A Fatal Affair Faith Martin (read dune .TXT) 📖

the alcohol, and woozy from the drugs, they did not in any way contribute to the cause of his death?’

The medical man nodded graciously. ‘That is so.’

‘Did you discover any other injuries to the deceased? Bruises, marks on his hands, anything that might have indicated a struggle?’

Again Dr Ryder’s question had everyone on the edge of their seats, particularly those members of the press who were hoping for something sensational.

‘No,’ Dr Vantham said firmly enough, but even so he hesitated slightly, and something in the way he elongated the word instantly caught Clement’s attention, as his friend must have known it would.

Alerted by this, Clement thought for a moment or two, gave a mental nod, and then asked calmly, ‘Was there anything at all that struck you as odd about that, Dr Vantham?’

Clement saw Giles shoot him a quick and appreciative look at the way that he’d just made it easier for him to convey all the facts that he wanted to – and his own interpretation of them – without having to struggle to do so.

‘Yes, in my experience, people who hang themselves nearly always panic at some point in the proceedings,’ he carried on smoothly and gratefully. ‘The survival instinct in a human being is a very strong one, and most people, when they find they can’t breathe, tend to panic and try and rectify the matter by clawing at the obstruction and trying to remove it. But there were no signs of fingernail scratching around the victim’s neck, or evidence of it underneath his fingernails.’

At this graphic – and horrific – image, a general shudder rippled around the room, and one or two women were heard to gasp audibly. An older man on the jury went a little pale.

‘I see. Was the deceased, apart from the injuries caused by his death, in good physical condition and general health?’ Clement swept the proceedings along briskly. In his experience, whenever a jury began to get the collywobbles it was best to give them something else to think of, and very smartly, too.

‘He was.’

‘And there were no signs of long-term alcohol or drug abuse visible? Nothing to suggest that the alcohol or barbiturate in his system was the norm?’

‘No, he was a fit and healthy young man of just twenty years of age,’ Giles Vantham confirmed grimly. Like Clement, he must have been used to seeing the young die – but it always felt wrong.

Sensing his colleague’s dour mood, Clement thanked him and dismissed him, but not first without giving him a questioning look, indicating that if there was something else he wanted to say, he was willing to hear it. But his old friend left the podium without further demur.

‘All right, I think it’s time we heard from the police now,’ Clement said briskly, but not before casting an eye at the clock. Seeing that it was still too early to call for a lunch break, he glanced around the room, catching a constable’s eye. ‘Who is here to speak for the constabulary?’

Trudy Loveday watched, very interested indeed, as the Sergeant at her station pushed his way to the podium.

‘And you are?’ Dr Ryder asked amiably, although he knew the man’s name perfectly well.

‘Sergeant Michael O’Grady, sir.’

Trudy’s Sergeant was a slightly chubby man, around five feet ten inches tall, with a big quiff of sandy-coloured hair and pale blue eyes. Although he was of Irish descent, he’d been born in Cowley and lived there for all his life.

Trudy knew that he’d married a woman from Birmingham, a WAAF who’d been stationed at the nearby RAF base at Upper Heyford during the war, and the couple had two children.

Although he’d always treated her reasonably well – and didn’t think she was a total waste of time, as their DI did – Trudy knew that he probably didn’t approve of her working with the coroner. In his view, lowly constables, especially those who had not long finished their probationary period, should be set to work at the lowest levels for at least three or four years, before being given any proper responsibility.

Thus she found herself instinctively shrinking back in her seat a little, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her in the public gallery – although DI Jennings must have informed him of the situation.

Nevertheless, she was as keen to hear what the police thinking was over the death of David Finch as everyone else in the room, and she had her pencil poised eagerly over the notebook.

‘Sergeant O’Grady, were you called to the scene at Mr Dewberry’s farm on the morning in question?’

‘Yes sir, I was.’ O’Grady reached for his notebook, and like the seasoned professional that he was, proceeded to give his account without any further prompting from the old vulture.

Clement, who was well aware of the unflattering nickname he’d been given by the police, and who knew he was not the Sergeant’s favourite person, chose not to take umbrage, but rather to simply let him get on with it. Besides, he knew the man to be a competent officer and he was interested to hear his opinion of things.

‘Having been notified via a telephone call from the village constable of a suspicious death at Dewberry Farm in Middle Fenton, I and two police constables proceeded to the village, where I was directed to the farm by a local resident walking his dog. I found the owner of the farm, Mr Raymond Dewberry, at his residence and in a state of some distress. I took a brief statement from him, then proceeded to the barn in question, where I found the site being guarded by the constable. I then set about cutting the deceased down.’

‘Just one moment,’ Clement couldn’t resist interrupting. ‘How exactly did you set about doing this?’

Sergeant O’Grady lifted his head from his notebook and patiently looked across at the coroner. ‘Before setting off, I requisitioned from the station a sharp knife and also a tall stout stepladder, which we attached to the roof of the police van,