Midnight Murders (18 page)

Take care of yourself, Mummy darling. Love to everyone in Spain, especially Sebastian. I'll write again when I'm settled for a while.

Love and Kisses

your Claire

Peter refolded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. ‘Would you mind if we took a copy of this?' he asked Mrs Moon.

‘Not if it would help.'

‘Sergeant Collins?' Patrick's assistant was in the doorway. ‘Mr O'Kelly is ready for you now.'

As Peter rose to his feet, he saw Bill talking to Mr Moore in the car park. Mrs Moore was as hysterical as Rosie Twyford's mother had been. He glanced at Claire Moon's mother, and felt that he hadn't drawn the short straw. He might be landed with the skeleton, but he was also landed with a mother who seemed made of sterner stuff than the common breed.

Peter's mobile rang as Patrick was showing the Moons the contents of their daughter's suitcase and, more poignantly, the personal jewellery and remnants of clothing that had been retrieved from her corpse. Deciding that whoever it was could wait, Peter switched off his phone. Mrs Moon kept her mouth and nose covered with her handkerchief as she looked at the artefacts. All she could do was nod. Mr Moon was more forthcoming.

‘That's the Rolex I gave Claire last Christmas.'

‘I'm sorry to have to show you your daughter's remains, Mr Moon, Mrs Moon,' Patrick apologised, ‘but, as Sergeant Collins will tell you, the formalities have to be observed.'

‘Will it suffice for just one of us to identify the remains?' Mr Moon asked Peter.

‘Yes.' Peter opened the door for Mrs Moon to leave. She hesitated at the head of the slab, fingering a ring. A cheap silver ring decorated with an enamelled masked head. Peter looked to Patrick who nodded. ‘You can take that with you if you like, Mrs Moon.'

‘Thank you, Sergeant.' She lifted her head, and Peter thought that he had never seen such anguish in another human being's eyes.

‘The rest of Claire's things will be given to you later.' Peter looked around for Michelle Grady, but she was nowhere in sight. Patrick led Mr Moon down the long narrow mortuary towards three shrouded slabs at the far end. Peter had to witness the identification, but he could hardly leave Mrs Moon unattended. He signalled to Patrick's assistant, but by the time he had seen Mrs Moon escorted back into the waiting room the remains had been uncovered.

Patrick kept most of the skeleton covered, revealing just the skull. The hair, long, luxuriant and golden brown, clung to the cranium, held in place by a cap of dried skin. The sightless eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, the nose cartilage had crumbled. Threads of gum clung to the yellowed, earth stained teeth.

‘It's Claire's hair.' Mr Moon's voice sounded strained, inhuman.

‘Thank you, sir,' Patrick draped the sheet back over the skull.

‘I want – I demand to know how it happened,' Mr Moon shouted angrily. ‘How – how did she die?'

Patrick looked to Peter.

‘We think she suffocated,' Peter said, twisting the truth.

‘You don't know?'

‘The corpse we found buried close to Claire's bore signs of suffocation,' Patrick intervened. ‘And from the facts that I have been able to glean from examining your daughter's body, I assume – '

‘Assume!'

‘Clive?' Moon's ex-wife was standing in the doorway, flanked by Patrick's assistant and Michelle. ‘We have arrangements to make.'

Her calm restored his senses. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.' He might have been thanking a shopkeeper for his assistance.

Peter watched the Moons walk out of the door, followed by Michelle. After the door swung shut on them, Patrick opened one of the refrigerated drawers and removed two frosted glasses filled with chilled amber liquid.

‘Drink?' Patrick handed a glass to Peter.

Peter tossed the contents back. ‘Good whisky.'

‘The best. I left yours in the drawer, I didn't know how long you'd be,' Patrick said to his assistant when he returned. The telephone rang in the office and Patrick went in to answer it. As soon as he hung up he called for his emergency kit.

‘Not another one?' Peter whispered hoarsely.

‘Yes, and at Compton Castle,' Patrick answered.

‘Vanessa Hedley?'

‘Your guess is as good as mine. You coming?'

Peter remembered the phone call earlier. ‘I'll take my own car.' He followed Patrick out of the door.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Peter drove through the gates of Compton Castle and, following a constable's directions, over the lawns to the area where floodlights had been set up. Patrick followed, climbed into his overalls, gathered his kit from the back of his car and headed for the taped-off area. Peter looked around for Dan or Bill. He didn't have to look far; they came running towards him as soon as they spotted his car.

‘Another burial?' Peter asked when they reached him.

‘No,' Bill snapped. ‘We got to this one before our man had a chance to start digging.'

‘Vanessa Hedley?'

‘No. Elderly woman, stabbed with a broken bottle, and it looks like rape.'

Patrick called them over and they donned paper overshoes and walked towards him.

‘You can stop there,' Patrick ordered. ‘No doubt about rape this time.' He dropped a swab into a test tube and closed it. ‘Semen's fresh, not dried, but death occurred days rather than hours ago. First impressions – I'd say she's a victim of necrophilia.'

‘And we've caught the bastard red-handed,' Bill growled. ‘Lying on top of the corpse, blood all over him.'

Something in the tone of Bill's voice struck Peter as ominous. He looked from the super to Dan. ‘Who?' he asked.

‘Trevor Joseph. He had a stick – '

‘A walking stick, his legs have been broken,' Peter interrupted.

‘He was unconscious – '

Peter leaned over the corpse, and ignoring Bill and Patrick, who was busy taking more samples, stared at the victim's face. The features were contorted, slashed to ribbons, the nose and ears hanging by threads of skin. But the first thing that struck him was the age of the woman. The wrinkled skin was parchment yellow in the strong glare of the floodlights.

‘She was a sweet old lady from the geriatric ward?'

Peter saw Bill standing at his elbow. ‘You can't believe Trevor did this? Not after all the years you've known him.'

‘The man's nuts.'

‘You didn't think so this morning when you asked him to start work again.'

‘No sane man would agree to go undercover in this place.'

‘No sane man would bloody well want to work with you, but we do,' Peter retorted. ‘Look at the marks on her. Those blows were inflicted with a hell of a lot of strength. Trevor's been sick, he's weak – '

‘We found him lying on her covered in blood, with a lump of glass stuck in his chest. Maybe the poor old biddy fought back.'

‘A two day old corpse fought back!' Peter sneered.

‘We can't be sure of the time of death until we get the pathologist's full report.' Bill wanted to postpone thinking about this scenario until after he'd slept.

‘Where is Trevor?' Peter asked.

‘The General,' Dan answered. ‘He had glass embedded in his chest and a cut on his head.'

‘Is anyone with him?'

‘A couple of constables.'

‘Is he under arrest?'

‘As soon as the doctors have finished we'll start questioning him,' Bill snapped.

Peter turned to Dan. ‘You can't possibly think Trevor did this?'

Dan looked at Bill. His boss was swaying on his feet, his face grey with fatigue. He knew that if he expressed an opinion either way, he'd only succeed in provoking a head-on confrontation. ‘As soon as Patrick's given us the basics we'll talk to Trevor,' he hedged, ‘then – ' He was speaking to thin air. Peter was running back to his car.

Ignoring Dan's shouts, Peter dived into the driving seat and hit the accelerator. And he didn't slow down until he was outside A and E at the General.

Peter strode down the restricted area that housed the cubicles. ‘Trevor Joseph – police officer?' he demanded of a nurse.

‘The public aren't allowed back here,' he replied authoritatively.

‘Police – not public.' Peter pulled out his I.D and waved it at him. ‘I need to see him immediately.' He pushed past the nurse and saw Chris Brooke standing guard at the end of the corridor.

‘This way, sir,' Chris called, assuming that Peter had been sent to interview Trevor.

Andrew Murphy was standing in a corner of the cubicle. Trevor was sitting on the examination couch. A doctor was washing her hands in the sink, and a nurse was swabbing Trevor's head with cotton wool and antiseptic.

‘The stitches will need to come out in a couple of days. Don't worry, we've shaved off very little of your hair, Trevor. But it's so thick it hardly shows,' the nurse reassured.

‘If you experience any of these symptoms,' the doctor handed Trevor the standard “signs of concussion” card, ‘or if you're concerned in any way, come back immediately.'

Trevor winced as the antiseptic being dabbed on his wound touched raw flesh.

‘The cut on your chest is deep, but the wound's clean and your X-rays are clear – who are you?' The doctor asked when Peter walked in.

Peter waved his I.D card. ‘Police. I need to talk this man. Alone.'

‘I'll be finished in a few moments, but he should return to Compton Castle to rest.'

‘That's all right, doctor.' Trevor looked around for his stick. ‘I want to talk to him.'

Peter offered Trevor his arm. ‘Bill has your stick. No doubt he thinks it's evidence,' he added cynically.

‘Don't forget to come back in four days, so we can take out those stitches,' the nurse reminded. ‘You can make an appointment in reception.'

‘Fine.' Trevor made a mental note to ask Jean to look at them. The last thing he wanted to do was return here to waste another hour sitting around waiting to be treated.

‘I'm taking Trevor back to Compton Castle,' Peter announced to Chris and Andrew as he helped Trevor limp into the corridor.

‘But, Superintendent Mulcahy...'

Andrew Murphy elbowed the rookie out of the way and winked at Peter. ‘We'll see you back there, sergeants.'

‘What the hell happened?' Peter asked Trevor as soon as they were in his car.

‘I wish I knew.' Trevor sank his head in his hands. ‘I'd been out, I returned by taxi. While I was walking up the drive, I saw a pair of legs lying on the grass. I walked towards them and that's the last I remember.'

‘You think someone hit you?' Peter could smell alcohol on Trevor's breath. And Trevor never had been able to handle spirits. ‘Or did you fall and hit your head?'

Trevor put a hand to his head and winced as his fingers touched the stitches. ‘I think that's unlikely given that the cut is on the crown of my head, unless I did a head dive. And I've no memory of attempting one.'

Peter inspected the wound. There was an enormous, split lump on Trevor's crown, blood clots matting the thick black hair around the area that had been stitched.

‘Given that you were found on a body in a flowerbed of soft earth, I agree.' Peter started the car.

‘Surely Dan and Bill don't think I attacked that woman?' Trevor had felt pleasantly merry as he'd walked up the drive, but he was now stone-cold sober. A combination of cold night air, vomiting, and pain had cleared his stomach, if not his breath, of alcohol, and the expression on Peter's face was enough to penetrate the fog of concussion. ‘For God's sake… '

‘Save your breath. It's not me you've got to convince, mate,' Peter interrupted as they hit the main road to Compton Castle.

‘Well?' Bill asked Patrick as he rose stiffly to his feet.

‘I'm not sure how she died, but she's been dead for at least two days, and that's official. All the injuries you can see, including the rape, were inflicted after death.'

‘You sure?'

‘No localised bleeding. Those cuts were definitely made after death.'

‘But the blood… '

‘I've taken swabs. It looks a lot, but it's spread thinly. Head wounds bleed. I'd say it was all Joseph's.'

‘And you're sure she was raped?' Dan checked.

‘The corpse was interfered with. Yes.'

‘You'll type the blood and the semen?'

‘Don't I always?' Patrick dropped the samples he'd taken into his case.

‘Trevor Joseph… '

‘If you're going to caution me, Bill, take it as done,' Trevor sat back in the passenger seat of Peter's car.

‘No one's accusing you of anything,' Bill leaned on the open door.

‘Yet,' Peter qualified. ‘Patrick,' he called out to the pathologist. As you're here, take a look at the cut on Trevor's head.'

Patrick pushed in past Bill. ‘Nasty,' he said, probing the stitches with his finger.

‘I hope you washed your hands after you played with corpses,' Trevor reprimanded. He closed his eyes. Peter had asked endless questions on the journey from the General. His head was throbbing, and Bill hadn't helped by demanding his bloodstained anorak and sweater as soon as Peter had stopped his car. He felt hot and sticky and desperately in need of a bath and sleep. His mouth was dry, foul with the aftertaste of spicy food, too much beer, brandy and vomit.

‘You should be in bed.' Patrick folded Trevor's sweater and anorak into a plastic bag.

‘He can rest as soon as we've cleared a few things up.' Irrational with fatigue, Bill was too stubborn to walk away for the night.

‘I've already talked to Trevor,' Peter removed the keys from the ignition of his car and stepped out, ‘we've established the timing and it will be easy enough to check as Trevor arrived back here by taxi, and taxi drivers keep logs.'

‘Not all of them,' Bill said. ‘And certainly not the ones who moonlight.'

‘I'll find the guy,' Peter broke in. ‘And even without him, Trevor said he spoke to a constable in the car park. That at least can be verified.'

Bill and Dan watched Trevor stumble from the car and slide slowly to the ground.

‘Now can he go to bed?' Peter questioned acidly.

‘So, you've found Vanessa Hedley, Inspector?' Tony Waters joined Dan on the drive as the police ambulance drove away.

‘No, Mr Waters.'

‘Not more problems?' Tony frowned.

‘You turning up like this is fortuitous. It saves me having to send for you,' Dan observed.

‘It's not fortuitous,' Tony countered. ‘The DMO sent for me when she saw the activity in the grounds.'

‘DMO?'

‘Duty medical officer. In this case Dotty Clyne. She telephoned to see if I knew what was happening. We were hoping you'd found Vanessa Hedley.'

‘No such luck, but we have found another body. And we have reason to believe that it's another of your patients.'

‘Who?' Tony asked quickly.

‘The body hasn't been identified.' Dan waved to Bill who was driving towards the gates. ‘May I ask where you've been all evening?'

‘In my office until eight-thirty. Then at home. Why do you want to know?'

‘Just building a picture of everyone's movements.'

‘Was the patient murdered?'

‘We'll know in due course, Mr Waters, and when we do I'll let you know.' Dan thrust a paper bag in front of him. ‘Peppermint?'

‘Taxi driver confirms the time he dropped Trevor off as nine- thirty.' Peter slumped in a chair next to Dan in the mobile HQ.

‘You did well to get it verified so quickly.'

‘Connections,' Peter said.

‘Where's Trevor?'

‘I left him with Lyn Sullivan on his ward. Chris Brooke is outside his door.'

‘Brooke called me on his radio at nine-forty-five,' Dan poured out coffee for both of them.

Peter picked up the cup. ‘It takes, what, ten minutes to walk from the front gate to where Trevor was found?'

‘Five,' Dan corrected.

‘Ten in his present state,' Peter argued. ‘Which leaves Trevor with five minutes to discover, mutilate and rape a corpse – I don't buy that it was simply lying there. And just mutilating that corpse would be a tall order for someone in Trevor's condition. And where do you find a corpse anyway?'

‘In a mortuary,' Dan replied automatically.

‘Of course. The mortuary here.'

‘Where are you going?' Dan called after him. The door banged behind Peter as he left the room. Dan picked up the telephone and dialled the number for Compton Castle's administration.

Peter saw the lights on in the mortuary in the General as he parked outside and he blessed Patrick's conscientiousness. He'd guessed that Patrick wouldn't leave this PM until the morning but he had to bang the door three times before Patrick's assistant, tired and bleary eyed, opened the door and let him in.

Patrick was working down at the far end of the room.

‘Peter, what a pleasant, unexpected surprise. How is Trevor?' Patrick tossed a ball of cotton wool into a bin at the top of the slab.

‘Sleeping I hope.'

‘Tell him what he's come here to hear.' Patrick said to his assistant, who was fiddling with a row of test-tubes on a side bench.

‘We found only one blood group. Sergeant Joseph's.'

‘His blood was on his sweater, the anorak, and the sheet that covered the victim.'

‘She wasn't dressed?'

‘Just wrapped in a sheet and a shroud. As I said, she'd been dead for at least two days. And Trevor's blood group doesn't match the semen I found in the corpse's vagina,' he added. ‘I've sent the sample for DNA analysis to see if there is a match on file. Whoever our necrophilia dabbler is, it isn't Joseph.'

Lyn Sullivan felt uneasy. She spent most of the night checking and double checking her patients, pausing first at Vanessa's empty bed, then Michael Carpenter's, and finally outside Trevor Joseph's door, which was still guarded by a policeman. Mercifully, her other patients slept peacefully, unperturbed by the two empty beds in their ward.

She wondered what had happened. The police had told her nothing but it was rumoured that another corpse had been found. The officer in the ward refused to confirm that it was another murder, but if it was, that would mean Michael Carpenter wasn't the killer. And there were Trevor's injuries. Sergeant Collins had been angry when she'd asked about them, but, she reflected, Sergeant Collins was always angry.