A Party at Buntings

By Roy Whitlow

When Adam Winter arrived at Bristol’s Parkway station he didn’t expect to find a dead body and an injured man almost side-by-side, nor did he realise what a complex set of relationships he would find himself drawn into. A young fairly recent widower and author he meets a series of females that variously attract him and pursue him as he is drawn into the wealthy Cannington-McFadden clan. The dead girl, soon identified as an actress in porno films, may have had relationships with more than one of the clan and the man injured at the time she died is to be engaged to another. Also, the clan’s marital complexities and infidelities further complicate the investigation, which incidentally is being led by Adam’s ex-father-in-law, DCI ‘Tom’ Becket. Adam is researching material for a crime novel and he finds much to interest him – even an attempt on his own life, not to mention more murders and attempts at the same. He is invited to the lavish engagement party at Buntings, the Cannington home; however, his ex-father-in-law persuades him to act as agent provocateur, with startling consequences. The abduction of beautiful Paula Cannington sets in train a terrifying chase and confrontation in a partly dilapidated house culminating in more tragedy, even though the real murderer is finally unmasked.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Whitlow
• Release date: Nov 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301816460

Book preview

A Party at Buntings

A novel by

Roy Whitlow

Published by:

R.Whitlow, Bristol, UK

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: © 2012 Roy Whitlow, Bristol, UK

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, manual, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, brands, media, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some places referred to may exist, but any incidents related to them are fictitious.

Discover other titles by Roy Whitlow at: http://www.smashwords.com/profile

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Chapter 1

Adam Winter stared straight ahead from the back seat of the taxi, although he could see nothing much beyond the windscreen. The dark of the night and the driving rain were conspiring successfully to obliterate the real shapes of the world beyond. Vague and blurred outlines rushed towards him before slipping past, defying identification. His eyes were held in mesmeric possession by the unrelenting motion of the windscreen wiper; the images first sharpening and then blurring again with each sweep of the blades. The taxi’s headlights probed into the storm ahead, flashing briefly on the squally flurries of rain, but not really reaching very far. The elements on this particular night were having things very much their own way. Such images that did reveal themselves seemed to be part of a wrathful ballet: a gate lurching drunkenly on a single remaining hinge, a tree streaming rain weaving and dipping its branches in feigned annoyance, tall roadside grasses bent over as if beaten into submission. And all this accompanied by a full orchestra of hissing, splashing and rip-roaring, accompanied by as yet unseen, instruments sounding bangs and whiplashes. Some composers might well have relished setting down a musical score to support the wild frenzied dance being performed by the trees and bushes; or maybe nature’s own music was sufficient – it was certainly impressive – even frightening. The taxi surged into the lashing rain, occasionally sending up great spouts of water from beneath its wheels – for the moment a soloist trying to rise above the orchestra. If an audience (other than taxi driver and his passenger) had been present they would surely have been readying their hands to deliver deserving applause after the finale – only the finale seemed to be many notes away – the storm was developing its own form of frantic coda – showing to any who cared just what it could do.

The rain-soaked lane was not far from the City of Bristol and it was a Friday evening – a very wet Friday evening – in late November. Adam Winter was heading towards Parkway railway station, not as he had planned, in his own car, but in a taxi. The eight-year old MG would have let in a good deal of the storm anyway: the result of a decidedly one-sided argument with a reversing lorry several days ago. He remembered how uncomplimentary he had been the previous morning when the garage had rung to say he could ‘bring it in this afternoon’. Now, far from being disgruntled at having to take a taxi, he blessed his good luck. It was far better to be a passenger than a driver on a night like this.

Bristol has two main railway stations. Temple Meads is large and busy with considerable architectural presence and is situated near to the city centre. Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who designed the Clifton Suspension Bridge, also gave the City of Bristol a magnificent towered and turreted railway station. Numerous spacious platforms are over-vaulted by barrel roofs of cathedral-like proportions. This imposing edifice is approached along a gradually ascending wide paved concourse, which allows itself quite rightly to be dominated by the lofty facade and entrance canopy. Nowadays, of course, the majesty of steam has given way to the more technically efficient and romantically unimpressive age of the diesel train and most of the concourse is a car park. The other station is Bristol Parkway, somewhat smaller, comprising but two platforms, and a recently modernised waiting-room/booking-hall. In spite of its size Parkway is nevertheless a main-line station and while being disadvantageously situated some five miles from its larger metropolitan partner it can and does boast one distinct advantage: a large car park. The out-of-town station is much used by commuters and others since it lies on both the Swansea to London Paddington line and the main line running from the north-east of England to the deep south-west. Thus, the car park is often busy and occasionally crowded.

A sudden jolt and sideways lurch threw Adam across the rear seat. A hard tearing sound coming from somewhere below his feet was being colourfully accompanied by the taxi driver as he expertly worked with the steering and gears.

‘Bloody great puddle, right on the bloody bend. Sod it!’

A wall of water seemed to rear up before them, as the taxi snaked and threatened to founder like a ship on the rocks. Then the noise, just as suddenly, stopped. The car felt lighter as if it were floating clear. The driver regained his composure and changed gear with a smooth practised flick of his left hand.

‘Sorry, Mate, ‘bout that,’ he said, ‘these bloody lanes get worse. You O.K., Mate?’

Adam found himself clutching the top of the front passenger seat, his breath held.

‘What?’ His paralysis melted away. ‘Oh, yes. Thanks.’

He peered out through cascading water. At first only an anonymous rush of dripping hedge could be discerned, but then as an occasional familiar landmark appeared, Adam got his bearings.

‘I know this lane pretty well,’ he said to the driver. ‘It’s well known for flash flooding and there are some sharp bends coming up – three in a row, quite tight. Watch out – water there too.’

‘Right, mate.’ The driver’s left hand moved again and the engine responded with a new note of expectancy. ‘Where you off to then? London?’

‘Yes, on the 19.14. It we make it.’

‘What’s that – quarter-past seven? Yeah, we’ll get you there, mate.’ Another mini-lake buffeted and snarled its way under their feet; the engine note changed again: a lower gear. ‘As long as it don’t get deeper than the bloody exhaust, and we have to stop. ‘‘ow long you going for?’

‘Only a night.’

‘A night on the town, eh? Great.’

‘I wish it were. No, I’m afraid it’s just a boring dinner with some publishers and an equally boring lunch tomorrow. Then back home.’

‘Long way to go for just two bites o’ nosh.’

‘Yes, well there will be some speeches and a few prizes handed out tomorrow.’

Another comer demanded more gear changing, but the driver’s conversation never faltered. ‘Any for you?’

‘What?’

‘Prizes. Any for you?’

‘Oh, I doubt it. Well, there is a possibility.’

It was more than a possibility and Adam knew it. Reluctant as he was to admit it, a secret pride was nevertheless gathering. As he was leaving the house earlier, he was remembering Gillian’s words on that fateful awful night three years ago. She lay in the hospital bed festooned with tubes and wires, looking ever so small, terribly pale and yet smiling at him. She had held on to his hand so tightly as she whispered her last words. ‘Finish … the novel … my love – for me. Love you.’ And the squeezing slackened; she closed her eyes and sighed – and died.

He had sat there, still holding her now limp hand in both of his for thirty or forty minutes, a quiet continuous buzz coming from a monitor. A nurse had come in and checked her patient, sadly shook her head and left. Adam had tried to focus on the grey-white lovely face, but tears obscured and distorted … he had tried to blink them away, but still they formed and welled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. His beautiful wonderful supportive talented wife had left him for ever. In spite of knowing that this was inevitable for the past few days, he could not believe it had now really happened. Why you? Why such a kind and thoroughly nice person? What will I do now? The tears were endless.

Gillian and Adam had first met at the university where they both took their degrees – his a ‘two-one’ in English and hers a ‘first’ in Fine Arts. They had parted after graduation and lost touch for a couple of years. Then when following up a news story for the newspaper (he was struggling to be a reporter) Adam visited a small art gallery and there she was: handing out catalogues. There had been many times when he remembered that moment – his breathing had stopped, his heart surely missing a beat or even two, her face lit up with the sort of smile that can stop the traffic. He had slowly taken the proffered list of paintings on show and had opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a single syllable, she said almost casually: ‘After the showing – we close at five.’

She had moved off, efficient, professional; smiling at other potential customers. He had had no idea what the frames on the walls contained, nor who had applied the brush strokes. Adam Winter forgot about the follow-up piece he was meant to be chasing and wandered around somewhat aimlessly, trying to look like an art connoisseur, but really espying chances of a glimpse of his newly-found love. They didn’t lose touch again – within six months they were honeymooning on the island of Crete. Adam got a job with a Bristol newspaper and so they bought a house on the outskirts of that city, which delighted Gillian’s family who lived in the nearby town of Keynsham. Gillian found as much work as she could handle as a children’s book illustrator and worked from a studio at home.

Their life was busy, even demanding, but in many ways idyllic. A real blessing came in the form of Sarah, the sweetest little girl that was ever born (they both agreed this, as did Molly and Tom, Gillian’s parents). And then disaster struck. Gillian had been to visit an author living near Cardiff in South Wales, taking with her a portfolio of preliminary sketches. The lady writer, with three books for pre-school children already to her credit, had seen some of Gillian’s work and had persuaded her publisher to change her illustrator. A delighted Gill Winter, Childen’s Book Illustrator had worked furiously to meet a hurriedly agreed deadline. Her industry – and skill obviously – was rewarded for the drawings were received with lots of oohs and aahs of approval. In a buoyant mood she travelled back to Bristol, a mere sixty minutes away along the M4 motorway. Two miles beyond Newport a white Luton van in the outside lane overtook her going quite quickly. This in itself did not cause her concern, but what happened next did. The front offside tyre (found to be virtually treadless later) of the van exploded, scattering black bits of rubber across the carriageway. The van dipped down and right and ploughed into the ARMCO centre barrier. It bounced back immediately and rolled several times – into the middle lane, directly in front of the Nissan Micra driven by poor Gillian; she had no chance of avoiding the impact and she was travelling at probably seventy miles an hour. She suffered multiple injuries, including broken bones, massive bruising and organ-destroying internal injuries. The van driver and a passenger were killed instantly and three others injured in follow-up crashes. A mere five days passed after that devastating accident and now a heartbroken man sat gazing at her porcelainic face and wondering how he would be able to explain things to little Sarah.

He did explain, eventually, of course. Molly Becket initially insisted on taking the role of stand-in mother, since his parents had died when he was only eight years old – another traffic accident. However Adam had a sister, Stephanie, who was five years older and who had just come through a harrowing divorce. She virtually insisted on moving in with Adam to act as his housekeeper and surrogate mother to Sarah. Her only demand, apart from a reasonable housekeeping allowance, was the conversion of the oversized double garage into a studio – she was an almost successful sculptor whose medium strangely centred around odd bits of iron and a welding set. Although worried at first, Adam soon found the arrangement worked well. Sarah moved back to her original home and clearly loved Stephanie, who naturally doted on her niece. Stephanie even managed to sell a few pieces. Adam continued to be a journalist, but also, true to the dying wish of his adored wife, he worked on his novel. It was a crime story, set among policeman and newspapers, and of course villains – father-in-law Tom Becket was a Detective Chief Inspector with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary – and he headed up, all too frequently, murder enquiries. So the budding best-seller writer had a good source (in a generalised way) of information. After several months of writing and revising, revising, revising, the manuscript, looking bulky and boring, was finished. It was with some astonishment that Adam received a positive response from only the fourth publisher he had tried. They loved the book, they said, and only a moderate amount of re-writing would be required. He agreed a contract. Sales were good and now he was on the short list for an award.

Tomorrow’s luncheon, on a Saturday of all days, was being given by the Crime Writers Guild. Verbal and a few more tangible, bouquets were due to be delivered to several categories of author specialising in crime stories of one sort or another. For the most outstanding first crime novel there would be the ‘First Novel Award’: a bronze figure, a healthy cheque and lots of ensuing publicity. His publishers had, of course, been saying nice things, but they were naturally biased. Some of the reviews, though, were very heartening. The possibility of a success had to be admitted. After all, Jocelyn Standish was no fool. Jocelyn had followed his father into publishing and had now been running the firm virtually single-handed for ten years at least. To be accepted by Standishes was something in itself. To have Jocelyn Standish himself waxing enthusiastic about a novel, a who-done-it at that, was indeed exceptional. As a matter of fact, it was Jocelyn who had put up his nomination to the Guild.

He knew Gillian would have been proud of him, he could almost see the glowing twinkle in her eyes that she had always reserved for their special moments. She would have been there at the dinner by his side tomorrow; she still would be in spirit. He hoped he could pull it off for her sake. Damn it, of course he wanted to win. For years he had been trying to add ‘writer’ to the title ‘freelance journalist’. A few short stories and feature articles had sold modestly, but in his chosen subject area of crime success had so far managed to elude him.

‘What you going to win then?’

The taxi had stopped at the end of the lane and the driver hunched forward as he peered out into the lashing rain.

‘Hopefully, a small prize. For writing a book.’

‘D’you ‘ave to sell a lot to win a prize, or d’you ‘ave to win the prize to sell a lot?’

Adam laughed at the man’s hard-nosed logic. ‘The latter I think. The publishers reckon it’s going quite well, but winning tomorrow will give us a good boost – and the next book. That is, if I can find a good plot.’

That was certainly the problem at the moment: finding a good story line for book number two. Jocelyn was astute: having got Adam nominated for the First Novel Award, he promptly offered him an option agreement for the next novel. Adam had signed and taken the advance, and now he needed inspiration.

They were now moving along slightly more quickly on a wider road. The rain was still unrelenting and, if anything, maybe due to the greater speed of the car, seemed to pelt the windscreen with even greater fury. A large roundabout brought them to a halt again. Solid rods of water teemed down to beat on the bonnet creating a vigorous dance of excited splashes.

‘Roll on Christmas,’ was the driver’s laconic comment as he leaned over his steering wheel, eyes searching for a break in the procession of traffic.

Adam wiped a clear patch in the dewy condensation on the window alongside him.

‘Where are we now?’ he asked peering out.

‘Mile Straight,’ the driver obliged, guiding his taxi around the long circular arc of the junction.

Good – the last lap, thought Adam. This last stretch of road was actually misnamed by the driver, for it was relatively new and not that long, nor even straight (even the old ‘Mile Straight’ road running parallel had been incorrectly named for years – it too was nowhere near a mile long). However, the present road would bring them up to the station approach. He reached out and pulled his overnight bag towards him, as they passed the High School on the left the lights of the station made their watery appearance.

‘There’s a train in, Mate,’ the driver was ducking his head to peer upward. Swinging round in a wide curve, the two tracks of permanent way from Bristol passed high over the road. A long bullet-nosed tube of train lay alongside one of the two concrete platforms; its engine simmered, anxious for the off. All round, numerous lights, variously red and green and yellow, glowed and twinkled with quiet confidence. Even through the rain the slamming of doors could be heard. Then, just as the taxi was about to pass under the red and blue brickwork of the bridge, the train overhead gave a long sigh and began to move slowly forward.

‘It’s going,’ observed the driver, ‘Well, if that was yours, mate, you’ve missed it. Sorry an’ that.’

‘It wasn’t mine. It’s heading the wrong way, towards Temple Meads.’

Adam twisted his wrist to catch some light on his watch. ‘I’ve got about ten minutes to spare.’

The taxi stopped with a screech and a bone-jerking jolt. Adam was almost catapulted on to the front seat.

‘Bloody ‘ell! He’s in a bloody hurry. Silly bloody sod!’ exploded the driver.

The last three words were hurled through the hurriedly wound-down window. The taxi had been about to turn right into the station approach when a largish car, headlights blazing, had shot out towards them. A split second before ramming them it slewed savagely to its left and, with a convulsive leap, took off into the rain. Through the driver’s now open window, Adam caught a fleeting image of a sleek rear end and red lights disappearing quickly in a swirl of exhaust smoke and spray. A Jaguar S-type, he thought, maybe a 4.2 litre. Lucky devil: having a car like that. Stupid sod: treating it like that – this calibre of car ranked high in Adam’s pool-winning fantasies. Two minutes later the taxi had hauled itself easily up the approach road and was wheeling in a tight arc across a well-lit apron of tarmacadam. As it stopped the driver reached back and unlatched the rear door.

‘There you are, Sir. That will be eighteen-pound seventy-five.’

An extra tone of politeness accompanied the request for money. Pushing open the door, Adam stepped out into the rain. As he slammed the door closed again with his case, his other hand passed a twenty pound note through the driver’s window.

‘Thanks,’ he said, with genuine feeling.

‘You’re welcome, mate,’ replied the driver, reaching out for his meter. Looking back over his shoulder, he hauled on the steering wheel and pulled the vehicle into a white-painted box bearing the legend ‘TAXI’.

Adam had taken two steps towards the brightly lit booking hall and the taxi driver had switched off his engine. The drumming splashing of the rain seemed louder, as though it were making an extra solo effort. Suddenly, there was something else. A thinner noise, sharper and higher pitched; forcing its way through the pattering swish of rain. It was a short noise, cut off quickly, but was somehow urgent. Adam stopped in front of the booking hall door and listened. Now he could only hear the rain. But then after a turn of his head, he heard it again. The taxi door slammed.

‘Decided to hang on a bit,’ the driver announced. He leapt, on his toes to clear a shallow pool, and made for the door alongside Adam. It was warm and dry in there. Adam put out a hand to restrain him.

‘Hang on. Did you hear anything?’

‘Only the bloody water-fall. What like?’

‘It sounded like a cry.’

‘Probably a waterlogged pigeon ‘aving trouble with his snorkel, mate. Come on in out of the wet.’ The driver stepped towards the station lobby door, which opened automatically.

Adam reached the door. This time there was no mistaking the sound It was a cry and someone was shouting, out there in the rain: ‘Help! Help us!’

‘Hey, you’re right, John. Some bugger’s in trouble!’

‘It came from over there.’

‘In the big car park. Come on!’ The driver put his head down and pulled up his coat collar and dived into the drenching rain. There are two sections in the car park at Parkway station: one for short term parking and another where cars can be left for several days if necessary. For those seeing off and meeting from trains, there are some twenty or so neatly painted bays marked out on an area of tarmacadam. Alongside are four bays are marked ‘TAXI’ and it was in one such reserved place that the newly arrived taxi now stood. Nearby a large painted notice proclaims the right of bone fide passengers, collectors and see-ers off to park free of charge for a period of one hour, and then also entreats them to leave their cars, prior to travelling, in the larger ‘LONG STAY AREA (APPROX. 300 CARS)

A raised concrete kerb separates the two areas; arrows marked on the road surface indicate routes in and out. There is a ticket machine and alongside it a board bearing instructions and information about parking charges, times, etc. From this metal and plastic edifice tickets may be obtained according to the anticipated length of stay. At the exits from the parking bays there are red and white barriers which are raised when a valid ticket in inserted into a slot. Normally, the whole area is well lit with lamps on high slender poles, but on this particular night, for reasons associated with the storm or something, several lamps were out, leaving poorly-lighted patches. Adam dropped his bag inside the door and followed the taxi-driver skipping and hopping over pools of water between rows of parked cars. The cry for help came again. It was a man’s voice, insistent, repeating the single word several times, drawing it out longer each time.

‘This way! There he is!’

The taxi-driver gave a sideways leap over an expanse of water and halted. He edged between two cars parked closely together in the long-stay section, over by a boundary fence. As Adam joined him, he could see a figure lying on the ground. He was half sat, half lying against the front wheel of a large car. A Renault, by the look of it. A felt hat was lying on the wet ground beside his legs; he seemed to be wearing some kind of leather coat. As he saw them approach the man pushed himself up slightly and flung an arm out in a waving gesture.

‘What’s the trouble, mate?’ bellowed the taxi-driver, as if determined to be heard, although now bending over the crumpled figure.

The arm waved again, flinging and pointing towards the rear of the car: ‘At the back. Quick, please,’ he cried out, with a downward inflection that was almost a sob. Adam pushed past, stepping over the man’s legs, using his hands on the cars either side for balance. He looked over the back of the big car.

She was lying on her back, with arms thrown out like a discarded doll. Her raincoat and dress were bunched up over her knees, her legs gleaming white against the black glistening tarmac. An open umbrella rolled fitfully to and fro some ten yards away. Although this was one the areas in partial gloom, a light, high up on a tall standard along the boundary fence, picked out the girl’s pale face and an explosion of blonde hair. The long pale strands were now wet and some lay plastered over her eyes. She was very still. As Adam bent towards her, the obvious question started to come and stopped. ‘Are you ...?’ The rest he swallowed as he saw how a red stain in the water was spreading slowly above her head; the beating raindrops danced over the shallow pool creating with the light a quick-changing bouncing display of blackish and reddish hues. Some of wet strands of her blonde hair moved under the force of the falling rain; rain splashed her face which remained quite still. He reached down to the girl’s neck, searching for the carotid artery. His fingers moved around the slender throat – and stopped. He pressed lightly with first and second fingers. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. He felt a sudden inner cold shock and held his breath as he realised – she was dead.

[Back to Top]

Chapter 2

The rain had at last stopped. It was as if the elements had finally relented out of sympathy for the poor dead girl. The dark desolation of the car park in the storm had now been replaced by a bewildering assemblage of light, noise and movement. An arc of police cars were parked with their blazing headlights pointing towards the spot where the body lay. Their roof lights were flashing, and their doors stood open like bat wings, forming a protective screen. An emergency services ambulance, its rear doors agape, stood patiently blinking close by. A quick, but continuous murmur of voices filled the damp night air and this was punctuated at intervals by sudden staccato bursts of radio sounds. There were several police in uniforms looking quite bulky in their waterproof high-visibiliy jackets (you didn’t see the once familiar capes these days). Now and again a blue clad and helmeted officer would duck his head down towards his left shoulder and murmur something into his personal radio mounted there. Very little movement was apparent in the floodlit area among the score or so people who could be seen. They were gathered in small groups of two or three; some were in seemingly tense discussion, others were kneeling or crouching at the centre of the circle. Most were just watching, facing the middle, arms folded or hands in pockets, expectant. Activity would intensify of course when the SOCOs (scene of crimes officers) arrived with their equipment and pale blue coveralls.

Outside the ring of light, a crowd grew slowly. Some were pausing on their way to or from the station or drifting over from somewhere in the car park. Several, apparently getting parking tickets or paying their fees at the machine, were distracted by the lights and unusual activity, and found it difficult not to find out more. One car had been passing the station and the driver had diverted from his presumably homeward path to see what might be happening that was so brightly lit; he was now in conversation with a blue uniformed figure who was explaining with a certain amount of single arm waving the need for him to turn around and proceed with his original journey. A subdued murmur rippled through assembled onlookers. Many humans are curious creatures: questions prompted speculative answers, and these often begged other questions; rumour pursued rumour, some gathering spurious detail in the process.

‘What happened?’

‘Bin a murder.’

‘Who done it?’

‘A nutter, I expect.’

‘Some bugger who didn’t want to pay a bloody whore, more than like.’

‘There’s two bleedin’ bodies, I tell you.

‘Yeah, looks like her husband caught them at it in the back of his car.’ (Ironic laugh)

‘D’you think he’s a rapist, y’know gets his way, then goes mad?’

‘Who killed him then?’

‘P’raps she did.’

‘How’d ‘e do it? Strangle ‘er or beat ‘er up?’

‘Knife – I heard.’

‘Nah, s’bound to ‘ave bin a rope or’ra scarf. Eh – or ‘er own tights!’

And so a dozen or more stories were born, were aired and then died in but a few minutes and made way for more; a sense of excitement mixed with curiosity shivered through the small crowd. It was amazing to hear the inventiveness of some; after all there was practically nothing to be seen – not from outside the lighted circle; the two bodies were on the ground and obscured by the cars parked close by. Still you couldn’t just stand and stare – it was sort of natural to offer helpful opinions, wasn’t it?

Commuters and travellers, coming and going, were drawn to the scene for short inquisitive looks; another tit-bit to fuel their homecoming conversation or to talk about on the journey ahead. A handful of railway employees, some in distinctive uniforms, had been drawn away from the routine non-excitement of their normal tasks; most would steal a glimpse or two, before making a furtive sprint back to the station. A little way off, at a bus stop, a driver stood, with hands in pockets, in front of his vehicle, reluctant to leave it; the passengers peered through the misted-up windows thinking maybe that it would be in tomorrow’s papers; some would undoubtedly boast of their presence at the scene, especially if it turned out to be suitably lurid. That is the way it is with onlookers; they are often curious, but not (thankfully, for most) involved. Quite a few of those in the growing crowd were annoyed and some were protesting to blue uniformed police – they had unwittingly parked their cars within the circle of interest now marked out with blue and white scene tape. They would not be allowed to even return to their vehicles let alone drive them away. Several were seen to be making frantic calls on their mobile phones, no doubt explaining to anxious relatives the reason for their late homecoming. They were involved, although they didn’t want to be, maybe most were in varying degrees curious.

One person who was definitely curious and very much involved was Chief Inspector Terence Arthur Becket – Tom to his friends and colleagues – of the Avon and Somerset Constabulary.

Becket was standing about three yards away from the girl’s body with two other men and a woman with short fair reddish hair. One of the men was his assistant, Detective Sergeant Max Martin. The fit-looking woman, who was dressed in a black leather jacket, black trousers and black mid-calf leather boots was Detective Inspector Phillipa Bright – mostly called ‘Pip’, except when things were formal. Pip Bright was another member of the Becket team. She had a degree in criminal law and was said to be destined for ‘fast track’ promotion. In terms of rank, she was a subordinate of Tom Becket’s, but senior to DS Martin; in reality she recognised the better experience, as well age, of both her male colleagues and often deferred to the DS; in turn, Max Martin recognised and respected a sharp intellect and an eye for detail second to none. They both almost worshipped the expertise of Tom Becket – a villain-taker supreme – and a splendid team leader. The team worked together very well indeed.

The other man in this group was of course Adam Winter. After discovering that the blonde girl was dead, Adam had asked the taxi-driver to look after the injured man while he called the police. But instead of dialling nine-nine-nine, as most normal citizens of this country would do, Adam called his father-in-law – or to be more precise his ex-father-in-law. Who was also of course the person his daughter, Sarah, called ‘Dangad’.

Tom Becket’s explosive admonition almost made him wish he had not and, following a few curt instructions, he then called out the proper emergency services. Becket only took eight minutes to reach Parkway station; Max Martin and Pip Bright arrived five minutes later amid a clamouring flashing convoy of vehicles. These two had been together interviewing a witness associated with another crime in a part of Bristol called Totterdown when the call came. They had hurriedly concluded their talk with the witness, promising to be in touch at some later date, and then DS Martin had driven at speed (but safely, he argued) to the other side of the city.

Each of this pair, while negotiating early evening roads and traffic, were, in their own individual ways, going through a check list of things to do. They knew a murder enquiry was just kicking off, that much information had been given in the initial call. A girl found dead and another victim injured was really the sum of it. It was a given that a major crime investigation would ensue and that that the Becket team would be a major player on the police side. Murder enquiries usually followed a well-tried model, but were never identical, many lines could open up that could require time, effort and due diligence. However, following the team model was important, at least at the outset. They knew from past experience what was required of them and so they began making silent plans, or at least contingency plans, for things could change once they reached the SOC (scene of crime). They didn’t as yet know how Tom Becket had got involved – they both knew Adam Winter, but not what his role had been. Normally, when a suspicious death was reported to the police a duty officer (usually of the uniformed branch) would visit the scene, make a preliminary assessment and report to his superior – perhaps the station Superintendent. When a murder, suicide or serious assault is suspected the responsible Chief Superintendent or his deputy would then instigate a Major Crime Investigation and appoint a Senior Investigating Officer; at the same time allocating other resources.

The action by Adam Winter of calling Tom Becket had slightly upset the formal procedure pattern. Tom Becket had in turn called Chief Superintendent Holloway and since Tom’s team had major crime status and was not currently too overloaded the Chief Super had no hesitation in allocating the case. The wheels were therefore set in motion; various CID officers and support staff were alerted, one of whom, following routine, contacted DI Bright and DS Martin. In all, some twelve to fifteen people now waited expectantly for a report from the scene – a scene being rapidly assessed by Pip Bright and Max Martin, in the company of their guvnor, DCI Becket – and of course the civilian, Adam Winter. The number of police officers and support staff involved could well escalate, even several fold, depending on the complexities of the investigations as they became clear. For the moment, the first provisions were being set up – the team knew their main responsibilities and needed no prompting to start things moving.

All thought of the visit to London was banished now from Adam’s mind. Anyway, since he had found the body, he would be required to help the police. Calling out Becket was not totally an act of unthinking panic on his part. With Tom in charge – homicide, after all, was Becket’s territory – Adam was sure he could get in on the act, so to speak. The story-line for which he was so desperately searching may just have leapt at him from out of the storm. Well, it was worth a try, even if Tom Becket did need more than a little persuading.

‘How about it, Tom, can I stay close? I’ll stay out of your hair.’ Adam was trying hard not to be too craven.

‘You’re a witness, Adam, be reasonable – and a journalist.’

‘I won’t print anything you haven’t seen and approved – and I only found the body, I didn’t see it done. Come on, Tom, you can square it. It could be good material – I need a break for this next book. Look, I’ll do any files research you want in the Chronicle.’

‘Just listen to him, Max. You’d think the Avon Chronicle had the entire information resources of this country available solely for its own use.’

Adam protested, ‘You’ve used it before, and I’ve been the one doing the digging.’

‘Well, we do have some resources of our own – we may not need your … ahem, help. What do you say, Sergeant?’

‘It’s early – er – to say at this stage, Sir.’

‘Thank you, Max, that was a very safe answer. What about you, Detective Inspector? Will this scribbler get under your feet?’

Pip Bright blushed a little; her colleagues were convinced that she had ‘certain feelings’ stirring where Adam Winter was concerned. She had never admitted and would never admit to this in the slightest; in fact she claimed a boyfriend presently serving with Parachute Regiment in Afghanistan, although no photographs had ever been passed around. ‘He’d better not, Guv. I might tread on him. Keep to the sidelines though, eh?’

Becket nodded and grinned. ‘All right, Adam, you can tag along, but I make the rules, understand? You only go where I say you can go and you only talk to those who I say you can talk to.’

‘Anything you say, Tom. I’ll respect any conditions,’ said Adam, grabbing Becket’s arm, ‘May I make notes?’

‘Can you make notes I … What the hell? ‘

‘You can see everything I scribble down,’ said Adam breaking in quickly. The excitement in Adam’s voice was too much for Max Martin. Suppressing a laugh, he turned away and stepped a few paces over towards the group around the bodies. Pip Bright raised her eyebrows a fraction and a suggestion of a smile might have been noticeable.

‘Look, Adam, ex-son-in-law, don’t push it, right. Nepotism may rule, but it’s going to be under my guiding hand. Play it cool, as they say, and it will be fine. But remember, the first over-smart move will be your last and I’ll drop on you like a ton of .... Ah – here comes the Doc. Just don’t get under anyone’s feet, that’s all.’

A long foreign-looking car was just being waved through the perimeter crowd by a uniformed constable. It slid towards them and halted a few yards away. The headlights flicked out and from the car emerged a small bald man wearing a pale-coloured coat, which seemed two sizes too large for him. It was a sort of plastic-coated affair with big flapped pockets and a hood, which was thrown back. When the man stood so did the hood – behind his gleaming head, like a sort of portable pillow. This was Doctor Patrick Meenahan, who, in addition to being a consultant surgeon at one of the few private hospitals in the city of Bristol, contracted his services to the Home Office for an annual fee as a pathologist.

‘Good evening, Tom,’ he called cheerily, as he spotted the policeman, and then, turning, he opened the boot of his car and from it retrieved a black bag.

‘Hallo, Pat. What have you come prepared for then? A body in a lake?’ called out Becket, as he greeted the doctor with a good-natured laugh.

‘Well now, you old fuzzman, with youse I always expect the werst,’ countered the doctor, glancing down at the main object of Becket’s amusement. These were a pair of bright yellow rubber boots, almost hidden by the long coat. ‘It’s berrer to be safe than get weh feet. Wha’ have we go’ then?’ Dr Meenahan, in spite of his Irish-sounding name, had clearly been brought up in Liverpool and was proud of this fact; Tom and a few others suspected the scouse (Liverpool) accent he affected was mainly for the benefit of those who spoke to as friends and colleagues, his ‘board room’ voice being somewhat more refined.

‘Two victims: one dead: a girl, the other a man – with a head injury,’ said Becket nodding in the direction of the bodies. ‘Have a look at him first. Then the ambulance can take him off.’

He stepped across a pool of black water, leading the way the few yards to the slumped form of the man. The green-overalled paramedics had put a temporary dressing on a head wound. One was a male, the other a female, both dressed identically. The female was currently inspecting a blood-pressure cuff and staring intently at the read out; she looked up at the doctor.

‘Grazing and laceration of right forehead, Doctor,’ she reported. ‘Doesn’t look too bad. Might need a stitch, but I doubt it. His pupils are even and his stats normal: one-thirty over fifty and HR of seventy-eight.’

Meenahan reached forward to the man’s head and raised the dressing slightly. The second paramedic shone his lamp. ‘Any gravel in it? It looks clean now.’

‘Nothing in it, Doc. He must have gone down on to the car, not the ground.’

The doctor ran his fingers around the man’s neck and head. The man winced, with a grunt. ‘That hurt, son?’ enquired the doctor.

A nod and another grunt formed the answer.

‘Have y’ got pain anywhere else, son?’ asked the doctor, sitting back on his heels; the rich accent was used for patients also.

This time the injured man’s head shook from side to side, but only slightly, just enough to reply. The doctor opened his bag and took a small hand torch. Holding open each upper eyelid in turn, he flashed the light several times in and away from the eye. He gave a half murmur and half cough and stood up.

‘You’ll be all righ’, son,’ he advised the crumpled figure. He turned to the paramedic man: ‘Eh, secure tha’ dressin’ now, and take him in. Tell them ‘bout de head injury and possible shock.’

The paramedic man thrust out a purple-gloved hand. He was holding something, almost nothing, except for a twinkle of light, between his fore-finger and thumb. ‘We found this, Doc. Sticking in his coat sleeve it was, near his left elbow. See, it’s broken off.’

The doctor allowed a small broken piece of hypodermic needle to be dropped into the gloved palm of his hand. He pushed it around with his other little finger.

‘Well luck at tha’!’ he rolled out the words with a typically Liverpudlian inflexion and a touch of soft-palette guttural, ‘Would you bloody luck at tha’? Eh, now, there’s a nasty thing, Tom Becket. In ‘is sleeve?’ The last word sounded as if it had too many ‘e’s.

Tom Becket first frowned at the proffered hand, eying the broken needle with obvious surprise and then he called to his colleague. ‘Max, get a small baggy, will you? We’ve got a hypo needle here. Mark it up for the lab. I want to know the type and size, and what muck is in it.’

‘Right, Guv.’ Martin had the scene-of-crime bag in his hand. He quickly put it down, opened it and extracted a pair of purple-coloured thin rubber gloves; he put these on and then handed a pair each to his DCI and Pip Bright. Picking out a pair of tweezers, he transferred the shining sliver of steel from the doctor’s hand into a small plastic bottle. ‘Best use a bottle, Guv; the needle might jag through a baggy.’

Becket nodded. ‘Good thinking’. He turned to the doctor. ‘What d’you make of that, Pat? Did it go in him – through his coat? Or break off first?’

‘Lerrum find tha’ out at de ‘ospital. We’d only waste time luckin’ now, and we could’na do any-tin. Take the needle to the hospital path lab, son, they’ll want to know wha’ tha’ juice is before they can trea’tim.’

Max Martin looked at his superior who nodded. ‘Go on, in the ambulance. No, on second thoughts, I want you here. Get one of the uniformed branch to go. Tell him to stay with the chap all the time. I shall want a statement as soon as the doctor says we can talk to him.’

The paramedics had now lifted the limp groaning man on to a stretcher. It rolled smoothly on its slides into the back of the ambulance. The lady in green was driving; her partner and the police constable climbed in through the rear door and the driver closed up. With its siren braying loudly, the ambulance moved away quickly. Doctor Meenahan was already bending over the body of the girl. He carefully turned back the red blanket placed over her by the paramedic team. DCI Becket and Adam Winter moved a little closer.

Adam spoke first. ‘Do you think she might have been stuck with a hypo needle, Tom, like the feller?’

‘Pat knows his job,’ replied Becket, making short notes in a small pocket book as he talked, ‘He can usually give us early ideas about cause of death – and time. But it’s early days yet. He’ll need to do a PM to be sure.’

Adam nodded,