A Ghost in the Machine Page 38

  “Only just.”

  “I should have remembered my stars.” Troy, always prepared to assign to fate what he refused to concede to self-awareness, developed his theme. “Maureen read them over breakfast. ‘Any desire for intimacy is way off scale this week.’”

  “Maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part?”

  “No.” Troy, missing the point, bowed to the inevitable. “Apparently Orion’s on the cusp.”

  “You’ll be on the cusp any minute now if you don’t stop kicking that bloody box about.”

  Barnaby was halfway through an excellent steak pie and buttered carrots in the canteen when the desk let him know that Mrs. Crudge had arrived.

  “Off you go, Sergeant.”

  “Sir?”

  “Look after her, see her through the system, take her to my office. Sort some tea. The usual stuff.”

  Troy watched the chief chomping away, then looked down at his own plate. At the fine piece of succulent haddock, potato croquettes and mushy peas. Not much point in asking them to put it in the oven. Once he’d left the table that was it. No wonder he was so thin. He thought, I’m fading away. They’ll be sorry when I’m gone.

  Barnaby finished his meal. For a shameful moment he toyed with the idea of eating Troy’s fish. Excusing such a gluttonous impulse by wondering what might be waiting for him that night at Arbury Crescent and fantasising going to bed hungry, something he had never done in his life. He hurried away before greed could get the better of him.

  “Look at this mess.” Mrs. Crudge waggled stained fingers in the air. “That stuff they give you to wipe it off wouldn’t clean a mouse’s bottom.”

  “Sorry about that. Thank you for coming—”

  “What d’you want my fingerprints for anyway?”

  “Elimination,” explained Barnaby. “How did the—”

  “Nobody believes this. You should have heard them in the post office. Murder – in Forbes Abbot!”

  People were always saying such things to the chief inspector. And with exactly that mingling of shock and indignation. It was as if their special patch had been granted divine exemption from such nastiness and the Almighty had done a runner on the deal.

  Sergeant Troy opened the interview by asking if he could take one or two details from Mrs. Crudge, starting with her Christian name.

  “I gave all that to them what come to the house. I’m not going through it again.”

  “Not to worry,” said Barnaby. “First, could you tell me how long you’ve been employed by Mr. Brinkley?”

  “Since he moved to the village, so that’s over twenty years. But the office job, nearer five. After their last cleaner retired.”

  “He was easy to work for?”

  “A lovely man. Straight as a die. And courtesy itself. Mind you, he was very particular.”

  “In what way?”

  “Things had to be just so. Take ornaments – I had to put them back precisely in their place. A fraction of an inch out and he’d know. And any bit of a ruck in a cushion or curtain he’d be there, smoothing it out.”

  “Goodness, that is particular.”

  “Like he was driven to it,” said Mrs. Crudge.

  “What about the room with the machines?” asked Sergeant Troy. “Did you clean in there?”

  “Just the floor. He wouldn’t let me touch anything else. I wouldn’t want to neither – horrible things.”

  “The day he died—” began Barnaby.

  “I never went in. My days are Wednesday and Friday.”

  “And the previous Friday when you did the floor, did everything look as usual?”

  “I couldn’t swear to that. I just mop it over and scarper.”

  “Would you have noticed,” asked Sergeant Troy, “if there were drag marks on the floor, made perhaps by moving the apparatus about?”

  “Oh, I’d’ve noticed that all right.”

  Barnaby wondered if the murderer knew the cleaner would not be coming in on the day the machine was tampered with. If Dennis was as private a person as had been suggested, the murderer might well have been ignorant of her very existence. Unless he lived in the village. Like Lawson.

  “I presume you have house keys?” Mrs. Crudge nodded. “Do you know if anyone else does?”

  “Nobody. Mr. Brinkley was most security-conscious.”

  The DCI couldn’t let that pass. “We saw several keys hanging on a board in the garage.”

  “They’d be for the garden shed and such,” said Mrs. Crudge. “Anyway, it wasn’t burglars so much he was worried about as the threat of damage to his precious machines.”

  Barnaby tried for the hundredth time to put himself into the shoes of Dennis Brinkley. And failed again. “What about visitors? Did anyone come on a regular basis?”

  “How would I know? When I was at Kinders he was at the office.”

  “What about phone calls? Did you ever take messages?”

  “No. Mr. Brinkley always said to ignore the telephone.”

  “Did you have keys to the office as well?”

  “That’s right. I do Saturday mornings, when the place is empty.”

  “And now,” Barnaby smiled, “I believe you’re a shareholder?”

  “Me and Ernest are already shareholders,” bridled Mrs. Crudge. “We’re with BT. And British Water.”

  At this point there was a knock at the door and a uniformed policewoman came in with a tray. Three plastic beakers of tea, some sugar and a plastic spoon.

  “Pushing the boat out then?” suggested Mrs. Crudge. Brought up never to drink tea with a hat on, she removed her black felt, placed it on the floor beside her chair and stirred in three sugars. “Saw you coming out of Appleby House yesterday. How d’you get on?”

  “You know the Lawsons?” asked Sergeant Troy.

  “Worked for the old lady since I were fifteen,” said Mrs. Crudge. “I’m still there – for now, at any rate. Remember Mallory growing up. When Benny first came.”

  “You must know her well, Miss Frayle.”

  “I’m very fond of Ben. ’Course, it was all down to me that she got that message from Mr. Brinkley in the first place.”

  “The message…?”

  “From the world of spirit. I was the one who persuaded her to go.”

  “To the Church of the Near at Hand?”

  “I’m a senior member. There’s not much going on there I don’t know about.”

  “Really?” Barnaby put his tea aside, folded his arms and rested his elbows on the edge of his desk. He looked sympathetic, concerned and very, very interested. “So, tell us all about it, Mrs. Crudge.”

  Andrew Latham rested in a vast rose-patterned hammock under a fringed awning to protect against the sun. Lying back on the puffy, goosedown cushions, he pulled on a silky cord, let it slip through his fingers, pulled on it again gently tilting the hammock to and fro. Within easy reach was a low table with a jug of sparkling water, a dish of sliced lemons and a bottle of blue label Stolichnaya. There was also a clock with a plain face and large numerals. The clock was the most important item. It told Andrew how much time he had left before he had to depart, leaving not a trace of his presence.

  Today the trouble and strife was at the Malmaison Beauty Salon, being massaged and steamed and waxed and primped by Shoshona, her personal beautician. Andrew thought a more accurate description for the plucky woman who got to grips with Gilda’s constantly shifting outline should be uglician. An uglician at the troll parlour.

  These insights so entertained him he laughed aloud, spilling his drink, not just on his trousers but all over the cushion. It was quite a big mark. Thank God vodka was colourless and didn’t smell. He was just turning the cushion over and thinking it was about time he made tracks when a car turned into the drive.

  Although the car was an ordinary saloon and the two men getting out wore plain business suits Andrew knew immediately who they were. He had had near misses with them often enough. What was it about the police? A sort of wary confidence.
As if whatever right you had to be where you were they claimed the same right just by waving their bloody warrant cards. They were doing it now.

  “Mr. Latham?”

  “Yes. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re investigating the deaths of Dennis Brinkley and Ava Garret. You weren’t at the office when we called this morning so…”

  “Here you are, this afternoon.”

  “Exactly.” The young one pulled out a chair and sat at a round table under a large umbrella. “OK if we…?”

  “Actually I was just—”

  “This won’t take long, I’m sure, sir.”

  Then the big one sat down too. Bugger, thought Andrew, and looked at the clock again.

  “I was given some idea as to your background with the company.” Barnaby repeated what he had heard from Leo Fortune, leaving out the insults. “Is that correct?”

  “Roughly.”

  “And how did you get on with Mr. Brinkley?”

  Latham shrugged. “He did his job – I did mine. We didn’t mingle.”

  “Do you remember what you were doing the day he died?”

  “Working, I suppose.”

  “We were told—”

  “Not necessarily at my desk. I’m in and out a lot. Occasionally I visit clients in their homes.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing this afternoon, sir?” Sergeant Troy’s expression was innocent, his voice politely puzzled, his gaze extremely respectful. You felt, given the chance, he might curtsy.

  “Is that relevant to your enquiries?” As he spoke Andrew gathered up the drinks bottle, jug and clock. Said, “I have to change these trousers,” then disappeared into the house to empty the water and hide the vodka in his underwear drawer.

  “That man was actually sweating.”

  “It’s very hot,” said Sergeant Troy.

  “He wasn’t sweating when we arrived.”

  Within minutes Latham was back. He now had on a smart jacket, a tie, different trousers and was munching a mouthful of something green. Barnaby guessed parsley.

  “I have to throw you out now, I’m afraid.”

  “Just a few more questions, Mr. Latham.”

  “I really can’t—”

  “Regarding Ava Garret.”

  “Who?”

  “The medium who was killed just under a week ago. Connected to the Brinkley case?”

  “It was all over the papers,” said Troy. “And on the telly.”

  “Yes – of course, I did hear of it. But—”

  “Did you know Mrs. Garret?”

  “No.”

  “She lived in Forbes Abbot.”

  “Well, it can hardly have escaped your attention, Chief Inspector, that I don’t live in Forbes Abbot. So I’m not likely to have met her.”

  “Have you ever been to the Church of the Near at Hand?”

  “I never go to any church. The cards I’ve been dealt, God’s lucky I haven’t razed them all to the ground.”

  At this point a large BMW drew up, dwarfing the yellow Punto. A colossal woman heaved and rolled her way out. She was draped in a great deal of grey gauzy fabric with a silvery finish. The comparison with a barrage balloon was inescapable. A loud bellow crossed the distance between them.

  “What are you doing here?”

  About to explain, DCI Barnaby realised the question was not addressed to him but to Latham, who immediately launched into some rigmarole involving a Psion organiser, a client, a cancelled appointment, a stupid assistant and a lost file. Good lies always have a spice of truth and these sounded quite convincing but even Troy could see there was at least one too many of them.

  In any case the woman now ignored him, introduced herself and asked if they had come about “poor, darling Denny.” She answered all their questions, verifying what they already knew about Brinkley’s character but adding little that was fresh. She had never met Ava Garret.

  “One’s world is hardly likely to collide, Chief Inspector. From what I read in the Echo it appears she lived in a council house.”

  Asked to confirm her husband’s presence at home on the night of Wednesday, 8 August she declined.

  “All I can say is he was here when I got back from my aromatherapy training.”

  “And that was?”

  “Tennish.”

  “And what time did you leave for this…um…training, Mrs. Latham?”

  “Around seven. I always arrive early. I need to sit quietly and recharge and direct my energies. It’s pretty high-powered stuff.”

  That was when Barnaby and Troy took their leave. Before they were in the car she had let rip. Starting at fortissimo and climbing.

  “I’ve seen things launched smaller than that,” said Sergeant Troy, driving off.

  The car paused at the great bronze gates and Barnaby regarded the happy couple in his rear-view mirror. Latham standing there, shoulders slumped, staring at the flagstones like a naughty schoolboy. Mrs. L. bawling and windmilling her great windsock arms about. A clatter of rumbustious laughter ruptured the sweet summer air. He must be getting some bloody sizeable handouts to put up with all that.

  “See that look she gave him, Chief?”

  “What sort of look?”

  “The sort Joe Pesci gives a guy that’s dropped ash on his shoe.”

  “Let’s stick to facts,” said Barnaby. “As far as timing goes we now know Latham could be our ‘Chris.’”

  “That wimp?” The gates swung open and Troy drove thankfully away.

  “He could have rung Garret around five – sensibly, from a call box. Mrs. L. leaves home at seven. He goes off to keep his appointment with Ava. Spends an hour or so dangling various promises, maybe a contract, leading her on over a nice dinner. Slips the stuff into her wine, gives some excuse as to why he can’t escort her back to Uxbridge and puts her in a cab.”

  “More likely the Tube, given his finances.”

  “Whatever. Then back to the ghastly Dallas ranch house for a bit more grovelling.”

  “It all sounds…I dunno, unbelievable.” Troy had thought the bungalow quite splendid. “Like some stupid play.”

  Inevitably, given his daughter’s profession, Barnaby had seen a lot of plays and one or two had been pretty stupid to his way of thinking, but none had been quite as unbelievable as the case with which he was presently wrestling.

  21

  Only forty-eight hours since the first briefing on the double murder inquiry and the incident room was a very different place. A babble of voices answered busy phones. Information was recorded. Questions were being put. Maps and photographs relating to both crimes were pinned around the walls, together with large detailed drawings of the interior of Kinders.

  Half an hour earlier DCI Barnaby had received and absorbed SOCO’s full report on Dennis Brinkley’s house. Gathering his team about him at the quieter end of the room he chose to open the briefing by describing the salient points.

  “Some prints found were those of his cleaner, others of Mallory Lawson. The rest, identical to those on the Lexus and all over the flat we have to assume are Brinkley’s. The prints on the trebuchet are a bit of a mess. Only his are plain, but they were made on top of some blurred smudging, which Scene of Crime say was probably left by someone wearing gloves. So far, so expected.

  “Footprints give slightly more away. We know, having talked to his cleaner, that Brinkley had some special soft tweedy slippers he always wore when going to look at his machines. They were left, side by side, at the entrance. Prints from these were pretty well all over the floor but not all of them were the same.”

  “How d’you mean, Chief?” asked Inspector Julie Lawrence.

  “A few had been made by someone with slightly bigger feet.”

  “He must have guessed what the slippers were for,” said Troy, “and taken advantage.”

  “The kitchen showed nothing, not even on the door handle. SOCO think the murderer’s shoes were left on the outside step.”

  “And it seem
s he didn’t enter the flat proper.”

  “Do we have SOCO’s report on that?”

  “Yes. Also Troy and myself went through the place.” And what an experience that had been. The word tidiness didn’t even come close. Pens and pencils on his desk, shoes in the wardrobe so closely aligned you couldn’t have slipped a hair between them. Ornaments equidistant each from the other to the nearest millimetre. Anally retentive wasn’t in it.

  “I examined his bank statements going back several months. No huge amounts either way. Some modest direct debits, probably council tax. Unfortunately his phone bills weren’t itemised but the telephone company will be able to produce details of calls for us.”

  “Not much of a result, is it, sir?” asked Colin Jarvis. “Just tells us what we knew already.”

  “Yes, thank you, Jarvis. So.” Barnaby gave his team a somewhat aggressive stare. “Who’s got something to tell me that I don’t know already?”

  A lot of stuff had come in, nearly all of it useless, but that was nothing new. Barnaby picked up one of the E-fits and waved it about.

  “Any luck with these?”

  “Yes, Chief,” said DC Saunders, who had covered Uxbridge station. “The man who sold her a ticket remembered her straightaway. She asked for a single to Piccadilly.”

  “Do we have a time?”

  “He’d just come on shift and reckons about ten past six. I checked the next couple of departures. First out was a Metropolitan. Then a fifteen-minute wait for the Piccadilly Line.”

  “Let’s hope, once these are widely circulated, we’ll discover which train she took. And, with a bit of luck, where she got off.”

  Barnaby knew that was asking a lot. Even though the carriages would be largely empty when they left the terminus, the nearer the train got to town the fuller they would become. If she really had left it at Piccadilly Circus the chances of her being spotted were as good as nil, even on the cameras.

  He said, “What about the car?”

  Quite a bit of feedback there as well. Most of the likely sounding tips had been followed up, but though the vehicles in question were all red Hondas they were not Ava’s Honda. Unfortunately Barnaby’s hopes that she had left it in the NCP lot near the station proved short-lived. Another two sightings had come in late last night and would be followed up this morning.