Omens of Death (25 page)

‘But we’re in this together, for God’s sake.’

‘The filming, the dealing, the fun, yes, but not the girl ...’

‘The girl as well, George, one secret’s like any other ...’

‘I don’t want locking up, Sam, I can avoid it ...’

‘But I can keep your secret ... and that photographer and poor old Moses ... I won’t talk, I daren’t talk, we’re too deep in all this, all of us.’

‘I can’t risk it, not now the girl’s dead ... come along, move ...’

‘But my wife ...’

‘She’ll think you have run off with a French bird.’ And Dunwoody laughed. ‘Nobody will find you down here, Sam, not for a few centuries, anyway.’

The voices came nearer and nearer, growing louder and louder as murderer and potential victim came closer to the dark and deep recess where the three policemen had concealed themselves. Dunwoody had a powerful torch which was now reflecting from the ceiling and exposed walls, casting weird shadows as, from time to time, it lighted on a white skull or a bone dragged on to the floor by a visiting animal. From the way it waved about, Pluke deduced it was hand-held.

‘Act as you think necessary,’ whispered Pluke to PC Horne, adding almost as an afterthought, ‘We want them both alive. Dunwoody is the man with the gun.’

*

‘Stand there, Sam,’ said Dunwoody, his torch shining into the face of his one-time friend. ‘In that gap ...’

In the reflected light of Dunwoody’s torch Pluke noticed that Dunwoody now had it in the same hand that held the stock of his rifle. It was clutched against the stock, pointing at the sights. Blinded by the light, the hapless Purslane obeyed and the watchers saw him stand blinking in the place which might soon be his final resting place, then Pluke whispered, ‘Now, PC Horne.’

In a trice, the brilliant light from Horne’s head bathed Dunwoody as the policeman bellowed, ‘Police. Halt. Drop your gun ... this is the police and we are armed ...’

But Dunwoody reacted instantly. He turned and ran back along the route, his bobbing light weaving between the rows of coffins. Then he halted, rested his rifle on a lead coffin and turned, shouting, ‘One move, any of you, and you’re dead.’

‘Can you hit his torch?’ Pluke asked Horne. ‘Can you extinguish his light?’

‘I’ll try, sir.’

‘Give me one moment.’ And he called, ‘George Dunwoody. This is Detective Inspector Montague Pluke. You are under arrest for the murders of Stephen Winton and Moses Nettlewren ...’

‘Catch me first.’ And there was a crack as the first of his shots whizzed into the darkness somewhere above their heads and thumped into the solid rock; PC Horne took careful aim and squeezed his trigger. It was an easy shot at a fairly close distance. It smashed into the torch, extinguishing its light and hurtling the remains from Dunwoody’s hand, breaking two fingers in the process. His rifle clattered to the floor in the darkness.

‘Nice shot,’ said Wayne Wain. ‘Brilliant, in fact. Mr Dunwoody, you are surrounded, armed officers are outside and inside the vaults.’

‘I didn’t intend to kill her ...’ He was weeping now. ‘God knows I didn’t ... she just died on me ... in the bath, they were all there watching, taking photos, filming ...’

‘I know,’ said Pluke.

*

‘I thought you might like to see where it all started,’ said Pluke to Millicent the following Sunday. So they drove out to the Druids’ Circle where Millicent parked the car and locked it. Pluke showed her the old horse trough which he had found and they strolled towards the Circle, now busy with visitors. He led her to the underground chamber and said, ‘She was in there, round the corner.’

‘Show me.’ Millicent smiled. ‘I am very interested in how you solved this crime.’

Taking his faithful little torch from his pocket, he led her into the smelly place and shone the light upon the stone shelf upon which Tracy’s body had lain.

‘She was lying there, naked,’ he said in hushed tones.

‘It’s a double-bowled horse trough,’ she said. ‘Lying on its side ... see? And you never noticed, Montague.’

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