‘That’d be . . . um . . . five to four.’
He sat gripping the receiver for a moment longer. She continued speaking but her words were lost as a wave of exhilaration pounded through him. His brain felt as if it were being dragged all over the place by wild horses. Five to four. Dear God. Five to four. More words were getting through.
‘Was it you sent that nosey bugger from the Social round? Upsetting Lisa Dawn.’
The pips admitted a merciful release. Barnaby went to find Inspector Moffat to get a search warrant. He yelled ‘Troy!’ as he went through the outer office - a shout that could have been heard as far as the cattle market and the Soft Shoe Café. His sergeant leapt up from a spot of hot-eyed dalliance with Policewoman Brierley and responded with a ‘Sir!’ automatically pitched at the same level.
‘Car. Shift yourself.’
Leaving another ‘sir’ splintering the atmosphere Troy ran from the room. This was something like it, he thought, running across the car park and leaping into the Fiesta. Foot down. Siren blaring. Secret tip-off. Villain on the run. Troy and Barnaby closing in. Cuffs at the ready. But the Chief’s getting on. Oh he was fast in his day but now . . . So it’s Troy who makes the arrest. He was a tough bastard, too. One of the hard men. Afterwards Barnaby admitted as much. ‘Without you, Sergeant, I couldn’t have—’
‘For God’s sake don’t just bloody sit there. Move!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Back to the village. And you can switch that thing off.’ He didn’t say slow down, though, and Troy touched eighty when they were clear of the town.
‘What’s up, sir?’ Barnaby told him. Troy whistled and said, ‘Wow. We’ve got him then.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘But . . . that’s pretty conclusive, wouldn’t you say?’
‘He’s certainly got some explaining to do.’
‘I hope he hasn’t scarpered. He wasn’t in the cottage when I went back to check.’
When they entered the village a mere handful of people was now hanging round the portable pod. The television van had gone on to the next drama. It was getting dark. As soon as Troy eased through the hedge space they saw a light in the cottage.
‘He’s back.’
‘There’s no need to whisper, Sergeant.’ Barnaby got out. ‘I should think our headlights alone have alerted him to the fact that we’ve arrived.’
The sun was setting. The house was softened by the glow. The dark mass of surrounding trees was rimmed with deepest gold. An upstairs window reflected the sun. Troy squinted against it as it hung in the very centre of the pane. He thought it looked like a lump of blood. Barnaby knocked.
‘Heavens, not you again.’ Michael Lacey regarded them coolly from the doorway. He was eating a huge hunk of bread and cheese. ‘You never stop, do you? Really it makes it a pleasure to pay my taxes. If I ever earned enough to pay taxes, that is.’
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
He gave a little moan but it sounded phoney. Part of a game. He opened the door. ‘Come in then if you must. But I’ve already been asked a few questions. By one of your minions barely half an hour ago.’
‘Then I expect you know that Mrs Rainbird has been done to death—’
‘Done to death? How wonderfully archaic.’
‘In a particularly brutal manner.’
‘I hope you’re not looking for insincere expressions of regret on my part. She was a very nasty woman. Almost as nasty as her golden-haired boy.’
‘Indeed? I didn’t realize you knew her well.’
‘You didn’t have to know her well.’
Supercilious sod, thought Troy, hugging Mrs Quine’s revelation to his heart. Barnaby asked Michael Lacey where he was between three and five that afternoon.
‘Working.’
‘You wouldn’t like to expound on that?’
‘Not really. Thanks all the same.’
‘So if someone said they saw you walking up the path of Mrs Rainbird’s back garden at four p.m . . . ?’
‘I’d say they wanted their eyes tested.’
Barnaby produced one of his two warrants. ‘Mr Lacey, I have a warrant here to search these premises.’ At this the man’s expression changed. That’s wiped the smile off his face, thought Troy, allowing the hint of one to appear on his own. ‘I hope,’ Barnaby continued, ‘that you will cooperate in this matter.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I’m afraid this bit of paper says we can. Sergeant . . .’ Barnaby nodded towards the stairs and Troy vanished. ‘Would you accompany me to the kitchen, Mr Lacey?’
He searched the kitchen thoroughly while his companion stood sullenly by the sink. Then the room with the settee and bookshelves. He pulled out the paperbacks, lifted the matting. Lacey perched on one of the uncomfortable dining chairs and watched. Troy re-entered the room, giving Barnaby what he fondly imagined to be an imperceptible shake of the head. The chief inspector finished his task and turned to the man at the table, who said, ‘If that wild semaphoring of absolute despair is anything to go by, your clueless sergeant hasn’t dug up anything either. So I suggest you go on your merry way and leave me in peace.’
‘Next door, Troy.’ The sergeant nodded and walked out. Lacey jumped up.
‘That’s my studio. I won’t have my work disturbed. There’s nothing in there but paintings.’
Troy called, ‘It’s locked, sir.’
‘Well, break it down then.’
Michael Lacey ran into the passage and hung on to Troy’s arm. Delighted, the sergeant immediately seized the man’s wrists, wrenching his arms behind his back.
‘All right, Sergeant, all right.’ Barnaby ambled up. ‘He’s not going anywhere, are you, sir?’
Troy released Lacey, who glared at them both. But there was more than anger in his expression. There was fear. ‘Why don’t you just unlock the door and save us all a lot of hassle?’ asked the chief inspector.
Lacey ignored him. Troy put his shoulder to the wood. It gave on the fourth heave. He moved the door into the hall and stepped back, keeping an eye on Lacey who was leaning against the stair rail, very still, his face expressionless.
Barnaby entered the studio, which seemed innocent enough. And meticulously tidy in comparison with the rest of the house. Some canvases were stacked against the wall, one or two tied together with string. The easel was covered with a cloth peaked into a square by the canvas beneath. The floor was swept clean and there was the scent of turps and resin in the air. A trestle table held an orderly array of jars and brushes and there was an unlit Calorgas heater in one corner.
In the hall Troy stood, legs apart, ready for anything. Over his head the electric meter buzzed like a trapped bee. He glanced up. Slim grey cables snaked about. Funny to see a meter in a private house. Plenty of council tenants had them of course. Set too high as often as not so there’d be some cash to spare when they were emptied. A bloody irritating noise. He turned and looked up. It wasn’t the meter buzzing. It was flies. Dozens of them; great filthy bluebottles with iridescent wings. They were clustered all over something. Something jammed behind the meter. He stood on his toes and stared harder.
‘Chief . . .’ Barnaby hurried out. ‘Look - up there!’
‘Get a chair - and something to hold it with.’
Troy climbed on to one of the dining chairs with a dirty tea towel in his hand and tugged at the knife. It bloomed with dark stains. The flies lifted sluggishly but didn’t go far. As Troy held it out they hovered over his hand. Barnaby looked at Michael Lacey, who moved away from the banisters and came towards them, staring at the knife in astonishment.
‘Can you explain what this is doing behind your meter, Mr Lacey?’
‘Of course I can’t.’
‘Does the knife belong to you?’
When Lacey remained silent Troy gave him a none too gentle nudge. ‘The chief inspector’s talking to you.’
‘I don’t know . . .’ He looked more
closely, his mouth puckering with distaste. ‘Yes . . . it’s the knife we use for the vegetables.’
‘And where have you hidden the clothes, Mr Lacey?’
‘What?’
‘The dungarees, the cap, the gloves. The tights.’
‘Tights. What d’you take me for? A transvestite?’
‘The clothes that you wore,’ Barnaby continued implacably, ‘when you killed Mrs Rainbird.’
‘When I -’ Lacey gazed at him open mouthed. ‘You’re raving mad. You’re not hanging that on me. I’ve heard all about police corruption. You probably planted that yourself. Came round here earlier when I was out.’
Barnaby was turning back into the studio when Lacey ran for it. Pushing the chief inspector violently aside and hitting Troy in the chest, he flew through the doorway and raced across the open space in front of the cottage. Troy, picking himself up, ran after him and brought the man down by the car. When Barnaby reached them Lacey was handcuffed and Troy pink faced with exertion and pride.
‘In the car, Lacey.’
Barnaby’s prisoner stared at him. The look held everything he expected to see, fright and despair, but there was something else behind his eyes. A disturbing expression that the chief inspector could not put a name to. Troy bundled the man into the back seat. Barnaby put the knife into the boot, then said, ‘Do you have a key to secure the house?’
‘It’s never locked.’
They drove off. As Troy slowed down to approach the junction of Church Lane and the Street Katherine Lacey came round the corner with two of the dogs. There was just enough light for her to recognize Barnaby, and she half smiled. Then she saw her brother and her face changed. She called out, ‘Michael?’ and started to cross the road towards them. He lifted his handcuffed wrists and made a square around his face, shouting, ‘I’ve been framed!’ Then the car gathered speed and drove off.
Chapter Eight
It was dark when they reached the station. Michael Lacey received an intimation and was asked if he wished to make any telephone calls. He declined and started looking round him with some interest. He seemed to be recovering his savoir-faire fairly quickly. By the time Barnaby handed him over to the custody officer he was even exhibiting a certain amount of bravado. Barnaby heard him place a facetious order for toast, tea, a mixed grill, apple pie and ice cream. The chief inspector asked how the other prisoner was faring.
‘Sleeping like a baby, sir. And snoring her head off.’
Barnaby returned to the incident room where Troy was completing a house-search form. It was too dark to start looking for the murderer’s clothes, but at first light they’d get started. More action forms had come to roost on his desk next to his cold gluey Chinese takeaway. No need to read them all now. He’d got the murderer downstairs under lock and key. He stood by the window looking up at the indigo sky thickly patterned with bright stars, and wondered at his feelings of unease.
‘Sir?’ Troy was holding out a telephone. ‘Miss Lacey.’ He took the receiver.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.’
‘What’s happened? What were you doing with Michael?’ Barnaby told her. There was a terrible pause then Katherine started shouting. Barnaby heard ‘No . . . no . . . he couldn’t . . . it isn’t true . . .’ and Henry Trace’s voice. Then Trace took the telephone.
‘Tell me the exact situation, Barnaby. I can’t get any sense out of Katherine. Darling . . . please . . . it’ll be all right. Try to calm down . . . we can’t do anything till we know just what’s going on.’
Barnaby went through it again. He heard Katherine crying, ‘I want to see him . . . Henry - I’ve got to see him.’
‘May we see him, Chief Inspector?’
‘I suggest you ring in the morning, Mr Trace. We’ve settled him down for the night now.’ He could hear Katherine still sobbing hysterically as he replaced the telephone.
Barnaby leaned back and closed his eyes. He was feeling tired but not healthily so. He felt what his mother called ‘worn to a frazzle’. Wound up, worn out and nothing to show for it. But what was he saying? Of course he had something to show for it. Downstairs, sealed securely away in a cell, he had the murderer of Iris Rainbird. And tomorrow they would find the clothes. Lacey can’t have got far with them. Probably dumped in the pond in the woods. He remembered the little puddle of water in the Rainbirds’ shed. He had water on the brain. And an unpleasant tightness under his belt. His stomach was never satisfied. When he fed it it complained. And it complained when he didn’t. But everything was fine. Tired phrases that he would never normally use lumbered into his mind. An open and shut case. Caught red handed. No problem.
He threw the takeaway into the grey metal waste bin and heaved himself out of his seat. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said to the room at large. ‘See you in the morning.’ Troy, thriving on his twelve-hour shift, sprang up and accompanied Barnaby to the main door, holding it open for him.
‘Quite a session wasn’t it, sir?’ he asked, his face burnished with satisfaction.
‘You can say that again.’
‘I mean’ - Troy kept pace with Barnaby across the car park - ‘how often in your career have you arrested two murderers in one day? This has to be a one-off wouldn’t you say, Chief?’ Barnaby unlocked the door of his Orion. ‘God - I’ve seen some liars in my time but that Lacey . . .’
‘Goodnight, Sergeant.’
Troy winged a final bright-eyed glance through the window. ‘An open and shut case wouldn’t you say?’
He watched the blue car drive away. Surly old sod. Troy thought that if he’d pulled off a double coup like that it’d be drinks all round for the lads and Policewoman Brierley’s knickers in his glove compartment before the night was out.
Arbury Crescent was quiet as Barnaby eased into his garage. Dreaming suburbia. A few television sets still flickering but the guiltless inhabitants were mostly asleep, renewing their energies for the daily commuter slog to the city.
‘Is that you, Tom?’ called Joyce, as she always did.
He stood for a moment on the patio looking down the garden at the heavy mass of dark arboreal shapes. The leaves rustled in the night air and were touched with silver by the moon. He was glad he couldn’t see his herbaceous borders. He hadn’t touched them for a fortnight. He would get Joyce to do some deadheading at the weekend. This unfortunate phrase reminded him of work and the sighing of the trees ceased to be a comfort. He went indoors.
‘I’ve kept you some soup hot.’ Joyce was in her housecoat and slippers, her face cleaned of makeup.
‘Oohh . . .’ Barnaby slipped an arm around her waist. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘How did it all go today?’
‘So so.’ Barnaby took the mug.
‘I’m afraid it’s not home-made.’
Barnaby took the soup gratefully and drank deep. It was wonderful. Monosodium glutamate. Permitted stabilizers. HC and FCF. All the angst-producing E’s. Bliss.
‘You hadn’t forgotten Cully’s here for the weekend?’
‘I had, actually.’ Barnaby drained his mug.
‘Would you like some more?’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
She ladled some out but before he could drink put her arms around him. ‘Tom?’
‘Mm.’
‘You look sad.’ She drew his grizzled head down to her soft bosom. ‘Would you like a cuddle?’
‘Yes please.’ He kissed her. She smelt sweetly of fresh toothpaste and the baby lotion she used as a moisturizer. He felt a sudden overwhelming rush of gratitude. Today and every day, however dark the working hours, come nightfall he touched home base. He stroked her hair, adding, ‘And not just because I’m sad.’
Chapter Nine
It was a lovely day for a wedding. Falls of hops entwined with summer jasmine were attached to the stone arches; old-fashioned nosegays starred the end of every pew. The altar rails were covered with tuberoses. The bride stood, a glittering column of frosty satin and foaming lace, inco
mparably lovely. The groom wheeled his chair down the aisle. As he came to a halt at the chancel steps the bride turned and stared at him, her face gradually becoming transformed into a mask of horror. Set square on his immaculate shoulders was a grinning skull. The vicar said, ‘Dearly beloved . . .’ The congregation smiled. No one seemed to notice anything amiss. The bells rang. And rang. And rang.
Barnaby groped around on his bedside table. He turned the clock round. Half-past five, for God’s sake. He tumbled the receiver off the hook. ‘Barmby.’ He listened and was wide awake. ‘Christ almighty . . . have you called Bullard? . . . No . . . I’ll be in straight away.’
Joyce turned over. ‘Darling . . . what’s the matter?’
He was out of bed, dressing. ‘I have to go . . . don’t get up.’
She struggled to sit, rearranging the pillows. ‘You’ll want some breakfast.’
‘The canteen opens at six. I’ll get something there.’
‘How long do you think she’s been dead?’
Doctor Bullard placed the blanket over Phyllis Cadell’s marmoreal profile. ‘Ohh . . . two . . . three hours. Early morning some time.’
Barnaby sat down heavily on the lavatory, the only other piece of furniture in the cell. ‘God, George - this is all we need. A custody death.’
‘Sorry.’ Bullard smiled - quite cheerfully, considering the hour. ‘Can’t rejuvenate that one for you. Anyway from what I’ve heard she’s better off where she is. Don’t you think?’
‘That’s hardly the point.’ Barnaby looked across at the grey flannel hump. He could see what Bullard meant. What had the dead woman to look forward to? The pain and humiliation of a public trial. Years in prison. A lonely and unloved old age. And all the while having to live with the knowledge that Henry and Katherine were alive and happy together at Tye House. All the same . . .
The custody sergeant entered Chief Inspector Barnaby’s office and closed the door as tenderly as if it had been made of glass. He looked once at the figure behind the desk and once was enough. Throughout the interview he kept his eyes on the floor.
The Killings at Badger's Drift Page 20