Down Among the Dead Men

Chapter 2

CHAPTER ONE

This novel uses British English spellings and slang, so please remember that there are differences in language use (I’m really not so terrible at spelling!). I’ve supplied a brief explanation of British slang and spelling at the end of this novel.

As though lulled by the heavy September air and the fluting whisper of the River Tiffey half a field away, the woman lay sprawled on the parched earth, her limbs in the abandoned posture of a sleeping child. The sun, emerging from behind a solitary cloud, turned her cap of flaxen hair into spangled silk against the dry dross of the meadow. It bestowed such an appearance of sparkling, vibrant life that Inspector Rafferty took several steps back, his usual good sense overtaken by an illogical fear that she would awaken and discover him looming over her.

Feeling foolish as he sensed Llewellyn's startled glance, he ignored his sergeant and continued to study the figure, though more circumspectly.

Dressed in some leaf-green gauzy stuff that bunched around her slender thighs, she had the other-worldly appearance of a woodland nymph; in her hand a single bloom, its crushed petals faded to an indistinguishable straw colour. A fairy-like bower of wild meadow flowers scattered around her body completed the illusion that they had somehow stumbled into a secret, fairy-tale world where princesses slumbered and frogs turned into princes.

Just then a faint breeze sprang up and wafted a malodorous whiff of the River Tiffey towards them. The tainted breeze brought reality back with a rush, effectively killing any lingering heat-induced fancies. The miracle was that they had sprung into being at all. For, even at 9 o'clock on a bright September morning, the Essex meadow had a desolate air. Twenty yards from the body, and tumbled around a stained and long-abandoned royal blue mattress, lay a pile of worn out tyres. This was the real world, not never-never land. Regretfully, Rafferty accepted that the woman was just another poor victim in an increasingly violent society, as mortal as the rest of humanity and as dead as it was possible to be. The tell-tale reddish-purple discoloration on the back of her limbs would have told him that sooner, if he'd bothered to look, and, judging by the extent of the after death hypostasis, she'd been dead some hours. Feeling foolish again, but thankful he hadn't blurted out his nonsense to Llewellyn, Rafferty wondered how he could have forgotten that the only sleep the Sniffy Tiffey would encourage would be the permanent sort.

The smelly breeze dropped and, with the return of the dead heat, the day seemed even more stifling, almost as if some heavenly vacuum cleaner had sucked all the oxygen out of the atmosphere, starving his brain and leaving his thought processes sluggish. But however sluggish his brain, there was no escaping the inevitable conclusions. She'd been murdered all right, smothered, he suspected, just like the other two victims over the border in Suffolk, where it was beginning to look as if a serial killer was on the loose. This latest death indicated that the serial killer might have enlarged his area of operations. The thought was a chilling one, and Rafferty made a mental note to contact the Suffolk CID as soon as they got back to the office, in order to check out the murderer's MO for any similarities to this latest killing. With a nod of his head, he drew Llewellyn away from the body for a brief consultation, leaving more room for the photographer to do his work.

After unzipping his protective overalls a few inches, Rafferty sighed with relief as he loosened his grass green tie and eased the creased shirt collar away from his clammy skin. His mouth turned down as he glanced at Llewellyn, who unlike himself, looked cool and untroubled by the heat. Rafferty wondered how the man managed to look so spruce, so sweat-free. Swallowing his irritation, he muttered, with a dispirited attempt at his usual whimsical speculation, 'What do you reckon we have here, Dafyd? The work of the Suffolk cyclepath, as my old Ma calls him?'

Not given to either whimsy or speculation, the Welshman stated matter-of-factly, 'I've no idea, sir.' Apparently, his usual efficiency was as unaffected by the heat as the rest of him, for he continued briskly, 'I'll check out Missing Persons. See what the computer can tell us.'

Rafferty watched sourly as his bandbox fresh sergeant turned and made for the car. He was twenty yards away before Rafferty thought to stop him. 'Don't bother,' he called. 'I reckon I know who this one is.' He should, he acknowledged belatedly, as her disappearance had only been reported to him yesterday, personally—by Charles Shore, her sort of brother-in-law, and the description he had furnished fitted this woman perfectly, even down to the colour of the dress.

Liven up, Rafferty, he ordered. As he forced his mind into something approaching a policeman-like alertness, he realised that the registration number of the red hatchback behind which they'd parked in the narrow, tarmac lane, matched hers too, and he despatched two of the SOCO team to check it over.

Zipping his overall back up, he returned to the scene. A small shoulder bag, already dusted for prints by the scene of crime team, lay close to the body, and after checking that it was okay to touch it, he opened it. Its contents confirmed his suspicions. 'Mrs Barbara Longman, wife of Henry Longman—or second wife, I should say, as I gather he's divorced from the first one. Wife number one is another member of the Shore family. I suppose you've heard of them?'

'One of the most prominent families in the county.'

Rafferty nodded gloomily. He had a vague recollection of an earlier tragedy involving the Shores, but as his mind refused to be cudgelled into throwing it up, he left it to come to him of its own accord. Just my luck, he groaned silently, as Llewellyn's comment echoed in his brain. Why was it he seemed to get lumbered with murders that involved important families? His last case had been the same. For some reason, Superintendent Bradley seemed to think this qualified Rafferty for mixing in exalted circles. Rafferty wished he could agree with him. Grim humour forced his lips into a semblance of a smile as another, more likely explanation occurred to him. Shore must have spoken to Bradley after he had reported Mrs Longman missing and, with the early reports of the victim's appearance, Bradley had put two and two together a bit quicker than Rafferty had managed. With typical Yorkshire caution, old Bradley had considered all the options. Just in case the murderer turned out to be more intimately connected with the Shore family than was so far indicated, he had decided Rafferty should take the case, presumably in the belief that the Shores would be less guarded with him than with a more sophisticated copper. The British Columbo, thought Rafferty, with a wry grimace, that's me. He turned to Llewellyn. 'Who found her?'

Llewellyn nodded in the direction of the two teenage boys waiting at the edge of the meadow, well beyond the police cordons. Dark haired, and attractively tousled by the heat, WPC Green was with them, struggling to keep a comforting arm around each boy's shoulder, as they towered half a head above her.

'They were exercising their dogs,' Llewellyn explained, 'and one of the animals found her.'

Rafferty nodded. 'I'll just have a quick word with them.' However, the two youngsters could tell him little more than what Llewellyn had already learned and, after making sure they had a note of their names and addresses, he told WPC Green to drive them home.

He stood for a moment in mute admiration of the scene of crime team. Like a well-oiled machine, in anticipation of the many comings and goings, they had already checked and cleared a narrow path to the body, so as to ensure that the rest of the murder scene remained untouched till they could examine it. And when they did, the search would be thorough and painstaking. If the murderer had left any clues to his identity behind him, the team would find them.

Wishing he exuded a similar air of smooth competence, Rafferty's mood brightened as he watched the rounded figure of Dr Sam Dally approach the cordon. He stopped, in order to give his name to the young, clip-board clutching constable, and, after a struggle in which he finally persuaded his body into his protective gear, Dally followed the path indicated by the officer.

Like the two detectives, he'd had to leave his car a field away and walk; sweating and cursing with equal profusion, he looked ready to perform a premature post-mortem on anyone who provoked him. He bestowed a scowl on Rafferty, his unpredictable early morning temper evidently not improved by the knowledge that the usually tardy inspector had managed to beat him to the scene.

'I'm too old for all this gambolling about the countryside,' he complained, when he'd finally forced his way through nature's wonders. 'What happened to you, Rafferty?' he demanded in an irascible tone. 'Did your bed collapse? Or has Sergeant Llewellyn succeeded in recruiting you to his early morning jogging routine?'

'Neither.' Rafferty's teasing, lopsided grin earned him another scowl. 'It's not me that's early, Dilly Dally. It's you that's late. You said yourself you're getting too long in the tooth for this game.'

Sam grunted. 'And for that you can blame my dentist.' He bared gleaming dentures. 'New set—could have bought a house when I was a young man for what that bloodsucker charged me. Bloody uncomfortable they are, too. Gums are red raw.' He stopped blinding them with his magnificent new molars and put his bag down. 'Right. What have we got?'

'Been smothered like the women in Suffolk, I reckon,' Rafferty confided incautiously. 'Though it's funny—'

'Oh, Dr Rafferty now, is it?' jeered Sam. 'Sure you need me?' He elbowed Rafferty aside and, after studying the woman's body, he opened his bag and got to work.

'Reported missing last night,' Rafferty addressed Sam's bald spot. 'About nine. She'd hardly been gone any time at all and I was going to advise them to wait and see if she turned up, but the chap who spoke to me was very insistent. I must admit, I thought it a bit odd that a grown woman should be reported missing quite so quickly.' He frowned. 'Makes you wonder if he knew something I didn't. When do you reckon she died?'

Sam muttered cryptically, 'You mean you don't know?' before adding, 'give me a chance, Rafferty. As you pointed out, I've only just got here, and a magician I'm not. Now, if you wouldn't mind getting out of my light...'

Feeling, like a spare groom at a wedding, sadly superfluous to the requirements of both Dally the virgin-clothed bride and the forensic congregation, Rafferty took the hint and left him to it. With, for the moment, nothing else to occupy him but the twin irritations of dive-bombing gnats and sweaty flesh, he sought oblivion from his torment by letting his mind wander where it would. Fortunately, it didn't need to wander far.

As his gaze rose above the bustling murder scene, Rafferty's expression visibly softened, and he almost managed to forget the gnats, the heat and this latest murder investigation, as his gaze settled on the horizon and the roof-line of Elmhurst, a mile and a half to the northwest. He sighed happily, as he remembered the envy he'd instilled in London friends, who had escaped the rat race for a blissful June fortnight. Proudly, he'd pointed out Elmhurst's Roman remains, the small bricks they had favoured pillaged for later additions, and clearly evident in every building with any claim to historical significance.

From here, as well as the prominent ruins of the priory, in the oldest part of the town, he could see the spire – unusual in East Anglia – of St Boniface Catholic church soaring above its pygmy neighbours. Briefly, he wondered if his ma was attending morning mass.

Rafferty loved the place; the rich red blood of history seeped over its driest bones; timber-frame, flint and weatherboard jostled for space, and within a short drive he could choose between the pleasures of coast and countryside. Most of all, Elmhurst had character and he liked that. The knowledge that he had the best of all worlds, gave Rafferty a feeling of contentment he'd never experienced anywhere else. It was a feeling that had grown on him gradually, since he and his two brothers and three sisters had been unwillingly uprooted to Essex from London by his widowed mother. That was why, although it amused him to say he earned his living from crime, he hated it when the murder of a fellow human being tarnished the place.

He sighed again, less happily this time, and wiped his sweating face on the sleeve of his disposable overalls, conscious once more of the furnace heat caused by the high pressure that had lain punishingly over the southern half of England for the past two weeks. The horizon began to shimmer in dizzying fashion and he lowered his gaze and prayed for rain, daunted at the uncomfortable prospect of conducting a murder inquiry in a heat wave. With a wry smile, he sacrilegiously paraphrased one of Llewellyn's more edifying quotations, murmuring, ‘Oh for the return of the green and sceptred isle brought by a bloody good thunderstorm.’

The meadow was a haven for wild flowers; hazy blues, corn-ripe yellows and regal purples nestled among the dry grass. There were masses of them, and, of course, he couldn't put a name to any of them. But as his sergeant, equally at a loose end, materialised beside him, he guessed he wouldn't need to. Llewellyn, his personal oracle, would be sure to know.

He did. 'There's Spiked Speedwell, and there's Corn cockle.' The Welshman pointed them out with a long, thin finger. 'Do you know, I haven't seen those for years? The Elmhurst Echo carried an article by the local Conservation Society about these last week. Apparently, there are several rare species in this meadow.'

'Miracle they've survived then, with the tyre dumping fraternity around,' Rafferty said deflatingly. Perhaps it was an effect of the weather, but, for whatever reason, his sergeant's encyclopaedia-like knowledge irritated him more than usual this morning. Glancing back at the activity concealed behind the screens, he was thankful to see Sam Dally rise from his labours and beckon them over. 'Come on, looks like Sam's finished.'

Conscious of his sergeant's critical gaze, Rafferty was careful to avoid stepping on any of the wild flowers, but the scattering of rare meadow flowers around the body, combined with his sergeant's serious countenance encouraged Rafferty to a moment's wild speculation. What if the woman hadn't been murdered by the Suffolk serial killer at all? Perhaps she had been killed by one of the local "Green" community, outraged at her destructive flower-gathering? He let his mind go so far as to picture screaming "Killer Conservationist" headlines, before he regretfully dismissed the idea. It was pretty unlikely.

Sam, his face shocking pink from his exertions, nodded at the corpse. 'She can be taken away now. I can't do any more here.'

The victim's head, hands and feet had already been encased in plastic in order to protect any forensic evidence, and as they watched, the entire cadaver was placed in a body bag, before it was carried in a fibre glass coffin to the waiting mortuary van.

'I'd say she died sometime yesterday afternoon,' Sam informed them. Briskly, he began gathering up his equipment. 'I'll have to wait till I've done the post mortem to be more definite, of course.' He glanced irritably at the innocent azure sky. 'This infernal heat doesn't help matters.'

Like a true-born son of the Scottish Highlands, Sam Dally preferred his mornings crisp and even, and he had no liking for "these damned unnatural Mediterranean heat waves", as he called the current weather.

'Cheer up, Sam. The weathermen say it'll break in a day or two.' As Dally snorted his derision of the entire meteorological breed and their promises, Rafferty added hopefully, 'I'd appreciate it if you could pin the time of death a bit closer.'

Sam scowled. 'I wish you'd get it into that thick Irish skull of yours that pathology is a bit more demanding than the average old British Rail timetable. They didn’t have to get up in a court of law and defend their claimed departure times; I do.' Having vented his irritation, Sam relented a bit. 'All I'll say is that I'd plump more towards the time you're enjoying your second cup of tea of the afternoon. Satisfied?'

Rafferty nodded. It narrowed the time down nicely. If Sam was right, the time of death had probably been between three and five o'clock yesterday afternoon. According to her sort of brother-in-law, the victim had last been seen alive at 3.00 p.m. Rafferty tried his luck further. 'Can you confirm the cause of death, Sam? Was she suffocated?'

'Probably.' He picked up his bag, and, smiling for the first time that morning, he added before he walked away, ‘but you'll not make me commit myself till I've done the pm.'

Rafferty hadn't expected anything more, but he was satisfied. To get a "probably" out of Sam was akin to a definite confirmation from anyone else.

Before he followed Dally, Rafferty had a word with the most senior member of the SOCO team. He wasn't surprised when he was told that they had, as yet, discovered nothing of obvious interest. It was early days, and their painstaking work would go on for some time yet, both at the scene of the crime and back at the laboratory. Still, he was hopeful, more so because it very much looked as if she had died where she had been found. The dry grasses under her heels had been reduced to tiny, broken stalks, as if her shoes had pummelled the ground as she had struggled with her killer.

The countryside just here was sparsely populated; apart from some farm buildings several hundred yards away across the fields, there were few houses, just the tiny village of St Botolphe further along the main road, towards Elmhurst.

Rafferty headed back to the car and got in the passenger seat. Llewellyn started the car and turned its nose in the direction of the Shores' house as Rafferty got on the radio to the station. As the meadow was in such a lonely spot, he doubted much would come of the house to house. He hoped they would manage to turn up more information from a second team, arranged to question the motorists using the main road adjacent to the meadow.

Radioing done, he sat back and thought about the victim. Had she been younger, he'd have thought it likely she had arranged to meet a lover, and had gathered the flowers while she waited for him. But this woman was in her late twenties, according to Charles Shore, and likely to prefer her clandestine couplings on soft sheets rather than dry grass shucks and hard-baked soil. So what had she been doing here? Surely, in this violent age, she hadn't just come to gather flowers, no matter how rare and enticing the local flora, especially in the flimsy get-up she had on. It was asking for trouble in normal times, but with a known killer just a few miles over the county border...

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