Chapter One
Commander Adam Dalgliesh was not unused to being urgently summoned
to non-scheduled meetings with unspecified people at inconvenient
times, but usually with one purpose in common: he could be confident
that somewhere there lay a dead body awaiting his attention. There
were other urgent calls, other meetings, sometimes at the highest
level. Dalgliesh, as a permanent ADC to the Commissioner, had a
number of functions which, as they grew in number and importance,
had become so ill-defined that most of his colleagues had given up
trying to define them. But this meeting, called in Assistant
Commissioner Harkness’s office on the seventh floor of New Scotland
Yard at ten-fifty-five on the morning of Saturday, 23 October, had,
from his first entry into the room, the unmistakable presaging of
murder. This had nothing to do with a certain serious tension on the
faces turned towards him; a departmental debacle would have caused
greater concern. It was rather that unnatural death always provoked
a peculiar unease, an uncomfortable realisation that there were
still some things that might not be susceptible to bureaucratic
control.
There were only three men awaiting him and Dalgliesh was surprised
to see Alexander Conistone of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.
He liked Conistone, who was one of the few eccentrics remaining in
an increasingly conformist and politicised service. Conistone had
acquired a reputation for crisis management. This was partly founded
on his belief that there was no emergency that was not amenable to
precedent or departmental regulations, but when these orthodoxies
failed, he could reveal a dangerous capacity for imaginative
initiatives which, by any bureaucratic logic, deserved to end in
disaster but never did. Dalgliesh, for whom few of the labyrinths of
Westminster bureaucracy were wholly unfamiliar, had earlier decided
that this dichotomy of character was inherited. Generations of
Conistones had been soldiers. The foreign fields of Britain’s
imperialistic past were enriched by the bodies of unmemorialised
victims of previous Conistones’ crises management. Even Conistone’s
eccentric appearance reflected a personal ambiguity. Alone among his
colleagues, he dressed with the careful pinstriped conformity of a
civil servant of the Thirties while, with his strong bony face,
mottled cheeks and hair with the resilient waywardness of straw, he
looked like a farmer.
He was seated next to Dalgliesh opposite one of the wide windows.
Having sat through the first ten minutes of the present meeting with
an unusual economy of words, he sat, his chair a little tilted,
complacently surveying the panorama of towers and spires, lit by a
transitory unseasonable morning sun. Of the four men in the
room-Conistone, Adam Dalgliesh, Assistant Commissioner Harkness and
a fresh-faced boy from MI5 who had been introduced as Colin
Reeves-Conistone, the one most concerned with the matter in hand,
had so far said the least while Reeves, preoccupied with the effort
of remembering what was being said without the humiliating expedient
of being seen to take notes, hadn’t yet spoken. Now Conistone
stirred himself for a summing up.
“Murder would be the most embarrassing for us, suicide hardly less
so in the circumstances. Accidental death we could probably live
with. Given the victim, there’s bound to be publicity whichever it
is, but it should be manageable unless this is murder. The problem
is that we haven’t much time. No date has been fixed yet, but the PM
would like to arrange this top-secret international get-together in
early January. A good time. Parliament not sitting, nothing much
happens just after Christmas, nothing is expected to happen. The PM
seems to have set his mind on Combe. So you’ll take on the case,
Adam? Good.”
Before Dalgliesh could reply, Harkness broke in, “The security
rating, if it comes off, couldn’t be higher.”
Dalgliesh thought, And even if you’re in the know, which I doubt,
you have no intention of telling me who will be meeting at this
top-secret conference, or why. Security was always on a need-to-know
basis. He could make his guesses, but had no particular curiosity.
On the other hand, he was being asked to investigate a violent death
and there were things he needed to be told.
Before Colin Reeves had time to realise that this was his cue to
intervene, Conistone said, “All that will be taken care of, of
course. We’re not expecting problems. There was a similar situation
some years ago-before your time, Harkness-when a VIP politician
thought he’d like a respite from his protection officer and booked
two weeks on Combe. The visitor stood the silence and solitude for
two days before realising that his life was meaningless without his
red boxes. I should have thought that that was the message Combe was
established to convey, but he didn’t get it. No, I don’t think we’ll
be worrying our friends south of the Thames.”
Well, that, at least, was a relief. To have the security services
involved was always a complication. Dalgliesh reflected that the
secret service, like the monarchy, in yielding up its mystique in
response to public enthusiasm for greater openness, seemed to have
lost some of that half-ecclesiastical patina of authority bestowed
on those who dealt in esoteric mysteries. Today its head was known
by name and pictured in the press, the previous head had actually
written her autobiography, and its headquarters, an eccentric
oriental-looking monument to modernity which dominated its stretch
of the south bank of the Thames, seemed designed to attract rather
than repel curiosity. To surrender mystique had its disadvantages;
an organisation came to be regarded like any other bureaucracy,
staffed by the same fallible human beings and liable to the same
cock-ups. But he expected no problems with the secret service. The
fact that MI5 was represented at middle-grade level suggested that
this single death on an offshore island was among the least of their
present concerns.
He said, “I can’t go inadequately briefed. You’ve given me nothing
except who’s dead, where he died and apparently how. Tell me about
the island. Where exactly is it?”
Harkness was in one of his more difficult moods, his ill humour
imperfectly concealed by self-importance and a tendency to
verbosity. The large map on the table was a little crooked.
Frowning, he aligned it more accurately with the edge of the table,
pushed it towards Dalgliesh and stabbed it with his forefinger.
“It’s here. Combe Island. Off the coast of Cornwall, about twenty
miles south-west of Lundy Island and roughly twelve miles from the
mainland, Pentworthy in this case. Newquay is the nearest large
town.” He looked over at Conistone. “You’d better carry on. It’s
more your baby than ours.”
Conistone spoke directly to Dalgliesh. “I’ll waste a little time on
the history. It explains Combe and if you don’t know it you may
start under a disadvantage. The island was owned for over four
hundred years by the Holcombe family, who acquired it in the
sixteenth century, although no one seems clear exactly how. Probably
a Holcombe rowed out with a few armed retainers, hoisted his
personal standard and took it over. There can’t have been much
competition. The title was later ratified by Henry the Eighth once
he’d got rid of the Mediterranean pirates who’d established it as a
base for their slave-trading raids along the Devon and Cornish
coasts. After that Combe lay more or less neglected until the
eighteenth century, when the family began to take an interest in it,
and visited occasionally to look at the bird-life or spend the day
picnicking. Then a Gerald Holcombe, born in the late eighteen
hundreds, decided to use the island for family holidays. He restored
the cottages and, in 1912, built a house and additional
accommodation for the staff. The family went there every summer in
those heady days before the First World War. The war changed
everything. The two elder sons were killed, one in France, the other
at Gallipoli. The Holcombes are the kind of family who die in wars,
not make money from them. That left only the youngest, Henry, who
was consumptive and unfit for military service. Apparently, after
the death of his brothers he was oppressed by a sense of general
unworthiness and had no particular wish to inherit. The money hadn’t
come from land but from fortunate investments, and by the late
Twenties they had more or less dried up. So in 1930 he set up a
charitable trust with what was left, found some wealthy supporters
and handed over the island and the property. His idea was that it
should be used as a place of rest and seclusion for men in positions
of responsibility who needed to get away from the rigours of their
professional lives.”
Now, for the first time, he bent down to open his briefcase and took
out a file with a security marking. Rummaging among the documents,
he brought out a single sheet of paper. “I’ve got the exact wording
here. It makes Henry Holcombe’s intentions clear. For men who
undertake the dangerous and arduous business of exercising high
responsibility in the service of the Crown and of their country,
whether in the armed forces, politics, science, industry or the
arts, and who require a restorative period of solitude, silence and
peace. Engagingly typical of its age, isn’t it? No mention of women,
of course. This was 1930, remember. However, the accepted convention
is held to apply, that the word ‘men’ embraces women. They take a
maximum of five visitors, whom they accommodate at their choice
either in the main house or in one of the stone cottages. Basically
what Combe Island offers is peace and security. In the last few
decades the latter has become probably the more important. People
who want time to think can go there without their protection
officers in the knowledge that they will be safe and completely
undisturbed. There’s a helicopter pad for bringing them in, and the
small harbour is the only possible landing place by sea. No casual
visitors are ever allowed and even mobile phones are forbidden-they
wouldn’t get a signal there anyway. They keep a very low profile.
People who go there are generally on personal recommendation, either
from a Trustee or from a previous or regular visitor. You can see
its advantage for the PM’s purpose.”
Reeves blurted out, “What’s wrong with Chequers?”
The others turned on him the brightly interested gaze of adults
prepared to humour a precocious child.
Conistone said, “Nothing. An agreeable house with, I understand,
every comfort. But guests who are invited to Chequers tend to get
noticed. Isn’t that the purpose of their going there?”
Dalgliesh asked, “How did Downing Street get to know about the
island?”
Conistone slid the paper back into his file. “Through one of the
PM’s newly ennobled chums. He went to Combe to recover from the
dangerous and arduous responsibility of adding one more grocery
chain to his empire and another billion to his personal fortune.”
“There are some permanent staff, presumably. Or do the VIPs do their
own washing up?”
“There’s the secretary, Rupert Maycroft, previously a solicitor in
Warnborough. We’ve had to confide in him and, of course, inform the
Trustees that Number Ten would be grateful if some important
visitors could be accommodated in early January. At present it’s all
very tentative, but we’ve asked him to make no bookings after this
month. There are the usual staff-boatman, housekeeper, cook. We know
something about all of them. One or two of the previous visitors
have been important enough to warrant security checks. It’s all been
done very discreetly. There’s a resident physician, Dr. Guy
Staveley, and his wife, although I gather she’s more off than on the
island. Can’t stand the boredom apparently. Staveley’s a refugee
from a London general practice. Apparently he made a wrong diagnosis
and a child died, so he’s got himself a job where the worst that can
happen is someone falling off a cliff, and he can’t be blamed for
that.”
Harkness said, “Only one resident has a criminal conviction, the
boatman Jago Tamlyn in 1998 for GBH. I gather there were mitigating
circumstances but it must have been a serious attack. He got twelve
months. He’s been in no trouble since.”
Dalgliesh asked, “When did the current visitors arrive?”
“All five in the last week. The writer Nathan Oliver, together with
his daughter Miranda and copy-editor Dennis Tremlett, came on
Monday. A retired German diplomat, Dr. Raimund Speidel,
ex-Ambassador to Beijing, came by private yacht from France on
Wednesday, and Dr. Mark Yelland, director of the Hayes-Skolling
research laboratory in the Midlands, which has been targeted by the
animal-liberation activists, arrived on Thursday. Maycroft will be
able to put you in the picture.”
Harkness broke in, “Better take the minimum of people, at least
until you know what you’re dealing with. The smaller the invasion
the better.”
Dalgliesh said, “It will hardly be an invasion. I’m still awaiting a
replacement for Tarrant, but I’ll take Inspector Miskin and Sergeant
Benton-Smith. We can probably manage without a SOCO or official
photographer at this stage, but if it proves to be murder, I’ll have
to have reinforcements or let the local force take over. I’ll need a
pathologist. I’ll speak to Kynaston if I can reach him. He may be
away from his lab on a case.”
Harkness said, “That won’t be necessary. We’re using Edith
Glenister. You know her, of course.”
“Hasn’t she retired?”
Conistone said, “Officially two years ago, but she does work
occasionally, mostly on sensitive overseas cases. At sixty-five
she’s probably had enough of trudging gum-booted through muddy
fields with the local CID, examining decomposing bodies in ditches.”
Dalgliesh doubted whether this was why Professor Glenister had
officially retired. He had never worked with her but he knew her
reputation. She was among the most highly regarded of women forensic
pathologists, notable for an almost uncanny accuracy in assessing
the time of death, for the speed and comprehensiveness of her
reports and for the clarity and authority with which she gave
evidence in court. She was notable, too, for her insistence on
maintaining the distinction between the functions of the pathologist
and the investigating officer. Professor Glenister, he knew, would
never hear details of the circumstances of the murder before
examining the body, ensuring, presumably, that she came to the
corpse with no preconceived ideas. He was intrigued by the prospect
of working with her and had no doubt that it was the FCO who had
originally suggested using her. All the same, he would have
preferred his usual forensic pathologist.
He said, “You’re not implying that Miles Kynaston can’t be trusted
to keep his mouth shut?”
Harkness broke in. “Of course not, but Cornwall is hardly his patch.
Professor Glenister is stationed at present in the south-west.
Anyway, Kynaston isn’t available, we’ve checked.” Dalgliesh was
tempted to say, How convenient for the FCO. They certainly hadn’t
lost any time. Harkness went on, “You can pick her up at RAF St.
Mawgan, near Newquay, and they’ll arrange a special helicopter to
take the body to the mortuary she uses. She’ll treat the case as
urgent. You should get her report sometime tomorrow.”
Dalgliesh said, “So Maycroft rang you as soon as possible after
finding the body? I suppose he was following instructions.”
Harkness said, “He was given a phone number, told that it was top
secret and instructed to phone the Trustees if anything untoward
happened on the island. He’s been warned that you’ll be arriving by
helicopter and to expect you by early afternoon.”
Dalgliesh said, “He’ll have some difficulty explaining to his
colleagues why this particular death should attract a Metropolitan
Police commander and a detective inspector instead of being dealt
with by the local CID, but I suppose you’ve covered that.”
Harkness said, “As well as we can. The Chief Constable has been put
in the picture, of course. There’s no point in arguing over which
force should take responsibility until we know whether we’ve got a
murder to investigate. In the meantime they’ll cooperate. If it is
murder and the island is as secure as they claim, there’ll be a
limited number of suspects. That should speed up the inquiry.”
(Continues…)
Knopf
Copyright © 2005
P. D. James
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-307-26291-X
Excerpted from The Lighthouse
by P. D. James
Copyright © 2005 by P. D. James.
Excerpted by permission.
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