CONSTABLE IN DISGUISE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain's best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 9)

by NICHOLAS RHEA

  I looked down upon the corpse. It was that of a heavily built man in his early fifties; he had an almost bald head with wisps of dark hair around the sides, a dark moustache and a soft, flabby face. He was lying on his back with his arms spread rather wide but his legs very slightly apart. He wore a light-coloured jacket and an open-necked shirt with most of the buttons undone, and his trousers were round his ankles, although it did seem an attempt had been made to draw them up. His white underpants were down too, and they stopped his legs from falling apart. I could understand Finch’s thinking he had been attacked, but the odd thing was that a bunch of fresh sweet peas lay near his head.

  Having quizzed the hiker and taken a written statement from him, Shackleton thanked him for his co-operation and allowed him to leave.

  ‘So, what do we make of this?’ asked Shackleton, puzzling as he stared at the recumbent form.

  ‘Parked up there,’ said Forman, ‘there is a car that might be his, that blue Morris. A businessman, pausing for lunch maybe, was taken short and came down here because there’s no toilets up there. Hence the dropped pants. Strained himself while at it, and his heart stopped?’

  ‘That doesn’t explain the sweet peas,’ I said.

  ‘They might not be his,’ said Shackleton. ‘Somebody else could have been here before him. Anyway, the point is: have we a natural-causes death or a suspicious one? If it’s suspicious, we’d better notify the coroner and call in the cavalry — photographer, forensic pathologist, my boss, scenes of crime, the lot. We might have to set up a minder inquiry.’

  ‘We’ll need a PM to determine the cause of death,’ I added for good measure.

  ‘Right, decision time. We can’t move the body until we have had it photographed in situ; I mean, it does look odd and I think we’d better treat it as suspicious. Right, Steve, radio Control, will you? Tell them we have a suspicious death here, and I’d like a senior detective to attend. Now, do we know who he is?’

  ‘I haven’t searched his clothing yet. I thought I’d better not touch anything. But that car might be his,’ Steve reminded us of the blue Morris. ‘You could do a check of the number for starters.’

  ‘Nick, that’s one for you.’

  While Steve Forman made his call from Echo Three Seven, I went to examine the Morris. It was a blue saloon, two years old and in good condition; it was taxed and bore an excise licence issued at the North Riding Vehicle Taxation Office at Northallerton. This was before the days of the Police National Computer, but I knew we could discover the owner of the car very quickly through its registration number. I radioed Eltering from the CID car and gave them a situation report (a ‘sit-rep’), then asked them to check the car number with the Taxation Department at Northallerton. It would take a few minutes, and in the meantime I took a closer look at the Morris, albeit without touching it. On the back seat were a briefcase and some coloured file jackets but I could see no names or identifying marks on them. Besides them was a length of floral wrapping-paper. I could see that it was printed with ‘Gowers for Flowers’ and a Scarborough address. And a solitary red sweet pea petal lay beside it.

  Then I realised I knew this car. Or at least, I had seen it before. Because Lover’s Leap was on my beat, I had made regular patrols to the locality over the past few months, and sometimes I had parked for a few minutes on the car park, both at night and during the daytime hours. And I was sure I had seen this blue Morris several times, always parked in this very place. I stood back from it now and walked away to the road, to gain the view I would normally see.

  And the more I stared at it, the more I realised it was the same car, parked in precisely the same spot. But something was missing, some extra detail I had noticed before. And I could not recall that detail . . . As I examined the scene before me, some parts of those memories came back to me, but not all, and I wondered if I had made a note of those occasions in my pocket-book. Recording such a sighting would hardly be necessary unless there was a reason, but I could not recall any official reasons for noting the registration numbers of cars parked here. Maybe this sighting had triggered off a memory of an incident in the past?

  Then I heard my call-sign on the CID car radio: ‘Echo Control to Echo One Six.’

  I lifted the handset of the CID car and responded: ‘Echo One Six receiving. Go ahead. Over.’

  ‘Echo One Six, reference your enquiry about the blue Morris, the registered owner is George Frederick Halliwell,’ and I was given an address in Scarborough.

  We could not assume that the dead man was Halliwell — this man might have borrowed his car — and we would now have to make enquiries in Scarborough to see if it could be him. We’d have to be very discreet, because we must not upset his relatives if Halliwell was still alive. A search of the body might confirm that name, but we would need a relative to come and view the corpse to make a formal, positive identification. That would be done when the body had been tidied up and placed in a mortuary.

  Within an hour, the CID had arrived in a succession of vehicles. The force photographer, a detective chief inspector, scene-of-crime experts and other officers gathered to examine the body and commence their own specialist work.

  The car park and bracken area were cordoned off as we awaited a forensic pathologist, and in the meantime official photographs were taken of the body, the location and the car, with its empty flower wrappings. The full might of a murder investigation was launched as die car park seemed suddenly full of police officers and official vehicles.

  And then, as the formal investigation got under way, I remembered the circumstances of that blue Morris. About a year or eighteen months earlier, I had parked my police motorcycle here for a few moments during a patrol, and a woman had approached me with a purse she had found.

  She’d found it on this car park a few moments before my arrival, and it had contained several pounds, a pair of silver earrings and other jewellery. As she was touring the area, she would not retain the purse, and so I entered it into our Found Property system. Before leaving the car park, however, I had approached the drivers and occupants of all the parked cars to see if it belonged to any of them. It did not — and the only two cars that remained empty were this blue Morris and a small green Austin Mini.

  I had noted the registration numbers of each, so that I could later trace the owners and contact them about the found purse. But before that need arose, a woman had reported losing the purse and it had been returned to her. I had never tried to trace the owners of the blue Morris and the green Mini. But I had noticed the green Mini parked beside the blue Morris on several successive occasions at the very spot, and those sightings had occurred over a period of around a year. The green Mini was not here today, it was not parked close to the Morris — and that was the missing item.

  I would have to examine my old notebooks to trace those numbers but said nothing to the other officers at this stage, just in case my theories were incorrect.

  The pathologist had examined the body and expressed an opinion that the fellow had been having sex with a woman immediately prior to his death. The flowers, the pants around the ankles and evidence of some seminal fluid found by the scientist supported that theory. The body, its mode of dress and position had all the hallmarks of such a situation.

  In the pathologist’s words, ‘He was going at it hammer and tongs; he was right here with his fancy woman, just reaching the exciting bit, when his heart stopped. He literally died on the job, gents, and rolled off her, or she heaved him off, dead as a door nail. What a way to go. She’s fled the scene, terrified . . . It’s just a theory, mind, but I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘You mean this often happens?’ smiled Forman, intrigued.

  ‘Illicit affairs like this happen everywhere,’ continued the pathologist. ‘Poor old sod. You’d be surprised how many old codgers die on the job when they’ve found a young bit of stuff to keep their peckers up. But at least he died happy. I’ll have to do a PM, but I’ll bet my cotton socks it’s natural causes, h
eart failure. The excitement was too much for him. If so, there’ll be no need for an inquest, no need to drag his name through a coroner’s court, or hers if you can find her.’

  When the scientific examinations were finished, the body was searched and a wallet containing a driving licence added strength to the belief that this was indeed the remains of Mr Halliwell, but we still needed a positive identification. And so the body was removed to a mortuary at Eltering as discreet efforts were made by Scarborough police to determine whether or not this was the late George Frederick Halliwell. A CID officer drove his car to Eltering Police Station, and the wrapping-paper was removed; Mrs Halliwell, if there was a Mrs Halliwell, would never see that scrap of evidence of her husband’s unfaithfulness. The enquiries to confirm his identity had to be undertaken before his family was told of his death, and I wondered what the newspapers would make of it all.

  I went home after a full day, and after my meal unearthed my old pocket-books. I searched every page for my notes on that purse and found them, having made the entry fifteen months earlier. The two car numbers were there — one agreed with that of today’s blue Morris and the other was the green Mini. Tomorrow I would check that Mini number with the Taxation Department.

  Next morning I learned that the man had been positively identified as George Frederick Halliwell. He was a county councillor and restaurant owner from Scarborough. His wife had had the awful task of viewing the body to confirm his identity, but she was not told of his reason for being at Lover’s Leap. She was simply informed he had had a heart attack there, for that was the result of the pathologist’s post-mortem examination. In other words, it appeared that his death was from natural causes, even if the circumstances were a little unusual. For us, the state of his clothing continued to be a worry, for it could be an indication of a struggle of some kind, instead of the aftermath of sex. Could his death be the result of manslaughter? Had there in fact been a struggle, a fight to the death? About a woman, even?

  The morning paper carried a brief note of the death, saying only that we were investigating the death of a man found at a local beauty spot in Ryedale. The paper did not name Halliwell because, at the time of going to print, we could not confirm his identity. I was pleased that no sordid details were published. Having read the account, I rang Taxation and learned that the owner of the green Mini was a Mrs Dorothy Pendlebury, from a village near York, also a county councillor. I told Gerry Connolly of my findings.

  ‘That’s great, Nick, a real piece of detective work. Well done! Now, let’s go and see her,’ he said. ‘You come with me, and we’ll do it during the day, when her husband’s at work. She’ll never tell us if he’s hanging around listening to every word. If she was the last person to see Halliwell alive, we need to know what happened.’

  Dorothy Pendlebury was a tall, heavily built woman who was handsome rather than beautiful; in her early forties, she had a head of fine blonde hair and a bearing which could be described as almost aristocratic. In expensive clothes, she answered our knock and promptly assumed we were brush salesmen.

  ‘I’m not seeing anyone today.’ There was a haughtiness in her voice which was perhaps a means of covering her current uncertainty and misery. ‘You’ll have to see my husband if it’s anything to do with the house, and he will be at work till seven.’

  Gerry Connolly was all charm. ‘Mrs Pendlebury, we are not salesmen, we are police officers,’ and he introduced us by our names and ranks. ‘I believe you knew the late George Frederick Halliwell of Scarborough, the restaurateur and county councillor.’

  His opening words were designed to shock. There was but a moment’s hesitation before she snapped, ‘Yes, of course, I know him. We’re on the county council, we serve on the same committees.’

  ‘Mrs Pendlebury,’ said Gerry in his quiet voice, ‘I would like to have a word with you about him, in confidence.’

  ‘Really? Why, might I ask?’

  ‘I would prefer to talk inside the house if you don’t mind,’ continued Gerry.

  She hesitated; I realised later that her mind must have been in turmoil at that moment, but her face never revealed anything of her emotions.

  ‘I have an appointment in half an hour,’ she said. ‘I cannot break it . . .’ but she stepped back into the house and we followed her into the kitchen.

  She indicated two chairs at the pine table but did not offer us coffee or tea.

  ‘Well?’ She stood near the window, looking out, her face away from our scrutiny. It was a clever move on her part.

  I wondered how Gerry Connolly would tackle this interview, for I could guess she would deny any allegation he made. She was the sort of woman for whom appearances and social acceptance were of paramount importance, and any hint of a scandal, particularly a sordid sexual one, would be ruinous. There, in her mind, it would never happen — it had never happened . . .

  ‘I have reason to believe,’ he said slowly, ‘that you were the last person to see George Frederick Halliwell alive.’

  Her head dropped slightly forward at this, but her face remained out of our sight as she gazed from her window.

  ‘Is he dead?’ her voice was hoarse now. ‘No one told me.’

  Gerry, in his soft, friendly voice, explained the circumstances surrounding the discovery of Halliwell’s body, and he ended by repeating his earlier remark: ‘I have reason to believe you were the last person to see him alive, Mrs Pendlebury. I have reason to believe you were with him at Lover’s Leap.’

  ‘We were good friends.’ Her voice was a mere whisper now. ‘He was a fine man . . .’

  ‘But yesterday were you with him at Lover’s Leap?’ Connolly stood up to ask the direct question.

  ‘No!’ she flung the answer at him. ‘How dare you make such insinuations! I am a respectable married woman, the mother of two adult children, and a councillor; how dare you suggest that I was with him, on a secret liaison . . .’

  ‘I did not suggest any such thing, Mrs Pendlebury. I merely suggested you were the last person to be with him, to see him alive. You might have met there for business reasons, to discuss county council matters . . .’

  ‘I have nothing more to add, Inspector,’ she snapped, and added, ‘Now I must go. I have an urgent appointment to keep.’

  Gerry stood his ground. ‘Mrs Pendlebury, I need to know your movements yesterday around lunchtime. Mr Halliwell is dead, and his death is being investigated as suspicious. We know that he was not alone when he died.’

  He allowed those words to register in her mind before he continued: ‘And furthermore, we have every reason to believe that he was engaged in the act of sexual intercourse with a woman at the moment of his death. If that is true, his death will be regarded as being due to natural causes — there will be no inquest and no publicity. If, however, we have to make more detailed enquiries, probably along the lines of a murder investigation, of course there will be publicity.’

  He paused again to allow his words to take effect, then said, ‘Now, so far as you are concerned, we could demand the clothes you were wearing yesterday, for fibres were found clinging to Mr Halliwell’s clothes; we could ask you to submit to a medical examination to determine whether or not you engaged in sexual intercourse yesterday, and a forensic test might even confirm it was with Mr Halliwell . . . our forensic experts are very clever at matching stains and fibres — and we could make very searching enquiries about your movements over the past year or so.’

  She did not say a word but remained on her feet, staring out of her kitchen window; she was totally composed and in command of her own emotions.

  ‘If he did die in the manner you describe,’ she said quietly, ‘and if his death was due to a heart attack, there will be no inquest, no publicity? That is what you said?’

  ‘That’s true. But we do need to know the truth, and we will respect anything confidential.’

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ she said suddenly, moving across to the cupboard for some mugs. Connolly winked at me
but said nothing more as she busied herself in the kitchen. Finally, with three steaming mugs in her hands, she settled at the table, tearless and utterly composed, and faced Detective Sergeant Connolly.

  ‘What do you want me to say, Inspector?’ she asked.

  ‘Just the truth,’ he said.

  ‘I panicked,’ she licked her lips now. ‘I ran away and I am ashamed of that; I am not ashamed of my liaison with him. I needed him and he needed me; there was no love, no risk of marriage breakdowns on either side, just sex. We fulfilled each other, Inspector, we made each other happy. Yes, I was with him yesterday, and yes, we were making love when he collapsed. I did my best to revive him but failed. Then I heard someone climbing towards us through the bracken, so I ran away, leaving him to find George. I recognise a heart attack when I see one. So what happens next?’

  ‘I need a written statement from you, to complete my investigation — I need no more than what you have just told me.’

  ‘But will it reach a court of any kind?’

  ‘No,’ he promised her. ‘I must submit a report to the coroner, but as you have explained how he came about his heart attack, how you were present at his death, and as the pathologist’s findings agree with your story, there will be no inquest. His death will be recorded as natural, not suspicious.’

  ‘His wife will have to be told that he died during an act of adultery, will she?’

  ‘No,’ said Connolly. ‘She has been told he died at Lover’s Leap, but we have spared her the details.’

  ‘And my husband?’

  ‘He need never know of your involvement unless you tell him.’

  ‘I will not tell him,’ she said. She paused a long time as she sipped her coffee, then continued: ‘You must both think I am evil, leaving him like that, running away, but I knew he was dead. I was a nurse, you know. I ran off to protect him from scandal. There was nothing I could do, nothing could be done to save him, and he did give me pleasure and happiness, and I gave it to him. There is nothing wrong in that, is there, Inspector? Not when you have an impotent husband . . .’