The Colonel was about to speak again, when Vera appeared from the back of the shop.
‘I’ll carry on now, Alice. You take a break.’
It was an order, rather than an offer and it was obeyed at once. He wondered how much of the conversation Vera had overheard.
She said, ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to Alice about Gunilla Bjork, Colonel. It always upsets her.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that.’
‘You weren’t to know. Is there anything else I can get for you?’
‘No, thank you.’
He walked back along the high street, carrying the box of éclairs and his newspaper and well aware that he was being observed. The twitch of a curtain, a shadow behind a window pane, a glance over a shoulder, a head raised above a wall. As he neared Ester Simmons’s cottage, he saw that she was out working in her front garden. When he stopped by her gate, she came over, hoe in hand. She was wearing the same shapeless tweed skirt and the same kind of plain blouse: her own particular uniform.
He raised his cap.
‘A beautiful day, Miss Simmons.’
‘We could do with some rain,’ she said. ‘The garden needs it.’
Gardeners, like farmers, were never satisfied.
‘I’m sure Nature will oblige.’
She leaned on the hoe. ‘The village gossip is that the Heathcotes’ skeleton belonged to Gunilla Bjork.’
‘No police identification has been made – so far as I am aware.’
‘It adds up, though. The girl was Trouble with a capital T. Some are born that way.’
‘What way, exactly?’
‘Man mad.’
The expression was old-fashioned but to the point.
‘She must have caused some problems in the village.’
‘She did indeed.’
‘Alice in the shop certainly wasn’t complimentary about her.’
‘She wouldn’t have been.’
‘Oh?’
‘Vera very smitten, you see.’
‘Ah.’
‘Well, obviously, Vera’s the ‘man’ of that partnership and the Swedish girl was up for anything. She didn’t care who got hurt. It was all sport to her. Just a game. I see you’ve bought some of Alice’s cakes.’
‘Yes, they looked very good.’
‘They are. I don’t often go to the village shop myself. I go to the nearest supermarket once a month in my old car. It’s not so pleasant but it’s a lot cheaper.’
He said, ‘I thought I’d take some éclairs to lift Mrs Heathcote’s spirits.’
‘I thought she was away.’
Obviously, the whole village did know that Cornelia had gone to London.
‘Yes, but not for long.’
‘First the skeleton turns up in her barn, then her servants walk out of her house. I’m not surprised that Mrs Heathcote’s spirits need lifting. I gather you can cook, though, Colonel. That’s fortunate.’
He wondered if Miss Simmons actually headed up the local KGB herself. If so, he really ought to congratulate her. She seemed to know everything.
‘I’m not sure it could be described as cooking,’ he said. ‘I heat things on the stove and stir them around or put them in the oven for the time printed on the container. I can follow recipes if they’re straightforward and don’t involve anything too complicated.’
‘That’s about my level too, Colonel. If I read the words grind with a pestle and mortar, I turn the page.’
They talked gardening for a while. She was not as knowledgeable as Naomi, he realized, but she obviously had a similarly natural understanding of plants and planting and the indispensable green fingers to go with it. Some people could make any plant flourish, while others invariably caused them to wither and die. He supposed that he fell somewhere in between the two categories. There had been some gratifying successes, but there were still failures. For instance, he had yet to grow a clematis successfully whereas Miss Simmons had one with mauve-blue blooms the size of saucers vigorously embracing an old tree stump. He’d never seen one like it.
‘Vyvyan Pennell,’ she said in answer to his question. ‘My favourite. She starts early with double flowers and then produces single ones afterwards. Quite magnificent. And I like Ernest Markham and Jackmanii, too, but they don’t put in an appearance until later in the season.’
‘What’s your secret, Miss Simmons?’
She said sharply, ‘My secret? What secret? What do you mean?’
‘How do you get a clematis to grow so well? I’ve never managed it.’
‘I really don’t know, Colonel.’
As he took his leave, she said, ‘It can’t be easy to make a positive identification from bones.’
‘Forensic science seems to have made great strides. Apparently, these days they can tell a great deal from almost nothing.’
He raised his cap to her and she went back to her gardening.
At the Golden Pheasant, he stopped for a pint of the local beer. The young landlord, Kevin, was serving behind the bar.
‘Would you care to see our lunch menu, sir? We can offer a range of snacks and sandwiches, or some more substantial home-cooked dishes, if you prefer.’
‘That sounds like an excellent idea.’
He ordered the steak and kidney pie and settled himself at a table in the corner with his beer and newspaper. There were a dozen or so other people in the lounge bar but no inhabitant with briar pipe, walking stick and collie dog to be seen, nor any soft country burr to be heard. He listened, instead, to over-loud, clipped accents and to London talk: the latest must-see plays, the newest smart restaurants, the best holiday hideaways.
The barmaid, Betty Turner, came to his table with a placemat, cutlery and a linen napkin. She arranged them neatly before him.
‘Still staying with Mrs Heathcote, sir?’
‘For the time being.’
‘I’m sure she’s very glad to have your company just now, until this shocking business is cleared up. Have the police learned anything more, I wonder?’
She was doing rather more than wonder, he thought: her face was eager with curiosity.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Well, we’ll hear as soon as there’s some news, I dare say.’
She brought the steak and kidney pie, baked in its own earthenware dish, and a small bowl of vegetables.
‘There you are, sir. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. The landlord’s wife does the cooking herself.’
He enjoyed it very much and, when he went to pay at the bar, asked Kevin to pass on his compliments to his wife.
‘I’ll do that, sir. She’ll be very pleased.’
‘She must be a great help to you.’
‘I couldn’t manage without her. It’s very hard to get a reliable cook, let alone one as good as Polly. I don’t know how the Bartons coped, with Mrs Barton being unable to pull her weight. It needs to be an equal partnership to stand a chance. Some people think running a pub’s a nice, easy way to earn a living, but that’s not true. It’s very hard work indeed.’
‘I’m sure. Did the Bartons serve food as well?’
‘Not what I’d call proper food, sir. Nothing home-cooked. It all came frozen from a catering company and Mrs Barton heated it up in a microwave. She could manage that, with Betty giving her a hand. I’m not surprised they gave up in the end. They were getting on in years and when Mr Barton’s health started to go downhill, it was curtains for them. No choice. I heard he died not long after they retired, but I think she’s still alive.’
‘Rather a sad story.’
‘As I said, sir, it’s a hard life.’
NINE
The Colonel walked on back to the house. From the gateway, he could see a black car parked by the front door alongside the Riley and, as he approached, Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers and his keen young sergeant emerged.
‘I was hoping you’d turn up soon, sir.’
‘Mrs Heathcote’s away in London, Inspector.’
‘Yes, we know that.’
Was there anybody who didn’t know?
He said, ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’ve got some information that you can pass on to Mrs Heathcote when she gets back.’
‘You’d better come in to the house, then.’
Instead of negotiating the sofas, the Colonel went for the dining table chairs. Easier for all. They sat down.
‘What did you want me to tell Mrs Heathcote?’
Beating about the bush was not the inspector’s style.
‘We’ve identified the skeleton as Gunilla Bjork.’
‘I thought it might be.’
‘She came from Uppsala, as Mrs Turner informed us. It wasn’t too difficult to find out more about her through the Swedish police. They’re very efficient.’
‘I’m sure they are. What exactly did you find out?’
‘She was born and brought up in comfortable circumstances, but her father died when she was eleven years old. Her mother remarried and, according to her, Gunilla never got on with her stepfather from day one. There were endless rows over her behaviour as a teenager – wearing too much make-up, dressing tartily, staying out late, going with men. In the end, when she was eighteen, she walked out. Never said where she was going, or got in touch, just disappeared. They didn’t report it to the police and it doesn’t look like they made much of an effort to find her. The impression given was that they were glad to be rid of her. It didn’t worry them that she had never even sent a postcard.’
He wasn’t very surprised by the story. A girl like Gunilla was bound to have had a rocky background.
‘How was the identification made?’
‘Teeth. She’d gone to the same dentist in Uppsala since childhood and he’d kept all her records. She had very good teeth, with no cavities, but when she was twelve she fell off her bike and broke her two front teeth. The Swedish dentist confirmed that he’d capped them for her; dentists always know their own work. Identification was the easy part.’
‘And the hard part?’
‘Finding out who killed her, how, and why. The forensic people believe the blow to the skull was the cause of death but we don’t know what instrument delivered it, except that, according to the experts, it wasn’t made of metal.’
The Colonel thought of the flint stone he had picked up – the way it had fitted into his hand, its heavy weight, the lethal sharpness of its edge. The perfect tool for the job.
‘A chunk of flint would make a pretty good weapon. And there’s plenty of it lying around, including in the barn.’
‘It’s possible but it doesn’t help us. The killer would have taken the stone away. Probably thrown it in the nearest pond or stream where it would be washed clean and look no different from the rest.’
‘Man, or a woman?’
‘Could have been either. Anger lends strength, Colonel. You’d be amazed how much. Given Gunilla Bjork’s record of behaviour, it could have been either a very angry man, or an even angrier woman. The blow was administered to the back of the skull, from behind, so it would have been unexpected. No chance for her to defend herself, or put up a fight.’
‘Do you know if she was killed in the barn? Or somewhere else?’
‘It’s impossible to say for certain. There are no tracks or traces after so long. My money’s on the barn, though. No killer with any sense would want to risk being seen dragging a dead body around in the open. I think she was killed in there.’
The Colonel said, ‘The Heathcotes’ gardener used to work for the Holland family who owned the farm before them. As it happens, he remembers Gunilla Bjork rather well. He told me that the grandson, Ben Holland, was infatuated with her and she used to meet him in the barn. He thinks they went up to the hayloft. Apparently, there’s still some hay there.’
‘Yes, there is. Ideal for a roll. But the grandson was killed in a tractor accident before the Swedish girl went missing – which rules him out.’
‘The gardener also said that she went there quite often on her own, after the grandson was killed. He’d see her walking through the orchard, eating apples and heading that way, and he knows she went up into the hayloft. Once, when he went into the barn she threw an apple core down and it hit him on the head. He said she was leaning over the edge of the hayloft with her blond hair hanging down, laughing at him. Apparently, she was playing at being Rapunzel – so she told him.’
‘Rapunzel?’
‘The girl in the fairy tale with the very long hair.’
‘I can’t say I’ve ever read any fairy tales, Colonel, though I’ve had plenty told to me. But from what we’ve learned about Gunilla Bjork from her mother, she was play-acting all the time. What is Mrs Heathcote’s gardener’s name?’
‘She calls him Old Matt. I don’t know his surname.’
‘Make a note, Collins. We’ll need to speak to him.’
The sergeant whipped out his biro and notebook and made the note.
The Colonel said, ‘She could have gone on meeting other men there, don’t you think, after the grandson had died? As you say, it was an ideal place.’
‘I bet she did.’
‘And she could have been killed up in the hayloft by one of them?’
‘I don’t think she was killed in the hayloft, Colonel. If she was, why not leave her up there, hidden under the hay? The barn wasn’t being used any more. No need to go to all the trouble of hauling her down and burying her. I think someone was waiting for her when she paid it one of her little visits. Then whoever it was popped her under the earth out of sight.’
There was a pause. The sergeant was still busily making notes, whatever they were about.
The Colonel said, ‘Has her suitcase been found?’
‘Not much hope of that. It could have been dumped anywhere and rotted away by now. All we know is that when the landlord sacked her she left the Golden Pheasant and took all her belongings with her, including her case.’
‘According to Mrs Turner.’
‘As you say, Colonel, according to Mrs Turner. We’ve tracked down Mrs Barton, the landlord’s wife, to an address in Poole and we’ll be finding out what she can add to the picture.’
‘So what next, Inspector?’
‘We keep on looking for the murderer.’
‘In the village?’
‘Well, it’s very possible that he, or she, lives in King’s Mowbray. But the chance of establishing guilt and proving it, is remote.’
‘Oh?’
‘If a murder isn’t solved within a few days of the crime, it may well never be solved. The trail grows cold very quickly, Colonel. And we’re talking about four and a half years ago.’ The chief inspector got to his feet. ‘But we’ll do our best.’
It would be a half-hearted investigation, the Colonel realized. Going through the motions. Another round of routine questioning, some more raking over the barn. By his own admission, after more than thirty years in the force, Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers no longer had the energy or patience for difficult cases. He liked the open-and-shut ones. Not riddles.
He said, ‘How much longer before you retire, Inspector?’
‘Eight months. I’m counting the days.’
The Colonel smiled. ‘I wouldn’t be in too much of a rush. In my experience, retirement can be rather a let-down.’
‘Not in my case. I’ve got it all worked out.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘To grow irises, Colonel. Full time. I’ve been doing that for years in whatever spare time I have, which isn’t much in this job.’
‘Irises? That’s interesting.’
‘They’re my only passion. My wife left me fifteen years ago and I haven’t replaced her. Did you know they were named after Iris, the Greek goddess of the rainbow?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t. They’re beautiful flowers. I have some in my own garden.’
‘Which kind?’
He said ruefully, ‘I’ve forgotten the name. I
planted them at the edge of my pond. My neighbour, who knows about these things, said they’d like the damp. They’re in flower now.’
‘Might be pseudacorus . . . tall, beardless, with branched stems and golden-yellow flowers?’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘There are hundreds of different kinds, you know. Different colours, different markings, different heights . . . all glorious. There isn’t another flower to touch them, in my opinion. The Xiphium and dwarf Reticulata are the easiest to grow. Me, I go for Juno, Oncocyclus and Regelia. They’re the hardest, but the most beautiful.’
It was an incongruous pairing – delicate, exquisite blooms with a burly, stubby-fingered policeman, but the inspector’s zeal and the expertise were obvious. The Colonel could see Chief Inspector Rodgers winning prizes at the best horticultural shows, perhaps even at Chelsea? What he could not see was the murder of Gunilla Bjork ever being solved.
Cornelia came back from London two days later. The Colonel met her at the station, off the evening train. She was weighed down with expensive-looking carrier bags and he took them from her.
‘I picked up a few things while I was there,’ she said. ‘And I popped into Fortnum’s to stock up on some essentials.’
The essentials he saw at a glance were anything but essential: jars and pots and tins of the sort of gourmet delights that would probably lie unopened in the larder for months, or even years.
As they drove back, he told her about the police visit and the news that the skeleton belonged to Gunilla Bjork.
She said in a strained voice, ‘Oh God . . . I suppose that means they’ll be hanging around for ever, making a perfect nuisance of themselves.’
‘Well, I’m afraid they’ll be asking more questions, seeing if they can find any leads.’
‘Leads? What leads could there possibly be? It happened years ago.’
‘They have to do their job.’
‘Wasting time over some foreign slut who deserved what she got?’
He said quietly, ‘Murder is murder, Cornelia, whoever the victim.’
She shrugged. ‘Sorry. Anyway, I telephoned Howard from London and he’s still insisting that we sell the house at once. I’ll have to ring up the agents and get someone round. I won’t mention the skeleton.’
Dry Bones Page 9
