A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  I knew that song. It lamented the 1692 massacre of the Scots in Glencoe. The lyrics quickly faded as the car presumably drove off, but the seed had been planted in those few seconds. Had Reed Harper’s killer made a statement by dumping the body in the wood? If so, as Graham had just reminded us, was the significance linked to the killer…or to Reed? I had no time to consider each option, for the ringing of someone’s mobile phone broke the quiet, and I was mentally back again in the incident room.

  Graham remarked that the major players—those associated most closely with Reed—were still being questioned and their alibis tested and retested. “Which brings us up to this moment. What about alibis or, conversely, opportunity for those connected with our victim? Taylor?”

  I glanced at the open page in my notebook, then said, “The spouse is usually the first suspect, but Marian Harper doesn’t strike me as Reed’s killer, no matter if she hasn’t a watertight alibi. She hasn’t the build to haul a body around, but I suppose she could have an accomplice to do the heavy work. She had opportunity, being home at night. She could have met him somewhere. We don’t know. But the time element suggests she could have killed Reed, though I don’t know why. They both have money—both from family wealth—and the ad agency is doing well. So unless it’s some motive we haven’t yet uncovered…” The image of her and Edmund Worrall walking all snuggly up the hill last night hovered in my mind. I said rather hesitantly, “There’s always the possibility of an affair, but I haven’t learned anything like that yet.”

  Graham nodded, wrote the names on the whiteboard, and asked for other likely suspects.

  Mark gave a brief recital of Kevin Harper and Clayton Warson. “That burglar alarm mishap smells like three day-old fish, but I can’t see a reason for pulling a stunt like that. Kevin didn’t need it as an alibi because he had the other workers with him while he took shop inventory. And Clayton told his wife he was going to the pub, which he did.”

  “If he told her ahead of time,” Graham said, playing devil’s advocate, “it makes Kevin Harper’s burglar alarm episode look like the real thing. Clayton came along at the right time, thought it was a real burglary and stopped to investigate. Simple and innocent.”

  “Unless Clayton set it up,” I suggested, my mind on fire. “Maybe Clayton told some story to Kevin, made it sound innocent, but said he needed to involve Kevin, himself, or have a story of an investigation. So Kevin falls in with Clayton’s joke or whatever it is, sets off the alarm, and Clayton comes along and ‘investigates the burglary’ and then trots off to the pub.”

  Graham frowned. “What’s the reason for this charade?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ve just thought of it. But for whatever reason, Clayton sets it up for that night, when Kevin has additional witnesses at his shop.”

  Margo glanced from me to Graham and said, “Maybe he, or Kevin, set up the phony burglar alarm as a reference for the future.”

  Graham leaned against the corner of the whiteboard and told her to continue.

  “Well, Kevin, or Clayton, set up this phony burglar alarm mishap. It’s set up on this night due to the employees being in the shop, so, as you said, there would be witnesses. Then, some near date in the future, Kevin’s shop is robbed. The burglar alarm doesn’t sound because Kevin purposely didn’t set it—and the shop is burgled. Kevin loses money, items, whatever. Maybe he does it, maybe he’s got an acquaintance who does it. However he sets it up, his shop is wiped out. He collects the insurance money and gets the double bonus of the money from the sale of the items when they’re fenced.” She waited for an opinion, for someone to shoot holes in her suggestion or to jump up.

  Graham drew question marks after Kevin’s and Clayton’s names on the board. “Interesting, Margo. We’ll keep that as a possibility. Anyone else?”

  Mark said, “I keep thinking about Reed’s assistant, Jenny Millington.”

  “What about her, Salt?”

  “She left the meeting at the church that night before anyone else.”

  “You think she lingered in the shadows, waiting for Reed to be alone?”

  “Possible. We talked to her yesterday and she wouldn’t give us a precise answer as to why she left earlier. I know it may not mean anything—some people are just reticent to reveal their private lives to the police—but it’s something we have to consider for the moment, at least.”

  “How would she know he would be the last to leave, that he would be standing there alone?”

  Mark frowned. “That I don’t know, sir. But several people stated that Reed seemed as though he was waiting for someone. He smoked a cigarette, implying he might be waiting.”

  I reminded him that Marian wouldn’t allow Reed to smoke at home.

  “So? Why smoke at the church, in the thick of the dark forest? Why not walk home and stand on your doorstep to do it? No, I don’t buy that. Reed gave all the signs of waiting for someone.”

  “For his killer.”

  “Right. But of course he didn’t know the person would kill him.”

  “Who do you favor as the killer?” Graham asked, his hands on the tabletop and leaning forward slightly.

  “Got to be Jenny, doesn’t it?”

  “Doesn’t got to be anyone, Salt. There’s no proof yet. What’s her motive? Blackmail? Revenge? Love? Protecting someone? Ambition? Answer the basic questions: who, what, when, where, how and why. Then you may be able to answer my question about motive.”

  “That’s the same for Marian, Kevin and Clayton,” Mark said. “All had opportunity, so the ‘when’ is pretty much taken as after the meeting. ‘How’ could be luring him to a house or into a car. Probably a car, so they could actually kill him there and drive him to the forest.”

  “But you’ve got all that nasty blood to get rid of in a car,” I said.

  “So they got him into the car, knocked him unconscious so he wouldn’t question the forest destination and put up a fight when he was knifed, and drove him to the wood. Which also takes care of ‘where,’ in my opinion.”

  “But,” I said, “how could Jenny have abducted and killed him? We saw her yesterday. She’s tall, but she’s slim as a model. She hasn’t the muscle to lug him about. He’s awfully big, Mark. You can’t just skim over that with a blanket statement. That’s a major detail. How? Did she set him up so he comes to her house and someone kills him there? Then she and this other person drive him to the wood and dump his body there? Did she just act as lure, someone he knew and therefore felt comfortable with, but the other person killed him? If so, again we have the problem of how he got to the wood.”

  “I didn’t say it was perfect,” Mark muttered, settling back in his chair. “So there are a few loose ends.”

  “Unfortunately,” Graham said, “we can’t say for certain how long Reed remained at the lych gate, smoking or not smoking. No one has admitted passing him on the road, seeing him at ten o’clock, say, still standing by the gate. If we had a witness…” He snapped his fingers and smiled. “Or if we had Mr. Holmes’ favorite clue, the cigarette dog-end…” He picked up one of the albums that housed the photographs of the churchyard, handed it to Mark, and told him to find the snaps of the lych gate. As he walked back to the whiteboard, he said, “Marian Harper told me when Reed went missing that Reed smoked Lambert & Butler king size cigarettes. Now, despite that being the most popular brand in the country, we have his DNA sample—taken from the cigarette dog-end on the ground and matched to Reed. The photo—” He broke off as Mark pulled several photographs from the album’s plastic sleeve sheets. Graham collected them and waited while we looked at the photos, then handed them back to Mark, who returned them to the album.

  “One dog-end,” Mark said, rather wistfully. “Not there very long, then.”

  “It still doesn’t answer the question,” I added, “if Reed smoked before going home or if he waited for someone.”

  “Which still could be Jenny. She left a few minutes before everyone else. She could have waited for him in t
he churchyard and they walked to her house together.”

  “Having an affair, do you think?”

  “Motive?” Mark shrugged. “Though that did come up. Who said that?” He flipped through the pages of his notebook. “Ah!” He looked up, his eyes on me. “The constable’s wife. Lynn Warson. She said Reed was a womanizer.”

  I nodded, recalling the interview. “She gave the impression he’s had affairs nearly forever. Said he’s been like that for twenty-two years.”

  Graham screwed up his lips. “Really? She literally specified that exact length of time?”

  Mark pointed to the entry in his notebook. “Yes, sir. I thought it was odd, too. Sort of brings something else to mind, doesn’t it?”

  “Our missing person, Vera Howarth.”

  SIXTEEN

  Derbyshire Dispatch, June 2009

  Ryan Jones walked away from his friend’s house in Cauldham, walked into the foggy night and disappeared into history.

  Jones’ disappearance more than worried his family, friends and police. It unfolded like the retelling of the legend of the black dog haunting the Winnats Pass region.

  According to Jones’ friends, whom he spent the evening with, Jones left around midnight.

  “We were having a super time,” David Brown said. “We played video games for a bit and had a beer or two. We played a few hands of poker and then Ryan said he had to leave. He had to get up early for work the next morning and didn’t want to be out too late. I asked if he was okay with walking home alone ’cause it was kinda late and the fog was settling in. He said he’d be fine and he left. I don’t know what happened, where he is. It’s scared the hell out of us.”

  Jones and his friends met at the home of Tyler Smith, just outside Cauldham, on the Miners Road into Chapel-en-le-Frith. Brown, who left several minutes after Jones and following the same route, states he never saw Jones on the road. “I was driving slow ’cause of the fog. I was kinda surprised ’cause he couldn’t have got home that fast. But there’s a path that cuts through the wood, not far down the road. I thought maybe he took that route, saving some time ’cause it was late.”

  Brown and Smith add that as they stood outside the house, bidding Jones good night, they heard a dog howling. “Deep-throated bays,” Smith said. “Never heard anything like it before. I thought I saw a dog across the street. A big, dark thing like a lab or boxer, but the fog was thicker over there. I wasn’t sure. ’Sides, my neighbors haven’t a dog.”

  Police have made extensive searches of the wood, roadway and the area around Cauldham. Caves and old deserted lead mines are rife in the region. Speculation that Jones might have fallen into an uncharted mine opening prompted further searches. Nothing has come to light as of this writing.

  Supposition about Jones’ disappearance runs the gamut from willful disappearance to spirit abduction. Which pulled the whispers of the black dog legend into the light of day.

  Anyone with information on Ryan Jones or who may have seen something in the vicinity of Cauldham that night are encouraged to contact the Derbyshire Constabulary in Buxton.

  SEVENTEEN

  Chad Styles, the well dressing coordinator in Upper Hogsley, seemed to Graham and me to be the person who could supply many of the Five W’s and One H answers to our killer’s identity, so Mark and I drove to the village.

  “Rivalry can run deep,” Mark said as we approached the Winnats Pass. “You’ve seen enough of that as a copper, Brenna. I shouldn’t have to remind you.” He slowed the car as he glanced at me, not knowing how I’d react on driving through the mountain gorge.

  I gripped the armrest on the door, knowing I was acting a fool, but I needed to hold on to something. February’s escapade may have been four months ago, but it still seemed like last week to me. Plus, I associated it with Scott. Scott, who had saved my life. Scott, who might not return to police work.

  “You okay?” Mark asked, glancing at me.

  I nodded, not wanting him to hear the tremble in my voice, and watched the mountain face slip by my window.

  Upper Hogsley, nestled just off the A625, between Cauldham and Chapel-en-le-Frith, claimed a greater physical area and population than Cauldham, but it couldn’t seem to claim the coveted Hope Valley Cup. About its only real tourist attraction was its medieval hall, nearly surrounded by sycamore and lime trees. Within the hall’s great room, carved oak paneling presented a fine backdrop to the magnificent tapestries and an extensive collection of early keyboard instruments. I thought briefly how much Graham would like to play those virginals and harpsichords, thought how much I’d like to hear him play, then focused on the case.

  “I agree, Mark, that rivalry sometimes runs deep,” I said, glancing at him, “but to kill someone over a trophy? That seems absurd!”

  “To you and me, sure, but maybe this well dressing clash has been going on for years. Maybe Chad Styles reached his breaking point and decided to eliminate his main competition before the competition started. Maybe by killing Reed, he thought to throw the coppers off the track. ‘What? Me involved with Reed’s death?’ It’s hard to imagine, but look at some sports team rivalries. Look at anglers’ competitions.”

  “That’s a bit extreme, Mark. Not every football fan or fisherman kills his opponent.”

  “Of course not! Not every jealous spouse kills his rival, either, but it happens. That’s all I’m saying.”

  We drove the remainder of the trip in silence, Mark thinking of God knows what, and me watching the Peak District rush past us. A lone hobby soared above the heathland, searching, perhaps, for a meal. Hogweed and black horehound shook in the car’s passing breeze, the white and pinkish lilac flowers reeling and clashing against each other. Clumps of timothy waved their brownish seed heads at us, the rustling of their tall, thin stems barely discernable over the drone of the car tires. In not too many more minutes Mark turned the car down a small road and on emerging from a tunnel of trees the village of Upper Hogsley sprang up before us.

  After inquiring and much searching, we found Chad Styles at St. Basildes Church. He was directing the setting up of worktables in the church hall. Buckets of all sorts of natural objects, large scrolls of waxy yellow paper, and a collection of dressmaker tracing wheels, ice picks, knives and skewers fanned across a small table. A woman pinned a small, full-colored drawing of that year’s well dressing designs to a corkboard.

  “Chad Styles?” Mark asked as we walked up to a tall, hefty man.

  “No, no. Set those buckets near the rest of the material,” the man said, rather exasperated with a worker placing tall, aluminum buckets at each worktable.

  “You’re not Chad Styles? The woman by the door said—”

  “What?” The man blinked, staring from Mark to me. “Sorry. Yes, I’m Chad Styles. You from the The Hope Observer? I didn’t expect any reporters so soon.“

  “No. Police.” Mark showed his warrant card and Chad took a step backward.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Why? What’s the trouble?” He stared at me, perhaps wondering why a woman was needed to break bad news. For that was the usual assumption when police officers appeared on your doorstep…even figurative doorsteps.

  “I’m Detective-Sergeant Brenna Taylor,” I said to allay his fear. “This is my colleague, Detective-Sergeant Mark Salt. Derbyshire Constabulary. We’d like to ask you some questions concerning the disappearance and subsequent murder of Reed Harper.”

  Chad peered at my warrant card, turned pale, and motioned us to a corner. Mark set up three folding chairs and waited until we were seated before stating that we understood there had been a degree of rivalry between the two villages. “Between you and Reed Harper, too,” Mark added.

  “Oh, that.” Chad squeezed out a smile from his ashen face. “I—You’re making too much of that. A friendly rivalry, that’s all it was. Just private bets between us each year. Nothing more.”

  “The Hope Valley Cup didn’t mean anything to you, then?” I asked.


  Chad’s head jerked toward me. “Oh, sure. But not in the way you think. Friendly, like I said. I’d never— Well, I wouldn’t hurt Reed. God, what kind of person do you think I am?”

  “Pretty nice purse that goes along with the trophy. I’ve known people who’d kill for a lot less than five hundred pounds.”

  “I wouldn’t. What I mean is, I wouldn’t kill for any amount of money.” Chad looked around the room, perhaps hoping he could make an excuse to end this. “Anyway, the prize money goes to the village, not the event’s director. You’ve got it all wrong.” Having said that, he seemed to relax. His posture slumped a bit and his back actually touched the chair.

  “If we’re wrong, we’d appreciate you telling us the truth, Mr. Styles. When was the last time you saw Reed?”

  “This past Monday. Eighteenth of June. The day before he went missing.”

  “Where was that?”

  “At his home.”

  “What time? Was anyone else there, or see you and Reed when you left?”

  “You’re saying I need an alibi? He went missing on Tuesday. I saw him on Monday. Many people saw him on Monday. People saw him on Tuesday, too. Even you can’t believe I killed him the day before he still was seen.” His anger had wiped out the anxiety that a police questioning sometimes brought on. His right hand swept over his head, bald and throwing back the light from the overhead florescent fixtures.

  “I understand that, Mr. Styles, but what time in the day were you at Reed’s house?”

  “Oh.” His tone dropped slightly, more in the realm of normalcy, and he said, “Noon. I left at two o’clock. We had lunch there and talked about possibly having some sort of event with our two villages.”

  “During the well dressing fetes?”