Angela's Dead

by Lou Peters

  ‘Unless, whoever did it panicked after killing the old dear and left with nothing. Or perhaps, the woman had a secret stash and the killer knew exactly where she kept it. The person could go straight to it, either before or after bashing her over the head.’

  ‘In that case Cooper, you would think there would be signs of having been some activity in the room… We’re better off leaving that side of things to the experts, but on the face of it everything appears as it should.’

  ‘Except for the body in the chair, sir.’

  ‘Well yes, detective sergeant, well spotted, except for the body in the chair.’ Walters acquiesced drolly. ‘We’ll know more when Morris arrives. What the hell’s keeping him anyway? I thought he would’ve been here by now.’ Walters was hoping the pathologist and SOCO team would’ve arrived before him. He’d been dreading seeing the corpse, since the station had received the call alerting the police to the murder of the woman. Walters and Arnold Cooper had been summarily dispatched to the scene of the crime. Cooper had gone on ahead, leaving Walters remaining at the station on the pretence of dealing with urgent paperwork for a forthcoming prosecution. He doubted his act of subterfuge had gone unnoticed. With only minimal information available at that time, he hadn’t known if the victim would be young or old. Walters had surmised incorrectly, the deceased would be a lot younger than Ruth Montgomery. The sight of the lifeless form in the chair hadn’t been as bad as he’d been expecting. It wasn’t a decapitation, after all. Still it was enough for the memories to come flooding back.

  Cooper shrugged his broad shoulders. Even in a suit he looked more like a rugby player than a policeman. The fabric of his jacket under the white hooded paper suit, strained against the well defined biceps beneath. The fact he’d broken his nose as a school boy only helped to add to the illusion. At thirty two, he was seven years younger than Walters and a good six inches taller. Arnie Cooper wouldn’t fit the stereotypical label of handsome. But he wasn’t ugly either, despite the broken nose which gave his square jawed face character, with no soft lines. In contrast, Cooper possessed warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which was often. His blond hair cropped short and with skin that tanned easily, weather permitting, still in December bore witness to the glorious summer the county had enjoyed.

  ‘Give the station a call. See what the hold-up is, will you Cooper?’ Walters thought he would feel easier when things were actually in progress. The sooner the forensic team commenced, the sooner the body could be removed and ensconced safely in the path lab. He’d only just finished speaking when the door burst open. However, it wasn’t the expected scene of crime team, headed by pathologist Dr. George Morris, but Colin Paterson the police photographer.

  ‘You’re late,’ Walters scowled at the balding overweight newcomer.

  ‘Bad accident at Rasburgh crossroads, tractor and a motorbike involved, maybe even a fatality judging by the state of the bike hauled onto the recovery vehicle.’ The man had a lugubrious way of speaking, which Walters found particularly annoying. ‘I suppose it’s possible there could have been oil on the road that caused the bike to skid. Or maybe the motor cyclist hit a patch of remaining black ice. Whatever the reason it looks like the bike over shot the crossroads, straight into the path of the oncoming farm vehicle. You were lucky you must have just missed it. Road was completely blocked with the fire tender and ambulance. You know how narrow the lanes are around here, nothing was able to get past.’ Paterson finished his slow, country burr reiteration.

  ‘How is it now,’ Cooper asked, ignoring the DI’s scowl.

  ‘Cleared more, or less,’ then turning to Walters added, ‘George Morris shouldn’t be too long if you’re wondering.’

  ‘You read my mind Paterson.’ Walters hadn’t been interested in the photographer’s monologue, only helping to fuel his irritation further. ‘Now if it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you could get on with what you’re here for.’ The inspector would give the appearance of being in charge, even if he felt totally out of his depth.

  Paterson and Cooper shared a knowing glance, but neither made any comment. The forensic photographer pocketed the black plastic cover off the large lens he’d removed from the camera, casually swung about his thick neck. In no time the camera was flashing away as he took shot after shot of the body and surrounding area from every conceivable angle. Keen not to miss anything which might provide the investigative team with a vital piece of information to help solve the crime.

  ‘Where’s the niece now? What was her name?’ The detectives had strolled away from the body and the constant clicking and flashing of Paterson’s camera, into the kitchen. However, there appeared to be nothing of much interest in the even smaller room. The downstairs curtains in the house had been drawn closed when the officers had initially entered the property. Now pulled back, the sun streamed into the room, revealing the warm rose tones of the kitchen walls. The house may have been small but it was spotlessly clean. Not a cup or saucer out of place, except for the couple left to dry in the plastic drainer next to the sink.

  ‘Rowena Harrison, sir. She’s next door with her husband Malcolm, having a cup of tea with the neighbour, I shouldn’t wonder.’ Cooper pulled open one of the melamine faced kitchen cupboards with a gloved hand. It told the same story. Neat rows of packages and tinned goods not a speck of dust, or grease to be seen. There were however, a few white granules on the worktop surface beneath one of the cupboards. Arnold spit on the tip of his index finger, pressed it against the grains. A few of the granules attached themselves to the latex material. Sugar, the DS concluded after cautiously tasting. ‘Makes you sick to your stomach, doesn’t it? Poor old sod. I bet she didn’t weigh any more than six stones. What threat could she have been to anyone?’

  ‘That’s what we have to find out Cooper. Find the motive and you’ll find the murderer.’ He wasn’t sure where he’d heard that expression before. Walters thought it could have been on one of those cop programmes which at one time had been forever on the box and that his wife had seemed to enjoy so much. Even after only a few minutes of watching, she’d known who the culprit had been. ‘You should have my job,’ he used to tease her. ‘What’s the secret of your success?’ Sophia Walters had readily responded, ‘it’s easy you just pick the most unlikely character and that person is the killer every time, simple.’ Walters could still see her smile. He closed his mind to the other image lurking in the background.

  Sounds from the adjoining room let the detectives know that the SOCO team had finally arrived. The boys sounded in buoyant mood and the DI hoped the sound of their laughter wouldn’t transmit through the property walls to the house next door and to the grieving relatives.

  ‘Keep a lid on it lads, will you. The niece is just next door.’

  The hubbub in the room immediately rendered down to muzzled conversations. Walters knew the high spirits had nothing to do with the dead woman. More likely a lost mid week football match, with a little none too gentle ribbing from an opposing side. But the relatives wouldn’t know that. Walters had never had any interest in football, couldn’t see what all the fuss was about and anyway a little respect for the dead wouldn’t go amiss.

  ‘What do you reckon George?’ Looking over his shoulder Mark addressed the diminutive grey haired pathologist. The two men had been good friends for a long time.

  ‘It’ll all be in my report.’

  ‘I know that George, but can’t you give me anything...?’

  ‘Well, you only have to have eyes to see the poor woman’s been struck about the head.’ He said, stating the obvious. ‘Looking at the wounds Mark, I’d say at least twice, possibly three times... Any sign of a murder weapon yet?’

  Walters shook his head, ‘none that we’ve discovered so far, why George?’

  ‘Well I could be wrong, so don’t quote me on this, but I’m almost certain I’ve seen wounds like this before. I need to check back over the photographic records at the lab.’

  ‘And,’ Wa
lters prompted.

  ‘And, if I’m correct, you could be looking for a bell shaped hammer as the possible murder weapon, as you can see by the indentations.’ The pathologist pulled the victim’s hair back from her forehead with his gloved fingers, enabling Walters to see what he meant. ‘The wounds are quite distinctive and I would say that’s the most likely cause of death. However, until I’ve performed the autopsy I’m not going to commit myself. You’ll have to bide your time Mark, same as everybody else.’

  ‘Can you tell if the woman put up a struggle? Any defence wounds?’

  ‘State of the poor old stick can’t imagine she’d put up much of a fight, can you?’ George Morris carefully pulled up the sleeves of the dead woman’s blood stained cardigan, revealing extremely thin white arms, causing Walters to wince. ‘On first glance doesn’t appear to be so. There are no bruises, or lesions.’

  ‘Any idea of the time of death?’ Walters enquired hopefully.

  ‘I’d only be guessing.’

  ‘Give it your best shot.’

  ‘Broadly, less than twenty more than ten, is all I’m willing to tell you at the present.’

  ‘So that would make it?’

  ‘You work it out Mark. Now if you don’t mind giving me a bit of space so I can do my job...’

  ‘Okay George, I get the message,’ Walters lifted his hands in defeat. ‘We’ll have to meet up for a pint one of these evenings, if you fancy it!’

  Morris grunted his acquiescence. ‘Now bugger off and leave me in peace.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thursday Morning 10 December 2009

  The layout of the house next door was identical to the one the officers had just left. Walters and Cooper entered through the front door. Stepping into the small square entrance hall, briefly their shoes made cursory contact as they shuffled their feet against the rush mat with the intention to leave the outside, outside. Although, his initial impression of the place, caused Walters to contemplate why they should bother. The men strode into the sitting room where Mr. and Mrs. Harrison were waiting for them.

  ‘Thank you Police Constable Travis, you can wait outside now. I’ll call you if you’re needed,’ Walters’ tone was brusque. As an afterthought, the inspector signified he needed a word. The young policewoman returned to his side. Heads held low and hopefully out of earshot of the niece and her husband, he enquired quietly. ‘Is there anything I should know about, before we start?’

  ‘No sir, they’ve hardly exchanged a word. She seems to be holding it together though,’ the constable replied in the same hushed tone.

  ‘Okay, off you go.’

  Marie Travis wasn’t entirely pleased to be dismissed. It was nice and warm in the house and bloody brass monkeys outside. Arnold flashed a sympathetic look towards her. However, his smile wasn’t reciprocated. Instead he was rewarded with a look as cold as the temperatures beyond the front door. With a flick of her auburn hair, the young PC departed the room. Cooper gave an internal shrug, wondering what he’d done to deserve the reaction. He’d every intention of cornering the policewoman later to find out. In the meantime, he went in search of Mr. Headley, the elderly owner of the house.

  The living room of this house and the deceased’s must have been of equal proportions, yet somehow, this one appeared smaller and darker. Maybe it was down to the faded wallpaper, clinging tenaciously to the walls in a dark, floral pattern almost indistinct with age. Or perhaps, it was the full length heavy curtains pooled on the floor amidst the dust and spider webs, either side of the bay window, blocking out a good chunk of the daylight. Pieces of bulky heavy furniture and knickknacks collected over a lifetime had been squashed into too small an area, making the room cramped and claustrophobic. Walters felt like he’d stepped inside of a junk shop.

  The Harrisons were ensnared inside the grouping of furniture, the arms of the pieces almost touching in the limited space. Should he smile as he approached the couple, or would that appear too insensitive? Walters decided to go for the solicitous look. It was easier said than done to get through the circle of defence and into the inner sanctum, but he just about managed it. Walters stepped over the arm of the nearest chair without event. Only to be immediately confronted with the next article of furniture having the potential for him to lose his dignity and send him sprawling. A round glass topped coffee table, the sort which had been popular in the 1970s, sat on a crumpled circular rug in the centre of the configuration. An array of out of date TV guides, free supplements with the owner’s preferred Sunday rag, spread out untidily on the shelf below, overflowed glossy and slippery underfoot, an additional hazard. Not wishing to tread on Mrs. Harrison’s toes, Walters remained balanced on the balls of his feet his side of the table. While performing a double manoeuvre of simultaneously stretching and bending, he managed to take the extended hand of the woman who remained seated on the far end of the settee.

  Her hand felt limp and cold within his own, as if she herself was a cadaver. It took all of Walters’ will power not to wipe his hand down the leg of his trousers, trying to rid himself of the feel of her.

  ‘This is my husband, Malcolm,’ she said in a brittle voice, containing little vestige of emotion. Nothing to betray the fact she’d discovered her Aunt’s bloodied body, no more than an hour and a half ago. She motioned with an almost imperceptible movement of her head, in a direction behind the inspector. Walters had been aware of the man’s presence on his entry into the room. Malcolm Harrison wasn’t a man easy to miss. Harrison lifted his hefty bottom a few inches off the chair into which he’d been squashed, nearly bringing the item of furniture with him as he took the DI’s proffered hand. The additional effort of raising his enormous body had flushed the man’s already ruddy cheeks with extra colour. He mumbled something which Walters couldn’t grasp.

  They were a caricature of a couple. She, all skin and bone and loose flesh, as though she’d lost a lot of weight at some time and now had nothing to fill her slack skin. Hooked nose and cropped, iron grey hair gave her a bird like appearance and Walters thought, rather unkindly, she reminded him of a dowdy, oversized under nourished parrot. Her husband on the other hand was grossly overweight. His huge belly overhung the waist of his jeans. Resuming his seat as before, the man’s arms encircled the large lump resting on his lap. It turned Walters’ stomach. He thought how obscene it was to let oneself get into such a state. The couple, he guessed, were in their mid to late fifties and he doubted the man would be lucky to see out a further ten years. But then, who was he to judge? He turned his focus back to the reason he was in the room and slipped his warrant card into his wallet, introductions concluded.

  ‘Mr. Harrison and Mrs. Harrison please accept our condolences,’ Walters began earnestly. ‘I want you to know we’ll do everything in our power to find the person, or persons who committed this terrible act.’ Platitudes meant to reassure and give comfort. The tone and pitch rehearsed over twenty years of informing loved ones of sudden deaths came easily to Walters’ lips. The words enunciated as though quoting from a salesman’s well used script. But did the words reassure? Walters hadn’t got a clue. The other thing he hadn’t got a clue of, was how the hell he was going to find the old woman’s killer? Unless the person responsible walked into the police station and confessed? But that was a hardly likely scenario.

  ‘Who would have done such a terrible thing and why?’ The woman demanded. There was more than a hint of aggression in her voice, which under the circumstances was a reasonable reaction. Her fingers unconsciously plucked at imaginary threads on her plaid skirt. Like a free range chicken, pulling at a stubborn worm embedded in the earth.

  A sign of frayed nerves – or guilt? Walters sat down on the other empty leather armchair adjacent to Mr. Harrison. The proximity of the man made it easy to smell the alcohol on his breath and Walters wondered if he’d already been drinking that morning. Perhaps Malcolm Harrison had had an over generous shot of whisky in the mug of tea, provided by the neighbour of the dead woman in whose h
ouse they were silently seated as if in a doctor’s waiting room. Mrs. Harrison, perched ramrod straight on the edge of her seat, stared at Walters within the confines of the space. Her fingers stilled at his lack of response as she focused all of her attention on the detective inspector. In that moment, Walters considered how a mouse might feel before being swooped upon by a bird of prey. Or a rabbit, caught in car headlights before being splattered. Averting his gaze, he allowed the silence to linger.

  Perhaps he should have taken early retirement after the accident, but at thirty seven he’d been too young to give up on life. Although at that time, it’d felt like life had given up on him. Janice, trying to be helpful, had suggested Walters should consider a new profession. He knew however, he needed the familiarity and stability of his routine to see him through those dark days and even darker nights. Now, sitting in this room, the thought crossed his mind maybe he should have listened to his younger sister’s advice.

  For some inexplicable reason the inspector had taken an instant dislike to this recently bereaved woman. Despite Sophia, his late wife, teasing him over his snap judgments, generally Walters went with his first impression. Those first few moments were so important in gauging the person under his scrutiny and forming his opinion of that person. To put it mildly, the woman sitting in front of him made his skin crawl.

  The armchair Walters was imprisoned was uncomfortable and in need of re-springing. He shifted his position trying to avoid the rogue spring that was intent on sticking into him. The latent tension forming in the room was somewhat neutralized as the living room door opened and DS Cooper re-joined the trio. The sergeant slid onto the three seated settee, leaving the middle space between him and Mrs. Harrison unoccupied. Notebook open and at the ready, his long legs were cramped, knees nearly under his chin. Cooper had spoken quietly to the owner of the house. Who as instructed, was keeping out of the way in the kitchen, situated at the rear of the property, until the officers could get around to interviewing him later.