Once Too Often

by Dorothy Simpson

  Eventually she capitulated. ‘I suppose so,’ she said grudgingly.

  They followed her through a door on the right into a sitting room where there were antimacassars and arm-protectors on the three-piece suite and every surface shone, sparkled or twinkled. There was a strong smell of Brasso and furniture polish overlaid with air freshener but no evidence of any occupation – no books, newspapers, magazines, no knitting or needlework, not even a television set. Thanet guessed that the room was rarely used. Pride of place was taken by a photograph of a young man, no more than a boy really, set precisely in the centre of the mantelpiece. It was obviously a holiday snap – he was leaning against some railings with a background of beach, sea and sky. If the owner of the Nissan was Alistair Barcombe, this, presumably, was Kevin.

  ‘Is Mr Barcombe in?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s at work.’

  ‘Where is that, Mrs Barcombe?’

  ‘Bentall’s, in the High Street.’

  A men’s outfitters, in the town.

  ‘May we sit down?’

  She nodded and sank into a chair herself, still clutching the duster and spraycan. Comfort objects perhaps, thought Thanet. ‘He drives to work?’

  ‘No, he walks.’

  Thanet waited.

  She fidgeted with the duster, then said, ‘It’s not far into the town from here, it’s not worth getting the car out. Then there’s the parking. If you can find a space you have to pay through the nose for it.’

  ‘Where do you keep your car? Some distance away, I imagine?’

  ‘We rent a garage, round the back.’

  ‘Does your husband take it out much in the evenings?’

  ‘Has it been stolen or something, and smashed up? Is that what all this is about?’

  ‘No, not at all. Does he? Take it out in the evenings?’

  ‘Well, sometimes, yes.’

  ‘And last night? Did he take it out last night?’

  ‘No, he stayed in at home with me. We watched the telly.’

  Thanet believed her. Which left Kevin – who, he guessed, was the apple of her eye. He would have to be careful. He stood up. Lineham, taken by surprise, was a little slow to follow and gave Thanet a questioning glance. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Barcombe,’ said Thanet, smiling. ‘I don’t think we need to trouble you any further at the moment.’ He turned away and in so doing pretended to notice the photograph for the first time. ‘Is this your son? Kevin, did you say his name was?’

  She was already on her feet, relief making her almost garrulous. ‘Yes. Well, adopted son, as a matter of fact. We’ve always made a point of making no secret about that. I always think it’s a mistake not to be open about it, don’t you? You hear of such terrible stories when the children learn about it late in life. We told our Kevin very early on, and whatever people say to you about adoption, don’t you believe it. No son of our own could have been more to us than he is, nor treated us better. He’s never given us a moment’s worry.’

  But the shadow behind her eyes denied what she was saying.

  Thanet smiled. ‘I’m delighted to hear that. It’s rare enough, with young people carrying on the way they do these days.’ He began to move towards the door. ‘Does he work locally?’ His tone was casual, as if he were merely expressing a polite interest.

  ‘At Snippers, in the High Street.’

  ‘Oh. That’s where my wife has her hair done. She started going there last year and says she’s never had it cut so well in her life before.’

  Mrs Barcombe looked gratified. ‘That’s why Kevin was so pleased to get in there. They do a really good training, he says.’

  ‘He’s apprenticed, I suppose.’

  ‘Halfway through.’

  They were on the doorstep by now, about to leave, when Thanet turned as if an afterthought had just struck him – a technique which always amused him when he watched the Columbo films but which could occasionally, as now, prove useful. ‘He drives, I suppose? Kevin? And borrows your husband’s car sometimes?’

  But he saw at once that his tactic had failed. A tiny frown appeared on her forehead and her eyes grew wary. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Did he borrow it last night, by any chance?’

  She hesitated, clearly torn between a reluctance to lie and anxiety that she might incriminate her son. ‘I’m not sure.’ She was still holding the spraycan and now, with a sudden movement, she tucked it under her arm and began to twist the duster into a tight spiral with hands reddened and coarsened by too much unnecessary housework.

  ‘He doesn’t always ask your husband’s permission, if he wants to borrow it?’

  ‘I don’t always hear. If I’m in another room or something.’

  ‘Of course. But he did go out last night?’

  ‘Yes.’ The answer was grudging.

  ‘And what time did he leave?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘A rough estimate?’

  She sucked in her breath in exasperation. ‘About a quarter to eight, I suppose.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you again, Mrs Barcombe.’ And they left her staring after them.

  As soon as they were out of earshot Lineham said, ‘He obviously did borrow it last night, don’t you think?’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Thanet glanced at his watch. Twelve-twenty. ‘We’ll have a bite to eat, then go and see what he has to say.’

  Over a beef-and-pickle sandwich and a pint at a nearby pub Lineham said, ‘And what was all that stuff about adoption?’

  ‘Yes, I wondered that.’

  ‘Something gone wrong there, you think?’

  ‘It did sound rather as though she was trying to convince herself as well as us.’

  ‘I was surprised she mentioned it at all.’

  ‘I don’t know. It sounded to me as if she was genuine in saying they’d never made a secret of it. It all came out as though it was something she told people automatically. But as for Kevin “never giving a moment’s trouble”, well, I’m not so sure.’

  They drove into the town centre and, leaving the car at Headquarters, walked along to Snippers. It was a unisex salon but Thanet had never set foot inside before, preferring to have his hair cut the old-fashioned way in a barber’s shop with a striped pole outside. Such places were becoming harder and harder to find but Sturrenden still boasted two and Thanet had been going along month after month to the same one for longer than he cared to remember; despite Joan’s occasional proddings he had no intention of abandoning a practice of such long standing. He made a mental note, Must fit in a haircut before Saturday.

  Inside he was surprised to see that the one feature he invariably associated with salons where women had their hair done was absent. There was not a single dome-shaped hair-drier in sight. The place was open plan and several stylists were at work, cutting, wielding combs, hand driers and styling wands. All but one, an older man, were young. Pop music blared out and the air was full of the mingled scents of shampoo, hair-spray and another more acrid ammoniac smell. Thanet found it very difficult to envisage Joan fitting in to this environment. On the other hand the place obviously had a wide appeal – the clients seemed to range from teenage to elderly.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The receptionist was in her teens with tousled hair streaked with green and red. She was wearing a black top with irregularly shaped holes cut out of it, revealing unappetising glimpses of pallid skin beneath.

  ‘We’d like a word with Kevin Barcombe, please.’ Briefly, Thanet flashed his warrant card. ‘Police,’ he murmured. He saw no point in causing unnecessary embarrassment.

  She frowned. ‘I’ll get him.’

  After a quick word with the older man, who gave them a sharp look, she went to the back of the shop where the boy in the photograph was working not on a customer but on a model head. He was putting its hair up into an elaborate plait which began high on the back of the head and his absorption was total. He started when the girl approached him and left his work with reluctance.

  ‘Is
there anywhere private we can talk?’ said Lineham, when they had introduced themselves.

  ‘There’s an exercise room upstairs. I’ll have to ask Dennis.’

  This was the older man, the owner presumably. He nodded and Kevin led them to an upper room equipped as a gym. Various exercise machines stood about and Lineham glanced at them with interest. ‘I didn’t know you had these here.’

  ‘They’re chiefly used in the evenings and at weekends. People come to work out. Look, what’s all this about, then? I ain’t done nothing – so far as I know, anyway.’

  ‘We’re just making some routine inquiries,’ said Lineham. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Good. It don’t do my image much good, do it, to have you coming here like this?’

  Thanet wondered what ‘image’ Kevin had of himself. Neither of his most memorable features was attractive – carrot-coloured hair and the dense crop of freckles which so often accompanies it.

  ‘We understand you borrowed your father’s car last night.’

  ‘So? No crime in that, is there?’

  But Thanet was sensing that beneath the bravado the boy was nervous. Was it possible that he really had been involved in Jessica Dander’s death? Or was it simply that he had never been questioned by the police before and found the process alarming? Even innocent people often did, as Thanet was well aware.

  ‘Of course not. Where did you go?’

  ‘Sally’s.’

  A nightclub which had recently opened in a disused warehouse on the edge of town. According to Kevin he had left home at 8.15 and gone straight there. He had stayed until just after midnight, then returned home. A number of friends, he said, would confirm his story.

  On the way out Thanet paused at the desk and inquired if Jessica Dander – or Jessica Manifest as she might have called herself – had been a client at Snippers. Apparently she had.

  ‘So,’ said Lineham as soon as they were outside, ‘he knew her, by sight, anyway. He could be the prowler, don’t you think? And if he’s the prowler . . .’

  ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Mike. I agree, he could be. But let’s get a little more evidence before making up our minds.’

  ‘But he’s involved somehow, isn’t he? Otherwise, why lie about the time? There’s a discrepancy of half an hour between the time he says he left home and the time his mother gave us. What’s more, it covers part of the period we’re looking at. Doc Mallard put the time of death between 7 and 8.26, and if Kevin left home at around 7.45 he could have been in Charthurst by eight.’

  ‘Motive?’

  Lineham grinned. ‘Give me time and I’ll come up with one.’

  ‘Meanwhile we’ll check the time of his arrival at Sally’s, though I don’t know if we’ll get much joy. It’s pretty popular, I believe, and usually heaving with people.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. There might not have been many there so early in the evening. Things don’t usually hot up until much later, I believe.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  ‘So, what’s next on the agenda, sir?’

  ‘A visit to the KM, I think, in Maidstone.’

  ‘Great.’ Lineham loved driving, the further the better.

  Thanet was relieved to have a brief respite too, to sit back and enjoy the mellowness of the early autumn landscape. This was the moment when the land was poised between one annual cycle and the next. The harvest was long since over and the year was winding down, but already some of the fields had been ploughed and sown with winter wheat, their chocolate-brown furrows etching graceful curves across the contours of the earth. Soon the tender green shoots would appear but meanwhile nature was preparing itself for its most spectacular display, the blaze of autumn colour which was already beginning to tint the patches of woodland which flanked their route.

  At this time of day the roads were relatively clear and by just after 1.30 they were pulling into the car park at Maidstone Police Station in Palace Avenue. A few minutes’ walk took them to the Kent Messenger offices which were in Middle Row, a narrow block of buildings between Maidstone High Street and Bank Street, one of the oldest streets in the town.

  The reception area was light and airy with access from both streets. Behind a large square inquiry counter were two receptionists, one of them working the switchboard. The other looked up and smiled at their approach, but her expression quickly changed when she heard why they were there.

  ‘We still can’t believe it. You never think it’ll happen to somebody you know.’

  ‘You knew her well?’

  Like Jessica the woman was in her thirties, with a broad, flat-featured face and short, straight blonde hair.

  ‘Not really well. She wasn’t a friend, if that’s what you mean, but she had worked here for ages.’ She turned to the other woman. ‘Someone was saying this morning that they thought Jessica had worked at the KM longer than anyone else here, weren’t they?’

  Her colleague nodded.

  ‘So you’re bound to feel it, even if you didn’t particularly . . . even if you weren’t particularly close.’

  So the receptionist hadn’t liked her. It might be worth talking to her later. Meanwhile it was time for the appointment they had made with the news editor.

  ‘I believe Mr Anderson is expecting us.’

  The receptionist rang through and within minutes Colin Anderson had arrived and was whisking them upstairs. The narrow staircase led into the main editorial office. This too was light and airy and stretched the whole width of the block, with high windows overlooking both streets. Reporters were busily tapping away at their computers or answering telephones surrounded by a sea of paper piled up on desks and overflowing from bins, cardboard boxes and wire baskets. A large map of Kent hung on the wall. Anderson nodded at an empty desk. ‘That was Jessica’s.’

  ‘Perhaps we could take a look at it later.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He led them through a door at the far end of the room and up a further flight of stairs into an interview room. When they were all seated he said, ‘Now, how can I help you? I’m not sure what you want of me but I gather from your visit that you are not satisfied Jessica’s death was an accident. Are you treating this as a murder investigation?’

  Thanet and Lineham had already agreed that as the senior officer Thanet should conduct this interview. They felt that in view of his position Anderson would expect it. So Thanet began by saying, ‘First of all I would like your assurance that anything said in this interview will remain confidential. As you know, we always try to cooperate with the press and we shall continue to do so in this instance, especially as we do appreciate that you must have a particular interest in the case, since Mrs Manifest – or Miss Dander, as I suppose I should call her here – was a colleague of yours. We’ll do our best to keep you up to date with developments, but I’m sure you understand that we can’t release information which might prejudice the investigation.’

  Anderson nodded. He was in his forties, with horn-rimmed glasses which gave him an earnest, studious air, and hair which was already receding at the temples. Like the other reporters downstairs he was in shirtsleeves. ‘Understood.’

  ‘So, yes, we have to say that we are not satisfied as yet that her death was an accident. There are one or two circumstances, which I can’t reveal to you at the moment, that are giving us reason to doubt that it was.’

  ‘So. Fire away. Jessica might not have been very popular but no one would have wished that on her.’

  ‘She wasn’t? Popular?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She was a bit impatient. Offhand.’

  ‘So she didn’t have any close friends at work?’

  ‘Not really, no. Oh, she rubbed along well enough with people but she was a bit of a loner, that’s all.’

  ‘How important are personal relationships in a place like this?’

  ‘Well, there’s a certain amount of teamwork, obviously, there has to b
e. But at the same time there’s always rivalry, even between friends. Everyone has the same aim, to get their story and their name on the front page.’

  ‘Was Jessica ambitious?’

  ‘To a degree, yes, you have to be in a job like this. In many ways she was a model employee. She was a good writer and she was hardworking, punctual, efficient, reliable. You always knew that if you asked her to do something it would be done thoroughly and well. Not brilliantly, perhaps, but there are plenty of times when it isn’t brilliance that’s needed.’

  ‘Is that why she stayed with the same paper for so long – since she was sixteen, in fact? Because she didn’t have that little extra edge of talent? It’s pretty unusual to stay as long as that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. And yes, perhaps that was why. Maybe she didn’t want to risk trying for one of the nationals.’

  ‘Risk?’

  ‘Perhaps she was afraid of failure. Maybe she felt secure here.’

  ‘You think she was an insecure sort of person?’

  Anderson shrugged. ‘Underneath, I’d say she probably was.’ He leaned back in his chair, considering, then shook his head. ‘She wasn’t easy to understand. She was dedicated to her work, as I say, very intense about it. But she found it difficult to ease up, she was prickly, didn’t have much sense of humour, and hated being teased. On the other hand, I know she had a softer side, and this certainly came over in some of the features she wrote. They were what she was best at. Her news sense wasn’t so good.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’

  Anderson laughed, revealing two crooked front teeth. ‘The classic way to explain that is to tell the story of the editor and the new reporter. He sends her out to cover a wedding and when she comes back she tells him there wasn’t a story. “What do you mean?” he says. “There wasn’t a story because there wasn’t a wedding,” she says. “The bride didn’t turn up.’ ”