The area he was looking for was 73. He kept walking, eventually finding it at the western extremity, just before the cemetery gate exit onto Scrubs Lane.
From there, he chose left, the last two digits remaining the same, the other three slowly heading in the right direction.
He looked around, realised that this was the most neglected part of the cemetery and rarely visited. There were no flowers here, barely a headstone, other than those that had fallen down. He presumed that in time, and if someone was willing to pay the twenty-two thousand pounds needed to purchase a plot, some of the bodies would be coming up; so much for the dearly departed, he thought.
When his time came, a cremation, his ashes scattered on the garden where they would do some good.
An elaborate and costly funeral had been more important in the distant past, before the advent of the motor vehicle, the upwardly mobile population, post-Christianity, and the suburb of Kensal Green wouldn’t have been the bustling hive of activity that it was now.
He had come this far; now wasn’t the time to give in. He counted the rows in three, figured that 15973 was four rows down, the second grave in. The date that the occupant of the grave at the murder site had died, 15th September 1873, correlating with another grave’s plot number.
He could see the grave, or what little remained of it. The ground was wet and soggy; he removed his shoes, knowing that they would make a more significant imprint.
Underfoot was cold, and he regretted his decision. At the grave, he looked around. 1902, the year of burial, a man of fifty-six, of this parish., Larry was sure that Archibald Vincent wouldn’t be concerned with his ferreting around, not that he could do much about it if he was.
On one side of the grave, the most neglected, the stonework broken in places, he found nothing. At the bottom of the grave, the same result.
The headstone, which had fallen over, he carefully lifted a few inches. It was heavier than he expected, and he dropped it, not seeing anything obvious, the damp soil cushioning the headstone, not cracking it. On the far side, the dampest and the least inviting, he couldn’t see anything.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said as he put one foot on the soft soil, sinking into it almost up to his ankle. He pulled his foot back, took stock of the situation, debated with himself as to whether he should continue or wait for another day. His wife was going to give him hell for coming home dirty.
A man shouted to him from the path. ‘What are you doing?’ he said. He was dressed in green overalls, a badge on his breast pocket.
‘Inspector Larry Hill, Challis Street Police Station,’ Larry shouted back.
‘You won’t find anything in there. Dead a long time.’
It was clear that the man, short and overweight, with a round face and an even rounder belly, enjoyed the humour of the situation. But then, why shouldn’t he, Larry thought. Death’s a sad time for most, but for a cemetery employee and a police officer, it was commonplace.
‘We’re investigating the body on the grave over the other side.’
‘And you think you’ll find something there?’
‘I think that I might. Does anybody come down here?’
‘People at the weekend out for some exercise, the occasional dog on a leash, not that we encourage it, always a mess to clear up afterwards. Some can’t read the notices, or if they can, they take no notice.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Now that you mention it, I can remember someone down here ten or eleven days ago. A rum sort of fellow, didn’t want to talk, took no notice of me, not that he was causing any trouble, just walking around the graves. It was drier back then; didn’t make such a fool of himself as you are.’
‘This grave?’
‘Probably. In fact, I’m certain that it was.’
‘Stay where you are. I’m coming out.’
Larry looked where to place his other foot, to extricate himself. In one corner, at the angle between the far side and the headstone, a large rock under the soil that had been exposed by his moving around.
‘I found something,’ Larry said.
‘I’ll be over, give you a hand.’
‘Stay where you are. This could be a crime scene.’
Larry carefully moved the rock to one side. ‘There’s something underneath,’ he shouted to the man in the overalls. ‘I’d suggest you backtrack the way you came, just in case.’
‘As you say, but after so much rain, you can’t expect much.’
Larry did.
***
Due to the relatively low-key nature of the site, one uniform had arrived, put crime scene tape in place to prevent entry to the area of the grave, and asked the cemetery employee to close off both entrances to the path; not difficult as there were boom gates installed. It was just a case of lowering them and securing them with a padlock.
Larry had dried his feet, wrung out his socks after washing them in a basin in a hut in the cemetery grounds. A bar heater, not very safe, but efficient, managed to take the socks from sopping wet to damp and warm.
After close to fifteen minutes, the first of the CSIs to arrive, Grant Meston, a good man in Larry’s estimation, removed the rock. Crime scene stepping plates had been placed from the path to the grave, and it was Meston, Larry and the cemetery employee who stood watching as the other CSI took the rock and put it into a large bag. It was evidence, even if to the layman it
