‘Obviously. And if it’s not out of line, I’d like to say you have my deepest sympathy.’
‘I know that, Jax. It means a lot having you here.’
‘For some reason unknown, Mrs Lawrence never took to me.’
‘She had - has a nervous disposition.’
‘But I’m not the sort to take offence. And I can only pray that God is on our side at this moment in time.’
‘Thank you.’
An hour or so earlier, after the person at the other end of the line had explained what had happened and Lionel had listened in thunderstruck silence, he had stood for a long while with the phone glued to his ear staring at the faded wallpaper.
Then, when the first shock had passed, he felt curiously empty. He sat down and waited to see what would happen next. What happened next was that Lionel found he very much needed to pass the information on. Any suggestion that this was nothing more than the normal human response when receiving disastrous or exciting news would have outraged him. Lionel knew himself to be purely in need of consolation and support. But where to find it?
The only person he could think of was dear Vivienne at the Caritas Trust. She had always been most simpatico on the increasingly frequent occasions when he had felt the need to unburden his heart.
Lionel dialled the number with what he was pleased to see was a very steady hand. But he had hardly begun to speak before Vivienne cut him short. She was interviewing and also had someone waiting. When Lionel suggested he should ring later, she said she would call him but not to hold his breath.
Bewildered, he hung up. So who else was there? It was a moment or two before he thought of Jax largely because, in his understanding of their relationship, he himself was always firmly cast in the role of comforter. But he had nothing to lose by asking. Jax might even welcome the opportunity to repay some of the kindness he had been shown.
And so it proved to be. He had rushed over within minutes, bringing a bottle. Lionel had been so grateful he had not demurred when Jax opened the red wine straightaway and insisted that he drink some. And Jax, ‘as this is rather an unusual occasion’, agreed to join him. Now the bottle was nearly empty.
‘This is really delicious.’ Lionel drained his third glass, not noticing that Jax’s remained almost untouched. ‘It certainly seems to take the edge off the pain.’
‘Mr Fainlight gave it me,’ said Jax. ‘I did a little job for him.’
Lionel looked at his watch. ‘D’you think ...’
‘It’s not vintage or nothing.’
‘Perhaps I should ring.’
‘They said they’d contact you if there was any change.’
Lionel didn’t remember that. He stared around the room, frowning. Jax crossed over, bringing his glass, to sit next to his benefactor on the sofa.
‘I can see I’m going to have to look after you, Lionel.’
‘Oh, Jax.’
‘Just till Mrs Lawrence gets better.’ Jackson hesitated. ‘Perhaps I should stay over here tonight.’
‘Oh, would you? I get so lonely sometimes.’
‘I’ve noticed that, Lionel. And many’s the time I’ve wanted to make an overture of friendship, believe you me. Just been afraid to overstep the mark.’
‘I don’t know how to express my gratitude.’
Jackson prided himself on his sense of timing. There would be a moment to suggest how Lionel could best express his gratitude but this was not it; it was too soon after the sad event and the Rev was more than a little swacked. It was not drunken promises that Jackson was after. Such promises frequently did not survive the harsh scrutiny of the morning after. Thankfulness recollected in sober tranquillity was the ultimate aim.
Lionel’s glass once more being empty, Jackson offered to exchange it for his own, even going as far as to place it in Lionel’s hand. He curled the limp fingers round the stem and his eyes shone with encouragement and approval.
The doorbell rang. Lionel gave a great jump and his wine went everywhere. Jackson stepped back, his expression one of controlled rage, and left the room.
Even in his present state Lionel recognised the two men Jackson showed in. He struggled to get up, making indignant incomprehensible gurgles. Reeled, steadied himself with one hand.
‘Mr Lawrence?’ Barnaby stared in amazement.
‘He does live here,’ said Jackson.
Barnaby, who had only rung the main house bell after getting no joy at the garage, said, ‘Why aren’t you at the hospital, sir?’
‘What ... what?’
‘Haven’t you heard from Stoke Mandeville?’
‘Yes ... that is ...’ He turned to Jackson.
‘They said Mrs L was unconscious.’ Jackson spoke directly to Barnaby. ‘And that they’d ring if there was any change. If there is, naturally he’ll be straight down there.’
The patronising scorn with which he spoke was deeply disturbing. As was Lionel’s attitude. A dishevelled, shambolic figure covered in stains that looked appallingly like blood, he sat beaming at Jackson, nodding eagerly at everything he said.
‘Anyway,’ Barnaby made no effort to conceal his contempt, ‘it’s you I’m here to see, Jackson.’
‘Anything, Inspector. You’ve only got to ask.’
‘How are you on a bike?’
‘Never tried it. I went straight from skateboarding to TDA. Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘We’re asking for your clothes. Top layer, underwear, socks, shoes. Contents of pockets. The lot.’
‘That’s fetishism, that is.’
‘Just get on with it.’ Barnaby seemed to have endless patience.
‘You mean ...’ Jackson touched the edge of a beautiful leather jacket. ‘These clothes?’
‘If those are what you were wearing at three o’clock this afternoon,’ said Barnaby, ‘yes.’
‘I’ve told you earlier, I were gardening this afternoon. You don’t think I’d do a dirty job in clobber like this.’
‘So we’ll have the clobber you did do the job in,’ said Sergeant Troy. He was taking a leaf out of the chief’s book and speaking calmly and quietly. What he really wanted to do was run across the room, get his hands round the fucker’s throat and squeeze till moisture showered from his baby blues like rain.
‘It’s in the flat, Inspector.’
‘So get it,’ said Barnaby. ‘And stop calling me Inspector.’
‘No problem,’ said Jackson, strolling towards the door. ‘The cycle should be through by now.’
‘The what?’
‘The wash cycle. After I’d finished work I put everything in the machine. Like I say, it was a dirty job.’
Barnaby was twenty minutes late for his seven o’clock briefing and arrived flushed with annoyance after a wrangle with the money men on the top floor. The incident room was bristling with people lively and animated on two counts. First, the situation, which had appeared to be in grave danger of becoming totally moribund, had now taken a totally unexpected and dramatic turn. Secondly, the tape had arrived. Everyone had heard it except the chief and his bagman. Inspector Carter waited till they were seated, wound back and pressed Play.
The moment she spoke Barnaby knew who it was.
‘... help ... you must help ... me ... someone has fallen—no, no, into the water ... the river ... she disappeared so fast ... just swept ... I ran up and down ... all the way to the weir ... What? Oh, Ferne Basset ... I don’t know, half an hour, maybe less ... For God’s sake! Does it matter when? Just come, you must come now ...’
When asked for her name, the woman caught her breath. There was a moment of absolute silence then the receiver fell. They could all hear it, clattering and banging against the side of the box. Then she started to cry. Just over a minute later the phone was placed very gently back on the rest.