Omens of Death (5 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And our own Scenes of Crime teams, photographers, video team, police dogs to search the area, Task Force to do a fingertip search of the site when we are ready?’

‘Yes, I’ve made sure that all our support services have been placed on stand-by, for call-out the moment a crime is confirmed.’

‘And suspects? Apart from the finder, has any other suspect vehicle or person been seen in the vicinity? Or leaving the scene of the crime?’

‘No, sir, none yet, but it’s early days. Everything that needs to be done at this stage has been done.’

‘You’re a good man, Wayne, and a most capable officer. Very efficient. You appear to have thought of everything. Now, let us embark upon our enquiries.’

At this point, Montague reflected upon the action he had taken and felt he had made a good start. One of the prerequisites of a good supervisor was to have a good deputy upon whom to delegate important tasks. And Wayne Wain was one of the best in the Force, if not
the
best.

Knowing that Pluke depended upon him, Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain pressed the accelerator as they made for the moors. The final half-mile was along a dark lane with a rough, unmade surface upon a stony base. It led into Druids’ Wood. This was a plantation created some years ago by the estate and the entrance was via a five-bar gate, standing open. At one side a wooden notice board saying, ‘Druids’ Circle, 800 yards.’

‘Not far now, Wayne,’ muttered Montague as the car entered the gloom beneath the overhanging trees and bounced noisily along the uneven lane.

Then a magpie flew from the trees; it fluttered across the lane and when it was directly ahead of the car, Montague hastily opened the car window and spat upon the road.

‘You all right, sir?’ Wayne wondered if the rough ride had made his passenger sick.

‘A single magpie, Wayne. A bad omen. A sign of sorrow. One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy ... you must know the verse? Upon seeing a single magpie, you must spit immediately to dispel the bad fortune that it would otherwise bring.’

‘I don’t believe in that, sir, with all due respect. I think most people ignore such things.’

‘No, Wayne. They pretend to ignore such things. They pretend to themselves and others — but how many people think thirteen is unlucky? Did you know that fishermen will never give their boats a name containing thirteen letters? And how many people will begin a new venture or a journey on a Friday? Can you imagine a bride getting married without a horseshoe to bring her luck? And would you ever find a bride getting married in a green dress? Superstition is all around us, Wayne, we’re all affected in one way or another. Can I remind you about greenery in the house at Christmas and that we celebrate Easter with eggs as the pagans did — it’s all superstition, Wayne, all of it.’

‘Yes but ...’

‘No buts, Wayne. It’s either all or nothing. You can’t believe thirteen is unlucky if you ignore magpies and don’t take care never to walk under ladders. I don’t hide my beliefs, Wayne. Why hide something in which you believe? That is dishonest. I’m an honest man, you see, I’m not devious and secretive. And for people deliberately to avoid a superstition is a superstition in itself.’

‘My mother would never cut my fingernails until I was a year old,’ Wayne admitted. ‘She told me that, then she refused to cut them on a Sunday in case it brought bad luck.’

‘Exactly. It happens all the time. Lots of parents, especially mothers, follow superstitious practices and instil them in the minds of their children. They grow up to do things which they never consider superstitious, just because it’s the way they’ve always done it. Yet those same parents might well deny following a superstitious belief. So now you know why I spat when I noticed that magpie.’

As the car moved beneath the canopy of trees, Montague smiled at his sergeant, and then, without warning, shrieked, ‘Stop, Wayne, stop! Now!’

‘God! What’s happened?’ Wayne Wain slammed his huge feet to the floorboards and brought the car to a skidding halt on the rough track; even as he did so, Montague was clambering out and hurrying into the trees with coat-tails flying.

‘Sir?’ Wayne left the engine running and climbed out to stand near his door and shout after his departing boss. ‘What is it?’

‘Look at this, Wayne!’ He was pointing to something in the ditch, something almost hidden by weeds and undergrowth.

Wayne was unable to identify the cause of Montague’s excitement, but Montague had seen it, whatever it was.

‘The body, sir?’ called Wayne as he left the car and hurried towards his boss.

‘No, Wayne, a horse trough! See, it was once standing beside this waterway ... the running water would be collected from that gill that comes into this ditch and it would be diverted to fill the trough. The overflow is at the far side ... see? A groove in the lip ... the ditch is dry now, there’s been a lot of erosion which might be the reason, but I’ll bet the gill can produce more than a trickle in wet weather, even now. To make this trough dry as it is, the course of the water must have been diverted only a little or blocked ... by Jove, Wayne, this is exciting, a real find. I never expected to find a trough in use on these heights. Now, if that trough were moved a short distance to a new site or if the gill were cleaned higher along its route, it might fill with water again. The trough could have a whole new lease of life, it could become a genuine feature of this drive towards the circle ...’

‘Sir, with all due respect, we are on our way to a possible murder scene.’

Montague did not hear him as he continued, ‘It’s on the side of a highway too ... this was probably once a major route across the moors ... now, my camera!’

‘Sir, I must remind you that we are going to investigate the report of a suspicious death ...’ Sergeant Wain repeated.

‘She won’t run away, Wayne.’

‘But if the support services come and catch us examining a bloody disused horse trough that’s been dry for years ...’

‘We’re not racing to the scene of a major incident in which lives are at risk, Wayne. Two minutes longer will make no difference to the unfortunate victim.’ And he pulled his fist-sized camera from his jacket pocket, cleared away as much rubbish as he could with his feet and began to photograph the trough from all angles. Then he took a small personal notepad from another pocket and started to record the date, time and place of his discovery, talking to himself with excitement as he did so. After five minutes’ activity and flushed with success, he returned to Wayne.

‘I call that a really good day’s work, Wayne. Now, if I hadn’t spat the moment I saw that magpie I would have missed that trough. As it was, I cancelled out the bad luck which would have been cast by the magpie, you see, and lo! I got lucky and found another trough! Instant good fortune, Wayne. That’s a perfect example of what we were discussing only moments ago. Now, onward to the Druids’ Circle, eh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ sighed Wayne Wain, thinking Montague would have spotted the trough with or without the intervention of that long-tailed black-and-white bird that caused people to spit or make the sign of the cross.

But in truth, the whole incident was merely a set of coincidences — wasn’t it? Even so, it might just be worth checking the lists of runners. Wasn’t there a horse with magpie in its name down to run at Sandown Park soon? And wasn’t a horse called Two Joys entered to run at the Ebor meeting? One for sorrow, two for joy ... whatever it was called, it would be worth a bet. And then there were the National Lottery numbers to consider ...

A minute or so later they were easing into the car-park which was a small patch of bare ground made by clearing some of the trees. Rough and dirty, it was not surfaced, although there was a small wooden hand-painted sign announcing ‘Car-Park — Do Not Light Fires’. A secondary sign said ‘Honesty Box near Gate — recommended charge for park and visit to the Druids’ Circle — £1’

Montague studiously ignored the request for money as he saw a man emerge from a parked car, the only one on the site. In his middle thirties and powerfully built, with a good head of dark, wavy hair and rimless spectacles, he was casually dressed for the sticky heat in trainers, jeans and a T-shirt. Smiling with a hint of nervousness, but striding purposefully forward, he came to meet the newcomers, leaving his car door standing open. Inside, a radio was playing soft music.

‘Mr Winton?’ asked Wayne. ‘Stephen Winton?’

‘Yes.’ In spite of his size and attempted display of confidence, the man sounded nervous and his face was a pale shade of grey. He seemed to be in a state of shock.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Wain and this is Detective Inspector Pluke. We’re both from Crickledale. I believe you have discovered a body?’ Wayne Wain had taken the initiative.

‘Yes, in there, in the ruins. It’s awful ... I ... really ... it is most distressing ...’

‘Has anyone else been with the body?’ asked Pluke, showing his warrant card to the man. Winton had no idea what he was looking at; it could have been one of the new National Trust membership cards for all the notice he took.

‘I don’t think so, I came away, here, to my car, to call your office. I have a car phone. I haven’t seen anyone else, this is the only way in, although I suppose people could hide in the wood ... I didn’t see anyone but I couldn’t stay there, not with her, poor creature ... God this is terrible ...’

‘We won’t detain you any longer than necessary.’ Pluke sounded sympathetic and friendly. ‘But we must ask you to accompany us to the scene. I want you to tell us exactly what you did and show us where you found her. Then we shall require a written statement; one of us will take that from you in a few minutes, after you have shown us what you found. I’m sorry to ask you to do this, but the sooner we get it done, the sooner we can release you and, of course, the sooner we can determine the course of our official enquiry.’

‘Yes, I see, well, all right.’

Winton locked his car but removed his camera and slung it around his shoulders in its large case as he led the two detectives along the final yards of the track. In spite of the shade of the trees the heat was intense, but the unmade surface was slightly damp. The deep shadows of the trees prevented direct sunlight from baking the surface of the ancient track. As they walked, Montague was concentrating upon the ground, seeking tyre marks or footprints. There were no tyre marks, so it seemed no car had been driven to the Eastern Gate, but there were some partial footprints. Many had been obliterated by the light shower of rain which had fallen overnight, but some did remain and Winton’s should be among them.

Montague and Wayne were both alert to the prevailing atmosphere as each scrutinised every inch of the way. Each was aware that this road might well have been the point of arrival and departure of the killer, with or without a vehicle. If so, they hoped to find some evidence of his or her presence. But were they destroying evidence by walking upon it?

Montague was asking, ‘Did you come this way, Mr Winton?’

‘Yes. I parked my car where it is now. I haven’t moved it. I took my camera out and came along here, walking exactly where I am now, on this side of the road.’

‘And you were alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I would expect to see evidence of your arrival somewhere upon this track, but it does look to have a very solid surface under that thin natural covering. So tell me about your work, Mr Winton.’

‘I’m a photographer, a freelance. I was commissioned to take several colour transparencies of the Circle, it’s for a series, “Mystical Tours of Britain”.’

‘What time did you arrive?’

‘Just after eleven o’clock, it would be. I took a few pictures before I found her ... it would take a few minutes, I was still on my first reel. God, it was a shock ... then I ran back to the car to call you ... yes, it would be about ten past eleven I suppose. Quarter past, maybe.’

‘Did you take pictures of her? Either on purpose or inadvertently?’ asked Wayne.

‘No, neither. I couldn’t take any of her ... God, that would be disgusting ...’

‘We will have to develop your film in our studios, Mr Winton, just to see if there are any clues upon it that have disappeared since your arrival.’

‘I’m sure I can arrange that, yes, there’s only one reel as I said. Then, if I can have my negatives back. My deadline’s not until the end of the month, there’s a couple of weeks yet, but I do need my pictures of the Circle. The light was just right, you see, I can’t repeat them ... they are important ...’

They had arrived at the main entrance to the fake temple, the Eastern Gate. Before them stood the majestic lichen-covered rocks, rising above their heads with the thick stone crossbeam forming the arch. Inside, they could discern the shape of the giant folly with its circular array of standing stones, its phallic symbol and sacrificial altar, all casting shadows in the hot sunshine. High in the summer sky, the sun had risen above the trees, its brilliance making the ripening berries of the rowans appear like clusters of tiny orange lights; it was bathing the Circle in its glow, the shadows of the stones being sharply defined upon the earth.

Montague entered first, but did not step completely into the Circle. He halted, with the others behind him, scanning the entire vista, memorising details and noting trivia, gaining a lasting impression of the Circle and its environs. There was tourist litter, he noted, several dead fires, empty beer cans and bottles, crisp packets and plastic bags, a couple of wine bottles near the sacrificial altar, a man’s hat hanging from a lintel, a man’s shoe near the phallic rock, black and befitting a townie, some newspapers, wet and bedraggled, a plastic sandwich box, empty and open, and other miscellaneous discarded items. British tourists were an untidy lot, he decided.