Again, this time unmistakably, a soft sound.
Breen jumped. Tozer whispered, “Oh, Jesus.”
The noise came from behind a door. You could see daylight under the bottom of it, a thin line above the bare floorboards. But halfway along, the line of light was interrupted; a dark shape on the other side.
“Go call this in,” whispered Breen.
“What?”
“Please. Go. Give them the address and tell them to come quick.”
She hesitated still.
“Now.”
She left. He stood looking at the door and listening to Tozer clatter down the stairs. He waited until she was safely out of the way, until he heard her speaking into the telephone, before he spoke.
“Who’s there?”
No answer.
“Open the door and come out.”
Still no answer. But again the noise, louder this time.
“I’m a police officer and there are more police on the way.”
He tried to sound in control.
“I’m coming in.”
The handle turned easily but when he tried to push open the door it would not give. Someone was blocking it on the other side.
Saying, “I’m not going to hurt you,” he tiptoed back to the dressing table and returned with one of the silver candlesticks.
At the door he pushed again, hard this time. Whoever it was on the other side of the door seemed to be pushing their full weight against it.
“Stand back,” he said, stepped back himself, then heaved his good shoulder against the door with all his strength, candlestick raised in his left hand. With all his weight behind it, the door slid open.
There wasn’t a person in the room. It was the golden retriever. It had been shot in the side of the head, flesh and bone exposed, but was still half alive. The dog had been trying to open the door, scratching against the woodwork with a bloody paw. Pushing it back, Breen had crushed the dying dog against the side of the bath. Now it panted slowly and gently. He squatted down and stroked its matted fur.
It took an age for more police to arrive. By the time they did, in car after car, the dog was dead.
Eighteen
The local CID man, Block, was showy. He had a handlebar moustache, a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a flamboyant green cravat and he chewed gum, which he removed carefully and wrapped in a piece of silver paper.
“We haven’t had anything this good in a long time,” he said.
Tozer had found plasters in the bathroom cabinet and put one on Breen’s face, just by his left eye.
“I imagined it was like this round here all the time,” said Breen.
“Charmed, I’m sure. I mean, what are we looking at? Burglary? Doubtful. Crime of passion? Much more like it, wouldn’t you say?”
“I came to tell them their daughter was dead. Last night.”
“Right. Right. So you said. And how did they react? Was there animosity? Anger? Remorse? What?”
Tozer said, “If she did this half an hour ago, no, three-quarters of an hour now, she could be miles away in that Jag. You lot wouldn’t want to let a murderer get away because you were wasting time, would you?”
“Who’s she?”
“TDC Tozer. She’s with me. She hasn’t learned to keep her own opinions to herself.”
Tozer glared at him.
“You local?” Block asked her.
“No,” said Tozer.
“It’s like he’s got no ruddy face left at all, Sarge.”
Sergeant Block turned his back on Breen and Tozer and faced his men. “Well, it’s not a shaving accident, is it? Twelve-bore at close range. Very nasty. Very messy. OK. Think, boys. Was there another man, do you think? Any sign of a mystery lover? You say the Jaguar is missing? Find the car registration. First priority. Chop-chop.”
“It’s not just missing. It almost killed us.”
“It was G-reg,” said Breen.
“Nice. Brand new?”
“Yes. And there were two twelve-bores and a 303 in the gun cabinet in the living room last night. There’s only one gun there now,” Breen added.
“Sarge. Don’t know if it’s important but someone’s been sick in this geranium on the landing.”
“Make a note of it.”
“That was me,” said Breen.
“Dearie me. I thought you Londoners were made of sterner stuff. Has the snapper arrived yet?”
“Look at this picture of her.” A local copper was standing in front of the big photo of Mrs. Sullivan. “Can we take it to the station for reference?”
“She’s a bit of a looker, ain’t she, Sarge? Nice personality.”
“Sarge? Photographer will be here direc’ly. He got held up in Exeter.”
“Pair of nice personalities, more like.”
“Bit on the small side for my taste, Constable. What sort of woman has a picture of herself with her mammaries sticking out in her own bedroom?”
“The wife of a lucky man.”
“I wouldn’t say lucky from the state of him.”
With difficulty, Breen took out his notebook and began scribbling.
“She used to be a model, sir, according to people in the town.”
Block looked straight at Breen and said, “This is a Devon and Cornwall job now, Sergeant.”
“We have an outstanding inquiry about the murder of a girl. The victim’s daughter.”
“That’s as may be, and of course we’re always happy to help our friends in the Metropolitan Police, but the murder of Major Sullivan is our business, you understand.”
The local constables paused, waiting for Breen’s reply.
“Naturally,” said Breen.
“Good. Right, boys. What have we learned? She’s a slut, gentlemen. An exhibitionist. Cherchay le homme. I’ll give you two guineas to one there’s another man involved. Can someone get that bloody dog out of here? It stinks. The dog that Sergeant Breen and his glamorous assistant here thought was the killer. ‘Help!’” squealed Block, “‘Come quick. There’s someone else in the house.’”
“I’ll be downstairs,” said Breen.
The house was full now, policemen crashing through every room, all keen to be in on the investigation, yanking out drawers or spilling stuff out of cupboards, then trampling through the debris.
In the hallway, a policeman was talking on the Sullivans’ phone. “Yeah, boy. That’s right. Half his bloody head has gone. You should see it. Bloody blood everywhere. It’s like it’s been sawn right in half. Gun must have been right by his head.”
They walked outside. Half a dozen cars were parked at all angles around the fountain now.
“Bunch of bloody bumpkins,” said Tozer.
The mist had closed even tighter around the house. The garden seemed to float in its own cloud.
“What are you doing?” asked Tozer.
“Writing everything down.” He was making notes in his book.
“Everything?”
“You never know what’s going to be important.”
“Is that a drawing?” He had sketched the dead major, faceless, head down. “That’s brilliant, that is.”
Holding the notebook away from him, he squinted at it. There was something about the randomness of the shaky, half-controlled pencil strokes that made it feel like it had been drawn by a different person.
“Poor bugger. You don’t look brilliant either.”
“I didn’t use to be sick when I saw dead people.”
The warmth of the morning had been chilled by the encroaching mist.
“Before, I could shut things out and just get on with the job. It’s like I’ve lost a skin.”
She put her handbag down on a cast-iron table that sat next to the deck chair on the lawn. “It’s like what happened to me when Alex died,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Only in reverse. I grew another skin.”
“I could never live in a place like this,” he said. “I need to have people around me.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said. “It’s a beautiful house.”