Superstitious Death (13 page)

‘Yes, sir, that’s all we know at this point.’

‘But you must have something else I can work on, Pluke. You don’t think he’s a retired international criminal who’s hiding here, do you?’

‘No, I’ve no reason to believe that, sir, and besides, that would hardly rank as being of security interest, would it?’ 

‘No. A spy, perhaps, Pluke? Is he a spy?’

‘I think he is rather too old, sir, although he could be a retired agent, even one with a price on his head, one who’s here for safe keeping.’

‘So that’s all you can offer me as a starting point?’

‘Except that he might be a Swedish national, sir,’ said Pluke.

‘Good God, why do you think that?’

‘He uses the colours of the Swedish flag for his publicity material, sir, and he has a gold-headed cockerel as a weather-vane. Golden-headed cockerels were sacred to the war gods of ancient Scandinavia, sir; the pagan Norsemen believed that a gold-crested cockerel would herald the day when all things would perish, they called it Ragnnarok… It’s long been a tradition to use gold-headed cocks as weather-vanes in the Northern Hemisphere and even when Christianity replaced paganism, sir, the cock was used as a symbol of the com spirit, to ensure good harvests, and always with a golden head…’

‘All right, you’ve made your point. I’ll do a bit of quiet hunting, Pluke.’

‘I do appreciate your help and support, sir,’ and Montague Pluke smiled into the telephone.

‘Not a word to anyone else about this!’

And Hart rang off. Montague smiled at this unexpected bonus and wondered if Hart was trying to score points over someone in a high position of authority… but if it helped Pluke, then it would help his investigation. Pleased at this surprisingly furtive offer of help, Pluke now realised that Hart was as keen to solve the mystery as he was – and he’d never mentioned money during that call. Pluke’s smile remained on his face as he left his office to walk into the incident room where Horsley hailed him.

‘Ah, just the fellow,’ he said as he spotted Montague. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt when you were on the telephone. Two more developments, both positive, I feel. First, I’ve just had a call from DS Forster; he’s found a motorist who saw the deceased girl walking towards Barughdale on Friday evening, around five o’clock. He’s been shown the photo and the artist’s impression of her with the haversack and white anorak, and he has no doubt. He says the girl was walking briskly out of town towards Barughdale and she was facing the oncoming traffic. He was driving into town and saw her on the crest of Mill Hill, he got a good look at her.’

‘Alone, was she?’

‘Yes, Montague, quite alone. But it’s a good sighting and it puts her closer to Harman’s Farm. Mill Hill is about two miles away from both Crickledale and Harman’s Farm – we can now put her midway between the two places, alone but alive and very close to the quarry. The timing’s right too.’

‘And our witness can be eliminated, can he?’

‘Yes, Montague, he has been carefully interviewed, he’s a local vicar and had been to see a parishioner. His account can be verified.’

‘Good. So we know she was walking towards Barughdale as she’d led Mrs Cholmondeley to believe was her intended direction. What we need now, Mr Horsley, is someone to say she was seen at the far side of Harman’s Farm, still walking briskly towards Barughdale. If no one saw her on that stretch of road, we might assume she entered the farm premises or the quarry.’

‘Right. As we’ve said in the past, she might have decided to sleep in one of the outbuildings, Montague, without Mr Burholme knowing of her presence.’

‘Yes. Remember, we are still talking about Friday evening. We think she remained alive until Saturday evening. We still have some twenty-four hours to account for, Mr Horsley. Where was she during all that time? Any sign of Detective Sergeant Wain?’

‘He’s not back from Barughdale, sir. As a matter of interest, we’ve had no positive news from our officers in Barughdale…’

‘And that means there is none!’ sighed Pluke. ‘They always call in with any positive leads. So, what is the second item?’

‘Mr Burholme rang, sir, only five minutes ago. He’s discovered a spade’s missing from his garden shed. He said you had asked him to make a search of the premises to try and establish if anything had gone, anything that could have been used to dig the grave.’

‘I did indeed, Mr Horsely. So when did this spade disappear?’ 

‘He can’t be sure. He knows it was there a week ago – last Tuesday – because he used it to dig up a dandelion in the border of his front garden.’

‘Very handy for keeping evil away from you, provided you gather them on St John’s Day,’ said Pluke in all seriousness.

‘What are?’

‘Dandelions,’ said Pluke. ‘But go on, Mr Horsley.’

‘Well, he used the spade around tea-time on Tuesday last, cleaned the blade with some grass, and replaced it in his garden shed. After you suggested he search around for missing tools, he realised it was missing. He just discovered its absence before calling us.’

‘We have a description of the spade?’ asked Pluke.

‘It was an expensive one, Montague. Stainless steel with a modem plastic handle, dark green colour. Worthington make. Worth about a hundred and twenty pounds, he reckons. He has searched his entire premises for it, it’s nowhere to be seen.’

‘I understand, but he has not found the murder weapon during this search?’

‘No, Montague, and neither did our teams. They have finished, by the way. I have now detailed them to visit all farms which are close to Harman’s, just in case we find something in their outbuildings. It’s a long shot, but we have to do it. We’ll make a search of all the hedges and ditches along the roads away from the quarry too, just in case the spade was thrown from a departing vehicle. Now, I have made a note for our files about the missing spade and will issue a description of it in the hope we can trace it, but we’ll need a statement from Burholme. As he’s claiming it’s been stolen, we’ll need a crime report as well. I’ll send a team along, I think we can spare one of the house-to-house teams.’

‘No, Mr Horsley, I would like to have an excuse for another visit to Mr Burholme. In fact, I’ll go now and will show him a photo of the deceased.’

‘What about the four o’clock news conference?’

‘I will return in time for that, Mr Horsley. Now, have we someone who can drive me to the farm? Detective Sergeant Wain is otherwise engaged at Barughdale so I shall require a car and a driver.’

‘It will have to be someone from the incident room, Montague; we can use a pool car.’

‘Excellent. I suggest one of the statement readers should drive me. None has viewed the scene and I think it would be sensible for them to do so, it will help them in their understanding of the investigation.’ And he took a photograph of the victim from a folder on his desk.

‘Good idea. I’ll detail Detective Constable Helston to drive you.’

Clutching the photograph, Montague saw that Detective Constable Helston was a pretty young woman of about twenty-six with dark curly hair, a slim figure and a ready smile with beautiful teeth. She was a recent transfer from the uniform branch to the CID and this was her first murder case. She was clearly delighted at the opportunity to leave the humdrum of her statement-reading duties, if only to drive Pluke to the scene.

Paula Helston drove carefully and when they crested Mill Hill he requested her to slow her pace a little, explaining that this was where the deceased victim had last been seen. The verges at this point were broad and not yet fully grown with the flush of late spring. The road was quite wide with a white line down the centre: it was not a narrow country lane. He wondered if the girl had been the victim of a hit-and-run driver with some kind of protruding implement or adornment on his vehicle. Against that, she had not borne any injuries which were consistent with being caused by a motor vehicle.

As they approached the farm entrance with its name prominent on the gate, Pluke suggested that Paula slow down to take the sharp left-hand turn into the premises. She obeyed; the gate was closed, so Pluke emerged from the car in his ancient finery, opened the gate and waved her through.

‘Now, Detective Constable Helston, take the first track to the left,’ he told her. ‘That takes us to the quarry where I shall show you the scene.’

He told her to ease to a halt at the quarry entrance, close by the length of plastic-covered bales, and as they left the car, they saw the quarry was now deserted. Only the oblong hole in the bare earth was a reminder of the drama which had unfolded here so very recently.

‘That is the victim’s grave,’ he said slowly without approaching the grave. ‘It is invisible from the road, as you can now understand, and hidden from the farmhouse to which we are heading.’

‘The poor girl,’ said Detective Constable Helston.

‘Now, let us see what Mr Burholme can tell us about his missing spade,’ said Pluke, returning to the car. Under Pluke’s guidance, they drove slowly along the farm roads and this time turned left to gain access to the farm buildings. Upon arrival, they parked on the tidy gravelled area in front of the huge house and Burholme emerged from his kitchen door to greet them. Most affably, he welcomed them inside and Pluke asked Detective Constable Helston to join him for the interview.

He told her it would be good experience for her, apart from which (he told himself) a second opinion about Mr Burholme, with all the benefits of feminine intuition, might be useful. As usual, Montague declined a cup of tea and went straight into the business of the meeting.

‘So, Mr Burholme,’ smiled Pluke when they were settled, ‘tell me about this missing spade.’

Chapter Ten

Walking easily without the aid of a stick, the lithe Mr Burholme led Detective Inspector Montague Pluke and Detective Constable Helston out of the front door and around the side of the house into the walled garden at the rear. Surrounded by a high brick wall as protection against the worst of the moorland weather, it was a spacious garden comprised chiefly of a substantial vegetable patch neatly kept and showing signs of recent attention; there were also currant and gooseberry bushes, a small orchard of apple and pear trees, a large lawn with substantial borders and a lean-to greenhouse against a brick wall at the distant end. In the southern comer of the plot, discreetly positioned behind a pair of conifers and with its back to the wall, was a small wooden shed.

‘My tool shed,’ said Burholme as he pointed to it, then led the way along the gravel paths.

‘Was it locked at the time of the theft?’ asked Pluke, anticipating the answer.

‘No,’ said Burholme. The door was closed, but I never lock this shed, there’s never been a need. It’s well out of sight behind the house and away from the road. In all the years I have been here, nothing has been stolen. Until now, that is.’

The shed, made of creosoted wood and in good condition, was some twelve feet long by eight feet wide, a substantial building with a reinforced glass window at one side. It was standing on stone blocks, elevated from the ground to keep rising damp at bay.

When Burholme opened the door, it revealed an impressive array of meticulously tidy garden implements, all having obviously been cleaned and oiled before being stored here. They ranged from a metal wheelbarrow with a green frame to a selection of plastic and metal watering cans large and small, by way of a lawnmower, several spades, forks and rakes, hedge clippers, plant pots, seed boxes, hoses and more besides, including garden furniture which had been placed in store until the arrival of the summer weather.

‘We have a description of your spade at the office,’ Pluke said. ‘Stainless steel with a green plastic shaft and T-handle, an expensive sort of plastic, I am told.’

‘That’s right, Mr Pluke. It’s one of a set – the fork, rake and trowels are still there.’

Pluke saw them and nodded. ‘So where was it taken from, Mr Burholme?’

‘Just inside the door,’ Burholme said, indicating a pair of nails which had been hammered into one of the struts. ‘It hung from those nails by the T-handle. I kept it near the doorway because it was often required, even in winter sometimes to dig snow if my shovel was not immediately available.’

‘You’ve searched this shed and your other buildings for it? Indoors and out? I wonder if you could have misplaced it?’

‘I have searched, Mr Pluke. Everywhere. Your officers have been searching for grave-digging tools too, and they didn’t find it in any of my buildings. It’s not been misplaced, I can assure you.’

‘So what do you think has happened to it?’ Pluke asked Burholme.

‘Well, if it hadn’t been for that grave in the quarry, I’d have thought I’d put it somewhere and forgotten about it, lost it in other words. I’d have hunted high and low, as I’ve done in fact, and I suppose I’d have concluded I’d misplaced it. I would hardly suspect anyone of stealing it from such a remote place. But with this grave so near to me, and bearing in mind what you said on your last visit, I think someone could have taken it to dig that unfortunate woman’s grave, and then disposed of it.’

‘That would tie in with the theory that someone entered the quarry with the woman, killed her there and buried her immediately,’ said Pluke. ‘If that scenario is correct, or even partially correct, then the killer would have required a spade and, clearly, your establishment is the only place nearby at which one might be found at such very short notice, probably at night under the cover of darkness.’

‘My thoughts exactly, Mr Pluke.’

‘Now,’ and Pluke turned to his companion, ‘Detective Constable Helston. Have you any questions or observations while we are here?’

‘I wondered if anything else might have been used during the burial, Mr Burholme?’

‘Really? Such as?’ He raised his eyebrows.

‘Well,’ she said, looking at Pluke and wondering whether her question was a silly one, ‘I am assuming the victim was not killed precisely where she was buried. I realise the place of her death has never been determined, but taking my basic argument as a starting point, she must have been carried to the grave, even if it was only for a few yards. Dead bodies are notoriously difficult for one person to carry or move around – some additional assistance, mechanical or human, is generally required. I wondered, therefore, if the killer had also taken your wheelbarrow to enable him to move the body to the graveside.’

‘Well, I doubt it,’ said Burholme. ‘I have just the one barrow, and it is there, exactly where I always keep it. To my knowledge, it has not been used by anyone but myself.’

‘It is a very good question,’ Pluke complimented the girl. ‘We have not yet established exactly where she died, nor do we know how she was transported to the grave. But if the killer did make use of your spade, Mr Burholme, it seems strange that they ignored the wheelbarrow, if indeed transportation of the corpse was required, even over a comparatively short distance.’

‘It is something I cannot answer,’ said Burholme smoothly. ‘All I can say is that there is no sign of the barrow being used. It is not dirty, and it is in its precise position in the shed. If the killer did use it, surely it would have either been left at the graveside, or removed for disposal, as was the spade?’

‘Who can understand the mind of a killer, Mr Burholme? What is logical to sensible, intelligent people like ourselves might not appear sensible to a killer in the frantic moments of trying to dispose of a corpse. A spade is easily portable, even by someone on foot or on a motor cycle or even a pedal cycle. If the girl met her death at the hands of a hiker or tourist or camper, he might have been prepared to take away the spade to conceal its use, but it would not have been so easy to do likewise with a wheelbarrow. Anyone seen walking down the road in the middle of the night with a wheelbarrow would be ripe for suspicion, I would suggest.’

‘Well, I just do not know, Mr Pluke. I have no idea whether or not my barrow was used – all I can say is that a valuable spade is missing.’

‘And that is why we are here. Now, Detective Constable Helston will take a statement from you, for our murder files, and in addition she will complete our crime report – we shall record this as burglary, Mr Burholme.’

‘Burglary, Mr Pluke?’ 

‘Yes, that is the crime. Breaking into your shed – and it was broken into even if the latch was lifted without any other force being used – followed by the theft of your garden spade. Those are the constituents of the crime. You may wish to claim from your insurance in which case a police record of the crime is essential.’

‘Oh, well, I never thought of that.’

‘And we shall have to take possession of the wheelbarrow, Mr Burholme,’ said Pluke.

‘The barrow? But why?’ Pluke did not miss the expression of surprise on Burholme’s face.

‘For forensic examination, Mr Burholme. We have samples of earth from the grave so we can examine the wheel to see if it crossed that land. And we can examine all the surface areas of the barrow, including the edges of the container section, for fibres, Mr Burholme. If the woman was placed in this barrow, there is every possibility that a quantity of fibres from her clothing, or even other minuscule deposits, were left behind. A strand of her hair, for example, a drop of blood from her wound, some flakes of skin, things invisible to the naked eye. If any such deposit is there, we shall find it, and then we shall know whether or not your barrow was used to carry the body. And, of course, we shall keep in touch with you.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose if they came for my spade, they could have taken the barrow as well.’

‘Very likely indeed, Mr Burholme. Now, if you can spare five minutes to make the necessary written statement to Detective Constable Helston, we need not detain you much longer. But there is another small matter before we leave. Photographs. As promised, I have a photograph of the girl found in the quarry.’

With no more ado, Pluke took an envelope from his overcoat pocket, extracted a photograph and passed it to Burholme. The old man looked at Pluke, his features displaying what might be regarded as disbelief that the police would photograph a dead person and show the picture to members of the public. Burholme’s jaw clenched and his eyes grew moist as he accepted the print. 

‘Tell me if you know the woman.’ Pluke spoke with surprising softness as he studied the facial expressions of the old man.

But Burholme shook his head slowly, handing the photograph back to Pluke.

‘Sorry, Mr Pluke, I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her before; she’s certainly not connected with any of my customers or personal contacts.’

‘All right, thanks for checking. And now DC Helston will take that statement.’

As Paula Helston began, using a chair and table in the garden shed, Pluke manhandled the wheelbarrow into the rear of the car. He took care not to touch those places likely to have been held by the anonymous grave-digger. There might be fingerprints on the handles or even on the metal bodywork of the barrow. Having stowed the barrow securely, Pluke waited in the car until DC Helston had finished her work.

On the way back to the office a few minutes later, Pluke asked, ‘Well, Detective Constable Helston, what did you make of that experience?’

‘It was enjoyable, sir, and most useful. It will help enormously in my statement reading. I’ll be able to picture the scene in my mind each time I read something.’

‘That was my intention. Now, you did very well to consider the possible use of that wheelbarrow,’ he complimented her. ‘Any thoughts about it?’

‘Well, sir, if the grave-digger did make use of the barrow, why would he return it to the garden shed? Why get rid of the spade and not the barrow?’

‘An extremely good point, Detective Constable Helston. A very good point indeed. And there is an extension to that question, is there not?’

‘Is there, sir?’

‘If the barrow was used to convey the body, why return it precisely to the place from which it was taken? Especially in darkness as has been suggested – even to find it in darkness was a considerable achievement. From the tidy state of the garden shed, it is clear that Mr Burholme keeps things in a very ordered way, something reflected in the overall condition of his premises. So if the killer used the barrow, why not leave it elsewhere, even near the grave? Why return it precisely to its place in the shed – and Mr Burholme did tell us it was in its normal place?’

‘So you are saying you don’t think it was used, sir?’

‘No, I am not saying that. Think, young lady. What is the other alternative?’

For a few moments, she pondered his question while driving back to the police station, and then asked, ‘You mean that Burholme used it himself, sir?’

‘If it was used to convey the corpse, Detective Constable Helston, then only Burholme would replace it in precisely the place from which it had been taken, wouldn’t he? Everything has its place in that shed. If anyone else had used it, they would not replace it precisely where Burholme wanted it, would they? They’d dump it fairly quickly in the first suitable place in order to get clear of the scene before they were spotted.’

‘It’s funny you should say that, sir, because another thought occurred to me.’

‘Go on,’ he invited.’

‘It’s a thought that occurred to me while we were in the garden, sir. The garden is at the back of the house, walled in except for the entrance we used. You have to walk along the side of the house to gain access; the garden is out of sight from the front of the house, it can’t be seen from the area in front of all those farm buildings, nor can it be seen from the road which leads across the fields and into the farm premises. Not even the high walls are visible from those points, especially at night, and I doubt if the garden would be illuminated. I saw no garden lights.’

‘And you can’t see the garden from the quarry either, can you?’ he smiled at her.

‘No, sir. I think that is significant. I checked deliberately during our journey here, to see exactly what might be visible from various points bearing in mind the sketches and plans we have in the incident room.’

‘So what do you deduce from this?’

‘It seems so unlikely that anyone who killed the girl in or near the quarry would come all this way to the farm to search for a spade and a barrow to bury her – if they’d killed her in that quarry, they’d have got away from the place as fast as they could, even if it meant leaving her unburied.’

‘And what is the logical conclusion to be derived from that scenario?’

‘That she died somewhere on this farm, sir, in the buildings possibly or near one of the agricultural machines, even by accident, and that someone wanted to move her body away from the premises – so they put her in the barrow, took the spade along at the same time, probably under cover of darkness, and, possibly under the cover of a tent, buried her in the quarry.’

‘My thoughts precisely,’ beamed Pluke.

‘So you think Mr Burholme killed her?’ she put to him, wondering why he had never suggested this to the teams when briefing them.