‘No.’ She did not elaborate. Just carried on sipping.
‘When do you expect him back, Mrs Jennings?’ Troy’s excitement subsided as he noticed the neat roll of fat around his goddess’s middle and those tired, knowledgeable eyes.
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’
‘Perhaps you could tell us what time he arrived home last night?’
‘Took three dream-easies. Wouldn’t know if the end of the world arrived last night.’
‘This meeting he attended - at Midsomer Worthy?’ She didn’t reply. Just peered at Barnaby intently as if he was slowly becoming invisible. ‘Had he discussed it with you at all?’
‘No.’ She trowelled in more icy slush, drowned it in Beefeaters, gave it a mere flirtation with the plastic lemon. Glug-glug-glug.
‘It didn’t, did it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Turn up last night.’
‘What’s that, Mrs Jennings?’
‘The end of the world.’
‘No.’
‘Just my fucking luck.’
‘Any idea where we might catch up with your husband?’ said Troy. She didn’t seem to understand the question at all. Impatience followed disenchantment. He said, extra loudly, ‘Where has he gone?’
‘Finland.’
‘Finland!’
‘Signing books.’
‘How long for?’
‘Ask his so-called secretary. Bouncing Barbara. They’re thick as thieves.’
‘Do you know what time he left?’
‘Better talk to Stavros. He runs everything. Hot breakfasts, nice clean clothes, perfect pool maintenance. Pity he’s such a rotten lay.’
She presented her back to them. Barnaby thanked her, turned on his heel (snapping the head off a crimson blossom) and withdrew.
‘No wonder he’s shoved off,’ said Troy as they went to look for the butler. The sergeant had no time for neurotic women. To be fair he had no time for neurotic men either. Troy liked people to be simple and uncomplicated, which was how he saw himself.
‘That sort of caper though’ - he meant the book signing - ‘funny way to do a runner. A bit high profile isn’t it?’
‘Well at least he’s gone somewhere we can extradite him.’ Sweat was pouring down Barnaby’s face. His clothes were sticking to his skin. ‘God I’m glad to get out of that swamp.’
They found the butler in the kitchen, an area so dazzlingly comprehensive in its display of unusual and inventive equipment that it was hard to believe the place existed merely for the preparation of food. Stavros was sitting at a stainless steel table reading Taxythromos.
‘Mr Stavros?’ said Troy.
‘Stavro.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I am Stavros Stavro.’
‘Oh. Right. Well Mr Stavro, we’d like a word.’
‘I am all legal.’ The Greek got hurriedly to his feet, folding up his magazine. ‘Visa, papers, everything, for six months. I show you—’ He started to leave in some agitation.
‘Nothing to do with that,’ said Barnaby. ‘Just a few questions about Mr Jennings. For instance, were you around when he got home last night?’
‘I always wait up. The gates are opened from inside.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘About one o’clock.’
‘And what sort of spirits would you say he was in?’ Stavros looked puzzled. ‘Happy? Sad?’
‘Ah - sad, yes. Quite and sad.’
‘Did he say anything about the evening? How it had all gone?’
Stavros shook his head. ‘We don’t talk like ... like ...’
‘Friends?’ suggested Troy.
‘Neh - e filos, friend. He just say the time to be called, then go to bed.’
‘What sort of bloke is he? All right to work for?’ Stavros shrugged.
‘What about Mrs Jennings?’
Troy could not resist the question nor could he keep a knot of resentment from his voice. Whilst his own fancy for the lady had been fleeting, to say the least, he loathed the thought of this oily little tosser getting his end away between those cinnamon loins. He said:
‘Tell us about this morning, Mr Stavro.’
‘What about?’
‘All about.’
‘I wake Mr Jennings, six half with tea and run the bath. Then I pack for him—’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Country things, warm tops, shirts. He wear his favourite suit.’
‘That wouldn’t be the same one he had on last night by any chance?’ asked Barnaby.
‘Yes.’ Stavros looked anxious at the chief inspector’s sudden dark frown. ‘Is there a mistake?’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘Nine and a half.’
‘Did he say for where?’
‘Heathrow.’
‘And what did he actually take with him?’
‘Two big cases and a handbag.’
‘You what?’ Troy’s eyes widened with surprise.
‘Briefcase, sergeant. Don’t be obtuse.’ Barnaby was getting more bad-tempered by the minute. ‘Did Mr Jennings say when he’d be back?’
‘No. Just he would telephone.’
‘Where are the rest of the things he was wearing last night? Shirt, socks, underwear?’
‘In the machine.’
‘Washed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Then katalava ...’
Stavros was beginning to look most apprehensive.
‘Did Mr Jennings ask you to wash the things straight away?’
‘No. I always do in the morning.’
‘Was there blood on them?’ asked Troy.
‘Blood! Mitera tou theo ...’
‘All right sir, calm down. Calm down.’ Bloody foreigners. It was like being in the middle of an opera. Any minute now it’d be ‘Nessun Dorma’ and time for the kick-off.
‘We shall need the washed clothes, Mr Stavro,’ said Barnaby. ‘Also the shoes and tie Mr Jennings wore last night if they’re available. I trust the shoes have not been cleaned.’
‘No.’ Stavros looked even more apprehensive. ‘I don’t think to get into trouble.’
‘You don’t know what trouble is, sunshine,’ said Sergeant Troy, ‘until you refuse to help the police with their enquiries.’
Troy would have liked to reassure the butler further by suggesting that a refusal to comply might well mean the precious visa being shredded and flushed down the swanny, but thought better of it. The chief was strongly against threats for the sake of threats, preferring to save them for really tight corners from whence he had been known to fire such devices with the force of a howitzer.
‘Someone will come along tomorrow from our scene-of-crime department to collect the stuff,’ he was explaining now. ‘Just point it all out to them. Don’t handle anything yourself - all right? There’s one more thing ...’
Troy took down a detailed description of Max Jennings’ Mercedes and the registration number.
Stavros saw them off the premises, perspiring with relief. As they climbed into the car he rose on the balls of his feet as if preparing for flight.
‘Imagine living in that.’ Barnaby, looking back at the house, spoke with a certain scorn. He wound the window down slightly, letting in a rush of pneumonia-bearing night air. ‘Talk about medallion man writ large.’
Not knowing what to say, for he had loved the house and everything in it, Troy shivered and kept silent.
At roughly the time that Barnaby and Troy were speeding towards Warren d’Evercy, Sue Clapton, having washed up and cleared away, was preparing the next day’s lunch boxes. Chopping celery and red cabbage for fibre, adding raisins for energy before mixing in walnuts (lineolic acid and vitamin B). Adding her own special lemon dressing in a little glass jar. Taking endless trouble as always, quite unaware that Mandy swapped the fresh salad and home-made bap each day for crisps, Coke and a Mars bar.