by Vera Morris
Climbing those last steps, she’d feel like a mountaineer climbing a sheer cliff face who was suddenly frozen with fear. She picked up the tennis racquet, pressed the handkerchief more tightly to her nose, and forced herself up the remaining steps.
Think. Think. Get a grip. She could either go down and call the police or face what was upstairs and then decide what to do. She shouldn’t be here. How would she explain that? She should act like the detective she was supposed to be. Would Frank or Stuart even think twice about going up those last few stairs and facing whatever was there? No. Would Dorothy? She imagined her, squaring her shoulders, shaking her head and marching upwards.
A door was at the head of the stairs and it was open a few inches. The foul smell gained strength as she got nearer. She pushed back the door with her racquet. The room was small with a low ceiling, a single window covered with dirty lace curtains faced the front garden. The light was poor, and at first she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. A single brass bed sat in the centre of the room. If there was any other furniture she didn’t see it, for what she saw made her flesh contract in horror.
A body appeared to be floating over the bed. Its arms and legs were tied by ropes to the corners of the bed, pulled so tight the body was suspended several inches above the blood-soaked mattress. Blood, brown and dried, covered by gorging flies. She pressed the handkerchief tight against her face, her stomach heaving. Red bubbles of rage effervesced through her. This wasn’t just murder, it was savage torture. She imagined the agony of stretched limbs, the pulling of bones from sockets. She moved nearer to the body. It was a man, a small man -it must be Bert Wiles. He’d been cut to death. So many wounds, it was impossible to calculate their number. The flesh was peeling away, furling back from the black cuts. There was a gag in his mouth, and black dried blood masked his face, making him unrecognisable.
Why had he been killed? Because he knew who had murdered the girls? Or because of what he’d seen? He’d wanted to tell Jim Lovell. Or was this nothing to do with the case they were investigating; perhaps something to do with poaching gangs, or even the smuggling of contraband? But why torture him? To get some information from him? There was a chair at the foot of the bed, facing the body, as if someone had sat there watching him die.
She must act. Contact Frank. No, she couldn’t do that. The police. Revie. That’s who she must get hold of. She looked round the room again. A battered chest of drawers and an iron chest were the only other furniture. She swallowed hard, and used her handkerchief to open the drawers and search through rumpled underclothes, socks and jumpers. A strong smell of moth balls was all she found. The chest contained several pairs of boots, and an old black suit wrapped in a plastic bag. She’d done what she could, now she must get out and raise the alarm. How she would explain all this at the camp? She shuddered. Her brain wasn’t capable of concocting a lie at the moment.
She turned away from the bed, fighting down an urge to cover the body with one of the discarded bedclothes that lay in a heap under the window. No one should die like that. The murderer was a vicious, perverted beast.
Supposing the same person kidnapped the two women? Had their deaths been as cruel as Bert’s? This murderer was a sadist who enjoyed not only killing, but watching someone die in agony.
As she staggered down the stairs another thought hit her. Where was the dog? Where was Basil?
Chapter 13
Saturday, June 26, 1971
Frank looked at their faces as they sat round the dining table, ready to start the meeting. Their expressions varied between worried and puzzled, but all looked determined.
‘We’ve got a lot to get through before Revie arrives for lunch,’ he said.
‘He rang up just before you got here, said he was bringing Mr Ansell with him, if that was all right,’ Mabel said.
Ansell was the pathologist whose evidence had been crucial in the conviction of Nicholson for the murder of Dorothy’s sister, Emily, and several other women and girls.
‘Excellent! He’ll be able to give us details of the postmortem.’
‘I’m not sure I want to hear them,’ Laurel said. ‘I can’t get the sight of his body out of my mind.’
Frank nodded. ‘Understandable. Is it OK if we start with you, Laurel? Could you tell us exactly what happened last Tuesday, what you observed and how you managed to convince Revie to keep you out of the investigation?’
Stuart nudged her. ‘What did you promise him?’
She gave him a school-mistress look.
‘Stuart,’ Mabel chided. ‘Laurel’s had a terrible time, no need for remarks like that.’
‘Sorry, Laurel.’
‘That’s OK, Stuart. If you must know, I promised Revie Mabel would cook him a slap-up meal if he kept me out of it.’
Mabel simpered and pulled a face at Stuart, who glowered, took a pipe from his pocket and started to stuff it with shag tobacco.
Frank rapped on the table. ‘Come on, folks. Let Laurel tell us what happened.’
Dorothy flicked open her notebook and looked at him.
‘Yes please, Dorothy, we need details noted. They could be important, and we may need to go over them at a later date. Especially if the case gets stuck.’
‘I think it’s stuck already,’ Stuart said.
Frank nodded to Laurel.
Hesitating between sentences, she told them about going into the cottage, finding Bert’s body and then phoning Revie from a telephone box in the village. ‘He asked me to wait in the garden. It was the longest halfhour in my life. He knew if I became involved in the case it would blow my cover at the camp. He’s putting it out that a holiday maker, a passer-by, thought he heard someone screaming and went to investigate. He says if and when the case comes to court, then I’d have to give evidence if necessary, but he wants us all to remain in our roles. He can’t see how this murder could be connected to the missing girls, but he thinks we’re more useful undercover at the camp.’
‘How was he?’ Frank asked.
Laurel smiled. ‘He was very kind. He brought a flask of coffee with an added shot of rum. “Not again!” he said. “You seem to home-in on dead bodies like a blue-bottle.”‘
Mabel tutted.
‘I reminded him I was with you, Frank, when we found the Harrops, and with Oliver when we discovered the body of Dr Luxton.’
Dorothy tapped the table with her biro. ‘But you found Felicity’s bones, and Emily, so he does have a point.’
Frank studied Dorothy, who hadn’t flinched when she mentioned Emily. Soon it would be the first anniversary of her death. Dorothy visited her grave every week before the Sunday service, taking flowers from the garden. Afterwards she was always quiet and reflective.
‘Revie has brought in extra police and they’re doing house-to house, talking to all the villagers and holiday makers, getting names and addresses. He said they’ll check alibis when Ansell has nailed down the time of death.’
‘Thanks, Laurel.’ He turned to Stuart. ‘Have you had any joy with the parents and friends of the missing girls?’
Stuart sucked on his pipe, then sent a stream of grey smoke over the table.
Laurel coughed.
‘Sorry.’ He passed a sheet of typed A4 paper to each of them. ‘Here’s my notes. Thought it would save time my telling you I discovered SFA,’ he said.
‘SFA?’ Mabel asked.
‘Sweet Fanny Adams. Absolutely bloody nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Frank asked, frowning.
‘Only things we knew already. Both girls acted out of character, no one seemed to have a bad word to say about them. The parents cried, the relatives wept and the friends howled. There’s been no communication from either of them, and I wouldn’t like to repeat what they think of the police.’
‘You found nothing at all?’
‘Look, Frank, I’ve just said so. Read what I’ve written. If you can see anything interesting, let me know.’
‘It’s time for coffee,’ Mabel said. �
��You can read Stuart’s notes while you drink it.’ She turned to Frank. ‘He’s been working all hours seeing these people. He’s very frustrated.’
He thought of making a ribald comment about frustration, newly married couples and conjugal rights, but he settled for: ‘I’m sure you did a thorough job, Stuart.’
Laurel caught his eye. She was beginning to read his mind.
‘I’ll tackle the other matter next week,’ Stuart said.
‘What’s that, love?’ Mabel asked, half-way to the kitchen.
‘I’ll see what I can find out about the young airman who was hanged for Mrs Coltman’s murder. Can’t see how it can be connected, but you never know.’
Frank sipped the last of his coffee. ‘You’re right, Stuart.’ He tapped the sheet of notes, ‘There’s nothing to help us in here, but you did an excellent job.’
Stuart, finishing off his second doughnut, looked mollified.
‘Dorothy, anything to tell us?’
She wiped away traces of sugar from round her mouth with a napkin. ‘There is something, but it doesn’t make sense.’ She told them about how Sam Salter had been taken with some of her ideas for increasing efficiency in the office and Belinda’s jealous reaction when he’d showed her too much attention.
Stuart chortled. ‘A red rose! I didn’t have him down as a romantic chap.’
Mabel glared at him. ‘A woman likes flowers, or have you forgotten already?’
Everyone laughed and Mabel gathered up the cups and plates and whisked them to the kitchen.
Frank waited until she returned. ‘So, what followed, Dorothy?’
She leant forward. ‘The next few days were difficult in the office, the atmosphere, well, you could cut it with a knife. Then, yesterday, Belinda is as nice as pie, compliments me on my hair-do, and says she agrees with the changes I suggested. She’s invited me to visit her next week for supper.’ She looked at them over her spectacles. ‘What do you make of that?’
There was silence.
‘It could be genuine, she might be feeling bad about how she’s treated you, she might be hoping to get back into Sam’s good books via you,’ Laurel said.
‘Are you going to accept the invitation?’ Frank asked.
‘What do you think? I might as well; I might learn something.’
‘Is the date fixed?’
‘No, I said I’d let her know on Monday.’
‘We need to meet in your room, Dorothy, on Monday night, then you can tell us when you’re going,’ he said. ‘Let’s say eight.’ Laurel nodded.
Dorothy stared at him. ‘Why? You can’t think she’d do me any harm. She’s as soft as a brush; faints if you mention the word blood.’
Laurel placed a hand over her arm. ‘Be careful. Look what happened to me, I thought I was having lunch with a cuddly old art dealer and nearly got killed.’
‘I can look after myself; remember I saw out the war, more than you lot did,’ she said, putting her nose in the air.
‘You didn’t see Bert Wiles’ body. There’s someone out there who enjoys inflicting pain. Be careful,’ Laurel said.
Dorothy shrugged and lit up a cigarette.
‘What about you, Frank? Have you got anything to report? Though if you had, you’d have told us by now,’ Stuart said.
He pulled a face and slowly shook his head. ‘The only piece of information I can tell you is that Bert’s dog, Basil, turned up at the Jolly Sailor Thursday night. He was in a bad state, whining at the door, hungry and with some deep cuts on one of his legs.’
Laurel gasped. ‘Do you think he was attacked as well as Bert?’
‘Hard to say. The landlady’s taken him in, took him to the vet straight away and he’s been stitched up and given a few jabs. Jim Lovell told me Friday morning. He and his wife were at the Jolly Sailor when Basil appeared. They thought he must have been caught by barbed-wire. The details of Bert’s death haven’t been released, so they didn’t make the connection.’
Laurel looked stunned. He thought she was imagining the little dog escaping from the murderer’s grasp, running away, yelping, in pain, deserting his master.
Frank carried the tray of coffee and several spirit bottles into the garden and placed it on a table under an old apple tree where Laurel, Stuart, Revie and Ansell were sitting.
He remembered the first time he’d seen Ansell; he’d impressed him with his knowledge and expertise, and he certainly hadn’t fitted the description Stuart had given him: a bungler who had got the time of death of Susan Nicholson completely wrong. Vindicated by outstanding work on that case and the one following, he was now held in high regard, not just by The Anglian Detective Agency, but also by Revie and the Suffolk Police force.
Mabel was behind him with a tray of cups and saucers and glasses. ‘Come on, Frank, you’re holding me up. This tray’s heavy.’
‘Sorry, day dreaming.’
‘Is she beautiful?’
‘I was thinking about Martin Ansell,’ he whispered.
She snorted.
Martin looked tense, although he’d eaten well, tackling the lobster salad, lamb cutlets and raspberry ice cream, with relish. His long body looked uncomfortable in the wicker basket chair, and his gaze moved from one face to the next; however, he seemed to spend more time looking at Laurel than anyone else.
Revie patted his gut. ‘Once again, Miss Mabel, you’ve cooked a wonderful meal. Why don’t you divorce that old fart,’ he pointed to Stuart Elderkin, ‘and marry me?’
Mabel, coffee pot hovering over a cup, looked at him. ‘Because your love would be cupboard love, and nothing else. Whereas,’ she smiled at Stuart, ‘Stuart loves me not only for my apple pie,’ she winked at him, ‘but for my other attributes.’
Good God. Mabel had made a double entendre.
Stuart blushed. ‘Steady on, Mabel!’
Revie’s eyebrows were raised. ‘Worth a try. What do you think, Ansell? That was a superb meal, wasn’t it?’ Ansell’s long legs were knotted together, his floppy brown hair hiding his face. ‘Lovely.’ He looked at the lawn as though something interesting might crawl out of it, Revie looked at Frank and pulled a face. ‘Right, enough of the jollity, let’s get down to business.’ He turned to Laurel. ‘How are you? That was a nasty scene. How’ve you been?’
Laurel smiled at him. ‘OK, Nick. Thanks for being so kind.’
So, it’s Nick, is it? The bastard did have a heart.
‘You’ve got a good girl here,’ Revie said to Frank. ‘Brave as a lion, she is.’
‘Don’t you mean a lioness?’ he retorted.
‘Could be,’ Revie replied. ‘I believe the female lion is deadlier than the male.’
‘That goes for most animals,’ Stuart muttered, glancing at Mabel.
‘Shall we get on with it, Nick?’ Laurel asked, her face flushed.
Frank couldn’t tell whether it was with embarrassment or pleasure.
‘Right. I think you’d better go first, Martin. What you have to say is very worrying,’ Revie said.
Martin Ansell put his cup on the table. ‘I examined the body in situ and then in more detail at the post mortem. I can give you the scientific details, or I can also give you my impressions of what I think happened. My suppositions wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, even if I was asked by the prosecution for them; the defence would jump on me like a ton of bricks.’
Stuart lit up his pipe, sucking at the stem, until there was a satisfactory glow in the bowl. Dorothy took out her cigarette case and Stuart leant towards her with a lighted match.
Smoke drifted through the garden. Frank allowed himself a few seconds of secondary smoking. He still fancied a cigarette, especially after a good meal and with a cup of coffee.
Ansell’s body unwound itself and he metamorphosed into the assured pathologist. ‘Wiles bled to death. Death by a thousand cuts. Not quite that many, but nearly a hundred.’
Dorothy shivered.
‘There was bruising on the back of the head, so I think h
e was knocked unconscious and then tied to the bed. He was suspended, no part of his body was in contact with the bed, apart from his hands and feet, which were tied to the bed posts. The poor chap must have been in considerable agony when he came round, even before the torture started.’
There was silence round the table; they couldn’t meet each other’s gaze.
‘Were all the wounds made before death?’ Frank asked.
Ansell nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. They were gratuitous wounds.’
‘What do you mean?’ Laurel asked.
‘They were not made to kill Mr Wiles, or even to do him serious harm, they were made, in my opinion, to inflict pain. Some of them were tentative, these were probably the first ones made, and then others were deeper, but not deep enough to penetrate arteries. Some of the minor veins were cut, and the man slowly bled to death. I can’t think of a more agonising, or terrifying, way to die, unless we look at mediaeval torture machines.’
‘We’re dealing with a brutal sadist,’ snapped Revie. ‘We’ve got to find him quickly. If and when details of how Wiles died get out, and they will, they always do, we’ll have a right pandemonium on our hands. Press, TV crews, locals having hysterics, I can see it now. We’ve got to find him before he does it again.’
Frank looked at Revie. ‘I presume you haven’t found the weapon?’