A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Couldn’t sleep last night?”

  “No. The storm kept me up. You?” He eyed me, perhaps trying to discern if I were going to lie about my fight with Adam.

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “Next time let’s go downstairs for a drink. Might as well do something worthwhile if we’re awake.”

  “Bar’s closed at that time, Mark.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Several months ago, when we first began working with each other, he might have suggested we get together in his room. Extra curricular activities were never far from his thoughts. But he’d ditched his smart mouth, maturing into a compassionate person. I rather liked the new Mark Salt.

  “Well,” I said, noting Graham talking on the phone, “we’re not doing much good like this. What do you suggest we tackle first on our assignment list?”

  Mark consulted his watch. “Nine o’clock. We’ve four hours. Damn. I’m itching to know if we’ve got a lead on Vera Howarth or not.”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  “But it’s important, Brenna. If it is Vera who we found, this means the two cases are most likely linked. It’s against the law of probability that two murderers would pick the same dump site for bodies.”

  “And if it is Vera, we treat her and Reed’s cases as one.”

  “This village is so intertwined with personal relationships and anger, we could catch a break on solving the case if it does turn out to be Vera.”

  Nodding, I thought of the pain, too. Pain Reed Harper had inflicted—not just on the women he abandoned after the affairs were over, but also on the family and friends of these women. How deep did this pain go? How extensive was it felt—just immediate family, or were friends and colleagues of the women and Reed hurting, too?

  We were walking toward the door when Mark said, “You know, we’re taking Clayton’s word that it happened this way.” I stopped abruptly, my hand on his arm. “I thought his wife mentioned she saw the note.”

  Mark shook his head and flipped through his notebook. Finding the interview with Lynn, he let me read his notes.

  My eyes widened and I looked up at Mark. “She says she heard about the note. She claims she never saw it.”

  “Clayton is our source of everything we know about Vera’s letter of farewell. Clayton says it was mailed; he claims he got it two days after Vera went missing.”

  “We can check that easily enough.” I walked over to the stash of photo albums and case notes. I pulled Vera’s original missing person file from the pile and leafed through it until I came to the letter. Mark bent over my shoulder and we read the note. “It must be legitimate,” I said, straightening up. “The original investigating team didn’t label it as forged. And that postmark looks authentic enough.”

  Mark shrugged. “What’s good enough for our lads twenty-two years ago is good enough for me.”

  I agreed. I am no handwriting expert, but even I could mentally compare Vera’s round, upright penmanship and small circles that passed for dots over the letter i to the sample we had of Clayton’s bold, slanted scrawl, the list he had given us of Vera’s friends. The possibility that Clayton had concocted the note whispered to me, but as Mark said, if the original team hadn’t declared it a forgery, I was content to accept that the note was authentic.

  “So, let’s go with the assumption Clayton wasn’t making that part up. Vera did write the farewell note and she did post it.”

  “Our helpful bobby. Well, I suppose we better get on with our assignment.”

  Mark put the case file away, muttering that it was too bad Clayton hadn’t been that open and helpful with the lock of hair.

  “Well, he’ll have a bit of time to reflect on that,” I said as I consulted our list. “You ready?”

  “Rarin’ to go, Bren. Where are we off to first?”

  Graham evidently finished his phone call, spotted me, and motioned me to join him. I indicated Mark, wondering if Graham wanted both of us, but Graham shook his head.

  “I can take a hint,” Mark said, half joking, and said he’d wait for me by the front door.

  “I can’t think what I’ve done,” I whispered as Mark squeezed my hand.

  “Maybe he wants to commend you for something.”

  “That won’t take long. Nothing much I’ve done lately would warrant that.”

  “You never know, Bren.” He muttered “good luck” and headed for the door.

  As I walked up to Graham I noticed the dullness of his eyes. He waited until I seated myself before speaking. Even then, it took him several seconds to begin. “I can’t sugarcoat this, Brenna,” he began, kicking my heart rate into overtime, “and even if I could, I don’t think you’d want me to.”

  The same sensation I felt last month, on hearing on my brother Sam’s involvement in illegal activities, washed over me. As I stared at Graham’s face the room around him seemed to alternately pulse in vivid colors and then recede. Finding my fingers gripping the edge of the table, I barely breathed, afraid I’d miss his words.

  “It’s Sam.”

  Nodding, though not comprehending the significance of that simple sentence, I waited for an explanation. Why had Graham’s voice grown so faint and my pulsing blood so loud? I managed to ask if something had happened, if Sam wanted to see me, if he was still in Strangeways.

  “I don’t know if Sam asked for you, Brenna,” Graham said, his voice low and gentle. “That’s not why I wanted to speak to you.”

  “But he’ll be there just for the first three or four months, won’t he? He’s not going to Wakefield, or somewhere…” I couldn’t believe that would happen, for Wakefield was a maximum-security prison—which Sam’s sentence hadn’t warranted. I looked at Graham, wanting to shout that he tell me and put me out of my anguish. “It’s not…not Roper, is it?”

  Graham shook his head. “No. He’s sitting in Wakefield.”

  “Then what?”

  “Sam’s already received threats.”

  “Threats!”

  “Nothing definite, nothing we can prove or discover where, when or by whom. They never are.”

  “But…but is he safe? Who’s threatened him? What’s happening? Can’t we do anything about this?” I didn’t ask who stood behind the threats. The answer was obviously King Roper, retaliating because Sam had fingered Roper and helped the prosecution. Even if Roper and Sam were in different prisons, Roper had long arms.

  “The prison governor moved Sam today. This morning. Quite early. He’s being transferred to Full Sutton.”

  “Yorkshire,” I mumbled. “Wakefield’s in Yorkshire, too.”

  “Different prisons, Brenna.”

  “Yes, sir.” My hand dropped into my lap and I glanced at the wall clock. It had begun marking off Sam’s time the minute the judge pronounced the sentence. Each day I mentally checked off another eight, twelve or twenty-four hours until Sam would be with his girlfriend and me again. “You said Sam was threatened. What was it? How was it delivered? When did Sam get it—just recently? Did the governor act quickly?” I took a breath, my heart threatening to burst from fear.

  “Easy enough to threaten Sam. You know without me telling you, Brenna. Roper’s cronies creep around in the shadows, ready to do his bidding.”

  Graham didn’t have to define what that bidding would be. With Roper doing four life sentences, and a minimum of thirty years before parole would even be considered, he wouldn’t be happy with Sam. He wouldn’t lounge around in his jail cell, letting Sam pass time. Roper would immediately contact his men to see what prison Sam was in. The gang members would then make their own inquiries and it wouldn’t be long until one of them located Sam. And to make the search a bit easier, all prisons seemed to harbor rumors of a few screws who were bent and quite willing to pass on information or leak sensitive details, provided the money was quick and plentiful. After Sam was located, Roper would be told and the method of retaliation set in motion. I closed my eyes momentarily, feeling sick. This wasn’t just the stuff of film
s and novels; it actually happened. Several inmates would push Sam’s arm into a vat of boiling porridge and hold it there until his arm was burnt. Or his fingers would be badly broken in a door or gate during a sham fight between inmates. Anything to look like an accident. They always looked like accidents. And the scary thing was that Sam’s broken fingers would end his concert pianist career. Sam sat naïvely within reach of their dirty hands. I looked at Graham, afraid to hear any more, yet needing to know.

  “Sam was threatened this morning at breakfast. A shove, not too subtle, while they were in line, pushed Sam against the hot, metal pot of porridge. The inmate whispered something like “Careful, careful. Little Sammy could get burned real bad if he’s so clumsy, and then what would he do?” I’m sure Sam was stunned; he probably thought he was free of Roper and just has to behave himself in order to effect an early release.”

  “He is a babe in the woods in prison, yes, sir. He has no idea what can happen.”

  “Sam got word to the prison governor. I’m glad to say he acted quickly, for his own sake.”

  “So Roper won’t know where he is…for a while, at least.” I tried to make my voice hopeful, but I knew Roper’s network would work quickly to find Sam. No gang member kept Roper waiting for long if he valued his life. As last month’s case underscored.

  “If you’re thinking Roper’s going to escape and personally go after your brother, don’t. You know about Wakefield, Brenna.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wakefield Prison is a high-security facility, holding approximately six hundred adult males—many in category A, meaning they were Britain’s most dangerous offenders. As a high-security prison, no one ever escaped. Besides, Roper wouldn’t do the deed himself. He’d have the alibi of his incarceration when something happened to Sam. The broken fingers would be just an unfortunate accident; Roper would be innocently in his cell at the time.

  As I stood up, Graham said, “I don’t mean to frightened you, Brenna. I just wanted you to know what is happening with Sam.”

  “Yes, sir. I appreciate you telling me. Thank you.”

  “I’ll keep you informed, but hopefully nothing will come of this. Sam might be out within a year and Roper might never find him.”

  “Yes, sir.” That’s all I seemed capable of saying. I thanked him again and slowly walked to the kitchen.

  Before I joined Mark, I took several deep breaths and vowed that he would not know what had just transpired. It was enough that Mark was involved in my disagreement with Adam; I didn’t want Mark to become engaged in Sam’s problem. So I downed a quick gulp of water, reapplied another coat of lipstick to make myself look cheery, and smiled hopefully as I walked up to him.

  Eyeing me, he asked if all was well.

  For a second I wondered if he could see through my act. I asked what he meant.

  “Did Graham hand you a laurel wreath or a dressing down?”

  “Oh.” I forced a smile and opened the door. “He just had a question about our assignment.” I turned from him, not wanting him to see my face. I never had been a good liar.

  “It’s good we found out about Clayton, isn’t it?”

  “Found out?”

  “The note. That it’s real.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “It’d really finish me off to know that a police officer attacked a woman like that, but I suppose we’re all just human.”

  Like Roper fixing an attack on Sam, I thought suddenly. Most anyone could arrange an assault if provoked.

  “But Graham never mentioned that,” Mark continued, “and there’s no mention of that in any of the case reports.”

  I merely nodded and walked outside.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Hope Observer, October 2010

  Derbyshire police received an incident report yesterday afternoon of a big cat sighting. The caller stated that she had been walking along the disused trail around Mam Tor when she saw a blur of black among the clumps of fern and boulders. She stood still, fearful and unsure what to do, when the animal bolted. It was then she realized it was a black leopard.

  Black leopards have been reported for decades in the Derbyshire Peak District, beginning in the 1960s. The sightings comprise an on-going group that also includes pumas, lions and panthers.

  Big Cats, as they are collectively called throughout the area, have slipped into the shady realms of black dogs, hobs and phantom horses. Though not considered an actual black dog, the big cats are, nevertheless, an oddity, swelling the ranks of Derbyshire folklore.

  Wallabies, released from a private zoon in the 1930s, are the other major animals that garner frequent sightings. In 2009, six sightings in the Peak District alone were reported to police.

  The big cats may be pumas and black leopards illegally imported into Britain and then dumped as they grew too large for their irresponsible owners to handle. The fact that no one has ever reported being attacked by a big cat does little to calm the nerves of this most recent cat viewer. Prior to this report, a large black leopard was seen and photographed walking along the top of a dry stone wall.

  “I just got lucky,” Perry Bowcock said, referring to the photograph. “I’m out quite a bit, wandering around my village and the immediate area. I usually have my camera with me, but I just happened to be at the right spot at the right time to catch that leopard. I’m also a pretty quiet person when I do walk around. You have to be if you’re going to photograph wildlife, and you hear a lot that way, too—the location of birds, the rustle of leaves that might harbor a pheasant or weasel. I’ve got some smashing shots that way, so it pays to be stealthy and listen. I guess the leopard just plain out didn’t hear me. I surprised it as much as it surprised me.”

  Bowcock, an amateur photographer, lives in Cauldham, about a mile east of Mam Tor, where this most recent big cat sighting occurred.

  Will this walker’s experience put a halt to her weekend rambles over the moors? “I’ll keep hiking but I doubt if I’ll ever look at my little Sooty the same way again.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mark and I walked the long way to Vera’s grandmother’s house because, as I phrased it, I wanted to see all the steps of the well dressing creation. We walked down the hill, followed the road to the village pond. It was located on the south side of the giant yew, across from the village hall where the villagers would work on the three panels. As Upper Hogsley had done yesterday, the villagers of Cauldham would do today: set up the work tables, put out the buckets and boxes that held pinecones, moss, sheep wool, tree bark, dried beans, flaked coconut, rice, and other natural objects. Tomorrow, perhaps the workers would bring their individual lots of dried eggshells and seed heads, orange peel, fur, parsley, flowers and anything else they had saved. They would work in shifts over the next four days, for the panels would be erected on Friday. I remember from my own childhood stint in the village hall that timing was crucial—start the panels too early and the flower petals would dry out; start too late and time ran out. I promised myself I’d look in daily to see the panels take shape, for I did miss the fun of well dressing.

  This was tomorrow, however. Right now, while Mark and I walked past, several men were submerging the wooden panel frames in the pond. The frames, with chicken-wire backs and usually seven to ten feet tall and several feet wide, needed to soak for twenty-four hours so the wood would be thoroughly wet when the workers packed the frames with the moist clay. The clay is actually a mixture of clay, salt and water. This mixture is ‘puddled,’ much like a traditional grape pressing, but the workers stamping through this muddy mess sport rubber boots on their feet. When the heavy panels are clay-covered, the villagers haul them to the village hall for decorating.

  Each panel’s design would be drawn on a panel-size piece of yellow waxy paper and laid on top of the smoothed wet clay. The design would then be transferred to the clay through a series of indentations made by pricking through the drawing with sharp implements such as ice picks, metal nail files, skewers, or seamstress’ pattern wheels.
The paper then would be removed as each section is ready to be decorated, leaving the outline of the design, much like the lead veins in a stained glass window. Working in sections like this keeps the clay moist until it is covered with the natural materials, which is the next step in the process.

  So, I cast an envious eye on the men who were Wellington-deep in the pond, listened to the directives and chatter coming from the village hall’s open windows, and left the villagers to their fun. Mark and I stopped in the grocery shop so I could buy a small packet of oatcakes—not the best breakfast, but tears had dampened my earlier appetite—and then walked up the hill to Gran’s house.

  “Which reminds me,” Mark said as we were nearing the house. “What was that all about when you asked Clayton where Vera lived?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know. That bizarre ‘You know I work better if I can see where they lived’ bit. I didn’t know whether to play along with you or take you round to Bedlam.”

  “I want to look around Vera’s house.” I kicked a stone out of my way.

  “Why? There won’t be anything there after twenty-two years. That’s what you’re after, isn’t it? Find some clue that solves the case. You won’t. It’s been too long. If the place isn’t falling apart, weather or animals or vandals will have ruined or disposed of anything that might be significant. We can’t even come up with her name. No one’s said a thing about her working—and she might not have done, if she’s that old. She could have been a housewife. We’ve no employer so we’ve no national insurance number to locate. It’s a dead end. A waste of time.” He jogged to keep up with me. “You’re daft, Brenna. Besides, isn’t that breaking and entering?”

  “So, go back to the incident room and type up your notes. You’ll impress Graham and you can claim you don’t know anything about my illegal activities when you’re called on to testify at my trial.”

  He groaned but kept pace with me. “If you’re going to get into trouble, you may as well have company. We can talk to each other in our cells.”