But Dover wasn’t lending more than a quarter of an ear. He had got the large caravan in which the local police had established their mobile Serious Incidents Room firmly in his sights and was surging relentlessly towards it. Not until he was safely inside, ensconced in the most comfortable chair available and with a lavish supply of tea and cakes in front of him, would anything be able to wrench his butterfly mind back to the grim business in hand.
Eventually Inspector Telford took up his tale again. In spite of some pretty strong evidence to the contrary, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Dover simply didn’t want to know. A senior Scotland Yard detective not interested in the mysterious discovery of a dead body? It wasn’t possible . . . was it? ‘We made a preliminary examination as best we could, sir, without disturbing the body. Of course, we’ll know more of what we’re up against when we get the post morten results and the various lab reports. Meanwhile, we’ve got a few basic facts to go on. The dead body is that of a man . . .’
‘Any fool could see that!’ sniggered Dover through a mouthful of chocolate eclair.
‘The body is completely naked, sir,’ Inspector Elford continued stiffly. ‘As far as we have been able to ascertain all the clothing has been removed and there is no sign of any personal possessions whatsoever. We haven’t been able to search underneath the body as yet, but I doubt if we’ll find anything. Whoever deposited chummy out there didn’t intend him to be identified easily, even if he was found. The damage inflicted on the head and shoulders proves that.’
Sergeant MacGregor was busy taking notes. Of course, he and Dover should have been out there, in the field, discovering all this for themselves. It was galling to have to rely upon the half-baked theories of this country bumpkin. ‘What was the cause of death?’
‘I was just coming to that, sergeant.’ Inspector Telford wasn’t over-enamoured at being barked at by prissy young sergeants from London. ‘It looks as though he was strangled. Judging by the marks round his neck, he was garotted by a cord or a thin rope.’
‘There’s nothing still tied round the neck?’
‘No. Whatever it was has been removed.’
MacGregor turned to a fresh page in his notebook. ‘And this damage to the head and shoulders, sir?’ he prompted.
‘It looks as though he’s been burnt. Nothing very deep. Just enough to singe off the hair and blacken the skin. What it adds up to, of course, is that we’re not going to be able to produce a recognisable photograph of the dead man for identification purposes.’
‘Have you any idea yet what caused it?’
Inspector Telford shrugged his’ shoulders. ‘Not at the moment. I’d guess something like petrol or paraffin poured over his head and set alight.’
‘After death, do you think?’
Inspector Telford grimaced. ‘Jesus, I hope so!’
‘They might have used acid,’ said MacGregor thoughtfully. ‘How about a blowlamp?’ Dover made his contribution with much hilarity as he reached across to forcibly abduct the last cake. ‘A blowlamp’d give anybody a short-back-and-sides, eh?’ The arrival of a despatch rider with a large envelope spared Inspector Telford the embarrassment of finding a rejoinder to this grisly suggestion. The envelope contained, the photographs which had been taken earlier of the dead man as he lay on his side in his shallow grave amongst the rubbish.
MacGregor studied the photographs as Inspector Telford passed them across. ‘There wasn’t much of an effort made at concealment,’ he said accusingly. ‘Whoever dumped him there didn’t do more than scrape a bit of a hole. I wonder if they were disturbed.’
Inspector Telford didn’t think so. ‘I know the spot we found him isn’t all that far in distance from the road, but it’s a road that doesn’t go anywhere much. And it’s hardly a scenic route, either, is it? My guess is that our joker had simply had enough. Look, he brings the body by car, right? Well, it’s then got to be lugged over the fence, the barbed wire’s got to be cut, and the body’s got to be man-handled as far into the tip as possible. After that you’ve got to start digging a hole deep enough to bury it in – and with your bare hands. Look at those photographs. There’s no sign that a spade was used. My bet is our laddie did the bare minimum and hoped for the best. And why not? It was pure chance that those workmen just happened to spot the body before somebody buried it for ever under a few tons of household rubbish.’
MacGregor reckoned that Inspector Telford had probably got it about right but he saw no point in telling him so. He changed the subject. ‘You’re assuming that the murder was committed elsewhere?’
Inspector Telford stared. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘It’s a dead cert, surely? You can’t go killing somebody when you’re both up to your knees in smelly tin cans and old potato peelings, even if your victim does happen to be starkers at the time. Besides, that’s why the chief constable called you lot in. This job’s not our pigeon. We just happen to be the dumping ground. The murder was definitely committed somewhere else, not in our bailiwick.’
MacGregor tapped his teeth with his pencil, a gesture designed to indicate deep thought. ‘The choice of the rubbish tip indicates some local knowledge. You said yourself it was a bit off the beaten track. How would a stranger have known about it?’
‘Oh, anybody could have known it was there,’ insisted Inspector Telford, who had no intention of receiving this baby back again.
