Fordyce shrugged, relating that he only knew what he was told.
“She can’t seriously believe we’d consider Wroe, can she?”
Pulling the imprisoned pathology report from beneath Graham’s hands, I mumbled, “I don’t fancy it myself, sir.”
“Wroe had no motive as far as we’ve been able to discern. Didn’t even know the American. And I can’t see an eighty-year-old man strangling a healthy specimen like Steve Pedersen.”
I nodded as I smoothed the wrinkles from the paper. “Seems like Carla’s trying to save her husband’s neck by accusing Wroe. Must be scared.”
“She did seem that,” Fordyce agreed. “But I put it down to her being apprehended and feeling the guilt of it.”
“Maybe, but she’s not above trying to take the spotlight off her husband. Kukri knives. Might as well blame everyone in the village who has a knife.” Might as well extend it to Wroe’s army mates, I thought, growing angrier by the woman’s silly accusation. They could have sneaked into the area, helped with Wroe’s reconnaissance of the area. It was something he might do.
“I don’t think it’s as bad as all that, Taylor,” Graham said. “You’re just jealous the lady beat you to the info. She gets around more than you do.”
I replied that I would relinquish all information gathering if I ever stooped to anything so ridiculous. “Best to stick to facts. Like the pathologist’s report and those photographs.” I nodded toward the photos. “Then you make your case. Probably find something more pertinent in these snaps than we’d get by calling in the heavy gang to extract a confession from Wroe. All he’ll be guilty of, when this is concluded, will be exaggeration.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” Graham said slowly. “But I’d also like to know why this wasn’t with the lot bestowed on us yesterday.”
“Couldn’t be something on this roll that would prove she’s right, could there?” Fordyce suggested. “But why she had to get this film developed right then, and why she was doing close to fifty—”
I said, “He could have shot it all today, I suppose.”
“Then why not trot up to us with film in hand and tell us? Why sneak out of the village at such a break-neck pace? Whatever her devious scheme, let’s hope you’ve thwarted her, Fordyce. Would you mind? Soon as you get your breath and a cuppa, back you go to Buxton. You do it so well.” He thanked Fordyce, who muttered that it was his pleasure, and held out the tin of pretzels to him. Looking simultaneously astonished and pleased, Fordyce took a handful, thanked Graham, and left.
The pathologist’s report was the one substantial element in the confusion facing us. Graham read the confirming details and smiled as he mentioned the high points. “Love it when we’re right. Makes me feel like I’m earning my pay. It wasn’t hanging that did in Pedersen. Death due to hemorrhaging, as if you need to be told, Taylor. Fractures of the skull…subdural hematoma…pupil dilated, indicating acute pressure on the injured side of the brain…numerous bruises to the left side of the body—waist, ribs, jaw and neck…cracked ribs, also on the left side…” Graham tossed me the report. “Weapon was your classic blunt instrument, though wider than Talbot’s ancient hammer. Could be a rock, I suppose. Place is littered with them, with the creek so handy.”
“This bruising on the left side of the torso…”
Graham eyed me, waiting for me to finish my thought. He leaned against the edge of the table, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes bright with interest. It was a common pose when he let me think things through. A teacher observing his pupil. I rambled on. “If Pedersen had merely fallen, as the bruises and cuts to the knees and palm indicate, I don’t see how he could have sustained the bruising to the waist, ribs and jaw. Bruising there suggests a fight. How can anyone fall forward on his knees and come up with bruises on his left side?”
“And barring your personal demonstration, Taylor, which I’m sure you’d be eager to supply in the course of your work, I’m inclined to agree. What does the left side bruising suggest?”
I took a deep breath and swiftly ran through a short, mental prayer before I said, “He was involved in a fight before death.”
“From a right-handed bloke standing in front of him. Or a left-handed bloke standing behind him, as Mr. Holmes might have said in his day. Do you think it odd that even a right-handed person wouldn’t have landed a punch with his left hand on Pedersen’s right side?”
I nodded slowly, the strenuous fight scene shimmering before my eyes quickly shifting into a different scenario. In a small voice, I said, “Attacked while he was down.”
Graham nodded, his hand moving to his rib cage. “This area would be exposed if Pedersen lay on the ground from his fall. A couple of energetic kicks would produce the bruising and cracked ribs Ahrens found.”
I grimaced, not liking the image of the dirty fighting I conjured up. “And the bruises on the jaw and neck?”
“Fist fight, I should think.” He made a fist and slowly, accurately aimed for the left side of my jaw, stopping so close that I could just feel his knuckles. Smiling, Graham dropped his arm and said, “Lights out. Pedersen down on his knees.”
“Where does the rock come into it? Ahrens said a rock or something equally convex, hard and smooth fractured his skull.”
“When Pedersen was trying to get up, perhaps. As good a time as any. Though our junior Muhammad Ali didn’t really need it. From the depth of the bruises and the broken skin…” Graham stared at me, the humor gone now from his eyes. “What a lot of power he’d need to fracture Pedersen’s skull.”
And, I thought, not really seeing the photographs, the berk who had such free access to my room seemed to thrive on power. In my mind I could again see the Guy hung from the ceiling, the wren’s limp head flopping as I picked it up from the bathroom basin. Someone’s in love with the strength of his hands.
“All this bright, new information,” Graham was saying when I refocused on his voice, “doesn’t do much for us in terms of a solution. So Pedersen has a rocky start to his star performance as the effigy, then hoisted for the bonfire display. What’s that get us?”
My eyes widened as he voiced what I had just envisioned. I blinked and said, “Nothing much. Easier to string up a victim if he’s dead first, is the only thing I can think of. Anything on the knife?”
The knife, printed and analyzed to death by the police laboratory technicians, revealed blood on the shaft near the wooden handle and smears on the blade. It must’ve arrived safely, for I hadn’t heard any swearing or threats of demotion from Graham. It also was now housed—for easier viewing—in a plastic bag, which Graham held up to the light.
“‘The smiler with the knife under the cloak,’ Taylor,” Graham mused half aloud.
“Beg pardon, sir?” I said, wondering just what he had quoted and what he meant.
“Chaucer.” He smoothed out a wrinkle in the plastic to see the knife edge better. It was four inches long and angled into the wooden handle when not in use. Graham tried to depress the latch at the upper edge of the handle. He struggled with the rusty mechanism, pushing on the blade to force it home. The blade resolutely refused to surrender its outward position. “This thing’s as stiff as I feel some mornings.”
“Scout knife, isn’t it?”
“Old scout, to be sure. Probably dates back to my youthful days.”
“Might have done, but not likely. Weren’t the knives removed from sale for a bit in the late ’60s or so—on account of all those accidents the lads were having with them?”
“So we’ve got a more current knife—is that what you’re hinting at so subtly?”
“Or older, sir. Though there are other ways besides the flow of years that would rust a knife.”
“Such as the flow of water. Careless sort of scout, leaving his equipment outside to be rained on. Well, it’s a nice task for our energetic constables, then. See who’s been a scout among the villagers. Should put a smile on their lips.”
It would Margo, I thought
. She would relish anything that would get her noticed by Graham. Promote her to an actual name.
“Speaking of smilers,” Graham said, “do you think that’s how it was done? Would have had to be a smiler—someone who wouldn’t upset Pedersen, who could murder him without unduly warning him, don’t you think? Otherwise there’s the risk he would have given one hell of a fight.”
“Scream his head off and alerted someone,” I agreed. “Plus, there might be all those hard-to-explain scratches and bruises on the unlucky murderer’s body.”
“Came at him nonchalantly, all friendly.”
“Who’s more friendly, if it comes to that, and familiar to him than his former brother-in-law?”
“Carla Oldendorf, Derek Halford, Kris Halford.” Graham turned the bag slowly, noting every inch of the knife. “Strange thing, this knife. Why use it?”
“You said yourself that it was just for dressing, that he was strangled and the knife used as part of their annual dramatics. But if you wanted a knife, you’d use a letter opener, say, or a carver. More common type of item.”
“Or a Stanley knife,” Graham said.
I nodded. Most households had one, just as they had a saw, hammer and stepladder.
“Well, we’ll dangle it in front of a few eyes and see if we can cut through more than mat board. Anything develop from those?” Graham set down the knife and gestured toward the packet of photographs developed from Tom’s film.
“Nice, but not exactly startling. Nothing to hang a case on. Or a corpse. What were you hoping to find?”
“Something hinting to our murder,” Graham said. “These don’t prove a thing, damn it. Can’t even prove the time when they were taken, let alone the day.” He lowered his head, peering at the purple shadows that stretched across Tom’s snippets of captured landscape. Mumbling in disgust, he waved the photographs at Constable Byrd. “Would you mind, Constable? Take these out to the corresponding areas in the village this afternoon and see if the shadows line up. Thanks.” He waited until Byrd returned to his computer before saying, “I want to check up on the lay of the land as much as on Tom Oldendorf. Not that I don’t doubt his veracity as a photographer or a tourist, but… That lens of his, Taylor…”
“Telephoto.”
“Maybe his roving eye caught some elusive detail of the crime scene before it got eradicated. If it did. We’ll know with his weekend snaps.”
Graham seemed to focus on the day outside—crisp, sunny and smelling of fallen leaves. Layers of clouds, gray tinged on their bellies, crawled across the sky from the west. The air held the scent of approaching rain. Inside the room it was quiet, some of the constables grabbing a bite to eat, others working at computers. I took a deep breath, pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket, and spoke Graham’s name. He looked at me, momentarily lost in his thoughts. I held the paper toward him and asked if he would like to see the chart of suspects and motives I had drawn up.
He gazed at it for several minutes, his pen making tic marks beside several of the columns, then looked at me. His eyes were brilliant and held no sign of mockery as he said, “I’m impressed, Taylor. When did you do this?”
“Uh, late last night.” I refrained from mentioning it was because I couldn’t sleep. I glanced at Mark, who had just entered the room. He caught my stare and pursed his lips in a kiss. I turned back to Graham, hoping I hadn’t reddened.
“First class work. Really excellent. You have time to go over this?” He pulled out a chair for me and I sat beside him, not across the table as I usually did. We talked of Uncle Gilbert mistaking Pedersen for Derek. “To benefit from the extra money Arthur would get when the dole stopped,” Graham read. We talked of Arthur mistaking Pedersen for Derek. “Same motive,” Graham read, then smiled at my brief analysis. We talked of Ramona mistaking Pedersen for Derek. “Ditto,” Graham read again, then laughed.
I hated the idea of a murderess. I hated it not because I thought Ramona such an outstanding woman as that I thought women above such emotions. They were the keepers of the hearth, the soul of the home, the giver of life. For a woman to taint that centuries-long gift was disgraceful. I knew women killed—there have been many famous murderers among the sex. But it still turned my stomach. And I couldn’t see Ramona, independent as she was, murdering Pedersen.
As though reading my thoughts, Graham said, “I don’t know, Taylor. No matter how liberated she is, I don’t think she could kill him and get away without a scratch. She’d have to know jujitsu or something. Does she know jujitsu?”
“Do we know her sprained wrist is legitimate, sir?”
“Your idea being she’s hiding a tell-tale scratch, received in her fight with Pedersen?”
I nodded.
Graham exhaled slowly, as he did when considering something he deemed important. He said, “Very well could do. I’m impressed you take nothing as obvious, Taylor. Could easily be window dressing, set up to fool us.”
“I suppose there was an attending physician?”
“Why not find out, Taylor? Ask the populace. If no one recalls the stumble…”
“We unsling her arm. But is there any reason why Pedersen would be killed for his own sake?” I said, rather glad that Graham had seen the value in my suggestion about Ramona’s sprain.
“What’s your chart say?” He turned to it, not as a joke, but to see how I had reasoned it all out. He may have been impressed by the hours I had put into it, but I was impressed he was taking me seriously. Graham read aloud, “Derek. Although Kris was originally engaged to Pedersen, she seems earnestly in love with Derek, who also welcomed Pedersen.” He looked up, supplying his own observation. “And if we’re considering broken hearts as fuel, Taylor, Tom has had plenty of time to murder Pedersen. Why would he risk it in a locality he didn’t know?”
“If his anger or hatred over his sister’s death got the better of him, he’d lash out,” I reminded my colleague.
“What else?” He read my chart again. “What’s this last column say? I can’t make it out— Oh, Symbolism.” This time his eyebrow was raised when he looked at me. I fought to keep from blushing. I knew at the time I wrote it that it would be questioned, but I had to put it down. A good cop, I had reminded myself last night, overlooks nothing.
“Yes, sir. Whoever killed Pedersen would be taking a huge chance by dressing him up as the Guy. Why not leave the body in the woods or wherever? It’d be a lot easier. All that time spent replacing the effigy with the body is just asking for discovery. There has to be a reason it was rigged up.” I waited for what seemed a century for Graham to speak.
He had been focused again on life outside the pub window, watching the residents, tourists and police mingling and going about their own lives. Finally, he said in a barely audible voice, “All the world’s a stage, TC, and we had a highly significant stage Sunday evening. But who was the intended audience?”
EIGHTEEN
Graham had asked me that afternoon to interview a few of the suspects while he busied himself with hearing Tom’s new story about the film. I needed my notebook and that was in my room. My bedroom door was locked, I noted on jiggling the knob. Good. One less thing to worry about. Besides, it was the shank of the day. No need to fear ghosts or jokers lurking behind shower curtains. When I entered my room I found out just how wrong a girl can be.
My bed was strewn with photographs of me—me at the village pond, me walking to Arthur’s, me standing at the pub door, me talking to Margo. I might have been merely annoyed if it weren’t for the nooses. In each photo a noose was carefully drawn around my neck.
I don’t know how long I stood there, unable to release my stare from the atrocity. I do remember my mouth had gone dry and my heart was beating as though I’d just run a marathon race up Mount Everest. I tried to put the outrage down but I couldn’t control my fingers. My hand shook violently. The knock on the door restored what little sanity I had left. I stuffed the photographs under the pillow and yelled, “Come in.” It was Mark.
“Nothing more than the usual,” he said, seating himself beside me on the bed. “Were you expecting me?” He smoothed out a wrinkle in the coverlet and leaned back.
Angling my body against the pillow, I told him I had only come up to get my notebook, that Graham needed me. Which wasn’t completely a lie, but I needed to get rid of Mark. I figured Graham’s name would do it.
“What if I need you, Brenna?”
“I know what you need, Mark, and it’s a cold shower. Now, out.”
“Is that any way to talk to a friend?”
“I didn’t know you were one.”
“A colleague, at least.”
“There are all types of colleagues, Mark. Consider me a long-distance one. Now, out!”
“I just thought you’d have a minute or two. Saw you come upstairs.”
“I didn’t see you in the incident room,” I said, feeling rather paranoid now that I knew someone was watching me. Whoever had taken those photos had a good quality camera. Those shots had to have been taken with a telephoto lens or else I would have seen the photographer.
“’Course not. I was in the public bar. Just walking out when I saw you on the stairs. Great timing, eh?”
Yeh, I thought, cursing my luck, stupendous timing. He was staring at my nightgown, which was thrown over the back of the chair. I grabbed it and stuffed it under the coverlet. He laughed—one large, roar that editorialized my prudishness.
“Can’t you take a joke, Bren?”
I buried my fingers into the bedding, not knowing how to respond. Barely finding my voice, I stared at him. “Joke? You mean this whole thing—”
“I wouldn’t force you. You could have my career for a charge of rape.”
I exhaled, rather too loudly and quickly, for he added, “But a guy can always hope you’ll come around. Would flowers do it?” He looked around for the lone crocus. “What do you like besides pansies? A dozen or two roses? Might be worth it if you’d come willingly.” He patted the bedding before standing up. “Well, if Graham calls, you must obey. By the way, how much do you obey? Far into the night?”
Death of an Ordinary Guy Page 17