Peter Lovesey - Skeleton Hill

The Victorian cemetery in the shadow of Beckford’s Tower would have made an ideal location for a Gothic horror movie. Weathered obelisks, tablets and carved figures showed above a waist-high crop of grass, ferns, brambles, nettles and cow parsley. Any smaller, more humble headstones were lost to view, but the grander monuments on plinths still vouched for the eminence of the interred, even if the lettering was unreadable. The Preservation Trust maintained the site and justified the abundant growth as a wildlife sanctuary. Only the main pathways had been kept mown and a cluster of policemen and crime scene investigators could be seen standing along one of them beside a trampled section marked with police tape hung from stone angels and granite crosses. The main point of interest, a clothed body, lay face down in the narrow space between two graves.

Diamond, with Keith Halliwell in support, found a familiar character directing operations.

Duckett, the crime scene man, looked up and said, ‘You again?’ making his disfavour clear.

‘I was about to say the same thing but the cadaver interests me more,’ Diamond said. ‘Head wound, then.’

‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’

It was rather obvious. A gash at the back of the victim’s head revealed a strip of dented skull between encrustments of blood – as ugly a wound as Diamond had seen in some time. ‘Has the pathologist been by?’

‘And gone.’ Duckett flapped his hand at the flies that were gathering. ‘You’re late on the scene, superintendent.’

‘Did he have anything helpful to say?’

‘Only the obvious.’

‘How recent was the death?’

‘Some hours. You know what pathologists are like.’

‘Just a head wound. Nothing more?’

‘He wouldn’t be drawn.’

Diamond leaned over the body looking for other signs of injury.

Duckett spoke again. ‘I can tell you what happened if you like. See the empty beer can over there?’ He pointed to a dented Foster’s can lying on the gravel topping of one of the graves. ‘He was stonkered, lost his footing and hit his head.’

‘How do you know all that?’

Pleased to be asked, Duckett beckoned with his finger and showed Diamond a small patch of dry blood on the raised edging of the adjacent grave. Some had trickled down the side. ‘In my job, you can’t afford to miss a thing.’

Diamond got on his knees for a close look. ‘So why is the wound at the back of the head?’

‘He fell backwards. Drunks often do.’

‘He’s face down.’

There was some hesitation.

‘You don’t see it, do you?’ Duckett said, beginning to bluster. ‘He falls backwards, bounces his head on the stone and is thrust sideways, ending up like this.’

‘I can’t picture it.’

‘Okay, he may have rolled over before he passed out.’

‘I doubt it,’ Diamond said.

‘You know better, do you?’

‘It’s a vicious-looking injury for a simple fall.’

‘That granite edge is really sharp. Feel it.’

Diamond ran his fingers along the angle of the stone. Then he got up and stepped over to the next grave and inspected the beer can without touching it. ‘There’s rust on this.’

‘I don’t think so. Where?’

‘In the angle of the dent. It must have been slung away some time ago.’

‘Let’s see.’ The disbelief was obvious until Duckett had put his face within a few inches, and then he quickly modified his theory. ‘Well, he may not have drunk from this particular tin, but there’s no denying that he hit his head.’

Deliberately, Diamond crooked his finger just as Duckett had.

‘Come and look at this drop of blood you found on the stone.’

‘What’s up now? Are you saying the blood isn’t his?’

‘What’s up now? Are you saying ‘Come on. A close look.’

Some of the other crime scene investigators were getting interested. With an impatient sigh that played to their support, their leader crouched by the grave’s edge.

Diamond said, ‘What do you make of this?’

A small green blade of grass had adhered to the bloodstain.

Duckett looked and said, ‘Well?’ It was difficult to tell if he’d missed the significance or was playing cool.

Diamond spelt it out. ‘If he cut his head on the stone I might expect to find a hair, not a piece of grass.’

‘The main paths are mown at least once a week. Of course there are clippings about.’

Yes, but how did this one get where it is?’

‘The wind, I suppose.’

Diamond glanced around the cemetery. Not a leaf was moving. ‘Show me, then.’ Duckett tried to sound unimpressed, but his confidence had taken a knock.

‘Blood trickled from the head wound onto the grass. Do you see?’ Diamond pointed to a dark brown patch about the size of a beer mat beside the victim’s head. ‘This looks like an attempt to cover up a crime. He was attacked from behind, fell face down and bled heavily. His assailant dipped the weapon in some fresh blood from the grass and let it drip on the edge of the grave to fake an accident.’

‘That’s far-fetched, isn’t it?’

‘It seems to have fooled you.’

‘You’re suggesting he was attacked? Why would anyone bother to kill a tramp?’

‘I can think of several reasons and I’m sure other people would come up with more.’

‘A blow from behind, you say? What with?’

‘Call it a blunt instrument.’

‘That old cliché?’

‘You’d better make a search for that old cliché.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘In your job you can’t afford to miss a thing.’

Duckett made a performance of turning his head, surveying the sea of weeds in every direction. The place would be a nightmare to search. Apart from the few paths, there wasn’t a yard of clear space in the cemetery.

‘It’s got to be done,’ Diamond said.

‘I’d need an army for a job like that.’

‘If it’s manpower you want, I can send for more bobbies.’

‘I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s going to take days, even with lots of help.’

‘Better start soon, then. Your scene, my friend.’ Diamond turned to Halliwell. ‘See if you can raise some help, Keith.’

Halliwell. ‘See if you can raise Halliwell used his mobile.

‘Who found the body?’ Diamond asked Duckett.

‘The man who mows the paths. At about eight this morning. Nasty shock. By the look of him he’ll need the rest of the week off, poor blighter.’

‘And months of counselling,’ Diamond said.

This earned a grudging smile.

Diamond looked at what the corpse was wearing, noting the torn jeans and mud-spattered hooded jacket. ‘Any idea who he is?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been through his pockets?’

‘We’re not total amateurs.’

‘What did you find, then?’

‘Sod all. He’s a vagrant. Get the smell.’

‘They usually carry stuff.’

‘There’s your motive, then. Someone wanted his stash of valuables.’

It was true that the clothes had the smell of the unwashed, but the victim’s skin didn’t show the deep layer of grime Diamond would have expected. The pores weren’t defined by the dirt from years of rough living. He tried ignoring the smell as he stooped for a closer examination. He was starting to question another assumption. The hands were in a reasonable state. The hair was greasy, but had been cut by a professional at some time.

‘Okay if I lift the head? I’d like a sight of the face.’

‘I suppose.’

Taking care to avoid the area of the wound, Diamond grasped some of the brown hair above the forehead. Although this didn’t give him the front view, he could tell a few things from this angle. Some weeks’ growth of beard. The nose had bled, but otherwise the features were undamaged. A man of forty or so, he estimated. ‘Can someone get a photo?’