Good, Randall thought. That is exactly the response he wanted. At least they weren’t asleep.
‘That wasn’t the only strange object our man was carrying.’
He went on to the next picture showing all four medals, ribbons hanging on their pin, and saw an array of equally confused expressions.
He ran through each medal in turn, put forward the suggestion Major Loftus had made. Then pointed out that it was impossible that their victim had served in the Merchant Navy in the Second World War. ‘Not only was he not born for another twenty-five years,’ he said, ‘but even his father would almost certainly have been below the age of enlistment at the time of the Second World War.’
The puzzlement on the faces compounded.
Join the club, Randall thought. The club of utter confusion. The when, where, why, how, what and most frustratingly who club. Welcome to our ranks.
‘So if the medals were awarded to a family member,’ Randall pointed out, ‘it could only have been his grandfather – unless his father had been born in or before 1921, that is, and he had his son in his fifties. This is, of course, possible.’
Now the assembled journalists merely looked confused and Randall shared their sentiment.
With bells on.
He hurried on to a place where he was more sure of himself.
‘We’ve circulated his dental records in the vain hope that this will help us identify our man but vagrants are not generally known to make regular attendances at dentists’ surgeries.’
They had the decency to titter before Simone Dixon of the Shrewsbury Chronicle spoke up. ‘You say have there been other similar assaults on homeless people? I believe one homeless man died recently in Shrewsbury as the result of an assault?’ She looked down at her notebook. ‘A Mr Joseph Gallagher.’
‘The two crimes are so dissimilar,’ Randall said tightly, ‘that we do not think there is a link.’ He felt he should say more. ‘There have been, it is true, drunken fisticuffs. There have been two deaths of vagrants both as a result of assault, one here and the other in London, who died two months later, almost certainly as a result of the assault. But there has been nothing as violent and premeditated as this.’
She seemed to accept this. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Randall looked at Simone Dixon with interest. How old was she? Twenty – twenty-one? He just hoped she stayed here in the town. She was bright and good at her job. What was more, when he answered her question she listened to the answer, took notes and was quiet, accepting his explanation. He wouldn’t mind a few more of those. Argumentative buggers, the press could be.
There were a few more questions from local and national journalists and Randall felt satisfied. They would do what they could to help find out who their man was and how, or rather why he had died and the more important question of who had killed him. Was there a reason? Was it connected to the objects their man had taken such care to retain? Or was there a possibility that the objects had been stitched into the coat by someone else?
The press conference disbanded at 6.20 p.m.
By nine the officers were gathered for the briefing. Randall cast his eyes over Lara Tinsley. She was calm and contained, her face bland and expressionless. She looked resolute and nodded an affirmative when he asked whether she had released the request for dentists to check their records. Dental records could be a great key but these days, with so many of the younger generation having perfect teeth or the older generation not being able to afford a dentist, they could be less helpful. Besides – as he had indicated in the press conference – he couldn’t see their vagrant making an appointment for six monthly check-ups and scale and polishes. He didn’t hold out much hope from this source.
Tinsley then fed back the result of her encounter with the curator of Shrewsbury Museum and Coleman shared with the rest of his colleagues the story of his encounter with Major Loftus.
This lightened the atmosphere and resulted in a few smiles and sniggers.
Not a bad thing, Randall thought. Tinsley and Coleman had given him the information about the shoe and the medals earlier, in time for the press conference.
The rest of the briefing consisted of running through known facts and Randall could tell that some of the initial excitement and drama was beginning to wear a bit thin. Part of his job as SIO was to keep morale up and the pace going. He focused on avenues of enquiry: neighbours, witnesses, charity shops, the nuns. There were plenty of questions to be asked but, so far, precious few answers. Randall knew that they had to wait for someone to make a connection between their man and his violent death.
When they had all left it was well gone ten but Randall felt fidgety. He picked up the phone. He had Martha’s private number and she had once told him that he was welcome to use it at any time if he had a problem over a case. She had added, ‘Or anything else.’
It was tempting. This was not exactly a problem over a case but he did want to talk. He glanced at his watch, hesitating before dialling. It was 10.35 p.m. and it was too late to ring her. He couldn’t intrude on her life like this.
He put the phone down.
EIGHTEEN
Thursday, 18 September, 8.20 a.m.
The press reports had borne fruit by early the next morning.
And this woman knew exactly how to report to the correct officer. She marched into the Monkmoor station and demanded to see the SIO.
Special Dean Kramer was manning the hatch. ‘SIO?’ he queried, confused.
‘Senior – Investigating – Officer,’ she spelled out slowly and patronizingly.
‘Investigating …?’ Kramer wasn’t quite the brightest button in the box and he wasn’t used to the general public being so familiar with police jargon.
The woman gave a loud sigh. ‘The murder of the tramp,’ she said uncompromisingly. ‘The one who was found with his throat cut at Moreton Corbet.’
Kramer’s eyes widened. ‘Certainly. I’ll get hold of Detective Inspector Randall for you, madam.’
The look she gave him was fearsome. He half expected her to tell him not to madam her but she contented herself with a harrumph of impatience accompanied by a glare and pacing around the waiting area while he fetched DI Randall.
He found him studying on the computer, trying to piece it all together. Looking for something. Anything. He was getting desperate.
He looked up as Dean approached and frowned. He wasn’t sure about him, whether he would make the grade or not. Still … one had to give the lad a chance.
‘Sir,’ Kramer said tentatively, ‘there’s a lady here wishing to speak to you – as SIO,’ he added, his voice conveying the importance of the title.
Randall stood up and followed him down the corridor.
The woman was tall and very thin with a sharp, angular body that matched her sharp, angular face, her hair straight and grey, cut mannishly. Her eyes were ice blue and very shrewd. Randall greeted her courteously, introducing himself.
First, she checked his credentials. ‘You’re the detective in charge of this investigation of the murdered vagrant?’
‘I am.’
‘I knew him,’ she said.
Immediately Randall’s heart began to soar. She knew him? Their man? Alive?
‘Perhaps it would be better,’ he said, ‘if we went somewhere quiet, somewhere where we can talk.’ He could feel the hope bubbling up in his chest.
The woman nodded and Randall led her into one of the interview rooms. He offered her a cup of tea which she accepted and sat down, her back ramrod straight.
Randall began the interview, speaking gently. This was a woman who had come forward to volunteer information. She might be the breakthrough they needed.
‘My name,’ she said, ‘is Genevieve Dreyfuss. My father was French, my mother Welsh. I live in one of the cottages on Pontesbury Hill.’
She paused then gave him a severe look. ‘That, of course, is irrelevant. As is the fact that I was the headmistress of a small boarding school in Gloucestershire. I moved here five year
s ago because I’d always liked Shrewsbury. My mother was fond of the place.’
Randall waited. She would get to the point soon, surely? He only hoped that the point was worth the preamble.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I do apologize.’ Something like humour softened the severe features ‘Wasting police time, I daresay. Hope you won’t charge me, Inspector.’
He shook his head. She must have been a great head-mistress.
‘Tell me what you know,’ he prompted gently.
‘He used to come and do some work in the garden for me,’ she said. ‘He knocked on the door one day and said he would do some weeding in return for a bowl of the delicious-smelling soup I was making. Parsnip and ginger,’ she explained, then stopped. ‘Another irrelevance. He had the most lovely voice, you know. Clear and gentle. Almost like an actor’s.’
There was only one way he could answer this. ‘I never heard him speak.’
When he had seen him the man’s throat had been cut right through. No chance of him hearing that lovely voice.
She must have quickly realized her faux pas. She flushed. ‘No. Oh, how awful. No, of course …’ The polite response had flustered her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again.
‘His name?’
‘He never gave me his name.’ She paused. ‘I had the impression that he deliberately avoided giving me his name.’
Disappointing. But Randall kept trying. ‘His accent?’
‘He was accentless. There was no clue there as to his background.’
‘Did he tell you why he’d taken to the road?’
‘No. He told me one day that the reason he’d disappeared was because he could.’
If Randall had deemed this case unfathomable this certainly didn’t help. ‘What do you think he meant by that?’
‘He said it was because he was already dead.’
Randall leaned forward. ‘What?’
‘That’s what he said. ‘He was already dead.’
‘Did he enlarge on that?’
‘No. But I can tell you he was not an unintelligent man. He knew about gardening. He understood what to do, when to prune, how to prune, when to mulch, those sorts of things. And he had some skill. I believe that at one time he must have cared for his own garden.’
Randall couldn’t think of anything to say in response but Genevieve Dreyfuss continued unabashed. ‘Sometimes I’d hear him hum, usually an aria or song from some musical or opera.’ She hesitated, met his eyes. ‘He was a cultured man, Inspector.’
‘Did you ask him his name?’
‘I did. He said it wouldn’t be of any use to me because his name was listed amongst those of the dead.’
Randall frowned. This man’s name should have been Enigma. Why had he been so anxious for no one to know who he was? The thought crept into his mind. Because when someone had found out who he was he had silenced him. This put a new slant on the case. He looked back at Miss Dreyfuss, who was trying. He had to give her that.
‘I did ask him what he meant by being classed as one of the dead, Inspector, but he simply smiled at me and said that he was happy to remain nameless, amongst the dead.’
Randall pictured the bank of fridges in the mortuary. Well, he’d got his wish. Their man certainly now was nameless and one of the dead.
If he had found this a baffling case from the start, Ms Dreyfuss’s visit had, if anything, only added to his confusion. She was an intelligent woman. She had known the deceased. She must have formed her own opinion. He tried. ‘What did you think he meant by that?’
She was silent, thoughtful. ‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘that I thought he meant that something had happened to him in the past and he had put that life behind him.’ Shrewd eyes looked at him. ‘People do use those terms, don’t they? You know – if they’ve found Jesus or left some unpleasant situation. I wondered if he’d perhaps been to prison.’
Randall shook his head. ‘We fingerprinted him,’ he said. ‘Whoever he was and whatever had caused him to go underground, it wasn’t because he’d committed a crime.’
‘I’m glad,’ she said sentimentally.
He felt he should apply pressure here. ‘Miss Dreyfuss, so far in this investigation we have few people who knew our man alive. The nuns at the abbey, who didn’t know him very well, the girls at McDonald’s’ – he made a mental note to chase this lead up – ‘and the lorry driver who picked him up and drove him to Moreton Corbet, where he was murdered in the castle grounds. Apart from those few people you are the only person who has admitted to knowing this poor man alive.’
The statement appeared to stun her, almost to intimidate her. ‘I did try and help him,’ she repeated earnestly. ‘I am now. I’m doing what I can.’
‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill him?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘He was a thoroughly nice man.’
‘Did he ever say anything to you about someone threatening him?’
Again, she shook her head.
‘Did he mention anything about his past life?’
‘Again, no.’ She seemed to think an apology was needed and looked anguished. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m not being much help here, am I?’
No, was the truth, but there was little point in focusing on that. Randall continued, ‘To your knowledge, did you ever see him carry a knife?’
‘No.’
She seemed startled by the question but he had to pursue this line. ‘Was he a violent man, Miss Dreyfuss?’
This time she was affronted. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘In the paper did you see the picture of an old-fashioned child’s shoe that he carried with him?’
She nodded.
‘Have you ever seen that before?’
A slow, puzzled shake of the head. ‘I never saw it.’
‘And what about the war medals?’
This provoked a further shake of the head.
‘Did he ever mention family?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Friends?’
Again, a negative.
‘Any little clue? A date? A name? A place?’
‘Nothing. I have thought about it, you know, gone over every moment he spent in my garden or eating at my table.’
Randall tried to prompt her memory. ‘He had a limp.’
‘It wasn’t terribly noticeable. Only if he was tired, and I put it down to a stiff back after gardening.’ Her face tightened as though recalling something. Randall was tempted to prompt her but instead he waited. ‘He said it was due to an old injury.’
Yes? He didn’t dare voice it.
‘Skiing, he said. It was the only reference he ever made to his previous life and I remember it particularly because I was so surprised. I mean, one knows that most of these homeless people at one point did live somewhere, did have money, did have people around them who loved them but … skiing. Well, put it like this. It was a shock.’
Randall nodded. ‘Do you think he might at one time have been a professional gardener?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said frowning.
‘Did you have a guess as to his trade or profession?’
‘No. He was handy with tools but he never said what work he had done.’
‘Did he ever use a phrase that might have given you a clue as to his geographical origin?’
‘No.’
‘Or make any comment on, say, war or country, wealth, status, cars?’
‘No.’
‘What did you call him?’ Randall asked curiously.
She smiled, embarrassed. ‘Excuse me or please, sir or … I never knew his name,’ she insisted and Randall was flummoxed.
‘I did tell him that my garden shed was always open. There was a sun lounger in there and a few old blankets. I told him that he could sleep in there if he ever felt the need. Any time.’ Again, she seemed to feel that her treatment of him was open to criticism. ‘He didn’t want more,’ she said. ‘I’d give him money if he’d done some work for me and I would
give him food. He was a nice man.’ She looked upset. ‘It is quite dreadful what happened to him.’
Randall felt a prick of interest. ‘Did he leave any belongings in your shed?’
‘He might have done. I never really looked. Not carefully. He put the tools away quite neatly so I had no need to go in there.’
‘And since you heard about his murder?’
‘I only realized when I read this morning’s headlines in the paper.’
‘Which were?’
‘“Hobo has throat cut,”’ she said disapprovingly.
Randall winced.
‘But the artist’s picture was a very good likeness.’
It was true. Dane Banks, their police artist, had a real talent for portraits, but he could never have thought when he went to art college that he would end up reconstructing living faces from the dead or, even worse, from bones, colour in terrible facial injuries, replace missing eyes, noses, damaged mouths or be asked to age the disappeared so that ten or twenty years later their relatives and acquaintances might recognize them. Correctly or mistakenly.
Like the Tichborne claimant.
Randall continued his questions. ‘How often did he come?’
‘It was quite erratic – not regular at all. I never knew when to expect him, which is why I didn’t miss him. Sometimes he’d come a couple of mornings in a week, at other times I wouldn’t see him for a month or more.’
‘Did he work for anyone else in the area?’
She shrugged. ‘I really don’t know, Inspector. Not that I know of.’ Her manner changed to become haughty. ‘I don’t really mix with my neighbours.’
Randall covered a smile with a cough. ‘How long has he been coming to your garden?’
‘Three years or so.’
‘Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find out who killed him?’
She looked blank. ‘No.’
‘Anything more?’ he appealed. He still didn’t have a handle on this mysterious man, though a little like one of Dane Banks’s sketches, features were beginning to emerge.
‘One thing I should say,’ she said, getting up to leave, ‘is that he was a man contented with his position.’
‘Contented?’ It was a shocking word to use, both in relation to his status and to his murder.
Recalled to Death Page 10
