‘We have a man who is having an affair with another woman. His wife finds out and they have a stormy period. He wants a divorce and she refuses so he becomes violent on at least one occasion, gripping her arms and probably her throat. This is corroborated by the letter she writes to her friend.’
He paused to drink from a glass of water on his desk.
‘Then she is found dead in the sea, which is assumed to be an accident. After his car is proved to have been standing further along the cliff, the husband admits that he has suppressed a suicide note, which may or may not be genuine.’
He stopped and looked along the faces in front of him, his eyebrows raised in an invitation to comment.
The detective superintendent was the first to respond.
‘That’s about the measure of it, Mr Craddock. A lot will depend on the strength of the document examiner’s opinion on who wrote that note.’
Donald Moses, the coroner who had been largely silent until now, agreed with Ben Evans. ‘In my opinion, everything hangs on that note. If the death was an accident, why on earth try to make it look like a suicide? The only conclusion is that he’s trying to cover up the fact that somehow he killed her.’
The prosecuting solicitor drummed his fingers restlessly on the edge of his desk.
‘Agreed, but how did he kill her? Doctor Pryor, have you ever heard of someone being carried alive and then thrown into the sea to drown? Especially as it seems she was an experienced swimmer.’
Richard shook his head. ‘It seems very improbable. The only way would be if she was drugged or drunk. We did an alcohol on her urine and it was negative. We still have a blood sample in our fridge, perhaps it had better go to the forensic laboratory in Cardiff for drugs screening.’
‘What if she was knocked out first?’ suggested Lewis Lewis. ‘There was an injury to the back of her head, wasn’t there?’
Richard nodded. ‘There was a recent bruise under the back of the scalp, yes! Impossible to say whether or not it would have rendered her unconscious or not.’
‘Remind me, was that a fresh injury, Doctor?’ asked Craddock.
‘Fresh, in the sense of being within a day before death,’ replied Richard. ‘We originally assumed that it was from being banged against the rocks, which in an accidental scenario, could account for a good swimmer being drowned.’
The solicitor nodded his fleshy head. ‘That’s certainly what any defence counsel would allege – and I presume you couldn’t deny it?’
He did not wait for an answer but again surveyed the others in the room.
‘So it looks as if we’ll have to run with what we’ve got, unless something new turns up before the preliminary hearing. Prentice has confessed to the suppression of the letter, so he can’t dodge that, but we may have to be content with whatever sentence that brings.’
EIGHTEEN
It was the beginning of the following week before Garth House heard anything from Gloucester about the shooting. Brian Lane, the detective inspector they had met in the woods, rang to say that they had made an arrest and that the defence had requested a second post-mortem.
‘We collared a villain from Bristol who admits shooting Harry Haines, but he’s claiming it was in self-defence. There was a confrontation between a gang from Bristol, who reckon they own the rights to bribery, corruption and protection rackets in the South West, and Haines’s mob from Bermondsey, who want to take a share of the graft. They were in the car park of a country pub near Gloucester that afternoon when it got violent and they went chasing off into the woods behind. This ruffian we’ve got locked up claims Haines pulled a shooter on him, and he fired in self-defence. Not clear about the range, but as you said, it wasn’t close. The London gang scarpered and a couple of the local thugs drove Haines’s body down to where we found him and stuck him in his car. It was a half-hearted attempt to make it look like a suicide, but none of them are bright enough to do it properly.’
‘So what about this second post-mortem?’ asked Richard.
‘His solicitor is getting Professor Millichamp down from London on Wednesday afternoon,’ replied the detective. ‘So would it be convenient for you to attend the mortuary then, to represent the police?’
Though second autopsies were usually performed quite amicably between the two pathologists, they always kept a wary eye on each other’s findings. Richard knew of Arnold Millichamp by name, though he had never met him. He was a pathologist of the old school, attached to St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Always sure of himself and never in doubt, he had a reputation for dogmatic inflexibility, especially in the witness box. Still, thought Pryor, there was not much he could disagree about in this case – the chap was shot in the neck from a distance, end of story. But an hour later, he had a further surprise when Millichamp’s secretary telephoned. Sian happened to take the call and instead of switching the phone through on their new GPO system, which had at last been installed, she hurried down the passage to his room and poked her head around the door.
‘It’s a lady from London,’ she hissed, though the caller could not have heard her as Richard’s phone was firmly in its cradle. ‘A professor’s personal assistant, she sounds very posh!’
When he spoke to her, he had to agree that her Thames Valley accent was a bit overpowering, but she was still very civil when speaking to the Welsh natives. She confirmed the time for Gloucester, but then explained that Professor Millichamp had also been asked to examine the body of Linda Prentice in Swansea and would it be convenient if they could do that on the following morning?
Rather taken aback by this sudden rush of business, Pryor agreed, but made sure that Millichamp’s secretary, who identified herself as Prudence Mortimer, was aware that it was Patrick O’Malley who had performed the original examination and should also be present. She rather grandly informed Richard that she was aware of this and it was under control. He wondered whether he should offer to help them with their travel and accommodation requirements, but her super-efficient manner decided him to leave them to it. When she had rung off, he went in search of Angela to tell her of the developments.
‘I know old Millichamp, he came into the Met Lab several times to look at material for the defence,’ she said. ‘He’s one of the London grandees, like Simpson and Camps. Does a lot of civil and defence work, goes about with his secretary in a big chauffeur-driven Mercedes.’
Richard grinned. ‘In that case, I’d better turn up to meet them in my chauffeur-driven second-hand Humber. I’ll tell Jimmy to take off the cords around his trouser legs that day!’
The telephone was on overtime that day, as Ben Evans from Gowerton rang to confirm the time for the third post-mortem on poor Linda. ‘The coroner has said that the burial must go ahead as soon as this is over, he’s not going to delay any longer.’
‘Any more news from the forensic laboratory?’ asked Richard.
‘They’ve screened Linda’s blood and urine for drugs, nothing at all there. And as for the so-called suicide note, they are not very hopeful of deciding who typed it.’
‘What’s the problem, I wonder?’
‘It seems to be that the message is so short that they’ve not got enough to work on as regards differences in style or even the opportunity for significant mistakes.’
‘So it’s a non-starter trying to accuse him of forging it?’
‘One of the experts in Cardiff thinks it’s a fake, but he reckons that his opinion wouldn’t stand up against good cross-examination in court.’
The superintendent had no idea why they were getting a prominent pathologist from London to carry out yet another autopsy, but suspected that the solicitor representing Michael Prentice was covering all bases, with fees commensurate with his enthusiasm.
‘The lawyer is from the same firm that does Prentice’s motor company business. He’s not a local guy, he comes from Slough. I hear they’ve briefed a barrister to come to the magistrates’ hearing, no expense spared.’
‘What about the father, L
eonard Massey?’ asked Richard. ‘As a Queen’s Counsel, I’ll bet he’ll want some big guns involved. A wonder he wasn’t at that conference we had with Craddock.’
‘If he hadn’t been a potential witness, I expect he would have been there!’ chortled Evans. ‘I’ll bet he’s spitting tacks that he can’t get involved professionally.’
The next call after Ben had rung off was Trevor Mitchell.
‘As we expected, Agnes Oldfield is jumping up and down at the news of the blood group,’ he groaned. ‘Edward Lethbridge has tried to tell her that it takes us no further forward, other that not ruling out the remains could be either her nephew or about nine million other men in Britain!’
‘She doesn’t want another meeting, I hope,’ said Pryor.
‘No, but she’s gone off on some other tack now, that I’ve got to follow up,’ said Trevor. ‘She found an old address book of Anthony’s amongst his stuff when she was searching for a transfusion card. She’s been phoning umpteen people, making a nuisance of herself, but came across one who knew him in Birmingham University when he was a student umpteen years ago. This chap said that Anthony was in a climbing club there and fell off some cliff in the Peak District and had to go to hospital for a day or two. So now Agnes wants me to find this chap and then scour the hospitals in Derbyshire to see if they have any medical records or X-rays, like we did for Albert Barnes.’
‘The best of luck, Trevor!’ said Richard. ‘At least it’s good for trade, you should be raking it in with all these fees and expenses.’
The investigator promised to let him know what happened and Richard went back to work, looking at reports and microscope slides in a civil case where the family of a shipyard worker was suing the employers for compensation for fatal asbestosis.
At teatime, he regaled the team with the latest news. Angela murmured that she didn’t think she’d come with him to Gloucester, as there was nothing she could contribute. Richard suspected that she was afraid that her former fiancé might turn up again, though that seemed unlikely.
When Wednesday came, he did not carry out his threat to be driven to Gloucester by Jimmy, instead he left him cutting down the undergrowth at the top of the plot with an Allen scythe, a fearsome motorized device with large wheels that took more energy to steer than the operator would have used in cutting the weeds by hand.
It was now well into July and the capricious British weather had turned wet and windy now that the school holiday season was under way. He drove past Lydney and when going through Newnham, was tempted to keep his head down in case he was spotted by Mrs Oldfield. When he got to the Royal Hospital, he found the fabled black Mercedes 170S already outside the mortuary, a driver with a chauffeur’s cap busy polishing the chrome of the radiator. Inside the body-store room, Detective Inspector Brian Lane, accompanied by a photographer and the coroner’s officer, was talking to Arnold Millichamp and his personal secretary. The latter was exactly as Richard had pictured her when on the telephone. A tall, thin woman with severely cropped grey hair, she had a long, intelligent face devoid of any make-up. A tan twinset and a long brown skirt surmounted sensible shoes and to complete the picture of an English lady, even in a mortuary she wore a single string of pearls. Her employer was also tall and thin, with a completely bald head and a large hooked nose. Dressed in legal garb of black jacket and striped grey trousers, he sported a blue bow tie.
Brian Lane introduced them and Millichamp shook hands and Miss Mortimer nodded gravely and murmured a greeting.
‘Pryor, you were Professor in the University of Singapore, I recall,’ said the London man, in a mellow voice that would have suited a bishop. ‘You’ve given up the ivory towers of académe, then?’
Richard grinned. ‘I didn’t get much académe in Singapore, Professor, but plenty of experience. The local newspaper had a regular column called “Yesterday’s Stabbings!”
He handed Millichamp a carbon copy of his post-mortem report, which the pathologist gave to his secretary. She had a leather case under her arm and she slipped the report inside, as she took out a large notebook and a fountain pen, ready to record every pearl of wisdom that fell from her boss’s lips.
They all moved into the post-mortem room next door, Prudence now also carrying a large case which she opened up on a table at the side. This was Arnold’s tool kit and declining one of the red rubber aprons that the mortuary attendant offered, took a very new-looking yellow oilskin one from his case. Hanging the cords around his neck, he turned and with practised ease, Miss Mortimer tied the waist tapes around him. She then offered him a new pair of rubber gloves, which he snapped on with the flourish of a surgeon about to perform a craniotomy.
Pryor more humbly hung a rather frayed apron around his neck and followed Millichamp to the porcelain slab, where Harry Haines was already laid out. He summarized his findings for the defence pathologist, which was a short speech, as the only real area of interest was the neck wound and the damage inside the head.
‘I excised the bullet entrance hole in case the police wanted to examine trace elements on the surrounding skin,’ he explained, as Brian Lane displayed the photographs taken at the first autopsy. ‘I’ve got the piece of skin intact here, fixed in formalin, if you’d like to see it.’
Millichamp rapidly reopened the stitches of the first post-mortem and made a quick but thorough examination of all the organs and the damaged skull and brain. For all his pomp and showmanship, he was an astute operator and though he worked with extraordinary speed, Richard saw that he missed nothing significant.
After he had finished, he rooted around in the jar that Pryor had brought and studied the small bullet wound, using a lens from his box to look at the edges of the hole.
Then, pulling off his gloves, he went to the table and rapidly read through Richard’s report, handed to him by Prudence.
‘Very good, very good!’ he muttered, but somehow his tone was devoid of any condescension.
‘A two-two pistol, I understand, Inspector?’ he asked Lane.
‘Yes, Professor, a Harrington and Richardson rim-fire job. The lab has already matched the weapon to the remains of the bullet that Doctor Pryor recovered. They’re now doing some test-firings on it to check on range characteristics.’
As they washed up at the sink, Millichamp thawed a little and asked Richard about his new private venture. After hearing about their first few weeks, Millichamp nodded pontifically.
‘You need to get yourself on the Home Office list, Pryor. I’ll put in a word for you when I get the chance. We need all the experienced people we can get, especially now that universities are starting to close down their departments. Bloody short-sighted, but that’s the government for you, can’t see further than the end of their nose, if it’ll save them a few pounds.’
Declining the offer of a mug of mortuary tea, the great man and his elegant assistant left, saying that they were staying that night near Swansea, at the Caswell Bay Hotel.
‘That’s only a few miles from where the lady we’re seeing tomorrow was found,’ said Richard.
Arnold Millichamp nodded. ‘That’s partly why we’re going there. The defence solicitor wants us to see the scene, though as I gather that it’s unlikely that a murder charge will materialize, I don’t quite see the point.’
They went outside, where the chauffeur loaded their cases into the boot of the Mercedes and the two passengers sank into the back seats.
‘I look forward to seeing you again in the morning, Professor,’ called Millichamp before he closed the door.
As the car glided away Richard realized that he had been called ‘Professor’ by another of the same standing and felt an unreasonable pride in the title, in spite of having decided to abandon its use.
The more cynical Brian Lane watched the car out of sight. ‘I wonder if there’s anything going on between those two?’ he muttered, with a policeman’s suspicious mind.
Next morning, Pryor made an early start, again driving himself, as Jimmy was moonlighti
ng somewhere down the valley, working on a vicar’s garden.
He parked at the railway arch in Swansea’s Strand before the black Mercedes arrived and had a chance to talk to Lewis Lewis and Dr O’Malley who were already there.
They stood drinking Camp coffee made by the attendant with water from a battered electric kettle, rendered almost palatable by milk powder which Richard suspected was actually from a baby-food tin.
‘So the murder charge is a non-starter?’ he asked the detective.
‘Looks like it, the lawyers are not going to run with a charge that doesn’t have a cat’s chance in hell of succeeding,’ said Lewis mournfully.
‘So Arnold Millichamp is wasting his time coming here,’ observed Pryor. ‘Just like he did yesterday.’ He told Lewis about the Gloucestershire shooting.
‘Well, he’s getting well paid for it, I’ll bet. No one comes all the way from London for peanuts.’
The man in question arrived with his secretary a few moments later and as the attendant was ushering them in, Richard hoped that he would not offer them a mug of his peculiar brew. The look on Prudence Mortimer’s face when she saw they had to work in a blocked-off railway arch was enough, without the offer of chicory extract mixed with Cow and Gate.
When they went into the inner sanctum and were kitted up, Richard could see that poor Linda was deteriorating. After two dissections and a third in the offing, it was high time that she was finally put to rest. He sometimes wondered at his own immunity to the horrors of death, presuming it was part predisposition and part familiarity. Pryor was often asked how he could possibly do such an awful job, but realized that he rarely thought about it. Those who could not handle the macabre job either never started or soon gave up. Not a few of his colleagues had become alcoholics and several had committed suicide, an occupational hazard which was more common amongst all doctors than the general public.
Shrugging off these morbid thoughts, he asked Miss Mortimer if they had had copies of his report.
Where Death Delights Page 24