A Violent End. Emma Page
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She’ll phone us as soon as she gets up.’
She gazed at him in silence, then she said slowly, ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. That could be what happened.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ he said heartily. ‘She’ll be here by the time you get back from your round. If she phones, I’ll be here to answer it. Now stop worrying and forget it. Sit down and eat your breakfast. We could give the Musgroves a ring after you’ve eaten, see if Karen’s there, or if Lynn knows where she might be. We can’t very well ring them yet, it’s too early.’
It was by now broad daylight, the sky still flamed a brilliant orange-gold from the sunrise. On the northernmost edge of Overmead a lad of thirteen let himself out of the back door of the cottage where he lived, took his bicycle from the shed and loaded it up with his fishing tackle, his sandwiches and flask, a folded macintosh in case of any more storms of rain.
But the morning looked fine enough as he set off down the lane. A minute or two later he entered a side road running south. It would take him to the main road which he would cross, continuing south, headed for the river.
He whistled cheerfully as he pedalled along. There was as yet scarcely any traffic. The birds sang, sunlight glittered yesterday’s puddles of rain.
As he came into sight of the main road the rough tracts of Overmead Wood stretched out before him on his right. He looked over at the wood with old affection; he had spent many a happy hour there with his mates, playing Robin Hood.
Something caught his eye among the trees, a long, bright loop of yellow, dangling from a branch. He slowed his pace. A broad grass verge, still muddy from the rain, overgrown with weeds and brambles, ran along the edge of the wood. A number of books were scattered over the ground. A fancy, light-coloured bag or satchel lay among the reedy grass and dead thistles, spilling its contents.
A long-tailed pheasant rose from the verge and flew away as he halted and laid his bike down on a little rising mound, comparatively clean. Mindful of his clothes and footwear, he picked his way to inspect the books, the bag with its contents: notebooks, pens, pencils, a case of mathematical instruments, all soaking wet. He touched nothing, he left everything where it lay. Then he straightened up and made his way along a narrow track, treacherous and slippery, meandering between oaks and chestnuts, sycamores and birches, to where the long yellow scarf hung from its bough, drenched with rain, the yarn snagged and snarled where the wind had flung it against rough bark.
He glanced about, peered into the recesses of the wood. On the ground, some distance away, a flash of the same bright colour caught his eye. He moved gingerly towards it.
When he was still a little way off he stopped suddenly and put a hand up to his mouth. The vague blur of colour had all at once resolved itself into a tattered yellow cap on the head of someone lying sprawled face down in a muddied clearing between the trees.
Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey, a big, solid rock of a man with a freckled face and shrewd green eyes, a head of thickly-springing carroty hair, left the woodland clearing and made his way towards his car, followed by Detective Sergeant Lambert. A minute search of the area was already under way.
It was plain from the scatter of books on the grass verge that the dead girl was Karen Boland, a student at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education. A library ticket in an inside pocket of her jacket supplied her address.
The police doctor had made a preliminary estimate of the time of death, setting it at between five and eight on the previous evening, Friday, November 13th. The body was fully clothed and there was no sign of any sexual assault.
Karen’s right ankle had been violently wrenched, possibly broken, some minutes before her death. The wrench had in all probability happened in the course of her headlong flight from her attacker over the uneven ground. She could have caught her foot and been sent flying, pitching heavily down, unable to rise, with her assailant crashing along behind her.
As she lay prostrate, shaken and winded, in considerable pain from the injured ankle, her attacker had knelt on her back, producing severe and deep contusions, pressing her head down with force into the mud and leafmould. Her face had been massively bruised, abraded and lacerated, her left cheekbone fractured by counter-pressure from a tree root. She had been held down for some time; she had died from asphyxia.
But to make assurance doubly sure her assailant had then viciously bludgeoned her, striking several savage blows on the back of her head, shattering the skull. A few feet from the body lay a heavy billet of wood, a piece of broken bough, clearly the weapon used in the clubbing. Caught up in the bark were strands of yellow wool, long gold-brown hairs, fragments of tissue, tiny embedded splinters of bone.
If Karen had at any stage been able to strike out at her killer her hands could give no evidence of it. She had worn woollen gloves, soaked and filthy now, ripped and snagged. The skin of her killer’s hands, Kelsey pondered, must surely–unless similarly protected by gloves – be scratched and marked, possibly deeply, from a swift passage through the wood.
The nylon material of Karen’s quilted jacket, the dark stuff of her slacks, showed rents and tears from thorns and spines, projecting boughs. Her ankle boots were caked in thick yellow mud. The clothes and footwear of her killer must also bear this kind of witness. And the thorns and spines, the projecting boughs, carried threads and fibres, ripped from the clothing of pursued and pursuer.
The two men reached the car and Sergeant Lambert opened the door. ‘Jubilee Cottage,’ Kelsey directed as he got in. They approached the dwelling a few minutes later. The gates were standing open and Lambert turned the car into the neatly gravelled driveway.
A car was drawn up at one side of the house. A ladder with a bucket suspended from a rung had been set up against the guttering at the front of the house. At the foot of the ladder stood a wheelbarrow half full of garden refuse. On the ground close by lay a pair of stout work gloves, a hand brush and trowel, a pair of secateurs.
At the sound of the car the front door on the left jerked open and Christine Wilmot came flying out, her face puckered in alarm. At the sight of the two men she halted abruptly, knowing them instantly for policemen. ‘Karen!’ she cried. ‘What’s happened to her?’
‘Mrs Boland?’ Kelsey asked. Though she looked scarcely old enough to be the girl’s mother.
She gave her head an impatient shake. ‘I’m Mrs Wilmot,’ she said rapidly. ‘Christine Wilmot, Karen’s cousin. She lives here. What’s happened to her? Has there been an accident?’
Ian Wilmot came running out through the same open door, looking from one to the other, his face full of concern. ‘Is it Karen?’ he blurted out. ‘Has something happened to her?’
‘Mr Wilmot?’ Kelsey asked.
He gave a nod. ‘Ian Wilmot.’ He gestured at Christine. ‘My wife.’ He thrust his hands together. ‘What’s happened to Karen?’
Kelsey disclosed his identity. ‘I think we’d better go inside.’ At his words the other two fell silent, then Christine began to utter little trembling sobs, her head drooping. Ian put an arm round her shoulders and steered her into the house.
He led the way into a sitting room on the right of the hall. They all sat down, Ian on the arm of his wife’s chair, his hand resting on her shoulder. She had by now fallen silent. She sat on the edge of her seat, clasping her hands tightly together.
‘I’m afraid I bring bad news,’ Kelsey said gently. ‘Very bad news.’ Christine set up a tiny whimpering sound. Ian stared at the Chief.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you,’ Kelsey said, ‘that Karen is dead.’
Christine gave a loud cry and put both hands up to her face.
‘Was it an accident?’ Ian asked. ‘A road accident?’
The Chief