determination in Lambert’s tone kept Burgess from any further attempt at humour. ‘He’d eaten a meal of steak and kidney pie and two veg, followed by fruit salad and cream, approximately three hours before he died.’
‘He’d been in the pub for some time. Was he drunk when he died?’
‘No. A long way from it. He’d not had more than a pint of beer; maybe even a bit less than that.’
A meeting, then. And not just a convivial exchange about old times. Men like Charlie Pegg did not normally journey fifteen miles to spend hours over halves of bitter. Lambert said, ‘How many men involved? Do the injuries suggest more than one?’
Burgess brightened at the prospect of being drawn into the investigation. He was fascinated by the processes of detection, though like most laymen he thought the business of investigation much more glamorous than it usually was. But at least his interest meant that he was prepared to speculate, in the hope of helping. The worst pathologists from any CID man’s point of view were those who confined themselves stiffly to the statements they would deliver to a court.
He said now, It’s impossible to say how many people killed him, John, from what’s left in there. He wasn’t beaten up — as you know, the boots and shoes as well as the fists of assailants can tell a story when a man is knocked about. There are a couple of bruises to the head — I think inflicted by gloved hands. But the only real damage is from the knife wounds. The thrusts were repeated at short intervals, probably by the same person. But there were only four stab wounds, which suggests he stopped once he was certain that the wounds were fatal. There may have been two or three, perhaps even more men around him, but there’s no evidence to show that.’
‘Premeditated, rather than a row that went wrong.’
Burgess thought the words sounded like a statement rather than a question, but he responded nonetheless. ‘It looks like it, John. You’ve seen a lot more violence than I have: we only get the worst in here. But if there’s been an argument, I’d have expected to find other, more minor injuries, inflicted in the minutes before a quarrel escalated into a stabbing. Of course, with more and more people on hard drugs, one can never be certain.’
‘I think this was a professional job, by hired men.’ It was what he had thought from the first, but Lambert spoke the words reluctantly. It was the kind of killing that was most difficult to pin down, the kind anticipated by the sergeant at divisional headquarters to whom he had given such short shrift four hours earlier. He said to Burgess, volunteering him a little information in return for his attempts to help, ‘Charlie Pegg spoke to me at half past nine. He thought he had something for me.’
It was the first time he had used a name for those pieces of dead meat that lay in the next room. And he had virtually said that the man was a police snout. Burgess felt absurdly touched by the confidence. He said, ‘Everything about the wounds supports your view. A professional job. By professional cowards, of course. The victim appears to have been entirely defenceless.’
They were silent for a moment, trying to picture Pegg’s last moments of life. Had he pleaded with his attackers? Had he recognized them? Had they confronted him with his supposed offence before they dispatched him? How quick and how painful had been his death? Then Burgess said, ‘We’ve sent his clothes on to Forensic, of course. I doubt whether they’ll tell you very much. There is one thing, though.’ He paused, reluctant to revert to his earlier Grand Guignol details now that he was aware that Lambert had been acquainted with this victim.
‘Well?’
‘The blood must have spouted from the man’s chest. When his killer stabbed him on the second and third occasions, he must almost certainly have been splashed with substantial quantities of blood. The sleeves of whatever garment he was
‘He’d been in the pub for some time. Was he drunk when he died?’
‘No. A long way from it. He’d not had more than a pint of beer; maybe even a bit less than that.’
A meeting, then. And not just a convivial exchange about old times. Men like Charlie Pegg did not normally journey fifteen miles to spend hours over halves of bitter. Lambert said, ‘How many men involved? Do the injuries suggest more than one?’
Burgess brightened at the prospect of being drawn into the investigation. He was fascinated by the processes of detection, though like most laymen he thought the business of investigation much more glamorous than it usually was. But at least his interest meant that he was prepared to speculate, in the hope of helping. The worst pathologists from any CID man’s point of view were those who confined themselves stiffly to the statements they would deliver to a court.
He said now, It’s impossible to say how many people killed him, John, from what’s left in there. He wasn’t beaten up — as you know, the boots and shoes as well as the fists of assailants can tell a story when a man is knocked about. There are a couple of bruises to the head — I think inflicted by gloved hands. But the only real damage is from the knife wounds. The thrusts were repeated at short intervals, probably by the same person. But there were only four stab wounds, which suggests he stopped once he was certain that the wounds were fatal. There may have been two or three, perhaps even more men around him, but there’s no evidence to show that.’
‘Premeditated, rather than a row that went wrong.’
Burgess thought the words sounded like a statement rather than a question, but he responded nonetheless. ‘It looks like it, John. You’ve seen a lot more violence than I have: we only get the worst in here. But if there’s been an argument, I’d have expected to find other, more minor injuries, inflicted in the minutes before a quarrel escalated into a stabbing. Of course, with more and more people on hard drugs, one can never be certain.’
‘I think this was a professional job, by hired men.’ It was what he had thought from the first, but Lambert spoke the words reluctantly. It was the kind of killing that was most difficult to pin down, the kind anticipated by the sergeant at divisional headquarters to whom he had given such short shrift four hours earlier. He said to Burgess, volunteering him a little information in return for his attempts to help, ‘Charlie Pegg spoke to me at half past nine. He thought he had something for me.’
It was the first time he had used a name for those pieces of dead meat that lay in the next room. And he had virtually said that the man was a police snout. Burgess felt absurdly touched by the confidence. He said, ‘Everything about the wounds supports your view. A professional job. By professional cowards, of course. The victim appears to have been entirely defenceless.’
They were silent for a moment, trying to picture Pegg’s last moments of life. Had he pleaded with his attackers? Had he recognized them? Had they confronted him with his supposed offence before they dispatched him? How quick and how painful had been his death? Then Burgess said, ‘We’ve sent his clothes on to Forensic, of course. I doubt whether they’ll tell you very much. There is one thing, though.’ He paused, reluctant to revert to his earlier Grand Guignol details now that he was aware that Lambert had been acquainted with this victim.
‘Well?’
‘The blood must have spouted from the man’s chest. When his killer stabbed him on the second and third occasions, he must almost certainly have been splashed with substantial quantities of blood. The sleeves of whatever garment he was
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