Omens of Death (7 page)

‘She’s in there, apparently dead in circumstances of some suspicion,’ he told Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain, adding with authority, ‘I want the entire Circle sealed and nothing touched or moved until our experts arrive. Wayne, call Control immediately with a situation report and confirm this is to be treated as a murder. Tell Sergeant Cockfield pronounced Cofield to set up the Incident Room.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘And, Mr Winton, I need to talk to you at some length.’

‘Yes, of course,’ muttered the photographer.

‘Thank you for reporting your discovery ...’ began Montague.

‘I nearly ran for my life ... what a shock ... I was exploring the place, looking for atmospheric scenes and backgrounds ... I thought she was asleep ... I touched her, Inspector, to wake her up ... then realised she was so cold, stiff. Dead. I was sure she was dead. I rang your office.’

‘Absolutely the correct thing to do.’ Montague smiled. To touch a dead person was thought to bring good fortune. He had touched her too. He addressed his sergeant, determined to establish his control over the enquiry.

‘Now, Wayne, once you have radioed Crickledale Control Room, you must stand guard at this gateway and keep everyone out of the Circle until the support services arrive. Ask Control to send two uniformed constables to guard the Circle, then await the arrival of the doctor and the specialists. Meanwhile, I’ll have a chat with Mr Winton in the car. When our support teams arrive, tell them the body of a young woman is lying in that cavern, on a stone shelf, around to the right, out of sight, out of daylight. She’s naked, but there is no apparent injury to the body. It could be murder, but, let’s be realistic, she could have died from natural causes. Whatever the cause of death, the usual care and attention to detail is required. Preserve the entire Circle and everything in the cave for examination — rubbish, ashes, the lot.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Wayne Wain, realising that Pluke did know a thing or two about the investigation of murder. Montague was clearly in charge and enjoying his role. Wain was suitably impressed. He hoped sincerely that Pluke would solve the crime and confound his critics.

Leaving Wain on guard, Detective Inspector Pluke, with his half-mast trousers flapping around his ankles and his straw hat perched upon his head, led Stephen Winton away from the Circle saying, ‘We’ll sit in my car, Mr Winton, for our chat.’

Upon arriving at the car, Montague Pluke removed his panama, opened his car door, placed the hat upon the rear seat and invited Winton to be seated in the front passenger seat. The young man consented, easing his bulk into the limited space and placing his camera upon his knee. Montague Pluke turned to face him, noting the young man was pale-faced and very nervous.

‘So.’ Pluke’s voice was now softer, quieter too, although some might say it contained a hint of menace as he addressed the man who was his number one suspect — his only suspect in fact. ‘You found her, Mr Winton? Tell me about it, again and in greater detail, please. Take your time, I need to know every step you took, every move you made, even what thoughts were going through your mind.’

‘There’s not a lot more I can tell you, Mr Pluke, I’ve said how I found her.’

‘You said you had come here to take photographs for a magazine and went into that cave where you discovered her. You ran back to your car, which you had left in the car-park, and called us on your mobile phone?’

‘Yes, that’s it, that’s all. I waited until you got here, like your office said I should do.’

‘Good,’ acknowledged Pluke. ‘You did what every good citizen should do and I compliment you on that. But I fear this
is
a murder-style investigation, Mr Winton, which means I need to know a lot more details about your actions and your purpose in being at this place. Little details, Mr Winton, petty stuff you might think, unimportant stuff you might even say, but most important to us, to me, to the whole investigation.’

At this point Pluke took out his official notebook, found a ballpoint pen among the conglomeration of instruments in his breast pocket and scribbled on the clean page; he was noting the time, the place and the reason for the ensuing entries.

‘Your full name, Mr Winton? Age, date of birth, address and occupation please.’

He was Stephen George Winton, twenty-eight years old with a flat on Cragston Moor on the outskirts of Fossford. He said he was a professional freelance photographer and provided his date of birth. He was single and lived alone. He had a girlfriend who lived with her parents in Fossford, but there was no engagement or long-term commitment. Not yet, he emphasised.

‘Tell me about the commission that brought you here,’ invited Montague.

‘It’s for a series, “Mystical Tours of Britain”, I told you that before.’ The man’s lower lip quivered as he responded to Pluke, ‘A new magazine highlighting places of mystery ...’

‘You know the Druids’ Circle is a folly, a fake?’ Montague put to him. ‘It is hardly a place of mystery, hardly the sort of spot to merit any great attention.’

‘Yes, I know, but it does attract people, and there is a theory it might occupy the site of an earlier temple and that it is on a ley line, so the editor wants to include it.’

‘And your editor, who is he?’

‘She, it’s a woman. Molly Swift, I have her address and telephone number.’

‘I may need those to check your story.’ There was a hardness in Pluke’s voice because he was in active pursuit of a killer. ‘We check everything that we are told, Mr Winton, time and time again until we are completely satisfied.’

Detective Inspector Pluke waited as Winton found a business card in his jacket and handed it to Pluke. It bore Molly Swift’s work address, telephone and fax numbers.

‘You can keep it, I have her details in my Filofax,’ said Winton.

‘Tell me more about the commission, Mr Winton,’ invited Montague Pluke. ‘How you came to receive it, how you were about to execute it this morning.’

‘Molly rang me last week, she knows my work. I’ve undertaken commissions for her before, rural scenes generally. Abbeys, castles, country houses, river bridges, dramatic views, that sort of thing.’

‘Published work?’

‘Yes, of course. She asked me to produce a set of contact prints of the Druids’ Circle, that’s all. She wanted to select two good ones for publication. By the end of the month. So I came this morning, the light was ideal. A hint of thunder and dark clouds combined with bright sunshine would produce a marvellous atmosphere.’

‘You’ve been here before?’ asked Montague.

‘Yes, but not to take pictures. I once came with some friends, hiking, about eight or nine years ago. We had a picnic here, we didn’t stay, we were youth hostelling.’

‘So this is your first visit for professional reasons?’

‘My first visit for years, Mr Pluke.’

‘So today. What time did you arrive?’

‘It would be around eleven o’clock. I reckoned I could work for an hour or so and allow an hour or so for the drive to York for another appointment.’

‘That plan has been thwarted, eh?’ Montague’s face creased in a sad smile. ‘So you drove out here, parked in this car-park and walked into the Circle?’

‘Yes. I spent a few minutes calculating the light, to get the right setting, studying angles and views. I wanted to capture the atmosphere, the mystical feel of the place, something to provide the reader with an immediate appraisal of the attractions of the Circle.’

‘Did you take your car to the Eastern Gate? I was thinking of you having to carry your equipment.’

‘No, I just use a hand-held camera, no portable lighting, tripods or such. Besides,

we’re not supposed to drive that far, are we?’

‘True. So what time did you leave Fossford?’

‘Tennish. Maybe a bit before. It’s about an hour’s drive; a bit less when there’s not much traffic about.’

‘Did you see anyone you knew as you were leaving? Did you talk to anyone?’

‘No, no one. I got into the car and came straight here.’

‘Where was your car in relation to your flat?’

‘Right outside, parked on the street. I don’t have a garage.’

‘So there are no witnesses to confirm your departure time? And when you arrived, did you see anyone? Tourists? Hikers? Gamekeepers, estate workers ... anyone?’

‘Nobody, Mr Pluke. I had the place to myself. It was eerie even then, I don’t mind admitting.’

‘I agree, it is a very odd place, Mr Winton. It’s redolent of past times. Now, take me through your discovery of the body once again.’

As Pluke and Winton talked, the first of the support services arrived — it was Detective Sergeant Tabler of the Scenes of Crime Department and he was accompanied by three detective constables in their official Transit van. Wayne Wain would brief them well. Then an increasing number of specialist service vehicles began to arrive, along with two uniformed constables to secure the site. All knew their jobs. Wayne would cope and Pluke could continue his interrogation.

He smiled at Winton.

‘Like I told you,’ Winton was saying, ‘I took my camera from the car, which I parked here, and went into the Circle. After selecting certain shots, I took them, all out-of-doors using natural light, but all within the circle of stones. The trees do make it fairly dark in places, but that can be used to advantage. I managed to get the altar in a lovely atmospheric light, then I thought the cave might make a nice pic so I took a few shots of the exterior, the entrance that is, avoiding the litter on the ground inside, and then I went in. I had no torch, so when I got into the dark bit, round the corner, I activated the flash on my camera — it was like walking in lightning during a thunderstorm in the dark: all quick flashes — that’s when I found her. God, what a shock, Mr Pluke ... I couldn’t believe it ... it was terrible ... at first I thought it was a joke, one of those tailor’s dummies, and then I touched her. I knew she was real, but she was so cold, so awfully cold ... and stiff. I knew she was dead. So I ran out and went straight to my car to call the police.’

‘You did not touch anything else? Remove anything? Turn her over?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘And have you seen her before? In life? Do you know her?’

‘No. I saw her face ... I’ll never forget her face now. No, Mr Pluke, sorry, I can’t help you there.’

‘How many films did you say you used before you found her, Mr Winton?’

‘Just the one. It has thirty-six exposures. I know you want it, that’s no problem. I have others I can use, I have a commission this afternoon, in York, the Minster. I might just get there on time if I can leave now ... you can have all those I took — if I can have my shots of the Circle please, before my deadline. I don’t suppose I could go back in there now, for a minute or two, to take another reel, now that you are here to supervise me?’

‘Sorry, no. It’ll be out of bounds to the public for today at least, perhaps longer. We’ll develop your film and will make copies of everything we consider useful. I will ensure your negatives are returned to you, probably tomorrow. Now, before you go, I would like you to put all this in writing, in the form of a written statement. If we do it now, I shouldn’t have to trouble you later. I might add that a statement from the finder of the body is vital to the investigation. I have the necessary forms in my briefcase.’

And so, as the complement of support services began to gather around Wayne Wain for their first briefing, Montague Pluke wrote down everything said by Stephen Winton, quizzing him once or twice to iron out any queries, and afterwards Winton signed the form. This was merely a witness statement, not a statement from a suspect, and once it was complete, Pluke allowed Winton to leave — after confiscating his film.

‘Now, before you leave,’ said Pluke, ‘my officers will need to examine your car.’

‘My car?’

‘Yes, and the soles of your shoes. For elimination purposes. We need to be sure you did not convey the body to this place in your car, Mr Winton, and we need to isolate your footprints from those of any other person. We must eliminate you from our enquiries as soon as we can, and this is the ideal time.’

‘Am I a suspect or something?’ The paleness of Winton’s face was turning slightly more grey at this juncture.

‘In a murder enquiry, everyone is a suspect until we can officially eliminate them, Mr Winton,’ said Pluke. ‘Clearly, you are the only person we can talk to at this point. It will take a few minutes of your time, then you will be free to leave. I am sure you wish to be cleared of suspicion? Is it your own car?’

‘Yes, of course I do, and yes, it’s mine.’

‘And how long have you had it?’

‘A year. I bought it second-hand.’ Detective Inspector Pluke asked the Scenes of Crime officers to examine the tyres for comparison with any tracks they might discover, then they examined the interior of the car, and the boot, to determine whether a dead, naked female body had been carried. If she had been inside Winton’s car, she would have left some deposits. Whatever the officers found would be taken away for forensic analysis. While Winton stood and watched the meticulous examination of his vehicle, another detective came to examine his footwear and to take plaster casts of the soles of his trainers.

As these investigations were under way, Detective Inspector Pluke went to check on progress in the cavern. The police doctor had pronounced the girl’s life extinct but was not prepared to certify the cause of her death; a local pathologist had conducted a preliminary examination of the body
in
situ
but could not provide any suggestion as to the cause of death. He confirmed there were no marks of violence on the body — no stab wounds, bullet holes or other indications of the use of a weapon. He had turned her over for a look at her back, again finding no sign of a weapon having been used, but this examination would have to be followed by a post-mortem in laboratory conditions. He added that, in his opinion, she had been dead for at least twelve hours but the coolness of the chamber had preserved her remains longer than if she had lain outside in the normal heat of the day.