“He’ll have scarpered by now if that’s his intention.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And we’ll only get one version of the truth there. I’d like to have something to compare it with.” Barnaby heaved himself up from the much stained wooden bench. It was one of two bolted to either side of the table and he had to scramble awkwardly backwards, being unable to move it aside. His temper was not improved by the discovery that he had a piece of chewing gum stuck to his trousers.
Sergeant Troy climbed into the driving seat and opened all the windows. “It’ll cool down once we get going.”
“God, I hope so.” Barnaby got Directory Enquiries on his mobile and asked for Penstemon’s number. He rang it and told reception he would like to come over and talk to someone about Alan Hollingsworth.
“I’m afraid Mr. Hollingsworth isn’t in at the moment.” The young, slightly shrill female voice added, with breathtaking understatement, “He’s not very well.”
Though the police had, as yet, given out no official statement regarding the tragedy at Nightingales, Barnaby was surprised no one at Fawcett Green had thought to inform his office.
Speaking as he thought gently, he informed the girl in reception just how very unwell Alan Hollingsworth presently was. There was a lengthy pause, a sharp cry then a thud, as of a heavy object hitting something soft.
Listening, the Chief Inspector heard a confused hum of sound. Questioning voices were raised. Someone started to laugh in a high-pitched manner. The line went dead.
The company turned out to be based on one of those very large industrial estates which spawn on the outskirts of country towns. This one was about seven miles from Amersham.
Although, eventually, someone had given them precise instructions which Troy had carefully written down, he now found himself passing Texas Homecare and Allied Carpets for the third time. Previously he had come to a dead end in a builders’ merchant’s timber yard. There had been no verbal rebuke but the chief had started to drum his fingers on the rim of the wound-down window and glare about him.
Troy drove slowly, leaning into the windscreen, looking from left to right. It wasn’t like finding MFI or Do It All which were not only hugely visible but had their own flags. Penstemon would no doubt be some little prefabricated Portakabin well off the main circuit. The heat from the windscreen was burning his forehead.
“Stop!”
“Sir?”
“There’s a signpost.”
Troy, who had already spotted the signpost, murmured, “Well, I never,” and drove as close to it as he was able. Penstemon was back the way they’d just come. Barnaby sighed and rapped rather more firmly. Troy reversed and a few minutes later spotted the long, low building. It, too, was displaying an emblem. An azure blue flower on a yellow background. The flag was flying at half mast.
The reception area was boringly conventional. Tubular steel furniture, low tables holding neat stacks of technical journals and a great many artificial plants emerging from pots of simulated earth. On the hessian walls were mounted several brilliantly luminous computer graphics in brushed aluminium frames.
As Troy closed the glass entrance door a young man wearing a pale, stylishly crumpled linen suit came forward to greet them.
“You’re the police?” He barely glanced at the warrant cards. “What absolutely terrible news. Verity’s lying down,” he added, as if they had asked for her by name. “She’s the person usually on reception. I’m Clive Merriman.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Mr. Merriman.” Barnaby undid his jacket the better to revel in the air conditioning. “Do you think we might have a word with whoever has been in charge during Alan Hollingsworth’s absence?”
“That’s our accountant, Ted Burbage. I told him you’d be coming.”
Mr. Burbage’s office was not far. In fact nothing was. They passed only three other rooms. One held several people sitting at keyboards. The second held several monitors and had Alan Hollingsworth’s name in gilded letters on the door. The third was labelled “loos, mail® femail.”
“Causton CID?” Mr. Burbage, a man not so much deeply tanned as caramelised, was giving Barnaby’s card a much closer inspection. “What on earth’s going on? Is it something to do with Alan?”
“That’s right, Mr. Burbage.”
“Sorry, please sit down.” Then, as the two policemen did so, “Will this take long?”
“Hard to say, sir.”
“Better sort out some tea, Clive. Or,” he looked inquiringly across the room, “perhaps you’d rather have something cooler? We have a Coke machine.”
“That would really hit the spot. Thanks very much.”
After the cold drinks had turned up and instructions given for his calls to be held, the accountant got up from his chair and stood facing his visitors. There was something rather defensive about the movement. And about the way he leaned forward, balanced by fingertips resting on the edge of his desk. He looked a bit like a goalie bracing himself for a deceitful kick from a sharp left-winger.
“So.” A deep breath. “Found dead was all we could get out of Verity. Once we’d brought her round, of course.”
“Mr. Hollingsworth’s body was discovered mid-morning yesterday but we think he died late Monday evening.”
“Good God.”
“An overdose.”
“Suicide?” It was one long groan. He put his head in his hands. The burnished bald spot glowed less emphatically. “The insurance’ll never pay out. God, what a mess.”
“There’ll be an inquest when our preliminary inquiries are complete, Mr. Burbage. I should wait for the coroner’s verdict before rushing to conclusions.”
“There are several full-time workers here, you know.” Burbage had rushed on well before the Chief Inspector finished speaking. “People with mortgages, families, dependants. What is going to happen to us if the business folds?”
This lack of distress at an employer’s demise was to be found in all the interviews carried out at Penstemon. Alan Hollingsworth, while not actually disliked, certainly did not seem to evoke much warmth of feeling amongst his staff.
A second later, when Mr. Burbage had caught up with Barnaby’s suggestion about the coroner’s verdict, an amazed questioning possessed him. The Chief Inspector wasted several minutes getting the interview back on the rails.
“I assume Mr. Hollingsworth was in touch with the office while he was away?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What reason did he give for his absence?”
“Summer flu.”
“Was that like him?”
“Absolutely not. Never had five minutes off since I’ve been here.”
“Did you speak to him yourself?”
“Naturally. There were various things to discuss. Ongoing problems.”
“Money problems?”
All expression vanished from Mr. Burbage’s cool, pale eyes. “I really couldn’t say.”
“How did he sound?”
“Not well at all. And he was also rather ... wound up. If I didn’t grasp what he was saying straightaway he started to shout, which was also unlike him. He was usually very courteous.”
“Was there anything untoward about his last day here?”
“Only that he went home early. Around five fifteen.”
“Did he say why?”
“It may have been something to do with a phone call Verity put through. She said it was from his wife.”
“I see. You appear to be a small concern,” said the Chief Inspector, looking round. “Or is this perhaps not the only branch?”
“No, Wysiwyg.” Faced with bewilderment, he elaborated. “Computer speak. What you see is what you get. As to your question ...”
Ted Burbage hesitated. Barnaby recognised the wish to be helpful struggling with the professional money man’s ingrained habit of close-mouthed caution. “Small but stable. This is a thriving time in the industry. We can’t all be Bill Gates but when the big boys thrive there’s always a nice helping of crumbs for the little boys.”