“She seemed very distressed, I thought.”
“Rosa could always weep to order.”
“In fact,” insinuated the chief inspector, “far more so than the present incumbent.”
“Ah.” In an ecstasy of enlightenment Harold slapped himself about the jowls like S. Z. (Cuddles) Sakall. “In other words, cherchez la femme. Could be, could be. He was the sort to make enemies, mind you. Selfish to the core.”
Barnaby had always believed it was possible to judge the love and respect in which the newly deceased was held by the width of the gap between the immediate, almost inevitable reaction of shock and distress (even if only on the “every man’s death diminishes me” principle) and the point at which the dead party’s failings could be discussed with something approaching relish. In Esslyn Carmichael’s case, the gap was so narrow it would hardly have accommodated one of Riley’s whiskers.
“But in spite of that, you got on with him?”
“I get on with everyone, Tom.”
“Personally and professionally?”
“They’re intertwined. Esslyn didn’t always accept my suggestions easily, but there was never any question of compromise. There can only be one leader.”
Harold’s disdain for accurate introspection and his air-brushed memory were certainly working overtime tonight, observed Barnaby. Or perhaps he genuinely believed that Esslyn had dutifully carried out the instruction of his imperator—which argued a hazy grip on reality, to say the least.
“Returning to the question of motive, you have to remember,” continued Harold, borrowing the obituarist’s subtle shorthand when describing arrogant insensitives, “that he didn’t suffer fools gladly. But then”—a smug smile peeped through the silvery boscage—“neither do I.” When Harold had been dismissed and left, apparently without noticing that he had neither given an overview nor pulled any threads together, Barnaby returned to the now scrupulously investigated and empty wings and took the reel of tape from a box on Deidre’s table. He wound it twice around the handle of her microphone, then removed it by slicing it through with a Stanley knife. He gave it to Troy. “Chuck that down the toilet.” Then he stood listening to the repeated flushings and gushings till his sergeant returned.
“Can’t be done, chief.”
“Tried the ladies’ as well?”
“And upstairs. And the disabled.”
“Well, the search proved none of them were concealing it. Scenes of crime didn’t turn it up. So …”
“Out the window?”
“Right. And with this wind and rain, it could be halfway to Uxbridge by now. Still, we might be lucky. It could’ve caught up somewhere. Have a look in the morning. I’ve had enough for one night.”
As they made their way up through the deserted auditorium, Troy said, “Why did you leave him till last, sir? Old fat ’n’ hairy?”
“I don’t like the way he speaks to people.” Then, when Troy still looked inquiring: “He thinks everyone’s there to do his bidding. Takes them for granted, gives them no thanks, and talks to them like dirt. I didn’t think it would do him any harm to be at the end of the queue for once. ” “Think it’ll do him any good?”
“No. Too far gone.”
“I think he’s round the twist.”
“All theatricals are round the twist, Troy,” said Barnaby, tugging at the doors that led to the foyer. “If they weren’t, they’d get out of the business and into real estate.”
It seemed to take forever for Mr. Tibbs to be seen by all the people who had to have a look at him. Deidre gave the few details that were to be entered on his admission card, and was then told to wait in reception. She had been there over an hour when a nurse came and said she could see her father for a sec just to say good night.
Mr. Tibbs lay, neatly swaddled, in the iron rectangle of his hospital bed. He did not respond to her greeting, but stared straight ahead humming something atonal. His cheeks were flushed bright red.
“Nurse!” called Deidre, anxiety overcoming her innate wish not to be any trouble. “I think he’s got a fever.”
“We’ve given him something for that. He’ll be asleep soon.”
The nurse bustled up with a steel bedpan and started drawing the curtains of the bed next door. “You’ll have to go now.”
“Oh.” Deidre backed away. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll ring in the morning.”
“Make it latish. The rounds will be over then, and we can tell you how he’s been and where he’s going.”
“Won’t he stay here then?”
“No. This is just emergency admissions.”
“I see … well … good night then,” said Deidre to some orange folds of fabric. “And thank you.”
After a final look at her father, who already seemed to be part of another world, Deidre drifted back to the reception area. A young man was in the middle of a conversation, phone clamped to his ear supported by his shoulder. He said “Just a sec” to Deidre and went on talking. “Don’t talk to me about Miss Never on Sunday,” he said. “I saw her in the Boltons last night and she spent every other second in the john.” He listened for a moment, sucking his cheeks. “If promises were piecrusts, dear, she’d be in crumbs up to her armpits.” He was very dark. Deidre wondered if he could possibly be Italian. After he had hung up, she explained that she was now ready to go home.
“No can do, I’m afraid. Transport’s for emergencies only.”
“B … b … but …” Deidre stammered in her distress. “I live miles away.”
“That’s as may be, love. What would we do if there was a pileup on the motorway and you were out joyriding in the ambulance?”
“You’ve got more than one, surely …”
“Sorry. Those are the rules.”
Deidre stared blankly at him. In the close, hot air of the vestibule, her still-damp clothes started to steam. She was swaying from exhaustion. Now that her father was being safely cared for, all her emotions—fear, love, terror, despair-tumbled away. She was benumbed almost to the point of nonexistence.
“The buses start up at seven … you could have a little shut-eye.” He felt sorry for her, no doubt about that. She looked really zonked out. “If it was up to me, dear …” He always said that, it made them feel better. Made him feel better, too, come to that. “Or I could call you a taxi.”
“A taxi.” It wasn’t a question. She just repeated it like a child learning a lesson. Deidre struggled to think. The machinery of memory, like all her other psychological and physiological functions, seemed to have ground to a halt. A taxi meant money. She put her hands carefully into each of her pockets. She had no money. With great effort she forced herself to print a memory on the blank screen of her mind. She saw herself running from the Latimer. She was wearing her coat, and her hands were empty. That meant her bag must still be at the theater. So (her brows fretted with the effort of working out the next step) if she took a cab there, the driver could wait while she picked up her bag, then she could pay him and he could drive her home. Deidre, her face gray with exhaustion, labored over the details of this simple plan but could find no flaw.
“Yes,” she said. “A taxi.”
“Be double time,” said reception, cheerfully dialing. “After twelve, you see.”
Deidre declined the offer to relax on a settee while she was waiting, feeling that once she sat down, she would simply keel over and never get up. As it was, she could not understand how her legs supported her body. They felt as if they were made of broken pieces of china insecurely glued together. The car came almost immediately. The driver, a middle-aged man, regarded Deidre with some alarm.
And indeed she was an alarming sight. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes—dull and staring—were black-ringed. Her damp clothes showed patches of mud, and somewhere during the course of the evening she had lost a shoe. She was also (the cabbie could not help noticing) minus a handbag. This fact, combined with her bizarre appearance—he had already decided she was some sort of hippie—gave rise to the quite natural apprehension that his fare might not be forthcoming. Once reassured on this point, he offered his arm, which she did not ignore as much as not seem to see, and they left the building together.