Malice in Cornwall Page 5

  Without speaking, he knelt down beside the pool and began to examine the body, as well as the surrounding sand and rocks. From time to time he flicked on his torch for a few seconds and then extinguished it again.

  Eventually, his companion could stand it no longer. “Would you mind telling me what in heaven's name you're doing?”

  “Technical stuff,” Powell rejoined dryly.

  “Remember who found the bloody thing,” she said. A nervous pause. “You don't think it's radioactive or anything, do you?”

  Powell ignored her. “It's odd,” he said. “It doesn't seem to have much of a smell.”

  She sniffed noisily. The only distinct odor she could detect amongst the general smell of salt and muck was the antiseptic iodine note of sea wrack, patches of which were scattered here and there over the rocks. “So?”

  He shrugged. “Given the state of decomposition, one would have thought … I don't know, perhaps it has something to do with the salt water. Can you find me a stick?”

  “What?”

  “I need something to scrape up a sample with.”

  “Oh, all right.” She shone her torch on the beach around her boots and then stooped to pick something up. “Will this do?” She handed Powell a thin piece of driftwood about six inches long.

  “Perfect. Shine the light here.” He rummaged in his pocket and retrieved a small glass vial. He unscrewed the cap and then, using the stick, scraped some fragments of sand and debris from the body into the vial; he screwed the cap on and placed it back in his pocket. “Right. We'd better get back. The tide's on its way out, so it should be all right to leave the body here for a little while—”

  Suddenly there was a flash and the whine of a film-winding mechanism. After taking half a dozen photographs, Jane Goode said brightly, “Well, so much for the Riddle of Penrick.”

  Powell got slowly to his feet and shone his torch in her face. “Surely not, Ms. Goode.”

  “What do you mean?”

  A melodramatic pause. “The riddle, I think, is who she is. And how she died.”

  She blushed profusely. The thought hadn't occurred to her until that moment. She raised a hand to shield her eyes. “Would you mind shining that thing somewhere else?” she asked irritably.

  With Powell leading the way this time, they set off back to the Wrecker's Rest, retracing their steps as closely as possible. At the point where they had first left the beach path, Powell built a little cairn of rocks. He whistled tunelessly as he worked. A few stars were glimmering through a tattered shroud of clouds.

  When they arrived back at the guesthouse, Powell briefed Sergeant Black and then rang up Chief Inspector Butts in St. Ives to inform him of their gruesome discovery. He made arrangements to have the body attended to that night and for the scene-of-crime lads to come out first thing the next morning.

  Half an hour later Powell and Jane Goode, having just narrowly escaped the clutches of an aggressively inquisitive Mrs. Polfrock, were sitting down at a table in the Head. A fire crackled in the grate, flickering cozily on the dark oak beams. A sprinkling of other patrons (a mixture of locals and visitors by the looks of them) added to the general atmosphere of conviviality, making up for their lack of numbers with the boisterous nature of their conversations. Tony Rowlands was over in a flash to take their order. He hovered overly attentively around Ms. Goode, Powell thought.

  “A glass of white wine would be nice,” she said. “Any old plonk will do.”

  Rowlands smiled unctuously. “May I recommend the house chardonnay?”

  Powell glanced over the drinks menu. “Fine. A half-liter to start with, please.”

  “I'm sorry, Chief Superintendent,” Rowlands said smoothly, “we only serve wine by the glass. House rules, I'm afraid.”

  The first rule prescribed the usurious exploitation of one's patrons, Powell presumed. “A glass for Ms. Goode, then, and I'll have a pint of St. Austell,” he said frostily.

  Rowlands oozed over to the bar and soon returned with their drinks.

  Powell raised his glass. “Cheers, Ms. Goode, we've had a good night's work.”

  She eyed him shrewdly. “First off, it's Jane. Secondly, I'm not about to share the glory. I found the damn thing and that's the way I'll be reporting it. Cheers.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I'm a reporter and this is my, um, scoop.”

  Powell raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “I'm a freelancer, actually.” She took a gulp of wine. “Well, to tell the truth, I'm a novelist. This is just a bit of moonlighting to keep body and soul together.”

  “A novelist?” Powell was intrigued. “Perhaps I've read one of your books.”

  She smiled ruefully. “I think that's highly unlikely. I've only written one. Borders. It came out last year.”

  “What's it about?”

  “You'll have to buy a copy to find out.”

  Powell grinned. “I'll do that.” He took a sip of his beer, regarding his companion speculatively over his glass. He could not deny that Jane Goode interested him greatly. With her dark flowing hair and sea blue eyes, she was a striking woman, although not what you'd call pretty in the conventional sense of the word. She moved easily and naturally, suggesting a certain sensuous muscularity. It wasn't hard to imagine her hoisting a jib or galloping astride a horse. And a writer, besides. He suppressed a twinge of envy as he considered his own position in the scheme of things—a minor government functionary, when it came right down to it, a small cog in a big wheel going around and around in never-ending bureaucratic circles. He would no doubt leave the world much as he found it—not a book or a painting or poem to mark his passage. Suddenly he colored; he realized that he had been staring at her.

  Her eyes sparkled. “A penny for your thoughts, Chief Superintendent.”

  “Er, it's Erskine.”

  “Erskine?”

  Powell smiled thinly. “Erskine Childers Powell. My old man was keen on sailing and Home Rule.”

  “I don't understand …”

  “Erskine Childers was a sailor and an IRA man, as well as a writer,” he explained. “He wrote a story about a pair of English sailors playing cat and mouse with the German navy just before the start of the First World War. It's generally regarded as the first spy novel.”

  “I know it—The Riddle of the Sands!” She burst out laughing. “That's rather appropriate under the circumstances, don't you think? Actually, I've never read the book, but I did see the movie. Come to think of it, you do remind me a little of that Foreign Office bloke—the one played by Michael York—Carruthers, isn't it?”

  “Oh, yes?” Powell was slightly disappointed; he had always identified more with the swashbuckling Davies.

  “I think I'll just call you Powell.”

  He sighed. “Fine.”

  There followed a lengthy silence that only Powell found awkward.

  Eventually his companion spoke quietly. “It's only just beginning to sink in. That was a human being out there on the beach, not just some sort of … curiosity. Do you—do you have any idea how she might have died?”

  Powell shrugged. “Hard to say. A boating accident is the first thing that comes to mind. But in this case …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it's a bit bizarre, don't you think? Corpses don't normally glow in the dark.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “We'll be able to make a closer examination tomorrow. In the meantime, it remains a riddle—” he smiled “—more grist for your newspaper mill. Now, another glass of wine?”

  “My round, I think.”

  “They'll drum you out of the reporter's union if you keep that up.”

  She smiled. “I think we're going to get along just fine, Powell.”

  Powell's buoyant response was cut short by the arrival of Sergeant Black.

  “Mr. Powell, Ms. Goode,” he said expectantly.

  Powell sighed. “Sit down, Black. How did it go?”

  “Butts s
ent over two of his men to lend a hand. We managed to get the thing bagged and put away for the night in the Polfrocks' shed. It's a bloody long slog with a wheelbarrow, I can tell you. The lads will be back out at the crack of dawn to have a good look around.” A pregnant pause.

  “I imagine you'll want to turn in early then,” Powell said.

  “Nonsense!” Ms. Goode protested. “You'll join us for a drink.”

  Black grinned from ear to ear. “Don't mind if I do, ma'am.”

  A few minutes later Sergeant Black was contentedly wiping the foam from his upper lip. “You know, sir, this business reminds me of a passage from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner G

  Powell rolled his eyes. “Really?”

  “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat.

  “The very deep did rot; O Christ!

  That ever this should be!

  Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs

  Upon the slimy sea.”

  “Bravo, Sergeant Black,” Jane Goode cried. “Let's see, how does the rest go …

  About, about, in reel and rout

  The death fires danced at night;

  The water, like a witch's oils,

  Burnt green, and blue and white.”

  Black looked pleased as punch.

  “I'm finding this gathering of the Penrick Literary Society extremely stimulating, but we've got an early day tomorrow,” Powell said tersely.

  Jane Goode seemed amused. “Speak for yourself.”

  “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.

  CHAPTER 5

  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?”