Malice in Cornwall (7 page)

“I thought you might like to tag along,” he said innocently.

She looked at him with a curious expression on her face. “I don't get it.”

“It's always been my policy to be completely open with the press.”

“Really.” She looked doubtful.

Not to be outdone in the literary quotation department, Powell smiled cryptically.
“Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long.”

He was unknowingly prescient.

The next day started off on the wrong foot for Powell. He joined Sergeant Black for breakfast in the dining room at eight o'clock, but, disappointingly, Jane Goode was nowhere to be seen. After enduring the full English (consisting of a lonely rasher, an underdone sausage, and a slightly caramelized egg) he vowed never to take another meal at the Wrecker's Rest as long as he lived. And to top it all off, a few minutes later a beaming and effusive Mrs. Polfrock loomed large over their table exuding a miasma of lavender scent.

“Chief Superintendent, I'd like you to meet my brother-in-law, Chief Inspector Butts. He'll soon sort things out, don't you worry.”

And thus it was that Powell and Black were introduced to Chief Inspector Alfred “Buttie” Butts of the West Cornwall Division of the Cornwall and Devon Constabulary. Butts was a short, wiry, no-nonsense sort of person, who gave the impression that he knew everything there was to know about anything worth knowing and a few other things besides. To his credit, however, he did
appear to be put off by his sister-in-law's lingering presence and took immediate steps to correct the situation.

“Now, Agnes, old girl. If you'll just run along, my colleagues and I have some police business to discuss.”

She flounced off in a huff.

“You'll have to excuse my sister-in-law. Mr. Powell. She has a heart of gold, really, but she can be a bit overbearing at times.”

Powell though it best to say nothing.

“Yes, well, moving on to the business at hand,” Butts continued. “I've got my lads combing the beach where the body was found.”

“The exact location may not be that easy to find. I was planning to take you out there myself.”

Butts smiled benignly. “I wouldn't worry about it, sir. The tide has been in again this morning. I don't expect we'll find much.”

Powell had forgotten about the tide, but he supposed he'd had his mind on other things at the time.

“And besides,” Butts continued, “that reporter showed us where to look. Nice bit of skirt, that.”

“You are referring, I take it, to
Ms.
Goode?” Powell said icily.

Butts reddened. “Yes, sir. I, er, understand that it was Ms. Goode who found the body.”

Powell examined his colleague as if he were some exotic insect climbing up the wall of a specimen jar. “Tell me. Butts, what do you make of all this?”

Butts suddenly became animated. “The whole thing is obviously a crude joke perpetrated by somebody with a twisted sense of humor, and I'm damn well going to get to the bottom of it.”

Powell was reminded of Dr. Harris's similar reaction. “Go on,” he prompted.

“I used to fish around here as a lad. There are strong currents along this part of the coast and there's no way that a body drifting naturally would continue to wash up on the beach in Penrick Bay night after night. For a few days, maybe, but not two weeks. The bloody thing should have been in Boscastle by now. And then there's the Day-Glo bit.”

“What's your explanation, then?”

Butts appeared to consider his words carefully. “Your guess is as good as mine, but it's obviously been done for a purpose. To make a point of some kind.”

“Yes, but what point?”

Butts shrugged.

“How about you, Bill? Any ideas?”

Sergeant Black's lower lip protruded thoughtfully. “I think we need to have a closer look at the body,” he said.

Powell rubbed his hands together briskly. “Let's do that. I'd like Dr. Harris to have a look at it this morning.”

“But he's not a qualified pathologist,” Butts protested. “We've got a good man at Treliske Hospital in Truro—”

“Nevertheless,” Powell interjected crisply, “Harris
is
a medical man, he's available, and he knows the territory. We can always get a second opinion.”

Butts was obviously not pleased. “As you wish, sir.”

When Dr. Harris turned up half an hour later in response to Powell's telephone call, Black and Butts carried a black body bag from the Polfrocks' garden shed and deposited it carefully on the ground behind the guesthouse. The sky was a brooding swirl of dark clouds
framed by spare, spring branches, and hardly a breath of air stirred. A flock of small birds appeared suddenly overhead, swerving away in unison as if interconnected by invisible control wires. Powell glanced up at the guesthouse. Sergeant Black bent down and unzipped the bag and then meticulously arranged things, as if he were creating a flower arrangement, so that the body, lying on its back, could be viewed to best advantage.

It was not a pleasant sight. Decapitated, the reddish skin wrinkled and blistered and traced with prominent blood vessels, the stump of the neck, left arm, and both legs blackened at the ends, clumps of gray fur around the shoulders and breasts, and the remnants of what appeared to be some sort of orange garment hanging in tatters.

Harris sucked in his breath thoughtfully. “Do you mind if I have a closer look?”

Powell looked solemn. “Be my guest.”

Harris removed a pair of surgical gloves from his medical bag and pulled them on. He knelt on the ground beside the body and examined it closely from one end to the other for a considerable period of time. Then he gingerly poked and prodded around the midriff for a few moments. Eventually he stood up, rubbing the small of his back. He smiled grimly. “Well, it's not a ghost, I can tell you that. It's a woman, all right, wearing a life jacket. If you look closely you can see the straps. It's pretty badly torn, but that gray fibrous material is kapok or something like it. Can we turn her over?”

Butts cleared his throat as if to say something, but then he glanced at Powell and apparently thought better of it.

Powell nodded. “Bill, give me a hand, would you?”

Between the two of the them, alternately lifting one
side of the bag and then the other, as if engaged in some ghastly slow motion game of blanket toss, they soon had the body flipped over onto its front. The back panel of the life jacket was more or less intact, with a nylon loop attached to the center just below the remnant of the collar. Through the loop was tied a short length of frayed rope.

“That's interesting,” Black ventured.

Powell considered the rope for a moment and then turned to Harris. “Well, Dr. Harris, what do you make of it?”

Harris scratched his head. “Before I offer an opinion, I must emphasize that I am not a forensic pathologist, just a simple GP.” A self-satisfied gurgle here from Chief Inspector Butts. “However, certain points are obvious. Others are not so obvious and will require elucidation by someone more qualified than myself.” He paused to give Powell the opportunity to respond.

Powell nodded. “Understood. However, I'm confident you'll be able to shed some light on the matter,” he added graciously.

“Very well.” Harris looked down at the body again. “I'd hazard a guess that it can't have been in the sea for much more than a week or so. There is very little bloating. The marbling effect, that is, the prominent blood vessels, as well as the large bullae, or blisters—there, on the buttocks, for instance—indicate that she's been dead for several days.”

Powell frowned. “The so-called Riddle of Penrick was first sighted two weeks ago yesterday. Yet you say this one has only been dead about a week. It doesn't seem to fit.”

“I could be wrong, Chief Superintendent. All I can say
is that the general state of decomposition does not appear to be that well advanced. However, in cases like this, a precise determination of the time of death can be problematic. It basically depends on ambient temperature and exposure to sunlight. Given overcast conditions and relatively cool air and water temperatures, one could perhaps stretch it a few days more. I'm afraid that's the best I can do.”

Powell considered this information for a moment. “Wouldn't you say, Dr. Harris, that the absence of limbs is striking?”

‘That's rather curious, actually. It's not as if the body has decomposed to the point where bits and pieces have started to fall off. Your guess is as good as mine when it comes to the head and left arm—sharks, perhaps? The legs, however, are a bit of a puzzler.”

Powell was a bit puzzled himself. Gourmet sharks with a penchant for the upper regions? “What do you mean?”

Harris spoke in a monotone. “The bones look like they've been sawn through cleanly at the knees.”

Powell was incredulous. “Sawn? With a saw. you mean?”

“It looks like it.” Had Harris's manner stiffened?

“Well, that certainly puts a different light on matters,” Powell mused. “And then there's the rope.”

Harris shrugged.

Powell suddenly remembered the sample he had collected the previous night. He fingered the vial in his pocket. The Day-Glo bit, as Butts had put it. “When I first saw the body, it seemed to be giving off a faint phosphorescent light, just as it was described in the newspaper reports. Can you think of any explanation?”

“No
natural
explanation, if that's what you mean. If you hadn't seen it yourself, Chief Superintendent, I might have concluded that the power of suggestion was a factor.”

“Who wrote the bloody newspaper stories?” Butts muttered.

Powell reddened. “Yes, well, I collected a sample. I'll have it analyzed straight away.” His initial doubts about the increasingly mutinous Chief Inspector had begun to blossom into a feeling of full-blown animosity. He turned abruptly to face Sergeant Black. “We'd better get Sir Reggie out here to examine the remains as soon as possible. In the meantime let's get the body to the mortuary in Truro. Chief Inspector Butts will fix it with the local coroner.” An incipient snort from Butts at this breach of protocol. “Sir Reginald Quick,” Powell added for the benefit of Dr. Harris, “is the Home Office pathologist.”

Harris looked at Powell with penetrating blue eyes. (Sailor's eyes, Powell fancied.) “I sincerely wish him luck. And you, as well, Chief Superintendent, because I cannot emphasis strongly enough the necessity of getting to the bottom of this foul business with all due haste or, mark my words, there will be a price to pay!” And with that ominous pronouncement he turned on his heel and strode to his car.

They stood in silence as Harris drove off in a spray of gravel. Something Harris had said stuck Powell as rather curious. He turned toward the guesthouse, his train of thought interrupted. This time he was certain; the curtain in one of the upstairs windows had stirred slightly.

The Head was doing a modest business that night, and from the odd snippet of conversation Powell overheard, the discovery of the body on the Sands the previous night was the hot topic. Tony Rowlands seemed agitated about something as he went about his business delivering drinks and food orders and snapping commands at the long-suffering Jenny behind the bar. Powell sat with Jane Goode and Sergeant Black at what had become their regular table in front of the fire. They had just finished a decent meal of rabbit stew served with local new potatoes.

Jane Goode sipped her wine eagerly. “Now, I'll tell you about mine if you tell me about yours.”

“I beg your pardon,” Powell inquired modestly. Nothing like a good double entendre to liven up an evening.

She smiled, mildly exasperated. “Your
day
, I mean.”

Powell affected an air of disappointment and then drained his pint. “Oh, I see. You first, then.”

“Not much to tell really. First thing this morning I showed Butts's men where the body had washed up, but the tide had been in and out, so I don't think they found
much. Then I filed a story with my newspaper and spent the rest of the day working on my book.”

‘That's it?”

“A fairly productive day, I'd say, all things considered. I'd be interested to hear how yours stacks up.”

Powell summarized the results of Dr. Harris's examination of the body. “A bit of a riddle,” he concluded dryly.

“Careful! I've got a proprietary interest in the use of that word.”

“Looking at the thing dispassionately,” he continued, “there is still no evidence that a crime has been committed. An accident of some sort is the most likely explanation.”

“Dispassionately is the only way to look at anything,” Jane Goode said pointedly. “But you can't be serious! Have you forgotten that it's had both its legs sawn off, not to mention the fact that it glows in the dark?”

“There is that,” Powell admitted, “and I'm trying to keep an open mind. “But we need to do more forensic work before—”

“You saw it yourself on the beach last night. There's something very weird going on and I don't need some geek in a white coat to prove it to me.”

“It's possible that the body has been tampered with, but—”

“Tampered with! That's the understatement of the year. I'm not sure what the proper legal term is, but I thought it was against the law to desecrate a human body. Look, Powell, I think I'm onto something big here and I'm not going to let you or anybody else put me off the scent.”

“So
that's
it,” Powell rejoined.

“What else did you think?” she snapped back, tossing her head haughtily.

Sergeant Black seemed to be taking considerable pleasure in the proceedings. His head swiveled back and forth as if he were the umpire of a particularly spirited tennis match.

‘Tm just saying that we need to look into it a bit more before we rule out the more obvious explanations. I've initiated inquiries to see whether there have been recent reports of missing women anywhere in the country or any marine accidents off the south and west coasts.”

She seemed to accept Powell's peace offering and signaled to Tony Rowlands for another round. “I'm sorry—I guess I'm just a bit tense. This deadline is killing me. I should be up in my room writing.”