The young female presenter, whose smile worked independently of the sense of what she was saying, announced, “Police reveal identity of Fedborough corpse,” and cut to a senior police officer who had long ago had the smile trained out of him. He was at a press conference, where he announced gravely, “The limbless body discovered two weeks ago in a house in Fedborough, West Sussex, has been identified after extensive forensic examination. It belonged to Mrs Virginia Hargreaves, a former resident of the town.”
As the presenter, smiling inappropriately, moved on to the fortunes of the local football teams, Jude crossed the room to turn down the television sound. Carole kept on saying she ought to get a remote control, but that kind of thing was low on Jude’s priorities.
The two women looked at each other. “So the gossips of Fedborough were right,” said Carole.
“ Some of them. I’m sure at least as many had other theories about the torso’s identity and have been proved wrong.”
“Still, at this moment Fiona Lister is no doubt rubbing her hands with glee and waiting to hear the news of Roddy Hargreaves’s arrest.”
“Or is Alan Burnethorpe shaking in his shoes because Virginia Haig’ eaves was his mistress and he killed her in a fit of jealous passion!” Jude’s impersonation of Andrew Wragg on the last few words was uncannily accurate.
“They were a strange lot last night, weren’t they?”
“Do you think, to an outsider, they’d seem any stranger than a group of Fethering locals?”
“Maybe not.” Carole narrowed her pale blue eyes with concentration. “So clearly, to solve this case, we have to concentrate on the period round Virginia Hargreaves’s disappearance.”
“If the case still needs solving.”
“What do you mean, Jude?”
“I’d have thought, now the police know who it was that died, they’d be pretty close to knowing how she died.”
“And who – if anyone – caused her death.”
“Even if she wasn’t murdered,” Jude reminded her friend gently, “someone cut off Virginia Hargreaves’s arms and legs.”
“Yes…” Carole shook her head slowly from side to side. “Things don’t look very good for Roddy.”
Later that evening she found out that things looked even worse for Roddy. Debbie Carlton rang with the news that his dead body had been found floating in the Fether.
Twenty-Two
And, so far as Fedborough was concerned, that was it. The mystery was solved. Three and a half years previously, Roddy Hargreaves had killed his wife, dismembered her, and hidden her torso in the cellar of their home, Felling House. When he knew the police were close to identifying the body, he had taken his own life. Case closed, so far as Fedborough was concerned.
On the Saturday evening Jude received a phone call that could have suggested this was the official view as well. Harry Roxby was on the line, elaborately conspiratorial, living up to the hilt his role as private investigator. “The police came again today,” he whispered.
“Oh?”
“They took the seals off the cellar door.”
“The ones you’d sawn through?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get into trouble over that?”
“No. I was dead lucky. One of the cops was all set to bawl me out, but Mum sort of smoothed it over. She said I’d been very traumatized by what had happened and I was in a fragile emotional state…”
“Are you?”
“Well…” He giggled nervously.
“Sleeping better?”
“Yes. What you said was good. Now I’m thinking of the case as something that needs investigating, I sort of feel more, I don’t know, further away from it…”
Excellent, thought Jude. That was the aim of the exercise. “So the cop backed off, did he? Didn’t bawl you out any more?”
“No. After what Mum said, he didn’t seem that bothered. Just removed the remains of the seals, and said we could use the cellar again like normal.”
“Which might suggest the police have concluded their investigation.”
“Yes.” He sounded wistful at the thought of his detective game ending. “So they reckon that this Mr Hargreaves killed his wife?”
“I can’t be certain what the police think, but I’ll bet that’s what a lot of people in Fedborough are saying.”
“Mm,” he mumbled gloomily. “I haven’t even met Mr Hargreaves, which makes me feel, I don’t know, sort of cheated over the case. Like I haven’t got the whole story.”
“Happens a lot in police work.” Jude was joking, but there was sympathy in her voice too.
“I don’t know,” said Harry disconsolately. “Even if the police have got the right solution, it still leaves a lot of loose ends untied.”
“Like what?”
“Well, where the body’s arms and legs went, for a start.”
“You’re right. Trouble is, Harry, we don’t have access to police files. Who knows, the limbs may have been found a long time ago, and the cops only needed the torso to match them up.”
“Perhaps.” He sounded even more despondent. “Why would someone cut off a body’s arms and legs?”
“Well, if we put aside sadism or a psychopath getting a cheap thrill…”
“Yeah.” A bit of interest crept back into his voice. “I saw a video about a guy who did that. Somebody I knew in London had this great collection of that kind of stuff.”
Jude didn’t want to go up that alley. “As I say, putting sadism on one side, the most usual reason for dismembering a body would be ease of disposal.”
“Oh, I get you. So someone – perhaps the woman’s husband – killed her, cut her up, and got rid of the arms and legs…Where do you reckon he’d have done that?”
“Lots of places around here. Bury them up on the Downs. Chuck them in the sea. Or the Fether, maybe. When the tide’s going out, they’d get swept out into the Channel in no time.”
“Yes.” Harry was more enthusiastic. Now he felt he was back being an investigator. “But if that’s what happened, why didn’t he get rid of the torso too?”
“Maybe he was interrupted? Someone got suspicious of him?”
“Frustrating not knowing more, isn’t it? I think it’s unfair that the police keep all the information to themselves.”
“The full details would usually come out later in court…but of course that’d only happen if someone was charged with the murder. If the gossip’s right and the police do reckon Roddy Hargreaves killed his wife, then the whole story’ll never be known.”
“No…” The boy was cast down again.
“But the police may not be right,” said Jude encouragingly. “There may still be something to investigate. So, Harry, I’m relying on you to keep thinking about the case and listening to what people say. You might come up with that vital detail that turns the whole thing on its head. You might be able to prove that the police were wrong, and that Roddy Hargreaves wasn’t a murderer.”
“You’re right.” Now she’d given him his role back, Harry Roxby sounded positively perky. “Don’t worry, Jude. My investigation of the case continues.”
“That’s what I like to hear, Sherlock.”
On the Sunday morning Carole and Jude went for a walk on Fethering Beach. As if apologetic for the recent rain, the day was exceptionally fine, the sky a gentle blue, and the beige sand stretched for miles. Gulliver circled ecstatically around them. He appreciated having the attention of two people, and he loved the intriguing smells of the low tide flotsam and jetsam. A late June day scampering across the pungent sand, with infinite sniffing detours, was his idea of dog heaven.