The clock in the Victorian Italianate tower of the town hall on the other side of the market place struck twelve, and the Rector emerged from the south porch of St Botolph’s and strode down the well-swept path to the gate to await the arrival of the hearse. Robin Ainger looked almost improperly youthful and handsome in his vestments. There was something about him that worried the Chief Inspector considerably. Not his appearance: Quantrill was not so intemperately Nonconformist by upbringing that he imagined that real-life Anglican parsons ought to be, like television comedy stereotypes, either amiably absent-minded elderly men or well-meaning young buffoons. What bothered him about Ainger was the probability that he had failed to admit the true extent of his knowledge of the corpse in Parson’s Close.
What Ainger had told him was extremely helpful, and apparently complete. Quantrill would have accepted it – had, at first, accepted it – without hesitation. But then DC Wigby had turned up with further information that was surely relevant, although the Rector had not mentioned it. Quantrill had given him ample opportunity. Is there anything else you can tell me, Mr Ainger? he had asked. Anything at all that you think might help us to find out how the man came to die? And the Rector had looked at him with blank eyes and had said, No.
The volume of market noise lessened slightly and the Chief Inspector turned his head to see the town’s traffic warden, magisterial in dark uniform and yellow cap-band, stopping both traffic and pedestrians to allow the funeral cortège along the narrow street that separated the market stalls from the churchyard. Quantrill took off his hat and stood for a moment with his head bared while the hearse passed. He saw it stop at the churchyard gate. The Rector stepped forward.
From across the road, the Chief Inspector stared speculatively at the Reverend Robin Ainger. A priest, and a pillar of the community; but for all that, a man like any other.
The savoury smell of fish fried in batter drifted across from the busy van. ‘And the next?’ shouted the man behind the serving hatch as he slapped a steaming parcel in front of a customer. Quantrill turned and made his way into the Coney and Thistle for a pint of Adnams bitter and an early lunch.
Chapter Seven
It was ridiculous that he missed Martin Tait so much. There had been so many occasions, during the year they’d worked together, when he had longed to see the back of the cocksure young detective sergeant. But although the two men had often disagreed, their discussions had served to keep Quantrill mentally at full stretch. They had often met for a working lunch at the Coney, and the Chief Inspector wished that Tait were there now.
Ian Wigby could never be an adequate substitute. He had done a very useful piece of enquiry work that morning, and Quantrill intended to bear in mind that he deserved a Guinness for it; but the detective constable’s limitations were those of the Chief Inspector himself.
Like Quantrill, Wigby was a Suffolk man by birth and upbringing. He could go about the division extracting information from local people without arousing either suspicion or resentment – something that Martin Tait, with his sharply elegant clothes and his expensively educated voice, had never been able to do. But Quantrill knew that neither he himself nor Wigby would be able to get into sufficiently close conversation with the Reverend Robin Ainger to find out what motivated him. Martin Tait would have been the ideal man for that particular job.
The bar at the Coney was busy. Quantrill ordered and paid for the hot dish of the day, exchanged a word with some acquaintances, and then carried his mug of beer up two worn stone steps and into the heavily beamed snug, where he found an empty table by one of the windows.
A girl with a dark pony-tail of hair and a striped butcher’s apron over her jeans brought in a knife and fork rolled in a paper napkin, and a plate of home-made steak and mushroom pie. Quantrill began the meal with a good appetite, tempted by the smell of the gravy that oozed out as he cut into the golden crust, but his intake soon slackened as he went over in his mind the conversation he had had that morning with Robin Ainger.
The Rector’s unexpected arrival in the front office had been announced by the desk sergeant, who assumed that the visit was in connection with young Peter Quantrill’s alleged misdeeds and tried to convey over the intercom that he was ready, if required, to close ranks in sympathy. The Chief Inspector, making the same assumption, had suppressed a sigh and gone to the top of the stairs to meet the Rector, sending the escorting police cadet down again to fetch some coffee. But Robin Ainger was clutching a copy of the local newspaper, and he began to say what was on his mind before Quantrill could invite him to take off his duffle coat and sit down.
‘This body – the skeleton in the Close. Gillian and I have read the report and talked it over, and we think we now know who it might be.’
‘You do? Good, that’ll be a great help.’
Ainger had looked anxiously determined as he came in, but the determination seemed to slide off with his coat, leaving only the anxiety. Quantrill had to say, ‘Yes, Mr Ainger?’ encouragingly to persuade him to continue.
‘I don’t know, of course,’ Ainger said. ‘I may be completely wrong, and wasting your time. But a young man camped in Parson’s Close for some weeks last summer – an Australian. His name was Athol Garrity, and I think he said that he came from Brisbane. We didn’t see him often, and he didn’t let us know that he was leaving, but we definitely didn’t see him after the beginning of August.’
Quantrill took from the drawer of his desk the plastic envelope containing the big silver ring. ‘Do you happen to recognize this?’
Ainger glanced at it. The whites of his eyes were dull, the blue irises so pale above his clerical grey that they looked almost drained. ‘Ah yes – you mentioned a ring when you came to see us. My wife remembered, after you’d gone, that Garrity wore one on his left hand. That was what made us think that the body could be his. I can’t, of course, be positive that this is the same ring –’
‘No, no. But your information is extremely helpful. We’ll pass it on to the Australian authorities and ask them to have Garrity’s dental records sent over. If the skeleton is his, it can be identified by the teeth. I’m much obliged to you for coming forward so quickly, Mr Ainger. It’ll save my men from tramping about the town making enquiries.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Robin Ainger rose to go, just as a policewoman brought in a tray of coffee. WPC Patsy Hopkins, who had a requited admiration for Douglas Quantrill, had heard from the desk sergeant that he was being grilled by the Rector about his son’s behaviour. She had intercepted the cadet who was about to carry two slopped-over cups of canteen coffee into the Chief Inspector’s office, and in an act of loyalty and affection had substituted one cup made from her own private jar of freeze-dried coffee granules. She carried in the tray herself to ensure that Quantrill got the right cup. Breckham Market police believed in looking after their own.
‘Don’t go, please, Mr Ainger,’ said Quantrill. ‘That is, if you can spare me a few more minutes. I’d like to know as much as I can – many thanks, Patsy – about this Australian.’
‘There’s not much I can tell you,’ said Ainger, sitting down again with some reluctance. ‘He said that he was backpacking round the world, and spending six months in England. When he disappeared, we naturally assumed that he’d moved on.’
‘What brought him to Breckham in the first place?’
‘Apparently he’d been staying with a student friend at Yarchester, and he came over to look at the monumental brasses in St Botolph’s. They’re famous, as you probably know. I happened to see him in the church one day last May, and he asked me whether he could take some rubbings of the brasses. He also mentioned that he was looking for somewhere to pitch his tent for the summer – a base camp from which he could make a few assaults on London, as he put it – and I said that he could use Parson’s Close.’
Quantrill scratched his chin. ‘You mentioned yesterday that there were cattle there. Cattle and campers don’t usually mix.’
Ainger
hesitated. ‘Ah, yes. Well, actually, there weren’t any cattle there last summer. The farmer decided that it was anachronistic to drive them through the town twice a year, and gave up the tenancy. But there’s water for the cattle – a standpipe and trough at the lower end of the meadow – so it’s ideal for camping.’
‘I see. Was he on his own?’
‘He travelled alone, as far as I know.’
‘And how did he travel?’
‘Hitching lifts, I imagine. Or possibly he went to London by train. I really don’t know, Mr Quantrill. As I said, we saw very little of him.’
‘You’ve said we, Mr Ainger. So presumably your wife met him too?’
‘Yes – yes, he called at the Rectory when he first came to the town, and we gave him a meal. But he was never more than a casual acquaintance, and we had no idea how he spent his time. As you know, we can’t see the meadow from the Rectory, so we knew nothing of his comings and goings.’
‘You’re being extremely helpful,’ Quantrill encouraged him. ‘What we want now is to talk to someone who knew him well. Did he tell you who the student friend in Yarchester was?’
‘Another Australian, I believe. All the people he knew seemed to be transients, like himself.’
‘Very probably. Now, can you possibly pin down for me the last date on which you saw him?’
Ainger laced his fingers together and addressed them slowly. ‘I went away for a few days’break last August, from the first to the 6th. I definitely didn’t see Garrity after I returned. My wife was at home, but she is sure that she didn’t see him during that time. We’ve discussed it carefully, and we think that we both saw him for the last time about two days before I went away – say the 29th of July.’
‘And what was he doing when you saw him?’
There was a long pause. Then Ainger said, ‘He was in St Botolph’s, heading for the gate into Parson’s Close. He was drunk. And not for the first time.’
‘Ah.’ Quantrill grinned. ‘I got the impression, Mr Ainger, that you didn’t much like the man. That was why, was it?’
The Rector struggled with his evident disinclination to speak ill of the dead. ‘We certainly didn’t find him a desirable guest. He was – well, frankly, uncouth. Gillian and I avoided him whenever we could, and we were not at all sorry when we didn’t see him again.’
‘Understandably. And it’s very useful for us to know about his drinking. It may help to account for his death.’
‘You don’t yet know how he died?’
‘Not so far. The coroner opens his inquest on Monday, and no doubt he’ll adjourn it until the Australian authorities have had time to confirm the identification. By then the forensic science people should be able to tell us their findings. In the meantime I’ll follow up your information so that we can give the coroner as complete a picture as possible. Now, is there anything else that you can tell me, Mr Ainger? Anything at all that you think might help us to find out more about the man, and how he came to die?’
And that was when the Reverend Robin Ainger had looked at the Chief Inspector with pale, blank eyes, and had said, ‘No.’
The Rector was lying, Quantrill decided as he finished his steak and mushroom pie. Not necessarily lying in any of the details he had given, but certainly omitting to tell the facts in full; and, yes, lying when he had said there was nothing else he could tell the police.
What about the car with the Australia sticker that had been seen parked along St Botolph’s Street last summer? What about the Australian girl who had been a frequent visitor to the Rectory, even living there during July? There had to be some connection between the girl and the car and the dead man. The girl was the obvious person to help the police with their enquiries, and Ainger must know her name. So why had he deliberately withheld that information? Was it because he knew more about the corpse in Parson’s Close than he cared to admit?
Quantrill pushed aside his plate and lifted his mug. He glanced out of the window. The mourners were coming out of St Botolph’s after the funeral service, and the traffic warden was organizing the departure of the hearse and the accompanying cars. The Rector had presumably gone ahead so as to reach the cemetery first. Quantrill couldn’t see him; instead, he saw the Rector’s wife.
Gillian Ainger was just outside the Coney, buying from a vegetable stall, a preoccupied frown on her face and a laden shopping-bag in her hand. Quantrill thought rapidly. He had really wanted to challenge Robin Ainger about the Australian girl; he wanted to hear not only what Ainger said about her, but the way he said it. However, the girl had been Mrs Ainger’s friend, according to the verger, and so it was possibly more appropriate to make the initial approach to her. He could always tackle her husband later.
He seized his hat and overcoat, and caught up with her outside Boots the chemist. ‘Good morning, Mrs Ainger. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes of your time?’ It would have been civil to invite her to join him for a drink, but she looked too harassed to want to linger.
‘Oh – Mr Quantrill …’ She was evidently taken aback, and not in any way glad to see him. ‘I’m afraid … I really must ask you to excuse me. This is my day for helping at the community centre on the new estate. I slipped away to do some shopping and make Dad’s lunch, but I have to get back as soon as possible.’
‘I won’t delay you, I promise. Perhaps I could walk back to the Rectory with you, if you’ve finished your shopping? Here, let me carry that.’
He insisted on taking from her hand the bulging shopping-bag with its leafy protrusion of cabbage and celery. She seemed inordinately embarrassed, whether by his company or by the fact that he was carrying her shopping he wasn’t sure.
His stride, which he had shortened to Mrs Ainger’s, checked as he caught sight of his own wife disappearing into the butcher’s. He hated helping her with the shopping, and always tried to make his irregular working hours an excuse for not doing so. He’d never live it down if she were to see him now, carrying another woman’s shopping-bag …
He jammed his hat over his eyes and rounded the corner into St Botolph’s Street in a hurry. Gillian Ainger had to trot to keep up with him, doing a skip and a jump to avoid wading through the dirty slush in the gutter.
‘Have you – did my husband come to see you this morning?’ she asked a little breathlessly.
He slowed his pace. ‘Yes, he told me about the Australian who camped in Parson’s Close last summer. It’s a very useful lead. What I’d really like to do now is to talk to someone who knew him better than your husband and yourself. Is there anyone you can suggest?’
After a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘No, I’m afraid not.’
He turned his head to look at her. Vanity-free, she had bundled up her fair hair under a woollen hat, but fine tendrils of it had escaped untidily over her ears and at the nape of her neck. If she had put on any make-up that morning, it had worn off. She was pale, apart from the tip of her nose which was pink with cold. Her knee-length boots were shabby and she walked with her chin tucked into the yellowed fleece of a long-service sheepskin coat.
Then, conscious of his gaze, she raised her head and looked at him. Her cheeks coloured suddenly, redder than her nose, but she said nothing more.
‘Whose was the car, Mrs Ainger?’ he asked her gently. ‘We’ve been making enquiries, you see, and I know that a red Datsun car with an Australia sticker in the rear window was often parked in St Botolph’s Street last summer. But when your husband and I were talking about Athol Garrity’s comings and goings, he didn’t mention it.’
She lifted her chin. ‘There was no reason why he should. The car wasn’t Athol’s. It belonged to another Australian, a friend of mine, Janey Rolph. She didn’t like Athol, and as far as I know she never even gave him a ride. If my husband didn’t mention the car, that was why. It didn’t seem relevant.’
‘I’d have been glad if he’d told me about the girl, though. As I said, we need to talk to someone who knew Garrity.’
‘Bu
t Janey’s no longer in this country. That would be why Robin didn’t tell you about her. She was doing a post-graduate course at the university, at Yarchester. She’d finished her thesis, and she left the country at the end of July.’
‘That doesn’t prevent us from having her questioned, if we need to. We can get her home address from the university.’
Gillian Ainger gave him a startled look, as though that possibility had never occurred to her. Then she said, ‘But Janey wasn’t going back to Australia. She was moving on to the United States.’
‘Do you know where she is now?’
‘No. No, I haven’t heard from her since she left.’
Her chin was tucked into the collar of her coat again, but Quantrill could see a tightening of the muscles at the side of her jaw.
‘What was Janey Rolph’s relationship with Garrity?’ he asked.
‘They originated from the same small town, somewhere near Brisbane. Athol looked her up, in Yarchester, when he came to this country, and scrounged a bed space in her room.’
‘Were they lovers?’
‘Good heavens no! I told you, Janey didn’t like him. She felt a kind of home-town obligation to him, that’s all.’
‘Tell me about her?’ Quantrill suggested.
She was obviously reluctant to do so. ‘There’s not a great deal to tell. We met by chance last spring, and I invited her to visit us. She came quite often after that. She was twenty-two, and homesick, and I enjoyed her company.’ She looked as though she was about to add something, then decided against it.
‘I heard that she stayed with you for most of July.’
Gillian’s head came round with a jerk. She reddened again, but her voice stayed level. ‘Yes, she did. I imagine that was why Athol came here. He said that he was interested in brass-rubbing, but I think that he’d lost the roof over his head when Janey moved out of her room, and he was really looking for somewhere to pitch his tent.’
A Talent For Destruction Page 5