Superstitious Death

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘This is limestone country, underground caverns are quite likely, but this trough is fantastic – it reminds me of the Five Rise Lock at Bingley,’ enthused Pluke, and within seconds he had produced a small camera from the pocket of his baggy overcoat. He began to take photographs of the series of troughs, and then, as Wayne watched helplessly, he pulled a notebook from his pocket and made a note of the location and description of these magnificent working examples of horse trough history.

  ‘Sir.’ Wayne Wain was anxious to proceed with the matter in hand. ‘With all due respect, we are not here to examine horse troughs. Mr Preston, this gentleman is Detective Inspector Pluke from Crickledale and I am his deputy, Detective Sergeant Wain.’

  ‘Oh, police business, is it? You don’t look like policemen to me, leastways your mate doesn’t. What am I supposed to have done? Not filled in my stock register or summat? Or been parking my tractor on double yellow lines somewhere?’ and he grinned wickedly.

  ‘Are you Brian Preston?’ asked Wayne Wain.

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’ He was a sturdy weathered fifty-year-old with a brown flat cap, grey flannel shirt with long sleeves, black boots and corduroy trousers held up with red and white braces. ‘So what’s up? What brings the plain-clothes constabulary to see me?’

  ‘We’ve come from your neighbour, Eric Burholme.’ Pluke spoke slowly. ‘The body of a woman has been found in his quarry – she was discovered earlier today. We have reason to believe her death is suspicious. We are making routine house-to-house enquiries, and also visiting all Mr Burholme’s customers.’

  ‘You mean that quarry where I store my bales?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Wayne Wain told him. ‘She was found buried on the edge of the quarry, near the trees which span the footpath.’

  ‘But that’s terrible! Poor bloody woman! Who is she then? Somebody local?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Pluke admitted. ‘That is our most important task – to get her identified. Maybe you have some idea? She is about thirty, with blonde hair, average height and build…’

  ‘Could be anybody, there’s plenty of good-looking blondes in these parts,’ muttered Preston. ‘So why do you want to talk to me?’

  ‘Two reasons, Mr Preston,’ said Pluke. ‘First, those wheelshaped bales in the quarry. Do you check them regularly for any reason?’

  ‘No, no need. They’re not going to go anywhere.’

  ‘So when was the last time you paid a visit to the quarry?’

  ‘Weeks ago. I can’t be too accurate but it would be five or six weeks back – I went to see if the plastic covers had been damaged. Folks do use that quarry, campers and courting couples. And Eric doesn’t seem to mind so long as they behave. I’d be more worried about strangers if I was him – I’m not saying they’d all vandalise things, but you can’t be too careful. Even a small cut in them plastic covers would cause problems – I don’t want rainwater seeping in.’

  ‘And you’ve not been since that time?’ Pluke wanted to be sure about this.

  Preston shook his head. ‘Nay, Mr Pluke. So how long’s she been there, this lass?’

  ‘We are not sure, it’s probably a very short time, but she was buried there. It would take some time and effort to do that.’

  ‘Buried? In that quarry? I thought the base was solid rock, that’s why Eric keeps some of his machines there, they won’t sink into the ground.’

  ‘Whoever buried her found a soft patch of earth, a shallow piece,’ said Pluke. ‘So you’ve never noticed anyone in the quarry, say in the last couple of days or late at night? Or a disturbed piece of ground?’

  ‘Sorry, no, Mr Pluke. By gum, this is dreadful… poor lass… what a way to end your life.’

  ‘And the other reason for my visit, Mr Preston, is that I understand you are one of Mr Burholme’s customers. You’ve hired a forage harvester from him recently?’

  ‘Aye, a couple of days back. It’s down my fields now, cutting silage. There’s no problem with it, is there?’

  ‘We want to trace all the machines currently on hire from Mr Burholme,’ said Pluke. ‘And we’d like our officers to examine them. Was yours damaged in any way when you took delivery of it? That was on Saturday morning, I believe? A part missing perhaps? Something like a bolt or a spindle?’

  ‘Took delivery? I collected it myself on Saturday morning, early on. Half-seven or thereabouts. But no, I checked it over before I towed it away. There was nowt wrong with it, no damage, nowt missing.’

  ‘Did you notice anyone else around the premises? Apart from Eric Burholme?’

  ‘No, never saw a soul, Mr Pluke.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, can we have a look at your machine?’ asked Pluke.

  ‘Aye, if you like. Follow me. It’s a fairish walk.’

  In spite of wearing such a heavy and cumbersome coat, Montague Pluke enjoyed the rapid walk down the fields of Hollins Farm, although it caused Wayne Wain to pant rather more than he would have wished. The open fields provided an extensive view of the moors behind Crickledale, and in time, having discovered that a fairish walk in Yorkshire was a long walk by most other standards, the three men entered a field where a tractor was moving slowly through the long grass. Preston hailed the tractor driver who halted and awaited the arrival of the three oncomers.

  ‘Hang fire a bit, Harry,’ said Preston. ‘These chaps want a look at your harvester.’

  Under the farmer’s guidance, Pluke examined the machine and decided nothing was missing – it wouldn’t have functioned with a part missing – but because the working parts were smothered with chopped grass and other vegetation, it was impossible to see whether any of them bore signs of blood or skin or minor damage.

  ‘It was clean when you collected it, you said?’ Pluke confirmed.

  ‘Not immaculate, not like a new machine,’ said Preston. ‘You can’t expect that when you’ve a machine which is doing this kind of mucky work. There’s nowt worse than fresh grass for darting up forage harvesters. Just think of a lawnmower. But it was as clean as I’d expect, and in good working order.’

  ‘Right, well, thank you very much for your help,’ said Pluke, wondering whether a forensic scientist would be able to locate blood or skin on any part of such a used machine. ‘I’m sorry to have caused a break in your work.’

  ‘Think nowt of it, Mr Pluke. Mind you, you’d have a job to get trapped in one of these, but nowt’s impossible. I just hope you catch the bloke responsible. Right, Harry, back to it. We can’t stand around all day when there’s work to be done.’

  And so the forage harvester resumed its silage making while Pluke, Wain and Farmer Preston walked back to the farm buildings.

  ‘If you can think of anyone who might have used the quarry, or who the blonde girl might be, give us a call, would you?’ asked Wayne Wain.

  ‘Sure,’ said the farmer, waving them off.

  After a long, lingering look at the magnificent series of horse troughs, Pluke fastened his seat belt and said, To the office now, Wayne, if you please. I wonder if our pathologist has produced any surprises?’

  When Pluke returned to the police station, his first task, after crossing the threshold with his right foot first, was to visit the control room where he asked Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield if there had been any messages.

  Wayne Wain waited at his side.

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Meredith rang, from the path lab. Could you call him back?’

  ‘I will indeed. Now, is the incident room being established? If so, where?’

  ‘Yes, sir, in the parade room. Detective Inspector Horsley of Headquarters CID is in charge as usual, and he’s already got the furnishings, telephones and computers organised. He’s put out calls to draft in thirty detectives from across the force area.’

  ‘Then I must pay him a visit. I shall proceed immediately to the incident room, sergeant, and I shall be there for a while. If anyone from the press rings, tell them I shall issue a statement very shortly. Have there been any press calls, ser
geant?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Good, I need to present them with accurate information – I may need their help to get this victim identified.’

  As they moved through the corridors to the room normally used by the town’s constables for parading on duty, Pluke turned to Wayne and said, ‘Wayne, call the force press officer at Headquarters. I’d like him to join the team in the incident room, as soon as he can arrive.’

  ‘You think this is going to be a runner, sir?’

  ‘It has all the hallmarks of a long-lasting investigation, Wayne. Consider the facts – there is a most curious injury which is likely to have caused death, a distinct and thought-provoking lack of clues at the scene except for a pink hand mirror, no ready identification of the victim, no obvious motive, a well-dug grave at an isolated location with no witnesses… The ingredients are all there, Wayne. A mystery for us to solve/.’

  ‘A mystery, sir? Not a murder?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Wayne. But thinking of our crime figures and detection statistics, we do not want an undetected murder on our books although that worry does not colour my judgement in this case. I continue to have a very open mind.’

  ‘I understand. Right, sir, I’ll call the press officer immediately. It’s a new man, by the way – an Inspector Russell, Paul Russell,’ and Wayne Wain headed upstairs to make the calls from his own office.

  As Fluke entered the parade room, littered with unplaced desks, filing cabinets, telephone engineers and administrative personnel, all of which or whom were required for the creation of an incident room, someone picked up a phone which was already ringing and said, ‘Detective Inspector Pluke, it’s for you.’

  He accepted the instrument and identified himself.

  ‘Hart, Headquarters,’ came the brusque reply. ‘What the hell’s going on in Crickledale, Pluke?’

  ‘Barughdale, sir, to be precise.’

  ‘Stop being pedantic, Pluke. It’s within Crickledale sub-division. I have a garbled message here at Headquarters to say you’ve requested Horsley to set up an incident room in Crickledale.’

  ‘Yes, sir –’

  ‘Now the force is involved in a cost-cutting exercise and we want no unnecessary expenditure… so is this murder or not?’

  ‘I am treating it as murder, sir.’

  ‘I don’t care how you are treating it, Pluke, I want facts, not your bizarre theories. Is it murder or isn’t it? That’s all I want to know. It’s a simple question which requires a very simple answer – yes or no. And while I am talking to you, I must say that you’re not exactly in the top league of operational detectives, Pluke – your record of dealing with murders is pretty thin to say the least and your record of solving them is even thinner. I’m not sure you are the man to deal with an extended investigation, murder or otherwise, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you didn’t know a murder from a bit of malarkey –’

  This is a highly suspicious death, sir,’ Pluke interrupted this flow of venom as he tried to reason with Detective Superintendent Jack Hart. ‘The woman was found in a shallow grave with head injuries –’

  ‘All sorts can cause head injuries, Pluke. Falling off a bike can cause head injuries, banging your head against a brick wall can cause head injuries… I do it all the time!’

  ‘This one looks like a puncture wound, sir. The pathologist is examining the victim at this moment. I don’t think it was a self-inflicted wound, it was far too deep, consequently I am awaiting his judgement.’

  ‘But is it murder, Pluke? That’s all I want to know.’

  ‘I must be honest and say I am not sure at this stage, sir. The injury is in her right temple, a deep hole in the head to be rather crude, a puncture wound by an object yet to be identified.’

  ‘She fell on something, maybe?’

  ‘I had not ignored that possibility, sir. Furthermore, she was buried in a disused quarry and found by a hiker. And her identity is not known. It all suggests something highly suspicious.’

  ‘Go on, Pluke.’

  ‘Well, sir, those circumstances compel me to treat the death as a possible murder. I should know the pathologist’s opinion very soon, and this will assist me to determine the matter. Meanwhile I am conducting a murder-type investigation. I do need that kind of commitment from my officers if I am to bring this case to a satisfactory conclusion.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not murder we can’t go to the expense of running an incident room and all the costly trappings that go with it, Pluke. Dozens of detectives on overtime, high telephone bills and all that. We have a budget for serious crime, remember. We can’t go spending money as if we’ve won the lottery.’

  ‘I am very aware of the financial restraints, sir, but I am also anxious that justice is done. The administration of justice should not depend upon the limitations of provincial police budgets, sir, with all due respect.’

  ‘Well, it does depend upon precisely that,’ snapped Hart. ‘And I have to work within that budget, like it or not. So keep me informed, call me the minute you have the pathologist’s report. If this is not murder, then I can’t approve an expensive long-running investigation of murder-type proportions, can I?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And I should not have to remind you that unauthorised or unconventional burial isn’t necessarily an indication of murder, Pluke, especially if it’s preceded by accidental death… People who hide secrets are not always murderers,’ and he slammed down his handset.

  Smarting from Hart’s vitriol, Montague Pluke sought Detective Inspector Horsley, his colleague from headquarters CID and the man whose job it would be to administer the incident room. He would also allocate actions to the detectives when they assembled. Running an incident room was the equivalent of being in charge of the operational enquiries in a case of murder, hence the equal ranks.

  ‘Ah, Detective Inspector Horsley,’ beamed Montague. ‘Glad you could make it.’

  ‘Has Hart been on to you?’ was Horsley’s first question.

  ‘Just now,’ said Pluke. ‘A very rude man, if I may say so, very lacking in courtesy, a sad thing for a man at the height of his professional career.’

  ‘He’s under pressure from the Chief Constable. Budgets, the low detection rate, the increase in recorded crime… you name it, poor old Jack Hart’s got worries about it. So we are treating this as murder, Montague?’

  Montague Pluke never referred to other officers by their Christian names, especially in the presence of subordinates and particularly those with whom he was not on close friendly terms. He said, ‘There are sufficient very good reasons for this death to be investigated with all the vigour of a murder enquiry.’

  ‘Fair enough, it’s your decision, you are the operational detective in charge of this sub-division. So what are your plans?’

  ‘I understand you have called out thirty detectives? I shall address everyone in the incident room at six o’clock this evening. The most immediate and important task is to get the victim identified. Very soon, I should have the result of the pathologist’s examination, and we shall then know the cause of death. Our teams need to be thoroughly updated, so you will have the incident room fully operational by six o’clock?’

  ‘I will,’ said Horsley. ‘You seem to have made a good start – that’s if it is murder! If not, you’ll have to send them all home again.’

  ‘Monday is not a bad day to begin a new enterprise,’ Pluke told him in all seriousness, and then the telephone rang again. Pluke answered it.

  ‘It’s Meredith here from the pathology department.’

  Chapter Five

  ‘I was going to ring you,’ beamed Pluke. ‘So what is your news?’

  ‘A fascinating case, Mr Pluke,’ began Meredith. ‘First, the girl’s physical appearance, you’ll need this if you’re to get her identified. White skin, five feet six inches tall, that’s 165 centimetres; taller than average. Well built, thirty-six inch bust and hips, twenty-eight inch waist. Not slim by any means. Very good p
hysical condition, no operation scars and every indication of being well cared for – nails in good condition, nicely manicured without any varnish, good natural teeth and hair all in first-class condition. The hair is thick and blonde, bobbed to just below the ears, not a fashionable or very expensive cut, Mr Pluke, not according to my secretary anyway. She has blue eyes, no spectacles or contact lenses. No ear-rings and her ears are not pierced. No lipstick or discernible perfume, no rings on her fingers – in fact no jewellery of any kind. Somewhat unexpectedly, she is a virgin, unusual for a woman of her age, if I may be so bold. There is no sign of any sexual attack, nor was she raped. That fact alone raises a question about the motive. Now to the injury, Mr Pluke. It is most peculiar. Some rigid object has penetrated her right temple and skull; it penetrated to a depth of at least three inches, even three and a quarter, that’s eight centimetres or so. Beyond doubt, that – and the associated shock – killed her. The object was removed before burial and I did not find it in the grave. Death would have been swift but not necessarily instantaneous – I would not place an estimate on how long it would have taken her to die, however. An hour might be too extreme – it could have taken mere minutes – but I think she would have been unconscious from the moment of injury until the time of death. There is bruising around the entrance to the wound as one might expect and other bruises about her head and shoulders, some with broken skin. If we find the object which caused the puncture wound, we might find it is attached to something else which made those cuts and bruises. Obviously, if the object is traced, I can make a match – but an agricultural machine might be what we are seeking. There are also minor lacerations to both her hands, rather as if she had fallen to the ground and tried to protect herself.’