by Ann Granger
‘You can look out an old file for me,’ said Markby. ‘It was a serial rapes case, unsolved, and the perpetrator was nicknamed the Potato Man.’ He gave the date and location of the rapes.
‘Get it up to you directly,’ promised the voice.
Markby walked down the corridor and helped himself to a brew from the machine there. He presumed it to be tea because he’d pressed the button marked ‘Tea’ but without this clue, anyone could have been misled. Though normally he didn’t take sugar he selected the sweetened version because it masked the usual taste of burnt cocoa which seem to dominate any beverage provided by this dispenser.
He carried it back to his office, his footsteps echoing in a building still half-empty. Back in his office, he stood with it in his hand, staring from the window, not seeing the asphalted parking area, the moving cars below like so many shiny beetles, and the ant-like clusters of men and women. He saw Stovey Woods.
Occasionally his gaze drifted from the scene outside to the top of his desk and the crumpled package lying there. He murmured, ‘Who are you?’
Just bones? Or bones which could still speak to them? In the days before X-rays, a skeleton had been the symbol of mortality, the intricate and unlikely framework of the human body, only seen once its owner had long gone, dust to dust. It pranced, grinning, along the façade of many a medieval cathedral in a danse macabre, reminding the other revellers, the monk, the lady, the knight, the peasant, of that end to which all must come. That symbolism had faded in the glare of scientific advance. Yet perhaps true awareness of reality lay not with modern scientists and their machines but with the sculptor of long ago. Even the sad little collection on his desk represented a living, breathing being. Flesh had clothed those bones once. That jaw had moved up and down in speech, chewing food, singing a popular song, and he had to put a name to him or her. The necessity was like a nagging pain. It wouldn’t leave him, the question would never cease to plague him morning, noon and night. Was he looking at the mortal remains of the Potato Man? Or at the pitiful remnants of one of his victims? Or, indeed, someone else altogether? He mustn’t let himself become so convinced that the bones related to the old case that he ignored other possibilities.
Though the bones were few, they contained the lower jaw and that, in turn, contained something which might be the invaluable key to identity. He’d already been on the phone to his own dentist, confirming his suspicions. Expensive dental work ought to be traceable, especially that kind.
Markby allowed himself a wry smile. It wasn’t the kind of dental work that a Lower Stovey villager might have been able to afford, all those years ago. If the jaw was that of the Potato Man, it suggested that the rapist had been from outside the village, after all, as the Reverend Pattinson had always insisted.
He sipped his tea, winced and sighed. He should have gone up to the canteen but his appearance there, so early in the day, would disturb things. From the window he saw Dave Pearce arrive, park his car, and stride purposefully towards the building. Dave looked a bit out of sorts.
Markby went into the outer office. ‘Inspector Pearce is just on his way up,’ he said. ‘When he gets here, tell him I want to see him at once, will you?’
Pearce, the message received, made his way to Markby’s office, wondering what was up and half welcoming a diversion which would take his mind off his own problems. Along the way, the tooth twinged, letting him know it wasn’t to be forgotten so easily. After the detour to deliver Tessa to the building society, he hadn’t had time to stop off at the dentist’s.
He found Markby standing by his desk, staring down at a creased sheet of paper on which lay some not unfamiliar objects.
‘Bones,’ observed Pearce with professional detachment. Inside, he was feeling far less sanguine. Was that what this call to Markby’s office was all about? That crummy collection of oddments? He wasn’t going to be asked to make something of them, was he? Yes, he probably was. With a note of resignation in his voice, he added, ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘Yes, Dave, and yes, bones. They were found in Stovey Woods at the weekend by a hiker.’
Pearce drew nearer and studied the gruesome collection unenthusiastically. ‘Old,’ he opined. ‘And pretty chewed about. Found in the woods? Then the damage will be down to foxes, most likely. Is that it? No more?’ Even Markby couldn’t expect him to conjure up a miracle of identification, surely, from this little lot?
Oh, yes, he did
‘Not as yet. The woods will have to be searched.’
Pearce drew a deep breath. ‘It’ll be quite something to organize. Those woods cover a fair area. You know we’ve got a bit of a manpower problem. Oughtn’t we get the bones to a boffin first? They could be donkey’s years old.’
‘And you’re obviously hoping they are. I’m hoping they’re not, not relating to a time out of living memory, anyway.’ Markby poked the bones with a long thin forefinger.
Pearce clearly resisted the urge to ask why, realising the danger that any information might result in yet more work. He stooped to low cunning. ‘If animals are involved, the bones could’ve been carried from somewhere else.’
‘Then check Lower Stovey churchyard,’ suggested his boss mildly. ‘See if any old graves have been disturbed. No one ever goes there and a disturbance mightn’t be noticed. I was there myself at the weekend,’ he added contradictorily
‘Why?’ asked Pearce, genuinely curious this time and putting a hand to his jaw without being aware of the gesture.
‘House-hunting. No, not in the churchyard. We looked at the old vicarage next door to it.’
‘Any good?’ enquired Pearce, suddenly seeing the faint hope of deflecting Markby from the bones.
‘I’d say it’d got possibilities,’ Markby told him. ‘But it’s on the large side.’ He caught at the paper and rustled it. ‘Without having had an expert look at these, I’d judge them to have been lying around for twenty years at least. But that, Dave, is still recent enough to interest us!’
‘It’ll be some old tramp, died of hypothermia,’ Pearce persevered in the face of certain defeat.
‘We can’t assume that!’ Markby told him severely. ‘Take a look at the jawbone.’
The last thing Pearce needed was to study a set of rickety teeth. He picked up the jawbone gingerly.
‘Notice anything?’ the superintendent was asking.
Which meant there was something to notice, Markby had already seen it and Pearce had better see it quickly. He saw it.
‘Some fancy dental work here. I’ve not seen anything like it.’ Nor did he like the look of it, or the thought of it. Implanted in the jaw was a discoloured piece of metal resembling the popular image of a Christmas tree. He sighed, seeing his hope that the remains were historical vanish. Nor did tramps usually have mouths filled with expensive dentistry.
‘It’s called a blade implant,’ Markby informed him. ‘This type is called a Christmas tree implant. I know this,’ he explained, ‘because before you came in, I rang my dentist and described the thing to him.’
Pearce wondered what time that morning Markby had arrived in his office. Very early, by the sound of it. Pearce had worked with Markby over several years. He knew that this early morning eager-beaver stuff usually meant Markby was dissatisfied about something, not necessarily to do with police work, and having another problem to worry at, got the dissatisfaction out of his system. It was probably the house-hunting, thought Pearce, not without sympathy. He and Tessa had suffered similarly before buying their house. He just hoped that domestic frustrations didn’t lead to Markby pushing everything that came their way under his, Pearce’s, nose. Especially, if it had anything to do with teeth.
‘What’s more,’ Markby was saying, determined, it seemed, to talk about teeth and nothing else. ‘About twenty years ago – assuming that to be the age of the bones although that can only be guesswork at the moment – such dental work was comparatively rare and carried out only in a few places. So, we might be able to
trace that particular effort. The metal piece has some sort of mark on it.’
‘Oh, yes …’ Pearce, forgetting his personal aversion, peered at the blade. ‘Like a hallmark.’
‘Manufacturer’s mark, most likely. Get on to it, Dave.’
Just like that. He was going to be busy all day. Which meant, Pearce decided, he wouldn’t have time to ring his own dentist about his own teeth. He gathered up the mystery bones. ‘I’ll get ’em over to the experts,’ he said.
But Markby had something else for him. He picked up a file from the desk. It looked to Pearce to be a pretty old one. ‘You might,’ Markby said casually, ‘like to read up on this old case. It might have some bearing.’
Pearce added the file to the parcel of bones in his arms. ‘Right you are,’ he said and edged towards the door before he could be burdened with anything else.
III
Someone else was having a frustrating morning.
‘Hello again!’ said the young man breezily.
He wore a white shirt and garish tie. His jacket hung on the back of his chair. He had one of those well-fed and well-pleased with life faces topped with hair cut and gelled in the fashionable spikey style. Meredith was pleased to note that, despite his age which was probably a good ten years younger than she was, he had the beginnings of what was popularly known as a beerbelly.
‘Hello again,’ she echoed, taking the chair opposite him.
He leaned his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. ‘Well,’ he said cheerily. ‘Did you go and look at the Lower Stovey property?’
‘We did. Mr—’ Meredith glanced at the plaque on his desk. It read simply ‘Gary’. ‘Gary,’ she began again. ‘We went to see it. Tell me, have you seen it?’
He blinked. ‘No, I don’t think I did the valuation on that one. Let me see.’ He shuffled papers. ‘No, Cindy did that one.’
And how old is Cindy? Nineteen? snarled an inner Meredith.
‘But I can tell you,’ Gary was breezing on. ‘That my colleague was very impressed by the property. Very impressed indeed.’
‘By colleague you mean Cindy, I suppose,’ said Meredith icily and without waiting for his acknowledgement, went on. ‘Just as a matter of interest, what impressed Cindy in particular about the Old Vicarage, Lower Stovey?’
‘It’s unique,’ he said solemnly. ‘A quality residence on a practical scale.’
‘It’s huge. It has five bedrooms without counting the maids’ rooms up in the attics.’
‘The attics could be turned into a super recreation room. Snooker, ping-pong, a gym …’ He beamed. ‘Cindy thought you could get all that up there, lovely place. Enough room for a bowling alley.’
‘I don’t need to play snooker at home or bowl. As for a gym, I’ve got an exercise bike and it takes up very little room. I’m not so much bothered about space, in any case, more general condition. You know the central heating system is out of the ark and broken? I hate to think what the electrics are like.’
‘It does need some modernisation,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But that is reflected in the price, Miss Mitchell.’
‘The kitchen is out of Dickens.’
‘But a lovely size.’
‘It’s got sash windows which stick.’
‘Period features.’
‘A garden which is completely overgrown.’
He had his answer ready. He beamed at her. ‘I understood that Mr Markby is a very keen gardener! Plenty of scope for him there! Grow all your own vegetables,’ he added, inspired. ‘Organic, natural, full of flavour.’
‘And Lower Stovey is totally cut off, down a road which leads nowhere, only to some woods.’
He jabbed his index finger at her. ‘Got it. Entirely secluded and …’ his voice rose in triumph … ‘no risk of further development. The old drovers’ way runs just behind the village and right through the woods. It’s protected. It’s, you know, historic. No one’s going to put a motorway through there, are they? Or put up two hundred starter homes. Believe me, a location like that doesn’t come on the market every day.’
Meredith sat back in her chair and heaved a sigh. ‘Haven’t you got anything else on your books?’
‘Yes, lots,’ he nodded. ‘But not what you’re looking for. Three bed semi? No problem. Detached with garage and room for extra parking? Show you two or three. Nice little bungalow?’ He shook his head. ‘But you don’t want any of those, do you. You and Mr Markby, you want character. You want period charm.’ He leaned across the desk and added in a hoarse whisper, ‘You want to go up-market.’ He made it sound like the last word in degeneracy.
‘How about a biggish cottage?’ she asked desperately.
He spread his hands. ‘At the moment, not a chance. Wouldn’t I like to be able to show you one? Of course I would. But they’re like hot cakes, they are. Hardly touch the books. Word gets out one is for sale and I’ve got prospective buyers tripping over one another trying to get through that door first.’
‘But they’re not tripping over one another to offer for the Old Vicarage?’
Gary folded his hands. ‘I’m sure,’ he said confidentially, ‘that Mrs Scott, the owner, would accept any reasonable offer.’
Meredith, although she knew it was a mistake, heard herself ask, ‘How reasonable?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll talk her down a bit.’
‘Hang on!’ Meredith protested, knowing she was being outmanoeuvred here. ‘Let’s leave Lower Stovey on the back burner for the moment. We’re bearing it in mind.’ She got up. ‘In the meantime, we’ll look further.’
He rightly interpreted this as meaning they were going to consult the books of a rival firm.
‘Don’t be hasty. Let me talk to Mrs Scott. While you’re waiting …’ he cast about and brightened, ‘you could go and take a look at Hill House. It commands spectacular views over unspoilt countryside. Mind you, it’s been empty two years and about a year ago there was a bit of trouble when some hippies broke in and camped in it for a month or two. Since then it’s been boarded up. But it’s a beautiful late Georgian house.’
‘Forget it,’ said Meredith.
‘You let me talk to Mrs Scott,’ he urged. ‘And why don’t you go and take another look round the property? I can tell you, once word gets out—’
‘They’ll be tripping over one another in your doorway, I know.’ On the other hand, Hill House sounded immeasurably worse. ‘Let me think about it,’ she said.
IV
Meredith was still thinking about the lack of success she and Alan were having house-hunting as, the following morning, she journeyed up to London by crowded commuter train and packed Tube to her Foreign Office desk. Gary, she decided, had only told her about Hill House to make the Old Vicarage sound positively desirable.
At lunchtime a friend, Juliet Painter, rang. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages, Meredith. I was thinking, if you haven’t got to rush off home after work today, we could have a bowl of spaghetti together somewhere.’
‘Where’s Doug?’ Meredith enquired.
‘Don’t ask me. Working.’ There was a touch of annoyance in Juliet’s voice.
‘That’ll teach you to date a copper,’ said Meredith unsympathetically. As Juliet was finding out and Meredith had already learned, policemen, like doctors, were apt to be called out at inconvenient times. ‘Where do you want to meet?’ she said more kindly.
The restaurant Juliet had in mind was in Soho, off Dean Street.
‘Because,’ she said, when she and Meredith were settled at a table, ‘it’s lively down here. You can watch the street life through the windows. See?’ She pointed through the glass at the thronged pavement. ‘Doug and I like it.’ There was a touch of defiance in the last words, Meredith thought.
‘This is getting very serious with you and Superintendent Minchin, isn’t it?’ Meredith studied Juliet. ‘There’s something different about you. Where are your specs?’
‘Got contact lenses.’ Juliet t
ook one of the two menus a waiter was holding out to them. Her tone was suspiciously airy.
‘I thought you couldn’t get on with them.’
‘They’ve got new types now. I’m managing better.’ Juliet tilted her chin and tossed her single long plait of hair. ‘It’s not because of Doug, if that’s what you’re thinking. We’re not that serious, thank you. Not as serious as you and Alan.’ She was getting her own back.
Meredith glared morosely at the menu. ‘If that’s what I am. Alan’s serious.’
‘Hey, getting cold feet?’
‘I suppose so,’ Meredith admitted.
‘It’s all this talk of marriage,’ said Juliet firmly. ‘Look, I can understand your jitters, even if Alan can’t. It’s because he’s been married before and he thinks in those terms. He must be forty-five now and it’s a funny age. He wants to settle down. Now you and me, we’re used to our independence. But life’s got to move on. You’re what, thirty-seven? Does Alan want kids?’
‘I’ve never asked him! In any case, I don’t think he’s marrying me because he fancies sitting at the head of the table, gazing down at a line of scrubbed little faces. I should bloomin’ well hope not. Anyway, I’m too old to start a big family. One child or two, I might – might! – be able to cope with. I’m not even sure about that. I’ve never had anything to do with babies. I’m an only child. Right now it just appears another complication and marriage, to me, already sounds complicated enough. I’ve never even lived with anyone, not under the same roof for any length of time. Whether it’s been Alan or earlier relationships I’ve had, I’ve always insisted on my own space. When I was overseas with the Diplomatic Service, of course, I got my own flat as part of the job.’
She sighed. ‘I did love my time overseas. For ages after I got back I tried to get posted out somewhere, anywhere, again. Now I know that’s not going to happen and I’m stuck at a Foreign Office desk until pension day. I’ll be honest. I did resent that. It made me very dissatisfied for a long time and poor Alan bore the brunt of it. It’s been difficult for him. I can see that. I can also see that those years living abroad weren’t the absolute good thing I thought they were. They cut me off from normal life. I was living a very satisfying, but distinctly peculiar, artificial life. It made me into a peculiar sort of person.’
