H&Y20 - Deliver Us from Evil (2 page)

‘Really?’ Webster again glanced at the tall turbaned police surgeon.

‘Oh, most certainly, yes, deliberately inducing hypothermia is a tried and tested means of suicide and has a number of advantages: it’s clean, certain, doesn’t involve anybody else. The pain of the cold is intense, that is the one drawback . . . but only initially so . . . the feeling of the cold passes as the body becomes numb and the blood is pulled from the extremities to keep the inner organs insulated, but the body doesn’t recognize the brain as a vital organ and so drains blood from the head into the chest cavity. Thusly the person begins to experience light-headedness and a wholly unfounded sense of euphoria and consequently the last moments of consciousness are of emotions which are deeply happy and content. You see the good lady’s mouth? That might even be a smile we see, formed as she sat here feeling deeply content and at peace with the world as her body stiffened. I can think of worse deaths. Much, much worse, as I imagine you can.’ Again he paused. ‘Well, I can do no more . . . death is hereby confirmed. She is life extinct. I asked for the pathologist to attend before you arrived, Mr Webster, and . . .’ Dr Mann fell silent as he looked along the length of the towpath, ‘I do really believe I see Dr D’Acre coming now . . . this is her, is it not?’

Webster turned and saw four figures walking as a distinct group with determination and a sense of purpose, he thought, towards them from the direction of the village of Middle Walsham. Webster made out the tall, slender figure of Dr D’Acre in the lead, behind her was the well set figure of DCI Hennessey, and behind him two constables walked, one of whom carried Dr D’Acre’s black leather Gladstone bag. Four dark figures striding strongly against a white background beneath the low, grey cloud cover.

It took fully a further five minutes for Dr D’Acre’s group to reach Webster and Dr Mann, the first two constables and the corpse. After acknowledgements, Webster said, ‘Deceased adult of the female sex, sir. No apparent injuries. Life extinct confirmed just now by Dr Mann. Could be misadventure, but I don’t think we should be closing any doors on other possibilities, certainly not this early in the piece.’

‘Quite right.’ George Hennessey also considered the body and he too saw, as Webster had seen, one short, early middle-aged lady who sat as if smiling and was yet deceased. He also noticed her to be woefully ill-dressed for the weather and the remoteness. ‘No handbag,’ he commented, refraining from mentioning her inappropriate clothing, believing it to be too elementary and obvious a comment to pass, ‘an unusual absence since her watch and jewellery have not been removed by her or by another. Did you see a handbag anywhere?’

‘No, sir,’ Webster spluttered.

‘Strange, don’t you think?’

‘Very strange, sir . . . confess I did not notice the absence of one but as you say, strange. What woman who dresses like this lady is dressed would not have a handbag with her? Very strange.’

‘It’s a suspicious death.’ Dr D’Acre, who was not at all concerned by the absence of a handbag, had knelt and had been carefully examining the deceased. She leaned forward and pulled the silk scarf further away from the neck and exposed linear bruising. ‘They are ligature marks,’ she announced in a calm, matter-of-fact manner. ‘Do you see?’ She knelt closer and pulled the scarf still further from the neck. ‘Very clear . . . see them?’

Hennessey and Webster advanced and stood either side of Dr D’Acre and looked at the linear bruising which seemed to them to fully encompass the neck of the deceased. ‘Yes,’ Hennessey murmured, ‘yes, I see.’

‘Not misadventure at all,’ Webster added.

‘Could still be . . .’ Dr D’Acre turned and smiled warmly up at him. ‘The bruising may not have been fatal; it could even be a few days old and utterly unconnected with what it was that brought her to die at this lonely place. There is suspicion but all avenues still remain open.’ She looked around the immediate vicinity. ‘There is no sign of a struggle that I can detect, no sign of her being taken by force here. So, if the bruising is relevant, it means she was attacked in some other location and carried here in an unconscious state and left for dead, or left to die in the cold. She possibly regained consciousness and sat upright but was by then dangerously hypothermic and would have rapidly succumbed to hypothermia. If I am correct, she would have survived if she had been left here on a warm summer’s night . . . unless, of course, unless the murderer knew what he was doing and left her out here for the frost to finish the job for him . . . or for her. So . . . I have seen all I need to see, little point in taking any temperature either of the deceased or the ground because both will show a reading of zero.’ Dr D’Acre stood. ‘If you have taken all the photographs you wish to take, Chief Inspector, you can have the body removed to York District Hospital for the post-mortem.’

Hennessey turned to Webster. ‘SOCO have still to arrive, sir,’ Webster said, responding to Hennessey’s silent question. ‘No photographs have been taken at all, as yet.’

‘As yet,’ Hennessey groaned. He turned to one of the constables and said, ‘Radio in, will you, find out where SOCO is . . . they’re probably driving round looking for us . . . damn canal isn’t difficult to find.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The constable reached for the radio clipped to his lapel.

‘Tell them it’s the long blue line on the map,’ Hennessey growled with shortening patience. ‘The one just to the south of York and not to be confused with the railway line.’

‘Sir.’

‘Well, I’ll make my way back to York District and await the arrival of the deceased.’ Dr D’Acre spoke calmly. ‘Will you be observing for the police, Chief Inspector?’

‘Probably,’ Hennessey sighed, feeling acutely the embarrassment at the non-arrival of the Scene of Crime Officers without whose photographs of the corpse, said corpse cannot be moved.

‘Well, the frost will preserve any evidence so the delay will not create problems, and the issue of the missing handbag . . .’ Dr D’Acre raised an eyebrow, ‘well, my penny to your pound that it is where she was strangled if the strangulation is relevant . . . or . . . or . . . it’s in there.’ She nodded to the motionless ice-cold water of the canal. ‘Rather you than me,’ she added with a brief smile.

‘We have frogmen,’ Hennessey followed her gaze, ‘but I know what you mean. Confess, it’s times like this that I’d rather be a dog handler than a diver. If we can’t find the handbag anywhere we might look . . . no . . . we’ll have a look. We’ll have to look in there but at least it’s a canal, not a river, it can be closed off section by section and drained. That will make things easier. Much easier.’

‘Well . . . I will see you later.’ Dr D’Acre picked up her bag and walked back along the towpath.

‘So, who found the body?’ Hennessey turned to the constables, two of whom had been at the locus when he arrived, and who now stood reverently some feet away.

‘Member of the public, sir,’ the constable consulted his notebook, ‘one Mr Cookridge . . . he lives close by. We have cordoned off the canal towpath, sir . . . one tape at Middle Walsham . . .’

‘Yes, I passed it.’

‘And the other at the road about a quarter of a mile in the other direction, where the towpath can be accessed.’

‘I see, well you two walk back to the village and do a careful search of the towpath, mark anything that might be suspicious, then return here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You two do the same in the other direction, as far as the road . . .’ Hennessey paused as one of the constables answered his radio. The constable said, ‘Understood’, and clicked the ‘off’ button. ‘SOCO is on its way, sir. They did get lost, as you thought . . . ten minutes they said.’

‘Yes . . .’ Hennessey growled. ‘Webster.’

‘Sir?’

‘Go and talk to the gentleman who found the body.’

‘Sir.’

From a small stand of black trees in the middle distance a lone unseen rook cawed. Webster, for one, found himself deeply grateful for the sound.

‘I do the walk daily, that lovely old walk; have been doing it daily for the best part of five years now.’ Charles Cookridge spoke softly and did so with what Webster felt could fairly be described as undisguised pride. ‘Not bad for a sixty-six year old, five miles a day, rain or shine, leaving the house at eight a.m. fortified by a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich.’

‘And him never a sporty type in his youth,’ Mrs Cookridge chimed from the kitchen, inviting herself into the conversation despite being out of the line of sight. ‘And I should know.’

‘Childhood sweethearts, we were,’ Charles Cookridge explained with a wide grin. ‘We both used to truant each Wednesday afternoon, her from her school and me from mine, winter and summer, so when our classmates were heaving and grunting and exerting themselves trying to shave a second here or add an inch there, me and her were in the woods doing a bit of heaving and grunting and exerting of our own. That tended to be in the summertime though. In the winter we just went for long walks if it was dry. If it was wet or snowing we just sheltered somewhere.’

‘And then only latterly,’ again the chime came from the kitchen, ‘ . . . when our bodies were old enough.’

Webster smiled. ‘Good memories . . . very good memories. You are lucky to have them.’

‘Better memories than throwing a javelin half an inch further than anyone else or jumping higher or running quicker,’ Charles Cookridge’s eyes gleamed. ‘Sporty types can damn well keep their playing fields. They are welcome to them.’

The Cookridge’s home was a small owner occupied house on an inter-war estate on the edge of the city of York. Webster found their home to have a warm and a cosy feel to it. The living room in which he and Charles Cookridge stood was pleasingly softened by books in a bookcase by the fireside, by plants in vases and by a neatness which stopped short, it seemed to Webster, of fastidiousness. One or two items had not been put away, some of the books on the shelves were on their sides rather than upright, the rug on the carpet had ridden up against the tiles of the hearth. Homely, in a word, he thought. It was made more and especially homely by a live fire in the grate burning faggots. Webster had been welcomed into the house upon production of his ID and had received an instant assurance that ‘wood is all right . . . can’t burn coal, they get upset about coal smoke but wood is permitted. A smokeless zone means no coal fires – but wood is all right’ and from the kitchen his wife had added, ‘No complaints so far . . . tea, sir?’

‘So you do the walk daily?’ Webster asked, finding himself rapidly relaxing in the Cookridge house.

‘As I said . . .’ Cookridge sank into an armchair and indicated for Webster to do the same, adding ‘please’ as he did so. ‘Five miles from here to the road bridge over the canal and out along the towpath as far as Middle Walsham . . . lovely village . . . then get the bus to York and another bus out . . . pensioner’s bus pass you see, doesn’t cost anything, not a single penny piece.’

‘So I understand,’ Webster replied with a smile. ‘Age has its compensations.’

‘Indeed it does . . . so, out by eight a.m. each day . . . that way I get to walk by myself, that’s pleasant and much less dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’

‘There’s the real danger of being pushed into the canal. Not funny, especially in winter time. It has happened. Youths round here think it’s funny to push people into the canal if they’re vulnerable . . . like elderly or a bit soft in the head . . . or cyclists. Cyclists are another easy target but youths like that sleep late, real couch potatoes. So I think I am safe, and in fact I am safe, in the early mornings. Done the walk since I retired and never had a bad experience because I rise early to do it. Only taken to exercising late in life . . . never really been one for it before.’

‘Yes, so you said. So, you saw nothing yesterday?’

‘No . . . of the woman, you mean? No I didn’t. She could have been there for a couple of days in this weather without being found had it not been for me. No traffic on the canal in the winter, occasional tourist narrowboat in the summer and quite a few people walk the towpath then. So she was not there yesterday, at least not at about eight thirty a.m. which is when I get to that part of the towpath. It’s early on in my walk you see. The whole walk takes an hour and a half. I am one third into it when I get to where I found the lady.’

‘Rum do.’ Mrs Cookridge emerged calmly and confidently from the kitchen holding a tray of tea and two cups. She set the tray down on the coffee table and said, ‘I’ll let you do the honours, Charlie,’ and ambled back into the kitchen, leaving a trail of perfume behind her.

‘That’s useful to know, helps a lot.’

‘It does?’ Charles Cookridge carefully stirred the tea in the white porcelain flower patterned teapot.

‘Well, yes . . . the freezing conditions and the remoteness mean that it is possible that she could have been there for a day or two, but your daily morning routine means she arrived there alive or dead, but we think alive, sometime after you did your walk yesterday. It narrows down the time frame very nicely, very nicely indeed.’

‘Well yes, I see what you mean . . . and I often get the impression that I am the only person to walk the towpath during this time of the year. In fact I came across my own footprints last week . . . it was quite strange. Just before this cold snap the towpath was muddy in places and I walked in the mud leaving about a dozen footprints, and the following morning I did the walk as normal and there were my footprints but no other footprints or bicycle tyre tracks over them. So not one person, not one single solitary person, had walked or cycled along the towpath in the twenty-four hours since I had left my footprints in the mud.’

‘That is hugely interesting. As you say, it clearly illustrates how much traffic uses the towpath at this time of the year.’

Cookridge handed Webster a cup of tea. ‘Yes it does . . . not much used at all in the winter. In fact you have to live locally to even know it’s there. Sugar?’

‘No, thank you. Now, that point about local knowledge, that is very interesting indeed. It could be hugely significant.’

‘Well, by local I mean York and the surrounding area . . . but it’s not a well advertised canal for tourists, in fact it isn’t advertised at all. You could stumble across it if you’re a stranger to the area but it’s not signposted or anything and you can’t see it from the road until you are going over the bridge, or you see a cyclist riding steadily over the fields and then you realize that he’s cycling along the towpath.’