Some minutes later Sergeant Troy returned, positively burnished with satisfaction. He climbed into the car, beaming. “Got a result, Guv.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Talked to the barman. Same guy who was on that Monday night. He says Brinkley came in, ordered a drink, then sat by the window, hiding behind a paper, at the same time keeping an eye on the street. This bloke asked him if he was doing a spot of surveillance and Brinkley tipped him the wink and gave him ten quid to keep shtum.”
“How did the barman know who it was?”
“He didn’t then. But there was a photo in the Echo the day after the inquest. If Brinkley was expecting the girl Allibone spotted,” continued Sergeant Troy, “she could have been a legitimate client.”
“Some client,” murmured Barnaby, “with the keys to the office in her pocket.”
When the two policemen visited Brinkley and Latham for the second time Gail Fuller, leading them into the main section, whispered over her shoulder, “We’ve got the full complement today.” Then, jerking her head in the direction of the rear cubbyhole: “Put the flags out.”
Barnaby, looking, saw Andrew Latham looking right back. He got up and, before Leo Fortune had even had time to greet the two policemen, contrived to join them, explaining that as the firm’s senior partner he felt he should be present.
Leo said sharply, “This might be personal, for all you know.”
“But it isn’t, is it, Chief Inspector?”
“We’re here to continue our inquiries into Mr. Brinkley’s death.”
“Get on with it then,” said Latham. “Time’s money.”
Fortune gave an ironic laugh then, having started, couldn’t stop. Finally he managed to say, “Sorry about that. Are you telling us things today, Chief Inspector? Or asking us things?”
“Bit of both really, sir. What can you tell me about this business of the lights going on after—”
“Oh, no!” cried Latham, making a dramatic gesture of cowering horror. “Not the lights!”
“Please, Mr. Latham. If you’ve anything to contribute just tell us. We don’t have time to mess about.”
“A few weeks ago that nosy old scroat over the road told Brinkley what presumably he’s been telling you. And instead of telling him to mind his own business Dennis started worrying himself silly. He even had the cheek to ask if I knew anything about it.”
“And did you, sir?” asked Sergeant Troy.
“I was getting rat-arsed at a Lions Club dinner the first time it was supposed to have happened.”
“And the second?” enquired Barnaby.
“At the theatre. Mamma Mia.”
“That good, was it?”
“And before you ask,” continued Latham, “there were three witnesses—”
“But those were just the occasions Allibone noticed,” interrupted Leo. “We don’t know about the ones he missed.”
Barnaby, remembering the glasses, thought he probably hadn’t missed much. “How many of the staff had keys?”
“Just me and Dennis,” said Latham.
“What about spares?”
“Dennis had some. I didn’t.”
“Surely the building has a back entrance?” asked Sergeant Troy.
“Yes, but you can’t get through to here. There’s an internal wall.”
“Did Brinkley discuss this matter with you, Mr. Fortune?”
“Of course. We decided to get the locks changed as soon as possible. Turned out to be the following Wednesday.”
“The day after he died?”
“That’s right, I still got the work done.”
“Leo felt it was what he would have wanted.” Latham’s words were rich with syrupy admiration so plainly false that Fortune flushed angrily.
“And who has the new keys?”
“Both of us,” said Leo. Remembering Dennis had not wanted his partner to have them had made handing the keys over quite upsetting.
“What has all this to do with the so-called murder, anyway?”
“You don’t think he was deliberately killed, Mr. Latham?”
“Of course he wasn’t. One of those bloody machines fell on him. As for the phantom switch-thrower – I’d say he was a figment of Allibone’s overheated imagination.”
“Not at all. In fact the person was actually seen going in and out of the building.”
“And it’s a she,” said Sergeant Troy.
Leo Fortune looked absolutely stunned.
Latham said, “This is the most exciting day of my life.”
“Which is mainly why we’re here.” And Barnaby explained.
“Allibone saw this person in the daytime?”
Fortune was frankly disbelieving until Barnaby repeated Brian Allibone’s description, concluding with the angry flight across the market square.
“Oh – I know who you mean now. Her name’s Polly Lawson. The family are heirs to Carey Lawson’s estate. She was Dennis’s client for many years.”
“And now the Lawsons are yours?”
“Only by default. They may already have a financial advisor for all—”
“Mr. Latham!” cried Sergeant Troy. He had dropped his notebook and now sprang to his feet. “Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry…” Latham looked ghastly. He was supporting himself against the doorframe. “I have…have these attacks…sometimes. I just need to…”
“I’ll get some water.” Leo Fortune pushed back his chair.
“No, no. It’s…er…so close…some air…I’ll be…” He stumbled from the room.
Fortune rapped on the glass, did an urgent help-that-man mime and saw one of the women approach Latham, who angrily waved her away.
“That happen before, Mr. Fortune?” asked Barnaby.
“It’s a new one on me.”
As Troy sorted out his notebook the chief inspector watched Andrew Latham collect his briefcase and a jacket. A moment later the door of the outer office slammed shut.
“So, back to Polly Lawson. Could you tell me what this visit to Mr. Brinkley was about?”
“I’m afraid he didn’t confide in me. And even if I knew…well, as I’m sure you appreciate, any client’s business would be strictly confidential.”
“In a murder inquiry I’m afraid confidentiality goes by the board. Have you knowledge of the relevant accounts?”
“No. I’ve hardly looked at Dennis’s files. Been too busy working with Steve Cartwright, who’s taking over my own. I presume the girl’s parents are ignorant of all this?”
“As far as we know.”
“Mallory will be so upset.”
“Who?” Barnaby frowned in recollection.
“Appleby House, sir,” offered Troy.
Of course, Appleby House. Where Dennis Brinkley was going for dinner on the night he died. Where Benny Frayle lived, who found his body. And Mallory Lawson who spent time with that body before the police arrived and cleared away what might well have been evidence, and burned the shoes he was wearing.
Was this the connecting thread, wondered Barnaby, that would lead him out of the dark labyrinth of motiveless muddle and into order and clear comprehension? If not the thread, it was at least a thread.
“Do you know if the girl lives with her parents?”
“I believe she has a place in London. Dennis said she was at the LSE.”
“Right. Talk to your staff about all this, Mr. Fortune. See if there’s any feedback. It might also be wise to check out other accounts. But I especially wish to be informed as to the state of the Lawsons’ finances.” He handed over a card. “This is my direct line. Let me know the result, even if there’s nothing untoward.”
“It may be a few days—”
“By six this evening will do nicely.”
24
When Polly woke she immediately prayed for a magical withdrawal into unconsciousness. That was all she wanted and she wanted it to last for ever. Or at least for several years. Pain fretted her nerves. Her skin
scalded as if she had fallen asleep beneath a blazing sun. Muscles and sinews ached. She felt permanently nauseous.
Bright daylight poured into the room through a gap in the curtains. She dragged herself off the bed to close them, covering her eyes with her hand. Outside the birds’ sweet singing hurt her ears. Looking round, she realised she was in her parents’ bedroom. Where had they slept? How soon would they come to see how she was? Though the house was silent she felt the crushing weight of their concern pressing against the walls and the solid door. Imagined them downstairs, worried and fearful, speaking very quietly so as not to disturb her.
Polly could recall little about her homecoming. She remembered feeling strangely remote, as if her personality had somehow absented itself. She remembered being helped upstairs. And that was about it. What wouldn’t she give to feel remote now.
There was a soft knock on the door. Even as she was tempted to ignore it and pretend to be still asleep Polly heard herself murmuring, “Hello.” Still dazed she tried to stand when her mother entered, only to feel her legs giving way.
“I’ve brought you some tea, love. Don’t feel you have to get up.”
“No – it’s OK.” A quick glance at her mother’s face and Polly had to look away. Kate looked older. The brightness in her voice sounded forced and shaky.
“Would you like a bath?”
“Yes,” said Polly. “Thank you.” It would delay meeting the two of them together. How strange it was, and sad, that her father should be the person she most dreaded to face. She loved her mother (another jolting recognition) but the attitude of clear-eyed pragmatism with which Kate had always faced the world meant she would be the less deceived.
“I’ll put some of my lemon verbena in. And get you something to wear.”
Polly sat for a while, then took her tea into the bathroom. She curled up in a basket chair, watching the water gush from huge brass taps into an enamelled bath. They were very stiff to turn off. The bath rested on metal feet gone green with age. She climbed in carefully, lay down, surrounded by acres of space, and stared down at her body.
How thin she was. Her thumb and little finger encircled her wrist with ease, like a loose bracelet. Polly closed her eyes and drifted, moving her arms and legs languidly, making soft splashy sounds. Then she took a deep breath and slid under the perfumed water. Sealed off from sight and sound, she rested. You could hardly call it a breathing space but the effect was the same. The world and all her troubles seemed to float away. She could have been at the bottom of the ocean. But very quickly the troubles floated back.
Just now her mother had looked sick with worry. Yesterday Mallory had been frantic with concern. But neither had shown a trace of the devastating rage and condemnation that had possessed them in Polly’s nightmares. The only conclusion must be that they didn’t yet know about the missing money. Did this mean that Dennis knew but hadn’t told them?
Polly could quite believe that. He would remember her visit. Recall how desperate she had been to get her hands on the legacy and probably guess at the truth. He would try to talk to her first because he was a decent and kindly man whom she had despised as old and stuffy. Oh, why hadn’t she taken the chance to tell him—
A terrified shriek made her sit bolt upright. Her mother stood in the doorway, her arms full of clothes. They stared at each other. Polly, water streaming from her hair, shocked and amazed. Kate, pale as death, horrified. They both spoke at once.
“Sorry, sorry.”
“I’m all right. Really.”
“So stupid. Sorry. I thought.”
“It’s OK.”
“You looked…Ophelia.”
“I wasn’t.”
“No, sorry. This striped frock. All that I—”
“It’s fine. Thank you.”
“I’ll just put it. There’s some underwear.”
When her mother had almost run away Polly got out and dried herself carefully. She put on clean pants and a slip but not the bra, which was much too large. The dress was pink and white and also too large, but that didn’t matter.
Polly took a long while to do all this. A long while using her mother’s toothbrush. She pinned her soaking hair up into some sort of knot without looking into the glass and went downstairs, barefoot.
She had been picturing her parents sitting together, waiting. Trying not to look as if they were waiting. An awkwardness would prevail. It would not be the right time to tell them what she had done. But then, when would be?
Kate was alone in the kitchen, arranging sunflowers in an earthenware jug. She turned and smiled as Polly came in. It was hard to hold the smile. Sleep had done nothing to fade the dark shadows around Polly’s eyes. She looked lost in the baggy dress, which hung forward revealing her collarbones, sticking out like little wings.
“You must be ready for breakfast.” It was almost twelve o’clock. “Or would you rather wait and have some soup?”
“Where’s Dad?”
“In the garden with Benny. Watering stuff. Picking beans for lunch.”
“Right.” She had forgotten about Benny. No way could she confess to her parents with someone else present.
“I’ve just made coffee. Or would you rather have juice?”
“Coffee’s fine, Mum.”
Kate lifted the percolator from the Aga, her hand shaking slightly. It was years since she had been called “Mum.” As a young teenager Polly had gone through a phase of calling her “Kate” and, once that stopped, nothing.
“Some toast?”
“Later, maybe.” The fact was that Polly, who had not eaten for days, had got to the dangerous stage of no longer feeling hungry. And in any case, until the truth was out of her mouth and into the open she knew she would be unable to swallow. She felt her throat closing up just thinking about it. How she would choke on the ugly words. How they would turn the sweet air foul.
“Hello, darling.” Mallory came in, carrying bunches of herbs and a lettuce as well as the beans. He moved in a dull, heavy way but smiled, attempting lightness. “How are you now, then?”
Somehow Polly smiled back. Like her mother, he had aged. And if they’re like this, thought Polly, just because I disappeared for a bit and got ill, what are they going to be like when they find out that I have stolen, gambled and lost money on the strength of insider information and am a criminal twice over? She couldn’t tell them. She simply couldn’t. But what then?
Polly considered the possible consequences of keeping silent. What could anyone prove? Her visits to Brinkley and Latham had been carried out at night. And if she had been noticed no one knew who she was. Perhaps she could go back and put things right. Take money from another account and somehow put it into her parents’. She still had the office keys. Here Polly’s mind slipped its moorings and whirled into faster and ever wilder imaginings. Kate watched her with increasing concern.
Mallory, his back to them both, washing lettuce at the sink, saw a car draw up outside the house and groaned aloud, “Ohhhh no. Not again.”
Within half an hour of Barnaby’s visit to Brinkley and Latham’s offices, the driver from Cox’s MiniCabs, a Mr. Fred Carboy, had been traced and had been persuaded, with some difficulty, to help the police with their inquiries confirming Mr. Allibone’s revelations.
Driving over to Forbes Abbot for the second time that day, Sergeant Troy sneaked a sideways glance at the boss and decided that all these little revelations were doing him the world of good. Look how he sat. Upright, leaning forward a little, fingertips drumming lightly on his knees. Couldn’t wait to get there.
“I’ve been thinking, Chief. Two things, actually.”
“Run them by me, Gavin. I’m feeling lucky today.”
“First the cleaner—the link there being she worked for the Lawsons and Brinkley. She had keys both to his house and the office. And also, it was down to her Benny Frayle met Ava Garret.”
Tell us something we don’t know, thought Barnaby. But he was feeling charitable so said simply,
“What’s the other?”
“Remember Brinkley had something on his mind and wanted to talk to Lawson about it?”
“But died before he could.”
“We’ve only got Lawson’s word for that.”
“Carry on,” said the DCI.
“What if they did talk and it was about all this? We know Brinkley saw Polly Lawson go in. Saw it was his office where the light went on. Wouldn’t he check the accounts to see what she’d been up to? Anybody else – it would’ve been straight through to us and an arrest.”
“But because of their friendship—”
“Going back over thirty years.”
“He’d try and sort it out with her dad.”
“Who killed him to protect the girl.”
Barnaby leaned back now, relaxing. “Yes, I think all that’s certainly within the realms of possibility, Sergeant.”
Troy, lifting a leg so pleased was he with this encouragement, took second with a swanky flourish. “Which means no way are they going to hand over her London address.”
“We can get that through the LSE.”
Mallory Lawson was peering through a window as they got out of the car. He looked vexed and resentful but, alas for Troy’s imaginings, not at all apprehensive. He turned on both men with little ceremony.
“I don’t wish to be rude, Inspector—”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir.”
“But we do have a houseful of unpacking here. I answered all your questions during our first interview. I’ve nothing further to add—”
“But I have something to add, Mr. Lawson.”
Troy was gazing at a wreck of a girl slumped in a chair. Could this be the one Brian Allibone had described as “absolutely beautiful with dark curly hair and lovely legs”? The girl full of fire and capable of murder?
She looked anorexic to him, all skin and bone. Her hair, piled up any-old-how, had started to fall down in black ratty tails. The eyes had a bluish bruised appearance, even her lips were violet-stained. The chief was addressing her but she didn’t seem to take it in so he tried again.
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