Peter Robinson - Piece Of My Heart

They shook hands through the window. “Unfortunately, we can’t be everywhere, Mr. Forbes,” said Chadwick. “Was there any damage?”

“One of them broke the newsagent’s window when Ted told them he’d run out of cigarette papers. Some of them even slept in Mrs. Wrigley’s back garden. Scared her half to death. I suppose you’re here about that girl they found dead in a sleeping bag?”

“News travels fast.”

“It does around these parts. Communism. You mark my words. That’s what’s behind it. Communism.”

“Probably,” said Chadwick, moving to wind up the window.

Forbes kept talking. “I still have one or two contacts in the intelligence services, if you catch my drift,” he said, putting a crooked finger to the side of his nose, “and there’s no doubt in my mind, and in the minds of many other right-thinking people, I might add, that this is a lot more than just youthful high spirits. Behind it all you’ll find those French and German student anarchist groups, and behind them you’ll find communism. Need I spell it out, sir? The Russians.” He took a puff on his pipe. “There’s no doubt in my mind that there are some very unscrupulous people directing events behind the scenes, unscrupulous foreigners, for the most part, and their goal is the overthrow of democratic government everywhere. Drugs are only a part of their master plan. These are frightening times we live in.”

“Yes,” said Chadwick. “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Forbes. We’ll be off for those fish and chips now.” He signaled for Bradley to drive off as he wound up the window, leaving Forbes staring after them. They had a laugh about Forbes, though Chadwick believed there might be something in what he’d said about foreign students fomenting dissent. They soon found the fish-and-chip shop and sat in the car eating.

When Chadwick had finished, he screwed up the newspaper, then excused himself, got out of the car and put it in the rubbish bin. Next he went into the telephone booth beside the fish-and-chip-shop and dialed home. Janet answered on the third ring. “Hello, darling,” she said. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” said Chadwick. “I was wondering about Yvonne. How is she today?”

“Back to normal, it seems.”

“Did she say anything about last night?”

“No. We didn’t talk. She left for school at the usual time and gave me a quick peck on the cheek on her way out. Look, let’s just leave it at that for the time being, darling, can’t we?”

“If she’s sleeping with someone, I want to know who it is.”

“And what good would that do you? What would you do if you knew? Go over and beat him up? Arrest him? Be sensible, Stan. She’ll tell us in her own time.”

“Or when it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, never mind,” said Chadwick. “Look, I have to go. Don’t bother keeping dinner warm tonight. I’ll probably be late.”

“How late?”

“I don’t know. Don’t wait up.”

“What is it?”

“Murder. A nasty one. You’ll hear all about it on the evening news.”

“Be careful, Stan.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Chadwick hung up and went back to the car.

“Everything all right, sir?” Bradley asked, window rolled down, halfway through his post-fish-and-chips cigarette. The car’s interior smelled of lard, vinegar and warm newsprint.

“Yes,” said Chadwick. “Right now, I think we’d better head back to Brimleigh Glen and see what’s been happening there, don’t you?”

Monday, 8th September, 1969

The search team had fastened tape to the four trees that surrounded the little grove deep in Brimleigh Woods, about two hundred yards from where the body had been found. The woods were dense enough that, from there, you couldn’t see as far as the field, and any noise would certainly have been drowned out by the music.

The police dog had found the spot easily enough by following the smell of the victim’s blood. Officers had also marked off the route the dog had taken, and painted little crosses on the trees. Every inch of the path would have to be searched. For the moment, though, Chadwick, Enderby and Bradley stood behind the tape gazing down at the bloodstained ground.

“This where it happened?” Chadwick asked.

“So the experts tell me,” said Enderby, pointing to bloodstains on the leaves and undergrowth. “There’s some blood here, consistent with the wounds the victim received.”

“Wouldn’t the killer have been covered in blood?” Bradley asked.

“Not necessarily,” said Enderby. “Peculiar things, stab wounds. Certainly with a slashed neck artery or vein, or a head wound, there’s quite a lot of spatter, but with the heart, oddly enough, the edges of the wound close and most of the bleeding is internal, it doesn’t spurt the way many people think it does. There’s quite a bit of seepage, of course – that’s what you’re seeing here and in the sleeping bag – and I doubt he’d have got away with his hands completely clean. After all, it looks as if he stabbed her five or six time and twisted the blade.” He gestured to the edge of the copse. “If you look over there, though, by the stream, you can see that little pile of leaves. They’ve got traces of blood on them, too. I reckon that he tried to wipe it off with the leaves first, then he washed his hands in the running water.”

“Get it all collected and sent to the lab,” said Chadwick, turning away. He wasn’t usually sentimental about victims, but he couldn’t get the image of the innocent-looking girl in the bloodstained white dress out of his mind, and he couldn’t help but think of his own daughter. “When did the doctor say he’d get around to the postmortem?”

“He said he’d try for later this afternoon, sir,” said Enderby.

“Good.”

“We’ve interviewed most of the people on security duty,” Enderby added.

“And?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid, sir. They all agree there was so much coming and going, so much pandemonium, that nobody knows who was where when. I’ve a good suspicion most of them were partaking of the same substances as the musicians and guests, too, which doesn’t help their memories much. Lots of people were wandering around in a daze.”

“Hmm,” said Chadwick. “I didn’t think we could expect too much from them. What about the girl?”

“No one admits definitely to seeing her, but we’ve got a couple of cautious maybes.”

“Push a bit harder.”

“Will do, sir.”

Chadwick sighed. “I suppose we’d better arrange to talk to the groups who were backstage at the time, get statements, for what they’re worth.”

“Sir?” said Enderby.

“What?”

“You might find that a bit difficult, sir. I mean… they’ll have all gone home now, and these people… well, they’re not readily accessible.”

“They’re no different from you and me, are they, Enderby? Not royalty or anything?”

“No, sir, more like film stars. But-”

“Well, then? I’ll deal with the two local groups, but as far as the rest are concerned, arrange to have them interviewed. Get someone to help you.”

“Yes, sir,” Enderby replied tightly, and turned away.

“And, Enderby.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t know what the standards are in North Yorkshire, but while you’re working for me I’d prefer it if you got your hair cut.”

Enderby reddened. “Yes, sir.”

“Bit hard on him, weren’t you, sir?” said Bradley, when Enderby had gone.

“He’s a scruff.”

“No, sir. I mean about questioning the groups. He’s right, you know. Some of these pop stars are a bit high and mighty.”

“What would you have me do, Simon? Ignore the fifty or so people who might have seen the victim with her killer because they’re some sort of gods?”