Amy snatched at the pan just in time and made the drinks. She was tempted to a queen cake, but Honoria might have counted them, as she had the Butter Osbornes last week.
Amy’s fingers strayed to the locket with Ralph’s picture that always hung around her neck. She wished with hopeless, helpless longing that he was beside her. Then all the penny-pinching would have been merely a lark and the rambling, stone-cold barn of a house filled with warmth and light and sunshine. But Ralph lay beneath the yew trees in his grave and oh! might Amy have cried, had she been at all familiar with the phrase, the difference to me.
Barnaby once more made his way to the table at the far end of the incident room, taking all its attention with him. Those seated turned aside from their computers, rolling their heads and hunching their shoulders to relieve tension. Footsloggers perched on the ends of desks or leant against the wall, talking amongst themselves and popping cans from the automat. Inspector Meredith, sleek in his Tommy Nutter tweeds and moleskin waistcoat, had found himself a nice-looking chair and positioned it prominently.
Barnaby opened with a brief summary of the post-mortem. He then recapped on his interview with Laura as did Troy on his with Brian Clapton. Then Barnaby spoke again.
‘We had news a short time ago about Hadleigh’s car. No surprises. A straight TDA. Good and wrecked and dumped in the river. We should have the SOCO report on Plover’s Rest first thing in the morning and there’s been a fax from Jennings’ publishers, which I’ve condensed, giving details of his background. Sergeant?’
Troy cleared his throat. ‘Born and brought up in Scotland in the early fifties. State educated. Degree in eng ... um ... ing ...’
‘Eng. Lit. I think you’ll find, sergeant,’ said Meredith.
‘Yeah. Right.’ Troy’s near-transparent skin reddened. ‘From Birmingham. Returned home, got a job on the local newspaper subbing and writing features. Moved to London and wrote copy for various advertising agencies while working on his first novel, Far Away Hills. Following its success became a writer full time. Married to dancer Ava June. One child, died in infancy.’
‘No luck so far,’ Barnaby moved on quickly, seeing that Inspector Meredith was about to chime in, ‘on finding Hadleigh’s marriage certificate, will or even National Insurance number, but we have traced the estate agent who sold him the cottage and hope to have, by tomorrow, the name of the solicitor who did the conveyancing. There’s just a chance he may have handled other business for Hadleigh as well. So ...’ He stared questioningly at his outside team.
Detective Constable Willoughby, still, to everyone’s annoyance, looking as cookie crisp and fresh from the cleaner’s as he had nearly ten footslogging hours ago, spoke up.
‘This blonde Mrs Hutton mentions, sir. Doesn’t tie in at all with what we’ve been picking up—’
‘Yes. Thank you, constable,’ interrupted Inspector Meredith. After a commanding check around the room to see that all were attending, he continued, ‘I’m afraid, in spite of a most comprehensive and pertinent series of interviews, with a wide range of villagers, we’ve had more success finding out what Mr Hadleigh didn’t do than what he did. With the exception of the Writers Circle he joined in no aspect of rural life and this includes going to church. No one can recall friends staying overnight or even day visitors and the house is perfectly placed for these sorts of comings and goings to be observed. His car was serviced regularly by the Cross Keys garage at Charlecote Lucy. He paid promptly by cheque and, though civil, was never forthcoming. He didn’t use the pub but did frequent the village store. Mrs Miggs, the owner, always thought of him as an ex-military man because he sometimes wore a blue blazer with brass buttons.’
Here the humorous condescension in Inspector Meredith’s voice knew no bounds and he gave a little laugh not a million miles removed from Brian’s hyuf, hyuf, at the foibles of the ignorati.
‘Hadleigh always gave at the door, but not over-generously, although he was thought to be comfortably off. He employed a domestic help and did his own gardening. Moved into Plover’s Rest in 1983 and was thought to have been widowed not long before. The village respected his wish for privacy and, as he never did anything to draw attention to himself, seems to have more or less lost interest in him.’
Barnaby absorbed this pompously delivered deposition in impassive silence. If he was disappointed that it told him little he did not know already he gave no sign. But Inspector Meredith had still not finished.
‘During my peregrinations, Tom,’ (Tom! Troy was not alone in his pleasurable anticipation of the chief’s response to this uninvited familiarity) ‘I’ve been giving this matter of Jennings’ and Hadleigh’s previous connection considerable thought.’
‘Have you indeed, Ian,’ said Barnaby. ‘And what conclusions, if any, have you reached?’
‘What if,’ posited the inspector, ‘this past unpleasantness we’ve heard about was not some picayune little squabble but a really serious matter. Let’s say one of them had committed a criminal offence.’
‘And?’
‘And we have an excellent opportunity for blackmail.’ The ‘of course’ was silent but nonetheless perfectly audible.
‘Why wait till now?’
‘Because now Jennings is rich and successful.’
‘He’s been rich and successful for ten years.’
‘What makes you think, inspector,’ interjected Troy, ‘that it was Hadleigh who had the power to carry out blackmail?’
‘He instigated the meeting.’ By now Meredith was visibly constraining his impatience.
‘Under duress.’
‘Oh - I don’t believe that. He could have got out of sending the invitation if he’d really wanted to.’
Here Barnaby made a small rumble of assent, for the words mirrored his own opinions exactly. It had struck him from the beginning that the dead man’s feelings about the meeting must have been much more ambivalent than he had admitted to St John. Or perhaps even to himself. Meredith was off again.
‘Jennings had a hell of a lot to lose—’
‘That depends on the offence,’ said Barnaby. ‘In today’s climate almost anything except the sexual abuse of children, animals and possibly musical instruments can only increase an author’s standing. And, presumably, his sales.’
‘So you think,’ Troy asked Inspector Meredith, ‘that Hadleigh attempted blackmail and Jennings, rather than risk exposure, killed him?’
‘I think it’s possible, sergeant, yes.’
‘Then why,’ continued Troy, wary of triumphalism yet not quite able totally to conceal a victorious lilt to his voice, ‘did he ask St John on no account to leave them alone together?’
‘To deliberately mislead.’ Again the unspoken ‘of course’. ‘It was a red herring.’
‘A what?’ Barnaby’s face showed mirth and incredulity. The room, given permission from the top, fell modestly about. ‘You seem to have come down with a touch of the Agatha’s, Ian. Been watching Poirot, have you? On the telly?
‘Right,’ he continued, ‘if there are no more fanciful or entertaining insights I think we’ll call it a day. Briefing tomorrow nine a.m. unless something unforeseen arises. Before you go, Meredith - a word.’
The room emptied and the night-duty shift moved in. Troy took himself off to the chief’s office to collect his coat, where a few minutes later Barnaby, teeth still bared with satisfaction, joined him. They buttoned up against the weather and set off for the car park. Troy said, ‘I dunno what he’s on about half the time. I thought peregrinations were birds.’