Where Death Delights

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Can’t have been either contact or a short range discharge,’ he announced to the group who were clustered around. DI Lane, still in his wide hat and raincoat, peered closely at the neck, as Pryor demonstrated the direction of the dried blood which had run from both the wound and the mouth.

  ‘Any idea what the range of the shot would have been, Doc?’ he asked.

  Richard shrugged at this. ‘All depends on the weapon and the charge in the cartridge,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that’s up to the lab to discover from test firing.’

  Archie nodded. ‘Probably have to send it off to Birmingham for that, they’re the experts on shooters.’

  The post-mortem proceeded, everyone knowing their role in the task. The exhibits officer was busy packing and labelling everything that might be needed for evidence, down to samples of blood and urine when Pryor had collected them.

  He cut a circle of skin from around the bullet hole and kept it for possible analysis, as the soiling on the edge of the hole might contain substances that could identify a particular batch of ammunition.

  Inside the head, the bullet had smashed its way into the thick bone at the base of the skull and had to be recovered. It was essential to retrieve it as intact as possible, so that it could be matched to a given weapon by the marks made on it by the spiral rifling inside the gun barrel.

  ‘It’s pretty much flattened, but there’s a bit of jacket that is still in fair condition,’ said Pryor, as he carefully fished out the missile with a pair of forceps with rubber tubing pushed over the tips, to avoid making false scratches.

  The liaison officer packed it in cotton wool to stop it knocking against the glass of the small container in which it would be sent to Birmingham.

  ‘Looks like a “two-two”, which would suit the gun from the car,’ he commented. Though it seemed almost inevitable that this was the weapon used, nothing could be taken for granted.

  ‘No chance of tightening the time of death, Doctor?’ asked Detective Inspector Lane, hopefully.

  Richard had taken another rectal temperature before starting to examine the body. ‘It’s dropped another degree since we were in the woods,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t really help much. There are so many variables that anyone who claims to be more accurate is just guessing.’

  The rest of the hour-long examination revealed little of significance. The stomach contents gave off a strong smell of beer, but there was no food present.

  Richard was just about to finish and let the mortuary attend-ant begin to restore the body, when the door opened and two other men walked in. Once again, their large size and confident bearing marked them out as plain-clothes policemen. Richard happened to be looking at Angela at that moment and saw her face change expression. Her jaw tightened and her cheeks reddened as the first man identified himself.

  ‘Sorry we’re late, I’m Detective Superintendent Paul Vickers from the Met – and this is DI Waverley.’ The other man nodded, but it was the senior officer who did all the talking. ‘Hell of a drive down, pouring with rain until Cheltenham. We’ve come to see if your chap really is Harry Haines.’

  Brian Lane went forward to welcome the superintendent from London and started to introduce the others in the room, but Vickers suddenly saw Angela and seemed to freeze on the spot.

  ‘Good God, Angela!’ he said. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  The local DI looked from one to the other. ‘You know Dr Bray, then? She came to help Doctor Pryor.’

  Angela nodded stonily at the newcomer.

  ‘Hello, Paul,’ she said icily. ‘How are you?’

  He mumbled something and turned his attention quickly to the body on the table. ‘This is the chap, then?’ he asked unnecessarily.

  Pryor, wondering what was going on, stood back so that Paul Vickers could get a good look at the face of the corpse. It took him only a few seconds to confirm the man’s identity.

  ‘That’s Harry Haines alright,’ he said grimly. ‘I can’t say that he’ll be any great loss to London.’

  He fell into discussion with the Gloucester detectives about the case and Angela took the opportunity to move to Richard’s side.

  ‘Can you give me the keys to the car, please?’ she murmured urgently.

  ‘They’re in my jacket pocket, hanging out in the office,’ he replied. ‘Anything you need from it?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ll wait for you there, this place has suddenly become overcrowded,’ she said cryptically and quietly went out of the room.

  It was only later, when they were driving out of the hospital grounds that he fully learned the reason for her strange behaviour, though he had begun to guess what had happened.

  ‘Sorry about that, Richard, it wasn’t very professional, but I wasn’t really doing much in there, anyway.’

  He looked sideways at her profile and saw in the dim first light of dawn, that she was staring fixedly ahead.

  ‘Are you alright, Angela?’ he asked solicitously. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  She shook her head, angry at herself.

  ‘You’re a good chap, Richard, but no thanks. It’s just me being silly.’

  ‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ he said gently. ‘What a coincidence! Perhaps I shouldn’t have dragged you out tonight.’

  She laughed more easily, rapidly returning to her normal poise.

  ‘You weren’t to know, were you! Yes, that was him, the unfaithful bastard! Another reason why I’m happy to be out of London.’

  She laid a hand briefly on his sleeve, in a rare gesture of affection.

  FIFTEEN

  Later that morning, Lewis Lewis drove one of the CID cars from Gowerton up to Cardiff, a large brown evidence bag on the passenger seat beside him. His face was set in a frown of concentration, as he tried to work out the possible ramifications of ‘the Prentice case’, as it had become known in the station. Lewis was a very conscientious officer, having risen through the ranks from the constable who had joined the Force in 1945, directly from his Army service. He had the deep-set eyes, black eyebrows and lean features of many South Walian descendants of the Iberian Celts, who came millennia ago before the bigger, red-headed Brythons. His father, three uncles and both grandfathers had been colliers in the Swansea Valley – he and his schoolteacher brother were the first generation to escape the pits.

  Lewis knew the route to the Home Office laboratory well, as he had brought ‘exhibits’ there many times before. It was situated in a large enclosed estate in Llanishen, a northern suburb of the city. A high metal fence surrounded several acres of land adjacent to the ‘ROF’, an acronym for the Royal Ordnance Factory where local rumour had it that uranium was processed to make armour-piercing shells.

  He turned into an entrance to what was euphemistically called ‘The Government Offices’, most of which was occupied by the Inland Revenue, who dealt with the tax affairs of all government employees worldwide. When Lewis was in the Second Battalion of the Welsh Regiment in Burma during the war, he always felt it rather comforting that the minute amount of tax deducted from his pay, was calculated back in South Wales!

  He showed his warrant card to the gatekeeper and drove up one of the internal roads, past ranks of ugly single-storey brick buildings with flat roofs, looking like bomb-shelters with windows.

  Two of them housed the Forensic Science Laboratory and in the small reception area in the nearest, he signed in and then recorded his delivery of his samples on forms given to him by the middle-aged lady behind the desk. He knew her from previous visits and they had the usual chat about the weather and where she was going on holiday next week.

  ‘I’d better have a word with Larry McLoughlin,’ he said. ‘These are a bit out of the ordinary.’ He pointed at the envelope on the counter.

  She went to a door behind and a moment later, the liaison officer came out, a DI seconded from the Carmarthenshire Constabulary. They greeted each other, being old acquaintances, then Lewis explained the problem.

&nbs
p; ‘I’ll bet you’ve never had this request before, Larry,’ he claimed. ‘The super wants two samples of engine oil compared.’ He explained the problem and after listening, McLoughlin raised the flap in the counter.

  ‘Better come through and we’ll have a word with the eggheads.’

  After a quick cup of Nescafé in Larry’s office, they went through into the second building, half of which was the toxicology laboratory, filled with benches of glassware, bottles and exotic electrical instruments.

  From previous submissions of alcohol and drug samples, Lewis had a nodding acquaintance with Dr Archer, the man who ran this section. He again explained Ben Evans’s request to examine the exhibits from Gower.

  ‘This chap’s car has got a slight oil leak and he wants to know if he had parked in a particular spot where he shouldn’t have been.’

  Archer, a tall, stooped man with a small pointed beard, made a sucking noise through his teeth to express doubt.

  ‘I don’t know if we can tell one brand of oil from another, Inspector. It might have to go away to some specialist place, like the Shell laboratories.’

  Lewis hastened to elaborate on his story and told Archer about the testing of the additive in Prentice’s Jaguar.

  ‘Molybdenum sulphide? Bloody hell, that’s a new one on me!’ exclaimed the chemist, pushing his half-moon spectacles up his long nose. He turned to a bookshelf above a nearby desk and took down a volume from the middle shelf.

  ‘Let’s try good old Sherwood Taylor, he usually covers most things.’ After running his finger down the index, Archer turned to a page in the middle and began muttering under his breath, Lewis catching words like ‘ammonium phosphomolybdate’. Then, closing the book, he turned back to the police officers.

  ‘I think we can make a stab at it,’ he said confidently. ‘It’s not as if we need to measure the concentration at this stage, but just to be able to identify the stuff, eh?’

  Lewis agreed, glad that the scientist had not kicked the possibility of helping into touch.

  ‘There’s hardly likely to be anyone else in South Wales with molybdenum sulphide in their sumps,’ he said. ‘Except for the other people in that company and one of their stolen vans. That’s something we would have to sort out.’

  Leaving the brown envelope with the chemist, he left with the promise that they would try to get a result back to Gowerton within the next week.

  After being up all night, Angela Bray took to her bed on returning to Garth House and stayed there until noon, but Richard had to go to Newport to carry out the day’s post-mortems. He made some breakfast for himself at about half past six, then wrote out a report on the night’s activities to send to the Gloucester coroner and police, when Moira had typed them up. Afterwards he took the opportunity to catch up on some medical journal articles until eight, when he washed, shaved and departed.

  Soon afterwards, both Moira and Sian arrived and were intrigued to find a note from Richard telling them that Angela was in bed and that he had gone to Newport.

  ‘Why has she gone to bed?’ asked the technician, wondering if her boss was unwell, but Moira soon found the handwritten report on her desk.

  ‘They’ve been up all night, that’s why,’ she exclaimed, after scanning the papers. ‘They’ve had a murder!’

  This called for an early cup of tea and the two women sat down in the kitchen to discuss their first definite homicide with almost an air of pride.

  ‘If we get in with the police, there should be more work like this,’ said Sian eagerly, again identifying strongly with the partnership.

  ‘Richard will surely have to go to the Assizes with this one,’ said Moira. ‘I hope he’s got a nice dark British suit for that, not those funny tropical ones he’s so fond of wearing.’

  She was very conventional when it came to clothes, either her own or other people’s. Though she dressed nicely, her tastes were always subdued compared with either Angela, who was a fashion plate – or Sian, who favoured the young and trendy. Richard’s safari suits, with button-down pockets and half-belts at the back, made Moira think of big-game hunters or coffee planters.

  Sian immediately came to Pryor’s defence.

  ‘I quite like the way he dresses,’ she declared. ‘Makes him look younger and more romantic!’

  Moira thought that was because Sian wanted to narrow the age gap between her and her employer. Though the two women had become good friends, whenever Richard Pryor was the subject of the conversation, each became a little possessive, even if they didn’t realize it.

  The crunch of heavy boots outside the back door heralded the arrival of Jimmy Jenkins, who seemed to have a sixth sense for detecting a pot of tea, as he did for a pint of beer.

  ‘Came to have a go at all those weeds in the front,’ he explained. ‘Proper disgrace they are, the old lady would have a fit if she saw them.’

  However, he seemed in no hurry to attack the offending vegetation and sat down for his tea. He even had his own large mug in the cupboard, obscurely inscribed ‘A Present from Bognor Regis’. The drive down from the house to the main road was quite steep and ran at the side of a long stretch of coarse grass, which could hardly be called a lawn. At the edge adjacent to the gravel drive, there had been a narrow flower bed, still sporting a few straggling rose bushes, but since Richard’s aunt had died, it was filled with a luxuriant growth of weeds.

  ‘It would be nice to see it looking tidy again,’ said Moira, having known the house when it was kept in excellent condition.

  ‘The doctor would rather have me mess about getting his vineyard ready,’ grumbled Jimmy. ‘I told him no good will come of that, but he’s got his mind set on it.’

  Moira rose and washed out her cup at the sink.

  ‘Well, have a go at the front while he’s not here,’ she advised. ‘But keep it quiet, as Doctor Bray is asleep, poor woman. She’s been up all night, gallivanting around mortuaries!’

  Angela was wide awake by the afternoon, having joined Richard for lunch, for which Moira had prepared a cottage pie, with local potatoes, carrots and peas, followed by strawberries from higher up the valley.

  ‘These are what Jimmy’s always telling me to plant instead of vines,’ said Richard, liberally pouring cream over his fruit. ‘I suppose I’ll have to humour him next year, but there’s plenty of room for both.’

  Sian sometimes felt that she was living in a slightly schizoid world, where murder, suicide, skeletons and blood were discussed alternately with weeding gardens and growing grapes and strawberries. But she enjoyed every minute of it and was determined to get this additional qualification in biochemistry. Then she could help make the laboratory more versatile and hopefully get some more sophisticated equipment to expand their capabilities.

  They talked about the midnight escapade into the Gloucestershire forest and Richard explained the reasons for declaring it a murder, not a suicide.

  ‘The blood and the lividity showed that the chap must have been lying down after the shooting, but before he was propped up in the driving seat,’ he said. ‘But apart from that, the pistol must have been fired from well over a foot away, possibly a yard or more, so unless he had abnormally long arms, he couldn’t have shot himself!’

  ‘How could you tell that?’ demanded Sian, who always wanted to have cast-iron reasons.

  ‘When a gun is fired, all sorts of gunk comes out of the muzzle, apart from the bullet,’ said Pryor. ‘Flame, soot and unburned propellant. I admit there’s a huge difference in how far these things travel, depending on the type of gun and the type of ammunition, but suicides are usually contact or near-contact wounds, as the person tends to press the muzzle against the skin. Here there was nothing except a clean hole.’

  Moira wanted to know what was the background to the killing, but Richard had not much to tell her.

  ‘We pathologists often don’t get to know all the details, as we may never hear any more about the case for a year, until it comes to trial,’ he complained. ‘And
then, if there’s a guilty plea or the evidence is uncontested, we may never even be called to court and never hear a damn thing more.’

  Angela remained very quiet and Pryor guessed that she was thinking of the unexpected visitor in the mortuary that morning. Later that evening, they sat in her room having a gin and tonic, which was now becoming a routine to unwind after the day’s work. The rain had cleared off and through the bay window, the valley could be seen in its green beauty once again.

  They both knew that each of them was thinking of the same thing, but Richard wisely held his tongue until she brought up the subject.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so tiresome in Gloucester this morning, Richard,’ she said quietly. ‘But it was a bit of shock to see him just appear like that.’

  ‘I could see that you were upset,’ he said lamely. ‘Is there no chance that you might get back together?’

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not the slightest! He did the dirty on me for months and was too cowardly to tell me. He just walked away one day, as if I’d never existed.’

  ‘Has he married her – or is he going to?’

  ‘I don’t know – and I don’t damned well care,’ she said fiercely. ‘As far as I’m concerned, he can go to hell.’

  Richard felt it was time to change the subject and he turned the conversation to the two other cases in which they were involved.

  ‘It looks as if Mrs Oldfield’s crusade has run into the sand,’ he observed. ‘Unless she finds another set of bones for us to look at.’

  ‘I don’t see what else can be done,’ replied Angela, glad that the previous topic had been suppressed. ‘If her nephew’s blood group could be found, and was different to the bones, then at least she would have to give up.’

  He sipped his gin reflectively. ‘A pity there isn’t some characteristic in tissues that’s absolutely unique to every single person. I expect it’ll come one day.’