‘But sir,’ Ling bleated.
‘Yes, Inspector?’
There are some questions I need to ask you. I know you gave me a few pointers on the telephone this afternoon, but -’
‘Now, now, Superintendent,’ said Sir John, as if soothing a fractious child. ‘I’ll give it you all in my written report. It’ll be on your desk by tomorrow evening at the latest. So you see you’ve nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Meanwhile, I want to get at this head.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said Ling with unexpected decisiveness, ‘but there are a few things which just won’t wait.’
Sir John looked wistfully at the sack. Then he turned away from it with a sigh of long-suffering. ‘Very well, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘But please make it quick, because I want -’
‘Quite, sir, quite. First off, how old was he?’
‘About forty-five.’
‘In good shape?’
‘Apart from being a little overweight, in very good shape. Muscular. And the condition of the internal organs is excellent.’
‘Any fractures?’
‘None.’
‘What was his blood group?’
‘A, rhesus negative.’
‘Same as we found on the grass.’
‘That’s a good thing.’
‘Would he have bled a lot?’
That depends partly on how he was killed.’
‘Well, sir, how was he killed?’
‘Good heavens, man. I don’t know. If you’d just let me take a look at the head …’
‘We think he may have been coshed, sir. Some sort of a blunt instrument.’
‘You do, do you? Well, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to supply confirmation. Or the opposite. If you’d just let me -’
‘If he was coshed, would he have bled a lot?’
‘Probably. Scalp wounds usually do bleed a lot. There are exceptions, however. There was that farmer fellow, Routh, for example. I understand that he didn’t bleed much.’
‘Would he have bled a lot when his head was cut off?’
’Since that was done so soon after death, almost certainly yes.’
‘And you’re sure it was done soon after death?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘When his arm was cut off, and the cuts made in his thighs, would he have bled a lot?’
‘Probably not.’
‘And what was the time of death? We think,’ said Ling helpfully, ‘that it may have been about half past twelve on Friday night.’
‘Then what you think agrees with the medical evidence.’
‘When was the arm cut off?’
‘Somewhere between two and four on the following afternoon.’
It was Ling’s turn to sigh. ‘And there’s absolutely no doubt about that, sir?’
‘None whatever. The degenerative changes in the blood can be accurately timed, Superintendent.’
‘What implement was used to cut off the head?’
‘I should say a hacksaw.’
‘Ah!’ said Ling. ‘We found a hacksaw.’
‘With blood on it?’
‘Just traces. But enough.’
‘Good,’ said Sir John. ‘Superintendent, you’re home and dry. And now I really think that I ought to - ’
‘Earlier on, sir, you mentioned alcohol. Had he been drinking?’
‘No, he hadn’t. And to judge from the state of the liver and the kidneys, he very seldom drank … The scrotum,’ Sir John threw in as a bonus, ‘was not collapsed.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘I mean, Superintendent, that he had not recently been making passionate love.’
‘Sounds like a dog’s life to me,’ said Mr Morehen from a far corner. ‘No drink, no women. And then, look at the food he ate!’
‘Ah yes, sir,’ said Ling. ‘I was just going to ask you about that. When did he have his last meal, and what was it?’
‘He had it about three hours before death, Superintendent,’ said Sir John, ‘and it was fish and chips. I dare say,’ he added, ‘that Mr Morehen could give you the dimensions of the cod fillets, if you were to ask him.’
Mr Morehen named items of the male pudenda.
‘And now we come to the crux,’ said Ling. ‘We’ve absolutely got to identify the man, and so far, his head is the only hope. But, it’s been horribly bashed about. I was wondering if there was any hope that you could, so to speak, reconstitute it, with wax or something, so that we could have a photograph to issue to the press.’
Sir John considered. ‘It’s just possible,’ he said cautiously. ‘It all depends on how bad the damage is. And of course, even if it is possible, it will take me quite a time.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘So now you’d better let me take a look at it, hadn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Widger sank on to a stool next to Ling’s as Sir John, rubbing his hands, crossed to the bench where the sack lay. He was between them and the sack, so that they couldn’t see what he was doing as he untied the string and lifted out the contents; but they heard the rustle of the newspapers as he unwrapped them.
There was a long pause.
Then Sir John said, in a curious voice: ‘I’ve been underestimating myself, Superintendent. The answer is: yes, I can reconstitute your head for you, quite easily. And then perhaps after that I can have it for my dinner.’
Widger froze. ‘Have it for your …’
But for once, it was Ling who was quicker in the the uptake. Six giant strides took him to Sir John’s side, with Widger clattering along bemusedly behind.
On the bench - neatly cloven down the middle, eyes closed in the big sleep - lay the head of a small pig.
The drive back to Glazebridge was characterized for the most part by a deathly silence. It was only when they were approaching the police station along the ring-road that Ling at last spoke.
‘We’ve been conned,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
’Chummy switched sacks on us.’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘Well, not before we left the station,’ said Widger. ‘Because when I fetched the sack down from my office, I looked.’
‘It must have been at Sir John’s house, then.’
‘Yes.’
‘That scream was a real scream. It was a decoy, to draw us away from the car.’
I thought it was a real scream,’ said Widger. ‘Come to that, so did you. Whoever produced it must be a marvellous actor.’
‘We oughtn’t to have left the car unlocked.’
Since there was nothing to be said to this, Widger said nothing.
‘Chummy was there waiting for us,’ said Ling. ‘He must have had a car, parked out of sight somewhere up the lane, and - Did you hear a car drive off? Afterwards, I mean?’
‘No, I didn’t. I’d guess that he parked it a good way away. Did you hear one?’
‘No. Anyway, he parked his car. Then he hid the substitute sack, with the pig’s head, somewhere in the bushes at the front. Then he slipped round to the back, and when he heard us arriving, he produced his scream. Then when we were going round by the garage end, he went back to the front by the laboratory end. Then he switched sacks and crept away to his car. He had plenty of time for all that.’
Why did he do it?’
‘I supposed he realized, a bit late in the day, that Sir John might be able to make the head recognizable again. And he wasn’t going to risk that: better get the thing back and bury it somewhere. Landing us with the pig’s head, though, was sheer malice. He was mocking us,’ Ling said bitterly. ‘Very sure of himself, is Chummy.’
The car turned right off the ring-road into the police station’s now deserted car-park. Ling said:
‘I take it you realize I’m going to have to ring the Chief and tell him what’s happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘He only lives twenty miles away. He’ll get straight into his Alfa and drive down here.’
‘Probably.’
‘And then - and then - for God’s sake, Charles, what is he going to say?’
4
‘You Mean to Tell me That You Had this Unfortunate Man’s Head Actually in Your Possession, And That You Then Lost It?’
‘It was stolen from us, sir.’
’Stolen From You. And I Suppose That at the Same Time, Your Watches Were Stolen Off Your Wrists.’
‘No, sir.’
‘So Now All You’Re Left With Is a Pig’s Head. A Pig’s Head.’
‘We’ll get him, sir, you can be sure of that.’
‘I Can, Can I? Superintendent, You Relieve My Mind Wonderfully. All I Can Say for the Moment Is That Although I’Ve Met Plenty of Numskull Coppers in My Time, There’s Never Yet Been Anything to Compare With You Two.’
‘If you’d just lower your voice a little, sir…’
‘I Will Not Lower My - Yes, I will, though,’ said the Chief Constable reluctantly. ‘We don’t want everybody in the station to know. And you two keep your mouths shut about what’s happened, do you hear me? If it gets out, we shall be the laughing-stock of the whole of Devon.’
‘Sir, we - ’
‘And just one other thing before I go. I’m giving you a week -one week exactly - to get this mess cleared up to my satisfaction.’ The Chief Constable stormed to the door of Widger’s small office. ‘After that, it’s the Yard - and a fat lot of thanks I shall get, for calling them in so late. As for you two,’ he flung over his shoulder, ‘you’ll be out of the Force and looking for jobs as bank guards. And now, Good Night.’
He went out, slamming the door furiously behind him. Widger and Ling continued to stand like waxworks until they heard his car roar out of the car-park, and dwindle, and fade away to nothingness. Then Ling moved.
‘Come on,’ he said.
They drove to Mrs Clotworthy’s cottage in Burraford’s Chapel Lane. Why, yes, Mrs Clotworthy said, she had visited her great-niece a second time; that very morning, in fact, just to make sure that the mother and baby were going along well. And this time, yes, she’d managed to remember about Fen’s pig’s head. How she could have forgotten it the day before, the Saturday, she really couldn’t think. In fact, she was sure she hadn’t forgotten it: she recalled distinctly putting it out in the porch when Mrs Prendergast came with the news about Sandra. Still, when you gets old, you does go a bit queer in the head, as they, Ling and Widger, no doubt knew from their own experience. You think you’ve done a thing, when actually you haven’t; so that was what must have happened to her, yesterday. Today she was sure about, though. She’d been proper flammagasted, this morning, to find the sack there in the corner of her kitchen: couldn’t call to mind ever having put it there in the first place. Anyways, she’d took it out to the porch right off, and ‘ “There! I’ve put you there now, and there you stays till the Perfesser comes and fetches ’ee, see?” I says to it. Then I locks up, and off I goes to Sandra. ’Ad to leave her at dinner-time, because of you making me come into Glazebridge for questions, but I looks in ’ere on me way along, quick-like, and sure enough, sack was gone. “Ah! Perfersser’s got ’ee now, me ’andsome,” I says, and as you’d expect, I was thinking ’ed say a bit of a thank ’ee when I saw him at p’lice station. But no, never a word! “M.A. or no M.A., that’s no real gennulman,” I says to myself. “That’s no” - What? What was that you were - Oh, beg pardon, I’m sure. The sack, yes. Well, that was one I bought months ago, it’d be, from a chap wi’ a van driving around ’ere wi’ a ’ole pile of ’em for sale, only three pee each. Lots of us ’ad one or more from ’im, they being so useful for so many things. Yes, all the same they were, an’ all ’Arris’s. Not after that chap for pinchin’ of ’em are yer? ’E seemed all right, not that you can ever tell for sure, what with that stuck-up M.A. ’ardly able to give ’ee a civil “good day”, let alone thank ’ee for a lovely pig’s ’ead yer ’ubby would ’a’ charged three bob for if a penny. But that’s life for yer. That’s life all along. Folks doan ’ave not a particule o’ gratitude in ’em these days, simly.’
‘That’s life for you, all right,’ said Widger grimly as they got back into the car. ‘The whole ruddy district smothered in Harris’s Bacon sacks. That’s going to be a great help, that is.’
From Mrs Clotworthy’s they went to the Dickinsons’ cottage, to see Fen. No, he told them, he was afraid that today he hadn’t given the pig’s head a thought. Mrs Clotworthy had said that she’d put it out for him today, having apparently forgotten about it yesterday, but in all the excitement and commotion it had slipped his memory; and certainly he’d been nowhere near Mrs Clotworthy’s cottage, not today, not a second time. He’d been surprised to find her stand-offish, during the gathering of witnesses at the police station, but had thought it wisest not to inquire what the matter was: she was perhaps nervous about the coming interrogation.
‘Anyway, where is it?’ Fen asked.
‘Where’s what, sir?’
‘My pig’s head.’
Ling succumbed to a stammering fit. ‘I - I - It’s - ’ he babbled. ‘Mrs Clotworthy put it out in her porch this morning, sir, but someone else must have taken it.’
‘Oh, did they, did they?’ said Fen. ‘What a pity. I was looking forward to making that brawn. Will you have a drink before you go?’
This, however, they refused. As Widger negotiated the Cortina along the narrow lanes which led back to Glazebridge, he said feebly: ‘Well, at any rate it wasn’t the Rector.’
‘Why not?’
‘He would have been in Burraford church, taking Evensong. The Bale sisters said they were going to church, too.’
‘We’ll check on all three of them. We’ll put men on it,’ Ling said vacantly. ‘A week… Old squire, I think that’s about all we can do for today. We’d better find a bite to eat, and then bed. Tomorrow,’ he said in a phantom recrudescence of his customary optimism, ‘we’ll be fresh, and then we can really get on with it. It was a disaster, losing the head, but we’ll get by without it. Let’s see now, who knows about the head? Us two; the Chief - but he’s much too proud to blab; and Sir John and that Morehen. Well, they won’t blab either, because before we left I told them how important it was not to, and they agreed. At the end,’ he said rather pitifully, ‘I think they were really quite sorry for us … So although I don’t imagine the business can be kept under wraps indefinitely, nothing ought to come out about if for a week at the very least.’
But he had reckoned without Detective-Sergeant Crumb.
Crumb had spent the morning laboriously typing out a vandalism report, about a smashed shop window; this was because Rankine was in the room with him. But then Rankine had gone out somewhere, detecting, and Crumb had forthwith abandoned his activity, put his feet up on the desk, and immersed himself in a paperback Mickey Spillane. This, and the lunch hour, had occupied him pleasantly until three o’clock, his usual hour for going home.
Unfortunately, he forgot to take the Spillane with him, and when evening came, and he was settled comfortably in front of a broiling fire, he found himself without diversion. He might have watched television, but he was too mean to have a set, though he could well have afforded one; and he had long since ceased paying any attention to his wife’s conversation. Nothing but Spillane would do. With a great deal of grumbling, Crumb heaved himself out of his chair and returned to the police station, arriving there just in advance of the Chief Constable.
It took him a little time to find his book, and he was just about to make off with it when he heard voices raised in Widger’s office. Curious, he tip-toed across to the connecting door and glued his ear to it. And what he heard, he understood perfectly.
Crumb was delighted. He nourished a consuming hatred of all his superiors, and of Widger in particular, and it was wonderful to know that they had been so humiliatingly laid low. Waiting only until Widger’s office finally emptied, he hurried home again and with much lip-smacking and thigh-slapping told his wife all about it. Then he set
tled back to his diet of sex and sadism, still chuckling occasionally, and his wife, who knew that there would be nothing more to be got out of him before bedtime, went out to have a cup of tea with a neighbour.
Mrs Crumb was an inveterate gossip, and it was too much to expect that she wouldn’t pass on to the neighbour what she had heard. That neighbour told another neighbour, and that one, another. The news spread like flame through parched bracken.
By mid-week, practically everybody in Glazebridge and district knew that Widger and Ling had lost the head.
10. Wasp Chewing
A wild and dream-like trade of Blood and Guile
Too foolish for a Tear, too wicked for a Smile!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Ode to Tranquillity
1
The investigation languished.
Thanks to Ling’s Sunday-afternoon arrangements, and to his press conference, Monday morning’s papers presented a strange spectacle. The Botticelli murder was sensational enough, in all conscience, and all of the public sheets, even The Times, gave it extensive coverage. But they differed widely as to detail, and were often mutually contradictory. Reporters continued to hang about the district, causing the Major’s antennae to quiver; Ling, however, avoided them as far as possible, and when a confrontation was inevitable, faithfully ground out ‘No comment’. They tried to get at Sir John, but he never seemed to leave his house, or to be willing to talk on the telephone, and not one of them managed to make contact with him. Mr Morehen was once accidentally discovered at a mass Trotskyist rally in Glazebridge (five people), but seemed to have forgotten so completely about the Botticelli murder that his interviewer, who at first had had great hopes, was in the end obliged to write him off as an incurable mooncalf. That really left only Ticehurst, to whom Ling occasionally communicated scraps of useless, almost entirely negative intelligence; and from these, Ticehurst, looking far from his normal self, was obliged to construct such frail edifices of melodrama as he could. To him both Widger and Rankine (holding himself in with the greatest difficulty) referred all queries; while Crumb - resentful, morose and surly at the ever-increasing additions to his normally inconsiderable workload - simply refused to say anything at all, consoling himself, so far as that was possible, with the knowledge that news of the loss of the head had got about, branding both Widger and Ling forever as incompetent cretins.
The Glimpses of the Moon Page 20