Where Death Delights

EIGHTEEN

It was the beginning of the following week before Garth House heard anything from Gloucester about the shooting. Brian Lane, the detective inspector they had met in the woods, rang to say that they had made an arrest and that the defence had requested a second post-mortem.

‘We collared a villain from Bristol who admits shooting Harry Haines, but he’s claiming it was in self-defence. There was a confrontation between a gang from Bristol, who reckon they own the rights to bribery, corruption and protection rackets in the South West, and Haines’s mob from Bermondsey, who want to take a share of the graft. They were in the car park of a country pub near Gloucester that afternoon when it got violent and they went chasing off into the woods behind. This ruffian we’ve got locked up claims Haines pulled a shooter on him, and he fired in self-defence. Not clear about the range, but as you said, it wasn’t close. The London gang scarpered and a couple of the local thugs drove Haines’s body down to where we found him and stuck him in his car. It was a half-hearted attempt to make it look like a suicide, but none of them are bright enough to do it properly.’

‘So what about this second post-mortem?’ asked Richard.

‘His solicitor is getting Professor Millichamp down from London on Wednesday afternoon,’ replied the detective. ‘So would it be convenient for you to attend the mortuary then, to represent the police?’

Though second autopsies were usually performed quite amicably between the two pathologists, they always kept a wary eye on each other’s findings. Richard knew of Arnold Millichamp by name, though he had never met him. He was a pathologist of the old school, attached to St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Always sure of himself and never in doubt, he had a reputation for dogmatic inflexibility, especially in the witness box. Still, thought Pryor, there was not much he could disagree about in this case – the chap was shot in the neck from a distance, end of story. But an hour later, he had a further surprise when Millichamp’s secretary telephoned. Sian happened to take the call and instead of switching the phone through on their new GPO system, which had at last been installed, she hurried down the passage to his room and poked her head around the door.

‘It’s a lady from London,’ she hissed, though the caller could not have heard her as Richard’s phone was firmly in its cradle. ‘A professor’s personal assistant, she sounds very posh!’

When he spoke to her, he had to agree that her Thames Valley accent was a bit overpowering, but she was still very civil when speaking to the Welsh natives. She confirmed the time for Gloucester, but then explained that Professor Millichamp had also been asked to examine the body of Linda Prentice in Swansea and would it be convenient if they could do that on the following morning?

Rather taken aback by this sudden rush of business, Pryor agreed, but made sure that Millichamp’s secretary, who identified herself as Prudence Mortimer, was aware that it was Patrick O’Malley who had performed the original examination and should also be present. She rather grandly informed Richard that she was aware of this and it was under control. He wondered whether he should offer to help them with their travel and accommodation requirements, but her super-efficient manner decided him to leave them to it. When she had rung off, he went in search of Angela to tell her of the developments.

‘I know old Millichamp, he came into the Met Lab several times to look at material for the defence,’ she said. ‘He’s one of the London grandees, like Simpson and Camps. Does a lot of civil and defence work, goes about with his secretary in a big chauffeur-driven Mercedes.’

Richard grinned. ‘In that case, I’d better turn up to meet them in my chauffeur-driven second-hand Humber. I’ll tell Jimmy to take off the cords around his trouser legs that day!’

The telephone was on overtime that day, as Ben Evans from Gowerton rang to confirm the time for the third post-mortem on poor Linda. ‘The coroner has said that the burial must go ahead as soon as this is over, he’s not going to delay any longer.’

‘Any more news from the forensic laboratory?’ asked Richard.

‘They’ve screened Linda’s blood and urine for drugs, nothing at all there. And as for the so-called suicide note, they are not very hopeful of deciding who typed it.’

‘What’s the problem, I wonder?’

‘It seems to be that the message is so short that they’ve not got enough to work on as regards differences in style or even the opportunity for significant mistakes.’

‘So it’s a non-starter trying to accuse him of forging it?’

‘One of the experts in Cardiff thinks it’s a fake, but he reckons that his opinion wouldn’t stand up against good cross-examination in court.’

The superintendent had no idea why they were getting a prominent pathologist from London to carry out yet another autopsy, but suspected that the solicitor representing Michael Prentice was covering all bases, with fees commensurate with his enthusiasm.

‘The lawyer is from the same firm that does Prentice’s motor company business. He’s not a local guy, he comes from Slough. I hear they’ve briefed a barrister to come to the magistrates’ hearing, no expense spared.’

‘What about the father, Leonard Massey?’ asked Richard. ‘As a Queen’s Counsel, I’ll bet he’ll want some big guns involved. A wonder he wasn’t at that conference we had with Craddock.’

‘If he hadn’t been a potential witness, I expect he would have been there!’ chortled Evans. ‘I’ll bet he’s spitting tacks that he can’t get involved professionally.’

The next call after Ben had rung off was Trevor Mitchell.

‘As we expected, Agnes Oldfield is jumping up and down at the news of the blood group,’ he groaned. ‘Edward Lethbridge has tried to tell her that it takes us no further forward, other that not ruling out the remains could be either her nephew or about nine million other men in Britain!’

‘She doesn’t want another meeting, I hope,’ said Pryor.

‘No, but she’s gone off on some other tack now, that I’ve got to follow up,’ said Trevor. ‘She found an old address book of Anthony’s amongst his stuff when she was searching for a transfusion card. She’s been phoning umpteen people, making a nuisance of herself, but came across one who knew him in Birmingham University when he was a student umpteen years ago. This chap said that Anthony was in a climbing club there and fell off some cliff in the Peak District and had to go to hospital for a day or two. So now Agnes wants me to find this chap and then scour the hospitals in Derbyshire to see if they have any medical records or X-rays, like we did for Albert Barnes.’

‘The best of luck, Trevor!’ said Richard. ‘At least it’s good for trade, you should be raking it in with all these fees and expenses.’

The investigator promised to let him know what happened and Richard went back to work, looking at reports and microscope slides in a civil case where the family of a shipyard worker was suing the employers for compensation for fatal asbestosis.

At teatime, he regaled the team with the latest news. Angela murmured that she didn’t think she’d come with him to Gloucester, as there was nothing she could contribute. Richard suspected that she was afraid that her former fiancé might turn up again, though that seemed unlikely.

When Wednesday came, he did not carry out his threat to be driven to Gloucester by Jimmy, instead he left him cutting down the undergrowth at the top of the plot with an Allen scythe, a fearsome motorized device with large wheels that took more energy to steer than the operator would have used in cutting the weeds by hand.

It was now well into July and the capricious British weather had turned wet and windy now that the school holiday season was under way. He drove past Lydney and when going through Newnham, was tempted to keep his head down in case he was spotted by Mrs Oldfield. When he got to the Royal Hospital, he found the fabled black Mercedes 170S already outside the mortuary, a driver with a chauffeur’s cap busy polishing the chrome of the radiator. Inside the body-store room, Detective Inspector Brian Lane, accompanied by a photographer and the coroner’s officer, was talking to Arnold Millichamp and his personal secretary. The latter was exactly as Richard had pictured her when on the telephone. A tall, thin woman with severely cropped grey hair, she had a long, intelligent face devoid of any make-up. A tan twinset and a long brown skirt surmounted sensible shoes and to complete the picture of an English lady, even in a mortuary she wore a single string of pearls. Her employer was also tall and thin, with a completely bald head and a large hooked nose. Dressed in legal garb of black jacket and striped grey trousers, he sported a blue bow tie.

Brian Lane introduced them and Millichamp shook hands and Miss Mortimer nodded gravely and murmured a greeting.

‘Pryor, you were Professor in the University of Singapore, I recall,’ said the London man, in a mellow voice that would have suited a bishop. ‘You’ve given up the ivory towers of académe, then?’

Richard grinned. ‘I didn’t get much académe in Singapore, Professor, but plenty of experience. The local newspaper had a regular column called “Yesterday’s Stabbings!”

He handed Millichamp a carbon copy of his post-mortem report, which the pathologist gave to his secretary. She had a leather case under her arm and she slipped the report inside, as she took out a large notebook and a fountain pen, ready to record every pearl of wisdom that fell from her boss’s lips.

They all moved into the post-mortem room next door, Prudence now also carrying a large case which she opened up on a table at the side. This was Arnold’s tool kit and declining one of the red rubber aprons that the mortuary attendant offered, took a very new-looking yellow oilskin one from his case. Hanging the cords around his neck, he turned and with practised ease, Miss Mortimer tied the waist tapes around him. She then offered him a new pair of rubber gloves, which he snapped on with the flourish of a surgeon about to perform a craniotomy.

Pryor more humbly hung a rather frayed apron around his neck and followed Millichamp to the porcelain slab, where Harry Haines was already laid out. He summarized his findings for the defence pathologist, which was a short speech, as the only real area of interest was the neck wound and the damage inside the head.

‘I excised the bullet entrance hole in case the police wanted to examine trace elements on the surrounding skin,’ he explained, as Brian Lane displayed the photographs taken at the first autopsy. ‘I’ve got the piece of skin intact here, fixed in formalin, if you’d like to see it.’

Millichamp rapidly reopened the stitches of the first post-mortem and made a quick but thorough examination of all the organs and the damaged skull and brain. For all his pomp and showmanship, he was an astute operator and though he worked with extraordinary speed, Richard saw that he missed nothing significant.

After he had finished, he rooted around in the jar that Pryor had brought and studied the small bullet wound, using a lens from his box to look at the edges of the hole.

Then, pulling off his gloves, he went to the table and rapidly read through Richard’s report, handed to him by Prudence.

‘Very good, very good!’ he muttered, but somehow his tone was devoid of any condescension.

‘A two-two pistol, I understand, Inspector?’ he asked Lane.

‘Yes, Professor, a Harrington and Richardson rim-fire job. The lab has already matched the weapon to the remains of the bullet that Doctor Pryor recovered. They’re now doing some test-firings on it to check on range characteristics.’

As they washed up at the sink, Millichamp thawed a little and asked Richard about his new private venture. After hearing about their first few weeks, Millichamp nodded pontifically.

‘You need to get yourself on the Home Office list, Pryor. I’ll put in a word for you when I get the chance. We need all the experienced people we can get, especially now that universities are starting to close down their departments. Bloody short-sighted, but that’s the government for you, can’t see further than the end of their nose, if it’ll save them a few pounds.’

Declining the offer of a mug of mortuary tea, the great man and his elegant assistant left, saying that they were staying that night near Swansea, at the Caswell Bay Hotel.

‘That’s only a few miles from where the lady we’re seeing tomorrow was found,’ said Richard.

Arnold Millichamp nodded. ‘That’s partly why we’re going there. The defence solicitor wants us to see the scene, though as I gather that it’s unlikely that a murder charge will materialize, I don’t quite see the point.’

They went outside, where the chauffeur loaded their cases into the boot of the Mercedes and the two passengers sank into the back seats.

‘I look forward to seeing you again in the morning, Professor,’ called Millichamp before he closed the door.

As the car glided away Richard realized that he had been called ‘Professor’ by another of the same standing and felt an unreasonable pride in the title, in spite of having decided to abandon its use.

The more cynical Brian Lane watched the car out of sight. ‘I wonder if there’s anything going on between those two?’ he muttered, with a policeman’s suspicious mind.

Next morning, Pryor made an early start, again driving himself, as Jimmy was moonlighting somewhere down the valley, working on a vicar’s garden.

He parked at the railway arch in Swansea’s Strand before the black Mercedes arrived and had a chance to talk to Lewis Lewis and Dr O’Malley who were already there.

They stood drinking Camp coffee made by the attendant with water from a battered electric kettle, rendered almost palatable by milk powder which Richard suspected was actually from a baby-food tin.

‘So the murder charge is a non-starter?’ he asked the detective.

‘Looks like it, the lawyers are not going to run with a charge that doesn’t have a cat’s chance in hell of succeeding,’ said Lewis mournfully.

‘So Arnold Millichamp is wasting his time coming here,’ observed Pryor. ‘Just like he did yesterday.’ He told Lewis about the Gloucestershire shooting.

‘Well, he’s getting well paid for it, I’ll bet. No one comes all the way from London for peanuts.’

The man in question arrived with his secretary a few moments later and as the attendant was ushering them in, Richard hoped that he would not offer them a mug of his peculiar brew. The look on Prudence Mortimer’s face when she saw they had to work in a blocked-off railway arch was enough, without the offer of chicory extract mixed with Cow and Gate.

When they went into the inner sanctum and were kitted up, Richard could see that poor Linda was deteriorating. After two dissections and a third in the offing, it was high time that she was finally put to rest. He sometimes wondered at his own immunity to the horrors of death, presuming it was part predisposition and part familiarity. Pryor was often asked how he could possibly do such an awful job, but realized that he rarely thought about it. Those who could not handle the macabre job either never started or soon gave up. Not a few of his colleagues had become alcoholics and several had committed suicide, an occupational hazard which was more common amongst all doctors than the general public.

Shrugging off these morbid thoughts, he asked Miss Mortimer if they had had copies of his report.

‘We have all the documents, thank you, Professor,’ she said with a charming smile that made him feel that she was not such a cold fish as she was assumed to be. Prudence seemed indifferent to the proximity of a dead body in a poor state of preservation, looking more disconcerted by the strange building in which they had to work.

Once again, Richard went through his findings for Millichamp, several times emphasizing that Patrick O’Malley, who hardly uttered a word, was the primary pathologist.

‘I’m afraid after the previous dissections and the passage of time, you won’t have much to look at,’ he said to the visitor. ‘But no doubt your instructing solicitor will have given you copies of the photographs and I can give you a spare set of section of the bruises and the major organs.’

As before, Millichamp worked with considerable speed, not that there was much left to examine. The important bruises had been taken by Pryor for microscopic examination, though he had brought them all in their labelled jars of formaldehyde for the other pathologist to see.

‘You are extremely thorough, Professor Pryor,’ complimented Millichamp as he washed his hands in the porcelain tank that was the only sink. Patrick O’Malley again tried to make himself look invisible, as the two forensic pathologists launched into a discussion of recent research into new methods of dating injuries, both agreeing that the results were not all that helpful.

The two visitors left after delighting the mortuary attendant with a one pound tip for his help. Richard Pryor was left with something that was much more valuable to him, another assurance from the influential Londoner that he would ‘have a word’ with some unspecified authority about getting him onto the Home Office list – and an invitation to visit his department at ‘Barts’ any time he was in the big city.

A few weeks’ routine work followed, Richard Pryor gradually building up his foundation of coroner’s cases which brought in a modest, but steady income. Similarly, Angela Bray’s reputation in the field of paternity testing steadily increased the number of blood tests she was called on to perform. Some of these came from far afield and in some instances, she was asked to go and actually obtain the samples from mother, child and putative father. This mean going off in her little Renault, with a consequent increase in the fee. Sometimes she took Sian with her on these jaunts, if the technician had time, though even here, the number of defence alcohol estimations was gradually increasing.

As well as physical work in the laboratory, both he and Angela began getting case papers for expert opinions on a variety of subjects, both criminal and civil. Lawyers were increasingly demanding a second opinion on autopsy reports, biological opinions and road and industrial accident claims. Even insurance companies were coming to the Garth House partnership, as it was coming to be known, when they wanted to confirm or contest some dubious claim for compensation. By the end of August, Richard and Angela felt confident that their bold venture to go private was going to succeed and decided that they could order some more equipment for the laboratory which would extend the range of investigations that they could offer.

They heard nothing from Agnes Oldfield or her solicitor and one further visit from Trevor Mitchell confirmed that he had been unable find any trace of Anthony being treated in hospital after a climbing accident.

The Gloucester shooting went before the magistrates and, as expected, the local gangster was committed for trial at the next assizes in several months’ time. Richard was called to give evidence at the magistrates’ preliminary hearing, but there was no cross-examination, this being reserved for the later trial. Arnold Millichamp was present in court, sitting behind the defence solicitor, but apart from leaning forwards a couple of times to whisper in the lawyer’s ear while Richard was giving his evidence-in-chief, he seemed to have no contrary opinion.

Afterwards, Arnold waited outside the court with Prudence Mortimer to greet Richard affably and talk about the two cases in which they were involved. Though lawyers generally do not encourage prosecution and defence experts to confer, there was no potential conflict of opinion in either the shooting case or Michael Prentice’s problems, especially as the latter was not facing any charges relating to his wife’s death or injuries.

Even so, they both spoke circumspectly and most of their chat was about the forthcoming November conference in Cardiff, to which Millichamp expressed interest in attending. Before they parted, the London pathologist repeated his invitation to Pryor to visit his department – and also offered to have Sian there for a week or two, to get some experience of a bigger laboratory.

When he took this bit of news back to Garth House, the technician was wildly excited and almost ready to pack her bags for a visit to London, until he calmed her down.

‘But it all helps to get us better known,’ he said to Angela. ‘If I can get onto this Home Office list, we can throw our net even wider.’

The magistrates’ hearing in Gowerton had been a damp squib, as the prosecution wanted more time to prepare their evidence. Ben Evans said it was requested by the document examiners in Cardiff, who were seeking other opinions elsewhere, to decide if they could substantiate their suspicions that Linda had not written the suicide not.

In spite of the objections of the police, bail was extended and Michael Prentice carried on living in Pennard and working at the Jersey Marine premises, though what his colleagues there thought of him, was unknown.

In the meantime, Brian Meredith, the Monmouth coroner, had wrestled with the paperwork and the General Register Office, to annul the death certificate issued for Albert Barnes. Mrs Molly Barnes protested loud and long to him about what she claimed was a ‘denial of her rights’ and threatened to go to the newspapers about it, until Meredith pointed out to her that she had given false evidence about the watch and ring, which could get her into trouble.

He had taken legal advice and found that he needed to hold another inquest, as the remains buried in a corner of the Monmouth municipal cemetery were now of an unidentified person, which required an inquest with a jury. This was a formality, after all the futile efforts to establish to whom they belonged had failed.

Richard Pryor and Angela were called as witnesses, merely to get the physical facts and the blood group put on official record, but the outcome was inevitably another open verdict.

In early September, the delayed court appearance of Michael Prentice took place in Gowerton. The dreary magistrates’ court was invaded by a clutch of lawyers and local journalists, but as the charges had been reduced to ‘obstructing the coroner in the pursuance of an inquest’, it was not a very newsworthy event. Linda’s father, Leonard Massey and his wife were there, as well as Marjorie Elphington, the friend who set all this in motion. There was no sign of the other woman, Daphne Squires and Ben Evans suspected that she had rapidly distanced herself from her former lover and his troubles.

In the entrance hall of the old building, where witnesses congregated, Ben Evans was holding forth to his inspector.

‘The bugger should be up on a murder charge, not this piddling offence that will only get him a couple of months in the nick and a big fine!’ he growled. ‘If only those forensic people could have come down definitely on that letter and said it’s a fake, we’d have had him, because there’s no other reason for writing it unless he did her in.’

‘Craddock’s not calling either of the doctors,’ said Lewis Lewis. ‘I suppose there’s nothing useful they can say, as nobody denies it was drowning.’

‘It’s not part of the charge, anyway. Doesn’t matter what she died of, as all Prentice is being done for is mucking up the coroner’s inquest procedure.’

This is exactly what was presented in court. Though the defendant had a barrister to represent him, the prosecuting solicitor went at it alone, given the relatively minor nature of the offence, compared with assault or murder.

The committal proceedings were heard before three Justices of the Peace, as there was no stipendiary magistrate in that jurisdiction. One was a dour steelworks manager, another was a fat and florid butcher and the third, who sat in the middle and acted as chairwoman, was an angular female head teacher with a particularly ugly hat. They were guided – or rather harassed – by the Clerk of the Court, a sergeant-major figure who sat below them, but kept bobbing up and down to hiss instructions at them.

Michael Prentice appeared in the dock, his counsel’s application to have him sit in the well of the court rejected. He was soberly dressed in a dark suit and appeared totally composed and in control of himself.

Somewhat to everyone’s surprise, he pleaded guilty to the single charge against him. On his lawyer’s advice, he knew that there was no chance of evading the fact that he had suppressed the existence of the note when called to the inquest.

Maldwyn Craddock had considered Ben Evans’s contention that as Prentice had been on oath in the coroner’s court, this amounted to perjury – but as Prentice had not said that there was no note, because there was no reason to ask him, the omission to mention it was probably not enough to succeed with the more serious charge.

Even though the defendant had pleaded guilty, the magistrates had no power to sentence him, as the offence was one which inevitably had to be committed to the Assizes, in a few months’ time. There a judge would hear the guilty plea and be responsible for deciding on the sentence. No doubt the expensive defence counsel would then earn his fee by an impassioned address in mitigation. But at the Gowerton magistrates, he employed the same skills in seeking an extension of bail, to try to keep Michael Prentice out of prison until his appearance at the Assizes.

The barrister, a rather gaunt figure in the legal uniform of black jacket and striped trousers, waxed lyrical on behalf of his client, in front of the stony-faced trio of justices.

‘Above all else, my client was anxious to avoid the stigma of suicide falling upon his much loved wife and saw no harm in allowing her memory to remain unsullied by the assumption that this was a tragic accident.’

In the public seats at the back of the court, Leonard Massey almost burst with indignation at the ‘much-loved’ reference, but there was nothing he could do about it. By the nature of the narrow charge against his hated son-in-law, none of the peripheral evidence was relevant; it would have been a very different matter if the alleged domestic violence or the death was in issue.

The barrister was an experienced man and played upon the distress, confusion and grief that had beset Michael on finding the note and then her body on the beach.

‘It is evident that he hardly knew what he was doing, such was his mental state,’ he pleaded before the stony-faced JPs. ‘Why else would he have carried his wife’s body in his arms up that difficult track – and why would a temporary dislocation of his behaviour cause him to put her back in the water at a different place?’

There was much more of this, sometimes repetitious. The butcher on the bench was anxious to get back to his shop and as the bloody defendant had pleaded guilty, grumbled under his breath as to why they had to hear ‘all this stuff’.

Eventually, after pleading for an extension of bail, mainly on the grounds that this was a one-off lapse of behaviour which would – indeed, could – not be repeated, Prentice’s barrister felt he had done enough to earn his fee and sat down.

The clerk bobbed up and said something and the three magistrates retired into their room behind for ten minutes. When they returned, the chairwoman put on her most severe face and addressed the defendant.

‘Though what you did was foolish and has caused considerable disruption and unnecessary work for the coroner, his staff and the police, we accept that you were in a highly emotional and confused state after finding your wife’s body. In addition, you tried to spare her family the stigma of suicide – and you have not attempted to evade your responsibility for this crime by pleading not guilty. As you are an otherwise respectable member of the business fraternity, with no previous convictions, we agree to continuation of your bail until you are dealt with at the Assize Court, naturally with the proper restrictions on your movements and the appropriate sureties.’

There were further details of the conditions of his bail, then the magistrates filed out and the court broke up.

If Leonard Massey had not been a well-controlled lawyer, this is where he would have stood up and accused his son-in-law of being a murderer. As it was, he strode tight-lipped from the court with his wife trailing behind him and marched out into the street to find his car.

The two CID men trudged the short distance to the police station, annoyed but not surprised at the outcome of the case.

‘The bastard even got bail!’ muttered Evans. ‘And I expect that barrister will get the trial judge weeping and just rap his knuckles and tell him not to do it again!

‘Something might turn up,’ replied his inspector, though he did not sound too confident about it.

‘In future, every time I put oil in my car, I’ll be reminded of this sod getting away with it!’ growled the superintendent.