‘Are you alone?’
‘No, Mr. Lambert is here.’
‘Alright, describe what you see.’
‘It’s definitely Gill. He’s lying face up in the wheat field. There’s a huge black hole where his chest should be – as if he’s been burned by a laser or something. Also a long, deep slit in his abdomen – his insides are spilling all over the place. It’s pretty gruesome, Sherl, I can tell you. Less blood than you’d expect, though. Next to the body there’s an ovalish area where the wheat has been flattened. And scorch-marks everywhere you look.’
‘Any other wounds on the body?’
‘Not that I can see.’
‘Right, look around the whole site for anything anomalous. Make notes. Be thorough. I’m coming down on the next available train.’
‘Are you? That’s fantastic!’ he exclaimed, unable to conceal his relief. ‘But what about your flu?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll take a cab from the station and meet you at the Falcon Hotel.’
On the way to Paddington I picked up a map of the Warminster area and during the journey down familiarised myself with the local topography, paying particular attention to the features mentioned in Mo’s books.
The town itself is situated on the intersection of several ancient ley-lines. Stonehenge, Glastonbury Tor, and the Avebury Ring are all close by; indeed the whole area is awash with mysticism and religious signification. Druidic sacrifice, King Arthur, Joseph of Arimithea . . . the connotations are endless. Salisbury Plain, with all it’s military activity, sweeps away to the east, and the notorious, top secret research facility of Porton Down is also uncomfortably near.
Having steeped myself in all this pre-publicity my first impression was something of an anti-climax. Warminster seemed a perfectly commonplace little country town – pleasant, but nothing remarkable. It was overshadowed by a number of steep rises, one of which was Cradle Hill, a famed spot for UFO-watching. The late evening sun made the most of the scene, emphasising the shoulder-like contours of the horizon.
A short cab ride brought me to the Falcon, which was very much as I had imagined it – Georgian, ivy-clad, stylish in an understated way. There were glimpses of scaffolding and girders at the back – evidence of the nascent conference hall.
As I entered the foyer Mo hailed me enthusiastically. He had reserved a room close to his own, and after registering I had my suit-case sent up there. Then we headed for the bar.
I bought my friend a fortifying cocktail.
‘That should steady the nerves,’ I said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve had rather a ghoulish experience. Ever seen a dead body before?’
‘No.’
‘Nor have I.’
We found a secluded table.
‘You know, I’ve still got the image in my mind,’ said Mo. ‘Hope the poor guy didn’t suffer too much.’
‘Has his magazine been informed?’
‘Yes, I called Irene Hoyle at home. She took it badly. Very badly.’
‘Oh?’
‘Broke down on the phone. I couldn’t help feeling their relationship was more than just professional.’
‘Was Gill married?’
‘Yes, but his wife works out in Australia.’
‘You think he was having an affair with Irene?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. From what Kate Chormley says he obviously had some kind of fatal attraction for middle-aged women. Anyway, Irene’s asked us to stay on the case, until we find the murderer. Money no object.’
I smiled. ‘That’s a phrase you don’t often hear nowadays!’
‘Well, she’s got a share in the magazine – she can afford it. Listen, Sherl, are you tired?’
‘Quite. Why?’
‘I’ve asked Bob French to meet me here in about an hour. He’s a local UFO expert. What he doesn’t know about the phenomenon isn’t worth knowing. I’d like you to hear what he has to say, but if you don’t feel up to it . . . ’
‘Let me have a rest in my room first; just half an hour or so.’
In fact I slept rather longer than I’d intended, and came down to find Mo already deep in discussion with an owlish, untidily dressed man of about sixty. The word ‘boffin’ instantly sprang to my mind.
‘Ah, Sherl, this is Bob French,’ said Mo, as I joined them at their table.
‘Mr. Rennie tells me you’re investigating the death of that journalist,’ said French, shaking my hand energetically.
‘Yes. Do you know the circumstances?’
‘Inspector Ince was kind enough to fill me in. He’s our local man – very open-minded and thorough. We go back a long way, in fact.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, whenever he gets an interesting UFO report he shares it with me.’
‘I see. And what do you make of this death?’ I asked. ‘Do you think aliens are behind it?’
French picked up the scepticism in my inflection and directed a long, unblinking stare at me. ‘Anyone who’s read my books will appreciate that I’m no fanatic, Mr. Webster. I used to work in aeronautics. In fact I began studying UFOs in order to discredit them.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘The crushing weight of evidence. Of course one has constantly to distinguish between the subjective and the objective – to a scientist like me that’s second nature. But having sifted painstakingly through hundreds of reports I can’t escape the conclusion that something is out there.’
‘What?’
‘An intelligence, certainly. Beyond that it’s hard to be sure. I’m wary of being too anthropomorphic. Perhaps what we are dealing with is a force, originating in another dimension. A force which can cross into our space-time and even communicate with us. A moral force.’
‘Moral?’ I queried.
‘There is plenty of evidence for it – stretching right back to Biblical times.’
Determined to keep things on a practical level I said; ‘But you still haven’t told me what you think happened to Mr. Gill.’
French smoothed down the tufts of grey hair that stuck out from his bald pate at crazy angles. Then he answered, in a measured tone.
‘The nature of the wounds is rather significant. Inspector Ince allowed me to see the body before they took it away. That hole in the chest could only have been produced by intense heat. Also the abdominal incision was precisely executed, organs seemed to have been removed, and there was a peculiar absence of blood. In all these respects I am reminded of the animal mutilation cases in South America during the seventies.’
‘Of course!’ cried Mo, leaning forward across the table, ‘I read the reports in Flying Saucer Review. Cattle and sheep found drained of blood near UFO landing sites. Columbia and Brazil.’
French looked impressed; Mo blushed modestly.
I said, with growing impatience: ‘If Dominic really was killed by aliens then we may as well pack our bags and head straight back to London. Normal methods of detection are redundant.’
‘Hang on, it’s only a theory, Sherl,’ replied Mo assuasively.
French agreed. ‘We are all groping in the dark in this field of research, Mr. Webster, that’s the fascination. Let’s wait until the post mortem before jumping to any conclusions about missing organs. You know, in a way I’d prefer there to be a thoroughly terrestrial explanation for this murder.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Aliens killing animals is one thing. Once they start butchering human beings we’re into a terrifying new scenario, aren’t we?’
The conversation ebbed and flowed in the same sci-fi vein for a good hour, during which time I began to feel feverish again. I made my excuses and retired to bed.
Sleep came quickly, but I suffered nightmares that were vivid and grotesque. It was hardly to be wondered at given the fantastic nature of our inquiry.
Next morning I stumbled down to breakfast, unable to shake off those troubling dreams. My flu symptoms had all but disappeared, however, which was some comfort.
>
Mo was already tucking into his toast and marmalade in the far corner of the stately, airy dining room. I joined him.
‘You’re just in time,’ he whispered, pouring out some tea for me.
‘Eh?’
‘Over there – the table by the window.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Kate Chormley; the woman who saw Mrs. Campbell-Farr seducing Dominic on the evening he died.’
I craned my neck to get a better view. Kate Chormley was a smartly dressed lady in her forties. She favoured me with a rather fetching smile.
‘I told her all about you,’ Mo explained.
‘What about me?’
‘The Victorian clothes, all of that. She wants to meet you . . . ’
After breakfast Mo went over to her table and suggested that all three of us take a turn in the garden of the hotel. She agreed immediately.
The first question I asked once we were outside was: ‘How well did you know Dominic Gill, Mrs. Chormley?’
‘I’d only met him a few times,’ she replied, ‘in the hotel bar. But it was still an awful shock to hear he’d been murdered.’
‘Of course. How did he seem to you on that last evening?’
‘He was pretty drunk. Kept saying how wonderful I looked for my age! It was meant as a compliment, I think.’
‘I’m sure it was,’ I agreed gallantly, casting an appreciative eye over her neat figure.
‘I got annoyed with him, though, because he kept sneezing all over me.’
‘He had a cold?’
‘Yes, a real stinker. There’s a lot of it going around.’
‘Did he talk to you about his journalism at all?’
‘He said he was working on something big, but when I asked what it was he clammed up completely. He was rather secretive in that way.’
‘And how did your conversation end?’
‘He went off to buy me a drink, and spent the next half hour chatting to the barman.’
‘The short guy with red hair?’ enquired Mo.
She nodded. ‘Yes, the regular. He’s called Lonnie, I think.’
I asked; ‘What were they talking about?’
‘Couldn’t tell you. Lonnie went off duty around nine, and just after that Maggie Campbell-Farr breezed into the bar.’
‘Ah, yes. Her husband owns this hotel, I understand?’
‘That’s right. She sat down next to Dominic and started touching him – stroking his leg. I couldn’t believe how brazen it was. She had this really low-cut dress on. It was almost indecent.’
‘How did Dominic react?’
‘He looked amused more than anything else. Five minutes later she grabbed his hand and led him off – like a lamb to the slaughter! That was the last time I saw him.’
‘So you didn’t actually witness them entering the bridal suite together?’
‘No.’
‘Or Dominic leaving the hotel?’
‘No. Maggie probably sneaked him out the back way.’
‘Where was her husband during all this, I wonder?’
‘I didn’t see the Major at all that evening. But next day he was his normal, genial self. Perhaps they have a special arrangement – an open marriage. Hoteliers are a funny lot.’
‘Look at Fawlty Towers!’ added Mo.
‘Exactly. Well, I think I’ll go back to the dining room for another cup of tea. Will you join me?’
‘Perhaps later,’ I replied. ‘I’d like to see the rest of the grounds first. How long will you be staying here, by the way?’
‘Oh, at least another week. Let me know as soon as you find out what happened to Dominic, won’t you?’
Once Mrs. Chormley was out of sight I said to Mo: ‘Do you think she may have been better acquainted with Gill than she was letting on?’
‘Possibly,’ he replied, with a shrug. ‘That doesn’t necessarily mean she killed him.’
‘True. But jealousy is a motive that we can’t afford to overlook in this case. After all, we have potentially four women competing for the murdered man’s affections: Irene Hoyle, Maggie Campbell-Farr, Mrs. Chormley, and – last but not least – his wife.’
‘She’s in Australia!’
‘Do we actually know that? Even if she is, she may have hired someone to kill him.’
As we wandered round to the main entrance of the hotel a member of staff hurried out to meet us. She addressed Mo breathlessly.
‘Mr. Rennie? There’s a Mr. Gill to see you. He’s waiting at reception. It’s rather urgent, apparently.’
‘Did you say Gill?’ repeated Mo, taken aback.
‘Yes.’
‘What does he look like?’
The girl seemed unprepared for giving a description. ‘Well, he’s about your height – or perhaps a bit taller, medium build . . . er . . . ’
‘Age?’ I enquired.
‘Seventies, or early eighties.’
I exchanged a quick glance with Mo. Obviously this was not the Mr. Gill.
‘If you’d like to follow me,’ requested the girl, heading back towards the hotel.
We entered the foyer, and there, leaning against the desk for support, was a frail gentleman in a panama hat. We approached him and introduced ourselves.
‘Samuel Gill, Dominic’s father,’ he declared, shaking our hands. ‘Can we talk in private, do you think?’
‘Of course,’ replied Mo, ‘let’s try the lounge.’
We led the old man to a secluded corner where there were a number of easy chairs.
‘Irene Hoyle tells me she’s hired you to investigate the death of my son, is that right?’ he asked, in a shaky, though still resonant, voice.
‘That’s correct,’ replied Mo. ‘Can I say how deeply sorry I –’
‘Whoever did this thing must be brought to book. Do you have any theories about what happened?’
‘It’s early days, Mr. Gill. We could be dealing with a random attack. On the other hand someone may have had a grudge against Dominic.’
‘Journalists tend to ruffle feathers, Mr. Rennie, otherwise they’re not doing their job properly.’
‘Can you think of anyone he’s upset recently?’ I asked.
‘Not offhand. He did a pretty devastating exposé of a drugs company last year, but I forget the name. You’d have to talk to his magazine about it.’
‘What about Dominic’s wife – might she be able to help?’
‘Harriet? I doubt it. She’s too wrapped up in her own career.’
‘Which is what?’
‘She’s an agronomist – been working in Queensland for the last year. Wouldn’t you think she’d want to be here at a time like this, instead of swanning around in the Outback?’
‘Perhaps the police are still trying to track her down?’ suggested Mo tactfully.
The old man seemed unwilling to give his daughter-in-law the benefit of the doubt.
‘What was the state of their marriage?’ I asked.
‘A disaster. I warned Dominic against it – to no avail.’
‘What did you have against Harriet?’
‘She wasn’t right for him, in any respect. She’s a hardened atheist for one thing. We’re Roman Catholics. When my wife found out about the marriage she just gave in to her illness and died – within a month.’
I tutted my sympathy. ‘Tell me, how did Dominic cope with being apart from Harriet for long periods? It couldn’t have been easy. Was he ever tempted by another woman? Irene Hoyle, for example?’
Samuel Gill considered this carefully. ‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if he found comfort elsewhere, God forgive him. Now, Mr. Webster, I have a favour to ask. I’d like to see the place where they found my son’s body. Could that be arranged?’
‘Yes, if you wish. Do you mean right now?’
‘Would you mind? I have to return to London by five.’
‘We’ll start straight away, then. Mr. Rennie knows where to go.’
Mo drove us out of town in a southerly directio
n. It was a glorious July day – hot, but not uncomfortably so. A minor road led us towards the village of Upton Bray, through agreeable rolling farmland. Just as the church spire hove into view on our right we turned left down a dusty track.
‘This is the place,’ said Mo, pointing ahead to where a section of wheat field had been cordoned off.
Samuel Gill craned his neck to get a better look. ‘Please, get as near as you can,’ he requested.
We parked within a few yards of the cordon. A uniformed policeman approached the car rather suspiciously, and indicated he wanted to have a word. Mo wound down the window obediently.
‘Can I ask what you’re doing here, sir?’
‘Yes, this is the father of the dead man. He wants to see where the body was found.’
The P.C. was inscrutable. ‘Right. If you’d like to wait here a minute.’
He strode dutifully off to consult his superior – a blond, bearded man in plain clothes.
‘You can stand right up against the tape, sir,’ advised the constable upon his return, ‘but not beyond it. We’re still carrying out forensic checks.’
Old Mr. Gill got out of the car and walked unsteadily, with the aid of his stick, to a spot on the edge of the field. He removed his panama hat, crossed himself, and stared fixedly at the ring of depressed wheat where his son had been butchered. It was a simple, moving act of mourning, lasting ten minutes or so.
Meanwhile the bearded man wandered over to our car and leant inside.
‘My name is Ince, I’m in charge of the case,’ he began, in a low, reverential voice, not wishing to disturb Samuel. ‘Bob French tells me that you’ve got an interest in all this?’
‘That’s right. He told us about you, too,’ replied Mo. ‘You’re an experienced Ufologist, I hear?’
Ince grinned. ‘Well, we get a lot of people phoning the station about odd lights in the sky – that sort of thing. Let’s just say it goes with the territory.’
‘Tell me, Inspector, do you think little green men killed Dominic Gill?’ I asked, in a challenging tone.
Ince stroked his wispy blond beard contemplatively. ‘Are we talking officially or unofficially?’
‘Unofficially.’
‘I wouldn’t rule anything out – even little green men. Officially, we’re proceeding on the basis that the murderer is human.’
The Sherlock Effect Page 6
