Malice in Cornwall Page 7

  Listening to all this, Powell got the impression that the couple was just barely able to eke out a living, and that the strain was beginning to take its toll—on Linda Porter, at least. And he began to wonder about Mr. Porter, who, reading between the lines, seemed to be the primary architect of the Porters' self-sufficiency lifestyle. After hearing her litany of woe, he started to feel slightly guilty about keeping her from her chores, so he maneuvered the conversation around to the reason for his visit.

  He told her about the discovery of the body and its likely link to the Riddle, although he got the impression she'd already heard about it through the local rumor mill. When pressed for any information she might have, she became evasive, which surprised him given the penchant she had already displayed for saying what was on her mind.

  “I never saw it and I didn't go out of my way to look for it, not like some around here with nothing better to do.”

  “A woman has died, Mrs. Porter. Can you think of anything, anything at all, something you might have seen or heard that may not have seemed important at the time, but which now, with the benefit of hindsight, might possibly shed some light on the matter?”

  “I'll bet you have that speech memorized,” she marveled.

  He smiled patiently. “The fact remains, the body of a woman has washed up on the Sands, a body that has been, not to put too fine a point on it, messed about with. Aren't you the least bit curious? I know I am, and when I get curious I tend to ask a lot of questions.”

  “That's where you and I differ, then.” She suddenly looked bored. “Let's get this straight, I don't know who she is or where she came from, and quite frankly I couldn't care less. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some potatoes to get in.”

  Thus dismissed, Powell rose to his feet. There was a sudden clumping of boots at the back door and a tall, gangly young man entered the room, his questioning eyes darting from Linda Porter to Powell and then back again. He looked like a schoolboy in need of a holiday.

  She sighed heavily. “Relax, Jim, it's only the cops. Chief Superintendent Powell, meet my husband, Jim of the Jungle.” If this was an inside joke, her husband didn't seem to appreciate it.

  The two men exchanged greetings in a stilted manner, and then Powell took his leave. As he walked next door to pay a social call on Dr. Harris, he could hear the sound of recriminating voices coming from the Porters' cottage.

  Dr. Harris was obviously pleased to see him. “Do come in, Chief Superintendent. Make yourself at home and I'll get us a glass of wine. Not too early for you, I hope?”

  Powell smiled. “Sun's over the yardarm, I think.” One must respect the nautical traditions. A different vintage this time but as usual, the standard of libation at the Harris household was excellent. “I've just had a chat with your neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Porter.”

  Harris raised his eyebrows. “Oh, I see. Nice couple, but one feels a bit sorry for them.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, they've chosen a hard sort of life for themselves, haven't they?”

  “But they have chosen it.”

  “Yes, but one wonders … I mean to say, one shouldn't really say so, but one gets the distinct impression that the whole thing was mostly Jim's idea and he's not really up to the job. Unfortunately, his missus is bearing the brunt of it. I don't suppose it's his fault, really.” Harris smiled. “I fancy he's a bit of a romantic—not at all practical like you and I, Chief Superintendent. The poor chap is not very handy, you see. He'll spend days trying to do a simple repair job on his rotary cultivator while his wife toils away in the fields. I lend a hand whenever I can, but I'm not getting any younger. Believe me, it would be a hard enough life for someone who had the aptitude for it. If it wasn't for Mrs. Porter, I'm sure they'd have packed it in ages ago.”

  “Not exactly a recipe for marital bliss,” Powell observed.

  Harris drained his glass. “I wouldn't know about that. Here, we'd better have another.”

  His glass replenished, Powell took in the panoramic view commanded by Dr. Harris's sitting room window. On an isolated rock at the base of Towey Head a shag was stretching its wings out to dry. To the right he could see all the way round to the village. The wind had freshened and was whipping up storm caps in the bay. A blue-hulled fishing boat, gay with red trim and piled high with lobster pots, was making its way into the harbor. It occurred to Powell that very little of the comings and goings in Pen-rick Bay could escape the attention of Dr. Harris and his antique telescope. He turned to his host. “You know, I think I'd quite fancy a bit of sailing. You mentioned before that you had an Enterprise; do you think I might borrow it for an afternoon?”

  Harris beamed. “I'd be absolutely delighted! Anytime, anytime at all.”

  “Would you be interested in coming along? Do you good.”

  His host shook his head regretfully. “I think not, thanks all the same.” His thoughts seemed elsewhere.

  “Mrs. Porter informs me that she and her husband lease their cottage from Tony Rowlands,” Powell observed casually.

  “He owns most of the properties along the bay, including this one. Bought it all from one of the mining companies years ago.”

  “Tony's done all right for himself.”

  Harris smiled. “There are a few essentials in life, and publicans have the market cornered on one of them.”

  Powell rose to leave. “Well, I'd best be shoving off. Thanks once again.”

  “Not at all, Chief Superintendent; the pleasure has been all mine, I can assure you.”

  As he made his way back to the village along the beach path, Powell had much on his mind: Mrs. Porter, for a start—a bit of a firebrand, that one—and Mr. Porter was not exactly as he'd imagined him. Then there was the breathtaking depth of Dr. Harris's wine cellar and the rather curious fact that not once during their conversation had he inquired about the investigation.

  Later that afternoon Powell and Black drove into Portreath for a bit of a break from the normal routine. They had got into the habit of convening in the Head before dinner to compare notes, and again after dinner, come to that, since there was no obvious alternative. The Residents' Lounge of the Wrecker's Rest was clearly out of the question. However, it had occurred to Powell that it might be prudent to locate an alternate bolt-hole, somewhat removed from Penrick, to dispel any suspicions amongst the ratepaying public of that fair village that the Metropolitan Police Service was comprised entirely of dipsomaniacs.

  Thus it was that they found themselves snugly ensconced in a seaside pub, sampling the local bitter and looking out at a heaving gray sea. A group of surfers clad in black wetsuits and looking for all the world like a troupe of trained seals were riding the waves onto the beach.

  “Looks bloody cold,” Sergeant Black remarked with studied detachment.

  “Good Lord! Do you see that blonde?” Powell exclaimed.

  Black smiled indulgently. “When one gets to be my age, sir, one begins to realize that there are other things in life.”

  Powell snorted. “Such as?”

  Black turned pink. “Er, reading good books, like.”

  Powell laughed. “Don't get me wrong; I like a good read as well as the next man—a naughty bit of Chaucer, for instance—but I am, alas, a victim of my endocrinology.”

  “Sir?”

  “Hormones, Black, hormones! The biochemical basis for love and sex.”

  “There's more to it than just chemicals, surely, sir.”

  “I wouldn't bank on it. I have it on reliable authority that even one's philosophy of life is a function of the concentration of serotonin in the little gray cells. Whether one is an optimist or a pessimist, whether one believes in the nobility of human existence or subscribes to the nasty, brutish, and short version. Simply a matter of brain chemistry.”

  “But love, sir?” Black looked concerned.

  “Never mind, old son, nothing another pint won't put right.”

  Sergeant Black sat without speaking for a moment, his furrowed
brow indicating a state of deep concentration. Suddenly his expression brightened and he spoke in a triumphant voice:

  “Yet all love is sweet,

  Given or returned. Common as light is love,

  And its familiar voice wearies not ever.

  Mr. Shelley can't be wrong, sir,” he concluded matter-of-factly.

  Powell smiled ruefully. “You are an unabashed romantic, Bill, and I envy you.” He drained his glass. “My round, I think. Then we had better get down to business.”

  The pints arrived and Powell reviewed the facts of the case. Sixteen days ago a mysterious apparition—the so-called Riddle of Penrick—first appeared on the Penrick Sands. Jenny Thompson, the barmaid at the Head, may have been the first one to see it. Eyewitness accounts varied slightly but were consistently fantastic: half-human, half-beast, a headless female with a luminous aura, and so on. The sightings always occurred at night and seemed to be concentrated on the section of beach between the village and Towey Head, which was rather curious when one thought about it. As far as they knew, there had not been one sighting along the northeastern half of Penrick Bay. Two nights ago, Jane Goode had discovered a body on the beach that fit the general description of the Riddle, and Powell, himself, was able to confirm that this was no ordinary corpse they were dealing with. Dr. Harris's preliminary examination had revealed at least two noteworthy points. Firstly, the legs had been amputated; secondly, based on the visible extent of decomposition, the unidentified female had probably not been dead for much more than a week, the problem being that the Riddle had been sighted on a regular basis for slightly over two weeks now. Yet it seemed inconceivable that the two were not one and the same. One could only hope that Sir Reggie would be able to make sense of it all. The fact that the deceased wore the remains of a life jacket was suggestive, and Powell was certain that his inquiries regarding missing persons would soon bear fruit. He had also asked Chief Inspector Butts to have his men conduct a thorough search of the towans for articles of clothing or anything else of interest.

  “The first priority is to ID the body, which could be difficult, and then, if possible, determine the cause of death,” Powell concluded, examining his empty glass as if it were a crystal ball that might provide enlightenment. He looked up at Sergeant Black. “Have I overlooked anything?”

  Black frowned thoughtfully. “I don't think so, sir. You've pretty well summed it up. As you requested, I talked to Ms. Goode and got the names of all those who reported sightings, at least those she's interviewed for her newspaper articles. I also asked around the village on my own. So far I've identified seven witnesses, including Jenny Thompson and Ms. Goode. I haven't been able to come up with anything original yet, but I still have a few more people to track down. All in all, sir, I get the impression that the locals aren't that keen to talk about it. But I did run into one bloke who might be worth talking more to, a fisherman name of Colin Wilcox. He seems quite knowledgeable about the local tides and currents.”

  Powell nodded. “That's the crux of it. I think; where did our body come from and how did it end up on the Penrick Sands?”

  “There is one more thing, sir. When I mentioned that people seemed a bit closemouthed about recent events, Wilcox volunteered that there were some who linked the Riddle with the unsolved murder of a local girl near here in the Sixties. Girl named Ruth Trevenney. Apparently her body was found washed up on the beach by some hippies.”

  Powell did not appear to be particularly surprised by this latest piece of information. “We'll have to follow that up” was his only response.

  Sergeant Black rose ponderously to his feet and picked up Powell's glass. “Another pint, sir?”

  “If you insist, then we'll have something to eat. I noticed a little Indian place in the High Street,” he added offhandedly.

  Sergeant Black tried not to show his disappointment. He wasn't much for foreign food himself—give him good English fare any day—but he had gotten used to the routine over the years. Vindaloo, korma, bhuna, tandoori,and BalH, he'd endured them all. He should have known that his superior, like the most depraved sort of opium eater, could not be kept very long from his curry.

  When they got back to Penrick, they looked in at the Head; Powell had been hoping to have a word with Jane Goode, but there was no sign of her. At the guesthouse a surly Mrs. Polfrock, having dropped any pretense of civility, indicated that Ms. Goode had already gone up to her room. Sergeant Black followed suit and Powell found himself at loose ends. He asked Mrs. Polfrock if she would mind if he used the Residents' Lounge.

  “It's all part of the service.” She sniffed indignantly. “Just keep the telly turned down. I'm going to bed.”

  The Residents' Lounge was open and unoccupied. Powell switched on the light and walked over to the small bookshelf beside the window. A dozen or so well-used paperbacks, romance novels mostly; a few titles on local birding and seashell collecting; and the complete autobiography of Margaret Thatcher. His heart sank. For a reckless moment he considered turning on the television, but he managed to resist the urge. Heaving a sigh, he selected one of the bird books and settled himself into an overstuffed chair. As he thumbed through the color plates of shags and puffins, cormorants and guillemots, he recalled that Mr. Polfrock was a bird-watcher of sorts.

  He closed the book and stared straight ahead. Something was scurrying around in the back of his brain, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then it hit him. He had noticed the desk, an escritoire, in the corner of the room on previous occasions and had thought nothing of it. It was just another piece of furniture, although a bit classier than the rest. It was only now that he realized what it was. He had seen them advertised in the glossy sporting catalogues he liked to drool over—the ones with the matched pairs of hand-built side lock shotguns that cost more than his annual salary. He got up and walked over to it. He tried one of the drawers; it wouldn't budge. It appeared to be part of a false front, as did all the others. He reached around the back and felt for the mechanism. There was a soft click and the front of the escritoire opened as a unit, revealing a steel door fitted with a combination lock. Just as he had guessed, it was a safe of the type used for storing guns. He held his breath and pulled the handle on the lock. The safe was unlocked and the steel door swung open.

  There was one shotgun in the baize-lined compartment—a cheap single-barrel model—and stacks and stacks of magazines. The titles were mostly in French, but judging from the photographs on the covers, the subject matter did not require any translation. Powell had stumbled onto George Polfrock's porno stash.

  Feeling a bit furtive about it, he selected a few magazines and began to leaf through the glossy pages of photographs, which had clearly been shot with a clinical rather than an artistic sensibility. It appeared that old George had a predilection for large dominant ladies wielding colonic irrigation nozzles (Powell tried not to think about Mrs. Polfrock) as well as alarmingly young-looking girls done up like French maids. Although he personally hadn't much use for psychoanalysis, he couldn't help wondering what a therapist might make of Polfrock's tastes in erotica.

  As he examined the stacks of magazines more closely,it became clear that the material had been further organized, with a librarian's precision, according to the general anatomical theme of each publication. After he had seen enough, he took some pains to rearrange the magazines at random, then he closed and locked the safe door and secured the false front of the escritoire.

  He smiled as he turned off the light. That should get the little bugger going.

  CHAPTER 8

  At seven twenty-two the next morning Sir Reginald Quick arrived in the cathedral city of Truro on the Inter-City Sleeper from London. Powell and Black met him at the station, a bear of a man with an unruly mop of white hair and an animated red face that made him look like he was constantly on the verge of some vascular catastrophe. He had a stentorian voice that had put the fear of God into more than one inexperienced policeman.

  “What do you
call this hour, Powell? I call it uncivilized! Do you think I can sleep on these damn trains? Privatize the lot of them, then we'll see some bloody service, by God!”

  “Good morning, Reggie,” Powell said cheerfully. (The renowned Home Office pathologist refused to be called Sir Reginald by those he was on reasonable terms with— “too damned stuffy!”) “You know Bill Black, of course.”

  Sir Reggie scowled. “I need a cup of coffee.”

  They located a small cafe near the station.

  Powell attempted to smooth the waters. “You know I wouldn't have dragged you out here if I didn't think it was necessary. This is not your run-of-the-mill Jane Doe case.”

  Sir Reggie grunted. “All right, you've piqued my interest. Did you know that the local coroner has already complained about us sticking our noses in? My initial reaction was screw him. But you'd better fill me in, sparing not the slightest detail, before I change my mind.”

  Powell grinned and proceeded to put Sir Reggie in the picture, with the occasional pointed question from the pathologist.

  “Well, something is not bloody right, that's clear enough,” Sir Reggie concluded when Powell finished. “Have you sent that sample of yours off to the lab yet? No? Then let's have a look at it, man!”

  Powell handed the vial over.

  Sir Reggie held it up to the light, peering intently at the contents. “Could be, it just could be,” he muttered.

  “Would you care to enlighten us?” Powell said.

  “Not particularly. Unlike you detective chaps, I never speculate. I only pronounce the truth. When I know for certain, I'll tell you.”