A Place Of Safety (33 page)

‘They don’t know they’re born,’ muttered Colin to himself, putt-putting to a halt then heaving his BMW onto its stand. He went into the shop, listened, came out and made his way towards the stationary car. All the customers and staff came out and watched from the forecourt as PC Perrot rapped on the window which was promptly wound down.

‘What seems to be the situation?’ asked Brigadier Dampier-Jeans, a leading local worthy and chairman of the parish council, when the policeman returned.

‘Ordinance survey,’ replied Perrot. ‘Something to do with land measurement.’

‘A likely story,’ said the brigadier. ‘Saw his papers, did you?’

‘Of course,’ replied Perrot, somewhat huffily. He did not like to be told his job. ‘He has government authority.’

‘Why doesn’t the fellow get out and survey then, ’stead of sitting in his motor like a stuffed bison.’

‘There has to be two of them,’ explained PC Perrot. ‘The other chap’s been delayed.’

While talking, he had been setting the bike straight and climbing on. Now he kicked the pedal and roared away before they could all start jawing at him again. Speeding along, Perrot wondered if the copper in the Escort would get lucky and the bloke in the big house would make a run for it. At the same time he thanked his lucky rabbit’s foot it wasn’t him stuck out there on the greensward till the cows came home.

Later that afternoon, Hetty visited Mulberry Cottage, only briefly for she had left Candy fast asleep in her basket. Now, sipping a cup of strange tea which was the colour of pale straw, though not unpleasant, she accepted a second piece of iced gingerbread.

‘I heard,’ said Hetty, ‘that he was something to do with agriculture.’

‘I don’t think so, dear. My information was map measurement. Ground contours, that sort of thing.’

And that was saturation point as far as the man in the car was concerned. Now they reverted to the subject they had started with. Much more interesting than the stranger’s occupation and certainly more worrying. What was going on at the Old Rectory?

‘I couldn’t believe my eyes,’ said Hetty. She had said it before but so extraordinary was the scene her eyes could not believe that Evadne did not doubt her for a minute. ‘Feet up on the kitchen table. And poor Mrs Lawrence, who’d never even have him in the house, lying at death’s door.’

‘Incredible,’ said Evadne, who was really distressed. ‘What can Lionel be thinking of?’

‘Something’s gone wrong between them,’ said Hetty. ‘She didn’t take his lunch in for him before she went to Causton. That’s never happened before. He was shut in his study. She drove off and left him to it.’

‘They must have had a quarrel.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Hetty!’

‘About time Mrs Lawrence stood up for herself. He’s been ruling the roost for years. What’s more - and I wouldn’t want this to go any further - it’s all her money. He’s nothing more than a leech.’

Evadne nodded. The whole of Ferne Basset knew it was Ann’s money.

‘And when I left he was going at the papers in her desk like a madman. Ripping them up, flinging them about. His face was as red as a turkey cock’s. Mark my words, that man’s heading for a stroke.’

Which reminded Evadne to ask if she had rung the hospital that day.

‘This morning. They said “no change” but if you’re not a close relative they won’t always tell you. I said to them, “I’m as close to her as anyone else in the world.” But it didn’t do any good.’ Hetty’s mouth slipped and trembled. ‘She used to come into the kitchen when she was little: I taught her to make pastry. She’d never use the cutters. Always wanted to design her own shapes. Flowers, cats, even little houses. I used to think she’d be an artist when she grew up.’

Evadne crossed over to her friend and put an arm round her shaking shoulders.

Hetty cried out, ‘How could anyone be so cruel?’

Evadne rocked Hetty backwards and forwards for a moment. ‘Hetty, would you like to say a prayer for her?’

‘What?’

‘It may help.’

Hetty seemed uncertain. And no wonder, thought Evadne. Her life had hardly been one to engender gratitude.

‘Well . . . if you really think so.’ Hetty made an awkward movement, about to get out of her chair, but Evadne eased her gently down again.

‘No, no. It’s not necessary to kneel down. God doesn’t care about that - a sincere heart is all that matters.’

‘I won’t know what to say.’

‘No need to say anything. Just picture Ann surrounded by divine light. And hold fast.’

Quietly Evadne began to pray. Hetty tried to imagine Ann surrounded by divine light. She came up with a sort of halo, like the Bible illustrations in her Sunday school class years ago. As for brightness, the most dazzling source she could think of was the halogen light in the garden of the Old Rectory which seemed somehow appropriate.

Around the room six pale heaps of fur sat or lay in complete silence. There was not even a scratch or a yawn. Evadne’s Pekes were used to moments like this and knew exactly what was required of them.

 

By six thirty in the evening Barnaby had been shut up in his office for nearly two hours. The incident room managed to appear both noisy and hectic even when nothing much was happening and he needed to be reasonably quiet. To be alone and think. Sergeant Troy came in from time to time with information and the occasional slug of strong Colombian.

Half an hour ago he had brought in an extremely satisfactory forensic report on the Lawrences’ Humber. A tiny filament of shiny black acetate had been caught on the worn piece of carpet lining the boot. And some fragments of grit had also been present. These were coated with white material which, on closer examination, proved to be garden lime. Nothing remarkable in that, no doubt Ann Lawrence had frequently carted such stuff back from the garden centre, but if it matched precisely grit found in the cyclist’s shoes, then they were really on to something.

Problem was, they didn’t have the cyclist’s shoes. Or his gear. Or his bike. The search for this had, so far, been fruitless. Yet the time factor meant it must have been abandoned very near the village.

As soon as reports of the black-clad figure started to come in, two officers had been sent to Jackson’s flat to search for the clothes and Ann Lawrence’s handbag. They had found neither. Which meant he had either taken other stuff to wear - hence the rucksack - or stashed a change of clothing where he planned to leave the bike. The handbag couldn’t have just vanished. Shortly after the men left, Lionel Lawrence rang the station, rather incoherently complaining of police harassment.

Having reached this one step forward two steps back point in his reflections, the chief inspector was rather pleased by the distraction of a door opening and his side-kick’s appearing this time with a steaming mug of strong Typhoo and a packet of biscuits. Fortunately they were Rich Tea, a dull morsel at the best of times. Hardly rich at all in any appreciable sense of the word.

‘You know I’m watching the calories, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, chief. It’s just, only a salad at lunch. I thought . . .’

Barnaby grandly waved the brightly coloured packet away and asked if anything new had turned up.

‘Our man’s report’s in from Ferne Basset. Apparently Jackson’s still not put his nose outside the house. DS Bennet’s taken over the shift. How long are they going to let you run this for, chief?’

‘Results in thirty-six hours or else. That’s the latest.’

‘D’you think Jackson’s spotted him?’

‘What, through the Rectory walls?’

‘I wouldn’t put anything past that scumbag. Oh, and the film’s arrived from the Top Gear shop.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I am saying so.’

Sergeant Troy flattened himself against the door as Barnaby, grasping his mug, hurried from the room. There was no need for him to get wound up, though Troy hadn’t the heart to point this out. They had already run the film through once downstairs so there’d be no hiccup when the boss came to view, and it was pretty useless. Blink and you’d miss the bugger.

‘Go on then.’ Barnaby, having seated himself, leaned forward eagerly, hands on knees, gazing at the VDU. The film began. Grey-blue figures laden with bags or shopping trolleys shuffled apathetically along the pavement, two girls walked past arm in arm, giggling. A toddler was carried by on his father’s shoulders. No one seemed to be aware of the camera. There was a dark flash across the screen.

‘What was that?’ asked Barnaby.

‘Our man,’ said Troy.

‘Ah, shit.’ The chief inspector’s shoulders slumped. ‘All right, run back and freeze.’

They studied the slim figure, gripping the handlebars of the stolen machine. The bike was half on the pavement, half on the road as the cyclist prepared to jump into the saddle. Even on hold and seen only from the back the gathering of muscular energy appeared formidable.

‘Same height as Jackson, same build,’ said Inspector Carter.

‘Of course it’s the same height and build!’ Angrily Barnaby pushed back his chair. ‘It’s the same bloody man.’

‘Shall we blow the picture up, chief?’ asked Sergeant Brierley.

‘Might as well, though I can’t see anything coming of it.’

‘If only he’d been facing the other way,’ said DS Griggs. Adding, ‘That bastard’s got the luck of the devil.’

‘It’ll run out sooner or later,’ said Barnaby. ‘Everybody’s does. Even the devil’s.’

 

Louise had not mentioned the hospital visit to her brother. She had not intended deliberately to conceal this but remembered that, during their earlier conversation, the subject of Ann’s attack had immediately led to an eruption of anger quickly followed by a diatribe against the police for their continual persecution of Jax. Now the time when she could have naturally mentioned it (she had arrived home eight hours ago) had long passed.

She had answered the lunchtime news appeal, though. Rung the number given from a box outside the post office in the Market Square and described the cyclist without saying that she recognised who he was. She couldn’t bring herself to do that, even anonymously. And as she was not prepared to follow up and identify him personally - partially out of fear for her own safety but mainly because of the pain it would cause Val - any such admission would be pointless. She was rather ashamed of this, her memory of the time spent in the intensive care unit was raw and painful, and Louise knew that if Ann died she would speak out whatever the cost. But of course what she really longed for was for Ann to recover and be able to tell the police herself who had attacked her.

This understanding led to an anxious few moments when Louise wondered if Jax might make his way to the hospital to make sure Ann did not recover. There seemed to be nothing to stop him. No guard outside her door, no member of staff inside. All very well to say, as the staff nurse had, that someone was nearly always there. It only needed a moment, when the someone was not there, for vital plugs to be snatched from their sockets and Ann’s life to drain helplessly away. And, as the police presumably thought her the victim of a random attack, they would see no need for protection. Louise told herself she was being melodramatic. Too many movies - a scene from
The Godfather
came to mind - but the image would not fade.

She rang the hospital. She had intended to do so anyway to hear how the operation had gone but there was little for her comfort. The operation had been straightforward. Mrs Lawrence had not come round yet from the anaesthetic. There had been no visitors.

A sudden coolness in the air rather than any sound told her the front door had opened and been closed. Her brother came slowly into the room. He nodded silently then threw himself down in a scarlet velvet armchair shaped like a vast shell.

Louise was used to seeing him return from the garage flat wearing a mingled expression of joy and pain and walking as though half his bones had been mangled. It was a relief to see him looking pretty much as normal. Or as normal as he ever looked these days.

‘How are things over there?’

‘Jax has moved into the Rectory pro tem.’ The disappointment had been keen. He had not been able even to touch the boy. ‘He’s taking care of Lionel.’

Louise felt a sudden deep pang of apprehension. She knew she ought to stop there. Say ‘how kind’ and not attempt to delve deeper. But a terrible curiosity drew her on. She longed to know why Lionel had not visited his wife. Or even contacted the hospital.

‘He must be pretty upset. Lionel, I mean.’

‘Distraught, poor chap. Doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going.’

‘Has he been to see her?’

‘Oh, yes. They went this morning.’

‘
They?
’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Sorry. I just thought . . . Ann being so . . . usually more than one visitor . . .’

As her tongue floundered over the words, Louise’s heart beat a little faster. By asking a question to which she already knew the answer, she had taken the single step from honesty to trickery. She stared at her brother with dismay. They had never played these sorts of games. He stared back, his glance at first speculative then thickening into suspicion.

‘Someone has to drive Lionel. That’s all I meant by “they”.’

‘Oh, yes. Sorry. I didn’t think.’

‘What’s behind all this?’

‘Nothing. Just making conversation.’

‘No you’re not.’ He was on the verge of becoming angry. Louise tried to work out how best to extricate herself. Perhaps if she said she was tired and going to bed, he’d simply shrug and let go. With the old Val, there would have been no problem. But this new, damaged Val was so volatile, so ready to strike out blindly at real or imagined slights. And in this case he was right. She was not being straight with him and the suspicion was deserved. Wouldn’t it be better simply to tell him the truth?