‘Morton, who’s the Home Office pathologist here, went down,’ the Chief Constable took up, continuing the defence of Dr Luke, ‘and confirmed that manual strangulation, almost certainly by a man from the size of the marks, was the cause of death. All the other injuries were due to the body being knocked about in the sea. His detailed report will be through tomorrow. The inquest’s being opened at two o’clock, down at Kittitoe, by the way. Of course, getting Morton along held things up a bit.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mentally cursing the delay arising from Dr Luke’s determination to pass the buck, Pollard asked about the probable time of death.
‘Morton will only go as far as to say that, in his opinion, the body had been in the sea for at least forty-eight hours.’
‘Which could mean that she was done and chucked into the water during Friday night. The fact that Mr Horner didn’t get an answer when he rang her from here about 10.15 pm suggests that she’d at any rate left the bungalow by then, doesn’t it? Of course, we’ve got to reckon with tides and local currents. I don’t expect you’ve had a chance of getting on to the coastguards yet?’
‘Not yet, we haven’t.’ Superintendent Crookshank produced a large-scale map. ‘This’ll give you some idea of the place. The bungalow’s just here.’
Pollard and Toye studied the map with interest. North of Beckon Head the flat sandy beach of Biddle Bay stretched northwards for about a mile and a half, ending at the town of the same name, a much larger place than Kittitoe. South of the headland the coastline was lower, consisting for some miles of beaches and sand dunes.
‘She must have gone in off Beckon Head surely?’ Pollard said. ‘I mean, beaches simply aren’t on for getting bodies into the sea unless you’ve got a boat. They’d just be carried up again on the next high tide.’
Inspector Toye’s pale solemn face peered over his shoulder. ‘There’s Biddle Head,’ he pointed out with habitual caution, indicating a smaller headland to the north.
‘Bit far for the body to shift round in time, I’d say,’ replied Superintendent Crookshank. ‘Matter for the coastguards, though.’
‘We’ll get on to them tomorrow morning,’ Pollard said still scrutinizing the map. ‘What did you make of the set-up at the bungalow?’ he went on, putting it down.
‘Horner’s like most chaps who’ve made money in a big way. Everything must be dropped when he calls out. You know the type. What the hell are you police doing, sitting around on your backsides instead of finding the girl? He swore black and blue that Wendy Shaw would never have gone off leaving the kid on its own. But broad and long he struck me as a decent old chap,’ Crookshank allowed. ‘He was badly cut up about the murder. His daughter’s another cup of tea. She was so hopping mad about her baby being left that she was blackguarding Wendy Shaw, and saying she wouldn’t stay in the house with her when she turned up again. Had quite a breeze with her dad in front of me. This was Saturday morning, of course, before the murder came out.’
‘I suppose,’ Pollard said reflectively, ‘Horner and his daughter didn’t bump off the girl themselves? We’ve only their word for it that they left her alive when they went off in the car on Friday evening, and what happened when they got back.’
‘Exactly,’ said Henry Landfear, lighting another cigarette. ‘The same thought hit us, and we’ve made a few enquiries. The upshot of these is that they did go off from Kittitoe about seven — Pike happened to see their car going through the village. And we’ve checked that they dined here as they say, and the London train was half an hour late, and they did meet Mrs Townsend’s husband off it. As for any motive for killing Wendy Shaw, we know absolutely nothing. I must say the idea seems pretty far-fetched.’
‘I agree. All the same, we’ll get these people’s private lives vetted, unless by a stroke of luck somebody contacted Wendy Shaw after they’d left… I suppose the rain’s put paid to any hope of footprints or tyre tracks outside the bungalow?’
‘This is it,’ replied Crookshank gloomily. ‘It belted down all Friday night, and the best part of Saturday. I’ve had a couple of chaps going over the garden and the drive this afternoon, and there isn’t a hope in hell.’
Pollard returned to the map. ‘Is this big building at a lower level the school?’
‘That’s right. St Julitta’s, where Mrs Makepeace works. She’s the housekeeper.’
‘No one else much there in the middle of August, I suppose?’
‘Sorry to disillusion you,’ Henry Landfear said, ‘but there were about ninety people in residence on Friday night. The place had been let for some course or other, run by Horner’s Holidays, incidentally. And barring Mrs Makepeace, the whole damn lot of ’em cleared off on Saturday morning. Over and above that there was the usual Saturday turnover of visitors.’
‘Don’t make it too easy, will you?’ replied Pollard. ‘Any more body blows before you push off?’
‘That’s about the sum total up to date. No doubt you’ll come in for some more. We’re damn glad to unload the job on to you, aren’t we, Crookshank? I needn’t say we’ll do our best to lay on any help you want.’
The conference broke up amicably, the Chief Constable driving the Yard pair to their hotel.
Here a friendly night porter produced a pot of tea.
‘I wouldn’t have thought it was all that of a case, compared with some we’ve had,’ Toye remarked, putting down his cup after a series of satisfying gulps. ‘Just endless fiddling enquiries, and following up dozens of dud leads until we hit the right chap. Clear enough, isn’t it, that Wendy Shaw either had a psychopath chum at home or at college, or had picked one up at Kittitoe? She knew that she’d be alone for a few hours on Friday evening, and they’d planned a short run in his car. They must have had a row which ended up in him throttling her, poor kid. I expect she wasn’t permissive enough. But anyway, people must have seen them around together before Friday evening. There’s the photo of the girl in the file which Crookshank got from her home, and we’ll piece together a description of the chap in time, and get an Identikit picture knocked up.’
Pollard was silent for a brief space as he poured himself out another cup of tea.
‘All horse sense on your part, old man, but I’ve got a tiresome hunch that it’s not going to be as straightforward as all that. Why, I don’t quite know. Possibly something to do with old Horner swearing that she’d never have gone off leaving the baby. There are quite a lot of girls who’d have jibbed at it, you know, even these days.’
‘I’ll take that for true, sir. All the same, he wouldn’t be the first elderly gent to be taken in by a young girl.’
‘That’s equally true. Quite obviously, one of our first jobs is to find out what sort of a girl Wendy Shaw really was. I’d like to start off with her home and her mother, as it’s so near here, but we’d better visit the scene of the crime first, as the detective novelists call it. Anyway, there’s the inquest at two. Let’s have a quick look through the file, and then turn in.’
Half an hour later Pollard settled into a comfortable bed in a quiet room, but found sleep elusive… Suppose, he thought, Horner isn’t an old fool over girls, and Wendy Shaw really was a dependable conscientious type? Either there must have been some signs of a struggle in the bungalow which the family obliterated, deliberately or accidentally, or the murderer somehow tricked her into leaving the place with him. Could he have hammered on the door, and said someone had been taken ill in the drive? She might have stopped to throw on a coat as it was pouring with rain, but what about the handbag? And if he’d gone back to collect the handbag after killing her, with the idea of making it look as though she’d gone out on a jaunt, surely he’d have had to churn up her room a bit while looking for it?
Pollard shut his eyes, was distracted by inexplicable coloured patterns in the darkness, and opened them again.
According to the file, Wendy had said that she was going to collect her supper on a tray, and watch television in the sitting room of the bungalow. Suppose a
thief had got in through a window, or the garden door which had been found unlocked, and she’d heard and disturbed him? He might have lost his head, panicked and strangled her. But would a chap of this type have suddenly become collected enough to lay a false trail by removing her coat and handbag, and take the risk of getting her body out of the bungalow and into the sea? And pull off all this without leaving a trace? Unless the Horners were lying, of course — but why the hell should they lie if the murder were nothing whatever to do with them?
This sort of sheer speculation is getting nowhere, Pollard thought, rolling over on to his other side. The only sensible jumping-off ground is the girl herself. His mind ran ahead, drawing up a schedule for the next day … first, the mortuary at Winnage, on the way down … Constable Pike … Uncharted Seas … coastguards … the Shaw home… In that order, unless anything unforeseen turned up.
This programme settled, his mind at last switched itself off, and within minutes he was asleep.
Before they left for Kittitoe the next morning, Pollard rang the Yard. He set in motion an enquiry into the affairs of Mr Edward Horner, his daughter and son-in-law. He also arranged for a statement to be taken from the latter on the events of Friday night from the time of his arrival at Stoneham.
On the drive down he told Toye to make a detour to Winnage. Here he found the visit to the mortuary emotive rather than informative: the sea had effectively removed all facial clues to Wendy Shaw’s personality. Only a pathetic anonymity remained, and he felt deep anger against her killer. Signing to the constable in attendance to replace the sheet over her body, he turned his attention to the small heap of her personal belongings. Her clothes, which were of the cheap mass-produced type, had been carefully dried. The coat was a scarlet anorak, now much discoloured by seawater and badly torn, with stained wadding protruding from the rents.
‘No watch,’ Toye remarked.
‘It could have been ripped off in the sea, I suppose. Not likely to have been stolen by the murderer: hardly worth taking, judging from her clothes.’
Twenty minutes later the police car provided by Stoneham came over the crest of the hill behind Kittitoe. Toye slowed down, and drew in to the side.
‘Good spot,’ Pollard said. ‘Beckon Head’s spectacular, if you like.’
Toye sat contemplating it in silence.
‘Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook?’ he quoted abstractedly.
Pollard turned and gaped at him.
‘Vicar’s text last Sunday,’ Toye explained in hurried confusion. ‘Difficulties of the present time,’ he added, slightly pink.
‘My dear chap, there couldn’t be a better description. Just look at those contorted rocks looking like muscles bracing themselves against being yanked up out of the water.’
‘Those two buildings nearer in would be the Horner bungalow and the school, I take it?’ Toye asked in a tone dismissive of further flights of fancy.
Pollard consulted the map borrowed from Stoneham.
‘Yes. And you can just see where the road to Biddle Bay comes out at the far end of the village. Got it? There are the drives to the bungalow and school branching off from it on the left. Isn’t that a footpath running out to the headland between the two properties?’
‘Footpath all right,’ Toye replied, focusing binoculars. ‘It goes out to what could be a coastguard’s lookout.’
‘Here, let me have a go… Yes, I see. My God, what a ghastly caravan park over on our left. Somebody beat Enterprise Neptune to it, worse luck. We’d better push on. I asked Stoneham to ring Pike and say we’d be turning up about now.’
The Kittitoe police house was spruce, having been recently repainted. Its garden was ablaze with zinnias and petunias.
‘I shouldn’t mind this chap’s job,’ Pollard remarked, as they went up the path. ‘Minimal responsibility, and the tempo of life dead slow.’
Once again, they met with caginess at first, but once reassured that the Yard had not come to criticize his course of action at the onset of the case, Constable Pike relaxed and became communicative.
‘How were Mr Horner and Mr and Mrs Townsend reacting to Wendy Shaw’s disappearance when you went up in the middle of Friday night?’ Pollard asked.
‘I could see Mr Townsend was thinking the way I was, sir,’ Pike told him. ‘I mean, that the girl’d gone out with a boyfriend, meaning to be back in good time, and they’d had a mishap of some sort. He backed me up when I suggested ringing round, so I got on to the hospitals, and Winnage station to the officer on duty, and to an all-night garage over at Biddle, but none of ’em knew anything of a smash or a breakdown. That sent Mr Horner into a real taking. He swore she’d never have gone off and left the baby of her own free will. Mrs Townsend was that wild that the kiddy had been left that she was fair blowing her top, and saying if Wendy Shaw ever crossed the threshold again, she’d walk out, and take the baby with her.’
‘Did you know Wendy Shaw by sight?’
‘Barely, sir,’ Pike replied regretfully. ‘She hadn’t been down here long, to start with, and they stay up at the bungalow most times when the place is packed out as it is in the holiday season. I caught sight of her passing in Mr Horner’s car once or twice, or doing a bit of shopping in the village, but to be truthful I’m not sure that I’d’ve recognized her on her own.’
‘It’s not surprising,’ Pollard said. ‘Sun goggles and hair over your face and mass-produced beachwear don’t exactly help identification. What do the local people think of Mr Horner, and his daughter?’
Here again, the constable’s information was mainly negative. Mr Horner was away most of the time, seeing to his business up in London. He didn’t take any part worth mentioning in local affairs, although he’d always put his hand in his pocket for a good cause. The bungalow was more like his holiday home. He was liked well enough, but didn’t do much entertaining, especially since his daughter got married last year. Mrs Townsend? Well, she hadn’t been around a lot, even before she was married. Bit full of herself and spoilt, people thought.
‘Who cleans and cooks for Mr Horner?’ Pollard asked.
‘Mrs Barrow, sir. A very respectable widow woman. She goes up by the day when he’s here, and keeps an eye on the place when it’s empty. He comes and goes a lot.’
Pollard watched Toye noting down Mrs Barrow’s address, and went on to enquire about the local coastguard service. Having gathered that Ted Chugg would be over at the lookout, but came home to dinner at half-past twelve, he decided that Constable Pike’s usefulness as a source of information was, at least for the moment, exhausted.
‘We’ll almost certainly want a lot of help from you over a house-to-house enquiry, Pike,’ he told him, ‘and I’m glad you’re here to carry it out. You coped with this affair very sensibly at the early stages, as I said to the Chief Constable last night. Meanwhile, we’ll be getting on to see Mr Horner.’
They drove off a few minutes later, having been ceremoniously escorted to their car.
On the far side of the village they took the road to Biddle Bay, and almost at once bore left into the drive entrance of Uncharted Seas. The gate was closed, and two unmistakable newsmen rose from the hedge to bear down on the car.
‘Have a heart,’ Pollard adjured them in response to a flood of questions. ‘I’ve only just got here, while you chaps have been hanging around for God knows how long. Haven’t you got anything for us?’
There were some good-humoured jeers and exchanges, and he placated them by emphasizing that there was to be an all-out effort to follow up Wendy Shaw’s local contacts, and suggesting that they might lend a hand, now that her photograph had been released to the Press. Finally one of them obligingly opened the gate for the car. Toye drove swiftly and steeply upwards until the drive abruptly flattened out on the landward side of a large, solidly built bungalow.
‘See that?’ Toye demanded, indicating the open doors of a garage. ‘A Jag — the XJ6.’ A car enthusiast, he gazed longingly.
‘This
place must have put old Horner back a bit, too,’ Pollard said, eyeing Uncharted Seas, and conscious of the mortgage on his London home.
As they disembarked the front door of the bungalow opened. An elderly man, short and tubby, and wearing brown corduroy trousers and a green shirt, stood staring at them uncompromisingly.
‘If you’re another lot of bloody reporters, beat it,’ he said, surprisingly authoritative for his size and build.
The punch behind the Horner empire, Pollard thought as he went forward…
‘Good morning, Mr Horner,’ he said. ‘We’re CID officers from New Scotland Yard. I’m Detective-Superintendent Pollard, and this is Detective-Inspector Toye who is working with me on the enquiry into Wendy Shaw’s death.’
Eddy Horner’s face remained expressionless.
‘If the local police blockheads had listened to me, you’d have been down here by midday Saturday. Not that it makes any difference, I suppose, seeing that Wendy was dead by then, from all accounts. You’d better come inside.’
He turned on his heel, and led the way to the long sitting room facing the sea. As he walked, his shoulders sagged a little. The French windows on to the terrace were open, and Pollard could see a young woman sitting beside a baby’s pram.
‘Scotland Yard,’ Eddy Horner called to her. ‘My daughter, Mrs Townsend,’ he added, as the young woman got up and came into the room. He introduced Pollard and Toye with the minimum of words. She was taller and more lightly built than her father, and very pretty, with long copper-brown hair and big grey eyes. As he sized her up Pollard detected an underlying petulance. Her old man’s made the grade by brain and sweat, he thought, while she’s come to expect everything on a plate as her right, and sees this business as a sort of personal outrage.
‘You’ll take something, won’t you?’ Penny Townsend asked as she shook hands. ‘A cup of coffee?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Pollard replied. ‘We’re on duty, you see.’
No Vacation From Murder Page 5
