“Would need quite a bit of pressure to break this, I should have thought,” mused Pascoe. “And wasn’t there a warning notice?”
“Over there,” said Wield, pointing to a square of hardboard lying facedown a couple of feet along the ledge. “Could have got blown down during the storm.”
“And the pressure?”
“Stopped to take a breather and admire the view. Leant her full weight against the rail. Crack, and she’s gone.”
“She didn’t look all that heavy to me. Could there be someone else involved?”
“Me and Bowler can’t have been more than a couple of minutes behind her. No way anyone could have evaded us by coming up. If they went down, they must have moved like lightning. The beach was completely empty when we reached the ledge.”
“But you still called the CSIs?”
“I’d have called them even if I’d seen her fall,” said Wield. “When you’re investigating murder, every death’s suspicious.”
“Quite right,” said Pascoe, starting to climb back up to the garden. “It doesn’t sound like Brereton will be answering questions for a while, if ever. You say she was found in Lady Denham’s room. What we need to work out is what she was after there.”
“Mebbe she were looking for these,” said Wield, producing the photos. “Bowler found them. He spotted a drawer we’d missed in the desk. Seems his parents wanted him to go into the family cabinet-making business.”
“Maybe he should have taken their advice,” grunted Pascoe ungratefully. He examined the photos. “They look like they’re having fun. Any identification yet?”
“Haven’t had much time since I got them,” said Wield. “Been a bit busy.”
“Sorry. Leave them with me then. And I’ll get Frodo Leach to check out the drawer. Now let’s talk to Bowler, see if there’s anything more he can remember.”
Wield said, “Young Hat’s a bit shook up, Pete. I think he reckons he should have got to Witch Cottage earlier and possibly have saved Ollie Hollis. Now he’s blaming himself for not stopping the lass when she said she was going for a swim.”
“That sounds like a step in the right direction,” said Pascoe indifferently.
They found Bowler at the top of the path. He looked close to the point of collapse. Wield’s heart went out to him, but Pascoe said, “You look like shit, Hat. Either snap out of it, or go home. You’re no use to anyone like this.”
There had been a time, thought Wield, when he’d have held the lad’s hand and tried to talk him out of his depression.
On the other hand, this new approach seemed rather more effective. Bowler straightened up and said, “I’m fine, sir. Really.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Pascoe heartily. “So let’s go through it all again, from the moment you noticed someone in the hall.”
He took the young DC through events step-by-step. When they’d finished, Pascoe said, “Thanks. Now go and write your statement while it’s still fresh.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Bowler.
He still did not look happy, but at least he no longer looked defeated.
“Mebbe when he’s done, he should go home,” suggested Wield.
“What on earth for?” said Pascoe. “We need all the bodies we can muster.”
“Way things are going, seems we’re getting a steady supply of them,” retorted Wield, for once letting himself be provoked.
Pascoe looked at him unblinkingly for a second, then his face relaxed into a rueful smile.
He said, “Sorry, Wieldy. Maybe it’s me should be sent home! Three bodies and counting. Oh shit. And here’s three more I could do without.”
They looked across the lawn. Around the side of the house, a motorcycle combo came laboring. The reason for the strain on its engine was not far to seek. Behind Godley on the pillion sat Charley Heywood, her arms wrapped round the healer’s waist, while in the sidecar, like the effigy of some oriental god paraded to bless the rice crop, rode a serious-looking Andy Dalziel. By contrast, Gordon Godley wore a blissful smile.
The combo came to a halt. PC Scroggs, eager to atone for his earlier dereliction, came hurrying forward, his face stern with the resolution of Horatio about to confront the ranks of Tuscany. Then he spotted Dalziel, skidded to a halt, and went into reverse.
Pascoe did not move but let the Fat Man come across the lawn to him.
“Pete, lad,” he said. “Just heard the news. How’s the poor lass?”
“We’re waiting to hear. Andy, what are you doing here? And why have you brought those two?”
“Fair do’s, I think they brought me. And not to worry, I think I’ve talked them out of making a complaint against you. In fact, if you’ve got any sense, you’ll kiss and make up with yon Charley and get her onboard. She’s bright as old Fester’s teeth. Oh aye. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. You asked me to talk to Pet and Fester, remember? But first things first, this Clara, did she jump or were she pushed?”
Pascoe noted the old familiar imperious tone and recalled his feelings of loss and despair when he’d first seen the Fat Man stretched out in intensive care, as lifeless and forlorn as some deserted hulk found floating on a silent sea. To see him now, masts restored, wind filling his sails, should have been an undiluted joy; but was that just a small breath of nostalgia he felt ruffling his soul?
He ignored it and said, “Looks like an accident. She was going down the cliff path, reached the ledge with the dodgy rail, leaned against it, and it gave way. But we’re keeping an open mind.”
“For God’s sake!” exclaimed Charley Heywood, who’d followed the Fat Man across the lawn. “Can’t you two stop being cops for a minute? Who gives a fuck how it happened? How’s Clara? That’s the main thing.”
Pascoe stared at her for a moment, then said quietly, “Of course it is, Miss Heywood. But as none of us can know how she is until we hear from the Avalon, where she’s been taken, forgive me if I carry on being a cop for the time being.”
Dalziel made a face at Charley that she read as an admonition to keep her mouth shut, then he said, “So what happened then?”
In response to a nod from Pascoe, Wield told his story.
Dalziel said, “So if there had been anyone else involved, they’d have had to get down the cliff almost as fast as the poor lass to be out of sight by the time you got there?”
“That’s right, sir,” said Wield. “And there definitely weren’t anyone down there.”
“He could have hidden in the cave.”
All eyes turned on Charley.
She said, “If someone pushed Clara over, he could have heard you coming down the path and hidden in the cave till you went rushing down to the beach after Clara, then climbed up here and headed off through the woods.”
Dalziel regarded her with a parental pride.
“Told you she were bright,” he said.
Pascoe said, “Oh yes. The cave. I remember. In your e-mail. The cave where you claim to have seen Sir Edward and Miss Brereton in flagrante.”
Charley noted the claim and recalled the Fat Man telling her that Pascoe was inclined to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.
Before she could give battle, Wield said, “Where exactly is this cave, miss?”
“It’s off to the left from the ledge,” she said. “Up a bit, among the shrubs. If you look, you can see a faint track.”
Pascoe and Wield exchanged glances.
Wieldy said, “Shall I…?”
“No,” said Pascoe. “Just in case, let’s not risk contamination. Leave it to the CSI. Thank you, Miss Heywood. Anything else you’d care to contribute?”
His tone was even and polite, but to Charley it felt as if it were dripping with sarcasm. She looked at the Fat Man. He returned her look blank-faced but she read there an assurance, I promised I’d say nowt without your say-so. Up to you, lass.