by J M Gregson
It was a wonderful privilege to be alone in such a place – if you could call it alone, when birds sang all around you and invisible wildlife rustled occasionally in the longer grass. It was the first time in his young life that Matt Garton had enjoyed that thought. He wandered on, following the stream which ran through the lower and wilder part of the garden. You could hear the stream rushing cheerfully now, flashing bright where it rattled over tiny falls in its stony bed. Yesterday it had been no more than a silent trickle; today it seemed not only to have a new life of its own but to be bringing life to the area around it.
He wandered on into the lowest area of all, the one they called the Wilderness. Next month he would be planting bulbs here, scattering them first over the turf to give a natural effect, then using the special tool to take out a core of soil to set the bulbs at the correct depth. He’d seen the blaze of colour the daffodils and narcissi and scyllas brought here in the spring; now he would be making his own contribution to that picture.
He’d never been to the very end of the garden. He realized that with a little flush of shame. He’d put that right now; he’d stroll to the end of the Wilderness and then walk back towards the house between the hornbeams of the Long Walk. It was the first time he’d appreciated the gardens as a work of art. He was really enjoying having this magnificent creation to himself on such a glorious morning. He must do this more often.
He followed the busy stream down through the Wilderness to the southern extremity of the garden, stopping for a moment to watch a thrush singing a celebratory hymn to the heavens. He was amazed at the speed with which the sun was climbing against the unbroken blue of the sky to his left. He was about to turn back towards the house when he saw the thing he could scarcely believe.
It was so utterly wrong in this context that he thought at first he must be imagining it. He wanted to turn away, to break into a run, to flee in panic back to the cottage and his awakening friends, to a world which was safe and familiar. Yet his eyes would not follow the urgings of his other senses. They remained obstinately fixed upon the thing which was within five yards of him. The thing which was so utterly wrong in what he had thought was a perfect world.
A foot, perfectly still. Harmless in itself, but totally out of place here. Shattering the joyous and innocent world which had enveloped Matt Garton during his early-morning stroll. He moved slowly, reluctantly, towards it. The horror seemed to seep along his limbs with each grudging, inevitable step.
The foot had a sturdy brown shoe upon it. Not the gardening boot which a worker here might have worn. Not the trainer which was the leisure wear of a gardener off duty. These thoughts ran swiftly across his brain when he did not want any thoughts at all. There was a trouser leg of good quality above the boot; cavalry twill, he thought, though that was a material he’d never worn himself.
Matt Garton paused, then stepped forward quickly, as if his discovery would conclude some macabre game of hide and seek. It was the man who controlled all this. The man who controlled the future of Matt Garton and most of the other people who worked in this perfect place.
Dennis Cooper lay with his sightless eyes wide open, glinting brightly and reflecting the light of the sun he would never see again.
EIGHT
Chief Superintendent John Lambert wasn’t good at meetings. In the modern police service, you needed to be, once you reached his rank. Indeed, some chief supers seemed to positively enjoy meetings.
But Lambert was a dinosaur among the higher ranks, in that he hated sitting behind a desk and directing operations. He was much happier investigating cases on the spot, much more efficient when meeting and questioning the people who were involved in a crime, whether innocently or otherwise. Despite affecting to despise modern technology, he made effective use of it whenever it was appropriate, recognizing that national as well as local registers of crime made vital contributions to the solution of serious offences such as fraud, rape and murder.
But John Lambert was at his best worrying away at serious crimes, especially suspicious deaths. Those around him, including his chief constable, had long since recognized that; they allowed this particular senior detective a latitude which they would not have accorded to a younger and less experienced man. Even amidst the bureaucracy of the modern police service, success makes its own rules, and Lambert had been notably successful over the years.
The CID section at Oldford police station was happiest when Lambert was in pursuit of villains. During quieter periods, when his attention turned from the wider world outside to the narrower one of Oldford police station, he asked penetrating questions of his juniors. At such times, he demonstrated that when he chose to he could play the lesser games of office as efficiently as those which surrounded life and death.
On this particular Monday morning, he had emerged from his meeting with the chief constable filled with a righteous energy. Already he had made queries about the use of the overtime budget and the expenses claims of two detective sergeants. People were scurrying to justify themselves. CID men moved out into the community to pursue mundane enquiries about stolen cars and missing husbands; this was a good time not to be around the station.
Detective Sergeant Bert Hook, who had recently graduated as an Open University BA and was thus a local police curiosity, had been Lambert’s bagman for many years now and knew him better than any other man. He pronounced the scurrying activity his chief had set in motion in the CID section as a ‘necessary evil’, a reminder that life was not always smooth and that perhaps it shouldn’t be so.
Under questioning from the uniformed desk sergeant, who was observing this commotion in CID with wry amusement, Hook suggested that the only thing which would quell it was ‘a good juicy murder’. Not that anyone wished for any such thing, of course; that would be morally reprehensible. In the meantime, Bert had quietly checked his own claim for expenses.
At that very moment, as if responding to a cue, John Lambert marched quickly through the door behind them. ‘Ah, there you are, Bert! Time to stop your gossiping and get moving. We have a suspicious death on our hands! At Westbourne Park, of all places, amidst the roses and the lilies and the crowds of elderly, respectable National Trust visitors! Ten to one it’s murder; I can feel it in my water! Chop chop, lad!’
Hook had long since ceased to be a lad. He looked at the desk sergeant, allowed his stolid features an inappropriate wink, and followed his chief through the swinging doors with a quickening pulse.
The whole of Westbourne Park might have been declared a crime scene, with the public denied access. But it would have been difficult and no doubt impractical to cordon off such a huge acreage for very long. Lambert, who had made several visits to Westbourne and knew the gardens well, instructed that the tract known as the Wilderness should be out of bounds to visitors and staff for an indefinite period. This was itself a large area for the detailed search normally conducted at the scene of a crime. Nevertheless, any evidence which might later be vital to prosecution or defence must be discovered and retained before even workers’ feet trod here again.
Death has its own ghoulish attraction. When Lambert and Hook arrived at the entry to the Wilderness, a group of middle-aged and highly respectable National Trust visitors were standing beside the blue-and-white ribbons which delineated a scene of crime. There was nothing to be seen save the comings and goings of the police and their civilian acolytes, but this staid audience lingered here, staring at the foliage of the innocent trees and speculating about what was going on beyond them.
What they now saw was senior men donning the white overalls and plastic foot-coverings designed to prevent the contamination of a crime scene. The grass was still damp after the deluge of the previous day, though the parched earth had drunk it eagerly and left no puddles. The two large men followed the narrow, descending path which had already been delineated by white markers, so as to minimize the effect of feet upon the crime scene.
It was obvious from the first that this was murder. The b
ody lay exactly as it had when Matt Garton had discovered it three and a half hours earlier. It was at the southern extremity of the property and its sightless eyes gazed still at that sun which could never damage them. Lambert knew the civilian scene of crime officer well from previous cases. He gave him a quiet good morning and stood motionless for a few moments, as if death compelled this homage, even from those used to seeing it in its worst forms.
Then he moved the few yards to look down upon the corpse and said, ‘Do we know who it is?’
‘Dennis Charles Cooper. The man in charge of this place.’
Lambert allowed himself a slight moue of distaste. The deaths of men or women in authority were almost invariably more complex to investigate than those of lesser mortals, where the number of suspects was usually much smaller. He looked at the neck of the corpse, at the broken skin and the livid, darkening weals, and said dully, as if it was no more than a formality, ‘Almost certainly murder.’
‘I’d say there’s no doubt of it. The pathologist is over there, waiting to speak to you.’
Lambert left Hook to talk quietly to the SOCO team about what they had found so far and went across to the edge of the clearing, where the pathologist was speaking to the photographer, who had also finished his work and was waiting to depart. The pathologist was a thin, intense man with a small, neatly trimmed beard. Lambert and he were well used to each other’s idiosyncrasies. In answer to the chief super’s unspoken query, he nodded and said with apparent satisfaction, ‘It’s murder all right.’
Homicide brought novelty and excitement into his dull routine, as it did for CID officers. Lambert smiled grimly and said, ‘Manual strangulation?’
‘No, not manual. Some kind of tourniquet was used.’
The first setback. Manual strangulation would almost certainly have meant their killer was male, because of the strength required against a victim fighting for his life. ‘The throat didn’t look as if a wire had bitten into it.’
The pathologist shook his head. ‘The murder instrument wasn’t a wire, or even a rope. Your tourniquet in this case was something broader, nearly an inch wide. Probably two centimetres, now that we’ve all gone metric. I say tourniquet because it was probably thrown round the throat and tightened from behind. The width doesn’t much matter, once someone is twisting it tight on a helpless victim. Whatever was used hasn’t been found at the scene.’
And won’t be, thought Lambert. It was probably miles away by now. Or perhaps at the bottom of the Severn. He glanced back towards the body. ‘I presume he died here.’
‘Almost certainly. He’s quite a heavy man, so it would need two or three people working carefully to dump him here without leaving any evidence. There are no track marks from a vehicle here. And your people will confirm that there’s no sign at the scene of the corpse being dragged to where it lay.’
They had the where and the how of this death. The when was almost invariably the most difficult of the three key questions to establish. Lambert gave a sour smile to that thought before he said, ‘Any idea of time of death?’
The pathologist’s answering smile was equally wry. They were both professionals, both conscious of how wily defence lawyers could make fools of the incautious. ‘The usual qualifications, John. I’ll be more precise when I’ve had him on the slab. If you can find when he last ate, the stomach contents may give us something reasonably exact. In the meantime, I can tell you from rectal temperature taken at the scene and other factors that he hasn’t died in the last few hours.’
‘So he’s been here overnight?’
‘Almost certainly. His clothes were wet on top, but even wetter underneath. That would indicate to me that he died after the fiercest rain in yesterday’s storm, but before at least one of the heavy showers which fell during the evening. That’s the best I can do for you at the moment.’
‘It’s more than I expected. Did he put up a fight?’
‘Again I might be able to tell you more after I’ve got him stripped. At the moment, I’d say he was caught off guard. There’s no immediate evidence of skin or hair under his nails, but a microscope sometimes gives us more than we expect. I’ll give it priority. You should have my report by tomorrow.’
Murder as usual jumped the queue. Lambert took a last look at what had yesterday been a man and today was no more than a CID puzzle, then left the scene.
In the house of the dead man, there was a curious contrast between the uneasy silence within and the unheeding noise of the public outside. A tray with two used cups and saucers and a teapot sat on a low table. An unread newspaper had slipped to the floor and not been picked up. From the windowsill, a black-and-white cat stared at the two strangers with wide-eyed enquiry, then jumped down and strode disdainfully from the room with tail held high.
Alison Cooper’s dark-blonde hair had strands out of place and her face was very white, accentuating the pale blue of her eyes. She wore no make-up and was plainly on edge and in shock. But that was natural enough.
Before Lambert could even introduce himself and Hook, she said, ‘I’ve only known about this for two hours. Will I have to identify him?’
‘In due course, that would be the usual procedure. If you find it too much, we could probably get someone else to do it.’
She nodded but said nothing. He wasn’t sure which option she was agreeing to, but he let that go for the present. He said, ‘I’m Chief Superintendent Lambert and this is Detective Sergeant Hook. We appreciate that this is difficult for you. We shan’t keep you for any longer than is necessary.’
She looked at Hook’s square, reassuring features, then back at his senior. ‘You’re old for a policeman. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
Lambert smiled, trying to loosen her tension. ‘You’re observant. That’s a quality we try to encourage among the people we talk to. And you’re quite right. I was given an extension beyond the usual retiring age a little while ago by the Home Office.’
She gave a high-pitched giggle, which rang loud in the quiet room and showed how nervous she was. ‘I expect that means you’re very successful.’
‘We always speak to the surviving partner first in the case of a suspicious death.’
‘Yes. I suppose that means I’m the prime suspect. That’s what you call it, isn’t it?’
‘Did you kill Mr Cooper?’
‘No. Why would I have done that?’
Lambert could have reeled off a variety of possibilities. Instead he said, ‘In the case of domestic disputes, the partner is often the killer. This does not look like such a crime. We speak to the surviving partner first because he or she is the person likely to know most about the victim. About his habits, his friends and his enemies. We have to form a picture of a victim who can no longer speak for himself.’
‘Yes. That makes sense. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before.’
‘Then let me tell you a little about what happens. We need you to tell us anything you can today. Then, when we’ve spoken to other people and learned a little more about the circumstances surrounding the death, we shall probably ask to speak to you again. That will be in a few days’ time.’
‘Unless you’ve got someone for it by then.’
‘Unless, as you say, we’ve made an arrest by then. When did you last see Mr Cooper?’
‘Yesterday morning. Before the storm began.’ She spoke wonderingly, as if it felt to her more than twenty-four hours ago. Perhaps the fierceness of the downpour had made her think in terms of biblical floods.
‘Where were you last night, Mrs Cooper?’
‘Is that when he died?’
Lambert had never taken his eyes from her face; it was part of his job to study her every reaction. She was a suspect until it proved otherwise, despite his efforts to put her at her ease. Now he gave her a small smile and said, ‘This will be over more quickly if we and not you ask the questions, Mrs Cooper.’
‘Sorry. Last night I was with my friend.’
&nbs
p; ‘Name, please.’ Hook’s first words sounded almost apologetic.
‘Carrie. Carrie North. She’s an old school friend. We’ve kept in touch over the years.’
‘And what time did you return here last night?’
‘I didn’t. I stayed the night at Carrie’s. I didn’t get back here until ten o’clock this morning.’ Alison watched the sergeant record that in his swift, round hand. Her absence seemed somehow more momentous, more damning, when it was written down.
She thought Hook would ask her more; she had this image of him pinning her squirming to the paper, like a small crab which had to be prevented from scurrying away. But it was Lambert who said quietly, ‘Is that something you do often? Staying away overnight, I mean.’
‘No.’ The denial had been immediate and unthinking, as if he had accused her of some awful, damning thing. She pulled herself together and said more reasonably. ‘I’ve done it a few times recently. Carrie lives alone and always has her spare bed made up. As she says, it’s safer not to drive when you’ve had a few drinks, and we tend to enjoy a bottle of wine when we reminisce about old times.’
‘If you have any idea who might have killed Mr Cooper, you should tell us about it now. Even the slightest suspicion is worth voicing at this stage. We shall treat anything you say here in the strictest confidence.’
It was a chance to divert attention away from herself. But her brain would not work when she most needed it. After what seemed to her a long pause, she said woodenly, ‘When you’re in charge of things at a place like this, you’re bound to annoy people. I expect Dennis did that. I kept well clear of what he did at work, but I thought he was a fair man. He must have made some enemies among the staff. I’m sure there are people with grievances, real and imaginary. But I can’t think of anyone who would have wished to kill him.’
