Perils and Dangers

by Peter Turnbull

  "Time of death?"

  "TOD?" Louise D'Acre pondered the corpse. "Open window, hence the flies, no artificial cooling or heating of the house…a little warmer in the house than out this time of year, rigor well established, as are the flies. Always a good indicator of TOD are our flying friends, annoying as you may find them Chief Inspector, they are the forensic pathologist's best friend and they have helped solve many a murder mystery: day clothing rather than dressing-gown. You and I could put our heads together on this one…it's ten a.m. now approximately, Monday, more than twenty-four hours ago—less than forty-eight hours ago…but that's tentative, Chief Inspector. I wouldn't allow myself to be held to it."

  "Agreed."

  "I understand your need for something to work on, Chief Inspector, but I can't commit myself to a narrower time window until after the p.m."

  "Again, agreed and understood, but I can assume that he was alive at ten a.m. on Saturday last, and was deceased by ten a.m. yesterday. About?"

  "About. Yes, you can assume that. Probably. Capital 'A' and T' respectively, and that's sticking my neck out much more than is professionally sensible. I'm doing it to throw a bone to a hungry dog, you understand."

  "Woof!" Hennessey said softly, with a warm smile.

  "Well, I've done all I can here. If you've got all the snapshots you want…?"

  "It's a shooting expression."

  "What?"

  "Snapshot. People who blow birds out of the sky with shotguns, a rapid shot at a sudden and unexpected target as opposed to a careful aim is known as a 'snapshot'. Photographers hijacked it from the shooting set."

  Louise D'Acre glanced sideways at Hennessey. "I'll die a wiser woman for that."

  "But I think we've finished. They should be by now. I'll check with my sergeant." Hennessey left the room, sought the youthful Sergeant Yellich, returned to the room and advised Dr D'Acre that the police had no further reason to detain the body and that it may be removed to the York District Hospital.

  Hennessey observed the corpse being placed in a body bag and carried to the mortuary van, which had by then been reversed down the drive to the house. He then walked to the side of the house to the shed in which two Alsatians, whimpering and barking in turn, were held, and then to the rear of the house, a second expanse of lawn, neatly cut, surrounded by flower-beds. Beyond the flower-beds a stand of Leylandii stood completely round the three sides of the rear garden, and beyond the Leylandii, more six-foot high fencing. All, he noted, was shipshape and Bristol fashion, as the expression had it. He returned to the house and found Yellich. "He knew his attacker."

  "Yes, boss." Yellich nodded. "Solemn guy. The attacker I mean. Very solemn."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Same thoughts as you I should think, boss. No sign of a break-in, no sign of disturbance, no sign of a robbery, jewellery still in the bedroom plus a fair bit of cash…the impression is that the murderer came here with murder on his mind, with murderous intent, and he didn't hang about. He got into the house, got past the dogs, did the deed and went away again. Probably all over in a minute or two. Very, very, very solemn. Very solemn indeed."

  "Who found him?"

  "The cleaning lady. Lady called…" Yellich consulted his notepad. "Asquith. Good political name that. Sophie Asquith, fifty-three years old, lives in the next village, cleans for the Osslers each weekday morning. She called three nines…patrol bobby investigated, he called CID. I came, got SOCO here and Dr D'Acre, it being definitely suspicious.'"

  "Oh, most definitely."

  "Young woman came to the home while we were here, a woman called Tulse. Ruth Tulse. She has an address in York, Rawcliffe Lane, Clifton. She gets the bus out. She's employed as Mr Ossler's secretary, five days a week, nine to five with an hour for lunch."

  "Ossler being the victim?"

  "That's the presumption at this stage, sir. But, frankly, there's no one else it could be, so it's a safe bet that it is."

  "We can't proceed on presumptions or safe bets."

  "Of course, sir, but I saw no reason to detain either the secretary or the housekeeper. We have their addresses."

  "Fair enough. What do we know about him? Mr…? What did you say his name was?"

  "Ossler."

  "Ossler. What do you know about him?"

  "Early days yet, boss. Haven't done our CR checks yet. The housekeeper says he's a sort of local Mr Ten Per Cent. No one business, but fingers in many pies which are as varied as they are many, by all accounts."

  "Lived alone? There's no feel of a family about this house."

  "Married. No children."

  "Oh dear." Hennessey grimaced, distraught next of kin.

  "The secretary told us where his wife would be found. She, the wife, visits her brother each weekend. She often stays over Sunday evening and returns on the Monday. We have the brother's address provided by the secretary. I have sent a car to bring her back…an address in Tang Hall."

  "Tang Hall!" Hennessey raised his eyebrows. "Her brother lives in Tang Hall and she lives here?"

  "Aye. Moved up, wouldn't you say, boss?"

  "Moved well up I'd say. She certainly didn't marry down. Tang Hall to here is a leap in the right direction in any man's language. Right, can you go and see the lady who found him, and then visit the secretary, anything could be relevant at this stage, you know the drill."

  "OK, boss."

  "I'll hang around here and have a word with Mrs Ossler. You know the ID's going to be a problem, half his head blown away like that."

  "I noticed a tattoo on his right forearm, boss, had it photographed. I saw his wallet on the dresser in the bedroom, had his driving licence in."

  "That'll have his DOB."

  "That's what I thought. Feed his name into Criminal Records, plus his numbers, might get a result. If we get a result, we'll have his fingerprints on record, if we can match them, we've got a positive ID."

  "Can you do that before those two visits, please. It'll save said distressed relative from having to view her dear departed sans his head."

  "Right, boss. Good as done."

  Hennessey, lightweight summer jacket and trousers and topped with a Panama hat, strolled from the Ossler house up the drive to the road and along the grassed verge to the neighbouring property.

  This house, he found, pleased him in much the same areas that the Ossler house didn't strike his fancy. In the first place, it was old, early nineteenth century he thought, solid, centrally placed door, with a pane of frosted glass above to complete the door frame. There were windows at either side, first floor windows above that with a sash window above the doorway. As he drew closer he made out the date ad 1814 carved in stone in the wall beside the door. The garden in front of the house was a jumble of shrubs allowed to grow generously, with a narrow path of red brick which seemed to pick its way through the shrubs as though the latter had pride of place. The front garden was a place of blossom and bloom, and much insect activity. Hennessey reached the front door and found an old, possibly original, bell pull. He pulled it and heard bells jangle within the house. The door was opened a few seconds later by a young man with a mop of ginger hair, a cheesecloth shirt and a pair of faded denims. He smiled as he pondered the man who had presented on his doorstep, a man probably old in his eyes, lined features and mottled skin.

  "Police?"

  "Didn't know it showed." Hennessey smiled, he glanced behind the man and saw children's toys lying scattered in the hallway.

  "Doesn't really." The younger man returned the smile. "It's all the activity yonder. Can't miss it."

  "Do you see much of your neighbour?"

  "No. No we don't really. We don't socialise at all. If we see him, it's only in passing. Hear him a lot though."

  "Interesting."

  "Oh?"

  "Sound."

  "It is, isn't it? I prefer the radio to television for that reason, the power of the human mind to imagine scenes is astounding, don't you think?"

  "Oh yes,
yes. I'm not a great one for television either." He nodded to the Ossler house. "What specifically did you hear from that house?"

  "Noise, as opposed to sound."

  "The difference being?"

  "The difference as I see it is that noise is unpleasant to listen to, isn't orchestrated, tends to be emotionally led." He blinked against the sun and brushed away a wasp. "The difference between noise and sound is the difference between an argument and a piece of music."

  "I follow you. And you heard noise from the Ossler's?"

  "All the time, nothing but, even loud enough to carry across the distance that separates the houses and that's from within their house to within ours."

  "What sort of noise?"

  "Shouting, arguing, throughout the day and well into the evening, usually, in fact always his voice. His wife is a nervous, timid wee soul. Mind you, I've noticed this before or that before, overbearing men have timid, whimpering wives who'll do their husband's least bidding."

  "Yes." Hennessey murmured. It was not an observation that he'd take issue with. Neither was the prevalence of overbearing women with timid little Jack Sprats for husbands.

  "It was always Ossler shouting, shouting at his wife, shouting at his secretary, shouting at someone on the phone, or so I presume, shouting at his dogs, poor beasts, a mad household and that's for sure."

  "Did you hear anything last night from the Ossler house, I mean?"

  "Dogs barking, but that's not unusual."

  "Nothing else? Nothing out of the ordinary?"

  "No…no, we didn't. I have good hearing, very sensitive ears, need spectacles for distance but my hearing is quite amazing, or so I've found over the years. Often, so often, I've heard things before people around me have heard it…you know, been ridiculed for hearing things and then a few moments later been proved that was exactly what I was doing, hearing things and doing so well before anyone else."

  "But nothing out of the ordinary last night?"

  "Not a dicky bird out of the ordinary, that is. I'd really like to help, sorry. What's happened anyway? Mind you I can guess, I've never known that house so quiet and I saw the black van drive away."

  "You'd be right. You won't be hearing Mr Ossler shouting at anyone any more."

  "You know, I'm not surprised. Not a man with friends, being my observation."

  "So we're beginning to find out. The dogs, what time did you hear them barking?"

  "Well…all the time really, they lived in a highly stressed household, they were nervous, jumpy dogs, clearly kept to bark and that's what they did. They got very little exercise, that tended to make them more irritable. They'll bark at anything, even a ringing telephone. But last night they were quiet for a while, barked at about ten p.m. or so."

  "Ten p.m.?"

  "About."

  "No other sounds? The gate, the gravel?"

  "The squeaky gate and the crunchy gravel? Again, no…again, I'm sorry. I'm sure I'd hear anybody walking on the Osslers' drive. I hear the postman each morning. He calls to their house before ours. Ossler is self-employed and works from home and so he gets a lot of mail, calls about seven thirty each morning."

  "Perhaps we ought to have a word with him?"

  "I doubt he'd be able to tell you anything. He's a good lad, well on the ball. If he saw or noticed anything out of the ordinary he'd report it. Heard him come this morning, heard the gate creak, heard his footfall on the gravel, heard the dogs bark, they know him by the way, heard Ossler's letterbox snap shut a few times as he delivered their customary one ton of mail, heard him crunch back up the drive, open and close the gate, then a few moments later he drops our gas bill through our letterbox, delightful fellow. The next sound I heard was the cleaning lady's cycle and the dogs welcoming her. Then it was all hustle and bustle, and that doesn't happen in our village."

  "Oh, but it does, Mr…?"

  "Locksmith."

  "Are you self-employed, Mr Locksmith?"

  "No. I teach at the university. Monday's a study day but this is the long vac…so I'm working at home. Don't do any teaching until term starts in October."

  "Can't be bad."

  "It doesn't mean that we stop work—that's a myth -lectures to prepare, lectures to update, my own research to continue. But it does mean that we can structure our own day, that's quite a bonus."

  "I'll bet. So dogs at ten p.m. about, then silence until the dogs barked at the postman?"

  "That's about it."

  "It's a new house…Ossler's house?"

  "Five years old. He bought the paddock, a three-acre paddock, got planning permission, planted that thing there. Confess the name amuses me."

  "Thundercliffe Grange?"

  "Yes. Hardly original."

  "It rings bells."

  "Wuthering Heights."

  "Of course."

  "It's such a naked…such a transparent copy but that didn't seem to bother Mr Ossler. Dare say he took a fancy to the name, decided to have it for his house. It might say a lot about him."

  "Oh?"

  "Well, my prejudice, naming a house in the first place, then copying a famous name…ah…Mrs Ossler."

  Hennessey turned and watched as a police car drew up against the kerb in front of the front wall of the Ossler house. A slight-built woman in jeans got out of the front passenger seat. "She's quite young…"

  "An awful lot younger than he is. They've been taken for father and daughter before. How she stood for all that shouting, maybe she thought the good living he offered was worth it?"

  "Well," Hennessey nodded his thanks to Locksmith, "we'll see what she says."

  Two

  In which Hennessey meets a most youthful widow, learns more about the deceased and is intrigued by a telephone call.

  It wasn't until Hennessey stood close to Mrs Ossler that he realised how much younger than her husband she actually was. He could see what Mr Locksmith, their neighbour, had meant when he reported that they had on occasion been taken for father and daughter. He was also aware that many men fantasise about having a younger wife, though it was not a fantasy he had ever subscribed to, preferring the company of his own generation, and just then he did not at all envy Ossler his wife, despite her youth and good looks, if a little waifish, he thought. "Mrs Ossler?" he said gently. "I'm very sorry."

  "Yes…what has happened?" Her voice faltered, her body trembled, she shivered despite the June warmth, her complexion seemed drained of colour.

  "I'm sorry, I thought you'd been told. Mrs Ossler, I regret that I have to inform you that there has been an incident in your home, that a man we believe to be your husband is deceased."

  "Oh…" She swayed a little, Hennessey held her by the arm and felt only, it seemed, a bag of bones, waifish he thought was perhaps right, her clothing probably covered a woman who was verging on the anorexic.

  "We can't talk here." Hennessey raised a hand, a constable approached. "Can you take this lady to the police station?" He then turned to Mrs Ossler. "I'll have a chat with you there. My name is Hennessey. Chief Inspector Hennessey."

  Mrs Ossler nodded, repeating his name and rank as if committing it to memory amid the confusion. She allowed herself to be escorted to a police car and was driven away.

  Hennessey remained until the Scenes of Crime Officers had completed their tasks and he then familiarised himself with the layout of the house; the small office where the murder had taken place, a second small office or study, the master bedroom upstairs, two further bedrooms downstairs, the dining-room, the sitting-room, hallway, cupboards, kitchen, scullery. All very neat, and new, and as he first observed, all very "just so". He went outside and being a dog lover and owner, checked that the Alsatians had sufficient water but kept them in the shed for fear that they would contaminate the crime scene. He surveyed the rear garden, the undisturbed neatness, the high fencing; and then the front of the house to the lane, again neat, again undisturbed. It all reinforced the impression if not the certainty that at about ten p.m. the previous evening,
just over twelve hours earlier, some person or persons had silently approached the house, gained entry, if not let in, had coerced Ossler, or had been invited by him to the office where he or she or they had shot Ossler once, blowing away the front of his skull from the eye-line upwards. They had then departed equally silently. Despite gravel. Despite dogs. Puzzled, he drove the ten miles back to York, and to Micklegate Bar Police Station.

  Mrs Ossler sat waiting for him in an interview room, she clutched a sodden handkerchief in one hand, the other was cupped round a plastic beaker, which contained the remains of vending machine liquid. Moving gently, being as least threatening in his body language as he could, George Hennessey sat opposite her and smiled gently. She returned his smile, a little forced he thought, but at least she did smile. She was, he reminded himself, more of a girl than a woman, more of a girl than a widow.

  "It's a bad day for you, Mrs Ossler."

  "Aye…"

  "I'll try and make this as brief as possible."

  "It's the sixth of June," she said looking at the Police Mutual calendar on the wall, "D-Day."

  "So it is."

  "I've been sitting here thinking that there's something significant about this date and that's it. It's the anniversary of D-Day."

  Hennessey smiled. She was a woman in shock. The world about her would have an unreal, dreamlike quality. He'd been there himself, twice, he realised. He was twice bereaved and recalled the numbing "this isn't happening" feeling. He could well sympathise with her.

  "Dead, you say? How?"

  "He was shot."

  "Shot! That doesn't happen in England."

  "Oh, but it does I'm afraid. And with increasing frequency."

  "Shot…"

  "It's not a very English way of death, but it's death and its murder. And in all murder cases, the first twenty-four hours are the most important. So you've got to try and help us, Mrs Ossler. I know things are difficult for you, but you have to answer some questions."

  "I'll try."

  "Good." Hennessey opened a notepad and took the top off his ballpoint.