‘Someone somewhere must know who she is,’ he murmured, then asked PC Hughes, ‘Has a time been fixed for the PM?’
‘Yes, sir, five o’clock this afternoon at Crickledale Hospital.’
The lid was fitted and it covered the mortal remains of the unfortunate young woman. She was then carried out of the chamber feet first in accordance with Montague’s instructions and placed in the Transit for conveyance to the hospital mortuary. There, her once-lovely body would be subjected to the horrific carving and brutal internal scrutiny that comprised a post-mortem examination. As the van manoeuvred for departure, Pluke sought the pathologist; he’d noticed him earlier among the busy police officers who had entered the cave for a final check. He was called Simon Meredith, a slightly built individual with half-moon spectacles, thinning fair hair and a matching moustache
‘Anything further to report now she’s been moved?’ asked Pluke. ‘Anything beneath the body? Any marks on the body? Anything new that might tell us something, however trivial, Mr Meredith?’
Meredith shook his head. ‘Very little to add, Detective Inspector. The condition of the body and a lack of insect infestation suggest she had not been here very long. Although it is a summer day with high external temperatures, the atmosphere in that chamber is very cool and she has been well preserved. I’d say she was placed here overnight; it’s almost impossible to estimate her time of arrival, but I’d hazard a guess it happened within the last twenty-four hours, and probably within the last twelve hours. And there is no evidence that she was killed here. No sign of a struggle in that chamber, nothing under the body. I believe she died elsewhere and was brought here, even though we have not found any indication of her means of arrival at this lonely place. Most certainly, she did not walk here naked. Her feet were clean.’
‘So you are saying she was killed overnight?’ Pluke put to the pathologist.
‘I am not saying she was killed, Mr Pluke. I am saying she died because I cannot specify the cause of death. I hope my post-mortem will establish that. Clearly, it is suspicious, but that is all I can say at this stage. Now, I must get back to the hospital. Is five o’clock a suitable time for the PM?’
‘Yes, that’s quite suitable,’ agreed Pluke.
The pathologist left the scene, followed swiftly by the Force Photographer and the SOCO team. Pluke handed Winton’s undeveloped film to Sergeant Tabler before he departed, asking that it be developed and copies made for scrutiny by the murder teams. Tabler said he should complete that task by later this afternoon.
Although many experts were leaving, members of the Task Force remained to complete their duties. Eight officers upon hands and knees were conducting meticulous fingerprint searches, gathering anything and everything that had been deposited within the limits of the Circle. Every single item, whether it was a discarded crisp packet, a piece of broken glass or the ejected cartridge of a twelve-bore shotgun, was charted and placed in a plastic bag for later scientific analysis. The detectives knew that such objects could often tell an interesting story even though many would be rejected as being of no evidential value to this investigation. It was amazing what could be deduced from something as innocuous as the lid of a jam jar or an empty beer can.
Pluke had a chat with the inspector in charge of the Task Force, reminding him to search the woodland beyond the extremities of the Circle; the girl’s clothing and personal belongings had disappeared and dense woodland was the ideal place to dispose of them. Tyre marks must be sought too — it was highly likely she had been brought here by vehicle, probably after death, and Pluke was assured that this team of highly qualified officers would do everything required of them.
‘Ready, Sergeant?’ asked Pluke. ‘I think we can do no more here.’
And so Detective Inspector Pluke and Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain departed for Crickledale Police Station.
*
At this stage, there were certain formalities to be completed by Detective Inspector Pluke. The Chief Constable had to be notified and so had Detective Superintendent Jack Hart, the officer in charge of the CID. Then the officer in charge of the Control Rooms at both Crickledale and Force Headquarters would have to be briefed so that their officers were aware of the ongoing situation. And Pluke’s own divisional commander must be informed. Coping with the demands of internal politics was as vital as solving the murder itself, and upon receiving Pluke’s telephone call, the Chief Constable asked, ‘Does it look like being a runner, Pluke? From what you’ve told me, it’s hardly a routine domestic, is it?’
‘I fear it might take a while to solve, sir,’ said Pluke after explaining the prevailing situation.
‘I know you are not very experienced at this sort of thing, Pluke, but I want you to remember that we operate on a very tight budget. We can’t go spending money like water, even if it is to solve the mysterious death of a pretty young woman. If it is not murder, we can avoid a lot of expenditure, so the sooner we get the job cleared up, the less it will cost the Force. That means we shall have more to spend on important things. In that respect, your duty is very clear — we need a speedy result.’
‘I fully understand, sir, and I do have a suspect.’ Whereupon Pluke told of Winton’s role in the matter.
‘It’s a beginning, Pluke,’ commented the Chief. ‘But am I right in thinking this is your first major investigation?’
‘I have investigated other sudden deaths, sir, and many crimes, but I must admit this is the first time I have been in command of an enquiry of this kind,’ Pluke corrected his Chief.
‘Then you will be aware that not everyone who finds a corpse is a murderer, Pluke, and that not every dead body is a murder victim. Don’t let old theories blind your judgement, don’t get side-tracked into fruitless enquiries and do make sure you don’t run away with my year’s contingency fund. But equally important, I do not want an unsolved murder messing up my crime statistics.’
‘I will do my best, sir,’ acknowledged Pluke.
When Montague rang his divisional commander, Superintendent Ronald Casson, Casson said, ‘Whatever you do, Mr Pluke, get this one solved as soon as possible. We’re talking money, Mr Pluke, serious money, and both the Chief Constable and the County Treasurer have warned us not to overspend during the current financial year. So find that killer, Mr Pluke, and do it without spending a fortune. I don’t want you or your detectives thinking there are unlimited overtime payments, those days have gone. For every day your teams remain on the enquiry, it is less money for other things. Think on that, Mr Pluke. And go easy on the forensic exhibits, they cost money, you realise. Big money. Keep costs down, Mr Pluke.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Montague Pluke.
After hearing about the investigation, the Chief Constable rang Detective Superintendent Jack Hart and said, ‘Jack, is that man Pluke fit to take charge of the enquiry? If my information is correct, he has never been in charge of a murder investigation. He seems to have spent his entire career worrying whether it’s unlucky to carry a spade into a house or whether it’s the right day of the month to shout “rabbits”’
‘He is in charge of the CID of the area in which the body was found, sir,’ replied Hart. ‘The case is therefore his responsibility. He is quite a good detective, you know, he did solve the Primrose Bank statue damage case and it was he who caught the Hooded Pimper at the Nurse’s Home.’
‘Well, so long as he gets the job done without spending too much money. And get him to dress in something that looks good on camera — we need a good television image among our senior detectives and at the moment he looks like a bloody refugee from World War One. We need to portray efficiency and professionalism, Jack — and I hope he doesn’t concentrate all his attentions on the chap who found the body.’
‘If I might say so, sir, those of us who know him well think it wise to let him pursue his own lines of enquiry. This allows the ... er ... more professional detectives to concentrate on the real substance of the investigation.’
‘Poi
nt taken, Jack. That does make some sense. Nice tactics. And keep an eye on those overtime payments.’
*
Fridays were never a good day to start any new enterprise, so Montague Pluke was pleased that the investigation was beginning on a Thursday. Having notified all those who had to be told, he went down to the Incident Room which was now being established in the parade room. It was a hive of activity with desks and chairs being positioned, telephone lines, faxes and computer links being installed, along with a photocopier, blackboard, stacks of paper and official forms, and tea and coffee-making facilities. People were dashing around and civilian staff were arriving by the carload.
Detective Inspector Horsley was in charge of the arrangements and Wayne Wain was in the thick of it.
Montague made his way through the throng to examine an ante-room, then said to Horsley, ‘This will be my office, Mr Horsley.’ He took a four-leaved clover from his pocket and laid it on the desk already in situ. ‘I’ll get Mrs Plumpton to find a vase for my clover. It’s not often one finds a four-leaved clover in this locality — quite unusual in fact, a sign of impending good fortune and a fortuitous beginning for us. It was growing on the verge just up the road ...’
‘So where do I work?’ snapped Horsley, a former rugby international who didn’t know a clover from a vetch. ‘I happen to be the officer in charge of the Incident Room and this is the only office. I would have thought I should have had first choice.’
‘And I am the officer in charge of the overall investigation, Mr Horsley,’ retorted Pluke. ‘Might I suggest you work at a desk among your staff? That way you will be able to keep an eye on things as they happen around you, a very good supervisory tactic. And I do need a secure office; this is ideal which is why I have claimed it.’
Horsley had slipped up. In such cases, it was usually a case of first come, first served and he had been rather slow in staking his claim. And he could not pull rank on Pluke because both were inspectors. He had to admit that luck had been on Pluke’s side — surely that had nothing to do with that four-leaved clover, had it?
Having claimed his office, Pluke’s next job was to find Mrs Plumpton.
She had been drafted in to supervise the secretarial work and he wanted her to produce the necessary stationery and equipment for his office. He felt it might be beneficial to have his name on the door too and would ask her to bring a name-plate. The next most important job was to convene a conference of detectives. He calculated that all the detectives would have arrived within an hour and decided that, in the meantime, a cup of tea was needed. He found Mrs Plumpton unwrapping brown paper parcels of witness statement forms and asked her to make the tea before she got too involved with other things. And he would have his lunch while enjoying the tea. But then came a telephone call from the Control Room.
‘Inspector Pluke.’ It was Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield. ‘I’ve received a radio message from the murder scene, it’s DC Bray. He has found a gentleman’s glove; it is outside the Druids’ Circle and appears to have been discarded recently. He wants you to be informed and to make a decision about its examination and disposal.’
Pluke thought for just a moment, then said, ‘Tell him I will come immediately. Leave it where it is for the time being.’
Within two minutes, Pluke had located Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain and, forsaking the cup of tea and a chance to have lunch at his desk, was soon being driven back to the Druids’ Circle by him.
When they arrived, the entire site was encircled with metres of yellow tape and guarded by uniformed constables. After Wain had parked the car, Pluke quickly located DC Bray. ‘Ah, Detective Constable Bray.’ He beamed. ‘You have something to show me?’
‘A glove, sir, for a male person, leather, black, right hand, size nine, soft lining, good quality, good condition.’ DC Bray had been a former soldier, Pluke recalled.
‘And what makes you think it might be relevant?’ asked Pluke.
‘The glove is damp, sir, but otherwise in very good condition. It has not been here long, sir. One can sense that by its general appearance. It rained gently last night, sir. I have checked the state of the weather at this place. The glove is made of leather, sir, good quality and I deduce it was dropped very recently.’
‘Not by a policeman, I trust, DC Bray!’ There was a smile on the face of Detective Inspector Pluke. ‘But good work and good thinking. Now perhaps you will lead me to it?’
Using a route which had clearly been approved by the detective sergeant in charge of the scene, Pluke and Wain followed DC Bray around the outer stones to a point beneath a beech tree.
The woodland floor was clear of briars and other vegetation at this point, but there was a covering of dead beech leaves, a legacy of last autumn.
‘There it is, sir.’ And, standing to attention, Bray pointed to the glove.
‘You have not moved it?’ asked Wayne Wain.
‘No, Sergeant, it has not been touched. The facts were acquired without having to move it, sir.’ The glove was lying on its back with the label exposed near the wrist.
‘Any other clothing nearby?’ asked Wayne Wain.
‘No, Sergeant,’ chanted Bray. ‘We have conducted a meticulous examination of the locality but there are no other items of clothing, male or female, within a twenty-metre ring around the Circle. And no footprints either, sir. The covering of dry leaves has prevented anyone leaving footprints. The leaves are damp, sir, under the surface, but dry on top, today’s sunshine has dried them on top, sir.’
‘Very good work, DC Bray,’ Pluke congratulated him. ‘Now, have you recorded the precise position of the glove?’
‘I have, sir, and had it photographed. Twenty metres due north of stone number nine on our master plan of the site and eighteen centimetres from the base of this beech tree which can be identified by the scroll and heart carved on the trunk, western side. Unmistakable, sir.’
Pluke then asked Bray to mark the position for the record. He did so with a dagger-sized piece of pointed plastic bearing the number 67 and then, lifting the glove carefully, placed it in a plastic exhibits bag.
‘DC Bray, this is a very important piece of evidence. I shall have it examined with a view to tracing its origins and its owner. Thank you for your diligence.’
‘It is good to be of service, sir.’ And Bray stood to attention as Pluke and Wain walked away bearing their trophy.
During their return to the office, Pluke said, ‘Wayne, this glove might be a very important piece of evidence. We must not inform the press at this stage — we do not want the owner to dispose of the matching partner. We must determine the name of the manufacturer, the point of sale and, if possible, who bought it.’
‘We must be careful, sir, we cannot be certain it was dropped by the killer. We should not spend too much time and money on the glove if it is not known to be relevant. Isn’t it odd that someone should wear gloves, thick leather gloves like this, in the height of summer? Very few people wear gloves in summer, especially not men, sir.’
‘Criminals wear gloves to conceal their fingerprints, Wayne. Most criminals are not blessed with brains, as we know — so might our villain have been hoping to conceal his prints by wearing this glove? Maybe he used it when driving a car to the scene to dispose of the body? Or when carrying the body!’
‘That is possible, sir, yes, I agree.’
‘Anything is possible and if this is possible, Wayne, we must consider that possibility. I believe the glove is important. Gloves can be identified by the grains of the leather, rather like fingerprints. This is a very important piece of evidence, Wayne, so it’s a good action for our teams — have someone trace the source of that glove and, if possible, identify the owner. Now let us get back to the office. Our tea will be getting cold and I haven’t had my lunch.’
*
When Millicent walked into town to do some shopping after lunch, she noticed Gertrude Nettlewren emerging from the hairdressers with a hairstyle that looked like a wa
sps’ nest.
‘Your hair looks very nice,’ Millicent oozed. ‘But you weren’t at the lunch?’
‘No, Moses wants me to join him at the Magistrates’ Association Dinner tonight and the only time I could get an appointment for my hair was over lunch. I was so sorry, I did ring Mrs Councillor Farrell.’
‘You missed a treat, Gertrude,’ said Millicent. ‘There’s all that stuff about May’s niece having parties at the bungalow ...’
‘I saw the van the other day, Millicent, they were taking cameras in. It must have been a very special party, mustn’t it, if they were taking cameras and tripods in. I mean big cameras, Millicent, the sort you’d expect for a television programme.’
‘Really?’ Millicent was intrigued by this. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea at Ye Olde Tea Shoppe?’
Chapter 7
Montague Pluke’s first news conference did not attract many journalists because nonviolent deaths, even those with an element of suspicion, were no longer considered front-page headline news. Even though this was the greatest thing that had happened in Crickledale since the vicar ran off with both the choir mistress and the contents of the parish safe forty-six years ago, the editors in distant towns felt disinclined to commit their staff to the story. It meant a long drive into the remoteness of the moors for something which, on the strength of the advance information, might be little more than the outcome of a domestic tiff or some ribald horseplay.
But those who did arrive found themselves rewarded with a good story and an intriguing detective inspector whose photograph would soon grace their pages. Montague, having had his photograph taken complete with panama, spats and ancient, curiously shaped, buttoned-up overcoat, told the press corps about the discovery of the naked body of a beautiful blonde woman in the burial chamber of the Druids’ Circle and added that identification of the deceased was his priority.
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