Stone Dead

by Jennie Melville

‘Right. Go ahead, Sergeant.’

  ‘I’ll get the leaves cleared.’

  Charmian was joined by Dolly and Rewley as they watched while the sergeant superintended the clearing of the leaves. ‘Careful now. Gentle with it.’

  As the leaves were moved away, it could be seen that the earth beneath was bare, the soil showing brown and damp.

  Sergeant Dawes looked at Charmian in query. She nodded. ‘ Yes, go in.’ The top layer of earth was lifted, but this grave was shallow.

  The body was soon revealed.

  He lay there, prone, neck extended, with the head tucked into

  a plastic bag, suffocated or drugged like the others. But a scarf

  was tightened round his neck, distorting the face.

  He was recognizable, though.

  Dolly drew in her breath. ‘It’s the Horseman.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charmian. ‘Joe Davy.’

  ‘Once more you didn’t seem surprised,’ said Dolly later, as they were back in the car.

  ‘No, not altogether. I had been wondering. He had to be somewhere, alive or dead.’

  Dolly was trying to take it in. ‘So the Horseman was not the killer?’

  ‘No, he knew who the killer was, he may have helped in some ways.’

  ‘So who is the killer?’

  ‘I think you know if you think about it, Dolly. I guessed, yes, it is a guess, when you came back today. Proof, ah that comes later.’

  Dolly stared at her. ‘ There is one name, but …’

  ‘Yes, but, proof.’

  ‘If we ever get it,’ said Rewley. ‘I am guessing too, of course, but I think we have the same name in mind. But even investigation will be difficult … so many different interests involved, all powerful.’

  ‘How right you are.’

  Later on, Charmian, Rewley and Dolly were drinking coffee and quietly mulling over the extraordinary events.

  A tap on the door, and the clinician from the forensic team came in.

  ‘This tape was found in Davy’s pocket … He had been talking into it. To himself, it seems.’ Dr Kenneth Carter was a tall thin man, totally absorbed in his work. ‘It’s deteriorated, I’m afraid, due to the damp and so on.’ A dead body, he meant but did not say. ‘Corrupted too, while in his pocket – there’s a lot of iron in the soil there. I have a transcript of what is left.’ He placed a sheet of paper on the table. ‘ He seems to be talking to someone he calls his friend. He doesn’t trust his friend any more, if he ever did, and thinks his friend is about to get him into trouble … I guess that same friend killed him.’

  ‘Any clues as to who this obscure character is?’ asked Charmian, drawing the paper towards her.

  Dr Carter shook his head. ‘Not for me. You may do better, ma’am.’ He smiled himself out. Not his problem.

  ‘All we need,’ said Dolly. ‘Our friendly, neighbourhood killer.’

  ‘That may not be a bad description,’ commented Rewley.

  Charmian put the sheet in her case. ‘I’ll consider it tomorrow.’

  Dolly wanted to talk, but Charmian shook her head. ‘ I’m going home.’ She was suddenly tired. It had been a long day, and whatever she had said to Dolly and Rewley tonight had brought a shock.

  She had been wrong so far, perhaps she was wrong again. Proof, evidence was needed. Hard stuff that you could take into court.

  Rewley bent down to pick something up. ‘Dolly, she’s dropped her notebook, I must take it to her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, she said she was tired. Leave it till the morning. Not that urgent, is it?’

  ‘No, it might be, all things considered.’

  ‘Well, then …’

  But he was in his car, and off.

  Charmian drove herself home, threading her way through the streets. The house was in darkness as she parked the car and walked towards the front door.

  She was searching for her key when a shadowy figure came round the corner of the house and hands were fastened round her neck, dragging her backwards. Her feet slipped beneath her.

  She tried to struggle but a plastic bag was dropped over her head and drawn tightly round her neck.

  As Rewley stopped his car, his headlights illuminating the small front garden of the house in Maid of Honour Row, a man ran through the gate and past him to a car, which roared away. The front door of the house had opened and Charmian’s husband

  was kneeling by her side. He had already wrenched off the plastic

  bag.

  He looked up at Rewley: ‘We need help, she’s not breathing.’

  Rewley bent over her. ‘ She is breathing, but it’s very shallow,

  she’s been drugged.’

  As Dolly Barstow and Rewley waited together in South Berkshire Hospital, Dolly said: ‘Why did he do it?’

  ‘He was protecting his investment.’

  ‘How can you say such a thing? What does it mean?’

  ‘They were money in the bank for him, these murdered women, feeding his ego. That’s how he felt about them, I swear. I wonder how many more he might kill. We’ve got to get proof.’

  ‘Surely we will now.’ She said, half to herself: ‘A colleague, a man we’ve worked with. It’s hard to believe. What can we do? How do we start?’

  ‘We can get him suspended while we look for it. At the moment, that’s the best we can do. And dearly paid for if Charmian dies.’

  ‘She won’t die,’ said Dolly with confidence. And I bet the first thing she says when she opens her eyes will be: “Have you got proof yet?”’

  She got up. The waiting room was small and stuffy, and although no one smoked there, the air felt drained.

  ‘I’m going to investigate.’

  A young woman sitting in the corner, pretending to read a newspaper, looked up and smiled. ‘It’s hard waiting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘Two days, on and off. He’s not come round yet, my husband, they say he will … in time.’

  ‘I’m sorry. An accident, was it?’

  ‘Motorbike, not his fault, some bloody motorist. Your husband, is it?’

  ‘A colleague,’ said Dolly. But Charmian was more than that to her: she was friend, supporter, boss.

  She joined Rewley again. ‘I saw Humphrey, he says the doctor is pleased. She’s coming round, but it may take time,’ he said. ‘He’s staying here, of course, but I think we should leave now.’

  That morning, while they were in the hospital, Tiger Yardley, not waiting for anything else to happen, got into his car, left a message that he was sick and drove away. He had checked with the hospital and was told that Charmian would not only live, but was coming round. ‘I’m in it bad here,’ he said to himself. ‘I’ll be off.’

  The news of the attack on Charmian, coupled with the discovery of the bodies of the two further victims as well as that of the Horseman, brought about an urgent meeting in the SRADIC building. In the absence of Charmian it was held in Rewley’s small office. Present were Superintendent Hallows and Inspectors Chance and Deast.

  George Rewley explained the position.

  The three men listened silently, absorbing what they found hard to credit.

  ‘And where is Sergeant Yardley now?’ enquired Hallows.

  ‘Called in sick and gone off.’

  ‘I’ll make him sick,’ growled Hallows. ‘Did he have a sick note from anyone?’

  ‘Probably signed by his friend, Dr Lily,’ said Rewley sardonically.

  ‘We have to have good circumstantial evidence,’ said Deast, never one to be cheerful. ‘We can’t move without. Or we’ll be in deep trouble. And the media must be kept out.’

  Charmian came out of hospital, bruised and with a headache that lasted for five days. On medical advice she did not come to work, but kept in touch with what was going on over the telephone.

  The word ‘evidence’ occurred frequently in her conversations.

  ‘We are working on it,’ said Dolly.

  Meanwhile the inquests
on the three new victims were held. The post-mortems on all the bodies, including the Horseman, had been performed by one of the leading pathologists from the University of Edinburgh. It was felt that the probity of the institution could not be impugned.

  Everything that was done had to be above reproach.

  All the victims had died in the same way: from suffocation, but several victims had also been marked with a knife, and one, Daisy Winner, had been sedated for a period before being killed. She had probably struggled. The drug would have prevented any feelings of anxiety getting to her sister.

  Victoria Janus (she had taken this name by deed poll) had died in the same way. She too had been sedated. There was the mark of an injection. Not seen at first, but identified on closer examination.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ said Charmian.

  Joseph Davy had been hit on the head and then suffocated. Some slight variation there.

  Slowly, the picture was being put together.

  Sergeant Yardley came back from his so-called rest and was suspended and told not to make contact with anyone.

  The word ‘ANYONE’ was spelt out to him. He could see his lawyer and that was all.

  After the inquests, permission was given for the bodies to be buried.

  In one week, Amanda Warren,

  Lily Green,

  Daisy Winner,

  Mary Jersey,

  Louise Sherry and

  Victoria Janus were buried.

  Charmian Daniels went to all the funerals, as did Dolly Barstow and George Rewley, with Superintendent Hallows, and Inspectors Chance and Deast. Policemen do this as a rule: you can often spot the killer at the funeral.

  Tiger Yardley expressed a wish to go but was forbidden to do so.

  ‘Do we know yet why the women were undressed, and put into old clothes?’ asked Charmian, as they drove away from Mary Jersey’s burial.

  The answer was no, but they could make guesses, and for Charmian they came loud and clear, almost like a voice in her ear. ‘I enjoyed undressing the women, their clothes were soiled in their dying, you understand that. I stored the clothes in the hidey-hole of long ago. More pleasure. It is all pleasure. Deep.’

  Inside her Charmian could hear the voice talking all through that funeral.

  The last, or almost the last they were to attend.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Dolly, so that Charmian wondered if she had been muttering her thoughts aloud.

  ‘God knows why. Why do cats play with mice? For sport.’ She added, ‘And the source of the clothes seems to be charity shops, we found a bill on Mary Jersey. He may have used some of her money and left her the change. Mad.’

  ‘Too mad. We may never get him to court.’

  ‘I think we are getting somewhere on the hospital side,’ said Dolly. ‘Suggestive, anyway.’ She paused. ‘Suggestions of prowling round patients and their records … too much interest in the not totally perfect physically. All the victims had come into one local hospital at one time or another.’

  ‘Could we put it in court?’

  Dolly looked doubtful. ‘It might go to show motive.’

  ‘I want Yardley in a state of total collapse,’ said Charmian with vindictive force.

  ‘At the moment, he’s acting dumb.’

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ said Charmian, as she opened the door to let Dolly out at her house in Merrywick.

  The funeral of Joseph Davy, the Horseman, took place in St Thomas More Church, Abbey Road, Cheasey.

  Abbey Road had shops on one side of it and houses on the other, a narrow, difficult road, but the church was the largest in the district and had been chosen for this purpose.

  Charmian understood this as she watched the Cheasey mafia surge in; all men, no women. Cheasey was burying its own.

  She did not go into the church, she could not bring herself to pray for the Horseman, but she parked the car in some unlucky householder’s drive (this might cause trouble if the houseowner came back) and sat, with Dolly beside her, where they could both look out.

  To her amazement, ahead of the hearse came a line of marching men, four abreast. Being Cheasey men they did not march in step but each at his own pace. Cheasey was in charge.

  Then came the hearse, and then more men. They marched without expression but with determination.

  A car drew out from the forecourt of a petrol station and inserted itself in the procession.

  It was an open car, a small old Austin with the roof peeled back and there sat the driver, hatless, grinning his head off. Perhaps to celebrate the occasion, or perhaps to declare that he was mad, bad and dangerous to know beyond belief, he was wearing make-up, the silk dress of some long dead matron, and thick, brown gloves. He was bowing and smiling: my EYE is upon you.

  He knew all about the power of the eye, his favoured symbol.

  Dr James Lily, celebrating a death. As perhaps he had celebrated all his victims. The odd ones, the simple ones, ones with small defects whom he had picked out for his pleasure in the two hospitals where he had done duty on occasion. Not difficult for staff to observe and collect details. A pleasure really, like smelling the wine before drinking. Although, in truth, he had never been a drinking man.

  As with the little presents taken from the dead women and sent off to the police, he understood the police so well, and knew they would be confused rather than helped by what he sent. Another taste of pleasure for Jamey.

  He would miss Joe who had been a friend, but not one to be trusted. Groomed for stardom as the killer of the women he had refused the part. Not to be blamed perhaps, but not to be excused another starring role. He had got one with his death.

  He saw Charmian and gave her a little wave. They suspected him, of course, but they would never prove anything. I am just saying goodbye to a friend. Another little wave. He had summoned Joe who had met him in the Wick car park. Similarly, Victoria Janus had come, eager to confront him and exact a prize. He had done the job well.

  The police would never prove anything. I am a forensic scientist, after all.

  To her fury, Charmian found herself almost giving a wave back, and damn it, he had tried to kill her too. Never get him for that either. But she would get him out of his job. I must do that somehow, she told herself.

  As Jamey sat there, wedged triumphantly in the middle of the procession, two men advanced on either side, stationed themselves there, and kept pace with the car.

  ‘Do I see what I think I see?’ asked Dolly.

  Charmian nodded without answering, she was watching what was going on.

  ‘Are they marching all the way to the cemetery?’ asked Dolly.

  ‘Yes. In procession, as you see.’ It was how they liked to do it in Cheasey, with little men of Cheasey in the front and the big fellows behind.

  ‘Mad,’ said Dolly.

  As they turned the corner towards the short road that led to the cemetery, Charmian felt someone banging on the side of the car.

  ‘You’re in my drive,’ said a stout man.

  ‘Just leaving.’

  Charmian started her car, and moved off; she was following the procession but it was still in view.

  At the gates of the cemetery, all the processional marchers peeled off towards the hearse, leaving only Dr Lily in his car, his way blocked by the crowd.

  One man dragged open the car door on the driver’s side, pushed Jamey Lily aside, then leaned across to let the other Cheasey man in. They squeezed Lily in between them, backed the car up and drove off at speed.

  Charmian drew a deep breath. ‘Dolly, you have better long distance vision than I have … Can you see the number on that car? I can’t quite make it out myself.’

  ‘I can see it.’

  ‘Then ring the patrol car, and tell them – I believe it was an Austin – to go in chase. But count to a hundred first … no, make it two hundred.’

  ‘But—’ began Dolly.

  ‘No buts.’ And Charmian leaned back in her own car.

  Two hours la
ter, a searching patrol car found the missing Austin parked in the slip road leading to the M25.

  Dr Jamey Lily was leaning back in his seat, but he was no longer grinning because his throat had been slit from side to side.

  Cheasey had avenged its own. There was very little chance that any Cheasey man would be brought to court for the killing, but Mrs Yardley had openly voiced her suspicious. Alibis to a man, and three deep probably.

  Justice of a sort, said Charmian, had been done.

  There was one more step to go: the next day, Tiger Yardley drowned himself in the river Thames at Runnymede. He had never been able to swim.

  He knew that he was the conduit, the channel through which police information had been passed to Jamey Lily, and that because of what he had passed on both Victoria Janus and Joseph Davy had been killed, because they were both suspected of knowing the truth. He had known too about the car and the van that Jamey kept in the yard at the back of his house. Tiger did not want to die, he would have liked to go on, but he had known too much, passed on too much and kept quiet when he should have talked. He couldn’t see the way forward, so it was the big goodbye.

  There would never now, Charmian recognized, be a case to go to court, no need to distress the victims’ relations any more by revealing that the women had been selected as victims because each had some slight disability which had taken them to the hospital where Jamey had been a young doctor but with access to all the records.

  Birdie was never to know that what had attracted him to her in his unsuccessful attempt was the fact, observed by Yardley, that she was going bald.

  ‘Is that a motive for murder?’ Dolly Barstow had exclaimed when she heard the suggestion.

  ‘Jamey Lily didn’t need a motive,’ said Charmian sadly. ‘It was a pleasure.’

  Copyright

  First published 1998 by Macmillan

  This edition published 2015 by Bello

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

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  www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello