Dry Bones (15 page)

It reminded the Colonel of Naomi's visit to his own sick bed, armed with the chicken soup, and of himself taking refuge in the same way.

‘That's unfortunate. She might have been able to shed some useful light on the case.'

‘I doubt it. As I said before, most people can't remember what happened last week.'

‘But she would have known Gunilla Bjork rather well. Seen her in action, as it were.'

‘So would most of the village. I've already got a bloody good idea of what made that girl tick and I don't think a sick old lady would be able to add much to the general picture.'

‘Perhaps her husband could have done?'

‘Well, we'll never know that, will we? Dead men can't talk.'

That was indisputable.

‘Will you keep Mrs Heathcote posted?'

‘If there's anything to post.'

‘You're not optimistic?'

‘No, Colonel, I'm not. I'm realistic. The reality is that we're not very likely to solve this particular case. The file will probably end up gathering dust on a shelf with all the rest.'

After he had replaced the receiver, the Colonel strolled over to the barn, ducked under the police tape and went inside. He had no idea what he was searching for. There were certainly no clues to be seen. The barn was bare, except for the old wooden ladder reaching up to the hayloft. He gripped its sides with both hands and looked up the rungs. Thirty feet at least, he reckoned, and at a near vertical angle. No wonder the Brigadier had failed the test. It was tough enough to test the nerve of all but the young and fit. A classic challenge for an aspiring and hot-blooded lover, with the reward beckoning tantalizingly at the top.

He thought again of the story of Rapunzel and her valiant prince climbing up the plait of golden hair to the top of the tall tower and of his fall into the thornbushes to be blinded. Gunilla's suitors had been luckier. They had survived their trial unscathed. But supposing there had been a twist to the modern version of the fairy tale? Supposing Gunilla herself had fallen? Or been pushed? He picked up a large chunk of flint stone from the barn floor, tested its weight and felt its sharpness.

A
s usual, the Colonel walked down to the village for his newspaper, encountering a woman walking her black Labrador dog. He recognized her as the one who had given him directions when he had first driven into King's Mowbray. She also recognized him and stopped to talk.

‘I'm Sonia Maplin,' she said. ‘I believe you played bridge with my husband.'

She was certainly easier on the eye than the Brigadier's wife, and a good deal younger. Not a paid-up member of the coven, he decided.

Her style was different.

‘Yes, indeed.'

‘I hear you're rather good, Colonel.'

He smiled. ‘I've put in plenty of practice over the years.'

‘It's a very good game, isn't it? I play once a week with a regular women's four and whenever else I get the chance. I never get bored of it, do you?'

‘Not so far.'

‘Every hand's different – that's the joy. Always a challenge, don't you find?'

‘Very much so.'

‘Rory was home over the weekend, wasn't he?'

How on earth had she known? Simple, though, when he thought about it: she was always out walking the dog. A one-woman reconnaissance patrol.

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘How is he?'

‘He seemed to be very well.'

‘Growing up fast, I imagine. Not too much like his father, I hope. And Cornelia?'

‘She's well, too.'

‘I'd call, but we've never been close. Edward and I objected to the original farmhouse being knocked down and to that hideous place they had built instead. It should never have been allowed, but there you are. My husband's family have lived in King's Mowbray for a hundred and fifty years, and everything's changed in the last twenty.'

‘It happens everywhere, I'm afraid.'

‘Rather ironical that the Swedish girl should have been found in the Heathcotes' barn.'

‘Ironical?'

‘A sort of comeuppance, I thought, for the way they steamrollered the old farmhouse. And I wasn't sorry to hear that that girl had got her just desserts either. She richly deserved it.'

It was amazing how openly vindictive perfectly pleasant-seeming people could be. He'd noticed it many times.

‘She seems to have upset a lot of people.'

‘She did, Colonel. But we won't go in to all that. Let's just say, nobody's shedding any tears for Gunilla Bjork.'

The Labrador, who had been waiting patiently, started to tug at his lead and, with a wave of her hand, Sonia Maplin strode on down the lane.

The coven was assembled in the village shop – the same four women, picking over the latest rumours, ash-blond heads together.

‘I'm not a bit surprised it turned out to be that Swedish girl,' one said. ‘She was bound to come to a bad end, sooner or later.'

There was unanimous agreement.

‘All that awful dyed hair,' another said. ‘It was a joke!'

‘Actually, to be fair, Lois, I think it was real. A lot of Swedes have hair that colour and men always seem to fall for it. Hook, line and sinker. Remember the Brigadier making a complete fool of himself?'

‘He wasn't the only one, was he?'

The Colonel took his time, browsing along the shelves. More names were mentioned – some he knew, most he didn't. Agreement was reached over the incompetence of the police, the unlikelihood of the crime ever being solved and the fact that it didn't much matter anyway. Gunilla Bjork had only got what she deserved. The shop bell jangled loudly as the coven dispersed.

The Colonel emerged with his newspaper. Vera was standing behind the counter, impassive as always. He would have been interested to know her thoughts.

As he paid, he said pleasantly, ‘Beautiful day, isn't it?'

‘Very nice.'

‘I don't suppose you get much time for sitting in the sun.'

‘I don't get much time to sit anywhere. Nor does Alice.'

‘No, I shouldn't think she does.'

‘As a matter of fact, we're thinking of selling up.'

‘Really? That would be a sad loss to the village.'

‘We're not very concerned about the village,' she said. ‘It's not the place it was when we first arrived here. We've come to that conclusion.'

He took the change she was holding out. ‘Do you have somewhere else in mind?'

‘Norfolk. I used to go there for holidays as a child, and Alice likes the idea of living by the sea. There's something clean and honest about it.'

‘I know what you mean. Would you open another shop?'

‘I don't think so. The business would be too seasonal, and it's time we retired. Alice hasn't been well recently.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘The business over Gunilla Bjork has upset her a lot.'

‘Yes, she seemed rather distressed about it.'

‘She hated Gunilla, you know.'

‘But you didn't?'

‘I fell under her spell, Colonel, if you want the truth, and she treated me like she treated all the rest. She was completely heartless. In the end, I hated her as much as Alice did. We neither of us had anything to do with her death, but it was a very painful episode for us, and still is. So, it's better we move away from here, you see. Close the door behind us.'

‘Well, I'm sure you'll both be missed.'

‘Oh, I don't think so. We'll sell to someone who'll keep up the same standard. That's all these people will care about.'

He was not very surprised by her assessment of the residents of King's Mowbray.

‘I'll be leaving myself, as a matter of fact. Mrs Heathcote has a replacement couple arriving next week and her husband will be returning soon from abroad.'

‘I hear the property is on the market. I wonder if they'll find a buyer, considering what happened there.'

‘Oh, I shouldn't think there'll be too much difficulty. The estate agents don't seem to think it will make any difference.'

She looked at him steadily. ‘Life moves on, doesn't it, Colonel? Gunilla Bjork will soon be forgotten.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I expect she will.'

‘You won't mention what I just told you – about us leaving?'

‘Of course not.'

‘I know I can trust you.'

How does she know, he wondered, as he walked back through the village. How can she be so certain? Why did people place such blind faith in him? Extraordinary.

He should, he knew, relay his conversation with Vera to Detective Chief Inspector Rodgers. After all, she had freely admitted that both she and Alice had hated Gunilla – Alice from jealousy, herself from heartless rejection. They had both certainly had a motive, even though Vera had denied that either of them had anything to do with the Swedish girl's death. But the Inspector was most unlikely to be interested; as far as he was concerned the case was virtually closed.

For once, Ester Simmons was not working in her garden. Passing her cottage, he saw that the door was shut, though windows were open. She, at least, had not entrusted him with her secret – whatever it was.

On an impulse, he went up to the front door and knocked. After a while, she opened it, looking startled. He lifted his cap to her.

‘I'm so sorry to disturb you,' he said. ‘But I wanted to ask you the name of those charming blue flowers by your gate.'

‘They're blue poppies,' she said. ‘
Meconopsis grandis,
if you want the Latin name.'

He smiled at her. ‘Plain English will do. Are they hard to grow?'

‘I've never had any trouble. I divide the clump every two or three years and they don't seem to mind.'

‘Well, they're very attractive. I'll remember the name.'

She hesitated. ‘You're welcome to come in for a cup of coffee, if you like, Colonel.'

‘If it's not too much trouble.'

‘Not at all. I seldom get visitors these days. It'll make a pleasant change.'

He went into a narrow hallway, which Hans Birger would certainly have eliminated, and followed her into the sitting room.

It reminded him of Miss Butler's front room at Lupin Cottage, which had the same air of impoverished gentility, but it was nothing like as pin-neat nor as spotlessly clean. Freda Butler would have been shocked by the old ashes lingering in the fire grate, the unpolished brass fender, by the layer of dust and the disorder.

He waited while Ester Simmons went off to make the tea, looking round the room with curiosity. In his experience, photographs put out on display often provided interesting clues to their owner – as in the case of Miss Butler's fearsome father, the Admiral, who glared down from the top of a bureau. But here there was only a faded studio portrait of a nondescript couple in Edwardian clothing and another of a young woman wearing a nurse's uniform – the proper old-fashioned kind of uniform with frilled and starched cap and cuffs. He would have expected to see several photos of Miss Simmons seated in the centre of rows of village schoolchildren, but there was nothing of the kind. He was looking at the nurse again when Ester Simmons came back carrying a tray with two cups of coffee.

‘My late sister,' she said. ‘She trained at Guy's Hospital in London. She died before she was thirty. Cancer.'

‘How sad. I'm sorry.'

‘It was a long, long time ago. I find it extraordinary to think that while she has never grown old, I'm now in my eighties. I wonder what it would be like for us to meet again? Like two strangers, I suppose. If there's such a thing as the afterlife, I can't imagine how that sort of oddity is sorted out. Do you believe in life after death, Colonel?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Don't worry, nor do I. To be honest, I hope there isn't one. The mere idea is exhausting.'

‘Were you close to your sister?'

‘Very. We shared rather a miserable childhood. Our parents believed in strict discipline and not sparing the rod. Come to that, so do I. I suppose I must have inherited from them. I can't stand all the mollycoddling and nonsense that goes on today. Parents blaming teachers for correcting their spoiled children's appalling behaviour. Child psychiatrists making up all sorts of ridiculous excuses for it. Children getting away with murder. There's nothing wrong with a bit of corporal punishment in my view, if it's deserved.' She set the tray down on a low table. ‘Do you take sugar?'

The cups and saucers, he realized, had exactly the same pattern as those used by the Frog End Women's Institute to serve teas at local functions, including the annual summer fête. For some reason, he felt a pang of homesickness.

He said, ‘The police don't seem to have made much progress in finding Gunilla Bjork's killer, do they?'

‘I didn't expect them to.'

‘Do you have any thoughts yourself?'

‘Thoughts, Colonel?'

‘You knew the girl, and what she was like. I remember you describing her as Trouble with a capital T.'

‘That's right. She was.'

‘And you disliked her very much?'

‘Yes, I certainly did. And I wasn't alone in that, I might add. At first, I felt rather sorry for her. You see, I occasionally used to have pupils at my school who were rather similar. There was always some fundamental flaw in their make-up or some happening in their background that was not their fault and I found that it could never be eradicated. In my opinion, Gunilla fell into that category. But there was also something quite evil about her. She enjoyed the harm and suffering she caused. It amused her very much.'

‘Did you come across her at the Golden Pheasant?'

‘I don't go to pubs, Colonel. I don't drink.'

‘But you saw enough of her to know what she was like?'