The Nine Bright Shiners (5 page)

‘Yes?'

‘I can now inform you that the tree was in no way responsible for his death.'

‘He was already dead when it fell?'

‘That is my assumption, yes.' Pedantic bastard, thought Webb impatiently. Why doesn't he get to the point? ‘I also noted, when I was called to the scene, that there were no ditches or even puddles in the immediate vicinity.'

Webb frowned. ‘Puddles?'

‘Puddles,' repeated Stapleton, and allowed himself a brief, dramatic pause. ‘The cause of death, Chief Inspector, was drowning.'

Two hours later, Webb was back in his office with Sergeant Jackson. ‘Right, Ken, let's go over it again. According to papers found on the body, he appears to be Edward Langley, of Rylands, Cavendish Road, Broadminster.'

‘Edward Langley?' Bates looked up from his desk. ‘Not the explorer, Skip?'

Webb raised an eyebrow. ‘Explorer?'

‘Yes, he was on TV over Christmas. About to set off for Peru.'

‘Well, it looks as though he never got there,' Webb said heavily. ‘Anyway, by Christmas he was already under that tree.'

‘It could have been a recording,' Jackson offered. ‘Bound to be, when you think of it.'

‘Let's leave that for the moment. I want to recap on the clothes. Forget I saw them, Ken, and tell me how they struck you.'

‘If he's a well-known bloke, it's even stranger, isn't it, him being dressed like that?'

‘A description of his clothes, Ken.'

‘Old tweed jacket, shabby flannels, and a tatty jumper.'

‘Go on.'

‘That's it, Guv, isn't it? No vest, underpants, shoes or socks. It makes you cold, just thinking of it!'

‘He was past worrying about that. Go on about the jacket.'

‘Well, it had these sequins on the lapel.'

‘
Sequins
?' interrupted Bates, and, catching Webb's frown, subsided with a muttered apology. But Jackson was answering him.

‘That's right – green ones, sewn on with big stitches. And in the pocket was the wallet with fifty quid in it, and credit cards in the name of Edward Langley. Oh, and there was something else. His right arm was tightly bandaged, but there was no sign of an injury.'

Webb slammed his hand on his desk. ‘It doesn't make sense, Ken. Any of it. If he was a famous man, which ties in with the wallet, what the hell was he doing dressed like a tramp?'

‘Perhaps his own clothes were wet from the drowning, so the killer dressed him in these.'

‘Which he just happened to have by him? And why on earth bother? To stop him catching a chill?' Webb's voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Another point: most killers try to disguise their victim's identity, to give themselves a head start. They don't transfer his wallet from his own clothes to whatever they decide to dress him in, without even removing the money, at that. And what the
hell
is the meaning of those sequins? They belong on
Come Dancing
dresses, not a shabby sports jacket.' He sighed. ‘Well, we'll have to get on to the relatives, to identify him positively.' He looked across at Bates.

‘Fancy a trip to Broadminster, Stan?'

‘Yes, of course, Skip.'

‘Take Sally Pierce with you. I'll get on to DCI Horn as a matter of courtesy, but since he was found on our patch, I reckon he's our pigeon. Tact, understanding, and sympathy, that's all that's required. Don't for God's sake give them any details, whatever they ask.'

Bates said stiffly, ‘I've informed relatives before, Chief Inspector.'

‘Just reminding you. I want no hint of suspicious circumstances until they get here.' Webb glanced out of the window. ‘It's too dark to go out to the scene now, Ken, we'll have to wait till morning. In the meantime, we can make a start on the preliminary report.'

It had been quite a pleasant day. In the morning, Jan had bought the children some warm clothes in the January sales. They had lunched at a Wimpey Bar, then gone to the local pantomime,
Humpty Dumpty.
Consequently, she was later than usual preparing supper, and, tired herself now, was looking forward to a relaxing evening after the children were in bed. She had just taken the dish from the oven when the doorbell sounded through the house.

Jan frowned, glancing at the kitchen clock. It was seven-fifteen, an odd time for callers. Remembering Edward's comments on the rise of crime, she felt a quiver of apprehension. She and the children were, after all, alone in the house. At the front door she paused, calling ‘Who is it?'

‘Shillingham police, ma'am. CID.'

Was this the latest criminal ploy? ‘Can I see your identification?'

The flap of the letter-box lifted and a warrant card came through. She glanced at it briefly and pulled the door open, one anxiety giving way to another. A man and woman stood on the step.

‘What is it? What's happened?'

‘Mrs Langley?'

‘No, I'm afraid she's away. I'm her sister-in-law, Janis Coverdale.'

‘If we could have a word, ma'am?'

Ben's face came round the library door. Since they'd been alone, they'd taken to using the smaller, warmer room at the front of the house rather than the large and bleak drawing-room.

‘Who is it, Mum?'

‘Some friends of Uncle's,' she said quickly. ‘Go through to the kitchen, and you can be having your supper while I speak to them.'

The two police officers came into the house, and, at her gesture, went to wait in the library while she served the meal.
Shillingham
police? she thought in confusion. What on earth could they want? With a final glance at the children, happily tucking into their supper at the kitchen table, she hurried back to her visitors, her heart beating uncomfortably. ‘Now – what is it?' she asked.

‘Perhaps you'd like to sit down, ma'am.' It was the man who'd done all the talking – an odd-looking man with a pale face, whose hair seemed to be painted on his head. The woman, young and red-haired, looked gravely sympathetic, which alarmed Jan still further.
Roger
? Had something happened to Roger?

She said sharply, ‘It's not my husband, is it?'

The woman said gently, ‘This is Detective-Inspector Bates and I'm Constable Pierce. You say you're Mrs Coverdale?'

Jan nodded, swallowing hard.

‘And Mrs Langley's your sister-in-law?'

‘Yes, she's married to my half-brother.'

The two exchanged glances. Bates said, ‘Have you any idea where your brother is, Mrs Coverdale?'

Her mind still on Roger, she stared at him blankly.

‘Do you know –' he began again.

Yes – I'm sorry. He's in Peru. He and his wife flew out last week.'

Again the exchange of looks, puzzled this time. ‘Did you see him off at the airport?'

‘No.'

‘Then you don't know for certain that he left?'

‘Of course I know.' She stopped. ‘What is this? What are you trying to say?'

‘We're afraid he may have met with an accident, Mrs Coverdale. In the absence of his wife, we'd be grateful if you'd come with us and – confirm his identity.'

‘You mean he's
dead
?' Her eyes were wide with horror.

Sally Pierce said quickly, ‘Someone is.'

‘But why should you think it's Edward?'

‘He had papers in his pocket.'

‘Oh God,' Jan whispered.
Had
Edward and Rowena really left for Peru? And if Edward had had an accident, where was Rowena? She moistened her lips. ‘You want me to come now?'

She'd have to take the children with her; the only person she could have left them with was Lady Peel, and she was away for a few days. But it was adult support she was in need of. Miles?

‘Could I bring a friend with me?' she asked the detectives.

‘An excellent idea.'

Jan scrabbled frantically through the telephone directory, but when she'd found and dialled Miles's number, it was answered by a machine. She left a brief, incoherent message, and rang off. There was to be no help from that quarter.

The journey to Shillingham was a nightmare. The children, alarmed by events they didn't understand, kept plying her with questions, which the police seemed unwilling to help her answer. Above all, she was dreading the ordeal ahead. In a wave of retrospective affection, she conjured up her brother and his wife in her mind: Edward with his crinkly hair and deepset eyes, Rowena, flat-chested and plummy voiced, habitually in tweed skirt and ankle socks. Oh, please God, don't let it be Edward lying there!

But even if it wasn't, she would at least have to look at the body, and she'd never seen anyone dead before. And they hadn't told her how he'd died; if it were a road accident, he might be horribly disfigured. Oh God, Roger, I wish you were here!

Determinedly she closed her mind to the possibilities, looking instead out of the window. The car was roaring along the familiar road, carving itself a tunnel of light from the darkness. On their left this time, Police Headquarters stood impassive, its windows a blaze of light. Ironic she should have pointed it out before; little had she thought she'd be having dealings with them herself.

Shillingham was still festooned with Christmas lights. How long ago it seemed, Jan thought with a shiver, since they were gathered round the tree exchanging presents. She frowned, some elusive memory hovering just beyond recall, something that might explain –

‘Here we are,' Sally Pierce said bracingly, as the police car turned into Carrington Street. It drew up outside the General Hospital, and Sally added, ‘Mr Webb would like to see you afterwards, Mrs Coverdale. I'll take the children straight up to his office.'

Jan nodded. ‘Thank you.' Her stomach knotted with apprehension, she got out of the car, shivering, and watched as, with the woman constable now in the driving-seat and Julie's anxious face pressed to the back window, the car moved on to the police station next door. Inspector Bates had taken her arm. No doubt he meant to support her, but she wondered if he thought she'd run away. ‘This way, ma'am,' he said.

Fifteen minutes later, Jan, pale and trembling, was gratefully sipping tea in Webb's office. The children had gone to the canteen with Constable Pierce, and Inspector Bates was back at his desk.

‘And you're sure,' the Chief Inspector was saying, ‘that the man is not your brother?' ‘Absolutely,' Jan said thankfully. ‘I've never seen him before.'

“Is there any resemblance between them?'

‘Yes, he'd quite a look of Edward.' She looked up, meeting Webb's eyes. They were kind at the moment, but something about them, together with the set of his mouth, made her glad she wasn't meeting him as a felon. ‘Someone said he'd some papers on him?'

Webb pushed a photograph towards her. It was of a pigskin wallet with the initials EWL stamped in gold. ‘That was in his pocket, complete with credit cards in your brother's name and fifty pounds in notes.'

Jan stared at it, and the elusive memory clicked into focus. Rowena giving Edward a new wallet, because –

‘It was stolen,' she said.

Webb straightened. ‘When was that?'

‘A few weeks ago, he said. From the changing-room at the squash club.'

‘Was the theft reported?'

‘I should think so. Several others were taken at the same time.'

Webb glanced at Bates. ‘Check with Broadminster, would you, Inspector? Use the phone in the outer office.'

Bates nodded and left the room, passing Sergeant Jackson in the doorway. Webb introduced him to Jan. ‘The deceased is not Edward Langley,' he told Jackson shortly, ‘so we're back to square one.'

Jan said tentatively, ‘How did he die?'

‘Drowned, then dumped in a lay-by outside town.'

‘Drowned?' She looked at him in bewilderment, but he didn't elaborate.

‘That's right. And as luck would have it, a tree blew down in the gales before Christmas, hiding him from view: which accounts for the delay in finding him.'

‘And he had my brother's wallet. Perhaps it was he who stole it.'

‘Perhaps, but it's more complicated than that. There are other incongruities we needn't bother you with.'

‘Like what?'

‘Well, he was dressed in shabby clothes – I mean
really
shabby, like a tramp – and for some reason, green sequins had been sewn on his jacket. Then there was a bandage on his arm, but no apparent reason for it. The pathologist says it was put on after death.'

‘A very tight bandage,' Jackson added. ‘They had to cut it off. Almost like a mummy, Dr Stapleton said.'

‘That's funny!' Jan exclaimed involuntarily.

‘What is?'

‘The mention of a mummy. With my brother being an explorer, I mean.'

Webb pursed his lips, staring at her thoughtfully. ‘Surely his area's South America, not Egypt.'

‘But the Incas had mummies too. They were sometimes wrapped, but more often dressed in their own clothes.' Webb's eyes were boring into hers, slate-grey and unreadable. She added falteringly, ‘It was the cold, dry air, you see. They didn't need embalming.'

‘That's extremely interesting, Mrs Coverdale,' he said slowly. ‘It opens up several possibilities.'

Jan's eyes widened. ‘You think the bandage was
intended
to make us think of mummies? And there's the wallet, too.' She shuddered. ‘I was so relieved it wasn't Edward, but it's not that simple, is it? In some horrible way he's still involved – almost as though we were
supposed
to think it was him. But what could be the point? As soon as relatives arrived, the mistake would be discovered.'

Webb drew the photograph back, frowning down at it. ‘That, Mrs Coverdale, is what we'll have to find out. In the meantime, I'm sorry to have subjected you to all this.'