However, he had not called at the fish and chip shop that night, enquiries had already ascertained, and he had not been seen since leaving his office. His car was at home, in the garage, so he had not used that to drive out to Trattledale. He had clearly been transported by another person, so surely someone must have seen him during that journey?
Of major importance was the fact that the bullet in Moses Nettlewren’s head had been compared with the one found in the head of Stephen Winton and the ballistics expert, persuaded to undertake the examination on a Saturday night instead of having an evening on the patio with his barbecue, had confirmed they had come from the same weapon. In all probability, that was a .22 pistol or revolver rather than a .22 rifle, something fired at fairly close range.
That diagnosis tallied with the shooting of Stephen Winton. Montague had instigated a check upon all local holders of firearms certificates by which the possession or use of .22 weapons was authorised. There were hundreds, unfortunately, some seventy of whom lived in or near Crickledale. Quite a lot of the Crickledale certificate holders belonged to Crickledale Rifle and Pistol Club — indeed the club itself held a quantity of firearms used in competitions by its members — and all certificate holders would be visited and questioned about their movements or the whereabouts of their guns. Interviewing them all would be a lengthy task.
As Montague walked through the town, raising his panama to the ladies and bidding his good mornings to everyone en route, he was sure that the person who had killed Moses Nettlewren had also killed Stephen Winton, and that the person who had killed Stephen Winton was identical with the individual who thought he had killed Tracy Bretton.
This led Montague to conclude that a mass murderer was at large in Crickledale and he was firmly of the belief that the Fossford murder had occurred because of Winton’s links with Crickledale. Those links, he knew, were rather more than photographing follies.
The scenario, as Montague saw it, suggested that a Crickledale killer had ventured into Fossford to despatch Winton; it was not a Fossford killer who had trekked into the Crickledale countryside to commit these foul deeds. That a Crickledonian should commit such a crime was almost unthinkable, but Montague knew that senior police officers often had to think the unthinkable and accept the unacceptable.
Having been late home last night, after supervising the establishment of the Incident Room and instigating the initial enquiries, Montague had not slept very well, even though his head had been facing south. Persons who sleep with their heads to the North, he knew, could not expect a long life, so he avoided that and made sure Millicent did likewise. The wisest thing was to sleep with one’s head to the West — that was a sure way of attracting good fortune, and the term ‘good fortune’ embraced a host of possibilities, money, health, and happiness being just a few.
His lack of sleep had arisen because the facts of the three cases, as he knew them, had churned around in his mind without respite and he had been unable to switch off his brain; he had tried to count sheep but that had produced no useful effect, other than the knowledge that the meeting of a flock of sheep on the road was regarded as a sign of good luck, even if you were late for a train or bus or other appointment.
In spite of his efforts to dismiss them, the cast of possible culprits had continued to march through his restless mind, even into the early hours. In spite of his wakeful night, one pleasing factor was that the Chief Constable had telephoned him last night at home. Furthermore, the call had been made in person from the restaurant where the Chief had been having a meal with the County Treasurer and he had said, ‘Detective Inspector Pluke, you must catch this killer! This kind of thing is very bad for the image of the county… so get to work. Spare no expense this time… do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Montague had wondered if the Chief had had too many brandies. Normally, he told his officers not to spend money.
‘I am dining with John Fortune, he’s the County Treasurer you know, and he says we must catch this fellow because people will start moving out of the county in droves if they think there is a killer at large, and a bad reputation of that kind could cause small businesses not to base themselves within our boundaries… that would cost him a lot in council taxes, you see…’
‘Yes, sir,’ Montague had said.
If that was the good news, it had not helped ease Montague into blissful slumbers, even though he had looked under the bed and taken care not to leave his hat lying on the covers.
With Millicent slumbering at peace, he had pondered the puzzle of the three deaths and the more he had turned over the facts and clues in his mind, the more certain he was that he now knew the identity of the villain. The answer was there if one knew where to look — and Montague felt sure he did know where to look. Shocking though that first realisation was, Montague knew that it was his task, his duty no less, to bring that person to justice even if it did offend organisations like the Ladies’ Tea Circle, the Local History Society, the Crickledale Ladies’ Cricket Club, or the Crickledale Church Flower Rota Group. As the senior law enforcement officer in Crickledale, Montague’s responsibility was to uphold the law without fear or favour and in spite of friendships.
But, in those long and restless moments in bed, Montague had decided not to reveal his suspicions to anyone — after all, his beliefs were little more than surmise at this stage and he had no real facts to support his hypothesis; certainly, there was not enough evidence to justify an arrest or to arraign the suspect before a court of law. Knowing that a person was guilty was easy — proving that same guilt was often immensely difficult. These days, the Crown Prosecution Service wanted incontrovertible evidence before they would sanction a prosecution and so Montague knew that his main task now was either to gather the evidence necessary to secure a conviction or, failing that, to persuade his suspect to make a confession or otherwise reveal his or her culpability. Montague was aware that whatever path he chose, he would need all his experience, knowledge and, he knew, just a little touch of guile. Montague Pluke was going to catch his first killer.
It was with these somewhat disturbing thoughts in his mind that he entered his office at 8.50am that Sunday morning. Perspiring slightly, he hung his panama on the hat stand and removed his cumbersome greatcoat before checking his in-tray. Nothing had arrived since last night, not surprising because there was no mail on the Sabbath, so he hurried down to the Incident Room. Already many of the officers had assembled and Mrs Plumpton, his flowing secretary in her red cascade of a dress, was organising coffee. For a Sunday morning, she seemed remarkably cheerful — but there again, she was inordinately cheerful every morning.
Wayne Wain was there too, Montague was pleased to see.
Relieved to note the sergeant’s presence, Montague hailed Wayne and drew him into his tiny Incident Room office. ‘I am very pleased to see you, Wayne,’ he began.
‘Sorry I was away, sir, I went racing yesterday afternoon at Redcar, with a friend from West Hartlepool. I won, sir — I put a tenner on Calling Lady. Thanks for that.’
‘You are thanking me, Wayne? I am not a betting man.’
‘It’s the things you say, sir — but what about this murder? It is a murder this time, is it?’
‘It is indeed, Wayne, and a nasty one into the bargain,’ said Pluke. ‘I fear we might have a serial killer in our midst. You know the details?’
‘Yes, sir, I came as fast as I could once I heard about it. I have familiarised myself with the details — poor old Nettlewren. I was not idle last night, by the way. I managed to get some videos made by that man Ron, sir, films made in houses here in Crickledale. I got seven of them, part of a series based upon this locality. They’re using the Nine Sights of Crickledale, sir, as locations. They intend doing two more to complete the set of nine.’
‘You acquired those even though the old investigation has been halted? That is dedication, Wayne. We are of like minds so far as the death of Tracy Bretton is concerned. It remains very suspicious in my troubled
mind. Now, do you think the videos will reveal the locations of any of the premises?’
‘I think some of the scenes will reveal the identity of our suspects, sir. It seems the film company made extensive use of amateur actors. Extras, sir. People from the area who took part in the orgies just for the fun of it. And, of course, it might be possible to identify some of the interiors of the houses, assuming one has been there.’
‘Then we had better view the films, Wayne.’
‘They are of the kind that would offend delicate sensibilities, sir…’
‘When there is duty to be done, Wayne, a police officer cannot be offended. We are not supposed to have sensibilities. So shall we examine the films after the news conference?’
‘If you wish, sir,’ agreed Wayne Wain, thinking that frequent instances of fast-forwarding might spare Montague’s blushes.
Prior to the news conference, Montague conducted the first conference of detectives and, after outlining the facts and allocating the teams their actions, he told them he was able to pay overtime with the Chief Constable’s consent. This produced a short cheer. Then he added, ‘I have asked for all the officers who were on the Druids’ Circle enquiry to be drafted on to this investigation. I want the same brains to work on this one. I want the information that you gathered and assessed during the enquiries into Tracy Bretton’s death to be considered alongside the Moses Nettlewren enquiry and likewise we must be aware constantly of the circumstances of Stephen Winton’s death. Liaison with Fossford police becomes even more important. The same weapon was used to kill both Moses and Winton, never forget, and it has not been found. We must operate as if the weapon is still in the hands of the killer.’
‘But ours wasn’t a murder, sir,’ pointed out someone from the body of the hall. ‘She died of natural causes.’
‘For the purposes of this investigation, Detective Constable Johnson, I want that enquiry to be treated as a murder, even though it wasn’t a crime. In my view, in everything but the final technical cause of death, it was murder. I am convinced that a man thinks he killed Tracy — and her death, I am equally convinced, is linked to the death of Stephen Winton. I fully realise we shall never convict anyone of the murder of Tracy Bretton, but her untimely death, induced as I believe it was, may lead us to the killer of Stephen Winton and Moses Nettlewren.’
‘Point taken, sir,’ capitulated Johnson.
‘I would like you all to concentrate upon the movements of the people of this town,’ Pluke said. ‘Those detectives on house-to-house are probably best able to check on that. Take the material times of each death — the Fossford one included — and try to ascertain if anyone was missing from their usual haunts upon each of those three occasions. There has to be a common factor. Our guilty person will be someone who possesses or who has the use of a .22 firearm of some kind — try Rifle and Pistol Club members, and the club itself. Our villain had ammunition which he must have purchased or acquired somewhere — and I must warn you of the dangers of approaching someone who might kill again. Our suspect has killed twice and thinks he — or she — has killed three times. One more death is of little consequence to him or her. Our suspect is also someone who has access to transport — each death has involved a trip out of Crickledale: one to the Druids’ Circle, one to Fossford, and one to Trattledale.
‘There is also evidence that houses in this town have been used for the making of pornographic films, possibly without the knowledge of their owners so it might be wise for our house-to-house teams to ask each householder if he or she has ever been away from home and left the premises in the care of house-sitters. Have we someone in town who is acting as an agent for that sort of thing? How does the film company know of the unoccupied houses? The man who runs it is not saying — he says his girls find the houses. If we produce the name of a local suspect, then he, or she, must be subjected to interrogation to determine his or her movements in relation to those empty and available homes. Is he, or she, known to the householders in question, for example? Has he called there under any pretext?’
Montague Pluke spent some time outlining his ideas, careful at this stage not to categorise any of his themes as plans. Plans would come later — once the background information had been collected and analysed. Plans would be determined on Monday, which was a good day to start planning.
Having addressed his detectives, he dismissed them to go about their important duties and turned his attention to the press. They were already waiting in the reception area, news of the latest killing having attracted a large contingent of reporters and photographers representing newspapers, radio, and television. The story would feature strongly in Monday’s papers and news bulletins — a perfect beginning to the week for Montague Pluke. Settling them in the conference room, he provided them with the name of the deceased, the fact that he had died from gunshot wounds and that his body had been found hidden beneath a pile of stones in Trattledale. He appealed for sightings of Moses Nettlewren since Friday when he had finished work and was asked whether the murder of the eminent Magistrates’ Clerk could be linked to that of Mr Stephen Winton in Fossford and the mysterious death of Tracy Bretton.
Pluke, being diplomatic and without yet referring to the links already established through the .22 bullets, said, ‘We are examining that possibility and I am in contact with Fossford police. To date, we have not established any connection between the three persons, but enquiries are continuing.’
‘Is an arrest imminent?’ asked one reporter.
Pluke knew the reason for this question — if an arrest had been made or was imminent, then it would curtail the extent of the reported news item. Too much pre-trial publicity of the wrong kind could prejudice the fair hearing of an accused, so the press were restricted in what they could print before a trial. But if there was no arrest, or no immediate likelihood of one, they could speculate and carry out their own investigations. In this case, Pluke felt that speculation and wide publicity might help in his own campaign to flush out the accused, so he said, ‘There has been no arrest, and none is imminent.’
Thus he knew the media would produce some lurid and fanciful pieces about deaths in ancient ruins and druids’ circles, along with the inevitable links with witchcraft and peculiar practices. The market town of Crickledale would become famous, he knew, but it might generate a lot of gossip which in turn could produce a useful flow of information from the public. Publicity of any kind, good or bad, would mean that some of the local businesses would benefit. He could envisage that little shop in Stumpgate selling miniature druids’ circles and reproductions of Trattledale Mill, although Montague did wonder if there was a market for miniature Crickledale horse troughs.
After the reporters had got their stories and the photographers their pictures of Montague standing beside a police car with a radio handset in his hand and looking business-like, Montague adjourned to one of the cells where Wayne Wain had installed a TV set at the end of a long lead.
After explaining that this place was one of the few truly dark rooms in the police station which was secure, Wain said the videos were each of half an hour’s duration, and each hair-raising to the uninitiated. It is perhaps fair to say that Montague’s hair did stand on end. Having once, albeit accidentally, seen Millicent in the bath, he had no idea that pieces of the female anatomy were able to perform such unusual and effective things to pieces of the male anatomy and found himself wondering why he had never learned or experienced such apparent delights.
‘You can see from the titles how they have used seven of the Nine Sights, sir — Dirty Devil’s Bridge, Kinky Keep, Bondage beneath the Bells, Cupid in the Crypt, Bosoms in the Bath, Throbbing Thomas in the Tower, and Desire with the Druids. They’ll probably finish up with something like Naughtiness at the Nunnery and Virgins in the Vaults.’
‘Is all that from your rather overworked imagination, Wayne?’
‘No, sir, from enquiries I have made. Right, sir, now I’ll slow this sequence down. See? Isn’t that Samue
l Purslane…’
‘The newsagent, you mean?’ said Montague, staring hard. ‘Yes, by jove it is… and what on earth is he doing with that flower vase? And that’s Nathaniel Nethersage, isn’t it? That man with the leather shop? Secretary of the Rifle and Pistol Club? Good heavens, Wayne, that’s that chap who sells life insurance… what’s his name… isn’t he chairman of the Camera Club?’
‘John George Dewberry, sir.’
‘That’s him, and what on earth’s he doing with that rifle? And, oh dear, Wayne. That’s Moses, isn’t it? What a big fellow, eh? You can really appreciate his size when he has no clothes on. You know, Wayne, I’m surprised he never got married… he would have made some woman happy, I am sure, and now he’s gone. Wasted. My word, and there’s that girl we met in Hartlepool…’
‘Sharon Pellow, sir.’
‘Goodness gracious, Wayne, she is energetic, isn’t she? Did she learn that from riding horses, I wonder?’
‘She has been very co-operative with me, sir, in my enquiries I mean. It was she who gave me these tapes… she’s on them all, you see, a present from Ron but useful to us, I would suggest.’
Omens of Death (The Montague Pluke Cases Book 1) Page 22