A policeman at the cottage door which was standing open, said, ‘Upstairs on the left, sir.’
Unnecessary information. Barnaby could smell the carnage even in the hall. As he climbed the stairs the scent became stronger and his stomach, already so cruelly maltreated, revolted further in anticipation.
The small bedroom was full of people. Scenes-of-crime; three men and one woman, their hands and feet encased in polythene. A stills photographer. And the body of a man clad in a towelling robe lying between the bed and the wardrobe. His feet were towards the door, his head, what there was left of it, closer to the overhanging duvet.
‘Have we got what did it?’ Barnaby stood on the threshold, neither touching the door nor stepping inside. A heavy candlestick smeared with blood and hair and already bagged and ticketed was held up. ‘Where’s the doc?’
‘In the kitchen, chief inspector,’ said the photographer - a young man with curly hair and a bright smile that his calling seemed to have done nothing to diminish. ‘Nice to see the sun for a change.’
Barnaby no sooner showed his face than George Bullard, sitting with a woman at the table, got up swiftly. He eased Barnaby and Troy back into the hall.
‘Can’t talk in there. She’s in a terrible state.’ They stood bunched into an awkward knot in the narrow passage, the knob of the downstairs cloakroom digging into Troy’s back. ‘Before you ask, between eleven last night and one this morning. Might be a bit later, but that’s as close as I can make it right now. Whoever did it was in a hell of a temper. There’s a huge blow in the centre of the forehead which may well have finished him but they just went on bashing—’
‘Yes, George, I saw. Face to face then?’
‘Absolutely. Nothing sneaky about this one.’ He was carrying a mug which he now drained and handed to Sergeant Troy. Then he picked up his coat, which was draped over the banisters. ‘No fighting either’s my guess.’
The tiny hall became even more jammed as the technical services video team arrived and George Bullard tried to squeeze out. Barnaby and Troy backed into the kitchen, where the unfortunate discoverer of the body was being comforted by a policewoman. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and Troy’s nostrils twitched in appreciation.
On first hearing the name Bundy, Barnaby’s imagination had lazily conjured up a middle-aged dumpling of a woman. A Happy Families playing card. Starched apron, up to her stout dimpled elbows in flour. Voluble, a bit of a busybody but warm-hearted withal. The sort who would ‘do anything’ for you.
The person facing him was thin, barely thirty and wore a shiny nylon overall - three-quarters-length, in pink and white check, with tails like a man’s shirt - plus leggings and a black polo-necked jumper. Her hands gripped the upper parts of her arms, which were tightly folded against her flattish chest, and her fingernails, quite long, dug fiercely into the flesh. Barnaby suspected that, once released, her whole body would start to vibrate. Her face was in constant motion, eyes blinking, lips twitching, and her head shook rapidly from side to side as if to remove some terrible imprint from her mind. Barnaby sat down at the table. Troy withdrew, leaning his rough notebook on a worktop near the sink and uncapping his Biro.
‘Mrs Bundy . . . ?’ She stared down into her cup, at the congealing puddle of melting sugar. ‘This must have been a terrible shock for you.’
After a very long pause her carefully painted lips formed the soundless word, ‘yes’. She coughed, repeated the affirmative then said, in a thready whisper, ‘I’ve never seen a dead person before.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Barnaby. He gave it five and then a bit longer. ‘Do you feel up to helping me by answering one or two questions?’
‘I don’t know.’ She released her arms and reached with a trembling hand for a gold packet of Benson’s Super Kings lying next to a half-full ashtray. She lit up, producing a gas lighter from her pocket, and drew deep, exhaling with her eyes closed. ‘I’m not going back upstairs.’ Released, her voice ran shrilly up the scale. ‘Not in that room.’
Behind her back Troy rolled his eyeballs, mocking such dramatic overkill. He caught the attention of the policewoman and gave a complicitous wink. She stared coldly back.
‘No, no. Of course not.’ Hastily Barnaby offered reassurance. ‘Really I’m more interested in discovering what happened before you found Mr Hadleigh.’
‘Oh.’ She looked very slightly consoled but also puzzled. ‘You mean, on me way here? I come on the bus.’
‘More when you first approached the house, Mrs Bundy. Did you notice anything at all unusual?’