“Did she fall off her bike?” asked Tyler.
“Most unlikely. The bruising goes very deep.”
“What then? Don’t tell me somebody put the boots to the poor lassie?”
“No. There is no sign of imprints. I’d say she was struck by a vehicle of some sort.”
He gave Tyler a moment to digest this information.
“I’ve looked for any evidence of paint chips on her clothes, but so far I haven’t found any. Besides, when it comes to a collision of machine and human flesh, there is no contest. The vehicle might be completely unmarked.”
Tyler stared down at the dead girl. The coroner had wiped away the blood and fluid from her face, and if you didn’t look at the gaping hole at her temple, she looked normal. Death had smoothed away all expression, leaving the face as white and cold as the porcelain she was lying on.
“Let me get this straight, Doctor. You’re saying that somebody knocked her down, then shot her?”
Murnaghan shook his head. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Tyler. It’s more correct to say she was struck by a vehicle, shortly after which she was shot at short range with a pistol. There was powder residue on the cheek, and as you ascertained earlier, the bullet entered at a sharp angle. The assailant was standing over her, quite close.”
“Was she knocked unconscious? Is that why there are no signs of defensive wounds?”
“She didn’t defend herself because she couldn’t,” said Murnaghan. “She couldn’t have lifted her hands to fend off an attacker even if she’d wanted to. She was paralyzed.”
“What!”
“I cleaned away the blood and bone fragments and cut off her hair so you can see more clearly. Help me turn her over.” The coroner indicated a wound at the base of the skull. “That wasn’t caused by the bullet exiting. This injury happened first. The second and third thoracic vertebrae are shattered and they in turn severed the spinal cord. In common parlance, she suffered a broken neck. She would have been completely paralyzed from the neck down.”
“My God!”
“It is most likely she remained conscious. I didn’t see any signs of concussion. And even with that sort of injury, she wouldn’t necessarily have died immediately. I’ve known a similar case. Remember Squire Otley from Bitterley?”
“Dimly.”
“His horse threw him when he was riding to hounds and he landed smack on top of his head. He was a big man and his neck was broken in three places. He couldn’t move a muscle, poor chap, but he could still talk. He was quite
compos mentis
. The servants carried him into the hall and he was able to tell everybody what sort of funeral arrangements he wanted. Made them promise they wouldn’t blame the horse.
He said goodbye to his wife and kiddies who were all gathered around him. Terribly sad the whole thing. He lasted for seven or eight hours.” The coroner paused, lost in thought.
“You’re saying Elsie could have lived after this injury?”
“Yes, quite likely. But minutes, hours, there’s no way to know.”
Tyler ran his hand over his hair. “In other words, she was lying there helplessly when her killer shot her? She would have seen him, probably understood what he intended to do, but been unable to move or defend herself.”
“Yes. Precisely.”
“And after he shot her, he moved her over to the hedge, and propped her up.”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why didn’t he just leave her where she was?”
“That’s your province, Inspector, not mine. Maybe he intended to bury her in the woods but got interrupted or frightened and ran away.”
Tyler didn’t think so. The careful arrangement of Elsie’s body was too deliberate. Too complete.
“Anything else?”
Murnaghan shook his head. “Nothing directly pertinent to her death, but I thought you might find this interesting.” He pulled away the sheet and pointed to a tattoo in the middle of Elsie’s left buttock. It was a heart shape around the word
LOVE
.
“She couldn’t have drawn that on her rear end by herself. But it’s not a permanent tattoo. It was done with an indelible pencil. My wife uses one to mark the laundry, but that’s the first time I’ve seen it for tattooing.”
“How long has it been there?”
“Impossible to tell. On the laundry, it would last forever, but on human flesh, I can’t say. Maybe a week, maybe less.
I’ve taken a photograph. I’ve got a dark room here; I’ll develop it for you. Let’s turn her back, shall we?” He covered Elsie with the sheet. “When can I release the body?”
“We’re trying to contact her next of kin now,” answered Tyler.
“Very good. I’ll have my report typed up and sent over to you with the effects.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Not all. I’m glad I could be of help.” For a moment, the coroner looked grim. “It’s easy to detach oneself in this line of work. You have to, really. A body ceases to be a person. But I think this death is particularly tragic. She had so much to live for. I hope you catch the blighter who did it.”
They shook hands and Tyler went back upstairs. The nurse had left.
The previous raucous evening that had followed the football game was taking its toll, and Tyler felt bone tired. However, he was propelled by a sense of urgency. The image of Elsie lying conscious while she saw her own death approaching had profoundly disturbed him. But it happened. It happened to soldiers on the battle field. He’d killed, himself. Fast, to be sure, but he’d bayonetted a German soldier who had fallen in the mud. As the man struggled to get to his feet, he’d looked into Tyler’s eyes. He’d known what was going to happen.
Tyler shook himself like a dog coming out of the water, trying to shake the memory. It was war. The Jerry would have just as quickly and mercilessly killed him if he’d had the chance.
S
ERGEANT
B
ASIL
G
OUGH WAS BACK AND WAS SEATED
behind the high counter in the front hall. He was working on one of his endless crossword puzzles. Gough’s passion for crosswords was legendary in the station. As Tyler entered, he put the paper aside.
“Good evening, sir.”
The aspirin was helping Tyler’s headache but he would have shaken hands with the devil for a beer.
“Anything to report, Guffie?”
“Yes, sir. We had a call from a Sergeant Donaldson in London. He said he was able to get hold of Mr. and Mrs. Bates, but they cannot do anything about their daughter just now. Might be several more days.”
“Ring Dr. Murnaghan for me. The body will have to stay in the morgue until we get further instructions. Got any better news?”
“The constables put what they collected into the gas mask boxes as you suggested. They are all there in the duty room.”
“Anything interesting?”
“No, really. The bullet hasn’t shown up yet. The rest of the stuff is mostly sweet wrappers, fag ends, and bits of newspapers. We haven’t had any luck with footprints or tire marks. Everywhere is so dry and dusty, Sherlock himself wouldn’t be able to make out anything. Constables Pearse and Eagleton are still out there. I told them to call it quits by seven and we could continue in the morning if we need to. Did you get anything from Mrs. Clark?”
“She gave Elsie Bates a very good report. Mrs. Clark didn’t actually see her leave this morning and she takes off her hearing aids for the night so she didn’t hear her either. There is a most convenient tree outside the girl’s room and, even more convenient, a ladder. I’m betting she left the house that way. She could have been anywhere and with anyone after eight o’clock last night until this morning. However, there’s something you should know. Dr. Murnaghan has done a post-mortem.” He filled the sergeant in on what the coroner had discovered.
Gough whistled between his teeth. “Are we looking for one killer or two people working together?”
“At this stage, it’s impossible to tell. All Dr. Murnaghan could say was that she was hit first and then shot. He couldn’t determine how much time elapsed. But we’ve got to get onto the vehicle right away. Start with registered vehicles in the vicinity. The car that knocked her over could have been coming from Edinburgh for all we know, but let’s not complicate our lives unless we have to. I want all available officers checking up on the owners. There can’t be that many people cruising around the countryside at six in the morning. Get alibis, as they say in the flicks.”
“Will do. I’ll start on it myself.” Gough reached into the cubbyhole behind him. “Mustn’t forget. There are two messages for you, sir. A reporter named Madox from the
Gazette
rang and wants a statement.”
“Like hell he does. He’s a prurient son of a bitch. Crass as a monkey. Give him a call. I don’t want to talk to him. Tell him it’s a suspicious death, but for God’s sake downplay it. He’ll have some mad killer running around the countryside raping and killing Land Army girls if he gets half a chance. Make murmurs about national security and so on. Also let him know I’ll kill him personally if he exploits this situation.”
“Very good, sir. Would that be with your bare hands?”
“Yes. What else?”
“Do you want the other message, sir?”
“Is it from Mrs. Fuller down the road offering to read our tea leaves? What would she tell us, Guff? ‘I see … I see a newspaper … white and black squares.’ ”
“Sorry, sir,” said Gough, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I thought I’d keep myself busy …”
“Of course. Don’t worry. I’m just pulling your leg.”
Gough blinked. “Tease. That’s it. A five-letter word meaning to make fun of, to humiliate, to embarrass … Thank you, sir.”
Tyler laughed. “I’ll make sure all these extra hours are compensated for. Days off when we’ve finished the case. You and the constables. I’m going to get a cup of tea before they arrive. We don’t have anything like coffee, do we?”
“Just the Camp Coffee Essence, which you loathe.”
“Forget it.” Tyler opened the door to his office.
“Don’t you want to know what the second message was?” the Sergeant asked.
“Almost forgot. Read it to me.”
“A Mrs. Devereau telephoned. She asked if you would ring her when you got in. She can be reached at the manor.”
That was a better jolt than coffee. “When did she call?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
“Get me the number, will you? I’ll try her right now.”
He went back to his office, taking off his jacket as he did so and closing the door behind him. The intercom buzzed almost immediately.
“Mrs. Devereau is on the line, sir.”
Tyler grabbed the receiver. “Clare?”
“Hello, Tom. Do you have a minute?”
“Certainly.”
“Look, I was reflecting on our luncheon this afternoon and I realized I must have sounded a tad ungracious.”
“How so?”
“Well, I was very touched by what you said to me in Fordham’s tent and I … well … I don’t know if I conveyed that to you.”
He tried to make a joke to ease the tension, mostly his own. “You didn’t say you’d elope with me if that’s what you mean. But blimey, it’s been twenty years.”
She chuckled. “Time flies, doesn’t it?”
He felt like saying he doubted she’d called merely to pass along a cliché, but he bit his tongue. She’d get to the point sooner or later.
She did. “If you do have to question any of the internees, I would be most willing to act as your translator. Some of them speak English quite well but most do not. Have you got any further with the case? Do you suspect someone in the camp?”
“I suppose the answer is, no and no. The major has assured me that is completely out of the question, but I’m not ruling out anybody.”
“Did the post-mortem reveal anything?”
Tyler could feel himself quailing. This was Clare he was talking to, but he also wasn’t prepared to discuss Murnaghan’s findings with a non-officer, even though the sound of her voice was creating a stir in his nether regions. He was saved by the buzz of the intercom.
“Excuse me a tick, Clare.”
He covered the receiver and pressed the intercom button.
“Constables Pearse and Eagleton are here, sir.”
“I’ll be right out.” He returned to his call. “Clare, I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I’ll take you up on your offer, though. I’m coming to the camp tomorrow to meet a Dr. Bruno Beck. He’s a psychoanalyst, whatever that is, and he has insight into
the way a criminal mind works. He’s offered to share this knowledge with me.”
“I’ve met him. He speaks excellent English but I’ll ask to sit in on the interview.” She paused. “It will give me an excuse to see you.”
“Crikey, Clare. No excuse needed.”
“Good. Because I was going to invite you for dinner tomorrow evening. My treat. Is the Acton Lodge still in existence? As I remember they had a wonderful wine cellar.”
Another little prod to his nerves. They had gone to the Lodge a few times when they were together. It was a hotel as well as a restaurant, and Clare had finagled them a room with much covert giggling. She’d booked it, and he had snuck upstairs later.
“It’s still there. I haven’t tried the food or the wine for a long time, though, so you’ll have to take your chances.”
“All right. Shall we say seven o’clock?”
“Done.”
“Tom?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just … well … it’s been quite marvellous seeing you again.”
“I can second that.”
He hung up. He felt as if he’d stepped into a rushing river that could quite easily sweep him off his feet. He’d better damn well keep in touch with the bottom.
T
YLER WENT OUT TO THE FRONT HALL WHERE THE
constables were waiting for him.
“All right, lads, what’ve you got?”
Eagleton unfolded the handkerchief he was holding, and rather like little Jack Horner pulling out a plum, he held up a flattened bullet.
“It was lying in a clump of grass, three feet and four inches from the place where the lady was shot.” He beamed. “We measured exactly, sir. As you thought, it must have ricocheted off the rock.”
“Good lad. Hand it over to Sergeant Gough, who can put it in an evidence bag. Next.”
“Something very interesting, sir. Show him, Pearse.”
Obediently, the other constable reached into his gas mask box, and using the tips of his fingers took out a long, grubby piece of white rubber tubing. “It’s a French safe, sir. It’s bin used.”