Faithful unto Death

Chapter Six

A woman who appears to have walked out on her husband, and that husband’s consequent death, possibly by his own hand, is one thing. The holding of a human being to ransom and their consequent cruel mistreatment is quite another. By lunchtime the following day, an official inquiry into the disappearance of Simone Hollingsworth was up and running.

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby had been allocated a team smaller than he would have liked but that was nothing new. They had received as detailed a briefing as he was able to give and had now gone about their business. Every inhabitant of Fawcett Green would be asked what they knew of the dead man and his missing wife in an attempt to obtain feedback on the marriage and the general pattern of their lives.

The police would hope to come across someone on the market run who had noticed Simone’s movements after she got off the bus; had perhaps even talked to her on the journey. Also they would be checking on possible sightings of strange vehicles in the village on the night of Alan’s death.

Barnaby composed a fax to be circulated to every estate agency within a ten-mile radius of Causton asking for details of any property let within the last couple of months; this to include shops, offices and even lockups. He also asked for a list of empty properties. It wasn’t very likely that the kidnapper had presented himself at an estate agent’s in the proper manner, signed a contract and written an appropriate cheque. But the possibility could not be overlooked. After all, Simone had to be hidden somewhere.

His team included Sergeant Brierley whom Barnaby had chosen especially to call on the Brockleys. She was sensitive, intelligent and well able to pick up things a more prosaic interviewer might miss.

Three people remained in the station trying to flesh out what was already known of Alan and Simone’s background, starting with an attempted trace of their ex-partners. The fact that Simone’s previous husband had already been described as a bad lot sounded mildly promising. Was he perhaps connected with the club, described by Avril Jennings as “very Soho,” where Simone used to work?

The Chief Inspector’s first inclination was to bring Gray Patterson in immediately for further questioning. There was no doubt that the kidnapping, and probable ransom of Mrs. Hollingsworth, would constitute for him a sweet revenge. It would offer not only a certain amount of financial recompense for the theft of his work but the pleasure of knowing that the man responsible had been sweating his days away in a drunken fever of fearful anticipation. Couldn’t improve much on that as a dish best eaten cold.

But then, thinking it over, he had decided to put off seeing Hollingsworth’s former colleague until after the fingerprint comparisons came back from the laboratory. These had been promised by mid-afternoon, at which time he would be interviewing Freddie Blakeley, Penstemon’s bank manager. Barnaby was hoping to learn more about the company’s financial affairs and also the details of how the ransom money was raised.

The preliminary inquest had been held on Alan Hollingsworth and adjourned pending further police investigation. The body had been formally identified by Ted Burbage. Hollingsworth’s solicitor Jill Gamble had been able to supply the address and telephone number of the dead man’s brother and the station in central Aberdeen had sent someone to break the news.

The postmortem report added little to George Bullard’s telephone call. Barnaby, skimming through it, felt his attention wandering and sent out his minion for a caffeine shot.

“And not that stale stuff that’s been sitting there since ...” Barnaby was distracted. Now standing by the window, his eye had been caught by a messenger from Forensic crossing the forecourt towards the main building.

“Since Madonna was a virgin?”

“Ay?’

“ ‘In love for the very first time,’ ” croaked Sergeant Troy. Music was a closed book to him.

“Fresh.”

By the time his sergeant returned with two cups of excellent smooth Brazilian, Barnaby was engrossed in the SOCO report forms, pulling out from the mass of information the most immediately relevant. The report covered Nightingales and its contents plus the buried photographs. Those for the gardens, garage, car and Hollingsworth’s clothes would follow, piecemeal, over the next few days.

As was to be expected, there were several unexplained prints around the place. Some would naturally have been made by Simone. Others by Perrot and the vicar. Only Hollingsworth’s were found on the keyboard connected to the monitor displaying the dead man’s final words.

Barnaby was not cast down by this, for alternative methods of getting the message on to the screen had already been put forward. These included feeding it into the machine by floppy disk. Swapping the keyboards round—there had been two more in the room. Or shielding the one that was used by a thin plastic cover, rather like those used in shops to keep the till clean.

The report on the photographs of Simone and the plastic envelope file showed several tiny pressure points in the top right-hand corner of the Polaroids, indicating that they had been handled by more than just SOCO’s tweezers. The only fingerprints present were Alan’s. This was also the case with the glass found on the rug.

The glass contained traces of Haloperidol, as Barnaby had been sure it would. Someone had shaken the drug into the tumbler—none was found in the bottle itself—added the whisky and, presumably, offered the result to the victim, all without leaving a single mark.

But how had the powder been put in? Bold sleight of hand with the perpetrator simply turning their back? Or in another room with the tumbler then placed on a tray and handed directly to the victim?

Another possibility was that the murderer could have wiped the glass clean after Hollingsworth became unconscious then simply pressed his fingers round it. This was never as satisfactory as those who tried it seemed to think. Nearly always anxious to make a good impression (so to speak), they used too much force and unnaturally even marks resulted.

Barnaby closed his eyes and thought himself back into Nightingales’ sitting room at eleven o’clock last Monday evening. He often did this sort of thing and did it rather well. And, as his imagination was vivid but not especially original, he was able to avoid the sort of wild scenarios a more creative person might have dreamed up.

Here was the room, stale and frowsty, curtains drawn. And here came Alan—Barnaby heard the car door slam—fresh from delivering the ransom. What had they told him? The oldest chestnut in the book, perhaps. That she’d be waiting there when he got home. In which case he would be running through the empty house, upstairs and downstairs, in and out of all the rooms, calling her name, Simone! Simone!

Poor bastard.

But what if Nightingales proved not to be empty after all. Perhaps the murderer was already in situ. Or did he—or she—enter surreptitiously, unaware to Hollingsworth? The latter struck Barnaby as rather unlikely. If this was someone the dead man was prepared to sit down and have a drink with, there would be no need for such a furtive approach.

The temptation was to see some connection between the kidnapping and Hollingsworth’s death, paradoxical though this might at first appear. After all, why kill a goose which has just produced a presumably quite substantial golden egg? And who might well be persuaded to lay a few more.

One fairly obvious reason was that Hollingsworth had become dangerous. What if, instead of driving away straight after the drop, he had hung around to see who picked the money up? Perhaps even attempted to follow. Spotted, his life wouldn’t be worth twopence. Especially if, as Barnaby’s instincts were strongly telling him, Mrs. Hollingsworth had already been done away with.

His thick fingers riffled through the report. He noticed there had been no forced entry. As the house had been secure when the body was found, this meant either someone owned a key or they had knocked and been admitted.

Gray Patterson had had a key. Thrown away, according to him, but then he would say that, wouldn’t he? And, even if this was the case, might there not be circumstances when Hollingsworth would let the man he had betrayed into his house? What if Patterson had appeared on the doorstep with some cock and bull story about catching sight of Simone somewhere—on a bus perhaps, or in a café? Highly unlikely, given the true circumstances, but Alan wouldn’t have reasoned like that. Desperate men clutch at any straw.

Then there was Simone’s key. Presumably in her handbag when she’d boarded the Causton bus, it could by now be in the hands of a very dodgy lot indeed.

Barnaby pulled back his damp shirt cuff. All these musings, mind-clearing rather than genuinely fruitful, had brought him up to one o’clock. He picked up his crumpled fawn cotton jacket and left his office for the staff canteen and a brief lunch before his meeting at the Nat West.

Drearily mindful of his weight, the Chief Inspector chose a dish of grated carrots, raisins and almond flakes with a wedge of lemon and two slices of smoked turkey breast. Squeezing the lemon over his salad, he thought the one thing you could say in favour of this sweltering heat was that at least it killed off an inclination to gluttony.

The station cat, Craig, strolled up. Pressed upon the force under the guise of a great mouser by a telephonist moving house, he immediately circumvented any onerous duties in this direction by moving more or less permanently into the canteen. Here, in spite of constant titbits from gullible diners and doubling his weight in the first week, he strove successfully to give an impression of fragility and despairing hunger that melted nearly every heart. He would have made a fortune as an actor.

“Go away,” instructed Barnaby. “You greedy little scumbag.”

Craig squinted in that cross, imperious way that cats have when everything they desire is not immediately rushed to their side. Incredulity possessed his squashy, pugilistic features. Briefly he stood his ground then, no sustenance being forthcoming, mewed. Defeated by dryness and imminent starvation, it was no more than a pitiful squeak.

Resentfully, knowing he was being made a fool of, Barnaby had just started to cut off a sliver of meat when he was distracted by the arrival of his bag carrier who sat down opposite him with a loaded tray.

“Never much going on menu-wise Monday, is there, boss?” As Troy spoke he pricked a stout glistening sausage with his fork and watched the juice run out. “I suppose they haven’t really got into their stride.”

Apart from the sausages, his plate held a tottering pile of chips, two fried eggs, a bright orange puddle of baked beans, mushrooms and several chunks of black pudding.

“Do you mind sitting somewhere else with that lot?”

“Sorry?” Troy was always alert to the chance of a real or imagined slight. Now that he had actually received one, he looked as if he could hardly believe his ears. In fact, when it came to his expression and that of the cat, there was hardly a whisker to choose between them. Genuinely hurt, he picked up his tray, uncertainly looking about him.

“There’ll do.” Barnaby pointed directly to the chair behind.

“Fine by me, sir.”

It was plain by his tone of voice that Troy had not only distanced himself physically. Barnaby came as close to a smile as any man could faced with a pile of shredded root vegetables and a cat with attitude. Behind him the clash of metal on metal rose to a wild crescendo. It was like wandering into the last act of Hamlet. There was a satisfied pause, a final clatter when the irons were laid to rest then a soft squeak as the plate was mopped clean with a crust of bread.

“Right.” Barnaby heaved himself upright. “Lets go.”

“I haven’t had my pudding.”

“Pudding is for wimps, Sergeant.”

The National Westminster was in the High Street just a few minutes’ walk from the station. Recoiling from this last, the unkindest cut of all, Troy followed his superior officer across the simmering car park and through the main gates. Immediately they were engulfed in a reek of exhaust fumes overlain with fried onions and recycled fat from a nearby hot-dog stand.

Troy strode in a crisp martial manner, emphasising his extreme machismo. Wimp. What a cheek! Fair did your head in, a remark like that. In fact, if it wasn’t such an insult it would be laughable. Himself—a man with a personality so masculine and seductive it had been known to mesmerise any bit of yum-yum going at twenty paces. Muscular, good-looking, over the side so often he was known round the lockers as Maxie. Still on both feet after ten lager and blacks and father of one. Female, true, but plenty of time to rectify that. He was jealous, old porky. What else could it be?

They waited at a pedestrian crossing. The flagstones burned through the synthetic soles of Troy’s highly polished tasselled black loafers. An elderly man came towards them draped in sandwich boards heavy with biblical instruction. Troy noted his approach sourly. The man, no doubt overcome by that irritating compulsion to share his convictions, which afflicts the overly religious, gave Troy a sugary smile. He said, “Jesus loves you.”

“Jesus loves everybody, mate,” snapped Sergeant Troy, well equipped to recognise the emotionally promiscuous. “So don’t think you’re anything special.”

The bank was air conditioned, which was heaven. Barnaby, newly bathed in moisture at every step, could feel the sweat drying on his shirt, the fabric easing away from his skin.

Freddie Blakeley did not keep them waiting. Once inside the office he indicated two extremely uncomfortable looking seats, all leather straps and writhing chrome. They looked like a harness for some exceptionally gruelling medical examination. Or the practice of bizarre sexual shenanigans. Barnaby passed over his magistrate’s order.

Blakeley did not wave it aside or give it a casual onceover, as was usually the case. He sat behind his huge teak desk with an air of great solemnity, plainly prepared to give the piece of paper as much time as it took to extract each scrap of meaning or sniff out any fraudulence.

Barnaby watched this performance with interest while at the same time absorbing every detail of the man’s manner and appearance. After thirty years of practice, he did this almost unconsciously and without the slightest effort. Today he was especially well rewarded. The contrast between the bank manager’s orderly desk and namby-pamby ways and his appearance was most striking. Not to mince words, Freddie Blakeley looked like a gangster.

He was short and square with meaty, muscular shoulders and meaty lips. Though thick, these were very sensuous and beautifully shaped. His skin was tough-looking but very pasty as if permanently deprived of daylight. A steel-blue shadow showed through his lightly powdered Jowels. He wore a charcoal suit with broad, chalky stripes, a satin tie embroidered with golden peacocks and, tumbling in vast folds out of his breast pocket, an emerald Paisley silk handkerchief.

Hoping to share his pleasure in this unlikely phenomenon, Barnaby sought eye contact with Sergeant Troy who immediately averted his gaze and stared stonily out of the window.

Blakeley folded the order neatly twice, smoothed it flat on his unmarked blotter and seemed about to speak. Barnaby braced himself for a gravelly, Neapolitan rumble making him an offer he dare not refuse. Inevitably he was disappointed.

“A terrible business.” Blazered Home Counties, sieved through a tennis racquet. The smile had all the empty courtesy of a diplomat’s. “Terrible,” repeated Mr. Blakeley. He looked at the policemen with distaste as if, by invading the portals of his hallowed establishment, they had brought in with them a most unpleasant smell. And in a way of course they had. For what could be less fragrant than the stench of murder? “So how can I help you?” He touched his wide, hairy nostrils with the outrageous mouchoir.

Barnaby felt it sensible to approach the terrible core of his business obliquely and so began by asking about the general health of Alan Hollingsworth’s company.

And Mr. Blakeley replied in general terms. In front of him were several pages of A4 covered with neat columns of figures to which he hardly referred. Although without large reserves, Penstemon, it appeared, was presently stable and ticking over nicely. Unlike the majority of the bank’s business customers, they did not have an overdraft. Alan Hollingsworth’s personal account, though also permanently in the black, was somewhat more volatile. After volunteering this vague snippet of information, Mr. Blakeley zippered up. Plainly the run of unsolicited information was over.

Barnaby’s first direct question, relating to the upset between Hollingsworth and Gray Patterson, got pretty short shrift.

“You really can’t expect me to comment on an affair of which I know next to nothing.”

“I believe the cause of the trouble was Hollingsworth’s need to raise a lot of money rather quickly. Did he ask the bank for a loan?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused?”

“I did. The business is a small one. I could not regard it as reasonable collateral against such a sum.”

“Do you know if he tried to borrow the money elsewhere?”

“I’ve really no idea.” Elsewhere in any case, implied Mr. Blakeley’s disdainfully curling lip, must of necessity have been a deeply inferior source.

“Could you give me the exact date when the sum was eventually paid in?”

Two stapled sheets were passed over. Barnaby saw immediately the payment from Patellus. Two hundred thousand pounds on 18 March.

“I’m surprised a sum this size wasn’t paid into a deposit account. I assume Hollingsworth had one?”

“Indeed.” Mr. Blakeley passed over a third sheet of paper. “And normally one would expect this. But, as you will see, the money did not stay around for long.”

“Ah, yes.” Four days to be precise. The minimum clearance time. “He obviously needed it in a hurry. Do you happen to know who the relevant cheque was made out to?”

“I thought you might need that information.” Mr. Blakeley admired his own foresight with a little moue of self-esteem. He looked down at his notepad. “F. L. Kominsky.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope ...” Barnaby was sure the name of the payee’s bank was somewhere on the pad also but he never minded colluding with another man’s quirks and vanities in a good cause. In this he was quite unlike Troy who, though prepared endlessly to indulge his own dreams and self-deceptions, gave short shrift to those of others.

“It was paid into Courts. Their Kensington branch.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blakeley.” The Chief Inspector was now running his eye down the balance column of Hollingsworth’s high interest account. For a man who owned a reasonably successful business, it was pretty modest. He pointed this out.

“That’s true,” agreed Blakeley. “He was a heavy spender.”

Barnaby, recalling the house and Mrs. Hollingsworth’s wardrobe, could not but agree. He said, “Now, to bring us up to the distressing present ...” The bank manager immediately assumed a becoming gravitas, stuffing the larger portion of his rowdy kerchief out of sight. “We know that, shortly before his death, Hollingsworth was again attempting to raise a sum of money.”

“Really?”

“In fact, I believe that on Sunday, June the ninth, round about mid-morning, he discussed this matter with you on the telephone.”

“Goodness.” Mr. Blakeley appeared discomposed. Plainly he preferred it when all the knowledge lay on his side of the fence. “You must have magical powers. Or were you tapping his phone for some reason?”

“He was simply overheard.”

“I see. Well, it was a most awkward conversation.” A compulsive straightener, Mr. Blakeley aligned his pens on his blotter before pausing rather awkwardly himself.

“I understand Mr. Hollingsworth was extremely distressed.”

“Very much so. He’d rung up a few days before—”

“Could you give me the exact date, Mr. Blakeley?”

“Yes, I can.” The bank manager pulled a large desk diary towards him, opened it and smoothed out the perfectly flat surface. “I remember because a customer, who had an appointment about a bridging loan, complained at being kept waiting.”

Sergeant Troy admired the constrained order of Mr. Blakeley’s desk as he turned over a page in his own notebook.

“Here we are, Nine thirty on Friday, June seventh. He said he needed fifty thousand pounds straightaway and that it was desperately urgent. Although that amount, unlike the earlier request, was not completely out of the question, I still needed a certain amount of time to review Penstemon’s affairs. I told him it might take a couple of days and he should really come in for an interview.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He became quite distraught. Almost ... abusive.” Mr. Blakeley’s pale, suety cheeks warmed to the recollection. “He asked how long it would take and expressed great distress when I said these things couldn’t be hurried. I’m afraid this reaction made me extremely wary. You may think that sounds rather heartless, Chief Inspector.”

Barnaby made a vague gesture negating any such judgemental conclusion.

“It is not hearts, however, that should be relied upon when dealing with other people’s money but a calm and rational mind. The calmer I remained, the wilder Mr. Hollingsworth became. He rang several more times during the course of the day, always striking roughly the same note. Finally I had to instruct my secretary to say I was out of the office. I did what I could on the matter then, as I was going away for the weekend, left early. My wife and I went to a wedding in Surrey and stayed overnight, returning around eleven Sunday morning to at least a dozen frantic messages on my Answerphone. I rang him straightaway.”

“That was the call we know about?”

“Yes. I assured him that I was doing everything I could to speed things up. He seemed furious that I hadn’t stayed at my desk until I’d got the matter sorted.” Mr. Blakeley gave a sniff of outrage so forceful it briefly closed his hirsute nostrils. “He was so hysterical that I pulled out all the stops and got the loan arranged early the following morning. And then, would you believe, he refused to come and pick it up! Said he was too ill to drive and, I must say, he did rather sound it.”

“So what did you do, Mr. Blakeley?”

“Put the money—he’d insisted on small denomination notes which I didn’t like at all—into my briefcase, locked it and drove over to Fawcett Green. All highly unorthodox.”

“And how was Mr. Hollingsworth when you got there?”

“Most unwell. I hardly recognised him.” Mr. Blakeley noted a hairline fracture between the A4 pages and closed it. “And inebriated, though I’d guessed that from the phone calls.”

“Did he at any point say what the money was for?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

“It really wasn’t relevant from our point of view. The business could more than cover the debt should we need to call it in.”

“But you must have been curious, Mr. Blakeley. Didn’t you have any ideas of your own?”

“Well, one doesn’t wish to appear melodramatic,” said Mr. Blakeley, melodrama incarnate in his Jimmy Cagney threads, “but I did wonder if he was being blackmailed. Hard to imagine of course—a person of one’s acquaintance.”

“What about the rest of the conversation during your visit?”

“There wasn’t any. He virtually snatched the bag and showed me the door.”

“Did you hear from him again after this meeting?”

Mr. Blakeley shook his head. “The next thing I knew, Penstemon was ringing with the news of his death.”

“Do you have any idea what the future of the company will now be?”

“None whatsover. But I hope to be meeting with their Mr. Burbage early next week.”

“What about Mrs. Hollingsworth, sir? Did she have an account here? Perhaps jointly with her husband?”

“No, none at all. Even so, I have obviously written offering my sympathy on her sad loss. And any support or advice she may need.”

Big deal. Sergeant Troy was tapping and shaking his Biro fruitlessly before taking a spare from his breast pocket. What she needs, poor cow, is a fully armed section of the Flying Squad charging up the path to wherever it is and kicking in the cellar door.

“I’m afraid the lady is no longer at Nightingales,” Barnaby was saying. “She disappeared a week ago.”

“More theatrics.” Mr. Blakeley sighed, plainly washing his hands of the whole messy business. “Are the two things connected, do you think?”

“We’re at a very early stage in our inquiries. Impossible to say.”

“Heavens, I didn’t want to know.” Huffily easing a cuff with an edge like a samurai sword away from his wrist, Mr. Blakeley revealed a flashy timepiece. “Well, I have an appointment in—”

“Just a couple of final questions, sir.” Barnaby was already anticipating his departure from this cool, constrained environment into the sweltering outdoors and feeling rather sorry for himself. “Did Mr. Hollingsworth have a deposit box here?”

“He did not.”

“And do you know of any other accounts he may have had? Perhaps offshore or overseas?”

“I am personally not aware of any such transactions. And, even if I was, the release of such information does not fall within the jurisdiction of the Bankers’ Books Evidence Act. As I’m sure you are aware, Chief Inspector.”

The Chief Inspector got his own back for this little dig by informing Mr. Blakeley that, as a visitor to Nightingales, his fingerprints would have to be taken for the purposes of elimination. He thought the bank manager was going to pass out.

“Queer bloke,” said Barnaby as they found themselves once more sticking to the boiling tarmac. Believing “gay” to have, by now, firmly established itself as the accepted alternative for homosexual, he had used the term in the old-fashioned sense.

“Is he?” Though still sulking in his heart, Troy responded in a friendly manner for he could not bear to be lonely for long. “I thought that snot rag was a bit over the top.”

They walked along for a few moments in silence, Troy pondering the recent interview, Barnaby dreaming of a nice cool drink.

“Think Patterson’s in on this, guv?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Going to give him a tug?”

“Oh, yes.”

Once more the boarded salvationist approached.

“They never give up, do they?” said Troy.

“Don’t knock it,” said Barnaby. “This could be your chance to take the veil.”

“Nan, I’m doomed. Frying tonight, that’ll be my lot!”

When Barnaby got back to the station, the driver on the Fawcett Green to Causton bus route was being interviewed by the officer-in-charge. The Chief Inspector sat in but made no attempt to take over, merely indicating to the officer that he should continue.

“Yes, I do remember her.” He was looking at Simone’s picture.

“Are you sure, Mr. Cato? It’s over a week ago. And you must get an awful lot of customers, one way or another.”

“Yeah, but the market-day runs round the villages are special. You see the same faces, week in week out. Pensioners, youngsters with toddlers. I remember this one ’cause she’d never been on my route before. Plus she was a real looker.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Dress with flowers all over and a little coat thing to match.”

“Did you get the impression she was by herself?”

“Hard to judge. She was just in the queue.”

“Did you see who she sat with?”

“Can’t say I did, mate.”

“And where was she going?”

“Causton. Asked for a single which was very unusual. Everyone always gets a return. It’s only ten pence more, y’see.”

“And she got off?”

“Outside Gateways. There’s only the two stops. The other’s by the post office in the main square.”

“Notice her direction when she walked away?”

“Sorry. I was helping somebody with a pushchair.”

After Barnaby had once more declined to put any questions of his own, the driver signed his statement and left. In spite of the paucity of information obtained, the Chief Inspector felt quite cheerful. He had expected, given the jam-packed vehicle, absolutely nothing. Now he knew that Mrs. Hollingsworth had not planned to return to Fawcett Green—at least by public transport—and where she had got off. It was a start. And there might well be a scrap or two extra once all the other passengers had been interviewed.

Dribs and drabs of information began to filter in. It appeared that Mrs. Hollingsworth had no bank account at Lloyds, as her husband had suggested to PC Perrot at their first meeting. This was no surprise. Nor was the fact that British Telecom confirmed that there had been no fault reported on Alan Hollingsworth’s line. And his bills were itemised.

Sergeant Troy’s response to this snippet of information was predictably cynical. “Now we know why she was using the public. To ring up her bit on the side.”

Having offered his deduction of the day, Troy vanished in search of a nicotine fix and Barnaby was left pondering this pretty obvious, but not necessarily correct, conclusion. Taking Hollingsworth’s unstable and jealous temperament into account, his wife could quite possibly have simply been talking to a female friend. Always assuming she had any. Perhaps the newly started investigations would turn up an ex-colleague or two. Simone Hollingsworth must have met a fair amount of people during the time she had been doing all the jobs described by Avis Jennings.

A severely cropped wedding photograph showing a close-up of the bride had been sent out by the press office. Coupled with news of the kidnapping (and assuming that nothing even more appalling happened within the next few hours), it should make the front page of the next edition of the Evening Standard. Tomorrow the tabloids and perhaps even one or two of the broadsheets would carry the story, hopefully also on the front page.

Actually, asking members of the public for their assistance, though routine by now in the matter of serious crime, was undoubtedly a mixed blessing. Occasionally it could be a godsend. Much more frequently the procedure would prove to be a waste of precious time and resources. All manner of people fancied being attached to the fringe of an official inquiry. Most were ordinary, honest citizens who genuinely thought they had seen or heard something that would help the police. But the rest—they were something else.

You got to recognise them after a while. The same old sad sacks plainly believing they were important characters in a larger than life drama. This quaint conceit would lead to endless posturing, embroidery and exaggeration. Struggling to say what they thought the police wanted to hear, some of them ended up spinning a tale worthy of Hollywood at its most inventive. Anything to be in the movie. Then there were the anonymous tipsters who were often utter liars acting either from motiveless malice or to wrongly accuse some real or imagined enemy. None of these people could be safely ignored.

Barnaby turned his mind to the next item on his mental list, Messrs J. Coutts. These bankers to the great and the good had, naturally, been chary about revealing details regarding the person in receipt of Hollingsworth’s weighty cheque. They would not even tell him if the name described an individual or an institution. However they did agree to inform the owner of the account in question of the present situation and pass on to him DCI Barnaby’s telephone number.

And so it was, at around four o’clock, shortly after Barnaby had despatched a car to collect Gray Patterson, a call came through on his direct line from a Mr. Kurt Milritch. A courteous, softly spoken man with an accent that Barnaby thought was possibly Polish, he described himself as the director of the jewellers F. L. Kominsky of Bond Street and asked how he was able to assist. Barnaby explained the situation.

Mr. Milritch remembered the cheque, indeed the whole transaction, very well. The piece in question, an emerald and diamond necklace, was extremely beautiful with a most unusual clasp, a pair of chased silver swans which linked magnetically. The purchaser asked for the piece specifically, not wishing to look at anything else. After the necessary checks to confirm that the funds to cover the purchase were available, the necklace was locked into its case and handed over.

“I asked if the customer needed to insure the jewels on his home journey—a covering note—but he declined,” continued Mr. Milritch. “We offered him tea—I presumed he would be waiting for a car—but he merely slipped the necklace into his briefcase and left. I watched him on the pavement hailing a taxi and I must say my heart was in my mouth until he got safely into it. Two hundred thousand pounds is a lot to be swinging casually from one’s wrist in a busy London thoroughfare.”

“Indeed it is,” said Barnaby. “You’d remember Mr. Hollingsworth by sight, would you, sir?”

“I believe I would, yes.”

“We’ll send a photograph. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give us a ring just to confirm that it is the man in question.” Barnaby took down the fax number, still talking. “Had he been in the shop before?”

There was a slight hiss from the other end of the line which proved to be the entente cordial icing over. Barnaby, at a loss to understand the reason, was quickly enlightened.

“Certainly I don’t recall seeing him at any other time in our showrooms.” Shop? Shop! “However, when the photograph arrives, I will be glad to show it to my colleagues, if you think that will help.”

Barnaby assured him that it would. “The reason I ask is that it is surely unusual for anyone to buy something so valuable within moments of first seeing it.”

“Oh, we get a lot of impulse buys,” said Mr. Milritch breezily. He might have been speaking of a box of matches. “Anyway, that doesn’t mean the party for whom it was purchased hadn’t seen it. She might have been here on several occasions, looking round. Whittling items of her choice down. They have the time to spare you see, the ladies.”

Barnaby decided also to fax a picture of Simone but without much hope of success. Although she’d certainly had plenty of time to look around and whittle, he couldn’t imagine her being let off the leash for long enough to do so. He was about to thank Mr. Milritch for his help and ring off when the salesman spoke again.

“Of course she could always have seen a picture of the necklace. In Harpers.”

“Where?”

“The magazine, Harpers and Queen. A full page. February issue. It looked breathtaking. We had heaps of inquiries. Nothing,” concluded Mr. Milritch firmly, “stimulates feminine interest like a well-faceted diamond.”

“Still a girl’s best friend then?” Barnaby got another earful of chill in return for such levity. He thanked Mr. Milritch and rang off.

The Chief Inspector was still reflecting on this conversation when Sergeant Troy came back from the jakes, the only place where smoking was now allowed. The scent of high tar tobacco drifted in with him. Virginia’s finest.

“That’s better,” he said, falling into a tweedy air chair. “Keep me going for a bit.”

“Just the opposite, I’d have thought.”

“You can live like a monk for years then get run over by a bus.”

“In a monastery?”

“So.” Troy, bored with any conversation that did not immediately present him in a good light, changed the subject. “Anything fresh come in?”

“I’ve found out who F. L. Kominsky is.”

Barnaby went over his conversation with the salesman, or gem consultant as he was no doubt termed around the shebeens of Mayfair. Troy listened closely, both impressed and bewildered. Impressed by the amount of money involved; bewildered by the use to which it had been put.

“Unbelievable,” he said when Barnaby had finished. “You could get a brand new Ferrari for that.”

Barnaby had made a note of the date. Almost three months ago. It seemed significant to him for a reason other than the purchase of the necklace. He frowned, teasing his memory.

“Give a lot to know where it is now, eh, chief?”

“Indeed. One thing’s certain, either she took it with her, along with the engagement ring, or it had already gone by the time she disappeared.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Hollingsworth would hardly have fought his way through all that misery with Blakeley if he could just have gone to Kominsky’s and flogged the necklace back.”

“Whoever tries to unload it will have their work cut out. Your average High Street jeweller, he’d be very wary. The top end of the trade would certainly ask questions. And a receiver will only divvy up a fraction of what it’s worth. And that’s assuming the man who did the snatch is savvy enough to find one.”

“We’ll get some feelers out. See if anyone’s heard anything.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re talking collusion here, chief.”

“What?”

“I reckon this chap she was meeting in Causton, or wherever, asked her to bring the necklace along.”

“She’d have to be pretty dim not to be suspicious.”

“But she thinks they’re running away together, see? Starting a new life and that.”

“Mmm.”

Sergeant Troy sprang out of his chair then and walked towards the window for he hated being still, or even in one place, for long. Forgetful of the heat, he laid his hand on the glass, then snatched it away. He said, “Reminded me of something said at Nightingales, you mentioning that magazine.”

“What? Scenes of Crime?”

“Them or Parrot. Hang on a sec.” Troy frowned. Now he, too, surfed the memory bank, though making much more of a show of it.

Barnaby watched his sergeant. Troy would be longing to produce an intelligent and really helpful comment. And if the one he was genuinely seeking didn’t come to mind, he would make one up. Anything rather than be found wanting.

Troy sighed and his frown deepened. Tell the truth, as the magazine’s connection to the present situation continued to elude him, he was starting to regret having mentioned it at all. He should have remembered what it was before he had spoken out. Then he could have simply dropped the perceptive insight into the conversation, all casual like. If commended, he would conceal his delight and shrug it off.

All this Barnaby understood and, up to a point, sympathised with. Perhaps the most touching aspect of it all was that Troy had no idea he was so transparent and would have been mortified had it been pointed out to him.

“I know.” Relief and satisfaction slackened the tight, frowning mouth. The tips of his ears rosied up. “It was old Polly. On the landing. Said there was a stack of magazines in the spare room, one with a page torn out. What d’you bet that was the advert for the necklace?”

“Easy enough to check. See to it, would you?” Then, because in a couple of hours he would be going back to Joyce and Arbury Crescent where there would be asparagus and salmon and salade Niçoise, and because he was in the giving vein that day, Barnaby added, “That was very sharp, Gavin.”

Troy’s sallow cheeks glowed. Immediately he began to recount the scene to his even greater advantage. The old man—great in his time, of course, but his memory isn’t what it was—said he didn’t know what he’d do without me. Yeah, his very words. Relying on me more and more.

Problem was, who to recount it to. Certainly nobody round the station. Troy might not win prizes for self-awareness but he wasn’t that stupid. Maureen would only fall off the settee laughing. His mum had always dinned it into him that self-praise was no recommendation, so she was out. That left Talisa-Leanne. Only three, admitted, but very intelligent. Also she listened when he spoke to her. Which was more than you could say for the rest of the world.

Fawcett Green could talk of nothing but the unexplained death of Alan Hollingsworth and the possible fate of his wife. The news of Simone’s kidnapping, released by the door-to-door team in pursuance of their investigations, spread through the village like wildfire. People rang other people the minute they had had what Mrs. Bream referred to as their turn. Becky called it “being done” as if it was a vaccination.

What sort of thing did they ask you? I hear they’re calling in the Yard. They didn’t ask me that. I never believed that story about her mother. You know they found her cat? I thought it was his mother. Poor thing, thrown into a ditch and left to die. People who flash their money about are asking for trouble. I heard it had turned up in Gerrard’s Cross. Well, they won’t have to look far for the prime suspect. With some kittens. Getting his own back, isn’t he, Patterson? His cash, more like.

It was cleaning day at Arcadia. By now Heather had become, at least in her own evaluation, a key witness. After going over the fateful bus journey at least twice for the police, she was now going over it all again for the benefit of the assembled company.

“I’d commented on her bag—ever such a nice raised beaded design. Then I said it must be a bugger to clean, pardon my French, Mrs. M. She just smiled then looked out the window for the rest of the journey though I chatted away to her. I said to the Bill, if I’d known it was going to be fatal I’d have been a bit more probing like.”

Mrs. Molfrey, who had long since switched off her hearing aid, nodded. Cubby, in the kitchen shelling broad beans, had simply tuned out.

“The stress is really getting to Colin Perrot. I met his wife when I was collecting our Duane from playgroup. They’ve been horrible to him, that flash lot from Causton.”

There was a knock at the door heard only by Heather who opened it, admitting Avis Jennings. Avis was carrying a cream patisserie tart smothered in cherries, freshly picked from her orchard. And a tiny parcel of newly candied angelica of which Mrs. Molfrey was very fond.

“We must have a morsel, toot sweet,” cried Mrs. Molfrey as she unwrapped it.

Cubby, hearing only the last two words and assuming they were addressed to himself, put his head round the door.

“Yes, my love. What is it?”

“A confection without parallel, Cubs. Pop the kettle on and we’ll all have a nibble.”

Heather, already hardly able to shoehorn her rear end into size twenty tracksuit bottoms, decided to pass on this one. Her mum sometimes picked up one of Mrs. Jennings’ confections at the WI so Heather knew them of old. She made her excuses, said, “Ta-ra then,” and lumbered off.

Answering Avis’s opening question, Mrs. Molfrey admitted she had not yet experienced her door-to-door visit. “I expect,” she continued, “that nice Mr. Barnaby will be calling personally.”

Avis, inexperienced though she was in the ways of the upper reaches of the CID, thought this a touch unlikely and murmured something to this effect.

“Not at all.” Mrs. Molfrey firmly justified her flight of fancy. “He gave me his direct telephone number. In case I remember what it is I’ve forgotten.”

“What was that then, Elfie?” Avis spoke absently as she went into the kitchen for plates and some cake forks.

“All I can tell you is that it’s something to do with a sound,” shouted Mrs. Molfrey. Like a lot of deaf people, she found it difficult to pitch her voice accurately when people moved even a small distance away. “Unexpected, wrong or not there at all.”

“I see.” Avis knew better than to attempt a shared glance of amusement at these quaint juxtapositions with Cubby. Years ago she had learned that the slightest trace of jocular condescension would evoke a very cool response. She guessed that what others saw as elderly foolishness became transmuted, in his affectionate regard, to charming eccentricity. She watched him pour the fragrant tea then float some marigold petals in Elfrida’s beautifully painted, shallow, gold-rimmed bowl.

“It happened on the day Simone went off,” added Mrs. Molfrey.

Plainly she had not yet picked up the news of the kidnap. And Avis had no intention of distressing her by passing it on. When they were all sitting round eating, Avis, thinking back to Elfrida’s previous remark, said, “Would it be something to do with our bell-ringing practice, Elfie?”

“In what wise?”

“If you remember, we’d been asked to do Oranges and Lemons for Mr. Rouse’s funeral. That might be called a wrong sound. A bit jolly for such a solemn occasion.”

“I don’t think it was that. Although the word ‘chimes’ reverberates somewhat.” Mrs. Molfrey frowned. She speared a cherry with a shining green sliver of angelica and sucked on it. “I expect it will come to me suddenly at dead of night. Or when I’m in the bath, like Archimedes.”

“You must write it down,” said Avis. “Before it goes again.”

“I shall shout Eureka!” cried Mrs. Molfrey. “And then I shall write it down.”

“Some more tea, my love?” asked Cubby.

“It occurred to me yesterday,” said Mrs. Molfrey, handing over her dish, “that Simone may not even know that Alan has died. It is all so mysterious and distressing. Especially when one remembers how happy they were.”

Avis, who knew all about Simone’s bruises and her need for the occasional tranquillising dart, remained silent. Naturally any such conversations with her husband never became public property. Aware now that her friend was becoming genuinely upset, Avis, rather clumsily, tried to change the subject.

“I was wondering if the Brockley girl had gone on holiday.”

“Brenda? I’ve no idea.” Mrs. Molfrey dabbed at her cyclamen lips with a whisp of embroidered lace. “Why do you ask?”

“I haven’t seen her walking Shona for a day or two.”

“I had noticed,” said Cubby hesitantly, not wishing to be thought a gossip, “that her car is missing.”

“Iris hasn’t been out either. I usually spot her in the post office in the early part of the week.”

“I’ve seen her staring out of the bedroom window,” said Mrs. Molfrey. “Several times, actually.”

Aware of the Brockleys’ collective yearning for anonymity and passion for not drawing attention to themselves, all three fell unaccountably silent.

Then Cubby said, “I did too, about half past five yesterday morning.”

“I hope there’s nothing wrong,” said Avis. She spoke with absolute sincerity, for enough sorrow washed through Dr. Jennings’ surgery to more than satisfy the normal human impulse to take pleasure in the misfortune of others.

“I think perhaps we should call.”

“They won’t like that, Elfie,” said Avis.

“But if we contrive an ‘accidentally on purpose’ meeting?” suggested Mrs. Molfrey. “What about when he next goes into the garden? One doesn’t wish to pry but sometimes the very people who need help and support the most are the least able to ask for it.”

Cubby, feeling rather awkward and embarrassed, made a noncommittal “mm” sound. He recalled the solitary figure at the window and it now seemed to him that there had been both desolation and yearning in Iris’s face. For no reason, he felt she had been standing there for a very long time. A little later, walking along the herringbone path with the milk, Cubby had glanced up again. This time Reg was standing next to his wife with something—a cup or mug—in his hand. She seemed to be ignoring him.

“I will if you really wish it, Elfrida.”

As if this small decision had already been acted on, and that successfully, Mrs. Molfrey beamed at everyone. By the time Avis left, (carrying a second cardboard box), she was asking for another helping of patisserie and some more angelica.

The second cherry tart was for Sarah Lawson. Avis did not make a habit of such bountiful behaviour. In fact it was the first time she had gone to Bay Tree Cottage bearing a gift of any sort. The truth was she felt awkward calling without a reason. It struck her suddenly that this was the only house in the village where such strictures might apply.

What was it about Sarah? Avis put her carton down on the parched grass and heaved the gate back into position. Her off-putting neutrality, perhaps. Neither friendly nor unfriendly, kind or unkind, Sarah was the sort of person with whom, as the saying went, you never knew where you were. Like most people, Avis was uncomfortable with that.

Not that Sarah gave herself airs and graces. She might be indifferent to everyone else but there was never any hint that she thought herself their superior. But perhaps that was how the truly superior behaved. And there was something about her, a deep involvement in her own thoughts and a general unwillingness to comment on anything that went on outside her own front door, that made one feel quite gross producing even the mildest snippet of gossip.

Of course Avis’s real reason for calling was to try and discover Sarah’s thoughts on Simone’s abduction. This, together with Alan’s death, was far too exciting merely to chat about in a general way. Avis wanted to discuss it with the one person whose responses she could not have predicted in her sleep.

She picked up her box again, hesitated then told herself she was being foolish. After all, the woman couldn’t bite her. And if, after one or two subtle opening gambits, it was plain Sarah was either bored or irritated, well, thought Avis, I can always change the subject. Or leave.

She knocked on the door. As she did so a cry came from inside the house. Later she was to realise that the two sounds were so close it was impossible that one could have been evoked in response to the other. At the time she thought Sarah had simply called “Come in.” And so, awkwardly clutching her present, in she went.

Sarah stood by the dusty window. A dead fly hung in the remains of a web in the corner. She was tugging fiercely on a silk scarf, brilliantly striped in olive and aquamarine, knotted round her waist; looping and twisting it through her narrow fingers, almost tearing the thin silk. Gray Patterson was standing in the centre of the room. You could have cut the atmosphere, so Avis told her husband later, with a knife.

Convinced she had interrupted a lover’s quarrel, Avis stumbled into speech. “I’m so sorry, I’ll just leave this ... I didn’t mean, um, that is ...”

But it was not a quarrel. At least, not as most people would understand the word.

Gray had turned up, as he did almost every day now at some time or other, given a slight tap on the knocker and walked in. Lately she had invariably invited him to do this so he thought it would be all right.

Sarah had been leaning against the old stone fireplace, her arms gripping the far edges of the mantel, her head pressed against the edge. Still as a statue.

Gray, thinking she may not have heard him come in, gave a quiet cough. Sarah whirled round, gasping as from a sudden blow. Although Gray had made no attempt to approach her, she raised her arm as if to fend him off.

“What on earth is it?”

“Go away.”

“Sarah, what’s the matter?”

“How dare you just walk in here without knocking!”

“I didn’t. That is, I did. Knock. I don’t think you heard me.” He took in her white, strained face and staring bloodshot eyes. She was biting her mouth, making a great effort at self-control. A great welt, so red it looked almost raw, lay across her forehead.

“Have you been crying?”

“No.”

“But your eyes—”

“It’s the pollen. All right?”

“Don’t be angry.” She must have been rubbing, almost banging her head against the stone to make a mark like that. “What on earth’s wrong?”

“Go away.”

“How can I just—”

“It’s simple. There’s the door.”

“With you looking like—”

“Go away!”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Mind your own bloody business.”

Back to square one then and with a vengeance, thought Gray. It was as if their amiable conversations in her ramshackle house and lovely wild garden had never happened. He had not deluded himself that these had ever been of a romantic nature but he did think that he and Sarah were slowly becoming friends. Foolishly he had imagined a bond between them.

Well, friends or no friends, he had no intention of leaving her in this state. He walked into the kitchen and started to fill the kettle.

She shouted angrily, “What are you doing?”

“Making some tea. After you’ve drunk it, if you still want me to, I’ll go.” He sensed that she had followed him; then saw her shadow fall across the old wooden table. “Unless you feel the need to tell me about it.”

“I just want to be by myself.” Drained of all vitality, she was leaning her full weight against the door frame. Her gold and silver hair was a damp, lustreless tangle. “Please don’t mess around with that.”

“Sorry.” Gray hesitated then switched the kettle off. He noticed that the front of her sky-blue shirt was covered in damp patches. She must have been crying for hours. Tentatively he reached out and touched her hand which was cold and heavy as a stone.

“Look, Sarah, plainly something dreadful’s happened. Won’t you let me try and help?”

Ignoring him, she moved back into the sitting room with a slow, dragging walk painfully unlike her usual confident stride. Touched now as much by pity as by concern, Gray followed. As he passed the marble slab, he noticed the warrior’s head had disappeared. In its place was a heap of dirty clay, deeply indented as if from many severe blows.

“Please tell me what’s troubling you.”

Tears of rage and despair sprang into her eyes. She shuddered then gave vent to a harsh explosive sound. “You make me laugh. You’re no different from everyone else in this nosy cesspit of a village. Always on the look-out for a juicy bit of tittle-tattle.”

Her misery made the injustice of this remark irrelevant. In any case he was sure that, even as she mouthed the words, Sarah knew they were not true. She made a few more vaguely unkind, rather rambling comments then faltered into silence.

He watched her gradually become calm but in a terrible apathetic way which was worse than her original anger. Her mouth was haggard with grief.

Yes, thought Gray, that was the word exactly. Grief. She was mourning someone. A dear friend? A lover? Not a parent, for he knew both of them had been dead for some years.

And then, for absolutely no logical reason except perhaps propinquity, Alan Hollingsworth’s name came into his mind. And though it seemed a baseless, even cranky notion, it would not go away. He told himself this was nonsense. Sarah had never mentioned the man, appeared barely to know him. But he could not let the idea rest.

“You’ve been ... bereaved, Sarah, is that it?”

“Yes, oh yes,” cried Sarah. As if alarmed at this spontaneous outburst, she pressed her hands over her mouth.

Gray knew that the balance of the scene was his. Bereft and fragile, she would have neither the energy nor the concentration to deceive. The phrase “strike while the iron’s hot” seemed brutally appropriate.

Shamedly telling himself that he was acting purely in Sarah’s interests, Gray said, “Was it Alan?”

She was standing over by the window with her back towards him. For a few moments he thought she was going to pretend she had not heard the question. In which case he was quite prepared to put it again. But then she turned to face him. Though pale, she was struggling to compose herself. Only the fingers were busy, tugging at her clothes. Her voice was low and still husky from crying.

“Why did he do it, Gray? I mean, take his own life over a woman like that, trivial ... greedy ...”

There was a pause during which Gray realised his teeth were so tightly clenched together his jaw ached. Eventually he said, “I’m sorry but I don’t understand why you are so upset.” Deliberately he emphasised the “you.”

“It’s a question of responsibility.” This was said after some hesitation. It seemed to Gray that she had been searching for an explanation that would be credible yet removed from all intimacy. “He must have been hiding behind those curtains in absolute despair. Drinking, maybe weeping. If someone had gone in, talked to him ...”

“It was tried. He wouldn’t open the door.”

“I didn’t try.”

“Why should you?”

“Aahh ...” The cry of anguish flared around the room. Neither of them heard the knock at the door. And then suddenly, to Gray’s surprise and intense disappointment, there was a third person present.

He watched Sarah struggle to regain her equilibrium. She seemed almost to welcome the interruption and asked Mrs. Jennings, who was plainly embarrassed and poised for flight, to stay.

Understanding that this invitation had been made solely for the purpose of getting rid of him, Gray saw no point in hanging around. The moment of revelation had passed and, in retaliation for his momentary cruelty, he had received naught for his comfort.

Serve me right, he thought as he hurried home. He wondered what he should do now. Offer his shoulder as a staunch friend? He couldn’t, in all honesty, be sympathetic. Was it possible that an intelligent, lovely women like Sarah could really have cared for Hollingsworth of all people? That boring, screwed-up, money-grubbing slime ball.

Making his way past the blue piceas that screened his house, Gray discovered a police car parked on the drive. He did not object to the officer’s request that he come down to the station to help them further with their inquiries. In fact, he rather welcomed the distraction.

It was all rather different this time round. Perhaps it was the alien setting: a cheerless room with cold blue walls, a floor of some dimpled black synthetic stuff and hard, wooden-backed chairs. The only bright spot was an extremely detailed poster of a Colorado beetle in full technicolour with instructions as to what to do should you be lucky enough to obtain a sighting.

He had been given a cup of tea by the detectives who had previously called at his house. They, too, looked different. Sterner and less approachable, inevitably at an advantage on their own pitch. The older one switched on a recorder, dated the tape, described who was present. The younger, the man who had been so nice to Bess, paced about, unsmiling.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Patterson.”

“I got the impression I didn’t have a lot of choice, Inspector ... Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“DCI Barnaby.”

“Been a long while since I’ve been chauffeured anywhere.” Patterson laughed awkwardly. Whilst not exactly ill at ease, he appeared puzzled at his sudden transportation into the heart of Causton CID.

Barnaby smiled in return. No reason not to at this stage.

“Do we have to have that thing on?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. And as much for your sake as ours.” No one ever believed that, but it was true.

“What do you want to see me about?”

“Just one or two more questions.”

“But I’ve told you everything I know.”

“The day Mrs. Hollingsworth disappeared, Thursday, June the sixth. Do you remember where you were then? What you were doing?”

“Why?”

“Just answer the question, please, Mr. Patterson,” said Sergeant Troy.

“I sign on on Thursday. A touch humiliating but I’m getting used to it. Beggars can’t—”

“Where would this be?”

“Causton DSS. I went in just before half twelve. Did the deed, felt depressed as one always does afterwards. Went into the Job Centre to no effect then decided to go to a movie.”

“Which one?” asked Troy.

“Goldeneye. The new James Bond. I thought I could do with a spot of escapism. And the seats are cheap in the afternoon.”

“What time would that be?”

“Around two thirty, I guess. They’d have the exact time, I assume, at the cinema.”

“And when did you come out?”

“Five-ish.”

“Where did you go then?”

“I drove straight home.”

“Did you go out again that night?”

“No.”

“Did you see anyone you knew, if only by sight, all the time you were out?”

“Not that I noticed. But that doesn’t mean no one saw me. Look, what on earth’s the point of all this?”

“We feel it may be relevant to our inquiries, Mr. Patterson.”

“How, relevant?”

Barnaby saw no reason not to explain. He took the latest edition of the Evening Standard from his desk drawer and laid it, front page uppermost, in front of Patterson.

He picked up the paper and gazed at it blankly. He shook his head once or twice then stared, first at one policeman and then the other, in stupefied amazement.

Barnaby stared calmly back. Stupefied amazement neither fazed nor impressed him. Neither did deep incredulity or gobsmacked disbelief. The last time he had seen such a convincing representation was on the face of a multiple rapist for whose capture he had been directly responsible. Proven guilty beyond all shadow of a doubt, the man had left the dock throwing his arms in the air in utter bewilderment that so many learned people could come to such an unbelievably erroneous conclusion.

“Kidnapped? Simone?”

“That’s right,” said Sergeant Troy. “Know anything about it, do you, sir?”

“What?”

“They’ve asked a ransom of fifty thousand,” Barnaby explained. “A nice, round figure, wouldn’t you say?”

Patterson hardly looked capable of saying anything. Eventually he made a noise that sounded like “crark?”

“Add on the sparklers,” said Troy, “and there’s you with your money back. Plus fifty for your trouble.”

“Or perhaps you regard it as a redundancy payment, Mr. Patterson.”

“Sorry ... um ...” He peered at them both, straining as if through a fog. “Sparklers?”

“A diamond necklace worth over two hundred thousand pounds has vanished from Nightingales. And also, we believe, an extremely valuable ring.”

“Well, I didn’t take it.”

“You don’t deny you’ve been there?”

“I only went into his office. I told you.”

“Is that a fact?” The house having been cleaned many times since Patterson’s visit, there would be no trace of his prints. A comforting bit of information that Barnaby saw no reason to pass on.

“Two hundred ... ?”

Barnaby watched the numerical coincidence take hold. Patterson’s eyes became even rounder than the O of his mouth.

“Do you know when he bought it?” Patterson asked.

“Three months ago.”

“Just after ...”

“Immediately after,” affirmed Sergeant Troy, regrettably with some pleasure.

“Are you trying to say that my life has been ruined,” Patterson lurched to his feet, “for a piece of bloody jewellery?”

Troy took a seat then, next to his boss. Both detectives sat quietly, waiting and watching. The tape hissed.

“I find that ... Oh, shit, what a bastard ... bastard ... bloody hell ...”

Patterson rambled on in this manner as the anger slowly leaked out of him. He slumped back into his seat. “I suppose it was for her.” He sounded flat and tired. “His wife.”

“Unless he’s been sleeping around. Do you think that’s very likely?”

“No. As I’ve said before, Alan just gets obsessed with one person. Runs them into the ground. Then starts all over again on someone else.”

The Chief Inspector, having heard Hollingsworth’s anguish after the disappearance of his wife so graphically described by both Perrot and the Reverend Bream, had not seriously expected any other reply. A further thought occurred.

“Do you remember if he lashed out like this during his first marriage?”

“Lashed out?”

“Financially.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment then said, “I think he might have. I know he bought Miriam a fur coat once after they’d had a row and he was feeling very remorseful.” Patterson laughed briefly. “It wouldn’t have cut much ice with her.”

“How well did you know the second Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

“You asked me that the other day.”

“Well, we’re asking you again,” snapped Sergeant Troy.

“Nothing’s changed,” said Patterson shortly. “I hardly knew her then and I hardly know her now.”

“Did she ever visit your house?”

“No.”

“Or ring you up?”

“No.”

“Did you meet on any occasion outside the village?”

“No!”

“Did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth at all before she met and married her husband?”

“Of course not.” There was no trace of anxiety in Patterson’s voice, only irritation, increasing by the minute.

“When did you last see her?”

“Umm ... I suppose that time in the phone box. I told you, the other day.”

“Ah yes.”

“I don’t understand why—”

“Were you aware that Hollingsworth left a suicide note?”

“How could I be?”

“On a computer. Trouble is, there were no prints on the keyboard.”

“Really?” Gray Patterson frowned. He looked interested but in a detached way, like a man faced with an interesting problem. “Why would he do that? Wipe them all off?”

“Why indeed.”

“Did he print the message out?”

“No.”

“Very strange.”

“We are considering the possibility that Mr. Hollingsworth did not, in fact, key the note himself.”

Barnaby watched that go home. Observed Patterson’s sudden unnatural stillness. The way his palms pressed on the metal table. And how the skin tightened along his jaw. Even his curls seemed flattened as if the force of what he had just heard was blowing against him like a gale. He sought consolation and shelter.

“You mean it was an accident?”

“People who die by accident don’t spring up again for a few last words,” said Sergeant Troy.

“Of course not.” His face was wiped clear of all impression. “So that leaves ...”

“I can see you’re way ahead of us, Mr. Patterson.”

“And naturally you thought of me.”

“That’s right.” Barnaby noted his suspect’s continuing immobility. And wondered whether it was due to extreme caution or extreme shock. “So you will understand that I must question you again about your movements on the night of Alan Hollingsworth’s death. And ask you to think very carefully indeed before you reply.”

“I’ve no need. As I said the other day, I was at home all Monday evening. Out in the garden until around nine and then in the house.”

“Did you, late that evening or early the next morning, visit the property known as Nightingales?”

“No, I did not.”

“When did you last see Alan Hollingsworth?”

“I can’t answer that. I don’t remember precisely.”

Barnaby waited for a few moments then closed the interview, timed the tape and switched the machine off.

“We have a warrant to search your house, Mr. Patterson. Also our Forensic department will wish to examine your car. You’ll be asked to hand the keys over.”

“I understand. Can I ...” He half rose then sat down again. “Is it all right if ...”

“You can go home, sir. But please keep us informed of your whereabouts.”

“Don’t go taking any holidays in the Caribbean,” said Sergeant Troy.

This spark of levity did not even register.

“Also,” continued Barnaby, “we’d like a recent photograph. Just a snap will do. Give it to the officer who runs you home, if you would.”

When his escort arrived, Patterson trudged leadenly off without having made eye contact with either of the two detectives again.

“What do you reckon?” asked Troy when they were once more back in Barnaby’s office. “In the frame, is he?”

“I don’t know,” replied the Chief Inspector. “Have to think about that.”

Troy nodded and sat back to wait. He would relax. He would not bite his nails or run out for a fag. The minutes dragged by. Sergeant Troy’s mind rolled back to when he had first been assigned to his present position, now nearly nine years ago.

Then he had found his new boss’s refusal to produce an instant opinion on anything and everything somewhat alarming. Barnaby’s dislike of drawing rapid conclusions also caused a certain amount of discomposure. But the sergeant had experienced his keenest unease when faced by the chief’s willingness to acknowledge embarrassment or failure; the two great taboos of police culture. Barnaby had been known on occasion to admit publicly to both, which made some officers, especially the older ones, awkward in his presence. Resentful of his honesty and courage, in their own self-defence they transformed these qualities, in their canteen conversation, to foolishness and a need to curry favour with the younger element. No one ever suggested this to his face. And through it all the gaffer—Sergeant Troy, glanced across the room at the bulky figure lost in thought and fanning itself with a manila folder—didn’t give a bloody toss. You had to admire him.

It was nearly seven o’clock. Suddenly Barnaby got up and started stuffing things into a briefcase. “Time we weren’t here, Sergeant.”

“Right, chief.” Another ten minutes and they’d have been on overtime. Ah well, some of us could do with it and some of us are nice and comfortable already, thanks very much.

A brief “goodnight” and the door slammed.

Troy put on his silky tweed jacket, adjusted his tie with immaculately clean hands and briefly admired himself in the mirror. Smoothing his hair and smiling, he checked his teeth for any foody bits. Finesse he may lack but you couldn’t fault him when it came to a tidy mouth.

He unwrapped a stick of Orbit menthol, popped it on to his tongue and set off for the station bar and a glass of weasel piss. Plus a spot of amorous backchat which could well lead, should his cards fall sunny side upwards, to a nice little roll in the hay.