Where Death Delights (27 page)

‘How long do you reckon he's been dead, Doc?'

Richard hated answering this particular query, as where the time of death eventually became known from circumstantial evidence, the pathologist's estimate was almost always wrong, unless he gave a wide range of possibilities.

‘It's fairly cool out here now, but we don't know where he was before he was brought here,' he began. ‘It's the end of June and it was quite warm earlier today. The car door has been open, presumably since soon after nine.'

He did some mental arithmetic. ‘His temperature has dropped about fifteen degrees. The old wisdom was a drop of a degree-and-a-half every hour, but that's always wrong. The problem is that there's often a variable time lag in the fall in temperature soon after death, which makes it impossible to be accurate.'

‘So what are you going to tell us?' demanded DI Lane.

‘You can't get within a bracket of less than four hours with a cat's chance in hell of being right, so I'm going to say he died between a maximum of twelve hours ago and a minimum of eight – and I wouldn't be surprised if I'm still wrong.'

The detectives did their own rapid calculations.

‘It's getting on for two o'clock, so that means between about two yesterday afternoon and six in the evening,' said Spurrel.

‘Gives them plenty of time to dump him, before he's found at nine,' commented Lane.

Morrison, the liaison officer, pulled his head out of the car. ‘Got anyone in the frame for it, sir?'

Tom Spurrel frowned. ‘There's a couple of local villains I fancy for it,' he replied. ‘They run the Gloucester and Cheltenham protection rackets and one of our snouts has been telling us that some outsiders have been trying to get in on their act.'

He turned to the pathologist. ‘I've spoken to the coroner, he's quite happy for you to do the post-mortem.'

Contrary to what most people thought, though the police could call a doctor to examine a scene of death, they had no power at all to order an autopsy, which was entirely the coroner's prerogative.

‘If you want to get along to the hospital mortuary in Gloucester, Doctor, we'll get the body shifted as soon as we can. The undertakers are already here.'

Pryor was happy with this, for he knew that most mortuaries could rustle up a mug of tea at any time of the day or night.

‘I'll just see the client into the shell and then we'll be off,' he agreed.

It was the pathologist's responsibility to see that the corpse was removed from the scene without damage or contamination of trace evidence – or if there was any, to check what it was, so that no artefact was misinterpreted at the post-mortem examination.

The two ghostly figures that Angela and he had seen on the way in, had all this while been patiently sitting on their coffin fifty yards away, smoking and chatting in low voices. Now they brought over their ‘shell', a lightweight box of five-ply that was used over and over again for collections. Richard watched as the exhibits officer and the other constable folded the rubber sheet over the body and secured it with string, to ensure that no trace evidence fell out in transit. Then the two undertakers expertly lifted it into the box and fitted the lid. With a heave, they hoisted it up by its rope handles and vanished into the dusk, preceded by a police officer with a torch. When the macabre procession had vanished into the trees, Richard and Angela followed them back to their car and soon they were driving through the silent countryside towards Gloucester, about ten miles down the A40.

‘Being a second string to this area would be an advantage in getting us established elsewhere,' said Richard. ‘If I could get my name on the Home Office list, it would confirm our respectability, so to speak.'

Angela laughed. ‘I think you're respectable enough now, Richard – but I know what you mean. Perhaps this superintendent will mention you to his senior officers – and I thought Brian Meredith also claimed to have some pull.'

The description ‘Home Office Pathologist' was a title beloved of the Press, though it had no great significance. The Home Office, the ministry responsible for law enforcement, kept a list of pathologists in England and Wales who were willing to assist the police when required. It was more a matter of geographical convenience than any accolade of expertise and, in some areas, no one wished to be saddled with the job. It meant being called out at unsocial hours, spending time in unsavoury conditions, such as muddy ditches and scruffy mortuaries – and wasting days in coroner's, magistrates' and assize courts, where they were harassed by sometimes aggressive barristers. The financial rewards were derisory, so the glory of having your name in the newspapers occasionally was the only reason for doing the job, a fact which tended to attract rather odd characters. The exceptions were those who had academic posts in the few university medical schools which still had a forensic medicine department. This meant that London, which had a number of such units, did not have ‘Home Office Pathologists', as there was no lack of people to compete for the work.

The two partners talked about the situation as they drove along.

‘Any regrets yet about taking the plunge, Angela?' asked Pryor, always slightly guilty at encouraging her to give up her safe job in London.

‘No, I love driving around the countryside at three in the morning, when I could be tucked up in bed!' she replied flippantly. ‘Seriously, it's a challenge. I was getting stale in the Met, every day filled with blood grouping and examining ladies' knickers for stains.'

She looked ahead at the lights of Gloucester appearing ahead of them.

‘As long as we can keep our heads financially above water until we get really well established, I'm quite happy. It's a lovely place to live. I was thinking I ought to look for a place of my own, but Garth House is so pleasant, that I'm in no hurry to move out.'

Reassured once again, Pryor concentrated on finding the Royal Hospital and after stopping to ask directions from a policeman flashing his torch into shop doorways, arrived at the mortuary at the back of the large compound.

The attendant, called in on overtime at the coroner's expense, was expecting them and he lived up to Richard's hopes by having a kettle boiling on a gas ring ready to make tea. Soon, Angela and he were sitting in his pokey little office, with mugs of strong tea and even being offered biscuits from a battered tin marked ‘Jacobs Cream Crackers'.

By this time, the body had arrived and was lying in its rubber sheet on the post-mortem table. The next arrivals were the photographer and Exhibits Officer, closely followed by the two from the Bristol laboratory. Then the detective inspector came alone, explaining that the superintendent had gone back to Headquarters to get the investigation moving. After more tea had been dispensed, the first mugs being rinsed and reused, everyone adjourned to the post-mortem room and set about their tasks.

The lab people unfolded the sheet and kept it bagged for later inspection in case anything useful had fallen off during the journey. Then photographs were taken, while Richard set out his instruments and put on a rubber apron and rubber gloves. He directed the photographer, who had a big MPP camera on a tripod, as to the shots he wanted, including front and back of the body and close-ups of the wound in the neck.

The scientist, Archie Gorman, took swabs of the skin around the wound for propellant residues, though Richard again confirmed that there was no burning or tattooing around the very small entrance hole, the diameter of which he measured with a small ruler. The rim of the hole was discoloured, due to the friction of the hot bullet and contamination with oil and metal residues.

‘Can't have been either contact or a short range discharge,' he announced to the group who were clustered around. DI Lane, still in his wide hat and raincoat, peered closely at the neck, as Pryor demonstrated the direction of the dried blood which had run from both the wound and the mouth.

‘Any idea what the range of the shot would have been, Doc?' he asked.

Richard shrugged at this. ‘All depends on the weapon and the charge in the cartridge,' he said. ‘I'm afraid that's up to the lab to discover from test firing.'

Archie nodded. ‘Probably have to send it off to Birmingham for that, they're the experts on shooters.'

The post-mortem proceeded, everyone knowing their role in the task. The exhibits officer was busy packing and labelling everything that might be needed for evidence, down to samples of blood and urine when Pryor had collected them.

He cut a circle of skin from around the bullet hole and kept it for possible analysis, as the soiling on the edge of the hole might contain substances that could identify a particular batch of ammunition.

Inside the head, the bullet had smashed its way into the thick bone at the base of the skull and had to be recovered. It was essential to retrieve it as intact as possible, so that it could be matched to a given weapon by the marks made on it by the spiral rifling inside the gun barrel.

‘It's pretty much flattened, but there's a bit of jacket that is still in fair condition,' said Pryor, as he carefully fished out the missile with a pair of forceps with rubber tubing pushed over the tips, to avoid making false scratches.

The liaison officer packed it in cotton wool to stop it knocking against the glass of the small container in which it would be sent to Birmingham.

‘Looks like a “two-two”, which would suit the gun from the car,' he commented. Though it seemed almost inevitable that this was the weapon used, nothing could be taken for granted.

‘No chance of tightening the time of death, Doctor?' asked Detective Inspector Lane, hopefully.

Richard had taken another rectal temperature before starting to examine the body. ‘It's dropped another degree since we were in the woods,' he said, ‘but that doesn't really help much. There are so many variables that anyone who claims to be more accurate is just guessing.'

The rest of the hour-long examination revealed little of significance. The stomach contents gave off a strong smell of beer, but there was no food present.

Richard was just about to finish and let the mortuary attend-ant begin to restore the body, when the door opened and two other men walked in. Once again, their large size and confident bearing marked them out as plain-clothes policemen. Richard happened to be looking at Angela at that moment and saw her face change expression. Her jaw tightened and her cheeks reddened as the first man identified himself.

‘Sorry we're late, I'm Detective Superintendent Paul Vickers from the Met – and this is DI Waverley.' The other man nodded, but it was the senior officer who did all the talking. ‘Hell of a drive down, pouring with rain until Cheltenham. We've come to see if your chap really is Harry Haines.'

Brian Lane went forward to welcome the superintendent from London and started to introduce the others in the room, but Vickers suddenly saw Angela and seemed to freeze on the spot.

‘Good God, Angela!' he said. ‘What the devil are you doing here?'

The local DI looked from one to the other. ‘You know Dr Bray, then? She came to help Doctor Pryor.'

Angela nodded stonily at the newcomer.

‘Hello, Paul,' she said icily. ‘How are you?'

He mumbled something and turned his attention quickly to the body on the table. ‘This is the chap, then?' he asked unnecessarily.

Pryor, wondering what was going on, stood back so that Paul Vickers could get a good look at the face of the corpse. It took him only a few seconds to confirm the man's identity.

‘That's Harry Haines alright,' he said grimly. ‘I can't say that he'll be any great loss to London.'

He fell into discussion with the Gloucester detectives about the case and Angela took the opportunity to move to Richard's side.

‘Can you give me the keys to the car, please?' she murmured urgently.

‘They're in my jacket pocket, hanging out in the office,' he replied. ‘Anything you need from it?'

She shook her head. ‘I'll wait for you there, this place has suddenly become overcrowded,' she said cryptically and quietly went out of the room.

It was only later, when they were driving out of the hospital grounds that he fully learned the reason for her strange behaviour, though he had begun to guess what had happened.

‘Sorry about that, Richard, it wasn't very professional, but I wasn't really doing much in there, anyway.'

He looked sideways at her profile and saw in the dim first light of dawn, that she was staring fixedly ahead.

‘Are you alright, Angela?' he asked solicitously. ‘Anything I can do to help?'

She shook her head, angry at herself.

‘You're a good chap, Richard, but no thanks. It's just me being silly.'

‘That was him, wasn't it?' he said gently. ‘What a coincidence! Perhaps I shouldn't have dragged you out tonight.'

She laughed more easily, rapidly returning to her normal poise.

‘You weren't to know, were you! Yes, that was him, the unfaithful bastard! Another reason why I'm happy to be out of London.'

She laid a hand briefly on his sleeve, in a rare gesture of affection.

FIFTEEN

L
ater that morning, Lewis Lewis drove one of the CID cars from Gowerton up to Cardiff, a large brown evidence bag on the passenger seat beside him. His face was set in a frown of concentration, as he tried to work out the possible ramifications of ‘the Prentice case', as it had become known in the station. Lewis was a very conscientious officer, having risen through the ranks from the constable who had joined the Force in 1945, directly from his Army service. He had the deep-set eyes, black eyebrows and lean features of many South Walian descendants of the Iberian Celts, who came millennia ago before the bigger, red-headed Brythons. His father, three uncles and both grandfathers had been colliers in the Swansea Valley – he and his schoolteacher brother were the first generation to escape the pits.