Long enough to become unrecognisable.
Long enough to be taken by the river to the sea.
Not so long as to be taken by that same sea and laid on Billy’s Finger.
Not so long as to disintegrate completely.
That would have been something that an assassin might have hoped for, that the body would fall to pieces.
Or that it would reach the open sea and be seen no more…
“Why did the boat go too?” Crosby was enquiring.
“I think,” reasoned Sloan aloud, “that if a boat is found adrift and a body is found in the water simple policemen are meant to put two and two together and make five.”
That was something else a murderer might have hoped for.
“It might have happened too,” said Crosby, “mightn’t it? He’d only got to get a bit farther out to sea and he wouldn’t have been spotted at all.”
Sloan stared unseeingly out of the car window. “I wonder why he was put into the river exactly when he was.”
“Well, you wouldn’t choose a weekend, would you, sir?” said Crosby.
“The whole estuary’s stuffed with sailing boats at the weekend,” continued the constable. “You should see it, sir.”
“I probably will,” said Sloan pessimistically, “unless we’ve got all this cleared up by then.”
The detective constable slowed down for a signpost. “This must be the Edsway to Marby road we’re joining.”
“Something,” said Sloan resolutely, “must have made it important for that body to be got out of that boathouse when it was.”
The car radio began to chatter while he was speaking. “The gentlemen from the press,” reported the girl at the microphone, “would like to know when Detective Inspector Sloan will see them.”
“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” responded Sloan with spirit, “and not a minute before.” He switched off at his end and turned to his companion. “And Crosby…”
“Sir?”
“While you’re about it,” said Sloan, “you’d better find out about the niece. And what Mrs. Mundill died from too. We can’t be too careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, where did Ridgeford say this dinghy was?”
“According to his report,” said Crosby, “it’s beyond the Marby lifeboat station. To be exact, to the north of it. We’re to ask for a man called Farebrother.”
12
But hark! I hear the toll of a bell.
« ^ »
Farebrother was quite happy to indicate the stray dinghy to the two policemen. And to tell them that Ridgeford was down on the harbour wall.
“Fetch him,” said Sloan briefly to Crosby. He turned to Farebrother and showed him the copper barbary head. “Ever seen one of these before?”
“Might have,” said the lifeboatman. “Might not.”
“Lately?”
“Might have,” said the lifeboatman again.
“How lately?”
“I don’t hold with such things,” he said flatly.
“No,” said Sloan.
“ ’Tisn’t right to disturb places where men lie.” Farebrother stared out to sea.
Sloan said nothing.
“Mark my words,” said Farebrother, “no good comes of it.”
Sloan nodded.
“ ’Tisn’t lucky either.”
“Unlucky for some, anyway,” said Sloan obliquely, bingo-style.
“Didn’t ought to be allowed, that’s what I say.”
“Quite so,” said Sloan.
“They say there was the bones of a man’s hand still clutching a candlestick down there.”
“Down where?” said Sloan softly.
Farebrother’s mouth set in an obstinate line. “I don’t know where. No matter who asks me, be they as clever as you like.”
“Who asked you?”
“Never you mind that. I tell you I don’t know anything…”
“Neither do I,” said Sloan seriously, “but I intend to find out.”
“That’s your business,” said Farebrother ungraciously, “but I say things should be let alone with, that’s what I say.” He turned on his heel and crunched off over the shingle.
Crosby came back with Ridgeford while Sloan was still examining the old fishing boat. Sloan pointed to Farebrother’s retreating back. “
“Taken, sir, from a farm up on the Cat’s Back,” said Hidgeford. “Or so the two boys who took it into Mother Hopton’s say. I don’t think they were having me on but you never can tell.” Ridgeford had learned some things already. “Not with boys.”
“Not with boys,” agreed Sloan.
“The farmer’s called Manton,” said Ridgeford. “Alec Manton of Lea Farm.”
“Do you know him?”
Ridgeford shook his head. “Not to say know. I’ve heard of him, that’s all, sir.”
“Heard what?”
“Nothing against.”
Sloan nodded. “Right, then you can stay in the background. Crosby, you’re coming with me to Manton’s farm. Now, Ridgeford, whereabouts exactly did you say this sheep tank was that the boys told you about?”
Few farmers can have been fortunate enough to see as much of their farm laid out in front of them as did Alec Manton. The rising headland was almost entirely given over to sheep and the fields were patterned with the casual regularity of patchwork. Because of the rise in the land the farmland and its stock were both easily visible. The farmhouse, though, was nestled into the low ground before the headland proper began, sheltered alike from sea and wind. It was in the process of being restored and extended. Sloan noticed a discreet grey and white board proclaiming that Frank Mundill was the architect, and made a note.
Alec Manton was out, his wife told them. She was a plump, calm woman, undismayed by the presence of two police officers at the form. Was it about warble fly?
“Not exactly,” temporised Sloan, explaining that he would nevertheless like to look at the sheep-fold on the hill.
“Where they dip?” said Mrs. Manton intelligently. “Of course. You go on up and I’ll tell my husband to come along when he comes home. He shouldn’t be long.”
In the event they didn’t get as far as the sheep tank before the farmer himself caught up with them.
“Routine investigations,” said Sloan mendaciously.
“Oh?” said Manton warily. He was tallish with brown hair.
