“A week?”
“With some story about the tablets disappearing, just vanished out of the bathroom cabinet, I didn’t accept that for a minute.”
“What did you think had happened?”
“To be honest I was afraid she was on the verge of doing something silly and wanted another bottle to make sure she made a proper job of it.”
“So you refused to give her another prescription?”
“That’s right. She became very distressed. Started to cry. I must say I did wonder then, briefly, if she might be telling the truth. Working on this principle I gave her half a dozen low dosage tranquillisers just to tide her over. Also the phone number of the Samaritans. And Relate.”
“What’s that?”
“Marriage guidance, as used to be. I urged her to discuss her problems with someone. And explained, of course, that she could always come to the surgery and talk to me.”
Barnaby, pausing briefly to wonder at the fact that a doctor still existed who encouraged his patients to simply come and talk to him, asked what happened next.
“Nothing. She went away. I never saw her again.”
“Were you surprised when she left her husband?”
“I must admit I was. I hate to use sociological jargon, Inspector, but that girl struck me from the first as a born victim. It wasn’t just that she was small and fragile, there was something so submissive about her. She was like a child on its first day at school, you know? Standing around waiting for someone to tell her what to do.”
“Was her general health reasonably sound?”
“Excellent, I assume. In fact the two visits I’ve just described were the only times she came to the surgery.”
“Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Jennings.” Barnaby got up as the doctor repacked the envelope file. “There’s just one last thing, what colour would these capsules have been?”
“The half milligram?” He looked both interested and puzzled. “Turquoise and yellow. Why do you ask?”
“Just general background.”
“I don’t see, if he committed suicide, what difference—”
But he was talking to space. A further courteous murmur of thanks and the Chief Inspector had departed.
Down the lane things were now a bit more orderly. SOCO were working entirely inside so there was not a lot to see. Quite a few people had given up and those that were left looked as if they were in half a mind to.
Perrot, his face grey with misery which he was plainly only just managing to control, stood just inside the wrought-iron gates. He sprang to open them as the Chief Inspector approached. Glancing at the constable’s frozen features, Barnaby was surprised to see such absolute despair. If Perrot had taken a minor dressing down this much to heart, how the hell was he ever going to cope if he found himself in real trouble?
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, sir. Thank you.”
“You look like a dying duck in a thunderstorm.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Out with it, man.” Silence. “D’you think I’ve got all bloody day to hang about?”
“No, Chief Inspector.” Perrot came out with it. How Hollingsworth had been alive all the time he, the not merely foolish but criminally negligent Perrot, had been standing on the front doorstep. How the man’s life might have been saved if only.
“You’ve been misinformed Constable.” No need to ask who had delivered the good news. “He died Monday night.”
“Ohhh!” cried Perrot. “But ...”
An expression of utter disbelief rinsed the misery from the policeman’s features. Disbelief, Barnaby suspected, not so much at this new piece of information but at the discovery that such deliberate malice could be directed against him by one supposedly on his own side. It was a wicked old life, thought the Chief Inspector, and no mistake.
Troy was standing just outside the newly secured French windows, smoking. Inside, two people wearing transparent overalls and boots were about their business. The boots were like old-fashioned galoshes, the front flap folded over and fastened with poppers down the side. The air was close and smelt rather metallic.
One of the officers, a woman, was new to Barnaby. She was tweezering something from the rug where Hollingsworth had, presumably, breathed his last. As Barnaby watched, she slipped it into a clear plastic sachet with a tag already attached.
Aubrey Marine, twenty years in the business, having run a hand-held Hoover up and down every fold of the apricot velvet curtains, was now starting on the lining. He called out, “Hullo, Tom. Here we are again.”
“How’s it going?”
“No startling surprises, as yet. We looking for anything special?”
“One or perhaps two small prescription bottles labelled Simone Hollingsworth, probably empty. And thirty or so turquoise and yellow capsule casings, also empty.”
“How do you ...” Aubrey pondered briefly then said, “Ah, with you. Those torpedo-shaped things you can pull apart.”
“That’s it.”
“Not like you to invite us to a suicide’s party.”
“I’m not at all sure it is.”
“Farewell note says you’re wrong.”
“What?”
“Goodbye, cruel world,” moaned Aubrey. “First on the left on the landing.”
“Bugger!”
Barnaby jerked his thumb at Sergeant Troy. The two ascended the stairs avoiding the banister which was already thickly coated with aluminium powder. Troy, neurotically averse to the slightest smudge or stain either on his person or raiment, was excessively painstaking.
The room in question was small, awash with bright white light and crammed with electronic equipment. All the machinery was plugged in and gently humming to itself. Every screen but one was blank. On this, even beneath the silvery bloom of SOCO’s dust, emerald letters gleamed. The photographer from yesterday, now wearing a Blur/ Parklife T-shirt, tattered white shorts and the same filthy shoes, bent over the keyboard. A middle-aged woman, removing soft brushes from a steel case, addressed Barnaby.
“We’re having to settle for pictures here, as you can see.” She sounded cheerful and friendly and appeared to think such information would be a delightful surprise. “Blow them up nice and big and we should get some good results.”
“Not much use in evidence.” Barnaby was surly and morose.
“Best we can do, I’m afraid. The computer keys are quite deeply indented so there’s no way we could lift a clear print with tape. It would just pleat and tucker.”
“I have attended a scenes of crime investigation before, thank you.”
The woman flushed, snapped her case shut and left, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll come back later, Barry. When the room is free.”
Barry winked at the two policemen then hefted himself and his tripod to one side so they could read Alan Hollingsworth’s final message.
To whom it may concern. I can no longer bear to go on living and plan to take my own life. I am of sound mind and fully aware of my actions.
Alan Hollingsworth.
Staring uncertainly at the screen, Barnaby silently ran through every expletive and curse with which he was familiar then invented several more.
Troy, well experienced in assessing his chief’s moods, saw that matters were presently in a state of flux. Could swing either way, as the man said when asked for his views on capital punishment.
“What’s wrong with a pen and notepad all of a sudden?”
“They don’t agree with paper. Cyber freaks.” Troy spoke with feeling and some distaste. His cousin Colin, who jeered at everything the police held most dear, was heavily into what he called “Surfing the Net, flamming and spamming.” Tactically excluded by such specialist lingo, Troy reacted by murmuring “Pathetic,” sighing with boredom, looking constantly at his watch and telling Col to get a life.