Authors: Nicholas Rhea
When George produced the mortice key on a plastic keyring depicting Mickey Mouse, Montague asked the Dunwoody pair to remain in their own premises, saying that if murder had been done inside, there would be masses of evidence which had to be preserved from the feet of neighbours and incomers. Only he and Detective Sergeant Wain would enter.
At this stage, the summer night was growing darker and it was necessary to switch on the house lights as they entered the kitchen door. The two detectives stood side by side in the kitchen, their trained observational powers absorbing every detail down to the unwashed mugs and plates in the sink, the half-consumed pan of spaghetti bolognaise on the cold oven ring, the opened cans of Coke on the table, things Pluke had not been able to see from the outside during his earlier visit.
‘She’s obviously had company, Wayne, one or two persons.’ Pluke pointed to three empty plates on the draining board, each bearing the remains of a meal of spaghetti bolognaise. ‘Three plates, three forks. Someone who doesn’t like washing up. So, other than those party-goers, who has been here with her, I ask myself?’
‘We might discover more, sir. The neighbours said she’d had visitors.’
‘We will need to preserve those Coke cans, dishes and other items for fingerprinting.’
Without touching anything in the kitchen, they passed through and entered the passage which ran towards the front door, turning left and left again into the lounge, switching on the light. This room overlooked the street and the garden, and it was here that Pluke had earlier noticed the covered mirror.
‘I think somebody hung that tea towel up to dry, sir.’ Wayne Wain smiled. ‘A strange place to put it, if you ask me.’
‘Very strange and very interesting indeed,’ commented Montague Pluke.
The mirror was hanging above the mantelpiece which in turn was above the gas fire and it seemed, at first glance, that someone had indeed suspended the tea towel over the mirror so that it would gain from the waves of heat rising from the gas fire. Portions of the mirror that could be seen revealed a sturdy wood-framed looking glass of oval shape suspended on chains from a hook in the wall. It was positioned lengthways and the wooden oak frame was dark with age, its vintage probably being pre-World War Two. The tea towel, depicting scenes from the North York Moors, was draped between the two points where the chain was attached to each end of the mirror and almost covered the entire glass face.
After Pluke had scrutinised the towel without removing it, he said, ‘I need that towel to be photographed
in
situ
, Wayne. I regard it as very important.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Wayne Wain. ‘Nothing will be moved, that is the normal situation with an enquiry of this kind. Move nothing, photograph everything.’
‘Precisely.’
Their inspection of the lounge, achieved by standing at each doorway without touching anything, revealed nothing else of a suspicious nature in that room, so they adjourned to the bedroom. And there, in the master bedroom, the mirror on the dressing-table was covered with a white sheet, although the littered dressing-table was not.
It contained the usual complement of perfumes and make-up, but Pluke noticed the inhaler beside some lipstick.
‘An inhaler, Wayne. Note that. It confirms what our pathologist thought. He mentioned asthma. Have that photographed in due course. Neither of the Crowthers used one.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The bed was tidy and fully covered, although it did appear to have been used since the Crowthers’ departure. The covers were crumpled and one of the bedside mats was crooked; May always made sure everything was smooth and symmetrical. In the second bedroom, the mirror of the small dressing-table was covered with a pink bath towel but the single bed was unmade. The sheets and pillows were rumpled, while the duvet was lying partially on the floor and partially on the foot of the bed; the single wardrobe door was standing open and, from their vantage point, Pluke and Wain noticed it contained the clothing of a young woman. The deceased’s clothing, surely? All of it? That kind of clothing did not belong to May Crowther.
‘If and when we trace her relatives, Wayne, we must find out which items of her clothing are missing. Did the killer strip her here and are her clothes therefore in this wardrobe?’
‘I’ll check as soon as I am able, sir,’ said Wayne Wain.
The bathroom contained some make-up, toiletries and recently washed underwear comprising two black bras and two pairs of black knickers, all hanging from a line suspended over the bath.
The bath was empty although Pluke did discern the faintest of tide marks around the inside at high water level. Somebody who had bathed here had not cleaned out the bath afterwards, just as they had not washed the pots used for their meal. But here, in the bathroom, the mirror was also covered, this time with a smaller towel which had been tucked behind the glass to hold it in place as the length of it draped across the glass.
‘So, Wayne,’ said Detective Inspector Montague Pluke. ‘What do you deduce from all this?’
‘There is little doubt’, the sergeant said, after a moment’s thought, ‘that the young woman lying dead in the mortuary is the same person who has been living in this house. It appears she was here with the permission of the householders. That has yet to be confirmed by them, however. It seems she has not been alone either. She has had visitors or a visitor. That other person or persons must be our prime suspect, probably being the last person or persons to see her alive. It seems that all or most of her clothes are here too. It suggests she was killed, or died, in this house, and that her body was removed to the Druids’ Circle for concealment.’
‘My conclusion precisely, Wayne. A good deduction. So we need to have the entire place meticulously examined by our forensic experts and Scenes of Crime officers, do we not? Fingerprints must be taken for comparison with those of our growing list of suspects as and when they are brought to our notice. And if this bungalow is the scene of her death, it needs to be photographed and examined in meticulous detail. Bedding checked, sample fibres retained for forensic. Attics, dustbins, garden and every nook and cranny must be searched for evidence. We need to take the place apart, Wayne, we need to identify the owners of any fingerprints we find, not just those of any suspects.’
‘Had we better inform Mr and Mrs Crowther, sir?’ asked Wayne.
‘I fear we must, Wayne. That time has come — besides, they need to be eliminated from our enquiries, but we must break the sad news of the death of their niece, plus the awful fact she might have met her death in this bungalow. And we must obtain details of the girl’s name, address and next of kin from the Crowthers, so that is an action for this evening, Wayne. Trace, interview and eliminate the Crowthers, identify the deceased. The Crowthers must also rank as suspects until we can prove they were out of the country at the time of the girl’s death. Might I suggest we start with the travel agent?’
‘I’ll set things in motion, sir.’
‘
We
will set things in motion, Wayne. I shall accompany you to the home address of Mr Holliday of Holliday Holidays. I know where he lives. He will trace the Crowthers for us and we must ask them to put a name to that girl, Wayne. Then we have the awful job of asking her parents to come to Crickledale formally to identify her.’
‘Yes, sir, but shall we emphasise to the Crowthers that there is no urgency for their return? I am thinking of our work in their house, sir, it’ll be far easier in their absence.’
‘A good idea, Wayne. They will not be able to use their home for a few days anyway, not while our men are searching it for evidence. We must be careful to break the sad news gently, Wayne, a dreadful matter for someone enjoying a Holliday holiday in the sunshine.’
After studying the interior, the garage and the exterior in silence for a few minutes, Pluke decided it was time to leave. He told the Dunwoody couple that he was impounding their key to No. 15 Padgett Grove, that the house was sealed and that he was now going to contact the Crowthers in Majorca. Meanwhile, a policeman would be ordered to guard the property until the teams of forensic scientists and Scenes of Crime officers arrived. Pluke radioed for an officer and determined to await his arrival. Having briefed him, Pluke decided to leave.
‘Good-night, Mr and Mrs Dunwoody,’ said Montague Pluke. He raised his panama in farewell to Mrs Dunwoody, ‘And thank you very much for your valued assistance. I shall be in touch when I have some further news.’
On their way to the Holliday abode in Wayne Wain’s car, Pluke asked his sergeant, ‘Do you regard George Dunwoody as a suspect, Wayne?’
‘Well, sir, he has to he eliminated, like anyone else.’
‘Yes of course, but what I mean is, Wayne, is he in the frame, as we say? A positive suspect, one worthy of closer examination?’
‘You clearly do not think so, sir, you took him into your confidence, telling him it was a murder when we haven’t had the official confirmation.’
‘I wanted to test his reaction if he thought we were treating it as murder.’
‘And?’
‘I am still judging his response, Wayne, I asked him to respect the confidentiality of that information. Officially we have not yet confirmed it is a murder enquiry. I want to see how things develop.’
‘So you do suspect him?’
‘He is one of many suspects, Wayne, do you not think?’
‘I didn’t feel that, sir. I got no gut feeling that he might have done it. I felt he was merely a neighbour keeping an eye on the bungalow.’
‘Consider it anew then, Wayne. Here we have a neighbour who, by his own admission, is accustomed to handling dead bodies in difficult places. Naked dead bodies. Lifting them about, moving them from place to place ... it’s something he’s quite proud of. And he had a key to the bungalow. And he took a shine to that girl, according to Mrs Dunwoody.’
‘There was no indication he might be guilty, sir, was there?’ Wayne interrupted.
‘Let us suppose that he went into the house to attempt a seduction of the girl and things went wrong. He could say he saw her leave the premises when in fact she would be lying dead until he had the time and opportunity to move the body in secret. And he is a taxi driver, Wayne, working for a firm in town, out and about at all times with access to vehicles and no questions asked. And, note, he did not mention operating a taxi from that party at No. 15, although cars and taxis were seen there. Was he afraid for us to know he was somehow involved?’
‘I can’t see that such negative things are important, sir. Besides, there was no sign of a struggle. I’ll agree the bed looked crumpled but not as a battlefield might.’
‘And her clothes were in the wardrobe, not thrown away as we first thought. She might have been nude while in the house, Wayne.’
‘Nude, sir? When she was killed? Doesn’t that imply she consented to something?’
‘Not if she was in the bath, Wayne. And remember that body in the Druids’ Circle was very clean, was it not? And there was a tide mark around the bath, indicating it had been used since the Crowthers left — May would never leave the bath in that state.’
‘Am I right in thinking we need to know more about George Dunwoody, sir?’
‘I am sure that is a wise decision, Wayne. That is a task for our teams tomorrow. Now, let us talk to Mr Holliday of Holliday Holidays.’
*
Millicent’s visitor had arrived while Montague was working late. Millicent, ever the welcoming host, offered Mrs Peat coffee even though she said she had merely come to discuss the altar flowers.
‘I am sure I saw a nude man in May’s house,’ she later whispered to Millicent when she realised that Millicent was not going to talk about Montague’s work. ‘Not that I was watching, of course, but, well, one of them opened the door to go outside to get something from the van, and the bare man darted across the hall ... starkers, he was. Young, dark-haired. Quite big, too. And there were lots of people in the house, Millicent. Now, with all that stuff on the news and with Mr Pluke being there earlier, I did wonder if May’s house was involved because that would be awful ...’
‘Mr Pluke never discusses his work with me,’ said Millicent proudly, but she became determined to learn more from Mrs Peat and then to ask Montague what was going on at No. 15 Padgett Grove. After all, he had asked her about May and Cyril, hadn’t he? He’d never said why he was asking, the devious man!
Ephraim Holliday was the chairman, managing director and proprietor of Holliday Holidays. This was a modest empire which comprised a chain of Yorkshire travel agents with its headquarters in Crickledale. Ephraim, a self-made man, lived quietly in an end-of-terrace house of gigantic proportions. In a desirable and peaceful part of the town, an area once favoured by Victorian businessmen, it boasted spearheaded iron railings which had avoided confiscation for the World War Two effort, and it was endowed with a garden full of rhododendrons and a summer house. The family home for several generations, it had seven bedrooms, lots of reception rooms, an attic, a cellar and Adam-style fireplaces. It dated from 1802 and was in Heft Road, No. 47, complete with a conservatory and highly polished brass doorbell. There was also a thing for scraping mud off shoes, positioned at the top of a wide flight of stone steps which climbed to the front door.
Leaving Wayne Wain in the car, Montague Pluke climbed the steps and rang the bell which produced a prompt response. Ephraim, a tall, heavily built man of some half-century in age and with iron-grey hair, appeared in carpet slippers and an old cardigan. He was smoking a large curved pipe and looked like Sherlock Holmes.
‘Why, hello, Mr Pluke! To what do I owe this honour at this time of night?’ He puffed a cloud of smoke into the mild night air.
Montague explained that it was not a social call, nor a matter relating to one of the town’s voluntary organisations, nor indeed an official visit to ask whether anyone had seen a burglar or armed robber legging it through the streets.
He went on to say that his arrival was part of an investigation into a suspicious death which had occurred in or near Crickledale. Montague managed to create an immediate air of mystery by saying he wished to trace two of Ephraim’s customers, Cyril and May Crowther, who were thought to be holidaying in foreign parts. Suitably horrified and shocked, Ephraim admitted Pluke to his hallway with its ornate umbrella stand, Victorian mirror and tiled floor, then after hearing that the Crowthers might be able to assist Pluke with his enquiries, he offered to escort the detectives to his business premises in town from where he could trace the wanted man-and-wife team.
Five minutes later, with Ephraim’s slippers exchanged for sensible town shoes and his capacious pipe tucked into the pocket of his cardigan, Pluke and Wain followed Holliday’s grey Volvo into the town centre until it drew to a halt outside Holliday Holidays in Market Street. The travel agent’s window was brightly illuminated and filled with a selection of model aircraft flying over Alpine views and blue Adriatic seas with a backcloth of colourful brochures and glamorous posters. He led them to his desk at which there was a computer VDU and keyboard. It was the work of but a moment or two to access the Crowthers’ file.
‘Cyril and May have always been very good customers,’ proffered Mr Holliday. ‘I’ve never had trouble with them before. I always thought they were nice people. They have always paid cash for their holidays, Mr Pluke. They habitually take an overseas break at this time of year ... now, here we are. Yes, they departed at 11 a.m. on the 17th — Saturday — by air from Manchester Airport. For two weeks.’
‘Where did they go, Mr Holliday?’ checked Pluke.
‘Majorca, it was part of a package tour and I booked them into the Hotel Palacio on the Costa Blanco.’
‘Good, I need to speak to one or other of them.’ Pluke was relieved that their departure date provided both with a good alibi; if it could be proved they had actually departed on that day, neither could have caused the death of their niece. She had been seen alive after they had gone, Montague realised.
‘Shall I obtain the telephone number of the hotel?’ suggested Holliday. ‘What time is it in Majorca now, you might well ask ... not too late to make a call to their room or to reception ... unless you wish to ring Interpol to arrange an arrest?’
‘I am not thinking of arresting the Crowthers, Mr Holliday, certainly not upon the information currently in my possession, and in addition I am not fully conversant with the extradition procedures involving British holiday-makers in Majorca. I merely wish to have a conversation with them about the deceased. Now, can we be sure they took the flight?’ asked Pluke.
Inspector Pluke wished to eliminate the Crowthers positively from his investigation, at the same time as notifying them of the decease of their niece. Ephraim, now sensing Holliday Holidays was not going to be the focal point of a sensational headline-hitting hunt for killers across continental Europe, approached his sophisticated computerised holiday booking system. This enabled him to access the flight records and to confirm that a Mr and Mrs Crowther had taken their seats on the 11 a.m flight last Saturday to Majorca. Or, to be precise, someone bearing their names and in possession of their passports, had taken the flight.
They were booked in the hotel for two weeks i.e., to return a week on Sunday, leaving Majorca at 2 a.m. Thus it was almost certain they had been out of the country at the time of the supposed death of the blonde in the Druids’ Circle. That pleased Montague — the idea that Cyril and May might have been involved in a suspicious death was dreadful to contemplate; their guilt would have had a drastic effect upon the town’s social activities. You couldn’t really have a murderess or even a suspected one running Crickledale Flower Club or hosting a coffee morning.
‘You can ring from here,’ invited Ephraim, showing them the telephone.
Even if the Crowthers were not going to be escorted back to England with an armed guard, Ephraim was anxious that his part in an international police enquiry should be seen to be as great as possible. Apart from confirming his role as a worthy citizen, it would be good for publicity, especially if men from Interpol used his agency to book a flight to Majorca to arrest and bring home any guilty parties. Ephraim reckoned to understand secret police jargon and was sure that the phrase ‘we need them to help with our enquiries’ was tantamount to saying they were suspected and would have to be interviewed, with an arrest in due course. So what on earth had Cyril and May got themselves involved in? puzzled Ephraim. A drug-smuggling racket, arms dealing, forgery cartel, white slave traffic?
While Ephraim pondered possible publicity, Montague fretted about the offer of a free telephone call. He had to consider whether or not this was an attempted bribe, but felt it wasn’t. It was, he believed, a genuine desire by a leading Crickledonian to help the police, although Montague did realise he would be imparting terrible news of a devastatingly personal nature to the Crowthers, news that would be overheard by a third party. Yet, on reflection, there would be nothing that would not appear in tomorrow’s papers or become public knowledge in the town. It didn’t matter, he decided, that Ephraim would overhear the conversation — in fact, it might be of advantage to the enquiry if he did so, because, with his knowledge of the comings and goings of many Crickledonians, he might be able to provide useful information at some future stage. Perhaps the killer had fled overseas? The house-to-house enquiries would include his abode in due course and so Pluke decided to avail himself of the telephone call. He considered his decision to be very politically sound.
‘That is very noble of you, Mr Holliday,’ he acknowledged.
‘I will dial the hotel for you,’ offered the travel agent, eager to please and determined not to disappear into a back office where he could not overhear conversations. In an amazingly short time, Pluke was speaking to the receptionist of the Hotel Palacio.
‘Good-evening,’ began Pluke in his best speaking-to-foreigners English accent. ‘I am an English detective. My name is Detective Inspector Pluke of Crickledale Criminal Investigation Department Yorkshire England yes — Pluke. That is correct. P-L-U-K-E.’
The person at the other end was clearly attempting to write this on a message pad because Pluke was obliged to pause before continuing, ‘I wish to speak with Mister or Madame Crowther English holiday-makers who are residents at your hotel.’
‘Putting you through to their room, sir, room 316,’ said the voice in remarkably good English and with remarkable speed.
‘Hello,’ said a masculine Yorkshire voice.
‘Is that Mr Cyril Crowther? The Mr Cyril Crowther of No. 15 Padgett Grove, Crickledale, Yorkshire, England?’ asked Pluke.
‘Aye, that’s me. Who’s that?’
‘This is Detective Inspector Montague Pluke of Crickledale CID.’
‘Oh, now then, Mr Pluke, ’ow’s things? Are you in t’same hotel or summat? Wanting us to ’ave a drink with you in t’bar? Now that’s a good idea, eh? Or mebbe you’re ringing from ’ome. We ’aven’t been burgled, ’ave we?’
‘Er, no, it’s not that ...’
‘Thank God! ’As somebody rung to say our May’s forgotten to turn up at one of her meetings?’
‘I am ringing from England, Mr Crowther ...’
‘Aye, I guessed that. You can call me Cyril, you know ...’
‘I am ringing from England with some very bad news for Mrs Crowther.’ Montague realised that Mr Crowther sounded rather jolly and wondered if he had been having champagne in the bath or drinking foreign brandy from pint glasses.
‘She’s in t’bath, Mr Pluke. Now there’s a sight for you, eh? I’ll bet you’ve never seen owt quite like that. Any ’ow, ’ow can I ’elp? She didn’t come away and leave t’oven on, did she?’
‘No, it is a very serious matter, Mr Crowther.’ He thought of ringing back, but decided it was not fair to use Mr Holliday’s telephone a second time. ‘I have some very bad news for your wife. It concerns her niece.’
‘Niece? She ’asn’t got a niece, Mr Pluke,’ returned Crowther.
‘Has she not?’ This revelation caused Pluke seriously to reconsider his strategy and he paused for a long moment before continuing. ‘But there was a young lady living at your bungalow, a blonde-haired lady in her late twenties ...’
‘Oh, ’er. That’s Sharon. Nay, Mr Pluke, she’s not a niece. She’s an ’ouse-sitter, she said she ’ad to be in town for work and ’ad nowhere to stay, so we said she could use our ’ouse, us being away. She’s the daughter of a friend of a friend of May’s ...’
‘Ah, I see. Well, that’s rather remote from your own family, isn’t it? The daughter of a friend of a friend. It certainly eases things a little from my standpoint, Mr Crowther, because I have some awful news concerning her. I need to trace her family very urgently. She has been found dead, you see, in the Druids’ Circle. You know the stone circle in the forest? We have reason to believe she met her death in suspicious circumstances ...’
‘Oh, bloody ’ell!’ There was a long silence. ‘What a thing to ’appen! Not murdered, you mean? Bloody ’ell ... what shall I do now? Shall we come ’ome as soon as our May gets out of t’bath?’
‘I don’t think that is necessary, Mr Crowther, particularly as you are not her next of kin. But I do have to have her identified and that ought to be done by relatives; besides, they do need to be told — by us, I might add. I must know the name and address of her next of kin.’
‘Old Dunwoody next door to us is pretty good at identifying bodies, Mr Pluke.’
‘Yes, but we do need a relative at this stage, Mr Crowther, for a positive identification. Perhaps you can tell me whom to contact?’
‘She’s from West ’Artlepool, Mr Pluke. Sharon Pellow. ’Er mother’s a friend of a friend of our May’s. They, Sharon’s folks that is, live at Apedale Gardens. I can’t remember t’number off — ’and, but ’er dad works for British Rail, summat to do with cleaning carriages on t’East Coast expresses. ’E sings in pubs, they reckon ’e does a smashing Elvis.’
‘Thank you very much. That is most helpful. Now, I can confirm she is definitely not a relation of yours. You see, Mrs Dunwoody next door to you led me to believe the girl was Mrs Crowther’s niece.’
‘Did she, by gum! So that’s why you rang me?’
‘Mr Dunwoody explained that the blonde girl was the daughter of Mrs Crowther’s sister, June. I understand someone had told him so.’
‘Mrs Peat at No. 14 it would be, Mr Pluke. She’s a nosy old cow and Ada Dunwoody’s not much better. May told Mrs Peat about that lass being ’er niece to stop her quizzing us about why we’d let a woman who wasn’t a family member live in our ’ouse. We knew she’d gossip about it, pass the word around. It made things easier at the time, saying she was family, as I am sure you will understand, knowing the Mrs Peats and Mrs Dunwoodys of this world. Poor lass, though. Suspicious death, eh? What a bloody awful thing to ’appen.’
‘It is indeed very tragic, Mr Crowther. So, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you come to offer your house to her? To someone you did not know in person?’
‘It was through a friend of May’s, Mr Pluke. One of those women she meets at ’er clubs and societies and things. Sharon is that woman’s friend’s lass, and she said Sharon was looking for somewhere to live for a couple of weeks in Crickledale, summat to do with a job she was doing, and what with one thing and another, our May offered that lass our bungalow while we were away. It seemed a good idea, ’aving somebody living in and looking after things. I thought it would keep burglars away — I never reckoned we’d get a murdered lass instead. It was murder, you said, Mr Pluke? I’m not ’earing things, am I?’
Montague explained how and where the body of the girl had been found, adding that she had been nude when found in somewhat suspicious circumstances. He did add that murder had not yet been confirmed, but admitted it was a murder-style investigation. Pluke added that he would now contact the girl’s parents and invite them to examine the body with a view to identification. He added that there was no need for the Crowthers to come back to England before the conclusion of their holiday — he also explained that their house would be examined by the police and forensic experts because it was where the girl had been living. It might, he said, contain vital evidence of her friends, contacts and even her killer.