towards Crabwell.
‘Watch your speed, laddie,’ the DI in the passenger seat told his driver, Detective Constable Chesterton. ‘This isn’t life or death.’
‘It’s death, isn’t it?’ Chesterton said. ‘Death in my book, anyway.’
‘Come clever with me and you’ll find yourself back in uniform.’ DI Cole didn’t take lip from fast-track graduate detectives. ‘It’s only a suicide. There was a note beside the body, and it couldn’t be more plain.’
A suicide was difficult to envisage as anything other than a death as far as Keith Chesterton was concerned, but he knew better than to argue with ‘The Lump’, as Cole was known to everyone who worked with him. He cut their speed to fifty-nine and gave thought to the strange circumstances of the incident. They had collected the suicide note from the local bobby called to the scene overnight, who had told them the victim had been found on Crabwell beach lying in a dinghy partly filled with water and anchored in the shingle. A young woman out walking had made the grim discovery and then suffered a worse shock by recognising the corpse as that of her own employer, the owner of the pub that overlooked the beach.
‘So there’s no rush,’ Cole said. ‘It’s not like murder or a robbery, rounding up suspects. The perpetrator was the corpse, and he isn’t going anywhere.’
Only on the most momentous journey any of us will ever make, Chesterton mused. He had a spiritual side he kept to himself. ‘Where is the body right now?’
‘The mortuary, of course. They wouldn’t leave it in the open for all and sundry to gawp at. That wouldn’t be fitting.’
‘They could have put a forensic tent over it and taped off the area so nobody could get near.’
‘What would be the point of that?’ Cole said. ‘I keep telling you, there’s only one person involved in a suicide.’
‘But if it was suicide, how did he end up in the boat?’
‘You know what boat-owners are like. They have love affairs with the bloody things. When they die they can’t think of anywhere they’d rather be.’
‘Like a ship burial?’
‘I didn’t say anything about a burial, cloth-ears.’
‘So how do you suppose he managed to kill himself and end up there… sir?’
‘We’ll have to wait for the post-mortem, won’t we? My guess is that he had a supply of sleeping tablets and mixed them in with a bottle of grog from his pub, then swallowed the lot. Best way to go. He took the short walk to his dinghy, and crashed.’
‘Remembering to take the suicide note with him?’
‘Naturally.’
‘First tucking it carefully into the folded tarpaulin where it wouldn’t get wet?’
‘You’re making sense at last.’
‘And crashed. But we won’t know for sure until they test his body fluids?’
‘Right.’ Cole grinned to himself. ‘Have you ever attended a post-mortem?’
When Amy Walpole answered the insistent knocking and saw two strangers at the pub door she told them at once that she wasn’t open for business. There had been a bereavement.
‘We know about that, my poppet,’ the older of the two men said. He was grossly overweight, and dressed in a brown suit with a windowpane check that wasn’t just loud, it was bellowing. ‘It’s why we’re here.’
Amy wasn’t anyone’s poppet, least of all this clown’s. She decided they were journalists and slammed the door. Well, almost. The younger of the two placed the palm of his right hand against the wood before it closed. He was strong.
‘If you want trouble,’ Amy said through the narrow gap, ‘I’ll call the police.’
‘No need,’ the first man said. ‘It’s me and him.’ He held up an ID, and it didn’t look like a press-card. ‘Cole and Chesterton, detectives, here about the man found dead in the boat last evening. May we come in?’
The second man also dipped in his pocket with his free hand and produced his warrant card displaying his photo, and the insignia of the Suffolk Police. He was not bad looking, quite a dish, in fact, but Amy wasn’t in any mood to be friendly.
She opened the door fully and jerked her head to let them know they could enter.
‘Are you the barmaid?’ DI Cole asked.
She eyed him as if he were something the dog had coughed up. ‘Bar manager.’
‘The table by the window will do us nicely.’
‘For the time being,’ said DC Chesterton. ‘We’ll need to set up an Incident Room in here soon. Is there anywhere suitable?’
Cole’s look at his subordinate showed that he didn’t think an Incident Room would be necessary for such an obvious case of suicide, but Amy’s presence stopped him from voicing his objection. It wouldn’t do to let her know yet that he’d already decided what had happened. Perhaps they would have to go through the charade of setting up an Incident Room anyway.
‘Well, there’s the Bridge,’ Amy replied. ‘Fitz used it as an office. That’d probably be the best place for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chesterton politely.
Cole thought he had been silent for quite long enough. ‘You don’t have to offer us a drink, but a coffee wouldn’t come amiss.’
‘The machine isn’t on,’ Amy said. She could have boiled a kettle and given them instant, but she wasn’t feeling hospitable.
‘And isn’t that fried bacon I can smell?’
‘Breakfasts have to be booked.’
‘You could make an exception for Suffolk’s finest, couldn’t you?’
‘We cater for our guests, not casual callers.’
‘Ooh! That was below the belt,’ Cole said. They’d already seated themselves at the table. ‘Let’s see if we can soften your heart. Why don’t you join us, my love?’
‘Let’s get one thing clear,’ Amy said, remaining standing. ‘Call me Miss Walpole, if you wish. Anything else is offensive or patronising.’
‘Whatever you wish,’ he said. ‘We know a lady manager when we meet one.’
Amy took this as compliance, and drew up a chair.
‘Are we speaking to the same Miss Walpole who reported the incident on the beach last night?’
‘You are. After I found him I came up here directly and dialled 999.’
The younger of the two, DC Chesterton, had produced a notebook and was writing in it. ‘This was at what time, Miss Walpole?’ They were the first words he’d spoken, and he had a voice that went down warmly, like the breakfast Amy hadn’t provided.
‘Late, after midnight, towards one a.m. I’d closed the bar and was on my way back to my cottage.’
‘Hold on,’ Cole said, eager to regain control. ‘We’ll do this from the beginning. You were here in the pub all evening, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Quiet, was it?’
‘Actually, no,’ Amy said. ‘The place was packed.’
‘On a perishing Monday night in March?’
‘We had the TV people in, making a documentary, and the locals got wind of it and wanted their five minutes of fame – well, five seconds more likely – so just about everyone was in, and some we never normally see.’
‘And was Mr Fitzsimmons present?’