by Carol Wyer
‘It’s worth a trip.’ He stopped talking to pull off the dual carriageway at Streethay and head into Lichfield. The siren continued to wail. David ignored it and carried on regardless with his history lesson.
‘And of course there’s Samuel Johnson, who was an English writer and critic, and one of the most famous literary figures of the eighteenth century. His best-known work is his Dictionary of the English Language – the most highly regarded English dictionary of its time. I took my missus to his house, which is now a museum and bookshop. There’s quite a collection of his works and furniture he owned. If you don’t like history, there are plenty of quaint coffee houses and shops to visit. I like Lichfield. It’s retained its old-world charm.’
They swept past the Tesco and Aldi stores and turned right. Tamworth Street descended towards the city centre and Robyn spotted the three spires of the magnificent cathedral in the distance before they dropped down, the view obscured by buildings. David slowed the car. There were people gathered on either side of the street, gawping at the police car as it passed them. Robyn fixed her eyes forward. An officer was preventing all vehicles and people from entering the one-way system that led to the centre of town, and a small crowd of people had gathered at the junction, speculating about what was happening further down the street.
David lowered his window and flashed his warrant card. The officer saluted him and let them pass. There was some activity in the street and an ambulance was waiting outside, along with three other cars. They drew up alongside a squad car and got out. Two officers she didn’t recognise stood in front of the pub door. They nodded at her as she approached.
‘DI Carter and PC Marker.’ She showed them her ID. One of them noted their names and times of arrival in the log.
‘Ready for this?’ she asked as they donned the necessary protective clothing: a set of overalls, latex gloves and paper shoes.
David patted his pocket. ‘Got my lozenges. You want one?’
‘I’m okay. Thanks all the same.’
He palmed a couple of the medicated sweets and popped them into his mouth before pulling on his overalls.
Robyn drew a deep breath and quietened her mind. She had been to a few death scenes and she knew this one was going to be a stomach-churner. She opened her mouth slightly, ready to breathe through it, and entered the pub. The first set of doors opened into a small lobby and a further set announced ‘The Happy Pig Bar’. The second set of doors swung open with a creak. Light filtered through them into the gloomy, windowless room as they entered, and Robyn was left blinking in the dim glow cast by the lights over the bar. She took a shallow breath, identifying the smell of stale beer and the familiar sickly scent of blood. She spotted her new sergeant, Matt Higham, next to the door, his baby-face grey. He wasn’t his usual jocular self and didn’t speak. Her mind took a moment to register the enormity of what she was seeing. The bar counter and floor were covered in rust-coloured blood. A body, propped up in a bloody puddle, rested against the counter.
‘Shit!’ said David softly.
‘No one touched anything, Matt?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Suzy Clarke, who came in to open up, barely managed to make it into the bar before spotting him. She backed out, locked the door and called the police. She’s in shock. She’s sitting in the back of the ambulance at the moment. She kept saying it should have been her. Victim’s name is Rory Wallis. He’s the manager. He took over her shift last night after she called in sick.’
‘Did Suzy put on the lights over the bar?’
‘She didn’t touch anything. She walked as far as we are now, knew something was wrong and went outside and immediately called us. She was okay when I spoke to her, then shortly after that she had a delayed reaction to it all and was overcome with shaking. The paramedics are with her and PC Howarth. He’s taking a proper statement.’
‘Okay. So she hasn’t touched the crime scene. That’s good.’
Matt continued. ‘Pathologist’s en route. It’s Harry McKenzie. Should be here any minute.’
Robyn turned her head to take in the entire scene. The incident had clearly occurred during the evening shift because drinking vessels had not yet been collected and stood neglected on tables, along with empty crisp packets and bottles. Judging by the amount of glassware strewn about the place, the pub had been busy. The bar was smeared with blood. An empty champagne flute and a bottle of Moët & Chandon stood next to the pumps. They seemed incongruous among the pint glasses and empty bottles of tequila. People didn’t ordinarily come into a pub and drink entire bottles of champagne on their own.
‘Was the outside door locked when Suzy arrived today?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘She and Rory are the only people with keys to it.’
‘Okay, let’s get this place documented. Can we get some more light in here, Matt? Can’t see a thing.’ Matt found the switch and the place was suddenly illuminated brightly, revealing the scuffed floor and scratched tables. Patches of damp rose in the corner of the room and the paint was peeling off the walls. The cushions on the chairs were filthy. Robyn wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Matt pulled a face. ‘Not my usual sort of haunt. It’s a bit shabby. No wonder they only kept the bar lights on. If you could actually see this place, you wouldn’t come in.’
Robyn focused on the bar again and spoke to David. ‘Make sure you get plenty of photographs of the bar. I’m curious about that bottle of champagne and glass.’
The trio searched the area. Robyn approached the victim, careful not to tread on anything that might be evidence. Rory was propped up against the bar as if he had slid down it in a drunken state, his legs out straight in front of him and clenched fists resting on his thighs. The blood-soaked T-shirt gave the impression he was wearing a large brown bib. His blond hair was hanging over his face and his head had fallen forward on his chest, as if he were snoozing.
Robyn knelt down beside him and examined the gash that began on the right-hand side of his neck. Pieces of jagged flesh hung from it. Whoever had done this had not been careful, or experienced in cutting throats. It had been hacked. Robyn lifted his hair from his face, trying hard to concentrate on her actions rather than the smell of defecation and urine. The man had been terrified. She studied his face, which was locked in a grimace, but she knew this was likely to be down to the facial muscles contracting, rather than fear. Rigor mortis had not yet fully set in, so she could assume Rory Wallis had been dead less than eight hours; however, the pathologist would confirm that.
She didn’t want to move the victim’s head before the pathologist examined him, so she got David to take photographs of his body. Then, as she stood to move out of his way, a stub of paper caught her eye. It stuck out from between the man’s fingers.
‘David, get pictures of this,’ she said, before prising the slightly rigid hand open and sliding the paper out. She carefully unballed it. It appeared to be a bill. She held it up and read it. A gentle whistle of air escaped her lips. ‘Okay, chaps – we’ve got something here. It’s a typed receipt. It doesn’t say what for:
INVOICE ONE: RORY WALLIS
PAYMENT NOW DUE
THE SUM OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND POUNDS
£250,000
‘Someone’s scrawled “paid in full” in red ink over it.’ She passed it to Matt. ‘Bag it.’
Robyn walked the crime scene with her officers methodically to ensure they didn’t miss anything that might be relevant.
‘I want that champagne flute and bottle collected and checked too. This doesn’t look like the sort of place you’d come to for a glass of champagne, and why only one glass? Bubbly is usually something you have for a celebration. You wouldn’t come here alone to celebrate.’
The door opened, bringing in some daylight and Sam Gooch, a forensic photographer. Robyn was pleased to see him. In spite of his curmudgeonly ways, she had always got along with him.
‘Well, if it isn’t DI Carter and her merry men. I haven’t seen
you since we discovered that chap at the boarding school last year.’ He was referring to a case in which a missing person had turned up dead with his genitals removed and stuffed in his mouth. It had been Robyn’s first case following a year off. It had been what she needed to get back into policing.
‘How are you, Sam?’
‘Can’t grumble, but will anyway. My joints hurt, I hate the cold and I’m sick of my grandkids turning up at the house every weekend and plonking themselves down as if they own the place.’
The fat grin on Sam’s face told a different story. He meant none of it. He adored his grandchildren – two girls aged six and seven.
He pointed at Rory. ‘This one’s unpleasant. Haven’t seen one like this in a very long time.’
Sam unpacked his equipment and began photographing the scene, turning the camera this way and that, moving in for close-ups as if he were taking photos of a model, not a body. The door opened again and a bald-headed man with a ruddy complexion entered.
‘Morning, Robyn, Sam, chaps.’
Robyn had only met Harry McKenzie on a couple of occasions, and liked the Scotsman’s approach to work. He was a highly regarded pathologist who treated all the victims he encountered with respect, as if they were in a doctor’s surgery being examined for an illness. He rustled over in his paper shoes and knelt before the man.
‘Sharp-force injury. The wound starts below the ear and ends on the opposite side of the neck, lower than its point of origination. In this case I would suggest the neck incision is compatible with a cut throat from behind by a right-handed person,’ he said, talking to no one in particular as he studied Rory’s neck.
Robyn waited with hands on hips. ‘What weapon are we looking for?’
McKenzie carried on as if he were addressing a group of students attending a lecture. ‘This looks to be an incised wound caused by a sharp weapon such as a knife, glass or metal.’
Anna nodded gravely. ‘Can you tell from the wound exactly what weapon was used to kill him?’
McKenzie shook his head. ‘I can’t call that one yet. I’ll examine the tissues and take measurements of the wounds.’ He produced a rectal thermometer and began work on the body. Robyn moved off to allow him space to concentrate.
Sam padded about the room quietly, his camera making no noise as it snapped away at the gory scene.
David, who had been searching behind the bar, called out. ‘I’ve got something. It’s a knife.’
‘Don’t touch it! Sam, would you photograph the knife and entire bar area please?’
It was a serrated bar knife, about four inches long, with a pronged end. Its blade was stained brown.
‘Good job, David. When Sam’s finished, bag it and send it for blood analysis and fingerprints. Any idea of time of death, Harry?’
‘Some time between ten p.m. and one a.m. would be my guess. His body is in the rigid stage. The body’s muscles have contracted and, as you know, this normally lasts anything from eight to twelve hours, before the body becomes completely stiff.’ He squinted at the man’s face and sniffed. ‘I can smell alcohol.’
Matt scribbled in his notepad. ‘Probably had one or two while working. Must be hard not to when you’re in this line of work.’
Someone tapped on the door. It was PC Howarth. David spoke with the officer, and returned a few minutes later.
‘Got a statement from Suzy Clarke. She can’t tell us much, except Rory Wallis was single and lived on the Boley Park estate. He’d been the manager here for four years. The pub is having difficulties and the brewery’s threatening to close it. Both she and Rory had been looking for other jobs. There are only three members of staff who work here and the third member is on holiday in Tenerife at the moment. Suzy was supposed to take over from Rory at eight last night but she had stomach ache and called in sick. Rory wasn’t happy and complained the place was heaving for once and a stag party was in. She could hear their noise in the background. Rory told her she owed him and that was that. She came in early to take a delivery from the brewery, unlocked the door, walked in and thought it smelt odd. She saw the lights on over the bar then spotted the body. She knew it was Rory because she recognised his hair. She belted out, locked the door and called the police.’
Harry squatted on his haunches, glasses perched on the end of his nose. ‘Mr Wallis had a fall. His ankle’s swollen. I think that happened some time before he was murdered.’ He continued examining the body. Robyn joined him again. ‘I suggest his neck was pulled back, making the trachea more prominent. The assailant ran the knife along the left-hand side of his victim’s throat. There are incisions – hesitation marks – and then he or she sliced or sawed through the neck muscles, blood vessels and the common carotid artery which would have killed him. He might have lived one or two minutes after it was severed. There is damage to the rest of the throat area, but our victim bled to death from that wound.’ He pointed to the large gash in Rory’s neck.
Robyn nodded. ‘Can we definitely deduce our assailant is right-handed?’
‘It would appear so.’
Robyn faced the bar thoughtfully. ‘Our perp might have appeared from behind and slit his neck. Harry, would blood spray from the wound?’
‘In all probability. Once a carotid artery has been severed there is a likelihood of spray, especially if the victim’s heart is racing. It would not last long.’
‘Long enough to spray over the glasses. I’m going to leave all this to the forensic team. Matt, you stay here and assist when they arrive. I’ll head back to Stafford and start gathering information about Rory Wallis. Thanks, Harry.’
Sam checked the quality of his shots. ‘I’ll come with you. I’m done here. Nice to see you again, Robyn. You were fortunate to find a weapon.’
‘I always get nervous when things seem to be too good to be true. I bet we don’t find the perpetrator’s DNA on it.’
‘You never know.’
David Marker appeared and cleared his throat. ‘One last thing – Suzy told PC Howarth that Rory was teetotal. He never drank.’
‘Yet there’s alcohol on his breath,’ replied Robyn. She shrugged off her protective clothing and rubbed at her forehead. ‘Get that bottle and glass checked out as a priority.’
She left the building. In the street, officers were still keeping people at bay. In spite of the grey day, it felt lighter and brighter out here. She breathed in the air, dispelling the stench of death that had lingered in the Happy Pig. Robyn had the feeling that despite the clues, this would prove to be a difficult case to crack. She spotted a familiar face in the crowd: Amy Walters, a journalist with the local paper, was trying to attract her attention by waving at her. She ignored Amy and, stern-faced, got into the squad car and left the scene.
Thirteen
‘I’m not going to report it to the police, so drop it.’ Ross was visibly annoyed.
Robyn knew that Ross was not only worked up about the damage to his car and the loss of a laptop containing highly sensitive material, but was also furious with himself for not working out he had been set up.
‘So, who could it have been?’ she asked quietly.
‘Given I’m working on an infidelity case, my money’s on the cheating spouse. I reckon the guilty party got wind of his wife hiring me and sent his goons after me.’
There was more to this than just an annoyed husband. Robyn pushed him further.
‘Who, Ross?’
He was reluctant to tell her. ‘Never mind,’ he replied.
‘Ross, who is it? Come on, tell me.’
‘Jason Nuttall,’ he snarled.
‘Jason Nuttall who runs the boxing club in Derby? Jason “Nutter” Nuttall?’
Ross crossed his arms. ‘That’s him.’
Robyn pursed her lips and exhaled slowly. ‘Wow! That was brave of you, taking that job on. He’s an out-and-out thug. He’s got previous, Ross. What were you thinking?’
‘Paying my mortgage, Robyn,’ he replied. ‘It’s what I do. I get hired to
solve problems – investigate infidelities, fraudulent claims. And Nuttall was a job.’
‘Does Jeanette know?’
Ross shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell her about the case. I told her I got rear-ended and both the car and I are okay. That’s all she needs to know, so don’t say anything to her.’
‘I won’t, but only if you promise not to go after him. Tell Derbyshire Police what you know and leave it to them. Who dealt with it?’
Ross opened his hands in a resigned gesture. ‘They’re not likely to believe me now, are they? I didn’t report the shunt. There were no witnesses. I was at the station roundabout when a black Audi drew up and hit the rear of my car. I got out to swap details and the car reversed. I thought it was going to pull into the side and we’d assess damage and sort it out, so I walked up to it. A bloke wearing a balaclava jumped out, thumped me in the gut, winding me completely, and then got back in the car and drove off. When I’d recovered my breath, I returned to my car only to discover my laptop had been nicked. I guess he had an accomplice who grabbed it while the man in the balaclava was thumping me. Good thing I had my mobile in my jacket pocket or they’d probably have taken that too. The police are not going to chase after Nuttall on that evidence alone. It could have been anyone. And, if they did interview Nuttall, can you imagine he’d suddenly confess to nicking my laptop? Come on, Robyn. You know as well as I do how this works – even if I tackle him, he’ll claim to know nothing about it and probably send his goons around to smack me about a bit. I’ll have to let it drop.’
Robyn suddenly wanted to punch Nuttall herself, yet Ross was right. It was wisest to walk away. ‘And what about the whole infidelity business?’
‘I’ll tell Sheila Nuttall that I’m not able to continue working for her.’
Robyn felt for Ross. He wanted to do right by people, and she was sure Sheila was someone Ross would want to help out. Sheila was a quiet, petite woman who had fallen for Jason when she had been a teenager. Now, at twenty-five, she had four children under ten and another baby on the way. Sheila had brought them up single-handedly while her old man was in jail.
