Faithful unto Death Page 32
He had no expectations of success. In fact, as he waited at the counter in the main office having shown his card and stated his business, he began to think what a waste of time coming here had been. Because if Sarah Lawson had disappeared on impulse, and then only because of the visit from himself and the chief, she would hardly have a room all sorted out and waiting.
Automatically Troy gave the women in the office the once-over. All middle-aged with hips like, well like a hippo’s. A motherly one smiled at him. Troy smiled back but ruefully, trying to get across that much as he appreciated the come-on, he wasn’t in the toy boy market.
The woman, who had simply felt sorry for a man who was plainly desperate for a good square meal, said something to her colleague and they both burst out laughing.
Troy did not notice. His gaze was fixed on the girl who had been sorting out his inquiry. She was returning to the counter. And she had a card in her hand.
He told himself not to get excited. It might simply be an ordinary record card. The girl would say: Is this the Miss Lawson you mean? Bay Tree Cottage, Fawcett Green? I’m afraid we only have the one address for her. And that would be the end of that.
“We did have a request for accommodation from Miss Lawson. Just over a month ago. Her cousin was coming on a visit from America. She was looking for a studio flat.”
“Did you find something?” Troy was amazed at the way the words came out. Deep and crisp and even—just like the carol. His skin might be creeping and crawling with excessive and rapid temperature changes and the back of his neck prickling like a thousand copulating porcupines, but the voice—you couldn’t fault it.
“Yes, we did. A small one-bedroomed place in Flavell Street, High Wycombe. There wasn’t a phone but she didn’t seem to mind.”
“Could I?”
“Be my guest.”
This girl, the most beautiful, Troy was beginning to realise, that he had ever seen in his entire life, handed over a Biro and a notepad. He wrote the address down. Then, unable to offer what she deserved, the moon and stars, the world, the universe and everything he simply thanked her and left.
Shortly after this a great shout was heard outside the administration department windows. Everyone rushed over. A few yards away in the car park they saw the thin, redhaired, good-looking man who had just been inquiring about accommodation.
As they watched, he shouted again, raised high two clenched fists and jumped into the air.
The flat at 13 Flavell Street was situated in a busy but decidedly scruffy area, directly over the Sunbeam Washeteria. The launderette was one of a small terrace containing four trading places. The others were a halal combined butcher and greengrocer, a branch of Joe Coral and a Homeless Settlement Charity shop.
It might be thought that someone wishing to hide another person or conceal their own whereabouts might do well to choose an isolated area many miles from what is called, for the sake of a better word, civilisation. Barnaby did not go along with this. Like the man who suggested that the best place to hide a book is in a library, he believed the best place to hide a human being was in a crowd.
There was nowhere to park and, rather than draw attention to their presence by stopping on a double yellow line, Troy drove around until he found a large empty space reserved for the clients of Fenn Barker, Sols, Commisioner for Oaths, and pulled in there.
Today the weather had broken. The two men made their way back to Flavell Street under a sky thundering with darkness; clouds clashed and rumbled over their heads. They were passing a hairdressing and massage parlour, the Cut and Come Again Salon, when the first drops of rain fell. These were so heavy that little puffs of dust bounced up where they hit the paving slabs.
The only access to the flat above the launderette was up a dirty iron staircase. Troy kicked aside some orange boxes, old cabbage stalks and rotting fruit and started to climb. He knocked sharply on the door of number thirteen then brought his face close to the single window and tried to peer through. But the yellowish-grey net curtains, rigid with age and grime, were impenetrable. While waiting for a response, he passed the time reflecting, with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful, on his recent triumph.
While driving to the station Troy had naturally anticipated over and over again the moment when he would hand over his slip of paper bearing the information, obtained entirely on his own initiative (he had already forgotten all about Miranda), that would reshape the whole landscape of the case.
First he pictured keeping quiet for a while then lobbing the information casually into the pool at the nine o’clock briefing. Then he thought he might write it up on the board and see how long before somebody noticed. Or should he casually put a note on the chief’s desk? This might be of some use, sir.
In the end, of course, he did none of these things. Just walked extremely briskly from the parking lot to CID reception; gathered speed during lap two along the main corridor and erupted into the incident room shouting, “Hey! Hey! Guess what?”
Joe Cool he would never be. But for a man whose soul yearned above all else for praise and admiration, the response to the news he carried left a glow that was with him still.
Now, as he rapped hard on the shabby door for a second time, Barnaby wandered along the balcony, peering in through the windows of the other three flatlets. Only the furthest from number thirteen seemed to be in use as a normal domestic habitat. The one over the bookie’s was crammed with packs of stationery, catering-size drums of instant tea and coffee and towers of polystyrene cups wrapped in polythene. The third was completely empty.
Troy crouched down, lifted the scarred aluminium flap of the letter box and peered in. No sign of human life. “No one here, chief.”
Troy was disappointed. He had plotted quite a different scenario. Sarah Lawson would appear, then, distraught with amazement and alarm at being discovered, try to make a run for it. Alternatively she’d attempt to shut the door in their faces. In either case Sergeant Troy would have no problem bringing her to heel.
“Not to worry.” Barnaby was resting his elbows on the waist-high brick wall and enjoying the sensation of rain upon his face. “She’ll be back.” He had not waited that morning to organise a search warrant. Apprehending the woman was what mattered. This place and Bay Tree Cottage could be gone over tomorrow, the next day, any time. “There’s a kebab house across the way. Let’s get some coffee. We can keep an eye on the flat from there.”
But as things turned out, their drinks were left untasted for they had barely sat down when they saw their quarry making her way aimlessly along the pavement on the far side of the road.
Barnaby said, “Get the car.”
The interview room in the basement of the CID building was windowless but brightly lit by two long fluorescent strips. The walls were white perforated plasterboard, the chairs had tweedy seats and padded arms and the table was pale grey. Functional but hardly sinister. Nothing there, you might say, apart from the location of course, to inspire discomfort let alone despair.
But Sarah Lawson, from the moment she had been brought in, exhibited symptoms of the deepest unease. Barnaby could see it was the room that was at fault rather than her situation for, until she entered it, her demeanour had been quite different.
When he had blocked her way outside Joe Coral’s, repeating her name and saying he wanted to talk to her, she had stared hard at him as if he was some mysterious stranger. Eventually she said, flatly, “Oh, it’s you.”
Barnaby knew then that he had got it wrong. Realised that, whatever the reason she had left Bay Tree Cottage in such a hurry, her departure had not been prompted by a visit from the police. This threw him somewhat and he had still not quite recovered his balance.
Not that Sarah Lawson had been happy to accompany them to the station. She had asked if it would take long and why they could not just talk where they were now. As she climbed reluctantly into the car, she was still staring up and down the street and continued to gaze out of first one window th
en the other until they were well away from the centre of the town.
As she was plainly looking out for someone, Barnaby said they would be happy to wait if she wanted to leave a note at the flat. He did not add that they would insist on knowing the contents of any such communication. But the offer was declined.
Sarah had politely accepted the tea which had been brought to the interview room but left it untasted. The questioning had been going on for half an hour. She slumped, blank-faced, in her chair, showing a lack of interest in the whole proceedings so deep and total that Troy thought they might as well be tossing the questions down the well in Bay Tree’s back garden.
Her appearance, mildly unkempt when they had last seen her, had deteriorated to a marked degree. She wore the same saxe blue dress which was now none too clean and still damp from when they had all stood together in the rain. She was thinner. Her dull hair had become matted and was lying over her shoulders in heavy hanks. The skin on her face seemed looser and more coarse and, although there was a small but efficient fan on the table, her forehead was beaded with sweat. She plucked at the neck of her dress with thin fingers, pulling it away from her throat as if it was constricting her breathing. She spoke then for only the third time since they had entered the room.
“Can we talk somewhere else, please? I can’t . . . this place . . . it’s choking me.”
“I’m afraid there’s nowhere else available at the moment.”
This was not true. And Barnaby, having finally discovered a weak spot in a previously mute suspect, now prepared to exploit this for all it was worth.
“Once the formality of our interview is concluded, Miss Lawson, we can go and talk in my office.” He added, “It’s on the fifth floor.”
She said nothing but her eyes, her whole face lightened.
The Chief Inspector wondered if she was seriously claustrophobic. If so, he would have to play this very carefully. A clever brief could get great mileage out of an interview conducted under that sort of psychological stress.
“As I said earlier, Miss Lawson, you are allowed to have a solicitor present if—”
“I don’t know any.”
“A duty solicitor is provided by the courts.”
“Why would I want such a thing?” Then, receiving no reply, “Can’t we just get on?”
“By all means. First I’d like to recap on our earlier interview. There seems to be some discrepancy in the matter of dates. You told us you went to see Castrato on the evening of Monday the tenth of June. In, fact, the last showing of this film was on the previous Saturday.”
“Oh. In that case it must have been then. Or earlier in the week perhaps. What does it matter?” She sounded not only as if she genuinely did not know why it should matter but that she did not care.
“Do you remember what you actually were doing?”
“Loafing around in the garden, I suppose.”
Barnaby, taking a softly, softly line, did not press the matter. Did not point out that Gray Patterson had called “around eightish” to find both Sarah and her car missing. The time for that sort of punch would come during round two. He moved on to the subject of Alan Hollingsworth’s demise, inquiring first how well she knew the man.
“You asked me that before.”
“Refresh my memory, Miss Lawson.”
“I didn’t know him at all.”
“Then I would have thought your reaction to his death rather inappropriate.”
“When you said it was suspicious I was shocked. Violence introduced suddenly into a conversation can have that effect. Perhaps I’m over-sensitive.”
That could be true. Barnaby recalled how distressed she had been at the news that Hollingsworth had physically ill-treated his wife.
“When Mrs. Hollingsworth asked you round for tea on the Thursday she disappeared, did she give any reason for choosing that particular day?”
“Not really.”
“Perhaps it was the only occasion you were available?”
“No. I’m free every afternoon except Wednesday.”
“Why do you think she asked you at the same time that she’d made a hair appointment?”
“I should think she just forgot. Simone was a bit on the dizzy side.”
“And that same evening, Miss Lawson,” continued Barnaby. “What did you do then?”
“What I always do. Read a bit, listen to music, potter in the garden.”
“So that wasn’t the night you saw the movie?” suggested Sergeant Troy.
“Oh, well, I suppose it could have been. I really . . .”
“Don’t remember?”
“Look, will this take much longer?” During the last few minutes her breathing had changed. It was now so rapid and shallow she seemed to be almost panting. Barnaby asked if she would like some water but she declined. “I’ll be all right once I’m outside.”
“I’d like to ask you next about the flat at High Wycombe,” said the Chief Inspector. “I understand you told the college you wanted it for a cousin who was coming over from the States.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And is that the truth?”
Her eyes roved constantly around the concrete cube. Searched every corner, raked the floor and ceiling. She seemed to shrink into herself as if for protection. As if the room was not inanimate but a physical threat.
“Miss Lawson? Is that the truth?”
“Why would I make something like that up?”
“Could you give me the details then, please?”
“What do you mean, details?”
“We mean,” said Sergeant Troy, “your cousin’s name, address and telephone number.”
“He . . . travels. Moves around a lot. Usually I wait for him to contact me.”
Barnaby inserted a pause into the conversation; a long one during which he made plain his disbelief. Quite honestly he was surprised at such pitiful transparency. She must surely have had time to work out something more credible than a mythical relative from America.
Troy, taking his cue from the boss, merely leaned against the wall and sighed, shaking his head. Though enjoying himself he was, like Barnaby, somewhat disappointed at the lack of invention on offer. After all, what was the point of being creative if you couldn’t make up a really good story?
“So you’ll be keeping on the flat till you hear from your cousin?”
“Yes.” For some reason this question, answered only in a whisper, brought Sarah to the brink of tears.
Barnaby waited, not for her to recover but because he was unsure just how and where to press on this plainly weak point. The fact that it had been revealed only by a lie didn’t help. In the end he said, “You were looking for someone when we met earlier today.”
“No.”
“Waiting then?”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Very well.” There was no point in wasting time trying to prove the unprovable. “Let’s talk about your accident now, shall we, Miss Lawson?”
“What acc—” She stopped herself just too late.
“Quite,” said Barnaby, and waited.
“I needed a break from teaching. To be honest I was simply tired but I didn’t think the college would rate that very highly as an excuse.”
“Is your health poor then?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“No, why?”
“I wouldn’t have said three hours teaching once a week was especially exhausting.”
“Perhaps you’ve been going in for extramural activities?” Troy’s polite tone did not conceal the offence in the words. Nor was it meant to. “Private lessons like.”
“Look.” She had turned her attention now to the table top, brushing a little ridge of dust backwards and forwards with the index finger of her left hand. “You said . . . you . . .”
Barnaby leaned forward, experiencing some concern. She was opening and closing her mouth quickly, like a fish gasping for breath. He was about to offer her some water again when she began repeating herself.
“After the interview.”
“I can’t breathe in here.”
“Sergeant. Open the door.”
Reluctantly Troy did so. He didn’t hold with pandering to the whims of the incarcerated. They had enough of their-own way as it was what with the entire Social Services and half the legal profession on their side.
“You don’t understand, it’s not lack of air.” Troy closed the door. “But there’s no daylight.”
“Just one or two more questions.”
“I’m sorry. I have to get out!”
“We won’t be long.”
“I need to go to the lavatory.”
“Right.” Though this had plainly been a spur-of-the-moment improvisation, Barnaby could not refuse. “Find someone, would you, Gavin?” He timed the tape and switched off.
When the policewoman arrived, the Chief Inspector beckoned her over and said, “It might be an idea to take another officer with you.”
“You don’t think Lawson’s going to do a runner surely?” asked Sergeant Troy when the women had left.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
Though the toilets were only a short distance away, it was ten minutes before voices were heard in the corridor, arguing and persuading. Eventually Sarah Lawson was half coaxed and half dragged back inside the interview room.
“Sorry we’ve been so long, sir. It was all a bit troublesome.”
“I’m trying to be patient, Miss Lawson,” said Barnaby when Sarah was once more sitting down. “But you’re making things very difficult.”
“I’m sor—”
“The more you cooperate with us, the sooner all this will be over and done with. Which is what we both want, right?”
Sarah nodded. The break, far from doing her good, seemed to have made matters worse. She was shaking in every limb and her lips trembled.
“I’ll ask you now about your relationship with Gray Patterson. Are you friends or lovers?”
“Friends.”
“Close friends?”
“Not at all. The relationship is very casual.”