More Than Meets the Eye (12 page)

Death has its own ghoulish attraction. When Lambert and Hook arrived at the entry to the Wilderness, a group of middle-aged and highly respectable National Trust visitors were standing beside the blue-and-white ribbons which delineated a scene of crime. There was nothing to be seen save the comings and goings of the police and their civilian acolytes, but this staid audience lingered here, staring at the foliage of the innocent trees and speculating about what was going on beyond them.

What they now saw was senior men donning the white overalls and plastic foot-coverings designed to prevent the contamination of a crime scene. The grass was still damp after the deluge of the previous day, though the parched earth had drunk it eagerly and left no puddles. The two large men followed the narrow, descending path which had already been delineated by white markers, so as to minimize the effect of feet upon the crime scene.

It was obvious from the first that this was murder. The body lay exactly as it had when Matt Garton had discovered it three and a half hours earlier. It was at the southern extremity of the property and its sightless eyes gazed still at that sun which could never damage them. Lambert knew the civilian scene of crime officer well from previous cases. He gave him a quiet good morning and stood motionless for a few moments, as if death compelled this homage, even from those used to seeing it in its worst forms.

Then he moved the few yards to look down upon the corpse and said, ‘Do we know who it is?'

‘Dennis Charles Cooper. The man in charge of this place.'

Lambert allowed himself a slight moue of distaste. The deaths of men or women in authority were almost invariably more complex to investigate than those of lesser mortals, where the number of suspects was usually much smaller. He looked at the neck of the corpse, at the broken skin and the livid, darkening weals, and said dully, as if it was no more than a formality, ‘Almost certainly murder.'

‘I'd say there's no doubt of it. The pathologist is over there, waiting to speak to you.'

Lambert left Hook to talk quietly to the SOCO team about what they had found so far and went across to the edge of the clearing, where the pathologist was speaking to the photographer, who had also finished his work and was waiting to depart. The pathologist was a thin, intense man with a small, neatly trimmed beard. Lambert and he were well used to each other's idiosyncrasies. In answer to the chief super's unspoken query, he nodded and said with apparent satisfaction, ‘It's murder all right.'

Homicide brought novelty and excitement into his dull routine, as it did for CID officers. Lambert smiled grimly and said, ‘Manual strangulation?'

‘No, not manual. Some kind of tourniquet was used.'

The first setback. Manual strangulation would almost certainly have meant their killer was male, because of the strength required against a victim fighting for his life. ‘The throat didn't look as if a wire had bitten into it.'

The pathologist shook his head. ‘The murder instrument wasn't a wire, or even a rope. Your tourniquet in this case was something broader, nearly an inch wide. Probably two centimetres, now that we've all gone metric. I say tourniquet because it was probably thrown round the throat and tightened from behind. The width doesn't much matter, once someone is twisting it tight on a helpless victim. Whatever was used hasn't been found at the scene.'

And won't be, thought Lambert. It was probably miles away by now. Or perhaps at the bottom of the Severn. He glanced back towards the body. ‘I presume he died here.'

‘Almost certainly. He's quite a heavy man, so it would need two or three people working carefully to dump him here without leaving any evidence. There are no track marks from a vehicle here. And your people will confirm that there's no sign at the scene of the corpse being dragged to where it lay.'

They had the where and the how of this death. The when was almost invariably the most difficult of the three key questions to establish. Lambert gave a sour smile to that thought before he said, ‘Any idea of time of death?'

The pathologist's answering smile was equally wry. They were both professionals, both conscious of how wily defence lawyers could make fools of the incautious. ‘The usual qualifications, John. I'll be more precise when I've had him on the slab. If you can find when he last ate, the stomach contents may give us something reasonably exact. In the meantime, I can tell you from rectal temperature taken at the scene and other factors that he hasn't died in the last few hours.'

‘So he's been here overnight?'

‘Almost certainly. His clothes were wet on top, but even wetter underneath. That would indicate to me that he died after the fiercest rain in yesterday's storm, but before at least one of the heavy showers which fell during the evening. That's the best I can do for you at the moment.'

‘It's more than I expected. Did he put up a fight?'

‘Again I might be able to tell you more after I've got him stripped. At the moment, I'd say he was caught off guard. There's no immediate evidence of skin or hair under his nails, but a microscope sometimes gives us more than we expect. I'll give it priority. You should have my report by tomorrow.'

Murder as usual jumped the queue. Lambert took a last look at what had yesterday been a man and today was no more than a CID puzzle, then left the scene.

In the house of the dead man, there was a curious contrast between the uneasy silence within and the unheeding noise of the public outside. A tray with two used cups and saucers and a teapot sat on a low table. An unread newspaper had slipped to the floor and not been picked up. From the windowsill, a black-and-white cat stared at the two strangers with wide-eyed enquiry, then jumped down and strode disdainfully from the room with tail held high.

Alison Cooper's dark-blonde hair had strands out of place and her face was very white, accentuating the pale blue of her eyes. She wore no make-up and was plainly on edge and in shock. But that was natural enough.

Before Lambert could even introduce himself and Hook, she said, ‘I've only known about this for two hours. Will I have to identify him?'

‘In due course, that would be the usual procedure. If you find it too much, we could probably get someone else to do it.'

She nodded but said nothing. He wasn't sure which option she was agreeing to, but he let that go for the present. He said, ‘I'm Chief Superintendent Lambert and this is Detective Sergeant Hook. We appreciate that this is difficult for you. We shan't keep you for any longer than is necessary.'

She looked at Hook's square, reassuring features, then back at his senior. ‘You're old for a policeman. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.'

Lambert smiled, trying to loosen her tension. ‘You're observant. That's a quality we try to encourage among the people we talk to. And you're quite right. I was given an extension beyond the usual retiring age a little while ago by the Home Office.'

She gave a high-pitched giggle, which rang loud in the quiet room and showed how nervous she was. ‘I expect that means you're very successful.'

‘We always speak to the surviving partner first in the case of a suspicious death.'

‘Yes. I suppose that means I'm the prime suspect. That's what you call it, isn't it?'

‘Did you kill Mr Cooper?'

‘No. Why would I have done that?'

Lambert could have reeled off a variety of possibilities. Instead he said, ‘In the case of domestic disputes, the partner is often the killer. This does not look like such a crime. We speak to the surviving partner first because he or she is the person likely to know most about the victim. About his habits, his friends and his enemies. We have to form a picture of a victim who can no longer speak for himself.'

‘Yes. That makes sense. I've never been involved in anything like this before.'

‘Then let me tell you a little about what happens. We need you to tell us anything you can today. Then, when we've spoken to other people and learned a little more about the circumstances surrounding the death, we shall probably ask to speak to you again. That will be in a few days' time.'

‘Unless you've got someone for it by then.'

‘Unless, as you say, we've made an arrest by then. When did you last see Mr Cooper?'

‘Yesterday morning. Before the storm began.' She spoke wonderingly, as if it felt to her more than twenty-four hours ago. Perhaps the fierceness of the downpour had made her think in terms of biblical floods.

‘Where were you last night, Mrs Cooper?'

‘Is that when he died?'

Lambert had never taken his eyes from her face; it was part of his job to study her every reaction. She was a suspect until it proved otherwise, despite his efforts to put her at her ease. Now he gave her a small smile and said, ‘This will be over more quickly if we and not you ask the questions, Mrs Cooper.'

‘Sorry. Last night I was with my friend.'

‘Name, please.' Hook's first words sounded almost apologetic.

‘Carrie. Carrie North. She's an old school friend. We've kept in touch over the years.'

‘And what time did you return here last night?'

‘I didn't. I stayed the night at Carrie's. I didn't get back here until ten o'clock this morning.' Alison watched the sergeant record that in his swift, round hand. Her absence seemed somehow more momentous, more damning, when it was written down.

She thought Hook would ask her more; she had this image of him pinning her squirming to the paper, like a small crab which had to be prevented from scurrying away. But it was Lambert who said quietly, ‘Is that something you do often? Staying away overnight, I mean.'

‘No.' The denial had been immediate and unthinking, as if he had accused her of some awful, damning thing. She pulled herself together and said more reasonably. ‘I've done it a few times recently. Carrie lives alone and always has her spare bed made up. As she says, it's safer not to drive when you've had a few drinks, and we tend to enjoy a bottle of wine when we reminisce about old times.'

‘If you have any idea who might have killed Mr Cooper, you should tell us about it now. Even the slightest suspicion is worth voicing at this stage. We shall treat anything you say here in the strictest confidence.'

It was a chance to divert attention away from herself. But her brain would not work when she most needed it. After what seemed to her a long pause, she said woodenly, ‘When you're in charge of things at a place like this, you're bound to annoy people. I expect Dennis did that. I kept well clear of what he did at work, but I thought he was a fair man. He must have made some enemies among the staff. I'm sure there are people with grievances, real and imaginary. But I can't think of anyone who would have wished to kill him.'

It was delivered with a strange evenness, almost like a prepared statement, thought Lambert. She seemed curiously detached. But the shock of a sudden and violent death affected people in all sorts of ways. He said quietly, ‘How would you describe the state of your marriage, Mrs Cooper?'

How direct they were! It seemed years since strangers had made anything more than small talk with her and she didn't feel prepared for this examination. She forced a smile. ‘That's a brutal question, with Dennis lying dead outside. But I'll try to be objective. I'd say that our marriage was about average, whatever that means. The first flush of young love was over, as you'd expect. I'm forty-nine and Dennis is – was – fifty-four. We got on well enough. He was very interested in the job here and very dedicated to it.'

‘And you weren't quite so happy at Westbourne?'

How quick the man was! Her first instinct was to deny it. But it was better to dispense the truth, when it could not harm you. She said, ‘I'm not so dedicated to the country as Dennis was. I recognize that this is one of the great gardens of the nation, as our brochure puts it, but living on the site can be claustrophobic, especially when you're not employed here. I like to get away sometimes, to see people like Carrie, who works in a completely different environment. But Dennis realized that and understood it. We got on well enough.'

‘I see. Well, I think that's all for the moment. As I said, we shall probably need to speak to you again in a few days. In the meantime, you will naturally go on thinking about who did this awful thing. If any thoughts on the possible culprit occur to you, please ring this number immediately.'

She stared at the card with the number of Oldford CID section on it for a full minute after they had gone. Then she fumbled in her bag for her mobile phone. ‘Carrie? It's Alison . . . Yes, they've just been here and talked to me . . . No, not as bad as I expected, but they said they'll need to speak to me again in a day or two . . . Yes, that's right. Carrie, I'm afraid there's one more favour I need to ask of you . . .'

I
t was early afternoon now. Still only a few hours since the tapes had been thrown round the serious crime scene at Westbourne. But news travels fast across the countryside, and bad news fastest of all.

The announcement of a suspicious death at Westbourne Park had been made on the radio at lunchtime. By the time Julie Hartley arrived at the house of her lover, suspicious death had been swiftly translated to murder. Sarah Goodwin opened her door, took one look at Julie's animated features, and ushered her hastily within. They kissed, then held each other tightly for a little longer than usual. Eventually, Sarah released herself gently and said, ‘I shall make tea for us. Then you can tell me all about it.'

When she returned with two beakers and a plate of flapjacks, Julie was examining the drawings she had left on the table. Sarah stopped for a moment in the doorway to study her, with her long dark hair touching the edge of the table and her brown eyes studying the drawings intently. It was the stillness, the capacity to become completely absorbed in what interested her, which had first drawn her to this woman, who was in most of her actions so swift and spontaneous.