‘Poor Ma.’ She shook her head in what looked to Joyce very much like mock sympathy. ‘Pig in the middle. Again.’ And turned away. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’
‘What are you doing this morning?’ Joyce, trying to prolong the moment of closeness, knowing it had already gone for good.
‘Going to see Deirdre’s baby.’ The slender brown pinktoenailed feet tripped upstairs. ‘Then I’m meeting Nico at Uxbridge tube. We’ll be back by four to give you a hand.’
Joyce imagined the hand. She shouted over the sound of running water: ‘You’d better bring some stuff from Sainsbury’s. All we’ve got so far is eight tarragon eggs and a few ground-up cardamom seeds.’
‘Kay.’
Wisps of carnation-scented steam floated down as Cully shook some Floris Malmaison into the water. Joyce picked up the newspaper and started to clear the table. As she broke up left-over toast for the birds, she played back Cully’s graceful flight across the tiled floor. Recalled the skilful gathering of the heavy robe, the sinuously twining arms around her neck, the elegant half-turn of the head, the melting affectionate kiss and smooth backward dance of her retreat. From start to finish it seemed to Joyce there had been no more than one single continuous flowing movement. She and Tom had gradually and painfully realised that they were never sure when their daughter was acting and when she just was. It could be very disconcerting. Joyce felt briefly sorry for Nicholas until she remembered that he was even worse.
Mid morning. Barnaby sat hunched over his desk, a large fan cooling one side of his face, the other trickling with sweat. The dailies were scattered all over, weighted down against the artificial breeze. Only the tabloids still featured the story on their front pages and only the Daily Pitch made it their main headline. DID YOGI’S KILLER COME FROM VENUS? Heather, memorably unkempt, had made the front page.
Barnaby’s door was wide open and showed a scene of orderly activity. Forms and more forms, photographs and reports. And dazzling green-lettered screens with yet more information. Plus of course the phones, which never seemed to stop.
Many callers offered ‘vital information’ about, or even solutions to, the crime at the Golden Windhorse. It took more than the fact that a murder was domestic and had taken place in a tightly enclosed environment to stop the great British public sticking its oar in. One anonymous caller had got through at five a.m. to describe a vision wherein the ghost of Arthur Craigie had appeared before him in chains, declaring that his spirit would never be at rest until all the coloureds in his beloved homeland had been returned to their natural habitat. The man had added, ‘That’s tropical climes to you and me, John,’ before hanging up.
But much of the information was official and a great clearer of the air: George Bullard rang to say that Jim Carter was probably prescribed Metranidozole and would indeed have been very unwise to imbibe alcohol whilst taking it; following permission from Arno Gibbs, Mr Clinch had agreed to reveal the contents of Arthur Craigie’s Will; the real Christopher Wainwright had been raised at White City Television Centre and had verified Andrew Carter’s description of their schooldays at Stowe, meeting for drinks in Jermyn Street and subsequent lunch at Simpson’s. The only point at which their stories diverged was that Wainwright seemed genuinely to have lost his wallet. He had said, ‘Andy paid for lunch,’ sounding quite chuffed.
Noleen, Andrew Carter’s bedsitting neighbour at Earl’s Court, had also confirmed that they were having breakfast for a good half of the morning on which his uncle died. Barnaby had not seriously thought the boy was involved, but it was not entirely unknown for a guilty person to put up an elaborate smokescreen of pretend-investigation to cover their tracks. Barnaby had been less successful so far concerning Andrew’s activities on Blackpool’s Golden Mile, but out there in the hive someone would be working on it.
Whether there was a link between the two cases was, at the moment, quite unclear although it was temptingly easy to start guessing. Sticking to facts, however, the only certainties were that Carter had made a discovery (‘Andy - something terrible has happened ...’) and had shortly afterwards fallen or been pushed down the stairs. And that two months later Craigie had been murdered. The Master may or may not have been involved in the first death - Miss Cuttle had been unsure to whom the emotion-choked voice fearing a post mortem belonged. Assuming it was not Craigie’s had he, in his turn, discovered the something terrible and likewise been despatched?
If so, that let out the Gamelin bequest, for Sylvie had told the chief inspector at her interview that she had not suggested it to the Master until the week before her birthday. And that neither of them had mentioned it to anyone else. Until Guy, of course, and that on the evening of the murder. Barnaby looked down at his pad. He often doodled as he thought, plants usually. Ferns, flowers, delicately detailed leaves. He had drawn the sharp spears and the curled-back veiny petals of the iris sibirica: the poor man’s orchid.
‘Trust’ was written several times in the margin. The word had been floating repeatedly to the surface of his mind as if asking to be paid attention to. It was a constant irritation, for Barnaby presumed he knew all there was to know about Sylvia’s trust fund. How much it was, her determination to offload it, her father’s determination that she should not, Craigie’s feigned (according to Gamelin) refusal to accept. The chief inspector drew a thick, cross line down the margin, tore off the sheet and threw it in the bin. The word floated up again. So ...
What about alternative meanings? Trust as in be certain of, or have faith or belief in. Trust as in lack of, falsely placed or betrayed. Certainly the last was the very essence of a con man’s art. Barnaby ferreted away at this notion. Had Craigie been murdered by an acolyte who had discovered his true nature and felt betrayed? Or by some enraged victim of a previously successful scam? One of the time share losers, perhaps waiting patiently till his predator should be released. Most of them could doubtless be traced. But surely Craigie would know whoever it was, and be on his guard?
Troy came in with the lab report. He was wearing his usual tight trousers, a beautifully ironed, crisp white shirt buttoned right up, despite the heat of the day, and a narrow discreetly patterned tie. Barnaby rarely met his sergeant off duty so had no idea how formal the rest of his wardrobe might be, but at the station he never rolled his sleeves up or wore a casual shirt. Audrey had been heard to say this was because he had no hair on his chest.
Barnaby thought the reason for this sartorial swaddling was rather more complex. It was all of a piece with the sergeant’s meticulous reports and scrupulously tidy working area. The second thing Troy would do when entering the office, after putting his jacket on a hanger and before calling for coffee, was to align the wire-meshed trays on his desk with the edge and twitch any disorderly bits of paper into a neat stack. Sometimes he would rub at a barely visible stain with his handkerchief.
It hardly needed a professional analyst to deduce that this was all about control. About the constant vigilance needed to keep disorder at bay. A bit glib, perhaps, to assume this behaviour to be the outward manifestation of a million inward seething resentments. A touch of the Windhorse pop psychology there. Heavens, thought Barnaby, I’ll be counselling him next. He held out his hand for the expected confirmation that the shreds of canvas from Suhami’s bag were identical to the filament caught up on the murder weapon.