Gift Wrapped (2 page)

‘Well, I am of course not a police officer so it isn't for me to say – clearly it isn't – but I would have thought that a typewriter is a very useful tool to have if you want to disguise your handwriting. You can't put a postcard into the printer of a word processor – you can't put one into my word processor anyway – but that is of course your area of expertise. I do so apologize.' Mrs Bartlem lowered her head slightly. ‘I am sorry.'

Webster held up his hand. ‘Please don't worry, you are being very public spirited. There really is no need to apologize, no need at all.' He paused. ‘I doubt whether we'll get any useful prints.'

‘Prints?' Mrs Bartlem queried. ‘You'll copy the cards?'

‘No.' Webster smiled. ‘I meant latents ... fingerprints. I doubt if we'll get any useful fingerprints off the postcards but we'll check anyway.'

‘Ah ... I see.' Julia Bartlem returned the smile.

‘The cards will have by now been handled by so many people – yourself and the staff at the drop-in centre, myself ... the postman who collected the card, possibly, the postman who sorted the cards ready for delivery, certainly ...'

‘My husband as well,' Mrs Bartlem added. ‘He has handled them.'

‘Yes, he also, and I can pretty well guarantee that if these cards were posted by a felon he would have wiped them clean before dropping them into the postbox. We can also be certain that the stamps will have been wiped clean of any thumbprints,' Webster commented dryly, ‘but of course we'll check them anyway, as I said. We'd look very foolish if the cards did transpire to have the fingerprints of a murderous felon upon them, but really no one who is even slightly forensically aware is going to press down on a stamp and leave his or her beautifully preserved thumbprint all over the image of Her Most Gracious Majesty ... But, as I said, we'll check them anyway, just in case we really are dealing with a prize idiot, but I do doubt very much that we'll get a result.'

A short silence ensued.

‘I don't think that I have any further information.' Mrs Bartlem once again permitted herself a quick glance round the interview suite. ‘I have told you everything.'

‘And I don't think that I have any further questions either,' Webster replied quietly. Then he added: ‘But should you, that is, should the drop-in centre receive any more cards, cards like this ...'

‘We'll let you have them immediately,' Mrs Bartlem anticipated him as she and Webster stood at the same time.

‘Thank you for bringing these cards to us. It's very public spirited of you, as I said. I'll take them up to my boss, but we'll definitely be following this up.'

‘Good. Well, I've done my bit.' Mrs Bartlem bent at her knees to pick up her handbag. ‘I dare say it's over to you now.'

Detective Chief Inspector George Hennessey studied the four postcards slowly and carefully as though, Webster thought, he was searching for something beyond the typewritten words and numbers. He then slowly reclined in his chair and placed the cards one by one on top of his desk. ‘I confess that I cannot say that languages are a speciality of mine either, so don't reproach yourself, Reg. No need to do that. We would have had them translated anyway; in fact, as you know, we will still have to have it confirmed that they do mean what the lady, Mrs ... ?

‘Bartlem, sir,' Reginald Webster replied promptly. ‘Mrs Julia Bartlem.'

‘Yes ... we'll still have to have it confirmed that the words all do mean “murder”. Mind you, having said that, I think that even I could have made a fair and a reasonable guess that “
homicidium
” is indeed Latin for “murder”.' Hennessey took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘So ... where on earth is 1-1-1-3-5-4-0-0?' he asked.

‘5-4-0-0 is bang on the fifty-fourth parallel, sir, and 1-1-1-3 is just west of the second meridian,' Reginald Webster replied enthusiastically.

‘In English, Reg,' Hennessey pleaded. ‘English will do very nicely, if you please.'

‘Well, sir,' Webster leaned forward, ‘my map reading ... my reading of the map puts the location exactly where Mrs Bartlem said her husband had placed it, halfway between Warthill ...'

‘Delightful name,' Hennessey growled, ‘utterly delightful.'

‘Isn't it, sir? In fact that's just what Mrs Bartlem and I both said ... a delightful name.' Webster grinned. ‘But I feel that at least it must have some ancient meaning. In contrast, you know, sir, there is in the fair town of Rotherham in South Yorkshire, a road on a fifties green field housing estate with the astounding name of “Gallow Tree Road”. The name has no provenance at all, as if it was dreamed up by someone having a bad day one wet afternoon. But to continue ... the location indicated seems to lie pretty well midway between the village of Warthill and the nearest neighbouring village of Gate Helmsley.'

George Hennessey ran his fleshy, liver-spotted hands through his silver hair and glanced to his left-hand side out of the window of his office as he did so. He espied a group of T-shirted youths excitedly walking the walls, each of whom was draped with expensive-looking photographic equipment. He pigeonholed the group as being overseas students. ‘So,' he turned to Reginald Webster, ‘tell me, what is the lie of the land like round Warthill and Gate whatever ... do you know?'

‘Helmsley, sir, Gate Helmsley,' Webster responded. ‘I just know that it's agricultural land, sir, going by the map. There is no indication of it being a built-up area.'

‘Fair enough.' Hennessey once again read the rear of the postcards then pondered the photograph on the front of the cards. ‘Scarborough,' he said softly. ‘Anything to be inferred from the choice of postcard, do you think? The very popular resort town of Scarborough ... the North Sea, the sunset, summertime ... is there some message in the photograph that we are supposed to pick up? Do you have any thoughts there, Reg?'

‘A little early to say yet, sir, I'd say.' Webster sat back in his chair. ‘I think all we can do is to keep an open mind on that possibility ... on that issue.'

‘Yes, yes, of course it is ... of course it is.' George Hennessey patted the cards as his eye was caught by another tourist walking the ancient walls which stood on the opposite side of Nunnery Lane from Micklegate Bar Police Station. The tourist was a loner on this occasion, a middle-aged male, wearing a white, wide brimmed hat, a loud yellow T-shirt and also with an expensive-looking camera hanging from his shoulder. American, George Hennessey thought, for no clear or identifiable reason. The man just looked to him to be a ‘cousin'. ‘So we don't know the area?' Hennessey turned back to look at Webster.

‘Seems not, sir,' Webster replied. ‘No police activity there at all.'

‘Warthill and Gate Helmsley ... it does sound like the rural north of England, which will now be in all its summer bounty and splendour.' Hennessey paused. ‘Who is in the CID rooms at present – any idea?'

‘Just Thompson Ventnor, sir,' Webster informed.

‘All right ... all right ... myself and Ventnor have to deal with any and every emergency that might come in for the CID this afternoon while you, Reg, have a trip out to the country to arrange and look forward to.' Hennessey smiled at Webster. ‘You lucky man.'

‘Yes, sir.' Webster grinned his reply. ‘And just when I was about to address all that lovely, lovely paperwork.'

‘Oh that lovely, lovely paperwork won't go away.' Hennessey smiled broadly. ‘You don't need to worry on that score. Her Majesty's Home Office wants its statistical returns, and by hook or by crook Her Majesty's Home Office will have its statistical returns.'

‘As you say, sir.' Webster returned the smile, equally broadly.

‘So ... you don't need a large number of bodies, I would have thought. Just two sniffer dogs, their handlers, six con-stables, a sergeant and yourself. That will be quite sufficient.'

‘Yes, sir,' Webster replied promptly.

‘Take an Ordnance Survey map of the area, as large scale as you can find ... you can draw that from stores, and get the crew as close as you can to the grid reference. Then release the dogs and see what, if anything, they find. You know the drill.'

‘Yes, sir.' Webster stood smartly and left Hennessey's office.

What the dogs found within fifteen minutes of arriving at the grid reference was an area of soil at the edge of a field, in which both animals demonstrated great and excited interest. The two brown and white Springer spaniels pawed at a small section of the ground, barked enthusiastically, turned in tight circles and wagged their short tails. One of the dog handlers turned to Webster and gave the thumbs-up signal, calling out, ‘They've got something, sir. They've caught an interesting scent all right.'

‘Thank you,' Webster replied as the dog handler, a tall and lean constable in a white short-sleeved shirt and serge trousers, clipped the lead back on to the dog's leather harness and led him to one side, gently patting the dog's flank as he did so. The second dog handler then retrieved his dog and stood by his colleague.

Reginald Webster then took one more last survey of the wider area and again he saw a patchwork of lovingly cared-for fields, lush with crops, being wheat in the main, but he noticed a bright yellow field of rapeseed on the skyline in the far western distance. The area, he noted, was interrupted here and there by small stands of isolated trees, all under a vast blue sky and with only the occasional thin wisp of white cloud to be seen. Webster turned his attention to the small area of ground which had so interested the dogs and walked slowly towards it. ‘So,' he said amid the birdsong, ‘you think something is under the surface just here?'

‘It's definitely going to be rotting flesh, sir, that is certain,' the first dog handler replied. ‘That's the only scent that they are trained to respond to ... but whether it is human or not, well, I'm afraid that only honest to God hard sweat and hard graft will tell.'

‘I see.' Webster noted the location of the grave as a bead of sweat ran off his forehead, if it was in fact a grave. It lay amid a small group of young oak trees, all, he thought, to be about ten years old and all in a perfect line, neatly following the hedgerow on the southern, sun-receiving side. ‘Planted,' he murmured to himself.

‘Sorry, sir?' The first dog handler had clearly heard Webster.

‘The trees.' Webster pointed to the line of young oak trees. ‘I was really muttering happily away to myself but I don't at all mind sharing them with you – my humble and lowly observations, I mean ...' Webster paused for a moment. ‘The trees, these young oak trees, have they been planted as if someone wished to leave something behind him ... or her? Ten oaks all in a row ... like pretty maids, each with room to grow, all equally spaced, all south of the hedgerow, as you see, and receiving lots of lovely sun so that in a hundred years' time someone will walk down that lane,' Webster pointed to the road upon which the police vehicles were parked, ‘and they will say, “someone planted those trees for us to enjoy today, and planted them a long time ago knowing they were never going to live to see them in all their wonderful mature splendour”.'

‘I see. That wouldn't have occurred to me.' The dog handler ran his eye along the line of oak trees. ‘I would never have seen that, sir.'

‘It probably wouldn't have occurred to me either,' Webster replied with a grin, ‘that is, if I hadn't once tried to dig a hole beside an established tree ... a very big mistake. What happened is that my elderly relative then had to agree to have the fish pond she wanted put in the middle of her lawn and not under the shade of the beech tree as she had planned. I just couldn't dig through the root plate, you see.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Nevertheless, the trees will help us date the grave, if it is one.' Another bead of sweat ran heavily down Webster's forehead. ‘Amazing creatures.' He smiled at the dogs, ‘Really amazing.'

‘The dogs, sir?' The first dog handler nodded approvingly. ‘Yes, it is truly astounding what they can do. You know, sir, I wouldn't swap my place in the Dog Branch for any other field of police work. I mean, sir, if I have to be in uniform then this is the place I'd want to be.'

‘Good for you. I do like it when I meet a man who's happy in his work.' Webster reached into the pocket of his lightweight summer jacket, retrieved his mobile phone and selected the number for Micklegate Bar Police Station. He asked to be put through to Chief Inspector Hennessey upon his call being answered. ‘It's far too early to say whether or not the remains are human, sir,' Webster explained. ‘It could easily be a dead sheep, but both of the dogs have picked up the scent of rotting flesh and they have done so right at the map reference in question.' Webster paused as he listened. Then he continued, ‘Yes, sir, understood.' He switched off his mobile phone and waved to the sergeant and the con-stables to approach and, as he did so, he made the motion of a man digging with a spade.

‘We have a scent,' Webster explained as the sergeant approached, followed by six white-shirted male constables, each one carrying a long-handled spade. ‘It's a bit of an exposed place to bury a body, as you can see.' Webster looked around, as did the grizzled-faced sergeant. ‘Rooftops of two villages can be clearly seen,' he said.

‘Yes, sir, very exposed, as you say,' the sergeant responded with a gravelly voice.

‘But we'll have to dig anyway; the dogs have a scent.'

‘Understood, sir,' the sergeant replied. ‘Where?'

‘Just here ...' Webster dug his shoe heel into the area of soil which had excited the dogs.

‘Very good, sir.' The sergeant turned and addressed the constables who had remained silent and who, having followed the hedgerows rather than walking through the crop, had by then formed a straight line. ‘Right, lads,' he called, ‘there's work for us to do. First two, please.'