Strawfoot

by David Hodges

  ‘So rape was obviously not the motive in respect of any of the victims,’ Roscoe summarized. ‘What about the soiled bedclothes? Her fluids or someone else’s?’

  Summers pursed her lips. ‘Difficult to say until the results come back from the lab, but I’d hazard a guess that they were the consequence of sudden violent death. We found similar traces under the bodies at the other two crime scenes. Quite common in such cases actually.’

  ‘So no chance of a DNA match with the killer then?’

  The pathologist frowned. ‘Unlikely, I’d say but I thought you’d already arrested someone?’

  Roscoe cleared his throat. ‘Looks like a blind alley,’ he said without elaborating on the issue. ‘Back to square one.’

  Summers nodded. ‘In that case, I might be able to throw a little more light on things for you.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  She walked to the head of the corpse and, bending down, pointed at the base of the neck. ‘See there?’

  Kate got there first and Roscoe peered over her shoulder. At once she saw the bruises – small irregular patches on both sides of the neck.

  ‘Compression marks,’ Summers explained. ‘That have become more pronounced with time and they were evident on all three corpses when I checked.’

  ‘How come no one noticed these before?’ Kate queried.

  ‘They did and your SOCO took pics of them but compression marks are a common feature of strangulation cases and they take time to come out fully, so they were just accepted as the norm – as they were with the other two victims.’

  ‘What makes them significant in this case then?’ Roscoe asked.

  Summers pointed at the marks again. ‘Look more closely. What do you see?’

  Roscoe made a face. ‘What are we supposed to see? Three marks at the back of the neck, two more at the front.’

  Summers’ eyes gleamed. ‘Think again. The human hand has five digits or metacarpal bones and fourteen phalanges or phalanx bones. Each of the four fingers has three phalanx bones, a distal – which carries the fingernail – an intermediate and a proximal phalanx, while the thumb has just two, with no intermediate phalanx. To put it simply – there is a thumb, an index finger, middle finger, ring finger and what is commonly called the pinky or little finger. With me so far?’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Roscoe growled.’ We haven’t got time for a lesson in anatomy.’

  ‘In a strangulation, the thumbs obviously do the main damage,’ Summers continued, apparently enjoying herself, ‘with the other fingers supporting them in a powerful grip around the throat, compressing the trachea. Of those, the little finger does the least, but the other three fingers with their extended distal phalanges enable compression to be fatally exerted—’

  Kate cut in before she could finish her explanation. ‘I get it!’ she exclaimed. ‘Excluding the deep bruises from the thumbs on the throat, there are three main marks on the right side of her neck but only two on the left.’

  Summers positively beamed, like a schoolteacher whose pupil has finally sussed the answer to a key question. ‘Exactly,’ she replied. ‘And this killer exerted considerably more pressure than was necessary.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Roscoe snapped. ‘We seem to be playing games here.’

  ‘No games, Ted,’ Summers contradicted.

  ‘He’s missing a finger,’ Kate breathed. ‘Three pressure marks on one side and four on the other suggest that he only has three fingers on his left hand, including the little finger.’

  ‘With the ring finger being the missing one,’ Summers finished. ‘And those fingers will be long and powerful, going by the position of the marks well towards the back of the neck, resulting in the fracture of the hyoid bone and thyroid cartilage.’

  Instead of looking pleased at the pathologist’s findings, Roscoe’s expression darkened. ‘That rules out Copely completely then,’ he said gloomily.

  Kate stared at him in astonishment. ‘Maybe it does,’ she agreed, ‘but it certainly rules someone else in! All we’ve got to do is to find him.’

  ‘So a picture is at last starting to emerge then,’ Ansell commented when Roscoe and Kate reported back. ‘Still a bit hazy but gradually firming up.’

  Kate nodded, frowning when she saw that Roscoe still wore his gloomy, disappointed expression. ‘We now know we are looking for a powerfully built man with the ring finger missing from his left hand,’ she said. ‘which brings us a step closer to nailing our man, if we manage to identify a suspect.’

  Roscoe still seemed unenthused. ‘If is a very big word, Kate,’ he said. ‘At present we don’t have any suspects, and if this character’s got no form, a descriptive index search won’t turn up anything, so we’d still be up shit creek without a paddle.’

  ‘Nice to see you are still in a positive frame of mind, Ted,’ Ansell said with heavy sarcasm. ‘So what other helpful suggestions have you to share with us?’

  Roscoe gave a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry, Guv,’ he replied. ‘Getting old and jaded, that’s all. It’s just that we seem to be walking in treacle on this one and I really thought the fingerprints on that tape would clinch things.’

  Ansell nodded. ‘Part of the puzzle we have yet to solve,’ he said. ‘At the very least it could suggest the killer either associates or works with Copely – perhaps Copely borrowed the tape from him at some stage to wrap something up in or repair it?’

  ‘Bit of a wild card, that, Guv,’ Roscoe argued. ‘Equally, Copely could have picked the tape up in a stationery shop, such as WH Smiths but decided against buying it, leaving the killer to buy it at a later date instead.’

  ‘So why is the rest of the tape clean of prints?’ Ansell persisted. ‘By all accounts, you would have expected other customers to have handled it as well.’

  ‘The library,’ Kate breathed. ‘Why the hell didn’t I think of that before?’

  Ansell directed an interrogative glance in her direction. ‘Perhaps you’d like to share that particular pearl of wisdom with us, Sergeant?’ he drawled.

  Kate nodded quickly. ‘You said just now that the killer could be working with Copely, Guv – and where does Copely work? The library! That would explain why the tape was otherwise unmarked. It could have been purchased as part of a bulk supply of stationery and still sealed in its plastic bag when it was dumped in a drawer at the reception desk. Copely himself may have actually been the first assistant to use it when the existing reel ran out and by doing so left his prints on the tape. The killer could then have borrowed it from him or snaffled the whole reel for his own purposes before anyone else got to handle it—’

  Roscoe’s snort cut her off. ‘An even wilder bloody card,’ he growled. ‘We’re getting into the realm of fairy stories now.’

  Ansell nodded thoughtfully. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘It’s certainly a plausible scenario.’

  There was a glint of excitement in Kate’s eyes. ‘You bet it is,’ she exclaimed, forgetting herself for a moment, ‘and there seems to be a definite link between these murders and the library itself.’

  Despite his initial support, Ansell seemed taken aback by her sudden gush of enthusiasm and he made an irritable grimace. ‘Then you’ll know where your next line of inquiry will be, won’t you, Sergeant?’ he said drily. ‘And when you do visit the library, perhaps you’ll take Mr Fallow’s book with you. One of the library assistants has just telephoned the incident room to demand it be returned forthwith – on pain of a hefty fine!’

  The library was closed when Kate got there, following another non-productive incident room briefing, and she swore as she peered through the darkened windows at the rows of books in their tight aisles. Pink Glasses was nowhere to be seen and a check at the back of the building revealed that the car park was completely empty. Glancing at her watch, Kate saw that it was already after eight in the evening, so the fact that the staff had all gone home was hardly surprising. She hadn’t realized it was so late.

  Returning to her car,
Kate sat there for several minutes, thinking about her next move. Plainly, the inquiries at the library would have to wait until the following day. Now, though, a quick trip to the chippy for a bag of their finest chunky cuts and a piece of battered cod – or whatever else it was they sold as cod – was on the agenda. Her stomach felt as though her throat had been cut and she needed something substantial inside her, like yesterday.

  After that, there might be an opportunity to slope off to see how Hayden was getting on after learning of the murder of his favourite nurse, which must by now have become the talk of the hospital. She smiled grimly. That would hardly aid his recovery but he would find out soon enough from the newspapers delivered to the hospital anyway.

  The local chippy was almost empty when she pushed through the glass door into the small tiled reception area and the smell of frying that greeted her stirred her stomach juices with rumbles of anticipation as she put in her order.

  Minutes later she was back in the Mazda and heading out of town in the direction of the village of Watchfield, her monster bag of fish and chips on the passenger seat beside her filling the car with its unique aroma that she knew would take a couple of days to get rid of.

  For a change, no mist floated in her headlights when she turned off the main Wedmore road on to the Levels and the moon was already thrusting itself up into the pencil-thin bar of fading light that for the moment still defined the horizon. A couple of black winged shapes almost grazed the car’s windscreen as she entered Burtle village and something – possibly a fox – fled into the dusk at the far end of her drive as the wheels of her Mazda crunched into the gravel sideway.

  Trudging along the path to the porch, she unlocked the front door and fumbled inside for the living-room light switch, relieved when the light sprang into life and the pale yellow glow seeping over the doorstep revealed that there were no parcels waiting for her this time. Maybe the killer was having a night off, she thought grimly, and, walking through to the kitchen, she dumped the packet of fish and chips on the work surface while she bent down to search for a plate in a low-level cupboard.

  She heard the faint thud above her head as she propped herself on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar and froze, a fork laden with battered fish halfway to her lips.

  Carefully sliding off the bar stool, she kicked off her shoes and crept stocking-footed back into the living room, straining her ears for a repeat of the unfamiliar sound. It was an old cottage, always full of strange creaks and groans but for some reason the sound she had heard this time had grated on her senses.

  She paused at the bottom of the staircase, head on one side and heart thumping. Then, quite suddenly, there it was again – like a heavy footfall – and, peering up into the gloom, she saw a trickle of light to the right of the landing. Someone was in her bedroom!

  The risers made hardly any sound as she mounted the staircase, one stair at a time, and the fact that her intruder seemed totally unaware of her approach was indicated by more movements from inside the bedroom. Surely he had heard her arrive in her car and open the front door? Was he deaf?

  She got to the bedroom door, which was half open, and peered into the room. The bedside light was on and a shadow was thrown across the opposite wall, a shadow which appeared to be that of a heavily built man, who was obviously moving about at the other end of the room, hidden from her by the half-open door.

  She was about to push the door fully open when the voice called out, ‘Leave any chips for me then?’

  She released her pent-up breath in a loud gasp and straightened as Hayden hobbled into view from behind the door, a big grin on his good-natured face.

  ‘How the hell did you get here?’ she rapped. ‘You scared me half to death.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t walk from the hospital,’ he said, tapping the aluminium stick he was leaning on with the toe of one foot. ‘No, a nice ambulance crew dropped me off about an hour ago.’

  She studied his rumpled grey trousers and shapeless green cardigan and shook her head with undisguised disapproval. ‘You should never have been discharged from hospital,’ she snapped. ‘It’s bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘I’ve got all the right tablets and a nice corset to wear, so what more could any red-blooded male want?’ he joked, then frowned. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t stay there when the sister told me about poor little Claire Topping – and I was worried about you.’

  ‘Me?’ she snorted. ‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself – and what use do you think you would be in your present state anyway?’

  ‘I could always clock ’em wiv me stick, love,’ he said in a terrible Cockney accent.

  ‘You should be in bed, you fool,’ she retorted.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that an invitation?’

  She gave a faint smile. ‘No,’ she replied firmly, turning on her heel. ‘That’s the last thing you need with a bad back and a nice corset!’

  ‘It’s either me or the chips,’ he warned. ‘Your choice.’

  Her grin broadened as she headed back downstairs. ‘No contest,’ she threw back over her shoulder. ‘It has to be the chips.’

  CHAPTER 17

  P ink Glasses treated Kate to a critical stare when she pushed through the glass doors of the library after leaving her Mazda car parked directly outside with its two offside wheels on the kerb edge. At ten in the morning, the place was practically empty, just an elderly man reading a newspaper at a table to one side of the door and a middle-aged woman thumbing through a book in the ‘Flora and Fauna’ section.

  Kate gave a tight smile as she thumped Fallow’s book down on to the desk in front of the assistant with deliberate force. ‘Your book – returned, as promised,’ she said.

  Pink Glasses snorted. ‘Not before time,’ she snapped, a tic in her cheek twitching irritably. ‘I rang your superiors about it.’

  ‘So I gather,’ Kate responded as sweetly as she could manage. ‘Thank you so much for the reminder, Mrs er. . . ?’

  ‘Rundle – and it’s Miss!’

  Oh, what a surprise, Kate mused with a spiteful smirk.

  The assistant picked up the book and carefully examined it, as if it were a priceless mediaeval manuscript from the British Museum, flicking through the pages and peering along the spine before setting it down on a pile of others to her right and turning to her computer.

  Kate waited patiently as she took her time tapping in some information. Finally, appearing to sense that Kate was still standing there, her gaze switched from the screen to the detective’s face. ‘Yes?’ she snapped in a sharp ‘what is it now?’ tone.

  ‘I have a few questions for you,’ Kate replied, ‘if you don’t mind?’

  ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘Well, for a start, how many people work here?’

  ‘Whatever do you want to know that for?’

  Kate sighed heavily. ‘How many?’

  The assistant made an irritable grimace. ‘Three assistants at present, plus the senior librarian. Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘How many are male?’

  ‘What’s this – a sex equality test?’

  ‘No, it’s a straightforward question that requires a straightforward answer, if you don’t mind?’

  The assistant flushed at the reproof. ‘Er . . . two: the senior librarian and a Mr Copely.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And Mr Copely should have been at work long before now. I don’t know where he’s got to.’

  She obviously hadn’t heard about his arrest, and his subsequent release on police bail meant he was probably still at home in bed, so Kate quickly changed the subject, concentrating instead on her Sellotape inquiry, which in the cold light of day now seemed a rather infinitesimal issue to pursue, despite her conviction that it could actually tie the library into the murders. ‘I see you’re a fully computerized operation here, Miss Rundle but presumably you keep some basic stationery on the premises – pens, paper, staples, pins – that sort of thing?’

  The assistant
raised both eyebrows in astonishment. ‘What has that got to do with anything?’

  Kate’s tone hardened and she started to lose what little patience she possessed. ‘If you find my questions so difficult to answer, Miss Rundle, I am quite happy to speak to the senior librarian instead?’

  That implied threat certainly went home and Pink Glasses swallowed quickly. ‘Of course we have stationery.’

  ‘And do you use Sellotape?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, we have a roll somewhere. It’s used to put up notices on the windows about forthcoming new novels or exhibitions, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘In my drawer here, I should imagine.’

  ‘Could you check to see?’

  The question was polite enough but there was no mistaking the authority in the tone and, though the assistant tutted irritably, she jerked open the drawer in front of her and peered inside. Kate waited while she rummaged around for a few seconds, frowning. Then the woman shrugged and looked back at her.

  ‘It’s gone,’ she said and sighed. ‘It really is annoying the way people borrow things and don’t return them. It was a new roll too, still sealed in its plastic bag, the last time I saw it – the old used roll had already been taken.’

  ‘When did you last see the new roll?’

  ‘A few days ago – I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘So who do you think might have borrowed it?’

  ‘Could have been anyone. Several organizations use the library for meetings in the evenings – writers’ and readers’ clubs, a conservation group and the local historical society to begin with – and the stationery drawer is never locked—’ She broke off. ‘Now, I really have to insist on being told what all this is about.’

  But Kate ignored her question yet again, homing in instead on what she had said about local organizations. ‘The historical society has meetings in the library?’ she queried sharply.

  Pink Glasses nodded. ‘In the evenings. We have a room upstairs. They pay an annual fee and it helps towards the upkeep of the building.’