Faithful unto Death

by Caroline Graham

  “Whatever you’re selling I don’t wannit. And that includes religion. So piss off.”

  “Mrs. Atherton?”

  “Who wants to know?” This came from a man at the back of the hall. A man perhaps in his early thirties, not too tall with dark curly hair.

  “DCI Barnaby, Causton CID,” replied the Chief Inspector. And got his foot in the door just in time.

  One of the most infuriating things about the guv’nor was his refusal to talk until he was good and ready. Another, equally infuriating, was this habit of pointing out to his irritated bag carrier that the said carrier had all the information that he, the guv’nor, possessed and so should be quite capable of drawing his own conclusions.

  That Sergeant Troy knew his chief well enough to appreciate that this attitude was neither spiteful nor motivated by any desire to show off only made matters worse. He was well aware that Barnaby was simply offering encouragement. Trying to persuade him to recall, reflect, deduce, connect.

  But these were not Troy’s natural strengths. He was sharp-eyed, fast and aggressive. He was a good man to have on your side in a fight. But he was not patient. When they eventually got back to the ranch, there was no way he would be going over every statement and interview relative to the Hollingsworth case to find out where the words Cubitt Town had cropped up.

  The two inhabitants of the council flat behind Thermopylae Gardens were being held at Rotherhithe police station pending a transfer to Causton CID for questioning. Queenie Lambert, already vaguely aware of playing some small part in what she suspected might prove to be a very large drama, had further consolidated her position by offering to look after the cat.

  On leaving the East London nick, Barnaby had asked to be driven straight to Fawcett Green and now Sergeant Troy, his heart beating twenty to the dozen and his thoughts jumping like deranged fleas, was walking very quickly down St. Chad’s Lane to Nightingales, aware, as he almost ran along, of an urgency he could not put a name to, a compulsion that, at all costs, he must get there first.

  Calling earlier at Dr. Jennings’ they had been told that Simone, accompanied by the attendant officer who had taken over from PC Perrot, had gone home to sort out a change of clothes and pick up any post that may have arrived. The place was otherwise unoccupied. Hollingsworth’s brother and his wife, having resolutely refused to spend a single night under the roof of “the devil’s house of sin,” were staying at the Vicarage.

  As Barnaby walked up the weed-choked path to the front door for the last time, he thought how much longer it seemed than two weeks since he had walked up it for the first time.

  The nicotiana in the Italian terracotta jars were dead and dried up and one of the pots had cracked open, spilling fine earth all over the doorstep. Thistles and nettles had got a stranglehold on the front garden and the windowpanes were thick with dust. All the downstairs curtains were drawn. The whole place had a somnolent air and although the interior had been cleaned, a faint smell of stale food still mingled with that of lemon-scented furniture polish.

  “Afternoon, Chief Inspector,” said the constable positioned by the front door which was standing open.

  “Mrs. Hollingsworth inside?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  Barnaby entered first but he was hardly in the hall before his sergeant pushed past. Troy blundered into the living room and from there to the dining room and kitchen. He returned and stood in front of Barnaby, breathing deeply. He appeared to be in a state of extreme physical discomfort and his face was transfigured by a passionate determination. There was a footfall overhead.

  Troy moved quickly forward but found his way blocked.

  “Gavin. Listen to me.”

  “Someone’s upstairs.”

  “There’s only one way out of this.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m truly sorry.”

  “There’s always more than one way. You told me that a long while ago.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Do you want to stay down here?” The words, spoken as Barnaby moved towards the staircase, were barely audible. Troy shook his head. “Then keep quiet, OK?”

  They ascended the stairs, Troy struggling to make his face blank and keep some sort of grip on his emotions. He felt as if he was being put through a wringer; the ventricles of his heart squeezed by a giant fist. He thought, if this is love, give me a vicious kicking any day of the week.

  The door of the master bedroom was wide open and they could see clear across it when they reached the landing. Barnaby rested a warning hand on his sergeant’s arm—unnecessarily, for Troy could not have spoken for the world.

  A woman, unrecognisable to both men though they each knew who she was, stood gazing into a full-length mirror. Lost in the happy contemplation of her reflection, she remained unaware of their proximity.

  She wore a beautifully cut dress of rich black velvet, backless and a stitch away from frontless. On her feet were elegant sandals with dangerously high heels. She balanced easily on them, swaying slightly but in a poised and naturally graceful manner. She wore an ash-blonde shoulder-length wig, teazed and tousled into a cloud of soft, loose curls. At her throat, wrists, hands and ears a conflagration of light blazed.

  Her face was both very beautiful and completely soulless. A dazzling example of cosmetic alchemy. Peach and ivory skin blushing coral over cleverly modelled cheekbones, huge, brilliant but very hard eyes enlarged and enhanced by layer upon delicate layer of shadows. False lashes dark, glossy and thickly curled.

  But it was about the mouth where the most startling transformation had taken place. Her own rather thin lipline having been skilfully erased, a, new crimson mouth, greedy and voluptuous, bloomed in its place.

  She turned sideways, pausing briefly to admire the compelling perfection of her image, adjusted the diamond necklace then picked up a magnificent full-length blue fox coat from the back of a chair and draped it round her shoulders.

  And it was then that she saw them.

  Simone did not turn round but she did become very still, regarding the intruders silently in the mirror. Barnaby observed the calculation process at its most naked. Explanations, excuses, evasions, exits. She ran them all by with alarmed rapidity. It was like watching a fruit machine lining up the total. Ching, ching, ching. And every one a lemon.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “Oh. Hullo.”

  There was nothing she could do now, thought Barnaby with some small satisfaction and a great deal of anger. No way she could revert to the shy, sad, winsome little scrap that the world had treated so cruelly.

  “I just came over for some clothes.”

  “So I see.” He glanced at the bed which was strewn with money. There were dresses lying there too. And underwear and shoes. Several real leather suitcases stood nearby with their lids open. “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving us.”

  Simone ignored this remark. Her pretty pink tongue flicked out, wetting her already glistening lips. She glanced at Sergeant Troy and attempted a seductive smile, lifting her scarlet top lip to reveal sharp white incisors. But extreme tension froze the movement, distorting it into a half sneer.

  “Hi, Gavin.”

  Troy turned and walked back to the landing. He leaned over the stair rail feeling sick with betrayal and unhappiness. He felt his longing, poisoned beyond redemption, curdle in his heart.

  From the bedroom he could hear Barnaby start to speak but the words seemed to come from a great distance and echo strangely. Troy wondered if, for the first time in his life, he was about to faint.

  “Simone Hollingsworth,” began the Chief Inspector, “you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of your husband, Alan. You do not have to say anything . . .”

  He was taken at his word. Simone had now been in custody for just under two hours and had remained silent apart from making a single telephone call to Penstemon’s solicitor who was unable to get to
the station until seven o’clock that evening.

  Awaiting Jill Gamble’s arrival, Barnaby organised a debriefing at thirty minutes’ notice, inevitably garnering, in the incident room, only the immediate shift of men and women who had worked on the Hollingsworth case.

  Audrey Brierley was present; Gavin Troy was not. He had cried off and Barnaby thought for once the term not inappropriate. Naturally, though perilously close to breaking down, Troy would have died rather than be seen weeping. He had turned the keen edge of his distress against himself and fallen on it like a defeated warrior upon his sword, mutilating his emotions, furiously attempting to kill what had been so newly born. Wounded and a fool for love, he was fit for nothing and Barnaby had sent him home.

  People were scattered around the room, popping cans or queuing for the kettle to make coffee filters. Some peeled confectionery wrappers others tore open crisps. The lines were diverted to the separate office and a couple of civilian telephonists detailed to take the calls. There was a slight air about the place of getting dug in.

  The Chief Inspector had so far just given them the bare bones of the matter. They all knew that Simone Hollingsworth had been arrested and why. It was the sordid details, what someone had once called the “shitty gritty,” that now closely engaged their attention.

  Naturally, as the subject of Barnaby’s disquisition had yet to speak, his narrative would be in the nature of an imaginative re-creation rather than a straightforward listing of acknowledged facts. But he still looked forward to unravelling the tangled web in which they had all been ensnared. Like his daughter, he had been born to the sound of a drum roll. And now, ladies and gentlemen, before your eyes, before your very eyes . . .

  But—Barnaby shuffled his notes—where to begin? No crime takes place in a vacuum and he had the feeling that this one had been in the making for a long while. Certainly since the beginning of the marriage and maybe even earlier. Perhaps since the very first moment the black widow spider spotted such a big juicy fly.

  “So what made you first think to put her in the frame, Chief Inspector?” Sergeant Beryl kicked off.

  “There was never one specific thing. Rather an accumulation of signs, scraps of information, conversations that meant nothing at the time but, viewed in retrospect, became significant.”

  Perhaps that would be a good starting point. The village itself, Fawcett Green. And its opinion of Alan Hollingsworth’s second wife.

  “The first unusual thing I noticed about Simone was that everyone I spoke to described her in exactly the same way. Now, this is very odd. Usually, if you ask half a dozen people’s opinion of someone, you’ll get six varying replies. But the same adjectives turned up again and again in this case. Mrs. Hollingsworth was wistful, lonely, childlike and not too bright. Easily bored, she remained a docile and loving wife even in the face of her husband’s apparent cruelty.”

  “Don’t know about apparent, sir.” Audrey sounded a bit bullish. “We’ve got the interview with her doctor to bear it out.”

  “I’ll come to that. The point I’m making now is that unlike the rest of us, who adjust our behaviour according to the situation and who we’re with, Simone gave a rubberstamp performance. So, what does this tell us?”

  “That she was playing a part?” suggested PC Belling hesitantly, tugging at his curly moustache.

  “Just so. The boredom I’ve no doubt was genuine. But apart from that, she was playing a part. And biding her time. She married for the cash and, as a quick look around her bedroom will show, very quickly got through a great deal of it. But, though this case appears to be all about greed, it is also all about love.”

  “Love?” Sergeant Beryl rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Seems to me she took him for all she could get then did him in.”

  “Oh, she didn’t love Alan! No, we’re talking here about husband number one.” He flicked through his notes and found the lines relating to the man dragged up in Cubitt Town. “ ‘She was mad about him and he was mad about her and both were mad about money.’ But Atherton, or so the story goes, found a likely mark and disappeared.”

  “So, you reckon she followed his example and found a mark of her own,” suggested Alan Lewis, a plainclothes inspector.

  “And plotted her own kidnapping?” PC Belling sounded incredulous.

  “With his help, yes. I don’t believe they ever really lost touch.”

  “Hang on, sir,” said Audrey. “I’m not with you at all on this one.” There was a general murmur of agreement around the room. “Surely Sarah Lawson and this bloke we’re calling Tim were responsible.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Lawson confessed.”

  “And there’s proof—she rented the flat where Simone was held.”

  “We found the camera at her cottage.”

  “You said she recognised the photographs.”

  “Besides, Simone was infatuated with her boy friend. That’s how it all began.”

  “Everything you say—the last remark aside—is true,” granted the Chief Inspector.

  “Then I don’t see what you’re driving at, guv,” Audrey finished where she had begun. “Either Lawson and her boy friend set it up or Simone and her ex-husband set it up. All four of them couldn’t have been involved.”

  “But they were,” said Barnaby. “Except it was all three.” He waited for a second baffled murmur to subside. “However, only two knew what was really going on. I spoke of love a moment ago. The love of Jimmy Atherton and his wife. But I suspect this will prove to be a poor thing in comparison to that of Sarah Lawson. Unfortunately I didn’t bring her in for questioning when I should have done and she was left with plenty of time to dream up an alternative scenario. A cover to protect the woman who so cruelly betrayed her. And I have not the slightest doubt she will stick to her story to the very end. For she has nothing to lose and, it seems now, nothing to live for.”

  “Are you saying,” asked Inspector Lewis, “that this man ‘Tim’ doesn’t really exist?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When did you discover this?”

  “The last time I spoke to Lawson. I told her he’d been seen going up the back steps at Flavell Street and into the flat. She was completely mystified. Just didn’t have a clue as to what I was talking about.” In his mind Barnaby ran the scene again. Saw Sarah finally understand the true extent of her betrayal and watched her efforts, even as the knife plunged home, to protect the woman she loved.

  “So why was it necessary to make him up?”

  “It wasn’t at first. Getting Hollingsworth to believe that someone had kidnapped his wife was a doddle. Locking her away, taking the photographs and posting them—no problem. But once the pictures had been dug up, things rapidly got much more complicated. And when the flat in Flavell Street was discovered, Sarah Lawson was really up against it.

  “Not that she was worried on her own behalf. As we know, Sarah was at Fawcett Green the Friday evening following the kidnap and nearly all the following weekend so she couldn’t have been the person responsible.”

  “So . . . this was Atherton?” said Constable Belling.

  “No, no.” Barnaby was starting to sound irritable. “Don’t you see? There was no one else. The pictures were faked.”

  “Faked!”

  “They were a bloody professional-looking job then, sir.”

  “You’ve picked exactly the right word, Belling. When I interviewed Avis Jennings she talked about Simone’s early life. The various jobs she’d had.” He referred once more to his notes. “ ‘Spent some time in a florist’s, did a cosmetics course, demonstrated food mixers, was in television for a bit and a cashier in some sort of nightclub.’ I didn’t have the nous to spot a possible connection between make-up training and television. I presumed she’d worked in one of the offices.”

  “None of us spotted it, sir,” said Audrey. She could be quite protective at times. “And we all read the interview.”

  “Did that idea check out then, guv
?”

  “We’re still waiting for feedback from the TV companies.”

  “I reckon you could be right, chief. I watched Casualty last week. God, some of those injuries. Bleeding off your screen.”

  “I suppose that’s why she had to disappear for so long.”

  “Precisely. She could hardly just wash it off and turn up. All the supposed cuts and bruises had to have time to heal.”

  “Why risk coming back at all though, guv?” asked Constable Belling. “She’d got the necklace, the ring, the ransom money.”

  “But as Hollingsworth’s widow she would expect to inherit all his worldy goods. Nightingales, Penstemon—that alone must be worth a fair shake.”

  “So, is that why she killed him?”

  “That’s my belief, though I’ve no doubt there’ll be a different version at the interview.”

  “If she decides to cough it.”

  “Yes.” Barnaby didn’t really want to consider the alternative. In the brief period that he had spent in the company of the real Mrs. Hollingsworth he had sensed a backbone of steel, a heart of stone and an iron will that might prove to be more than a match for his own.

  “How she got him to drink the stuff we can only guess at at this stage but we do know how she obtained it. She visited her doctor twice, treating him to a pretty display of nervous distress plus a few bruises thrown in for good measure. Though it’s interesting to note that when Jennings tried to examine them more closely, Mrs. Hollingsworth, in his own words, ‘shrank away.’ There were two prescriptions given for haloperidol but Jennings became suspicious when she tried for three. He thought she might wish to harm herself.”

  “That’s a good one,” mumbled a machine operator at the back of the room, through a mouthful of Twix.

  “To anyone who hasn’t met her, all this easy manipulation of other people must sound a bit unbelievable,” said Barnaby. “All I can say is, in all the years I’ve been at it, she’s the best I’ve come across. I was deceived along with everyone else.”