Dark Ritual

by Patricia Scott

  “I would like him to interview him in the incident room. That’s in the church hall. As soon as possible. We understand that he was trying to find Sandra last night. We want to know if he found her, Mrs. Robbins,” Peale said.

  “It’s most important that we speak to him directly,” Gerry Coombe said gently. “We have to catch whoever killed Sandra, quickly.”

  Jessica Robbins gasped and looked aghast. “What are you saying? My nephew couldn’t have had anything to do with her death! Never in this world. Martin would never hurt a hair of Sandra’s head, Sergeant Peale.”

  “Then the sooner he helps to clear his movements up last night the better, Mrs. Robbins. We would like to speak to him as soon as possible.”

  “Who’s that? Martin?” She turned suddenly as a young man appeared from a room behind her, and slumping down in front of them, on the stairs, held his head in his hands. She prodded him with her hand. “What are you doing here?”

  Four

  Martin Robbins jerked into life, lifted his face to stare at the two police officers standing before him, then turned as his aunt spoke and signed to him quickly.

  “Why aren’t you at the farm? Have you heard about Sandra? She’s been killed, someone murdered her last night.”

  Martin visibly paled, he stared up at his aunt and collapsed again on the stairs and buried his face in his hands. She bent over and shook him hard. “Come on, Martin.” She asked him again, “Why are you still at home. Why haven’t you gone to work? The police here want to know when you last saw Sandra. Was it last night?”

  He shook his head, then managed to say, “No — no — I never saw her.”

  “Are you sure, Martin?”

  “Don’t know, never saw her.”

  “Why are you in this state, Martin?” Gerry Coombe bent over him and said clearly. “Why are you at home now?” Jessica Robbins was signing this to him. And he signed back. Then held in his head in his hands and wept. His aunt patted him on the shoulder.

  “He feels bad, Sergeant Peale. He said he had a fight with a man called Macey, one of those hill protesters in their camp, and couldn’t find Sandra. He had a drop too much to drink and felt much too ill to go to work this morning.”

  “Had a skinful by the look of it,” Peale remarked looking at the young man’s face. “All right, Mrs. Robbins when he feels better can you bring him along to the incident room later. We’d like to interview him there, please.”

  “Sorry for the upset,” Gerry Coombe commented. “Perhaps you could give him something to help his head before you come, Mrs. Robbins.”

  “I’d like to tan his backside. He must have drunk the malt whisky I keep here for medicinal purposes only. You reek of it, Martin.” The officers exchanged amused glances. His aunt was fussing over him already. “He’s a stupid boy. We’ve got enough to contend with right now. He can’t afford to lose his job and all because of a fuss over a girl like Sandra.”

  Martin pushed her arm away and groaned.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean that. I’m just so worried by all this, officers. He’s a good lad, really he is. But he’s been behaving so silly ever since she turned up here again. She’s not been a good influence on him lately. I’ll see that he tells you all he knows as soon as I can get some sense out of him.”

  “Auntie... I — feel — sick...”

  Peale and Coombe left Martin to the tender mercies of his aunt in the kitchen.

  “Well, what do you make out of all that?” Peale said as they walked back to the church hall and the incident room.

  “Not a lot. We’ll have to wait till he’s ready to tell us what he did last night. I have a feeling that he knows more than he said about Sandra’s whereabouts. He had a scared look in his eyes when he saw my uniform. I don’t think he had any intention of going into work this morning. He didn’t want to tell his aunt about it whatever his reasons might be...”

  Five

  “A young girl. A good looker and a natural blonde,” Tom Carter the M.E. commented dryly as Fowler and Peale joined him, dressed in matching green overalls and caps, to stand round the body lying on the table. Peale did this reluctantly. This was the part in homicide that he didn’t like. He could never come to terms with it. The sickly smell of disinfectant and whatever else they used in these bloody awful places invaded Peale’s nose and caught in his throat. He choked, swallowed quickly; he hated the stench, it was like dead flower stalks. It made him feel ill. Fowler cast him an amused look as Peale hacked loudly on a cough, which he covered with the spiral notebook held tight in his damp, sweating fist. And this was before Carter used his scalpel on her.

  “The blood from the blow to her head had time to dry I would say, before she was stabbed. A head wound would have contributed a great deal to the gore on her face and neck.” Carter continued adeptly making observations as he examined and lifted the feathery curls that shone silvery fair under the bright light overhead before he prepared to peel back the scalp. “Could be some Nordic blood in the family. Lovely hair. Slightly smoked like the rest of her,” he commented.

  A joke, which Fowler didn’t appreciate and chose to ignore.

  “She was adopted but her natural mother apparently was a German girl. That blow on her head, how bad was it? Would that have killed her?”

  The M.E. pursed his fleshy lips together thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded. “Heavy enough perhaps to kill her. But what do you reckon on these then, Fowler? Thought they might interest you and Forensics.”

  He held up a small plastic packet, which they could see contained some tiny fluffy jade green and blue feathers. For the first time now Peale really focused on the proceedings and his brown eyes lighted up attentively as he moved in closer.

  “Found these little beggars lodged in her curls, Fowler. So how did she manage to pick ‘em up? Give you any clues where she went last night?”

  “Thanks! We owe you one.” Peale reached out to take the packet from the examiner and gazed at them intently as he held they up to the light. “This is great, Bob. Martin Robbins breeds love birds and budgies! She must have visited his place last night!”

  “Must have, Peale? Was she dead before the knife was used on her, Carter? What do you reckon?”

  “Good question.” Carter whistled through his teeth and shrugged his bulky shoulders in the creased tight green overall. “The blow was dealt quickly with a weapon of some kind.” Fowler looked closely at the victim’s head and nodded. “Caught her unawares I’d say as she turned round to see her assailant and knocked her out immediately. Nasty.”

  The thick silky hair couldn’t altogether disguise the blood and shattered bone that was revealed as Carter peeled back the skin form the skull. Peale avoided looking at it as he carefully studied the packet of feathers from Carter. Fowler said grimly, “She would have been rendered unconscious by then. But still alive, you think?”

  “Probably only just.” Carter shook his shaggy grey head. “She has an unusually thin skull, this girl. It was smashed and splintered like a fragile eggshell. Doubt she could have recovered from it anyway.”

  He leant over the slender, flaccid body and studied it again carefully, and rubbed his heavy bristled chin with the back of his gloved hand as he did so. “Her killer must have been bursting with rage. Right-handed I’d say. The epidermis here on her back, and down the side, was scorched and blistered after death by the roasting heat from the bonfire set light under her.

  “Her clothes were removed after she was dragged across the field to the centre. Not content with killing the girl by stabbing, her killer decided to barbeque her as well on the sacrificial pile. A nice theatrical touch there.” He smiled at Peale’s barely, disguised expression of disgust. “All right, Peale? Luckily for us the heavy rain fortuitously put out the fire, wasn’t it?”

  Peale swayed slightly, gulped for air and attempted to concentrate his sights again on the packet of feathers he held in his hand. This was good. The first real clues they’d been g
iven so far and something they could pin on Martin Robbins. He felt the enthusiastic thrill it gave him buoy him up. The case could be over and dealt with by the evening. He managed a grin of sorts for Fowler who turned his attention back to the victim.

  “These stab wounds.” Fowler moved in closer. “How many exactly can you see, Peale?” he said looking closely at the small pin cushion marks, which punctured the delicate skin, now decorated extensively by Carter’s bold diagonal stitch work that followed up the removal of the body organs.

  Peale, still clutching the packet of feathers turned his head away swiftly at that moment. Then, catching Carter’s amused eyes came in again to observe, his sweating face taking on an unhealthy pallor.

  “Can’t say. Looks like seven or eight,” Peale said hoarsely, his impatience to deal with Robbins covering up his tummy qualms. Although he was feeling irritated, definitely crock and visibly fretting over the feathers, he scrabbled and tussled for a moment with the creased restricting overall, to reach his jacket pocket with the plastic packet.

  That done, Peale dwelt on what was still to come. The interview with Robbins that should be rewarding. Robbins should have recovered from his hangover by now. They’d got literally nothing from him at the house. Coombe was right, Martin Robbins knew something that they didn’t about Sandra’s plans that night.

  “So fill us in about the knife wounds, Carter?”

  Carter pointed them out with a stubby gloved finger. “The jugular vein, then seven, eight, nine in all, one through the heart, three, no four in the chest, through the rib cage, three aimed at random into the lower abdomen. Pretty hit and miss those except for this throat wound here. That was the most deliberate. The killer stroke if you like.” Peale gulped again. “The jugular was slashed first, I’d say. That would have done instant damage and bled freely. The killer would have been badly stained by the blood. Must have had to get rid of their clothes and clean up afterwards. I’d say that she would have been dead before the weapon was used again for effect.”

  “Her killer left very little to chance then,’ Fowler commented. “And came well prepared with the can of paraffin, which we found discarded, empty, a short distance from the body. Wiped clean of fingerprints or gloves were used.”

  Carter his knuckled hands held on his hips sucked on his teeth thoughtfully and nodded in agreement.

  “Yep. It was a pretty ferocious attack, gentlemen. The killer was under considerable stress I’d say at the time and wanted to make damn sure of the victim’s demise. I don’t need to tell you that this was a crime of passion committed by someone who needed to be rid of Sandra in a hurry and efficiently.”

  “You’d say that we’ve got a prime nutter here then,” Peale said fidgeting, as he took this all in. Where was the nearest gents? He gagged on some burning bile and swallowed hard to clear his throat again and said hoarsely, “What do you reckon, Bob?”

  Fowler turned quickly to study him. “You okay, Peale?”

  “Fine.”

  Fowler tapped his teeth with his biro thoughtfully. “And the knife used? What kind of blade was it? The wounds seem small.”

  “Not a kitchen knife, that’s for sure.” Carter wiped his face now with a hand towel that his blonde female acolyte handed him, who Peale noticed for the first time wasn’t at all a bad looker.

  The M.E. leant his heavy body over the slender remains and once again studied them carefully. “This wound into the heart under the left breast here. It took something like a scalpel to pierce the heart muscle so efficiently.”

  He grinned back at them cheerfully. Peale tilted his face away quickly and swallowed hard again. “It was a thin, sharp blade, which slipped in and out easily like a knife going through butter, Fowler,” he announced cheerfully with the air of a magician waiting for his audience’s applause. “Not unlike a medieval dagger, I would say.”

  Peale grimaced grimly and rubbed the tip of his nose. He reckoned that he had managed well so far not to show how squeamish he was feeling. The M.E. was still conversing professionally with Fowler like TVs Quincy, Peale thought, Fowler nodding appreciatively as he listened.

  Carter remarked. “So you’re still looking for the weapons, boys? The first would be a heavy object handled with force; a large stone, candlestick or a poker perhaps. The killing was probably not planned, although whoever committed the crime had it close on hand. The killer thought fast on their feet after landing that first blow.

  “But, the second and most important one, the knife,” Carter grimaced, “you could enquire who carried a weapon like a scalpel on their person, a small knife, or a dagger perhaps?”

  “A dagger!” Peale threw a questioning glance at Fowler, who pursed his lips together tight. He obviously felt that they were being given what they already knew. “Any sexual activity? Was it a sexual assault to start with?”

  Carter shook his capped head and shrugged. “None that I can see occurred during her last few hours, sergeant. Although an assault might have been attempted previously. There is no evidence of semen present. But there is some visible bruising around the groin and thighs. See here? She could have successfully fought off her assailant.” He lifted a slender hand and studied it carefully. “She has well cared for hands. Having said that Fowler, some skin tissues were found under these false nails. You’ll get your DNA with that. She’d used them pretty effectively on someone recently.”

  Fowler nodded. “Macey has already given us evidence of that.”

  “Not rape then?” Peale looked disappointed and tapped his biro on the notebook. “So we’re looking for another motive then.”

  “Certainly seems like it.”

  Fowler groaned. “I have had reservations from the beginning about that, Peale.”

  Carter looked at the two police officers. “There is something else though, boys. And it should interest you. See this here. It is important, I think, Fowler. Might help you to settle on a motive.”

  The detectives looked down at the thin dark line on the girl’s abdomen that he traced with a stubby forefinger from the fluff of silvery fair pubic hair up to the navel. “I can tell you that sometime fairly recently she was pregnant, but her uterine cavity is empty. This girl had a termination during the last month or so.”

  A low whistle escaped Peale on hearing this. Fowler frowned heavily and shook his head slowly.

  “If that’s worth looking up.” Carter shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Not unusual these days. You’d better ask her parents if they know anything about it. It might lead to something for you to work on perhaps?”

  Fowler nodded. “Could do. Thanks Carter. If there’s anything else that might be useful let us know, please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “So what’s next, Bob? Martin Robbins is due in for the interview shortly.”

  “Sandra’s Peterson’s father is coming in to identify her.”

  They left Carter to tidy up his handiwork. Discarding his overall like an old skin, Peale was champing at the bit, eager to interview Martin Robbins and arrest him post haste, Fowler thought, smothering his amusement. Peale reckoned they had it cut and dried on the first day.

  Sandra obviously incited bad blood between the men who knew her but Fowler was not going to celebrate anything. Not just yet. Something told him that this case was going to prove even more difficult than it first appeared. He wished he could feel as optimistic as Peale looked and felt at this moment with the feathers tucked into his jacket pocket.

  “Thanks, again, Carter,” Fowler said with a wry smile over his shoulder, casting a quick look at Peale as they walked out slowly. He hoped he could curtail his keenness sufficiently enough to get at the truth from Martin Robbins. Peale was a good officer and he had to trust him to listen to Robbins without prejudging.

  “I’ll attend to Alan Peterson. He has to identify his daughter. Poor devil, I think this must be him, Peale,” he added quietly. And a tall man with a shock of thick, dark, silvered hair, a high wide forehead, and grey eyes set
in a craggy ugly face that women seemed to find attractive, walked slowly across the foyer towards them.

  He looked like he was taking a trip to Madame Guillotine in the tumbrel, Fowler thought watching him carefully as he approached the two officers. He hoped Carter had managed to make Sandra more presentable than she had been to them just now.

  “Mr. Alan Peterson? I’m DCI Fowler and this is DS Peale. Thank you for coming in so promptly. I would like to say that we’re extremely sorry about the death of your daughter and that we have to bring you here on such a sad occasion as this today, sir. Can we offer you some refreshment perhaps before you make the identification?”

  Alan Peterson acknowledged them with a grey, bleak smile. “Thank you, no. I’m sorry I haven’t come forward sooner. My wife has collapsed at home with shock. She was taken ill over this. I stayed in London during the weekend and attended an art exhibition. My movements were fluid and I knew nothing about this, not till I returned here at mid-day, Chief Inspector.”

  “If you would like to come with me, Mr. Peterson please. Peale will you arrange for Martin Robbins to come in with his aunt, please,” Fowler said quietly aside to his sergeant. “I’ll be with you there shortly.”

  “Will do, Bob. Mr. Peterson, I’m so sorry for your sad loss, Sandra was a lovely girl,” Peale said quietly. “The DCI will advise you further.”

  “Thank you, sergeant.”

  Six

  As the cream curtain was drawn back slowly behind the large glass window for Alan Peterson, Fowler was taken aback for a second by the evocative image that the girl lying on the sheet covered table gave to those gazing in on her now. Her hair washed free of blood stains arranged softly around her delicate classic features resembled a shining silvery aureole and Fowler’s breath caught in his dry throat.

  She reminded Fowler poignantly of a childhood picture he’d seen once of the Sleeping Beauty in a book. A fairytale favourite of his small sister Janice. As if a kiss from a Prince Charming would awaken Sandra and dispel all this as just an ugly nightmare. Only it wasn’t. It was reality. And someone had taken her life away with a savage act of violence and murder which the bruises plainly revealed.