said.
“That,” said Crocker, “is the kind of thing you’d expect her parents to say, not a tough old nut like you, Reg.”
“Oh, shut up. Maybe it’s because I know her parents won’t say it that I’m saying it. Look at you, you bloody half-baked quack, you don’t even care.”
“Now, steady on . . .”
“Here’s Mr. Swan,” said Burden.
He came in with Loring. Dr. Crocker lifted the sheet. Swan looked and went white. “That’s Stella,” he said. “The hair, the clothes . . . God, how horrible!”
“You’re sure.”
“Oh, yes. I’d like to sit down, I’ve never seen a dead person before.”
Wexford took him into one of the interview rooms on the ground floor.
Swan asked for a glass of water and didn’t speak again until he had drunk it.
“What a ghastly sight! I’m glad Roz didn’t see it. I thought I was going to pass out in there.” He wiped his face with his handkerchief and sat staring at nothing but as if he were still seeing the child’s body. Wexford thought his horror was occasioned only by the sight of what eight months underground had done to Stella Rivers and not by personal grief, an impression that wasn’t much weakened when Swan said, “I was fond of her, you know. I mean, it wasn’t as if she was my own but I’d got quite attached to her.”
“We’ve been into all that before, Mr. Swan. How well do you know the grounds of Saltram House?”
"That's where she was found, isn't it? I don't even know where it is."
And yet you must have passed the house every time you drove Stella to Equita.”
“D’you mean that ruin you can see from the road?”
Wexford nodded, watching the other man carefully. Swan looked at the walls, the floor, anywhere but at the chief inspector. Then he said in the tone a man uses when his car keeps breaking down, “I don’t know why this sort of thing has to happen to me.”
“What d’you mean, ‘this sort of thing?”
“Oh, nothing. Can I go now?”
“Nobody’s detaining you, Mr. Swan,” said Wexford.
Half an hour later he and Burden were sitting on the crumbling wall watching half a dozen men at work in the cistern, photographing, measuring, examining. The sun was still hot and its brilliance gave to the place an air of classical antiquity. Broken columns showed here and there among the long grass and the investigations had turned up fragments of pottery.
It might have been an archaeological dig they were supervising rather than a hunt for clues in a murder case. They had failed to find any trace of the male statue, but the figure of the girl lay as Burden had left her, lay like a dead thing, her faced buried in ivy, her sculpted metal hair gleaming in the sun as gold as the hair of Stella Rivers in life.
“You’ll think me a fanciful old fool,” said Wexford musingly, “but I can’t help seeing the analogy. It’s like an omen.” He pointed to the statue and looked quizzically at Burden. “The girl’s dead. The boy has disappeared, someone has taken him away.” He shrugged “In life,” he said. “In bronze. And somewhere maybe the thief has set the boy up in pleasant surroundings, taken care of him. I mean the statue, of course.”
“Well, sure, what else? More likely used what was useful and chucked the rest out.”
“Christ . . .” Wexford saw the inspector had no idea what he had meant and gave up. He ought to have known, he reflected, that it was no use going into flights of fancy with Mike. “Whoever put her in there,” he said more practically, “knew the place better than you do. You didn’t even know there were any cisterns.”
“I’ve only been here in summer. The slabs wouldn’t be so overgrown in wintertime.”
“I wonder?” Wexford called Peach over. “You were with the search parties in February, Peach. Did you notice the cisterns?”
“We covered this
“That,” said Crocker, “is the kind of thing you’d expect her parents to say, not a tough old nut like you, Reg.”
“Oh, shut up. Maybe it’s because I know her parents won’t say it that I’m saying it. Look at you, you bloody half-baked quack, you don’t even care.”
“Now, steady on . . .”
“Here’s Mr. Swan,” said Burden.
He came in with Loring. Dr. Crocker lifted the sheet. Swan looked and went white. “That’s Stella,” he said. “The hair, the clothes . . . God, how horrible!”
“You’re sure.”
“Oh, yes. I’d like to sit down, I’ve never seen a dead person before.”
Wexford took him into one of the interview rooms on the ground floor.
Swan asked for a glass of water and didn’t speak again until he had drunk it.
“What a ghastly sight! I’m glad Roz didn’t see it. I thought I was going to pass out in there.” He wiped his face with his handkerchief and sat staring at nothing but as if he were still seeing the child’s body. Wexford thought his horror was occasioned only by the sight of what eight months underground had done to Stella Rivers and not by personal grief, an impression that wasn’t much weakened when Swan said, “I was fond of her, you know. I mean, it wasn’t as if she was my own but I’d got quite attached to her.”
“We’ve been into all that before, Mr. Swan. How well do you know the grounds of Saltram House?”
"That's where she was found, isn't it? I don't even know where it is."
And yet you must have passed the house every time you drove Stella to Equita.”
“D’you mean that ruin you can see from the road?”
Wexford nodded, watching the other man carefully. Swan looked at the walls, the floor, anywhere but at the chief inspector. Then he said in the tone a man uses when his car keeps breaking down, “I don’t know why this sort of thing has to happen to me.”
“What d’you mean, ‘this sort of thing?”
“Oh, nothing. Can I go now?”
“Nobody’s detaining you, Mr. Swan,” said Wexford.
Half an hour later he and Burden were sitting on the crumbling wall watching half a dozen men at work in the cistern, photographing, measuring, examining. The sun was still hot and its brilliance gave to the place an air of classical antiquity. Broken columns showed here and there among the long grass and the investigations had turned up fragments of pottery.
It might have been an archaeological dig they were supervising rather than a hunt for clues in a murder case. They had failed to find any trace of the male statue, but the figure of the girl lay as Burden had left her, lay like a dead thing, her faced buried in ivy, her sculpted metal hair gleaming in the sun as gold as the hair of Stella Rivers in life.
“You’ll think me a fanciful old fool,” said Wexford musingly, “but I can’t help seeing the analogy. It’s like an omen.” He pointed to the statue and looked quizzically at Burden. “The girl’s dead. The boy has disappeared, someone has taken him away.” He shrugged “In life,” he said. “In bronze. And somewhere maybe the thief has set the boy up in pleasant surroundings, taken care of him. I mean the statue, of course.”
“Well, sure, what else? More likely used what was useful and chucked the rest out.”
“Christ . . .” Wexford saw the inspector had no idea what he had meant and gave up. He ought to have known, he reflected, that it was no use going into flights of fancy with Mike. “Whoever put her in there,” he said more practically, “knew the place better than you do. You didn’t even know there were any cisterns.”
“I’ve only been here in summer. The slabs wouldn’t be so overgrown in wintertime.”
“I wonder?” Wexford called Peach over. “You were with the search parties in February, Peach. Did you notice the cisterns?”
“We covered this
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