They got into the hall just in time to bump into the chief striding out to find them.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s a bit hectic—’
‘In here.’ Barnaby turned into the first doorway to present itself. A small octagonal room with a few hard-back chairs, some piles of sheet music and hi-fi equipment and an old Bechstein grand. Troy drifted over to the piano, produced his notebook, just in case, and rested it on the rich, mottled walnut lid.
Nearby was a silver-framed photograph of a fierce old man in a dog collar. Though almost bald, grey hair sprouted profusely from his ears and nose and he sported a fine pair of Dundrearys. He glared at the camera. His dog, a piggy-eyed bull terrier, rolled back its leathery lip presumably to free the teeth for a good nip. They looked made for each other.
‘So, Mr Lawrence. When did you last see your wife?’
‘What on earth—’
‘Answer the question, man!’
‘Mid-morning.’ Lionel gulped the words in some alarm. ‘Around eleven.’
‘Did she say what her plans were for later?’
‘Drive into Causton. I suppose she was going shopping. She didn’t say.’
‘Did you have an argument?’
‘How did—You have my assurance that our ... discussion yesterday has nothing to do with your present inquiry.’
‘Point is, sir,’ said Sergeant Troy, who had started scribbling, ‘it might help us to know what her frame of mind was.’
‘Why?’ Lionel appeared mystified. ‘How, help?’
‘I understood from you that Mrs Lawrence has never missed a Mothers’ Union meeting.’
‘There’s a first time for everything.’
‘Aren’t you worried?’
Lionel now appeared not only mystified but slightly alarmed. And Barnaby, realising that he had raised his voice, checked himself. Another decibel or two and he would have been shouting.
Lionel’s honest bewilderment pulled him back. He saw how his behaviour must appear. For the truth was he had no logical reason for feeling some harm had come to Ann Lawrence. She could have run into a friend, be choosing books at the library, trying on clothes ... No logical reason. Just the icicle slowly stirring his guts.
He tried to speak more calmly. ‘Could you tell us what time she left?’
‘I’m afraid not. I was in my study. We didn’t lunch together today.’
Blimey, must have been quite a corker, that discussion, thought Sergeant Troy. He put a question of his own, knowing the answer but hoping to stir things to good effect.
‘Would Mrs Lawrence have driven to town, sir? Or might your Mr Jackson have taken her?’
‘No.’ Sadly, Lawrence didn’t rise. ‘She liked to drive herself. Although ...’ Suddenly he could not be helpful enough. It was painfully clear that he wanted to get rid of them. ‘Jax might be able to tell you what time she left. I believe he was working on the Humber just before lunch.’
‘They talk to you?’ asked Jax. ‘The police?’
‘Yes. That is, they came round.’ Valentine was sitting on the edge of the divan. Now that the wrestling and fighting and subduing was over and blood had returned to his crushed limbs and strained muscles, all was pain and confusion. But the happiness, the dark shining, was in there somewhere.
‘About Charlie?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What sort of thing they want to know?’
‘It was Louise who saw them. I sloped off.’
‘They’ll catch up with you.’
‘We hardly knew the man.’
‘Makes no difference.’ Jax sauntered across the room and flung himself into the orange fireside chair. He spread his legs and leaned back, grinning. ‘Suppose I’d better put some clothes on.’
‘No,’ cried Val quickly. ‘Don’t, please.’
‘Ready for some more, then?’
‘It’s not that. I just like looking at you.’ He eased himself off the divan, reached down, wincing, to pick up his boxer shorts.
‘I know that shop.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Sulka. In the West End, right?’
‘Yes. Bond Street.’
‘I met this bloke got his dressing gowns there.’
‘Really?’ Valentine felt a quite different sort of pain at the thought of the unknown man. ‘If you want I’ll take you. On your next day off.’
‘No, thanks. They’re crap. I like something with a bit of style. Like that jacket you got me.’
‘Jax ...’ He hesitated, searching for the right words, desperate not to offend. ‘What are the conditions under which you have to stay here? I mean, is it for a specific time like, um ...’
‘Community service?’ The phrase was invested with scornful disgust.
‘I just hate the thought of turning up one day to find you’ve gone.’
‘I wouldn’t leave you, Val boy.’
‘Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.’ Val waited but the longed-for assurance was not forthcoming. And what would it have been worth if it had? ‘The thing is, my sister—’
‘She don’t like me.’
‘Louise is moving out. She’ll be starting work again soon and wants to be nearer town. So, if you need somewhere to stay ...’
‘Might be useful.’
‘I’d love to have you.’ Climbing into his khaki chinos, Valentine tried to sound casual even as his mind flooded with images of compelling happiness. He would cook marvellous food for himself and Jax. Play Mozart for him. And Palestrina. Read to him - Austen or Balzac. At night they would lie in each other’s arms, yellow stars shining through the glass roof, dazzling their eyes.
Jax said, ‘In an emergency.’
‘Of course.’ Valentine buttoned his shirt with stiff, clumsy fingers. ‘That’s what I meant.’ He tried to keep his eyes off Jax who was running the tip of his index finger along soft, tan-gold skin on the inside of his thighs, crinkling it gently, first one way then the other. Up and down, up and down.
‘It was lovely to hear from you.’ Val was pleased and surprised that his voice came out so smooth. He was expecting a croak. ‘Out of the blue like that.’
‘I crave it sometimes, Val. Special times. And at those times I just gotta have it - know what I mean?’
‘Christ, yes.’
‘Today was, like, one of those days.’
‘And is it something special that sets you off?’
‘It is. Always the same thing.’
‘You wouldn’t like to ... If I knew what it was, maybe—’
‘One day, Val boy.’ Jax got up then, crossed to the window and stared out. Then suddenly started to laugh.
‘Look.’ Sergeant Troy jerked his head across the drive as Barnaby closed the Old Rectory door.
‘A garage, yes. I have seen one before.’
‘No, upstairs.’
Barnaby lifted his head. Terry Jackson was standing at the window of his flat. Either he was completely nude or wearing the lowest pair of hipsters since Randolph Scott hung up his spurs.
‘Pity,’ said Troy. ‘Another couple of inches and we could have got him for indecent exposure.’
‘Sniggering bastard,’ said Barnaby and it was true the chauffeur was laughing at them. The chief inspector slowed his footsteps to a dawdle to give the man time to get his clobber on. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to open the door bollock naked.’
‘I hope not,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘We’re having toad in the hole tonight.’
Jax opened the window above their heads and called down, ‘It’s not locked.’
For the third time Barnaby made his way up the smartly carpeted stairs. He recalled his first visit which had ended in a sickening display of cringing and weeping by Jackson once his protector arrived. And the second, three days ago, when the chauffeur had been questioned about Carlotta Ryan and had nearly jumped out of his skin the moment Barnaby released the word ‘blackmail’ into the conversation.