A Place Of Safety(22)

‘What’s going on?’

‘Sir?’

‘You’re never here first.’

‘I know. You’re always having a go at me about it. So I thought I’d make a special effort.’

‘I like consistency in my staff, Troy. Don’t start messing me about, all right?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘OK. What’s the verdict?’

‘Garrotted, which we know already. Just “very thin wire” it says here. I expect SOCO will have more details. A heavy smoker. When discovered, four thirty yesterday afternoon, he’d been dead about sixteen hours.’

‘Roughly midnight Tuesday, then.’

‘Eaten a solid meal earlier that evening. Some meat dish, vegetables, rice probably in a pudding. Then later beer mixed up with pork scratchings—’

‘Do you mind? I’m still trying to digest my breakfast.’ Barnaby reached out for the report, flicking a page over. He read for a few more moments then put it down and opened a large envelope which had been resting against a silver-framed photograph of his wife and daughter. He drew out several large black-and-white prints and spread them over his desk top.

‘I don’t like the look of this, Troy.’

Who would? thought Sergeant Troy, staring at the bulging, terrified eyes, what remained of the goulashed cheeks, and a thrusting, blackened tongue also pretty well gnawed on. Reminded him of those weird gargoyles you saw on old churches. Either them or Maureen’s mother.

‘Apparently,’ Barnaby tapped the PM report, ‘there was no other bruising. And no skin, hair or fibres under the nails.’

‘So he didn’t fight back.’

‘Everyone fights back, given the chance. But here, once the wire was round his neck, this man didn’t have a chance.’

‘Blimey. Strong-arm stuff.’

‘Yes. Leathers was in his early sixties. Not young but hardly frail or elderly. To strangle the life out of someone in this specific manner takes a lot of muscular strength. Plus, I would think, a certain amount of know-how.’

‘You think he’s done it before, chief?’

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. But it’s certainly not a method one finds in your common or garden domestic.’

‘Perhaps he’s been practising on a melon.’

‘What?’

‘Like the killer in the Day of the Jackal.’

Barnaby closed his eyes briefly, placed the two centre fingers of his left hand on his forehead and drew a deep breath. Then he gathered up the photographs.

‘Get these displayed in the incident room. They’re setting up in four one nine on the ground floor. First briefing two thirty, by which time we should have something from SOCO.’

‘Sir.’

‘And get me a Mars bar while you’re at it.’





By the time DCI Barnaby’s team had gathered for their briefing, Dr Jim Mahoney, Charlie Leathers’ GP, had visited the morgue at Stoke Mandeville hospital and positively identified his patient’s body. SOCO had also divvied up their preliminary conclusions.

Barnaby’s team included eight CID officers, one of whom was the delectable Sergeant Brierley, after whom Troy had hopelessly lusted from the moment, seven years earlier, when he had first clapped eyes on her. And twelve uniformed coppers. Less than half the strength the DCI would have liked but that was nothing new.

‘Scene of Crime report,’ Barnaby waved it in the air. ‘Copies available. Make yourselves familiar. He was killed by a piece of wire, possibly already looped, slipped over the head from behind and pulled tight. Dense leaf mould underfoot means we’ve no impression clear enough to be of use, even if the wildlife hadn’t been scuffing around. A torch was found a few feet from the body with Leathers’ fingerprints.’

‘Have we got anything at all on him, sir?’ asked Detective Inspector ‘Happy’ Carson, a lugubrious man, newly made up in rank and longing to shine.

‘Not much at this stage. He seems to have been an unpleasant piece of work. Bullied his wife. His daughter’s on record as saying she would have done the job herself given half the chance.’

‘And didn’t something happen to his dog?’ asked Sergeant Brierley. ‘I heard someone talking in the canteen.’

‘That’s right. Badly kicked about and thrown into the river.’

‘Bastard,’ said Sergeant Troy, who loved dogs. There were several murmurs of agreement. ‘By the bloke who did the killing?’

‘Presumably.’

‘Doesn’t this indicate whoever it was is still around, sir?’ asked Carson. ‘That it’s someone the dog would recognise. And react to.’