The Missing Earring

by David Beard

  ‘She has a Maori pattern on her left shoulder and a swallow tail butterfly on her bum.’

  ‘Probably lots of people have them. Are you sure you would recognise them as unique.’

  ‘Pretty sure, yes. She also has an appendectomy scar, a mole on her left breast just below the nipple, a pierced navel and labia and besides I’d recognise her rings. Would I have to go to Devon?’

  ‘‘Fraid so.’

  ‘Who pays for my loss of earnings?’

  ‘Perhaps we should discuss it with the tax man.’

  Golding gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Bastard.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job, Miss Golding. We’ll make all the arrangements. You could be down and back in five or six hours.’

  ‘Why can’t I fly down?’

  ‘Because, we bloody can’t afford it.’

  ‘I can’t afford not to,’ she answered but this time Smalacombe detected she was teasing him. ‘OK. Give me notice and I’ll come down, but I can’t make it for a couple of days.’

  ‘Many thanks, you’re a gem.’

  ‘It’s not for you, it’s for Anna.’

  As they drove home they discussed the interview in detail and also a number of side issues.

  ‘Why the hell did she arrange for us to see her at Heathrow?’ Smalacombe wondered. ‘I mean, it’s a hell on earth place and out of her way, I’d say.’

  ‘Not at all, you’re wrong there, Dexter. Girls like her do most of their business in that area.’

  ‘I never thought of that, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘We country boys don’t know the half of it.’

  They drove in silence for a while, Smalacombe mulling over the interview whilst Tiley concentrated on the image of the thigh he had studied when her dress rode up.

  ‘What worries me, Clive,’ Smalacombe spoke up and broke the silence, ‘is, we’ve already got a whore, a TV celeb, an international film star and if we aren’t careful a bloody cabinet minister. We have as much chance of keeping this out of the papers as a story of the prime minister flashing in Trafalgar Square. Not the job for a copper out in the sticks, is it?’

  ‘You’ll make a name for yourself yet,’ Tiley observed.

  ‘Anyway, they’re all people like the rest of us and if they’re villains we’ll get ‘em. Plenty of their kind go to jail you know.’

  ‘I can quite see how she earns five grand a week,’ Tiley mused.

  ‘And the rest! That’s a bad week she said. Here we go again!’

  ‘Her bloody legs go on forever.’ He stopped and visualised the moment she crossed them as she settled herself in her chair. He looked across to his companion who was showing no emotion whatsoever. ‘Come on, don’t kid me, so could you,’ Tiley challenged.

  ‘I’ve never paid for it yet lad and I’m not going to start now. Besides Freda would want to know where the money went. Mind you, Golding is smart. And confident! She weighed me up I must say and I’m not bloody used to that.’ He considered this to be the best response to Tiley’s remark.

  ‘Has she conned us do you think? Do you feel we would be more interested in what she chose not to tell us? I think there’s bits missing,’ Tiley expounded. ‘She may well have told us all about her business knowing it would throw us off the scent. She’s certainly clever enough.’

  ‘She never mentioned the abortion for a start.’

  ‘Perhaps she took it for granted that we knew. She must have told the Met.’

  ‘We might have to see the minister if other things blow up.’ Smalacombe gave a loud laugh. ‘Bloody hell Clive, the boss will shit herself when I tell her.’

  By the late afternoon Smalacombe and Tiley were back in their offices. Smalacombe walked up to the SIO’s office, a woman constable was by the door with an armful of folders.

  ‘Is she in?’ he asked her.

  ‘She’s busy sir, she’s with the local MP I think. I’ve got to take these things in to her,’ she answered whilst struggling to avoid dropping the top folder as the bottom ones were slipping out of place from the crook in her arm.

  Smalacombe helped to rearrange her load. ‘I don’t care if she’s with Prince Phillip I need to see her now.’ The constable shook her head, ‘She’s given me strict orders, sir,’ she explained with hangdog eyes.

  ‘Just tell her I’m off to Longtor Manor then. It’ll work better than senna pods.’

  Smalacombe knew she would be contacting him so he asked Tiley to drive. It was all so well, as no sooner had they left the parking lot when his mobile rang. It was Sheila Milner. He looked across to Tiley, ‘I told you so,’ he said. He pressed the button and listened.

  ‘I thought I told you…’

  ‘Yes I know but you were busy.’

  ‘How sure are you that they are mixed up in this?’

  ‘I’m not, I just wanted a ride in the country,’ he goaded her.

  ‘I hope you’ve checked your pension rights,’ she warned.

  It was time to put her in the picture. ‘We have a lot more information at our disposal, mam, and we’re certain that they knew Anna Turle…’

  ‘Who on earth is Anna Turle?’

  ‘I’m sorry, mam, but she’s the girl found dead in the Dart.’

  There was a loud sigh down the phone followed by a pause that Smalacombe decided was not sensible to curtail. He waited.

  ‘And why wasn’t I kept informed of all this?’ There was more than a touch of anger in her voice. ‘People are asking me questions. I have our MP with me now…’

  ‘Perhaps he knows Anna Turle,’ Smalacombe interrupted, as he couldn’t resist the jibe after Rita Golding’s revelations.

  ‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ she shouted down the phone.

  Whoops! ‘Mam, I just haven’t had time to keep you up to speed since we found out. But, that’s precisely what I’m doing now and why I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Well,’ she sounded more amenable after quickly assessing his reasoning, ‘what do I need to know?’

  Smalacombe explained to her his meeting with Golding and how the evidence so far pointed to Anna Turle as the victim. As was often the case, Milner was frustrated that once again she was the last to know. On the other hand, he couldn’t keep popping in every five minutes to tell her what he was doing, she reflected. She decided to let it pass.

  In turn Smalacombe decided it was time to end the call and he added, ‘Oh, I think we’re breaking up I can’t hear you very well. I’ll be in touch.’ He pushed the button and put his phone away.

  There was a heavy mist on the moor, which meant that Smalacombe couldn’t see the countryside he so dearly loved. ‘Up on your left Clive, just over the back of that rise…’

  ‘What rise? I can see bugger all,’ Tiley complained as he needed all of his concentration to follow the unfamiliar road that was emerging in inadequate lengths in front of him.

  ‘I know, but take it from me; there’s a rise on your right, right?

  ‘Right!’

  ‘Well, behind it is a place called Grimspound…’

  ‘Many people live there?’ Tiley enquired.

  ‘No, it’s bloody prehistoric. Philistine! It’s pretty well preserved too. You’re not interested are you?’

  ‘Of course I am, but it’s just mist, like this bloody road.’

  Smalacombe decided to say no more; in any event they would be at their destination within another ten minutes or so.

  When they arrived the lane to Longtor Manor was filled with cars pulled in at every available passing space and gateway. As they disembarked at the end and walked through the gates the reason was obvious and exactly what the SIO had predicted. Camped out on the front lawn was a small army of reporters and cameramen. Somehow they had got wind of their previous visit. Some, who were from the local press, recognised Smalacombe immediately and called after him,

  ‘What can you tell us Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I can tell you that you’re trespassing. You should be outside the
gates, in the lane,’ he shouted back over his shoulder. His comment was met with derisory laughter and whistles. He turned and faced them. ‘How long have you lot been here?’

  Someone shouted from the melee, ‘Since last night.’ Another shouted, ‘Come on give us a story.’

  ‘I really have nothing concrete to report and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Then why are you here? Is it about the body in the river?’ the voice continued. Then another piped up, ‘Have you discovered who she is?’

  ‘Answer to question one: I’ve come to discuss the security arrangements here.’ This was met with another barrage of ironic laughter. ‘And, the answer to question two, is no,’ he lied.

  With that he carried on to the front door and knocked. There was no reply. Someone shouted out, ‘We know she’s in, she just won’t answer.’ Another voice added, ‘She won’t speak to the press, so you’d better have your ID ready.’

  Dexter Smalacombe felt uneasy about the situation. He felt sure Rebecca Winsom would have peeked to see who was there and that she would have recognised him and probably with some relief. He was also concerned that the press wanted information he was in no position to give, which usually meant that they just made it up as they went along, often to the detriment of his credibility, the investigation, and the police force in general. He would have to assess very quickly how much to tell them, without compromising his work, in order to ensure that what was reported had some reality.

  After a long wait the two walked to the rear of the house. The back door was locked but the door to the swimming pool complex, which was concealed by a high wall, was not. Fortunately, the press hadn’t realised it was there and the pair intuitively checked to see if they had been followed. When they were sure it was all clear they quietly opened the door and entered.They intended to bolt it behind them, as they were only too aware how intrusive the news hounds could be, but the door was damaged and it was not possible.

  Floating in the middle of the pool, face up and naked was Rebecca Winsom. Her arms were spread-eagled over a lime green aqua noodle that supported her. It rose upright on either side of her torso but one end was ragged, blackened and badly damaged. The water surrounding her was a delicate shade of pink changing to a deep blood red around her head and shoulders. Like Anna Turle her features had been severely damaged.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Tiley.

  ‘That buggers up my theories, Clive,’ said Smalacombe. ‘Back to the drawing board, eh?’ The two detectives stood silent for a while collecting their thoughts. A whole range of difficulties was manifesting itself, not least of which were the lack of suspects and the pack outside. ‘She was going to start the trail for us. She’s not going to tell us very much now is she?’

  ‘Who do you reckon did this?’ asked Tiley, still feeling shell-shocked but realising it was a stupid question to ask.

  ‘Billy,’ replied Smalacombe, referring to the dog in order to provide an even more ridiculous answer. ‘Sod it! This will be front page news tomorrow in every paper in the country.’ The thought unnerved him. After the initial shock, the chief inspector quickly pulled himself together and began to plan the necessary procedures. He checked his watch; it was just after five. ‘Get hold of Doc Holliday. Get SOCO and forensics down here, the pathologist; it will be Angela Marriott again. Get in touch with the victim’s husband, what’s he called?’

  ‘Hillman.’

  ‘Get on to the local nick and get the uniform up here ASAP. I want them to keep one car at the bottom of the lane and block all traffic going in or out, apart from us that is and the ones we authorise…’

  ‘But…’ Tiley began to interrupt.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. What about the mob in the garden?’ Tiley nodded. ‘Well, they could be material witnesses. I’m not having them galloping off with fabricated stories. They’re not leaving until I say so. One of them may have done it for all we know.’

  ‘You’re playing with fire.’

  ‘How? The house was unlocked and they are all trespassing on a murder scene. Somebody said they’d been here since last night.’

  ‘Oh, that was a joke,’ Tiley reasoned and Smalacombe stared back; the look was enough to convey to the sergeant his views to his response.

  ‘Tell the uniform I want everyone interviewed, names and addresses, when they arrived here and what they have seen.’ He could see that his sergeant was uneasy. ‘Now, Clive,’ he insisted.

  ‘Helen Mirren will do her nut, Dexter. Don’t you think…’

  ‘No I bloody don’t. What’s the problem? If they were a bunch of itinerant travellers camped out there, would you let them go?’ He paused. Tiley couldn’t argue with that. ‘No, so why make exceptions? The culprit may be posing with them for all we know. Now do it! And be careful where you walk, we don’t want complaints about damaging evidence or they’ll say we’re all bloody incompetent.’

  ‘What are you going to tell them?’

  ‘Fuck all. I’ve got nothing to tell them until she has been identified; you know that, as well as I do.’

  Smalacombe stood waiting, staring at the terrible scene, guarding it until the uniform came. Tiley began to use his phone with trepidation. Did he have a signal? To his great relief he heard the dialling tone and he began to make his calls. After a while Smalacombe could stay there no longer. He ordered Tiley to stay by the body. He took the opportunity to wander up into the house to see if there was anything that obviously presented itself. There were a number of papers, notebooks and a diary on a writing desk. Most of the papers were concerned with the occupants’ work but there were a number of scraps with a few jottings and numbers. Smalacombe put on a pair of plastic gloves and casually thumbed through the diary. He rummaged through the wastebasket using his pen to move things around and then took up a few crumpled pieces. On one was a telephone number. He reached across to the phone and dialled.

  It was quickly answered by a female voice with a strong cockney accent. ‘Ritandanna Escor’ Aygency.’ Smalacombe replaced the receiver and left the paper on the desk. Finally, after being unable to find anything else that might trigger his imagination he replaced the remaining scraps back into the wastebasket. Forensics will pick it all up anyway, he thought. As an afterthought he put the scrap with the telephone number back with the rest. It would be a good test to see just how efficient his support team is. What a nasty bastard I am sometimes, he mused.

  About a quarter of an hour passed before they heard the police arrive. By this time both he and Tiley were standing by the body.

  ‘Go out and organise them, Clive. I’ll stay here.’ Soon the place was busy. Doc Holliday arrived and SOCO were very quickly at their business; setting up cameras, dusting for fingerprints.

  After a while, when the chief inspector was happy with the investigations inside, he went out on to the front garden to face a baying bunch that had made no effort to conceal their hostility after hearing Sergeant Tiley’s news earlier.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ one of them said. Clive handed his boss a list. Smalacombe looked at it and sighed.

  ‘If you want a story you will do it my way,’ he began.

  ‘We don’t do deals,’ shouted another from the back of the pack.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Smalacombe and he turned to return in to the house.

  ‘Wait a minute, Chief Inspector, you can at least give us a clue,’ someone shouted after him. Dexter Smalacombe stopped and paused deliberately, then slowly turned to face them. He held the list in front of him.

  ‘What do you think this is; a game of Cluedo? There has been a serious crime committed on these premises, possibly when some of you were here or approaching here. As far as I’m concerned you are all, therefore, material witnesses to this case.’

  ‘What sort of crime? Who were all those people you let inside?’

  ‘I’m in no position to tell you at the moment, I could not say for certain myself.’

  ‘Then why is the police surgeon here?�
� one of the locals shouted out knowingly. ‘Does it involve Rebecca Winsom?’ The press persisted with their questions. Smalacombe ignored them. He waited for silence like a schoolmaster. Eventually things quietened down and he felt in control.

  ‘I note from this list that you have given my sergeant that we have three Winston Churchills in our midst, two Lloyd Georges and one Nelson Mandela,’ he paused, as there was a ripple of amusement amongst the crowd. ‘There’s also a Gwyneth Paltrow and a Lord Archer. Well, that figures. Now, I shall ask the constables to compile this again and I would warn you all that obstructing the police in the course of their duties is a serious offence. I won’t hesitate to prosecute anyone who refuses to co-operate.’

  For the first time there was silence. Smalacombe continued, ‘and should this all be completed to my satisfaction,’ he added, waving the piece of paper in the air, ‘then I may have some more information for you and you will be free to go. Otherwise you will have to remain here until our initial investigations are completed and that could be tomorrow dinnertime at the earliest,’ he concluded, with an excessive exaggeration designed to concentrate the reporters’ minds. He turned to go a second time and delivered his parting shot as he did so. ‘Like I said, gentlemen, and ladies,’ he added quickly, as he saw two female reporters, ‘do it my way and we’ll all get along fine.’

  The chief inspector went back to the scene of the crime. ‘How’s the OK Corral?’ he asked. Doc Holliday ignored it once again, as he had done just two days before.

  ‘It is very strange, Chief Inspector. I thought at first it was an exact copy of the previous murder. All identification removed and the face badly damaged.’

  ‘That was to begin with, but now you have a different idea?’

  ‘Well, yes, you see, she was shot, Dexter, with a shotgun, there are pellets embedded everywhere. If you look down you can see some on the floor of the pool, which leads me to believe she was murdered where she was found.’

  Smalacombe was annoyed with himself. He could see the pellets quite clearly and it was something he should have noticed when he first arrived. ‘How long has she been there?’