Death Knocks Twice. Robert Thorogood

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      ‘Whatever vehicle was here, it left before the downpour at 11am,’ he said. ‘I can see that these raindrops fell onto the tyre tracks after they’d been made.’

      ‘Oh,’ Fidel said, disappointed.

      ‘However, you’re right, Fidel,’ Richard said. ‘It’s interesting, isn’t it? There’s a three-wheeled vehicle up here recently enough that the tyre tracks are still fresh in the dirt, it didn’t arrive or leave by the main entrance, and none of the family drive a three-wheeled vehicle, or know of one operating on the plantation.’

      Richard looked at the middle tyre print more closely, and saw a distinctive ‘cut’ in the mud that repeated every couple of feet or so. Whatever the vehicle was, the rubber of the middle wheel was damaged – which would possibly make identifying the vehicle that little bit easier.

      ‘As long as this remains an unexplained phenomenon, then I want you to get some plaster of Paris from the Crime Scene Kit, and make casts of these tyre prints. In particular, I’d like you to make sure you get a decent cast of this repeating mark on the front wheel.’ Here, Richard indicated the repeating ‘cut’ mark in the middle tyre’s print.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ Fidel said, thrilled that his lead was important enough to be taken seriously.

      ‘And while you’re doing that, Camille and I need to look at the murder scene again, because I think we’ve got a bit of a problem.’

      ‘We do, sir?’ Camille asked.

      ‘I think we do.’

      Back at the murder scene, Richard and Camille found Dwayne photographing the body.

      ‘Have you been able to identify the victim yet?’ Richard asked.

      ‘Not yet, Chief. Although I think he could be a Brit.’

      ‘You do?’

      ‘He’s got some loose change in his pockets, and plenty of it is UK currency.’

      ‘He’s got British coins in his pockets?’

      ‘He has, sir.’

      Dwayne handed over a small see-through evidence bag to his boss that was full of coins.

      ‘But I also found a receipt in his back pocket you might want to look at.’

      Dwayne handed over an evidence bag that contained a cheap till receipt with blue ink so faded that it was hard to read.

      ‘You need to turn it over,’ Dwayne suggested.

      Richard turned the evidence bag over and could see that on the other side of the receipt, someone had scribbled ‘11am’ in biro.

      ‘It says ‘11am’,’ Richard said. ‘He was killed just after 11am.’

      ‘Suggesting to me, Chief, that our victim was perhaps here for a pre-arranged meeting.’

      ‘Now that’s interesting,’ Richard said, and handed the evidence bag to Camille for her to inspect. ‘So this murder was possibly premeditated. Have we really got nothing beyond a few British coins to help us work out who this man was?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Chief. Although the victim’s got a pretty distinctive scar on the forefinger of his left hand.’

      Dwayne crouched down and turned the victim’s left hand over, indicating an old scar that ran along the victim’s forefinger. It was white, ridged, and a good two inches long.

      ‘I see,’ Richard said. ‘So, apart from a scar on his left hand, a few British coins, and a cryptic till receipt with “11am” written on it, we don’t know who the victim is?’

      ‘That’s about it, sir,’ Dwayne agreed.

      ‘So what’s the problem?’ Camille asked, reminding Richard of what he’d said only a few minutes earlier.

      ‘It’s this window,’ Richard said as he led Dwayne and Camille over to the little metal-framed window on the far wall of the room. ‘Or to be more precise, this window, the vent in the ceiling, and that door,’ he said, pointing at the ceiling and broken-in door in turn as he spoke.

      ‘Why’s that?’ Dwayne asked.

      ‘Tell me what you see,’ Richard said as he indicated the window.

      ‘Well, Chief,’ Dwayne said, buying himself time, ‘unless this is a trick question, it’s a window.’

      ‘You’re right, Dwayne. It’s a window. Camille?’

      Camille’s instincts were already telling her where Richard was going with this. So she got out a pair of evidence gloves, snapped them on, and started checking out the window frame. She could see that it was fixed solidly to the stone casement, and the glass was held in place with old putty that had crumbled in places but had clearly not been tampered with in any way. But she knew the real test would be the latch that kept the window locked shut, and she gently touched it with her fingers. It didn’t move. In fact, she could see that the window’s latch was jammed tightly into the window frame.

      What was more, Camille could see that the metal lever that allowed the window to open and close had an old butterfly screw on it that was tightly screwed down as well. Giving the butterfly screw a hard twist to the left, she unscrewed it enough that she could finally open the window. She then stuck her head outside. There was an undisturbed flower bed directly underneath the window with only a few weeds in, and the rest of the area behind the shower room was concreted over.

      She then closed the window again, reset the catch in the window frame and re-locked the butterfly screw on the lever.

      ‘Okay,’ she pronounced, ‘so the window was locked. And it can only be locked from the inside.’

      ‘Precisely,’ Richard said, pleased that Camille had also worked it out.

      Camille crossed to the centre of the room and looked up at the ceiling high above them.

      ‘And there’s no way in or out of this room through the roof. Not even with that vent built into the top.’

      ‘Agreed,’ Richard said. ‘It’s far too small.’

      Camille led over to the main door.

      ‘And this door is seriously old, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You couldn’t even begin to tamper with the hinges, or get around it or under it in any way.’

      ‘Quite so,’ Richard said.

      Camille inspected the thick iron bolt that ran across the back of the door. It was about three feet long, and was fixed very firmly inside a solid housing made of iron. And it was obvious that neither the bolt nor housing had been tampered with any more than the hinges of the door had been.

      So Camille turned her attention to the door frame. It was just as solid as the door, and the lock worked by sliding the iron bolt across so it slotted into a deep hole that had been drilled directly into the door frame. She could see that the СКАЧАТЬ