‘Do you mind? I’m still trying to digest my breakfast.’ Barnaby reached out for the report, flicking a page over. He read for a few more moments then put it down and opened a large envelope which had been resting against a silver-framed photograph of his wife and daughter. He drew out several large black-and-white prints and spread them over his desk top.
‘I don’t like the look of this, Troy.’
Who would? thought Sergeant Troy, staring at the bulging, terrified eyes, what remained of the goulashed cheeks, and a thrusting, blackened tongue also pretty well gnawed on. Reminded him of those weird gargoyles you saw on old churches. Either them or Maureen’s mother.
‘Apparently,’ Barnaby tapped the PM report, ‘there was no other bruising. And no skin, hair or fibres under the nails.’
‘So he didn’t fight back.’
‘Everyone fights back, given the chance. But here, once the wire was round his neck, this man didn’t have a chance.’
‘Blimey. Strong-arm stuff.’
‘Yes. Leathers was in his early sixties. Not young but hardly frail or elderly. To strangle the life out of someone in this specific manner takes a lot of muscular strength. Plus, I would think, a certain amount of know-how.’
‘You think he’s done it before, chief?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. But it’s certainly not a method one finds in your common or garden domestic.’
‘Perhaps he’s been practising on a melon.’
‘What?’
‘Like the killer in the Day of the Jackal.’
Barnaby closed his eyes briefly, placed the two centre fingers of his left hand on his forehead and drew a deep breath. Then he gathered up the photographs.
‘Get these displayed in the incident room. They’re setting up in four one nine on the ground floor. First briefing two thirty, by which time we should have something from SOCO.’
‘Sir.’
‘And get me a Mars bar while you’re at it.’
By the time DCI Barnaby’s team had gathered for their briefing, Dr Jim Mahoney, Charlie Leathers’ GP, had visited the morgue at Stoke Mandeville hospital and positively identified his patient’s body. SOCO had also divvied up their preliminary conclusions.
Barnaby’s team included eight CID officers, one of whom was the delectable Sergeant Brierley, after whom Troy had hopelessly lusted from the moment, seven years earlier, when he had first clapped eyes on her. And twelve uniformed coppers. Less than half the strength the DCI would have liked but that was nothing new.
‘Scene of Crime report,’ Barnaby waved it in the air. ‘Copies available. Make yourselves familiar. He was killed by a piece of wire, possibly already looped, slipped over the head from behind and pulled tight. Dense leaf mould underfoot means we’ve no impression clear enough to be of use, even if the wildlife hadn’t been scuffing around. A torch was found a few feet from the body with Leathers’ fingerprints.’
‘Have we got anything at all on him, sir?’ asked Detective Inspector ‘Happy’ Carson, a lugubrious man, newly made up in rank and longing to shine.
‘Not much at this stage. He seems to have been an unpleasant piece of work. Bullied his wife. His daughter’s on record as saying she would have done the job herself given half the chance.’
‘And didn’t something happen to his dog?’ asked Sergeant Brierley. ‘I heard someone talking in the canteen.’
‘That’s right. Badly kicked about and thrown into the river.’
‘Bastard,’ said Sergeant Troy, who loved dogs. There were several murmurs of agreement. ‘By the bloke who did the killing?’
‘Presumably.’
‘Doesn’t this indicate whoever it was is still around, sir?’ asked Carson. ‘That it’s someone the dog would recognise. And react to.’
‘A good point.’ DCI Barnaby liked to encourage quick thinkers. Unlike many senior officers, he did not assume that anyone holding a rank junior to his own would automatically be less intelligent.
‘Why didn’t it just run away?’ asked a young uniformed constable. More than one incredulous face turned in his direction.
‘You don’t know much about dogs, do you, Phillips?’ Sergeant Troy spoke coldly. Constable Phillips blushed.
‘We can see from the postmortem that he probably spent some time in a pub the night he died. Fingers crossed it was his local. That should save a bit of legwork. Two of you could start your house-to-house there. It’s not a large village, which is all to the good. I want every bit of gossip you can pick up. Everything everyone knows or thinks they know about Charlie Leathers. Work, life - as far back as you can go - hobbies, family. Who saw him on the night he died. Any unusual behaviour leading up to that time. Nothing, nothing is too trivial. I shall be talking to his widow myself. Next briefing tomorrow, nine a.m., and I don’t mean five past. Right, off you go.’
The press had already picked up during their daily siftings through the Police Public Relations Office that a dead man had been found in a wood in Ferne Basset. Discovering the following day the man’s name and manner of his death brought them out in force.
Newspaper reporters and cameramen vied with reporters and cameramen from the local television news. They all asked the same questions, received the same answers and generally got in each other’s way.
Any television interviews took place in front of the Fainlights’ amazing house. Not that it had any relevance to the crime, as far as anyone knew. It was just that it was too wonderful not to use. The second most attractive backdrop was the forecourt of the Red Lion, the deceased’s favourite watering hole. The landlord and several habitués hung around by tubs of drooping pansies hoping to be asked to hold forth. The ones who did were bitterly disappointed to find themselves either missing altogether or snipped down to a few unflattering seconds on the local evening news. Unfortunately the really important interviews - those with the victim’s immediate family - were unobtainable.
No sooner had this particular circus left town than the police arrived for the house-to-house and the questions started all over again. Few people really minded. The ones who did had ignored the press and felt superior, saying how sad it was that some people would do anything to get themselves noticed.
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby and Sergeant Troy were a little ahead of their support team. Plain clothes and an unmarked car (the chief’s own Vauxhall Astra) meant they could slide discreetly to a stop at the end of Tall Trees Lane unmolested. Barnaby, pausing only to admire the ravishing mauve hibiscus, walked briskly up the path to the Leathers’ bungalow and rapped on the door. It was immediately flung open.
‘What did I tell you buggers? She’s not talking to anyone. Now piss off before I call the police.’
‘You must be Mrs Leathers’ daughter.’ Barnaby produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. And this is Sergeant Troy.’
Troy flashed his credentials and a reassuring smile.
‘Sorry. I’ve had reporters on the doorstep all morning.’ She stepped back to let them in. ‘How’s she supposed to rest?’
‘I’m afraid we do need to disturb your mother, Miss Leathers.’
‘Mrs Grantham. Pauline. She won’t mind that. You’ve got your job to do.’
Pauline led the way into the snug kitchen. Mrs Leathers was sitting in a rocker by the Rayburn drinking a cup of tea. She had her feet up and a shawl round her shoulders.
‘It’s the police, Mum.’
‘Ohh ...’
‘Please, don’t get up, Mrs Leathers. May I ...?’ Barnaby indicated a shabby fireside chair and eased it a little closer to the warm.
‘Yes, of course. Sit where you feel comfortable.’
Sergeant Troy took a wheelback to the table, turning a little away from the couple by the hearth. Unobtrusively he produced his biro and a notebook, laying them on the green and white gingham cloth.