In Vino Veritas

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘So …’ Swannell once again glanced behind him through the open door of the hut and saw the sun glinting off the windowpane of a distant block of high-rise flats. He turned back to face Tony Vere and continued, ‘Access during the hours of darkness would be an easy thing to achieve?’

  ‘Yes, yes it would. Very easy.’ Vere nodded. ‘Especially for a key holder, but, as I have said, anyone with any strength could force their way through the privet. It does not conceal any wire or metal fencing.’

  ‘All right … so the soil,’ Swannell asked, ‘is it at all difficult to dig, would you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vere replied confidently, ‘as the constables will no doubt be finding out. I’m a Londoner; I have never lived anywhere else, never wanted to, so I can’t compare London soil to other soil but London soil is known to be a heavy soil. London clay, you see,’ Vere explained. ‘A lot of allotment holders find the soil particularly difficult to work … as I do, but I also find it’s worth it.’

  ‘Tasty vegetables?’ Swannell allowed himself a brief smile.

  ‘Yes, and also the wildlife you see from time to time – you know, badgers, foxes; mind you, I don’t like the foxes. Your average fox is a thoroughly evil animal if you ask me, and especially now they’ve banned fox hunting. The fox is losing its fear of humans – even the urban fox which was never hunted. They walk around quite nonchalantly, and during the day too.’ Tony Vere wiped another bead of sweat from his forehead. ‘Weasels, stoats and rats, of course – there’s always plenty of rats. Once I was chatting to another allotment holder, just passing the time of day, and a bird table was between us. We were about ten feet apart and a blue tit was pecking away at some birdseed a kind-hearted soul had left on the table when suddenly there was a flash from left to right and the blue tit just vanished. Vanished in a flash … in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘Raptor?’ Swannell guessed.

  ‘Yes, a sparrow hawk, to be precise. We were able to identity it as it flew away and that happened here, in the middle of New Cross. Nature goes on all around you and it’s experiences like that which make heavy London soil worth digging.’

  ‘I take your point,’ Swannell replied, ‘but back to the soil itself; would you say that it would take a long time to dig a normal six-foot-deep grave?’

  ‘Oh, blimey, yes.’ Vere exhaled. ‘I wouldn’t want to be a gravedigger in London. Mind you, these days it’s all done by machines, small mechanical diggers … But in the old days, in the days of spade work, well, in those days a gravedigger would have to work for his money.’ Vere paused. ‘What you are really asking is whether the grave in plot twenty-three, if it is a grave, will be a shallow grave or not? I would say that if human remains are buried there they will be shallowly buried. I’d say a full six-foot-deep grave would take a fit man a full day to dig … longer in these dry conditions. Not the sort of thing you could do during the daytime, more of a night-time job … the digging … the placing of a body, the filling in … your boys won’t have to dig very far before they find out what the dog scented. It will be a shallow grave.’

  ‘Thank you, that is very useful. I’ll go and see how they’re getting on.’ Swannell turned and walked out of the hut into the heat and glare of the sun. He noticed at once that the constables had stopped digging and were standing in a circle looking downwards. Swannell approached the group and stood next to the sergeant.

  ‘I was just about to send for you, sir.’ The sergeant spoke, continuing to look downwards. ‘As you see, sir …’

  Victor Swannell looked into the grave. A skull, a human skull, seemed to be grinning at him. The remains were, as Tony Vere had predicted, buried shallowly; probably, thought Swannell, about three feet below the surface.

  It was Wednesday, 12.55 hours.

  TWO

  Wednesday, 14.47 hours – 22.15 hours

  Harry Vicary arrived at the Malpas Road allotments to find that the area had been efficiently and securely cordoned off by the police. A police constable in a white shirt and serge trousers stood sentinel at the entrance while other uniformed police officers were to be seen within the allotments, as was a white inflatable tent. Harry Vicary also noticed that the inevitable crowd of curious onlookers had already gathered and stood on the pavement in ones and twos looking into the allotments. Householders also stood on their balconies overlooking the scene and watched the police activity with solemn interest. As Vicary approached the gate the constable half saluted and lifted the blue-and-white police tape which had been suspended across the gateway. Vicary nodded his thanks to the constable, bent down and slid beneath the tape. Once within the allotments he walked calmly yet authoritatively towards the white inflatable tent which had been erected a few yards from the gate. Victor Swannell stood with the uniformed officers in the immediate vicinity of the tent and looked respectfully at Vicary as he approached.

  ‘Thank you for coming, sir.’ Swannell spoke softly. ‘We have one human skeleton, sir, partially exposed. The Home Office pathologist is in the tent at the moment. Two constables are sieving the soil which was removed to expose the skeleton. Nothing of note has thus far been found.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vicary smiled. ‘You have everything in hand.’

  ‘So far just two persons to be interviewed, sir.’ Swannell continued, ‘The allotment manager – the reeve …’

  ‘The “reeve”?’ Vicary raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Swannell grinned. ‘That is his chosen designation. The “reeve”, a retired gentleman, Tony Vere by name, has provided the name and address of the person who rented the allotment at the time the body was buried, according to our informant.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A man called Hill, sir.’ Swannell took his notebook from his jacket pocket and consulted it. ‘We have his address. I have phoned those details to Criminal Records … they have not come back to me yet.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Vicary glanced over the allotments.

  ‘The reeve said that he was the rentee for a very short time.’

  ‘So … you are suggesting that he rented the allotment with a view to using it to dispose of a corpse, and once that had been achieved he gave up the rental?’ Vicary asked. ‘That implies a considerable amount of premeditation if you’re right but it does seem suspicious, I’ll agree with you there.’

  ‘I thought it sounded suspicious, sir.’ Swannell continued looking with some annoyance at the onlookers who insisted on peering over the hedge. ‘Sergeant!’ Swannell turned to the uniformed sergeant.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Get a couple of constables to move those people on, will you, please. There’s nothing to see.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘And post a constable there to keep people moving.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The sergeant turned away.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Swannell said apologetically, ‘I should have done that earlier.’

  ‘No matter,’ Vicary replied. ‘You were saying …?’

  ‘Yes, sir … the reeve, Mr Vere, told me that often people take allotments then rapidly give them up when they realize the amount of work involved, and so Mr Hill keeping the allotment for a short time may not be suspicious, but equally you are not going to bury a body in the allotment of which you are a long-term rentee. That would be akin to burying it in your front garden.’

  ‘Yes.’ Vicary nodded gently. ‘I take your point. As you say, it would be like burying it in your front garden, and who with any sense would do that?’

  ‘So,’ Swannell continued, ‘we have Mr Hill’s address, and also a gentleman called Moffatt. Mr Moffatt is the long-term rentee of the adjacent allotment, who the reeve …’

  ‘The reeve.’ Vicary smiled. ‘I do like that title. It sounds ancient.’

  ‘It’s medieval, apparently, sir,’ Swannell advised. ‘Anyway, the reeve believes Mr Moffatt will be able to tell us something about Mr Hill. The reeve never knew Mr Hill. He was reluctant to give us Mr Moffatt’s address but eventually
agreed.’

  ‘So Mr Moffatt will give information, we hope,’ Vicary clarified, ‘and Mr Hill is a suspect?’

  ‘That’s it, sir.’

  ‘All right, well, you can’t go and see Mr Hill alone, that’s a two-hander. I am needed here, but you could go and see Mr Moffatt, see what he can tell us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What is Moffatt’s address?’

  ‘Seven hundred and twenty-seven Manor Avenue, sir,’ Swannell read from his notebook, ‘which is apparently the second street to the east of here.’

  ‘And the reeve – where is he?’ Vicary asked.

  ‘He has returned home, sir,’ Swannell advised. ‘I told him that we needed to take full possession of the whole area, not just one plot. He wasn’t very happy. He’s obliged to return to an unwelcoming spouse who likes her home to herself during the day. She has, it seems, yet to make an adjustment to her husband’s retirement.’

  ‘Poor chap.’ Vicary’s smile was forced this time. ‘So many people don’t realize how much strain a retirement can place on a marriage … but, to the task in hand. If you could call on Mr Moffatt and see what he can tell us, I’ll remain here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Swannell turned and walked unhurriedly yet purposefully towards the exit of the allotments.

  Harry Vicary entered the inflatable tent then rapidly stepped back outside and took a deep breath. He then re-entered the tent.

  ‘Good afternoon, Detective Chief Inspector.’ John Shaftoe looked up at Vicary from where he knelt beside the recently excavated hole which contained the human remains. He smiled warmly at Harry Vicary. Vicary noticed that Shaftoe was perspiring heavily. ‘You’re right, we could use a fan in these tents, especially during the summer months … but we get used to them … I dare say it’s a question of us having to get used to them.’

  ‘How ignominious,’ Vicary commented as he looked at the remains in the hole next to which John Shaftoe was kneeling.

  ‘You think so?’ Shaftoe did not take his eyes off the skeletal remains.

  ‘Yes.’ Vicary continued to ponder the content of the hole. ‘I mean, that is a fairly shallow grave,’ he explained. ‘You see, it seems to be the case that the deeper the grave, the higher the status of the victim when alive, but this grave … what is it … two and a half, three feet deep? That is quite shallow. She was not highly regarded in life.’

  ‘Oh … you can tell that they are the remains of a female?’ Shaftoe stood up and brushed soil from his brown corduroy trousers.

  ‘Well, I have learned a few things over the years.’ Vicary continued to take shallow breaths. ‘I note a smallish frame … I see wide eye orbits, so I assume it is a female.’

  ‘You assume correctly, Mr Vicary,’ Shaftoe continued to brush soil from his trousers, ‘and you are correct about the size. She would have been quite a short woman in life, probably only about five feet tall. She was either European or Asian; those skeletal types are very difficult to distinguish between, so you can rule out any other racial group.’

  ‘How long?’ Vicary’s voice faltered as Shaftoe turned and gave him a despairing look.

  ‘Of course …’ Vicary mumbled his apology. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I can’t say and I won’t even guess.’ Shaftoe turned his head away from Vicary. ‘No self-respecting pathologist would attempt to pin down the time of death – that is the stuff of TV crime dramas, and very dangerous they can be too. Our field of expertise is always the “how” but never the “when”.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vicary replied.

  ‘Of interest though is that some sinews remain; there will be some trace of internal organs because of the remaining sinews and that will place the death within the seventy-year cut-off point, probably quite comfortably so. But having said that, this good old London clay soil will have slowed the rate of decomposition and I can tell how she most likely met her end.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes …’ Shaftoe pointed to the forehead. ‘See the small holes?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Vicary looked closely at the skeleton’s head. ‘Yes, I can see them.’

  ‘Those are gunshot wounds. Appears to be two shots from a very small calibre weapon – a point twenty-two, and if it was fired close enough to the forehead it would be quite sufficient to be fatal. A point twenty-two is an assassin’s weapon of choice.’ Shaftoe panted, also taking shallow breaths. ‘I’ll probably find the remains of the bullets inside her skull and what remains of her brain matter. But it could be that she was shot to make sure that she was dead or to cover up some other form of murder … strangulation, drowning, suffocation … all are still possibilities.’ Shaftoe paused. ‘There is no indication of clothing – the material would have deteriorated by now – but wooden toggles, metal zip fasteners, jewellery, all that sort of paraphilia would have remained if she had been clothed when she was buried. I have come across nothing of that sort. I think it is a safe bet the wretched woman was naked when she was buried, which is another assassin’s trick – there is less to identify her. And that, I think, concludes all that I can do here. I’ll have the skeleton lifted and removed to the Royal London and then remain here until the constables are satisfied that they have reached consolidated soil. When they do we’ll know nothing has been buried beneath the skeleton, and once all the soil has been sifted, it can be replaced and the allotments may be given back to the allotment holders so they can continue growing potatoes.’ Shaftoe once again brushed himself down. He was a short, portly man with a bald head. ‘Will you be attending the post-mortem, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Most probably,’ Vicary replied, ‘but only most probably. When will you be conducting it, sir?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Shaftoe’s panting and shallow breathing continued. ‘That is, tomorrow in the forenoon. Say about ten a.m. I’ll aim for a ten a.m. kick-off. Dykk has the post-mortem theatre booked for the whole of this afternoon; he’s tutoring a group of recent graduates, all of whom have opted to take the pathology option, and he’ll be taking huge delight in telling them that they are all third-raters so they had better get used to it. But me … little old me, I am oh-so-deliriously happy to be a third-rater. So very happy.’

  ‘But how so a third-rater?’ Vicary was genuinely curious, having over the years learned to view John Shaftoe with a great deal of respect and feeling fortunate to have him and his expertise and skill as a pathologist to call on and depend on.

  ‘Well … how can I explain it? I dare say that it’s the snobbery and the pecking order within the medical profession which determine the rates,’ Shaftoe explained. ‘You see, the surgeons have the most prestige, they are the first-raters and the most highly paid – they save lives with ground-breaking surgical techniques. The second-raters, well, they are your hard-pressed family doctors, the first line of defence, if you like. They prevent as much as cure. They work long hours under a lot of pressure. And then there’s us poor pathologists who do not save anyone’s life or prevent or cure any illness or injury, and so we are the third-raters. But we do have an easy life, less well paid than the first- and second-raters, but it has its compensations. I mean, no one is going to sue us for negligence. No one is going to lose their life because a pathologist has blundered. Any pressure on us is of a legalistic nature. If we don’t get our findings correct then the guilty can walk free, or worse, much, much worse, the innocent can be convicted. The only doctors below us are the foreign doctors who have graduated from suspect third-world universities. They take locum work or work in long-term care hospitals … or are doctors at seaports or in large companies, who are not in private practice and neither do they work for the National Health Service.’

  ‘I see.’ Harry Vicary turned to leave the tent. ‘I confess that I never thought the medical profession had a “pecking order”, as you call it. I know the difference in status between doctors and nurses but not among doctors themselves.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, Mr Vicary, there is such a hierarchy.’ Shaftoe also turned and followed H
arry Vicary out of the tent. ‘It’s really quite vicious and strictly enforced. In fact, I once worked in a hospital in which all the pathologists had to sit in a designated area of the senior common room which was dubbed “death corner”, and we were pretty well ignored by the surgeons and specialists who worked in the hospital, who were permitted to sit anywhere they wished to. It isn’t like that in the Royal London but the divisions are there all the same, and Professor Dykk will be preparing his students for that sort of prejudice.’ Shaftoe stretched his arms and yawned as the sunlight reached his head and face. ‘But it happens in all walks of life. Dustbin men apparently see themselves as a cut above road-sweepers, for example, and I once met a man who taught at a teacher training college which produced sports teachers and he always began his first lecture to each year’s intake by saying, “Gym teachers always stand up because if they sit down it makes their brains sore”, then explained that they’re going to get comments like that throughout their working life so they may as well hear it from him first, and then he would try to mollify them by telling them that because of their superb physiques they would enjoy the best sex life of any group of students.’

  ‘That would go down well.’ Vicary took a deep breath, being very pleased to have been able to leave the tent. ‘It would certainly mollify me.’

  ‘And me,’ Shaftoe replied. ‘So the pathology laboratory is presently being used to prepare students for life at or near the bottom of the pecking order, but me … I like getting into holes in the ground and looking at bits of human remains. So I’ll see your good self or one of your officers at ten a.m. tomorrow?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Vicary took another gratifyingly deep breath. ‘Indeed you will, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Yes, I had in fact heard that the police had found something of interest to them in the allotments. I mean, this street is hardly the public bath house but if news has to travel then it will travel and the street is alive with the news.’ Edward Moffatt smiled warmly at Victor Swannell as he invited him to take a seat in his living room. ‘That sort of activity … the white tent, all those constables, does not go unnoticed. So what has been discovered? A dead body or bodies … an arms cache belonging to a terrorist group … buried treasure … a hoard of Roman coins?’