The Missing Earring

by David Beard

  ‘I think that’s something for the pathologist. My job is to confirm death.’

  ‘I could have done that myself,’ Smalacombe answered testily. Doc Holliday gave a broad smile and kept his counsel.

  The door opened and a constable ushered in Angela Marriott and her secretary.

  ‘This is becoming a habit, Dexter,’ she said. ‘Twice in one week.’

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ he responded and she gave him a knowing look. Tiley felt very confused.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Smalacombe asked the fingerprint team.

  ‘Finger prints all over the place, sir, but we would expect that. I’m not sure our investigations in that respect will be of great help.’

  ‘Collate them all. You never know, you may have just the thing we’re looking for.’

  ‘There is one thing though,’ one of team began, ‘there’s an earring in the pool. Over there, look, but the deceased’s rings are still in place.’ Smalacombe indicated to Tiley who had just crept in from the front lawn, to fish it out. After a while he found a net and scooped it up. Clive Tiley took one look at it and recognised it immediately. ‘It’s Anna Turle’s sir, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Give it to forensics, they may find something on it.’

  ‘I reckon she’s been dead at least twelve hours and probably not more than twenty four, Chief Inspector, that’s the best estimate at the moment,’ said Angela Marriott who had now taken over the proceedings from Doc Holliday.

  ‘Check the list Sergeant,’ Smalacombe ordered.

  ‘There are two reporters, who said they were here at six this morning, sir,’ Tiley answered promptly. Smalacombe checked his watch. ‘Hmm. Twelve and a half hours ago, ‘he looked across to the pathologist.

  ‘Possible,’ she said, ‘there’s a considerable margin of error in these cases. It’s always difficult when water is involved and this water is very warm.’

  ‘Eighty degrees,’ Tiley confirmed. Marriot and Smalacombe exchanged glances. ‘But it is a constant heat, that should help surely?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Marriot concurred, ‘but, I’ve only been here five minutes sergeant. At twenty-six degrees it will change things considerably. I’ll be able to give you better information tomorrow.’ Smalacombe was confused: twenty six degrees, eighty degrees, what were they talking about?

  She began packing up and indicated to the mortuary attendants to remove the body. ‘There’s not a lot more I can do here with the body in the middle of a pool. The PM will be at nine tomorrow. Try to be on time, and I work in centigrade.’

  Smalacombe went out again to address the multitude. They were much subdued and more co-operative. They had taken account of all the comings and goings, which indicated to them that the police were dealing with a suspicious death.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ he began with a deliberate formality, ‘we have found a body on these premises and we believe the person concerned has died in suspicious circumstances.’ Questions began to be raised from the throng but Smalacombe raised his hand, shook his head and waited for silence. ‘You know as well as I do that I cannot confirm who it is until the body has been properly identified and....’ Again there were interruptions which forced Smalacombe to wait once more, ‘and,’ he repeated, indicating he wanted their undivided attention, ‘and I cannot tell you the cause of death either, until that too has been confirmed at the PM.’

  He paused. The group remained attentive, some had their notebooks out, others recording devices. ‘What I can tell you is that the person concerned died sometime last night or early this morning but probably before six or thereabouts. You now know why I have detained you as there are a number of you who were here or hereabouts at that time and I would like to interview them. Finally, so that no one can accuse us of not doing our job properly, we will ask anyone who has not shown us their press card to come forward and prove their identity. The rest of you are free to go unless you feel you have some relevant information that may be useful to us. You may have seen something on the way here, for instance. Thank you.’

  ‘Is the body male or female?’ one of the local reporters asked. Smalacombe smiled, he knew what they wanted.

  ‘It was face down,’ he lied again, ‘so I can’t tell you; it’ll all be in the report when it’s finalised.’ There was much amusement from both sides; they all knew the rules of the game and it was no surprise to the chief inspector that none of them moved. Such a story was too good to miss.

  CHAPTER 5

  Thursday June 29th

  It was early on Thursday morning and Sheila Milner was pacing up and down her office. Smalacombe stood by her desk like a spectator at a tennis tournament watching her move fore and back. There was something about her whole demeanour that made her much more attractive when she was angry. It also meant that a rollicking from his irate superior had a sort of pleasurable edge to it.

  ‘I told you I would handle the press,’ she said, spitting out each word as if she was vomiting poison.

  ‘I wasn’t going to the sermon on the mount. I didn’t expect a multitude,’ he explained trying to defend himself. ‘I couldn’t get you on your mobile…’

  ‘I don’t believe you even tried.’

  ‘Well, what was I supposed to do, leave them there and come up here and fetch you?’

  ‘No, but what you weren’t supposed to do was upset every bloody reporter from here to Wapping.’ She spread her hands wide in front of her and moved them up and down with each syllable, using her body language to emphasise her displeasure. ‘I dread to think what angle they’ll take in the papers over the next few days, especially if we don’t get a result soon.’ She stopped, turned, and faced him. ‘We’re talking about a front page story in every newspaper in the land.’

  ‘Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me as well.’

  ‘I’m being pushed to take you off the case. Do you know that?’

  ‘They were material witnesses…’

  ‘Balls, Dexter,’ she riposted even more angrily. ‘This sort of cock up is precisely what concerns me about you. You have the most extraordinary facility to get up all the wrong noses! Not one of them had any relevant info.’ Smalacombe was amused how lax her language became as she got angrier.

  ‘That’s probably because they haven’t volunteered it,’ he said. She looked puzzled by his explanation. ‘I expect there’s some bastard out there ferreting away on an exclusive and he thinks he’s got a head start on us,’ Dexter Smalacombe reasoned.

  Milner remained staring at him. She calmed down a little, eventually looked away and said with a hint of deflation, ‘You may well be right.’ She returned to her desk, sat down and waved her right hand in a vague circular motion, which Smalacombe took to be an indication to sit down. ‘It’s a mess, Dexter. The chief wants you off the case,’ she repeated, as she felt she had received insufficient reaction the last time she mentioned it.

  ‘So, who’s going to replace me?’

  ‘There isn’t anyone else; you know that, but any more cock-ups and I will just have to find someone. I told him you were the only one I could rely upon to get a result. Do you know what he said?’ Dexter never attempted to answer. ‘But, at what cost? What bloody cost, I ask you? If it comes to it, I suppose, they’ll just get someone from outside. If there’s a London connection, they’ll be happy for the Met to take it on.’ She sighed, ‘How far have you got anyway?’

  He filled her in with all the details. Hillman was back in Longtor Manor and Smalacombe just had a feeling that he would be hurrying back to the security of Spain and away from the press post haste. It was imperative he and Sergeant Tiley went to see him as soon as possible.

  ‘The press will still be there, you know,’ he said. ‘I just can’t tell them anything much until I am sure.’

  ‘You can give them the circumstances of Rebecca Winsom’s death.’

  ‘I don’t know that myself yet; the post mortem is just starting, I should be there. Now! In any even
t, they will want more than that,’ he worried. ‘Anyway, I thought you said you would deal with them?’

  ‘I will when they’re here, but I can’t keep going down there. They’ll think I don’t trust you to do your job,’ she said, backing off as she began to realise how delicate these communications were.

  ‘Well, you don’t trust me.’ They both smiled. ‘Are you going to leave the press to me, then?’

  ‘I have no option, as long as it all remains at the scene, but for heaven’s sake…’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Listen, before you go…’ she pointed towards him with the forefinger of her left hand and moved it up and down to emphasise each syllable, ‘I do trust you. I just wish you weren’t such a prick at times.’ In an odd sense he was relieved she was prepared to reprimand him in this way. Clearly she trusted him. She knew he would not run off and complain to their superiors. It showed confidence in their working relationship, otherwise she would have been much more circumspect in her choice of language in these politically correct times. He turned to go feeling refreshed; unlimited praise could not have reassured him as much as her closing remark.

  ‘Thanks! It’s nice to have real praise,’ he said and let himself out.

  Angela Marriot pointedly looked at the clock on the wall when Smalacombe arrived. He took no notice and carried on as normal.

  ‘So, what have you got for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, she wasn’t moved about. I believe she died in the pool, so you’re not going to find blood and gore elsewhere. And, the shots killed her by the way. The injuries were horrendous. I get the feeling the murderer didn’t want to hang around.’

  ‘Shots? You said shots? Plural!’

  ‘Yes. Both barrels, I think; one full in the face and the other a little lower in the neck and upper torso and to the side. There is damage to the scapula.’

  ‘The shot had spread then.’

  ‘It is consistent with the distance between the side of the pool and where she was found.’

  ‘Does this mean that any forensic evidence will have been diluted in ten thousand gallons of chlorinated water?’

  ‘Afraid so! I’m pretty sure all the action took place in the pool area.’

  ‘Are you saying he barged in with a shotgun whilst she was swimming, shot her, and scarpered?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything, as I have to keep reminding you that’s your department’s problem, not mine. All I know is, she died where she was found; in the pool. If he stripped her and brought her from elsewhere beforehand, well, that’s not my brief, Chief Inspector,’ she answered with a hint of weariness. ‘But, as you want my opinion, I would say that such a scenario is highly unlikely. There was no bruising or any other injuries apart from the pellets. So, I’m pretty sure she was having a night time swim and he disturbed her.’

  ‘Anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘No sexual assault; she hadn’t recently had sex. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime on Tuesday and I would say she died around two or three in the morning.’

  ‘That’s a hell of difference to what you said yesterday.’

  ‘No, I gave you a minimum and maximum time span yesterday and I stick by it. There’s always a problem when a body is in water, as you well know. The secret here is that the pool was a constant temperature, so I have been able to make a reasonably accurate assessment.’

  ‘What the hell was she doing swimming at that time of night?’

  Marriot shrugged. ‘There’s no law against it.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘No, she’s clean.’

  ‘Look, this will be on the front page of every paper in the country tomorrow. The super will certainly have to make a statement later on today and she’s just got to get it right. Could you jot down the relevant points for her, in layman’s terms and fax it to her? I’m not sure she can wait for your full report.’

  Angela Marriott sighed. ‘It’s pretty irregular, but for you Dexter, I will email her.’ He smiled broadly and winked. She hoped the mortuary attendants hadn’t noticed.

  Smalacombe rang through to his superior. It was imperative she knew what to withhold and what to reveal.

  Nigel Hillman was much smaller than Dexter Smalacombe had imagined and much older too. Films leave their stars’ images in a time capsule but like everyone else they are not ageless. Smalacombe estimated him to be in his early fifties but it was difficult to tell as his hair was dyed blond and he wore a Charles the First beard and moustache of the same colour. Hillman was aware of his unusual appearance.

  ‘Come in, gentlemen,’ he began and showed them through the door. He stroked his beard, ‘this is all for the part I’m playing at the moment.’

  They sat in the easy chairs in the lounge. Hillman seemed very relaxed and not at all distressed. He was clearly quite unaware of what the two detectives knew about him. To Smalacombe he did not appear to be the grieving husband.

  ‘I’m very sorry about your wife, sir.’ Smalacombe offered his condolences.

  ‘Yes, it’s a terrible business.’ Somehow it didn’t sound sincere, which raised Smalacombe’s suspicions. As a world famous actor he should have been able to make a better job of it than that. ‘I have composed myself now but the last twenty-four hours have been hell, what with the travelling as well. The identification is not something I wish to experience again either.’

  ‘I understand, Mr. Hillman,’ Smalacombe continued. ‘These things can be a terrible ordeal,’ he added sounding as compassionate as he could. ‘Have you any idea who could have done this?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Have you any enemies? Have you fallen out with anyone? Have you done anything indiscreet?’

  ‘I can’t afford to be indiscreet in my line of business, Chief Inspector. The press spend their time waiting for people like me to step out of line.’ He crossed his legs and leant back in the chair.

  ‘Did your wife have any enemies?’

  ‘Trivial differences perhaps, like everyone, but nothing that would prompt this sort of action.’

  Smalacombe decided to let it pass and not to continue with this line of enquiry. He tried another tack. ‘I must ask you about Anna Turle, Mr. Hillman…’

  ‘Who?’ Hillman interrupted. There was a noticeable stiffening and he looked to both officers in turn, as if there was some conspiracy.

  ‘Anna Turle. Her body was found in the river Dart just down the road from here on Monday morning,’ Dexter Smalacombe continued.

  ‘Oh, that was her name. No, I didn’t know her,’ he declared. Smalacombe was sure Rita Golding had not made up that part of her story and the telephone number he found in the office confirmed it anyway. He felt anger well up inside and irritate his whole being. It set him on edge, right to the tips of his fingers, which felt as if he had rubbed them on sandpaper. Nothing infuriated him more than being baulked by dishonesty. Was Hillman so thick to imagine that the police would never find out the connection? Hillman had not endeared himself to him from the beginning; he may be famous but that didn’t cut with Smalacombe who got up from his chair and walked to the door. ‘I’m just going to go outside, Mr. Hillman and then I’ll come back in, in order to begin this discussion all over again,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t follow, Chief Inspector,’ said Hillman looking baffled as he looked to each detective in turn once again in the hope that he would find some hint to explain the detective’s behaviour.

  ‘I don’t like to be pissed around sir, because I don’t have the time,’ Smalacombe explained with a false smile. He went outside, closed the door behind him, and paused for a moment before he re-entered. He sat down in the chair, exactly as before and began again. ‘I must ask you about Anna Turle, Mr. Hillman,’ he said, deliberately repeating the phrase he had said a moment before.

  Hillman was stunned and didn’t know how to proceed. Tiley read accurately that his hesitation was due to uncertainty. They both stared at him, eyebrows raised, awaiting a rep
ly. Smalacombe was leaning forward, Tiley pointedly hovered his pen just above his notebook ready to record any revelation that might be submitted.

  ‘Let me help you, Mr. Hillman,’ Smalacombe began, breaking the silence. ‘Anna Turle was a frequent visitor here and you knew her well,’ Smalacombe spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Would you mind if Sergeant Tiley wrote that down?’ He smiled like someone on his best behaviour.

  ‘She was a…. a business acquaintance,’ he stammered with considerable resignation.

  Smalacombe looked across to Tiley, ‘A business acquaintance, Sergeant.’

  ‘Got that, sir.’

  ‘So I believe,’ the chief inspector replied with not a little irony as he addressed Hillman once more. ‘Would you care to discuss with us what that business was?’ he added.

  ‘Look, Chief Inspector, I’m not prepared to discuss anything further until I’ve seen my lawyer.’

  ‘Quite so, I understand and it’s your right of course. When will that be?’ Smalacombe asked, covering his annoyance by rigidly following the guidelines.

  ‘It’ll be difficult, he’s in London and I’ve got to get back to the South of France tomorrow,’ he began to explain. ‘It could be some time before I can organise it.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir, we have some very serious business to discuss with you and I would rather you didn’t leave the country until we are satisfied it is safe for you to do so.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. I’ll be the judge of what is deemed to be safe for me.’

  ‘Does it not concern you that your wife is lying, mutilated, on a mortuary slab in Exeter? Has it not occurred to you that you may be the next in line? Are you not interested in ringing around to her family and friends, organising a funeral for when we release the body?’

  ‘Well, of course I am, but what the hell can I do now? It’ll be weeks before we can lay her to rest.’ Hillman exploded. ‘This film is costing around fifty million dollars to make and my absence is costing them six hundred thousand dollars a day. Life has to go on you know.’