by R. L. Nolen
“Not in the postmistress’s case, but likely in Tavy’s. Remember the parsley in Tavy’s pockets was fresh, but these were crumbled flakes. Probably leftovers he still carried in his pockets.”
Trewe finished his tea and set the mug down with a thud. “There should be a law against people knowing too bloody much. We’ve another inquest to attend. We’ve put paid to one mystery only to have more open up.”
Perstow’s face paled. “Whatever is next?”
The weather had turned unseasonably warm and oppressive, but they were able to walk from the Hasten Inn to the courthouse because it was only a little ways along the cliffs. To the north across the sea-filled horizon, the clouds were a deep blue-black while, where Jon stood, the light was bright as blazes. Storm front, he thought, Just wish it would get on with it. He removed his jacket as he entered the long, narrow courtroom of the combined county courthouse and walked down the aisle between the rows of pew-like benches that faced the podium.
The police tape blocking off the area around the post office would be something for the gawkers, but there really wasn’t anything to see even if they could get past all the curtained windows and closed doors. The post office was only a small portion of the building in the front and was completely separate from any of the official offices or the courtroom.
Extra chairs had been added around the court room in anticipation of a crowd. It was almost empty save for a few people along one wall. They had laptops open, or notepads, so were likely reporters. There was a news crew outside. Cameras were not allowed in the courtroom. As to the laptops, they were probably going to have to put them aside at some point because most of them had video.
Trewe sat alone near the front. Taking a seat behind Trewe, he leaned forward and said, “Someone mentioned a package left near the incident room with your name on it?”
Trewe turned slightly and muttered, “Not a pleasant subject.”
“Someone trying to tell you your business?”
“He isn’t alone then.” Trewe turned and gave Jon the eye. “The postmistress’s pocketbook with the severed organ tucked inside did me a turn. It was left in one of the rain barrels. Someone saw blood on the outside of the barrel.”
“So I heard. Nasty.”
“There was a note to Mrs. Butler. She confirms it is her daughter’s handwriting, says there was a message from each first word.”
“How did she figure it out?”
“Something about text message abbreviations. At any rate, the message was ‘don’t follow the man.’ ”
“Good Lord!”
“The fact that he let her write anything at all … I don’t know whether the killer wants us to know the girl is alive … whether we are fooling ourselves into thinking we’ll catch him out …”
“… or whether he is laying a trap.” Jon noticed others beginning to take their seats. “Were the cameras functioning on the street near that rain barrel?”
“They were.”
“And?”
“There was a figure—bundled to look fat, face painted, possibly with blood—short, or huddled over to look short. Must have known there were cameras—so many cameras.” Trewe gave Jon another look.
People drifted in by twos and threes until the room filled. Murmurs, coughs and scuffs of chairs diminished into expectant silence.
The new coroner from Exeter moved purposefully to the front of the large room. He used one hand to whisk his wave of sandy-colored hair off his forehead. With the motion the hint of a smile disappeared as he sat in the front row.
A barrister by the name of Mr. Ackerman moved to the podium. He turned with a flourish and sat.
A showman, Jon decided.
There was more coughing and scraping of chairs against wooden floors. Perstow lumbered toward them. He nodded to Jon and sat next to Trewe.
“This is the second inquest into the death of Annie Grace Butler,” Mr. Ackerman called out. “The law requires a second inquest in the event of a murder being done and no killer apprehended. When the killer is apprehended, there can be no question of injustice in the examination of the body with the opinion written by an independent coroner, thereby expediting the release of the body for burial.”
Jon listened to the precise litany of words. The loved ones needed to bury the body. His mind wandered. Who in this room knew the body to be released to Ruth Butler was not her daughter?
Mr. Ackerman called Perstow to testify. “Are you able to proceed?”
Perstow faced the coroner. “Your Honor, I would like to defer to Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe. I reserve the right to add anything I might wish to include, in due time.”
Mr. Ackerman nodded, “Of course. Let the record so reflect. Thank you, Sergeant. Detective Chief Inspector Trewe, take the oath.”
Trewe cleared his throat. “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“Thank you. Proceed.”
Jon glanced across the other attendees to where Ruth Butler sat on the other side of the room. She turned in his direction. He gave a quick nod. He’d kept quiet despite his frustration at not being able to add anything constructive. He had no hope of impressing her. But he would solve this case no matter how long and frustrating it became.
Trewe gave his name, rank, and number, then said, “We received a call …” and he went on to report what had happened after the call came about the body in the surf.
Jon thought about what he had been doing on that day: checking up on Trewe, walking the cliffs wondering how the man had come into so much money, seemingly all at once—and now that he knew, he still didn’t understand why Trewe didn’t retire. His mind was pulled back into the flow of Trewe’s voice.
“… and immediately alerted police officers in the area to respond.”
Trewe went on to recount the investigation’s progress before and after the discovery of the body. Jon listened to the facts but remembered how his discovery of the body had left him heartsick and furious. What a jolt that had been.
Another witness was speaking.
The criminal profiler from London was a woman, Dr. Sarah Manning, whose bottled-blond hair contrasted sharply against her florid face. She spoke distinctly. “This type of killer’s thoughts fester in his mind, creating pressures that need an outlet. If at any time he or she were afforded opportunity to kill with impunity, he or she would consider them opportunities to perfect the killing technique. Each incident feeds the killing urges and the effect is a release of pressure …” She used the words “steps to moral decline,” which made her sound as if she were reading from a textbook.
An intelligent-sounding combination of words later, she concluded by saying this killer had likely reached a tight place of no return, which meant, to Jon’s way of thinking, that the killer could not stop killing.
Ruth sat next to her mother in the front row of the already stuffy room. She leaned forward, determined to hear everything. She repeated to herself that this was not about her daughter.
During the first inquest she had been sick, numbed, and unable to understand most of what went on. This time she felt her time was being wasted when she would rather be out looking for Annie. Tears burned her dry eyes. She glanced around at the blurred colors in the courtroom. No one stood out. No one called attention to themselves. Of course, the person responsible had been a chameleon all this time; he wouldn’t be any different today. Not unless she did something to force him.
On the other side of her sat Sally in her flannel jumper, her face a bit red from the heat in the room. Sally gave her hand a squeeze. Sally didn’t know that Annie was not the subject of this inquest. How would she react when she told her that Annie was still alive? She wasn’t supposed to, but she had decided to tell her after the inquest. She wanted her perspective.
Sam sat behind her, so she could see him if she turned sideways a little. He looked like a whitewashed beach pebble, all clean and neat, but not at all o
utstanding. He had offered to represent her in this inquest but she told him that everything about it was routine because they still had not discovered who the killer was. She couldn’t in good conscience ask someone to cross-examine any witnesses. But he promised to help her with her immigration problems later.
Ruth didn’t want to jump up and yell, “Who did this?” but not doing anything was becoming more difficult by the minute. Her mother squeezed her hand. It was good to have her here.
Jon Graham sat across the aisle. She thought about how he had told her the body was not Annie. Her heart gave a painful lurch again. That’s right, not Annie. It was someone else’s precious child, but not Annie.
She watched, wondering what to make of this man. He seemed as outraged as she did.
Sally wiped a hand across her forehead. She moved her face into Ruth’s line of vision and raised an eyebrow. “What is it? What are you looking at?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” She looked towards the back of the room.
Mr. Malone stood near the door. He caught her eye and gave a jaunty half-wave. She noticed Sergeant Perstow leave. He seemed to be in a hurry. She shivered. The room suddenly felt cold. It crept all the way into her bones.
A sudden movement caught Jon’s eye. Perstow moved quickly to leave, brushing past Mr. Malone who stood at the open door. Malone’s dark eyes swept the room. Jon was reminded of a ferret with his quick movements and his beaked nose sloping to a point. He wondered why Perstow exited the room so abruptly. He wasn’t supposed to leave.
The video expert, Mr. Clark Grimly, had his projection screen set up facing the courtroom. One of those PowerPoint slide shows, very up-to-date. It must be his own equipment; it was doubtful the Perrin’s Point police had anything like it. Grey-haired, be-spectacled, and altogether the picture of respectability, Mr. Grimly spent the next few moments composing himself by straightening his bow tie and flattening his hair down to his skull. Now that all eyes and ears were giving him absolute attention, the esteemed Mr. Grimly stammered and sputtered until he noticed a smudge on one of the photo displays. As he set about wiping the spot, his manner smoothed.
Jon wanted to raise his voice and say, “Get on with it!”
When asked if the photo could show anything about the child’s death, Mr. Grimly replied, “The present formatted images don’t point toward any solid pictorial evidence.
For Christ’s sake would someone put a stopper in this man’s mouth and tell him there were more important things to do than listen to words like “formatted images.” Jon couldn’t sit through much more of this. Where had Perstow gone? Had he gotten sick? Perhaps he should check on him. He stood and moved down the aisle to step out into the hall. A spike-haired youth stood by the door speaking in low tones to Perstow. Was it a male? Who could tell? Very skinny, no boobs, must be male. He wouldn’t be out of place in London, but here, he looked lost. As Perstow became more animated, the youth appeared increasingly disturbed.
Jon stepped toward them. “Can I help you?”
A mass of dyed blue-black hair stood out all over his head except for bangs flattened and plastered down straight over the front of his face all the way to his chin. Jon imagined he must have to crane his neck to see in front of him. Of course, he could not bend his neck too far back because his skull would become pierced on the vicious spikes protruding from the thick leather collar buckled around his neck.
The boy whispered, “Are you the one in charge?”
“I’m one of them.”
“I’ve got this for you.”
When he reached into a pocket of his black trench coat, Jon froze. Did he have a knife? A bomb?
The youth pulled a videocassette from his coat. With the peculiar singsong lilt of Cornwall, he said, “I picked this up on the cliffs. I thought it might have something interestin’ on. It did, but not for me.”
“What’s on it?” Jon asked, taking the cassette.
“Her from the posters.”
Jon turned the plastic casing over in his hands. There, written in his own handwriting was the word “Beach.”
49
Jon reentered the courtroom, resolutely made his way to where Trewe sat and handed the videotape to him.
“What’s this?”
Jon leaned forward and whispered, “The beach tape. Fellow found it on the cliffs. I haven’t seen it as I didn’t have a VCR, but the boy says Annie is on it.”
Trewe growled, “Do say.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the coroner said. He and the video expert glared from the front of the room.
Trewe nodded in Mr. Ackerman’s direction, and turned to whisper. “We’ll need to record the tape’s receipt.”
Jon nodded. “I will get it in writing how the young man found it and all.”
Trewe stood up.
Mr. Ackerman stared pointedly at him. “Detective Chief Inspector Trewe?”
“Sir. We have just been presented with a videocassette, which may contain possible evidence. We haven’t been able to review it as no one has a VCR.”
Mr. Malone tromped to the front of the room waving his hand as if there were a taxi to stop. “As County Magistrate, my office is here. I have a VCR. If you would like to use it to view the tape,” Mr. Malone announced, “it’s just through that door.”
Trewe interjected, “I’d like Mr. Grimly to review it, to see what it contains.”
Mr. Ackerman shrugged. “An hour adjournment. No more. We have a duty to perform and it is important we do so in a timely manner.”
Murmurs and low conversation swelled to full-voiced clamor as chairs scraped and the doors opened to outside sounds and fresh air. Distant thunder rumbled. A storm was brewing. It was probably the reason for the dead air and stuffiness of the courtroom.
Jon’s attention focused on Ruth. She had stepped up from her seat and made her way to where they were standing at the front of the courtroom. She grabbed Trewe by the arm. “I want to see it.”
Trewe carefully extracted his arm from her grip. “Mrs. Butler, we don’t know what’s on this.”
“Let me see it.”
That’s the way! Jon silently encouraged her.
“Let me make myself better understood,” Trewe said. “We’ve been told Annie is on this tape. We don’t know if this is the tape of her on the beach, or …”
“Or?”
“Or if the killer has recorded something different on this tape.”
Jon watched Ruth’s face as the implications of what the killer may have filmed of her daughter sank in. “I’ve been through hell these past few weeks. I don’t expect anything worse can happen, do you?”
Jon interrupted, “I imagine there can be worse piled upon worse.”
“But—”
Jon noticed Malone standing at the door of what he presumed was his office, waiting on them. They would not let him view the video until they had run through it once.
“No,” Trewe told her, and he and Mr. Grimly went into Mr. Malone’s office.
She turned to Jon. Her eyes flashed heat enough to take the skin off his face.
“They have to make sure of what is on the tape,” he said quietly.
“Someone’s got to do something!”
“I understand.”
“How could you?” Ruth turned away.
“What’s going on?” Jon hadn’t heard Sam walk up from behind them.
Ruth growled, “A video. There may be something on it about Annie. They won’t let me see it. Everyone seems to forget that this is my daughter.”
Trewe came out of Mr. Malone’s office. “Mrs. Butler.”
Ruth jumped to her feet. “Then you’ll let me see it now?”
Trewe sighed. “It’s almost identical to the other videos, Mrs. Butler, but yes, you may view it. And we need the computer expert to manipulate things, enhance things. There might be something.”
Mr. Malone was waiting with the coroner at the podium. “I would like to view the evidence myself.”
Mr.
Ackerman pointed to the two television monitors in the room. “And why not use these?”
Trewe’s face had grown progressively redder. He sputtered, “It’s a damned circus as it is. No, we’ll use the computer in Malone’s office only!”
Jon leaned toward Trewe and murmured, “I’d like another constable or two in the room with us. Aren’t there some firearms officers on the team? Someone with a gun?”
Trewe frowned.
Sam interjected, “May I join?”
“You can wait,” Trewe said.
Jon was surprised with Trewe’s calm but firm response and whispered, “Besides the mother, the person most interested in seeing this would be the killer.”
Sam sat some feet away. His face had gone scarlet. He looked as if he would say something, but instead clenched his fists and muttered to himself.
Trewe paused, considering. “Yes, Mr. Ketterman. Do join us.” Then Trewe excused himself and came back a few minutes later with two uniformed officers that Jon didn’t recognize. Perstow, Mr. Malone, Mr. Ackerman, Jon, the lab’s video expert, and Ruth crowded forward. Trewe more or less pushed the group through the door.
As Jon entered, Malone switched on another light. The room had been dim in order, Jon presumed, to see the video better. The eminently respectable magistrate had turned this room into a comfortable office for village business. Jon swallowed. Comfortable wasn’t the correct word to describe it. Decadent would be a better word.
“Oh, wee!” was Perstow’s exclamation.
Jon crossed the room to glance out the window and get his bearings. They were about four meters from the cliffs. He turned back to face the room, the air permeated with scents of lemon oil, old leather, and quiet. Except for the desk and a few side chairs, there was no other furniture in the room. The colorful vase sitting near the door was a bit startling. Then again, the walls behind Malone’s desk held their own surprises. Inlaid light and dark woods held a central disk of carved semi-precious stones and mother-of-pearl. Jon leaned in to examine the relief carvings. On closer inspection, he realized the sculpted figurines were set in risqué situations.