Written in Blood (27 page)

 

The law firm of Jocelyne, Tibbles and Delaney occupied the ground floor of an elegant eighteenth-century town house. Part of a row of six and situated almost in the town centre, their backs pressed hard by St Bartholomew’s parish church. The door, painted liquorice and flanked by tubs of crocuses, shone like black glass. Some heritage-conscious soul had had the bright idea of restoring the approach to the house to its original surface of cobbles embedded in cement. They were hell on the feet and must have been responsible for many a turned ankle. Or so the chief inspector thought as he stumbled over them to mount the highly polished, and equally treacherous, front steps.

They were expected, and asked to wait by a stout middle-aged lady, also rather cobbly in appearance but with a warm, if slightly distracted, smile. She showed them into an ante-room. Very confidence-inducing with panelled walls, solid furniture and low tables holding heavy glass ashtrays and copies of the
Law Quarterly Review
. On one of the close-buttoned and tightly padded chairs a striped cat lay curled up fast asleep, its ears occasionally twitching. Troy nodded in its direction.

‘Must be Tibbles.’

‘Don’t mention cats to me.’

‘D’you think I’ve got time for a ciggie?’

‘No.’

Barnaby was right. Even as he spoke a section of the panels vanished inwards and Mr Jocelyne, a short man with a markedly pouty chest and tiny hands and feet, came towards them. Barnaby was reminded of a pigeon. Everything about the solicitor was grey - his pin-striped arms and legs, the soft, sparsely distributed curls of hair upon his head and the more wiry tufts springing from his ears. Even his nails had a blue-grey tinge. He looked bone dry, as if all his essential juices had recently been drained off, and rustled as he walked.

‘Ah - here you are!’ he cried, as if it had been them who were keeping him waiting. ‘Come along. Come along.’

Once they were seated, in an office almost as stuffy and boring as the anteroom, Mr Jocelyne settled himself behind a desk the size of a rugger pitch and almost disappeared. He said, ‘Appalling, appalling.’

Barnaby hoped the man wasn’t going to say everything twice or they’d be there till the cows came home. He assumed that Mr Jocelyne was referring to the murder of his client.

‘Good of you to dispense with the formalities, Mr Jocelyne.’

‘In a murder case, chief inspector. In a case of murder.’

Mr Jocelyne drew towards him a mottled box file that he had placed earlier roughly scrum half. He opened it and took out an envelope containing the will. As he unfolded the sheets of heavy parchment they crackled as sharply as if they were on fire. Smoothing them out, the solicitor began to read.

‘Mr Hadleigh’s instructions are that any properties that he should own at the time of his death plus all other monies accruing from his estate are to go equally to Emmanuel College, Cambridge and the Central St Martin’s School of Art and Design there to endow two scholarships in literature and art respectively for young people of outstanding talent but limited means. The will makes it plain that both these establishments have already been approached regarding this matter.’

‘Quite a lot of money involved then?’

‘Indeed yes. Mr Hadleigh spread his investments wisely. Global Unit Trusts, Fidelity Cash Accounts, Woolwich Tessa and Treasury Bonds. All in all around eight hundred thousand pounds. Excluding the value of the house of course.’

Barnaby, concealing his surprise, asked the date of the will.

‘February the thirteenth 1982. The only amendment has been a change of executor. When Mr Hadleigh moved to Midsomer Worthy he needed a local solicitor for the conveyancing and asked if we would handle his affairs in the event of his death.’

‘Who were the previous executors?’

‘The firm who drew up the will.’

‘Might I have their details please? And the address Mr Hadleigh gave at that time.’

Mr Jocelyne produced a pewter-coloured fountain pen from an inside pocket. He unscrewed the top, fitted it neatly but firmly on to the other end and produced a piece of scrap paper from a neat folder. After checking that it had already been used on one side he cleared his throat as if preparing to speak rather than write and scribbled a few lines. Then he doubled the note, doubled it again and handed the tiny square over.

‘Could I ask, Mr Jocelyne, how well you knew your client?’

‘I didn’t. He was here for the business I have just described and I haven’t seen him since.’

‘I see. His investments make up quite an elaborate portfolio. Do you happen to know if he used a financial adviser?’

‘No idea.’ Mr Jocelyne, apparently pleased with this unhelpful response, looked kindly on them both.

‘We understand, from what Mr Hadleigh himself gave out, that he moved here from Kent—’

‘Hardly my business where he came from, chief inspector,’ responded Mr Jocelyne happily. Then, in case there should be the slightest doubt, ‘No concern of mine.’

The less helpful he was able to be the warmer the solicitor’s manner became. After being compelled to answer several further questions with a brief negative he bordered almost upon the radiant. When the time came to bid farewell he positively beamed and a flash of silver, bright but well within Mr Jocelyne’s chosen colour range, sparkled between his front teeth.

As Barnaby opened the door he noticed a large framed photograph of three youngsters, two boys and a girl, dressed in vivid colours, laughing, full of beans. The girl was swinging upside down. They were so obviously having such a wonderful time that the chief inspector took a moment to look, for the sheer pleasure of it.

‘Your grandchildren, Mr Jocelyne?’

‘No.’ A trace of colour finally showed itself, a delicate bloom upon the bloodless cheeks. ‘That is my family. Taken on my daughter’s fifth birthday. Last month.’

‘What a goer.’ Troy was chuckling as the two men once more hobbled across the slush-covered pavement. ‘No wonder he looks as old as the century. Back to the car now is it?’

‘I could do with a warm-up. Let’s grab some coffee at Bunter’s.’

‘Bunter’s?’ Troy stared in surprise.

‘Why not?’

He knew why not but went just the same. They sat down in the genteel snug surrounded by copper kettles and hunting horns and horse brasses suspended from leather straps. The waitresses wore mid-calf length black dresses with aprons like white exclamation points and pleated, pie-crust headbands low on the forehead. But their faces were young and skilfully painted and they moved with just as much speed and efficiency as their confrères at McDonald’s.

The room was crowded and very warm, smelling of damp clothes, toast and freshly ground coffee. There was no truck in Bunter’s with all that fluffed-up nonsense sprinkled with grated chocolate. Proper EPNS pots, milk jugs and sugar basins with flowered cups and saucers and apostle spoons.

Troy poured for them both, adding three sugars to his cup before warming his fingers round it. Then he sat back, glancing with deep satisfaction over the pleated, half-mast cretonne curtains into the street. For what could be nicer than sitting comfortably in the warm and dry watching one’s fellows trudge, pinched and shivering, on their weary way. Not much, Troy conceded, though driving past a bus queue in torrential rain came pretty near. Especially if you could get really close to the gutter.

The waitress came up, said ‘’kyew’, placed an old-fashioned three-tier china cakestand on their table and departed. Barnaby closed his eyes, realised at once that he could hardly stay that way for the duration of his visit and opened them again, swearing he wouldn’t look.

Cakes. Great fat profiteroles oozing cream. Slices of neat chocolate, alternately white and dark, held together with the merest scattering of liqueur-soaked ratafia crumbs. Cauliflowers of green marzipan, the curd made from ground almonds bound with honey and rose water. Squares of rich shortbread studded with almonds and smothered with fudge. Millefeuilles layered with freshly puréed raspberries instead of jam, and crème pâtissière. Lemon and orange jumbles drenched in powdered sugar. Vanilla meringues supreme, moist little curls of chestnut purée peeping out. Frangipanes.

‘Yum, yum,’ said Sergeant Troy. He helped himself to what looked like a small raft of shiny pastry coated with coffee icing and supporting two large swirls of soft, toffee nougat. ‘Do you want some more coffee, chief?’

‘Um . . .’ Barnaby was studying the top plate, the smallest ring on this ziggurat of divine temptation. He figured things should be less fattening on this level. For a start they had to be . . . well . . . smaller. The thing to do was not look down.

Troy assumed the ‘um’ meant yes, and poured. Barnaby helped himself to two thinnish circles of biscuit sandwiched together by a fawn-coloured paste.

‘That doesn’t look very interesting.’

‘It’s interesting enough for me,’ said the chief inspector, biting into it. Oh, God - pure butter. And pure praline. Ah well - too late to put it back. He could always cut down on lunch. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t known exactly what he was about when he came in.

‘Had a look at that address yet, chief?’ Barnaby unfolded the tight little square and passed it over. Troy read out, ‘Thirty-two Cavendish Buildings, South West One. That’s Victoria, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Probably a mansion block.’

‘So if he lived there in 1982, and moved to Midsomer Worthy in 1983, when did he live in Kent?’

‘Search me.’

‘At least we know that Grace died before February 1982.’

‘Not necessarily. People have made wills before now cutting out their nearest and dearest. Quick—’ Barnaby picked up the cakestand. ‘Those two women are moving. Put this on their table.’

‘But what if we want—’

‘We won’t’.

‘I might.’

‘Just do as you’re told.’

Grinning, Troy removed the cakestand and returned to find Barnaby chasing a final crumb around his plate with a broad finger and muttering to himself.

‘What was that, sir?’

‘I was thinking about the money. It’s a hell of a lot. When you add on the house - what would that be worth? One fifty?’

‘Minimum. Tray posh out there. And only half an hour from the West End.’

‘So we’re talking about nearly a million pounds.’ Barnaby found it rather touching that a man who longed to write and couldn’t and, if the paintings in his sitting room were anything to go by, had absolutely no appreciation of art, should leave his money in such a generous manner.

‘We are. Lucky devil. Well,’ added the sergeant, for he was a fair man, ‘up to a point’.

‘Hadleigh was obviously much higher in the Civil Service than we pictured him.’

‘Not necessarily. Could’ve been lucky with investments. If you’re prepared to take a few risks you can really divvy up.’ Troy spoke with the authority of a British Gas and Telecom shareholder.

At this point their waitress came back.

‘More coffee, gentlemen?’

‘No,’ replied Barnaby, quickly. ‘Thank you.’ He described what they had eaten and she hauled up a little pad dangling from a string tied around her belt.

‘That’s one
biscuit du beurre de praline
plus,’ smiling at Troy, ‘
a deux jeunes filles sur la bateau
.’

‘What’s that then when it’s at home?’ asked the sergeant, smiling broadly.

‘Two young girls on a raft.’

‘My lucky day then.’

‘Seven pounds twenty.’ She tore off a slip and the chief inspector reached for his wallet. ‘Pay at the till please.’

She cleared the table, stacked everything on a tray, lifted it as if it weighed no more than a feather and swanned off. Barnaby watched her go. She had lovely hair, a long shining fall almost to her waist. He thought of Cully, wondered how she was faring and if it would enter her mind to send a postcard before the tour ended. Probably not.

He reached out to pick up the bill, which his sergeant was regarding with some incredulity.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’

‘We could have had double sausage, egg and chips, double Bakewell, soup and tea in the canteen for this.’

‘Ah,’ said Barnaby, getting into his coat. ‘But could you have had it in French?’

They queued up at the till, an elaborate, highly wrought metal contraption that went ping! when the total jumped up in old-fashioned, strictly non-digital style. Troy was still looking deeply disconcerted.

‘It’s on the house, Gavin.’

‘Very nice of you, chief.’

‘Not at all. I shall use our eight quid drinks allowance.’

 

‘From now on,’ said little Bor, ‘I want all my friends to call me “Rebel”.’

‘You ain’t got no friends.’

‘Yes I have.’ Though Boreham sounded certain his expression was somewhat confused. ‘I just don’t know who they are yet.’

‘You’re thick as a nun’s whatsit,’ said Denzil.

At the moment of speaking he seemed to be the holder of Brian’s perpetually usurped authority. The group was hot-seating the notion of power versus popularity and, unsurprisingly, popularity came nowhere.

‘What you have to do,’ Collar said, illustrating their number-one choice, ‘is get your retaliation in first.’

‘Speed plus surprise and no holes barred,’ said Tom, making a swift karate chop. ‘But especially speed.’

‘Exactly,’ agreed Denzil. ‘Never fuck anybody over tomorrow you can fuck over today.’

‘Then,’ said Edie, tossing back her wild mane of tangerine hair, ‘you got respect.’

Brian shivered and felt deliciously afraid at the thought of all that proximate, barbarian energy on the loose - swift and irrational, roaring round the precinct of a Saturday night smashing bottles, spraying cars, sinking its steel-capped boots into soft, unprotected flesh. And all the while he was lying, snug and safe, tucked up in the warm at home.