It was the beginning of the following week before Garth House heard anything from Gloucester about the shooting. Brian Lane, the detective inspector they had met in the woods, rang to say that they had made an arrest and that the defence had requested a second post-mortem.
‘We collared a villain from Bristol who admits shooting Harry Haines, but he’s claiming it was in self-defence. There was a confrontation between a gang from Bristol, who reckon they own the rights to bribery, corruption and protection rackets in the South West, and Haines’s mob from Bermondsey, who want to take a share of the graft. They were in the car park of a country pub near Gloucester that afternoon when it got violent and they went chasing off into the woods behind. This ruffian we’ve got locked up claims Haines pulled a shooter on him, and he fired in self-defence. Not clear about the range, but as you said, it wasn’t close. The London gang scarpered and a couple of the local thugs drove Haines’s body down to where we found him and stuck him in his car. It was a half- hearted attempt to make it look like a suicide, but none of them are bright enough to do it properly.’
‘So what about this second post-mortem?’ asked Richard.
‘His solicitor is getting Professor Millichamp down from London on Wednesday afternoon,’ replied the detective. ‘So would it be convenient for you to attend the mortuary then, to represent the police?’
Though second autopsies were usually performed quite amicably between the two pathologists, they always kept a wary eye on each other’s findings. Richard knew of Arnold Millichamp by name, though he had never met him. He was a pathologist of the old school, attached to St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Always sure of himself and never in doubt, he had a reputation for dogmatic inflexibility, especially in the witness box. Still, thought Pryor, there was not much he could disagree about in this case – the chap was shot in the neck from a distance, end of story. But an hour later, he had a further surprise when Millichamp’s secretary telephoned. Sian happened to take the call and instead of switching the phone through on their new GPO system, which had at last been installed, she hurried down the passage to his room and poked her head around the door.
‘It’s a lady from London,’ she hissed, though the caller could not have heard her as Richard’s phone was firmly in its cradle. ‘A professor’s personal assistant, she sounds very posh!’
When he spoke to her, he had to agree that her Thames Valley accent was a bit overpowering, but she was still very civil when speaking to the Welsh natives. She confirmed the time for Gloucester, but then explained that Professor Millichamp had also been asked to examine the body of Linda Prentice in Swansea and would it be convenient if they could do that on the following morning?
Rather taken aback by this sudden rush of business, Pryor agreed, but made sure that Millichamp’s secretary, who identified herself as Prudence Mortimer, was aware that it was Patrick O’Malley who had performed the original examination and should also be present. She rather grandly informed Richard that she was aware of this and it was under control. He wondered whether he should offer to help them with their travel and accommodation requirements, but her super-efficient manner decided him to leave them to it. When she had rung off, he went in search of Angela to tell her of the developments.
‘I know old Millichamp, he came into the Met Lab several times to look at material for the defence,’ she said. ‘He’s one of the London grandees, like Simpson and Camps. Does a lot of civil and defence work, goes about with his secretary in a big chauffeur-driven Mercedes.’
Richard grinned. ‘In that case, I’d better turn up to meet them in my chauffeur-driven second-hand Humber. I’ll tell Jimmy to take off the cords around his trouser legs that day!’
The telephone was on overtime that day, as Ben Evans from Gowerton rang to confirm the time for the third post-mortem on poor Linda. ‘The coroner has said that the burial must go ahead as soon as this is over, he’s not going to delay any longer.’
‘Any more news from the forensic laboratory?’ asked Richard.
‘They’ve screened Linda’s blood and urine for drugs, nothing at all there. And as for the so-called suicide note, they are not very hopeful of deciding who typed it.’
‘What’s the problem, I wonder?’
‘It seems to be that the message is so short that they’ve not got enough to work on as regards differences in style or even the opportunity for significant mistakes.’
‘So it’s a non-starter trying to accuse him of forging it?’
‘One of the experts in Cardiff thinks it’s a fake, but he reckons that his opinion wouldn’t stand up against good cross-examination in court.’
The superintendent had no idea why they were getting a prominent pathologist from London to carry out yet another autopsy, but suspected that the solicitor representing Michael Prentice was covering all bases, with fees commensurate with his enthusiasm.
‘The lawyer is from the same firm that does Prentice’s motor company business. He’s not a local guy, he comes from Slough. I hear they’ve briefed a barrister to come to the magistrates’ hearing, no expense spared.’
‘What about the father, Leonard Massey?’ asked Richard. ‘As a Queen’s Counsel, I’ll bet he’ll want some big guns involved. A wonder he wasn’t at that conference we had with Craddock.’
‘If he hadn’t been a potential witness, I expect he would have been there!’ chortled Evans. ‘I’ll bet he’s spitting tacks that he can’t get involved professionally.’
The next call after Ben had rung off was Trevor Mitchell.
‘As we expected, Agnes Oldfield is jumping up and down at the news of the blood group,’ he groaned. ‘Edward Lethbridge has tried to tell her that it takes us no further forward, other that not ruling out the remains could be either her nephew or about nine million other men in Britain!’
‘She doesn’t want another meeting, I hope,’ said Pryor.
‘No, but she’s gone off on some other tack now, that I’ve got to follow up,’ said Trevor. ‘She found an old address book of Anthony’s amongst his stuff when she was searching for a transfusion card. She’s been phoning umpteen people, making a nuisance of herself, but came across one who knew him in Birmingham University when he was a student umpteen years ago. This chap said that Anthony was in a climbing club there and fell off some cliff in the Peak District and had to go to hospital for a day or two. So now Agnes wants me to find this chap and then scour the hospitals in Derbyshire to see if they have any medical records or X-rays, like we did for Albert Barnes.’
‘The best of luck, Trevor!’ said Richard. ‘At least it’s good for trade, you should be raking it in with all these fees and expenses.’
The investigator promised to let him know what happened and Richard went back to work, looking at reports and microscope slides in a civil case where the family of a shipyard worker was suing the employers for compensation for fatal asbestosis.
At teatime, he regaled the team with the latest news. Angela murmured that she didn’t think she’d come with him to Gloucester, as there was nothing she could contribute. Richard suspected that she was afraid that her former fiance might turn up again, though that seemed unlikely.
When Wednesday came, he did not carry out his threat to be driven to Gloucester by Jimmy, instead he left him cutting down the undergrowth at the top of the plot with an Allen scythe, a fearsome motorized device with large wheels that took more energy to steer than the operator would have used in cutting the weeds by hand.
It was now well into July and the capricious British weather had turned wet and windy now that the school holiday season was under way. He drove past Lydney and when going through Newnham, was tempted to keep his head down in case he was spotted by Mrs Oldfield. When he got to the Royal Hospital, he found the fabled black Mercedes 170S already outside the mortuary, a driver with a chauffeur’s cap busy polishing the chrome of the radiator. Inside the body-store room, Detective Inspector Brian Lane, accompanied by a photographer and the coroner’s officer, was talking to Arnold Millichamp and his personal secretary. The latter was exactly as Richard had pictured her when on the telephone. A tall, thin woman with severely cropped grey hair, she had a long, intelligent face devoid of any make-up. A tan twinset and a long brown skirt surmounted sensible shoes and to complete the picture of an English lady, even in a mortuary she wore a single string of pearls. Her employer was also tall and thin, with a completely bald head and a large hooked nose. Dressed in legal garb of black jacket and striped grey trousers, he sported a blue bow tie.
Brian Lane introduced them and Millichamp shook hands and Miss Mortimer nodded gravely and murmured a greeting.
‘Pryor, you were Professor in the University of Singapore, I recall,’ said the London man, in a mellow voice that would have suited a bishop. ‘You’ve given up the ivory towers of
