Perils and Dangers

by Peter Turnbull

  This First World edition published in Great Britain 2001 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2001 Peter Turnbull

  All Right Reserved.

  The more right of the author has been asserted.

  ISBN 0-7278-5672-3

  All situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  One

  In which a man is murdered.

  Sophie Asquith disliked Nathan Ossler. She disliked him with an intensity which frightened her, an intensity which, she found, at times, bordered upon hatred. At times, she found, her feelings for him would cross even that dreadful boundary. His snarling at everything that moved, his shouting, his seething, evil temper, the way he used the vodaphone, gripping it until his knuckles whitened, baring his teeth and growling into it. It was the way he reduced the women around him to tears, the stream of secretaries, some lasting only a few hours before they voted with their feet, his long-suffering wife for whom it was less easy to vote with her feet. And the fact that Nathan Ossler was from the south of England didn't help endear him to Sophie Asquith who, being native to the Famous and Fayre City of York, disliked and distrusted anyone who came from south of the Humber, or west of the Pennines or north of the Tyne.

  But it was a job. For Sophie Asquith it was a job. And she stuck at it because he paid cash, and she could go home each evening and because, unlike his wife or his present secretary, who had thus far remained in his employ longer than any previous secretary, Sophie Asquith saw little of him. This suited her admirably, though it was still upsetting to see his secretary tapping away at her word-processor with him standing behind her shouting about this mistake or that, or seeing his wife curled up in floods of tears again, with him standing there shouting about the size of this bill or that frivolous purchase. Occasionally, he would bend down and push his face close up to hers just to make sure she clearly understood the reason for his displeasure. The present secretary, it seemed to Sophie Asquith, had the ability to switch herself off and let her employer's words and ill temper wash over her like a rock repeatedly submerged by heavy seas but always emerging again. His wife, it further seemed, had no such survivor skills to resort to. That Sophie Asquith was often privy to such displays of tyranny, she eventually realised, was the same reason why she never felt the edge of his tongue: she was the cleaning woman, the woman who "comes and does" and goes away again and, as such, in Ossler's eyes, just did not figure in the scheme of things. This, again, suited Sophie Asquith admirably. It made her job easier. But she felt for his secretary, and she felt more for his wife.

  That particular Monday morning, Sophie Asquith had wheeled her elderly bottle-green cycle from the shed beside her small cottage to the road. The sun was well up, she would later recall, and the day already warm, requiring only a light skirt and blouse, though she had placed a cardigan in the pannier in case of a chill wind later in the day. It was June, and as always in the summer, the Vale of York baked under a relentless sun. The winters were bad, with nothing to stop the biting east wind keening across the flat landscape, and now, in the decline of her life, Sophie Asquith felt the winters more acutely, but she believed that to be able to live in the Vale when there wasn't an "R" in the month, made the winters bearable. That day was one such day which, she felt, made the last winter worth battling through and the memory of which, and of similar days, would keep her going through the winter to come. She sat on her bike, reversing herself ladylike into the saddle, though often she would envy the young, jean-clad female students who would mount cycles in the male way by swinging one of their legs over the frame, and she began the pleasant cycle ride from Towthorpe to Strensall which she completed in her usual thirty minutes. In Strensall, in a particular lane on the edge of the village, she dismounted in front of a house called "Thundercliffe Grange".

  Thundercliffe Grange was a new build house, well set back from the road, mainly a bungalow but with a single second storey elevation being the master bedroom. The house was surrounded by neat, well-tended, if not manicured, gardens. She opened the wrought iron gate which squeaked and brought forth two barking Alsatians bounding across the lawn. The dogs ran aggressively towards Sophie Asquith until they were within twenty feet of her when their eyes focused, they recognised her and her scent and returned, at a trot, to the house.

  Their tails were between their legs.

  She thought it unusual. Usually, no, no, not usually, always, always, the two dogs bounded across the lawn, recognised her and then turned and returned to the house with their tails wagging. It seemed to Sophie Asquith that the dogs were worried about something.

  Probably nothing.

  Probably something.

  She walked down the gravel-covered drive and turned in front of the house and then down beside the left-hand side facing of the house, past the wheelie bins, hidden by a section of lattice fencing, and rested her cycle beside the side door. She opened the door. It was unlocked, but there was little unusual in that. Ossler, she had noticed, was an early riser and was often up and about by the time she arrived in the mornings, so much so that she was invited to enter the house should she find the side door unlocked. She stepped over the threshold and called "Hello…it's only me."

  There was no reply. Her voice seemed to echo in the house and the dogs, she noticed, did not enter the house as they usually did when she opened the door, seeming as they did to enjoy the luxury of the open door rather than having to endure the indignity of the dog flap. That morning they remained outside, turning in tight circles, seemingly lost and confused. As if on automatic pilot, Sophie Asquith crossed the vestibule just inside the door and entered the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. Mrs Ossler had invited her to "make herself at home in the kitchen", to help herself to tea or coffee and a sandwich if she felt hungry. No need to ask. And each morning she would arrive, leave her bike by the door and, whether or not anyone was in the kitchen, she would make herself a cup of tea. She couldn't function without it. It had become a necessity of life, a great aid to the emotional resilience she needed to help her get through another bruising day at the Ossler house and all its rantings and weeping. She settled in a chair at the kitchen table, puzzling over its Formica top of yellow with a myriad of thin lines like a spiders web, which was not at all to her taste but, just as she had learned, was Nathan Ossler's taste. She sat back pulling her eyes away from the mesmeric attraction of the tabletop and puzzled again, this time at the silence of the house. It was not so much that such silence was unusual, no shouting, even first thing in the morning, no radio or early morning TV with the volume turned up too loud. Just silence.

  Something's happened. Something has happened. The silence…the dogs…

  The words came to Sophie Asquith's mind as a chill ran down her spine. The words came from nowhere, there was no trigger that she could identify or determine, no sight, no sound, perhaps just the absence of same, but if the trigger was anything, it was a mood, an ambience, an atmosphere. Her scalp began to crawl.

  She stood slowly, nervously, with a growing fear, and began to walk about the house. Shortly after leaving the kitchen she saw the first dead person she had ever seen.

  He was in the study, often referred to as the "workroom" at the rear of the house, with a window which looked out on to a wide lawn bounded by Leylandii shrubs. The room itself was small, made more so by the banks of filing cabinets, a desk with a word-processor atop and an armchair being the only soft furnishing in the room. He was slumped in the armchair. The upper front of his head was missing, as if blown off, and bits of scalp tissue and blood spots seemed to be splattered on the wall behind him. And there were the flies, by dint of the slightly open wind
ow, there were flies, scores of them, perhaps even in their hundreds. In fact, as she would often tell people whenever she related the tale in the months and years to come, it was the loud buzzing of same which, after checking the living-room, the dining-room, the television room and the downstairs bedroom, had finally obliged her to push open the study door to be met with a black, swirling swarm of the things. She had stepped back in a frenzy, uttered a loud "ugh!" and then peered into the room and stared at Nathan Ossler, minus the top of his head, and found herself remarking how still and quiet he could be with a little help.

  She didn't scream. That was what came to surprise her the most as her mind would return to the event. She had always thought that she would scream should she ever chance upon a deceased person because, according to television and film, that's what women did. Her parents were deceased but they had died tragically in a fire and their bodies had been charred beyond recognition and so she had not seen them in death. She was now in her early middle years, lived quietly, all her relatives were alive and well, she had just not seen a dead body, and had always thought that when she did, that she would scream. But she didn't. Probably, she thought, probably it was because there was no sense of shock that someone would want to kill Nathan Ossler, that didn't surprise her at all. All she felt was a sense of relief, a sense of a weight being lifted from her that he was gone. Then she thought about the dogs and scurried to the vestibule, their food and water bowls were indeed empty. She filled the water bowl and the dogs, hearing the sound of running water, rushed into the house and each drank deeply.

  Sophie Asquith opened a can of dog food, gave them half each, sufficient to break their fast and which they ate ravenously. She replenished the water bowls and put them in the shed. She then ushered the dogs into the shed, and ensuring the window was open, shut the door behind her, leaving the dogs. Only then did she dial three nines.

  It was the "just so" appearance of the house which surprised George Hennessey and also brought about his personal disapproval. It was, he thought, a "dead house". Even when all who dwelt within were alive and well physically, it was not emotionally, it would have been a "dead house", the-everything-in-its-place perfection, the sanitised atmosphere.

  The house first. He viewed the house from the road, standing next to the constable in his white summer shirt, open-necked, who, in turn, stood next to one of the two gateposts across which a blue and white "police" tape had been strung. Police vehicles were parked on the road, including the black windowless mortuary van, ready to be reversed into the drive when the corpse was to be removed. It was not, Hennessey noted, an easy house to approach with felonious intent. The long drive was covered with gravel, no one could step on it without making a sound which, while not particularly loud in terms of volume, would carry a long distance, especially on a still summer's night. He had noticed this aspect of sound before, the way in which a loud "bang" will not arouse suspicion but a gentle, near imperceptible "click" would. In order to reach the house silently from the road, any person would have to leave the drive, step across a flower-bed and stand on the lawn and be thus quite exposed, standing or walking on an area of garden an infantryman would call "open ground". The front garden was lined with Leylandii shrubs, a plant Hennessey personally detested, and beyond that there was a wire fence about six feet high, neatly separating the garden from the neighbouring garden. Beyond the garden wall was a bed of roses, large and deep enough to prevent any felon from hopping over the wall and on to the lawn. No, it was not an easy building to approach without advertising your presence in some way. Hennessey ducked beneath the police tape and opened the gate which gave a loud "squeak" as he pushed it. Another deterrent to a silent approach to the house.

  He walked a few feet down the drive, crunching the gravel as he did so and then stepped on to the lawn. On that June morning the house and garden presented a spectacle that he found pleasingly colourful. The green of the lawn and the Leylandii gave way to a long-fronted bungalow in the light coloured grey brick favoured in the Vale, beneath a red-tiled roof. Above all was an immense, almost cloudless blue sky.

  Hennessey approached the house, stepped off the lawn on to the narrow stretch of gravel and instantly set two dogs barking from the direction of the left hand side of the house. It was, he noted, yet another deterrent to a silent, secret approach to the house. The front door of the house was open. He stepped across the threshold and it was then that he was met by the "just so" nature of the Ossler household. A Scenes of Crime Officer in white coveralls was photographing the house, every room from every aspect. A second and third Scenes of Crime Officer dusted for fingerprints. Sergeant Yellich stood in the hallway. He nodded and smiled at Hennessey.

  "You look as though you are waiting for me, Yellich?"

  "Heard you and saw you approaching, sir."

  "And in doing so, just proved what I have been thinking. What have we got? A body, I believe?"

  "Yes, boss. Back room downstairs. Messy, this one."

  "Gunshot, you say?"

  "Aye, boss. This is a solemn number and no mistake."

  "Lead on, please."

  Yellich walked along the corridor and stopped outside a door, deferentially stepping aside, opening the door for Hennessey, who entered the room.

  The deceased lay slumped in an armchair in the cramped room. Flies still buzzed in large numbers. Louise D'Acre knelt on the floor. She stood as Yellich entered the room. She too was dressed in a white coverall.

  "Good morning, Chief Inspector."

  "Dr D'Acre."

  "A single victim, adult male. As you see, he appears to have died as a result of a gunshot wound to the head."

  "Appears?"

  "Yes, appears." Dr D'Acre held eye contact with Hennessey and then looked at the corpse. "You see the fact that the top of his head has been blown off doesn't mean to say that that was what killed him. At this stage, all I can say is that the gunshot wound, which is clearly evident, is contemporary with his death. It may very well be the cause of it, in fact it probably is. But only probably. He could have died just prior to being shot, he could even have died after being shot."

  "After?"

  "Oh yes, even a head wound of this nature is not necessarily fatal, at least not instantly so. You see, a cardiac arrest just prior or post to the gunshot wound is possible, as is death by poisoning just prior to the head injury. Mind you, within these four walls, I will say that were I a betting lady I would bet vast amounts of shekels that his death was caused by the gunshot. But forensic pathology is an exact science and betting doesn't enter into the assessment. Frankly, the attitude of slumping back in the chair is what suggests the gunshot to be the cause of death more than the wound itself. Strangely enough…you see he's not sitting in the chair, he's almost sliding out of it."

  "Yes…?"

  "That suggests, but only suggests, that he was standing up when he was shot and the bullet sent him staggering backwards and he slumped into the chair. A cardiac arrest would have caused him to collapse forward, in which case he might expect to be found lying face down on the carpet, and poison…well depending on the type, it may have taken him in his sleep or in a sitting position. But strychnine, for example, would have induced convulsions in which the room would have been disturbed. Further, you see the fact that his body has remained in this position…no trail of blood for example…indicates instantaneous death from a single gunshot wound to the head."

  "He had the top of his head blown off while he was standing up a little way in front of the armchair?"

  "Well, yes…probably."

  "That's good enough for me to be working on as a murder. No gun at the crime scene so there is not even an attempt to make it look like suicide."

  "A suicide would have been more accurate."

  "It seems accurate enough to me." Hennessey nodded at the body. "Didn't miss, did it? The bullet I mean."

  "Well, the shot was accurate enough to be fatal, that I grant you, but if it was a suicide, you'd expect a m
ore direct entry, here there is something a little 'chancy' about the angle of entry. It has the hallmarks of being a lucky shot or an accidental shot."

  "Lucky?" Hennessey grinned. "That depends on your point of view." A flashbulb popped behind him.

  "Indeed," Louise D'Acre smiled, sharing the joke. "But if the firearm was a handgun, it's difficult to see a rifle being used in a room as small as this—then the barrel, in the case of suicide, would be placed so." She pressed the tip of a slender straightened finger at the centre of her forehead. "Or so…" She placed the fingertip to the side of her head above her ear. "Or so," placing her fingertip inside her mouth. "Or even so," and placed her fingertip vertically under her chin. "But here, as you see, the gun has entered the forehead at an angle, as if the bullet travelled on a path which was parallel to the nose, about forty-five degrees to the vertical, that sort of angle."

  "The gun was fired by a much shorter person?"

  "Probably. Perhaps a taller person sitting down in the chair in front of the word processor. But the point is that it's not suicide, nor is it a calmly aimed bullet. And the muzzle of the gun was at least two feet from the entry wound, there are no carbon deposits or 'tattooing' which occur if the muzzle of the gun was about two feet or less from the entry wound. This is what we call a long-range wound which, despite its name, means anything beyond two feet between muzzle and wound."

  "So, if he was standing in front of the chair, as if he got up in response to someone coming into the room, possibly unexpectedly, then the person holding the gun could have been standing just inside the doorway?"

  "Yes…" Louise D'Acre pursed her lips. "Yes, it's a possibility."

  "So we can safely rule out suicide?"

  "You can't safely rule out anything at the moment. It's far, far too early in the piece for any ruling out of anything. But as always, I'll tell you all I can safely tell you once I have completed the post-mortem."