Shallow Grave (11 page)

‘You are,’ Swilley agreed. ‘What’s all this somewhere and somehow stuff? You sound like a chorus from
West Side Story.’

‘Well, obviously,’ Atherton said kindly, ‘there are a few minor details left to be filled in. That’s just routine legwork, and since you are
numero uno
in the legs department, Norm, I feel I can safely leave that to you.’

Slider retrieved crumbs of hard-boiled egg-yolk from his chest and said, ‘There’s a great deal we still have to find out. Where the death took place and how the body was transported to the terrace of the Rectory are two that spring to mind, whether it was murder or not.’ There was a general groan, and he raised his voice slightly. ‘Whether it was murder or not, we are still dealing with a crime: not reporting a death is an offence, not to mention attempting to conceal a dead body, and our old friend obstruction. But to ease your turbulent minds, I will say that I am now much more inclined to think that it was Eddie—’

‘Hallelujah! A conversion!’ said Atherton.

‘And the best way we can overcome his natural reserve is to apply some facts to his story.’

‘Or electrodes to his
cojones?’
Atherton suggested hopefully.

‘I thought that was Spanish for rabbits,’ Norma objected.

‘Comes out the same,’ said Atherton.

Slider went on patiently over the top of them, ‘We must find out exactly where he was all through the evening and last night and present him with it. When he knows we know nearly everything, I think he’ll cough up the rest. If he did love her, he’ll want to tell us – it’s just a matter of helping him to get there. We also need to find out where Mrs Andrews was for the whole of the day—’

‘And what she was wearing,’ Norma added.

‘Nothing like some nice, knobbly facts to trip up a liar,’ Slider concluded. ‘So how about garnering me some?’

Atherton stood up, sighing. ‘Here we go. Another
crime passionelle.’

‘Sounds like an exotic fruit-flavoured blancmange,’ said Norma.

‘Blancmange?’ McLaren pricked up his ears, like a dog hearing its name.

‘Never fails,’ Norma said witheringly. ‘Mention food …’

‘You what?’

‘Confection is good for the soul,’ Atherton explained kindly.

‘Yeah, I read that,’ McLaren said, starting on his apple turnover.

‘An alimentary deduction,’ Atherton concluded.

Slider was in his own room doing the preliminary paperwork when Hollis shoved his head round the door.

‘Guv? Some good news.’

‘I’m up for that.’

‘They’ve found a handbag in the back of Eddie Andrews’s pickup.’

‘A handbag?’

Hollis followed his head in. ‘Funny, everyone says that when I tell ’em. It’s like being stuck in a lift with Edith Evans.’

‘What do you mean, everyone? You mean I’m the last to know as usual?’

‘Oh, not the last, guv. I thought
you’d
like to tell the Super.’

‘Always grateful for crumbs. What sort of handbag?’

‘It’s Jennifer Andrews’s all right. Got her driving licence and all sorts inside. I suppose he chucked it in there meaning to get rid of it later, and forgot. Or didn’t have time.’

‘We must have it tested for prints.’

‘They’re doing that,’ Hollis nodded.

‘Not that it will help to find Andrews’ dabs all over it. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be there.’

‘No, guv. But there’s every reason why the bag shouldn’t be in the back of his pickup. I can’t see someone like her riding on the sacks, can you?’

‘Quite. If it had been in the cab, now—’

‘Well, no-one can think of everything.’

‘But where a woman is, there shall ye find her handbag also. Meaning—’

‘Get Forensic to check the back of the motor for any traces of
madarm,’
Hollis said smartly, ‘dead or alive.’

‘You’re quick. You’ll go far.’

Hollis looked hopeful. ‘Is it enough to arrest him on?’

‘If he can’t provide a decent explanation, I think it probably will be.’

Half an hour later Slider was back in the CID room with the good news.

‘Andrews burst into tears at the sight of his wife’s handbag, and offered no explanation as to how it got into the back of his pickup, so I’m here to tell you, ladies and germs, that with Mr Porson’s blessing, Andrews is now officially nicked.’

‘For murder?’ Anderson asked.

‘Hold your horses. We still don’t know what she died of. Suspicion of interfering with the body is all we’ve got so far, but it means we can get stuck in.’ There were murmurs of satisfaction around the room. ‘Right, the house-to-house continues. Norma, you’re going to look into Andrews’ finances. Let’s have the BT record for his home number – that will give us some corroboration as to whether he was home or not, and may help us with the whereabouts of Mrs. Find out if either or both had a mobile and get the call records on them – McLaren, you can do those. And someone had better call her GP and find out if she had a heart disease or was taking anything.’

‘Guv, what’s the SP on the post?’ Anderson asked.

‘Doc Cameron’s doing it this afternoon, if we’re lucky.’

‘Blimey, that’s quick,’ said Hollis.

‘Close personal of the guv’nor,’ McLaren said. ‘It pays to be popular in this game.’

‘How would you know?’ Norma asked cruelly.

Freddie Cameron telephoned very late. ‘What are you doing still there?’

‘What are you?’ Slider countered.

‘Struggling with this corpse of yours.’

‘Metaphorically, I hope.’

‘Thanks to you I’m now thoroughly behind with the rest of my work. It was an absolute stinker –
absit omen
– but I think I’ve cracked it at last. Would you like to guess?’

‘Can’t be anything obvious, if it took you so long.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. Mine in you to solve the crime, let me say, is as solid.’

‘Crime? It is murder, then? I’m glad to hear it, because we’ve got the husband binned up.’

‘You arrested him? That was bold of you.’

‘We found her handbag in his truck, and Porson agreed that was enough to start with. But we’d sooner know what crime we’re dealing with. So far all we’ve got is interfering with the body.’

‘Ah, yes, now, we knew she must have been moved, but the hypostasis confirms it. The distribution suggests she was left at first in a sitting position for several hours. Sitting as if on a chair, with the legs bent at the knee. And she was tied to whatever it was to keep her in position.’

‘Tied up?’

‘With something broad and flat, like a luggage strap, for instance, passed around the upper body, but with the arms inside. Definitely post-mortem. No ante-mortem ligature marks. Tied quite loosely: her weight had fallen forward against the strap.’

Slider digested that. The being tied in position suggested it had been for purposes of hiding the body, presumably until it was late enough and quiet enough to take it to the trench. In the back of Eddie’s truck, sitting on a sack under a tarpaulin? Something like that. ‘So what did you decide in the end was the cause of death?’

Freddie hesitated. ‘If it came to court, it’s one of those cases where defence would probably bring in their own expert opinion to contest my findings, so you’d better try your utmost for a confession. But I’d say it was suffocation.’

‘I’ve never known you so cautious,’ Slider said. ‘Suffocation? Surely that leaves definite signs? Petechiae, for instance? And cyanosis?’

Cameron chuckled. ‘There’s my educated copper!’

‘It’s a misspent youth hanging around morgues. Well, am I right?’

‘You are,’ Cameron agreed. ‘But, you see, petechiae aren’t caused by the lack of oxygen itself; it’s the raised venous pressure that does it – due to, for instance, constriction of the throat or thorax. Cyanosis – and oedema, for that matter
– are congestive signs. Where asphyxia is not accompanied by any violence or struggle, the classic signs can be completely absent. Plastic-bag suicides, for instance, are often quite pale.’

‘So what’s the actual cause of death in those cases?’ Slider asked.

‘Probably a neurochemical reaction of the heart. The heart just stops; which, of course, leaves an appearance of natural death. Which is what makes it fun.’

‘So you’re saying she could have died naturally?’

‘My personal belief is not, though it was a close decision, I have to tell you, even on my part; and my assistant – who likes to err on the safe side of not sticking his neck out – doesn’t agree with me. But I would say she was smothered.’

‘Smothered? You mean with a pillow, or something?’

‘Little Princes in the Tower job,’ Freddie agreed.

Slider laid this against the image of the drunken marital row and found it wanting. ‘But how could you smother somebody without a violent struggle?’

‘It happens – probably more often than we like to think – with the frail and bedridden. It’s the front runner for easing your terminally ill relly out of life without having the State come down on you for the price.’

‘Mrs Andrews was hardly frail and bedridden.’

‘Quite,’ Cameron said. ‘But a healthy and active adult could be smothered without violent struggle if she was first rendered helpless or comatose.’

‘Made drunk, you mean?’

‘Possibly, or drugs. I’d put my money on sleepers – I’ve sent blood and stomach samples off to the lab, by the way, so we shall see what we shall see. But if she was slipped the appropriate mickey, and fell into a nice deep one
à la
Sleeping Beauty, the rest would be easy.’

The dirty little coward, Slider thought indignantly. His native caution asked, ‘If there are no signs, what makes you think that’s what happened?’

‘This is where I triumphantly produce the pedigree angora from the depths of the old silk topper,’ Cameron said, ‘and announce that purely owing to my analytical genius and thoroughness of method, I have found some slight bruising on the inside of the mouth, consistent with the lips having been pressed
against the teeth by the pressure of the killer’s hands on the pillow – or whatever he used.’

‘But you say your assistant doesn’t agree with you?’

‘It is
very
slight bruising,’ Freddie admitted. ‘It wouldn’t be necessary to press very hard, you see, if she was comatose. If I hadn’t been sure it wasn’t natural death … No signs of violence, but Freddie “The Bloodhound” Cameron wasn’t satisfied. Don’t you want to know why?’ he prompted when Slider didn’t speak.

‘I was afraid to ask. I’m beginning to think you’re after my job.’

‘No, no, my dear old thing, I leave all that messy dealing-with-the-public to you. I prefer my Smiths and Joneses as mute and docile as possible. But look here,’ he became serious suddenly, ‘this woman was rather tarted up, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Slider agreed.

‘And if you place a pillow over the face even of a sleeping victim, the other result, apart from death, is that the old maquillage gets smudged.’

‘You mean—?’

‘I think it was touched up after death.’

‘Good God!’

‘Yes,’ said Freddie, ‘it struck me as a bit macabre, too. I found smears of the coloured foundation cream
inside
the nostrils, where a woman would have to be very clumsy to get it when making up her own face; and even more telling, traces of mascara on the right eyeball and contact lens. No-one alive would leave that where it was. You’d have spots before the eyes – and that stuff smarts, too.’

Slider thought a moment. ‘Of course, touching up the makeup doesn’t in itself mean it was murder. But it must have been meant to conceal something. Why else would it have been done?’

‘That I leave to you, dear boy,’ Freddie said, ‘and, frankly, you’re welcome to it. I’d stand up in court and swear to the bruises, but the defence could easily put up someone else to say they didn’t exist.’

‘So we’ve got to hope for the lab to show something up?’

‘You can hope,’ Freddie said grimly, ‘but if it was a sleeper, and if it shows up, and if it was a normal dose, what’s to say she didn’t take it herself, voluntarily? Then you’re back to my
expert opinion on the bruises versus the defence expert opinion.’ Slider was silent. ‘Oh, and by the way, talking of the lab, there was a quantity of semen in the vagina. I sent a sample off to be typed. No sign of forcible penetration, though.’

‘From what we hear she didn’t need to be forced.’

‘But if you get a suspect, it might be a help to prove she was with him.’

‘If it’s the husband’s, it won’t prove anything. Oh, well,’ Slider sighed, ‘it’s early days yet.’

‘And you have miles to go before you sleep,’ Freddie said. ‘Talking of which, I should be long gone. I’m supposed to be taking the Madam to the golf-club dinner tonight. Must go home and get into the old soup-and-flsh. And scrub off some of the smell of offal – Martha says it’s like a slaughtermen’s convention being in the car with me.’

‘You? Never! You’re a mountain breeze, Freddie.’