Omens of Death (The Montague Pluke Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘No, none, Montague. The house was quiet on Thursday morning; she did not see anyone around, no sign of the occupants. The red mini was not there either; that’s the following morning, Thursday. Yesterday. Mrs Peat assumed it had been put in the Crowthers’ garage, which was where the girl kept it. The Crowthers used their own car to travel to the airport, so we know the garage was available.’

  ‘All very sound information, Mr Horsley,’ said Pluke. ‘I know we cannot make unproven assumptions, but it does seem possible that Winton left his own car somewhere on Wednesday evening, was taken to No 15 Padgett Grove by Tracy in her car and then spent at least part of the evening alone with her. Had he spent the whole day with her, perhaps on a photographic session before returning to the bungalow? And if he did return with her, did he kill her and remove her body in her own car, dump her at the Circle and then collect his to return to Fossford? He was in Fossford on Thursday morning — his landlady saw him leave his flat and her sighting tallies with his statement to us, including the time of his arrival at the Druids’ Circle and his subsequent call to us about “finding” the body.’

  ‘We can only guess at that scenario, Montague, unless our enquiries reveal some formal connection between the girl and Winton, photographic work, I mean, commissioned work. We cannot be sure the man with her at the bungalow was Winton. We must be careful not to make too many assumptions.’

  ‘I agree entirely. Now, we are looking into her recent movements, are we?’

  ‘I have three teams doing that, Montague, covering Crickledale and her contacts on Teesside. While you were away, her father came to the morgue to make a formal identification. It is definitely Tracy Bretton. She was a model, aged thirty-one, home address — Stockton-on-Tees. Full details are in the file. Her dad had no idea about her porn work; he thought she modelled for fashion stores and catalogues — which she did, so she didn’t lie to her parents. It’s just that she didn’t tell the whole truth. The fact is she did porn — male order poses, I suppose you could call them! Extra activities for cash. Poor kid; what an awful life. And she was asthmatic, the inhaler found in the bungalow was hers. It proves she was there too. Her body has been taken to Leeds for a forensic pathologist to ascertain the cause of death. He’s going to operate this afternoon. I hope to have a result before we knock off tonight.’

  ‘Let’s hope we get a positive result,’ said Pluke. ‘Now, did you know that a diet of boiled carrots eaten for two weeks is said to be an effective cure for asthma? Next, it’s vital that we find her car, even if it is a burnt-out wreck in the forest.’

  ‘We’ve got its registration number from her father; a PNC check on the number has thrown up the engine and chassis numbers too. Even if it has been destroyed, we should be able to identify it. I have passed a message to motor patrols and C10, but we really need the Task Force to search the forests.’

  ‘We can get them to do that when they’ve finished at the Circle. I have asked the press to publicise it; the evening paper should carry the story. An article in the newspapers will help immensely,’ said Montague. ‘Holiday-makers, forestry workers, and local people can do the work of hundreds of police officers. When it’s found, we must make sure it’s examined for fingerprints. If it contains the fingerprints of Winton — and we’ll have those on file if he has form — it’ll help to establish he either travelled in the car or drove it.’

  ‘Sir,’ butted in Wayne Wain, stifling another huge yawn. ‘Even if Winton did visit the house, even if he did spend time with Tracy, and even if he did drive her car away, it doesn’t mean he killed her. I am sorry to harp on about this, but it would be dreadful if we labelled him a killer when he wasn’t. And he’s hardly in a position to defend himself, is he?’

  ‘Point taken, Sergeant,’ said Inspector Horsley. ‘Now, if we can prove Winton was the killer, we can terminate this investigation. The file can be closed because he can’t be prosecuted. But if he was not the killer, it means the killer is still out there. Winton’s killer may be Tracy’s killer — and I regard that as a strong option. That alternative means we can’t wrap up this enquiry, gentlemen. We must press on. Now, the SOCO teams are at No 15 Padgett Grove this morning, checking it over with a fine-tooth comb before the Crowthers return. They’re seeking fingerprints — Tracy’s, Winton’s, those of the Crowthers of course, and hopefully any others that might appear, even some of the Dunwoodys next door and other visitors. We need to eliminate a lot of people from suspicious associations with that bungalow. If any of those visitors to Tracy have form, we’ll track them down. And I have teams working on the Dunwoodys, Holliday, Ron Brown alias Marcel Boussicourt, and the Crowthers. We shall be probing every part of their lives.’

  ‘I am afraid we shall create consternation in Crickledale,’ commented Montague. ‘But so long as we emerge with the truth, that is what we seek. Now, I understand the Crowthers are planning to return very soon. They may tell us if any blankets are missing. I am sure we shall find them most helpful in tracing the people who have had legitimate access to their house. What else do I need to ask, Mr Horsley? Has anything been ascertained about that glove?’

  ‘Nothing; not yet anyway. There’s no manufacturer’s name inside and so far, we’ve drawn a blank from enquiries in shops around town. It’s the sort of glove any man could buy in a department store, mass produced, not special in any way. Size nine. There’s a label inside, which says “Made in England” and the size, nothing else. But we are on the trail of one or two likely manufacturers. There might be some means of tracing its journey from the factory.’

  Well briefed by Horsley, Montague and Wayne spent the next couple of hours or so studying the file of processed statements. Many came from householders in the town, people who had been visited by teams of detectives, and most contained nothing of value. After being typed and duplicated, every statement was read by a team of statement readers; their job was to note anything that might be relevant to the enquiry, highlight it, and make a reference to it in the HOLMES computer. One such relevant item was the missing red car. All detectives had been told to ask for sightings of the car during their enquiries, but none had emerged at this early stage.

  One team had been especially commissioned to visit every garage and filling station in and around Crickledale to make specific enquiries about Tracy’s car, the registration details of which were now available. Some garages noted such numbers in their petrol sales records, even when cash was paid. But no sightings, other than those of the neighbours in Padgett Grove, had been recorded.

  When the press arrived for their late-afternoon news conference, Montague could confirm the identity of the deceased. He knew the papers would highlight her private life, but this might produce sightings of her and perhaps identify people with a knowledge of her and her work. It could produce personal contacts, all of whom would have to be eliminated from the enquiry. The identity of the victim was today’s big item for the media, although it was too late for the early editions of the evening papers. It would make TV, though, and the Force Press Officer had procured a photograph of Tracy in one of her more modest modelling poses. This would be used by TV and the newspapers, hopefully to good effect.

  The next major development occurred that afternoon when a lady arrived at the enquiry counter of Crickledale Police Station shortly before 5pm. She asked for the officer in charge of the murder enquiry and the constable on duty referred her to the Incident Room where she encountered Montague Pluke. In Pluke’s opinion, she was not entirely unexpected — the falling fork had given him adequate warning.

  ‘Yes, madam.’ He beamed when she said she had something to tell him. He noted she wore sensible walking shoes and a long, loose dress of many colours — a lady in her mid-forties with dyed blonde hair. He asked, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s about this enquiry of yours, Mr Pluke. Well, I had two of your detectives round earlier,’ she said. ‘Asking about that girl at the Circle.’

  ‘Tracy Bretton.’ Montague provid
ed the girl’s name.

  ‘Yes, well, they asked about red minis, her car, they said. She had a red mini, they mentioned, and said you were looking for it. Well, I think I know where it is.’

  ‘You do? This is wonderful. And you are Mrs Braithwaite, aren’t you? I believe we met at one of my wife’s events, in the Church Hall? Millicent Pluke. A plant sale last year?’

  ‘My word, Mr Pluke, what a memory. It’ll be your training, of course. Yes, I am Mrs Braithwaite. Ruth Braithwaite,’ she identified herself. ‘Tavern Lane. No 22. I took my dog for a walk this afternoon, you see; three o’clock we set off. I take the car to the moors, and we walk up there whenever we can. Me and Patch.’

  ‘Up where?’ Montague smiled.

  ‘On the tops above Russetdale, that old railway track. It’s flat up there, I puff a bit when I have to climb hills, you see, and, well, anyway, I let Patch off his lead — he’s a Jack Russell terrier — and he ran about like he does. Anyway, I saw this car, in a dip on the moors. Burnt out, well most of it burnt out. It had been red; I could see some colour left on it. Anyway, Mr Pluke, I went for a look — it wasn’t burning then of course — but there was nobody with it. So, well, hearing about that poor girl and her red car, I thought you ought to know about this one.’

  ‘So you think it had been driven along the old railway track and then deep into the moors?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s what happened,’ she said. ‘I mean, people do take their cars along that old track, it’s very firm and made of cinders, but this was well into the heather, quite a long way off the track. I was lucky to notice it, Mr Pluke, it was in a dip in the moors. It was just a fluke that I saw it.’

  ‘If I get a map, could you show me where it is?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Minutes later, Pluke knew where to find the car; he summoned two detectives to take a statement from Mrs Braithwaite for entry into the filing system and HOLMES, and called Wayne Wain. His face now looked a weird shade of grey with deep lines about the dark-skinned eye sockets, and eyes like pick holes in the snow. He was yawning with increasing regularity.

  ‘You should be in bed, Wayne!’ snapped Montague Pluke.

  ‘I’ll knock off soon, sir.’ His voice was hoarse now.

  ‘I think we have found the missing car, Wayne; I was going out to look at it.’

  ‘Then I wish to come, sir.’

  A quick call to the Fire Brigade and to Crickledale police Control Room showed that no car fires had been reported in recent days, although one report of a small moor fire at that location had been received at 11am. on Thursday morning. Such fires were fairly routine during the summer months and often burnt themselves out very quickly.

  In this case, a search had failed to find the source because the smoke had ceased by the time the Fire Service arrived; a lack of smoke meant they did not conduct a localised search and so they had not discovered the car. Whoever had burnt that car had found a very secluded place. It suggested someone with a very good knowledge of the local moorland. After briefing a two-man team from SOCO to follow their vehicle, Wayne Wain led the procession high on to the moors above Russetdale and actually drove along the old railway track. There was no doubt it could easily accommodate a motor car or vehicle of similar size. It took a few minutes to locate the car. It was a burnt-out shell, all rust-coloured with blackened portions which had once been the interior furnishings. The heather and bracken around it were scorched and blackened, while the tyres had completely vanished in the blaze. Very little of the vehicle remained, although some red paint had survived on the sills and under the wings.

  The registration plates were missing too, probably having been removed in the hope it would frustrate identification of the car, but the engine compartment was intact and the engine number in situ.

  Beyond all doubt, this had once been Tracy Bretton’s car.

  The Crickledale Tea Circle that afternoon enjoyed cucumber sandwiches and homemade cakes. It was Mrs Peat who held court. Having been interviewed by detectives, she explained to the shocked ladies that No 15 Padgett Grove was indeed the focus of a murder investigation and the victim had been the young woman assumed by the neighbours to have been the niece of May and Cyril Crowther. But the young woman was a fashion model, she said, and there was talk of sex parties with orgies of naked men and women being filmed at the house.

  There was even a hint that the woman was not really May’s niece, so what had May and Cyril been up to? That’s what Mrs Peat wanted to know. She enlivened the Tea Circle with a graphic description of a dark-haired young man she’d seen with no clothes on and was positive that other people had been gallivanting about the house stark naked…

  ‘I shouldn’t say this but I will.’ She spoke in confidence to her open-mouthed audience. ‘But did May and Cyril know? I mean, did they agree to those goings-on…?’

  ‘You are going to ask your husband about it, aren’t you, Millicent?’ persisted Mrs Councillor Farrell. ‘And I will ask my husband to bring it up in Council. We don’t want that kind of behaviour in Crickledale, do we? Not in such a nice area…’

  Millicent blushed. How could she possibly ask Montague again about his confidential work and especially about matters relating to overt sexual activity?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Montague Pluke was locked in a moment of silence as he examined the scorched moorland that surrounded the charred, twisted remains of the little red car. In pondering the start of the blaze, he was aware of an old belief — one that went back to the pagans — that a fire could never be ignited when beams of sunshine were shining directly upon it. That was not true, of course, but there was another very strong belief, prevalent even today, that if a fire ignited very quickly without any artificial aid, then the household in question would receive unexpected visitors very shortly afterwards. Judging by its almost totally consumed condition, this vehicle appeared to have caught fire without any difficulty, so perhaps the person who had set it on fire would soon receive some unexpected visitors — police officers, in all probability. But had Winton done this? It was a question that must be answered. But how?

  Detective Constable Sykes, one of the SOCO team, approached Montague. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve searched for bodies; there’s none in the shell of the car and none lying on the neighbouring moor. Shall we get to work on it now?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course, DC Sykes. What do you think? Any chances of prints or other evidence?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir, it’s burnt to cinders — those places that would have borne prints have gone — internal mirror, steering wheel, dashboard, door handles… but we’ll give it a thorough going-over. Is there anything we should be looking for especially?’

  ‘The owner’s prints, obviously, or anything belonging to her — jewellery, that sort of thing. Some of her belongings may have been disposed of — they might have been placed in the car for burning. Perhaps a blanket that covered her nakedness. And anything belonging to whoever drove it here. Man or woman. I need to know who brought this car here, DC Sykes — he or she might have left something behind, something which has survived the blaze. And remember whoever did bring it here had to get home afterwards. There might be some indication how that was achieved — two people, maybe, the man who fired the car and an accomplice — and I’ll get a team working in this area to see if anyone noticed the flames or smoke. Not all moor fires, or suspected moor fires, are reported. And there may be footsteps in the earth, tyre marks, discarded cigarette ends, anything.’

  ‘I’ll make sure we give the entire scene a thorough going-over, sir,’ promised Sykes, returning to his own vehicle for his equipment.

  ‘Let me know if you find anything of interest,’ requested Pluke, adding, ‘I do not believe in interfering with experts while they’re doing their duty.’

  As this was formerly railway territory, Pluke realised it was scarcely good horse trough country and decided to return to base immediately. He went to his car, but Wayne was in the driving
seat, fast asleep. Montague Pluke smiled as he went to arouse him, poking him in the ribs and saying, ‘If you are going to stay asleep, Sergeant, I shall be compelled to drive us home.’

  ‘God! Anything but that sir! I am awake; I was just resting my eyelids…’ And he jerked himself into wakefulness and set about driving his boss back to the office.

  Montague, wary of Wayne’s excessively tired state, offered to drive, but Wayne would hear nothing of it. Even in his exhausted condition, Wayne considered he was a safer driver than Montague. During the journey, Montague kept Wayne awake by discussing the logistics of this case.

  ‘What I want you to calculate, Wayne, is whether it is feasible that Stephen Winton could have killed Tracy Bretton on Wednesday, probably at No 15 Padgett Grove and probably during the evening. Consider whether he put her naked body in her own car, suitably covered, and drove out to the Druids’ Circle for disposal of her corpse. Remember the watchfulness of Mrs Peat too. Did she see Winton at the house? And if so, was he there in suspicious circumstances? And remember that Winton said he did not know the girl — he told me that; he said he had never seen her before. We know he lied about visits to the Druids’ Circle, so was he lying about this too? It would appear so. Certainly, Mrs Peat saw someone who looked like Winton and that same person also talked to Dunwoody in the presence of the girl. See what Dunwoody can tell us about that. He did recognise the girl, by the way, in the morgue. And having checked all that, find out if Winton could have driven her car on to these moors to set fire to it, and then returned to Fossford so that his movements or his absences were not unduly different from his normal routine. How feasible is it that he might have done all that alone, without help? If he did not set fire to her car, who did? And why?’

  ‘I’ll check his movements minutely, sir,’ said Wayne, making a great effort to remain alert. ‘I don’t think he is guilty of murder, I’d like to see him cleared.’