Over the Edge

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Oh, that body,’ I interrupted.

  ‘You know very well which body I mean, Charlie. The time of death has proved most awkward to define. The heating was on in the room, but quite low, and as the room was fairly well sealed and as it’s this time of the year there was little entomological corruption. I’ve had Sulaiman over from York but there’s not much for him. We both agree that he’s been dead for about two weeks. Say a minimum of ten or twelve days, but it’s very imprecise.’

  ‘As long as that? What about cause of death?’

  ‘Ah, now we are on firmer ground. Cardiopulmonary arrest. A massive heart attack to you. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Brought on by what, would you say?’

  ‘A bad dose of arteriosclerotic hypertensive disease.’

  ‘Yes, Prof, but what caused him to have that heart attack at that time?’

  ‘No idea. I’m not a bloody soothsayer.’

  ‘You’re the nearest to one I’ve ever met. Dave said he looked as if he’d been scared to death.’

  ‘He did, didn’t he? But a heart attack is a pretty scary experience, especially if you’re alone.’

  ‘No other marks on his body?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘Natural causes?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s what I’ve put.’

  I thanked the professor and replaced the phone. I’d wondered if a cattle prod left marks, but evidently it didn’t. And I wondered if the prof had been right about Wallenberg being alone.

  ‘Natural causes,’ I said to Jeff. ‘He died of a heart attack.’

  ‘So he cheated us.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  I rang Lorraine and passed the information on to her that Pony’s Tail was dead and Doo-gie had been charged with murder. There might be a crumb of comfort in it for Ludmilla. ‘How is she?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s doing well,’ Lorraine told me. ‘She’s lodging with a family from her own country and they can give her a job as a waitress.’

  ‘Good. I hope it works out for her. Remember me to her, please.’

  I was passing the front desk when the sergeant covered the mouthpiece of his phone and told me there was a call for me. ‘One of your women, Charlie,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink.

  ‘I have no women,’ I growled. ‘That’s why I’m such an aggressive so-and-so. I’ll take it in my office.’

  I ran up the stairs and reached across my desk to grab the phone, expecting it to be Lorraine again. ‘Priest,’ I snapped into it.

  ‘Is that…Inspector Priest?’ a voice enquired, hesitantly.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, sidling round to my chair. ‘How can I help you?

  ‘It’s Sonia Thornton, Charlie. How are you?’

  Sonia! My kidneys leapt into an impromptu congo and my spleen accompanied them on duodenum. ‘Hi! I’m fine. How about you?’

  ‘I’m fine, too, thanks. I see you’ve got someone for Tony’s murder.’

  ‘Yes. Two of them, but one’s already dead. Listen, Sonia. I still have your photograph albums. I’ve had one picture copied but you can have the rest of them back. I was going to ring you and return them one day.’

  ‘There’s no hurry, but, well, I wanted to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Ask away, Sonia. I’ll help if I can.’ Providing it didn’t involve swimming with great whites or skydiving without a parachute, I was at her disposal.

  ‘There’s this function,’ she began. ‘Yorkshire Sports Personality of the Year. It’s at the weekend and will be on television. They send me tickets every year but I never go. It’s not on live TV. They record it and show it in the New Year. All the local sports people will be there, with some famous TV celebrity I’ve never heard of fronting it. It’s mainly footballers, of course, and cricketers. But there’s athletes there, too.’

  ‘Sonia…’

  ‘Leeds rugby union team did well this year, so they stand a good chance of the team award. Or Bradford Bulls. Jane Tomlinson should win the individual award. I hope so. She deserves it.’

  ‘Sonia…’

  ‘There’s a meal, to start with, I believe, before the TV bit starts. And after the speeches.

  ‘Sonia!’

  ‘Oh, sorry, what?’

  ‘Are you asking me if I’ll vote for you?’

  ‘Vote for me? Of course not.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you want to nominate me?’

  ‘No. Didn’t I say? I was wondering…I was wondering…well, if you’d like to come. I know it’s short notice, and I don’t know if you are…you know…going with anyone. Or even married, but I don’t think you are.’

  ‘Sonia! Are you inviting me, as your guest?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think so. Was I gabbling?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Will I have to wear a dinner jacket?’

  ‘No. There’ll be lots of footballers there in wide suits and kipper ties. And chewing gum. You could bring your three football medals along to show them.’ She gave a little giggle at that thought. ‘Sorry, am I gabbling again?’

  ‘Yes.’ She remembered the football medals! She remembered my medals!

  ‘I always do when I’m nervous.’

  ‘And are you nervous?’

  ‘Mmm. I’ve never done this before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case, Sonia, I’d better say that I’m thrilled to bits that you thought of me and I gladly accept the invitation. Saturday, did you say?’

  * * *

  We’ve been seeing each other ever since. We had Christmas lunch with Dave and Shirley and spent Boxing Day with Sonia’s parents in Ilkley. From there we drove to the Lake District and had four days in a log cabin owned by one of the sergeants and did some walking. Sonia was worried about her knee but it stood the strain without any problems.

  First time we entered the cabin I said: ‘Allocation of tasks: you do the cooking and washing up; I’ll chop logs, empty the ashes and keep the fire going.’

  ‘It’s a gas fire,’ she replied as she switched the light on.

  ‘Blow me down, so it is!’

  ‘Huh! So what’s your favourite meal?’

  ‘Peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwiches.’

  ‘Is that three sandwiches or one?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember. Is there anything else I need to know about you, Charlie Priest?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ I said, dropping our rucksacks in a corner and turning to her.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m too embarrassed to mention it.’

  ‘Force yourself.’

  ‘OK. I’m, well, the truth is, I’m scared of the dark.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. Terrified.’

  She reached out and placed her arms around my neck. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘We’ll just have to see what we can do about that, won’t we?’

  It was a Saturday morning near the end of January when I found the letter and photographs from the Home Office Immigration Department. Sonia was working at High Adventure and I was sitting in Gilbert’s chair, going through his In tray. He was playing in a four ball, or a ten ball, or left-handed with your laces tied together. Something like that. It was addressed to the East Pennine Chief Constable, with copies to Distribution list D, and the CC had passed it on to Special Branch. SB had appended a brief note and bounced it to CID, which was me.

  I swung my feet up on to the desk and started to read. It said:

  Reference: Ludmilla Mitrovic

  We can confirm that Ludmilla Mitrovic entered this country on 10th November 2003 via Leeds and Bradford airport and has not left the country. Suggest CID be requested to check on her whereabouts.

  The letter from the Home Office read:

  Reference: Ludmilla Mitrovic Case CLMB 439.26.04

  Approaches have been made to the Home Office by the Albanian ambassador regarding the whereabouts of Lu
dmilla Mitrovic. She entered the UK on November 10th 2003 and has not been heard of since. Her parents, who are Kosovan Albanians, now living in Albania, are growing increasingly concerned about her. She apparently came to this country intending to take up a short-term position of a nanny to a doctor working at Heckley General Hospital, but attempts to contact the doctor have proved fruitless. Ludmilla is aged nineteen, of slightly above average height and has long blonde hair. Could you please investigate her movements. Photograph a) attached, is of Ludmilla, and b) attached, is believed to be of her fingerprints. This case is being handled by Cynthia Bouvier, extension 2217, to whom all information should be addressed. Negative replies are not required.

  It was signed by an under-secretary, but whether that was his title or a boast, I didn’t know. I unpinned the over-exposed snapshot of the girl I’d last seen six weeks earlier and propped it against the phone. In this photo she looked much younger and happier. She was holding one hand above her eyes, shielding them from the sun, and was wearing a flowered dress. There were mountains in the background and the sky was cloudless.

  It was an ordinary photo, like I’d seen hundreds of times before in old scrapbooks. Apart from the mountains it could have been taken anytime in the 40s or 50s in rural England. The girlfriend of a young man about to be called into the army, enjoying a last day with him. That’s what Ludmilla was: an ordinary girl. But forces were at work in her country to create extraordinary events. Racial hatred and religious intolerance were channelled and exploited by groups who didn’t care who or what they destroyed in their lust for power. Her parents had fled their homeland, like countless ancestors before them, in a ceaseless ebb and flow of humanity looking for somewhere safe to raise their children. Could it happen here? Some would like it to, no doubt about it.

  The fingerprints were on an actual size contact print, presumably made after they had been lifted from something that had belonged to Ludmilla. I placed them in my pocket, put everything else back in the envelope and addressed it to myself.

  Our fingerprints department loves it when you call on them unexpectedly and ask for a favour. ‘C’mon,’ I insisted. ‘I get you all the decent jobs. Without me it would be all stolen cars and TICs. Where’s the fun in them?’

  The officer who’d worked with me on the Wallenberg case came over. ‘What’s the problem, Charlie?’ he asked.

  I pulled the photo of the prints from my pocket. ‘49, Juniper Avenue,’ I said. ‘How do these compare with the marks you found on the walls?’

  ‘I thought it was natural causes,’ he said.

  ‘You know me,’ I replied. ‘No stone unturned Charlie.’

  ‘Can you leave it with me?’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘How urgent is it?’

  ‘It’s not. Just sewing up the loose ends.’

  ‘Cheers. I’ll ring you this aft.’

  Sonia rang, between climbers, to see where we were eating. I volunteered to cook and she said she’d be at my house about seven. ‘I should be home,’ I said, ‘but let yourself in if I’m not.’ The SOCO rang shortly after I replaced the phone.

  ‘We have a match,’ he declared. ‘The prints all over the walls of that room are from the same person as the ones you brought in. Is that any help?’

  The photo of Ludmilla was now pinned above my desk, next to the calendar. I looked at her, decided she needed a break. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Elimination purposes only. They’re from the daughter of a previous tenant.’

  ‘Fair enough. Shall I destroy them, then?’

  ‘That’s what the law says. Thanks for helping.’

  ‘No trouble. I’ll stick them all in the shredder. Don’t come again for a while, please.’

  I found my diary and copied a number on to my telephone pad. After six rings I was transferred to the BT Answer 1571 service. I tried again, several times, without luck, so I decided to leave a message.

  ‘Hello Lorraine,’ I said. ‘This is Charlie Priest. Tell Ludmilla to send a postcard home. Her parents are worried about her.’

  On the way home I called in the supermarket and bought crusty bread, shallots, tomatoes, peppers, root ginger, coriander, mussels and tiger prawns, with a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon Blanc. I put the wine in the freezer and propped the recipe book against the microwave. After a few minutes of cleaning the mussels I decided something was missing. I walked through into the lounge and put a CD on, with the volume wound up loud so I could hear it while I prepared the ingredients.

  It was Bruce Springsteen. As I reached the kitchen he started singing and I joined in at the chorus. Born…in the USA…we sang, top of our voices, with Springsteen accompanying us both on guitar and me doing my best on the wooden spoon.

  IF YOU ENJOYED OVER THE EDGE,

  YOU’LL LOVE THE OTHER BOOKS

  IN THE DI CHARLIE PRIEST SERIES.

  Praise for Stuart Pawson’s DI Charlie Priest series

  ‘Enthralling’

  Financial Times Magazine

  ‘The DI Charlie Priest series is one of the most delightful – and under-rated – in the genre. Stuart Pawson has created a thoroughly believeable and likeable character who’s surrounded by the kind of funny and hard-working colleagues you’d give you left arm to have in real life! …If you haven’t come across Charlie and mates, go back to the start of the series and prepare to be royally entertained’

  reviewingtheevidence.com

  ‘Yorkshire’s answer to Inspector Morse’

  The Bookseller

  ‘Perfect for a long winter afternoon with the rain beating down on the windows’

  Independent on Sunday

  ‘A fast-paced, tense thriller, written by a true master’

  Good Book Guide

  ‘Enough to satisfy the most ardent lover of crime fiction’

  Yorkshire Evening Post

  ‘The character of Charlie Priest is a winner; a good and intelligent man in a hard world, fighting the villains on his patch with a mixture of common sense, determination and, above all, humour. Highly recommended’

  Crime Time

  ‘Totally engrossing. A classic whodunit with the best bit of misdirection I’ve seen since Agatha Christie. A truly brilliant book, but don’t start reading it in the evening or you’ll never get to bed’

  Sherlock Holmes Magazine

  About the Author

  STUART PAWSON had a career as a mining engineer, followed by a spell working for the probation service, before he became a full-time writer. He lives in Fairburn, Yorkshire, and, when not hunched over the word processor, likes nothing more than tramping across the moors, which often feature in his stories. He is a member of the Murder Squad and the Crime Writers’ Association.

  www.stuartpawson.com

  By Stuart Pawson

  IN THE DI CHARLIE PRIEST SERIES

  The Picasso Scam

  The Mushroom Man

  The Judas Sheep

  Last Reminder

  Deadly Friends

  Some by Fire

  Chill Factor

  Laughing Boy

  Limestone Cowboy

  Over the Edge

  Shooting Elvis

  Grief Encounters

  A Very Private Murder

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  13 Charlotte Mews

  London W1T 4EJ

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  Copyright © 2004 by STUART PAWSON

  First published in hardback by Allison & Busby in 2004.

  Published in paperback published in 2005.

  This ebook edition first published in 2012.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or b
y any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1171–0