Superstitious Death (15 page)

More specifically, the absentee blonde Dutch au pair Marijka de Jong, had been traced to a new employer in Norwich where she was alive and well; similarly, the current blonde girlfriend of Mr Hebden, the Romeo show-attender from Pasture House Farm, had been found alive and well, as were other women from his recent relationships. None of Mr Burholme’s other customers appeared to have unsavoury romantic secrets and their blonde wives and girlfriends were ail accounted for.

As Pluke gathered the available intelligence, it became very evident that it consisted entirely of negative news, other than the positive sighting in the garage shop. Even that welcome incident did little to further the investigation, other than to support the theory that the girl had walked from Crickledale towards Barughdale and Harman’s Farm. In a sense, it confirmed the Mill Hill sighting by providing further evidence that the same girl had been spotted and that she was indeed the quarry victim.

From this, Pluke drew the conclusion that the girl had hitchhiked alone from Newcastle-upon-Tyne via the A19 on Friday, arriving safely in Crickledale in mid-afternoon where she had spoken to Mrs Cholmondeley. She’d wanted to know the way to Barughdale, by service bus if possible, and upon leaving Mrs Cholmondeley’s had gone to the bus station, on foot in all probability. There, she’d enquired about bus times to Barughdale, using an Ordnance Survey map to clarify her request because her pronunciation of Barughdale had confused local folk, and once she had learned there was no bus in the next couple of hours, she’d decided to walk. Before setting off, she had opted for a snack in the bus station cafeteria. Once on the road, she’d been seen at the garage shop, and later at Mill Hill – then nothing. She had not arrived in Barughdale, only two miles away from Mill Hill, and was not known there, nor was she expected there. It was quite likely that Barughdale had never been her intended destination.

And she had turned up a day and a half later, dead in a grave in a roadside quarry. There was a possibility she had travelled to this country by ferry from Sweden, for Pluke was convinced, because of the mirror in the grave, that either she was of Swedish nationality or the person who had buried her was Swedish.

Pluke knew that such an attractive girl could not disappear from the face of the earth without someone noticing her presence when alive – if she had been on that road after five o’clock on Friday, then someone must have seen her. If no one had seen her, then it suggested she had not walked much further. As he contemplated this scenario, he wondered whether, instead of walking to Harman’s Farm through the main gate and via the road across the fields, she might have taken the footpath over the stile and through the field of red cows. That path did lead towards the quarry and onwards to Harman’s Farm. Being a public footpath, it would be shown on an Ordnance Survey map from which she would have been able to see that it provided a modest short cut to the farm. Pluke now realised he had not, in his TV appearance or his radio and newspaper interviews, specifically asked ramblers, hikers and campers to report sightings of her. But surely they would contact the police if they had viewed his other appeals?

He could only wait until his general appeal was broadcast in tonight’s television programmes and tomorrow’s daily papers. But the more he analysed the situation, the more he concluded that the answer to all his riddles lay within Harman’s Farm and possibly the quarry. His enquiries had placed the victim on the road which ran past the farm entrance – she’d not been seen alive anywhere else apart from those known locations in Crickledale.

Although he dearly wished to interview Eric Burholme, he had to steel himself to wait until the girl’s name was known, along with her reason for coming to the Crickledale area or Harman’s Farm in particular. If Burholme was taking active steps to conceal his past and perhaps some of his more recent behaviour, then Pluke needed as much information as possible before questioning him as a key suspect. He would not let Detective Superintendent Bromley of the Yard realise Burholme was being questioned as a suspect, of course; if challenged, Pluke would say the interrogation was that of a witness, not a suspect.

Pluke turned his attention to the map which adorned the wall of the incident room. It was an inch-to-the-mile Ordnance Survey map of the locality, one used extensively by the teams, and although Pluke had made use of the map during this investigation, he had never studied in detail the footpaths around the quarry. He now saw that if the girl had had this edition of the map – the most recently published – then she would indeed have noticed that the path across the red cow field would provide a short cut.

Pluke went closer to study the map. He found the Crickledale to Barughdale road and with his finger traced its direct route across the moors. He found Mill Hill, named after a derelict mill which had long since been demolished. And then he saw another footpath; it left the road near Mill Hill and led towards the quarry. This was not the one he’d used yesterday. Pluke had not noticed any footpath signs along the road near Mill Hill but that did not detract from the fact that the path existed.

Even if the sign had fallen down or been vandalised, the path was clearly shown and it led diagonally from the road towards the woodland near Harman’s Quarry. Not far from Harman’s Quarry, it joined the major path which Pluke had used, and which Michael Wardle had been using before he’d found the body. By using that path from Mill Hill, the journey to the farm was reduced by at least a mile. So, Montague reasoned, if the girl had been heading for Harman’s Farm on foot and making full use of the map in her possession, then she would surely have taken this route? And if she had taken that route soon after five o’clock, it would explain why no one had seen her on the road beyond that point. She’d have left the road by the time the office workers had travelled this way. He decided to wait until his appeals had been broadcast and the officers had completed today’s enquiries before further considering the importance of this unsigned path – but its presence did mean that more hikers, ramblers and campers would have to be sought and interviewed.

At that point he remembered that a team had gone to interview Michael Wardle in depth. He remained a prime suspect because he had found the body and he had not yet been eliminated. Pluke went over to Inspector Horsley.

‘Mr Horsley,’ he said. ‘The man who found the body, Wardle. Have we had any report from the team who were sent to interview him?’

‘Just a preliminary report, sir, to say that when they arrived at his house this morning, just before noon that was, he was not at home. The teams asked my authority to await his return rather than make a second journey all the way to Portrack-on-Tees. Enquiries from the neighbours did not reveal his whereabouts.’

‘He had no idea our officers were
en
route
?
’

‘Oh, no, they wanted to surprise him. He has no job, so he’s probably out walking. Or shopping.’

‘It was a genuine address then?’ Pluke asked with just a hint of apprehension. 

‘Oh, yes, he gave us his correct name and address when we interviewed him at the scene.’

‘So we await the outcome of their enquiries?’

‘We do, Montague. Why, he’s not really a suspect, is he?’

Pluke then explained his discovery of the unsigned footpath and suggested that any ramblers, hikers and campers using the path on Friday might have seen the girl. He did not lose sight of the fact, however, that few could be expected on that path during a weekday out of the holiday season. Weekends were the busy time for such routes – Wardle had been hiking on a Sunday. But if the girl had been observed on that path, then it was surely an indication she had been making specifically for Harman’s Farm rather than the village of Barughdale.

Having listened to his detectives, Pluke now returned to his own office as the men began to drift outside, refreshed and keen to get on with the remainder of their enquiries. Before settling down, however, he pressed the intercom and asked Horsley to come in and see him.

‘Ah, Mr Horsley,’ he said when the detective inspector came into his office. ‘Out there we have Eric Burholme high in the frame, as a suspect, that is.’

‘That’s right, Montague. It’s logical, the body was found on his land.’

‘I have to ask you to remove his name, at least for the time being,’ said Montague. ‘Please don’t ask me why – I am not allowed to say, except I will tell you that the order has come from somewhere on high. Very high, in fact.’

‘But you will be interviewing him, surely?’

‘I will, Mr Horsley, you can be sure about that. But if anyone asks – anyone on high, that is – then you may tell them I am treating him as a witness, not a suspect.’

‘But I don’t understand, Montague, neither will our teams. In fact, I’ll tell you this. They’ve put money on him, he’s five-to-one at the moment. Favourite in fact, with Wardle at ten-to-one and all others at a hundred.’

‘Favourite for what, Mr Horsley?’

‘Being arrested for murder, Montague.’

‘You must be aware that I have doubts whether or not this is murder, Mr Horsley, consequently I am describing it merely as a suspicious death which is being investigated in a murder-type manner. I do not categorise it as murder.’

‘Well, you know what detectives are. They think they know best. But I will remove Burholme’s name from the frame. I think I will allow the bets to stand.’

‘Yes, that will be acceptable. I should hate the Chief Constable or Detective Superintendent Hart from headquarters to come in and see Burholme’s name so prominently featured in our frame.’

‘Right, leave it with me. Now, while you were out, Inspector Binn from the Yard rang, from the Interpol office. It’s not urgent, he said he’d ring back.’

‘There was no message?’

‘No, none. Nothing important.’

‘I shall ring him,’ said Montague.

‘No, there’s no point, he said he had to pop out and would call back.’

‘Then I shall await his pleasure,’ smiled Montague.

Horsley left to go about the business of running the incident room and, as he left, Wayne Wain entered.

‘Caught you on your own at last, sir,’ he beamed, closing the door and easing a chair forward. ‘So what’s all this about Burholme, sir? You have a theory?’

‘Well, Wayne, it is somewhat complicated, but this is how I see the situation –’

And then the telephone rang.

‘It’s Binn from the Yard,’ said the voice when Montague responded.

Chapter Twelve

‘Detective Inspector Pluke, Crickledale CID,’ Montague announced into the mouthpiece.

‘It’s Binn from the Yard, Mr Pluke,’ repeated the friendly voice from the Interpol office. ‘I have an update for you, although I’m sorry it’s negative. We’ve contacted the Swedish Embassy here in London as well as the police authorities in Sweden, and to their knowledge there are no missing Swedish women who fit the description of your dead woman. Rather like the British police, they don’t maintain records of all women who have left home; they list only those for whom there is special concern, or perhaps a criminal association. They don’t list those who have run away with another’s husband, for example. We have received copies of the photographs of your victim, and her fingerprints, thank you – E-mail is a wonderful device, is it not? – and we have sent copies to the Swedish authorities. But at the moment the simple message is that no girl of that description has been reported missing in Sweden. That’s all I can say.’

‘Would your office have lists of Swedish women who might have travelled to this country in recent weeks?’

‘If one fled the country while being sought for a serious crime – murder, robbery, drugs or whatever – then yes, we might be informed, otherwise, no. To trace the movements of a woman
not
suspected of involvement in any criminal activity, you’d have to contact the respective immigration and emigration offices.’

‘I realise that. Now, since my initial call to you, Inspector Binn, I have some reason to believe our victim came into this country by ferry from Gothenburg, arriving in Newcastle-upon-Tyne as recently as Friday. She appears to have hitch-hiked from there to Crickledale and it seems she was alone.’

‘Yes, your officers have been in touch with me, but if your woman arrived on Friday, presumably on a routine visit of some kind or a holiday, then she will hardly be considered missing at this early stage. Certainly, she would not feature upon our lists – unless, as I said, there was a criminal link of some kind.’

‘Thank you for your help, Inspector Binn. Am I to understand that you will register my continuing interest?’

‘Your enquiry will be logged and marked for regular updating, Mr Pluke, and if our computers later generate a response which is of interest to you, then of course I shall be in touch. I would also ask you to let me know her identity if and when it is established, Mr Pluke. We can then compare the name with our records – who knows what we might turn up?’

‘Yes indeed,’ responded Pluke, wondering if Interpol knew anything about the past life of Eric Burholme. ‘Thank you for your help.’

After replacing his telephone, Pluke looked at Wayne Wain and said, ‘Well, Wayne, no luck with Interpol,’ and then explained the situation. ‘So it looks as if all depends upon our men in Newcastle.’

‘If you have grave suspicions about Eric Burholme, sir, surely it would be wise to bring him in for interview now?’

‘No, Wayne, not yet. That is my decision.’

‘I was thinking it needn’t be a very formal interview, sir, not the sort of grilling you’d give to a real suspect. We could get him to detail his movements on Friday and Saturday without delving too deeply into his background and I think we should search the farmhouse as well, for her fingerprints or any belongings.’

‘If what I suspect about Eric Burholme is correct, Wayne, there will be no evidence of that girl in his house. No fingerprints, no belongings, not a scrap of evidence of her presence. And he will have convincing answers designed to persuade us that he was not known to her, and that she did not come to his house. Remember, we do have his wheelbarrow, though.’

‘You’ve obviously got strong reasons for coming to your conclusion – you were about to explain your theories, sir, before we were interrupted.’

‘I was indeed, Wayne, for I think you should know my reasoning, you being my deputy. Now, this is what I have concluded. I would ask you not to discuss this with anyone else, not at this stage. When the first important piece of evidence –’

And then the telephone rang. Wayne sighed as Pluke picked up the receiver and said, ‘Detective Inspector Pluke, Crickledale CID.’

‘Front office, sir,’ said the voice. ‘I’m holding a call from a man who thinks he might have seen that girl, sir. I can’t put him through to the incident room, the line’s engaged. I wondered if you would speak to the man?’ 

‘Yes of course, put him through.’

Pluke listened as the telephone made noises which indicated a connection was being made, and then a voice said, ‘Hello.’

‘This is Detective Inspector Pluke of Crickledale CID. To whom am I speaking?’

‘The name’s Stanton, Mr Pluke. Jim Stanton from Quenby.’

‘And how can I help you, Mr Stanton?’

‘That lass that’s been found at Harman’s Quarry. Me and the missus might have seen her.’

‘Really?’ Pluke’s eyebrows registered his excitement and interest as he asked the question he felt most important at this stage. ‘When do you think you saw her?’

‘Saturday morning.’

‘Saturday?’ Pluke’s eyebrows rose even higher. ‘What time – roughly, if you can’t be precise?’

‘Half-ten or thereabouts, I’d say. Me and the missus were going to the supermarket in Crickledale – we thought we’d get there in good time. So we took the car and drove from our house, through Barughdale and past Harman’s Farm, then into Crickledale. She was standing on the gate, Mr Pluke, like a kid would do. You know, standing on the second or third bar and looking over the top.’

‘The farm gate, you mean?’

‘Aye, the big five bar gate.’

‘Was she alone?’

‘Aye, she was. Nobody with her. We thought it funny because we know Eric Barholme and reckoned she wasn’t anything to do with him. We thought she might be camping in that quarry of his – lots do, Mr Pluke.’

‘If I despatch one of my officers to talk to you immediately, Mr Stanton, with a photograph of the girl along with her description, perhaps you and your wife could tell us if this is indeed the same person?’

‘Aye, glad to help. We’ll be in for the rest of the evening. We heard about it on the radio just now, BBC Radio Cleveland. On the five o’clock news.’

Pluke then appreciated the speed at which journalists could operate – this item had probably been telephoned into the news room immediately after the conference, to catch the first available slot.

‘I am delighted you heard the item, Mr Stanton. And your address?’

‘Beckside Cottage, it’s right opposite Quenby War Memorial, Mr Fluke. You can’t miss it. We’re five miles from Crickledale, by the way.’

‘I know your village quite well, Mr Stanton, you have a very fine horse trough near the War Memorial, dating to the seventeenth century. A very fine specimen indeed, made of Pennine granite and bearing the arms of the Quenbys.’

‘We’re right proud of that trough. You obviously get around, Mr Pluke. Right, well, I’ll expect your chap when he gets here.’

‘It will be Detective Sergeant Wain,’ Pluke advised him before replacing the handset.

‘A witness, sir?’ Wain had heard only one side of that conversation and so Pluke acquainted him with the necessary facts, adding, ‘This suggests she was seen alive on Saturday, Wayne, by two witnesses. And on Burholme’s land.’

‘She could have slept in his outbuildings that night, or the quarry, without him knowing.’

‘She could indeed, but it does put her on his land on
Saturday
, Wain. It is our first confirmation she was alive on Saturday morning – and on Harman’s Farm.’

‘You want me to go immediately?’

‘I do, Wayne. So we’ll talk later. Isn’t this good news?’

‘This could be just the breakthrough we’ve been looking for,’ and Wayne Wain prepared to leave for Quenby. Minutes later he was
en
route
.

In an attempt to maintain the impetus in the Plukedom, Montague left his office and went through to the now quiet room and told the resident staff the good news; it meant the time chart, now prominently displayed on the wall, could be updated to show that the victim had been alive on Saturday. When the operational detectives rang in or called in for consultations, they could be notified of this development. This was the first positive evidence of the power of local radio. Pluke was justifiably pleased. 

But another call rather jolted him. It came minutes after Wain had left for Quenby. His telephone rang and when he responded, there was a young, tearful woman at the other end. She spoke with a distinctive Tyneside accent.

‘Is that Crickledale CID?’ she sobbed. ‘Is that the people investigating the murder of the young woman in the quarry?’

‘Aye, pet,’ said Pluke, slipping easily into the accent. ‘That’s us.’ He felt it might make the caller feel more comfortable if he lapsed into the local idiom; she was clearly a young woman from Tyneside – someone who had made contact with the Swedish girl perhaps? He added, ‘So how can we help?’

‘Well, I hope I’m not being silly, mind, but well, when I heard about the girl on radio, in the quarry that is, well, she’s just like a nun from the convent.’

‘Nun?’ questioned Pluke, thinking of the virginity of the victim.

‘Aye, man, a nun.’ The caller’s voice had ended its sobbing sounds and was getting more confident by this stage. ‘From the convent in the hills near Ponteland, you know, Sister Bega.’

‘I see. So why do you think the girl in the quarry grave might be Sister Bega?’

‘Whey, man, it sounds just like her, you know. Thirties, blonde bobbed hair, blue blouse, jeans, not much with her except a shoulder bag… I met her on a retreat I went on, she was lovely, chatty, friendly like and she said she was ganning down to Crickledale this week,’ and at this stage, the girl resumed her loud sobbing.

‘And who are you?’ Pluke spoke very gently.

‘Me? Why do you want to know my name?’

‘One of our officers will have to come and talk to you –’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t do that, man, no, never, not the polis…’ and the line went dead.

Responding immediately, Pluke pressed 1471 to be informed of the number from which that call came; he was given the number, checked it and discovered it was a telephone kiosk in the suburbs of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. But at least he had a lead – a nun called Bega from a convent near Ponteland. A nun who had talked about a visit to Crickledale. But he did not have a name for the convent nor its precise address. In an attempt to determine that, he could ring either Northumbria police or British Telecom’s Talking Pages.

He selected the latter at this juncture and after checking the list of religious organisations in the area, was informed of the existence of the Convent of Our Lady of the Hill, with an address near Ponteland. It was the only one in that area, and he was provided with its telephone number. Now, he was faced with two choices – either he could drive up to Northumberland, a journey of about two hours from Crickledale, and then knock on the door, an action that would surely alarm the sisters in residence, or he could ring and make initial enquiries, even if the call did similarly alarm and upset the residents of the convent. Bearing in mind the shortage of official funds, he opted for the latter.

‘Our Lady of the Hill Convent,’ said a gentle voice when his call was connected.

‘My name is Detective Inspector Montague Pluke,’ he began in a formal and informative manner. ‘I am the officer in charge of the Criminal Investigation Department at Crickledale in North Yorkshire.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the voice. ‘Is something wrong, officer?’

‘That is something I cannot be sure about until I have had words with someone in authority,’ he continued in a stem, formal voice.

‘I am the duty sister for this evening.’ The voice had now hardened slightly. ‘I deal with everything in the absence of Reverend Mother, she is in London at the moment, at a conference.’

‘Ah, well, thank you. I think I understand, sister. And your name is… ?’

‘Sister Agnes,’ she said, now with a somewhat curt tone to her voice.

‘Thank you. Well, Sister Agnes, I am ringing to ask if you have a nun within your establishment who is known as Sister Bega.’

‘Yes, we do,’ and there was a starchiness to her voice by this time.

‘Is she with you at this moment?’ asked Pluke.

‘No, she is not. Might I ask why you are asking all these questions, Mr Pluke? It will soon be time for us to gather in chapel, you see, before our supper, before we go to bed…’

‘Do you know where she is?’ persisted Pluke.

‘She was given leave, Mr Pluke. She is enjoying a short break from the convent, a few days, no more than a week. It is not unusual.’

‘And where has she gone? Is that something you can tell me?’

‘We do not pry into our sisters’ private lives, Mr Pluke, we accord them our confidence in the belief they will not abuse the permitted relaxations.’

‘So you don’t ask where they are going or why?’

‘Not any longer, Mr Pluke. In the past we exercised extremely strict control over our young nuns, but not anymore. In these enlightened times, discipline is much more relaxed, discipline comes from within, not without. It is a personal matter now. Our nuns are permitted a break from here, two weeks each year, and we do not impose conditions, we do not ask them to specify their destinations for example, although I must say that most like to spend time with their families.’