The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries Part 63

The forensic pathologist was rather like a rubber ball on legs, a bouncy little man of fifty, with receding hair and a toothbrush moustache. He affected a yellow waistcoat and a drooping bow tie and was always in a hurry, inevitably having to be somewhere else before he even arrived.

Grabbing a mug of tea, he went straight into a discussion with Archie Carlton.

"Didn't find a thing, eh?" he gabbled. "All the stuff gone off for histology and toxicology?"

The hospital doctor nodded mournfully. "Asked for everything, even insulin. Blood, urine, bile, stomach contents, CSF, vitreous fluid, the lot."

"She was forty, I gather. No problem in her coronaries?"

"Clean as a whistle, could drive a bus down them. Normal sized heart, no pulmonary embolism, d.a.m.n all."

"She was bit cyanosed, you said on the phone?"

Carlton shrugged. "Just a bit blue round the lips by the time she got here. Nothing specific about that, no petechiae in the eyes or any other signs of asphyxia."

Porteous nodded briskly. "Don't believe in the signs of asphyxia myself. Lot of bulls.h.i.+t, used as an excuse by people who should know better."

Mordecai decided to add his pennyworth. "She was a heavy drinker, professor. Rarely sober!"

Porteous took a mouthful of tea. "Liver look all right?" he asked Carlton.

"Touch of fat, nothing out of the way," grunted the other pathologist.

"I've seen a few boozers throw a double-six with not much to show for it at post-mortem," commented the forensic man. "But it's a diagnosis of despair to suggest that." He put his mug down and looked at his watch.

"Right, let's get to it. I should have been in Swansea ten minutes ago."

Five days after the second autopsy, Lewis Lloyd was sitting in his hut on the mountain, wondering what was happening to the investigation.

Both w.i.l.l.y Williams and Mordecai Evans had been back twice, first with another SOCO team to turn the pub over once again and then to grill him once more. As there was nothing significant to be found or said, they went away with their tails between their legs, Mordecai again muttering empty threats.

Lewis sat in an old armchair, thinking over recent events. He blessed the foresight with which, soon after they were married, he had insured Rita for forty thousand pounds, being flush with his compensation money at the time. She had done her best to go through his windfall with her extravagance on clothes, drink and dubious "shopping trips" to Bristol and London, a thin cover for her numerous brief affairs. Now the money from the Prudential would come in very nicely to clear his debts and let him build a brand-new pigeon loft in the back-yard.

The thought of birds made him get up and scan the mountain-top for feathered friends, but the light was already failing. The autumn was well advanced and even at five in the afternoon, it was getting dusk. It was a poor time of year for bird-watchers and he decided to have a day off next Monday and drive up to Llangorse Lake to see what water-fowl were about. It was cold in the old hut and he contemplated lighting the stove for the first time since last Spring, but as he had to be back for opening time, it seemed hardly worth it, so he subsided into his chair again.

As he sat there wondering when they would release Rita's body for the funeral, another conference was going on in the CID office in Pontypridd.

The coroner, his officer, and an inspector in charge of the SOCOs were crowded into Mordecai's cluttered office, along with the DI and his sergeant.

"So what are we going to do about it, Mr Evans?" asked the coroner, with a cheery smile.

"We're stumped, that's what we are, sir," growled Mordecai. "Can't get a thing out of Lloyd, though my gut tells me the b.u.g.g.e.r did it!"

"All the investigations have turned out negative," put in w.i.l.l.y. "At least, unless you've got anything new?" He looked enquiringly at the SOCO.

Albert Whistler, a tall, grizzled man nearing retirement, shook his head.

"Sweet f.a.n.n.y Adams, I'm afraid. We went over that pub with a fine-tooth-comb, as well as that hut up on the mountain."

"Nothing at all?" queried David Mostyn, with a leer.

"She had no injuries, sir, so there would be no blood. We checked everywhere for poison containers or pills, but nothing but cough medicine and aspirin."

Jimmy Armstrong, the coroner's officer, waved a thin file of papers.

"We've had both post-mortem reports now, the one from Doctor Carlton and another from the Prof in Cardiff. No help at all."

The coroner nodded. "I read them before I came across here, they both agree that there was no anatomical cause of death whatsoever. Heart, brain, lungs-everything all normal."

"What about something like suffocation?" asked Mordecai, still grasping at straws.

"I spoke to Professor Porteous on the phone this morning," said Mostyn. "He was very helpful, but of no help, if you know what I mean. He said there are some forms of suffocation which can leave no signs at all, but that's just a negative finding, of no legal use whatsoever."

"What about that thing with a syringe-full of air that Dorothy L. Sayers got wrong in one of her books?" asked w.i.l.l.y, an avid reader of thrillers.

"The Professor mentioned that as well, actually," said the coroner cheerfully. "He said it would be impossible, there were no needle marks on the body and Dr Carlton had found no bubbles anywhere in the circulation."

The Detective-Inspector now glared at the Scenes-of-Crime Officer. 'Isn't there something that b.l.o.o.d.y forensic lab can do to help? What about all those samples that were sent up to them? It's already cost us a fortune to fast-track the tests."

Whistler hefted his own file of reports. "They've done all they can, Mordecai. All negative results, apart from a fair whack of alcohol. But not enough to kill her, especially as she was used to the juice."

"How high was it?" asked w.i.l.l.y Williams.

"A hundred and sixty-five milligrams per hundred mill," answered Whistler. "Over twice the legal limit for driving, but nothing like dangerous to life, according to the lab. Put her to sleep, most likely, but with a hardened drinker like Rita Lloyd, perhaps not even that."

There was a thoughtful silence. "And nothing else?" demanded Mordecai, eventually.

The SOCO shook his head again. "No drugs, no aspirin, no insulin, nothing."

"I asked Professor Porteous if he had any further suggestions," offered the coroner. "He mentioned a few things, but the lab had already excluded them. Another possibility was pota.s.sium chloride poisoning, but that can't be a.n.a.lysed after death, apparently, as it's a natural const.i.tuent of the body. And it has to be injected directly into a vein."

Mordecai Evans glowered. "Can't see Lewis Lloyd knowing about that stuff. And where the h.e.l.l would he get it from, anyway."

"And the body showed no injection marks at all," reminded Lewis Armstrong. "The second post-mortem was very thorough. The Prof looked particularly for any needle marks, even in the feet."

There was another bitter silence.

"So where are we?" asked the coroner, with a bland smile. "If you're not going to charge Lloyd, then I've got to get on with my inquest and draw a line under this matter."

Mordecai ground his teeth. "I hate to see the b.a.s.t.a.r.d getting away with it! I even had a word with the Crown Prosecutor, but he laughed down the phone at me. He said the CPS wouldn't touch it with a barge-pole, unless we came up with something definite."

The coroner rose to his feet and motioned with his head at his officer.

"Well, there's nothing more to be gained by sitting here, Inspector. Unless you can get a confession out of this man by tomorrow-or come up with some solid evidence, I'm going to have to complete the inquest. We can't keep the poor woman above ground for much longer."

When all the others had left his office, Mordecai Evans glowered at his sergeant.

"Confession be d.a.m.ned! That crafty b.u.g.g.e.r Lloyd wouldn't confess to giving short weight in a packet of his crisps!"

A week later, Lewis Lloyd attended the coroner's inquest, held in a vacant room in the Magistrate's Court. He wore a dark suit and a black tie as he sat avoiding the poisonous looks thrown across the court at him by Mordecai Evans. Apart from the police and a couple of bored young reporters from the local papers, the only other people present were three nosey old men, whiling away their retirement in the warmth of the court, as the weather had turned frosty outside.

As prophesied, the proceedings were short and unproductive. Doctor Carlton appeared in person to give his post-mortem findings, but the coroner had accepted the written report of the Home Office man, which contributed nothing more useful. With the Detective-Inspector glowering at every word, David Mostyn rattled through the evidence and rapidly summed up the negative findings. There was no jury and he wisely made no comments about any suspicious circ.u.mstances, as this was outside a coroner's jurisdiction. After asking Lloyd if he wanted to ask any questions, which Lewis mutely declined, Mostyn brought in a "open verdict", leaving the cause of death unascertained. Even the fact that he had refused a cremation certificate was not mentioned in open court, leaving the option open for an exhumation at a later date if any further evidence came to light, unlikely though that seemed.

As Lewis Lloyd walked out into the cold street, Mordecai "accidentally" stumbled against him, making the publican stagger.

"Think you're such a clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d, don't you, Lloyd! But I'll have you one of these days!" he snarled.

Ignoring the empty threat, Lewis drove back to Tonypandy just in time for lunchtime opening and a plea from Sharon.

"The lager's off, Mr Lloyd. Can you put another one on, please?"

He opened the trap in the floor behind the bar and went down the steps to the cellar, switching on the lights as he went. For a few minutes, he trundled aluminium kegs about and connected pipes with the ease born of long familiarity.

"All right, girl, try it now!" he called up the steps. When all was working again, he prepared to climb up to the bar, but took a moment with his hand on the light switch to look around the large cellar. Apart from the row of metal casks and cylinders with their complex piping connected to the bar above, there were racks and cases of bottles, boxes of crisps and peanuts and a collection of oddments which made part of the chamber look like a jumble sale.

As his eyes roved over the old wooden barrels, off-cuts of carpet, plastic bags, broken table lamps, discarded chairs, a dilapidated wardrobe and two bicycles, he grinned to himself. Those silly b.u.g.g.e.rs of policemen had searched this place several times and had seen and even handled the instruments of Rita's death without the faintest notion of recognizing them as such.

Satisfied that he was now safe for ever, he clicked the switch and went up to check that the lager was flowing properly.

Early that evening, he decided to celebrate by staying the night in his cabin high above the valley. Leaving Wayne to look after the bar, he climbed up Mafeking Street to reach the hut that used to shelter the men maintaining the cable hoist that once brought the black waste up from the colliery. It was almost dark when he unlocked the door. Inside, the cabin felt cold and damp and he s.h.i.+vered for the first time that autumn. Looking though the window to see if there were any birds about, there was just enough light to see as far as the old lime kiln, which had given him the idea in the first place.

As he crumpled up some newspaper and pushed it into his stove with a handful of firewood, he recalled reading about those kilns, which burned endlessly in the old days, turning lumps of limestone into quick-lime for farmers and builders. On winter nights, tramps used to sleep huddled near them for warmth and quite a few never woke up. The heavy carbon dioxide gas produced by the kilns used to settle over them and, though not poisonous in itself, displaced all the oxygen and peacefully extinguished their dismal lives.

Intrigued, Lewis had pursued his researches in the Reference Library and discovered that such deaths left no physical signs whatsoever, the explanation being derived only from the circ.u.mstances. He also read that not only lime-kilns, but wells dug deeply into chalk and even grain silos on farms could produce this fatal heavy vapour that killed so silently.

He put more wood and coal on the fire and lit a butane camping-lamp to give him enough light to read his latest bird-watching magazine, for there was no electricity in the hut. Sitting in the tattered but comfortable arm-chair, he leafed through the pages, with a can of Boddington's Bitter and a Cornish pasty for sustenance. As the room warmed up, Lewis became comfortably drowsy but, before falling asleep, he went over yet again in his mind, the details of the plot which had defeated the best brains of the police and the forensic experts.

That memorable night, Rita had been out for the evening, allegedly at a hen-party, but Lewis was well aware that she had gone out to a club in Merthyr with her latest chap, a used-car dealer from Aberdare. She had returned at one in the morning, reeling drunk and this had decided him that tonight was the night-or, rather, morning. After giving him some semi-coherent abuse, Rita tottered off to her bed and within minutes was flat on her back, snoring like a hog.

Lewis Lloyd had swung into action, going down to the cellar for his equipment. From the old wardrobe, he took four wire coat-hangers saved from the dry-cleaners and bent them at right-angles. He took them upstairs with a few black plastic rubbish bags and carefully constructed a kind of open-topped well around his wife's head. By sliding one end of each hanger under the pillow and the duvet, he erected four supports around which he arranged the plastic bags, securing them with sellotape.

At this stage, he checked that she was undisturbed, but as expected, Rita was out cold and, even if she had woken up, would have been too confused to know what was going on. Satisfied, he went downstairs again and humped up one of the gas cylinders that was used to pressurize the metal beer kegs. Propping it against the bedside cabinet, he used a length of spare tubing to fill his improvised gas chamber with carbon dioxide. He left the end of the tube inside, keeping a slow but steady flow to displace all the air from inside his little tent. Lewis was well aware that it would overflow, but the heavy gas would sink to the floor and was no danger to himself. He checked at intervals with a cigarette lighter to make sure that the chamber was full, the flame going out from lack of oxygen as soon as he dipped it below the top edge of the plastic bags.

"Worked like a dream!" he murmured, as he slumped in his armchair, then giggled as he wondered if Rita had had any last dreams that night. Her breathing changed after a few minutes from noisy snoring to a rasping hiss, and quickened in rate. Then it began to diminish, both in volume and speed, and after another five or six minutes appeared to cease altogether. By the light of his little flame, he could see that her face and lips had become faintly violet and he suspected that she was already dead. To be on the safe side, he left the gas running and went outside for half an hour, to avoid any possible effects upon himself. When he came back, he knew she had gone, but checked the absence of a pulse in her neck just to make sure.

Turning off the gas, he opened the window to dissipate any remaining vapour. Then he dismantled his apparatus and returned the cylinder to the cellar, where he reconnected it to the barrel of lager, ready for business when they opened. He straightened out the hangers and hung them back in the wardrobe, then filled the plastic bags with old papers and other rubbish and dumped them out in the yard, ready for the bin-men. His work done, he made one last check to make sure that Rita had not managed some kind of resurrection, then he went to bed himself and slept soundly with no twinge of guilt or conscience until it was time to "discover" her body.

Now with a sigh of satisfaction, Lewis sleepily finished his beer and putting aside his birdy magazine, slid further down in his chair for a doze and to think about a trip he had planned to Mid-Wales next month to look for red kites.

"Now we'll never b.l.o.o.d.y know what happened to his missus!" grumbled Mordecai Evans, as they left the coroner's court a week later.

"It certainly wasn't carbon monoxide poisoning, that's for sure!" said w.i.l.l.y Williams. "Did you see the colour of his skin in the mortuary? Now I know what they mean by 'being in the pink'!"

The Detective-Inspector ignored his sergeant's feeble attempt at witticism. "The SOCOs say the flue-pipe of that stove must have been blocked since last Spring. b.l.o.o.d.y ironic, really!"

w.i.l.l.y nodded sagely. "Lewis Lloyd would have appreciated that, if he'd known. A jackdaw's nest, of all things!"

"Serve the b.u.g.g.e.r right," grunted Mordecai.

Endnotes.

1. Afrikaans: "Good day."

2. Afrikaans: "Scram!"

3. Curved Boer pipe.

end.