‘I think the best description of what she suffered is death by a thousand cuts. None caused death, all contributed to shock and a loss of blood which proved fatal.’
‘Would you judge it to have been sadism or torture?’
‘If there is a meaningful difference, torture. Whoever used the knife, chose parts of the body where injury would not be expected to cause a quick death.’
‘Was she on drugs?’
‘No obvious signs, but you’ll have to wait for the laboratory to confirm or deny.’
‘Maybe she nicked a load of cash and the dealer caught up with her ... Is there any contact evidence?’
‘Not so much as a stray hair.’
‘Then we have no clothes, birth marks, deformities, contact traces or jewellery. A professional dumped her in the woods, leaving only her prints. I wouldn’t bet they’ll take us anywhere or he’d have hacked the fingers off.’
As if on cue, one of the SOCOs walked to where they stood and showed Glover several forms on each one of which was a finger or thumb print, taken with the customary difficulty from the dead body.
Late Monday morning, his colleague Betterley slapped a folder down on Ansell’s desk. ‘Message from on high. More zing. Emphasis on luxurious cabins, gourmet feasts, exotic destinations, the opportunity – tinged with sex – to make new friends. And much less on the benefit and pleasure of learning about the lives of peoples in foreign lands ... Doesn’t do to make a prospective passenger think he might learn something.’ He left.
Salter, who worked at the other desk in the room, spoke sardonically. ‘You must have made the mistake of painting things as they are, not as the punters must be made to believe they will be.’ He gave Ansell a sympathetic raise of the eyebrows and promptly went back to whatever facts he was exaggerating for his own press release on a newly opened businessman’s hotel in some generic, dull city.
Ansell took a deep breath and turned back to his own copy. He spent another fruitless forty minutes trying to produce a zingier picture of life on a cruise ship, but remembered too much other detail as he did so, detail not normally relevant to the prospective customers of the Rex Cruising Company. A barque is named for her sails, not her size. Square rigged for’d ... Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?
The phone interrupted now bitter memories. ‘David?’
His brain, still with the past, traitorously identified Melanie’s voice. ‘It’s you!’
‘Why’s that surprising?’ A suspicious tinge to the voice.
Eileen. ‘Oh, sorry, I’ve been waiting for a call from a client and I thought you were she.’ He tried to explain his way out of his sudden outburst, certain that the disappointment in his voice was all too evident.
‘I should have expected you to recognize my voice after all these years. I need you to go to the homeware outlet on the outskirts of town and pick up the material I’ve been waiting to have delivered for weeks. As you may remember, I need it to replace those cushions in our front room.’
‘Will do.’
‘And we’ve hardly any butter. You almost finished it and forgot to put it down on the list.’
‘One pack?’
‘Yes. And this time take the trouble to make certain it’s salted.’
‘I’ll examine the packaging very carefully.’
She rang off.
His colleague Salter said, ‘Are you expecting a client’s phone call or was that domestic cotton wool?’
‘Why ask?’
‘I was born inquisitive.’
‘In spades. It’s lunch time. A half at the local?’ Ansell suggested, the bitter disappointment still evident in his tone.
‘For you, laced with wormwood?’
EIGHT
Glover, seated at his desk, belched. He should not have encouraged the civilian worker in the canteen to place a few more chips on his plate. He looked down at the notes he had written regarding the murdered woman – known facts, conjectured possibilities. The sheet of paper should have accommodated many more words.
The switchboard called him to say the chief superintendent wanted to speak to him; as always, ‘detective’ had been left out, but he accepted from whom the call would be.
‘Any news from DABS or Forensics?’ Abbotts asked.
‘Nothing on the fingerprints yet, sir.’
‘Anything to report?
‘Very little, I’m afraid.’ Glover did not try to cover the negative aspect of his answer by adding he and his team were following up every possible lead. Abbotts always accepted that those under his command were working at full pitch; had he thought otherwise, one or more persons would have left his team. ‘Part of the trouble is that until we have identification, we’re working half blind. Initial evidence from people living around the woods indicates nothing unusual was noted on Saturday night – no parked cars in the woods, no one on the road. One elderly woman said she heard screams, but a neighbour says she’s three parts away.
‘There’s been a second search on a broad sweep around where the body was. The only physical find was a pair of woman’s pants stuffed down a rabbit hole which had obviously been there quite a time. The keeper says his pheasants are often disturbed by youngsters enjoying themselves and making the most of being out at night.
‘There’s a small patch of ground between the road and the brambles which for some reason doesn’t drain well and there were four footprints of which we took casts – difference in sizes suggests male and female. That’s about it, sir.’
‘Have you been on to DABS and told them to stir themselves?’
‘They know it’s priority.’
‘Not what I asked.’
‘I’ve found it causes resentment to pressure them, sir, and that means delays rather than acceleration.’
‘I’ll have a word with Inspector Lamb.’
The resentment would be carefully concealed, Glover thought.
‘I’ll be with you as soon as possible.’
Ansell drove into the garage. He picked up from the passenger seat the box of truffles he had bought in the hypermarket just outside Frithton. Eileen’s favourite sweet. A dog trainer had told him that a bitch, like a woman, responded to bribery.
Eileen was not at home. On the kitchen table was a note, abrupt in form, short of information. ‘Babs. Oven.’
He opened the oven door. Fricassée of chicken, for want of a better name. He poured himself a full glass of red wine, went into the sitting room, switched on the television. There were several minutes of an interview with an MP to which he did not bother to listen. He ignored the weather forecast. His glass was empty, so he left to pour himself a second drink. When he returned, a senior policeman in uniform was asking viewers to help identify the victim of a brutal crime whose body had been found in woods near Frithton. She was in her middle twenties, had wavy, blonde hair, dark brown eyes, regular teeth, was five foot nine in height, slim. Would anyone whose daughter, wife, or friend was missing or had not been in contact when she could have been expected to be, had been in that area and not heard from since Saturday, please inform the police at the number now displayed on the screen.
He drank, tried not to wonder where and with whom Melanie was.
Glover was about to leave his room when the external phone rang. He lifted the receiver, identified himself.
‘Heathley, sir. We have a definite identification of the deceased from Sudely Woods. Melanie Anne Caine.’
‘Why is she on record?’
‘Can’t answer that right off.’
‘Fax me notes on her case if they haven’t been thrown away.’
‘Yes, sir.’ A sigh.
A resentful acknowledgement of his order, Glover acknow-ledged, and if nothing had been thrown away, a justifiable resentment due to the amount of paperwork probably stuffed inside a folder. However, in Glover’s experience, when a year ago he had requested information to be told that it was no longer available, a lot more work would be involved in the long run if there wasn�
�t a nice fat wad of paperwork now for them to go through.
Some time later, a constable entered, handed him many pages of printed information. He read them. About eighteen months ago, Major Belamy, ex-marines, had been attacked by Melanie Caine and suffered slight injury to his right eye, facial scratches, and a blow to his crutch which had resulted in his being in hospital for a few days. He had reported the incident to the police. The day before the preliminary hearing, he had retracted his evidence. It was noted, without extra comment by the investigating officer, that Belamy’s wife had unexpectedly returned from a holiday with friends in Italy on the day of the attack.
Glover used the internal phone to call Frick to his room. Frick sat when told to do so. ‘I’ve received a fax which answers one question, sets up another half dozen.’ He passed the paperwork across.
Frick read slowly. An efficient sergeant, was Glover’s judgement; that was, provided one ignored his all-too-often expressed opinion of admitting women into the police force.
‘Find out if she’s moved since she gave the address. If she hasn’t, SOCO can search the flat. If she was on the game, there’ll be a list of clients.’
Glover had given his orders. He was now back to reading something on his computer screen and Frick accepted he’d been discharged.
Back in his room, Frick picked up a pencil and fiddled with it, turning it round between thumb and forefinger. If Melanie Caine had been on the game, there was the probable motive for her violent murder. He used the internal phone to speak to someone in the CID general room, was annoyed to learn that the only occupant was Detective Constable Belinda Draper. There was a small place for women in the police force, according to Frick, and none in the CID. The work could be emotionally scarring and they lacked the mental ability to face such distress.
Belinda entered his office.
‘Grab a seat.’ He indicated the one chair on the other side of his desk with the wave of an impatient hand.
Frick had been surprised when, a few days after she had joined the unit, he had heard someone remark that she made a man look twice and wonder. He certainly did not look at her and think of bed. She had a pleasant smile, a tuneful voice, a quiet manner; but so did many other women. And in his opinion, she also suffered from the female belief that she was always right, had no hesitation in arguing, and lacked a traditional respect for authority. All in all, just further justification of his conviction that women had no place in the police force, certainly not in CID.
Back to the present and to the case. If she was the only officer he had at his disposal, he guessed he’d have to make do.
‘The Sudely Woods victim has been identified,’ he said.
‘Poor bitch.’
He was annoyed by her ‘canteen’ expression. Trying to show she was right up there with the men. ‘An unfortunate description,’ he said and to his annoyance judged he had sounded prim.
‘What’s named her?’ Belinda carried on regardless of Frick’s evident apathy.
‘She was accused of GBH. An assault on a married man, Major Belamy – ex-marine – in his house.’
‘Was she sent down?’ She had her notebook out and was scribbling away whilst asking questions. She was diligent, Frick had to admit.
‘He retracted his evidence before the preliminary hearing so the case was shot.’
‘What made him change his mind?’
‘Most likely because his wife returned unexpectedly early from Italy.’
‘Was Caine on the game?’
‘No firm evidence, but the circumstances indicate the probability.’
‘Helping the husband make up for lost opportunities.’
Frick again expressed his disapproval of her comment. Belinda was amused. He was a good sergeant, notably because he was always ready to help or defend any of his team in trouble or wrongly criticized by a senior, but he could also be so out-of-date.
‘Ascertain if the Caine woman, prior to her death, was living in the address given in the fax; if so, find out what you can about her. Have a word with Major Belamy – why did she attack him; how did he make contact with her; anything else about her that could be useful.’
‘I’ll try not to be embarrassed by what the major tells me,’ she said lightly.
‘I’d prefer to think you might be.’
He lit a cigarette after she had left. His wife Anne’s birthday was only a week away and he had yet to decide what present to give her, a problem which worried most husbands, but few wives. He stared at the small, framed photograph of Anne on the desk and although not taken long ago, he saw a woman little changed by the twenty-seven years of their marriage; if he looked in a mirror, he saw a middle-aged man whose hair was disappearing and whose face was quite heavily lined.
Officers on the beat – the few, these days – were sometimes offered sex in exchange for ignoring some minor incident. He had refused every such offer and was proud of the fact, yet uncomfortable that he could experience pride from those refusals. Why did interaction with a modern, young policewoman like DC Draper lead him onto such thoughts? Perhaps he was just getting too old for the job ...
Belinda turned off the car’s engine and stared up at the block of flats which possessed the visual charm of an oblong block of concrete. A countrywoman by birth and upbringing, she had returned to live with her parents in the country after her relationship with her fiancé, Peter, had soured.
She parked on a solid line, crossed the pavement, turned into the building. The entrance hall was divided into two unequal parts. In the first was a board of named call buttons and small post boxes. By flat one, there was still the name tag, M. Caine; by flat two, Mrs D. Greene. She pressed button two.
A female voice, sounding scratchy through the speaker, said, ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Greene?’
‘If you’re a reporter, please go away.’
‘I’m Detective Constable Draper and would be grateful if I might have a word with you.’
‘The first reporter said he was a policeman and wanted to ask me questions about Melanie Caine because of what had happened. I was so shocked ... In the end he went away. Then there were all the others. Some of them seemed so ... callous just wanting to know about her.’
‘Do you have a spyhole in your front door?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you look through it after I ring, I will show you my warrant card which proves I’m a policewoman.’
She was buzzed in the main door, crossed the tiled floor to flat two, rang the bell at the side of the door on the left-hand side and held up her warrant card by the small hole in the door. After some moments, the door was finally opened.
Mrs Greene, in her early eighties, had her left arm in a sling. Her face showed the inevitable damage of age, but it was possible to judge she had once been attractive. ‘Please come on in.’ Now confident that her visitor was authentic, the old lady was all politeness.
Belinda entered the narrow hallway in which colour came from the roses in a cut-glass bowl on a small table. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been so troubled by the press.’
‘There was one in particular who kept ringing and saying he wanted to talk to me about the poor unfortunate woman. He was quite rude when I refused to discuss her or let him in.’
‘It must have been very disturbing for you and, unfortunately, now I’m adding to your worries.’
‘As my mother used to say, life was never meant to be easy ... If you will go into that room, I’ll make some tea.’
‘Please don’t bother.’
‘It’s none and I’m sure you’d like a cup. I’d rather like one myself and it’s nice to share it with someone for a change.’
‘In truth, I would. Thank you.’
Belinda entered the room Mrs Greene had indicated. The sitting room was lightly furnished. The two easy chairs were grouped in front of a flat screen television, a bookcase was overfilled with books, the painting on the wall opposite depicted an autumn country scene in which the leaves of tre
es were beginning to fall.
A morning paper was on an occasional table. She sat, opened the paper, skimmed through the report of the murder. There was no mention of the victim’s name; Melanie had not been identified until the middle of the morning, hours after that edition of the paper had been printed.
Mrs Greene entered, stood just inside the doorway. ‘Will you tell me your name again? I fear I have forgotten.’ She spoke in the clipped tones which once were heard much more frequently.
‘Belinda Draper.’
‘Mine is Jane Greene. Everything is ready on a tray on the table in the kitchen. Would you be kind and bring it in here? I’m afraid it would be rather difficult for me.’ She indicated her slinged arm.
‘Of course.’ She went through to the kitchen, picked up the tray, returned to the sitting room and put it down on a glass-topped table. ‘I’ll pour, if you’d like?’
‘You mustn’t wait on me.’
‘The least I can do after all the aggravation you’ve been through.’
The elderly lady sat, relieved at being able to make use of such helpful company. ‘A little milk please, and no sugar but two saccharin pills. One of the perils of becoming old.’
‘You’ve a long way to go before you can call yourself that.’ Belinda poured out a cup of tea, picked up the plate on which were chocolate digestive biscuits, offered them.
Jane expressed an interest in Belinda’s job. Did she like it, did she think it was safe for a woman? Belinda’s answers were far sweeter than they would have been had the questions been asked by a man.
Carefully, she guided the conversation on to the subject of Mrs Greene’s neighbour.
‘I can’t say I knew her at all well even though we quite often met coming in or going out of the building and in the nearby supermarket,’ Jane said. ‘Occasionally she’d ask me into her flat for a drink or I would ask her in for tea.’
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