Faithful unto Death

Chapter Five

“I need some smokes,” said Sergeant Troy. Walking down the lane on the way back to Nightingales, they were just passing Ostlers. “Do you want anything, chief?”

Barnaby was ravenous. It was now nearly four o’clock. Seven hours since he had eaten—for no reasonable person could describe the mess of pottage dished up in the Goat and Whistle as food.

He followed Troy into the cool whitewashed interior, ducking his head to avoid the beams and looking eagerly about him. He needed something filling and tasty which did not have to be irradiated by way of making it edible.

The choice was not uplifting. Fruit, chocolate, cheap biscuits of an unfamiliar brand. A baker’s tray lined with grease-spotted paper held a few tired buns and several strange-looking domed tarts covered with shreds of coconut. Next to these was a single sausage roll which, in style and finish, looked morbidly familiar.

“Hey,” beckoned Troy. “Look at these.”

Lying across the ice-cream unit was a wooden board supporting several small, wheyey cheeses, each placed carefully on individual mats of slatted straw surrounded by laurel leaves. One of the cheeses was concealed beneath a charming hinged pewter mould shaped like a hedgehog.

“Isn’t it cute?” There was a metal loop in the centre of the creature’s back. Troy slipped his little finger through and lifted up the mould. “My mum’d love one of them.”

Unsupported, the cheese slowly collapsed, spreading downwards and outwards into a lumpy, cream-coloured puddle.

At that moment the multicoloured strips of plastic at the rear of the shop slapped and fluttered and an extraordinary figure appeared.

A large woman in a long, dun-coloured dress. The soft pieces of leather wrapped round her feet were secured by narrow thongs. Her brown, hirsute legs were bare. She had on a cotton bonnet of the type worn by milkmaids in musical comedies and a wide white ruff of the type worn by the aristocracy in Holbein portraits. She moved smoothly, as actors sometimes do in Victorian drama on television, as if on concealed roller skates.

Weird, decided Sergeant Troy. He did not relish the idiosyncratic.

“So, gentles all.” She sat behind the till with a bestowing air, as if her customers had just been accorded a rare treat. “How can I assist you?”

Troy, who had positioned himself in such a manner as to conceal the collapsing cheese, said, “Forty Rothmans, please.”

“Sir Walter’s friend?” She took down the cigarettes. “Virginia’s finest.”

“Thank you.” Troy couldn’t stop staring. Awkwardly placed for handing over the money, he gazed around him, pretending interest. “Unusual place.”

“You admire the Tudor period?”

“Oh yeah.” The sergeant was fervent in agreement. He struggled to recall a single relative fact without success, settling for, “Been to Windsor Castle.”

“But that’s ancient. Hardly sixteenth century.”

“That a fact?” Troy changed the subject. “Lovely day.”

“Peradventure. That will be two ninety-five, please.”

The sergeant looked around for his chief who was polishing an apple on his sleeve and sussing the cold drinks layout.

“No doubt you’re intrigued as to the manner of my appearance?”

“You could say that,” agreed Sergeant Troy.

“I’m off shortly to give an illustrated talk to the Townswomen’s Guild on the making of cheese in Elizabethan times, hence the garb. Look behind you and you’ll see my samples.”

The words had a ring of bright confidence. Touching really, thought Troy as he duly turned and looked behind him. The runny stuff had been almost totally absorbed by the straw mat. Turning his back and hoping to conceal the precise details of his move, the sergeant replaced the mould in its original position.

“Ah, ah!” cried Mrs. Boast. “Mustn’t touch. They may not be quite set.”

“Sorry.” At ease now that the moment of hazard was past, Troy smiled, sauntering over to pay for his ciggies. “Do a lot of this sort of thing?”

“Oh yes. Schools, clubs, institutes. My specialties are still-room receipts, baking and dairy crafts. Hubby lectures on flag-wagging and mediaeval armour. Martial swashing on demand.”

“Is that a fact?”

“At weekends we fight.”

Tell me about it, thought Sergeant Troy.

“With the Civil War Society. I could give you details.”

But Troy was saved as his boss came alongside, laying a blister pack of cherry Genoa, an apple and a Lion bar on the counter and wondering aloud if there was such a thing to be had as a can of Seven-Up.

“We say ‘tin’ at Ostlers,” chided Mrs. Boast. “It’s a little way we have. A little discipline. Perpetuating classical English.”

“Do you have a tin of Seven-Up?” asked the Chief Inspector politely.

“Never stock it.”

Barnaby added a Diet Coke to his pile and offered a ten pound note. Mrs. Boast, no doubt already in character and only truly at home with the doubloon, appeared put out.

“Haven’t you anything smaller?”

“I’ve got some change, chief.”

As his Sergeant paid, Barnaby fished out his warrant card and explained what their business was in the village. He asked the shopkeeper what she knew of the Hollingsworths.

Mrs. Boast stretched her neck like a rooster then settled back into her ruff. This was necessary from time to time as it was rather prickly. Her head, resting atop the concertinaed white pleats, reminded Barnaby of a certain sort of religious painting, the ones where, at the end of a banquet, the head of a malcontent is borne in on a platter along with the fruit and nuts.

“I never met Alan. He ordered a stack of frozen individual meals just after she walked out but that was by telephone. Used his credit card and hubby delivered. Simone would come in from time to time or I’d see her occasionally ringing someone from across the way.” She nodded at the plate-glass window through which the British Telecom box was clearly visible.

“Surely they had a phone at home?” asked Troy.

“Always having trouble on the line. Or so she told me.”

Barnaby said, “What was your impression of Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

“A pampered jade,” declared Mrs. Boast, slipping once more into Shakespeak.

Several people had by then come into the shop and one of them was waiting to pay. Barnaby left it there, knowing that, should a full investigation be set in motion, house to house would also be putting questions.

Outside Nightingales the SOCO van shimmered in the heat. The honest burghers of Fawcett Green, though now restrained by barriers, showed no signs of resentment. Rather, there was an air about the place of a good day out. People were standing around or sitting on the grass verges chatting amongst themselves, savouring, with unselfconscious jollity, the presence of death. A family group, complete with dog, devoured sandwiches and sucked drinks through straws. The woman’s hair had been elaborately waved and she wore a lot of make-up, possibly anticipating television cameras.

Perrot, just back from a short lunch break and full of his wife’s delicious home cooking, opened the gates. Barnaby and Troy eased their way through, the latter contenting himself this time with a couple of sotto voce squawks. The constable remained aloof, gazing coldly into the middle distance until addressed by the Chief Inspector.

“In the house, Perrot. Ask the man on the front door to take over here.”

“Sir.”

They found Aubrey Marine at the kitchen table surrounded by stained mugs and plates, an overflowing pedal bin and a cardboard Baked Beans box, also crammed with debris. On the dirty ceramic hob stood a frying pan smelling of rancid fat and a burnt saucepan. The sink was stacked with dirty cutlery. Flies were everywhere. Barnaby was reminded of the set for the Causton amateur dramatic society’s last production, The Caretaker, which his wife had, very successfully, directed.

“What on earth’s that smell?”

“Whisky. The sink reeks of it.”

“Did you find the pill bottles?”

“Nope.”

“What about the capsule casings?”

“Zilch. We’ve been through all this lot and the wheelie bin. Might turn them up in the long grass.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe he put them down the toilet.” Troy looked about him, metaphorically holding his nose.

“It’s possible,” said Aubrey. “But they weigh nothing. I think we’d have found at least one or two still floating.”

“I’m going aloft. Have a look round down here, Sergeant. Check out that bureau with the glass front and the desk. See if you can lay your hands on a phone bill.”

“Right, guv.”

Barnaby entered the hall where Perrot waited awkward, uncertain, anxious to please. Together they climbed the stairs. Barnaby paused on the bend to admire a print of “Peupliers au bord de I’epte.” Framed in transparent Perspex, its serene beauty charmed the eye and soothed the heart. What do you want, the Chief Inspector entertained himself by musing, if you don’t want Monet?

On the landing he asked Perrot to check the three smaller bedrooms.

“What am I looking for, sir?”

“Anything that might shed light on Mrs. Hollingsworth’s disappearance or her husband’s death. Surely I don’t have to draw you a picture?”

“No, sir.”

The master bedroom was directly facing Barnaby. He opened the door and found himself facing another theatrical backdrop, cleaner and vastly more frivolous than the kitchen. Perfect, in fact, for the Merry Widow.

A king-sized bed was surrounded by cloudy draperies which had been gathered up and fastened into a gilded metal crown attached to the ceiling. The ivory headboard was enlivened by pastoral scenes in delicate pastel shades. Nymphs and shepherds cavorted in meadows of spring flowers beneath the eye of their Olympian overlords. Centaurs lapped from a rippling stream.

A wedding photograph stood on the bedside table. Barnaby picked it up to study it more closely. There was that about the groom that the Chief Inspector recognised. His son-in-law, Nicholas, had shown just such a combination of emotions on his nuptial day. Pride, deep satisfaction, elation even. The look of the hunter-gatherer who has not only come across a species thought to be extinct but has brought back a specimen for all the world to wonder at. Yet the strain showed. The wonder of being chosen was clearly grazed over by anxiety, for would not every man be seeking such a rare prize? Poor Nico. He was still hanging on in there but Barnaby sometimes wondered for how much longer. He turned his attention to Hollingsworth’s bride who looked traditionally radiant.

The vicar, he decided, had been spot on. Simone Hollingsworth really was astonishingly pretty, if a trifle artificial looking for his own taste. Smiling brilliantly from beneath a tumbling froth of veiling, she looked rather like one of those skilfully lacquered creatures who swan around the cosmetic sections of department stores spraying unwary women—and men too if they weren’t sharp about it—with perfumed atomisers.

Barnaby took the picture to the window for better light and stood silently appreciating the rosy, glistening mouth. Nearly always the two halves of a top lip are imperfectly matched but here was absolute symmetry even to the perfect cupid’s bow. The bottom lip was fuller than he would have expected, giving an impression of sensual generosity. She had wide set greyish-green eyes with long curling lashes and warm, blushing apricot cheeks. Looking more closely, he realised the shape of her mouth had been very skilfully realised by a pencil and he thought he could discern, beneath its lush contours, a narrower and rather less seductive outline. Her hair, curling round ears as delicate and translucent as little shells, was so fair as to be almost white.

She was holding a spray of ivory rosebuds bound with silver ribbons and wore not only a wedding ring but an extremely large diamond solitaire. No wonder she looked bloody radiant. As quickly as he came to this conclusion so Barnaby chided himself for such chauvinistic cynicism. Lucky the family were not present to read his mind. Cully would have really sharpened her claws on that one.

The Chief Inspector was no great believer in physiognomy and so drew no conclusions regarding Mrs. Hollingsworth’s character from such external comeliness. He had come across too much vicious behaviour by human beings who might have modelled for Boticelli. And acts of great charity and kindness from those who could have climbed out of a pit dug by Hieronymus Bosch.

He put the picture back and wandered into the bathroom. More schlock. False marble floor and starry ceiling, coppercoloured mirror glass walls—the whole place shimmered in bronze light. There was a vast triangular forget-me-not blue bath with high arched golden taps, the handles made to resemble multi-petalled chrysanthemums. Every possible flat surface in the room was covered with jars and bottles and tubes and aerosols. As Constable Perrot had surmised, she couldn’t have taken even a single pot of cream, for there was not an empty space anywhere.

Barnaby opened a drawer in the appropriately named vanity unit. Rows and rows of neatly arranged lipsticks. Annoyed with himself for time-wasting, he surrendered to a compulsion and counted them. Seventy-three. Dear God, seventy-three. He recalled Joyce’s modest collection and no longer wondered what Simone Hollingsworth did all day. Just laboratory testing this lot could prove a lifetime’s occupation.

There were around a dozen boxes of perfume. One had the lid open and the atomiser had been taken out and was standing by the washbasin. Barnaby thought it likely this meant she had been wearing the perfume, called Joy, when she left the house. He took a tissue and sprayed it. The scent was very rich and flowery, quite beautiful in fact. The Chief Inspector thought he might get some for his wife’s birthday which was in three weeks’ time and slipped the tissue into his pocket.

He drifted out again, crossing into the white and gold fitted wardrobes that ran all down the facing wall, sliding the nearest open. Troy came in, sniffing the air.

“Bet you can’t get that at Superdrug.”

“Any luck with the phone bill?”

“No, chief. Sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll contact British Tel.”

“In relation to what?”

“Think about it.”

Troy had a go this time but was quickly defeated. His introspection was not of a constructive or perceptive nature. It involved kick-starting a few hardy old perennials, whirling them vigorously around like salad in a basket and letting them settle.

Resigned to passing on this one, he joined his chief who was now opening another section. The ball bearings rumbled sweetly. Soft falls of velvet and lace, drifts of sparkling georgette, neat outlines of wool and linen and tweed were conjured, concealed, revealed again. Systematically Barnaby checked all the pockets. The clothes were so tightly packed you could not have slid a cat’s whisker between any of them let alone a Gold Card from Harvey Nicks.

“Wouldn’t mind a slice of that with my bedtime cocoa,” said Sergeant Troy who had also clocked the wedding picture. Then, receiving no response to this jaunty lubricity, “Do we know if she went off with that gobstopper on her finger?”

“Not yet.”

“Might explain why nothing else is missing. That’d keep her going till the end of the century.”

“Check these handbags, would you? Then the shoes. There might be something in one of the toes.”

“Won’t be a sec.” Troy disappeared into the bathroom. He used the toilet calling out over the flush, “I’ve always wanted to have it off in a jacuzzi.”

Barnaby worked his way through the first of two chests of drawers. Cashmere sweaters all in pastel shades, filmy underwear and scarves, a Paisley shawl. There were also dozens of unsealed packets containing prettily flowered leggings, pale tights and stockings with black or cream lace tops. Nowhere could he find clean, used hosiery. Perhaps she never wore anything twice. There was a leather jewel case full of quite dazzling costume jewellery but minus the rock of ages.

“Maureen says,” Troy came back in, “you can come off in one of those if you sit in the right place for long enough.” He sounded both dubious and miffed. There seemed to be more and more things women were doing without the need of male assistance. Pretty soon, he decided, we’ll need a preservation order to stop us dying out from lack of use.

Mrs. Hollingsworth had a positively Marcosian relish for footwear. Troy slid his fingers inside strappy numbers with slender heels, brightly coloured slip-ons in glove-soft leather, court shoes, suede flatties with thin gilt chains looped across the tongues, pearly evening sandals sparkling with rhinestones. There were some Filo sneakers but no serious walking boots or Wellingtons. Presumably, though living in the heart of the country, Mrs. Hollingsworth was not much of a one for getting close to nature. He started on the bags.

Barnaby, standing by the bed which was neatly and cleanly made, wondered why Hollingsworth had not been sleeping in it. Perhaps he had rejected the idea for superstitious reasons fearing such a surrender might seem to be bowing his head to the fates. Acknowledgement not only of the fact of her leaving but that she would never return. Perhaps he’d wanted to stay close to the telephone. Perhaps he’d simply been too drunk to climb the stairs.

“Well,” said Sergeant Troy, snapping the final clasp, “nobody could say he kept her short.”

Barnaby could not agree. Recapping on what he had heard so far about Simone—the aimless wanderings about the village, her vague, brief membership of this group or that, shallow time-filling conversations in place of real friendship and the harsh treatment meted out possibly because she had attempted to fly a little further afield—it seemed to the Chief Inspector that she had been kept short of the one quality above all others that made life worth living. Namely freedom.

“Be turning up any minute now, once she knows he’s snuffed it.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“Rich widow. She’ll want to collect.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Course I’m right. Stands to reason.” The most unreasonable things stood to reason with Sergeant Troy, provided they supported his prejudices.

Outside on the landing, Perrot cleared his throat then knocked as if Barnaby had been in his office at the station.

“Find anything, Constable?”

“Nothing relevant, sir. Mr. Hollingsworth’s clothes, shirts and so on. I checked all the pockets and turn-ups. Two piles of fashion magazines but no notes or bits of paper concealed although one magazine had a page torn out. Several suitcases and lightweight travel bags, all empty. Sheets and duvet covers, blankets, towels, pillowcases—”

“Yes, yes, all right, Perrot. It’s not the first day of Harrods’ sale.”

“No, sir.”

By now everyone was on the landing. Troy led the way down the stairs, running lightly on the balls of his feet, slyly savouring the contrast between his own slender athleticism and Perrot’s barrel-chested, oaken-thighed stolidity. Not to mention that bulky pachyderm bringing up the rear.

As the two policemen made their way towards Gray Patterson’s place, Barnaby mentally ran over his conversation with Penstemon’s accountant and the description of the magistrates’ hearing in the Causton Echo, a cutting of which had been sent to his office.

A man more sinned against than sinning, by all accounts, Hollingsworth’s former colleague. Betrayed, swindled out of a great deal of money then sacked. Was it likely that a brisk punch-up would satisfy Patterson’s quite justified rage? And what was the truth about the relationship that “went back a long way?”

Barnaby looked forward to having these questions answered and had no doubt that, once he met the man, a whole new whatever was the collective noun of questions would arise. He whiled away the next few minutes trying to think of what that noun might be. A poser, a quiz, a snoop. A speculation, a viva. A nosey. A grill ...

Number 17, the Street, was situated on the outskirts of the village several yards from its nearest neighbour and almost totally concealed from passers-by behind a belt of blue piceas. A green painted board declared that the property was To Let. The place itself was a low, whitewashed, double-fronted building in the style that estate agents and people who know little of real country living call “farmhouse.”

As soon as Barnaby opened the gate a black and white Border collie rushed towards them. Plainly confused about what constituted guard duties, it was not only barking loudly but vigorously wagging its tail.

It jumped up at Troy who, torn between his love of dogs and a passion for immaculate attire, demonstrated both by clicking his tongue at the animal and asking its name, then brushing the knees of his trousers with his handkerchief. By this time the collie was dancing away over a large expanse of roughly mown, extremely weedy grass, looking back occasionally to make sure they were following.

By a far hedge a man was tossing clippings into an old oil drum. Barnaby hoped, in this burning drought, he was not going to attempt to set fire to the stuff. One spark and half the village would go up.

Patterson stuck his fork in the ground and came forward to meet them. The vociferous dog, having delivered her charges safely, was now looking back and forth between the visitors and her master, nudging his attention towards this successful feat.

Patterson said, “Shut up, Bess.”

Barnaby presented his warrant card. Troy bent down, patted the dog’s sharp, intelligent face and said, “Good girl.”

“I’ve been expecting you. Verity rang. From the office.”

Barnaby’s imagination, lazily working from a received scenario, had conjured a well-built, bellicose type. Gray Patterson was slender and quite tall. His shoulders curved slightly forwards. A donnish stoop, decided the Chief Inspector, before remembering the man had spent probably the last twenty years crouched over a keyboard. He had red-gold hair, curly and tight against his head, greenish-grey eyes and a clear skin, still scarcely tanned in spite of his outdoor labours.

“Let’s get away from all this rubbish.”

He ploughed through a heap of conifer branches, kicking them aside, and waved his visitors in the direction of a couple of shabby deckchairs. Barnaby, already picturing the vast, ungainly struggle when he tried to extricate himself, declined the offer. Troy folded himself into the striped canvas sling with a single movement of great elegance.

Staring severely at his subordinate, the Chief Inspector lumbered over to an ancient wooden stool which lay on its side under an apple tree. He righted it and sat down in the shade. Patterson perched on the rim of an old water-wheel. Bess immediately ran to his side and lay down, half hidden by a drift of moon daisies, panting in the heat.

“You lot are playing all this very close.”

“Is that right, Mr. Patterson?”

“No one seems to know whether Alan topped himself, swallowed the stuff by accident or was done in.”

“We’re simply making a few inquiries at this stage.” Smoothly Barnaby sidestepped the invitation to reveal all. “I understand you knew Mr. Hollingsworth quite well.”

“Not as well as I thought, obviously.”

“You refer to the trouble at Penstemon?”

“What else?”

“Perhaps you’d like to give me your version of what happened, sir?” said the Chief Inspector.

“I doubt it’ll vary much from what you’ve heard already.”

In this Patterson was not quite correct. Although the running order of events and the events themselves departed hardly at all from Burbage’s account, having the background fleshed out added a slightly different gloss. For a start there were an awful lot of “I’s” and “my’s” scattered through the narrative.

“Am I to understand,” asked Barnaby, “that this project was not a joint effort between yourself and Mr. Hollingsworth?”

“It certainly wasn’t. I had the idea and I did all the groundwork. Alan’s input was minimal. Naturally the work was financially backed by the company and I was drawing a decent salary. On the other hand, if Celandine took off, the business stood to do very well. And I’d been promised fifty per cent of any money the program brought in.”

“In writing, sir?”

“Hah!” It was a savage shout. Bess, alert and concerned, pricked up her soft, black and white triangular ears. “I’d known him for ten years and worked with him for nearly that long. It never occurred to me such a thing would be necessary.”

“So, morally, you feel that you’re entitled to at least half of the two hundred—”

“Too bloody right I am!” Patterson’s long, narrow hands were locked together in his lap. He pulled on them savagely, cracking the knuckles. He swallowed hard as if forcing down some galloping sickness. It was some time before he could speak again.

“I’ve taken legal advice. Did you know, if you’re on your uppers, you’re allowed one free session at the CAB?”

“Broke, are you, Mr. Patterson?” asked Sergeant Troy.

“Worse. I was committed to my financial limit before all this happened. Now I’m up to my ears in debt. Not to mention negative equity.”

“What advice did they give you?” asked Barnaby. “The CAB?”

“To sue. Especially as I’m entitled to legal aid so don’t risk losing lots of money in costs. What will happen now he’s dead, though, I’m not sure.”

“Do you have any idea why he should suddenly need such a large amount of cash?”

“None at all.”

“When did you last see him?”

“At the magistrates’ hearing.”

“But that’s weeks ago,” said Sergeant Troy. “Surely, in a little place like this—”

“He’s not difficult to avoid. Never walks anywhere. Doesn’t use the pub.”

“What about Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

“Oh yes, I saw her. About a day or two before she sloped off.” He picked one of the daisies and started tickling the dog with it. Bess rolled on to her back and kicked her legs in the air with happiness.

“I was on my way to call on Sarah Lawson—have you met her yet?” Barnaby shook his head. “And Simone was using the phone, which is just outside Bay Tree Cottage.”

“You didn’t happen to overhear any of the conversation?”

“I’m afraid not. Does it matter? I mean, there’s no mystery about her leaving, is there?”

“What day would that be, Mr. Patterson?”

“Let’s see.” He closed his eyes. “Sarah wasn’t teaching so it couldn’t have been Wednesday. Monday I didn’t go out, so that makes it Tuesday.”

“Mrs. Hollingsworth still there when you left the cottage, sir?” asked Sergeant Troy.

“No. Though it was a very brief visit. Sarah was working and didn’t want to be disturbed. I may as well tell you,” Patterson said wryly, “because I’m sure you’ll be told by some village busybody soon enough, that I have serious designs on the lady. Not getting very far though, am I, Bess?”

Directly addressed, the dog trembled with pleasure. She sprang up looking excited, as if some great adventure was afoot. She tried to put her head on his knee and Patterson called her a stupid animal.

“You’re divorced then, are you, sir?” asked the Chief Inspector.

When Patterson did not immediately reply, Sergeant Troy, with a smirk, man to man, suggested that perhaps he had just been dead lucky and got away with it all these years.

“I’m sorry?”

“Stayed single, like.”

“I think that’s my business, don’t you?” There was something slightly vexed in his voice, as if he was being forced into evasion against his will.

“How well did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth?” asked Barnaby after a pause into which he managed to inject mild surprise that Patterson should find answering such a harmless question problematical.

“Hardly at all. Alan and I didn’t mix socially. She struck me as a bit of a ninny, to tell you the truth. The silly frilly sort.”

“But good-looking?”

“Oh, yes. Lovely.”

“Were you surprised when she left?”

“We all were. Kept the village speculating for days.”

“Did Alan ever talk to you about his marriage?”

“No. I’d known him during his first—best man at the wedding and all that. Perhaps he thought I was bad luck.”

“I didn’t realise he’d been married before.” Barnaby sat upright on his mossy perch.

“They both had. Miriam, the first Mrs. Hollingsworth, was terrific. Intelligent, forthright, full of go. Completely wrong for him. Alan’s ideas of how to treat a woman were those of a man twice his age. Buy them a nice little house, dress them in pretty clothes and jewellery, give them a few flashy toys to play with and they’ll be happy as the day is long.”

What’s wrong with that? Troy argued silently. I wish I could find some wealthy middle-aged nympho to set me up with a few flashy toys.

“She’d just qualified from medical school when they met and naturally wanted to practise. There were rows about that but when Miriam threatened to leave, he gave way. Once she was working, things got worse. Sometimes the house was empty when he got home. Naturally she’d be called out occasionally. It all came to a head at three o’clock one morning after a phone call. Alan accused her of having an affair, though where the poor girl would have found the time or energy ... Apparently he followed her to this house, banged on the door and forced his way in. She was upstairs with a dying patient. Well, that was it. Next day she packed her stuff and left. They divorced a year later. By then Miriam had joined a medical centre at Birkenhead. Still there, as far as I know.”

“D’you think she’d have reverted to her maiden name?” asked Troy, pen flying.

“Shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Do you know what it was, sir?”

“Kenton.”

“He seemed to have chosen more wisely this time,” suggested Barnaby.

“The thing you have to understand about Alan is that he was ferociously insecure. Always thinking someone’s stealing a march. That’s why he put in far more hours than was necessary at work. The firm was at least as stable as any other small business in these dodgy times. And why he was for ever ringing home to check that Simone was safely tethered.”

“Hadn’t learnt his lesson from the first time then?” said Troy. He was watching the dog who was once more lying on her stomach and staring hard at a clump of bamboo. Her nostrils twitched as if sensing the passage of something small and vulnerable.

“Obsessives can’t ‘learn lessons’ any more than the mentally deranged can pull themselves together.”

“You said they’d both been married before,” said the Chief Inspector. “Do you know anything about Simone’s first husband?”

“Not much. Alan just said it didn’t last long and the bloke was a bad lot.”

“Do you know what his name was?”

“Sorry.”

No matter. It could soon be checked. Barnaby was not displeased with this interview which was proving satisfyingly fruitful. He just wished it wasn’t so hot. Everything was sticking to him and he was sticking to the wood. Round globules of sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes. As he fumbled for a handkerchief an apple fell, bumping softly on the feathery grass. The dog sprang forward and Patterson shouted, “Leave it, Bess!” He got up and kicked the apple, which was then seen to be crawling with wasps, out of the dog’s way.

The lengthy pause encouraged Patterson not to reseat himself. He said, “Is that it then?”

“Almost, sir. We would like to know where you were on Monday evening and the early part of Tuesday morning.”

“Is that when ... ?”

Barnaby’s deeply tangled, shaggy eyebrows rose intimidatingly. They were amazing, those brows, reflected Troy. The texture of horsehair and so exuberant you could have stuffed a sofa with them.

Barnaby said, “If you could just answer the question please, Mr. Patterson.”

“Oh, here. I was here.”

“Alone?”

“To my sorrow. I did pop round to Sarah’s around eightish but she’d gone out.”

“No one called round?”

“What, in the middle of the night?”

“Phone calls?”

Patterson shook his head.

“Do you still have the key you had cut for Nightingales’ front door?”

“No. Threw it away.”

“Where?”

“God, I don’t know. Waste bin, wherever.”

“Did you wear gloves when you were in there?”

“Of course not. I wasn’t trying to conceal the fact that I’d been. Only the fact that I was going.”

“We’ll need your fingerprints, Mr. Patterson. Purely for purposes of elimination. Could you come into the station, perhaps tomorrow?”

“I can come tonight. I’ve got to go into Causton for some dog food.”

“Could I just get your full address and phone number, sir?” Troy inscribed these carefully. “And Gray—short for Graham, is it?”

“No. My mother’s maiden name.”

Well, la di frigging da. Troy snapped a rubber band sharply round the notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then, irritated when it spoiled the line, took it out again. He thought about his own mother’s maiden name which was Titchboot and was bloody glad she hadn’t decided to foist it on him.

They were walking towards the front of the house now, the dog frolicking alongside. Burs and seeds were clinging to her coat and her belly was streaked with pollen. Barnaby was reminded of the Brockleys’ poodle and wondered if the girl had turned up.

As Patterson opened the gate, the Chief Inspector indicated the notice-board. “You’ll let us know, Mr. Patterson, if you move out?”

“Chance’d be a fine thing. Six hundred a month, the agent’s asking. The plan is to let this and rent somewhere dirt cheap for myself. One way to cope till the market picks up. If it ever does.”

“Any takers?”

“Not really. So many people seem to be in the same boat. A woman did turn up last week. Described herself on the phone as a disenchanted Londoner. Loved the house. Didn’t like the outlook.”

All three men turned and gazed out over the shimmering sea of tawny wheat stretching almost to the horizon. Occasionally there were poppies. Though nothing had yet been cut, the ripe air smelled of hay. Above their heads, so high as to be almost invisible, a skylark sang its heart out.

“What didn’t she like about it?” asked the Chief Inspector.

“Said it was boring.”

Longing for another cold drink but unwilling to engage in more prithee gadzookery, Barnaby plodded back to Nightingales where he planned to settle for a gallon of tap water, hopefully tricked out with an ice cube or two. Baking in the heat, the surface of the lane released a rich, tarry smell reminding him of his childhood when he would crouch on the kerb, popping bubbles with a stick.

By now the onlookers were in the grip of a deeply satisfied silence. SOCO, having finished in the house, were to be seen in full view systematically working over the front and back gardens. As the two policemen were climbing over the barrier, the woman in the straw hat caught hold of Barnaby’s sleeve.

“Are you in charge?”

“What is it?” Barnaby was at his crispest, which could be very crisp indeed.

“No need to get all aereated,” snapped the woman. “I’m only passing a message on.”

“They don’t care, do they?” said her friend.

“He came out looking for you.” The first woman pointed to Arcadia. At the far end of the garden a man, outlined

very clearly in the blazing afternoon light, was working the ground with a long-handled hoe. When he saw them looking, he waved a large red and white spotted handkerchief in the air. Barnaby thanked his informant, who shot back “Better late then never,” and made his way over.

The Chief Inspector’s heart lifted with pleasure the minute he stepped through the gate to set foot on an old brick herringbone path. It ran between two deep herbaceous borders crammed with lilies and pinks, wallflowers and candytuft, lupins—every variety possible of cottage plant. These were backed by tall mallows and hollyhocks; by sunflowers and blowsy, powerfully scented roses. Over all hovered a great profusion of bees and butterflies. The scene was so reminiscent of a romanticised illustration that Barnaby half expected to find his way edged with cockleshells.

He continued happily towards the back of the house and wondered if the person coming towards him was Cubby, Mrs. Molfrey’s innamorato. The man in thrall to his embroidery frame and faggot making and too old for any arsyvarsy. Old he might be but, straightened up now and smiling, he certainly seemed in excellent fettle. Short and rotund, fresh-faced and with very bright clear eyes and rosy cheeks, he would have fitted a treat into Snow White’s entourage. Happy, the Chief Inspector would have said, if asked to name the one he most resembled.

They met on the edge of the vegetable garden which was punctuated by several wigwams of runner beans and an obelisk, almost invisible beneath a torrent of cream and lilac sweet peas. As Barnaby introduced himself and Troy, his eyes strayed to a row of the most superb onions he had ever seen. Like the domes of Brighton Pavilion tightly wrapped in stripy brown paper.

The gardener, wiping his hand on his dungarees before holding it out, said that he was Mr. Dawlish and he was sorry to trouble them. Barnaby commented on the onions and Cubby, recognising a kindred spirit, immediately started a discourse on the relative methods of feeding and pest control.

Sergeant Troy, bored, fired a Rothmans and slipped into the greenhouse for a crafty drag. There was a strange niff in the air, hot and earthy. Exposed only to the hard, tasteless spheroids watering under wraps in supermarkets, he failed to recognise the smell of ripening tomatoes.

Looking around, his tedium intensified. Troy was not an enthusiast of your average ferny grot. What were gardens good for anyway? Hanging washing. Getting out the barbie and ghetto blaster then popping some nice cold tubes at the weekends. Plus running about screaming if you were three and your mates came round for a skip and a jump. Any backyard would do as well and all the wife had to do with that was hose it down. Through a greenish pane of glass he noticed that the chief and the little tubby guy were sauntering towards the house. Hurriedly he set about catching them up.

As they approached the back door, Troy tossed his cigarette away. It landed in a clump of pinks. Cubby gave a small involuntary cry as if struck by a sudden pain.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Sergeant Troy. For once the concern in his voice was genuine. His grandfather, roughly the same age as this venerable relic, had recently and very suddenly passed away. One minute he was in the chip queue, right as a trivet and wondering if there’d be any spare batter bits, the next out cold under the wrestling poster. It made you think.

“Yes, oh yes. Thank you.” Cubby took a last look at the Rothmans burning Mrs. Sinkins’ eye out. “Do come in.”

Mrs. Molfrey was dozing in her wing chair. Waking in a trice, she started to struggle to her feet.

“Please, Mrs. Molfrey,” urged the Chief Inspector. “Don’t get up.”

“I’m not getting up,” said Mrs. Molfrey. “I’m rearranging my pantaloons.”

These were quite splendid. Panne velvet in rich crimson, gaucho style. With them she had on black lace stockings and suede shoes with high filigreed tongues and silver buckles, like those worn by principal boys in pantomime. Over her shoulders was draped a pale sea-green shawl, cobweb fine and glittering with brilliants.

“Welcome, Inspector, welcome. Do sit down. And your accomplice too. Now,” she tapped the little box resting on her bony chest. It whistled back. “What’s afoot?”

Troy had perched on an old chaise longue which prickled his thighs. Barnaby chose a saggy but comfortable looking armchair. Cubby hovered.

“I understood that Mr. Dawlish had something to tell us.”

“Both of us have,” asserted Mrs. Molfrey. “Trouble is, I’ve forgotten my bit. Off you go then, honey dumpling.”

“Well ...” Cubby blushed to find himself thus publicly addressed. He stood awkwardly as if he wished he wasn’t there. Like a child hiding a gift behind its back and unsure whether it will be appreciated.

“Building up a picture of the deceased’s final hours is terribly important, Cubs. They all do it.” Mrs. Molfrey jerked her thumb over her shoulder at some tightly packed bookshelves. One was entirely green and white. “Dalgleish, Wexford. That one who drinks—”

“Is this something to do with Alan Hollingsworth, Mr. Dawlish?”

“Yes.” Cubby took a deep breath. “I’d just opened the kitchen door to pull a bit of mint for the potatoes when I heard him open the garage—”

“When was this sir?” Sergeant Troy prepared to make a note.

“Around seven thirty Monday evening.”

“You say ‘heard’ Mr. Dawlish,” said Barnaby. “Didn’t you see Mr. Hollingsworth?”

“No. The hedge is in the way. But I can’t imagine who else it could have been.”

“And he drove off?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. I came straight back in. Elfrida had the television on without her earpiece and it was very loud.”

“I see. Did you hear anyone come back?”

“Well, you know I believe I did. I wouldn’t like to swear to this because at night sounds have a strange habit of misplacing themselves. One is never quite sure where they originate. But I was just falling asleep when I heard a car drive up—I’m pretty sure it was next door. And then a door slam.”

“The car door?”

Cubby hesitated. “I couldn’t swear to that. The sound was ... muted. I think the car must have been in the garage by then. It would still be open I should imagine, as he drove off in such a hurry.”

“It wasn’t the front door?”

“I don’t think so. But, as I say, I was just dropping off so I can’t really be sure. But the kitchen opens directly off the garage. It might have been that which I heard.”

“Did you hear voices?”

“No.”

“Or the garage being closed?”

“That, yes.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Positive. It makes a peculiar wheezing sound. One of those remote control radar things.”

“And have you got a time on this, Mr. Dawlish?” asked Sergeant Troy.

“Let’s see, I have my wash at ten thirty, make some cocoa and read a little while I drink it. Then I say my prayers and get into bed. So I’d say it was somewhere between eleven and eleven thirty p.m. I usually drop off very quickly.”

As well you might, thought the Chief Inspector, reflecting on the gentle, harmless pattern of this sweet old man’s life and comparing it to the smash and grab maelstrom in which he was compelled to live such a large portion of his own. No wonder he usually dropped off very slowly and then only when aided by a couple of Mogadons or a slug of something forty per cent proof.

“So you heard nothing else from the direction of Nightingales after that, sir? The front door bell, for instance?”

It was a lot to hope for and, of course, he didn’t get it. Still, this was meaty stuff. Hollingsworth, who by all accounts had not left the house once since his wife disappeared, had been away for something like three hours on die night he died. And the time of his death could now be narrowed down a little more, for the man had not been quickly and violently killed the minute he re-entered the house. There would have been conversation, drinks offered, drinks poured. Certainly the stuff had not been forced down his throat. He must have sat there talking with, if not someone he trusted, at least someone he believed he had no cause to fear.

Of course Dawlish’s comments would be useless as evidence. It could have been anyone driving away and driving back. Anyone closing the garage door. But for now and because, so far, it was all he had, Barnaby chose to believe the obvious. And, after all, the obvious was so very often true.

Sergeant Troy was asking Mrs. Molfrey if she could confirm any of Mr. Dawlish’s comments.

“Alas, no. I was watching television, Taggart actually. I can’t stand the suspense between episodes so Cubby tapes all three then I have a good wallow.”

His tale told, Cubby was despatched to produce some refreshments. Barnaby directed his attention to Mrs. Molfrey who was regarding him with lively interest. Today her complexion was the soft vivid pink of Turkish Delight. Her dark eyes shone. He decided, finding himself on the spot, as it were, to remind her of their earlier conversation.

“We’ll be talking to your hairdresser later on today, Mrs. Molfrey. About her appointment with Mrs. Hollingsworth. And also to the girl who cleans for you.”

“Heather? You’ll find her in a council bungalow behind the hostelry,” explained Mrs. Molfrey. “With her boyfriend and assorted infants. He plays a Harley Davidson.”

Troy stopped writing and stared at Mrs. Molfrey, open-mouthed.

“It’s a guitar,” said Cubby, chiming in from the kitchen.

“The sergeant would know that,” called back Mrs. Molfrey. “A young blood like himself.”

The kettle bubbled and spat and Cubby raced about.

“He’s a giddy boy,” said Mrs. Molfrey. Then, “I’m so glad you’re taking the matter of Simone’s disappearance seriously, Chief Inspector. Next door thought I was quite overstepping the mark, coming to see you. But then they’d sit tight if the house was burning down rather than run outside and draw attention to themselves.”

She did not mention Brenda. Did that mean the Brockleys’ daughter had returned? Or merely that Mrs. Molfrey knew nothing of her absence. In either case, bearing in mind her neighbours’ desperate wish to keep the news to themselves, Barnaby saw no reason to comment.

“I couldn’t help wondering if Alan’s death was connected in some way with his wife’s disappearance. Do you have any spin on that, Chief Inspector? Or are you waiting on the results from the PM?”

These crime buffs, they made you laugh. Troy snatched at his notebook which was slipping off his knee. He was delighted to have come across this barmy old trotter again and couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She seemed to him like some magical character from a panto or fairy tale. There ought to be a black cat around the place. And one of those broomsticks with twigs tied round the handle. Troy really looked forward to describing Elfrida Molfrey to his daughter at bedtime. Even now he composed the opening sentence: “Once upon a time, in the middle of a dark wood, there was a higgledy-piggledy cottage ...”

Mrs. Molfrey shouted, “Don’t forget the pecan and marmalade yum-yums.”

And Cubby called back, “Hey ho.”

Mrs. Molfrey reached out and drew a two-tier trolley up to her chair. On the bottom level were some lorgnettes attached to a gold and tortoiseshell holder, a cigar box with pens and pencils, a glue pot and scissors, writing paper and envelopes, some mineral water, a clean glass and today’s copy of The Times. There was also a strip of folded white card resembling the brass Toblerone on a bank manager’s desk on which her name was written, in exquisite copperplate.

“It’s to remind me of who I am,” explained Mrs. Molfrey, noticing Barnaby’s surprised glance. “One so easily forgets, don’t you find?”

Cubby came in then with a heavy tray. He looked after Elfrida first. Swinging the hinged top of her trolley over her lap, he unrolled a richly embroidered tray cloth and matching napkin and laid out her tea, a plate of cake with a little silver fork and a crystal vase hardly bigger than an egg cup. This held a wisp of asparagus fern and three pale yellow rose buds.

Troy spent the next quarter of an hour trying to prise his jaws, locked on the delicious ticky-tacky, apart and avoiding the large and extremely hard nuts. A single sip and he nudged his dish of tea under the chaise longue with the heel of his shoe. Barnaby gently prodded Cubby and Elfrida further on the lives and general behaviour of their nearest neighbours. He asked if either of them had ever heard signs of a serious disagreement.

“A rumpus?” asked Mrs. Molfrey. “Good gracious, no. Did you, sweeting?”

“Not at all,” said Cubby.

“Did she ever express unhappiness when talking to you?”

“Never. Ennui, but that was to be expected. Shut up in that dreary, tasteless house.”

“Sounds as if he couldn’t trust her.” The words were spoken unclearly but with much sympathy and understanding. Troy had never met a woman he would trust further than the nearest lamp post. Or a man either, come to that. He did not have a very rosy view of human nature. And human nature, unsurprisingly, did not have a very rosy view of him.

“I do feel,” said Cubby, “that Alan must have been rather lacking in confidence in that respect. After all, most couples mix constantly with members of the opposite sex without running off with them.” As he spoke, Cubby looked across at Elfrida in a calm, relying sort of way. The implication was that, even if a stream of handsome gallants should come thundering up her garden path, he knew that not one would be allowed admission.

To Barnaby’s surprise, rather than treating this preposterous suggestion as a huge giggle, Elfrida raised her right hand, afire with several magnificent rings, lowered her crepey violet eyelids and inclined her head with an elegant, accepting grace.

The two policemen caught each other’s eye. Troy winked in joyous disbelief. Barnaby spent a moment silently admiring this breathtaking chutzpah before steering the conversation back to the subject that really interested him.

“Did Mrs. Hollingsworth ever suggest to you that her husband was violent?”

“Alan? Nonsense!”

“Quite impossible,” said Cubby. “He adored her.”

Barnaby took this with a lorry load of salt. He had attended too many domestics where the husband had adored his wife before knocking her senseless, sometimes permanently. On a more trivial level he asked if the Hollingsworths had been having problems with their telephone.

“Simone never mentioned it to us.”

For a short while everyone ate and drank with relish. Cubby’s socks, blobbed with many beautifully woven darns, were clearly visible inside his open leather sandals and Barnaby wondered if he mended them himself. Having finished his cake and tea, he said, “Mrs. Molfrey, when we first arrived you suggested you also had something to tell us but it had slipped your mind. Have you remembered what it was?”

“I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. I can tell you that it was something auditory. An unexpected or wrong sound. Or perhaps a lack of sound where one might have expected such a thing to exist. I wouldn’t dwell on it, you see, but it happened on the day Simone disappeared.”

“Well, if it comes back to you, perhaps you’ll let me know.” Barnaby produced a card from his wallet and gave it to her. “This number gets straight through to me.”

“Ohh, thank you.” Mrs. Molfrey glowed with delight. “Rest assured I shall not abuse the privilege.” She studied the slip of pasteboard through a magnifying glass.

Troy didn’t get it. Seemed to him the chief was asking for trouble. The old trout would be on the blower every five minutes.

As Cubby got up to see them off, there was a bone-cracking snap. Barnaby assumed it was an elderly joint giving way until he saw his sergeant wince and rub his jaw.

As the Chief Inspector turned to go, he noticed for the first time on the wall behind him a large sepia photograph of one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen in all his life. A girl of perhaps eighteen with the sweetest expression on her perfect features. A great cloud of dark hair banded with strings of pearls; huge dreaming eyes. Her slender neck rose from clouds of tulle pinned here and there with gardenias and her small, exquisite hands were crossed at her breast. Encircling the picture were several theatrical posters.

Although there was no longer even the memory of resemblance between this heavenly beauty and the withered old lady in the wing chair, Barnaby knew at once that they were the same person. And he wondered how Mrs. Molfrey could bear to contemplate daily such a cruel comparison.

“You know who she is, of course?” Cubby said shyly when they were once again walking down the worn brick path.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said the Chief Inspector.

“Elsie Romano.” Then, when Barnaby appeared puzzled, “A star of the Edwardian theatre. And one of the great beauties of this, or any other century.”

Troy, bringing up the rear, winked again, this time winding his index finger round and round close to his forehead.

“She was the toast of the Ivy and the Trocadero. And the Café d’Angleterre. When she and Jack went dancing there, after the show, people would climb on to the banquettes and even the tables to catch a glimpse of her.”

“Is that a fact, Mr. Dawlish?” Barnaby, born in 1941, three years after the Café d’Angleterre had been bombed to bits, could think of nothing else to say.

“So you see how privileged I am. Just an ordinary chap, never been anywhere, never done anything. Yet here I am, practically at the end of my days, with this sudden ... honour, as you might say. This opportunity to care for a most rare and lovely ...” Greatly moved Cubby pressed the red and white kerchief to his brimming eyes.

Troy, face averted, shoulders twitching, opened the garden gate.

“I’m sure, if you caught her at the right moment, Elfrida would show you the photograph of herself and Jack on the steps of the Gaiety.”

“That was her husband—Jack?”

“Good heavens, no.” Courteously Cubby attempted to conceal his amazement at such ignorance. “Jack was Jack Buchanan.”

Barnaby had planned to call on the Brockleys next. Not only to see if Brenda had returned but also because, as the only other inhabitants of the cul-de-sac, they were uniquely placed to support Cubby Dawlish’s statement. Indeed, up late and no doubt anxiously looking out for the lights of their daughter’s car, they might even be able to add to it.

But now, just as they approached The Larches, Perrot came running towards them. He cried out, “Sir! Sir!”

“What is it? What’s happened?”

“Mr. Marine said to tell you they’ve found her!”

“Found who?”

“Why, Mrs. Hollingsworth, sir.”

“I’d forgotten what a funster you are, Aubrey.” Barnaby’s heart, which had started to bang wildly in his chest when he raced down the lane, along the side of the house and into the back garden, was slowly returning to normal.

“Sorry,” said Aubrey Marine. “I’ve always had this feeling for drama, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to control it.”

Barnaby had flopped into a chair on the patio a few feet away from a small, newly turned heap of earth. He was mopping his scarlet face with a handkerchief and making a strange noise. Half pant, half snarl.

“Are you all right, Tom?”

“No thanks to you.”

“I should have said a reasonable facsimile of Mrs. H. Although reasonable is hardly the word, as you will see.” He was moving towards the French windows which stood wide open. “Come and have a look.”

All the SOCO team were present in the sitting room, as was Sergeant Troy. They had gathered round a table on which lay an Asda carrier bag covered with dirt and a small, semi-transparent envelope file. Still wearing his gloves, Aubrey turned back the flap and, using a fine pair of tweezers, pulled out what appeared to be a single Polaroid photograph about five millimetres square. He laid it on the table. Barnaby bent down to look more closely.

It was the woman in the wedding portrait. Recognisable, even without her make-up and despite the expression on her face which was piteous in the extreme. Her features were distorted; her lips so tightly clamped together that the luscious cupid’s bow had quite disappeared. Her skin had a greyish white pallor but this, Barnaby told himself, could have been due to the harshness of the flash. She was holding across her chest a copy of the Evening Standard dated Thursday, 6 June.

About to speak, the Chief Inspector was silenced by Aubrey who held up his hand, saying simply, “Wait.”

In spite of the folder, it seemed that damp had affected the contents of the plastic bag. Slipping the tweezers beneath the left-hand corner of the picture, Aubrey had to peel it away. There was another underneath.

Now her eyes, darker and much larger, were puffy and swollen with weeping. There were bruise-like shadows on her forehead and just beneath her jaw. The fingers of the hand gripping the newspaper were filthy and covered with some sort of stain. The date this time was 7 June.

The last one was the worst. Mrs. Hollingsworth’s pretty mouth was a real mess. Her bottom lip appeared to have been split and the blood flowing from it had been left to dry on her neck and chin. There was a savage mark across her right cheekbone and her right eye had been severely blackened. She no longer looked frightened. Just sat, her head hanging, expressionless. Beaten, in every sense of the word. Her hair had been savagely chopped and in one or two places, where the skin showed through, looked as if it had been pulled out. A wodge of newspaper had been jammed in her mouth. Her blouse had been torn open and a complete page of the Sun dated Saturday, 8 June, was pinned to the front of her brassiere.

Troy said, “Jesus.”

Barnaby stared at the escalating misery spread out in front of him. Inevitably, given his length of time in the force, he’d seen much worse and the shock he now felt was not simply a natural one of pity and revulsion. Mingling with these emotions was exhilaration at the sudden and dramatic turn the case had now taken. He had long ago accepted that this excitement, even in the face of another’s anguish, was an aspect of his personality that the job seemed to encourage if not actually demand. It had been many years since he had chided himself for callousness.

“Whole new can of worms here, guv,” said Sergeant Troy, master, as ever, of the original one-liner.

Barnaby, his mind swarming with fresh possibilities, did not reply. Using the tweezers, he was turning the photographs over and studying the backs, unmarked except for splotches of moisture.

“Envelopes?”

“I certainly don’t recall seeing any earlier but we’ll have another look.”

“Try your best.” With a saliva test they could be halfway there. “Don’t think much of their choice in wallpaper.” This was thinly striped and covered with sentimental drawings of puppies going about their natural business in many archly contrived ways.

“It was everywhere, that,” said Aubrey. “A few years ago.”

“Could you give it priority, please?”

“OK.” Aubrey Marine dropped the carrier into a labelled transparent bag. “Why d’you think he buried this?”

Barnaby shrugged. “Couldn’t bear to have the pictures in the house?”

“Why not just burn them then? Or chuck ’em in the dustbin?”

“Because if they don’t deliver the goods when he hands over whatever it is they’re after, this may be all he’s got to take to the police.”

“A shakedown, then?”

“Looks like it.”

“Timing’s a bit close, isn’t it, sir?” asked Sergeant Troy. “I don’t mean for taking the snaps. If they pinched her on the Thursday afternoon they could well have taken the first one that evening. But posting them?”

“A bit tight, yes.”

“I mean, all three must have been here by Monday, latest. Risky, even sending them first class.”

“The Post Office have a special service that guarantees next day delivery,” said Aubrey. “Only a couple of quid but you have to fill a form in. Which I doubt these people would want to do. Of course they could have just been stuffed through the letter box.”

“Bloody hell,” said Sergeant Troy. “That’s a bit chancy, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. Middle of the night, everyone asleep.” Aubrey Marine, after asking if Barnaby was through with the snaps for now, tweezered them back into their plastic sheath.

“I must say this throws a new light on Perrot’s interview.” Barnaby was walking away, stepping once more out of the French windows. “No wonder Hollingsworth couldn’t wait to get him out of the house.”

“Explain why he yanked him in off the doorstep as well, chief,” said Troy. “First thing these bastards do is threaten to kill the victim if the other party goes to the police.” He added, “Tell you what.”

Barnaby grunted. It was not a sound to encourage a confidence.

“I reckon this is proof positive he topped himself. Paid over the money—which is what he dashed off for on Monday night—then they got in touch and told him she’s had the chop. Nothing else to live for so he goes and does the business. What do you think?”

Barnaby thought it went totally against his deepest instincts so far concerning the case and that it sounded very likely indeed. Having no wish to dwell on such an exasperating insight, he stifled it by the thought that, as they now had a kidnapping and perhaps some mortal remains to search for, he would be able to commandeer a decent team and some sort of realistic budget.

Perrot, once more on duty in the lane, braced himself as the two men emerged. But Troy was satisfied this time with a rude gesture engaging his thumb and first finger and a murmur of “Panty wanker.”

Barnaby looked across at the Brockleys. Once more the poodle was up on its hind legs and staring out of the window. Behind the dog stood Iris, white-faced and motionless. Although she also faced the outside world, it was in the alert yet only partly comprehending manner of the blind person. She appeared deeply puzzled and much smaller than when he had last seen her.

It was now nearly seven. The Chief Inspector felt a strong disinclination at the thought of adding yet more misery to the already deeply miserable content of his day. Someone else could go and talk to the family. He’d had enough.

“Oh, Constable.”

“Sir.” PC Perrot, as steely upright as a guardsman, stiffened his sinews even further.

“Any post at Nightingales—my desk. Got that?”

“I’ll bring it in personally, Chief Inspector. On the bike.”

“No need to go mad, Perrot.”

“Very good, sir.”

Colin Perrot watched the two policemen walk away. His shoulders loosened slightly. He walked up and down the grass verge for a while then let himself through the black and gold iron gates and walked up and down the gravel path. He stood on the step for a bit. A police presence.

There was not much in the way of spectators to attend the departure of the SOCO team some little time later. Perrot looked at his watch—seven thirty. That explained matters. It took more than a handful of plainclothes investigators to keep Fawcett Green from viewing EastEnders.

Perrot sighed and wondered, as he was unobserved by anyone with the slightest degree of authority, whether he could perhaps bring one of the patio chairs round to the front of the house and sit down. He’d now been on the go for nine hours and his feet and back ached.

The overtime was nice though. It was his son’s birthday in a month’s time and Robby wanted a mountain bike. The boy had already accepted that it would probably be secondhand—so many of the children’s presents were—though polished up and looking as smart as his dad could make it. But it would be great to surprise him with a new one.

Perrot wandered round to the rear of the house at this point, reasoning that this aspect needed just as much surveillance as the front. More, probably, being concealed from public view.

It was very still and quiet in the garden, the shrubs and trees bathed in a pale, golden light. The only sounds came from a few bees ferreting around in submissive blossoms, frogs jumping in and out of the pond and a dog fox barking, way across the fields.

Perrot sat in the daisy hammock and relished the silence. He breathed slowly and deeply, savouring the fragrant, musky scents. It seemed impossible that only a short time ago the place had been swarming with men and women extracting ugly disturbing evidence from the sweet-smelling earth.

Gradually, in the warm soft air, Perrot’s wounded pride began to heal. He had smarted dreadfully after the DCI had so contemptuously dismissed him at Causton station. But over and above his shame at failing so miserably to act in a prompt and intelligent manner was a far greater fear. He was now permanently haunted by the words, “buried in the sticks too long.”

Perrot was a country man. Transplanted, he felt he would shrivel up and die. Not true, of course. Trixie would tell him not to be so silly. They would be all right, she had said when he voiced his anxiety. As long as they were together.

But it wasn’t as simple as that. Places changed people. Occasionally Perrot had been away on update courses and some of the townee coppers he had met there—well. The way they spoke to each other, their attitude to the public. Talk about cynical. They sounded as if they were at war half the time. The words “cutting edge” had been bandied around a lot. Perrot had felt really out of place.

He had made no attempt to talk about his own work, recognising the scorn with which such a description would almost certainly have been received. No one was interested in hearing about the three villages under his care. About the boisterous children, including his own, running noisily out of the brand-new primary school at half past three, clutching paste and paper models or exuberantly painted daubs. Or of how relieved the anxious elderly were to hear his knock on the door. His spare-time activities, refereeing on the football field and supervision of the Infant Cyclists’ Time Trials, also remained unmentioned.

Naturally there was a downside to the job. Burglaries, an occasional case of child abuse (quickly known about and dealt with in a small community), drunken fights, the odd domestic. But nothing at what you could honestly call the cutting edge. Nevertheless, no one would ever convince Perrot that his daily duties were of no importance. Certainly not that spiteful, foul-mouthed, red-headed, toerag of a sergeant from the town nick. When Perrot had told his wife about the trick played on him, she could hardly believe it. Tried to suggest that her husband had misheard what Troy had said. That no one could be so deliberately mean. That was when Perrot had said that if he was transferred to Causton he would leave the force.

Leaning back now he closed his eyes and tried to put such thoughts from his mind. No point in jumping the gun. By now the DCI might well have forgotten he ever had such a thought. And if he (Perrot) remained crisp, alert and totally on the ball, there would be nothing to remind the powers that be that he had ever been anything else.

That was the way to do it. Perrot adjusted a cushion to make himself more comfortable and swung his legs up. A quarter of an hour passed in pleasant contemplation of a tumbling clematis, the Chinese pots and Hollingsworth’s barbecue. The sky became streaked with lavender and pale yellow as the evening came on.

What would be really good, thought Perrot dreamily, now barely registering the aquatic frogs, what would be really totally excellent would be for him to find some vital clue, or discover someone, someone totally unexpected, in a compromising situation ... that would bring the case ... that would solve ... a successful ... conclusion ... so impressed ... all of us here ... well done, Constable ... no question now of ...

Perrot slept.