Isabel Dennis looked taken aback and then gave a wry smile.
‘I suppose I’ve been letting my prejudice against him run away with me,’ she admitted.
‘Well, let’s face it. It’s extremely difficult to estimate the time of death accurately over a long period, and it could still be possible that the chap turned up at Starbarrow Farm after the Lings got back, and was murdered then. But if Ling killed him, would he have been crazy enough to flaunt the fact by suddenly dumping the skeleton in the kistvaen over a year later? But let’s drop this problem for the moment. I think there are one or two things that you might be able to help us about, Aunt, with all your local knowledge. Had work on the Possel Way started by Easter 1975?’
‘No. Heloise Grant died on 20 May — she left the Friends the money they used for it, as I think I told you. The actual work didn’t start till the late summer.’
‘In the pre-Possel era was there much walking on Cattesmoor?’
‘Oh, yes. Local people and visitors often go up there, especially in the summer. You can get up almost anywhere along the Biddle-Stoneham road, although it’s very rough and steep in places. The easiest way up is through the villages like Churstow. Or you can go out along the cliffs from both Stoneham and Biddle and cut inland. Here again it’s rough and boggy in places, and rather nasty mists come in suddenly from the sea at times.’
‘You see what I’m getting at,’ Pollard said. ‘Suppose our chap did spend the Monday night at the tin workings and then headed south, another bloke could have turned up to meet him at the farm without being in the least noticeable, from what you say.’
‘Yes, I think that’s a fair comment,’ Isabel Dennis agreed, ‘although, of course, if you do run into other walkers in open country you tend to pass the time of day, don’t you?’
‘You’ve got a point there, certainly. Can you suggest anybody who might have been up on the moor on either the Monday or Tuesday of that week?’
‘Well, there are quite a lot of local societies besides the Friends with special interests: botany and archaeology and birds and so on. They have their own expeditions but we publish a kind of communal newsletter with all our fixtures in it. I’ll get last year’s, we can see if any parties were on Cattesmoor then. It’s quite possible.’
Pollard looked through the pamphlet with interest.
‘The botanists went to an arboretum near Wintlebury on the Monday. £2.20, including tea. Bring your own picnic lunch. I hope they had a good day. Nothing else seems to have been organised for that week. Is Mr G. Akerman, President of the Archaeological Society, the same chap as the Friends’ secretary?’
‘Yes. Archaeology’s his special thing. I suppose he might have been up on Cattesmoor on the Monday having a look at prehistoric monuments like the Starbarrow kistvaen. We have vandal trouble now and again. The wretched creatures managed to pull down a wayside cross last year. But he’d have been working on the Tuesday: he owns the Letterpress printing works in Stoneham.’
Pollard was still studying the pamphlet.
‘Mr W. Worth on the General Co-ordinating Committee,’ he remarked. ‘Well, well. Hardly his line, I should have thought. And Miss D. Grant’s on it, too. According to him, she’s making an all-out effort to step into her late aunt’s shoes as a patron of local activities. What’s her brother like?’ he asked, skilfully bringing the conversation round to the owner of AQW 227N.
‘I’ve only met him once, at a party at Upway Manor while Heloise Grant was alive. He’s an architect, and seemed a nice sensible young man. I expect you know he’s engaged to the Ling girl?’
‘So I’ve heard. How on earth did he manage to get to know her? The farm’s festooned with threatening notices to would-be callers.’
‘They first met on a winter sports holiday. Not last winter, but the one before. They’re both outdoor types and good at games. I’ve heard that Upway Manor is to be divided into two flats, one for them and the other for Davina, but apparently there’s a hold-up over planning permission. It’s a listed house. Heloise Grant left it to Peter and Davina jointly. They went to live with her about ten years ago, after their parents were drowned in a sailing accident.’
‘What a mine of local information you are,’ Pollard remarked. ‘Well, I suppose we ought to push off, oughtn’t we, Toye? This let-up’s been super.’
‘It’s been very good of you indeed, Miss Dennis,’ Toye contributed. ‘A real pleasure.’
Back on the road again they talked over the facts gathered from Isabel Dennis.
‘If Peter Grant and the Ling girl — Kate, isn’t she? — first met at winter sports in late ’74 or early ’75, the affair could have been going ahead by Easter ’75,’ Pollard argued. ‘Was it advanced enough for him to trek out to the farm while the Lings were on their cruise, to water her pet plants, or something? Father needn’t have been consulted — probably wasn’t. She’s a horticulturalist, isn’t she?’
Toye thought there was something in the idea, and that it might link up with the anonymous phonecall after all. It was generally known now that the chap whose skeleton it was had died in the spring or early summer of 1975, and seeing that the skeleton turned up more or less on the doorstep of Starbarrow Farm, a lot of people would jump to the conclusion that it had been kept there all the time, in a shed or somewhere. Somebody at Churstow, say, might have remembered young Grant’s car going out to Starbarrow when the Lings were away, and felt they ought to let the police know.
‘I’m coming round to the idea that we ought to see Peter Grant,’ Pollard said, after a pause, if he did go out to the place when the Lings weren’t there, it’s theoretically possible that either he’d already killed our bloke and took the body there to hide, or that they met there, and either murder or manslaughter or justifiable homicide took place, and the body was hidden on the spot. Don’t ask me why it was put into the kistvaen to be discovered by the next passer-by fifteen months later: that’s a separate issue. But quite apart from the anonymous phone call, I think we ought to take a look at young Grant. I wish I could think of a pretext which wouldn’t put the wind up him at this stage, in case he’s the killer. Any ideas?’
‘One thing did cross my mind,’ Toye said, overtaking an articulated lorry with a sudden spurt of speed. ‘A BMW’s a pricey affair for a young architect, and it’s a recent model. How long has he had it? I mean, did he trade in an older car, after his aunt died and left him a nice bit of cash? And if he did, can we trace it? If he carried a corpse about in it, I suppose there’s just the chance there might still be bloodstains or whatever.’
‘I’m not sure that your car fixation hasn’t got on to something, you know. We can easily find out if and when he changed his car last year, and where the old one is, if he did. The interesting thing will be if the change was after Easter ’75, and before his aunt died on 20 May. If it was, I think I’m prepared to tackle him about whether he went out to Starbarrow between 20 March and 4 April, and see how he reacts. And there’s this George Akerman who’s sold on prehistoric monuments, and keeps an eye on the Cattesmoor ones. I can’t imagine that he can be any help to us, but we may as well contact him for good measure. He seems to be an observant type.’
As they approached Stoneham Pollard began to think up a report for his Assistant Commissioner which would justify carrying on the enquiry, at any rate for the present. For some reason the meeting with Aunt Is had cleared off his depression, and he felt that to be taken off the case now would be infuriating. Curiously enough, the only thing that was bothering him at the moment was a niggling feeling that there was something he ought to have asked her about, and hadn’t. What it was eluded him. On arrival at the police station he learnt that information had come through from the Yard for him, and the matter vanished from his mind.
Chapter 5
Wave Wanderers, the travel agency, confirmed that the three members of the Ling family had been on a Mediterranean cruise organised by them during the period 20 March to 2 April 1975, and had spent
the nights of 2 and 3 April at an hotel in South Kensington as part of the package holiday. Remarking that all this had been a foregone conclusion, Pollard tossed the report over to Toye for the case file, and became immersed in the facts gathered by the Yard about Geoffrey Ling.
‘Geoffrey Bruce Ling,’ he read. ‘Born 1917. Only child of Walter Bruce Ling, actuary. Open scholar of Harminster and Newton College, Cambridge. Placed in First Class of Classical Tripos, Part 1. Offered Oriental Languages in Part 2, and again placed in First Class. Reputation at Cambridge for brilliance and eccentricity. Took no part in university life, was quarrelsome, and settled scores through ruthless practical jokes. Called up for National Service on coming down from Cambridge in summer of 1939. Directed into Intelligence. Developed exceptional ability for deciphering and compiling codes, and continued with this work for the duration of the war and for two further years in post-war Europe. Failed to get the promotion his ability warranted owing to difficult temperament (see above). Returned to England in 1947 and engaged in work on dictionary projects in several languages. Father died in 1948, leaving him financially independent. Bought isolated cottage in East Anglia. In 1950 married Eleanor Pym. One child of the marriage, a daughter, born in 1951. Developed interest in teaching of languages to young children. Taught in several boys’ preparatory schools and wrote two successful text books, still widely used in progressive junior schools. In 1970 bought remote farm house in Glintshire, and moved there in 1972. Takes no part in local life and is aggressive about his privacy, recently losing a right of way case. Has no police record,’ the report concluded, ‘but the institution of proceedings against him has been considered on several occasions, in connection with aggressive conduct towards persons alleged to have interfered with what he considers to be his rights.’
Pollard passed the report to Toye, and sat watching him perusing it attentively.
‘Hangs together, doesn’t it?’ Toye said some minutes later. ‘The bit about ruthless practical jokes and the skeleton. He must’ve been hopping mad with the Friends of Cattesmoor over that right of way.’
‘All that fits like a glove,’ Pollard agreed, ‘but it doesn’t get us much further. It just confirms that Ling’s putting a skeleton into the kistvaen is in character, as we’d already said ourselves. It doesn’t suggest that Ling’s a homicidal type, and we’re still completely stuck with the problem of where the skeleton came from. Let’s see what the Yard’s unearthed about the Ling females.’
‘Eleanor Ling (nee Pym),’ he read aloud. ‘Born 1920; daughter of Harold Pym, owner of wholesale grocery business in Warhampton. Mother died 1922, and Eleanor brought up on farm of father’s brother. Educated at country grammar school. Average ability but unacademic. Joined Women’s Land Army at outbreak of war and remained in it for the duration. Good reputation as a worker, but described as a placid solitary type and not a good mixer. Father killed in road accident in 1944, leaving her well provided for. On leaving Land Army bought small holding near Cambridge, living alone and taking little part in local life. Married Geoffrey Ling in 1950. One daughter, born 1951. Marriage apparently successful in spite of husband’s temperament and unequal intellectual ability. Has developed interest in rural crafts.’
Toye commented that it was wonderful what some women would put up with to get a husband.
‘Oh, I expect Ling’s tame enough in his home,’ Pollard said. ‘You need an audience to be a buffoon. It’s interesting about those prep schools. I’ve noticed before that playing to the gallery goes down jolly well with small boys, provided that whoever it is delivers the goods as well, and I’m sure Ling could do that all right. And Ling and his wife do have things in common such as liking seclusion and living in the country. I expect that when he makes an ass of himself it runs off her placid back like water off a duck’s. She might draw the line at monkeying about with a skeleton, though...’
Kate Ling, born in 1951, had apparently inherited her parents’ preference for country life, and to some extent her father’s brains. She had taken a first-class degree in horticulture and held a junior lectureship at a horticultural college near Wintlebury. The Yard’s report described her as attractive and sociable, adding, as if in surprise, that she appeared attached to her parents and their home. It concluded with her engagement to Peter Grant, architect, of Upway Manor, Stoneham, at the end of 1975.
Pollard found himself reacting personally, suddenly dismayed. Would a time come when people commented with mild surprise that Andrew and Rose appeared attached to their parents? Of course the circumstances were absolutely different, but what about the generation gap? He realised that Toye was looking at him questioningly, and hastily pulled himself together.
‘If Kate Ling’s fond of her parents,’ he said, ‘it’s reasonable to assume they’re fond of her. Let’s go back to the possibility that Ling either thinks or knows that Grant went over to Starbarrow while they were all away. I asked him if he, personally, had fixed for anyone to go over and do a job, and he said he hadn’t, which is probably true. But he may know that Grant had promised Kate to keep an eye on the garden, for instance. Even if he doesn’t suspect his future son-in-law of hiding a corpse on the property, he could be worried that these visits might come out, and lead to Grant being suspected and Kate upset.’
‘But if he suspected Grant, surely he wouldn’t have chucked the skeleton out on to a public footpath when he eventually found it?’ Toye objected.
‘He’s a hot-tempered impulsive chap,’ Pollard said thoughtfully, ‘and given to ruthless reactions if he thinks he’s being done down. Let’s concentrate on timing. He’d been at loggerheads with the Friends over the Possel Way for some time. Then they take him to court about the right of way, and he loses, and has to pay costs as well. This happened on the day we came down to Holston for our holiday: 31 May. The Friends’ secretary, this fellow Akerman, rang Aunt Is with the good news just after supper. I remember her saying that Ling was insisting on clearing the route through his property and fencing it himself, and that it would look awful, but save the Friends expense. So it does — look awful, I mean, and the old bastard’s made the path so narrow that you get caught up on brambles and things as you go through.’ He suddenly broke off and stared at Toye. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘hacking a way through all that stuff must have been one hell of a job, especially for a chap without much experience of that sort of thing. Not a matter of a couple of hours, and he may have had to get hold of the tools needed. Suppose it took him ten days or so, well into the following week, sweating and cursing the whole time? Say he didn’t finish till Thursday, 10 June, the day Mrs Ling went away, and came on the skeleton right at the end? Can’t you see him being hit with the idea of scoring off the Friends by getting Possel into the news in the sort of way they’d simply detest?’
‘Risky from his point of view, surely?’ Toye propounded.
‘Well, come to think about it, was it really all that risky? Remember that he’d only been living on the farm for four years. He probably thought the skeleton had been there for ages. He’s a literary type, not a scientist, and wouldn’t have reacted to its appearance as I did, for instance. If I’m right and something of this sort actually happened, he must have had the shock of his life when the pathologist announced that the thing was only about a year old. And he would have started thinking uncomfortable thoughts about the time when the house was empty in ’75.’
Toye sat impassive, his eyes intent with interest behind his owlish horn-rims.
‘Problem is where he could’ve found it,’ he said at last. ‘It wasn’t buried. Wouldn’t foxes and rats and whatever have pulled the body to bits if it’d just been chucked under a bush?’
Pollard frowned with the effort of visualising the Starbarrow newtake.
‘There could be some sort of small building hidden by all the gorse and stuff that’s grown up over the years,’ he said. ‘It’s all tangled up, and along the path I remember it was above my head in places, on both sides.’
‘How about a search warrant now?’ Toye asked.
‘We’d be on firmer ground if we knew for sure there was a building of sorts. If only —’ Pollard stopped dead and abruptly slammed down his hand on the table. ‘I’ve got it at last! The air photography that Aunt Is said some company with a helicopter did when the work on Possel was starting. It must have been from a low altitude to be any good, and anyway we can have the Starbarrow section blown up. If there’s any building there where a stiff could have been stowed away I’m certain we’ll be able to spot it. And if Ling refused to let us investigate, we’d get a warrant. You know, I ought to have thought about this air photography before. It’s been trying to struggle up out of my subconscious ever since we went to the farm.’
Toye’s tenacious mind reverted to Peter Grant.
‘What about Grant’s car?’ he asked.
‘Let’s see if Crookshank’s around,’ Pollard replied, getting up. ‘He’ll know how to get hold of the aerial photograph, and the quickest way of extracting data about Grant’s cars from the licensing people. And I’ve just had another idea. While I’m putting a progress report together for the A.C., you can take the Rover to the garage Grant deals with. Crookshank is sure to know which it is in a smallish town like Stoneham. Say you’re not sure the Rover’s ticking over properly in some way: you know enough about cars to spin a yarn. Then get the garage hands chatting, and see what you can pick up about Grant’s deal when he got the BMW.’
Superintendent Crookshank’s Mephistophelian eyebrows went up as he listened to Pollard.
‘Peter Grant?’ he said.
‘All very tentative,’ Pollard replied. ‘At the moment we’re working on the theory that somebody parked our chap’s corpse at Starbarrow Farm while the Lings were away on their cruise. Peter Grant and Kate Ling had already met at winter sports, and it seems quite reasonable to assume that he’d braved her old man and visited her home. If so, he knew a bit about the geography of the place. Add to this the anonymous phonecall giving his car number, and we feel that we’ve got a possible lead. We think it’s worth finding out if he suddenly got rid of his car just then, and acquired his BMW.’
Suddenly While Gardening Page 6
