Bernard Knight - Grounds for Appeal

Beneath the pile of old newspapers below was a metal drum about a foot wide and eighteen inches high. The remnants of a label stuck on the lid alleged it contained cooking oil, but the sloshing sound when Olly dragged it out suggested that there was a more watery fluid inside.

‘What about possible prints?’ murmured the sergeant to his senior officer, as Franklin appeared to be about to pull off the lid. However, a shrill voice from Olly’s wife solved the problem.

‘You’re not opening that here!’ she shrieked. ‘I had nightmares for weeks last time I saw it. Take the bloody thing away!’

Hartnell laid a hand again on Franklin’s sleeve.

‘Leave it to us,’ he said. ‘Better get your coat, Olly. You’re coming to the station with us. I’m afraid it’s your wife that will be doing the frying tonight!’

They found an empty cell back at the station where they put the drum while Tom Rickman went to get a pair of rubber gloves from the scenes-of-crime bag that they kept in the CID room. The former publican was placed in an interview room and given a cup of station tea, while Hartnell and his sergeant decided what to do about investigating the container. They had carried it carefully to and from the car by holding the drum with fingertips under the rim that ran around the top, though Hartnell felt that probably so many people had handled the thing already, that fingerprints would not be all that important.

Now they sat it on the bare bench that served as a bed in the cell and stared at it while deciding what to do.

‘Should we open it or wait for the forensic lab to come?’ asked Rickman.

His boss was of a more impulsive nature, anxious to get on with matters.

‘We’ve got to have a look, Tom,’ he said decisively. ‘For all we know there may only be a dead cat inside — or even just a few pints of home brew!’

The sloshing sound certainly confirmed that there was some sort of liquid in the container, which was obviously of some age, as its greenish paint was badly scratched and there were several small dents in the side. Rickman felt in his pocket for a large clasp knife and pulled out a blade like a screwdriver. With the DI holding the drum in his gloved hands, the sergeant levered off the lid, which was held on firmly, but not too tightly.

‘Phew, what the hell is that smell?’ demanded Hartnell, recoiling more from surprise than from nausea.

‘That’s methylated spirits, surely,’ replied Rickman, who ran a Scout Troop in his spare time and was used to lighting Primus stoves which were primed with the stuff.

They looked into the drum, which was almost full of a murky, pale purple liquid. Beneath the surface was a layer of fabric, which looked like a coarse dishcloth.

Cautiously, the inspector pushed it aside with his rubber-covered fingers and looked below the surface.

‘That’s hair, surely,’ muttered the sergeant, pointing at some floating black strands. Gingerly, Hartnell slid his hands down each side of the container and lifted the contents above the level of the fluid.

‘Jesus, it’s horrible!’ he muttered, echoing Mrs Franklin’s opinion, as he held a human head between his fingers. It felt hard, like a motor tyre, and the colour was a washed-out grey. The features were like those of a shop-window dummy, apart from the eye sockets, which had sunk back under the collapsed lids.

The two detectives stared at it for a long moment, then Hartnell let it subside back into the liquid, where the black hair again swirled under the surface.

‘Anyone you know?’ asked Rickman, only half-joking.

His inspector put the metal lid back on the drum and, peeling off his gloves, made for the door.

‘Let’s have a few words with Olly,’ he said grimly. As they went out of the cell corridor towards the interview room, he told the custody sergeant to lock the cell door and let no one inside without his permission.

‘Right, Olly, let’s be having you,’ he snapped, as they entered the room where the flabby ex-publican was sitting at the table, smoking a Player’s Navy Cut.

He looked up owlishly at Hartnell, trying to paste a look of innocence on his coarse features.

‘Look, I don’t know nothing about that thing. It was in the cellar at the Barley Mow, then got took to the White Rose when I was moved, along with a load of other stuff. When I got kicked out of there, everything was just dumped in my shed.’

‘Tell that to the Marines!’ sneered the sergeant. ‘Your missus knew damn well what was in the drum.’

‘Nothing to do with me. Some blokes left it with me in the Barley Mow years ago,’ said Olly stubbornly.

The two officers sat down heavily opposite the man, where Tom Rickman ostentatiously took out his notebook as his DI began the interview.

‘Olly, you’re in deep shit already, so don’t dig yourself in any deeper.’

‘But I ain’t done nothing!’ said Franklin in an aggrieved tone.

Hartnell extemporized as to the nature of the offences, as he was not sure himself what they were.

‘You have concealed knowledge of a death, you have obstructed the coroner in the furtherance of his inquest and you have offended against the Death Registration and Burial Acts — and are probably an accessory to a felony, perhaps a murder!’

Franklin’s usually red face blanched and beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead as he realized the implications of what he could be charged with.

‘I tell you, I don’t know nothing about it!’ he croaked.

‘Come off it, Olly! How did this head come to be in your possession? Who gave it you and why? And who is it, anyway?’

The former innkeeper looked wildly about the room, as if either looking for escape or someone to help him in this sudden crisis. ‘Why you asking me all this, after all these years?’ he moaned.

‘Because the rest of this bloke may have turned up, that’s why!’ snapped the inspector. ‘Now stop messing me about and answer the questions. Who is he?’

‘I don’t know, guv! I swear to God that’s true. It was already in the pub when I took over. I was in the Merchant Navy until forty-six and when I went to the Barley Mow, that drum was already there. It must have been there when the previous licensee ran the place.’

‘Who was that?’ demanded Rickman.

‘Fred Mansell — but he’s been dead for years.’

Hartnell looked at his sergeant, then murmured into his ear. ‘I think this is getting too heavy for us. Better kick it upstairs for now, see how the brass want to play it.’

He turned to Franklin, whose shaking fingers were groping for another cigarette.

‘Right, Olly. For starters, you’re going to be charged with concealing a death, so you’ll be locked up for tonight, until it’s decided tomorrow what’s to be done with you. We’ll notify your wife; maybe she can bring in some fish and chips for you!’

On Saturday morning, Richard Pryor was alone in Garth House, with Angela gone to Berkshire, Sian at home and even Moira having a day off to go shopping in Newport.

She had left him a ham salad for his lunch in the old Kelvin refrigerator and he ate this quite early, as he wanted to get off to his appointment at the vineyard, forty miles away.

Picking up the A48 at Chepstow, he drove on it through Newport and Cardiff to the small country town of Cowbridge, an old Roman station twelve miles west of the capital city. It was now the market town of the lush Vale of Glamorgan, which lay between the hills of north Glamorgan and the sea. Here he followed the instructions given to him by Louis Dumas, supplemented by one of his one-inch Ordnance Survey maps. Richard loved maps and atlases, being happy to pore over them for hours as if he was reading a novel.