- Prologue -
The face of the dead woman in room 307 was still pink and round and pretty. From a quick look at that face, one might have thought that she was merely sleeping. But her body gave the lie to that impression.
She lay on her back, almost in the centre of the double bed. She was naked except for the cream-coloured silk dressing-gown, parts of which covered only her shoulders and upper arms. The legs were apart and the knees were slightly bent. The arms were lifted towards her head and the hands, which had been desperately fighting to push back the smothering pillow which now lay on the floor beside the bed, were frozen in the immobility of death.
Detective Inspector Stafford Paulson shook his head. He had never quite managed to overcome the sense of shock caused by the first sight of a corpse, though goodness knows he’d seen enough of them in his thirty-year career. He could never escape the feeling of waste, of the injustice which resulted from the senseless termination of human life.
“Not a bad looking woman for someone in her late fifties,” said the pathologist chattily.
Paulson ignored Doctor Stevenson’s soft Scottish brogue which seemed especially noticeable this evening.
“I know her,” he muttered.
“You’re not the only one. Anybody who’s anybody locally know Councillor Cynthia Adams,” responded the Doctor. “She’s Torbay’s lady mayoress, isn’t she?”
“Was,” corrected Paulson. “She handed over to James Raeburn, the solicitor, in April.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t like this at all.”
Stafford Paulson couldn’t help feeling involved. He couldn’t escape his roots. He was an upright local citizen who, as a young boy, had joined the police force straight from school. He knew he had been thought of as a reliable but uninspired young copper who had progressed in due course to the rank of sergeant. He married happily, had two children and had become a small part of the Torquay establishment.
He was already fairly old for the job when he had been transferred to plain clothes branch. He had served faithfully under DI Smith for nearly a decade. Smith was a large, shambling, untidy man but with a piercing intellect and Stafford owed his present position to what he had picked up from his illustrious predecessor. He had no illusions about himself. He realised his superiors regarded him as a man who had reached the top of his promotional ladder. He was only hanging on for the generous retirement package which he should receive in few years time. Then he could concentrate on his garden and his boat in Galmpton Creek.
Alan Stevenson brought his close study of Cynthia Adams’ genitals to an end and slowly straightened his angular body. He looked down from his commanding height of six foot three at the inspector. He spoke slowly as though choosing his words carefully. “It appears that our Cynthia had a few secrets which she had been keeping from us.”
“What do you mean?” In fact Stafford had a very good idea of what the man meant, but he knew the doctor loved playing detective. In any case, he wasn’t too proud to accept a few ideas from other people.
“Well,” said Stevenson with a slight smile, “the man who was with her in this room an hour ago may have murdered her, but he certainly didn’t rape her first.”
“How do you know that?”
The doctor waved to the chair in front of the window. “Her clothes weren’t torn from her body, were they? Look at her underclothes, laid across the arm of the chair. They’re not damaged. The shoes are placed neatly together. If you look in the wardrobe, I expect you’ll find her dress is hung up to prevent it creasing.”
Paulson decided to do just that. Carefully opening the door handle with his handkerchief to avoid damaging any fingerprints which might be there, he peered inside. Sure enough, the sole items hanging in the wardrobe were a colourful summer dress and a thin cotton cardigan.
“That wasn’t done by a rapist,” Stevenson pointed out. “But I have far more positive reasons for stating she wasn’t raped. I have taken samples of the vaginal discharges which you will notice have flowed out onto the sheets. It is clear to me that our Cynthia had just achieved a very satisfactory orgasm when her life was so suddenly terminated.” He smirked irreverently. “You might say, ‘What a lovely way to go!’ - if you were of a less professional turn of mind, of course.”
Stafford Paulson suddenly found the pathologist’s bantering tone profoundly shocking. He felt a most unsuitable desire to be sick beginning to overwhelm him. Perhaps it was the closed atmosphere in the room of warm, scented perspiration. His response was to turn and walk across to open the window. He hung his head out for several minutes, gulping in fresh air and looking down into the car park in front of the hotel while he fought to regain his composure. ‘I shouldn’t be affected like this after all these years,’ he thought.
It was a beautiful evening in late June, with a light breeze ruffling the palms beside the promenade and gentle waves lapping on the beach. What a time for a murder. He could get no joy from this lovely setting while there was the still-beautiful body of a dead woman lying on the bed behind him. Above all, he was aware that there was going to be hell to pay when the details of this one got out.
Stevenson hadn’t finished yet. “I would say that our Cynthia was conducting a secret affair with someone - an affair which went a little further than she was expecting it to. I wonder whether it was a lovers’ tiff or an experiment in sexual gratification which went disastrously wrong.” He began to peel off the rubber gloves. “Anyway, this should be an easy one for you. There’s loads of evidence. I’ll be sending samples of this fluid off for DNA testing. There’ll almost certainly be prints in the bathroom and on the door handles. All you’ve got to do is find the right suspect and we’ll have enough proof to send him away for the rest of his life.”
“Is that all?” Paulson sniffed suspiciously. There was a nasty taste in his mouth.
The pathologist sighed. “You only have to test anyone in her circle who might have been the lucky man. I expect, when you start asking questions, that there’ll be plenty of rumours about who it is. After all, an attractive, wealthy widow would be likely to have several serious admirers. It will be one of those.”
The inspector turned back to regard the other man with distaste. “You mean,” he asked, “that I’m going to have to go to her family and friends and ask them all to give DNA samples?”
“Not only family and friends.” Stevenson grinned at him. “You’ll have to test her fellow councillors, senior staff and officials, any businessmen known to her, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t have to go through the county set as well - you know - Lord Lieutenant, local M.Ps, even your boss - the chief constable.”
“Oh, my god.” Paulson blanched at the thought. Like Stevenson, he suspected that this case was going to cause a lot of ill feeling among the great and the good in Torbay - feelings which were likely to be vented on any hapless official who got in their way.
“There’s one good thing, though,” chortled the pathologist.
“What’s that?”
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll need to embarrass any women. I’m virtually certain her murdering partner was a man. But the tests will confirm that.”
“Thanks for nothing.” The inspector turned back to look out of the window just as a police car and two vans swept through the hotel gates, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing. “Oh, great,” he groaned.
“What’s this?” Stevenson was beside him now. “Ah, the delicate little chaps from SOCO come tip-toeing in by the back door.”
The policeman shook his head. “Bang goes any chance I had of keeping the thing quiet for a few hours. Every newspaper reporter and photographer within twenty miles wil
l be in the hotel lobby before I can get out of the building.”
“It’s lucky they had to come from Exeter,” said the doctor. “Otherwise you and I wouldn’t have got within six feet of the body without a couple of SOCO fairies breathing down our necks.” He turned to favour Stafford Paulson with his most beaming smile. “Then I wouldn’t have been able to solve the thing for you nearly so quickly.”
The inspector punched him on the arm. He really quite liked the man and his irreverent attitude to authority. Of course, it was easy for the doctor to make comments like that at the expense of the police bosses. They didn’t pay his wages. But his wise-cracks did brighten an otherwise dismal prospect.
At that moment Constable Mathews, who had been standing guard outside, opened the door and the first of the eager young men of science staggered in with a load of equipment. Behind him there were another five, similarly loaded. Paulson waved them towards the bed.
“The photographer has been and gone again,” he advised them. He should be back with the prints in about a quarter of an hour. So, if you want any other shots, you can tell him then.”
Just behind the SOCO men was the hotel manager, wringing his hands. “Inspector Paulson.” The man plucked at his sleeve. “I did ask you if we could keep the matter as quiet as possible. For something like this to happen is not good for the hotel. My owners will not be happy with me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Montessori. I asked them to keep a low profile.” He shrugged apologetically. “But somehow the message didn’t get through.”
“But what am I to say to my other guests?”
“Hang on.” Paulson signed the authority form which was being poked under his nose by the SOCO sergeant. “You’ll need to sign this as well, Mr Montessori. It’s an authority for these officers to take apart anything which they need to, in the course of their investigations, and to take away anything which may be needed for evidence. Of course, they’ll give you a receipt for anything they remove or damage.”
Fortunately the unhappy man put his signature where the inspector indicated.
“Now,” Stafford Paulson asked, “do you have an office where we can go and I can ask you a few questions?”
- 1.Friday before -
Charlotte burst in through the door. “Guess what, darling.”
Her partner looked up from the faded old settee where he was working his way through a stack of essays collected from his pupils that afternoon. “My God. You’re early. It’s still daylight.”
“Don’t be miserable, Mitch. I thought you’d be pleased to see me before six for a change.” She stood in front of him with a broad smile on her face. “And I’ve got some good news.”
His dark brown eyes rolled up to look at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me - it’s another promotion. You’re going to be the youngest superintendent in the history of the Met. Or is it Charlotte Faraday for Commander, Regional Crime Squad?”
“Don’t be silly.” She was determined he wasn’t going to needle her this time. They’d had too many stupid arguments in the last six months. She pulled herself up to her full five foot ten. “At last I’ve got somebody to take my computer programme seriously. I was afraid it was going to be abandoned after those buggers in J Division said they couldn’t work with it.”
“I remember. Didn’t they claim it wasn’t user friendly, or something.”
“That’s right. Superintendent Herrison just abandoned it half-way through a routine enquiry without even giving me the chance to provide his blokes with any training in its use.” There was a scowl on her pretty face. “I knew he didn’t want it to succeed as soon as I met him . He was the wrong man to give it to.”
Mitch looked up at her. “The trouble with you, my dear, is that you’re too clever for them. Time-served male police officers don’t like being put in their place by a woman - and a graduate at that. I keep on telling you that you’re wasting your talents in the police force. They’re the original male chauvinists. You should be a university lecturer.” He smiled bitterly. “I might even see something of you then.”
Charlotte shook her head. They’d had this dispute so many times in the last five years since she’d finished at Police College. She knew it was a waste of time telling him all over again that she wanted to succeed at her dad’s old profession.
“That’s all in the past, Mitch. I’ve got another chance. And I’m going to control this enquiry myself.” She beamed at him. “I can feel in my bones that this one’s going to be a success.”
“So what’s it this time?”
She paused a moment for dramatic effect. “This time I’m going to use it on a real murder enquiry.”
“God help us.” He collapsed against the back of the settee in mock horror. “What irresponsible government department is prepared to waste more public funds on your fancy new way of putting some poor druggie away for ten years to make the streets of the capital safer for the rest of us.”
“It’s not in London actually.”
“Where is it then - Los Angeles? Well, at least a different set of taxpayers will be footing the bill.”
She sat opposite him on the chair with the broken spring. She felt a little shame-faced as she confessed, “Actually it’s in Torquay.”
“Torquay?” He regarded her with horror.
“In South Devon.”
“I know where Torquay is, thank you very much.” His face twisted with contempt. “So - what’s happened? Some old dear been shaken to death by her pink rinse and they haven’t got any spare local plods to look into it?”
Charlotte smiled despite herself. “In fact you’re partly correct, Apparently the lady mayoress was murdered a year ago and they still haven’t been able to charge anyone with the offence. She was a middle-aged woman who was one of the stars of the local community. I understand the Torquay bigwigs have been making a fuss. It may surprise you to know that a lot of wealthy people live part of their lives in Torbay, including a number of City bankers, stock-brokers and financiers. Between them they wield quite a lot of clout.”
“So how did all these splendid bigwigs hear about you?”
“You remember I gave a presentation to the Association of Chief Police Officers last month? As I told you they all seemed a bit sceptical at the time.” She shrugged. “However it appears that, when they’re desperate enough, they’re prepared to try any solution that may solve their problems. Yesterday the Deputy Chief Constable of the Devon and Cornwall force rang John Hayden.”
“Who’s John Hayden?”
“The Assistant Commissioner.” She felt an immediate annoyance that Mitch obviously never listened to her comments about her work. “I’ve told you enough times that he’s the only chap who’s ever given me any support. If it hadn’t been for him the whole project would have been abandoned long ago.”
A smirk appeared on her partner’s face. “Got him to blame for it, have I? So - I gather you’re off to Torquay next week. How long will that be for?”
“Probably three months.”
“Three months!” He looked startled. “I thought you said this brilliant programme could do a year’s work in five minutes. Why the hell do you have to be there for three months?”
“It may not be that long.”
He pulled a face. “I don’t see much of you as it is. And now you’re going to bury yourself in the depths of the country for three months.”
Charlotte knew only too well that her partner was a confirmed city dweller. Born and brought up in London, he regarded the country as a place for day trips on sunny Sundays.
“Come off it, Mitch,” she protested. “Perhaps it’ll be over much quicker than that. I just don’t know what’s involved until I get there. But my boss had to let me go for a decent period to stand any chance of my sorting it out for them.”
He snorted, then simply turned away and concentrated on his marking. But she couldn’t let it rest like that. She went over and sat beside him.
“Mitch,” she pleaded, “you know th
is is important to me. It’s my one chance to make my mark with this new programme. And I won’t be there all the time. We’ll be able to meet up at weekends after the first couple of weeks.” She had the fleeting thought that it might even freshen up their relationship, but she knew better than to suggest this to him.
“When will you ever be able to get away for the weekends?” He turned back to her accusingly. “I know you. There will always be some little detail which has to be cleared up, some interview which you couldn’t possibly arrange in normal working hours. That’s how you organise your life - always centred around your work.”
“Well, you could come down and see me,” she tried to suggest, admitting to herself, even as she said it, that it wouldn’t work.”
He snorted. “Oh, yes! And I’d spend most of my time sitting round, waiting for you to get back from some vital assignment, while I watch the bloody rain belting down and herds of sheep walking about getting wet.”
“It’s flocks.”
“What?”
“Sheep are in flocks. It’s cows that walk about in herds.” She shook her head. “Anyway there won’t be a sheep in sight. Torbay isn’t a hamlet on the North Yorkshire Moors. It actually has things like theatres and cinemas … . .”
“Huh,” he grunted. “I remember seaside theatres from my school holidays - rows of second-rate dancing girls bouncing up and down and loud-mouthed, unfunny comedians. No - thank - you.”
“Don’t be so unreasonable.”
He had a surly look on his face now. “In any case, you’re not interested in the theatre any more. You’re never willing to come with me these days.”
“That’s not fair Mitch. You only seem to come up with the idea at the last minute, and you always choose a night when I’ve got some work that I just have to finish for the next morning.”
Her partner threw down the essay he was marking and stood up. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m hungry. I’m going round the corner to the King Billy for a bite to eat. Are you coming?”
“You don’t need to go out. I’ll get you something.”
Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective Page 1
