Part 16 (2/2)

'What's the matter?' She seemed to struggle for words. He sat her down and said calmlya 'Bridget a tell me what's happened.'

'There's a body in the dog cemetery. I think it's Bella Hutton, but it's hard to tell.'

'Hard to tell?'

'Yes. Her face . . .' She stopped and made an effort to control her voice. 'She's been killed, Archie. I didn't go right up to her; her dog was upset, and I didn't want trouble with these two. Anyway, to be honest, I wasn't in a hurry to go any closer. But I saw enough.'

'And you're sure she's dead?'

'Jesus, Archie, n.o.body's make-up is that good.' Her sarcasm was defensive, an antidote to fear and shock. 'What a stupid question. Don't you believe me?'

'Of course I believe you,' he said, remembering Bella's parting shot last night and what Hitchc.o.c.k had said about murder. 'I just don't trust that anything around here is quite what it seems this weekend.' Would the director really pull a stunt like that? he wondered. Probably, but he doubted that Bella Hutton would collude in it. The nun was a possibility: he didn't believe for a moment that she was genuine a no one with heels like that was holy a and if she was on the payroll, she could just as easily turn up today as a corpse. He was torn between going to the cemetery first to see for himself or acting immediately on Bridget's word. In the end, he chose the latter: if this turned out to be an extreme practical joke, it would do Hitchc.o.c.k good to be charged with wasting police time. 'Go into the hotel now and find James Wyllie,' he said. 'Tell him in confidence what's happened. Get him to call the police and close the village on my authority.' He looked at his watch. 'They open the gates at ten thirty?' Bridget nodded. 'With a bit of luck, not many people will have come in yet. Make sure James understands how important it is that he keeps this absolutely private. Nothing to his staff or any of the guests. If word gets out that there's a murdered Hollywood star in those woods, we'll have the press and the public trampling through them in no timea and all h.e.l.l will break loose. What's the quickest way up there?'

'There's a path that runs behind the hotel.' She outlined the route for him and put her hand to his cheek. 'You will be careful, Archie?'

'Of course. Don't worry. And make sure you stay at the hotel until we have a better idea of what's going on.' She nodded. Touched by her concern, he found the track she described and set off. It took him less than a minute to be grateful for Bridget's succinct directions: the maze of pathways through the woods was bewildering, and it would be impossible for a stranger to be sure of his bearings or find the same route twice. Before long, he spotted the distinctive Scots pine she had told him to watch out for, tall and straight with a hundred years of growth behind it, and he turned right into the densest part of the wood. Even at such a brisk pace, the exuberant ma.s.s of fuchsia trees, ferns, camellias and old rhododendrons was breathtaking, and Archie thought about how his father a who had been a botanist himself a would have admired planting like this, so natural and yet carefully considered at every turn. Then he saw the pheasant hide which Bridget had offered as a sign that the cemetery was imminent. He slowed down and looked inside, noting the empty whisky bottle and cl.u.s.ter of cigarette b.u.t.ts on the ground by a rough wooden bench, then drew a deep breath and moved forward.

Bridget had done her best to describe what he would find here, but the essence of the place was in its atmosphere, not its physical layout, and he was utterly unprepared for the sense of isolation that hit him from the moment he found the entrance. The circular burial ground was forty or fifty feet in diameter, although its boundaries were difficult to determine after years of neglect. Branches tumbled everywhere, fighting for light and s.p.a.ce, their progress through the air mirroring the ramble of their roots underground. For a moment, he wondered if they had been trained deliberately at head height to deter casual intruders from entering a place of peace. But he was no sightseer, and he knew instinctively now that this was no longer a place of peace.

There was an ancient feel to the cemetery which belied the fact that, as far as he knew, it was less than fifty years since the first dog was buried there. It was easy to tell which were the original graves: they stood close together, slabs of dark slate inscribed with texts from the Biblea or simple granite pillars, covered in moss, which gave no indication of what or whom they marked. The tomb in the very centre was larger than all the rest and flanked on either side by two smaller stones, a silent guard of honour. Bella Hutton's body lay on top of it, her hands folded across her chest, as lifeless as the carving on a sepulchre, and Archie dismissed all thoughts of a practical joke. Death held its own muted reverence, and it could never be faked.

He hesitated before moving closer. The actress's Jack Russell cowered by the grave, watching him warily, and it occurred to Archie that there were few things more unnatural in a living world than an animal that showed such fear. He crouched down slowly and began to talk to the dog in a low, even voice, rea.s.suring him until the persistent growling softened, then ceased altogether. Archie looked round for a lead, but there was nothing. He walked slowly over to the grave and reached out his hand, hoping that the animal wouldn't fly at him. It didn't take him long to realise that any aggression was unlikely: one of the dog's front legs was injured, but from what Archie could see of his owner, the Jack Russell had got off lightly. He stroked the dog's head and received a lick in return. 'It's all right, boy, we'll soon get that leg fixed,' he promised. 'But first I need to have a look at your friend.'

Archie was no stranger to knife wounds: stabbing was the most frequently used method of murder in Britain, common in both domestic disputes and street brawls; he had seen victims attacked with anything from kitchen knives, scissors and razors to chisels, fire-irons and even an ice pick. But nothing like this. Bella Hutton's clothes, made of thin silk, had been torn to shreds. Although the canopy of trees overhead had protected her from the full force of the rain, enough had penetrated the leaves to wash some of the blood from her wounds, making it easier to see the pattern of death on her skin a livid red on white, running the length of her body with the uniform thoroughness of flowers on a dress. It would have been impossible to count the number of injuries: forty or fifty at least, perhaps more. Several of the cuts were long rather than deep, made with a swiping action and suggesting to Archie that the a.s.sailant had wanted to prolong Bella's agony as much as possible; some of the deeper wounds on her stomach and b.r.e.a.s.t.s showed a bruise on the surrounding tissues where the knife had been plunged in as far as the hilt. The actress had obviously put up a fight: her forearms were covered in cla.s.sic defence wounds from a vain attempt to ward off the attack, and he could see loose flaps of skin on her palms and fingers where the blade had sliced through her hands as she tried to grab hold of it. From the soil and imprint of undergrowth on her body, Archie guessed that she had, at some point, been forced face down onto the ground; almost certainly, a pathologist would find further damage on her back. As it was, there were so many variations in the size and shape of her injuries a cuts where the knife went in and out cleanly, gashes where it had been moved back and forth while still inside her body a that it was pointless for Archie to speculate at the type of knife used: that would have to wait for the post-mortem.

The heat had begun to build again, and he raised his hand to wave away a fly. Bella's body had obviously been moved after death and placed deliberately on this tombstone, and Archie wondered if there was any significance to that. Everything else about the murder seemed frenzied and out of control, but it was not unusual for a sense of calm and purpose to take over once the killer's work was done. He could identify where the worst of the attack had taken place: a few yards to the right there was an area of damaged vegetation and scattered stones which showed signs of a struggle; again, although the rain had been sufficiently strong to wash some of the blood from the stones, dense foliage had prevented it from being completely obliterated. But none of this told him what a Hollywood movie star a a woman in her fifties a had been doing here late at night. Surely she would not have chosen to walk her dog somewhere so bleak and lonely? And if she had been brought here by force, the dog would have been left behind. Had she known her life was in danger? he wondered. Was that dramatic exit line a warning to someone else in the room, someone whom she later came here to challenge? He glanced down at the Jack Russell, wis.h.i.+ng the dog could speak.

And then he forced himself to look at her face. Bridget was right: it was barely recognisable. He tried to bring to mind the woman he had seen in the hotel last night, but all he could remember was her image on the screen, the face that had articulated the joys and fears and pain of a generation. That was how people would remember Bella Hutton when the actress's death was announced, and he envied them their illusion, their memories safely couched in black and white; what Archie would see from now on was a blaze of hatred delivered in merciless colour. Her head was tilted slightly towards him, as if she were waiting to be found. One eye stared blankly upwards, the other was impossible to make out amid a ma.s.s of blood and swollen tissue; the left-hand side of her face had been stabbed repeatedly until the skin hung loose, revealing the cheekbone underneath. Nothing of her character remained, and Archie wondered who had wanted to obliterate that spirit so brutally. He longed to believe that Bella had fallen victim to a chance attack by a stranger, but he knew in his heart that her killer had woken to the sun of Portmeirion.

Nature had already begun its relentless collusion in the killer's work, and he watched an ant crawl over what remained of Bella's lips. Sickened by what he had seen, and desperate to feel the sun on his face again, he gathered up the Jack Russell gently in his arms; the animal whimpered and tried to resist, reluctant to leave the body he had loved, but Archie turned and carried him slowly away. The dog's grief, he suspected, would not have a human equivalent, and he wondered sadly what that said about Bella's world.

6.

Hitchc.o.c.k sat on the terrace outside the Mirror Room and saw the reflected image of two police cars driving down the hill to the hotel. They pulled up outsidea and, as he watched the uniformed men get out and disappear into reception, he felt the familiar constriction around his heart. For a moment, he was back in that cell again, thirty years older but still the same little boy, terrified of being thought bad, already irretrievably cast as the innocent man accused. He remembered the indiscretion that had got him there, the fury in his father's eyes and the voice of the policeman as the cell door clanged shut behind him: 'This is what we do to naughty boys.' He would have that on his gravestone.

Turning away, he caught sight of his own reflection in the gla.s.s a his body rigid with fear, palms sweating, eyes staring ahead a and the mirror seemed to act as his conscience. He had no idea why the police were here, but their presence unnerved him more than ever, coming so soon after Alma's disapproval of the night before. What if he had gone too far? What would she do? Her absence seemed to underline his anxiety.

He had always felt the need to prove himself to his wife and had never, in his heart, believed himself to be worthy of her; one day, she would see that for herselfa and the idea that he might lose her terrified him. It was the only thing that he would never be able to share with her. For all his talk, he knew that the greatest fears were the ones you never admitted to, in case the very act of speaking them aloud made them come true.

7.

Marta lit her third cigarette with the dying embers of the second. There was a noise from further along the patha and, for all her bravado, she felt a sudden sting of fear. She pulled the dog closer and considered moving down onto the sandsa but she had left it too late to hide; the footsteps were almost upon her. When Archie emerged from the trees with a uniformed policeman, she could have cried with relief. 'Is Josephine all right?' she asked anxiously.

'She's fine. I've left her back at the hotel with Bridget. It wasn't easy to stop her coming with me, but I promised I'd keep you safe.' He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her with concern. 'It's never right that it has to be anybody, but I'm so sorry it was you.'

Marta shrugged unconvincingly. 'It's made me realise that for someone who's been to prison as an accessory to murder, I'm embarra.s.singly ill acquainted with the subject.'

It was a feeble attempt at humoura but Archie smiled anyway, more at the expression on the other policeman's face than at the joke itself. 'I'm afraid we're all going to be more familiar with it after last night. A second body's just been found in the woods. Bella Hutton.'

Marta looked at him in disbelief. 'What on earth's going on, Archie? Does Josephine know?'

'Yes.'

'She met Bella last night. They talked. Did she tell you?'

'I didn't really give her the chance. I came straight here when she told me you were on your own.' He glanced over to the stone hut where the girl's body lay, and scowled. 'What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing, Constable Powell? You can't go in there.'

The policeman moved away from the entrance, apparently unruffled by the reprimand. 'It's the Erley girl, sir,' he said. 'Just like I thought.'

There was a note of satisfaction in his voice which Marta found despicable; judging by the expression on Archie's face, she wasn't the only one. 'Does she have a first name?'

'Branwen. I could have told you she'd come to no good.'

'And would you mind telling me how you arrived at such an enlightening prediction?' Archie asked, making no effort to hide his irritation.

'She's a chip off the old block, sir, just like her mother. She couldn't keep herself out of trouble either.'

Marta opened her mouth to speaka but Archie got there first. 'Let's get this straight, Constable. What has happened to Branwen Erley wasn't determined by her genes. Rape and murder are not part of any inheritance I've ever come across. Neither has she brought this on herself, no matter who she was or what she's done. The fault for this lies entirely with the culprit, not with the victim. Do I make myself clear?'

'As crystal, sir.'

'Good. Because if you ever say anything like that in my hearing again, I'll have you off the force faster than you've moved in your life.'

Marta watched Archie's face as he looked at Branwen Erley's body. She had expected his to be a purely professional view, devoid of any emotion, but she was wrong. He must have been called to so many scenes like this, but a day-to-day familiarity with violence did not seem to have hardened him to the individual tragedy of this death. As he looked at the body, taking in every detail, his face held a genuine sadness for the victima and she liked him all the more for it.

'Right, Powell, I'd like you to stay here with Miss Erley's body until forensics arrive,' he said when he had seen enough. 'Don't go any closer than you are nowa and, should anyone else pa.s.s by here, I don't want them straying from the path. Take their names and send them straight to the hotel. We can't have people wandering around these woods at the moment.' Powell gave a grudging a.s.sent, and Marta suspected that his resentment had less to do with being ordered around than with being ordered around in front of a woman. 'But first you can tell me what you know about Miss Erley and her family. And I'll have it without the personal commentary this time.'

'They lived over in Porthmadog,' he said. 'Gareth Erley a that's her father a was a quarryman at the slate caverns in Llechwedd. Decent sort of bloke, but he had a lot to put up with from his missus. That's the price you pay for marrying a looker, I suppose. He never quite knew who was as cosy with his wife as he was, if you know what I mean.'

'And where are Branwen's parents now?'

'Her dad died a few years back. I don't know where Rhiannon ended up. She left him when the kid was little more than a baby. Did well for herself, you might say. Ran off with the lord of the manor.'

'What do you mean?'

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