Devices and Desires (26 page)

Now, moving away from the body, he stirred himself to greet the recent arrivals, photographer, cameraman, forensic biologist. The stretch of beach fifty yards each side of the murder scene had been efficiently roped off, and plastic sheeting laid over the path, now lit by a string of overhead lights. He was aware of his sergeant’s disciplined excitement at his side.

Stuart Oliphant said: “We’ve found a print, sir. About forty yards into the copse.”

“On grass and pine needles?”

“No, sir, on sand. Someone, a kid perhaps, must have tipped some from a bucket. The print’s a good one, sir.”

Rickards followed him into the wood. The whole of the path had been protected, but at one place a marker had been driven into the soft ground at the right-hand side. Sergeant Oliphant drew back the plastic, then lifted the box covering the print. In the glow of the overhead lights slung along the path it showed clearly, a dusting of moist sand over the pine needles and flattened grass, covering no more than six inches by four, and printed on it the intricate pattern of the sole of a right shoe.

Oliphant said: “We found it soon after you left, sir. Only the one, but it’s pretty clear. The photographs have been taken, and the measurements will be at the lab this morning. Size ten by the look of it. They’ll be able to give us confirmation pretty quickly, but it’s hardly necessary. It’s a trainer shoe, sir. A Bumble. You know the make, the one that has a picture of a bee on the heel. And it has the outline of a bee on the sole. You can see the curve of the wing here, sir. It’s quite unmistakable.”

A Bumble trainer. If you wanted a print you could hardly hope for anything more distinctive. Oliphant voiced his thoughts: “Common enough, of course, but not all that common. Bumbles are the most expensive on the market, the Porsche of trainers. Most of the kids with money like to have them. It’s a bloody silly name. Part of the firm is actually owned by a man called Bumble, and they’ve only been on the market for a couple of years, but he promotes them fairly vigorously. I suppose he hopes that the name will catch on, that people will start yelling for their Bumbles as they do for their wellie-boots.”

Rickards said: “It looks fresh enough. When did we last get rain? Late on Saturday night, wasn’t it?”

“About eleven. It was over by midnight, but it was a heavy shower.”

“And there’s no tree cover on this part of the path. The print’s perfectly smooth. If it was made before midnight on Saturday I’d expect some spotting. Interesting that there’s only the one and that it’s pointing away from the sea. If someone wearing Bumble trainers came along this path any time on Sunday, you’d expect to find at least one similar print on the upper reaches of the beach.”

“Not necessarily, sir. The shingle comes up almost as high as the path in places. We’d get no prints if he stayed on the pebbles. But if it was made on Sunday before she died, would it still be here? She must have come along this path.”

“No reason why she would have trodden on it. It’s well to the right of the path. It’s odd, though. Too plain, too distinctive, too opportune. You could almost believe it’s been deliberately made to deceive us.”

“They sell Bumble trainers at the sports shop in Blakeney, sir. I could send a chap to buy a pair of size ten as soon as they open.”

“See that he’s in plain clothes and buys them as an ordinary purchaser. I need confirmation of the pattern before we start asking people to turn out their shoe cupboards. We’re going to be dealing with intelligent suspects. I don’t want a balls-up at the beginning of the case.”

“Pity to waste time, sir. My brother owns a pair of Bumbles. The print’s unmistakable.”

Rickards said obstinately: “I need confirmation, and I want it fast.”

Oliphant replaced the box and the plastic cover, then followed him back to the beach. Rickards was uncomfortably aware of the almost physical weight of resentment, antagonism and slight contempt which seemed to flow from the sergeant. But he was lumbered with the man. Oliphant had been
part of the team bearing the brunt of the Whistler investigation and, although this admittedly was a different enquiry, it would be difficult to replace him without causing personal or logistical problems which Rickards was anxious to avoid. During the fifteen-month hunt for the Whistler, his mild dislike of the sergeant had grown into an antipathy which he knew to be not wholly reasonable and which he had tried to discipline in the interests both of the investigation and of his own self-regard. A serial murder was difficult enough without personal complications.

He had no real evidence that Oliphant was a bully; he only looked like one. He was six feet of disciplined flesh and muscle, dark and conventionally handsome with rather pudgy features, full-lipped and hard-eyed, with a fleshy chin like a doughnut, dented in the middle with a deep dimple. Rickards found it difficult to keep his eyes off it. His repugnance to the man had elevated it to a deformity. Oliphant drank too much, but that was an occupational hazard for a policeman. The fact that Rickards had never seen him actually drunk only increased the offence. A man shouldn’t be able to put away that amount of alcohol and still stand firmly on his feet.

He was meticulous in his attitude to senior officers, respectful without being servile, but subtly managed to give Rickards the impression that he wasn’t quite measuring up to the standards Oliphant had privately set for him. He was popular enough with the less sensitive probationers; the others wisely kept clear of him. Rickards told himself that, if he were ever in trouble, Oliphant was the last police officer he would wish to see on his doorstep. Oliphant would probably regard that sentiment as a compliment. And there had never been from the public even the whisper of a complaint against him. That too, unreasonably, made Rickards suspicious. It suggested that where his interests
were at stake the man was devious enough to act against his essential nature. He was unmarried but managed, without the crudity of actual boasting, to give the impression that women found him irresistible. Probably a number did, but at least he kept clear of his colleagues’ wives. In all, he represented most of the qualities in a young detective which Rickards disliked: aggression only controlled because control was prudent, a frank relish for power, too much sexual assurance and an inflated opinion of his own capabilities. But those capabilities weren’t negligible. Oliphant would make Chief Inspector at least and might go higher. Rickards had never managed to bring himself to use his sergeant’s nickname of Jumbo. Oliphant, so far from resenting a sobriquet both childish and basically unsuitable, seemed to tolerate, even to like it, at least in those colleagues he had privately authorized to use it. Less favoured mortals only used it once.

Maitland-Brown was ready to make his preliminary report. Drawing himself up to his full six feet three inches, he peeled off his gloves and tossed them to a DC, rather like an actor casually divesting himself of part of his costume. It wasn’t his custom to discuss his findings at the scene. He did, however, condescend to announce them.

“I’ll do the autopsy tomorrow and let you have a report by Wednesday. I doubt whether there will be any surprises. On a preliminary examination it’s clear enough. Death by strangulation. The implement was smooth and two centimetres in width, perhaps a belt, a strap or a dog lead. She was a tall, well-muscled woman. It would have taken strength but not inordinate strength, given the advantage of surprise. He probably stood in the shelter of the pines, then stepped out and slung the strap over her head as soon as she got back from the swim. She had just time to pick up her towel. She made one or
two convulsive movements with the feet; you can see where the grass is marked. I estimate on the present evidence that she died between eight-thirty and ten.”

Maitland-Brown had pronounced and clearly expected no questions. Nor was there need for any. He put out a hand for his coat, which was obligingly handed to him by a DC, then took his leave. Rickards almost expected him to bow.

Rickards looked down at the corpse. Now, with the head, hands and feet covered with plastic, she looked for a second like a giftwrapped toy, a plaything for someone with expensive and peculiar tastes, an artifice of latex and synthetic hair, glass eyes, a mere simulation of a living woman. Oliphant’s voice seemed to come from a far distance.

“Commander Dalgliesh didn’t come back with you, then, sir?”

“Why should he? This isn’t his pigeon. He’s probably in bed.”

He thought, And I wish to God I were too. Already the day was crowding in on him, as if physical weight were being piled on an exhausted body; the press conference about the Whistler’s suicide, the Chief Constable, the press officer, this new investigation, suspects to be interviewed, facts established, the whole cumbersome business of a murder investigation set in motion with the knowledge of his previous failure dragging like a stone on his heart. And somehow or other he had to find time to ring Susie.

He said: “Mr. Dalgliesh is a witness, not the investigating officer.”

“A witness, but hardly a suspect.”

“Why not? He lives on the headland, he knew the girl, he knew how the Whistler killed. He may not be a serious suspect in our eyes, but he makes his statement like everyone else.”

Oliphant looked at him stolidly. He said: “That’ll be a new experience for him. Let’s hope he enjoys it.”

Anthony woke her, as he usually did, just after 6.30. Theresa wrenched her mind through clogging layers of sleep to the familiar morning sounds, the creak and rock of the cot and the sniffs and grunts as Anthony grasped the rails and pulled himself up. She smelt the familiar nursery smell, compounded of baby talc, stale milk and a sodden nappy. She felt for the switch of the bedside light under the grubby shade with its fringe of dancing Bambis and, opening her eyes, stared into Anthony’s and was rewarded by his wide, gummy smile and his ritual small bounces of pleasure, which shook the cot. Gently opening the door of the twins’ room she could see that they were still asleep, Elizabeth a curled lump on the far end of the bed, Marie on her back, one arm flung out. If she could change and feed Anthony before he became fretful, they would sleep for another half-hour, thirty more minutes of peace for her father.

She would look after Elizabeth and Marie for her mother’s sake as long as they needed her and with all her strength, but it was Anthony whom she loved. For a moment she lay still regarding him, enjoying this moment of their quiet, mutual
pleasure in each other. Then he let go of the cot rail with one hand, raised one leg in a parody of a clumsy ballet dancer, collapsed onto his mattress, then rolled over onto his back, stuffed his fist into his mouth and began noisily sucking. Soon he would tire of this substitute comfort. She swung her legs out of bed, waited for a moment until she felt the physical flow of strength into arms and legs, then went over to the cot, let down the side and gathered him into her arms. She would change him downstairs on newspaper spread on the kitchen table, then strap him into his high chair so that he could watch her while she heated his milk. By the time he was fed the twins would be awake and she would be free to help dress them ready for Mrs. Hunter from the Welfare to collect them and drive them to the playgroup. Then there would be breakfast for her father and herself before it was time to set out with her father and Anthony to walk to the crossroads where she would pick up the school bus.

She had just turned off the gas under the saucepan of milk when the telephone rang. Her heart lurched, then settled into a rhythmic pounding. She snatched at the receiver, hoping that she had been quick enough to stop it waking her father. George Jago’s voice came over strongly, conspiratorial, husky with excitement.

“Theresa? Is your dad up yet?”

“No, not yet, Mr. Jago. He’s still asleep.”

There was a pause as if he were thinking; then he said: “OK, don’t disturb him. When he wakes, tell him Hilary Robarts is dead. Last night. Murdered. Found on the beach.”

“You mean the Whistler got her?”

“Looked like that—meant to look like that, if you ask me. But it couldn’t have been. The Whistler was dead, been dead three hours or more. Like I told you last night. Remember?”

“Yes, I remember, Mr. Jago.”

“Good thing I rang last night, isn’t it? You told him, your dad? You told your dad about the Whistler?”

She heard under the excitement the insistent note of anxiety. “Yes,” she said, “I told him.”

“That’s all right, then. Now, you tell him about Miss Robarts. Ask him to give me a ring. I’ve got a call to take a party to Ipswich, but I’ll be back about twelve. Or I could have a word with him now, if he’s quick.”

“He wouldn’t be quick, Mr. Jago. He’s sound asleep. And I’m trying to feed Anthony.”

“All right. But you tell him, mind.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him.”

He said: “Good thing I rang last night. He’ll know why.”

She put down the receiver. Her hands were wet. She wiped them on her nightdress and went over to the stove. But when she picked up the pan of milk, her hands were shaking so violently that she knew she wouldn’t be able to pour it into the narrow neck of the bottle. She took it over to the sink and, very carefully, managed to half-fill it. Then she unstrapped Anthony and seated herself in the low nursing chair before the empty fireplace. His mouth opened, and she plugged in the teat of the bottle and watched as he began his vigorous chomping, his eyes, suddenly vacant, fixed on hers, his two chubby hands raised, palms down, like the paws of an animal.

It was then that she heard the creak of the stairs, and her father came in. He never appeared in front of her in the mornings without what he used as a dressing gown: an old raincoat buttoned to the neck. Above it his face under the sleep-tousled hair was grey and swollen, the lips unnaturally red.

He said: “Was that the phone?”

“Yes, Daddy, Mr. Jago.”

“What did he want, then, at this hour?”

“He rang to say that Hilary Robarts is dead. She’s been murdered.”