A Place Of Safety Page 20

  Good grief, thought Sergeant Troy. What a life. He tried to imagine Talisa Leanne’s mother joining a union. Poor buggers wouldn’t know what had hit them. Maureen’d argue the hind leg off a donkey, persuade you black was white. You’d believe a man could fly and if he’d got any sense the minute he saw her coming that’s exactly what he’d do.

  Lionel marched off, leaving them standing in the hall. Although they had not been asked either to wait or to make themselves at home, Barnaby and Troy sat on two small wrought-iron seats on either side of the large copper vase. The chairs were extremely uncomfortable.

  Troy, straightaway bored, peered through the arrangement of beech leaves and tansies only to realise the chief was already in one of his ‘do not disturb’ moods.

  But Barnaby’s thoughts were by no means as tranquil as his calm exterior would suggest. He was thinking of the coming meeting with Ann Lawrence. Third time lucky, he had confidently told himself during the journey over. At their first brief meeting he had not even known that the missing girl would be relevant to the Leathers murder case. On Saturday, Mrs Lawrence had been so full of dope, no interview had been possible. Now she had had all of Sunday and Monday to recover. When he’d spoken to her yesterday she had sounded calm and not at all apprehensive. He recalled her actual words: ‘Yes, Inspector. And I want to speak to you. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.’

  He murmured the last sentence aloud and Troy quickly said, ‘Sir?’

  ‘She said, “I’m looking forward to it” - our meeting. What do you make of that?’

  ‘Got something on her mind. Wants to talk it over.’ Troy glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll miss all the fun if she don’t get her skates on. The place’ll be swarming with mothers any minute.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘I shan’t like it,’ said Troy. ‘It’s an aspect of life I could well do without.’

  ‘Be quiet.’ Barnaby was experiencing a slight feeling of sickness. The cold clutch of tension in the pit of his stomach. A moment of inexplicable and fearful recognition, like finding the lavatory chain swinging when you believed you were alone in the house. ‘Can you see anyone coming?’

  Troy got up, stretched his legs and went over to the long window by the side of the front door. In the drive, striding with brisk determination towards the Rectory, were several women. They were not the stodgy matriarchs Troy had been expecting, tweed-wrapped and bluff-complexioned. Some wore bright trousers and jackets. One wore what looked like a green Homburg, a long purple mohair jumper and Fair Isle shooting stockings. See them coming? Ray Charles could see them coming.

  Troy opened the door, stood to one side and let them swarm in. They didn’t hang about. Just legged it for the interior where they could be heard talking loudly to Lionel. Amidst this distant uproar was the clatter of china and teaspoons.

  ‘Get hold of Lawrence, Sergeant.’

  Troy tried. Lionel was in the kitchen pretending to help and having his half-hearted, clumsy efforts laughed at with kindly indulgence. When it was understood that Ann was not present, the lady in the hat offered to make him some bacon and eggs. People were swarming all over the place. Someone said, ‘Ah, there you are’ to Sergeant Troy and asked if he would take a tray loaded with cups into the sitting room.

  ‘Mr Lawrence? Would you—’ Troy dodged back to let a sliced cherry cake past. ‘The chief inspector would like a word.’

  ‘What?’ shouted Lionel, taking the cling film off a plate of cucumber sandwiches and cramming two in his mouth.

  ‘In the hall, sir, if you would.’ Troy eased his way round the deal table and cupped his hand, gently but firmly, round Lionel’s nearest elbow. Wrong.

  ‘Have you ever come across the phrase “civil liberties”, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lawrence.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want a summons for assault, I suggest you take your hand away.’

  Troy removed his hand. ‘And perhaps you are aware, sir, that refusing to assist the police in a murder inquiry is a punishable offence.’

  ‘There’s no question of that.’ Lionel, though still munching, moved briskly towards the exit. ‘Simply that every man is entitled to defend himself.’

  They got into the hall just in time to bump into the chief striding out to find them.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. It’s a bit hectic—’

  ‘In here.’ Barnaby turned into the first doorway to present itself. A small octagonal room with a few hard-back chairs, some piles of sheet music and hi-fi equipment and an old Bechstein grand. Troy drifted over to the piano, produced his notebook, just in case, and rested it on the rich, mottled walnut lid.

  Nearby was a silver-framed photograph of a fierce old man in a dog collar. Though almost bald, grey hair sprouted profusely from his ears and nose and he sported a fine pair of Dundrearys. He glared at the camera. His dog, a piggy-eyed bull terrier, rolled back its leathery lip presumably to free the teeth for a good nip. They looked made for each other.

  ‘So, Mr Lawrence. When did you last see your wife?’

  ‘What on earth—’

  ‘Answer the question, man!’

  ‘Mid-morning.’ Lionel gulped the words in some alarm. ‘Around eleven.’

  ‘Did she say what her plans were for later?’

  ‘Drive into Causton. I suppose she was going shopping. She didn’t say.’

  ‘Did you have an argument?’

  ‘How did—You have my assurance that our . . . discussion yesterday has nothing to do with your present inquiry.’

  ‘Point is, sir,’ said Sergeant Troy, who had started scribbling, ‘it might help us to know what her frame of mind was.’

  ‘Why?’ Lionel appeared mystified. ‘How, help?’

  ‘I understood from you that Mrs Lawrence has never missed a Mothers’ Union meeting.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  Lionel now appeared not only mystified but slightly alarmed. And Barnaby, realising that he had raised his voice, checked himself. Another decibel or two and he would have been shouting.

  Lionel’s honest bewilderment pulled him back. He saw how his behaviour must appear. For the truth was he had no logical reason for feeling some harm had come to Ann Lawrence. She could have run into a friend, be choosing books at the library, trying on clothes . . . No logical reason. Just the icicle slowly stirring his guts.

  He tried to speak more calmly. ‘Could you tell us what time she left?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I was in my study. We didn’t lunch together today.’

  Blimey, must have been quite a corker, that discussion, thought Sergeant Troy. He put a question of his own, knowing the answer but hoping to stir things to good effect.

  ‘Would Mrs Lawrence have driven to town, sir? Or might your Mr Jackson have taken her?’

  ‘No.’ Sadly, Lawrence didn’t rise. ‘She liked to drive herself. Although . . .’ Suddenly he could not be helpful enough. It was painfully clear that he wanted to get rid of them. ‘Jax might be able to tell you what time she left. I believe he was working on the Humber just before lunch.’

  ‘They talk to you?’ asked Jax. ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes. That is, they came round.’ Valentine was sitting on the edge of the divan. Now that the wrestling and fighting and subduing was over and blood had returned to his crushed limbs and strained muscles, all was pain and confusion. But the happiness, the dark shining, was in there somewhere.

  ‘About Charlie?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What sort of thing they want to know?’

  ‘It was Louise who saw them. I sloped off.’

  ‘They’ll catch up with you.’

  ‘We hardly knew the man.’

  ‘Makes no difference.’ Jax sauntered across the room and flung himself into the orange fireside chair. He spread his legs and leaned back, grinning. ‘Suppose I’d better put some cl
othes on.’

  ‘No,’ cried Val quickly. ‘Don’t, please.’

  ‘Ready for some more, then?’

  ‘It’s not that. I just like looking at you.’ He eased himself off the divan, reached down, wincing, to pick up his boxer shorts.

  ‘I know that shop.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Sulka. In the West End, right?’

  ‘Yes. Bond Street.’

  ‘I met this bloke got his dressing gowns there.’

  ‘Really?’ Valentine felt a quite different sort of pain at the thought of the unknown man. ‘If you want I’ll take you. On your next day off.’

  ‘No, thanks. They’re crap. I like something with a bit of style. Like that jacket you got me.’

  ‘Jax . . .’ He hesitated, searching for the right words, desperate not to offend. ‘What are the conditions under which you have to stay here? I mean, is it for a specific time like, um . . .’

  ‘Community service?’ The phrase was invested with scornful disgust.

  ‘I just hate the thought of turning up one day to find you’ve gone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t leave you, Val boy.’

  ‘Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.’ Val waited but the longed-for assurance was not forthcoming. And what would it have been worth if it had? ‘The thing is, my sister—’

  ‘She don’t like me.’

  ‘Louise is moving out. She’ll be starting work again soon and wants to be nearer town. So, if you need somewhere to stay . . .’

  ‘Might be useful.’

  ‘I’d love to have you.’ Climbing into his khaki chinos, Valentine tried to sound casual even as his mind flooded with images of compelling happiness. He would cook marvellous food for himself and Jax. Play Mozart for him. And Palestrina. Read to him - Austen or Balzac. At night they would lie in each other’s arms, yellow stars shining through the glass roof, dazzling their eyes.

  Jax said, ‘In an emergency.’

  ‘Of course.’ Valentine buttoned his shirt with stiff, clumsy fingers. ‘That’s what I meant.’ He tried to keep his eyes off Jax who was running the tip of his index finger along soft, tan-gold skin on the inside of his thighs, crinkling it gently, first one way then the other. Up and down, up and down.

  ‘It was lovely to hear from you.’ Val was pleased and surprised that his voice came out so smooth. He was expecting a croak. ‘Out of the blue like that.’

  ‘I crave it sometimes, Val. Special times. And at those times I just gotta have it - know what I mean?’

  ‘Christ, yes.’

  ‘Today was, like, one of those days.’

  ‘And is it something special that sets you off?’

  ‘It is. Always the same thing.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to . . . If I knew what it was, maybe—’

  ‘One day, Val boy.’ Jax got up then, crossed to the window and stared out. Then suddenly started to laugh.

  ‘Look.’ Sergeant Troy jerked his head across the drive as Barnaby closed the Old Rectory door.

  ‘A garage, yes. I have seen one before.’

  ‘No, upstairs.’

  Barnaby lifted his head. Terry Jackson was standing at the window of his flat. Either he was completely nude or wearing the lowest pair of hipsters since Randolph Scott hung up his spurs.

  ‘Pity,’ said Troy. ‘Another couple of inches and we could have got him for indecent exposure.’

  ‘Sniggering bastard,’ said Barnaby and it was true the chauffeur was laughing at them. The chief inspector slowed his footsteps to a dawdle to give the man time to get his clobber on. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to open the door bollock naked.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘We’re having toad in the hole tonight.’

  Jax opened the window above their heads and called down, ‘It’s not locked.’

  For the third time Barnaby made his way up the smartly carpeted stairs. He recalled his first visit which had ended in a sickening display of cringing and weeping by Jackson once his protector arrived. And the second, three days ago, when the chauffeur had been questioned about Carlotta Ryan and had nearly jumped out of his skin the moment Barnaby released the word ‘blackmail’ into the conversation.

  So, what were they in for this time? Barnaby, passionate proselytiser on the necessity to keep an open mind all his professional life, had never found it as hard as he did now. In fact, if he was honest, in the case of Terry Jackson he had given up trying. He believed on next to no evidence that this man had killed Charlie Leathers and was involved, up to the hilt, in the disappearance of Carlotta Ryan.

  He opened the door to the main flat without knocking and walked in. Jackson was once more leaning against the window, this time facing into the room. He seemed quietly pleased with himself. Glossy and replete like some smartly groomed, newly gorged animal. He wore a French matelot jersey and skin-tight white 501s. His feet were bare and damp hair was plastered to his head in minute, springy curls. Dyed and permed, thought Barnaby, remembering the dark, greasy hanks on Jackson’s earlier mug shot. It gave him a moment of brief, petty satisfaction. Then Jackson smiled at him, a smile like a Tyson upper cut, and the satisfaction faltered and died.

  ‘You’re after me, Inspector,’ said Jackson. ‘I know you are. Admit it.’

  ‘No problem admitting that, Terry.’ Because there was a third party in the room, Barnaby made the statement semi-jocular. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Fainlight.’

  Valentine Fainlight mumbled something in Barnaby’s direction. He looked embarrassed, defiant and also mildly exasperated. No need to ask what they had interrupted. The whole place reeked of sex.

  ‘Well, Jax, I’ll be—’

  ‘Don’t go, sir,’ said Barnaby. ‘We still haven’t managed to talk to you about Carlotta Ryan’s disappearance. One of our officers called again on Saturday, I believe.’

  ‘I was in London all day.’

  ‘Well, now you’re here,’ said Sergeant Troy. He sat in the orange armchair and got out his notebook. There was no way he could produce a civil greeting, let alone a smile. If there was one species of human being he despised it was arse bandits.

  ‘Two birds, y’see, Val,’ said Terry Jackson.

  ‘I really don’t understand why you’re asking me. I barely exchanged half a dozen words with the girl.’

  ‘We’re asking everyone, sir,’ said Troy. ‘It’s called a house-to-house.’

  ‘The night she disappeared,’ continued Barnaby, ‘was two nights before Charlie Leathers was killed. She ran away from the Old Rectory and we now believe that she fell or, more likely, was pushed into the river.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Valentine stared across the room in amazement. ‘Did you know about this, Jax?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Jackson winked at Barnaby. ‘They keep me well informed.’

  ‘So we wondered,’ said Sergeant Troy, ‘if you saw or heard anything latish that evening that might help us.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Sunday, August the sixteenth.’

  ‘We were both at home but I honestly - oh, hang on. That was the night we saw Charlie and his dog. I remember because Betty Blue was on the box. But I don’t see how that could possibly help you with Carlotta.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Jackson. ‘You gotta be crossed off their little list, see? So things are nice and tidy.’

  ‘We’ve also got some questions to ask you,’ said Sergeant Troy, turning to Jackson.

  ‘Notice I don’t get any “sir”.’

  ‘Like, do you happen to know what time Mrs Lawrence left for Causton this afternoon?’

  ‘Is something up?’

  ‘Do you or don’t you?’ snapped Barnaby.

  ‘She rang through here just after lunch - twoish. Said she wanted the car. Drove off, oohh, ten, fifteen minutes later.’

  ‘Did you notice what she was wearing?’

  Jackson shrugged, puzzled. ‘Some sort of flowered thing.’

  ‘Did she say why she was going into
town?’

  ‘We’re not on those terms.’

  Barnaby had known that and that the question was probably a waste of time. But sometimes timid people like Ann Lawrence, ill at ease with more powerful personalities, would offer unasked-for information in a futile attempt to disarm.

  ‘That it, then?’ said Jackson. ‘Hardly worth wearing out your tyres for.’

  ‘Where were you this afternoon?’

  ‘Here, gardening. Round the back mainly. Now Charlie’s gone, it’s getting a bit jungly.’

  ‘And what time did you come over, sir?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t . . .’ Valentine’s cheeks were suddenly crimson. ‘Maybe around half three.’

  ‘Nearer three o’clock,’ said Jackson. He smiled directly, brilliantly, across the room at Fainlight, shamelessly exerting his power. Then he turned back to Barnaby. ‘Anyway, what’s it to do with you?’

  Barnaby hoped it would prove to be nothing to do with him. He hoped that more than he had hoped for anything for a very long time. As Troy slipped in the ignition key, Barnaby was punching figures into his mobile.

  ‘Where to, chief?’

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ As Barnaby waited, something of his unease communicated itself to Sergeant Troy.

  ‘D’you think something’s happened to her?’

  ‘Hello? Control room? DCI Barnaby. Have you had any casualties reported today p.m.?’ Pause. ‘Yes, a woman. Mid-to late thirties. Perhaps wearing a flowered dress.’

  A much longer pause. Sergeant Troy watched Barnaby’s profile. Saw the bones suddenly become more prominent, noticed the frown lines deepen and the beetling brows draw so tightly together they were almost one thick, grey-black line.

  ‘I’m afraid it does, Andy. Could you fill me in on the background?’ He listened for a few moments then switched off. ‘Drive to Stoke Mandeville hospital.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Fast.’

  Troy put his foot well down. There was no siren but police business was police business. He asked again what had happened.

  ‘A woman was found in Causton multi-storey car park. Just before three o’clock and unconscious from a tremendous blow on the head. As she’d been robbed they had no way of identifying her.’