Faithful unto Death Page 11

  The heatwave, promised for some days by the weather forecasters, was now well on the way. The car was like an oven. All the windows were open but Barnaby could still feel the leather burning his legs. His shirt was limp and already glued to his back. Troy, in a crisp, apple-green Lacoste sports top (genuine Alligator motif, three pounds from a car boot) looked as if he had just stepped out of a fridge, not a trickle of sweat anywhere. He was moaning, as always, this time about his sex life.

  “I mean, if I’d wanted to screw a marble statue I’d’ve got a job in the British Museum.”

  Barnaby opened all the windows.

  “Eventually I said to her, don’t wake up if it’s too much trouble.”

  “And did she?”

  “Hard to tell. She don’t give much away, Maureen.”

  The Chief Inspector, pausing only to reflect that whatever his sergeant’s sword did in his hand it certainly wasn’t sleep, turned his thoughts to the Brockleys’ only child.

  Until now Brenda had hardly impinged on his consciousness. With both a dead body and a missing person on his plate, he had more than enough to be going on with. The fact that her parents had received a reassuring phone call also mitigated against any sort of concerned action. But, over forty-eight hours later, she had still not returned. And however resolutely they insisted on a complete lack of involvement in Alan and Simone Hollingsworth’s affairs, there was no denying that the Brockleys lived virtually on the couple’s doorstep. Could Brenda have seen or heard something that might have put her at risk? The more he thought along these lines, the less easy Barnaby became in his mind.

  Troy was still droning on. As they were on the point of entering Fawcett Green, Barnaby tuned back in. This time the subject under the hammer was Mrs. Milburn, Troy’s mother-in-law.

  “Lethal, that woman. She’s got a donor card saying on no account use any of this person’s organs after her death. They are bloody toxic.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “I’ve seen it. Got a skull and crossbones on.”

  Troy parked on the pub forecourt at ten minutes to eleven. Barnaby had an appointment on the hour with Dr. Jennings. Troy was detailed to chase up the address and telephone number of the mobile hairdresser, Becky Latimer. And also Sarah Lawson, the other person mentioned during Mrs. Molfrey’s earlier visit to Causton police station. The two men would meet up at Nightingales.

  Already the lane was choked with people, as was the small field which backed on to the Hollingsworths’ rear garden. An exasperated Perrot, rosy with ill temper, guilt and apprehension as to how this blatant example of his inability to keep any sort of control might persuade the force to deal with him, was trying to clear a way through for a muddy Landrover. The driver leaned pointlessly on his horn, underscoring the hysterical barking of his two golden retrievers. No sooner had the vehicle squeezed by than the passage closed up again.

  Barnaby missed most of this, needing to cut through the churchyard to find the doctor’s house. Troy decided, before going to the post office, to have a little fun at Perrot’s expense. He pushed through the crowd largely by exercising sharp elbows and brute determination.

  “I should move this lot along, Polly.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Where’s the barrier?”

  “On its way.”

  “Here.” Troy jerked his head indicating a wish for intimacy.

  Perrot, his heart in his boots and his stomach twisted into knots of anxiety, moved closer.

  “Just thought you might like to know the PM results. Died about ten minutes before me and the chief got to him. Close as that. Sad, ain’t it?”

  He strode on, leaving the ashen-faced policeman staring, in utter devastation, after him.

  In the churchyard, having world enough and time, Barnaby dawdled, read the gravestones scabbed with green and yellow lichen, admired equally a simply inscribed slab and a grand mausoleum enclosed by ornate railings. One unadorned plot had a glass jar of wild flowers jammed into the ground; another green granite chippings and an empty metal vase. Grand monument or homemade wooden cross, what did it ultimately matter? Passing show. And all for the benefit and comfort of the bereft. The lonely bones beneath couldn’t give a damn. In the elms around and about, rooks croaked and cawed their aggressive hearts out.

  The Reverend Bream appeared, closing the vestry door behind him and making his way down the path with a swish of armazine. Although walking with his hands demurely clasped across his richly curved front and his eyes cast down, Barnaby sensed something rather worldly about the vicar. His face was highly coloured and surrounded by a lot of crisply waving chestnut hair just long enough to touch his collar. He could have stepped straight out of one of those bibulous nineteenth-century paintings featuring two jolly cardinals.

  “Hullo,” said the Reverend Bream. He smiled, revealing a lot of glistening white teeth. “Are you part of our excellent constabulary?”

  “That’s right, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.”

  “To do with Nightingales, is it?” Then, when Barnaby nodded. “A sad business. Poor Alan.”

  “Did you know the Hollingsworths at all?”

  “Simone slightly. She was in my bell-ringing team. The only time I spoke to her husband was the day she disappeared. She didn’t turn up for practice so I popped round to see if things were all right.”

  “Look,” Barnaby indicated a rustic bench, “d’you think we might sit down?”

  “Well, I’m just off to Hellions Wychwood for a christening.”

  “It won’t take a moment. Or we could meet later.”

  “Oh, I expect it’ll be all right.” The vicar glanced at his watch. “I’m usually fifteen minutes early and they’re bound to be late. People always are at weddings and christenings. Never at funerals. Can’t wait to see them off and get back to the booze.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth well?” asked the Chief Inspector when they were sitting down.

  “Not really. She came to a few meetings, missed a couple, wandered half-heartedly back. Just looking for something to do, I think.”

  “You didn’t meet or talk for any reason? Apart from bell-ringing?”

  “Good heavens no.” He laughed then glanced briefly upwards as though asking post-clearance on this innocent exclamation. “Neither of the Hollingsworths were churchgoers. But then who is these days? Till it comes to needing a setting for the bridal video.”

  The Reverend Bream did not speak in acid tones. He seemed cheerfully resigned to the scale of his neglect. Perhaps, as his high complexion indicated, he found solace in the occasional cup of claret. A little wine for his stomach’s sake. Barnaby warmed to him.

  “What did you think of her?”

  “Simone? A bit dim—no, sorry. That’s unkind. A better word, I think, would be guileless. And rather gullible. One got the impression that she would believe anything you said. Sweet-natured, as far as it’s possible to judge. Tiny, just about five feet, I’d say, and very slender. Little hands and feet. Fair-haired with a lovely skin. Astonishingly pretty.”

  Another novelist. They were everywhere. Barnaby asked if the vicar remembered what time he had called at the house.

  “Around six, directly we’d finished. I knocked several times, persisting because Alan’s car was there. Eventually he opened the door looking quite dreadful.”

  “You mean ill?” The Chief Inspector recalled Perrot’s mention of a goodbye message on Hollingsworth’s answerphone. This sounded as if he had already discovered it.

  “Wildly distressed is how I’d put it. Almost incoherent. I stepped inside—uninvited but there are times when good manners must take a back seat. Asked if there was anything I could do. If Mrs. Hollingsworth was all right. He said she’d gone to look after her mother who’d had a stroke. Almost before he’d finished speaking I found myself back on the doorstep.”

  “You didn’t call again?”

  “There seemed little point when he so obviously hadn’t wanted me there
in the first place. I told Evadne and she got the village support system going—to poor effect, I’m afraid. I feel quite ashamed now. If perhaps I’d been more persistent—”

  “I doubt it would have made any difference.”

  The Reverend Bream got up, smoothing his cassock. Barnaby noticed that, in the bright sunlight, it had something of a greenish tinge.

  “I suppose you couldn’t tell me how exactly . . .” The vicar trailed off delicately.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. We’re still pursuing our inquiries.”

  The Reverend Bream went off to wet the baby’s head and Barnaby continued on his way to Dr. Jennings’ house. This turned out to be a very attractive two-storey building of golden stone with a much less attractive breeze block surgery bulging from one side.

  Mrs. Jennings showed him into a comfortable sitting room and went off to make some coffee. Barnaby employed the time waiting for her return in wandering around enjoying the books and family photographs. Happy snaps, school pictures—gold-rimmed ovals on dark brown mounts, two boys and a girl. Middle-aged people, old people. A girl of around eighteen with a roly-poly baby, both laughing fit to bust. A paterfamilias with muttonchop whiskers.

  “Quite a family, Mrs. Jennings,” he said, moving to help her as she entered the room. The tray looked very heavy.

  “I wish they’d go away,” said Avis. “Not for good, of course. Or even for long. Just sometimes.”

  “Mine’s gone,” said the Chief Inspector. “I don’t entirely recommend it.”

  “It’s different for men.” She was attacking the cake with a fearsome knife, long and curved like a Malayan kris.

  Barnaby said, “None for me, thank—”

  “I mean, you’re not so constrained by their presence.” She poured from a round-bellied pot then, pulling apart a little nest of tables, warmed to her theme. “How many times, for instance, have you been chasing a criminal along the motorway and lost him because you’ve had to go and pick somebody up from netball?”

  “Not often.” He thanked her for the table and then for the coffee. “Well, never actually.”

  “Exactly.” She placed the cake, a silver fork and a pretty starched napkin alongside. “I’m renowned for my squidgy mousseline. This one’s coffee. What d’you think?”

  Barnaby thought a morsel wouldn’t hurt. Only common courtesy after all. And he needn’t eat it all.

  A grave miscalculation. It was food for angels. He took a second loaded forkful, swallowed then smiled across at the woman who had engaged him in conversation with such ingenuous bluntness. There were people to whom it never seemed to occur that speaking from the heart could cause embarrassment and Avis Jennings, like Mrs. Molfrey, was plainly one of them. Perhaps they were a speciality of Fawcett Green, which would be excellent news from an investigative point of view.

  “So,” she took a long drink of her own coffee. “I suppose it’s about Alan.”

  “We’re also inquiring into Mrs. Hollingsworth’s disappearance.”

  “Oh?”

  “How well did you know her?”

  “Hardly at all. She came to the WI for a bit. And bell-ringing. We had the odd chat.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, this and that.”

  Barnaby curbed his impatience. It was not difficult as the divine centre filling of the cake melted on his tongue. Bitter chocolate, almonds, burnt sugar, a trace of orange flower water.

  “Did she tell you anything about her life before she was married?” He produced a notebook and pen.

  “A bit. She seemed to have drifted rather. You know, all sorts of jobs, none with any real future.”

  “For instance?”

  “Served in a flower shop, did a course in make-up, demonstrated food mixers.” Avis, rummaging in her mind for accurate recall, frowned. “Um, worked in television for a bit. Was a cashier in some sort of club. She rather skirted round that one. I wondered if it might have been a bit Soho. Sparkle and feathers and sad old men in waistcoats.”

  Presumably she meant raincoats. “In London, was this?”

  “I got that impression.” Avis rummaged a bit more but came up with nothing new. Barnaby asked if she knew of anyone else that Mrs. Hollingsworth was especially friendly with.

  Avis shook her head. “Simone wasn’t into all girls together stuff. She’s what was called years ago a man’s woman.” Air quotes were hooked round the last three words. “She might have talked to Sarah Lawson more. Was in her art class for a bit.”

  That might be useful, thought the Chief Inspector as a distant buzzer went off.

  “That’s the last patient gone,” said Mrs. Jennings. “Come along, Inspector. I’ll take you through.”

  Dr. Jennings, washing his hands, smiled cheerfully over his shoulder. The smell of soap and antiseptic filled the room. He waved at a chair placed close to the side of his vast, well-cluttered desk. His visitor sat in it.

  “I don’t like a great expanse of wood between myself and the patient,” said Dr. Jim, taking his own seat. “It creates too great a distance. Turns me into a figure of superior authority.”

  The Chief Inspector, in common, he suspected, with the majority, liked to think his GP did have a certain amount of superior authority. At least in matters medical. Jennings swung his padded leather chair round and the two men sat cosily, almost knee to knee. Barnaby adjusted his position slightly to avoid a Well Woman poster listing, in detail, all the ills to which female flesh was likely to succumb.

  “I believe both the Hollingsworths were on your list, Dr. Jennings.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Hollingsworth died of a drug overdose—”

  “Ah, that’s it then. So much for the rumours. Which, I might tell you, have been fairly wild.”

  “I understand, acting on a suggestion from Constable Perrot, that you called on him the other day.”

  “Monday lunchtime, yes. Banged on the front door for a bit but no reply. What did he take?”

  “Haloperidol. Have you ever prescribed medication containing this for either of them?”

  “As a matter of fact I have.” He drew a largish, stiff brown folder towards him saying, “I got this out in readiness, when you rang.” And pulled out a wad of notes. “Mrs. Hollingsworth—I never actually met her husband—came into surgery a couple of months ago.”

  “When exactly?”

  “March the ninth, if it matters. She was complaining of sleeplessness. Now I’m not the sort to hand out tablets on request, Inspector, because, quite often, the simple thing the patient is describing can conceal something much more complex. So I put one or two questions and, though I was not at all persistent, she got quite upset. Admitted she was lonely and unhappy. Missing “The Smoke.”

  “Then I asked if everything was all right at home. There was a very long pause and I began to think either she hadn’t heard me or was not going to reply. Then quickly, as if suddenly making up her mind, she took her jacket off. Her arms were covered in ugly bruises. She shrank away when I tried to examine her and burst into tears. I could see straightaway she regretted the impulse. She wouldn’t expand on the matter at all so rather than push and perhaps risk her not coming back if she needed to, I let it go.”

  “And did she come back, Dr. Jennings?” asked the Chief Inspector, jotting away and hoping his Biro would hold out.

  “Yes. I’d given her a month’s supply.”

  “When was that? And how much would the dosage be?”

  Dr. Jennings glanced at his notes. “Thirty tablets at half a milligram.”

  “And she returned . . . ?”

  “On the seventeenth of April. Said the tablets had helped her a lot, which I must say surprised me as she still looked really washed out. And even more unhappy. I gave her another prescription.”

  “For the same amount?”

  “Yes, but warned her I wouldn’t be giving repeats ad infinitum and that it was not in her interest that I should. So when she came ba
ck a week later—”

  “A week?”

  “With some story about the tablets disappearing, just vanished out of the bathroom cabinet, I didn’t accept that for a minute.”

  “What did you think had happened?”

  “To be honest I was afraid she was on the verge of doing something silly and wanted another bottle to make sure she made a proper job of it.”

  “So you refused to give her another prescription?”

  “That’s right. She became very distressed. Started to cry. I must say I did wonder then, briefly, if she might be telling the truth. Working on this principle I gave her half a dozen low dosage tranquillisers just to tide her over. Also the phone number of the Samaritans. And Relate.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Marriage guidance, as used to be. I urged her to discuss her problems with someone. And explained, of course, that she could always come to the surgery and talk to me.”

  Barnaby, pausing briefly to wonder at the fact that a doctor still existed who encouraged his patients to simply come and talk to him, asked what happened next.

  “Nothing. She went away. I never saw her again.”

  “Were you surprised when she left her husband?”

  “I must admit I was. I hate to use sociological jargon, Inspector, but that girl struck me from the first as a born victim. It wasn’t just that she was small and fragile, there was something so submissive about her. She was like a child on its first day at school, you know? Standing around waiting for someone to tell her what to do.”

  “Was her general health reasonably sound?”

  “Excellent, I assume. In fact the two visits I’ve just described were the only times she came to the surgery.”

  “Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Jennings.” Barnaby got up as the doctor repacked the envelope file. “There’s just one last thing, what colour would these capsules have been?”

  “The half milligram?” He looked both interested and puzzled. “Turquoise and yellow. Why do you ask?”