by David Hodges
The solicitor gave a thin smile. ‘My client has no comment to make,’ she said, ‘other than the fact that he has killed no one.’
‘OK, so can you explain how two of your fingerprints were found on incriminating material linked to the murder of Claire Topping?’ the DI said triumphantly, ignoring the solicitor and staring directly at Copely.
‘What material?’ the solicitor said.
‘A package containing an item of personal property belonging to the deceased was delivered to the – er – police,’ Roscoe replied. ‘If you didn’t deliver it, Mr Copely, how is that your fingerprints were on some tape sealing the package?’
‘My client—’ the solicitor began but Copely irritably waved her to silence.
‘I’ve killed no one,’ he snarled. ‘I haven’t delivered any package to anyone and of the three women you mention, I only met Tamsyn Moorcroft once when she was a guest speaker at the historical society’s last meeting. This, Mr Roscoe, is a fit-up because you couldn’t get a conviction last time. Well, it won’t work.’
‘How do you explain the two straw dolls found in your shed then?’ Kate put in.
Copely’s gaze fastened on her and contempt was written into his expression. ‘So the little lady does have a tongue in her head then?’ he sneered. ‘I thought you were just here to hold his hand.’
Kate met his gaze without flinching. ‘Why don’t you just answer the question?’ she said.
‘You don’t have to answer anything,’ the solicitor interrupted again. ‘They’re on a fishing expedition.’
Copely shrugged. ‘I don’t mind answering her,’ he said and leaned forward across the table towards Kate. ‘But I don’t suppose you’ll believe me, Little Miss Cocksure, when I say I didn’t know they were there and that they don’t belong to me or my partner.’
‘Oh, you mean they were planted?’ Roscoe came back in, the sneer in his tone matching the expression on his face.
‘Exactly that,’ Copely retorted, ‘and probably by you or one of your underlings to secure a conviction. Now, are we done? ’
Roscoe glared at him. ‘No, we’re not done,’ he replied. ‘In fact, we’ve only just started.’
Copely laughed. ‘Oh, you’re done, Mr Clever Cop,’ he said. ‘You said this Claire woman was murdered last night but in your rush to fit me up for the job, you have neglected to ask the most important question of all; in short, where was I last night, between whatever times were relevant?’
‘OK, so where were you?’ Kate put in again. ‘Say, between eleven last night and ten this morning?’
Copely just smiled at her for a few moments, running his tongue along his bottom lip, like a man about to savour a good wine. ‘I was in a hide with two other bird-watchers – Janice Young and Neville Haslar – out on the Somerset Levels,’ he drawled, ‘which you would have discovered for yourself if you had bothered to check my movements before nicking me – I can soon give you their addresses if you want to seek verification.’
Roscoe looked as if he were about to choke. ‘You bet we will, mister,’ he said. ‘But that still doesn’t explain how the hell your fingerprints got on to that tape.’
Copely leaned forward across the table again. ‘That, Detective Inspector Roscoe, is your job to find out – though after this fiasco and the complaint I intend making, it’s possible you won’t have your job for very much longer!’
CHAPTER 15
Janice Young was in the garden, clearing up fallen leaves, when Kate pushed open her garden gate. Her charming slate-roofed cottage occupied a prime position overlooking the Levels near Meare, with an unobstructed view of the distant blue mound of Glastonbury Tor, and her small front garden was packed with shrubs bordering a neatly manicured lawn.
‘A real detective?’ she exclaimed with the same sense of awe that Will Fallow had expressed when Kate had introduced herself. ‘And a woman too. That must be a bonus!’
Kate smiled, thinking that maybe Detective Super-intendent Ansell would have quite a different opinion.
‘I write, you know,’ Young said as she peeled off her gardening gloves. ‘Thrillers mostly. So I am always delighted to meet the police. What can I do for you?’
‘It’s only a routine matter,’ Kate said. ‘We just need to eliminate a gentleman from some inquiries we are making – a Mr Copely. I believe you know him?’
She raised both eyebrows. ‘What, little old Maurice? What’s he done? Nicked a library book?’ And she chuckled.
Kate smiled again but didn’t accept the implied invitation to elaborate. ‘No, nothing like that. Mr Copely says he was with you all last night. Can you confirm that?’
Young chuckled again, waggling a fat finger. ‘You make that sound very naughty, Sergeant. But, yes, we are both keen bird-watchers and we spent the night at a hide near the Ham Wall wildlife reserve, trying to spot nocturnal birds of prey.’
‘Just the two of you?’
She winked. ‘Now, now, Sergeant, whatever are you suggesting?’ she mocked, then added, ‘Well, initially Neville Haslar was with us, but he came over ill – just got over a bad bout of flu, you see – and had to leave to go home.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh, just before midnight, I think.’
‘But you stayed on?’
‘Yes.’ She winked. ‘But we stuck to watching birds, I assure you.’
Kate frowned, tiring of the innuendos from someone who was plainly well into middle age. ‘Did Mr Copely stay there the whole time or did he leave at any stage?’
‘Well, he had to answer calls of nature on occasions but he was only gone for a few minutes.’ She became more serious. ‘What on earth is all this about?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but it would be helpful if you could give me a quick written statement.’
She beamed, waving a hand towards the front door. ‘But of course, Sergeant, and I might even rustle up some green tea for you.’
Kate winced behind her back. What she had to do for Queen and country, she mused.
Neville Haslar’s large country house was set back off the main road in the same village as the Schofields and no green tea was on offer there. In fact, Kate never got inside the place and the reception she received from the tall thin man in the shabby sweater and corduroys was courteous but distinctly cool when he straightened up from the open bonnet of a black Mercedes and turned to face her as she climbed out of her own car in his driveway. The sharp blue eyes studied her with a lazy half-humorous expression from under a rogue lock of blond hair, which had obviously been deliberately combed forward from his thinning collar-length thatch as a desperate denial of his forty-something years. His casual patronizing manner was reminiscent of the arrogant persona of Maurice Copely, although in softer vein, and she gained the impression that he found her visit simply a novel distraction from whatever it was he was doing with his car. But irritating though she found his manner, he was devilishly attractive – she had to admit that.
‘Maurice?’ he echoed in response to her question and leaned back against the car with the knuckles of his oily gloved hands resting on top of the wing on either side of him. ‘What’s the silly bugger done now?’ He sighed. ‘Yes, I was in the hide with him and Janice Young last night, not that we saw much with poor old Janice chattering inanely all the time.’
‘I gather you had to leave early, though?’ Kate said.
He nodded. ‘Yes, I came over poorly around half eleven,’ he replied. ‘I’d only recently got over a very bad bout of flu, you see. Blessed nuisance. Shouldn’t have gone bird-watching at all really. Damned bug still in my system, I suppose.’
‘And Mr Copely, was he still there when you left?’
He nodded again, raising one hand to study the oil stain in the palm of the glove, as if he found that more interesting than her presence. ‘Don’t know how long he stayed, though. Janice is not the most stimulating company.’
‘Been a twitcher long?’ Kate went on, using the derogatory wor
d deliberately to see how he would react.
He simply smiled again in response. ‘Ornithology has been a fascination of mine for over twenty years, Sergeant,’ he replied, ‘second only to my interest in local history. Member of the local historical society, don’t you know?’ He winked. ‘Wow, eh?’
‘So I believe,’ Kate acknowledged. ‘And what do you do when you’re not twitching or researching local history, Mr Haslar?’
He pursed his lips reflectively. ‘I run my own business.’
‘Doing what exactly?’
He chuckled. ‘Something you would find very boring, I suspect – I provide independent management consultancy to big companies.’
‘Why would I find that boring?’
He laughed again. ‘Well, it’s hardly as exciting as investigating murders, I’ll tell you that – and certainly not as fulfilling as my former career in the army. I spend half my time at meetings and focus groups in dusty London offices. That’s probably why I became an ornithologist in my spare time – to get out in the fresh air and spend some time learning about the habits of our feathered friends.’
‘Is that when you first met Maurice Copely?’
He thought for a second. ‘It was actually. Seemed a nice guy, with a bit more breeding and intelligence than the rest of them in the group and a keen – what was it you called me? Oh yes, twitcher, that was it. So we sort of hit it off. Two twitchers twitching together.’
‘Do you know much about him?’
He pursed his lips then shook his head. ‘Not really. Quiet sort of chap. Works at the local library. Married to a charming lady called Marion. Keeps himself to himself. Keen photographer too and whereas my shed is full of garden tools, his is wall-to-wall photographs.’
‘A model citizen then?’
‘As much as anyone can be these days, Sergeant. Lives for his birds and his pictures – and he has an equally keen interest in local folklore. Quite knowledgeable on it, in fact. Very impressed with the talk to the historical society by that witch woman, Tamsyn—’
‘Moorcroft?’
‘That’s the one. Said he thought it was really absorbing. Sorry I missed it actually – that was when I first had the flu, you see.’
Kate heard alarm bells jangle in her head. ‘But I gained the impression from Mr Copely that he thought the talk was boring?’
He shrugged. ‘Not what he told me. Between you and me, I think he took a real fancy to her.’
‘Did he make contact with her afterwards?’
‘Not as far as I know, though he did say the straw figures she made were exquisite and that his wife might like a couple as ornaments.’
‘Did he manage to get her them in the end?’
‘No idea. Never asked him.’
Kate pursed her lips and changed tack. ‘Did you know the girl in the village who was murdered – Melanie Schofield?’
He shook his head with a disarming smile. ‘’Fraid not. Bit young for me.’ He winked. ‘And my wife certainly wouldn’t have approved.’
‘But this is only a small village and her father is quite a celebrity among the horsey set. Surely you must have rubbed shoulders with him at one time or another?’
‘My wife does ride but we tend not to mix with the locals here. Not really our sort.’
‘In what way?’
He sighed. ‘If you want me to put it bluntly, most of them are not of our class. You know – farmers, labourers, swede types and all that. Different social strata altogether. ’
Kate’s mouth tightened. ‘I see. Bit of a snobbish attitude, if you don’t mind my saying?’
He seemed unperturbed by her censure and smiled again. ‘Probably but there it is. The old chalk and cheese thing. Damned sorry to hear about the girl’s murder, of course.’ He frowned now. ‘Strangulation is a pretty nasty way to go – saw some of it in the army. This character must be a real nasty swine. But the world is a pretty rotten place at times, isn’t it?’
Kate made a face. ‘I can’t comment on the case, Mr Haslar, I’m afraid.’
But he wasn’t about to give up on his questions. ‘Press are saying another two women have been murdered too. Do you suspect the same nutter is responsible?’
Kate shook her head. ‘Again, I can’t comment. All I can tell you is that our inquiries are ongoing.’
His frown deepened to the point of annoyance. ‘That’s all very well, Sergeant but people hereabouts are scared out of their wits – my wife among them. After all, how can you sleep at night knowing this pervert is on the loose?’
‘I do understand, sir,’ Kate went on, ‘but it’s only a question of time before we catch him.’
‘And how many more women are going to end up on a slab in the meantime, eh?’ he snapped, then almost immediately he gaped at her. ‘Just a minute, you don’t have poor old Maurice Copely down as a suspect, surely?’ He laughed out loud. ‘Of course, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Strewth, I am slow off the mark today. But really, the man wouldn’t hurt a fly, you must believe that.’
‘We’re just eliminating people from our inquiries, sir,’ Kate replied glibly.
He chuckled. ‘I’m sure you are – me too, I expect?’
Kate sensed the implied question and gave a brief smile. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Haslar,’ she said. ‘Can I just get a quick written statement off you before I leave?’
‘Be delighted, Detective Sergeant,’ he said, throwing open a rear passenger door of his car. ‘And, if you write it for me, I’ll even let you use my Merc as your office – I take it you do have a pen?’
Detective Superintendent Ansell was less than impressed with the day’s events when he returned to the incident room and under his gaze DI Roscoe fidgeted on his chair like a naughty boy.
‘I assume you have checked out Copely’s alibi?’ Ansell drawled, his dark eyes hard and critical.
Roscoe pushed his chewing gum to the side of his mouth and nodded. ‘Kate’s interviewed both the so-called twitchers – a Janice Young and a Neville Haslar,’ he said. ‘Both confirm Copely was with them at the hide when he claimed, although Haslar was only there the early part of the night and had to leave just before midnight because of a recurring illness.’
Ansell considered the information for a moment and shrugged. ‘Not entirely conclusive then, but corroborative enough from Copely’s point of view to let him off the hook for the time being. Are we sure the fingerprint evidence was accurate?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kate said. ‘SOCO have double-checked and the prints do belong to our man.’
Ansell sighed. ‘So how did his dabs end up on the package? That is what we should be asking ourselves. Anything special about the tape or the wrappings?’
Kate shook her head. ‘Ordinary Sellotape and brown paper that you can get from any stationers and the box was a standard plain cardboard thing that could have come from anywhere – just like the last one.’
Ansell leaned back in his chair, his fingertips together. ‘So we are faced with something of a conundrum,’ he said, adding, ‘and, from what you have told me, the disturbing revelation that our killer likes to wander about dressed as a scarecrow?’
Kate couldn’t resist a quick ‘told you so’ dig. ‘Looks like I was right about the copycat thing all along then, sir, doesn’t it?’ she said.
Ansell’s eyes narrowed and his cobra-like gaze fastened on her face. ‘So it would seem, Sergeant,’ he said softly. ‘So all you have to do now is to get me a result – like yesterday!’
CHAPTER 16
T he naked body of the young nurse had the appearance of a gutted animal lying on its back on the stainless steel dissecting table and Kate shuddered as the scalp, with its mass of blonde hair, was deftly pulled back over the top of the skull, which had been sliced off earlier to allow the brain to be removed and examined and then replaced like some kind of obscene lid. The mortuary assistant engaged in the gruesome task then turned his attention to the trunk of the body and the horrendous incision in the to
rso, running from the breast bone right down to the lower abdomen. The internal organs, mutilated by the pathologist’s knife during examination, had already been returned to the cavity and he now began the task of crudely sewing up the incision, humming quietly to himself like a man innocently stitching up a turkey for a Christmas dinner.
The photographer was already packing up his equipment when she entered the mortuary with Roscoe, and Doctor Summers glanced briefly at them over her shoulder as she washed her surgical gloves off under a tap before dumping them into the clinical waste-bin.
‘Sorry to put you through this, Kate,’ Roscoe muttered. ‘I had to call you over as the guv’nor’s tied up with some damned press editor and it’s necessary to corroborate everything in cases like this.’
Kate looked distinctly affronted. ‘I’m a copper and a bloody DS, Guv,’ she snapped, ‘not some shrinking violet. Don’t you think I’ve been to post mortems before?’
He gave an apologetic grin. ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t mean . . . It’s just that—’
‘I’m a woman?’ Kate finished for him, her anger growing. ‘And so is the pathologist, if I’m not mistaken, so please don’t patronize me!’
He winced and seemed grateful when Lydia Summers rescued him from the hole he had dug for himself with a cheerful, ‘Afternoon, people. Just finished.’
‘So what can you tell us?’ Roscoe said quickly, treating Kate to a brief sideways glance.
Summers shrugged. ‘Well, she didn’t die of old age, that’s for sure,’ she said with a grin. ‘From the condition of the body, I’d reaffirm what I said yesterday that time of death was close to midnight. Same MO as the other two women – but you know that already, don’t you? Oh yes, and there are no signs of rape or any sexual interference. In fact, although she’s plainly not a virgin, there are no signs of recent intercourse either.’
‘Bit difficult when her husband is in Iraq,’ Roscoe commented drily.
‘Not if she was over the side,’ Kate commented, her tone still hostile.
Summers shrugged. ‘Well, the indications are that she’s been a good girl in the twenty-four hours prior to her death anyway.’