by David Beard
‘No, you may not say so and I do,’ he replied curtly.
CHAPTER 3
Tuesday June 27th
By Tuesday morning, the following day after the discovery of the body in the river, no more revelations had manifested themselves about the case, apart from lurid and somewhat inaccurate details in the press. To Smalacombe’s relief, the papers had made no reference to the celebrities in the village or that the police had visited them. He hoped it would stay that way, at least until some progress had been made.
When he arrived at the office, Tiley was already busy getting the team sorted out, organising the parish hall, liaising with the local uniform branch and detailing people to do the door-to-door interviews, but not all things were running smoothly.
‘I’m having real difficulties with the phone people, boss. I’ve spent an hour listening to Handel’s Water Music and when they finally came on they said it’s something they’ll put on the rota and do in the next few weeks.’
‘Not good enough, we need lines this morning.’
‘I know, but the rank of sergeant doesn’t seem to have the right impact,’ Tiley complained.
Smalacombe picked up the phone and listened interminably himself to Handel. The passage to success was a tortuous one. There ensued a number of irate and extraordinarily rude conversations in which he explained to a thoroughly uncooperative woman, stalling at the other end, that the lines were needed for a bloody murder investigation and not for improved communications for a cheese and wine party. When he had finally resolved the matter he checked his watch to find that he was late for the post mortem.
As he entered the laboratory he could see that Angela and her team were well on the way to concluding their investigation. Although he knew she would be able to give him concrete evidence of the cause of death, what he really needed was something more; a break through, a stroke of good fortune that would give him something to latch on to. He was hoping against hope that the lab report would provide it. Angela Marriott was in a position to give him much information.
‘This is hardly nine o’clock, Chief Inspector,’ Marriot said rather shirtily.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve been waylaid,’ he explained.
‘I have some surprises for you, Mr. Smalacombe,’ the pathologist continued in formal tones and loud enough for her assistants to take notice.
Smalacombe smiled. ‘Nothing surprises me anymore.’
‘She drowned.’
‘I’m surprised!’
‘I thought you might be! But, not in the river, as I wondered yesterday.’
‘So, how do you know? And, words of one syllable please.’
‘Because, there is soapy water in the lungs! Is that basic enough for you? There is not much of that in the upper reaches of the Dart you know.’ She moved from the laboratory, through the doors to the washroom. Smalacombe followed her in.
‘You’re getting as saucy as me. She died in the bath then. That may account for her nakedness.’
‘Yes, I would say in the bath.’ She stopped and thought for a moment. ‘It would explain why the blows were so concentrated on the face. The rim of the bath would have made things awkward when wielding something, so it protected the rest of her.’
Smalacombe enlarged on her train of thought. ‘You’re right. Whoever did it would have had to position himself, say, behind the head of the bath. He couldn’t have hit her from the side.’ It encouraged him. Already he had something relevant. ‘There aren’t many bathrooms with that sort of space.’
Angela removed her gloves and protective gown and began to scrub her hands. Smalacombe leant against the stainless steel fittings, crossed his legs and folded his arms.
‘Surely, such an attack would have killed her anyway?’ He looked to the ceiling and eyed the light bulb.
‘The blows would have certainly rendered her unconscious very quickly and would definitely have killed her before they ceased, as you suggest. It was a dreadfully vicious, prolonged attack.’ She paused and looked across to him. Their eyes met briefly but Smalacombe looked away, to the floor this time, to study his shoes. ‘The blows were so numerous and so concentrated that I can’t begin to give you a count. There are multiple fractures to the skull, which will be listed in the report. The thing is, whoever did it wasn’t prepared to wait or to take the risk of her recovering. It was a belt and braces job if you ask me. She was pushed under and drowned or she may have gone under in an instinctive way to avoid the blows. It would have been easy to hold her there, but the attack was renewed after death. Just to make doubly sure I would think.’
‘Killing her wasn’t enough, eh? Once he started he couldn’t stop. Lost control?’
‘Seems like it. It was frenzied and with a blunt or flat instrument and I’d say fairly large.’
‘Does that mean heavy?’
‘Don’t know. The temporomandibular joints were completely destroyed and…’
Smalacombe looked heavenwards and sighed, which caused her to hesitate. He followed this with a quizzical expression. She in turn raised her eyebrows and imitated his actions by looking upwards in an attitude of exaggerated mock exasperation. ‘The jaw is smashed to pieces,’ she said very deliberately and put extra energy into her washing, splashing water all over the place. As she did so she looked him straight in the eyes. He smiled in return. ‘You really are going to have to study your home doctor’s book you know,’ she added.
‘Every time I read it I find something wrong with me. I’m a policeman, not a brain surgeon.’
‘You can say that again,’ she answered with feeling, still working vigorously on her hands. Smalacombe felt aggrieved. She realised he had taken it more seriously than she intended and she regretted the remark immediately. She decided it was best to plough on with the business and to bury it as soon as possible. ‘Most of the teeth have been knocked out, so I will have difficulty if we need dental records. Also, the fillings of what’s left have been dislodged. I found three in her stomach and four teeth, so she must have swallowed before she lost consciousness.’ She had stopped scrubbing now and moved across to the towel.
‘Lots of blood then,’ Smalacombe observed.
‘I would think the bathroom would need redecorating after this lot.’
‘Anything else?’
‘She had tea and scones, just before she died.’
‘So, we’re looking for a very polite murderer then.’ She returned and adopted a similar pose to Smalacombe. They leant against the sink side by side.
‘Tres gentile as the French would say,’ Marriott responded. ‘The scones were made with sour milk, a culinary speciality around these parts I’m told.’
‘Now, now, Angela not too much detail please. Making deductions, especially if they’re wrong, is exclusively my department.’ It was Angela Marriott’s turn to smile. ‘She was killed locally then? Is that what you’re saying?’ Smalacombe asked her.
She smiled again. ‘I’m not saying anything. As we’ve just established, such things are your department.’
‘Touché!’
‘There are other things that will interest you. As I thought yesterday, she wasn’t sexually assaulted but she has just had an abortion; within the last few days.’ Smalacombe was relieved to hear this, as it was another invaluable piece of information.
‘That might just give us the lead we need.’ He now had something to investigate. ‘Anything else I might be interested in?’
‘Perhaps! Her ear lobe was ripped, probably to remove the earring, and it was done at a considerable time after death, certainly much later than the other injuries.’
‘After she was dumped?’
‘As you’ve just said, you’re the one who makes the deductions. By the looks of things I’d say the rings on her fingers went at the same time.’
‘Oh come on, you can do better than that! After she was dumped?’ he asked again.
Angela Marriot conceded. ‘It would be a reasonable deduction, yes.’
‘And w
hat about the belly button thing?’
‘The belly button thing as you so delicately put it was simply not there as far as I can see. Her navel was pierced as you recognised, but I doubt she was wearing jewellery there when she died. There’s no bruising or injury to suggest otherwise. The same applies to the labia, which were also pierced and I expect that that jewellery would have been removed because of the abortion.’
‘It’s a different world, Angela,’ Smalacombe said shaking his head.
‘Not like it was in our day, eh? Well, you should know,’ she added and gave him a sly wink which brought a wry smile to his face. Smalacombe wondered about moving the conversation to more personal matters. He felt disturbed by such thoughts but to his relief it was clear that she wanted to keep the conversation businesslike. She moved away and into an anteroom as she continued with her verbal report. Smalacombe followed and felt like a puppy dog. This was Angela Marriot’s domain; she was confident, in charge, at home. He wasn’t used to the feeling of subordination.
‘There are also some interesting marks on the body; long thin bruises across her shoulders and the backs of her thighs. I think she was carried to the river in something.’ She never looked over her shoulder, as she knew he would be behind her.
‘What? A wheelbarrow, something like that?’
‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. Could be!’
‘That’s about it,’ she said as she turned and faced him. Her body language told him the interview was over. ‘I’ll compile the complete report as soon as possible.’
Smalacombe nodded slowly. He was grateful that she had kept it very impersonal. Any visitations of the past would have been uncomfortable for both of them. ‘Many thanks, Angela and it has been good to see you again,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ she whispered. She gave him a broad smile and tightened her lips. He reached out to touch her arm as a parting gesture but she quickly turned and moved away.
He sat in his car, phoned Tiley’s mobile and outlined the results of the post mortem. ‘I’ll be in shortly,’ he advised. ‘Are you back in the office?’
‘Yes.’ The sound began to break up. ‘Can you hear me?’
There was a long pause but Tiley’s voice eventually came through. ‘Yea, most of the time. Helen Mirren wants to see you, as soon as you get back,’ Tiley advised.
‘Bugger!’ was the laconic reply. Reporting back was always a bind and at this stage in an investigation there was never enough information to satisfy his superiors. Furthermore, the last thing he wanted to hear was that the budget wouldn’t stretch to a major investigation and could he clear it up within the week and could he…. What they really wanted was a bloody witch doctor not a detective. The phone went dead and the conversation was over.
He walked through the corridors of the police station and strode into the Senior Investigating Officer’s office without knocking. Their relationship was comparatively new but by now a relaxed one. Detective Superintendent Sheila Milner had only been in the post for just under a year. She was a small, neat lady with a smart black bow holding her blond hair in a ponytail. She had a beautifully smooth complexion with a light summer tan, which required no make-up. She looked much younger than her forty-two years. She held out her hand to show him to a chair. Smalacombe sat and helped himself to a peppermint. He offered her one but she shook her head. She put down her pen and folded her hands on the desk in front of her.
What had seriously rankled with Smalacombe when she was first appointed was the belief by so many around him and from Milner herself that he would be resentful at having a woman in charge. Nothing could have been further from the truth; he didn’t care who did the job, providing it wasn’t him, and providing they could do it well. There seemed to be a natural expectation that people of his generation, used to the old style macho policing, would find it hard to adjust and would carry around with them a baggage of sexism. He resented it enormously, especially when, in his early dealings with her, Milner surrounded herself with an impenetrable curtain of uncompromising authority in order to protect herself from this perception. It made it doubly difficult for him to be a supportive member of her team and on many occasions he had come close to giving her a hard time whilst checking out his pension rights to cover himself.
After a while, things calmed down and there was now normality about their relationship based on mutual respect. Their meetings were usually cordial. It was something they had both worked hard to achieve, but they each knew that they approached professional challenges from different directions. In consequence, there were often differences of opinion but it no longer soured their relationship. For her part, Milner realised she had misjudged Smalacombe and she was keen to repair any damage her obdurate behaviour had caused. She was always aware and worried about accountability, the image of the force and finances, whilst he was solely concerned with catching villains, even if it meant an unorthodox methodology on occasion. She knew, despite the frustrations it caused, that their complementary skills made them an excellent management team and as the senior partner it was her role to see that it flourished.
‘So, what have you got to tell me?’ she asked.
Together they discussed what little Smalacombe and his colleagues had gleaned the previous day and he filled her in with the findings of the morning’s post mortem but it was clear to him, that as the conversation progressed, she became more uneasy.
‘Dexter, you visited these celebs,’ she began in a manner intended to transfer her disquiet to him.
‘Well I thought it appropriate after the conversation in the pub, mam. I had to start somewhere.’
‘When it’s just you and I, it’s Sheila. OK?’ she said, quite unexpectedly. This was yet another attempt to bury the past and foster a closer relationship. She calculated that a much more relaxed interaction between them would serve to achieve a better rapport.
Smalacombe reflected on his recent conversation with Clive Tiley. He considered his sergeant’s amusing reply but decided not to follow his example. He would take her up on the offer.
‘Look, the press are already filling up their pages with the discovery of this body. Front page in one of the tabloids. Have you seen some of the crap this morning?’ she carried on.
‘I have,’ he interrupted, ‘but it didn’t come from me. In fact, I’ve told them sod all. I intend to withhold much of the pathological evidence. I’m certainly going to keep the abortion under wraps, the bath thing, and the earring for the time being.’
‘Good, but that aside, if these TV people are involved, you won’t be able to get down there for traffic jams and paparazzi.’
‘We can’t avoid it. If it happens, it happens.’
‘Maybe, but what really worries me, if the press find out you’ve been sniffing around and these people are as clean as a whistle...’
‘Then it’ll backfire on us,’ Smalacombe interrupted.
‘You’re damn right it will. We can’t foul up on this one. I want no short cuts, no impromptu activities…’
‘Impromptu activities? What me…,’ he hesitated for a moment, ‘Sheila?’ he said practising the new address and pretending to be affronted.
‘Yes, you! You must, on no account get in touch with these people again until you have discussed it with me.’
‘I hear what you are saying but the actress is not telling me all she knows. Why else would she lie?’ Smalacombe said, as he rose and went to the door.
‘I haven’t finished yet’. Smalacombe returned to his seat. ‘This is really going to stretch our budget you know, Dexter.’ Here it comes, Smalacombe thought. ‘Do you reckon you can clear this up in a week or so?’
‘If the guy comes forward and says, “It’s a fair cop, guv.” Otherwise I haven’t got the foggiest idea. It’s been a sod this morning trying to get phone lines for instance,’ he replied with honesty.
Milner sighed deeply. ‘We’ve just been overloaded with major investigations these last few months.’
‘Well I co
uld ask all murderers to spread their activities out a bit better if you like, say one a month and no more.’ She stared at him angrily. He continued, in order to mollify his sarcasm, ‘I’m aware of what you say, but I need a good team, especially if the press are taking great interest. Yea, it’s going to cost, but what do you want? Egg on your face?’
Milner gave him a quizzical look. ‘You’ve made your point,’ she said and suddenly she picked up on a previous comment. ‘Phone lines? What bloody phone lines?’
‘This is a particularly nasty crime you know. I’m setting up an incident room down there and the mobiles don’t …’
‘So that’s it? I’ve just had the phone company on about your appalling rudeness.’
‘Well, I hope you kept up the tradition!’
‘I’ll ignore that. Why should I have to grovel on your behalf? That sort of attitude doesn’t do any good. When are they putting the lines in?’
‘This afternoon.’ A broad grin spread across Smalacombe’s face. ‘
‘There are ways and means with dealing with things.’
‘Yes, but I got a result.’
‘Maybe, but how many times have I got to sort these things out afterwards?’ She decided there was no point in continuing this any further and she returned to the broad thrust of the conversation. ‘Look, it’s things like incident rooms that really run away with the money, Dexter. Is it really necessary?’
‘Yes I think it is. It’s either that or the local uniformed lads running up and down here. The parish hall will cost about a tenner a day, that’s all. The phone lines won’t be prohibitively costly. It’ll be a nightmare getting interviewees up here and the like. There’s a lot of on-site work still to do. Sergeant Tiley and I will commute. We don’t need lodgings; it’s not that far away. But, we do need a base there: for the moment at any rate, perhaps no more than a few days. I don’t visualize keeping it running after we have done all the door to doors and sussed out the locals.’
‘OK,’ she said with some resignation in her voice. ‘I’ll handle the press, that’s the least I can do. Just refer them to me.’
