Sixty-two
There were no trees on the very crest of the Witches' Hill. Instead there was a small earthen circle, like a monk's tonsure.
The area was lit by arc-lamps, powered by the generators of the fire tenders which were still parked at the foot of the hill. Skinner, Sarah and Martin climbed towards the light, until eventually they picked their way through to the open ground.
The beams of the lamps were concentrated on a single tree, or rather, on the blackened remains of what had once been a tree… and on the blackened remains of something else.
Skinner stepped closer to the still-smoking charcoal, approaching from the side to avoid casting a shadow. When he saw what was there he groaned with revulsion. 'Oh God!' he sighed. 'What an idiot I am!'
The lower half of the body was burned to ashes. It was as if it had been consumed piece by piece, sinking into the brushwood circle which had been piled around the tree, and whose grey traces remained. But the shape of the torso and head were sufficiently intact to show that something human had burned here, burned at the stake, burned as Agnes Tod and her two companions had burned together on the same spot, almost four hundred years before. The clothing was a black mass, sodden from the work of the firefighters, who had done their best, with limited equipment. The arms were pulled behind the body. Skinner looked behind the tree-trunk and saw that the wrists had been secured by steel handcuffs.
The skull was black too. The hair and most of the flesh had burned away, but the residual whites of the eyes still reflected the arc-lamp beams, and the teeth, protruding in a grotesque grin, shone in their light. Something black stuck out between them. Fighting nausea, Skinner bent closer to the remains, and looked more closely. He took hold of the object carefully, and tugged gently. Its colour changed abruptly as the bulk of a scorched white handkerchief emerged from the mouth.
`What sort of sick bastard would do this?' whispered Andy Martin, as he looked down at the scene, struggling to control the heaving of his stomach.
Not sick, Andy,' said Skinner just as softly. 'Cruel, yes; sadistic, too and imaginative with it.
But very determined and working to a plan, with clear objectives, rational and in control of every single action.'
`You know who did this?' said Martin, astonished.
If this poor sod was who I think he was, then yes, I know.'
And who do you think it is?'
Skinner did not reply. Instead, he looked behind him. `Would you tell me what you can, please, Doctor.'
Shuddering in her Barbour jacket, Sarah stepped up. She swung her torch, slowly, around the remains for added light, then crouched down beside the truncated body, looking closely at what had been its face. Skinner and Martin heard her mutter softly to herself; they both knew that it was her way of keeping her mind on the job, and to stop it from dwelling on the human reality of her subject.
Eventually she stood up. 'I can't tell you much. You'll need a dental specialist to give you the definitive version. But this man.. for it was male, the testes are charred, but still there…'
Andy Martin groaned `.. had some very expensive bridgework done, and he had it done in America.'
Was he conscious when the fire was lit, d'you think?' asked Skinner.
`He was certainly standing up, at first, and probably straining against the flames. Do you see the way the tree has burned? The bark and the wood are marginally less consumed up here, where the body would be pressed at first, before it sank to the squatting position in which it finished up.'
They heard rustling footsteps behind them, and a sudden choking. Skinner looked behind him and saw Alison Higgins on the edge of the circle, doubled over and retching as she saw what awaited her.
I wonder how he got up here?' said Skinner, aloud, but almost to himself.
`He must have come up to meet someone,' Martin answered. 'It would be bloody difficult even for two people to carry or drag a body up through the trees, and there's no way you'd get a vehicle up.'
`That's right. So our barbecued pal here has a message from someone saying 'Meet me late at night, on top of Witches' Hill.' And he goes. So like Masur, this man was killed by someone he knew, or knew of, and had no reason to fear.'
Suddenly Skinner smashed his right fist into his left palm, so violently that Sarah and Martin jumped. 'Oh, you stupid bastard! What have you done?' he snarled.
`What d'you mean, boss?' asked Martin.
I took the watchers off Mike Morton. I gave him twenty-four hours to himself, to turn up Richard Andrews.'
Either that thing there is Andrews… and with him dead there's no case against Morton… or, as I fear very much, this is Morton himself!' He called across the clearing. 'Alison, will you raise Joe Doherty and have dental records for Mike Morton and Richard Andrews faxed over here, right away. Get the technicians to work, fast. I want pictures taken, the mess cleaned up, and the area taped off, all before daybreak. I want no announcement made for now. In fact, if necessary, have a twenty-four-hour news blackout slapped on this affair.
`Sarah, you can go home to Alex and the baby. Andy, you and I are off to Bracklands, to find out whether Mike Morton is safely tucked up in bed, or burnt to a cinder on top of Witches'
Hill!'
`Won't you cancel today's round?' asked Higgins.
`No, goddamnit! If we call time now we may never solve the thing. This whole game has to be played out to a finish, to the eighteenth green on Sunday afternoon.'
I have a feeling that this investigation might even go to a play-off!'
Sixty-three
They guessed that the night bell must have rung in Mr Burton's bedroom, when the little butler appeared in the doorway, a minute or two after Skinner had pushed its button.
He wore an immaculate black silk dressing-gown tied, creaseless, over white pyjamas buttoned up to the neck. Even roused from bed at 1.50 a.m., his hair was neatly parted and combed. 'Yes?' he began, imperiously, then stood stiffly to attention as he recognised the two policemen outside the tall front door of Bracklands.
`Gentlemen? What may I do for you at this hour?' He moved aside, allowing them entrance to the great domed entrance hall.
`We'd be grateful,' said Skinner, 'if you could take us directly to Mr Morton's room.'
Mr Burton nodded. 'Certainly sir, but first shall I awaken the Marquis, or Lady Kinture?'
Skinner shook his head. 'No. I don't want anyone alerted at this stage. We have to check on something, that's all.'
For a few seconds, Mr Burton wrestled with the etiquette of the situation, until eventually, he nodded. 'Very well. If you believe there is no need to awaken them. Please follow me.' He led the way up the marble staircase which led to the upper floor, and towards the corridor to the right. He moved silently on black leather slippers until he reached the door of Morton's room.
He knocked softly, then waited. After perhaps twenty seconds, he knocked again, slightly louder. Still there was no answer. He put his hand on the doorknob, and looked up at Skinner for approval. 'Go ahead,' said the policeman, quietly. Mr Burton turned the handle, and, without looking into the room, opened the door and stood aside for the two visitors.
The bedroom was empty. The curtains were pulled shut, and a bedside lamp was switched on.
The bedspread was ruffled slightly as if someone had been sitting on it, beside the telephone, but otherwise the bed was undisturbed.
`Come in, please, Mr Burton,' said Skinner to the butler, who still stood in the corridor. The immaculate little man obeyed, closing the door behind him.
