Strange Affair

by Peter Robinson

  She pulled to a halt behind the blue Peugeot 106 on a quiet stretch of country road halfway between Eastvale and the Al. It had been just after half past seven when the station desk sergeant rang and woke her from an uneasy dream she immediately forgot, and after a quick shower and a cup of instant coffee, she was on the road.

  The morning was still and hazy, with the drone of insects in the air. It was going to be just the kind of day for a picnic by the river, dragonflies and the scent of wild garlic, perhaps a bottle of Chablis cooling in the water, maybe her sketch pad and a few sticks of charcoal. After a few nibbles of Wensleydale cheese—the type with cranberries was her favorite—and a couple of glasses of wine, it would be time for a nap on the riverbank, maybe a pleasant dream. Enough of that, she thought, walking over to the car; life had other plans for her today.

  Annie could see that the car’s left wing had made contact with the drystone wall, so much so that the wing had buckled and scratched and the impact had brought down a section of the wall. There were no traces of skid marks, no tire tracks at all on the dry tarmac surface.

  There was already activity around the Peugeot. The road had been closed to all non-police traffic, and the immediate area around the car had been taped off. That would cause a few problems when the tourists started to dribble in, Annie thought, but it couldn’t be helped; the integrity of the scene had to be preserved. The photographer, Peter Darby, had finished photographing the body and the car and had busied himself videotaping the immediate area. Detective Sergeant Jim Hatchley and Detective Constable Winsome Jackman, who both lived closer to the scene, were already there when Annie arrived, Hatchley standing by the roadside and Winsome sitting half in and half out of the unmarked police car.

  “What have we got?” Annie asked Hatchley, who, as usual, looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backward. The little piece of tissue paper he had stuck to a shaving cut on his chin didn’t help much.

  “A young woman dead behind the wheel of her car,” said Hatchley.

  “I can see that for myself,” snapped Annie, glancing toward the open driver’s-side window.

  “Bit prickly this morning, aren’t we, ma’am,” said Hatchley. “What’s up? Get out of the wrong side of bed?”

  Annie ignored him. She was used to Hatchley’s taunts, which had only grown more frequent since she had been made inspector and he remained a sergeant. “Cause of death?” she asked.

  “Don’t know yet. Nothing apparent. No obvious marks, no bruising. And officially she’s not even dead yet. Not until the doc says she is.”

  Annie refrained from pointing out that she knew that perfectly well. “But you’ve examined her?” she pressed on.

  “I had a quick look, that’s all. Didn’t touch anything. Winsome checked for a pulse and found none. We’re still waiting for Doc Burns.”

  “So she could have died of a heart attack for all we know?”

  “I suppose so,” said Hatchley. “But like I said, she’s very young. It smells a bit fishy to me.”

  “Any idea who she is?”

  “There’s no handbag, no driving license, nowt. At least not as you can see looking through the windows.”

  “Maybe she was forced to pull over. That makes more sense than a young woman traveling alone stopping voluntarily for a stranger on a dark country road. You can see she hit the wall. Maybe someone was chasing her.”

  “I checked the number plate on the computer, guv,” said Winsome, walking over from her car. “The car’s registered to a Jennifer Clewes. Lives in London. Kennington. Twenty-seven years old.”

  “We don’t know for certain it’s her yet,” Annie said, “so find out all you can.”

  “Right, guv.” Winsome paused.

  “Yes?”

  “Wasn’t there another one?”

  “Another what?” asked Annie.

  “Another murder. Like this one. Young woman found dead on the side of a road. The M1, not the A1, but even so…”

  “Yes,” said Annie. “I remember reading about it in the papers. I can’t remember the details. Look into it, will you?”

  “Yes, guv.” Winsome walked back to her car.

  Annie looked at Hatchley again. “Has Detective Superintendent Gristhorpe been informed?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Says to keep him up-to-date.”

  That made sense, Annie thought. No point having the super come running down here if the woman had pulled over into the lay-by and died of a heart attack, asthma, brain aneurysm, or any of the other random failures of the flesh that cause sudden death in otherwise healthy young people. “Who was first officer on the scene?”

  “PC Farrier over there.”

  Hatchley pointed to a uniformed police constable leaning against a patrol car. Pete Farrier. Annie knew him; he worked out of Western Area Headquarters, the same as she did. Had done for years, according to all accounts, and was a reliable, sensible bobby. Annie walked over to him. “What happened, Pete?” she asked. “Who called it in?”

  “Couple over there, ma’am.” Farrier pointed to a man and a woman some yards away from the scene. They were sitting on the grass by the side of the road, and the man had his arm around the woman, whose head was buried in his chest.

  Annie thanked Farrier and walked back to her car, took her latex gloves from the murder kit in the boot and slipped them on. Then she walked over to the Peugeot. She needed to have a closer look at the scene, gather some first impressions before Dr. Burns arrived and started his examination. Already a number of flies had settled on the woman’s pale face. Annie shooed them away. They buzzed angrily around her head, waiting for the chance to get back.

  The woman sat in the driver’s seat, slumped slightly forward and listing to the left; her right hand grasped the steering wheel and her left held the gear stick. Her seat belt was fastened firmly in place, holding her up, and both the front windows were open. The key was still in the ignition, Annie noticed, and a travel mug sat in its holder.

  The victim wasn’t a big woman, but her breasts were quite large, and the seat belt ran between them, separating them and causing them to appear even more prominent. She looked to be mid-to-late twenties, which matched Jennifer Clewes’s age, and she was very attractive. Her skin was pale, and probably had been even before her death, her long hair was dark red—dyed, Annie guessed—and she was wearing a pale blue cotton blouse and black denim jeans. There were no apparent marks on what they could see of her body, as Hatchley had noted, and no sign of blood. Her eyes were open, a dull vacant green. Annie had seen that look before, felt that stillness.

  Hatchley was right, though; there was something very fishy about the whole setup, fishy enough at least to warrant a thorough preliminary investigation before deciding upon the scale of the inquiry. As Annie examined the scene, she made notes of what she observed and thought for later use.

  When Annie had finished, she walked over to the couple who had found the body. They were very young, she noticed as she got closer. The man was ashen and the woman he was holding still had her face buried in his shoulder, though she didn’t appear to be heaving with sobs. The man looked up and Annie squatted beside them.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Cabbot from Western Area Headquarters,” she said. “I understand you found the car?”

  The woman turned her face away from the protection of the man’s shoulder and looked at Annie. She had been crying, that was clear enough, but now she just seemed shocked and hurt.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Annie asked the man.

  “We already told the policeman in the uniform. He was the first to get here.”

  “I know,” said Annie, “and I’m sorry to make you go through it again, but it’ll help if you tell me.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, really, is there, love?” he said to the woman, who shook her head.

  “First off, why don’t you tell me your names?”

  “This is Sam, Samantha,” he said, “and I’m Adrian, Adrian Sinclair.�
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  “Okay, Adrian. Where do you live?”

  “Sunderland.” Annie thought she’d noticed a hint of Geordie bur in his voice, though it was faint. “We’re on holiday.” Adrian paused and stroked Samantha’s hair. “On our honeymoon, in fact.”

  Well, they’d certainly remember it for as long as they lived, Annie thought, and not for the right reasons. “Where are you staying?”

  Adrian pointed up the hillside. “We’re renting a cottage. Greystone. Just up there.”

  Annie knew it. She made a note. “And what were you doing down here by the road?”

  “Just walking,” Adrian said. “It was such a beautiful morning, and the birds woke us so early.”

  They were dressed for walking, Annie noticed. Not professional ramblers with the plastic-covered Ordnance survey maps around their necks, ashplants, boots and expensive Gore-Tex gear, but simple, sturdy shoes, light clothing and a rucksack.

  “What time did you arrive here?”

  “It must have been a bit before seven,” Adrian said.

  “What did you find?”

  “The car stopped in the lay-by, just like it is now.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Annie looked at Samantha. “Neither of you?”

  “No,” Samantha said. “But you might have touched the roof, Adrian, when you bent to look inside.”

  “It’s possible,” Adrian said. “I don’t remember. At first I thought maybe she was looking at a road map, or asleep, even. I went over to see if she needed any help. Then I saw her, with her eyes open like that and…We might never have gone over, unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Well, it was me, really,” Sam said. “I mean, like he said, Adrian just thought it was someone pulled over to rest or look at a road map.”

  “But you didn’t. Why not?”

  “I don’t know, really,” Sam said. “It’s just that it was so early in the morning, and she was a woman, alone. I thought we should make sure she was all right, that’s all. She might have been attacked or upset or something. Maybe it was none of our business, but you can’t just leave, can you, walk on by?” A little color came to her cheeks as she spoke. “Anyway, when we got closer we could see she wasn’t moving, just staring down like that, and it looked as if she’d hit the wall. I said we should go over and see what was wrong with her.”

  “Did you know she was dead when you looked through the window?”

  “Well,” said Adrian, “I’ve never seen a dead person before, but you can sort of tell, can’t you?”

  Yes, Annie thought, having seen far too many, you can tell. Nobody home.

  Samantha gave a little shudder and seemed to melt deeper into Adrian’s embrace. “And the flies,” she said.

  “What flies?” Annie asked.

  “On her face and her arms. Flies. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t even trying to swat them away. I thought how much they must be tickling her.”

  Annie swallowed. “Were the windows open?”

  “Yes,” said Samantha. “Just like they are now. We really didn’t disturb anything. I mean, we’ve seen Morse and Frost on television.”

  “I’m sure you have. I just have to make certain. I don’t suppose you saw anyone, heard any other cars or anything?”

  “No.”

  “What did you do when you found her?”

  “Rang the police.” Adrian pulled a mobile from his pocket. He wouldn’t have had much luck with it around these parts a few months ago, Annie reflected, but coverage had been improved a lot recently.

  “And there’s nothing else you can tell me?”

  “No. Look, we’re just so…devastated. Can we go home now? I think Sam needs a lie-down, and I could do with a strong cup of tea.”

  “How long are you staying at Greystone?” Annie asked.

  “We’ve got another week.”

  “Stick around,” said Annie. “We might want to talk to you again.”

  Annie went back to rejoin Hatchley and saw Dr. Burns’s gray Audi arrive. She greeted him and they walked over to the Peugeot. This would be a difficult examination for Dr. Burns, Annie knew, because the body was sitting upright in an enclosed space, and he could hardly move it before Dr. Glendenning, the Home Office pathologist, arrived. She also knew that Dr. Burns was aware the scenes-of-crime officers would be eager to give the car a thorough going-over, so he was being extra careful not to touch any surfaces and damage any possible prints, even though he was wearing disposable gloves. It was the police surgeon’s job only to determine and pronounce that the girl was dead—the rest was up to the pathologist—but Annie knew that Dr. Burns would like to give her some idea of time and cause, if at all possible.

  After feeling for a pulse and examining the woman’s eyes, then listening for a heartbeat through his stethoscope, Dr. Burns confirmed that she was, indeed, dead.

  “The corneas haven’t clouded yet,” he said, “which means she’s probably been dead less than eight hours. I’m sure the flies have laid their eggs already, which you’d expect to happen quite soon in summer with the windows open, but there’s no sign of advanced insect activity, another indication we’re dealing with a relatively recent death.”

  Dr. Burns slipped off a glove and slid his hand inside the woman’s blouse, under her arm. “Best I can do as far as temperature is concerned,” he said, noticing Annie’s curious glance. “It does help give an approximation. She’s still warm, which confirms that death occurred only a few hours ago.”

  “It was a warm night,” said Annie. “How long?”

  “Can’t say exactly, but I’d guess about five or six hours at the most.” He felt the woman’s jaw and neck. “Rigor’s present where you’d expect it to be, and as the heat probably speeded that up, we’re still working within much the same parameters.”

  Annie looked at her watch. “Between two and four in the morning, then?”

  “I wouldn’t swear to it, of course,” said Dr. Burns, with a smile, “but that sounds about right. And don’t tell Dr. Glendenning I’ve been making wild guesses. You know what he’s like about that sort of thing.”

  “Any thoughts on cause of death?”

  “That’s a bit more difficult,” said Dr. Burns, turning to the body again. “There are no visible signs of strangulation, either ligature or manual, and no petechial hemorrhaging, which you’d expect with strangulation. Also no signs of a stab wound, no blood that I can see, at any rate. It’ll have to wait until Dr. Glendenning gets her on the table.”

  “Could it have been a heart attack, or something like that?”

  “It could have been. Heart attacks aren’t so common in healthy young women, but if she had some sort of genetic disorder or preexisting condition…Let’s say it’s within the realm of the possible, but unlikely.”

  Dr. Burns turned back to the body and probed gently here and there. He tried to unloosen the woman’s hand from the steering wheel but couldn’t. “That’s interesting,” he said. “Rigor hasn’t progressed as far as the hands yet, so it looks as if we’re dealing with cadaveric spasm.”

  “What does it mean in this case?”

  Dr. Burns stood up and faced Annie. “It means she was holding the wheel when she died. And the gear stick.”

  Annie thought about the implications of that. Either the woman had just managed to pull into the lay-by when she died, or she was trying to drive away from something, or someone.

  Annie stuck her head through the car window, uncomfortably aware of the closeness of the corpse, and looked down. One foot on the clutch, the other on the accelerator, gear stick in reverse and ignition turned on. She reached out and touched the travel mug. It felt cool.

  As she moved back, Annie smelled just a hint of something vaguely sweet and metallic. She told Dr. Burns. He frowned and leaned forward, apologizing that he had no sense of smell. Gently, he touched the woman’s hair and pulled it back to expose her ear. Then he gasped.


  “Good Lord,” he said. “Look at this.”

  Annie bent over and looked. Just behind the woman’s right ear was a tiny star-shaped hole, around which the skin was burned and blackened with a sootlike residue. There wasn’t much blood, and what there was had been hidden by her long red hair. Annie was no expert, but it didn’t take an expert to realize that this was a gunshot wound fired from close quarters. And if there was no gun in sight, and the woman had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear stick, then it could hardly have been a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

  Dr. Burns leaned through the window in front of the woman, feeling the other side of her skull for signs of blood and an exit wound. “Nothing,” he said. “No wonder we couldn’t see anything. The bullet must be still inside her skull.” He stepped away from the car, as if washing his hands of the whole affair. “Okay,” he said, “that’s all I can do for now. The rest is up to Dr. Glendenning.”

  Annie looked at him and sighed, then she called Hatchley over. “Inform Superintendent Gristhorpe that we’ve got what looks very much like a murder on our hands. And we’d better get Dr. Glendenning and the SOCOs down here as soon as possible.”

  Hatchley’s face dropped. Annie knew why, and she sympathized. It was the weekend, but all leave would be canceled. Sergeant Hatchley probably had plans to go and watch the local cricket team and have a booze-up with the lads afterward. But not now. She wouldn’t even be surprised if Banks was called back, depending on the scale of the investigation.

  She looked down the road and her heart sank as she saw the first media vans arriving. How quickly bad news travels, she thought.

  CHAPTER TWO