He was an older, thinner version of Brian Meredith, in fact he was almost gaunt, but Richard put that down to the restless energy with which he seemed to be imbued, both in speaking and in moving about. He led the way into the large room, which was a typical lawyer’s den, with a large leather-covered desk and walls lined with shelves groaning under the weight of legal texts and law reports. Another man was sitting in front of the desk, who rose to shake hands as Peter introduced them.
‘This is my old friend Leonard Massey, Doctor. We did our pupillage together in London. I’m sorry we have to meet in these sad circumstances.’
Richard sat in the other seat in front of the desk as Meredith went around to his own chair and indicated a tray in front of him. ‘We’ve just had this delivered, I’m sure you could do with a cup after your journey.’
As he fussed with a coffee pot and a milk jug, Leonard Massey addressed himself to the pathologist.
‘It’s very good of you to come down like this, Doctor Pryor. I know some of the London people, of course, especially Keith Simpson, but it would be so much easier to deal with an expert on his home soil, so to speak.’
Massey was in his fifties, a heavily-built man of rather sombre appearance. Faultlessly dressed in a dark suit, he wore a spotted bow tie and had thick black eyebrows that turned up at the ends. Pryor thought that he was like a stage version of a successful QC, grave, ponderous and with a ‘presence’ that tended to dominate any company.
As Peter Meredith passed over a cup of coffee, Richard admitted that so far, he knew virtually nothing of the circumstances or how he might be able to help.
Massey nodded regally and launched into a detailed explanation of the problem.
‘This concerns my only daughter, Linda, who was twenty-eight years old. She was married to Michael Prentice about five years ago and they lived at Pennard, near Bishopston, a few miles west of Swansea.’
Richard knew the village from some of his student jaunts, years before.
‘Michael was originally an industrial engineer, though he had hardly ever become involved in the technical side.’
The barrister said this with a hint of scorn and Richard sensed that Leonard’s son-in-law was not exactly his favourite person.
‘He made his money – quite a lot of it, it seems – from various entrepreneurial ventures, mainly around the motor industry, as he was passionate about high-performance cars.’
Pryor was beginning to wonder how this connected with the need for a forensic pathologist, but the lawyer soon reached the crux of the story.
‘When my daughter first married him, they lived near Slough, where he was a partner in a firm which was making electronic ignition systems, but then he formed a consortium to develop some other revolutionary ideas to do with engines. I don’t exactly know what it was, but they set up a small Research and Development unit and a pilot factory on an industrial estate somewhere near Swansea.’
‘Very generous terms were being offered by the local councils to attract business,’ cut in Peter Meredith. ‘Five years’ holiday from rent and rates.’
‘Anyway, they moved here eighteen months ago and bought a nice house very near the sea. Then two weeks ago, we had a panic message from Michael to say that Linda had vanished from the house while he was at the factory. The next day, her body was recovered from the sea by the coastguards.’
His voice did not break, but it became wooden, as if he was forcing restraint on his feelings.
‘She often went swimming in the sea,’ offered Peter, helpfully covering up his friend’s emotions. ‘The house was virtually on top of the cliffs at Pennard.’
‘Obviously the death was referred to the local coroner and he ordered a post-mortem, which confirmed drowning as the cause of death.’ Massey had recovered his poise now and spoke in a brisk courtroom manner.
‘My wife and I were devastated, of course. We came down and tried to help Michael in making all the necessary arrangements, though he seemed to have it all under control. The funeral was actually set for tomorrow, but it’s had to be postponed.’
Richard waited silently for the punchline.
‘Last Thursday, I had a phone call at home from an old girlfriend of Linda’s, who was in boarding school with her. She lives in Reading and before my daughter left Slough, they saw a lot of each other. They’ve kept in touch and seemed quite close.’
He paused to take a mouthful of coffee.
‘This friend, Marjorie Elphington, had been in France and only arrived home on Thursday, to hear from another schoolfriend that Linda had drowned. She rang me straight away, because she had had several letters from Linda in the past few months, saying how unhappy she was and that Michael wanted a divorce because he had taken up with another woman.’
Pryor began to see where the story was taking them.
‘You knew nothing of this?’ he asked.
The barrister shook his head ponderously. ‘Not an inkling! But since her marriage, Linda had grown more and more distant from us, especially since they moved to Wales. We didn’t see her that often – to tell you the truth, neither my wife nor myself were all that keen on her husband. All he seemed interested in was making a fast buck, as they say!’
Richard began to wonder if he had driven almost eighty miles because of a father’s dislike of the man who had stolen his daughter, but there was more.
‘Marjorie was particularly worried by Linda’s last letter, about a fortnight earlier,’ said Massey in sombre tones. ‘She said that Michael was becoming abusive because she refused to even contemplate a divorce and several times had actually shaken and punched her during flaming rows.’
‘And you think he may have something to do with her death?’ concluded Pryor.
Leonard Massey shrugged. ‘It may sound far-fetched, but I wouldn’t put it past the chap. And I can’t rest without at least making every effort to prove that it didn’t happen that way.’
Richard thought for a moment. ‘You say that the post-mortem confirmed drowning as the cause of death? Nothing else found?’
Massey took a thin briefcase from the floor besides his chair and handed Pryor a sheet of paper. ‘I saw the coroner on Friday and I copied out the relevant parts of the report he had from his pathologist. He seemed quite satisfied that it was drowning.’
Richard quickly scanned the few handwritten paragraphs.
‘There were some abrasions and bruises recorded, scattered over the body,’ he observed.
Massey nodded. ‘He explained those by the body being tossed around in the tide for perhaps more than a day. The body was seen by a fisherman at the foot of the cliffs and it was recovered by the coastguards, who said it was in a deep gully between sharp rocks, which could easily have caused those marks.’
Peter Meredith, who had been listening intently to the others, wanted to clarify the time scale.
‘You said she went missing on a Tuesday night – at least, that’s when her husband said he returned home to find the house empty. And then her body was found on Thursday morning?’
Massey nodded. ‘He didn’t report her missing until the next evening, because he admits they had some marital problems and he thought she had just up and left him.
‘But when he had no message from her after twenty-four hours, he rang the police – especially as he says that he found that her handbag and almost all her clothes were still there.’
‘Was she in the habit of going off alone to swim?’ asked Pryor.
‘Yes, that was true enough. She loved swimming and she loved that coast, she was very happy to move down there from the Home Counties.’
There was another silence as the three men thought about the possibilities.
‘So what’s the situation at the moment?’ asked Richard.
Leonard Massey moved into his courtroom mode again. ‘I want to be absolutely sure that there’s no sign of any foul play, Doctor Pryor! I’ve spoken to the coroner and in the circumstances, he has no objection to a private pos
t-mortem examination.’
‘How does the husband feel about that?’ enquired Meredith.
‘He has no choice in the matter,’ replied Massey, brusquely. ‘The inquest has not been held, so the coroner still has full jurisdiction. If the possibility of a non-accidental cause exists, then he is entitled – indeed, he should be obliged – to take all measures to confirm or exclude it.’
There seemed no answer to this, so Pryor confined himself to practicalities.
‘Where was the first autopsy carried out – and by whom?’ he enquired.
‘In the public mortuary – a rather primitive place, I’m afraid. It’s in Swansea itself, though the coroner who’s dealing with the matter is in Gowerton, a few miles away. The doctor was a retired pathologist who still does coroner’s work. A Doctor O’Malley, I believe.’
He delved into his black leather case once more and handed Richard another sheet of paper.
‘These are the phone numbers of the coroner’s officer and of the undertaker and my own contact details. You are more used to making these arrangements, so perhaps I could leave it with you. I will naturally be responsible for your usual fee and expenses.’
Pryor stood up and shook hands with the other two men.
‘I will have to offer this Dr O’Malley the courtesy of attending,’ he explained. ‘It will probably be a day or two before I can arrange to come down again, but I’ll let you know what’s happening and will send you a full report as soon as I can.’
Peter Meredith showed him out and he walked back to his car, thinking that this all sounded a bit far-fetched, in that the QC was virtually suspecting his son-in-law of murder. But ‘the usual fee and expenses’ part sounded good, as well as getting his name known around the South Wales legal establishment.
SIX
‘Why don’t I drive you down there, Doc?’ offered Jimmy Jenkins. ‘It’s a long ’ole journey and you want to be fresh to do your duty when you gets there, eh?’
It was Wednesday evening and Pryor had arranged to carry out the second post-mortem at noon the next day, having made all the arrangements through the coroner’s officer in Gowerton, appropriately named PC Mort.
Richard wasn’t all that keen on Jimmy’s suggestion, but Angela thought it a good idea.
‘You’re paying him to do odds and ends about the place, but there’s no hurry about the gardening, so he might as well make himself useful driving you,’ she pointed out.
He gave in and at half past eight next morning, they left for the three-hour drive. Richard refused point-blank to sit in the back as if he was a grandee with a chauffeur and sat alongside Jimmy, where he could keep an eye on his driving.
He was soon aware that the man was an excellent driver, for he learned that Jimmy had spent much of the war behind the wheel of a three-ton Bedford, trundling across North Africa and then Italy.
‘How are you getting on with the little widow woman, Doctor?’ he asked. ‘Nice little lady, she is! Do her good to get out and about a bit more, she’s been keeping too much to herself since her husband died.’
He seemed to know everyone’s business from top to bottom of the Wye Valley.
‘She’s doing fine,’ said Richard sincerely. ‘At least we’re eating proper food now, not stuff out of tins! I understand her husband died in an accident.’
‘Blown to bits, he was!’ said Jimmy with ghoulish drama. ‘Some chemical factory up near Lydney. Time she had a bit of cheerful company, after the bad time she’s been through. Mind, that Sian will cheer her up, she’s always on the go, ain’t she?’
As Bridgend was left behind, Richard sat and studied the countryside, seeing things he missed when he was driving. It was more relaxed, he had to admit, though he resolved in future only to let Jimmy drive on long-distance trips. Talking of Moira Davison got him thinking about her – she seemed perfect for the job and he only hoped she stayed. He had known secretaries in the past to give up when they had to type post-mortem reports with descriptions of horrible injuries or decomposed corpses. Moira was very well organized, setting a routine on the first couple of days which first ensured that any office work was done, then the beds made and the lunch prepared, with some cleaning in the afternoon and more typing if it was there.
He sensed that both Angela and Sian were slightly wary of the new employee, though they were unfailingly friendly and pleasant to her. It never occurred to him that he might be the cause of this watchfulness, as they waited to see how his attitude to her developed.
Pryor had been married for nine years until his divorce in Singapore last year – it was one of the factors that persuaded him to take the ‘golden handshake’ and return to Britain. He had met Miriam, five years younger than himself, when he was serving in Ceylon. She was a civilian radiographer attached to the military hospital in Colombo. Later, he found that the old adage ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure’ was all too true and after a honeymoon year, things started to go downhill. She went with him to Singapore when hostilities finished and stayed for several years when he took the civilian post.
But after a series of ‘affairs’, she left him and went back to England, the final break coming with the divorce a year ago.
Though by no means celibate since the divorce, he had no burning desire to marry again. Ruefully, he thought that he now had no lack of feminine company, with three women under the same roof most of the time!
His reverie took them further towards Swansea and soon they were looking for the mortuary, which the coroner’s officer had told him was in The Strand. This turned out to be a dismal street between the lower part of the town and the river, which in former times had been a quayside. The mortuary was housed in one arch of a disused railway viaduct, each end being blocked off with brickwork, that on the street side having large double doors. Jimmy parked outside and declared that he was going off for an hour to find a pub.
Pryor knocked on the door and it creaked open to reveal a small, dark-haired man who announced himself as the coroner’s officer. There were two other men present, who PC Mort introduced as Dr O’Malley and Detective Inspector Lewis. The other pathologist was about seventy, burly and red in the face, dressed in an old-fashioned blue suit with high lapels. He seemed an amiable enough man and had a marked Irish accent when he told Richard, with tongue in his cheek, that he still did a few coroner’s cases to finance his membership of his golf club. Pryor thought that it was very likely that the coroner was also a member of the same club.
The local detective was another small man, middle-aged and with thick dark hair coming low on his forehead.
‘The coroner had a word with my ‘super’ and he thought it best if I came along, in case anything significant turned up,’ he explained.
The arch was divided into two halves, the outer part containing an old cold cabinet like the one in Monmouth, only larger. It was a ‘walk-in’ type without racks and looked as if it had originally come from a butcher’s shop. Beyond a door in the central partition of the arch lay the post-mortem area, merely a porcelain slab raised on two brick pillars, with a sink and a table against the walls. A dusty fluorescent light hung by chains from the distant roof. Standing by the table was a tall, stooped man with a walrus moustache, already attired in a long red rubber apron and thick rubber gloves that came almost to his elbows.
‘This is Mr Foster, from a local undertaker’s,’ explained Patrick O’Malley. ‘He’s really an embalmer, but he comes down to help here when required.’
Foster bobbed his head and muttered a greeting, then went outside to pull a trolley from the fridge. He slid the sheeted body on to the table whilst Richard opened his case on the table and then put on an apron. There were several pairs of grubby rubber boots under the sink and he chose a pair of short, white ones which looked as if they were rejects from a hospital operating theatre.
Foster removed the sheet from the body and to complete the legal formalities of continuity of evidence, should it ever be required, PC Mort confirmed it was the m
ortal remains of Linda Prentice.
‘I’ve no doubt it was a drowning,’ volunteered the older pathologist, as Pryor began to examine the body externally. ‘There was no froth at the mouth and nostrils, but plenty down in the air passages.’
He was slightly defensive, which was natural enough when a colleague was being hired to pick any holes in his opinion that could be found.
Richard nodded. ‘As she wasn’t found for a couple of days, that’s not surprising,’ he agreed. ‘Were all these marks like this when you examined her?’
He pointed with a gloved finger at a number of scratches and areas of peeled skin on the forehead, nose, arms and legs. O’Malley came near, bending forwards to keep his suit clear of the table. He peered at the superficial injuries, his glasses on the end of his nose.
‘They’re much more obvious now, of course,’ he observed. ‘But that’s to be expected after all this time. I did my examination a week ago.’
He was correct, thought Richard, as bruises could ‘come out’, as his grandmother used to say, and appear more prominent after a day or two.
Richard got Foster to turn the body on its side, holding the upper arm so that the pathologist could look at the back, where there were more irregular scratches, some in long tracks.
‘Where she was recovered was a very rocky place,’ offered O’Malley, still rather defensively. ‘Deep gullies with the tide surging up and down. The rocks are sharp there and those limpets and barnacles make it even worse.’
‘Some bruises as well,’ Richard pointed out. He recalled that O’Malley had not listed the injuries in any detail in his brief report to the coroner, but that was not unusual in a non-forensic autopsy in which there was no suspicion of foul play. O’Malley peered again at some small areas of discoloration on the arms, neck and face, which varied from blue and purple through to pale green and yellow.
‘Banging about on those damned rocks, no doubt!’ he declared. ‘I’ve seen it too often around this coast, it can be a very dangerous place.’
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