A Place Of Safety (15 page)

And old sharks had better beware. No wonder so many of these sad, exhausted creatures ended up, long before it was strictly necessary, sheltered from the fighting behind a desk at headquarters. But not this one. Too many years at the sharp end had spoiled DCI Barnaby for such cushy, toothless repose.

Emerging from the lift, the chief inspector ran into his sergeant coming out of the Gents and reeking of high tar nicotine.

‘Still testing your resistance, Troy?’

‘It’s all very well for you, sir. An addiction can be really . . .’

‘Addictive?’

‘Yeah. Nobody ever praises you, do they?’

‘What?’

‘People who’ve never smoked. Maureen, for example. They don’t know what it’s like.’

Barnaby was in no mood for such whingeing. He strode ahead to the incident room, slapped a near-empty folder of notes onto his desk and stared at his dejected-looking team. It was not only dejected but somewhat depleted. He stared fiercely round the room.

‘Where’s WPC Mitchell?’

‘On her way,’ said Inspector Carter. ‘She’s been working—’

‘She shouldn’t be on her bloody way! She should be here. You.’ He jabbed a finger at a constable perched on a table. ‘Go and—’

But at that moment Katie Mitchell rushed in. All smiles, all excitement.

‘Sir! I’ve—’

‘You’re late.’

‘The courier didn’t bring the original till half five this morning. And there were so many shreds and bits, assembling it took for ever.’

‘Ah,’ said Barnaby. ‘I see.’

‘And after all that there were only six words.’

Barnaby held out his hand. WPC Mitchell came forward and placed a sheet of A4 paper in it.

‘I’ve stuck them on in the only order that makes sense, sir.’

‘So you have,’ said Barnaby, taking the ‘only order’ in. And his heart sang.

‘
I saw you push her in
.’

Barnaby read out the words aloud again into the silence. He could see and feel the whole room becoming charged with interest and vitality. Lethargy and disappointment were wiped out in this one single moment of revelation.

The anonymous telephone call, it now seemed, was not a hoax. The strong likelihood was that someone actually had fallen or been pushed into the Misbourne at some period shortly before 10.32 p.m. on Sunday, 16 August.

‘Does anyone have any ideas,’ asked Barnaby, ‘as to how this breakthrough might put us on fast forward?’

Sergeant Troy did not hesitate. Although his thoughts and opinions were rarely canvassed, nevertheless he kept his mind in good trim. He could not bear to be found wanting.

‘Leathers saw someone being shoved into the river and tried a spot of financial arm-twisting. Instead of paying up, whoever it was gave him a nice wire collar. Also, as one of Lionel Lawrence’s bleeding hearts disappeared at roughly the same time, I’d say the two incidents were definitely connected.’ Troy paused, suddenly feeling very exposed, and stared hard at the nearest computer screen. The analysis seemed pretty sound to him but he knew the gaffer. Barnaby had a way of slicing through a presentation, finding the weak link and snapping it back hard under your nose, like a rubber band with a pebble in it.

‘Good.’

‘Sir.’ Troy received this with a certain amount of caution. He’d been here before. Something nice then a sting from the scorpion’s tail - e.g. good - for someone with three per cent of a dead amoeba’s single brain cell.

‘Although . . .’

Here we go.

‘The idea that this,’ Barnaby waved the paper, ‘is the first step to blackmail, though extremely likely, must be only supposition at this stage.’

He smiled happily around at his officers, lifted right out of his previous mood of despondency. ‘Anyone else? Yes, Inspector Carter.’

‘This nine-nine-nine call, sir. Maybe it was made by whoever did the pushing. They might have panicked. Had second thoughts.’

‘A rescue would hardly be in their interest,’ said Sergeant Brierley. ‘They could end up being accused of assault, or worse.’

‘Whoever it was could have fallen in accidentally,’ suggested Troy. ‘During a fight, say.’

‘That’s no lever for blackmail.’

‘Oh, yeah. Got it.’ I’m not saying another word during this briefing. Not a bloody word.

‘Right,’ said Barnaby. ‘Now, I want the tape of this anonymous call from force headquarters, so somebody get on to Kidlington. Also a copy of the report submitted by the investigation team who were called out to the river. Then we’ll start yet another house-to-house at Ferne Basset - leave out the Old Rectory, I’ll be calling there myself - plus the other two villages in the triangle, Swan Myrren and Martyr Bunting. Check on any sounds of disturbance heard between the hours of nine o’clock, say, and midnight. Bear in mind that could be anywhere - not necessarily on or near the river. Arguments travel.

‘As do floaters. So we’ll have to fax not just all our stations but borderline counties as well - Oxford, Wiltshire. And notify the river authorities. They might even run a search if we’re in luck. And I want an examination of the river bank as far as the weir but starting in the village. This is where Leathers walked his dog so I should imagine this is where he saw her pushed in. Plus a check on all the hospitals and morgues in that area. They may have had a drowning during the past six days. Don’t forget the outpatients’ register. She could well have climbed out or been fished out, needed medical treatment then been sent home. Wherever that proves to be.’

‘Do we specifically ask about a young woman, sir?’ asked Constable Phillips.

‘No. I don’t want it narrowed down at this stage. We’re still only guessing.’ Barnaby waved his A4 sheet with the six-word message briefly in the air before laying it on his desk. ‘I want copies of this on the board. Will someone please get Mrs Pauline Grantham’s prints, for elimination, and Leathers’ for confirmation. Also I want the phone box at Ferne Basset printed though I suspect after six days it’ll be a waste of time.’

As they all moved off, Barnaby sat back in his chair, eyes closed for a few moments of recapitulation. He decided to apply for a search warrant. It might be a good idea to look over the girl’s room and he could imagine Lawrence’s reaction should he turn up without the correct authority. Meanwhile . . .

‘Troy.’

‘Sir.’ Sergeant Troy scrambled quickly to his feet.

‘Mars bar.’

 

Hetty Leathers was anxious to get back to work. She was surprised, after Pauline had returned home to her husband and children, how much she missed the company. Though Hetty would be the last person to suggest that an unhappy marriage was better than no marriage at all, there was no doubt you got used to having another human being around the place. Pauline rang every evening and the whole family would be over at the weekend but it wasn’t quite the same.

The second reason was money. Hetty was in the deeply embarrassing position of being unable to pay for her husband’s funeral. She had been horrified to discover exactly how much it would cost. Her only savings, just over two hundred pounds, had been penny-pinched from the housekeeping over the years. Occasionally there was a pound or two left at the end of the week; mainly there was nothing.

Candy was still showing great distress if Hetty as much as left the room so Ann Lawrence suggested she brought the dog to work with her. Ann drove down to the end of the lane, Hetty carried the dog to the car wrapped in her blanket and Candy spent the day in an old armchair by the Aga.

This was where she was lying, fast asleep, when Barnaby and Troy arrived. Barnaby noticed the garage was empty and was not entirely displeased. Presumably Jackson was driving the Reverend Lawrence about his business, which meant that Mrs Lawrence would be by herself.

He recalled their first meeting. Her shocked recoil when she understood who they were. Her extreme wariness during their questioning and hasty willingness to show them out. This time he would have a button to press. And he would press it. Hard.

But it was Hetty Leathers who opened the door and explained that both the Lawrences were out. She was very apologetic.

‘We’d also like a word with you, Mrs Leathers.’ Barnaby smiled, suddenly in the hall. ‘If that’s all right?’

‘Well.’ She stared anxiously at Sergeant Troy who was closing the heavy front door behind him. ‘I am working.’

‘Kitchen, is it?’

Now they were just as suddenly in the kitchen. Troy exclaimed with genuine pleasure at the sight of the little dog.

‘She’s getting better?’

‘Yes. The vet said . . .’

Barnaby let them run on for a moment. It would relax Mrs Leathers, which might help when it came to answering questions. For himself, he was not really interested in animals unless well-stuffed, preferably with sage and onion and a nice strip of crackling on the side.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Both policemen said yes and sat round the long, worn deal table to drink it. There was a plate of biscuits too. Hetty, looking puzzled but interested, passed the sugar bowl. Troy took several spoonfuls, stirred then discreetly removed his notebook from his jacket pocket and placed it on his knee.

‘What did you want, Inspector? Is it about Charlie again?’

‘Not directly, Mrs Leathers. I’d like you to tell us, if you would, about the young girl who was recently staying here.’

‘Carlotta?’

‘I understand she ran away.’

‘Good riddance,’ said Hetty. ‘She should never have been here in the first place, a girl like that.’

‘Was she here long?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘Too long,’ said Hetty. Then, when Barnaby smiled encouragingly, ‘A couple of months.’

‘What sort of person was she?’

‘Two-faced. Talked to people like dirt unless the Rev was around, then butter wouldn’t melt.’

The performance sounded familiar. Barnaby picked up the connection and followed it through. ‘What about Jax, though? Two young people - I presume they got on?’

‘No.’ Hetty, deeply grudging, added, ‘It’s the one good thing you could say about the girl. She couldn’t stand him.’

‘Not one of your favourites either, then?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘Gives me the creeps. Mrs Lawrence won’t have him in the house and I don’t blame her.’

‘Has that always been the case?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I mean, did something specific happen to cause it?’

‘No. She put her foot down right from the beginning. Mind you, he got in the other day - Wednesday morning, I think it was. I went into the dining room to clear and there he was, leaning up against the door as if he owned the place. And poor Mrs Lawrence trembling and shaking like a leaf. I soon saw him off, I can tell you.’

Troy wrote Wednesday’s date down, catching the chief’s eye. It was gleaming with interested curiosity.

‘Did she say what he wanted?’

‘Something about the connecting phone not working. Load of rubbish.’

Barnaby waited a moment but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming on the subject so he turned the conversation back to Carlotta.

‘Do you know anything about this girl’s background? Where she originally came from, perhaps?’

‘She come from where they all come from. That charity trust what the vicar’s involved with.’ Hetty drank some of her own tea and pushed the hazelnut biscuits in Sergeant Troy’s direction. ‘Ask me, it’s money chucked down the drain. Why can’t it go towards decent kids trying to make their way in the world?’

‘You’re right there, Mrs Leathers.’ Sergeant Troy wolfed three biscuits.

‘I understand that Carlotta disappeared after an argument,’ said Barnaby. ‘Do you happen to know what it was about?’

‘No I don’t and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I’m not discussing Mrs Lawrence behind her back.’

‘I wouldn’t expect—’

‘That woman’s a saint, what she’s had to put up with.’

Ruffled feathers. There was a small silence. Barnaby nodded at the last statement, looking extremely sympathetic. Troy smiled and winked at the dog who had woken up. Candy yawned back at him. The chief inspector tentatively put another question.

‘Did visitors call here to see Carlotta? Friends or relatives?’

‘Not that I know of. She had the odd letter - airmail, from abroad. I won’t tell you what she did with them.’

Plainly this was a threat without foundation. Both policemen waited patiently.

Hetty said, ‘Straight in the fire.’

‘Good heavens,’ said Barnaby.

‘Never even opened. I said to her one day, that might be important. What if someone’s died?’

‘How did she take that?’ asked Troy, stirring it.

‘Told me to mind my own blankety-blank business.’ Hetty got up quickly then and started collecting the teacups. ‘I’ve got to get on.’

She put the rest of the biscuits back in the tin under Troy’s wistful gaze then took the teapot to the sink. Barnaby guessed that, although she had actually said very little, she was worried about having said too much. Perhaps of being disloyal. He decided to leave it for now. Should there be a next time he would talk to her at home where there might be less constraint. Troy replaced his notebook and started re-buttoning his jacket.

‘Do you have any idea when Mrs Lawrence might be back?’

‘She shouldn’t be too long,’ said Hetty. She had turned the taps full on now and Barnaby did not catch the words: ‘She’s had to go to the bank.’

He waited until she had turned them off then asked if he might look over Carlotta’s room.

There was a deeply embarrassed silence. Finally Hetty, not looking him in the eye, said, ‘I don’t want to seem rude, Inspector, but aren’t you supposed to have a . . . er . . . something . . .’

‘I shall have a warrant later today, Mrs Leathers, but it would really save time if we could—’

‘I just don’t think the Reverend would like it.’