Crawley opened his mouth, but found no more words. It was a weak mouth, curiously in contrast to the firm chin beneath it. He must have been about the same age as Rushton, but against the confident vigour of the Inspector, he suddenly seemed older. He was finding it difficult to keep still. He folded his arms but then immediately let them drop to his sides again. In another moment, the hands were kneading each other nervously below the cuffs of his cashmere sweater.
Rushton was in no hurry. He watched his man impassively, carefully concealing the contempt which was building within him. Eventually he said, “You know why we’re here?”
“I understood it was in connection with the death of poor Peter Barton. Though what I could tell you about that I can’t —”
“I understand you are conducting an affair with the dead man’s wife, Clare Barton.”
“Was, inspector, was.” Crawley tried to shrug the matter away, but his smile was that of a febrile child. “I made it quite clear to Clare on the phone that our affair was over.” In the silence which followed this assertion, he ran his hand through his wavy hair, then pinched the greying strands beneath his right temple briefly between finger and thumb, in what was clearly a habitual, unconscious gesture.
Lambert said quietly, “Mrs Barton also made it quite clear to me some days ago that it was her intention to end the affair.” He was anxious to prevent Rushton following false trails, but this came out as though he were trying to defend the woman he had interviewed on Christmas morning. He could see her now, her pretty, doll-like face smeared with her grief beneath her blonde hair, her resolution to end the infidelity which could no longer hurt her husband giving her a strange sort of dignity.
Rushton said, “At any rate, you were lovers at the time of Barton’s death. Indeed, it seems that Mrs Barton spent the night of her husband’s death in bed with you. That she left you to go home on the day that his body was discovered.”
Crawley wished he had a glass of water. He gripped the edge of his desk hard as he said hoarsely, “We didn’t know that. If we’d known he was going to be killed, neither of us…” Words failed him and he lifted his palms hopelessly. He had hoped to find them men of the world, perhaps even prepared to enjoy a male snigger and a little envy of his bit on the side. But these men were not here to offer him help or understanding.
Rushton said, “How long had Mrs Barton been your mistress?”
Crawley had scarcely thought of pretty, vulnerable Clare in so serious a context. He had spotted her as a blue-eyed blonde with that brittle gaiety which springs so often from an unhappy marriage. Her inexperience had been an invitation to a man like him; the excitement of the affair had come from the sexual education he had been able to initiate in her. He said, feeling as though the line was required of him in a bad play, “I can’t see how all this can be of any interest to —”
“I’ll tell you how, if you wish, sir. Barton was a good man, according to people who knew him better than you. So good that we’ve found it difficult to find anyone to suggest a motive for blowing him apart. But you have one.” He had not bothered to keep the contempt out of his voice this time. Lambert realized for the first time that his deputy was probably an old-fashioned Puritan in sexual matters.
“You mean that I that we…”
“I mean that sex is a factor in many violent killings. The commonest of all, along with money. So don’t pretend to me that you’ve nothing to explain.”
“But you’ve said yourself that I was with Clare at the moment when Peter was murdered. Surely —”
“I haven’t mentioned the time of Barton’s death. It’s interesting that you should be so certain of exactly when it happened.”
It was a cheap point, which a moment’s thought would have answered. But it broke Crawley’s frail resistance, because it convinced him of their hostility. He looked at the middle of his desk and said sullenly, “I might be a bit of a womanizer, but I’m not a murderer.”
Rushton, dark eyes narrowed, studied the weakness of his man unashamedly for a moment before he said, “Where were you between six and ten p.m. on December 22nd, Mr Crawley?”
Crawley did not even look up as he said quietly, “I was here until about half past six. From seven onwards, I was in the Crossed Keys Hotel with Clare Barton.”
“Witnesses?”
He looked up, angry for a moment, with the desperation of the cornered animal. “Clare herself. No one else. We were being discreet, you see.” His voice was bitter with the irony of it.
“Pity. Means that each of you only has the other to corroborate your story. So far.”
Michael Crawley said wearily, “I suppose the hotel could confirm at least our arrival there. We put the ‘Do not disturb’ sign on our door. I suppose you’ll say we could have —”
“Could have, yes, sir. That’s all. If you didn’t leave the hotel, it will probably be fairly easy for us to establish that.”
“In that case —”
“There are of course other methods of killing an inconvenient husband than doing it yourself. Well-documented methods, often involving shootings.”
“You mean that we might have got someone else to —”
“I mean that contract killings are becoming much more common in Britain. Unfortunately for those of us who have to investigate them. Professional killers are more difficult to pin down, you see. But we get them, in the end. Usually by finding out the details of their hiring.”
“But you surely can’t think —”
Crawley was looking for some kind of reassurance, however minor. He got none. The two tall men watched him impassively as he looked from face to face. He might have been a butterfly pinned upon a board.
It was Lambert who at length said to him, “You may not yet be aware that a second body has been discovered in the forest, not far from where Peter Barton was killed. I’m now asking you formally, Mr Crawley, whether you were involved in the deaths of either of the men at Woodford, either directly or indirectly?”
“No. I swear I’d never have got involved with Clare if I’d thought for a moment that Peter —”
“And have you any idea who might have committed either of these murders?”
“No.”
They waited a moment to see if stress might induce any useful indiscretion. When none came, they rose unhurriedly at a nod from Lambert. Rushton said from the door, “If you have any occasion to leave the area, Mr Crawley, please be good enough to let us know the details of your movements.” He managed to make even that sound like a threat, a final assurance that he neither believed nor trusted the man they were leaving alone in the deserted factory.
They drove a full mile before either man spoke. Then Rushton said, “I wouldn’t trust that bugger as far as I could throw him. On the make with women, deceiving his wife, prepared to drop Clare Barton like a hot potato as soon as the going gets tough.” He stared through the windscreen at the damp paving stones where mothers muffled against the cold pushed prams, aware that he was voicing his distaste rather than any constructive idea.
Lambert said mildly, “An adulterer isn’t necessarily a murderer, Chris, thank God. Nor is a coward who drops a woman as soon as she becomes an embarrassment.”
“But he’s the only one we’ve found so far with any convincing motive for getting rid of Barton.”
“Agreed. We’ll need to check him out. But did he seem to you as though he felt strongly enough about Clare Barton to commit a crime of passion?”
Rushton sighed. “No. He seemed like a crafty shit, who took what he could get and dropped it like a hot brick when it looked as though it might burn his fingers.”
“He might of course be a very good actor. But that would require Clare Barton to be one too. She was adamant she wasn’t going to see Michael Crawley again, and she convinced me she meant what she said at that moment. Of course, if either one of them had arranged for Barton to be murdered, it would be policy to pretend the affair meant less to them than it did. And I agree it�
�s the nearest thing we’ve got to a motive for killing Barton. That vicar’s becoming more and more like a saint as we question everyone in the village. Irritating, for CID cynics like us.”
It was an olive branch: he had come dangerously close to accusing the younger man of a failure in objectivity, that ultimate sin in detectives. Both of them were too sensitive with each other, still. He would not even have had to think about these things with Bert Hook.
They were driving away from the city now, through the last of the suburbs. Lambert would normally have felt a sense of release as they moved back into the country he loved. For a little while, he did. But as they approached Woodford and the forest closed tightly around the roads, the shadow of brutal, motiveless murder fell back upon them.
At that moment, the teeming city they had left seemed a cheerful and innocent place, the silent village a centre of faceless evil.
20
Tommy Farr was still one of the few villagers who ventured freely into the forest.
He went there indeed at four o’clock on New Year’s Day when the low sun had already dropped from sight and his fellow-villagers were shuttering their houses against the night and the north wind. And against The Fox: country-dwellers are as susceptible as their urban counterparts to the suggestions of the media.
Tommy swung briskly along the road, as though he had no thought of danger. He had two forms of insurance against any attack. Kelly bounded ahead of him, with head erect and energy rippling from every line of his carriage. The Doberman sniffed the bitter air as if it was the sweetest he had ever savoured: he had been waiting for this walk ever since the hour of his normal lunch-time exercise had come and gone without his master stirring towards the door. The dog bounded into the forest as into a Paradise regained, forcing his indulgent master almost into a run to keep pace with him.
The second form of protection which Farr took with him towards the scene of the late murders was more obvious and perhaps more sinister. Slung almost negligently against his left shoulder was his shotgun. The dark polished metal of its twin barrels gleamed briefly in the diminishing light There were cartridges today in both barrels of the twelve bore. Tommy had seen to that before he left the privacy of the kitchen at the back of the village stores. He found the butt of the gun solid and reassuring now between his palm and fingers.
***
Two miles or so away, on the other side of the long tongue of forest that ran down to Woodford, a lane traced its erratic course towards Ashbridge. It was not even the main route between the two villages, though that was by no means a major thoroughfare. The road was metalled, but patches of grass poked their blades through the ridge at its centre. In the years between the two great wars which had taken men from this quiet region to a greater and more violent stage, the lane had linked small farms to each other, winding’ crazily along the boundaries. Now these small homesteads had long been deserted, their lands merged into larger holdings which still struggled to balance their books in the ‘nineties.
At dusk on the first day of the new year, a car lurched cautiously along this quiet way, reluctant to put on even its sidelights as the gloom stretched inexorably across the valley behind it. It was not the most well-adapted car for such a place: a Land-Rover would have managed the route better than the long Rover saloon, with its soft springs and low ground clearance.
But the care and skill of the driver ensured that it reached the appointed place safely enough. Beneath a low-branching chestnut, it would have been easy to miss the narrow break in the straggling hedge which marked one of the less frequented ways into the woods. But this man was on the lookout for it. He did not park next to it, but ran the big car thirty yards further on, to where a patch of grass just off the road allowed him to leave it almost out of sight beneath an overarching conifer.
He shivered a little as he left the warmth of the car, then zipped his anorak tightly against the sudden cold. He hesitated a little before he moved beneath the winter canopy of twigs and branches, as though he was reluctant to shut out the sky and the remaining daylight.
But as he plunged a moment later down the path into the forest, it was behind him that he cast his eyes, down the lane on which he had arrived. He wanted to check for the last possible time that he had not been followed here. There was no sight of any following figure, no note of an engine engaged in pursuit of the Rover. It was as much comfort as he could offer himself in this lonely setting.
As he turned towards the area where two men had lately met such violent deaths, this man had not the safeguards which surly Tommy Farr had afforded himself. No large dog was at his side, and he carried no weapon. He dug his gloveless hands deep into the pockets of his anorak, and began to hurry towards his assignation. There was not much light left for him now.
21
On January 2nd the world was back at work. Notes on Lambert’s desk told him that Central Television and the BBC would both like to set up interviews. He pushed them resolutely to one side and brought Hook up to date with what had happened in his absence.
At 9.30 Dr Burgess, the pathologist, was ushered into his office, trailing policemen and policewomen behind him like a consultant upon his rounds. He had insisted upon bringing in his official post-mortem report on the second victim personally, though Lambert expected it would add little to the details he had already taken over the phone.
He had long since despaired of introducing reality into Burgess’s lurid and literary impressions of modern CID practice. He humoured the silver-haired, patrician figure because in his autopsy work he was both efficient and alive to the urgency of police requirements. And because he liked the old boy, though he never admitted it. And perhaps just a little because it annoyed the ascetic Rushton to have a civilian present even on the periphery of police deliberations.
He had a good excuse for involving Burgess this morning. A scientist from the forensic laboratory would arrive at any moment to tell them what he could about the weapons and ammunition he and his colleagues had been examining in connection with the two killings in the forest. At least all the specialist scientific evidence could now be set alongside the meagre evidence the police had so far turned up.
“I come most carefully upon my hour, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father,” said Burgess with a benign smile.
“Let’s hope you are not the precursor of the kind of carnage introduced by that unfortunate presence,” said Lambert drily. “Do find yourself somewhere to sit down.”
His office always seemed much smaller when Burgess came into it; the pathologist was scarcely six feet tall, four inches shorter than Lambert, but his urbane presence made the piles of documents and statements awaiting the Superintendent’s attention seem more untidy than ever. The pathologist picked a shred of white thread from his immaculate navy suit, set three closely typed sheets on the edge of Lambert’s desk, and said, “So The Fox is still eluding his dedicated pursuers?” He settled himself in the room’s single battered armchair with every appearance of satisfaction at the thought.
It was typical of him to seize upon the press’s label for the killer, which Lambert had scrupulously avoided in his briefings to the team. The Superintendent said sourly, “First animal I know that kills its prey with a shotgun.”
Burgess waved a hand airily. “You mustn’t expect too much from the gentlemen of the fourth estate, John. You should know by now that they never let facts get in the way of a good story. Still less a good metaphor. And at least The Fox has brought a little glamour into a life made dull by petty fraud and public house brawls.”
Lambert was fortunately prevented from any rejoinder by the arrival of the forensic scientist. He was a slight, intense man with a closely trimmed brown beard. His narrow features appeared sharper than ever because they were pinched with cold. Greatly to Burgess’s delight, he introduced himself as Sam Johnson; Lambert winced mentally in anticipation.
“We shall be able to look to you to lighten the ‘inspissated gloom’ with which this case seems to
be beset!” said Burgess affably. The bewildered Johnson had obviously not investigated his illustrious namesake’s wordier pronouncements. The scientist opened his briefcase and took refuge in a sheaf of notes.
Burgess watched the move with interest. After a few seconds, he offered innocently, “Your celebrated namesake thought that ‘Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils’. I think I’m inclined to agree with him, aren’t you, Mr Johnson?”
“I find it difficult to operate without notes,” said Johnson acerbically. He found the pages he was looking for and smoothed them upon his knees, setting the briefcase down beside his upright chair.
Lambert was relieved when the return of Hook with Rushton diverted Burgess and allowed the informal meeting to begin. He said briskly, “Perhaps I could ask Dr Burgess to begin with a summary of his findings about the death of the man we now know to be Ian Sharpe.”
Burgess raised his elegant eyebrows a fraction. He had not heard the new name before; the corpse had come into his laboratory as the remains of Douglas Robertson. But he was aware that he was here on sufferance, so he was careful not to ruffle Lambert by asking for detail. “I would guess your man died between ten and eleven on the morning of 27th December. I couldn’t be definite about it under oath — you’ll see that I’ve put between nine and twelve in my report.” He nodded towards the pages on Lambert’s desk. “But both body temperature and stomach contents indicate that he had not been dead very long when you found the body.
“I’m assuming he last ate at about eight a.m. It’s hardly likely that he’d be eating before daylight, living as he was. He’d been eating rabbit, incidentally. Easy enough for him to trap, I should think, now that so many rabbits live above ground all winter.”
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