His phone rang. It was the pathologist's office and he answered, a little disappointed to be drawn away from his memories.
"Tom, I'm sorry I haven't been back to you with my findings. I know you asked for preliminary thoughts yesterday, but the autopsy threw up some rather unexpected details and I'm yet to work through them."
"I thought the cause of death was already determined with a reasonable degree of certainty?"
"Oh, yes. That is true, and I won't be altering that."
"Then what is the complication?"
"I would prefer to say when I've obtained copies of the deceased's medical records, rather than speculate."
Tom found that a little odd but maybe there was something that needed clarifying. He was going to press him, but then thought better of it. He wouldn't appreciate a pathologist questioning the process of a murder investigation, so, in turn, he shouldn't assume a better working knowledge of a pathology department.
"Okay. When do you expect to have the information you need on Mary Beckett?"
"Later on, today."
"Will you call me again as soon as you're up to speed?"
"Certainly."
Tom put his mobile back in his pocket, intrigued as to what was holding back the release of the autopsy report, but that was for later. Eric glanced across at him.
"Bad news?"
He shook his head. "Not really. Delay on the Beckett autopsy conclusions."
"I figured that was a dead cert – if you pardon the pun. Death either resulted from the blow to the head or by drowning once she went into the water."
"I suspect that will still be the case," Tom said.
Eric slowed the car as they came upon a junction. It wasn't a major intersection, more of a short track leading to a row of terraced cottages set back from the main road. Eric pulled the car in and came to a stop.
"It's one of these, but I don't know which," he said, leaning forward and peering over the dashboard at the properties.
They were intriguing. Each one looked identical to the next and were probably inspired by or built during the Arts and Crafts Victorian period. The exterior of each house demonstrated an impressive example of craftsmanship, using wood and clay to highlight traditional skills and natural building materials. The roof pitches were low with overhanging eaves and many of the windowpanes were patterned or coloured. None of the cottages were numbered, each bearing a name plate etched into slate.
"What do we know about Rutland?" Tom asked.
"A well-documented history of poaching. Multiple fines and convictions once the legislation was tightened on endangered species," Eric said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "Mary Beckett's photographic evidence and eyewitness testimony had him directly convicted on one occasion and they've had other run-ins along the way too."
"Anything recent?"
"Last year. Does that count?" Eric said, looking across at him.
"Let's see what he has to say for himself."
Each house was well presented, in keeping with the architectural design. To the front of each property was a small square garden, each one encompassed by a knee-high picket fence. Clearly a great deal of time was spent on cultivating them because the season's foliage was really beginning to come out, transitioning from spring to summer. That is in all but one. The last cottage in the terrace stood out from the others, and it was the one they were heading for.
Tom recognised the picket fence was made out of cedar, a good choice to withstand the elements. However, the last property appeared to have forgone the maintenance required to keep it in good shape. Many of the staves were rotten, some missing entirely, and the garden was largely overgrown. Several bushes had grown so high and wide they were now covering half of the front-facing window behind them. Where the neighbouring properties showed a level of care and attention to cultivating their gardens this one was allowing nature to take its course. Some of the clay tiles on the roof had slipped and in one corner near the gable eaves a hole had appeared, roughly a foot wide. The timbers in view were greying and blackened. It must have been exposed like that for quite some time.
The path to the front door had plants, bushes and grass encroaching from either side. So much so that they had to push some aside to enable them to reach the front door unimpeded. There was no doorbell, and Tom hammered on the frame with his fist, hearing the thud resonate. They waited, but no one came to the door. Stepping back, Tom eyed the upstairs windows. Heavy nets hung behind the panes, but the curtains were open. Movement to their left caught his eye. A woman was peering at them from the front window of a neighbouring property.
Normally, he would have crossed the gap between them to identify himself, but the route was impenetrable. In front of him brambles rose from the undergrowth with both blackberries and raspberries visible. Taking out his ID, he brandished his warrant card. The woman's eyes narrowed as she inspected it, and then she opened the window. It was a narrow casement and the gap wasn't large. She almost had to shout to be heard.
"He'll not answer the door to you. Never does. You'll have to go around the back."
There was nothing amiable about her tone. Her expression remained fixed. Something told him the residents didn't get on.
"Thank you," he called, nodding his thanks and smiling.
"He leaves the gate unlocked but mind his dog. Vicious animal."
With that, she closed the window and disappeared behind her own intricately woven net curtain. Tom and Eric exchanged glances.
"Vicious dog," Eric said quietly. "Never liked dogs."
"Why ever not?" Tom asked, passing the younger man and setting off around to the rear.
"I watched that series of satanic films when I was a kid. You remember, the one with the creepy boy and his pudding basin haircut. He was always flanked by Dobermans."
"The Omen?" Tom
