Free Superstitious Death by Nicholas Rhea Page B

slammed down his handset.
    Smarting from Hart’s vitriol, Montague Pluke sought Detective Inspector Horsley, his colleague from headquarters CID and the man whose job it would be to administer the incident room. He would also allocate actions to the detectives when they assembled. Running an incident room was the equivalent of being in charge of the operational enquiries in a case of murder, hence the equal ranks.
    ‘Ah, Detective Inspector Horsley,’ beamed Montague. ‘Glad you could make it.’
    ‘Has Hart been on to you?’ was Horsley’s first question.
    ‘Just now,’ said Pluke. ‘A very rude man, if I may say so, very lacking in courtesy, a sad thing for a man at the height of his professional career.’
    ‘He’s under pressure from the Chief Constable. Budgets, the low detection rate, the increase in recorded crime… you name it, poor old Jack Hart’s got worries about it. So we are treating this as murder, Montague?’
    Montague Pluke never referred to other officers by their Christian names, especially in the presence of subordinates and particularly those with whom he was not on close friendly terms. He said, ‘There are sufficient very good reasons for this death to be investigated with all the vigour of a murder enquiry.’
    ‘Fair enough, it’s your decision, you are the operational detective in charge of this sub-division. So what are your plans?’
    ‘I understand you have called out thirty detectives? I shall address everyone in the incident room at six o’clock this evening. The most immediate and important task is to get the victim identified. Very soon, I should have the result of the pathologist’s examination, and we shall then know the cause of death. Our teams need to be thoroughly updated, so you will have the incident room fully operational by six o’clock?’
    ‘I will,’ said Horsley. ‘You seem to have made a good start – that’s if it is murder! If not, you’ll have to send them all home again.’
    ‘Monday is not a bad day to begin a new enterprise,’ Pluke told him in all seriousness, and then the telephone rang again. Pluke answered it.
    ‘It’s Meredith here from the pathology department.’

 
    Chapter Five
     
    ‘I was going to ring you,’ beamed Pluke. ‘So what is your news?’
    ‘A fascinating case, Mr Pluke,’ began Meredith. ‘First, the girl’s physical appearance, you’ll need this if you’re to get her identified. White skin, five feet six inches tall, that’s 165 centimetres; taller than average. Well built, thirty-six inch bust and hips, twenty-eight inch waist. Not slim by any means. Very good physical condition, no operation scars and every indication of being well cared for – nails in good condition, nicely manicured without any varnish, good natural teeth and hair all in first-class condition. The hair is thick and blonde, bobbed to just below the ears, not a fashionable or very expensive cut, Mr Pluke, not according to my secretary anyway. She has blue eyes, no spectacles or contact lenses. No ear-rings and her ears are not pierced. No lipstick or discernible perfume, no rings on her fingers – in fact no jewellery of any kind. Somewhat unexpectedly, she is a virgin, unusual for a woman of her age, if I may be so bold. There is no sign of any sexual attack, nor was she raped. That fact alone raises a question about the motive. Now to the injury, Mr Pluke. It is most peculiar. Some rigid object has penetrated her right temple and skull; it penetrated to a depth of at least three inches, even three and a quarter, that’s eight centimetres or so. Beyond doubt, that – and the associated shock – killed her. The object was removed before burial and I did not find it in the grave. Death would have been swift but not necessarily instantaneous – I would not place an estimate on how long it would have taken her to die, however. An hour might be too extreme – it could have taken mere minutes – but I think she would have been