Death in Disguise

by Caroline Graham

  ‘Had you met Gamelin before today, Miss Channing?’

  ‘Blimey—I don’t move in those circles.’ Then, as if remembering her persona, ‘They’re so materialistic, aren’t they?’

  ‘You seem to be quite sure that he’s the guilty party.’

  ‘I don’t see who else it could have been.’

  ‘May Cuttle is of the opinion,’ said Barnaby, ‘that the despatch was brought about by supernatural means.’

  Trixie laughed. A spontaneous robust shout of amusement, fear momentarily flown. Troy said, ‘You’re not a believer then?’

  ‘Oh—’ A devout expression appeared with such speed as to make her look positively silly. ‘Yes—I’m a disciple of course. Just not that far along the road.’

  If you’re a disciple, my girl, thought Barnaby, taking in the perky breasts, glossy lips and flashy triple wedges, I’m Joan Collins. She was back on Gamelin again.

  ‘Is…um…is he still here?’ When Barnaby became engaged with some papers and did not reply, she added, ‘We need to know you see…if someone’s staying overnight.’ Another pause. ‘To make up the bed…and food…’

  Finally the chief inspector took pity on her. ‘I believe Mr Gamelin has returned to his hotel.’

  ‘You let him go!’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ said Troy. ‘We keep a close eye. On everyone.’

  Grumbling that it wouldn’t be of any use, Trixie did a sketch and then Barnaby released her. As the door closed. Troy said, ‘A worried girl, Chief.’

  ‘She’s hiding something that’s for sure. So’re Wainwright and Gibbs. Yet when I pressed the murder button none of them jumped. Now why is that?’

  ‘Wheels within wheels, I’d say.’

  ‘It was Gamelin set her off. Claims she’s never met him before today, yet can’t wait to stuff an apple in both ends, truss him up and bung him in the oven. If there’s one thing I can’t stand,’ he got up, moving stiffly, ‘it’s being railroaded.’

  ‘Talk to him again in the morning?’

  ‘Oh yes. We’ll bring him in I think. Meanwhile—drop these off at Forensic on your way home.’

  Troy took the plastic bags. The lab was not on his way home. In fact it was not on anyone’s, but if it was on anyone’s way home then it was more on the chief inspector’s way home than it was on his sergeant’s way home…

  Saying ‘Right you are sir’ he foisted them on to Constable Fluffy and reached thankfully for the fifth cigarette.

  Guy was slumped in a wide deep armchair in front of the flickering television set. He had undressed but he had not bathed. He had called his lawyer but he had not cleaned his teeth. He was wearing socks, boxer shorts and a sweat-stained unbuttoned shirt. Links removed, the cuffs flopped down—covering the backs of his hands.

  His body was motionless apart from occasional movements towards a freshly filled ice bucket, but his mind stormed and raged. He felt nauseous, although whether this was because of what he had drunk (the bottle of whisky ordered that afternoon was almost empty), or because of the foul, seething blackness inside his head, he neither knew nor cared.

  He was devoured by thoughts of Sylvie. Obsessed by the recollection that it was she who had been closest to him when they had all been bending over May. And on his left; side sinister. The side on which the glove was found. Her flowing robes could have concealed it perfectly as they could the knife. This fact, coupled with the knowledge that it was only because of her he had been there in the first place, pointed to the agonising assumption that he might have been set up. And struggle as he might against the idea, within his fog of alcohol and morbid introspection, Guy was unable to put it quite aside. His skull ached with the effort of trying to do so and the muscles in his neck were like knots of steel. The more he twisted and turned, the more remorselessly logical did the hot depths of his imaginings seem to be.

  It explained why she had lured him into the kitchen and left him alone—so that he should have easy access to the knife and glove. And most terrible of all, her instant accusation. For, after the first hellish seconds when the lights went on and they had all stared immobile and disbelieving at the falling white-robed figure, Sylvie had turned on her father, shouting, ‘You… you…’ and struck him across the cheek, her nails searing the flesh.

  Someone had restrained her and Guy had backed away, assuming the position and role of pariah in which the police discovered him. Had it formed then—the first suspicion? The evil little canker. Guy groaned and reached for more ice, rummaging in the bucket with his glass, using it like a shovel. He poured whisky over the cubes. It slopped about, some going into the bucket, some on to the tray. The room reeked of it: a peaty, raw-paper smell. He drained the stuff in two gulps.

  Muddied in with the dreadful apprehension of his daughter’s treachery was a mixture of irritation and resentment against the dead man. They had been going to talk again. Guy had wanted that. Although there had not been even the faintest trace of the judgemental in either Craigie’s attitude or conversation, Guy knew he himself had not come out of their earlier encounter well and the knowledge rankled. He felt that he had come across simply as a man with an out-of-control superego. But there was more to him than that. And life, in any case, had made him what he was. No one who hadn’t been there knew what it took to climb out of the gutter. The energy and determination, the terrible transforming cost. A moment of weakness and you were face down again in the sewage with a dozen spiked boots ramming the back of your neck. If he could have told Craigie that…

  Guy remembered the stillness in that empty, quiet room. The feeling that he had briefly laid down the burden that was Guy Gamelin. A burden he had not even realised he carried. If he went back, if he were allowed to go back, would the silence still be there? And could it really heal?

  Even as he posed the question he became angry at the gullibility that provoked it. Craigie was a trickster, right? Right. An impresario putting on a show with a bit of silk and sunlight. Remember that.

  ‘Remember that.’ Nodding vigorously in self-convincement, Guy returned his glass to the bucket and unscrewed the whisky bottle.

  Seeking distraction he applied himself to the television set, screwing up his eyes in an effort to distinguish and separate the blobby shapes on the screen. A woman washing up, a little girl with shining hair standing next to her on a box. They were having a serious conversation about cutting grease. The woman gave a false ‘maternal’ laugh and placed a sparkly bit of foam on the tip of the child’s nose. Guy zapped channels but the damage had been done.

  Renascent deprivation gripped his heart and with it the final cruel apprehension that it really was too late. That what he wanted, what he yearned for, was not his daughter—that tall duplicitous stranger—but the child that she once was. Flesh of his flesh. The utter hopelessness of this desire quite overcame him and his face became disfigured by grief.

  He caught sight of himself in the cheval glass across the room. Swags of flab hanging over the elasticated band of his shorts, wet matted chest hair, face the colour of uncooked pastry and running with perspiration, whisky stains down his shirt. As he stared at this gross and repulsive figure, a powerful visceral queasiness made itself felt. Then an overwhelming sensation of physical heat. Guy put his head between his knees.

  The room tilted and slid first one way then the other. He sat up again, hanging on to the braided edge of the armchair. He was going to be sick. Struggling, heaving and pushing, he somehow got to his feet and started towards the bathroom. Half way there he felt an astonishing fierce tearing sensation in his chest as if someone was ripping it open with a bill hook. He cried out and stood swaying, looking round.

  The pills were in his jacket. Guy moved slowly, dragging legs weighty as marble columns. A step away, a second tear knocked him off his feet. He lay on his back till the worst was past then forced himself up on one elbow and, raising his other arm, grabbed the table. He got the edge of the fruit bowl, dislodged a small card. Apples and or
anges, pears and bananas rained down, hit him in the face and bounced off.

  Impossible to try again. The pain was back, this time in iron hoops. Guy fell back against the carpet and let it devour him.

  A LIFE WITH TRUE INTENT

  Chapter Nine

  By eight-thirty next morning Barnaby was at his desk sifting, thinking, looking over his multiplicity of statements and sketches. Most of the latter showed some blanks but everyone seemed to know where they and their immediate neighbours had been, and from these incomplete drawings Barnaby had composed a large complete one of his own, now blown up on the wall.

  He was studying this when the door opened and a pale-faced wraithish creature with eyes ringed like a panda’s appeared hanging on to a tray.

  ‘Is that my tea? About time.’

  Barnaby had had five hours’ sleep. He never needed more than six and was in fine form. Troy got to bed at three A.M. The baby woke at four and cried, on and off, till seven-thirty when her dad got up and dressed, whereupon she had fallen into a deep sleep. She had been doing this sort of thing every night for a week. Such a degree of vindictiveness in one so young was giving Troy serious pause for thought. He gave Barnaby his tea, put three sugars in his own, stirred and drank. Barnaby drank too and pulled a face. ‘No sugar.’

  ‘You said you were cutting down.’

  ‘Down not out.’ Troy took over the bowl and the chief inspector helped himself liberally, grinning up at his sergeant. ‘Ah—the joys of fatherhood.’

  ‘She’s lovely. Beautiful. But…’

  ‘But not in the middle of the night. I remember it well.’ He and Joyce had taken turn and turn about when Cully had six-week colic. He wondered what sort of helping hand Maureen got.

  ‘I expect eventually I’ll learn to sleep through it.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Gavin.’

  Encouraged by the voice of experience and enlivened by his sweet tea, Troy went over and studied the chief’s sketch.

  ‘That it then?’

  ‘Yes. Although just how important all those positions are I’m not sure. We’ll look again when we get the PR report. See the angle of the knife and so on.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Chief.’ Troy scraped out the last of the melting sugar with his spoon. ‘Quite long it was and bloody sharp. Even if you could conceal it about your person I shouldn’t think you’d feel all that safe or comfy. I wondered if it was stashed in the Solar ahead of time?’

  ‘Not much in the way of a hiding place. Plus you’d have to retrieve it.’

  ‘I was thinking of those cushions.’

  ‘Bit of a risk. Might have a bum on at the crucial moment.’

  ‘Then you sit on it yourself.’

  ‘But no one did.’

  ‘True, true.’ Troy was loath to let go his theory. He wandered over to the window, fingers twitching, longing for a ciggie to set off his cup of tea, and stared out hoping for distraction. “Course that would mean Gamelin knew in advance where the regression would take place. We could find that out when we talk to him this morning.’

  Barnaby, lost in the pile of statements, did not reply. About to return his cup to the tray, a movement in visitors’ parking caught Troy’s eye. ‘Hullo, some smart money’s spreading itself out there.’

  Barnaby, glad to stretch his legs, joined his sergeant. A magnificent Bentley the colour of bitter chocolate had driven to an immaculate standstill. A man climbed out with some difficulty and walked towards the main building. Watching his slow and stately progress, Barnaby thought it took a tailor of genius to make a paunch like that look distinguished and not disgusting.

  ‘Who the hell do you think that is?’

  ‘I’ve got a very good idea.’

  Shortly after this a constable from the main building came in with an excessively plain engraved card which Barnaby read aloud. ‘Sir Willoughby St John Greatorex. OK, Troy—better wheel him in.’

  The CID was quite separate from the station proper, connected by a high glassed-in walkway. It was quite a distance although not nearly such a distance as Troy made it seem. He took Sir Willoughby through Traffic Control and up two unnecessary flights of stairs, proceeding always at a brisk pace until, by the time they arrived at Barnaby’s office, the great man was gasping for breath. Troy announced him po-faced but casting a derisive eye at the ceiling. Barnaby introduced himself and offered coffee. Sir Willoughby pressed a paisley silk square to his perspiring forehead and declined.

  ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Chief Inspector. Unfortunately I’m limited to one cup a day which I’ve already had three times.’

  Barnaby, a martyr to indigestion, nodded not entirely sympathetically. His own unruly gut was simply reacting against years of ropey home-cooking and greasy fry-ups in the works canteen. He suspected the Greatorex intestines were finally giving out after an equivalent period of superb business lunches and evenings toying with a morsel of pâté de foie gras and a glass of Margaux.

  Sir Willoughby really was the most extraordinary shape. Like a huge tweedy pear. Everything about him was pendulous. His nose, his jowls, the thready pouches under his eyes. Even his ear lobes looked as if the slightest breeze might set them dancing. He was speaking again.

  ‘On the other hand it appears I may be involved quite soon in a lengthy and rather unpleasant disquisition, so perhaps a further bending of the rules might apply.’

  No discipline these people, thought Troy, going off to get the desired brew. No self-control at all.

  Soon, sipping delicately, Sir Willoughby said, ‘Perhaps you could explain exactly what the situation is regarding Mr Gamelin. The telephone call I received last night was a little incoherent.’

  What exquisite tact! Barnaby imagined the torrent of oaths and vitriolic abuse that must have poured out of the Greatorex receiver. No doubt the size of the Greatorex bill would be commensurate. He explained exactly what the situation was.

  Sir Willoughby heard out the man lately described to him as ‘a truculent bugger with a face like a side of beef.’ Then he rested long, surprisingly slender fingers on the elegant camouflage of his trousers; winced and returned his nearly full cup to the chief inspector’s desk. Turning to Troy, Sir Willoughby said, ‘Do you think I might have a glass of water?’

  Perversely the man’s courtesy irritated the sergeant far more than haughty condescension would have done. Even so there was no way the words ‘Sir Willoughby’ were going to cross his lips. Even a simple ‘sir’ used without a second thought to any half-way adult and reasonably sober male member of the public remained unuttered. Muttering ‘…Right…’ he left the office.

  ‘I understood,’ said Sir Willoughby, ‘when discussing this matter late last night that Mr Gamelin had been formally charged.’ (‘The fuckers have stitched me up, Will.’)

  ‘That is not the case although we will be questioning him again this morning. As Mr Gamelin’s solicitor—’

  ‘Please.’ Sir Willoughby’s hand made a weary gesture of disassociation. ‘I am the McFaddens’ solicitor and am here primarily to support and protect Mrs Gamelin.’

  Barnaby felt a fleeting sympathy for Guy. The poor sod must have worn his trotters down to the ankles scrambling for a foothold in that tight little clan. The water arrived. Troy put it on the far corner of the desk and removed himself to the window.

  Barnaby continued, ‘—You’re welcome to be present.’

  The offer was not entirely disinterested. An attendant solicitor helped keep the story straight. Saved trip-ups if things got as far as court. Sir Willoughby smiled, stretched way out for his water, drank a little and gestured again, this time with such stylish ambiguity that it could have meant anything, everything, nothing or all three simultaneously.

  They’re going to throw him to the wolves, Barnaby thought, and decided to question Sir Willoughby about the previous evening’s phone call. Normally asking a suspect’s solicitor if he could help the police with their inquiries would
be about as daft as trying to milk a mouse and with much the same results. But Sir Willoughby considered the request seriously.

  ‘Well, it was fairly rambling. There was something about a glove and colourful descriptions of the food and company. The murder of course. And a long lament about his daughter.’

  ‘What did he say about the murder?’

  ‘Only that he’d had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Did he mention the trust fund?’

  Sir Willoughby sat up. Or as nearly up as his avoirdupois would allow. ‘No.’

  ‘I understand Miss Gamelin intends to give it all away.’

  ‘Ah…’ He recovered so quickly the anguished little twist of sound might never have been uttered. ‘Well, of course it’s her money and she is of age.’ He then rose after a certain amount of rocking to and fro. ‘I have to be in court this afternoon…so…’

  ‘Will you be driving Mr Gamelin over here later, Sir Willoughby? Otherwise we’ll send a car.’

  ‘I really can’t quite say when we’ll be meeting. I shall be going straight from here to the Manor House to see how Sylvie and her mother are. So I shouldn’t rely on me.’

  Yes, thought Barnaby. Definitely to the wolves.

  Troy detailed Policewoman Brierley to show Sir Willoughby out and watched the Bentley depart with a curl of his lip, thinking, Sinjhan. If I’d got a name like a Paki newsagent I’d keep it to myself.

  Nobody had slept much. Breakfast was proving hardly worthy of the name. Everyone was saying to everyone ‘You must eat something’ whilst going without themselves. Earlier in the hall (no one could bear to enter the Solar), they had gathered in a circle to recharge. But even ten minutes’ controlled breathing into Universal Mind had little effect. Grief had disunited them and they mourned individually, hutched in invisible cages of sorrow. Even Janet, whose respect and admiration for the Master stopped well this side of devotion, was dismayed by how disconsolate she felt.