‘That was a solicitor from St Paul’s in Bristol. He wants a conference with me about an Appeal that’s coming up, for a woman who was convicted of murder a year ago.’
Moira looked at him with admiration in her eyes. She had more than a soft spot for her employer; it was verging on hero worship.
‘St Paul’s? That’s a pretty run-down area of Bristol, isn’t it? Not far from the city centre.’
Richard gave her one of his impish grins. ‘So probably plenty of criminal work for lawyers there! Though for all I know, the appellant might live in a grand mansion on Clifton Down.’
Her brow furrowed in thought. ‘Appellant? That’s what they call the person who wants to appeal, is it?’
‘Yes, though very few succeed. In most cases, the Appeal is made on the grounds that there was some procedural fault in the original trial or investigation. It’s rare for the actual evidence to be challenged at this late stage, but it must be something to do with that or they wouldn’t be asking me to look at it.’
‘Will the Appeal be in Bristol?’ asked Moira hopefully, thinking of another chance to tag along to listen.
He shook his head. ‘No, they’re all heard in London, at the Court of Criminal Appeal. That’s in the Royal Courts of Justice, in the Strand.’
As Richard left the room, she sighed wistfully, aware that there was no chance of going to London with him. That was something reserved for Angela Bray, who had recently accompanied him there in connection with a War Office case that they had been involved in. She went back to the kitchen to wash a salad for the doctors’ lunch, feeling vaguely dissatisfied with the way her life was passing so quickly. Though she was eternally grateful for Garth House having lifted her from her chronic depression after the death of her husband, she felt that though having passed thirty, there was still plenty she could achieve — but she had no idea in what direction, though since coming here to work, her interest in the workings of the legal system had increased.
Meanwhile, Richard had gone off to look at the microscope slides made by Sian from the sliver of bone he had taken from the Borth Body. They had taken longer than usual to prepare, as his technician had reported that the ‘marble bone’ had been very reluctant to soften up sufficiently for it to be cut on her microtome, a device like a very accurate bacon-slicer that could deliver transparently-thin wafers of tissue.
A few glances at the pink slivers on glass slides, together with a quick check in a pathology manual, were enough to confirm that it was indeed Albers-Schonberg disease, with its dense overgrowth of calcium and alteration of the cells in the bone. He made a note about it in the file that they kept on every one of their cases, then leaned back in his chair and pondered what might be the reason for the lawyer from Middleton, Bailey and Bailey wanting to talk to him next day. Then his wandering thoughts drifted to the West Wales coast, as he wondered if any progress was being made with the murder investigation — and whether he would ever hear any more about it.
In Borth that day, the incident room was being closed down, as no one could find any more work for it to do.
In the two weeks since the body was discovered, virtually every house for five miles around had been visited by the police, a substantial task for so few officers. Absolutely nothing had come of these enquiries, which was hardly surprising given the years that had elapsed — especially as the actual number of those years was unknown, other than a vague guess by Richard Pryor that a decade might be a reasonable time-span. Added to this was the lack of any physical description, other than that the victim was of average height and had a tattoo on his right upper arm. Detective Superintendent Paul Vickers had already returned to ‘The Smoke’, rejoicing at his escape from deepest Cardiganshire and his sergeant was itching to follow him.
‘It’s a waste of time, I’m afraid,’ he said to Meirion, as they gathered up the last of their notes and made for the Wolseley that would take them back to police HQ in Aberystwyth. ‘There’s nothing I can do here that you can’t do better, with local knowledge. I agree with my guv’nor that the answer to this one is miles away from here — not that I think you’re ever going to know after all this time.’
As they drove through the rain-soaked countryside, the local DI had to agree with him.
‘My gut feeling is that this is a wartime job. All sorts of damn queer things went on then — and in the couple of years after it finished. Lots of blokes knocking about the country in the army, plenty of black-market fiddles and other rackets.’
Howard Squires, happy to be getting back to his home and family in Tooting, was inclined to agree. ‘We’ll keep in touch and if anything turns up at this end, we can come straight back. But I doubt you’ll strike lucky having drawn a total blank so far.’
He was wrong, but it would be some time before this became apparent.
Richard did two post-mortems at the dingy mortuary in the council yard at Chepstow, before going on to Bristol.
One was a sudden death from coronary heart disease, the other more unusual, in that it was a fatal accident on a farm near Caldicot. Farms were dangerous places, mainly due to overturned tractors and falls from barns and hayricks, but this was unusual in that a worker had crawled into the outlet of a grain silo to clear a blockage, when tons of barley had suddenly fallen and suffocated him. Richard drove pensively the couple of miles to the ferry ramp at Beachley, thinking of how death could descend so abruptly even on a peaceful farm, just as harshly as on a battlefield. He never allowed such tragedies that he saw virtually every day to weigh too heavily on his mind, otherwise he would be unable to function. However, he tried to avoid the brashness of some of his colleagues who treated corpses with a boisterous nonchalance that he felt was an overreaction to a gruesome profession. Richard had noticed the same attitude in some mortuary attendants, policemen and even undertakers, who tended to refer to ‘stiffs’ and ‘meat wagons’, and talk and laugh with nervous exuberance to compensate for the macabre surroundings.
His pensive mood was lightened by the short voyage across the swirling stretch of the River Severn to Aust, the scenery bright in the mid-morning air, now that last night’s rain had stopped. By contrast, as he drove the last few miles into Bristol, he saw again the rapid building activity that was both extending the city’s limits and restoring the gaps left by the extensive wartime bomb damage. Some of the new structures were ugly, unimaginative boxes, thrown up quickly and cheaply from designs apparently created by architects who could only draw rectangles with their pencil and ruler.
Richard’s destination was St Paul’s, an old run-down residential area to the north of the city centre. Last evening’s study of a map in his AA road atlas had given him a general idea of where he was headed and a final enquiry through his driver’s window of a Jamaican lady pushing a pram, directed him to Grosvenor Road.
Cruising along a row of shops gave him the street numbers and he soon spotted the names of the solicitors in gold paint on the windows above a building-society office. Finding a parking space a few yards further on, he locked the Humber and walked back to a door alongside the shop, where a brass plate declared it to be Middleton, Bailey and Bailey.
The narrow stairs took him to a small reception office, where a cheerful middle-aged woman took him along a corridor to a door which predictably had ‘D.G. Bailey LLB’ written on it.
Douglas Bailey was unlike many of the rather desiccated, elderly lawyers that Richard had met in market towns in Wales and the West Country. He was what his father might have termed a ‘city slicker’, a slim man of about forty in a blue pinstripe suit which Richard suspected had shoulder pads. His dark hair was Brylcreemed flat on his head and he had a small Errol Flynn moustache.