Cotswold Mystery, A Page 8

  ‘Oh, hello,’ Thea said without thinking. ‘We meet again.’

  He met her eyes, with the same faintly puzzled look she remembered from the previous day. ‘You remember,’ Thea prompted him. ‘When the old lady fell over, and you offered to help.’

  ‘Right, yes, right it is,’ he smiled. ‘And did the Granny lady get better? Some old partridge she ’peared to me. Tough feathers.’

  Thea laughed. ‘She’s fine. I think it was mostly an act.’

  ‘So what’s going forward out in de street, then?’ he asked. ‘All that going on? Somebody hurt or what?’

  Thea glanced at Jessica for assistance, only to find her daughter gazing worshipfully at the man, slack-jawed.

  ‘A man died, actually,’ Thea said, surprised the story hadn’t reached every Blockley ear by this time, and too bemused by Jessica’s weird behaviour to think before she spoke.

  ‘No!’ His handsome eyebrows rose, and some of his jewellery jingled. He looked at his companion. ‘Hear that, Clee? People doing their dying in our little hidey hole!’

  The girl just blinked and shrugged.

  ‘No worries. We need to be gone.’ He extended a forefinger at the barman, and cocked it as if firing an invisible revolver. ‘See you later, my friend. Have the Drambuie standing by for when we fly home again, right?’

  The barman almost saluted, and then watched with an expression just about as gormless as Jessica’s as his patrons departed.

  Jessica managed to speak a few seconds later. ‘How do you know Icarus Binns?’

  ‘He’s Ick to me,’ Thea teased. ‘That’s what he told me he was called.’ She frowned. ‘You’ll hate me for this, but I’ve never heard of Icarus Binns.’

  ‘He’s a…performer. A sort of rap singer with a guitar, but not quite. And that’s Cleodie Mason with him. She’s a model.’

  ‘They make a fine couple,’ Thea said carelessly.

  Jessica wriggled in her excitement. ‘They’re both terribly famous,’ she insisted. ‘This is amazing.’

  All Thea could think of was how enormously improved her daughter’s mood had become, simply because she had found herself in the same room as two so-called celebrities. She remembered Granny Gardner asking her, ‘Are you one of these celebrity people?’

  ‘This area’s full of them,’ she told Jessica. ‘You’ll probably see a whole lot more before the week’s out.’

  Thea led the way out onto the street, still thinking about the encounter with Ick. ‘Odd business, being famous,’ she observed. ‘What does it mean, when you really think about it?’

  ‘He’s very talented,’ Jessica said. ‘It’s a real art.’

  Thea remembered the bizarre linguistic habits of the man and raised her eyebrows. ‘He certainly speaks very strangely. Where’s he from?’

  Jessica shrugged. ‘Essex, I think.’

  Thea giggled loudly. ‘Essex! I should have guessed.’ She felt a touch of hysteria lurking somewhere, and fought to subdue it.

  ‘Come on,’ she ordered. ‘Through the churchyard, down to the left and maybe we’ll explore around the back streets behind the High Street. That should give you time to spill the beans.’

  ‘OK.’ Jessica walked a little way along the empty street, not bothering to use the pavement. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Here goes, then. Big sink estate, lots of minority issues, unemployment, single parents – you know.’ Walking side by side, they did not look at each other. Thea made a slight murmur of encouragement, and Jessica went on, ‘We get called to a domestic that’s still going on when we get there. Eight in the evening. Screaming, glass breaking, kids crying. All the clichés rolled into one. Plus it’s a black family.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘Yes and no. It was meant to be useful for my training. Show awareness in action, sort of thing. Long lists of stuff we’re not allowed to say.’

  ‘Really? Like what?’

  ‘Never mind that now. The point is, there’s this big psycho, slamming his wife – I mean partner – against the wall, with three kids all pulling at him and kicking him. It had been going on a good hour when we turned up. The noise! You wouldn’t believe it. Anyway, we walk in, shouting over the racket, and he ignores us completely.’

  ‘How many of you?’

  ‘Three. My tutor constable – that’s Mike, and his team-mate Jake and me. Well, procedure says a whole load of stuff about appropriate force and risk minimalisation, and maintaining calm authority. None of which actually translates into reality in that sort of situation. So they just got hold of an arm each and dragged the bloke off the woman. They had to almost trample the kids to do it, mind you. Then the woman – who didn’t seem to be hurt much – launches herself at him like a cat and digs her nails in his face, while he can’t defend himself. The scratches were incredible and she’s yelling and screaming worse than ever. That’s when clever clogs Probationer Osborne loses it big time.’ She paused, eyes closed for a moment. Thea felt rather than saw that she was shaking.

  ‘What on earth did you do?’

  ‘Got between them. Pushed her off, and tried to subdue her. One of the kids jumped on my back, and I didn’t even think. I just shook him off and smacked his face when he came back at me again. I smacked him quite hard, to be honest.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘If I’d slapped the woman it might have been OK. But violence towards a kid is way out of order. There must be about ten reasons why it’s taboo.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘About seven.’

  ‘But you can’t have really hurt him.’

  ‘He acted as if I had. Jake yelled at me to get back to the car, the woman grabbed the kid as if he was dying, and the psycho grabbed his chance and started accusing us of assault against a defenceless child. They are so savvy – they know all their rights, and all the things we’re not permitted to do. At least it all went quieter after that.’

  ‘But what happened? I mean, was anybody arrested?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘The woman wouldn’t press charges, and the neighbours all melted away as soon as we got there. I’m up for a disciplinary and Jake says he doesn’t want to work with me any more. It’s all a ghastly mess.’

  Thea tried to smile. ‘I can’t believe you’d be in any real trouble for such a minor thing. You were only trying to help, after all.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Jessica sadly. ‘It’s set back relations between the force and the community. The story’s all round Salford by now, and the kid’s a hero.’

  ‘And you? What effect has it had on you?’

  Jessica’s eyes filled. ‘I’m not sure I can do it, Mum. It’s too hard. Everyone’s against us, right through society. The harder we try to give everyone due respect, the more they take advantage. I don’t want to spend my whole life being hated.’

  Thea struggled to find something to say that would be convincingly reassuring. While she was still thinking, Jessica’s gaze was drawn to the street they were in, somewhere to the south of the church. The lighting was subdued, and there were no people anywhere to be seen.

  ‘You’d never know anything had happened, would you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This place. People safe in their beautiful houses, telly on, cat on their lap, jobs to go to, money in the bank. It’s a dozen worlds away from that estate where I smacked the kid. Even when there’s been a murder a few doors away they’re not seriously bothered. Where I work, there’d be a riot by now.’

  ‘Maybe they’re so scared, they can’t think what to do except lock the doors and sit in front of the telly.’

  ‘And tomorrow they’ll hold a meeting and double the activities of the Neighbourhood Watch. They’ll all start accusing each other of stabbing the old man and some won’t speak to each other again for years. Is that more like it?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Thea. ‘Giles told me this is a close community. And these noticeboards everywhere certainly show how much they’ve got going on.’ They were passing one of the b
oards as she spoke – although strictly they were not boards at all, but handy wooden doors leading to a garage or a shed, opening onto the street and freely offered for publicity material. Thea had seen three already, and assumed there were more in other parts of the town.

  ‘I shouldn’t knock it,’ said Jessica wearily. ‘This is how we all want the world to be, after all. Quiet and pretty and safe and friendly. It’s a wonder the police could even find it – they probably haven’t been called out to Blockley for years.’

  ‘Which makes the fact of a murder all the more terrible,’ Thea observed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jessica. ‘And now all I want is to go to bed. I’ve got to be at the mortuary for eight-thirty tomorrow.’

  This was the first Thea had heard of the appointment, and she fought down the impulse to protest against it. The light was fading fast as they emerged once again onto the High Street. Trying to ascertain exactly where they were, she heard Hepzie yapping inside the Montgomery house.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘I wish she wouldn’t do that. She’ll disturb the neighbours.’

  ‘Some neighbours,’ said Jessica wryly. ‘A dead man and a senile old crone.’

  Thea did not even have the energy to laugh.

  But the day was still not quite over. Thea and Jessica both carried mobile phones in their bags, and both had them switched off throughout the evening. Jessica, however, automatically checked hers for messages before going to bed. ‘Oh!’ she gasped, as she listened to a recording. ‘That was quick!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Uncle James. He’s already heard what’s happened. He wants to know if I’m OK.’

  James Osborne was Thea’s brother-in-law. Since the death of Carl, he had taken it upon himself to keep a protective eye on both women, favouring Jessica in particular. With no children of his own, his niece had gained a special place in his affections from the day she was born. It had been a family joke the way Jessica was blessed with two doting uncles, one from each side. Damien and James scarcely ever met, but sometimes it felt as if they were competing to give their shared niece the greater share of consideration and concern. Thea knew she should be grateful for the attention they lavished, and the help James gave Jess in her pursuit of a career in the police. ‘Does he know about you being in trouble at work?’ she asked.

  Jessica nodded, slightly sheepish. ‘I saw him last week. He came up for an evening and took me out for a meal. You know what he’s like. As soon as he heard about it, he rushed up to get the whole story and see if he could smooth things out.’

  Thea’s feelings of jealousy took her by surprise. Her daughter had waited days and days before telling her what had happened, and yet her uncle had known about it from the start.

  ‘Did you tell Damien all about it, as well?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. How could I not?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ was all Thea allowed herself to say. It was not in her character to complain openly about being the last in the family to know about her daughter’s problems, but from Jessica’s slightly sheepish look, she knew there was no need to spell it out. The girl already understood how she felt. ‘And you told them both you were going to be here with me, I suppose?’

  Jessica nodded again, slightly defensively. ‘Why not? It isn’t a secret, is it?’

  Thea shook her head. ‘Of course not. And now James has heard about this murder.’

  ‘Obviously he has. He’s the Superintendent.’ A thought struck the girl. ‘Actually, Mum – do you think that’s why they were so nice to me, the cops who let me watch everything just now? Do you think they made the connection with the name, and worked out who I was?’

  Thea wasn’t sure which would be the correct answer to this. ‘They could have done,’ she prevaricated. ‘Would it matter?’

  ‘I don’t want special treatment,’ Jessica worried. ‘That’s one good thing about being attached to Manchester. Uncle James means nothing up there. Oh, damn it! That must be why they’re letting me go to the post-mortem tomorrow, as well.’

  ‘Surely not? Did they say anything to make you think that?’

  ‘Not really. They just offered me the chance to observe it. I can’t refuse, can I? It’s always difficult to get a slot for probationers.’

  ‘And you’re all right about it, are you?’

  ‘I won’t know till I try,’ the girl admitted. ‘But I think it’ll be OK.’

  * * *

  Out of a feeling of wanting something of her own to balance a sense of being sidelined, Thea fished out her own mobile and switched it on.

  ‘Looks as if I’ve got a message as well,’ she said. ‘It’ll be Phil.’

  She was right. With an odd sensation of symmetry, she listened to her own Detective Superintendent’s words on the recording. They were bland, affectionate and quite unworried. ‘At least he hasn’t heard the news,’ she said, with a mixture of relief and disappointment.

  ‘Give him time,’ said Jessica.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The post-mortem was only mildly unpleasant, and most of the nasty aspects were eclipsed by the interest Jessica felt at the revelations it produced. The pathologist was a silver-haired man in his mid-fifties, with very clean skin and a gentle manner. He shook hands with her and introduced himself as Bill Morgan. ‘This your first?’ he asked her.

  At her nod, he prodded the body and gave his own responding nod. ‘Nice and fresh,’ he commented. ‘Shouldn’t be too stomach-churning.’

  A uniformed constable was also present, notebook open, chin held high in an effort to display confidence in his ability to withstand the coming onslaught.

  And then it began, with very little ceremony, but with a prevailing atmosphere of respect and due care which Jessica found reassuring. Bill Morgan dictated into a microphone that hung from the ceiling as he made his examination. Jessica hung back a little, steadying herself, until it came to looking at the fatal wound. This was far from straightforward. Anxious to retain the entry wound intact, access to the heart had to be from the front. The body was flopped from front to back, to front again.

  Finally, the pathologist began peeling away the flesh to trace the trajectory of the weapon, dictating constantly. ‘Lateral stab wound between the fourth and fifth thoracic ribs. Right ventricle of the heart penetrated to a depth of approximately half a centimetre.’

  The heart, when it was eventually revealed, was smaller than Jessica had expected and paler in colour. ‘How exactly does it kill you, when you’re stabbed through the heart?’ she asked.

  ‘You bleed to death. Blood goes into the thorax at immense pressure if the left side of the heart is punctured. Less so if it’s the right side.’

  ‘Which is this?’

  ‘See for yourself.’ The pathologist deftly exposed more of the damaged heart, drawing back to give Jessica space. She tried to make sense of what she was seeing. ‘The right?’ she hazarded.

  ‘Well done,’ he smiled at her.

  ‘So how quick would it have been? How long from the stabbing to losing consciousness and dying?’

  ‘A maximum of thirty seconds. Even though the wound’s on the right, it still doesn’t take long. This heart has had some battering in its time – see the scarring where it’s had to repair itself?’

  Suddenly she couldn’t maintain the clinical detachment any longer. Shaking her head, she took a few steps back. ‘Sorry,’ she gasped. ‘Give me a minute. I’ll be all right. It’s just…’

  The pathologist gave a small shrug of disappointment as if a promising pupil had let him down. ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  For the next few minutes, Jessica averted her gaze from the metal table, and contented herself with listening to the commentary. ‘The entry wound’s clean borders indicate a very sharp single-edged knife. Width of blade likely to be no more than a centimetre, and the depth of the wound a little under five centimetres.’

  ‘Small knife,’ Jessica ventured.

  ‘Not necessarily. Pe
ople seldom drive them in to the hilt. In this case, the resistance from the intercostal tissue – between the ribs, that is – would have probably slowed the momentum. It was a lucky blow, I’d say – managing to find the space between the ribs first time. They’re pretty close together.’

  ‘Or someone who knew exactly what they were doing.’

  Bill Morgan stared at the body. ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘A shirt,’ Jessica said. ‘The knife went right through it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said the pathologist. ‘Then I’d say it was a very lucky blow.’

  ‘There was no visible blood anywhere on the floor,’ she said. ‘Is that usual, not to bleed at all?’

  The pathologist looked at her with mock severity. ‘I showed you the heart, didn’t I? And the cavity full of clotted blood?’ She gulped and nodded. ‘That’s where it all went. The skin is quite elastic, so if he was effectively dead when the knife was pulled out the wound would shrink in size a little and it’s quite feasible for blood not to escape. It’s impossible to say for sure, but I’d guess the knife stayed in situ for perhaps ten minutes after the stabbing. There are indications of that from the smaller blood vessels in the tissue just inside the wound.’

  ‘And can you tell when he was turned onto his back?’ she remembered to ask, having gulped down the latest portion of reality with some difficulty. ‘When we found him, he was face up.’

  The pathologist studied the skin of the back more closely. ‘More or less immediately after the knife was removed, I’d say. See the pooling effect? Gravity makes the blood collect at the lowest point. Jolly useful thing, gravity.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have turned himself over, because the knife would still be in him…’ Jessica shuddered, and fought a brief battle with herself. ‘It seems a funny thing to do.’

  Bill Morgan shrugged. ‘All kinds of explanations. He might have been lying on his side, and the effort of removing the knife rolled him back. Not deliberate at all. A dead body is heavy and difficult to manipulate. And most people, having just stabbed someone to death, would be in a highly agitated state. Yanking on the knife in such a state…well, you can perhaps imagine what it might have been like.’