‘There will be no need for secrecy, Inspector,’ came the prim response from the other end of the line. ‘I shall give you these names in no particular order of importance. Our finance director is Alistair Morton, aged forty-four. Our shop manager and retail sales director is Gerald Davies, aged fifty-seven. Our manager and director of residential accommodation is Vanda North, aged forty-six, who is also a junior partner in the firm. Our head chef and restaurant director is Jason Knight, aged thirty-eight. Our research and development director is Sarah Vaughan, aged thirty-three.’
Fiona wondered why she had reeled off their ages as well as their names. Probably because she was reading from the employment records and the dates of birth followed the names, she thought. Or was it just the bitchy desire to indicate that pretty young Miss Vaughan was the youngest, most recently arrived, and thus most junior of these people who earned more than she did? She added a little guiltily, ‘Mr Beaumont always stresses that we are a small and dynamic organization, so that these roles are not definitive and inevitably overlap from time to time.’
Rushton finished writing and said rather breathlessly, ‘Thank you. This will be most useful information, I am sure. Should it prove necessary to talk to any of these people, I or someone else here will contact you again, probably later today.’
Fiona Cooper set down the phone and sat like a statue for several minutes. She was looking through the open door of the office at the round-backed chair which her late employer had so recently occupied. She had spoken of him throughout in the present tense, she now realized, though she had been told at the outset that he was dead. Not very efficient, really, for a PA, though the police must be used to it.
They would already be contacting the people she had just named.
Howler’s Heath was indeed no more than the tiniest of hamlets, as Rushton had told Bert Hook. As Lambert drove up the lane beyond it, the scene of the crime was soon apparent by the unwonted activity which surrounded it.
The scene beneath the huge chestnuts was already cordoned off with the plastic ribbons proclaiming ‘Do not enter’, which always define the environs of a serious crime scene. Not that there was much danger in this remote spot of the curious crowds who often gather round the site of a murder in a town or suburb, at once attracted and repelled by the macabre glamour of the most serious of all crimes, the wanton termination of another being’s life.
There were already two police cars at the point where the unpaved track left the lane. Lambert parked behind them; to drive on to the track itself might contaminate important evidence left by other vehicles. The civilians who now constitute most SOCO teams were already busily at work. The photographer announced as they arrived that he had finished his business, but would wait around in case the man in charge of the investigation required any further shots. His manner proclaimed that this was most unlikely.
Two of the others were on all fours, systematically retrieving and bagging in plastic any items which might have a human connection, any detritus which might at a much later date become an important exhibit in a court case. Every calling has its dreams, and it was the aspiration of these worthy seekers to retrieve a piece of jewellery, an accidentally dropped pen or pencil, even at a pinch a soiled tissue, which would secure the conviction of a killer. It very rarely happened, of course. Evidence collected was usually cumulative and supplementary to other findings in building up a case. But very occasionally it did happen, and the hope of it sustained workers in what was essentially a boring task. Because of that, the dream was rarely disparaged by the Scene of Crime Officer or the senior detective in charge of the case.
One of the men with tweezers in hand, a retired police constable who was now operating as a civilian, gestured towards the cigarette end he had recently bagged, which might have been a precious find in the right circumstances, and shook his head glumly. ‘Almost certainly pre-dates this crime, sir. I’ve bagged it to be on the safe side, but I’d say it’s at least a week old, possibly more.’
Lambert nodded his sympathy and moved towards the big blue car. Although the site was remote, you could get to it easily enough by car, and for those who were aware of that it would afford an almost certain privacy. A perfect site for lovers who, for whatever reason, wanted to conceal conversations, clumsy gropings or more serious couplings, for instance. As if the thought had provoked the discovery, the woman at the other extremity of the site now produced with a despairing groan a used condom. She lifted it with tweezers, held it at arm’s length, and deposited it within her polythene container with a gargoyle moue of distaste.
Lambert walked across and bent over the car, opening the driver’s door gingerly with gloved hand. What remained of Martin Beaumont was slumped away from the door, hunched over the gap between the two front seats. It was the left temple which had been targeted, but there was no exit wound.
The voice of the SOCO behind him said quietly, ‘He’s been here for some time, sir. The pathologist said rigor mortis had been and gone, but he wouldn’t commit himself to a time of death.’
‘More than twenty-four hours, though?’
‘It looks like it. He said he’d treat the post mortem as urgent and give you his report asap.’ He looked past the superintendent at the gory remnants of what had been a man. ‘It looks as though the bullet is lodged within the skull, sir. He seems to have hit the door and bounced back towards the centre of the car.’
‘Not a Smith and Wesson then. That would have blown most of the head away.’ The right eye and most of the face were undamaged. Even the left side of the features might clean up after the post mortem, so that the body could be presented as decently as possible to whatever relative had to undergo the formality of identification. ‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’
But even as he spoke, he knew there wouldn’t be. Any prize trophy of that sort would have been triumphantly volunteered to the man in charge of the case as soon as he arrived on the scene. The SOCO said, ‘No. I should be very surprised if you ever see it again.’
Lambert nodded sourly. Probably in the muddy depths of the Severn or one of its tributaries by now. Murderers were rarely so cooperative as to leave such key evidence around. And he was already sure that this was murder. The faint possibility of suicide had disappeared with the absence of the weapon. ‘Did you get anything from the car?’
‘A few fibres from the front passenger seat; one or two more from the rear seats and carpets. Impossible to tell how long they’ve been there. Forensic and their labs might find something more, when their boys and girls are released on to it.’
Lambert looked again at that blank, unseeing right eye. How easy it would be for policemen if the old myth about the cornea retaining the image of what it had last seen had any truth in it. He waved a hand in futile dismissal of the flies, which would return within seconds to the blackening wound which had ended what had once been a man. ‘If the pathologist’s taken what he wants from here, you might as well have the meat-wagon in to remove the corpse.’ He said to the photographer, ‘You’d better stay until then, and take a shot of whatever’s underneath him.’
Hook had been looking hard at the unpaved track whilst Lambert studied the car and its grisly contents. ‘You found any tyre tracks here?’ he asked the man who had been inspecting the ground.
‘Nothing which looks significant as yet. We’ll give it a detailed examination before we leave, but it’s been very dry over the last couple of days.’ The officer had the pessimism which was characteristic of such workers. They were reluctant to offer much hope to those conducting the case, fearful of being reviled as the producers of false dawns.