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  Paget eyed the distance from the parapet to the ground. ‘Must be at least fifty feet,’ he said. ‘You’re suggesting that whoever pushed him over came down and dragged him off the tracks?’

  ‘Well, I could be wrong, but it looks to me like his neck’s broken, and if that’s the case, I don’t think he could have made it off the tracks by himself.’

  The photographer got to his feet and nodded to indicate that he was finished for the moment. He’d be back again to take more pictures once the doctor arrived.

  The two detectives moved closer, and for the first time Paget got a good look at the body. He felt his stomach begin to tighten up, and he had to clamp his lips together and take several deep breaths before he could trust himself to lean closer. He’d never actually been sick when viewing a body, but he had come close on more than one occasion.

  The man lay on his side, hands behind his back, wrists bound with self-locking plastic cable ties that had cut deeply into the flesh. A strip of duct tape covered his mouth, and the head lay at an awkward angle, suggesting, as Tregalles had said, that the neck was broken.

  The top of the head and the face were caked in blood, and there was more blood on the hooded jacket. But in the middle of the man’s forehead was a square white medical dressing held firmly in place with another strip of duct tape.

  ‘Weird, isn’t it?’ Tregalles said, anticipating Paget’s question. ‘I was tempted to lift it to see what’s underneath, but thought I’d better wait until the doc gets here. Apart from that, it looks like a gang killing to me. Tape over the mouth, plastic handcuffs.’

  ‘But why bring him all the way out here? And why drop him on the tracks, then move him off, if that’s what actually happened? Is the constable who was first on the scene still here?’

  ‘Whitelaw? Yes, he is.’ Tregalles pointed to a uniformed constable standing halfway up the opposite bank. He caught the man’s attention and waved him over.

  ‘I’m told you know the victim,’ said Paget as Whitelaw approached. ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Used to know him better when we were kids,’ the man said. ‘I see him around town now and again, but I can’t remember the last time we spoke.’

  ‘Do you know any of his friends?’

  ‘No, although I doubt he had many. Billy was always a bit of a loner. Lives with his dad above the shop; at least he did, and probably still does. His mum died when he was a kid.’

  ‘Billy . . .?’

  Whitelaw smiled. ‘Nobody ever called him Bill or William,’ he said. ‘It was always Billy. I think it was because he was so short and scrawny as a kid.’

  ‘I see. Tell me, what did you make of it when you first saw him?’

  Whitelaw took off his cap and scratched his head. ‘Tell you the truth, sir, I didn’t know what to make of it. Never seen anything like it before.’

  ‘Was he ever in a gang? Anything of that sort?’

  ‘Billy? In a gang? Like drugs, you mean?’ The constable dismissed the idea with a shake of the head. ‘Can’t see it myself, sir. Not Billy. Too timid for one thing, and, like I said, he was a loner. He wouldn’t last five minutes in a gang.’ He frowned as he looked at the body. ‘You think this is a gang killing, sir?’

  ‘It’s one possibility.’

  Whitelaw made a face that clearly said he disagreed. ‘Unless it was a case of mistaken identity?’ he ventured. ‘Could be they got the wrong bloke.’

  Tregalles looked thoughtful. ‘He was a photographer,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps he took a picture of something he shouldn’t. On the other hand—’

  ‘On the other hand, speculation isn’t going to get us anywhere,’ Paget broke in, ‘so let’s see what the doctor can tell us.’ He nodded in the direction of a grey-haired man clambering down the bank. He was followed by a uniformed constable carrying the doctor’s heavy medical case.

  ‘Morning, Reg,’ Paget greeted Reginald Starkie as he slid the last couple of feet down the slope, almost losing his balance in the process. ‘I hope you appreciate the fact that we didn’t call you in the middle of the night this time?’

  ‘Could have picked a better location, though,’ the doctor growled. ‘Got grass stains on my trousers, and stains like that never come out, so don’t be surprised if it’s included in the bill.’

  ‘Not my call any more,’ Paget told him. ‘You’ll have to take that up with Superintendent Pierce.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I heard.’ Starkie’s voice softened. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said brusquely. ‘I thought that job was yours. Is she here?’

  ‘Comes in on Monday.’

  ‘And I doubt if she’ll be best pleased to have this on her plate on her first day,’ Tregalles observed. ‘Still, if she’s going to get her feet wet, she might as well go in the deep end.’ He sounded almost cheerful at the prospect. He, too, had hoped that Paget would get the job.

  Starkie grunted. ‘So let’s see what she does have on her plate,’ he said. He turned to the constable still holding the medical case. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man,’ he said testily. ‘Set the damned thing down and get that sheet out of the way.’

  With gloves on and sheet stripped away, Starkie bent to the task of examining the body while the three men moved back to watch and wait in silence. ‘Don’t expect too much,’ he warned over his shoulder after a cursory examination. ‘He’s cold and wet from the rain in the night, which doesn’t help. Now, I need help to turn him over. You’ll do,’ he said, focusing on Whitelaw. ‘Here, take this pad to protect his face, then take his head and shoulders and ease him over when I tell you to.’

  A few minutes later, the doctor rose to his feet and stripped off his gloves. ‘Considering the conditions out here,’ he said, ‘the best I can do regarding time of death is sometime between midnight and three o’clock this morning. I may be able to narrow that down later, but I’m making no promises. As for his injuries, he suffered severe trauma to the head, skull fractures in several places, broken neck, and what looks like rope burns around the neck. Possible broken shoulder, and there’s bound to be some internal damage. The grazing and bruising on the upper body could have come from being shoved over the parapet, and I think he might have been alive when he went over. Killed on impact. But that’s not the only thing. Take a look at this.’ Starkie bent down and peeled back the tape and dressing on the forehead. Paget and Tregalles bent closer, with Whitelaw peering over their shoulders.

  Starting just below the hairline and ending above the eyebrows, the letter A had been carved in the forehead of Billy Travis. The cuts were deep and were meant to be seen. Starkie lowered the sheet. ‘And that was done while the man was still alive,’ he said quietly.

  Behind them, PC Whitelaw turned away and vomited into the grass.

  ‘That mark on his forehead is one piece of information I don’t want made public,’ said Paget as he and Tregalles climbed the bank to the road. He brushed himself off, then led the way to the middle of the bridge. ‘Find anything?’ he asked one of the men in white.

  ‘Bits of fibre and what may be blood on the stones where he went over,’ the man said. ‘And there’s a partial footprint in the soft earth at the base of the parapet, but it could be anyone’s. The road surface is too hard to hold tyre tracks, but chances are whoever brought the victim here parked off road, so we’ll be looking for impressions on both sides of the road leading to the bridge.’

  Paget thanked the man, then turned to Tregalles. ‘Len Ormside won’t be back from leave until Monday,’ he said, ‘so I want you to go back to Charter Lane and start setting up the incident room. This place is so isolated I don’t think there’s much point in setting up a mobile unit out here, so we’ll work from town. And since it’s the weekend, just bring in a skeleton crew to get things started, then alert the rest and tell them to be ready to come if we need them before Monday.’ He paused to look around at what was mostly open country, and grimaced. ‘Not a house in sight,’ he said, ‘but there must be at least half a dozen farmhous
es between here and the main road, so I want them checked out. Someone may have seen or heard something. Meanwhile, I’d better go and break the news to his father, and since there may be leads to follow up after talking to him, give DS Forsythe a call and tell her to meet me at the shop.’

  THREE

  Bucknell Street was in one of the oldest parts of town. It was a narrow street of terraced houses, beginning at King George Way and ending at Church Lane, where half a dozen houses had been converted into shops. G. Travis & Son, Photographers – Weddings – Portraits – Passports, was the third shop from the corner, and DS Molly Forsythe was waiting for him by her car when Paget arrived. This was not what she’d been planning for the weekend, and to make matters worse, she had just begun to wash her hair when Tregalles rang. Her hair was short, but even so a bare five minutes with the hairdryer was not enough, and it still felt damp and stringy against her scalp.

  ‘Tregalles fill you in, did he?’ Paget enquired as she joined him.

  ‘He did, sir. Sounded pretty gruesome. Is it true that the victim had the letter A carved in his forehead?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ Paget told her as he led the way across the pavement to the door of the shop, ‘but keep that bit of information to yourself. I’ve given instructions that it’s not to be released.’

  The shop window was small, the glass needed a good cleaning, the paint on the sill and surrounding woodwork was peeling, and the pictures on display looked as if they had been there for a long time. The sign on the door said Open.

  The shop was empty, but a buzzer sounded somewhere in the back, so Paget went to the counter and waited. There were pictures on the walls: weddings, portraits of children, dramatic head-and-shoulders close-ups, but while they were very well done, Paget had the feeling that they were from a distant age, and he couldn’t help wondering how a business such as this had managed to survive in the electronic age where almost every gadget could take pictures, and software made everyone an artist.

  A curtain behind the counter was swept aside and a grey-haired man appeared. His face was lined and he walked stiffly with the aid of two canes, but he greeted Paget and Molly with a smile and a cheerful ‘Good morning, and what can I do for you today?’ He perched himself on a stool and hung the two canes on the edge of the counter.

  Paget introduced himself and Molly, then held up his warrant card for inspection. ‘And you are Mr Travis, are you?’ he asked.

  The man frowned. ‘That’s right,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’m George Travis. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘And your son is William Travis?’ Paget wanted to be absolutely sure he was talking to the right man before telling him his son was dead.

  The look on Travis’s face turned to one of concern. ‘Billy? Yes. Why, what’s happened? Is he hurt? Has he been in an accident?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s more serious than that, Mr Travis,’ Paget said quietly. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that your son Billy was killed earlier this morning.’

  Travis sucked in his breath. ‘Killed . . .?’ he whispered. ‘How? . . . Where? . . . What happened? You sure it’s Billy?’

  Paget took out Billy Travis’s driving licence and handed it to his father. George Travis took it, hands shaking as he stared at it. ‘Car, was it?’ he asked numbly. ‘Where is he?’

  Choosing his words carefully, Paget began to explain what had happened, but when he mentioned the Lessington Cut, George Travis shook his head violently and said, ‘No! That’s not right. That can’t be Billy. What would he be doing out there at the Cut? You’ve got it wrong.’ He thrust the driving licence back into Paget’s hand. ‘Someone else got hold of his licence. They must have. It’s not Billy. He went to the society meeting last night, so how could he get out there?’

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that,’ Paget told him, ‘but one of our constables has known Billy since he was a boy, and he identified him as well. I’m truly sorry, Mr Travis, but it is your son who was killed, and while I know this is the worst possible time, I need to ask you some questions.’

  George Travis started to shake. The tremors became so violent that Paget came around the counter to steady him. No sound escaped the man’s lips, but he clung to Paget for support, and his fingers dug so deeply into Paget’s shoulder that the marks were visible for days afterwards.

  They stood like that for several minutes before the shaking stopped and Travis drew a deep if shaky breath. ‘I’m all right,’ he said in a firmer voice. ‘Really, Chief Inspector, I’m all right. You said you wanted to ask me some questions, so you’d better come through to the back.’

  He rose to his feet and grasped the two canes to steady himself, then lifted one of them to point it at the shop door. ‘Better put up the closed sign and lock the door,’ he told Molly. ‘Last thing we need right now is a customer coming in.’ He twitched the curtain aside and led the way into the back room. ‘Coffee’s been on for a while now, so it might be a bit strong, but you’re welcome to some if you like. I know I need it, and the stronger the better.’ In control of himself now, there was a grim determination about the man as he led the way past the framing tables to a small room beyond.

  ‘I went to bed about ten,’ he said as he busied himself with the coffee, ‘so I didn’t know Billy hadn’t come home until I got up this morning. I thought there must have been a change of plan, and he’d stayed over at Trudy’s after all. Trudy Mason is his girlfriend,’ he explained. ‘She lives around the corner. Gordon, her husband, is on the road a lot, and Billy stops there overnight when he’s away.’

  Paget and Molly Forsythe exchanged glances, both wondering if they had heard correctly. ‘A change of plan, Mr Travis . . .?’ said Paget.

  Travis nodded. ‘Billy told me Gordon was going to be home this weekend, so he wouldn’t be going round, but when I saw he hadn’t slept in his bed, I thought things must have changed.’

  ‘I see,’ said Paget, although he wasn’t sure he did see. ‘How long has this arrangement been going on?’

  Travis thought. ‘Two, maybe three years now.’

  ‘Does Trudy’s husband know about this?’

  ‘Christ, no! And I’ve warned Billy there could be trouble if he finds out, but he doesn’t listen. He won’t be told—’ The words caught in his throat as he realized what he was saying. He sat down heavily and set his coffee aside. ‘Do you reckon it was him? Gordon? Came home and found them together?’

  It was a possibility. A jealous husband coming home unexpectedly to find his wife in bed with another man. It had certainly happened before. But Paget still held the image of Billy Travis’s broken body in his mind’s eye, and he couldn’t see a jealous husband going to those lengths no matter how enraged he might be. ‘We don’t know, Mr Travis,’ said Paget, ‘but we’ll be doing everything in our power to find out who did this. You said Billy went to a society meeting last night? What society was that?’

  ‘Photographic society,’ Travis said. ‘Well, they call it that, but it’s really just a bunch of people who like to get together at Ted Grayson’s house on Thurston Street. Grayson used to be one of the top photographers around here. He’s retired now, but he still keeps his hand in.’

  ‘I’ll need his address. And that of Trudy Mason as well.’

  ‘I can tell you where Grayson lives,’ said Travis, ‘but I don’t think it would be a good idea to go round to Trudy’s, not if Gordon’s home. But I can get her to come round here if you like. Let me give her a bell.’ Before Paget could object, Travis took a phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

  ‘Don’t say anything about Billy’s death,’ Paget warned.

  Travis stared at him blankly for a moment, then swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Trude . . .?’ he said into the phone. ‘George. Are you alone?’ He listened for a few moments, then said, ‘Good, because I’ve got a bit of a problem and I need your help. Could you pop round here now? It’s important. Right. Good girl. See you in a few minutes then.’

  He put down
the phone and looked at Molly. ‘Better go to the door to let her in,’ he instructed. ‘She only lives round the corner, so she’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’

  Trudy Mason turned out to be something of a surprise. Paget had expected her to be about the same age as Billy, but this woman had to be in her middle forties if not older. Small, a bit on the plump side, she wasn’t beautiful or even what one might call good looking, but there was a vitality about her that Paget found compelling. It was her eyes, he decided. Dark, almost mischievous eyes, and the way her mouth crinkled at the corners when she smiled. But Trudy Mason wasn’t smiling now; her eyes were red with weeping. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said for perhaps the fifth time. ‘I mean, how could that happen to Billy?’

  ‘That is what we’re trying to find out,’ Paget told her, ‘so tell me, when was the last time you saw Billy?’

  ‘Thursday dinner time,’ she said promptly. ‘Saw him in the street and told him Gordon would be home for the weekend, so he’d know not to come.’

  ‘And your husband did come home?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When did he arrive?’

  Trudy thought. ‘Must have been about six or maybe a bit after,’ she said. ‘He’s a long-distance lorry driver and he was just back from Antwerp yesterday afternoon. He’ll be off again come Monday.’

  ‘He was with you all last evening?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you go out at all?’

  ‘We went round to Gordon’s mum’s for about an hour to pick up some chutney she’d made for him. I’m not all that fond of it myself, but he loves the stuff. Takes it with him on his trips.’

  ‘What time would that be?’

  ‘Eight, maybe a bit later. Can’t say exactly.’