EPISODE THIRTY-NINE
1264 Words
THIRTY-NINE
The mist thinned as I walked back to the town carrying the bag with the vaccine. The air remained damp and cold and after a while I crossed a narrow track, perhaps worn by sheep.
It led me winding and meandering across the moorland and brought me to a wider track which ran between two fields. In the distance in one of the fields, I could see cows, black and white Frisian, grazing on bales of hay placed for them on the ice.
I had not walked this part of the island before and I saw no evidence of farm buildings, though I crossed several other tracks. The land became less rocky underfoot, and as the snow thinned out, the track became a cobbled path. The mist began to draw near in once more, though not at the same extent as earlier, and I guessed the path was directing me close to the sea again.
Through the haze I could see the masts of several small boats, fishing boats and I headed to the grateful sight of Onehouse. Here, the small harbour is built into an inlet, and I noticed, most of the boats happened to be in a rather dilapidated state. Discarded, torn nets lay across the harbour wall, perhaps in the process of being mended. The wall itself seemed to be built of flint. There was nobody around. The islanders yet to be informed of the German's departure.
Out of the freezing fog two recognizable figures appeared, as please to see me as I was to see them.
Terry Roome and Doctor Walton.
"Where are our friends?"
Roome shook my hand with vigour before the doctor did so, with a little more sedateness.
"Gone. Taken the machine with them."
"They might repair it."
I shook my head.
"They won't make it back to Germany."
"Why is that?"
"They are taking it back in a Focke-Achgelis Fa 223 helicopters. It is well-known fact it is bad at hovering and the engine on the one they used to be a BMW Bramo 323D which will prove too fragile when run at high speed for any length of time."
Both men seemed puzzled and then Roome pointed to the bag I was carrying.
"What's that?"
"Vaccine for the chemical weapon which the craft was carrying."
Both men looked at each other again.
"We'll deal with that when we get back."
"No, it means to be administered straight away."
I removed a couple of fresh syringes, and following the same procedure, injected the two men, who did not show any gratitude in their faces, as they rubbed their arms.
"Where are you going?"
They exchanged glances.
"Another body's been found."
"The German soldier?"
They both shook their heads at the same time.
My heart sank.
"Where?"
"Prime-Farm. It's Louise Prime."
*
At 9 p.m. we arrived at the farmland.
A handsome man in his late answered the Inspector's knock. He looked pale and shaken, and he blinked on numerous occasions.
"The police? Thank you for coming at such short notice."
"I'm DI Roome. This is Prime-Farm?"
The man shuddered.
"Yes. I am Truan Toogood. Please, come in."
We followed the man inside and found ourselves in a colourfully eccentric living room. Eyeing a stuffed parrot, Roome kept his attention on Mr Toogood.
"What was your relationship to the deceased?"
"We ran the place together."
"Are you in a relationship?"
"Yes. It did not start like that. Louise asked me to help her run the business. Her husband, James, died at Dunkirk. We became quite attached to each other since I bought my share of the company."
"Can you show us her room?"
The man swallowed and nodded.
"Of course. Of course. This way."
Toogood led us down a dark hallway to a particular closed door.
"On the right."
"Thank you."
Roome said.
"We'll come and find you when we've finished. We will need to take a statement of course. Mere procedure."
Toogood nodded and went back up and the hallway.
Roome opened the door and the doctor, and I trailed him into the room. The illuminated space turned out to be two rooms, a small atrium done up as a small assignation room, and a larger bedroom. An archway separated the two. A bead drapes hung in the arch, gathered to one side by a fastener.
It soon became apparent that the dead woman's favourite colour had been holly-berry red. The walls cased in a bright, cheerful red paper, the reception room seats upholstered in red cotton, the bed covered by a red quilt, and numerous items of red clothes scattered over every surface.
The room's carpets ash grey, like several other incidental details. Bright cushions in Indian patterns placed on both the bed and the seats, and more sat on the floor.
The cloth covering the small table and the conclave room was done in fire tones, yellows, golds, and oranges, and against the rest of the room, it drew the eye like a dancing candle.
On it stood an open bottle of wine, a part-filled glass, a plate bearing a small piece of cheese and a half-eaten, deep browned apple slice, and two ashtrays, both showing signs of heavy use.
Although one of the reception-room seats lay overturned, the disarray of the clothing looked systematic, rather than evidence of some frantic search.
The body lay on the bed. While Roome looked around the area, Dr Walton made a beeline for it, clucking to himself, and I stood and continued with my assessment from a safe distance.
Despite the rooms' colour scheme, the dead woman's blood happened to be visible. It splattered the walls and floor of the bedroom, and both the spangle curtain and the bedchamber floor showed streaks and droplets.
The bedroom held a well-lit vanity unit piled with a wide selection of cosmetics as well as three free-standing mirrors and at least four hairbrushes of various sizes and, I presumed, purposes.
A capacious wardrobe built into one wall, with one door open. The clothes within arranged no better than the ones in the main room.
The window bay sat over a small love seat, red, with more of the bright Indian cushions. The red velvet curtains held open, the windows just light-grey panes of condensation, apart from one clean corner.
Dr Walton cleared his throat.
Roome turned to him.
"Yes, Derek?"
"The victim told me a number of interesting things, Terry."
By the door, I shuffled and looked at my feet.
"Go on."
"First, please observe her neck. You will see that, although blood-streaked, it is unmarked."
Roome's eyebrows raised.
"Oh?"
"Yes. It appears to be a gut wound that killer her. A knife or something just as sharp, stuck in near the navel and ripped upwards. Her mouth is quite bruised, and I would suggest the killer held silent before the fatal strike and kept that way while she died. Once dead, the wound is torn open, quite amateurishly. Several of her internal organs slashed in a manner that defies belief, and her lungs severed and pushed down amongst her entrails. Her breasts have also been disconnected in a most haphazard manner and squashed into the body cavity. Her eyes and ears are also missing."
"I see. Is it our mass murderer, then, doctor?"
"Difficult to say, until I get her body back to the mortuary."
Roome sighed in disappointment.
"Any idea of how long she's been dead?"
Walton shrugged.
"Less than three hours."
"Inspector?"
I called from the antechamber.
"I would say it's been at least an hour."
*
- Writer
