Chapter Four
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A yawning Detective Sergeant Jones stood stretching his arms and flexing his muscles while he waited for his superior to arrive at the crime scene. 'Another one,' he thought and shook his head. At least he had one. Four uniformed officers were searching the beer garden of the Cock and Trumpet, which had been illuminated with mobile flood-lights, and George Bullard, this time dressed in a brilliant white jump-suit, was crouching over the trunk of a man laid out on the lawn.
"Four pieces," he said, "not counting the head. It must be here somewhere."
As Tom arrived he could hear sporadic singing, in a tuneless voice, coming from inside the pub, which he walked through.
"Ah, Mr Bryce," he said, approaching the landlord, who was sitting down behind the bar, "I think we met earlier. Who found the body?"
Phil Bryce indicated the source of the singing. "Arthur McCain," he said. "You won't get much out of him. It was gone closing time when he stumbled back in here babbling about bits of a body on the lawn. Turns out he was right."
"There were ten green bottles," chanted Arthur, who was huddled on a chair in the corner. He looked up with bleary eyes as Tom Barnaby approached.
"Mr McCain," said Barnaby, "When did you leave the pub this evening?"
After a slight pause Arthur touched his nose and said "This brawl today... this brawl today...". Unable to continue, he rocked back and forwards with the clearest possible indication of severe intoxication.
"Has he been drinking here all evening?" asked Tom of Phil Bryce.
"That he has," said Phil. "All evening. It's the same every evening. Ex- Head of English at Devington School. Wouldn't you just know it?"
"If one green bottle..." sang Arthur. "Bottle... bottle...".
Tom decided to leave Arthur McCain and Phil Bryce for the moment and stepped out into the brilliantly lit beer garden.
"I can't keep up with you, Tom," said George Bullard, scratching his head.
"Sir!" exclaimed one of the uniformed officers, who had been poking about between the rose bushes at the back of the garden, "here's the head!"
Planted on the top of a low trellis that was designed to support a climbing rose was the head of a youngish man with blond hair and blue eyes, which stared ahead of him. Thick drops of blood still dripped occasionally from his ragged neck, feeding the now dormant roses underneath.
"Can't be so long ago, this one," said George. "I'd give it six hours at the most ― and at least two."
"Do we know who he is?" asked Tom.
"Yes, sir," said Ben Jones, rather proudly. "He had a credit card on him ̶ on part of him. His name is Andrew Smith."
"Well done, Jones," said Tom.
"It was tucked into his sock, the one on his right leg, for some reason."
"That, Jones, is what people do when they think that they might be robbed. Though not necessarily beheaded."
"And Belinda called me earlier to say that she has found the address book, but all it has is a telephone number. I tried it, but it's dead."
"Never mind, we can find out from the credit card company now," said Tom.
Arthur McCain had managed to get up and was careening like a ship in distress. He staggered towards the doorway leading to the beer garden, which Tom saw just in time. "Stay where you are!" bellowed Tom. "This area is out of bounds. Do you understand, Mr McCain?"
Mr McCain clearly did understand, for he stood still, just inside the pub, or as still as his swaying motion would allow.
"Do you think you could take him away, Inspector?" asked Phil Bryce, who had followed Arthur to the doorway, "Only I really want to clean up now."
"Do you know somebody called Andrew Smith?" asked Tom.
Phil thought for a moment and then shook his head. "Sorry," he said.
Tom considered escorting him to the bottom of the garden to view the head, but decided it would be better to wait until the photographers had done their work. "You may continue to open the pub as usual," said Tom, "but the beer garden remains off limits."
"Not many people want to come outside here in this weather," said Phil, "except to smoke."
"Were there many people in the pub this evening?"
"Oh, about twenty ― twenty at a time, that is, max. People come and go. Except Arthur, of course. He never goes."
"And did you recognise all of them?"
"Let's see now... most of them I did. But there's always a few faces I don't know."
"In answer to your previous question, I will ask Constable Robson to take him home," said Barnaby, which he proceeded to do. With difficulty two police officers managed to get Arthur McCain into the back seat of one of the patrol cars, where he rolled himself up into a ball and started kicking out playfully at the back of the seat in front of him, where PC Robson sat.
"This brawl today..." chuckled the inebriated academic.
WPC Bull, who was a woman not to be trifled with, got in the back seat beside Arthur and none too delicately obliged him to sit in a more respectable position. "Take him wherever he wants to go," said Tom, hoping that that would not be Mars. "I'll speak to him tomorrow when he's sobered up. Make sure you give me the address."
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It was the smell of freshly-percolated coffee that finally woke Gavin Troy. Where was he? He opened his eyes bit by bit. The wallpaper was unfamiliar. Cully's old room! Suddenly the day before came back to him. He glanced at his watch, which he was still wearing. Eleven o'clock! This bed felt so comfortable and he had slept so deeply that he didn't want to get up. He realised that the thought that Cully used to sleep in this very bed was slightly exciting him. He threw back the duvet and, after an enormous yawn, forced himself upright.
"Good morning, sleepikins," said Joyce from the kitchen when he eventually made his way downstairs.
"I'm sorry, Mrs B, I'm afraid I overslept," he said apologetically.
"I could tell you needed that sleep," said Joyce with emphasis. "How are you feeling today?"
"Oh, much better, thanks," said Gavin, and he really meant it. Funny how the soothing effect of Causton and its environs made his problems in Middlesbrough seem less important, he thought. "Has... er, Tom... gone out?"
"Of course!" said Joyce, who was putting away the now clean pots and pans from the night before. "Ages ago."
"Mrs B,―"
"Joyce," said Joyce.
"Joyce," said Gavin, remembering the banter at the station, "do you know anything about this case that he's on at the moment?" Troy's detective instincts had come back to him and he felt that he couldn't carry on doing nothing in his old boss's house.
"I don't know anything about it," said Joyce, "except that it involves a body cut up into several pieces. One or two bodies, I can't remember. He was called out last night, just after you went up to bed."
"And there was a beheading," suggested Troy.
"Yes, well ― you'll have to ask Tom. There's always something gruesome going on."
"Nothing new there then," said Gavin with an impish grin.
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"Why can't that witch sell her land to me at a reasonable price?" stormed Sir Hector Ashby-Petherington, pacing up and down the parquet floor of his study.
"Witch witch – I mean, which witch?" stammered his son, who had trouble with certain consonants at the best of times.
"Potty Potts, of course. I've made her four offers ― four. But all she wants is her blasted trees," and he hurled a copy of Country Life at the fireplace. James visibly flinched.
"She ― she is quite well-known for her fruit trees," he said apologetically.
"Yers ― well, I'm quite well known, too," growled his father, who had sunk into a leather chair behind the over-sized desk. "Well known at the Council. How do you think the Chairman of the Planning Committee got his job?"
"I know that, Daddy, but―"
"Now look, son." Hector took on a conciliatory tone. "Why don't you go and chat her up?"
"Chat her up?" James looked horrified.
"Well, there must be something you can do besides swanning around all day in that Aston Martin I gave you for your birthday."
"I don't see what I can do." James bit his lower lip, trying hard to think of something other than chatting up Phyllis Potts.
"You're always round Midsomer Florey of an evening," said his father suspiciously.
"Oh ― well, you know... I do drop in at the Cock and Trumpet from time to time."
"Making eyes at that hussy of a barmaid, I'm sure," Hector sneered. James turned bright red.
"I ― I really must be going," he said, as he couldn't think of anything else to say, and rushed out of the room. Hector picked up the latest letter from Phyllis Potts and, crumpling it into a ball, threw it in the general direction of the previously ejected Country Life.
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Sorrowfully, Belinda took the old skirts and blouses that her mother used to wear from the wardrobe one by one and folded them mechanically. Still no news as to how her mother died, and as for Jane... Belinda shuddered. The back garden had been cordoned off with police tape and Jane's remains removed, thank goodness. Who could have visited on Sunday evening with such murderous intent? Belinda had no idea and tried not to think about it. She wandered over to the desk that her mother used to write letters at and turned over the papers on it. The signature on one of the more recent letters received caught her eye. She started to read it.
Belinda sat down on her mother's bed, her head swimming. She could not believe it. She read the letter again. After a moment she got up and, going into her own room, went over to the dressing-table and put the letter at the bottom of the old biscuit-tin which she used as a jewellery box. She then looked for the card that Detective Sergeant Jones had given her and picked up her mobile phone.
