'But probably not the one she wants,' said Caroline icily. 'You were very offensive over the telephone, Betty. You called us murderers before you even knew if Jinx was dead. What did you expect me to do? Agree with you? Charles and I barely had time to digest the news that Leo had left Jinx for Meg before you were on the phone screaming abuse. It's been a terrible shock for all of us.'
'Where's the apology? The apology's what I'm after, Mrs., or perhaps you're too grand for that?' Tears welled in the heavily mascaraed eyes. 'You know what's being said? The wedding's off because Sir Anthony Wallader wouldn't have his son marry a Kingsley. And why? Because we're too bloody common.' She gulped her tears. 'But there's only one rotten apple in the barrel and I've a mind to make that public. Your Meg, who couldn't keep her knickers on if she was paid.'
Caroline Harris's lips thinned to an unattractive horseshoe, but before she could say anything, the vicar intervened. He placed a hand on Betty Kingsley's arm and drew her round to face him. 'Is this true, Betty?' He smiled apologetically. 'We know so little, you see. Only what Meg told us over the phone and, in all conscience, that wasn't very much. Just that Leo preferred her to Jinx and they were leaving for a holiday in France.'
The woman's thick lips worked aggressively. 'Why should me and the boys take the blame for your daughter's screwing?' she slurred drunkenly. 'Adam says we've ruined Jinx's chances with our goings-on, but I can't see it myself. Leo's a right bastard- like his father-but we did nothing to upset the applecart.' She took a deep breath. 'Not our fault,' she resumed after a moment. 'Meg's jealous, always has been. Sets out to bed anyone Jinx likes. Common is as common does. Bedded Russell, in case you didn't know.'
Charles turned a shocked face towards his wife but Caroline looked away and refused to meet his eyes. 'I didn't know,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'
HO FORENSIC LAB, HAMPSHIRE-11:30 A.M.
Dr. Robert Clarke, the Home Office pathologist, took pity on the three policemen and herded them out of the laboratory and into his office, peeling off his gloves and mask as he did so. 'Not a pretty sight,' he agreed, opening his window to allow in the sweeter-smelling air of the busy road outside, 'but sealing both caboodles in body bags and spraying with Nuvanstykil is the only way to kill the maggots off and make what's left presentable enough to examine. Coffee?' he suggested.
The three men swallowed convulsively, and wondered how he could consider taking anything into his mouth after what they had glimpsed going on inside the bags. The stench of putrefaction still lined their throats, as it had done since yesterday when they had stood beside the ditch and stared in gagging repulsion at the pulsating white mass seething turbulently amongst the pieces of clothing and decomposing body parts that lay there. They shook their heads vigorously.
'No thanks, Bob,' said Detective Superintendent Frank Cheever, wiping his lips with a handkerchief. He was older than the other two policemen, a fine-boned, rather studious-looking man with gray hair and pale blue eyes which he fixed unnervingly on the person he was talking to. He was something of a dandy and caused much amusement amongst his officers over what they considered his fetish for silk. He wore silk bow ties, tucked matching silk handkerchiefs into his jacket breast pocket, and kept his expensive silk socks at permanent stretch by the use of sock suspenders. Rumor had it that he also wore silk underwear 'But don't mind us,' he murmured, looking unhappily at the empty coffee mug on the desk. 'You go ahead.'
'I will.' The doctor stuck his head round the door, waved the mug in the air, and asked his secretary to bring him a black coffee. 'It takes the taste away,' he said insensitively as he settled himself behind his desk and waved them towards some empty chairs, 'Now, let's see what we've got.' He consulted some typed notes in front of him. 'I won't bore you with the life history of
They became visibly paler. It occurred to Detective Inspector Maddocks, a tall heavyset man in his mid-forties with a permanent scowl on his face, that Bob Clarke was doing this on purpose, a kind of trial of strength between the hard man of pathology and the hard men of CID. He'd always suspected the little bugger-Clarke was a miserable five feet six inches-of having a chip on his shoulder. Now he was sure.
'All right, Jenny. Thank you.' Clarke dunked a biscuit into the cup and munched on it with pleasure. 'Their hands and feet were tied, as you know, so we've got two people quite unable to defend themselves. Cause of death was ferocious bludgeoning with a blunt instrument.' He pushed some X-ray photographs in Superintendent Cheever's direction with the flick of a finger. 'We took these before we put them in the bath. You see how both skulls have been fractured in several places. This one, in particular, shows a clear rounded depression in the woman's parietal bone. A long-handled club or sledgehammer would be my bet, certainly something very substantial. Notice the break in the man's right clavicle, which would imply a missed shot'-he made a downward swing with his hand-'possibly glanced off the side of his head and landed with the force of a two-ton truck on the poor wretch's shoulder.' He shook his head. 'What we're looking at is two people on their knees with hands tied behind their backs and a maniac using them for target practice with something very heavy indeed. I think we can assume the first blows were delivered from behind because those are downward sweeps, and the blows that shattered the jaws and cheekbones were done after the bodies had toppled onto their sides. Imagine our maniac holding his hammer like a golf club and driving at both faces when they were on the ground. That should give you a good idea of what probably occurred.'
Cheever dabbed at his lips again as he examined the photographs. 'Where do you think it happened? In the ditch itself, or at the top of the bank?'
'My guess would be on the bank. The sort of blows I envisage would have been harder to achieve in a confined space. No, I see him killing them at the top of the slope, then pushing the bodies over. It's not very pleasant to dwell on'-he dunked another biscuit in his coffee-'but the golf-swing blows may have been his method of driving the corpses into a roll. Not that it would have worked very well,' he said thoughtfully. 'He'd have had to lay them out straight and give them a heave around their middles to really get them going.'
'What about those slide marks we found five yards down?'
Bob Clarke sorted out another photograph. 'Very interesting,' he said. 'Clearly made with a thin, hard heel. See here, quite deeply scored as if the wearer was sliding on one side with the heel digging in as a brake. But it's no more than an inch wide, so I'd suggest it was a woman's shoe.'
'The female corpse was wearing running shoes,' said Chee-ver.
'Yes. She couldn't have made marks like this, and neither could our male corpse. His heels are a good four inches wide. They weren't done all that recently, either-you can see where the grass has started to sprout again in
