The Corpse's Tale (Trevor Joseph Detective series) (4 page)

Peter glanced at his watch. ‘Lunch time. Our dogsbody’s van is here, so she will have set up shop.’

‘Don’t let me hear you calling her that again.’ Trevor liked and respected Constable Sarah Merchant and suspected she would soon make sergeant. She had often tracked down leads and information when the officers in charge of a case had felt they’d come to a dead end. She was also immune to Peter’s chauvinism and angry outbursts whenever he became irritated. Which was often.

‘ You’re travelling heavy, Joseph.’ Peter handed him a suitcase twice the size of his own.

‘We don’t know how long we’ll be here.’

‘Even a village like this must have a laundry.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

‘Launderette?’ Peter looked up the street. He saw a baker’s, butcher’s, chemist, antique shop, and what looked like a Post Office, general store and newsagent in one. He handed Trevor one of the large boxes of paperwork that hadn’t been computerized, picked up his case and another box, and ducked under the low lintel into the pub.

The landlady, Rita James, had obviously been watching them from the window. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped behind the small reception desk in the passageway. ‘I don’t need to ask who you are.’ She opened the register and held out a pen.

Peter took it. ‘Single room en suite?’ he asked hopefully.

‘We have no singles, only doubles. I warned the officer who made the booking I’d have to charge extra for all four. We only have the five rooms and with you taking four at the height of the season it’s going to affect trade.’

Peter had a sudden vision of people flocking into Llan and demanding accommodation. The only problem was, he hadn’t seen any other cars on the road for the last five miles.

‘I’m Rita James, the landlady;, I look after the rooms and the restaurant and my husband, Tyrone, manages the bar and the cellar. You want anything you come to us. Although I’m not afraid to tell you I don’t know why you’re here and neither does anyone else in the village.’

‘Why’s that, Mrs James?’  Trevor asked.

‘Because we all know who killed poor Anna Harris, that’s why. Dai Helpful should never have been freed. Its bad enough they don’t hang people these days without letting people out of prison after they’ve served a couple of years. Life should mean life when you’ve taken one. Especially that of an innocent young girl. Anyway, that’s what we all think around here.’

Trevor was taken aback by Rita’s anger. ‘We’re here to find out the truth, Mrs James.’

‘Sergeant George found that out ten years ago.’ She snatched the pen from Peter and handed it to Trevor.

‘If that’s the case, we’ll confirm his findings and be on our way in a couple of days,’ Peter assured her.

The landlady frowned. ‘You’re not here to whitewash Dai Helpful and make Sergeant George look a fool?’

‘As my colleague said, Mrs James, we’re here to find out the truth.’ Trevor signed his name below Peter’s.

‘Constable Merchant arrived an hour ago,’ she said in a friendlier tone. ‘She’s in the room you booked as an office. Room one, first right at the top of the stairs. You’re in three and four, Constable Merchant is in two.’

‘Thank you, Mrs James. What time do you finish serving lunch?’

‘Food is served all day, midday till ten at night. Last orders, half past nine. Breakfast is served in the back bar from half past seven to nine.’

‘That is music to an overworked police officer’s ears, Mrs James,’ Peter gushed.

‘We’ll be down to look at the menu as soon as we’ve unpacked.’ Trevor went to the stairs.

‘It’s on the blackboard in the bar. Nothing fancy, plain home cooking.’

‘Sounds perfect to me.’ Peter picked up his box and case.

‘If you need help with those, I can call my Tyrone.’

‘We can manage, Mrs James, thank you.’ Peter ran up the stairs behind Trevor, his small suitcase balanced on top of a box of files.

‘Will you look at this’, Peter teased when he walked into the hotel room that was to be their “incident room” for the duration of their enquiries. ‘The girl arrived only an hour ago and she’s already unpacked her magic machine. Got the coffee sorted and bought chocolate biscuits as well, Sarah?’

Sarah ignored Peter and spoke to Trevor. ‘I’ve given Patrick O’Kelly’s office the landline number here and told them to telephone any test results directly to us, sir. I’ve also located the current addresses of Sergeant George who carried out the original investigation and Anna’s mother. Her father killed himself the day after Anna’s funeral. Her mother sold up and moved to Swansea shortly afterwards.’ She held up two discs. ‘Film taken at the murder scene and one of Anna’s funeral. The DVD is connected to the TV.’

‘Film of Anna’s funeral?’ Peter questioned.

‘Taken by the local photographer. He made a fortune selling stills to the local and national papers.’

‘Money grubbing…’

‘He donated all the proceeds to Anna’s memorial fund.’ Sarah stopped Peter mid-flow.

‘Good work, Constable,’ Trevor said.

‘I’ve run police checks on all the locals. Aside from minor parking and traffic offences, two farmers – Bob Evans and Harry Jones – were fined for not declaring income to the Inland Revenue. The landlord here, Tyrone James, was charged with affray but found not guilty in court. The vicar, Tony Oliver, was arrested ten years ago for possession of cannabis but never charged. His wife was charged with assaulting a woman Tony was having an affair with twelve years ago. It couldn’t have been serious. She was bound over to keep the peace. No sex crimes or other serious assaults that I could find. And that is about all I’ve done so far, sir.’

‘As the three of us are going to be living and working here until this case can be closed again, I suggest we drop the formality. Call me Trevor.’

‘And me Peter.’

‘I’d prefer to call you Sergeant Collins.’ Sarah handed Peter a file. ‘I’ve downloaded the trial transcripts and evidence files for you. As you missed the briefing I thought you should have your own copies.’

‘Thank you, Constable Merchant.’ Peter snatched them from her.

‘Hungry?’ Trevor asked.

‘Yes – Trevor,’ Sarah replied.

‘Let’s go and eat.’

‘Given that everyone in the village probably thinks the same way as the landlady, we could eat up here and brainstorm at the same time,’ Peter suggested.

Trevor shook his head. ‘We’ll eat in the pub, we’ll socialise in the pub and we’ll talk to the locals there. I doubt many besides Anna’s mother have moved away in the last ten years. You never know what we might pick up.’

‘Do you really expect to find new leads after ten years, sir?’ Sarah asked.

‘We won’t know until we try. After we’ve eaten, Peter can help you sort this room before he catches up with his reading.’

‘And where will you be?’ Peter asked.

‘Visiting David Morgan and his mother. The sooner we get his side of the story, the sooner we can begin our investigation.’

The bar fell silent when Trevor led the way in. He smiled at the room in general and read the blackboard. It didn’t take him long to make a choice. ‘Rump steak, chips, and a pint of Guinness.’

‘Make that two,’ Peter said, and ‘Good afternoon,’ to the silent, staring customers, before sitting at a table.

‘Sarah?’ Trevor asked.

‘Tuna salad and a glass of mineral water please.’ She sat opposite Peter.

‘You’ll get healthy, eating food like that,’ Peter warned.

‘Unlike you I care about my figure, Sergeant.’

‘Ooh, you can be nasty, Merchant.’

‘No winding anyone up on this case, Collins.’ Trevor set the drinks on the table.

‘Do you want us to put your food and drink on your bill, Inspector Joseph?’ Tyrone shouted loud enough for all the customers to hear.

‘Please, but itemise everything.’ Tr e v o r waited for someone to comment. He didn’t have to wait long.

‘You the police?’ A weather-beaten middle-aged man sitting on a stool at the bar challenged.

‘We are,’ Trevor answered pleasantly.  ‘And you are?’

‘Bob Evans, I farm up top. I hope the poor taxpayers, me included, aren’t paying for your beer.’

‘You’re not. That’s why I asked the landlord to itemise the bill,’ Trevor explained.

‘You’re wasting your time and our money if you’re here to reopen the Dai Helpful case.’

‘Why’s that?’ Peter sipped his Guinness.

‘Because Dai Helpful’s as guilty as Cain, that’s why. And what do you know about the case anyway?’ Bob snapped. ‘We don’t need outsiders coming in here and telling us what’s what. Sergeant George did a damned good job ten years ago. Not that he had that much to do,’ he added. ‘It was an open and shut case.’

‘Officers from another force are always brought in when a case is reopened, it’s government policy,’ Trevor said mildly. ‘Fresh eye and all that. And it’s routine to reopen cases when an appeal against a conviction is successful.’

‘No fresh eye needed here. Dai Helpful was found sitting next to the girl, covered with her blood. And it was his axe that was stuck in her head. How much more evidence do you need than that?’ Bob demanded.

‘The girl had been killed eight to ten hours before,’ Peter reminded him.

‘When Dai Helpful was out looking for his new puppy – or so he said,’ Bob sneered. ‘It’s a case of the murderer returning to the scene of the crime. He raped and killed her and stripped her naked the night before and he couldn’t stay away. He wanted to gloat over what he’d done. That’s why he was there. According to every true crime book I’ve read, it’s a textbook case.’

‘It won’t do any harm to take another look at the case, seeing as how the judge saw fit to set Dai Helpful free.’ Tyrone was expert at diffusing arguments before they started. ‘From what you told the missus you’re not here to prove Dai innocent. If he’s guilty you’ll say he is.’

‘If that’s our conclusion,’ Trevor agreed.

‘And then they’ll put him back where he belongs – in prison?’ Bob demanded.

‘It’s not quite as simple as that,’ Trevor said. ‘He’s already served ten years.’

‘Not bloody long enough for a young girl’s life.’ Bob hit the bar, and the glasses hanging above it rattled. ‘Life should mean life. Though why we have to keep the buggers in prison when we can save the expense and hang them is beyond me.’

‘Few people in Llan will disagree with you there, Bob.’ Tom the baker carried a pint of cider and a pork pie to a table.

‘But it would be awful if that judge was right and Dai Helpful didn’t kill Anna,’ interjected a female voice.

Everyone turned towards the barmaid, a slight young girl with dark hair and eyes who looked too young to be working in a pub.

She lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Well it would, wouldn’t it?’ she challenged.

‘What would you know about it, Lily Jenkins?’ Bob snarled. ‘You were in nappies when Anna Harris was murdered.’

‘I was ten years old, Mr Evans,’ Lily corrected. ‘And I only said it would be awful if Dai Helpful was innocent. It’s not as if the police haven’t made mistakes before. Three Cardiff men spent four years in prison for murdering a prostitute in Cardiff Docks only to be cleared later. And those two brothers from Swansea spent seven years in prison before being found innocent…’

‘That’s not the case with Dai Helpful,’ Bob interrupted sternly.

‘No doubt about it.’ Rita set Sarah’s tuna salad in front of her. ‘Dai Helpful was born weak in the head and he did for her.’

‘Bloody law,’ Tom swore between bites of pork pie. ‘Dai got off on a technicality and now they’ve let him out it’ll be too late for the next poor girl he tops.’

‘Just let him show his face near me, that’s all I say,’ Bob threatened.

‘David Morgan is back in the village, isn’t he?’ Peter asked.

‘Aye, but he hasn’t had the gall to step out of doors because he knows what’s waiting for him if he does,’ Bob said darkly.

C H A P T E R F I V E

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directions to the Morgans’ cottage. The quickest route was across the churchyard. Trevor knew he was following the exact same path Anna had taken the night she’d been killed.

He walked out of the car park on to the pavement. He crossed the quiet road, to the church notice board, depressed the latch on the roofed gate and closed it behind him. The churchyard was still, the air buzzing, alive with insects. It was hot even for July, just as it had been ten years before for Anna Harris. The reports he had read had been thorough. A full moon, clear sky, the temperature 26 degrees Centigrade, warm for a summer’s day, let alone night.

He noted the dates on the tombstones. Like most churchyards still in use, there was a mix of ancient, old and new. The most recent were closest to the path. Low plain stones in black or white marble, with simple inscriptions and even simpler decorations. A cross or abstract pattern alongside or above the name. But he failed to find Anna Harris’s grave. The more elaborate Victorian memorials were massive in comparison, some six feet high and more. A few were decorated with classical sculptures and Gothic lettering.