Johnny darted out of the front doors and dived into the car. “Boss.”
“Someone was keen to get out of the office.”
“Boring, boss. Bloody boring.”
Lesley suppressed a chuckle. Either Johnny was showing his true colours, or he was trying to get on her good side. She’d soon find out which.
Forty minutes later, they were being led into the morgue by a young female technician wearing Doc Martens with her lab coat. Johnny kept grinning at her but she wasn’t biting.
“He’s already begun,” she said as she opened a set of double doors. “Put these on, please.”
Lab coats hung from a row of hooks, wellies beneath them on the floor. Lesley removed her muddy shoes and slipped her feet into the chilly boots. In a few moments, she and Johnny were ready.
“Through here.” The woman led them through another set of doors to the mortuary. A man with grey-white, thinning hair stood over a man’s body which lay on the wide metal bench. He’d already been cut open.
“Doctor Whittaker,” Lesley said. “My name’s DCI Clarke. This is—”
“Yes, I’ve heard all about the new DCI from up north. You’re late.”
“We were interviewing witnesses.”
He grunted. “Stand back and don’t get in the way.” He eyed Johnny. “And if you feel queasy, well for God’s sake, bugger off to another room.”
Lesley smiled. At least this wasn’t another man with a swear jar. Johnny gave her an exasperated look which she didn’t return.
The pathologist worked over the body for a few minutes in silence. He extracted the internal organs and handed them to his colleague. After a while he stood back, hands on the small of his back.
That was a bloody quick post-mortem, Lesley thought.
“So you’ll want to know the cause of death,” Dr Whittaker said.
“Of course,” replied Lesley.
“No big surprises, I’m afraid. The blow to his head caused significant inter-cranial bleeding and damage to his cerebral cortex. He would have lost all control over his bodily and mental functions, then lost consciousness. And then, of course, he died.”
“How long would each of those stages have taken?”
“How long would they have taken, or how long did they take, on this particular chap?” He leaned back, surveying the body. “Loss of control was virtually instantaneous, or that’s my best guess. He’d have dropped to the ground like a grouse in hunting season. Loss of consciousness… well, that could have taken anything between a couple of minutes and ten.”
“So he could have been lying on the ground staring at his killer for ten minutes?” Johnny asked.
The pathologist gave him a don’t interrupt look. “Death would have been slower. Maybe an hour, maybe two.”
Johnny whistled. Dr Whittaker’s cheek twitched. Lesley nudged the DC: shut up.
“Time of death?” she asked.
The pathologist wiped his glasses and scratched the bridge of his nose. “When I attended the scene yesterday, rigor mortis was still apparent, although it was beginning to fade. Now, it’s almost completely gone.”
“Which puts death around twenty-four hours before we found him,” Lesley said.
He shook his head. “It isn’t as simple as that, Detective Chief Inspector. One must take into account the temperature and climatic conditions after death. The weather has been warm recently, and there was cloud cover on Saturday night, so the temperature wouldn’t have dropped overnight.”
“It was twelve degrees,” said Johnny.
“You’re a meteorologist, are you son?”
Johnny held up his phone. “Weather app. Twelve degrees on Saturday night in Corfe Castle.”
The doctor sniffed. “Well I must bow to your superior judgement, in that case.”
Johnny’s lips twitched. Lesley peered at his phone: he was right.
Hating herself for feeding the man’s already sizeable ego, she looked at the pathologist. “So taking into account the temperature, what’s your estimated time of death?”
“A warm environment means that rigor is slowed. Rigor mortis is the process of heat passing from a warm body, no longer able to regulate its own temperature via the circulation of blood, to a cool external environment. If it’s a warm day, this slows.”
I know all this, Lesley thought. “An estimated time?”
He sniffed. “Between 9am on Saturday morning and 3pm the same day.”
“Thank you.”
That meant Archie wouldn’t have had time to leave for London: he’d stayed in the village, gone to the dig site for some reason, and been killed there.
“But that’s not the interesting part,” the pathologist said.
“No?” replied Lesley.
He smiled, his small eyes crinkling. She wondered what kind of man he was at home. If he had been this pompous at his granddaughter’s birthday party.
“No, indeed,” he said. “Before you so tardily arrived here today, we ran blood tests. Our victim had an abnormal concentration of a sedative in his system.”
“Which sedative?”
“Zoplicone. It’s used in prescription sleeping tablets. Normal dose is seven and a half milligrams; his blood levels indicated he’d taken four times that.”
“He was on sleeping pills?” Lesley said.
“He took an overdose?” Johnny asked.
“If he did, it wasn’t enough to kill him. Of course, and I’m sure you won’t need me to point this out to you, Detective Chief Inspector, but there is the possibility that the pills were administered by another party.”
“By the killer,” Johnny said.
Lesley frowned at him. It made no sense. There was no sign of Archie being forced, or dragged, into the tent. It looked like he had been taken by surprise.
But the sedatives....
Keep an open mind, Lesley had told her team. She had to follow her own advice when it came to the forensic evidence, too.
“Come on Johnny,” she said. “We need to talk to the rest of the team.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Lesley perched on her desk as Dennis and Mike filed into her office. Johnny was already with her, not having left her side since the post-mortem.
“Let’s bring PC Abbott in as well, if she’s around. Mike?”
Mike hurried out and went to PC Abbott’s desk. The PC looked surprised but pleased.
Lesley gave her a nod as she entered. “Hope we’re not keeping you from anything.”
“Paperwork, Ma’am. Traffic violations, and a—”
“Thanks. I don’t need chapter and verse.”
“Ma’am.” PC Abbott looked down.
Lesley pulled the board out from its position in the window. The team had added to it during the day: photos of the archaeological team plus Susan Weatherton, more crime scene shots, and a printout of the toxicology report. There was also a map of Corfe Castle showing the cottage and the crime scene.
“Let’s recap on what we have so far,” Lesley said. “Johnny, tell us about the post-mortem.”
“But you were there, boss.”
“I know I was, but the rest of the team wasn’t. And someone needs to report back. Might as well be you.”
Johnny cleared his throat and shared a look with Dennis. He approached the board and pointed at a photo of the victim.
“Cause of death was this blow to the head. We still don’t know what the weapon was. Haven’t found it yet.”
There was a knock at the door. Gail was outside, a nervous smile on her face. Lesley beckoned her in.
“Sorry if I’m interrupting. I wanted to bring you up to speed on what we’ve been up to today.”
“You’ve found the weapon?” Lesley asked.
Gail’s previously animated face fell. “Sorry.”
“OK. It’s good that you’re here. Johnny’s just running us through the PM.”
“Ah.” Gail leaned against the door to listen.
“Can I carry on?” Johnny
looked from Lesley to Dennis.
“Of course,” said Lesley.
“Yeah, so… Like I say, cause of death is the wound to the head. Pathologist reckons he’s been dead since Saturday morning.”
“More specifically, he put time of death in a window from 9am to 3pm,” added Lesley.
“So he was killed just a few hours after he left the cottage?” Mike asked.
“Seems that way,” Lesley replied. “What do all the dig crew say they were doing at that time?”
PC Abbott had her notepad out. “Patrick Donnelly was in the Greyhound. It was deserted this morning, but it might have been busier on Saturday.”
“It wasn’t Donnelly,” Dennis snapped. “He’s not a killer.”
Lesley leaned against the desk. “So I assume his moral values were more to your taste than Laila’s?”
“If you must ask, yes. The man was open and honest with us. He was happy to answer our questions. And he clearly doesn’t belong in that house, seeing as he’s a practising Catholic.”
Mike snorted. Dennis glared at him. Lesley grabbed a biro and pressed the top repeatedly.
“He was at church when the murder took place?” she asked.
Dennis frowned. “Of course not. He was in the Greyhound. All day breakfast.”
“In that case, I fail to see what his religion has to do with the probability of his guilt or otherwise.”
“It speaks to his character, boss.”
Lesley noticed Gail smirking at the door. She turned to PC Abbott. “What was your judgement of his… character?”
The constable blushed. “He was friendly, Ma’am. Bit creepy, though.”
“Creepy?”
“He kept looking at my… at my chest, Ma’am. He touched my knee when I stood up to leave.”
“Does that sound like a fine upstanding citizen, Dennis?”
“There’s no law against looking at a woman. And he could easily have brushed PC Abbott’s knee by accident.” His eyes went to the constable’s legs then quickly to the floor.
“OK,” sighed Lesley. She didn’t want yet another public disagreement with her DS. “Laila was claiming he was going through Archie’s things. That he was in her room. What did he say to that?”
“He denied it, boss.” Dennis’s stare was hard. “Said she was lying.”
“Why would she make something like that up?” asked PC Abbott.
“Deflect suspicion away from herself,” replied Dennis, “onto Donnelly. “I’d have thought that was obvious.”
“So it’s her word against his,” said Lesley.
“Not necessarily,” said Gail. “We can dust for his prints.”
“The cottage isn’t a crime scene,” said Dennis.
Gail met his gaze. “If Laila consents to us searching her room, then we can. If she thinks it would reveal evidence of Patrick Donnelly searching through the victim’s things, she’ll be only too happy.”
“And if she’s lying,” added Dennis. “She won’t consent. I’m happy with that.”
I bet you are, thought Lesley.
“So that’s Patrick Donnelly.” She jabbed a thumb into his photo. “Inappropriate behaviour towards women, doing his best to make us think he’s co-operating, claims to have been in the Greyhound on Saturday. We’ll need to check that alibi out with whoever was working in the pub.”
“I can do that,” said Mike.
“Thanks. Why don’t you fill us in on Crystal Spiers?”
“I don’t think there was any love lost between her and Laila,” he said.
“Why not?”
“She was very keen to let us know Laila and Archie argued. Described their relationship as volatile.”
“And you think that means she didn’t like Laila?”
“I got the feeling she was jealous, boss.”
Lesley hadn’t got this impression. “Why?”
Mike shrugged. “Donnelly’s ten years older than Crystal, thirty years older than Laila. Which meant Archie was the only eligible man in the house. Not surprising the two women had a rivalry going over him.”
Lesley sighed. And Mike had been showing so much promise.
“Did Crystal say she fancied Archie?” she asked. “Did she give any indication in that direction?”
“She was unhappy about Archie and Laila’s relationship. She knew how young Laila was. Maybe she resented—”
“Dear God.” Lesley dug a hand into her hair. She ignored Dennis clearing his throat at her use of what he would consider blasphemy. “What did I say to you all, when we were in the car park at Corfe Castle?”
Johnny raised his hand. “Er. I wasn’t there.”
“No. But this applies to you as much as to anyone else. What did I say?”
“Don’t make assumptions,” said Dennis.
“Gold star to that man. What else?”
“Evidence, Ma’am,” said PC Abbott. “Build a case.”
“Exactly.” Lesley raised a hand and started to count off on her fingers. “One, Patrick Donnelly being a practising Roman Catholic does not necessarily make him a fine upstanding citizen. I believe quite a few members of the IRA share that trait.”
Dennis opened his mouth to speak.
“No.” Lesley stopped him. “I come from Birmingham, remember. The first sergeant I worked for was on the scene at the pub bombings.”
Dennis closed his mouth, his face still red.
Lesley continued. “Two, on the flip side. Donnelly looking at your” – she stopped herself from looking that way – “chest, PC Abbott, might make him a creep. But it does not make him a murderer.”
PC Abbott nodded, her shoulders hunched.
“Three, just because Crystal Spiers and Laila Ford were two women sharing a house with a man who everyone here seems to think was eligible but to my mind looked too much like an ageing Ed Sheeran, doesn’t mean they both fancied him. And it doesn’t mean one of them would have killed him because of that.”
Johnny cleared his throat. “Sorry, boss.”
“Accepted. And going back to Laila, and indeed to Archie’s wife in Bristol.” She turned to the woman’s photo on the board. “Susan Weatherton. Archie was stringing both of these women along. We still don’t know if Susan knew about it, but Laila certainly didn’t, or claims not to have known, at least. This gives both of the women a potential motive. But it doesn’t say anything about their character or their moral values.”
“You’ve already made that clear.” Dennis had shifted to the back of the room, his face dark.
“So I have.” Lesley took a breath. Right now, she longed for Harborne Police station and the familiar faces of her old team. Zoe, Mo, Frank. Even bloody David Randle.
“Right.” She turned to Gail. A smile played on the CSM’s lips. “Let’s turn to the evidence, shall we? Gail, what have you got for us?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Gail stepped towards Lesley and put out her hand. Lesley looked down at her own hand, then passed her the whiteboard marker she was gripping.
“Thanks.” Gail continued to the board. She circled a photo of the inside of the tent.
“Blood spatter,” she said. “There’s bloody loads of it, which when you’re a forensics tech, is like Christmas and Easter Sunday rolled into one.” She pointed to the photo. “Direction of spatter indicates multiple wounds, but the first blow was the fatal one. See the dotted lines on the canvas? This one, with the larger spatters and the clear sideways direction, was inflicted on the victim when his pulse was strong. Arterial spray is possibly the most impressive I’ve ever seen. Then we have other trails, with different points of origin. All arterial spray, indicating violent blows. Three of them, according to the maths.”
“Maths?” asked Johnny.
“Trigonometry,” replied Gail. “We use it to calculate the angle and intensity of blood loss, and so to determine where the victim was when he was hit.” She pointed to a photo of the victim. “The final blow was when he’d reached the ground. Much weak
er spray, he’d already lost a lot of blood.”
“Can you tell what the weapon might have been?”
“We’ve found some hair matted with blood on the ground. Tiny metal fragments mixed in with it. They’ve gone to the lab. But it was blunt, and heavy. Possibly a hammer, but the fragments don’t tally with any hammer I’ve seen.”
“An archaeological tool?” Johnny suggested.
“Something they dug up?” Mike added.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Lesley replied.
“It has to be worth considering,” Dennis said.
Lesley nodded at him. “Let me know as soon as the analysis comes back,” she told Gail.
“Of course.”
“Do you think the weapon was heavy? Could it have been lifted by a woman weighing around nine stone?” asked Dennis.
“Laila,” muttered PC Abbott. Lesley grimaced.
Gail shrugged. “Difficult to say. Even a child can lift your average hammer, although they wouldn’t be very precise with whatever they hit with it.”
“Thanks,” said Lesley. “Anything else? Footprints?”
“Sorry. Grass is too dry, this time of year.”
“Fine. We’ve also got the sleeping pills that were in his system. Johnny, you forgot that.”
“I meant to…”
“It’s OK.” She’d interrupted him when Gail had arrived. She turned to the team. “Archie had four times the usual dose of Zoplicone in his system. Yeah, I’ve never heard of it either. We need to know if he had a prescription for the stuff or anyone else in the house did.” She watched their faces: who was thinking, and who was just waiting to be given instructions?
“And we need to follow up alibis. We’ve got a time window now, so we go door to door asking if anyone saw anything. Prioritise the cottage’s neighbours and the houses near the path down to the dig site. And someone find the bloke who Laila claims was walking his dog when she found Archie.”
“What about Susan Weatherton?” asked Dennis.
“I’ll go and visit her tomorrow, you can come with me. You allocate roles to the constables, will you? I’ve got a meeting now.”
She checked her watch: quarter to six.
The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1) Page 8
