Skeleton Hill

10

The Victorian cemetery in the shadow of Beckford’s Tower would have made an ideal location for a Gothic horror movie. Weathered obelisks, tablets and carved figures showed above a waist-high crop of grass, ferns, brambles, nettles and cow parsley. Any smaller, more humble headstones were lost to view, but the grander monuments on plinths still vouched for the eminence of the interred, even if the lettering was unreadable. The Preservation Trust maintained the site and justified the abundant growth as a wildlife sanctuary. Only the main pathways had been kept mown and a cluster of policemen and crime scene investigators could be seen standing along one of them beside a trampled section marked with police tape hung from stone angels and granite crosses. The main point of interest, a clothed body, lay face down in the narrow space between two graves.

Diamond, with Keith Halliwell in support, found a familiar character directing operations.

Duckett, the crime scene man, looked up and said, ‘You again?’ making his disfavour clear.

‘I was about to say the same thing but the cadaver interests me more,’ Diamond said. ‘Head wound, then.’

‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’

It was rather obvious. A gash at the back of the victim’s head revealed a strip of dented skull between encrustments of blood – as ugly a wound as Diamond had seen in some time. ‘Has the pathologist been by?’

‘And gone.’ Duckett flapped his hand at the flies that were gathering. ‘You’re late on the scene, superintendent.’

‘Did he have anything helpful to say?’

‘Only the obvious.’

‘How recent was the death?’

‘Some hours. You know what pathologists are like.’

‘Just a head wound. Nothing more?’

‘He wouldn’t be drawn.’

Diamond leaned over the body looking for other signs of injury.

Duckett spoke again. ‘I can tell you what happened if you like. See the empty beer can over there?’ He pointed to a dented Foster’s can lying on the gravel topping of one of the graves. ‘He was stonkered, lost his footing and hit his head.’

‘How do you know all that?’

Pleased to be asked, Duckett beckoned with his finger and showed Diamond a small patch of dry blood on the raised edging of the adjacent grave. Some had trickled down the side. ‘In my job, you can’t afford to miss a thing.’

Diamond got on his knees for a close look. ‘So why is the wound at the back of the head?’

‘He fell backwards. Drunks often do.’

‘He’s face down.’

There was some hesitation.

‘You don’t see it, do you?’ Duckett said, beginning to bluster. ‘He falls backwards, bounces his head on the stone and is thrust sideways, ending up like this.’

‘I can’t picture it.’

‘Okay, he may have rolled over before he passed out.’

‘I doubt it,’ Diamond said.

‘You know better, do you?’

‘It’s a vicious-looking injury for a simple fall.’

‘That granite edge is really sharp. Feel it.’

Diamond ran his fingers along the angle of the stone. Then he got up and stepped over to the next grave and inspected the beer can without touching it. ‘There’s rust on this.’

‘I don’t think so. Where?’

‘In the angle of the dent. It must have been slung away some time ago.’

‘Let’s see.’ The disbelief was obvious until Duckett had put his face within a few inches, and then he quickly modified his theory. ‘Well, he may not have drunk from this particular tin, but there’s no denying that he hit his head.’

Deliberately, Diamond crooked his finger just as Duckett had.

‘Come and look at this drop of blood you found on the stone.’

‘What’s up now? Are you saying the blood isn’t his?’

‘What’s up now? Are you saying ‘Come on. A close look.’

Some of the other crime scene investigators were getting interested. With an impatient sigh that played to their support, their leader crouched by the grave’s edge.

Diamond said, ‘What do you make of this?’

A small green blade of grass had adhered to the bloodstain.

Duckett looked and said, ‘Well?’ It was difficult to tell if he’d missed the significance or was playing cool.

Diamond spelt it out. ‘If he cut his head on the stone I might expect to find a hair, not a piece of grass.’

‘The main paths are mown at least once a week. Of course there are clippings about.’

Yes, but how did this one get where it is?’

‘The wind, I suppose.’

Diamond glanced around the cemetery. Not a leaf was moving. ‘Show me, then.’ Duckett tried to sound unimpressed, but his confidence had taken a knock.

‘Blood trickled from the head wound onto the grass. Do you see?’ Diamond pointed to a dark brown patch about the size of a beer mat beside the victim’s head. ‘This looks like an attempt to cover up a crime. He was attacked from behind, fell face down and bled heavily. His assailant dipped the weapon in some fresh blood from the grass and let it drip on the edge of the grave to fake an accident.’

‘That’s far-fetched, isn’t it?’

‘It seems to have fooled you.’

‘You’re suggesting he was attacked? Why would anyone bother to kill a tramp?’

‘I can think of several reasons and I’m sure other people would come up with more.’

‘A blow from behind, you say? What with?’

‘Call it a blunt instrument.’

‘That old cliché?’

‘You’d better make a search for that old cliché.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘In your job you can’t afford to miss a thing.’

Duckett made a performance of turning his head, surveying the sea of weeds in every direction. The place would be a nightmare to search. Apart from the few paths, there wasn’t a yard of clear space in the cemetery.

‘It’s got to be done,’ Diamond said.

‘I’d need an army for a job like that.’

‘If it’s manpower you want, I can send for more bobbies.’

‘I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s going to take days, even with lots of help.’

‘Better start soon, then. Your scene, my friend.’ Diamond turned to Halliwell. ‘See if you can raise some help, Keith.’

Halliwell. ‘See if you can raise Halliwell used his mobile.

‘Who found the body?’ Diamond asked Duckett.

‘The man who mows the paths. At about eight this morning. Nasty shock. By the look of him he’ll need the rest of the week off, poor blighter.’

‘And months of counselling,’ Diamond said.

This earned a grudging smile.

Diamond looked at what the corpse was wearing, noting the torn jeans and mud-spattered hooded jacket. ‘Any idea who he is?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been through his pockets?’

‘We’re not total amateurs.’

‘What did you find, then?’

‘Sod all. He’s a vagrant. Get the smell.’

‘They usually carry stuff.’

‘There’s your motive, then. Someone wanted his stash of valuables.’

It was true that the clothes had the smell of the unwashed, but the victim’s skin didn’t show the deep layer of grime Diamond would have expected. The pores weren’t defined by the dirt from years of rough living. He tried ignoring the smell as he stooped for a closer examination. He was starting to question another assumption. The hands were in a reasonable state. The hair was greasy, but had been cut by a professional at some time.

‘Okay if I lift the head? I’d like a sight of the face.’

‘I suppose.’

Taking care to avoid the area of the wound, Diamond grasped some of the brown hair above the forehead. Although this didn’t give him the front view, he could tell a few things from this angle. Some weeks’ growth of beard. The nose had bled, but otherwise the features were undamaged. A man of forty or so, he estimated. ‘Can someone get a photo?’

The cameraman on the team took several shots before Diamond lowered the head. ‘How soon can I get copies?’

‘Soon as I finish here.’

‘He’s not needed here any more, is he?’ Diamond asked Duckett.

Another sigh. ‘I suppose. It’s bloody easy for the rest of you, going back to town and leaving us to this.’

‘Cheer up. You don’t have to do any digging this time.’

‘In this place I wouldn’t recommend it.’

Diamond stood up and gave a little grunt of discomfort. ‘Tough on the knees, all this stooping. I’ve seen enough for the present. It’s upgraded to a crime scene, agreed?’

‘You’re the expert.’

‘Let me know if you find the weapon.’

The drive down the hill to Manvers Street was thoughtful and mostly silent. They’d reached Broad Street when Diamond said to Halliwell, ‘Two suspicious deaths on Lansdown. Is that pure chance, Keith?’

A pause for thought. ‘They don’t have much in common considering one happened up to twenty years ago.’

‘I suppose.’

‘One a burial and the other just left in the open to be discovered. One a young woman- ’

‘All right, I hear what you’re saying.’ The stress was showing. He’d invited Halliwell to offer an opinion and now he’d shut him down – his loyal deputy. ‘You know what’s on my mind, don’t you?’

‘Georgina?’

‘Spot on. She won’t like me running two murder enquiries if they’re not connected. She won’t wear it, Keith.’

‘We don’t know if they’re murders yet.’

He took the point, grinned and nodded. ‘That’s not bad. I could run with that for a while.’

‘Difficult to do, anyway,’ Halliwell said.

‘What?’

‘Run two murder enquiries.’

‘I’d give it a go.’

Digital photography is a boon to police work. Within the hour Diamond had a series of crime scene pictures on his desk and on computer. They included six close-ups of the dead man’s face. Displayed thus, they intrigued him and he rearranged them several times as if playing Patience. Pictures of the dead can be deceptive. Rigor hadn’t set in when the shots were taken, so the muscles were slack, giving an appearance that wouldn’t be seen in the living.

‘Come and look at these, Keith.’

Halliwell crossed the room. ‘I saw the face when you lifted the head.’

‘Well, I didn’t,’ Diamond said. ‘Not from the angle of the camera. Something is familiar. Don’t know what.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No, I don’t. Never met the guy.’ He scratched the patch of hair above his right ear. ‘Even so…’

‘Do you want them on a board where we can see them?’

‘Good thinking. Excellent pictures, aren’t they? I bet the poor sod never had a snapshot of this quality taken when he was alive.’

‘Shall I set up another incident room?’ Halliwell was excited. A much more promising investigation was in prospect.

Diamond hesitated. They already had an adjoining room where information on the skeleton death was being processed. He thought about Georgina’s likely reaction to two incident rooms. ‘Not yet, Keith. Let’s see how we go.’

‘Up at the graveyard you seemed certain he was murdered.’

‘I’m inclined now to soft-pedal on that. It could be manslaughter – the result of a brawl – or even an accident.’

‘But you said a second person was involved and tried to cover it up.’

‘The drop of blood? Yes.’

‘That was good spotting, guv.’

‘Bad.’

‘Bad?’

‘But it was good that it was bad.’

‘You’ve lost me now.’

‘The spotting. By the perpetrator, not noticing the blade of grass.’

Halliwell tried humouring the boss by smiling, a forced smile, leaving him vulnerable.

‘Make some calls to all the local refuges, the Sally Army, and so on,’ Diamond said. ‘See if they can throw any light on this. There’s a bush telegraph among homeless men.’

‘Are you going to attend the PM?’

A casual enquiry, but both men knew what was behind it. Diamond didn’t have the stomach for post mortems. Halliwell was inured to them by now, always the police presence there. After years of standing in for the boss, watching a pathologist at work was no ordeal.

‘Tomorrow morning, I expect,’ Diamond said, as if mentally consulting his diary. ‘Pity.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve got to be here in case of developments. Could you stand in for me on this one, Keith?’

‘I was thinking about visiting a refuge.’

Diamond’s eyebrows popped up. ‘Am I that difficult to work with?’

‘A refuge for the homeless, following up on the phone calls.’ ‘True.’ Diamond frowned and then raised a finger as inspiration dawned. ‘Ingeborg can do the refuges.’

‘Leaving me free.’

‘Free to go to the ball, Cinderella.’

Raffles the cat, who had taken to sleeping at the end of Diamond’s bed, was roused unusually early next morning. To add insult to injury, his wrong-headed owner then went to the garage instead of the shelf where the cat food was stored and started sorting through the old newspapers stacked for the refuse collection. Ten minutes of leafing through copies of the Bath Chronicle brought a result. He’d found the picture feature on the missing cavalier.

‘That’s my baby, Raffles,’ he said. ‘And now we’ll celebrate by opening a new tin of chicken in jelly.’

True, the portrait of Rupert Hope was just a mugshot, probably taken for some university ID, but there was a distinct resemblance to the dead man. He read the text again. The age was about right. On consideration, the relatively healthy state of the skin and hands made sense. He’d not been a vagrant for long. From cavalier to corpse in how long? Two to three weeks? The days between took on a new importance.

Raffles was standing beside his empty bowl giving Diamond the glare usually reserved for next door’s pampered Persian.

John Wigfull kept to the civilised hours of a civilian and arrived at his office soon after nine. His moustache twitched in annoyance when he saw Peter Diamond seated on the corner of his desk.

‘Something the matter?’ Wigfull asked.

‘Far from it,’ Diamond said. ‘I’ve solved your puzzle. I’m here to claim my reward. Was it a brand new BMW or three weeks in the Bahamas?’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

He held up the newspaper. ‘The missing cavalier.’ With an air of triumph he produced one of the glossy photos of the dead man and held it beside the pictures in the paper. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take the BMW.’

Wigfull gave the picture a squint. ‘Who’s this, then?’

‘Rupert.’

‘Rupert who?’

‘Rupert Bear, and I’m Bill Badger. Come on, John. I know it’s early in the day, but you can see it’s the same guy as the one in the paper.’

‘He doesn’t look the same.’

‘He’s dead, that’s why.’ He was tempted to go into the Monty Python dead parrot routine, which he knew by heart, but it would be wasted on Wigfull. ‘We found him yesterday in the graveyard up at Beckford’s Tower.’

‘You think this is Rupert Hope?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Dead?’

‘Were you hoping for a happy ending? Is that what this is about? Compare the pictures. Look at the hairline, the eyebrows, the mouth.’

‘I suppose it could be him,’ Wigfull said finally. ‘How long has he been dead?’

‘Yesterday, or the night before. No longer.’

‘Where was he all this time?’

‘He wasn’t in any condition to tell me. I’m telling you as much as I know. He looked as if he’d been living rough for some days, but it was obvious he wasn’t a long-term homeless man.’

‘What did he die of?’

‘I don’t want to anticipate the post mortem, which is happening as we speak, but my money is on the three-inch wound at the back of his head.’

‘A violent death, then?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Pity. I thought he’d turn up alive.’

‘Thanks to your press release? You can’t win them all, John. What I need to know from you is where the story came from. Who reported it?’

‘The university people. The last anyone saw of him was on the day of the battle re-enactment.’

‘So he went missing for – what? – two and a half weeks and ended up dead, probably murdered. I’m going to have to find out a whole lot more about this guy. Did you speak to anyone from the Civil War Society, or whatever they call themselves?’

Wigfull shook his head. ‘I’m the media relations manager, not a detective. However…’ He cleared his throat and turned a shade more pink. ‘I did speak to a couple of people who responded to the newspaper appeal. They were claiming to have spotted the man up at Lansdown.’

‘When was this?’

‘One woman said she’d seen him at the car boot sale on Sunday. He helped himself to a meat pie she had for sale and wouldn’t or couldn’t pay for it. She described him as a down-and-out, scruffy, in a hooded jacket and jeans, but said he had a posh accent. The other witness saw a similar man apparently trying to break into cars.’

‘Where?’

‘The same place – the racecourse car park – but on a different day.’

‘Did she say anything to him?’

‘No. She watched him through field-glasses and he went off in the direction of the racecourse.’

‘This was…?’

‘On the Wednesday before.’

‘He was acting suspiciously and she didn’t report him?’

‘Oh, but she did. Both women did. And there was a quick response from us.’

‘Us?’

‘Uniform. They seem to have used the softly, softly approach, but that’s what they’re encouraged to do. These were misdemeanours.’

‘They spoke to the guy?’

‘At the boot sale, they did, for sure. The pie woman didn’t think much of the way they dealt with him. She wanted him clapped in irons and sent to Australia, I think.’

‘They must have got his name.’

‘Erm… ’ Wigfull looked shamefaced again. ‘He said it was Noddy.’

Diamond didn’t speak. With a throb of concern, he recalled the evening he’d been at the races with Paloma and seen the drunk almost knocked down by horses cantering to the start.

‘I’m only passing on what I was told,’ Wigfull said, misinterpreting the silence.

‘Who were they, these cops?’

‘I didn’t enquire. That didn’t seem important at the time.’

‘Have you told anyone else?’

‘No.’

Diamond put it to him straight. ‘Basically, John, you were out of order. You goofed. You had no business talking to witnesses. You told me just now you’re the PR guy.’

‘Media Relations Manager.’

‘Call it what you like, you’re here to deal with the press. These people are under the impression they reported incidents and we, the police, are dealing with them.’

‘It was just a missing person enquiry. I thought CID wouldn’t want to be bothered with that.’

‘It’s murder now.’

‘I’ll give you their names and addresses.’

‘Thanks a bunch.’

The post mortem on the body found in Lansdown cemetery had been under way for twenty minutes and already

Keith Halliwell was yawning. He’d worked late last evening on the skeleton case, sifting through missing persons data. Diamond wanted it known by everyone at Bath police station that the murder team were actively investigating, even though the crime must have happened years earlier. And now it had been overtaken by this new discovery.

‘Wishing you were elsewhere, Mr Halliwell?’ Dr Sealy, the pathologist, asked.

‘I’m okay.’

‘I know you’re okay. You’re not going to faint like some first-timer. I’m asking if you’re bored.’

‘No.’

‘Because I can promise something of particular interest when we get to it.’

‘Really?’

Up to now all that had happened was a slow disrobing of the dead man. As each garment was removed the police photog rapher stepped in and took a picture.

‘Where exactly are we on identification?’ Dr Sealy asked, sipping coffee during another photo interval. ‘Do you need any pointers from me, birthmarks, scars, tattoos?’

‘My guvnor, Mr Diamond, says he knows the name.’

‘Your Mr Diamond is a smart cookie. Isn’t he the one who demonstrated that the bloodstaining on the gravestone was put there deliberately?’

‘True.’

‘He didn’t endear himself to Mr Duckett, the CSI man.’

That wasn’t the point, Halliwell felt like saying, but he settled for a shrug.

Dr Sealy added, ‘Duckett would have found the blade of grass eventually, I’m certain. Quite properly he gave his first attention to the body. Who is the victim, then? You’d better introduce us before I take liberties with him.’

Stripping a man to his boxer shorts was a liberty in Halliwell’s book, but he guessed the pathologist meant more. ‘The name is Rupert Hope and he lectured on history at Bristol University.’

‘He’s history himself now.’

‘True.’

Halliwell had never been much of a conversationalist. He was here for a purpose and so was the pathologist and he didn’t see the need to be sociable. If something of particular interest was about to be revealed he wanted to know what it was. There was nothing obvious.

Dr Sealy peeled off the boxer shorts and dropped them into a plastic evidence bag. ‘If I were one of his students I wouldn’t sit in the front row. He hasn’t changed his underwear for some time.’

‘He was living rough.’

‘A lecturer living rough? And why was that, do you think? Some sort of field trip experience, seeing how the great unwashed lived in times past?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You’re the detective, not me. Let’s see if this gives you an idea.’

Halliwell’s eyes were on the body part just revealed. Nothing about it looked remarkable, let alone capable of inspiration.

But Dr Sealy had taken a step sideways and was standing at the end of the dissection table. ‘The interesting bit, the head wound. There’s no other external injury, so it deserves our attention. Step closer, Mr Halliwell, and take a proper look.’

The dead man’s head was propped on a block, allowing a view of the back of the skull.

Halliwell wasn’t squeamish. He eyed the split flesh and blood-matted hair in a dispassionate way. ‘So?’

‘You’re not really looking, are you? What do you see?’

‘A deep wound, deep enough to kill him.’

‘Agreed, but there’s something else.’

‘You’ve got me there.’

‘I think I have.’ Sealy pointed with his gloved finger. ‘Here, to the right of the laceration, some healing has taken place.’

‘After death?’ Halliwell bent closer and saw for himself the remnants of a scab with pink new skin forming a line more than two inches long. ‘How can that be?’

‘You’re looking at a wound that was made when Rupert Hope was still alive. A separate wound, just to the right of the fatal blow inflicted later. What we have, Mr Halliwell, is evidence that this unfortunate man was struck on the back of the skull twice within a few weeks. The first time wasn’t fatal. The second plainly was.’