Superstitious Death (3 page)

From his vantage point, Pluke could see what appeared to be a puncture wound in her right temple. It was roughly circular in shape, about the size of a little fingernail and marked by a tiny patch of dried blood, its edges softened with dampness. Very little blood had apparently escaped to mark her skin although one or two particles of earth were adhering to the wound. A lack of blood was sometimes a feature of deep and dangerous puncture wounds and he did not lose sight of the fact that this could have been caused by a large-calibre bullet. If so, it did not appear to have made an exit wound.

‘From external appearances, it does seem she died from that wound, Wayne,’ Pluke said softly. ‘And very recently too.’

‘It is too early to speculate about the precise cause of death.’ Wayne exercised all the necessary cautions. ‘We must await the post-mortem.’

‘You’re absolutely right of course, Wayne,’ Pluke smiled. ‘Now, is there any sign of a digging implement or the murder weapon? Or other people hanging about the scene?’

‘The surrounding area has not been thoroughly searched yet, sir,’ PC Singleton told him. ‘I did a brief visual examination, eyes only, sir, but did not see any weapons or tools, and there was no one here when I arrived. Apart from Mr Wardle, that is.’

‘Right,’ said Pluke. ‘I think we had better not disturb anything until the forensic pathologist has made his examination, then we’d better call in the Task Force to undertake a fingertip search of the scene. The Task Force is standing by, I am told. Call Control and have them sent here, will you, Wayne? While I’m waiting, I can speak to Mr Wardle. Introduce me to him, would you, PC Singleton?’

Michael Wardle was a slender man in his mid-fifties with a balding head of dark brown hair, a small dark moustache and gold-rimmed spectacles. With a healthy tanned face and standing about five feet nine inches tall, he was dressed in hiking gear – light brown boots, corduroy trousers, a multi-coloured sweater – and he carried a small haversack containing his provisions for the day. His dog, Sam, was a black and white border collie, and it lay at his feet, patient and well-behaved.

‘Good morning, Mr Wardle,’ Pluke greeted him after the introduction. ‘Thank you for being so patient on our behalf.’

‘I am just passing through. I am not restricted to a particularly tight schedule so time is not too important.’ Wardle’s smile revealed his nervousness. ‘It was such a shock, dreadful… but if I can help at all…’

‘The person who finds a dead body is always of help in our enquiries,’ returned Pluke. ‘So what time did you make this awful discovery?’

‘About three-quarters of an hour ago, perhaps. I reported it immediately.’

‘Good, I am delighted no time was wasted. Now, if you would be so kind, can you tell me how you came to find this unfortunate young lady?’

‘Well, it was pure chance, really. Sam, that’s my dog, found her, not me. I went into the trees, the call of nature you understand, and while I was there Sam wandered off. He found his way into the old quarry, it’s only a few yards behind the copse of trees and there is a gentle descent into the floor of the quarry, not a vertical cliff face as there is at the other side. Anyway, Sam began to dig and bark… I went to see what he was doing and, well, that’s it. I saw the young woman he’d partially uncovered… A terrible shock, Inspector Pluke, and I touched her. She was cold… buried like that… I made Sam sit as I brushed a bit of earth away from her, just to be sure it was a real woman and not a dummy or a wax head. I carry a mobile telephone, as it happens, in case I fall and break a leg or get delayed for any reason… So I rang the police, 999. That’s all I can tell you… What an awful shock, inspector… dreadful…’

Each time the dog’s name was mentioned, it pricked its ears and thumped its tail on the ground, but never moved from its master’s side. A well-trained animal, Pluke thought, but it was showing no undue distress in the presence of violent death. Indeed, it was behaving perfectly normally. Pluke was acutely aware of stories of dogs seeing ghosts or being afraid to enter haunted places, or howling and whining in the presence of sudden or violent death. But this dog was showing none of those signs.

‘I am obliged to you for your courtesy in ringing us.’ Pluke’s appreciation was genuine. ‘Now, can you show me the precise route you used to reach the grave? PC Singleton has shown me but I would like you to show me too. I need to know exactly where you placed your feet, and if you can bear it, I would like you to show me how you brushed away the dirt from her face…’

‘Must I do that again?’

‘It would be of immense help to us,’ said Pluke.

It was with some reluctance that the hiker retraced his steps and repeated his actions, but his acquiescence did please Pluke who noted his route, signified his approval and thanked Mr Wardle for his courage.

‘Now,’ continued Pluke, ‘I will need your full name and home address, and something to prove your identity. Then we shall need a formal written statement from you. My sergeant will attend to that, and once that is over, I need not detain you any longer. We might want to talk to you at length in due course, just to clarify any further points that might arise. You’re just passing through, you said?’

Wardle provided Pluke with his full name and address – Michael John Wardle, 77 Wolverdale Avenue, Parkland Estate, Portrack-on-Tees, adding, ‘I was made redundant – I was a process worker in the chemical industry, Imperial Chemicals. Now I occupy my time walking. I got the bus to the road end this morning, and will catch one home this evening. In the meantime, I hope to do about twenty miles. I’m doing all the footpaths in North Yorkshire, one by one. I need to achieve something in my dotage!’

‘Far more satisfying than sitting at home watching television!’ nodded Pluke.

‘I never expected to find a dead body, though. What a shock! I’m not used to such dramas. I prefer to look for interesting examples of wildlife. I do try to identify the birds I see…’

‘Clearly a man of the countryside! Now, I must ask you this – is the young lady known to you?’

‘Good heavens no! I’ve never seen her before, ever.’

‘You’ve done this walk before?’

‘A long time ago, fifteen years perhaps. With a party from our ramblers’ club. The Tees Valley Ramblers.’

‘And you were alone on this occasion?’

‘Yes, most of my friends are still holding on to their jobs. I join them at weekends for organised rambles.’

‘You are not married then?’

‘No, I never found anyone who could make me happy. Except my dog.’

‘Well, Mr Wardle, before I hand you over to Detective Sergeant Wain, I need to complete one unpleasant task,’ Pluke told him.

‘Unpleasant?’

‘I need to search your haversack, Mr Wardle.’

‘Am I under suspicion?’ A look of horror crossed his face.

‘In the case of a suspected murder, Mr Wardle, everyone is under suspicion until formally eliminated. I have to see if there is anything in your belongings which might have been used to either kill the woman or bury her.’

‘Good heavens… I mean to say… I’m not sure I like this…’

‘If there is nothing in your bag, Mr Wardle, it would indicate you are not under suspicion.’

‘Well, of course I am not guilty… by all means search my haversack!’ and he swung it from his back and held it out for the detectives to take. Wayne Wain carried out a swift but thorough search before saying to Pluke, ‘Nothing incriminating, sir. Food, drink, extra socks, a bird book and a map.’

He returned it to its relieved owner.

‘That pleases me immensely, Mr Wardle. So, Detective Sergeant Wain, can you take Mr Wardle to our car and obtain a statement?’

‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Wayne, indicating the car to Wardle. Mr Wardle, with his obedient dog at his heels, walked towards the knot of police vehicles at the quarry entrance as Pluke turned to PC Singleton.

‘So, PC Singleton, you were the first to meet that man. What do you make of him?’ asked Pluke.

‘He seems very genuine to me,’ returned the constable.

‘You are new to this kind of major enquiry?’ asked Pluke.

‘I’ve never been on a murder enquiry before, sir.’

‘Then I hope you can learn from this experience. The first thing to appreciate is that I have not yet confirmed this is a murder enquiry but in spite of that, we shall mount a murder-type investigation. The next thing to learn is that the person who finds the body is automatically a prime suspect, an important fact which the investigating officer must bear in mind. We shall examine Mr Wardle’s life, movements, personal friends and contacts in very great detail. I must admit he could have killed her – a middle-aged man not married… his sex life must inevitably be of interest to us – but before we tear his life apart, we need to have the scene photographed as it is now in advance of the arrival of our forensic pathologist. Can you call Sergeant Tabler and ask him to come here? He’s waiting at the entrance.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Before you go, PC Singleton, note the condition of the grave. At the moment, it is virtually as it was discovered. Once the forensic pathologist arrives, he will eventually brush away the remaining earth. He will change the appearance of the grave and of its sad occupant. So I need to have everything recorded on film as we see it at this very moment. Now, as you were the first police officer to arrive at the scene, will you inform the coroner on my behalf? Do it through the control room, give him my compliments and ask if he will approve a post-mortem examination.’

And so began Detective Inspector Pluke’s formal murder-type investigation.

Chapter Three

As Pluke awaited the pathologist, Wayne Wain returned, having interviewed Michael Wardle and released him.

‘Well, Wayne, what do you think of Mr Wardle?’ asked Pluke.

‘An honest man, I believe, sir. An ordinary fellow who happened to find a person dead in suspicious circumstances. It happens all the time – lots of murder victims and suicides are found by ordinary people.’

‘He’s not a suspect, you feel?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. But I do appreciate his background will have to be researched.’

‘That’s a good job for one of our incident room teams when we assemble them. Now, PC Singleton,’ and Pluke addressed the constable. ‘I understand this quarry is owned by Eric Burholme, who also owns the adjoining farm. He was in Crickledale when I left to drive here, so he is not aware of our presence or the reason for all this unseemly activity on his land. Can I ask you to inform him when he does return?’

‘He is back, sir, just. He drove in minutes ago. I explained matters to him and assured him we’d keep him informed of developments. He raised no objections to our presence and said he would be around the premises all day if we wanted to talk to him. This farm is on my beat, sir, as you know; I am known to him.’

‘Yes, indeed. So what do you know of Mr Burholme?’

‘Not a great deal, sir, he keeps himself very much to himself, although he is widely known as a philanthropist, a regular supporter of charities and good causes.’

‘I believe so,’ nodded Pluke.

The constable continued, ‘Although he runs a thriving farm machinery hire business, he’s not one for unnecessary socialising. Because he doesn’t keep livestock, I rarely have to visit his farm. He’s lived here a long time, sir, he came to the area long before I was posted here. Before I was born, in fact.’

‘And he lost his wife, I understand,’ commented Pluke. ‘He lives alone?’

‘Yes, sir. She died some years ago, before I was posted here, and there is no new wife or partner. He is well regarded locally, sir, everyone agrees he is a very nice man and I know nothing against him. He’s never given me cause for concern.’

‘And local gossip?’

‘I’ve never heard the local farmers criticise him or gossip about him. He’s always fair in his dealings with them, never gives them reason to complain and always pays his bills on time. If there is gossip, it’s only because he lives alone and never has people in for a meal or a party. Although he is very generous, he is a natural loner, sir, but none the worse for that. I reckon his business keeps him busy round the clock. His life is his work, in other words.’

‘That’s a fair assessment to start our investigation.’ Pluke thanked the constable, then turned to Wayne Wain. ‘I do remember his wife dying, Wayne, although I cannot recall the precise details. There was something strange about her funeral… it’ll come to me before long. Now, in spite of the universal high regard for Mr Burholme, we shall have to interview him in depth but I prefer not to do so just yet. Ah, I see our forensic expert is now arriving.’

A smart red Rover 820 Si had turned off the road and was cruising slowly towards the farm; it turned along the track which led into the quarry and eventually halted near the assembled police vehicles. From it emerged Dr Simon Meredith, a slightly built individual with half-moon spectacles, thinning fair hair and a matching moustache. Clutching a large black case, he walked towards Pluke, instantly recognisable in his heavy overcoat, spats, blue bow tie and blue-banded panama.

‘Good morning, Mr Pluke,’ the pathologist greeted him. ‘So what have we this time?’

Standing with the grave and its occupant in view, Pluke explained and provided an outline of what had transpired since the discovery. Meredith nodded, noting that some photographs had been taken, and that the scene had been subjected to some disturbance and contamination, however minor it might be.

‘Right,’ said Meredith. ‘I will begin immediately. Perhaps your photographers will accompany me to record my examination?’

Under Pluke’s guidance, Meredith approached the grave by using precisely the same route as Michael Wardle and the others. After placing his case carefully on the ground, he stood for a few moments to silently absorb the macabre scene, then produced a small plastic sheet from his case, spread it on the ground beside the grave and knelt upon it. Gently, he touched the dead woman’s face, fingered a pinch of soil and then began to remove the remaining earth. For this he used a small brush and shovel; after lifting aside the turves which remained, he slowly removed the layers of soil, placing some samples in plastic bags and casting the unwanted earth some distance away. The soil was fairly dry, the outcome of a few weeks without rain – the thundery rain of the weekend had not penetrated the ground to any depth, having run from the surface to disappear down natural drains.

In time, the girl was completely uncovered; she lay on her back with her legs straight before her and her arms down the sides of her body, squeezed between her torso and the sides of her shallow makeshift grave. Meredith ordered photographs at this stage, showing her clothing and the position in which she lay. Then he examined her injures, initially without touching them.

‘Mr Pluke,’ he called to Montague. ‘First, note the distinct lack of decomposition and then the puncture wound in her right temple. It is rather like the wound one would expect from a captive bolt humane killer on a pig, is it not? There is very little blood, however, and that suggests the wound is a very deep one. So what on earth caused it, Mr Pluke? Your guess is as good as mine at this moment but even without the benefit of a postmortem, I would guess it caused her death.’

‘So you feel this is murder followed by a crude and unsuccessful attempt to dispose of the body?’ invited Pluke.

‘That is a very distinct possibility, Mr Pluke.’ 

‘It is a starter theory,’ Pluke smiled. ‘I think it is good enough for me to launch a murder-type enquiry and set up an incident room.’

‘I would think so, but I need to examine that wound in laboratory conditions. It is a most peculiar wound, Mr Pluke, and we must not lose sight of the fact that it could be accidental. It doesn’t look like a bullet wound to me.’

‘And it cannot be self-inflicted,’ suggested Pluke. ‘The instrument is not here, not with the body.’

‘I agree with that. Now, let’s consider her clothing. Blue denim jeans, white trainer shoes, white socks, a pale blue blouse with short sleeves. Inexpensive, I’d say, mass market stuff, not designer clothing. Once she’s undressed, I can give you the manufacturers’ names so you can check the retail outlets. No jewellery around her neck, no ear-rings, no spectacles, but there is a watch on her left wrist…’ and he lifted that arm from its resting place. As he did so, the earth around it fell away and revealed a small pink plastic-framed hand mirror, the sort a young girl might use in her bedroom. It had been lying close to the fingers of her left hand.

‘A watch,’ continued Meredith, ‘still functioning, a Timex – inexpensive, I would say, in keeping with her clothing – plastic strap. And this mirror. Pink plastic frame and handle, round glass about three inches in diameter, cheaply manufactured… Would you think the mirror is relevant, Mr Pluke, or has it been lost by a child on a picnic here and got mixed up in the earth which was eventually used to fill the grave?’

‘It could be very relevant,’ said Pluke with due solemnity. ‘It must be retained.’

‘Really? What do you think is its relevance? People do have picnics here, don’t they? Someone could have lost it. This quarry is beside a popular public footpath.’

‘People rambling and hiking do pass by this way on a regular basis,’ admitted Pluke. ‘I believe the route is one of the most popular in this area and I am sure some will enjoy picnics among those trees, or even down here in the quarry, or at least around the edge of the quarry.’

‘Quite, so we should not attach too much importance to that mirror. I do not want it to deflect us or mislead us in our enquiries. We could waste hours examining the mirror and trying to discover its source when it may have no relevance whatsoever. It might have been lost by a camper.’

‘It was found beside the body, Mr Meredith, and as the investigating officer I consider that to be of some importance. Perhaps you know that in some cultures, even today, it is customary to place objects in the grave, objects which might be useful in one’s long and uncertain journey to the Hereafter.’

‘I don’t think that is done in any civilised society, Mr Pluke. But a mirror? Why would a mirror be relevant? This is England, remember, not a primitive country where logical things like food, tools and travel requirements are buried with the dead for their journeys into eternity! And I would venture to suggest that this girl is English – her clothing, her watch and her general appearance would suggest that.’

‘Nothing is impossible, Mr Meredith – but even if she is English, her killer might not be. Furthermore, the person who buried her might not be English either – the killer might have had an accomplice, and either of them could be foreign. That is why the mirror is relevant, even in England.’

‘I will note what you say, Mr Pluke. The presence of the mirror will be recorded. Now, have we anything else down here?’

Before asking for assistance in lifting the body from the grave, he removed the loose earth which had fallen down around it, commenting, ‘This is a very shallow grave, Mr Pluke, because the ground below the body is solid rock. Chummy would not have known that when he started to dig. There is every possibility he wanted a deeper grave but circumstances appear to have defeated him. You’ll also note that it is a well-dug grave; it has been cleanly cut with a spade, not scraped out of the earth with stones or even bare hands. Note the clean cuts – and it was cut to the correct size as well. I’d say this grave was well planned and executed, Mr Pluke.’

‘I would agree with that, Mr Meredith,’ acknowledged Pluke.

‘I will examine her clothing in more detail when I get her to the lab but I do note it is damp,’ continued Meredith. ‘And I will make a closer examination of her injury, internal as well as external. It might have occurred after death, although the presence of blood would indicate otherwise. She might have been exposed to rain around the time of death too, the damp clothing and spread of blood around the wound suggest that. The good state of preservation of the body means she has not been dead very long and has not been buried very long. A very interesting case.’

Pluke said, ‘I heed what you say, but in addition, I would like you to note the orientation of the grave, Mr Meredith. East to west. The head is towards the west, the feet towards the east.’

‘Is that significant as well?’ asked Meredith, who had not regarded the position of the grave as having any particular relevance.

‘That, the presence of the mirror and the careful digging of the grave combine to make me believe the grave was intended to be permanent,’ said Pluke. ‘The person who buried her did not believe she would be discovered. It has long been the practice in many cultures to orientate graves on an east to west axis. I believe the person who dug this grave exercised some thought in its preparation with a degree of permanence in mind, although I was initially puzzled by the fact it is so shallow. That question has now been answered – it has a base of solid rock – but its position so close to a busy footpath means it could be very easily discovered. I fear there are some contradictions here, Mr Meredith.’

‘Well, you are the investigating officer. But could the orientation of the grave have happened by pure chance, Mr Pluke?’

‘In the investigation of a murder, Mr Meredith, nothing can be assumed to be the outcome of pure chance. Not even cheap plastic-framed mirrors.’

‘Touché
!’ grinned the pathologist. ‘Now I must remove her from the grave – I need to turn her over to see if there are any other wounds, a bullet in her back perhaps, or a knife wound. Your men can help me, can they?’

‘Of course,’ said Pluke. ‘You’ll carry her feet first from the grave? All corpses should be carried feet first.’ 

‘I do know your little quirks, Detective Inspector Pluke,’ beamed Meredith. ‘And I can see no reason to contradict your wishes. So, yes, feet first as always.’

Pluke then called PC Singleton and Wayne Wain to render the necessary assistance. The victim was lifted carefully from her grave and placed face down on a large plastic sheet produced from the pathologist’s case. After a careful examination, albeit without removing any of her clothes, he concluded there were no further wounds on her body and there was no other helpful evidence in the earth which had contained her. Meredith then made a cursory search of the pockets of her jeans but found only a small white handkerchief. There was nothing which would identify her, no wallet, diary, or other written matter.

‘She has very few personal belongings, Mr Pluke, which does not surprise me. The killer has done his best to remove identifiable items, I suggest. I think we can remove her to my laboratory now,’ said Meredith. ‘The coroner has been informed, I presume? And have we the necessary transport?’

‘Yes,’ said PC Singleton. ‘I have notified the coroner and he ordered a post-mortem. The shell has arrived too, Mr Meredith. PC Browning is the driver, he’ll act as coroner’s officer.’

The brown plastic coffin-shaped receptacle known as the shell was brought from an unmarked blue van and the remains of the once beautiful girl were placed inside, along with the plastic mirror and the samples of soil secured by Meredith.