before being violently sick and almost passing out.
Graham Sampler had just completed his usual Sunday lunch, the traditional British kind: Roast beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, garden peas, and Yorkshire Pudding, all coated in a thick brown gravy. This had been followed by hot apple pie and Bird’s custard. The sweet coffee and butter biscuits to follow rounded off the meal superbly. Ah! The delectation of wholesome food!
Bethany, his wife, had urged him to take a lighter lunch; a ham salad that would be ideal on a warm day such as this. She knew she was fighting a losing battle; he was a traditionalist where food was concerned. She enjoyed cooking and regularly prepared exotic and foreign dishes but, at the same time, she fed Graham the simpler British fare. It caused her no problem, even in today’s enlightened times, she felt it was up to her to provide the meals and generally do the housework. It was a pleasure to her, so why change? He went out to work and she didn’t.
Having many friends, she often had a few to afternoon tea and cakes, where all kinds of subjects would be discussed. She was also keen on ancient history and spent time at the local library. Her personal collection of books, many covering the enthralling history of the mysterious pyramids and Egyptology, were a source of wonderment to her.
It was Bethany who took the call.
Graham dragged himself from the comfort of his chair and took the phone from Bethany, a frown creasing his brow. “Hello!” he barked, “You do know it’s Sunday, I hope!” His thunderous expression deepened as he listened to the call, without comment. “Right. I’ll be there as soon as possible,” he said at the end of the message.
“Don’t tell me,” said Bethany, going to a corner of the lounge to pick up Graham’s briefcase. “You have to go out right away.” She brought the briefcase to him as he went into the hallway and lifted his jacket from the stand.
“Yes. Sorry, love. Can’t get any peace can we?” He took the case from Bethany. “Thank you. Hope I won’t be too long. Another murder, though, and it could take some time. It’s in Penn this time.”
Bethany looked concerned. “Not another young girl, is it, Graham?”
“Yes, it is. Not as young as the first but, well, seventeen or so and they think it may be connected.” He leaned forward to take the usual kiss, then turned and left.
The drive down to the murder scene, in the locality of the beautiful village of Penn, took nearly an hour. Most delays were due to a heavy build up of traffic in London but once on the A40, better progress was made. Graham moved onto the M40 motorway where, although busy, he was able to maintain a steady seventy miles per hour, leaving at the junction that lead to Beaconsfield and on to Penn.
He had visited this area with Bethany on a few previous occasions, always enjoying the ancient beauty of the place and the unbelievable view of eight surrounding counties from the high position on which it stands.
Strange to think that this quiet, sprawling village spawned the famous William Penn who founded Pennsylvania in the USA and was, curiously for a man of the Quaker faith, a slave trader and owner.
Graham drove carefully along Springhill Lane, through the village, past the church of St. Mary and out into the approaching countryside. As soon as he left the site of the church, he spotted a group of police cars and vans up ahead, with officers standing inside the blue-striped tape used to protect the murder scene.
Bringing the car to a halt close to the group of officers, he got out and introduced himself to the nearest policeman. “Good afternoon, sir,” the man responded. “Sergeant Flint is here and he feels you should have a look at this.” He turned into the wooded area. “I’ll take you to him, sir. Follow me, please.”
They broke through a flimsy thicket and entered a small area of grassed land moving towards another thicket some twenty yards further on. The constable turned his head to the following Detective, explaining: “There is a main path further along, which is probably the one taken by the victim, but this provides a shortcut to where she ended up.”
Reaching the thicker brush, the two struggled through to come upon a clearing. In the middle of this, Graham spotted the body, surrounded by people in white, polypropylene overalls; these would be forensics and, possibly, the pathologist. A man dressed in a summer police uniform stood nearby, watching the proceedings.
His guess was proved right as the man turned to one side revealing the three chevrons on his arm. The police officer approached Flint and introduced Graham to him. “Ah, good afternoon, detective, ” he said, smiling and holding out his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Sorry to have spoiled your Sunday.”
Sergeant George Bernard Flint was a big, rugged man with eighteen years police experience, having joined the force at the age of twenty-two. His gruff exterior hid a caring and compassionate nature. He carried out his work with a determined efficiency, often using a persuasive manner rather than aggression with the various criminals who crossed his path.
Villagers, whether law-abiding or criminal, respected Flint and crime was generally low. This was the first murder to occur in these parts for six years, the last being an elderly man who strangled his equally elderly wife following a dispute over a television programme.
“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” Graham returned. “What’s the story?”
Flint looked thoughtful. “Well, first of all, we got called out here by a local who had been walking his dog. The man was very shaken but he managed to get his story out. The body is as it was found. As you know, forensics and pathology will not spoil anything on the scene but they do want to remove the body as soon as possible. Come. I’ll introduce you.”
First to meet Graham were the three men from forensics who merely nodded and grunted their greeting. Then came the pathologist. A woman of around 30 years of age, five-feet, seven inches tall, dark brown, short-cut hair and no make-up. Her complexion was clear and slightly tanned. A woman who did not need to use cosmetics to improve herself, she had large, brown, intelligent eyes with a neat, straight nose over full lips. Graham noticed a wedding ring on her finger. Small wonder she was spoken for.
“Hello, Detective Inspector,” she said before Flint had a chance to speak. “I’m Doctor Sallie Dunning, the pathologist. “Pleased to meet you,” she smiled. “As usual, not the best of circumstances.”
“No, quite. What have you got here?”
Dunning adopted her cool, working voice as she explained the facts as found so far. “Well. The victim is a female of around seventeen years of age. There appears to have been sexual activity…”
“Penetration?”
“Yes. Penetration. However, it does not at this stage indicate force. I will know more when I get her back, where I can carry out a proper inspection. There appears to be some bruising around the vaginal area but that is normal following intercourse. There also appears to be a deposit of semen inside and on the upper thighs, so DNA should be no problem.”
“What killed her?”
Dunning’s brow creased and she placed a fist thoughtfully under her chin. “At this time, I cannot tell you. I’ve turned the body over and given it as thorough an inspection as possible without risking the destruction of evidence and I can find nothing particular except that, from the condition of the body, I would say that she has suffered a fit of some kind. It may be an unlawful death but the autopsy should give a clearer picture.”
Graham uttered a short sigh. “Thank you. I know it’s difficult out here but I would appreciate the results of the post-mortem as quickly as possible. There is no evidence present to link this with any other enquiry but I have a feeling that it is linked with a current investigation into a child murder.”
Sallie turned her attention back to the work in hand as Graham studied the still figure. “What time did she die?” he asked Sallie.
She answered from her crouched position, without turning her head. “I can only estimate that, but I would say around eighteen to twenty-four hours ago.”
Graham walked carefully around the body, noting the absence of signs of struggle and the clothing being in no disarray. This was too much like the scene of Kylie’s murder not to be linked. Together with Sergeant Flint, he carefully inspected the surrounding area, seeking any possible clues but, after half an hour, nothing had been found. Even if the murder had been committed the previous evening, there could still have been footprints due to the fine weather with little breeze. However, the killer had been clever enough to erase any such clues.
