The two women approached Laila. The older one stepped forward. She reached inside her jacket then tutted and shook her head. She was panting.
“Did you scream?” she asked.
Laila nodded. Her mouth was dry, her head swimming. She opened her mouth and closed it again. After a moment, wondering why she couldn’t speak, she pointed at the tent.
The older one shook her companion’s arm. “You stay here. Make sure she’s OK.” She glanced at Laila. “If she faints, call me.”
Laila felt her body dip. She felt hollow, like she might float away. She wanted to stop the woman, to keep her from going in there. If no one else saw...
“My name’s Lesley Clarke,” the woman said. “I’m a Detective Chief Inspector with Dorset Police. Is there something in that tent?”
Laila nodded. She wanted to lie back, to let the earth hold her. Now that the birds had left, the air had gone quiet.
“Don’t worry,” the detective said. “You’re in shock. I’m going to take a look.”
“No,” Laila croaked.
“What did you see?”
Laila shook her head. She couldn’t find the words.
The woman exchanged a glance with her younger colleague. She made for the tent. Laila swallowed the acrid taste in her mouth.
The younger woman sat down opposite Laila. “What’s your name?”
“Laila,” she whispered.
The woman – not much more than a girl – gave her a thin smile.
“You’re police too?” Laila whispered.
“God, no.” The girl pointed towards the tent. “That’s my mum.”
The older woman was lifting the flap to go in. Laila moaned.
“You need me to call an ambulance?” the girl asked.
Laila shook her head. She frowned. “Not for me.”
But it was too late for that. She’d known as soon as she’d seen him.
Laila and the policewoman’s daughter both looked towards the tent. A group of birds had reappeared, gathered around its entrance.
“Oh, fuck,” came a muffled voice from inside.
“That’s Mum,” the girl said with an apologetic expression. “You get used to it.”
Laila stared at the tent. She waited for the detective to emerge.
“Uniform are here.” The young woman stood up. Sure enough, two uniformed officers approached from the trees behind them. They must have parked in the road for Kingston. One man, one woman. The female officer had removed her hat and had it wedged under her arm.
The two constables arrived as the detective emerged from the tent. She strode towards them. Her expression had changed from concern and curiosity to professional efficiency.
“DCI Clarke,” she said to them. “Major Crime Investigations Team.”
“Ma’am,” said the female constable. “Sorry, I didn’t recognise you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
The male constable frowned at her. “Can I see your ID, please?”
The woman’s hand went towards her jacket again, but stopped before reaching inside.
“I’m due to start tomorrow. I haven’t been issued with a warrant card yet.”
“I’m sorry, madam,” the male officer said, “but you’ll have to stand back. This is a police matter.”
“Simon,” hissed his colleague. “Why would she be lying?”
The detective turned to Laila. “Did you go inside the tent?”
“Yes.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes.” Laila’s voice was small.
The male constable cleared his throat. “What’s in there?”
“I suggest you go and see for yourself,” the woman who’d described herself as a detective said.
“I will.” He strode off. The female PC bit her lip.
The blonde woman crouched down to bring her face level with Laila’s. “How are you feeling?”
Laila shrugged.
“We’ll need to take a statement from you. Not just yet, we’ll give you some time to get your head together.”
Laila told the woman her name and address. The female constable took out a notebook and wrote them down. Laila realised the older woman had a Birmingham accent. Maybe she had been lying about being a Dorset detective.
“Do you know who he is?” the woman asked her. “Did you recognise him?”
Laila closed her eyes. She thought of his body, twisted into the trench. His leather jacket, the one he never wore down here, stained with blood. The gash on the back of his head. His eyes, one obscured by blood and the other staring up at her.
God, the eyes.
She swayed, the world shifting. She felt hands on her back, steadying her. It was the younger woman, the detective’s daughter.
“Yes,” she muttered.
“Yes, you recognise him?” the PC asked.
“It’s Archie.” Laila fell back, the girl taking her weight.
“Archie who?” the older woman asked.
“Archie Weatherton. My boyfriend.”
Chapter Four
Lesley looked into the young woman’s eyes. She was leaning against Sharon, her lips trembling and her right eye twitching.
“He was your boyfriend?”
The woman – Laila, she’d said her name was – drew in a shaky breath. She nodded.
“She’s in shock, Mum,” Sharon said. “We should call an ambulance.”
Lesley looked up at the female constable. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”
“Dorchester’s the closest A&E.”
“That’s bloody miles away.” Lesley was used to a hospital always being in spitting distance.
“They won’t have to come all that way, Ma’am. They have bases. Nearest one’s a lay-by just outside Norden station.”
Lesley had no idea where Norden station was, but she nodded and the PC stepped away to radio it in. Her male colleague had left the tent and was approaching them, his face pale.
Lesley stood up and brushed her godawful trousers down. “What’s your name?”
“PC Mullins, Madam. This is PC Abbott. We’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind.” He gave her a humour the delusional person look.
Lesley gritted her teeth. This bloody idiot was going to regret treating her like a candidate for Care in the Community.
“I suggest you call in to your station, PC Mullins. Have them identify me for you. DCI Clarke. Formerly of West Midlands Police. As of tomorrow, serving in Dorset Police.”
“I’m sorry, Madam, but in the absence of ID...”
“Christ on a bike, son. I’m not a serving officer. Not till tomorrow.” She resisted an urge to rap him on the top of the head.
His colleague, PC Abbott, put her radio away. “Ambulance will be here in two minutes, Ma’am. Waiting at Norden, as I expected.”
“Where is Norden?”
“Station just outside Corfe,” said Sharon. “It’s the main stop for the steam engine.”
“I know it. The Harry Potter special,” said Lesley.
“Actually, no,” said PC Mullins. “That’s the route from Fort William you’re thinking of, not the Swanage Railway.”
“They filmed here though,” said Sharon. “Used Corfe Station for a scene in Fantastic Beasts.”
“I’m not sure about that,” said Mullins. “But it’s Corfe Castle.”
“I know,” replied Sharon.
“You don’t,” he replied. “Visitors always get it wrong. It’s Corfe Castle. The village. Not Corfe.”
Lesley rolled her eyes. Where was that bloody ambulance? Sharon shifted her weight. Laila, leaning against her, murmured.
“Mum, I’m worried about her.” The young woman had turned very pale.
Lesley crouched next to her and put a finger on her neck. “Pulse is fine. Paramedics will give her a heat blanket, she’ll be fine to give a statement tomorrow.”
She stood up. “PC Abbott, let’s set up a cordon. We need to protect the crime scene. You can start at the trees over
there, you’ll have to improvise on the other side.”
“Ma’am.” PC Abbott made for the trees.
A siren sounded and an ambulance pulled up beyond the trees, behind the squad car. Two burly paramedics struggled through the bushes. One of them kneeled in front of Laila.
“Hello, love. I’m Duncan. Can you hear me?”
“She discovered a body,” Lesley told him. “Tells us it’s her boyfriend.”
The second paramedic brought a hand up to shield his eyes as he looked towards the tent. PC Abbott was stringing tape from the trees past the tent. She’s left a wide margin: she knew what she was doing.
“Definitely deceased?” the paramedic asked.
“I’m a DCI,” Lesley said. “I know a dead body when I see it.”
“Forensics got here quick.”
“The tent was already there.” Lesley looked at Laila, who was being helped to sit straight by the first paramedic.
“Archaeological dig,” said PC Mullins. “Tents have been there a few weeks now.”
“I know the one,” said the paramedic. “Bunch of hippies from Bournemouth University. Got themselves a commune in the village, I hear.”
Lesley glared at him. “One of those hippies is dead. Another one is unlucky enough to need your care.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. We’ll treat anyone.”
Yes, but not with respect, thought Lesley.
“I’ll need to take a look,” said the paramedic.
“What at?”
He nodded towards the tent. “All due respect, Ma’am, but I’d like to be sure we’ve got a dead body on our hands and not a living patient.”
Lesley considered reminding him of her rank and her decades of police experience. She considered describing the condition of the body. But it would be quicker to show him. She didn’t imagine he saw a lot of mutilated bodies, working in this backwater. Maybe it would shut him up.
She gestured towards the tent: be my guest.
“I’ll accompany you,” said PC Mullins.
“No,” said Lesley. “Your colleague will.”
The female PC was behind the tent, setting down stones to hold the tape in place. Lesley and the paramedic approached while PC Mullins and Sharon stayed behind, eyeing each other nervously.
“Here we are.” Lesley put out a hand to stop the paramedic. They were a few paces from the tent: already too much damage had been done.
“This is a crime scene,” she told him. “I don’t know how many of them you’ve w—”
“Plenty, Ma’am.”
“So you’ll understand my priorities. Secure, protect, preserve. There will be evidence inside that tent, and I don’t want it walking away on your boots.”
“I need access to the patient.”
“Not patient, body. And you’ll be able to see all you need to from the entrance.”
“In which case, show me where I should stand.”
“Good man.” Lesley surveyed the grass at the entrance to the tent. The weather had been dry and sunny since she and Sharon had arrived in Dorset on Thursday. Which meant there was no mud for them to trample on, but also no mud for the killer to have left prints in. She wondered when the archaeological team had last been working inside.
“Right,” she said. “If we stand to one side of the tent entrance, on the right, we’ll be less likely to disturb the killer’s route in and out. The body is on the left, so you’ll get a good view.”
“I’d rather we got a shift on,” the paramedic said. “If he needs treatment...”
“He doesn’t,” Lesley replied. She suspected he already believed her, or he would have gone blustering in there already. “Come on then. PC Abbott, you stay behind. Put up another cordon by the road, keep gawkers away.”
“Ma’am.” PC Abbott turned towards the trees. Lesley wondered how long it would be before all this was noticed. Judging by what she’d seen at the castle, the National Trust would waste no time getting down here and selling tickets.
At the tent, she pulled the fabric aside. The paramedic leaned around her and surveyed the scene.
“Well?” she said.
“He doesn’t need treatment.”
“No, indeed.”
The man inside was severely mutilated. His clothes were daubed in blood and the side of his head was caved in. One eye had either been lost or congealed with blood, and the other stared at them lifelessly.
Lesley let the fabric drop. Laila was standing up now, leaning on the first paramedic and being guided towards the ambulance. Sharon sat on the grass, PC Mullins standing over her. As Laila and the paramedic reached the trees, they were passed by a man in a brown tweed jacket. He grunted at the paramedic then shuffled through the greenery, holding his arms out to keep himself from being scratched.
Lesley walked back to her daughter. “Are you OK?”
“We’ll have missed my train.”
“It’s not the last one.”
“My ticket’s just for that train.”
“I’ll buy you another bloody ticket, love.”
“I’ve got school tomorrow. I want to go home.”
Home. Lesley kneeled next to her daughter, not caring if she got stains on her trousers. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean for you to get dragged into all of this.”
“I know. But Laila’s OK, now. She’s in the ambulance. We can leave now, can’t we?”
Lesley sighed. PC Mullins and PC Abbott were with the man in the tweed jacket. The pathologist?
She needed to preserve the scene. She should record who came in and out. She didn’t care if this wasn’t her job yet, she had to do it properly.
“I’m sorry, Sharon.” She put a hand on the girl’s wrist. “I’m afraid we can’t leave just yet.”
Chapter Five
Lesley hurried towards the constables and the man in the tweed jacket. He wore heavy-framed glasses which he pushed up his nose as he approached.
“What’s happened?” the man was asking Mullins. “The ambulance?”
“Ambulance has got a witness in it, Sarge. She found a body.” Mullins pointed to the tent.
“Forensics got that up already?” The sergeant checked his watch. “I’m impressed.”
“It’s an archaeological dig, Sarge,” said PC Abbott. “The King Stephen investigation at the Rings.”
The sergeant looked from her to Mullins. “Show me.” He strode towards the tent, Mullins following.
“Er, excuse me?” Lesley said.
The sergeant looked over his shoulder. “Madam. We’ll be right with you, take a statement.” He waved a hand in Abbott’s direction. “See to it, would you?”
Lesley planted her feet in the grass and folded her arms. She wished she wasn’t wearing these bloody trousers.
“What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Frampton. You don’t need me, PC Abbott can take your statement.” He turned towards the tent and stopped at the cordon.
“Mum, let’s just leave them to it,” Sharon said. She pulled her phone from her pocket. She jabbed at it and scowled: no signal.
“Just a minute, sweetheart.” Lesley had been the first officer on the scene. As the new DCI in the MCIT only ten miles from here, she would probably be Senior Investigating Officer, or SIO.
She caught up with Sergeant Frampton. “Are you CID? It’s a Sunday, maybe you’re off duty.” She looked him up and down: short, thinning on top with a pinched expression and weathered cheeks. “You look like CID.”
“Yes, Madam. I’m CID.”
“In that case, let me introduce myself.” She held out her hand. “DCI Lesley Clarke. I start in the Major Crime Investigations Team tomorrow morning. You could say I jumped in early.”
His jaw softened. “Ma’am.”
“You don’t need to ma’am me just yet.”
He stiffened. “I’m a DS in that unit. I believe... I believe we’ll be working together.”
“Good.” Lesley narrowed her eyes. “We mig
ht as well get started, then. First off, I’ve seen the body. IC1 male, red hair, medium height and build. The young woman who went away in the ambulance, Laila Ford, identified him as Archie Weatherton. Her boyfriend. He looks a bit old for her to me, but it takes all sorts.”
“You didn’t detain her?” the sergeant asked. “Ma’am.”
“She was in shock, DS Frampton. No state to be making a statement, much less an accurate one. We can send PC Abbott round to talk to her in the morning, the two of them have already built up trust.”
“We don’t send Uniform to take statements from potential suspects.”
“She isn’t a suspect. She’s a witness.”
Frampton squared his shoulders. “One, she claims to have found his body. Two, she was his girlfriend. Sounds pretty cut and dried to me.”
Lesley took a step forward. “Cut and dried? You haven’t spoken to her. You haven’t even set eyes on her. You haven’t examined the body, you haven’t gathered forensics. You haven’t identified any other witnesses. Are you people not interested in evidence down here?”
He reddened. “With all due respect, Ma’am. This is Corfe Castle, not the big city. If someone finds their husband, or wife, or partner, or best friend’s dog, dead – then it’s a safe bet they’re the one who did it.”
He spoke with a Dorset accent, a soft burr that failed to take the edge off his incompetence. Lesley held herself back. She hadn’t even been introduced to her Superintendent yet. Best get the lie of the land before she started banging heads together.
“Very, well, Sergeant. If you want to adopt a working hypothesis that Laila Ford killed her boyfriend, purely for your own personal amusement, then you do so. But I intend to follow the evidence.”
He twisted his lips. He was aching to tell her she wasn’t on the job yet, she knew.
He turned to PC Mullins. “Come on, lad. Let’s take a look.”
Voices sounded behind. Frampton looked past her and his shoulders slumped. Lesley turned to see a heavily-built woman with dark curly hair and a vast holdall slung over her shoulder heading their way.
The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1) Page 2
