Beside a Narrow Stream Read online

  ‘Shit,’ she heard Frank Ross mutter viciously, and with feeling, behind her.

  ‘That’s exactly what it is, Frank,’ she heard Gemma Fordham say cheerfully, and grinned. As a country girl, born and bred, Hillary had been picking her way carefully through the cow-pats without even thinking about it.

  Keith Barrington, having lived in London all his life, wasn’t so adept, but at least he had the sense not to complain about it.

  Hillary’s pace quickened as she approached the possible crime scene. Incongruously, it had to be one of the most beautiful she’d ever attended. A narrow, fairly shallow stream, obviously a tributary of a much larger river, had cut a meandering path through the lush green water meadow, and a pair of grey wagtails, nesting on the far bank, were flitting back and forth in agitation, long lemon tails wagging frantically. Picturesque-looking Jersey cows, standing some way off, watched curiously. Buttercups and daisies, some low-growing purple orchids and other wildflowers like speedwell and scarlet pimpernel gave the meadow a wild-garden appearance. With the bright sunlight shining down on it all, it looked like the last place in the world you’d expect to come across death or human tragedy.

  But as she approached, Steven Partridge was kneeling down over the supine body of a young man, and frowning in such a way that made her hackles rise.

  Hillary, always mindful of the practicalities, immediately glanced down at the hardened, cow-trampled grass and decided she might as well approach the body too. No doubt the two boys who’d found the body, the initial call-out constables, and now the ME had all left traces at the scene. But with the heatwave they were currently experiencing, there’d have been no chance of footprints anyway so it probably didn’t much matter.

  Steven Partridge sensed her arrival and glanced up. He was dressed in pale powder-blue slacks, and a light-weight cream-knitted jersey. His dyed black hair was shining and quiffed, making him look a lot younger than his fifty-something years. He smiled the instant he saw her.

  ‘Hillary, glad it’s you,’ he said, by way of greeting, and Hillary felt her heart give a little leap, then settle down. So it wasn’t a heart attack then. Or any other natural causes.

  ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Death by drowning, I think,’ Steven said. ‘But don’t quote me until the autopsy’s done. But see this dried foam around the mouth?’ he turned the corpse’s head very slightly, and Hillary, after a quick check for cow-pats, knelt beside the body, the better to see. She easily spotted the dried-bubble marks around the full lips and nodded.

  ‘Classic sign of drowning,’ the medic said flatly. ‘Once we get him to the lab we can compare the water in his lungs to the water from the stream,’ he nodded towards the narrow channel of water not far away, ‘but I’d be surprised if it wasn’t a perfect match. I haven’t come across any signs so far that the body’s been moved.’

  Hillary nodded. The corpse in front of her looked to be in his early twenties. He had a long, lean body, and she guessed that, standing, he must have been tall – six foot at least. His dark-brown, almost-black hair, looked mussed and dirty, but his face was still classically handsome, with high cheekbones and firm jaw. He was dressed in casual designer jeans and what looked like a raw-silk shirt. Very classy. He must have really looked like something, before death had glazed his blue eyes and left his mouth slack and almost foolish-looking.

  ‘Misadventure?’ she asked, but didn’t really think so. Already it had the feel of something much more nasty.

  ‘Doubt it,’ Partridge said at once, confirming it, and once more turned the head carefully, this time to the left. ‘See here, on the temple?’

  Hillary saw. ‘He’s been bashed over the head,’ she said flatly. ‘Enough to knock him out?’

  Partridge nodded. ‘Or at the very least, seriously stun him. But not kill him, I think. I still think we’re looking at death by drowning.’

  Hillary swallowed hard, and rose to her feet, her knees aching a bit with cramp. It was possible the victim might have fallen and hit his head. But if so, how did he end up drowning in the stream? And did he manage to crawl away from the water and slump on to dry land before expiring? It hardly seemed likely. She stamped her feet to get rid of the persistent cramp and looked around. ‘So, someone met him here, hit him on the head, dragged him to the stream and held him down till he drowned?’

  She glanced towards the stream and sighed heavily. Where the mud might have been kept moist by the water, and thus provide them with a set of the killer’s footprints, there was only a plethora of half-moon cuts, courtesy of cow-hoofs.

  ‘Frank, call out SOCO,’ she said absently, and saw one of the two officers nearby whisper something to his colleague. Probably DC Tylforth, saying ‘I told you so’.

  ‘Things aren’t all doom and gloom, we’ve managed to preserve some good stuff,’ Partridge said, nodding towards a middle-aged woman, who’d been taking photographs. ‘My assistant, Claudia Wright.’

  Surprised, Hillary moved across to shake hands. ‘Ma’am,’ Claudia Wright said, glancing away shyly. She was dressed in a pair of black trousers and a plain white shirt. She was thin, with hardly any breasts, and had short, brown hair, which was probably why, from a distance, Hillary had mistaken her for a man. She seemed almost painfully shy for this job, and Hillary wondered what had led to her working for someone as flamboyant as Steven Partridge.

  ‘We bagged and tagged this,’ Partridge said, nodding towards a plastic evidence bag beside the body. Hillary frowned, walking across to it and peering down. Inside she could clearly see a large, flat, pale stone that had a tinge of rust-coloured stain on one side, and what looked like a few strands of human hair attached to it.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have left that for SOCO?’ Hillary asked sharply and Partridge held up a hand in a ‘peace’ gesture.

  ‘Claudia’s fully qualified and licensed,’ the medico said soothingly. ‘She was with me in the lab when I got the call out. I asked her to come. She’s used to field work.’

  Hillary nodded, appeased. ‘Murder weapon?’ she nodded down at the evidence bag and Steven smiled.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder. But until we get a DNA link to our vic, we can’t say for sure. What I can tell you is that the stone was also used to anchor something down on the vic’s chest. Claudia?’ he looked up, and the older woman nodded and, from her briefcase this time, produced another evidence bag. This time flat. Inside, was a single piece of paper. Red, and cut out in the shape of a heart.

  Hillary blinked and stared down at it, a cold, icy feeling gripping the back of her neck.

  This was nasty.

  Very nasty.

  Usually, people were murdered in a fit of rage; a father attacking the man who’d raped his daughter or run down his wife in a car. Drunks fighting after a night in the pub. Man-and-wife spats with a kitchen knife over who burnt the roast.

  Less often, murders were committed with a bit more malice aforethought, and careful contemplation.

  But never before had she investigated a murder where the killer had deliberately left a sign behind. Something taunting and triumphant. Or a signature.

  Serial killers liked to leave signatures behind.

  ‘Oh shit,’ she said softly.

  Instantly, she felt Gemma Fordham beside her, using her few extra inches of height to look over her shoulder. Gemma, too, drew in a breath sharply, instantly leaping to the same conclusions.

  ‘Bloody hell, guv, I don’t like the look of that,’ she said softly.

  ‘What? What’s up,’ Frank Ross demanded, crowding closer, never liking to be out in the cold when something tasty was happening. ‘A red paper heart? Big sodding deal,’ he snorted, turning away.

  Keith Barrington, the only one not to crowd around her, frowned thoughtfully.

  Steven Partridge got to his feet and peeled off the rubber gloves he was wearing. He shot her a sympathetic look. ‘Well, once SOCO have done their thing, you can move the body. I’ve done all I need to here.’

/>   ‘Time of death?’ Hillary asked, before he could get away.

  Steven pursed his lips and glanced around. ‘The temperature last night was pretty mild. Rigour’s only just passed. Rectal temperature was about as I’d expect if he’d died sometime between, say, seven o’clock and midnight last night. Mind you, that might be off either way if the body spent any time in the water, which is several degrees colder than the ambient air temperature. But I don’t think he did. The skin’s not puckered enough – no washer-woman’s hands on his face or exposed skin. I think the killer pulled his body on to dry land once the deed was done and simply left him there.’

  He turned to look down at the good-looking young corpse at his feet. He shook his head. Somebody was going to have a very bad day today. He was somebody’s son, maybe husband, or even father. A handsome lad like him was bound to leave a distraught lover of some sort behind.

  ‘Thanks, doc.’

  ‘If the stone on his chest didn’t go in the water, and I don’t think it did, we might get some skin traces from it,’ Partridge continued. ‘Which’ll give you some DNA to work with, if you come up with a suspect. A rough surface like stone is almost certain to have rubbed off some epithelia.’

  ‘Any ID on the vic?’ Hillary asked, but Partridge shook his head. ‘I only did a very brief check of his pockets. Nothing obvious – no driver’s licence or even wallet. Last evening was lovely – a fine sunset. He probably just came out for a walk, didn’t think to bring anything with him. Also no car keys or front door keys. There was a piece of paper in his shirt front pocket, but it got wet when he was pushed head first into the drink. I didn’t dare extract it before it can be dried out properly. You’ll have to wait to see what it says.’

  Hillary sighed. ‘Right. So the first thing we need to do is find out who he is.’ She turned to her team. ‘Well, you know the drill. House to house, start with the cottages nearest, find out if anybody saw anything last night. Claudia,’ she turned to the medico’s assistant, who bobbed her head in acknowledgement, but didn’t make eye contact. ‘Can you take a couple of instamatic shots of the head please? None of the gore, perhaps side-featured. Something my officers can use to show people and help us get an ID?’

  The forensic expert nodded, and reached into her shoulder bag for a different camera.

  ‘Everyone take a photo of our vic. He’s almost certainly local. Constable,’ she called across to one of the uniforms, who obediently trotted over. ‘I take it there’s been no car parked nearby overnight?’

  ‘No, ma’am. First thing we checked.’

  She nodded. ‘Right, so he almost certainly walked here from Deddington. It’s a big village, and no doubt full of newcomers, but somebody’ll know him. A lad that good-looking won’t have gone unnoticed.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll have a quick word with the two lads who found him. They still here?’

  ‘No, ma’am, we took ’em back to their homes.’

  ‘Bit upset were they?’

  The constable, a short, lean man in his early thirties, smiled briefly. ‘More excited, I’d say, ma’am.’

  Hillary smiled and nodded. ‘Well, better that than trauma, I suppose. You’ve got their addresses?’ She waited until he’d copied them from out from his notebook and took the sheet of paper he proffered. ‘OK, well get to it then, everyone.’

  Gemma, Frank and Barrington peeled off to start house-to-house. ‘You’d better wait here for SOCO and the coroner’s van,’ she said to the uniform. ‘The body can go as soon as it gets here.’ She glanced across at Steven Partridge. ‘If you need a lift back, the van’s your best bet.’

  The doctor grimaced. ‘I’ll be glad when the MG’s back on the road.’

  It was Gemma Fordham who hit the jackpot first. The tenth house she tried belonged to an old lady who twittered and fluttered, but avidly looked at the picture of the dead body, and identified him at once.

  ‘That’s that Wayne Sutton that is,’ she said judiciously, nodding her permed blue head sagely. ‘Lives in one of them cottages other side of lights, near church. Bit of a lad, they do say.’

  Gemma nodded and smiled. ‘Is that right? In what way?’ she asked chattily, settling down on the sofa, all ears. Thus gratified, the old lady promptly spilled her guts.

  Hillary was talking to Marjorie Gould when her mobile rang. She answered it, surprised to hear her new DS’s voice. She hadn’t remembered giving her the number yet. Still, for someone as super-efficient as Fordham, acquiring it probably hadn’t represented much of a challenge.

  Biting back the urge to snarl, Hillary smiled an apology at Marjorie Gould, and turned slightly on her chair, dropping her voice an octave. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

  ‘Guv, the victim’s name is Wayne Sutton. He lives near the church,’ she gave the address, and carried on smoothly, ‘but his parents live on the other side of the village, near one of the farms.’ She rattled this off as well.

  Hillary jotted it down in her book. ‘OK, got that. Well done and carry on,’ she said briefly, and hung up. She supposed she could have given her extra instructions but why bother? Gemma Fordham obviously didn’t need them. The woman would probably have the case solved by teatime and they could all go home.

  She turned back to Jaime’s mother and smiled again. ‘Sorry about that. You were saying that you had a coffee morning planned…?’

  She listened as Marjorie Gould explained her reasons for turfing out her son that morning, whilst the boy himself sat listening, wide-eyed and enjoying himself. When it came to his turn, he related everything that had happened that morning with childish relish, and Hillary thought, probably also with extreme accuracy. He was, she’d noticed, an intelligent lad and, like most children, had a gift for observation.

  When she left the house a few minutes later, she didn’t feel the need to interview Tris Winters, sure that his version would tally exactly with his friend’s.

  Instead, she stood on the pavement, underneath a pink-flowering ribes bush, alive with buzzing insects, and dialled Keith Barrington’s number. It was answered quickly, and in the background she could hear a man’s voice asking him if he wanted a cup of tea.

  ‘Huh, no thanks, Mr Phillpot. Hello, DC Barrington.’

  ‘Keith. The victim’s name is Wayne Sutton. I want you to start a time line on him as soon as you can, tracing his movements from yesterday morning onwards. Get over to his cottage and start interviewing neighbours.’ She quickly rattled off the address for him.

  ‘Guv.’

  She hung up and took a long, deep breath. Well, there was no putting it off. She needed to get over to the Suttons. Since their son was renting his own accommodation, they probably didn’t even know he’d been missing all night. Let alone that anything was seriously wrong.

  Breaking the worst possible news to anxious relatives who knew that something was up was bad, but at least they’d had the chance to prepare themselves psychologically for tragedy. Bearing bad news that came like a bolt from the blue was much worse.

  Grimly Hillary got into her car and drove to the other end of the village, feeling like the messenger of doom.

  chapter three

  Hillary parked in front of a small, two-up, two-down cottage opposite a large and smelly farmyard, and wondered if Mr Sutton senior actually worked on the farm, or was simply renting what was, or had once obviously been, a cowman’s or farmhand’s tied cottage. The white-painted front gate opened on to a no-nonsense concrete path that led straight to a front door, painted a deep cream with a brass knocker.

  Hillary walked slowly up the path and rapped the brass ring, noticing the granny’s bonnets and peonies growing in profusion in the tiny front garden. Blue forget-me-nots frothed over the concrete path, and in one corner a flowering japonica ran rampant. The door was opened by a middle-aged, well-padded woman with long blonde hair fast going grey. ‘Yes, luv, can I ’elp you?’

  ‘Mrs Sutton?’ Hillary asked, showing her ID card. ‘DI Greene, Thames
Valley police.’

  ‘Aye, I’m Claire Sutton. What’s up? My Davey can’t have done anything wrong. He’s home with the summer flu,’ she said, half-smiling, but a darkness in her eyes told Hillary that the woman already knew this call was not about her husband.

  ‘May I come in please, Mrs Sutton,’ Hillary asked gently, hoping the woman PC family liaison officer she’d radioed in for would be here soon. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

  Claire Sutton swallowed hard but nodded and stepped to one side. She was wearing dark blue leggings and an extra-large T-shirt with a cartoon Tasmanian Devil picture on it. ‘Go on straight through to the living-room. Davey’s laid out on the sofa, but there’s arm chairs. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

  And before Hillary could stop her, the woman had darted off into a tiny kitchen leaving Hillary to make her way reluctantly to the only other room on this floor. A spiral wooden staircase, set against the living-room wall allowed access to the rooms upstairs. Since the cottage was tiny, she was not surprised that their son had moved out at the first chance he got. Or had the Suttons been living elsewhere when their son had still been in the nest?

  ‘Hello.’ The hoarse voice came from the sofa, where a lean, flush-faced man was lying. He had a large, multi-coloured crocheted blanket over him, and beside him, on a small wooden table, was a tall glass of what looked like lemon barley water.

  ‘Mr Sutton? DI Greene,’ Hillary once more showed her ID, and sank down into the armchair Davey Sutton indicated. He sat up slowly, careful to keep the blanket around him, and from the quick glimpse she got of his hairy legs, Hillary guessed he was wearing little more than a vest and Y-fronts underneath. He coughed painfully and reached for his glass, just as his wife came through with a tray of tea.

  ‘Ah, something hot. Just what the old throat needs,’ Davey Sutton smiled, his voice little more than a croak. Claire Sutton sat down abruptly. She looked very pale.