Omens of Death (17 page)

Some intruders did that when they invaded houses at night — it prevented nosy people wondering why the curtains were closed in daylight and often gave a criminal a few more hours of grace before his deeds were discovered. The bedroom was fairly tidy, Pluke decided, although far from the meticulous standard demanded by Millicent, and the intruder did not appear to have searched it, or any other part of the flat, for any reason. All the drawers in the dressing-table were closed and Winton’s jeans, hanging over the back of the chair, did not appear to have been searched for money or credit cards. There was no sign of a fight either, no ruffled rugs, disturbed furnishings or indications of defence by Winton. Burglary, Pluke decided, could be ruled out, as could a battle with a burglar.

Whoever had come to this flat, Pluke decided, had come for no purpose other than to shoot Winton. And Winton had admitted him. Thus they knew one another. Apart from the remains of the meal on the table, there was little of interest to Montague in the kitchen, other than Winton’s camera which stood on a shelf above the eating area. There were films too, unused, and the other accoutrements of a professional photographer, all together so that they could be gathered quickly if an urgent mission arose. He would not inspect the camera to see what was contained on any film that might lie within — that job would be done by the incoming detectives.

The bathroom told a little — a solitary toothbrush lay near the taps of the washbasin with a squiggle of paste upon it. It seemed that Winton had been disturbed moments before cleaning his teeth as he prepared for bed.

Montague took photographs of the bathroom and kitchen, then became aware of heavy footsteps on the stairs. He went back into the kitchen and waited. Two large men in dark suits materialised in the doorway.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the tallest, a six-foot-six-inches (two-metre) giant with shoulders like an ox. He had dark hair shorn close to his head and dark, staring eyes.

‘I might ask the same question,’ replied Pluke.

*

The big tall man looked at the panama-hatted figure in the untidy overcoat and spats and grimaced towards his smaller companion as he said, ‘We’ve a right one here, George.’

He redirected his attention towards Pluke. ‘I ask the questions. I am Detective Inspector Boddy of Fossford CID and this is Detective Sergeant Sole from the same department.’ And both showed their warrant cards. ‘And if you are thinking what I think you are thinking, it’s all been said before. We’ve heard the lot, we’ve heard all the jokes. Now, having established that, sir, who the hell are you and what are you doing with what I am told is a body in this flat?’

‘I am Detective Inspector Montague Pluke from Crickledale CID.’ Montague drew himself to his full height, an action which caused his trousers to rise like a flag on a flag-pole and his overcoat to tighten around his belly. ‘And my companion downstairs, the one who rang for you, is Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain.’ And Montague produced his own warrant card which the officers studied briefly.

‘So what the hell are you doing on my patch without my knowledge and with a dead body?’ demanded Boddy. ‘Control Room said nothing about any CID from anywhere being at the scene!’

Montague provided a succinct account of his purpose, at the same time expressing his belief that Tracy Bretton’s death was linked with this one, then led them into the bedroom to show them the body of Stephen Winton.

‘What have you touched?’ asked Boddy.

Montague explained precisely what he had done, whereupon Boddy said, ‘I shall need a very detailed statement from you, Mr Pluke. Being the person who found the body, you have made yourself a suspect and will need to be eliminated. Now, what’s in that packet you are carrying around as if it contains the Crown Jewels?’

Montague explained and showed the photographs to Boddy and Sole, at which Boddy said, ‘I will need those.’

‘Most certainly you cannot have them,’ snapped Montague. ‘These are material to my investigation — I will arrange for copies to be sent to you.’

‘So you are trying to say this guy was involved in the death of your victim?’ Boddy said.

‘Yes, that is my belief. I came here simply to hand him these photographs and to ask him to explain whether or not he had lied to me on a previous occasion.’

‘Paul?’ Boddy spoke to his silent companion. ‘Take Mr Pluke into the car outside and get a statement from him. I’ll seal this room and call in the troops. It is a murder enquiry, Paul — contact Control and set things in motion.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Mr Pluke — you and I will have to confer over this one.’

‘That will be my pleasure, Mr Boddy.’ Montague smiled as they left the flat and the corpse. ‘Ah, here’s Detective Sergeant Wain now.’

As they emerged on to the landing, Wayne Wain was climbing the stairs, having been given an earwigging by the voluble landlady below. If he looked shattered before, he was even more drained now. Non-stop woman’s talk had that effect upon him.

‘Gentlemen, this is Detective Sergeant Wain, my colleague. Wayne, this is Detective Inspector Boddy and Detective Sergeant Sole of Fossford CID.’

‘Boddy and Sole?’ Wayne Wain smiled.

‘What’s he been doing?’ demanded Boddy, cutting short any further opportunity for a joke about their name.

‘I went to call your office. I couldn’t use the phone in here, could I? It took a while to get back. Traffic, you know,’ replied Wain, deciding not to say he had been interviewing the deceased’s landlady.

He let them think he had made the call from a distant call-box. These two urban heavies might not like a rustic detective carrying out work on their patch.

‘You were there with your inspector when the body was found?’ asked Boddy.

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Right, we want a statement from you as well. In the car, both of you. And next time you rustic plods come on to my patch, I want to know.’

*

Pluke and Wain drove away about an hour later. In that time, Pluke had been mercilessly grilled by Boddy, feeling that he was a suspect rather than the person who had found the body. But now that ordeal was over and the death of Stephen Winton had been officially handed over to Boddy and his officers, Pluke and Wain were returning to Crickledale — and they had managed to retain the photographs.

‘I did not get an opportunity to examine Winton’s car, Wayne,’ said Pluke as they drove away. ‘Those detectives arrived more speedily than I thought. I would dearly have liked to take a second look at his vehicle and a more detailed look at the contents of the flat.’

‘His car was given a thorough going-over by our lads yesterday, sir.’

‘Yes, it was. I suppose that would have found anything relevant, although I might have to ask Fossford police if I can examine it again if the need arises. Now, Wayne, what did you learn about Winton?’

‘He was a good tenant,’ began Wain. ‘He’s been in that flat about three years and has always paid his rent on time. Mrs Pallister’s had no trouble with him about noise or bad behaviour. Sometimes, she said, when she went out of her own flat, she could hear his radio of a morning, but not this morning. She thought nothing of it — she knew he sometimes went out early to catch the morning light and darkness, or the empty streets — but then she saw the car outside and wondered if he was all right. In fact, she went up and tapped on his door — that would be about eight forty-five this morning — but got no reply. She didn’t try the door.’

‘He’d be lying dead at that stage,’ said Pluke. ‘So, visitors, Wayne. Did she see any visitors? Does he have many visitors?’

‘He seemed to have quite a lot of friends,’ Wayne said. ‘Both sexes too. There were quite a lot of callers, people of his own age as a rule, and sometimes he held small parties with a dozen or so there. They were seldom a nuisance to her, but she does not know who the visitors were. He never introduced any of his friends to her.’

‘And last night?’

‘Someone called late, sir, by car. Half-twelve or thereabouts. They left the engine running, she heard it ticking over outside. The visitor ran up the stairs but didn’t stay long, then hurried away. She thought little about it because he often had callers like that, friends or sometimes people delivering photos to him. Whoever it was had heavy footsteps so she thought it was a man. She was in her kitchen at the time, making herself a drink before going to bed, and was in her night clothes. So she didn’t look out or shout good-night. She has no idea who it was.’

‘So she did not see the car in question?’

‘No, sir. She did say that Winton sometimes took deliveries of printed pictures late in the evening, cars and vans often called, she said, so its arrival wasn’t all that unusual. I suppose we can check out the people who develop his prints?’

‘Yes, we can, or Boddy and Sole can. It’s their case, after all! So what about the sound of a shot?’

‘She didn’t hear a shot being fired but .22s don’t make a lot of noise, do they?’

‘OK, Wayne, well done. We’ll have to await the results of the post-mortem and forensic tests on this new death, which means I shall have to bother that unpleasant Boddy man for his findings,’ announced Pluke. ‘And I think we should make greater efforts to find the killer of the young girl — the same person, I sincerely believe. It would be nice to make an arrest before our Inspector Boddy does so, don’t you think, Wayne?’

‘It would indeed, sir.’ Wayne Wain smiled.

‘I wonder if there have been any developments in our own Incident Room?’

*

Gossip at the Friday Society centred upon Padgett Grove, hitherto regarded as such a nice area. But if the bungalow at No. 15 and its owners had been involved in murders and nude men and things like that, then it called into question the eligibility of May Crowther for membership of the various eminent societies and clubs in Crickledale. Letting her home be used for undesirable purposes was not the sort of conduct one should tolerate. It lowered standards to those of seedy nightclubs and brothels. In a true society, standards had to be maintained. And the Friday Society was a modern example of high standards in a world which was slipping into sensuous oblivion — only the finest of ladies were permitted as members. Someone had to save the country.

It was Mrs Councillor Farrell who asked, ‘Millicent, I really do think you ought to find out from your husband just what May and Cyril have been doing. You are in the finest possible position to help us. After all, May is so closely involved with so many organisations that any hint of scandal could be devastating to us all. We’d all be tainted. Do try and find out, will you?’

Chapter 13

Montague Pluke’s Incident Room — already nicknamed The Plukedom — had been busy that morning. As a result of tasks already allocated to the teams, there had been much productive activity while Pluke and Wain were in Fossford. They, on the other hand, had broken their return journey to enjoy a late lunch of sandwiches and coffee in a bistro. As a notice said the eating of one’s own food brought on to the premises was forbidden, Pluke kept his packed lunch in his pocket for a future occasion. It was while eating his open prawn sandwich that Pluke had accidentally knocked a fork from the table; as he’d retrieved it, he’d said, ‘Knife falls, gentleman calls; fork falls, lady calls; spoon falls, baby squalls!’

‘I suspect we might be receiving a visit from a lady, Wayne,’ he commented seriously. ‘Perhaps a witness in our enquiries?’

‘I hope she produces something worthwhile, sir.’ Wayne Wain smiled, hoping that his response did not sound too dismissive.

From time to time Wayne Wain wondered whether Montague’s entire life was structured around his superstitious beliefs, but conversely whether any of tomorrow’s race meetings sported a horse with a name like Fork Leaf, Lady Caller or Tumbled Fork or something similar. He’d check before having a modest bet.

Upon their return to Crickledale, Pluke and Wain discovered that the teams of detectives had already produced a wealth of information which was presently being analysed. An additional factor was that the early news coverage had also resulted in an encouraging response from the public.

Much of it would be unrelated to the investigation but the detectives knew that, among the masses of messages, there could be one single gem, one snippet, which would provide the breakthrough and lead them to the killer.

‘Before we examine the new information in detail,’ Pluke told the now-motivated Inspector Horsley, ‘I must tell you that Stephen Winton is dead. We found him at his flat in Fossford, shot in the head. It was not a self-inflicted wound, the weapon was not with the body. We called the local CID, that’s ‘F’ Division. Boddy and Sole from Fossford are dealing with the enquiry. I am sure his murder is linked with the death of Tracy Bretton, so we will have to establish a system of liaison with them.’

‘I’ll make sure everyone’s told. This’ll beef up the investigation, Montague — the murder of a witness. Not that he was particularly vital, of course ...’

‘Wait!’ said Pluke. ‘I believe that Winton was more vital than we realised and his demise might frustrate things somewhat. I was hoping to glean more information from that man; I am convinced he did not tell me the truth. Indeed, Mr Horsley, I would classify him as a prime suspect.’ Montague adopted a solemn tone as he informed Horsley of his opinions relating to the photographs and to Winton’s earlier visit to the Druids’ Circle. In providing this account he asked Horsley, while assessing the incoming data, to bear in mind the scenario that Winton could have been involved with the death of Tracy Bretton and that he might have helped to dispose of her body.

In Pluke’s opinion, there was a distinct possibility the body had somehow been conveyed from No. 15 Padgett Grove to the Druids’ Circle, possibly in the girl’s own car with the assistance of Winton. Any sightings of incidents which might have been relevant to that removal were sought — he asked Horsley to ensure that all detectives bore that in mind during their enquiries.

‘So what have you got for me?’ Having imparted his news, Montague settled in the chair in his dingy office and addressed Horsley. Wayne Wain, yawning broadly, had brought in another chair and Horsley occupied a third in front of the desk, his arms full of files. Murder enquiries did generate a mass of paper.

‘First, your man, Stephen Winton. Stephen Winton deceased, I should now qualify that,’ said Horsley. ‘Our findings might well fit your theory, Montague. We did a standard check at the Criminal Record Office and discovered he has form. He left college, couldn’t find a white-collar job and eventually got work as a coal heaver; but then he was sent down for two years for attempted rape. In his defence, he said his uncrushable urges were brought on by sniffing coal dust. No one really believed that. He studied photography in prison and found himself excelling at it; he could compose very artistic pictures, especially rural scenes, and began working as a freelance on release. He did well. However, there’ve been several cases of rape and attempted rape which are unsolved, both in this region and elsewhere; he was working in the vicinity at the time of more than a dozen of those attacks, and was questioned. There was never enough evidence to charge him, but it was felt that the freedom to roam which he enjoyed in his job, enabled him to find his victims and escape without detection.’

‘He sounds just the sort of man to be involved in Tracy’s death,’ commented Montague. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, we’ve had words with the editor who commissioned him. Molly Swift by name. He has done work for her in the past, she reckons he is — was — competent and efficient. She knew he’d been in prison but did not know for what offence. The fact he had a record did not worry her — all she required was photographs worthy of publication, which he supplied on time. On this occasion she did commission him to take a series of colour photographs, including some of the Druids’ Circle, but had no idea of his movements. Her deadline was at the end of this month, as he told us, but he didn’t inform her when he would be heading out to the moors to take his pictures.’

‘I asked Mrs Pallister, his landlady in Fossford, about his movements on the day Tracy’s body was found,’ interrupted Wayne Wain. ‘She did see him leave his flat that morning, around 10 a.m. as he said to us, and he told her he was heading this way, but added that he had to return in good time for a picture session in York Minster.’

‘That tallies with the story he told me. Do we know precisely what job he was doing in the Minster?’ asked Pluke.

‘No,’ admitted Horsley. ‘That’s another action for my teams.’

‘We need to know whom he met there and at what time,’ Pluke said. ‘He’d be late for that engagement because he was assisting us with our enquiries at the Circle. And we need to know how long he stayed and whether anyone returned to his flat with him.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Horsley.

‘In short,’ added Montague, ‘we need to trace anyone who has made contact with him since we interviewed him.’

‘Next,’ said Horsley. ‘Your gossip who lives at No. 14 Padgett Grove. Josephine Peat. We’ve interviewed her.’

‘Good.’ Montague Pluke actually smiled, knowing that some of the best crime-fighting information in the world came from women who glanced through net curtains and couldn’t prevent themselves talking about what they had seen. ‘So what did she see?’

‘Almost everything!’ Horsley beamed. ‘She saw the Crowthers depart for their holiday — they’d asked Mrs Peat to keep an eye on the house and who better? She’d been told that a niece of May Crowther was to live in, and last Sunday noticed the arrival of a dark-red mini with the beautiful blonde at the wheel. All as expected.’

Montague smiled at the deviousness of the staid Crowthers in making the nosy neighbours think May had a niece.

Horsley went on, ‘Mrs Peat lived up to expectations. I don’t think a fly, or even Father Christmas, could have entered that house, at any time of day or night, without her noticing. She noticed the arrival of some friends of the girl; they came for a party one night, she thinks it was the Monday after the girl arrived. Last Monday in fact. They came in a small personnel carrier, one of those twelve-seaters, and carried a lot of stuff from it into the house. She couldn’t say what it was with any certainty, but she guessed it was crates of drink and boxes of food. She cannot swear to that, of course. She merely saw boxes and crates and other objects which she could not identify. A taxi brought a man too, a bit later than the others, but she couldn’t describe either the man or the taxi as it was getting dark.’

‘I think the objects she noticed might have been the equipment they needed for filming,’ commented Pluke.

‘You’re probably right. Now, she didn’t get the registration number of the personnel carrier, but thinks it had the letters N and R in the number, and the figure 3 or 8. That’s all she can say — she’s most upset at not obtaining that kind of detail!’

‘We can run a Police National Computer check on carriers with those numbers in that combination of registration figures, although it’ll take some time to make that kind of search,’ said Pluke. ‘And we can question all local taxi firms and their drivers. So, that was Monday night. What time did the party conclude?’

‘In the early hours. Half past one or two o’clock, she thinks. She was in bed and heard the chatter of the guests as they left, and car doors banging.’

‘Have we any descriptions of these people?’ followed Pluke.

‘No, except she didn’t recognise any of them, she thinks none was local. Very vaguely, she thinks they were all in their late twenties or thirties, casually dressed, some men with long hair, girls in short skirts, fun people in other words. She wasn’t sure how many there were, with all the comings and goings. Five or six, she guessed. But it might be significant that she saw a naked man darting across the hall; the front door had opened to let some of the revellers out just as this character was running somewhere, probably the bathroom.

‘She described him as a large man, youngish, in his late twenties or early thirties, and he had dark hair. She could not tell us anything else about him.’

‘Was it Winton, do you think? So what about any other visitors? Such as tall young men looking like Stephen Winton?’ was Pluke’s next question. ‘Did she notice Winton, or anyone like him, at any other time?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact she did.’ Horsley smiled. ‘There were no other groups arrivals but the girl in her red mini did leave the bungalow most days to drive off somewhere, usually mid-morning, and returned around seven each evening. A man did return with her on Wednesday night, noticed Mrs Peat. About seven o’clock or thereabouts.’

‘Wednesday? Well done, Mrs Peat! Description?’

‘Rather vague, but close enough to Winton’s appearance to have been him. She said he was very tall, dark-haired, good-looking and casually dressed — she mentioned jeans and a T-shirt, light coloured. She can’t swear that it was the man she saw naked, but agrees it could have been. He was in the passenger seat of her mini when the blonde girl — Tracy we are sure — parked it outside the house. They got out and she unlocked the front door; he followed her in. They seemed friendly, I might add, chatting like old pals. Mrs Peat didn’t think the girl was being pressed into something she did not want. There was no suggestion he was forcing his attentions upon her. In fact, the pair of them stopped on the drive to chat to George Dunwoody who was washing his taxi in the drive of his bungalow.’

‘So her visitor appears to have been welcome. If it was Winton, he lied again. He told us he did not know the dead girl and had never seen her. And afterwards? Did she see the man leave, or notice any other activity?’

‘No, none, Montague. The house was quiet on Thursday morning, she did not see anyone around, no sign of the occupants. The red mini was not there either, that’s the following morning, Thursday. Yesterday. Mrs Peat assumed it had been put in the Crowthers’ garage, which was where the girl kept it. The Crowthers used their own car to travel to the airport, so we know the garage was available.’

‘All very sound information, Mr Horsley,’ said Pluke. ‘I know we cannot make unproven assumptions, but it does seem possible that Winton left his own car somewhere on Wednesday evening, was taken to No. 15 Padgett Grove by Tracy in her car and then spent at least part of the evening alone with her. Had he spent the whole day with her, perhaps on a photographic session before returning to the bungalow? And if he did return with her, did he kill her and remove her body in her own car, dump her at the Circle and then collect his to return to Fossford? He was in Fossford on Thursday morning — his landlady saw him leave his flat and her sighting tallies with his statement to us, including the time of his arrival at the Druids’ Circle and his subsequent call to us about “finding” the body.’

‘We can only guess at that scenario, Montague, unless our enquiries reveal some formal connection between the girl and Winton, photographic work, I mean, commissioned work. We cannot be sure the man with her at the bungalow was Winton. We must be careful not to make too many assumptions.’

‘I agree entirely. Now, we are looking into her recent movements, are we?’

‘I have three teams doing that, Montague, covering Crickledale and her contacts on Teesside. While you were away, her father came to the morgue to make a formal identification. It is definitely Tracy Bretton. She was a model, aged thirty-one, home address — Stockton-on-Tees. Full details are in the file. Her dad had no idea about her porn work; he thought she modelled for fashion stores and catalogues — which she did, so she didn’t lie to her parents. It’s just that she didn’t tell the whole truth. The fact is she did porn — male order poses, I suppose you could call them! Extra activities for cash. Poor kid, what an awful life. And she was asthmatic, the inhaler found in the bungalow was hers. It proves she was there too. Her body has been taken to Leeds for a forensic pathologist to ascertain the cause of death. He’s going to operate this afternoon. I hope to have a result before we knock off tonight.’

‘Let’s hope we get a positive result,’ said Pluke. ‘Now, did you know that a diet of boiled carrots eaten for two weeks is said to be an effective cure for asthma? Next, it’s vital that we find her car, even if it is a burnt-out wreck in the forest.’