Authors: Nicholas Rhea
‘I am just doing what I was told, sir ...’
‘Well, you have seen the object to which my wife referred, so perhaps you would now radio Control Room and get Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield to call out the support services? I mean the services one normally expects when there is a suspicious death! And get the Task Force out to remove this pile of stones, under my supervision, and have Detective Sergeant Tabler liaise with me here at the scene, at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Yes, sir,’ responded the constable, hurrying to his car.
‘My word, Montague, you are impressive when you are in charge!’ Millicent beamed. ‘Does this mean you are on duty now?’
‘Yes I am.’ And he thrust out his chest, never before having had Millicent so close at hand while conducting an investigation.
‘How exciting,’ she oozed, with pride in her voice. ‘You are so forceful when you are on duty, Montague.’
‘One has one’s responsibilities, Millicent.’ He smiled. ‘One is trained, throughout one’s career, to cope with sudden and unexpected events. Now, I am afraid I must let you go. I shall be here for some considerable time, so I suggest you return home. I exhort you to keep this to yourself for the time being, but I am afraid there is nothing you can do here. I will be transported home in due course, but I might be late.’
‘Can’t I be of some assistance?’ she almost pleaded. ‘I would love to help you.’
‘This is no longer a horse-trough-hunting expedition, Millicent. It is the scene of a suspicious death and all unauthorised persons must vacate or avoid the area. I must ask you to leave and take the car with you, there can be no exceptions in such an important case. I shall contact you later. I must now establish another Incident Room at Crickledale, but I fear the Chief Constable will not like it. He will begin worrying about money again, but is money more important than justice, Millicent?’
‘Of course not, dearest. Well, seeing you are so determined to get rid of me, I will leave.’ And she politely left the scene with a final wave from her car as she departed.
Half an hour later, the police doctor from Crickledale arrived, examined the leg and said the fellow was dead. He did not carry out a full examination because all the vital bits of the corpse were still beneath the stones. He was followed quickly by Scenes of Crime teams, the Task Force, Detective Sergeant Tabler, the Force Photographer and other back-up services. Montague gathered them around and outlined his discovery and how he had made it. Photographs were taken, with instructions to show the protruding leg, and when all the experts had studied the cairn, Montague gave word for it to be dismantled. Stone by stone, the Task Force began their work, with each stone being examined before being set aside in an orderly fashion. It did not escape anyone’s notice that any one of those stones could have been the murder weapon — and what better place to conceal it than a miniature mountain of similar pieces?
A video film was made as the pile decreased and eventually the body of a large man was uncovered. From his standpoint, Montague could not see his face, but the fellow was very well dressed in what looked like an expensive dark suit.
The doctor came forward, examined the body and said, ‘Good God, see who it is? Yes, I can confirm he’s dead, but cannot certify the cause of death. You’ll need a postmortem, Mr Pluke. Poor old Moses ...’
‘Moses Nettlewren?’ gasped Pluke, coming forward to examine the chubby features of the Clerk to the Crickledale Magistrates.
‘I fear so,’ said the doctor. ‘And shot in the head by the look of it.’ He pointed to a blood-encrusted hole in the side of Moses’ head just below the hairline on the temple. ‘I would guess that is the cause of death, Mr Pluke, but you will need confirmation.’
‘Poor old Moses ...’ Pluke felt a sense of shock and dismay at the realisation that one of the men with whom he had worked so closely had been murdered. The weapon was not in evidence, but no suicide could have shot himself in the head and then heaped those boulders upon himself. This was murder, most definitely. ‘Poor, poor Moses. What on earth has he done to deserve this?’
Detective Sergeant Tabler had come to his side now. ‘He was close to the wheels of justice, sir. Maybe a villain had it in for poor old Moses. We shall need to examine court records now, over the years, to see if Moses was instrumental in having someone put in prison. But who’s going to tell his mother?’
‘She is a friend of my wife, Sergeant, such a nice lady and very good with pastry, I am assured. My wife was here when I found the body ...’
‘That’s two murdered bodies you have found, sir, in a very short space of time,’ commented Sergeant Tabler. ‘I trust you now regard yourself as a prime suspect?’
‘I do understand the implications, Sergeant, and I shall be willing to co-operate with the investigating officers. I know the routine, so I shall now ask the duty sergeant to inform Mrs Nettlewren. Poor old Gertrude ...’
Leaving the experts to conclude their work at the scene, Montague Pluke adjourned to Tabler’s car to make his preliminary report.
‘Detective Inspector Pluke to Control,’ he said into the handset of the radio. ‘I confirm that we have a murder investigation on our hands.’ And he gave the precise location. ‘Full turn-out please. Establish an Incident Room at Crickledale Police Station, inform CID, the Chief Constable and the Divisional Commander. Do not inform the press yet — I will arrange a news conference for this evening at six at Crickledale Police Station. The deceased has not been formally identified, but I know him to be Mr Moses Nettlewren, the Magistrates’ Clerk for Crickledale. Please arrange for a sympathetic officer to visit his mother to break the news.’
And so a real murder investigation, led by Detective Inspector Montague Pluke, got under way in Crickledale.
The setting up of the new Incident Room occupied Detective Inspector Montague Pluke and his team during the remainder of that Saturday afternoon and into the evening. He recruited the same personnel he had deployed for the Tracy Bretton death, except for Wayne Wain, who could not be contacted because he was not at his usual place of abode. Messages had been left for his return — Pluke needed his assistance.
Although the preliminaries were undertaken that evening, with Pluke and his teams working into the late hours of Saturday night, the investigation of the death of Moses Nettlewren began in earnest on Sunday. Montague considered Sunday a moderately good day for the beginning of a new enterprise, even though it was widely considered a day of rest. There were certain exceptions to the day-of-rest syndrome, of course, such as ministers of religion who were performing their duties and senior police officers who were conducting murder investigations. It was also a good day for setting eggs under a broody hen, but not very suitable for picking hazel-nuts or cutting one’s hair or nails. Furthermore, there was an old belief which indicated it was unwise to make plans for the future on a Sunday.
For that reason, he decided not to make the initial stages of this investigation too formalised — there were comparisons he needed to make with the Tracy Bretton and Stephen Winton cases, so he decided to postpone any detailed plans until tomorrow. It was a fact, of course, that Monday was an excellent day for starting new enterprises and certain things like married life, so detailed plans made on a Monday in the light of what transpired on Sunday should benefit the investigation.
As he walked through the town that Sunday morning with the streets almost deserted save for a scattering of dog walkers, joggers and churchgoers, he mused upon the findings gleaned since the death of Moses. Moses Nettlewren had been formally identified by his bewildered and tearful mother, after which his huge body had been removed to the hospital mortuary; the initial PM, hastily conducted late last night, had confirmed that death was from a bullet wound in the brain. Forensic examination of his clothes and of the scene would be undertaken today while house-to-house enquiries had already started.
One problem with house-to-house enquiries near the scene was that there weren’t many houses in Trattledale. There were several farms and cottages along the lanes leading into the dale, however, any one of which might contain an observant person who had seen cars or people driving around the time of Moses Nettlewren’s death. That, according to the pathologist, had probably occurred on Friday afternoon or Friday evening. Already, Moses’ movements and contacts at the material times were being checked, in an attempt to determine when and where he had last been seen alive, and by whom. Montague himself had seen Moses on Friday morning during his walk to work and it had been ascertained last night that Moses had been at work during the day on Friday. He had left the office at 4.30 p.m. as was his usual practice and his behaviour had been perfectly normal at that time. His secretary had expressed her opinion that he was going straight home — he did so every Friday as a rule, calling at the fish and chip shop
en
route
to get tea for himself and his mother.
However, he had not called at the fish and chip shop that night, enquiries had already ascertained, and he had not been seen since leaving his office. His car was at home, in the garage, so he had not used that to drive out to Trattledale. He had clearly been transported by another person, so surely someone must have seen him during that journey?
Of major importance was the fact that the bullet in Moses Nettlewren’s head had been compared with the one found in the head of Stephen Winton and the ballistics expert, persuaded to undertake the examination on a Saturday night instead of having an evening on the patio with his barbecue, had confirmed they had come from the same weapon. In all probability, that was a.22 pistol or revolver rather than a.22 rifle, something fired at fairly close range.
That diagnosis tallied with the shooting of Stephen Winton. Montague had instigated a check upon all local holders of firearms certificates by which the possession or use of .22 weapons was authorised. There were hundreds, unfortunately, some seventy of whom lived in or near Crickledale. Quite a lot of the Crickledale certificate holders belonged to Crickledale Rifle and Pistol Club — indeed the club itself held a quantity of firearms used in competitions by its members — and all certificate holders would be visited and questioned about their movements or the whereabouts of their guns. Interviewing them all would be a lengthy task.
As Montague walked through the town, raising his panama to the ladies and bidding his good-mornings to everyone
en
route
, he was sure that the person who had killed Moses Nettlewren had also killed Stephen Winton, and that the person who had killed Stephen Winton was identical with the individual who thought he had killed Tracy Bretton.
This led Montague to conclude that a mass murderer was at large in Crickledale and he was firmly of the belief that the Fossford murder had occurred because of Winton’s links with Crickledale. Those links, he knew, were rather more than photographing follies.
The scenario, as Montague saw it, suggested that a Crickledale killer had ventured into Fossford to despatch Winton; it was not a Fossford killer who had trekked into the Crickledale countryside to commit these foul deeds. That a Crickledonian should commit such a crime was almost unthinkable, but Montague knew that senior police officers often had to think the unthinkable and accept the unacceptable.
Having been late home last night, after supervising the establishment of the Incident Room and instigating the initial enquiries, Montague had not slept very well, even though his head had been facing south. Persons who sleep with their heads to the north, he knew, could not expect a long life, so he avoided that and made sure Millicent did likewise. The wisest thing was to sleep with one’s head to the west — that was a sure way of attracting good fortune, and the term ‘good fortune’ embraced a host of possibilities, money, health and happiness being just a few.
His lack of sleep had arisen because the facts of the three cases, as he knew them, had churned around in his mind without respite and he had been unable to switch off his brain; he had tried to count sheep but that had produced no useful effect, other than the knowledge that the meeting of a flock of sheep on the road was regarded as a sign of good luck, even if you were late for a train or bus or other appointment.
In spite of his efforts to dismiss them, the cast of possible culprits had continued to march through his restless mind, even into the early hours. In spite of his wakeful night, one pleasing factor was that the Chief Constable had telephoned him last night at home. Furthermore, the call had been made in person from the restaurant where the Chief had been having a meal with the County Treasurer and he had said, ‘Detective Inspector Pluke, you must catch this killer! This kind of thing is very bad for the image of the county ... so get to work. Spare no expense this time ... do you hear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Montague had wondered if the Chief had had too many brandies. Normally, he told his officers not to spend money.
‘I am dining with John Fortune, he’s the County Treasurer you know, and he says we must catch this fellow because people will start moving out of the county in droves if they think there is a killer at large, and a bad reputation of that kind could cause small businesses not to base themselves within our boundaries ... that would cost him a lot in council taxes, you see ...’
‘Yes, sir,’ Montague had said.
If that was the good news, it had not helped ease Montague into blissful slumbers, even though he had looked under the bed and taken care not to leave his hat lying on the covers.
With Millicent slumbering at peace, he had pondered the puzzle of the three deaths and the more he had turned over the facts and clues in his mind, the more certain he was that he now knew the identity of the villain. The answer was there if one knew where to look — and Montague felt sure he did know where to look. Shocking though that first realisation was, Montague knew that it was his task, his duty no less, to bring that person to justice even if it did offend organisations like the Ladies’ Tea Circle, the Local History Society, the Crickledale Ladies’ Cricket Club or the Crickledale Church Flower Rota Group.
As the senior law enforcement officer in Crickledale, Montague’s responsibility was to uphold the law without fear or favour and in spite of friendships.
But, in those long and restless moments in bed, Montague had decided not to reveal his suspicions to anyone — after all, his beliefs were little more than surmise at this stage and he had no real facts to support his hypothesis; certainly, there was not enough evidence to justify an arrest or to arraign the suspect before a court of law.
Knowing
that a person was guilty was easy — proving that same guilt was often immensely difficult. These days, the Crown Prosecution Service wanted incontrovertible evidence before they would sanction a prosecution and so Montague knew that his main task now was either to gather the evidence necessary to secure a conviction or failing that, to persuade his suspect to make a confession or otherwise reveal his or her culpability. Montague was aware that whatever path he chose, he would need all his experience, knowledge and, he knew, just a little touch of guile. Montague Pluke was going to catch his first killer.
It was with these somewhat disturbing thoughts in his mind that he entered his office at 8.50 a.m. that Sunday morning. Perspiring slightly, he hung his panama on the hat stand and removed his cumbersome greatcoat before checking his in-tray. Nothing had arrived since last night, not surprising because there was no mail on the Sabbath, so he hurried down to the Incident Room. Already many of the officers had assembled and Mrs Plumpton, his flowing secretary in her red cascade of a dress, was organising coffee. For a Sunday morning, she seemed remarkably cheerful — but there again, she was inordinately cheerful every morning.
Wayne Wain was there too, Montague was pleased to see.
Relieved to note the sergeant’s presence, Montague hailed Wayne and drew him into his tiny Incident Room office. ‘I am very pleased to see you, Wayne,’ he began.
‘Sorry I was away, sir, I went racing yesterday afternoon at Redcar, with a friend from West Hartlepool. I won, sir — I put a tenner on Calling Lady. Thanks for that.’
‘You are thanking me, Wayne? I am not a betting man.’
‘It’s the things you say, sir — but what about this murder? It is a murder this time, is it?’
‘It is indeed, Wayne, and a nasty one into the bargain,’ said Pluke. ‘I fear we might have a serial killer in our midst. You know the details?’
‘Yes, sir, I came as fast as I could once I heard about it. I have familiarised myself with the details — poor old Nettlewren. I was not idle last night, by the way. I managed to get some videos made by that man Ron, sir, films made in houses here in Crickledale. I got seven of them, part of a series based upon this locality. They’re using the Nine Sights of Crickledale, sir, as locations. They intend doing two more to complete the set of nine.’
‘You acquired those even though the old investigation has been halted? That is dedication, Wayne. We are of like minds so far as the death of Tracy Bretton is concerned. It remains very suspicious in my troubled mind. Now, do you think the videos will reveal the locations of any of the premises?’
‘I think some of the scenes will reveal the identity of our suspects, sir. It seems the film company made extensive use of amateur actors. Extras, sir. People from the area who took part in the orgies just for the fun of it. And, of course, it might be possible to identify some of the interiors of the houses, assuming one has been there.’
‘Then we had better view the films, Wayne.’
‘They are of the kind that would offend delicate sensibilities, sir ...’
‘When there is duty to be done, Wayne, a police officer cannot be offended. We are not supposed to have sensibilities. So shall we examine the films after the news conference?’
‘If you wish, sir,’ agreed Wayne Wain, thinking that frequent instances of fast-forwarding might spare Montague’s blushes.
Prior to the news conference, Montague conducted the first conference of detectives and after outlining the facts and allocating the teams their actions, he told them he was able to pay overtime with the Chief Constable’s consent. This produced a short cheer. Then he added, ‘I have asked for all the officers who were on the Druids’ Circle enquiry to be drafted on to this investigation. I want the same brains to work on this one. I want the information that you gathered and assessed during the enquiries into Tracy Bretton’s death to be considered alongside the Moses Nettlewren enquiry and likewise we must be aware constantly of the circumstances of Stephen Winton’s death. Liaison with Fossford police becomes even more important. The same weapon was used to kill both Moses and Winton, never forget, and it has not been found. We must operate as if the weapon is still in the hands of the killer.’
‘But ours wasn’t a murder, sir,’ pointed out someone from the body of the hall. ‘She died of natural causes.’
‘For the purposes of this investigation, Detective Constable Johnson, I want that enquiry to be treated as a murder, even though it wasn’t a crime. In my view, in everything but the final technical cause of death, it was murder. I am convinced that a man thinks he killed Tracy — and her death, I am equally convinced, is linked to the death of Stephen Winton. I fully realise we shall never convict anyone of the murder of Tracy Bretton, but her untimely death, induced as I believe it was, may lead us to the killer of Stephen Winton and Moses Nettlewren.’