‘You have not heard about the events in Harman’s Quarry, Mr Warbeck?’ Montague was amazed that someone in the town did not know of the mystery blonde.
‘No, what’s happened, Mr Pluke? I never listen to the news, you know, nor do I read a newspaper or watch television, except of course for the weather forecasts.’
Thinking that such a lamentable lack of interest in local affairs was hardly conducive to the solution of major crime, Montague Pluke told Septimus Warbeck all about the dead girl, and then showed him the photograph.
‘So, Mr Warbeck, we are trying to identify this woman and to trace her movements in Crickledale since Friday afternoon. There is a suggestion that she was caught in a thunder shower on Saturday evening, or perhaps that she sheltered from the storm, hence my visit to you. I need to determine the times of any significant rainfall.’
‘Ah, well, I hope I’ve been useful. But I cannot say I’ve seen her around nor do I know who she is, Mr Pluke. Sorry about that. In my gas board days, I got into most houses in the town, but can’t say I ever saw a girl like that – I mind, it’s five or six years since I retired, but even so, she would have been grown up at that time, eh?’
‘Yes, she would, in which case I am sure you would have recognised her, Mr Warbeck.’
‘So, Mr Pluke, if she was seen in the town on Friday afternoon, where was she between that time and being caught in a thunderstorm early on Saturday evening?’
‘That is precisely what we are trying to establish, Mr Warbeck. With some difficulty, I might add.’
‘Well, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Glad to have been of some help.’
‘Yes, indeed, Mr Warbeck. You have been most helpful, and thank you for all your assistance.’
Pluke left the meteorological potting shed to walk to the police station and en route found himself passing the bus station. Although he knew his officers would have made the necessary enquiries here, he decided to pop in for a chat with Mrs Harvey, the lady in the information office, who was one of Millicent’s friends. It was good to show one’s presence at a time like this; his arrival at the office would be a powerful reminder of the importance of this investigation.
‘Well, hello, Mr Pluke,’ said Mrs Harvey, a small middle-aged woman with shiny jet black hair of the kind not found naturally upon many British female heads of half a century old or thereabouts. ‘What brings you here? We’ve just had two of your officers in, not long ago.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ and he raised his panama in greeting. ‘I was just passing – I had another important enquiry not very far from here – and thought I would pop in to see the outcome of my officers’ visit.’
‘And very rightly too, Mr Pluke. Now, would a cup of tea be in order?’
‘No, thank you,’ he declined with his customary politeness. ‘I cannot stay long. So did the young lady call here? The blonde woman who is the subject of my officers’ investigation?’
‘She did, Mr Pluke, and I remember her well. As I told your officers when they showed me her photo, she came on Friday afternoon, three thirty it would be or thereabouts, and asked about buses to Barughdale. It was Barughdale, Mr Pluke, she showed me the name on a map she was carrying, but she did not pronounce it properly. She called it Barrowdale, so I knew she wasn’t local. Fancy anyone not knowing how to pronounce Barughdale! It takes all sorts… but she’d missed the two fifty. It meant she’d have to wait until five fifty for the next one, we only run two a day to Barughdale and two in from Barughdale, getting here at ten to nine and ten to eleven, for office and shop workers, you understand, then shoppers.’
‘And did she wait?’
‘Oh, no, she said she would hitch-hike. She went into our cafeteria and I saw her at a table, having a cup of coffee and a sandwich. That would be getting on for four o’clock. Then next time I looked, she’d gone.’
‘And was she alone all the time she was on your premises?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Pluke. Entirely. I did not get the impression she was waiting to meet anyone either. Not looking repeatedly at the door or at the clock like people do when they are waiting.’
‘And was she carrying anything?’
‘Just a small black shoulder-bag type of thing. Not a lot.’
‘A handbag?’
‘No, Mr Pluke, just the shoulder bag.’
‘And not a portable tent for example? Or a ground sheet?’
‘No, nothing like that. We do sometimes get people in like that, carrying their house and home on their backs, but not this young lady.’
‘And her clothes, were they the same as those in the photograph?’
‘Except for her white anorak, Mr Pluke. Yes, just the same. She was travelling light, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘You said she had a map, Mrs Harvey. Could you say whether it was a tourist map, or one in more detail, like an Ordnance Survey?’
‘Oh, it was very detailed, Mr Pluke. Yes, an Ordnance Survey map, the sort most experienced hikers and ramblers use. It had all the minor roads and things on it, I noticed those when she pointed Barughdale out to me. She knew which road she wanted to take out of Crickledale, she showed me while asking about buses.’
‘There is only one road she could use from here to Barughdale, of course.’
‘That’s right, Mr Pluke.’
‘And did you have much of a chat with her, Mrs Harvey? When she was asking about bus times and destinations?’
‘Not a lot, Mr Pluke. I think she was quite shy, not used to chatting to strangers. Besides, another customer came in.’
‘I wonder if she gave any clue which would indicate her point of departure, Mrs Harvey?’
‘Newcastle, Mr Pluke. She said she’d come down from Newcastle-upon-Tyne that day, Friday, hitched all the way down the A19. Did it in two lifts, she said, an articulated lorry carrying furniture all the way to Thirsk, then a gentleman’s private car into Crickledale.’
‘Newcastle-upon-Tyne? And she did not give any other clues?’
‘No, Mr Pluke, just Newcastle. I’ve no idea where she came from before that.’
‘And would you know whether she tried to hitch-hike from here to Barughdale? Did she thumb a lift from here?’
‘Once she left the cafeteria, I never saw her again. I never saw her thumbing, Mr Pluke, all I know is that she said she couldn’t wait for the five fifty so she’d set off and would hope to obtain a lift. She said she’d been lucky so far that day, getting lifts without much trouble, and with such decent men.’
‘Well, that does give us a further important lead, Mrs Harvey. I am sure someone must have seen her on the road at some point. You told all this to my officers?’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Pluke, they were very thorough in what they asked. They said they would start asking Newcastle police to see if they could help.’
‘Good. Well, I must thank you for being so observant and for talking to me and my officers. You have been extremely helpful, Mrs Harvey.’
As he walked back to the police station, Montague Pluke decided that a time chart would be a useful asset to the investigation. Upon it, he could record all the positive sightings of the victim – already, the gaps were narrowing. After Mrs Cholmondeley’s meeting with her, she’d been seen at the bus station around four o’clock on Friday, but there remained a massive gap between that time and the discovery of her body on Monday morning.
To date, the only fact they could be fairly sure of during that interval was that she was alive on Saturday, even until fairly late on Saturday according to the pathologist. And that tied in with the likelihood that she had been caught in a thunderstorm on Saturday evening, her damp clothing further suggesting that likelihood, combined with the possibility that she had taken shelter at Harman’s Farm, or in the quarry, probably around five thirty. In a tent, perhaps? But where had she been and what had she been doing between four o’clock on Friday afternoon and, say, five o’clock or six o’clock on Saturday afternoon? Twenty-four hours and more, with a ni
ght in between? Had she been in Barughdale during that time? Overnight perhaps? Or camping in the quarry? Or elsewhere? And had she been alone, or with a companion, known or unknown to her? Had an unwanted travelling companion imposed himself upon her? Or had she come down from Newcastle to meet someone or to visit a particular place? Hitch-hiking could be very dangerous, especially for a young and attractive woman, and so he might issue a news release seeking help from motorists who might have seen her on the road, or getting into a vehicle between Crickledale and Barughdale.
In between leaving the police station before lunch and returning now, Montague Pluke felt his enquiry had moved forward at a fairly brisk pace but, at the same time, it had left unanswered a lot of vital questions. Nonetheless, he entered the police station with a jaunty bounce in his step, checked with Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield for his messages, and then returned to the incident room. Wayne Wain had just returned too.
‘Ah, Wayne,’ Pluke greeted him. ‘Did you make contact with that cattle dealer called Cooper from Carston?’
‘I did, sir, but he could not help us. He does visit his herd near the quarry twice every day, morning and evening, and he did go out especially during the thunderstorms on Saturday. He got there around five thirty. His herd were taking shelter under some trees, but he did not see the girl.’
‘So he did not enter either the quarry or the grounds of Harman’s Farm? There was no likelihood of him seeing the girl there, either dead or alive?’
Wayne shook his head. ‘No, sir. We can eliminate him from our enquiries, I feel sure.’
‘Good. Now, I have news for you,’ and he acquainted Wayne Wain with the detailed results of his recent investigations. ‘So we know the girl was intending to travel along that road, Wayne, past the quarry and the farm, and onwards to Barughdale.’
‘Or to the farm only, sir,’ said Wayne. ‘You said she had an Ordnance Survey map – it would show the farm and even the quarry. We do not know that she intended to travel all the way to Barughdale. Suppose she fully intended visiting Eric Burholme at Harman’s Farm? It is within easy walking distance of Crickledale, especially to someone accustomed to walking.’
‘I do have that possibility in mind, Wayne. Now, we do have a team in Barughdale, checking to see whether she ever got to that village, or whether she was even expected there. Have they reported in yet?’
‘Not yet, sir, no.’
‘Is that something you would like to do now? Go to Barughdale and help them in their enquiries? The sooner we establish that she was never intending to travel that far, or that she never reached the village, the better. And some Barughdale people might have seen her on the road.’
‘Right, I’d like that, sir. I want to get this one solved. I’ll get a car and go now.’
As Montague Pluke went to his own office in the incident room to write up the result of his investigations for the files, the telephone rang.
‘It’s for you, Mr Pluke.’ said the secretary who answered it. ‘I’ll put it through to your office, shall I?’
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Previous Convictions,’ she replied.
‘Right,’ he said, hurrying towards his desk to lift the receiver, then answering, ‘Detective Inspector Pluke.’
‘DC Lester, sir, Previous Convictions. Reference your enquiry about Eric Burholme. I’ve got the result of the national search.’
‘Well done, DC Lester. So what does it reveal?’
‘No convictions, sir, nothing. A clean slate both locally and at national level, no minor or major crimes recorded, and no traffic offences. But there is one thing of note, sir.’
‘Relevant to my enquiry, you think?’
‘His record is flagged, sir.’
‘Flagged?’ puzzled Pluke.
‘A security device, sir, on his national record. It means that Mr Burholme is of interest to the security services. I have no further information on that nor do I have the necessary security clearance to investigate further. But your enquiry will have automatically triggered off a computer reaction; you may get a call from someone in Security.’
‘Then who does have the clearance to investigate further?’
‘You will have to make contact with the eighth floor at New Scotland Yard in London, sir, through the necessary channels, and take it from there. I am authorised to pass this information to you so that if you feel his past is of relevance to your present investigation, you may request access to the relevant information. That doesn’t necessarily mean you will gain access to the relevant information, but you are entitled to ask. It all depends how sensitive the information is, or, of course, it would depend upon the precise involvement of your Mr Burholme.’
‘I must admit,’ said Pluke, ‘that your information is not a great surprise. During the course of my enquiries I have encountered several indications which have led me to suspect there may be a complication of that kind… but thank you for confirming that. I have not mentioned my reservations to any of my officers but, in the light of further enquiries and information which I gather, I shall consider whether or not I should contact the eighth floor.’
‘Very good, sir. Pleased to be of assistance,’ and DC Lester rang off.
Pluke sat for a few moments to absorb the full implications of this news and then the telephone rang again. He picked up the receiver and identified himself.
‘Detective Superintendent Bromley, C.l, New Scotland Yard,’ said the strong southern voice at the other end. ‘You’ve been making enquiries about Eric Burholme?’
‘I have, sir, yes. A routine enquiry from the Criminal Records Office.’
‘What’s he supposed to have done, Pluke?’
‘He’s not supposed to have done anything, sir,’ responded Pluke with just a hint of indignation. ‘The body of a young woman, who has not been identified, was found in a disused quarry which he owns. She had head wounds, sir, consequently we are treating the death as suspicious. As the body is on Burholme’s land, he is clearly a prime suspect although at the moment he is on the periphery of my investigations. Nonetheless, I intend to commence enquiries into his movements and background, for routine elimination purposes, and my recent enquiry from CRO at Scotland Yard is just the beginning of that process.’
‘It’s also the end, Pluke,’ said Bromley.
‘The end, sir?’
‘Yes. Whatever your enquiries turn up, Pluke, keep Burholme out of your frame. I shall be contacting your Chief Constable to acquaint him with this. By all means continue your enquiries if you believe someone else is responsible for her death, but keep Burholme out of the frame. And that applies even if the evidence points to him. Never forget that. Now, Detective Inspector Pluke, this conversation never took place. Is all that understood?’
‘But, sir, with all due respect, if my enquiries produce evidence that this man is guilty of murder, then he should be brought to justice –’
‘No arguments, Pluke. Just obey orders,’ and the phone was replaced.
Chapter Nine
While Montague Pluke sat alone in his office to digest the implications of the aura of secrecy which now appeared to surround Eric Burholme, there was a knock on his door. He called upon the visitor to enter. It was Detective Sergeant F. L. Tower, known as Eiffel to his colleagues.
‘I saw you were in your office, sir,’ began the sergeant, a tall thin man with dark skin, fair hair on a very small head and feet of considerable size; he was a person who lived up to his nickname. ‘I thought I’d update you on the bus station enquiries at this early stage because they were so positive.’
‘Thank you, sergeant,’ said Pluke, not acquainting the detective with the fact that he had also called at the bus station. He wanted to discover whether this team had elicited any information which he had not discovered. ‘What did you learn?’
Eiffel efficiently presented the information that he and DC Jameson had gleaned, including the girl’s reference to travelling down the A19 from Newcastle by hitch
-hiking, and everything corresponded to that which Pluke had acquired – with one important addition.
‘I rang the CID at Newcastle,’ continued Eiffel, ‘and I explained our interest in the movements and identification of the blonde female victim. I was told, sir, that it is not uncommon for Scandinavian girls to cross the North Sea by the ferries which sail into Tynemouth, some as students, others to seek work and others as tourists. There are several ports of embarkation – the Swedes come from Goteborg, which we call Gothenburg, and they come into Tynemouth, the Tyne port.’
‘Swedes?’ Pluke asked.
‘Yes, sir. There are other ferries which serve the Tyne too, crossing the North Sea between Tynemouth and places like Bergen and Stavanger in Norway and Esbjerg in Denmark. Each of those Scandinavian ports might also be of interest if we are to make enquiries of the ferry lines.’
‘An excellent suggestion, Detective Sergeant Tower. I have to say that I am particularly interested in the Swedish link. I would like you to address that one first and to treat those enquiries as a matter of some urgency. Have you commenced enquiries from any of the ferry lines?’
‘Not at this stage, sir, that’s why I thought I had better discuss this with you first.’
‘Excellent. Yes, you did absolutely right. So, yes, begin enquiries immediately, starting with the Swedish ferries; make sure you have a good description and photographs of the girl and a set of her fingerprints if you feel they are necessary. You will not ignore the other lines, though, in case our victim has come from either Norway or Denmark. You know I have established links with Interpol in an attempt to get her identified?’
‘Yes, sir, I saw that in the file.’
‘Then perhaps you could contact the officer to whom I addressed my original enquiry? He was called Inspector Birin. He should remember my call, it was only yesterday. Liaise with him about this development but I want you to pursue your own enquiries through the ferry lines.’
‘We can go immediately, sir.’
‘Then do so. As an act of courtesy, ring Newcastle CID first, let them know you will be conducting investigations in their area. I have no objection to you and DC Jameson travelling to Newcastle to make direct enquiries; in fact, it would be far better than doing it over the telephone or involving Newcastle CID. You will have to establish whether or not enquiries from the Gothenburg offices can be conducted from Newcastle, or whether that requires the intervention of Interpol.’
Superstitious Death Page 12
