A Place Of Safety Read online

  Louise had talked about her years in banking. The problems of buying and selling property in London. She had discussed the building of Fainlights, describing how the conservative resistance of Causton town planning department had given way to snobbish pride when the eminence of the award-winning architect was drawn to their attention. She had described her own and her brother’s childhood in Hong Kong and touched briefly on how she came to be living with him now. The creation of Barley Roscoe was mentioned, his growing fame and the new television adaptation.

  Authors. Sergeant Troy sniffed, consigning yet another subspecies to his personal limbo. Fleetingly he marvelled at the chief’s patience as he sat through all this irrelevant stuff then realised that he was not listening under duress but because he wanted to. When he had had enough - halfway through the saga of Louise’s fight to extract a golden handshake from Goshawk Freres commensurate to her twelve-year input as a stocks and shares analyst, he made an excuse and left.

  As Barnaby and his bagman reached the car, Troy said, ‘Very tasty, Muzz Fainlight.’

  ‘She certainly is.’

  ‘What was the point of all that, d’you think?’

  Barnaby climbed into the passenger seat, leaned back and closed his eyes. It was a good question but, at the moment, unanswerable. All he knew was that Valentine Fainlight had walked off the moment his sister started speaking to answer a telephone that Barnaby had not heard ring. Neither, he suspected, had Fainlight. And then Louise had simply talked. And talked. He had been - what was the word? Distracted? Diverted? No, filibustered, that was it. Obstructed even before he had made any attempt to ask any serious or relevant questions, had he known what they were.

  At this stage it didn’t matter. He could catch up with either or both again any time he chose. But what had been the point of such a forceful and elaborate diversion? Not, the chief inspector felt sure, to avoid further talk of Charlie Leathers. And why drag up all that stuff about her financial background? She struck him as someone who would naturally be rather discreet. Was it to deflect him from asking about her brother? A man who could tighten a garrotte if ever there was one. Probably, given those tremendously muscular arms and shoulders, with one hand tied behind his back. Whatever the reason, Barnaby was intrigued.

  Troy released the handbrake, took first and lumbered out of the Red Lion car park.

  ‘Try and avoid that camper van.’

  Troy’s lips tightened at the injustice. He was an excellent driver, first class. It was just being with the chief. The criticism made him nervous. It was the same with Maureen. And his mum. And his dad, come to that. In fact he only really drove well when he was by himself. But you couldn’t tell people that. They’d never believe you.

  A wonderful smell greeted the chief inspector when he walked into 17 Arbury Crescent. Which meant his beloved wife, Joyce, was not cooking. So who could be? Probably Mr Marks and Mr Spencer. Or, if he was really lucky . . .

  ‘Cully!’

  ‘Hello, Dad.’ She gave him a big, unselfconscious hug and turned back to the pot. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Really?’ Barnaby spoke casually but was secretly delighted. He had been told by George Bullard at his last check-up that around thirty pounds had to go. No problem eating less at home but he was inclined to recover from any domestic ordeal by topping up in the canteen. ‘I’ve been on the cabbage soup diet.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Cully gave a theatrical shudder. ‘So, how’s the new case going?’

  ‘So-so. Interviewed a famous personage this afternoon.’

  ‘Who was that, then?’

  ‘Valentine Fainlight. He writes—’

  ‘I know. I’ve met him.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘First night party, three, maybe four years ago. He was with Bruno Magellan.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Wonderful theatre designer. I think they were together for quite a while.’

  ‘He’s living with his sister now.’

  ‘Yes, Bruno died of Aids. It was very sad.’

  Barnaby went into the hall to get some wine. Came back with a bottle of Montzinger Dindarello ’96, opened it and poured some.

  ‘Any news on the commercial?’

  ‘Nope. Still waiting. Still not cutting my hair. But Nico’s up for the National on Saturday.’

  ‘Good for Nicolas.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Where is he anyway?’

  ‘Out with Mum buying “the present” .’ Cully’s voice was a sarcastic drum roll. She hooked ironical quotation marks out of the air. Her parents’ silver wedding was less than a month away.

  ‘I thought presents were supposed to be a surprise.’

  ‘They are. This will be yours from Mum. You buy one for her—’

  ‘I know, I know. Thanks for your help, by the way.’

  Cully had introduced her father to a friend from her student days, Dodie McIntosh, now a successful silversmith, and Barnaby had commissioned an oval, silver-backed hand mirror for his wife. The design was very lovely. Joyce’s initials, flowingly interwined, were set in a heart, itself surrounded by a border of her favourite flowers, lily of the valley. The detail on every tiny bell was exquisite as the flowers continued, twisting round the handle of the mirror.

  ‘And me and Nicolas get one for both of you.’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘I think it’s brilliant,’ Cully sniffed, stirred, tasted, ‘especially with us going to this special place all over again. It sort of closes the circle.’

  They had been talking about engagements a few nights earlier. Nicolas had thought the whole business passé. Cully had been rather scathing about wasting money on what she called ‘some skinny little diamond chipping’ when you could roll in the Caribbean surf with your best babe for a whole fortnight on the same money.

  Joyce was still wearing her skinny chipping which was all Barnaby had been able to afford on a young constable’s pay. He had given her the ring in its cheap leather box over dinner at a little French bistro in London. They had eaten boeuf bourguignon and tarte framboise washed down with the red house wine. Appreciating the significance of the occasion, the patron had let them take the menu away.

  As their finances improved, Barnaby had offered to replace the tiny solitaire but Joyce would have none of it. She wore it with her band of gold and the beautiful emerald eternity ring bought to celebrate Cully’s arrival, and insisted she would do so until the day she died.

  It was Nicolas who had pointed out that the bistro in question, Mon Plaisir, was still thriving in Monmouth Street. Then Cully said they absolutely must go there to celebrate their silver wedding. Barnaby immediately agreed, relishing the wonderful synchronicity of the idea. Only Joyce hesitated, unsure about returning to a place of which she had such perfect memories.

  ‘What’s in this?’ Barnaby took the wooden spoon from Cully’s hand and gave the casserole a stir.

  ‘Lamb, new potatoes, onions and baby turnips. Those peas go in at the last minute.’

  ‘Couldn’t you make huge amounts of everything every time you come and put it in the freezer?’

  ‘No. How d’you think that would make Mum feel?’

  ‘I know how it would make me feel.’

  They both laughed. Barnaby heard a car in the drive, wandered into the sitting room and looked through the window. A garden-centre van swung into the drive, closely followed by Joyce’s Punto. She and Nicolas got out and conferred with the van driver. Then two men dragged a huge crated object from the back of the vehicle and carried it into the garage. Barnaby stared through the window in amazement then made his way back to the kitchen.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Joyce came in, gave her husband a kiss and found herself a glass.

  ‘Of course I saw it.’ Barnaby poured. ‘It’s as big as a house.’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing to do with you. In case you were wondering.’ Joyce drank a little wine, pronounced it delicious, wandered over to her daughter and slipped an arm round her waist. ‘That an Elizabe
th David?’

  ‘Mm. The Navarin Printanier.’

  ‘I thought so.’ She tasted the juice. ‘Lovely. You’re really coming on, darling.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  Barnaby went back to his window. The giant crate had been put down while Nico swung up the garage door. The chief inspector, quite sure it was his present, wracked his brains. There was only one thing he really needed, garden wise, and surely even in these stylish and sybaritic times no one made silver lawn mowers.

  Chapter Six

  Before his 9 a.m. Friday briefing Barnaby had a quick read through the first of the house-to-house reports. They were disappointing. Apart from a statement from the landlord of the Red Lion that Charlie Leathers had been in the Smoking Bar until gone eleven, there was nothing really helpful. Confirmation that Charlie was a miserable old sod who wasn’t too fussy where his fists landed came from several sources.

  Apparently on the night in question he had also been boasting about coming into some money and how he was going to spend it. But as he was forever on about how he would spend his pools winnings or lottery handouts, no one paid him any mind. No mention anywhere that he gambled on anything else.

  Barnaby pushed the sheets of paper irritably aside and sent up a quick prayer to the gods of cause and effect that this was not going to be ‘a random’. Every investigating officer’s dread, a stranger killing a stranger. No motive that any sane person could understand although, if caught, the murderer would often have passionately argued reasons why he had been driven to do it. Of course, with no single thread to instigate a search, they frequently weren’t caught and huge amounts of time and money were poured away to no effect whatsoever.

  Pushing this negative state of mind aside, the chief inspector got up quickly, scraped back his chair and shouted for coffee. There was no response and he remembered that Troy was running a computer search on the character who gave his name as simply Jax. It would be interesting to discover just what ‘little bit of trouble’ the man had been involved in.

  Barnaby wandered into the main office, poured himself a cup of strong Colombian and looked around for his assistant. He spotted Troy at the far end of the room with one eye on his VDU and the other on a pretty telephonist. The chief inspector soft-footed over and slapped Troy hard on the back.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, sir.’ Troy pushed and pulled on the lightly padded shoulders of his Cero Cerruti jacket. ‘Not so good, actually.’

  ‘What have you tried?’

  ‘Jax, just in case. Jacks with a CK. Jacklin. Now working through Jackman, which seems to include about half the prison population.’

  Barnaby watched over his sergeant’s shoulder as faces flashed rapidly on and off the screen. Faces of unparalleled viciousness and kindly, snug little fellows you could put in your pocket and take home to mother. Black and white and all shades of brown. Tattooed and be-ringed or baby pink, round-eyed and smooth. Ugly shaven heads, all bumps and stubble and neat grey thatches.

  ‘Blimey, get a load of this one.’ Sergeant Troy held the button and they both studied the mug shot. A more depraved personality it would be hard to imagine. Cannon ball head growing directly out of bullish shoulders. A spreading, deeply porous nose, thin lips drawn back from gappy, snarling teeth, ragged hair, the whole charming arrangement topped off with a leering squint of pure avarice.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Bent solicitor.’

  Shortly after this they came to the end of the Jackmans.

  ‘Maybe,’ suggested Sergeant Troy, ‘our man’s gone right away from his real name. You know - Saunders, Greenfield?’

  ‘Doubt it. They don’t have much imagination when it comes to an alias, fortunately for us. Try Jackson.’

  There were a lot of Jacksons too but at last they found their quarry, dark-haired at the time of recording his matchless profile and with quite a heavy moustache but the same man nonetheless.

  ‘Gotcha!’ said Barnaby. ‘So, what does his “bit of trouble” amount to?’

  Troy tapped some more. Both men studied the screen then turned to each other with expressions of disturbed bewilderment.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Sergeant Troy.

  ‘I do.’ Barnaby remembered how his skin had tightened at the first sight of the chauffeur. His repulsion at the thought of gripping the outstretched hand deepened as he read the list of offences. ‘What I can’t believe is that old fool Lawrence letting the wicked bastard anywhere near his family.’

  ‘Perhaps he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Of course he knows. He’s on the resettlement board.’

  It was a pleasant drive to Ferne Basset. A warm wash of autumn sunshine drenched the hedgerows and patchily reflected light from the road, still damp after a recent shower. The fields were already being ploughed. Shining seams of rich brown earth curled up and over behind the harrow’s teeth, to be picked over by a flock of screaming gulls.

  The village was looking almost its old self. The police presence had departed, as had the fourth estate. A group of youngsters were acting the fool on the fringe of Carter’s Wood where the crime had occurred. Running in and out of the trees making creepy ‘whaah, whaah’ noises, pretending to strangle themselves and each other, walking around stiff-armed and legged like Frankenstein’s monster.

  It was nearly one o’clock when they drove up to the Old Rectory. Troy, remembering Lionel Lawrence’s long ago link with the chief constable, half expected a courtesy call at the house first with an explanation of what they were doing there. But Barnaby indicated that he should park right over the far side of the drive, as near to the chauffeur’s flat as possible. As they got out, Troy spotted the Humber Hawk squatting heavily in the garage and said, ‘Looks as if he’s in, sir.’

  Barnaby rapped loudly on the dark blue door. Around it clung a rich-smelling late honeysuckle and on the step were tubs of creamy petunias and salvias. Over their heads a window swung open.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A word, Mr Jackson,’ called up Troy.

  Their knowledge of his name was a blow, Troy could see. But surely the bloke had known they would be checking up on him?

  ‘Didn’t take you long to ferret that out.’

  ‘Here or at the station, it’s up to you,’ said Barnaby. ‘And get a move on. I don’t like standing on doorsteps.’

  The window closed but the door was not opened for several more minutes. Troy saw this as an ‘in your face, make them wait, up yours’ gesture. Barnaby was more concerned that something which had been on view was being tidied away. He wished now he had come with a search warrant but the circumstances hardly seemed to justify it. They had discovered nothing to connect Jackson with the death of Charlie Leathers. Merely that he was the sort of man whose past activities indicated a murderous lack of self-control.

  They followed him up warmly carpeted stairs into a long, L-shaped bed-sitting room. This was comfortably furnished with, Barnaby could not help noticing, much newer pieces than the Rectory. There was an oatmeal carpet, attractive flower prints on the wall and cream curtains patterned with scarlet poppies. Several sets of weights were stacked against the skirting board. Two doors led off, presumably to the kitchen and bathroom.

  Sergeant Troy stared at all this, his face flushing angrily. He thought of beggars lying in doorways open to all weather and any abuse that passing thugs might feel like dishing out. Of youngsters, dossing down at night in damp cardboard boxes. Of his own grandparents living on their state pension, counting every penny, proud of never being in debt. While this jammy bastard—

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘Sir.’ Troy collected himself. He got out a notebook then sat in a comfortable fireside chair with orange cushions. Barnaby took its opposite number. Jackson stood leaning against the door.

  ‘Make yourselves at home, why don’t you?’

  ‘You seem to have fallen on your f
eet, Terry.’

  ‘Mr Jackson to you.’

  ‘Now, the night Charlie Leathers died.’

  ‘We’ve been through all that.’

  ‘Well, we’re going through it again.’ Sergeant Troy ground out the words through clenched teeth.

  ‘I was here from around seven. Watched the soaps.’ He nodded towards a Sony portable television. ‘Had a couple of beers, mixed up some Pot Noodles. Listened to John Peel on the radio. Went to bed.’

  Barnaby nodded. He wouldn’t be able to move Jackson from that. And the man was sharp enough to know they had nothing to place him at the scene of the crime or he’d have been down Causton nick long since. The chief inspector moved to more flexible matters.

  ‘This gambling Charlie told you about, how did he place his bets?’

  ‘Phone.’

  ‘Who was the bookie?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘But they were pursuing him and he was frightened?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Funny nobody else seems to know about this,’ said Troy. ‘Not even his wife.’

  ‘That sour old bitch?’ Jackson laughed. ‘All he dreamt about, poor old Charlie, was buttered crumpet. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Or his cronies in the Red Lion.’

  Jackson shrugged.

  ‘I think you made it all up.’

  ‘Thinking’s free.’

  ‘Was he familiar with your background, Terry?’ asked the chief inspector.

  ‘I’m starting from scratch here. I told you.’

  ‘That must be nice. Wipe out the past, just like that.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jackson looked wary, not sure he liked the way the conversation was going. He painted on an ingratiating smile. His incisors, so sharply pointed they could have been filed, twinkled and gleamed.

  ‘Not what you’d call a tasty past, is it?’ continued Barnaby.

  ‘I’ve done my time.’

  ‘You’ve done little else. Juvenile courts from day one. Thieving, lying, runner for the big boys. Look-out for dealers and pushers. Actual and grievous bodily harm, beating up a pensioner and leaving him more dead than alive. A stabbing—’