Gibbs grunted, abandoned the keyboard and mouse.
As he and Sellers walked back to the car, Sellers said, ‘Wise words indeed, mate. Is that what Debbie says when you can’t get it up? Forget about it for the time being and try again later.’
‘Not a problem I have.’ Gibbs sounded bored. ‘Right, what now?’
‘Better check in with Kombothekra.’ Sellers pulled his phone out of his pocket.
‘Is he Asian?’ Gibbs asked. ‘Stepford?’
‘Of course not, pillock. He’s half Greek, half upper-crust English.’
‘Greek? He looks Asian.’
‘Sarge, it’s me.’ Sellers gave Gibbs a look that Barbara Fitzgerald would no doubt have thought too discouraging, bad for morale. ‘The photos are of Amy Oliva and her mother, confirmed. That’s Oliva spelled O-L-I-V-A. They were brought in by a woman who called herself Esther Taylor… sorry? What?’
‘What?’ Gibbs mouthed, when the silent nodding had gone on for too long.
‘All right, Sarge. Will do.’
‘What, for fuck’s sake?’
Sellers rubbed the screen of his mobile phone with his thumb. He thought about the helium balloons his children were given at parties and in restaurants. They tried so hard to clutch on to the strings, but they could never maintain their grip and eventually the balloons drifted up and out of reach. There was nothing you could do but watch as they escaped at speed. That was how Sellers was starting to feel about this case.
Double or nothing. He would have preferred nothing.
‘Corn Mill House, in the garden,’ he said. ‘They’ve found two more bodies. One’s a child.’
‘Boy or girl?’ asked Simon, aware that this question was normally asked in happier circumstances. He, Kombothekra and Tim Cook, the pathologist, stood by the door to the greenhouse, away from the rest of the men. Kombothekra hadn’t worked with Cook before. Simon had, many times. He, Sellers and Gibbs knew him as Cookie and sometimes drank with him in the Brown Cow, but Simon was embarrassed to make this obvious to Kombothekra; he hated the nickname anyway, regarded it as unsuitable for a grown man.
‘Not sure.’ Cook was at least five years younger than Simon, tall and thin with dark, spiky hair. Simon knew that he had a girlfriend who was fifty-two, that they’d met at a local badminton club. Cook could be unbelievably boring on the subject of badminton, but would say little, even when urged by Sellers and Gibbs-especially then-about his older partner.
Simon couldn’t believe the age gap didn’t bother Cook. He, Simon, could never have a relationship with anyone twenty years older than himself. Or twenty years younger, for that matter. Or with anyone. He pushed away the unwelcome thought. Half the time he prayed Charlie would change her mind, the other half he was grateful she’d had the good sense to turn him down. ‘ “Not sure”?’ he said impatiently. ‘That’s the sort of expert opinion I could have come up with myself.’
‘It’s a girl.’ Sam Kombothekra sighed heavily. ‘Amy Oliva. And the woman’s her mother, Encarna Oliva.’ He turned, glanced at the makeshift grave behind him, then turned back. ‘It’s got to be them. Family annihilation mark two. Keeping the media at bay’s going to be a nightmare.’
‘We know nothing,’ Simon pointed out. Sometimes he heard a phrase that he knew would be impossible to dislodge from his mind. Family annihilation mark two. ‘Whoever they are, this can’t be a family annihilation.’ He resented having to use Professor Harbard’s crass definition. ‘Mrs Oliva can’t have buried her own body, can she? Laid a lawn over herself? Or are you saying her husband killed them? Mr Oliva? What’s his first name?’
Kombothekra shrugged. ‘Whatever his name is, his body’s buried somewhere nearby, and our men are going to find it any second now. Mark Bretherick killed all three Olivas, and he also killed Geraldine and Lucy.’
Simon wished Proust were here to give Kombothekra the slating he deserved. ‘What the fuck? I know we can’t avoid charging him, but… Do you really think he’s a killer? I thought you liked him.’
‘Why?’ Kombothekra snapped. ‘Because I was polite to him?’
‘I think he’s a killer,’ Cook chipped in. ‘Four bodies have turned up on his property in less than a fortnight.’ Neither Simon nor Kombothekra bothered to reply. Simon was thinking about the shock and fury on Bretherick’s face as he was helped into the police car that would by now have delivered him to the custody suite at the nick. Kombothekra stared at his feet, mumbled something Simon couldn’t decipher. ‘Anyway, have I said anything about the adult skeleton being a woman’s?’ The pathologist returned to his area of expertise, reminded the other two men that they needed his input.
‘You haven’t said anything, period.’ Simon glared at him.
Kombothekra looked up. ‘You’re saying the adult skeleton is a man’s? Then it’s Amy’s father.’
‘No. Actually, it is a woman.’ The revelation got no response. Tim Cook looked embarrassed, then disappointed. ‘It’s easy to identify an adult female pelvic structure. But a young child…’
‘How young?’ asked Simon.
‘My guess would be four or five.’
Kombothekra nodded. ‘Amy Oliva was five when she left St Swithun’s school, supposedly to move to Spain.’
‘Get me dental records,’ said Cook. ‘Don’t give the bodies names until we’re sure.’
‘He’s right,’ said Simon.
‘How long dead?’ Kombothekra demanded, his usual charm and tact having deserted him.
‘I can’t say for sure at this stage. Somewhere between twelve and twenty-four months would be my guess,’ said Cook. ‘There are remnants of tendons and ligaments, but not many.’
‘How did they die?’
Cook made a face. ‘Sorry. If we had more soft tissue, I might be able to tell you, but all we’ve got’s bones and teeth. Unless the murder weapon made some sort of mark on a bone… I’ll have a good look when I get them on the table, but don’t bank on finding a cause of death.’
Kombothekra pushed the pathologist out of the way and headed for the house.
‘Is he always like that?’ Cook asked.
‘Never.’ Simon wanted to speak to Jonathan Hey, but felt he couldn’t walk off so soon after Kombothekra had, leave Cook stranded. When he’d visited Hey in Cambridge, the professor had as good as asked him if he was sure Mark Bretherick hadn’t killed Geraldine and Lucy. What exactly had he said? Something about husbands being more likely to murder wives who don’t work, who have no status outside the home.
Encarna Oliva, from what Simon had picked up second-hand via Kombothekra and Sellers, had been a banker at Leyland Carver. In professional and commercial terms, status didn’t come much higher than that. She must have earned a small fortune. Her body had been found in Mark Bretherick’s garden, but he wasn’t her husband.
It was all wrong. They were finding out more, but Simon had no sense of a coherent shape emerging.
Cook said, ‘I’d better get back to it. Why do we do it? Why aren’t we postmen or milkmen?’
‘I worked for the post office for two weeks once, at Christmas, ’ Simon told him. ‘They sacked me.’
As Cook wandered reluctantly back to the bones, Simon pulled out his phone and his notebook. There was time, he told himself, before Kombothekra came back from wherever he’d disappeared to. Jonathan Hey didn’t answer his office telephone, so Simon rang his mobile. Hey answered after the third ring.
‘It’s Simon Waterhouse.’
‘Simon.’ Hey sounded pleased to hear from him. ‘Are you in Cambridge again?’