A Banquet of Consequences (47 page)

“‘Bats’?” Lynley was on his way to Isabelle’s office, having been summoned via phone message from Dorothea Harriman, but he
paused in the corridor to complete his conversation with Havers before he met with the superintendent. “Curious. I’ve seen his picture and his father’s pointed out a badly deformed ear—did that come up by the way?—but as to there being something else wrong with him . . . Did Lily Foster mention his ear?”

“Not a whisper. But she told us about this speech problem he had. It was this thing like blathering that took him over when he was pissing blood about this or that. Talked all kinds of rubbish and most of it rude. Some made-up language and some crap words you wouldn’t want said at your funeral, if you know what I mean. Lily puts it all down to his mum, but then she puts everything down to his mum. I don’t see her as a killer, though, leastways not like it happened.”

“Why?” Lynley nodded at Harriman, who’d apparently come personally to fetch him. She pointed at her wristwatch and then adopted a stance with arms akimbo. It was a fairly good imitation of Isabelle in impatience mode. She even had the expression spot-on. He held up a finger. She shrugged and went back towards Isabelle’s domain.

“I’ve had a think,” Barbara was saying in answer, “and I can’t come up with how she’s s’posed to have put her mitts on the poison, first of all, then put it into the brand of toothpaste Caroline uses, then get it into the house, then assume Caroline’s going to use it and not the husband. Just too much chance of something going wrong or of her getting caught. It’s not like they didn’t have their eyes open to watch for her since she’d been lurking round so much.”

“Alastair and Caroline, you mean.”

“Right. An’ she’s forthright enough about how happy she’d be if someone gave the woman the chop, which ’f course I know
could
be her just saying something that we’ll think makes her look
less
like a killer ’cause what killer’s going to come out ’n’ say she’d be chuffed if the supposed victim went belly up, eh? Sort of a reverse psychology thing, if you know what I mean.”

“One can overthink these situations, Sergeant,” Lynley told her mildly. “Any luck with the key you found in Clare’s desk drawer?”

“Since there’s no bank vaults for the peasantry these days, apparently there’s now safe companies taking up the slack. But the nearest is in Yeovil and why’d she want to trek all that way?”

“What are you on to next? Where’s Winston, by the way?”

“Right here. We went hand in hand to speak to Lily Foster. We’re virtually conjoined twins, aren’t we, Win?”

Lynley heard no reply to this as a rumble of traffic on Havers’ end sounded like the dustmen were collecting Shaftesbury’s rubbish. Havers said, “We’ve got Alastair MacKerron, this Sharon who works for him, and a psychiatrist on the agenda here. What about you?”

“Superintendent Ardery’s preempted everyone else. She wants a report. I’m on my way to her as we speak.”

“Sir, when’s the bloody woman going to stop—”

“You know what she’s looking for, Barbara. Make sure you continue to give it to me to give to her.”

They rang off then. He went on to Isabelle’s office, where Dorothea indicated he was to go in at once. He said to the superintendent, “Sorry. I had to take a call from Sergeant Havers.”

Isabelle was at the battered credenza, where a vintage coffeemaker of her predecessor’s was groaning through its cycle. She apparently had been watching it in her usual fashion—impatiently—because she said, “Oh bloody hell,” and poured herself a cup as the hesitant stream of coffee continued to burble out, onto the hot plate now instead of into the pot. She asked if he wanted a cup. He demurred.

She said, “Where’s the dog?”

He said, “Back with his minder. Why? Are you becoming fond?”

“Really, Tommy. Do I look like someone becoming fond?”

“Admittedly, no.”

She carried her coffee to her desk. She gestured for him to sit but he wasn’t going to be caught, so he waited and when she herself sat, he did likewise. She said, “It’s missing. I searched high and low and I even had a word with Dorothea about where she might have hidden it—this would be to keep it safe from prying eyes—but to my consternation, it has apparently not been delivered. This is your report to which I am referring, by the way. We were in agreement when last we spoke that you would have something in writing on my desk or in my email this morning.”

He glanced at his watch meaningfully.

“Amusing. I’m fully aware that morning hasn’t yet ended, but let’s not split hairs.”

He said, “The report’s coming. I had a late night, owing to the dog among other things. I’ve only just—”

She held up a hand. “The minutiae of your life don’t interest me. A report on the investigation does. What’s Sergeant Havers up to, Tommy? Can I hope she’s still managing to follow your orders?”

“To the letter,” Lynley said. Mentioning the fact that on the previous day Barbara and Winston had split up briefly would not, he thought, be a good idea. He brought the superintendent up to date on all matters concerning the death of Clare Abbott and the attempted poisoning of Rory Statham. She listened in her habitual fashion, with her penetrating attention indicating a mind at work. When he was finished with his report, she gave a sharp nod.

“To the sergeant’s credit,” she said in reference to Barbara, “there has been nothing about this matter in any of the tabloids so far, and believe me, I’ve been checking. No follow-up after the first two days of reportage on the death, I’m happy to say: no accusations of police foot dragging, and no whisper of malfeasance on anyone’s part.”

“Barbara’s learned her lesson, guv.”

“
But
,” Isabelle went on, “I expect that’s so far due to the story’s lack of sex appeal, and frankly I don’t put it past Sergeant Havers to murmur the word
murder
into some reporter’s silken ear if that will help her position.”

“She’s not stupid,” Lynley said. “Impetuous, yes. Bloody-minded, yes. But she isn’t stupid and she’s not a fool. She understands what’s on the line for her. For all its charms, I daresay that Berwick-upon-Tweed doesn’t hold much appeal in her case. It was, if I might say, a rather inspired choice.”

Isabelle picked up a pencil. She tapped it on the top of her desk. She smiled. “I can’t think someone didn’t use it before now,” she admitted. “I don’t mean Berwick necessarily but the transfer papers.”

“She’s not stepped so far out of order before.”

“I suppose there’s that. At any rate, it’s quite a nice change to have her under control. Do see that she stays that way.” She turned to her computer’s keyboard and with a few clicks, she opened a file that from his position Lynley couldn’t see. She said over her shoulder to him, “I’d like to hear from you tomorrow morning, Tommy.
Without
having to summon you.”

He didn’t rise. Nor did he allow himself to be offended at her implied dismissal of him. He said instead, “Isabelle, in the past, I was never required to bring the superintendent into the picture on a daily basis.”

“I expect that’s the case,” she agreed. “But I assume that, in the past, you also didn’t go against your superior’s express orders by involving an outside police force in order to manipulate matters to your satisfaction. Let’s not forget Detective Chief Superintendent Sheehan. Now, I’ve work to get to, I assume you do as well, and tomorrow morning’s report is”—here she glanced at her watch—“a mere twenty-one hours away.”

He considered asking her for another officer to assist in the gathering of information. It would be helpful to have someone at the Met digging into everyone connected to Caroline Goldacre, to Clare Abbott, and to Rory Statham. It would tick a few items off the list if the whereabouts of all the associates of these women could be established for the days leading up to Clare Abbott’s death. But he knew how unlikely it was that Isabelle was going to approve the movement of so much as a civilian secretary onto his team, so he let the matter go unsaid and returned to his office.

Caroline Goldacre as intended victim, he thought. That was a wrinkle in the blanket that could not be discounted. Assuming there was more here than met the eye, he reckoned that she was the direction in which they ought to be heading. Considering her actions in the past, he also reckoned that some delving in that area would not be a waste of his time.

WAREHAM

DORSET

Barbara told herself that it wasn’t
such
a lie. She
had
been with Winston that morning. They
had
gone together to call upon Lily Foster. It was merely the fact that at the conclusion of their confab with Lily, they’d made a decision to separate for a while.
Which
, she asserted mentally, was what any other team of investigators would have done at that point.

It had to be said that Winnie had not exactly embraced the idea. But he had to get himself to Sherborne to speak with the psychiatrist with whom Clare Abbott had had an appointment. Since it would save them time for Barbara herself to take on grilling both Alastair MacKerron and his lover, he acquiesced to an afternoon apart although she could tell he didn’t like it any more than he’d liked their previous parting.

“Think of it like absence, the heart, and growing fonder,” she advised him.

“Best I think of it like being out of order” had been his response.

“The inspector isn’t going to know unless you tell him, Winnie, ’cause I sure as hell won’t be wagging my tongue on the topic.”

Reluctantly, then, Winston had agreed, especially when Barbara pointed out to him that Clare’s Jetta was sitting in her driveway waiting to be used and because of this, Barbara would not require the keys to her fellow sergeant’s hallowed Prius a second time. He went on his way to Sherborne after dropping Barbara back at Clare’s house in Bimport Street.

Barbara tossed round the various scenarios available to her in the Alastair-and-Sharon department. She made a few phone calls. She decided there was more grist in having a chin-wag with the mistress than with the betraying husband. While he had a lot to lose should things come to a divorce between himself and Caroline Goldacre, this Sharon had a massive amount to gain if Caroline Goldacre conveniently choked it.

Barbara got the woman’s surname from one of the bakeries. No problem since Sharon Halsey turned out to be a big player in Alastair’s business. So she wasn’t tough to locate because her name was in the directory. Ultimately, Barbara tracked her down across the county. She phoned her house first and from her answer phone got her mobile number. Sharon reported herself in Swanage checking on the progress of a new MacKerron Baked Goods under development there. She’d be going on to Wareham, where she could meet Sergeant Havers at one o’clock. She sounded perfectly pleasant, Barbara thought. Butter wouldn’t melt and all the rest. She either knew there was no way that sodium azide could be tracked to her doorstep or she was completely
innocent in all matters. Yet she didn’t even ask why a Scotland Yard detective wanted to have a chat with her. Interesting, that.

Barbara scored Clare’s keys from the kitchen work top. The Jetta was old, but it started without any trouble, and the drive to Wareham thereafter was a pleasant one. It took her through the dips and curves of the grassy chalk downs of Cranborne Chase, coursing south in the direction of the Isle of Purbeck’s great limestone plateau. There was no direct route, so she twisted and turned through valleys and hillsides dotted with farms and broad with meadows till she reached the River Frome.

They’d decided to meet at the town’s war memorial, where Sharon Halsey said she would be having a sandwich. She’d told Barbara that it was her habit always to visit the war memorial wherever she was, and there she would often eat her lunch.

The memorial in Wareham wasn’t difficult to find. It stood along North Street near an ancient church. It was conveniently close to where Sharon Halsey had told Barbara she’d be spending her afternoon: across the street in MacKerron Baked Goods, one of the bakeries that sold what Sharon’s lover concocted.

Barbara would never have taken the demure little woman who was sitting among the poppy wreaths as a home wrecker. One thought of home wreckers as brassy blondes with serious physical goods on offer to tempt a bloke away from his marital vows. One thought of home wreckers as women offering decided competition to a haggard wife. But in this case, the advantage was all Caroline Goldacre’s, Barbara thought. Despite Caroline’s heft—which was, admittedly, considerable—she still had mounds of glossy hair, gorgeous skin, great dark eyes, shapely hands, and a serious bosom, whereas Sharon Halsey wouldn’t have garnered a second glance on a desert island were she the only woman among a tribe of desperate men.

So her looks weren’t what was dragging Alastair MacKerron away from hearth and home, Barbara concluded. The woman was either lit dynamite in bed or she’d forged a Great Spiritual Connection with her employer.

It began to rain the moment Barbara approached Sharon Halsey. Warrant card in hand, she was about to introduce herself when the
heavens opened. Sharon said, “Oh dear,” and rose from the poppy wreaths. She said, “You’re the policewoman?” to Barbara, and she advised that they decamp to the church. It would be open, she said. It was Saxon and of historical note, and people did like to have a look at Lawrence.

Barbara hadn’t a clue what she meant, but she followed Sharon Halsey. The church was quite small and plain with a single aisle only, and its north side was dominated by the Lawrence mentioned, who turned out to be of Arabia fame. An impressive marble effigy of him lying in state atop a tomb and garbed in an unmistakably Arabian kit asked to be admired. He wasn’t actually buried in this place, Sharon Halsey told her in a quiet voice, but merely remembered, much like the names on the war memorial outside.

“Thought he’d be taller,” Barbara commented as she took in the supine figure in his robes, dagger clutched on his chest.

“That would be ’cause of the film, I expect,” Sharon told her.

“They don’t make ’em like they used to,” Barbara said.