Longshot. Part 30

On Tuesday morning the pathologist made his report to Detective Chief Inspector Doone.

'The bones are those of a young adult female, probably five foot four or five; possible age, twenty. Could be a year or two younger or older, but not much. There was a small remaining patch of scalp, with a few hairs still adhering: the hairs are medium brown, four inches long, can't tell what length her hair was overall.'

'How long since she died?' Doone asked.

'I'd say last summer.'

'And cause of death? Drugs? Exposure?'

'As to drugs, we'll have to a.n.a.lyse the hairs, see what we can find. But no, you've got a problem here.'

Doone sighed. 'What problem?'

'Her hyoid bone is fractured.'

Depression settled on Doone. 'You're sure?'

'Positive. She was strangled.'

At Sh.e.l.lerton Tuesday pa.s.sed uneventfully with riding out, breakfast, clippings, lunch, taping, evening drinks and dinner.

In the morning I came across Dee-Dee weeping quietly into her typewriter and offered a tissue.

'It's nothing,' she said, sniffing.

'Care to unb.u.t.ton?'

'I don't know why I tell you things.'

'I listen.'

She blew her nose and gave me a brief apologetic look.

'I'm old enough to know better. I'm thirty-six.' She gave her age almost in desperation, as if the figure itself were a disaster.

'Tremayne told me you'd had a disappointment in the love department,' I said hesitatingly. 'He didn't exactly say who.'

'Disappointment! Huh!' She sniffed hard. 'I loved the beast. I mean, I even ironed his shirts for him. We were lovers for ages and he dumped me from one minute to the next. And now Mackie's having a baby.' Her eyes filled with tears again, and I saw it was the raw ache for motherhood, that fierce instinct which could cause such una.s.suageable pain, that grieved her at least as much as the loss of the man.

'Do you know what?' Dee-Dee said with misery. 'That louse didn't want a child until after we were married. After. He never meant to marry me, I know it now, but I waited for his sake- and I wasted- three years-' She gulped, a sob escaping. 'I'll tell you, I'll take anyone now. I don't need a wedding ring. I want a child.'

Her voice died in a forlorn pining wail, a keen of mourning. With a hunger that strong she could make dreadful decisions, but who could tell which would be better for her to be in the end, reckless or barren? Either way, there would be regrets.

She dried her eyes, blew her nose again and shook herself as if straightening her emotions by force, and when I next looked in on her she was typing away collectedly in her usual self-contained manner as if our conversation had never taken place.

On Tuesday afternoon Detective Chief Inspector Doone sent his men to search the whole area where the bones had been discovered. Chiefly, he told them, they were to look for shoes. Also for anything else man-made. They could use metal detectors. They should look under dead leaves. They were to mark on the map where each artefact was found, and also tag the artefact, being careful not to destroy evidence.

This was now a murder investigation, he reminded them.

On Wednesday morning when we came in from first lot Sam Yaeger was again in the kitchen.

This time he came not in his car but with a borrowed pick-up truck in which he proposed to collect some Burma teak that Perkin had acquired for him at trade discount.

'Sam has a boat,' Tremayne told me dryly. 'An old wreck that he's slowly turning into a palace fit for a harem.'

Sam Yaeger grinned cheerfully and made no denials. 'It's already sold, or as good as,' he told me. 'Every jockey's got to have an eye to the sodding future. I buy clapped out antique boats and make them better than new. I sold the last one to one of those effing newspaper moguls. They'll pay the earth for good stuff. No fibergla.s.s c.r.a.p.'

Life was full of surprises, I thought.

'Where do you keep the boat?' I asked, making toast.

'Maidenhead. On the Thames. I bought a bankrupt boatyard there a while back. It looks a right shambles but a bit of dilapidation's a good thing. Sodding thieves think there's nothing worth stealing. Better than a Rottweiler, is a bit of squalor.'

'So I suppose,' Tremayne said, 'that you're taking the wood to the boatyard on your way to the races.'

Sam looked at me in mock amazement. 'Don't know how he works these things out, do you?'

'That'll do, Sam,' Tremayne said, and one could see just where he drew the line between what he would take from Sam Yaeger, and what not. He began to discuss the horses he would be running at Windsor races that afternoon, telling Sam that 'Bluecheesecake is better, not worse, for the lay off,' and 'Give Just The Thing an easy if you feel her wavering. I don't want her ruined while she's still green.'

'Right,' Sam said, concentrating. 'What about Cashless? Do I ride him in front again?'

'What do you think?'

'He likes it better. He just got beat by faster horses, last time.'

'Go off in front, then.'

'Right.'..

'Nolan rides Telebiddy in the amateur race,' Tremayne said. 'Unless the Jockey Club puts a stop to it.'

Sam scowled but spoke no evil. Tremayne told him what he would be riding on the morrow at Towcester and said he'd have no runners at all on Friday.

'Sat.u.r.day, I'm sending five or six to Chepstow. You'll go there. So will I. With luck, Nolan rides Fiona's horse in the Wilfred Johnstone Hunter Chase at Sandown. Maybe Mackie will go to Sandown; we'll have to see.'

Dee-Dee came in composedly for her coffee and as before sat next to Sam. Sam might be a constant seducer, I thought, looking at them, but he wouldn't want to leave a trail of paternity problems. Dee-Dee might get him into bed but not into fatherhood. Bad luck, try again.

Tremayne gave Dee-Dee instructions about engaging transport for Sat.u.r.day, which she memorized as usual.

'Remember to phone through the entries for Folkestone and Wolverhampton. I'll decide on the Newbury entries this morning before I go to Windsor.'

Dee-Dee nodded.

'Pack the colours for Windsor.'

Dee-Dee nodded.

'Phone the saddler about collecting those exercise sheets for repair.'