The Remorseful Day

Chapter fifty-one

At 9:30 A.M. the following day, Mrs. Linda Barron stepped back from the threshold, nodding rather wearily as Lewis produced his ID. In the kitchen, he accepted her offer of instant coffee.

She was a brunette of medium height, slightly overweight, with a small, cupid-lipped mouth, wearing a blue-striped kitchen apron over skirt and blouse.

Lewis decided she was coping with life, just about.

The smallish kitchen was cluttered with shelves and cupboards, the floor space additionally limited by the usual appliances: cooker, dishwasher, fridge, microwave, washing machine. Lewis immediately noticed the damp patch of crumbling ceiling over the cooker. Same old story! Husband a plumber, and a tap-washer never gets fixed; husband a builder, and there’s a two-year wait before a bit of replastering gets done... Difficult to say, offhand, whether the Barrons were better or worse off than they appeared.

From experience, Lewis had learned never to try his hand at commiseration or counseling; but when he questioned her, he did so in the kindly fashion that was his wont. He asked her tactfully about the times and places relevant to her husband’s alibis; more tactfully about the family finances; most tactfully about the state of her marriage.

Alibis? On the two key dates she could be of little help. Mondays to Fridays he usually got home about 6 P.M., when she’d have a cooked meal ready for him. Between 8 and 9 P.M. he’d quite often go out for a pint or two, either down at the local or sometimes at a pub in Burford. But he wasn’t a big drinker. She knew he’d rung up Mrs. Harrison on the night of her murder — something about roofing tiles — but he’d not been able to get through. Tried twice — he’d told her so; the police knew all about that, though: it had been important evidence. On the second key date, the Friday, he’d gone off to Thame in the morning, she remembered that. He’d been asked for an estimate on some work there, and he’d gone over to size up the job. She didn’t know — didn’t ask — what he’d done after that; but he was back home at the usual sort of time. He always was on Fridays, because it was eggs-and-chips day — his favorite meal.

Mr. J. Barron, Builder, was going up in Lewis’s esteem.

Money? They were OK. For the past three years or so houses were selling fairly freely again; and mobility in the housing market always meant new owners wanting some renovation or structural changes: conservatories, extensions, garages, loft conversions, patios. Yes, the past few years had been fairly good for them: she knew that better than he did. Her part in the business, for which she took a small official salary, was to look after the books: tax returns, invoices, VAT, expenses, bad debts — everything. If he was ever in the habit of accepting cash instead of the usual check payments, she wasn’t aware of it; and quite certainly neither of them was sufficiently bright in business-finance to be able to exploit any tax loopholes. She knew nothing about any regular payments in cash. (“What payments?”) She’d have known if any envelopes had arrived through the post, because the mail was invariably delivered after he’d set off for work every morning. They had a joint account; and he had a separate private account, with an overdraft facility of £2,000.

Mr. J. Barron, Builder, Lewis decided, was hardly in the Gates or the Soros brackets.

Marriage? It was only here that Linda Barron was less than fluent in her answers.

“Would you say the pair of you had a ‘tight’ marriage?”

“... Perhaps not, no.”

“Was he ever unfaithful?”

“Aren’t most men?”

“Not all of them,” said Lewis quietly.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Was he?”

“... He may have been.”

“Do you think he ever had an affair with Mrs. Harrison?”

“...No.”

“Would you have known?”

She smiled bleakly. “Probably.”

“What about you, Mrs. Barron? Were you ever unfaithful?”

“... Once or twice.”

“With Harry Repp?”

“God, no! I hardly knew him.”

“Tom Biffen?”

“... Once. He called one afternoon about eighteen months ago to bring a leg of lamb Johnnie won in the raffle. And...”

“What happened?”

“Do I have to tell you, Sergeant?”

“No. No, you don’t, Mrs. Barron.”

Wedlock for the Barrons (Lewis agreed with Dixon) did not appear to have been a wholly idyllic affair.

As he left, Lewis noticed on the wall in the hallway a framed photograph of a strong, fine-looking man in military uniform.

“Your husband?”

She nodded; and the rust-flecked hazel eyes were filmed with tears.