Skeleton Hill

‘Perhaps we don’t have anything to tell you.’

‘It’s no easy matter when your victim is dry bones and no one remembers anything.’

‘So this is your only line of enquiry.’

‘I’m speaking to the press this afternoon. We’ll see if memor -ies are jogged when the papers get onto the story.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She lowered her chest by at least two inches. ‘Are you taking advice from John Wigfull, our new media relations manager? He could probably get some headlines for you.’

‘I’ve discussed it with him.’

‘He was extremely impressive at interview. He’s well up on all the latest techniques.’

‘I’m sure. About Mrs White…’

‘Well?’ The low slung chest became just a memory.

‘There’s no need for you to do anything, ma’am. I’ll speak to her myself.’

He left while he had the opportunity.

* * *

To his credit, John Wigfull had marshalled most of the local press and some of the nationals as well. Poster-size photos of the site and the skeleton in its grave formed a backdrop for Diamond’s statement. Press-kits stuffed with pictures were handed to everyone.

After outlining the facts and responding to questions, Diamond did more interviews for local TV and radio, stressing repeatedly that the team were waiting to be contacted by anyone with a memory of anything suspicious going on near the fallen tree ten to twenty years ago.

Much of the questioning was about the missing skull. Did he expect to find it?

He admitted that he didn’t. The crime scene team had sifted all the loose earth for more evidence and found nothing apart from the metal zip. It was clear that the skull was elsewhere.

One TV reporter pressed him to speculate on whether the killer had removed the head to prevent identification.

He knew better than to go down that road. ‘We don’t know yet how she died. Murder is a possibility, but we can’t discount a fatal accident on the road not far up the slope. Whoever buried her didn’t want the body discovered. That much is clear.’

‘Are you saying someone ran her over and tried to dispose of the body?’

‘That’s one interpretation.’

‘And decapitated her? In the accident, or after?’

He was trying so hard to stay cool. ‘All we’ve got is a headless skeleton. How could I possibly know?’

‘Do you think the head is buried somewhere else?’

‘I’m keeping an open mind.’ Long experience had taught him how to steer an interview to a close. ‘I’ve told you all I know at this juncture. With your help, we’ll carry the investigation a stage further.’

Wigfull was fishing for compliments afterwards. ‘I thought it went rather well. These events work so much better with good visuals like the posters.’

‘Let’s see what results we get,’ Diamond said. ‘I’ve done press statements with dartboards as a background and still made the front page of the News of the World. Thanks, anyway. You did your job.’

Ingeborg rushed in, bursting to tell them something.

‘Someone phoned in already?’ Diamond said. ‘That is a result.’

Self-congratulation started spreading over Wigfull’s features.

‘No, guv,’ Ingeborg said. ‘This has nothing to do with the press conference. A body has been found. The thing is, it’s Lansdown again.’

10

The Victorian cemetery in the shadow of Beckford’s Tower would have made an ideal location for a Gothic horror movie. Weathered obelisks, tablets and carved figures showed above a waist-high crop of grass, ferns, brambles, nettles and cow parsley. Any smaller, more humble headstones were lost to view, but the grander monuments on plinths still vouched for the eminence of the interred, even if the lettering was unreadable. The Preservation Trust maintained the site and justified the abundant growth as a wildlife sanctuary. Only the main pathways had been kept mown and a cluster of policemen and crime scene investigators could be seen standing along one of them beside a trampled section marked with police tape hung from stone angels and granite crosses. The main point of interest, a clothed body, lay face down in the narrow space between two graves.

Diamond, with Keith Halliwell in support, found a familiar character directing operations.

Duckett, the crime scene man, looked up and said, ‘You again?’ making his disfavour clear.

‘I was about to say the same thing but the cadaver interests me more,’ Diamond said. ‘Head wound, then.’

‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’

It was rather obvious. A gash at the back of the victim’s head revealed a strip of dented skull between encrustments of blood – as ugly a wound as Diamond had seen in some time. ‘Has the pathologist been by?’

‘And gone.’ Duckett flapped his hand at the flies that were gathering. ‘You’re late on the scene, superintendent.’

‘Did he have anything helpful to say?’

‘Only the obvious.’

‘How recent was the death?’

‘Some hours. You know what pathologists are like.’

‘Just a head wound. Nothing more?’

‘He wouldn’t be drawn.’

Diamond leaned over the body looking for other signs of injury.

Duckett spoke again. ‘I can tell you what happened if you like. See the empty beer can over there?’ He pointed to a dented Foster’s can lying on the gravel topping of one of the graves. ‘He was stonkered, lost his footing and hit his head.’

‘How do you know all that?’

Pleased to be asked, Duckett beckoned with his finger and showed Diamond a small patch of dry blood on the raised edging of the adjacent grave. Some had trickled down the side. ‘In my job, you can’t afford to miss a thing.’

Diamond got on his knees for a close look. ‘So why is the wound at the back of the head?’

‘He fell backwards. Drunks often do.’

‘He’s face down.’

There was some hesitation.

‘You don’t see it, do you?’ Duckett said, beginning to bluster. ‘He falls backwards, bounces his head on the stone and is thrust sideways, ending up like this.’

‘I can’t picture it.’

‘Okay, he may have rolled over before he passed out.’

‘I doubt it,’ Diamond said.

‘You know better, do you?’

‘It’s a vicious-looking injury for a simple fall.’

‘That granite edge is really sharp. Feel it.’

Diamond ran his fingers along the angle of the stone. Then he got up and stepped over to the next grave and inspected the beer can without touching it. ‘There’s rust on this.’

‘I don’t think so. Where?’