by JANICE FROST
“Hunt’s been delayed. Traffic’s at a standstill on the road leading out of his village,” Ava said.
It hardly needed a coroner to confirm that Gray Mitchell wasn’t going to be getting up anytime soon, Neal thought, but it would be useful to have an approximate time of death.
Judging by the amount of snow accumulated around Mitchell’s half-excavated remains, he must have been lying there for several hours. There had been heavy snowfall throughout the night, but according to the weather report, it had stopped around five o’clock. Too late for the snowploughs to clear the roads in time for the morning rush hour. He sighed. There would be plenty to keep his colleagues busy today. The accident toll on the roads had soared since the onset of the cold snap.
“You okay?” He noticed Ava was looking a bit pale.
“Not every day you get to see someone’s brains spilled out,” his sergeant answered. “It’s kind of sobering, isn’t it? Everything that made him the person his family and friends loved reduced to a load of . . . minced tofu.”
“At least it doesn’t smell bad. I suppose we’ve got the sub-zero temperature to thank for that,” Neal said. Crime scenes involving decomposing bodies turned his stomach. He could just about stand to look at even the vilest remains, but the smell got to him every time.
“Two sets of footprints leading to the body. Reporting officer and the caretaker?” Neal asked. Ava nodded. It was the first responder’s duty to do what he or she could to secure the integrity of the scene. A couple of police cones marked out the immediate area around the body, and one of the responding officers was at work with a reel of tape.
“At least in weather like this there shouldn’t be anyone hanging about gawping,” said Ava, stomping her feet. The caretaker reckons he didn’t touch the body, just scraped the snow away so that he could get a better look. Probably wishing he hadn’t.”
“Probably better for us if he’d left well alone. Still, could’ve been worse, I suppose. I’ve seen disastrous cases of accidental tampering with evidence.” Neal noticed Ava’s red nose and stomping. “Come on, let’s go inside and speak to Hemswell. It’ll get us out of this bloody cold for a bit,” he said.
Ava looked like she might hug him.
They walked to the east side of the cathedral, where the café was located.
“I’m sorry, we’re not open yet,” called out a woman. Neal flashed his ID at the group of people assembled around a distraught-looking man in his fifties. Neal felt a stab of irritation. The investigation was probably already in danger of being compromised by speculation and rumour.
“Detective Inspector Jim Neal, and this is Sergeant Ava Merry. We’d like to have a short word with you, Mr Hemswell,” Neal said, looking at Joe.
The other man stood up instead. “Speak to me first, Inspector. I’m Leon Warrior, Gray Mitchell’s partner.”
Neal was taken aback. He had not expected word of Mitchell’s death to get out so quickly. He wondered who else Joe Hemswell had been blabbing to. He looked around at the circle of concerned faces and saw his answer. If everyone present had contacted someone else, it would soon be standing room only in the café.
“Mr Warrior—”
The man cut him off. “I just want to say right from the outset. There is absolutely no way that Gray would take his own life.”
“Firstly, Mr Warrior, I am sorry for your loss. Secondly . . .” Neal couldn’t help glancing at Joe Hemswell when he said it, “the circumstances surrounding Mr Mitchell’s death are at present unknown. We will make no assumptions until our investigations get under way and we can start to reconstruct what happened. Until then, no one should be speculating one way or the other.”
“I want to see him.”
Neal was surprised that these hadn’t been Warrior’s first words. Then he noticed the group of women forming a kind of protective wall around him. He realised that it was only because of them that Leon Warrior was being spared the sight of his lover’s brains splattered in the snow.
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be a good idea,” Neal said gently, knowing his words probably only made matters worse. “We will be treating Mr Mitchell’s death as suspicious and we need to restrict access to the . . . er . . . to his body, to our forensics people for the time being.”
The woman who had said the café wasn’t open yet, pressed Warrior’s shoulder.
Neal cleared his throat. “In the meantime, my sergeant and I will take contact details from all of you. You may all be asked for a statement in due course.”
“What for?” the youngest one asked.
The other women shushed her.
One of them said, “We want to know what happened to Gray more than you do, Inspector. I think I speak for all of us in saying we’ll gladly answer any questions you might have.” Everyone nodded, except the young girl, who sighed exaggeratedly and rolled her eyes.
I’ll let Ava deal with that one, Neal thought.
* * *
An hour later, Neal and Ava left the café. Those who had been closest to Mitchell: the Brands, Helen Alder and Leon Warrior all said that Gray Mitchell would never take his own life. Neal knew better than to draw any conclusions based on their certainty. If there was one absolute in police investigations, it was that people were seldom what they seemed to others, even — sometimes especially — those closest to them.
“What did you make of that lot?” Ava said when they were outside.
“Well, if it does turn out to be suicide, they’ll all be gobsmacked. Unless one of them murdered Mitchell and was lying through their teeth, of course.”
They passed through a tall, heavy, panelled door and stepped directly into the cathedral’s north transept leading to the nave, where they stood silent for a moment, both instinctively craning their necks upwards.
“I brought Archie here in his pushchair once,” Neal said, breaking the spell. “He had one of those helium balloons tied to his wrist and he somehow worked it free. It floated right up to the ceiling in the south transept.” Archie had howled, one of the guides had tutted loudly and a group of Japanese tourists had laughed and pointed upwards and over at the pushchair, to Neal’s embarrassment.
“Wonder what became of it?” he said. It was one of those memories that stick.
They went towards the west entrance of the cathedral, where the final drama of Gray Mitchell’s life had been played out.
Outside, the thin pain behind his eyes reminded Neal that he was still hung-over. Cursing Jock Dodds, and his ‘just another wee dram for the road,’ Neal rubbed his temples and proceeded down the steps.
“Looks like the cavalry’s arrived,” Ava said. She was referring to the presence of the full forensics team. The scene had now been properly secured with police tape.
“We need to get up there.” Neal pointed up at the scaffolding around the west front of the cathedral. It partially obscured the public’s view of what was one of the finest examples of medieval Gothic architecture in Europe. Striding across to one of the uniformed officers, he said, “make sure access to that scaffold is cordoned off as well. The last thing we want is a bunch of stonemasons getting up there before us.” He glanced at his watch. To Ava, he said, “let’s find out where the cathedral works department is located, and we’ll need to know who’s responsible for health and safety around here.”
It turned out that the stonemasons, carvers and stained-glass restorers were based in a workshop across the road from the cathedral, back on the east side. The nearby health-and-safety office was in a timber-framed medieval house that had been converted into offices for administrative staff. They headed for the offices first.
Ava rang the bell. Neal noticed the slight misalignment of her nose caused by a blow from a chair leg, during their last case. She had refused plastic surgery to straighten it, and Neal thought he understood why. Before the injury, she had been perfect; now she had added character to her striking features. Ava had gone out on a limb to prove her suspect’s guilt. She had risked
her life by becoming involved in a relationship with a man she suspected was guilty of multiple sex offences as well as murder. Her behaviour had been brave but reckless. Neal was uncertain how to handle her. He had no wish to subdue her spirit, or alienate her by being the heavy-handed boss, but her actions had worried him. Neal hoped that the caution she’d been given by George Lowe, their DCI, would have some impact.
Neal slightly envied Ava’s passion. His own youthful enthusiasm had been curbed by early fatherhood and the weight of responsibility it entailed. He was aware that many of his colleagues at the station considered him dour, and he did tend towards seriousness and rationality. Perhaps he and Ava might be good for each other.
The woman who greeted them was small, with hair cut sensibly short. She was dressed in jeans and one of those faux-Scandinavian jumpers that were all the rage. Snowflakes and reindeer paraded across her heavy hips and breasts. Neal showed her his ID.
She ushered them in, saying, “Is this about that poor bloke they found in the snow outside the cathedral?”
As if it could be about anything else.
She led them down a long hallway cluttered with Hi-Vis jackets, safety boots and hard hats. The office looked out across the road to the cathedral’s east entrance, in view of the café. A double-decker bus outside cast a shadow over the small room. Neal could see the bus passengers straining backwards to see what was going on. It wouldn’t be long before word spread around and the city was abuzz with speculation and rumour. No doubt the bloody press will be making an appearance soon, Neal thought sourly.
Ava answered the woman’s question. “Yes, we were hoping you might be able to give us some information about getting access to the scaffolding. We need to go up there as soon as possible.”
“What happened to him?” asked the woman.
“We don’t know yet,” said Ava.
“Of course,” the woman said. “I’m Geraldine Skerritt. Most people call me Gerry. I’m the acting head of health and safety.”
“Acting?” Ava queried,
“Er, my boss had a bit of an accident.”
Ava raised an eyebrow. “On the job, was it?”
“Actually, no. He fell off an unsecured ladder and broke his leg while clearing out the guttering on his garage roof.”
“Right.” Ava suppressed a smile.
Neal, mouth parched and head throbbing dully, was in no mood for humour. He wanted something to drink. He accepted immediately when Gerry offered, asking for coffee, strong and black.
Neal ignored Ava’s smirk. He never drank black coffee.
Mugs in hand, they sat around Gerry’s desk, enjoying the warmth radiating from the heating pipes.
“If you need access to the scaffolding, I take it you think he fell from there,” Gerry said.
“It’s a possibility,” Ava replied.
“I can’t believe anyone else managed to get up there,” Gerry said. “After that incident with the kids climbing up and taking pictures, we put secure measures in place to prevent the public gaining access. I thought the scaffolding decks were impregnable now.”
“Hardly impregnable,” Neal said. “Anyone with enough determination and some basic tools could easily find a way to get in.” His customary sensitivity in handling interviewees was sadly lacking this morning. Geraldine Skerritt was irritating him more than she should.
“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” Ava commented. She directed a sympathetic glance at Gerry, but the health-and-safety officer was staring at them wide-eyed.
“You . . . you don’t think it could have been . . . murder, do you? I mean that’s another possibility, isn’t it, besides an accident or suicide?”
“Like we said, we can’t say anything much about the cause of death until we begin our investigations,” Ava reminded her.
“Do you know who it is . . . was? Or are you not allowed to tell me?”
“Gray Mitchell. Did you know him?”
She sputtered over her tea. “Gray? Are you sure?”
Joe Hemswell had been in no doubt about Mitchell’s identity.
“Poor Leon,” said Gerry. “I didn’t know Gray — or Leon — well. Gray was often in the café when I was passing through — it’s a shortcut to the west side. He and Leon were friends with Maxine and Helen who run the café, and with Maxine’s husband, Laurence. I’m not that friendly with any of them but I always give the girls in the café a wave when I pass through and I sometimes stop for a cup of tea and a chat.”
“We’ll be taking brief statements from the people you just mentioned. Was Gray closely acquainted with any of the other cathedral staff?”
“I don’t think he was particularly close to anyone else. Leon and Gray haven’t been living in Stromford for very long. Laurence and Maxine have been here quite a bit longer. They didn’t all get along so well at first.”
Neal and Ava exchanged glances. “Why was that?” Ava asked.
“Because of what they do.” Neal gave her an encouraging look. “They give guided tours. Laurence does Roman ones and Gray and Leon do a ghost tour — and a medieval one, I think. Or maybe they’re just thinking about that. Anyway, Laurence was a bit put out when Gray and Leon set up their business. Thought they’d take trade away from him, I suppose, particularly given their celebrity status.” She punctuated the words with air quotes.
Ava suddenly exclaimed, “Oh my God! I’ve just realised who Leon Warrior is.” She looked at Neal. “He played Dr Stephen Troy in Spacedrifters, a sci-fi series that was on in the eighties. My brother’s a bit of a fan. It was very popular back then. God, he doesn’t look anything like how he did in the series.”
A polite way of saying he looked old, thought Neal. He cast his mind back to the eighties but had no recollection of the series. Perhaps it hadn’t been shown in Scotland, or maybe he’d been out playing. Kids still did that back then, or at least he and Jock had.
Gerry nodded. “The Stromford Courier did a piece about their ghost business last year. Leon went to Hollywood when Spacedrifters finished but I don’t think he made much of a name for himself out there. Still, I suppose he did meet Gray.”
“Was Gray an actor too?” Ava asked.
“Yes, but not a very successful one as far as I can gather. He had a small part in Gladiator, I think. They both were in it, one of them got trampled by a horse just after the opening credits and the other was gored in one of the gladiatorial games scenes. I forget which was which.”
“Coming back to what you said about Laurence being ‘a bit put out’ about Leon and Gray’s business,” Neal said, eager to get back on track. “Was there serious rivalry between them?”
“Not for long,” Gerry said. “But you’d have to ask someone else about that. I don’t always hear all the gossip.” Neal nodded. Ava was scribbling away in her notebook. Gerry glanced at her watch, then over the road at the café.
“That’s the stonemasons going over for their morning break,” she said. A group of seven or eight men and women in overalls and workers’ jackets were making their way along the path leading to the café. “They’ve been in the workshop a lot more lately because of the weather. They normally go over around half past nine.”
“We need to take a look at the scaffolding around the west front,” Neal said. “Can you help us with that?”
Gerry nodded. “I can lend you some safety gear — boots and hard hats, but it can be treacherous up there in this sort of weather. I’ll call Mike Hotter over. He’s the site safety foreman. He’ll take you up.”
“Some of our forensics people will also need access. I’d be grateful if you’d issue them with boots and hats too,” Neal said.
* * *
A wind had whipped up by the time they began ascending a series of ladders leading up the scaffolding. They had located the point where Gray Mitchell must have gained access. It had not been hard to find. The splintered gap in the six-feet-high close-boarded fence had most likely been kicked in. A couple of scene-of-crime officer
s had already inspected the fencing and the area around the gap, taking detailed photographs. They had also dusted the ground-level scaffolding poles for prints and were now ready to start on the next level of decking.
Neal and Ava warned Mike Hotter that he must try to avoid disturbing any traces left by Mitchell or a potential killer. He complained all the way up. He wasn’t used to being told what to do in what he obviously regarded as his own domain.
He tutted when he examined the damage to the fencing.
They looked down at where Mitchell had landed. From here they could guess where he must have fallen from.
“You okay?” said Neal.
Ava was gripping the safety rail. “It’s a bloody long way down, sir.”
All three stood silently, gazing down at the scene below. The police cars and vans and hordes of blue-uniformed and white-suited SOCOs looked tiny, almost invisible against the snow. Outside the cathedral’s boundary wall stood a huddle of onlookers and beyond that the rest of the city went about its business.
Any other day they would be admiring the view, Neal thought. The cathedral and the nearby Norman castle were built on a hill that sloped away in a collage of orange pantile rooftops, across farmland, the distant Wolds and finally, the North Sea. None of that was visible today in the grey gloom of early morning and lingering freezing fog.
“Poor bastard,” said Hotter. “At least he wouldn’t have known what hit him.”
“Not strictly true,” Neal said. “He would have had a few seconds of falling through empty space. Plenty of time to see the ground rising to meet him.”
“And see his life flash before his eyes. I suppose he would have thought of Leon,” Ava added.
In the silence, Neal wondered what his own last thoughts would be. It was a no-brainer. The face of his son Archie would follow him into eternity.
“If he didn’t come up here with the intention of killing himself, why did he come up?” Ava said. “He must have had a compelling reason, particularly on a night like last night with a blizzard blowing. Did he come to meet someone? Not up here on a snowy night, surely? Or did he come to help someone? Maybe someone phoned him? Did they have an argument?”
