A Place Of Safety

Chapter Seven

Barnaby took the lift down to the incident room the following morning metaphorically crossing his fingers for a lucky break. Few things were more frustrating than an absolutely static case with not a single apparent weakness that could be leaned on and worried into revelation. Perhaps Charlie’s ‘scrapbook’ would prove to be that weakness. If so, it would transform Barnaby’s temper, well to the bad after a sharp exchange with Joyce during breakfast.

‘You’re not going to the station, Tom.’ He had got up from the table, picked up his jacket and was craftily easing his way towards the door.

‘Tom!’

‘Uh huh?’

‘It’s your rest day.’

‘Something really important turned up as I was leaving yesterday.’

‘So?’

‘I thought you’d rather I handled it today than spend half last night chasing things up.’

‘Can’t someone else “handle it” and phone through?’

‘I’d rather do it my—’

‘When you’ve got your teeth into something you’re like a dog with a bone. Frightened to death someone else is going to get a bite.’

‘Rubbish.’ Barnaby fumbled for his car keys and wondered if it was true. ‘Anyway, I’m home all day tomorrow.’

‘You know the Gavestons are coming for dinner?’

He had quite forgotten. ‘Yes.’

‘Half past six, latest.’

‘Yes!’ shouted Barnaby then was sorry and attempted a conciliatory kiss.

Joyce turned her cheek away and slammed the kitchen door. Barnaby slammed the front door. He got into his Astra and slammed that door then drove aggressively to the station, which was quite unlike him. At the station he strode first to the lift and then to his office where, just to make the numbers even, he slammed that door as well.

He hoped this latest set-to didn’t mean his wife and daughter would be ganging up on him, as they were wont to do from time to time, urging early retirement. Not that he hadn’t occasionally longed for an easier life himself. In spite of the team spirit and boozy, post-shift camaraderie, the sometimes umbilically close connections and protecting of each other’s backs, the fact remained that, at least in its upper echelons, the force was a pool of sharks. Great powerful beasts swimming around, jaws snapping, tails athwack. Egoistic, fiercely competitive individuals determined to strive ahead. To divide and rule.

And old sharks had better beware. No wonder so many of these sad, exhausted creatures ended up, long before it was strictly necessary, sheltered from the fighting behind a desk at headquarters. But not this one. Too many years at the sharp end had spoiled DCI Barnaby for such cushy, toothless repose.

Emerging from the lift, the chief inspector ran into his sergeant coming out of the Gents and reeking of high tar nicotine.

‘Still testing your resistance, Troy?’

‘It’s all very well for you, sir. An addiction can be really ...’

‘Addictive?’

‘Yeah. Nobody ever praises you, do they?’

‘What?’

‘People who’ve never smoked. Maureen, for example. They don’t know what it’s like.’

Barnaby was in no mood for such whingeing. He strode ahead to the incident room, slapped a near-empty folder of notes onto his desk and stared at his dejected-looking team. It was not only dejected but somewhat depleted. He stared fiercely round the room.

‘Where’s WPC Mitchell?’

‘On her way,’ said Inspector Carter. ‘She’s been working—’

‘She shouldn’t be on her bloody way! She should be here. You.’ He jabbed a finger at a constable perched on a table. ‘Go and—’

But at that moment Katie Mitchell rushed in. All smiles, all excitement.

‘Sir! I’ve—’

‘You’re late.’

‘The courier didn’t bring the original till half five this morning. And there were so many shreds and bits, assembling it took for ever.’

‘Ah,’ said Barnaby. ‘I see.’

‘And after all that there were only six words.’

Barnaby held out his hand. WPC Mitchell came forward and placed a sheet of A4 paper in it.

‘I’ve stuck them on in the only order that makes sense, sir.’

‘So you have,’ said Barnaby, taking the ‘only order’ in. And his heart sang.

‘I saw you push her in.’

Barnaby read out the words aloud again into the silence. He could see and feel the whole room becoming charged with interest and vitality. Lethargy and disappointment were wiped out in this one single moment of revelation.

The anonymous telephone call, it now seemed, was not a hoax. The strong likelihood was that someone actually had fallen or been pushed into the Misbourne at some period shortly before 10.32 p.m. on Sunday, 16 August.

‘Does anyone have any ideas,’ asked Barnaby, ‘as to how this breakthrough might put us on fast forward?’

Sergeant Troy did not hesitate. Although his thoughts and opinions were rarely canvassed, nevertheless he kept his mind in good trim. He could not bear to be found wanting.

‘Leathers saw someone being shoved into the river and tried a spot of financial arm-twisting. Instead of paying up, whoever it was gave him a nice wire collar. Also, as one of Lionel Lawrence’s bleeding hearts disappeared at roughly the same time, I’d say the two incidents were definitely connected.’ Troy paused, suddenly feeling very exposed, and stared hard at the nearest computer screen. The analysis seemed pretty sound to him but he knew the gaffer. Barnaby had a way of slicing through a presentation, finding the weak link and snapping it back hard under your nose, like a rubber band with a pebble in it.

‘Good.’

‘Sir.’ Troy received this with a certain amount of caution. He’d been here before. Something nice then a sting from the scorpion’s tail - e.g. good - for someone with three per cent of a dead amoeba’s single brain cell.

‘Although ...’

Here we go.

‘The idea that this,’ Barnaby waved the paper, ‘is the first step to blackmail, though extremely likely, must be only supposition at this stage.’

He smiled happily around at his officers, lifted right out of his previous mood of despondency. ‘Anyone else? Yes, Inspector Carter.’

‘This nine-nine-nine call, sir. Maybe it was made by whoever did the pushing. They might have panicked. Had second thoughts.’

‘A rescue would hardly be in their interest,’ said Sergeant Brierley. ‘They could end up being accused of assault, or worse.’

‘Whoever it was could have fallen in accidentally,’ suggested Troy. ‘During a fight, say.’

‘That’s no lever for blackmail.’

‘Oh, yeah. Got it.’ I’m not saying another word during this briefing. Not a bloody word.

‘Right,’ said Barnaby. ‘Now, I want the tape of this anonymous call from force headquarters, so somebody get on to Kidlington. Also a copy of the report submitted by the investigation team who were called out to the river. Then we’ll start yet another house-to-house at Ferne Basset - leave out the Old Rectory, I’ll be calling there myself - plus the other two villages in the triangle, Swan Myrren and Martyr Bunting. Check on any sounds of disturbance heard between the hours of nine o’clock, say, and midnight. Bear in mind that could be anywhere - not necessarily on or near the river. Arguments travel.

‘As do floaters. So we’ll have to fax not just all our stations but borderline counties as well - Oxford, Wiltshire. And notify the river authorities. They might even run a search if we’re in luck. And I want an examination of the river bank as far as the weir but starting in the village. This is where Leathers walked his dog so I should imagine this is where he saw her pushed in. Plus a check on all the hospitals and morgues in that area. They may have had a drowning during the past six days. Don’t forget the outpatients’ register. She could well have climbed out or been fished out, needed medical treatment then been sent home. Wherever that proves to be.’

‘Do we specifically ask about a young woman, sir?’ asked Constable Phillips.

‘No. I don’t want it narrowed down at this stage. We’re still only guessing.’ Barnaby waved his A4 sheet with the six-word message briefly in the air before laying it on his desk. ‘I want copies of this on the board. Will someone please get Mrs Pauline Grantham’s prints, for elimination, and Leathers’ for confirmation. Also I want the phone box at Ferne Basset printed though I suspect after six days it’ll be a waste of time.’

As they all moved off, Barnaby sat back in his chair, eyes closed for a few moments of recapitulation. He decided to apply for a search warrant. It might be a good idea to look over the girl’s room and he could imagine Lawrence’s reaction should he turn up without the correct authority. Meanwhile ...

‘Troy.’

‘Sir.’ Sergeant Troy scrambled quickly to his feet.

‘Mars bar.’

Hetty Leathers was anxious to get back to work. She was surprised, after Pauline had returned home to her husband and children, how much she missed the company. Though Hetty would be the last person to suggest that an unhappy marriage was better than no marriage at all, there was no doubt you got used to having another human being around the place. Pauline rang every evening and the whole family would be over at the weekend but it wasn’t quite the same.

The second reason was money. Hetty was in the deeply embarrassing position of being unable to pay for her husband’s funeral. She had been horrified to discover exactly how much it would cost. Her only savings, just over two hundred pounds, had been penny-pinched from the housekeeping over the years. Occasionally there was a pound or two left at the end of the week; mainly there was nothing.

Candy was still showing great distress if Hetty as much as left the room so Ann Lawrence suggested she brought the dog to work with her. Ann drove down to the end of the lane, Hetty carried the dog to the car wrapped in her blanket and Candy spent the day in an old armchair by the Aga.

This was where she was lying, fast asleep, when Barnaby and Troy arrived. Barnaby noticed the garage was empty and was not entirely displeased. Presumably Jackson was driving the Reverend Lawrence about his business, which meant that Mrs Lawrence would be by herself.

He recalled their first meeting. Her shocked recoil when she understood who they were. Her extreme wariness during their questioning and hasty willingness to show them out. This time he would have a button to press. And he would press it. Hard.

But it was Hetty Leathers who opened the door and explained that both the Lawrences were out. She was very apologetic.

‘We’d also like a word with you, Mrs Leathers.’ Barnaby smiled, suddenly in the hall. ‘If that’s all right?’

‘Well.’ She stared anxiously at Sergeant Troy who was closing the heavy front door behind him. ‘I am working.’

‘Kitchen, is it?’

Now they were just as suddenly in the kitchen. Troy exclaimed with genuine pleasure at the sight of the little dog.

‘She’s getting better?’

‘Yes. The vet said ...’

Barnaby let them run on for a moment. It would relax Mrs Leathers, which might help when it came to answering questions. For himself, he was not really interested in animals unless well-stuffed, preferably with sage and onion and a nice strip of crackling on the side.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Both policemen said yes and sat round the long, worn deal table to drink it. There was a plate of biscuits too. Hetty, looking puzzled but interested, passed the sugar bowl. Troy took several spoonfuls, stirred then discreetly removed his notebook from his jacket pocket and placed it on his knee.

‘What did you want, Inspector? Is it about Charlie again?’

‘Not directly, Mrs Leathers. I’d like you to tell us, if you would, about the young girl who was recently staying here.’

‘Carlotta?’

‘I understand she ran away.’

‘Good riddance,’ said Hetty. ‘She should never have been here in the first place, a girl like that.’

‘Was she here long?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘Too long,’ said Hetty. Then, when Barnaby smiled encouragingly, ‘A couple of months.’

‘What sort of person was she?’

‘Two-faced. Talked to people like dirt unless the Rev was around, then butter wouldn’t melt.’

The performance sounded familiar. Barnaby picked up the connection and followed it through. ‘What about Jax, though? Two young people - I presume they got on?’

‘No.’ Hetty, deeply grudging, added, ‘It’s the one good thing you could say about the girl. She couldn’t stand him.’

‘Not one of your favourites either, then?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘Gives me the creeps. Mrs Lawrence won’t have him in the house and I don’t blame her.’

‘Has that always been the case?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean, did something specific happen to cause it?’

‘No. She put her foot down right from the beginning. Mind you, he got in the other day - Wednesday morning, I think it was. I went into the dining room to clear and there he was, leaning up against the door as if he owned the place. And poor Mrs Lawrence trembling and shaking like a leaf. I soon saw him off, I can tell you.’

Troy wrote Wednesday’s date down, catching the chief’s eye. It was gleaming with interested curiosity.

‘Did she say what he wanted?’

‘Something about the connecting phone not working. Load of rubbish.’

Barnaby waited a moment but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming on the subject so he turned the conversation back to Carlotta.

‘Do you know anything about this girl’s background? Where she originally came from, perhaps?’

‘She come from where they all come from. That charity trust what the vicar’s involved with.’ Hetty drank some of her own tea and pushed the hazelnut biscuits in Sergeant Troy’s direction. ‘Ask me, it’s money chucked down the drain. Why can’t it go towards decent kids trying to make their way in the world?’

‘You’re right there, Mrs Leathers.’ Sergeant Troy wolfed three biscuits.

‘I understand that Carlotta disappeared after an argument,’ said Barnaby. ‘Do you happen to know what it was about?’

‘No I don’t and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I’m not discussing Mrs Lawrence behind her back.’

‘I wouldn’t expect—’

‘That woman’s a saint, what she’s had to put up with.’

Ruffled feathers. There was a small silence. Barnaby nodded at the last statement, looking extremely sympathetic. Troy smiled and winked at the dog who had woken up. Candy yawned back at him. The chief inspector tentatively put another question.

‘Did visitors call here to see Carlotta? Friends or relatives?’

‘Not that I know of. She had the odd letter - airmail, from abroad. I won’t tell you what she did with them.’

Plainly this was a threat without foundation. Both policemen waited patiently.

Hetty said, ‘Straight in the fire.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Barnaby.

‘Never even opened. I said to her one day, that might be important. What if someone’s died?’

‘How did she take that?’ asked Troy, stirring it.

‘Told me to mind my own blankety-blank business.’ Hetty got up quickly then and started collecting the teacups. ‘I’ve got to get on.’

She put the rest of the biscuits back in the tin under Troy’s wistful gaze then took the teapot to the sink. Barnaby guessed that, although she had actually said very little, she was worried about having said too much. Perhaps of being disloyal. He decided to leave it for now. Should there be a next time he would talk to her at home where there might be less constraint. Troy replaced his notebook and started re-buttoning his jacket.

‘Do you have any idea when Mrs Lawrence might be back?’

‘She shouldn’t be too long,’ said Hetty. She had turned the taps full on now and Barnaby did not catch the words: ‘She’s had to go to the bank.’

He waited until she had turned them off then asked if he might look over Carlotta’s room.

There was a deeply embarrassed silence. Finally Hetty, not looking him in the eye, said, ‘I don’t want to seem rude, Inspector, but aren’t you supposed to have a ... er ... something ...’

‘I shall have a warrant later today, Mrs Leathers, but it would really save time if we could—’

‘I just don’t think the Reverend would like it.’

He’ll have to lump it then, thought Sergeant Troy. He spent a pleasant few moments picturing Lionel lumping it and rather hoped Mrs L would stand firm. But he was to be disappointed.

‘He won’t have a choice,’ warned Barnaby, ‘when we come back after lunch.’

‘Well ... I should have to be present,’ said Hetty, adding quickly, ‘No offence.’

‘We would expect you to be,’ Sergeant Troy assured her.

And Barnaby said, ‘Could you show us the way, please?’

It was a long climb to the attic. The first two sweeping staircases had wide and shallow steps, carpeted with deep blue and red Axminster patterned in the Turkish style and so faded in places its backing showed through. The banisters were solid dark oak ending in huge octagonal lantern shapes with large carved acorns on top.

‘Mrs Lawrence used to slide down these,’ said Hetty.

‘Mrs Lawrence?’ Troy stared at the wide gleaming bars in amazement.

‘When she was little.’

‘Ah.’ He felt foolish and covered up quickly. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been here so long.’

‘She used to put a cushion at the end. One day her father took it away and she really hurt herself.’

‘What, on purpose?’

Hetty chose not to reply.

Having paused on the first landing for a breather, Barnaby said, ‘You must have started straight from school.’

‘That’s right,’ said Hetty. ‘Fifteen I was. All my friends thought I was daft, coming to work here. They were off getting jobs in Boots or Woollies or some office or other.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

‘I don’t like those big places, full of people crowding you - foreigners as like as not - all gossip and backbiting. I wanted a quiet, orderly job with a nice family.’

Barnaby had started climbing again. Hetty followed, with Troy bringing up the rear, gazing about him. He was amazed at how much old stuff there was about. Dark, dreary oil paintings like you get in museums. Little carved brass tables. A big gong on a stand and a padded drumstick, the head wrapped in linen. Plus a fully-grown crocodile in a glass case. It was covered all over by cracked squares of shiny caramel-coloured skin. The beast was smiling, flashing hundreds of winky, twinkly teeth.

‘Keep up, Sergeant.’

‘Sorry.’ Troy hurried across the second landing. The chief and Hetty Leathers were about to ascend a much more steep and narrow set of stairs covered in fawn haircord. There were only about a dozen steps leading to a white painted door. This was of the cheapest type, available from any B & Q. Plywood, hollow inside, with a silver-coloured oxide handle. It was closed.

As Hetty reached out, Barnaby touched her arm.

‘Have you been in here since Carlotta disappeared?’

‘No. She wouldn’t let me - Mrs Lawrence. Said she’d see to it.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘It certainly is.’ Hetty clucked gently. ‘I was quite put out, I don’t mind admitting.’

‘And has she? Seen to it?’

‘Not to my understanding. But then, I don’t live in so I wouldn’t know everything she does.’ She turned the handle and opened the door. All three stood staring into the room’s interior.

Eventually Hetty said, ‘Well! I’ve seen some messes in my time but I’ve never seen anything like this.’ She sucked in another highly indignant breath. ‘Filthy young madam.’

Troy, never one to create a newly minted epigram when a well-worn one was to hand, muttered, ‘Looks like a bomb’s gone off.’

Barnaby said nothing. He was recalling what the Lawrences had said at their first interview. He remembered Lionel putting the blame for Carlotta’s departure on his wife. There had been a disturbance. She and the girl had had ‘an argument’. Some argument.

Once again he put his hand on Hetty’s arm, this time as she was about to step inside the room.

‘I think the fewer people walking around the better, Mrs Leathers.’

‘If that’s what you want, Inspector.’ Hetty positioned herself firmly in the centre of the doorway. She kept her eye on both policemen while they were together and on Troy when they had separated to different parts of the room. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.

If Barnaby had not known the circumstances he would have assumed he was looking at the aftermath of a burglary. There was the same sense of wild, angry searching, clothes ripped from hangers and flung all over the floor, magazines - Minx, Sugar, 19 - torn to shreds, posters ripped off the walls and torn across. He picked up a couple. The names - All Saints, Kavana, Puff Daddy - meant nothing to him. Since Cully had left home eight years ago, he was totally out of touch.

All the drawers from a small chest had been pulled out and flung across the room, the contents lying where they fell. Cosmetics, underwear, a loose tangle of tights, a pink plastic hair dryer. Brushes, rollers, combs. The place smelt pungently of cheap hair spray overlying a more pleasant, peachy fragrance.

Troy, agitating the corner of the prettily flowered duvet, released a cloud of tawny dust. Then he saw several little piles of it on the bed and the floor. If this was junk it was a new one on him. He bent down and sniffed.

‘She’s been chucking face powder about, chief.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be much that she hasn’t chucked about.’

‘That girl always did have a paddy on her,’ said Hetty. ‘There’s the box - look.’

Barnaby picked up the box, Rimmel’s Honeybun, and put it carefully on the bedside table. Troy, noticing this, went to the far side of the room, retrieved a cushion that belonged to the single armchair and just as carefully replaced it.

‘Don’t touch anything, Sergeant.’

The times I have to bite my tongue, thought Troy, it could double as a sieve. He watched the chief, who was standing by the little porthole window, apparently lost in thought.

But Troy knew what the DCI was really doing. And there was a time, some years since admitted, when he would have attempted to do the same. To observe the scene, noticing every minute detail, to attempt to bring the drama which had brought such destruction about to life. To put flesh on the antagonist’s bones.

Yes, Troy had had a go at all that. But he had so rarely been right and so often monumentally wrong (once he had arrested a shady antiques dealer on suspicion of stealing the local church’s ornaments, only to find it was the vicar) that he soon gave up. As he put it to Maureen, ‘With an ace fishmonger on the doorstep why struggle to catch your own?’

Barnaby was wondering if he had made a mistake asking Mrs Leathers to show him Carlotta’s room. He thought about the coming interview with Ann Lawrence and was beginning to feel it might have been better to arrive with a search warrant and enter the place with her at his side. He would have had a reaction then. Been able to watch the play of expression on her face as he moved around. Getting warmish, warm, warmer! Getting cool, no - cold, icy, brrr!

Irritated, he put the image aside. This was pure fantasy. If she had anything at all to hide there’d been ample time to clean up the place. But perhaps it had never occurred to her that the police might wish to see where Carlotta had lived. Possibly the experience of their extremely violent parting had left her unwilling, perhaps even unable, to enter the room again. Yes, that was more like it.

A heavy sigh and an ostentatious clearing of the throat from the doorway returned him to the present.

‘Mrs Leathers,’ said the chief inspector, ‘thank you for being so patient.’ He nodded at Troy and both men moved towards the door.

‘No trouble, Inspector. Only I must get on.’

As they walked away from the house, Troy, father of one, female, four years, three months, nine days, said, ‘You’ve got a daughter, sir. Was her room ever like that?’

‘Pretty near,’ said Barnaby. ‘The cat had kittens in it once and we didn’t find them for three weeks.’

‘Blimey.’ Troy looked sideways at the boss. He seemed to be smiling but you could never be sure. ‘You’re exaggerating. Aren’t you?’

‘Only slightly.’

Ann’s branch of Lloyd’s in Causton not only still had a manager actually in residence but was also open for three hours on alternate Saturday mornings. Richard Ainsley had an office with his designation on the door and a polished wooden Toblerone on his desk with his name printed in gold. Ainsley had known Ann a long time, as he had her father. He had met her husband too, whom he didn’t much like. As Ann had anticipated, he was prepared to lend her what she needed against the security of the house. But she was very surprised at the high rate of interest.

‘It won’t take long to draw up the agreement. If you’ll call in perhaps next Thursday, Mrs Lawrence—’

‘I have to have it now!’ Ann realised she was almost shouting, leaning over the manager’s desk. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Ainsley.’ She sat back, her face scarlet. ‘I don’t know what ... I’m sorry.’

Mr Ainsley was not unused to emotional outbursts. Money was the fulcrum on which most people’s lives turned. When it seemed to be slipping away, they panicked. Understandably. But he had handled Ann Lawrence’s financial affairs since the death of her father and was both surprised and mildly distressed to find her in such a predicament. Naturally he wondered what the money could be for. Hardly a conservatory or a new kitchen, two of the most common seductions currently turning up on loan applications. Or a holiday in the Bahamas, though heaven knows she looked as if she could do with one. None of these would give rise to such desperation.

‘This is quite a lot of money, Ann.’ He decided not to mention the withdrawal, only days ago, of a thousand from her current account. ‘Over what sort of period do you see it being repaid?’

‘Oh - very quickly.’ Ann stared across the desk at this round little man with his neat hair and neat, gold-rimmed glasses and neat moustache. All puffed out with his own importance. Pompous, stuffy, fatuous, long-winded rolypoly pudding. And to think in a previous life she had rather liked him. Even been grateful for his kindness. ‘Actually, someone has died. There are funeral expenses to look after. But I am mentioned in the ... er ... will. Remembered, that is. So there won’t be any ... problem ...’

Concerned though he was, Richard Ainsley decided to call a halt to this wretched business. He could not bear to hear her lying. He suggested a repayment period of six months and, when she agreed, produced a form, quickly filled it in and asked her to sign it. Then he rang the chief cashier to clear payment.

‘I need it in cash, Mr Ainsley.’

‘Cash?’

Ann was hurrying blindly away from the bank, the envelope safely in the bottom of her handbag, when she collided with Louise Fainlight who was just turning away from the cash point.

After the automatic apologies and awkward hellos, neither woman knew what to say. Both were recalling their last meeting. Louise remembered that Ann had asked her to the house and then not wanted her there. Ann remembered thinking it could well be Louise who was doing the blackmailing.

She thought it again now. Thought it with the money held close to her side, burning through the soft beige leather of her handbag. Was this meeting really a coincidence? Or a determined attempt to check that she was actually doing what she had been instructed to do. A sudden wild impulse seized Ann. A mad urge to confront Louise. Brandish the notes in her face. Shout, ‘Here it is! Is this what you want? Is it?’

Appalled, she turned away, mumbling something vague. Pretending she needed the cash machine herself; standing in front of it while Louise walked away. Then, becoming aware that a small queue had formed and that people were staring at her strangely, she stepped aside. Blushing, and on the verge of tears, she affected to look in her handbag for some lost item.

She felt she was losing her mind. The events of the previous few days suddenly overwhelmed her with a kaleidoscope of fear-filled, violent images and sly murmurings. She stared suspiciously at people passing her on the pavement. Coolly they turned aside, pretending indifference and that the whispering was none of their doing, but she knew that secretly they were all laughing at her.

Shortly after their strange encounter outside the bank, Louise was driving out of Causton when she saw Ann crossing the road in a wandering sort of way. Her immediate impulse was to offer a lift. She even took her foot off the accelerator and started to brake. But there was something so strange about Ann’s appearance. One hand gripped the edges of her coat, pulling them fiercely together although the day was quite mild. The other was hovering in front of her mouth like a fluttering bird. Even so, Louise could see her lips moving. She was frowning, too, and shaking her head.

Louise drove on. She had her own problems which were rapidly becoming quite severe. This was no time to try and cope with a person not only plainly distraught but who also, Louise was now convinced, didn’t even like her.

She had not expected to have to come into Causton, especially on market day, and had no ready cash. From the first, Louise had insisted on sharing all the bills at her brother’s house and paying the housekeeping alternate weeks. This was her week. She had run out of various items and, a certain cautious friendliness having been reestablished between herself and Val, last night she had asked him for some money to tide her over. He said he didn’t have any. Unthinking and genuinely puzzled, Louise said, ‘But you went to the bank only the other day.’ She remembered picking up the withdrawal slip from the the kitchen floor and throwing it in the bin. It had been for four hundred pounds.

Within seconds the atmosphere changed, becoming thick with anger and resentment.

‘I am getting absolutely sick of this!’ Valentine almost spat out the words.

‘Of what?’

‘Of you. And your constant bloody criticism.’

‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘It is your week to pay for the food. Right?’

‘Forget it. I’ll drive into town.’

‘If you don’t want to pay your way—’

‘That’s a rotten thing to say.’ Now she was raising her voice. ‘I’ve paid my way ever since I arrived, as well you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Where else d’you think my savings have been going?’ As she spoke, Louise had a sudden sickening knowledge of what had happened to Valentine’s four hundred pounds. And knew that the awareness showed on her face.

There was a formidable quietness between them then Valentine said, ‘I can’t cope with all these rows. I have work to do.’ Deliberately he turned his back on her, walking away towards the stairs. ‘I mean it, Lou. I’ve just about had enough.’

Louise, shaking with resentment and distress, couldn’t bear to remain in the house. She made her way to the garden and sat down by the pool. What was she to do now?

Anger at the injustice of her brother’s remarks had already evaporated. In its place flooded childhood memories. Always their parents’ favourite, Valentine had rarely taken advantage of his position. Appreciating the unfairness of the situation even when very young, he had constantly attempted to rejig the balance, praising paintings she brought home from school that her mother barely glanced at, helping with her homework, talking his father into letting her tag along when they went fishing. For her fifth birthday he had made a little wooden box painted with starfish and baby seals which she still treasured. And, nicest of all, he had always been able to make her laugh.

At this final recollection, Louise started to cry. She wept bitterly, her eyes open and without wiping her tears away, as children do. At her feet, glittering in the dark reflected water, the golden carp swam heavily up and down.

Watching them was quite hypnotic. Gradually, the austere formality of the garden laid a calming hold on her emotions. The weeping became spasmodic then dried to a sad sniffle. Her heartbeats were more measured. She sat on for perhaps another half-hour, gradually becoming more peaceful.

But what to do now? Plainly Valentine was very unhappy, which meant Louise was unhappy too. But if he did not want her around, how could she properly stay? Surely this strangely violent transformation must be temporary - the alternative did not bear thinking of - and when it was over, he would be quite alone. Perhaps she could move just a short way away, to one of the neighbouring villages. She could afford to rent a small house or flat.

Anger seized her at the thought of the man responsible for all this disruption and her brother’s wretched state. Before Jax came, they had been contented, their lives orderly and pleasurable. Then the anger drained away and she began to feel frightened, as if her whole life had been suddenly menaced.

DCI Barnaby and Sergeant Troy were having a very pleasant lunch at the Red Lion: steak and kidney pudding with fluffy mashed potatoes and garden peas. And a dessert made from tinned fruit salad, sponge cake and raspberry jam, grandly calling itself Raspberry and Apricot Pavlova.

‘Know anything about Pavlova, Sergeant?’ asked the chief inspector, moving a dirty ashtray from a table by the window.

‘I know you don’t get much for three quid.’

‘One of the greatest dancers that ever lived.’

‘That right?’ Troy seized his irons and set to.

‘Famous for her interpretation of a dying swan.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Troy politely.

‘It’s said that people who saw it were never quite the same again.’ Barnaby drank a little of his Russian stout which was delicious. ‘And she was at it till the day she died.’

‘Why is it,’ asked Sergeant Troy, sawing gently away, ‘that kidneys always squeak when you cut into them?’

Although Barnaby had not introduced himself at the bar and was wearing an ordinary, dark blue business suit and plain tie and polished black Oxfords, he knew that they knew he was a copper. And not just because he had already been seen around the village questioning people.

Sometimes Barnaby thought he wore an insignia, like the mark of Cain. Invisible to himself but screaming to the rest of the world This Man Is A Policeman. He did not exaggerate. Once he had been having dinner with Joyce in a restaurant they had never been to before. Halfway through his Lobster Armoricaine the manager had come over to say they were having a bit of trouble with a drunk who would not pay his bill and what did Barnaby advise?

Here in the Red Lion they were being not noticed in the studied way people sometimes decide not to notice if a famous person happens to be within their sight range. Not impressed, not even interested. Better things to do with their time.

‘They’re quick on the house-to-house.’ Sergeant Troy, who had just started on his raspberry sponge, nodded, grinning towards the door. ‘Our wooden tops.’

Two uniformed constables from Barnaby’s team had come in and were talking to the landlord and a couple of locals at the bar. Troy noticed, to his chagrin, that the landlord was offering the plods a drink. Which they refused. Quite right too.

‘You were one yourself once.’

Troy, scraping his bowl, did not respond. He preferred to forget this inglorious period in his glittering career. Instructed now to ‘drink up’, he drained his boring alcohol-free lager and shrugged into his elegant, lightweight jacket.

As he made his way towards the door, he noticed two very attractive women at the bar. The force was with them, having a laugh and a joke. One of the policemen caught Troy’s eye. The sergeant moved his head slightly to indicate who was bringing up the rear. One look of dismayed disbelief and the uniform scrambled to its feet, thanked the landlord loudly for his help and legged it.

‘What are you chortling at?’

Chortling. Where did he find them? Troy decided to look it up in Talisa Leanne’s dictionary when he got home. Chortling. The more you said it, the wonkier it sounded.

‘You going to follow up on Mrs Lawrence now, sir?’

Barnaby mumbled something inaudible. He was seething with bad temper and all directed against himself. Throughout lunch he had become more and more convinced that the apprehension he had entertained while in Carlotta’s room - that perhaps he should have waited until Mrs Lawrence returned to see it with him - had been correct.

He knew now he should have waited if it took all day. And interviewed her before she had had a chance to find out from Hetty Leathers why the police were in the house. Now he had thrown away one of the most important weapons in the interrogator’s armoury - surprise.

As it happens, he was wrong. Hetty and Candy had been collected by Evadne Pleat just before twelve for a lift to the vet’s. Ann did not return for another hour and so knew nothing about his earlier visit. Even so, luck was still against the chief inspector, though for quite a different reason.

The Humber Hawk was in the drive and a light on in the garage flat. But Barnaby decided to tackle the Lawrences first, feeling it more likely that information would be revealed that would be of use in Jackson’s interview than the other way round.

Once more Troy swung on the old-fashioned bell. If anything, the paintwork on the front door looked even more flaky. On the bottom section there was a strip of it actually curling away from the wood.

Lionel Lawrence himself opened the door. He gazed at them with a puzzled expression, as if he was sure he had seen them somewhere before but not quite where. His white hair was slightly more tidy than the last time but he had compensated for this by wearing an extremely colourful, very long hand-knitted scarf, fraying not only at the edges but all down one side.

‘DCI Barnaby.’

‘Sergeant Troy.’

‘Hmm,’ said Lionel, turning and striding back into the house. His floor-length lovat overcoat, divided at the back from the waist down, flapped vigorously behind flashing a Black Watch tartan lining.

As the door had been left standing open, the policemen followed and found their way to Lionel Lawrence’s study. Ann Lawrence was sitting in a pale blue wing chair by the window. Very still and calm. Unnaturally so, thought Barnaby. He saw her frown and struggle to remember who they were. For a moment he thought she was drunk.

‘Have you found out something?’ asked Lionel Lawrence. ‘Is there news of Carlotta?’

This bloke wants to get his priorities right. Sergeant Troy dug out his notebook and stared severely at the dishevelled parson. We’ve got a murder on our plate here. Then he remembered they might have two murders on their plate if the girl had really drowned and felt minimally less impatient.

Barnaby said, ‘It’s possible.’

‘Oh! Did you hear that, my dear?’ Lionel beamed at his wife who turned her head slowly and with great care towards all of them. ‘There is news about Carlotta.’

‘Carlotta. How lovely.’ The words were slow and thick and unnaturally isolated, one from the other. There was a long pause. ‘Lovely.’

Ann had to struggle to hold the three figures in the room in some sort of focus. Although solid enough in themselves, they seemed to move in an improbable way. Looming forward and retreating, like people in a dream. Their voices echoed slightly.

She had overheard the doctor warning Lionel that she might feel slightly disoriented at first. He had given her an injection and there were some tablets to take three times a day. They were tranquillisers and they certainly worked. She had never felt so tranquil in her life. In fact she felt so tranquil she would have been happy to slip into unconsciousness and never come round again.

It was Jax who had spotted his employer’s wife as he was driving Lionel home. Ann was pacing round and round the taxi rank outside Causton library, her head wagging like a broken doll’s. Lionel leapt out of the car and ran to her. Ann flung herself at him, locked her arms round his neck and started shrieking. Jax had helped get her into the car then driven directly to the doctor’s.

‘Is your wife not well, Mr Lawrence?’ Barnaby asked.

‘Ann?’ inquired Lionel, as if she was only one of many. ‘Just a little run down. Tell me—’

‘I was hoping to talk to her about the day Carlotta disappeared.’

Carlotta ... Something swam to the surface of Ann’s mind. A slender white shape. A human arm. It curved upwards, a half-moon gleaming against the dark, then sank without a trace.

‘Mrs Lawrence, do you remember what happened before she left? I believe there was an argument.’

Hopeless. Whatever she’d been given was powerful stuff. Barnaby thought it seemed to have been ideally timed to stop her talking to him then told himself not to be melodramatic. No one at the Old Rectory could have known about the police’s reconstruction of the blackmail letter. Or the new direction the case had taken. He turned his attention to Lionel Lawrence.

‘Could you give me any details, sir?’

‘I’m afraid not. The night it happened I was at a meeting till quite late. When I got home, Ann was asleep. How she could have just gone to bed with that poor child ...’ Lionel shook his head at this sad abrogation of his wife’s duty. ‘The foxes have holes and the birds of the air—’

‘But surely you discussed it the next day.’

Lionel’s face became set in a moonish stubbornness. The chief inspector simply raised an interrogatory eyebrow and waited. Troy, seated with his notebook at a satinwood card table, inhaled with pleasure the mellow natural scent of beeswax. And watched.

He was good at waiting, the gaffer. Once he’d kept it up for nearly ten minutes. Troy, who had no more patience than a two-year-old, asked him how he did it. Barnaby explained that he simply absented himself. Naturally one had to keep eye contact and maintain an intent, sometimes even slightly threatening posture but within these limits the mind could do its own thing. One of the most useful, he found, was listing gardening jobs for the weekend.

Poor old Lawrence just wasn’t up to it. He didn’t last ten seconds, let alone ten minutes.

‘Apparently Ann thought Carlotta had borrowed some earrings. She questioned the girl, obviously very clumsily. Naturally Carlotta got frightened—’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘If she hadn’t—’

‘You don’t understand,’ cried the Reverend Lawrence. ‘For someone of her background to be wrongfully accused is a deeply traumatic—’

‘And you believe it was wrongfully, Mr Lawrence?’ asked Barnaby.

‘I know it was.’ Sounding unchristianly smug and self-righteous. ‘Ann is notoriously careless. People are who’ve never known want.’

‘Still, such things do happen,’ said Troy, feeling sorry for the devastated, long gone Mrs Lawrence. In return he got an incredulous stare awarding him ten out of ten for sensitivity plus bonus points for tender loving care.

‘Could you tell us something about her background, Mr Lawrence?’ asked the chief inspector.

‘It’s all on record at the Caritas Agency.’

‘Yes, and we shall be talking to them. But right now I’m talking to you.’

The Reverend looked rather taken aback at the sudden hardening of his interrogator’s voice.

‘I don’t see how prying into the girl’s past will help find her.’ He blinked weakly. ‘Everyone has a clean slate here.’

‘I believe she often received airmail letters.’

‘Oh, I doubt that, you know.’ Lawrence smiled indulgently.

‘Apparently she threw them away unopened,’ added Sergeant Troy.

‘Who on earth told you such a story?’ It didn’t take him long to run through the possible suspects. ‘I’m surprised you attend to servants’ gossip, Inspector.’

This brought a response from the blue armchair. Ann Lawrence gave a muffled cry and struggled to sit up. She tried to speak but her tongue, a huge lump of inert flesh in her mouth, would hardly move.

‘Herry ... no ... not ... serv ...’

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ He crossed over to his wife, propelled, it seemed to Barnaby, more by annoyance at her behaviour than care for her wellbeing. ‘We must get you upstairs, Ann.’ He glared at the two policemen who stared stolidly back. ‘If you want to talk to myself or my wife again you can make an appointment in the proper manner.’

‘That’s not how it works, I’m afraid, sir,’ said the chief inspector. ‘And I have to inform you that if you remain uncooperative, any future interviews could well be taking place at the station.’

‘We’ll have to watch our step there, chief,’ said Troy with a chuckle in his voice as they were crossing the gravel. ‘Him and his fancy handshake connections.’

Barnaby commented briefly on the Reverend Lawrence’s Masonic connections, employing the vividly concise gift for imagery and pithy dialogue that made his subordinates so apprehensive of getting a summons to his office.

Troy had a good laugh and went over the retort a few times to make sure he remembered it to pass on in the canteen. By the time he’d got this well and truly sorted, they were standing by the door of the garage flat.

This time he had seen them coming. Seen the car, seen them go into the main house. He would be well prepared. Barnaby, recalling the interruption from Lawrence on the last occasion they talked to Jackson, trusted the Reverend would be spending the next twenty minutes or so remonstrating with his wife.

Sergeant Troy’s thoughts were running along precisely the same lines. One more up-chucking display of snivelling hypocrisy from the chauffeur and he could see the Red Lion’s Apricot and Raspberry Pavlova suddenly forming a tasteful mosaic on the smart cream carpet. And he would not be cleaning it up.

The door was opened. Jackson stood there wearing a silvery tweed jacket and black cotton polo neck sweater. His face wore an expression of unguarded candour. ‘And to think when you said you’d be back, Inspector, I thought you was just stringing me along.’

‘Mr Jackson.’

‘Terry to you.’ He stood politely aside and they all went upstairs.

The flat looked pretty much the same as the last time they were here except for a new ironing board leaning up against a wall by the kitchen. Both the kitchen and bathroom doors were wide open as if to deny they had anything to conceal. There was a copy of yesterday’s Daily Star sunny side up on the coffee table.

Jackson sat on the settee. His manner was bland and compliant. But his eyes were keenly focused and Barnaby noticed he sat well forward, hands resting lightly on his knees, the fingers curled like a sprinter.

‘Do you always drive Mr Lawrence, Terry?’

Jackson looked surprised then wary. Whatever he had expected, it had not been this.

‘Yes. Me or Mrs L. He never got round to learning.’

‘Tell me what happened today.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Everything leading up to this doctor’s visit.’

Jackson hesitated. ‘I don’t know that Mr Lawrence would like that.’

‘I’ll either get it here or down the nick,’ said Chief Inspector Barnaby. ‘It’s up to you.’

So Terry Jackson told them how he had been bringing Lionel back from a meeting at Causton council offices to discuss improvements to the training of magistrates. Driving along the High Street they had spotted his wife wandering about in a high old state. Lionel had tried to get her into the car but she had started shouting and waving her arms about.

‘Shouting about what?’

‘Nothing that made any sense.’

‘Come on. Something must have made sense.’

‘No, honestly. It was all jumbled up. Then I got out to help but that just seemed to make her worse.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ muttered Sergeant Troy.

‘At first Lionel asked me to drive home but then he changed his mind. Their doctor’s at Swan Myrren, Patterson, and we went directly there. He saw her straightaway. Must have given her a whacking shot of something. She was like a zombie when she came out.’

‘Then what?’

‘Stopped off at the chemist’s for a prescription and drove back here.’

‘Do you know why she went into Causton?’

‘No.’

A hair’s breadth of hesitation. He knew and he didn’t want to tell them. Good. A minuscule scrap of progress. Barnaby paused, considering whether to make anything of this now or save it for later. He decided to wait, noting, with some satisfaction, that Jackson’s forehead was now lightly beaded with sweat.

Changing tack entirely, he said, ‘There was a young girl staying here until a few days ago.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Carlotta? A stuck-up bitch.’

‘You didn’t hit it off then?’ said Sergeant Troy.

‘Thought she was above me. And she was nobody, right? Come through the system same as I did.’

‘Turned you down, did she?’ suggested Barnaby.

‘She didn’t get a fucking chance!’

‘That make you angry?’

Having responded to the jibe apparently without thinking, they now watched Jackson step back. He said, carefully, ‘I never came on to her. I told you. She weren’t my type.’

‘D’you know why she ran away?’

‘No.’

‘Lawrence never discussed it with you?’

‘None of my business, was it?’

‘What about Mrs Lawrence?’

‘Do me a favour.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Troy’s fingers gave a little snap of pretend recollection. ‘She won’t have you in the house. That right?’

‘Bollocks.’ Jackson sullenly turned away from them and started chewing the inside of his right cheek.

‘There is a possibility that she may not have run away at all,’ said Barnaby.

‘You what?’

Sergeant Troy took up the story. ‘We received a report, at roughly the same time she was supposed to have gone, that someone had fallen into the river.’

‘That wouldn’t have been Carlotta.’ Jackson laughed for the first time. ‘She’s far too sharp. Always looking out for number one.’

Look who’s talking, thought Troy. He repeated himself: ‘Fallen. Or been pushed.’

‘Well, it weren’t me. I were in Causton the night you’re on about. Waiting to collect Lionel from a meeting.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘Pure as the driven, I am.’

Barnaby remembered his mother saying that when he was little. Pure as the driven slush. He wasn’t unduly depressed by Jackson’s story. Presumably the man had had time to squander while hanging around and Ferne Basset was only a twenty-minute drive at the most. Less if you put your foot down. And he had no alibi for the crime that truly did exist. The murder of Charlie Leathers.

Barnaby got up then and Troy, rather disappointed, did the same. Almost at the door the DCI turned with one of his ‘gosh I almost forgot’ starts. These were invariably followed by a laboured rendering of ‘by the way’. Troy always got a kick out of this little number. An absolute hoot which would not have deceived a baby.

‘Oh, by the way ...’

‘You’re not going?’ said Jackson. ‘I was about to put the kettle on.’ He gave a shout of spiteful laughter.

‘A bit of news about Mr Leathers,’ Barnaby pressed on.

‘Charlie?’ Jackson spoke absently. He seemed miles away. ‘You got anybody in the frame yet for that, Inspector?’

You had to hand it to the bastard, thought Sergeant Troy. He’d got more front than Wembley Stadium.

‘I’ve started fancying you in that position actually, Terence.’

‘Me?’

‘He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?’

At that single word, the atmosphere changed. They watched Jackson making a great effort to pull himself together and sharpen his concentration. A struggle which showed in the jumping jack nerve in his temple and the rigid line of his jaw.

‘That’s a lie.’

‘We have grounds for thinking it’s true.’

‘Oh, sure. The grounds that I’m the only one round here with a record. The only one whose face fits. The only one you can take down the slammer and work on just because I’m vulnerable.’ Jackson was recovering fast. He looked about as vulnerable as a puff adder. He sauntered away into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, ‘Come back when you know what the fuck you’re on about.’

Barnaby put a quick hand on Troy’s arm and half eased, half dragged him out of the flat. As they were crossing the drive, he saw the Reverend Lawrence’s startled face through the dining room window and lengthened his stride.

‘Can I say something, sir?’

‘Of course you can “say something”, Troy. What d’you think this is, the Stasi?’

‘It’s not a criticism—’

‘OK. It’s a criticism. I expect I’ll survive.’

‘I just wonder if it was a good idea to tell Jackson we know about the blackmail. I mean, he’s on his guard now but we still can’t book him for anything.’

‘I wanted to spring it before he picked it up somewhere else. To see his reaction.’

‘Which was very satisfactory.’

‘Indeed. I don’t know what exactly is going on here but I’d say whatever it is he’s in it up to his greasy neck.’

It was almost dusk as they made their way back to the Red Lion car park. Halfway across the Green, an extraordinary thing occurred. Barnaby stopped walking and peered into the pearly mist of early evening.

‘What on earth is that?’

‘I can’t see ...’ Troy squinted, frowning hard. ‘Blimey!’

A strangely fluid outline was looming, retreating, shifting and hovering some distance away. It emitted shrill little calls and cries and seemed to be somehow perched on waves of surging foam. Gradually the whole mysterious presence came closer.

‘If we were in the desert,’ said DCI Barnaby, ‘this would be Omar Sharif.’

A woman approached them. Stout, middle-aged and wearing floppy green trousers, a crimson velvet poncho and a trilby hat with peacock feathers in the brim. The foam resolved itself into several cream-coloured Pekinese dogs who continued to surge as the woman introduced herself.

‘Evadne Pleat, good afternoon. Aren’t you Hetty’s chief inspector?’

‘Good afternoon,’ replied Barnaby, and gave his name.

‘And I’m Sergeant Troy,’ said Sergeant Troy, already enamoured of the dogs, daft-looking things though they were.

‘I heard you were going round. I just wanted to say that if there is anything, anything at all, that I can do to help, you must call.’ Her round rosy face shone with earnestness. She had a sweet smile. Nothing like the common or garden smirk of daily exchange that barely reaches the lips, let alone the eyes. She smiled as a child will, enthusiastically, quite without calculation and confident of a friendly response. ‘It’s Mulberry Cottage. Over there by the Rectory.’

‘I see.’ Barnaby glanced over at the small, pretty house. ‘Hasn’t someone already visited you?’

‘Oh yes. A very efficient young man if somewhat fussy about his clothing.’ She had watched Constable Phillips standing at her gate for ages, frowning crossly and picking balls of pale fluffy stuff off his uniform trousers. ‘I’ve told him my ideas though I’m not sure he quite appreciated the wide range of my knowledge and experience.’

‘Would that be in some special subject then?’ asked Sergeant Troy politely.

‘Personal relationships,’ replied Evadne, beaming at them both. ‘The ebb and flow of emotion in the human heart. And really, isn’t that what all your investigations come down to in the end?’

During this conversation the Pekes had been lunging about and Evadne had lunged with them, hanging on to her trilby as best she could.

‘I’ll certainly keep what you say in mind, Miss Pleat,’ muttered Barnaby. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else ...?’

‘Not at the moment. But if there is anything specific you need help with, you only have to ask. Say goodbye to the nice policemen,’ instructed Evadne.

Although they had not stopped barking since the conversation started, the dogs now redoubled their efforts, yapping and leaping and tumbling about and getting their leads mixed up.

‘What are they called?’ Sergeant Troy lingered and heard an irritated snarl somewhere in the region of his left ear.

‘Piers, Dido, Blossom, Mazeppa - don’t do that, darling. Then there’s Nero and the one right at the back is Kenneth.’ She indicated a tiny white chrysanthemum, squeaking and jumping straight up and down into the air.

Troy had to run halfway across the Green to catch up the chief.

‘You’re a fast mover, sir.’

‘I am when I want to get away from something.’ Barnaby approached the car with feelings of relief. ‘How does she ever hear herself think?’

‘They were only being friendly.’

Barnaby gave him a look to turn the milk. They got in the car. Troy switched on the ignition and tried to think of a conciliatory remark to jolly up their homeward journey.

‘Unusual name, Evadne Pleat.’

‘You think so?’ Barnaby could afford to sound superior. He was recalling the occasion, some years back, when he and Joyce had visited her brother in America. Colin, exchange teaching in California, was living in an apartment owned by a woman called Zorrest Milchmain. You had to get up early to beat that one.

Joyce was laying the table. A pretty blue-and-yellow Provençal cloth, honeysuckle in a tall crystal vase, narrow elegant wine glasses.

Everything except the soup (carrot and coriander) was cold tonight. Joyce had popped into Fortnum’s on her way to Marylebone station and had set out wild smoked salmon, steak and chestnut pie, artichoke hearts and Greek salad.

She had been to London for lunch at the National Theatre. Nico’s audition was at eleven thirty. Joyce and Cully met him in the Lyttelton foyer. They sat for a while listening to a flute, viola and piano trio playing a Fauré romance then went up to the Olivier restaurant where Joyce had booked a table.

Everyone had a glass of champagne because, although Nicolas wouldn’t know the results of the audition for at least another week, it had still been a wonderfully exciting day. He had auditioned for Trevor Nunn on the Jean Brodie set and was high as a kite simply on the strength of having stood on the same spot and walked the same boards as the greatest theatrical names of the century: Scofield and McKellan; Gielgud, Judi Dench and Maggie Smith. This was the place where Ian Holm had played King Lear. Had Joyce seen Lear? It was the most breathtaking display of bravura ... ohhh ... heartrending ... you just couldn’t believe ...

Joyce smiled, content to let him run on. That was one of the comfortable things about actors. They were so easy. You were never short of a subject for conversation.

She watched Cully kiss her husband’s cheek, raise her glass, happy and excited. But having a daughter in the business had made Joyce sharply aware of the vagaries of the artist’s life. Up one minute, down the next. And she knew Nicolas, too, quite well enough to understand that by the evening doubts would gradually be breaking the surface of all this sparkling ebullience. Even now having just said that Trevor Nunn seemed really encouraging, he added, ‘Of course, seemed ...’

Joyce looked out of the window at the sun glittering on the river and at London’s great iron bridges and sighed with pleasure. She had the gift of always knowing she was having a wonderful time while she was actually having it, not just in retrospect like so many people. It would be such fun telling Tom. When he came into the kitchen she was still lost in reverie.

‘I say!’ He was staring at the table. ‘This looks a bit of all right. What’s that?’ He pointed to a spectacular pudding.

‘Pear Charlotte. You can just have the pears.’

‘Where d’you get all this?’

‘Fortnum’s.’ Then, when her husband looked puzzled, ‘I’ve been to London.’

‘What for?’

‘Tom, honestly.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

‘I’m not going to.’

‘There’s some Chardonnay in the hall that would go a treat with this. D’you mind, love?’

When Joyce returned from the wine rack, a bottle of Glen Carlou in her hand, Barnaby said, ‘Nico’s audition.’

‘You looked at the calendar.’

‘Has he got in?’

‘I’ll tell you all about it over supper.’ She opened the wine. ‘The Gavestons cancelled, by the way.’

‘Jolly good. So ...’ he waved his hand at the crystal and glasses and flowers. ‘What’s all this for?’

‘It’s for us.’ Joyce gave him a glass of wine and a brisk kiss on the cheek.

‘Mm.’ Barnaby drank deep. ‘Very nice. A cheeky little number with a warm undertow and a steely backbone. Reminds me of someone not a million miles away.’ He started to sing ‘The Air That I Breathe’ quietly, under his breath. It had been their song, years ago, played at their wedding. ‘ “If I could make a wish I think I’d pass ...” ’

Joyce passed him a napkin.

‘Remember that, darling?’

‘What?’ She had started eating.

‘The Hollies?’

‘Mm. Vaguely.’