The Torso in the Town

by Simon Brett

  Still, not the moment to pursue that. Jude moved the conversation on. ‘I had a call from Kim Roxby this morning. I’d left a message, thanking them for the dinner party. A bit late, but quite honestly, given the way Saturday evening ended, social niceties got rather forgotten.’

  ‘Did she talk about the torso?’

  Jude was encouraged by the eagerness in her friend’s voice. She’d been right. Investigating a murder might be just the thing to jolt Carole out of her cycle of self-recrimination.

  ‘Yes. She hadn’t got much to add to the little we already know. Needless to say, the Roxbys have had a lot more to do with the police than I did. Pelling House is still sealed off. Kim’s sent the kids to her mother’s. That’s in Angmering. Kim and Grant have booked into a plush hotel up on the Downs for the duration.’

  ‘Will the police pay for that?’

  ‘No idea. With the money Grant’s got, I’m sure he’ll never even bother to ask.’ Jude looked thoughtful. ‘I hope Harry’s all right . . .’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Grant and Kim’s oldest. The one who found the thing. He’s at a very tricky stage of his life, and it was a ghastly shock for him.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll get over it.’ Carole hated sentimentality about the young. Her attitude to children had always been brusque and practical. She sometimes worried that she had taken that approach too far with her own son. Maybe that was why Stephen didn’t come and see her very often, a symptom of the coldness of which David had always accused her.

  And maybe that coldness was also what had made her relationship with Ted Crisp come to grief. She felt herself sinking into the familiar spiral of self-hatred, and with an effort brought her mind back to the torso in Fedborough. ‘So Kim Roxby hasn’t got any sidelights from the police about anything . . . how long the body had been in the cellar, for example?’

  ‘She did overhear one of the forensic people saying he reckoned it was at least three years old.’

  ‘Which would mean the death happened before Francis and Debbie Carlton bought Pelling House.’

  ‘Hm. I wonder who owned the place before them . . .?’

  Carole smiled smugly. ‘I can, in fact, give you that information. It was owned by a man called Roddy Hargreaves. According to Debbie, he now virtually lives in the Coach and Horses pub in Fed. He had something to do with the pleasure boats down near Fed Bridge.’

  ‘Presumably the police will have talked to him?’

  ‘I imagine so. Again, it’s so frustrating not knowing what they’re up to.’

  Jude smiled. ‘Unless we can find someone who’ll hack into their computers, I’m afraid we’re stuck with that.’ She pushed a hand thoughtfully through the twists of her blonde hair. ‘There was something about the body that was funny, you know . . .’

  ‘Having no limbs is pretty funny. Funny peculiar, that is, not funny ha ha.’

  ‘Something else. I don’t know anything about forensics or pathology, but I’d have thought a body that’d been dead three years would have lost most of its skin and flesh.’

  ‘Depends entirely on where it’s been kept for those three years.’ Here was a subject Carole did know a bit about. Her work in the Home Office had occasionally involved talking to policemen on related subjects. ‘Bodies buried in peat or in glaciers have been preserved virtually intact for centuries.’

  ‘Not a lot of peat or glaciers round Fedborough, are there?’

  ‘No, but there are other things that can have a kind of mummifying effect. Being in a very smoky environment, for one. Or in some cases, bodies have been preserved by wind, draughts even . . . I think I’m right. Hang on, I’ve got a book on the subject.’

  Carole knew exactly where on her shelves the required volume was, and quickly found the relevant page. ‘It can be in a draught. Or in the sun and air. The tissues don’t putrefy, but just slowly dry up.’

  ‘Like dried meat or fish.’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’ Carole grimaced.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case,’ Jude went on, ‘then I don’t think the torso could’ve been in Pelling House for very long.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The cellar was terribly damp. It smelt musty and mildewy. And Grant was saying earlier in the evening that he’d heard it actually fills up with water when the Fether gets really high.’

  ‘Maybe the body had been moved then . . .’ Carole’s eyes were still scanning the page as she spoke. ‘Ah, no, that may not be it, though . . . Book also says a body can become petrified . . .’

  ‘I’d be petrified if someone was cutting off my arms and legs.’

  ‘Very funny, Jude,’ Carole responded primly, and went on, ‘Adipocere – that’s a sort of waxy stuff – forms on the external parts of the body and it can end up looking like a marble statue. Trouble is, that only happens in very damp, airless conditions. So . . . did the torso you saw look more mummified or petrified?’

  Jude shook her head glumly. ‘I don’t have the expert knowledge to answer that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, all right, did it look more dried-up or waxen?’

  ‘Dried-up, I’d say.’

  ‘That would mean it’d been mummified, which would certainly be unlikely in a damp cellar.’ Carole closed the book with annoyance. ‘There’s so much we just don’t know.’

  ‘Like, for instance, where are the two arms and legs that were once part of the torso?’

  ‘Good point.’ Carole returned the reference book to its allotted place. ‘Mind you, if for the moment we put on one side the more extreme explanations, like a psychopath getting his kicks, a religious ritual . . . or cannibalism . . . there’s only one sensible reason why someone would cut up a body.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ease of disposal. It’s a cliché of criminality that murder’s easy enough to commit; the difficult bit is getting rid of the body. Much less difficult, though, if you scatter limbs round the country and then get rid of the torso separately. You could even carve the torso up too. And doing that could also help to make identification more difficult.’

  ‘So,’ Jude started slowly, ‘we might be looking at a scenario where our murderer . . .’ Carole didn’t pick up her use of the word. Both of them were now convinced that they were dealing with a murder. ‘ . . . our murderer was in the process of disposing of the body, had got rid of the arms and legs, and then had to stop for some reason . . .’

  ‘For some reason.’ Carole sounded testy with frustration. ‘And what chance do we have of finding out that reason? Very little, I would think. We seem to be up against a brick wall. There’s no other avenue of investigation we can follow.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We know the name of the person who owned Pelling House before the Carltons.’

  ‘Yes, but we don’t know him. We don’t know where he lives.’

  ‘Debbie said he’s always in the Coach and Horses in Fedborough.’

  ‘But we still don’t know him,’ Carole wailed. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Come on, get your coat. I’m going to treat you to supper in the Coach and Horses.’

  As recollection of her recent shame encompassed her, Carole froze. ‘Jude,’ she whispered, appalled, ‘I can’t go into a pub.’

  Chapter Eight

  There were no rough pubs in Fedborough – there was nothing rough in Fedborough – so the town’s drinking-holes had to be graded upwards by degrees of gentility rather than downwards by loucheness. On this scale the Coach and Horses in Pelling Street was just over halfway up, not aspiring to the manicured hotel splendour of the Pelling Arms, nor yet as ordinary as the Home Hostelries chain predictability of the Black Horse.

  The Coach and Horses had been built as a pub in the early nineteenth century, and sympathetically restored at the end of the twentieth. The new owners were a shrewd couple, skilful managers who recognized the appeal of old beams and large fireplaces in a t
ourist trap like Fedborough. The stripped-down brick walls were decorated with old photographs of the town – horse-drawn carriages labouring up the High Street, a long-aproned poulterer with a display of Christmas turkeys hanging from his shop front, an Edwardian pageant amid the ruins of Fedborough Castle, a flag-waving crowd celebrating VE Day. The bar was lit by discreet coach-lamps, whose reflections sparkled on polished tables, on the handles of beer pumps and on the display of bottles behind the counter. Elegantly done, but a little impersonal in its efficiency. As they entered the pub, Carole couldn’t help thinking of the scruffier welcome of the Crown and Anchor, and once again tried to force her mind away from corrosive thoughts.

  The evening was warm enough for people still to be sitting in the back courtyard, but Jude and Carole decided they would stay inside. A man, in Debbie Carlton’s words, whose ‘permanent address seems to be the Coach and Horses’, was more likely to be found propping up the bar than enjoying the evening sunshine.

  The well-trained young barman offered a good choice of white wines and they settled on a Chilean Chardonnay. Carole’s instinctive demurral about having any alcohol was swept aside. ‘One glass isn’t going to affect your driving. And it’s bound to end up as two, which won’t affect your driving either.’

  Carole didn’t raise objections, but it wasn’t the thought of the car that had prompted her reaction. Much of the time she’d spent with Ted Crisp had been in a pleasant vinous haze, and to resist alcohol now seemed a necessary deprivation – or even punishment.

  They found a table and consulted the menu, whose offerings were carefully themed to the locality: ‘Steak and Sussex Ale Pie’, ‘Cod in Batter, fresh every day from LA (Little ‘Ampton)’, ‘Fedborough Fishcakes’, ‘Castle Quiche’.

  ‘I think I might go for the South Downs Sausages and Mash . . .’ said Jude.

  ‘ . . . served with Sussex Onion Gravy. Mm, sounds good. What does that mean, though? Does it mean the onions come from Sussex? Or the gravy’s made to an old Sussex recipe?’

  ‘It means they get a lot of Americans in here.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ Carole looked around the bar. There were a few men in suits, possibly estate agents having a drink after a heavy day’s mortgage-recommending; some fairly obvious tourists in bright T-shirts and unaccustomed shorts; and, at the bar, a knot of four older men whose exclusive, introverted body language showed that they were regulars, and wanted to be recognized as regulars.

  ‘If Roddy Hargreaves is here,’ Carole murmured, ‘he must be one of those.’

  Jude nodded thoughtful agreement. Then abruptly she stood up. ‘I’ll order the food. You still going for the South Downs Sausages . . . ?’

  Carole watched the ensuing scene with amazement, not untinged by envy. Jude had a quality that Carole knew she never had possessed, and never would possess. Jude could talk to people, talk to anyone, and her intrusion was never resented.

  It was an alchemy that Carole could not fathom. Partly, she knew, Jude was attractive; men responded to something welcoming in her cuddly body and her large brown eyes. But the technique worked equally well with women. Even as she had the thought, Carole knew that ‘technique’ was too calculating a word for what Jude did. Casualness, artlessness were the keys to her success.

  What Carole witnessed at the bar of the Coach and Horses that evening was a perfect demonstration of the magic. Jude saw the young barman moving towards the group of four regulars and somehow timed her approach to get to the bar at the same moment he reached them. He registered her arrival and for a moment looked uncertain. The regulars knew they’d be served in time; his bosses had instructed him not to keep new business waiting. He turned towards Jude.

  ‘No, please.’ She gestured to the four men and grinned. ‘Wouldn’t want to keep a man from his pint.’

  One of the regulars, a red-faced man in his seventies with a luxuriant white moustache, guffawed. ‘Now there’s a woman who’s been well trained. Wouldn’t like to give a few lessons to my wife, would you?’

  Carole was once again struck by the effortlessness of it all. Jude didn’t appear to be trying, nor was she demeaning herself by going along with this sexist nonsense; she was simply indulging in small talk at the bar of a pub. Having never in her life been able to produce the smallest syllable of small talk, Carole felt very envious.

  While the barman filled two empty pint glasses and topped up the other two with generous ‘Sussex halves’, Jude chuckled at what had been said and, holding out the menu, continued, ‘Now, you gentlemen look as if you know your way around this area . . .’

  ‘You can say that again,’ agreed the man with the moustache and the disapproving wife.

  ‘ . . . so perhaps you can tell me what a “South Downs Sausage” is . . .?’

  ‘You’ve got one of those, haven’t you, Roddy?’ the moustached man chortled. ‘Big one and all, if the town rumours are anything to go by.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said the man who had been addressed. His voice was surprisingly upper-class, at odds with his discoloured jeans, broken-down trainers, and a faded Guernsey sweater, which Jude thought must be very hot on a day like that. The voice also contained a hint of reproof, a suggestion that the remark might have been unnecessarily crude. He turned his face to Jude, and she saw that he had a real drinker’s nose, a sad purple cluster of broken veins. He was probably only in his early fifties, but looked older.

  ‘I must apologize for my friend. I would imagine that a South Downs Sausage is extraordinarily like any other kind of sausage, but that Keith and Janet, mine host and hostess, reckon they’ll sell a few more if they give them some spurious local connection.’

  He was extremely polite, but spoke with the punctilious concentration of the regularly drunk.

  ‘Oh, well then, I think I’ll go for them.’ Having given her order to the barman, Jude took a risk. Turning to the purple nose, she said, ‘Your friend called you “Roddy”. You’re not, by any chance, Roddy Hargreaves, are you?’

  ‘At your service.’ He made a little half-bow, which threatened his stability on the bar stool. The friend who’d made the crude remark reached out automatically to steady him.

  Having identified her quarry, Jude was faced with a problem. How on earth was she meant to know him? What possible connection could there be between them? What could she say that didn’t sound like blatant interrogation?

  As ever, she took the direct route. ‘Somebody was saying you used to live in Pelling House . . . you know, where the body was found . . .’

  This was greeted by a guffaw of recognition from the group. ‘Becoming quite the local celebrity, Roddy,’ said the red-faced man, wiping his moustache. ‘You may not be able to pull the birds by your looks, but they’re still fatally attracted to your Jack the Ripper side.’

  ‘Very witty, Jimmy.’ Roddy turned to look at Jude. His scrutiny was not openly suspicious, but it was searching. ‘The gossip’s been spreading then. You don’t live in Fedborough, do you?’

  ‘Fethering.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Different kind of folk in Fethering. Very odd people. Low aspirations – that’s because so many of them live in bungalows,’ observed the one called Jimmy in a jocular tone. Clearly he was the self-appointed wit of the group.

  Automatic male laughter followed the sally, but Roddy didn’t join in. He appeared to make the decision that he could trust Jude. ‘So what are they saying about the torso in Fethering?’

  ‘Everything and nothing. A lot of ill-informed gossip.’

  ‘Much the same as Fedborough, then. By the way, I see you are drinkless. That’s a real damsel-in-distress situation. Allow me to remedy it for you.’

  ‘I’ve got a drink over there with my friend.’

  Roddy Hargreaves looked towards their table. ‘Why doesn’t she come and join us?’

  Carole ignored the perfectly clear invitation in Jude’s eyes, and looked away. There were some instinctive reactions she could not avoid. From sch
ool dances onward, she had resisted the social embarrassment of being dragged across to men with the line, ‘Oh, and this is my friend Carole.’ She knew she was being stupid, she knew in this particular instance she was losing the chance to be part of the investigation, but there were certain spots which, even after half a century, this particular leopard could not change.

  Immediately understanding, Jude said lightly, ‘Oh, she hasn’t noticed. Well, I will have a Chilean Chardonnay with you then. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Large Chilean Chardonnay, Lee. Sorry, I didn’t get your name . . . ?’

  ‘Jude.’

  ‘Good evening, Jude. I, as you pieced together, am Roddy Hargreaves. This is Jimmy Lister, and . . .’ As he identified the other two, Jude realized that the man with the moustache must be James Lister, the conductor of Town Walks, he whom the Rev Trigwell had hailed as ‘a real character’. Might be a useful source of Fedborough history, Jude filed away – if I could put up with his jokes.

  ‘I suppose, Roddy,’ she went on, direct as ever, as he passed her the wine, ‘the police have talked to you about what was found in Pelling House?’

  ‘Exhaustively. I was with them for . . . what, four, five hours? Five hours without a drink, imagine that.’ There was more knee-jerk laughter. Jude had often thought there was an academic thesis to be written about male laughter in pubs. The words that prompted it didn’t need to be funny – indeed, they very rarely were. The important thing was that the cue should be unmistakable and delivered in the right nudging tone; then laughter would inevitably ensue.

  ‘But presumably they didn’t confide in you the current state of their investigations?’

  ‘Sadly, no. Didn’t give me any pointers to the identity of the corpse, nothing intriguing like that. Just lots of questions about precise dates, when I bought Pelling House, when I sold it, how often I went down to the cellar, all that kind of stuff.’