A Well Dressed Corpse
By Jo A. Hiestand
Published by L&L Dreamspell
London, Texas
Copyright 2011 by Jo A. Hiestand
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN- 978-1-60318-397-0
Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A book comes together through the work, talent and patience of many people. I thank those who have helped me:
Detective-Superintendent David Doxey (ret.), Derbyshire Constabulary, who helped me through a sub-plot and, as usual, cast his eye upon the entire manuscript; Detective-Sergeant Rob Church, Derbyshire Constabulary, who answered procedural questions and my many emails about DNA result time, electoral rolls, the police Golden Rule, and Derbyshire’s abandoned coal mines; Dr. Ruth Anker, who supplied medical information on bones and bodies; and as always to Paul Hornung, for Scott’s incredible chapter and for illuminating problems. I also want to thank Dr. Simon Sherwood, Senior Lecturer in Psychology at the University of Northampton, for his information on the black dog.
Thank you to Lisa of L&L Dreamspell, who accepted the series, seemingly without a moment’s hesitation, keeping Taylor & Graham alive.
A heart-felt hug to everyone who has supported me through buying books or inquiring about my writing. Both mean a lot.
Errors, if any exist, are solely mine.
Jo A. Hiestand
St. Louis, March 2011
* * * *
Dedication
For Esther, who cheered me on through her own ghostly events and who never gave up enthusiasm for our Spirited Mysteries.
Note:
The shuck, or spirit hound, is a large black dog, usually calf-size, that either brings ill fortune to those who see it, guards/protects someone (like the grave of its master), or else appears as a warning when danger threatens the town/family with which it is associated. The shuck may be headless, possess glowing eyes, have yellow teeth, float on a layer of mist, or be comprised of any other similar effects, but all dogs seem to have the capability of vanishing and passing through solid objects. Shucks are also known by the more generic term ‘black dog’ or ‘phantom hound.’ If there is ‘good news’ to seeing one of these large phantom dogs, it is that none of them have ever physically harmed the viewer.
Well dressing is a custom unique to Derbyshire. Ancient in origin, this annual event is a celebration and thanksgiving for the community’s water. Small, natural items are pressed into wooden frames filled with wet clay to create colorful pictures that adorn each well or spring in the village or town. For readers in the States think of a Rose Parade float flattened into a postcard. The celebration usually lasts a week and marks the beginning of the community’s fete.
Cast of Characters
Locals:
Reed Harper: Coordinator/director of village well dressing
Marian Harper: Reed’s wife
Ilsa Harper: Reed’s and Marian’s daughter
Kevin Harper: Reed’s brother
Edmund Worrall: Reed’s half brother
Jenny Millington: Reed’s assistant
Clarice Millington: Jenny’s sister
Harding Lyth: village vicar
Angela Ellis: Harding’s daughter and MC of well dressing fete
Chad Styles: well dressing director in another village
Trevor Styles: Chad’s son
Christine Stevenson: acquaintance of Reed Harper
Perry Bowcock: Chris’ uncle
Vera Howarth: missing woman
PC Clayton Warson: Vera’s former fiancé
Lynn Warson: Clayton’s wife
The Police of the Derbyshire Constabulary:
Detective-Sergeant Brenna Taylor
Detective-Chief Inspector Geoffrey Graham
Detective-Sergeant Mark Salt
Detective-WPC Margo Lynch
Sergeant Adam Fitzgerald
PC Scott Coral
DC Byrd
DC Fordyce
DC Oglethorpe
WPC MacMillan
Jens Nielsen: Home Office forensic pathologist
Dean Hargreaves: civilian Scientific Officer employed as police photographer
Detective-Superintendent Simcock
ONE
Plunging Into Our Mystery: 1989-the present
Vera Howarth walked out of her house, into the bowels of the earth, and was never seen again.
At least that is how the Legend grew.
That had been twenty-two years ago. Despite the official missing person report, searches by villagers and police, and posted monetary rewards, Vera remained missing. Her clothes waited in the wardrobe; her family waited by the phone. Traces on her bank account, credit card statements, and mobile phone showed no activity. Psychics and sniffer dogs zeroed in on their targets, only to come up with nothing. No trail, no scent, no body. As though she had never been born. As though the earth swallowed her. As though she vanished into thin air.
With the seasonal changes, her story faded into the folklore of the village and surrounding countryside, told in the same breath one used to speak of lamenting brides, lost miners and glowing-eyed shucks. Whispered around wintry fires and on moonlit nights, with a hint of fear and a glance over a shoulder. If Vera Howarth, fiancée of a policeman, could vanish so completely, so could anyone.
Vera’s legend had transformed with the telling and retelling, enlivened by snippets of other local tales until the arrival of the current variation. Even if most people didn’t believe in ghost dogs or phantom horsemen, the area sported enough spooky spots to make the staunchest scoffer rethink his decision at night.
And wonder if the recently discovered bones were Vera’s or somehow had nebulous ties to the other missing villager.
“I know two people have gone missing.” Graham looked at me before returning his attention to the bones. “But the one’s disappeared only a day ago, so this obviously can’t be he. And as for Miss Vera Howarth…” His head tilted slightly to the right and his right eyebrow rose slowly.
I knew that gesture, seen it often enough over the past several months. I, Brenna Taylor, a detective-sergeant in the Derbyshire Constabulary, Graham’s work partner, knew what was coming. The bones intrigued him, whispered to him. He was about to jump into the investigation with his entire energy and wouldn’t let go until it was solved. I said, “The problem is the site, yes, sir.”
“Correct. Not my idea of a choice location, Taylor. Have these bones been recently unearthed after lying buried for decades, or have they been constantly out in the open to be buffeted by the weather? Makes a difference.”
Of course it did. But with the tales of people gone missing from the village—plus the local ghost story that still haunted me—immediately putting a name to the bones didn’t seem that far fetched.
The bones had been found about a quarter of a mile into the forest that hugged the village. An ancient forest of conifer and deciduous trees—and ghosts. Fairy tale fiends were said to roam the valley’s dark dells and disused coal mines, though flesh and blood murderers also imprinted its past. The bones merely confirmed the truth of the tales, though village specu
lation favored Death by Ghost for the unlucky victim. A logical choice, considering the abundance of local spirit dog sightings. But I had never known a ghost to bury anyone, so I favored the human hand in all this.
Which was why we were here—the CID Team of the Derbyshire Constabulary.
Though not originally to investigate the bones. We’d been called out on the missing person. The bones kind of fell into our lap.
Walking over to an oak, I watched the Home Office pathologist slowly separate a long bone from a fragment of blue fabric before carefully sealing the bone in a transparent evidence bag. The site had been thoroughly photographed and a scale drawing made well before she had been allowed into the area—a procedure from which Graham never varied. Graham, a detective-chief inspector and my immediate boss, stood outside the cordoned off area, aware of the dangers of compromising the scene and the evidence. And the possible danger of bubonic plague spores nestled and still alive in the remains.
I shook the water from the hood of my mackintosh as I eased it off my head.
Rain, relentless and driving, threatened the integrity of the bones earlier this morning. Scattered along a haphazard trail several feet long, the skeletal remains now glistened under the brilliance of the police work lamps. Raindrops eased down sodden ferns, tufted hair-grass and tree branches to break on the forest cast-offs and rocks, throwing back the lamp light with the intensity of faceted gems. The light found a handful of bones and drew them from the muddled earthen browns harboring them. From beneath their woodsy covering, the bones—damp and white—peeked out at us. Bleached and broken ends hinted at years of arboreal rest. Graham conferred with the pathologist while I glanced at the sky. The dark clouds had rolled on to the west, leaving a sodden recovery site but drier working conditions. And the haunting question: Who Is It?
TWO
Beginning of the Case Proper: 21 June, this year
“Any idea yet who it might be?”
I blinked, startled by the voice. Margo Lynch, a detective-constable and my best friend, stood beside me, nodding at the cordoned-off area. I shook my head. “Not really. Not officially.”
“Sounds as though you have an idea, though.” Her brown eyes held the silent challenge that I should confess what I suspected, even if this was premature and before the postmortem. When I remained silent, Margo said, “Come on, Bren. Who do you think it is?”
“You know a good detective shouldn’t form any kind of opinion before the evidence is in. It’s way too early for any supposition. Besides the postmortem, DNA testing may be in order. That takes time.”
“I know that.” She said it as though I had come right out and said she was an idiot. “But that woman’s been missing for a long time.”
“Twenty-two years,” I said, getting exasperated at Margo’s spin on this.
“And she was never found.” She nodded at the crime scene, at the Home Office pathologist labeling the evidence bags. “As much as I’d like to see this be a happy ending, I have to admit this could be just about anyone. This area has an unusually large amount of missing people, what with the old mines and sink holes around. Even if you put the newspaper articles down to sensationalism to increase their sales, the police reports should convince you of the numbers we’re dealing with. Look how often the Peak District Mountain Rescue group gets called out each year.” Her eyes softened and she frowned. “I’m afraid it could be just about anyone.”
I agreed. Though the findings could go either way, depending, as Graham had just said, how long the bones had been buried or exposed, if wild animals had been at them. “It’s odd, though, isn’t it? Two people disappear from the village. Granted, the stretch of time between them is a little over two decades, and this in no way could be the man reported as missing yesterday. But still, if you count the reports of the others missing from the area, as you said…” I twisted my engagement ring. It was still new enough to feel strange, and I was keenly aware of it at times. Especially when I felt uncomfortable or emotional.
“Do you know anything about either case, about either of them?”
“I don’t know about the woman—that was before my time—and of course the man disappeared Tuesday.”
Margo nodded. “While working on the village fete.” She shivered, rubbing her arms and glancing around our immediate area. The wood seemed suddenly ominous, I thought. Margo’s voice sank to a near whisper. “Talk about creepy. Who goes missing while working on well dressing preparations?”
“Someone who wanted to disappear?” I countered, the cases of spouses walking out on their marriage to start a new life with a lover too numerous to mention. “I don’t know all the particulars,” I said, aware that Margo had just arrived, not part of our team who had appeared two days ago to look for the recently missing villager, “but I do know he coordinates the whole thing.”
“Panels and the fair?”
“Yes. Evidently they’d just finished some meeting having to do with the well dressing. They said their good nights, wandered off to their homes.” I glanced at Graham as he lifted the blue-and-white police tape for the pathologist. “But Reed Harper never made it home.” I tried not to superimpose the feeling I got from the thick, dark forest onto Reed’s disappearance. I was already battling the local ghost story; I didn’t need to impart elements of that into Reed’s situation.
“Tuesday night. More than him having a row with his wife and needing time to cool down, then.”
“They didn’t have an argument. At least, the wife isn’t admitting to one.”
“Could have got into an argument with folks on the fete committee. Lot of feelings come to the surface when you’re working on those well panels. You ever done any well dressing, Bren?”
“A few times. When I was a teenager.”
“Yeah. Me, too. I thought it fun. When I retire, I’d like to do it again.”
I echoed her decision. It had been fun, seeing what the year’s theme was, if it was environmental, religious or historical; making the mosaic-like tableaux from natural materials, seeing the biblical Joseph or endangered tiger or VE Day symbol come to life in the village hall and then placed outside at the various parish wells, the week-long fete of carnival rides, booths, dances and contests. A lot of work went into the creation of the well dressing panels as well as into the planning and set-up of the fair. Feelings ran high not only from pressure of completing the panels on time but also from the pageant competition. I wondered if Reed Harper had simply walked out on that stress, planning on returning after the fete was over, or if something had actually happened to him—fete related or not.
“Sounds rather childish to stay away if you’ve had a tiff with someone over something as inconsequential as booth sizes or artwork for the program booklet,” Margo said.
“Especially if he’s been the chairman and done this before,” I countered. “Anyway, it’s too near to the fete to pull a stunt like this.”
“Why? When is the well dressing festivity?”
“Begins twenty-ninth of June, I believe.”
“Ten days. St. Peter’s Day.”
I shrugged, not knowing the saints’ specific feast days.
“The village church is probably St. Peter’s. See if I’m right.”
Not really listening, I mumbled something I hoped would pass for interest.
“Wonder if he’ll come back. You know,” Margo added, a touch of dramatics in her voice. “He walks up as the vicar and choir are assembling next Friday. Makes some little speech and everyone smiles and claps him on the back.” She suddenly stopped, and screwed up her face. “The fete does start late Friday afternoon, doesn’t it? I just assumed it did ’cause all the others I know about start then. Right before dusk.”
“I don’t know, Margo. I’ve not got that far into the case,” I reminded her again.
“Well, anyway, the fete is a little over one week away. Plenty of time for him to cool off and come back before the opening ceremony.”
I was going to reply, but
Graham drew my attention. He bent, pointing to something at the base of an oak, when a shout broke the relative quiet. He turned toward the voice, his head up. I took a step toward him as the words echoed, increasing in their unease and possible implications.
“Mr. Graham, sir! I’ve found what looks like another body here!”
THREE
We Begin the Investigation: 22 June, this year
We sat in the basement of St. Paul’s Church, our incident room created by moving the parishioners out and our police equipment in. We sat on metal folding chairs, hard and cold as the case facts we were hearing. We sat in a group, close together, like the friends we were—Mark, Margo and I. The others—press liaison officer, leaders of various teams, and specialized skills people—clustered around and near us, so that we were, in fact a Team, no matter each individual’s skill. Graham leaned against the edge of a table, his long legs crossed at his ankles, his voice low yet holding the sharpness of urgency always brought on by a murder investigation.
So here we were again, Mark Salt, another detective-sergeant; Margo Lynch; a smattering of other constables, crime scene investigators, and of course Graham. Detective-Chief Inspector Geoffrey Graham. Tall, super-model handsome, intelligent. And my heart’s desire a little less than a year ago…until I became engaged to Adam. All of us from the Derbyshire Constabulary and all of us still trying to grasp these case facts, meager as they were. The bones had been classified as human, and most likely had been scavenged by forest-dwelling animals and scattered from its shallow grave. And since the corpse had been intact, we were clearly dealing with two different people.
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