Deadlock by Graham Ison

Author:Graham Ison [Graham Ison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2018-04-02T16:00:00+00:00

TEN

As Jack Noble had predicted, Dr Henry Mortlock was in a foul mood.

‘How many more of these damned bodies are you going to find this early in the morning, Harry?’

‘If you can tell me who the murderer is, my dear doctor,’ I said, ‘I’ll pop out and nick him. Then, in future, I won’t have to bother you before breakfast.’

Mortlock muttered something which though unintelligible sounded vaguely obscene, and stood up. ‘The mixture as before, Harry. Manual strangulation, attacked from behind. And before you ask, yes, she had been wearing a brassiere but isn’t wearing one now. Further and better particulars after I’ve carved her up. Satisfied?’

‘Nearly. Time of death, Henry?’

Mortlock took off his pince-nez and, gazing unseeing at a tree, pursed his lips. ‘I’d say around about ten o’clock last night, but with a leeway of an hour either side,’ he said, realigning his gaze on me.

‘All right to move the body?’ asked Kate.

‘Indeed, young lady, and be so good as to have it delivered to my usual address.’ Mortlock packed the remainder of his ghoulish instruments into his bag and departed whistling a passage from Handel’s Dead March in Saul, which seemed particularly apt, both for the occasion and the hour.

‘We’ve almost finished the photography and video, Harry.’ Linda Mitchell was outside the tent when Kate and I emerged. ‘I’ll get one of my team to take the victim’s fingerprints, just in case. Jack Noble arranged for the uniforms to do a fingertip search of the area, but nothing evidential has been found so far.’

‘No cigarette ends this time?’

‘No, and no bra either, although Dr Mortlock said that she had been wearing one when she was killed or shortly before.’

‘Yes, he mentioned that. I’ll leave you to it, Linda.’ I’d decided to send for Len Driscoll and a few members of the team to oversee the crime scene while Kate and I went to the address in Cobham that was on Denise Barton’s driving licence.

Driscoll arrived just before eleven o’clock and I gave him a quick résumé of what had been done so far. He just nodded, almost giving the impression of being uninterested. But those who knew him – and it had taken me some time to get his measure – knew that he was complex of character, often irritable and always demanding. Tall, well dressed and well spoken, he possessed the superior attitude of a man who was efficient at his job and scathing about the inefficiency of anyone working for him. Or with him. I firmly believed that his suave, occasionally condescending, demeanour frightened even the commander.

By the time I’d briefed Driscoll it was midday, and Kate and I were able to get away from Canbury Gardens.

According to the address on her driving licence, Denise Barton had lived in a small cottage on the outskirts of the Surrey village of Cobham. Two identical Mini Cooper convertibles with sequential index marks were parked outside.

We’d brought the keys that had been found in her handbag, but I rang the bell in the hope that the owner of one of the two Minis lived there and was at home.

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