The Killing Season (17 page)

Kate sat beside me and ruffled my hair. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

‘Take me home and make love to me?’

‘That door’s locked, in case you hadn’t realised it, Jack.’

I patted the bench we were sitting on. ‘I know it’s not the Ritz but it could make the time pass more pleasantly.’

Before Kate could reply the door opened once more and Amy Leigh came in. ‘You got lucky, Jack. A couple of people saw the whole thing through The Lobster’s window. They have made a statement to the effect that Len Wright attacked you again.’

‘So I am free to go?’

‘Not quite yet, Delaney,’ said Susan Dean, who had appeared in the doorway. ‘If you had information that Elaine James was having an affair with Nigel Holdsworth why did you withhold that information from my team and the team from Norwich?’

‘I didn’t have information. I had a hunch,’ I said, looking her straight in the eye.

‘Is that right?’

‘Gut instincts. All good detectives have that. You know that, don’t you, Susan?’

‘What I know is that you are getting to be too much of a pain in the arse. I am still considering charging you with obstructing the course of justice. But I will be talking to your superiors and there will be a complaint made. I might not be able to charge you, Delaney. But I am going to make things very uncomfortable for you. You can count on that!’ She walked away.

‘Missing you already,’ I called out.

‘Jack!’ Kate slapped my arm as we stood up.

‘I reckon Len Wright is good for the assault on Elaine James,’ said Amy Leigh. ‘They’ll question him officially in the morning, and Elaine will be able to confirm.’

I nodded. ‘Good.’

‘But he claimed he has been in Norwich with a woman since the night of the stag do. And the woman has confirmed it.’

‘Who killed Nigel Holdsworth, then?’ I asked.

It was a bloody good question.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have any answers.

I WAS SITTING
behind my antique desk the next morning, pondering the matter, when Laura Gomez came into my office. Today she was wearing a black skirt, hooped tights in black and white, her trusty Doc Martens and a bright red woollen jumper. She looked like a liquorice allsort.

‘All right, Bertie Basset,’ I said. ‘What have you got for me?’

She sat down in the green leather armchair and crossed her short but perfectly proportioned legs.

‘I’ve come in to update you on the matter you asked me to look into, Gramps,’ she said.

Gramps?

I let it slide. ‘Get on with it, then.’

‘Just had a call there’s been some vandalism up at All Saints Church. Just up from the park, Beeston Regis. Want to take a squizz?’

‘Sure,’ I said, picking up my car keys from the empty desk and grabbing my overcoat.

It didn’t take more than five minutes to get there.

It was a sunny morning. Crisp, clear air. The leaves were scudding gently in the light breeze as we got out of my car and walked round to the cemetery in front of the church.

Sergeant Harry Coker and his young sidekick were there ahead of us.

‘Morning, Jack. They’ve released that scumbag out on bail, pending charges.’

‘You couldn’t hold him?’

‘His alibi clears him for the murder of Nigel Holdsworth so even if he did know about the affair it wasn’t him who killed the rev. But as soon as Elaine James is able to make a statement we’ll bang him up soon enough.’

‘Good.’

‘Not so sure about that.’

‘Why?’

‘Plenty of people in this town have got no reason to like Len Wright. And there’s plenty of people who like Elaine James. He’ll be safer in custody, more’s the pity.’

‘So what’s going on here?’

‘A grave’s been desecrated.’

It was an expensive-looking plot with a large marble headstone. The name and inscription had been crudely hacked away.

‘Whose is it?’

‘Don’t know. Was hoping this man could tell us.’

He gestured at a tall, angular man who was striding purposefully towards us. He had longish silver hair and an overcoat. The dog collar gave me a clue about who he might be.

‘Sorry, sergeant,’ he said as he approached. ‘Got stuck behind a beet tractor.’

‘That’s OK. You can see what’s happened.’

‘Terrible business. Disaffected youth, no doubt. But this is really reprehensible, desecrating someone’s grave like this. It’s barbaric.’

‘Can you tell us who the plot is for, Reverend?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m the vicar of the church in Upper Sheringham – I’m only covering for Reverend Harris. He’s on extended leave.’

‘Oh. So would anybody know?’

‘I should think plenty of people do, but there is no need to put out an appeal. There will be a registry kept. I have the keys to the office.’

‘I’ll stay outside,’ said Laura, producing a rolled-up cigarette. I followed the sergeant and the vicar into the church.

‘This is Jack Delaney, a detective inspector from the Met. He’s been looking into some cases of petty vandalism at the caravan park next door.’

‘I would hardly call this petty vandalism.’

‘No, no, quite.’

‘Sometimes these things escalate,’ I said.

A short while later and the silver-haired vicar had cross-referenced plot numbers with names and pointed to an entry in the book.

‘Oh my word,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ asked Harry Coker.

‘It’s that poor man’s grandfather,’ the vicar replied.

I looked over the thin man’s shoulder at the entry in the book. Reverend Reginald Holdsworth.

Nigel’s grandfather.

Outside, and the wind had dropped. It was warm, even. Warm enough to open my overcoat.

‘Hey, Kemo Sabe!’ Laura called over from a corner of the cemetery. ‘We’ve got another one here.’

It wasn’t as fine a grave as Reginald Holdsworth’s had been. It was a plot set into the ground and it had a simple brass plaque. My eagle-eyed assistant had spotted that the name of the grave’s occupant had also been gouged out. With angry strokes too, by the looks of it.

Back inside the church the locum vicar did his thing again with the record books and read out a name.

‘William Wright,’ he said.

‘Billy Wright,’ said the sergeant, clearly taken aback.

‘You know him?’ I asked.

‘He was Len Wright’s father. What the hell is going on here?’

It was another bloody good question.

I WAS BACK
in my office, still pondering the matter and still not getting anywhere when Kate came in.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Lovely to see you, too. Paperwork day,’ she said, holding up a folder.

‘OK.’

‘And I’ve some to show you that you might be interested in.’

‘Go on, then.’

She sat in the chair opposite my desk and pulled some photographic prints out of her folder. She put one in front of me.

‘This is a close-up of the bone injury on our unknown man who was found in the cave under the collapsed cliff. The terminal injury, shall we say.’

I could see the hole that the weapon used had made in the dead man’s ribs.

‘Can you see the small triangular section of bone at the top of the entry point?’

‘Yes.’

‘That means that the weapon used had a groove in it. It wasn’t completely flat like the blade of a knife or suchlike. And the groove had a purpose.’

‘Which was?’

Kate smiled. ‘Most people think it was grooved to let the blood flow more freely and allow the weapon to be pulled out quickly without getting stuck.’

‘You’re talking about a sword?’

‘Go to the head of the class, Jack.’

‘But the groove isn’t there for that purpose I take it.’

‘No. Just a bit of a myth – most experts agree now it was just to make the weapon lighter to use but still retain its strength.’

‘So our unknown man was killed with a sword.’

‘A small thin sword.’

‘OK, so he was killed with a small thin sword. What does it tell us?’

‘In itself, not a lot. But look at this.’

She handed over a second picture. ‘The entry wound that killed Nigel Holdsworth, the fornicating vicar.’

‘A similar nick. He was killed by a sword, too.’

‘No, no, Jack,’ Kate said and smiled briefly again as she put two even more enlarged pictures on the desk in front of me.

‘It’s just possible that he was killed by the same sword. You’ve either got a copycat killer or someone has waited thirty years or more to kill again.’

Superintendent Dean glared at me as Kate and I left the office that the Norwich CID team had taken over at the Sheringham police station.

She had heard of the developments and wasn’t happy that I was in the loop. Surprise, surprise. But there wasn’t really a lot that she could do about it, especially as Detective Inspector Rob Walsh had let it be known that he had asked for my assistance.

‘Where is he?’ she asked as the reception doors opened and Sergeant Coker and a couple of uniforms came in.

‘We can’t find him,’ he said.

‘Well, bloody get back out there and look. Get more bodies if you need them.’

‘Where from?’

‘Give Yarmouth a shout. Use your initiative. He might not have killed Nigel Holdsworth but that bastard damn nearly killed his fiancée!’

‘She’s made a statement?’ I asked.

‘She responded to questions, though she’s not able to speak properly yet. But yes, she has confirmed that it was Len Wright who attacked her. You should have hit his head harder against that lamp-post, Delaney. Might not have to be looking for him now if you had done!’

The superintendent stomped back into her office, closing the door.

I watched her go. I didn’t care for her attitude but she had a damn fine derriere.

I probably wouldn’t tell her, mind.

I WAS STANDING
by the printer while Laura Gomez plugged in a memory stick and pushed some buttons.

‘I should teach you how to do this yourself,’ she said.

‘All looks a bit high-tech to me.’

‘What, they don’t have computers and printers in that there London? Not even at the Metropolitan Police?’ she said, pronouncing the last two words with a gushing awe that I found as convincing as a promise from a local politician.

‘No, what we have are junior police officers and assistants who do it for me because I have got far more important things to do.’

The printer whirled into life and disgorged a piece of paper. Sally Cartwright had pulled a few strings for me and got the technology wizards at the Met to see what they could do with the image of the label on the inside jacket of the man in the cave.

They had done quite a bit. There was presumably the man’s name – which was still illegible – but beneath some indistinct letters there were a few clear ones. Hxxtxn & MxxxS TxxxxRS

Laura looked over my shoulder at the printout.

‘What you got there?’

‘The label of the man in the cave’s jacket. Just have to work out what it means.’

‘Hoxton and Mears. Tailors. Norwich,’ she said.

‘How the hell do you know that?’

‘Amy’s uncle gets his suits made there. It’s quite well known.’

‘Do you mind if I borrow your assistant for a while, Amy?’ I asked as she came out of her office.

‘Not at all. I’ve got a meeting with a client for a couple of hours. We can discuss a fair splitting of her salary payment later. Pro-rata basis, I guess.’

‘Hang on – I’m employing her now?’

‘You’ve got to think of the future expansion. You have a young family to support now, Jack.’

‘I’ll want a rise,’ said Laura Gomez.

Hoxton and Mears was a very old and long-established tailor’s, or gentlemen’s outfitter as they preferred to be called, on Timber Hill in the cathedral city of Norwich. Timber Hill itself was very old and long-established as well. It had a square-cobbled street and inset flagstones rather than raised pavements. I pulled up outside the shopfront and turned the engine off.

‘You can’t park here,’ said Laura.

I put the
Police on business
sign behind the windscreen and opened the car door.

‘And that’s another thing,’ she continued as she got out on the passenger side.

‘What is?’

‘This car has got to go.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s all about appearances, Jack. It’s very important in our game.’

‘Is that a fact?’ I said, locking the car.

‘Darn tooting!’ she agreed. ‘You’ve got an office now, an executive assistant. That heap spoils the image that we present.’

‘I wasn’t aware I had hired a management consultant.’

‘I am hired, then. That’s good. Come on,’ she said and held the shop door open for me. ‘Let’s crack this case.’

Edward Prout, the head tailor of Hoxton and Mears, was himself ancient and established, if not quite as much so as the premises or the street outside.

He was examining the blown-up photographs quite closely. ‘Yes, this is definitely one of our labels,’ he said. ‘But I am afraid I am at quite as much of a loss as yourself about the name of the gentleman who commissioned this article.’

I pulled out another photograph, one showing the jacket after it had been removed from the dead man’s body.

‘Could you tell from this when the jacket was made?’

He looked again and shrugged. He was a little man with white hair and a natural tonsure. It made him look almost gnomelike.

‘It is a simple country jacket. It’s a classic design, inspector – you could go back to the beginning of the last century and see it, and you could also buy one close enough to it from us today.’

‘Pretty much as I figured.’

‘Perhaps if you could get me the buttons. It might throw some light.’

I nodded. It had been a bit of a long shot, anyway.

Outside in the street I would have walked back to the car but Laura held my arm. ‘Let’s get a bite first.’

There were two pubs side by side just along from the outfitter. One was called The Murderers and the other was called The Gardener’s Arms. I was going to open the door of the first one as we walked down the hill but Laura shook her head.