This Body of Death

by Elizabeth George

  But how could it actually be otherwise? Meredith asked herself. For in every matter that touched upon Gina, Meredith had been outmanoeuvred from the first.

  She forced herself to consider each of her interactions with the other young woman, and she felt every which way the fool. The truth of the matter was that Gina had read her as easily as she herself read Cammie. She had no more sense and even less art than a five-year-old, and it had likely taken fewer than ten minutes for Gina Dickens to work that out.

  She’d done so on the very first day, when Meredith had taken that stupid, melting birthday cake to Jemima’s cottage. Gina had claimed knowledge of nothing relating to Jemima, and Meredith had believed her, just like that. And hearing a claim that the programme for young girls at risk was merely in its embryonic stage, she’d believed that as well. As she had also believed that Gordon Jossie—and not Gina herself, which, let’s face it was far more likely—had gone into London on the very day that Jemima died. As she had also believed that Gordon Jossie—and not Gina herself—had caused the bruising on Gina’s body. As to everything Gina had claimed about a relationship of some sort between Chief Superintendent Whiting and Gordon …Gina could have announced they’d both landed as conjoined twins from Mars and Meredith probably would have believed her.

  It seemed that there was only one alternative now. So Meredith rang her mother and told her she’d be just a bit late coming home because she had a stop to make. Fortunately that stop was on the way, so she needn’t worry. And give Cammie a kiss and a cuddle please.

  Then she went for her car and headed for Lyndhurst. She put on an affirmation tape to accompany her on the A31. She repeated the sonorous declarations of her ability, her value as a human being, and the possibility of her becoming an agent of change.

  The usual rush hour tailback slowed her progress on the Bourne mouth Road as she approached Lyndhurst. The traffic lights in the high street didn’t help matters either, but Meredith found that the repetition of her affirmations kept her centred, so that when she finally reached the police station, her nerves were steady and she was ready to make certain that her demands for action were well understood.

  She expected to be thwarted. She reckoned that the special constable in reception would recognise her and, with much eye rolling, would tell her she could not see the chief superintendent on the spur of the moment. This wasn’t, after all, a drop-in centre. Zachary Whiting had more important concerns than to meet with every hysterical woman who happened to call in.

  But that didn’t occur. The special constable asked her to be seated, disappeared into the station for less than three minutes, and returned with the request that she follow him because although Chief Superintendent Whiting had intended to leave for the day, once he heard Meredith’s name, he remembered it from her earlier visit—so she had given her name, she thought—and asked that she be ushered to his office.

  She told him everything. She gave him A to Z and then some on the topic of Gina Dickens. She saved the very best for the end: her own hiring of a private investigator in Ringwood and what that private investigator had turned up about Gina.

  Whiting jotted notes throughout. At the end, he clarified that this Gina Dickens was the same woman who had accompanied Meredith to the police station here in Lyndhurst with evidence suggesting that one Gordon Jossie had been in London during the time his former lover had been murdered. This was that woman, was it not?

  It was, Meredith said. And she realised, Chief Superintendent Whiting, how that looked: that she herself was a nutter of the first water. But she’d had her reasons for delving into Gina’s background because everything Gina told her had been suspect from the first and wasn’t the important bit the fact that now they knew every word the woman spoke was a lie? She’d even lied about himself and Gordon Jossie, Meredith told him. She’d said he—Whiting himself!—had paid more than one mysterious call upon Gordon.

  Had she indeed? Whiting frowned. This would be looked into, he assured her. He said he would handle the matter personally. He said that there was obviously more here than could be understood by merely skimming the surface, and since he had access to a far better set of investigatory tools than were had by any private investigator, Meredith should let the matter rest with him.

  “But will you do something about her?” Meredith asked, and she even wrung her hands.

  He would indeed, Whiting told her. There was nothing she needed to worry about from this moment forward. He recognised the urgency of the situation, especially as it had to do with a murder.

  So she left. She felt, if not lighthearted, then at least moderately relieved. She’d taken a step towards dealing with the problem of Gina Dickens, and that made her feel somewhat less foolish about being seduced—there was no other word for it—by Gina’s lies.

  There was a car in the drive of her parents’ home in Cadnam when Meredith arrived. She didn’t recognise it, and the sight of it gave her pause. She briefly considered the possibility that she always considered and hated herself for considering when something unexpected happened that might concern Cammie: Her daughter’s father had decided to visit. This was never the case, but Meredith had not yet managed to school her mind not to go there at the least provocation.

  Inside the house, she was startled to see the private investigator from Ringwood sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a plate of Fig Newtons before her. On her lap was Cammie, and Michele Daugherty was reading to her. Not a children’s book, for Cammie was not remotely interested in stories about elephants, boys and girls, puppies, or bunnies. Rather the investigator was reading to Meredith’s daughter from an unauthorised biography of Placido Domingo, a book whose purchase Cammie had insisted upon when she’d seen it in a shop in Ringwood and recognised one of her favourite tenors on the cover.

  Meredith’s mother stood at the cooker, doing fish fingers and chips for Cammie’s tea. She said unnecessarily, “We’ve a visitor, luv,” and to Cammie, “That’s enough for now. Put Placido back on the shelf, there’s a good girl. We’ll have more of him after your bath.”

  “But, Gran …”

  “Camille.” Meredith used her mother tone. Cammie made a face but slid off Michele Daugherty’s lap and trudged dramatically in the direction of the sitting room.

  Michele Daugherty gave a glance in the direction of the cooker. Meredith decided pleasantries were in order until her mum was supervising Cammie’s meal. Indeed, since she didn’t know whether her mother had been told exactly what Michele Daugherty did for a living, she decided to wait and see what this unexpected visit was all about rather than to question it.

  Janet Powell, unfortunately, was taking her time, probably in order to hear why this stranger had come calling upon her daughter. They’d run out of chat and still she cooked. There was nothing for it but to offer Michele Daugherty a look at the back garden, which Meredith did. Michele accepted with alacrity. Janet Powell shot Meredith a look. I’ll have it out of you anyway was the message.

  There was, thank God, at least a back garden to see. Meredith’s parents were both avid about roses, and they were in full bloom, and since the Powells insisted upon planting roses with fragrance and not just with colour, the scent was heady, impossible not to notice and to comment upon. Michele Daugherty did both, but then took Meredith by the arm and led her as far from the house as possible.

  “I couldn’t ring you,” she said.

  “How did you know where to find me? I didn’t tell you where—”

  “My dear, you did hire me because I’m a PI, didn’t you? How difficult do you suppose it is to find someone who isn’t worried about being found?”

  There was that, of course, Meredith realised. She wasn’t exactly in hiding. Which brought her immediately to the person who was in hiding. Or in something else. She said, “You’ve found out … ?” and waited for her thought to be completed by the other woman.

  “It’s not safe,” she said. “Nothing appears to be. That’s why I couldn’t pho
ne you. I don’t trust the phone in my office, and when it comes to mobiles, they’re just about as risky. Listen, my dear. I went on with my research once you left me. I started in on the other name, Gordon Jossie.”

  Meredith felt a shiver crawl up her arms, like fingertips tapping from the other world. “You’ve found out something,” she murmured. “I knew it.”

  “It’s not that.” Michele glanced round, as if expecting someone to leap over the brick wall and come charging across the roses to accost her. “It’s not that at all.”

  “More on Gina Dickens, then?”

  “Not that either. I had a visit from the cops, my dear. A gentleman called Whiting showed up. He let me know in very clear terms having a great deal to do with my license to do business that a bloke called Gordon Jossie was off limits to me and to my endeavours. ‘It’s all in hand,’ is how he put it.”

  “Thank God,” Meredith breathed.

  Michele Daugherty frowned. “What’s that you say?”

  “I stopped to see him on my way home this afternoon. Chief Superintendent Whiting. I told him what you’d discovered about Gina Dickens. And I’d already told him about Gordon. I’d been to talk to him about Gordon earlier. Before I came to you, in fact. I’d tried to interest him in what was going on, but—”

  “You’re not understanding me, my dear,” Michele Daugherty said. “Chief Superintendent Whiting came to see me this morning. Not an hour after you left me. I’d begun my search but I’d not got far. I’d not even rung the local police. Or any police for that matter. Did you ring him and tell him I was investigating? Before you saw him this afternoon?”

  Meredith shook her head. She began to feel ill.

  Michele lowered her voice. “Do you see what this means?”

  Meredith had an idea but she didn’t particularly want to give it voice. She said, “You’d only begun the process when he showed up? What does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means I went into the national data banks. It means that somehow entering Gordon Jossie’s name into those national data banks set off bells and whistles somewhere and brought Chief Superintendent Whiting on the run to my doorstep. It means there’s far more here than meets the eye. It means I can’t help you further.”

  BARBARA HAVERS DROVE directly to Gordon Jossie’s holding, arriving there in late afternoon and without being intercepted by a phone call from Isabelle Ardery, for which she thanked her lucky stars. She only hoped that DI Lynley would run interference for her with the acting superintendent when it came to light that Barbara had taken herself to Hampshire. If he did not, her goose was in the oven.

  No cars were in the drive that ran alongside the cottage. Barbara parked and knocked on the cottage’s back door for good measure although she reckoned no one was at home, which turned out to be the case. No matter, she thought. Time to have a look round. She took herself over to the barn and tried its vast sliding door. It was conveniently unlocked. She left it ajar to give herself some light.

  It was cool within, and musty smelling, a combination of stone, dust, and cob. The first thing she saw was an ancient car, two tones of colour on it in the fashion of the 1950s. It was in pristine condition and looked as if someone came out to the barn to dust it every day. Barbara went to have a closer look. A Figaro, she saw. Italian? Inspector Lynley would know, car buff that he was. She herself had never seen a vehicle like it. It wasn’t locked, so she checked it over, stem to stern, beneath the seats and in the glove box as well. There was nothing of interest.

  The Figaro was parked towards the back of the building, to give clear access to the rest of the barn. This space contained any number of unsealed crates, which Barbara reckoned had to do with Gordon Jossie’s employment. She went to them next.

  There were crooks galore, she found. This was unsurprising since they were a principal element of thatching. It wasn’t rocket science to work out how they were used either. The hooked end did just that: It hooked over one end of a bunched collection of reeds and held them in place. The pointed end got pounded into the rafters beneath. When it came to murder, the use of the crook was equally simple to sort out. The hooked end was the handle and the pointed end did the business on the victim.

  What was interesting about the crooks that Jossie had was that they were not all the same. Among the wooden boxes, three contained crooks but in each of the boxes the crooks were slightly different. This difference had to do with the business end of the tool: Each pointed tip had been created differently. In one box, the points had been fashioned as a diagonal cut. In another, the points had been created by turning and pounding the iron four times upon taking the crook from the blacksmith’s fire. In the third, a smoother point had been achieved by rolling the iron when it was molten. The end was the same in each case, but the means of getting there apparently formed the blacksmith’s signature. For a city denizen like Barbara, the fact that these implements were made by hand in this day and age was nothing short of remarkable. Seeing them was like stepping back in time. But then, she reckoned, so was seeing thatched roofs.

  She needed to ring Winston. He was likely in the incident room at this time of day, and he could have a close look at the photo of the murder weapon and tell her how the point was shaped. That wouldn’t sign, seal, and deliver anyone’s guilt in the matter of Jemima’s death, but at least it would let them know whether Jossie’s crooks here in his barn bore any resemblance to the one that was used on his former lover.

  She headed towards the barn door to fetch her mobile from her car. Outside, she heard the sound of a vehicle in the drive, the quick slam of a door, and the barking of a dog. It seemed that Gordon Jossie had just arrived home from his workday. He wouldn’t be happy to find her prowling round his barn.

  She was right in that. Jossie came striding towards her and despite the baseball cap that shaded part of his face, Barbara could see from the ruddiness of the rest of his complexion that he was not pleased.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Nice supply of crooks you’ve got in there,” she replied. “Where d’you get them?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Amazing that they’re still made by hand. Cos they are, aren’t they? I’d reckon at this point someone would be manufacturing them, what with the Industrial Revolution having come along. Can’t you get them from China or somewhere? India maybe? Someone’s got to be turning them out in masses.”

  The golden retriever—absolutely worthless as a guard dog—had apparently recognised her from her earlier visit to the holding. The dog leapt up and licked her cheek. Barbara patted her on the head.

  “Tess!” Jossie said. “Down! Get away!”

  “S’okay,” Barbara said. “I generally prefer men, but in a pinch a female dog will do.”

  “You didn’t answer me,” Jossie said.

  “Makes us even. You didn’t answer me either. Why’re the crooks made by hand?”

  “Because the others are crap and I don’t work with crap. I take pride in my work.”

  “We have that in common.”

  He wasn’t amused. “What do you want?”

  “Who d’you get them off? Someone local?”

  “One’s local. The others are from Cornwall and Norfolk. You need more than one supplier.”

  “Why?”

  “The obvious. You need masses of them to do a roof and you can’t get caught short in the middle of a job. Are you going to tell me why we’re talking about crooks?”

  “I’m thinking of a career change.” Barbara went to the Mini and fetched her bag. She dug out her Players and said, “Mind?” to Jossie. She offered him one but he refused. She lit her own and observed him. All of this gave her time to consider what it actually meant that, when long came to short, he was asking her as much about the crooks as she was asking him. He was either very clever or he was very something else. Innocent of the crime came to mind. But she’d seen enough of the criminal element to know that the criminal element was the crimi
nal element because it had been quite successful at being the criminal element. Talking to one of their sort was like dancing in one of those Regency costume dramas on the telly: One had to know the proper steps and in which order one was supposed to make them.

  “Where’s your lady friend?” Barbara asked him.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Moved out, has she?”

  “I didn’t say that. You c’n see for yourself that her car’s not here, so—”

  “Jemima’s is, though. That’s hers in the barn, isn’t it?”

  “She left it here.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t a clue. I assume she meant to come back for it when she had a use for it or a place to keep it. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “What the hell does it matter? What do you want? Why are you here?” He looked round as if he could sort out what she’d been up to by glancing from the barn to the west paddock and from there to the east paddock and from there to the cottage.

  The dog picked up on his agitation and began to pace, looking from her master to Barbara. After a few moments, she yelped once and headed for the back door to the cottage. Barbara said to Jossie, “I think your dog wants feeding.”

  He said, “I know how to care for a dog.”

  He went to the cottage and disappeared inside. Barbara took the opportunity to fetch the magazine she’d had from Lynley when she’d met him earlier on the motorway. She rolled it up and went to the cottage, where she let herself in.

  Jossie was in the kitchen, where the dog was gulping down a bowl of dry food. Jossie stood at the sink looking out of the window. It gave a view of his pickup, Barbara’s car, and the paddock beyond. Earlier, she remembered, there’d been animals in it.

  “Where’d the horses go?” she asked him.