Grave Doubt

Grave Doubt

by Alex Binney

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Alex Binney

Published by Strict Publishing International

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GRAVE DOUBT

Bill Grimes is dead

-Or so they said.

He had been ill

And now lies still.

But all the while

He wears a smile.

His eyes of blue

Retain their hue

And teeth so white

Prepare to bite

A tongue so red

Inside his head.

Can it be

His eyes still see?

His tongue still tastes

Life’s bitter pastes?

His hands feel still

The morning chill?

No! – Bill Grimes is dead

Or so they said.

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS

1. Thou shalt not have any other gods before me

2. Thou shalt not make for thyself any graven image

3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain;

4. Remember to keep holy the sabbath day;

5. Honour thy mother and father.

6. Thou shalt not kill.

7. Thou shalt not commit adultery.

8. Thou shalt not steal.

9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.

10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s [goods]

Deuteronomy 5:6-21

CHAPTER ONE: A Murder

They stood over the body like zombies.

What’s the verdict, Gordon?

Robertson grumbled slowly in a broad Glaswegian accent. She was suffocated. I reckon she was thrown on the bed over there and smothered with one of her pillows. The killer then pulled her back onto the floor and had sex with her posthumously.

Charming, said Detective Constable Scott Harding, new to Scotland Yard. Why didn’t he just rape her?

There are plenty of defensive wounds on the body and I expect we’ll recover skin scrapings from under her fingernails. This girl wasn’t prepared to be raped. She put up quite a fight. The only way her predator was going to exercise his sexual deviances was after she was dead. Look, she’s fully clothed except that she’s minus her underwear.

Knickers, you mean. Are you sure she was suffocated? asked Bert Sibble, the inspector in charge.

As sure as I can be, until I do a post mortem, replied Robertson. You see these petechial haemorrhages?

You – what?

Petechial haemorrhages – red splotches – in the eyes, face and neck area. If I find a similar pattern in her lungs, it will confirm my diagnosis. Besides, there’s the pillow on the floor over there. That gives you a bit of a clue, doesn’t it? Robertson’s tone was mocking.

Okay, Gordon, have your fun.

Call this fun? Wait ’til I get you on a golf course. I’m off. I’ll give you my written report tomorrow after I’ve got her on the slab.

Hey – whoa. Time of death?

Judging by the lividity and rigor, I would say approximately 1 a.m.

Inspector Bert Sibble thanked him and watched the pathologist go. He then turned to his junior officer and asked, Did anyone hear anything?

No, guv, replied Harding. I asked around.

Who made the 999 call?

Wouldn’t give a name. Said the front door had been left ajar – and it was.

The caller must have entered the house then, and seen the body. Would you enter someone’s house if you saw the front door ajar and you were just a passer-by?

No, guv. Do you think it was the guy who killed her who made the call?

Could be. Any ID?

Some – her name is Josie Carstairs. We found this in the pocket of her coat. Harding handed him a single sheet of paper, now wrapped in a plastic bag.

It’s a receipt for stationery. Was she a student?

No, guv. A legal secretary. She worked for Sargent and Stannings in Stegbourne.

Very good, Scott. I didn’t know you were into alliteration.

Alit… what, guv?

Never mind. How did you know where she worked, Scott?

One of the lads knows her. He pointed at one of the uniformed men present. He’s going through a divorce and had to see her before he could make an appointment with one of the divorce lawyers.

Sibble knelt down to examine the body for himself. Hmm… he mused, …Robertson was right. See here – her lipstick is all smudged, which could be the result of a pillow being put over her face. See if there’s any lipstick on that pillow over there, will you, Scott?

Yes, guv. The detective constable returned with the desired item and there were indeed red smears on it.

Okay, said the inspector, let’s get this body down to the morgue. He turned to the fingerprint guy and enquired, You finished yet?

Dave Rannock, the man involved, said, Nearly, sir.

Well, pull your finger out, will you? And bag this pillow up and take it back to the lab at the same time. Thanks.

He gazed inspectorially at the more-or-less fully clothed corpse. The girl could not be more than about twenty years old, Sibble gauged, and had clearly known her attacker. Always the same diagnosis when there was no forced entry.

What now, guv? enquired Harding.

Once the place is clear and secure, we’ll grab a bit of lunch and then pay Messrs. Sargent and Stannings a visit.

A half an hour later saw the two detectives leaving the house with blue tape covering the front door and a police notice pinned to the front gate stating that entry by unauthorised persons was forbidden.

They were in the small village of Combe St. Thomas, Dorset, which lay on the Dorchester/Sherborne ‘B classified’ road. At the end of the street was a pub called The Granny Knot, which had a small lounge but a bigger bar.

The detectives went into the lounge.

Sibble bought the beer and ordered sandwiches for them.

As they looked around the small room, which could only house four tables, they guessed that the locals drinking there were farmhands but wondered why they were not in the bar where the beer was cheaper.

You cops? one of them asked.

Yes, said Sibble, not wishing to engage the man in conversation.

Thought so. What’s ’appened? Someone robbed the telephone box?

A couple of the others broke out into a guffaw.

Sibble turned his back on the man and sipped at his beer.

One of the larger men present got up from his chair and approached the two detectives. Us don’t like strangers comin’ to the village, he said.

The inspector was forced to confront the man. I don’t care what your likes or dislikes are, he told him. We’re here on official police business.

Oh, yeh? Then tell us what it is.

It’s none of your business.

Everythin’ that ’appens in this village is our business.

Before Sibble could respond, one of the regulars burst into the lounge.

Guess what? he shouted. That Josie Carstairs ’as been done in!

The big man turned from the inspector and said, Well, you can’t say she wasn’t askin’ fer it. Then he turned back to the policeman and added, So that’s why you’re ’ere, eh, mate? Why couldn’t ’e ’ave said?

Don’t you think you gentlemen would be better off in the bar? responded Sibble, ignoring the man’s rhetoric.

Can’t, was the reply. It’s being redecorated. But ’tis okay, the landlord is only chargin’ us bar prices. Bet that’s not the case fer ’e. At that point, the big man said to the others, Okay, lads, it’s time we got back to work. Anyway, the smell o’ pig-shit is getting’ t’me.

There were more guffaws as the men left the pub.

Shortly afterwards, Jethro Berkins the manager, produced sandwiches for the detectives.

Who was the big guy that was in here? Sibble asked him.

Oh, you mean Big Ben, like that clock in London? Ben Murrs. He’s the foreman at Hollows Farm up the road. Ben thinks he owns the place on account of the owner, Sir Edward Conley, being only a gentleman farmer. He’s actually an M.P. and is only down here occasionally.

What sort of farm is it?

Mainly dairy. Has about sixty cows, some beef stock. Does a bit of arable, not much. Keeps some pigs, more as a hobby. No sheep. About a hundred and fifty acres in all.

Interesting. While you’re here, can I ask you how we get to Stegbourne? Do we have to go back into Dorchester to pick up the A37?

No, you’re all right. If you drive to the top of the village, you’ll see on your left a signpost at the crossroads. You’ll see you can turn left there to Stegbourne. If you go straight on, that takes you back to Dorchester or, if you turn right, that’ll take you to Campton Glossop.

After the landlord left them to eat their sandwiches, Sibble reviewed the situation with Scott Harding.

Scott was a twenty-eight-year-old, fresh out of training school, of unquenchable spirit and keenness. His blond hair was too curly to be manageable, and his blue eyes had the girls queuing up. He was strongly built and regularly worked out.

His inspector, on the other hand, was someone you could pass by without a second glance. Bert Sibble was forty years old, of medium height, clean-shaven apart from long sideburns, neither ugly nor handsome. A man of rugged features, you might say.

So what have we got so far? said the Inspector. We have a legal secretary called Josie Carstairs who appears to have been smothered in her own home, probably by someone she knew, as there was no evidence of forced entry.

She could have opened the door to a stranger who just barged in, guv, suggested Harding.

Unlikely. If that was the case, the killer would have barged in for a reason, such as robbery. And there was no evidence of that.

Maybe robbery wasn’t the motive. Could have been a hitman, paid to kill her.

When have you ever heard of a hitman who carries out his contracts by smothering his victims? No, it had to be someone she knew – friend, or otherwise.

Could have been a lovers’ tiff that got out of hand, was another suggestion from Harding.

That’s a possibility, though doubtful.

The pathologist said there was evidence of sex post mortem. Maybe she refused him when she was alive and that’s what drove him to kill her.

You’ve certainly got an active imagination, Scott, I’ll give you that. Okay, that could fit, but my years on the force make me far more sceptical than that when it comes to murder.

What about the guy Big Ben who was in here? He said that she was asking for it, whatever that means.

A comment that hasn’t eluded me, Scott. We’ll look in on him when we get back from Stegbourne. Come on, finish up your sandwich, and let’s go.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, they had reached the crossroads that the landlord mentioned. He was right, said Harding, who was driving. We have to turn left here for Stegbourne.

The 1950 Austin A40 trundled along an unmade road seemingly for miles until they came to a fork where the direction sign indicated a right turn along a wider thoroughfare, which at least had been made of asphalt concrete and provided a smoother ride.

After forty-five minutes, the village of Stegbourne came into view. Population: 1,856 as at the 28th May 1957.

They alighted in the middle of the village, right outside the Victorian offices of Sargent and Stannings. A heavy oak door with a brass knocker confronted them, and on the wall to the right was a brass plate that had the words Sargent and Stannings, Commissioner for Oaths etched upon it.

The detectives saw no reason to knock on the door to gain an entrance. Harding simply turned the brass handle and walked in, followed by the inspector.

They were immediately met by a female receptionist who was seated at a desk behind a large Olivetti typewriter. She looked as though the office had been built around her, such was her dress. She also wore small, round spectacles, and her hair was done up in a bun. In spite of this matronly appearance, she was clearly quite a young woman.

May I help you, gentlemen?

Sibble showed his ID. I’d like to speak to your senior business partner, if I may.

Do you have an appointment?

No. Just tell him we are here, will you?

I’ll do my best. I know he has his hands full today, as his secretary, Miss Carstairs, hasn’t turned up for work.

That’s why we’re here.

Oh, I see. The slip of a woman nipped off along an adjacent corridor. She soon reappeared, saying, If you’ll follow me.

When they entered the office of Alistair Stannings, they were greeted by a silver-haired, six-foot-six, burly individual in a wrinkled suit. Take a seat, gentlemen.

The two men removed their trilby hats and Harding prepared to take notes.

I understand you’ve come to see me about Miss Carstairs, said Stannings matter-of-factly, lighting up a Woodbine.

That’s right, sir. I’m afraid we’re bearers of bad news.

Oh?

Yes, I’m afraid the lady was found dead in her house this morning.

What? How awful. What happened?

We believe she was murdered. How well did you know Miss Carstairs?

Fairly well. Although she had only been with us for just over a year, she liked to chat a lot. As a consequence, I got to know her quite well, yes.

Did she have a boyfriend?

Yes. Jim Collins. He works on the Dorchester Press as a reporter and editor. I think she was more serious about him than he was about her.

Why do you say that?

She used to complain sometimes that he wouldn’t return her calls.

To your knowledge, was she being harassed by anyone? Or threatened?

Certainly not. If that had been the case, we would have stepped in to help her. This is terrible news, Inspector. When she didn’t report for work this morning, I felt in my water that something was wrong.

What about her next of kin? Are her parents still alive?

I believe so. The details will be in her file. I’ll ask Jennifer to give you the details when you leave.

We’re sorry to be the harbingers of such bad tidings, Mr. Stannings. Is there a Mr. Sargent, by the way?

No. He retired several years ago. He’s over eighty.

Well, I don’t think there’s very much else you can tell us, sir. Thank you for your time.

* * * * *

Mr. and Mrs. Dennis Carstairs were shocked and grieved to hear of the death of their daughter.

There was no way of breaking the news gently.

As they lived in Warwickshire, it was arranged that they would come down the following day to identify the body.

* * * * *

Big Ben was as belligerent as ever when they met up with him again. The big, unshaven individual with tousled brown hair was unabashed by police presence. His beady, blue eyes seemed too small for that large head and broad nose.

I ’ardly knew the girl, he protested.

Then why did you remark that she was asking for it?

’Twas only a figure o’ speech. ’Er used to come in the pub with that snooty boyfriend of ’ers, and give us all the ‘glad- eye’ – know what I mean? Dangerous thing t’do if’n you lives in the village.

"Who was the guy that came into the pub and announced – to use his words – that she had ‘been done in’, which provoked your response. Is he one of your permanent workers?"

Yeh – why?

Because I’d like to know how he found out. Name, please?

Bill Manley.

How many people do you suppose she rubbed up the wrong way?

Lots. Us boys were ready to gang-bang ’er.

And did any of you?

Nah – ’twas pure bravado on our part. But she shouldn’t ’ave wound us up like ’er did.

How many guys work on this farm?

Fifteen, give or take.

Give or take?

Yeh… we have relief milkers come in, as and when we want them. We get people in to look after the sows when they’re farrowin’ and we need extra hands to get in the ’ay and silage when us cuts the grass twice a year. You obviously don’t know nothin’ about farmin’, do ’e, mate?

Okay, okay. How many people do you have working full time, then, besides Mr. Manley?

Eight, plus me.

And where do they live?

All in the village, in tied cottages.

I’d like a list of their names and addresses, please.

What… now?

No. I’ll pick the list up tomorrow sometime. I shall want to speak to Mr. Manley at the same time, so make sure he’s available. In the meantime, I’d like you to give some thought as to who in the village might have wished Josie Carstairs harm.

Big Ben grinned at him. That list will be longer than the list o’ me employees, he said.

* * * * *

Jim Collins?

Yes – who are you?

Sibble flashed his ID. I’m Inspector Sibble from Dorset C.I.D., and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Harding.

Collins was of average height, a good-looking redhead, and wore wide braces over a grey shirt with starched collar. His trousers were pinstriped, his shoes shiny black. A blue polka-dot tie completed his appearance. Clearly a man who was careful about his grooming.

He was sitting at his desk, typing out an editorial for the evening paper when the detectives arrived. He had a puzzled look on his face, indicating he was bemused by their presence. May I help you?

I hope so, said Sibble. Do you know Josie Carstairs?

Yes, she’s my girlfriend. He frowned heavily. Why? Has something happened to her?

Yes, sir. I’m glad you’re sitting down. I’m afraid I have some bad news. She was found dead at her home this morning.

Oh, no. God, no. Say it isn’t true! This is all my fault. Tears started welling up in his eyes.

Your fault, sir? What do you mean by that?

She… uhh… told me recently that she thought someone was stalking her in the village, but she didn’t know who. I told her it was probably her imagination. I should have encouraged her to move in with me, but she valued her independence too much, so I didn’t make the offer.

She thought someone was stalking her, but she didn’t know who. Didn’t she have any idea at all?

Apparently not.

Was she having any problems with anyone that you know of – either at work or elsewhere?

Not that I know of. If she had, she didn’t see the need to confide in me.

Sibble nodded. I have to ask you this, sir. Where were you between say, ten o’clock last night and say, 3 a.m. today?

Ten o’clock? I was in the pub ’til closing time. Then I went home to bed.

What pub?

"The Shepherd’s Crook, here in Dorchester."

You weren’t going to see Miss Carstairs last evening?

I would have liked to, but she put me off. She said she had some work to do for Mr. Stannings, her boss, and that it needed to be completed by the morning. God, I wish I had been more pushy and gone to see her…

Please accept our condolences. One last thing: how long have you worked for this paper?

Five years. I was fortunate to be made editor nine months ago when Jack Morris retired.

Harding chipped in with, Who owns the paper, by the way?

Sir Edward Conley, the M.P.

* * * * *

Well done, Scott, Sibble congratulated him, as they walked away from the Dorchester Press. That was a good question, and the answer was quite revealing. Quite a co-incidence, eh? So, Sir Edward owns the largest farm hereabouts and also the local newspaper. He’s obviously in a position to exert quite a bit of influence locally.

It begs a certain question, doesn’t it, guv?

And what’s that?

How many other businesses does he own around here?

* * * * *

They were in the lounge of The Shepherd’s Crook.

Yes, ol’ Jim was in ’ere las’ night, confirmed the manager, Alfred Dimmock. Always comes in late fer a pint if’n ’e ain’t seein’ that girlfriend o’ ’is.

Harding wondered why the landlord referred to a thirty-year-old as Old Jim. Must be a local mode of address. Or maybe he was implying that Collins had an old head on young shoulders. However, no matter…

What can you offer two hungry detectives? asked Sibble, satisfied with the answer.

The special tonight is shepherd’s pie, responded Dimmock.

Shepherd’s pie, and we’re in The Shepherd’s Crook. Sounds irresistible. We’ll have two of those. and two pints of bitter, please.

As they sat down to drink their beer and wait for their meal, Harding said, One thing has occurred to me, guv.

And what’s that, Scott?

Collins said he didn’t see his girlfriend last night because she had work to do for her boss, Mr. Stannings. Yet Stannings didn’t mention that to us when we spoke to him about the poor girl’s demise. Why not?

Yes, that occurred to me too, Scott. If the work was urgent, why was he not concerned when she hadn’t turned up for work today? Unless, of course, she just made that story up to keep the boyfriend from seeing her. Either way, we’ll have to pose the question to Mr. Stannings.

What about Sir Edward’s interests, locally?

Nothing sinister in that, as far as I can see. Still, it won’t hurt to find out the extent of his business interests. There’s a parliamentary register in which all MPs have to declare any business interests they may have, which is open to public scrutiny and the members themselves, to ensure fair play when voting on key issues or when members produce their own private bills before the House.

At that point, their meals were produced by the landlord.

We’ll call it a day after we’ve eaten, Scott, declared Sibble. "Tomorrow, we should have