As a very young police constable Sloan had thought instead that it was just policeman's instinct and experience on his sergeant's part. Whatever it was â instinct or simple observation â there was no doubt in his own mind now that Bill Wakefield was lying. A slight trembling in that young man's left hand confirmed this view.
âWhere are we now, Sloan?' asked the superintendent. The question was purely rhetorical in that Detective Inspector Sloan was standing in front of him in his superior officer's room.
âDr Dabbe is of the opinion that the body pulled out of the river, now identified as far as we are concerned as a young woman called Lucy Lansdown, was the victim of an attack.'
The superintendent grunted. âSit down and go on.'
âThis is on the basis of some bruises to her neck, perhaps designed to stop her crying out for help.'
âIt has been known,' said Leeyes heavily.
âThere were also grazes on both her handsâ¦'
âFrom clutching at the quoins of the bridge on the way down?' he asked.
âWe're checking on that,' said Sloan.
âBut she wasn't dead when she hit the water?'
âDr Dabbe thinks not. He is of the opinion that she probably died from drowning. She had inhaled some river water and there were diatoms in the lungs. He also found a bruise on her head so it is possible that she could have been stunned before she went into the river.'
The superintendent stirred uneasily. âThere's doesn't sound to me anything at all accidental about all this, Sloan.'
âNo, sir, I'm afraid not.' He coughed. âDr Dabbe is working on his report now but he states quite categorically that the deceased was not pregnant.'
Leeyes grunted again. âOr drunk?'
âNo, sir. Her blood alcoholic levels showed that she had drunk nothing last evening.'
âAnd no note, you said?'
âNo note that has been found so far,' stated Sloan precisely. âAll we discovered in the house in the first instance was the piece in the local paper announcing the funeral of Josephine Eleanor Short over at Damory Regis marked in black ink.'
The superintendent gave a prodigious frown. âAnd what, pray, is the connection between the â I mean, both â deceased?'
âThat, sir, is what we are seeking to establish now.'
âYou aren't issuing a carefully prepared statement to the press now, Sloan. You're talking to me in my office.'
âYes, sir.'
âAnd so what's holding you up, then?'
âWe have examined the late Josephine Short's room at the Berebury Nursing Home,' Sloan replied obliquely. âThe contents appear to have been undisturbed save for a vase whose breakage cannot be accounted for and an unconfirmed feeling the matron has that someone has riffled through her office records. Nothing missing there, though, that she can think of.'
âNow you're talking like an accountant, Sloan.'
âThere is no doubt, though,' Sloan ploughed on steadily, âthat there had been an intruder on the premises the night before the funeral, although there is no evidence so far that he was in Josephine Short's room, save only for the fact that it was in her room that the vase was broken and none of the staff admit to knocking it off the shelf.'
Leeyes grunted. âSo what's new?'
âMatthew Steele's mother works there, by the way, as a care assistant.'
âHeaven help the inmates, then.'
Sloan coughed and said delicately, mindful of both political correctness and the matron, âI understand, sir, it is more usual to refer to them as residents.'
Leeyes drummed his fingers on his desk. âMark my words, Sloan, that's what they'll be calling prisoners any minute now, too.'
âVery possibly, sir. And Ellen Steele is, as I said, the mother of the troublesome Matthew.'
âNobody in that tribe would ever have broken anything that they could sell for ready money. Ever,' pronounced Leeyes. âAny of them. Certainly not her Matthew.'
âNo, sir.' Sloan carried on, âThe Scene of Crime people have now taken all the information they can from the nursing home and we have confirmed that the girl in questionâ'
âThe girl in the river,' said the Superintendent.
âHer,' agreed Sloan, since there was never a lot of point in disagreeing with his superior officer anyway. âShe was seen at the funeral by Mrs Janet Wakefield who has since been shown the photograph. Although she states she doesn't know her name, she did identify the woman in the photograph as being among those attending the ceremony.'
âMourners, Sloan, that's what they're called.'
âYes, sir, but what we don't know as yet is why she should have been mourning the old lady.' He paused and then went on, âOr what the connection between the two could be. There must have been one or she wouldn't have been at the funeral.' He wondered briefly if he should mention that sometimes people represented other people at funerals but decided against it. Instead he said, âWe propose checking next with the deceased's grandson if he knew her.'
âWho benefits from her death?' asked Leeyes simply.
âThe girl's? We don't know yet, sir. We've been told that there's a brother living in the North of England and that's all I can tell you so far. In the meantime we're keeping the victim's name under wraps.'
âNever does any harm,' opined Leeyes, constitutionally opposed to giving information of any sort away. âAnd the old lady's heir?'
âThis grandson I mentioned. He's called Joe Short.' Simon Puckle, the solicitor, had been guarded in his talk with the police but helpful. He hadn't known the girl with the auburn hair either, although he, too, had seen her at the funeral.
âWhere there's a will, there's a relative,' observed Leeyes largely.
âJust so, sir,' said Sloan. âWe are also carrying out a routine check on this William Wakefield â it was his wife, Janet, who organised the funeral. He says he only arrived in England yesterday evening.'
âGood thinking. The checking I mean.'
âAnd it would seem, sir, that he â this William Wakefield â inherits shouldâ¦erâ¦anything happen to the deceased's grandson, Joe Short.'
âI take it, Sloan,' said the superintendent loftily, âthat you will see that nothing does happen to him.'
âI'll try,' said Sloan warily. He coughed. âI have also instituted enquiries in the town about whether anyone saw anything untoward on the bridge last night, although I'm afraid it's rather unlikely if it was after dark.'
âThere's not a lot of traffic at that hour of the night,' agreed Leeyes, adding mournfully, âand it's about the only time when there isn't.'
Detective Inspector Sloan snapped his notebook shut and got to his feet. In âF' Division of the County of Calleshire Constabulary, cars, unless used in the deliberate killing of someone, were not his problem. Anyway, he had a feeling that he'd got quite enough on his plate already. âThere's one other thing, sirâ¦'
âWhich is?'
âLucy Lansdown's handbag.'
âWhat about it?'
âWe can't find it.'
âSo?'
âSo I'm having the river just below the bridge dragged. Just in case.'
Â
Detective Inspector Sloan was not unknown at the Bellingham Hotel. Old-fashioned and comfortable, he had rarely been called there in the line of duty but he had from time to time looked in when not working. Once upon a time, though, he had frequented dances in their ballroom hoping that a certain young girl would be there in an electric-blue dressâ¦a girl called Margaret. He had it in mind to take her back there on their next wedding anniversary.
Pulling himself together he asked at the desk if a Mr Short was in his room. The receptionist pointed across the hall. âI think you'll find him in the lounge, Inspector. He's just asked for a pot of tea.'
âMake it for two. No,' Sloan corrected himself, now conscious of a figure at his side stirring. âFor three, please.'
âA cake would be nice,' said Crosby plaintively, âseeing as how we didn't get any lunch.'
âWith cakes,' sighed Sloan.
âWe do toasted teacakes,' said the receptionist, obviously a born saleswoman.
Crosby brightened. âLovely.'
âThis way, Crosby,' said Sloan, making his way across the Bellingham's hall. The lounge was comfortable, furnished with sensible leather-covered chairs into which a guest could sink. He picked out Joe Short without difficulty since he was the only solitary male in a room otherwise mainly full of women, who judging by their parcels, were resting after heroic shopping. True, two other men were huddled over a table in the far corner of the room. They were mulling over papers, their briefcases spilling out over the floor, but they were older and patently busy.
Sloan advanced towards the young man. âMr Short, I'm Detective Inspector Sloan.'
Joe Short got to his feet. âMy goodness, Inspector, that was quickâ¦where I come from you practically have to bribe the police to take an interest in a murder let alone a stolen passport.'
âSir?'
âI've only just been into your police station to report that my passport has been stolen.'
âReally, sir?' Sloan sat down across the table from the young man. âTell me.'
âIt was my own fault,' he admitted. âAt least, I think it was.'
âGo on,' said Sloan. If Crosby said anything at this moment about a dead girl he'd have his guts for garters.
âI've been staying here in Calleshire for my grandmother's funeral,' explained Joe Short, âand I went over to see an old boy â a friend of hers, who'd been at the funeral, called Sebastian Worthington. I got his name and address from some cards Mrs Wakefield brought round after the funeralâ¦'
âAh, yes,' said Sloan with apparent indifference. âPerhaps we could take a look at those sometime.'
âSure. Well, this guy lives out in the country, inland from Kinnisport, and by the time I left him I was a bit hungry and so I cast about a bit for a good pubâ¦'
âAnd found one?'
âThe Shipwright's Arms. I guess that figures since they're near enough to the sea there.'
âAh, food,' said Constable Crosby to the waitress as she approached their table. âPut it here, please.'
âYou know the pub?' said Joe Short to Sloan.
âI know of it, sir,' said Sloan. And he did. A big old country pub with a large clientele, some of them sailors ashore.
âIt was pretty crowded at lunchtime, I can tell you. I suppose that should have made me more carefulâ¦'
âYes,' said Detective Constable Crosby indistinctly, wiping some butter that had dripped from the toasted teacake off his fingers.
âYes, well I will be in future I promise you,' grimaced Joe Short.
âDid you lose anything else besides your passport?' asked Sloan. âYour wallet, for instanceâ¦'
âNo,' Joe Short patted his trouser pocket. âThat's safe enough.'
âNot now you've shown everyone in the room where it is, it isn't,' remarked Crosby insouciantly.
âWhere was your passport, then, sir?' asked Sloan.
âAh, that was in my jacket pocket and like a fool I took that off after I'd had a beer and began to feel warmer.'
âAnd you hung it on the back of your chair, I suppose,' said Crosby censoriously. He reached for another teacake, then withdrew his hand. âDo you want the last one, sir?'
âI think, Crosby,' said Sloan acidly, âthat your need is greater than mine.'
âAs Sir Philip Sidney said at the Battle of Zutphen,' remarked Joe Short. He grinned apologetically. âSchoolteachers were hot on the history of England if they were abroad.'
âI can see that they might be, sir,' said Sloan. Distance might well have lent enchantment to some of the more inexcusable incidents in British history. âNow, this passport that you have reported missingâ¦'
âI shall have to apply for a replacement one pretty pronto or I shan't be able to get back to Lasserta.'
âLasserta?'
Joe Short sketched a circle in the air. âLarge island, sandy desert in the north and tropical jungle in the south â with the odd hill in both.'
âOurs?' enquired Crosby. He'd once been given an old atlas, its maps mostly in pink.
âSort of,' replied Joe. âThat is, it was once. A British protectorate or something like that. It isn't now but I think we have some kind of presence there.'
âWhy?' asked Crosby, never a child of Empire.
The young man relaxed in his chair. âThat's easy. They mine querremitte ore there. Hardest metal known to man.'
âVery valuable, I'm sure,' said Sloan.
âIt sure is.' Joe Short picked up his cup. âAnd I won't be able to get back there without a new passport. I've just booked a slot on your library computer here in the town so that I can get cracking today. Before I lost the thing I was all ready to start booking a return flight home now that the funeral's over.'
Sloan nodded. âNow, sir,' he went on, opening his notebook, âas it happens we came to see you about something quite different.'
Joe Short started. âNot about Granny surely? The matron at the nursing home said that everything was hunky-doryâ¦sorry, I mean that there was nothing to worry about with her death. Expected and all that. Oh,' he subsided, âI suppose you mean about that break-in there that I was told about. Very odd.'
âYes and no,' said Detective Inspector Sloan, reaching into the folder he had brought with him.
âI don't get it, Inspector,' said Joe. âWhat exactly do you mean?'
Sloan opened the folder and pulled out the photograph of the face of the girl pulled from the river. âHave you ever seen this girl?'
Joe took it in both hands and studied it carefully. âNo, I don't think soâ¦ahâ¦wait a minute, wait a minute. Yes, I have. The girl with the auburn hair.' He handed the photograph back to Sloan. âI remember her now. She was at Granny's funeral. Why do you ask?'
âDid you speak to her?'
âNot really. She dropped her handbag in the churchyard and I picked it up and handed it back to her.' He screwed up his face in an effort of recollection. âI think she must have thanked me but that's all.'