholme?’

  ‘Not a great deal, sir, he keeps himself very much to himself, although he is widely known as a philanthropist, a regular supporter of charities and good causes.’

  ‘I believe so,’ nodded Pluke.

  The constable continued, ‘Although he runs a thriving farm machinery hire business, he’s not one for unnecessary socialising. Because he doesn’t keep livestock, I rarely have to visit his farm. He’s lived here a long time, sir, he came to the area long before I was posted here. Before I was born, in fact.’

  ‘And he lost his wife, I understand,’ commented Pluke. ‘He lives alone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She died some years ago, before I was posted here, and there is no new wife or partner. He is well regarded locally, sir, everyone agrees he is a very nice man and I know nothing against him. He’s never given me cause for concern.’

  ‘And local gossip?’

  ‘I’ve never heard the local farmers criticise him or gossip about him. He’s always fair in his dealings with them, never gives them reason to complain and always pays his bills on time. If there is gossip, it’s only because he lives alone and never has people in for a meal or a party. Although he is very generous, he is a natural loner, sir, but none the worse for that. I reckon his business keeps him busy round the clock. His life is his work, in other words.’

  ‘That’s a fair assessment to start our investigation.’ Pluke thanked the constable, then turned to Wayne Wain. ‘I do remember his wife dying, Wayne, although I cannot recall the precise details. There was something strange about her funeral… it’ll come to me before long. Now, in spite of the universal high regard for Mr Burholme, we shall have to interview him in depth but I prefer not to do so just yet. Ah, I see our forensic expert is now arriving.’

  A smart red Rover 820 Si had turned off the road and was cruising slowly towards the farm; it turned along the track which led into the quarry and eventually halted near the assembled police vehicles. From it emerged Dr Simon Meredith, a slightly built individual with half-moon spectacles, thinning fair hair and a matching moustache. Clutching a large black case, he walked towards Pluke, instantly recognisable in his heavy overcoat, spats, blue bow tie and blue-banded panama.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Pluke,’ the pathologist greeted him. ‘So what have we this time?’

  Standing with the grave and its occupant in view, Pluke explained and provided an outline of what had transpired since the discovery. Meredith nodded, noting that some photographs had been taken, and that the scene had been subjected to some disturbance and contamination, however minor it might be.

  ‘Right,’ said Meredith. ‘I will begin immediately. Perhaps your photographers will accompany me to record my examination?’
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br />   Under Pluke’s guidance, Meredith approached the grave by using precisely the same route as Michael Wardle and the others. After placing his case carefully on the ground, he stood for a few moments to silently absorb the macabre scene, then produced a small plastic sheet from his case, spread it on the ground beside the grave and knelt upon it. Gently, he touched the dead woman’s face, fingered a pinch of soil and then began to remove the remaining earth. For this he used a small brush and shovel; after lifting aside the turves which remained, he slowly removed the layers of soil, placing some samples in plastic bags and casting the unwanted earth some distance away. The soil was fairly dry, the outcome of a few weeks without rain – the thundery rain of the weekend had not penetrated the ground to any depth, having run from the surface to disappear down natural drains.

  In time, the girl was completely uncovered; she lay on her back with her legs straight before her and her arms down the sides of her body, squeezed between her torso and the sides of her shallow makeshift grave. Meredith ordered photographs at this stage, showing her clothing and the position in which she lay. Then he examined her injures, initially without touching them.

  ‘Mr Pluke,’ he called to Montague. ‘First, note the distinct lack of decomposition and then the puncture wound in her right temple. It is rather like the wound one would expect from a captive bolt humane killer on a pig, is it not? There is very little blood, however, and that suggests the wound is a very deep one. So what on earth caused it, Mr Pluke? Your guess is as good as mine at this moment but even without the benefit of a postmortem, I would guess it caused her death.’

  ‘So you feel this is murder followed by a crude and unsuccessful attempt to dispose of the body?’ invited Pluke.