Reckless Endangerment(7)

‘Looks as though it was ’loided, guv,’ said Kate, as she removed her mob cap and stuffed it in the pocket of her coveralls.

The form of felonious entry to which Kate referred was often used by spec thieves. Usually a credit card was inserted between the edge of the door and the jamb, enabling the latch to be pushed back. Providing the burglar struck lucky. These days most people were wise to it and had fitted a deadlocking cylinder night-latch. The Gregorys were no exception. I pushed at the tongue, but it moved easily.

‘You might be right, Kate,’ I said. ‘There’s a mortise lock, too, but neither of them has been engaged.’

‘Perhaps the intruder had a key,’ said Kate.

‘Surely it can’t have been that easy. It’s more likely that the intruder left the door open or, as you say, it was ’loided.’

‘Perhaps he left it open on his way out,’ said Kate, ‘but that doesn’t explain how he got in.’

Leaving the enigma of the unlocked door in the hope that it might be explained by Mrs Gregory, I started by looking around the hall. There were a couple of lengths of rope on the floor, presumably those with which Mrs Gregory had been tied up. Nearby was a wad of material that I imagined to be a gag that the killer had used to silence the dead man’s wife.

‘I hope the lab people can find something of use among that lot,’ I said, as Kate and I made our way upstairs.

Dr Henry Mortlock was in the act of packing the tools of his trade into his murder bag. Dave Poole was leaning against a wall, looking his usual chipper self, despite the fact that it was now two o’clock in the morning.

‘Whoever he was, guv, he certainly went through this room,’ said Dave.

I began a careful visual survey of the room. It was as Kate and Tom Watson had each said. The dressing-table drawers had been pulled out, their contents – mainly Mrs Gregory’s colourful underwear – thrown all over the place. The fitted wardrobes were wide open, a man’s suits and shirts and a woman’s dresses and trouser suits strewn untidily about the room. An empty, open jewellery box lay on the floor near the bed.

In the bed was the body of a man, his head covered in blood.

‘While Doctor Mortlock tells me the tale, Dave, go next door and have a few words with Sidney Miller, the guy who found Mrs Gregory in the hall. See what he’s got to say. DI Watson will tell you which house is his.’

‘Right, guv.’ Dave made his way downstairs.

I turned to the pathologist. ‘Good morning, Henry.’

‘There’s nothing bloody good about it,’ muttered Mortlock. ‘Why the hell can’t people be murdered at a respectable hour?’

‘My sentiments exactly, Henry. Is there anything you can tell me at this stage?’

‘On a superficial examination it looks as though our friend here was bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument, Harry. I’ll be able to tell you more when I get him on the slab. It smells as though he was drunk, too. He reeks of whisky.’

‘Blended or malt?’ I could smell Scotch even from where I was standing.

‘Undoubtedly cheap blended,’ said Mortlock, making a point of deliberately ignoring my attempt at humour. ‘A supermarket’s own brand, I should think.’

‘When are you going to do the post-mortem?’

‘You chaps are always in such a terrible rush,’ complained Mortlock, ‘and I suppose you want it done ASAP. I’ll make a sacrifice and do it this afternoon. See you at about two o’clock. Usual place.’ His face took on a sour expression. ‘What a way to spend a Sunday. I should’ve been playing golf.’

‘Never mind, Henry,’ I said. ‘You’ll be making holes instead of filling them.’

‘Very funny,’ said Mortlock, and with that pithy rejoinder he departed, whistling a few bars from Handel’s ‘Dead March’ from Saul.

Linda Mitchell, the senior forensic examiner, came into the room as Mortlock departed. ‘Can I start processing this room now, Mr Brock?’

‘Yes, it’s all yours, Linda. Will it be all right for us to have a look around downstairs?’

‘Yes, the fingerprint and photographic people should’ve finished there by now, but get their OK before you start,’ said Linda. ‘Incidentally, the whole place is a real wreck. God knows what the burglar was looking for, but he made a thorough job of turning the place upside down.’

When Kate and I reached the sitting room I could see what Linda Mitchell had been talking about. We didn’t touch anything because some of the scenes-of-crime guys were still there.

‘It’s all yours, Mr Brock,’ said one of the examiners as he packed up the remainder of his equipment. ‘It’s a right bloody mess. I’ve never seen the likes of it.’