They returned to the murder scene in Henry’s Mercedes, in which Rik had driven him to the police station in the course of the panic attack, or whatever it was that Henry had suffered. Rik coveted the coupe but Henry, a bit meanly, had always denied him the opportunity of driving it. Henry therefore suspected that Rik had seized on the chance when his brain had gone into free-fall.
Back at the crematorium, the mechanics of running a murder scene were well underway. The road past the cemetery was sealed off other than for essential traffic, and a diversion put in place. The scientific support vehicles were there, as were several paper-suited and booted individuals carrying out their tasks. Henry parked up in much the same place as on his first visit, this time drawing up behind a beautifully restored E-Type Jaguar that made him smile a little. He knew who owned it.
A little away, leaning on an unmarked police car, was PC Driver, the officer who had found the girl’s body on his travels. He was drinking coffee, looking forlorn. Henry walked across to him.
‘Are you OK?’
The officer, a man in his mid-forties, shook his head. ‘No, boss, still can’t get over it.’ His left hand massaged his neck continually in a motion that Henry associated with shock.
‘No — not your usual occurrence in Poulton.’ Henry gave him a wan smile. ‘Why don’t you get yourself home? You’ve done a good job here, no need to stay on.’
‘Thanks. I’ll just get my statement done, first.’
‘OK, do what suits.’
Henry and Rik were logged back on to the scene, clambered into new paper suits, ducked under the tape and approached the ten foot high screen that had been erected around the body to keep out prying eyes. A tent was due shortly.
During the journey Rik had batted about a few ideas about what might have happened to the girl. Henry had tried to concentrate on what he was saying because he didn’t want another brain-freeze attack. He began planning his investigative strategy so as not to lose track. He’d stuck to the formula many times before so it was imprinted in his grey matter — under normal circumstances, that was.
Henry parted a gap in the screen like he was stepping through stage curtains, but in front of him was the scene of a real tragic death, not some country house murder with men in tennis shorts, ladies in twinsets and pearls, and dour mustachioed detectives solving the crime, often without evidence.
There was, however, the stereotypical comic character to lighten proceedings, who, at that moment, was on his haunches, down by the side of the girl’s head, his back to Henry and Rik, instantly recognizable by the large ears sticking out at right angles from his narrow head. Henry walked up behind him and cleared his throat.
The man did not react. He was focused, his latex-gloved hands touching the side of the victim’s head, talking softly into a microphone fastened to his head, the recording being made digitally on a machine in his shirt pocket. This was the owner of the E-Type Jaguar.
Henry coughed again.
Still the man did not turn round, but instead said patiently, ‘Henry, I know it’s you. If you don’t mind, I’ll just finish off what I’m doing, then I’ll be right with you.’
Henry grinned at the admonishment, slid his hands into his pockets — by sliding them through the gaping holes in the sides of the zoot suit — and let his eyes wander around the scene.
Although the crematorium was on the outskirts of Poulton, it was rural and quite isolated, certainly not overlooked. The girl’s body had obviously been dumped here from a car, and as there was nothing overlooking the gates, that deed could easily have been carried out unobserved. Making things much more difficult in terms of finding witnesses.
The man with the ears stood upright and turned slowly to Henry as though a huge wing nut was being twisted.
‘Hello Doctor-Professor,’ Henry smiled.
‘Henry Christie! My God, feels like years since we met over a dead body.’ Professor Baines, the Home Office pathologist, beamed at Henry. The two men had known each other for many years and developed a good relationship, often cemented by a trip to a local hostelry following a messy post-mortem in order to discuss the case informally. And, usually, to pass comments on ladies. Baines was the Home Office pathologist for the area, but over the last couple of years, because of other work, stand-ins had covered for him. Henry was relieved it was Baines today, though. Locums were OK, but they sometimes came with their own peculiar problems. Baines thrust out a bony hand to shake Henry’s and Henry noticed, not for the first time, how narrow Baines’s body was, accentuating the effect of the ears.
‘Good to see you back at the sharp end,’ Henry said, as they shook. ‘I hear you’ve managed to wangle yourself an OBE. Services to teeth, or something.’
‘Services to dental pathology,’ Baines corrected him. He specialized in teeth and had built up a database over the years of all things connected to teeth, including the various methods dentists from all over the world used to carry out their work. This was all with a view to help identify dead people. He had been particularly busy in Central Africa as well as Bosnia, where mass graves were still being dug up to this day. It just wasn’t news any more.
‘Well, congratulations. Did you meet the Queen when you got your gong?’
‘Nah, some royal lackey or other. Guy called Charles. Had ears like mine.’
‘Ah, a minor royal.’
‘And you,’ Baines said, moving closer to Henry. ‘I heard about Kate. I’m truly sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘However,’ Baines said, standing back, ‘it frees you to work the field again, eh?’
Henry blinked, then smiled. ‘Y’know, I think I needed someone to say something like that to me.’
‘Henry, if I can but help,’ Baines said solemnly.
‘Yeah — you’re a great counsellor.’ Baines had always been intrigued by Henry’s often convoluted love life and had been severely disappointed when he’d remarried Kate and it had ground to a halt. ‘However,’ Henry said, ‘back to more pressing matters.’
‘Ah, yes, this young lady.’
‘What can you tell me?’
Baines pursed his lips. ‘Dumped here from a car. Beaten about the face, but looks like strangulation, could be with a scarf judging from the indentations in her skin. I’ll have a clearer idea later, obviously. Female, sixteen to nineteen years, white, well nourished
… sad.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Hmm, always a bit of a finger in the wind at the scene, but I’d say she’s been here about six or seven hours. Could have been killed up to seven hours before that.’
Henry totted up the figures. ‘So, maybe dumped here around midnight and murdered sometime between six p.m. and then?’
Baines shrugged. ‘Best guess at the moment. More conclusive tests at the PM.’
‘Fair enough. Are you available to carry that out today?’
‘Yes.’ Baines glanced around. ‘Based on what I still have to do here… three o’clock this afternoon OK?’
‘Splendid.’ Henry turned to Rik, who had listened to the conversation and said, ‘Mother?’ Rik nodded. ‘Then we pull a team together.’
‘What was all that about?’ Bill Robbins threw the unmarked Vauxhall Insignia around the streets of Blackpool north.
‘All what?’ Donaldson gripped the hinged handle above the passenger door.
‘I half-heard something between you and that Beckham guy. I was lurking,’ he explained.
‘Interdepartmental rivalry, I guess. Which I don’t mind in the least, but not at the expense of safety.’
‘You mean the added-on bit.’
‘Yep — but even then you weren’t told everything.’
‘Nature of the beast,’ Robbins said. ‘We accept it to a degree. It’s the way spooks operate. Anyway, how come you’ve turned up for this charade? Us arresting a couple of would-be terrorists on what appears to be a purely speculative basis — uh, nothing new there — seems pretty low down the ladder for a guy like you. I thought you went after the bigwigs? Like the man himself, old OBL, cave dweller.’ He glanced sideways.
‘Ahh, briefings,’ Donaldson said fondly.
