Faithful unto Death Page 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “None at all.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “At the magistrates’ hearing.”

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

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

  “What about Mrs. Hollingsworth?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Stayed single, like.”

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

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

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

  “But good-looking?”

  “Oh, yes. Lovely.”

  “Were you surprised when she left?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Do you know what it was, sir?”

  “Kenton.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you know what his name was?”

  “Sorry.”

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

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

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

  “Is that when . . . ?”

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

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

  “Oh, here. I was here.”

  “Alone?”

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

  “No one called round?”

  “What, in the middle of the night?”

  “Phone calls?”

  Patterson shook his head.

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

  “No. Threw it away.�
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  “Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No. My mother’s maiden name.”

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

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

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

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

  “Any takers?”

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

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

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

  “Said it was boring.”

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

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

  “Are you in charge?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Around seven thirty Monday evening.”

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

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

  “And he drove off?”

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

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

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

  “The car door?”

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

  “It wasn’t the front door?”

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

  “Did you hear voices?”

  “No.”

  “Or the garage being closed?”

  “That, yes.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

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

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