Deadly Pattern

by Douglas Clark

  ‘If you’re so sure, are you taking Dr Swaine with you?’

  ‘I prefer to do what we have to do in private. Swaine can take over later.’

  Brant and Hill had said nothing. They were wondering how Masters had managed to guess where the fifth body would be lying, but they were too wise to question his ability to find it.

  *

  As they left the hotel, Masters glanced up. The sky looked like a slab of dough kneaded with dirty fingers—pasty white with grey streaks. A lovely day for an exhumation.

  P.C. Garner, standing on the pavement, said: ‘Morning, sir. The Super’s here.’

  Bullimore was just getting out of the car which had pulled up behind the Vauxhall. He called: ‘Wanted to catch you before you went off. Just to hear if there’s any news or anything I can do to help.’

  ‘You can help. You timed your arrival nicely,’ said Masters.

  ‘Good. What d’you want?’

  ‘Help.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Exhuming Mrs Severn.’

  Bullimore stared for a moment. ‘You’ve found her?’

  ‘Shall we say, located her? We’re just off to prove my theory.’

  ‘Or disprove it,’ said Green.

  Bullimore ignored Green. ‘Are you trying to tell me that never having been near this place before yesterday, and sitting in a hotel miles away from the site, you can deduce where a woman is buried?’

  Masters nodded.

  Bullimore said: ‘This I must see. Lead me to it.’

  ‘Spades?’ Masters said to Hill.

  ‘Just one folding entrenching tool in our kit, sir.’

  ‘That’ll have to do. Come on.’

  *

  The bungalow was easy to find. No other stood so near to it as to allow a mistake. Masters, with only a brief pause to get his bearings, led the other five across the soft sand towards it. The top quarter inch of sand was damp. Where disturbed by their feet it uncovered the drier, paler underlayer. Beneath the green and white bungalow, the top layer was still dry, with a few pebbles, bits of coal and sticks lying about. Masters fell to his knees and peered underneath.

  Bullimore said: ‘It’s under there?’

  ‘Somewhere.’

  Green said: ‘Even if you’re right, there’s about six hundred square feet of ground to dig up, there. Lying down with no more than two foot of working room.’

  ‘I hope we’ll get at it fairly quickly,’ said Masters. ‘Here, what d’you think?’ He pointed to an area just off centre. ‘That part looks as if all the bits and bobs had been moved away recently, doesn’t it?’

  Green squatted beside him. ‘Yes, I’d say so. But sheltered under here, wouldn’t the marks in the sand still be there?’

  Bullimore said: ‘The wind whistles under these things like billyho. It gets enclosed in there and surges about strong enough to wipe out marks in no time.’

  ‘Comforting words, Super. Now, who’s going to dig?’ Garner took a half step forward. Masters said: ‘Thanks for the offer, but not the old and bold. It’s too much to ask you to cramp up under there after flu. Hill!’

  Sergeant Hill took off his coat and jacket. Brant, grinning at his companion’s rueful face, undid the webbing cover of the entrenching tool. He took out the head, one half a pointed shovel, the other a pick blade. ‘Pick or shovel?’

  ‘Shovel.’

  Brant slipped the short, eighteen-inch handle into the slot for converting the implement into a pixie shovel. Hill lay flat on his face and wriggled, between the bobbins, towards the spot indicated by Masters. Brant handed him the entrenching tool. Masters said: ‘The graves were fairly shallow out in the open. I should think this one’ll be shallower still.’

  Hill, his face close to the sand said: ‘Shall I probe?’

  Green said: ‘There’s not enough height. Try and sweep the top sand away with the side of the shovel to give you a bit more depth, and we’ll get you a short stick.’

  Hill did as he was told, making semi-circular sweeps across his front. It was tiring work, but he refused a relief before Garner brought the stick. With this he prodded, holding the stick halfway up its length in both hands, and dragging it downwards into the sand. Despite the wind and his scanty clothing the sweat poured off his forehead as he laboured. In. Out. Move on. In. Out.

  About five minutes later, the stick half buried, he looked round at Masters, without a word. Masters said quietly: ‘An obstruction?’

  Hill pursed his mouth in assent.

  ‘Try a foot away in all directions.’

  Masters watched him carefully. On each occasion the probe was held just below the surface. ‘Good enough. Out you come.’

  Hill scrambled out and dusted his front. Green gave him a cigarette and Brant handed him his clothes. Masters said: ‘Right. I’m going in. It’s going to be unpleasant, so have handkerchiefs ready for your noses. But while I’m in there, try to dig a trench towards me from the eastern end. We should be able to pull her out along it, head first.’

  It was a tight squeeze for his great bulk, but Masters made it. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and wearing gloves, he set to work, slowly and carefully, piling up each shovel of spoil as far away as he could reach on either side. He took twenty minutes to uncover the outline of the body, and was still working away steadily, eyes down, when Brant spoke a yard or so away from his head. Brant said: ‘We’re trenching towards you. The Super nipped off to the Golf House and got a couple of big shovels and a rope. If we can tie it round her, we ought to be able to pull her out.’

  It was a task Masters was never likely to forget. He insisted that the rope should pass under the body and round under the armpits. Brant scooped away at the sand at the upper end until he could raise the corpse slightly. Then lying so close to it that the stink of death penetrated his whole being, Masters passed his arm below her shoulders till the rope’s end came out the other side. Even when the loop had been tied he refused to allow them to take the strain until the lower limbs were so far uncovered that the clinging sand would offer no resistance. Then, and only then, did he allow them to pull slowly, with himself following to guide the pitiful remains as reverently as possible along the dug pathway.

  Green said, when she was clear: ‘I was pleased you put it round her chest. But I couldn’t have done it myself.’ Masters knew what Green was thinking: what he himself had feared—that if too much strain had been placed on the rotting corpse, it might have started to disintegrate.

  Bullimore said: ‘I’ve laid on a shower for you at the Golf House.’

  Masters, holding his hands and arms away from his sides, thanked him, and said to Hill: ‘Give me a lift to the Golf House and then fetch me another suit from the pub. And don’t forget to leave me the pHisoHex.’

  Green said: ‘Don’t forget to ring Swaine and an ambulance.’

  Chapter Five

  It was twelve o’clock, and after the unpleasant activities of the morning they had all gathered in the Sundowner. Garner, Bullimore and Swaine were there.

  Swaine, a strong ale in hand, said to Masters: ‘I looks towards yer and raises me glass.’

  Bullimore said: ‘I still don’t know how he did it.’

  ‘Don’t be a silly old . . . copper,’ Swaine said. ‘How the devil can one fathom the thought processes of a mastermind. And note the word-play.’

  ‘It would take too long to explain. It took me half the night to arrive at the answer myself.’

  ‘Like Einstein and his theory. He just thought for years. Then one day he ups and writes down a cryptic bit of hokum which—so I’m told—is so simple, if you’re in that particular class, that it defies explanation.’

  Garner, so far standing quiet among so many of his superiors, ventured a remark to Masters: ‘When we were pounding the clits yesterday, I didn’t think it’d come to this today.’ Masters smiled, partly because he was feeling pleased with himself, partly to put Garner at his ease

  Bullimore turned towards them. ‘
The family. They should be told. But they live in Hawksfleet.’

  Masters said: ‘I’m going to see them this afternoon. Would you like to warn Hawksfleet she’s been found? And say that if they prefer it, I’ll tell the husband.’

  “You don’t duck the unpleasant bits, do you?’

  Masters grinned. ‘I reap a lot of good from it. If I do the bad bits myself, none of my people can call me selfish when I accept the best chair available, or the best bedroom in a pub. You know the sort of thing?’

  ‘You’re too cunning for the likes of us yokels up here.’ Swaine put down his glass, and to Masters’ surprise, said: ‘Well, I can’t stay here drinking all day. There’s work to be done. Grisly work. I’ll probably see you tonight, Chief Inspector.’

  *

  After lunch the car dropped Green and Brant at ‘Thrums’ for the second afternoon running. Masters and Hill went on, with Garner, to Hawksfleet.

  It was Julia Osborn who opened the door to Green. She said: ‘You must be police officers. The two who came yesterday?’

  Green said he had come specifically to speak to her. She invited them into the same room as the day before. She said: ‘Dad and Berry went off to play golf.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘In the hope of missing you, I suspect.’

  Green decided he liked her. She was very reminiscent of her brother. Ginger hair and a wide, pale face and a body that needed to lose a bit of weight before it would have great appeal. Her legs were too chubby to have much form, but she had an air of youth and vitality about her and a twinkle in her eye which had been entirely lacking in the males of the family.

  ‘Have some Turkish delight. It’s gooey and powdery and fat making, but I like it so I eat it.’

  Green declined, but she pressed him to have one of her father’s cigars. He accepted reluctantly because of her insistence. Brant settled for a chunk of sweet, held out to him on a little plastic fork and popped into his open mouth by the girl. She said: ‘It’s ghastly without Mum. Nobody can come to the house because Dad says “it isn’t done” under the circumstances, though he goes out womanizing every night. Berry’s as pompous as a colonel from Rumblebellypore and is trying to make three of my friends all at the same time. And I’m left at home here to hold the fort. That’s why I wasn’t here yesterday. I stayed out late on purpose. Berry was furious because I wasn’t home before dark and Dad was cross because he didn’t get supper early enough to allow him to meet his bit of crumpet at the time he’d arranged.’

  Green thought she’d run on for ever if he didn’t stop her. ‘All we came for, Miss Osborn . . .’

  ‘Steady on there. Julia, please. I’m only eighteen, you know. Not a maiden aunt.’

  ‘Sorry. All we want from you is a list of names of your mother’s contacts. As many as you can give us.’

  ‘I’ve done it. Berry told me what you wanted and that you’d suggested rummaging through old photographs to help us remember. Those poor idiots didn’t even know where all the old physogs were. I raked them out this morning and had a good old . . . I nearly said laugh, when actually I wanted to cry.’ She perked up again suddenly. ‘But I got you scads of names, because Mummy used to write the names on the back in the old days, and I just copied them out. About a hundred and forty.’

  ‘That’s marvellous. Well, we needn’t keep you, Julia, if you’ll let us have the list,’ said Green.

  She got up, turned her back towards them and bent over to feel under the cushion of the settee. Brant looked at her. Her dress, at the back, was wrinkled up from sitting. He looked across at Green, who had his eyes fixed on the view, appreciating it. She was wearing pink, wide-legged French panties, edged with coffee-coloured lace, over a pair of tights. She turned suddenly, with the list in her hand. She said: ‘Hope I didn’t embarrass you, but the damn thing had slipped down the back and I had to reach over. There you are.’ She gave him a couple of sheets of paper covered on both sides in round, podgy writing. He accepted it with a grin of thanks.

  The car was already waiting for them as she showed them out, after pressing them unsuccessfully to stay for tea. The house which Barbara Severn had shared with her husband, Steven, and three children, was in the Hawksfleet Park. A road, bordered on the outside by good-looking houses, ran round the central grass. Masters guessed that so pleasant a view cost money, and the inside of the house seemed to indicate that Steven Severn had money to spend.

  The house was double-fronted and square, of mellow red brick so cleverly used that the pointing of the courses didn’t have the effect of suggesting prison walls which Masters seemed to think an inescapable feature of modern brickwork.

  The door was opened by Steven Severn himself. ‘You must be Chief Inspector Masters. I’ve been expecting you or one of your colleagues ever since I learned you had taken over the case.’ Severn was a man of medium height. Square jawed and powerful. He wore grey flannels, a shirt with plain green tie and a green Braemar cardigan. His brown hair was still profuse and wavy, and his eyes were of the ‘no nonsense’ school.

  Masters introduced Hill. They were shown into what Severn called the studio room. It was large enough to hold a private dance in. The bow window at one end was to the left of the front door. The french window at the other gave on to the lawn at the back of the house. In the middle of the side wall opposite the room door was a stained glass window—to prevent the occupants of the neighbouring property from ‘looking in’—and below it a dais on which stood a baby Bechstein. Two fireplaces—one on each side of the dais—gave a deserved air of opulence, particularly because each held a blazing fire. The furniture was gracefully mixed in style and period. A gilt-legged Chesterfield upholstered in cream slipper satin in one half of the room was paired with a chintz-covered family sofa in the other. A double-bowed walnut chiffonier paired a brass-galleried table with cabriole legs. Masters liked what he saw. Felt slightly envious. Severn said: ‘What can I get you?’

  They declined refreshment. Masters said: ‘Mr Severn, I’ve got a melancholy duty this afternoon.’

  Severn looked straight at him. ‘I’ve accepted that Barbara is dead. It’s a logical conclusion.’

  ‘I’m pleased you take it like that. We found Mrs Severn’s body this morning.’

  Severn said nothing for a moment. Then, quietly: ‘She was with the others?’

  Masters nodded.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Under a bungalow.’

  ‘My God, not . . .’

  ‘Not what, Mr Severn?’

  ‘I have a bungalow, there.’

  ‘It wasn’t your bungalow. I’ve looked into this, as you would expect. All the families concerned had bungalows there. Not one of them is directly implicated.’

  ‘Maybe not, but one of my keys is missing.’

  ‘How do you mean, missing?’

  ‘Barbara had one on her key-ring. And that, of course, we haven’t seen since Barbara disappeared.’

  ‘I’ll note that, Mr Severn. Now, can we talk, or would you rather I left you now and came back at another time?’

  ‘Let’s get it over. Please sit down. I’m forgetting the common courtesies.’

  ‘Understandable in the circumstances.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ They sat.

  Masters said: ‘Please tell me what happened on the evening of the fifteenth. It was a Wednesday, I think.’

  ‘Quite right. Barbara said she was going out to sing at the Darby and Joan party.’

  ‘I’ll have to interrupt you there, Mr Severn. “Said” she was going to sing?’

  ‘Yes. But I found out she wasn’t due there.’

  ‘Can you explain?’

  ‘One of Barbara’s hobbies was singing. She performed quite well in her amateur way, and she sang at all sorts of gatherings and parties. Little ballads—“The Bells of Saint Mary’s” and that sort of stuff. She was out and about doing it two or three times a week.’

  ‘So it was no surprise to you when she said she was du
e to sing that evening?’

  ‘No. She often sang for the Darby and Joan club. Usually in the afternoons, but this was to be the annual party, so it was to run from tea-time to about nine o’clock, I think. The meetings are held in a large hut, just across the park. You can’t see it from the window, but if you follow the road round or cut across the grass you’ll come to it. I believe it belongs to the Ladies’ Bowling Club and they let the old people have it. Anyhow, Barbara went off straight after an early dinner—before eight o’clock—and I thought no more of it until she hadn’t turned up by eleven. I rang the woman who’s the president or organizer of the club and asked if she knew when Barbara had set out for home, and she told me Barbara hadn’t been expected there to sing at all that night, and as far as she knew, hadn’t been to the hut at all.’

  ‘I see. Can you remember when Mrs Severn first told you that she had this engagement?’

  ‘Not exactly. A day or so beforehand, I think.’

  ‘Was that about the usual warning you received?’

  ‘About that. I tried to let Barbara know well in advance when I’d engagements involving both of us, but it didn’t matter much if our individual engagements clashed because we have a very efficient au pair.’

  ‘And your wife went out alone?’

  ‘She had her own Mini, but as she was only going across the park she said she wouldn’t take it. In fact, I can remember offering either to run her there in my car or to walk across with her, but she wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘That’s understandable if she wasn’t going where she said she was. Your presence might have ruined whatever plans she had. Was she happy those last few days?’

  ‘As happy as she ever was.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘For a long time now I’ve known that Barbara felt marriage, home and family to be inadequate. She was, I think, a born do-gooder. I don’t mean that in the derogatory sense. But at forty, Barbara helped with more causes and served on more committees than any other ten women. At sixty she would have been national chairman of this and that and president of the other. But even so, I never felt she got real satisfaction from it. That’s why she accumulated these jobs: piled them up to keep herself busy. I’ve often thought it was my fault.’