by Bill Kitson
Nash smiled at the term that denoted prisoners locked up overnight, mostly for their own protection following over-indulgence.
‘We didn’t even have a station in Helmsdale in those days. Anyway, the phone call came in at about half-eight. The man on the phone said he’d been walking his dog and found a body. Or rather his dog found it, and ran back to him with a bone in its mouth. Fortunately, the man was an orthopaedic surgeon, and recognized it for what it was – a human thighbone.’
‘I’ve read about this,’ Nash said. ‘Not from the time it happened, it was much later. It was a press cutting that was found at the Gazette offices. It was a woman’s body, wasn’t it?’
Pratt nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘As I recall the woman has never been identified, has she?’
‘No, even though we exhumed the body a few years back and extracted DNA from it. We tested the sample against several possible candidates as part of a cold case review, but drew a blank. That’s why I come here every year, on the anniversary of the day that call came in. Despite all our inquiries, despite the fact that we know she must have had a child, possibly children, alive somewhere; nobody has ever come forward to claim her. I know this might sound weird, but I simply want her to know there is at least one person left who hasn’t forgotten about her, or that she ever existed.’
Pratt looked across at Nash and saw the faraway look on his face. He knew that expression, knew Mike too well to interrupt.
‘You’re certain it was murder?’ Nash’s tone was gentle, vague almost.
‘Absolutely, why else would she have been left out here? There were some indications of violence too.’
There was another long silence, as Nash stared into the distance. The forest scenery was stunning, but Nash wasn’t taking any of it in. Instead, he was thinking about the victim, wondering how she had come to end up in this remote location, unburied, unknown and unmourned. Despite the beauty of their surroundings, both men felt the desolation and sadness keenly.
‘Where did the surgeon come from? To be walking his dog so deep in the woods, I mean?’
‘He was staying in a holiday home on the edge of the woods.’ Pratt turned and pointed due west. ‘About a mile and a half that way, where the forest boundary is, there’s a house that used to be an agricultural worker’s tied cottage. You can walk it easily from here. Once you get through this bit, there’s a ride they keep cut as a fire break. It’s a grand spot for a holiday too; the house is surrounded by fields, and then there’s this wood and views across to Black Fell and Stark Ghyll as well.’
Nash watched as Tom walked forward into the miniature arboretum before them and gently laid the bouquet on the ground. ‘I can see why this case haunts you,’ he said.
chapter four
When Nash walked into Helmsdale police station the following morning, DS Clara Mironova was already there. ‘Good weekend, Mike?’ she greeted him.
‘Quiet, but interesting,’ he told her. ‘How was it here? Busy?’
‘Not really, just the usual. A couple of fights fuelled by booze. Nobody seriously hurt – a few minor scratches and bruises. Uniform locked up the title contenders over Friday night, let them go on Saturday. They’ll be up in court today. Probably only get their hands smacked and told not to do it again. Viv handled the one serious incident.’
‘What was that?’
‘It was a hit-and-run. I don’t know the full details. Viv will be able to tell you better when he arrives. But it sounds awful, what bit I heard. Apparently it happened sometime on Thursday evening. I’m not sure where, but Viv will have more detail. He’s dropping Lianne off at Netherdale General. She’s on day shift this week and he’ll be able to see how the injured man is. He’s in a coma in the ICU and I don’t think it sounds too good. Apparently he’d no ID on him, so Viv was going to ask permission to take his fingerprints, see if we could try to find out who he is that way. What did you do with yourself?’
‘I went to watch Daniel play cricket on Saturday.’
‘That sounds fun; nice and relaxing.’
‘That’s what you think. I never thought a parent watching his son could be so nerve-racking. He did rather well, though. And yesterday I went for a walk with Tom Pratt. You remember, I told you he’d rung on Friday?’
‘Oh yes, you were curious about what he wanted to show you. Where did he take you?’
‘Just above Bishops Cross on the edge of the Winfield Estate, a lovely stretch of woodland, except that I didn’t appreciate its beauty all that much.’
‘Why not?’
Nash explained about the body dumped there.
‘How awful.’ Clara’s expression was sad as she thought over the implications. ‘The murder itself is bad enough, but to go all those years, unnamed.’ She frowned.
‘What is it?’ Nash asked.
‘Don’t you think that’s curious? From the facts Tom told you, I mean. That nobody reported her missing? Surely, if she had a family, and if she had children, they’d miss her?’
‘You have a point, but look at it this way. If there was a divorce and she’d lost custody, or if they’d been taken into care, then she wouldn’t necessarily be missed. Perhaps later, somebody might have wondered where she’d got to, but no more than that. And by then it’d be far too late to trace her.’
‘I hadn’t thought about that,’ Clara agreed. ‘But how typical of Tom, to care about it after all these years, I mean. There aren’t many who’d have taken the trouble.’
‘I agree, and it seems equally sad that the chances of finding anything out after all this time are extremely slim. It remains an open case, but in name only, I guess. Now, Sergeant, whilst we’re waiting for Viv, how about I make coffee?’
Mironova eyed him suspiciously. He only called her ‘Sergeant’ when he was about to insult her. Despite her caution, she fell for it. ‘I’ll make it if you like.’
‘No thanks. I know things are quiet, but that’s no reason to start the week with a poisoning. I still don’t think you’ve mastered the art of that new machine.’
At that moment Pearce arrived. His tale was short on detail, and none of it was good news. ‘The incident must have happened sometime during Thursday evening. The man who was struck by the vehicle was lucky in one way. A farmer saw his body soon after the accident happened, and wouldn’t have done if it hadn’t been for his socks.’
Nash frowned. ‘His socks? What have they got to do with it?’
‘He was lying in long grass, up against a dry-stone wall. One of the local farmers discovered him. He’d been to drop some manure off and was on his way back for another load when he saw the man. Said he wouldn’t have spotted him had it not been for the red socks he was wearing. He said he remembered passing him earlier, walking towards Kirk Bolton – thought it unusual as he wasn’t dressed as a hiker. The farmer had his mobile, so he called it straight in, but when the paramedics arrived the victim was barely alive.’
Pearce paused and looked up from his notes. ‘He’s still alive, but only just. He’s in the ICU, but I had a word with the doctor in charge this morning and they don’t give a lot for his chances. He’s got two sets of injuries, either of which could see him off. He’s got internal bleeding and several broken ribs from the impact of the vehicle, plus massive head injuries. They found minute particles of stone in the wound, so they think he must have suffered these when he was thrown against the wall by the force of the collision. Lianne said if there’s any change she’ll let me know.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘About halfway between the edge of town and Drover’s Halt. Say five miles or thereabouts from Helmsdale. You know, where that big copse of trees is on the right-hand side, before the lay-by where they store grit sand.’
Nash frowned. ‘But that’s a dead straight stretch of road. There isn’t a bend on that bit until you get to the far side of Drover’s Halt. The car, or whatever it was, must have been travelling at a hell of a lick to do that sort of dam
age, and for the driver not to have seen a pedestrian. Unless he was blinded by the evening sun.’
Pearce shook his head. ‘That’s the bit I was coming to. The car was also travelling towards Kirk Bolton, so the sun would have been behind him.’
Nash’s frown deepened. ‘There’s only a wall on one side of the road. The driver would have had to veer all the way across the road to hit a pedestrian walking towards the traffic and throw him against the wall. How can you be certain of the direction?’
‘Because of the tyre marks on the grass verge. They go on for about thirty yards before and after the point of impact. I got an accident investigation team from Traffic Division at Bishopton to go out and check everything. Their report should be with us this afternoon, but one of their experts said he reckoned the driver had stopped and reversed back to where the body was before driving off, presumably because they got scared. What do you want me to do next?’
Nash pondered the implications of what Pearce had told him. ‘Either the driver was so pissed he didn’t know what he was doing’ – he hesitated for a second – ‘or this wasn’t an accident. Either way, if the car hit that wall it’ll be badly damaged.’
‘The guys from traffic reckon the car didn’t make contact with the wall.’
‘It will still carry some damage. Contact all the garages and repair shops in the county; warn them to be on the lookout for any cars being booked in for bodywork or wheel repairs. We may have a few false alarms, but someone somewhere must know what they did and we have to find them. Clara said the victim was carrying no identification. That alone sounds odd. If he was that far out of town, where was he headed? And how did he get there? I take it nobody local has been reported missing?’
Pearce shook his head. ‘No, but there was one item in his pocket. A bus ticket from Harrogate to Helmsdale.’
‘Better check with Harrogate; see if they’ve a missing person who fits the description. Did you get the man’s fingerprints?’
Pearce nodded.
‘Good work. Check them out as well. If he was a vagrant there’s a strong possibility he might be on record somewhere. You get on with that, whilst I make that coffee. Then we’ll all go take a look at the crash site.’
He noticed Viv’s look of surprise. ‘Why not?’ He gestured to his desk, which for once was free of papers. ‘We’ve nothing better to do, and on the way there I can bore you both with a prolonged account of Daniel’s cricket trial.’
When Nash returned from the rest room with three mugs of coffee, Clara was on the phone. Pearce, meanwhile, was pacing up and down Nash’s office, his face excited.
‘I put the victim’s fingerprints into the computer and to my surprise I got an instant match. The details are even more surprising.’ He handed Nash a sheet of paper.
Nash studied it for a moment. ‘See if Clara’s finished on the phone.’
When Pearce returned, Clara followed him in. ‘You’d better have a look at this,’ Nash told her. ‘Meet our hit-and-run victim. See if you can explain it, because I can’t.’
The two men watched her eyes widen with astonishment as she read the report. She lowered the paper and looked at Nash. ‘What do you make of this?’
‘I’m not sure what to make of it. This man Raymond Perry, he’s been out of prison for what, three days or so? That means he was knocked down on the day of his release! The man served twenty-five years without parole for a gangland killing committed in the East End of London. Those are the bare facts, and that’s all that report gives us. The question I can’t get my head round is: what is Perry doing so far from his normal habitat? And what’s more, he headed straight here after leaving prison. Why? During my time in the Met I encountered one or two types like Perry. They’re very parochial. Rarely go outside their own patch, except if they want some holiday when they jet off to Spain. They certainly don’t go on nature rambles through the countryside of North Yorkshire. I doubt if some of them would be able to tell a sheep from a cow unless it made a noise. With his accent, Perry would have stood out a mile round here, which isn’t exactly what an ex-con needs. Whatever it was brought Perry here, it must have been important. He was walking, which is another thing his type never do if they can avoid it. Not only that but he was heading out of Helmsdale. Which leaves two enormous unanswered questions; well, three really. What was the purpose of his visit and where was he headed when he was hit?’
‘That’s only two,’ Pearce commented. ‘What was the third one?’
‘Actually, it’s more of an assumption than a question. The third is: Who was he going to meet?’
‘There’s no proof he was going to meet anyone,’ Mironova objected.
‘I said it was an assumption, but if he was walking away from town, where was he headed? What is there on his route? Four small villages little bigger than hamlets, with one pub, one church and no post offices. He might have been going to commit a robbery, but the facts don’t support that theory. It would have to be something pretty special to get him so far away from his home ground, and there’s nothing I can think of in that area that fits the bill. In addition to which, he’d hardly go to commit a robbery on foot. And how would he have picked his target? Unless he’s been subscribing to one of those rural lifestyle magazines whilst he’s been inside.
‘Discounting the robbery theory, or his desire for a camping weekend’ – Nash saw Pearce smile at the notion – ‘we’re left with the possibility that he was going to meet someone. Or he was trying to find someone. All of which remains a mystery. And will continue to remain so, at least until we get our hands on his file.’
The stretch of road was exactly as Nash remembered it. Absolutely straight, and fairly broad, for what was little more than a country lane servicing the few small villages towards the top of the dale. He pulled up before the Police Accident sign. ‘Seems an improbable place for an accident, don’t you think?’ Mironova said as she got out of the car. ‘Especially if the vehicle involved was travelling out of town, as the traffic boys suggested.’
‘Perhaps the driver was too drunk to realize he was on the wrong side of the road. Either that or he lost control. Or maybe he was travelling too fast, or had a burst tyre or some other mechanical problem. Could have been the steering that failed,’ Pearce suggested.
‘Those are all possibilities. But there’s one other: that it was deliberate.’
Mironova stared at him. ‘You’re not serious, are you? That would be highly unlikely, given as remote a location as this.’
‘I don’t know. The whole incident seems rather improbable. Let’s take a closer look.’
They stared at the verge. Although there had been no rain recently, the long grass, which received only spasmodic attention from the local authority, prevented the soil from drying out. The tyre tracks were clearly visible in the middle of the six-foot-wide strip. They began, as Pearce had said earlier, well before the point of impact. From where the vehicle mounted the verge, the tracks continued in a dead straight line.
‘There’s no way the driver would have strayed off the tarmac, either through carelessness or intoxication,’ Clara suggested. ‘This has to have been deliberate, don’t you agree?’
Nash felt a shiver surge through his body. Clara was right, this was no accident. This was attempted murder.
Pearce racked his brain to come up with an alternative solution, but failed. ‘What do you reckon, then?’
Nash didn’t answer him directly. ‘Let’s take a look at the crash site.’
They spent a few minutes staring at the tyre tracks close to the point of impact, before turning their attention to the wall. There was only one stone missing from the top, which surprised Mironova. She’d have assumed that, with the injuries the victim had suffered, the wall would have come off worse. A tribute to the craftsman’s art, she thought.
Nash crouched, examining the lower courses of stonework. He pictured the scene; saw the car bearing down on the hapless victim. Saw the man running to try and avoid it,
trying to escape the inevitable. Saw the car hit him. Then what? As he looked, at the wall and his mental film clip, he thought he knew. He pictured the driver getting out of his car. Saw him approach the man he’d knocked down, lying helpless in the long grass. And then…. He looked up, squinting slightly against the strong sunlight. ‘Tell me what you see, what you think,’ he encouraged his sergeant.
‘The first thing that comes to mind is how sturdy the wall is,’ Clara said immediately.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it isn’t damaged. Or not much, I mean, there’s only one stone missing.’
‘You’re assuming the car hit the wall.’
‘Well, yes, I was. But the traffic boys reckon it didn’t, so that explains the lack of damage, I suppose.’
Nash didn’t answer her directly. His voice was pensive, and Clara realized he was talking to himself as much as to them. ‘If the car had hit the wall there would have been collision marks, traces of paint. There are none. And if the man suffered as severe a set of injuries as we know he did, how come there’s absolutely no blood on the wall?’
‘I suppose it’s just possible the man could have cushioned the impact with his body; the bleeding was internal.’
Nash nodded agreement. ‘Let’s have a look at the missing piece of stone.’
He donned a pair of gloves and lifted it clear of the grass. They all stared at it. The piece wasn’t very big, no more than a foot across at the broadest point. It was roughly triangular in shape, narrowing to a couple of inches at the opposite end. Nash pointed to the blood on the narrow end of the stone, then his gaze switched to the wall. He frowned. ‘That’s odd,’ he murmured.