Written in Blood (23 page)

And that, thought the chief inspector, as his ears picked up the sound of a delicate crash, as of many falling china fragments, is not all. Mrs Hutton appeared not to have noticed. Moments later Troy eased open the door with his foot and came in with a tray.

The coffee was delicious, though lukewarm as the filters would not fit the dish-like cups and Troy had had to hold them over the cups one at a time while the stuff dripped through. He gave Mrs Hutton the freshest.

As they sat sipping Barnaby sought to bring the conversation back to that summer afternoon when she had called on Hadleigh and stolen (although of course he did not describe it so) his likeness. But she got more upset and started shouting that she had had enough.

‘Please I’m almost through—’

‘
You’re
almost through?’

‘Surely you want to help us discover—’

‘How can you ask me that? Me of all people.’ Her face was white with outrage. She threw back the heavy mane of tangled hair and glared at him, then made as if to rise, appeared overcome by giddiness and fell back into her seat.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Hutton?’

‘I’ve taken a pill. You woke me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Are you allowed to do this? Just turn up at someone’s house and . . . browbeat them?’

‘I’ve no wish at all to distress you—’

‘Then go away. That’s the simple bloody answer to that. Just go away.’

Laura covered her face with her hands. Although there were three people, one of them extremely large, in the tiny room she appeared physically isolated, as if her misery had thrown up an invisible barrier.

Barnaby, in a quiet explanatory tone, said, ‘The point is that you, more than anyone else, are in a unique position to be able to assist us.’

‘Oh?’ She looked at him with grudging interest. ‘In what way?’

‘The chest of drawers where you found the photograph was always kept locked. Whoever killed him took everything that was in it away. Obviously to discover someone who has actually seen what was inside—’

‘But I didn’t. I’d only just opened the drawer when I heard them coming back. I grabbed the picture and ran.’

‘Wasn’t there anything else in there apart from the shoe box?’

‘Some plastic boxes with fitted lids. The sort you keep salad in. Or left-over food.’

‘Did you notice any of the other photographs? The one on top, for instance?’

‘No.’

‘Could I see the one you do have?’

‘I burned it the morning after I saw his . . . girlfriend. Threw it in the Raeburn with a basket of soggy tissues. I regret it now, of course.’ Slowly she put the coffee down and her face in the shadows was distraught. ‘Dreadfully. It was all I had of him.’

‘It would assist us if you could describe it.’

‘I can’t possibly imagine how.’

‘We’re trying to discover all we can about Mr Hadleigh. The smallest details help.’

‘It was just a holiday snap, in a restaurant or night club. There were three or four men dancing in a line, the Greek way. A woman was there as well but I cut her off.’

‘Was it the person in the wedding photograph?’

‘No. He was younger in the picture . . . laughing . . . happy. I wish I’d known him then.’

Although the words were clear enough her expression was becoming muddled and confused and she swayed on the edge of her seat with exhaustion, plainly at the end of her tether. Barnaby nodded to his sergeant and they both got up to leave. Laura made no attempt to see them out.

As he was being driven back to the station Barnaby re-ran the scene over and over in his mind. He recalled her tears and had no doubt that they were genuine. But tears could mean pain and anger as well as grief. Or even that most wasteful and bitter of emotions, remorse.

He wondered again if Laura Hutton, after the discovery that she was not only a woman scorned but a woman scorned in favour of another, had returned to Plover’s Rest after the writers’ meeting, confronted Gerald Hadleigh with his perfidy and struck him full in the face with the nearest means to hand?

That love could turn to hatred was hardly news to any policeman, for the majority of murders they were called upon to investigate were simple domestics. And crimes of passion, in the heat of occurrence, were simple, pared down to the emotional bone. It was only afterwards, in wretched recollection and, sometimes, regret, that even the most crude analysis could begin to take place.

So far she was the only person in his sights with a definite motive, for Jennings, circumstantially leading the field, was still an unknown quantity. And for that reason alone suspicion of her involvement could not be put aside.

 

Back in the incident room Barnaby immediately asked for a trace on the driver who had taken Hadleigh’s visitor to Plover’s Rest. She may well have been, as Laura Hutton hopefully suggested, a lady of the night but this did not necessarily mean that Hadleigh had not discussed with her what was on his mind. Lonely, buttoned-up types often found it easier to talk to strangers.

‘At least now we know,’ Troy was tapping at a keyboard, bringing up the report of the stolen Celica, ‘why she had to take a cab.’

‘He may not have given her a lift even if he had the car.’

‘Yeah. Him being so ultra-ultra.’ Troy absorbed details slowly and carefully then said, with a wink in his voice, ‘Maybe he picked her up at that new club. It’s not far from where he seems to have parked.’

‘What new club?’ Barnaby got up to read over his sergeant’s shoulder.

‘Latimer Road. The girls wear long ears and fluffy tails.’

‘Bit old-fashioned.’

‘Called “The Buck Stops Here”.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Straight up.’

‘I’ll bet they are.’ Barnaby laughed, checked the screen again and said, ‘Odd.’

‘What’s that, chief?’

‘He finds the car missing at ten p.m. and phones to report it at ten thirty.’

‘So?’

‘Silver Street, where he left it, is all of two minutes from the station. Why not go straight there? For all he knew it had only that second been nicked. Half an hour could have made all the difference.’

‘Maybe he was walking around looking for it.’

‘No time. Finding a cab, being driven home, which is where’ - Barnaby pointed to the dazzling emerald letters - ‘he said he was calling from, would take all of half an hour.’

Troy frowned and was plainly uncomfortable. Ten years in the force and he was still ill at ease when faced with unpredictable behaviour. Villainy, aggression, out-and-out lies, nil problemo. Routine. But when people did not do the obviously sensible thing that any given set of circumstances logically dictated they should then the sergeant found himself on shifting sands. And he didn’t like it. Pondering at some length on the general cussedness of human nature he came round to find the chief focusing strongly in his direction.

‘You have the gift of hearing, sergeant?’

‘Far as I know, sir.’

‘Milk and no sugar.’

‘Right.’ Troy turned smoothly on his heel. ‘Then is it all right if I take five?’

‘I thought you just did.’

Barnaby turned his attention to the messages and print-outs on his desk. Like many older officers he missed the circular card indexes and regular flow of action forms through his hands. But new tricks had to be learned and there was no denying the tremendous speed and efficiency of computers. Information that might once have taken days to obtain could now be displayed on a screen in as many minutes. Only a fool would wish the clock turned back.

Thoughts about Jennings, always on a quiet, subterranean bubble, surfaced. He hoped it was not too long before the missing fish was in their net. Barnaby hoped to avoid if possible a police-would-like-to-interview press release. And not only because any advantage of surprise would then be lost. A hell of a lot of time would also be wasted sifting the odd grain of possible fact from the outpourings of genuine nutters, self-aggrandising morons and fraudsters who liked nothing better than sending police cars, ambulances or fire engines on pointless errands of mercy.

He rustled through more flimsies. The results of the previous evening’s house to house were, as expected, of little positive use. Few people had been out and about on that filthy February night. Dun Cow habitués had either walked or driven quickly home. And the net-curtain brigade, those invaluable peepers at life’s rich pageant, seemed all to have drawn the blinds and gone to bed. Perhaps more helpful facts might be discovered today, when officers had a wider brief.

They were now moving into the evening of the second day. Still close to the beginning of the case. The time when the scene, if properly protected and assessed, was at its most fertile, most willing to yield up its secrets. Unfortunately this was also usually the time when the information needed to make sense of these secrets was simply not available.

Barnaby walked over to one of the three television sets concealed behind a plywood partition, rewound the scenes-of-crime video and pressed ‘play’. Troy turned up with the coffee just as a slow zoom brought the battered cranium of Gerald Hadleigh into focus.

‘He just didn’t know when to stop, did he?’

‘He certainly didn’t,’ said the chief inspector, taking the beaker and swallowing with some relish, for the days were long gone when such sights could put him off his victuals. ‘And I must say it makes me uneasy.’

‘How’s that, sir?’

‘Beating someone to this degree argues great calculation or great rage.’

‘I’d go for the second myself.’

‘Why?’

‘Um . . . not sure.’

Troy knew that this would not be considered an acceptable response and he was right. To say, truthfully, that he spoke from a gut feeling would also not be acceptable. Not that the chief didn’t have gut feelings but, in his case, they were called perceptions and treated with cautious respect. When Troy had perceptions he was told he was being sloppy-minded and to think things through. So now he thought, quite hard, eventually coming up with:

‘I suppose the only reason I can think of for a calculated battering is to conceal identity. And we know that wasn’t the case here.’

‘But, assuming pro tem it’s Jennings we’re after, he didn’t appear angry when St John saw him through the kitchen window.’

‘Rows can blow up in seconds. Had one this morning on my way out.’ Troy’s eyes narrowed at the recollection. ‘Halfway through the door when she started—’

‘Let’s stick to the point. I get the feeling,’ continued Barnaby, ‘that Hadleigh wasn’t so much physically as emotionally afraid of this man. That he dreaded, perhaps, being compelled to relive painful memories.’

Troy would have loved to ask on what his superior officer based this ‘feeling’ and if it might not perhaps be a good idea if he thought the matter logically through. And wondered if the day would ever come when he would be brave enough to put this observation into words. Dream on, Gavin. He said:

‘So what if such a thing actually came about, chief. Jennings putting Hadleigh through it - taunting him about the old days and that - Hadleigh becomes enraged, picks up the candlestick and goes for him. Jennings turns the tables in self-defence.’

‘Which makes the murder unpremeditated.’

‘Right.’

‘So where does Jennings’ clearly preplanned escape scheme come in? And where was this taunting supposed to be going on?’

‘Could have been anywhere.’

‘Hadleigh was killed upstairs.’

‘But if they were arguing and one stormed off the other would follow. Rows go from room to room. Or say Hadleigh went up to get his keys to lock up once Jennings had left when the bloke happened to be using the bathroom.’

‘Won’t work. Hadleigh was undressed.’

‘OK. So maybe this “past” involved a touch of the other.’ Here Troy dropped his wrist in an insultingly coy gesture. ‘And they were going to have a final bash for old times’ sake.’

‘And what evidence do you base that notion on?’ Barnaby watched Troy’s jaw tighten in mulish resentment as he stared sullenly at his gleaming boots. ‘I’m not trying to catch you out, sergeant.’

‘No, sir.’ Not much.

‘But it’s important not to come to over-quick decisions. Also to hold any theories lightly. Especially one that you’ve set your heart on.’

Troy did not reply, but the curve of his mouth hardened.

‘You must learn to argue against yourself. If you’re right it can only make your case stronger. If you’re wrong it can stop you looking foolish later on.’

‘Yes.’ Troy looked up and his expression lightened. ‘I know that really, but with Jennings . . . You must admit it does look completely open and shut.’

‘And the chances are it is,’ replied the chief inspector. ‘But I’m always wary of anything handed to me on a plate. What do we keep, sergeant?’

‘Our options open.’ Troy tried to look respectful and only succeeded in looking desperate for a fag.

‘The outdoor lot all back?’

‘Bar Flash Harry and partner. And they’re on their way.’

‘Inspector Meredith to you, sergeant.’

‘I’ll try to remember,’ said Troy, grinning. ‘Sir.’

‘Debriefing in half an hour then.’

 

Rex sat in front of his bureau looking down into the open space where his iron rations had been. Crisps, biscuits (sweet and savoury), chocolate, boiled sweets, pickled onions - he had devoured them all. Well, Montcalm had helped.

There were three tubes of Smarties left. Rex prised out the little white plastic disc with a yellow, horny nail. The dog’s drooling jaws gaped wide. Rex poured the sweets in. The jaws closed. A single incisive mashing was followed by a noisy swallow and they were open again. It really was extraordinary. Like standing by a factory bench feeding a machine. Open, crunch, gulp, close. Open, crunch, gulp, close. Open . . .