Masters turned to the man at the end of the bar. He said ‘Good evening’ and getting no response except a brief glance, directed his attention back to his own drink.
Green said: ‘Quiet this evening, Mrs . . . er . . .?’
‘Shirley Moffat. Known as Shirl, love. And we’re always a bit quiet on Fridays about now. All the commercials have gone for the weekend, you see. And who’d want to come out on a night like this? It’s not fit to send a fiddler’s bitch out in, if you’ll pardon the expression.’
‘I’ll pardon it all right. If you’ll tell me why a fiddler’s bitch.’
‘They’re the ones that always get drunk, aren’t they?’
‘I see. So everybody in here’s resident?’
‘Everybody, including you.’
The conversation lapsed. The man at the end of the bar ordered another drink. He was on gin. With water. Masters shuddered mentally. It was a taste he loathed. He wondered what sort of a character this man was, toping gin and water alone in Finstoft on a Friday night in mid-February. His feet on the rung of the stool, hooked in by the heels, were in black pre-polished Chelsea boots. The suit a dark one, with a faint hint of reddish-purple about it, the shirt well-cut round the neck, reminding Masters very much of the Golden Rapides he always wore himself. The tie a nondescript blue, with what looked like a tier of three white sabres just below the knot. The hands were big but fine, with pronounced joints and strangely bold veins. They appeared never to be still—twirling the glass or tracing a pattern on the side of it. The dark hair was thinning, but not flattened. Seen from in front he appeared to have quite a good head still left. Masters guessed that a photograph from above would show the scalp through the thatch. The face was pale, long and narrow, with deep set brown eyes, ringed by an unhealthily dark surround. The beard area was already dark. The ears without lobes lay flat against the head. Masters guessed his height to be little short of six feet, and thought the man looked far from well.
The new drink was placed in front of the stranger. Shirl said: ‘Five an’ four, Mr Tintern.’ Tintern handed over three florins and, when he got it, dropped the eightpence change into a glass ashtray discreetly placed near one of the rows of beer handles. Masters guessed that the two or three sixpences already in it were bait, put there by Shirl herself. He glanced along the bar to prove his theory. Each array of handles had its ashtray with reminder coins. He wondered what Green’s comment would be when he realized he was expected to tip this typical barmaid. A movement from Tintern caused Masters to glance at him again. The gin had disappeared and Tintern had already got down from the stool. The empty glass was there. Its contents must have been taken in one swig: coughed back like vodka at a Kremlin banquet. Tintern passed behind them and out of the Sundowner without a word. Green, grasping a half empty pint pot said: ‘Matey sort of chap, isn’t he? Like a secret drinker. I’m suspicious of secret drinkers.’ He lifted his pot and drank noisily.
‘There’s no need to be suspicious of him,’ remarked Hill.
‘And why not?’ said Brant.
‘Because Shirl said we’re all residents here. And if he’s a resident he’s not likely to be local. And if he’s not a local he can’t be implicated in this job.’
‘I suppose not.’
Green said: ‘You’ve decided it is a local then?’
Hill plonked his pot on the bar and nodded. ‘All the signs point to it.’ He turned to Masters. ‘Don’t they?’
‘We can’t afford to be dogmatic, but . . . yes, I must confess I’d say we’re looking for a local. A man unfamiliar with the area would be unlikely to sort out five women with such common factors of age and class. But even more important, he would be unlikely to be able to carry out the mechanics of the crime.’
‘Mechanics? Throttling them, you mean?’ said Green.
‘No. Any man with sufficient strength could do that. I’m talking about inveigling what I take to be a bunch of highly respectable women to a place or places where he could murder them. Doesn’t it occur to you that these are not Jack the Ripper crimes? Committed at the point of meeting, wherever that may have been? This man has done one of two things in every case. He’s managed to attract his victims to the bungalow village in winter, and there killed them. Or he’s attracted them to some house or other private spot, killed them there, and then transported the bodies to the bungalow village. We don’t know which, but I’d say that in order to do it he’d have to be really well known to each of his victims. That suggests he is a local man and, what is more, a man of middle class.’
‘Are you sure, chief?’ said Brant. ‘Couldn’t he have jumped them in a quiet spot, bundled them into a car and away?’
‘Of course I’m not sure. But I would think your theory more feasible if he’d clobbered them over the head first. But he didn’t. He strangled them—and nothing more. No head wounds or bruises. And I don’t think that any man could throttle five women in any street this crowd was likely to use, without at least several of them being able to cry out or somebody else noticing the incident.’
Green grunted and put down his empty mug. The clatter on the bar attracted Shirl’s attention. She moved down and without a word started to draw the refills. Green said: ‘That chap—Tintern, I think you called him—he’s a funny one.’
‘He’s very quiet.’
‘Where does he come from?’
Shirl held the mug close under the tap so that the nozzle was actually in the beer before making the final half pull for topping up. She paused, as if using all her strength on the handle, before saying: ‘It’s funny you should ask that, because I should think he comes from the same place as you gentlemen.’
‘Oh? Where’s that?’
‘London. I thought you might know him.’
‘There’s a lot of people in London, Shirl.’
‘I know that, you barmy ha’porth. But he’s famous.’
Green didn’t like being called barmy. He said ‘How much?’ in the sort of voice that denoted displeasure.
‘Twelve shillings, love.’
Green didn’t like the bar prices either. He felt in his pocket for a florin to add to the ten shillings he’d had ready. Masters said: ‘Famous at what?’
As she put the money in the till, with her back to him, Shirl said: ‘He’s an architect. He does cathedrals and that sort of thing.’ Immediately, Masters remembered the name. Ashbury Cathedral, consecrated two years before, furbished and decorated by famous artists and sculptors, but designed and built by Derek Tintern, the man who had made a name for himself by way of rebuilding wartorn churches and saving others from collapse. A name that had appeared often enough in the Press, but seemingly always overshadowed by some bigger name that had made a lesser contribution to gild the lily he had planted. Masters recalled reading some news item about him. Not just recently. Before Christmas. In November perhaps. What had it been about? Not architecture. Oh, yes. He remembered. A car crash. That was it. One of those motorway pile-ups. The newsmen had mentioned it. He couldn’t recall all the details but he seemed to recollect it had been serious. He said: ‘What’s a chap like Tintern doing in Finstoft?’
Shirl laughed, throatily. ‘There’s no need to say it as though you thought we were heathens, love. We have got some churches round here, you know.’
‘Sorry. He’s rebuilding them?’
‘One. I don’t suppose he’d look at the others, but St Botolph-le-Toft’s one of those ancient monuments. It’s got all sorts of things people like him’s interested in. In the old days it used to be right at the river’s edge, but it isn’t now.’
‘They’ve moved it?’ said Green.
‘Don’t be daft, lad. The river’s moved. No. In the old days, hundreds of years ago—would it be when the Saxons were here?—it had an old stone tower where they kept a look-out for those Norsemen coming. I think he said there was a wood church there then that got burnt down. Then William the Conqueror came and they built a stone church. Or something of the sort.’
>
Masters said: ‘Saxon tower and Norman nave. That must be a rare combination. No wonder Tintern’s interested. What’s he doing?’
‘Don’t ask me, love. Pumping cement into the walls or something. I know he said he was like a dentist trying to save a bad tooth. Drilling and filling, he called it.’ She moved away as a small group of newcomers came down the stairs. Masters looked at his watch. ‘We’d better have dinner now if we’re going to be ready and waiting for Dr Swaine when he comes. Come on. Drink up.’
Green led the way up the stairs. ‘That barmaid’s getting too big for her ham bags. Something about her’ll have to be taken down a bit.’
‘As long as it isn’t the ham bags,’ Masters said. ‘And talking of ham, doesn’t this part of the world produce beech-fed ham? A good steak of beech-fed gammon would go down well for dinner.’
‘Beech-fed?’ said Brant.
Masters waited to see if Green would, or could, explain. To his great surprise, Green did so. He said: ‘Haven’t you ever read Ivanhoe, lad? Honestly, the money we waste in this country on so-called education.’
‘Yes. I’ve read it.’
‘Then you should remember how it opens. The swineherd—Garth, I think—was feeding his pigs on beech mast in the forest. And why? Because it’s good pig food, that’s why. And good pigs give good ham.’
‘But that was in Nottingham.’
This time Green was stumped. Masters said: ‘Beech trees like limestone, and there’s limestone round here. You take a drink of water and you’ll find it hard as Old Nick.’
Masters didn’t get his ham. Instead he took the head waiter’s recommendation—baked latchet. A fish he’d never heard of before. He was interested to learn that these brightly coloured, fleshy fish rarely reach any tables but those of the fishermen who catch them. So highly prized are they as food. He chose a lemon pudding to finish off with, and sat back, fuller than he’d felt for a long time. He said to Green: ‘I feel more like going to bed than entertaining a boozy doctor.’
‘You fixed the time.’
‘I know. I’d like you with me. The others can do as they like.’
*
Dr Eric Swaine was short, stout, and very red faced. He wore a bristling military moustache and his dark hair was carefully brushed close to his head. His suit was impeccable, and his tiny shoes—a deep, dark tan—polished like mirrors. The spotless turn-ups of his shirt sleeves showed an inch below his jacket cuffs, which were folded back double, with rounded corners and matching braid edgings. At some time in the past he had lost an upper right incisor, and the gap showed dark against the whiteness of the rest. It also caused him to lisp slightly. And a lisp, added to his military tones, robbed them of any offensiveness there might otherwise have been. He talked a lot, but never wasted words, except when swearing, which he did unashamedly throughout every conversation.
‘Strong ale,’ he said in answer to Masters’ invitation. ‘Shirl knows.’ He waited courteously until all three were served and then said: ‘Here’s to the health of your blood.’ His glass was half empty when he lowered it. He turned to the bar and said: ‘Same again, Shirl, girl. At the table in the corner, please.’ He looked up at Masters. ‘A bit of privacy won’t come amiss. The folks round here grow ears as long as those on the donkeys they run on the sands in summer.’ He led the way. Green looked at Masters and raised his eyebrows. Masters nodded. For once he and Green were agreed. Dr Eric Swaine was an interesting character.
Swaine edged round the table into the corner seat, carefully holding the glass high in one hand away from his body as if afraid of spattering himself. He said: ‘Bloody nice to meet you chaps. This job needs fellers who know what they’re about. Locals are all right, but they’ve not known whether they’ve been on their arses or elbows this last week. And as for old Scratch-me-backside—Bullimore—he gets goose-pimples if I mention a woman’s knickers. Calls them underwear or nether garments or some such humbug. As far as I’m concerned what’s what is what, and I hope it is with you, too.’
Masters grinned. The turkey-cock air, the seriousness of the little doctor amused him. He said: ‘We like plain speech, Dr Swaine. But please remember that we have to write official reports, so keep the plain speech printable, otherwise we shall be in difficulties.’
‘See what you mean. Ah! The drinks. Thanks, Shirl. Nine bob? Keep the change. And keep your eye open, too. When I give you the nod, make it the same again.’ He turned to Masters. ‘Now these women. All two point seveners . . .’
‘What?’ said Green.
‘Average, middle class. Average number of kids in average middle-class families is two point seven. These five had thirteen between them. Three twos, a three and a four. Works out at two point six each.’
Green nodded. Masters said: ‘Did you know any of the murdered women personally?’
‘All of them, casually. One of them, Joanna Osborn, was a patient of mine.’
‘Superintendent Bullimore says you have a theory about them.’
‘Theory? Look, Mr Masters, I was asked to say whether they’d been sexually assaulted. That’s not what was meant, but it’s how it was put. What Bullimore wanted to know was whether these women had gone off into the dunes for a bit on the side—of their own free will—and if so, whether they’d got what they’d gone for.’
‘And had they?’
‘How could I tell? They were all married women, living with their husbands, and all still bedworthy—or nubile—if you prefer it and so, presumably, living normal married lives. And they’d been buried, some of them for weeks. All the indications would have perished long before they were dug up. But even if they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to supply an answer.’
‘And there were no signs of assault?’
‘Not a bra strap out of place among the lot of them. They were done to death for some reason other than sex. After all, it stands to reason that a man mad enough to kill for that purpose would choose younger women.’
‘All cats look grey in the dark,’ commented Green.
‘Maybe they do. But it would be stretching the long arm of coincidence from here to Vladivostok and back to pick haphazardly and yet get five women all of an age, all married, all the same type five times out of five.’
Masters said: ‘Well, Doctor, what is your theory?’
‘I haven’t got a theory. That’s your business. But I know in my bones that there’s something bloody mysterious about these deaths.’
‘Such as?’
‘Symbolism.’
‘Could you explain?’
‘Well, at least you’re prepared to listen to me.’ He finished his second drink and held the empty glass high in the air. He kept it there until he’d got an answering wave from Shirl. Then he said: ‘Come on, drink up. You’re falling behind.’
‘Count me out this round,’ said Masters. ‘I’ll rejoin you later. But I’ll not stop listening.’
‘Thank God for that. Now, here’s the pork and beans. The first cadaver that came to me—I forget her name . . .’
‘Mrs Cynthia Baker.’
‘That’s the one. When I started to do the post-mortem she was pretty well covered in sand.’
‘You mean you weren’t called to the site where she was buried?’
‘Of course I was. But I couldn’t do anything there. She was so plainly dead I just took a look at her neck to make sure of the cause of death and waited to get the body on the table before going any further.’
‘Sorry. I interrupted you.’
‘Don’t apologize. It was a pertinent point. But we’ll talk about that later. However, when she arrived, I did the obvious searches. No head wounds and no sexual assault, as I told you. But I then completed dusting her off. I’d not completely cleaned her up earlier, because the sand on her exposed skin was wet and clinging, so it wouldn’t come away very easily. But after I’d put a hair dryer on her, the sand dried and brushed off quite easily. I cleaned her up round the eyes and face, and then notice
d something that’d escaped me before.’
‘What?’
‘Her nose was broken.’ He took a pull at his new glass as if waiting for a reaction to his words. He got it.
Green said: ‘So what?’
Swaine put the glass down and said: ‘It’d been broken deliberately.’
‘So she was swiped, after all.’
‘No.’
‘What, then? Oh, I know. She was gagged, and the upper edge of the gag caught across her nose and broke it.’
‘That’s what I thought at first, but I was wrong. There was no sign of gagging or binding, but there was a bruise on the exterior of the left nostril. I got the impression that it was a bruise caused by pressure rather than a sudden blow because there was no contusion, the skin was intact, and there’d been no epistaxis—nose bleeding to you. The septum was broken.’
‘The septum being the soft central bone in the nose?’ asked Masters.
‘That’s right. The interior of the nose is divided into two lateral halves by the nasal septum. If you feel your own proboscis, you’ll notice that the lower half, below the bridge, is rubbery. You can push it from side to side without doing any damage. That’s nature’s way of protecting what sticks out from getting seriously hurt when it probes into things that don’t concern it. So I was a bit surprised to find the septum broken. It had the appearance—to me—of a deliberately inflicted injury.’
‘Did it? That’s interesting.’
‘How else would a woman get a bruise there—a bruise that didn’t appear to come from a blow; that wasn’t big enough to come from a fist or a weapon? I formed the impression that it had been caused by slow pressure—perhaps from a thumb.’
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