A Place Of Safety

Chapter Ten

It was the following morning and Barnaby was at his desk attempting to sort out his day and compose what few notes there were for the eight thirty briefing. He was finding it extremely hard to concentrate. This time yesterday, if someone had told him he would spend the best part of two hours that very evening giving his current case load barely a single consideration he would have thought they were mad. Yet such had been the case.

They had been given a table by the window overlooking a smooth stretch of grass edged by paving slabs bordered by a low wall rising directly above the Thames. The surface of the water was burnished by the setting sun and lamps gleamed along the paved walkway.

Even on an autumn evening the River Cafe was incredibly light and airy and packed with happy customers. Talking, laughing, eating, drinking. At one point a woman broke into song (‘Vissi d’Arte’) and no one seemed to take it amiss.

The service was perfection. Friendly without being unctuous, visible the minute you needed it, absent when you did not. Suggestions tactfully made and no offence taken if they were ignored. No one endlessly re-filled your glass as if you were a toddler in a high chair. Nothing was off and what was on was utter heaven.

The cooking went on behind a long steel counter where a great many thin people in long white aprons produced the sort of food that leads a great many fat people to the brink of despair.

Barnaby ate tagliatelle fragrant with asparagus and herbs and Parmesan. This was followed by turbot, the flakes of which melted off his fork. Green salad with a bit of rocket. Some beautiful potatoes. And not a cabbage in sight. Everyone tasted everyone else’s food and, when this was noticed, extra forks appeared from nowhere. For pudding Barnaby had Chocolate Nemesis which very nearly proved to be his own. They drank Torre del Falco from Sicily. Nico bought Cully the recipe book, grandly inscribed, and also one for Joyce. Barnaby was apprehensive.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Cully to her dad as they walked, some little way behind the others, towards the taxi. ‘Mum’ll be fine. Nobody can burn pasta.’

Barnaby had remained silent. To his mind a woman who can burn salad can burn anything.

‘You’re looking a bit more cheery this morning, chief.’ Sergeant Troy entered, interrupting this voluptuous reverie. He was looking less cheery himself. Rather pale and wan, in fact.

‘Went out celebrating last night,’ said Barnaby. ‘My son-in-law took us all up the Smoke to dinner. To the River Cafe.’

‘I’ve heard about it. By the river.’

‘That’s the place.’

‘Maureen saw it on the telly.’

‘Actually, he’s just got into the National, Nico.’

‘Brilliant,’ enthused Troy. National? National what?

Barnaby put his papers in a bulldog clip then really clocked his sergeant for the first time.

‘You all right, Troy?’

‘Sir?’

‘You look a bit peaky.’

The fact was that Sergeant Troy had had a strange and most disturbing dream. In the dream he had awoken, tried to rise and found himself unable to do anything other than roll his head heavily from side to side. His limbs felt extraordinary, flat and empty like an unstuffed rag doll’s. Then he saw, on the floor by the bed, a neat stack of bones and knew them to be his own. Gruesome or what? Troy blamed this nightmare on the visit to the hospital. And the churchyard next to the Rectory hadn’t helped matters.

‘I’m all right, chief.’ Cockeyed fancies, even involuntary ones, were best kept to oneself. The force didn’t go a bundle on neurotics. Sergeant Troy carried his trenchcoat over to the old-fashioned hat stand and rejoiced in the sensation of warm flesh on living bone. He said, ‘Have you contacted the hospital?’

‘Yes. They’ve done the brain scan and found a clot. They’re operating this morning.’

‘What about feedback from our man on the spot?’

‘Nothing doing,’ replied Barnaby. ‘Nobody in, nobody out. Not even the postman. Presumably Jackson’s still in the main house, “looking after Lionel”.’

‘What a sick scene. Talk about decadent.’ Troy was pleased to be able to make use of decadent. He’d got the word from the sleeve notes of Cabaret ages ago. It was surprising how difficult it was to drop it into general conversation when you considered how much of it there was about.

‘If we phrase it very carefully we can try a public appeal,’ said Barnaby. ‘Simply describe the stolen cycle, the time it was swiped and suggest the direction it may have been taking. Someone must have seen him.’

‘We could say what he was wearing.’

‘For God’s sake! First, we don’t know what he was wearing. Second, we keep any reference to Jackson, however oblique, absolutely out of it. Once he’s nailed, I want no accusations of pre-trial prejudice getting him off. Or the civil liberties mob breathing down our necks.’

‘The press’ll be on to it though. Nobody’s going to believe a public appeal over a missing push bike.’

‘So we’ll stonewall. Won’t be the first time.’ Barnaby slipped his notes into an envelope file, took his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on. Troy held the door open and the DCI strode away from his office. The working day proper had begun.

That same morning Hetty Leathers arrived at the Old Rectory at her usual time of 9 a.m. but without Candy. The dog was coping much better now at being left alone and, as Mrs Lawrence was absent, Hetty felt she should perhaps ask the Reverend’s permission to bring Candy to work.

She went in through the front door, carrying straight through to the kitchen. There she found Jackson wearing a pair of stained jeans and a sleeveless vest, scraping Marmite onto burned toast. His bare feet were up on the table. There was no sign of Lionel.

Hetty turned round and walked straight out again. Out of the kitchen and out of the house. As she made to go down the drive, a movement through the library window caught her eye. She crossed over, rested her hands on the sill and peered in. She insisted afterwards to Pauline that she had no thought of spying and this was probably true. What was also true was that she very much wished she’d walked on by.

The Reverend was crouching over Mrs Lawrence’s writing desk. Letters were strewn everywhere. As Hetty watched, he tore another envelope, already opened, practically apart in his eagerness to rip out its contents. A second to stare angrily at the piece of paper and it joined the others on the floor. He paused, panting for a moment, then started to tug furiously at a little drawer at the back of the desk that would not open.

Hetty watched in shocked amazement. The Reverend’s face, distorted by a fear-filled hungriness that could hardly be contained and scarlet with effort, was barely recognisable. He put his foot against the leg of the desk and this time using both hands heaved on the drawer with all his might. Hetty ran away.

As she did so, Jackson wandered into the library. Leaned against the door jamb, dark blue eyes gleaming with excitement, a happy smile barely disturbing his lips.

‘I hate to see you like this, Lionel.’

Lionel, by now wailing with rage, looked fit to explode.

‘Wait.’ Jackson strolled across the room and rested a calming hand on Lionel’s arm. ‘If you must break into other people’s property—’

‘You don’t understand!’ shouted Lionel.

Jackson turned his face from the gust of sour wine and reeking, unwashed skin. He was very fastidious about that sort of thing.

‘And stop shouting. You’ll have half the village out.’

‘It’s all right for you ...’ Lionel attempted to soften his voice, with little success. ‘What’s going to happen to me? Where shall I go?’

‘You don’t even know Mrs L’s made a will.’ Jackson’s grip tightened slightly. ‘In which case, as her legal better half, you’ll be laughing.’

Lionel gave a single piercing cry. ‘I thought I was safe here.’

‘Let go,’ said Jackson. He sounded patient, not unkind just weary, like a parent who’d had enough of a favourite child’s tantrums. ‘I’ll do it.’

Lionel released the drawer and stood, arms swinging loose by his sides, staring. Jackson produced a knife from the pocket of his jeans. A click and the short, narrow blade sprang out, shining. He inserted it behind the lock, gave a sharp twist and the drawer sprang open. It was full of papers.

Lionel seized them and started to read. Jackson could see the heading Friends Provident, the words separated by a blue rose. After a few minutes Lionel had shuffled through all the pages and flung them also to the floor.

‘All to do with her trust fund.’ He was very near to tears and struggling for breath. ‘She’s always been very tight with that, Jax. I wanted her to buy a little flat, give a temporary home to youngsters struggling to make a new life. People like yourself. But she was adamant. There’s so much selfishness in the world, meanness, don’t you find?’

‘I don’t like to hear you being disloyal, Lionel. I’ve always thought Mrs L basically a very sincere person.’ It was probably with her solicitor. Or the bank. ‘I think you need some breakfast. Cheer you up a bit.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Plus a wash and brush-up. OK, I got “no change” from the hospital this morning but things could have altered by dinner time. What if you was allowed to visit this afternoon? You can’t go in looking like that. Come on.’ He took Lionel’s damp and unresisting hand. ‘Jax will make you a nice piece of toast.’

‘You’re so good to me.’

‘Richly deserved, to my mind, Lionel.’

‘You won’t go away?’

‘Try and make me.’

Barnaby’s appointment with Richard Ainsley was for ten o’clock. They were shown straight into his office and offered tea which Barnaby declined. The bank manager’s face was grave as befitted the matter under discussion.

‘A most dreadful business. I can still hardly believe it.’ His distress was plainly genuine. A fact explained by his next words. ‘I have known the family thirty years. Ann, Mrs Lawrence, was seven when I first started handling her father’s affairs.’

Barnaby had not been aware of that but rejoiced in the knowledge. One never knew what would be grist to the investigative mill.

‘Then I’m sure you will be doubly anxious to help us, sir.’

‘Of course I am. But how is it possible? A random, violent attack—’

‘We’re not sure that it was random.’

‘Oh.’ Ainsley’s expression changed then. Became immensely cautious and somewhat apprehensive. He sniffed and stared intensely at his visitors as if etheric traces of the crime might still be drifting about their persons.

This reaction from the public was not uncommon. Barnaby smiled encouragingly and said, ‘I can assure you that anything divulged during this interview will be in complete confidence.’

‘Ah.’ Richard Ainsley looked warily at Troy sitting near the door, notebook balanced discreetly on his knee. ‘Well ...’

Barnaby jumped in at the deep end. ‘We have reason to believe that Mrs Lawrence was being blackmailed.’

‘So that’s—’

‘That’s what?’

But Ainsley withdrew immediately, like a limpet into its shell. ‘You must understand, Chief Inspector, my customer’s financial affairs—’

‘Mrs Lawrence is undergoing an emergency operation, Mr Ainsley, even as we’re sitting here. A positive outcome is far from certain. Now, I can go to a magistrate, get the relevant piece of paper and come back for the information you are withholding. But time is of the essence here. I urge you to co-operate.’

‘Yes. I do see. Oh - this is all so dreadful.’ He wrung his hands for a moment, then opened his desk diary, checked a date and started to speak.

‘Ann came in to see me on Saturday morning. August the twenty-second. She needed to borrow five thousand pounds against the security of the house. That was acceptable, of course. The Old Rectory is worth a great deal of money. But her income is a modest one and I was concerned about her ability to make regular repayments. When I mentioned this she became almost hysterical, which naturally made me more concerned then ever. She had already drawn a thousand pounds from her current account.’

‘When was this, sir?’

Richard Ainsley had almost forgotten Sergeant Troy, quietly taking notes. He studied his diary again and replied, ‘Wednesday the nineteenth.’ Then, turning back to Barnaby, ‘I’d made a note of the date should it arise during my meeting with her.’

‘So it was six altogether?’

‘That’s right. And she insisted on cash both times. Extremely worrying. I was so relieved to hear yesterday that she was bringing it all back.’

‘What?’

‘She rang in the morning, about ten thirty.’ Ainsley smiled, quietly pleased that he could bring about this consternation, even under such unhappy circumstances. He was only human. ‘I was to cancel the loan and she would be returning the cash that very afternoon. Oh.’

Oh indeed, thought Barnaby, watching the shock hit home.

‘Did the person who attacked her ...?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the chief inspector. ‘When she said “all”, did you understand this to mean all she had borrowed or just the five thousand?’

‘Deary me. What a situation. We’ll never get it back. What will head office say?’

‘Mr Ainsley?’

‘Mm?’

‘Five or six?’

‘I don’t know. Oh, this is terrible. Terrible.’

Being economical with the truth had been an integral part of Louise’s life for so long it had been years since the fact had even registered. A huge proportion of her working day was spent lying. Not that she thought of it like that. After all, who in the financial world wasn’t doing it? Brokers, analysts, financial advisers - all prepared to conceal or misrepresent what they believed to be the true state of affairs while struggling to penetrate the false representations of others. So this latest small untruth, spoken earlier over the telephone to the reception desk at Stoke Mandeville, had caused her no trouble at all. Now she approached the reception area and gave her name.

‘Mrs Forbes?’

‘That’s right. I rang earlier.’

‘Ah, yes. Your sister’s on the third floor. Take the lift and I’ll let them know you’re coming.’ The receptionist, a pretty Asian woman, added, ‘I’m so sorry. Such a terrible thing to happen.’

‘Thank you.’

A staff nurse met Louise, said pretty much the same thing and led her along a long, silent corridor, her shoes squeaking on the rubbery surface. She opened a door at the very end and they went in.

Louise stopped in her tracks. Her heart gave a jerk then suddenly started to beat with furious speed. For no reason, she felt suddenly frightened. Ann lay quite motionless in a narrow iron bed. Precisely in the centre of the bed, Louise noticed. The same amount of space each side of her thin shoulders. You could do that, of course, when a person was deeply unconscious. Satisfy the human passion for order and balance.

The room was full of blue light. Machinery hummed, quite noisily. There were several computer screens, one of which had the shimmering green line, constantly peaking and subsiding, so familiar to viewers of hospital dramas.

There was a single bedside chair, rather office-like with a tweed seat and tubular chrome arms, but Louise did not sit down. She stood at the foot of the bed, staring. There were no what she would call signs of life. Louise had never seen a dead person but surely this was what they looked like. There was not the slightest trace of colour in Ann’s skin, what one could see of it. And no rise and fall of her breast. The taut, hospital-cornered sheet did not move. A needle in her arm led to a bottle suspended on a frame. A tube disappeared into her mouth and another depended from her nostrils.

In alarm, Louise turned to the nurse. ‘She’s not breathing.’

‘The ventilator does that for her. Have you spoken to Dr Miller?’

‘No.’ Louise felt her heart turn over. ‘Should I have?’

‘The brain scan showed a clot, I’m afraid. We’ll be operating later today.’

‘What chance is there—’

‘The very best chance. Mrs Lawrence is in good hands.’

Louise looked anxiously around the room. ‘Shouldn’t someone be here all the time?’

‘Someone is - almost all. And don’t worry, she’s monitored. The slightest change in breathing, heartbeat, pulse or blood pressure and the alarm goes off.’

Louise had brought some flowers from the Rectory garden. She had not asked permission, simply gone in with her secateurs and cut an armful of the things that Ann loved best. Hollyhocks, apricot and cream foxgloves, the last of some floppy pink roses with a powerful, musky scent. She did not as much as glance towards the house and no one came out to stop her.

When she had rung up to see how Ann was, Louise was told that only close relatives were allowed to visit. That meant Lionel, a man who lived in a self-centred world of his own and had probably never thought to take a flower at all, let alone his wife’s favourites.

Now, looking down at her friend, Louise saw how absurd and foolish her impulse had been. She had not fully understood how dangerously ill Ann was. Had imagined her coming round, maybe during her own visit, and, seeing the flowers, suddenly turning the corner. Or, unconscious, still being able to sense and recognise the heady fragrance of the roses she so lovingly cared for.

Stupid, stupid! Louise chided herself as she sat by the bed. She reached out, took Ann’s hand and almost dropped it. So cold and lifeless. And yet Ann was still there. Whatever it was that vanishes when a person dies, the essence of themselves, their ‘Ann-ness’ if you will, was still there.

Louise felt she should speak. For who was to say that Ann would not hear? She tried out various sentences in her mind but they all sounded pathetic. Death a whisper away and all she could think of were banal simplicities you could hear any day of the week on a television soap. ‘I’m here, Ann, it’s Louise. Can you hear me? We’re all thinking about you. Everyone is so sorry. They send their love. You’ll be all right.’ (This last surely the acme of wildly unrealistic optimism.)

In the end Louise said nothing. Just kissed Ann’s cheek, gently squeezed her hand and tried not to picture what lay under the tightly wound bandages.

Jax had done this. Fact. She had seen him running away. Well, racing away. But Val had said it wasn’t possible. That he had actually been with Jax when the crime occurred. It couldn’t be true. Yet surely he would not lie to cover for the man - not over something as terrible as this?

Was it possible she had been mistaken? Louise closed her eyes, re-imagined the moment when she had been about to open her car door, saw again the dark figure zooming up and flashing by. It had been very quick, a lightning flash. Yet she had been so sure.

Perhaps she had been thinking of Jax at the time. That was likely. These days she seemed to think of little else. Could she have superimposed his face on the speeding cyclist. The mind plays tricks, deluding and deceiving. We all believe what we want to believe.

A soft swish as the air-locked door was pushed open. A staff nurse smiled apologetically, explaining they needed to attend to Mrs Lawrence.

Louise moved away, indicating her flowers. ‘Please, could someone ...’

‘They’ll be put into water, don’t worry.’ Then, rather awkwardly, ‘We have notified Mr Lawrence of his wife’s condition. I wondered perhaps if there was some domestic ... well ... upset?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Louise’s expression was one of blank bewilderment.

‘Some reason why he hasn’t called to see her. Or even telephoned.’

Driving once more through Causton on her way to Ferne Basset, Louise realised she could not go home. She just couldn’t face Val so soon after seeing Ann. Couldn’t put on her false face and express concern over the future of that creature who was ruining both their lives. And she doubted if she could successfully conceal her anger at Ann’s neglect by her husband.

As it was now one o’clock, she decided to stay in town for lunch. Instinctively avoiding the multi-storey, Louise left her bright yellow Seicento tucked away in a tiny back street, risking a parking fine.

There were only two cafes in Causton. One, Minnie’s Pantry, was unbearably mimsy. The Soft Shoe was a greasy spoon. Louise decided on the Spread Eagle which was in the Good Pub Guide and had quite decent food. The lounge, it not being market day, was only half occupied.

There were newspapers on sticks and she tried to read the arts pages of the Guardian while drinking Guinness and waiting for an individual steak and kidney pudding, braised cabbage and potato croquettes. It was hard to keep her mind on the music and theatre reviews. That world, which had so recently been very much a part of her life, now seemed as remote as Mars.

A Sony portable was suspended over the far side of the bar, the volume low. When the local news came on, Louise put down her paper and took her drink across to listen. A woman in civilian clothes, referred to as a police spokesman, was voicing an appeal for information following an incident in Causton the previous day. A Peugeot bicycle had been stolen at around 3 p.m. from Denton Street. The cyclist was thought to have made off in the direction of Great Missenden. It was possible the theft could be linked with a more serious incident. A telephone number was given. Louise wrote it down.

The response to the television news appeal was surprisingly swift and several calls had been received by two thirty when Barnaby and Sergeant Troy returned to the incident room from the canteen. Still swamped in blissful recall of his highly calorific outing the previous night, the DCI had eaten very lightly and, consequently, remained clear-headed and full of energy.

Barnaby sat at his desk in excellent spirits, in part conjured by the confirmation (at least as he saw it) that Ann Lawrence had definitely been the person blackmailed and that she had been prepared to pay up at least once and possibly twice, for had she not drawn out more money, presumably to cover a second demand?

Barnaby recalled his brief telephone conversation with her on Monday. She had seemed very calm, even cheerful. Said she was looking forward to talking to him. This, linked with the intention to return the money, implied that she had come to the decision not to pay. Also that she planned to tell the police exactly what had been going on.

Barnaby murmured again to himself at the vagaries of fate while watching Sergeant Troy, with a mass of paper in his fist, making his way down the incident room. His expression was somewhat cautious.

‘What d’you want, sir? The good news or the bad news?’

‘What I don’t want,’ snapped Barnaby, ‘are stupid games. Or tired old maxims I’ve heard a thousand times before and never reckoned the first time.’

‘Right. The good—’ He was interrupted by an intemperate growling. ‘Sorry. We’ve had nine calls. All genuine, I’d say, as the descriptions of the cyclist hardly vary. We’ve even got him on film—’

‘Got him on film?’ In his excitement Barnaby banged his fist down on the desk top. ‘Then got him is right!’

‘Top Gear, men’s fashion next to the Soft Shoe Cafe, has a couple of mobile security cameras. One covers the shop interior, the other the door and a small area of the pavement. Our man’s caught on it actually pushing the bike into the road and riding off.’ Troy turned his final page and put the papers down on the desk. ‘Someone’s bringing the film over.’

‘With news as good as this, what could be bad?’ asked Barnaby.

‘The man carried a small rucksack and was in black from head to foot. Gloves, knitted hat, leggings, everything.’ Troy watched the chief take this in. Sit back in his chair, winded. Who wouldn’t be?

‘So the stuff Jackson took out of his washing machine—’

‘That forensics,’ Barnaby reached for the telephone and savagely punched at the dial, ‘have already spent the best part of twenty-four hours working on.’

‘Was completely irrelevant.’ Troy watched his chief with some sympathy. ‘Why did he choose the Hotpoint, d’you think? Why not just take something out of the wardrobe?’

‘His idea of fun. Hoping we’d think, hey, these’ve been washed pretty quickly. They must be guilty jeans. And a guilty T-shirt.’

Which we did, recalled Sergeant Troy. Silently. ‘He’s a clever bastard.’

‘Jackson is not clever.’ It was almost a shout. Heads turned, keyboards ceased to clatter, telephone calls were put on hold. There was a gathering of attention which Barnaby irritably dispersed with a vigorous swishing at the air with his hand. ‘He is devious,’ said the chief inspector more quietly. ‘He is vicious and twisted and cruel. But he is not clever.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘No man who has spent twelve of his twenty-six years in and out of juvenile courts, remand homes, Borstal and prison is clever. Hold on to that.’

‘Right,’ said Troy again, this time with more conviction.

‘Hello, Jim?’ said Barnaby as the receiver squawked at him. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this but that material on the Leathers case we sent down yesterday ...’

By mid-afternoon on the day after Ann Lawrence was attacked, Ferne Basset was in a ferment of agitation. There was a good reason for this. A stranger in a dark blue Escort had arrived at dusk the previous evening, parked on the edge of the Green and sat in his car reading a paper. Highly suspicious, to say the least. He was still there when night fell.

In the morning, relief and, it must be said, a certain amount of disappointment were experienced when the car appeared to have vanished. Then it was spotted some distance away, nearer to the church. This time the occupant was drinking from a Thermos flask and smoking. Later he got out and had a walk around, neither greeting anyone nor responding to friendly civilities on the village’s part with anything other than a curt nod.

The words Neighbourhood Watch could have been invented to describe Ferne Basset and it did not take long before it was generally agreed, round the counter at Brian’s Emporium, that the newcomer was casing the joint. Local burglaries, in spite of endlessly inventive and costly precautions, were common and commonly successful. Straightaway the decision was taken to ring the local bobby.

PC Colin Perrot’s beat covered four villages. He got more hassle from this one than all the others put together and always from what Colin had designated the ‘upper strata’. This lot weren’t prepared to accept the slightest deviation from what they regarded as the socially acceptable norm. He had been called out once late at night following a complaint about someone holding a rock concert. Had driven nine miles in the pouring rain to find music coming from one of the council houses that was half the level he could hear any night of the week through his own lounge walls.

‘They don’t know they’re born,’ muttered Colin to himself, putt-putting to a halt then heaving his BMW onto its stand. He went into the shop, listened, came out and made his way towards the stationary car. All the customers and staff came out and watched from the forecourt as PC Perrot rapped on the window which was promptly wound down.

‘What seems to be the situation?’ asked Brigadier Dampier-Jeans, a leading local worthy and chairman of the parish council, when the policeman returned.

‘Ordinance survey,’ replied Perrot. ‘Something to do with land measurement.’

‘A likely story,’ said the brigadier. ‘Saw his papers, did you?’

‘Of course,’ replied Perrot, somewhat huffily. He did not like to be told his job. ‘He has government authority.’

‘Why doesn’t the fellow get out and survey then, ’stead of sitting in his motor like a stuffed bison.’

‘There has to be two of them,’ explained PC Perrot. ‘The other chap’s been delayed.’

While talking, he had been setting the bike straight and climbing on. Now he kicked the pedal and roared away before they could all start jawing at him again. Speeding along, Perrot wondered if the copper in the Escort would get lucky and the bloke in the big house would make a run for it. At the same time he thanked his lucky rabbit’s foot it wasn’t him stuck out there on the greensward till the cows came home.

Later that afternoon, Hetty visited Mulberry Cottage, only briefly for she had left Candy fast asleep in her basket. Now, sipping a cup of strange tea which was the colour of pale straw, though not unpleasant, she accepted a second piece of iced gingerbread.

‘I heard,’ said Hetty, ‘that he was something to do with agriculture.’

‘I don’t think so, dear. My information was map measurement. Ground contours, that sort of thing.’

And that was saturation point as far as the man in the car was concerned. Now they reverted to the subject they had started with. Much more interesting than the stranger’s occupation and certainly more worrying. What was going on at the Old Rectory?

‘I couldn’t believe my eyes,’ said Hetty. She had said it before but so extraordinary was the scene her eyes could not believe that Evadne did not doubt her for a minute. ‘Feet up on the kitchen table. And poor Mrs Lawrence, who’d never even have him in the house, lying at death’s door.’

‘Incredible,’ said Evadne, who was really distressed. ‘What can Lionel be thinking of?’

‘Something’s gone wrong between them,’ said Hetty. ‘She didn’t take his lunch in for him before she went to Causton. That’s never happened before. He was shut in his study. She drove off and left him to it.’

‘They must have had a quarrel.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Hetty!’

‘About time Mrs Lawrence stood up for herself. He’s been ruling the roost for years. What’s more - and I wouldn’t want this to go any further - it’s all her money. He’s nothing more than a leech.’

Evadne nodded. The whole of Ferne Basset knew it was Ann’s money.

‘And when I left he was going at the papers in her desk like a madman. Ripping them up, flinging them about. His face was as red as a turkey cock’s. Mark my words, that man’s heading for a stroke.’

Which reminded Evadne to ask if she had rung the hospital that day.

‘This morning. They said “no change” but if you’re not a close relative they won’t always tell you. I said to them, “I’m as close to her as anyone else in the world.” But it didn’t do any good.’ Hetty’s mouth slipped and trembled. ‘She used to come into the kitchen when she was little: I taught her to make pastry. She’d never use the cutters. Always wanted to design her own shapes. Flowers, cats, even little houses. I used to think she’d be an artist when she grew up.’

Evadne crossed over to her friend and put an arm round her shaking shoulders.

Hetty cried out, ‘How could anyone be so cruel?’

Evadne rocked Hetty backwards and forwards for a moment. ‘Hetty, would you like to say a prayer for her?’

‘What?’

‘It may help.’

Hetty seemed uncertain. And no wonder, thought Evadne. Her life had hardly been one to engender gratitude.

‘Well ... if you really think so.’ Hetty made an awkward movement, about to get out of her chair, but Evadne eased her gently down again.

‘No, no. It’s not necessary to kneel down. God doesn’t care about that - a sincere heart is all that matters.’

‘I won’t know what to say.’

‘No need to say anything. Just picture Ann surrounded by divine light. And hold fast.’

Quietly Evadne began to pray. Hetty tried to imagine Ann surrounded by divine light. She came up with a sort of halo, like the Bible illustrations in her Sunday school class years ago. As for brightness, the most dazzling source she could think of was the halogen light in the garden of the Old Rectory which seemed somehow appropriate.

Around the room six pale heaps of fur sat or lay in complete silence. There was not even a scratch or a yawn. Evadne’s Pekes were used to moments like this and knew exactly what was required of them.

By six thirty in the evening Barnaby had been shut up in his office for nearly two hours. The incident room managed to appear both noisy and hectic even when nothing much was happening and he needed to be reasonably quiet. To be alone and think. Sergeant Troy came in from time to time with information and the occasional slug of strong Colombian.

Half an hour ago he had brought in an extremely satisfactory forensic report on the Lawrences’ Humber. A tiny filament of shiny black acetate had been caught on the worn piece of carpet lining the boot. And some fragments of grit had also been present. These were coated with white material which, on closer examination, proved to be garden lime. Nothing remarkable in that, no doubt Ann Lawrence had frequently carted such stuff back from the garden centre, but if it matched precisely grit found in the cyclist’s shoes, then they were really on to something.

Problem was, they didn’t have the cyclist’s shoes. Or his gear. Or his bike. The search for this had, so far, been fruitless. Yet the time factor meant it must have been abandoned very near the village.

As soon as reports of the black-clad figure started to come in, two officers had been sent to Jackson’s flat to search for the clothes and Ann Lawrence’s handbag. They had found neither. Which meant he had either taken other stuff to wear - hence the rucksack - or stashed a change of clothing where he planned to leave the bike. The handbag couldn’t have just vanished. Shortly after the men left, Lionel Lawrence rang the station, rather incoherently complaining of police harassment.

Having reached this one step forward two steps back point in his reflections, the chief inspector was rather pleased by the distraction of a door opening and his side-kick’s appearing this time with a steaming mug of strong Typhoo and a packet of biscuits. Fortunately they were Rich Tea, a dull morsel at the best of times. Hardly rich at all in any appreciable sense of the word.

‘You know I’m watching the calories, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, chief. It’s just, only a salad at lunch. I thought ...’

Barnaby grandly waved the brightly coloured packet away and asked if anything new had turned up.

‘Our man’s report’s in from Ferne Basset. Apparently Jackson’s still not put his nose outside the house. DS Bennet’s taken over the shift. How long are they going to let you run this for, chief?’

‘Results in thirty-six hours or else. That’s the latest.’

‘D’you think Jackson’s spotted him?’

‘What, through the Rectory walls?’

‘I wouldn’t put anything past that scumbag. Oh, and the film’s arrived from the Top Gear shop.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I am saying so.’

Sergeant Troy flattened himself against the door as Barnaby, grasping his mug, hurried from the room. There was no need for him to get wound up, though Troy hadn’t the heart to point this out. They had already run the film through once downstairs so there’d be no hiccup when the boss came to view, and it was pretty useless. Blink and you’d miss the bugger.

‘Go on then.’ Barnaby, having seated himself, leaned forward eagerly, hands on knees, gazing at the VDU. The film began. Grey-blue figures laden with bags or shopping trolleys shuffled apathetically along the pavement, two girls walked past arm in arm, giggling. A toddler was carried by on his father’s shoulders. No one seemed to be aware of the camera. There was a dark flash across the screen.

‘What was that?’ asked Barnaby.

‘Our man,’ said Troy.

‘Ah, shit.’ The chief inspector’s shoulders slumped. ‘All right, run back and freeze.’

They studied the slim figure, gripping the handlebars of the stolen machine. The bike was half on the pavement, half on the road as the cyclist prepared to jump into the saddle. Even on hold and seen only from the back the gathering of muscular energy appeared formidable.

‘Same height as Jackson, same build,’ said Inspector Carter.

‘Of course it’s the same height and build!’ Angrily Barnaby pushed back his chair. ‘It’s the same bloody man.’

‘Shall we blow the picture up, chief?’ asked Sergeant Brierley.

‘Might as well, though I can’t see anything coming of it.’

‘If only he’d been facing the other way,’ said DS Griggs. Adding, ‘That bastard’s got the luck of the devil.’

‘It’ll run out sooner or later,’ said Barnaby. ‘Everybody’s does. Even the devil’s.’

Louise had not mentioned the hospital visit to her brother. She had not intended deliberately to conceal this but remembered that, during their earlier conversation, the subject of Ann’s attack had immediately led to an eruption of anger quickly followed by a diatribe against the police for their continual persecution of Jax. Now the time when she could have naturally mentioned it (she had arrived home eight hours ago) had long passed.

She had answered the lunchtime news appeal, though. Rung the number given from a box outside the post office in the Market Square and described the cyclist without saying that she recognised who he was. She couldn’t bring herself to do that, even anonymously. And as she was not prepared to follow up and identify him personally - partially out of fear for her own safety but mainly because of the pain it would cause Val - any such admission would be pointless. She was rather ashamed of this, her memory of the time spent in the intensive care unit was raw and painful, and Louise knew that if Ann died she would speak out whatever the cost. But of course what she really longed for was for Ann to recover and be able to tell the police herself who had attacked her.

This understanding led to an anxious few moments when Louise wondered if Jax might make his way to the hospital to make sure Ann did not recover. There seemed to be nothing to stop him. No guard outside her door, no member of staff inside. All very well to say, as the staff nurse had, that someone was nearly always there. It only needed a moment, when the someone was not there, for vital plugs to be snatched from their sockets and Ann’s life to drain helplessly away. And, as the police presumably thought her the victim of a random attack, they would see no need for protection. Louise told herself she was being melodramatic. Too many movies - a scene from The Godfather came to mind - but the image would not fade.

She rang the hospital. She had intended to do so anyway to hear how the operation had gone but there was little for her comfort. The operation had been straightforward. Mrs Lawrence had not come round yet from the anaesthetic. There had been no visitors.

A sudden coolness in the air rather than any sound told her the front door had opened and been closed. Her brother came slowly into the room. He nodded silently then threw himself down in a scarlet velvet armchair shaped like a vast shell.

Louise was used to seeing him return from the garage flat wearing a mingled expression of joy and pain and walking as though half his bones had been mangled. It was a relief to see him looking pretty much as normal. Or as normal as he ever looked these days.

‘How are things over there?’

‘Jax has moved into the Rectory pro tem.’ The disappointment had been keen. He had not been able even to touch the boy. ‘He’s taking care of Lionel.’

Louise felt a sudden deep pang of apprehension. She knew she ought to stop there. Say ‘how kind’ and not attempt to delve deeper. But a terrible curiosity drew her on. She longed to know why Lionel had not visited his wife. Or even contacted the hospital.

‘He must be pretty upset. Lionel, I mean.’

‘Distraught, poor chap. Doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.’

‘Has he been to see her?’

‘Oh, yes. They went this morning.’

‘They?’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Sorry. I just thought ... Ann being so ... usually more than one visitor ...’

As her tongue floundered over the words, Louise’s heart beat a little faster. By asking a question to which she already knew the answer, she had taken the single step from honesty to trickery. She stared at her brother with dismay. They had never played these sorts of games. He stared back, his glance at first speculative then thickening into suspicion.

‘Someone has to drive Lionel. That’s all I meant by “they”.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘What’s behind all this?’

‘Nothing. Just making conversation.’

‘No you’re not.’ He was on the verge of becoming angry. Louise tried to work out how best to extricate herself. Perhaps if she said she was tired and going to bed, he’d simply shrug and let go. With the old Val, there would have been no problem. But this new, damaged Val was so volatile, so ready to strike out blindly at real or imagined slights. And in this case he was right. She was not being straight with him and the suspicion was deserved. Wouldn’t it be better simply to tell him the truth?

‘I went to see Ann today.’

‘What?’

‘Around lunchtime.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I couldn’t. It was so awful, Val. Tubes and drips and machinery ... and poor Ann hardly there at all.’

‘Oh God, Lou.’

‘She’s dying, I know she is.’ Louise burst into a flood of tears. Val climbed out of the armchair, came over and put his arms round her as he had when she was a little girl. For a moment Louise allowed herself the comforting conceit that things were once more as they used to be. But then the longing for veracity, to have everything absolutely straight between them, drove her on.

‘They said ...’ She was crying so much she could hardly speak. ‘He hadn’t been to see her at all ...’

‘Who?’

‘Lionel.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Or even rung up.’

‘You talked to the wrong person. Reception changes all the time at these big places.’

‘This was the nurse at intensive care.’

Val withdrew then. First physically, the warm muscly flesh of his arms hardening until Louise felt she was being embraced by two curved planks of wood. Then disengaging his emotions.

‘I thought you’d stopped all this.’ Val’s voice was cold. He got up and moved away.

‘Val - don’t go!’

‘I thought you’d changed. That you’d begun to understand.’

‘I do,’ cried Louise.

‘Now you’re calling him a liar.’ He looked down at her with a detachment that was not entirely without sympathy. ‘I’ve asked Jax to come and live here, Louise. Whether you move out or not. You’ll just have to accept it.’

‘How can I accept something that makes you so unhappy?’

‘It’s not about being happy. It’s about being glad to be alive.’

After his sister had gone to bed and cried herself to sleep, Val sat near the window of his own room, gazing out at the great cedar tree in the driveway of the house opposite. Louise had wept so violently and for so long, he had thought she might make herself ill. Yet he did not go to her for he was unable to say what she longed to hear and knew his presence could only torment her further.

It was true what he had said about being glad to be alive. Equally true that, for a great deal of the time, he now experienced pain and fright. But the moment was long gone when he could have walked away. No question now of weighing distress against satisfaction and trying to decide if the game was worth the candle.

Dante had got it right. And von Aschenbach. Look, lust after, love and worship youth and beauty. Just don’t touch. But what about the ‘strife below the hipbones’, as he had somewhere read the sexual urge memorably described. It seemed to Val the more frequently his longing for Jax was satisfied, the more powerful it became. Tonight, sitting awkwardly in the untidy sitting room of the Old Rectory asking after Lawrence’s wife, Val had felt he was on fire.

Jax and Lionel sat facing him on a sofa that was splashed with red stains. Jax was drinking Coke, his tongue darting in and out of the glass like a fish. Each time he reached out for his glass, the dragonfly tattoo passed through a fall of light from a standard lamp and sprang to iridescent life. Lionel sat as in a waking dream: calm, smiling and looking at nothing and no one in particular.

Val did not stay long. He couldn’t bear having Jax within arm’s reach and not be able to touch him. The boy’s blazing blue eyes shone with sexual invitation. The flickering tongue, nothing but a sensual wind-up, was already driving Val mad. He prayed that Jax would offer to see him to the door, perhaps even come outside for a moment and stand close to him in the darkness. But Jax did not move. Just waved an ironical goodbye, lifting his glass.

Val had no illusions about what his life would be like when the boy moved in. Though his love for Jax was immensely powerful it was also powerless. He would give and give until it hurt. Until not only his bank balance but his heart was bled white. Jax would take, physically, emotionally and fiscally, as much as he liked for as long as it suited him. Then he would be off. He would not grow to love Mozart or Palestrina. Nor would he ever be persuaded to read a grown-up newspaper, let alone Austen or Balzac. Such Pygmalion longings Val now recognised as hopelessly foolish. Yet they were not ignoble and he could not laugh at them as he could easily have done had they been held by someone else.

This bleak clairvoyance, showing no ray of light or comfort at all, did not unduly depress Val. He liked the thought that he was prepared for anything and believed he would be able to cope when the end came even though the thought filled him with despair.

There was no one to talk to about all this. Val had several good friends, straight as well as gay, but there was not one who could possibly understand. Bruno, yes, perhaps, but he was now a cloud of dust blowing across the Quantocks where they had loved to walk. And Val, who, scattering the ashes, had thought he would die any minute, torn apart by utter loneliness, now spent every waking moment of his life longing for someone else.

He got up stiffly - Louise was quiet at last - and rubbed the muscles of his calves. He had woken that morning with a blinding headache and had not cycled either on the road or on the runners in the garage, the first time he had missed for months and his legs knew about it.

The halogen light came on in the Rectory garden. The tortoiseshell cat from the Red Lion sauntered across the grass then stopped and crouched, quite motionless. Val was on the point of turning away when he noticed the blue door was only half visible. A tall wedge of dark shadow stood in for the missing section. The door was standing open.

His heart exploding with sudden joy, Val ran out of the house across the moonlit road and up the narrow carpeted stairs. Into the darkest moments of his life.