by Lou Peters
‘Did you see her photo in the paper?’ One of the men continued, obviously referring to the dead woman.
‘Yeah, poor old sod, looked like there was nothing to her. She wouldn’t have put up much of a struggle.’
‘His was in there as well, on the same page. Fucking grinning faced, as if he didn’t have a care in the fucking world.’
This time, Rachel had, heard enough. She wanted to escape and find some fresh air. Already she’d breathed in too much of the tainted atmosphere. The spoken words hung like a poisonous pall above the bench seat, drifting across to circle above her head, like unwanted cigarette smoke. If she didn’t get out soon, she’d choke.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Sunday Afternoon 13 December 2009
There it was, number twenty two Brooke Crescent. She couldn’t help herself, she’d had to go and see the last place Richard had been seen. Rachel stood on the opposite pavement looking across at the indiscrete, rather innocuous little house, except she knew what had occurred inside its benign facade. Surrounded by blue and white tape, it had the appearance of being wrapped up, like someone’s Christmas gift. The cordon extended to cover the alleyway, between the dead woman’s home and that of her adjoining neighbour. Could that be the place where the killer had lurked? Hidden in the shadows of the brick tunnel, before making his move? Rachel expected the police forensics department had already made a thorough search of the area. She realised she shouldn’t really contaminate the scene of the crime, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. Unlikely as it seemed, Rachel needed to see if any trace of Richard’s alleged visit remained. She knew she couldn’t search through the house, as much as she’d wanted. Seeing is believing, having real relevance on this occasion. Rachel thought if she could just stand in the room where Richard was purported to have been, somehow she would be able to tell if it was true or not. Her next best option would be the alleyway, where if she was careful, she could gain access. What was she hoping to find? A clue as to where he’d gone? Or the reason Richard had been there in the first place? A note for her perhaps, protruding from a gap in the brickwork, written in his hand with a full explanation of the whys and the wherefores, his signature on the bottom. Realising how stupid her even being there seemed, she nearly retraced her steps and returned to the cottage. That little voice inside of her head insisted, while you’re here why not take a quick look, what harm could it do? What harm indeed.
Standing on the kerb her heart pounding in her ears, after checking both directions, not only for oncoming traffic but to see if there was anyone else around to witness her stupidity, Rachel crossed the street. Cautiously, she lifted the tape, still making certain she wasn’t being observed she slipped beneath, entering the forbidden zone. Even though it was still daylight the entrance was fairly dark. The gloom deepened the further Rachel went inside. Her footsteps echoed softly against the curved brick roof of the party wall. It caused her to hold her breath in case her presence was revealed. Remembering the torch concealed inside of her pocket, she fished it out. Keeping the beam low, she began to search the stone floor for anything she could find. As she’d correctly assumed, the police had already done a thorough job. Anything that had been lying on the ground had already been bagged up and was probably in the police lab by now, awaiting analysis. Rachel swept the beam a couple more times across the seemingly cleared surface. All too aware, she shouldn’t be there and could be discovered at any moment, the adrenalin raced through her veins. Her heart remained pounding, a time bomb ticking away inside of her chest with the potential to give her a heart attack, or so it felt. ‘What was that?’ Rachel said, softly to herself. Something had gleamed when the light had passed over it. ‘Where the hell was it?’ She was on her hands and knees now, feeling her way across the cold cobbled surface. Realising too late, she should have been wearing gloves. ‘Ah, here it is.’ Her hand had brushed against the thing in the darkness. Picking it up, Rachel held the object beneath the torch beam. It was a knobbly black leather button. She turned it over in her fingers. The metallic underside flashed silver, illuminated in the light’s beam. If it had lain on the ground, dark side up, Rachel would never have spotted it. Perhaps, it’d remained like that when the police had made their search and now, somehow, it’d flipped over revealing the silver backing. Maybe a gust of wind, or even a cat stepping onto the small item, could have been the cause for the button’s altered position.
‘Oh my God, I don’t believe it,’ she whispered. Rachel had flouted the law. Disregarded police instructions and found what she’d been looking for, something to confirm Richard’s presence in the tunnel, something to further incriminate him. What a fool. Did Rachel feel any happier after following her instincts? Too damn right she didn’t. She should never have gone there. What had she been trying to prove in the first place? Rachel obviously had recognised the button immediately. Even down to the grey thread, that clung tenaciously to the back of the item. Recognised the detached fastener nestled in the palm of her hand as the one she’d sewn onto Richard’s leather jacket. She’d had to use grey cotton, as she couldn’t find the reel of black and Richard hadn’t been able to wait until the correct colour thread had been purchased. He loved that jacket, old as it was. It was like a second skin to him and obviously he’d been wearing it when he’d disappeared. Rachel felt disquieted by her find. Knowing he’d been skulking down that dark alleyway, for what purpose? She could only think of the obvious. Rachel wished she’d never set foot in the place. Again she fervently wished they had never come to River Cottage. She’d known something bad was going to happen. Why hadn’t Rachel listened to her inner voice at that time? Convinced Richard to remain living in Chester, where the couple had been happy and more importantly, safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Monday Morning 14 December 2009
Walking into his office Monday morning, Walters instantly recognised the A4 manila envelope perched precariously on a corner of his desk. It was as if the person who’d delivered it had been in a hurry to leave and had barely had time to place the item there, before rushing off to perform their next task. He gave the envelope a push in passing, solidifying its stance. He didn’t know how long it may have sat, immobile on the desk awaiting his return. He was in fact, mildly surprised by its presence. Cognisant of what the envelope contained, as if it were transparent and he could already view the contents inside. Walters knew it would be the file on the autopsy George Morris had performed Friday morning on Ruth Montgomery. Rationalising the pathologist must have worked over the week-end to get the report out in double quick time.
Once he was comfortable, with his cup of coffee within grasping distance, Walters reached for the package. The paper knife sliced through the reusable, internal envelope and Walters drew out the sheets of crisp white paper, inscribed with neatly typed text. There were other items paper clipped onto the rear of the paperwork, photographs and an additional slip of paper. Walters discarded these for the moment. Scanning the report, it read more or less as expected. Morris confirmed, as he’d initially suspected, the injuries the victim had sustained about the head, were probably caused by an eighteen to twenty ounce bell shaped hammer. The word probably inserted as a get out clause for George, if it was proven it wasn’t a hammer that was used in the attack. ‘Nothing like covering your rear,’ Walters voiced his thought. He reached for the black and white close up photographs of the injuries the woman had sustained. It didn’t make for pretty viewing. Walters mentally winced, as his fingers handled one after the other of the disturbing images. The old woman had been hit three times with such ferocity that fragments of her shattered skull were visible, puncturing the skin and soft tissue of her head. Time of death, was re-confirmed as having occurred at approximately eight o’clock Wednesday evening. Give or take a half hour margin. ‘So that lets the Harrisons nicely off the hook,’ Walters thought, with a sharp barb of disappointment, as though he’d swallowed a fistful of thorns. Realistically he’d known Friday morning, the co
uple were out of the frame. Still, part of him was hoping Judith Sage had got it wrong and the time of death had occurred sometime after midnight or mid afternoon. Walters would’ve loved to have arrested Rowena Harrison. Wiped the sneer off her miserable face and if Lucinda Coventry could have been implicated as well, that would have really made his day.
Reading further through the report what was unexpected however, was that George Morris’s examination had revealed that Ruth Montgomery had ingested a large amount of a barbiturate known as pentobarbital. Dissecting the major organs, Morris had found high concentrations of the drug in the woman’s brain, liver and kidneys. The pathologist had noted, the once popular recreational drug, would have been absorbed quite rapidly from the gut after oral administration. The onset of the effects of the drug, Morris had added, usually occurred within fifteen minutes, dependant on age and body mass. So, Walters ruminated, that meant it hadn’t been an in and out job. The killer had remained in the house for some little time. Walters tried to picture the events in his mind. Ruth Montgomery sat in her chair, probably chatting with her murderer, until her mouth could no longer form the syllables required to enunciate the words as the drug had taken its devastating effect. The woman was old and slight of build, so perhaps the killer hadn’t had to wait too long. The report went on to advise the victim would have suffered respiratory depression, cardiovascular depression, hypotension and shock leading to renal failure and finally coma. So in fact, the poor old girl had been given enough of the substance to kill her. Maybe not outright, but certainly she would have had a sleep, from which she would never have awoken from. Who knows, perhaps her death in those circumstances, wouldn’t have appeared suspicious. Especially as Morris’s autopsy, showed the woman had myocardial damage, caused by atherosclerosis of the coronary arteries. In layman’s terms major narrowing of the arteries supplying the heart with the vital blood and oxygen it needed to function. It could only have been a matter of time. If Ruth’s own doctor had been aware of her condition, which seemed likely, as the woman certainly would have experienced problems with angina. He may have concluded death had been due to natural causes. Presuming she’d suffered the eventually expected, heart attack. Even one of Charlie Coventry’s first thoughts when told of Ruth’s demise, was that she’d had a heart attack. Or was that just the conclusion everybody jumped to when hearing of a sudden death? Walters thought the killer hadn’t wanted to take any chances. Either unsure of the dosage Ruth had ingested, or because he liked to take his kicks from wielding a hammer. In such circumstances, it was no surprise there were no defence wounds on the victim’s hands or arms. Morris had also noted, there were no other bruises, or lesions on the body core and no puncture wounds to suggest a hypodermic had been used to administer the drug. Walters hoped the old lady had been out of it before the first blow had been struck. He could feel the anger swell within him, like the sudden surge of a river in a flash flood, when he considered the evil that had walked the streets of Rasburgh that night.
Although the fingernails had been clean, no traces of skin or blood, to obtain a possible DNA sample. As expected, there had been numerous, as yet unidentified, fibres found on the clothing of the deceased and at the scene. Probably the niece’s, Walters suspected, but they’d have to wait and see. Perhaps they would prove to be much more significant than that.
Walters replaced the report thoughtfully back onto the desk. The slip of paper he’d detached and discarded earlier caught his eye and he picked it up. Turning it over he could see it was a hand scribed note, written in George’s slightly slanting hand. The words flourished across the page in black fountain pen ink. How about that drink tonight? I’ll be in The Brown Cow at seven thirty, if you’re up for it. Don’t bother responding, I know how quickly plans can change in this game. Hopefully see you later, George M.
‘What no kisses George? You and I will have to have words.’ Walters had been grateful he’d been alone in the room.
An appendix had been attached to the report and Morris had added some comments. Walters was struck by the phrase, “Pentobarbital has been used in the past as a cure for short term insomnia.” It made him wonder if the drug had been prescribed, possibly years ago for Ruth herself. It would be as well to re-check her bathroom cabinet and bedroom drawers, see if anything had been missed. Although Walters suspected, a thorough job would have already been done by the SOCO’s. Also, he needed to gain access to the woman’s medical records, to ascertain if she had ever been prescribed the medication in the past. Perhaps her niece would know. Distasteful as the prospect was, he would ask her. Better still, he’d get Arnold to ask her. The DI remembered, as it flashed in his mind like a photograph still, the washed cups and saucers left to drain by the sink. If the killer had introduced the drug pre-crushed into a cup of tea for example, he wondered if there would still be traces of the drug in the swilled item. Or more importantly, any traces of saliva, or fingerprints. Maybe, if the evil bastard hadn’t had the time to clean the cups thoroughly… But he didn’t think he could be that lucky, anyway wouldn’t the forensics team already have checked out that possibility?
There was no mention of bruising around the victim’s mouth, suggesting the woman had been forced to take the lethal concoction. The thought saddened Walters that the old lady had been welcoming, had made a drink for her guest and been murdered for her trouble. She must have been relaxed in their company, confirming what he’d been thinking all along, the woman had known her killer. Could it have been Bradley Purvis? but why? What would be his possible reason for doing away with his neighbour in such a gruesome manner? The phrase find the motive and you find the murderer again popped into his head. And how would he have got hold of a banned substance? How would anybody get hold of the drug? Perhaps the internet would hold a clue. If necessary, Walters could confiscate Purvis’s computer and the relevant IT bods would be able to tell if Purvis had ever purchased pentobarbital on line, even if the man had thought he’d deleted the transaction from his PC. Walters was sure Purvis would have a computer. Everybody had one these days. The inspector would hold back that action for now, but it was a future possibility.
‘Did you get the name of Ruth’s doctor, off the old bitch?’ Walters enquired as Cooper reappeared in his office.
‘Yes Doctor Michael Arnott. He has a practice in the High Street.’
‘Boynton? I thought there was a doctor’s surgery in Rasburgh. Wouldn’t that have been more convenient for the old lady?’
‘Probably, but I would have thought the lovely Rowena would have insisted Ruth used the same doctor as herself.’ There was no decipherable comment from the inspector other than a grunt, or maybe it was a growl, so Arnold continued. ‘The only medication Ruth had been prescribed over recent years was for her heart condition. The doctor checked back through her health records, but there was no mention of sleeping pills.’
‘I’m surprised the poor woman hadn’t been on anti-depressants having Harrison for a niece.
Cooper decided not to comment on that statement and after a pause said, ‘I’ve been looking over Travis’s report on the incident at the market. I noticed the witness was Polish.’
‘What of it?’
‘Nothing really, I suppose, sir. I just thought I’d look the name up on the internet out of interest and another co-incidence leapt out of the screen at me. It appears the surname Jasinski, the same as the waitress’s surname, means son of John.’
‘Johnson?’
‘That’s right sir, Johnson.’
‘Bloody hell, that man’s name turns up everywhere.’
‘And I also wondered, if there’s maybe a connection to the murder of the children in France. Didn’t Mavis Willoughby say the male suspect was Polish?’
‘But Richard Johnson’s not Polish, Cooper. Are you trying to tell me in some round-about way that he’s connected to the waitress?’
‘We haven’t checked that out yet, sir. He may come from Polish origins and you never know it could turn out that he is
related to the waitress from the café, even if it’s only distantly. Or perhaps he’s secretly married to her. It would have given him a reason to move down here. And if Ruth knew of the marriage and he wanted it kept secret, for whatever reason, that could be a motive for murder.’
‘Hypothetical’s, Cooper.’
‘Or it’s possible sir, that the girl’s killer wasn’t Polish. He was just assumed to be, by the locals. Johnson would have been in his mid to late twenties around that time. He could have committed those murders as well.’
‘My God Cooper, you certainly like to jump about with your theories. But don’t lay those killings at our door as well. We’ve got more than enough to concern ourselves with...’ Walters had a second thought. ‘You’d better check it out, though. Find out the exact period the murders took place and see if Johnson was out of the country at that time. It might have been when he was serving in the forces, so you better check that out while you’re at it. If he did kill those little girls, no wonder he has no fond memories of his service days. My day is deteriorating fast... How’s it going in the incident room, any new leads?’
‘There’ve been numerous sightings of Johnson, of course. He’s been turning up everywhere, from fifty odd miles away to the local Conservative Club. The uniforms are certainly being kept busy.’
