Линда Ла Плант - Cold Blood

‘Gimme the flashlight, I can’t see a damned thing.’

Lorraine passed the light over and he shone it down into the hole he had sliced through the black plastic. As he carefully inched it aside they could see part of a skull in the yellow beam, the skin completely decomposed, but there was a portion of long blonde hair and what looked like a head-band.

‘I think we just found Anna Louise Caley,’ Rooney said softly.

‘We also maybe just got one million dollars,’ Lorraine added.

Rooney looked at her face, a black eye on one side and her scar running down the other. She looked like a prize fighter coming up for round ten.

‘You don’t give in easy, do you?’

‘Nope, but then life’s not that easy. Least, mine isn’t.’ She stood up, still having to bend as the roof of the house was so low. ‘I’ll go and see the Browns.’

They were still there at dawn, as the police put up their cordons and arc lamps. It took two hours for the entire body to be dug up. The corpse was wrapped in four layers of black garbage bags, sellotape wound round and round the bags, virtually mummifying the body. All that was left were scraps of rotting cloth. The corpse had been buried almost a year, judging by the extent of the decomposition. Beetles and maggots were lodged in the eye sockets and the inside of the skull. There had been no terrible odour of death because all the gases had evaporated and the mummification of the body, wrapped tightly with no air, had dried all the body tissues. There was little left as a means to identify the body, but the dental records and possibly the fine, almost waist-length blonde hair. They would even find it difficult to determine what had caused the death.

By eleven o’clock the next morning, the dental records had been flown to the forensic laboratory from Los Angeles. The body was formally identified at 12.30. Anna Louise Caley had died approximately eleven months ago. She had been killed by a single blow to the back of her head, probably inflicted by a rounded, blunt-edged instrument.

Elizabeth Caley was informed at 12.45 p.m. that the body of her daughter had been recovered at Tilda Brown’s home. She was also told that it had been discovered by Lorraine Page and her partner, Mr William Rooney. It was just after two the same afternoon that Lorraine and François drove back through the Garden District to the Caley residence.

‘You want your bonus?’ Elizabeth asked coldly. She looked as elegant as ever, and Lorraine was impressed at the woman’s resilience.

‘I will have all my reports typed up and sent to you, either in Los Angeles or here, whichever you prefer.’

‘How did she die?’ Elizabeth asked, lighting a cigarette.

‘It’s difficult to give you details at this stage, but she had a deep indentation on the back of her skull.’

Elizabeth inhaled. ‘They brought a head-band, the police asked if I could identify it as Anna Louise’s. It wasn’t hers, it was mine.’

Lorraine checked over all the receipts of their expenses which Rosie had meticulously kept and clipped neatly together.

‘I will send our details of costs for the trip to New Orleans to Phyllis, unless you would like them left here? Mrs Caley?’

Elizabeth stared out of the long window at the fig orchard. ‘Send them to Phyllis, she’ll pay you.’

Lorraine replaced the documents in her briefcase.

‘Who killed her, Mrs Page?’ Elizabeth asked quietly.

Lorraine hesitated. ‘This is just supposition, because without her statement obviously we will never know exactly what happened.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

‘Well, your daughter was very jealous of Tilda Brown. Did you know she was having a sexual relationship with your husband?’

Elizabeth arched one fine eyebrow, ‘Well, I suppose he needed to get it someplace. It certainly wasn’t from me.’

Lorraine looked away, Mrs Caley sickened her, there seemed no emotion in her whatsoever, she was calm, almost sarcastic.

‘Go on, please. I’m paying you for this, so I might as well hear what you have to say.’

‘Anna Louise seemed to be very jealous because she was in love with her adopted father, and the fight the two girls had before you and Anna Louise left Los Angeles was because your daughter had seen Tilda kissing or embracing Mr Caley.’

‘The cheap bastard,’ Elizabeth said bitterly, stubbing out her cigarette.

Lorraine licked her lips. Her head was throbbing and her eye, although now less swollen, was still painful; moreover she had been up all night.

‘Go on, Mrs Page,’ Elizabeth snapped.

‘Well, after you arrived at your hotel that afternoon of February fifteenth, Tilda...’

Elizabeth crossed to the window and stood gazing out at the trees as Lorraine continued.

‘I know that your husband met with a Ruby Corbello, a girl that used to be a maid at Tilda Brown’s. She was trying to blackmail him.’

‘What?’

‘She had found Tilda Brown’s diary and she wanted to get money for it. The diary contained confirmation that Tilda and your husband were having a relationship.’

‘You read this diary?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘No, I did not. I have not seen the diary, but your husband has admitted that he did meet with Miss Corbello, and she did give him the diary. He paid her two hundred dollars for it.’

Elizabeth laughed. ‘Cheap at the price, silly child could have asked for a lot more. Go on, Mrs Page.’

‘Ruby Corbello was then led via the staff entrance up to Anna Louise’s suite. She left the hotel after ten minutes, but was seen back at the hotel, in the courtyard beneath your daughter’s balcony. I think your daughter asked Ruby Corbello to make her a doll, a voodoo doll in the shape of Tilda Brown. She possibly passed over a photograph of Tilda to use as its face, and may have paid Ruby Corbello, but she has not admitted that she did make the doll, and without your daughter’s statement, it would be difficult to prove.’

Elizabeth lit another cigarette. Lorraine noticed her hand was shaking, but otherwise she remained impassive, gesturing for Lorraine to continue.

‘I traced a cab company, not a licensed company, but one used by the staff at the hotel to ferry them back home when they were working late. A driver recalls collecting a young woman from the hotel and taking her to Tilda Brown’s house on the night of February fifteenth last year.’ Lorraine reached over and sipped some iced tea that had been brought in when she arrived. ‘That was the last sighting of your daughter, nobody ever saw her again. I think she knew Tilda’s house so well that she did not enter via the front door but climbed up on to the balcony which is only on the first floor, and saw Tilda there. Her parents have stated that Tilda never left her bedroom that night, so possibly they met at around seven forty-five.’

Elizabeth sat down, running her hand down her slim-fitting skirt, crossing her ankles. ‘Go on, please.’

Lorraine sighed, her head really throbbing now. ‘How do we know what exactly happened? They were young, angry with each other, jealous, and both had been to Juda Salina on numerous occasions for tarot reading or whatever. Both girls, having been brought up here, were obviously aware of voodoo, Anna Louise perhaps because of your connections.’

‘My connections?’ Elizabeth said sharply.

‘You did play Marie Laveau, you even have a portrait of yourself in the role in the house in Los Angeles. So Anna Louise must have been aware of the voodoo culture. Perhaps they were both afraid of it, I don’t really know, but I think Anna Louise wanted to scare Tilda, wanted to frighten her badly. Perhaps she showed her the doll and that started it, who knows, but they had fought before. In fact, when I interviewed Tilda she described how Anna Louise had struck her and punched and scratched her. So these two girls had fought before — perhaps that night they did again, and perhaps Tilda picked up something, a tennis racquet maybe? And struck out at Anna Louise.’