This Body of Death

Chapter Eighteen

HE DROVE ONTO THE PROPERTY ONCE AGAIN WHILE GORDON was watering the ponies. Ten minutes more and Gordon would have been off for the day, working on the roof of the Royal Oak pub. As it was, he was trapped. He stood inside the paddock with a hosepipe in his hand and Gina watching him from the fence. She’d not wanted to enter the paddock this time. The ponies seemed skittish this morning, she’d said. She’d lost her nerve for the moment.

Over the sound of the water burbling into the trough, Gordon didn’t notice the car’s engine as the vehicle rumbled onto the driveway. Gina, however, was near the edge of it, and she tentatively called his name at the same moment as the car door slamming caught his attention.

He saw the sunglasses. They caught the morning light like the wings of misplaced bats. Then he was coming towards the fence, and the movement of his lips told Gordon that whatever was to happen next, the other man was determined to enjoy it.

The man said to Gina in a tone perfectly gauged to convey an utter lack of fellow feeling, “Gorgeous day, my dear, wouldn’t you say? Bit hot again, but who’s about to complain. We get little enough good weather in this country, eh?”

Gina glanced at Gordon, a quick look shot through with questions that she wouldn’t ask. She said, “I could do with a few more cool breezes, to be honest.”

“Could you, now? Can’t get our Gordon to wave the fan over you in the afters when you’re both hot and sweaty?” He smiled, a baring of teeth that was as disingenuous as everything else about him.

“What d’you want?” Gordon flung the hosepipe to one side. The water continued to burble from it. The ponies, surprised by his sudden movement, trotted away across the paddock. Gordon thought that Gina might enter the enclosure at that point-with the ponies safely away-but she did not do so. She remained by the fence, her hands fixed atop one of the newer posts. Not for the first time, he cursed that upright piece of wood and all of its brothers. He should have let the whole damn thing rot to hell, he thought.

“That’s not very friendly,” was the reply to his question. “What I want is a bit of conversation. We can have it here or we can go for a drive.”

“I’ve work to do.”

“Won’t take long, this.” He made a minute adjustment to his trousers: a hitch, a shift, and the bollocks put into a more comfortable position. It was the sort of movement that had a hundred different interpretations, depending upon circumstances and the bloke making it. Gordon looked away. The other said, “What’s it to be, my love?”

“I’ve a job to get to.”

“That I do know. So…a drive?” And to Gina, “I won’t take him far. He’ll be back before you know how to miss him.”

Gina cast a look from Gordon to the other man and back to Gordon. He could see she was frightened, and he felt a surge of futile rage. This was, of course, what the other man wanted him to feel. He needed to get the bastard off the property.

He strode to the spigot and cranked the water off. He said, “Let’s go,” and then quietly to Gina as he passed her, “It’s all right. I’ll be back.”

“But why must you-”

“I’ll be back.”

He got into the car. Behind him, he heard a chuckle and, “That’s our lovely boy,” and in a moment they were reversing down the driveway and into the lane. On the lane and heading in the direction of Sway, “You’re a sweet little piece of filth, aren’t you? She wouldn’t be looking at you like you’re God’s gift to her wet hole, would she, if she knew the truth of the matter?”

Gordon said nothing although he felt a churning in his stomach. At the end of the lane, they jogged to the left and began to work their way over to Sway. At first he thought their destination was the village itself, but they passed the hotel, rumbled over the railway tracks, and headed northwest past a line of suburban cottages. They were coursing in the direction of the cemetery, with its neat rows of graves sheltered on all four sides by stands of alders, beeches, and birch. This, Gordon realised, was likely where Jemima would be buried. The ancient churchyards nearby were full, and he doubted there was a family plot somewhere, for she’d never mentioned one to him and he knew her parents had been cremated. She’d never spoken of death at all aside from telling him about her parents, and he’d been grateful for this although he had not considered that until this moment.

They went past the cemetery as well. Gordon was about to ask where the hell they were going when a left turn into a rutted track took them into a bumpy car park. And then he knew. This was Set Thorns Inclosure, an area of woodland like many others across the Perambulation, fenced off from the free-roaming New Forest animals until the timber within it grew to a size that made it impossible for it to be harmed.

Walking paths wound through this vast acreage of woods, but only one other car stood nearby and no one was in it. Thus they had the woodland virtually to themselves, just as the other man would want it.

“Come along, darling,” Gordon was told. “Let’s have a bit of a stroll, eh?”

Gordon knew there was little point in playing for time. Things would be as they would be. There were certain situations over which he had at least nominal control. But this was not one of them.

He got out into the morning air. The scent was fresh and pure. There was a gate up ahead of the car, and he went to this, opened it, went inside the inclosure where he waited for instruction. It was soon in coming. Paths went in three directions from this point: deep into the inclosure or following the woodland’s boundaries. It didn’t matter to him which path was chosen as the outcome was going to be the same.

An examination of the ground was sufficient to indicate which way they should go. Paw prints and footprints looking rather fresh led into the heart of the trees, so they would take an alternate route, this one skirting southeast along the inclosure’s boundary before dipping downward into a swale and then rising again beneath chestnuts and through thick copses of holly. In open spots, the Perambulation’s foresters had stacked wood cut from the trees or felled by storms. Here the bracken was thick and lush, encouraged into growth by filtered sunlight, but now beginning to brown at the edges. By the end of the summer and into autumn, it would form a covering of brown lace wherever the sun hit the floor of the wood most strongly.

They trudged along, Gordon waiting for whatever was to come. They saw no one although they could hear a dog barking in the distance. Other than that, the only sound came from the birds: harsh corvine calls from avian predators and the occasional short burst of song from chaffinches hidden deep within the trees. It was a place rich in wildlife, where squirrels fed on the thick windfall from the chestnut trees, and a flash of auburn in the undergrowth was a sure indication that foxes were here.

There were shadows everywhere as well, and the air was fragrant. Walking and waiting, he could almost forget, Gordon thought, that he was being trailed by someone intent upon doing him harm.

“This is far enough,” the other said. He came up behind Gordon and dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Now let me tell you a tale, my darling.”

They were inches from each other. Gordon could feel the hot, eager breath on the back of his neck. They’d come to a widening of the path at this point, more like a small clearing, and up ahead there seemed to be an intersection of some sort with a gate beyond it. In the distance the woodland ceased, and he could see a lawn spreading out. Ponies grazed there placidly and safely, at some great distance from any road.

“Now, my sweet, you’ll need to turn round and face me. There. Just like that. Nicely done, my love.”

Face-to-face, Gordon could see much more than he wanted to see-large pores, blackheads, a patch of whiskers missed in that morning’s shave-and he could smell the sweat of anticipation. He wondered what it felt like to have such supremacy over another, but he knew not to ask that of the man. Things would go worse for him if he played this badly and the point that he’d learned long ago was just to get through things so that he could go on.

“So we’ve been found out.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Oh, I think you know. You’ve had a visit from the coppers, haven’t you. They’re on your tail. What d’you make of that?”

“The cops know nothing that you don’t tell them,” Gordon said.

“Think that, do you? Hmmm. Yesssss. But they’re on to Winchester Technical, dear heart. Where d’you think they’ll go now they know that’s fiction? Someone somewhere should have sorted that one.”

“Well, no one did. And I can’t see that it matters. I didn’t need the bloody letters in the first place.”

“That’s what you think?” He took a step closer. They were chest to chest now and Gordon wanted to step away, so invaded did he feel. But he knew how that step would be interpreted. The other wanted fear to overwhelm him.

“I learned the trade. I’ve worked the trade. I’ve got a business. What more do you want?”

“Me?” His voice was all innocence and surprise. “What do I want? Darling boy, this isn’t about me.”

Gordon made no reply. He swallowed a sour flavour in his mouth. He heard a dog yelp excitedly somewhere. He heard its master call out in response.

The other man raised his hand then and Gordon felt its heat cradling the back of his neck. And then the fingers tightened just behind his ears, thumb and forefinger slowly increasing their pressure until the grip was agony. He refused to react, to blink, to groan. He swallowed again. He tasted bile.

“But we both know who wants something, don’t we? And we both know what that something is. You know what I think should be done, don’t you?”

Gordon gave no answer. The pressure increased.

“Don’t you, darling? Answer me now. You know what I think should be done, don’t you?”

“I suspect it,” Gordon said.

“A few little words from me. Five or six words. That can’t be what you want, eh?” He gave a little shake to Gordon’s head, a movement wearing the guise of fondness, except for the pain of the pressure behind his ears. Gordon’s throat ached; his head felt light.

“You’re bound,” he said.

For a moment, nothing. And then the other whispered, “I. Am. What?”

“Bound. You know it. This game of yours-”

“I’ll bloody well show you a game…” And the smile, that baring of teeth like an animal, except to think of the other man as an animal was to dishonour animals.

“Down,” he said and he spoke through his teeth. “Down you go. That’s right. On your knees.” He forced the issue with the pressure of his hand. There was nothing for it but to obey.

He was only inches from the other’s groin, and he saw the hairy fingers go deftly for the trousers’ zip. They lowered it smoothly, as if it had been oiled in anticipation of this moment and the purpose behind it. The hand slid inside.

The dog ended things. An Irish setter bounded onto the path, coming from the intersection of trails up ahead. It trotted along and gave a bark. Someone called out, “Jackson! Come boy. Come.”

Gordon found himself jerked to his feet. The setter reached him and snuffled round him.

“Jackson! Jackson! Where are you? Come!”

“He’s here,” Gordon shouted. “He’s over here.”

The other smiled, no teeth this time, but an expression that said things had been merely postponed, not canceled. He whispered, “One word from me and you know who shows up. One word from me and poof…everything’s gone. You’ll keep that in mind, won’t you?”

“You rot in hell,” Gordon said.

“Ah, but not without you, my dear. That’s the real beauty of your position.”

MEREDITH POWELL FOUND the office she was looking for without much trouble. It was in Christchurch Road near the fire station, and she walked there from Gerber & Hudson Graphic Design on her morning break.

She didn’t know what to expect from a private investigator. She’d seen depictions of private eyes on the telly, and the emphasis always seemed to be on their quirkiness. She didn’t want quirky, however. She wanted efficient. She had little enough money to spend on this venture although she knew it had to be spent.

That phone call to Gina’s mobile had convinced her, as had the fact that the mobile wasn’t in Gina’s possession in the first place. While Meredith knew that Gina could merely have forgotten to take it with her prior to setting off on that particular day, it looked as if she was, more or less, a permanent fixture on Gordon’s holding and, that being the case, why would she not have returned for her mobile phone once she realised it was missing from her belongings? It seemed to Meredith that there was only one possible answer to that question: She hadn’t returned for it because she hadn’t wanted it with her, ringing, vibrating, messaging, texting, or anything elseing while Gordon Jossie was about. All of this made Gina a suspicious character once again. All of this made Meredith turn to Daugherty Enquiries, Inc.

The Daugherty in question turned out to be an elderly woman, much to Meredith’s surprise. No rumpled trench coat was involved in her attire and no dusty office plant or pockmarked steel desk sat in her office. Rather she wore a green summer suit and sensible shoes, and her office furniture was polished to a glow. There was no plant at all, dusty or otherwise. Just prints on the walls, these of the New Forest wildlife.

She had pictures on her desk, comforting shots of children and grandchildren. She had a laptop computer opened on her desk as well and a neat stack of papers next to it, but she closed the lid of the laptop and gave her full attention to Meredith in the few minutes that they spoke.

Meredith called her Mrs. Daugherty. She said it was Ms. but that Michele would do. She pronounced it Me-shell, with the accent on me. She said, “Unusual name for someone my age, but my parents were forward thinkers.”

Meredith was unsure what this meant. She stumbled once with the placement of emphasis on the woman’s name, but she got the hang of it after a single correction, which seemed to please Michele Daugherty because she beamed and winked.

Meredith wasted no time in telling the investigator what she wanted: any information to be uncovered about one Gina Dickens. Anything at all, she said. She didn’t know what the investigator would be able to find but she was looking for as much as possible.

“The competition?” The investigator’s tone suggested this wasn’t the first time a woman had come seeking information about another woman.

“You might say that,” Meredith said. “But this is for a friend.”

“It always is.”

They spent a few moments on the fee and Meredith brought out her chequebook because on the telly there was always a retainer given. But Michele Daugherty waved this away: Meredith would pay once services were rendered.

That was that. It hadn’t taken long. Meredith walked back to Gerber & Hudson, feeling as if she’d taken an appropriate step.

She began to doubt this almost at once, however. Gina Dickens was waiting for her. She was perched on a chair in the square of space that went for reception, feet flat on the floor and shoulder bag in her lap. When Meredith entered, she rose and approached.

“I didn’t know where else to turn.” She spoke in an anxious whisper. “You’re the only person I actually know in the New Forest. They said you were gone for a bit but that I could wait.”

Meredith wondered if somehow Gina had made a few unwelcome discoveries: that she’d been in her digs above the Mad Hatter Tea Rooms, that she’d answered the ringing of the mobile phone there, that she’d removed what had been hidden beneath the basin, that she’d only just now hired a private eye to look into the whats and wherefores of Gina’s entire existence. She felt an immediate surge of guilt, but then she quelled it. Despite the look on Gina’s face, which seemed to blend importuning and fear, this was not the moment to let one’s conscience get the better of one. Besides, what was done was done. Jemima was dead and there were too many questions that needed to be answered.

Meredith looked across the room to the little alcove in which she did her work. This was meant to convey that she did not have a moment to spare, but Gina apparently wasn’t going to read anything into Meredith’s actions that she didn’t want to read just now. She said, “I found…Meredith, what I found…I don’t know what to make of it but I think I know and I don’t want to know and I need to talk to someone…,” and the mention of finding something hooked Meredith at once.

“What is it?”

Gina winced, as if Meredith had spoken too loudly. She glanced round the office and said, “C’n we talk outside?”

“I’m just off my break. I’ve got to-”

“Please. Five minutes. Less, even. I…I phoned Robbie Hastings to find out where you were. He didn’t want to tell me. I don’t know what he thought. But I told him you and I had spoken and that I needed another woman and as I’ve no friends yet…Oh it’s stupid ever to tie oneself to a man. I knew it and I did it anyway with Gordon because he seemed so different from other men I’ve known…” Her eyes filled but no tears spilled over. Instead, the moisture made them luminous. Meredith wondered, ridiculously, how she managed that. How did any woman manage to look attractive so close to tears? She herself got all red in the face.

Meredith gestured towards the doorway. They stepped into the corridor. It seemed that Gina meant to go down the stairs and out into Ringwood High Street, but Meredith said to her, “It’ll have to be here.” She added, “Sorry,” when Gina turned back and looked a little taken aback by the abruptness of Meredith’s declaration.

“Yes. Of course.” Gina smiled tremulously. “Thank you. I’m grateful. You see, I just didn’t…” She began to fumble with the straw bag she was carrying. She brought out a simple envelope. She lowered her voice. “The police from London have been to see us. From Scotland Yard. They came about Jemima and they asked Gordon-they asked us both-where we were the day she was killed.”

Meredith felt a piercing of pleasure. Scotland Yard! A triumphant Yes! shot through her brain.

“And?” she asked.

Gina looked round as if to see who might be listening. “Gordon had been there,” she said.

Meredith grabbed her arm. “What? In London? The day she was murdered?”

“The police came because there was a postcard they found. It had her picture on it. Meredith, he’d put them up all round London. At least round the area where he thought she was. He admitted this when the police showed it to him.”

“A postcard? With her picture? What in God’s name…?”

Gina stumbled through an explanation that Meredith scarcely followed: the National Portrait Gallery, a photograph, a competition of some sort, an advertisement, whatever. Gordon had seen it, had gone to London months earlier, had bought God only knew how many postcards and had put them up like wanted posters. “He put his mobile number on the back,” Gina said.

Meredith felt ice run down her arms. “Someone phoned him because of the postcard,” she whispered. “He found her, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Gina said. “He said he didn’t. He told me he was in Holland.”

“When?”

“The day. That day. You know what day. When Jemima…You know. But that’s not what he said to the police, Meredith. Instead, he told them he was working. I asked him why did he tell them that and he said Cliff would give him an alibi.”

“Why didn’t he just tell them that he was in Holland?”

“That’s what I asked him. He said he couldn’t prove it. He said he’d thrown everything away. I said they could phone the hotel he stayed in and they could phone the farmer he’d talked to but…Meredith, that wasn’t the point, really.”

“What do you mean? Why wasn’t it the point?”

“Because…” Her tongue came out and licked her lips, pink with a lipstick that matched one of the colours in the sundress she was wearing. “I already knew, you see.”

“What?” Meredith felt her head was spinning. “Had he been to London? On the day she died? Then why didn’t you tell-”

“Because he didn’t know-he doesn’t know-that I’d found him out. He’s been avoiding certain topics for ages, and whenever I’ve got close to whatever he doesn’t want to talk about, he just avoids. Twice, even, he’s gone a bit wild, and last time he did that, he…he frightened me. And now I’m thinking, what if he’s the one? What if he…? I can’t stand to think he might be but…I’m afraid, and I don’t know what to do.” She shoved the envelope into Meredith’s hands. She said, “Look.”

Meredith slid her finger beneath the flap, which didn’t seal the envelope but merely folded inward to contain the contents. There were just three items: two rail tickets to and from London and a hotel receipt for one night’s stay. The hotel bill had been paid by credit card and Meredith reckoned the date of stay was the same as Jemima’s death.

Gina said, “I’d found these already. I was taking out the rubbish-this was the day after his return-and they were tucked into the bottom. I wouldn’t have seen them at all had I not dropped an earring into the wastepaper basket. I reached in to find it and I saw the colour of the ticket and I knew what it was, of course. And when I saw it, I reckoned he’d gone up there because of Jemima. I thought at first that it wasn’t over between them, like he’d told me, or if it was, they had unfinished business of some sort. And I wanted to talk to him about it at once, but I didn’t. I was…You know how it is when you’re afraid to hear the truth?”

“What truth? God, did you know he’d done something to her?”

“No, no! I didn’t know she was dead! I mean I thought it wasn’t over between them. I thought he still loved her and if I confronted him, that’s what he’d have to say. Then it would be over between us and she’d return and I hated the thought of her returning.”

Meredith narrowed her eyes. She could see the trick, if trick it was: For perhaps Jemima and Gordon had mended their fences. Perhaps Jemima had intended to return. And if that was the case, what was to prevent Gina herself from making the trip to London, doing away with Jemima, and keeping the ticket and the hotel receipt to pin the crime on Gordon? What a nice bit of vengeance from a woman scorned.

Yet something wasn’t right in all this. But the various possibilities made Meredith’s head pound.

Gina said, “I’ve been afraid. Something’s very wrong, Meredith.”

Meredith handed the envelope back to her. “Well, you’ve got to turn this over to the police.”

“But then they’ll come to see him again. He’ll know I was the one to turn him in and if he did hurt Jemima-”

“Jemima’s dead. She’s not hurt. She’s murdered. And whoever killed her needs to be found.”

“Yes. Of course. But if it’s Gordon…It can’t be Gordon. I refuse to think…There has to be an explanation somewhere.”

“Well, you’ll have to ask him, won’t you?”

“No! I’m not safe if he…Meredith, don’t you see? Please. If you don’t help me…I can’t do it on my own.”

“You must.”

“Won’t you…?”

“No. You’ve got the story. You know the lies. There’d be only one outcome if I went to the police.”

Gina was silent. Her lips quivered. When her shoulders dropped, Meredith saw that Gina had worked things out for herself. Should Meredith take the rail tickets and the hotel receipt to the local police or to the Scotland Yard cops, she would only be repeating what someone else had told her. That someone else was exactly the person the police would seek next, and Gordon Jossie would likely be right there when the detectives arrived to put questions to Gina.

Gina’s tears fell then, but she brushed them away. She said, “Will you come with me? I’ll go to the police, but I can’t face it alone. It’s such a betrayal and it might mean nothing and if it means nothing, don’t you see what I’m doing?”

“It doesn’t mean nothing,” Meredith said. “We both know that.”

Gina dropped her gaze. “Yes. All right. But what if I get to the station and lose my courage when it comes to going inside and talking and…What will I do when they come for Gordon? Because they will come, won’t they? They’ll see he lied and they’ll come and he’ll know. Oh God. Oh God. How did I do this to myself?”

The door to Gerber & Hudson opened, and out popped Randall Hudson’s head. He didn’t look pleased and he made the reason clear when he said, “Are you coming back to work today, Meredith?”

Meredith felt heat in her cheeks. She’d never been scolded at her work before. She said in a low voice to Gina Dickens, “All right. I’ll go with you. Be here at half past five.” And then to Hudson, “Sorry, sorry, Mr. Hudson. Just a small emergency. It’s taken care of now.”

Not quite true, the taken care of part. But that would be settled in a very few hours.

BARBARA HAVERS HAD made the phone call to Lynley earlier, out of Winston Nkata’s presence. It wasn’t so much because she hadn’t wanted Winston to know she was phoning her erstwhile partner. It was more a matter of timing. She’d wanted to get in touch with the inspector prior to his arrival at the Yard that day. This had necessitated an early morning call, which she’d made from her room in the Sway hotel.

She’d reached Lynley at the breakfast table. He’d brought her up to speed on the goings-on in London, and he’d sounded guarded on the topic of Isabelle Ardery’s performance as superintendent, which made Barbara wonder what it was that he wasn’t telling her. She recognised in his reticence that peculiar form of Lynley loyalty that she herself had long been the recipient of, and she felt a pang that she didn’t want to name.

To her question of, “If she thinks she’s got her man, why d’you think she hasn’t recalled us to London?” he said, “Things have moved quickly. I expect you’ll hear from her today.”

“What do you reckon about what’s going on?”

In the background she heard the clink of cutlery against china. She could picture Lynley in the dining room of his town house, The Times and the Guardian nearby on the table and a silver pot of coffee within reach. He was the sort of bloke who’d pour that coffee without spilling a drop, and when he stirred it within his cup, he’d manage to do so without making a sound. How did people do that? she wondered. “She’s not jumping to a wild conclusion,” he settled on saying. “Matsumoto had what looked like the weapon in his room. It’s gone to forensics. He also had one of the postcards tucked into a book. His brother doesn’t believe he harmed her, but I don’t think anyone else will go along with him on that.”

Barbara noted that he’d avoided her question. “And you, sir?” she persisted.

She heard him sigh. “Barbara, I just don’t know. Simon has the photo of that stone from her pocket, by the way. It’s curious. I want to know what it means.”

“Someone killing her to get it?”

“Again, I don’t know. But there are more questions than answers just now. That makes me uneasy.” Barbara waited for more. Finally, he said, “I can understand the desire to sew the case up quickly. But if it’s mismanaged or botched altogether because of someone rushing to judgement, that’s not going to look good.”

“For her, you mean. For Ardery.” And then she had to add because of what it meant to her and to her own future with the Yard, “You care about that, sir?”

“She seems a decent sort.”

Barbara wondered what that meant, but she didn’t ask. It wasn’t her business, she told herself, even as it felt like her business in every way.

She brought up the reason for her call: Chief Superintendent Zachary Whiting, the forged letters from Winchester Technical College II, and Whiting’s knowledge of Gordon Jossie’s apprenticeship in Itchen Abbas with Ringo Heath. She said, “We didn’t mention any apprenticeship, let alone where it was, so why would he know about it? Does he keep his fingers on the pulse of every individual in the whole bloody New Forest? Seems to me there’s something going on with Whiting and this Jossie bloke, sir, because Whiting definitely knows more than he’s willing to tell us.”

“What are you considering?”

“Something illegal. Whiting taking payoffs for whatever Jossie’s doing when he’s not off thatching old buildings. He’s working on people’s houses, Jossie is. He sees what’s inside them, and some of them will have valuables. This isn’t exactly a poverty-stricken part of the country, sir.”

“Burglaries orchestrated by Jossie and discovered by Whiting? Pocketing ill-gotten gains instead of making an arrest?”

“Or could be they’re into something together.”

“Something that Jemima Hastings discovered?”

“That’s definitely a possibility. So I’m wondering…Could you do some checking on him? Bit of snooping. Background and such. Who is this bloke Zachary Whiting? Where’d he do his police training? Where’d he come from before he ended up here?”

“I’ll see what I can sort out,” Lynley said.

WHILE ALL ROADS weren’t exactly leading to Gordon Jossie, Barbara thought, they were certainly circling the bloke. It was time to see what the rest of the team in London had come up with when checking on him-not to mention when checking on every other name she’d handed over-so after breakfast when she and Winston were making their preparations for the day, she took out her mobile to make the call.

It rang before she had a chance. The caller was Isabelle Ardery. Her remarks were brief, of the pack-up-and-come-home variety. They had a solid suspect, they had what was undoubtedly the murder weapon; they had his shoes and his clothing, which were going to test positive for Jemima’s blood; they had an established connection between them.

“And he’s a nutter,” Ardery concluded. “Schizophrenic who won’t take meds.”

“He can’t be tried, then,” Barbara said.

“Trying him’s hardly the point, Sergeant,” Ardery told her. “Getting him permanently off the street is.”

“Understood. But there’s more than one curious person down this way, guv,” Barbara told her. “I mean, just considering Jossie, f’r instance, you might want us to stay and nose round till we-”

“What I want is your return to London.”

“C’n I ask where we are with the background checks?”

“So far there’s nothing questionable on anyone,” Ardery told her. “Especially not down there. Your holiday’s over. Get back to London. Today.”

“Right.” Barbara ended the call and made a face at the phone. She knew an order when she heard an order. She wasn’t convinced, however, that the order made sense.

“So?” Winston said to her.

“That’s definitely the question of the hour.”