Malice in Cornwall (14 page)

Powell smiled. “Never apologize for showing initiative, Butts.” He was beginning to change his opinion about Buttie, who couldn't after all do anything about the fact that Agnes Polfrock was his sister-in-law. “Did you find anything else?”

Butts grimaced. “A number of condoms, from last summer, no doubt—it's too bloody cold this time of year—a pair of tights stuffed down a rabbit hole, empty beer and wine bottles, that's about it.”

“That reminds me of something I've been meaning to ask you: Do you chaps deal much with smuggling these days?”

Butts shrugged. “Customs deals with the occasional drug haul, mostly cannabis and cocaine. The stuff generally comes over from North Africa via Spain or Gibraltar by yacht, then it's loaded onto smaller fishing boats, or the like, and landed at any one of a hundred secluded coves up and down the coast.”

“What about liquor?”

“As I'm sure you know, sir,” Butts said diplomatically, “there's a lot of illegal importation of liquor, but it's pretty hard to keep tabs on.”

Chalk up another point for Buttie. “And pornography?”

Butts raised an eyebrow. “Well, sir, you can get pretty
well anything you want in this country nowadays, so I don't see much point.”

Unless one doesn't get out much, Powell thought. “Right, then. I'll fax the coastguard report off to Sir Reggie for him to ruminate on, and you can let me know if you learn anything more about that cart. In the meantime, Black and I will do a bit more poking around in Penrick. But unless something develops in the next little while, I'm afraid the Riddle is likely to remain just that.” Powell got to his feet. “Oh, and thanks for your help.”

Butts escorted Powell to the door of his office. He smiled ruefully. “We didn't get off to a very good start, did we, sir? I was more concerned about my turf than the business at hand.”

“If the tables were turned I'd feel the same way at first,” Powell said generously. But it did occur to him that Buttie had perhaps gone beyond the pale in one particular respect. “Oh, by the way,” he remarked offhandedly, “I'm afraid that Sergeant Black and I have upset your sister-in-law by taking our meals elsewhere.”

Butts was suddenly white-faced. “I only sent you there to keep peace in the family. Good God—I hope you don't think I meant it
personallyV

Powell suppressed a self-satisfied smile, confident that a penitent Buttie would soon set things right at the Wrecker's Rest.

Sergeant Black walked along the beach path toward Towey Head, taking the morning air and rather enjoying himself. With his superior away in St. Ives, he'd taken the opportunity to do a little exploring on his own. Not that he didn't usually feel free to follow his nose whenever the urge struck him; it was just that, well, Mr. Powell had his ways and he had his. He searched his mind for an analogy. Mr. Powell could perhaps be described as a setter, flashy and stylish, at his best in pursuit of a skittish covey of grouse. Black considered himself more of a bloodhound, steady and thorough, from which no furry villain was safe, however deep it went to ground. They made a good team in his estimation, the one's style complementing the other's. For all that, he felt the need to strike off on his own from time to time, to follow his instincts—where his methods wouldn't be subjected to impatient scrutiny by his mercurial superior.

He took a deep breath, then spoke expressively,

Books illuminated life, right enough, just like his English Lit. teacher had said. Before signing up for that first evening class, he reckoned he'd been wandering through the world like a man missing one of his senses. The great works of literature opened up a whole new universe that had hitherto been denied him. He'd never had the opportunity to get a good education like Mr. Powell, not that he was one to complain about his lot in life. You just had to get on with it and do the best you could with what you had. And although he wasn't particularly competitive by nature, he had to admit a certain feeling of satisfaction now that Mr. Powell had taken notice of his newly acquired literary knowledge.

He paused to take in the view. A large flat rock beside the path provided a convenient seat. He unwrapped the ham sandwich the lady at the teahouse had kindly packed for him at breakfast and was pleased to see she'd included an extra dill pickle. He munched away happily. It was another fine morning. The tide was coming in with long rollers breaking on the Sands. Off to his left was the maze of sand dunes they called the towans. A bloke could wander in there and never come out, he thought. Just opposite was the spot where Ms. Goode had found the body, and up ahead was the little cluster of cottages at the base of Towey Head. He'd never been beyond this point.

This is more like it, he thought. Nothing like a bit of
sea air to clear the mind. He'd spent a hectic day yesterday tracking down the remaining witnesses who had reported seeing the Riddle. He'd managed to talk to all of them except one bloke who was out of town for a few days. It was a curious thing. Although the various accounts differed in a number of details, as one might expect, there did seem to be a common theme running through most of them: someone out for an evening stroll along the Sands, a grotesque object spotted at the water's edge, usually, although not always, emanating a weird greenish light, and the witness not bothering to stay around for a closer look. And strangest of all, the Riddle seemed to pop out of sight as suddenly as it appeared. On more than one occasion, individuals reported returning to the scene ten or fifteen minutes later with reinforcements to corroborate the sighting only to find that the damn thing had disappeared. To pull off something like that would take a bit of fancy footwork. But at this point the
how
was less important to him than the
why.
He had a few ideas but needed to work the thing through a bit more.

He finished the last of his sandwich, folded the grease paper neatly, and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he got stiffly to his feet. Time to check out the neighborhood.

A half dozen cottages, all except two boarded up for the season. A freshly painted bungalow with a flower garden in full bloom (Dr. Harris's cottage, of course) sat next door to a rather run-down stone-built affair with a cluttered front garden that he reckoned must be the Porters’. There was no sign of life at Dr. Harris's, nor any sign of his black Vauxhall in the back.

Black was standing in front of the doctor's cottage
debating what to do next when a movement behind the Porters' caught his eye. Someone was hightailing it up the path behind the cottage. He had an impression of a tall bloke with an awkward gait. In an instant the man disappeared into the lane, obscured by the tall hedgerow. Black had been about to call after him, but something stopped him. He wasn't sure if the man had seen him. He scratched his balding head. It seemed a bit odd, so he decided that he'd better investigate on the off chance there was some funny business going on.

He moved stealthily between the two cottages, taking to the lawn on Dr. Harris's property rather than the brick walk on the Porters' side. He stopped and looked around the back of the small stone house. Nothing out of the ordinary. He walked up to the back door and peered through the window. It was too dark inside to see much of anything, just a puddle of light here and there beneath a tiny window.

He cocked an ear. Had he heard something just then? For just an instant he could have sworn he'd heard the sound of voices coming from the far side of the cottage. He inched along the back wall, listened for a moment, and then poked his head around the corner. There was only the murmuring of the sea. Perhaps he'd been mistaken. The Porters' was the last in the row of cottages, and only a short stretch of rough foreshore littered with some rusting machinery and an old wooden skiff separated it from the base of Towey Head. Black looked up at the summit of the dark prominence; it certainly looked foreboding from this vantage point, like a stern judge, towering in his black robes above the dock, passing judg-
ment on those below. Nice simile for the human condition, that—

There it was again! More distinct now, coming from a small window in the side of the cottage. A woman's voice, inarticulate, and then a sort of whimpering sound, punctuated by a deeper voice, guttural and slightly muffled. Now the telltale creaking of bedsprings. Blushing profusely, Black beat a hasty retreat; he didn't pause to catch his breath until he was standing once again in front of Dr. Harris's cottage.

He knew it was silly to feel embarrassed, but he had a thing about Peeping Toms. He had no doubt interrupted Mr. and Mrs. Porter while they were engaged in marital relations, and he knew how he would feel if the shoe were on the other foot. He scratched his head. Still, that bloke ducking up the back lane was a rum business. He mulled over the various possibilities. As he started back for Penrick, he decided he had better mention it to Mr. Powell.

That afternoon while Powell and Sergeant Black sat in the Head comparing notes, Nick Tebble worked in the machine shed behind the Old Fish Cellar. Ostensibly, the object of his attention was the rusty and decrepit motor that in the old days had powered the winch used to hoist the fish up from the boats. In actual fact he would have been unable to say exactly what he was doing or why he was doing it. Aimless pottering was a kind of defense mechanism he had developed over the years to avoid thinking about things. But this time it didn't seem to be helping. Too much had happened, and he felt like he was about to explode, like the telly in his head had been
turned up full blast. He threw down his spanner. He had to think. They were trying to get him, he knew that, to put him away in some deep dark place, just like—his laughter ripping through the silence like shrapnel. They thought they could buy him off, the bastards! Like he didn't know what he was about.

He began arranging his tools as a small boy might array his collection of tin soldiers in anticipation of some ultimate childhood Armageddon. Suddenly he froze. A small sound outside, his eyes narrowing. He moved toward the door to investigate. There was a silent figure silhouetted against the dazzling sunlight.

Tebble blinked for a few seconds and then recognition flickered on his face. He sneered. “I been thinkin' about tha”—”

It seemed to be happening in slow motion, the spade ripping into his abdomen muscles tearing blood searing hot and gushing his trousers soaked pooling on the ground and slippery on his hands as he grasped the wooden handle tightly like he did when he was a boy and his father pulled him over the snow sitting on this spade behind their horse, his hands not cold now but warm and sticky as the handle was pulled from his grasp. Dad? He looked up, bewildered, an instant before the blade caught him on the side of the head and crushed his skull.

The message was delivered to Powell and Black at ten past four. When they arrived at the Old Fish Cellar fifteen minutes later, an Incident Van was already parked behind the gray stone house, blocking the drive. They walked down the steep incline toward an old wooden shed standing between the house and a straggling garden,
where most of the activity seemed to be concentrated. Scene-of-crime officers bustled purposefully about, and it didn't take the detectives long to locate Chief Inspector Butts.

Butts grimaced. “I hope you chaps haven't had your tea.” He led the way to the door of the shed, where a police photographer was focusing on an object lying on the ground just to the right of the doorway. The lower half of a supine human torso protruded from the shed.

Powell forced himself to examine the object of the photographer's attention first. It was a long-handled Cornish spade, of the type used for digging potatoes. The blade and the lower half of the bleached wooden handle were liberally coated with blood.

He then turned his attention to the shed's doorway. There was blood everywhere: a thickening red puddle debouching like a viscous river from the interior; the boots and trousers stained dark; the faded planks surrounding the doorway splattered up to a height of about seven feet.

He looked back down at the body. The greasy shirt was sliced open at the midriff. There was a dark crescent-shaped wound just below the navel, leering like some gory smile. And the familiar cloying smell of death.

“He's still warm,” Butts commented.

Powell gestured toward the shed. “May I go inside?”

“Go ahead, sir. I think we've got everything we need.”

Powell stepped neatly over the corpse, avoiding most of the gore, and once inside made a quick survey. The interior of the shed was garishly illuminated by a mechanic's light that someone had suspended from one of the rafters. Various bits of machinery, garden tools, rusted engine
blocks, and stacks of cardboard boxes leaning precariously along the walls. The smell of grease-soaked rags and fertilizer. On the workbench an ancient engine of some description, partly disassembled. Powell turned back to the body. The right side of the head was severely lacerated and Tebble's eyes were wide and staring. The abdominal wound looked like a frown from this vantage point.

Powell stepped back into the fresh air. “Well, what do you think?”

Butts frowned. “It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened. Somebody skewered him with that spade and then caved his head in with it, or possibly the other way around. The police surgeon should be here shortly to sort it out.” He shook his head slowly. “It's the
why
that's got me puzzled. Nick Tebble was a bit odd. from what I knew of him, but I've always considered him basically harmless. The sort of chap who minded his own business.”

“Any run-ins with the law?” Powell asked.

Butts shrugged. “His family has lived here for generations, and there's never been any trouble, as far as I know.”

“Who reported it?”

“The postman delivering the afternoon mail.”

Powell nodded. “Any sign of visitors?”

“Not as far as we can tell, but we're still looking. There're marks all over the place, as you might expect, probably Tebble's. Whoever wielded the spade was evidently wearing gloves. There's an assortment of boot prints along the drive where it's damp, but as you can see, sir, the ground around the shed here is quite hard packed.”