again confirmed that there was no burning or tattooing around the very small entrance hole, the diameter of which he measured with a small ruler. The rim of the hole was discoloured, due to the friction of the hot bullet and contamination with oil and metal residues.
‘Can’t have been either contact or a short range discharge,’ he announced to the group who were clustered around. DI Lane, still in his wide hat and raincoat, peered closely at the neck, as Pryor demonstrated the direction of the dried blood which had run from both the wound and the mouth.
‘Any idea what the range of the shot would have been, Doc?’ he asked.
Richard shrugged at this. ‘All depends on the weapon and the charge in the cartridge,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid that’s up to the lab to discover from test firing.’
Archie nodded. ‘Probably have to send it off to Birmingham for that, they’re the experts on shooters.’
The post-mortem proceeded, everyone knowing their role in the task. The exhibits officer was busy packing and labelling everything that might be needed for evidence, down to samples of blood and urine when Pryor had collected them.
He cut a circle of skin from around the bullet hole and kept it for possible analysis, as the soiling on the edge of the hole might contain substances that could identify a particular batch of ammunition.
Inside the head, the bullet had smashed its way into the thick bone at the base of the skull and had to be recovered. It was essential to retrieve it as intact as possible, so that it could be matched to a given weapon by the marks made on it by the spiral rifling inside the gun barrel.
‘It’s pretty much flattened, but there’s a bit of jacket that is still in fair condition,’ said Pryor, as he carefully fished out the missile with a pair of forceps with rubber tubing pushed over the tips, to avoid making false scratches.
The liaison officer packed it in cotton wool to stop it knocking against the glass of the small container in which it would be sent to Birmingham.
‘Looks like a “two-two”, which would suit the gun from the car,’ he commented. Though it seemed almost inevitable that this was the weapon used, nothing could be taken for granted.
‘No chance of tightening the time of death, Doctor?’ asked Detective Inspector Lane, hopefully.
Richard had taken another rectal temperature before starting to examine the body. ‘It’s dropped another degree since we were in the woods,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t really help much. There are so many variables that anyone who claims to be more accurate is just guessing.’
The rest of the hour-long examination revealed little of significance. The stomach contents gave off a strong smell of beer, but there was no food present.
Richard was just about to finish and let the mortuary attend-ant begin to restore the body, when the door opened and two other men walked in. Once again, their large size and confident bearing marked them out as plain- clothes policemen. Richard happened to be looking at Angela at that moment and saw her face change expression. Her jaw tightened and her cheeks reddened as the first man identified himself.
‘Sorry we’re late, I’m Detective Superintendent Paul Vickers from the Met – and this is DI Waverley.’ The other man nodded, but it was the senior officer who did all the talking. ‘Hell of a drive down, pouring with rain until Cheltenham. We’ve come to see if your chap really is Harry Haines.’
Brian Lane went forward to welcome the superintendent from London and started to introduce the others in the room, but Vickers suddenly saw Angela and seemed to freeze on the spot.
‘Good God, Angela!’ he said. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
The local DI looked from one to the other. ‘You know Dr Bray, then? She came to help Doctor Pryor.’
Angela nodded stonily at the newcomer.
‘Hello, Paul,’ she said icily. ‘How are you?’
He mumbled something and turned his attention quickly to the body on the table. ‘This is the chap, then?’ he asked unnecessarily.
Pryor, wondering what was going on, stood back so that Paul Vickers could get a good look at the face of the corpse. It took him only a few seconds to confirm the man’s identity.
‘That’s Harry Haines alright,’ he said grimly. ‘I can’t say that he’ll be any great loss to London.’
He fell into discussion with the Gloucester detectives about the case and Angela took the opportunity to move to Richard’s side.
‘Can you give me the keys to the car, please?’ she murmured urgently.
‘They’re in my jacket pocket, hanging out in the office,’ he replied. ‘Anything you need from it?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll wait for you there, this place has suddenly become overcrowded,’ she said cryptically and quietly went out of the room.
It was only later, when they were driving out of the hospital grounds that he fully learned the reason for her strange behaviour, though he had begun to guess what had happened.
‘Sorry about that, Richard, it wasn’t very professional, but I wasn’t really doing much in there, anyway.’
He looked sideways at her profile and saw in the dim first light of dawn, that she was staring fixedly ahead.
‘Are you alright, Angela?’ he asked solicitously. ‘Anything I can do to help?’
She shook her head, angry at herself.
‘You’re a good chap, Richard, but no thanks. It’s just me being silly.’
‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ he said gently. ‘What a coincidence! Perhaps I shouldn’t have dragged you out tonight.’
She laughed more easily, rapidly returning to her normal poise.
‘You weren’t to know, were you! Yes, that was him, the unfaithful bastard! Another reason why I’m happy to be out of London.’
She laid a hand briefly on his sleeve, in a rare gesture of affection.
FIFTEEN
Later that morning, Lewis Lewis drove one of the CID cars from Gowerton up to Cardiff, a large brown evidence bag on the passenger seat beside him. His face was set in a frown of concentration, as he tried to work out the possible ramifications of ‘the Prentice case’, as it had become known in the station. Lewis was a very conscientious officer, having risen through the ranks from the constable who had joined the Force in 1945, directly from his Army service. He had the deep-set eyes, black eyebrows and lean features of many South Walian descendants of the Iberian Celts, who came millennia ago before the bigger, red-headed Brythons. His father, three uncles and both grandfathers had been colliers in the Swansea Valley – he and his schoolteacher brother were the first generation to escape the pits.
Lewis knew the route to the Home Office laboratory well, as he had brought ‘exhibits’ there many times before. It was situated in a large enclosed estate in Llanishen, a northern suburb of the city. A high metal fence surrounded several acres of land adjacent to the ‘ROF’, an acronym for the Royal Ordnance Factory where local rumour had it that uranium was processed to make armour-piercing shells.
He turned into an entrance to what was euphemistically called ‘The Government Offices’, most of which was occupied by the Inland Revenue, who dealt with the tax affairs of all government employees worldwide. When Lewis was in the Second Battalion of the Welsh Regiment in Burma during the war, he always felt it rather comforting that the minute amount of tax deducted from his pay, was calculated back in South Wales!
He showed his warrant card to the gatekeeper and drove up one of the internal roads, past ranks of ugly single-storey brick buildings with flat roofs, looking like bomb-shelters with windows.
Two of them housed the Forensic Science Laboratory and in the small reception area in the nearest, he signed in and then recorded his delivery of his samples on forms given to him by the middle-aged lady behind the desk. He knew her from previous visits and they had the usual chat about the weather and where she was going on holiday next week.
‘I’d better have a word with Larry McLoughlin,’ he said. ‘These are a bit out of the ordinary.’ He pointed at the envelope on the counter.
She went to a door behind and a moment later, the liaison officer came out, a DI seconded from the