The Garden Party (7 page)

‘Yes, dare say much will be answered if and when we identify the author of the note,' Vicary replied drily. ‘I have two of my team trying to find him as we speak.'

‘Good luck. Well . . .' Shaftoe brought the conversation back on track, ‘what we have here is two adult males. They are most likely north-western European going by the skull shape, but they could also be Asian; European and Asian skull shapes being very similar, with the Asian skull being slightly more finely made, but that as a general rule of thumb.'

‘Understood,' Vicary commented.

‘Age at death.' Shaftoe pondered the skulls. ‘Well, adult, probably older than thirty years. They both have fully knitted skulls and both have quite a lot of teeth missing, but both skulls still contain two or three teeth and that is all I need to determine their ages at time of death, within twelve months either way . . . I mean plus or minus a year.'

‘Yes, sir,' Vicary replied.

‘There do not appear to be sufficient teeth to be able to determine identity by means of dental records.'

‘Can you tell how long they have been buried, sir?' Vicary asked.

‘Nope.' Shaftoe smiled. ‘The note you mentioned is probably a better indication than anything I can determine by scientific analysis. I'll take a soil sample back to the lab with me; send it by courier to the forensic science laboratory, they might be able to give some indication of when the soil was disturbed, though I do not hold out much hope. Frankly, I think DNA extracted from the bones will be the best avenue to explore to determine their identity and that may be your dateline. They were presumably murdered some time after they were last seen alive. Sorry I can't be more specific, but determining exact time of death by means of scientific analysis of remains is the stuff of television drama. So, we have a collection of charred bones, enough to make two male skeletons. I can't see any obviously missing bones nor are there additional bones from a third or fourth body. We do not have five femurs or six clavicles, for example. I am pretty sure we have all the bones from the two bodies. And the charring . . . it seems that they were burnt to aid concealment. It takes an awful lot of heat to turn bones to ash. Here they were burnt only to remove the flesh. Like a well-cooked leg of lamb, the meat just falls right off the bone on the serving platter at Sunday lunchtime, or any type of meat, really; it is just that leg of lamb is my favourite roast meat.' Shaftoe grinned. ‘I am sorry but I am no vegetarian or animal rights activist.'

‘Well said, sir.' Vicary returned the grin in clear agreement with Shaftoe's attitude.

‘Rabbits are lovely, furry little animals,' Shaftoe continued, ‘just perfect for the casserole dish.'

Again Vicary chuckled. ‘So, in your opinion, the bones were burnt to aid their disposal?'

‘I would think so; as I said, once the bones have been cleaned of all flesh and muscle and sinew, burnt and then possibly boiled to make them fully cleaned of flesh, then you can stack them neatly in quite a small space.'

‘Rather than drop them into the river,' Vicary mused. ‘It is a question to answer. This is not a hurried disposal, I think.'

‘I would be inclined to agree.' Shaftoe brushed a persistent fly from his face. ‘This hole took time and effort to dig.'

‘Yes, the root plate and proximity to the road and to the houses, as we mentioned. It is strange that no one saw or heard the hole being dug or noticed it when it had been dug.' Harry Vicary glanced around him. ‘On a quiet night the sound of a spade being driven into the soil would carry to the houses hereabouts and do so easily. Even allowing for the trees masking the noise somewhat, the sound would still carry and a light sleeper or someone lying awake—'

‘Ah.' Shaftoe held up his right index finger. ‘You have probably just answered your own question there, Mr Vicary. You see the remote location needed to burn the corpses, dismember them and then possibly boil the bones until they were free of all flesh suggests, as we have agreed, that the felons in question had access to time and space.'

‘Yes, we have agreed these,' Vicary replied.

‘This further suggests that they had storage facilities to keep the bones hidden while waiting for wet weather to arrive; I mean waiting for the kind of storm cell that will bring the rain down in stair rods, softening the soil, and then they arrive at the wood with pickaxes and spades, dig said hole, with the rainfall deadening any noise, place bones therein, fill in, place stones on top and get away before it stops raining and dawn rises. But –' Shaftoe shrugged – ‘that is all speculation . . . Me, well, I have to be scientific and confine my report to what made them stop kicking, if I can. I'll have the bones removed to the Royal London and commence the post-mortem as soon as I can. Will you be observing for the police, Mr Vicary?'

‘Yes.' Vicary nodded. ‘Yes, I will.' Vicary turned to DC Brunnie. ‘We seem to be talking years buried, as the note indicated, but can you organize a search of the wood, please? You have sufficient constables. Something of relevance may still be here, still in the vicinity. I doubt you'll find anything though, but if we don't look it will only be here waiting to be found . . . life being like that.'

‘Yes, sir.' Frank Brunnie smiled. ‘I know what you mean.'

‘Then do a house to house, again. I doubt anyone will recall anything from five years ago in respect of the wood, but ask anyway.'

‘Very good, sir.' Brunnie nodded his understanding of the instructions.

‘I'm going to the Royal London Hospital to observe the post-mortem. I'll be there if needed. Then I will go to the Yard.'

‘Understood, sir.' Brunnie turned sharply away; he was a man with a purpose.

The small terraced house was, Yewdall silently pondered, a sound lesson to any person who might find themselves drawn to a life of crime, who might be tempted by apparently easy pickings. The house in question was on Perch Street in the appropriately, thought Yewdall, named area of Shacklewell in the London Borough of Hackney. Within the house there was a large area of living space which was divided into a kitchen cum dining area, a relaxation area comprising two armchairs in front of a television set which occupied the corner of the room, and a single bed pushed under the stairs which led to the upper floor rental. A toilet and shower cubicle were located beyond the kitchen and beyond that French windows looked out on to an overgrown garden that was enclosed by a six foot high brick wall and which was, thought Yewdall, about twelve feet square. Beyond the wall at the bottom of the garden the upper floors and roof tops of the next street parallel to Perch Street were visible. It was evident that the house had been originally a two storey house designed for occupation by an artisan and his family, and it was, by the time the officers visited, divided into two separate flats with certainly a long-term tenant on the ground floor and probably, guessed the officers, the same on the upper floor. A date set in the wall of an adjacent and identical house read 1885.

Inside the lower flat everything seemed to Ainsclough and Yewdall to be old and worn, very worn. The television set was a bulky item and sat upon a table which both officers thought was of the immediate post Second World War era. The twin high-backed and high-armed armchairs which stood side by side across the threadbare carpet seemed, to the officers, to belong to the same era. The decoration, apart from faded wallpaper, was confined to a print of a painting of a sailing ship contained within an inexpensive-looking frame which hung from the wall to the left of the television. Faded net curtains prevented passengers from seeing into the flat as they walked along the pavement, which was separated from the house by a very small area of personal space approximately two feet wide. All this was the home of Claude Bonner who, like his dwelling and the furniture and fixtures and fittings therein, could be best described as ‘belonging to an earlier era', thought Penny Yewdall. Bonner, the officers noted, was short, with a protruding stomach, and was bow-legged, round of face, bewhiskered, with straggly grey hair which surrounded the bald crown of his head. ‘Des . . . Des Holst . . .' Bonner spoke in a slow, croaking voice but he had, noted Ainsclough and Yewdall, alert blue eyes and he stood square on to the officers, in front of the television. He nonetheless gave off the unmistakable musty smell of an elderly person. ‘I heard he went to Fiddler's Green, old Des; he went west did Desmond. Nice old geezer but he kicked the bucket, so I heard, more than a year ago now. Old Des, he left a gap behind him.'

‘He did.' Penny Yewdall found herself breathing shallowly to avoid the damp in the property gripping her chest. ‘He died about eighteen months ago. We have just called on his widow, Pearl.'

‘Pearl,' Claude Bonner scoffed, ‘you won't get nothing from her, not from Pearl Holst. She keeps it well clammed, her old north and south; well clammed when it comes to talking to the police. She doesn't like the police, Pearl doesn't; she doesn't like the Bill at all. It's her family see, there's not one of her family that hasn't been banged up . . . not one . . . going back as far as. It's like a right of passage for them, see, father, mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, grandparents, great grandparents, they've all been in prison. She was brought up to hate the police. If I know Pearl she'll be friendly enough but she won't give anything up; if she gave you the time of day it would be a couple of hours short,' Bonner scoffed. ‘Am I right or am I right?'

‘Yes, you are so right, sir, so right.' Yewdall smiled at Bonner sensing that he was a man who liked to be right because, she thought, he has nothing else going for him. Yewdall also realized that she and Ainsclough needed Bonner's cooperation. It was therefore very important to let Claude Bonner be right. ‘We got absolutely nothing from her,' Yewdall added, ‘nothing at all.'

‘See . . . I knew it . . .' Bonner smiled. ‘You should have come to me first; I could have saved you a trip out to Ilford.'

‘Dare say you could,' Yewdall replied, sensing Tom Ainsclough beside her, remaining diplomatically silent.

‘That's Pearl,' Bonner continued, ‘she was brought up to keep shtum.' Bonner drew his finger across his lips. ‘I bet she was ten years old before she discovered that she had a mouth and a tongue. She's a weightlifter . . . something like that. Des told me she was Pearl Harley until she married and at school the kids called her “Pearl Barley”. It gave her a chip on her shoulder, so she took up weightlifting or something similar. She got to be very strong; she could punch above her weight and still come out on top.' Bonner paused. ‘So you've found me . . . you're my first visitors since before Christmas. Who told you where I was?'

‘Wandsworth nick.' Tom Ainsclough also sensed the damp in the house and found that he too breathed shallowly.

‘You've been there? Who's the Governor these days? I heard the last one retired.' Bonner smiled.

‘Don't know,' Ainsclough replied, ‘we phoned them . . . the old dog and bone . . . saves a lot of driving. They gave us your discharge address. We called on the off chance you'd still be in the same drum and you'd be at home.'

Claude Bonner glanced round his home. ‘Well . . . what can I say? You put your roots down eventually, even if it is just rented; just half a house in Hackney. It's not much to show for my life is it? But the roof is good, it keeps the wet out, there's a boozer close by and some shops in Shacklewell Lane. I live on bread and cheese and what's put on the reduced items tray in the supermarket. I get meat there, sliced ham and stuff, and a beer when I have saved up enough. It's all the old state pension will run to, and it doesn't go very far.'

‘No more crooking for you then, Claude?' Yewdall smiled.

‘Not for me, miss, not any more. I'm knackered and look where it got me . . . half my old puff in the slammer and nothing to come out to. It's true what they say . . .'

‘What's that?' Ainsclough wheezed as the damp in the house reached him.

‘Prisons,' Claude Bonner sighed, ‘they're full of the mad, bad and the sad. The real crims, the Flash Harrys, they rarely get nicked, and with me . . . with me it was all down to one nose-in-the-air posh cow of a chief magistrate back in the early days. It was only my second appearance before the beaks but she said I “needed catching for my own good” and that bench sent me down for three months. But that put me on the wrong path and I stayed on the wrong path. Prison does no good to no one. You know, even the copper who arrested me said that he thought it was a harsh sentence. I'd been fined once and he said he thought I'd get another fine or a period of probation, but not three months in juvenile detention.'

‘For . . .?'

‘Shoplifting.' Bonner looked up at the ceiling. ‘Shoplifting.'

‘It does sound a bit harsh, I have to agree,' Tom Ainsclough commented.

‘And it was a pair of jeans. I just wanted a new pair of strides to impress the girl I had a date with that evening. I got arrested after leaving the clothes shop, then taken to the cop shop, charged and allowed to go to await summons to the Magistrates Court, and the richest thing was . . . do you know the richest thing of all? She didn't turn up for the date; she stood me up. I mean . . . is there justice? Me on the wrong track, and all for a girl who didn't turn up anyway. I mean, it was all for nothing, all for sweet Fanny Adams, and if someone had given that magistrate her raw meat that morning I wouldn't have been sent down. But she needed a victim . . . hungry people need victims . . . her and the other two beaks. Mind you, in the East End you're nothing if you're not a villain, so I would have gone down for something sometime, and I was running with the wolves. One old copper, not the one who nicked me for half-inching the jeans, a geezer called Carris, Mr Carris . . . Police Constable Carris . . . never got promoted, never got out of uniform. He was close to retiring when I was still a teenager. He was an old-fashioned copper and he would take me down an alley, clip me across the ear and he'd say, “Look here, Claude, I know you, you're not a bad lad so don't run with the wolves. Get home and take care of your old mum. No good will come of running with a pack like that . . .” and was he right or was he right?' Claude Bonner fell silent, then he said, ‘He died, Mr Carris, the old copper. I didn't think his family would want me at his funeral but I went up to the cemetery the next day, I mean the very next day, and laid some flowers on his grave. I did that for him.'