Deadly Deceit

by Nancy Buckingham

  ‘Tod,’ she said to the desk sergeant on duty, ‘I’d like you to check something for me. A sable coat was reported stolen by a Mrs Heather Bletchley of St Agnes-in-the-Wold, sometime in the past few weeks. Will you look up when for me, please, and the circumstances?’

  He was back before long. ‘March twenty-eighth, ma’am. Entry through a rear window, where the security lock wasn’t fastened, apparently. Nothing else was taken. The coat just vanished without trace. No known M.O.’

  ‘Hmm? Have the Bletchleys reported any previous thefts?’

  ‘Nothing mentioned here, ma’am.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Tod.’

  ‘And what was all that about?’ Richard asked, frowning. ‘I wondered why you seemed so interested in Heather’s fur coats this evening.’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m naturally inquisitive.’

  ‘Huh! What do you suspect? Some sort of insurance fiddle?’

  ‘Could be. Nothing that I need to do anything about, though.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Now forget it, Kate.’

  ‘Forgotten.’

  But next morning the puzzle about Heather’s two coats was still niggling at the back of her mind. For her own satisfaction, she called Boulter in and ran it past him.

  ‘What makes you suspicious, guv?’ he asked.

  ‘Just Heather Bletchley’s attitude, I suppose. She was badly thrown when I mentioned her having two different sable coats. I’m sure there’s something not quite kosher there.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Not a lot we can do. But. . . ask around a bit, Tim. See if you can dig out which company handles the Bletchley insurance - just on a friendly basis, off the record. Okay? But you’ll have to fit it in with all the rest we’ve got on our plates.’

  He grinned amiably. ‘No prob, guv. I’d make a good juggler.’

  They were kept hard at it all morning on a truck hijack. Boulter departed for a quick lunch, and returned all smiles.

  ‘Bank managers will sometimes play ball, if you ask ’em nicely. Cotswold Equity have handled the Bletchleys’ insurance ever since the major moved into the house at St Agnes-in-the-Wold eight years ago.’

  ‘Nice work, Tim. Who do we know at Cotswold Equity?’

  ‘Colin Knutford. Decent chap. He’s an assistant manager at the Marlingford branch.’

  ‘Have a quiet word with him, will you? Get their thoughts on that claim for an expensive sable coat.’

  ‘I already did.’

  Kate recognised that self-satisfied smirk on his face. Boulter had been saving up a tasty titbit.

  ‘Okay, Tim. Who’s the clever one? What did you find out?’

  ‘Well, as you’d expect, that sable coat is one of the listed items on the Bletchley home and contents policy. But the funny thing is . . .’ He paused for dramatic effect.

  ‘The funny thing is?’ she prompted obligingly.

  ‘No claim was ever made. The company didn’t even know the coat had been reported to us as stolen. Now, what d’you make of that, guv?’

  Chapter Five

  Saturday was a dead loss. Kate spent the day in Birmingham at a symposium for senior officers on problems arising from the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. She came away tired and cross, feeling that she’d learned nothing new. Sunday was something else altogether, a golden day of sunshine spent sailing with Richard at the Cotswold Water Park.

  It was on Wednesday morning that a report came in of a body found in suspicious circumstances. As Kate read it, she felt an anticipatory thrill of excitement.

  You’re a ghoul, Maddox, that’s what you are.

  Half an hour later, though, when she and Boulter reached the scene - a derelict Nissen hut on a long-abandoned military airstrip now used as grazing for sheep - Kate felt the familiar sense of revulsion and pity. Just one glance made her feel ninety-nine per cent certain that this was no suicide or accident. This was murder. The victim had been shot, at close range, by a shotgun. The weapon, though, was nowhere to be seen.

  Aged around forty, at a guess, the man lay prone with his right arm outstretched, as if he’d pleaded with his attacker before he fell. His head was twisted, revealing the torn and bloody pulp that had been his face. The left arm was also a mangled mess, peppered with shot up to the elbow of his navy blue blazer. It was clear that he had been dead for several hours.

  ‘Who found him?’ Kate asked the PC who’d been first on the scene.

  ‘Two boys, ma’am. Ten-year-olds. They’d been truanting from school, and apparently this was a favourite hide-out of theirs. They were dead scared of getting into trouble, so they made an anonymous treble-nine call. But they couldn’t help being curious and hung around. I caught them hiding behind that patch of brambles.’

  ‘Right. I’ll talk to them.’ Kate saw two excited, apprehensive faces peering from the back of a patrol car drawn up on the edge of a large concrete apron that sprouted weeds from every crevice. Leaving Boulter to make a preliminary inspection, she went over to the boys.

  ‘What are your names, you guys?’ she asked with an encouraging smile, as she got into the front seat and twisted round to face them.

  I’m Sam Wilson,’ said the bigger of the two boys, a flaxen-haired lad wearing a grey sweatshirt with a Mutant Turtles emblem. ‘And he’s Marty. Marty Gould.’ Marty was plumper with a round face and freckles.

  ‘You often come here, I’m told.’

  ‘Yeah, well. . . sometimes.’

  They glanced at each other for moral support. Kate guessed they were half wishing they’d not truanted today of all days. Yet if they hadn’t, they’d have missed the excitement and importance of finding a dead body. Sam was definitely the tougher one. Marty looked on the verge of tears.

  ‘When you found that man, did you touch anything?’ Kate asked.

  ‘No,’ they yelped in unison.

  ‘Have you ever seen anyone hanging around here?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘Or a car, perhaps? Anything at all that seemed unusual?’

  More head shaking.

  ‘Okay. I’ll arrange to have you taken home now. In a police car,’ Kate added, knowing how this usually pleased kids. ‘Will someone be there, at this time of day?’

  Marty nodded. Sam said, ‘Mum’ll be at work.’

  ‘Right then, I’ll have her sent for.’ Kate fished in her shoulderbag for a roll of fruit gums she always carried for any child needing comfort. ‘Share these between you while you’re waiting. It won’t be long before you can be on your way.’ She smiled at their anxious faces. ‘Don’t worry, playing truant isn’t the end of the world. But it’s not very clever, is it, and you’ll get a ticking off.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ Sam boasted, but a tear finally broke loose and trickled down Marty’s cheek. Tactfully, Kate pretended not to notice.

  She rejoined Boulter. ‘Get a WPC out here quick as you can, Tim, to take these boys home. One of the mothers is at work, so she’ll need to be traced and sent for. We’ll get their statements taken under proper conditions, but I doubt if we’ll learn more than that they just chanced to stumble across the body.’

  While she was talking, a car disgorged the Scenes-of-Crime team. Kate had a word with them before they began a meticulous inspection of the hut’s concrete floor, and the surrounding area. For the moment they left the body untouched. Although Kate was anxious to know the victim’s identity, it would be impossible to search his clothing without moving him and risk destroying vital evidence.

  Boulter put away his radio. ‘WPC Hamilton’s on his way for the boys, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, good. Pippa’s a sensible girl. She’ll know how to handle the situation.’

  A large dark blue Rover drew up, as immaculate and self-important as the diminutive man behind the wheel. Dr Meddowes, police surgeon and regional pathologist.

  There ought to be a plaque on his car, Kate, like a royal insignia!

  ‘Ah,’ he said as he alighted. ‘The estimable
Mrs Maddo’ He made it sound like an insult.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Meddowes.’ Kate stood at her tallest to underline his lack of stature, knowing how much that always irritated the pompous little man.

  ‘Know who the fellow is?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet. We’ll be able to search the body as soon as you’ve finished.’

  He took his time over the examination, but Kate didn’t fault him for that. She had a high regard for his professional ability. Which didn’t stop her thinking of him as a prize shit. A photographer stood by, taking shots at the pathologist’s direction. Finally Meddowes stood up, fastidiously dusting the knees of his natty suiting.

  ‘Subject to my findings at the post-mortem, you can take it as a working hypothesis that the cause of death was shotgun pellet wounds.’

  ‘How long ago?’ Kate asked. When he didn’t immediately respond, she went on, ‘Just give me a rough idea, doctor.’

  He regarded her with severity. Why was he always so super bloody cautious? Damn it all, so much of medical diagnosis was based on informed guesswork That was what the man was paid for.

  ‘Several hours. At the moment I can’t say more than that.’ Then he relented, partially. ‘Let’s say between eight and . . . er, fourteen hours.’

  Which made the time of death around midnight, give or take up to three hours either way. It was a starting point.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Meddowes.’

  As he departed, a Scenes-of-Crime officer began to search the deceased’s pockets. Inside breast of the jacket first, for a wallet.

  ‘Nothing here, ma’am.’

  Was it a case of theft, then? A mugging gone too far?

  The blazer’s label revealed that it had come from a multiple store, but the pockets yielded nothing but a half empty packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter. There was a handful of loose change in the right hand trouser pocket.

  On the wrist of the shot-torn left arm, when the blood-soaked blazer sleeve and shirt cuff had been drawn back, they found the mangled remains of a wristwatch. The minute hand was missing, but the hour hand pointed to a little before twelve. That lent weight to the doctor’s estimate for the time of death. The victim’s other hand was undamaged, fortunately, so prints were taken of the fingertips. These could be checked against criminal records, and if the man had form they would find out who he was.

  ‘Or the watch might help us trace him,’ Kate observed. ‘Judging from what’s left of it, it wasn’t a cheapie. It looks as if he was shot at pointblank range. What distance would you say, Steve?’ she asked the Scenes-of-Crime officer.

  ‘Five or six feet, I’d guess, ma’am, from the small degree of spread. Looks like the wads are embedded in the wounds.’

  ‘Both barrels fired, then?’ queried Boulter.

  ‘I’d say so, judging by the amount of damage.’

  ‘Any sign of the cartridge cases?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Not yet, ma’am. And I doubt there will be. Chummie will have fired both barrels, then got the hell out sharpish without waiting to eject the spent cartridges.’

  ‘Pity. The imprint of the hammer might have helped pin down the actual gun used. Keep looking, please. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

  Kate had already noted when she’d arrived at the scene that there were no houses within a quarter of a mile. Still, shots might have been heard at that distance if the wind was right. There was also a slim chance that a couple in a car had been parked nearby at the time, or someone could have been walking their dog in the vicinity.

  ‘Tim, get a house-to-house organised. Everyone remotely within earshot. The usual drill.’

  * * * *

  Kate hadn’t long been back in her office at DHQ when fortune smiled on her. There’d been a rapid identification of the victim’s fingerprints. He was known to London’s Met as Barry Slater, and they’d faxed quite a full report on him.

  Slater had started out as a labourer in the building trade, and soon landed in trouble for nicking his employer’s materials. After vanishing for a while, he’d resurfaced as one of a gang of free-lance roofing contractors. Their mode of operation was to sweet-talk householders (especially elderly widows) into totally unnecessary re-roofing of their property, frightening them half to death with lurid tales of how the next gale would be sure to strip off most of the tiles.

  On one occasion, having scared an old lady into a near-fatal heart attack, they’d carried out no work at all and presented an enormous bill. Her son had pressed charges, successfully, and the entire gang had been done for that little caper. Since when, nothing definite had been proved against Slater, though he was suspected of operating as a small-time con artist. His mother, down as his next-of-kin while was in prison, had since died. There was no record of any other relatives.

  ‘Better check at his last known address in London,’ Kate told Boulter. ‘Though I see it was quite a while ago, so we’ll probably learn no more there than we’ve got on him already.’

  She decided the most convenient place to set up her Incident Room would be Divisional Headquarters in Marlingford. It wasn’t too far from the scene, and her team would have every facility right on the spot. After setting things in motion, Kate got herself some lunch in the canteen. Then, when her superintendent had returned from a more lavish luncheon at the Albion Hotel, she went to report progress to him.

  Jolly Joliffe scowled at her. ‘Small-time con artist, eh? A falling out between villains, that’ll be the most likely answer.’

  ‘Unfortunately, sir, we have very few solid facts to go on at this stage, so I’m being cautious about forming my theories yet.’

  Kate was usurping Jolly’s own favourite maxim. ‘Solid indisputable facts are what we need, not a bunch of half-arsed theories.’ But if it occurred to the superintendent that she was taking the mickey, he was wise enough to ignore it.

  ‘How right you are, Mrs Maddox.’ He paused, then added ponderously, ‘On the other hand, of course . . .’

  Kate could show wisdom, too. She left unchallenged his floated innuendo that a falling-out between small-time crooks didn’t rate the same massive police operation as the killing of an upright citizen. For her part, though, she was going to do her damnedest to nail Slater’s murderer.

  ‘You will keep well in mind, I trust,’ the superintendent added weightily, ‘that every aspect of budgeting these days is subject to the severest scrutiny.’

  ‘I’m never allowed to forget it, sir. The Police Authority seems to expect miracles on the cheap.’

  ‘So go away and perform one for me, then, Chief Inspector.’ Was that a funny? The facial creases around his mouth had deepened a trifle. ‘Nothing as yet on that little matter the Chief wanted looking into, I suppose?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. I made an excuse to go and see Blackwood and I’ll be reporting to you fully when I’ve got a few more answers.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Good, good. And, Kate could hear him thinking, any grumbling I get from on high will be diverted straight on to you, Chief Inspector.

  Message received and understood.

  Boulter appeared soon after Kate returned to her own office. ‘How’s the old man today, guv?’

  ‘Being his usual charming self. What have you got there, Tim?’

  ‘Mug shot of the victim. Just came over the wire. A bit smudgy, but he had good looks before that shotgun ripped them apart.’

  Kate took a glance, then did a double-take. Unmistakably - no doubt whatever in her mind - this was the face of the man she’d seen in the cafe with Jillian Murdoch. The sergeant had been with her that day.

  ‘Haven’t you recognised him, Tim?’

  ‘Should I have?’ Frowning, he scrutinised the photo. ‘Now you mention it, he does look familiar. But I still can’t place him.’

  ‘Remember that day about three weeks ago when we stopped off for a coffee in Chipping Bassett? There was a very pretty girl in the cafe there.’

  ‘Oh yes, I wouldn’t forget her,’ he said with feeling.

&nbs
p; ‘You were too busy feasting your eyes on the girl to pay much attention to the man she was with. That’s him. No question.’

  Boulter nodded his head. ‘You’re right, guv, it is him. What a stroke of luck for us. It won’t take long to sort out who the girl is - not a looker like that!’

  ‘Sorry to spoil your fun, Tim, but I already know who the girl is. Her name’s Jillian Murdoch, and she’s the daughter of the business partner of the late Major Alec Bletchley. I met her parents at Mrs Bletchley’s home last week.’

  ‘But isn’t Bletchley the guy who was murdered in Lisbon?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be buggered! What d’you make of this, guv?’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it - yet. But I’m very intrigued. First job, I think, is for us to have a quiet chat with Jillian. See where that leads us.’

  ‘This is going to be a terrible shock for her, poor kid.’

  ‘Could be. On the other hand, it could come as a great relief. That day we saw them together, he obviously wasn’t going along with whatever it was she wanted from him. Remember?’

  Boulter’s blunt features held a shocked expression. He couldn’t bear to think ill of this girl he’d been so taken with.

  ‘You don’t reckon she could have had any hand in Slater’s death, guv?’

  ‘That,’ said Kate, ‘is something we’re going to find out. Her mother mentioned that she works for the local auctioneer. Get her brought in.’

  * * * *

  Jillian Murdoch was every bit as lovely as Kate remembered her. Tall and slender, she had the classical looks of an English beauty. Unflawed, petal-soft complexion, and gleaming naturally blond hair that she wore in a fluffy bob. Her large eyes were of an indefinable shade somewhere between green and blue. She looked fresh and sweet, and vulnerable. It was easy to understand why men felt caring and protective towards her.

  Yet was there something about her that was a bit too good to be true, Kate wondered, as she studied the girl across her desk? Jillian’s expression was somehow unnatural. It was as if she had donned a mask to conceal her thoughts and feelings. Just a faint glimmer in those lovely eyes betrayed that she was nervous, and Kate noted a few tiny beads of perspiration on her upper lip. But that in itself meant little. One didn’t get summarily hauled before a DCI for parking on a double-yellow or whatever.