Written in Blood (18 page)

That night Midsomer Worthy was slow to settle. The Old Dun Cow was packed with professional journalists and morbid nosy parkers jostling for the locals’ attention. The air was shot through with sparkling dialogue along the lines of: I suppose, living here, you must have known him - Oh, sorry, what are you drinking by the way?

And not a manjack among the villagers was found wanting. Lowering doubles and triples at the speed of light, they told what they knew, then conjured from the ripe atmosphere what they did not. And although none of them got it even remotely right, the dead man would still have been astonished at the luxurious complexity of their imaginings. All left the hostelry at closing time, tired and emotional, aware of nothing so much as value given and a job well done.

Several of them staggered past Plover’s Rest which, though now sealed, still showed a police presence. And the pod was still there. Troy had gone home, but Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby was inside reading through information which had come in during the day, drinking coffee and waiting for the airport police at Heathrow to return his call. He was whacked and on the point of giving up when the telephone rang.

They were sorry for the delay. There had been several flights to Finland on the eighth but at this hour the relevant offices were locked so it had taken some time to raise the information he required. But they were now in a position to inform him that none of the flights in question had carried a passenger travelling under the name of Max Jennings.

Barnaby was in the incident room early next morning, bad-tempered, greatly disturbed by his own anxieties and unrefreshed. He had spent the night drifting in and out of sleep and bad dreams. He couldn’t remember what the dreams were but woke fighting for breath and wrestling with the duvet, which seemed to be pressing itself over his nose and mouth.

He had got up at six in the winter’s dark, switched off the alarm and made himself some tea. Then later, as Joyce slept on, followed this with a delicious and deeply unhealthy fried breakfast, sneering at a wistful-looking kitten as he turned the bacon. The postman came while he was eating. Two gardening catalogues and the phone bill.

Barnaby put the dishes in the sink, made some fresh tea and took a cup to Joyce. By the time he came down again there was a tight squeezing between his shoulder blades that presaged indigestion and Kilmowski was sitting by the fridge mewing anxiously.

‘Hasn’t taken you long to suss where the nosh is, has it?’ He put on his coat and scarf. ‘Well you needn’t get your feet under the table. They’ll be back in two weeks.’

Troy approached his boss treading on eggshells, for he knew the old man in this mood. No matter what the sergeant said or did nothing would be right. And if he just stood there saying or doing nothing then his thoughts would be for it. Or his choice of clothing. Or the way he combed his hair. Or the shape of his left leg. Might as well go and stick his head in a bucket and have done with it. He put the cup and saucer down with extreme caution.

‘What d’you call this?’

‘Coffee, sir.’

‘It’s cold.’

‘But I’ve only just—’

‘Don’t argue with me.’

‘No, sir.’ Troy hesitated. ‘Shall I get some more?’ A brown bottle was being unscrewed and tablets that he recognised tipped out. Two were swilled down with the scalding coffee. Barnaby’s eyes bulged and sweat broke out across his forehead.

‘Would you like some water, chief?’ Troy received a glance to strip his teeth of their enamel.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

‘Of course not. I just—’ The air was cleft by a furious gesture with a bunched fist and the sergeant tiptoed off.

But in the corridor his oppression was lightened with miraculous suddenness for, if life at Causton police station left a lot to be desired, one of the things it left most to be desired was now walking straight towards him. The delectably blonde Audrey Brierley. A source of grievous bodily pleasure if ever there was one.

Troy indicated the door through which he had just passed, gave a warning grimace and drew his thumbnail graphically across his throat. Audrey narrowed her baby blues, said, ‘Promises, promises!’ and walked on by.

Barnaby closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, withdrawing from the clattering keys, shrilling phones and murmurs of conversation into a dark interior quietness and ordering his thoughts for the day’s briefing, which he had convened for nine thirty. He stayed like this for ten minutes, made a few notes and got up from his desk.

The chief inspector attempted to run, given the rigid police hierarchy, a democratic incident room. Time permitting, he would listen and talk to anyone, aware that intelligent insights could as well be present in the minds of the lowly ranked as elsewhere. And, should that prove to be the case, he would frequently give credit where it was due. This by no means common attitude meant that he was respected (if not always liked) by the majority under his command.

There would be two enquiry teams. The first, which would include several civilian machine operators, stayed in the incident room manning the telephones and computers, searching for and collating information. The second, the foot sloggers, went out and about, looking, listening, asking questions. Thirty people fell silent and paid attention as Barnaby made his way to the far end of the room.

He stood before a wall of aerated panels that strongly resembled grey Ryvita. On these were pinned still photographs plus enlarged freeze frames from the video made at the scene of the crime and when Barnaby opened by describing the case as a very messy one it was only too clear what he meant. A blow-up of Hadleigh’s wedding picture was also displayed, along with photographs of the murder weapon. Barnaby recapped only briefly on the information gathered so far, for they all had notes on yesterday’s interviews.

‘We now know that Jennings hasn’t flown to Finland, or anywhere else come to that, from Heathrow. We’re checking other airports today. We’ve also telexed the seaports and might pick up something there. Obviously the fact that he’s cleared off after lying about where he’s going is a cause for some concern. On the other hand we must remember that after leaving Hadleigh’s he drove home, went to bed and this morning had his valet pack for him and ate breakfast before leaving. This does not indicate a man in a hurry.

‘If he killed Hadleigh there was no way he could know that the body had not been found. Rex St John seems to have made his role as minder very plain so, for all Jennings knew, the minute his car drove off St John was back round there. The murder would have been discovered, the police notified, St John’s story told and Jennings easily apprehended. We also have to take into account the nature of the attack. This sort of severe bludgeoning indicates someone in a fit of rage, which argues against premeditation. I wouldn’t wish to push this suggestion too far. A murder can, of course, be coldly planned and still emotionally carried out, but I’d like you to bear this in mind.

‘The house was not secure, which means we can’t discount the possibility of some opportunist or vagrant nipping in. Aggravated burglary happens, as we all know, but I feel here the odds are against it. The cleaning lady is sure nothing was taken from downstairs. Unfortunately, upstairs she will not go. I had a further word with her last night however and it seems that, as I suspected, a large brown case is missing from the small bedroom. It was there the previous week when she cleaned through and I think it not unreasonable to assume that whoever emptied the chest of drawers used it to carry the contents away. I’m hoping SOCO will be able to give us some idea what they were.’

‘So are we looking at robbery as a motive after all then, sir?’ asked a young detective constable, shiningly alert and crisp as a biscuit.

‘Hard to say at this stage, Willoughby. The theft might have been an afterthought, yet I can’t help thinking, as a hugely expensive watch was left behind, that it was also quite specific. Mrs Bundy says the drawers were always kept locked.’

Inspector Meredith, who had so far sat in a distant silence picking his thoughts over (for all the world, Barnaby commented later, like unclaimed jewels), spoke up: ‘Using the suitcase as the means to hand would surely indicate that matey-boy did not expect to find what he did or he would have come prepared to take the clobber away. After all, you can hardly conceal that much stuff about your person.’

‘Indeed you can’t, Ian,’ replied Barnaby and heard, just behind his left shoulder, a sharp intake of breath and intuited, indeed positively shared, his sergeant’s antagonism.

Inspector Ian Meredith, heading the outdoor team, had been the object of Troy’s resentful envy since the day of his arrival. One of the short-cutters. A Bramshill flyer. Out of Oxbridge with his degree round his neck like an Olympic gold. Made up to sergeant before he’d taken his stripey scarf off, inspector in four years, plus, most galling of the lot, connections in high places. And without the grace to wear this largesse lightly.

‘Nevertheless,’ continued Barnaby, ‘it’s an odd house that doesn’t contain a couple of cases or travelling bags, so I don’t think we can read too much into the fact that he came apparently unprepared.’

That’s told him, said Troy’s supercilious mask. ‘Mateyboy’ indeed! Jesus. He smirked at Inspector Meredith and was disconcerted to discover that the man was nodding his head in agreement. Some people just didn’t seem to know when they were being put down.

‘We’ll keep the search going on both cars, but I imagine you’ll find Hadleigh’s in some local garage having a checkup. It’s the Mercedes that I suspect we shall find elusive.’

‘What sort is it?’

‘In your notes, Inspector Meredith.’

‘A 500 SL sir,’ said Detective Constable Willoughby, simultaneously.

‘Oh, yes.’

Meredith’s acknowledgement was of a casualness to imply that all his friends and relatives had one. Trouble was, thought Barnaby sourly, they probably did. He said: ‘I want you to find out all there is to know about Hadleigh. Gossip and hearsay as well as what’s officially on record. We’re told that he was married to a woman called Grace, surname unknown, and that they lived in Kent, where she died of leukaemia. He worked for the Civil Service, supposedly in the Ministry of Agriculture. Once all this has been verified we can start building on it. The video of the crime scene is now available. I shall expect you all to make yourselves familiar. That’s all.’

The outdoor team disappeared. The rest swung away from him on their swivelchairs involving themselves in the glint and dazzle of their VDUs. Barnaby strode off to his office, where he could use the telephone in reasonable peace and quiet.

He had the number of Max Jennings’ publishers and had already rung twice without reply. It was now nine forty-five. He picked up the receiver and tried again. Nothing. Barnaby sucked his teeth with a rather self-righteous click, for he had the early riser’s puritanical disdain for slugabeds. At last a Sloaney female accent responded.

He stated his business and was put through to publicity where, neatly fielding considerable curiosity, he asked if it was the case that Mr Jennings was currently on a book-signing tour in Finland. This remark was repeated aloud at the other end, causing much merriment.

‘We’re in stitches here,’ said his contact, unnecessarily. ‘We can’t get Max into his local bookshop under cover of darkness to sign as much as a paperback. Let alone the full cheese and wine at Waterstones. Someone’s been pulling your leg.’

‘So it seems.’ Barnaby sounded very regretful. ‘I wonder . . . would there be any details about Mr Jennings you could perhaps let me have? Publicity handouts - that sort of thing?’

‘Well.’ She turned away from the phone and he heard a quiet exchange. ‘There’s a biog. we send out. It’s pretty up to date. I could fax you that.’ As he gave the number there was more murmuring and his contact said, ‘We think you should talk to Talent.’

‘Who?’

‘Talent Levine, his agent. Have you got a pen?’ Barnaby wrote the details down. ‘They’ll be able to help you much more than us. He’s been on their books from the year dot.’

Barnaby thanked her, hung up and sat back in his chair. The tensions of the briefing over, and his indigestion almost entirely abated, he discovered to his surprise that he was hungry. Or at least (for breakfast was only two hours gone) that he fancied a little something. Telling himself that he could always cut out lunch he wandered into the corridor to see what was available in the automat.

Like most of its kind it offered only garishly wrapped and highly calorific items. Barnaby selected a whirly Danish studded with glacé cherries and put his money in.

Further down the corridor Sergeant Troy emerged from the Gents reeking of nicotine. Smoking had, from January first, been banned in the station under a Thames Valley ruling and was now allowed only in the toilets. These, by the end of the day, resembled Dante’s Inferno with the shades of uniformed or plain-clothed sinners diving in and out of swirling clouds of smoke.