The Loophole Read online

Revie glowered back at him. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it was a cut-throat razor,’ Ansell said.

  ‘You mean like Jack the Ripper?’ Mabel gasped, her eyes wide with horror.

  ‘The Ripper used other instruments as well,’ Ansell said, ‘some of the kidneys had—’

  ‘Never mind him, tell us why you’re so sure it was a cut-throat,’ Revie said.

  Ansell gave him a school-masterly look. ‘Since I last saw you I’ve carried out some experiments on a pig— ‘ Dorothy gasped, coughed and waved her cigarette at him. ‘How could you? That’s disgusting!’

  Ansell shook his head. ‘Really, Miss Piff! The pig was dead. I acquired it from a butcher.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Dorothy mumbled, glaring at Stuart and Mabel, who were sniggering.

  ‘I purchased a cut-throat razor from an Ipswich barber, and the cuts I made were identical with the cuts on Mr Wiles.’

  ‘Would you say a cut-throat was a good weapon, Martin?’ Revie asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No, not for an initial attack, although I know they are used for slashing people. It’s more of a tool than a weapon. It’s not very sturdy, and usually the grip is poor, especially if it becomes slippery with blood.’

  Laurel pulled a face.

  ‘ Sorry, Laurel, but Revie did ask.’

  Frank was right, Ansell did have a soft spot for her. ‘That’s OK, Martin, please go on. It’s really interesting, if gruesome.’

  Ansell’s chest expanded slightly. ‘The grip could be improved, but the blade could easily break if any force was used. So, no I don’t see it as an initial weapon.’ He looked round the group.

  ‘How long do you think it took him to die?’ Frank asked.

  ‘I’m not sure, hopefully he might have passed out with the pain. It was a long, slow death.’

  ‘And the time of death?’

  ‘He was well dead when Laurel found him. I believe he was killed on Monday night, sometime between ten in the evening, and two in the morning, I can’t be more accurate than that.’

  Frank turned to Revie. ‘At the staff meeting at the camp on Monday morning Jim Lovell told everyone, in a loud voice, Bert was worried about something, not only worried, but scared.’

  ‘Who was there?’ Revie asked.

  ‘Everyone, all the suspects we’ve been investigating over the disappearance of the girls.’

  ‘What about Salter? Was he there?’

  ‘I’m not sure if he was there when Jim started speaking as we were all focussed on him, but when I turned round, both he and his son, Stephen, were in the doorway. They could have heard everything, Jim has a penetrating voice.’ ‘And the same night Bert Wiles is murdered. Could be a coincidence, but I don’t believe in them,’ Revie mused.

  Ansell wriggled impatiently. ‘There’s another piece of information.’ Their gaze turned to him. ‘It wasn’t clear at first, and I only realised it after you left, Inspector Revie.’ ‘What?’ Revie shouted. ‘You should have contacted me straight away.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure, it seemed so unlikely.’

  They all shuffled to the edge of their chairs.

  ‘There was a pattern, the cuts had a pattern; not all of them. I’ve made a sketch, it’s easier than me trying to explain.’ He reached into his briefcase and took out a sheet of paper and a black-and-white photograph. He placed them in the centre of the table. The photograph was of Bert Wiles’ body, cleansed of blood; a shot taken from above.The cuts were clear to see. The drawing showed an outline of the body and a pattern of marks.

  Frank pointed to the paper. ‘I don’t understand. What are these marks representing?’

  Ansell pointed at the photograph with a pencil. ‘I didn’t see it at first, there were so many wounds, but as I looked at the photograph some patterns emerged.’

  ‘In your head, I think! I can’t see any patterns!’ Revie grumbled.

  Ansell looked at him. ‘Neither did I to begin with, Inspector Revie. I believe these cuts were made at the end of the... er... process, for want of a better term. They were superimposed over the other cuts.’

  ‘When he was dead?’ Laurel asked hopefully.

  ‘I’m not sure. It must have been difficult for him to see what he was doing, there must have been so much blood.’ Mabel gripped Stuart’s arm. ‘I need to lie down. I can’t look at this.’

  He put an arm round her waist. ‘I’ll take you back to the house.’ They made an unsteady retreat.

  Ansell looked round. ‘Everyone else OK?’

  He glanced at Laurel and Dorothy. Despite their white faces they nodded.

  Ansell once more placed his pencil over the photograph. ‘Follow the point of my pencil.’ He moved it over the right side of the body. Starting above the right nipple and curving inwards he traced a line which then curved outwards over the abdomen and then moved inwards once more to finish above the right testicle. He looked up ‘Can you see that?’

  Laurel was frowning, but nodding slightly, as though she could just about make out the curving line. Dorothy was inhaling deeply on a cigarette and shaking her head. ‘Yes, I can see it,’ Frank said.

  Stuart came back. ‘She’s having a lie down in the sitting room. I’ve given her a small brandy.’

  ‘You should have given us all one,’ Dorothy said, pointing to the tray. Stuart dispensed the drinks.

  Ansell repeated the demonstration for Stuart.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why did he do that?’

  Ansell didn’t answer, but placed his pencil once more on the photograph. ‘Look on the other side of the body.’ He moved the point from above the left nipple, this time curving outwards towards the left armpit, then moving inwards to near the navel, then curving out to end above the left testicle. He then turned to the paper. ‘I think these marks were made deliberately; the murderer was sending us a hidden message, perhaps one he thought we wouldn’t see.’

  ‘He’s playing games,’ Frank said.

  ‘SS, do you think there could be a Nazi connection?’ Stuart asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Possibly, but SS could stand for Sam Salter.’

  Dorothy gasped.

  ‘Or Stephen Salter,’ Laurel added.

  Revie puffed out his cheeks. ‘And it could mean a steamship or a saint. Very interesting Ansell, but not much use in catching the murderer, as far as I can see.’

  Ansell’s shoulders drooped.

  ‘I disagree, Nick,’ Frank said, ‘this murder tells us quite a bit about him or her.’ Revie glared at him. ‘The person is a sadist, he’s committed one of the most awful murders I’ve seen. I believe he sat in a chair at the end of the bed watching poor Bert bleed to death and delighted in the pain he’d caused. The letters carved on his body could be a subliminal warning to the Salters, or it could be a calling card of a super-inflated ego, one boasting of his murdering prowess, and sure he will not be caught. Whoever he is, he’s as dangerous as any of the villains we’ve met recently and we all need to be suspicious of all our suspects, and possibly someone who isn’t yet on our radar.’

  ‘Any idea who it is?’ Revie asked.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue,’ Frank replied.

  Chapter 14

  Sunday, June 27, 1971

  Laurel stepped from the warmth of the late afternoon sun into the cool interior of St Bartholomew’s church in Orford. It was deserted: the quiet between the morning and evening services. The inside was a square space, more like a great medieval hall than the inside of a church; beautiful stained-glass windows shed their coloured lights over the stone floor and brass figures were dotted about the church. She wandered down the wide aisles, looking at inscriptions on windows and the carved scenes on a stone font, but nothing was registering.

  She sat down on a pew, clasped her hands together, rested them on the shelf in front of her, and lowered her head. She desperately needed peace and quiet after the recent horrifying revelations, and hoped she’d find it here. She wanted to expunge the memories of Bert’s body suspe
nded above the bed, the blood and the lingering smells of decay and death.

  After the last swimming session of the afternoon she had had to get away from the camp. Having to be jolly, shout encouragement to swimmers, award prizes, with the assistance of Charlie Frost, who was at his obnoxious best, had driven her to the edge of her patience. She had reminded him of his late night visit to her chalet, and asked him if he still needed her help, he’d grunted and said he’d sorted it out himself. That was something to be thankful for.

  The silence and isolation weren’t working. When she closed her eyes, the images and smells she wanted to forget climbed once more into her brain. Blood, torn flesh. flies, dust, dirt, shit and piss. Her pulse racing, she tried to take some deep, slow breaths, fighting the oncoming panic attack. Get a grip. She placed her hand over her diaphragm, feeling her abdomen rise and fall. Slowly the smells of wax candles, damp stone, musty cassocks and hymn books replaced that of death. Her pulse slowed.

  With a calm mind, neurones falling into order, she tried to make sense of what had happened. They had to find out why Bert Wiles had been scared. It must be something to do with his job, if you can call poaching, or smuggling, a job, but she couldn’t see how his murder could be connected to the missing girls. It was a brutal murder. Did Bert do something so awful it was a revenge killing? Perhaps they shouldn’t get involved in this case; the police were in charge of Bert’s death. They should concentrate on what Sam Salter was paying them for.

  Sam Salter -SS. Was there a connection? It could have been a random swipe of the razor. Two random swipes? A threat or a signature? Sam wasn’t her favourite person -but was he a sadistic killer?

  She shivered. She needed fresh air, so got up and stepped out of the south porch into the warmth of the sun. She wandered through the graveyard, stopping to look at the inscriptions on gravestones. On the east side of the church were ruins of an earlier building, the original Norman church, stone pillars and arches standing alone on well-kept grass.

  She meandered towards the newer part of the graveyard and came to a sudden halt. Kneeling in front of a grey marble headstone, head bowed, was Thomas Coltman, the handyman at the camp, the man whose wife and child had been murdered when he was a prisoner of war in Java. There were fresh flowers, pink roses and gypsophilia, in a grey marble urn, and the grass covering the grave was neatly clipped. Coltman, his back to her, looked a picture of extreme misery: head bowed, shoulders sagging. Her heart clenched tight for him. After all these years he was still bereft. To his right was a discarded bunch of dead flowers, withered delphiniums and white roses, their browned petals scattered over the grass; and beside them were a pair of grass-clippers.

  What should she do? Leave him in peace? Leave him in despair? Should she take this opportunity to make contact with him? Neither Frank nor Dorothy had managed to do that.

  She didn’t have to make her mind up. He must have heard her feet on the gravel path, as he turned, grasping the clippers, as though to protect himself. Or attack?

  ‘Hello. Is it Mr Coltman? I’ve seen you at the camp, but we haven’t had a chance to meet properly.’ She spoke slowly, clearly and in a tone she’d used as a teacher talking to a pupil who was unsure of themselves.

  He got up, and stared at her with frightened eyes, the clippers shaking in his hands. He didn’t speak.

  She knelt down in front of him and looked at the gravestone.

  In memory of Audrey Coltman, beloved wife of Thomas

  Taylor Coltman

  Cruelly taken from me

  And my son, John. Taken and never returned.

  We will all meet on some distant shore.

  The words, etched in gold on the cold grey surface, were personal and different to the usual epitaphs. Her heart ached for him. He must have erected this stone after he came back from the war, for by then his wife had been buried for several years. She wondered where his mother was buried.

  She looked up at him. The clippers dangled from his hands; his gaze moved from the words on the gravestone to her face.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She understood what he meant. She shared, for a moment, his grief and he’d seen that on her face. ‘It’s hard to stop grieving when someone is taken unnaturally.’

  He knelt down beside her, his hand resting on the edge of the gravestone. ‘You understand?’

  ‘I do, but your loss is enormous, your wife and child.’

  ‘And yours?

  ‘My sister, Angela, was murdered a few years ago.’ As she said those words, her own grief welled up, as raw as ever. Tears, sharp as acid, pricked her eyes and she blinked.

  He tentatively placed a hand over hers, his fingers trembling, as though he wasn’t used to having contact with another person. ‘I’m truly sorry. I don’t want anyone to feel what I have felt.’ His voice was low, pleasant, cultivated, unlike his careworn appearance. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘I’ve seen you round the camp. You’re a Stripey coat, aren’t you?’

  She smiled at him and clasped his hand. ‘I’m Laurel Bowman. I’m helping with the sports, mainly swimming.’

  They both got up, still clasping hands. He was a little taller than her, but thin and stooped; his clothes, clean but worn, hanging from his spare frame. He reluctantly released her hand. ‘I used to love swimming when I was younger.’

  ‘You don’t swim now?’

  ‘The sea is too cold for me.’

  ‘Why don’t you use the pools, they’re heated. Staff can use them when the campers are having their meals.’

  He looked horrified. ‘I hate swimming pools. They smell of chlorine.’

  She would have liked to know more about his wife. Was this the right time? Was she abusing the bond they’d just formed? She decided to risk it.

  She placed a hand on the gravestone, and hoped she wouldn’t offend him. ‘Someone at the camp said you didn’t know Audrey and John were dead when you were a prisoner of war. It must have been a terrible shock when you came back, especially if you’d been traumatised from your experiences.’

  His face paled, he gulped, his Adam’s apple moving up and down his throat, and the clippers were again tightly gripped. She’d gone too far, too soon.

  ‘Is that what they say? What do they know? They treat me as though I’m an idiot. Sam Salter gave me a token job. I do it because I need the money. I need to buy Audrey flowers and it gives me the time to walk the fields at night, looking for my little John and to find...’

  He was in extreme distress. ‘Was your wife, Audrey, beautiful?’

  The name seemed to distract him, his anger died, and a faint smile curved his lips. ‘She was very beautiful, everyone thought so. Even my mother, who was not given to making compliments, said she was one of the most beautiful girls she’d seen.’

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  The smile broadened ‘Here, in Orford. Where I live now, the cottage, was our family holiday home; we lived in London, but came to Orford whenever we could. She was a local girl; she could swim like a fish, and we both loved boating. We were childhood sweethearts. We never wanted anyone else.’

  ‘She sounds a wonderful person. I wish I could see a picture of her.’

  His back straightened. ‘Would you like to see her?’

  For a moment she thought he was offering to dig her up. ‘Yes, I would.’

  He gripped her arm. ‘Come with me. We can go to my cottage. I’ll show you Audrey’s photograph, and you can see how beautiful she was.’ He pulled her towards the lych gate, and she reluctantly followed.

  He stopped and released her arm. ‘Are you sure you want to come? I can make some tea for you,’ he said, his voice once more tentative and unsure.

  What had Frank said: ‘We mustn’t take risks, there’s a sadistic murderer out there.’ If she went with Coltman no one would know where she was. Could he be the murderer? Crazed by the loss of his wife and child, taking revenge on anyone who he came across? Had he met Bert on one of his night walks? Had Bert upset
him in some way and he’d overpowered him and taken him back to Bert’s cottage and killed him in a most horrific manner?

  She looked into his pleading eyes. He wanted someone to share his love and grief. Someone who understood what it was like to have a loved one murdered.

  ‘Yes, I’ll come with you, and I’d love a cup of tea.’

  It was a short walk to Daphne Road, and as they passed the entrance of Burnt Lane there were two police cars parked outside Bert’s cottage. Her throat contracted and foul smells invaded her brain. She swallowed hard. She mustn’t let this opportunity pass.

  ‘What’s going on there?’ she asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘That’s where Bert Wiles lives. Perhaps he’s been arrested again. He’s a poacher.’

  He didn’t know about the murder, or was he pretending he didn’t? How was it possible for him not to know?

  ‘They said at the camp there’d been a murder in Orford. Do you think those police have anything to do with that?’

  He turned into Doctor’s Lane. ‘Murder? That’s terrible. Was Bert murdered?’

  ‘I think his name was mentioned.’

  He stopped outside a cottage, his shoulders hunched. ‘Why would anyone murder Bert Wiles?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him. Do you know him? I suppose you must, you live near each other.’

  He beckoned her to follow him up a brick path leading to a cottage. Surely he wouldn’t attack her, if he was the murderer, with police close by?

  He walked round to the back of the house and she followed him. The garden was well-tended, not like Bert’s scrubby patch. He bent down near the back door and took a key from a plant pot behind a rosemary bush.

  He turned the key and stepped back. As she passed into the house it was a relief to find a spartan kitchen, clean and orderly, contrasting with Bert’s hovel. A pine table stood in the centre of the room, a chipped but clean butler’s sink underneath a window, plus a tall pine cupboard, a gas oven and sitting on top of a worktop, a kettle and an electric toaster.

  He pointed to the only chair in the room. ‘Please sit down, I’ll make some tea.’ When was the last time another person had come and shared a meal with him? Or even a cup of tea or coffee? Should she feel honoured he’d asked her, or worried? She wasn’t sure, but he didn’t seem threatening. However, he hadn’t answered her question about Bert.