Dry Bones (12 page)

‘Rather a sad story.'

‘As I said, sir, it's a hard life.'

T
he Colonel walked on back to the house. From the gateway, he could see a black car parked by the front door alongside the Riley and, as he approached, Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers and his keen young sergeant emerged.

‘I was hoping you'd turn up soon, sir.'

‘Mrs Heathcote's away in London, Inspector.'

‘Yes, we know that.'

Was there anybody who didn't know?

He said, ‘What can I do for you?'

‘I've got some information that you can pass on to Mrs Heathcote when she gets back.'

‘You'd better come in to the house, then.'

Instead of negotiating the sofas, the Colonel went for the dining table chairs. Easier for all. They sat down.

‘What did you want me to tell Mrs Heathcote?'

Beating about the bush was not the inspector's style.

‘We've identified the skeleton as Gunilla Bjork.'

‘I thought it might be.'

‘She came from Uppsala, as Mrs Turner informed us. It wasn't too difficult to find out more about her through the Swedish police. They're very efficient.'

‘I'm sure they are. What exactly did you find out?'

‘She was born and brought up in comfortable circumstances, but her father died when she was eleven years old. Her mother remarried and, according to her, Gunilla never got on with her stepfather from day one. There were endless rows over her behaviour as a teenager – wearing too much make-up, dressing tartily, staying out late, going with men. In the end, when she was eighteen, she walked out. Never said where she was going, or got in touch, just disappeared. They didn't report it to the police and it doesn't look like they made much of an effort to find her. The impression given was that they were glad to be rid of her. It didn't worry them that she had never even sent a postcard.'

He wasn't very surprised by the story. A girl like Gunilla was bound to have had a rocky background.

‘How was the identification made?'

‘Teeth. She'd gone to the same dentist in Uppsala since childhood and he'd kept all her records. She had very good teeth, with no cavities, but when she was twelve she fell off her bike and broke her two front teeth. The Swedish dentist confirmed that he'd capped them for her; dentists always know their own work. Identification was the easy part.'

‘And the hard part?'

‘Finding out who killed her, how, and why. The forensic people believe the blow to the skull was the cause of death but we don't know what instrument delivered it, except that, according to the experts, it wasn't made of metal.'

The Colonel thought of the flint stone he had picked up – the way it had fitted into his hand, its heavy weight, the lethal sharpness of its edge. The perfect tool for the job.

‘A chunk of flint would make a pretty good weapon. And there's plenty of it lying around, including in the barn.'

‘It's possible but it doesn't help us. The killer would have taken the stone away. Probably thrown it in the nearest pond or stream where it would be washed clean and look no different from the rest.'

‘Man, or a woman?'

‘Could have been either. Anger lends strength, Colonel. You'd be amazed how much. Given Gunilla Bjork's record of behaviour, it could have been either a very angry man, or an even angrier woman. The blow was administered to the back of the skull, from behind, so it would have been unexpected. No chance for her to defend herself, or put up a fight.'

‘Do you know if she was killed in the barn? Or somewhere else?'

‘It's impossible to say for certain. There are no tracks or traces after so long. My money's on the barn, though. No killer with any sense would want to risk being seen dragging a dead body around in the open. I think she was killed in there.'

The Colonel said, ‘The Heathcotes' gardener used to work for the Holland family who owned the farm before them. As it happens, he remembers Gunilla Bjork rather well. He told me that the grandson, Ben Holland, was infatuated with her and she used to meet him in the barn. He thinks they went up to the hayloft. Apparently, there's still some hay there.'

‘Yes, there is. Ideal for a roll. But the grandson was killed in a tractor accident before the Swedish girl went missing – which rules him out.'

‘The gardener also said that she went there quite often on her own,
after
the grandson was killed. He'd see her walking through the orchard, eating apples and heading that way, and he knows she went up into the hayloft. Once, when he went into the barn she threw an apple core down and it hit him on the head. He said she was leaning over the edge of the hayloft with her blond hair hanging down, laughing at him. Apparently, she was playing at being Rapunzel – so she told him.'

‘Rapunzel?'

‘The girl in the fairy tale with the very long hair.'

‘I can't say I've ever read any fairy tales, Colonel, though I've had plenty told to me. But from what we've learned about Gunilla Bjork from her mother, she was play-acting all the time. What is Mrs Heathcote's gardener's name?'

‘She calls him Old Matt. I don't know his surname.'

‘Make a note, Collins. We'll need to speak to him.'

The sergeant whipped out his biro and notebook and made the note.

The Colonel said, ‘She could have gone on meeting other men there, don't you think, after the grandson had died? As you say, it was an ideal place.'

‘I bet she did.'

‘And she could have been killed up in the hayloft by one of them?'

‘I don't think she was killed in the hayloft, Colonel. If she was, why not leave her up there, hidden under the hay? The barn wasn't being used any more. No need to go to all the trouble of hauling her down and burying her. I think someone was waiting for her when she paid it one of her little visits. Then whoever it was popped her under the earth out of sight.'

There was a pause. The sergeant was still busily making notes, whatever they were about.

The Colonel said, ‘Has her suitcase been found?'

‘Not much hope of that. It could have been dumped anywhere and rotted away by now. All we know is that when the landlord sacked her she left the Golden Pheasant and took all her belongings with her, including her case.'

‘According to Mrs Turner.'

‘As you say, Colonel, according to Mrs Turner. We've tracked down Mrs Barton, the landlord's wife, to an address in Poole and we'll be finding out what she can add to the picture.'

‘So what next, Inspector?'

‘We keep on looking for the murderer.'

‘In the village?'

‘Well, it's very possible that he, or she, lives in King's Mowbray. But the chance of establishing guilt and proving it, is remote.'

‘Oh?'

‘If a murder isn't solved within a few days of the crime, it may well never be solved. The trail grows cold very quickly, Colonel. And we're talking about four and a half years ago.' The chief inspector got to his feet. ‘But we'll do our best.'

It would be a half-hearted investigation, the Colonel realized. Going through the motions. Another round of routine questioning, some more raking over the barn. By his own admission, after more than thirty years in the force, Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers no longer had the energy or patience for difficult cases. He liked the open-and-shut ones. Not riddles.

He said, ‘How much longer before you retire, Inspector?'

‘Eight months. I'm counting the days.'

The Colonel smiled. ‘I wouldn't be in too much of a rush. In my experience, retirement can be rather a let-down.'

‘Not in my case. I've got it all worked out.'

‘What are you planning to do?'

‘To grow irises, Colonel. Full time. I've been doing that for years in whatever spare time I have, which isn't much in this job.'

‘Irises? That's interesting.'

‘They're my only passion. My wife left me fifteen years ago and I haven't replaced her. Did you know they were named after Iris, the Greek goddess of the rainbow?'

‘I'm afraid I didn't. They're beautiful flowers. I have some in my own garden.'

‘Which kind?'

He said ruefully, ‘I've forgotten the name. I planted them at the edge of my pond. My neighbour, who knows about these things, said they'd like the damp. They're in flower now.'

‘Might be
pseudacorus
. . .
tall, beardless, with branched stems and golden-yellow flowers?'

‘That sounds about right.'

‘There are hundreds of different kinds, you know. Different colours, different markings, different heights . . . all glorious. There isn't another flower to touch them, in my opinion. The Xiphium and dwarf Reticulata
are the easiest to grow. Me, I go for Juno, Oncocyclus and Regelia. They're the hardest, but the most beautiful.'

It was an incongruous pairing – delicate, exquisite blooms with a burly, stubby-fingered policeman, but the inspector's zeal and the expertise were obvious. The Colonel could see Chief Inspector Rodgers winning prizes at the best horticultural shows, perhaps even at Chelsea? What he could not see was the murder of Gunilla Bjork ever being solved.

Cornelia came back from London two days later. The Colonel met her at the station, off the evening train. She was weighed down with expensive-looking carrier bags and he took them from her.

‘I picked up a few things while I was there,' she said. ‘And I popped into Fortnum's to stock up on some essentials.'

The essentials he saw at a glance were anything but essential: jars and pots and tins of the sort of gourmet delights that would probably lie unopened in the larder for months, or even years.

As they drove back, he told her about the police visit and the news that the skeleton belonged to Gunilla Bjork.

She said in a strained voice, ‘Oh God . . . I suppose that means they'll be hanging around for ever, making a perfect nuisance of themselves.'

‘Well, I'm afraid they'll be asking more questions, seeing if they can find any leads.'

‘Leads? What leads could there possibly be? It happened years ago.'

‘They have to do their job.'

‘Wasting time over some foreign slut who deserved what she got?'

He said quietly, ‘Murder is murder, Cornelia, whoever the victim.'

She shrugged. ‘Sorry. Anyway, I telephoned Howard from London and he's still insisting that we sell the house at once. I'll have to ring up the agents and get someone round. I won't mention the skeleton.'

‘I think you'll find they already know about it.'

‘Well, they don't need to
say
anything, do they? Estate agents always leave out things they don't want buyers to know about.'

He smiled, remembering the blurb on Pond Cottage – the liberal use of the word ‘potential' and the failure to mention small drawbacks like death-watch beetle, rising damp, a falling roof, dangerous wiring, barely-existent plumbing and decay throughout. It would be child's play to a good estate agent to get round the problem. They might even use it as a feature?
Historic barn incorporating fascinating relic from the past.

He said, ‘Did you have any luck with the Swiss couple?'

‘They seemed all right. Rather dull, but then the Swiss always are, aren't they?'

Cornelia obviously kept her nationalities in watertight compartments. The Swedish were all blond and blue-eyed, the Swiss all dull. Doubtless her Italians were all excitable ice-cream sellers, her Scots all red-headed skinflints, her French all romantic lovers, and her Irish all drunks.

‘How soon could they start?'

‘The week after next. We'll have to cope somehow until then, Hugh. You don't mind, do you?'

In the kitchen, he took the Fortnum's essentials out of their classy carrier bag. Stuffed pimentos, chargrilled aubergines, wild asparagus tips, roasted artichoke hearts, sun-kissed tomatoes, baby squid, kalamata olives, king crabs' legs, dried porcini mushrooms, terrine of venison, a large tin of foie gras and a pot of Gentlemen's Relish. He put them away in the cupboard. For supper, he fried some outsize scallops that he had hunted down in the freezer and boiled the new potatoes that Old Matt had dug up in the vegetable garden. A fresh young lettuce, also grown by the gardener, provided a salad; all he had to do was make the dressing, which he'd memorized from Naomi. For pudding, he produced the éclairs. Cornelia was delighted.

‘What a treat! I simply love them. How did you know I liked the coffee ones.'

‘Alice told me. She happened to be serving at the counter and I had a bit of a chat with her.'

‘Oh? She's not usually very forthcoming. Tends to stay out of sight, behind the scenes.'

‘We talked about Gunilla Bjork, as a matter of fact.'

‘Not that wretched girl, again! Sorry, Hugh, but do you mind not mentioning her. I'm so sick of the subject.'

‘I'm sure you must be. But I was curious to know what Alice thought of her. She was actually very forthcoming. She told me that for all the male admirers, there was nothing admirable about the Swedish girl. That she had no morals, no conscience, no scruples and no shame.' He smiled drily. ‘Clearly, she'd loathed her and I wondered if there was a particular reason. Ester Simmons enlightened me later on, when I was passing by her cottage. Apparently, Vera was very smitten by Gunilla. Alice was jealous.'

‘Gracious, you
have
been busy, Hugh!'

‘As I said, I was curious.'

‘Well, I can't tell you anything more, if that's what you're hoping. As far as I know, Vera and Alice have always been devoted to each other. They're like an old married couple.'

‘Even old married couples sometimes stray.'

Cornelia jabbed at an éclair and cream spurted on to her plate.