Trace, the Scenes-of-Crime Officer, came to meet them. ‘Morning, sir. It looks as though she went into the water somewhere further up river. The undergrowth along the bank just here is pretty dense and there’s no way anyone could have dragged her through and dumped her without leaving traces of her passage. I understand they had problems enough getting her out …’
Thanet nodded a greeting at the two ambulancemen waiting near by before moving towards the body which was stretched out at the foot of a tree. Mallard’s description had told him what to expect, but the bald facts had conveyed no image of the reality. The woman, even in death, had an interesting face: high cheek-boned, with jutting nose and powerful jaw. Deep vertical creases between her eyebrows hinted at bad temper, short sight or periods of intense concentration. A strong character, he guessed, and perhaps a difficult one. He noted the gash on the right temple, mentioned by Doc Mallard, and stooped to look more closely. Yes, it had been quite a nasty blow. Her long hair, he saw, had been dyed; it darkened perceptibly at the roots.
Closer proximity made him notice her jewellery too: large, tear-drop pearl earrings with gold mounts and a triple choker of pearls. If genuine, they would cost a packet. He glanced at her left hand. Yes, there was a wedding ring, plain gold, and a modest engagement ring with three small diamonds. On the same hand she wore two other rings, both apparently gold, one of a twisted rope design, the other elaborately chased. And on her right hand she wore a large diamond cluster which, again if genuine, would probably pay the deposit on a modest house.
Her shoes were missing but her clothes, too, were interesting: a quilted anorak over a peacock blue cocktail dress with a heavily beaded and sequinned top. A strange combination, surely? He pointed it out to Lineham.
‘Hardly the sort of coat to wear over a dress like that.’
Lineham frowned. ‘Perhaps she was entertaining at home and just slung the anorak on to go outside for some reason?’
‘Possibly.’ Thanet glanced up at Trace, who was watching him. ‘Anything in the pockets?’
‘Just a handkerchief and a set of car keys, sir.’
‘Car keys … Did you notice any cars belonging to members of the public back there, Mike?’
Lineham invariably noticed cars.
The sergeant shook his head. ‘No, sir,’
‘We’ll check on the way back. So,’ mused Thanet, ‘no means of identification, so far.’
‘Sir?’ It was Swift, looking uncomfortable.
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t know whether I ought to say anything, as it’s so vague, but … I’m sure I’ve seen this woman before, somewhere.’
‘But you can’t remember where?’
‘No sir. It’s so frustrating. I’ve been racking my brains.’ Swift stared down at the dead face, as if willing it to provide him with the information. He shook his head. ‘It’s no good.’
Thanet clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll come. Just put it out of your mind, that’s the best way.’ He walked across to the river bank. To his right, a couple of hundred yards upstream, was the weir; eight or ten feet below him the swollen waters of the Sture, obscured by a dense tangle of undergrowth. Broken branches and trampled twigs confirmed Trace’s words about the difficulties of retrieving the body. ‘This where you got her out?’
‘Yes, sir.’ One of the uniformed PCs pointed. ‘If it hadn’t been for that tree, she’d be miles down river by now, we reckon. Her hair had caught on that tangle of branches. Apart from that she was floating free.’
The tree in question must have come down during the winter storms; it projected some fifteen feet into the river, its upper branches submerged and well out into the main current. Thanet could visualise the scene clearly, the body carried along by the swollen waters, accelerating as it approached the rush of water over the weir, the twisting tumble as it was carried over the lip into the churn of waters below, the sudden check as the woman’s abundant hair caught in the web of branches lying in wait beneath the surface …
‘Have you checked the bank upstream?’
‘We had a quick look, sir, but there’s no sign of a struggle, or of anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Good.’ But they would take another look all the same, thought Thanet. In any case, there was little point in cordoning off the area or setting up screens. He told the ambulancemen they could take the body away, then turned back to the uniformed men. ‘Who was first on the scene?’
‘We were, sir.’
Thanet addressed the older of the two patrolmen. ‘I assume it was a member of the public who discovered the body?’
‘Yes, a woman out walking her dog, sir. She lives in the cottage on the corner just up there, where you turn off the Sturrenden road to come down to the car park. We thought it would be OK for her to wait at home to give her statement. She was pretty shaken.’
‘Fine. Right. So this is what we do.’
Thanet despatched young Swift to take a statement from the witness, then ordered a further search of the river bank upstream, both above and below the weir.
‘Any news, report back to me. DS Lineham and I are going back to headquarters.’
Trudging back across the field Lineham said, ‘Looks as though we might have a problem with identification, sir.’
‘Mmm. I don’t know. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s not too long before someone reports her missing. She looks pretty well-heeled, don’t you think? I should say she’s come up in the world.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Those rings. Modest engagement ring, the rest of her jewellery – if it’s genuine – pretty expensive. Either her husband has had a successful career, or she has.’
‘She could have come downriver for miles,’ said Lineham.
Something in the Sergeant’s tone made Thanet glance at him sharply. Now that he came to think about it, Lineham had been unusually subdued all morning. Normally the prospect of a possible murder investigation aroused all the Sergeant’s enthusiasm.
‘Anything the matter, Mike?’
‘No. Why?’
Now Thanet was certain. He knew Lineham too well. But if the Sergeant didn’t want to talk about it … ‘Just wondered … Anyway, I think we’d better take a good look at a map. Come on.’
Back in the CID room they were still studying a large-scale map of the area when Pater, the Station Officer, came on the line. ‘I’ve got someone on the phone, sir, says his wife is missing. Sounds as though she could be the woman we pulled out of the river this morning.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Salden, sir. Lives at Telford Green.’
Which was in the right direction, upriver from Sturrenden on the river Teale, a main tributary of the Sture. ‘Put him on.’
‘Mr Salden? Detective Inspector Thanet here. I understand your wife is missing?’
‘Yes. I didn’t find out till this morning, but her bed hasn’t been slept in.’
‘I wonder, could you describe her for me?’
‘She’s five six, slim, long blonde hair, brown eyes …’
‘How old is she?’
‘Forty-five.’
‘I see. And do you happen to know what she was wearing last night?’
There was a pause. Then, ‘A deep blue cocktail dress, with those shiny things on the top … What d’you call them …?’
‘Sequins?’
‘Yes, that’s right, sequins.’ The man’s voice suddenly sharpened. ‘Why?’
Thanet sighed. This was one of the worst parts of his job, and he especially hated having to communicate news like this over the telephone. But it would be unfair and rather pointless to keep Salden in suspense while they drove out to Telford Green.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Salden, but I’m afraid I might have some bad news for you.’
TWO
‘Here we are, sir.’
For the last few minutes the two police cars had been running alongside the tall red brick wall of Telford Green
Manor, where Salden lived, and now the gates had come into view. Lineham turned in past the little octagonal gatehouse and as arranged the other car continued on into the village.’
Salden was due back shortly from a visit to the mortuary where, Thanet knew, he had confirmed that the dead woman was his wife. Thanet wasn’t looking forward to the interview. Above all things he hated questioning the newly bereaved, having to probe at a raw wound when the witness was least able to bear the pain. It had to be done, however, and if this turned out to be a murder case … well, Thanet was as aware as the next man that in cases of domestic murder it is the husband who is the most likely suspect.
Meanwhile, he and Lineham had been doing their homework and studying a large-scale map of the Telford Green area. The main road to Sturrenden, which lay five miles to the east, ran at this point more or less parallel to the river Teale, which flowed into the Sture two miles downriver. The road to Telford Green, a small community with a population of around 500, cut away diagonally, crossing the Teale in the centre of the village. The Manor grounds were sandwiched between the two roads and ran right down to the Teale on the far side of the bridge in the village.
The rest of Thanet’s team had been detailed to go into the centre of the village and work their way along the river bank, looking for signs of anything out of the ordinary.
The driveway to the Manor was about half a mile long, curving to the left between impressive mature oaks and copper beeches before straightening out in an avenue which afforded a fine view of the house, which was black and white, long, low and timbered.
Lineham whistled as it came into sight.
‘They can’t be short of a penny.’
As this was the Sergeant’s standard reaction to every dwelling bigger than a four-bedroomed detached, Thanet ignored it. What interested him much more was what was going on in front of it. A bulldozer was parked between a car and a police motorcycle, and a group consisting of a uniformed policeman, three men and two women seemed to be having a heated discussion. All six turned to look as Thanet’s car approached.
‘Wonder what’s up?’ said Lineham, parking neatly alongside the bulldozer.
They both got out.
‘Detective Inspector Thanet, Sturrenden CID,’ said Thanet, addressing the company at large. ‘What’s going on?’
They all started to speak at once, and Thanet raised a hand. ‘One at a time, please.’
One of the women stepped forward. ‘Is it true?’ she said. ‘About Mrs Salden?’
She was around fifty, short and dumpy, with untidy fluffy brown hair, a round ingenuous face and unfashionably uptilted spectacles. Her clothes were drab – brown tweed skirt, cream blouse with Peter Pan collar and a shapeless brown speckled cardigan.
‘Sorry,’ said Thanet, ‘you’re …?’
The woman flushed, an ugly brick red. ‘Edith Phipps,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Salden’s secretary. And this is Mrs Pantry, the housekeeper. And will you please tell these men that in the circumstances nothing can be done, for the moment, now that … Is it true?’ she repeated. ‘Is Mrs Salden really …?’
Thanet dragged his attention back from the fact that, without a single word being exchanged, he had taken an instinctive dislike to Mrs Pantry the housekeeper. ‘Er … yes, Miss Phipps, I’m afraid it has been confirmed. Mrs Salden is dead.’
‘Then I should think that settles it,’ said the uniformed PC to the other three men. ‘Sorry, sir, PC Kimberley. This is my patch, and Miss Phipps called me in to try and settle a dispute. These men are bailiffs. Mrs Salden has an order for possession against a chap called Greenleaf who’s been living in her woods and they’ve come to enforce it, as he’s been refusing to move after the notice expired.’
‘And the bulldozer?’ said Thanet.
‘Greenleaf lives in a ramshackle sort of hut, sir, that he built himself. The bulldozer was to demolish it.’
‘And I’m simply saying,’ broke in Edith Phipps, ‘that they can’t go on with this, now that the circumstances have changed.’ She was holding herself under a tight control, her hands, tightly clasped and white-knuckled, betrayed her agitation. ‘We don’t know if Mr Salden will still want to go ahead, and anyway he certainly won’t feel like being bothered with all this, when he gets back, he’ll be too upset. Please,’ she said to Thanet, ‘send them away. Otherwise there’ll be so much trouble …’
‘Trouble?’ Thanet looked at PC Kimberley.
‘The village people are opposed to the eviction, sir. A number of them are waiting down in the woods, near Harry’s – Greenleaf’s hut. I’ve sent to headquarters for reinforcements.’
‘Then I agree,’ said Thanet. ‘The eviction should be postponed. Mr Salden will have too much on his mind to be bothered with this sort of problem.’
The taller of the two bailiffs shrugged. ‘So long as you’re willing to take the responsibility, Inspector.’
‘I am.’
‘OK.’ He glanced around, as if reassuring himself that there were plenty of witnesses, then said, ‘Come on then, Ted, we’ll be off.’ And to the bulldozer driver, who had been standing by smoking a cigarette and looking bored, ‘You too, mate.’
The bailiffs got into their car and drove off. The other man shrugged, took his cigarette out of his mouth, spat, replaced the cigarette and then climbed into the seat of his cab.
‘Right,’ said Thanet. ‘If you’d just wait here, Kimberley, I’d appreciate a word with you later.’ He turned to the two women. ‘Shall we go indoors?’
His words were drowned by the full-throated roar of the bulldozer starting up, and he had to repeat them. Mrs Pantry led the way through the heavy oak front door into a huge entrance hall open right up to the roof rafters. A wide, highly polished oak staircase led up to a galleried landing. The stone-flagged floor was incongruously adorned with a modern bordered carpet square in strident tones of orange and green.
‘May I enquire which of you two ladies saw Mrs Salden last?’
The women looked at each other.
‘I did,’ said the housekeeper, reluctantly.
‘What time would that have been?’
‘About twenty to ten last night, when she left to visit her mother, in the village.’
‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon,’ said the secretary.
‘Right, well perhaps I could have a word with you later, Miss Phipps.’ He looked at the housekeeper. ‘Is there somewhere private, where we could talk?’
‘We could go into the kitchen.’
‘Fine.’
Thanet’s sitting-room and dining-room would both have fitted comfortably into the kitchen, which had evidently been built on to the house in the days when there was no servant problem and there would probably have been eight or ten people sitting down for meals at the long pine table. A row of bells, each labelled with the name of a room, hung near the door. Apart from its size it would be a pleasant room to work in, with a chestnut brown Aga exuding a comforting warmth, a more than adequate supply of oak-faced units, and yellow and white checked curtains at the windows, which looked out on to the back garden. A smell of baking hung in the air.
They all sat down at one end of the table.
‘Now then,’ said Thanet, ‘perhaps you could tell us about last night?’
While she talked he studied the housekeeper, seeking a reason for that apparently irrational recoil he had experienced upon being introduced to her. She was a big, raw-boned woman in her sixties, heavily built and … no, not clumsy, exactly … He sought the word. Graceless, yes, that was it, graceless in all her movements. Although she was wearing a flowered dress beneath a blue nylon overall she looked as though she would have been much more at home in trousers, her feet planted firmly apart on the quarry-tiled floor. Her hair was cropped, the ends chunky and uneven as though she had cut it herself, standing in front of a mirror. It was an unbecoming style, emphasising the strong masculine planes of her face, the heavily unplucked brows and beginnings of a moustache. T
hanet wondered about the circumstances that had brought her here. Was she a live-in housekeeper or a daily, imported from the village? He asked her.
‘Oh, I’m full-time, live-in.’
‘And how long have you been with the Saldens?’
‘Eighteen months, now.’
Thanet was intrigued by the note of bitterness in her voice and he glanced at Lineham. Take over. He and Mike had worked together for so long they were like an old married couple, Thanet reflected as Lineham went smoothly into action. In this sort of situation there was rarely a need for them to communicate in words and Lineham was used to having to take over without warning. Thanet knew that one can often learn more about a witness by watching and listening than by conducting the interview oneself.
Mrs Salden’s disappearance had apparently been discovered at 7.30 a.m. when Mrs Pantry took up a tray of early morning tea. Her bed had not been slept in and although the housekeeper was surprised she was not really alarmed. She simply thought that Mrs Salden must have spent the night at her mother’s cottage in the village. It had happened before, from time to time.
‘Where was Mr Salden?’
‘They have separate rooms.’ The housekeeper’s mouth tightened in disapproval.
‘So what did he say, when you told him that his wife’s bed hadn’t been slept in?’
‘He seemed, well, contused, like. Put his hand to his forehead, as if he was trying to pull his thoughts together. He had just woken up, you know,’ she added defensively.
So Mrs Pantry’s loyalty lay with Salden rather than his wife, thought Thanet. Interesting, but scarcely surprising. Remembering the dead woman’s strong, determined face, he couldn’t really imagine her getting on well with this woman. What had soured the housekeeper so? he wondered. He tried to imagine her face transfigured by a smile or softened by tenderness, and failed. What a joyless life she must lead.
‘In fact, he told me he hadn’t got home till four this morning,’ she added.
‘Where had he been?’
‘At his mother-in-law’s place. She died about half-past three.’
Suspicious Death Page 2
