Destruction of Evidence (26 page)

The second door led into a walk-in cupboard that held a Dyson cleaner, mop, brush, and shelves of cleaning materials. The third was a wardrobe, racked on one side for shoes. Trevor noted there were no children or women’s coats and shoes, only those suitable for an adult male of forty-four-inch chest and size eleven feet.

The fourth door opened into a study. Shelved on three walls, it held a substantial collection of books, DVDs and CDs. A leather-topped desk dominated the centre of the room, a swivel leather chair behind it. The mock brown leather in-tray held half a dozen unopened letters, all from utility companies and banks. A matching penholder contained two biros, a pencil, and a small notepad. A plain wooden frame held a photograph of what Trevor assumed to be Dai Smith’s family. A good-looking dark haired man had one arm wrapped around an attractive blonde woman’s shoulder, the other around two small blonde girls perched on his knees.

Two matching leather armchairs were set either side of a leather topped coffee table in front of the glass wall and door that opened on to the patio.

Trevor went to the bookshelves. He found what he was looking for on a high shelf in the back left-hand corner. He pulled away a false frontage of leather-bound volumes to reveal a safe. He went to the desk. The drawers were locked. He reached for his penknife and flicked open a long thin blade. In less than a minute he’d succeeded in opening all six drawers.

One held computer disks. He removed all the boxes and piled them on the desk. Another held photographs. A quick glance established that most, like the photograph on the desk, were family snaps of the small girls at various stages from birth to toddler. The widest and slimmest drawer held pens and biro refills, pencils, rubbers, rulers, paper clips and, address labels. Another was full of receipts and bills, all marked paid. One contained a file of bank statements.

Trevor flicked through them. The savings account held rather more than he’d expect to find in a constable’s account, but he recalled Paula Rees telling him that Dai Smith’s father had owned both the land and the barn, so his mortgage only reflected the cost of the conversion.

The last two drawers held the usual household files of insurance policies, guarantees on appliances, wage slips etc. Trevor thumbed through them and noticed there was only one driving licence – Dai’s. After a final and fruitless search for keys, he returned to the safe and examined it.

It was fireproof. He knew because he’d bought a similar model to store his and Lyn’s documents. He hadn’t been impressed when unable to find the key; Lyn had opened it with a paperclip. The lock proved even easier than those on the desk drawers.

Inside were a couple of leather cases and a single passport. He opened the passport and turned to the back. It was recognisable portrait of the same good-looking man in the photograph on the desk.

Setting the passport aside, he lifted out the smallest leather case. It contained four credit cards. Beneath it was a larger leather case that held a removable external hard drive for a computer and half a dozen USB computer storage pens. He placed the case and passport on top of the disk boxes on the chair before replacing the credit cards in the safe and locking it.

He went to the desk, took a pen from the holder and scribbled a note on the pad.

Passport, hard drive and USB pens removed from safe, disk boxes from drawer. Taken by police officers concerned for the safety of Dai Smith. Photograph may be used for public appeal. Please contact station, ASAP, Inspector Trevor Joseph.

He closed the door, switched on the computer and inserted one of USB pens into the computer. It was password protected but, courtesy of the computer expert, Sarah Merchant, in his home station he knew about passwords. It had been wiped clean but he also knew how to retrieve information from deleted files. Less than five minutes after inserting the pen, he’d seen enough.

He looked up when the door opened. Reggie was standing in the doorway. He closed down the computer and removed the pen.

‘Have you found something?’ she asked.

‘Possibly, but I need more time than we have right now. You?’

‘Kitchen equipment in the kitchen and, silverware and porcelain in the cupboard in the open plan living space. I had no idea people could be so tidy and well organised. You seem to have had more luck.’

‘Time will tell.’

‘We have a computer expert at the station.’

‘No need.’ Trevor picked up the disk boxes, hard drive and pens. ‘It will give me something to do this evening.’

Peter walked through from the kitchen. ‘There’s something you should see outside.’

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Trevor unzipped his suit, pocketed the storage pens, hard drive and passport and picked up the disk boxes.

Reggie looked at Peter but he didn’t extend the invitation.

‘You could check how Paula and Carol have fared upstairs,’ Trevor suggested pointedly.

Reggie went up the stairs. Trevor followed Peter to the back door where they both slipped off their overshoes.

‘The garage?’ Trevor asked, seeing the door open.

‘Is well organised, neat, clean, tidy and the car, a BMW, is missing, just as Paula said.’

How do you know it’s a BMW?’

Peter pointed to a manual on a shelf.

‘This is as clean and well organised as the house.’

‘Not at all a scruffy copper’s lair.’ Peter observed.

‘There’s scruffy and organised in all walks of life, and this garage could be yours.’ When they had first started working together Peter’s addiction to minimalism, order and cleanliness in all things domestic had astounded Trevor.

‘This is what I wanted you to see.’

A reel was fastened to the wall below a tap. ‘A hose reel.’

‘Exactly.’

‘The hose?’ Trevor asked.

‘Nowhere to be found and the car’s missing. What does that suggest to you?’

After checking that Paula and Carol had so far drawn a blank in their search of the upstairs of Dai’s house, Trevor and Peter left them and Reggie to finish the task while they returned to the station.

‘Did you find anything on Dai Smith’s computer pens and hard drive?’ Peter asked as soon as they were in the car.

‘Partial photograph.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Gay porn with Dai Smith in a starring role.’

‘Could explain his wife going off in a huff.’

‘It could, but let’s not read too much into it until we know more. Do me a favour,’ Trevor asked as Peter parked, ‘check if anything new has come in? Then, get hold of the time sheets and records for the station, starting at midnight on the night of the fire.’

‘You’re phoning the cavalry.’ Peter guessed. It wasn’t a question.

‘I should have gone with my instincts and done it this morning.’ Trevor entered the building, nodded to Tony Sweet who was manning the foyer, went down the corridor and into his office. He closed and locked the door before unlocking his briefcase. Its combination lock was more sophisticated than the locks on Dai Smith’s desk drawers and safe. He placed the disks, hard drive and USB pens inside, spun the lock and sat behind the desk before ringing Bill Mulcahy’s private number on his mobile. Bill picked up on the third ring.

‘I need Merchant.’

‘Problems?’

‘Being cautious.’

‘Cautious is good. Locals involved?’

‘Too early to tell.’

‘Want another beside Merchant?’

‘If one’s available.’

‘Merchant’s other half mopes when they’re separated. I’ll send them to you this afternoon.’

‘Undercover. Ask Merchant and her other half to try to book into one of the stable cottages in the Angel or a room in the pub. If they succeed they don’t know me or Peter. Tell them to wait for us to contact them.’

‘Understood. Tread carefully.’

‘Like a ballerina.’ Trevor ended the call, stripped off his boiler suit, bonnet and gloves, tossed them into his waste bin, unlocked the door and returned to reception with his briefcase.

Peter was talking to Tony Sweet at the desk. ‘The gorgeous Jen phoned. Patrick wants us in the mortuary.’

Trevor glanced at his watch.

‘They can’t start the briefing without you,’ Peter reminded him.

‘Where’s the mortuary?’ Trevor asked Constable Sweet.

‘In the general hospital, sir. About a mile out of town. Turn right when you leave the car park and follow the road. A Victorian building fronts the road, but it’s only used for admin, the wards are behind it in the grounds. The mortuary is at the top of the hill. The last building on your left.’

‘Phone and tell them we’re on our way.’

‘And the briefing, sir?’

‘You have my mobile number. Phone me when Superintendent Moore returns.’

Jen was waiting for them in the ante-room with paper bonnets and white coats.

‘You found something?’ Trevor asked.

‘No “Good morning, Jen. I’m sorry to nag you for reports before you and Patrick have time to write them. How conscientious of both of you to start work at six this morning”.’

‘Want a kiss in compensation?’ Peter teased her.

‘Not from you,’ Jen retorted. She winked at Trevor. ‘Maybe your boss.’

‘Stop flirting with the plods, Jen, and get them in here,’ Patrick shouted from inside.

Trevor slipped on the white coat and entered the mortuary. He’d been in dozens of morgues and seen more post mortems than he cared to remember but he’d never become accustomed to the smell of formaldehyde.

Patrick was sipping coffee from a specimen beaker while studying a partially dissected charred corpse. He’d cut through the chest and removed the baked lungs, heart, stomach, liver and pancreas. The skull had been severed from the body and the brain lay in a dish above the crown. The extremities were so badly burned it was impossible to see the individual finger and toe bones.

‘Which one is this?’ Peter asked.

‘The youngest victim.’ Patrick checked his chart. ‘James Pitcher.’

‘Cause of death?’ Trevor asked.

‘Smoke inhalation. But, the fractures in his skull suggest he was unconscious at the time.’

‘Poor bugger,’ Peter said feelingly.

Trevor struggled to keep his equanimity. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘On the slab behind you.’

Trevor and Peter turned and saw a motley collection of objects. Fragments of brown paper, singed at the edges, two partial dentures, both for the upper jaw, blackened pieces of jewellery, two wedding rings, one labelled GILLIAN PITCHER, the other ALUN PITCHER. There was a blackened chain-link bracelet labelled LEE PITCHER, and a chain necklace labelled JAMES PITCHER. A clutch of bones was lying in the centre of the slab apparently closed over something. Trevor peered closer.

‘It’s a medallion.’ Jenny snapped on a clean pair of rubber gloves and lifted the top bones. ‘This was Lee’s hand, I cut through it earlier,’ she explained. ‘The medallion is blackened by soot, the chain’s snapped and the broken ends have been melted by the heat. But I cleaned off the dirt. The inscription’s legible.’ She held it in front of Trevor.

‘LARRY AND DEBS FOREVER,’ he read. ‘Larry Jones?’ he looked at Patrick.

‘That, Inspector Joseph, is for you to determine,’ Patrick crowed. ‘Bag it for them, Jen.’

‘If Lee pulled it off Larry, it would explain the red mark on the side of Larry’s neck in the interview we saw,’ Peter murmured. ‘But isn’t that like Larry himself – just too easy?’

‘Anything else?’ Trevor pressed.

Jen handed Trevor a pair of gloves from a box. When he’d slipped them on she gave him the hand.

‘Can you feel it?’ she asked.

‘A coating. Burned skin?’

‘Look carefully. The coating’s been shrivelled by the heat to almost nothing but there’s still traces.’ She handed a pair of gloves to Peter, after he’d put them on Trevor passed over the bones.

‘It feels like cellophane,’ Peter said.

‘Close. It’s Sellotape,’ Jen explained.

‘Then the murderer was anxious for us to think that Lee had pulled the medallion from Larry’s neck,’ Peter murmured.

Trevor turned to Patrick. ‘Were there any marks on the hand to indicate that Lee had tugged at the chain and broken it?’

‘Not that I’ve found, although it’s difficult to say whether there were or weren’t given the degree of damage. It’s possible the chain was wrapped around the fingers and fastened there by the tape to ensure that it wouldn’t fall from the hand during the fire.’

‘Who else knows about the medallion and tape?’ Trevor asked.

‘Jen, me, and now you and Peter.’

‘Let’s keep it that way. DNA, fingerprints…’

‘The medallion was clean,’ Jenny assured him.

‘Wiped?’

‘I found smudges.’

Trevor turned back to the assortment of objects on the slab but he knew better than to touch them without changing his gloves. ‘Anything on the brown paper?’

‘It’s thick, good packing quality.’

‘Used by?’