The Drowners (17 page)

Lauren was starting to dread the sound of the phone ringing on Dave’s days off. Not that he had any at the moment, she thought bitterly as she replaced the receiver and flung herself onto the sofa. Every time they planned something together he was called back in to work. Every single time – and he always agreed. She was feeling decidedly unappreciated after four months of coming second to his job and there were moments when she wanted to tell him not to bother any more. But then, on the rare evenings they spent together he was wonderful. Dave never made a big thing of their difference in size but he didn’t try to ignore it either. He was just easy and natural as well as great fun to be with. He treated her like an adult and sometimes he could make her feel like a princess.

Lauren twisted round and stared out of the window where a steady drizzle was falling, running down the windows in slow, fat drops. The door to the front room opened suddenly and Jonny, her younger brother, stuck his head round, his dark hair tousled and his brown eyes full of mischief.

‘Hey Sis,’ he said. ‘What you brooding for? No Dave again today?’

Lauren scowled at him and turned back to the window.

‘Come on, you can’t sit here sulking all day. You know he’s got to work all them extra shifts if he wants to get promoted
so why don’t you and me go out. We can take the car, maybe go up onto the Quantocks. What do you say?’

Lauren gestured at the rain, which was beginning to fall more heavily.

‘Not in this,’ she snapped. ‘Look at it. Is horrible out there.’

‘Well then, how about we go to Glastonbury? I’ll spring for a pub lunch an’ we can come back via Street. Maybe pick up some nice new shoes for us both.’

Lauren was tempted. She liked Glastonbury, as long as it was out of season. She had made the mistake of going to the town last June and found herself caught up in the wave of revellers attending the new ‘festival’ a local farmer had arranged. It had been a frightening experience and she had not been back since. And she loved Street – a town dominated by shoe making, with a dozen factory shops to browse. She slid off the sofa and grinned at her brother.

‘Reckon that’s the best offer I’m goin’ to get today so you’re on.’

At Highpoint police station PC Dave Brown was attending an emergency briefing, but he still felt a twinge of regret at letting Lauren down yet again. For two and a bit years he had dedicated every waking moment to his job but now he felt himself pulled in another direction. He was damn lucky she was so understanding, he thought. A look around the room showed how many men were not so fortunate. A number of his older colleagues were divorced or separated from their partners and most of the younger men were either settling in to life as community PCs or, in a few rare cases, had
postponed
any idea of a serious relationship whilst aiming for a position a bit higher up the food chain. The Inspector’s voice cut through his musing and he forced himself to pay attention.

‘I know this unusual, but these are unusual and disturbing events and I want every one of you to be aware of what we are faced with. That is why I’ve asked Dr Higgins to come here today and share the results of the latest post-mortem with us.’

‘Thank you Inspector,’ said the pathologist, stepping up to the large crime board and gazing at the photographs for a moment. He looked very tired, Dave thought. Standing in front of the room with shoulders slumped and a grim
expression
, Dr Higgins looked more than ready for retirement.

‘We have another murder,’ said the pathologist, his soft voice carrying through the stillness in the incident room. In the pause following this statement there was a shuffling of feet as the assembled police squad shifted uncomfortably in their hard plastic chairs and exchanged glances.

‘In all my many years of service in the county I have rarely had to deal with a violent death, yet now we have three suspicious incidents in the space of a few months. I believe there are links between the killings but there are also some important differences I would like to explain.’

He turned to the board where three photographs headed up the display.

‘First we have Michael Franks,’ he said, pointing to the first image.

‘Sticky Micky,’ someone muttered, drawing a glare from the Inspector.

‘Mr Franks,’ continued the pathologist firmly, ‘died from drowning. There was water in his lungs matching that of the canal in which he was found. There were a few bruises along one shoulder and arm but nothing serious and certainly nothing that could have contributed to his death.’

‘Probably fell over when he was pissed,’ came a mutter from the back.

‘Several personal items of Mr Franks were found on the bank next to where we believe he went in to the water, in particular, a leather wallet with a twenty pound note tucked inside.’ There was a general stirring at this news. Twenty pounds was a lot of money to be fluttering around on the river bank.

Higgins turned back to the board and pointed.

‘Our next victim is Robert Donnoley. He was a River Warden, out on his rounds just before Christmas. Mr
Donnoley was also found in the canal and the immediate assumption was he, too, had drowned. However, forensic examination of the remains indicates he was dead
before
he entered the water. The actual cause of death was a single blow to the head.’ Here he indicated a close up of the back of Donnoley’s skull. ‘As you can see, the trauma was extensive, suggesting a very powerful blow. So powerful, in fact, that several fragments of bone were forced into the brain – here,’ he pointed, ‘and here.’

Ignoring the reaction from several of the more squeamish officers he continued his talk.

‘Despite careful analysis we have been unable to recover any useful trace elements from the hands or under the fingernails and so we assume he was surprised by his assailant and had no opportunity to defend himself. He was probably dead for several hours before being placed in the river as there was no water in the lungs and the lividity marks on his back and buttocks indicate he was on his back for some time immediately after death.’

Dr Higgins added two further photographs to the board to illustrate these points. A muttering arose from the officers as the gruesome details were displayed in front of them.

‘Bloody hell, bit too much detail there,’ whispered one PC sitting next to Dave, who gave a vague smile and kept his eyes on the pathologist. Waste of time, him dragging those hands across town, he thought grimly. Thank you very much. None of this showed on his face as he maintained a cool,
professional
exterior and waited for the new information on their third victim.

‘Finally we come to our most recent case.’ Dr Higgins tapped the third photograph. ‘This is Andrew Cairns.
Mid-forties
, married, two children, working as a security man for a firm based in Glastonbury and patrolling the nature reserve at Shapwick. As you doubtless are aware, there has been a spate of thefts from building sites recently and Mr Cairns was on duty at night to prevent any further loss. His body was recovered from the north bank of the Brue, just below where
the Bounds Rhyne enters, here.’ He indicated the place on a map pinned up next to the photo board.

‘Interestingly, whilst Mr Cairns does appear to have drowned, he had also suffered considerable head trauma and the pattern of bleeding internally suggests this was pre rather than post mortem. In addition, the water from his lungs
contains
numerous microscopic larvae, specifically
Centroptilum luteolum
.’

Here he looked pointedly at his audience who stared at him with blank faces.

‘English Mayfly. Very common but only, please note, found in slow moving streams and rivers. And so,’ here he turned back to the map and tapped on the place where the body had been found, ‘we can presume that Mr Cairns entered the river somewhere else. From the condition of the body he had not been in the water for more than, say, twelve hours.’

PC Brown swallowed discreetly, hoping they would be spared a close-up of the corpse. He still had bad dreams about the hands, rustling in the brown paper bag.

Someone behind him asked ‘How do we know that then?’

There was some sighing and nudging from the older officers surrounding the questioner.

‘Is fast water, up by Bounds Rhyne, specially when has been raining. So them larvae, they won’t be there, right?’

Dr Higgins nodded encouragingly at the speaker.

‘Certainly, that would be the case. So we need to establish where the body might have been dropped in. There was considerable detritus on the clothing, specifically leaves from willows, moss and peat.’

‘Well, is all peat round there,’ muttered someone from the back. ‘And all willows too.’

‘Ah, but this peat was old, from a reasonable depth – say three or four feet. This peat came from a recent working.’ He turned back to the board, ran his finger along the map and pointed to a stretch upriver from Westhay.

‘This is our nearest candidate and, given the weight of the body and the fact there are minimal signs of dragging, unless
Mr Cairns was spending his evenings bog-snorkelling, he was either killed beside the river or carried there along some sort of path or track. My guess would be here.’ He indicated the remains of a footpath.

The Inspector stepped forwards and nodded his thanks as the pathologist took a seat in the front row.

‘Right now, we need to start a search as soon as possible of this area,’ he indicated the Westhay Level from the peat works to Catcott Farm, ‘and down to the river bank. Then along here towards Westhay Bridge—’

Dr Higgins interrupted him. ‘It is unlikely he was dropped from the bridge. That type of immersion would have left some marks, signs of trauma. He was almost certainly rolled in to the water.’

Trying to hide his annoyance, the Inspector nodded in acknowledgement and continued. ‘Westhay is unlikely partly for that reason but also that’s the main road. Much too risky, even pushing him in from the bank. Downstream from there, though, there’s nothing between the two farms. Now, we’ve maybe a mile and a half of river bank to search, concentrating on the south bank first on account of the peat on his clothes and him being based at Shapwick. One team will cover the Reserve, see if there’s any sign of an intruder on the site. The rest of you will suit up and work the river bank.’

Dave Brown put his hand up. ‘Do we know if there are, er – any other matching indicators?’

The Inspector stared at him for a moment before
answering
.

‘Well, that’s what we are looking for, lad. Right, the sergeant’s got the teams worked out. Collect your gear and report to the car park for transport.’

Dave waited until the room cleared a bit before going up to the board, staring at the photographs and the map. There was a movement behind him and he turned to face Dr Higgins, who was studying the display.

‘An unusual case, I think,’ said the pathologist.

‘You say we have one man who was drowned,’ ventured Dave. ‘Then one who was bludgeoned but made to look as if he’d drowned and then one who was bludgeoned and drowned as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Dr Higgins thoughtfully. ‘Interesting, isn’t it.’

Lauren’s mood lifted as she bowled along the flat road across the countryside in Jonny’s car. The rain had eased and the sun was forcing its way through the clouds scudding across the pale blue sky. The road was almost empty as they turned right on to the Levels and drove along between the water meadows and occasional hamlet or farm. She opened the window a fraction and breathed the fresh, green-scented air, relishing the sound of birds singing of the joys of imminent spring.

She was grinning by the time they turned into Glastonbury, the town buzzing gently with the usual influx of local shoppers and the handful of first visitors of the season. These were mainly older couples, lively pensioners with grown-up children and the freedom to roam purchased through the dividends from shares in the newly privatized industries and extra years of the company pension scheme. Untouched by ever-rising unemployment and benefiting from spiralling interest rates, they were the only thing standing between a lot of rural communities and economic disaster. She watched them through the big bay window of the pub that Jonny had suggested they eat in, as she and her brother waited for their food.

‘Reckon most of the tea shops ‘ud be struggling without them oldies,’ she said.

Jonny nodded and took a pull at his pint. ‘Reckon a lot of the West Country would,’ he said. He’d recently got a job working as a hospitality manager at one of the local hotels and had been shocked at how close the line between ‘getting by’ and ‘going under’ had become. ‘Seems we need the Grockles, at least for a bit longer, till things look up.’

Lauren snorted in disgust. ‘Can’t see things looking up for a while,’ she said. ‘Not until they sort themselves out and do
something for us ordinary folk. And that ’ent happening any time soon I reckon. Too busy helping a bunch of greedy rich boys get richer, they is.’

At that moment their main courses arrived and put an end to Lauren’s political tirade, at least for as long as it took her to clear her plate.

‘Fancy a pudding, Sis?’ Jonny asked as the sweet trolley trundled past them heading for the main dining room.

‘Well, I might squeeze something more in,’ said Lauren. At that moment she glanced out of the window at the High Street and froze.

‘Jonny, look, ’tis Iris. Iris Johns, over there by the chemist.’

Jonny leaned forwards and peered out. Iris, dressed simply in a dark coat, turned and realized she was being watched. There was an uncomfortable few seconds as her eyes met Lauren’s gaze and then she nodded an acknowledgement and turned away. Lauren watched her walk away down the street, shifting in her seat to keep her in sight until the abrupt arrival of the sweet trolley snapped her back to the business in hand. A nervous young man hovered next to their table, plate and serving spoons in his hands. Jonny gave him a wide, welcoming smile and the waiter swallowed hard, sneaking a glance over his shoulder before smiling back.

‘Hello Kirk,’ said Jonny. ‘Nice to see you again.’

Kirk chuckled, his eyes darting to and fro anxiously.

‘Hello, Jonny. Fancy you turning up here then. I thought you were in Highpoint.’

‘Oh, you know, I like to get around a bit. Seemed like a nice day for a run out.’

The manager materialized at their table, his hard eyes taking in the scene. Kirk ducked his head slightly and his ears turned bright red. Lauren, who was used to Jonny and his many friends, leapt in to save the situation.

‘I don’t know, there’s just so much is so nice. What do you reckon is your best pudding then?’ She smiled up at Kirk, the picture of innocence.

‘It depends if you want something fruit based or maybe perhaps a bit more substantial,’ said Kirk, the relief showing on his face.

‘I ’ent so sure you can serve a proper pudding on them plates mind,’ Lauren went on, seemingly engrossed in the sweet trolley. ‘Is not a
pudding
if you can see it through the custard. Is only a dessert otherwise.’

The manager blinked rapidly as he digested this novel interpretation of his menu.

‘Perhaps you would prefer a bowl?’ he suggested.

Lauren threw him a glittering smile. ‘That’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

There was the briefest of pauses before the manager realized he had somehow been manoeuvred into fetching the bowl himself and turned away, seeking someone
appropriately
menial for the job. Before he could delegate Kirk, Lauren launched in to a series of questions about the pies, puddings and fruit plates on offer.

‘Thank you,’ the young waiter whispered, the instant the manager was out of earshot.

‘Sorry,’ Jonny muttered. ‘I didn’t expect to make trouble. When are you off?’

‘Not till seven,’ Kirk muttered, bending over the trolley and lifting a particularly succulent chocolate cake out for Lauren’s inspection.

‘Meet you behind the Rifleman then?’ Jonny suggested.

Kirk had time for a nod before the manager returned bearing a bowl and followed by a girl from the kitchen with a white jug.

‘Here we go, my dear,’ said the manager. ‘And I thought you would need a little more custard to make it a
real
pudding.’ He gestured towards the serving girl, looking as pleased as if he’d conjured her up as well as the custard.