by Deborah Lucy
‘Kelly said the Ashton-Joneses’ son, James, stays over from boarding school at weekends. He was here on Friday apparently, find out where he was this weekend. Once we get confirmation of the route to Australia, we’ll need to get word to Ashton-Jones that his wife’s dead. I want a family liaison officer to meet him when he gets back at Heathrow. Are her parents alive? We’ll need to get formal ID of the body.’
‘Yes, Greta’s mother, Dianna Forrester lives at Harnham, Salisbury, and her father Brett Forrester lives at Marlborough, Hyde Lane. I’ve got both addresses, we can do one each if you like?’ Sloper suggested. He’d use the time to give Harker his first update.
‘Yes, I’ll see Brett Forrester and ask him to ID the body,’ said Temple. He knew Sloper was weighing his every decision; watching as he assimilated and evaluated every piece of information. He felt him breathing right down his neck.
CHAPTER 5
TEMPLE PASSED THE town hall as he drove into Marlborough’s wide High Street. It was heaving with barely moving traffic as drivers slowed to double-park, or try to snatch a free parking space along the kerb side, rather than pay. He stopped to wave across a group of teenage schoolgirls standing in the road. A dominant presence in the town, female students of Marlborough College were marked out by their distinctive uniform. Temple watched as they strode in front of his car. Clutching their books, they looked like heroines from Victorian novels, as the hems of their voluminous long black skirts skimmed the tarmac. He drove on through to the end of the High Street and turned right to Hyde Lane.
As he drove down the winding lane, passing bespoke, detached houses, he stopped to check the number Sloper gave him. There were cars parked either side of the lane, leaving a narrow channel through which to drive and Temple had to negotiate some bad parking in order to drive on through. As the lane carried on, Temple stopped the car and checked the number again.
‘Shit,’ he said, as he realized he had the right address.
Temple had arrived at The Sidings, Brett Forrester’s address and it looked as though he was entertaining. The cars he had passed were those of the many guests Temple could now hear in the garden that ran to the left of the property. He could see the tops of expensive garden parasols over a manicured laurel hedge and through his wound-down window, he heard music, laughter and the sound of a party in full swing. He drove on and found a space to park and got out. The afternoon sun had a touch of warmth and the breezeless air held the music above the chatter.
Temple walked through a wooden gate and onto a brick path, which took him towards an open front door. At the door he could see down the hallway, through to the end of the house to the garden. The rich, sonorous sound of jazz music drifted through the house from an outside sound system and its relaxed vibe permeated through into the high spirited, joyous mood of the party goers. Momentarily, Temple wished he could disappear; come back when the party was over, when there weren’t so many happy people around. To the rising lilt of an alto saxophone, Temple went inside, unable to escape the task he was there for. He walked down the hall and stopped at the open doorway of the kitchen to the left. Temple interrupted a small group of chattering people.
‘I’m looking for Brett Forrester?’ he said awkwardly, feeling the burden of the message he had to deliver.
A slim woman in a shocking pink dress at the sink turned her head.
‘He’s in the garden, darling,’ she said, smiling, wondering why she didn’t know him.
Temple approached her and standing next to her, looked out of the window onto a large lawn. There had to be more than fifty people out there.
‘Can you point him out to me, please?’ he said quietly. He didn’t want to draw attention from the other people in the room if he could help it. The cadence of the saxophone created a warm sense of joy and wellbeing about the place and he was conscious that he was about to change that.
The woman looked at him quizzically.
‘Yes,’ she replied and looking out of the window, pointed to a man, ‘That’s him, in the striped blue shirt and cream panama hat.’
Temple looked through the window and saw Brett Forrester, a tall, well-built man, in his early sixties. Standing in a small gathering of other men, he was holding a half empty glass of champagne in one hand, while his other arm rested over the shoulders of a male companion. Clearly at ease in each other’s company, they were laughing noisily into each other’s faces.
Feeling like the Grim Reaper, he went into the garden, weaving his way around people who were chatting and laughing, dancing and chinking their glasses, until he reached Forrester. He stood close enough to his left shoulder to make him turn around.
‘Mr Brett Forrester?’ he said quietly.
‘Yes?’ Forrester, interrupted by Temple’s formality, turned from his companions. Making eye contact, Temple continued to speak in a low voice.
‘Sir, I wonder if I could have a word with you. I’m Detective Inspector Temple—’ he said, showing his warrant card. Before he could finish, Forrester interrupted him.
‘Look, if it’s about the parking …’ he said, dismissively, half turning back to the group.
‘No, sir, it’s not about the parking. Could we go inside, I really need a word with you in private.’
Forrester turned from his companions and, for a few seconds, studied Temple’s face. Something in Temple’s expression and the sound of his voice told him he should do as he was being asked. He turned back to his friends.
‘Hang on, guys, let me deal with whatever this is and I’ll be back.’ He put his glass into the hands of one of his friends and strode purposefully back to the house.
Temple could see he would be in no mood for a preamble and used the walk to the house to decide he’d be straightforward in delivering the death message. Irritated by the intrusion, Forrester led Temple into his study at the front of the house, took off his hat and shut the door behind them, muffling the sound of the music. Temple quickly studied Forrester’s face and spoke.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, sir. This morning I was called to Wedwellow House, in Ramsbury, where the body of your daughter, Greta Ashton-Jones, had been discovered. She has been murdered. I’m sorry.’ Temple knew that with those few words, he had just shattered Forrester’s world.
Brett Forrester looked back at him in disbelief and took a small stagger backwards. Temple reached out and took his elbow to steady him.
‘Are you sure?’ Brett Forrester looked questioningly back at Temple, barely able to say the words and desperately wanting it to be a mistake. His mouth went dry.
‘I’m afraid so, sir, she was found by her cleaner this morning.’
Tanned, with thick dark hair, slightly greying at the sides, Forrester was well spoken and held himself very straight, straighter since Temple imparted the news. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly. After taking a deep breath, he seemed to recover himself. He turned his back and walked towards the corner of the room to a drinks tray.
Temple took this opportunity to look around the room. An old kneehole desk was situated in a large bay window, with a well-worn leather settee and chair either side of an open fireplace. In one of the chairs was a khaki canvas bag, brimming with expensive looking cameras and lenses. On the floor were small exotic rugs. The room contained various indigenous objects, the kind of trophies acquired from a life spent travelling in faraway places. On the walls were two artistically arranged patchworks of different sized framed photographs.
‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’ Forrester was standing near a table containing various decanters. Temple saw Forrester’s hands shake as he negotiated the liquid into a glass. He declined.
‘I wonder if you could tell me when you last saw your daughter.’ Temple watched Forrester intently as he answered.
‘I last saw Greta on Saturday,’ said Forrester, his deep voice momentarily weak with emotion. He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘We had lunch together, here,’ he said, finally letting out a d
eep sigh as he held a half filled, cut glass whisky tumbler up to his lips.
His body had taken on a feeling of other worldliness. He knew this was real because no one would play such a bad trick, but his mind was still having trouble actually processing the words. The man said Greta was dead. All at once he felt as though the top of his head had been sliced open and his guts ripped out. He felt laid bare. Raw. Weak. However, instinct told him he should still try not to betray his feelings and to hold himself together.
‘According to the pathologist, she died on Saturday evening, or the early hours of Sunday morning,’ Temple informed him. ‘You could well have been one of the last people to see her alive.’
The words caught Forrester unawares. He looked back at Temple, startled.
‘What, you think that I killed her?’ His tone was incredulous.
‘No, sir, I mean apart from the person who killed her, you could have been the last, or one of the last people to see her alive. Can you tell me about your daughter, sir, how did she seem when she left you?’
Forrester closed his eyes as if to shut Temple out of a private memory he was reliving.
‘She was beautiful, full of life, vital.’ Forrester’s voice trailed off as finally, he seemed to succumb to the shock of the news and, as his legs gave way, his body sank heavily into the settee. ‘Look up there,’ he said, gesturing with his head, his voice obviously weaker. ‘That’s how she was on Saturday, how you see her there.’
Temple’s gaze went from Forrester to the photographs on the wall. There were black and white images of a younger looking Greta at a party, talking animatedly, a scene similar to what Temple had witnessed in the garden. She was striking; another photograph showed a full head shot, looking full on into the camera, blowing a kiss. There were others too, but it was the way they were taken as much as the subject, natural, yet professionally executed, as if a photoshoot. Temple could see there was not one bad take.
‘How did she die?’ asked Forrester, his voice at a whisper, barely able to form the words.
Temple turned back to him.
‘We’re waiting on the result of the PM, sir, post mortem …’
‘I know what a PM is, Inspector. Who would want to kill Greta?’ Forrester’s voice tailed off.
‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out, sir.’
‘Only hoping, Inspector? I’m going to want you to do more than hope. I shan’t rest until I know who murdered my daughter.’ Forrester’s voice faltered at the word ‘murdered’ as if he couldn’t believe he had to say it.
‘It was a clumsy use of words, sir. I will find out who murdered your daughter. I have all the force resources at my disposal and will use them to get to the truth.’
Temple said the words knowing that he lied. Forrester didn’t need to know his immediate lack of resources and that every inquiry was largely determined by the force accountant, scrutinizing every penny spent. Temple knew that justice had a cost now, a finite budget, with a financial cut off point which any SIO knew he could not go beyond without being called to meetings to justify further inquiries. Not only did Temple have to find the murderer, he knew he also had to outwit the anonymous bean counters. They would ultimately call time on his inquiry when their spreadsheets calculated the tipping point and question his ability not to have drawn things to a close beforehand.
‘I will need to ask you some questions to build up a picture of Greta’s background, her life.’
As he watched Forrester, Temple was sure he saw Forrester’s face cloud a little when he had mentioned questioning him. Temple felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket.
‘I just need to take this call, sir, it may be important to the inquiry.’ Temple was grateful for the chance to leave the room and stood in the hallway. It was Sloper; Dianna Forrester insisted on going to the mortuary to identify the body so Temple instructed him to take her to Salisbury hospital and he would meet them there. He returned to Brett Forrester.
‘I’d like some time, Inspector, to be on my own, to let this sink in properly.’ Forrester was ashen. He had visibly shrunk from the man Temple had seen in the garden.
‘Of course. Are you going to be all right, sir?’
‘Yes, I’ll be all right.’ Forrester tried to rally himself. ‘I’m used to seeing death and destruction, murder and savagery …’
‘Sir?’ Temple suddenly wondered what Forrester was going to say.
‘I was a photographic journalist, Inspector, travelled all around the world witnessing atrocities and various genocides … it makes you hard when you’ve seen so much. I didn’t think anything else could really touch me …’ His voice had shrunk to a whisper.
Temple watched as Forrester shook his head in disbelief.
‘Can we make an appointment tomorrow, sir, I can come here?’ asked Temple.
‘Yes, come back tomorrow, about eleven.’
Temple saw himself out. As he closed the front door, he suddenly heard a loud roar from inside. Forrester was screaming, crying out at the top of his voice. As Temple reached the gate at the end of the path, the music stopped. He hated giving death messages, seeing what it did to people, he’d done it enough times following accidents. But telling people their loved one had been murdered – that someone had deliberately ended their life – that took things to a different, darker, more destructive level, where your life would never be the same again. Temple knew all about that. He headed off to the mortuary.
CHAPTER 6
RUNNING LATE, BY the time Temple arrived at Odstock Hospital, the identification was over. Sloper and Dianna Forrester were stood in a corridor. Temple extended his hand to introduce himself.
She was small and slim, with tidy grey hair pulled back behind her head and a tight mouth. Her face was hardened although it was evident that she had once been an attractive woman. She showed little in the way of emotion, despite just seeing her daughter’s dead body. She wore a light beige mac, with flat shoes. Plain and restrained. Already, he couldn’t imagine her as a wife to the larger-than-life Brett Forrester.
She acknowledged his words but seemed to have no desire to ask questions. Temple knew that she was probably in shock. As Sloper went to take Dianna Forrester back home, Temple watched as Sloper put a gentle arm to her shoulders as if to guide her. The sympathetic gesture was unexpected; he had a heart after all, thought Temple; deep down, buried under all that sarcastic, nasty bulk. He arranged to meet him later to debrief.
Temple went into the mortuary. Greta Ashton-Jones’s body was already on the cold white porcelain table with Yardley standing over it. The post mortem began. The impersonal environment always reminded Temple of a public toilet; the walls of the room were covered with square white tiles and the floor was grey concrete, all of which was easy to wash down. The sickly sweet smell of a pungent air freshener pervaded the room, ready to mask the smell of deteriorating flesh. Temple got dressed in theatre greens and stood opposite Yardley.
‘It’s not that often I get to do the honours on such an attractive woman,’ remarked Yardley.
Temple looked down on his victim. Yardley was right; she was lovely, so who would want to destroy that?
‘Right, let’s get down to business. This is our able assistant for the day; hello, Kim.’ Yardley turned to acknowledge a woman entering the room, with what looked to Temple to be a vacuum cleaner. Temple was slightly taken aback by her prettiness which seemed totally at odds with the surroundings. Temple welcomed the temporary distraction from what he knew was to follow. She put on protective glasses.
‘Feel free to leave the room at any time. If you want to, you can use the viewing gallery,’ she said confidently to Temple as she turned to a tray to select a knife.
‘No problem, I’ve done a few PMs so I know what’s coming, but thanks,’ Temple said, trying to match her confidence and settle his stomach for what was to come. He watched as Yardley took the offered knife and made a deep Y incision starting at the shoulders, meeting in the middle of the chest and going on
down past the navel.
As the knife cut into the dead flesh, it released the fetid stink of rotting meat so forcefully that it seemed to instantly cling to everything in the room. Temple’s immediate reaction was to obstruct the smell fighting to invade his body by holding his breath, but it was useless. It worked its way into his throat like a vile poisonous gas, all the time threatening to make him gag. Despite the stench and repulsion that he felt as his gut knotted from the rush of evil odour, Temple managed to recover himself. The smell seemed not to register with Kim and Yardley.
Temple watched as Kim deftly used rib shears to release the heart and lungs from their bony cage. Both then become engrossed in the removal, weighing and recording of organs. Eventually, Yardley broke the silence of studious dissection.
‘I’m taking tissue samples for toxicology purposes. There is some petechiae on the eyes – as I said before – and the hyoid bone just above the larynx is broken, with some soft tissue damage on the neck. I can also now tell you that our young lady had engaged in sexual activity prior to death, semen is present in the vagina and I’ll get you the samples for DNA retrieval. She was also approximately nine weeks pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’ repeated Temple, surprised.
He looked at Greta’s face. Kim had her knife poised to slice into the hairline.
‘Yes, which might give you a further dimension to your inquiry. You can make an inquiry with her GP. I’ll send off the DNA to the lab of course,’ offered Yardley helpfully.
Temple watched with a morbid fascination as Greta’s face was skilfully sliced and rolled apart from its bony structure as if a mask.
‘Thanks.’ Temple’s attention was taken by the sound of an oscillating saw.
‘Right, we’re just going to open the skull now.’
He knew he’d seen enough.
‘Well, if you both won’t mind I’ve got some phone calls to make. I’ll catch up with you outside, Doc.’
