Mortal Remains

It occurred to her as she resumed her quick pace that she could ask at the corner shop, they might have a copy to spare.

A few yards ahead, young lads, eight or nine years old, were kicking a football around with more enthusiasm than skill. The ball suddenly came straight at her; if she hadn’t jumped aside it would have struck her in the face. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ she called out sharply.

One of the lads came racing after the ball, throwing her a grin of apology as he darted by. A few moments later another random shot sent the ball soaring over the gate of the last house on this part of the common. Some of the boys snatched open the gate and ran in after the ball. They began to search about in the long grass bordering the drive, the drifts of dead leaves. One agile lad climbed nimbly up into a tall tree and directed his gaze over the ground below.

Miss Tarrant strode over to the gateway. She clicked her tongue at the sight of the youngsters ferreting about; they had no business in there at all, roaming over a private garden. She said as much in ringing tones.

‘It’s all right,’ a lad assured her. ‘There’s no one at home, there never is this time of year. It’s an old couple live there, they always go to Spain for the winter.’

She wasn’t in the least mollified. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to trespass on their property.’

Another lad suddenly spied the football in a tangle of undergrowth and fell upon it with a cry of triumph.

‘Come along!’ Miss Tarrant ordered. ‘Out of here, all of you!’ They ran shouting and laughing out on to the common again. All except the lad up the tree. He was right at the top now, his feet securely lodged, glancing with lively interest.

Miss Tarrant marched in through the gate and positioned herself at the foot of the tree. ‘You too,’ she called up to him. ‘Come along down. At once.’

He seemed not to hear. He craned forward, staring down into the shrubbery. She called up to him again, loudly and forcefully. He made no reply but suddenly began to descend the tree, scrambling swiftly down, dropping to the ground at her feet. He scarcely glanced at her but darted off at once towards the shrubbery. She set her jaw and went after him.

He came to a halt, stooped and peered under the drooping branches. Her gaze travelled after his, to a heap of bracken fronds. She uttered a gasping cry. A pair of legs was sticking out from the bracken, legs clad in dark trousers, the feet shod in black trainers. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she reached out to steady herself against a tree.

The lad swept aside the bracken, revealing the rest of the body, face down in the undergrowth, clad in a grey quilted jacket, a woollen cap striped in brown and white, darkly stained with blood.

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_12d385a0-babd-5a1b-9a5b-765f6a1f514a)

Mrs Griffin liked to dish up Sunday dinner promptly at one-thirty. At a quarter past twelve, Norman, who had spent the morning tinkering with his radios, washed and changed, ready for his usual pint of beer in the pub up the road.

The moment he walked in through the pub door he knew something was up, there was none of the customary laughter and badinage, only serious looks, hushed voices. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked one of the regulars.

‘Old Harry Lingard,’ the man told him. ‘They’ve found his body on Whitethorn Common.’

‘His body?’ Norman echoed with a look of stupefaction. ‘You don’t mean he’s dead?’

‘He’s dead all right,’ the man responded with energy. ‘Back of his head bashed in. The common’s crawling with police, they’ve got it all cordoned off.’ A thought struck him. ‘That girlfriend of yours, Harry’s granddaughter, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is. She’s not here just now, she’s over at her brother’s for the weekend. I’d better let the police know.’ He left the pub at once. To reach the common he had to pass his own house again. He went inside for a moment to tell his mother the grim news and where he was bound; he had no idea how long he’d be.

She was thunderstruck. ‘It’ll be one of those muggers,’ she declared with conviction as soon as she’d got her breath back. ‘I can’t believe it, I’ve known Harry all my life.’ She began to cry.

He put an arm round her shoulders. ‘I can’t stop,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got to get along to the common.’

Police in gumboots and overalls were carrying out a fingertip search; scattered knots of onlookers watched from a permitted distance. The police photographers had finished their work, the body had gone to the mortuary. Pressmen from the local papers were in evidence; the local radio station had put out a newsflash.

The police doctor had put the time of death, at a rough estimate, at between six o’clock and midnight on Friday evening. The back of the skull had been shattered with a blunt instrument; minor scratches and abrasions to the face would seem to have been caused by the body being dragged by the feet, face down, over the last yard or two before being dumped under the trees.

The body was fully clothed but there was nothing in any of the pockets, no personal possessions of any kind on the body. There was no sign of any weapon, nor any sign of the scarlet satchel of freesheets Harry must surely have been carrying.

When Norman reached the common Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey was talking to the coroner in the driveway of the property where the body had been discovered. The coroner, a local doctor of long experience, always made a point of viewing the body in the spot where it was found, if at all possible.

Norman spoke to a constable, saying he wished to speak to the officer in charge. He was directed to the driveway and stood waiting till the two men had finished their conversation. He saw the Chief Inspector register his presence. A big, solidly built man, Chief Inspector Kelsey, with massive shoulders. He had a head of thickly springing carroty hair, a freckled face dominated by a large, squashy nose.

At last the two men shook hands and the coroner went off to his car. Kelsey gave Norman an inquiring glance.

Norman introduced himself and explained about Jill and Gareth. Kelsey’s shrewd green eyes ranged over him as he talked. A constable had already been despatched to Harry Lingard’s house but had got no response there or at the adjoining semi. A neighbour further along had seen Harry leaving his house with his satchel of papers at around six-fifteen on Friday evening.

‘Jill’s not due back till Tuesday evening,’ Norman told the Chief.

‘We’ll get over there and break the news,’ the Chief said. But he had one or two matters to attend to first.

‘All right if I come along?’ Norman asked. ‘Jill will be very upset, I’d like to be with her.’

‘I don’t see why not.’ Kelsey consulted his watch. ‘You can get off home now. Meet us at Harry Lingard’s house at two-thirty sharp, you can ride with us.’

Five minutes before the appointed time Norman reached the house and stationed himself by the police car. Chief Inspector Kelsey, accompanied by Detective Sergeant Lambert, was talking to the constable on guard. In the absence of any keys to the house the Chief had felt no necessity to force an entry; it was possible one of the two grandchildren might have a key. He had contented himself for the present with an external tour of the property.

Every door and window in the house had been carefully secured, the curtains were all closed; nowhere any sign of disturbance. Through the porch window the Chief could see copies of the Bazaar stacked in bundles on the bench.

The garage was locked, windows fastened; a small van was visible inside. The garden shed was not locked, though its windows were closed.

At two-thirty Kelsey strode out to the car. Norman was to ride in front beside the sergeant. The Chief took his seat in the rear where he immediately leaned back and closed his eyes, uttering not one syllable during the journey. It took three-quarters of an hour to reach Gareth Lingard’s cottage which stood on the outskirts of a town; it had a sizeable piece of land attached.

An estate car was drawn up near the open front door when the police vehicle pulled up. A boy about four years old, wearing outdoor clothes, was jumping on and off the doorstep, counting his jumps in a clear treble. As Sergeant Lambert put his hand on the gate Gareth and his wife came out of the house, deep in conversation. Anne was leading a toddler by the hand; they were all dressed in outdoor clothes. They made to turn towards the estate car and caught sight of the trio at the gate. They halted; Gareth looked over at them with inquiry. He spotted Norman, his face took on a look of puzzlement.

The three men walked up the path. As the Chief was introducing himself Jill Lingard came out of the house to join the others. She gave a little cry of surprise at the sight of Norman. In the same moment her ears caught what the Chief was saying. Norman locked eyes with her but he said nothing, he made no move in her direction.

‘I’m afraid we bring bad news,’ Kelsey said gently, now including Jill in his gaze. ‘Very bad news. I think it’s best if we all go inside.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Gareth led the way into the sitting room where Norman took up his position at Jill’s side.

‘It’s about your grandfather, Mr Harold Lingard,’

Kelsey began. Jill gave a gasp and put a hand up to her face. Norman slid an arm around her shoulders.

‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you he’s dead,’ Kelsey went on. Jill lowered her head and began to cry.

‘Dead?’ Gareth echoed in shocked astonishment. ‘Has there been an accident?’

The Chief shook his head. He began to explain the circumstances in which Harry had been found. His bleak recital was punctuated by Jill’s sobs, questions from Gareth. Anne sat in silence, her face full of concern and sympathy; the two children stared at the visitors.

Anne appeared to be a sensible and practical young woman. She produced a tray of tea and then busied herself packing Jill’s suitcase. On the journey back to Cannonbridge Norman and Jill travelled with Gareth behind the police vehicle; their first stop was at the hospital mortuary. Gareth went inside with the two policemen to make the formal identification. When they came out again he looked white and shaken; he said nothing as he got back into the car. Norman offered to drive and Gareth made no resistance; Norman followed the police car to the council estate.

Gareth had no keys to his grandfather’s house; neither he nor Jill had ever had any. But Jill knew of a key to the back door, kept in the garden shed. ‘Granddad put it there for me,’ she explained in unsteady tones, ‘in case I ever needed it. I hardly ever used it.’

They went along to the shed and Jill indicated a pair of secateurs lying on a corner shelf. The Chief took a pen from his pocket and with the tip raised the end of the secateurs, revealing the key; he left it where it was. Both key and secateurs were of old, dull metal, far from smooth. Neither could be touched before being tested, although there was little hope of useful prints.

With Gareth’s permission they broke a pane in the kitchen window to gain entry. Inside, all was scrupulously neat and tidy, the whole house spotlessly clean. Harry’s private papers were kept in a bureau in the sitting room but the bureau was locked. Gareth was able to supply the name of his grandfather’s bank and the solicitor who had drawn up his will two years ago.

At the Chief’s request Gareth and Jill set about compiling a list of what their grandfather might be expected to have on him. Watch, ring, regimental badge. Pigskin wallet – a present from Jill last Christmas. Zipped coin purse, oldish, of brown leather. Notebook, ballpoint pen, van keys, house keys – including the key to the bureau. A white handkerchief.