‘I ran all the way.’
‘Hold these sacks up, will you? We don’t want everyone…’
Between them they made some sort of a screen, and Mears was enabled to view the body. It was of a woman in her late twenties, and she had been outstandingly beautiful. She had long, jet-black hair and a bold, heart-shaped face, but the former was now soiled with sand and the latter convulsed and bluish. She lay stiffly on her back and was wearing only crimson beach pyjamas. The jacket was undone revealing pale, shapely breasts. It also revealed two livid bruises, one on each side of her throat. The body was rigid and the pyjamas damp with dew.
‘Touch her, did you?’
‘Not blessed likely!’
Mears stooped to feel her wrist but was repelled by its chilly stiffness. In between the boats it was still cold and shadowed. The seaweed lying there remained limp and fresh-smelling.
‘What time did the boats come in?’
‘’Bout four… thereabouts.’
‘She wasn’t there then?’
‘Blast no, do we’d have said something!’
‘Anyone recognize her?’
That was an easy one. All the men in the village had kept an eye on this beauty.
‘She come from the guest house.’
‘Rachel — that’s what her name is!’
‘Been here above a week…’
‘She never wore more than…’
Mears took out his notebook and began to scribble it down. A few of the bolder ones were trying to peep between the boats, but Nockolds and Neal held their sacks together jealously. All the time newcomers came hastening down from the gap.
‘What time did you finish here?’
‘Getting on for half past five.’
‘See anyone about then?’
‘Not a soul bar us lot.’
‘How many of you went out last night?’
All of them, it appeared, who had a boat or a share in one. The moon was coming to its full and the longshore fishing was profitable. With a good catch they had returned in the brooding light of the dawn; the boats had been hauled up, the fish unloaded into baskets, and the nets carried up to dry at the store. Then they had tumbled into bed leaving the boats to throw long shadows…
‘Had Mason gone off with the fish?’
‘Blast yes, before we’d got the nets away.’
‘Who was the last to leave?’
They were three of the elder men and they had left all together.
Now the bystanders were more talkative, some of their tongues having been loosened. The visitors in particular were excitedly canvassing each other’s opinions. For them it wasn’t so serious, if anything rather an event. A couple of teenagers were staying at the Bel-Air, and they were assiduous in their efforts to peer round the sacks.
‘The doctor is on his way… can I trust you two?’
Mears was putting away his notebook and frowning at the curious assembly. He would liked to have cleared the beach but was aware of his limited authority.
‘Nobody’s to touch anything… they’re to keep out of the boats.’
He stumped away looking fierce and flustered. They would blame him, but what could one man do? Behind him, before he had got a dozen yards, he could hear the shuffle of encroaching feet. If by chance there had happened to be some clues about…
He resisted temptation and didn’t turn his head.
In effect his departure had a dampening influence on the sightseers. Their huddling forward was a herd- movement and not the pursuit of curiosity. Mears had acted as a catalyst. His presence had made them vocal. Now, the most bold among them had become the most silent.
‘He’s gone to ring up the C.I.D.’
It was only by degrees that the affair crept into perspective. In a little while what was almost private would become the property of the public.
‘The press’ll be here soon, you see.’
‘The Sunday papers…’
‘Do you reckon they’ll call in?’
For the tenth time Nockolds dashed the sweat from his face. Dimly he could begin to see that there was trouble building up for him. He’d kept telling himself a story about a walk to exercise his dog, but the more he turned it over the less likely did it seem. Mears might have accepted it, but after Mears were coming other people…
‘You’re sure it’s that black-haired mawther?’
Bob Hawks, the mean-faced owner of the Boy Cyril, had arrived too late to get a glimpse of the exhibit.
‘Let’s have a look, Fred — just a quick ’un!’
But Fred, with a guilty conscience, was permitting quick looks to no man.
Now they could hear the doctor’s car puffing up with a skirmish of brakes. Doctor Banning was a young man who had only just begun to practise. His passing likeness to Jeff Chandler had spread epidemics among his female clients.
‘Good lord, have you no respect for the dead!’
One had to admire his cool manner and the authority of his boyish voice. Without exerting himself he got the crowd to move off — further, indeed, than Mears had done.
‘Now, let’s see.’
He was down on his knees without turning a hair.
Hawks, still hovering close, peered shamelessly over the doctor’s shoulder. His dark-brown eyes glittered and an odd expression showed on his long thin face.
‘Get you back, Bob!’
Nockolds nudged him, but Hawks didn’t seem to notice. He watched fascinated while the doctor’s hands ran tentatively over the stiffened body. For no reason at all a child had begun to bawl its head off, while up on the marrams, not far from the net store, appeared the young man whose tent had diverted the poacher.
‘Bring plenty of screens,’ Mears was advising the County H.Q.
Near his phone box a wall thermometer was already registering seventy-six.
By ten that evening the temperature was still in the seventies. All along the road to Wendham, where the County Constabulary had its headquarters, Inspector Dyson had been passing pubs outside which shirt-sleeved men were standing with glasses. At Strawsett there had been some dancing. A youth in a singlet was bouncing a scarlet accordion. From the wide-open windows of stuffy bedrooms children, unable to sleep, had waved listlessly at the passing police car.
At Wendham it was just the same, the narrow streets alive with people. In sleeveless shirts and dresses they sauntered aimlessly in the twilight. Around the market-cross some kids were screaming, their limbs and faces tanned as brown as nuts. High above, in the pale sky, swifts were circling on thin crescent wings.
‘Will you want the car again, sir?’
Dyson made a face as he slammed the door. He had caught the sun badly on his face and arms and tomorrow, he knew from experience, his nose would peel like a burst tomato. But most of all he was wanting a pint of beer. The idea had tantalized him all the way from Hiverton. During the whole wearisome day, beginning at eight o’clock that morning, nothing had gratified his thirst except ice cream and cups of tea.
‘The super is waiting for you upstairs.’
Neither, in fact, had he eaten much either.
