Omens of Death (23 page)

‘Point taken, sir,’ capitulated Johnson.

‘I would like you all to concentrate upon the movements of the people of this town,’ Pluke said. ‘Those detectives on house-to-house are probably best able to check on that. Take the material times of each death — the Fossford one included — and try to ascertain if anyone was missing from their usual haunts upon each of those three occasions. There has to be a common factor. Our guilty person will be someone who possesses or who has the use of a .22 firearm of some kind — try Rifle and Pistol Club members, and the club itself. Our villain had ammunition which he must have purchased or acquired somewhere — and I must warn you of the dangers of approaching someone who might kill again. Our suspect has killed twice and thinks he — or she — has killed three times. One more death is of little consequence to him or her. Our suspect is also someone who has access to transport — each death has involved a trip out of Crickledale: one to the Druids’ Circle, one to Fossford and one to Trattledale.

‘There is also evidence that houses in this town have been used for the making of pornographic films, possibly without the knowledge of their owners so it might be wise for our house-to-house teams to ask each householder if he or she has ever been away from home and left the premises in the care of house-sitters. Have we someone in town who is acting as an agent for that sort of thing? How does the film company know of the unoccupied houses? The man who runs it is not saying — he says his girls find the houses. If we produce the name of a local suspect, then he, or she, must be subjected to interrogation to determine his or her movements in relation to those empty and available homes. Is he, or she, known to the householders in question, for example? Has he called there under any pretext?’

Montague Pluke spent some time outlining his ideas, careful at this stage not to categorise any of his themes as plans. Plans would come later — once the background information had been collected and analysed. Plans would be determined on Monday, which was a good day to start planning.

Having addressed his detectives, he dismissed them to go about their important duties and turned his attention to the press. They were already waiting in the reception area, news of the latest killing having attracted a large contingent of reporters and photographers representing newspapers, radio and television. The story would feature strongly in Monday’s papers and news bulletins — a perfect beginning to the week for Montague Pluke. Settling them in the conference room, he provided them with the name of the deceased, the fact that he had died from gunshot wounds and that his body had been found hidden beneath a pile of stones in Trattledale. He appealed for sightings of Moses Nettlewren since Friday when he had finished work and was asked whether the murder of the eminent Magistrates’ Clerk could be linked to that of Mr Stephen Winton in Fossford and the mysterious death of Tracy Bretton.

Pluke, being diplomatic and without yet referring to the links already established through the .22 bullets, said, ‘We are examining that possibility and I am in contact with Fossford police. To date, we have not established any connection between the three persons, but enquiries are continuing.’

‘Is an arrest imminent?’ asked one reporter.

Pluke knew the reason for this question — if an arrest had been made or was imminent, then it would curtail the extent of the reported news item. Too much pre-trial publicity of the wrong kind could prejudice the fair hearing of an accused, so the press were restricted in what they could print before a trial. But if there was no arrest, or no immediate likelihood of one, they could speculate and carry out their own investigations. In this case, Pluke felt that speculation and wide publicity might help in his own campaign to flush out the accused, so he said, ‘There has been no arrest, and none is imminent.’

Thus he knew the media would produce some lurid and fanciful pieces about deaths in ancient ruins and druids’ circles, along with the inevitable links with witchcraft and peculiar practices. The market town of Crickledale would become famous, he knew, but it might generate a lot of gossip which in turn could produce a useful flow of information from the public. Publicity of any kind, good or bad, would mean that some of the local businesses would benefit. He could envisage that little shop in Stumpgate selling miniature druids’ circles and reproductions of Trattledale Mill, although Montague did wonder if there was a market for miniature Crickledale horse troughs.

After the reporters had got their stories and the photographers their pictures of Montague standing beside a police car with a radio handset in his hand and looking business-like, Montague adjourned to one of the cells where Wayne Wain had installed a TV set at the end of a long lead.

After explaining that this place was one of the few truly dark rooms in the police station which was secure, Wain said the videos were each of half an hour’s duration, and each hair-raising to the uninitiated. It is perhaps fair to say that Montague’s hair did stand on end. Having once, albeit accidentally, seen Millicent in the bath, he had no idea that pieces of the female anatomy were able to perform such unusual and effective things to pieces of the male anatomy and found himself wondering why he had never learned or experienced such apparent delights.

‘You can see from the titles how they have used seven of the Nine Sights, sir —
Dirty
Devil’s
Bridge
,
Kinky
Keep
,
Bondage
beneath
the
Bells
,
Cupid
in
the
Crypt
,
Bosoms
in
the
Bath
,
Throbbing
Thomas
in
the
Tower
and
Desire
with
the
Druids
. They’ll probably finish up with something like
Naughtiness
at
the
Nunnery
and
Virgins
in
the
Vaults
.’

‘Is all that from your rather overworked imagination, Wayne?’

‘No, sir, from enquiries I have made. Right, sir, now I’ll slow this sequence down. See? Isn’t that Samuel Purslane ...’

‘The newsagent, you mean?’ said Montague, staring hard. ‘Yes, by jove it is ... and what on earth is he doing with that flower vase? And that’s Nathaniel Nethersage, isn’t it? That man with the leather shop? Secretary of the Rifle and Pistol Club? Good heavens, Wayne, that’s that chap who sells life insurance ... what’s his name ... isn’t he chairman of the Camera Club?’

‘John George Dewberry, sir.’

‘That’s him, and what on earth’s he doing with that rifle? And, oh dear, Wayne. That’s Moses, isn’t it? What a big fellow, eh? You can really appreciate his size when he has no clothes on. You know, Wayne, I’m surprised he never got married ... he would have made some woman happy, I am sure, and now he’s gone. Wasted. My word, and there’s that girl we met in Hartlepool ...’

‘Sharon Pellow, sir.’

‘Goodness gracious, Wayne, she is energetic, isn’t she? Did she learn that from riding horses, I wonder?’

‘She has been very co-operative with me, sir, in my enquiries I mean. It was she who gave me these tapes ... she’s on them all, you see, a present from Ron but useful to us, I would suggest.’

‘Very useful indeed, Wayne.’ And so the viewing continued with Montague Pluke growing hot under his collar and perspiring in the coolness of the cell. Wayne, however, was revelling in the open and undisguised display of Sharon’s assets and skills.

When the viewing was over, Pluke wiped his brow, asked for a drink of water and said, ‘Those films are part of a series, you said, Wayne?’

‘Yes, sir. They intended to make one film set in each of the tourist attractions around Crickledale. Seven are complete — the seven we have viewed. It was Ron’s intention to make two more to complete the set.
Naughtiness
at
the
Nunnery
and
Virgins
in
the
Vaults
were the planned ones.’

‘Using places in and around our fair town?’

‘I fear so, sir.
Desire
with
the
Druids
was the last one ...’

‘Wayne, I saw several gentlemen in those films, people of Crickledale whom one would never dream of taking part in such things ... filthy things, really, but quite interesting in their own way, if only from an athletic point of view.’

‘Two of the people in the videos are dead, sir,’ Wayne had to point out. ‘Tracy is one, Moses Nettlewren the other.’

‘What are you saying, Wayne?’ asked Montague Pluke, still visualising that scene with Sharon and the lampshade.

‘I wondered how many more of the people in these films are going to die, sir.’

‘A silencing routine, you mean, Wayne? Someone killing witnesses?’

‘Yes, sir, something like that. I wondered if some of the people — not all, but some — will know the identity of the killer, sir. Like Moses Nettlewren.’

‘And Sharon, Wayne? What about your friend, Sharon?’

‘I have quizzed her, sir, she has no idea who it might be. And I have made sure she keeps out of harm’s way.’

‘Does this mean we have to view more of these films, Wayne?’

‘I fear so, sir.’

‘The things I must do for my country, Wayne.’ There was a slight hint of keenness in Montague’s voice. ‘But Winton is not depicted in the one we have just viewed.’

‘No, sir, I think he was taking photographs. He did stills, sir, for magazines.’

‘Ah, so we must identify the other menfolk who are performing and rush to their rescue, Wayne, before they get shot?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘But our killer could strike at any time, in any place, at any minute, Wayne ...’

‘Precisely, sir.’

Chapter 18

‘Purslane, Nethersage and Dewberry. I think all three are at risk, Wayne, but I believe we must find Samuel Purslane first.’

‘Purslane, sir? The newsagent?’ Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain puzzled over Pluke’s choice. ‘He’s not our man, is he?’

‘He is not our killer, I am sure of that, but I fear he could be the next victim, Wayne, unless we find him very soon, Come along, no time to waste.’

‘But why, sir ... why Purslane?’

‘On Friday morning I saw a black beetle crawling across his shoe, Wayne. A black beetle running over someone’s shoe is an omen of death, yet, oddly enough, it is unlucky to kill a black beetle. Purslane did not kill it — I saw him flick it away with a newspaper and thus he retained the good fortune implied by that move. But one cannot ignore the underlying threat of evil, Wayne, which in this case is the fact that the beetle
did
crawl across his boot. It is a serious omen, Wayne, and I fear that unless we prevent it, he could die — either that, or someone closely connected with him could die.’

‘Oh, blimey, he’s at it again,’ muttered Wayne Wain beneath his breath as he hurried to locate the official car. If he told any of his mates he’d worried about the life of a grown man because a black beetle had crawled over his shoe ...

Purslane’s paper shop opened on the morning of the Sabbath to dispense the Sunday papers, but closed during the afternoon. Consequently it was closed when Pluke and Wain arrived. ‘Where to now, sir?’ asked Wain anxiously.

‘His house, Wayne.’

Pluke’s local knowledge took them directly to the semi-detached house of Mr and Mrs Purslane. Mrs Purslane, a pretty forty-year-old in tight-fitting shorts and a T-shirt, was in the garden enjoying the heat of the day while tending her borders and removing weeds. She looked up and smiled as the police car eased to a halt. Wayne Wain thought she was gorgeous; how on earth her husband could make those awful films, which involved having congress with other women, was beyond him ... did she know what he got up to? pondered Wain.

‘I’d like to have a chat with Samuel, Mrs Purslane,’ said Pluke without any sign of urgency, for he did not wish to alarm this cheated woman unduly.

‘He’s gone off with some friends, Mr Pluke,’ she said. ‘Twitching.’

‘Twitching?’ puzzled Wayne Wain.

‘Rushing off and looking for rare birds,’ interpreted Pluke, not noticing the
double
entendre
.

But Wayne Wain understood the message. ‘Where did he go?’ he asked with just a hint of concern.

‘I don’t know. When he got home, he said they’d rung him at his shop this morning to say there was a melon-breasted cocotte in Priory Woods, just arrived from France, they’d told him, a very rare sighting. They’re usually seen on the Mediterranean beaches, so they said.’

‘Did he describe it as a French bird?’ asked Pluke.

‘Yes, that might have been what he said. A French bird.’

‘Did they collect him from home?’ asked Pluke.

‘No, he went by himself, Mr Pluke. Only a few minutes ago, you’ve just missed him.’

‘Did he take his own car?’ continued Pluke.

‘No, he said somebody would pick him up at the War Memorial, so he went off with his binoculars and camera. He said he’d be back for supper unless it meant chasing the bird a long way. Is it something important, Mr Pluke?’

‘I would like to have words with him as soon as possible,’ was all Pluke felt inclined to say in the circumstances. ‘If he does come home, ask him to call the office, would you? Just to let me know he’s back? They’ll radio me if I am out of my office and I have no objection to him ringing me at home.’

‘Yes, all right.’ Mrs Purslane smiled, bending to deal with a
sanicula
europaea
, her actions prompting palpitations in all sorts of private places within Wayne Wain’s anatomy, particularly around the region of his groin. She was a handsome woman, was Mrs Purslane, mature yet fascinating, and she made a fantastic job of giving shape to her shorts.

‘Shall we try Priory Wood?’ suggested Wayne Wain.

‘Most definitely, but how does one, with limited resources, search a large wood for someone who does not wish to be found? It is high summer, remember, with the floor of the wood thick with vegetation and cover. So, in order to have more information before me in advance of our visit to the wood, Wayne, I would like to call on George Dunwoody,’ announced Pluke.

‘Dunwoody, sir? Have we time?’

‘My knowledge of the geography of the wood and the layout of the priory it contains leads me to conclude that we do have a little time, Wayne, but apart from that, I wish to see whether he is involved in this expedition. You see, Dunwoody is my chief suspect and I fear he might have abducted Samuel with a view to executing him.’

‘Dunwoody, sir? Good God! Why him?’

‘I believe he wishes to silence anyone who knows that he killed Tracy Bretton.’

‘I thought she died naturally, sir?’

‘She did, but I am sure that Dunwoody thinks he killed her, which is why he panicked and killed Stephen Winton — who knew what had happened — and then, for like reasons, he had to dispose of Moses ...’

‘Good God, sir! All them? I can’t see how you think it could be Dunwoody, sir.’

Already, Wayne was speeding the car towards the Dunwoody bungalow at No. 11a Padgett Grove and as they rushed through the quiet Sunday streets, Pluke said, ‘Winton was evil, Wayne, I could sense his evil during our very first visit to the Druids’ Circle. In his wake, there was a perception of evil, Wayne, rather as some people leave behind the scent of perfume or tobacco, but in this case infinitely more subtle and not even as tangible as an aura. I could sense it, however, and it was confirmed by a flight of swifts as we carried out our inspection. And we now know about his previous convictions. But Winton was not the killer, Wayne.

‘The killer of Tracy Bretton is very superstitious. Of that I am positive. In both the Crowther bungalow and Stephen Winton’s flat, all the mirrors were covered up with towels or sweaters or something similar. I am sure you recall that, and I am sure the Scenes of Crime teams have recorded that MO. Those mirror covers were not put there to dry, Wayne, as most police officers might think. They were put there by someone highly superstitious who believes that if a person catches sight of a reflection of himself in a mirror while there is a dead body in the room, that person will die soon afterwards. It’s an old belief, Wayne, one which is still extant in some places, and that provided me with my main clue.

‘Another one concerns the position of each of the dead bodies. It’s a longstanding belief that it is unlucky to walk past a murdered body, especially when it is lying on the ground. Our killer placed all his victims so that he need not walk past them: they were all in corners; and at the hospital, Tracy was in a filing cabinet on the wall. He did not have to walk past her either. The positions of the bodies therefore provided another clue.

‘A further one came from the glove that was found in the woods near the Druids’ Circle. It was in good condition and we had every reason to believe it was dropped by the killer. I believe it was — and who wears black gloves in summer? Undertakers and their assistants, Wayne. Smart men in black suits carrying coffins. Or those helping them, as Dunwoody does. But why did he not pick it up? I will explain. There is an old notion that if you drop a glove, you should never pick it up because it would bring bad fortune — you let someone else pick it up because that brings good fortune. But the killer, in the midst of disposing of the body, would hardly want to attract bad fortune, so he took the calculated risk of the glove not being found or identified and therefore left it where it fell. I am sure he felt that an anonymous black glove, with no means of identification, would not be regarded as important — but we know that any clue is important, Wayne. And we know that a local supplier stocks gloves of an identical kind.

‘Now, to continue. You may recall that when I mentioned to Dunwoody about the girl’s body being transported to the Druids’ Circle, he commented that the route taken might become a public right of way, even though it traverses private premises. Well, Wayne, that is an old superstition too, and the basis of the many so-called corpse roads which cross our countryside.’

‘And I suppose he had all the opportunities, sir, being a freelance taxi driver and man-of-all-parts. But you continue to refer to the
killer
of the girl found at the Druids’ Circle, sir, while we know that Tracy died naturally.’

‘I have already said I believe that Dunwoody thought he had killed the girl, and his subsequent behaviour is a direct result of that. Remember, I did tell him that I was hunting a murderer, and I did that quite deliberately. He has gone berserk since then ...’

‘You’re not saying your actions are responsible for these deaths, sir?’

‘Of course not. He was responsible for those deaths, not me. And who knows what goes through a killer’s mind? My task is to keep this town as free from crime and criminals as I can. Now, back to the Dunwoody theory — we know that he has the means of travelling out of town to all sorts of places while no one considers his movements odd, whatever time of the night or day they occur.

‘I saw his taxi in town in the early hours following the night Winton was killed. His landlady heard a car engine left running an hour or so prior to that. And taxis do stand outside houses with their engines running. Taxis were also seen outside No. 15 Padgett Grove during filming sessions and what better way for the film-makers to move around a location individually than by local taxi? It is a system widely used by the television and film industry. Was it one taxi seen several times, or several taxis? If Dunwoody was hired regularly by the pornographic film-makers, he would know their routines, their locations, the personalities involved, the houses they used ... And I think the message about the French bird was a secret way of telling Samuel that a willing woman had been found and that his presence was required for filming. It was a ploy, of course, but one that convinced him that his attendance was needed. A melon-breasted cocotte is just another way of describing a high-class prostitute ... a cocotte is the French for prostitute, you see, Wayne, and we all know what melon breasts are like ... even I know that — and the term “French bird” is often used to describe any bird that is unusual in any way ... like a white blackbird or even a hen blackbird, which is brown ...’

‘Hang on, sir, you’re ahead of me, a long way ahead. What makes you think Dunwoody is superstitious? Covered-up mirrors, fallen gloves and an old notion of corpse roads are not totally convincing reasons.’

‘Very true, Wayne. Apart from the things I have mentioned, he has numbered his house 11a instead of 13 for one thing,’ said Pluke. ‘He deals with his boiled-egg shells by crushing them in exactly the same way our ancestors did when trying to avoid witches; he touches wood for good luck; he refuses to allow red and white flowers in the house, just as hospitals won’t allow them inside the wards ... he’s superstitious all right, Wayne. And remember how the girl’s body was laid, feet together to prevent the egress of evil spirits, while poor old Moses Nettlewren was laid with his head towards the rising sun. And another thing, Wayne, why were such elaborate steps taken to conceal the body of Moses Nettlewren? It was, I believe, because there was a very likely chance that, in such a remote place, he would lie unburied on a Sunday. If a funeral is postponed for any reason, it means others in the vicinity will die within a week, or certainly within three months, and this is especially the case if a body remains unburied over a Sunday. So our superstitious killer, thinking of his own skin, made sure Moses was buried beneath that heap of stones before the arrival of Sunday.’

They were now approaching Padgett Grove and Wayne drove into the drive of No. 11a. There was no sign of activity at the house, but Pluke knocked on the kitchen door and soon Ada Dunwoody appeared.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Pluke. I thought for a moment it was May and Cyril coming to say they were back after their holiday.’

‘Is Mr Dunwoody around?’ asked Pluke.

‘No, he’s had to do a run, a taxi run. Some bird-watching fanatics ...’

‘Where to? Did he say?’

‘No, he just said he had to meet somebody at the War Memorial and off he went ...’

‘How long ago?’

She glanced at her watch. ‘Not long, Mr Pluke, ten minutes, no longer.’

‘Thanks,’ said Pluke, shouting at Wayne, ‘War Memorial, Wayne. It’s him!’

‘Mr Pluke, what is it?’ called Ada as the detective in the funny coat ran towards his car. But she got no reply and when they reached the War Memorial there was no sign of Samuel Purslane or of George Dunwoody and his taxi.

‘Shouldn’t we circulate a description for all mobiles to keep observations, sir?’ suggested Wayne Wain.

‘Yes, we shall require their support, Wayne. Place them on the alert, will you, by radio, but stress that they must keep away from all routes into Priory Wood until I order otherwise. I do not want Dunwoody to know we’re on to him, Wayne. A surfeit of rushing police officers might precipitate some illogical actions on his part and put Purslane at a greater risk. Remember, Dunwoody has used a gun and I am sure he is still in possession of one.’