by Andrew Garve
Dyson was waiting for him, eager and expectant, a little way beyond the bend. “Did you hear me?” he asked.
“Yes, quite clearly.…” Nield gazed around in a business-like way. “Right—let’s see if we can reconstruct.… Hunt would have been walking with the girl from the direction of the caravan site.… That would have been along the straight stretch we saw from the hide—so they would have been visible in the moonlight.… All right so far.… Then they rounded this bend—and the reeds cut off the view.…” Nield took the letter card from his pocket and consulted it. “‘Then I heard the girl give a sort of squeal. …”’
“Presumably the moment of murder,” Dyson said. “It sounds as though it happened right away.”
“Yes.… So now he had a body on his hands.…” Nield continued to read. “‘Later on I saw a torch flashing …’—this is where the timing gets vague—‘and presently the man went back along the drove by himself’.”
“If the time gap was long enough,” Dyson said, “he could have been disposing of the body. Burying it.… That would account for the torch flashing.… Except that he wouldn’t have had any tools with him.”
“He could have dumped the body and come back later with tools.”
“Not those we saw at the site,” Dyson said. “They hadn’t been used.”
“No—but there might have been others hidden away somewhere.… Let’s see if there’s any sign of the reeds having been entered.”
They walked slowly along the drove. Dyson’s eyes were on the dyke, and the reeds on the other side of it. The man had arrived on foot with the girl—but he could have left a dinghy here earlier and ferried the body across. This dyke obviously joined up with the lode.… Nield was studying the ground to the right—“Stoker’s Fen,” a nameplate said. First, there was a ditch, with very tall reeds growing in it. Beyond was an area of waterlogged peat, with ridges and furrows formed by earlier peat cuttings. Sedge covered the ridges, and reeds flourished in the hollows. Through occasional gaps in the vegetation, Nield caught the glint of water where deep pits had filled.
Suddenly, Dyson called out. “Look here, sir … !” He was gazing down into the dyke. Nield joined him. Tied up to an iron mooring spike in the bank there was a punt—a large, flat-bottomed working punt, with long oars and an outboard engine, protected by a piece of oilcloth. On the floor there was a tarpaulin, covering something. Dyson whipped it off. Underneath were two spades and a shovel. One of the spades was dry. The other one, and the shovel, showed traces of wet, black earth on their blades.
“Well, that could be the answer to the tool problem,” Dyson said. “Hunt could have known they were here.”
Nield nodded. “It begins to add up.… So he buried her somewhere. But where?”
“It must be somewhere close,” Dyson said. “He’d have wanted to be quick—and he couldn’t have asked for a better place.”
“All right—let’s go over the ground again.”
They retraced their steps. Because of the punt, Dyson was now even more interested in the ground across the dyke—but the line of reeds there was continuous and undisturbed. Nield again concentrated on the broken ground to the right, scrutinising every inch for signs of entry, continually parting the upstanding fringe of reeds so that he could peer through.… Then, when they were almost back to the bend, he found what he was looking for. Through a gap in the reeds, a footmark.… And another … Footmarks leading away into the fen.…
Nield stepped carefully across the ditch and examined the nearest of the marks. In the squelchy ground it was no more than a deep and shapeless hole—obviously a footprint, but with collapsed sides. It could have been made by anyone’s feet. And the marks beyond it were the same.
“Come on in,” Nield said. “We can’t do any damage.”
He set off through the reeds, with Dyson following close behind. Almost at once, he stopped. To the left, there was a flattened patch of vegetation. “Looks as though something might have been put down there,” he said.
Dyson nodded. “That makes sense, too.… Hunt would have needed overalls and gumboots—and he couldn’t have had them with him.… He could have put the body here temporarily, while he fetched them. This would have been where the torch flashes were seen.… By the time he got back, the fellow in the hide would have gone.”
“Yes—that fits.…”
Nield moved on. The track ahead was unmistakable—a line of deep holes where feet had sunk, a parting of the reeds and sedge, a trail of broken leaves and stalks.… Twenty yards on, the track abruptly ended. Looking over the top of the reeds, Nield saw in front of him a piece of open water—a small pond. A pair of mallard duck rose squawking at the sight of him and flapped away.… At his feet, there was a small clearing—an oval of almost bare black mud with a film of water over it. The oval was about six feet long by three feet wide.
Dyson stared grimly down at it. “Looks like the end of the road, sir.”
“Yes,” Nield said.
The sergeant turned away. “I’ll get the tools.”
“We’d better make do with the dry spade,” Nield called after him. “There may be prints on the others.”
“Right …”
Dyson was back in a few moments. Neither man said anything more. It was a ghastly job that had to be done—and the sooner it was over the better. Dyson gave his jacket to Nield, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he thrust the spade into the soil at about the centre of the oval. The ground had been so trodden down and impacted that it was almost as resistant as unturned earth. Bruised leaves and roots impeded the blade. Black water seeped into the hole left by the digging, obstructing the view. Mud shot up in fountains.
For several minutes, Dyson worked in silence, clearing the top spit. Then, as he thrust deeper, the spade struck something more solid than roots. He bent and put his hand into the hole, feeling around. There was something smooth and narrow—like a bare arm—a wrist.…
Sweat broke out on his forehead. Under the mud splashes, his face paled. He had known plenty of horrors in his police work—but nothing quite as upsetting as this. He had too much imagination. That beautiful hair, that lovely face—and in this filth.… He braced himself. No point in thinking about it. Better get it over. He cleared more earth away, and plunged his hand into the hole again, and pulled gently on the thing he’d touched. The black mud heaved—and suddenly the object shot out with a sucking noise. A piece of smooth dark wood.…
“Bog oak,” Dyson said, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of a muddy hand.
He continued to dig. Soon he had uncovered all the centre part of the oval to a depth of eighteen inches or more. At that depth he met resistance again. Once more he thrust his arm down, following the contours of the object, scraping the mud away from it with his fingers. Slowly, the expression on his face changed from revulsion to astonishment.
“It’s more bog oak,” he said. “A great solid lump of it.… And it goes right across.… No one’s dug below that.” He straightened up. “We were wrong, sir.… There’s nothing here.”
Nield passed Dyson his jacket. Dyson struggled into it. Both men stared down at the hole in perplexity.
“I don’t get it,” Dyson said “The body ought to be here. This is the place—everything points to it.… The only place that fits the letter.… I’ll swear no one’s entered the fen at any other point round here. We combed every inch.”
Nield grunted.
Suddenly Dyson said, “Maybe he buried it here first—and then moved it to an entirely different spot … He could have got the wind up after we showed him the letter. He’d have guessed we’d be down here searching. I’ll bet that’s what happened.”
“When do you suggest he moved it?”
“Well—last night. He couldn’t have done it any other time.”
Nield shook his head. “There was a thick mist last night. He wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.”
“If he was desperate enough, he’d have managed someho
w.”
“No, Sergeant—I don’t believe it. Visibility was only a yard or two. Even if he’d been able to find the place again, which I doubt, he’d have blundered about in the reeds, made new tracks, left traces everywhere.… Especially carrying a body.… I’m certain he didn’t come back last night.”
“Then I don’t understand it,” Dyson said. “If Hunt didn’t dig a grave here, how do you account for all the mess—the bare patch.… Someone’s spent a lot of time here.”
“It could have been one of those naturalists—like the two we saw standing out in the fen this afternoon. He could have been watching the birds on the pond through there—using the spot as a sort of hide. The place probably would have looked like a trampled grave by the time he’d finished.… Could you swear the ground had ever been dug up?”
“No—not for sure.”
“Well, there you are.… I’m afraid we’ve been led astray.”
“By the letter.”
“Yes.… Maybe Hunt was right after all.… Maybe all the fellow saw from the hide was an ordinary couple—strolling, sky-larking, then separating.…”
“And there just happened to be a track here?”
“Why not? We know they’re all over the fen.”
“That’s true.…” Wearily, Dyson picked up his spade, “So what’s the next move, sir?”
“For you,” Nield said, “a hot bath.… You should see yourself!”
Chapter Seven
At approximately the time that Nield and Dyson were trudging back to their cars through the fen, Alan Hunt was telephoning his fiancée at the Crown Hotel.
Susan Ainger had returned the previous evening from her expedition to London. Hunt had already talked to her once on the phone, asking about the shopping she’d done, the people she’d visited, the comfort of the hotel she’d stayed at, and in general showing himself an affectionate and interested husband-to-be. He had also arranged with her that he should dine at the Aingers’ on the following day—which, in part, was why he was now calling her.
“Darling,” he said, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to have dinner with you this evening after all. Something’s come up.…”
“Oh, Alan, what a bore!”
“Isn’t it.…? I very much want to see you, though. Could we meet for an hour on your way home?”
“I expect so,” Susan said. “Usual time and place?”
“Yes—Hayes Corner at a quarter past six.”
“What’s happened—work?”
“No, it’s something else.… I’ll tell you when we meet.”
“All right, darling,” Susan said. “I won’t be late.”
She was already at the wood when Hunt arrived. He parked his car under the trees and joined her in the Austin Healey. His brow was furrowed, his manner unaccustomedly diffident. “Hallo, sweetie,” he said. He kissed her with much less than his usual ardour—then held her away from him, looking into her eyes. “Susan, I must tell you what’s happened.”
“If that’s the best you can do after three days away from me,” she said, “you certainly must!”
“It’s no joking matter,” he told her. “I’m actually in a bit of a spot.”
Her teasing smile faded. “Oh, Alan, I’m sorry.… What’s happened?”
“It’s quite a saga,” he said. “It started on Saturday, just after you’d gone away.…”
He plunged into his story. Substantially, it was the one he’d told Nield on the Monday moming—but now his manner was less light-hearted, less detached. Susan listened with fascinated interest to his tale of the unexpected visit of a girl he’d met on holiday; of the mix-up in identity that had brought it about; of how the girl was going to have someone’s baby; and of her state of mind when she’d found out how she’d been deceived. Hunt described his efforts to persuade her to go home, and how he’d finally succeeded, and how he’d hardly known the girl and had simply been doing her a good turn because she was in trouble. He spoke in a slightly rueful way, keeping the story brief and matter-of-fact, watching Susan all the time to see how she was taking it.
She took the facts unquestioningly, with naïve faith. “Poor girl,” she said. “And what an awful bind for you.… But I must say you seem to have done jolly well. Why do you say you’re in a spot?”
“Well, darling, it seems the girl didn’t actually get home …” Hunt explained how he’d set her down a little way short of her house, and why. “She must have changed her mind again at the last minute and gone off.… And yesterday morning the police came to see me.”
“The police! About her.…?”
“Yes.… They wanted to know what I’d done with her.… ! It’s so fantastic, Susan, I can hardly believe it.… From what they said, they seemed to think it was I who’d got the girl pregnant—and that I hadn’t taken her to Peterborough at all. They behaved just as though they suspected me of having bumped her off.”
Susan stared at him. “They must be out of their minds.”
“That’s what I said.… Of course, in a way I can understand their point of view. The girl had disappeared, and I can’t prove I took her to Peterborough. I can’t prove anything, really.… And there’s another stupid thing that cropped up, too—it couldn’t have come at a worse moment.…”
“What’s that?”
“Well, apparently some busybody was in Ocken Fen on Saturday night and he saw a man and a girl together and heard the girl cry out and he sent the police a note about it. Anonymously—he hadn’t even the guts to sign his name. It was probably just a couple fooling about, but he made it sound terribly sinister—said the man went off on his own after flashing a torch around.… The trouble is, he said he thought the man looked a bit like me. Just thought, mind you—but it didn’t stop him throwing accusations about … So now you can see why I’m in a jam.”
“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous,” Susan said. For the first time ever, Hunt saw her looking angry.
“I know.… It just shows how a completely innocent person can get caught up in these things—and how difficult it is to clear yourself.… I’ve told the police exactly what happened—but the trouble is they don’t know me. So they don’t know whether to believe me or not. To them, I’m just a man who came up with a rather extraordinary story he can’t substantiate. A man with a motive, too—they seem to think I might have got rid of the girl because she could have got in the way of my marrying you.… I suppose it’s their duty to be suspicious and think up every nasty angle they can—bat it’s damned unpleasant for me.”
“Darling, it’s horrible for you—it’s a perfectly awful thing to have happened. I’m livid about it.…” She sat silent for a moment, considering the situation. “Still,” she said, “once the girl turns up, that’ll be the end of it, won’t it?”
“Oh, yes—as long as she does turn up. If she doesn’t, things might get a bit rugged—and she did talk of losing herself.… But I’m not worried about the long term—the police are pretty certain to dig up some bit of evidence that proves my story.… What worries me is what’s going to happen in the next few days.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’ll obviously be a search for the girl, and that means the newspapers will have to be told all about the case.… When the story comes out, it’s going to look pretty bad for me. I’m afraid a lot of people are going to suspect me. In fact, my name’s going to be mud around here for a bit.”
A little of the colour went out of Susan’s cheeks. “Well, I call that most unfair,” she said indignantly; “It’s not your fault that the girl came to see you—and all you did was try to help her.”
“I know that,” Hunt said, “and you know it—but is the world going to believe it? I’m afraid I’m in for a rather sticky time.…” He reached for Susan’s hand. “I’m so sorry it’s happened, sweetie.… It’s going to be beastly for you, too.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Susan said.
“But I do, Susan—terribly. I love you
so much—I wouldn’t have involved you in a sordid thing like this for anything in the world.… Now that I have, I wouldn’t blame you if you felt you couldn’t go through with our marriage. Or at least if you wanted to postpone it.…”
“Alan.… ! You’re not serious?”
“I am serious.… It would just about break my heart if you called it off, but I certainly don’t feel I’ve any right to hold you to a promise you made when things were so different.… The least I can do is offer you your freedom.”
“Heavens, you do sound old-fashioned.… ! I don’t want my freedom—I only wish we could get married to-morrow.… In any case, I wouldn’t call it off now—what sort of a person do you take me for? You don’t really suppose I’d leave you in the lurch just when you need me most?”
“That’s not how I’d think of it, Susan. I’d think you were being sensible.… I’m not sure you realise, yet, just how unpleasant it’s going to be.”
“I don’t care what it’s like,” Susan said. “If you’re in a jam, I’d much sooner be in it with you.… Now will you please stop talking nonsense.”
Hunt sighed. “You’re so loyal, darling.… I only hope you won’t regret it.”
“Of course I won’t.”
He bent and kissed her. “I love you very much, Susan—and I don’t want you to be hurt. If you should change your mind later on.…”
“Please, Alan!”
“Very well—I won’t say anything more.… We’ll just have to hope they find the girl quickly.”
Susan nodded. “Hadn’t we better tell Daddy about all this?”
“We must, of course.… I’ll tell him myself, it’s my job.… But I think I’ll wait a day or two—there’s no point in upsetting him and your mother before it’s necessary—and if the girl’s found soon, it won’t be. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, all right.… When am I going to see you again?”
“Well, it may not be too easy for the next couple of days—I’m supposed to be holding myself available at the site for questioning. I shouldn’t really have slipped away this evening.… But I’ll ring you each day, and tell you the news.”
