A Place Of Safety

Chapter Nine

Forty-eight hours after she had made her momentous decision, Ann was getting ready to go into Causton. Lionel was sulking in his study. She had knocked and said lunch was ready and he had not replied. Where she would once have taken a tray in for him, she now ate her own meal and left his to get cold on the table.

She had four hours before the police came. Although her resolve to tell them everything had not faltered she did not want to spend the intervening time dwelling on how the interview might go. Or on what might happen to her when it was over.

There was plenty to do. First she would go to the bank and pay back the five thousand pounds. (She had already rung Mr Ainsley to say she would be doing this and asking him to cancel their loan agreement.) Then she would do the rounds of estate agents. There were several in Causton and she hoped to cover them all. Or at least as many as it took to take her up to half past four.

In her bedroom, having changed into a flowered dress and jacket, Ann was drawn by the beauty of the day to her window. She noticed that the gravel drive, barely a week since Charlie Leathers raked it over, was already sprouting weeds. And the wonderful thing was she would not have to go and tug them all out. No one would. As Ann relished this satisfactory observation, the sun vanished behind a cloud. A nice sense of timing, for it was then that Ann saw Jax. That is, she saw the lower section of him. The rest was hidden beneath the bonnet of the Humber which was half in and half out of the garage. She needed the car to drive into Causton.

At the thought of walking up to the man, looking into those cold, radiant eyes, being exposed to that suggestive leering voice, her courage, so steadfast until then, faltered. And what if Lionel had already told him of her demands that he should leave. What might he say then?

What a pity Mrs Leathers wasn’t still here. She would have stridden across, told him the car was wanted right away and he’d better look sharp about it. Perhaps, Ann thought, I could just open the window and call.

Then, upset and agitated, she remembered the telephone. There was an extension from the main house to his flat. If she rehearsed what she had to say, there would be no need to get involved in any sort of conversation. Keep it short, she instructed herself, picking up the telephone and pressing the connecting button. She watched him stop what he was doing, wipe his hands on a cloth and disappear through the painted blue door. And the instruction worked. After all that queasy anxiety, the exchange was simplicity itself.

Ann said, ‘This is Mrs Lawrence. I shall need the car in five minutes. Will it be ready then?’

And he said, ‘No problem, Mrs Lawrence.’

A ridiculously overwhelming rush of relief (after all, what could he actually do?) receded and Ann began to feel calmer. She washed her face and hands, brushed her hair and tied it away from her face with a black silk ribbon then collected her handbag, checking that the money was still inside. She hesitated whether to take a coat - the sun had come out again - and decided against it.

She left the house and walked in what she hoped was an unflustered way towards the garage. There was no sign of Jax. The interior of the car was heavy with the smell of polish, the chestnut leather gleamed. Telling herself she had been watching too many movies, Ann still couldn’t help checking out the back of the car. She even turned over a travelling rug on the carpeted floor to make sure the interior was empty.

As she drove out of the gates and turned left towards the road to Causton, everything about her suddenly seemed transformed. The whole world seemed light and airy and free from care. That was the world - carefree.

‘I am carefree,’ said Ann aloud. And she started to sing.

‘Penny Lane’, the song her mother had loved, the song she half remembered from her childhood.

‘ “Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes ... there beneath the blue suburban skies ...” ’

And, as the distance between herself and the Old Rectory increased, so did the dizzy feeling of exhilaration. She was cutting herself loose. Floating away from the self-centred, querulous man around whom she had organized her life for so many years and from the huge, crumbling millstone of a house. A source of financial worry for as long as she could remember. To paraphrase a title from Lionel’s huge collection on his counselling bookshelf, this was the first day of the rest of her life.

She covered the last few miles to the outskirts of Causton anticipating her meeting with the estate agents. And wondered how soon they would be able to come and give a valuation. That they would jump at the chance she was sure. A house the same size as hers, though admittedly in much better repair, had been sold at Martyr Bunting the previous week for three hundred thousand pounds.

A roundabout was coming up. Ann started to concentrate on the road ahead. She negotiated her way round the war memorial in the main market square and down Causton High Street past Boots and Woolworths and Minnie’s Pantry. She decided to go there for tea around four o’clock, then there would be no need to have anything at home. She could stay out until almost the minute the police were due to arrive. She hoped it would be the big, burly detective who came after Charlie was killed. She had liked him and not only because he had shown impatience with Lionel’s affectations. Ann had guessed at a man unclouded by sentiment but not without kindness. Solid, self-contained and passionately interested in whatever was going on around him.

She turned left at the town hall, behind which stood the new three-storey car park. This had been built only after two years of the most ferocious opposition. Causton, population twenty-seven thousand and eighty-three souls at the last electoral listing, reckoned it did not want or need a public car park. When it was mooted, Middle England took to the streets with banners and besieged the Causton Echo with abusive or heavily ironical why oh why? correspondence. Sit-ins took place at the municipal offices and when the town planning department bravely organised a public meeting, it ended in a riot. Several people lay down when the diggers came in. It was built anyway, of course, and the moment it was open the council painted double yellow lines all over the town centre and outlying streets so people had no choice but to use it.

At three o’clock on a weekday afternoon, the car park was almost full. Ann drove slowly round the first and second tier but there was not a single empty space. At the third she found one between a Land Rover and a Robin Reliant, miles away from the exit.

Ann didn’t really like using the place except at ground level which had plenty of natural light and people passing just a few feet away. Artificial lights were installed in the rest of the building but often didn’t work. Sometimes this was due to slack maintenance but more often to vandalism

Like any public space with ease of access, lack of supervision and an opportunity for concealment, the car park had attracted those with something to conceal. Only the week before, several men had been caught after holding their very own car boot sale, swapping small bags of dream dust for large bags of used currency. They did not realise a pair of lovers were practically on the floor of a car just a few feet away. The ardent couple, passion spent, memorised the dealer’s number plate before wisely putting, and keeping, their heads down.

Ann had read about this in the paper. As she got out and locked all four doors, recalling the drug handlers’ capture made her feel slightly more confident in the way air passengers will when travelling immediately after a major disaster, aware not only that the odds against a second disaster happening so soon were astronomical but also feeling everyone on the flight deck would be concentrating one thousand and one per cent.

The long space between her and the lift was crammed with cars but apparently empty of human beings. Ann started to walk, looking around as she did so. How ugly concrete was. The bleak grey walls were already stained with running dark seams, like black tear tracks.

She found herself counting the vehicles. Two, three, four ... On seven - lucky seven - there was a sound behind her. A creak as if someone was opening a door. Ann wheeled round. Nothing. Had someone got out of one of the seemingly empty cars? Were they even now creeping along behind her, keeping pace with her movements? Or drawing level and catching up?

She shook her head with irritation at her own timidity. Where was all the courage that had filled her heart and mind when she had sung those words a mere half-hour ago? She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and lengthened her stride. Eleven, twelve, thirteen - nearly halfway there.

He must have been wearing soft shoes, or no shoes. She didn’t hear a thing but glimpsed a sudden great pouncing out of the corner of her eye. Then he was on her. She felt the weight of him, the grunting curse of his breath. His arm was clamped so fiercely round her throat that, even in her terror, she could not cry out.

She was dragged over to the nearest car. Then, before she understood what was happening, he seized her hair, gathering it tightly in his fist, and yanked her head right back then swung it forward with tremendous force hard down against the edge of the bonnet.

Valentine Fainlight was working. That is, he was going through the motions. The proofs for Barley Roscoe and the Hopscotch Kid had finally arrived and Val was vaguely turning over the pages, thinking they looked all right to him. Once upon a time, in another life it sometimes seemed, he would have noticed that the margins on more than one page were not quite even and that Barley’s magic cap was too dark a shade in the scene where he transformed hopscotch squares into blocks of honey fudge. (The cap, a pale, delicate blue when Barley was simply going about his day-to-day affairs, deepened according to the degree of catastrophe his transformations wrought.)

Valentine saw none of these things. He saw only Jax’s face: cruel, beautiful, enigmatic. He had found himself wondering briefly yesterday evening how a person not all that intelligent could actually manage to look enigmatic then felt ashamed. Val had had thoughts like this once before and had immediately berated himself for being snobbish and unfair. And in any case, they were irrelevant. For who was ever cured of a fever by dispassionate analysis?

He felt bad about Louise. He loved his sister and knew that his apparent rejection was hurting her. The only thing to be said in his defence was that if she continued to live with him, she would be hurt much, much more.

Sometimes, at moments like this when Val acknowledged that the word relationship was meaningless and what he had really been infected by was a fatal disease, he remembered Bruno. Val had had the good fortune to live for seven years with a complex, gifted, difficult, funny, kind and completely loyal man. The sex had been great, the fights never vicious. When Bruno died, Valentine felt he had fallen into a bottomless chasm of despair.

His partner’s parents, one or two very close friends, his work but, most of all, Louise had pulled him back to life. Now, when she was struggling to recover from her own smash-up, he was turning her out. A month ago he would not have thought himself capable. This morning, when she had cried in the kitchen, he felt so terrible he almost changed his mind. But then a wonderful idea occurred to him. A week ago, when Louise had gone to London for the day, he had asked Jax over to see the house. It had been warm and they had had wine and sandwiches in the garden. Jax had loved Fainlights and could hardly tear himself away. With Louise gone, Jax could not just visit, he could actually come and stay.

The telephone rang. Val snatched it up and cried, ‘Yes, yes?’

‘Hello, Val.’

‘Jax! What do you—’ He stopped, gulped in some air. ‘I mean, how are things? How are you?’

‘I’m just going to have a shower, actually.’

Oh God, if this is a tease I’ll go over there and kill him.

‘You one of them green people?’

‘What?’

‘You know, save water, shower with a friend.’

‘Do you mean you’d like ...’

‘Only if you want.’

Louise saw him go. She had heard the phone ring, once. Now she watched her brother, her lovable, intelligent brother, capering in his excitement, fumbling with the front gates and racing into the road. Dancing at the end of this odious man’s leash like some sad performing bear.

As Valentine hurried through the blue door and up the stairs, he realised he had not brought any money. But he could put that right. He could explain.

The door of the flat was slightly open. He could hear the shower running. Was Jax already in there? Or maybe he was moving silently behind him on the cream carpet, creeping up to jump. To grab Val hard round the throat as he had once before. Already excited, Val deliberately didn’t turn his head.

But then Jax walked out of his bedroom wearing a loosely tied towelling robe. Came straight up to Val and put the end of the belt in his hand. Then, using both his own hands, ripped open Val’s shirt, sending the buttons flying.

Hetty Leathers, having now confirmed the time and date of her husband’s funeral, invited Evadne both to the church and afterwards for a light lunch at the bungalow.

And so Evadne was laying out her black. It was not a colour she enjoyed wearing, consequently there was very little to choose from. However, having been brought up to observe the traditional formalities, she felt unable to attend such a function in any other colour.

A lot depended on the weather. A late August day could be extremely warm or unexpectedly nippy. Evadne removed a fine wool coat and skirt from her wardrobe and gave the outfit a good shake. The coat smelt of moth balls and the lingering fragrance of Coco, her favourite scent. Then she picked out a long-sleeved anthracite velvet tunic and matching trousers and studied them thoughtfully. They were certainly dark enough to be acceptable and extremely elegant but her mother would have fainted with horror at the idea of a woman wearing trousers in church. Aware that her parent’s benign but strict attention could beam down unannounced at any time, Evadne put the ensemble back.

The hat was not a problem. Well, it was and it wasn’t. That is, she had a hat and it was the proper colour but it was not what you would call funereal. She had bought the organza confection for a favourite niece’s wedding a year ago. It had a high crown, a wide, down-curving brim and was trimmed with dark floppy peonies made of shiny silk. However, as one could no more enter church without a hat than one could wearing masculine attire, it would have to do.

Evadne carried the clothes downstairs and hung them in the kitchen near an open window to freshen up. Then she set about making a cup of lemon verbena tea which she always enjoyed with her morning paper.

Soon there was a scratching at the front door. Evadne opened it to admit Mazeppa carrying a basket holding The Times. She was standing in for Piers who was having a lie-in.

Mazeppa was a good girl, even famous - one of her puppies had won Best in Show at Crufts - but she had never got the hang of carrying a newspaper in her mouth. She felt this inability keenly and was deeply ashamed of being sent out with a basket. Evadne had never thought to explain that Piers only carried the local paper in his mouth. Even he needed a little help with the heavies.

Now Mazeppa, determined to impress, tipped the basket onto its side, pulled out a section of the journal, mangled it between her teeth, dragged it into the kitchen and laid it carefully down.

‘What have I told you?’ Evadne picked up the paper, poking her finger through an extremely soggy patch and wagging it at the dog. ‘How am I supposed to read this?’

Mazeppa beat her feathery, fleur-de-lys of a tail hard against the table leg panting and sighing with pleasure at all this attention.

‘Now I suppose you think you’re getting a biscuit.’

The thumping rhythm slowed, becoming less certain. Mazeppa’s face, already squashed by nature into a crumpled landscape of ridges, tucks and frowns, became even more scrunched up by anxiety. Evadne patted the dog, tossed it a chocolate Bourbon and took her tea into the sitting room. She opened the remains of the newspaper at the arts section.

There was an exhibition of early English mezzotints and watercolours at the V & A. Evadne loved watercolours. She wondered if the museum would accommodate the dogs. Mrs Craven had taken her poodle, a fractious little show-off, to a horticultural display at St Vincent’s Square. The Pekes, by comparison, were as good as gold. Perhaps they could be left briefly with the cloakroom attendant? She decided to ring the very next day.

Already consumed by a happy glow of anticipation, Evadne skipped the theatre reviews - why on earth would anyone need theatre with the drama of daily life all about them? - and found the book pages.

She always kept a little notebook and propelling pencil by her chair to write down new titles that appealed. Not that she could afford many of them but Causton library, even in its present state of constant penury, usually managed to raise or borrow a copy from somewhere.

Today there was a full page on children’s literature. It was divided into boxes relating to the child’s age and showed illustrations from the books, some funny, some charming, some so frightening Evadne wondered at the parent who would let them into the house. She wished she had a young friend or relation to climb on her knee and listen to The Tale of Peter Rabbit or Babar the Elephant. Perhaps the newly married niece would eventually oblige.

In the seven-to-nine-years section she found a new title from the Barley Roscoe series. Evadne knew all about Barley. Valentine Fainlight had donated a signed copy of his young hero’s adventures in aid of the church fete and Evadne had won it on the tombola. Barley was an appealing child, frequently in trouble yet always starting out with the best of intentions. He reminded her of William Brown but without William’s stunning insouciance when standing amidst the wreckage of his confident attempts to be helpful.

Evadne put the paper aside, rather sorry now she had opened it. She had been trying to put the name Fainlight from her mind. Trying not to dwell on the sad fact of Carlotta’s disappearance. Her heart went out to Valentine. When the nice young constable had asked her if she had known the girl or could give any information about her disappearance, Evadne had mentioned her lovelorn suitor. Then, fearing that she had implied some involvement on Valentine’s part, hurriedly explained that this was purely a matter of observation rather than actual knowledge.

And his poor sister. Oh dear. Evadne sighed aloud. She had heard Louise weeping in the garden of their house on Friday. Evadne had called on behalf of Christian Aid and had hovered uncertainly for several minutes, torn between a natural longing to offer comfort and an anxiety that an intrusion might embarrass or annoy. Louise had always struck her as a very private person. In the end she had walked quietly away. So much unhappiness. Evadne picked up The Times hoping to recapture her pleasant feelings of a few moments ago. She turned to the music page. This was largely taken up by an appreciation of a young and gifted jazz musician who had recently committed suicide.

Evadne sighed again, rather more loudly this time. Mazeppa jumped into her lap, gazed intently into her eyes and gave a long moan of sympathy.

At five fifteen precisely, when Louise Fainlight was quietly breaking her heart and her brother was kneeling on a tiled shower floor in a state of worshipful ecstasy; when Hetty Leathers and her daughter were cracking a bottle of Guinness to celebrate having scraped together the necessary to pay for fifty per cent of Charlie’s funeral (thanks to the Red Lion collection bottle) and the members of the Mothers’ Union were preparing their hearts and minds for their genteel and philanthropic endeavours, Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby and Sergeant Gavin Troy presented themselves on the crumbling steps of the Old Rectory.

Lionel Lawrence hardly heard the bell and in any case was in such a state of inner turmoil that he had quite forgotten his telephone conversation earlier that day with the police. Lionel felt like a man who has owned a kitten for years, devotedly caring for it in a kindly if absent-minded manner, only to have it turn into a panther behind his back and bite a great chunk out of his hand.

Obviously Ann would calm down. He would have to be patient, talk to her, maybe even listen a bit. She plainly felt she had some sort of legitimate grievance although Lionel could not imagine what this could possibly be. But he would make whatever promises she wanted and even do his best to keep them. Anything else was unthinkable. To be cut adrift at his time of life, homeless, penniless. What would he do? Where would he go? After years of dedicated compassion towards society’s cast-offs, Lionel realised that now that he was in need of a spot of it himself, there seemed to be no one to turn to. Furious at his wife for putting him in such a position while knowing he could never afford to let it show, Lionel decided to forgive her, as a Christian should, and work hard towards their reconciliation.

The bell rang again and this time it registered. Lionel, still consumed with apprehensive visions as to his future, drifted across the black and white tiled hall and opened the door.

To his annoyance it was the policemen who had been so insolent only a few days ago. He couldn’t quite find the courage to tick off the senior officer and the younger was nosily peering over his shoulder into the house so Lionel settled for staring severely into the gap between them.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Barnaby, looking about as unsorry as a man could be, ‘but I believe you’re expecting us.’

‘I most certainly am not,’ said Lionel. ‘What I am expecting in,’ he removed a pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket and locked onto it as if spellbound, ‘roughly twenty minutes is the Ferne Basset Mothers’ Union monthly committee meeting.’

‘We spoke on the telephone yesterday.’ Barnaby stepped forward as he said this and Lionel, taken by surprise at the sudden brisk movement, moved hurriedly to his right, investing this brief sidle with an air of intolerable persecution.

‘Arranged to talk to Mrs Lawrence,’ explained Sergeant Troy, by now also in the hall. ‘Fivish.’

‘Ah.’ Lionel did not close the door. ‘Well, she isn’t here.’

‘But will be shortly?’ suggested the chief inspector. ‘You did say she always attended the meetings.’

‘Indeed. It is one of the high spots of her monthly calendar.’

Good grief, thought Sergeant Troy. What a life. He tried to imagine Talisa Leanne’s mother joining a union. Poor buggers wouldn’t know what had hit them. Maureen’d argue the hind leg off a donkey, persuade you black was white. You’d believe a man could fly and if he’d got any sense the minute he saw her coming that’s exactly what he’d do.

Lionel marched off, leaving them standing in the hall. Although they had not been asked either to wait or to make themselves at home, Barnaby and Troy sat on two small wrought-iron seats on either side of the large copper vase. The chairs were extremely uncomfortable.

Troy, straightaway bored, peered through the arrangement of beech leaves and tansies only to realise the chief was already in one of his ‘do not disturb’ moods.

But Barnaby’s thoughts were by no means as tranquil as his calm exterior would suggest. He was thinking of the coming meeting with Ann Lawrence. Third time lucky, he had confidently told himself during the journey over. At their first brief meeting he had not even known that the missing girl would be relevant to the Leathers murder case. On Saturday, Mrs Lawrence had been so full of dope, no interview had been possible. Now she had had all of Sunday and Monday to recover. When he’d spoken to her yesterday she had sounded calm and not at all apprehensive. He recalled her actual words: ‘Yes, Inspector. And I want to speak to you. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.’

He murmured the last sentence aloud and Troy quickly said, ‘Sir?’

‘She said, “I’m looking forward to it” - our meeting. What do you make of that?’

‘Got something on her mind. Wants to talk it over.’ Troy glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll miss all the fun if she don’t get her skates on. The place’ll be swarming with mothers any minute.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘I shan’t like it,’ said Troy. ‘It’s an aspect of life I could well do without.’

‘Be quiet.’ Barnaby was experiencing a slight feeling of sickness. The cold clutch of tension in the pit of his stomach. A moment of inexplicable and fearful recognition, like finding the lavatory chain swinging when you believed you were alone in the house. ‘Can you see anyone coming?’

Troy got up, stretched his legs and went over to the long window by the side of the front door. In the drive, striding with brisk determination towards the Rectory, were several women. They were not the stodgy matriarchs Troy had been expecting, tweed-wrapped and bluff-complexioned. Some wore bright trousers and jackets. One wore what looked like a green Homburg, a long purple mohair jumper and Fair Isle shooting stockings. See them coming? Ray Charles could see them coming.

Troy opened the door, stood to one side and let them swarm in. They didn’t hang about. Just legged it for the interior where they could be heard talking loudly to Lionel. Amidst this distant uproar was the clatter of china and teaspoons.

‘Get hold of Lawrence, Sergeant.’

Troy tried. Lionel was in the kitchen pretending to help and having his half-hearted, clumsy efforts laughed at with kindly indulgence. When it was understood that Ann was not present, the lady in the hat offered to make him some bacon and eggs. People were swarming all over the place. Someone said, ‘Ah, there you are’ to Sergeant Troy and asked if he would take a tray loaded with cups into the sitting room.

‘Mr Lawrence? Would you—’ Troy dodged back to let a sliced cherry cake past. ‘The chief inspector would like a word.’

‘What?’ shouted Lionel, taking the cling film off a plate of cucumber sandwiches and cramming two in his mouth.

‘In the hall, sir, if you would.’ Troy eased his way round the deal table and cupped his hand, gently but firmly, round Lionel’s nearest elbow. Wrong.

‘Have you ever come across the phrase “civil liberties”, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, Mr Lawrence.’

‘Well, if you don’t want a summons for assault, I suggest you take your hand away.’

Troy removed his hand. ‘And perhaps you are aware, sir, that refusing to assist the police in a murder inquiry is a punishable offence.’

‘There’s no question of that.’ Lionel, though still munching, moved briskly towards the exit. ‘Simply that every man is entitled to defend himself.’

They got into the hall just in time to bump into the chief striding out to find them.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Sorry, sir. It’s a bit hectic—’

‘In here.’ Barnaby turned into the first doorway to present itself. A small octagonal room with a few hard-back chairs, some piles of sheet music and hi-fi equipment and an old Bechstein grand. Troy drifted over to the piano, produced his notebook, just in case, and rested it on the rich, mottled walnut lid.

Nearby was a silver-framed photograph of a fierce old man in a dog collar. Though almost bald, grey hair sprouted profusely from his ears and nose and he sported a fine pair of Dundrearys. He glared at the camera. His dog, a piggy-eyed bull terrier, rolled back its leathery lip presumably to free the teeth for a good nip. They looked made for each other.

‘So, Mr Lawrence. When did you last see your wife?’

‘What on earth—’

‘Answer the question, man!’

‘Mid-morning.’ Lionel gulped the words in some alarm. ‘Around eleven.’

‘Did she say what her plans were for later?’

‘Drive into Causton. I suppose she was going shopping. She didn’t say.’

‘Did you have an argument?’

‘How did—You have my assurance that our ... discussion yesterday has nothing to do with your present inquiry.’

‘Point is, sir,’ said Sergeant Troy, who had started scribbling, ‘it might help us to know what her frame of mind was.’

‘Why?’ Lionel appeared mystified. ‘How, help?’

‘I understood from you that Mrs Lawrence has never missed a Mothers’ Union meeting.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘Aren’t you worried?’

Lionel now appeared not only mystified but slightly alarmed. And Barnaby, realising that he had raised his voice, checked himself. Another decibel or two and he would have been shouting.

Lionel’s honest bewilderment pulled him back. He saw how his behaviour must appear. For the truth was he had no logical reason for feeling some harm had come to Ann Lawrence. She could have run into a friend, be choosing books at the library, trying on clothes ... No logical reason. Just the icicle slowly stirring his guts.

He tried to speak more calmly. ‘Could you tell us what time she left?’

‘I’m afraid not. I was in my study. We didn’t lunch together today.’

Blimey, must have been quite a corker, that discussion, thought Sergeant Troy. He put a question of his own, knowing the answer but hoping to stir things to good effect.

‘Would Mrs Lawrence have driven to town, sir? Or might your Mr Jackson have taken her?’

‘No.’ Sadly, Lawrence didn’t rise. ‘She liked to drive herself. Although ...’ Suddenly he could not be helpful enough. It was painfully clear that he wanted to get rid of them. ‘Jax might be able to tell you what time she left. I believe he was working on the Humber just before lunch.’

‘They talk to you?’ asked Jax. ‘The police?’

‘Yes. That is, they came round.’ Valentine was sitting on the edge of the divan. Now that the wrestling and fighting and subduing was over and blood had returned to his crushed limbs and strained muscles, all was pain and confusion. But the happiness, the dark shining, was in there somewhere.

‘About Charlie?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What sort of thing they want to know?’

‘It was Louise who saw them. I sloped off.’

‘They’ll catch up with you.’

‘We hardly knew the man.’

‘Makes no difference.’ Jax sauntered across the room and flung himself into the orange fireside chair. He spread his legs and leaned back, grinning. ‘Suppose I’d better put some clothes on.’

‘No,’ cried Val quickly. ‘Don’t, please.’

‘Ready for some more, then?’

‘It’s not that. I just like looking at you.’ He eased himself off the divan, reached down, wincing, to pick up his boxer shorts.

‘I know that shop.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sulka. In the West End, right?’

‘Yes. Bond Street.’

‘I met this bloke got his dressing gowns there.’

‘Really?’ Valentine felt a quite different sort of pain at the thought of the unknown man. ‘If you want I’ll take you. On your next day off.’

‘No, thanks. They’re crap. I like something with a bit of style. Like that jacket you got me.’

‘Jax ...’ He hesitated, searching for the right words, desperate not to offend. ‘What are the conditions under which you have to stay here? I mean, is it for a specific time like, um ...’

‘Community service?’ The phrase was invested with scornful disgust.

‘I just hate the thought of turning up one day to find you’ve gone.’

‘I wouldn’t leave you, Val boy.’

‘Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.’ Val waited but the longed-for assurance was not forthcoming. And what would it have been worth if it had? ‘The thing is, my sister—’

‘She don’t like me.’

‘Louise is moving out. She’ll be starting work again soon and wants to be nearer town. So, if you need somewhere to stay ...’

‘Might be useful.’

‘I’d love to have you.’ Climbing into his khaki chinos, Valentine tried to sound casual even as his mind flooded with images of compelling happiness. He would cook marvellous food for himself and Jax. Play Mozart for him. And Palestrina. Read to him - Austen or Balzac. At night they would lie in each other’s arms, yellow stars shining through the glass roof, dazzling their eyes.

Jax said, ‘In an emergency.’

‘Of course.’ Valentine buttoned his shirt with stiff, clumsy fingers. ‘That’s what I meant.’ He tried to keep his eyes off Jax who was running the tip of his index finger along soft, tan-gold skin on the inside of his thighs, crinkling it gently, first one way then the other. Up and down, up and down.

‘It was lovely to hear from you.’ Val was pleased and surprised that his voice came out so smooth. He was expecting a croak. ‘Out of the blue like that.’

‘I crave it sometimes, Val. Special times. And at those times I just gotta have it - know what I mean?’

‘Christ, yes.’

‘Today was, like, one of those days.’

‘And is it something special that sets you off?’

‘It is. Always the same thing.’

‘You wouldn’t like to ... If I knew what it was, maybe—’

‘One day, Val boy.’ Jax got up then, crossed to the window and stared out. Then suddenly started to laugh.

‘Look.’ Sergeant Troy jerked his head across the drive as Barnaby closed the Old Rectory door.

‘A garage, yes. I have seen one before.’

‘No, upstairs.’

Barnaby lifted his head. Terry Jackson was standing at the window of his flat. Either he was completely nude or wearing the lowest pair of hipsters since Randolph Scott hung up his spurs.

‘Pity,’ said Troy. ‘Another couple of inches and we could have got him for indecent exposure.’

‘Sniggering bastard,’ said Barnaby and it was true the chauffeur was laughing at them. The chief inspector slowed his footsteps to a dawdle to give the man time to get his clobber on. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to open the door bollock naked.’

‘I hope not,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘We’re having toad in the hole tonight.’

Jax opened the window above their heads and called down, ‘It’s not locked.’

For the third time Barnaby made his way up the smartly carpeted stairs. He recalled his first visit which had ended in a sickening display of cringing and weeping by Jackson once his protector arrived. And the second, three days ago, when the chauffeur had been questioned about Carlotta Ryan and had nearly jumped out of his skin the moment Barnaby released the word ‘blackmail’ into the conversation.

So, what were they in for this time? Barnaby, passionate proselytiser on the necessity to keep an open mind all his professional life, had never found it as hard as he did now. In fact, if he was honest, in the case of Terry Jackson he had given up trying. He believed on next to no evidence that this man had killed Charlie Leathers and was involved, up to the hilt, in the disappearance of Carlotta Ryan.

He opened the door to the main flat without knocking and walked in. Jackson was once more leaning against the window, this time facing into the room. He seemed quietly pleased with himself. Glossy and replete like some smartly groomed, newly gorged animal. He wore a French matelot jersey and skin-tight white 501s. His feet were bare and damp hair was plastered to his head in minute, springy curls. Dyed and permed, thought Barnaby, remembering the dark, greasy hanks on Jackson’s earlier mug shot. It gave him a moment of brief, petty satisfaction. Then Jackson smiled at him, a smile like a Tyson upper cut, and the satisfaction faltered and died.

‘You’re after me, Inspector,’ said Jackson. ‘I know you are. Admit it.’

‘No problem admitting that, Terry.’ Because there was a third party in the room, Barnaby made the statement semi-jocular. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Fainlight.’

Valentine Fainlight mumbled something in Barnaby’s direction. He looked embarrassed, defiant and also mildly exasperated. No need to ask what they had interrupted. The whole place reeked of sex.

‘Well, Jax, I’ll be—’

‘Don’t go, sir,’ said Barnaby. ‘We still haven’t managed to talk to you about Carlotta Ryan’s disappearance. One of our officers called again on Saturday, I believe.’

‘I was in London all day.’

‘Well, now you’re here,’ said Sergeant Troy. He sat in the orange armchair and got out his notebook. There was no way he could produce a civil greeting, let alone a smile. If there was one species of human being he despised it was arse bandits.

‘Two birds, y’see, Val,’ said Terry Jackson.

‘I really don’t understand why you’re asking me. I barely exchanged half a dozen words with the girl.’

‘We’re asking everyone, sir,’ said Troy. ‘It’s called a house-to-house.’

‘The night she disappeared,’ continued Barnaby, ‘was two nights before Charlie Leathers was killed. She ran away from the Old Rectory and we now believe that she fell or, more likely, was pushed into the river.’

‘Good heavens.’ Valentine stared across the room in amazement. ‘Did you know about this, Jax?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Jackson winked at Barnaby. ‘They keep me well informed.’

‘So we wondered,’ said Sergeant Troy, ‘if you saw or heard anything latish that evening that might help us.’

‘And that was?’

‘Sunday, August the sixteenth.’

‘We were both at home but I honestly - oh, hang on. That was the night we saw Charlie and his dog. I remember because Betty Blue was on the box. But I don’t see how that could possibly help you with Carlotta.’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Jackson. ‘You gotta be crossed off their little list, see? So things are nice and tidy.’

‘We’ve also got some questions to ask you,’ said Sergeant Troy, turning to Jackson.

‘Notice I don’t get any “sir”.’

‘Like, do you happen to know what time Mrs Lawrence left for Causton this afternoon?’

‘Is something up?’

‘Do you or don’t you?’ snapped Barnaby.

‘She rang through here just after lunch - twoish. Said she wanted the car. Drove off, oohh, ten, fifteen minutes later.’

‘Did you notice what she was wearing?’

Jackson shrugged, puzzled. ‘Some sort of flowered thing.’

‘Did she say why she was going into town?’

‘We’re not on those terms.’

Barnaby had known that and that the question was probably a waste of time. But sometimes timid people like Ann Lawrence, ill at ease with more powerful personalities, would offer unasked-for information in a futile attempt to disarm.

‘That it, then?’ said Jackson. ‘Hardly worth wearing out your tyres for.’

‘Where were you this afternoon?’

‘Here, gardening. Round the back mainly. Now Charlie’s gone, it’s getting a bit jungly.’

‘And what time did you come over, sir?’

‘Oh, I don’t ...’ Valentine’s cheeks were suddenly crimson. ‘Maybe around half three.’

‘Nearer three o’clock,’ said Jackson. He smiled directly, brilliantly, across the room at Fainlight, shamelessly exerting his power. Then he turned back to Barnaby. ‘Anyway, what’s it to do with you?’

Barnaby hoped it would prove to be nothing to do with him. He hoped that more than he had hoped for anything for a very long time. As Troy slipped in the ignition key, Barnaby was punching figures into his mobile.

‘Where to, chief?’

‘Hang on a minute.’ As Barnaby waited, something of his unease communicated itself to Sergeant Troy.

‘D’you think something’s happened to her?’

‘Hello? Control room? DCI Barnaby. Have you had any casualties reported today p.m.?’ Pause. ‘Yes, a woman. Mid-to late thirties. Perhaps wearing a flowered dress.’

A much longer pause. Sergeant Troy watched Barnaby’s profile. Saw the bones suddenly become more prominent, noticed the frown lines deepen and the beetling brows draw so tightly together they were almost one thick, grey-black line.

‘I’m afraid it does, Andy. Could you fill me in on the background?’ He listened for a few moments then switched off. ‘Drive to Stoke Mandeville hospital.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Fast.’

Troy put his foot well down. There was no siren but police business was police business. He asked again what had happened.

‘A woman was found in Causton multi-storey car park. Just before three o’clock and unconscious from a tremendous blow on the head. As she’d been robbed they had no way of identifying her.’

‘If it’s Ann Lawrence—’

‘It’s Ann Lawrence all right. The attack happened barely seconds before she was found otherwise I’ve no doubt the bastard would have finished her off.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Apparently someone was driving up to the top layer almost as it was taking place. The attacker heard the car coming and ran.’

‘What, down the stairs?’

‘No, he rang for the lift and hung around filing his nails and whistling Dixie. Of course down the bloody stairs!’

‘Sorry.’

‘The motorist saw her lying there and rang for an ambulance. She’s in intensive care.’

‘That’s a miserable coincidence, chief.’

‘You reckon?’

‘We seem fated—Pardon?’

‘Bag-snatchers snatch and bugger off. They don’t hang around to beat their victims to death.’

‘You think all this is connected to the Charlie Leathers business?’

‘Bet your Aunt Fanny,’ said Barnaby, stealing without shame from the redoubtable Miss Calthrop.

It was hard to believe, thought the chief inspector, looking down at the motionless, deathly pale form of Ann Lawrence, that she was still alive.

As Barnaby gazed at the figure on the bed, his sergeant was observing him. Some emotion, which Troy could not easily decipher, swept over Barnaby’s face then disappeared, leaving it expressionless. Abruptly he turned aside and spoke to the nurse who had admitted them.

‘Who do I talk to about this?’

‘Dr Miller. I’ll see if I can find him.’

While they were waiting, Barnaby remained silent, staring out of the window. Troy also averted his eyes from the white metal bed. He hated hospitals almost as much as he hated graveyards. Not that he had anything against the dead or dying personally. Just that they and he didn’t seem to have much in common. Having said that, this year he was thirty and a couple of months ago his grandma had died. The two incidents coming so close together had given him pause for thought. Of course he had all the time in the world to go yet - his parents were only fifty - even so, immortality, practically a dead cert a mere five years ago, now seemed a much more dodgy option. He was just thinking about waiting outside in the corridor when the nurse returned with a stressed-out-looking man wearing steel-rimmed glasses. He had a great frizz of very fair hair and wore a crumpled white coat.

As Barnaby started to speak, Dr Miller eased the two policemen out of the room, saying that, at least as far as he was concerned, the theory that unconscious patients heard and understood nothing was far from proven.

‘So what are her chances?’ said Barnaby.

‘Too early to say.’ He stood there on the balls of his feet, a busy man, ready to run. ‘She’s got a deep cut across the head and massive bruising which could mean brain trauma. We’ll know more when we’ve done a scan. We’ve got her stabilised, which is the first step.’

‘I see.’

‘The big danger is a subdural haemorrhage.’ He tugged on his stethoscope. ‘This means draining off blood beneath the outer membrane - always risky.’

‘Yes.’ Barnaby, his stomach playing pitch and toss, swallowed hard. ‘Thank you, Dr Miller. We do know who she is, by the way.’

‘Excellent.’ He was already striding off. ‘Tell admin. on your way out.’

There were quite a lot of bad-tempered motorists hanging around the multi-storey car park waiting for their vehicles as uniformed officers made a note of each and every registration.

There was also a police presence on the top level under the direction of Colin Willoughby. Barnaby did not like Inspector Willoughby. He was a rigid man. A toady and a snob without imagination, sensitivity or a shred of human understanding. The last sort of person, to the chief inspector’s thinking, to make a good police officer.

‘Good heavens,’ said Willoughby as they approached. He sounded so amazed they could have been visitors from another planet. ‘What are you doing here? Sir.’

‘The woman who’s been attacked is involved in a case I’m currently investigating. Charlie Leathers’ murder.’

‘An identification already?’ He was plainly more resentful than relieved.

‘Ann Lawrence,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘The Old Rectory, Ferne Basset.’

‘Hm.’

‘I’ve just come from Stoke Mandeville,’ said Barnaby.

‘Popped her clogs, has she?’

The DCI’s lips tightened with distaste. ‘Do you have an accurate time on the assault?’

‘Five to three the bloke found her.’

‘I see.’ Barnaby looked about him. ‘So, what stage are you at here?’

‘Oh, we’re doing everything by the book. No need to worry. Sir.’

‘I’m not worried. I’m just asking a straightforward question.’

‘All the numbers are being noted. And we’re—’

‘Who let those people up here?’ Barnaby jerked his head angrily towards a man and women stepping out of the lift. ‘Don’t you know enough to protect a scene where a savage assault has taken place?’

‘Go back down,’ shouted Inspector Willoughby at the top of his voice. He waved his arms furiously at the couple. ‘Go away! Now!’

They leapt back into the lift.

‘This approach, this whole level should have been taped off. And the stairs, which is how he escaped. What the hell are you playing at, man?’

‘It’s all happening. Sir.’

‘It’s not happening fast enough, is it?’

‘Her car’s a Humber Hawk, by the way,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘Very old.’

Willoughby glared. He did not like being interrupted, even by someone of his own rank. As for this plain-clothes upstart ...

‘It’s just down there,’ nodded Troy, compounding his insolence.

‘I’ve got eyes, Sergeant. Thank you.’

‘I’d like it roped off,’ said Barnaby. ‘And gone over by SOCO. Every inch.’

‘What?’

He may have eyes, thought Sergeant Troy, but his ears don’t seem to be up to much.

‘I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, Willoughby. Just see to it.’

‘Sir.’

‘Where was she found?’

‘Over here.’ Willoughby led the way towards a scarlet Megane. ‘Lying in front of the car. I’d say a couple of feet from the radiator grille.’

Barnaby looked more closely at the car. There was a slight but definite indentation on the rim of the bonnet. Vividly he saw Ann Lawrence’s head being swung down against it with tremendous force and felt sick again. Then told himself not to run with such vivid fantasies. She could have been coshed by anything. But then why bother to drag her over to the car? Also the wound was high. Partly on the forehead but also on the front section of the skull. In any case, how often do attackers walk up to their mark, look them in the face and strike? They creep and sidle and slink. They pad up silently behind and let them have it. Barnaby looked about him.

‘She got as far as here,’ he stood in the aisle between the cars some distance away, ‘presumably making for the lift. He followed and jumped her, dragging her over to the Renault. You can see the heel marks through this oily tyre track. And nearer the car as well.’

‘I had made a note of that, actually, sir.’

‘Good for you, Willoughby,’ said the chief inspector, disbelief sticking to the words like toffee. ‘So we’ll have to hang on to the Megane, get it properly examined.’

‘Absolutely.’

There was an exquisite pause which Barnaby delighted in extending. It was plain that Willoughby did not know exactly why the red car had to be tested. Fear of being thought stupid meant he could not bring himself to ask. But if he didn’t ask, when SOCO asked him if they were looking for anything specific, he wouldn’t know. It was moments like this, sighed the chief inspector contentedly to himself, that made what was often a mundane job really worthwhile.

Sergeant Troy said, ‘Look here.’

‘What?’ Inspector Willoughby moved quickly to the car, pushing Troy aside.

‘How d’you get a dent in a place like that?’ Troy, having nodded at the bonnet, spoke over his shoulder to the DCI. ‘Not from a collision, that’s for sure.’

‘That’s right.’ Barnaby smiled. ‘Well spotted, Sergeant.’

Willoughby, ferociously envious and annoyed, stared at the car with burning eyes. He’ll melt the paint, thought Barnaby, if he keeps that up.

‘Make sure everything she was wearing goes to SOCO.’

‘Naturally, Chief Inspector.’

‘And I’ll want a tape of the interview with the man who found her. Right,’ he turned away, ‘that seems to be it. For now.’

‘I’ll check the pay ticket on the Humber, sir. It’ll give us Mrs Lawrence’s exact time of arrival.’

‘You’re on form today, Sergeant, and no mistake.’

And Troy made his way towards the Humber with a swing and a swagger, the tips of his ears glowing with pleasure.

As both men were leaving the building, Barnaby’s mobile rang. It was Sergeant Brierley ringing from the incident room to inform him that the tape of the anonymous 999 call on the night of Carlotta Ryan’s disappearance had finally arrived.

After she had finished speaking, Barnaby asked if she would get a further matter sorted. Troy listened in some bewilderment. He did not ask for an explanation, he had his pride. In any case it would probably be, ‘Work it out, Sergeant,’ then, when he couldn’t, he’d feel twice as bad as if he’d never asked in the first place. But bicycles?

Within half an hour of Barnaby and Troy leaving the hospital, the news of a murderous attack on Ann Lawrence was all round the village. Not much later the dreadful details also became available via Connie Dale, the postmistress, whose daughter was a nurse in the geriatric ward.

Ferne Basset’s reaction this time was very different to its response when Charlie Leathers was killed. Morbid relish was replaced by genuine distress, for most of the villagers had known Ann since she was a little girl. Known and liked her for her gentle, inoffensive ways and unobtrusive kindness. Many remarks were made along the lines of “Thank God her father isn’t here today”, and “Her poor mother must be turning in her grave”. People wondered aloud how on earth the Reverend would manage.

It would be hard to pinpoint just when the precise situation at the Old Rectory became common knowledge. Either someone called at the house and was rebuffed. Or concerned inquiries, made by telephone, were handled in a strange and deeply unsatisfactory manner. One or two people were simply cut off. Another was answered by a stranger’s voice. Having promised to fetch Mr Lawrence, the phone was laid down and no one returned to pick it up although the caller could overhear masculine voices and loud laughter. Later it was discovered that the Reverend had not even visited the hospital where his wife lay at death’s door.

Hearing this, Hetty Leathers was deeply upset. She wanted very much to be there if only so that Mrs Lawrence knew there was at least one person who cared. Pauline’s husband Alan was standing by to drive her to Stoke Mandeville but the ward sister, once she had discovered Hetty was not a close relative, said there was really little point as things were at the moment. So Hetty picked a large bunch of flowers and branches of autumn leaves that Mrs Lawrence loved and Alan drove in and left it at reception with a card from all of them.

That evening Evadne fed the Pekes, gave them a drink, read a story (Laka - the Timberwolf ) till they were settled then made her concerned way to Hetty’s bungalow.

The night was cool and the Rayburn was glowing, transforming the kitchen into a snug little cave. Candy, without her plastic collar and elastic bandage but still in plaster, rocked and staggered happily towards Evadne, licking her hand and barking.

‘How’s our small miracle?’ said Evadne, sitting in the rocker and accepting a glass of Lucozade.

‘So much better,’ said Hetty, taking the shabby fireside chair opposite her friend. ‘It’s wonderful to see her gradually becoming less timid. Although we haven’t been out for a proper walk yet.’

‘That will be the test, I’ve no doubt.’

They sat for a few moments in companionable silence. The silence lengthened and the longer it lasted, the more impossible it seemed that either would wish to speak. For there was only one possible subject of conversation and who would want to talk about that? But it could not be contained for ever.

Suddenly Hetty burst out, ‘It was Charlie! Ever since he was ... that’s when it started. What’s going on, Evadne? What’s behind it all?’

‘My dear, I wish I knew.’

‘First him, now poor Mrs Lawrence. I’ve never heard that women say an unkind word about a living soul. And now she’s ...’

‘There, Hetty.’ Evadne reached out and took her friend’s hand. ‘We must pray for another miracle.’

‘But it’s so frightening. What will happen next? I feel we’re gradually being pushed towards the edge of a great black hole.’

Evadne could not have expressed it better or - given the fearful accuracy of the image - worse, herself. She knew exactly what Hetty meant.

Like most people in Ferne Basset, she had been convinced that the murder of Hetty’s husband had been a random act of violence. Probably committed by some deranged soul mistakenly released from a mental institution before his time. The man had been asleep in Carter’s Wood. Charlie had stumbled over him and, enraged and terrified, the lunatic had sprung up, killed him and run away. Understandable, inasmuch as madness ever is. That had been the going theory and everyone had accepted it with alacrity and not a little relief.

And now this. But wasn’t the attack on Ann Lawrence also random? Someone had suggested it was a bag-snatcher. And miles away from Ferne Basset. So didn’t that, once more, put the village in the clear?

Evadne realised she was regarding the place where she had been so happy for so long almost as a character in a story. A clear and sunlit haven, beautiful in all its seasons, sustaining and secure when the tale begins then gradually, as the narrative becomes more opaque, tangled and disquieting, so the village, too, becomes transformed into a wilderness full of unknown dangers. They truly had awoken to find themselves in a dark wood, where the right road was wholly lost and gone.

‘What’s that, Evadne?’

‘Oh ...’ She had not realised she was murmuring aloud. ‘A line from a poem which seems to sum up our predicament.’

Hetty gave the impression of taking a deep breath. Then she said, ‘There is something I haven’t told you.’

‘What’s that, Hetty?’

‘Pauline knows but the police don’t seem to have made it public so ...’

‘You know I never repeat anything.’

‘Apparently Charlie was trying to blackmail someone.’

‘Oh!’ Evadne went very pale. ‘And they think that was the motive?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it was someone he knew?’

‘Not just someone he knew, Evadne ...’ Hetty was trembling, shaking from the crown of her head to her shabby, slippered feet while Candy quivered in sympathy. ‘Don’t you see, it must be someone we all know.’

When the news about Ann Lawrence reached the Fainlights, they were pussyfooting around each other with great caution, determinedly avoiding a quarrel.

About an hour earlier Valentine had returned from Jackson’s flat and disappeared into his room to work. While she sat nervously waiting for him to re-emerge, Louise had vowed to behave with nothing but supportive, loving, uncritical kindness. She would keep this up until the moment she left the house. And for ever after. She and Val would not be divided. He would not divide them.

And, after all, everything passes. Louise took this stark consolation to her heart as she spent the next half-hour alternately tormenting and comforting herself by wondering how this wretched union would eventually be severed.

Perhaps Jax would simply get bored. No, she was quite sure that feelings of either interest or boredom were simply not relevant as far as this affair was concerned. He could be bored to tears but as long as there was something to be gained from the relationship, it would continue. Valentine might hope that he was a special person to Jax but Louise was sure that the great cold landscape of the boy’s heart was impregnable. The only special person in Jax’s life was himself.

Neither could she imagine Valentine getting bored with Jax. One did not tire of an obsession. It burned itself out or it burned you out. For the same reason it was impossible to picture Val falling in love with another person.

Fleetingly Louise remembered how happy her brother had been during his years with Bruno Magellan. So distraught was Val for months after his partner’s death, endlessly reliving all their earlier joys and pleasures while sliding further and further into a pit of depression, she had despaired of ever seeing him find the will, energy or courage to start another relationship. And then, after months of slowly struggling back into the light, to be seized by a passion so sterile and reckless it appeared to be hurling him once more into the depths of despair was heartbreaking.

Was that Val coming down? Louise, sitting by the window, turned her head sharply towards the stairs. It struck her that for weeks now that was all she had been doing. Either constantly watching her brother, or listening for him.

She listened for Val’s return when he was out and for signs that he was about to leave when he was in. She listened to him on the telephone and tried to guess who the caller was. She listened to his voice when they spoke, attempting to anticipate the twists and turns of his emotions before they were made manifest to twist and turn against herself. To her shame she had even looked through her brother’s correspondence which was how she discovered a credit slip from Simpson’s in Piccadilly for a leather blouson (American Tan) costing eight hundred and fifty pounds.

Now Louise thought for the first time of how her behaviour might appear to Val. She had assumed, blinded as he was by his frenzied attachment, that he had never noticed this close surveillance. But what if he had? How then would it make him feel? Crowded, that’s how. Spied on. Unable to escape, like a prisoner in a cell with a little peephole. Helpless to avoid observation any time the jailer chose. No wonder, thought Louise, with a quick, blinding intuition, he wants me gone.

And she couldn’t stop observing because she couldn’t stop caring. Because that meant she had stopped loving. And I shall do that, she vowed silently, when I’m in my grave.

A movement in the road caught her eye. A blue car was turning into the Old Rectory drive, drawing up at the front door. She recognised the two men who got out. They were the same policemen who had come to interview herself and Val. Louise wondered what they wanted. She noticed they didn’t ring the bell for the main house but crossed over to the garage flat.

Louise arranged the expression on her face, tried various opening gambits on for size and mentally tuned her voice to a note of amiable casualness. She had heard Val’s footsteps dragging down the stairs. Not all that long ago he would have bounded down two steps at a time.

When his bowed head came into view, Louise said, ‘Hi.’

‘Waiting up?’

Louise ignored the gibe. ‘I was just going to make tea. Would you like some?’

‘I’d rather have a drink.’

‘OK.’

‘OK.’ Val caught the wary passivity with spear-like accuracy. ‘Do I hear a whiff of “sun not quite over the yardarm”?’

‘No. You can pour Jack Daniel’s on your cornflakes and throw up all over Richard and Judy for all I care.’

‘That’s more like it. I was wondering where the real Louise had gone for a minute.’

‘So.’ She crossed to the drinks table. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Don’t care. Just make it strong.’

‘Jameson’s?’

‘The very man.’ He watched her rattling around in the ice bucket. Observed her cast-down face, noticed the slight thickening under her chin, hollowed cheeks and tired lines, which he had never noticed before, printing the fine skin beneath her eyes. Poor Lou. She hadn’t asked for any of this.

‘So, as we seem to be playing house, what did you do today, Mrs Forbes?’

‘Well,’ Louise drew a deep breath like a child about to recite in front of the grown-ups, ‘I worked in the garden. Made several phone calls - putting out feelers for work. This afternoon I went to Causton and had my ends trimmed.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘They give you some coffee afterwards.’

‘I’d need an anaesthetic first.’

‘What about you?’

‘I didn’t garden. I made no phone calls. And my ends are absolute hell.’

‘Come on, Val. You must have done something.’

‘Looked over the proofs of the Hopscotch Kid. Messed about generally. Then Jax rang around three and I went over.’

‘Uh huh.’ Louise took a deep breath. ‘How is he then, Jax?’

‘Fighting fit.’

‘So you had a good time?’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Good. Actually when I was in Causton, I—’

‘Until the bloody police turned up.’

‘Oh? What did they want?’

‘What do they ever want? Bullying him with endless questions. Once you’ve slipped up in this country, Lou, you’re done for. It’s a waste of time even trying to go straight. I didn’t used to believe that. I thought it was just criminals, you know, whining. But it’s true.’

‘What a shame it’s happening now.’ Louise gagged on the words but somehow managed to squeeze them out. ‘Being down here, well away from the sort of people who got him into trouble, could have given him a completely new start.’

‘Exactly!’ Valentine drained half the Irish in one swallow. ‘I don’t have much time for Lionel, as you know, but his idea of sanctuary for youngsters in trouble is really great.’

Youngsters? That man was never a youngster. Cunning like his is as old as the hills.

‘I think I’ll join you.’ Casually Louise turned away to pour herself a drink. She knew it would be a mistake to show how pleased she was at the way the conversation was progressing. And an even bigger one to try and build on it. She said, ‘I got a partridge for tonight.’

‘Lovely.’ Val drained his glass and walked over. ‘You could freshen my drink.’

‘You haven’t got a drink.’ Louise laughed, letting go a little with relief at the first hurdle cleared.

‘My ice cubes then.’

After she had refilled the glass, Valentine carried it across the room, flung himself onto the huge pale sofa and put his feet up. He already looked slightly less tired. His face was smoothing out. As he stretched his legs and flexed his toes, Louise sensed a quickening of vitality. Could it really be possible that a few transparent lies on her part could accomplish such a transformation? Lies which his sharp intelligence would normally see straight through?

It seemed so. Oh, why hadn’t she realised months ago how hard her fear and dislike of Jax had been for her brother to handle? Even obsessives have moments of clarity and it must have seemed to Val that she had withdrawn her love and support just when he needed it the most. If only she had made allowances for his irrational state of mind. Listened more sympathetically. Bided her time. But, because there had never been pretence between them, this had simply not occurred to her. Not until now, when it was too late.

‘Sorry, Val.’ The sound of his voice had registered but not the words.

‘I cut you off when we were talking before. Something or other happened in Causton?’

‘Oh, yes. You’ll never guess who—’

But then the telephone rang. And after the call it was impossible to continue that or any other conversation. The terrible news about Ann Lawrence not only stopped Louise’s mouth but was so devastating in the light of what she had been about to relate that it almost stopped her heart as well.

‘Are you all right, Lionel?’

‘What?’

‘How do you feel? I mean, really?’

‘I’m not sure.’

It was a good question. Very perceptive. How did he feel, really? He knew how he ought to feel. And perhaps, if Ann hadn’t been so cruel to him, he would appropriately be feeling it. Frantically worried, praying to God for her recovery, dreading the heartbreak that follows the loss of a beloved spouse.

And he had loved her. All these years he had been a good and faithful husband. The trouble was, as the ugly scene the previous day had so clearly illustrated, she didn’t love him. So he could hardly be blamed if his response to the dreadful news he had just received was somewhat muted.

‘I should go, shouldn’t I?’

‘Fact is, Lionel, she won’t know whether you’re there or not.’

‘That’s true.’

‘If she comes round, well ...’

‘Then, of course.’

‘Obviously. And if it’s not out of line, I’d like to say you have my deepest sympathy.’

‘I know that, Jax. It means a lot having you here.’

‘For some reason unknown, Mrs Lawrence never took to me.’

‘She had - has a nervous disposition.’

‘But I’m not the sort to take offence. And I can only pray that God is on our side at this moment in time.’

‘Thank you.’

An hour or so earlier, after the person at the other end of the line had explained what had happened and Lionel had listened in thunderstruck silence, he had stood for a long while with the phone glued to his ear staring at the faded wallpaper.

Then, when the first shock had passed, he felt curiously empty. He sat down and waited to see what would happen next. What happened next was that Lionel found he very much needed to pass the information on. Any suggestion that this was nothing more than the normal human response when receiving disastrous or exciting news would have outraged him. Lionel knew himself to be purely in need of consolation and support. But where to find it?

The only person he could think of was dear Vivienne at the Caritas Trust. She had always been most simpatico on the increasingly frequent occasions when he had felt the need to unburden his heart.

Lionel dialled the number with what he was pleased to see was a very steady hand. But he had hardly begun to speak before Vivienne cut him short. She was interviewing and also had someone waiting. When Lionel suggested he should ring later, she said she would call him but not to hold his breath.

Bewildered, he hung up. So who else was there? It was a moment or two before he thought of Jax largely because, in his understanding of their relationship, he himself was always firmly cast in the role of comforter. But he had nothing to lose by asking. Jax might even welcome the opportunity to repay some of the kindness he had been shown.

And so it proved to be. He had rushed over within minutes, bringing a bottle. Lionel had been so grateful he had not demurred when Jax opened the red wine straightaway and insisted that he drink some. And Jax, ‘as this is rather an unusual occasion’, agreed to join him. Now the bottle was nearly empty.

‘This is really delicious.’ Lionel drained his third glass, not noticing that Jax’s remained almost untouched. ‘It certainly seems to take the edge off the pain.’

‘Mr Fainlight gave it me,’ said Jax. ‘I did a little job for him.’

Lionel looked at his watch. ‘D’you think ...’

‘It’s not vintage or nothing.’

‘Perhaps I should ring.’

‘They said they’d contact you if there was any change.’

Lionel didn’t remember that. He stared around the room, frowning. Jax crossed over, bringing his glass, to sit next to his benefactor on the sofa.

‘I can see I’m going to have to look after you, Lionel.’

‘Oh, Jax.’

‘Just till Mrs Lawrence gets better.’ Jackson hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should stay over here tonight.’

‘Oh, would you? I get so lonely sometimes.’

‘I’ve noticed that, Lionel. And many’s the time I’ve wanted to make an overture of friendship, believe you me. Just been afraid to overstep the mark.’

‘I don’t know how to express my gratitude.’

Jackson prided himself on his sense of timing. There would be a moment to suggest how Lionel could best express his gratitude but this was not it; it was too soon after the sad event and the Rev was more than a little swacked. It was not drunken promises that Jackson was after. Such promises frequently did not survive the harsh scrutiny of the morning after. Thankfulness recollected in sober tranquillity was the ultimate aim.

Lionel’s glass once more being empty, Jackson offered to exchange it for his own, even going as far as to place it in Lionel’s hand. He curled the limp fingers round the stem and his eyes shone with encouragement and approval.

The doorbell rang. Lionel gave a great jump and his wine went everywhere. Jackson stepped back, his expression one of controlled rage, and left the room.

Even in his present state Lionel recognised the two men Jackson showed in. He struggled to get up, making indignant incomprehensible gurgles. Reeled, steadied himself with one hand.

‘Mr Lawrence?’ Barnaby stared in amazement.

‘He does live here,’ said Jackson.

Barnaby, who had only rung the main house bell after getting no joy at the garage, said, ‘Why aren’t you at the hospital, sir?’

‘What ... what?’

‘Haven’t you heard from Stoke Mandeville?’

‘Yes ... that is ...’ He turned to Jackson.

‘They said Mrs L was unconscious.’ Jackson spoke directly to Barnaby. ‘And that they’d ring if there was any change. If there is, naturally he’ll be straight down there.’

The patronising scorn with which he spoke was deeply disturbing. As was Lionel’s attitude. A dishevelled, shambolic figure covered in stains that looked appallingly like blood, he sat beaming at Jackson, nodding eagerly at everything he said.

‘Anyway,’ Barnaby made no effort to conceal his contempt, ‘it’s you I’m here to see, Jackson.’

‘Anything, Inspector. You’ve only got to ask.’

‘How are you on a bike?’

‘Never tried it. I went straight from skateboarding to TDA. Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘We’re asking for your clothes. Top layer, underwear, socks, shoes. Contents of pockets. The lot.’

‘That’s fetishism, that is.’

‘Just get on with it.’ Barnaby seemed to have endless patience.

‘You mean ...’ Jackson touched the edge of a beautiful leather jacket. ‘These clothes?’

‘If those are what you were wearing at three o’clock this afternoon,’ said Barnaby, ‘yes.’

‘I’ve told you earlier, I were gardening this afternoon. You don’t think I’d do a dirty job in clobber like this.’

‘So we’ll have the clobber you did do the job in,’ said Sergeant Troy. He was taking a leaf out of the chief’s book and speaking calmly and quietly. What he really wanted to do was run across the room, get his hands round the fucker’s throat and squeeze till moisture showered from his baby blues like rain.

‘It’s in the flat, Inspector.’

‘So get it,’ said Barnaby. ‘And stop calling me Inspector.’

‘No problem,’ said Jackson, strolling towards the door. ‘The cycle should be through by now.’

‘The what?’

‘The wash cycle. After I’d finished work I put everything in the machine. Like I say, it was a dirty job.’

Barnaby was twenty minutes late for his seven o’clock briefing and arrived flushed with annoyance after a wrangle with the money men on the top floor. The incident room was bristling with people lively and animated on two counts. First, the situation, which had appeared to be in grave danger of becoming totally moribund, had now taken a totally unexpected and dramatic turn. Secondly, the tape had arrived. Everyone had heard it except the chief and his bagman. Inspector Carter waited till they were seated, wound back and pressed Play.

The moment she spoke Barnaby knew who it was.

‘... help ... you must help ... me ... someone has fallen—no, no, into the water ... the river ... she disappeared so fast ... just swept ... I ran up and down ... all the way to the weir ... What? Oh, Ferne Basset ... I don’t know, half an hour, maybe less ... For God’s sake! Does it matter when? Just come, you must come now ...’

When asked for her name, the woman caught her breath. There was a moment of absolute silence then the receiver fell. They could all hear it, clattering and banging against the side of the box. Then she started to cry. Just over a minute later the phone was placed very gently back on the rest.

Barnaby sat very still, his eyes closed. There was no point in bemoaning the tragic twists and turns in the case that had kept Ann Lawrence from his grasp until it was too late. ‘If only’ were words outside his vocabulary. Even so, it was bloody hard.

The room was still. Someone switched the machine off. Sergeant Troy, struggling with a deep sense of unease, looked sideways at the brooding figure under the Anglepoise. He saw a profile that seemed to sag rather than relax, blue veins prominent in the wrists (why had he never noticed them before?) and a heavy droop of skin above each eyelid.

Of course the chief often looked knackered, that was nothing new. Sergeant Troy had seen him look tired and disappointed many times. Cheated. Betrayed even. But not beaten like this. And never old.

Barnaby lifted his head, heavily at first as if it was a ball of stone, then more freely. His burly shoulders, freed from tension, set themselves firmly back.

‘Well,’ he said and smiled, warming to life again before their very eyes. ‘Here’s a turn-up for the book.’

The whole room was reactivated as well then, like a film when the freeze frame is released. People started to move, gesture, talk. Someone even laughed. It was Sergeant Troy actually. Part nerves, part just bloody relief.

‘Ties her well in, doesn’t it, sir?’ said Audrey Brierley. ‘Mrs Lawrence.’

There were murmurs of agreement. Plain as the nose on your face, it seemed now. The missing girl had lived in the woman’s house, as did the prime suspect. Or as good as. The murdered man had worked for her. Everything was becoming satisfyingly intertwined.

‘Certainly,’ said Barnaby, ‘we now know she saw what happened when the girl went into the river. But that’s all we know at this stage, OK?’

There were a few murmurs of reluctant agreement.

‘Let’s not get overexcited,’ continued the chief inspector. ‘She may simply have been an observer.’

‘Presumably a secret observer,’ suggested DI Carter, ‘or someone would have shut her up long before this.’

‘But if that was not the case,’ Barnaby carried on smoothly, ‘and Mrs Lawrence was the only person involved, then Leathers must have been blackmailing her.’

This suggestion, which overturned all the beliefs and theories held so far in the murder inquiry, was presented with surprising equanimity. The room, taking their cue from the top, nodded.

‘First thing tomorrow we chase up her bank. And if she’s been drawing out large sums of money ...’ Barnaby shrugged, letting the rest of the sentence tail eloquently away.

Troy liked this idea of open-ended dialogue, if only so that someone else could make a fool of themselves for a change by finishing it. He said, ‘So our assumption that the blackmail victim murdered Leathers ...’ He shrugged, letting the rest of the sentence tail eloquently away.

‘Yes?’ said Barnaby.

‘Um.’ A pause.

‘Hurry up. We haven’t got all day.’

‘I think Gavin means,’ said Sergeant Brierley, ‘that it’s very hard to picture Mrs Lawrence garrotting someone.’

‘Very hard indeed,’ said the chief inspector. ‘Though not impossible.’

‘But she’s been attacked herself, sir,’ said Constable Phillips. ‘There aren’t two murderers involved in this case surely?’

Barnaby did not reply. Just sat looking round the room. Roughly ten minutes into the meeting and so far sympathy for Ann Lawrence was not particularly in evidence. The chief inspector was not surprised. As far as he knew, no one present, apart from Troy, had met her. They had certainly not witnessed her lying unconscious and hanging on to life, breath by fragile breath, in a lonely hospital bed.

‘So where does Jackson fit into this, chief?’ asked Troy. ‘D’you think he was involved in the assault on Mrs Lawrence?’

‘I don’t think, I know.’

‘But why?’

‘Presumably because we were going to meet her later this afternoon.’

‘But would he know that?’ asked Inspector Carter. ‘Given the total lack of communication between them.’

‘He could have listened in - there’s a connecting line from his flat to the house. Or got it from Lionel. He’s putty in Jackson’s hands.’

Troy snorted in disgust. Putty wasn’t the word he’d use. Something soft, yes. Flexible, yes. Something you could step in that would leave an impression on the sole of your shoe. But not putty. He snorted again just to emphasise his complete and utter disdain.

‘Whatever,’ said Barnaby. ‘But I’m convinced these two crimes are back to back and skin-tight. Solve one, you solve both.’

‘All due respect, sir—’

‘No genuflexions, please, Phillips. Anyone on my team is encouraged to speak their mind.’

And God help them, said his team silently to itself, if he’s running a moody.

‘It’s just that,’ continued Phillips with a quail in his voice, ‘as the girl’s body has never been found, how do we know we have a serious crime at all?’

‘Because whatever Leathers saw gave him a genuine lever for blackmail. And trying it on got him killed.’

‘Oh yes, sir.’ Constable Phillips, not a tall person at the best of times, folded himself down into his chair until he almost vanished. ‘Thank you.’

‘Any time,’ said Barnaby.

‘Could she have just swum to the other side, climbed out and run away?’ asked DS Griggs.

‘Hardly,’ said Inspector Carter. ‘You’ve read Jackson’s record. Can you see him being that incompetent?’

‘Not if the attack on Mrs Lawrence is anything to go by,’ agreed Sergeant Agnew. He turned to Barnaby. ‘How do you think he managed to work that, sir?’

‘Yes,’ said Audrey. ‘Like, how could he know in advance where she was going to park?’

‘He drove in with her,’ said Barnaby. ‘Though of course without her knowledge.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Troy. ‘She’d never have got into a crowded double-decker bus with him, let alone a car.’

‘He wouldn’t risk hiding in the back, surely.’

‘No, no, he used the boot,’ explained Barnaby. ‘Climb in at the very last minute, pull the lid down, hold on to the latch. And bingo, he’s on the spot when she gets out.’

‘Unlucky for Mrs L there was no one around,’ pointed out Inspector Carter.

‘That would merely have delayed the attempt,’ said the chief inspector. ‘He’d have got her later - waiting at the traffic lights, walking too near the kerb. One hard push when a bus was coming would do it.’

‘Plus he might be carrying,’ added Troy. ‘He’s been done for using a blade.’

‘Lovely,’ murmured Audrey Brierley.

‘And all because she knew exactly what happened the night Carlotta disappeared?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ said Barnaby.

‘He must be desperate.’

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby. ‘Which makes him doubly dangerous.’

‘We should get a result this time, though, sir. Broad daylight? Someone must have seen him.’

‘Maybe,’ said Barnaby. ‘But I think it’ll be forensics who are going to nail this one.’

‘They’re working on the Humber,’ added Sergeant Troy. ‘And they’ve got his clothes. Though he’d already put them through the wash.’

‘That’s a giveaway if you like,’ said Constable Peggy Marlin, a stout, comfortable women in her late thirties with several sons. ‘I’ve never known a bloke that age wash his clothes at all, never mind the minute he takes them off. They’re all over the floor for the next three weeks.’

‘We might have more luck with the shoes,’ said Barnaby. ‘We’ve got all those that were in his flat plus the sneakers he was wearing.’

‘He’ll have cold feet.’ Policewoman Marlin laughed.

‘He’ll have more than cold feet before I’ve done with him.’

‘There’s an oily smear through which Mrs Lawrence was dragged,’ explained Sergeant Troy. ‘Just a pinpoint on one of his shoes and we’ve got him.’

‘Did you see any trace, sir?’ asked Sergeant Brierley.

Barnaby hesitated. ‘Not with the naked eye. But of course that doesn’t mean the lab won’t.’

There was a longish pause. Looking around, the chief inspector sensed their excitement seeping away. Saw them thinking that if the bloke had stepped in it the evidence would have been plain enough. Knew his words had provoked diminishing enthusiasm, disappointment even. Well, that was not his fault. He couldn’t offer what he didn’t have.

‘No doubt the slimy sod’s sorted himself an alibi,’ said DS Griggs.

‘According to him he spent the entire time weeding the Rectory back garden.’

‘Anyone see him?’ asked Inspector Carter.

‘Fortunately, no.’ A small cheer. Barnaby went on to explain how, having hung around for half an hour pouring black coffee into Lionel, they had finally got the information they wanted.

‘It seems Lionel was working in his study on a funeral address for Charlie Leathers. Being out of practice, he reckons it took him a good hour and a half. The study faces the front of the house.’

There were a few soft whistles, raised eyebrows and incredulous glances. Inspector Carter put the general feeling into words.

‘Jackson’s wire-walking this one. What if the old guy had come looking for him?’

‘Oh, there’d be some tale about him falling asleep or shopping in the village. Lawrence believes every word he says.’

‘Loosely wrapped, is he?’

‘To put it kindly.’

‘So when can we prove Jackson was there?’

‘For sure, just gone three thirty. He asked Valentine Fainlight to come over.’

There were jeering ‘ooohs’ at this, some crude and deeply unfunny gestures and one simple request to God that the ‘slimy pair of penile warts’ should disappear up each other’s bottoms.

Constable Phillips said, ‘I didn’t realise Jackson was gay.’

‘He’s not gay,’ said Sergeant Troy, in a voice so thick with contempt he sounded about to choke. ‘Just rents it out to the highest bidder.’

‘This puts Evadne Pleat’s romantic musings in a quite different light,’ said Barnaby. ‘D’you recall she saw Fainlight hanging round at night in the Lawrences’ garden?’

‘And thought he was after Carlotta,’ reminded Audrey Brierley. ‘He must be absolutely besotted.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘Let’s just hope he’s not so besotted he’s prepared to lie.’

‘You mean cover for Jackson?’

‘There’s already a discrepancy over time. Fainlight thought he got to the garage flat about half three. Jackson said it was nearer three o’clock.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ Constable Phillips, gradually unfolding from his chair, peeped out of his shell.

‘Does he know the score, Fainlight?’ said DS Griggs.

Barnaby shook his head.

‘That’ll make a difference,’ said WPC Marlin. ‘Wait till he discovers what he’s giving an alibi for.’

‘Which brings us to the most important question,’ said Barnaby. ‘On which everything, everything will depend.’

‘How he got back?’ said Sergeant Troy. And suddenly twigged the message on the mobile from the car park.

‘Exactly.’

The room broke out into general conversation. Everyone talking, offering ideas and suggestions. Chairs were scraped as people turned round to agree or disagree.

‘He wouldn’t take a cab, that’s for sure.’

‘Nobody could be that stupid.’

‘Would he risk thumbing a car?’

Cries of ‘oh, please’ and ‘I thought you said he wasn’t stupid’ followed by ‘the driver’d remember him’.

‘Steal one then?’

‘He’d have to leave it on the outskirts of the village.’

‘Well, he used something. You don’t walk twelve miles in half an hour.’

‘He used a bike, of course,’ said Sergeant Troy, cutting into the general hubbub with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘I believe we’ve already run a check on thefts, isn’t that right, sir?’

Barnaby fished out a sheet of A4 from the clutter on his desk. He waved it with a hint of smugness rather in the manner of television cooks producing out of the oven a dish they’d prepared earlier.

‘There were three stolen in Causton today. A kid’s mountain bike, a bone-rattler some poor old pensioner took to his allotment and a Peugeot Leader Sprint left outside the Soft Shoe Cafe. They’re really lightweight. They can be ridden hard and fast and I reckon that must be the one we’re looking for.’

One or two officers looked rather disgruntled at this conjuring trick. If the chief had worked it out and checked it out, why couldn’t he have just spoken out? Barnaby smiled, indifferent to their discomfiture. If time permitted, he always liked the team to suss things for themselves.

‘A bit of a risk, sir,’ said Sergeant Brierley. ‘What if he hadn’t found one?’

‘Bound to. There’s always several on display outside Halfords, for a start. He was probably making for there when he came across this one.’

‘It’s brilliant, that,’ said DS Griggs. ‘Covers the distance, easy to dump and you can jump off and hide if you have to.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘The machine can’t be far away. I shall organise a search first light in the morning.’

‘Won’t he have nipped out by then and disposed of it properly?’

‘I hope he tries. I’ve a man on the house. From now on wherever Jackson goes, we go.’ No point in spelling out the problems he’d had obtaining this temporary surveillance. His positive conviction sounded like mere suspicion unsupported by a single shred of evidence to the powers that held the purse strings. The lookout having been grudgingly given, Barnaby was told the situation would be reviewed every twenty-four hours. This time tomorrow, Jackson could once more be as free as the lark ascending. If that happens, thought Barnaby, I shall put one of my own team in his place and keep quiet about it.

‘So are we going to give him a tug, sir?’ asked Charlie Agnew.

‘No. He’d walk. There’s nothing to hold him.’ Barnaby stared grimly through his team and directly at the back wall with its hideous montage showing the mangled remains of Charlie Leathers. ‘When I bring that bugger in, he stays in.’

Louise was getting ready for bed. So far she had taken over an hour about it and could well take another, the procedure being so utterly pointless. For she would never sleep. She might as well stay where she was now, wrapped in a cream velvet robe and curled into the deep hollow centre of a leather armchair. The chair was a perfect oval without arms or legs, suspended by transparent silk ropes from a glass beam in the roof of the house.

Swinging gently backwards and forwards often helped her to relax, sometimes even induced a dreamlike drowsiness. But not tonight. Tonight it would take a pharmacist of genius or an opiate not yet discovered to bring an intermission to her tormented consciousness.

The news about Ann had been bad enough. Hearing it, imagining the pain and the terror, understanding how near she now lay to death - that was bad enough. But the other thing ...

When he had first heard the news, Val was deeply shocked and genuinely sorry to hear what had happened. But later that evening, following a phone call from the Rectory, all this emotion was transformed in a crucible of furious indignation to something approaching rage.

‘God Almighty! When are they going to leave that poor devil alone?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Those sodding policemen. They’ll hound him and hound him until he can’t take any more.’

‘Who?’ She knew, of course.

‘Then he’ll strike out in sheer desperation. Re-offend probably. And they’ll rub their disgusting hands together and throw him back inside.’ Valentine stared hard at his sister, sheer desperation not entirely absent from his own countenance.

‘Poor Jax,’ said Louise quickly. She had almost forgotten the role she had so recently started to play. ‘What is it this time?’

‘The usual. Trying to tie something on him he couldn’t possibly have done.’

‘Not ...’ Louise had to reach blindly behind her then for support, waving her arm through the air before half sitting, half falling into a seat.

‘That’s right, the attack on Ann Lawrence. They’ve even taken the clothes he was wearing when it happened.’

‘Oh no.’ Dizziness overwhelmed her. ‘Val, it can’t be true.’

‘Of course it isn’t true. He was at the Rectory all day. Try telling them that.’ Finally his sister’s ghastly pallor registered. ‘Sorry, Lou. I’m a selfish sod. She was your friend, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ Louise was perfectly clear on that one. Ann had been her friend. How could she ever have thought otherwise?

‘I’m going to get you some brandy.’

Louise remembered now that she had drunk the brandy. Swallowed it like water and with much the same effect. When the shock had receded enough for her to be able to stand, she had excused herself and come upstairs. She had bathed, wrapped her still shaking limbs in the cream robe then rocked endlessly back and forth to a lonely rhythm of desolation.

She told herself she might have been mistaken. He had gone by so fast. A cyclist, all in black. Leggings, long-sleeved jumper, gloves, knitted hat pulled right down covering his hair and forehead. She’d parked, just for a minute, on a double yellow outside the bank. Was on the point of getting out, even had the door slightly open, the road behind showing clear. And there he was in her wing mirror. Far away, then present, then gone. Barely a second from start to finish. But, because of the mirror, she had seen his face. And recognised it.

At least she thought she had. But now Val said he was at the Rectory all day. Said he himself was actually with Jax when the savagery took place. So she must have been wrong. In despair Louise, who had stopped believing in the Almighty even before she had stopped believing in Father Christmas, prayed. Awkwardly, with burning, passionate clumsiness, not knowing quite what to say.

‘Please God,’ she mumbled, ‘let it not be him.’ Then, feeling this was too vague, she forced herself to elaborate. She even said his name and felt it, squatting like a toad, on her tongue. ‘What I mean is, let the man I saw today on a bicycle in Causton not be Jax.’

There was a cold emptiness inside her mouth. And she knew the words were sterile. What was the point? Louise climbed out of her chair and stood, staring through the roof at the almost black sky scattered with sparkling points of cold light. How could anything or anyone even exist up there, let alone be taking the slightest interest in her anguished pleading?

Even so, even while understanding that the whole procedure was a pointless, hopeless waste of time, she could not stop one final request.

‘And please, God, please look after Val.’

As Barnaby turned into Arbury Crescent, he felt like Sisyphus finally giving up on the boulder. Standing aside, watching it roll away, bouncing and tumbling back down the mountainside while he strode on towards the summit, light of heart.

That moment in the incident room when the tape of Ann Lawrence’s emergency call had started to play, when it became plain that he had possibly been barking up an entirely mistaken tree for the entire investigation, had struck the DCI hard. He knew he had given the impression of recovering quickly. He was good at that and it was important that he should be. Disheartenment was an infection that spread like lightning. But it was a false impression. In truth he was feeling very disheartened indeed.

Also he was in grave danger of becoming personally involved. Never recommended, it still sometimes happened. When the cruel mistreatment or murder of a child occurred, for instance, few policemen were able to remain completely detached. But this was not the death of a child. This was the death of an extremely unpleasant old man who had been attempting blackmail.

So why the hatred? Barnaby realised with a shock that this was the correct word. He had begun to hate Terry Jackson. Hate his merry smile and shameless posturing, his conversation which danced back and forth as lightly as a featherweight, a spiteful jab here, a feint - the sham attack which made a fool of the recipient. And, just as it did, the real attack. A serious blow, fast and heavy, to the solar plexus.

Hatred sparkled too when he thought of the man’s appearance. Dwelled on that spare, tawny flesh and hard muscle, and the shining navy blue eyes with strange golden pupils. The only physical flaw in this Apollonian perfection, as far as Barnaby could see, were the teeth which had never been properly cared for. But no doubt once this need for cosmetic dentistry was brought to Fainlight’s attention the omission would be quickly rectified.

Barnaby yanked his attention away from this idea. Because it would never happen. There were no upmarket dentists whitening and capping and straightening in the Scrubs. Or in Albany or Strangeways. And that’s where Jackson would be ending up.

And you’d better believe that, you heap of festering slime. Realising he had spoken aloud and was now gripping the steering wheel as though his very life depended on it, Barnaby slowed down almost to a halt. Because it was not good, this feeling. Hatred could blind you, narrow your options to nothing, obscure evidence that might be right under your nose. Not to mention sending your blood pressure into a spin.

He remembered what Joyce had said to him the other morning, that, once on a case, he was like a dog with a bone, gripping it between his teeth, anxious that no other dog should get a taste. He had been angry at the time. He wondered again if it was true and decided it was. Well, partially. Barnaby had a strong sense of self-worth, he would not have risen to his present rank otherwise, but he believed he was also prepared to listen. In this, although not unique, he was very much in the minority. Still in second, he turned into the driveway of number seventeen.

And then things started to get better as they always did. Whatever foul muck he’d been up to his oxters in during working hours, this was where it started to fall away. It was a strange process, not forgetfulness so much as a psychological cleansing, and he never quite understood it.

It could have been the verdant sweetness of the garden (even in winter there was always something irresistibly beautiful to look at) or the familiar warmth of the solid, red-brick building where he had lived contentedly for over twenty years. But overwhelmingly, of course, it was Joyce. Wherever she was, he was happy to be.

Barnaby never took this good fortune for granted. You didn’t, with a job like his. Anyway, complacency was an absolute magnet for disaster. He had heard the words, I never thought this would happen to me, almost more often than any others. He would never say them. Or believe that never doing anyone any harm was a talisman against disaster. Barnaby reached out and touched the walnut dashboard before getting out of the car.

Cully’s Dyane, yellow and mermaid green with a huge sunflower painted on the boot, stood under the laburnum tree. Barnaby’s step, already eager, quickened. He had hardly put his key in the lock when she opened the door.

‘Dad! Something wonderful’s happened!’ She seized his hand. ‘Come on.’

‘Let me take my—’

‘No. You’ve got to come now.’

The kitchen door was wide open. He could see Joyce smiling, Nicolas looking tremendously proud, golden-foiled bottles and champagne glasses. Public rejoicing. He looked down at his daughter’s shining face and knew what she was going to tell him. He put his arm round her and caught the sweet fragrance of her hair. His little girl.

‘Cully. Oh, darling, what can I say?’ Barnaby realised the backs of his eyes were prickling. So what? It wasn’t every day one became a grandfather. ‘Congratulations.’

‘It’s not me you have to congratulate, silly. It’s Nico.’

‘Nico?’ Barnaby rearranged his expression quickly but the disappointment sliced across his heart. They went into the kitchen together.

‘I’ve got into the National, Tom.’ Nicolas laughed, raising his glass, plainly not for the first time. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Wonderful.’ Barnaby formed the word through stiff lips. He said ‘Congratulations’ again.

Cully poured him a glass of Veuve Clicquot and smiled at her mother. ‘Dad thought I’d got the shampoo commercial.’

‘Did he?’ said Joyce and caught her husband’s eye. Not that she had needed to.

‘I speet on shampoo commercials!’ cried Nico and started laughing again, draining his wine, throwing the glass into the air.

‘Do you know what you’re going to play?’ asked Barnaby, having long since learned the correct responses to any news of a theatrical nature.

‘As cast. But that could mean anything, anything. They’re doing Pinter, Antony and Cleopatra, Peter Pan!’ cried Nico.

‘And a new Terry Johnson comedy all about Sid James,’ said Cully.

‘Carry on Camping up the Cottesloe.’

‘It’s not called that surely,’ said Joyce.

‘You could play Barbara Windsor, darling.’ Cully blew her beloved a kiss.

‘Yes! I’d look brilliant in drag.’

‘One way to get the notices,’ said Joyce, dry as a bone. She knew the immodesty was merely a front; even so, Nico could be somewhat trying at times. ‘Have some more wine, darling.’ She reached out for her husband’s glass and he took her hand instead.

‘I’d rather have a sandwich.’

‘A sandwich?’ Nicolas treated them to his Lady Bracknell, sounding more like Tim Brooke-Taylor than Edith Evans while remaining better looking than both. But then, who wasn’t?

‘I speet on your sandwich! We’re going out to celebrate.’

‘Where?’

‘The River Cafe.’

‘What!’

‘Cool it, Dad.’

‘If you think—’ Barnaby stopped right there. If Cully had been pregnant they could have moved into the River Cafe bag and baggage and had breakfast, lunch and dinner there for a month. ‘Anyway, I’ve heard about that place. You can’t just turn up—’

‘Nico got a cancellation.’

‘It’s our treat,’ said Nicolas, sounding slightly truculent. ‘I sold my old banger yesterday.’

‘We decided it was stupid having two cars. Especially in London.’

‘So, what better way to blow three hundred pounds?’

‘Now, Tom,’ said Joyce, observing her husband’s reaction, ‘calm down.’

‘Out of the question. Anyway, I’m on the cabbage soup diet.’

‘He hasn’t heard,’ said Nicolas, winking at his wife.

‘Heard what?’ said Barnaby.

‘They’re famous for it,’ said Cully, passing to her mother.

‘It’s true, Tom,’ said Joyce. ‘I read only the other day. The River Cafe make the best cabbage soup in the world.’