[ebooktalk] caroline Graham Attached.

• From: "Shell" <shell@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
• To: <ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
• Date: Sat, 2 Nov 2013 19:56:20 -0000

Hi Elaine,
I have attached the 2 other Caroline Graham's I have, I haven't spotted the 
rest of the series yet.
Cheers,
Shell.


--------------------------------------------------
From: "Elaine Harris (Rivendell)" <elaineharris@xxxxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Saturday, November 02, 2013 10:57 AM
To: <ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Subject: [ebooktalk] Re: Books added to my library in October.

> Hello Shell,
> 
> 
> 
> Two queries:
> 
> 
> 
> Last month I recall vaguely you mentioned a book by Caroline Graham. I have
> only read one, a spoof crime novel, "Murder At Madingley Grange". Do you
> have more in text files?
> 
> 
> 
> Also: Carolly Erikson? The name rings a bell but I can't remember what type
> of history she writes, whether I have read her, assuming she is a her, or
> just seen the name on publishing lists. Could you advise?
> 
> 
> 
> Thank you kindly,
> 
> 
> 
> Elaine
> 
> 
> 
>  
> 
> 
> 
> From: ebooktalk-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:ebooktalk-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx]
> On Behalf Of Shell
> Sent: Saturday, 2 November 2013 8:48 PM
> To: ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
> Subject: [ebooktalk] Books added to my library in October.
> 
> 
> 
> Hi, here is a link to download the books I added to my text library in
> October.
> 
> There is a list of books below.
> 
> Shell.
> 
> http://www.sendspace.com/pro/dl/l8dw0e
> 
> A Day With The DINOSAURS By  Layla Coelho. In Junior Books.
> The Sheikh's Last Gamble by Trish Morey. Mills And Boon Romance.
> Mule by Tony D'Souza. Thriller.
> Season Of The Witch by Arni Thorarinsson. Mystery. 
> The Man Who Killed Himself by Julian Symons. Mystery.
> FREEFALL by Tess Oliver. Romance.
> Pall in the Family by DAWN EASTMAN. Cozy Mystery.
> Hidden Treasures by FERN BRITTON. Romance.
> A PEDIGREE TO DIE FOR by Laurien Berenson. Cozy Mystery.
> Bitter River by  Julia Keller. Mystery.
> Itch by Simon Mayo. In Junior Books.
> Locked by Maya Cross. Erotic Adult Romance.
> Unforgiven by  Elizabeth Finn. General.
> Cut to the Bone by Jefferson Bass. Mystery.
> THE MALCONTENTA by BARRY MAITLAND. Mystery.
> BRONX JUSTICE by JOSEPH TELLER. Mystery.
> Glaciers by Alexis Smith. General.
> Damned If You Do by Michael Brandman. Mystery.
> Dark lycan  by  Christine Feehan. Paranormal Romance.
> A DEEP DECEIT by Hilary Bonner. Thriller.
> WHAT KATY DID NEXT by SUSAN COOLIDGE. In Junior Books.
> An Indecent Proposition by Carol Marinelli. Mills And Boon Romance.
> RED KNIFE by William Kent Krueger. Mystery. 
> WHERE TIME WINDS BLOW by Robert Holdstock. Sci-fi.
> A Kind of Wild Justice by Hilary Bonner. Mystery. 
> A Moment of Madness by Hilary Bonner. Mystery. 
> WHAT THE WAVES BRING by Barbara Delinsky. Romance.
> Underdog by  Laurien Berenson
> WATCHDOG by LAURIEN BERENSON. Cozy Mystery.
> The Virgin's Daughters by Jeane Westin. Historical.
> Deathscent by  Robin Jarvis. Fantasy.
> A Train of Powder by Rebecca West. General.
> A GREY MOON OVER CHINA by THOMAS A. DAY. Sci-fi.
> The Wonder Bread Summer by Jessica Anya Blau. Romance.
> BEST IN SHOW by Laurien Berenson. Cozy Mystery.
> Gone With the Woof by  Laurien Berenson. cozy mystery.
> Play Dead by Bill James. Mystery. 
> Helium, A Novel by Jaspreet Singh. General.
> Another Woman by Penny Vincenzi. General. 
> Night Film BY  Marisha Pessl. Thriller.
> The Skull and the Nightingale by Michael Irwin. Historical Thriller.
> the seance by  iain lawrence. Mystery.
> The Letter Opener by Kyo Maclear. General.
> Something Borrowed, Someone Dead by M C Beaton. Cozy Mystery. 
> Lost Spirits by Gabriella Poole. Young Adult Fantasy. 
> FOR DEATH COMES SOFTLY by  Hilary Bonner. Mystery.
> NO REASON TO DIE by Hilary Bonner. Mystery.
> The Cruellest Game by Hilary Bonner. Mystery. 
> DEATH OF AN INNOCENT by Sally Spencer. Mystery.
> THE FOUR STAGES OF CRUELTY by KEITH HOLLIHAN. Thriller.
> Steamed: by  Holly Jacobs. Cozy Mystery.
> CROSS AND BURN by  Val McDermid. Mystery.
> SECOND WATCH by J. A. JANCE. Mystery.
> IN COLD DAYLIGHT by Pauline Rowson. Mystery. 
> IN FOR THE KILL by Pauline Rowson. Mystery. 
> After the Banquet  By  Yukio Mishima. General.
> When Winter Comes by Barbara Cameron. General. NOvella.
> The Radiant Seas by Catherine Asaro. Sci-fi. 
> Rickshaw Girl by Mitali Perkins. General.
> Bamboo people  by MITALI PERKINS. General.
> Monsoon Summer by Mitali Perkins. Young Adult General. 
> FOREST GATE by PETER AKINTI. General.
> THE CARRIER by Sophie Hannah. Mystery.
> Affection  by Ian Townsend. Historical.
> Deadline by Sandra Brown. Mystery. 
> The Garden Planet by J R O'Neill. Sci-fi.
> The Book of Souls by James Oswald. Mystery.
> Perseverance Street by Ken McCoy. Wartime Family Saga.
> Husband and Wife by Leah Stewart. Romance.
> Sunshine State by James Miller. Thriller.
> An Offer She Can't Refuse by Emma Darcy. Mills and Boon Romance.
> Taboo by Casey Hill. Mystery.
> The Returned by Jason Mott. General.
> One Lucky Vampire by Lynsay Sands. Paranormal Romance. 
> Always On My Mind by Jill Shalvis. Romance.
> Christmas on 4th Street by Susan Mallery. Romance. 
> Ruin by Rachel Van Dyken. Romance.
> Collecting Cooper by Paul Cleave. Thriller. 
> Maidenhair by Mikhail Shishkin. Russian General.
> One Night In Winter by Simon Sebag Montefiore. Historical.
> The MAIDENSTONE LIGHTHOUSE by  Sally Smith O'Rourke. Ghost Story.
> Con Law by Mark Gimenez. Thriller. 
> The Private School  by James Patterson. Mystery.
> The Circle by Dave Eggers. Suspense.
> Doing Hard Time BY  STUART WOODS. Mystery.
> Treasure Hunters by James Patterson. Young Adult Mystery.
> Seven for a secret  by Lyndsay Faye. Mystorical.
> Storm Front  BY  JOHN SANDFORD. Thriller.
> The Lost by Claire McGowan. Mystery.
> The Making of Henry by Howard Jacobson. General. 
> Against the Mark  by Kat Martin. Romantic Suspense.
> The Unfaithful Queen by  Carolly Erickson. Historical.
> Mad About The Boy by  Helen Fielding. Romance
> The Signature of All Things BY  ELIZABETH GILBERT. General.
> Gone by James Patterson. Mystery.
> Dick Francis's refusal  BY  FELIX FRANCIS. Mystery.
> The Windermere Witness by REBECCA TOPE. Mystery.
> The Ambleside Alibi by REBECCA TOPE. Mystery.
> GHOSTS OF BUNGO SUIDO by P. T. Deutermann. War Thriller.
> NANYANG by Ian Stewart. Historical.
> Spider Woman's Daughter by Anne Hillerman. Mystery.
> Windfallen by Jojo Moyes. Romance.
> Goat Mountain by David Vann. General. 
> THE SUBMISSIVE by TARA SUE ME. Adult Erotic Romance.
> THE DOMINANT by TARA SUE ME. Adult Erotic Romance.
> THE TRAINING by TARA SUE ME. Adult Erotic Romance.
> Connected by Kim Karr. Romance.
> Torn by Kim Karr. Romance.
> Heartbreak Hotel by Deborah Moggach. General.
> Possession by J. R. Ward. Paranormal Romance.
> Clover's Child by Amanda Prowse. Romance. 
> Stormbird by Conn Iggulden. Historical.
> When Did You See Her Last by  - Lemony Snicket. Mystery.
> The Goldfinch  by Donna Tartt. General.
> Sycamore Row by John Grisham. Mystery.
> Starry Night by Debbie Macomber. Romance.
> Identical  by Scott Turow. Mystery.
> the Spirit of Steamboat. by  Craig Johnson. Mystery Novella.
> Doomed  by Chuck Palahniuk. Horror.
> Wormholes: A Novel by Dennis Meredith. Sci-fi.
> THE SLEEP POLICE By  Jay Bonansinga. Mystery.
> CRIME AND PUNISHMENT by G. F. Newman. General.
> SCRATCH DEEPER by Chris Simms. Mystery.
> Holy Orders by Benjamin Black. Mystery.
> A Blind Goddess by James R. Benn. Mystorical.
> Duck the Halls by Donna Andrews. Cozy Mystery.
> Critical Mass BY  SARA PARETSKY. Mystery.
> The Taste of Fear  by Jeremy Bates. Mystery.
> The Firedrake by Cecelia Holland. Historical.
> Hot Dog by Laurien Berenson. Cozy Mystery.
> THE KILLER'S wife by Bill Floyd. Thriller.
> Revenge  by Martina Cole. Thriller.
> barracuda by CHRISTOS TSIOLKAS. General.
> The Singapore School of Villainy by Shamini Flint. Mystery. 
> A Long Long Way by SEBASTION BARRY. War Story.
> A Hundred Summers by Beatriz Williams. General.
> The Kind Folk by Ramsey Campbell. Fantasy.
> A Dirty Death by REBECCA TOPE. Mystery.
> Death of a Friend by REBECCA TOPE. Mystery.
> THE STICKLEPATH STRANGLER by  Michael Jecks. Mystorical.
> THE DEVIL'S ACOLYTE by Michael Jecks. Mystorical.
> A Woman of Substance by Barbara Taylor Bradford
> Worth the Fight by Vi Keeland. Erotic Adult Romance.
> Secrets Collide by Kathleen Brooks. Romance.
> Carter Reed by Tijan. Thriller.
> Convicted by Aleatha Romig. Romantic Suspense.
> Rockstar Romance Boxed Set (12 Book Bundle] by  Adriana Hunter and others.
> Romance in Anthologies.
> Dear Life by Alice Munro. General Short Stories.
> The Mosaic of Shadows by Tom Harper. Mystorical. 
> House of Small Shadows  by Adam Nevill. Horror.
> Path of Needles by  Alison Littlewood. Mystery.
> THE KEEPER by Luke Delaney. Mystery.
> A PRIVATE BUSINESS by Barbara Nadel. Mystery.
> The Honey Queen by CATHY KELLY. General.
> Dishonour by JACQUI ROSE. Thriller.
> Behind the Shattered Glass by Tasha Alexander. Mystorical. 
> The SERPENT and the PEARL by Kate Quinn. Historical.
> Reign of madness  BY  LYNN CULLEN. Historical Romance.
> PENANCE by Dan o'Shea. Mystery.
> Something Strange and Deadly by Susan Dennard. Paranormal. 
> A Darkness Strange and Lovely  by Susan Dennard. Paranormal.
> Vanished by TIM WEAVER. Mystery.
> 
> 
> 
> Non Fiction.
> 
> 
> Animals
> Kirby, David - Death At SeaWorld, Shamu And The Dark Side Of Killer Whales
> In Captivity.
> Shojai, Amy - Complete Care For Your Aging Cat
> 
> 
> 
> Autobiographies and Biographies
> Angela Merkel The Chancellor and Her World by Stefan Kornelius. 
> #Johnny Carson  by Henry Bushkin.
> David Jason, My Life by  David Jason.
> Darwin's Odyssey: The Voyage of the Beagle by Kevin Jackson. 
> My Story by Elizabeth Smart with Chris Stewart.
> Jim Henson - The Biography by Brian Jay Jones.Media.
> Admiral Lord Nelson, Context and Legacy Edited by David Cannadine.
> An American in the Gulag by Alexander Dolgun.. 
> Wilson BY  A. SCOTT BERG.
> Monster, My True Story by Aileen Wuornos.
> Thoughts Without Cigarettes, A Memoir by Oscar Hijuelos.
> Impossible Odds_ The Kidnapping of Jessica Buchanan by  Jessica Buchanan,
> Erik Landemalm & Anthony Flacco
> DIARIES 1969-1979, THE PYTHON YEARS by MICHAEL PALIN
> Autobiography  by Morrissey
> The First Scientist, A Life of Roger Bacon by BRIAN CLEGG
> SHATTERED LOVE, A MEMOIR by RICHARD CHAMBERLAIN. [Actor]
> My Animals and Other Family by CLARE BALDING. [Sports presentor]
> My Life as a Traitor, An Iranian Memoir by Zarah Ghahramani 
> Anyone Who Had a Heart, My Life and Music by Burt Bacharach 
> The Woman Behind The New Deal: The Life of Frances Perkins, FDR's Secretary
> of Labor and His Moral Conscience by Kirstin Downey
> Lindbergh- A Biography by A. Scott Berg. [Aviator, social activist]
> Roses under the Miombo Trees, An English Girl in Rhodesia by Amanda Parkyn
> Harry- The People's Prince by Chris Hutchins 
> Bit of a Blur by Alex James. [Pop star]
> I AM MALALA, The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and was Shot by the Taliban
> by Malala Yousafzai, with Christina Lamb
> Walking with Jack , a father's journey to become his son's caddie by Don J.
> Snyder
> MEMOIRS OF A FRUITCAKE The Wilderness Years 2000-2010, (plus a bit before
> but it didn't sound as good) by CHRIS EVANS. [UK Radio DJ]
> Paddle your own canoe : one man's fundamentals for delicious living by Nick
> Offerman. [American actor, TV personality]
> Shields, David And Salerno, Shane - Salinger.
> Hastings, Eli - Clearly Now The Rain, A Memoir Of Love And Other Trips.
> [Asadly addicted friend]
> Cronkite, Walter Iv - Cronkite's War, His World War II Letters Home
> Marsh, Dave - Bruce Springsteen, Two Hearts, The Definitive Biography
> 1972-2003.
> Xiao-Mei, Zhu - The Secret Piano.
> 
> 
> Cookery.
> The Pressure Cooker Cookbook by Catherine Phipps. Cookery, Pressure Cooker.
> 
> 
> 
> Education and Teaching.
> Ripley, Amanda - The Smartest Kids In The World.
> Reign of error : the hoax of the privatization movement and the danger to
> America's public schools by Diane Ravitch
> 
> 
> Entertainment.
> The Big Bang Theory and Philosophy by  Dean A. Kowalski
> 
> 
> 
> Expeditions and Travel.
> Galvin, Tom - There's An Egg In My Soup- And Other Adventures Of An Irishman
> In Poland.
> 
> 
> 
> Feminism.
> Lean in : women, work, and the will to lead by Sheryl Sandberg
> 
> 
> 
> Finance and Business.
> OPEN DISSENT, An Uncompromising View
> of the Financial Crisis by Mike Soden
> Modern Economic Issues by Professor Robert Whaples
> How an Economy Grows and Why It Crashes by Peter D. Schiff
> The Everything Store, Jeff Bezos and the Age of Amazon by Brad Stone
> 
> 
> 
> Gardening.
> Growing at the Speed of Life, A Year in the Life of My First Kitchen Garden
> by Graham Kerr 
> 
> 
> 
> Geography.
> The Indian Ocean by Michael Pearson 
> 
> 
> 
> Health, Miscellaneous
> Fink, Sheri - Five Days At Memorial, Life And Death In A Storm-Ravaged
> Hospital.
> Brownell, Kelly D. And Gold, Mark S. - Food Addiction, A Comprehensive
> Handbook.
> 
> 
> History
> Anne Neville, Queen to Richard III by Michael Hicks
> The Invasion of Canada 1812-1813 by Pierre Berton
> A History of Ireland in 100 Objects by Fintan O'Toole 
> Hitler's Olympics, The 1936 Berlin Olympic Games by Christopher Hilton
> Prisoner of the Vatican The Popes, the Kings, and Garibaldi's Rebels in the
> Struggle to Rule Modern Italy by David I. Kertzer
> Bailey, Catherine - The Secret Rooms, A True Gothic Mystery. {About John the
> 9th Duke of Rutland]
> Moloney, Ed - A Secret History Of The IRA, Second Edition.
> One Summer, America 1927 by Bill Bryson 
> LEONARDO'S FOOT HOW 10 TOES, 52 BONES, AND 66 MUSCLES SHAPED THE HUMAN WORLD
> by CAROL ANN RINZLER
> Lawrence in Arabia : war, deceit, imperial folly and the making of the
> modern Middle East by Scott Anderson
> The Men Who United the States by Simon Winchester.
> 
> 
> Military.
> 
> Hellcats, The Epic Story of World War II's Most Daring Submarine Raid by
> Peter Sasgen.
> Worlds at War, The 2,500-Year Struggle Between East And West by Anthony
> Pagden. 
> Aftermath, Following the Bloodshed Of America's Wars In The Muslim World. by
> Nir Rosen. 
> The Battle for the Falklands by Max Hastings & Simon Jenkins
> The First World War by Hew Strachan 
> HIROSHIMA THE MAKING OF THE MODERN WORLD by Andrew J. Rotter
> Command and control : nuclear weapons, the Damascus Accident, and the
> illusion of safety BY ERIC SCHLOSSER
> ROAD OF BONES, THE SIEGE OF KOHIMA 1944 THE EPIC STORY OF THE LAST GREAT
> STAND OF EMPIRE by FERGAL KEANE
> 
> 
> 
> Music.
> Sharp, Ken - Nothin' To Lose, The Making Of KISS, 1972-1975.
> Turner, Steve - The Beatles, The Stories Behind The Songs 1967-1970.
> Gill, Andy - Bob Dylan, The Stories Behind The Songs 1962-1969.
> The Stone Roses, War and Peace by SIMON SPENCE
> 
> 
> 
> politics
> Tip and the Gipper, When Politics Worked by Chris Matthews. 
> Balz, Dan - Collision 2012, Obama vs Romney And The Future Of Elections In
> America.
> Kymlicka, Will - Contemporary Political Philosophy_ An Introduction.
> This town : two parties and a funeral--plus plenty of valet
> parking!--in America's gilded capital BY 
> MARK LEIBOVICH
> THE LIBERTY AMENDMENTS by  Mark R. Levin
> 
> 
> 
> Psychology.
> David and Goliath, Underdogs, Misfits and the Art of Battling Giants by
> Malcolm Gladwell
> 
> 
> Religion, Christianity.
> Killing Jesus  by Bill O'Reilly
> 
> 
> 
> Addictions.
> Group Treatment for Substance Abuse A STAGES-OF-CHANGE THERAPY MANUAL by
> Mary Marden Velasquez
> 
> 
> 
> Sexuality
> Nice Couples Do, How to Turn Your Secret Dreams into Sensational Sex by Joan
> Elizabeth Lloyd
> 
> 
> 
> Science
> 
> Why Is Milk White & 200 Other Curious Chemistry Questions  by Alexa Coelho
> and Simon Quellen.
> Chown, Marcus - What A Wonderful World.
> National Geographic tales of the weird: unbelievable true stories edited by
> David Braun.
> HIDING IN THE MIRROR The Quest for Alternate Realities, from Plato to String
> Theory by Lawrence M. Krauss
> The Universe Within: From Quantum to Cosmos by NEIL TUROK
> 
> 
> 
> Sport.
> The Book Of Basketball BY   BILL SIMMONS
> 
> 
> 
> True Crime and Detection.
> The Devil's Dozen_ How Cutting-Edge Forensics Took Down 12 Notorious Serial
> Killers by Katherine Ramsland.
> Practice to Deceive   by  Ann Rule. True Crime.
> Klatzow, David - Steeped In Blood, The Life And Times Of A Forensic
> Scientist.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
>

The Killings at Badgers Drift
by
CAROLINE GRAHAM
Grade 1.

Badger's Drift is a tranquil English village, home to Miss Emily Simpson, a 
kindly, well-liked spinster. When she is murdered, Detective Chief Inspector 
Barnaby is asked to investigate. He soon uncovers an unexpectedly seamy side to 
the village - including old rivalries, old loves and new scandals.


headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright (c) 1987 Caroline Graham
The right of Caroline Graham to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law,
this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted,
in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in
writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in
accordance with the terms of licences issued by the
Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7606 3
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk


To Christianna Brand
With grateful thanks
for all her help and encouragement


And appetite, an universal wolf,
so doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up himself.
Troilus and Cressida
Act 1, Scene 3


Prologue
She had been walking in the woods just before teatime when she saw them. 
Walking very quietly although that had not been her intention. It was just that 
the spongy underlay of leaf mould and rotting vegetation muffled every 
footfall. The trees, tall and packed close together, also seemed to absorb 
sound. In one or two places the sun pierced through the closely entwined 
branches, sending dazzling shafts of hard white light into the darkness below.
Miss Simpson stepped in and out of these shining beams peering at the ground. 
She was looking for the spurred coral root orchid. She and her friend Lucy 
Bellringer had discovered the first nearly fifty years ago when they were young 
women. Seven years had passed before it had surfaced again and then it had been 
Lucy who had spotted it, diving off into the undergrowth with a hoot of triumph.
Their mock feud had developed from that day. Each summer they set out, 
sometimes separately, sometimes together, eager to find another specimen. Hopes 
high, eyes sharp and notebooks and pencils at the ready they stalked the dim 
beechwoods. Whoever spotted the plant first gave the loser, presumably as some 
sort of consolation prize, a spectacularly high tea. The orchid flowered rarely 
and, due to an elaborate system of underground rhizomes, not always in the same 
place twice. Over the last five years the two friends had started looking 
earlier and earlier. Each was aware the other was doing so; neither ever 
mentioned it.
Really, thought Miss Simpson, parting a clump of bluebells gently with her 
stick, another couple of years at this rate and we'll be coming out when the 
snow's on the ground.
But if there was any justice in the world (and Miss Simpson firmly believed 
that there was) then 1987 was her turn. Lucy had won in 1969 and 1978, but this 
year . . .
She tightened her almost colourless lips. She wore her old leghorn hat with the 
bee veil pushed back, a faded Horrockses cotton dress, wrinkled white lisle 
stockings and rather baggy green-stained tennis shoes. She was holding a 
magnifying glass and a sharp stick with a red ribbon tied to it. She had 
covered almost a third of the wood, which was a small one, and was now working 
her way deep into the heart. Ten years could easily pass between blooms but it 
had been a wet cold winter and a very damp spring, both propitious signs. And 
there was something about today . . .
She stood still, breathing deeply. It had rained a little the evening before 
and this had released an added richness into the warm, moist air - a pungent 
scent of flowers and verdant leaves with an undernote of sweet decay.
She approached the bole of a vast oak. Scabby parasols of fungus clung to the 
trunk and around the base was a thick clump of hellebores. She circled the base 
of the tree, staring intently at the ground.
And there it was. Almost hidden beneath flakes of leaf mould, brown and soft as 
chocolate shavings. She moved the crumbs gently aside; a few disturbed insects 
scuttered out of the way. It gleamed in the half light as if lit from within. 
It was a curious plant: very pretty, the petals springing away from the lemon 
calyx like butterfly wings, delicately spotted and pale fawny yellow but quite 
without any trace of green. There were no leaves and even the stem was a dark, 
mottled pink. She crouched on her thin haunches and pushed the stick into the 
ground. The ribbon hung limp in the still air. She leaned closer, pince-nez 
slipping down her large bony nose. Tenderly she counted the blooms. There were 
six. Lucy's had only had four. A double triumph!
She rose to her feet full of excitement. She hugged herself; she could have 
danced on the spot. Nuts to you Lucy Bellringer, she thought. Nuts and double 
nuts. But she did not allow the feelings of triumph to linger. The important 
thing now was the tea. She had made notes last time when Lucy had been out of 
the room refreshing the pot and, whilst not wishing to appear ostentatious, was 
determined to double the choice of sandwiches, have four varieties of cake and 
finish off with a home-made strawberry water ice. There was a large bowl of 
them, ripe to bursting, in the larder. She stood lost in blissful anticipation. 
She saw the inlaid Queen Anne table covered with her great aunt Rebecca's 
embroidered lace cloth, piled high with delicacies.
Date and banana bread, Sally Lunn black with fruit, frangipane tarts, spiced 
parkin and almond biscuits, lemon curd and fresh cream sponge, ginger and 
orange jumbles. And, before the ice, toasted fingers with anchovies and 
Leicester cheese . . .
There was a noise. One always had the illusion, she thought, that the heart of 
a wood was silent. Not at all. But there were noises so indigenous to their 
surroundings that they emphasized the silence rather than disturbing it - the 
movements of small animals, the rustle of leaves and, overall, the lavish 
ululation of birdsong. But this was an alien noise. Miss Simpson stood very 
still and listened.
It sounded like jerky, laboured breathing and, for a moment, she thought that a 
large animal had been caught in a trap, but then the breathing was punctuated 
by strange little cries and moans which were definitely human.
She hesitated. So dense was the foliage that it was hard to know from which 
direction the sounds came. They seemed to be bouncing around the encircling 
greenery like a ball. She stepped over a swathe of ferns and listened again. 
Yes - definitely in that direction. She moved forward on tiptoe as if knowing 
in advance that what she was about to discover should have remained forever 
secret.
She was very close now to the source of the disturbance. Between herself and 
the noise was a tight lattice of branches and leaves. She stood stock still 
behind this screen then, very carefully, parted two of the branches and peered 
through. She only just stopped a sound of horrified amazement passing her lips.
Miss Simpson was a maiden lady. Her education had in many respects been 
sketchy. As a child she had had a governess who turned puce and stammered all 
through their 'nature' lessons. She had touched, glancingly, on the birds and 
the bees and left the human condition severely alone. But Miss Simpson believed 
deeply that only a truly cultivated mind could offer the stimulus and 
consolation necessary to a long and happy life and she had, in her time, gazed 
unflinchingly at great works of art in Italy, France and Vienna. So she knew 
immediately what was happening in front of her. The tangle of naked arms and 
legs (there seemed in real life to be far more than four of each) were gleaming 
with a pearly sheen just like the glow on the limbs of Cupid and Psyche. The 
man had the woman's hair knotted around his fingers and was savagely pulling 
back her head as he covered her shoulders and breasts with kisses. So it was 
that Miss Simpson saw her face first. That was shock enough. But when the woman 
pushed her lover away and, laughing, scrambled on top of him, well . . .
Miss Simpson blinked, and blinked again. Who would ever have thought it? She 
eased the parted twigs back together and, holding her breath, gently let them 
go. Then she stood for several minutes wondering what to do next. Her mind was 
a mass of conflicting thoughts and emotions. She felt shock, intense 
embarrassment, disgust and a very faint flicker, instantly and resolutely 
suppressed, of excitement. She felt as if someone had handed her a ticking 
bomb. Having, by force of circumstance and natural inclination neatly 
sidestepped all the mess and muddle of selection, courtship, marriage and the 
resulting clash of arms, Miss Simpson felt singularly ill equipped to handle it.
A prim irritation started snagging the edge of her mind. A 'tsk' almost escaped 
her lips. In the middle of a wood of all places. When they each had a perfectly 
good home to go to. They had spoiled what should have been a really wonderful 
day.
Now she somehow had to get away as silently as she had approached. She studied 
the ground thoughtfully. She must avoid snapping even a twig. And the sooner 
she moved the better. For all she knew they might almost have come to . . . 
well . . . whatever point it was people came to.
And then the woman shouted. A strange terrible cry, and a bird flew up from the 
thicket right into Miss Simpson's face. She cried out in her turn and, full of 
shame and horror at the thought of discovery, turned and started to run. 
Seconds later she tripped over a tree root. She crashed heavily to the ground 
but panic drove out any feeling of pain. She scrambled to her feet and ran on. 
Behind her she heard a lumbering, crashing sound and realized they must have 
jumped up and torn the branches aside to see what was happening. They would 
recognize her. They must. She was only a few yards away. Surely, naked, they 
wouldn't pursue?
Her eighty-year-old legs responded to demands that hadn't been made on them for 
years. Flying up behind her at odd angles like freckled sticks, they carried 
her, in an incredibly short space of time, to the edge of the wood. There she 
rested against a tree, listening and panting, her hand on her flat, agonized 
chest, for almost five minutes. Then she walked slowly home.
Later that evening she sat on the window seat looking out over the darkening 
garden. She pushed the casement wide, breathing in the fragrance from nicotiana 
and night-scented stocks planted directly beneath the window. At the end of the 
lawn was the faint white blur, almost blue in the dusk, of the beehives.
Since her arrival home almost three hours ago she had sat thus, unable to eat, 
becoming more and more aware of the pain in her shin, and less and less certain 
of what to do next.
Everything was changed now. They knew that she knew. Nothing could alter that. 
Would that it could. She would have given anything to put the clock back to 
yesterday. It was her own vanity that had got her into this mess. Wanting to 
crow over her friend; wanting to win. Serve her right. She sighed. All this 
castigation didn't solve a thing.
She wondered if they would come and see her, and turned cold at the thought. 
She imagined the awful, three-cornered conversation. The hideous embarrassment. 
Or perhaps they wouldn't be embarrassed? To be able to frolic about in the open 
like that argued a certain brazen confidence. Perhaps she should take the 
initiative and approach them. Assure them of her continuing silence. Miss 
Simpson's fastidious soul was repelled by the idea. It would look as if she was 
forcing further intimacies that they may well not want. How strange it was, she 
thought, to be suddenly handed a startling new piece of information about two 
people one thought one knew well. It seemed to colour, almost cancel out, all 
her previous knowledge of them.
She shifted slightly, clenching her teeth against the pain from her bruised 
leg. She recalled wistfully the moment she had discovered the orchid and how 
much fun it would have been making the celebration tea. She could never tell 
Lucy now. Everything seemed grubby and spoiled. She eased herself off the 
window seat, went through the kitchen and entered the perfumed stillness of the 
garden. A few feet away her favourite rose, a Papa Meilland, was about to 
flower. Last year the buds had been struck by mildew but this year all seemed 
well and several dark, glowing scrolls hinted at the glories to come. One 
looked as if it would be fully open by the next morning.
She sighed again and returned to the kitchen to make her cocoa. She unhooked a 
spotless pan from one of the beams and measured out the milk. She had never 
felt more keenly the truth of the saying 'a trouble shared is a trouble 
halved'. But she had lived in a small village long enough to know that what she 
had discovered could safely be discussed with no one - not even dear Lucy, who 
was not a gossip but who had absolutely no idea of concealment. Nor the people 
one would normally have regarded as natural confidants such as her own 
solicitor (now on holiday in the Algarve) and, of course, the vicar. He was a 
terrible gossip, especially after the Wine Circle's monthly get-together.
She took an iridescent fluted cup and saucer (she had never been able to adapt 
to the modern fashion for hefty mugs), put in a heaped teaspoon of cocoa, added 
a little sugar and a sprinkling of cinnamon. She could tell her nephew living 
safely in Australia, but that would mean writing it all down and the very 
thought made her feel slightly sick. The milk foamed up to the saucepan's rim 
and she poured it into the cup, stirring all the time.
Sitting in her winged chair Miss Simpson sipped a little of the cocoa. If no 
individual was to be trusted surely there were organizations one could talk to 
at times like this? Never friendless in her life, she cast around in her memory 
for the name of a society which helped those who were. She was sure there had 
been a poster in the offices where she had gone to argue about deductions from 
her pension. A man holding a telephone and listening. And a name which had 
struck her at the time as faintly biblical. Inquiries would know. Thank 
goodness everything was automatic now: nothing would have got past Mrs Beadle 
on the old post office board.
The girl knew immediately what she meant and connected her to the Samaritans. 
The voice at the other end was most comforting. A little young, perhaps, but 
kind and sounding genuinely interested. And, most important, assuring her of 
complete confidentiality. However, Miss Simpson, having given her name, had 
hardly begun to explain the situation when she was interrupted by a sound. She 
stopped speaking and listened. There it was again.
Someone was tapping, softly but persistently, at the back door.
PART ONE
SUSPICION


Chapter One
'There's something very wrong here and I expect you to do something about it. 
Isn't that what the police are for?'
Sergeant Troy observed his breathing, a trick he had picked up from a colleague 
at Police Training College who was heavily into T'ai Ch'i and other faddy 
Eastern pursuits. The routine came in very handy when dealing with abusive 
motorists, boot-deploying adolescents and, as now, with barmy old ladies.
'Indeed we are, Miss . . . er . . .' The sergeant pretended he had forgotten 
her name. Occasionally this simple manoeuvre caused people to wonder if their 
visit was really worth the bother and to drift off, thus saving unnecessary 
paperwork.
'Bellringer.'
Chiming in, thought the sergeant, pleased at the speed of this connection and 
at his ability to keep a straight face. He continued, 'But are you sure there's 
anything here to investigate? Your friend was getting on in years, she had a 
fall and it was too much for her. It's quite common, you know.'
'Rubbish!'
She had the sort of voice that really got up his nose: clear, authoritative, 
upper upper middle class. I bet she's ordered a few skivvies around in her 
time, he thought, the noun springing easily to mind. He and his wife enjoyed a 
good costume drama on the television.
'She was as strong as an ox,' Miss Bellringer stated firmly. 'As an ox.' There 
was a definite tremor on the repetition. Jesus, thought Sergeant Troy, surely 
the old bat wasn't going to start snivelling. Mechanically he reached for the 
Kleenex under the counter and returned to his breathing.
Miss Bellringer ignored the tissues. Her left arm vanished into a vast tapestry 
bag, trawled around for a bit then reappeared, the hand gripping a round 
jewelled box. She opened this and shook a neat pile of ginger-coloured powder 
on to the back of her wrist. She sniffed this up each nostril, closing them 
alternately like an emergent seal. She replaced the box and let out a 
prodigious sneeze. Sergeant Troy grabbed resentfully at his papers. When the 
dust had settled Miss Bellringer cried, 'I wish to see your superior.'
It would have given Sergeant Troy a great deal of pleasure to say that none of 
his superiors was on the premises. Unfortunately this was not the case. 
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby had just returned from holiday and was 
catching up on some files in his office.
'I won't keep you a moment,' said Troy, horrified to find the word madam 
lurking at the end of the sentence.
As he knocked on Barnaby's door and entered, Troy kept his face expressionless 
and his ideas regarding Miss Bellringer's degree of senility firmly to himself. 
The Chief could be very terse at times. He was a big, burly man with an air of 
calm paternalism which had seduced far sharper men than Gavin Troy into voicing 
opinions which had then been trounced to smithereens.
'Well, Sergeant?'
'There's an old - elderly lady in reception, sir. A Miss Bellringer from 
Badger's Drift. She insists on seeing someone in authority. I mean someone 
apart from myself.'
Barnaby lifted his head. He doesn't look as if he's had a holiday, thought 
Sergeant Troy. He looks tired. Not very well either. The thought did not 
displease him. The little bottle of tablets which Barnaby carried everywhere 
was on the desk next to a beaker of water.
'What's it about?'
'Her friend has died and she's not satisfied.'
'Who would be?'
The sergeant rephrased his question. It was obviously going to be one of the 
Chief's sarky days. 'What I meant, sir, was that she's convinced there's 
something wrong. Not quite straightforward.'
Chief Inspector Barnaby looked down at his top file: a particularly unsavoury 
case of child molestation. It would be a pleasure to postpone reading it for a 
while. 'All right. Show her in.'
Miss Bellringer settled herself in the chair that Sergeant Troy drew forward 
and rearranged her draperies. She was a wondrous sight, festooned rather than 
dressed. All her clothes had a dim but vibrant sheen as if they had once, long 
ago, been richly embroidered. She wore several very beautiful rings, the gems 
dulled by dirt. Her nails were dirty too. Her eyes moved all the time, 
glittering in a brown seamed face. She looked like a tattered eagle.
'I'm Chief Inspector Barnaby. Can I help you?'
'Well . . .' She eyed him doubtfully. 'May I ask why you're in mufti?'
'In what? Oh' - he followed her stern gaze. 'I'm a detective. Plain clothes.'
'Ah.' Satisfied, she continued, 'I want you to investigate a death. My friend 
Emily Simpson was eighty years old and because she was eighty a death 
certificate has automatically been issued. If she'd been half that age 
questions would have been asked. A post mortem carried out.'
'Not necessarily, Miss Bellringer. That would depend on the circumstances.'
It had been years since Barnaby had heard such an accent. Not since his early 
days of going to the pictures. In the postwar years films had been full of 
clean-cut young Englishmen with straight up and down trousers, all sounding 
their As like Es.
'Well the circumstances here are very strange indeed.'
They didn't sound all that strange, thought Barnaby, picking up a notepad and 
pen. Apparently his visitor's friend had been discovered, lying on a hearthrug, 
by the postman. He had needed a signature for a parcel and, not getting any 
reply to his knock (except the frantic barking of a dog) had peered through the 
sitting-room window.
'He came straight to me . . . he's been our postman for years you see . . . 
knew us both and I telephoned Doctor Lessiter -'
'That's your friend's GP?'
'He's everyone's GP, Inspector. Well, all the elderly in the village and those 
without transport. Otherwise it's a four-mile trip into Causton. Well - I 
hurried over, taking my key, but in the event it wasn't necessary because . . 
.' - Miss Bellringer lifted a compelling annunciatory finger - 'and this is the 
first odd thing - the back door was unlocked.'
'Was that unusual?'
'Unheard of. There have been three burglaries in the village recently. Emily 
was most particular.'
'Everyone has a lapse of memory sometimes,' murmured Barnaby.
'Not her. She had a fixed routine. Nine p.m. check time with the wireless, set 
her alarm for seven, put Benjy in his basket then lock the back door.'
'And do you know if her alarm was set?'
'No. I looked specially.'
'Then surely that simply indicates that she died before nine p.m.'
'No she didn't. Died in the night. The doctor said.'
'She may have died in the night,' the inspector continued gently, 'but lost 
consciousness several hours before.'
'Now here's the clincher,' said Miss Bellringer, eagle bright, as if he had not 
spoken, 'what about the ghost orchid?'
'The ghost orchid,' repeated Barnaby evenly, thirty years of dealing with the 
public standing him in ineffably good stead. Miss Bellringer explained about 
the contest.
'And in the afternoon after my friend died I went for a walk in the woods. 
Silly really, because of course I simply got rather upset. I found myself half 
looking for the orchid then realized that it didn't matter any more whether I 
found it or not. And this brought Emily's death home to me in a way that seeing 
her . . . lying there . . . hadn't.' She looked across at the inspector, 
blinked several times and sniffed. 'That must sound a bit peculiar.'
'Not at all.'
'And then I found it. But you see Emily had found it first.' Responding to 
Barnaby's raised eyebrows she continued, 'We had a stick with a ribbon to mark 
the spot. Hers red, mine yellow. Now' - Miss Bellringer leaned forward and 
Barnaby, so intense was her regard, only just stopped himself doing the same - 
'why did she not come and tell me?'
'Perhaps she was saving it. As a surprise.'
'No, no,' she said, irritated by his apparent inability to grasp the situation, 
'you don't understand. I've known Emily for nearly eighty years. She would have 
been overwhelmed by excitement. She would have come straight to me.'
'She may already have felt ill and been anxious to get home.'
'She has to pass my gate to get there. If she'd been ill she would have come 
in. I would have looked after her.'
'Did you see her at all on that day?'
'Saw her bringing Benjy back from his walk about two o'clock. And before you 
ask, they both looked as fit as fleas.' She looked around the room in a lost 
yet hopeful manner, as the newly bereft sometimes do. Unable to accept the 
empty space, half expecting the dead person to reappear. 'No' - she focused her 
gaze firmly on the inspector, 'something happened after she saw the orchid and 
before she returned to the village, to put the discovery out of her mind. And 
it must have been a pretty big something, believe you me.'
'If what you say is true, are you suggesting that the shock killed her?'
'I hadn't really got as far as that.' Miss Bellringer frowned. 'But there is 
one more thing . . .' She rummaged furiously in her bag, crying, 'What do you 
make of this?' and handed him a scrap of paper on which was written: Causton 
1234 Terry.
'The Samaritans.'
'Are they? Well, they may give succour but they certainly don't give 
information. Couldn't get a thing out of them. Said it was all confidential.'
'Where did you find this?'
'On her little table, tucked under the telephone. I can't imagine why she would 
have rung them up.'
'Presumably because she was worried or depressed and needed to talk to someone.'
'To total strangers? Fiddlesticks!' Hurt lay behind the snort of disbelief. 
'Anyway our generation didn't get depressed. We soldiered on. Not like today. 
People want tranquillizers now if the milk goes off.'
Barnaby felt his innards twang aggressively and shifted in his chair. The brief 
flicker of interest her story had aroused died away. He felt irritated and 
impatient. 'When did your friend actually die?'
'Friday the seventeenth. Two days ago. I've been stewing about it ever since. 
Knew there wasn't much to go on, y'see. Thought I'd probably be told I was 
talking a load of nonsense. Which of course I was.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Young man at the desk. Said at her age it was to be expected and hinted that I 
was wasting his valuable time. Not,' she added caustically, 'that he seemed to 
be doing very much.'
'I see. No, all complaints and inquiries are investigated. Our opinion on their 
veracity is quite irrelevant. Who is the next of kin in this case?'
'Well . . . I am, I suppose. Neither of us had any near relations. Odd cousins 
and aunts long since popped off. She had a nephew somewhere in the Antipodes. 
And I'm her executor. We left everything to each other.'
Barnaby made a note of Miss Bellringer's name and address then asked, 'You're 
in charge of the funeral arrangements?'
'Yes. She's being buried on Wednesday. That doesn't leave us with much time.' 
Suddenly they were in the realms of melodrama. 'You know, I can't help being 
reminded of The Case of the Vanishing Orchestra. The circumstances are really 
quite -'
'You read detective fiction, Miss Bellringer?'
'Avidly. They're a mixed bunch, of course. My favourite is -' She broke off and 
looked at him sharply. 'Ah. I see what you're thinking. But you're quite wrong. 
It's not my imagination.'
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby rose and, after a preliminary flapping of 
garments, his companion did the same. 'I shouldn't worry about the funeral, 
Miss Bellringer. These things can always be postponed if it proves to be 
necessary.'
In the doorway she turned. 'I knew her, you see, Emily.' Her fingers tightened 
on the bone handles of her bag. 'All this is totally out of character. Believe 
me, Chief Inspector, there is something very wrong here.'
After she had left Barnaby took two tablets and swished them down with some 
water. He leaned back in his chair and waited for them to work. It seemed to 
take longer and longer. Perhaps he should start taking three. He loosened his 
belt and returned to the child molester's file. A photograph grinned up at him: 
a sunny-faced little man who had had three previous convictions, then been 
given a job as a primary school caretaker. He sighed, pushed the folder away 
and wondered about Emily Simpson.
It was his belief, forged by thirty years of looking and listening, that no one 
ever acted out of character. What most people thought of as character (the 
accumulation, or lack of, certain social, educational and material assets) was 
shallow stuff. Real character was revealed when these accretions were stripped 
away. It was the chief inspector's belief that anyone was capable of anything. 
Strangely enough this did not depress him. He did not even regard it as a 
pessimistic point of view but rather as the only sensible one for a policeman 
to hold.
However, Miss Simpson had done several things on the last day of her life that 
someone who had known her closely since childhood had never known her do 
before. And that was odd. Odd and interesting. Detective Chief Inspector 
Barnaby had made a note of the Samaritans' number and took hold of the phone. 
But first there was the little matter of Miss Bellringer's reception to be 
dealt with.
He pressed the buzzer and said, 'Send Sergeant Troy in here.'


Chapter Two
There was no joy from the Samaritans. Barnaby had not expected that there would 
be. Clam tight as usual. Which was why after a second, later telephone call he 
presented himself at their tiny terraced house behind Woolworth's at seven p.m. 
looking worried.
An elderly man sat behind a desk with two telephones. The receiver of one was 
clapped to his ear. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, 'Please sit down' 
to Barnaby, then continued listening, nodding gravely from time to time. 
Eventually he replaced the receiver and said, 'You're the person who rang 
hoping to see Terry?'
Barnaby, who had thought the elderly man might have been Terry, nodded. 'That's 
right. We talked on Friday.'
'And you are . . . ?' He was turning back the pages of a log book.
'I'd rather not give my name,' said Barnaby truthfully.
The phone rang again, and almost simultaneously a middle-aged woman and a young 
girl came out of a room nearby. The couple shook hands. Barnaby turned to the 
woman who murmured 'Good evening' and left. The girl waited expectantly. The 
man at the desk smiled and made a sign bringing her and Barnaby together.
She was slim and pretty, with a fall of shiny, fair hair. She had on a neat 
checked dress and a necklace of little silver beads. Barnaby compared her to 
his own daughter who, on her last visit home, had been wearing shredded jeans, 
an old leather breastplate and her hair in a sequinned crest.
'We can talk in here.' The girl led him back into the room. There was a 
comfortable armchair, a banquette against the wall and a pine table with a jar 
of marguerites. Barnaby took the banquette. 'Would you like some coffee?'
'No thank you.' He had entered the building with no plan, prepared to play it 
as it came. For all he knew Terry might have been a tough old pro like himself. 
Blessing his good fortune, he smiled gravely at her and produced his warrant 
card.
'Oh! But we're . . . I can't . . . what do you want?'
'I understand you were the person who spoke to Emily Simpson last Friday 
evening?'
'I'm sorry.' She sounded a bit firmer this time. 'But we never discuss clients 
with anyone. Our service is completely confidential.'
'I appreciate that of course,' replied Barnaby, 'but in the case of a death -'
'A death! How dreadful . . . I'd no idea she was suicidal. I've only been a 
volunteer for a few weeks . . . I'm still training, you see . . .' The words 
tumbled out. 'If only I'd known . . . but the other two Sams were interviewing 
and on the other line and I thought I could handle it . . . Miss Simpson I mean 
-'
'Hold on, hold on.' She looked younger by the minute and on the verge of tears. 
'As far as we know there's no question of suicide. But there may be suspicious 
circumstances.'
'Oh? What sort of circumstances?'
'So I would like you to tell me, if you would, what you remember of the call.'
'I'm sorry. I can't do that. I'd have to check -'
'I've spoken to your director Mr Wainwright and I can assure you that in this 
case the rules can be waived.' He gave her a fatherly smile.
'Well . . . I don't know . . .'
'You wouldn't wish to obstruct a police inquiry?' A hint of sternness entered 
the smile.
'Of course not.' She glanced at the slightly open door. Barnaby sat patiently, 
guessing that in a moment she would recall the helpful gesture with which the 
Samaritan at the desk had introduced them. Her face cleared. She said, 'I do 
remember Miss Simpson's call. We only had about three that evening . . . but 
not word for word.'
'That's all right. As much as you can. Take your time.'
'Well, she said something like "I've got to talk to someone. I don't know what 
to do." Of course an awful lot of people start off like that . . . then I asked 
her if she'd like to give her name because you don't have to and some clients 
would rather not, but she did. And I encouraged her, you know . . . and 
waited.' She added with rather touching self-importance, 'A lot of our work is 
just sitting and waiting.'
'I understand.'
'Then she said, "I've seen something. I feel I've got to tell someone about 
it."'
Barnaby felt his concentration tighten. 'And did she say what it was?'
Terry Bazely shook her head. 'She did say it was unbelievable.'
Barnaby thought that didn't signify. Elderly spinsters of both sexes were 
inclined to think the mildest spot of chicanery unbelievable if letters to the 
local press were anything to go by. They nearly always started: 'I was 
absolutely amazed to see/hear/observe/experience . . .'
'But then someone came.'
'What?' He leaned forward.
'She said she had to go - there was a knock at the door and I said we'd be here 
all night if she wanted to ring back, but she didn't.'
'How do you know?'
'I checked in the book when I arrived.'
'And she hung up before she answered the door?'
'Yes.'
'She didn't say which door?'
'No.'
'Did you hear a dog bark?'
'No.'
'And that's all you remember?'
She looked distressed, fretting her brows, afraid she had disappointed him. 
'I'm afraid so . . . at least . . .' A long pause, then she said, 'I'm sorry.'
Barnaby got up. 'Well thank you Miss -'
'Bazely. But I'm always called Terry. We only use Christian names here.'
'Thank you. You've been extremely helpful.'
She opened the door for him. 'There was something else . . . I know there was.'
He thought there probably was. She didn't look like the sort to make something 
up just to please. 'It'll probably pop into your mind when you're at work or 
doing the washing up. Give me a ring if it does. Causton Central.'
'Even if it doesn't seem important?'
'Especially if it doesn't seem important. And' - he closed the door - 'you do 
understand that all this is completely confidential. Not to be discussed even 
with your colleagues?'
'Oh.' Doubt flooded back. She looked more worried than ever. 'But . . . I shall 
have to put your visit in the book.'
'Just enter me,' smiled Barnaby, opening the door again, 'as an unnamed client 
worried about a death in the family.'
It was almost nine o'clock. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby sat at the 
dining-room table facing a plateful of leathery strips, black and shiny as 
liquorice, surrounded by coils of yellowish green paste.
'Your liver and greens are spoiled, dear,' said Mrs Barnaby, implying that 
there had once been a time when they were not.
Tom Barnaby loved his wife. Joyce was kind and patient. She was a good 
listener. He always talked when he came home, usually about work, knowing her 
discretion was absolute. And she would look as interested and concerned at the 
end of half an hour as she had at the beginning. She was, at forty-six, ripely 
pretty and still enjoyed what she called, with a nudge in her voice, 'a bit of 
a cuddle'. She had brought up their daughter with affectionate firmness, doing 
most of the things parents were supposed to do together by herself because of 
his job, and with never a word of complaint. The house was clean and 
comfortable and she carried out lots of boring chores in the garden willingly, 
leaving all the creative and interesting bits to him. She could act very well 
and sing like the lark ascending and did both, con brio, in the local amateur 
operatic and dramatic society. Her only flaw was that she could not cook.
No, thought Barnaby, as a particularly resilient bit of liquorice sprang up and 
hit the roof of his mouth. It was not just that she couldn't cook, it was much, 
much more. There was between her and any fresh, frozen or tinned ingredient a 
sort of malign chemistry. They were born antagonists. He had observed her once 
making a tart. She didn't just weigh and handle materials, she squared up to 
them, appearing to have some terrible foreknowledge that only an instant and 
combative readiness could bend them to her will. Her hand had closed over the 
shrinking pastry ball with a grip of iron.
When Cully was about thirteen she had persuaded her mother to go to cookery 
classes and, on the evening of the first lesson, she and her father had stood 
at the gate gripping each other's hands, hardly able to believe their good 
fortune. Mrs Barnaby had set off carrying a basket of good things covered with 
a snowy cloth like a child in a fairy tale. She had come home three hours later 
with a small leather mat thickly studded with currants, crunchy as bits of 
coal. She had gone a few more times then given up - out of, she explained, 
kindness to the teacher. The poor woman, never before having experienced 
failure on such a monumental scale, had started to get terribly depressed.
Chief Inspector Barnaby rearranged his paste and strips and finished telling 
his wife about Miss Bellringer and Miss Simpson.
'It's an intriguing story, darling.' Mrs Barnaby lowered her knitting, an 
exquisite puffball of silky creamy wool. 'I wonder what she could have seen?' 
Her husband shrugged. She was not deceived by the casualness of the gesture. 'I 
suppose your next step will be to talk to the doctor?'
'That's right.' Barnaby laid down his knife and fork. You could ask just so 
much from ordinarily tempered cutlery. 'Probably after his evening surgery, so 
I might be late again. Don't worry about keeping anything hot. I'll eat out.'
'You may go in now.'
Barnaby had turned up, at Doctor Lessiter's suggestion, at eleven the following 
morning. He entered the consulting room to find the doctor seated behind his 
desk and as busy as a bee. All through their conversation his fingers were 
never still: fiddling with pencils, tidying a stack of pharmaceutical 
literature, pulling down his cuffs or just drumming away on his blotter. He 
glanced quickly at the chief inspector's warrant card.
'Well . . . er . . . Barnaby' - he handed it back - 'I can't give you long.' He 
didn't invite the other man to sit down. The chief inspector explained the 
reason for his visit.
'Don't see any problem there. Elderly lady, bad fall, too much for her heart. A 
very common problem.'
'I assume you attended Miss Simpson at some time during the two weeks before 
her death?'
'Oh yes indeed. You can't catch me out, Inspector. The death would have been 
reported otherwise. I know the law as well as you do.'
Leaving this unlikely possibility aside, Barnaby asked, 'For what reason?'
'She had a touch of bronchitis. Nothing serious.'
'She didn't die of bronchitis, surely?'
'What are you implying?'
'I'm not implying anything, Doctor Lessiter. I'm simply asking you a question.'
'The cause of death, which occurred several hours before she was discovered, 
was heart failure. As I've already stated. The bruise was a large one. She must 
have fallen quite heavily. This sort of shock can be fatal.'
'I can see that would be the natural deduction -'
'Diagnosis.'
'- and that you would not be looking for anything untoward. Perfectly natural 
under the circumstances. But if you could cast your mind back for a moment was 
there nothing which perhaps' - he searched for the most tactful phrase - 
'didn't quite fit?'
'Nothing.'
But there had been a brief hesitation. And a note in the doctor's voice that 
ran counter to the strong negative. Barnaby waited. Doctor Lessiter puffed out 
his cheeks. His head was as round as a turnip and his cheeks the colour of 
russet apples. His nose was reddish too and thin crimson threads fanned out 
over his eyeballs. Lurking behind the acceptable aroma of soap, antiseptic and 
strong mints the chief inspector thought he could detect a whiff of whisky. 
Doctor Lessiter's hands took a break and rested on his pot belly. When he spoke 
his tone was judicial, implying that he had finally decided that Barnaby could 
be trusted.
'Well . . . there was something . . . oh hardly worth mentioning, really. There 
was rather a funny smell.'
'What sort of smell?'
'Umm . . . like mice.'
'That's not surprising in an old cottage. Especially if she didn't have a cat.'
'I didn't say it was mice. I said it was like mice. That's the nearest point of 
comparison I can make.' Doctor Lessiter rose, a fraction unsteadily, to his 
feet. 'And now you'll have to excuse me. I have a very busy day ahead.' He 
pressed the buzzer and moments later Barnaby found himself in the open air.
The surgery was behind the house, a splendid Victorian villa. He walked down 
the long gravel drive and entered a narrow lane bordered by hawthorn and cow 
parsley. It was a lovely sunny day. He broke off a bit of hawthorn and chewed 
it as he walked. Bread and cheese they had called it when he was a lad. He 
remembered biting into the sweet green buds. It didn't taste the same now. Bit 
late in the year, perhaps.
Badger's Drift was in the shape of a letter T. The cross bar, called simply the 
Street, had a crescent of breeze-block council houses, a few private dwellings, 
the Black Boy pub, a phone box and a very large and beautiful Georgian house. 
This was painted a pale apricot colour and almost smothered on one side by a 
vast magnolia. Behind the house were several farm buildings and two huge silos. 
The post office was a two-up two-down, no doubt suitably fortified, called 
Izercummin, which doubled as the village shop.
Barnaby turned into the main leg of the T. Church Lane was not as long as the 
Street and ran very quickly into open country - miles and miles of wheat and 
barley bisected at one point by a rectangular blaze of rape. The church was 
thirteenth-century stone and flint, the church hall twentieth-century brick and 
corrugated iron.
As Barnaby strolled along he felt more and more strongly that he was being 
watched. A stranger in a small community is always an object of keen interest 
and he had seen more than one curtain twitch as he passed by. Now, although the 
lane behind him appeared to be deserted, he felt a spot of tension develop at 
the base of his neck. He turned. No one. Then he saw a rainbow of light bobbing 
near his feet and looked up. In the loft window of an opulent bungalow close to 
the Black Boy a prism of light flashed and a face turned quickly away.
Miss Bellringer lived in a small modern house at the end of the lane. Barnaby 
walked up the narrow path of pea shingle encroached by a tangle of luxurious 
vegetation. Rhododendrons, laurel, hypericum, roses all running amok in all 
directions. On the front door was an iron bull's head and a notice in a clear 
plastic envelope which read KNOCK LOUDLY. He knocked loudly.
Immediately a voice yelled: 'Don't do that!' There was a heavy bang as if a 
piece of furniture had fallen over, a shuffling sound, and Miss Bellringer 
opened the door. She said, 'I'm sorry, it's Wellington. Do come in.'
She led the way into a cluttered sitting room and started to pick up a pile of 
books from the floor. The chief inspector crouched to help. All the books were 
very heavy. 'They will climb, you see. I don't know who first put the idea 
about that cats are sure footed. They can never have owned one. He's always 
knocking stuff about.'
Barnaby spotted Wellington, a solid cat the colour of iron filings, with four 
white socks, on top of a grand piano. The name seemed apt. He had a face like 
an old boot, squashed in, tuckered and rumpled. He watched them re-stacking the 
books. He looked secretive and ironical. A cat who was biding his time.
'Please' - Miss Bellringer waved an arm, just missing a group of photographs - 
'sit down.'
Barnaby removed a pile of sheet music, a painted terracotta duck and a tin of 
toffees from a wing chair and sat down.
'Well, Chief Inspector . . .' She sat opposite him on a Victorian love seat and 
clasped her knees (she was wearing copper-coloured knickerbockers), 'What've 
you found out?'
'Well,' echoed Barnaby, 'there was certainly something troubling your friend.'
'I knew it!' She slapped a brocaded thigh, sending up a little puff of dust. 
'What did I tell you?'
'Unfortunately there seems to be no way of discovering what it was.'
'Tell me what happened.'
As Barnaby described his meeting with Terry Bazely he glanced around the room. 
It was large and crammed from floor to ceiling with books and ornaments, dried 
flowers and plants. Three of the shelves held old Penguin crime classics with 
the green and white covers. There was a huge primitive stone head in the 
fireplace, magnificent Quad and Linn high-fidelity equipment, and a Ben 
Nicholson, festooned with cobwebs, hanging near the french windows.
'And what do we do now?' She gazed at him, clear-eyed and expectant, sitting 
forward on the very edge of her seat, ready for anything.
Barnaby found he was resenting her confidence. She seemed to regard him in the 
light of a conjuror. But his feelings about the case (if case there proved to 
be) were vague and nebulous. He had no rabbit to produce. He was not even sure 
he had the hat. 'There's nothing you can do, Miss Bellringer. I shall ask the 
police surgeon to have a look at the body. I shall need your permission for 
that -'
'Of course, of course.'
'If he sees no need to proceed further that will probably mean an end to the 
matter.' He had expected her to be downcast at this remark but she nodded with 
vigorous approval.
'Excellent. Brown's is the undertaker. Kerridge Street. I'll write a note.' She 
did this quickly, using a broad-nibbed fountain pen filled with Indian ink, and 
heavy smooth cream paper. She handed him the envelope, saying, 'I mustn't keep 
you. You'll let me know the outcome? And very well done, Detective Chief 
Inspector Barnaby.' Barnaby covered his mouth with his hand and coughed. As 
they turned towards the door Miss Bellringer picked up one of the photographs 
in a barbola frame. 'Here is Emily. She was eighteen then. We'd just started 
teaching.'
Barnaby looked at the faded sepia print. It was a studio portrait. Lucy was 
standing next to a jardiniere which held a potted palm. Emily sat on a stool. 
She was looking straight at the camera. Smooth fair hair coiled into a chignon, 
wide-apart eyes, her mouth firm. Her calf-length skirt and white blouse looked 
very crisp. Lucy was smiling broadly. Her bun of hair was lopsided and the hem 
of her skirt dipped slightly. One hand rested protectively on her friend's 
shoulder.
'What did you teach?' Barnaby handed back the photograph.
'My special subject was music. And Emily's English. But we taught almost 
everything else of course. One did in those days.' She accompanied him to the 
front door. 'School's gone now. Converted into flats. Full of horrible people 
from London.'
'By the way' - on the point of leaving Barnaby turned - 'was your friend ever 
troubled by mice?'
'Good heavens, no. The place was as clean as a whistle. Emily loathed mice. 
There were pellets everywhere. Good day to you, Chief Inspector.'


Chapter Three
'I don't suppose Doctor Bullard's on the premises?'
'Actually he is, sir,' replied the desk sergeant. 'Been giving evidence at an 
inquest this morning then he went over to Forensic.'
From behind a glassed-in panel Policewoman Brierly called: 'I saw him go across 
the yard for lunch.'
The canteen lay at the end of a large quadrangle. Everyone at the station 
moaned endlessly about the food which, to the chief inspector's tortured 
palate, seemed positively Lucullan. They should try eating chez Barnaby, he 
thought, loading up with shepherd's pie, soggy chips and livid mushy peas. 
That'd soon shut them up. He added a mincemeat slice and looked round, spotting 
the doctor alone at a table by the window.
'Hello, Tom,' said Doctor Bullard. 'What brings you to these desperate straits?'
'What brings you?' said Barnaby, sitting down and tucking in.
'My wife's at her Ikebana class.'
'Ah. I wanted to talk about something, actually.'
'Talk away,' replied the doctor, pushing aside the wreckage from a devilled 
haddock and considering a castle pudding.
'An old lady had a fall and was found dead the next morning by the postman. 
Not, sadly, all that unusual. But she saw something, probably in the woods near 
her house, the afternoon before that distressed her considerably. So much so 
that she rang the Samaritans to talk about it but before she could say much 
someone came to the door. And that's all we know.'
'So . . . ?' Doctor Bullard shrugged. 'Slightly more unusual.'
'I'd like you to have a look at her.'
'Who signed the death certificate?'
'Lessiter. Badger's Drift.'
'Ohhh . . .' George Bullard blew out his cheeks and placed the tips of his 
fingers together. 'Well, it won't be the first time I've trodden on his 
hand-made two-tones.'
'What d'you think of him?'
'Come on, Tom - you know better than that.'
'Sorry.'
'God, they don't call these castle puddings for nothing, do they? This one's 
completely impregnable.' He stabbed at it then added, 'I can tell you what's 
common knowledge. That he has a lot of private patients and a pretty upmarket 
lifestyle. A definitely scrumptious second wife and a very unscrumptious 
daughter who must be about the same age as my Karen. Nearly nineteen.'
'Can you look at the body this afternoon?'
'Mm. I've got a hospital call at three, though, so we'd have to go straight 
away.'
There were only two funeral parlours in Causton. Brown's was thought to be the 
more select. The other was the Co-op. Brown's front window was padded with 
crumpled satin in the very centre of which was an urn of shiny black basalt 
holding several lilies. Engraved on the urn was: Til the Dawn Breaks and 
Shadows Flee Away. Parked in a space adjacent to the building was a new silver 
Porsche 924, sparkling in the sunshine.
'Beautiful.' Doctor Bullard stroked it appreciatively. 'Nought to sixty in nine 
seconds.'
Barnaby imagined himself jammed into one of the low seats. The red and black 
chequered upholstery seemed to him hideously unattractive. He realized that he 
would always be, philosophically as well as incrementally, a middle-of-the 
range-family-saloon man. 'I'd no idea these fellows were so well paid,' he 
said, pushing open the glass-panelled door.
'No short time either,' replied the doctor jovially. 'The one thing you can 
always be sure people are going to do is pop off.'
The bell rang with subdued and appropriate gravity. It disturbed only one 
occupant: a young man, almost colourless in appearance, who flowed through some 
deep velvet curtains at the back of the room. He wore a black suit and had a 
pale skin, pale straight hair, pale hands and pale, hard-boiled lemony eyes, 
like acid drops. About to give them extreme unction, he took a second look and 
rearranged his expression. 'Doctor Bullard isn't it?'
'That's right. And you're . . . don't tell me . . . Mr Rainbird?'
'Got it in one,' the young man beamed. His eyes didn't change. He seemed to 
beam through his skin. 'Dennis the menace,' he added, apparently serious. He 
turned inquiringly to the doctor's companion.
'This is Detective Inspector Barnaby. Causton CID.'
'My . . .' Dennis Rainbird gave the chief inspector a slippy glance. 'Well, you 
won't find any naughtiness here. We're all as good as gold.'
Barnaby handed over the note from Miss Bellringer. 'We'd like to see the body 
of Emily Simpson, if you'd be so kind.' He was watching the other man's face as 
he spoke. There was an expression almost immediately suppressed, of unnaturally 
intense curiosity laced with excitement.
'Toot sweet,' cried Mr Rainbird, looking at the note then whisking off behind 
the curtains. 'Always ready to help the force.' He spoke as if it was an 
everyday occurrence.
They stood by the coffin. Barnaby gazed down at the gaunt, white-clad corpse. 
She looked very neat and dry as if all the vital juices had drained away not 
recently but years ago. Impossible to believe there had ever been a clear-eyed 
young girl with a smooth chignon.
'Hundreds of wreaths back there. She was ever so popular,' opined Mr Rainbird. 
'She taught my mum, you know. And all my aunties.'
'Yes. Well, thank you.' Barnaby received a bridling, slightly truculent glance 
which he calmly returned, then Mr Rainbird shrugged and melted away.
Doctor Bullard bent over Miss Simpson. He lifted the ringless hands, felt the 
skin beneath her feet, pulled the gown aside and pressed his hand on her 
ribcage. Rigor mortis had long passed and the thin chest gave under his thumbs. 
He frowned and felt some more.
'Something wrong?'
'Lungs are badly congested.'
'He was treating her for bronchitis.'
'Hm.' Using both thumbs he pushed back her eyelids. 'When did she die?'
'Three days ago.'
'You don't know what he was giving her?'
'No. Why?'
'Look at this.'
Barnaby peered at the yellow dead eyeballs. The pupils were the size of a 
pinhead. 'Struth. What do you think, then?'
'I think you should have a word with the coroner.'
'And ask for a PM?'
'Yes.' The two men exchanged a glance. 'You don't sound surprised.'
Barnaby realized he was not surprised. Perhaps Miss Bellringer's confidence had 
not been misplaced after all. He said, 'I'll let him know what's happened so 
far. Who do you think will do it?'
'Eynton I expect. Our chap's gone to Crete for a month.'
'All right for some.'
'Give me a call when the report comes back, would you? I'd be interested to 
hear what they find.'
It came back Thursday morning. Barnaby rang Doctor Bullard who turned up 
shortly before noon. He read the report. Barnaby watched his face with some 
amusement. It was, as they say, a picture. Bullard laid the report down.
'Hemlock?'
'Hemlock.'
The doctor shook his head. 'Well, it's certainly a collector's item.'
'It's out of the ark, George. The Medicis. Shakespeare. That Greek chap.'
'Socrates.'
'That's him. I mean these days it's usually Valium or Mogadon washed down with 
half a pint of vodka.'
'Or something handy from the garden shed.'
'Quite. If you're going to use coniine there must be far easier ways than 
boiling up a distillation of that stuff.'
'Oh I don't know,' the doctor demurred. 'It's not usually available over the 
counter. You can't just pop into Boot's and buy a boxful.'
'How does it work?'
'Gradual paralysis. Plato describes the death of Socrates very movingly. Feet, 
legs, everything gradually going cold. He took it very well. A real Stoic.'
'So whoever gave her the stuff - if someone gave her the stuff - had to sit 
there and watch her die.'
'That's about it. Poor old soul. Not a pretty thought.'
'Murder never is.'
Doctor Bullard scanned the report again. 'Apparently she hadn't eaten for some 
time. That would speed up the process. No seeds in the stomach, which would 
argue a distillation.'
'Yes. I rang Pathology about that just before you came. They say it's soluble 
in alcohol, ether or chloroform.'
'Not in water?'
'No.'
'That means, for it to look like a natural death, she must've drunk it?'
'I should say so,' agreed Barnaby. 'Anything else would have been too risky. 
Even an eighty-year-old lady can put up quite a struggle if someone's pushing a 
chloroformed pad over her face. Things might have got knocked about. Ornaments 
smashed. The dog would have kicked up a hell of a racket.'
'This explains the engorgement of the lungs.' Doctor Bullard tapped the paper. 
'A bit excessive even for a bronchitic. Of course we shouldn't be hard on old 
Lessiter. It'd be an unusual doctor who checked for symptoms of coniine 
poisoning in what looks like a perfectly straightfoward, if unexpected, death. 
All the same,' he grinned, 'I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall when you 
tell him.'


Chapter Four
'There's no need to drive as if you're auditioning for The Sweeney, Sergeant.'
'Sorry, sir.' Troy slowed down sulkily. What on earth was the point of being in 
the force with all the dreary forms and typing and gormless people endlessly 
asking you gormless questions if you couldn't occasionally put your foot down, 
start the siren and drive like the clappers. And he was still smarting after 
the criticism (totally unwarranted in his opinion) that had been dished out a 
couple of days ago. He knew the rules as well as anyone, but how many officers 
followed up and investigated every single piddling thing that came their way? 
Just his luck the old bag had dropped him in it. And now here they were running 
around in ever-decreasing circles just because some other old bag had snuffed 
it. The only pleasurable thing about the whole affair was that Detective Chief 
Inspector frigging Barnaby was going to come out looking an even bigger fool 
than when he went in. Happily ignorant of the contents of the post-mortem 
report, Troy turned into Church Lane and parked outside number thirteen.
Barnaby found Miss Bellringer chopping up fish in her untidy kitchen. 
Wellington sat on top of the fridge watching the knife rise and fall, his 
punchball face suffused with satisfaction.
'He won't eat tins,' said Miss Bellringer, reasonably enough. Then, 'I 
understand there's been a post mortem.'
Barnaby could not conceal a look of surprise. He had been brought up in a 
village not much larger than Badger's Drift and knew how efficient the 
grapevine could be, but he was impressed at the speed with which this item of 
news had been disseminated. Proceeding in the first instance, he supposed, from 
the undertakers. 'That's right. There's an inquest tomorrow. Would you be 
prepared to identify Miss Simpson?'
'But' - she turned pale, resting her knife on the board - 'why?'
'After a post mortem it's necessary.'
'But . . . can't you do that?'
'I'm afraid not. I didn't know her, you see.' He paused. 'I could ask Mr 
Rainbird.'
'No, don't do that. Horrible little wart.' An even longer pause. 'All right - 
if someone has to I'd rather it was me.' Wellington made a protesting 'mmr' and 
she started chopping again.
'Then the coroner will issue a certificate and your friend can be buried.'
'Thank God. Poor Emily.' She banged the plate down on the floor and opened a 
carton of cream. She poured some into a stone dish and set that down as well. 
'This cat's arteries must be well and truly furred up by now. Fur inside and 
out. Ha!' She gave Wellington an affectionate nudge with her boot. 'But he does 
love it so.'
'You said you had the key to Miss Simpson's cottage.'
'That's right. Do you want to look round?'
'Just briefly. There'll be a more thorough investigation tomorrow.'
'Ohh . . . does that mean . . . ?'
'I'm sorry. I can't really go into that at the moment.'
'Of course. You're quite right to chide, Chief Inspector.'
She pressed a finger to her lips. ' "Silent was the flock." Do you admire 
Keats?'
'If we could go as soon as possible?'
She took a Burberry cape from a hook behind the door and flapped her way into 
it. They made their way down to the front gate, Miss Bellringer kicking aside a 
supplicant cotoneaster. 'We used to have an excellent relationship, these 
plants and myself. I left them alone and they left me alone. Now everything's 
getting out of hand. Look at all that fluffy stuff. I thought a shrubbery was 
supposed to be ideal for people who didn't care for gardening.'
'They need an occasional cutting back,' advised the chief inspector, whose 
herbaceous borders were the envy of Arbury Crescent.
Sergeant Troy watched them cross the road - the tall man in the light grey 
summer jacket and trousers and the shabby ancient frolicking alongside looking 
like an old English sheepdog caught up in a canvas sack. Not, Troy thought, 
that clothes were anything to go by. He remembered his mum cleaning for old 
Lady Preddicott who always looked as if she dressed in Oxfam rejects. And he 
remembered wearing her grandson's castoffs: ludicrously expensive clothes from 
the White House and Harrod's when all he longed for was jeans and a Batman 
T-shirt.
Two children and a woman with a shopping trolley stopped opposite the car and 
stared at him. He leaned back, relaxed yet keen eyed, holding the steering 
wheel with a negligent hand. Riding shotgun. Then Barnaby turned and beckoned. 
Pink with annoyance Troy scrambled out of the Rover, checked the lock and 
hurried after the others.
Beehive Cottage was just a few yards further up the lane on the opposite side 
from Miss Bellringer's house. It was perfection. The sort of house that turns 
up on This England calendars and tourist posters. The exile's dream of home.
The house was neatly and imaginatively thatched, with a second roof, like a 
scalloped apron, over the first. The windows had leaded panes. A herringbone 
brick path crumbling with age and edged with lavender and santolina curved 
around to the back door. Here were hollyhocks and pinks, delphiniums, thyme and 
mignonette. An immaculate lawn stretched away from a flagstoned area. At the 
bottom of the lawn, half hidden by a huge viburnum bodnantense, were two 
beehives. Barnaby, after his first shock of pleasure, stood for a long moment 
in silent appreciation. The garden settled round him as gardens will. 
Indifferent and harmonious; consolingly beautiful.
'What a wonderful scent.' He approached a nearby rose bush.
'That was her favourite. Don't know what it's called.'
'It's a Papa Meilland.' Barnaby bent his head and inhaled the incomparable 
fragrance. Sergeant Troy studied the sky. Miss Bellringer produced a large iron 
key and opened the door. Telling Troy to stay where he was, Barnaby followed 
her into the house.
The first thing they saw when they entered the kitchen was a wooden shelf which 
held a sacking apron neatly folded, a clean trowel and a kneeling mat. Miss 
Bellringer turned quickly away into the centre of the room then cried: 'Phroo . 
. . what a ghastly smell.' She moved towards the sink.
Barnaby cried: 'Don't touch anything, please.'
'Oh.' She stood stock still like a child playing statues. 'Because of dabs, you 
mean?'
There was certainly an overpoweringly musty odour in the air. The chief 
inspector looked around. Everything was beautifully clean and tidy. There was a 
jam jar of parsley on top of the fridge. A vegetable rack holding a few 
potatoes, and a couple of apples in a cloisonne bowl.
'Have you been back here since the body was removed?'
She shook her head. 'I can't bear it without her.'
'Did you notice the smell before?'
'No. But my olfactory equipment isn't too lively. Emily was always grumbling 
about it. Urging me to sniff this or sniff that. Complete waste of time.'
'But you would have noticed, surely, if it had been as strong as this?'
'I suppose so.' She started to move unhappily about, frowning with distress. 
'Good grief.'
'What is it?'
'Here's the explanation. Who on earth could have brought it in?' She indicated 
the jar on the fridge. Barnaby approached and smelt it. The mousey odour made 
him want to sneeze.
He said: 'Isn't it parsley?'
'My dear man - it's hemlock.'
'What?'
'There's a fieldful of it down by the old railway lines.'
'It looks like parsley. Do you think your friend mistook -'
'Good heavens, no. Emily had a lovely little parsley patch. Next to the walnut 
tree. Grew three sorts. You can forget that idea. Anyway - it wasn't here the 
morning she died.'
'Are you sure?'
'Pretty sure, yes. I didn't go round taking an inventory, you understand.'
'And the cottage has been locked up since?'
'It has. And' - she anticipated his next question - 'I have the only spare key. 
The front door was kept bolted on the inside. It opens directly on to the lane. 
Emily never used it. Don't you realize what this means, Chief Inspector?' She 
seized his arm excitedly. 'We've found our first clue!'
'Is this the sitting room?' Barnaby moved away, ducking his head.
'Yes.' She followed him. 'There are just these two rooms downstairs.'
'Was this door open the morning she was found?'
'No. Closed.'
A grandfather clock ticked slumbrously in the corner. There was a small 
inglenook fireplace and beams decorated with brasses, a chintz-covered 
three-piece suite, a Queen Anne table and two diamond-paned cabinets full of 
plates and figurines. One wall was solidly packed with books.
The interior of the cottage was so precisely what the exterior led one to 
expect that Barnaby had the disturbing feeling that he had stepped on to a 
perfect period stage set. Surely any minute now a maid would enter, pick up the 
heavy black Bakelite telephone and say, 'I'm afraid her ladyship is not at 
home.' Or a cream-flannelled juvenile would ask if there was anyone for tennis. 
Alternatively there was the crusty old colonel: 'The body was lying just there, 
Inspector.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Just here.' Miss Bellringer was standing in front of the empty fireplace.
'Could you show me exactly?'
'Do m'best.' She frowned at the hearthrug then lay down, kicked aside the 
Burberry revealing a glimpse of eau-de-nil celanese knickers, and curved 
herself into a helpful comma. 'Her head was about here - is that all right?'
'Yes. Thank you.' To himself Barnaby cursed the delay. No pictures. The corpse 
tidied neatly away. The scent stone cold.
'Of course.' Miss Bellringer got up very slowly. 'Doctor Lessiter must have - 
oh thank you, Chief Inspector - must have moved her during the examination.' 
She watched Barnaby walk over to the cabinets and take a closer look. Some of 
the plates were exceptionally beautiful, gleaming with the touch of gold.
'Meissen in there' - Miss Bellringer nodded to the left - 'and the other's 
Coalport. Although there's a couple of pieces she brought home from France. We 
used to bicycle to the sales years ago. Picked up all sorts of snips.'
Between the cabinets a little piecrust table held the telephone and a stack of 
books. Palgrave's Golden Treasury, some Jacobean plays, The Adventurous 
Gardener and the Mermaid edition of Julius Caesar.
'She loved her Shakespeare. Shakespeare and the Bible. Food for the mind and 
comfort for the soul.' Julius Caesar lay open on top of the pile next to a 
magnifying glass. 'She adored the theatre too. We used to go a lot when she 
could still drive. Topping times they were. Absolutely topping.' She produced a 
large khaki and crimson silk handkerchief and blew her nose.
They went upstairs. Only one bedroom was furnished. A narrow, virginal bed, 
wallpaper sprigged with forget-me-nots, faded velvet curtains. All as sweet and 
innocent as a liberty bodice. The spare room was used for storage. There was a 
vacuum cleaner and a stack of boxes, also several carboys of home-made wine, 
some cloudy, some clear, one or two hiccuping quietly.
'She was planning to bottle the honeysuckle this weekend. It's a bit like a 
Sancerre, you know.'
They retreated down the narrow staircase and returned to the kitchen. Barnaby 
said, 'There must be a bottle open somewhere. She drank something alcoholic 
before she died.'
'You could try the cold larder.' Miss Bellringer indicated a blue door at the 
end of the kitchen adding, a second too late, 'Mind the step.'
He pitched forwards into semi-darkness. What light there was had a greenish 
tinge, being admitted through the leaves of a cherry laurel which was pressing 
against a largish window covered with wire mesh of the type used in an 
old-fashioned meat safe. It had a simple catch fastening which was broken. 
Barnaby took his handkerchief, seized the catch, pulled the window open and 
carefully closed it again. There was more than enough room for a reasonably 
slender person to climb in.
The larder had low stone shelves holding lots of bottles and jars. There was 
chutney and spiced apricots in tall jars and opaque whitish honey with flowered 
labels and last year's date. A large bowl of luscious scarlet strawberries. And 
jams and jellies: liquid fruit, dark and translucent. She salted runner beans 
too, just like his mother had. Close to the door was a half-empty bottle of 
wine. Elderflower 1979.
Barnaby opened the back door and beckoned Troy, saying, 'I need you to take a 
statement.' They re-entered the sitting room and sat down, Miss Bellringer 
looking slightly apprehensive and very serious.
'Now,' began Barnaby, 'I'd like you to -'
'Just a moment, Chief Inspector. You haven't said . . . you know . . . anything 
may be taken down and used in evidence . . . all that . . .'
'This is just a witness statement, Miss Bellringer. It's not necessary in this 
case, I assure you.'
That was the trouble with members of the public, thought Sergeant Troy. Watched 
a few so-called police dramas on the telly and thought they knew it all. 
Sitting out of his chief's line of vision, he allowed his lip a slight curl.
'If you could tell me what happened from when you first arrived.'
'I came into the kitchen -'
'Was the postman with you?'
'No. After he'd spoken to me he went off on his rounds. I opened the back door 
and hurried in here and found her where I showed you.'
'Did you touch the body at all?'
'Yes. I didn't move her but I . . . I held her hand for a moment.'
'And did you touch anything else?'
'Not then. Doctor Lessiter arrived and examined her . . . he moved her, of 
course. Then he rang the mortuary to ask for a car . . . well a van it was 
actually, to take her away. He explained about the death certificate and asked 
who would be handling the funeral arrangements. I said I would and while we 
were waiting for the van to arrive I'm afraid' - she blushed regretfully at 
Barnaby - 'I'm afraid I tidied up a bit.'
'What exactly did that involve?'
'There was a cup of cocoa on the telephone table. And an empty wine glass. 
Which struck me as a little odd.'
'Why was that?'
'Emily never drank alone. It was one of her foibles. I believe she thought it 
rather dissolute. But anyone could get her to bring a bottle out. The merest 
hint would suffice. She made wonderful wine. It was the only thing she was vain 
about . . .' She covered her face with her hands for a long moment then said, 
'I'm so sorry . . .'
'Don't worry. Just carry on when you're ready.' Of course if it was murder they 
were talking about there would be only one glass. The other would have been 
carefully washed and replaced in the cupboard.
'There was a milk pan in the kitchen,' continued Miss Bellringer. 'I washed 
everything up and put the things away. I knew how she'd feel, you see. Dirty 
pots and people coming into the living room. She was always most particular. I 
expect I've done the wrong thing.' Guilt made her sound aggressive. When 
Barnaby did not reply she carried on, 'Then I emptied the refrigerator. Some 
lamb and milk. A few bits and bobs. Half a tin of Benjy's food. Actually I gave 
him that. He hadn't had breakfast, you see.'
'Where is the dog now?'
'Trace's farm. You must have seen the place. End of the village - pale orange 
job. They've got half a dozen already so one more won't notice. I've been to 
see him a couple of times but I shan't go again. It's too upsetting. He just 
comes trotting out hoping it's Emily. She'd had him thirteen years.'
'Didn't you hear him bark? On the evening of her death?'
'No, but he was very good like that . . . for a Jack Russell. As long as he 
knew the people, of course. With strangers it was different.' She smiled at 
Barnaby, the significance of the last two remarks not registering. 'And he 
slept in the kitchen, so with the sitting-room door closed he'd simply think 
she'd gone to bed.'
'To return to Friday morning . . .'
'That's about it, really. Once the van had gone I switched off the electricity, 
took the dog lead from behind the kitchen door, locked up and off we went.'
'I see. I shall have to keep the key now, I'm afraid. I'll let you have a 
receipt in due course.'
'Oh.' He watched questions form in her mind and remain unasked. 'Very well.'
'You went straight to the farm then?' continued Barnaby. 'Not into the garden 
or shed at all?'
'Well . . . I had to tell the bees.'
'I'm sorry?'
'You have to tell the bees when someone dies. Especially if it's their owner. 
Otherwise they just clear off.'
Clear orf is right, observed Troy to himself. Clear orf her rocker. He flexed 
his fingers, deciding to omit this unlikely bit of potted folklore.
'Really?' said Barnaby.
'Goodness yes. Known fact. I struck the hive three times with the key, said 
"Your mistress had died", then left. Village people say you should tie 
something black around the hive as well but I didn't bother. They're a 
superstitious lot. Also I thought if I started messing about the bees might 
sting me.'
'Thank you. Sergeant Troy will read your statement back now and ask you to sign 
it.'
When this had been done Miss Bellringer rose, saying, rather wistfully, 'Is 
that all?'
'After lunch I'd like you to show me where the orchid was found.'
'Won't you have something to eat with me?' she asked, visibly perking up.
'No thank you. I shall get a snack in the Black Boy.'
'Oh, I shouldn't do that! Mrs Sweeney's food's notorious.'
Barnaby smiled. 'I expect I shall manage to survive.'
'Ahhh . . . I understand. You're in search of local colour. Background 
information.'
Using his handkerchief, Barnaby opened the door for her. As she turned to leave 
something caught her eye. 'That's funny.'
'What is it?'
'Emily's fork's missing. She always kept it on that shelf with her trowel and 
apron.'
'Probably in the garden.'
'Oh no. She was a creature of habit. Tools cleaned with newspaper and placed on 
her mat after use.'
'No doubt it will turn up.'
'Doesn't really matter now, does it?' She turned away. 'See you around two 
o'clock then?'
After she had left, Barnaby posted Sergeant Troy outside the front door and 
sank into the chintz sofa in the still, orderly room and listened to the 
ticking of the clock. He faced the two armchairs, their cushions now plump and 
smooth. In one of them had someone sat with a glass of wine, smiling, talking, 
reassuring? Killing?
There was little doubt in the chief inspector's mind. The hemlock in the 
kitchen was almost certainly a rather crude attempt to suggest that 
short-sighted Miss Simpson had picked a bunch in mistake for some parsley and 
so poisoned herself. A hurried afterthought once the news of the post mortem 
had travelled around the village.
He walked over to the piecrust table already covered in a thin film of dust and 
looked down at the books. The Shakespeare lay open on top of the pile. Julius 
Caesar, the noblest Roman of them all. Not to mention the most boring, thought 
Barnaby, remembering his struggles with the text over thirty years before. He 
had read no Shakespeare since, and a dutiful visit to an overly inventive 
production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in which Joyce had played Titania as an 
Edwardian suffragette, did nothing to make him regret the decision. He looked 
at the open pages, screwing up his eyes. He felt for his reading glasses, 
remembered they were in his other jacket and picked up the magnifying glass 
with his handkerchief.
Miss Simpson had almost reached the end of the play. Pindarus had brought the 
bad news to the battlefield. Barnaby read a few lines. None of it was in the 
slightest degree familiar. Then he saw something. A faint soft grey line in the 
margin. He took the book to the window and peered again. Someone had bracketed 
off three lines of a speech by Cassius. He read them aloud:This day I breathed 
first. Time is come round,
And where I did begin there shall I end;
My life is run his compass.


Chapter Five
All conversation ceased as Barnaby entered the Black Boy. Not that that was 
saying much. There was an old gaffer in the corner, only partly visible through 
drifts of noxious smoke; two youths with their feet on the bar rail; a girl 
playing the fruit machine. Mrs Sweeney, grey-haired and untypically 
flatchested, had an air of being at bay rather than at home behind the counter.
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby asked about food, refused one of Mrs 
Sweeney's home-made pies and settled for a ploughman's and a half of bitter. He 
was sure that curiosity as to the reason for his presence would soon produce 
some comment or other. However he was unprepared for the rapidity with which 
the nub of the matter was reached. He had hardly taken a sip of his beer 
(warmish and soapy) before one of the youths said, 'You're the fuzz 'ent you?'
Barnaby cut off a piece of cheese and made a movement of the head that could 
have meant anything.
Mrs Sweeney said, 'Is it about poor Miss Simpson?'
'Did you know the lady?' asked Barnaby.
'Ohhh . . . everyone knew Miss Simpson.'
The fumes in the corner cleared slightly and a rattlesnakish clatter could be 
heard. My God, thought Barnaby, the poor old chap must be on his last legs. 
Then he realized that the sound was caused by a collapsing wall of dominoes. 
'She used to teach me in English,' the old man stated.
'That's right, Jake, she did,' agreed Mrs Sweeney, adding, in a whispered aside 
to Barnaby, 'and he can't read nor write to this day.'
'She was well liked in the village then?'
'Oh yes. Not like some I could mention.'
'What d'you want to know about her for?' said one of the youths.
'Yeah,' the other chipped in. 'She been up to something?'
'We're just making a few inquiries.'
'Do you know what I reckon?' said the first one again. He wore a T-shirt 
reading 'Don't Drink and Drive You Might Get Caught'. Beneath it a wodge of 
fat, leprously white and hairy, hung over his commando belt. 'I reckon she was 
a godmother. Gorra vice ring going over there. Slipping it in the honey.' They 
both guffawed. The girl tittered.
'That's not funny, Keith,' Mrs Sweeney said angrily. 'If that's the best you 
can find to say you can go and drink somewhere else.'
Barnaby listened for another half hour as more people came and went, but the 
verdict on Miss Simpson didn't change much. Very kind. Patient with the 
children. Ever so generous if there was a stall. Jam. Honey. Jars of fruit. Did 
lovely flowers for the church. That poor Miss Bellringer. Whatever will she do 
now? And what about Benjy? They pine, you know. And he's getting on. She'll be 
greatly missed. Sadly missed.
Even when it was shorn of the eulogistic flavour deemed obligatory in all 
statements about the recently dead, Barnaby was still left with the picture of 
a singularly nice human being. Mrs Sweeney's final remark seemed to sum it up 
neatly.
'Not an enemy in the world.'
The air was green and fresh as they entered the wood, yet within minutes 
Barnaby felt a change. As the trees closed tightly over their heads the 
ripeness of the vegetation all around and underfoot assailed his nostrils with 
a rich and rotten scent.
Miss Bellringer was leading the way. She was carrying a shooting stick and 
keeping close to the chief inspector, as he had requested.
'It was just over there I think, by those hellebores. Yes - there it is.'
'Wait.' Barnaby took her arm. 'If you could stay here, please. The less 
trampling about the better.'
'I understand.' She sounded disappointed but stayed obediently where she was, 
opening her shooting stick and perching on the canvas strap. She called, 'More 
to the left' and 'Getting warmer' and 'Hotsy totsy' as he walked carefully 
around the patch of little green flowers. Then, when she saw him bob down, 
'Perfect isn't it?'
Barnaby studied the orchid and the little stick with the red ribbon. Inanimate, 
the marker still seemed more alive than the ash-pale plant. There was something 
very touching about the neatly tied bow. He got up and looked round. As far as 
he could see the leaf mould in the immediate area, although scuffed about, 
probably by rabbits and other small creatures, revealed no more serious 
disturbance.
To the left of him was a tightly latticed screen of branches. Treading 
carefully, he looked at the ground. There were two quite deep indentations 
indicating that someone had been standing there for some considerable time. He 
noted where the broader part of the shoe had pressed, stood parallel and looked 
through the branches.
He was facing a hollow. Quite a large piece of the ground was flattened: 
bluebell leaves and bracken bent backwards and crushed. He walked around the 
screen and approached the rim of the hollow, where he crouched and studied the 
ground more closely, being careful not to step on the squashed area, which was 
quite extensive. Someone or something had certainly been threshing about a bit. 
On his way back to Miss Bellringer he saw on the ground an impression not 
clearly defined enough to be called an outline, as if a log or something heavy 
had briefly lain there.
'Thank you for showing me.' It was good to break out of the oppressive crowding 
trees into an open field. Lapwings wheeled overhead in a sky full of light and 
sun. 'Would you like to be taken to the inquest, Miss Bellringer?'
'Oh no. We have an excellent village taxi. I shall be quite all right.'
As they approached Beehive Cottage they saw that Sergeant Troy, watching 
watchfully, was now surrounded by a small but appreciative audience. Barnaby 
bade Miss Bellringer goodbye and crossed the road. He was immediately accosted 
by the youngest of the group.
'Woss he doing standing around like a wally?'
'Is he the police?'
'You're the police aren't you?'
'Why ain't he got a uniform on?'
'Now, son.' The words were chopped off individually through Troy's gritted 
teeth. 'Why don't you just move along? There's nothing to see here.' The 
suggestion sounded stale and had a mechanical ring. The group stayed put.
'I'll send someone to relieve you, Troy.'
'I'm off duty in half an hour.'
'You were, Sergeant, you were. Someone should be here by five.' A teenage girl 
with a toddler and a baby in a push-chair joined the group. Barnaby grinned. 
'You should have a full house by then.'
The proceedings at the coroner's court the following day took no time at all. 
The remains of Emily Simpson had been identified, a short time previously, by 
her friend Lucy Bellringer, and were released for burial. The pathologist's 
report was read and the inquest adjourned to a later date pending further 
police inquiries.
PART TWO
INVESTIGATION


Chapter One
Barbara Lessiter approached the cheval-glass in the corner of her bedroom. She 
had switched off all the lights with one exception, the ivory figurine by her 
bed. The light from this filtered through an apricot shade, casting a warm glow 
over her shimmering nightdress and brown, solarium-toasted skin. Little peaks 
of strawberry-scented mousse-like cream trembled on the tips of her fingers. 
She started to stroke her throat from the hollow at the base to the point of 
her chin, rhythmically, closing her eyes and smiling. Then, using both hands 
and more mousse she tapped all over her face. Oil for her eyes came last. 
French, forty-five pounds a pot, and it went nowhere.
She loved this ritual. Even as a young girl, years before it had been 
necessary, she had massaged and patted and knuckled and stroked with voluptuous 
satisfaction. It was hardly necessary even now, she told herself, secure in the 
light from the shaded lamp.
After she had finished her face she brushed her hair: fifty strokes from the 
crown to the tip. Glowing reddish-brown hair as rich and glossy as henna and 
egg yolks and conditioners could make it. She tossed her head back and smiled.
The movement caused a strap to slip from her shoulder. She came closer to the 
glass, touched her naked breast, touched the tiny purplish red bruises and 
smiled again, a smile of greedy reminiscence. Then she stood very still, 
listening.
Someone was approaching her door. She held her breath. There was a knock. It 
sounded tentative, almost apologetic. She waited, covering up her bare skin as 
if the door had been transparent. After a minute or two the slippered footsteps 
moved away. She breathed out, a long sated exhalation. She must let him in next 
time. It had been simply ages. And he'd been very good, considering. But God - 
what a contrast it would be . . .
She'd been born Barbara Wheeler in Uxbridge 'some time in the late fifties', 
she told people with coy deceit. Her father was a ganger on the railway, her 
mother a household drudge. They had five other children. Only Barbara was 
beautiful. They were packed into a terraced house flush to the pavement, with a 
concrete back yard. She shared a bedroom with two sisters, now household 
drudges themselves, defending her space and belongings with tigerish 
possessiveness. She had scorned their cheap clothes and cosmetics, holding her 
nose when they sprayed on their Californian Poppy from Woolworth's. She started 
stealing at fifteen - creams, perfumes and lotions, peeling off the price 
labels, knowing that no one at home would ever have heard of the brands.
After her sisters had been consumed into the local sweet factory she got a job 
as a filing clerk in a solicitor's office and, it seemed to her, a precarious 
toehold on the slippery slope that would lead her out of a slummish and ugly 
environment into the glossy perfection of middle-class life. A world where you 
didn't have to go to a park filled with screaming kids and snapping dogs to 
enjoy grass and trees but had them actually belonging to you, in your own 
garden. Where people washed their clothes before they looked dirty and men 
shook hands when they met whilst women brushed powdered cheek against powdered 
cheek in easy, meaningless display.
Barbara was not especially intelligent but she was shrewd and worked hard and 
quietly, keeping her mouth shut and her eyes alert. She started to take clothes 
from one of the larger department stores in Slough - choosing, as nearly as she 
could, styles resembling those worn by the elder partner's young married 
daughter. This stage of affairs continued until she was almost eighteen. She 
was still a virgin, partially because she'd never met anyone she fancied enough 
but mostly because she had some vague extravagant idea that to be able to offer 
virginity to a serious suitor might cancel out the debit of her shabby 
beginnings. She never mentioned them of course, but was constantly nervous in 
case the easy, upper-class patronage that she encountered in the office would 
somehow flush them to the surface.
Alan Cater, newly articled to the firm, started work there on her eighteenth 
birthday. He was tall, fair, had sharp blue eyes and smoked slim brown cigars. 
He had a red Cobra sports car and a watch that was the slimmest wafer of gold. 
He smiled a lot, especially at Barbara. He touched her too, only casually, 
nothing you could take offence at: a hand on her shoulder, an arm around her 
waist at the filing cabinet. She was rather shocked at the surge of pleasurable 
excitement she felt when he did this but said nothing, not realizing that her 
quickened breath and flushed skin gave her away.
One evening in midsummer he was late leaving the office. He was playing tennis 
straight from work and had gone into the cloakroom to change. Barbara never 
left before he did. She had graduated to dicta-typing, taking lessons in the 
evening, and was covering her machine when he came out in brief shorts and a 
white Aertex shirt. Everyone else had gone. He had stood looking at her for a 
long moment, first at her face, then everywhere else. Then he locked the door 
and told her he had been longing for this moment. Barbara had felt sick with 
excitement. He stood very close to her, said, 'Shall I show you what you do to 
me?' and guided her hand. As he opened her blouse, in the moments before she 
was completely swept away, Barbara saw them framed in the doorway of an old 
country church, herself in white of course, Alan in morning suit. There would 
be champagne afterwards and a three-tier cake, with some kept back for the 
christening.
'You're a lovely girl, darling.' He unhooked her bra. 'Come on - what's the 
matter? You're not going to pretend you're surprised?'
'My legs seem to be giving way . . .'
'That's soon solved. There's a settee in old Rupert's office. And a mirror.'
They walked there, arms entwined, leaving her blouse and brassiere on the 
typewriter. They lay on the settee facing the mirror and a net-curtained window 
looking on to the street. When she was quite naked Alan threatened to pull the 
nets back. This, which should have alarmed her, made her even more excited. He 
seemed to know exactly what he was doing. It hardly hurt at all, not like 
people said it did, it just seemed to be over so quickly. She wanted more and 
he gave her more. After an hour someone knocked at the outer door and he 
smiled, touching her lips with his finger. She was sitting straddled across his 
knees and saw a girl in a white tennis dress, her long hair tied back with a 
scarf, walk past the window. It was nearly nine o'clock when they finally left.
After this they met often, usually quite late in the evening, Alan explaining 
that he had to catch up with his studies first. He would drive out into the 
green belt and find a secluded spot or, if the weather was bad, they would use 
his car. She never took him to her tiny bedsitter and had already told him (to 
save awkward questions at invitation time) that she was an orphan. On the 
evenings they didn't meet she was restless, consumed with longing. He treated 
her very professionally in the office, occasionally winking at her when the 
coast was clear. Once, when they had been briefly alone, he had stood behind 
her chair and slipped his hand down her shirt.
Halfway through the winter she discovered she was pregnant. She had felt 
slightly anxious when telling him, as if it had been all her fault. She ended 
her confession by asking what his parents would say. He had looked 
disbelieving, incredulous and then amused for a moment, then given her a casual 
hug before saying, 'Don't worry. We'll sort something out.'
At the end of the week Rupert Winstanley had called her into his office and 
given her the address of a private clinic in Saint John's Wood and a cheque for 
a hundred and fifty pounds. She had never seen any of them again.
She had had the abortion, being too distressed and lonely to work out an 
alternative. She wouldn't now, of course. She'd drain the buggers dry. If she 
couldn't get their respect or admiration or love she'd make bloody sure she got 
their money.
She'd been home from the clinic about a month and working as a shelf filler at 
Sainsbury's when someone knocked at her door late one night. She opened it a 
crack. A man stood there smelling faintly of cologne and, more strongly, of 
beer. He wore a blazer with a badge, striped tie and grey flannels. He said, 
'Hu . . . l . . . l . . o . . .' and eyed her up and down.
'What do you want?'
'I'm a friend of Alan's, actually. He thought we might . . . you know . . . get 
on . . .'
She slammed the door. Rage and pain and disgust boiled up in her. She stood 
very still as if moving might wound. The bastard! The pain ebbed away; the 
disgust rushed down the conduit of memory, redirected at Alan and his kind. 
Only the rage remained. She listened. No footsteps. He must be still there. She 
reopened the door. He gave her a sloppy smile.
She said, 'It'll cost you.' She watched the beery complacency slip a bit, and 
thought, so wrap that in your old school tie and stuff it.
'Oh . . . um . . . all right . . .' He made as if to step into the room. She 
put her foot in the gap. 'How much have you got?'
He fumbled with his wallet, pulling out notes, a driving licence, a child's 
photograph. 'Fifty pounds . . .'
Nearly a month's wages. She opened the door wide. 'You'd better come in then, 
hadn't you?'
And so it had gone. Recommendations. A friend of a friend. She'd never actually 
been without anyone. On the other hand she'd never really felt secure. The rent 
was always paid. She'd had some presents. Some very nice presents. A wolf coat 
from Harrod's, a vast colour telly, a holiday in Portofino when the man's wife 
was having a hysterectomy. But no security. No financial security, that is. 
Emotional security she had. None of them touched her. She would look down at 
them, as if from some high vantage point, huffing and puffing like saggy, 
impotent sea lions, and despise them all. She would never again let herself 
feel that sweeping golden rush of pleasure that had carried her so completely 
from the shores of sanity in the offices of Winstanley, Dennison and Winstanley 
over twenty years before. She couldn't even remember Alan's second name let 
alone his face.
And then she had met Trevor Lessiter. She had bumped into him, literally, in 
the food department at Marks and Spencers. Turning a corner in one of the 
aisles too sharply, their trolleys had locked antler-like in a metal clinch. 
She had immediately flashed him a radiant professional smile. He had been 
bowled over by the radiance and had quite missed the professionalism.
He was a funny little man with a round head, pepper and salt hair and a woolly 
scarf although it was quite a warm day. Expensive clothes, she thought, running 
a knowledgeable eye over his appearance, boringly old fashioned of course. The 
sort of man who carries his change in a purse. They pushed their trolleys round 
together. His was already over half full.
'Your wife must have given you a very long list.'
'No . . . that is . . .' he stammered, looking at her quickly then back to the 
shelves. 'It's my daughter's list . . . I'm a widower.'
With hardly a break in her step she said, 'Oh - how thoughtless . . . I just 
didn't . . .' She stopped walking then and looked straight at him. 'I'm so very 
sorry.'
They went for tea at a cafe over the Odeon. Barbara excused herself as soon as 
they were settled and retired to the Ladies' where she removed one set of false 
eyelashes and half her lipstick, and put on some more scent. They met for tea 
again, then dinner at a hotel on the bank of the Thames at Marlow. They drove 
down in his beautiful old Jaguar. The doors clunked when they closed and it had 
real leather seats. At the hotel there were candles in glasses and flowers 
floating in glass bowls. She was used to dining in out-of-the-way places, but 
not with men who didn't keep looking over their shoulders. He told her about 
his wife's accident and about his daughter. He said, 'I'd like you to meet her.'
This took some time to arrange. Weekends came and went and Judy always appeared 
to have something on. However eventually, at her father's insistence, a Sunday 
afternoon was set aside. Barbara dressed very carefully: a soft paisley dress 
and a light tweed coat. Hardly any makeup: just blusher, bronzer, soft lipstick 
and a light brown eye pencil.
The village was nearly thirty miles from Slough (thank God, she thought) and as 
they drove along she kept saying prettily, and only half falsely, 'I do hope 
she'll like me.'
And he, obtuse and self-deluding, said, 'Of course she'll like you. Why on 
earth shouldn't she?'
When he turned the car into the drive she thought at first that there must be 
some mistake. That he was calling on a wealthy patient or dropping in on some 
friends before taking her home. Lawns swept each side of the drive. There were 
trees and shrubs and flowerbeds. The house was a large Victorian villa with a 
turret and gables and (she discovered later) seven bedrooms. She felt cold as 
she got out of the car. Cold with longing and hope and fear.
She said, 'This reminds me of my father's house.'
'Oh. Where was that, dear?' She had never before mentioned her family.
'In Scotland. It went, I'm afraid, like everything else.' She looked up at the 
many windows and gave a heavy sigh, pulsating with remembrance and loss. 'He 
was a terrible gambler.'
'I hope you'll -' He checked himself. Barbara knew what he'd been going to say 
and cursed the unseen girl in the house. She had never got on well with women, 
never had a close woman friend. Well - she'd just have to play it as it came.
It came as an absolute disaster. The daughter had sat, lumpen and disapproving 
(that was my mother's favourite chair), dispensing tea and heavy damp wodges of 
home-made cake. Barbara tried to make conversation, the daughter either didn't 
reply or spoke only of times gone by when Mummy did this or Mummy did that or 
we all went . . .
Meanwhile Barbara looked around at the chintz-covered puffy sofas (two) and 
armchairs (five). At the bowls of flowers and washed Chinese rugs and beautiful 
mirrors and ornaments. And through the french windows a flagged terrace with 
urns of brilliant flowers leading to the shaven, incandescently green lawn, and 
prayed for the first time in years: Oh God - please make him ask me. She 
realized she was gripping the handle of her delicate cup with unnatural force 
and set it down very carefully.
Driving back in the car, he had said, 'She'll come round.' She wouldn't of 
course, thought Barbara. That sort never did. Frigid little bitch. With that 
granular complexion and a bum that nearly touched the ground. A born spinster. 
She'd be there looking after Daddy when she was ninety, never mind nineteen.
'Oh - do you think so, Trevor? I was so looking forward to meeting her.' Her 
voice shook a little. As he parked outside her flat she said, 'Would you mind 
coming in for a moment? I feel a bit down.' It was the first time she had 
issued such an invitation. He bounded eagerly out of the car and up the steps.
The flat was in Mancetta Road over a newsagent's in the centre of the town. She 
didn't offer him anything to drink, just flung her coat over a chair and 
slumped on the mock ocelot sofa, burying her face in her hands. Immediately he 
was beside her.
'Don't be upset.' He put a lumpy tweed arm around her shoulders. She turned to 
him, childlike in her sorrow.
'I wanted her so much to like me. I pictured us talking about clothes and 
makeup and things . . . I thought I could look after her . . . after both of 
you . . . I suppose you think that's silly?'
'Darling, of course not.' He suddenly became very conscious of the heaviness of 
her breasts, pressing into his shirt front. And the scent of her hair. He 
raised her chin and was touched to see tears in her eyes. He kissed her. For a 
moment her mouth parted eagerly under his, he even felt the tip of her tongue, 
then she gasped and pushed him away. She got up and crossed the room, turning 
to face him. She was panting.
'What must you think? Oh - Trevor. I don't know what it is . . . you're in my 
thoughts all the time . . . I should never have asked you up here.'
Then she was in his arms again. For a moment she let her whole body relax and 
press against his, noting that at least he was going to be able to do it when 
the time came. Another long kiss. His hand moved. She allowed herself one 
little cry of excitement before breaking away. 'What do you think you're -'
'Barbara . . . I'm sorry -'
'What sort of woman do you think I am?'
'Forgive me, darling . . . please . . .'
'Just because I love you - yes I admit it! I love you. Oh Trevor' - she started 
to cry again - 'you must go. It's all so hopeless.'
He went and was back again the next day. And the next. For three weeks he 
visited, agonized, tumefied, was refused entry, subsided, begged, pleaded, 
squirmed and writhed. The day he cracked, Barbara had been feeling so unhappy 
that she had not even bothered to dress and was sitting by the gas fire wearing 
an edge-to-edge peignoir.
They were married on the morning of 30 June 1982. The night before the wedding 
he stayed in the flat, experiencing transports of delight which he was to 
remember, with an increasing degree of resentful yearning, for the rest of his 
life. Then they drove off to Badger's Drift to break the news to Judy.
And now - Barbara let the strap slip and studied the bite again - she was 
putting it all at risk. A mixture of frustration and boredom had led her to 
take a lover. And what a lover. Only a few hours since they had parted, and she 
already wanted him again. For the second time she had slipped out along the 
golden stream. Her body felt things she hadn't allowed it to feel for years. 
She had been very, very careful, but for how long could the affair stay 
concealed? Yet she couldn't stop. He was as necessary to her now as breathing. 
She got into bed and lay for a moment experiencing again in memory the 
rhythmical movements of love, then slid into a deep and dreamless sleep.


Chapter Two
The cordoning of Miss Simpson's cottage caused more interest than a whole 
platoon of Sergeant Troys. Half the village seemed to be out, ignoring the 
patently untruthful statement from an attendant constable that there was 
nothing to see.
The scene-of-crime men worked deftly and methodically through the whole house. 
Barnaby wandered about, went into the garden. The bereaved bees thrummed in 
their hive. He noticed without surprise that any unplanted ground was already 
full of weeds. He returned to the back door and the sweet scented arch of the 
Kiftsgate rose.
'We found this under some laurels near the larder window, sir.' Barnaby was 
shown a garden fork already labelled and in its polythene bag. 'Probably been 
used to fork over any prints. Somebody's certainly been out that way.'
By lunchtime the men had finished. A car left, taking information obtained to 
the forensic laboratories, the cordons were removed and the team repaired to 
the Black Boy for beer and sandwiches. Half an hour later they drove out of the 
village to the beechwood. Most of the crowd had by then given up, but Barnaby 
heard a woman on the pub forecourt say, 'Run home, Robbie, and tell your mam 
they're going down the lane.' A small boy shot off and, shortly after they had 
parked on a layby near the beechwood, another interested group had arrived.
In the woods the cordons enclosed a very large area. The scene-of-crime 
officers plotted it out, taking sections at a time for a fingertip search. 
Barnaby described his own movements and those of Miss Bellringer. The watchers 
pressed eagerly against the ropes, craning their necks. A man ducked 
underneath, saying, 'It's a free country, you know - we're not in Russia yet,' 
and was ordered back. A large woman with a golden retriever called: 'I'm sure 
Henry could help.'
Barnaby watched and kept out of the way. He realized he was becoming impatient. 
These things could not be hurried, but so much time was going by. Another day 
for the reports to come through. He had the feeling that everything was turning 
to dust in his hands before he'd even started. He beckoned to Sergeant Troy and 
hurried back to the car.
In fact it took less than twenty-four hours. Forensic never closed (except on 
bank holidays) and Barnaby had the scene-of-crime reports in his hands before 
lunchtime the following day. He read them through carefully and now sat facing 
a row of alert faces in one of the station's interview rooms.
'What we're trying to discover' - he swallowed his first tablet of the day with 
the remains of his coffee - 'is the whereabouts of all the inhabitants of the 
village, including any children who were not at school on the afternoon of the 
seventeenth, and also for that same evening - all right? There's a stack of 
pro-formas on the table over there. Allocation of addresses on the board 
outside.'
'At what point do we assume the afternoon to end, sir?' asked Sergeant Troy, 
who had already forgotten his earlier animadversions and was anxious to shine. 
'Did anyone see her come back from the woods for instance?'
Barnaby looked at his sergeant. He had been quite aware of the man's previous 
unspoken scepticism and wondered at the ease with which attitudes and beliefs 
which proved inconvenient were sloughed as naturally as a snake's skin. He knew 
nothing of Troy's private life but suspected that relationships might be 
handled with the same insouciance.
'Well of course that would be very handy, but life is rarely so obliging. I 
think it would be best at this stage if you take the time in one block, from 
two p.m. to midnight. We know that Miss Simpson was alive at eight o'clock 
because she made a telephone call.'
'This person or people that she's supposed to have seen,' asked a young 
policewoman, 'how do we know they're from the village at all?'
'We don't for sure, but it was certainly someone she knew, and no car parked on 
the verges anywhere near the field which leads to the woods. And the only other 
place to park, the layby in Church Lane, is clearly visible from the last 
house. The owner was in his garden most of the afternoon and is quite convinced 
he saw no car. This means whoever it was walked there.'
'So we're looking for someone who doesn't have an alibi for part of the 
afternoon and some of the evening?'
'Probably. I'm inclined to believe a couple are involved. The report shows that 
a rug, a Black Watch tartan, had been laid on the ground.' He watched Troy give 
Policewoman Brierley a lewd wink and a nudge so sharp that she dropped her 
pencil. 'Also other bracken and plants outside the actual area where the rug 
was placed show signs of bruising which seems to indicate that it may be a 
favourite spot. One that the couple have used several times before.'
'Seems a bit incredible, sir.' Troy again. 'I mean that she could have been 
killed because she saw someone having it -' He cleared his throat. 'A bit old 
fashioned. We're in 1987 after all. Who expects fidelity these days?'
Barnaby, who had never been unfaithful in his life, said, 'You'd be surprised. 
People can still be divorced for adultery. Disinherited. Relationships can be 
ruined. Trust destroyed.' There were a lot of blank looks and one or two 
understanding nods. He got up. 'On your way then.'
'Handy they were seen in the afternoon, sir. So many people at work then, it'll 
make elimination easier.'
'We don't know when they were seen. It could have been seven o'clock. It's 
still light then.'
'Oh.' Troy drove carefully, keeping an eye on the speedometer. 'They could've 
walked over from Gessler Tye. It's not all that far. Get off their own manor.'
'Yes. We may have to spread out a bit.'
'Course even if it was a couple it doesn't mean they're both in it.'
That thought had already occurred to Barnaby. It was more than likely that one 
half of the couple was fancy free, with nothing to lose by discovery. It was 
also likely that, even if both had partners, only one had so much to lose that 
he or she would be prepared to kill rather than have the liaison exposed. And 
the loss need not necessarily be a financial one. Barnaby did not discount the 
possibility that Miss Simpson had been killed to avoid causing anguish to 
someone's legitimate partner. It was after all quite possible to love one's 
spouse dearly and still not be able to resist a roll in the hay. They entered 
Badger's Drift, passing two police cars already parked by the Black Boy. The 
house-to-house was under way.
Barnaby said, 'I shall be starting at the Lessiters'. That big house with the 
lions.'
Sergeant Troy gave a low envious whistle as he crunched up the drive and let 
himself go a bit by the front door, parking in a showy swirl of dust and 
gravel. Barnaby sighed and climbed out. He used the mock ancient knocker and, 
whilst waiting, studied the carriage lamps and a board, with an arrow pointing 
sideways, giving the doctor's surgery hours in Gothic, horror-movie script.
Barnaby was getting to know the surgery rather well. He had visited it again 
the previous day to inform the doctor of the post-mortem findings. The news had 
not been well received. Trevor Lessiter had looked at him incredulously, 
saying, much as George Bullard had done, 'Hemlock?' and dropped like a stone 
into his chair. He then so far forgot himself as to indicate to Barnaby that he 
should also be seated. Even his fingers were temporarily stilled.
'And what put you on to that if I'm not being too inquisitive?' Already he was 
on the defensive.
'We were asked to look into the matter.'
'Who by? That loopy old hag down the lane, I shouldn't wonder.' He noticed 
Barnaby's slight change of expression and made a visible effort to calm down. 
'It would have been courteous of you to let me know.'
'We are letting you know, sir.'
'I mean before this, as I'm sure you damn well realize.'
Approaching footsteps recalled Barnaby to the present. A girl opened the door. 
Remembering Doctor Bullard's description of a 'not so scrumptious' daughter, 
Barnaby immediately assumed that this must be she: short, not much over five 
feet, and dumpy. Her complexion had a thick, soupy texture and there was a fuzz 
of down on her top lip, her hair was coarse but full of vitality, springing up 
into a wiry halo around her head. She had large, rather beautiful hazel eyes 
which she blinked rapidly from time to time. This habit gave her a timorous yet 
slightly defiant demeanour: the sort of girl who made a career out of being 
insecure.
Barnaby stated their business and was admitted. He followed Judy Lessiter 
across the hall. Her legs, emerging from a shapeless pinafore dress, were 
really remarkable: hugely wide at the knees then tapering off into sparrow-thin 
ankles, like upended skittles. She pushed at the sitting-room door and went in, 
Barnaby close behind.
Doctor Lessiter looked up, then flung his Telegraph down with some annoyance. 
'Good grief - I thought I'd seen the last of you lot.'
'Yes. I'm sorry, but this sort of inquiry is quite usual -'
'Turning the whole village upside down.'
'In the case of an unexplained death -'
'The woman picked some hemlock by mistake. There's a large field of it just 
beyond Church Lane. The seeds blow everywhere. Obviously some went into the 
garden and took root. I've never known such a palaver.'
'We are asking everyone in the village to account for their movements on the 
day in question. That is last Friday the seventeenth of July, afternoon and 
evening.'
The doctor gave an irritated little snort, threw his paper down and stood with 
his back to them, staring into the fireplace. 'Well . . . if we must. On my 
rounds in the afternoons . . . then in the even--'
'Your rounds are Tuesday and Thursday, Daddy.' Judy's tone was calm and 
reasonable but Barnaby thought he detected a rather unpleasant smile plucking 
the corners of her mouth.
'What? Oh . . . yes . . . sorry.' He picked up a magazine from the log basket 
and started to flick through it, illustrating his lack of concern. 'I was here, 
of course. Bit of gardening but mainly watching the final Test. What a game 
that was . . . superb bowling . . .'
'And the evening?'
'Still there, I'm afraid. A dull day really.'
'And your wife was with you on both of these occasions?'
'Part of the evening. She was shopping in the afternoon.'
'Thank you. Miss Lessiter?'
'I was working during the day. I'm a librarian. At Pinner.'
'And in the evening?'
'. . . here . . .'
Both policemen noticed the rather theatrical start of surprise the doctor gave 
at this remark, as no doubt they were meant to. Tit for tat, thought Barnaby.
'Well . . .' she elaborated, 'I did go out for a bit of a walk . . . it was 
such lovely weather.'
'Do you remember what time that was?'
'Sorry, no. I wasn't out long.'
'Where did you go?'
'Just down Church Lane, past the fields for about half a mile, then back.'
'Did you meet anyone?'
'No.'
'Did you hear or notice anything out of the ordinary when you were passing 
Beehive Cottage?'
'No . . . I think the curtains were closed.'
'And what time did you return?'
She gave a couldn't-care-less shrug.
'Can you be of any help here, Doctor Lessiter?' asked Barnaby.
'No.' The doctor had returned to the settee and reimmersed himself in his 
newspaper. Barnaby was just about to ask if he could see Mrs Lessiter when she 
appeared in the doorway behind him. He was made aware of this by a sudden 
change in the atmosphere. The doctor, after a glance over Barnaby's shoulder, 
started reading his paper with a degree of intensity which could only be 
feigned, Judy glowered at no one in particular and the blood heated up and 
zipped around under Sergeant Troy's almost transparent skin, staining it an 
unbecoming bright pink.
'I thought I heard voices.'
She dropped into the armchair by the window, put her feet up on a tiny 
footstool and smiled at the two policemen. She could have stepped straight out 
of one of his centrefolds, Troy thought, eyeing the ripe curves pressing 
against a terry-towelling jump suit, the tumbling hair and glossy fondant lips. 
Her slender tanned feet were in high-heeled golden sandals. Barnaby thought she 
was not as young as all that hard work and hard cash would have you believe. 
Not early thirties but mid, maybe even late forties.
In reply to his question she said that in the afternoon she had been in Causton 
shopping and in the evening she was at home except for a short period when she 
had gone out for a drive.
'Was that for any special purpose?'
'No . . . well . . . to be honest we'd had a little tiff, hadn't we, Pookie?'
'I hardly think our domestic squabbles are of any interest to the police, my 
dear -'
'I overspent my dress allowance and he got cross so I took the Jaguar and drove 
around for a bit till I thought he'd've cooled down. Then I came home.'
'And this was?'
'Was Miss Lessiter here when you returned?'
'Judy?' She frowned at the girl in an impersonal way, as if wondering what she 
was doing in the place at all. 'I've no idea. She spends a lot of time in her 
room. Adolescents do, you know.'
Barnaby could not think of the figure now lumpily taking up half a settee as an 
adolescent. The word implied not just a lack of confidence, ungainliness and a 
personality in a state of flux but fragility (if only of the ego) and youth. 
Judy Lessiter looked as if she had been born middle aged.
'You didn't stop anywhere, Mrs Lessiter? For a drink perhaps?'
'No.'
'Well, thank you.' As Barnaby rose he heard the flap of the letter box. Judy 
heaved herself up from the sofa and lolloped out of the room. Her stepmother 
glanced at Barnaby.
'She's in love. Every time the post arrives or the phone rings we get a touch 
of drama.' Her shiny unkind smile included all three men. It said: isn't she 
ridiculous? As if anyone would. 'A dreadful man too, but devastatingly 
attractive, which makes things worse.'
Trevor Lessiter's knuckles whitened over the newsprint. Judy returned with a 
handful of letters. She threw one into Barbara's lap and dropped the rest down 
the inside of the Daily Telegraph chute. Her father clicked his tongue with 
annoyance.
When they left the house Barnaby stopped to admire a spectacular Madame le 
Coultre clematis climbing up the portico. Before he walked on he looked back 
through the window of the room they had just left. Barbara Lessiter, standing 
now, was staring out unseeingly into the garden. Her face was a mask of fear. 
As Barnaby watched she crumpled a letter into a tight ball and thrust it into 
the pocket of her suit.
'What's the matter, Stepmamma?'
'Nothing.' Barbara moved back to the armchair. She was longing for some strong 
black coffee. Everything was on a low table in front of the sofa. But she 
wouldn't trust her shaking hands.
'You're white as the proverbial sheet under all that plaster of Paris.' Judy 
stared at the older woman. 'You're not pregnant are you?'
'Of course not.'
'Of course not,' echoed Judy. 'You're well past it, aren't you?'
'Have you got a cigarette, Trevor?'
Her husband, not looking up from his paper, replied, 'There's some in a box on 
my writing desk.'
Barbara took one, tapping it so furiously on the lid it almost snapped. She lit 
it with a silver football and stood smoking at the window, her back to them. 
The silence, packed with unspoken animosities, lengthened.
Judy Lessiter directed her burning gaze at her father's paper shield. She would 
have liked to burn straight through it like a magnified ray from the sun. To 
see it brown and blacken and flake away, leaving a hole for his stupid 
astonished face to peer through.
It was now five years since that shattering day when they had both turned up on 
the doorstep with matching gold bands. He had been away from home the night 
before, telling her he was at the bedside of a dying patient. She had been 
unable to forgive him for this lie which she felt was utterly despicable. She 
wasn't even sure if she still loved him. Certainly her pleasure in observing 
his day-to-day discomfiture augured strongly against it.
From the very first she had resisted strongly Barbara's rather half-hearted 
suggestions about clothes and makeup and alterations to her room. She liked her 
room the way it had always been - old toys, patchwork quilt, school books and 
all - and found Barbara's suggestions on how to make it more feminine (ruffled 
curtains, soppy Pierrot wallpaper and oyster shag-pile carpet) quite 
nauseating. She was also, she told herself, far too intelligent to be taken in 
by the stupid magazines Barbara spent half her life reading. As if a new you 
could be found by starving the old you half to death then tearing the eyebrows 
out of what was left. But the motherly advice hadn't lasted long and Barbara 
had soon slipped into the daily routine that had continued ever since. Giving 
orders to the daily help, visiting her hairdresser, health club and dress shops 
and lying about the house studying what Judy called 'Harpies Bizarre and other 
gorgoneia'.
Judy was not happy. She had not been happy since the day her mother died. Not, 
that is, in the fearless uncomplicated way an only child of two loving parents 
is happy. But the unhappiness of the other two gave her a curious sort of 
comfort. And then there was Michael Lacey. Or rather there wasn't. And would 
never be. That was something she would have to keep repeating every time the 
little worm of hope wriggled in her heart. Not only because of his looks (even 
after the accident he still had the most wonderful face) but because of his 
work. A painter must be free. Only last week he told her he was going to 
travel; to study in Venice, Florence and Spain. Full of anguish she had cried, 
'When, when!' but he had simply shrugged, saying, 'One day . . . soon.' Since 
her engagement his sister Katherine was hardly ever at home and Judy walked 
over to the cottage sometimes, cleaned up a bit, made some coffee. Not too 
often. She tried to space her visits widely with the secret hope that he might 
start to miss her.
Two weeks ago he had taken her arm and led her over to a window. He had held 
her chin and studied her face, then said, 'I'd like to paint you. You have 
amazing eyes.' He had spoken almost clinically, as if he were a sculptor and 
she a promising lump of stone, but Judy's heart had melted in her breast (A New 
You!) and her dreams, refurbished, gained in strength. He hadn't mentioned it 
again. She had walked over a few evenings ago, seen through the window that he 
was working and, lacking the courage to disturb him, crept quietly away. She 
had not returned, afraid that an unwanted visit might try his patience and 
bring about what she dreaded most of all, a definite dismissal.
Trevor Lessiter watched his daughter, miles away as usual, as he folded up his 
Telegraph. He wondered what she was thinking and how it was possible to miss 
someone so much when you saw them every day. He was glad she had not been 
driven, despite his wife's heavy hints, to find a flat in Pinner 'to be nearer 
work'. Judy did nothing now in the house. She who had always taken such a pride 
in polishing her mother's things and arranging flowers. Now whatever Mrs 
Holland couldn't manage got left. And whenever he and Barbara bickered (nearly 
all the time lately, it seemed), he saw a relish in Judy's eyes which he found 
deeply wounding. He knew she was thinking 'serve him right'. He looked at his 
wife, at the heavy breasts and narrow waist, and felt dizzy with lust. Not 
love. He recognized now that he no longer loved her, indeed wondered if he ever 
had, but she still had the power. So much power. If only he could talk to Judy. 
Try to make her understand how he had been driven, almost tricked, into 
marriage. Surely now she was herself in love she would understand. But he 
shrank from such an attempt. Young people were invariably disturbed, even 
offended, by revelations of their parents' sexuality. And her persistent 
indifference and unkindness were now provoking a similar reaction in him. 
Something he would not have believed possible a few years ago.
He remembered how, after her mother died, she would wait up for him to return 
from a night call and heat up some Ovaltine, then sit with him to make sure he 
drank it. She took all his messages neatly and accurately and listened to his 
patients rambling on with as much kindness as his wife would have shown. 
Looking across at her sad sulky face, it seemed to him that he had thrown away 
something of unique worth and replaced it with shoddy.
Barbara Lessiter felt the hard paper ball pressing on her thigh when she moved. 
She wondered, for the millionth time in the last five minutes, where the hell 
she was going to find five thousand pounds.


Chapter Three
'Where to now, sir?'
'Well, there's Mrs Quine in Burnham Crescent . . .'
'I thought the others were doing the council houses.'
'I'm doing that one, she's Miss Simpson's cleaner. Then there's that alarmingly 
smart bungalow and the next four cottages - and Trace's farm. Or rather, Tye 
House.'
'Expect to see a bit of rank, do they? Top people?'
'I can do without the mass observation, Troy. Just keep your wits about you and 
your eyes open.'
'Right, Chief.'
'And your pencil sharp. We'll start with the farmhouse and work down.'
There was a graceful iron white-ribbed fanlight with lacy curlicues over the 
main door. The magnolia was in fulsome bloom, great waxy cups in dark green 
saucers pressing against the windows. Sergeant Troy gave the brass pull a yank 
and, a long way away, a bell could be heard tinkling. Barnaby wondered if they 
had a glass and mahogany case in the kitchen with a row of little bells jerking 
imperiously under their designations. Breakfast Room. Laundry. Still Room. 
Nursery. No one came.
'Must be the maid's day off.' Troy was unable to sustain the jokey note. The 
remark came out as a sour sneer. He followed Barnaby round the side of the 
house, fighting angry memories. His mother had always had to remove her apron 
before answering the door. And her headscarf. He could see her now nervously 
patting her hair in the hall mirror, smoothing her collar. 'Mrs Willows to see 
you, my lady.'
They entered a cobbled yard at the back of the house and, as they did so, a 
small dog, very thin, with a grey muzzle and brindled chest, came hurrying 
towards them. He was an old Jack Russell and his eyes were not good. He was 
quite close to the two men before he realized his mistake. Troy bent down to 
pat the dog but it turned, inconsolably, away. Barnaby approached the back 
door. 'Perhaps we'll have more luck here.'
It stood wide open, revealing a vast kitchen. A man, facing the door, sat at a 
refectory table in an attitude of complete dejection, his forehead supported on 
one hand, his shoulders sagging. Close to him, perched on the table's edge with 
her back to Barnaby, was a young girl. As Barnaby watched she leaned forward 
and touched the man's shoulder. Immediately he seized her hand then, looking 
up, saw the two men in the doorway and leapt to his feet. The girl turned to 
face them more slowly.
Years after the case was closed Barnaby would still remember his first sight of 
Katherine Lacey. She was wearing a silk dress, ivory and apple-green stripes, 
and was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. And her beauty was more than 
simple perfection of face and form (and how often in any case did you come 
across that?); it had the remote perfection of a distant star. It smote the 
heart. She came towards them, her exquisite lips parted in a smile.
'I'm sorry - have you been ringing long? I don't always hear in the kitchen.' 
Barnaby explained the reason for their visit. 'Oh, of course - please come in. 
We were all so shocked to hear the police had been called in, weren't we, 
David?' The man, who had re-seated himself in one of the wheelback chairs, did 
not reply. 'She taught my father, you know, Miss Simpson. Both my parents were 
very fond of her. I'm Katherine Lacey by the way. And this is David Whiteley, 
our farm manager.'
Barnaby nodded and queried her movements on the day in question whilst glancing 
at the man at the table. He was over six feet tall, with the bronzed, almost 
weathered complexion of someone who works continually in the open. He had vivid 
cobalt-blue eyes and hair the colour of flax, worn rather longer than might 
have been expected. He appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties and was 
now looking more resentful than dejected. Barnaby wondered what would have 
happened if he and Troy had not appeared on the doorstep. Was the girl's touch 
on his shoulder a gesture of comfort? A caress? Would his fervent handclasp 
have led to a rebuff? Or a kiss?
'. . . the afternoon's easy. Most of it was spent in the village hall getting 
ready for the gymkhana on the Saturday. You know . . . putting the trestles up 
. . . sorting things . . . I was helping on the WI stall.'
'I see . . .' Barnaby nodded, trying in vain to picture Miss Lacy in the 
Women's Institute. 'What time did you leave?'
'Oh around four I think. But it could've been earlier. I'm hopeless about time, 
as Henry will tell you.'
'And did you go straight home?'
'Yes. To pick up the Peugeot. Then I drove over to the barn at Huyton's End to 
collect Henry. He has an office -'
She broke off suddenly, then said, 'Look - wouldn't it be more sensible if you 
talked to us both together? We always have some coffee around now in the 
drawing room. You're welcome to join us.'
Barnaby declined the coffee but agreed that her suggestion was a helpful one.
'You come too, David.' She smiled again, this time at the man in the chair, and 
the three of them followed her back view, only marginally less heavenly than 
the front, across a hall and down a long carpeted corridor. One wall was lined 
with ornately framed oil paintings of Trace's past, the other with delicate 
watercolours to which Barnaby lent an expert and envious eye. At the end of the 
corridor double glass doors opened on to an orangery: a dazzling pattern of 
white iron loops and curls. Through the glass Barnaby caught a glimpse of 
formal lawns, elegant topiary and a glittering fountain. He wondered if there 
were peacocks. Katherine spoke over her shoulder.
'Apart from Henry the only other person living here at the moment is Phyllis 
Cadell - his sister-in-law. Her room is upstairs.' She turned sharply and 
opened the first door on her right.
They entered a very long drawing room. The walls were stippled apricot and 
cream and there were rich Persian rugs scattered over the high honey-gloss 
parquet. Rocailles of gold leaf decorated the ceiling. At the far end of the 
room a man sat in a wheelchair by a magnificent Adam fireplace. There was no 
fire but the space was filled with a starburst of white and silver flowers and 
leaves. The man's knees were covered by a travelling rug. He had a grave - 
almost stern - face with two deep grooves running from his nose to the corners 
of his mouth. His dark hair was streaked with grey and his shoulders were 
slightly bent. Barnaby was surprised to discover later that Henry Trace was 
only forty-two. He wondered if it was quite without thought that David Whiteley 
took the seat nearest to his employer. There could hardly have been a crueller 
contrast. Even in repose Whiteley had an air of aggressive vitality. His limbs, 
so straight and strong, seemed almost to be bursting the seams of his cords and 
check shirt. Marlboro man, jeered Troy to himself. Katherine explained why the 
police were there, then sat on a footstool close to the wheelchair and took 
Trace's hand.
'A terrible business,' he said, 'surely it's not true that there's been foul 
play?'
'We're just making a few inquiries at this stage, sir.'
'I just can't believe anyone would wish to harm her,' continued Trace, 'she was 
the kindest soul alive.'
He didn't add, noticed Troy, flipping open his pro-forma pad, that she taught 
his mum. Probably went to a private school. All right for some.
'I actually saw her on the day she died,' said Katherine, her voice quite 
untainted by the slightly salacious excitement that usually accompanies this 
sort of remark.
'When was this?' asked Barnaby, glancing at Troy who described an arc with his 
pencil to show awareness.
'In the morning. I don't remember the exact time I called at the cottage. She'd 
promised me some honey for the stall. She gave me some parsley wine as well. 
She was always very generous.'
'And that was the last time you saw her?' Katherine nodded. 'To return to the 
afternoon . . . you left the hall around four . . . took the Peugeot . . . ?'
'And drove over to Henry's office. I picked him up, we came back here, had 
supper and spent the evening wrangling over -'
'Discussing.'
'- discussing' - she screwed her head round and gave him a teasing look - 'a 
new rosarium. I left about half-past ten.'
'You don't live here then, Miss Lacey?'
'Not until next Saturday. We're to be married then.' She exchanged glances with 
the man in the wheelchair. Hers was simply fond but his was not only adoring 
but triumphant. The triumph of a collector who has spotted a rare and beautiful 
specimen and, against all the odds, captured it for himself. If you've got the 
money, thought Sergeant Troy, you can buy anything.
'I live in a cottage on the edge of the beechwoods. Holly Cottage. It's quite 
outside the village, really.' A shadow darkened her eyes. She added so quietly 
that Barnaby could hardly hear, 'With my brother Michael.' He asked the exact 
location of the cottage and she described it, adding, 'But you won't find him 
there at the moment. He's gone into Causton to buy some brushes.' Even 
volunteering this hardly disturbing piece of information seemed to distress her 
and she folded her lips together tightly and frowned. Trace patted her head 
gently as if soothing a fretful animal.
'Did you pass Miss Simpson's house on your way home?'
'Yes.'
'Did you see anyone? Or hear or notice anything?'
'I'm afraid not.'
'Was the light on? The curtains closed?'
'I'm sorry - I just don't remember.'
'Thank you.' Barnaby turned his attention to Henry Trace. He felt the questions 
here were a mere formality, yet not to have asked them would have appeared 
insensitive to say the least. Whilst Trace could perhaps have wheeled himself 
down to Miss Simpson's cottage and poisoned her (in which case his fiancee was 
lying about their evening together) he could hardly have been frolicking in the 
woods that afternoon, even assuming any man on the point of marrying Katharine 
Lacey would have been mad enough to want to. There had been no wheel or tyre 
marks anywhere near the place. Barnaby assumed the paralysis was genuine. It 
was surely only in films that strong, healthy people spent years concealed 
under a rug in a wheelchair simply so that they could leap out at the crucial 
moment and commit the perfect crime.
'Do you confirm Miss Lacey's account of your movements together, Mr Trace?' He 
heard the flick of paper from Troy's corner.
'Yes I do.'
'And were other people about when you were in your office?'
'Oh yes. Tractors are stored there. All the fertilizers. There's a hopper . . . 
out-buildings. It's a very busy part of the farm.'
'How large is the farm?'
'Five thousand acres.'
Sergeant Troy's pencil stabbed savagely at his page. 'And could you give me the 
name of your doctor?'
'My doctor?' Henry Trace gave Barnaby a bemused stare. Then the stare faded. He 
said, 'Oh - I see.' The grooves on his face deepened. He smiled, a smile 
totally without any mirth or pleasure. 'Trevor Lessiter's my GP. But you'd best 
have a word with Mr Hollingsworth, University College, London.' He added 
bitterly, 'He'll be able to confirm that my paralysis is genuine.'
There was a cry of indignation from the girl at his feet and she stared at 
Barnaby angrily. Trace said, 'It's all right, darling. They have to ask these 
things.' But she remained unmollified and continued to glare at the two 
policemen during the questioning of David Whiteley. Troy thought this made her 
look more beautiful than ever. The farm manager's replies were brief. He said 
he had been working on the afternoon in question.
'Where precisely was this?'
'Three miles down the Gessler Tye road. I was repairing some fencing. There was 
a nasty accident a couple of days before and a considerable amount got smashed.'
Barnaby nodded. 'And when you were through there?'
'I drove into Causton to order some more netting. And then went home.'
'I see. You didn't return to the farm office?'
'No. It was nearly six by then. I don't have to clock on and off, you know. I'm 
not a hired hand.' He strove to sound amused but there was a flick of temper in 
his voice.
'And home is . . . ?'
'Witchetts. The house with the green shutters opposite the pub. Goes with the 
job.'
'And in the evening?'
'I showered. Had a drink. Watched a little television. Then went to the Bear at 
Gessler for a meal and some company.'
'What time was that?'
'About half eight I suppose.'
'You're not married, Mr Whiteley?'
'Mind your own business!'
'David!' cried Henry Trace. 'There's no need -'
'I'm sorry but I really don't see how the hell whether I'm married or not is 
relevant to an inquiry into the death of an old woman I barely knew in the 
first place.' He closed his mouth stubbornly, folded his arms and crossed his 
legs. A moment later he uncrossed them. Then crossed them the other way again. 
Barnaby, looking completely incurious, sat placidly in his armchair. Henry and 
Katherine looked rather embarrassed. Troy eyed Whiteley's straining calves and 
biceps caustically. He knew the type. Fancied himself as a stud. Probably 
couldn't even get it up without half a dozen beers and a soft porn video. The 
silence lengthened. Then David Whiteley heaved an exaggerated sigh.
'Well yes, if you must know I am married, but we've been living apart for the 
past three years. Since shortly before I came to work here, in fact. She's a 
domestic science teacher and lives in Slough. And, just to save you ferreting 
out every little genealogical detail, we have a nine-year-old son. His name is 
James Laurence Whiteley and last time I saw him he was just over four feet tall 
and weighed in at around five stone. He was into Depeche Mode, BMX and computer 
games and played a mean game of basketball. Of course that was some 
considerable time ago. It's probably all different now.' Sarcasm and anger 
failed in the last remark. His voice, thick with emotion, broke off suddenly.
'Thank you, Mr Whiteley.' Barnaby waited a few moments then continued, 'To 
return to the evening of the seventeenth. Can you tell me when you left the 
Bear?'
Whiteley took a long deep breath before replying. 'Roughly half an hour before 
closing time. They might remember. I'm a regular there.'
'And you drove straight home?'
'Yes.'
'Could you give me the make and registration of your car?'
'It's a Citroen estate. ETX 373V.'
'Fine.' Barnaby rose. 'You've been very cooperative. I believe, Miss Lacey, you 
mentioned there was someone else living here?'
'Well yes,' Henry Trace said, 'there's Phyllis. But isn't she down at her new 
place?'
'No.' Katherine rose to her feet. 'I heard her come in half an hour ago. I'll 
show you the way.' She pointed her words in the general direction of Barnaby 
but without looking at him. As she took the first step away Henry caught her 
hand.
'Come straight back.'
'Of course I will.' She bent her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. It 
was a chaste kiss, but the look she got in return was far from chaste. They 
made a charming picture, thought Barnaby. Trace with his distinguished severe 
profile, the girl fresh and lovely bending over him, both posed against a fall 
of grey watered-silk curtains. Perhaps it was this final rather theatrical 
touch that gave Barnaby the feeling that the charming scene was in some way 
unnatural. It seemed so contrivedly perfect; brimming with false pathos like a 
sentimental Victorian greeting card or an illustration from Dickens. He 
couldn't quite explain this perception. It was not that he believed either of 
them was playing a part. He shifted his gaze to include David Whiteley. Perhaps 
his presence had been father to the thought. Perhaps it was simply that the 
girl was with the wrong man. That youth should call to youth. Barnaby watched 
Whiteley watching the girl. His glance was far from chaste as well. Barnaby 
thought that Henry Trace would be a very unusual man if, when his fiancee and 
his farm manager were both out of his sight, he didn't occasionally wonder . . 
. A collector will naturally expect a covetous attitude on the part of other 
collectors. Especially with regard to his prize specimen.
Katherine led them up a tall curved staircase and down yet another corridor, 
this one sporting little highly polished half-moon tables holding vases of 
flowers, snuffboxes and miniatures.
'What is the lady's full name?'
'Phyllis Cadell.'
'Miss?'
'Very much so.' The squeeze of lemon in her voice intrigued and pleased 
Barnaby. Too much sweetness and light could cloy after a while, in his opinion. 
Rather a short while too. He liked what he called 'a bit of edge'. He wondered 
what Phyllis Cadell's exact position in the household was and if it would 
change after the marriage. Surely any new wife would want to take the reins 
into her own hands. And, with a disabled husband, she would need to be 
exceptionally capable. He looked at Miss Lacey's slightly sunburned hand as she 
knocked at the door. It looked stronger than her rather flower-like appearance 
would lead you to expect.
'Oh Phyllis - I'm sorry to disturb you . . .'
Barnaby followed her into the room. He saw a rather plump, middle-aged woman 
with a slab-like face, gooseberry-green eyes and dull brown hair done in a 
youthful style with a fronded fringe and hard tight little curls. Atop her long 
pale face it looked foolish, like a wig on a horse. She was sitting in front of 
a large flickering television set, a box of fudge on her knees.
'. . . it's the police.'
The woman jumped. Cubes of fudge went flying everywhere. She crouched, 
concealing her face, but not before Barnaby had seen fear leaping to life 
behind her eyes. Katherine bent down too. It was assorted fudge: three shades 
of brown (vanilla, mocha, chocolate), and some squares were studded with 
walnuts and cherries.
'You won't be able to eat these now, Phyllis -'
'I can pick up a few sweets, thank you. Leave me alone.' She was cramming 
fluffy cubes anyoldhow into the box. She still didn't look at the two men.
'You'll show Chief Inspector Barnaby out then, will you?' Receiving no reply 
Katherine turned to leave, saying just before she closed the door, 'It's about 
Miss Simpson.'
At this remark Barnaby noticed the colour rush back into the older woman's 
cheeks but unevenly, leaving the skin mottled, as if she had been roasting her 
face by the fire. She gushed at them, 'Of course, poor Emily. Why didn't I 
think? Sit down . . . sit down both of you.'
Barnaby selected a fawn fireside chair and looked around him. A very different 
atmosphere from the drawing room downstairs. Not uncomfortably furnished yet 
quite lacking in individuality. There were no ornaments or photographs and 
hardly any books. A few copies of The Lady, a couple of insipid prints and a 
dying plant on the windowsill. Apart from the television set it could have been 
any dentist's waiting room.
Phyllis Cadell switched off the box and sat facing them. Any anxiety she may 
have felt at their arrival was now firmly under control. She turned a bland but 
concerned gaze upon them both. If it had not been for the knees, far too firmly 
clamped together, and the cords standing out in the soft, flabby neck Barnaby 
might have thought her quite relaxed. She was affably forthcoming as to her 
movements on the seventeenth. In the afternoon she had been in the village hall 
setting up the tombola. And she had spent the evening 'quite blamelessly I 
assure you, Chief Inspector' watching television.
This did not surprise Barnaby. He found it hard to picture the matronly figure, 
flesh springing free from rigorously confining corsets, rolling and frolicking 
in the greenwood. He did not of course discount the possibility. The most 
unlikely characters have stirred others to romantic yearnings. How often had he 
heard his wife say 'I don't know what he sees in her'? Or, less frequently, the 
reverse. No, the count against Phyllis Cadell being the woman in the woods was 
not her unglamorous appearance but the fact that she had nothing to lose by 
discovery. She might even, taking into account society's attitude towards 
unattached middle-aged females, have a lot to gain. So, in that case, why had 
she been so frightened when they had first arrived?
'And what time did you leave the hall, Miss Cadell?'
'Let's see' - she tapped her top lip with a tallow-coloured finger - 'I was 
almost the last to go . . . it must have been half-past four . . . quarter to 
five.'
'Did you leave with Miss Lacey?'
'Katherine? Good gracious no. She left much earlier. Was hardly there at all, 
really.' She caught the glance that Sergeant Troy turned on to Barnaby's 
unresponsive profile. 'Oh dear' - she made an arch little moue of false regret 
- 'I hope I haven't said anything I shouldn't?'
'And did you go out at all after you'd returned home?'
'No. I came straight up here when we'd finished dinner. Wrote a couple of 
letters, then as I have already stated, watched some television.'
As I have already stated, echoed Troy to himself, transcribing carefully. 
People often said things like that when they were talking to the police. Formal 
jargony sorts of remarks they'd never dream of making any other time. He 
listened as Miss Cadell proceeded to give details of all the programmes she'd 
watched, then, as if this in itself might be thought suspicious, added, 'I only 
remember because it was Friday. The gardening programmes, you see?'
Barnaby did see. He watched them himself whenever he was home in time. He said, 
'Do you have staff living in here?'
'No. We have a gardener and a boy. Between them they look after the grounds, 
clean the cars and do any maintenance. And there's Mrs Quine. She comes about 
ten o'clock. Does the general cleaning, prepares any vegetables for dinner, 
cooks a light lunch, then goes about three. I cook in the evening and she will 
clear away and wash up when she comes the next day. I do hope Katherine will 
keep her on. She brings her little girl and not everyone will accept children. 
Oddly enough we shared her with poor Miss Simpson. She went there for an hour 
each morning before she came to us . . .'
'And will you continue to live here after the wedding, Miss Cadell?'
'Good heavens, no.' A strangled yelp which might have been a laugh. 'A house 
cannot hold two mistresses. No, I'm being pensioned off. Henry has several 
cottages on the estate. Two have been . . . I believe the term is knocked 
together. There's a small garden. It's . . . very nice.'
Not as nice as being mistress of Tye House, thought Barnaby, picturing again 
the splendid vista previously seen through the orangery. Not nearly as nice.
'Has Mr Trace been a widower long?' There it was again. As clear and bright as 
a match struck in a darkened room. The flicker of fear. Phyllis Cadell looked 
away from him, studying the more nondescript of the two landscapes on the wall.
'I don't see how that can possibly have any relevance to Miss Simpson's death.'
'No. I beg your pardon.' Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby waited. In his 
experience people (hardened criminals apart) who had something to hide and 
people who had nothing to hide had one thing in common. Faced by a policeman 
asking questions they could never remain silent for long. After a few moments 
Phyllis Cadell began to speak. The words tumbled out as if she couldn't wait to 
be rid of them and done with the matter.
'Bella died about a year ago. In September. A shooting accident. It was a 
terrible tragedy. She was only thirty-two. There was a full report in the local 
paper at the time.'
All that on one breath, thought Barnaby. And through lips the colour of milk. 
He said, 'Is that when you came to run the house?'
'Not at all. I moved here just after the wedding. Bella wasn't really 
interested in the domestic side of things. Country pursuits were her forte. 
Riding, fishing. And looking after Henry, of course. They'd been married nearly 
five years when she died.'
'Miss Lacey seems to be very young to be taking on so much?' hinted Barnaby, 
but in vain. Her emotions were now as tenaciously confined as the swoop of her 
pouter-pigeon chest.
'Oh I don't know. I should think she'll make a charming lady of the manor. And 
now' - she got up - 'if that's all . . . ?'
She led them briskly down the staircase to the front hall, then stopped 
suddenly between two old, once-gilded wooden figures. For a moment they all 
stood on the black-and-white-tiled floor like chess pieces, useful but impotent 
until nudged into play. Phyllis shifted from one foot to another (beleaguered 
queen) then spoke.
'Umm . . . you must have thought I looked quite startled to see you . . . taken 
aback . . . when you first arrived?'
Barnaby looked politely interested. Troy established eye contact with the 
taller of the two figures; a king with a soaring crown and traces of lapis 
lazuli still on his pupils.
'The truth is . . . I . . . well it's my car tax. You know how it is . . .' A 
nervous smile twitched into being, showing strong stained teeth. 'One always 
means to make a note of these things . . .'
'Yes,' agreed the chief inspector, 'that is a sensible idea.'
As the door closed quickly behind them Troy said, 'Pathetic.' He could have 
meant the woman's appearance, her position in the household or the awkward and 
obvious lie about the road tax. Barnaby could only agree on all three counts.
Katherine Lacey wandered slowly across the cobbled yard, watching the two 
policemen walk away. In spite of the heat of the day she felt cold. Benjy 
whined sadly from the shelter of the first silo. She crossed over and picked 
him up. He started to struggle in her arms. His fur slipped over his ribs as if 
there were no flesh at all to separate them.
'Darling . . . ?' She heard the soft bump as Henry negotiated the kitchen step 
and wheeled himself towards her. She put the dog down. 'Is something the 
matter?'
She strove to compose herself before turning to him. She didn't reply, just 
shook her head, the bell of glossy dark hair swinging over her face.
'Is it Benjy? You must give way on that you know, Kate. We've both tried 
everything we can. He's simply not going to eat. Please . . . let me call the 
vet . . .'
'Oh - just another day!'
'He's an old dog. He misses her too much. We can't sit here and watch him 
starve.'
'It's not just that.' She turned then, crouching clumsily by the chair. 'It's . 
. . I can't explain . . . oh Henry . . .' She seized his hands: 'I've just got 
the most terrible feelings . . .'
'What d'you mean?' He smiled down at her, his tone indulgent. 'What sort of 
feelings?'
'I can't say exactly . . . just that things are going to go dreadfully wrong 
for us . . . the wedding won't happen . . .'
'I've never heard such nonsense.'
'I knew you'd say that. But you don't understand . . .' She broke off, studying 
his face. Kind, handsome, a shade complacent. And why shouldn't it be? The 
Traces went back to Norman times. Effigies of Sir Robert Trayce and his wyffe 
Ismelda and her cat rested eternally in the cool of the thirteenth-century 
church. Traces had shed a modest amount of their landowning blood in the two 
world wars and returned to their squirearchical duties garlanded with honour. 
The words security of tenure were meaningless to them. They had never known 
anything else.
'. . . You don't understand,' Katherine repeated. 'Because you've never wanted 
anything you couldn't have you can't see that life isn't always like that. I 
think these things that are happening . . . Miss Simpson dying . . . and now 
Benjy . . . and Michael refusing to come on Saturday . . . I think they're 
omens . . .'
Henry Trace laughed. 'Beware the Ides of March.'
'Don't laugh.'
'I'm sorry, darling, but there's no one squeaking and gibbering in the streets 
that I can see.'
'What?'
'And as for Michael . . . well . . . he's hardly an omen. You must've known for 
weeks that he'd probably refuse to give you away. You know what he's like.'
'But I thought . . . on my wedding day . . .'
'Do you want me to talk to him?'
'It won't make any difference. You'd think after all you'd done for us it would 
-'
'Hush. You mustn't talk like that. I've done nothing.' As she got up, leaning 
on the arms of his chair, he said, 'Poor little knees, all dented from the 
cobbles.' He lifted the hem of her dress and touched the dimpled flesh 
tenderly. 'Dear little knees . . . Henry make them better.'
At a window above their heads Phyllis Cadell turned abruptly away. She switched 
on the television set and slumped into the nearest armchair. Voices filled the 
room. On the screen a couple, mad with ecstatic greed, were struggling to 
embrace a mountain of consumer durables whilst an audience, hardly less 
ecstatic, screamed abuse and encouragement. Wearing a fixed insane grin, the 
woman slipped, dislodged a can and brought the whole pyramid crashing to the 
ground. Phyllis pressed her remote control and got a besotted duo in love with 
each other's breakfast cereal. Button three activated a bucolic scene showing 
an elderly couple saturated with contentment reading their golden wedding 
telegrams, surrounded by their loving family. Button four brought an old black 
and white movie. Two men were holding a third by the arms while Sterling Haydon 
battered him to bits. A left to the jaw, then a right. Smack. Crunch. Then two 
to the belly, breath sucked in, an agonizing whistle. Then a knee to the groin 
and a punch in the kidneys.
Phyllis settled back. She seized the box of fudge and started cramming the 
gritty, fluff-embellished cubes into her mouth. She packed them in fiercely and 
without a break as if making an assault on her jaws. Tears poured down her 
cheeks.


Chapter Four
'I expect the wedding'll be a posh do. Marquees and all that?' Troy looked to 
the horizon as he spoke, casting a green eye on Henry Trace's assets. Miles and 
miles and miles of waving money.
'No doubt.' Barnaby turned left as they walked away from Tye House, making for 
the terraced cottages. Troy, not wishing to receive another put-down, did not 
ask why his chief was going in for a bit of mundane door-to-door. But in the 
event Barnaby chose to enlighten him.
'That bungalow' - he nodded towards the end of the terrace - 'is what interests 
me. There's someone there keeping a very sharp eye on things. I'm interested to 
hear what the neighbours have to say.'
'I see, sir,' was all Troy could think of in reply, but he felt warm with 
satisfaction on receipt of this small confidence.
The first cottage was empty, the occupants, as a very old lady next door 
informed them, being outsiders from London who hadn't been down for at least a 
month. And the man in the last cottage was out till six every weekday teaching 
in Amersham. Troy took his name for the evening checkers. The old lady was 
taciturn about her own affairs, simply saying she hadn't been out at all on the 
day in question. Then she jerked her head over the neat box hedge at cottage 
number three.
'You want to ask her where she was on Friday. She'd poison her grandmother for 
a haporth o' nuts.' Next door a window slammed.
'And the bungalow . . . ?'
'Don't know nothing about them.' She shut the door firmly.
'That's a bit odd, isn't it?' said Troy as they walked down the path. 'A tiny 
place like this and she doesn't know anything about the people two doors down.'
'It is indeed,' replied Barnaby, arriving at the next cottage, lifting a 
grimacing pixie by the legs and letting go smartly.
An even older lady appeared and gave them roughly the same spiel, the only 
difference being that here the blood money came out as two pennorth o' cheese. 
Then she laid a freckled bunch of weightless bones on the chief inspector's 
sleeve. 'Listen, young man,' she said, suddenly appearing to him much the nicer 
of the two old ladies, 'if you want to know what's going on - or what's coming 
off either' - she gave a dry chuckle, shockingly lewd through withered lips - 
'you have a word with Mrs Rainbird next house down. She can tell you what's in 
your hankie after you've blown your nose in the pitch dark behind locked doors. 
Spends all her time up in the loft with a pair of binoculars. Says she's a 
ornyowzit. Camouflage.' She repeated the word, tapping him on the lapel. 'In my 
young day you hung over the gate and gossiped in the open. I don't know what 
the world's coming to and that's a fact.' She then confided that Mrs Rainbird 
had a son in the box and casket trade. 'And a slimy little wart he is an' all. 
They reckon he keeps his knickers in the fridge.'
Sergeant Troy snorted and turned it into a cough. Barnaby, having met Mr 
Rainbird, could only assume that they were right. He thanked the old lady and 
withdrew.
The bungalow was called Tranquillada. Barnaby thought this suggested a slightly 
relaxed version of the Spanish Inquisition. The name suspended from the neck of 
a large ceramic stork killing time on one leg by the front door. There was 
quite a large garden, beautifully kept and full of ornamental shrubs and roses. 
The silver Porsche was parked in the drive. Sergeant Troy chose the bell rather 
than the knocker and got a brief shrill earful of the dawn chorus. Dennis 
Rainbird appeared.
'Well hullo again.' He seemed delighted to see Barnaby. 'And you've brought a 
friend.' He gave Troy a radiant smile which bounced off the sergeant's stony 
countenance like a ping-pong ball off a concrete slab. 'Come in, come in. 
Mother,' he called over his shoulder, 'it's the constabulary.' He prounced it 
constabewlery.
'Oh but I was expecting them.' A gentle fluting from some distance away.
The bungalow seemed much larger than the outside suggested and Dennis led them 
past several open doors before reaching the lounge. A kitchen that gleamed, a 
bedroom (all white and gold) that glittered and a second bedroom adorned with 
lots of red suede and shining brass.
'I'm in the lounge, Denny,' carolled the voice. It managed to sound every vowel 
the word possessed, then generously tossed in another O for good measure. As 
they entered Mrs Rainbird rose from her downy cushions as if from a nest.
She was very, very fat. She spread outwards and towered upwards. At least a 
quarter of her height seemed to be accounted for by her hair, which was a rigid 
pagoda-like structure: a landscape of peaks and waves, whorls and curls ending 
in a sharp point like an inverted ice-cream cone. It was the colour of 
butterscotch instant whip. She wore a great deal of makeup in excitable colours 
and a lilac caftan, rather short, revealing bolstery legs and tiny feet. The 
chief inspector fielded her welcoming glance, direct and sharp as a lancet, and 
introduced himself.
'I knew you were on your way. I saw a car drive by whilst I was studying some 
swallows on the telephone wires. Such a charming arrangement. Quite like notes 
of music.'
'Ah . . . perhaps it was you I glimpsed the other morning when I was in Church 
Lane? In your loft I think. An excellent vantage point.'
'Hide is the term we ornithologists prefer, Mr Barnaby.' A nip in the air. 
Barnaby begged her pardon. She waved a sparkling hand. 'Won't you sit down?' 
Barnaby sank into an armchair thickly barnacled with bumps of crochet.
'And what about you, dear?' Dennis danced around Sergeant Troy. 'Don't you want 
to take the weight off those legs?'
Bristling with machismo, Troy selected the hardest chair, sat in it bolt 
upright and produced his pro-forma pad. A piercing whistle filled the air.
'Denny? Pot to kettle.' As he disappeared she said to Barnaby, 'You'll need to 
be fed and watered.' Then, overriding his protests, 'Now, now. Don't tell me 
you're not absolutely exhausted asking all those people all those questions. 
It's quite ready.'
And so it was. Moments later, a gentle rattling preceding him, Dennis entered 
wheeling an overwrought trolley built along the lines of the altarpiece at the 
Brompton Oratory. This was loaded with tiny sandwiches in the shapes of playing 
card symbols and rich creamy cakes. Mrs Rainbird filled a plate for Detective 
Chief Inspector Barnaby and handed it over.
'Now you mustn't refuse, Mr Barnaby.' (She addressed him as Mr Barnaby 
throughout their conversation, perhaps believing that policemen in the higher 
echelons were, like their medical counterparts, titularly civil.) 'The inner 
man, you know.'
Her son poured the tea, his bloodless white fingers flickering over the 
crockery. He popped an apostle spoon with a large purple stone embedded in the 
handle in a saucer and handed it, with the cup, to Barnaby. Feeling slightly 
repelled, the chief inspector took it and leaned back rather uncomfortably on 
his crunchy support.
Dennis dealt an anchovy club, a salmon-spread spade, a potted-meat diamond and 
a marmite heart on to a plate, added a meringue erupting with chestnut-coloured 
worms, and swayed over to Sergeant Troy. He put everything on an occasional 
table, brought over the tea then swayed back to his mother. They beamed at each 
other then he plumped up her cushions before sitting, appropriately enough, on 
a pouffe at her feet. Finally Barnaby spoke.
'We're making inquiries into an unexplained death -'
'Poor Miss Simpson of course,' interrupted Mrs Rainbird. 'I blame the parents.'
'- and would be glad if you and your son could give me some idea of your 
whereabouts on the afternoon and evening of last Friday?'
'Myself doing the flower arrangements and plants in the village hall. No doubt 
you've heard about the gymkhana?' Barnaby indicated that he had. 'I left around 
four-thirty with Miss Cadell of Tye House. One of the last as always. I'm 
afraid I'm one of those dreadful people who has to have everything just so.' A 
little preen. A smug smile. She had a mouth like a goldfish which, even in 
repose, had a pushed-forward pouty expression. '"Delegate, Iris, delegate!" is 
my constant cry, but do you think I ever can? Where was I?'
'One of the last to leave.'
'Ah yes. I believe only Miss Thornburn, our dear Akela, remained.'
'Did you happen to notice what time Miss Lacey left?'
'A few minutes before four o'clock.'
'Are you sure?' Foolish question. He already felt he was in the presence of 
something oracular rather than merely observant. Mrs Rainbird obviously had the 
eye of an eagle and, almost as important, an eagle's Olympian lack of interest 
in the welfare of its prey.
'Quite sure,' resumed Mrs Rainbird. 'She slipped away, in my opinion, in a very 
furtive manner indeed.' She deigned to glance at Sergeant Troy on the last few 
words to make sure he was noting them down. 'But I'm rather curious as to why 
we're being asked about the afternoon. I understood that Miss Simpson died much 
later.'
'We're not sure exactly when she died.'
'Well she was definitely alive around five o'clock because I saw her.'
'You saw her!'
'Certainly I did.' She basked for a moment in the warmth of his reaction. 
Dennis screwed his head round and gave her an approving smirk. 'I just happened 
to be in the hide at the time, charting the flight of a waxwing. Emily came 
hurrying along Church Lane from the direction of the woods. She stopped once, 
holding her side. I wondered if she were ill and had almost decided to run over 
when Denny arrived for his tea. Didn't you, pet?' Did her hand tighten on his 
shoulder? Certainly the sparklers were activated into instant life.
'Mm.' He laid his cheek briefly against her knees. 'I usually get home about 
five-thirty but that night -'
'If you wouldn't mind, Mr Rainbird. We'll take those details in a moment.'
'I can hardly wait.' Dennis bit his lower lip, pink with delight at being the 
recipient of such masterful instructions. He smiled at Sergeant Troy, a smile 
as sweet and sickly as the vanilla slice he was consuming. 'I don't think the 
sergeant likes his marron Lyonnaise, Mother.'
'Press him to a frangipane, then. Yes' - she turned her attention back to 
Barnaby - 'I was definitely concerned. In fact I'd almost decided to visit her 
after supper but then we got involved in a game of Monopoly and I felt it could 
wait till morning. She had a telephone after all and Miss Bellringer was close 
by. So we didn't go out at all, did we, pet?'
'No. Little home birds we.'
'And who won all of Park Lane?'
'Me, me! And a big chunk of Piccadilly.'
'I saw Katherine Lacey again, though. Around eight o'clock time.'
'Really? Wasn't that a little late to be pursuing your hobby, Mrs Rainbird? 
What on earth is on the wing at that hour?'
'Owls, Mr Barnaby.' A very sharp look.
'Ah.'
'Denizens of the night.'
'Quite so.'
'We had taken a little break from the game, Denny was making some coffee and I 
just happened to glance out of the window.'
'I see. Did you notice where Miss Lacey went?'
She leaned forward dramatically and, as she still had her hand on her son's 
shoulder, so did he. What a macabre double act they were, thought Barnaby. He 
was unaccountably reminded of the Joe Orton play his wife had been in last 
month. They would have fitted a treat into that.
'She was turning into Church Lane.'
'Do you think she was calling on someone?'
'I couldn't see. The road curves sharply to the right almost immediately. She'd 
got one of the beagles with her. And a letter in her hand.'
'So she may have been simply going to the post box?' Mrs Rainbird lifted an 
eyebrow like a crayoned new moon. It said that if he believed that he'd believe 
anything. 'And did you see her return?'
'I'm afraid not.' Her voice thickened with chagrin. 'Mrs Pauncefoot rang. 
Wanted some more Lilium regale for the judges' platform. If only I'd known' - 
she punched her palm with her fist - 'I would have kept watch.'
Her expression was far more than just peevish. She seemed to seethe with 
frustration at this reminder of an opportunity missed. She obviously couldn't 
bear not to know what was going on between everyone, everywhere, all the time. 
Charting the flayt of a waxwing my backside, thought Barnaby, and turned to 
question her son.
'At work all afternoon, which my partner will confirm, left around quarter to 
five, drove straight home and stayed there.'
'I didn't realize you were a partner in the business, Mr Rainbird.'
'Mother bought me in on my twenty-first. I'd been there three years by then and 
just knew I wasn't ever going to want to do anything else.' He hugged his knees 
boyishly. 'I absolutely adore it. You understand?'
Barnaby tried to look as if he understood. In fact he was not overly concerned 
with the Rainbirds' alibis. What he was after at Tranquillada was something 
much more useful. Background information on the village inhabitants. And 
gossip. If he had summed up Iris Rainbird correctly both should be forthcoming 
once the correct opening gambits had been played.
He said, 'I'm sure you'll appreciate, Mrs Rainbird, in a case like this how 
grateful we are to have someone as alert . . . as observant as yourself to call 
on. To fill the gaps as it were.' The pagoda inclined graciously. 'Tell me . . 
. Miss Lacey and her brother . . . have they lived in the village long?'
'All their lives. Although not always in Holly Cottage. Their parents had a 
large farmhouse just a little way out on the Gessler Tye road. No land to speak 
of, just an acre of garden. Oh very upper class they were then. Old family 
nanny, the children at Bedales, ponies and cars and off to France every five 
minutes. And shooting and hunting in the holidays. Thought themselves real 
gentry. They weren't, of course. No breeding at all.' Sergeant Troy, his pencil 
at rest, recognized the concealed resentment in this remark immediately, 
without knowing why. 'People liked Madelaine but he was an appalling man. Drank 
a lot and drove like a maniac. Violent too. They say he used to ill treat her. 
Quite heartless -'
'Just like his son.' Dennis spoke impulsively, his sallow cheeks flushed. This 
time there was no mistaking the warning grip on his shoulder. He added, 
stammering, 'Well . . . so I've heard.'
'Then, when the children were about thirteen all the money went. He'd been 
speculating, raised a second mortgage, raised more against that and lost the 
lot. It killed Madelaine.'
'Do you mean literally?'
'I certainly do. Drove her car into the Thames at Flackwell Heath. She hadn't 
been dead more than a couple of months before he married some chit of a girl he 
met in London and off they went to live in Canada.'
'And the children.'
'Well . . . that was the end of the private schools of course. They had to come 
and attend at Gessler Tye with the rest of the hoi polloi.' Satisfaction rang 
in her voice. Troy gave an unconscious nod of approval.
'And where did they live?'
'Now of course the Traces come into the picture. Henry was one of the first 
people that Gerald Lacey turned to for money. And he loaned him a considerable 
amount. I think he felt afterwards that it would have been better if he hadn't. 
If he'd tried to help Gerald sort his affairs out instead. At least that's the 
impression I got from Mrs Trace - Bella, that is . . .'
Chief Inspector Barnaby tried to imagine the late Mrs Trace discussing her 
husband's financial affairs with Mrs Rainbird, and failed. He wondered where 
she had really picked up the information.
'Hence Holly Cottage.'
'Oh?'
'A gamekeeper lived in it originally. Henry offered it to the children and the 
nanny stayed to look after them. They gave her a terrible time, poor old soul. 
Thick as thieves when they were little, always leading her a dance. Then, when 
they were older, endless rows. Well you know what adolescents are. Not that my 
Denny ever gave me any trouble.' Denny simpered into his vanilla slice. A 
fringe of cream, hardly in colour any different from his skin, graced his upper 
lip. 'She used to come over here, Nanny Sharpe, just for a cup of tea and a bit 
of peace and quiet. Cat and dog wasn't in it. Have you seen that mark on 
Michael's face?'
'We haven't yet interviewed Mr Lacey.'
'She gave him that . . . his sister. Threw an iron at him, apparently.' She 
noticed his change of expression and sniffed. 'Oh you can look, Mr Barnaby. 
Those pansy faces take everyone in but they don't fool yours truly.'
Mrs Rainbird's detachment, which he had so admired at the start of their 
interview, seemed to have temporarily deserted her. The fact that the son she 
obviously if somewhat unhealthily adored had been slighted in some way seemed 
still to rankle.
'Did Mr Trace support the Laceys financially?'
'Oh yes. The father didn't leave a penny piece behind. And, as far as I know, 
Henry still is supporting Michael. Not that he'd get a word of thanks.'
'Doesn't Mr Lacey work, then?'
'If you can call painting work.'
'And is he successful? Does he sell much?'
'No he doesn't. And I'm not surprised. Ugly violent things. Lays the paint on 
with a shovel. Mind you there's no shortage of models.'
'No,' chipped in Dennis. 'That Lessiter girl's always hanging round. Not that 
it'll get her anywhere - frumpy old thing. Michael painted me once, you know.' 
He bridled, all pallid petulance, in Troy's direction.
'And a hideous thing it was too.'
'Oh I was pussycat of the month all right while he was doing the portrait,' 
continued Dennis, 'all a-taunto I was. Then - when he'd got what he wanted - he 
told me to sod off.'
'Denny! Another iced sombrero, Mr Barnaby?'
'Thank you, no. And is the nanny, Miss Sharpe, still here?'
'Mrs Sharpe. No. She went to live in Saint Leonards as soon as they could look 
after themselves. Glad to get out of it. They were about seventeen then, I 
think. She didn't even drop in to say goodbye. I must say I was a bit hurt. I 
got her address off the Traces and wrote a couple of times but she didn't 
reply. I sent a card at Christmas, then gave up.' Frustration surfaced again. 
It was plain she would have preferred an extended farewell drama full of awful 
revelations. As she launched into a vivid description of one of the more 
spectacular domestic confrontations at Holly Cottage, Barnaby, nodding 
attentively from time to time, stretched his legs by strolling to the patio 
doors at the end of the room.
Outside the lawn was clear and sharp as glass. More flowering trees and shrubs 
and a pretty gazebo at the far end. He wondered how Mr Rainbird had made his 
pile. There must have been plenty of it, what with the bungalow, and Denny's 
partnership and silver Dinky toy. Not to mention the tea trolley.
He turned back to the conversation. He was beginning to feel very 
uncomfortable. Although it was a warm day the radiators were full on. He looked 
at Dennis, batting his almost colourless eyelashes at Sergeant Troy, and 
wondered if he felt the cold. He certainly didn't have any flesh to spare for 
insulation.
The room really was unbearably oppressive. It was crammed full of voluptuous 
showy furniture. And there were cabinets of china, mostly Capo di Monte, and 
shelves of dolls dressed in differing national costumes, plus several original 
deeply awful paintings. The one nearest to Barnaby showed a cocker spaniel in - 
he peered disbelievingly closer - floods of tears. The whole shebang was what 
his daughter would have called twentieth-century grotesque.
'Thank you so much, Mrs Rainbird.' He stemmed the tide, courteous but firm.
'Not at all, Mr Barnaby.' She flung a dazzling arc in his direction. He could 
not avoid shaking hands. It was like seizing a lump of dough. 'What are we here 
for if not to help each other?'
As the two policemen walked down the drive Sergeant Troy said, 'Men like that 
ought to be castrated.' When Barnaby did not reply he tacked an ameliatory 
'sir' on the end, adding, 'as for his mother . . . nothing but a spiteful old 
gasbag.'
'Mrs Rainbird and folks like her are a godsend in any investigation, Troy. Just 
don't mistake gossip for facts. And when they give you what they say are facts, 
always check them thoroughly. And don't come to early conclusions. An open 
mind, Sergeant, an open mind.'
'Yes, sir.'
They made their way to Burnham Crescent and council house number seven, the 
home of Mrs Quine.
As Barnaby and Troy passed through the space in the sour and dusty hedge 
flanked with rotten gate posts, Mrs Rainbird and her son closed the door of 
Tranquillada and turned to each other, alight with excitement.
'Did you get it?'
'Mummy - I did.'
'Ohhh . . . where . . . where?'
'Wait a minute. You haven't said . . .'
'You're a good boy. Now - show me.'
'No.' His face, an unpleasant orange colour beneath the hall lantern, became 
closed and stubborn. 'That wasn't properly. You've got to do it properly.'
'You're a goodboy,' she crooned, kissing him full on the mouth. Her breath was 
very sweet, a soft explosion of violet cachous and cream and rich vanilla. 
'Mummysbestboy.' Her fingers slipped into his shirt, caressing the bony wings 
of his shoulder blades. 'Bestestonlyboy.'
He licked her ear with its dropping cluster of rhinestones. 'Mmmm.' His 
breathing quickened. 'Clever Denny.'
'Now' - she took his hand, leading him down the corridor towards the french 
windows and the garden - 'show me . . .'
'I want to play some more.'
'Later we'll play.'
'All sorts of things?'
'Everything. Come on . . . where is it?'
They stepped out on to the lawn. Behind the gazebo was a large dark pile of 
something dripping wet, the water seeping out on to the bright green grass in 
concentric rings. Dennis led his mother up to it proudly. Hand in hand they 
gazed down. Mrs Rainbird's eyes shone.
'Where did you find it?'
'In the pond behind the beechwoods. I saw them throw it in tied round some 
stones.'
She made no reply; just breathed out, a long slow contented hiss.
'My mo-mo's all wet. I had to put it in the boot, you see.'
'We'll buy you another one.'
'Oh Mummy . . .' Ecstatically excited, he squeezed her arm. 'Do you think it's 
worth a lot, then?'
'Oh yes, my dear.' She took a step forward and poked the sodden mass with the 
toe of her shoe. 'A very great deal. A very great deal indeed.'


Chapter Five
The garden of number seven was a tip. Literally. There was a small pyramid of 
junk teetering up against the side of the house. Bed frames, broken prams, old 
boxes, rusty iron chains and a large splintering rabbit hutch. The curtains 
downstairs were tightly closed. Barnaby rattled the letter box. Somewhere in 
the house a child was crying. He heard a woman scream, 'Shut it, Lisa Dawn.' 
Then, 'Wait a minute can't you?' Thinking this might apply to him he waited.
Eventually Mrs Quine appeared. She was a thin woman with a concave chest and a 
cluster of red spots around her mouth. She was smoking and had an air of 
constant movement even when standing still, as if she had just been wound up 
and was raring to go.
'Come in.' She stepped back as they entered. 'My neighbour said you were going 
round everybody.'
The room they entered was thick with smoke and dimly lit with a centre light, a 
wooden chandelier with parchment galleon shades. The television was blaring 
loudly. Mrs Quine made no move to turn it down. The room was untidy and not 
very clean. A little girl was sitting at a plastic table, sniffling and 
snuffling.
'Now look who's come, Lisa Dawn.' The child looked across at Barnaby. 'Told you 
I'd get a policeman if you warn't a good girl.' More tears. 'Look what she's 
done, Mr Policeman.' Mrs Quine seized a dark wet object from the table. 'Her 
Baby Jesus Pop-Up Book. Only had it Christmas. Blackcurrant everywhere.' She 
opened the book. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and a clutch of assorted beasts rose up 
from the page, richly and symbolically empurpled. 'Nothing's new for five 
minutes in this house.'
'Oh I'm sure it was an accident.' Barnaby smiled at Lisa Dawn, who knuckled her 
eyes sadly and sniffed again. He turned to Mrs Quine who was now pacing briskly 
around the room sucking violently on her cigarette and flicking the ash about. 
'I have to be on the go,' she explained.
'I understand that you worked for Miss Simpson?'
'That's right. There and Tye House. I worked for old Clanger an' all. Only for 
a week though. She said I could do what I liked as long as I never moved 
anything. Well how can you clean without moving anything? You tell me.'
'That would be Miss Bellringer?'
'Right.'
'Did you turn up as usual the morning Miss Simpson died?'
'Course I did. No reason not to was there? Miss B. was keeping an eye through 
the window. She came out and told me. You can sit down if you want.'
'Pardon? Oh - thank you.' Barnaby sat on the edge of a black vinyl settee. One 
of the cushions was disgorging multicoloured foam chips through a razored slit.
'She gave me a cup of tea in case I felt bad. Then I went on to Tye House.'
'It must have been a shock?'
'It was an' all. The doctor'd only been a few days before. She'd had a bit of 
bronchial trouble but he reckoned if she took good care she was all right for 
another ten years.' Mrs Quine lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old. 
'Course we know why she went now, don't we? Bloody rapists. There was one on 
the telly the other night in full view. I know what
I'd do to them.' She settled briefly on the fireguard, throwing her stub into 
the empty grate. Her foot drummed furiously on the carpet. She inhaled with 
such force that the flesh beneath her cheekbones fell away into great hollows. 
'Poor old gel. At her age an' all.'
Forbearing to comment on this wild bit of embroidery, Barnaby asked if Miss 
Simpson had been all right to work for.
'Oh yes . . . she liked everything just so but I knew her ways. We got on OK.'
'And Tye House?'
She gave a gratified smile, showing glacially perfect false teeth. 'Been round 
there, have you?' When Barnaby nodded she continued, 'Laugh a minute there, 
'ent it? Old Phyllis Cadell hanging on for grim death. You could see the way 
the wind was blowing there all right. Grooming herself for the situation 
vacant, warn't she? Worked her drawers off even when Mrs Trace were alive. 
Making herself indispensable - so she thought. You should've seen her after the 
accident. Trying to look sorry when anyone was about. Sorry! She was tickled to 
death. You could see what she thought would happen. Then Miss Great Britain 
from Holly Cottage starts popping in and out and swaps the jackpot. I thought 
Miss Cadell was going to chuck herself under the nearest bus the morning the 
engagement was announced. It made my day, I can tell you.'
'To return to last Friday, Mrs Quine . . . were you in the village hall during 
the afternoon?'
'Me? Mucking in with that lot? You've got to be joking. Women's Institute? Load 
of cowing snobs. They can stuff their flower arrangements. And their bloody 
walnut pickle.'
'You were at home, then?'
'Yes. Watching the telly. Weren't we, Lisa Dawn? All afternoon. Except she ran 
up the shop for some crisps.' Barnaby looked at Lisa Dawn, whose thin legs 
dangled at least eighteen inches from the floor. Reading the look, Mrs Quine 
continued, 'She's ever so good crossing the road. And she always comes straight 
back. She's a big girl, 'ent you, Lisa Dawn? Tell the nice policeman how old 
you are.'
'Nearly four,' whispered the little girl.
'You are four. She's a good four,' insisted Mrs Quine, as if the child were a 
pair of shoes. 'And who bought you some sweeties in the shop?'
'Judy.'
'Auntie Judy. That's Doctor Lessiter's daughter. She often treats her. Bought 
her an egg at Easter, full of rabbits.' Lisa Dawn started to cry. 'Oh God - 
shut up can't you? What'll the gentlemen think? I shouldn't have said that . . 
. about the egg. The dog next door got off his chain and had her rabbit.'
'Poor Smokey.'
'All right, all right. We'll get you another.'
'What time was it when your daughter went to the shop?'
'Dunno exactly. We was watching Sons and Daughters so it must've been gone 
three.'
'And this was definitely the afternoon of the seventeenth?'
'Told you, haven't I?' She lit a third cigarette.
'And you were in all that evening?'
'Can't go anywhere with her.'
'Thank you.' Whilst Troy read the pro-forma back and Mrs Quine inhaled and 
tapped her feet and sighed, Barnaby tried to talk to Lisa Dawn but she shrank 
back in her chair and would not look at him. Bluish black marks, pretty as 
pansies, flowered along her inner arms. Before they had passed again between 
the rotten gate posts Barnaby heard her start to cry.
Barnaby switched on the fan in his office and asked for some coffee and a 
sandwich from the canteen. Before leaving to fetch them Policewoman Brierley 
said, 'I've put a message underneath your clip, sir. A Miss Bazely. She left 
her office number and asked if you'd ring.'
Barnaby lifted up the phone and dialled. The blue propellers of the fan, whilst 
making an efficient whirring sound, did no more than shift the warm air in a 
sluggish stream past his perspiring face. 'Miss Bazely? Detective Chief 
Inspector Barnaby here.'
'Oh yes . . . hullo . . . you know when we talked the other day and I thought 
there was something I hadn't told you?'
'Yes.'
'Well I've remembered what it was. I'll tell you now shall I?'
'Yes please.'
'I was in High Wycombe yesterday with my sister. I'm going to be her bridesmaid 
next month, you see, and we went to try on my dress. The shop's quite near the 
station actually, which means you can sometimes squeeze the car in - not for 
long of course - and it's called Anna Belinda. And that's what Miss Simpson 
said. Well, nearly.'
'Do you remember exactly?'
'Yes I do. She said, "Just like poor Annabella."'
'You're sure?'
'Positive.'
'Not simply Bella?'
'No. It was definitely Annabella.'
Barnaby replaced the phone and sat staring at it thoughtfully. His sandwich 
(chicken and watercress) arrived, and some delicious coffee from the office 
hotplate. Barnaby took it saying, 'Give the Social Services a ring, would you? 
I think someone should call at seven Burnham Crescent, Badger's Drift.'
'What shall I say, sir?'
'Ohh . . . possible child abuse. The woman's name is Quine. She needs help too. 
On the verge of a breakdown, I would say. And if you could get on to Slough. I 
need the address and number of a Mrs Norah Whiteley. She's a domestic science 
teacher. One son aged nine.' He took a ravenous bite of his sandwich, reducing 
it by half, picked up the receiver and dialled again.
'Miss Bellringer? Do you happen to know if your friend knew anyone called 
Annabella?' There was a longish pause then a negative reply. 'It wouldn't 
perhaps be Mrs Trace?'
'Oh no . . . her name was Beatrice. She called herself Bella because she 
thought it was more glamorous.'
'But did Miss Simpson know this?'
'She did indeed. I remember her saying to me what a mistake it was. She thought 
Beatrice a beautiful name. And Bella rather common.' She paused for breath. 
'There was an Isabella in my music class years ago. An immaculate child. I 
believe she's now a deaconess. Is that any help?'
Barnaby thanked her and said goodbye. He had forgotten for the moment that Miss 
Simpson had been a teacher for over forty years. The chances were that, even 
given the comparative rarity of the name, one or two Annabellas may have passed 
through her hands, swanking brightly amongst the mousey Jeans and Joans and 
Junes and Janes. But then Miss Simpson's recollection of the name had been 
triggered by the sight of a fornicating couple. How young had they started 
having it away twenty, thirty, forty years ago? Probably, he reflected, about 
as young as they did now. Some things never changed.
And why poor Annabella? He took another swig of his coffee and watched, out of 
the corner of his eye, an abseilling spider swing back and forth. Had she been 
destitute? Depraved? Dead? Barnaby thought of all the characters an 
eighty-year-old woman could have met with in a long and fairly well-travelled 
life. And heard about. And read about. He sighed, took another bite of his 
sandwich and faced the facts. Annabella could be practically anybody.
'Something I can do, sir?' asked Troy.
'Yes.' Barnaby emptied his mug. 'You can run me over to the Echo. I want to 
read the account of Bella Trace's death.'
'You don't think there's any connection?'
'I don't think anything at this stage. But it's an unnatural death in the same 
small area involving a circle of people whom we must now regard as suspect. It 
can't be overlooked. So finish your tea and look sharp about it.'
In a basement beneath the offices of the Causton Weekly Echo Barnaby spoke to 
an old man who seemed as much a fixture of the place as the ancient green 
filing cabinets and rusty water pipes writhing over the back wall. There was a 
huge boiler too, now unlit and quiet.
Barnaby asked to see the editions for September and October the previous year. 
The old man shuffled off to the files and shuffled back. He didn't speak or 
even remove the loosely wrapped unlit cigarette from his mouth. A few shreds of 
ginger tobacco fell on the newspapers as he handed them over. Barnaby took them 
to a reading stand by the window. The light was poor, the panes being of thick 
cobbled glass the colour of milk laced with whisky. To the accompaniment of a 
variety of overhead footsteps he flicked through the first two copies. The 
inquest on the death of Mrs Bella Trace was in the third. It was reported 
extensively and took up over half a page.
The shooting party had been a small one as these things go. Henry Trace, David 
Whiteley (who was described in a delicately worded if unnecessary addendum as 
assisting Mr Trace), Doctor T. Lessiter, friend of Mr Trace and also his 
personal physician, Mrs Trace, Miss Phyllis Cadell and two neighbouring 
landowners George Smollett and Frederick Lawley. Plus two beaters: Jim Burnet, 
a farm boy, and Michael Lacey, a young friend of the family.
Mrs Trace was apparently a few yards away from the main party when the accident 
occurred. As always on these occasions the accounts were confused and sometimes 
contradictory. Doctor Lessiter thought she had stumbled and was actually 
falling when the shot ran out, implying that she had tripped and fallen over 
her gun. She had already stumbled once over a tree root. The doctor admitted 
that this earlier incident might have contributed to his view of Mrs Trace's 
death. Michael Lacey said the shot came first but, after being questioned 
closely by the coroner, seemed less sure. The rest of the group noticed nothing 
until Mrs Trace was seen to be lying on the ground. Mr Trace, desperate to get 
to his wife, wrenched his wheelchair round too quickly and tipped it over. The 
dogs were rushing everywhere; all was confusion. Michael Lacey, nearest to Mrs 
Trace at the time, ran to the spot but was instructed by the doctor not to 
touch the injured woman but to run and phone for an ambulance.
Giving evidence, Doctor Lessiter said that Mrs Trace was dying even as he 
reached her. There was nothing anyone could have done. She did not speak but 
lost consciousness almost immediately and died a few moments later. There were 
some technical post-mortem details describing the angle at which the shot had 
entered the heart and left the body, splintering one of the vertebrae. The 
point was made both by Doctor Lessiter and Mr Trace that, at the time of the 
accident, all the other members of the party with the exception of Jim Burnet 
had been either behind or to the left of Mrs Trace and therefore could not have 
fired the fatal shot. Jim, although ahead, had been a good thirty yards to her 
right. Although both beaters had returned later, on Mr Trace's instructions, to 
search for the shot it had, not unnaturally given the dense surrounding 
woodland, remained unfound. The coroner expressed his condolences to the 
bereaved man and issued a verdict of Accidental Death.
Barnaby read the report again. It was very clearly written, everything seemed 
quite straightforward, yet there was something bothering him. Something buried 
in there that didn't seem quite right.
He returned three of the papers to the desiccated old man - who seemed even 
less interested to have them back than he was to part with them in the first 
place - and showed his warrant card. 'I'd like a photostat of this report,' he 
said, drawing a rapid circle around the details of the inquest.
''Ere!' The remains sparked inadvertently to life. 'You can't do that. That's 
from the files!'
'Is it?' Barnaby looked at the circle severely and shook his head. 'I don't 
know what the world's coming to and that's a fact. By four o'clock if that's 
all right with you.'


Chapter Six
The chief inspector noticed as Troy drove down Church Lane that Beehive Cottage 
already had a faintly neglected air, like that of a recently abandoned shell. 
The edging plants were straggling over the path, the curtains hung straight and 
still. On the wall outside Miss Bellringer's house Wellington lay, swiping at 
and occasionally consuming passing butterflies.
Opposite the layby where the houses ended a wooden sign said: Gessler Tye: One 
Mile. The track was quite wide and tyre marks were clearly visible. Barnaby 
indicated that they should drive down and Troy eased the car carefully between 
the edges.
'Good job we're not in the Rover, sir.'
'If we were in the Rover,' snapped Barnaby, 'I'd hardly be asking you to 
attempt it, would I?' His chicken and watercress sandwich had met with and was 
being vanquished by Mrs Rainbird's monstrously calorific spread. And he had 
left his tablets in the office.
'Suppose you wouldn't, sir.' Sergeant Troy thought Barnaby was a good name for 
someone who was always behaving like a bear with a sore head, and pictured 
himself in some years' time cutting his own sergeant down to size. He drove 
through a gap in the hedge which opened out into a large piece of roughly 
levelled ground and parked. Both men got out.
Creepy, thought Troy at his first sight of Holly Cottage. It was grey and 
austere, squatting on the very edge of the wood like a humped toad. In spite of 
the warmth of the day he shivered. You could imagine a witch crawling out of 
there all right and gobbling up Hansel and Gretel. Really Grimm. He smirked a 
little at his cleverness, wondered whether to relay this witticism to Barnaby, 
and decided against it. Things were fraught enough today as it was.
Then, as they approached the porch, the sun came out, striking the south-facing 
wall. The flints caught fire, glowing with the most subtle colours. Barnaby 
touched one. It was like a huge boiled sweet, all toffee-brown and cream 
striations. He knocked on the door. No reply.
He noticed a honeysuckle then, almost at his feet, small and struggling in a 
rank clump of nettles. Perhaps the girl had planted it, weeding the ground, 
watering, no doubt hoping that it would eventually climb all over the porch. 
Two flowers had opened against all the odds. It looked like a Serotina.
'Let's try the back.'
Behind the house was a small concrete yard, many more nettles, a water butt 
greenly stagnant with a thick crust of slime and three black plastic bags 
suppurating with rubbish. There were also two small windows, the panes filmed 
with dust. Barnaby rubbed at one and peered through.
A man wearing a blue shirt and corduroy jeans stained with paint was standing 
at an easel. He had his back to the window. He seemed to be working feverishly, 
the brush shifting from palette to canvas and back again in sharp, almost 
stabbing movements.
'He must have heard us, sir.'
'Oh I don't know. People in the throes of creation . . . he's probably miles 
away.'
Sergeant Troy sniffed. The idea that painting made you deaf was not one that he 
was prepared to countenance. He had no time for what he called the arty-farty 
element who contributed nothing whatever of value to society and then expected 
to be paid good money for it. Barnaby rapped on the window.
Immediately the man swung round. There was a blur of movement, a white face 
quickly turned away, and he almost ran from the room, slamming the door behind 
him. Barnaby heard a key turn then walked quickly back to the front of the 
house. He and Troy arrived in the porch just as Michael Lacey opened the door.
He was only slightly taller than his sister and enough like her to make the 
relationship unmistakable. The same deep violet eyes, the same dark hair cut 
very short and curling tightly all over his well-shaped head. He had neat small 
ears set rather far back which, coupled with the wide-set eyes, gave him a 
slightly dangerous look, like that of a wicked horse.
Remembering Mrs Rainbird's remark about the iron, Barnaby was expecting to see 
some dramatic and livid mutilation but, at first glance, Michael Lacey's face 
seemed completely unmarked. Then Barnaby noticed that from the top of the left 
cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth the skin was unnaturally tight; 
glassy sugar-pig pink skin. It must have been some burn to have needed a graft 
that size. As well as good looks (which the strangely shining strip of skin 
hardly seemed to mar) he exuded crackling sardonic masculinity. Not warmth, 
though. Michael Lacey would organize the world and its inhabitants to suit 
himself. Barnaby felt sorry for Judy Lessiter. And even, come to that, for the 
repellent Mr Rainbird.
He said, 'May we come in for a moment?'
'What do you want?'
'We're police officers -'
'So you're police officers. What am I supposed to do? Run up a flag?'
'We're visiting everyone in the village -'
'I don't live in the village. I'm amazed that your deductive powers have led 
you to believe that I do.'
'- and the surrounding area. This is quite usual, Mr Lacey, during a general -'
'Look. I'm sorry about Miss Simpson. I liked her. But I take no part in village 
affairs, as any of the local gossips will confirm. And now you'll have to 
excuse me -'
'We won't keep you a moment, sir.' Barnaby moved forward very slightly and 
Michael Lacey stepped back very slightly, just enough to let the two men enter 
the cottage. Uncarpeted stairs were directly to the left of him and he sat on 
them, leaving the other two standing.
'Did you know Miss Simpson well?'
'I don't know anyone well. She let me do a series of paintings of her garden . 
. . different times of the year . . . but that was ages ago. I hadn't seen her 
for . . . ohh . . . a couple of months at least.' He gazed at the chief 
inspector, alert, detached, a little amused, deciding to treat this enforced 
interruption as an entertainment.
'Could you tell me where you were on the afternoon and evening of last Friday?'
'Here.'
'Well that's certainly a prompt reply, Mr Lacey. Don't you need to reflect at 
all?'
'No. I'm always here. Working. Sometimes I take a break to walk in the woods.'
'And did you walk in the woods that day?' inquired Barnaby.
'I may have done. I really don't remember. As all my days are the same I don't 
need to keep a diary.'
'It seems rather a dull life for a young man.'
Michael Lacey looked at his bare feet. They were beautiful feet: long, narrow, 
elegant, with papery skin and fine bones. Byzantine feet. Then he looked 
directly at Barnaby and said, 'My work is my life.' He spoke quietly but with 
such a charge of passionate conviction that Barnaby, dabbler in watercolours, 
casual member of the Causton Arts Circle, felt a stab of envy. He then told 
himself that conviction didn't mean talent, as many an exposure to Joyce's 
drama group had confirmed. Armed with this rather churlish perception, he said, 
'There are one or two more questions, Mr Lacey, if you wouldn't mind -'
'But I do mind. I hate being interrupted.'
'I understand,' continued Barnaby smoothly, 'that you were present when the 
late Mrs Trace was killed.'
'Bella?' He looked puzzled. 'Yes I was but I can't see . . .' He paused. 'You 
don't think there's any connection . . . ?' His previous animosity seemed 
forgotten. He looked genuinely interested. 'No . . . how could there be?'
'I gather from the newspaper report that you were the first person to reach Mrs 
Trace.'
'That's right. Lessiter said not to touch her but to run and ring for an 
ambulance, which I did.'
'Was there anyone at Tye House at the time?'
'Only Katherine. Toadying away like mad.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'In the kitchen making sandwiches, stuffing vol au vents, chopping up hunter's 
pie.'
'Whilst you were helping with the beating.'
'That's different. I was being paid!' Barnaby's dig stung the anger back into 
his voice. He confirmed that no one in the party had been in a position to 
shoot Mrs Trace, then said, 'I don't know why you're asking me. I didn't even 
have a gun.'
'I understand that you and the other beater searched for the cartridge 
afterwards?'
'I wouldn't put it quite as strongly as that. We had a cursory poke round but 
it seemed so pointless that we soon gave up.'
'Thank you, Mr Lacey.'
As the two policemen climbed into the car Troy, remembering his earlier gaffe 
about the Rover, strove to think of something perceptive and intelligent to 
say. 'Did you notice that he locked the door of the room where he was painting? 
I thought that was a bit strange.'
'Oh, I don't know. Creative people often have an intensely protective attitude 
about work in progress. Look at Jane Austen's creaking door.'
Sergeant Troy reversed, using a large, double-sided mirror which had been fixed 
in the hedge, giving a view of the approaching path and the front of the 
cottage. 'That's a point, sir,' he replied. There was no way he was going to 
let on he knew nothing of Jane Austen's creaking door. As for Michael Lacey 
being love's young dream, well . . . He glanced in the mirror and briefly 
smoothed his carrot-coloured hair. Surely it was only in romantic novels that 
girls preferred dark men.
Michael Lacey watched from the porch while the car drove away then returned to 
his studio. He picked up his palette and brush, stared at the easel for a 
moment, then put them down again. The light was dying. In spite of the recent 
interruption he had had a good day. Sometimes he worked in a fury of 
resentment; tearing up sketches, painting over scenes that would not come right 
in a frenzy, occasionally weeping with rage. But days like that paid for days 
like this. From the striving came, sometimes, a marvellous and felicitous ease. 
He studied the figure in the painting. There was still a lot to do. He had put 
on the dead colour, that was all. But he was excited by it. He had the absolute 
conviction that it was going to be successful. It was tremendous when that 
happened. The belief that, no matter what he did, how he approached it, 
whatever the technique, it was going to work. His conviction was so strong that 
he felt he couldn't spoil it even if he tried.
He went to the kitchen and opened a can of baked beans and sausages and, 
spooning them into his mouth, returned to his workroom. The fading light 
appeared to alter the shape of the place, made the walls shifting and 
amorphous. Four vast abstracts covered with thick white paint loomed at him 
from a few feet away. In the corner of each was a dark, imploding star, now no 
more than a smudge in the crepuscular light.
On top of the corner cupboard was an old-fashioned pewter student's lamp. He 
lit the candle and wandered round the room looking at the many canvases stacked 
against the walls. Although there was a strong fluorescent strip light on the 
ceiling Michael Lacey loved the effect of candles. Colours on the paintings 
became richer, many-layered; eyes seemed to flicker and mouths twitch with the 
illusion of light. Solid flesh was transformed into something rare and 
delicate. The effect was stimulating and seemed to fill his mind with wonderful 
and subtle ideas.
In the corner cupboard was a pile of paperbacks and art catalogues, all well 
thumbed, the spines cracked and, in some cases, broken. He pulled one out at 
random and sat contemplating a plate by Botticelli. How seductive, he thought, 
the tender vivacious faces adorned with fresh spring flowers. He finished the 
beans and sat for a moment longer utterly content, imagining himself walking 
round the Uffizi, standing in homage in front of the original. Then he opened 
the window, threw up the tin and kicked it, a shining arc, through the window 
and into the night.


Chapter Seven
Late that evening Barnaby sat toying with a salad. He had deliberately stayed 
on at the station, looking through the pro-formas as they appeared in his tray, 
until he felt dinner would be beyond redemption and a tin opened with no hard 
feelings. He had forgotten there were such things as tomatoes and cucumber and 
beetroot . . .
One would have thought that not even Joyce could have maltreated a salad to the 
point where it became inedible, but one would have been wrong. Abustle with 
wild life, it was also soaked in a vinegary dressing. Barnaby lifted a soggy 
lettuce leaf. A small insect emerged, valiantly swimming against the tide.
'It's Bakewell Surprise for afters,' she called from the kitchen, doubly 
percipient. He was hungry too. This last phenomenon always surprised him. It 
was rather touching, really: no matter how much stick he gave his stomach there 
it was, a few hours later, hopeful if apprehensive, wondering if this time its 
luck would change.
'And Cully's coming next weekend.' She gave him the tart, a cup of tea and a 
fond kiss. 'All right?'
'Lovely. How long for?'
'Just till Sunday teatime.'
Barnaby and Joyce looked at each other. They both loved and were immensely 
proud of their only child. And they both thought it much nicer when she was not 
at home. Neither of them ever said so. Even when quite small Cully had had a 
sharp eye and an unkind tongue. Both had become more finely honed with the 
passing years. Outstanding at school, she was now reading English at New Hall 
and confidently expected to get a good second in spite of the fact that she 
seemed to Barnaby to spend all her time rehearsing some play or other.
'Will you be able to pick her up on Saturday?'
'Not sure.' Barnaby put his Bakewell Surprise to the sword, which was more than 
it deserved, and wondered what his daughter would be next seen wearing. She had 
always dressed in a provoking manner but he and Joyce had assumed, seeing her 
off on the Cambridge train, that the days of dishcloth and safety-pin skirts 
and tie and dye makeup were over (indeed they half expected her to be sent 
smartly home again) but each brief and infrequent visit since had presented 
them with ever more exotic and alarming transformations. The nice thing about 
these occasions was that having left home, as she put it, whilst she still had 
her health and strength, Cully protected these twin assets by always arriving 
with a goodly supply of gorgeous food from Marks and Spencers and Joshua 
Taylor's deli.
'You won't forget to ring your father?'
Barnaby took his tea and sat by the fireplace. As he had been ringing his 
parents once a week for a quarter of a century he'd hardly be likely to. They 
were both in their eighties and had retired to just outside Eastbourne twenty 
years before. There they inhaled the ozone, played bowls and gardened, as spry 
as tinkers.
'No, I won't.'
'Do it now before you settle down.'
'I have settled down.'
'Then you can enjoy your tea.'
Barnaby dutifully hauled himself out of his chair. His mother answered the 
phone and, after a token inquiry about his own health and that of his family, 
launched into an account of her week which included a splendid row at the Arts 
Circle when a nonagenarian had suggested a life class. She ended, as she always 
did, by saying, 'I'll just call Daddy.'
Barnaby senior then described his week which had included a splendid row at a 
meeting of the preservation society over a Victorian bandstand. What a 
bellicose lot they were down there, thought Barnaby who, when his parents had 
moved, had pictured them passing their hours dozing peacefully in their 
conservatory. A rather unsound piece of image-making, he now admitted. They had 
never been the dozing kind. His father finished describing how he had finally 
scuppered an unscrupulous opponent on the bowling green.
Barnaby listened patiently then said, almost as an afterthought, 'Never mind. 
We're in the middle of the cricket season. I expect you're glued to the set 
most days.'
'Certainly am. Rented one of those video gadgets. Play back the best bits. 
Terrible about Friday, wasn't it?'
Barnaby smiled indulgently. His father must know that he was never around in 
the daytime to watch cricket, yet always assumed he knew exactly what was being 
discussed.
'What happened?'
'Why, no match, dear boy. Not enough light. The umpire offered Allenby the 
option and he decided to stop play. Eleven ack-emma. Everything was ready this 
end. Cucumber sandwiches, jug of mint tea. Settled in for the duration. We were 
totally distraught. Well, to be honest, your mother wasn't too bothered but it 
did for my day, I can tell you.'
After due commiserations Barnaby returned to his armchair and a fresh cup of 
tea. 'People have started lying to me, Joyce.'
'Oh yes, dear . . .' The pale silky knitting grew. 'In this business at 
Badger's Drift, you mean?'
'Mm. Katherine Lacey was seen in the village during the evening she said she 
didn't go out. Judy Lessiter said she was at work all afternoon and was seen in 
the village shop at half-past three. Trevor Lessiter said he was at home 
watching cricket . . . "superb bowling" . . . and the match was cancelled. And 
Phyllis Cadell went rigid with fright when she saw us, then tried to cover it 
by some silly story about her road tax.'
'Goodness . . . that seems plenty to be going on with.' The names meant nothing 
to Joyce Barnaby and she knew Tom was really only thinking aloud, getting his 
thoughts into some sort of order. She listened intently all the same.
'And Barbara Lessiter, the esteemed doctor's wife, had something in this 
morning's mail that turned her white as a sheet.'
'How do you know?' Barnaby told her. 'Oh - it's probably a final demand. I 
expect she's been buying clothes and run up a terrible bill somewhere.'
'No.' Barnaby shook his head. 'It was something more than that. And where was 
she the night Emily Simpson died? Driving round. Very vague.'
'But innocent people are vague. They don't always have alibis. Or know 
precisely what they were doing and when. You've always said that. What was she 
doing in the afternoon?'
'Shopping in Causton.'
'There you are, then,' said Joyce, irrefutably. 'She's been overspending.'
Barnaby smiled across at her, drained his cup and replaced it in the saucer. 
Something told him that it was not that simple. That none of it was going to be 
that simple.


Chapter Eight
Next morning, the day before the inquest was due to be reconvened, Barnaby got 
to his office early and settled down for a rapid read-through of pro-formas, 
statements and reports. The gist of these would later be transferred to a 
rotating card system (they were still waiting for a computer). He called for 
some coffee and began.
He read fast and skilfully, seizing on tiny details, passing quickly over the 
mundane and merely repetitious. The result was pretty much as he had expected. 
The only males in the village not at work on the afternoon of the seventeenth 
or at home with their wives were two unemployed men who spent the time on their 
respective allotments in full view of each other. The vicar had been in his 
study working on next week's sermon. A fact confirmed by his housekeeper who 
had been making jam in the kitchen and was highly indignant that the vicar, a 
frail old party of seventy-three, should have been questioned at all. In the 
evening the men were either at home with their families or in the Black Boy. 
Policewoman Brierley brought in the coffee and Barnaby took it gratefully.
The women of Badger's Drift also seemed to be accounted for. Some were out at 
work. The old ones at home. The rest (with the exception of Mrs Quine) in the 
village hall preparing for the morrow. The young women who had left the hall in 
plenty of time for a quick frolic in the bracken had all met their children off 
the school bus and gone home to a blameless tea. In the evening three carloads 
had gone to Causton for a keep-fit class and the rest had stayed at home. 
Assuming that the couple in the woods were inhabitants of the village, which 
Barnaby was still inclined to do, the circle of suspects was very small indeed.
He finished his coffee, noting with some surprise, as the liquid went down, the 
gradual emergence of a green frog wearing a friendly smile and a straw boater, 
and playing a banjo. He turned to the scene-of-crime reports.
There were not many surprises. The larder window had been forced and traces of 
white paint were on the inside shelf. There was not, alas, the weather being 
dry, a lump of mud with the pattern of a shoe sole clearly visible. No 
fingerprints on the piecrust table, the hemlock-filled jar, garden trowel, door 
handles and all the other places one would expect to find fingerprints. And 
none on the telephone - which was strange, as the last person to handle that 
should have been Doctor Lessiter. And what reason would he have for wiping it 
clean? The pencil mark on the copy of Julius Caesar was a 6B. Not perhaps as 
common as some but hardly a vanishing species. The pencil had not been found. 
Elimination tests showed that any prints belonged either to the deceased or to 
Miss Lucy Bellringer.
He skimmed the second report again briefly but he had missed very little the 
first time. A search for the rug was in progress but Barnaby was not 
optimistic. Anyone who was so punctilious over fingerprints would hardly leave 
the thing lying around in the back of a car or flung over a sofa. Of course it 
was hardly common knowledge that the fibres of a rug had been found and not 
everyone knew that semen stains were as conclusive as fingerprints. The police 
might just be lucky. Troy opened the door.
'Car ready when you are, Chief.'
'Of course, sir,' said Sergeant Troy, turning off the Gessler Tye road towards 
Badger's Drift, 'that could've been arse bandits in the woods. You know . . . 
gay.' There could not have been more venom in the last word if the couple had 
been seen devouring children.
This was the fifth suggestion he had made in the last ten minutes, all 
scrupulously punctuated with 'sirs'. He was very free with his 'sirs', was 
Troy. You couldn't fault him on etiquette. Nor on discipline. Sergeant Troy 
played it by the book. He passed his exams with room to spare, his reports were 
models of concise yet comprehensive information. He was without the silly 
romanticism that lured so many men and women into the force and also without 
the rather watery compassion that usually evaporated when confronted by their 
first one hundred per cent amoral, ruthlessly proficient, frequently armed 
villain. Especially he was without the compassion. He was about to chirp up 
again. Really, thought the chief inspector, with a more likable personality you 
could have called him irrepressible.
Before Troy could speak Barnaby said, 'That had occurred to me as well but, as 
far as we know, only Dennis Rainbird fits that description. I checked with his 
partner and he definitely didn't leave work until quarter to five on the 
Friday. Also there seems to be no reason why he should conceal any such 
relationship. It's no longer against the law.'
'More's the pity,' said Troy, adding, with unusual percipience, 'I bet his 
mother would be jealous, though.' Then, 'Shan't we be a bit early for the 
Lessiter girl?'
'It's her half day.'
'Oh my God!' Sergeant Troy slammed on the brakes. The car screamed to a stop. 
Barnaby pitched forward, saved from a collision with the windscreen by his 
belt. A figure had leapt out from behind the village post box almost directly 
in their path. Barnaby wound the window down and spoke through blanched lips.
'It's really not a good idea, Miss Bellringer--'
'How fortuitous.' She beamed at them. A faint scent of carnations and orris 
root pervaded the interior of the car. Before Barnaby could stop her she had 
opened the door, climbed in and disposed herself on the back seat. 'Now,' she 
said, 'first and before I forget, the funeral's tomorrow. Eleven-thirty. I 
don't know if you wish to come?'
Barnaby murmured something noncommittal. Sergeant Troy dug out a packet of 
Chesterfields with trembling fingers.
'And don't do that in here, young man. You'll put us all at risk.' He dropped 
the cigarettes on his lap, leaned back and closed his eyes. 'Now,' she smiled 
sweetly at Barnaby, 'tell me how you're getting on with your disquisition. Are 
you any further forrard?'
'We're continuing our investigations.'
'There's no need to be so hoity-toity, Chief Inspector. After all if it weren't 
for me you wouldn't have a case at all. And you did say I could help.' She 
accompanied this outrageous lie with a shining glance, as clear and candid as a 
child's. Before Barnaby could get his breath she added, 'Have you spoken to 
that dreadful Mrs Rainbird?'
'We have.'
'What's she say? Did she see anything?'
The chief inspector saw no need to conceal Mrs Rainbird's revelations. No doubt 
they were all over the village by now. 'She did see Miss Lacey that evening. 
Going out to post a letter.'
'Hmmn.' Miss Bellringer snorted. 'That girl is far too beautiful for other 
people's good. Look here - there's no point in dancing around the mulberry 
bush. It's pretty obvious to an old hand like myself why we're all being 
questioned about the afternoon as well as the evening. Emily saw something in 
the woods and it's my belief that what we're talking about here is illicit 
passion.' Her voice rang out, investing the words with positively Brontean 
splendour. 'To wit Katherine Lacey and her inamorato. It's as plain as a 
horse's tail. Can you imagine what discovery would have meant? No marriage, for 
a start. Henry might be besotted but he's not that much of a fool. It would 
have been goodbye to Tye House and all that money and, incidentally, to an 
easily cuckolded spouse. Madly in love and confined to a wheelchair? Talk about 
a combination devoutly to be wished. She'd be able to do more or less as she 
liked. And there's bad blood in that family. The father was no good. Drove his 
poor wife into her grave.'
'So I understand.'
'Old sins cast long shadows.' Barnaby was silent. 'Did Mrs R see the girl 
coming back?'
'Apparently not. She started playing Monopoly with her son.'
'The slithy tove?' Barnaby smiled appreciatively.
'She did say Miss Lacey had one of the beagles with her.'
'One of the beagles.' Miss Bellringer seized his arm. 'Are you sure?'
'Mrs Rainbird's sure.'
She crumpled back into her seat. Even her buoyant draperies, today trimmed with 
what looked like shredded beetroot, seemed to wilt. 'Then our case collapses.'
'Why is that?' asked the chief inspector, letting the 'our' pass for the time 
being.
'There was no noise from Benjy. He was good if a person he knew came to the 
door . . . good as gold . . . but let another dog as much as set foot in the 
garden and he went berserk. And I would certainly have heard him. Living so 
close.'
'Perhaps Miss Lacey could have tied him up,' suggested Troy, stimulated in 
spite of himself by the vitality of the narrative. 'The beagle I mean.'
'Hooo.' A sound like a ship's hooter. 'You don't know beagles. They won't sit 
meekly down and wait while you go about your business. They're a highly 
vociferous lot. If she'd tied him up the whole village would have known about 
it. No - not a dog barked, I'm sure. Ah well' - she opened the right-hand door, 
knocking ten years off the life of a passing cyclist, and stepped smartly out - 
'we'll have to think again. I'm loathe to part with the Laceys, mind you. What 
about the brother?'
'The brother has no motive, Miss Bellringer. And now I'm afraid you'll have to 
excuse me.'
'If someone had wrung her neck I could understand it.' Troy drew a deep, 
juddering breath as he drove off. 'They just don't care, do they? Your genuine 
eccentrics? They don't care what you think.'
'A genuine eccentric,' replied Barnaby, 'doesn't even notice what you think.' 
He added, 'Keep an eye out for that dog,' as Troy entered the cobbled yard of 
Tye House and parked, almost chastely and quite without his usual pizzaz, near 
the kitchen door. But the warning was unnecessary. Benjy did not come to meet 
them but lay on the step, very thin, his grey muzzle resting on his paws. His 
tail heaved off the ground and thumped up and down once or twice as he peered 
anxiously towards them. Like Ulysses' hound he waited, faithful to the last.
'Poor old boy,' said the sergeant. 'Good boy.' He was about to stroke the dog 
but as he bent down Benjy turned his head and something in his eyes stayed 
Troy's hand. 'They should've had this dog seen to by now.'
Barnaby pointed to the far end of the lawn. 'In the garden,' he said. As the 
two men descended the steps between the stone urns brimming with flowers he 
felt a welcome breeze against his temples. It pressed the lemon voile of 
Katharine Lacey's dress close against the slender curves of her body. She was 
standing behind Henry's chair, her arms across his chest, her head close to 
his. As Barnaby approached she pointed to a nearby grove of poplars. Henry 
shook his head and they both laughed. Then she started to push the chair in 
Barnaby's direction.
'We're going to have a hundred people here on Saturday, Inspector,' called 
Trace. 'Where do you think we should put the marquee?'
Spoilt for choice, really, thought Troy, in a garden that size. Still all the 
money in the world wouldn't make his legs more lively. Imagine going down the 
aisle to a gorgeous piece of skirt like that in a wheelchair. He smiled 
confidently and said, 'Good afternoon, Miss Lacey.'
'Wherever we put it,' she smiled at the two policemen, 'it's going to make a 
terrible mess.'
'Oh grass soon recovers,' replid Henry. 'Are you a gardening man, Inspector 
Barnaby?'
Barnaby indicated that he was and asked if they'd come to any decision yet 
about the rosarium. This led to a lot of pleasant horticultural chat and to 
Henry describing his wedding gift for Katherine, which was nineteen 
old-fashioned moss and climbing roses: 'A flower for each year of her life.'
'Then we shall plant one on all our wedding anniversaries until we're old and 
grey,' said Katherine. 'And that will be our rosarium.'
Barnaby let this amiable pool of conversation fill up for a while then dropped 
his stone. 'Oh - a small point, Miss Lacey. When I spoke to you a few days ago 
I understood you to say that you spent the evening of the seventeenth here with 
Mr Trace.'
'That's right, I did.'
'And you didn't go out at all?'
'No. We were here all the time.'
'You were seen walking in the village.'
'Me?' She looked genuinely puzzled. 'But I couldn't have - Oh! Of course. I ran 
out to post a letter. D'you remember, darling? We said we'd order a Notcutt's 
catalogue and I thought I'd do it straight away.'
'Wouldn't it be quicker to do that by telephone?'
'They're not free. You have to send a cheque.'
'That would be their main branch at Woodbridge?' She nodded. 'Do you remember 
how long you were out?'
'Not exactly. I just ran Peel to the end of Church Lane and home again. 
Surely,' she added crisply, 'whoever saw me going out saw me coming back?'
'Apparently not.'
'Dear me. Sleeping at their post were they?'
'You didn't see anyone whilst you were out?'
'Not a soul.'
'You would support what Miss Lacey says, sir?'
'Well . . . I didn't see Katherine leave--'
'No, you dropped off after dinner. That's the only reason I went just then, 
really.'
'Yes. I often do these days,' he smiled at Barnaby. 'She was certainly here 
when I woke.' As he was speaking two black and gold vans - 'Lazenby et cie' - 
crunched over the gravel and through the main gate.
'It's the caterers,' cried Katherine. 'I'd better go--'
'Actually, Miss Lacey, I did want a further word . . .'
'Oh.' She looked at her fiance uncertainly.
'Don't worry - I'll go.' Henry Trace pushed himself away, making for the wooden 
ramp by the terrace steps. Katherine followed him slowly, Barnaby by her side, 
Troy bringing up a salivatory rear.
'I wonder,' said Barnaby, 'if you remember the day Mrs Trace died?'
'Bella? Of course I do.' She looked at him curiously. 'It's not the kind of 
thing one forgets in a hurry. It was terrible.'
'I understand that you were not a member of the party?'
'No. I stayed here, preparing the tea. Usually Phyllis helped but on that day 
she went out with the shoot.'
'That was unusual, was it?'
'Very.'
'So the first you knew about the tragedy . . . ?'
'Was when Michael came racing in, grabbed the phone and shouted down it for an 
ambulance.'
'I see. Would you say . . .' - he hesitated, picking the words over carefully 
in his mind - 'that Mr and Mrs Trace were happy?'
'Well . . . yes . . . they always seemed so to me. Although of course outsiders 
never really know, do they? They were both very kind to Michael and myself. And 
Henry was absolutely distraught when she died.'
Barnaby turned and looked back over the line of poplars and wooded ground 
beyond. 'Was it over there the accident happened?'
Katherine followed his gaze. 'Oh no . . . in the beechwoods that lie behind 
Holly Cottage.'
'I see. Well, thank you again.'
They had reached the terraced steps by now and walked up them together. As they 
crossed the yard Benjy made a sound from the doorstep and staggered to his 
feet. Katherine turned away from the sight.
'Oh, why won't he eat!' she burst out passionately to the two men. 'I bought 
him everything - lovely meat, biscuits. He's got his own basket and blanket and 
dish - everything he had over there . . .'
'They pine, I'm afraid,' said Barnaby.
'But you'd think they'd want to stay alive, however sad they are.'
'He's a pretty old dog, miss,' said Troy sympathetically. 'I think he's just 
tired. He's had enough.'
'Are you through with Katherine, Chief Inspector? I really need her over here.'
'Well - that's that,' sighed Barnaby a few moments later as they drove away. 'I 
suppose it was too much to hope that Katherine Lacey and the Lessiter girl 
would have been wandering up and down Church Lane at the same time last Friday 
night.'
'But . . . you do believe her, sir?' asked Troy, still a little dazed by the 
rainbow lustre of the Lacey smile. 'About the letter?'
'Oh yes. I'll get it followed up of course but I've no doubt that she posted it 
when and where she says. If she's innocent there'd be no point in making up 
such a story. And if she's guilty she'd make doubly sure anything we could 
check on was genuine.'
'Guilty.' Troy unwisely took his eyes off the road to give Barnaby an 
incredulous glance and missed the opening to the Lessiters' drive.
'You really must give up this physiognomy, Troy. It can only hinder your 
career. She's got more to lose than any of them.'
'But the dog, sir. The dog didn't bark.'
'Yes, the dog's a problem, I admit.'
Or perhaps the dog wasn't a problem, he thought as Troy reversed and drove up 
to the Lessiters' front door. Perhaps the dog meant he could score a line 
through Katherine Lacey once and for all. One down, six to go. Or seven if he 
kept a really open mind and included the seemingly impossible Henry Trace. What 
about if he had fallen hopelessly in love with Katherine when his wife was 
still alive and had hired someone to lurk in the undergrowth and pop Bella off? 
Barnaby dragged his attention back to the present and reminded himself yet 
again that he had no reason to suppose that Mrs Trace's death was anything but 
an accident. And that he was in fact now engaged in investigating something 
quite different.
The doctor's surgery still had fifteen minutes to run, which suited the chief 
inspector very well. Judy Lessiter opened the main door, looking even less 
attractive than she had the previous day. She had a frowsty air, like that of a 
small animal emerging after a long period of hibernation.
'Yes.'
'We'd like a word with your father--'
'Surgery round the side.' She started to close the door. Barnaby moved forward. 
'And with you also, please.'
She stared at him sullenly for a moment then shrugged and led them into the 
kitchen. She turned to face them, leaning against the sink.
'Miss Lessiter, you told me earlier that you were in the library during the 
afternoon of the seventeenth.'
'No I didn't.'
'I'm sorry but I checked your statement before coming here.'
'I said I was at work. I don't stand behind a counter stamping books. Part of 
my job is to visit schools, technical colleges . . . liaise with 
administrators, check if there are any projects that may mean ordering special 
books. On Friday afternoon I was at Gessler Tye primary school.'
'I must say I feel that you have deliberately attempted to mislead us in this 
matter.'
'That's your problem,' she said rudely.
'So if you would go through your movements again?'
'I take sandwiches for lunch. I ate them then--'
'This is in the library at Pinner?'
'Yes. Made some coffee. Drove to the school, arriving about two, and stayed 
till they finished around three forty-five. '
'And you then returned to the library?'
'No. It hardly seemed worth it. I drove straight here . . . stopping off at the 
village shop for some cigarettes.'
Jammy, thought Sergeant Troy, always convinced that everyone but himself, 
jobwise, was getting away with murder.
'Your father will vouch for your time of arrival?'
'My father?' She looked puzzled, then wary.
'He was here all afternoon, I understand.'
There was a pause while she looked from Barnaby to Sergeant Troy and back 
again. 'Is it a trick?'
'What?'
'I mean . . . are you trying to catch me out?'
'I don't understand you, Miss Lessiter. Your father has stated that he was at 
home all afternoon. I'm merely asking if he can corroborate your time of 
arrival.'
'Well . . . I went straight upstairs . . . so . . . I wouldn't have seen him.'
'I see. And the evening?'
'Oh I've nothing to change there. I just went for a walk, as I've already said.'
'Down the lane, past the fields for about half a mile, then back?'
'That's right.'
'And you didn't stop anywhere or call on anyone?' He added quickly before she 
could speak, 'Please think very carefully before you answer.'
She stared at him. He looked serious, encouraging and, somehow, faintly 
knowledgeable. He could see she was wondering about the close re-questioning. 
'Well . . . I'm not sure I remember . . . exactly . . .' She swallowed and 
chewed her bottom lip.
'I know how difficult it must be to change a story, but if you need to now's 
the time to do it. I must remind you that withholding information that may 
assist a police inquiry is a very serious matter.'
'Oh but I'm not! Nothing that would help, that is . . .'
'I think you should let me be the judge of that.'
'Yes.' She took a deep breath. She stopped leaning on the sink and stood 
upright looking taut and fearful, like someone preparing for a high dive. 'I 
have . . . that is I'm friendly with Michael Lacey. At Holly Cottage. I hadn't 
heard from him for a few days and . . . well, he said he wanted to paint me so 
I thought I'd . . . drop in . . . you know, to see when he wanted to start.' 
Barnaby listened sympathetically. In trying to sound casual she had simply 
underlined her desperation. 'So I walked up to the house but when I got there . 
. . I could see through the window that he was working--'
'Which window was that?'
'The front window by the porch.'
'He doesn't usually use that room, surely?'
'Sometimes - in the evening. To get the last of the light.'
'Ah, I see. Carry on.'
'He gets very angry if he's disturbed when he's painting. He says it's very 
hard to get back into the feel of it again. So I thought I'd better not . . . 
well . . . I just crept away.'
'You think he didn't know you were there?'
'Oh I'm sure he didn't. I was very quiet.' She paused a moment then, looking at 
Barnaby for the first time, burst out, 'You mustn't believe what people say 
about Michael. They hate him here because he doesn't care about things they all 
care about . . . petty, boring things. He's a free spirit! As long as he can 
paint and walk in the woods and look at the sky . . . and he's been so unhappy. 
Katherine's so bourgeois - she only cares about material things - and now once 
the wedding's over he'll be all alone . . .' There was a clarion note of hope 
in the last few words. For a moment her eyes shone so brilliantly that her 
rather stodgy face was transformed. Barnaby saw for the first time why Michael 
Lacey might have asked her to sit for him. He glanced at the clock over the 
kitchen door. Judy, as if already regretting her passionate declamation, 
presented her back to them and turned on both the taps. She stood watching the 
water bouncing off the gleaming metal, hearing the two sets of footsteps move 
to the door and cross the hall. She reduced the water to a thin colourless 
stream. The front door closed. She switched the taps off.
Her hands trembled and she gripped the edge of the sink to still them. Talking 
about Michael always had this effect on her. Describing her abortive visit, her 
lack of courage and her humiliating retreat on tiptoe, had made her feel quite 
sick. But it had put the record straight, that was the main thing. She was glad 
about that. Especially after her silly attempt to be clever about her movements 
in the afternoon. Then she realized that her recent confession had brought 
about a secondary benefit. If Miss Simpson's death had been due to foul play 
(and why else would there be all this questioning?) she had given Michael an 
alibi. He may well not care about this one way or the other but the fact could 
not be denied. She hugged this small service to her heart. Perhaps he would 
never know but it was something she could keep in reserve to be offered up if 
the right moment ever came.
She heard the click of the phone. It must be Barbara. Judy had been standing so 
very still and quiet for the past few minutes that her stepmother might have 
assumed she was in her room. Or in the garden. Because there was something so 
soft, almost furtive about that click. Judy crept on slippered feet across the 
vinyl tiles, step by careful step. Barnaby had left the door a little ajar and 
Judy stood looking through the crack.
Barbara had her back to the kitchen and was shielding the mouthpiece with her 
hand. Nevertheless her hoarse whisper made every word clearly audible.
'Darling, I'm sorry but I had to ring. Didn't you get my note? . . . What d'you 
mean there's nothing you can do? You've got to help me. You've got to . . . You 
must have some money . . . I've done that. I've sold everything that I thought 
he wouldn't notice, even my coat . . . No, it was being stored for the winter . 
. . How the hell do I know what I'll say? . . . Three thousand and it cost him 
ten so I'm still nearly a thousand short. For God's sake - I'm only in this 
mess because of you . . . You bastard, it wasn't me who said I was counting the 
hours - I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Darling? I'm sorry - don't hang up! 
Please - you must help. It'll be the end of everything here if he finds out. 
You don't know what my life was like before. I'll never go back to that. I'll - 
hullo, hullo . . . ?'
Feverishly she clicked at the receiver rest. She stood for a moment, her 
shoulders drooping in despair, then she slammed down the phone and ran back 
upstairs.
Judy stepped back from her narrow secret observation post and smiled.
The surgery was empty. As they entered, a woman, her skin the colour of clay, 
came out of the consulting room and stood looking around in dazed disbelief. 
The receptionist hurried out from her cubicle but the woman pushed past her and 
the two men, almost running from the room. Doctor Lessiter's buzzer sounded and 
a moment later they were shown in. He was replacing a file in a big wooden 
cupboard. 'Horrible part of the job,' he said, sounding brisk and unconcerned, 
'there's no way to break bad news is there?'
'Indeed there isn't, Doctor Lessiter.' Barnaby could not have wished for a 
neater opening. 'I favour the straightforward approach myself. Could you tell 
me what you were doing on the afternoon of Friday the seventeenth of this 
month?'
'I've already told you.' He sat behind his desk and got on with a bit of 
knuckle cracking. 'What an inefficient lot you are, to be sure. Don't tell me 
you've forgotten already.'
'You stated that you were watching the Test match on television.'
'That's right.'
'All afternoon?'
'Absolutely.' He pulled a final finger. The crack sounded very loud in the 
quiet room. Suddenly the silence seemed to thicken; change character. The 
doctor was staring at his fingers with some surprise as if he had never seen 
them before. He looked at Barnaby's grave features, at Troy and back to Barnaby 
again. 'Yes. Absolutely . . . that's right.' But the certainty had gone. It was 
no longer a statement of fact. He had the air of a man who knows he's been 
rumbled but doesn't yet know how.
'The light stopped play at eleven that morning. For the day.'
'Oh . . . well . . . maybe it was Thursday I watched. Yes, actually it was. I 
remember now--'
'You have your rounds on Thursday. Or so you declared in your previous 
statement.'
'Oh yes - of course I do. How silly of me . . .' Sweat beaded his forehead and 
started to roll, like transparent little glass beads, down his nose. His eyes 
flickered around the room seeking inspiration from the instrument cabinet, the 
chrome, rubber-covered examination trolley, the big wooden cupboard. 'I don't 
see the point of this, you know. I mean we all know the old lady died in the 
evening.'
'I can assure you our inquiries are very relevant. We don't waste our own and 
the public's time unnecessarily.'
Trevor Lessiter still did not reply. Barnaby was anxious not to give him too 
much leeway. Already he could see the doctor rolling with the punch of his 
broken alibi, trying to dredge up a suitable alternative. Time for the 
frighteners.
'You would not deny that you have the knowledge and equipment here to prepare 
an infusion of hemlock?'
'What! But that's ludicrous . . . you don't need special equipment. Anyone 
could--'
'Not anyone could sign a death certificate.'
'I've never heard such an outrageous . . . I was here all evening.'
'We only have your word for that, sir.'
'My wife and daughter--'
'Went out, if you recall.'
'I swear to you--'
'You swore to us about your whereabouts that afternoon, Doctor Lessiter. You 
were lying then. Why should you not be lying now?'
'How dare you.' He swallowed, and his Adam's apple rode furiously up and down 
as if seeking an escape from his throat. 'I've never heard such--'
'Can you explain why, when you were the last person to use Miss Simpson's 
telephone, no prints were found on it?'
'Of course not.'
'What reason did you have for wiping that receiver clean?'
'Me! I didn't touch it . . . I didn't.' Some more nervous gulping. 'Look . . . 
all right . . . I wasn't here in the afternoon. Now, Barnaby . . . will what 
I'm going to tell you now remain absolutely confidential?'
'I can't guarantee that, I'm afraid. Of course if it doesn't relate to the case 
there's no reason why it should ever be made public.'
'But it will go on record, won't it?'
'We shall take a further statement, certainly.' Right on cue Troy produced his 
notebook.
'I'd have to give up the practice if this became public. Leave the area.' 
Trevor Lessiter slumped in his smart leather chair. His chipmunk cheeks, now 
quite deflated, were tuckered grey bags. Then the grey flushed red with panic. 
'You won't tell my wife?'
'We don't "tell" anyone anything, sir. That's not how we work. Alibis are 
checked to eliminate the innocent as much as to discover the guilty.'
'Oh,' he cried, 'I haven't done anything wrong.'
The range of people who thought lying to the police wasn't doing anything 
wrong, reflected Barnaby, was widening all the time. He waited.
'You've . . . er . . . met my wife, Chief Inspector. I'm envied, I know, by 
many people . . . men that is . . .' Here, in spite of his intense anxiety, a 
shimmer of satisfaction flitted across his features. Barnaby was reminded 
briefly of Henry Trace. '. . . but Barbara is . . . oh dear, I don't know how 
to put this without sounding disloyal. She's a wonderful companion . . . great 
fun to be with but not very . . .' His face looked smaller, shrunk with 
embarrassment. He forced a laugh. 'I'd better be John Blunt here, I can see. 
She's not too interested in the physical side of marriage.'
So much for the fancy wrapping, thought Barnaby, recalling the painted eyes and 
heavy scent and the twin peaks that might have caused stout Cortez himself a 
stagger of disbelief.
'So,' continued the doctor, 'obviously wanting her to be happy, I don't press 
my attentions.' He dropped his gaze, but not before Barnaby had seen a flash of 
spite and sour resentment in his eyes. The look of a man who has kept his side 
of the bargain and been sold down the river. 'However' - a light-hearted shrug 
- 'I have needs . . .' Here his left lid trembled on the edge of a collusive 
wink, '. . . as we all do, and I . . . er . . . occasionally, very 
occasionally, visit an establishment that . . . um . . . caters for them.'
'You mean a brothel?'
'Ohhh!' No longer John Blunt, he looked almost disgusted at Barnaby's lack of 
finesse. 'I wouldn't say that. Not at all. It's very . . . refined, really. 
There's a little shop which sells all sorts of jolly things. And they put on a 
little show. And a get-together with one of the young ladies afterwards if one 
is so inclined. And one usually is inclined. The performances are quite 
stimulating. Tasteful but stimulating.' 'And that is where you were on the 
afternoon of the seventeenth?' The doctor nodded. 'And the name and address of 
this establishment?'
Lessiter rootled about in his wallet and produced a card. 'Perhaps you know of 
the . . . er . . . club . . . ?'
Barnaby glanced at the card. 'I believe I do, yes.' He then asked for a 
photograph.
'A photograph!' The doctor gave a horrified squeak.
'Purely for identification purposes. It will be returned, I assure you. Or 
perhaps you would like to accompany me . . . ?'
'Good God no.' He paused for a moment. 'I've just had some passport pictures 
done. They're in the study.' He left the room, returning a few minutes later 
with four neat black and white squares. He handed over two of them. 'I think 
this one . . . look . . . where I'm smiling is the most--'
'I just need the one, thank you.' As Barnaby turned away the doctor added, 'You 
must ask for Krystal. She's my special friend.'


Chapter Nine
The Casa Nova was not easily visible to the casual eye. It lurked in a grubby, 
unpoetic alley, Tennyson Mews, flanked by a stationery warehouse and a handbag 
factory. The windows of the latter were wide open, inviting the hot July sun 
into the already stifling workrooms. The smell of baking leather wafted out 
together with the jungle drumming of machinery. Troy parked near a peeling 
magenta door half garlanded with sickly lightbulbs offering '10 BEAUTIFUL GIRLS 
10' and, eyes alight with anticipation, undid his seat belt.
'Casanova eh?' he sniggered. 'Naughty.'
'New house to you,' replied Barnaby. 'Although I've no doubt the tricks'll be 
as old as the hills.'
'Looks promising though. Ten beautiful girls.'
'A vulture's egg is promising, son,' replied Barnaby, getting out of the car. 
'You can wait here.' He smiled as he pressed the buzzer, feeling the lance of 
Troy's resentment between his shoulder blades. Barnaby said, 'Krystal please,' 
to a squawking voice box.
'Mind how you go on the steps, dear.'
The flight of stairs was dimly lit. At the bottom one of the ten beautiful 
girls - ten - stepped forward. She could have been any age between thirty and 
sixty. The only certain thing was she hadn't been a girl since he'd been a boy 
scout. Her hair had the colour and dusty bloom of black grapes. She wore 
lipstick like vermilion Vaseline and thick makeup journeyed over the eruptions 
and into the craters of her complexion. You could join all those dots up till 
the cows came home, thought Barnaby, and never reach the hidden treasure. She 
wore leopard-patterned shorts, a matching open-ended bra and heels so high that 
she seemed to be balancing on patent-leather stilts. She teetered forward, held 
his arm with an expert touch and smiled, showing teeth like pearls from a 
polluted oyster.
'I expect you want to be a naughty boy, don't you, dear?'
'Not really,' said Barnaby, disengaging himself and producing his warrant card.
'Jeezuseffchrist. What the hell do you want? We're all legal here, you know.'
'I'm sure.' He produced the passport snap. 'Do you know this man?'
A quick glance. 'Course I do. That's Mr Lovejoy.'
'Was he here last Friday afternoon? The seventeenth?'
'He bloody lives here, mate.'
'I need to know precisely.'
'You'd better talk to Krystal then.'
'Would you ask her to come here, please.'
'She'll come anywhere will that one - for a price.' She gave him a nudge. 'You 
look a well-set-up bloke. Why don't you pop back when you're off duty? Loosen 
up a bit. Treat yourself.' She gave his blank stare a minute to change its mind 
and then said, 'Oh well - be miserable then. Krystal's doing the art class. 
She'll be ten minutes yet. Second door on the right.'
Barnaby lifted a velvet curtain and found himself in a cold stone corridor. 
There were doors on both sides. He opened the second on the right and found 
himself facing another very musty curtain. He pushed this aside and passed 
through with unnecessary caution. Not a head turned. They were all watching the 
stage.
On a brightly lit dais a well-developed girl stood registering alarm in the 
commedia dell'arte manner: eyes wide, hands splayed out to ward off danger, 
half turning to flee. She wore a schoolgirl's pleated skirt, white shirt and 
blazer. A felt hat with a striped band perched insecurely on her head. She had 
waist-length blond hair. A young man in tight trousers, velvet jacket and 
matching beret was painting the air in front of an easel. A harsh male voice, 
underpinned by a lot of martial bump and grind music, blasted out of two wall 
speakers.
'And so the lovely Bridgeat, desperate to purchase medicines for her dying 
father, was tricked by the notorious artist Fouquet into leaving the convent 
and posing in his attic studio. Despite his fervid assurances to the contrary 
the lecherous Fouquet revealed, once she was securely in his lair, that the 
money would be paid only for a nude study!'
Here the young man mimed rather graphically what he wanted the lovely Brigitte 
to do. She wept and wailed and wrung her hands, then, tremblingly, affectingly, 
started to undress. First the blazer, then the little white schoolgirl blouse 
that she was bursting out of, then the tiny pleated skirt. She cowered 
realistically, folding slender arms across an extravagantly ample bosom. The 
voice crackled on.
'"If you wish to save your beloved father's life you know what you must do," 
cried the evil Fouquet.'
Weeping, the girl removed her lace-up shoes, knee socks and bra. The evil 
Fouquet, not to be outdone, slipped out of his velvet smock, revealing a 
hairless dark brown chest. Brigitte was now left in the sort of briefs any 
self-respecting Mother Superior would have consigned to the flames with tongs.
'But as the lascivious artiste attempted to position the lovely virgin he was 
swept away on a tide of desire.'
Surprise, surprise, thought Barnaby, yawning. He slipped back through the 
curtain and waited in the Colditz corridor. The dreary posturings in the art 
class gave him a sudden sharp perspective on his home life and the clean sweet 
embraces he shared with Joyce. So her Bakewell Surprise could double as a 
manhole cover. So his daughter looked like the wreck of the Hesperus and had a 
Swiftian line in put-downs. He compared her with Doctor Lessiter's special 
friend and counted his blessings.
Released at last by a fake orgasmic cry, the punters shuffled out. Young, 
middle-aged, elderly. No one, it seemed, had come with a mate. They emerged 
solitarily, blinking in the hard light, like melancholy moles. He gave it a few 
moments then re-entered the room.
'Brigitte' was perched on the artist's stool, smoking and wearing a wrapper. 
Her flesh shimmered through the gauzy stuff. The pearly flesh, long 
silver-white curls and butter-milky complexion gave her an appearance of 
wholesomeness totally at variance with her surroundings. She looked as if she 
would be more at home on a farm milking something. She spoke.
'Give us a bleeding chance, lover. Next show's half an hour. Pay outside.' He 
produced his wallet. 'Fuckin 'ell.' She stubbed out her cigarette but not 
before he had recognized the smell. 'I don't take the hard stuff, you know. 
You'd be on something, believe you me, if you had this bloody job.'
'I'm making one or two inquiries--'
'I'm not talking to you without witnesses.' She disappeared through a door 
behind the stage. It opened directly on to a tiny dressing room. Barnaby just 
managed to squeeze in. The room stank of cheap scent, hair lacquer, sweat and 
cigarette smoke. It was occupied by two girls, their rear ends shoe-horned on 
to a couple of plastic chairs. They wore bright bedraggled feathers and nipple 
stars. They sussed him straight away, giving him hard aggrieved stares.
'What you done then, Kris?'
'Bugger all. And he can't say I have.'
Barnaby showed her the photograph of Trevor Lessiter. 'Do you know this man?'
'Yeah - that's poor old Loveless. Or Lovejoy as he calls himself. Dunno what 
'is real name is.'
'Was he here last Friday afternoon?'
'He's here every Friday afternoon. And Monday and Wednesday. He's no trouble. A 
bit of bondage. The daffodil routine. But mostly straight. His wife won't let 
him 'ave any, you know.'
'Yeah.' This interjection from the red feathers had the force of a bunched 
fist. ''E gave her a mink coat for Christmas an' all.'
'I worked it out,' said Krystal, 'and I told him. I'd have to do it five 
hundred times to buy a mink. A decent one, I mean - not one that scarpered back 
to the zoo the minute the whistle went.'
'You'd be too shagged out to wear it, Kris.'
'You bloody reckon?' She gave a mirthless shriek.
'They stink an' all if you're out in the rain,' said the red nipple stars. 
'Them that fall off the back of the bunny wagon.' More mirthless shrieks. 
Barnaby cut in firmly.
'Can you tell me what time Mr Lovejoy left last Friday?'
'Half-past five. I remember 'cause that's when I knock off for an hour. He 
asked me to go and have some tea with him. He was always asking me out. You 
have to pretend . . . you know . . . that you like them, and then, some of them 
- the simple ones - they really believe you. Try to get you to meet them 
outside. It's pathetic, really.'
She raised both hands and lifted the heavy mass of silver curls. Underneath lay 
dirty red hair chopped savagely and clumsily short. She grinned at the chief 
inspector's involuntary start of surprise.
'He thought it was real - didn't you, sunshine?'
'I love the innocent ones, don't you?' said the girl with the strong vocal 
attack. 'They really make you want to piss yourself.'
'I was innocent once,' said Krystal. 'I thought a dildo was a prehistoric bird 
before I discovered this place.'
Caws of laughter; the tattered feathers shook. They gazed at him with hard 
bright eyes. They looked both predatory and harmless, like debeaked birds of 
prey. He made an excuse and left.


Chapter Ten
The little country church was packed. Barnaby slipped in unnoticed and stood 
behind a rear pillar. It was a brilliant day; sun poured through the clerestory 
windows. Behind the chancel rail all was white: the white-haired, white-robed 
vicar; two lovely arrangements of white flowers flanking the altar; a simple 
sheaf of lilies on the small coffin.
Most of the mourners were in ordinary clothes but there was an inky spattering 
of black. Several men wore arm bands, some of the women dark scarves. Barnaby 
was surprised to see that almost a quarter of the gathering were what he 
thought of as young: i.e. under thirty.
Miss Bellringer, clad in rusty, jet-encrusted black, sat in the front 
right-hand pew, her eagle profile expressionless under a plumed cavalier hat, 
her eyes dry. In the opposite pew (kept for the squire and his relations?) 
Henry Trace sat, sombre-suited, with Katherine. She wore a coffee-coloured silk 
dress and a black chiffon scarf with little gold coins sewn into the edge. The 
Lessiters sat, together but separately, staring straight ahead. You would never 
have thought they were a family.
Dennis in his role as usher had gone right over the top, tying a huge black bow 
to his arm, the ends shyly resting on his hip. His mother lay, becalmed, a 
mountain of bullet-coloured taffeta and grey net veiling in the second pew. Mrs 
Quine was there showily wiping away a non-existent tear, with Lisa Dawn still 
sighing and snuffling. Phyllis Cadell was in navy, David Whiteley in jeans and 
a dark striped shirt. In the back row the old man Jake wept openly, mopping up 
his tears with a red-spotted handkerchief. Then, when everyone knelt and Henry 
Trace bowed his head, Barnaby saw Michael Lacey, who remained upright in his 
seat glancing round at the respectful congregation with a mixture of impatience 
and scorn. He had made no concession to propriety and was wearing a 
paint-stained boiler suit and a peaked denim cap.
'For man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live . . .'
Emily Simpson had lived, by comparison with a large proportion of the world's 
population, quite a long time, but she had still not been allowed her allotted 
span. No one, thought Barnaby, should be sent out on to that long journey a 
day, an hour or even a second before their natural time. He loosened his collar 
against the heat, closed his eyes and rested his forehead for a moment on the 
cool stone.
Figures moved behind his lowered lids: Laceys and Lessiters, Phyllis Cadell, 
David Whiteley, the Rainbirds, Henry Trace. They approached each other, met, 
mingled, broke apart in a passionless pavane. Who belonged with whom? If he 
knew that he would know everything.
Barnaby had started dreaming about the couple in the woods: two shapes twisting 
and turning, loops and knots of white limbs now fixed like sculpture, now 
softly melting together. Last night they had spun very slowly, a mobile of lust 
on an invisible thread, and he had waited in his sleep, breath seemingly held, 
for his first sight of their faces. But as the figures finished their slow 
circumfluence all he saw were two blank white hairless ovals.
A beam of dust-filled sunlight ambered the sheaf of lilies. Everyone rose to 
sing 'The Day Thou Gavest Lord is Ended'. Behind Barnaby a dark branch of yew, 
activated by a sudden flurry of wind, knocked on the glass.
PART THREE
REPETITION


Chapter One
On the afternoon the inquest was reconvened the coroner's court was packed. 
Every light-oak-stained folding seat was taken. Badger's Drift seemed to have 
turned out in its entirety. It appeared (Barnaby scanned the rows of faces) 
that only David Whiteley and Michael Lacey had not turned up. The jury - 
striving to look serious, disinterested and worthy of the trust placed - were 
in position.
Barbara Lessiter was incongruously dressed in a black and white spotted frilled 
dress more suitable for a garden party, a little black hat with a frou-frou of 
spotted veiling concealing her face. Judy wore a fair-isle jumper and tweed 
trousers, Katherine Lacey a culotte suit in white linen. Her hair was held back 
by two scarves, brilliant turquoise and acid yellow, twisted around each other 
in a tight circlet. Mrs Rainbird had gone the whole hog and was wrapped, like 
some gargantuan Christmas gift, in shiny crimson satin topped off with a green 
hat covered in little berries. The coroner took his seat and the inquest began.
The statement of Doctor Trevor Lessiter was read out. In it he made the point 
most strongly that, on examining the deceased, he certainly had noticed 
congestion of the lungs, but as he was treating Miss Simpson at the time for 
bronchitis he thought the fact hardly surprising. Naturally he had not checked 
for symptoms of coniine poisoning. What physician in those circumstances would? 
The coroner said there was no blame to be apportioned in this matter and the 
doctor stared hard at the reporter from the Causton Echo to make sure he'd got 
that down. He then signed his statement and walked importantly back to his 
seat, his round head and pudgy shoulders looking pompous even from behind.
The pathologist's report was read. There was a buzz of interest at the word 
hemlock and the Rainbirds held hands excitedly. Next a scientist from the 
Police Forensic Laboratory gave evidence relating to the analysis of fibres 
found in an area of beechwood near the village Badger's Drift, and the 
identification of dirt and leaf mould adhering to tennis shoes belonging to the 
deceased as coming from the same area.
Two scene-of-crime officers described the large flattened space near which a 
deep impression of the same shoes indicated that Emily Simpson had been 
standing for some time. Here Barnaby noticed Miss Bellringer flush with anger 
and glare at the man giving evidence. He continued to describe an impression 
that could have been made by someone of Emily Simpson's height and weight 
having fallen a few feet away. The coroner asked for a pause whilst he checked 
back on Doctor Lessiter's statement. He then asked the doctor if the bruises on 
Miss Simpson's shin could have been caused by the earlier fall. The doctor 
sighed mightily and, in a voice indicating that they had already wasted enough 
of his valuable time, said that he supposed so.
Scene-of-crime continued. Fingerprint details. The marked passage in the volume 
of Shakespeare, a 6B pencil which had not been found. The afternoon wore on. 
The postman was called, as was Miss Lucy Bellringer. She assured the court that 
on the morning of her friend's death the larder window was undamaged and the 
hemlock not in the house. And that, as regards the 6B pencil, Miss Simpson 
would never have defaced her beloved Shakespeare. 'She never put a mark in any 
of her books. They were far too precious to her.'
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby described Miss Bellringer's first visit and 
his meeting with Terry Bazely at which there was an even stronger buzz of 
interest. He glanced around the court as he mentioned Annabella but saw only a 
few puzzled looks. No flicker of recognition. As he sat down he glanced at the 
jury. Their seriousness now was not assumed. They were totally engrossed, 
looking intently at the coroner. One woman had gone very white. An usher 
crossed to her and murmured something but she shook her head, edging further 
forward in her seat.
The coroner started his summing up, concluding with directions to the jury 
which were unmistakable. They conferred together only for a moment before 
giving their verdict, which was that Emily Simpson had been murdered by a 
person or persons unknown.
Immediately the reporter from the Echo, perhaps influenced by too much film 
noir, flung on his brand-new white trench coat, pushed back an invisible eye 
shield and raced from the courtroom. Everyone else left more slowly - talking, 
questioning, looking at each other with a mixture of excitement and dismay like 
a bunch of critics at a prestigious first night whose worst hopes have just 
been confirmed.
Barnaby watched Barbara Lessiter leave on the arm of her husband. She had sat, 
apparently placid, through the whole proceedings, but he had noticed her hands 
moving. He walked now to the end of the row which held her seat and looked 
along the floor. Just in front of her chair was a little pyramid of shredded 
tissues. He remembered the letter which she had so quickly thrust out of sight 
the other morning, and regretted the veil. He would have liked to have seen the 
expression on her face when the verdict had been announced.
Almost everyone had now gone. But on a bench, some distance away, a solitary 
figure sat bowed, head low. He crossed the space and sat down.
'Miss Bellringer . . . ?' She looked at him. Her skin was ashen, her fine eyes 
dull. 'Are you all right?' When she did not reply he said quietly, 'Surely you 
understood where our investigations were leading?'
'Of course . . . that is . . . I suppose I did.' Her ebullience was quite gone. 
She looked very old. 'But I hadn't put it into words to myself. Why is it so 
much worse now that it's been put into words?' She looked at him inquiringly as 
if he would know. There was a long pause.
Barnaby said, 'I'm sorry.'
'Such wickedness.' A flash of anger raked her face and left a spark in her 
eyes. 'After a lifetime of caring for other people. She was a wonderful 
teacher, you know. Better than I've ever been. And of course she knew them, 
whoever it was. That's the terrible thing. She must have welcomed them in.' 
Silently Barnaby agreed. 'Well, they must be caught,' she continued, her voice 
strengthening by the minute. 'Right - what are your instructions, Chief 
Inspector? What shall I do next?'
'Nothing, I'm afraid. We--'
'Oh but I must do something. I can talk to people, can't I? Find out if anyone 
noticed anything, anything at all on the day she died. And what about this 
mysterious Annabella? Perhaps I can discover who she is.'
'I'm sorry, Miss Bellringer--'
'But I've got to help. Surely, Chief Inspector, you can see why?'
'Of course I understand your--'
'Poirot,' she interrupted wistfully, 'had his Hastings, you know.'
'And I, Miss Bellringer, have all the resources of a modern police force at my 
disposal. It's a different world.'
'They can't be everywhere at once. And in any case I'm sure' - she laid a 
gloved hand on his arm - 'they can't all be as intelligent as you.'
'Please be sensible,' said Barnaby, resisting as well as he could such blatant 
flattery. 'I'm sure your friend would not wish to put your life at risk.'
She removed her hand. 'What on earth do you mean?'
'In a community as small as Badger's Drift everyone will know what you're 
about. Someone who has killed once and who thinks he can protect himself by 
killing a second time will not hesitate to do so. And don't forget' - he turned 
and they walked together towards the exit - 'that if Miss Simpson knew the 
murderer very well, so do you.'


Chapter Two
It was nine o'clock that same evening. Phyllis Cadell stood by the chiffonier 
in the larger of the two sitting rooms at Tye House. She stood stock still, 
listening. She had gobbled her pudding so quickly she thought the other two 
might notice but, as was sickeningly usual, they paid close and affectionate 
attention only to each other.
She stared at the half-open door. Katherine was safely in the kitchen stacking 
the plates in the dishwasher. Henry would inevitably be nearby, gazing with 
fatuous admiration at this difficult accomplishment. Quickly Phyllis 
unstoppered the heavy cut-glass decanter. She picked up a chunky tumbler and 
half filled it with brandy. There was a clear chink as glass and decanter 
collided. She glanced at the door again, replaced the stopper and started to 
drink.
It was wonderful. Fiery and strong. It lagged her misery with warmth like a 
cosy coat. There had been wine at dinner but what were two bottles of wine 
between three people? And in any case wine no longer seemed to have any effect. 
She emptied her glass, eased out the stopper and poured another, splashing a 
little in her haste.
'A small one for me too, Phyllis, if you would?'
'Oh!' She swung round. Henry was propelling himself across the carpet. 'Of 
course . . . I'm sorry . . . I didn't hear you.' She turned her back on him, 
concealing the nearly full tumbler in her hand. She pushed it behind a plant 
and took a drink over to her brother-in-law. 'And one for Katherine?' she 
asked, proud of the balance in her voice.
'I shouldn't think so. She hardly drinks at all, as you know.'
She doesn't need to, does she, thought Phyllis savagely. Do you think I'd drink 
if I had her life? Her looks? Her future? Concealing the glass in her hand she 
walked over to the window and placed herself behind a tall jardiniere. She took 
another long, deep swallow.
She began to feel better. Then, as the unhappiness receded, her sense of her 
surroundings became strangely distorted. The velvet pile of the carpet seemed 
to be alive, rubbing around her feet like a cat; stripes on the curtain raised 
themselves and went zinging up and down like railway lines. A tumbling spray of 
stephanotis in the jardiniere poured out a rich, sensuous smell, filling her 
nostrils cruelly. Reminding her of the coming nuptials. If you prick us do we 
not bleed she thought chaotically.
Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad at the cottage. At least she'd be out of their 
way. The place was a good ten minutes' walk from the main house and they'd 
hardly be dropping in all the time. They might visit a bit at first, feeling 
vaguely uncomfortable at her solitude, but that would soon wear off.
The kitchen was quiet now. Katherine would be joining them any minute. Phyllis 
took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. She blinked very hard, 
willing herself to see the room as it really was and not as a crudely drawn, 
unnaturally lively stage set. Then she saw the bride-to-be walking across the 
yard carrying the wilting flowers from the dining table. Phyllis stared at her 
through the glass. Perhaps, she thought, there will be no wedding after all. 
Perhaps Katherine would have an accident - fall into the lake, smash up the 
Peugeot, walk into the combine harvester. The images in her mind frightened 
her. No. Katherine was young and strong and would live a long, long time. 
Probably for ever.
And there might be children. Somewhere deep under the cosy coat a knife turned. 
She would be useful then. Poor old Aunty Phyllis. Funny Aunty Phyllis. A tear 
plopped into her empty glass. God, she could do with another drink. She became 
vaguely aware that Henry was saying something.
'. . . and we're both very worried about you.'
'. . .'Bout what, Henry?'
'Haven't you been listening?' She stared at him with intense drunken 
concentration. 'About you, of course.'
'Nothing matter with me.'
He put down his glass and propelled himself over to where she stood. 'Look - 
you don't have to go to the cottage, you know, Phyllis. It was you who 
suggested it. Kate and I would be happy for you to stay here.' She made a 
peculiar sound which could have been a sob or a laugh. 'In any case we both 
hope you'll still spend a lot of time with us. Katherine isn't used to running 
a big house, you know. She'll be grateful for all the help you can give her. As 
I have always been.'
'Is that what I'm reduced to then? An unpaid domestic?'
'Of course not. I simply--'
'Is that the price I have to pay for my tied cottage? Scrubbing floors.'
'Now you're being ridiculous.' She watched his face crease into irritation. 
Henry hated rows. Bella had always been wonderful at defusing them before they 
really got a hold. She would have stopped right now. 'You don't know what it's 
like. What I've had to put up with since she came. All the sneering remarks, 
the little humiliations. She never does it when you're around.'
'You're imagining things--'
'Am I? Oh, she's clever. You were blind but I saw what she was up to. Bella was 
hardly in her grave before she was up here . . . helping with this . . . 
helping with that . . . simpering shyly . . . pushing in where she wasn't 
wanted.' Oh stop, Phyllis, stop! You'll make him hate you. 'I wouldn't be 
surprised if it was going on while Bella was still alive.'
'That's enough. You know that isn't true. I won't have you speaking of 
Katherine in that way.'
'She's only marrying you for your money. Do you think she'd look twice at you 
if you were paralysed and poor?' She drove on and on. Henry Trace watched her, 
more amazed and distressed than angry. So much venom. He almost expected to see 
bile, black and thick as treacle, bubbling between her lips. When she had 
finished he said quietly, 'I'd no idea you felt like this. I thought you would 
be pleased at my happiness. I thought you were fond of me.'
'Fond . . .' She cried out then, hard ugly sounds. Her cheeks remained dry and 
red with anger. When Katherine appeared in the doorway Phyllis Cadell ran from 
the room, pushing the girl's slim figure aside, unable to look at her face, 
which she was sure would be filled with sly laughter - or worse, with pity.
'Oh Pookie.' Barbara Lessiter curled her tongue into her husband's ear like a 
pliant little snail. 'I'm sorry I've been so . . .' She took a deep breath, 
putting an impossible strain on the thin lace and crepe-de-chine nightdress. 
Her headache was better at last.
'There, there. You mustn't worry,' replied Pookie, romping happily between 
satin sheets. Like a very hungry man after a vast banquet he felt that what he 
had just received (twice) would last him forever. Which was fortunate because, 
as things turned out, it was going to have to from that particular source at 
any rate. 'Change of life, I expect.'
At this reference to her age he felt Barbara withdraw slightly. Well, a little 
dig from time to time wouldn't come amiss. Keep her on her toes. Show her she 
wasn't dealing with the lovesick swain of five years ago. He'd be damned if he 
was going to be grateful for something that was his by rights. If her headache 
had gone on much longer it could have featured in the Guinness Book of Records. 
His hand moved again.
'Darling . . . Pooks?'
'Mm?' Ah, there was nothing like silk and lace. Unless it was warm bare flesh.
'Don't, sweetheart . . . listen to Barbie . . .'
Growl, growl. And a pretend doggy panting.
'It's just that . . . I've been so terribly worried . . . I know I've got to 
confess . . . but I don't know how to tell you . . .'
Apprehension sluiced the passion from his loins, leaving him cold as ice. He 
seized her arms, glaring at her in the light from the ivory figurine. How could 
he not have guessed the reason for her neglect and distant behaviour? 'You've 
been with someone else!'
'Oh Pookums!' she cried, and covered her face with her hands. 'How could you 
even think such a thing of your poor Barbie?'
Relief repaired some of the sexual damage. Down in the forest something 
stirred. 'Well . . . what can it be, then? Can't be too dwedful. Whisper it in 
Pookie's ear.'
The lace expanded again in heartfelt preparation. 'Well . . . when I got my 
mink coat out of store for the Traces' wedding the other day I left it on the 
back seat of the car . . . just while I went shopping and . . . Oh sweetheart . 
. . someone stole it . . .' She burst into a flood of tears, then, as he did 
not speak, peeped coyly out between her fingers. This action, which he had once 
thought charming, now struck him as suitable only for a child of three. A 
nauseatingly winsome child at that.
'What the hell do you want to wear a mink coat for in July?'
'I wanted you to be proud of me.'
'Have you been to the police?'
'No . . . I was in such a state . . . I just drove around worrying . . . and 
then I came home.'
'You must do that tomorrow. Give them all the details. Fortunately it's 
insured.'
'Yes, darling . . . I don't suppose?' - a serpentine arm twisted over his 
shoulder and around his neck - 'Pookie will ever buy his naughty Barbie anovver 
one?'
Pookie's stare gave nothing away. He was trying to recall Krystal's remark; 
little Krystal who was always so pleased to see him; whose welcome was never 
anything but warm and friendly. What was it she had said? 'I'd have to do it 
five hundred times to get a coat like that.' He smiled calmly, almost 
forgivingly, at his wife and patted her smooth brown shoulder.
'We'll have to wait and see, won't we?'


Chapter Three
Barnaby sat in the incident room. He was in his shirt sleeves before an open 
window. The soft thud of tennis balls and an occasional reproachful cry floated 
in from the nearby recreation ground. He twirled his rotating cards for the 
hundredth time and called for some coffee.
'And not in that mug with the blasted frog squatting in it.'
'Oh. I thought he was rather sweet,' said Policewoman Brierley, her lips 
twitching.
'Well I didn't.'
'No, sir.'
Barnaby spun one more time, realizing that he knew all the information by 
heart, hoping that a fresh reading might show a piece of the puzzle in a 
different light, juxtapose seemingly disparate facts, reveal with a whisk of 
the conjuror's cloth something which had hitherto been darkly concealed. At 
least with poor old Loveless/Lovejoy/Lessiter accounted for all afternoon there 
was one suspect fewer.
Barnaby toyed with the idea that the murderer might be fancy free, killing to 
protect the reputation of his or her partner. It sounded a bit far fetched but 
if the partner's legal spouse held the purse strings it might be a possibility. 
Money had been behind many a killing. Money and sex. Interlocked. An eternal 
ampersand. And a motive for murder since murder began.
Two days had passed since the funeral and Barnaby had spent one of them 
discussing the death of Mrs Trace with all the members of the shooting party 
with the exception of the farm boy and neighbouring landowners whom he had left 
to Troy. The only new bit of information to arise from this was that, at the 
time of the shooting, Phyllis Cadell was on her way back to Tye House, having 
got bored by the whole proceedings. Henry had expressed surprise that she had 
decided to accompany them in the first place. Phyllis in her turn had assured 
Barnaby that Bella had been urging her for some time to come out with them. 
Phyllis had done a certain amount of shooting when she was younger and knew how 
to handle a gun but had simply lost the taste for it. 'I regretted joining them 
almost as soon as things really got going. I stayed for a bit then decided to 
give up. I didn't want to draw attention to myself so I just slipped back to 
the house.'
Another example of unusual behaviour. Barnaby's mind turned back to his cards 
and Miss Simpson. On the day of her death she too had behaved 'out of 
character'. Were the two deaths connected? There was no sensible logical reason 
for believing this. Yet he still couldn't leave the idea alone. Barnaby read 
the photostat of the inquest report again although by now he knew it backwards. 
He remembered his first quick conviction that there was something odd, some 
fact buried in there that didn't make sense, but by now the whole piece was so 
stale he wondered where that original impulse had sprung from. Certainly 
repeated readings had done nothing to support or elucidate this instinctive 
belief.
On the morning of the second day he had interviewed Norah Whiteley in the 
tactfully vacated office of the headmaster at the school where she worked. She 
was a thin woman with a bitter mouth, mistakenly wearing very youthful clothes. 
What she had to tell him was disturbing.
'I left David because I was afraid. I could just about cope with his women. At 
least that meant he left me alone. But he was very violent. You never knew what 
would start him off. The dinner wasn't right, the car wouldn't start. I could 
put up with it for myself but when he started on Jamie . . . I told him to go 
and when he wouldn't I packed all his stuff, put it outside and had the locks 
changed. But even then I had to get a court order to stop him molesting us.'
'Does he have access to the boy?'
'No.' There was a hard, unhappy, yet satisfied set to her lips. 'He applied but 
I blocked it. I fought. I wouldn't trust him to keep his fists to himself.'
'And do you know if he has a . . . liaison with someone at the moment?'
'Bound to. David's never without a woman for long. He's sex mad.'
As she said this Barnaby had a vivid recollection of his first sight of the man 
sitting close to Katherine Lacey in the kitchen of Tye House. He had mistrusted 
his own quick assumption at that time. Shades of D.H. Lawrence. And those 
wonderful torrid grainy films of his childhood: Double Indemnity. The Postman 
always Rings Twice. It was all there: the beautiful bride, the inadequate 
husband, the lusty stud. So obvious, such a cliche. And yet, and yet . . . How 
often the obvious turned out to be the truth.
But Barnaby saw no point in pretending that he had recognized any signs of 
guilt as the couple had become aware of his presence and broken apart. Whiteley 
had looked depressed and irritable, Katherine merely interested and concerned. 
And there was something so cool about the girl: an almost asexual purity in her 
beauty. He could imagine her body being offered up to its legal possessor when 
all the knots were properly tied, not without love necessarily, but perhaps 
with a moderate degree of fond attachment. It was harder to imagine her being 
swept away by a passion so strong it was worth risking a gilded future for.
David Whiteley was something else: amoral, self-interested and now known to be 
violent. Barnaby did not find it too difficult to visualize him in the role of 
murderer. But the death of Miss Simpson had been curiously nonviolent, almost 
subtle. Barnaby could not see the farm manager annotating Julius Caesar and he 
could never, with those brawny arms and legs, have climbed through the larder 
window. Nor could Barnaby see him committing murder to save any neck but his 
own.
Mechanically he gave the wheel another spin. He could not escape the comparison 
with Russian roulette. Five spins got you nowhere. The sixth could blow your 
mind. He drained the coffee, pleased to see nothing nearer to animate life in 
the bottom of the mug than a sweet dark primeval sludge. And then the phone 
rang.
Policewoman Brierley said, 'I've got a Mrs Sweeney on the line, sir. She asked 
to speak to whoever was in charge of the inquiry about Miss Simpson.'
'Put her on.'
'It's Mrs Sweeney here of the Black Boy. To whom am I speaking?'
'Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.'
'Are you the gentleman what came in for a half and a ploughman's the other day?'
'That's right.'
'Well I think you ought to come over. There's something funny happening at the 
Rainbirds'.'
'What sort of thing?' The voice, which he recalled as flatly lugubrious, now 
positively rippled with excitement.
'I don't rightly know . . . it's almost like someone singing only it's not like 
any singing I ever heard . . . more like wailing, really. It's been going on 
for ages.'
Afterwards Barnaby remembered that moment very clearly. As he replaced the 
receiver he had the strongest sense that the machinery of the case, which had 
seemingly ground almost to a halt with alibis, unproven and unprovable 
statements and, on the part of at least two people, the deliberate wish to 
deceive, was now moving again. Although he could not know with what speed the 
machinery would gather force or that a hand, as yet unknown to him, would hurl 
a spanner into the works with such terrible repercussions.
There must have been fifty people standing at the gate of Tranquillada. As soon 
as Troy cut the engine he and Barnaby could hear the sounds. A terrible 
keening. Mrs Sweeney left the gathering and hurried to meet them.
'Since I talked to you I rung the bell but nobody came. I felt I had to do 
something.'
The two men walked up the path. No one attempted to follow. That in itself 
underlined the feeling of dread that permeated the hot still air. Normally, 
reflected Barnaby, you had to hold them back. He and Troy stood on the step. 
The threnody continued. Barnaby wondered how anything so apparently emotionless 
could produce such an effect on the heart of the listener. It stopped and 
started with inhuman regularity, like a needle stuck on a record. After using 
the knocker with no result Barnaby crouched down and shouted through the letter 
box: 'Mr Rainbird . . . open this door.'
The lament escalated a notch or two, became almost a screech, then suddenly 
stopped. Immediately the crowd fell silent. Barnaby rapped the knocker hard 
again. The sounds were like pistol shots in the quiet street.
'Shall I have a go at the door, sir?' Troy was excited. He kept looking at the 
people by the gate, at Barnaby and at the house, underlining the importance of 
his position.
'Window's quicker. Try to find one open first.' As Troy ran down the side of 
the house Barnaby looked again at the group. Instinctively they had drawn 
closer together. Their shadows fell, short and squat, on the warm pavement. One 
woman had a toddler in her arms. As Barnaby watched she turned the child's face 
away from the bungalow and into her breast. The ceramic stork stared 
indifferently at them all.
Barnaby turned back and noticed, for the first time, a neat pile of mushrooms 
on the step. What the hell was keeping Troy? He'd been gone long enough to 
climb in and out of half a dozen windows. Barnaby was about to raise his fist 
again when he heard the click of the latch and the door swung open. Troy stared 
blankly at the chief inspector. He didn't speak, just stood aside for Barnaby 
to enter. As the older man did so he felt his skin prickle as if someone had 
laid a frost-covered web against his face.
He walked through the hall past a red telephone dangling on its flex, past the 
scarlet-stippled wall and doors, glancing into each room as he went, finding 
them empty. He looked for the source of a silence more terrible than the sounds 
had ever been and found it in the lounge.
He stood for a moment on the threshold sick with horror. There was blood 
everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, on the furniture, on the curtains. But 
most of all on Dennis Rainbird. He looked as if he had been bathed in blood. 
His face, like that of a warrior brave, glistened with fingers of red. Red 
matted his hair and gloved his hands. He wore a red soaking wet tie and a 
red-flowered shirt. His knees and his shoes were red. Red tears rolled down his 
cheeks.
Barnaby turned back into the hall. 'Don't just prop the wall up. Get on the 
phone and get things moving.' Then as Troy moved somnambulistically across the 
hall, 'Don't touch that, you bloody fool! Use the set in the car. And don't 
open that door again without something on your hands. Anyone'd think you'd been 
in the force five minutes instead of five years.'
'I'm sorry . . .' Troy produced a handkerchief.
Barnaby returned to the lounge. He made his way towards the two figures in the 
centre of the room, placing his feet carefully on whatever unstained patches of 
carpet he could find.
How could one person have shed so much blood? Wasn't there something vaguely 
theatrical about the scene? Surely an over-enthusiastic stage manager had been 
at work hurling buckets of the stuff about, preparing for a performance of 
Grand Guignol. And the strange thing was that over and above the sweep of 
disbelief and horror Barnaby felt his memory give a powerful kick. Deja vu. But 
how could that be? Surely if he had experienced anything even faintly like this 
spectacularly nightmarish scene in the past he could hardly have forgotten?
'Mr Rainbird . . . ?' He bent down and saw, with a fresh wave of nausea, that 
it was only Dennis Rainbird's encircling arm that was keeping his mother's head 
on her shoulders. Her throat had been cut so deeply that Barnaby could see the 
bluish white gristle of the slashed windpipe. There were cuts all over her face 
and neck and arms and her dress was slashed open.
The room was in a hell of a mess. Photographs and pictures were thrown about, 
there were cushions and ornaments on the floor, two tables were overturned, the 
television set was smashed. Grey shards of glass were ground into the carpet.
Barnaby said, 'Mr Rainbird' again and touched him gently. As if this movement 
activated some hidden mechanism the man started to croon gently. He was 
smiling; a radiant wide mad smile. The cruel simulacrum of bliss seen on the 
faces of earthquake survivors or parents outside a burning house. A rictus of 
grief and despair.
Almost twenty minutes passed, then: 'Good God . . .' Barnaby got up. George 
Bullard stood in the doorway. He carried a small black case and looked around 
him, aghast. 'What the hell's going on?'
'Careful where you step.'
The doctor stared at the two figures for a moment, his expression a mixture of 
pity and disgust, then picked his way gingerly across the floor. He knelt down 
and opened his bag. Barnaby watched as he cut into the stiff crimson cuff of 
Dennis Rainbird's shirt and held his delicate wrist.
'How long has he been like this?'
'We got here around half an hour ago. I should think for at least half an hour 
prior to that. Did you sort out an ambulance before you came?'
'Mm.' The doctor shone a light into Dennis' pupils. He didn't even blink. 
'Should be here in a minute.'
'It's vital I talk to him--'
'For heaven's sake, Tom, use your sense. The man's catatonic.'
'I can see that. Can't you give him something?'
'No.' George Bullard rose to his feet. 'He's made a good job of this and no 
mistake.'
'How long do these states last?'
'A day. A month. Six months. There's no way of knowing.'
'That's all I need.'
'Sorry.'
Through the net curtains Barnaby saw the ambulance drive up followed almost 
immediately by three police cars. There was a murmur of excitement from the 
crowd. The ambulance attendants, perhaps inured to scenes of carnage by years 
of scraping people off the motorway, seemed much less shocked by what had 
happened in the lounge at Tranquillada than either Barnaby or Doctor Bullard. 
Whilst one of them talked to the doctor the other attempted to separate Dennis 
from his mother. He tugged gently at Dennis' wrist but the fingers were clamped 
on to her right shoulder and left upper arm as tightly as if he were hanging 
for his very life on a cliff edge. Patiently the man prised the fingers away 
one at a time and unhooked the thumb. Mrs Rainbird's head rolled back, attached 
to the neck only by a thin flap of skin. The torso tipped over and slid on to 
the carpet. Dennis' crooning ran down, then stopped.
'Can he walk d'you think?'
'Let's try him. Up you come, my lovely.'
Dennis rose to his feet, rubber limbed, still smiling. His face, always pale, 
was now almost albino-ish in its lack of colour.
'Shall we clean him up a bit?'
'Sorry,' interjected Barnaby, 'nothing must be touched.'
'Right. On our way then.' The three of them left the room, Dennis clinging 
trustingly like a child. Barnaby followed them out. The crowd, their wildest 
expectations more than fulfilled, played their part to the hilt, gasping aloud 
and crying out. One woman said, 'And to think I nearly stopped in to watch the 
six o'clock news.'
'Can you get everything he's wearing bagged up?' asked Barnaby. 'I'll send 
someone to collect it.'
'Will do.'
Barnaby re-entered the lounge to find the doctor pulling down the corpse's 
dress and shaking a thermometer.
'What d'you think?'
'Ohh . . . I'd say an hour . . . hour and a half at the most.' He drew the 
slashed opening of her dress together. 'He must've had some sort of brainstorm.'
'I have to get a man over to the hospital. I don't want Dennis Rainbird left 
alone.'
'Well, Tom, you know your own business best. But I can assure you he won't be 
going anywhere. Or doing himself a mischief.'
'I'm not worried about him doing himself a mischief.' He could hear the 
scene-of-crime men entering the hall. 'But he might say something that could 
help us. He may even have seen something. He must have got home pretty soon 
after this happened.'
'You mean . . . ? Oh. I seem to have been jumping to the wrong conclusions. 
Anyway - Dennis or no Dennis - whoever did this must have been clean off his 
rocker.'
'His?'
'Well,' the doctor frowned, 'it always is, isn't it? An attack like this.'
'Don't you think a woman would be physically capable?'
'Physically yes . . . I suppose so . . . if the rage is there. Psychologically 
and emotionally . . . that's something else. It'd be a very peculiar sort of 
woman who could do something like this.'
Barnaby grinned. 'You are an old chauvinist, George.'
'So my daughter's always telling me. Anyway' - he stood aside to make room for 
the photographer - 'I suppose murderers are peculiar.'
'Not always. I only wish they were. It'd make catching them a lot simpler.'
'Is this where the body was found, sir?' asked the photographer.
'I should imagine so,' said Bullard.
Barnaby agreed. 'I think he just lifted her up and held her. I don't think he 
dragged her about at all. There's more blood here than anywhere else.'
Doctor Bullard looked around the room again and shook his head. 'Who'd believe 
we only had nine pints? And she's still got plenty left.'
Barnaby looked at Mrs Rainbird's bolstery legs which looked as plump and 
lifelike as they had a couple of days previously when he had talked with her. 
Her feet were bare. One tiny gold mule trimmed with white ostrich feathers lay, 
miraculously unstained, in the fireplace. The other was nowhere to be seen.
The room was filling up. Barnaby went into the hall, glad to escape from the 
rich metallic smell, and spoke to the principal scene-of-crime officer. 'Are we 
going to have a pod out here?'
'All lined up. Should be here within the hour. And I've got on to Technical 
Services . . . do a video for you.'
Barnaby nodded and looked around for Troy. On the pavement two officers were 
placing a cordon and the crowd, now monstrously enlarged, was being forced some 
distance from the gate. In spite of the emergence of Dennis Rainbird, a sight 
surely gruesome enough to satisfy the most ghoulish expectations, murmurs of 
dissatisfaction at this realignment could be heard. Troy, his colour back to 
normal, came down the path which ran along the side of the house.
'Where the hell have you been?'
'I was just checking round the back, sir. I found something a bit unusual.'
'You should know better than to go trampling about at the scene of a murder, 
Sergeant.'
'I didn't trample . . . kept to the concrete path. But look.' He led Barnaby to 
a small cedar shed a few feet from the gazebo. All around the path and the step 
adjacent was damp. Barnaby looked for a dripping tap or faulty hose and saw 
neither. 'I mean . . . it hasn't rained for days, has it, sir?'
'No.' The chief inspector glanced through the window. On the floor next to the 
lawnmower was a huge puddle of water. He couldn't see any containers that might 
be leaking. Well, all the outbuildings would be checked. No point in wasting 
time at this stage in fruitless surmise. Troy was looking both smug and hopeful 
of praise, like a dog who has successfully returned a stick. It was very 
irritating.
'Are you feeling all right now?' asked Barnaby unkindly.
'Me?' His sergeant looked first blank then intensely puzzled. 'I'm fine.'
The end of the back garden was marked by a double hawthorn hedge with a green 
gate in the middle. Behind the hedge was a narrow path bordered by a dense 
tangle of wild dog roses, hazels and cow parsley. The path and the last few 
feet of the garden were overlooked by the upstairs windows of number seven 
Burnham Crescent, glass eyes with cataracts of grubby lace. Mrs Rainbird 
wouldn't have liked that. Barnaby heard footsteps approaching, and stepped 
through the gates.
'Good afternoon, Mr Lacey.'
'Whoops.' Michael Lacey stopped in his tracks and stared at them. 'It's our 
friendly neighbourhood sleuths. Leaping out of the hedgerow to startle innocent 
passers-by.'
'Would you mind telling me where you're going?'
'I'm taking a short cut to the Black Boy. Still, as far as I'm aware, not a 
criminal offence.'
'A little early, isn't it?'
'She opens the jug and bottle if you knock on the shutters. ' And before 
Barnaby could reply he had walked quickly away.
'I don't believe this,' murmured Troy. 'Not a single question as to what we're 
doing here. Why, half the village is gawping outside the house. How uncurious 
can you get?'
'Incurious. And he wouldn't know about the crowd if he'd come straight from 
Holly Cottage through the woods and up Church Lane.'
'Still, why dash off like that?' Troy pursed his lips shrewdly before adding, 
'The murderer returns to the scene of the crime.'
'Hardly ever, Sergeant,' replied the chief inspector, 'at least in non-domestic 
matters. As your experience should have taught you by now.'
'But they are connected aren't they, sir?' continued Troy. 'The two deaths?'
'Oh yes.' The two men stepped back on to the concrete path. Barnaby could see 
through the french windows into the lounge. It seemed to be crammed with people 
milling aimlessly about. In fact, as Barnaby knew, the most precise cataloguing 
and analysis were taking place. And today the scent was warm. Discoveries would 
be made. No one killed without taking something (usually unintentionally) from 
the scene. Or leaving something behind.
He made his way to the kitchen door, stopping when he got there, glancing back 
the way he had come. He thought how impossible it was for a gardener to attempt 
to conceal his personality. Telling one's dreams could hardly be more 
revelatory. Unsophisticated harmony for Miss Simpson; tangled exuberance for 
Miss Bellringer; whilst here . . . He looked at the showy shrubs, the 
billiard-table-baize lawn, the pond with a concrete cherub peeing mechanically 
on a plastic lily. Here was ostentatious vulgarity, literally in full bloom.
He entered the hall. A pair of black Oxfords appeared just above his head and 
made their way down the pine steps from the loft, followed by tweed trousers, a 
short-sleeved shirt and a bearded, hot-looking face.
'Finished up there?' asked Barnaby.
'We have. Lots of prints. Looks as if they're all from the same person, though. 
Soon see.'
Barnaby climbed the stairs. There were about a dozen of them, broad and solidly 
based, quite unlike the capricious aluminium approach usually leading to a 
conversion. The opening had been enlarged, no doubt to accommodate Mrs 
Rainbird, and there was a rail on two sides of the entrance about three feet 
from the floor. Barnaby heaved himself up and Troy followed.
The loft was very large. The beams were unpainted, the walls white, the floor 
covered with a porridge-coloured tweed carpet. At either end of the loft was a 
round window. Directly beneath each stood a plain wooden chair. They also each 
had a narrow sill holding a notebook and ballpoint. On the seat of one of the 
chairs was a magnificent pair of Zeiss binoculars. There were two large grey 
filing cabinets and that was all. Barnaby, who had been expecting either the 
usual piles of lumber or a wildly baroque spare room, looked about him in some 
surprise. He picked up the binoculars and looked out at the Street.
A face in the crowd sprang at him in the most astonishing detail. Open pores, 
nostril hairs, pink plastic rollers, petals on a flowered scarf. He adjusted 
the focusing ring and got a broader sweep. The forecourt of the Black Boy was 
now packed. More cars were pulling up by the minute. All human life seemed to 
be out there. And it was not a pretty sight.
'Empty those cabinets, Sergeant. Start taking the stuff downstairs.' He put 
down the glasses and flicked through one of the notebooks, picking a day at 
random. The entries read:
Barnaby closed the book. Mrs Rainbird's daily occupation did not surprise him. 
He never underestimated the tremendous satisfaction that knowing all a 
neighbour's business gave to some people. A passionate interest in everyone 
else's affairs seemed to him a very human characteristic hardly reprehensible 
enough to be called a failing, let alone a sin. If he himself wasn't endlessly 
concerned with other people's behaviour he wouldn't be doing the job he was. He 
watched Troy lowering himself down through the loft opening, pulling a stack of 
envelope files after him.
No. What interested Barnaby was not the revelation that Mrs Rainbird watched 
human beings rather than waxwings but what she did with the knowledge she so 
obtained. There was something very pared down, almost ruthlessly functional 
about the room he thought as he collected the rest of the files and the other 
notebook and prepared to follow Troy. Downstairs all was voluptuous indulgence 
but this place was something else. This place, thought Barnaby, taking a last 
look round, meant business.


Chapter Four
The portable pod had just arrived, giving rise to great excitement. The 
delivery lorry was backing away. Hydraulic machinery wheezed, four legs dropped 
to the ground, the shell settled into position. A man in the crowd shouted, 
'Glad - the libry's here. You brought your books?' Loud laughter. A woman said, 
'Robbie - run home and tell your mam the Martians have landed.' A generator and 
cables were set up and a GPO line connected.
As soon as Barnaby reached the pavement he was nobbled by the white trench 
coat, now topped by a Fred MacMurray trilby, from the Echo.
'Chief Inspector - do you have a statement for the press?'
'Not at the moment.'
'The public has a right to know.' Dear God. Dialogue by RKO out of Universal 
Pictures. 'Is it true that the most terrible murder has been committed?'
'A suspicious death has been reported, yes.'
'Oh come off it, Inspector Barnaby. What's in the files?'
'Please . . . oh please . . .' A young girl lugging a Uher tape recorder 
stepped directly in his path. 'Are you in charge of the case?' She sounded 
breathless and exhilarated as if on her way to a party. 'Local radio,' she 
added, thrusting a bulbous windsocked mike under his nose. 'If you give me 
something now it will make the seven o'clock news.'
'Big deal,' muttered Troy.
'Has a communication relations officer been appointed yet?' cried the reporter, 
showing off in front of the girl.
'No. Give us a chance to breathe,' said Barnaby, pushing by.
'But Inspector--'
As Barnaby walked away he heard one of the villagers (the one who had made the 
remark about the library) seize his moment of fame. 'Oh it was horrible! 
Horrible!' he cried into the microphone. 'The son did it . . . he came out 
covered in blood. They've took him away in an ambulance. They reckon he had a 
brainstorm. He's queer, you see . . . it takes them like that . . .'
'But who's been killed?' asked the girl.
'Well . . . it'd be his mother, wouldn't it?' He gazed brightly round. 'Am I on 
camera?'
Barnaby stowed the files safely in the car boot and locked it.
'It didn't take long for them to start sniffing round,' said Troy.
'Oh there's always a village correspondent for the local rag. Does WI reports 
and flower shows. I expect they got in touch.' He started walking briskly down 
Church Lane, Troy hurrying alongside.
As they reached the wooden footpath sign to Gessler Tye Troy asked, 'Are you 
going after the suspects straight away, sir?'
Barnaby did not reply. He was breathing quickly, his face was flushed, his lips 
tight. For him the murder of Mrs Rainbird had shocked the case, yesterday so 
arid and at a standstill, into new pulsating life rich with fresh insights and 
possibilities. And although the killer still remained faceless his scent became 
strong and somewhere, not very far ahead, Barnaby could sense his quarry no 
longer running swift and gleeful, laughing over his shoulder but back-tracking, 
threshing about, sensible that the distance between them was shrinking.
Many years before, becoming gradually and sometimes sharply aware of the 
pleasurable exhilaration he felt at this moment in a case, Barnaby had become 
extremely depressed and unhappy. He had felt his role, a hunter of men, to be a 
base one. He had struggled for some time to work in a more disinterested 
manner. To pretend that this sweep of excitement as he drew the net tighter was 
not happening. Or that if it was happening it was nothing to be ashamed of. 
When that failed he went through a phase, lasting several years, when he had 
played the hard man, ignoring or angrily stamping on these earlier perceptions. 
The quarry was scum. There was only one thing they understood. Give them an 
inch and they'd cut your throat. It takes one to know one.
Promotion had been steady. He had done well. Three men he had caught during 
this period had been hanged. He had been offered a lot of respect, frequently 
from people he despised. But as this carapace of contemptuous hatred for the 
criminal hardened around him so, inexplicably, self-hatred grew until the day 
came when he felt he would almost rather die than be the man he was slowly 
turning into.
He had gone to see George Bullard, speaking in only the vaguest terms of stress 
and headaches, and was granted a month's leave with hardly a question asked. He 
had spent the time gardening, painting watercolours, talking things over with 
Joyce. At the end of the month he knew there was no other job he would ever 
wish to do and that the shell had been broken beyond repair. And so he went 
back and continued: at first insecure (although never less than competent), 
realizing that lack of instant and extreme opinions on matters of the day made 
him appear insipid to some of his former colleagues who usually had a surplus 
of both. He was also at that time over-reacting against his former harshness, 
loathe to bawl out and discipline when necessary. That was mistaken for 
weakness. Gradually he repaired this misconception. And now he walked down a 
dusty country lane having come, in a way, full circle. A policeman neither 
proud nor ashamed of his job entering the last phase of his career and of a 
murder hunt, feeling excited by this and accepting that excitement as a fact of 
life. Part of how he was. Troy touched his arm.
They were halfway along the dirt track leading to Holly Cottage. Barnaby 
stopped and listened. Someone was yelling, the words thick with rage and 
unintelligible. The two men moved silently along, hidden behind the tall hedge, 
to where it opened out into the car space. Keeping in the shadow of the trees 
they approached the house. A window on the ground floor was wide open. And the 
words became clear.
'But you must come, Michael . . . you must . . .'
'No must about it. You needn't expect me to present myself with a carnation up 
my nose and a pair of matching bloody candlesticks to watch you sell yourself 
to the highest bidder.'
'It's not like that. You're so unfair. I do care for him . . . I do. How can I 
help it? He's been looking after us for years.'
'I've never heard such sentimental crap. It makes me want to vomit. You've 
certainly pulled the wool over his eyes, poor bastard.'
'That's a lie! He knows exactly how it is . . . I haven't pretended to anything 
I don't feel. I shall be a good wife--'
'God! Tied to a bloody cripple at your age.'
'You just won't understand! It's different for you. All you care about is your 
work. It's all you've ever cared about. As long as you can paint, the rest of 
the world might as well not exist. But I'm not like that. I'm not especially 
good at anything. I'm not trained for anything. I have no money - I wouldn't 
even have a home if it wasn't for Henry. For heaven's sake, Michael, what's so 
wrong with wanting security--'
'We've got security. He'd never turn us out. He's so besotted with you you 
could keep him dangling for years.'
'But I don't want to stay in this damp gloomy place. I hate it.'
'Well you certainly don't come cheap. Tye House and five thousand acres. I 
don't know why you don't just take to the streets and make a proper job of it.' 
There was the sound of flesh meeting flesh with some force. Michael Lacey 
shouted, 'Spiteful bitch!' Katherine cried out. Barnaby drew his sergeant 
behind a clump of larches. Moments later Katherine Lacey flew past them, her 
face contorted, making little strangled choking sounds, and disappeared down 
the path towards Church Lane. The cottage door slammed and Michael stood in the 
porch for a moment looking undecided. Then he turned and strode off into the 
woods behind the house, kicking a fallen branch furiously out of the way.
When he had disappeared Barnaby approached the house, opened the front door and 
slipped inside. Troy, concealing his surprise, followed. If I'd suggested this, 
he thought, I'd have got a right bollocking.
They stood in the hall, the dank chill seeping into their bones. It seemed 
perfectly natural that these walls should witness bitter words, tears and 
sorrow. Barnaby felt that any happiness accidentally immured in such 
surroundings would have no chance to develop and thrive but, like the 
honeysuckle by the porch, be slowly choked and strangled by the forces of 
despair. He led the way to the kitchen. It was not an attractive room. The 
units were cheap and showing signs of wear. A few rugs lay about on the 
original cold and bumpy brick floor. A half-empty can of spaghetti and a 
clumsily hacked wedge of bread were on the wooden table with a mug, teapot and 
half a bottle of cheesy-looking milk. There were flies everywhere.
The room adjacent to the kitchen facing the front of the house had rush 
matting, a table, four chairs, bookshelves, a two-seater settee and a 
telephone. The second room on the ground floor was locked.
'This is the place where he was painting when we came before, isn't it?'
'Yes.' Barnaby tried the door again, then left it. 'Well, there's nothing we 
can do about that without a warrant. We've bent the rules enough already.'
Too right, thought Troy, following his chief up the uncarpeted stairs. He 
couldn't see why they were roaming around the place at all. Surely the whole 
point of coming to the cottage was to check Lacey's alibi for that afternoon?
'The more you know about a suspect, Sergeant, the more cards you hold. And that 
includes his natural habitat.'
Troy blinked in some alarm at this spot of telepathy. A very worrying 
development. If a man couldn't call his thoughts his own a man could remain a 
sergeant for life.
There were three bedrooms. The smallest had a single bed, a wardrobe and a 
chest of drawers. The bed was rigidly and efficiently made, a hospital bed. A 
nightdress was folded neatly on the pillow. The wardrobe was nearly empty and 
the chest of drawers had a thin film of dust. A bunch of wild flowers in a jar 
gave the room a mild fragrance. Again Barnaby recalled the Serotina struggling 
in the nettle patch.
A much larger room was next door, empty but for a small old-fashioned bed, two 
wicker chairs and a garden table. 'I suppose this is where the nanny slept,' 
offered Troy.
The third room, biggest of the three, clearly belonged to Michael Lacey. The 
bed was unmade, the sheets tangled, one of the pillows on the floor. There was 
some grey scummy coffee on a scarred bedside table next to a copy of Vasari's 
Lives of the Artists, and a packet of Gitanes. The acrid smell of the 
cigarettes hung in the air, mingled with the smell of stale sweat. The only 
chair was decorated with a shirt and a grubby pair of Y fronts. Sergeant Troy, 
'clean from the skin out every day' as his wife was wont to boast in their 
local laundrette, turned up his nose and sniffed.
'A bit careless,' he said as they re-entered the hall, 'leaving the door 
unlocked.'
'Oh I don't know.' Barnaby opened it a fraction and checked the view, then 
stepped out. 'The only room where there might be anything worth pinching was 
secured.'
'Great works of art d'you mean?' jeered Troy as they walked back towards the 
hedge.
'I was thinking of canvases - they cost a hell of a lot. So do paints. Or of 
course he might be doing a Keating.'
'Come again, sir?'
'Tom Keating. A very successful forger.'
'Well whatever he's doing he's not successful. I've seen families on the Social 
living better. Didn't even have a telly.'
'And you can't sink much lower than that.'
Troy looked at his chief suspiciously as they walked on but Barnaby's 
expression remained bland. As they came to the junction of Church Lane and the 
Street several more police cars arrived. The crowd, now swelled by the return 
of the local work force, was being urged to move along or go home. Barnaby 
wondered how long it would be before the nationals got hold of the story. There 
was a rustle of speculation as the two men appeared, a rustle that became a 
loud hum as Barnaby and Troy turned into the Lessiters' driveway. The fact that 
everyone in the village would shortly be questioned was, even if it had been 
known, supremely irrelevant. It was the Lessiters whom the police were 
visiting. The Lessiters who were, in some way as yet unrevealed, connected with 
the crime.
As Barnaby stood once again beneath the Madame le Coultre and looked through 
the window he, once again, saw Barbara Lessiter. This time far from looking 
afraid and shaken she had taken a combative stance. He could not see her face 
but her shoulders had a martial set and her hands were clenched into angry 
fists. He heard Lessiter shout, 'You sang a different tune in bed last night.'
'That was last night.' She tossed her head as she yelled her rejoinder and 
Barnaby caught a glimpse of her tight angry profile. Troy raised sandy 
eyebrows, muttered, 'Naughty naughty.' He rang the bell.
Stepping into the sitting room was like stepping on to a battlefield. The whiff 
of the last two salvoes hung, still and trembling in the stifling air. Barnaby 
gave them a moment before ascertaining that they had both heard of Mrs 
Rainbird's death.
'Terrible business, terrible!' cried Lessiter. 'Head split open by an axe, I 
understand. I suppose he had some sort of fit . . . Dennis I mean. At least,' 
he added with a scornful curl of his lip, 'no one can accuse me this time of 
wrongly issuing a death certificate.'
Both the Lessiters looked at the policemen with interest, no doubt glad of a 
breather. However, the doctor did not wear his air of detached attention for 
long. Barnaby asked where he was between three and five that afternoon.
'Me?' He gasped at them, his rubicund complexion fading to a mere puce, 'What 
on earth has this to do with me?'
'Everyone is questioned in a murder case, darling.' Barnaby was glad no one had 
ever called him darling like that. 'What on earth's the matter?'
'Nothing.' He moved to his writing desk. 'Very well, Inspector. I . . . was 
visiting a private patient. I'll be glad to write the name and address down for 
you.' He scribbled something, tore off the sheet and was just crossing to 
Barnaby when his wife ran forward and snatched it out of his hand. 'Barbara!'
She read the piece of paper then handed it to Barnaby. She seemed calm but her 
eyes glittered like diamond chippings.
'And you, Mrs Lessiter?'
'I was at my health club in Slough . . . the Abraxas if you want to check. I 
went for a salad lunch, a sauna and massage. I was there till around half three 
then I did some shopping. Got back here five-thirty.'
'Thank you. Is Miss Lessiter at home? I'd like a word with her.'
'No. We passed each other in the hall as I arrived. She was on her way out and 
looking very strange.'
'In what way?'
'Well . . . if it had been anyone but Judy I'd say she'd been with a lover.'
'That's remarkably catty even for you,' blurted out Lessiter, regretting it 
immediately as he caught the glimmer of satisfaction on Troy's face.
'She gave me an ecstatic smile - incidentally the first I've received from that 
direction since the day I moved in - and said she was driving into High Wycombe 
to buy a new dress before the shops shut. Which is also strange. I've never 
known her take the slightest interest in clothes. Quite understandable when you 
think that she's shaped like a couple of suet puddings.'
Whatever was on that piece of paper, thought Troy, had made her as bold as 
brass. She didn't look like a centrefold dream today. The facial lines under 
the bronzy powder seemed more deeply etched, her eyes were hard and her hair 
had an inelasticity that made it look completely artificial. Even her curves 
seemed rigid and unyielding.
'Someone will call later to talk to your daughter, sir,' murmured Barnaby, and 
bade them good evening. The door had hardly closed behind them before Trevor 
Lessiter turned to his wife.
'I hope you're not expecting--'
'You dirty sod!'
'Don't you speak to me like that. I shouldn't be driven to places like the Casa 
Nova if you were any sort of a wife.'
'I might be more of a wife if you had the slightest idea how to set about it. 
You're bloody pathetic.'
'At least they care about me there. Krystal's always--'
'Care about you? They must be laughing themselves sick.'
'How the hell do you know so much about it? I'm surprised you've even heard of 
the place.'
'They were talking about it in the Abraxas, if you must know. Some of the old 
slags come in for a spot of rejuvenation.'
'Doesn't work though, does it, Barbara?'
'What?'
'The rejuvenation. I mean you're really looking your age right now. That was 
one of the first lies you told me, wasn't it? About your age. God - today's 
opened my eyes all right. I feel as if I'm seeing you for the first time.'
Barbara walked over to the window, carefully selected a cigarette from the 
silver box and lighted it. She turned and faced him, blowing out a cool plume 
of smoke.
'Well that goes for both of us, husband mine,' she said, baring her teeth in an 
implacable smile. 'That goes for both of us.'


Chapter Five
David Whiteley opened the door of Witchetts wearing his working jeans and a 
sweat-stained shirt, with a tumbler of whisky in his hand. He showed them into 
the sitting room and turned off the blaring stereo. ('Bridge over Troubled 
Water.') He invited them to sit down and offered Barnaby 'a touch of Jameson'. 
The offer being declined he drained his own and poured another. His hand was as 
steady as a rock; his voice strong and clear and, although he consumed a third 
glassful during their brief visit, both hand and voice remained unchanged.
'You know what has happened, Mr Whiteley?'
'Yes. I stopped my car and asked one of the multitude outside the Black Boy. 
Load of ghouls.'
Barnaby asked about his movements during the afternoon. Whiteley was sitting in 
a bentwood rocker and tipped it very slowly back and forth as he surveyed them 
both. He looked incongruous in this traditional refuge of the old and resigned. 
There was something so potent about his masculinity; his blond good looks and 
rather crude sexual vigour. It seemed only fitting that, like the corn god, he 
should spend his days reaping and renewing the land. He said, 'I was 
supervising the hopper till about three . . . three-thirty . . . then I took a 
combine harvester down to Gessler Tye. We'll start cutting in a couple of days 
. . . well, probably not Saturday because of the wedding but Sunday I should 
think.'
'Sunday?'
'Oh yes. Once harvesting starts you can write off your weekends.'
'Did you know Mrs Rainbird at all?'
'By sight only. I don't socialize much in the village. Any . . . picking up I 
do is in the Bull over Gessler way. Or in Causton.'
'Nothing nearer home?' murmured Barnaby delicately.
'No. Oh I knew what you were thinking the other day, Inspector. In the kitchen 
at Tye House. But there's nothing doing there, believe me. At the moment that 
is. Mind you I don't think our Kate's nearly as cool as she makes out. I shall 
try again once she's safely married.'
No need for him to visit the Casa Nova, thought Troy, admitting for once to a 
male persona probably nearly as attractive to women as his own. Looking round 
the room Barnaby noticed, on the mantelpiece, the photograph of a child, the 
glass a cobweb of splinters and cracks.
He said, 'I got the impression when we met in the kitchen that you were 
depressed about something.'
'Me? You must be joking. I never get depressed.' He stared at Barnaby 
aggressively. 'Doctor Jameson cures all ills.' He lifted his glass then tipped 
it back. The sort of man, thought the chief inspector, who would use the loss 
of his son as a sympathy-producing counter in the game with women but who would 
never admit to fatherly affection in front of a member of his own sex.
Barnaby continued, 'And after you'd taken the harvester?'
'I drove back to Tye House in the Land-Rover, picked up that pathetic Jack 
Russell and took it to the vet. Katherine didn't want them to come to the 
house. It should've been done before now in my opinion but she kept trying to 
feed it. After that -'
'A moment, Mr Whiteley. Were Miss Lacey and Mr Trace at home when you picked up 
the dog?'
'Yes.'
'What time would you say this was?'
'Some time between half four and five, I suppose. I only caught a glimpse of 
Katherine. She ran upstairs when I came in - so as not to see me take him, I 
suppose. After I'd handed the dog over I drove back here, poured myself a drink 
and you turned up.'
'He's got the strength and build for it,' said Troy moments later as they 
crossed the road, making for Tye House. 'And with an estate the size of Trace's 
who's to know where he is half the time? I thought that actually, sir, when we 
questioned him about the first murder . . . you know, the couple in the woods.' 
Encouraged by Barnaby's silence he continued, 'I mean what's to stop him taking 
half an hour off for a quick screw when he's miles from anywhere? And take 
today . . . he could have left the hopper for a while. Or turned the combine 
into the nearest field instead of taking it to Gessler Tye, doubled back and 
done for Mrs Rainbird. Pity we've no idea of the motive.'
Barnaby, who had a very good idea of the murderer's motive, arrived again at 
the apricot-coloured farmhouse. Katherine Lacey opened the door. She looked 
very pale and, even if Barnaby had not witnessed the earlier scene at Holly 
Cottage, he would have known that she had recently been crying. Distress did 
not mar her remarkable beauty. Her violet eyes looked very large with tears as 
yet unshed. She was wearing a white dress of spotless linen and flat sandals. 
She gazed at them unsmiling and said, 'We're in the kitchen.'
Henry turned his chair around as the chief inspector entered, and wheeled it 
across the floor. 'What has really happened, Barnaby? Surely it can't be true 
that the Rainbird boy has attacked his mother?'
'Mrs Rainbird has certainly been killed, sir. In a very violent and unpleasant 
manner.'
Henry turned a stunned face to his fiancee. 'You see, darling.' She sounded 
gentle but firm. 'We can't . . . now . . .we'll just have to wait.'
'Katherine thinks we should cancel the wedding. It's ridiculous. A hundred 
invitations accepted. The catering organized. The marquee's being put up 
tomorrow. The house is bulging with presents -'
'I only meant for a week or two. Until all this awful business is sorted out. 
And perhaps by then Michael will have come round.'
'Since when has your brother -' He broke off. He was not the sort of man, 
Barnaby judged, to even admit to familial discord much less display it in front 
of complete strangers. He appeared older today. There were liver-coloured rings 
beneath his eyes and he looked distrait. 'I simply won't hear of it, Katherine. 
It's out of the question. After all, this is nothing to do with us.'
'Could I ask you both what you did this afternoon, Mr Trace?'
'Us? Well, we've been organizing for Saturday,' said Henry. 'I didn't go over 
to the office today. Katherine and I spent the morning arranging the wedding 
presents in the main dining room, then we had lunch, finally decided on the 
placing for the marquee, then Katherine went mushrooming -'
'Mushrooming?' Barnaby remembered the little pile on the doorstep of the 
bungalow.
'Yes. There are some flat open ones not far from Holly Cottage,' said the girl. 
'And some girolles. They taste wonderful. Not like those awful things you buy 
in the shops. I wanted to do an omelette for supper.'
'There were some on Mrs Rainbird's step.'
'Yes - I was coming to that. The last time I saw her -'
'When was that?'
'Yesterday at the Parish Council meeting. She gave me a recipe for mushroom and 
anchovy ketchup and I said next time I gathered some I'd let her have a few. So 
I went round and knocked but no one answered so I just left them on the step 
and came away. Now I can't stop thinking about it . . . he must have been in 
there . . . perhaps even . . . but it was so quiet . . . I thought she'd gone 
out, you see.' She repeated the words, her voice suddenly jangled and shrill. 
'I thought she'd gone out.'
'Kate.' Henry held out his hand and she gripped it, crying, 'Everything's going 
wrong . . . just like I said the other day . . . it's all slipping away from 
us.'
'Now you must stop this, darling. All right? You're talking nonsense.'
Barnaby crossed to the table and the mushrooms. He picked one up and sniffed 
it. There was a large basket, only half full but still holding a lot of 
mushrooms. 'It must have taken you quite a while to pick all these?'
'Not really. About half an hour, I suppose.'
'When actually was this?'
'I left here . . . when was it, darling? About quarter past three and was back 
three quarters of an hour later . . .'
'You say the place where they grow is quite near Holly Cottage. Did you happen 
to call in at all?'
'Yes I did. I thought Michael might have -' She broke off, catching Henry's 
eye. 'Anyway it was a waste of time because he wasn't there.'
'Was this before or after you did the picking?'
'After.'
'Between four and half past in other words?'
'I suppose so.' She did not mention her later visit and the spectacular row 
and, as the timing made it irrelevant to his present inquiry, Barnaby saw no 
need to mention it either. He had no doubt that it would not meet with her 
fiance's approval.
'And you were here when Miss Lacey returned, Mr Trace?'
'Yes. I was with Sam . . . he's the boy who does bits and pieces of maintenance 
and helps with the garden. I was unpacking Katherine's roses, he was mixing 
peat and bonemeal, preparing the ground. We made some tea. Kate rang the 
cottage to see if Phyllis would like to join us but she wanted to carry on 
doing her curtains and unpacking stuff.'
Barnaby asked, 'Has Miss Cadell moved out for good then, sir?'
'Not quite. She'll be sleeping here tonight. For the last time, I believe.' 
Barnaby was hard put to disentangle the mixture of emotions in Trace's voice. 
Relief, satisfaction and more than a little worry.
'Perhaps you'd be kind enough to direct us to the cottage?' asked the chief 
inspector.
'It's a bit difficult to describe,' said Katherine, 'I'll take you there.'
As they left the house Barnaby said, 'I'll leave Miss Cadell to you, Sergeant. 
You know what I'm looking for. And then you can try Holly Cottage again. I'll 
be in the pod when you're finished.' He watched them go off across the lawn 
towards the grove of poplars, the girl's shoulders bowed slightly, her dark 
hair stirred by the evening breeze. Troy walked a little closer to her than was 
necessary to deliver the animated stream of chatter that his lively profile 
suggested. Every now and again he pulled down his black leather blouson and 
smoothed his hair. Barnaby made his way back to the pod.
Here all was activity. A certain amount of simple forensic work had already 
been done. The exhibition officer had logged a fair bit of detail. All the 
blood came from Mrs Rainbird. There were filaments under her nails, not yet 
analysed, which suggested the murderer had worn a stocking or tights over the 
face. Soap in the bathroom was marbled with streaks of blood, indicating that a 
shower had been taken. Barnaby got on to the station and briefed Inspector 
Moffat to handle communications for the case. As he did so a TV pantechnicon 
drew up outside and a uniformed scene-of-crime officer entered the pod.
'Oh - you're back, sir. A message from a Mrs Quine. Said to tell you that she 
saw a Michael Lacey in the spinney approaching the bungalow and acting in a 
highly suspicious manner -'
'Actually we also saw Mr Lacey in the spinney acting in a fairly ordinary 
manner. But thank you. Has the body been taken away?'
'They're just bringing it out now, sir,' the man replied unnecessarily. You 
could have heard the gasps and murmurs half a mile away.
'Are you on to the outbuildings?'
'Not yet, sir. Just starting on the kitchen.'
'Right.'
Barnaby left the pod, set the newshounds (the two original plus five more and a 
television team) on to Inspector Moffat and returned to his car to wait for 
Troy. He took an armful of Mrs Rainbird's folders, sentimentally pink and blue, 
and one of the notebooks, locked himself in the back seat and started to read.
He flipped first through the notebook. Each page was pretty much like the one 
he had already read. People identified only by initials and, occasionally, 
sporting a red star. No one seemed to be doing anything out of the ordinary. 
Walking, talking, visiting, using the phone box. Every one skewered by the 
omniscient beam from Mrs Rainbird's powerful optics.
Barnaby put the notebook aside and started on the files. He realized 
immediately that his previous supposition when first checking out the loft had 
been the correct one. Mrs Rainbird appeared to have a fresh and not 
unreasonable approach to her profession. Barnaby hesitated to use the word 
Marxian to describe such an individualistic, anti-social business as blackmail, 
but there was no doubt that the woman's demands were nothing if not sensible. 
People paid what they could. From each according to his abilities.
One man had delivered over (Barnaby checked back) the last ten years eggs and 
vegetables twice weekly. Someone else regular loads of wood. A few months 
before these offerings had ceased and Mrs Rainbird had drawn a neat line 
underneath and written 'Deceased'. Poor old devil, thought the chief inspector, 
wondering what peccadillo the old man had been guilty of. Probably nothing too 
terrible. Ideas of right and wrong in a small village, particularly among the 
older inhabitants, often seemed archaic to more modern minds. He opened another 
file. Two pounds a week for three years, then nothing. Perhaps the victim had 
decamped. Driven out of the place as the only way to avoid payment. He read on. 
Fifty pounds a month. One pound a week. A regular servicing of Denny's Porsche. 
Ironing done, shrubs supplied. Who would have thought in a village of some 
three hundred souls there would have been so much 'sin' about?
But of course there was also Brown's. And Dennis with his slimy ways, driving 
round Causton visiting the bereaved and offering oleaginous comfort. People 
talked unrestrainedly in times of grief and gossiped at funerals. Rich pickings 
there. Between them he and his mother must have covered a pretty wide area.
Barnaby picked up the last pink folder, casually, with no sense of premonition. 
No idea that this would be the chamber with the bullet. Spin number six.
No need to wonder now, he thought, looking at the long column of figures, where 
the silver car came from or the partnership in the funeral parlour. Number 117C 
had paid out thousands. Even before he looked at the date of the first payment 
he knew what he would find. Not many crimes could command that sort of blood 
money. In fact perhaps only one. He felt a surge of emotion too strong to be 
called satisfaction. He felt on top of the world. He had not been able to let 
the shooting of Bella Trace alone. Without the slightest shred of evidence, 
indeed with all those present insisting that only an accident could have 
occurred, Barnaby had carried the incident around with him for a week whilst it 
plucked at the edges of his mind like a child with a story to tell. And now 
here he was, vindicated. A gentle tapping on the window of the car broke into 
his reverie.
'Ah, Troy.' He got out and slammed the door. 'Did you see Miss Cadell?'
'Yes. She's been at this new place all day, she told me. Then I tried Holly 
Cottage again like you said but it's still empty.' He hurried alongside 
Barnaby. 'Seems to have an endless supply of cottages, Mr Trace. Takes some 
people all their lives to buy -'
'Show me where Phyllis Cadell's house is, would you?'
'Oh, she's not there now, Chief. She left when I did. Eating with the Traces.'
'Right.' Barnaby crossed the road. 'How did she seem?'
'Well, she didn't know of course, about the murder. After I told her she went a 
bit funny. She laughed a lot but it sounded . . . oh I don't know . . . I think 
she'd been drinking, actually.'
Phyllis Cadell was standing by the window in the room where they had first met. 
She turned as they entered and as soon as Barnaby saw her face he knew his 
suspicions were correct. He stepped forward.
'Phyllis Cadell. I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of -'
'Oh no!' She turned from him and ran to the far end of the room. 'Not now . . . 
not now!' Then she covered her face with her hands and started to shriek.


Chapter Six
Barnaby crossed the room. As he approached Phyllis became quieter and stared at 
him. The intensity of her gaze, the utter, utter misery in her eyes, lifted her 
for a brief moment from the realms of bathos and made her appear an almost 
tragic figure. Barnaby completed the caution. Troy, trying to look as if all 
this was no more than he expected, produced his notebook and sat down by the 
door.
Phyllis Cadell gazed at them both, blinking convulsively, then said, 'How did 
you find out?'
'We have removed several files from Mrs Rainbird's bungalow. Yours was amongst 
them.' She would never know that no details of the crime were stated in the 
file and that the blackmailer's victim was identified only by three figures and 
an initial. Or that, lacking any sort of proof, Barnaby had hoped to frighten 
her into an admission of guilt. She started to speak.
'I know you'll find this impossible to believe but when I first came here . . . 
of course I was much younger then . . .' Her glance at the floor was abject. It 
indicated how sad she found her age, her appearance, her general unlovableness. 
'And Henry was . . . I did everything in the house, you know . . . and he was 
always so grateful. Then . . . gradually I felt his gratitude becoming 
something more. Bella was always so busy, you understand. Her position in the 
village meant she was expected to be on the Parish Council, do a certain amount 
of charity work. She was president of the WI, the local Conservative 
Association. Oh - she looked after Henry in a brisk sort of way but half the 
time she just wasn't here. He looked so wistful sometimes . . . sitting by the 
window waiting for her car to turn in at the gate. Then one evening - I shall 
never forget it . . .' Her puffy face became criss-crossed with tears and her 
voice thick with emotion. 'I was preparing some sandwiches - cream cheese with 
horseradish - and he took my hand and said, "Oh Phyllis. What would I do 
without you?" Not we' - she stared at Barnaby defiantly - 'I. "What would I do 
without you?" You see he was turning to me more and more as time went by. And I 
understood that. I loved him so much you see that it seemed only natural that 
he should start to love me a little. And then I thought' - her voice dropped to 
a whisper - 'how happy we could both be if it wasn't for Bella.'
She sat down then and was quiet for so long that Barnaby was afraid she had 
stopped for good. But, just as he was about to speak, she started again. 'There 
was no love lost between us, you know. Everyone thought how good it was of her 
to give me a home. But she would never have got a housekeeper to do all the 
things I did. And she enjoyed flaunting her happiness. She soon spotted that I 
cared for Henry. There were no flies on Bella.'
Barnaby moved and sat down without taking his eyes off her face. 'I'd learnt 
how to handle a gun when I was quite young. It's just something one does in the 
country. But I never liked killing things.' Her lips twisted on the paradox. 'I 
told Bella I fancied a change from domesticity and felt like joining them on a 
shoot. Henry seemed a bit surprised but quite pleased. I took a hip flask 
filled with vodka. I wasn't much of a drinker in those days. I hadn't any 
definite plan but I was sure there'd be an opportunity. People don't stay in a 
line or bunch you know, they fan out - break up a bit. But, as the time went 
by, it seemed to be getting more and more impossible. There was always someone 
between us or she moved too far away or too close. I started to get desperate. 
I didn't know what to do. I kept taking drinks from the flask. I knew I'd never 
get up the courage to go out with them again . . . all the dead birds, the 
blood . . . it was making me sick. Then I had a brilliant idea. I thought if I 
went round in front of them and I was hidden in the trees and . . . and did it 
from there no one would know. So I said I didn't feel too well or I'd got bored 
or something and left and worked my way round in a semi-circle till I was 
facing them. Guns were going off all the time. I suppose I could easily have 
been hit myself.' She buried her face in her hands, adding huskily, 'I wish to 
God I had been.
'Then . . . I shot her. It was terrible. I saw her pitch forwards and fall to 
the ground. And I panicked. I just got up and ran and ran. I threw the gun into 
some bushes. After a few minutes I stopped and drank the rest of the vodka and 
then of course I realized . . .'
'Yes?' So quiet Barnaby's voice. So still the room. Troy, pencil flying, felt 
they had forgotten he was there.
'. . . Why that everyone would know it wasn't an accident. All the others, 
except the farm boy were behind her, you see. And he was too far away. I 
thought what shall I do, what shall I do? I sat there and sat there. I thought 
of running away but then everyone would know it was me . . . so I made myself 
go back. By that time of course it was all over. The ambulance had been and 
gone and Trevor Lessiter told me that Bella had had an accident. Tripped and 
fallen on her gun. I just couldn't believe it. That anyone could be so lucky. I 
cried and cried with relief. I couldn't stop. Everyone was very touched. Such 
sisterly concern.
'When they'd all gone I made supper for myself and Henry. I didn't lay the 
table. We sat by the fire. I had to coax him to eat. I've never known such 
happiness. I expect you think that's wicked but it's the truth. All I could 
think of was, I've got away with it, and I've got Henry. Then about half-past 
seven the phone rang.' Her voice became dry, little more than a croak. 'Excuse 
me . . . I need a drink.'
'Sergeant.' Barnaby beckoned.
'It's all right.' She poured from a decanter and added a quick spurt of soda. 
'Well, the call was from Iris. She said I was to go round. I told her what had 
happened to Bella and said I couldn't leave Henry. She just said, "You'll come 
now. Or would you like me to come to you?" She sounded very odd but even then I 
wasn't really alarmed. I got Henry some pudding and went off to the bungalow.
'She offered me some coffee, wouldn't take no for an answer, and Dennis went 
off to the kitchen. We sat facing each other in her revolting lounge. She 
wouldn't say what she wanted. She kept twinkling at me, saying how I'd be 
needed more than ever at Tye House. "Quite the chatelaine you'll be, dear." 
Then Dennis came in pushing the trolley. There was coffee and biscuits on the 
bottom tier and on the top . . . the gun. No one said anything. It was 
horrible. They just kept looking at each other then at me, and beaming. As if 
I'd accomplished something extraordinary. As I suppose I had.
'Then Dennis said he'd seen me shoot Bella and ditch the gun and run away and 
whilst they were both very anxious for my continuing happiness at Tye House 
they were sure I'd understand that poor people had to make their way in the 
world too and that they'd always known I was the sort of person to be generous 
to my friends. My plan had so obsessed me that I hadn't given anyone else a 
thought, least of all Dennis Rainbird. But he was mad about Michael Lacey then. 
Was always following him about. I should have remembered that. Anyway' - her 
shoulders sagged - 'there's not much else to tell, really. Since then they've 
cleaned me out. Henry gave me Bella's jewellery - they've had the money from 
that. Then there were my own few bits and pieces and fifty thousand my mother 
left . . . and you see' - a wave of sorrow washed over her features - 'it was 
all for nothing. He didn't love me at all. He was just being kind. And then 
Katherine came along.'
As the silence lengthened and she didn't speak again Barnaby said, 'Is that the 
end of your statement, Miss Cadell?'
'It is.'
'And Mrs Rainbird's death?' Even as he spoke the chief inspector knew what her 
answer would be. He could see her, buoyed up in the belief that Henry cared and 
primed with a flask of vodka, firing at Bella then, immediately overcome with 
shock and horror, running all over the place and hurling the gun away. What he 
couldn't see was that stout, foolish-faced woman wielding a knife again and 
again, wading through blood, steeped in blood. Coolly changing clothes, 
scrubbing the traces away. So it was without surprise that he heard her say, 'I 
had nothing to do with that.'
Yet he still felt it was in order to ask further questions. After all she had 
no alibi for that afternoon and she had everything to gain by Mrs Rainbird's 
death. He pointed out both these things.
'I don't see how I benefit by her death. I might've done eighteen months ago 
but they've both known for weeks that all the money was gone. And I told them 
that if I went down I'd make damn sure they went down with me. They knew I 
meant what I said all right.'
After she had listened to the statement being read back, and signed it, Troy 
positioned himself at the bedroom door whilst she packed. She came out carrying 
a small case and her handbag and wearing a shapeless raincoat. She looked much 
older. She had never been an attractive woman but a certain amount of vitality 
and a high colour had added some liveliness to her appearance. Now she looked 
drained, even her hair seemed greyer. As they reached the foot of the stairs a 
door opened and Barnaby felt his prisoner shrink closer to him.
'Phyllis.' Henry wheeled himself into the hall, with Katherine close behind. 
'What on earth's wrong? What is happening?'
'You'll know soon enough.' She wouldn't look at him but hurried through the 
front door, Troy following. Barnaby closed the door and turned to the waiting 
pair.
'I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Trace, but Miss Cadell has just 
confessed to the murder of your wife.'
'It's not possible!' Katherine looked absolutely astounded.
Henry seemed bereft of speech entirely. Finally he said, 'Are you sure? There 
must be some mistake. I can't believe it.'
'I'm afraid there's no doubt.' Barnaby re-opened the door. 'We have taken her 
into custody. You may wish to contact her solicitor.' Then he closed the door 
and walked after the others to the car.


Chapter Seven
Barnaby sat behind his desk in the incident room. He pushed the last of the 
Tranquillada's files aside and concentrated on his coffee. A few minutes before 
he had learned from the hospital that there was no change in Mr Rainbird's 
condition but that he continued comfortable. Barnaby doubted that. He doubted 
that very much indeed. Until the person who had killed his mother was caught 
Dennis Rainbird, once memory returned, would never feel comfortable again. 
Because Barnaby felt sure that whatever she knew he knew. And what now, unless 
madness had permanently addled his wits, was to stop him talking? Which was why 
there was a guard at the door of his hospital room as well as someone always by 
his bed.
Barnaby had in front of him the cutting on the Trace inquest. Now he knew the 
truth he read it again, remembering his earlier impression that there was 
something in there that hadn't seemed quite right. He assumed that whatever it 
was would now stick out a mile, but he was wrong. Ah well . . . it was no 
longer important.
All around him was activity. Muted, orderly but intense. Breathing space 
between telephone calls was slight. Fleet Street had picked up the news as had 
BBC television. Although no appeal had yet been made several members of the 
public, no doubt anxious to appear to be playing some part in such a dramatic 
event, had rung offering information and ideas.
Paper was piling up. Every little detail was put on an action form and those 
not already transcribed on to the rotary card system were circling round like 
homing pigeons. Forensic and other information was being recorded in the 
portable pod. A vast blown-up map of the village hung on the wall behind 
Barnaby's head. One of the monitors showed a local television reporter 
interviewing Mrs Sweeney, and Mr Fenton, senior partner at Brown's Funeral 
Emporium ('Every solace in your hour of need') had appeared for the opposition. 
The villagers were being questioned by the police as to their whereabouts 
between three and five p.m. All the normal procedures were being carried out. 
But whilst Barnaby was aware that everything that was being done must be done, 
his mind refused to expand to absorb all the minutiae of an official inquiry.
It held only five suspects (he had decided to jettison Henry Trace, and 
Lessiter had an alibi) and these five moved in a slow tantalizing pavane on a 
screen behind his eyes. Wherever he was, whoever he was with, whatever he was 
doing, the dance went on. He drained his coffee. Old green-eyes was back.
It was now almost nine o'clock. He wrote down an order for the Chinese takeaway 
- Black Bean and Ginger Soup. Sweet and Sour Prawns. Rice and Spring Rolls. 
Toffee Apples - and had just sent it off when the phone rang.
'It's a Mrs Quine asking for you, sir. She's in a call box. I've made a note of 
the number.'
'Right . . . Mrs Quine?'
'Hullo? What's going on . . . didn't that chap in the caravan tell you what I 
said? About that Lacey bloke?'
'Yes. The message was passed on.'
'Woss he doing still roaming round the village, then? We'll all be torn to 
bloody shreds before you lot get off your arses and do something. I saw him go 
up to that house bold as brass.'
'We also--' Barnaby stopped. Around him the phones continued to ring, a 
typewriter rattled, outside a car screeched to a halt. He heard none of those 
things. His concentration was yanked to a single fine point. There was just 
him, the telephone and Mrs Quine. His throat was bone dry as he asked, 'Did you 
say he went up to the house?'
'I told you. In the message. He went through the hedge, up the garden path to 
the back door. Got his old denims on and that cap. I'd know him anywhere.'
'What time was this?'
'Well . . . the Young Doctors had just finished and Tickle on the Tum hadn't 
started. I'd gone up to make the beds - which was how I came to spot him, 
y'see. Through the bedroom window. Lisa Dawn was making a cup of tea.'
'Yes,' said Barnaby, marvelling at the control in his voice, 'but what time 
would that be?'
'That'd be . . . um . . . five to four.'
He sat gripping the receiver for a moment longer. She continued speaking but 
her words were lost as a wave of exhilaration pounded through him. His brain 
felt as if it were being dragged all over the place by wild horses. Five to 
four. Dear God. Five to four. More words were getting through.
'Was it you sent that nosey bugger from the Social round? Upsetting Lisa Dawn.'
The pips admitted a merciful release. Barnaby went to find Inspector Moffat to 
get a search warrant. He yelled 'Troy!' as he went through the outer office - a 
shout that could have been heard as far as the cattle market and the Soft Shoe 
Cafe. His sergeant leapt up from a spot of hot-eyed dalliance with Policewoman 
Brierley and responded with a 'Sir!' automatically pitched at the same level.
'Car. Shift yourself.'
Leaving another 'sir' splintering the atmosphere Troy ran from the room. This 
was something like it, he thought, running across the car park and leaping into 
the Fiesta. Foot down. Siren blaring. Secret tip-off. Villain on the run. Troy 
and Barnaby closing in. Cuffs at the ready. But the Chief's getting on. Oh he 
was fast in his day but now . . . So it's Troy who makes the arrest. He was a 
tough bastard, too. One of the hard men. Afterwards Barnaby admitted as much. 
'Without you, Sergeant, I couldn't have--'
'For God's sake don't just bloody sit there. Move!'
'Yes, sir.'
'Back to the village. And you can switch that thing off.' He didn't say slow 
down, though, and Troy touched eighty when they were clear of the town.
'What's up, sir?' Barnaby told him. Troy whistled and said, 'Wow. We've got him 
then.'
'Keep your eyes on the road.'
'But . . . that's pretty conclusive, wouldn't you say?'
'He's certainly got some explaining to do.'
'I hope he hasn't scarpered. He wasn't in the cottage when I went back to 
check.'
When they entered the village a mere handful of people was now hanging round 
the portable pod. The television van had gone on to the next drama. It was 
getting dark. As soon as Troy eased through the hedge space they saw a light in 
the cottage.
'He's back.'
'There's no need to whisper, Sergeant.' Barnaby got out. 'I should think our 
headlights alone have alerted him to the fact that we've arrived.'
The sun was setting. The house was softened by the glow. The dark mass of 
surrounding trees was rimmed with deepest gold. An upstairs window reflected 
the sun. Troy squinted against it as it hung in the very centre of the pane. He 
thought it looked like a lump of blood. Barnaby knocked.
'Heavens, not you again.' Michael Lacey regarded them coolly from the doorway. 
He was eating a huge hunk of bread and cheese. 'You never stop, do you? Really 
it makes it a pleasure to pay my taxes. If I ever earned enough to pay taxes, 
that is.'
'We'd like to ask you a few questions.'
He gave a little moan but it sounded phoney. Part of a game. He opened the 
door. 'Come in then if you must. But I've already been asked a few questions. 
By one of your minions barely half an hour ago.'
'Then I expect you know that Mrs Rainbird has been done to death--'
'Done to death? How wonderfully archaic.'
'In a particularly brutal manner.'
'I hope you're not looking for insincere expressions of regret on my part. She 
was a very nasty woman. Almost as nasty as her golden-haired boy.'
'Indeed? I didn't realize you knew her well.'
'You didn't have to know her well.'
Supercilious sod, thought Troy, hugging Mrs Quine's revelation to his heart. 
Barnaby asked Michael Lacey where he was between three and five that afternoon.
'Working.'
'You wouldn't like to expound on that?'
'Not really. Thanks all the same.'
'So if someone said they saw you walking up the path of Mrs Rainbird's back 
garden at four p.m . . . ?'
'I'd say they wanted their eyes tested.'
Barnaby produced one of his two warrants. 'Mr Lacey, I have a warrant here to 
search these premises.' At this the man's expression changed. That's wiped the 
smile off his face, thought Troy, allowing the hint of one to appear on his 
own. 'I hope,' Barnaby continued, 'that you will cooperate in this matter.'
'You can't do that!'
'I'm afraid this bit of paper says we can. Sergeant . . .' Barnaby nodded 
towards the stairs and Troy vanished. 'Would you accompany me to the kitchen, 
Mr Lacey?'
He searched the kitchen thoroughly while his companion stood sullenly by the 
sink. Then the room with the settee and bookshelves. He pulled out the 
paperbacks, lifted the matting. Lacey perched on one of the uncomfortable 
dining chairs and watched. Troy re-entered the room, giving Barnaby what he 
fondly imagined to be an imperceptible shake of the head. The chief inspector 
finished his task and turned to the man at the table, who said, 'If that wild 
semaphoring of absolute despair is anything to go by, your clueless sergeant 
hasn't dug up anything either. So I suggest you go on your merry way and leave 
me in peace.'
'Next door, Troy.' The sergeant nodded and walked out. Lacey jumped up.
'That's my studio. I won't have my work disturbed. There's nothing in there but 
paintings.'
Troy called, 'It's locked, sir.'
'Well, break it down then.'
Michael Lacey ran into the passage and hung on to Troy's arm. Delighted, the 
sergeant immediately seized the man's wrists, wrenching his arms behind his 
back.
'All right, Sergeant, all right.' Barnaby ambled up. 'He's not going anywhere, 
are you, sir?'
Troy released Lacey, who glared at them both. But there was more than anger in 
his expression. There was fear. 'Why don't you just unlock the door and save us 
all a lot of hassle?' asked the chief inspector.
Lacey ignored him. Troy put his shoulder to the wood. It gave on the fourth 
heave. He moved the door into the hall and stepped back, keeping an eye on 
Lacey who was leaning against the stair rail, very still, his face 
expressionless.
Barnaby entered the studio, which seemed innocent enough. And meticulously tidy 
in comparison with the rest of the house. Some canvases were stacked against 
the wall, one or two tied together with string. The easel was covered with a 
cloth peaked into a square by the canvas beneath. The floor was swept clean and 
there was the scent of turps and resin in the air. A trestle table held an 
orderly array of jars and brushes and there was an unlit Calorgas heater in one 
corner.
In the hall Troy stood, legs apart, ready for anything. Over his head the 
electric meter buzzed like a trapped bee. He glanced up. Slim grey cables 
snaked about. Funny to see a meter in a private house. Plenty of council 
tenants had them of course. Set too high as often as not so there'd be some 
cash to spare when they were emptied. A bloody irritating noise. He turned and 
looked up. It wasn't the meter buzzing. It was flies. Dozens of them; great 
filthy bluebottles with iridescent wings. They were clustered all over 
something. Something jammed behind the meter. He stood on his toes and stared 
harder.
'Chief . . .' Barnaby hurried out. 'Look - up there!'
'Get a chair - and something to hold it with.'
Troy climbed on to one of the dining chairs with a dirty tea towel in his hand 
and tugged at the knife. It bloomed with dark stains. The flies lifted 
sluggishly but didn't go far. As Troy held it out they hovered over his hand. 
Barnaby looked at Michael Lacey, who moved away from the banisters and came 
towards them, staring at the knife in astonishment.
'Can you explain what this is doing behind your meter, Mr Lacey?'
'Of course I can't.'
'Does the knife belong to you?'
When Lacey remained silent Troy gave him a none too gentle nudge. 'The chief 
inspector's talking to you.'
'I don't know . . .' He looked more closely, his mouth puckering with distaste. 
'Yes . . . it's the knife we use for the vegetables.'
'And where have you hidden the clothes, Mr Lacey?'
'What?'
'The dungarees, the cap, the gloves. The tights.'
'Tights. What d'you take me for? A transvestite?'
'The clothes that you wore,' Barnaby continued implacably, 'when you killed Mrs 
Rainbird.'
'When I -' Lacey gazed at him open mouthed. 'You're raving mad. You're not 
hanging that on me. I've heard all about police corruption. You probably 
planted that yourself. Came round here earlier when I was out.'
Barnaby was turning back into the studio when Lacey ran for it. Pushing the 
chief inspector violently aside and hitting Troy in the chest, he flew through 
the doorway and raced across the open space in front of the cottage. Troy, 
picking himself up, ran after him and brought the man down by the car. When 
Barnaby reached them Lacey was handcuffed and Troy pink faced with exertion and 
pride.
'In the car, Lacey.'
Barnaby's prisoner stared at him. The look held everything he expected to see, 
fright and despair, but there was something else behind his eyes. A disturbing 
expression that the chief inspector could not put a name to. Troy bundled the 
man into the back seat. Barnaby put the knife into the boot, then said, 'Do you 
have a key to secure the house?'
'It's never locked.'
They drove off. As Troy slowed down to approach the junction of Church Lane and 
the Street Katherine Lacey came round the corner with two of the dogs. There 
was just enough light for her to recognize Barnaby, and she half smiled. Then 
she saw her brother and her face changed. She called out, 'Michael?' and 
started to cross the road towards them. He lifted his handcuffed wrists and 
made a square around his face, shouting, 'I've been framed!' Then the car 
gathered speed and drove off.


Chapter Eight
It was dark when they reached the station. Michael Lacey received an intimation 
and was asked if he wished to make any telephone calls. He declined and started 
looking round him with some interest. He seemed to be recovering his 
savoir-faire fairly quickly. By the time Barnaby handed him over to the custody 
officer he was even exhibiting a certain amount of bravado. Barnaby heard him 
place a facetious order for toast, tea, a mixed grill, apple pie and ice cream. 
The chief inspector asked how the other prisoner was faring.
'Sleeping like a baby, sir. And snoring her head off.'
Barnaby returned to the incident room where Troy was completing a house-search 
form. It was too dark to start looking for the murderer's clothes, but at first 
light they'd get started. More action forms had come to roost on his desk next 
to his cold gluey Chinese takeaway. No need to read them all now. He'd got the 
murderer downstairs under lock and key. He stood by the window looking up at 
the indigo sky thickly patterned with bright stars, and wondered at his 
feelings of unease.
'Sir?' Troy was holding out a telephone. 'Miss Lacey.' He took the receiver.
'Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.'
'What's happened? What were you doing with Michael?' Barnaby told her. There 
was a terrible pause then Katherine started shouting. Barnaby heard 'No . . . 
no . . . he couldn't . . . it isn't true . . .' and Henry Trace's voice. Then 
Trace took the telephone.
'Tell me the exact situation, Barnaby. I can't get any sense out of Katherine. 
Darling . . . please . . . it'll be all right. Try to calm down . . . we can't 
do anything till we know just what's going on.'
Barnaby went through it again. He heard Katherine crying, 'I want to see him . 
. . Henry - I've got to see him.'
'May we see him, Chief Inspector?'
'I suggest you ring in the morning, Mr Trace. We've settled him down for the 
night now.' He could hear Katherine still sobbing hysterically as he replaced 
the telephone.
Barnaby leaned back and closed his eyes. He was feeling tired but not healthily 
so. He felt what his mother called 'worn to a frazzle'. Wound up, worn out and 
nothing to show for it. But what was he saying? Of course he had something to 
show for it. Downstairs, sealed securely away in a cell, he had the murderer of 
Iris Rainbird. And tomorrow they would find the clothes. Lacey can't have got 
far with them. Probably dumped in the pond in the woods. He remembered the 
little puddle of water in the Rainbirds' shed. He had water on the brain. And 
an unpleasant tightness under his belt. His stomach was never satisfied. When 
he fed it it complained. And it complained when he didn't. But everything was 
fine. Tired phrases that he would never normally use lumbered into his mind. An 
open and shut case. Caught red handed. No problem.
He threw the takeaway into the grey metal waste bin and heaved himself out of 
his seat. 'I've had it,' he said to the room at large. 'See you in the 
morning.' Troy, thriving on his twelve-hour shift, sprang up and accompanied 
Barnaby to the main door, holding it open for him.
'Quite a session wasn't it, sir?' he asked, his face burnished with 
satisfaction.
'You can say that again.'
'I mean' - Troy kept pace with Barnaby across the car park - 'how often in your 
career have you arrested two murderers in one day? This has to be a one-off 
wouldn't you say, Chief?' Barnaby unlocked the door of his Orion. 'God - I've 
seen some liars in my time but that Lacey . . .'
'Goodnight, Sergeant.'
Troy winged a final bright-eyed glance through the window. 'An open and shut 
case wouldn't you say?'
He watched the blue car drive away. Surly old sod. Troy thought that if he'd 
pulled off a double coup like that it'd be drinks all round for the lads and 
Policewoman Brierley's knickers in his glove compartment before the night was 
out.
Arbury Crescent was quiet as Barnaby eased into his garage. Dreaming suburbia. 
A few television sets still flickering but the guiltless inhabitants were 
mostly asleep, renewing their energies for the daily commuter slog to the city.
'Is that you, Tom?' called Joyce, as she always did.
He stood for a moment on the patio looking down the garden at the heavy mass of 
dark arboreal shapes. The leaves rustled in the night air and were touched with 
silver by the moon. He was glad he couldn't see his herbaceous borders. He 
hadn't touched them for a fortnight. He would get Joyce to do some deadheading 
at the weekend. This unfortunate phrase reminded him of work and the sighing of 
the trees ceased to be a comfort. He went indoors.
'I've kept you some soup hot.' Joyce was in her housecoat and slippers, her 
face cleaned of makeup.
'Oohh . . .' Barnaby slipped an arm around her waist. 'You shouldn't have 
bothered.'
'How did it all go today?'
'So so.' Barnaby took the mug.
'I'm afraid it's not home-made.'
Barnaby took the soup gratefully and drank deep. It was wonderful. Monosodium 
glutamate. Permitted stabilizers. HC and FCF. All the angst-producing E's. 
Bliss.
'You hadn't forgotten Cully's here for the weekend?'
'I had, actually.' Barnaby drained his mug.
'Would you like some more?'
'I wouldn't mind.'
She ladled some out but before he could drink put her arms around him. 'Tom?'
'Mm.'
'You look sad.' She drew his grizzled head down to her soft bosom. 'Would you 
like a cuddle?'
'Yes please.' He kissed her. She smelt sweetly of fresh toothpaste and the baby 
lotion she used as a moisturizer. He felt a sudden overwhelming rush of 
gratitude. Today and every day, however dark the working hours, come nightfall 
he touched home base. He stroked her hair, adding, 'And not just because I'm 
sad.'


Chapter Nine
It was a lovely day for a wedding. Falls of hops entwined with summer jasmine 
were attached to the stone arches; old-fashioned nosegays starred the end of 
every pew. The altar rails were covered with tuberoses. The bride stood, a 
glittering column of frosty satin and foaming lace, incomparably lovely. The 
groom wheeled his chair down the aisle. As he came to a halt at the chancel 
steps the bride turned and stared at him, her face gradually becoming 
transformed into a mask of horror. Set square on his immaculate shoulders was a 
grinning skull. The vicar said, 'Dearly beloved . . .' The congregation smiled. 
No one seemed to notice anything amiss. The bells rang. And rang. And rang.
Barnaby groped around on his bedside table. He turned the clock round. 
Half-past five, for God's sake. He tumbled the receiver off the hook. 'Barmby.' 
He listened and was wide awake. 'Christ almighty . . . have you called Bullard? 
. . . No . . . I'll be in straight away.'
Joyce turned over. 'Darling . . . what's the matter?'
He was out of bed, dressing. 'I have to go . . . don't get up.'
She struggled to sit, rearranging the pillows. 'You'll want some breakfast.'
'The canteen opens at six. I'll get something there.'
'How long do you think she's been dead?'
Doctor Bullard placed the blanket over Phyllis Cadell's marmoreal profile. 'Ohh 
. . . two . . . three hours. Early morning some time.'
Barnaby sat down heavily on the lavatory, the only other piece of furniture in 
the cell. 'God, George - this is all we need. A custody death.'
'Sorry.' Bullard smiled - quite cheerfully, considering the hour. 'Can't 
rejuvenate that one for you. Anyway from what I've heard she's better off where 
she is. Don't you think?'
'That's hardly the point.' Barnaby looked across at the grey flannel hump. He 
could see what Bullard meant. What had the dead woman to look forward to? The 
pain and humiliation of a public trial. Years in prison. A lonely and unloved 
old age. And all the while having to live with the knowledge that Henry and 
Katherine were alive and happy together at Tye House. All the same . . .
The custody sergeant entered Chief Inspector Barnaby's office and closed the 
door as tenderly as if it had been made of glass. He looked once at the figure 
behind the desk and once was enough. Throughout the interview he kept his eyes 
on the floor.
'All right, Bateman - let's have it.'
'Yes, sir. It wasn't -'
'And if you say it wasn't your fault I'll ram this filing cabinet down your 
gullet.'
'Sir.'
'From the beginning.'
'Well, I accepted the prisoner but before I could make out a custody record she 
asked to go to the toilet.'
'You didn't let her go on her own?'
Bateman cleared his throat. 'Point is, sir, Policewomen Brierley and McKinley 
were searching a pair of scrubbers we'd picked up on the precinct. I sent 
someone with the prisoner as far as the door -'
'Oh wonderful, Sergeant. Brilliant. He watched her through the wood, did he? 
See what she was up to?'
'No, sir.'
'No, sir. Did she take anything to the toilet with her?'
Bateman swallowed, stopped staring at the floor and stared out of the window. 
'. . . Handbag . . .'
'Speak up! I'm feeling deaf.'
'A handbag, sir.'
'I don't believe this.' Barnaby buried his face in his hands. 'Go on.'
'Well . . . I did the record . . . then took her down. We listed her stuff, 
wrote a receipt. I settled her and gave her a cup of tea. When I did my first 
check she was sound asleep.'
'So when did she take the tablets?'
'With the tea, I suppose. She must've palmed them when she was in the toilet. 
She had a cardigan with a pocket and a handkerchief. When I checked the 
contents of her bag' - the man started to babble in self-justification - 'there 
was a bottle of sleeping tablets in there with half a dozen tablets in it. She 
actually asked me if she could take one. She was very clever -'
'She was a damn sight cleverer than you, that's for sure.'
'If the bottle had been empty, obviously I'd have been suspicious -'
'The very fact that she'd got them in her handbag at all should have been 
enough to make you suspicious, man. Or do you think people take them as they go 
about their daily business?'
'No, sir.'
'In Sainsbury's or Boot's? Or the library?' Silence. 'When did you first 
discover she was dead?'
'On my third check, sir. Just before five. I noticed she wasn't breathing. 
Called the police surgeon right away but it was too late.'
'Well if she wasn't breathing it bloody well would be too late wouldn't it?'
The sergeant, his face rigid with misery and mortification, muttered, 'Yes, 
sir.'
'You're about as much use to the force, Bateman, as a jockstrap in a nunnery.' 
Silence. 'I'll have your stripes for this.' Pause. 'And that's only for 
starters.'
'If I could -'
'You're suspended from duty. You'll be notified about the hearing. And I don't 
want to see your face again until you are. Now get out.'
The door had barely closed on the wretched sergeant before it reopened to admit 
a young constable. 'It's the prisoner in cell three, sir. He wants to make a 
statement about his movements yesterday afternoon.'
'Well I assume you've been with us long enough to manage that without too much 
nervous strain.'
'I'm sorry but he wants to talk to you.'
The prisoner in cell three was finishing his breakfast, mopping up his plate 
with a piece of bread. 'One star for comfort, Inspector, but definitely two for 
cuisine. I can't remember when I've dispatched a nicer poached egg.'
'Say what you've got to say and get on with it.'
'I'd like to go home now.'
'Don't play games with me, Lacey!' Barnaby crossed to the man on the bed and 
bent down so that their faces were barely an inch apart. 'I've had you up to 
here.' He spoke slowly and quietly but the current of anger that flowed from 
him was almost palpable. Lacey shrank away and turned pale. The skin graft, 
unchanged, stood out like a piece of stretched pink silk. 'And I should warn 
you,' continued Barnaby, 'that if you were lying to me yesterday you're in dead 
trouble.'
'Oh I wasn't . . . technically that is . . .' His speech was hurried now, not 
at all fluent, with an anxious edge. 'When I said I was working in the 
afternoon that was quite true. I was making preliminary sketches for an oil I'm 
going to do of Judy Lessiter. I've been thinking about it for some time and she 
rang up about twelve o'clock and reminded me. We worked in their garden.'
Barnaby took a deep breath, struggling to contain his rage. 'Don't you usually 
work at home?'
'One can sketch anywhere. And in any case she invited me for lunch. I never 
turn down a decent meal.'
'So when did you arrive?'
'About half one. Started work just after two, worked till around four. Stopped 
for some tea and cake and stuff. Worked on till around five then left.'
'And why,' said Barnaby, his voice stretched with the effort of control, 'did 
you not tell me all this yesterday?'
'Well . . . I don't really know.' Michael Lacey swallowed nervously. 'I suppose 
I was so shattered when you discovered the knife . . . then I panicked and 
before I knew what was happening you'd bundled me into the car and there I was 
. . . in one of your little grey cells.' He attempted a grin. The chief 
inspector did not respond. 'And somehow the longer I left it the harder it got 
to say anything so I thought I'd try to sleep and leave it till morning.' There 
was a long heavy silence and he stood up and said, a little uncertainly, 'So 
can I go now?'
'No, Lacey, you cannot "go now".' Barnaby moved away. 'And let me tell you that 
you don't know how lucky you are. I know men who would have had your head in 
and out between those bars half a dozen times by now if you'd messed them about 
like you've messed me.' He slammed the door, locked it and flung the key back 
on the board.
As he climbed the steps and made his way to the incident room he became aware 
that he was clenching and unclenching his fists with fury. He changed tack, 
returned to his office and stood by the window, struggling to simmer down. His 
brain was in a turmoil, his skin burned, there was a band of steel around his 
forehead and his stomach bucked like a maddened bronco. He felt almost sick 
with anger and frustration. But there was no disappointment. Because he had 
known in his heart from the moment when he saw Lacey gaping incredulously at 
the blood-encrusted knife that it was all too easy. Caught red handed. No 
problem. An open and shut case.
He sat in the chair behind his desk and closed his eyes. Gradually his pulse 
and heartbeat slowed down. He breathed slowly and evenly. Five long minutes 
crawled by and he made himself sit still for five more. By then he felt himself 
more or less back to normal and with normality, surprisingly, came hunger. He 
checked his watch. If he was quick he would have time to expose his arteries to 
the comfort of a quick fry-up in the canteen and still catch Judy Lessiter 
before she left for work.


Chapter Ten
The Lessiters were at breakfast. Trevor, who had a mouthful of bile and an 
aching groin, took a ferocious poke at his egg which retaliated by spouting a 
great gobbet of sulphur yellow all over his tie. Judy laughed. He scrubbed at 
the tie with his napkin, glaring at his wife who was turning the pages of the 
Daily Telegraph in the manner most calculated to annoy, i.e. with languid 
indifference.
She was up to her tricks again. Locked door last night and, when he'd tapped, 
very softly so that Judy wouldn't hear, Barbara had put her lips to the door 
jamb and hissed, 'Go away, you randy little man. Don't you ever think of 
anything else?' He had walked up and down in his room for two hours after that, 
torn between lust and fury, cursing Judy's presence in the house. At one moment 
he had even thought of dragging a ladder out of the garage, climbing up to his 
wife's window and breaking in. God - she'd have known about it if he had. Tears 
of self-pity sprang to his eyes. He recalled the time he had spent in her arms 
only forty-eight hours ago. Trick or treat, she'd whispered. Both had been 
equally enthralling. It'd been almost like the night before their wedding. He 
realized now what a fool he was. How she'd always used sex to lead him round, 
like some pathetic bull calf with a ring through his nose. Well, two could play 
at that game. Just wait till it was time for her next dress allowance. Or a new 
subscription to that rapacious health club. She could bloody well whistle for 
it.
Judy Lessiter stirred her coffee and stared dreamily out of the window. She 
wore the dress she had bought from High Wycombe the evening before. The cloth 
was a grey and cream harlequin pattern and the dress had a white ruff. 'Frames 
your face a picture,' the salesgirl had said. Judy's absurd legs were encased 
in new pale grey tights. She had also lashed out on some Rive Gauche and a box 
of eye shadows which she had applied, rather clumsily, before coming down. She 
was re-running, as she had done all night long, the events of yesterday 
afternoon.
At one o'clock it had stretched, a lonely space to be filled, until teatime. At 
five past one, fortified with a small sherry, she had rung Michael Lacey, 
reasoning that it had been over a week and he had said he wanted to paint her 
and what had she got to lose anyway? To her surprise and delight he had 
immediately agreed to come over. Even saying, 'I was just going to ring you.'
She had taken a quiche out of the freezer, popped it in the microwave, had a 
quick bath and scrambled in and out of three dresses. She had even experimented 
with some of Barbara's makeup. Michael had arrived half an hour later with a 
sketch pad and promptly told her to go and wash her face.
She took lunch out into the garden and he spent the next two hours drawing in a 
rapid but detached manner whilst she tried to keep still and refrain from 
looking at him all the time. He threw an awful lot of stuff away. Not angrily, 
screwing them up and hurling them from him, but shedding them as impersonally 
as a tree sheds leaves. By four o'clock there was a little sea of the stuff 
around his ankles and half a dozen sketches that he put in a portfolio. She had 
made some tea then and they had drunk it and eaten ginger cake sitting on the 
wooden seat that ran all round the giant cedar.
She said, 'Can I have one of these?' picking up a discarded sketch.
'No.'
'Oh but Michael' - glancing at the paper - 'it's lovely.'
'It's awful. They all are. Promise me you'll burn them. Or put them in the 
dustbin.'
She nodded sadly and poured out some more tea. He picked up his pad and a few 
minutes later handed her a sketch. 'You can keep this one.'
It was all there. The mournful curve of her lips, her beautiful eyes, clumsy 
fingers on the teapot, the sturdy yet submissive line of the neck. He had 
signed it neatly M.L. It was so precise and so cruel. She felt her throat 
tighten in prelude to tears and, knowing that nothing would annoy him more, 
blinked them away hard.
'Hey Jude . . .' he sang softly, 'don't be afraid . . .' He put his cup on the 
grass and touched her arm. 'You ought to get out of this place. Away from that 
miserable pair.'
She gulped her tea. 'Easier said than done.'
'Oh I don't know. When I start my European junketings I shall need a totally 
subservient dogsbody cum model. I might take you along.' And then he kissed 
her. Full on the lips.
Judy closed her eyes. She smelt the cedar needles and the sweetness of ginger, 
felt each individual moist cake crumb on her fingertips, heard a blackbird 
sing. The kiss lasted a millionth of a second. And a hundred years. Even as she 
thought I shall remember this moment all my life it was over.
'I said do you want some more coffee?'
Judy looked blankly at her stepmother. 'No thank you.'
'Trevor?'
No reply. Barbara poured a second cup for herself, unrolled the latest edition 
of Country Life, then pushed it aside in disgust. Much more of that and she'd 
be into hairy stockings and lace-up walking drawers. No one read the thing 
anyway. It went straight into the waiting room. She decided to cancel it and 
place an order for something a bit more spicy. That'd gee up the golden oldies' 
blood pressure. She nibbled a buttered soldier and glanced slyly at her 
husband's tie. What with that and Judy looking like something out of a 
McDonald's ad the day was off to a flying start. And there were only (eyes down 
to the diamond-studded wristwatch) six hours to go to nookie time. The doorbell 
rang.
'Who the hell is that at this hour of the morning?'
'I'll go.' Barbara sauntered out to return with Chief Inspector Barnaby.
'What time of day do you call this?' asked the doctor angrily.
'Miss Lessiter?'
'Yes?' Judy scrambled to her feet like a schoolgirl. 'What is it?'
'Just one or two questions about yesterday afternoon if you would? Your 
whereabouts -'
'We had someone here last night asking about all that,' snapped Lessiter.
'That's all right,' said Judy, 'I don't mind going through it again. I was here 
all the time. I had the afternoon off. And my friend Michael . . . Michael 
Lacey was here too. He was doing some preliminary sketches for a painting he's 
hoping to start soon.'
'Could you tell me when this was arranged?'
'Well I rang him up . . .' Barbara Lessiter covered a smile with her hand, but 
carelessly. 'Although actually the first thing he said was "Oh - I was just 
going to ring you".' She stared at the two people sitting at the table. She 
looked defiant and vulnerable. 'Why is it so important?'
'Someone has stated that they saw Mr Lacey enter the Rainbird house around four 
p.m.'
'No!' Judy cried out in horror. 'It isn't true. It can't be. He was with me. 
Why is everyone always picking on him? Trying to get him into trouble.'
This time Barbara did not even try to conceal her smile. Judy wheeled round and 
pointed at her stepmother. 'It's her you want to talk to! Why don't you ask her 
a few questions?'
'Me?' Amused and amazed.
'Ask her where her fur coat is. And why she's trying to find five thousand 
pounds. Ask her why she's being blackmailed!'
With a shout of rage Barbara Lessiter leapt up and flung her coffee in her 
stepdaughter's face. Judy screamed, 'My dress . . . my dress!' Doctor Lessiter 
seized his wife, holding her arms by her sides. Judy ran from the room. Her 
father hurried after her. Barbara, suddenly released, flopped into the nearest 
chair. There was a long silence.
'Well, Mrs Lessiter?' asked Barnaby. 'Why are you being blackmailed?'
'It's absolute nonsense. I don't know where the silly cow even got such an 
idea.'
'Perhaps I should tell you that we have removed a good many files, copies of 
letters and documents, from the dead woman's house.' This time the silence was 
even longer. 'Would you prefer to come to the station -'
'Christ, no. Hang on . . .' She crossed to a Welsh dresser, shook out a 
cigarette with shaky fingers and lit up. 'I had a letter from her about a week 
ago.'
'Signed?'
'That's right. Your friend Iris Rainbird. On her horrible lilac writing paper 
that stinks of dead flowers. It just said that they knew what was going on and 
if I didn't want my husband to hear all the juicy details it'd cost me five 
thousand quid. She'd give me a week to raise it then be in touch again.'
'And what was going on?'
'Me and David Whiteley.'
'I see.' Barnaby's mind back-tracked. She could have been the woman in the 
woods (no checkable alibi). And David Whiteley the man (Ditto.) At the time 
Miss Simpson was killed she was vaguely driving round. And she could, just 
about, have squeezed through the larder window. He hesitated and was wondering 
how most delicately to phrase his next question when she answered it for him.
'We used to use his car. The seats let down. He'd tell me where he was working. 
I'd drive there. Hide my car behind a hedge or some trees and we'd climb into 
the estate for half an hour.'
One up for Sergeant Troy, thought Barnaby. 'And you think that one of the 
Rainbirds must have seen you?'
'Oh no.' She shook her head. 'Impossible. But there was one occasion . . . we 
were supposed to meet around three and Henry kept him all afternoon at the 
office. And when five o'clock came and I knew he'd be home I drove round.' 
Barnaby remembered the notebook. Mrs L drove into the W garage. And the red 
star.
'It was something we agreed I'd never do because of the risk but I couldn't 
wait, you see. I had to have him.' She stared at Barnaby defiantly. 'I suppose 
that shocks you?' Barnaby managed a look of mild reproach. 'And he was just as 
bad. He didn't even let me get out of the car. Then we went upstairs and 
started all over again.'
There was nothing amative in the description. She did not even use that 
consoling euphemism 'making love'. Love, as Barnaby understood the word, 
probably didn't enter into the arrangement at all. He asked if they had spent 
any time together yesterday afternoon.
'Yes. We met about half-past three. He was shifting the combine so he didn't 
have the Citroen. We managed in the front seat of my Honda. We were together 
for about an hour, I suppose.'
'Well, thank you for being so cooperative, Mrs Lessiter.' Barnaby turned to 
leave. 'I may need to talk to you again.'
'Well, you know where to find me.' She turned also, then stopped, staring over 
his shoulder. Her husband was standing in the doorway. Barnaby glanced at the 
man as he left. Rage and triumph struggled for supremacy on the doctor's 
features.
When the door had closed behind the chief inspector Trevor Lessiter said, 'I 
shouldn't be too sure about that.'
'How much did you hear?'
'More than enough.' The rage and triumph dissolved into a look of intense 
satisfaction. He gazed at her, a close and rewarding scrutiny. She had started 
coming down to breakfast without what she called her warpaint. Something she 
would never have done when they were first married. And her age really showed. 
She wouldn't find another mug like him in a hurry. But maybe she wouldn't have 
to. If she came to heel. Did as she was told. She had too much time on her 
hands, that was her trouble. Too much time and too much money. Her allowance 
could go for a start. So could the car. And Mrs Holland. Keeping a house this 
size clean and in order, cooking for three, gardening, the ordinary duties of a 
doctor's wife should keep Barbara occupied. And at night there'd be other 
duties. And he'd make damn sure he wasn't sold short there, either. Once a 
night every night and more if he felt like it. Then there were lots of little 
variations he had picked up at the Casa Nova. She could learn all those just to 
be going on with. He'd still go to the club of course (couldn't disappoint 
little Krystal) but not nearly so often. At the thought of the money he had 
spent there over the last couple of years while his wife had been . . . He 
remembered his blood pressure and tried to take it all more calmly. Yes, the 
bitch had a lot to make up for (every locked door, every headache, every 
cutting remark) but make up for them she would or out she'd go. He recalled the 
tasteless tatty hole where she'd been living when they first met. That should 
have told him something about her for a start. She'd do anything before she'd 
sink back to that. She'd dance to his tune all right. He visualized a future 
rosy with sensual delights and started to explain the situation to his wife.
Barbara listened to him droning on. Every now and again he'd rise to the balls 
of his feet, cradling his pot belly with splayed fingers. She was to do this. 
She was to do that. She was to be a loving mother to that stumpy boss-eyed 
little mixer Judy. And to listen and look charitably on his bug-infested 
patients when they started whingeing. Poxy four-course meals were mentioned.
She thought of the blackmail money in her bag upstairs. Four thousand. And she 
still hadn't sold her watch. She could scrape up enough for a deposit on a 
house. But what sort of house would it be? A terraced hovel like the one her 
parents, if they were alive, were probably still living in. Back to square 
bloody one with a vengeance. And how would she pay off a mortgage? What sort of 
job would she be able to get at her age? Of course once you had a property 
rooms could be let. With optional extras if need be. But if she was going to 
spend the rest of her life wrestling between the sheets why not do it here in 
comfort? She could always lie back and think of Capri. Or Ibiza. Or the Cote 
d'Azur.
She gazed out of the window. At the green sweet grass sparkling under the 
hypnotic sprinklers. At the flowering trees and the terrace with its tables and 
umbrellas and urns brimming with flowers. Then her eyes roamed around the room. 
Thick Chinese rugs and puffy sofas and onyx tables, nesting slabs of green and 
gold. And all she had to do was pretend. She should be able to manage that. 
After all she'd been doing it all her life.
She looked at him. He was really getting into his stride. Shredded rhubarb 
eyeballs staring, a frothy tic of malice tweaking at his lips. She would have 
to manage without a car. Three in one household was ridiculous. Mrs Holland 
would be given notice. The gardener's hours drastically revised. It wouldn't 
hurt Barbara to find out what a hard day's work was like. Or a hard night's 
work come to that. The days of freeloading were over. Ah - that had reached 
her. At last it had sunk in which side the bread was buttered. She was coming 
over now, a tender smile on her face. She reached out a hand and laid it gently 
on his arm.
'Fuck off, Pookie,' she said.


Chapter Eleven
Barnaby sat in the Orion at the end of Church Lane. The windows were open and 
the sun was warming his face. He was thinking.
Lacey's alibi was, as he had expected it to be, confirmed. The man was innocent 
of the murder of Iris Rainbird. Yet he had made a run for it. Why? Had he 
really just panicked? Sensed a frame-up? The first folds of a net falling 
around him cast by an unknown hand? It was feasible enough, Barnaby knew. He 
had seen people bolt more than once on a lot less provocation. Lacey had set 
off running like the wind yet Troy, who had to pick himself up from the floor 
before setting off in pursuit, had caught the man and brought him down before 
he had covered more than a few yards.
Barnaby recalled the scene, superimposing Lacey's face on his mind's eye. 
Amazement first. Then panic. And something else. They had looked at each other 
for a moment just before Lacey had been bundled into the back of the car and 
Barnaby had been aware of a third emotion behind the eyes. Unexpected and out 
of place. What was it? Barnaby found himself sweating as he struggled to recall 
precisely those few seconds, so fleeting and imprecise.
And then he had it. The third emotion was relief. Now, holding on to this new 
realization, he replayed the scene for a second time. Lacey running; Lacey 
getting caught almost certainly before he needed to have done; Lacey relieved. 
And when exactly had he started running? Not, as would have been expected, when 
the knife was produced. But minutes later, when Barnaby was about to turn back 
into the studio. That must be it. They had found something in Holly Cottage. 
But they had not found what Lacey was afraid they would find.
Barnaby got out of the car and crossed the road. His mouth was dry and he could 
feel his heart thumping in his breast. As he walked he recalled the studio. 
Neat. Professional. Trestle tables. Brushes and paints. Nothing out of the 
ordinary, but as he hurried down the dirt track he became more and more 
convinced that his sudden perception was correct.
Holly Cottage, no longer basking in the sun, looked cold and grey once more. 
Barnaby opened the front door, calling 'Miss Lacey' up the stairs. He thought 
it unlikely that she had slept there last night but, just in case, did not want 
to alarm her. There was no reply. He stepped through the doorless opening into 
the studio.
Everything looked exactly the same. He picked up all the jars, tubes and tins; 
opened and sniffed. They seemed to contain nothing unorthodox. The brushes were 
just brushes. There were lots of paperbacks and art catalogues in a corner 
cupboard. He opened them and shook the pages. No incriminating letter fell to 
the floor. There was a jar of clean spirit, one paint-muddied, and a few rags, 
some clean and neatly folded, some stained and crumpled. The windowsill was 
bare. Barnaby turned his attention to the paintings.
He wasn't sure what he expected. Iris Rainbird had called them ugly, violent 
things. Barnaby was aware that this remark had started an ignoble hope in his 
own breast, once he had met the man, that Lacey had no talent. A hope now 
rudely shattered.
The first canvas he picked up was the portrait of Dennis Rainbird, and it was 
stunning. The paint glistened as if still fresh. A combination of grey and 
yellow ochre reminded Barnaby of a newly turned lump of sticky clay. Close to, 
the painting looked unfinished, almost crude, but put upon the windowsill a few 
feet away it leapt into instant complicated life. Dennis was wearing an 
open-necked shirt the outline of which, like his hands, was blurred, fading 
into a shadowy background. The bones at the base of his throat showed through 
the fine skin clear and fragile like those of a small bird. The planes of his 
face were thick yellow slabs of paint which miraculously managed to suggest the 
subtle living tissue of real flesh with all its tides and secrets. The mouth 
was very tightly controlled and the gaze turned inwards reflecting the sitter's 
personal thoughts. His eyes showed loneliness and sorrow. The painter had 
understood and realized on canvas much more than Dennis Rainbird's physical 
appearance. He had exposed the man's secret heart. No wonder his mother had 
hated it.
Another portrait. An old woman holding a bunch of violets. Her eyes were sunken 
in a withered brown face. Her expression held all the gravity of the old yet 
her lips smiled with youthful lightness and grace. The violets retained a faint 
rime of silver where dew still clung to them. There were some abstracts and 
several landscapes and Barnaby, quite against his will, felt a rush of 
admiration as he turned these face outwards. No wonder Lacey didn't give a damn 
for his surroundings with all this going on in his head.
Cornfields with poppies, a bank carpeted with wild flowers, two which could 
have been Miss Simpson's garden. All a million miles removed from the careful 
discreet naturalism aimed for by Barnaby's own art club. Here were brazen skies 
arched over endless almost colourless beaches; buildings shimmering in heat; 
gardens engorged with vivid plants and flowers, everything bathed in golden 
light. He propped them against the wainscot and the sunshine seemed to spill 
out of the canvases, forming lustrous puddles on the wooden floor.
The abstracts were very large and plain. Thick white paint and, in one corner, 
an imploding star. Galactic rings of ever-deepening colour shrank to a kernel 
of tar-black flame. Next to these was a portfolio. Barnaby opened it and pulled 
out a sheaf of drawings. Sketches of Judy Lessiter, quickly done but full of 
animation. Seeing these brought Barnaby back to the moment and to why he was 
there.
He looked closely at all the paintings again. There seemed to be nothing 
revelatory about them. Nothing to indicate why they should be sealed away 
behind locked doors. Stepping back, he collided with the easel. It tipped to 
one side and the old shirt covering it fell off. Barnaby righted the easel and 
replaced the cloth. It made a squarish shape supported by the two cross bars. 
But it was a different shape from the one he had seen yesterday. Less solid. He 
was quite sure that yesterday there had been a largish canvas on that easel. 
Which meant that, between that time and now, someone had entered the cottage 
and taken it away.
'Get Lacey up here.'
'Yes, sir,' cried Sergeant Troy italically, leaving the incident room at a 
brisk trot and clattering down to the basement. 'Come on you.' He unlocked the 
cell door and jerked a thumb in Lacey's direction. 'Get off your backside. The 
chief inspector wants a word.' He watched the prisoner pick up his jacket. 'And 
you needn't bother with that,' he continued, 'you're not going anywhere.'
Michael Lacey ignored the sergeant, pushing past and hurrying up the stone 
steps. Troy caught up with him and resentfully tried to regain the dominant 
position. He had been brought up to date by Policewoman Brierley as to the main 
dramatic disaster of the night but as yet knew nothing of Lacey's alibi, and 
his confidence was absolute. 'Just bloody well watch it, that's all.'
The prisoner sat down in front of Barnaby's desk without being asked and looked 
around with interest at the equipment and activity. At the bank of telephones, 
wheels of cards and television screens.
'So this is where it all goes on. Most impressive.' He gave Barnaby a smile, 
perky and sardonic. 'I shall sleep more easily in my bed tonight. I assume 
that's where I shall be sleeping?'
'Well, Mr Lacey, your alibi has certainly been confirmed.'
The man got up. 'So I'm free to go?'
'Just a moment.' He sat down again. 'I returned to the cottage this morning to 
continue my search.' No reaction. No fear. No alarm. Not even nervousness. Sod 
his hide, thought Barnaby. 'I believe at the time when you were detained there 
was quite a large canvas, covered with a cloth, on the easel in your studio.'
'I doubt it. I was just starting on a portrait of Judy Lessiter, as you know. I 
never work on two things at the same time.'
'Nevertheless that was my impression.'
'Then your impression was incorrect, Chief Inspector. Did you enjoy looking 
round? What did you think of it all?' Then, before Barnaby could reply he 
continued, 'I'll tell you, shall I? You don't know anything about art but you 
know what you like.'
Stung by this patronizing assumption that he was nothing more than a 
flat-footed clodhopping philistine, Barnaby retorted, 'On the contrary. I know 
quite a lot about art and I think you have a most remarkable talent.'
He watched Lacey as he spoke. Watched his face change. All the pugnacity and 
superciliousness faded. A look of the most intense pleasure spread across his 
face. He said, 'Yes, I have, haven't I?' But there was no arrogance in his 
voice. Just happiness laced with the merest thread of uncertainty.
'Your technique is very assured. Have you been to an art school or college?'
'What?' He gave a shout of laughter. 'For one term . . . that was enough. Load 
of pretentious wankers. There's only one way to learn and that's to sit at the 
feet of the masters.' The sincerity in his voice robbed the phrase of all 
pretension. 'I shall go to the Prado. The Uffizi. To Vienna and Paris and Rome 
and New York. And learn my craft.' There was a long pause then he said, 'Is 
anything the matter, Inspector? You look quite . . . well . . . put out.' Then, 
when Barnaby still did not reply he got up. 'So . . . is it all right for me to 
go now?'
'What? Oh' - Barnaby got up - 'yes . . . you can go.'
Michael Lacey strolled over to the door, saying, 'Excuse me,' to Sergeant Troy 
and adding, 'you really should close your mouth, Sergeant. You could catch 
something very nasty.'
Troy snapped his jaws together and glared at the closing door. 'Why the hell 
are you letting him go, sir?'
'He was with the Lessiter girl all yesterday afternoon.'
'But . . . Mrs Quine saw him.'
'She saw someone, I've no doubt. Someone wearing clothes and a cap very like 
those that Lacey wore. Now the point is,' murmured Barnaby, 'if the murderer 
was so keen to incriminate Lacey why didn't he make a thorough job of it and 
dump the clothes at the cottage as well?' Troy, understanding that these 
questions were self-addressed, kept silent. 'Well, they can't be far. Whoever 
it was was pushed for time. With a bit of luck the search should turn them up 
today. I'm just going over to Forensic to see what's new. I'll be back in ten 
minutes. Sort a car out, would you? And your bucket and spade.' Troy's jaws 
parted company again. Barnaby turned in the doorway and smiled grimly. 'We're 
going to the seaside.'


Chapter Twelve
Troy took the A21 (Hastings and Saint Leonards) at Tunbridge Wells and 
re-opened the conversation that had been temporarily abandoned whilst he had 
negotiated unfamiliar roundabouts and watched for exit signs. He and Barnaby 
had been discussing the latest analysis reports from the Forensic department.
'But if these . . . filaments . . . these bits of nylon were under her nails 
doesn't that mean she must've scratched the murderer's face?'
'Not necessarily. If you pull a pair of tights over your head only a small 
section would cover your face. That means there's quite a bit of stuff left 
over. She may have grabbed at that.' He leaned back and closed his eyes, 
picturing - not for the first time - the terrible moment when Mrs Rainbird's 
visitor disappeared from the sitting room, perhaps after asking to use the loo, 
to re-emerge moments later, features squashed out of all recognition, wielding 
a sharp knife. The fact that he now knew who that figure was added an extra 
gloss of horror to the scene. Troy moved on to the findings in the garden shed.
'Must be the rug, sir . . . the black and green fibres they found.'
'Almost certainly.'
'I suppose whoever it was thought dumping it in water would be safer than 
trying to burn it? Less conspicuous.'
'Expect so. I've got a feeling it was in the pond in the woods near the 
cottage. And that the clothes might well be in there too.'
'And one or the other of the Rainbirds got wind of it and tried to put the bite 
on?'
'I think so. They were right out of their league, of course. The quickness and 
efficiency of Miss Simpson's dispatch should have told them that. "Murder being 
once done," Troy.'
'That Jane Austen again is it, sir?' asked the sergeant, zipping through 
Lamberhurst. 'Shan't be long now. That rug must have weighed something to cart 
away.'
'Yes. I expect they had a plastic bag, probably a bin liner. And the clothes 
went in as well.'
'All a bit risky. Broad daylight and everything.'
'Ah - but it's panic stations now. Things are starting to go wrong for them, 
Troy. Time's running out . . . time's running out fast.' Out of the corner of 
his eye he saw the sergeant turn his head.
'What . . . ? You mean you know who committed the murders?'
'Oh yes.'
'What . . . both of them?'
'All three of them.'
'But . . . I don't understand . . .'
'Watch what you're doing, man!'
'Sorry, sir.' Troy stared carefully at the road ahead for a few moments then 
continued, 'Surely Phyllis Cadell killed Mrs Trace.'
'I think not.'
'But . . . she's confessed. God - she even took her own life.'
Barnaby did not reply. His silence lasted until they entered Saint Leonards. 
Nearing the sea front he asked the sergeant to stop and asked the way to De 
Montfort Close of an old gentleman stiffly adorned with salt-caked whiskers. 
Troy followed his directions and drew up outside Sea Breeze, a white bungalow 
with a neat front garden indistinguishable from a thousand others. Barnaby got 
out but stopped Troy as he made to follow.
'Won't you want me, sir? For a statement?'
'I doubt it. This is just background. I'll call you if I do.'
Left alone, the sergeant turned Barnaby's cryptic remarks over and over in his 
mind. They didn't make sense from where Troy stood. No sense at all. It must 
have been Lacey. The Lessiter girl was covering up. Easy to see she was mad 
about him. Instead of letting Lacey go Barnaby should have arrested her as an 
accessory. That's what he, Troy, would have done. Because who the hell else 
could it have been? Dennis was out at work, Lessiter was screwing away at the 
Casa Nova, Mrs L and David Whiteley ditto in her Honda, Katherine was with 
Henry. And if the same person committed both murders that ruled out Phyllis 
Cadell who couldn't have been the woman in the woods and so had no reason for 
knocking off Miss Simpson. And in any case (here Troy was inclined to agree 
with Barnaby) her denial had the ring of truth. After all, if you're confessing 
to one murder there's not a lot of point in lying to cover up a second.
And she must have murdered Bella Trace. Troy struggled to recall the newspaper 
report. No one in the party could have fired the shot, that was made plain at 
the inquest. Katherine was back at the house making sandwiches so Phyllis 
Cadell was the only - Wait a minute! Troy's thoughts swarmed madly in all 
directions like disturbed ants. There was one of the current suspects still 
unaccounted for on that day. Where was Barbara Lessiter? Not out shooting (that 
would have been a sight to wonder at) yet with no definite alibi. Now she could 
have killed Miss Simpson. And Mrs Rainbird. She wasn't all that precise about 
the time she was in her car with Whiteley. And keeping their affair secret 
would have been a strong enough motive in both cases. But Bella Trace, for 
heaven's sake? What would be the point in that? On the other hand why should 
Phyllis Cadell confess to something she hadn't done? It didn't make sense.
Troy sat grinding his teeth. He had been with Barnaby all along the line in 
this case. Heard all the interviews, had access to forensic results. What 
Barnaby saw and knew he, Troy, saw and knew. And it infuriated him to hear his 
chief speak with such easy certainty of conclusions reached. Troy slammed his 
fist at the dashboard and winced with pain. Where had he gone astray? Was he 
looking at things from completely the wrong angle? That might be it. A spot of 
lateral thinking; try a new slant. He would do a bit of Chinese breathing, go 
calmly back to the beginning and start again.
Barnaby stood square in the centre of the cardinal-red polished step, lifted 
the tail of the mermaid knocker and let it drop. An old lady opened the door. 
She looked at him, over his shoulder at the car and back at his face again. She 
looked immeasurably sad and very tired.
Barnaby said, 'Mrs Sharpe?'
'Come in,' she said, turning her face away. 'I've been expecting you.'
PART FOUR
CONCLUSION


Chapter One
As the car sped along through the pallid genteel streets and out into the 
Sussex countryside Barnaby reviewed what, in spite of the number of deaths, he 
would always think of as the Simpson case. He had arrived at a solution which 
he knew must be the true one and the puzzle was complete but for one small 
segment. He recalled the scene in question. He remembered it so vividly, almost 
word for word. The trouble with this small segment was that it made nonsense of 
his conclusions. Yet he could not ignore the scene or pretend that it had never 
happened. Somehow or other it must be made to fit.
Troy eased up a little as they re-entered Tunbridge Wells. The man really drove 
very well, thought Barnaby. For all his occasional reprimands about his 
sergeant's dashing over-exuberant style Barnaby acknowledged Troy's skill and 
road sense. Watching now, noting how frequently he checked the road behind; 
mirror to road, road to mirror, mirror to -
'But that's it!'
'Sir?' Troy's eyes slid, for a fraction of a second, over to his chief. Barnaby 
did not reply. Troy, whose Chinese breathing and circumvolutions had got him 
absolutely nowhere, did not pursue the matter. He was determined not to give 
the old devil the satisfaction of responding with wide-eyed and eager 
questions. No doubt all would be revealed when he judged the time to be right. 
Till then, thought Troy, his brilliant deductions could stew in their own 
juice. 'Straight to Causton is it?'
'No,' replied Barnaby. 'I've been up since half-past five and I'm starving. 
We'll stop off at Reading for some lunch. There's no hurry now.'
He remembered those words afterwards and for a very long time to come. But he 
had no way of knowing that, in the town they had so recently left behind, an 
old lady was lifting a telephone and, with tears streaming down her face, 
dialling a number at Badger's Drift.
The marquee was the size of a barrage balloon. It billowed and flapped whilst 
half a dozen men struggled with pegs and hammers to tether it down. Two dozen 
crates of champagne and twelve trestle tables stood nearby together with a 
tottery mountain of interlocking bentwood chairs. Under the canvas the 
exquisitely nurtured aristocratic green, trampled by heavy boots, was already 
giving off that enclosed warm smell redolent of a thousand refreshment tents - 
a scent of tea urns and sweet hay and freshly cut bread.
As Barnaby walked down the terrace steps for the last time he saw Henry Trace 
wheeling himself between florists and caterers; nodding, smiling, pointing, 
getting in the way. Even from a distance of several feet his happiness was 
tangible. Barnaby looked around for Katherine Lacey.
'Why, Chief Inspector.' Henry propelled himself skilfully across the 
flagstones. 'How nice. Have you come to wish us joy?' His smile faded as he saw 
the policeman's face. He stopped his chair some little distance away as if this 
gap might somehow mitigate whatever tidings Barnaby had brought.
'I'm very sorry, Mr Trace, but I have some bad news.'
'Is it about Phyllis? I already know . . . they rang up. I'm afraid it looks a 
bit insensitive going ahead here but everything was so advanced' - he gestured 
across the lawn - 'that I decided . . .' His voice ran down. There was a long 
pause whilst he stared at the two men, dread gathering in his eyes.
Barnaby spoke for a few moments, gently, knowing there was no way to make the 
cruel words merciful. Troy, who had always hoped that one day he would be in a 
position to see a member of the upper crust getting their comeuppance, found 
himself looking away from the shrunken figure in the wheelchair.
'Can you give me any idea of Miss Lacey's whereabouts?' Barnaby waited, 
repeated his question and waited again. He was about to ask it a third time 
when Henry Trace said, 'She's gone over to the cottage . . .' His voice was 
unrecognizable. 'Someone rang up . . .'
'What! Did she say who it was?'
'No. I took the call . . . it was a woman . . . in some distress I think. She 
sounded very old.'
'Jesus!' Even as he spoke Barnaby started to move. Troy ran alongside. 'Leave 
the car . . . quicker through the spinney.'
They cut through the garden of Tranquillada, past the startled constable, and 
crashed through the hedge to the spinney. Barnaby tore at the hazels and forced 
his way through into the woods. He ran like the wind, kicking sticks and 
everything else out of his way savagely. Troy heard him mutter, 'Bloody fool . 
. . bloody bloody fool.' And, not knowing who or what Barnaby meant, felt 
himself caught up in the slipstream of urgency engendered by the other man's 
flight.
Back on the terrace Henry Trace slumped in the chair. The bustling continued 
around him unabated. Boxes of champagne flutes went by and a hamper of napery. 
A pretty girl in a pink overall was wiring white carnations into an arch over 
the door. She was singing. Henry closed his eyes and braced himself for another 
wave of pain. It came in quietly but in no time was tearing at him with vicious 
ferocity.
'Excuse me, sir . . . ?' Pause. 'Sir?'
'Yes?'
'I'm just going to do the gypsophila. I thought it'd look rather pretty wound 
through the balustrades then sort of tumbling down the steps . . . ?'
He looked at her, then across at the marquee which was now gaily decorated with 
bunting. People were hurrying about, calling to each other. The mountain of 
chairs was being dismantled and carried into the tent. He must do something to 
stop the momentum. Even as he prayed there was some mistake he knew there was 
no mistake. Everything Barnaby had told him fitted. Everything must be true. 
But what could he say to the girl? He looked at her kind smiling face.
'Yes,' he said, turning his chair to go indoors, 'tumbling down the steps will 
be fine.'


Chapter Two
'Take the kitchen,' cried Barnaby, 'I'll check upstairs.'
All three bedrooms were empty and looked just as they had before: the little 
single bed still straining pristinely for effect, the double a tangled mess. 
Barnaby checked the wardrobe and was just opening a large trunk on the landing 
when he heard Troy cry out. He flew down the stairs and found his sergeant 
standing in the studio in front of the easel. He looked completely stupefied.
'But . . .' he gaped at Barnaby. 'Who is it?'
Barnaby glanced at the canvas. Resting on the rim of the easel was an envelope 
addressed 'To Whom It May Concern'. He snatched it up and walked quickly out of 
the room. Troy, his face the colour of a boiled lobster, followed.
In the hallway Barnaby tore open the envelope, glancing rapidly over the pages. 
Then he hurried into the kitchen. Something which looked very like parsley was 
strewn all over the table. And there was a musty smell in the air. Like mice.
Troy stood watching his chief uncertainly. The man looked poleaxed. He sat down 
and shook his head from side to side as if to escape tormenting thoughts or an 
insect stinging. Then he got up and looked round him in a dazed manner. He 
stuffed the letter into his pocket and hurried from the room. He said nothing 
to his companion. Indeed Troy felt that Barnaby had forgotten he was there at 
all. Nevertheless he followed the other man as he hurried round the side of the 
house and immediately plunged deep into the woods. Troy, uncomfortably aware of 
the effect the painting had had on him, stumbled behind.
Barnaby twisted and turned, back-tracked and turned again. Too late, too late 
was all he could think as he wheeled round and round in circles while the 
unforgiving seconds ran through his fingers like silver sand. Images in his 
mind: a television screen with a square inset ticking off fractions of a second 
almost faster than the eye could see; banked computers and a nasal voice 
counting 'Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.' An hour glass, the last grains 
tumbling through. And, over and above everything, himself and Troy relaxing in 
the Copper Kettle. A starter, a main course. Cheese and biscuits as well as a 
pudding. Coffee. And a refill, sir? Why not? There's no hurry. All the time in 
the world.
Where the hell was the place? He tried to remember if there was anything 
special about it. Any landmark. Only the ghost orchid which started the whole 
thing and the stick with the red bow which would have been removed days ago. So 
there was nothing . . .
God - he'd seen those scabby parasols on that tree trunk before. He'd been 
running around in bloody circles. He stopped, vaguely aware that Troy had 
crashed to a halt beside him. Only now was he aware that every beat of his 
heart was causing the most intense pain. That his jacket was black with sweat 
and snagged, like the skin on his face, with brambles. That he was opening his 
mouth wide and sucking in air like a drowning man. He stood very still, willing 
himself to think calmly.
And it was then he saw the hellebores. And knew why the scabby parasols looked 
familiar. A few feet away were the tightly latticed branches which made a 
screen that curved. He walked alongside the partition, his footsteps silent in 
the thick leaf mould, until he came to the end.
He was facing a hollow. Quite a large piece of the ground was flattened; 
bluebells and bracken folded backwards and crushed. Katherine Lacey lay in her 
lover's arms. They rested heart to heart for comfort, like children lost in the 
wild wood. A single glass lay inches from his lifeless hand. She wore her 
bridal gown, stiff folds of ivory satin and a veil held in place by a circle of 
wild flowers. The veil, thickly embroidered and encrusted with seed pearls and 
diamante, streamed away from her body and seeped, a spangled luminous pool, 
into the surrounding dark. Her remarkable beauty was undimmed even in death. As 
Barnaby, bereft of speech, stood silently by, a large leaf drifted down and 
settled on her face, glowing richly against the waxen skin and covering her 
sightless eyes.


Chapter Three
'It was very good of you to come and see me, Chief Inspector.'
Barnaby sat back in the tapestry wing chair, a large slice of plum cake and a 
double Teachers at his elbow. 'Not at all, Miss Bellringer. If it weren't for 
you - as you remarked, I remember, quite early on in the proceedings - I would 
not have had a case at all.'
'I always suspected the Lacey girl, you know.'
'Yes,' Barnaby nodded, 'one is inclined to reject the very obvious solution. 
But it is so often the correct one.'
'And of course once you realized she wasn't working alone . . .'
'Exactly. It then became clear how all three murders could have been committed.'
'I feel so distressed about Phyllis Cadell. A terrible business. But I still 
don't quite understand all the ramifications. Why on earth would she confess to 
something she hadn't done?'
'It is quite complicated.' Barnaby took a sip of his Teachers. 'And I'll have 
to go back a few years to start explaining. Back to the Laceys' childhood in 
fact. Do you remember Mrs Sharpe?'
'The nanny? Yes, I do. Poor woman. They led her quite a dance, I believe.'
'So Mrs Rainbird told me. Apparently the children were as thick as thieves when 
they were little, always plotting, planning, fiercely protective, always 
covering up for each other, then when they were older everything changed. 
Nothing but rows which got to such a pitch that, as soon as they were old 
enough to cope alone, old Nanny Sharpe left for a bit of peace and quiet by the 
seaside. I accepted this story at face value simply because I had no reason to 
doubt it. And the behaviour of the Laceys certainly bore it out. I overheard an 
extremely bitter quarrel between them myself. But my conversation with Mrs 
Sharpe gave me an entirely different picture.'
He took a bite of the excellent plum cake, stiff and black with fruit, and a 
swig of Teachers. In his mind he sat again on the unyielding Rexine sofa 
overlooked by a constellation of smiling Laceys. Mrs Lacey as a child and young 
woman, wedding photographs, christenings. The children growing up, so alike and 
watchful; always close.
'She was the strong one,' said Mrs Sharpe. 'Took after her father.'
'Not an easy man, I understand?'
'He was wicked!' Mrs Sharpe's thin face flushed. 'I don't go in for all this 
modern understanding-what-makes-people-tick rubbish. There are some people just 
born wicked and he was one of them. He broke my poor girl's heart and drove her 
to her death. She was a lovely creature too . . . so gentle. And other women . 
. . he was supposed to have met this smart piece he went abroad with after 
Madelaine died. Well I've never believed that and I never will. He was carrying 
on with her all along, to my way of thinking.'
'The boy was more like his mother, then?'
'He worshipped her. I felt so sorry for him. He tried to be brave . . . to 
protect her, but he was no match for his father. Gerald was a very violent man 
. . . once he threw an iron at Madelaine and Michael jumped in between them and 
got it full in the face. That's how he got that mark, you know.'
Barnaby shook his head. 'I didn't know.'
'But Katherine was all for her father. And he went off and left her without a 
backward glance. It would have damaged a weaker person for good and all but she 
. . . well . . . she was a chip off the old block all right. She didn't seem 
much like him on the surface. He was flamboyant, always showing off . . . she'd 
draw into herself more, but in their hearts they were a dead spit. Fiery 
tempers and a cast-iron will. And when he'd gone she turned all her attention 
to Michael. And he, poor boy, with his mother dead, clung to her in 
desperation. You'd never have thought he was the elder. She was mother, father, 
sister, everything to him. Sometimes I wondered what I was doing there at all 
except there had to be somebody while they were still under age.
'Michael started painting when he was about fourteen. Seriously, I mean. He'd 
always been good at art at school and they kept on at him to go to college. He 
went for a bit then walked out. Said they were a load of rubbish. And Katherine 
encouraged him. Told him he'd be better off travelling round Europe, going to 
galleries, museums and suchlike. That's what painters always did, she said. 
Anyway, that's how things stood till just before Katherine was seventeen. 
Michael'd had his eighteenth birthday a couple of months before and that's when 
the rows started. Adolescent rows as I saw it. Picking fault with each other 
all the time, every day a slanging match. She'd scream at him, he'd fling 
himself out of the house. And yet, Inspector' - she leaned forward and her 
voice became very quiet - 'all the time this was going on I felt there was 
something wrong. I could sense the undercurrent of their feelings for each 
other as strong as ever. The rows seemed . . . forced somehow . . . unnatural.
'Then, one night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned for hours till at three 
o'clock I gave up and decided to go downstairs and make some tea. I was walking 
past Katherine's door when I heard sounds . . . little cries. I thought she was 
having a nightmare so I opened the door and . . . looked in.' Her face burned 
with the memory and she covered it with her hands. 'I couldn't stay after that. 
I gave the excuse to the Traces that the children - I still thought of them 
like that, you understand - were simply too much for me and I wanted to retire. 
My sister had died a few months before and left me this bungalow. My last 
couple of weeks at the cottage were as different again. No need to stage any 
more rows to put me off the scent. They didn't bother to conceal how they felt. 
Didn't even seem to think there was anything wrong. It was so natural for them, 
you see . . . just an extension of their close feelings. They couldn't 
understand why I had to leave. Why I wasn't happy for them both. I did try once 
or twice considering the possibility of staying on . . . they were still my 
babies in a way and I had promised their mother I'd look after them, but then 
one day Katherine started talking about their European tour. Oh they were going 
here . . . they were going there . . . I don't know where they weren't going. I 
asked then, "Who's paying for all this?" And she said, "Henry, of course." And 
Michael said, "Kate can get Henry to do anything."
'They were standing together at the time behind the kitchen table, arms around 
each other's waists. And I suddenly realized how strong they were . . . They 
fed off each other. You could almost see it . . . energy flowing to and fro 
between them . . . doubling . . . doubling in strength. And I felt afraid. I 
thought, there'll be no stopping them. Whatever they want . . .
'Someone sent me the paper with the inquest on Mrs Trace. It seemed an accident 
clear enough. But then there was the engagement and when I heard Miss Simpson 
had died I couldn't help wondering . . . Perhaps if I'd got in touch with the 
police the third death might not have happened. But I didn't know, you see . . 
. it was just a feeling. And how could I have betrayed them? I loved them, you 
see . . . Madelaine's children.'
There was a long pause. Miss Bellringer nodded gravely. 'I begin to 
understand.' She poured herself a little more whisky and continued, 'But I 
still don't see how Bella could have been killed by either of them.'
'Neither did I at first. I read the report until I knew it by heart. And it 
tallied so perfectly with Phyllis Cadell's confession that there seemed to be 
little reason to look further. And yet there was something about it that didn't 
quite fit and it nagged at me for days before I realized what it was. Now, I'm 
not a sporting man but it seems to me that the place for a beater is ahead of 
the guns. So why were Michael Lacey and Mrs Trace together? Come to that what 
was he doing out there in the first place? He told me some story about earning 
money but this couldn't have been further from the truth. He was there to peel 
Mrs Trace off from the rest of the party. To isolate her so that she became a 
very clear target indeed; a sitting duck, in other words. Katherine was in the 
undergrowth - don't forget we only have her brother's word for it that she was 
in the kitchen at Tye House - and at a prearranged time, no doubt with a 
certain amount of leeway on either side, the murder was committed.'
'Just like that?'
'Both the Laceys were experienced shots. Mrs Rainbird told me so. And of course 
with all the kerfuffle with the dogs and everyone racing about she just slipped 
quietly away through the trees. And Michael, all eagerness to help, went racing 
off to phone for an ambulance. And now comes the second thing that struck me as 
odd. Surely, in an emergency, you dash up the nearest driveway and bang on the 
door, but Lacey went to Tye House. Almost as far as you could get from the spot 
where the accident occurred. Why did he not go to the first house in Church 
Lane? Or Holly Cottage, which would have been even nearer? There can only be 
one reason. Because he wished to delay the ambulance as long as possible. The 
last thing they wanted was an efficient team on the spot in no time, perhaps 
saving Bella's life.'
'Yes . . . I can see that it could well have been that way . . .' So 
enthralling had Miss Bellringer found Barnaby's recital that she had frozen 
into attention with a square of plum cake halfway between her plate and her 
mouth. She now popped the cake in and continued, whilst munching, 'But then . . 
. why Phyllis?'
'Well, not surprisingly, considering the terrible emotional pressure she was 
under, her lack of practice with a gun coupled with the vodka she'd consumed, 
Miss Cadell missed. By half a mile I shouldn't wonder. But by one of those 
dreadful coincidences that sometimes happen and change our lives by doing so, 
Bella stumbled over a tree root as Phyllis fired. Lessiter mentioned at the 
inquest that Mrs Trace had already fallen once. There can be no other 
explanation.'
'But . . . if Dennis saw what happened he must have seen Bella get up again. 
After Phyllis ran away, I mean.'
'I should imagine so. That's something we shall find out when he's fit to be 
questioned. But I wouldn't put it past either of them to bleed someone white, 
knowing them to be innocent.'
'How absolutely appalling.' Miss Bellringer looked anxiously around her 
exuberant room as if testing it for pregnability. She bent down and picked up 
Wellington, holding him to her flat chest like a charm. Four resentful feet 
stuck stiffly out. 'And Bella's murder . . . was this the first step in some 
grand design?'
'Certainly. They left a letter. Everything clearly explained.' Bold black 
writing boiling with anger. The only word of sorrow or regret in the whole 
seven pages was that they had not been able to deny themselves a brief visit to 
their secret place that fatal Friday afternoon. No point in wounding his 
elderly companion by repeating the names they called her innocent friend. 'I 
believe it was you, Miss Bellringer, who used the term "bad blood". I remember 
thinking at the time how melodramatic it sounded. As if wickedness could be 
passed on genetically, like blue eyes or red hair. But now . . . I'm not so 
sure. It's all so reminiscent of the father's behaviour. Using people with 
absolute callousness and then walking away from the pain and unhappiness to the 
next mark.'
'Mark?'
'Sorry . . . victim. They needed money, you see. Lots and lots and lots of 
money. It wasn't enough to live quietly until Michael succeeded with his 
painting, which I have absolutely no doubt eventually he would have done. He 
was remarkably gifted. No, they had to travel. The Grand Tour. Venice, 
Florence, Amsterdam, Rome. For as long as Michael needed to soak up the 
artistic atmosphere. Then they planned to settle abroad, probably living as man 
and wife.'
'And Henry?'
'Ah . . . poor Henry. I'm afraid his demise would not have been long delayed. 
It's my belief that he had already imbibed a certain amount of the substance 
that killed your friend. It surely cannot be a coincidence that on the evening 
of her death he fell conveniently into a doze after dinner. And it wasn't just 
on that occasion either. What Henry actually said to me was, "I must have 
dropped off after dinner. I often do these days."'
'I can see why it would have been necessary for her to get out of the house, 
Chief Inspector. But I still don't understand about the dog.'
'It's quite simple. She walked to the post box with her letter to Notcutts, 
posted it, carried on to the bottom of the lane, met Michael on the path by 
Holly Cottage and handed the dog over to him. He took it home with him and 
Katherine called on your friend, with what result we already know.'
'She must've stayed quite a while to . . . to make sure . . .' Her face 
crumpled with distress. 'I'm sorry . . . all these details . . . it makes it so 
real . . .'
'Are you sure you want me to continue?'
'Quite sure. But perhaps a little fortification . . .' She put Wellington down 
and unscrewed the Teachers, pouring a little into her glass. 'And two . . . um 
. . . fingers isn't it . . . for yourself?'
'Thank you, no. To return to Beehive Cottage. Katherine needed to stay only 
until Miss Simpson had drunk the poisoned wine. Then she walked back to Holly 
Cottage and collected the dog, and Michael took over. No doubt there was the 
pretence that they both needed to speak to her. What they said we shall never 
know. Pleas for silence, for understanding. Perhaps even a feigned suggestion 
that the relationship would come to an end. They were both wonderful actors.' 
His voice hardened as he remembered Katherine's tearful display over Benjy's 
slow demise.
'How she would have hated that conversation. Emily, I mean. She was so 
fastidious. So it was Michael who . . . ?'
'Yes. He stayed until she lost consciousness, then closed the sitting-room door 
so Benjy wouldn't see his mistress and raise the alarm. He washed up 
Katherine's glass but left Miss Simpson's. Of course they both hoped that it 
would pass off as a natural death but in the unlikely event of an investigation 
a single glass with only her fingerprints and with a residue of poison would be 
found. Or rather would have been found . . .'
Miss Bellringer blushed. 'So the Shakespeare was just an added pointer? In 
case.'
'Yes. There it was open. He was probably looking around whilst he was waiting. 
The speech must have caught his eye and seemed propitious. Out with the 6B 
pencil. Which one of them climbed through the larder window is something they 
don't mention. What did become clear as I read the letter was that the Lessiter 
girl had a very lucky escape.'
'Judy? I don't understand.'
'She went to the cottage whilst Katherine was with your friend. She actually 
saw Michael through the window. What she couldn't have known was that he had a 
dog with him. If she'd knocked and the dog had barked . . .'
'Poor child. I'm afraid she was born for unhappiness. Some people are, you 
know.'
'Yes.' Barnaby nodded. 'She was made use of by the Laceys as was anyone else 
who came into their orbit. It was important for instance that Michael spent the 
afternoon of the Rainbird murder with her. I remember my sergeant remarking at 
the time, "Lucky he had an alibi". On the contrary - luck had nothing to do 
with it. It was a crucial part of the plan that he should have an alibi. The 
knife was planted at Holly Cottage not, as I first thought, to incriminate 
Lacey, but to direct suspicion away from the guilty party on to someone whom 
the murderer knew to be innocent. And who could be proved to be innocent.
'Even if Judy hadn't contacted Michael Lacey he would have been in touch with 
her, as his first words "I was just going to ring you" imply. And of course he 
had to work at the Lessiters' so that the cottage would be empty for the knife 
to be planted. Then, according again to the letter, there was to be an 
anonymous tip-off suggesting we search the cottage. But Mrs Quine beat them to 
it.'
'What a chance to take. Walking round in her brother's clothes in broad 
daylight.'
'Well, of course she came straight from the cottage through the wood and into 
the spinney. I've no doubt that if she'd met someone face to face the whole 
plan would have been abandoned but, seen from a distance, hair piled up under 
her cap, she would simply be mistaken for Michael.'
'Who had an unbreakable alibi?'
'Precisely. There was a fair amount of risk involved but Mrs Rainbird had only 
given them till the wedding to come up with the first payment.'
'Before she blew the gaff?'
Barnaby smiled. He was going to miss Lucy Bellringer. 'More or less.'
'But surely Dennis wouldn't have kept quiet? Especially after what happened to 
his mother. What were they going to do about him?'
'Michael was to dispose of Dennis. In fact his life was saved only because he 
came home half an hour earlier than usual. We met Lacey in the spinney behind 
the bungalow. He pretended he was on his way to the pub but we now know that 
his real intention was to make sure the Rainbird boy did not survive his 
mother.'
'They must have been frantic.'
'Yes indeed. If they hadn't been they would have realized that if Katherine was 
spotted, even from a distance, it would give the game away. Who else amongst 
our small ring of suspects was of a build and height to be mistaken for Michael 
Lacey?'
'But surely she took care to have an alibi?'
'Of a sort. She said she'd been picking mushrooms. There was a basket of them 
on the kitchen table with some in. And they were fresh. I sniffed them. 
Certainly she would not have had time to pick them, commit the murder, shower, 
change clothes and so on. But if they had been gathered earlier that day by 
Michael and left at Holly Cottage ready . . .'
'Ahhhh.' Miss Bellringer nodded. 'That must be the explanation.'
'After cleaning herself up' (in a flash of memory Barnaby saw the girl, 
dazzlingly, ironically pure in her snow-white dress) 'she slipped out of the 
bungalow, no doubt checking the road carefully first, by the front door and 
then knocked, quite loudly, to draw attention to herself. Mrs Sweeney, hearing 
the knock and seeing her put the mushrooms on the step and walk away, naturally 
assumed, as anyone would, that she had also walked up the path.'
'But the clothes . . . the cap and everything. And you said something about a 
rug. Do you know what happened to that?'
'Oh yes . . . the rug was rolled up by the back garden hedge. Michael collected 
it after he left the Lessiters' and returned it to the pond. The clothes were 
simply taken away in the mushroom basket. It was a very large basket and, when 
I saw it in the kitchen, barely half full, so there was plenty of room to 
spare. She then walked down to Holly Cottage, hid the murder weapon, rather too 
successfully as things turned out, dumped the bloodstained clothing temporarily 
in the woods, and returned to Tye House.'
'What does that mean? Your remark about the murder weapon?'
'Well, we had a warrant to search the house. Now, if she had planted the knife 
in the kitchen drawer or in his bedroom we might not have entered the studio, a 
room that proved to be crucial, until later.'
'Surely they thought you would search everywhere, Chief Inspector? As a matter 
of course?'
'Normally yes, but Lacey made a bolt for it simply, as I realized later, to get 
us out of the house. And I'd had a quick look around the studio. It seemed 
perfectly in order. But as we drove away from the village Katherine saw the 
car. When her brother made a square around his face and shouted "I've been 
framed" I took this as a mere gesture of bravado. In fact it was a message that 
couldn't have been clearer. What does a frame enclose but a painting? And why, 
when the cottage held so much that was valuable to him, namely all his work to 
date, did he leave the door open? Why did he pretend it was never locked? 
Because something in the studio had to be removed and if this was done when the 
place was locked up the culprit, as the only other person to have a key, would 
have to be Katherine. Unlocked, it could have been anyone.'
'Yes . . . I can see that. But what had to be removed? Was it a picture? Why 
was it so important?'
Barnaby drained his Teachers and sat back in his chair, wondering how best to 
word his reply. He saw the painting again, heard Troy cry - 'But who is it?' 
Felt once more the almost physical blow to his solar plexus that had struck as 
he gazed at the easel. He understood fully Troy's bewilderment. For Katherine 
Lacey was practically unrecognizable. It was the most erotic nude he had ever 
seen. She was sprawled on the double bed and although there was something 
post-coital about the positioning of her limbs there was nothing relaxed or 
reflective in the work. It was riven with power. Her skin was pearly with 
sweat; her legs and arms throbbed with energy, seeming almost to move on the 
canvas. There was something rapacious about them. And something faintly 
sinister. Barnaby was reminded of a praying mantis, alluring and deadly. She 
looked bigger in every way than the woman he had known. Her neck was thick and 
powerful, her breasts large, her belly richly curved.
But it was the face that had brought forth Troy's cry of disbelief. It was the 
face of a maenad. Wet red lips were drawn back into a fierce smile: greedy, 
lustful and cruel. Her eyes glittered with an unholy satisfaction. Only her 
hair was recognizable and even that seemed to have a life of its own, twisting 
and turning like a nest of snakes. Barnaby felt that any minute she would 
spring out of the canvas and devour him.
Miss Bellringer repeated her question. Barnaby, aware that his reminiscences 
had left his face heavily flushed, replied, 'It was a portrait of his sister 
which left little doubt as to the truth of their relationship.' No wonder, he 
thought, the little single bed always looked so pristine and newly made. She 
probably hadn't slept in it since Mrs Sharpe left. And now he knew why 
Katherine hadn't moved into the vacant bedroom which was so much larger than 
her own.
'How clever they have been. And to what a terrible end.'
'Yes. Oddly enough my sergeant said something quite early on in the case which 
could have been a pointer if only I'd had the wit to see it. He noticed Mrs 
Lessiter never missed an opportunity to have a dig at Lacey and said, "It 
wouldn't be the first time a married woman's pretended to dislike her lover in 
public to put people off the scent."'
'They were certainly convincing.'
'Mm. There was one episode that I had great difficulty with. Troy and I -'
'I still don't like that man.'
Barnaby smiled noncommittally and continued, 'We were walking along the path to 
Holly Cottage and heard the Laceys in the midst of the most terrible row. 
Later, when I had decided they were guilty, I simply couldn't fit this scene 
into my puzzle. Why continue to act out in private a charade that is purely for 
public consumption? It didn't make sense. In fact I'm afraid overhearing them 
made me slower to reach my final conclusion than I would otherwise have been. 
And then, returning home from Saint Leonards, and noticing my sergeant's 
constant attention to his driving mirror, I realized that the whole scene had 
been set up for my benefit. Because although we were behind a tall hedge and 
could not see them they would have had a very clear view of our approach in the 
mirror placed near the opening where the motorist turned round.'
There was a long pause, then Miss Bellringer said, 'So . . . that's it then . . 
. ? The final piece slips into place.'
Barnaby drained his glass and pressed the remaining delicious crumbs of cake 
into a neat ball. He thought it seemed much longer than two weeks since his 
companion had first sat in his office rootling in her capacious bag and fixing 
him with her glittering eye. What had she just said? The final piece? Yes, it 
must be. The vague feeling he had of one more loose end must simply be his 
natural inability to believe in life's tidiness.
There was nothing more to say. He rose to his feet. Lucy got up too and held 
out her hand. 'Well, goodbye, Chief Inspector. It's been most stimulating 
working with you. How I shall settle down again to the normal dull routine I 
just don't know.'
Barnaby shook hands and said, with absolute sincerity, 'I can't imagine 
anything being dull for long in your presence.'
As he walked towards the layby where he had parked the Orion he passed the 
churchyard, hesitated, then turned in. He made his way around the building 
through a gate in the box hedge to where the newest graves showed, rectangular 
strips of cold clay, in the lumpy greensward.
One was heaped with wreaths, the flowers still glowing and vibrant; on the 
other the tributes had been removed, leaving only a vase of dark red, sweetly 
scented roses. A plain stone was already in place. It read:EMILY SIMPSON
A Dear Friend
1906-1987
Barnaby stood in the shade of the dark yew trees and listened to the kaah-kaah 
of the rooks for a long moment, then turned and walked quickly away.
Dinner was almost finished. Cully had provided assorted dips with crudites. 
Chicken chasseur. Broccoli. New potatoes. Watercress. A wedge of double 
Gloucester and lemon chiffon pie. And there was a little box of florentines to 
nibble with their coffee. Barnaby's stomach, torn between disbelief and 
excitement, muttered gently. Cully poured the last drops from the second bottle 
of Cotes de Gascogne and lifted her glass.
'Merde in your eye, folks.'
'I was going to drink to Beatrice,' replied Barnaby. His daughter was in the 
last week of rehearsals for Much Ado, happy to stay in Cambridge, even in the 
long vacation, if it meant getting her teeth into a good part.
Sartorially she seemed to have quietened down a bit whilst still looking 
definitely pantomimic. She wore a man's tailored three-piece suit in grey and 
white chalk stripes dating from the early fifties and her hair, the colour of 
sloe gin, was cut in an Eton crop. There was a monocle pinned to her lapel. She 
looked aggressive, sexy and, because of her youth, rather touching. Barnaby 
thought she was softening up a bit. He had not discussed the denouement of the 
Simpson case with Joyce, waiting until Cully was home, saving it for their 
first long meal together. And she had listened courteously, intent and 
thoughtful to the very end. Joyce now returned briefly to the subject.
'I always thought that . . . um . . . that sort of thing . . . you know . . . 
only went on in . . . well . . . poorer families.'
'Oh Ma, don't be so mealy mouthed. If you mean working class why on earth don't 
you say so? In any case not true. There are lots of examples, fact and fiction, 
of upper-class siblings having it off.' Cully nibbled a florentine. 'Just like 
poor Annabella.'
'What?' said Barnaby, placing his cup in his saucer with extreme care.
'Pardon, dear, not what.'
'Annabella. You know . . . in Tis Pity.'
'No, I don't know. Enlighten me.'
'Honestly, Dad . . . I worked my guts out on that thing . . . it was the first 
big part I had . . . Tis Pity She's a Whore . . . at the ADC. You came up to 
see it and now you don't even remember.'
Yes, he remembered now. A dark stage lit with sudden flares of light from 
torches. Rich brocades and painted faces swirling out of the shadows. Terrible 
images of blood and death. His daughter in a white gown drenched with blood; 
daggers plunged again and again into living flesh; a heart held aloft at knife 
point. Horror upon horror, scenes prefiguring the death and destruction he had 
so recently beheld at Tranquillada. And, over and above all, the tragic pitiful 
incestuous passion of Annabella and her brother Giovanni. Barnaby saw again the 
little piecrust table in Beehive Cottage with the pile of books. The 
Adventurous Gardener, Shakespeare, A Golden Treasury. And the copy of Jacobean 
plays.
Cully spoke dreamily, her husky voice brimming with untold sadness, 'One soul, 
one flesh, one love, one heart, one all . . .'
Barnaby gazed at her with fatherly pride and admiration. He picked up his cup 
again. 'Yes,' he said, 'that's about the size of it.'
The Killings at Badgers Drift
CAROLINE GRAHAM
headline
www.headline.co.uk

FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH
by
Caroline Graham
Grade 1.

When Simone, the pleasant, vague wife of businessman Alan Hollingsworth, 
vanishes from the village of Fawcett Green, her ever-vigilant neighbours, the 
Brockleys, suspect the worst. The discovery of a body draws Chief Inspector 
Barnaby to the village, testing his powers of deduction to the full.


Copyright (c) 1996 by Caroline Graham.
Excerpt from A Place of Safety copyright (c) 1999 by Caroline Graham.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any 
manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief 
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address 
St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.


For my friends
Lili and Neville Armstrong
Dramatist to this house is Death. Austere,
Withdrawn, the scripts he writes.
Ridge House, U. A. Fanthorpe.


Chapter One
Simone Hollingsworth disappeared on Thursday, June 6. You could have said she 
had a wonderful day for it. A warm breeze was circulating beneath a sky so 
clear and bright it was almost colourless. The hedges were thick with blossom 
and in the fields rabbits and hares were larking about from sheer joie de 
vivre, as is the way of very young creatures who have not yet twigged what the 
world has in for them.
The first sign in St. Chad's Lane that all was not quite as it should be was 
observed by Mrs. Molfrey, tottering past the house next door on her way to post 
a letter. Sarah Lawson was struggling to open the Hollingsworths' gate inwards 
with her foot while holding in her arms a large cardboard box.
"Let me help you," said Mrs. Molfrey.
"I can manage if you could keep this open."
"It looks jolly heavy," said Mrs. Molfrey, referring to the box. She eased back 
the wrought and gilded iron. "What on earth's in it?"
"Some Kilner jars for my stall at the fete."
They walked along the lane, Sarah courteously moving at a quarter of her usual 
pace, for Mrs. Molfrey was very old. The clock on the flint and stone church 
tower struck three.
"Simone invited me for tea as well but she seems to have gone out. I found 
these on the patio steps."
"How odd. That's not like her at all."
"Can't say I'm sorry." Sarah hefted the box up in her arms with a groan. "Once 
you're in there it's goodbye to the next hour at least."
"I expect the poor girl's lonely."
"Whose fault's that?"
They paused outside Bay Tree Cottage where Sarah lived. Here there was no need 
for Mrs. Molfrey to do the honours, for the gate was permanently hanging off 
its hinges. This slovenly departure from the approved norm was accepted with a 
resigned shrug by the village. Sarah was known to be artistic so naturally 
allowances had to be made.
"Simone can't have gone far without wheels. And she's bound to be back soon. 
It's bell-ringing practice at five."
"Oh, that's the latest thing, is it?" Sarah laughed. "I suppose there's nothing 
else left."
"Did she stick at your course?"
"No." Sarah put the box down and produced a key from her skirt pocket. "Came 
for a few weeks then lost interest."
Mrs. Molfrey posted her letter and turned homewards, silently reflecting that, 
as far as Simone was concerned, there was indeed not much left for her to play 
with.
The Hollingsworths had moved into Nightingales just over a year ago. Unlike 
most newcomers who were invariably anxious to understand, appreciate and 
embrace every aspect of village life before the removal vans were out of sight, 
Alan Hollingsworth had never shown the slightest interest in either the place 
or the people. He could be glimpsed only when climbing into his black and 
silver Audi convertible, waving goodbye to his wife and crunching off down the 
drive. Or, long hours later--for he had his own business and worked extremely 
hard--driving smoothly back up again and kissing her hullo.
Simone always appeared in the doorway the moment the car door slammed as if she 
had been poised in some concealed lookout, determined that the man of the house 
should not go unwelcomed or unreceived for a single second. When kissed, she 
would stand on tiptoe with one leg flicked up behind her like an actress in a 
forties movie.
Unlike her husband, Mrs. Hollingsworth, having time on her hands, had made an 
effort to become involved in local activities. It had to be acknowledged that 
these were pretty limited. There was the Women's Institute, the Embroidery 
Group, the Bowls Club, a Homemade Wine Circle and, for the truly desperate, the 
Parish Council. The vicar's wife chaired that.
Mrs. Hollingsworth had gone along to the Institute on a couple of occasions and 
had sat through a talk on corn dollies and an illustrated lecture on the 
botanic discoveries of John Tradescant. She had applauded the winner of the 
most interesting apron competition and enjoyed a slice of Madeira cake. Asked 
several mildly probing questions about her past and present circumstances, she 
had replied with a sort of willing vagueness that managed to be both 
unsatisfactory and unobjectionable. At the third meeting (Intrigue Your Friends 
With A Tudor Posset) she was seen to sigh a little and was, regretfully, unable 
to stay for tea and a lemon curd butterfly.
Bowls came next. Colonel Wymmes-Forsyth, the club secretary, watched, 
goggle-eyed and half fainting with horror, as her four-inch heels, narrow as 
wine glass stems, stabbed and mangled their way across his exquisitely striped 
green. She was dissuaded without too much difficulty (everyone was so ancient) 
from joining.
The wine circle and parish meetings, which took place in the evenings, knew her 
not. Neither did the embroiderers' group although Cubby Dawlish put a 
delightfully illustrated little notice as to their times of meeting through 
Nightingales' letter box.
It was thought that either shyness or a sense of decorum led her to ignore the 
simplest and most pleasurable way of getting to know people, that is, a visit 
to the Goat and Whistle. Most new immigrants were in there at the drop of an 
optic. They asked for a pint of the landlord's best then, foot on the bar rail, 
would hesitantly broach a subject or drop an agreeable remark into an already 
established conversation, trying to make friends.
Invariably warmly welcomed, they would return home confirmed in the belief that 
it was only in the country that people really had time for you. Most remained 
happily unaware that it was merely the stultifying boredom of seeing the same 
old faces day in day out that promoted such keen interest. They did not even 
notice when they, in their turn, became stultifyingly bored.
Bell-ringing, as has already been mentioned, was Mrs. Hollingsworth's latest 
humour. To date she had attended half a dozen sessions without apparently 
exhausting her interest. But she was not always prompt and so, when she hadn't 
arrived at half past five, no one was either surprised or concerned.
The vicar, the Reverend Bream, listened with half an ear for her approach 
whilst tidying a pile of church guides desktop published by his wife. Priced 
modestly at fifty pence, they were very popular with visitors, at least half of 
whom put something, if rarely the full amount, in the box.
Mrs. Molfrey wandered in, apologising for her lateness and doing a quick head 
count.
"She's not come back then, Simone?" After she had explained the background to 
this remark, the vicar decided to wait no further and they all hove to.
The practice was for a funeral the following day. Usually requiring nothing 
more than a somnolent ongoing toll, the bereaved on this occasion had requested 
a rendering of Oranges and Lemons, a childhood favourite of the dear departed. 
It was not a peal with which the Fawcett Green campanologists were familiar. 
But the vicar, who knew it well, had written it out on cards. This was their 
third run through. Substituting now for their absent colleague, the Reverend 
Bream swung rhythmically. Arms stretched, he took deep regular breaths, while 
the heels of his elastic-sided black boots rose and fell and the coarse red, 
white and blue hemp slipped through his fingers.
Next to him little Mrs. Molfrey shot up into the air, her ringlets flying and 
unlaced tennis shoes hanging off her feet before descending gravely to the worn 
flagstones. The team rang for half an hour then, as was usual, repaired to the 
vestry for refreshments.
Avis Jennings, the doctor's wife, put the kettle on an old electric boiling 
ring. The vicar broke the seal on a pack of arrowroot biscuits. No one liked 
these much but Mrs. Bream insisted on supplying them, having read somewhere 
that arrowroot was not only nutritious but calming to the nerves.
Just before Christmas, Avis had introduced a box of homemade hazelnut clusters. 
Someone, no doubt over-stimulated by excess protein, had let this slip. A 
definite coldness emanated from the vicarage and, as a result, Avis Jennings 
was left off the church flower rota for three months.
Mugs of well-sugared tea were now handed out. Everyone sat, in varying degrees 
of comfort, among coils of chicken wire and green Oasis, choirboys' surplices, 
the Sunday School's paints and brushes, Bible storybooks and towering piles of 
dusty hymnals.
The vicar took a sip of tea, far too strong for his liking, and turned the 
conversation once more to Mrs. Hollingswofth's absence.
"Have you seen her at all today, Elfrida?"
"No, I haven't," said Mrs. Molfrey in a squeezed-up voice for she was bending 
over threading some tape through the eyelet of her plimsolls.
"What about you, dear heart?"
Cubby Dawlish turned very pink and tugged at his brief white beard, more of a 
sparkly frill really, which ran neatly from one earlobe to the other. Then he 
cleared his throat shyly before also admitting ignorance of Mrs. 
Hollingsworth's whereabouts. "But I don't think she could have gone far. I'm 
sure I would have noticed if Charlie's taxi had turned up. I've been outside 
nearly all day."
Cubby also lived next door to Alan and Simone Hollingsworth in a grace and 
favour residence placed discreetly among the fruit trees in Mrs. Molfrey's 
orchard. In lieu of rent and in gratitude for her kindness, he spent a great 
deal of time working in the garden.
"I'm not sure," began the vicar, urging his plate of pallid soporifics to 
little effect, "if there's a lot of point in her coming tomorrow. She's not 
really familiar with the peal and we don't want anyone dropping a clanger."
Mrs. Molfrey gave a whoop of pleasure at this felicity, slapping her thin 
haunches and releasing puffs of dust from her rusty chenille skirt.
"Especially," added the Reverend Bream sternly, "at a funeral."
It took a lot more than this to subdue Mrs. Molfrey who chortled again and 
nudged Cubby so hard he almost overbalanced. Reaching out to save himself, he 
knocked over a watering can and blushed even more deeply than before.
"I'll call round after I've locked up," said the Reverend Bream. "If she hasn't 
returned, no doubt Alan will have some sort of explanation."
"I wouldn't trouble," said Avis Jennings. "He's a workaholic. Never back before 
eight, Simone said. And that's early."
"It's no trouble," said the vicar. "I have to call on old Mrs. Carter and 
they're practically on the way."
Nightingales was one of three houses set a little way back from St. Chad's 
Lane, in an area not quite large or clearly defined enough for the post office 
to designate it a close. On the left of the Hollingsworths' was a 1930s pebble 
dash, complete with glass door panels in harsh, fruit-gum colours. Patchily 
stained bits of wood had been fixed to the walls in an alternating series of Y 
shapes and inverted chevrons. These were, in the opinion of Avis Jennings who 
came from the North, neither use nor ornament. A polished wooden shingle read 
"The Larches" though not a single arboreal specimen supported the bold claim.
On the other side of Nightingales were Mrs. Molfrey's twin cottages discreetly 
transformed into one. Only thirty years older than the hideous mock Tudor, 
Arcadia exuded a stable and serene charm. The gardens were exuberant, fruitful 
and very lovely.
The Hollingsworths' residence was totally out of place in this small enclosure. 
"A Desirable Executive Country Dwelling" according to the pre-sale literature, 
it had been built in 1989 by an enterprising money man with a nose for a snip. 
He had bought the row of three decrepit workman's hovels previously standing 
there, demolished them and erected the type of building usually only seen 
fraternising with a group of select fellows on camera-ridden, landscaped 
grounds behind fully charged high-wire fences.
The village had protested fiercely once the scale and pomposity of the 
entrepreneur's vision was revealed but to no effect. Bribery in the planning 
offices was suspected.
Alan's car was parked a few feet from the double garage. The gravel was all 
swirly and churned about as if he had driven up to the house in a great hurry, 
skidded and slammed on the brakes. The gates were wide open. Walking up to the 
front door, the vicar lifted the tail of a brass mermaid and rapped firmly 
several times.
No one came. The Reverend Bream hesitated, wondering what to do next. He 
waited, enjoying the scent from clusters of white nicotiana flowering in fat 
Italian pots. Then he rapped again.
Afterwards the vicar was to say that he sensed, even at that early stage, that 
there was something very wrong. But the truth was, within seconds he had got 
bored and would have simply given up had it not been for the car, so plainly 
visible a few feet away.
As the unexpected silence continued, curiosity overcame him. Not thinking for a 
moment how such behaviour might strike the casual passer-by--he had never known 
embarrassment in his life--the vicar crossed over to the sitting-room windows 
and, cupping his hands against the early evening sunlight, peered in.
A lush room. Peach walls and hangings, clotted cream carpet, pretty puffed-up 
silk sofas and armchairs. Gilt and ormolu and crystal. Masses of flowers and 
several table lamps, none of which were switched on. No human life at all.
A creaking sound some short distance away caught his attention. The door of a 
shed was being closed in the garden of The Larches. Discreet footsteps tiptoed 
away. The Reverend Bream guessed it to be the master of the house. Like 
everyone else, he was familiar with the Brockleys' sly, concealing ways. Not 
for them the frank enjoyment of a bit of a gossip in the village shop or a good 
stare over the fence. Whilst being passionately interested in everyone else's 
business, they presented a united front of absolute indifference. 
Metaphorically they would cover their eyes and ears and mouths in 
self-righteous repulsion should even the merest morsel of titillation drift 
their way. Mrs. Bream said they reminded her of the three wise monkeys. She 
could be very unChristian at times.
Naughtily, the vicar called out, "Good evening, Mr. Brockley!" Then, as the 
footsteps hastened away, he went back to the mermaid and knocked again.
Inside the house, to be precise in the kitchen doorway, the quarry stood, 
motionless, head resting on the painted white wooden frame. On the point of 
entering the hall when his visitor first knocked, Alan Hollingsworth had frozen 
on the spot, staring at the panel of thick, wavily patterned glass through 
which the vicar's distorted figure could be seen but not recognised.
Alan closed his eyes and moaned silently. The seconds passed, marked by the 
soft whirring of a grandmother clock in the dining room and the strained 
beating of his heart. He cursed himself for not putting the car away. 
Weeks--no, years passed. Whoever it was still stood there.
The ridiculousness of his position and the impossibility of maintaining it 
indefinitely filled him with humiliation and distress. He knew that, even if 
whoever it was out there gave up, someone else would sooner or later take their 
place. Villages were like that. People were always calling round collecting or 
stuffing leaflets through the letter box or asking you to sign petitions. Even 
though he had remained pointedly uninvolved in the day-to-day life of Fawcett 
Green, no one escaped entirely. Eventually neighbours, receiving neither sight 
nor sound of the inhabitants of Nightingales, would start to wonder if they 
were still in situ. If they were "all right." Someone might even call the 
police. A cold sweat broke over Alan's face and vile-tasting liquid surged into 
his throat.
The tapping started again.
Telling himself that the first time would be the worst and the quicker he got 
it over the better, he turned his head and called, "Coming."
The vicar fixed an expression of concern to his face. An expression he had no 
trouble whatsoever maintaining when the door was finally opened, for 
Hollingsworth looked quite dreadful. His face was pale, the skin sheened with 
moisture as if he had just completed a vigorous workout. His eyes stared wildly 
and he was frowning; struggling to remember where he had seen the man facing 
him before. His tangled hair stood on end as if he had been tugging at it. When 
he spoke his voice was loud and he seemed to have trouble breathing normally. 
This resulted in his sentences being oddly punctuated.
"Ah Vicar it's. You."
Agreeing politely that it was indeed him, the Reverend Bream took 
Hollingsworth's involuntary step backwards as an invitation to enter and was on 
the hall carpet in a twinkling. He asked if all was well.
"We were a little worried when Simone didn't come to practice," he elaborated. 
"And I'm really calling to tell her not to bother about the funeral tomorrow."
"Funeral?"
"Two o'clock." The vicar became increasingly concerned. The man looked almost 
demented. "Are you quite well, Mr. Hollingsworth? You look as if you've had 
rather a shock."
"No, no. Everything's." The rest of the sentence seemed either to escape or 
defeat him. He glanced aside, rather longingly, it seemed to the vicar, at the 
now wide open front door. But the Reverend Bream, faced with an obviously 
deeply distressed parishioner, was nothing if not aware of his duty.
"May I?" he inquired and, without waiting for a reply, sailed into the Viennese 
pastry of a living room. He lowered his ample rear on to a heap of heart-shaped 
satin cushions, slid off and replaced himself more securely. He then turned a 
determinedly benign smile on Hollingsworth who had reluctantly followed him in.
"Now, Alan," said the vicar, "if I may call you that?" His kindly glance was 
momentarily distracted by the sight of a splendid silver tray holding two 
cut-glass decanters and several bottles including a Jack Daniels, nearly full, 
and a Bushmills, half empty. There was no way, on his stipend, the vicar could 
afford either of these splendid beverages. He heaved himself upright again 
saying, "You look as if you could do with a drink. Perhaps I could--"
"Simone's. Don't worry I'll pass. The message."
"She isn't here then?"
"No. Her mother." Hollingsworth shook his head and made a despairing gesture 
with his palms upturned.
"I'm so sorry." The vicar gave up all hope of the Jack Daniels. Even lusting 
after it now struck him as slightly improper. "I do hope it's nothing serious."
"A stroke." Alan said this without thinking but immediately recognised it as an 
invention of genius. Unlike other illnesses, where one either got better or 
worse, strokes could incapacitate indefinitely, engendering a more or less 
permanent need for attention. So if the worse came to the worst. The very, very 
worst . . .
"Oh dear." The vicar reprised his condolences and made a move to leave. For the 
first time since he had answered the door, Hollingsworth's face relaxed 
slightly. Relief would be too strong a word. Just a small decrease in wariness 
and tension.
"Does she live far away?" asked the Reverend Bream.
"Wales," said Alan. "The Midlands."
"That's not so bad," said the vicar. "Perhaps you'll be able--"
"I don't. Think so business."
"Of course." The Reverend Bream nodded understandingly while trying to recall 
what Hollingsworth's business actually was. Something to do with computers. The 
vicar's brain turned to custard at the very thought. One of his flock had 
recently presented St. Chad's with a second-hand machine on to which had been 
transferred every scrap of data relating to parish matters. Now the vicar could 
not even find his verger's phone number. He had thought the dark night of the 
soul a mere metaphysical concept until pitched into its shadows by the demon 
Amstrad.
Now, with one foot on the front step, the thought struck him that Evadne, once 
advised of this present set-up, would chide him for not extending a supper 
invitation. He mumbled something along the lines of "cold collation" and 
"stretching to three."
Much to his relief, for he had spotted the game pie in the larder at tea time 
and thought it a very small one, Hollingsworth immediately declined.
"Freezer. Full," he said and closed the door before his visitor was properly 
outside.
Walking away, the Reverend Bream turned and looked behind him. Alan 
Hollingsworth was resting against the wavy glass panel. As the vicar watched, 
the dark shape, its outline shimmering as if beneath deep water, gradually 
started to slip and slide downwards until, within a matter of seconds, the man 
was slumped on the floor.
"The vicar's just called at Nightingales."
Iris Brockley, her nostrils satisfactorily filled with the rich smell of 
Windowlene, bent a frilled net curtain rigid with starch to the side and took a 
discreet step backwards. When it came to surveillance, Iris could have given 
tips to the FBI.
"Does he have a collecting tin?"
"No."
"That's all right then."
Iris lifted her husband's cup and wiped the saucer where the spoon had made a 
mark, wiped the spoon, wiped the plastic tray hooked over the arm of his chair 
and replaced the flowered, gold-rimmed crockery. Then she perched on the edge 
of the pale green Dralon stool attached to the knee-high telephone table. The 
darker green piping pressed into the back of her plump thighs.
"I wonder what he wanted."
"I'm sure I couldn't begin to comprehend."
"I hope there's nothing wrong, Reg."
"Won't be our business if there is." Mr. Brockley closed the Daily Express, 
smoothed it front and back with the palm of his hand, folded it into a precise 
half and placed it in a bamboo rack by his feet.
"Have you finished with that?" Springing up when her husband nodded, Iris 
snatched the newspaper out again and disappeared to the kitchen.
Reg closed his eyes, waiting for the thwack of the pedal bin's lid as it hit 
the wall and the clang as it fell back. When this had been followed by a cry 
of, "Get back into your basket please, madam!" he drained his tea, unclipped a 
pen from his breast pocket and opened the Radio Times. All of his movements 
were cramped. Completed almost before they began.
When Iris returned he was drawing three neat rings round their evening's 
viewing: Question Time, May To December and The Travel Show. Not that the 
Brockleys ever went anywhere. Leafy Bucks was good enough for them, thank you 
very much. But they enjoyed programmes about foreign climes, especially when 
the unfortunate tourists were stranded, struck down by some exotic virus, 
mugged or, best of all, asphyxiated in poorly ventilated hotel rooms.
Having replaced the magazine, Reg now stepped out through the French windows as 
he did every evening about this time in clement weather. He would perambulate 
around the garden, returning on the dot for the six o'clock news and the 
arrival, also on the dot (bar her late night) of their daughter Brenda.
It was a lovely evening. The soft, sweet air pressed against Reg's plump cheeks 
and stiff little moustache. All he needed was a cherrywood pipe and 
copper-coloured spaniel and he could have stepped straight into a Metroland 
poster.
Next door's clematis was climbing exuberantly over the trellis and trailing 
down the Brockleys' side. Reg and Iris had had many weighty discussions about 
this beautiful plant but refrained from any direct comment. This would mean 
"getting involved," which was out of the question. A comment about the weather, 
a tut or two regarding the increase in village vandalism, a brief, insincere 
compliment with respect to each other's floral landscapes, this was the limit 
of the Hollingsworth/Brockley discourse.
A handle turned a few feet away and someone stepped on to the patio. From the 
weight of the footsteps, Reg guessed it must be Alan. Although present first, 
Reg immediately cast himself in the role of invisible eavesdropper. He stood 
very still, breathing silently through his mouth and hoping he wouldn't need to 
swallow.
Hollingsworth started to call Nelson, the cat, in a voice that struck Reg as 
rather strange and croaky. As if he had a cold.
Reg tiptoed back into the house to pass this snippet of information on to Iris. 
She was as intrigued as he, for it was well known that Alan had paid the 
creature no mind since the day it arrived. It was Simone who had taken pity on 
the tabby kitten, found abandoned nearly a year ago. She who fed and brushed 
it, who cooed and whistled softly to persuade it home at the end of the day. 
The Brockleys were still discussing this unusual state of affairs when Brenda 
arrived.
As the dark brown Mini Metro slid past the kitchen window to park beneath the 
car port roof of corrugated plastic, Iris donned her frilly apron, got an M & S 
Welsh rarebit out of the freezer and switched on the microwave.
Iris and pre-prepared meals had been made for each other. Acutely aware of her 
duty as a wife and mother to put hot, appetising food on the table at regular 
intervals, she had struggled throughout her married life to do so. She washed 
superior cuts of meat (never offal) and gutted fish until the water ran clear. 
She forced herself to make pastry even though the fat got under her nails and 
no amount of scrubbing ever convinced her they did not always remain ever so 
slightly greasy.
Now, as she slid the little aluminium tray from its temptingly illustrated 
sleeve, she thought how very reassuring frozen comestibles were. Constrained 
beneath a glittery crust of sterile crystals, they did not leak or smell or ask 
to be in any way humanly dealt with but were quickly transformed, as if by 
magic, into comforting, tasty nourishment. Iris sliced a tomato for freshness 
and put the kettle on.
Brenda entered the house and ran swiftly upstairs. Her routine never varied. 
She would hang her coat in the wardrobe, tidy her hair then wash her hands. 
Shona, a white poodle tucked away in a wicker basket between the washing 
machine and the fridge, started to whine with happiness the moment this 
recognisable procedure began. As the toilet flushed, Iris warmed the pot and by 
the time her daughter came into the kitchen everything was ready.
Brenda ate very daintily. Small portions chewed with her lips closed as she had 
been taught from early childhood. Mr. Brockley regarded his offspring's neat 
maroon skirt and jacket and white blouse with pride and thought how smart she 
looked. Her short brown hair was brushed neatly away from her face and a red 
and gold pin in her left lapel displayed her full name. Reg, who had never 
flown, thought she looked like an air hostess.
He and his wife often discussed their daughter's future with respectful 
seriousness. A business career was all well and good but they were full of 
hopes that she would, fairly soon, marry a nice, respectable man. Living nearby 
she could then, at judiciously spaced intervals, present them with two nice, 
well-behaved grandchildren. They called it settling down though a disinterested 
observer might have got the impression that Brenda was already so firmly 
settled it would take a ton of dynamite to move her.
She was sitting now, little finger eloquently crooked, sipping tea and 
answering the customary questions about her day in copious detail. Brenda knew 
how much her mother--and father, too, now that he had retired--anticipated this 
daily exposure to the hurly burly of high finance.
"Then to top it all Hazel Grantley, from Accounts, chimed in. As she always 
does, given half a chance. 'Don't tell me,' she said, 'that interest was 
miscalculated. Machines don't make mistakes.' " Brenda licked the tip of her 
finger and dotted up a final crumb of toast. "No one gets on with her."
"You said."
"Including her husband." Brenda spoke with some satisfaction. Like many unhappy 
single people she relished tales of marital discord. "Then Janine, who was 
really upset by this time, came back with 'Why not? They're only human.' Of 
course everyone laughed, upon which what should she do but burst into tears? 
And all this with a customer at the counter. I don't know what Mr. Marchbanks 
would have said."
"Wasn't he there then?" inquired Iris.
"Dentist. Then no sooner had all this blown over when Jacqui Willing's pen 
walked."
"As per usual," said Iris knowledgeably.
"Trish Travers from Personnel said she'd seen it in the toilet. Jacqui said she 
wasn't so old she had to keep running in there every five minutes. Unlike 
some." Brenda, having wrung every possible drop of drama from her day at the 
Coalport and National Building Society, now dabbed at the corners of her small 
mouth with an embroidered napkin.
Reg and Iris exchanged glances of arch complicity. Without conferring on the 
matter, neither had mentioned the unusual state of affairs next door, both 
believing the most toothsome morsel should be left till last. Now, as Brenda 
checked the time on her diamante cocktail watch against the gingham plate on 
the kitchen wall, Reg cleared his throat and Iris underlined the importance of 
the moment by taking her pinny off. Brenda looked surprised when they both sat 
down at the table.
"Something's happened next door, dear."
"Next door?" Brenda was stacking her cup and saucer and plate together ready to 
take to the sink. There was a sudden clatter as they all rattled on the Formica.
Iris said, "Careful."
"What sort of thing?" Brenda's voice was dry. She gave a scrapy little cough 
before continuing, "Everything looked as usual when I drove by."
"Mrs. Hollingsworth's not there."
"Simone?" Brenda started looking round the room. Darting glances accompanied by 
quick jerky movements of the head, like a bird looking for food. "Who told you 
that?"
To the Brockleys' surprise their daughter got up, crossed over to the sink and 
turned on the hot tap. Brenda never washed up or even helped to clear away. It 
was not expected. There was the unspoken assumption that her contribution to 
the household's expenses, or "keep" as Iris put it, not only covered her food 
but relieved her of all domestic duties. Apart from cleaning her room which no 
one could get into as it was permanently locked.
"I'll do those, dear."
"It's all right."
"At least put some gloves on."
"So . . ." Brenda plunged her hands into a pyramid of iridescent bubbles and 
started clashing cutlery about before rephrasing her question. "Where did you 
hear that?"
"No one actually told us," said Iris. Catching her husband's eye, she was 
unable to conceal her anxiety. Brenda had gone very pale except for a bright 
flush across her cheekbones and was now sloshing about in the sink so 
vigorously that the sudsy water was splashing over the edge. "It was just 
something Daddy . . . um . . ."
"Deduced."
"Yes, deduced."
"You see, Brenda . . ." Reg frowned at the rigidly upright back and furiously 
working elbows. "Couldn't you stop that for a second?"
"I'm listening."
"There was a bell-ringing practice late this afternoon--and very unusual chimes 
they were too--but Simone couldn't have turned up because I happened to be in 
the front garden when they finished and she didn't come home."
"Then the vicar--"
"All right, Iris."
"Sorry, dear."
"The Reverend Bream called at the house shortly after this and I think it 
reasonable to infer that he was inquiring about her absence. Not only was it a 
very long time indeed before the door was opened but he was no sooner in the 
place than out again. And then--"
"This is the best bit."
"Alan came out into the back garden calling the cat."
"Well, he'd have to, wouldn't he? If she wasn't there to do it." Brenda pulled 
the plug and dried her hands very vigorously on the tea towel. "I think you're 
making a mountain out of a molehill."
Reg and Iris stared at each other in disappointment and dismay. There had been 
many an occasion when a mountain if not indeed a whole cloud-capped range had 
been made of detail not nearly so rich in dramatic potential. And Brenda had 
been the first to relish such discussions. But now she simply flung the cloth 
down, clicked her tongue in the direction of the dog and left the room. Shona, 
full of joy but with more sense than to express it by barking, leapt from her 
basket and trotted after. There was a breathing space when the Brockleys could 
hear the bell on the dog collar tinkling as her lead was attached. Then the 
front door slammed and they were gone.
Reg and Iris rushed to the picture window in the lounge and watched as the pair 
made their way down the drive. The poodle dancing and prancing, ecstatically 
exercising her vocal cords; Brenda walking carefully with neat, even steps. 
They hesitated briefly outside Nightingales before walking on into St. Chad's 
Lane.
Reg and Iris returned to the kitchen. Iris picked up the tea towel--a nice view 
of Powys Castle--prised open a turquoise plastic peg and hung the towel up next 
to her rubber gloves.
Her husband said, "What's got into her tonight?"
"Nerves, Reg. I blame these high-powered meetings. Remember how you used to 
come home?"
Heather Gibbs gave Arcadia a good seeing-to every Friday. Two hours, twelve 
pounds. Generous in comparison with the usual but, as Heather's mum pointed 
out, if you're batty as an egg whisk you're going to have to cough up just that 
little bit extra.
Mrs. Molfrey sat in her faded petit-point wing chair, feet up on a beaded 
footstool, and watched Heather with deep satisfaction. When the girl had first 
turned up some months ago now, clomping into the sitting room on shoes like 
great blocks of wood and bawling her head off, Mrs. Molfrey had trembled on 
behalf of her delicate glasses and fragile ornaments. But Heather, though 
lumberingly uneconomical in her movements, handled every one of these treasured 
artefacts with the most gentle and precise movements.
At the moment she was carefully going over an ornately carved, many-mirrored 
overmantel with a feather duster. Mrs. Molfrey's satisfaction deepened when she 
glimpsed, through a gap in the sitting-room door, her gleaming kitchen. Aware 
from a certain amount of static from the shiny pink box on her concave chest 
and the liveliness of Heather's lips that she was being spoken to, Mrs. Molfrey 
switched on her deaf aid. She waited till the girl was looking elsewhere for 
she felt it was rather rude to have switched it off in the first place.
"So I said, what time do you call this and he only said 'nookie time' didn't 
he? In front of me mam and the kids and everything."
"Who was this, Heather?"
"Kevin's dad. He's never off the nest. Know what I mean?"
"Which dad is that?" asked Mrs. Molfrey, for she had still not disentangled 
Heather's assorted progeny let alone grasped the ramifications of an extended 
family that seemed to cover half Bucks county.
"Barry. The one with the Harley Davidson."
"Ah. The musician."
Heather didn't bother to put her right. It wasn't worth it. She'd have 
forgotten by next time. And really Heather only chatted to be polite. Given a 
choice she'd as soon bring her Walkman and a tape of Barry Manilow. But the old 
lady must crave a bit of conversation what with only the old geezer in the 
caravan for company. He cooked for her every day too. Sweet really.
Now, giving a final polish to an emerald glass lustre, Heather asked Mrs. 
Molfrey if she was ready for her cuppa. This was Heather's last chore. She 
would leave the tea and a piece of cake on the little piecrust table by Mrs. 
Molfrey's chair.
Mrs. Molfrey always asked Heather if she would like to join her but Heather had 
only done this once. The tea was disgusting. A funny colour and a worse smell. 
And there wasn't any other sort. Just looking at it, thought Heather, was 
enough to make you heave. Like dried up black worms all mixed up with yellow 
flowers.
Now, as she put the kettle on in the kitchen, Heather heard the thocketer, 
thocketer of a 500cc engine and saw, through the kitchen window, a Honda 
scooter bouncing gently over the grassy approach to the back of the house.
"It's Becky," she called through to the other room.
"She'll be bringing my hair," called back Mrs. Molfrey. "Chuck another spoon in 
the pot. And dig out the cake tin. There's a WI lemon drizzle."
Becky Latimer, a sweet-faced young woman with a lightly freckled skin, smooth 
and brown as a hen's egg, lifted the latch and walked into the kitchen. She 
carried a wig block under one arm and a customised plastic carrier on which a 
crossed brush and comb surmounted the words "Becky's Mobile Maison."
"All done for you, Mrs. Molfrey." She smiled at the old lady. "How's the world 
treating you today?"
"You'll stay for tea, Becky?" Mrs. Molfrey laid an arrangement of knobby bones 
covered loosely by gingery spotted skin urgently on the girl's arm.
"Course I will," said Becky who was already running twenty minutes late. "Just 
a quick one."
As Heather brought out Mrs. Molfrey's tray, Becky brought up Simone 
Hollingsworth's name, asking Mrs. Molfrey if she had seen anything of the 
woman. "Only I was giving her a cut and blow dry yesterday half three and when 
I turned up she'd gone out. She didn't cancel or ring or anything. It's not 
like her at all."
"I heard she was looking after a sick relative," said Mrs. Molfrey, "and had to 
dash off. No doubt it put the appointment right out of her mind."
"Yes, it would," said Becky with some relief. She was trying to build up her 
business and had feared that Mrs. Hollingsworth had become dissatisfied with 
her work. Simone was a demanding client and her soft, white-gold hair was far 
from easy to handle. Unlike most of Becky's customers she wanted something 
different every week, if only in some small detail. When Becky arrived there 
would often be a Vogue or Tatler lying open on the sitting-room table and her 
young heart would sink as she was shown some elaborately styled or brilliantly 
cut coiffure and asked to copy it. Still, so far, fingers crossed, she seemed 
to have done OK.
While these thoughts had been passing through Becky's mind, Heather had taken 
the cling film off the cake, cut it in slices and poured a second cup of tea. 
Now, having put her outdoor coat on, she stopped in the middle of saying 
goodbye and said instead, "Hey, Becks. You talking about Mrs. H from 
Nightingales?"
"That's right."
"She was on the market bus."
"On the bus?"
"That's right, Mrs. Molfrey."
"But she never goes anywhere."
"Well, she went to Causton."
"Was that the two thirty?" asked Becky.
"No, half twelve. Got off outside Gateways. And I'll tell you another funny 
thing. She hadn't got no case nor nothing. Just a handbag."
"You'd think," said Becky, "if she was visiting this sick relative she'd have 
got off at the stop near the railway station."
"It's a right mystery," said Heather. She swung round and her full skirt 
floated about her, describing a wide circle.
There really should be a shipping warning when people like Heather entered 
one's natural orbit, thought Mrs. Molfrey. She closed her eyes and prayed.
"Ah well," said Heather, now safely on the threshold. "Ta-ra again."
"Could you knock on Cubby's caravan as you go by, please?" asked Mrs. Molfrey. 
'Tell him the lemon drizzle's up."
Becky sipped a little of the tea which she disliked quite as much as Heather.
"Isn't that extraordinary, Becky?" said Mrs. Molfrey, inhaling the jasmine 
fragrance with a sigh of pleasure. "Going off to care for someone who's ill 
with no more than a handbag. You'd think at least they'd take a little 
Benger's. Or some beef jelly."
"P'raps Mr. Hollingsworth's going to drive over later."
"Perhaps. What I can't understand," continued Mrs. Molfrey, "is why she took 
the bus. It takes nearly an hour to cover the distance Charlie's taxi does in 
fifteen minutes."
"Well, can't be to save money, Mrs. Molfrey." Becky glanced at her watch. 
"Sorry, I have to go now. I'm running a bit late."
"Dear child," cried Mrs. Molfrey. "Why didn't you say?"
For the next couple of days Fawcett Green attempted to observe the owner of 
Nightingales in what it regarded as a discreet manner. This involved slowing 
up, often to a marked degree, when passing the house and looking in the 
windows. Listening keenly for the laser whir and soft metal clunk of the garage 
door being opened or closed. Or strolling down Mrs. Molfrey's back garden and 
casually glancing over the fence. But in every instance Fawcett Green was 
unlucky. The object of their interest did not show himself.
It was plain, however, that Simone had not returned, which left a male person 
living on his own. Naturally it was thought, for there is nothing more 
conservative than an English village, that such a man must be in need of 
assistance. Immediately this need was diagnosed, a support group rallied to 
satisfy it.
The group did its best. An apple pie, some fresh eggs and a jar of green tomato 
chutney were placed on the doorstep of Nightingales and stayed there until they 
were aggrievedly taken back. A message slipped through the letter box offering 
to collect and return any necessary washing was also ignored. As was a note 
asking if any shopping was required and an offer to cut the hedge. Umbrage was 
well and truly taken when it was discovered that a boxful of convenience foods 
had been ordered by telephone and delivered by Ostlers, the village store.
After this the frustrated Samaritans, acknowledging that you just couldn't help 
some people, gave up any direct approach. A sharp eye was still kept, though, 
and the village noted, not without some satisfaction, that only twenty-four 
hours after Mrs. Hollingsworth's departure, things started to take a definite 
turn for the worse.
On Friday the curtains remained closed till lunchtime. On Saturday and Sunday 
they were not opened all day. Determined to regard such moral laxity as a cry 
for help, the team renewed its efforts by tapping on the front door and, when 
this was ignored, repeating the procedure at the rear, in both cases with 
negative results.
When the milkman called for payment, there were three full pints on the step. 
He rapped the knocker several times and shouted, "Milk-oh!" through the letter 
box. Eventually the door opened a fraction, a ten pound note was pressed into 
his hand and the words "Don't leave any more" were breathed through the opening 
on whisky-soured breath.
Naturally this was all round the place in no time. Later, further verification 
of Alan Hollingsworth's debauched state was provided when a stream of bottles 
descended from his wheelie bin into the masticating maw of Causton Borough 
Council's refuse lorry. Avis Jennings said it sounded as if someone was 
disposing of a greenhouse. The vicar, put in the picture by his spouse, thought 
of all that Jack Daniels consumed in lonely isolation and wondered if he should 
once more attempt to offer solace.
In the Goat and Whistle the regulars discussed Simone's absence among 
themselves. No one believed the "illness in the family" story. The landlord, no 
doubt chagrined that not a single swallow of Hollingsworth's river of 
forgetfulness had been purchased at his establishment, was especially scathing.
"A load of old cock," he said, pulling a Beamish for a puce-complexioned man in 
a Tattershall check waistcoat. "She's buggered off to get a bit of life for 
herself. And I for one don't blame her."
There was a rumble of assent. Neglect a pretty wife, was the general theory, 
and you're asking for trouble. Not everyone agreed. An advocaat and lemonade 
snowball thought that, far from being neglected, Mrs. H was kept on such a 
short leash that boredom and frustration had driven her to snap it. This was 
also not universally acceptable.
"You work your fingers to the bone for 'em," said the Beamish, "buy them 
everything they want and where does it get you? Bloody nowhere."
A female with arms like Popeye and a leering, pockmarked face threw darts with 
savage accuracy. She pointed out how totally pathetic it was that men let 
themselves go the minute they didn't have some poor drudge of a woman running 
round after them.
"I can think of one party who won't be heartbroken," said the snowball very 
quietly. She winked and tapped her nose which was tiny, soft and porous like a 
mildewed strawberry. "After what Hollingsworth done to him."
"Cruel, that was."
"I wouldn't be surprised if he'd run off with her hisself."
"Nah. He's got other fish to fry."
Everyone turned and looked down the room to where a solitary drinker sat 
nursing a half of bitter. He didn't look as if he was about to start dancing on 
the ceiling. More as if he was expecting it to fall on him any minute. He'd 
hardly spoken since he came into the bar and now, draining his glass, Gray 
Patterson got up and left without a word.
It had actually been in the Goat and Whistle that Gray had met his "other 
fish." At the time he had not appreciated just how unlikely such a contingency 
was. She had visited the pub no more than twice in the five years since she had 
moved to the village. On this, the second occasion, Sarah Lawson had dropped in 
for a box of matches, the village store having run out.
He knew who she was of course--in such a small place everyone knew everyone 
else by sight--and a little about her. She taught parttime in adult education, 
had hardly any money, her house was falling down. She made models out of clay 
and also worked with stained glass. It was rare to walk past Bay Tree Cottage 
without hearing music, powerful operatic bawling that Fawcett Green accepted 
with a resigned shrug, for artists were known to need a creative ambience.
Gray was intrigued by Sarah's looks and the way she dressed. By her gravity and 
by the fact that she appeared genuinely not to give a damn as to what anyone 
thought either of her or her way of life. And so, following her out of the Goat 
and Whistle and catching up in St. Chad's Lane, he introduced himself.
"Oh, I know who you are," responded Sarah. "From the front page of the Causton 
Echo."
"You make me sound notorious."
"Doesn't take much in a place this size."
"You mustn't believe everything you read in the papers."
"Sounds like a useful, if slightly patronising, tip."
"Sorry."
A bad start. They walked on in silence while Gray sought to repair the damage. 
He had more sense than to attempt a personal compliment which he felt would be 
judged both clumsy and impertinent. But he could, in all honesty, praise her 
garden.
"Every time I come down this way I admire it."
"I can't imagine why." She had a calm, clear voice. "It's an absolute shambles."
"The balance, I think. You seem to have something of everything but not too 
much of anything."
"Can't take credit for that. My father created and cared for it. Almost to the 
last day of his life."
"Ah, yes." He remembered hearing that the house had belonged to her parents. 
"Did they bequeath any advice on horticultural matters? I could do with a few 
tips."
"Start with clean healthy soil. Feed it properly. Plant only top quality stuff. 
And if ugly or poisonous things turn up, yank them out and burn them."
"Not a bad recipe for life when you come to think of it."
Sarah gave him a sharp, interested look. How bright her eyes were! Unflecked, 
shining, brilliant blue. Gray was still surreptitiously studying her severe, 
elegant profile when they arrived at Bay Tree Cottage.
Sarah dragged the unhinged gate to one side.
"Could I come in for a minute?"
"What for?"
"Oh." Though he had spoken on impulse and half anticipated a refusal, Gray 
found himself already standing on the path. "Just a talk."
"No."
"I'd like to get to know you."
"Why?"
"Because . . ." Gray felt rather at a loss. Most women would not ask that 
question. They would know why. And yet he could see she was being neither faux 
naif nor coy.
"Don't you ever fill conversations out, Sarah?" He stepped back on to the 
verge. Lifted the gate into its previous position. "Qualify, elaborate, make 
excuses, crack jokes? Hand out recipes?"
"Not really. What's the point?"
"I hate unanswerable questions."
"And I feel they're the only sort worth asking." She smiled then but to 
herself, shutting him out. "So you see we shall never get on."
"I could change. I'm a flexible man."
"Goodbye, Gray."
He loved the way she spoke his name. A slight slurring of the R. Not an 
impediment, and certainly not a lisp; more a rough gliding over. It was 
irresistible.
He called out, "Would you like me to mend this?"
"Certainly not. Took years to get it to that state. Anyway," she turned on the 
step and stared amusedly back at him, "if I want it mending I can mend it 
myself."
All that had taken place nearly three months ago. He had not given up. He had 
run into her "by accident on purpose" a few times and fallen into yet more 
amiable conversation. Once, out walking his dog, he had let the leash slip and 
had to rescue the animal from Sarah's vegetable patch. Unfortunately he chose a 
Wednesday for this ingenuous ploy, which turned out to be her working day. He 
had appeared a couple of times with some flowers or fruit from his own garden. 
The offerings had been graciously accepted, with thanks, and the door shut 
firmly in his face.
He asked one or two people discreet questions about her then, afraid she might 
get to hear about this, stopped. In any case he discovered very little. Her 
parents had only bought the house when they retired. It wasn't as if she had 
grown up in the village. In fact, people seemed to know hardly any more about 
her than he did himself.
If she had appeared actively to resent his attentions then naturally he would 
have ceased to make them. But in a dry, detached manner she seemed prepared to 
put up with it all. Gray's guess was that she regarded him as some sort of mild 
divertissement.
But then, six weeks ago, everything had changed. He had brought along a small 
tray of seedlings, hellebores which she appeared not to have. She took the 
tray, smiled and asked him in. He stayed about half an hour. Her manner, Gray 
had to admit, was rather perfunctory. Still, he was over the threshold. That 
was the main thing.
On that occasion and on most of the ones that followed they spoke mainly of 
mundane matters. Gray, who had a mercurial temperament at the best of times, 
quickly became downcast. He told himself these were early days but couldn't 
help feeling that he was merely marking time. He tried to get her to talk about 
herself or her work but without success. Once, greatly daring, he asked if she 
had been married. A flinty reticence descended. Eventually she admitted to 
having lived with someone once for a year or two but preferred being on her own.
She would never go anywhere with him. In spite of his dire financial state, 
Gray had asked her out for dinner. And, when this offer was refused, to a movie 
or the theatre with much the same result. Once or twice they had been for a 
drink at the Goat and Whistle but mainly they just sat talking in the garden.
This present Saturday morning they were discussing--who wasn't?--the 
Hollingsworths. Gray was sitting on a rather battered sofa sipping a small cup 
of bitter Javanese coffee. Sarah was looking at her watch.
"My theory," said Gray, "for what it's worth, is that she has hied her to a 
nunnery."
"Simone?"
"Having finally realised how meretricious are the sybaritic luxuries of this 
sinful world."
"That'll be the day."
"Have you been in their sitting room?"
"Yes."
"The perfect setting for a poule du luxe, wouldn't you say?"
"What makes you think I'd know?" Sarah shook her watch and held it to her ear.
"I can just see Mrs. H, gold-sandalled feet on a fluffy pink footstool, Malibu 
plus ice and a little parasol on her onyx side table eating chocolate truffles, 
varnishing her toenails and reading Jackie Collins."
"She wasn't that dextrous on my course."
"A sugared almond on legs."
"What were you doing at Nightingales anyway?" Sarah came over, collected his 
cup and saucer, stacked it on top of her own and took them to the kitchen. 
"Delivering the ass's milk?"
"We were friends, him and me. Well, sort of."
"I knew you were business partners." Standing in the doorway she gave him a 
strange look. Interested, curious but without a trace of sympathy. "It was on 
the--"
"Front page of the Causton Echo."
"That's right."
"I trusted him." Gray shrugged. "The more fool me. When money comes through the 
door, friendship, it seems, buggers off through the window."
"Did you really beat him up?"
"Yes."
"And you lost everything?"
"Not quite. I haven't lost my negative equity--around fifty at the last 
reckoning. Or my debts. Or my dog--she's still hanging round. So let's look on 
the bright side."
"You're taking it better than I would."
"I'm suing the bastard for all he's got. That's how I'm taking it."
Sarah put on some music, "Di,' cor mio" from Alcina, and started to peel a damp 
muslin cloth away from a mass of clay on a marble slab. A narrow elongated male 
head with a long nose and a thin-lipped, down-turned mouth emerged. It was 
eyeless and appeared mutilated to Gray even though he knew the piece was in the 
process not of being destroyed but created.
Gray picked up his jacket and prepared to leave as he always did when he sensed 
his time was up. He was determined not to push his luck. As it was, he had a 
very strong feeling that the minute he was off the premises she forgot his very 
existence.
He turned at the door. Bending closely over the table, Sarah pressed her thumb 
hard into the clay, moved it slightly, took her hands away.
Suddenly, although it was merely an empty socket, intelligence sprang into 
being, informing the face. Giving it life. And Gray wondered how, with one 
simple movement, such a thing could be.
As this conversation took place, something else was happening which, though not 
directly connected with the Hollingsworth mystery, nevertheless prompted a 
response that drew the attention of a slightly wider world to Simone's 
disappearance.
Ostlers, the village store (Prop: Nigel Boast) was situated in the main street 
of Fawcett Green. This ran, like the bar on a capital T, across the top end of 
St. Chad's Lane. A note on the door informed children that their presence was 
welcome one at a time.
This stern directive had cut down petty pilfering considerably but there was 
still a certain amount of leakage. Mr. Boast, who watched his young customers 
as would a hawk a fledgling dove, could not understand this. It never occurred 
to him or Doreen, his "good lady wife," that the culprits might be grown up.
The shop was very Tudory. The price tickets were written in Olde English, as 
was the notice behind the till: Pray Do Not Ask For Credit As Ye Refusal Oft 
Offends. Originally all the s's had been f's which was, as Mr. Boast tirelessly 
explained, authentically correct. But no one was impressed by this conceit. 
Customers kept winking and asking for "a pound of foffages" and "fome tomato 
foup" so, after a while, Nigel and Doreen reluctantly reverted to more 
contemporary Elizabethan.
Cubby Dawlish, who was encouraged by Mrs. Molfrey to sell surplus produce from 
her garden to eke out his pension, came in around half past ten with several 
pounds of broad beans. Handing over the laden wooden tray, Cubby forbore to 
haggle over the going rate, even though he was aware the eventual mark-up would 
probably be three times as much.
While the beans were being weighed, Cubby looked about him at the whitewashed 
walls and wooden beams. The latter, though artificial, were nothing like as 
false as the beam in Mr. Boast's eye as he offered ten pence a pound, there 
being a glut at the moment. There was always a glut. Or an unexpected surplus. 
Cubby sometimes thought if he came in during the depths of winter with freshly 
picked raspberries some miraculously cheap source of such a delicacy would only 
that second have franchised itself to Ostlers.
While putting the coins in his pocket and commenting pleasantly on the sweet 
and balmy weather, he was asked, in his capacity as a very near neighbour, if 
he knew how Mrs. Hollingsworth's mother was prospering after her stroke.
Cubby begged the shopkeeper's pardon and, when the question had been repeated, 
asked if it was in fact the case that Mrs. Hollingsworth's "sick relative" was, 
in fact, her mother.
"Verily," replied Mr. Boast who often slipped into high Tudor, especially after 
a session with the Civil War Society. "Alan told the vicar in person."
After declining to spend his earnings on some reduced Jamaica ginger cake, 
Cubby made his way back to Arcadia where his first task was to make a cup of 
banana-flavoured mineral-enriched Vita Life for Elfrida's elevenses. Whilst 
getting out the remains of the lemon drizzle, he passed on this snippet of 
information. She stared at him for a long moment in complete surprise.
"This is most disturbing, Cubby."
"Why is that, my love?"
"Simone doesn't have a mother."
"Doesn't . . ." He stood, a scoop of the vitamin supplement tilted near the 
opalescent beaker.
"You're spilling some."
"Sorry." He sprinkled in the rest of the powder. "How do you know?"
"It's all over the draining board."
"I mean," Cubby blew the spillage into the sink, "about Mrs. Hollingsworth 
senior."
"Simone told me herself. I was in the greenhouse a few weeks ago dividing some 
narcissi and she came wandering by. You know what she was like, poor girl. 
Always looking for something to do." Mrs. Molfrey spoke in the uncomprehending 
tones of someone who had so far been vouchsafed eighty-three years and had not 
found them nearly long enough to pack in all that she wanted to do.
"More to make conversation, I suspect, than out of real interest, she asked 
what I was about. When I explained, she said narcissi had always been her 
mother's favourite. And that she--Simone, that is--had ordered a wreath, a harp 
I think it was, made entirely of Pheasant's Eye, on the occasion of her 
mother's funeral."
"How extraordinary."
"Oh, I don't know. I should have thought a harp entirely suitable under the 
circumstances."
"I meant--"
But Elfrida was retreating to her favourite armchair. Cubby followed, carrying 
her drink and his own, a mid-morning pick-me-up of elderflower cordial, freshly 
squeezed lemon and English clover honey.
"So," said Elfrida as she rested her thin, trembly shanks against the 
embroidered unicorns and dragons and roses with golden thorns, "Alan 
Hollingsworth has been deliberately lying. Hmm."
Cubby put the beaker carefully into Elfrida's hand, gently pressing her fingers 
round the glass, then sat down himself in a large, Chinese basket chair. He 
knew what was coming and the pointlessness of attempting any diversion.
"This would explain why she went the long way round on the bus and took no 
luggage. After all, even for the briefest of visits, one hurls some cologne and 
a few unmentionables into a Gladstone. There was no journey, as such, at all. 
She was simply going into Causton, either to shop or meet someone. So where is 
she now?" Elfrida paused for breath and a swig of her drink. "It's all very 
slippery-snakery."
"But not necessarily sinister, dear." Cubby hesitated, unsure how to continue. 
The truth of the matter was that this sort of situation was not unfamiliar. 
Ever since he had persuaded Elfrida to buy a television set almost five years 
ago she had been passionately addicted to all programmes, whether fictional or 
no, which had even the most slender connection with crime. Her dearest wish was 
to assist the police with their inquiries and if she had so far failed to do so 
it was certainly not for want of trying. Cubby had had great difficulty, after 
Elfrida's last foray, in saving her from an assault charge.
It had all come about after she had seen an Identikit portrait on Crimewatch 
and became convinced that the miscreant, who had held up a building society 
with a sawn-off shotgun, was none other than Fawcett Green's relief Christmas 
postman. She had been dissuaded with great difficulty from contacting the 
authorities and had agreed only on the condition that Cubby be present at the 
cottage from that day onwards at delivery time.
Once, he had been a few minutes late. Elfrida, quaking with panic, had armed 
herself with a broom handle. When the postman attempted to insert tidings of 
comfort and joy into the letter box, she had thrust the handle violently back. 
Emerging from his caravan, Cubby had discovered the poor man staggering blindly 
round the garden, bent double in agony.
"The quinces are ripening up well," Cubby said now, very firmly. "Would you 
like me to make some lemon and japonica jelly?"
The attempt was futile as he knew it must be. Being firm with Elfrida was like 
speaking to someone in a completely alien language. She could hear that your 
voice had got rather louder than usual (providing her box was switched on) and 
that you were standing four square in a very sturdy sort of way. She just 
didn't understand your problem.
"All this talk of jelly is by the by," said Elfrida. "The point at issue surely 
is what we are going to do about Simone."
"I don't see why we have to get involved at all."
"Bosh! Show some gumption, Dawlish."
"What do you think we ought to do then?" asked Cubby, anticipating and dreading 
the reply.
"It's plain as a pikestaff."
"I was afraid it would be," he sighed and put his cup down. "Righto. I'll bike 
over to Ferne Bassett and--"
"Forget Ferne Bassett!" cried Elfrida. "Ferne Bassett is small potatoes. We're 
almost certainly describing a serious crime here. Mark my words, that man has 
done away with his wife. And with calumny of such magnitude there's little 
point in pussyfooting around with the infantry. It's not the local boys in blue 
we're after. It's the top brass."
"But Elfie--"
"On the blower hotsy totsy, Dawlish, and order a Hackney carriage."
At the sound of the taxi drawing up, Brenda Brockley's heart pounded. Ignoring 
her parents' disapproving glances she rushed to see what was happening and 
immediately afterwards rushed straight upstairs, thus avoiding any discussion 
or lecture on her odd behaviour.
She locked her door and went over to her pretty little writing desk which was 
placed in the large bay window. The chair on which she sat was pretty too. It 
had a tall, narrow back: two upright slats and a crossbar made of varnished 
papier-mache inlaid with mother-of-pearl. An amber silk cushion patterned with 
silver fleur-de-lis was tied to the seat with narrow velvet ribbons. Facing 
her, on the sill, was a vase of deep red carnations.
These two pieces of furniture were deliberately different from anything else in 
the room. It was not that Brenda thought the other things boring or 
tasteless--though they were--but that she recognised their absolute 
unsuitability to play even the most humble part in a scene in which her grand 
illusion would be allowed to hold full sway.
She took a tiny gold key from a box covered with shells, unlocked the desk and 
rolled back the lid. From the interior she removed a large, shagreen-covered 
book labelled with the word Diary and filled with unlined pages of creamy 
yellow paper. Just inside the front cover was Sellotaped a photograph of Alan 
Hollingsworth which she had obtained in the spring of the previous year.
One Sunday afternoon when Reg and Iris were out buying a large supply of 
Paraquat from their nearest garden centre, Brenda, fortified by a schooner of 
sweet sherry, had approached the Hollingsworths over the larch lap divide. 
Explaining that she had just one shot left and Shona seemed to have quite lost 
interest, Brenda asked if she could take their picture. Somewhat surprised, 
they agreed.
Brenda adjusted the viewfinder with great care and got exactly the snap she 
wanted. A clear head and shoulders of Alan and no sign of Simone.
Brenda would have liked to have framed the photo. It deserved a beautiful 
silver one like those she had seen in antique shops; all flowing acanthus 
leaves and arabesques of lilies. But she was afraid that one day she would 
forget to lock it away in her desk. And that such a time might coincide with 
one or the other of her parents popping their heads in while she was having a 
meal or in the bath, to sneak a quick look round.
She wrote in her diary only at the weekends when there were enough hours to do 
it justice. Sometimes, and this was more exciting by far, she actually spoke to 
Alan. The smaller window in her room overlooked the forecourt of Nightingales 
and, when he was due to arrive home, she would open it with trembling fingers, 
lean out and call, "Good evening."
Brenda had pondered to an agonising degree as to how frequent these greetings 
should be and had finally decided on a ratio of one to ten. More frequently and 
she feared he would guess that her appearance was not accidental. Less and the 
fear was that she would be unable to bear the waiting.
The occasions of her calling out were carefully marked by an asterisk in her 
shagreen book with a special pen, the sort used at Christmas for labelling 
parcels. Filled with powerfully smelling runny liquid, it dried shining silver 
like a snail's track.
Once a month she and Alan actually conversed. These stomach-churning encounters 
were marked with a golden pen of the same type with the asterisk surmounted by 
a red felt-tipped drawing of a heart.
The conversations could only be brought about by a certain amount of artificial 
loitering which involved hanging around the front garden sniffing the roses and 
pretending to weed or playing outside in the lane with her dog. As Alan closed 
the garage door, Brenda, nauseous, her skin prickling with nerves, would toss a 
casual "Hullo" in his direction.
He replied of course but the ensuing conversations were necessarily brief. How 
many responses were there after all to a suggestion that today had been 
uncertain/awful/wonderful/changeable? Or that the news didn't seem to get any 
better. She would follow through with, "And how are things at Nightingales?"
Alan would then assure her that things were fine. Although he only rarely asked 
how matters at The Larches were faring, Brenda was never unprepared.
Recognising that her replies must not only be short and lighthearted but, 
hopefully, amusing, she would practise them right up to the last minute, a 
throwaway almost negligent style being her aim.
There was no one to whom she could sing her love. At work, where her shyness 
was mistaken for slyness, she had no friends. And the thought of telling her 
parents was utterly appalling. Even thinking of it chilled her bones. They had 
always seemed to Brenda antiseptically unaware that such a thing as romance 
existed. She had never heard a sound smacking even remotely of eroticism from 
their bedroom. The only rhythmical vibration occurred when the alarm clock went 
off. Sometimes, regarding the straining hospital corners on the chaste, single 
beds, Brenda wondered if she was a changeling found under a gooseberry bush.
Like everyone else in the village, but to an intensely more passionate degree, 
Brenda's thoughts were engaged in the matter and manner of Simone's 
disappearance. Plainly she had been forcibly abducted. Or lured away, perhaps 
by a false message purporting to come from her husband. Obviously no woman 
lucky enough to be married to Alan Hollingsworth would leave home voluntarily.
It might be thought that Alan's newly unyoked state would fill Brenda with wild 
hope and delight but such was not the case. It was the stable impenetrability 
of the Hollingsworths' lives that held Brenda's dreams together. Now that 
background had been torn apart the whole tapestry seemed about to unravel. She 
dreaded what the future might hold. Overwhelmingly paramount was the fear that, 
if Simone did not return, Alan might decide that Nightingales held so many 
unhappy memories he could no longer bear to go on living there.
For the first time she found herself regretting her parents' reclusive 
existence, her mother's finicky revulsion against any sort of close 
relationship. If only she had been the sort to run around with a dish of 
something sustaining. And what then would be more natural than that her 
daughter should call to collect the empties.
Brenda had even, shaking in her shoes at the thought of such audacity, imagined 
going round alone. Alan hadn't been out for two days now and must surely be in 
dire need of assistance. In her imagination she placed a wicker basket on his 
table and lifted a snowy cloth to reveal French bread and rosy apples, a honey 
pot shaped like a beehive, crisp frilly lettuce and a wedge of cheese wrapped 
in waxed paper. Finally, a long-necked dark green bottle of wine.
Alan would be sitting, sad and solitary, staring at the wall. She would need to 
speak two or three times before he became aware of her presence. It might even 
prove necessary to touch his arm.
Brenda sighed and returned to a worrying present. She unscrewed the cap from 
her fountain pen, mottled tortoise-shell with a gold nib. It had been bought 
especially and at great cost for inscribing her private thoughts and was never 
used for anything else.
She pondered her first line carefully, for the text was sacrosanct. Nothing was 
ever altered or crossed out. She would have regarded such mutilations as 
ill-omened.
A movement in next door's garden caught her eye. Alan! First sighting since he 
had been so cruelly abandoned. He had his back to the house and was carrying a 
spade. As Brenda gazed hungrily down, he pushed it into a large, wet patch of 
earth near the patio.
Brenda had sat, just so, looking down and longing, on hundreds of occasions. 
She believed herself to have exceptional sensitivity as far as Alan was 
concerned and was sure that, should he happen to look up, she could lower her 
eyes and turn away in time. Certainly she always had till now.
But then something happened which gave the lie to such confidence. He thrust 
the spade down hard by a clump of day lilies, withdrew it then turned away, 
apparently in some disgust. As he did so he raised his head and stared straight 
at Brenda's window. Caught out, all she could do was stare straight back.
Their eyes met as they had done so often in her dreams. But in real life it was 
all very different. His glance was dark and unfriendly, almost a glare, and 
struck her like an arrow. He made a forceful movement with his free hand and, 
for one terrible moment, Brenda thought he was threatening her with his fist. 
Then he flung the spade down with a great clatter on the patio slabs and strode 
back into the house.
Brenda was devastated. What must he think? What must any person think going 
about their business, with every reason to presume themselves unobserved, only 
to discover they were being spied on? No wonder he was angry. Brenda felt 
shattered, as if they had had a lover's quarrel.
She closed her book, replaced the cap on her chunky pen and blew her nose 
loudly. It would do no good to cry. Nor was their any point in abandoning 
herself to morbid self-scrutiny. Quarrels were made to be mended. And it would 
be up to her to find a way to do it.
"I had to get all worked up to come." Mrs. Molfrey tossed back her 
shoulder-length blonde ringlets with such vigour that her hat nearly fell off. 
"I hope I have not been misinformed as to your rank and station."
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby tried to hold in place the mask of courteous 
inquiry invariably assumed when presented with an unsolicited visit from a 
member of the public but it was hard, very hard indeed, not to stare.
An excessively raddled old lady sat facing him. She appeared lost inside a 
voluminous girlish dress with puffed sleeves. It was made from what appeared to 
be furnishing fabric: glazed chintz, patterned with blowsy cabbage roses. She 
also wore white lace gloves and rather muddy, elastic-sided shoes with holes 
punched into the ivory leather. Her face was so thickly layered with pink and 
white cosmetics that when severely frowning or expressing emotion with any 
degree of vivacity motes of it became detached and drifted in the air like 
perfumed dandruff. Her eyelids were the harsh and dazzling blue once called 
Electric. If Mary Pickford were still alive, thought Barnaby, this must be 
pretty much what she would look like.
"They tried to palm me off in your front office with a constable. In his shirt 
sleeves." Mrs. Molfrey lowered eyelashes so black and stiffly curled they could 
have been coated with pitch. "But I insisted on speaking to someone of the 
highest authority."
Sergeant Troy had passed through reception during Mrs. Molfrey's argumentative 
discourse. Sussing the situation, he had popped her in the lift, whisked her up 
to the third floor and left her on Barnaby's Welcome mat. Whether his bag 
carrier had been motivated by sportish malice or the suspicion that an 
entertaining diversion was required, the Chief Inspector had yet to discover.
"So what seems to be the problem, Mrs. Molfrey?" asked Barnaby aware, as soon 
as the words were out, that he had assumed an avuncular, almost condescending 
manner. Attempting equilibrium he added, more formally, "How can I help you?"
"It is I who can help you," replied Mrs. Molfrey, tugging off her left glove. 
"My neighbour has disappeared. I thought you would want to know."
"His name?"
"Her name. He's still on the spot. And thereby, if you ask me, hangs a very 
long tale."
Barnaby, who had anticipated that what Mrs. Molfrey had to say would be as 
dotty and uncoordinated as her appearance was pleased to be proved wrong. Even 
if elaborately presented and quirkily phrased, her meaning seemed crystal clear.
"It's Simone Hollingsworth," began Mrs. Molfrey. She paused for a few moments, 
frowning severely at an anti-theft poster and dislodging a few more flakes of 
pastel pargeting. "Aren't you going to write it down?"
"Not at the moment, Mrs. Molfrey. Please continue."
"She vanished last Thursday. Into thin air, as the saying is, though I've never 
understood why. Surely if a person is to be concealed the air would have to be 
extremely thick. Rather like the old pea-soupers."
"If you could--"
"Don't chip in, there's a good fellow. When I've finished I'll give some sort 
of signal. Wave my handkerchief. Or shout."
Barnaby closed his eyes.
"I became suspicious the very first evening. I remember it precisely and I'll 
tell you why. The sunset, from which I usually derive considerable refreshment, 
was a great disappointment. A dreadful common colour, like tinned salmon. Cubby 
was feeding my onions--renowned, I might add, for their splendour--and I was 
rootling around with my little hoe anticipating a word or two with Simone. She 
would usually come out around that time to call her cat and we would exchange 
pleasantries, the latest bit of village gossip from her side of the fence 
whereas I would discuss the progress of my plants, curse all winged and 
crawling predators and inveigh against the weather, the way keen gardeners do."
Barnaby nodded. He, too, was a keen gardener and had been known to inveigh 
against the weather in his time in a manner so robust it caused his wife to 
slam the French windows with such vigour the panes rattled.
"But who should emerge instead but Alan--that is Mr. Hollingsworth--calling 
'Nelson, Nelson' as if he had ever cared tuppence for the poor creature and 
rattling a box of crunchy stuff." Mrs. Molfrey leaned forwards. "And that's not 
all."
These last few words had a throbbing undertow bordering on the melodramatic. 
Barnaby recognised the note; he had heard it many times. It nearly always 
indicated a possibly genuine concern for the welfare of a fellow human plus an 
inability to believe that that welfare was not at risk, usually for the most 
lurid and sinister of reasons.
"I had already discovered three more disturbing pieces to this mysterious 
jigsaw. On the afternoon of the day Mrs. Hollingsworth vanished, Sarah Lawson, 
our artist in residence so to speak, had been invited to tea. Half an hour 
later Maison Becky also turned up on her flying bicycle plus all the coiffure 
folderols for a pre-arranged hair appointment. But Simone had taken the 
twelve-thirty omnibus to Causton without letting either of them know!"
Mrs. Molfrey, who had ticked off these peaks of high drama on gnarled fingers 
tipped with brilliant vermilion nails, now concluded, "Nothing could be more 
out of character."
The process wherein a slightly unusual or vaguely inexplicable occurrence was 
fancifully expanded into an event of Grand Guignol-like style and content was 
also very familiar. Barnaby controlled his impatience.
"But if you find all that baffling," Mrs. Molfrey paused and looked at the 
Chief Inspector in such keen and collusive anticipation that he did not have 
the heart to disappoint her. An expression of mild curiosity briefly possessed 
his craggy features. "Wait till you hear le mot juste." She leaned forward, 
severely mangling, in her excitement, a large raffia bag on her knees. 
"Questioned by the vicar, who was naturally concerned at finding himself one 
campanologist short for the funeral, Alan Hollingsworth said his wife had gone 
to visit her mother. Hah!"
Uncertain whether this was a forceful expression of disbelief or the shout that 
signalled he was now free to chip in, Barnaby cleared his throat and, when no 
reprimand was forthcoming, said, "Was this something out of the ordinary then, 
Mrs. Molfrey?"
"You could say that. She's been dead for seven years."
"Then it was plainly an excuse made up on the spur of the moment," said the 
Chief Inspector. "People don't always tell the truth about their personal 
affairs. Why should they?"
"I do," said Mrs. Molfrey with the simplicity of a child.
There was no answer to this and Barnaby wisely did not attempt one.
"Don't you think," continued Mrs. Molfrey, "it all sounds rather," she searched 
her mind for an adjective which would adequately sum up the dark and terrible 
complexities of the matter in hand, "Sicilian?"
Barnaby thought it sounded about as Sicilian as a stick of Blackpool rock. 
"Would you expect to hear from Mrs. Hollingsworth if she's away for any length 
of time?"
"Probably not. She was an acquaintance rather than a friend. But that does not 
mean one is not concerned."
"Indeed. And have you discussed this with anyone else?"
"Only Cubby--my innamorato." The Chief Inspector kept his face straight by a 
supreme effort of will. "He feels it's really none of our business but then 
he's getting on a bit for any sort of arsy-varsy. Fruit-bottling, making 
faggots and applique embroidery--that's all he's good for. Typical male. That's 
a nasty cough you've got there, Inspector."
"No, no." Barnaby wiped his eyes. "I'm fine."
He got up then and Mrs. Molfrey got up too, pushing on the tubular steel arms 
of her chair for leverage and looking crisply about her.
"Thank you for coming, Mrs.--"
"Don't I get a form to fill in?"
"Just leave the Hollingsworths' address with the desk sergeant."
"They do on The Bill."
"I can assure you, Mrs. Molfrey, the matter will be looked into." He'd get a 
call put through to the village beat officer. Get him to ask around discreetly. 
She sounded reasonably compos mentis but might well have got completely the 
wrong end of the stick. The last thing the station needed was complaints of 
wrongful accusation.
Barnaby came round from behind his desk to open the door. As he did so, Mrs. 
Molfrey held out her hand. The Chief Inspector enclosed the tiny, withered claw 
utterly in the spread of his palm. She was very small, the wavy brim of her 
picture hat level with the tip of his tie. Her raspberry smeared lips parted in 
a smile of great sweetness as she looked up at him through those preposterous 
eyelashes and said, "I'm sure we shall work very well together."
After she had left, he sat shaking his head for a moment in amused disbelief 
then took the stop off his calls. Immediately the phone rang and the workaday 
world engulfed him.
Chapter Two
Police Constable Perrot's beat, which he had now had for seven years, comprised 
three villages. Ferne Bassett, Martyr Longstaff and Fawcett Green. Of the 
three, he much preferred the last.
Ferne Bassett was overburdened with weekend cottages, holiday homes and London 
commuters. Most of the time it was as quiet as the grave. The quietude may have 
been skin-deep but, as long as what was festering underneath did not erupt and 
start acting illegally, Perrot regarded it as no concern of his. In Martyr 
Longstaff a long-running feud existed between a scrap metal merchant operating, 
contrary to all council regulations, a business from his home and a neighbour 
furiously determined to put a spanner in the works. Confrontations were loud, 
violent, monotonously regular and often took place in the middle of the night.
But Fawcett Green--ah, Fawcett Green! Constable Perrot sighed with pleasure as 
he gazed about him. Dozing in the sunshine the place looked remarkably 
unspoilt. A great deal of the surrounding land belonged to a stately home which 
had been bought by a Far Eastern conglomerate. They had planted rather a lot of 
beautiful and unusual trees, created a large lake and left the rest alone. And, 
with a couple of exceptions, local farmers had remained sturdily resistant to 
the brandished cheque books of Bovis and Wimpey. Over the last fifteen years 
the place had hardly changed at all.
PC Perrot had lifted his Honda on to its stand at the very edge of the village 
though his destination was a good ten minutes' walk away. Residents, quite 
rightly, expected to see "their" bobby strolling about, stopping for a word, 
hearing complaints and generally making himself available. Consequently it took 
him nearly half an hour to reach Nightingales.
His brief was simple but open-ended. He could take the interview with Alan 
Hollingsworth as far or as deep as the occasion seemed to demand. The 
constable's own feelings were that some nosy neighbour with too much time on 
their hands had got a bit carried away. He had not been informed who the 
concerned party was and did not wish to know unless it became absolutely 
necessary.
PC Perrot had deliberately chosen mid-morning on Sunday for his visit. It was 
nearly eleven. Time for the man to have finished breakfast but too early 
presumably to have gone out to lunch.
The constable's approach to the front gates had been noted. Old Mrs. Molfrey, 
cutting branches of orange blossom in her front garden, smiled and waved her 
secateurs. In the adjacent house a white poodle with its front paws up on the 
sill barked at him through the glass and was promptly yanked from view.
The approach to the front step and garage could do with a weed. Thistles were 
starting to show in a border of leggy pansies and tangled aubretia. The tobacco 
plants on the front doorstep looked a touch on the dry side.
Finding no bell, Constable Perrot tapped smartly with the brass mermaid's tail. 
Noticing the curtains were still drawn, he waited a few minutes in case 
Hollingsworth was still asleep then rapped again.
In the lane a woman went by dragging a bawling infant. She pointed out the 
constable, assuring the toddler that if he didn't shut his bleeding gob the big 
policeman would cart him off, lock him up and chuck the key down the lavvy. PC 
Perrot sighed. What was the point of all his primary school visits when there 
were parents like that to contend with? No wonder some kids ran a mile when 
they saw him coming.
Hot, even in his blue cotton summer issue, Perrot rolled up his shirt sleeves 
and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he crouched down to bring 
himself to the level of the letter box, lifted the flap and peered in.
He could see the stairs and the hall floor on which were lying some letters and 
a freebie newspaper. At the far end of the hall was a closed door which Perrot 
assumed belonged to the kitchen. A second door stood ajar. By screwing his head 
sideways and pressing his cheek hard against the cold metal, the policeman 
could see a section of carpeted floor, part of a table, the arm of a chair and 
a pair of fully occupied leather slippers.
Putting his mouth close to the slit he called, "Mr. Hollingsworth?" Then, 
feeling more than a little foolish, "I can actually, um, see you, sir. If you 
could come to the door, please? Constable Perrot, Thames Valley Police." PC 
Perrot straightened up and waited. A high-pitched whine nearby made him turn 
round. Next to the gate was a lad who looked to be about eight. He was leaning 
on a chopper bike and holding a dog on a piece of string. The policeman smiled 
and raised his hand. The dog yawned again, the boy stared back, unblinking.
PC Perrot once more agitated the mermaid then, feeling even more 
self-conscious, wondered if he should take upon himself the responsibility of a 
forced entry. Nervously he recapped on the circumstances in which such a 
procedure could be justifiably carried out. Immediate pursuit of criminal. To 
prevent a breach of the peace or a person being harmed. Someone inside 
unconscious or in need of medical assistance. It seemed to him that the last 
might very well apply.
He made one final attempt at addressing the feet, which he presumed belonged to 
the owner of the property. This time, sharply aware of being awarded marks out 
of ten for entertainment value, he remained upright and spoke very loudly at 
the opaque glass panel.
"I am about to forcibly enter sir, by breaking the door down. If you are able 
to--"
There was a thud inside the house then a dark shape loomed behind the glass. 
The safety chain was struggled with in a frantic manner accompanied by swearing 
and cursing. Two bolts; a mortise. The door was flung open. Someone on the 
threshold shouted, "For Christ's sake!" into the startled policeman's face then 
he was dragged forward and the front door slammed.
Inside, the air was chokingly oppressive; sour and heavy. Perrot felt 
immediately stifled and slightly nauseous. He tucked his helmet more firmly 
under his arm and tried not to breathe too deeply. The man was shouting at him 
again.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Mr. Hollingsworth?"
The man said "Christ" again then turned and stumbled away. For a moment 
Constable Perrot thought he was going to crash into the sitting-room 
architrave. He lurched a few steps towards an armchair. From its position 
Perrot supposed it to be the one in which Hollingsworth had been sitting when 
his slippers were visible through the letter box. The cushion was widely and 
deeply indented as if a large animal had been curled up there for some 
considerable time. Hollingsworth reached the chair, turned round vaguely once 
or twice as if unsure which was the right way to face and fell into it.
PC Perrot hesitated, looking around him. Very little light came through the 
drawn velvet curtains but a lamp, shaped like a golden pineapple, with an 
unlined cream linen shade, had been switched on. An unpleasant odour came from 
a vase of half dead roses, their leaves crisp and brown. It mingled with the 
smell of alcohol, cigarettes, garlic and something the policeman recognised but 
could not have named but which was monosodium glutamate. Dirty cutlery and 
several used foil containers were spread all over a handsome inlaid table on 
which there was no cloth. Some of the containers still had bones and bits of 
food in. There were a lot of flies about.
Realising he would probably wait a long time to be invited, PC Perrot pulled 
one of the narrow backed dining chairs out and sat down, a healthy distance 
from the table. He placed his helmet on the floor and adjusted his radio which 
was digging into his slightly plump middle. Then, indicating with a polite nod 
the foil dishes, said, "Catering for yourself, I see, sir."
Alan Hollingsworth did not reply. He was glancing at the clock, a giant 
sunburst of crystal rays and gilded face and figures. He looked dreadful. Hair 
matted, hanging in greasy hanks around his face. He hadn't shaved for days and 
from the look--and smell--of him hadn't washed either. Dark full moons of sweat 
saturated the underarms of his shirt. The rims of his eyelids and the corners 
of his mouth were encrusted with whitish yellow flakes.
Perrot, deciding he would give six months of his pension to have the windows 
open, made so bold as to suggest it. At this Hollingsworth started shouting 
again, the gist this time being that Perrot should say what he'd come to say 
and get out.
"Very well, sir," said Constable Perrot, waving away an especially bloated 
bluebottle. "We've had one or two concerned . . . um . . ." About to say 
"rumours," he decided the word sounded a bit gossipy. "Inquiries regarding the 
whereabouts of your wife. As I'm sure you appreciate, this visit in no way 
implies any accusation or suspicions on our part as to the lady's wellbeing. 
But it is normal police procedure . . ."
At this point Hollingsworth buried his head in his hands. His shoulders started 
to twitch, then jerk about violently. Strange, hysterical sounds came from his 
throat. Coarse sobs. Or they could have been guffaws. Then he threw his head 
back so savagely one would have thought his neck might snap. Perrot saw the 
face, crisscrossed with tears, but was still not sure whether the man had been 
laughing or crying.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Hollingsworth? A cup of tea perhaps?"
"No." The filthy, double cuffs of his shirt hung down loosely, covering the 
backs of his hands. He wiped his face and then his nose with one of them.
"You're plainly not very well, sir."
"I'm pissed, you stupid idiot."
Perversely, this insult, far from annoying Constable Perrot, produced in him a 
quiet confidence. To his mind the resident of this splendid property, by 
behaving no better than some rowdy council house layabout, had rejigged both 
the social and psychological balance of the encounter to his own benefit. The 
policeman unbuttoned the flap on the chest pocket of his shirt and produced a 
notebook and Biro.
Hollingsworth picked up the nearest bottle, which was uncapped, poured a stream 
of liquid into a smeary tumbler and sloshed it down. The smell of his sweat 
became more pronounced and the degree of acridity increased. It occurred to 
Constable Perrot for the first time that Hollingsworth was not only despairing 
but possibly afraid.
"Am I correct in understanding that Mrs. Hollingsworth is visiting her mother?" 
No reply. Constable Perrot repeated the question with much the same result. He 
waited a few moments than said, "If you refuse to help me here, sir, I'm afraid 
I must ask you to present yourself--"
"I'm not going out!" Hollingsworth jumped up. He braced himself against the 
chair as if in readiness against a forcible removal. "I can't leave the house!"
"Please, calm yourself, Mr. Hollingsworth. This really is just routine 
procedure. Nothing to get upset about." Even Perrot, unimaginative almost to 
the point of stolidity, knew that this was unlikely. The procedure may well be 
routine but the situation, he felt certain, would prove to be most irregular. 
He flipped open his notebook, clicked his pen and smiled encouragingly. "Am I 
right in thinking that your wife is visiting her mother?"
"Yes."
"Could I have the address, please?"
"What for?"
"Just to satisfy ourselves as to her whereabouts, Mr. Hollingsworth."
"There's no need, I assure you."
Constable Perrot waited, pen poised, patience on a monument. When it became 
plain that the proceedings would not continue until he gave a satisfactory 
reply, Hollingsworth suddenly leaned closer towards the policeman who had to 
force himself not to lean back.
"Look, is this all confidential?"
"Certainly, sir. Even if I decide to file a report," he hoped Hollingsworth did 
not realise this was inevitable, "it would remain purely a police matter. 
Unless of course further circumstances dictated a different policy."
"My wife doesn't have a mother. Actually, the vicar came round asking 
questions. He was quite persistent--you know what do-gooders are."
PC Perrot, who inevitably had had rather more experience with the way 
do-badders were, nodded agreeably.
"I said the first thing that came into my head to get rid of him. But the truth 
is," his voice cracked at this point and Perrot got the impression that he was 
struggling not to weep, "she's left me."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Hollingsworth." And he genuinely was. Colin 
Perrot, extremely contented with his own marital bargain--amiable, pretty wife, 
smashing teenage daughter and a pair of lively sons--briefly felt, by proxy, a 
touch of the anguish consuming the pathetic figure facing him. No wonder he was 
cursing and drinking and flailing around like one demented. Without realising 
they were doing so, the policeman's fingers strayed to the frame of his chair 
seat and pressed the wood.
"And before you ask, I don't have an address."
"How long has Mrs. Hollingsworth been gone?"
"I'm not sure." Noticing Perrot's look of disbelief he added, "Days and nights 
just seem to have run into each other. Three days, four maybe."
"Couldn't you be a little more accurate, Mr. Hollingsworth?"
"God, it's something I'm trying to forget, man! Not dwell on."
"She hasn't been in touch?"
"No."
"So you have no idea of her whereabouts?"
"Well, I wouldn't have, would I?"
"Did she leave a message?"
"On my answerphone. Wiped, before you ask."
Very convenient, thought PC Perrot. He felt surprise at this sudden shift into 
cynicism and wondered what had provoked it. Perhaps the notion that, if 
Hollingsworth was all that desperately in love with his wife, he would have 
surely wished to retain the sound of her voice.
"What was her state of mind when you last saw her?"
"Just as usual."
"Do you have any idea why she chose to leave?"
Hollingsworth shook his head. Or rather rocked it from side to side in his 
hands.
"Is there another man involved? An affair?"
"I find that hard to believe, and not just for reasons of vanity. Where would 
they have met? She never went anywhere except with me and the chances of 
secretly carrying on in a place this size are practically nil."
"You're right there, sir." It didn't seem kind to add, as he truthfully could, 
that he would have been one of the first to know about it. "What did the 
message on your machine actually say?"
"Simply that she was going away and not coming back."
"Did she go by car?"
"No. She doesn't drive."
"Would she be staying with a friend, do you think?"
"I doubt it. She dropped them all when we got married."
"Mutual friends?"
"We didn't socialise. I worked long hours--money was terribly important to 
Simone. I don't mean she was selfish or greedy, she wasn't. But she'd had a 
hard time before she met me. A very hard time. Both as a child and a young 
woman. I sometimes felt that, however much I put in the bank, she would never 
feel really secure."
During this speech, the longest he had uttered, Hollingsworth seemed to have 
started to sober up. He was focusing now with a reasonable degree of accuracy 
on his interrogator and plainly gathering his wits. Perrot was unsure whether 
this would mean more intelligible information or a careful rein on the tongue. 
And, suspicious again, he asked himself why Hollingsworth might have any need 
to monitor his speech.
"You mentioned your bank, Mr. Hollingsworth. Did your wife use the same one?"
"No."
"Where was her account, please?"
There had been a brief pause before Hollingsworth answered and when he did it 
was with an air of improvisation. "Lloyds."
Perrot was convinced that Hollingsworth had seized on the first name that came 
into his head. Yet it seemed foolish to lie about something so unsinister, not 
to mention easily checkable. Why not just tell the truth?
"You're sure about that, sir?"
Hollingsworth was looking at the clock again, his eyes slipping and sliding 
over PC Perrot's shoulder. Then, belatedly aware that he had been spoken to, 
"What?"
The constable let it go. But he made a note of his impression that 
Hollingsworth was being deliberately evasive. PC Perrot's reports were models 
of scrupulous recording, if a trifle long-winded. The comment had been made 
more than once at headquarters that here was another Perrot mini series, 
telling them more about whatever issue was in the air than any rational person 
would ever wish to know.
"So, Mr. Hollingsworth, I suppose--"
"Look, I'm not interested in your suppositions. I've answered your questions to 
the best of my ability and I have nothing else to say." He got out of his chair 
in one fairly smooth movement, standing upright with comparative ease.
Constable Perrot wondered if the man had been as drunk as he first appeared or 
if his apparent lack of sobriety was merely a ploy, a cover behind which he 
could reasonably be excused from understanding the questions put to him. But he 
had answered them all but the last, albeit in a somewhat dazed manner.
Perrot started to feel a little out of his depth. Naturally, being a policeman, 
he had a suspicious mind but it was not usually engaged on matters of much 
psychological complexity. He concluded that he would get no further with 
Hollingsworth in his present mood and decided to call it a day. Putting away 
his notebook and retrieving his helmet from beneath the chair, he too rose to 
his feet and moved towards the door.
"Thank you for being so cooperative, sir."
"Yes, yes."
Plainly the man couldn't wait to get rid of him. In the hall PC Perrot, about 
to don his helmet, halted and, with what even the most ungifted amateur would 
have recognised as stagily risible urgency said, "Oh dear. Um, I wonder if I 
might use your toilet, sir?"
"Oh, well. I'd rather you . . . It's a bit of a mess."
"No problem, Mr. Hollingsworth." Perrot had already set his foot on the stairs. 
"This way, is it?"
"There's one in the hall."
"Many thanks." And up he went.
The bathroom opened off the master bedroom. PC Perrot lifted the lavatory seat 
making quite a clatter then checked the vanity unit, medicine cabinet and the 
jars and bottles standing on the rim of the bath, all the while congratulating 
himself on this spur-of-the-moment inspiration. He coughed loudly to show he 
was still in there and started to run the hot tap. Then, downstairs, the phone 
rang and was immediately answered.
Perrot seized his chance. Swift and silent, he stepped into the bedroom. He 
opened and closed drawers then checked out a large, white, fitted wardrobe 
decorated with gold. Then he returned to the bathroom, flushed the cistern and 
turned off the tap.
Halfway down the stairs he stopped and tried to listen to Hollingsworth's side 
of the telephone conversation. Unfortunately the noise from the pipes and 
reflooding cistern made this difficult. But, though Hollingsworth was speaking 
quietly, at one point the tone of his voice became quite ferocious, rising 
almost to a hiss.
"What problem? For God's sake, Blakeley. No, that won't do! I need all of it, I 
told you . . ." More vocal sounds of quiet desperation followed before the 
receiver was laid down with unexpectedly gentle precision.
Perrot reckoned this final gesture might have been in belated recollection that 
there was someone else in the house, perhaps presaging a foolish pretence that 
the call had never happened. He made a great deal of unnecessary noise running 
down the last half-dozen steps.
"Very good of you, sir." He spoke in a bright, newly relieved manner. "I'll be 
off now then."
Hollingsworth was staring into space. The expression on his face was dreadful, 
the skin stretched drum-tight across the cheekbones, the eyeballs bulging. His 
lips, were drawn back in that savage grimace of anguish that, in the newspaper 
photographs of the victims of tragedy, seemed so cruelly to mimic radiant joy.
PC Perrot hesitated in the hallway. He said, "Is there anything I can do?" and 
was relieved when there was no reply. Knowing that he should persist and that 
Hollingsworth was actually in quite a bad way, Perrot made an excuse to himself 
(the bloke really needed a doctor, not a copper) and left.
His Open Text report, as always, left nothing out. Facts aplenty; descriptive 
notes in almost Proustian detail. His opinions as to the truthfulness, or not, 
of the interviewee. Times of arrival and departure correct to the minute. The 
result, Perrot felt sure, would lead to further and much more stringent 
questioning of Alan Hollingsworth.
Unfortunately it was another forty-eight hours before the attention of anyone 
with enough authority to order such an investigation was drawn to the report, 
by which time the owner of Nightingales was in no condition to help anyone with 
their inquiries.
The following morning at eleven o'clock Sarah Lawson came to collect her eggs. 
Avis Jennings, the doctor's wife, had a cousin with a smallholding at Badger's 
Drift where he kept free-range chickens and several ducks.
Sarah had accepted an invitation to stay and have coffee which was rare, though 
Avis constantly asked, for she thought Sarah the most interesting person in the 
village by far and longed to know her better. But nearly always Sarah just paid 
for the eggs and with the exact money. It was as though being drawn even into 
the briefest of conversations over change was either a nuisance or a waste of 
time.
But today, intrigued, Avis assumed, by her opening gambit, "You'll never guess 
what I just saw!" Sarah was sitting, gently rocking back and forth by the 
stone-cold Aga, in the Jennings' kitchen. She was wearing blue, as she nearly 
always did, a jerkin embroidered with peacock-coloured silks, a long, full 
skirt of washed-out indigo. And a necklace of cornflowers fitted together in 
the manner of a child's daisy chain.
"Easy to see what your favourite colour is," said Avis. She wondered about 
quoting one of the few lines of poetry that still stuck in her mind from 
school. It was certainly appropriate. She cleared her throat. " 'I never saw a 
man who looked with such a wistful eye--' "
"Don't!" Sarah stopped rocking, her feet coming down hard against the 
stone-flagged floor. "I hate that poem."
"I'm . . . sorry." Instead of being satisfied that she had finally scratched 
Sarah's emotional surface, Avis felt awkward and uncouth. She was about to 
change the subject when Sarah spoke again.
"There's a painting by Van Gogh. A prison yard, mile-high walls. Almost 
circular, like a tower. The men trudge round and round, their heads down. 
Everything's grey and wretched. But then, right at the top of the picture and 
so small you could almost miss it, there's a butterfly."
"I think I know the one you mean," lied Avis. "Isn't it in the National 
Gallery?"
"I'd go slowly mad if I couldn't see the sky."
"Well, I shouldn't think you've much to worry about." A jolly laugh which 
didn't really come off. "It's not going to suddenly vanish. Not that there's 
anything to vanish, of course," she stumbled on. "Just emptiness, really. But . 
. . very, um, beautiful."
"Yes. One understands why people who believe in heaven think it must be up 
there."
Avis, glad to be occupied, bustled about getting the coffee. In honour of the 
occasion she took some beans out of the freezer. These were normally kept for 
Sunday morning when there was time for Dr. Jim, as everyone in the village 
including his wife called him, actually to savour the breakfast tipple rather 
than just slosh it down and run. Without quite knowing why, Avis pushed the jar 
of Maxwell House behind her food mixer as she got the grinder out.
"This makes rather a noise, I'm afraid," she screamed over the whizzing 
screech. She realised she should have spoken before switching on but the whole 
situation, no more than a storm in a teacup really, had got her really 
flustered. Not that Sarah had appeared critical. Indeed she had never been 
known to voice, even obliquely, an unkind word about anybody. This was not 
because she was not interested--quite the contrary. Sarah seemed more 
completely interested in whoever she was with and in their mutual surroundings 
than anyone Avis had ever come across. The degree and quality of her attention, 
once she had deigned to bestow it, was remarkable. Yet though not entirely 
without warmth, there was something deeply impersonal about it.
Avis's husband, miles from being a fanciful man, once said that spending time 
with Sarah was like standing in front of a mirror, one was observed with such 
precision and clarity. Avis thought it was more like being looked at through a 
camera lens.
Pressing down the plunger of the cafetiere she now said, "Do you like milk or 
cream, Sarah?"
"Milk's fine."
"And sugar?"
"No thanks."
Avis got down her best cups. Sarah had moved to the old wooden table underneath 
the window and was transferring the eggs from their grey, cardboard stacking 
sheets to a blue and white mottled bowl. She paused a moment, holding a 
speckly, pale tan one in the palm of her hand. There was a small feather still 
sticking to it and the darker brown freckles were rough against her skin.
"Aren't they the most beautiful things?" She balanced the final egg carefully 
on top of the rest. "I love looking at them. Why anyone ever puts them in a 
fridge is beyond me."
"Absolutely," agreed Avis, vowing silently that from that moment on she never 
would.
"Apart from anything else, they get so cold the shells crack when you boil 
them."
"Is that right?" Avis poured the coffee. It was only Sainsbury's basic but it 
had a lovely oily sheen and smelt divine. "Would you like anything with it? A 
biscuit or some cake?"
Sarah said "No thanks" again and half smiled. She didn't rush to elaborate on 
or explain her brief refusal as most people of Avis's acquaintance would have 
done. Nor, which was much more surprising, did she ask what the unguessable 
exciting thing was that Avis had seen just before her own arrival. Avis found 
this most impressive. She admired Sarah's control enormously while at the same 
time, to a more modest degree, admiring her own, for she was dying for a slice 
of tipsy cake. Momentarily she wondered if Sarah might not be restraining her 
curiosity but was genuinely uninterested. Surely this could not be true. She 
probably wanted to appear a cut above ordinary human nosiness. Understandable.
Then, as if to confound such reasoning, Sarah said in a tone of humorous 
indulgence, "Well, go on then. Tell me all about it."
"A car came to Nightingales about half an hour ago. A black Mercedes."
"Simone's back?"
"No. It was a man with a briefcase. Alan let him in. He only stayed a few 
minutes but when he left he wasn't carrying the case."
Sarah burst out laughing. "I wouldn't like to try concealing anything in this 
place."
"It was pure coincidence I happened to be passing." Avis blushed defiantly. "I 
was taking old Mrs. Perkins' repeat arthritis prescription. Saves her walking 
to the surgery."
"Did you get the car's number?"
"All right, all right." Annoyed at being made to feel foolish, Avis stopped 
worrying about appearing undisciplined, got the tin down and cut herself a 
large chunk of cake. "But you can't deny it's all very mysterious. For 
instance, Alan hasn't left the house since Simone disappeared. You'd think he'd 
be out looking for her."
"Perhaps he doesn't know where to start."
"What about his work?"
"What about his work?" repeated Sarah, her tranquil voice emphasising the 
second word.
"Everyone says he's going to pieces."
"How do they know if he hasn't left the house?"
"Ohhh!" Avis's voice flared with irritation. She swallowed her cake and dropped 
the fork which clattered on to her plate. "Why are you always so . . ." 
Thinking pedantic might offend, she chose rational.
"Because irrationality alarms me."
The two women looked at each other. Avis swallowed again, this time from 
nervous excitement. Sarah had never before today offered even the smallest, 
most innocuous personal revelation. And now, two in succession. Avis seized on 
what she determined to regard as an invitation to friendship and her mind 
leaped into the future. They would tell each other the complete story of their 
lives and discuss everything both trivial and profound. Sarah would talk about 
her work and Avis would learn about art and music and literature. She saw her 
horizons stretching wider and wider, her plain old world transformed into 
something both complex and extraordinary. Her mind would open like a flower.
Sarah, having finished her coffee, was getting up to go in the same composed, 
unhurried way that she had arrived. Picking up her beautiful mottled bowl of 
eggs she moved towards the door.
"Shall I see you next week?" cried Avis, already looking forward to it.
"Doubt it. These will probably last me quite a while."
"That batty old woman next door's been to the police."
"How do you know?"
"Teddy Grimshaw saw her. He was talking about it in the pensions queue." Reg 
had not himself been in the line-up. The Brockleys' joint pensions went 
straight into his bank account. But the post office also doubled as a 
newsagents and he was in there paying the monthly paper bill. The Daily and 
Sunday Express, Radio Times and, for Iris, the Lady. Green Fingers, the 
gardening journal taken for many years, had recently been cancelled after some 
female jobbing columnist had taken it upon herself to suggest that excessive 
neatness in a plot was not only bad for the plants but denoted a seriously 
neurotic personality in the plantsman.
"What on earth was Mr. Grimshaw doing in the police station?"
"Making a formal complaint about that abandoned traffic cone."
"The one leaning against the wall behind the phone box?"
"I hope you're not suggesting another has sprung up, Iris."
"No wonder house prices are plummeting."
The Brockleys were taking tea on the patio. Now Reg got up from his green 
plastic chair and walked down the steps. As he contemplated his lawn, 
close-shaven in lines straight as prison bars, his prim lips tuckered into a 
smirk of satisfaction.
He walked down the path, his eyes swivelling, alert for alien seedlings or 
overconfident species that had ceased to know their place. Spotting a lacewing 
clinging to a violent orange floribunda, he broke off the leaf, squeezed it 
round the offending insect and dropped the shrouded corpse into the dustbin.
The Brockleys had no compost heap and could not understand those who did. To 
them the whole point of having a garden was to keep it contained, not encourage 
it to go burgeoning about all over the place.
Iris called out, "Another finger dainty, dear?"
Receiving no reply, she picked up a sunray of bloater paste fingers and made 
her way towards her husband, her stout little feet carefully avoiding the 
cracks in the crazy paving. No point in deliberately courting bad luck.
Reg had eased his way behind a ceanothus and was now peering into the 
Hollingsworths' unruly herbaceous border. In the early evening silence frogs 
plopped in and out of a tiny pond. What he saw disturbed him greatly. As he 
wriggled back into his original position, Iris clicked her tongue.
"You've snagged your cardie."
"Iris--"
"Your best Fair Isle."
This garment was Reg's only concession to retirement. Beneath it he wore a 
crisp collared and cuffed shirt, a plain closely-knotted tie and a park of dark 
trousers with creases so sharp they could have opened an oyster.
"He's digging, Iris."
"Digging?"
"A hole."
"But he never touches the garden. He hates gardening."
"Nevertheless . . ."
"And the ground's like a rock."
"He's turned the hose on it."
After Iris had also craned round the ceanothus for a sight of the excavation 
they returned soberly to the house only just in time for the six o'clock news 
to which Reg, for the first time that either of them could remember, could 
hardly give his full attention.
Iris was distracted to such a degree that Shona was allowed to emerge from her 
basket and stand quietly in the centre of the room without being reprimanded. 
In gratitude she started to wag her tail.
"He must be burying something," suggested Reg.
His wife, rinsing the crockery for the second time in clear running water, drew 
in her breath. One long, excited sibilation. "You don't think . . . ?"
"What?"
"Nelson?" The cat had still not reappeared and Alan was no longer to be heard 
calling him. Iris added, with a trembly wince in her voice, "How big's the 
hole?"
"Impossible to guess from that angle. I'd need to look out of Brenda's bedroom 
window."
"Chance'd be a fine thing." Iris laid the cloth and sat down to face her 
husband over the kitchen table. The discovery of the hole could well presage 
imminent upheaval and the Brockleys were torn between pleasure at the prospect 
of an exciting scandal and alarm at the thought that chaos could possibly 
ensue, chaos that might tip the precisely weighted balance of their world and 
introduce more than a touch of Iris's "hurly burly."
"I can't help thinking of that terrible business in Gloucester last year."
"Ohhh!" cried Iris. Her hands, two little pink lumps of dough, flew together 
and became one large pink lump. Her features shimmered under a racing flood of 
emotion. Alarm, pleasure, titillation, dread. "But it's been four days since 
she disappeared. Surely he would have . . ." Iris hesitated, unable to bring 
herself to utter the word "buried." Disposed of seemed demeaning, as if Simone 
was something less than human. Concealed suggested inefficiency on Alan's part. 
Hidden was rather lightweight and might be said to reduce the whole terrible 
business to no more than a macabre parlour game. Iris decided to pass, 
concluding tamely, "by now."
That was when Brenda arrived from work. After she had completed her ablutions 
and was sitting down letting a nice cup of tea get cold and picking the onion 
out of the pasty, Reg slipped away.
His daughter's door was ajar. He pushed it just as wide as he needed to get 
inside--fortunately it did not squeak. He tiptoed to the larger of the two 
windows which looked over the back garden. From here he could see the hole 
quite clearly. As far as he could judge it seemed to be about four feet round 
and two feet deep. Nowhere near big enough to accommodate a body even if 
tightly curled. On the other hand Hollingsworth had plainly not finished 
digging, for the spade was left jammed into the ground.
Reg, who always cleaned his tools with newspaper before hanging them on their 
clearly labelled hooks, gave a "tsk" of censure. Though he would have been 
outraged if such a suggestion had been put to him, in truth Reg disapproved 
more of this example of slovenliness than if he had come across Alan actually 
interring his spouse.
And then the man himself appeared. Suddenly he was there, on the terrace. Reg 
jumped back out of sight. After a moment he heard the sound of the spade 
scraping and chopping at something and then repeated hard bangs as if the earth 
was being beaten level. He risked a peep round the curtain and saw that the 
hole was being filled in.
Reg hurried away, adjusting the door, as precisely as he could remember, to 
show exactly the same gap.
As he sat down again, Iris raised her finely pencilled brows, indicating the 
food still lying on the table.
"She's hardly eaten a thing." She scraped the remains of Brenda's supper into a 
bowl marked DOG.
"Now, Iris. I've surveyed the--"
"I mentioned he'd been digging and how he never had before. She said, in that 
cold sort of way she's taken on lately, 'A person can change, I hope, Mother.' 
I thought, he's not the only one."
"Are you listening to me?"
"Of course I am. Just because I'm talking doesn't mean I'm not listening."
"I would say that hole was of a size to comfortably accommodate a medium-sized 
box file."
"That's nice."
"However, the situation has now changed somewhat . . ."
Brenda was sitting on the sofa in the lounge. Ostensibly transfixed by 
Watchdog, she was in fact preoccupied entirely with her own private misery. She 
could hear her parents droning on but only remotely, like waves on a distant 
beach. Queasily swamped by thoughts of Alan Hollingsworth, she stared at the 
screen, not registering the everyday saga of crooked folk and their imaginative 
swindles.
Since that dreadful moment when their eyes had met through the glass of her 
bedroom window, he had not been out of her thoughts for an instant. Her work 
had suffered. Asked that morning to take one of the tills, a rare and unwished 
for honour, she had been so locked within a remorseful maze of argument and 
counter-argument that she had not even registered the sympathetic--or 
repelled--glances her appearance always provoked.
"If only" had been the gist of her anguished reasoning. If only she hadn't 
looked out precisely at that moment. If only he hadn't glanced up exactly when 
he did. But by now, a bare two days after the event, these feverish reflections 
had inflated the incident into a tragedy of Sophoclean weight and proportion.
Bearing the unbearable had brought her almost to the point of exhaustion. She 
had not slept and now, though so tired she could barely focus, knew she would 
sleep fitfully if at all the coming night.
Aware at one level that she was being ridiculous, Brenda had striven to see the 
incident as if from an outsider's point of view, to establish in her mind its 
essential triviality. But her exertions had seemed to make matters worse. Like 
a swimmer struggling against a powerful current, she had become more and more 
enmeshed. She realised now that, until matters had been put right between them, 
the black torment would continue. She saw herself becoming really ill.
Brenda got up quickly before fear could atrophy her limbs, hurried into the 
hall, grabbed her keys and put on her coat. Her mother's "Where are you going?" 
was cut off by the door slam.
Brenda ran down the path, round to Nightingales' tall black and gold gates and 
wrenched them open. She could do it as long as she didn't stop to think. 
Opening gambits--I can't say how sorry. What you must think. I couldn't bear it 
if--floated to the surface of her mind, broke like bubbles and were 
straightaway replaced by more.
These remedial flourishes brought Brenda to the front door. On the point of 
dissolving into desperate tears, she knocked very loudly.
Immediately the door was opened. Alan Hollingsworth came out and moved 
forcefully forward. For one terrible moment Brenda thought he was going to push 
her off the step. Or even knock her down. He slammed the door behind him and 
started walking towards the garage.
Impossible as it might appear, Brenda was instantly convinced he hadn't seen 
her. His eyes appeared to be fixed on some distant point or object. He could 
almost have been in a trance. His face was ghastly; grey-white with little cuts 
on his cheeks and chin. One or two had tufts of cotton wool with traces of 
blood sticking to them. His movements were mechanistic and strangely 
concentrated.
Brenda, horrified, watched as the car was backed out. Surely he wasn't going to 
drive in that zombie-like state. He would have an accident and kill someone. 
Or, a million times worse, himself!
She ran across the gravel crying, "Wait!" but the car was already reversing 
down the drive. Brenda waved her arms, crossing and recrossing them at the 
wrists as if signalling on a flight path.
Now he was turning. She saw his shoulder dip as he bent to change gear. She 
raced back to The Larches--blessing the key ring in her pocket--and flung 
herself into the Metro. The engine caught first time. Brenda, briefly aware of 
her parents' startled faces at the kitchen window, scraped a wing on the 
gatepost. Then she was out in the lane and away.
At the T-junction where St. Chad's Lane ran into the main street Brenda stopped 
and looked anxiously both ways. On the outskirts of the right-hand exit from 
Fawcett Green the tarmac was being repaired and a set of traffic lights had 
been installed. They showed red. Two cars were waiting, neither of which 
belonged to Alan.
Guessing that he would not have had time to precede them and praying she was 
right, Brenda turned left and put her foot down. Usually a timid and decorous 
driver, she touched fifty while still in the village and sixty the second she 
was on the open road. Within minutes she had spotted the Audi.
It was moving along quite slowly. Brenda settled down to follow, keeping just 
one vehicle, an electrical van, between them. When this turned off, she 
remained unconcerned, reasoning that if Alan had not noticed her standing under 
his nose on Nightingales' doorstep he was hardly likely to spot her in the 
present circumstances.
He drove through Causton and Uxbridge before taking the road towards West 
Drayton. They passed the stately building of the Montessori School, half hidden 
behind tall trees, and the much less stately Crowne Plaza Holiday Inn. At one 
point a massive blue and white container lorry, Transports Frigorifigues 
European, roared by. When the driver pulled over to the inside lane, Brenda 
lost sight of Alan and had to grip the wheel very tightly to stop the sudden 
trembling in her hands. Unable to overtake the lorry, she could do nothing but 
follow it and pray that the Audi would not suddenly enter the middle lane and 
speed off, for she was sure she would not have the skill or courage to follow.
Then came a nightmare four-lane intersection with signs to Heathrow, Central 
London and Slough. She saw Alan in the second stream. Gritting her teeth and 
screwing up her face with anxiety and effort, Brenda overtook the great 
pantechnicon, fleetingly aware of two great blue interlocking circles on its 
mile-long chassis. Several horns hooted so she knew she had done something 
wrong.
Alan was following the sign for Heathrow. Once more safely on his tail, Brenda 
relaxed slightly. She was starting to feel happy, or at least pleasurably 
excited, and realised that, for the first time in her life, she was having an 
adventure. She sat up straighter in the car, lifted her chin in a daredevil 
sort of way and briefly drove with one hand on the wheel. A huge white model of 
Concorde flashed by to her right and they were in the airport tunnel.
There was a great deal of noise, screaming whoops and wails as two police cars 
tore by closely followed by an ambulance. A Sheraton Heathrow bus blocked her 
view and, emerging into the light again, Brenda discovered that Alan was now in 
the nearside lane and aiming for the Short Stay Car Park. Confused, uncertain 
and desperate not to lose him, she signalled and simultaneously swung over 
directly in front of a black cab. The driver signalled viciously in return and 
further demonstrated his fury by a stream of rabidly picturesque sound bites as 
he passed.
Alan was reaching through his window for a ticket from the machine at the 
entrance. Brenda did the same then wondered how, having no purse, she would be 
able to pay for it. At least she had filled up with petrol on her way home from 
work. Alan drove to the higher level and Brenda followed. He got out carrying a 
small case and made his way towards the lifts.
Brenda crept out of her car using the door furthest away. Having parked with 
about a dozen vehicles between them, she sidled, half crouching, past several 
rear number plates ready to duck should her quarry decide to retrace his steps. 
As Alan pressed the lift button he glanced about him and Brenda remained very 
still, unaware that she was an object of humorous derision to a couple in a 
nearby Saab.
As soon as the lift doors closed, she ran forward and rested her finger on the 
descending arrow, burning with impatience. She had never been to an airport but 
her feverish imagination had already supplied a teeming concourse in which Alan 
would be swallowed up without trace the moment he set foot on it.
The second lift arrived and when she emerged at ground level Brenda's worst 
fears were realised. Tears of frustration welled as she dodged cars and mini 
buses and crossed two roads to gain the automatic swing door that was the 
entrance to the terminus.
Once inside, at once she knew herself defeated. Standing between the desks for 
Aer Lingus and British Midland she observed the vast hall where seemingly 
thousands of people queued, manipulated trolleys, grumbled, sweated, lugged 
cases, railed at children or just sat slumped, stuffing food into their mouths.
Now that secrecy was not an issue, Brenda moved boldly if miserably about, 
staring at the multicoloured computer screens above her head and the brightly 
lit shopping section. Austin Reed, Tie Rack, the Body Shop--it was like 
Uxbridge High Street.
If only she knew why Alan had come to Heathrow she'd have some idea where to 
look for him. He had carried a bag but it was such a small one, more of an 
attache case really, that you couldn't count it as luggage. Which was why she 
had assumed he wasn't flying anywhere. But she could be wrong. If this was so 
then the situation was indeed hopeless for, without knowing his destination, 
there was no possible way to discover in which area he would be waiting.
Of course he could be meeting some--Brenda stood stock still then, her hand on 
her pounding heart, her cheeks icing over, understanding at last what an 
absolute fool she had been. No wonder he had raced out of the house, flung 
himself into the car, driven like the wind. Simone was coming back!
Oh God, she might bump into them. Hand in hand, laughing and kissing, arms 
round each other. Making up for lost time. True, they wouldn't guess why she 
was here but Brenda knew she would not be able to bear it. She hurried away 
from the drift towards the main entrance. She passed a burger bar and more 
shops, not even looking where she was going, anxious only to find a hiding 
place.
Which is how she almost came to miss him.
Alan was standing in line with several other people on some steps going down to 
a lower level. Brenda, stepping quickly back, glanced at the brightly 
illuminated amber and black sign over her head. Left Luggage.
The steps doubled back on themselves so, once Alan had disappeared on to the 
underneath shelf, as it were, she was able to join the queue without risk of 
discovery. There were seven people between them.
When she entered the baggage area, she stood to one side near the back wall, as 
if waiting for someone. From this position she was able to observe Alan 
queueing for the X-ray machine. The first thing she observed was that, if such 
a thing were possible, he looked even more ill than he had when she had first 
seen him.
He was staring at a woman who was wearing a bright sombrero. She had been asked 
to open her luggage which was then thoroughly examined. Unaware that a one in 
ten search was normal procedure, Brenda marvelled at the shrewdness of the 
staff, for the woman looked just like an ordinary holidaymaker. She had even 
thought to bring along two small children.
Alan put his case on the moving track; a dark outline enclosing a mass of grey 
scrawl slid by on the screen. Brenda, noticing an Evening Standard sticking out 
of a waste bin, picked it up. When Alan handed in the case, received a yellow 
ticket and turned to leave, she hid behind the paper until the scruffy, 
unpolished shoes had climbed above her head and disappeared.
Brenda hurried after, determined not to lose him again. He didn't go far. Just 
a few yards away, high above the crowd, was a pub and several eateries. She 
watched Alan climb the stairs then, knowing him to be safely contained at least 
for the next few minutes, relaxed for the first time since she had left the 
house.
Immediately she thought about her parents and how worried they would be at her 
sudden, wild departure. There were a few loose coins in her coat pocket and a 
bank of telephones close by. Brenda put in ten pence, rang home and just had 
time to gabble some sort of made-up story before she was cut off.
Then, cautiously, she made her way to the foot of the steps. She was standing 
next to some computer war games, one of which was being ferociously manipulated 
by a dark-skinned young man in a baggy T-shirt. He kept shouting "Yes!! Yes!!" 
and banging on the machine with his fist. Every few seconds he drank from a 
water bottle and pulled his T-shirt away from his skinny body, agitating it to 
let the air circulate, sweating in the heat of his vicarious battle.
Brenda crept slowly upwards. She wasn't too afraid of meeting Alan coming down, 
reckoning that, as he was presumably visiting one of the watering holes, he 
would by now be safely sitting with a plate of something or, at the very least, 
a drink. Hesitantly she peered over the parapet.
The set-up was open plan. The frontage of a pub, Garfunkel's cafe, a 
Haagen-Dazs, and Harry Ramsden's fish and chip restaurant simply ran into each 
other, without dividing walls.
Brenda looked around the spread of tables in the icecream parlour. Some were 
black with matching chairs, others, speckled malachite, stood on one leg 
surrounded by camel-coloured plastic stools. There were lots of potted palms. 
Alan was at the counter buying a cup of coffee.
Concealed behind a large sign suggesting that customers requiring the 
Haagen-Dazs Table Service Queue Here, she watched him go into the dining area. 
He sat close to a huge black and white photograph of a lascivious couple 
radiant with gluttony. Even from where she stood Brenda could see they were 
licking each other's lips, if not actually devouring each other's tongues. She 
crossed over to the entrance of Harry Ramsden's and pretended to read all about 
the good things they had to offer. When she looked over her shoulder, mere 
seconds later, Alan had gone.
Wildly now, not caring at all whether she was discovered or not, Brenda flew 
down the stairs in pursuit. At the bottom of the steps someone barred her way.
"Excuse me." It was the boy from the war machines. "You got any change, love?"
"What?" Disorientated, she stared at him in bewilderment. "No. No, I haven't." 
She pushed him out of the way and stood staring crazily about her. Then ran 
back up the steps to get a better view. But it was hopeless. Just a massive, 
heaving swarm of unidentifiable people.
"What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"
Brenda did not realise she had spoken aloud. The boy from the war games machine 
started to laugh but she did not hear.
Was Alan going home? Should she run back to the car park and try to catch him 
there?
But surely, if he had checked in his luggage he would later need to reclaim it. 
In which case he must still be somewhere on the concourse. Unless . . . unless 
. . .
Brenda screwed up her tense, white face trying to come to a decision.
Behind her back someone else now stood beneath the gobbling, slobbering black 
and white lovers. Someone whose eyes were suddenly sharp with recognition. And 
not a little alarm.
Chapter Three
PC Perrot, savagely plucked from his natural habitat, sat uneasily in the 
reception office at Causton police station. Mulling over what he had heard of 
DCI Tom Barnaby, Perrot was not a happy man.
Fair, they said, but with a sharp edge to his tongue. Stood square behind his 
team but had been known to fall on it from a great height should its attention 
be wandering. Never backward in coming forward to claim credit--pretty 
common--he was also known for never passing the buck. Could be amiability 
itself but catch him on an off day and--here Perrot's confidant had grinned and 
drawn his thumbnail graphically across his throat.
Of course, Perrot was presently telling himself while shifting uneasily on a 
hard wooden chair, a lot of this was probably hearsay. You had to allow for the 
temptation to exaggerate any macho tendencies. The inclination to admire, even 
revere, hard men was strong.
In his mind Perrot went over his report on Alan Hollingsworth in as much detail 
as he could recall. It had seemed to him as brief and as scrupulous as accuracy 
would allow and waffle-free, which is what he had been led to understand was 
required. He wondered now if perhaps he had overstepped the mark when summing 
up by suggesting that further investigation of the subject under inquiry was 
probably advisable. If he'd realised it was going to end up on the desk of some 
bigwig in the CID . . .
PC Perrot produced a snowy handkerchief, passed it over the droplets of 
moisture on his brow and tucked it away again. As he did so a fair-haired, very 
pretty police sergeant put her head round the door. One look and she gave him 
the sort of smile usually seen on the faces of dental receptionists approaching 
intensely nervous patients.
"Constable Perrot?"
He followed her along a lengthy corridor past a series of gun-metal doors, all 
showing neatly typed cards slotted into metal frames, down some uncarpeted 
stone stairs, along another seemingly endless corridor then two right turns in 
quick succession. He thought, I'll never get out of this alive.
"Someone will take you back."
"Oh. Thank you."
Just as he started to feel they must have walked at least twice round the 
entire building, they turned into a much shorter corridor with a glassed-in 
door at the end. Sergeant Brierley rapped on this. As they waited, she smiled 
at him again.
"You'll be all right. He's a pussycat."
Constable Perrot was not consoled. There were pussycats and pussycats in his 
opinion. Tigers were pussycats. And lions.
From inside the room came a raucous sound. More of a bark than a roar but still 
not very pleasant. Sergeant Brierley opened the door.
"Constable Perrot, sir."
The big man behind the desk was scanning something that Perrot recognised as 
his Open Text report, riffling through the pages--there now seemed to be an 
awful lot of them--and frowning.
In the corner of the room, perched on a wide windowsill, was a thin, youngish 
bloke. Pale and ferrety-faced. Red hair. A mean mouth.
The air was like warm soup. A large fan swirled it round in sluggish circles. 
Perrot was not asked to sit down. Eventually the DCI said, without looking up, 
"Ever thought of writing a novel, Constable?"
"Sir?"
"With your eye for detail and feeling for suspense you should make a fortune."
Unsure whether this was an insult, a compliment or a joke, Perrot remained 
silent. He kept his gaze forward and slightly cast down, avoiding the eye of 
the younger officer who he had already decided would give a coldly 
unsympathetic reception to anything he might say or do.
Next to a stack of trays full of assorted paper on the big bloke's desk, Perrot 
noticed a photograph in a silver frame of an attractive woman with curly hair, 
holding on her lap a little girl of quite remarkable beauty. Like a Pears 
advert, she was. Perrot, slightly comforted by this sign of domestic normalcy, 
kept it in his line of vision until one or the other of his superiors saw fit 
to break the silence.
"Why wasn't this report marked urgent?"
"Well . . . I . . ."
"We've got a man here whose wife has disappeared. He refuses to answer the door 
until you threaten to break it down. You find him drunk and in an extremely 
unbalanced mental state. He lies to you about why she's left, contradicts 
himself, refuses to give the name of a single friend or relative who might 
confirm her whereabouts. He can't produce any note or communication from her. 
After looking around upstairs--the only moment, incidentally, when you seem to 
have displayed a single shred of intelligence, let alone initiative--you find 
Mrs. Hollingsworth has gone without taking any of her clothing or personal 
effects." Barnaby broke off here and threw the stack of paper into a wire tray. 
"Would you say that was an accurate summary of what I've just ploughed through?"
"Yes, sir."
"Cellar floors have been torn apart for less."
"Sir."
"I can't think of a single officer in my nick who wouldn't have had something 
like this," Barnaby swiped the basket vigorously with the flat of his hand, "on 
a senior man's desk within half an hour of completing it. And a good proportion 
of them would have brought Hollingsworth in for further questioning."
Scarlet-faced with shame and humiliation, Constable Perrot hung on to his 
helmet and dropped his eyes to the carpet. He yearned for it to split apart and 
reveal gaping floorboards through which he could crawl away and die. The 
dreadful pause continued.
"Well, what's done is done, I suppose. Tell me what you've found out since."
"Pardon, sir?"
"This is dated Sunday. I presume you've had time since to make inquiries in the 
village? Did Mrs. Hollingsworth talk to anyone about going away? What did 
people think of her marriage? Does anyone know who this Blakeley you overheard 
her husband speaking to might be? How were the couple regarded? The usual 
stuff." Barnaby paused for Perrot to reply. He stared at the policeman who 
still did not look up. His colour had deepened to a roguish violet and the 
perspiration pouring down his face and neck increased. He adjusted his helmet, 
leaving sweat marks on the navy blue nap.
"This beggars belief," said the Chief Inspector. "Have you done anything, 
Perrot, anything at all, since you talked to Hollingsworth?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let's have it then."
"And keep it short," said the man on the windowsill. "Our annual leave starts 
next month."
"I was concerned about Mr. Hollingsworth's physical condition." The policeman 
spoke in the manner of someone coerced into public address much against their 
will. "So I rang Dr. Jennings the local GP and suggested he call round. Which 
he did. But there was no reply."
"Was Hollingsworth one of his patients?"
"Yes." Here Perrot, feeling he was creating a sorry enough impression without 
cringing, braced himself, raised his head and looked directly into the fierce 
heat of the Chief Inspector's regard. An unsmiling countenance. Fierce eyebrows 
like little black horsehair rugs. High colour. Eyes brown. Perrot had always 
thought brown eyes could never look anything but warm. Ah well, you live and 
learn. "Both Alan and his wife were registered but I think Dr. Jim had only 
actually met Simone."
"Dr. Jim?" The red-haired man sniggered. "Jesus."
"You've nothing else to add to this pathetic story?"
"No, sir."
"You've been buried in the sticks too long, man. Right, I shall be at Fawcett 
Green within the next hour or so. Make sure you are as well."
"Yes, sir." Silently Perrot prayed that this would be the end of his ordeal. 
And vowed to make up for his foolish mishandling of matters so far. To be 
crisp, alert, observant. To show them that a country copper was not necessarily 
a dud copper.
"You certainly know how to play it by the book." Barnaby nodded once more at 
the exuberantly detailed report and rose. Perrot gulped as he got the measure 
of the man. "But if you want to get anywhere in this business you'll have to 
learn to play it by ear as well."
Perrot, deeply contented where he was and with no ambition even to make 
sergeant, especially if it meant mixing with mean-lipped bastards with eyes 
like hailstones, mumbled, "Thank you very much, sir."
"It was a reprimand, Perrot, not a compliment."
The man on the windowsill burst out laughing then falsely pretended to disguise 
it as a cough.
"How long have you been in the force?"
"Thirteen years."
"And your present posting?"
"Seven, sir."
Yes, far too long, thought Barnaby. They got settled and over-comfortable 
staffing these rural outposts. A little sortie from time to time for a 
refresher course or an update on legal or ethnic matters then back under their 
security blanket. You couldn't blame them. Their brief, after all, was to get 
really dug into the community. Frequently they got so well dug in that there 
was hell to pay when they were moved on. Especially if the locals had taken a 
shine. It was certainly about time they got this one shifted. Barnaby could 
imagine the style of policing employed by Perrot. Paternalistic, kind but firm. 
Caring--whatever that devalued word now meant. All well and good, but not if it 
left him incompetent to handle anything but the simplest of misdemeanours. The 
man appeared to be about as useful as a cat flap in a submarine.
Perrot read his senior officer's mind and his heart turned over.
"Right, Perrot. You can go."
"Sir."
Somehow Perrot's feet covered the carpet as far as the door. The knob slipped 
in his sweaty fingers as he tried to turn it. The tighter he gripped it the 
more it slipped. He used his handkerchief. A hundred years passed before he 
found himself once more outside in the corridor. He stood for a moment braced 
to hear derisive chuckles from the room he had just left but there was only 
silence.
Troy was still enjoyably reflecting on Perrot's interview as he drove Barnaby's 
Rover Four Hundred swiftly along the A4020 towards Chalfont St. Peter, the 
windows wide open against the warm, pressing air. Nothing entertained him more 
than another's discomfiture. It had been good, the chief's crack about writing 
a novel. Troy only thought of smart remarks and snappy put-downs hours, 
sometimes days, after their natural insertion point into the dialogue had 
passed.
"He's a throwback, if you like," he said. "I bet that bloke on telly years ago 
was like Perrot. Apparently he'd pat the villains on the head, give them a 
stern talking to and a lollipop to make it better. My nan's for ever on about 
it."
"Dixon of Dock Green."
"That's him. A right anachronism."
Every now and again Troy, who was always coming across words he didn't 
understand, took the trouble to look them up in his daughter's dictionary. Once 
aware of the meaning, he would flaunt them till he got bored or until the next 
enigma turned up. Last month it had been cognisance. Before that, pachyderm.
Barnaby rolled an ice-cold can of Orange Fanta, snatched from the Automat just 
before leaving, against his cheeks, hoping to cool them down.
"I trust you know where you're going."
"Roughly. It's not far from Compton Dando."
"Never heard of it."
"Course you have," said Sergeant Troy. "That manor house full of New Age 
weirdoes. Where the old geezer in the long nightie got stabbed."
"Oh. Yes."
"I'd go mad living out here." Troy looked out of the open window and down his 
nose. It was a pale, narrow nose. Jutting out only slightly, it descended in an 
elegant straight line, like the nosepiece on a Roman helmet. "I mean, look at 
that."
"That" was a thatched cottage of such dreamlike perfection that it was almost 
impossible to believe it was occupied by credit-carded, telly-watching, 
bar-coded human beings. A gingerbread family might have been more appropriate. 
Or a painted weather man and his wife, trundling in and out at regular 
intervals, as immaculately inexpressive as their storybook setting.
"Who'd want to live in a house with a wig on?" Troy's remark was laced with 
baffled resentment. He hated being presented with the spoils of people with 
immeasurably more money than himself, especially when they chose to chuck it 
about on such incomprehensible trifles.
The sergeant was urban spirit incarnate, weaned on exhaust fumes, addicted to 
multistory car parks and multiplex cinemas carpeted with popcorn, to 
ziggurating shopping malls studded with zooming glass lifts and throbbing to 
the beat of hard rock, to space-invaded pubs.
"Might as well be dead," he added, never averse to ramming home a point already 
more than adequately made.
They were coming into Fawcett Green and Barnaby pointed out that St. Chad's 
Lane was the narrow turning on the right. Troy forbore to ask what else could 
the turning be in a two-street, one-horse dump like this?
He was delightedly vindicated when, a moment later, the horse itself appeared, 
sedately clopping along. A small child, wearing a velvet riding hat and 
jodhpurs, bobbed on the vast leather saddle. Troy, father of one and daily 
exposed to the world's wickedness, immediately wondered where its mother was.
Becoming aware of the car, the little girl skilfully eased her mount on to the 
grass verge and gestured with calm authority for them to pass. Troy, who would 
have much preferred flustered anxiety that he could have authoritatively 
soothed, muttered, "Kids today."
"Over there," the Chief Inspector pointed. "Where the bike is."
Perrot's Honda motorcycle was standing inside the gates of Nightingales, which 
were wide open. His yellow safety jerkin and white helmet marked POLICE rested 
on the seat. The constable himself was nowhere to be seen.
Troy drove in and the two men got out of the car. In spite of the heat, the 
sergeant then put on his immaculately pressed, silver-grey flecked cotton 
jacket after giving the collar a quick once over and removing a stray red hair.
Barnaby rapped sharply on the front door but no one answered. The house had a 
desolate air as if recently abandoned, though vases and ornaments could still 
be seen on the windowsills between the glass and half-drawn curtains.
"Tray posh," said Sergeant Troy, peering through the glass.
A narrow shingle path ran down the side of the garage to the rear of the house. 
Barnaby and Troy crunched along it and entered a somewhat neglected garden. 
This was encroaching on to the patio, a pleasant if unimaginative arrangement 
of multicoloured slabs. It held parched begonias in smart Chinese pots, a 
barbecue, still full of ashes, and a large, blue and white daisy-patterned 
hammock.
Barnaby, a gardener to his fingertips, climbed down the steps and stared with 
irritation. There were some beautiful day lilies surrounded by couch grass, a 
newly planted but unwatered rhododendron, "George Reynolds" and a sad old hebe 
which also looked as if it could do with a drink. But there was one patch that 
caught his eye. Not far away was a small section of ground which looked 
slightly softer than the rest and had been freshly turned over. Perhaps 
Hollingsworth had decided to start tidying up but that was as far as he'd got. 
Given the man's state of mind as described by Perrot, it seemed unlikely.
"Sir! Over here!"
Barnaby heard his sergeant rattle and shake the French windows. Before he could 
scramble back up, Troy had run over to the barbecue, seized the metal tongs and 
smashed the glass. He put his hand in and turned the key then broke two more 
panes to release the bolts. By the time Barnaby reached him the windows stood 
wide open.
A man was lying on a brightly patterned rug in front of an empty fireplace. 
Barnaby crossed quickly over and knelt beside him. Troy stood on the threshold, 
his fastidious nature affronted by the mixture of stale offensive odours about 
the place, not least of which came from the pool of urine beneath the recumbent 
figure. Troy noticed a tumbler lying on its side a short distance from the 
man's right hand.
"Is he a gonner?"
"Yes. Get hold of the FME, would you?"
"Righty-oh." Troy crossed over to a fussy gilt table holding a mock Edwardian 
telephone.
"Don't touch that," said the Chief Inspector sharply. "Use the car radio. Ask 
them to send a photographer. And a round-the-clock watch."
"OK, OK." Keep your hair on, a phrase that Troy would never have dared utter, 
provided the subtext. At the French windows he hesitated. "You don't think he's 
just . . . conked out then--Hollingsworth?"
"We don't know yet that it is Hollingsworth. Try and find out what's happened 
to Sniffer of the Yard. If he's good for nothing else, at least he can identify 
the body, pro tem."
When his sergeant had disappeared, Barnaby straightened up and looked about 
him. He would have recognised the place anywhere, thanks to Constable Perrot's 
eye for detail. What a loss to the airport bookstalls that man was. Not 
necessarily, however, a permanent one. Should he carry on with the staggering 
lack of acumen and foresight that he had shown so far, a career change might 
well be in the offing. And sooner rather than later.
Barnaby worked his way once round the room, keeping as near the edge as 
possible, protecting the scene as severely as if the man had been found with 
his head bashed in. Why precisely, he would have been hard put to say. Though 
this was clearly an unexplained death, there was nothing at this stage to 
suggest it was suspicious. Perhaps thirty years' exposure to dirty work had 
given him a nose for it.
The Chief Inspector looked into cabinets of china, along shelves of books, at 
pictures and photographs. He carried his hands loosely at his sides. Years and 
years ago he would have held them away from his body, maybe be even slightly in 
the air to remind him not to reach out or handle anything.
As a young constable he had been seconded to a fire-eating DCI who had simply 
terrified him. Once, arriving at the scene of a murder and finding the body, a 
wretched half-naked young woman lying face down in a muddy ditch, Barnaby, 
unthinking, jumped into it and pulled her dress down. He had received a 
tongue-lashing that almost brought tears to his eyes. (What do you think she 
wants? Her arse covered or the shithead who did this put away?) For months 
afterwards he had been made to keep his hands in his pockets until the first 
stage of any investigation was completed. Jeeringly called "Tommy Billiards" by 
the rest of the team, the humiliation paid off, for he never did it again.
At the front of the house his own bag carrier, having made the necessary calls, 
was getting out of the car. Aware that the local talent was huffing and puffing 
down the lane, Troy waited until Perrot was a few yards away then turned and 
walked briskly off. The constable, scarlet-faced and perspiring heavily, caught 
up with him on the patio.
"Um, good morning, Sergeant."
"Well, hullo, Polly."
Perrot eyed the smashed windows with dismay. "What's happened?"
Troy grinned, shrugged, and said, "We thought you'd taken the day off."
"Call of nature, Sergeant," said Perrot.
In truth, after standing sentry for over two hours and finding himself 
absolutely ravenous, he had popped up to Ostlers for a double Twix and a cold 
drink. The chocolate was now melting in his pocket, the aluminium can thrown 
into some bushes when he spotted the DCI's car.
"What'd you think that's for then?" Troy jerked his head towards the 
Hollingsworths' charming little fish pond then said, "You're in deep do-do, 
Poll. And not just for leaving this place unguarded."
Unsure how to respond but already resigned to the prospect of endless parrot 
jokes, the policeman remained silent. Troy crossed to the French windows. As 
his black shadow fell across the creamy carpet, Barnaby looked up.
"He's just drifted back, sir." Standing aside, Sergeant Troy indicated to 
Perrot that he should enter the room.
PC Perrot stepped over the threshold and stopped dead. He stared at the body on 
the hearth rug. Barnaby watched the colour drain from his face and saw that 
there was no need to spell out the seriousness of the policeman's position.
"Is this the man you know as Alan Hollingsworth, Perrot?"
The constable moved a few steps to the left and slightly forward so that the 
dead man's profile was in his line of vision.
"Yes, sir."
Perrot hadn't fainted since he was twelve years old. A scorching day very much 
like this when he had had to have a tetanus jab after scraping his leg on a 
rusty fence. Standing waiting, dizzy in the heat, afraid of the needle, he had 
passed out cold. He must not do that now even though he felt a thousand times 
worse. Not with the sneering sergeant at his back and cold condemnation flowing 
across the carpet to his face.
How was he even to handle, let alone survive, this appalling situation? What 
sort of fool, the foolish Perrot now asked himself, would stand for hours in 
front of a building simply because his knock had been unanswered? Surely a 
quick check around the place would be the next step? Then the dead man would 
have been found. Or, unspeakably harder to bear, a man who might not have been 
quite dead. A dying man whose life could have been saved.
Scourging deeper, Perrot recalled the report that he had not marked urgent or 
put directly on some senior officer's desk. Would doing so have made a 
difference? Immediately Perrot convinced himself that it would. After all, 
hadn't the CID heavy mob come over to Fawcett Green almost straightaway?
His offence was indeed monstrous. Perrot tried to stiffen his face muscles lest 
they should quiver and hung his head. His ears hummed. The foetid air was rank 
with accusation.
Just as he felt he would not be able to remain upright another minute, the 
Chief Inspector said, "Outside, you. The less trampling about the better."
"Sir."
A car drew up at the main gates. Two doors slammed, two sets of footsteps 
crossed the gravel. Someone rapped the front door and Sergeant Troy shouted, 
"Round this way!"
Police Surgeon for years, now mysteriously restyled Force Medical Examiner, Dr. 
George Bullard, had noted wryly when so informed that, though the designation 
might change, the raw material showed a tendency to remain as unprepossessing 
as ever. He was accompanied by a young man in a Stone Roses T-shirt, jeans and 
filthy sneakers with a camera round his neck, one under his arm, assorted 
lenses and a light meter.
As the photographer worked taking shots from all angles, balancing on his toes 
at one point on the very edge of the fireplace, Perrot, as instructed, 
retreated to the patio and further persecution. Barnaby and George, old friends 
as well as old colleagues, stood to one side passing on the latest station 
gossip, putting the world to rights, talking about their families. Doc Bullard 
had just had his first grandchild. Barnaby and his wife longed to be in the 
same position but did not hold out much hope. Recently their daughter Cully had 
pointed out that Juliet Stevenson, an actor she greatly admired, had just had 
her first baby at thirty-eight. A mere thirteen years to go, her parents noted 
sadly when Cully and Nicholas, her husband, had left. We'll be too old to pick 
it up, Joyce said. And she was only half joking.
"Just the stiffy, is it?" asked the photographer, indicating that he was 
through.
"For now," said the Chief Inspector.
If he sounded confident, that was because he was confident. Perhaps because 
Nightingales already appeared to be at the centre of a mystery, Barnaby felt 
certain that Alan Hollingsworth had not succumbed to a stroke or heart attack. 
Or alcohol poisoning even though, according to Perrot, he'd been lowering 
gallons of the stuff for days.
Even so, Barnaby felt it would be prudent to wait until the postmortem before 
getting Scenes of Crime out. Cuts and more cuts were the order of the day and 
even a straight-forward investigation with a modest team cost money. Though a 
mere droplet in the ocean which formed the Thames Valley budget, he would 
nevertheless be, quite rightly, reprimanded should it be spent unnecessarily.
On the other hand if murder was eventually proven and evidence had been lost or 
damaged under the day-to-day business of cleaning and tidying up the house and 
Hollingsworth's effects and sorting out his affairs then he would be in much 
deeper trouble. The worst, in fact, for such an error could well result in a 
killer getting clean away.
The Chief Inspector suddenly became aware he was being spoken to.
"Sorry, George."
Dr. Bullard was kneeling on the hearth rug, having unpacked his bag, spread out 
the tools of his trade and pulled on thin latex gloves. Obligingly he repeated 
himself.
"I'd say, from the look of the pupils, he took a whacking great overdose." He 
loosened the waistband and undid the flies of the dead man's trousers. When he 
picked up the rectal thermometer Barnaby, out of respect, turned away.
He caught sight of his sergeant, swinging in the daisy hammock, smoking, his 
face turned to the sun. He knew that Troy would be bewildered by this attitude. 
Respect for the dead had always struck the sergeant as pointless. Barnaby 
wondered if this was a generation thing or a question of individual temperament 
and decided probably the latter.
He pondered on the division between people with imagination, those able to put 
themselves in another's place, and people without. This had always struck him 
as perhaps the most unbridgeable gap of all. All other differences, given 
willing hearts and minds, could be reconciled. But how to bestow a gift that 
nature had unkindly (or, some might argue, kindly) withheld?
"I'd say he's been dead a couple of days. Perhaps a bit less."
The doctor was unfastening the dead man's shirt. Suddenly bored with the dismal 
ritual, the Chief Inspector went outside. It occurred to him to pass this 
consoling piece of information on to PC Perrot but the man had, once again, 
disappeared. Sergeant Troy stopped swinging and attempted to look more alert 
while still plainly relishing the sunshine.
"This is the life, eh, guv?"
Barnaby marvelled at such detachment. Shortly after discovering a human being 
who would never again see the sunrise this was, apparently, the life. Very 
occasionally and for barely a heartbeat the Chief Inspector would envy his 
sergeant. This was not one of those occasions.
After ten minutes or so, George Bullard joined them. Although he did not 
actually say this is the life, there was tremendous relish in his inhalation 
and exhalation of the fragrant summer air. Barnaby began to feel rather out of 
things.
"The van should be along any minute, Tom."
"Any chance of a PM fairly soon?"
"Every chance. I'm clear, actually, for the rest of the day."
"That's what we like to hear." The Chief Inspector looked around. "Where's our 
plod, Gavin?"
"I put him out front to move people along. Last time I checked he was admiring 
some little kid's drawing."
Barnaby gave a groaning laugh.
The doctor said, "He's all right, Colin Perrot. I used to live on his patch. He 
always had time for you."
"I'm sure he's a warm and richly lovable human being," said Barnaby. "But I'm 
starting to think he's a bloody useless copper."
The investigation into Alan Hollingsworth's death being necessarily delayed 
until the PM report, it was Simone's disappearance that now absorbed Barnaby's 
attention.
Half an hour had passed since the mortuary van departed. A uniformed police 
presence was now stationed at the front and rear of the house.
The time was one thirty. What better place, suggested Barnaby, both to eat and 
glean information than the village pub? Walking there, they were overtaken by 
Constable Perrot. He halted briefly near the crossroad and was seen to reach 
into the hedge and pick up an aluminium can.
"Little Miss Tidy," said Sergeant Troy.
The Goat and Whistle, awaiting its hundred and fiftieth birthday, had recently 
been transformed by the brewers. Its ceiling, kippered by years of tobacco 
fumes to a rich yellowy brown, had been stripped and repainted with dark, 
yellowy brown varnish. Its scarred counters, well-worn quarry-tiled floor and 
old fire grate had been ripped out and replaced by artificially distressed 
counters, creatively cracked stone flags scattered with fake sawdust and a 
chipboard Elizabethan ingle-nook. The ancient dartboard disappeared and an 
Astaroth v. the Dark Hellhounds of Erewhon space invader arrived.
This imaginative transformation, unasked for and unwanted by both mine host and 
his customers, had cost thirty thousand pounds. The landlord was assured that, 
once the word of such startling refurbishments got about, his takings would be 
going through the roof. So far there was no sign of this. He had replaced the 
dartboard out of his own pocket.
Half a dozen heads turned as Barnaby and Troy came in and conversation ceased. 
The Chief Inspector ordered a ham salad and some Guinness, Troy a corned beef 
and Branston pickle baguette and a half of bitter. He took them to a table near 
the space machine and started to play.
Waiting for his meal, Barnaby was soon engaged in conversation, the landlord, 
Daniel Carter, opening.
"Yours, is it? That Rover down the lane?"
Barnaby admitted that it was.
"Everything all right?" The question was put by an elderly woman who had come 
up to the counter for a refill of her gin and peppermint. Although no one else 
moved, Barnaby was aware of a general gathering of attention keenly focused on 
his reply.
"Actually we're looking into the disappearance of Mrs. Simone Hollingsworth."
"What did I tell you, Elsie?" said the gin and pep over her shoulder.
"Thanks, Bet. I'll have a drain of White Satin."
"Deaf as a beadle," said Bet, swivelling back. "You've taken long enough about 
it."
"Did you know the couple?" asked Barnaby. Addressing the old lady, he also 
glanced around the room. The floodgates opened.
By the time he had finished his tired undressed salad and near transparent 
shavings of ham he had discovered that Mr. H worked all the hours God made, 
Mrs. H was always done up like a dog's dinner. He never mixed, she mixed but 
got bored with you after five minutes. They'd give at the door but not what 
you'd expect, taking the property into account. The last anyone had seen of 
poor Simone was on the Causton bus. And, rounded off Elsie, don't tell me 
anyone leaves their old man with no more than a handbag and a thin jacket. 
Specially when he's loaded.
So far, so familiar. Barnaby became resigned. But then Daniel Carter leaned 
forward. He looked left to right as if about to cross a busy road and seemed on 
the point of tapping the side of his shiny red nose.
"Now if it was Alan who had disappeared, you wouldn't have to look far."
"Really? Why is that?" countered the Chief Inspector.
"You should know," said Elsie. "You're the fuzz."
"He was had up for it?"
"Gray Patterson."
"GBH."
"Common assault, weren't it?"
"Same difference."
"All over some theft or other," said the landlord. "They worked together, see, 
him and Hollingsworth. Partners supposedly, in this computer business. Pen 
something."
"Penstemon," shouted deaf Elsie.
"That's it. Then, according to the report at the magistrates' hearing, 
Patterson designed some new programme or whatever they reckon to call it. 
Something really special that should have made him thousands. And Alan ripped 
him off."
"Stole it like." A fat man, having finished his steak and kidney pie, chipped 
in for the first time.
"I don't know all the ins and outs," continued Daniel Carter, "but there 
weren't half a ruckus. Ended with Patterson blowing his top."
"Is that right?" asked Barnaby.
"Beat the shit out of Mr. H," said the old lady, daintily tipping back her 
glass.
"Now he's stony-broke, Gray. Owes money on the house, can't sell it, can't 
move. In schtuck, as the saying goes."
"I heard he was trying to let."
Barnaby finished his drink. He would have thought it excellent had he never 
been exposed to the velvety soft bitter sweetness of the Irish version. A year 
ago he and Joyce had been in Sligo for the Music Festival and the Guinness had 
been a revelation. The difference, they told him, lay in the water.
Troy, having finished banging and thumping and cursing Astaroth and Co. was now 
leaning up against the machine chatting to a youth who was banging, thumping 
and cursing in his turn. Now, catching the boss's eye, he murmured, "Cheers, 
mate," and moved towards the door.
"Get anything?" said the Chief Inspector as they walked back down the lane.
"Only that Mrs. Hollingsworth was a great looker but seemingly kept it all for 
her husband. Bloke I was talking to's the brother of the bird who cleans for 
that old woman."
"Which old woman? This place is swarming with them."
"That daft one who came in to see you."
"Not so daft, as things are turning out."
Since the event of Perrot's Open Text report, Barnaby had thought more than 
once of the eccentrically dressed and supersonically bewigged Mrs. Molfrey. His 
memory of their recent meeting had become imbued with a charming piquancy which 
he feared had not been present at the time. He didn't really want to talk to 
her again, suspecting she might well turn out simply to be a chaotic-minded and 
garrulous old bore.
"What about you, chief?" said Troy. "Any luck?"
"If it turns out we're looking at murder, I've a nice juicy suspect. Someone 
who beat up Hollingsworth after the man had apparently swindled him out of a 
lot of money."
Troy whistled. "No longer Mr. Nice Guy then, our Alan."
"If he ever was."
They had reached Nightingales. There were a handful of people outside but, as 
the gates were closed and the constable on the front doorstep was a silent and 
unforthcoming stranger, no one lingered.
"Got a message for you, sir," said the constable. "Lady next door, to the left, 
wanted a word with a senior person."
PC Ramsey had got this information from his colleague guarding the rear of the 
house. Apparently Kevin, hearing a rustle just beyond the fence, had gone to 
investigate and found a face peering at him through a tangle of green stuff. 
The whispered request having been delivered, the face vanished, as if its owner 
had been sharply pulled away.
Barnaby, wrongly assuming a prurient interest in the goings-on at the 
Hollingsworths, made his way to The Larches. Troy rapped on the fruit-gum 
panels. They moved inwards, as if by magic.
Barnaby called out, "Hullo?"
"Come in."
The words, whispered from directly behind the door, were barely audible. The 
two detectives stepped inside.
Ten minutes later, though the tension in the room twanged like a harp, Barnaby 
had still not been told exactly why they were there. He sat on a sofa eating a 
sandwich so fine it dissolved on the tongue like a Communion wafer. It was 
thinly filled with bland, almost tasteless cheese and had a droopy fringe of 
cress. It was also ice-cold. Mrs. Brockley obviously kept her bread in the 
fridge. Barnaby's teeth had started to ache and he drank some tea hoping to 
warm them up.
The Brockleys were looking at each other. Not the silent "You," "No, you" matey 
joshing that couples sometimes go in for. Their glances did not quite meet. His 
seemed to say, don't you dare. Hers was harder to read. She was plainly 
distressed and under a lot of strain but she was also angry. Her eyes glittered.
"You asked us to come round, Mrs. Brockley?" said the Chief Inspector, not for 
the first time.
"Yes." She looked directly at him and he realised that her eyes were glittering 
not with anger but with tears. "Something very--"
"Iris!"
"We'll have to talk to them sooner or later."
"You needn't have asked them here. The whole place will know."
Barnaby, becoming impatient with all this prevarication, attempted reassurance. 
"Mr. Brockley, we are going to be carrying out a house-to-house inquiry shortly 
regarding Mrs. Hollingsworth's--"
"What's that? House to . . . ?"
"It means everyone in the village will be visited. I'm sure, once this gets 
underway, people will simply think we happened to start here."
"You see," cried Iris.
Reg seemed unconvinced. Looking at them both, the word "corseted" entered 
Barnaby's mind. Practically obsolete in these days of teddys and bodys, Lycra 
and Spandex, but a word surely made flesh by these two rigorously constrained 
people. Tightly-laced, pushed and pulled and whaleboned into a respectably 
shaped life that was beyond reproach. A life that surely could not properly 
breathe.
"Our daughter's disappeared."
It was Iris who had spoken. Reg covered his face with his hands as if suddenly 
exposed to public shame.
"Brenda went out on Monday evening in the car. Rather suddenly, actually. When 
she wasn't back by ten--"
"She did ring up Inspector," interrupted her husband.
"That was two days ago," shouted Iris.
Sergeant Troy, sussing that he was about to partake in the most boring 
non-event in the history of mankind, polished off his fourth scone, scooped up 
a couple of chocolate biscuits and let his attention wander. He glanced at the 
clock yet again.
It was hard to miss this splendid timepiece. Wherever one looked in the room 
its movement caught the eye. Diamante numerals on a black velvet face and 
golden hands. On the tip of the minute hand perched a large pink and yellow 
butterfly with sequined wings and long wobbly antennae. Every sixty seconds it 
jumped forward and Troy's nerves were starting to jump with it.
"Is she usually back by ten, Mrs. Brockley?" asked Barnaby.
"No," said Reg. "She doesn't go out, you see."
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, to work of course. And occasionally shopping."
"But not at night."
"How old is Brenda?"
"Twenty-nine." Though Barnaby's face remained expressionless, Iris must have 
sensed incredulity, for she added, "I realise she's not a child but she's 
never, ever done anything like this before."
"In her entire life," said Reg.
"So when did she telephone?"
"About nine o'clock. Said she was staying with a friend."
"Not staying with," Reg corrected his wife. "Just with. As in being with. 
Talking to."
"We didn't even know she had a friend," said Iris with unconscious pathos.
Even if she had not been twenty-nine, Troy, having glanced at the elaborately 
framed studio portrait on the sideboard, would not have given her as much as 
the wax from his ears. Talk about a dog. Worst in show at Crufts and then you 
were insulting the canines. No point tuning up your whanger for that one.
"It's all very well her saying not to worry," said Iris. "But of course we did."
"All night long."
"And in the morning . . ."
They had argued for nearly two hours about ringing Brenda's office. Iris, black 
shadows round her eyes, was a thousand per cent for, Reg totally against at 
first then wavering in the face of his wife's extreme agitation. They had faced 
each other over the unlaid kitchen table--breakfast would have choked 
them--torn between doing what was socially acceptable and correct and easing 
the sick uncertainty in their hearts.
"What on earth will they think?"
"Fiddle to what they think."
"It's not business etiquette, Iris."
"I don't care."
"Personal calls are frowned on. Brenda's always been very hot on that."
"You don't have to talk to--"
"We'll get her into trouble."
"Just ask if she's there. Say it's business. Pretend to be a customer."
"She'll be home at half past six."
"I can't wait nine hours," screamed Iris.
So, to the accompaniment of his wife wailing and the poodle barking, Reg had 
rung the Coalport and National Building Society. He had been put on hold and 
exposed to a bagpipe and electric organ rendering of "Ye Banks and Braes," a 
tune that, for the rest of his life, he could never listen to without a cold 
and nauseous upsurge of reminiscent dread.
Eventually he was transferred to Personnel to be told that Miss Brockley had 
not arrived for work that morning and that there was no message. After Reg put 
the phone down, he and Iris had sat very quietly for a long time. Even Shona 
crept back to her basket uninstructed.
The next twenty four hours crawled by. The Brockleys couldn't eat. Cups of tea 
were made and stood around, uncoastered, on various pieces of furniture until 
they were stone cold.
It was Iris, by Wednesday morning nearly demented, who had seen the policeman 
in the Hollingsworths' back garden and impulsively spoken to to him. Reg had 
hurried to stop her, a second too late.
"Do you think," Barnaby was asking now, "that this was a boyfriend she was 
referring to?"
The Brockleys opposed this suggestion with what the Chief Inspector could not 
help thinking was a ridiculous degree of certainty. After all their daughter 
was nearly thirty and, even if her social life was somewhat limited, must have 
met plenty of men in the course of her work. Brenda's photograph was on the 
edge of Barnaby's sight-lines and registered only as part of the background.
"Nothing like that," Reg was saying.
"Brenda's a most particular girl."
"We've brought her up to be very choosy."
"Tell me again if you would," said Barnaby, "about the phone call. Her actual 
words, if you remember them."
If they remembered them! The eager, breathless sentences were engraved on both 
their hearts.
"Daddy, I might not be home for a little while. I've run into a friend. We're 
going for something to eat. Don't worry if I'm a bit late. See you soon. Bye."
"The strange thing was--"
"Apart from getting such a message in the first place," Iris interjected.
"--she seemed to be speaking from a railway station."
"Oh yes?" said Barnaby.
Troy glanced covertly at his watch and yawned inwardly, stretching his lips 
without parting them and lifting the roof of his mouth. He glanced covetously 
at the rest of the chocolate wafers. Amazing, no matter what state people were 
in they always made some tea and prised open the biccy box.
"There was a lot of background noise," explained Reg.
"Announcements."
"Well, Mr. Brockley," Barnaby got up, his large frame blocking half the light 
from the window, "I suggest the best thing to do, if you haven't heard from 
Brenda by tomorrow, is to come into the station and register her as a missing 
person."
"The police station?"
"That's right."
"Couldn't you do that for us now, Mr. Barnaby?" said Iris.
"I'm afraid not. There are certain procedures to be followed. Forms to be 
completed." Barnaby did not add, as many of his colleagues seemed so easily 
able to do, I'm sure everything will be all right. He had knocked on too many 
doors and had to tell too many distraught families that the situation regarding 
their children was very much not all right.
They were shown out through the kitchen. Troy stopped at the poodle's basket, 
bent down and patted the dog. Fondled its dejected ears.
"She'll be back soon," he said cheerily. "Keep your tail up."
The preliminary stages of the postmortem were completed by six o'clock. The 
full report would not be on the Chief Inspector's desk until the following 
afternoon but George Bullard rang the results through straightaway.
Alan Hollingsworth had died from an overdose of the tranquilliser Haloperidol 
in a solution of whisky. There was no food in the stomach. The drug was 
available only by prescription under various brand names usually in 0.5 
milligram capsules. As near as could be reasonably assessed, around six or 
seven milligrams had been taken. No capsule casings appeared to have been 
swallowed. There were no unexplained marks on the body. The heart, lungs and 
other internal organs were sound.
"Good for another forty years," concluded Dr. Bullard.
"What about times?"
"Late Monday night, I'd say. Or early Tuesday. It's hard to be more precise 
after forty-eight hours."
"Oh, come on, George." Silently he cursed Constable Perrot.
"Sorry."
Barnaby sighed then said, "Would such a dosage be enough to kill someone?"
"Probably. Especially with all that booze. From the way he was lying I'd say he 
took the stuff sitting on the sofa then, when he became unconscious, just 
rolled off. The rug was very thick and, let's face it, dying is about as 
physically relaxed as you can get. Which was why he wasn't bruised."
"And what's this about 'no casings?' Are you saying he took the stuff in tablet 
form?"
"Couldn't have. Only made up in capsules."
"Hang on." Barnaby paused and felt again that strange and unsubstantiated 
conviction which had visited him when he first saw Alan Hollingsworth's body. 
"Isn't it bitter? The stuff in these tranquillisers?"
"Sometimes. Not in this case. Haloperidol's pretty tasteless."
"Wouldn't the casings have dissolved anyway?"
"Perhaps. But there'd still be traces of gelatin in the stomach."
"Right. Thanks, George."
So there it was. A straightforward enough story. A man's wife has left him. He 
tries to drown his sorrow in drink. But drink wears off. More must be taken, 
which in its turn will also wear off. And so on and wretchedly on. Much better 
to end it once and for all.
So, having been driven to this miserable conclusion, what does Hollingsworth 
do? Chuck the tablets in his mouth, wash them down with hooch and get it over 
with? No, he sits on the settee, carefully pulls the sixteen or so gelatin 
capsules apart, tips the contents into his glass and stirs till dissolved. Then 
disposes neatly of the cases. It was possible, of course. Some people would 
behave with such neatness and precision even in extremis--the Brockleys for 
example. But that was not how the dead man had acted so far. He had shown 
nothing but shambolic desperation.
Though still wary of setting a full-scale investigation in motion, Barnaby now 
saw his next step as unavoidable. And so it was that early the next morning a 
Sherpa van turned into St. Chad's Lane. Shortly afterwards, Scenes of Crime, to 
the intense excitement and satisfaction of the village, unloaded their stuff 
and set in motion the austere and impersonal machinery of investigation.
Chapter Four
Notified that his car was ready, Barnaby, rejecting the lift, made his way 
downstairs. Huffing and puffing to and from the car park to his room was 
practically the only regular exercise he got these days. He discounted 
gardening which was necessarily intermittent and, as his plot was now so old 
and well-established, involved very little in the way of hard digging.
He had quite a distance to huff and puff. In common with the headquarters of 
many civil businesses, the higher a person's rank in the police force the 
further away from the ground floor his or her office would usually be found. 
The Chief Super was rumoured to reside in the crow's nest, a steel and plastic 
anti-lightning device screwed halfway up the radio mast on the roof of the main 
building.
Passing through reception Barnaby noticed the Brockleys and could see 
straightaway that the stays of their lives had loosened further. They were 
sitting side by side in comfortless polystyrene shells. Plainly their daughter 
had not returned. There was a sad reversal in the manner of their appearance. 
Reg now looked as ill and distraught as had his wife the previous day. Iris sat 
like a rock. Her tightly folded arms pressed a framed photograph hard against 
her chest. Her face, though expressionless, was savagely compressed, appearing 
to spread outwards. She looked like the lemon on the old squash advertisement: 
Idris When I's Dry.
They had indeed waited, as Barnaby suggested, almost another whole day before 
reporting Brenda missing. Such subjection to authority in a situation like this 
seemed to him almost unbelievable. Ridiculous even. He was about to go over 
when a policewoman came out from behind the desk and approached them.
The heatwave, promised for some days by the weather forecasters, was now well 
on the way. The car was like an oven. All the windows were open but Barnaby 
could still feel the leather burning his legs. His shirt was limp and already 
glued to his back. Troy, in a crisp, apple-green Lacoste sports top (genuine 
Alligator motif, three pounds from a car boot) looked as if he had just stepped 
out of a fridge, not a trickle of sweat anywhere. He was moaning, as always, 
this time about his sex life.
"I mean, if I'd wanted to screw a marble statue I'd've got a job in the British 
Museum."
Barnaby opened all the windows.
"Eventually I said to her, don't wake up if it's too much trouble."
"And did she?"
"Hard to tell. She don't give much away, Maureen."
The Chief Inspector, pausing only to reflect that whatever his sergeant's sword 
did in his hand it certainly wasn't sleep, turned his thoughts to the 
Brockleys' only child.
Until now Brenda had hardly impinged on his consciousness. With both a dead 
body and a missing person on his plate, he had more than enough to be going on 
with. The fact that her parents had received a reassuring phone call also 
mitigated against any sort of concerned action. But, over forty-eight hours 
later, she had still not returned. And however resolutely they insisted on a 
complete lack of involvement in Alan and Simone Hollingsworth's affairs, there 
was no denying that the Brockleys lived virtually on the couple's doorstep. 
Could Brenda have seen or heard something that might have put her at risk? The 
more he thought along these lines, the less easy Barnaby became in his mind.
Troy was still droning on. As they were on the point of entering Fawcett Green, 
Barnaby tuned back in. This time the subject under the hammer was Mrs. Milburn, 
Troy's mother-in-law.
"Lethal, that woman. She's got a donor card saying on no account use any of 
this person's organs after her death. They are bloody toxic."
"Rubbish."
"I've seen it. Got a skull and crossbones on."
Troy parked on the pub forecourt at ten minutes to eleven. Barnaby had an 
appointment on the hour with Dr. Jennings. Troy was detailed to chase up the 
address and telephone number of the mobile hairdresser, Becky Latimer. And also 
Sarah Lawson, the other person mentioned during Mrs. Molfrey's earlier visit to 
Causton police station. The two men would meet up at Nightingales.
Already the lane was choked with people, as was the small field which backed on 
to the Hollingsworths' rear garden. An exasperated Perrot, rosy with ill 
temper, guilt and apprehension as to how this blatant example of his inability 
to keep any sort of control might persuade the force to deal with him, was 
trying to clear a way through for a muddy Landrover. The driver leaned 
pointlessly on his horn, underscoring the hysterical barking of his two golden 
retrievers. No sooner had the vehicle squeezed by than the passage closed up 
again.
Barnaby missed most of this, needing to cut through the churchyard to find the 
doctor's house. Troy decided, before going to the post office, to have a little 
fun at Perrot's expense. He pushed through the crowd largely by exercising 
sharp elbows and brute determination.
"I should move this lot along, Polly."
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Where's the barrier?"
"On its way."
"Here." Troy jerked his head indicating a wish for intimacy.
Perrot, his heart in his boots and his stomach twisted into knots of anxiety, 
moved closer.
"Just thought you might like to know the PM results. Died about ten minutes 
before me and the chief got to him. Close as that. Sad, ain't it?"
He strode on, leaving the ashen-faced policeman staring, in utter devastation, 
after him.
In the churchyard, having world enough and time, Barnaby dawdled, read the 
gravestones scabbed with green and yellow lichen, admired equally a simply 
inscribed slab and a grand mausoleum enclosed by ornate railings. One unadorned 
plot had a glass jar of wild flowers jammed into the ground; another green 
granite chippings and an empty metal vase. Grand monument or homemade wooden 
cross, what did it ultimately matter? Passing show. And all for the benefit and 
comfort of the bereft. The lonely bones beneath couldn't give a damn. In the 
elms around and about, rooks croaked and cawed their aggressive hearts out.
The Reverend Bream appeared, closing the vestry door behind him and making his 
way down the path with a swish of armazine. Although walking with his hands 
demurely clasped across his richly curved front and his eyes cast down, Barnaby 
sensed something rather worldly about the vicar. His face was highly coloured 
and surrounded by a lot of crisply waving chestnut hair just long enough to 
touch his collar. He could have stepped straight out of one of those bibulous 
nineteenth-century paintings featuring two jolly cardinals.
"Hullo," said the Reverend Bream. He smiled, revealing a lot of glistening 
white teeth. "Are you part of our excellent constabulary?"
"That's right, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby."
"To do with Nightingales, is it?" Then, when Barnaby nodded. "A sad business. 
Poor Alan."
"Did you know the Hollingsworths at all?"
"Simone slightly. She was in my bell-ringing team. The only time I spoke to her 
husband was the day she disappeared. She didn't turn up for practice so I 
popped round to see if things were all right."
"Look," Barnaby indicated a rustic bench, "d'you think we might sit down?"
"Well, I'm just off to Hellions Wychwood for a christening."
"It won't take a moment. Or we could meet later."
"Oh, I expect it'll be all right." The vicar glanced at his watch. "I'm usually 
fifteen minutes early and they're bound to be late. People always are at 
weddings and christenings. Never at funerals. Can't wait to see them off and 
get back to the booze."
"Did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth well?" asked the Chief Inspector when they 
were sitting down.
"Not really. She came to a few meetings, missed a couple, wandered 
half-heartedly back. Just looking for something to do, I think."
"You didn't meet or talk for any reason? Apart from bell-ringing?"
"Good heavens no." He laughed then glanced briefly upwards as though asking 
post-clearance on this innocent exclamation. "Neither of the Hollingsworths 
were churchgoers. But then who is these days? Till it comes to needing a 
setting for the bridal video."
The Reverend Bream did not speak in acid tones. He seemed cheerfully resigned 
to the scale of his neglect. Perhaps, as his high complexion indicated, he 
found solace in the occasional cup of claret. A little wine for his stomach's 
sake. Barnaby warmed to him.
"What did you think of her?"
"Simone? A bit dim--no, sorry. That's unkind. A better word, I think, would be 
guileless. And rather gullible. One got the impression that she would believe 
anything you said. Sweet-natured, as far as it's possible to judge. Tiny, just 
about five feet, I'd say, and very slender. Little hands and feet. Fair-haired 
with a lovely skin. Astonishingly pretty."
Another novelist. They were everywhere. Barnaby asked if the vicar remembered 
what time he had called at the house.
"Around six, directly we'd finished. I knocked several times, persisting 
because Alan's car was there. Eventually he opened the door looking quite 
dreadful."
"You mean ill?" The Chief Inspector recalled Perrot's mention of a goodbye 
message on Hollingsworth's answerphone. This sounded as if he had already 
discovered it.
"Wildly distressed is how I'd put it. Almost incoherent. I stepped 
inside--uninvited but there are times when good manners must take a back seat. 
Asked if there was anything I could do. If Mrs. Hollingsworth was all right. He 
said she'd gone to look after her mother who'd had a stroke. Almost before he'd 
finished speaking I found myself back on the doorstep."
"You didn't call again?"
"There seemed little point when he so obviously hadn't wanted me there in the 
first place. I told Evadne and she got the village support system going--to 
poor effect, I'm afraid. I feel quite ashamed now. If perhaps I'd been more 
persistent--"
"I doubt it would have made any difference."
The Reverend Bream got up, smoothing his cassock. Barnaby noticed that, in the 
bright sunlight, it had something of a greenish tinge.
"I suppose you couldn't tell me how exactly . . ." The vicar trailed off 
delicately.
"I'm afraid not, sir. We're still pursuing our inquiries."
The Reverend Bream went off to wet the baby's head and Barnaby continued on his 
way to Dr. Jennings' house. This turned out to be a very attractive two-storey 
building of golden stone with a much less attractive breeze block surgery 
bulging from one side.
Mrs. Jennings showed him into a comfortable sitting room and went off to make 
some coffee. Barnaby employed the time waiting for her return in wandering 
around enjoying the books and family photographs. Happy snaps, school 
pictures--gold-rimmed ovals on dark brown mounts, two boys and a girl. 
Middle-aged people, old people. A girl of around eighteen with a roly-poly 
baby, both laughing fit to bust. A paterfamilias with muttonchop whiskers.
"Quite a family, Mrs. Jennings," he said, moving to help her as she entered the 
room. The tray looked very heavy.
"I wish they'd go away," said Avis. "Not for good, of course. Or even for long. 
Just sometimes."
"Mine's gone," said the Chief Inspector. "I don't entirely recommend it."
"It's different for men." She was attacking the cake with a fearsome knife, 
long and curved like a Malayan kris.
Barnaby said, "None for me, thank--"
"I mean, you're not so constrained by their presence." She poured from a 
round-bellied pot then, pulling apart a little nest of tables, warmed to her 
theme. "How many times, for instance, have you been chasing a criminal along 
the motorway and lost him because you've had to go and pick somebody up from 
netball?"
"Not often." He thanked her for the table and then for the coffee. "Well, never 
actually."
"Exactly." She placed the cake, a silver fork and a pretty starched napkin 
alongside. "I'm renowned for my squidgy mousseline. This one's coffee. What 
d'you think?"
Barnaby thought a morsel wouldn't hurt. Only common courtesy after all. And he 
needn't eat it all.
A grave miscalculation. It was food for angels. He took a second loaded 
forkful, swallowed then smiled across at the woman who had engaged him in 
conversation with such ingenuous bluntness. There were people to whom it never 
seemed to occur that speaking from the heart could cause embarrassment and Avis 
Jennings, like Mrs. Molfrey, was plainly one of them. Perhaps they were a 
speciality of Fawcett Green, which would be excellent news from an 
investigative point of view.
"So," she took a long drink of her own coffee. "I suppose it's about Alan."
"We're also inquiring into Mrs. Hollingsworth's disappearance."
"Oh?"
"How well did you know her?"
"Hardly at all. She came to the WI for a bit. And bell-ringing. We had the odd 
chat."
"What about?"
"Oh, this and that."
Barnaby curbed his impatience. It was not difficult as the divine centre 
filling of the cake melted on his tongue. Bitter chocolate, almonds, burnt 
sugar, a trace of orange flower water.
"Did she tell you anything about her life before she was married?" He produced 
a notebook and pen.
"A bit. She seemed to have drifted rather. You know, all sorts of jobs, none 
with any real future."
"For instance?"
"Served in a flower shop, did a course in make-up, demonstrated food mixers." 
Avis, rummaging in her mind for accurate recall, frowned. "Um, worked in 
television for a bit. Was a cashier in some sort of club. She rather skirted 
round that one. I wondered if it might have been a bit Soho. Sparkle and 
feathers and sad old men in waistcoats."
Presumably she meant raincoats. "In London, was this?"
"I got that impression." Avis rummaged a bit more but came up with nothing new. 
Barnaby asked if she knew of anyone else that Mrs. Hollingsworth was especially 
friendly with.
Avis shook her head. "Simone wasn't into all girls together stuff. She's what 
was called years ago a man's woman." Air quotes were hooked round the last 
three words. "She might have talked to Sarah Lawson more. Was in her art class 
for a bit."
That might be useful, thought the Chief Inspector as a distant buzzer went off.
"That's the last patient gone," said Mrs. Jennings. "Come along, Inspector. 
I'll take you through."
Dr. Jennings, washing his hands, smiled cheerfully over his shoulder. The smell 
of soap and antiseptic filled the room. He waved at a chair placed close to the 
side of his vast, well-cluttered desk. His visitor sat in it.
"I don't like a great expanse of wood between myself and the patient," said Dr. 
Jim, taking his own seat. "It creates too great a distance. Turns me into a 
figure of superior authority."
The Chief Inspector, in common, he suspected, with the majority, liked to think 
his GP did have a certain amount of superior authority. At least in matters 
medical. Jennings swung his padded leather chair round and the two men sat 
cosily, almost knee to knee. Barnaby adjusted his position slightly to avoid a 
Well Woman poster listing, in detail, all the ills to which female flesh was 
likely to succumb.
"I believe both the Hollingsworths were on your list, Dr. Jennings."
"That's right."
"I'm afraid Mr. Hollingsworth died of a drug overdose--"
"Ah, that's it then. So much for the rumours. Which, I might tell you, have 
been fairly wild."
"I understand, acting on a suggestion from Constable Perrot, that you called on 
him the other day."
"Monday lunchtime, yes. Banged on the front door for a bit but no reply. What 
did he take?"
"Haloperidol. Have you ever prescribed medication containing this for either of 
them?"
"As a matter of fact I have." He drew a largish, stiff brown folder towards him 
saying, "I got this out in readiness, when you rang." And pulled out a wad of 
notes. "Mrs. Hollingsworth--I never actually met her husband--came into surgery 
a couple of months ago."
"When exactly?"
"March the ninth, if it matters. She was complaining of sleeplessness. Now I'm 
not the sort to hand out tablets on request, Inspector, because, quite often, 
the simple thing the patient is describing can conceal something much more 
complex. So I put one or two questions and, though I was not at all persistent, 
she got quite upset. Admitted she was lonely and unhappy. Missing "The Smoke."
"Then I asked if everything was all right at home. There was a very long pause 
and I began to think either she hadn't heard me or was not going to reply. Then 
quickly, as if suddenly making up her mind, she took her jacket off. Her arms 
were covered in ugly bruises. She shrank away when I tried to examine her and 
burst into tears. I could see straightaway she regretted the impulse. She 
wouldn't expand on the matter at all so rather than push and perhaps risk her 
not coming back if she needed to, I let it go."
"And did she come back, Dr. Jennings?" asked the Chief Inspector, jotting away 
and hoping his Biro would hold out.
"Yes. I'd given her a month's supply."
"When was that? And how much would the dosage be?"
Dr. Jennings glanced at his notes. "Thirty tablets at half a milligram."
"And she returned . . . ?"
"On the seventeenth of April. Said the tablets had helped her a lot, which I 
must say surprised me as she still looked really washed out. And even more 
unhappy. I gave her another prescription."
"For the same amount?"
"Yes, but warned her I wouldn't be giving repeats ad infinitum and that it was 
not in her interest that I should. So when she came back a week later--"
"A week?"
"With some story about the tablets disappearing, just vanished out of the 
bathroom cabinet, I didn't accept that for a minute."
"What did you think had happened?"
"To be honest I was afraid she was on the verge of doing something silly and 
wanted another bottle to make sure she made a proper job of it."
"So you refused to give her another prescription?"
"That's right. She became very distressed. Started to cry. I must say I did 
wonder then, briefly, if she might be telling the truth. Working on this 
principle I gave her half a dozen low dosage tranquillisers just to tide her 
over. Also the phone number of the Samaritans. And Relate."
"What's that?"
"Marriage guidance, as used to be. I urged her to discuss her problems with 
someone. And explained, of course, that she could always come to the surgery 
and talk to me."
Barnaby, pausing briefly to wonder at the fact that a doctor still existed who 
encouraged his patients to simply come and talk to him, asked what happened 
next.
"Nothing. She went away. I never saw her again."
"Were you surprised when she left her husband?"
"I must admit I was. I hate to use sociological jargon, Inspector, but that 
girl struck me from the first as a born victim. It wasn't just that she was 
small and fragile, there was something so submissive about her. She was like a 
child on its first day at school, you know? Standing around waiting for someone 
to tell her what to do."
"Was her general health reasonably sound?"
"Excellent, I assume. In fact the two visits I've just described were the only 
times she came to the surgery."
"Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Jennings." Barnaby got up as the doctor 
repacked the envelope file. "There's just one last thing, what colour would 
these capsules have been?"
"The half milligram?" He looked both interested and puzzled. "Turquoise and 
yellow. Why do you ask?"
"Just general background."
"I don't see, if he committed suicide, what difference--"
But he was talking to space. A further courteous murmur of thanks and the Chief 
Inspector had departed.
Down the lane things were now a bit more orderly. SOCO were working entirely 
inside so there was not a lot to see. Quite a few people had given up and those 
that were left looked as if they were in half a mind to.
Perrot, his face grey with misery which he was plainly only just managing to 
control, stood just inside the wrought-iron gates. He sprang to open them as 
the Chief Inspector approached. Glancing at the constable's frozen features, 
Barnaby was surprised to see such absolute despair. If Perrot had taken a minor 
dressing down this much to heart, how the hell was he ever going to cope if he 
found himself in real trouble?
"What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, sir. Thank you."
"You look like a dying duck in a thunderstorm."
"Yes, sir."
"Out with it, man." Silence. "D'you think I've got all bloody day to hang 
about?"
"No, Chief Inspector." Perrot came out with it. How Hollingsworth had been 
alive all the time he, the not merely foolish but criminally negligent Perrot, 
had been standing on the front doorstep. How the man's life might have been 
saved if only.
"You've been misinformed Constable." No need to ask who had delivered the good 
news. "He died Monday night."
"Ohhh!" cried Perrot. "But . . ."
An expression of utter disbelief rinsed the misery from the policeman's 
features. Disbelief, Barnaby suspected, not so much at this new piece of 
information but at the discovery that such deliberate malice could be directed 
against him by one supposedly on his own side. It was a wicked old life, 
thought the Chief Inspector, and no mistake.
Troy was standing just outside the newly secured French windows, smoking. 
Inside, two people wearing transparent overalls and boots were about their 
business. The boots were like old-fashioned galoshes, the front flap folded 
over and fastened with poppers down the side. The air was close and smelt 
rather metallic.
One of the officers, a woman, was new to Barnaby. She was tweezering something 
from the rug where Hollingsworth had, presumably, breathed his last. As Barnaby 
watched, she slipped it into a clear plastic sachet with a tag already attached.
Aubrey Marine, twenty years in the business, having run a hand-held Hoover up 
and down every fold of the apricot velvet curtains, was now starting on the 
lining. He called out, "Hullo, Tom. Here we are again."
"How's it going?"
"No startling surprises, as yet. We looking for anything special?"
"One or perhaps two small prescription bottles labelled Simone Hollingsworth, 
probably empty. And thirty or so turquoise and yellow capsule casings, also 
empty."
"How do you . . ." Aubrey pondered briefly then said, "Ah, with you. Those 
torpedo-shaped things you can pull apart."
"That's it."
"Not like you to invite us to a suicide's party."
"I'm not at all sure it is."
"Farewell note says you're wrong."
"What?"
"Goodbye, cruel world," moaned Aubrey. "First on the left on the landing."
"Bugger!"
Barnaby jerked his thumb at Sergeant Troy. The two ascended the stairs avoiding 
the banister which was already thickly coated with aluminium powder. Troy, 
neurotically averse to the slightest smudge or stain either on his person or 
raiment, was excessively painstaking.
The room in question was small, awash with bright white light and crammed with 
electronic equipment. All the machinery was plugged in and gently humming to 
itself. Every screen but one was blank. On this, even beneath the silvery bloom 
of SOCO's dust, emerald letters gleamed. The photographer from yesterday, now 
wearing a Blur/ Parklife T-shirt, tattered white shorts and the same filthy 
shoes, bent over the keyboard. A middle-aged woman, removing soft brushes from 
a steel case, addressed Barnaby.
"We're having to settle for pictures here, as you can see." She sounded 
cheerful and friendly and appeared to think such information would be a 
delightful surprise. "Blow them up nice and big and we should get some good 
results."
"Not much use in evidence." Barnaby was surly and morose.
"Best we can do, I'm afraid. The computer keys are quite deeply indented so 
there's no way we could lift a clear print with tape. It would just pleat and 
tucker."
"I have attended a scenes of crime investigation before, thank you."
The woman flushed, snapped her case shut and left, calling over her shoulder, 
"I'll come back later, Barry. When the room is free."
Barry winked at the two policemen then hefted himself and his tripod to one 
side so they could read Alan Hollingsworth's final message.
To whom it may concern. I can no longer bear to go on living and plan to take 
my own life. I am of sound mind and fully aware of my actions.
Alan Hollingsworth.
Staring uncertainly at the screen, Barnaby silently ran through every expletive 
and curse with which he was familiar then invented several more.
Troy, well experienced in assessing his chief's moods, saw that matters were 
presently in a state of flux. Could swing either way, as the man said when 
asked for his views on capital punishment.
"What's wrong with a pen and notepad all of a sudden?"
"They don't agree with paper. Cyber freaks." Troy spoke with feeling and some 
distaste. His cousin Colin, who jeered at everything the police held most dear, 
was heavily into what he called "Surfing the Net, flamming and spamming." 
Tactically excluded by such specialist lingo, Troy reacted by murmuring 
"Pathetic," sighing with boredom, looking constantly at his watch and telling 
Col to get a life.
Barnaby was likewise computer ignorant. Like a lot of middle-aged people, every 
time he came across the word modem in a newspaper or magazine, he assumed it to 
be a misprint for modern. He had picked up as much as he needed to file, bring 
up and cross-reference information. Anything more complicated and someone else 
took over.
Still, you didn't need to be a compugenius to see that tapping out a death 
note, complete with what by no stretch of the imagination could be called a 
signature, was an absolute doddle compared to forging a man's handwriting. And 
even if his sergeant was right and cyber freaks despised the use of paper, 
surely, in such extreme circumstances, Hollingsworth would have at least 
printed out his last message and signed it, if only to authenticate matters for 
his executors.
The more he thought about this, the more cheerful did the Chief Inspector 
become. The words on the screen now had the air to him not of bleak, resigned 
finality but of hasty improvisation. Mustn't get too cocky though. Best to wait 
till the pictures came out. They would show if Hollingsworth was the last 
person to use the keyboard.
"My daughter's learning to read with one of these. At playgroup," Troy remarked.
"Good grief. Haven't they got any books?"
"Oh yeah. But the kids prefer this."
Leaving, Barnaby looked back. The machine squatted there, passive, 
self-contained and, to his irritated fancy, with a will of its own. Running 
with this humanoid notion, he wondered how long it would be before they cut 
humans right out. Machine calling to machine, ripe with mechanical malice. 
Organising--or, more likely, disorganising--their owners' lives.
"Well, you won't get the better of me," he muttered, closing the door behind 
him. "You boss-eyed little Cyclops."
The unhinged gate of Bay Tree Cottage had been pushed to one side leaving a 
narrow gap. Sergeant Troy, slim as a shark's fin but minus that creature's 
affectionate nature, slid through with ease.
He lifted the gate, put it to one side so that his chief could follow and 
knocked on the front door.
"Do with a new coat, this," said Troy. He had given it five and was now rapping 
much more firmly on the narrow wooden panels, dislodging several flakes of 
Della Robbia blue.
Barnaby moved to the nearest window, the type with lots of small panes framed 
in white painted zinc. He glanced inside. No sign of human habitation.
There was no garage but on a roughish piece of grass next to the house were 
tyre marks and a small puddle of oil. Presumably Sarah Lawson's parking space. 
The drumming on the door had intensified.
"For God's sake, Gavin! Anyone'd think we were on a drug bust." Barnaby watched 
as his sergeant reluctantly lowered his fists. The trouble with Troy was that 
he could never observe and assess a situation simply for what it was worth. If 
drama was naturally absent, it had to be created, an opportunity made for him 
to play the toughie. It got rather tiresome at times.
"Back to the ranch is it then, chief?"
"No. It's half twelve and I'm parched. Let's get a bite to eat."
This time they sat in the garden at the Goat and Whistle. Geraniums blazed in 
window boxes. There was a sandpit with some buckets and spades and a Rockabilly 
giraffe which would agitate itself for up to five minutes on receipt of a fifty 
pence piece. Mercifully, at the moment there were no takers.
There was also an old tyre suspended by chains from a walnut tree. On it Troy, 
munching on pork scratchings, swung idly back and forth, a lager and black on 
the grass beside him.
Barnaby was struggling to finish his sausage roll. The pastry was hard and the 
filling, which in no way resembled sausage, tasted faintly of soap. He decided 
to leave the pickled egg, a strange shade of greenish fawn. Bravely, the Chief 
Inspector took a sip of his drink.
Last year his daughter and her husband had toured Eastern Europe with an Arts 
Council production of Much Ado About Nothing. Cully had sent her parents a copy 
of a Polish menu, woefully mistranslated. Joyce's favourite line had been: "Our 
wines leave you nothing to hope for." Barnaby had thought this merely an 
interpretive hiccup until he tasted Fawcett Green's Liebfraumilch.
"If this is going to run," he said, "we'll have to find somewhere else to eat."
"Oh yes?" Troy was puzzled. A bag of crisps was a bag of crisps was a bag of . 
. . "Do you want the rest of that roll, chief?" He got off his tyre and 
wandered over.
"God, no."
"What's the plonk like?"
"Indescribable." He pushed the nearly full glass, the roll and the egg across.
"Brilliant." Troy sat down and tucked in. Then, with a mouth full of mumble, 
"Thank you."
"Your insides must be made of galvanised steel."
"He knows how to make pastry, this bloke. I'll give him that."
Troy munched happily while keeping an ear cocked should any input be needed. 
But the gaffer was silent. He wore his folded-in expression. Inscrutable, like 
those Oriental masters who train the heroes of comic books to be Masters of the 
Universe. Presently he produced a silver foil strip of antacid tablets, popped 
two into his mouth and crunched them up.
Eventually Troy said, "You're very quiet, guv."
"I'm thinking."
Fair enough. Troy's egg vanished in two bites. A dirty job but someone had to 
do it.
"About this hair appointment," continued the Chief Inspector, "Mrs. 
Hollingsworth had on the day she disappeared."
"Right."
"Made for round about the same time Sarah Lawson was invited for tea. Don't you 
think it's an odd thing to do?"
"No, no." Sergeant Troy masticated, swallowed then said, with confident 
authority, "They're like that, women."
Women, like foreigners, the pigmentally challenged or differentially abled, 
like anyone in fact who did not fall into the lower middle to working class 
white male aggressively heterosexual brotherhood were diminished, in Troy's 
categorisation, to "they."
"Came home one night last week," he expanded. "Maureen's mate was giving her a 
home perm. Plus all her sisters were there. Everybody sitting round the kitchen 
table with their feet up guzzling chips and swigging Coke. Screaming, laughing, 
telling mucky jokes. Whole place stank of fag smoke and vinegar."
Barnaby somehow did not feel that Simone Hollingsworth's sessions with the girl 
Mrs. Molfrey had described as Maison Becky would follow a similar pattern but 
it seemed a touch snobbish to say so.
"When you talk to the hairdresser, find out if it's happened before. Someone 
else being around, I mean, when she's had to work on Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"Okey doke."
"I wonder," mused the Chief Inspector, "why she didn't cancel when she realised 
she wouldn't be there."
"They don't bother, rich people," said Troy. "They couldn't care less about 
putting you out."
Barnaby felt his sergeant was probably right, in a general sense. And maybe it 
was as simple as that. But what he had heard so far of Simone did not tie in 
with that particular sort of arrogance. Quite the contrary.
"We going back to the house now?" Troy asked.
"No. Aubrey said it might be another couple of hours before they're through. 
I'd like to visit Hollingsworth's office or factory unit--or whatever these 
industrial set-ups are called. See what the background really is to this Gray 
Patterson fracas."
"He's number one in the frame though, chief, wouldn't you say? Hates 
Hollingsworth, already known to be violent." Troy hesitated before adding, 
"Perhaps we should nip round to his place first? Before he has a chance to 
scarper."
"He'll have scarpered by now if that's his intention."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"And we'll only get one version of the truth there. I'd like to have something 
to compare it with." Barnaby heaved himself up from the much stained wooden 
bench. It was one of two bolted to either side of the table and he had to 
scramble awkwardly backwards, being unable to move it aside. His temper was not 
improved by the discovery that he had a piece of chewing gum stuck to his 
trousers.
Sergeant Troy climbed into the driving seat and opened all the windows. "It'll 
cool down once we get going."
"God, I hope so." Barnaby got Directory Enquiries on his mobile and asked for 
Penstemon's number. He rang it and told reception he would like to come over 
and talk to someone about Alan Hollingsworth.
"I'm afraid Mr. Hollingsworth isn't in at the moment." The young, slightly 
shrill female voice added, with breathtaking understatement, "He's not very 
well."
Though the police had, as yet, given out no official statement regarding the 
tragedy at Nightingales, Barnaby was surprised no one at Fawcett Green had 
thought to inform his office.
Speaking as he thought gently, he informed the girl in reception just how very 
unwell Alan Hollingsworth presently was. There was a lengthy pause, a sharp cry 
then a thud, as of a heavy object hitting something soft.
Listening, the Chief Inspector heard a confused hum of sound. Questioning 
voices were raised. Someone started to laugh in a high-pitched manner. The line 
went dead.
The company turned out to be based on one of those very large industrial 
estates which spawn on the outskirts of country towns. This one was about seven 
miles from Amersham.
Although, eventually, someone had given them precise instructions which Troy 
had carefully written down, he now found himself passing Texas Homecare and 
Allied Carpets for the third time. Previously he had come to a dead end in a 
builders' merchant's timber yard. There had been no verbal rebuke but the chief 
had started to drum his fingers on the rim of the wound-down window and glare 
about him.
Troy drove slowly, leaning into the windscreen, looking from left to right. It 
wasn't like finding MFI or Do It All which were not only hugely visible but had 
their own flags. Penstemon would no doubt be some little prefabricated 
Portakabin well off the main circuit. The heat from the windscreen was burning 
his forehead.
"Stop!"
"Sir?"
"There's a signpost."
Troy, who had already spotted the signpost, murmured, "Well, I never," and 
drove as close to it as he was able. Penstemon was back the way they'd just 
come. Barnaby sighed and rapped rather more firmly. Troy reversed and a few 
minutes later spotted the long, low building. It, too, was displaying an 
emblem. An azure blue flower on a yellow background. The flag was flying at 
half mast.
The reception area was boringly conventional. Tubular steel furniture, low 
tables holding neat stacks of technical journals and a great many artificial 
plants emerging from pots of simulated earth. On the hessian walls were mounted 
several brilliantly luminous computer graphics in brushed aluminium frames.
As Troy closed the glass entrance door a young man wearing a pale, stylishly 
crumpled linen suit came forward to greet them.
"You're the police?" He barely glanced at the warrant cards. "What absolutely 
terrible news. Verity's lying down," he added, as if they had asked for her by 
name. "She's the person usually on reception. I'm Clive Merriman."
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Mr. Merriman." Barnaby undid his 
jacket the better to revel in the air conditioning. "Do you think we might have 
a word with whoever has been in charge during Alan Hollingsworth's absence?"
"That's our accountant, Ted Burbage. I told him you'd be coming."
Mr. Burbage's office was not far. In fact nothing was. They passed only three 
other rooms. One held several people sitting at keyboards. The second held 
several monitors and had Alan Hollingsworth's name in gilded letters on the 
door. The third was labelled "loos, mail(r) femail."
"Causton CID?" Mr. Burbage, a man not so much deeply tanned as caramelised, was 
giving Barnaby's card a much closer inspection. "What on earth's going on? Is 
it something to do with Alan?"
"That's right, Mr. Burbage."
"Sorry, please sit down." Then, as the two policemen did so, "Will this take 
long?"
"Hard to say, sir."
"Better sort out some tea, Clive. Or," he looked inquiringly across the room, 
"perhaps you'd rather have something cooler? We have a Coke machine."
"That would really hit the spot. Thanks very much."
After the cold drinks had turned up and instructions given for his calls to be 
held, the accountant got up from his chair and stood facing his visitors. There 
was something rather defensive about the movement. And about the way he leaned 
forward, balanced by fingertips resting on the edge of his desk. He looked a 
bit like a goalie bracing himself for a deceitful kick from a sharp left-winger.
"So." A deep breath. "Found dead was all we could get out of Verity. Once we'd 
brought her round, of course."
"Mr. Hollingsworth's body was discovered mid-morning yesterday but we think he 
died late Monday evening."
"Good God."
"An overdose."
"Suicide?" It was one long groan. He put his head in his hands. The burnished 
bald spot glowed less emphatically. "The insurance'll never pay out. God, what 
a mess."
"There'll be an inquest when our preliminary inquiries are complete, Mr. 
Burbage. I should wait for the coroner's verdict before rushing to conclusions."
"There are several full-time workers here, you know." Burbage had rushed on 
well before the Chief Inspector finished speaking. "People with mortgages, 
families, dependants. What is going to happen to us if the business folds?"
This lack of distress at an employer's demise was to be found in all the 
interviews carried out at Penstemon. Alan Hollingsworth, while not actually 
disliked, certainly did not seem to evoke much warmth of feeling amongst his 
staff.
A second later, when Mr. Burbage had caught up with Barnaby's suggestion about 
the coroner's verdict, an amazed questioning possessed him. The Chief Inspector 
wasted several minutes getting the interview back on the rails.
"I assume Mr. Hollingsworth was in touch with the office while he was away?"
"Yes, of course."
"What reason did he give for his absence?"
"Summer flu."
"Was that like him?"
"Absolutely not. Never had five minutes off since I've been here."
"Did you speak to him yourself?"
"Naturally. There were various things to discuss. Ongoing problems."
"Money problems?"
All expression vanished from Mr. Burbage's cool, pale eyes. "I really couldn't 
say."
"How did he sound?"
"Not well at all. And he was also rather . . . wound up. If I didn't grasp what 
he was saying straightaway he started to shout, which was also unlike him. He 
was usually very courteous."
"Was there anything untoward about his last day here?"
"Only that he went home early. Around five fifteen."
"Did he say why?"
"It may have been something to do with a phone call Verity put through. She 
said it was from his wife."
"I see. You appear to be a small concern," said the Chief Inspector, looking 
round. "Or is this perhaps not the only branch?"
"No, Wysiwyg." Faced with bewilderment, he elaborated. "Computer speak. What 
you see is what you get. As to your question . . ."
Ted Burbage hesitated. Barnaby recognised the wish to be helpful struggling 
with the professional money man's ingrained habit of close-mouthed caution. 
"Small but stable. This is a thriving time in the industry. We can't all be 
Bill Gates but when the big boys thrive there's always a nice helping of crumbs 
for the little boys."
As an example of appearing to say something while in fact saying nothing it was 
pretty neat. Barnaby nodded. Even he had heard of Bill Gates.
Troy also nodded, in accord. Not that Burbage would have noticed. The sergeant 
was sitting in a wide leather armchair, the position of which, slightly behind 
and well to the left of the accountant, had been chosen deliberately. Though 
Troy's note-taking was both rapid and discreet--often he would cover several 
pages while hardly seeming to glance at his book at all--he was aware that 
seeing their spoken words written down could really throw some people, even 
cause them to dry up. Hence, whenever possible, he would play the invisible man.
The chief was asking now how well Burbage knew the firm's late owner.
"That's difficult. I didn't know all that much about him but whether that was 
because he chose to conceal things or because there wasn't much to know I 
couldn't tell you. He talked about work all the time but men do of course. And 
those who are hooked on computers are the worst of the lot. I felt sorry for 
his wife."
"Did you ever meet her?"
"No. She didn't come here and Alan didn't go in for socialising. At least not 
within the firm."
"You're not aware then that she left home several days ago?"
"Left . . . ? No, I certainly wasn't."
"Did he ever indicate--"
"Look, you'd be far better off putting questions about Alan to . . ." Burbage 
floundered into silence and stared out of his picture window at the 
double-glazing company's fascia across the road. Barnaby could not have asked 
for a sweeter segue.
"We shall be talking to Gray Patterson later, Mr. Burbage."
"Sorry?" The accountant frowned now as if trying to remember where he had heard 
the name before. Barnaby did not help him out. "Ah, Gray, of course, yes. He'd 
perhaps know more about it."
"Perhaps you can fill me in with a bit of background regarding the trouble 
between the two men."
"Ohhh, that." Pause. "Rather technical, I'm afraid." Mr. Burbage spoke with 
crisp, dismissive brevity, plainly regretting his earlier slip of the tongue. 
From now on Barnaby judged the interview would be unembellished by any bits of 
gossip or private opinion as to the personalities involved. Never mind. With a 
bit of luck there would be some gleanings along those lines in the outer 
office. Wearing an expectant, interested expression he waited, maintaining eye 
contact. He was good at that.
"Something to do with creating a new language," said Mr. Burbage so grudgingly 
one would think he was giving away a shameful secret. "One where you can write 
an application, run it on any machine and also transfer stuff straight from the 
Internet on to your own computer."
"I understand," fibbed the Chief Inspector. "Did they found Penstemon 
together--Hollingsworth and Patterson?"
"I'm not sure about that. But Gray has certainly been involved from the very 
beginning."
"What was their relationship?"
"How do you mean?"
"Were they friends?"
"I've no idea."
"Oh, come on, Mr. Burbage." Barnaby allowed himself a flare of irritation. 
"Half a dozen people work here at very close quarters. You must--"
"As far as I know it was just business."
"So how did all this drama come about?"
"You should ask Patterson."
"There's always more than one side to any story. And I'm never going to hear 
Hollingsworth's."
"That's true." A respect for balance, a proper equilibrium, prompted him to 
continue. "Well, as I've already explained, they'd got this new micro system 
going. And after almost a year things had got to the stage where Gray felt they 
were ready to talk about marketing. Alan said he wanted to develop the package 
a stage further feeling that this would push it into the really big league. 
'Worldwide' was what he actually said. Gray had come to a full stop on it and 
naturally asked what direction Alan thought this further stage would take. Alan 
was evasive, saying he needed more time to clarify his ideas. About a month 
went by--"
"Bringing us to?"
"Oh, early March, I suppose. Anyway, Gray started pressing him again. You must 
understand, Inspector, that this world is intensely competitive. With everyone 
always desperately looking for an inventive edge, time is absolutely of the 
essence. Days, even hours sometimes, can count. Though he trusted his 
colleague, never having had cause to do otherwise, Gray's anxiety about this 
evasiveness led him to try and access the file. You understand what I mean by 
this, Chief Inspector?"
"Vaguely," replied Barnaby. He certainly knew it had nothing to do with filing 
cabinets, those cumbersome metal objects without which no office had once 
seemed complete.
"It couldn't be found. Gray checked twice then looked for the back-up. But the 
floppy had also gone. Alan professed puzzlement. He appeared upset but not 
nearly as upset as Gray who was absolutely distraught. We're talking about 
months of very hard, creative work here. Not devastatingly original 
perhaps--most of the new stuff is designed on the shoulders of what's gone 
before--but, as far as they knew, well ahead of the race.
"There was a certain amount of acrimonious exchange which ended with nothing 
resolved then things seemed to settle down somewhat. We thought Gray had simply 
accepted the fact that, due to some dreadful carelessness on someone's part, 
Celandine--that was the project's code name--had been accidentally wiped. But 
we were wrong. The mildness of Alan's reaction to the disaster had made Gray 
suspicious. He borrowed Alan's keys on some pretext or other and got the one 
for Nightingales copied. One afternoon, when Mrs. Hollingsworth was presumably 
known to be elsewhere, he got into the house, plugged in to Alan's personal 
computer and discovered that Celandine had been sold to a company called 
Patellus for two hundred thousand pounds."
Barnaby allowed himself to look impressed, which wasn't difficult. He said, 
"Are Patellus one of the big boys you mentioned earlier?"
"Ish. Not in the league of Lotus or Novell but on the way. Gray drove straight 
back here, stormed into Alan's office, locked the door and set about him. It 
was appalling. The noise . . ." Mr. Burbage shuddered with distaste. "I called 
the police. I had to. I thought they were killing each other. Gray got a 
suspended sentence, as I expect you know."
"Indeed. But he won't leave the matter there surely?"
"Oh, no. He's taking us to court for loss of earnings. Although--" Burbage 
broke off, looking quite put out. Plainly, for the duration of his narrative, 
he had forgotten that the owner of Penstemon was no more. "What will happen now 
I don't know."
"I assume the company can still be sued?"
"Alan was the company. We're not Plc. There are no shareholders. And I can tell 
you that there is no way we could find two hundred thousand pounds, let alone 
court costs. That is," he added hastily, "in the strictest confidence."
"So one could say that Hollingsworth's death was very much to Gray Patterson's 
disadvantage?"
"I suppose so. Yes."
"Do you have any idea how much of the work on Celandine each man put in?"
"Not really. I doubt if even they did to any precise degree. These things are 
very difficult to quantify."
"Or why Hollingsworth should suddenly have needed such a large amount of money?"
"None at all."
"Could I ask if the name Blakeley means anything to you?"
"Freddie Blakeley? He's our bank manager. At Nat West."
"Thank you. And, I wonder, do you have the name of the Hollingsworth family 
solicitor?"
"Jill Gamble at Fanshawe and Clay. They are Penstemon's solicitors also."
"And, one last question. Someone should be notified that Hollingsworth has 
died. In the absence of his wife, who is presumably his next of kin, do you 
know of any close relation?"
"He has a brother in Scotland. Alan described him once as a very pious man, 
full of rectitude and a pillar of the community. I'm not sure that he's not a 
minister." Mr. Burbage allowed himself a smile of wintry satisfaction. "They 
weren't close."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Burbage." Barnaby got up.
The accountant, with a wheeze of relief, did the same.
"If we could have a word now with the rest of the staff?"
Gamely Mr. Burbage escorted them into the outer offices where he stayed, as 
chaperon, for the duration of their inquiries. He even gave up the keys to 
Alan's office without demur and stood by as it was locked. Plainly an unhappy 
man, he then went outside to wave them off.
Chapter Five
"I need some smokes," said Sergeant Troy. Walking down the lane on the way back 
to Nightingales, they were just passing Ostlers. "Do you want anything, chief?"
Barnaby was ravenous. It was now nearly four o'clock. Seven hours since he had 
eaten--for no reasonable person could describe the mess of pottage dished up in 
the Goat and Whistle as food.
He followed Troy into the cool whitewashed interior, ducking his head to avoid 
the beams and looking eagerly about him. He needed something filling and tasty 
which did not have to be irradiated by way of making it edible.
The choice was not uplifting. Fruit, chocolate, cheap biscuits of an unfamiliar 
brand. A baker's tray lined with grease-spotted paper held a few tired buns and 
several strange-looking domed tarts covered with shreds of coconut. Next to 
these was a single sausage roll which, in style and finish, looked morbidly 
familiar.
"Hey," beckoned Troy. "Look at these."
Lying across the ice-cream unit was a wooden board supporting several small, 
wheyey cheeses, each placed carefully on individual mats of slatted straw 
surrounded by laurel leaves. One of the cheeses was concealed beneath a 
charming hinged pewter mould shaped like a hedgehog.
"Isn't it cute?" There was a metal loop in the centre of the creature's back. 
Troy slipped his little finger through and lifted up the mould. "My mum'd love 
one of them."
Unsupported, the cheese slowly collapsed, spreading downwards and outwards into 
a lumpy, cream-coloured puddle.
At that moment the multicoloured strips of plastic at the rear of the shop 
slapped and fluttered and an extraordinary figure appeared.
A large woman in a long, dun-coloured dress. The soft pieces of leather wrapped 
round her feet were secured by narrow thongs. Her brown, hirsute legs were 
bare. She had on a cotton bonnet of the type worn by milkmaids in musical 
comedies and a wide white ruff of the type worn by the aristocracy in Holbein 
portraits. She moved smoothly, as actors sometimes do in Victorian drama on 
television, as if on concealed roller skates.
Weird, decided Sergeant Troy. He did not relish the idiosyncratic.
"So, gentles all." She sat behind the till with a bestowing air, as if her 
customers had just been accorded a rare treat. "How can I assist you?"
Troy, who had positioned himself in such a manner as to conceal the collapsing 
cheese, said, "Forty Rothmans, please."
"Sir Walter's friend?" She took down the cigarettes. "Virginia's finest."
"Thank you." Troy couldn't stop staring. Awkwardly placed for handing over the 
money, he gazed around him, pretending interest. "Unusual place."
"You admire the Tudor period?"
"Oh yeah." The sergeant was fervent in agreement. He struggled to recall a 
single relative fact without success, settling for, "Been to Windsor Castle."
"But that's ancient. Hardly sixteenth century."
"That a fact?" Troy changed the subject. "Lovely day."
"Peradventure. That will be two ninety-five, please."
The sergeant looked around for his chief who was polishing an apple on his 
sleeve and sussing the cold drinks layout.
"No doubt you're intrigued as to the manner of my appearance?"
"You could say that," agreed Sergeant Troy.
"I'm off shortly to give an illustrated talk to the Townswomen's Guild on the 
making of cheese in Elizabethan times, hence the garb. Look behind you and 
you'll see my samples."
The words had a ring of bright confidence. Touching really, thought Troy as he 
duly turned and looked behind him. The runny stuff had been almost totally 
absorbed by the straw mat. Turning his back and hoping to conceal the precise 
details of his move, the sergeant replaced the mould in its original position.
"Ah, ah!" cried Mrs. Boast. "Mustn't touch. They may not be quite set."
"Sorry." At ease now that the moment of hazard was past, Troy smiled, 
sauntering over to pay for his ciggies. "Do a lot of this sort of thing?"
"Oh yes. Schools, clubs, institutes. My specialties are still-room receipts, 
baking and dairy crafts. Hubby lectures on flag-wagging and mediaeval armour. 
Martial swashing on demand."
"Is that a fact?"
"At weekends we fight."
Tell me about it, thought Sergeant Troy.
"With the Civil War Society. I could give you details."
But Troy was saved as his boss came alongside, laying a blister pack of cherry 
Genoa, an apple and a Lion bar on the counter and wondering aloud if there was 
such a thing to be had as a can of Seven-Up.
"We say 'tin' at Ostlers," chided Mrs. Boast. "It's a little way we have. A 
little discipline. Perpetuating classical English."
"Do you have a tin of Seven-Up?" asked the Chief Inspector politely.
"Never stock it."
Barnaby added a Diet Coke to his pile and offered a ten pound note. Mrs. Boast, 
no doubt already in character and only truly at home with the doubloon, 
appeared put out.
"Haven't you anything smaller?"
"I've got some change, chief."
As his Sergeant paid, Barnaby fished out his warrant card and explained what 
their business was in the village. He asked the shopkeeper what she knew of the 
Hollingsworths.
Mrs. Boast stretched her neck like a rooster then settled back into her ruff. 
This was necessary from time to time as it was rather prickly. Her head, 
resting atop the concertinaed white pleats, reminded Barnaby of a certain sort 
of religious painting, the ones where, at the end of a banquet, the head of a 
malcontent is borne in on a platter along with the fruit and nuts.
"I never met Alan. He ordered a stack of frozen individual meals just after she 
walked out but that was by telephone. Used his credit card and hubby delivered. 
Simone would come in from time to time or I'd see her occasionally ringing 
someone from across the way." She nodded at the plate-glass window through 
which the British Telecom box was clearly visible.
"Surely they had a phone at home?" asked Troy.
"Always having trouble on the line. Or so she told me."
Barnaby said, "What was your impression of Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"A pampered jade," declared Mrs. Boast, slipping once more into Shakespeak.
Several people had by then come into the shop and one of them was waiting to 
pay. Barnaby left it there, knowing that, should a full investigation be set in 
motion, house to house would also be putting questions.
Outside Nightingales the SOCO van shimmered in the heat. The honest burghers of 
Fawcett Green, though now restrained by barriers, showed no signs of 
resentment. Rather, there was an air about the place of a good day out. People 
were standing around or sitting on the grass verges chatting amongst 
themselves, savouring, with unselfconscious jollity, the presence of death. A 
family group, complete with dog, devoured sandwiches and sucked drinks through 
straws. The woman's hair had been elaborately waved and she wore a lot of 
make-up, possibly anticipating television cameras.
Perrot, just back from a short lunch break and full of his wife's delicious 
home cooking, opened the gates. Barnaby and Troy eased their way through, the 
latter contenting himself this time with a couple of sotto voce squawks. The 
constable remained aloof, gazing coldly into the middle distance until 
addressed by the Chief Inspector.
"In the house, Perrot. Ask the man on the front door to take over here."
"Sir."
They found Aubrey Marine at the kitchen table surrounded by stained mugs and 
plates, an overflowing pedal bin and a cardboard Baked Beans box, also crammed 
with debris. On the dirty ceramic hob stood a frying pan smelling of rancid fat 
and a burnt saucepan. The sink was stacked with dirty cutlery. Flies were 
everywhere. Barnaby was reminded of the set for the Causton amateur dramatic 
society's last production, The Caretaker, which his wife had, very 
successfully, directed.
"What on earth's that smell?"
"Whisky. The sink reeks of it."
"Did you find the pill bottles?"
"Nope."
"What about the capsule casings?"
"Zilch. We've been through all this lot and the wheelie bin. Might turn them up 
in the long grass."
"I don't think so."
"Maybe he put them down the toilet." Troy looked about him, metaphorically 
holding his nose.
"It's possible," said Aubrey. "But they weigh nothing. I think we'd have found 
at least one or two still floating."
"I'm going aloft. Have a look round down here, Sergeant. Check out that bureau 
with the glass front and the desk. See if you can lay your hands on a phone 
bill."
"Right, guv."
Barnaby entered the hall where Perrot waited awkward, uncertain, anxious to 
please. Together they climbed the stairs. Barnaby paused on the bend to admire 
a print of "Peupliers au bord de I'epte." Framed in transparent Perspex, its 
serene beauty charmed the eye and soothed the heart. What do you want, the 
Chief Inspector entertained himself by musing, if you don't want Monet?
On the landing he asked Perrot to check the three smaller bedrooms.
"What am I looking for, sir?"
"Anything that might shed light on Mrs. Hollingsworth's disappearance or her 
husband's death. Surely I don't have to draw you a picture?"
"No, sir."
The master bedroom was directly facing Barnaby. He opened the door and found 
himself facing another theatrical backdrop, cleaner and vastly more frivolous 
than the kitchen. Perfect, in fact, for the Merry Widow.
A king-sized bed was surrounded by cloudy draperies which had been gathered up 
and fastened into a gilded metal crown attached to the ceiling. The ivory 
headboard was enlivened by pastoral scenes in delicate pastel shades. Nymphs 
and shepherds cavorted in meadows of spring flowers beneath the eye of their 
Olympian overlords. Centaurs lapped from a rippling stream.
A wedding photograph stood on the bedside table. Barnaby picked it up to study 
it more closely. There was that about the groom that the Chief Inspector 
recognised. His son-in-law, Nicholas, had shown just such a combination of 
emotions on his nuptial day. Pride, deep satisfaction, elation even. The look 
of the hunter-gatherer who has not only come across a species thought to be 
extinct but has brought back a specimen for all the world to wonder at. Yet the 
strain showed. The wonder of being chosen was clearly grazed over by anxiety, 
for would not every man be seeking such a rare prize? Poor Nico. He was still 
hanging on in there but Barnaby sometimes wondered for how much longer. He 
turned his attention to Hollingsworth's bride who looked traditionally radiant.
The vicar, he decided, had been spot on. Simone Hollingsworth really was 
astonishingly pretty, if a trifle artificial looking for his own taste. Smiling 
brilliantly from beneath a tumbling froth of veiling, she looked rather like 
one of those skilfully lacquered creatures who swan around the cosmetic 
sections of department stores spraying unwary women--and men too if they 
weren't sharp about it--with perfumed atomisers.
Barnaby took the picture to the window for better light and stood silently 
appreciating the rosy, glistening mouth. Nearly always the two halves of a top 
lip are imperfectly matched but here was absolute symmetry even to the perfect 
cupid's bow. The bottom lip was fuller than he would have expected, giving an 
impression of sensual generosity. She had wide set greyish-green eyes with long 
curling lashes and warm, blushing apricot cheeks. Looking more closely, he 
realised the shape of her mouth had been very skilfully realised by a pencil 
and he thought he could discern, beneath its lush contours, a narrower and 
rather less seductive outline. Her hair, curling round ears as delicate and 
translucent as little shells, was so fair as to be almost white.
She was holding a spray of ivory rosebuds bound with silver ribbons and wore 
not only a wedding ring but an extremely large diamond solitaire. No wonder she 
looked bloody radiant. As quickly as he came to this conclusion so Barnaby 
chided himself for such chauvinistic cynicism. Lucky the family were not 
present to read his mind. Cully would have really sharpened her claws on that 
one.
The Chief Inspector was no great believer in physiognomy and so drew no 
conclusions regarding Mrs. Hollingsworth's character from such external 
comeliness. He had come across too much vicious behaviour by human beings who 
might have modelled for Boticelli. And acts of great charity and kindness from 
those who could have climbed out of a pit dug by Hieronymus Bosch.
He put the picture back and wandered into the bathroom. More schlock. False 
marble floor and starry ceiling, coppercoloured mirror glass walls--the whole 
place shimmered in bronze light. There was a vast triangular forget-me-not blue 
bath with high arched golden taps, the handles made to resemble multi-petalled 
chrysanthemums. Every possible flat surface in the room was covered with jars 
and bottles and tubes and aerosols. As Constable Perrot had surmised, she 
couldn't have taken even a single pot of cream, for there was not an empty 
space anywhere.
Barnaby opened a drawer in the appropriately named vanity unit. Rows and rows 
of neatly arranged lipsticks. Annoyed with himself for time-wasting, he 
surrendered to a compulsion and counted them. Seventy-three. Dear God, 
seventy-three. He recalled Joyce's modest collection and no longer wondered 
what Simone Hollingsworth did all day. Just laboratory testing this lot could 
prove a lifetime's occupation.
There were around a dozen boxes of perfume. One had the lid open and the 
atomiser had been taken out and was standing by the washbasin. Barnaby thought 
it likely this meant she had been wearing the perfume, called Joy, when she 
left the house. He took a tissue and sprayed it. The scent was very rich and 
flowery, quite beautiful in fact. The Chief Inspector thought he might get some 
for his wife's birthday which was in three weeks' time and slipped the tissue 
into his pocket.
He drifted out again, crossing into the white and gold fitted wardrobes that 
ran all down the facing wall, sliding the nearest open. Troy came in, sniffing 
the air.
"Bet you can't get that at Superdrug."
"Any luck with the phone bill?"
"No, chief. Sorry."
"Doesn't matter. We'll contact British Tel."
"In relation to what?"
"Think about it."
Troy had a go this time but was quickly defeated. His introspection was not of 
a constructive or perceptive nature. It involved kick-starting a few hardy old 
perennials, whirling them vigorously around like salad in a basket and letting 
them settle.
Resigned to passing on this one, he joined his chief who was now opening 
another section. The ball bearings rumbled sweetly. Soft falls of velvet and 
lace, drifts of sparkling georgette, neat outlines of wool and linen and tweed 
were conjured, concealed, revealed again. Systematically Barnaby checked all 
the pockets. The clothes were so tightly packed you could not have slid a cat's 
whisker between any of them let alone a Gold Card from Harvey Nicks.
"Wouldn't mind a slice of that with my bedtime cocoa," said Sergeant Troy who 
had also clocked the wedding picture. Then, receiving no response to this 
jaunty lubricity, "Do we know if she went off with that gobstopper on her 
finger?"
"Not yet."
"Might explain why nothing else is missing. That'd keep her going till the end 
of the century."
"Check these handbags, would you? Then the shoes. There might be something in 
one of the toes."
"Won't be a sec." Troy disappeared into the bathroom. He used the toilet 
calling out over the flush, "I've always wanted to have it off in a jacuzzi."
Barnaby worked his way through the first of two chests of drawers. Cashmere 
sweaters all in pastel shades, filmy underwear and scarves, a Paisley shawl. 
There were also dozens of unsealed packets containing prettily flowered 
leggings, pale tights and stockings with black or cream lace tops. Nowhere 
could he find clean, used hosiery. Perhaps she never wore anything twice. There 
was a leather jewel case full of quite dazzling costume jewellery but minus the 
rock of ages.
"Maureen says," Troy came back in, "you can come off in one of those if you sit 
in the right place for long enough." He sounded both dubious and miffed. There 
seemed to be more and more things women were doing without the need of male 
assistance. Pretty soon, he decided, we'll need a preservation order to stop us 
dying out from lack of use.
Mrs. Hollingsworth had a positively Marcosian relish for footwear. Troy slid 
his fingers inside strappy numbers with slender heels, brightly coloured 
slip-ons in glove-soft leather, court shoes, suede flatties with thin gilt 
chains looped across the tongues, pearly evening sandals sparkling with 
rhinestones. There were some Filo sneakers but no serious walking boots or 
Wellingtons. Presumably, though living in the heart of the country, Mrs. 
Hollingsworth was not much of a one for getting close to nature. He started on 
the bags.
Barnaby, standing by the bed which was neatly and cleanly made, wondered why 
Hollingsworth had not been sleeping in it. Perhaps he had rejected the idea for 
superstitious reasons fearing such a surrender might seem to be bowing his head 
to the fates. Acknowledgement not only of the fact of her leaving but that she 
would never return. Perhaps he'd wanted to stay close to the telephone. Perhaps 
he'd simply been too drunk to climb the stairs.
"Well," said Sergeant Troy, snapping the final clasp, "nobody could say he kept 
her short."
Barnaby could not agree. Recapping on what he had heard so far about 
Simone--the aimless wanderings about the village, her vague, brief membership 
of this group or that, shallow time-filling conversations in place of real 
friendship and the harsh treatment meted out possibly because she had attempted 
to fly a little further afield--it seemed to the Chief Inspector that she had 
been kept short of the one quality above all others that made life worth 
living. Namely freedom.
"Be turning up any minute now, once she knows he's snuffed it."
"Why d'you say that?"
"Rich widow. She'll want to collect."
"I hope you're right."
"Course I'm right. Stands to reason." The most unreasonable things stood to 
reason with Sergeant Troy, provided they supported his prejudices.
Outside on the landing, Perrot cleared his throat then knocked as if Barnaby 
had been in his office at the station.
"Find anything, Constable?"
"Nothing relevant, sir. Mr. Hollingsworth's clothes, shirts and so on. I 
checked all the pockets and turn-ups. Two piles of fashion magazines but no 
notes or bits of paper concealed although one magazine had a page torn out. 
Several suitcases and lightweight travel bags, all empty. Sheets and duvet 
covers, blankets, towels, pillowcases--"
"Yes, yes, all right, Perrot. It's not the first day of Harrods' sale."
"No, sir."
By now everyone was on the landing. Troy led the way down the stairs, running 
lightly on the balls of his feet, slyly savouring the contrast between his own 
slender athleticism and Perrot's barrel-chested, oaken-thighed stolidity. Not 
to mention that bulky pachyderm bringing up the rear.
As the two policemen made their way towards Gray Patterson's place, Barnaby 
mentally ran over his conversation with Penstemon's accountant and the 
description of the magistrates' hearing in the Causton Echo, a cutting of which 
had been sent to his office.
A man more sinned against than sinning, by all accounts, Hollingsworth's former 
colleague. Betrayed, swindled out of a great deal of money then sacked. Was it 
likely that a brisk punch-up would satisfy Patterson's quite justified rage? 
And what was the truth about the relationship that "went back a long way?"
Barnaby looked forward to having these questions answered and had no doubt 
that, once he met the man, a whole new whatever was the collective noun of 
questions would arise. He whiled away the next few minutes trying to think of 
what that noun might be. A poser, a quiz, a snoop. A speculation, a viva. A 
nosey. A grill . . .
Number 17, the Street, was situated on the outskirts of the village several 
yards from its nearest neighbour and almost totally concealed from passers-by 
behind a belt of blue piceas. A green painted board declared that the property 
was To Let. The place itself was a low, whitewashed, double-fronted building in 
the style that estate agents and people who know little of real country living 
call "farmhouse."
As soon as Barnaby opened the gate a black and white Border collie rushed 
towards them. Plainly confused about what constituted guard duties, it was not 
only barking loudly but vigorously wagging its tail.
It jumped up at Troy who, torn between his love of dogs and a passion for 
immaculate attire, demonstrated both by clicking his tongue at the animal and 
asking its name, then brushing the knees of his trousers with his handkerchief. 
By this time the collie was dancing away over a large expanse of roughly mown, 
extremely weedy grass, looking back occasionally to make sure they were 
following.
By a far hedge a man was tossing clippings into an old oil drum. Barnaby hoped, 
in this burning drought, he was not going to attempt to set fire to the stuff. 
One spark and half the village would go up.
Patterson stuck his fork in the ground and came forward to meet them. The 
vociferous dog, having delivered her charges safely, was now looking back and 
forth between the visitors and her master, nudging his attention towards this 
successful feat.
Patterson said, "Shut up, Bess."
Barnaby presented his warrant card. Troy bent down, patted the dog's sharp, 
intelligent face and said, "Good girl."
"I've been expecting you. Verity rang. From the office."
Barnaby's imagination, lazily working from a received scenario, had conjured a 
well-built, bellicose type. Gray Patterson was slender and quite tall. His 
shoulders curved slightly forwards. A donnish stoop, decided the Chief 
Inspector, before remembering the man had spent probably the last twenty years 
crouched over a keyboard. He had red-gold hair, curly and tight against his 
head, greenish-grey eyes and a clear skin, still scarcely tanned in spite of 
his outdoor labours.
"Let's get away from all this rubbish."
He ploughed through a heap of conifer branches, kicking them aside, and waved 
his visitors in the direction of a couple of shabby deckchairs. Barnaby, 
already picturing the vast, ungainly struggle when he tried to extricate 
himself, declined the offer. Troy folded himself into the striped canvas sling 
with a single movement of great elegance.
Staring severely at his subordinate, the Chief Inspector lumbered over to an 
ancient wooden stool which lay on its side under an apple tree. He righted it 
and sat down in the shade. Patterson perched on the rim of an old water-wheel. 
Bess immediately ran to his side and lay down, half hidden by a drift of moon 
daisies, panting in the heat.
"You lot are playing all this very close."
"Is that right, Mr. Patterson?"
"No one seems to know whether Alan topped himself, swallowed the stuff by 
accident or was done in."
"We're simply making a few inquiries at this stage." Smoothly Barnaby 
sidestepped the invitation to reveal all. "I understand you knew Mr. 
Hollingsworth quite well."
"Not as well as I thought, obviously."
"You refer to the trouble at Penstemon?"
"What else?"
"Perhaps you'd like to give me your version of what happened, sir?" said the 
Chief Inspector.
"I doubt it'll vary much from what you've heard already."
In this Patterson was not quite correct. Although the running order of events 
and the events themselves departed hardly at all from Burbage's account, having 
the background fleshed out added a slightly different gloss. For a start there 
were an awful lot of "I's" and "my's" scattered through the narrative.
"Am I to understand," asked Barnaby, "that this project was not a joint effort 
between yourself and Mr. Hollingsworth?"
"It certainly wasn't. I had the idea and I did all the groundwork. Alan's input 
was minimal. Naturally the work was financially backed by the company and I was 
drawing a decent salary. On the other hand, if Celandine took off, the business 
stood to do very well. And I'd been promised fifty per cent of any money the 
program brought in."
"In writing, sir?"
"Hah!" It was a savage shout. Bess, alert and concerned, pricked up her soft, 
black and white triangular ears. "I'd known him for ten years and worked with 
him for nearly that long. It never occurred to me such a thing would be 
necessary."
"So, morally, you feel that you're entitled to at least half of the two 
hundred--"
"Too bloody right I am!" Patterson's long, narrow hands were locked together in 
his lap. He pulled on them savagely, cracking the knuckles. He swallowed hard 
as if forcing down some galloping sickness. It was some time before he could 
speak again.
"I've taken legal advice. Did you know, if you're on your uppers, you're 
allowed one free session at the CAB?"
"Broke, are you, Mr. Patterson?" asked Sergeant Troy.
"Worse. I was committed to my financial limit before all this happened. Now I'm 
up to my ears in debt. Not to mention negative equity."
"What advice did they give you?" asked Barnaby. "The CAB?"
"To sue. Especially as I'm entitled to legal aid so don't risk losing lots of 
money in costs. What will happen now he's dead, though, I'm not sure."
"Do you have any idea why he should suddenly need such a large amount of cash?"
"None at all."
"When did you last see him?"
"At the magistrates' hearing."
"But that's weeks ago," said Sergeant Troy. "Surely, in a little place like 
this--"
"He's not difficult to avoid. Never walks anywhere. Doesn't use the pub."
"What about Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"Oh yes, I saw her. About a day or two before she sloped off." He picked one of 
the daisies and started tickling the dog with it. Bess rolled on to her back 
and kicked her legs in the air with happiness.
"I was on my way to call on Sarah Lawson--have you met her yet?" Barnaby shook 
his head. "And Simone was using the phone, which is just outside Bay Tree 
Cottage."
"You didn't happen to overhear any of the conversation?"
"I'm afraid not. Does it matter? I mean, there's no mystery about her leaving, 
is there?"
"What day would that be, Mr. Patterson?"
"Let's see." He closed his eyes. "Sarah wasn't teaching so it couldn't have 
been Wednesday. Monday I didn't go out, so that makes it Tuesday."
"Mrs. Hollingsworth still there when you left the cottage, sir?" asked Sergeant 
Troy.
"No. Though it was a very brief visit. Sarah was working and didn't want to be 
disturbed. I may as well tell you," Patterson said wryly, "because I'm sure 
you'll be told by some village busybody soon enough, that I have serious 
designs on the lady. Not getting very far though, am I, Bess?"
Directly addressed, the dog trembled with pleasure. She sprang up looking 
excited, as if some great adventure was afoot. She tried to put her head on his 
knee and Patterson called her a stupid animal.
"You're divorced then, are you, sir?" asked the Chief Inspector.
When Patterson did not immediately reply, Sergeant Troy, with a smirk, man to 
man, suggested that perhaps he had just been dead lucky and got away with it 
all these years.
"I'm sorry?"
"Stayed single, like."
"I think that's my business, don't you?" There was something slightly vexed in 
his voice, as if he was being forced into evasion against his will.
"How well did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth?" asked Barnaby after a pause into 
which he managed to inject mild surprise that Patterson should find answering 
such a harmless question problematical.
"Hardly at all. Alan and I didn't mix socially. She struck me as a bit of a 
ninny, to tell you the truth. The silly frilly sort."
"But good-looking?"
"Oh, yes. Lovely."
"Were you surprised when she left?"
"We all were. Kept the village speculating for days."
"Did Alan ever talk to you about his marriage?"
"No. I'd known him during his first--best man at the wedding and all that. 
Perhaps he thought I was bad luck."
"I didn't realise he'd been married before." Barnaby sat upright on his mossy 
perch.
"They both had. Miriam, the first Mrs. Hollingsworth, was terrific. 
Intelligent, forthright, full of go. Completely wrong for him. Alan's ideas of 
how to treat a woman were those of a man twice his age. Buy them a nice little 
house, dress them in pretty clothes and jewellery, give them a few flashy toys 
to play with and they'll be happy as the day is long."
What's wrong with that? Troy argued silently. I wish I could find some wealthy 
middle-aged nympho to set me up with a few flashy toys.
"She'd just qualified from medical school when they met and naturally wanted to 
practise. There were rows about that but when Miriam threatened to leave, he 
gave way. Once she was working, things got worse. Sometimes the house was empty 
when he got home. Naturally she'd be called out occasionally. It all came to a 
head at three o'clock one morning after a phone call. Alan accused her of 
having an affair, though where the poor girl would have found the time or 
energy . . . Apparently he followed her to this house, banged on the door and 
forced his way in. She was upstairs with a dying patient. Well, that was it. 
Next day she packed her stuff and left. They divorced a year later. By then 
Miriam had joined a medical centre at Birkenhead. Still there, as far as I 
know."
"D'you think she'd have reverted to her maiden name?" asked Troy, pen flying.
"Shouldn't be surprised."
"Do you know what it was, sir?"
"Kenton."
"He seemed to have chosen more wisely this time," suggested Barnaby.
"The thing you have to understand about Alan is that he was ferociously 
insecure. Always thinking someone's stealing a march. That's why he put in far 
more hours than was necessary at work. The firm was at least as stable as any 
other small business in these dodgy times. And why he was for ever ringing home 
to check that Simone was safely tethered."
"Hadn't learnt his lesson from the first time then?" said Troy. He was watching 
the dog who was once more lying on her stomach and staring hard at a clump of 
bamboo. Her nostrils twitched as if sensing the passage of something small and 
vulnerable.
"Obsessives can't 'learn lessons' any more than the mentally deranged can pull 
themselves together."
"You said they'd both been married before," said the Chief Inspector. "Do you 
know anything about Simone's first husband?"
"Not much. Alan just said it didn't last long and the bloke was a bad lot."
"Do you know what his name was?"
"Sorry."
No matter. It could soon be checked. Barnaby was not displeased with this 
interview which was proving satisfyingly fruitful. He just wished it wasn't so 
hot. Everything was sticking to him and he was sticking to the wood. Round 
globules of sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes. As he fumbled for a 
handkerchief an apple fell, bumping softly on the feathery grass. The dog 
sprang forward and Patterson shouted, "Leave it, Bess!" He got up and kicked 
the apple, which was then seen to be crawling with wasps, out of the dog's way.
The lengthy pause encouraged Patterson not to reseat himself. He said, "Is that 
it then?"
"Almost, sir. We would like to know where you were on Monday evening and the 
early part of Tuesday morning."
"Is that when . . . ?"
Barnaby's deeply tangled, shaggy eyebrows rose intimidatingly. They were 
amazing, those brows, reflected Troy. The texture of horsehair and so exuberant 
you could have stuffed a sofa with them.
Barnaby said, "If you could just answer the question please, Mr. Patterson."
"Oh, here. I was here."
"Alone?"
"To my sorrow. I did pop round to Sarah's around eightish but she'd gone out."
"No one called round?"
"What, in the middle of the night?"
"Phone calls?"
Patterson shook his head.
"Do you still have the key you had cut for Nightingales' front door?"
"No. Threw it away."
"Where?"
"God, I don't know. Waste bin, wherever."
"Did you wear gloves when you were in there?"
"Of course not. I wasn't trying to conceal the fact that I'd been. Only the 
fact that I was going."
"We'll need your fingerprints, Mr. Patterson. Purely for purposes of 
elimination. Could you come into the station, perhaps tomorrow?"
"I can come tonight. I've got to go into Causton for some dog food."
"Could I just get your full address and phone number, sir?" Troy inscribed 
these carefully. "And Gray--short for Graham, is it?"
"No. My mother's maiden name."
Well, la di frigging da. Troy snapped a rubber band sharply round the notebook 
and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Then, irritated when it spoiled the 
line, took it out again. He thought about his own mother's maiden name which 
was Titchboot and was bloody glad she hadn't decided to foist it on him.
They were walking towards the front of the house now, the dog frolicking 
alongside. Burs and seeds were clinging to her coat and her belly was streaked 
with pollen. Barnaby was reminded of the Brockleys' poodle and wondered if the 
girl had turned up.
As Patterson opened the gate, the Chief Inspector indicated the notice-board. 
"You'll let us know, Mr. Patterson, if you move out?"
"Chance'd be a fine thing. Six hundred a month, the agent's asking. The plan is 
to let this and rent somewhere dirt cheap for myself. One way to cope till the 
market picks up. If it ever does."
"Any takers?"
"Not really. So many people seem to be in the same boat. A woman did turn up 
last week. Described herself on the phone as a disenchanted Londoner. Loved the 
house. Didn't like the outlook."
All three men turned and gazed out over the shimmering sea of tawny wheat 
stretching almost to the horizon. Occasionally there were poppies. Though 
nothing had yet been cut, the ripe air smelled of hay. Above their heads, so 
high as to be almost invisible, a skylark sang its heart out.
"What didn't she like about it?" asked the Chief Inspector.
"Said it was boring."
Longing for another cold drink but unwilling to engage in more prithee 
gadzookery, Barnaby plodded back to Nightingales where he planned to settle for 
a gallon of tap water, hopefully tricked out with an ice cube or two. Baking in 
the heat, the surface of the lane released a rich, tarry smell reminding him of 
his childhood when he would crouch on the kerb, popping bubbles with a stick.
By now the onlookers were in the grip of a deeply satisfied silence. SOCO, 
having finished in the house, were to be seen in full view systematically 
working over the front and back gardens. As the two policemen were climbing 
over the barrier, the woman in the straw hat caught hold of Barnaby's sleeve.
"Are you in charge?"
"What is it?" Barnaby was at his crispest, which could be very crisp indeed.
"No need to get all aereated," snapped the woman. "I'm only passing a message 
on."
"They don't care, do they?" said her friend.
"He came out looking for you." The first woman pointed to Arcadia. At the far 
end of the garden a man, outlined
very clearly in the blazing afternoon light, was working the ground with a 
long-handled hoe. When he saw them looking, he waved a large red and white 
spotted handkerchief in the air. Barnaby thanked his informant, who shot back 
"Better late then never," and made his way over.
The Chief Inspector's heart lifted with pleasure the minute he stepped through 
the gate to set foot on an old brick herringbone path. It ran between two deep 
herbaceous borders crammed with lilies and pinks, wallflowers and candytuft, 
lupins--every variety possible of cottage plant. These were backed by tall 
mallows and hollyhocks; by sunflowers and blowsy, powerfully scented roses. 
Over all hovered a great profusion of bees and butterflies. The scene was so 
reminiscent of a romanticised illustration that Barnaby half expected to find 
his way edged with cockleshells.
He continued happily towards the back of the house and wondered if the person 
coming towards him was Cubby, Mrs. Molfrey's innamorato. The man in thrall to 
his embroidery frame and faggot making and too old for any arsyvarsy. Old he 
might be but, straightened up now and smiling, he certainly seemed in excellent 
fettle. Short and rotund, fresh-faced and with very bright clear eyes and rosy 
cheeks, he would have fitted a treat into Snow White's entourage. Happy, the 
Chief Inspector would have said, if asked to name the one he most resembled.
They met on the edge of the vegetable garden which was punctuated by several 
wigwams of runner beans and an obelisk, almost invisible beneath a torrent of 
cream and lilac sweet peas. As Barnaby introduced himself and Troy, his eyes 
strayed to a row of the most superb onions he had ever seen. Like the domes of 
Brighton Pavilion tightly wrapped in stripy brown paper.
The gardener, wiping his hand on his dungarees before holding it out, said that 
he was Mr. Dawlish and he was sorry to trouble them. Barnaby commented on the 
onions and Cubby, recognising a kindred spirit, immediately started a discourse 
on the relative methods of feeding and pest control.
Sergeant Troy, bored, fired a Rothmans and slipped into the greenhouse for a 
crafty drag. There was a strange niff in the air, hot and earthy. Exposed only 
to the hard, tasteless spheroids watering under wraps in supermarkets, he 
failed to recognise the smell of ripening tomatoes.
Looking around, his tedium intensified. Troy was not an enthusiast of your 
average ferny grot. What were gardens good for anyway? Hanging washing. Getting 
out the barbie and ghetto blaster then popping some nice cold tubes at the 
weekends. Plus running about screaming if you were three and your mates came 
round for a skip and a jump. Any backyard would do as well and all the wife had 
to do with that was hose it down. Through a greenish pane of glass he noticed 
that the chief and the little tubby guy were sauntering towards the house. 
Hurriedly he set about catching them up.
As they approached the back door, Troy tossed his cigarette away. It landed in 
a clump of pinks. Cubby gave a small involuntary cry as if struck by a sudden 
pain.
"Are you all right, sir?" asked Sergeant Troy. For once the concern in his 
voice was genuine. His grandfather, roughly the same age as this venerable 
relic, had recently and very suddenly passed away. One minute he was in the 
chip queue, right as a trivet and wondering if there'd be any spare batter 
bits, the next out cold under the wrestling poster. It made you think.
"Yes, oh yes. Thank you." Cubby took a last look at the Rothmans burning Mrs. 
Sinkins' eye out. "Do come in."
Mrs. Molfrey was dozing in her wing chair. Waking in a trice, she started to 
struggle to her feet.
"Please, Mrs. Molfrey," urged the Chief Inspector. "Don't get up."
"I'm not getting up," said Mrs. Molfrey. "I'm rearranging my pantaloons."
These were quite splendid. Panne velvet in rich crimson, gaucho style. With 
them she had on black lace stockings and suede shoes with high filigreed 
tongues and silver buckles, like those worn by principal boys in pantomime. 
Over her shoulders was draped a pale sea-green shawl, cobweb fine and 
glittering with brilliants.
"Welcome, Inspector, welcome. Do sit down. And your accomplice too. Now," she 
tapped the little box resting on her bony chest. It whistled back. "What's 
afoot?"
Troy had perched on an old chaise longue which prickled his thighs. Barnaby 
chose a saggy but comfortable looking armchair. Cubby hovered.
"I understood that Mr. Dawlish had something to tell us."
"Both of us have," asserted Mrs. Molfrey. "Trouble is, I've forgotten my bit. 
Off you go then, honey dumpling."
"Well . . ." Cubby blushed to find himself thus publicly addressed. He stood 
awkwardly as if he wished he wasn't there. Like a child hiding a gift behind 
its back and unsure whether it will be appreciated.
"Building up a picture of the deceased's final hours is terribly important, 
Cubs. They all do it." Mrs. Molfrey jerked her thumb over her shoulder at some 
tightly packed bookshelves. One was entirely green and white. "Dalgleish, 
Wexford. That one who drinks--"
"Is this something to do with Alan Hollingsworth, Mr. Dawlish?"
"Yes." Cubby took a deep breath. "I'd just opened the kitchen door to pull a 
bit of mint for the potatoes when I heard him open the garage--"
"When was this sir?" Sergeant Troy prepared to make a note.
"Around seven thirty Monday evening."
"You say 'heard' Mr. Dawlish," said Barnaby. "Didn't you see Mr. Hollingsworth?"
"No. The hedge is in the way. But I can't imagine who else it could have been."
"And he drove off?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. I came straight back in. Elfrida had the 
television on without her earpiece and it was very loud."
"I see. Did you hear anyone come back?"
"Well, you know I believe I did. I wouldn't like to swear to this because at 
night sounds have a strange habit of misplacing themselves. One is never quite 
sure where they originate. But I was just falling asleep when I heard a car 
drive up--I'm pretty sure it was next door. And then a door slam."
"The car door?"
Cubby hesitated. "I couldn't swear to that. The sound was . . . muted. I think 
the car must have been in the garage by then. It would still be open I should 
imagine, as he drove off in such a hurry."
"It wasn't the front door?"
"I don't think so. But, as I say, I was just dropping off so I can't really be 
sure. But the kitchen opens directly off the garage. It might have been that 
which I heard."
"Did you hear voices?"
"No."
"Or the garage being closed?"
"That, yes."
"You're quite sure?"
"Positive. It makes a peculiar wheezing sound. One of those remote control 
radar things."
"And have you got a time on this, Mr. Dawlish?" asked Sergeant Troy.
"Let's see, I have my wash at ten thirty, make some cocoa and read a little 
while I drink it. Then I say my prayers and get into bed. So I'd say it was 
somewhere between eleven and eleven thirty p.m. I usually drop off very 
quickly."
As well you might, thought the Chief Inspector, reflecting on the gentle, 
harmless pattern of this sweet old man's life and comparing it to the smash and 
grab maelstrom in which he was compelled to live such a large portion of his 
own. No wonder he usually dropped off very slowly and then only when aided by a 
couple of Mogadons or a slug of something forty per cent proof.
"So you heard nothing else from the direction of Nightingales after that, sir? 
The front door bell, for instance?"
It was a lot to hope for and, of course, he didn't get it. Still, this was 
meaty stuff. Hollingsworth, who by all accounts had not left the house once 
since his wife disappeared, had been away for something like three hours on die 
night he died. And the time of his death could now be narrowed down a little 
more, for the man had not been quickly and violently killed the minute he 
re-entered the house. There would have been conversation, drinks offered, 
drinks poured. Certainly the stuff had not been forced down his throat. He must 
have sat there talking with, if not someone he trusted, at least someone he 
believed he had no cause to fear.
Of course Dawlish's comments would be useless as evidence. It could have been 
anyone driving away and driving back. Anyone closing the garage door. But for 
now and because, so far, it was all he had, Barnaby chose to believe the 
obvious. And, after all, the obvious was so very often true.
Sergeant Troy was asking Mrs. Molfrey if she could confirm any of Mr. Dawlish's 
comments.
"Alas, no. I was watching television, Taggart actually. I can't stand the 
suspense between episodes so Cubby tapes all three then I have a good wallow."
His tale told, Cubby was despatched to produce some refreshments. Barnaby 
directed his attention to Mrs. Molfrey who was regarding him with lively 
interest. Today her complexion was the soft vivid pink of Turkish Delight. Her 
dark eyes shone. He decided, finding himself on the spot, as it were, to remind 
her of their earlier conversation.
"We'll be talking to your hairdresser later on today, Mrs. Molfrey. About her 
appointment with Mrs. Hollingsworth. And also to the girl who cleans for you."
"Heather? You'll find her in a council bungalow behind the hostelry," explained 
Mrs. Molfrey. "With her boyfriend and assorted infants. He plays a Harley 
Davidson."
Troy stopped writing and stared at Mrs. Molfrey, open-mouthed.
"It's a guitar," said Cubby, chiming in from the kitchen.
"The sergeant would know that," called back Mrs. Molfrey. "A young blood like 
himself."
The kettle bubbled and spat and Cubby raced about.
"He's a giddy boy," said Mrs. Molfrey. Then, "I'm so glad you're taking the 
matter of Simone's disappearance seriously, Chief Inspector. Next door thought 
I was quite overstepping the mark, coming to see you. But then they'd sit tight 
if the house was burning down rather than run outside and draw attention to 
themselves."
She did not mention Brenda. Did that mean the Brockleys' daughter had returned? 
Or merely that Mrs. Molfrey knew nothing of her absence. In either case, 
bearing in mind her neighbours' desperate wish to keep the news to themselves, 
Barnaby saw no reason to comment.
"I couldn't help wondering if Alan's death was connected in some way with his 
wife's disappearance. Do you have any spin on that, Chief Inspector? Or are you 
waiting on the results from the PM?"
These crime buffs, they made you laugh. Troy snatched at his notebook which was 
slipping off his knee. He was delighted to have come across this barmy old 
trotter again and couldn't keep his eyes off her. She seemed to him like some 
magical character from a panto or fairy tale. There ought to be a black cat 
around the place. And one of those broomsticks with twigs tied round the 
handle. Troy really looked forward to describing Elfrida Molfrey to his 
daughter at bedtime. Even now he composed the opening sentence: "Once upon a 
time, in the middle of a dark wood, there was a higgledy-piggledy cottage . . ."
Mrs. Molfrey shouted, "Don't forget the pecan and marmalade yum-yums."
And Cubby called back, "Hey ho."
Mrs. Molfrey reached out and drew a two-tier trolley up to her chair. On the 
bottom level were some lorgnettes attached to a gold and tortoiseshell holder, 
a cigar box with pens and pencils, a glue pot and scissors, writing paper and 
envelopes, some mineral water, a clean glass and today's copy of The Times. 
There was also a strip of folded white card resembling the brass Toblerone on a 
bank manager's desk on which her name was written, in exquisite copperplate.
"It's to remind me of who I am," explained Mrs. Molfrey, noticing Barnaby's 
surprised glance. "One so easily forgets, don't you find?"
Cubby came in then with a heavy tray. He looked after Elfrida first. Swinging 
the hinged top of her trolley over her lap, he unrolled a richly embroidered 
tray cloth and matching napkin and laid out her tea, a plate of cake with a 
little silver fork and a crystal vase hardly bigger than an egg cup. This held 
a wisp of asparagus fern and three pale yellow rose buds.
Troy spent the next quarter of an hour trying to prise his jaws, locked on the 
delicious ticky-tacky, apart and avoiding the large and extremely hard nuts. A 
single sip and he nudged his dish of tea under the chaise longue with the heel 
of his shoe. Barnaby gently prodded Cubby and Elfrida further on the lives and 
general behaviour of their nearest neighbours. He asked if either of them had 
ever heard signs of a serious disagreement.
"A rumpus?" asked Mrs. Molfrey. "Good gracious, no. Did you, sweeting?"
"Not at all," said Cubby.
"Did she ever express unhappiness when talking to you?"
"Never. Ennui, but that was to be expected. Shut up in that dreary, tasteless 
house."
"Sounds as if he couldn't trust her." The words were spoken unclearly but with 
much sympathy and understanding. Troy had never met a woman he would trust 
further than the nearest lamp post. Or a man either, come to that. He did not 
have a very rosy view of human nature. And human nature, unsurprisingly, did 
not have a very rosy view of him.
"I do feel," said Cubby, "that Alan must have been rather lacking in confidence 
in that respect. After all, most couples mix constantly with members of the 
opposite sex without running off with them." As he spoke, Cubby looked across 
at Elfrida in a calm, relying sort of way. The implication was that, even if a 
stream of handsome gallants should come thundering up her garden path, he knew 
that not one would be allowed admission.
To Barnaby's surprise, rather than treating this preposterous suggestion as a 
huge giggle, Elfrida raised her right hand, afire with several magnificent 
rings, lowered her crepey violet eyelids and inclined her head with an elegant, 
accepting grace.
The two policemen caught each other's eye. Troy winked in joyous disbelief. 
Barnaby spent a moment silently admiring this breathtaking chutzpah before 
steering the conversation back to the subject that really interested him.
"Did Mrs. Hollingsworth ever suggest to you that her husband was violent?"
"Alan? Nonsense!"
"Quite impossible," said Cubby. "He adored her."
Barnaby took this with a lorry load of salt. He had attended too many domestics 
where the husband had adored his wife before knocking her senseless, sometimes 
permanently. On a more trivial level he asked if the Hollingsworths had been 
having problems with their telephone.
"Simone never mentioned it to us."
For a short while everyone ate and drank with relish. Cubby's socks, blobbed 
with many beautifully woven darns, were clearly visible inside his open leather 
sandals and Barnaby wondered if he mended them himself. Having finished his 
cake and tea, he said, "Mrs. Molfrey, when we first arrived you suggested you 
also had something to tell us but it had slipped your mind. Have you remembered 
what it was?"
"I'm afraid not, Chief Inspector. I can tell you that it was something 
auditory. An unexpected or wrong sound. Or perhaps a lack of sound where one 
might have expected such a thing to exist. I wouldn't dwell on it, you see, but 
it happened on the day Simone disappeared."
"Well, if it comes back to you, perhaps you'll let me know." Barnaby produced a 
card from his wallet and gave it to her. "This number gets straight through to 
me."
"Ohh, thank you." Mrs. Molfrey glowed with delight. "Rest assured I shall not 
abuse the privilege." She studied the slip of pasteboard through a magnifying 
glass.
Troy didn't get it. Seemed to him the chief was asking for trouble. The old 
trout would be on the blower every five minutes.
As Cubby got up to see them off, there was a bone-cracking snap. Barnaby 
assumed it was an elderly joint giving way until he saw his sergeant wince and 
rub his jaw.
As the Chief Inspector turned to go, he noticed for the first time on the wall 
behind him a large sepia photograph of one of the loveliest creatures he had 
ever seen in all his life. A girl of perhaps eighteen with the sweetest 
expression on her perfect features. A great cloud of dark hair banded with 
strings of pearls; huge dreaming eyes. Her slender neck rose from clouds of 
tulle pinned here and there with gardenias and her small, exquisite hands were 
crossed at her breast. Encircling the picture were several theatrical posters.
Although there was no longer even the memory of resemblance between this 
heavenly beauty and the withered old lady in the wing chair, Barnaby knew at 
once that they were the same person. And he wondered how Mrs. Molfrey could 
bear to contemplate daily such a cruel comparison.
"You know who she is, of course?" Cubby said shyly when they were once again 
walking down the worn brick path.
"I'm afraid I don't," said the Chief Inspector.
"Elsie Romano." Then, when Barnaby appeared puzzled, "A star of the Edwardian 
theatre. And one of the great beauties of this, or any other century."
Troy, bringing up the rear, winked again, this time winding his index finger 
round and round close to his forehead.
"She was the toast of the Ivy and the Trocadero. And the Cafe d'Angleterre. 
When she and Jack went dancing there, after the show, people would climb on to 
the banquettes and even the tables to catch a glimpse of her."
"Is that a fact, Mr. Dawlish?" Barnaby, born in 1941, three years after the 
Cafe d'Angleterre had been bombed to bits, could think of nothing else to say.
"So you see how privileged I am. Just an ordinary chap, never been anywhere, 
never done anything. Yet here I am, practically at the end of my days, with 
this sudden . . . honour, as you might say. This opportunity to care for a most 
rare and lovely . . ." Greatly moved Cubby pressed the red and white kerchief 
to his brimming eyes.
Troy, face averted, shoulders twitching, opened the garden gate.
"I'm sure, if you caught her at the right moment, Elfrida would show you the 
photograph of herself and Jack on the steps of the Gaiety."
"That was her husband--Jack?"
"Good heavens, no." Courteously Cubby attempted to conceal his amazement at 
such ignorance. "Jack was Jack Buchanan."
Barnaby had planned to call on the Brockleys next. Not only to see if Brenda 
had returned but also because, as the only other inhabitants of the cul-de-sac, 
they were uniquely placed to support Cubby Dawlish's statement. Indeed, up late 
and no doubt anxiously looking out for the lights of their daughter's car, they 
might even be able to add to it.
But now, just as they approached The Larches, Perrot came running towards them. 
He cried out, "Sir! Sir!"
"What is it? What's happened?"
"Mr. Marine said to tell you they've found her!"
"Found who?"
"Why, Mrs. Hollingsworth, sir."
"I'd forgotten what a funster you are, Aubrey." Barnaby's heart, which had 
started to bang wildly in his chest when he raced down the lane, along the side 
of the house and into the back garden, was slowly returning to normal.
"Sorry," said Aubrey Marine. "I've always had this feeling for drama, I'm 
afraid. Can't seem to control it."
Barnaby had flopped into a chair on the patio a few feet away from a small, 
newly turned heap of earth. He was mopping his scarlet face with a handkerchief 
and making a strange noise. Half pant, half snarl.
"Are you all right, Tom?"
"No thanks to you."
"I should have said a reasonable facsimile of Mrs. H. Although reasonable is 
hardly the word, as you will see." He was moving towards the French windows 
which stood wide open. "Come and have a look."
All the SOCO team were present in the sitting room, as was Sergeant Troy. They 
had gathered round a table on which lay an Asda carrier bag covered with dirt 
and a small, semi-transparent envelope file. Still wearing his gloves, Aubrey 
turned back the flap and, using a fine pair of tweezers, pulled out what 
appeared to be a single Polaroid photograph about five millimetres square. He 
laid it on the table. Barnaby bent down to look more closely.
It was the woman in the wedding portrait. Recognisable, even without her 
make-up and despite the expression on her face which was piteous in the 
extreme. Her features were distorted; her lips so tightly clamped together that 
the luscious cupid's bow had quite disappeared. Her skin had a greyish white 
pallor but this, Barnaby told himself, could have been due to the harshness of 
the flash. She was holding across her chest a copy of the Evening Standard 
dated Thursday, 6 June.
About to speak, the Chief Inspector was silenced by Aubrey who held up his 
hand, saying simply, "Wait."
In spite of the folder, it seemed that damp had affected the contents of the 
plastic bag. Slipping the tweezers beneath the left-hand corner of the picture, 
Aubrey had to peel it away. There was another underneath.
Now her eyes, darker and much larger, were puffy and swollen with weeping. 
There were bruise-like shadows on her forehead and just beneath her jaw. The 
fingers of the hand gripping the newspaper were filthy and covered with some 
sort of stain. The date this time was 7 June.
The last one was the worst. Mrs. Hollingsworth's pretty mouth was a real mess. 
Her bottom lip appeared to have been split and the blood flowing from it had 
been left to dry on her neck and chin. There was a savage mark across her right 
cheekbone and her right eye had been severely blackened. She no longer looked 
frightened. Just sat, her head hanging, expressionless. Beaten, in every sense 
of the word. Her hair had been savagely chopped and in one or two places, where 
the skin showed through, looked as if it had been pulled out. A wodge of 
newspaper had been jammed in her mouth. Her blouse had been torn open and a 
complete page of the Sun dated Saturday, 8 June, was pinned to the front of her 
brassiere.
Troy said, "Jesus."
Barnaby stared at the escalating misery spread out in front of him. Inevitably, 
given his length of time in the force, he'd seen much worse and the shock he 
now felt was not simply a natural one of pity and revulsion. Mingling with 
these emotions was exhilaration at the sudden and dramatic turn the case had 
now taken. He had long ago accepted that this excitement, even in the face of 
another's anguish, was an aspect of his personality that the job seemed to 
encourage if not actually demand. It had been many years since he had chided 
himself for callousness.
"Whole new can of worms here, guv," said Sergeant Troy, master, as ever, of the 
original one-liner.
Barnaby, his mind swarming with fresh possibilities, did not reply. Using the 
tweezers, he was turning the photographs over and studying the backs, unmarked 
except for splotches of moisture.
"Envelopes?"
"I certainly don't recall seeing any earlier but we'll have another look."
"Try your best." With a saliva test they could be halfway there. "Don't think 
much of their choice in wallpaper." This was thinly striped and covered with 
sentimental drawings of puppies going about their natural business in many 
archly contrived ways.
"It was everywhere, that," said Aubrey. "A few years ago."
"Could you give it priority, please?"
"OK." Aubrey Marine dropped the carrier into a labelled transparent bag. "Why 
d'you think he buried this?"
Barnaby shrugged. "Couldn't bear to have the pictures in the house?"
"Why not just burn them then? Or chuck 'em in the dustbin?"
"Because if they don't deliver the goods when he hands over whatever it is 
they're after, this may be all he's got to take to the police."
"A shakedown, then?"
"Looks like it."
"Timing's a bit close, isn't it, sir?" asked Sergeant Troy. "I don't mean for 
taking the snaps. If they pinched her on the Thursday afternoon they could well 
have taken the first one that evening. But posting them?"
"A bit tight, yes."
"I mean, all three must have been here by Monday, latest. Risky, even sending 
them first class."
"The Post Office have a special service that guarantees next day delivery," 
said Aubrey. "Only a couple of quid but you have to fill a form in. Which I 
doubt these people would want to do. Of course they could have just been 
stuffed through the letter box."
"Bloody hell," said Sergeant Troy. "That's a bit chancy, isn't it?"
"Not necessarily. Middle of the night, everyone asleep." Aubrey Marine, after 
asking if Barnaby was through with the snaps for now, tweezered them back into 
their plastic sheath.
"I must say this throws a new light on Perrot's interview." Barnaby was walking 
away, stepping once more out of the French windows. "No wonder Hollingsworth 
couldn't wait to get him out of the house."
"Explain why he yanked him in off the doorstep as well, chief," said Troy. 
"First thing these bastards do is threaten to kill the victim if the other 
party goes to the police." He added, "Tell you what."
Barnaby grunted. It was not a sound to encourage a confidence.
"I reckon this is proof positive he topped himself. Paid over the money--which 
is what he dashed off for on Monday night--then they got in touch and told him 
she's had the chop. Nothing else to live for so he goes and does the business. 
What do you think?"
Barnaby thought it went totally against his deepest instincts so far concerning 
the case and that it sounded very likely indeed. Having no wish to dwell on 
such an exasperating insight, he stifled it by the thought that, as they now 
had a kidnapping and perhaps some mortal remains to search for, he would be 
able to commandeer a decent team and some sort of realistic budget.
Perrot, once more on duty in the lane, braced himself as the two men emerged. 
But Troy was satisfied this time with a rude gesture engaging his thumb and 
first finger and a murmur of "Panty wanker."
Barnaby looked across at the Brockleys. Once more the poodle was up on its hind 
legs and staring out of the window. Behind the dog stood Iris, white-faced and 
motionless. Although she also faced the outside world, it was in the alert yet 
only partly comprehending manner of the blind person. She appeared deeply 
puzzled and much smaller than when he had last seen her.
It was now nearly seven. The Chief Inspector felt a strong disinclination at 
the thought of adding yet more misery to the already deeply miserable content 
of his day. Someone else could go and talk to the family. He'd had enough.
"Oh, Constable."
"Sir." PC Perrot, as steely upright as a guardsman, stiffened his sinews even 
further.
"Any post at Nightingales--my desk. Got that?"
"I'll bring it in personally, Chief Inspector. On the bike."
"No need to go mad, Perrot."
"Very good, sir."
Colin Perrot watched the two policemen walk away. His shoulders loosened 
slightly. He walked up and down the grass verge for a while then let himself 
through the black and gold iron gates and walked up and down the gravel path. 
He stood on the step for a bit. A police presence.
There was not much in the way of spectators to attend the departure of the SOCO 
team some little time later. Perrot looked at his watch--seven thirty. That 
explained matters. It took more than a handful of plainclothes investigators to 
keep Fawcett Green from viewing EastEnders.
Perrot sighed and wondered, as he was unobserved by anyone with the slightest 
degree of authority, whether he could perhaps bring one of the patio chairs 
round to the front of the house and sit down. He'd now been on the go for nine 
hours and his feet and back ached.
The overtime was nice though. It was his son's birthday in a month's time and 
Robby wanted a mountain bike. The boy had already accepted that it would 
probably be secondhand--so many of the children's presents were--though 
polished up and looking as smart as his dad could make it. But it would be 
great to surprise him with a new one.
Perrot wandered round to the rear of the house at this point, reasoning that 
this aspect needed just as much surveillance as the front. More, probably, 
being concealed from public view.
It was very still and quiet in the garden, the shrubs and trees bathed in a 
pale, golden light. The only sounds came from a few bees ferreting around in 
submissive blossoms, frogs jumping in and out of the pond and a dog fox 
barking, way across the fields.
Perrot sat in the daisy hammock and relished the silence. He breathed slowly 
and deeply, savouring the fragrant, musky scents. It seemed impossible that 
only a short time ago the place had been swarming with men and women extracting 
ugly disturbing evidence from the sweet-smelling earth.
Gradually, in the warm soft air, Perrot's wounded pride began to heal. He had 
smarted dreadfully after the DCI had so contemptuously dismissed him at Causton 
station. But over and above his shame at failing so miserably to act in a 
prompt and intelligent manner was a far greater fear. He was now permanently 
haunted by the words, "buried in the sticks too long."
Perrot was a country man. Transplanted, he felt he would shrivel up and die. 
Not true, of course. Trixie would tell him not to be so silly. They would be 
all right, she had said when he voiced his anxiety. As long as they were 
together.
But it wasn't as simple as that. Places changed people. Occasionally Perrot had 
been away on update courses and some of the townee coppers he had met 
there--well. The way they spoke to each other, their attitude to the public. 
Talk about cynical. They sounded as if they were at war half the time. The 
words "cutting edge" had been bandied around a lot. Perrot had felt really out 
of place.
He had made no attempt to talk about his own work, recognising the scorn with 
which such a description would almost certainly have been received. No one was 
interested in hearing about the three villages under his care. About the 
boisterous children, including his own, running noisily out of the brand-new 
primary school at half past three, clutching paste and paper models or 
exuberantly painted daubs. Or of how relieved the anxious elderly were to hear 
his knock on the door. His spare-time activities, refereeing on the football 
field and supervision of the Infant Cyclists' Time Trials, also remained 
unmentioned.
Naturally there was a downside to the job. Burglaries, an occasional case of 
child abuse (quickly known about and dealt with in a small community), drunken 
fights, the odd domestic. But nothing at what you could honestly call the 
cutting edge. Nevertheless, no one would ever convince Perrot that his daily 
duties were of no importance. Certainly not that spiteful, foul-mouthed, 
red-headed, toerag of a sergeant from the town nick. When Perrot had told his 
wife about the trick played on him, she could hardly believe it. Tried to 
suggest that her husband had misheard what Troy had said. That no one could be 
so deliberately mean. That was when Perrot had said that if he was transferred 
to Causton he would leave the force.
Leaning back now he closed his eyes and tried to put such thoughts from his 
mind. No point in jumping the gun. By now the DCI might well have forgotten he 
ever had such a thought. And if he (Perrot) remained crisp, alert and totally 
on the ball, there would be nothing to remind the powers that be that he had 
ever been anything else.
That was the way to do it. Perrot adjusted a cushion to make himself more 
comfortable and swung his legs up. A quarter of an hour passed in pleasant 
contemplation of a tumbling clematis, the Chinese pots and Hollingsworth's 
barbecue. The sky became streaked with lavender and pale yellow as the evening 
came on.
What would be really good, thought Perrot dreamily, now barely registering the 
aquatic frogs, what would be really totally excellent would be for him to find 
some vital clue, or discover someone, someone totally unexpected, in a 
compromising situation . . . that would bring the case . . . that would solve . 
. . a successful . . . conclusion . . . so impressed . . . all of us here . . . 
well done, Constable . . . no question now of . . .
Perrot slept.
Chapter Six
A woman who appears to have walked out on her husband, and that husband's 
consequent death, possibly by his own hand, is one thing. The holding of a 
human being to ransom and their consequent cruel mistreatment is quite another. 
By lunchtime the following day, an official inquiry into the disappearance of 
Simone Hollingsworth was up and running.
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby had been allocated a team smaller than he 
would have liked but that was nothing new. They had received as detailed a 
briefing as he was able to give and had now gone about their business. Every 
inhabitant of Fawcett Green would be asked what they knew of the dead man and 
his missing wife in an attempt to obtain feedback on the marriage and the 
general pattern of their lives.
The police would hope to come across someone on the market run who had noticed 
Simone's movements after she got off the bus; had perhaps even talked to her on 
the journey. Also they would be checking on possible sightings of strange 
vehicles in the village on the night of Alan's death.
Barnaby composed a fax to be circulated to every estate agency within a 
ten-mile radius of Causton asking for details of any property let within the 
last couple of months; this to include shops, offices and even lockups. He also 
asked for a list of empty properties. It wasn't very likely that the kidnapper 
had presented himself at an estate agent's in the proper manner, signed a 
contract and written an appropriate cheque. But the possibility could not be 
overlooked. After all, Simone had to be hidden somewhere.
His team included Sergeant Brierley whom Barnaby had chosen especially to call 
on the Brockleys. She was sensitive, intelligent and well able to pick up 
things a more prosaic interviewer might miss.
Three people remained in the station trying to flesh out what was already known 
of Alan and Simone's background, starting with an attempted trace of their 
ex-partners. The fact that Simone's previous husband had already been described 
as a bad lot sounded mildly promising. Was he perhaps connected with the club, 
described by Avril Jennings as "very Soho," where Simone used to work?
The Chief Inspector's first inclination was to bring Gray Patterson in 
immediately for further questioning. There was no doubt that the kidnapping, 
and probable ransom of Mrs. Hollingsworth, would constitute for him a sweet 
revenge. It would offer not only a certain amount of financial recompense for 
the theft of his work but the pleasure of knowing that the man responsible had 
been sweating his days away in a drunken fever of fearful anticipation. 
Couldn't improve much on that as a dish best eaten cold.
But then, thinking it over, he had decided to put off seeing Hollingsworth's 
former colleague until after the fingerprint comparisons came back from the 
laboratory. These had been promised by mid-afternoon, at which time he would be 
interviewing Freddie Blakeley, Penstemon's bank manager. Barnaby was hoping to 
learn more about the company's financial affairs and also the details of how 
the ransom money was raised.
The preliminary inquest had been held on Alan Hollingsworth and adjourned 
pending further police investigation. The body had been formally identified by 
Ted Burbage. Hollingsworth's solicitor Jill Gamble had been able to supply the 
address and telephone number of the dead man's brother and the station in 
central Aberdeen had sent someone to break the news.
The postmortem report added little to George Bullard's telephone call. Barnaby, 
skimming through it, felt his attention wandering and sent out his minion for a 
caffeine shot.
"And not that stale stuff that's been sitting there since . . ." Barnaby was 
distracted. Now standing by the window, his eye had been caught by a messenger 
from Forensic crossing the forecourt towards the main building.
"Since Madonna was a virgin?"
"Ay?'
" 'In love for the very first time,' " croaked Sergeant Troy. Music was a 
closed book to him.
"Fresh."
By the time his sergeant returned with two cups of excellent smooth Brazilian, 
Barnaby was engrossed in the SOCO report forms, pulling out from the mass of 
information the most immediately relevant. The report covered Nightingales and 
its contents plus the buried photographs. Those for the gardens, garage, car 
and Hollingsworth's clothes would follow, piecemeal, over the next few days.
As was to be expected, there were several unexplained prints around the place. 
Some would naturally have been made by Simone. Others by Perrot and the vicar. 
Only Hollingsworth's were found on the keyboard connected to the monitor 
displaying the dead man's final words.
Barnaby was not cast down by this, for alternative methods of getting the 
message on to the screen had already been put forward. These included feeding 
it into the machine by floppy disk. Swapping the keyboards round--there had 
been two more in the room. Or shielding the one that was used by a thin plastic 
cover, rather like those used in shops to keep the till clean.
The report on the photographs of Simone and the plastic envelope file showed 
several tiny pressure points in the top right-hand corner of the Polaroids, 
indicating that they had been handled by more than just SOCO's tweezers. The 
only fingerprints present were Alan's. This was also the case with the glass 
found on the rug.
The glass contained traces of Haloperidol, as Barnaby had been sure it would. 
Someone had shaken the drug into the tumbler--none was found in the bottle 
itself--added the whisky and, presumably, offered the result to the victim, all 
without leaving a single mark.
But how had the powder been put in? Bold sleight of hand with the perpetrator 
simply turning their back? Or in another room with the tumbler then placed on a 
tray and handed directly to the victim?
Another possibility was that the murderer could have wiped the glass clean 
after Hollingsworth became unconscious then simply pressed his fingers round 
it. This was never as satisfactory as those who tried it seemed to think. 
Nearly always anxious to make a good impression (so to speak), they used too 
much force and unnaturally even marks resulted.
Barnaby closed his eyes and thought himself back into Nightingales' sitting 
room at eleven o'clock last Monday evening. He often did this sort of thing and 
did it rather well. And, as his imagination was vivid but not especially 
original, he was able to avoid the sort of wild scenarios a more creative 
person might have dreamed up.
Here was the room, stale and frowsty, curtains drawn. And here came 
Alan--Barnaby heard the car door slam--fresh from delivering the ransom. What 
had they told him? The oldest chestnut in the book, perhaps. That she'd be 
waiting there when he got home. In which case he would be running through the 
empty house, upstairs and downstairs, in and out of all the rooms, calling her 
name, Simone! Simone!
Poor bastard.
But what if Nightingales proved not to be empty after all. Perhaps the murderer 
was already in situ. Or did he--or she--enter surreptitiously, unaware to 
Hollingsworth? The latter struck Barnaby as rather unlikely. If this was 
someone the dead man was prepared to sit down and have a drink with, there 
would be no need for such a furtive approach.
The temptation was to see some connection between the kidnapping and 
Hollingsworth's death, paradoxical though this might at first appear. After 
all, why kill a goose which has just produced a presumably quite substantial 
golden egg? And who might well be persuaded to lay a few more.
One fairly obvious reason was that Hollingsworth had become dangerous. What if, 
instead of driving away straight after the drop, he had hung around to see who 
picked the money up? Perhaps even attempted to follow. Spotted, his life 
wouldn't be worth twopence. Especially if, as Barnaby's instincts were strongly 
telling him, Mrs. Hollingsworth had already been done away with.
His thick fingers riffled through the report. He noticed there had been no 
forced entry. As the house had been secure when the body was found, this meant 
either someone owned a key or they had knocked and been admitted.
Gray Patterson had had a key. Thrown away, according to him, but then he would 
say that, wouldn't he? And, even if this was the case, might there not be 
circumstances when Hollingsworth would let the man he had betrayed into his 
house? What if Patterson had appeared on the doorstep with some cock and bull 
story about catching sight of Simone somewhere--on a bus perhaps, or in a cafe? 
Highly unlikely, given the true circumstances, but Alan wouldn't have reasoned 
like that. Desperate men clutch at any straw.
Then there was Simone's key. Presumably in her handbag when she'd boarded the 
Causton bus, it could by now be in the hands of a very dodgy lot indeed.
Barnaby pulled back his damp shirt cuff. All these musings, mind-clearing 
rather than genuinely fruitful, had brought him up to one o'clock. He picked up 
his crumpled fawn cotton jacket and left his office for the staff canteen and a 
brief lunch before his meeting at the Nat West.
Drearily mindful of his weight, the Chief Inspector chose a dish of grated 
carrots, raisins and almond flakes with a wedge of lemon and two slices of 
smoked turkey breast. Squeezing the lemon over his salad, he thought the one 
thing you could say in favour of this sweltering heat was that at least it 
killed off an inclination to gluttony.
The station cat, Craig, strolled up. Pressed upon the force under the guise of 
a great mouser by a telephonist moving house, he immediately circumvented any 
onerous duties in this direction by moving more or less permanently into the 
canteen. Here, in spite of constant titbits from gullible diners and doubling 
his weight in the first week, he strove successfully to give an impression of 
fragility and despairing hunger that melted nearly every heart. He would have 
made a fortune as an actor.
"Go away," instructed Barnaby. "You greedy little scumbag."
Craig squinted in that cross, imperious way that cats have when everything they 
desire is not immediately rushed to their side. Incredulity possessed his 
squashy, pugilistic features. Briefly he stood his ground then, no sustenance 
being forthcoming, mewed. Defeated by dryness and imminent starvation, it was 
no more than a pitiful squeak.
Resentfully, knowing he was being made a fool of, Barnaby had just started to 
cut off a sliver of meat when he was distracted by the arrival of his bag 
carrier who sat down opposite him with a loaded tray.
"Never much going on menu-wise Monday, is there, boss?" As Troy spoke he 
pricked a stout glistening sausage with his fork and watched the juice run out. 
"I suppose they haven't really got into their stride."
Apart from the sausages, his plate held a tottering pile of chips, two fried 
eggs, a bright orange puddle of baked beans, mushrooms and several chunks of 
black pudding.
"Do you mind sitting somewhere else with that lot?"
"Sorry?" Troy was always alert to the chance of a real or imagined slight. Now 
that he had actually received one, he looked as if he could hardly believe his 
ears. In fact, when it came to his expression and that of the cat, there was 
hardly a whisker to choose between them. Genuinely hurt, he picked up his tray, 
uncertainly looking about him.
"There'll do." Barnaby pointed directly to the chair behind.
"Fine by me, sir."
It was plain by his tone of voice that Troy had not only distanced himself 
physically. Barnaby came as close to a smile as any man could faced with a pile 
of shredded root vegetables and a cat with attitude. Behind him the clash of 
metal on metal rose to a wild crescendo. It was like wandering into the last 
act of Hamlet. There was a satisfied pause, a final clatter when the irons were 
laid to rest then a soft squeak as the plate was mopped clean with a crust of 
bread.
"Right." Barnaby heaved himself upright. "Lets go."
"I haven't had my pudding."
"Pudding is for wimps, Sergeant."
The National Westminster was in the High Street just a few minutes' walk from 
the station. Recoiling from this last, the unkindest cut of all, Troy followed 
his superior officer across the simmering car park and through the main gates. 
Immediately they were engulfed in a reek of exhaust fumes overlain with fried 
onions and recycled fat from a nearby hot-dog stand.
Troy strode in a crisp martial manner, emphasising his extreme machismo. Wimp. 
What a cheek! Fair did your head in, a remark like that. In fact, if it wasn't 
such an insult it would be laughable. Himself--a man with a personality so 
masculine and seductive it had been known to mesmerise any bit of yum-yum going 
at twenty paces. Muscular, good-looking, over the side so often he was known 
round the lockers as Maxie. Still on both feet after ten lager and blacks and 
father of one. Female, true, but plenty of time to rectify that. He was 
jealous, old porky. What else could it be?
They waited at a pedestrian crossing. The flagstones burned through the 
synthetic soles of Troy's highly polished tasselled black loafers. An elderly 
man came towards them draped in sandwich boards heavy with biblical 
instruction. Troy noted his approach sourly. The man, no doubt overcome by that 
irritating compulsion to share his convictions, which afflicts the overly 
religious, gave Troy a sugary smile. He said, "Jesus loves you."
"Jesus loves everybody, mate," snapped Sergeant Troy, well equipped to 
recognise the emotionally promiscuous. "So don't think you're anything special."
The bank was air conditioned, which was heaven. Barnaby, newly bathed in 
moisture at every step, could feel the sweat drying on his shirt, the fabric 
easing away from his skin.
Freddie Blakeley did not keep them waiting. Once inside the office he indicated 
two extremely uncomfortable looking seats, all leather straps and writhing 
chrome. They looked like a harness for some exceptionally gruelling medical 
examination. Or the practice of bizarre sexual shenanigans. Barnaby passed over 
his magistrate's order.
Blakeley did not wave it aside or give it a casual onceover, as was usually the 
case. He sat behind his huge teak desk with an air of great solemnity, plainly 
prepared to give the piece of paper as much time as it took to extract each 
scrap of meaning or sniff out any fraudulence.
Barnaby watched this performance with interest while at the same time absorbing 
every detail of the man's manner and appearance. After thirty years of 
practice, he did this almost unconsciously and without the slightest effort. 
Today he was especially well rewarded. The contrast between the bank manager's 
orderly desk and namby-pamby ways and his appearance was most striking. Not to 
mince words, Freddie Blakeley looked like a gangster.
He was short and square with meaty, muscular shoulders and meaty lips. Though 
thick, these were very sensuous and beautifully shaped. His skin was 
tough-looking but very pasty as if permanently deprived of daylight. A 
steel-blue shadow showed through his lightly powdered Jowels. He wore a 
charcoal suit with broad, chalky stripes, a satin tie embroidered with golden 
peacocks and, tumbling in vast folds out of his breast pocket, an emerald 
Paisley silk handkerchief.
Hoping to share his pleasure in this unlikely phenomenon, Barnaby sought eye 
contact with Sergeant Troy who immediately averted his gaze and stared stonily 
out of the window.
Blakeley folded the order neatly twice, smoothed it flat on his unmarked 
blotter and seemed about to speak. Barnaby braced himself for a gravelly, 
Neapolitan rumble making him an offer he dare not refuse. Inevitably he was 
disappointed.
"A terrible business." Blazered Home Counties, sieved through a tennis racquet. 
The smile had all the empty courtesy of a diplomat's. "Terrible," repeated Mr. 
Blakeley. He looked at the policemen with distaste as if, by invading the 
portals of his hallowed establishment, they had brought in with them a most 
unpleasant smell. And in a way of course they had. For what could be less 
fragrant than the stench of murder? "So how can I help you?" He touched his 
wide, hairy nostrils with the outrageous mouchoir.
Barnaby felt it sensible to approach the terrible core of his business 
obliquely and so began by asking about the general health of Alan 
Hollingsworth's company.
And Mr. Blakeley replied in general terms. In front of him were several pages 
of A4 covered with neat columns of figures to which he hardly referred. 
Although without large reserves, Penstemon, it appeared, was presently stable 
and ticking over nicely. Unlike the majority of the bank's business customers, 
they did not have an overdraft. Alan Hollingsworth's personal account, though 
also permanently in the black, was somewhat more volatile. After volunteering 
this vague snippet of information, Mr. Blakeley zippered up. Plainly the run of 
unsolicited information was over.
Barnaby's first direct question, relating to the upset between Hollingsworth 
and Gray Patterson, got pretty short shrift.
"You really can't expect me to comment on an affair of which I know next to 
nothing."
"I believe the cause of the trouble was Hollingsworth's need to raise a lot of 
money rather quickly. Did he ask the bank for a loan?"
"Yes."
"And you refused?"
"I did. The business is a small one. I could not regard it as reasonable 
collateral against such a sum."
"Do you know if he tried to borrow the money elsewhere?"
"I've really no idea." Elsewhere in any case, implied Mr. Blakeley's 
disdainfully curling lip, must of necessity have been a deeply inferior source.
"Could you give me the exact date when the sum was eventually paid in?"
Two stapled sheets were passed over. Barnaby saw immediately the payment from 
Patellus. Two hundred thousand pounds on 18 March.
"I'm surprised a sum this size wasn't paid into a deposit account. I assume 
Hollingsworth had one?"
"Indeed." Mr. Blakeley passed over a third sheet of paper. "And normally one 
would expect this. But, as you will see, the money did not stay around for 
long."
"Ah, yes." Four days to be precise. The minimum clearance time. "He obviously 
needed it in a hurry. Do you happen to know who the relevant cheque was made 
out to?"
"I thought you might need that information." Mr. Blakeley admired his own 
foresight with a little moue of self-esteem. He looked down at his notepad. "F. 
L. Kominsky."
"I suppose it's too much to hope . . ." Barnaby was sure the name of the 
payee's bank was somewhere on the pad also but he never minded colluding with 
another man's quirks and vanities in a good cause. In this he was quite unlike 
Troy who, though prepared endlessly to indulge his own dreams and 
self-deceptions, gave short shrift to those of others.
"It was paid into Courts. Their Kensington branch."
"Thank you, Mr. Blakeley." The Chief Inspector was now running his eye down the 
balance column of Hollingsworth's high interest account. For a man who owned a 
reasonably successful business, it was pretty modest. He pointed this out.
"That's true," agreed Blakeley. "He was a heavy spender."
Barnaby, recalling the house and Mrs. Hollingsworth's wardrobe, could not but 
agree. He said, "Now, to bring us up to the distressing present . . ." The bank 
manager immediately assumed a becoming gravitas, stuffing the larger portion of 
his rowdy kerchief out of sight. "We know that, shortly before his death, 
Hollingsworth was again attempting to raise a sum of money."
"Really?"
"In fact, I believe that on Sunday, June the ninth, round about mid-morning, he 
discussed this matter with you on the telephone."
"Goodness." Mr. Blakeley appeared discomposed. Plainly he preferred it when all 
the knowledge lay on his side of the fence. "You must have magical powers. Or 
were you tapping his phone for some reason?"
"He was simply overheard."
"I see. Well, it was a most awkward conversation." A compulsive straightener, 
Mr. Blakeley aligned his pens on his blotter before pausing rather awkwardly 
himself.
"I understand Mr. Hollingsworth was extremely distressed."
"Very much so. He'd rung up a few days before--"
"Could you give me the exact date, Mr. Blakeley?"
"Yes, I can." The bank manager pulled a large desk diary towards him, opened it 
and smoothed out the perfectly flat surface. "I remember because a customer, 
who had an appointment about a bridging loan, complained at being kept waiting."
Sergeant Troy admired the constrained order of Mr. Blakeley's desk as he turned 
over a page in his own notebook.
"Here we are, Nine thirty on Friday, June seventh. He said he needed fifty 
thousand pounds straightaway and that it was desperately urgent. Although that 
amount, unlike the earlier request, was not completely out of the question, I 
still needed a certain amount of time to review Penstemon's affairs. I told him 
it might take a couple of days and he should really come in for an interview."
"What did he say to that?"
"He became quite distraught. Almost . . . abusive." Mr. Blakeley's pale, suety 
cheeks warmed to the recollection. "He asked how long it would take and 
expressed great distress when I said these things couldn't be hurried. I'm 
afraid this reaction made me extremely wary. You may think that sounds rather 
heartless, Chief Inspector."
Barnaby made a vague gesture negating any such judgemental conclusion.
"It is not hearts, however, that should be relied upon when dealing with other 
people's money but a calm and rational mind. The calmer I remained, the wilder 
Mr. Hollingsworth became. He rang several more times during the course of the 
day, always striking roughly the same note. Finally I had to instruct my 
secretary to say I was out of the office. I did what I could on the matter 
then, as I was going away for the weekend, left early. My wife and I went to a 
wedding in Surrey and stayed overnight, returning around eleven Sunday morning 
to at least a dozen frantic messages on my Answerphone. I rang him 
straightaway."
"That was the call we know about?"
"Yes. I assured him that I was doing everything I could to speed things up. He 
seemed furious that I hadn't stayed at my desk until I'd got the matter 
sorted." Mr. Blakeley gave a sniff of outrage so forceful it briefly closed his 
hirsute nostrils. "He was so hysterical that I pulled out all the stops and got 
the loan arranged early the following morning. And then, would you believe, he 
refused to come and pick it up! Said he was too ill to drive and, I must say, 
he did rather sound it."
"So what did you do, Mr. Blakeley?"
"Put the money--he'd insisted on small denomination notes which I didn't like 
at all--into my briefcase, locked it and drove over to Fawcett Green. All 
highly unorthodox."
"And how was Mr. Hollingsworth when you got there?"
"Most unwell. I hardly recognised him." Mr. Blakeley noted a hairline fracture 
between the A4 pages and closed it. "And inebriated, though I'd guessed that 
from the phone calls."
"Did he at any point say what the money was for?"
"No."
"Didn't you ask?"
"It really wasn't relevant from our point of view. The business could more than 
cover the debt should we need to call it in."
"But you must have been curious, Mr. Blakeley. Didn't you have any ideas of 
your own?"
"Well, one doesn't wish to appear melodramatic," said Mr. Blakeley, melodrama 
incarnate in his Jimmy Cagney threads, "but I did wonder if he was being 
blackmailed. Hard to imagine of course--a person of one's acquaintance."
"What about the rest of the conversation during your visit?"
"There wasn't any. He virtually snatched the bag and showed me the door."
"Did you hear from him again after this meeting?"
Mr. Blakeley shook his head. "The next thing I knew, Penstemon was ringing with 
the news of his death."
"Do you have any idea what the future of the company will now be?"
"None whatsover. But I hope to be meeting with their Mr. Burbage early next 
week."
"What about Mrs. Hollingsworth, sir? Did she have an account here? Perhaps 
jointly with her husband?"
"No, none at all. Even so, I have obviously written offering my sympathy on her 
sad loss. And any support or advice she may need."
Big deal. Sergeant Troy was tapping and shaking his Biro fruitlessly before 
taking a spare from his breast pocket. What she needs, poor cow, is a fully 
armed section of the Flying Squad charging up the path to wherever it is and 
kicking in the cellar door.
"I'm afraid the lady is no longer at Nightingales," Barnaby was saying. "She 
disappeared a week ago."
"More theatrics." Mr. Blakeley sighed, plainly washing his hands of the whole 
messy business. "Are the two things connected, do you think?"
"We're at a very early stage in our inquiries. Impossible to say."
"Heavens, I didn't want to know." Huffily easing a cuff with an edge like a 
samurai sword away from his wrist, Mr. Blakeley revealed a flashy timepiece. 
"Well, I have an appointment in--"
"Just a couple of final questions, sir." Barnaby was already anticipating his 
departure from this cool, constrained environment into the sweltering outdoors 
and feeling rather sorry for himself. "Did Mr. Hollingsworth have a deposit box 
here?"
"He did not."
"And do you know of any other accounts he may have had? Perhaps offshore or 
overseas?"
"I am personally not aware of any such transactions. And, even if I was, the 
release of such information does not fall within the jurisdiction of the 
Bankers' Books Evidence Act. As I'm sure you are aware, Chief Inspector."
The Chief Inspector got his own back for this little dig by informing Mr. 
Blakeley that, as a visitor to Nightingales, his fingerprints would have to be 
taken for the purposes of elimination. He thought the bank manager was going to 
pass out.
"Queer bloke," said Barnaby as they found themselves once more sticking to the 
boiling tarmac. Believing "gay" to have, by now, firmly established itself as 
the accepted alternative for homosexual, he had used the term in the 
old-fashioned sense.
"Is he?" Though still sulking in his heart, Troy responded in a friendly manner 
for he could not bear to be lonely for long. "I thought that snot rag was a bit 
over the top."
They walked along for a few moments in silence, Troy pondering the recent 
interview, Barnaby dreaming of a nice cool drink.
"Think Patterson's in on this, guv?"
"I wouldn't be surprised."
"Going to give him a tug?"
"Oh, yes."
Once more the boarded salvationist approached.
"They never give up, do they?" said Troy.
"Don't knock it," said Barnaby. "This could be your chance to take the veil."
"Nan, I'm doomed. Frying tonight, that'll be my lot!"
When Barnaby got back to the station, the driver on the Fawcett Green to 
Causton bus route was being interviewed by the officer-in-charge. The Chief 
Inspector sat in but made no attempt to take over, merely indicating to the 
officer that he should continue.
"Yes, I do remember her." He was looking at Simone's picture.
"Are you sure, Mr. Cato? It's over a week ago. And you must get an awful lot of 
customers, one way or another."
"Yeah, but the market-day runs round the villages are special. You see the same 
faces, week in week out. Pensioners, youngsters with toddlers. I remember this 
one 'cause she'd never been on my route before. Plus she was a real looker."
"What was she wearing?"
"Dress with flowers all over and a little coat thing to match."
"Did you get the impression she was by herself?"
"Hard to judge. She was just in the queue."
"Did you see who she sat with?"
"Can't say I did, mate."
"And where was she going?"
"Causton. Asked for a single which was very unusual. Everyone always gets a 
return. It's only ten pence more, y'see."
"And she got off?"
"Outside Gateways. There's only the two stops. The other's by the post office 
in the main square."
"Notice her direction when she walked away?"
"Sorry. I was helping somebody with a pushchair."
After Barnaby had once more declined to put any questions of his own, the 
driver signed his statement and left. In spite of the paucity of information 
obtained, the Chief Inspector felt quite cheerful. He had expected, given the 
jam-packed vehicle, absolutely nothing. Now he knew that Mrs. Hollingsworth had 
not planned to return to Fawcett Green--at least by public transport--and where 
she had got off. It was a start. And there might well be a scrap or two extra 
once all the other passengers had been interviewed.
Dribs and drabs of information began to filter in. It appeared that Mrs. 
Hollingsworth had no bank account at Lloyds, as her husband had suggested to PC 
Perrot at their first meeting. This was no surprise. Nor was the fact that 
British Telecom confirmed that there had been no fault reported on Alan 
Hollingsworth's line. And his bills were itemised.
Sergeant Troy's response to this snippet of information was predictably 
cynical. "Now we know why she was using the public. To ring up her bit on the 
side."
Having offered his deduction of the day, Troy vanished in search of a nicotine 
fix and Barnaby was left pondering this pretty obvious, but not necessarily 
correct, conclusion. Taking Hollingsworth's unstable and jealous temperament 
into account, his wife could quite possibly have simply been talking to a 
female friend. Always assuming she had any. Perhaps the newly started 
investigations would turn up an ex-colleague or two. Simone Hollingsworth must 
have met a fair amount of people during the time she had been doing all the 
jobs described by Avis Jennings.
A severely cropped wedding photograph showing a close-up of the bride had been 
sent out by the press office. Coupled with news of the kidnapping (and assuming 
that nothing even more appalling happened within the next few hours), it should 
make the front page of the next edition of the Evening Standard. Tomorrow the 
tabloids and perhaps even one or two of the broadsheets would carry the story, 
hopefully also on the front page.
Actually, asking members of the public for their assistance, though routine by 
now in the matter of serious crime, was undoubtedly a mixed blessing. 
Occasionally it could be a godsend. Much more frequently the procedure would 
prove to be a waste of precious time and resources. All manner of people 
fancied being attached to the fringe of an official inquiry. Most were 
ordinary, honest citizens who genuinely thought they had seen or heard 
something that would help the police. But the rest--they were something else.
You got to recognise them after a while. The same old sad sacks plainly 
believing they were important characters in a larger than life drama. This 
quaint conceit would lead to endless posturing, embroidery and exaggeration. 
Struggling to say what they thought the police wanted to hear, some of them 
ended up spinning a tale worthy of Hollywood at its most inventive. Anything to 
be in the movie. Then there were the anonymous tipsters who were often utter 
liars acting either from motiveless malice or to wrongly accuse some real or 
imagined enemy. None of these people could be safely ignored.
Barnaby turned his mind to the next item on his mental list, Messrs J. Coutts. 
These bankers to the great and the good had, naturally, been chary about 
revealing details regarding the person in receipt of Hollingsworth's weighty 
cheque. They would not even tell him if the name described an individual or an 
institution. However they did agree to inform the owner of the account in 
question of the present situation and pass on to him DCI Barnaby's telephone 
number.
And so it was, at around four o'clock, shortly after Barnaby had despatched a 
car to collect Gray Patterson, a call came through on his direct line from a 
Mr. Kurt Milritch. A courteous, softly spoken man with an accent that Barnaby 
thought was possibly Polish, he described himself as the director of the 
jewellers F. L. Kominsky of Bond Street and asked how he was able to assist. 
Barnaby explained the situation.
Mr. Milritch remembered the cheque, indeed the whole transaction, very well. 
The piece in question, an emerald and diamond necklace, was extremely beautiful 
with a most unusual clasp, a pair of chased silver swans which linked 
magnetically. The purchaser asked for the piece specifically, not wishing to 
look at anything else. After the necessary checks to confirm that the funds to 
cover the purchase were available, the necklace was locked into its case and 
handed over.
"I asked if the customer needed to insure the jewels on his home journey--a 
covering note--but he declined," continued Mr. Milritch. "We offered him tea--I 
presumed he would be waiting for a car--but he merely slipped the necklace into 
his briefcase and left. I watched him on the pavement hailing a taxi and I must 
say my heart was in my mouth until he got safely into it. Two hundred thousand 
pounds is a lot to be swinging casually from one's wrist in a busy London 
thoroughfare."
"Indeed it is," said Barnaby. "You'd remember Mr. Hollingsworth by sight, would 
you, sir?"
"I believe I would, yes."
"We'll send a photograph. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to give us a ring just 
to confirm that it is the man in question." Barnaby took down the fax number, 
still talking. "Had he been in the shop before?"
There was a slight hiss from the other end of the line which proved to be the 
entente cordial icing over. Barnaby, at a loss to understand the reason, was 
quickly enlightened.
"Certainly I don't recall seeing him at any other time in our showrooms." Shop? 
Shop! "However, when the photograph arrives, I will be glad to show it to my 
colleagues, if you think that will help."
Barnaby assured him that it would. "The reason I ask is that it is surely 
unusual for anyone to buy something so valuable within moments of first seeing 
it."
"Oh, we get a lot of impulse buys," said Mr. Milritch breezily. He might have 
been speaking of a box of matches. "Anyway, that doesn't mean the party for 
whom it was purchased hadn't seen it. She might have been here on several 
occasions, looking round. Whittling items of her choice down. They have the 
time to spare you see, the ladies."
Barnaby decided also to fax a picture of Simone but without much hope of 
success. Although she'd certainly had plenty of time to look around and 
whittle, he couldn't imagine her being let off the leash for long enough to do 
so. He was about to thank Mr. Milritch for his help and ring off when the 
salesman spoke again.
"Of course she could always have seen a picture of the necklace. In Harpers."
"Where?"
"The magazine, Harpers and Queen. A full page. February issue. It looked 
breathtaking. We had heaps of inquiries. Nothing," concluded Mr. Milritch 
firmly, "stimulates feminine interest like a well-faceted diamond."
"Still a girl's best friend then?" Barnaby got another earful of chill in 
return for such levity. He thanked Mr. Milritch and rang off.
The Chief Inspector was still reflecting on this conversation when Sergeant 
Troy came back from the jakes, the only place where smoking was now allowed. 
The scent of high tar tobacco drifted in with him. Virginia's finest.
"That's better," he said, falling into a tweedy air chair. "Keep me going for a 
bit."
"Just the opposite, I'd have thought."
"You can live like a monk for years then get run over by a bus."
"In a monastery?"
"So." Troy, bored with any conversation that did not immediately present him in 
a good light, changed the subject. "Anything fresh come in?"
"I've found out who F. L. Kominsky is."
Barnaby went over his conversation with the salesman, or gem consultant as he 
was no doubt termed around the shebeens of Mayfair. Troy listened closely, both 
impressed and bewildered. Impressed by the amount of money involved; bewildered 
by the use to which it had been put.
"Unbelievable," he said when Barnaby had finished. "You could get a brand new 
Ferrari for that."
Barnaby had made a note of the date. Almost three months ago. It seemed 
significant to him for a reason other than the purchase of the necklace. He 
frowned, teasing his memory.
"Give a lot to know where it is now, eh, chief?"
"Indeed. One thing's certain, either she took it with her, along with the 
engagement ring, or it had already gone by the time she disappeared."
"Is that a fact?"
"Hollingsworth would hardly have fought his way through all that misery with 
Blakeley if he could just have gone to Kominsky's and flogged the necklace 
back."
"Whoever tries to unload it will have their work cut out. Your average High 
Street jeweller, he'd be very wary. The top end of the trade would certainly 
ask questions. And a receiver will only divvy up a fraction of what it's worth. 
And that's assuming the man who did the snatch is savvy enough to find one."
"We'll get some feelers out. See if anyone's heard anything."
"I wouldn't be surprised if we're talking collusion here, chief."
"What?"
"I reckon this chap she was meeting in Causton, or wherever, asked her to bring 
the necklace along."
"She'd have to be pretty dim not to be suspicious."
"But she thinks they're running away together, see? Starting a new life and 
that."
"Mmm."
Sergeant Troy sprang out of his chair then and walked towards the window for he 
hated being still, or even in one place, for long. Forgetful of the heat, he 
laid his hand on the glass, then snatched it away. He said, "Reminded me of 
something said at Nightingales, you mentioning that magazine."
"What? Scenes of Crime?"
"Them or Parrot. Hang on a sec." Troy frowned. Now he, too, surfed the memory 
bank, though making much more of a show of it.
Barnaby watched his sergeant. Troy would be longing to produce an intelligent 
and really helpful comment. And if the one he was genuinely seeking didn't come 
to mind, he would make one up. Anything rather than be found wanting.
Troy sighed and his frown deepened. Tell the truth, as the magazine's 
connection to the present situation continued to elude him, he was starting to 
regret having mentioned it at all. He should have remembered what it was before 
he had spoken out. Then he could have simply dropped the perceptive insight 
into the conversation, all casual like. If commended, he would conceal his 
delight and shrug it off.
All this Barnaby understood and, up to a point, sympathised with. Perhaps the 
most touching aspect of it all was that Troy had no idea he was so transparent 
and would have been mortified had it been pointed out to him.
"I know." Relief and satisfaction slackened the tight, frowning mouth. The tips 
of his ears rosied up. "It was old Polly. On the landing. Said there was a 
stack of magazines in the spare room, one with a page torn out. What d'you bet 
that was the advert for the necklace?"
"Easy enough to check. See to it, would you?" Then, because in a couple of 
hours he would be going back to Joyce and Arbury Crescent where there would be 
asparagus and salmon and salade Nicoise, and because he was in the giving vein 
that day, Barnaby added, "That was very sharp, Gavin."
Troy's sallow cheeks glowed. Immediately he began to recount the scene to his 
even greater advantage. The old man--great in his time, of course, but his 
memory isn't what it was--said he didn't know what he'd do without me. Yeah, 
his very words. Relying on me more and more.
Problem was, who to recount it to. Certainly nobody round the station. Troy 
might not win prizes for self-awareness but he wasn't that stupid. Maureen 
would only fall off the settee laughing. His mum had always dinned it into him 
that self-praise was no recommendation, so she was out. That left 
Talisa-Leanne. Only three, admitted, but very intelligent. Also she listened 
when he spoke to her. Which was more than you could say for the rest of the 
world.
Fawcett Green could talk of nothing but the unexplained death of Alan 
Hollingsworth and the possible fate of his wife. The news of Simone's 
kidnapping, released by the door-to-door team in pursuance of their 
investigations, spread through the village like wildfire. People rang other 
people the minute they had had what Mrs. Bream referred to as their turn. Becky 
called it "being done" as if it was a vaccination.
What sort of thing did they ask you? I hear they're calling in the Yard. They 
didn't ask me that. I never believed that story about her mother. You know they 
found her cat? I thought it was his mother. Poor thing, thrown into a ditch and 
left to die. People who flash their money about are asking for trouble. I heard 
it had turned up in Gerrard's Cross. Well, they won't have to look far for the 
prime suspect. With some kittens. Getting his own back, isn't he, Patterson? 
His cash, more like.
It was cleaning day at Arcadia. By now Heather had become, at least in her own 
evaluation, a key witness. After going over the fateful bus journey at least 
twice for the police, she was now going over it all again for the benefit of 
the assembled company.
"I'd commented on her bag--ever such a nice raised beaded design. Then I said 
it must be a bugger to clean, pardon my French, Mrs. M. She just smiled then 
looked out the window for the rest of the journey though I chatted away to her. 
I said to the Bill, if I'd known it was going to be fatal I'd have been a bit 
more probing like."
Mrs. Molfrey, who had long since switched off her hearing aid, nodded. Cubby, 
in the kitchen shelling broad beans, had simply tuned out.
"The stress is really getting to Colin Perrot. I met his wife when I was 
collecting our Duane from playgroup. They've been horrible to him, that flash 
lot from Causton."
There was a knock at the door heard only by Heather who opened it, admitting 
Avis Jennings. Avis was carrying a cream patisserie tart smothered in cherries, 
freshly picked from her orchard. And a tiny parcel of newly candied angelica of 
which Mrs. Molfrey was very fond.
"We must have a morsel, toot sweet," cried Mrs. Molfrey as she unwrapped it.
Cubby, hearing only the last two words and assuming they were addressed to 
himself, put his head round the door.
"Yes, my love. What is it?"
"A confection without parallel, Cubs. Pop the kettle on and we'll all have a 
nibble."
Heather, already hardly able to shoehorn her rear end into size twenty 
tracksuit bottoms, decided to pass on this one. Her mum sometimes picked up one 
of Mrs. Jennings' confections at the WI so Heather knew them of old. She made 
her excuses, said, "Ta-ra then," and lumbered off.
Answering Avis's opening question, Mrs. Molfrey admitted she had not yet 
experienced her door-to-door visit. "I expect," she continued, "that nice Mr. 
Barnaby will be calling personally."
Avis, inexperienced though she was in the ways of the upper reaches of the CID, 
thought this a touch unlikely and murmured something to this effect.
"Not at all." Mrs. Molfrey firmly justified her flight of fancy. "He gave me 
his direct telephone number. In case I remember what it is I've forgotten."
"What was that then, Elfie?" Avis spoke absently as she went into the kitchen 
for plates and some cake forks.
"All I can tell you is that it's something to do with a sound," shouted Mrs. 
Molfrey. Like a lot of deaf people, she found it difficult to pitch her voice 
accurately when people moved even a small distance away. "Unexpected, wrong or 
not there at all."
"I see." Avis knew better than to attempt a shared glance of amusement at these 
quaint juxtapositions with Cubby. Years ago she had learned that the slightest 
trace of jocular condescension would evoke a very cool response. She guessed 
that what others saw as elderly foolishness became transmuted, in his 
affectionate regard, to charming eccentricity. She watched him pour the 
fragrant tea then float some marigold petals in Elfrida's beautifully painted, 
shallow, gold-rimmed bowl.
"It happened on the day Simone went off," added Mrs. Molfrey.
Plainly she had not yet picked up the news of the kidnap. And Avis had no 
intention of distressing her by passing it on. When they were all sitting round 
eating, Avis, thinking back to Elfrida's previous remark, said, "Would it be 
something to do with our bell-ringing practice, Elfie?"
"In what wise?"
"If you remember, we'd been asked to do Oranges and Lemons for Mr. Rouse's 
funeral. That might be called a wrong sound. A bit jolly for such a solemn 
occasion."
"I don't think it was that. Although the word 'chimes' reverberates somewhat." 
Mrs. Molfrey frowned. She speared a cherry with a shining green sliver of 
angelica and sucked on it. "I expect it will come to me suddenly at dead of 
night. Or when I'm in the bath, like Archimedes."
"You must write it down," said Avis. "Before it goes again."
"I shall shout Eureka!" cried Mrs. Molfrey. "And then I shall write it down."
"Some more tea, my love?" asked Cubby.
"It occurred to me yesterday," said Mrs. Molfrey, handing over her dish, "that 
Simone may not even know that Alan has died. It is all so mysterious and 
distressing. Especially when one remembers how happy they were."
Avis, who knew all about Simone's bruises and her need for the occasional 
tranquillising dart, remained silent. Naturally any such conversations with her 
husband never became public property. Aware now that her friend was becoming 
genuinely upset, Avis, rather clumsily, tried to change the subject.
"I was wondering if the Brockley girl had gone on holiday."
"Brenda? I've no idea." Mrs. Molfrey dabbed at her cyclamen lips with a whisp 
of embroidered lace. "Why do you ask?"
"I haven't seen her walking Shona for a day or two."
"I had noticed," said Cubby hesitantly, not wishing to be thought a gossip, 
"that her car is missing."
"Iris hasn't been out either. I usually spot her in the post office in the 
early part of the week."
"I've seen her staring out of the bedroom window," said Mrs. Molfrey. "Several 
times, actually."
Aware of the Brockleys' collective yearning for anonymity and passion for not 
drawing attention to themselves, all three fell unaccountably silent.
Then Cubby said, "I did too, about half past five yesterday morning."
"I hope there's nothing wrong," said Avis. She spoke with absolute sincerity, 
for enough sorrow washed through Dr. Jennings' surgery to more than satisfy the 
normal human impulse to take pleasure in the misfortune of others.
"I think perhaps we should call."
"They won't like that, Elfie," said Avis.
"But if we contrive an 'accidentally on purpose' meeting?" suggested Mrs. 
Molfrey. "What about when he next goes into the garden? One doesn't wish to pry 
but sometimes the very people who need help and support the most are the least 
able to ask for it."
Cubby, feeling rather awkward and embarrassed, made a noncommittal "mm" sound. 
He recalled the solitary figure at the window and it now seemed to him that 
there had been both desolation and yearning in Iris's face. For no reason, he 
felt she had been standing there for a very long time. A little later, walking 
along the herringbone path with the milk, Cubby had glanced up again. This time 
Reg was standing next to his wife with something--a cup or mug--in his hand. 
She seemed to be ignoring him.
"I will if you really wish it, Elfrida."
As if this small decision had already been acted on, and that successfully, 
Mrs. Molfrey beamed at everyone. By the time Avis left, (carrying a second 
cardboard box), she was asking for another helping of patisserie and some more 
angelica.
The second cherry tart was for Sarah Lawson. Avis did not make a habit of such 
bountiful behaviour. In fact it was the first time she had gone to Bay Tree 
Cottage bearing a gift of any sort. The truth was she felt awkward calling 
without a reason. It struck her suddenly that this was the only house in the 
village where such strictures might apply.
What was it about Sarah? Avis put her carton down on the parched grass and 
heaved the gate back into position. Her off-putting neutrality, perhaps. 
Neither friendly nor unfriendly, kind or unkind, Sarah was the sort of person 
with whom, as the saying went, you never knew where you were. Like most people, 
Avis was uncomfortable with that.
Not that Sarah gave herself airs and graces. She might be indifferent to 
everyone else but there was never any hint that she thought herself their 
superior. But perhaps that was how the truly superior behaved. And there was 
something about her, a deep involvement in her own thoughts and a general 
unwillingness to comment on anything that went on outside her own front door, 
that made one feel quite gross producing even the mildest snippet of gossip.
Of course Avis's real reason for calling was to try and discover Sarah's 
thoughts on Simone's abduction. This, together with Alan's death, was far too 
exciting merely to chat about in a general way. Avis wanted to discuss it with 
the one person whose responses she could not have predicted in her sleep.
She picked up her box again, hesitated then told herself she was being foolish. 
After all, the woman couldn't bite her. And if, after one or two subtle opening 
gambits, it was plain Sarah was either bored or irritated, well, thought Avis, 
I can always change the subject. Or leave.
She knocked on the door. As she did so a cry came from inside the house. Later 
she was to realise that the two sounds were so close it was impossible that one 
could have been evoked in response to the other. At the time she thought Sarah 
had simply called "Come in." And so, awkwardly clutching her present, in she 
went.
Sarah stood by the dusty window. A dead fly hung in the remains of a web in the 
corner. She was tugging fiercely on a silk scarf, brilliantly striped in olive 
and aquamarine, knotted round her waist; looping and twisting it through her 
narrow fingers, almost tearing the thin silk. Gray Patterson was standing in 
the centre of the room. You could have cut the atmosphere, so Avis told her 
husband later, with a knife.
Convinced she had interrupted a lover's quarrel, Avis stumbled into speech. 
"I'm so sorry, I'll just leave this . . . I didn't mean, um, that is . . ."
But it was not a quarrel. At least, not as most people would understand the 
word.
Gray had turned up, as he did almost every day now at some time or other, given 
a slight tap on the knocker and walked in. Lately she had invariably invited 
him to do this so he thought it would be all right.
Sarah had been leaning against the old stone fireplace, her arms gripping the 
far edges of the mantel, her head pressed against the edge. Still as a statue.
Gray, thinking she may not have heard him come in, gave a quiet cough. Sarah 
whirled round, gasping as from a sudden blow. Although Gray had made no attempt 
to approach her, she raised her arm as if to fend him off.
"What on earth is it?"
"Go away."
"Sarah, what's the matter?"
"How dare you just walk in here without knocking!"
"I didn't. That is, I did. Knock. I don't think you heard me." He took in her 
white, strained face and staring bloodshot eyes. She was biting her mouth, 
making a great effort at self-control. A great welt, so red it looked almost 
raw, lay across her forehead.
"Have you been crying?"
"No."
"But your eyes--"
"It's the pollen. All right?"
"Don't be angry." She must have been rubbing, almost banging her head against 
the stone to make a mark like that. "What on earth's wrong?"
"Go away."
"How can I just--"
"It's simple. There's the door."
"With you looking like--"
"Go away!"
"I'm worried about you."
"Mind your own bloody business."
Back to square one then and with a vengeance, thought Gray. It was as if their 
amiable conversations in her ramshackle house and lovely wild garden had never 
happened. He had not deluded himself that these had ever been of a romantic 
nature but he did think that he and Sarah were slowly becoming friends. 
Foolishly he had imagined a bond between them.
Well, friends or no friends, he had no intention of leaving her in this state. 
He walked into the kitchen and started to fill the kettle.
She shouted angrily, "What are you doing?"
"Making some tea. After you've drunk it, if you still want me to, I'll go." He 
sensed that she had followed him; then saw her shadow fall across the old 
wooden table. "Unless you feel the need to tell me about it."
"I just want to be by myself." Drained of all vitality, she was leaning her 
full weight against the door frame. Her gold and silver hair was a damp, 
lustreless tangle. "Please don't mess around with that."
"Sorry." Gray hesitated then switched the kettle off. He noticed that the front 
of her sky-blue shirt was covered in damp patches. She must have been crying 
for hours. Tentatively he reached out and touched her hand which was cold and 
heavy as a stone.
"Look, Sarah, plainly something dreadful's happened. Won't you let me try and 
help?"
Ignoring him, she moved back into the sitting room with a slow, dragging walk 
painfully unlike her usual confident stride. Touched now as much by pity as by 
concern, Gray followed. As he passed the marble slab, he noticed the warrior's 
head had disappeared. In its place was a heap of dirty clay, deeply indented as 
if from many severe blows.
"Please tell me what's troubling you."
Tears of rage and despair sprang into her eyes. She shuddered then gave vent to 
a harsh explosive sound. "You make me laugh. You're no different from everyone 
else in this nosy cesspit of a village. Always on the look-out for a juicy bit 
of tittle-tattle."
Her misery made the injustice of this remark irrelevant. In any case he was 
sure that, even as she mouthed the words, Sarah knew they were not true. She 
made a few more vaguely unkind, rather rambling comments then faltered into 
silence.
He watched her gradually become calm but in a terrible apathetic way which was 
worse than her original anger. Her mouth was haggard with grief.
Yes, thought Gray, that was the word exactly. Grief. She was mourning someone. 
A dear friend? A lover? Not a parent, for he knew both of them had been dead 
for some years.
And then, for absolutely no logical reason except perhaps propinquity, Alan 
Hollingsworth's name came into his mind. And though it seemed a baseless, even 
cranky notion, it would not go away. He told himself this was nonsense. Sarah 
had never mentioned the man, appeared barely to know him. But he could not let 
the idea rest.
"You've been . . . bereaved, Sarah, is that it?"
"Yes, oh yes," cried Sarah. As if alarmed at this spontaneous outburst, she 
pressed her hands over her mouth.
Gray knew that the balance of the scene was his. Bereft and fragile, she would 
have neither the energy nor the concentration to deceive. The phrase "strike 
while the iron's hot" seemed brutally appropriate.
Shamedly telling himself that he was acting purely in Sarah's interests, Gray 
said, "Was it Alan?"
She was standing over by the window with her back towards him. For a few 
moments he thought she was going to pretend she had not heard the question. In 
which case he was quite prepared to put it again. But then she turned to face 
him. Though pale, she was struggling to compose herself. Only the fingers were 
busy, tugging at her clothes. Her voice was low and still husky from crying.
"Why did he do it, Gray? I mean, take his own life over a woman like that, 
trivial . . . greedy . . ."
There was a pause during which Gray realised his teeth were so tightly clenched 
together his jaw ached. Eventually he said, "I'm sorry but I don't understand 
why you are so upset." Deliberately he emphasised the "you."
"It's a question of responsibility." This was said after some hesitation. It 
seemed to Gray that she had been searching for an explanation that would be 
credible yet removed from all intimacy. "He must have been hiding behind those 
curtains in absolute despair. Drinking, maybe weeping. If someone had gone in, 
talked to him . . ."
"It was tried. He wouldn't open the door."
"I didn't try."
"Why should you?"
"Aahh . . ." The cry of anguish flared around the room. Neither of them heard 
the knock at the door. And then suddenly, to Gray's surprise and intense 
disappointment, there was a third person present.
He watched Sarah struggle to regain her equilibrium. She seemed almost to 
welcome the interruption and asked Mrs. Jennings, who was plainly embarrassed 
and poised for flight, to stay.
Understanding that this invitation had been made solely for the purpose of 
getting rid of him, Gray saw no point in hanging around. The moment of 
revelation had passed and, in retaliation for his momentary cruelty, he had 
received naught for his comfort.
Serve me right, he thought as he hurried home. He wondered what he should do 
now. Offer his shoulder as a staunch friend? He couldn't, in all honesty, be 
sympathetic. Was it possible that an intelligent, lovely women like Sarah could 
really have cared for Hollingsworth of all people? That boring, screwed-up, 
money-grubbing slime ball.
Making his way past the blue piceas that screened his house, Gray discovered a 
police car parked on the drive. He did not object to the officer's request that 
he come down to the station to help them further with their inquiries. In fact, 
he rather welcomed the distraction.
It was all rather different this time round. Perhaps it was the alien setting: 
a cheerless room with cold blue walls, a floor of some dimpled black synthetic 
stuff and hard, wooden-backed chairs. The only bright spot was an extremely 
detailed poster of a Colorado beetle in full technicolour with instructions as 
to what to do should you be lucky enough to obtain a sighting.
He had been given a cup of tea by the detectives who had previously called at 
his house. They, too, looked different. Sterner and less approachable, 
inevitably at an advantage on their own pitch. The older one switched on a 
recorder, dated the tape, described who was present. The younger, the man who 
had been so nice to Bess, paced about, unsmiling.
"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Patterson."
"I got the impression I didn't have a lot of choice, Inspector . . . Sorry, 
I've forgotten your name."
"DCI Barnaby."
"Been a long while since I've been chauffeured anywhere." Patterson laughed 
awkwardly. Whilst not exactly ill at ease, he appeared puzzled at his sudden 
transportation into the heart of Causton CID.
Barnaby smiled in return. No reason not to at this stage.
"Do we have to have that thing on?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. And as much for your sake as ours." No one ever believed 
that, but it was true.
"What do you want to see me about?"
"Just one or two more questions."
"But I've told you everything I know."
"The day Mrs. Hollingsworth disappeared, Thursday, June the sixth. Do you 
remember where you were then? What you were doing?"
"Why?"
"Just answer the question, please, Mr. Patterson," said Sergeant Troy.
"I sign on on Thursday. A touch humiliating but I'm getting used to it. Beggars 
can't--"
"Where would this be?"
"Causton DSS. I went in just before half twelve. Did the deed, felt depressed 
as one always does afterwards. Went into the Job Centre to no effect then 
decided to go to a movie."
"Which one?" asked Troy.
"Goldeneye. The new James Bond. I thought I could do with a spot of escapism. 
And the seats are cheap in the afternoon."
"What time would that be?"
"Around two thirty, I guess. They'd have the exact time, I assume, at the 
cinema."
"And when did you come out?"
"Five-ish."
"Where did you go then?"
"I drove straight home."
"Did you go out again that night?"
"No."
"Did you see anyone you knew, if only by sight, all the time you were out?"
"Not that I noticed. But that doesn't mean no one saw me. Look, what on earth's 
the point of all this?"
"We feel it may be relevant to our inquiries, Mr. Patterson."
"How, relevant?"
Barnaby saw no reason not to explain. He took the latest edition of the Evening 
Standard from his desk drawer and laid it, front page uppermost, in front of 
Patterson.
He picked up the paper and gazed at it blankly. He shook his head once or twice 
then stared, first at one policeman and then the other, in stupefied amazement.
Barnaby stared calmly back. Stupefied amazement neither fazed nor impressed 
him. Neither did deep incredulity or gobsmacked disbelief. The last time he had 
seen such a convincing representation was on the face of a multiple rapist for 
whose capture he had been directly responsible. Proven guilty beyond all shadow 
of a doubt, the man had left the dock throwing his arms in the air in utter 
bewilderment that so many learned people could come to such an unbelievably 
erroneous conclusion.
"Kidnapped? Simone?"
"That's right," said Sergeant Troy. "Know anything about it, do you, sir?"
"What?"
"They've asked a ransom of fifty thousand," Barnaby explained. "A nice, round 
figure, wouldn't you say?"
Patterson hardly looked capable of saying anything. Eventually he made a noise 
that sounded like "crark?"
"Add on the sparklers," said Troy, "and there's you with your money back. Plus 
fifty for your trouble."
"Or perhaps you regard it as a redundancy payment, Mr. Patterson."
"Sorry . . . um . . ." He peered at them both, straining as if through a fog. 
"Sparklers?"
"A diamond necklace worth over two hundred thousand pounds has vanished from 
Nightingales. And also, we believe, an extremely valuable ring."
"Well, I didn't take it."
"You don't deny you've been there?"
"I only went into his office. I told you."
"Is that a fact?" The house having been cleaned many times since Patterson's 
visit, there would be no trace of his prints. A comforting bit of information 
that Barnaby saw no reason to pass on.
"Two hundred . . . ?"
Barnaby watched the numerical coincidence take hold. Patterson's eyes became 
even rounder than the O of his mouth.
"Do you know when he bought it?" Patterson asked.
"Three months ago."
"Just after . . ."
"Immediately after," affirmed Sergeant Troy, regrettably with some pleasure.
"Are you trying to say that my life has been ruined," Patterson lurched to his 
feet, "for a piece of bloody jewellery?"
Troy took a seat then, next to his boss. Both detectives sat quietly, waiting 
and watching. The tape hissed.
"I find that . . . Oh, shit, what a bastard . . . bastard . . . bloody hell . . 
."
Patterson rambled on in this manner as the anger slowly leaked out of him. He 
slumped back into his seat. "I suppose it was for her." He sounded flat and 
tired. "His wife."
"Unless he's been sleeping around. Do you think that's very likely?"
"No. As I've said before, Alan just gets obsessed with one person. Runs them 
into the ground. Then starts all over again on someone else."
The Chief Inspector, having heard Hollingsworth's anguish after the 
disappearance of his wife so graphically described by both Perrot and the 
Reverend Bream, had not seriously expected any other reply. A further thought 
occurred.
"Do you remember if he lashed out like this during his first marriage?"
"Lashed out?"
"Financially."
"Oh." He thought for a moment then said, "I think he might have. I know he 
bought Miriam a fur coat once after they'd had a row and he was feeling very 
remorseful." Patterson laughed briefly. "It wouldn't have cut much ice with 
her."
"How well did you know the second Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"You asked me that the other day."
"Well, we're asking you again," snapped Sergeant Troy.
"Nothing's changed," said Patterson shortly. "I hardly knew her then and I 
hardly know her now."
"Did she ever visit your house?"
"No."
"Or ring you up?"
"No."
"Did you meet on any occasion outside the village?"
"No!"
"Did you know Mrs. Hollingsworth at all before she met and married her husband?"
"Of course not." There was no trace of anxiety in Patterson's voice, only 
irritation, increasing by the minute.
"When did you last see her?"
"Umm . . . I suppose that time in the phone box. I told you, the other day."
"Ah yes."
"I don't understand why--"
"Were you aware that Hollingsworth left a suicide note?"
"How could I be?"
"On a computer. Trouble is, there were no prints on the keyboard."
"Really?" Gray Patterson frowned. He looked interested but in a detached way, 
like a man faced with an interesting problem. "Why would he do that? Wipe them 
all off?"
"Why indeed."
"Did he print the message out?"
"No."
"Very strange."
"We are considering the possibility that Mr. Hollingsworth did not, in fact, 
key the note himself."
Barnaby watched that go home. Observed Patterson's sudden unnatural stillness. 
The way his palms pressed on the metal table. And how the skin tightened along 
his jaw. Even his curls seemed flattened as if the force of what he had just 
heard was blowing against him like a gale. He sought consolation and shelter.
"You mean it was an accident?"
"People who die by accident don't spring up again for a few last words," said 
Sergeant Troy.
"Of course not." His face was wiped clear of all impression. "So that leaves . 
. ."
"I can see you're way ahead of us, Mr. Patterson."
"And naturally you thought of me."
"That's right." Barnaby noted his suspect's continuing immobility. And wondered 
whether it was due to extreme caution or extreme shock. "So you will understand 
that I must question you again about your movements on the night of Alan 
Hollingsworth's death. And ask you to think very carefully indeed before you 
reply."
"I've no need. As I said the other day, I was at home all Monday evening. Out 
in the garden until around nine and then in the house."
"Did you, late that evening or early the next morning, visit the property known 
as Nightingales?"
"No, I did not."
"When did you last see Alan Hollingsworth?"
"I can't answer that. I don't remember precisely."
Barnaby waited for a few moments then closed the interview, timed the tape and 
switched the machine off.
"We have a warrant to search your house, Mr. Patterson. Also our Forensic 
department will wish to examine your car. You'll be asked to hand the keys 
over."
"I understand. Can I . . ." He half rose then sat down again. "Is it all right 
if . . ."
"You can go home, sir. But please keep us informed of your whereabouts."
"Don't go taking any holidays in the Caribbean," said Sergeant Troy.
This spark of levity did not even register.
"Also," continued Barnaby, "we'd like a recent photograph. Just a snap will do. 
Give it to the officer who runs you home, if you would."
When his escort arrived, Patterson trudged leadenly off without having made eye 
contact with either of the two detectives again.
"What do you reckon?" asked Troy when they were once more back in Barnaby's 
office. "In the frame, is he?"
"I don't know," replied the Chief Inspector. "Have to think about that."
Troy nodded and sat back to wait. He would relax. He would not bite his nails 
or run out for a fag. The minutes dragged by. Sergeant Troy's mind rolled back 
to when he had first been assigned to his present position, now nearly nine 
years ago.
Then he had found his new boss's refusal to produce an instant opinion on 
anything and everything somewhat alarming. Barnaby's dislike of drawing rapid 
conclusions also caused a certain amount of discomposure. But the sergeant had 
experienced his keenest unease when faced by the chief's willingness to 
acknowledge embarrassment or failure; the two great taboos of police culture. 
Barnaby had been known on occasion to admit publicly to both, which made some 
officers, especially the older ones, awkward in his presence. Resentful of his 
honesty and courage, in their own self-defence they transformed these 
qualities, in their canteen conversation, to foolishness and a need to curry 
favour with the younger element. No one ever suggested this to his face. And 
through it all the gaffer--Sergeant Troy, glanced across the room at the bulky 
figure lost in thought and fanning itself with a manila folder--didn't give a 
bloody toss. You had to admire him.
It was nearly seven o'clock. Suddenly Barnaby got up and started stuffing 
things into a briefcase. "Time we weren't here, Sergeant."
"Right, chief." Another ten minutes and they'd have been on overtime. Ah well, 
some of us could do with it and some of us are nice and comfortable already, 
thanks very much.
A brief "goodnight" and the door slammed.
Troy put on his silky tweed jacket, adjusted his tie with immaculately clean 
hands and briefly admired himself in the mirror. Smoothing his hair and 
smiling, he checked his teeth for any foody bits. Finesse he may lack but you 
couldn't fault him when it came to a tidy mouth.
He unwrapped a stick of Orbit menthol, popped it on to his tongue and set off 
for the station bar and a glass of weasel piss. Plus a spot of amorous backchat 
which could well lead, should his cards fall sunny side upwards, to a nice 
little roll in the hay.
Chapter Seven
Think of a figure. Double it. Add on your weight in kilos, your National 
Insurance number and the National Debt. Take away the figure you first thought 
of and you'd still be hard pushed to come up with the degrees centigrade 
registered in the CID's outer office. The coolest place in the building was the 
inoperative boiler room.
The heatwave had been going on now for over a week. Chief Inspector Barnaby, 
gradually dissolving in his fourth floor office, thought the term singularly 
inept. Waves, whatever their temperature, moved. He was sitting in stationary 
air the consistency of thick soup. A large fan on his desk heaved hot gollops 
of it back and forth.
After sleeping badly, Barnaby was feeling bad-tempered and depressed. He had 
dozed off around half past four after spending hours turning the Hollingsworth 
mystery over and over in his mind.
There had been an extremely vivid and unpleasant dream just seconds before he 
woke. He was standing in the greenhouse watching a small, insignificant insect 
crawling up a pane of glass. He reached out and squashed it with his nail. A 
tiny spot of reddish brown liquid spurted out. This was followed by another, 
larger display which ran down the glass in a thin but steady stream. Then a 
quick gush of much brighter fluid followed by an absolute avalanche of thick, 
scarlet foam. Barnaby, his hands and jacket sleeves suddenly drenched, had 
recoiled in horror.
He pushed the image to the back of his mind by tackling the daily papers. 
Simone's picture was on the front page of all the tabloids, accompanied by some 
barmily imaginative headlines. Alan had been posthumously promoted to Gordon 
Gecko status: Dead Tycoon's Blonde Lovely Vanishes! Madonna Lookalike 
Kidnapped! Have You Seen Sexy Simone--Tragic Widow of Top Financier?
At least, thought the Chief Inspector, shoving aside the Sun, they'd been 
spared Phew! What A Corker!
He flipped through the small handful of house-to-house reports that it was 
thought were worth putting on his desk but discovered that all of them merely 
confirmed material that was already on record. He noticed, too, that so far 
Sarah Lawson had been unavailable on each occasion the police had called and 
decided he would attempt to visit her himself. As it was Saturday there was a 
fair chance he would find her in.
The SOCO report on Nightingales' garden and garage, also on his desk, revealed 
little of real interest. Fingertip searches had found nothing out of the 
ordinary. The baked earth yielded no footprints, nor were there any disturbed 
or broken plants. At the far end of the back garden was a tough and densely 
growing hedge of spiny berberis. Impossible to either climb or push through 
without leaving plenty of evidence that one had done so.
All the prints in the garage belonged to Alan Hollingsworth. Nothing untoward 
had been found there. Gardening tools and a mower. Boxes with half-empty paint 
tins and some wallpaper but no brushes, turps, rags or rollers. Presumably the 
Hollingsworths employed a decorator when they needed the place tarting up. It 
was the car Barnaby was interested in. He picked up his phone, buzzed Forensic 
and asked how long the report on this would be.
"Any minute now."
"You mean next week?"
"You know your trouble, Chief Inspector?" said Aubrey. "You've no faith in the 
system."
"I can't think why."
As Barnaby replaced the receiver, Sergeant Troy came in and placed a single cup 
of coffee on his desk. Barnaby immediately wondered what on earth had driven 
him to ask for it in this weather. Habit, probably. Yet the first sip was very 
enjoyable.
"Sergeant Brierley's in the incident room, chief." Taut as a wound-up spring, 
he was, a quivery snap to the voice. "You asked me to let you know when she 
came in."
"Thank you." Not all the door-to-door team had returned when Barnaby had left 
the previous night. He was particularly interested in discovering how things 
were at the Brockleys.
"You sound rather sour, Gavin. Been putting you through it, has she, our 
Audrey?"
"Well, I wasn't going to say anything but since you mention it," Troy's Adam's 
apple rose and fell rapidly, "how come it's suddenly not OK for me to call her 
Miss Canteloupe of the year but perfectly OK for her to call me a talking dick?"
"It's called redressing the balance," said Barnaby. Then, before the 
conversation could predictably touch on swings and roundabouts, he added, 
"Anything worthwhile in over the last half-hour?"
"I notice she don't have to go on no Behavioural Correction Course."
"I asked you a question."
Troy pursed his lips. You were supposed to talk about what was worrying you 
these days in the new, caring sharing cop shop. Lob in for a spot of 
counselling if you were the wet, spineless sort.
"Well, there's been a call from that poncy jeweller in Bond Street. Recognises 
Hollingsworth's photo. He is definitely the bloke who bought the necklace. 
Didn't clock Simone though. Putting it all in writing for us."
"Excellent."
"Got the photo fax from Harpers on the actual article. Bloody spectacular, it 
is. Bet she had to spend some hours on her back to pay for that."
"For Christ's sake, man."
"What?"
"The woman's been put through hell. By now she's probably dead."
Won't give a toss what I say then, will she? Troy watched the Brazilian 
disappearing down Barnaby's gullet and thought he was a funny bloke, the 
gaffer. If he hadn't seen him with his back against the wall fighting his 
corner, or making an arrest when the bloke was not only armed but high as a 
kite on amphetamines, or hanging halfway down a cliff trying to talk up some 
woman who'd drowned her baby--if Troy had not seen all these things and plenty 
more besides, he might well have got the impression that the DCI was a touch 
soft-headed.
They took the lift down to the incident room. Neither man spoke but the younger 
sneaked a couple of glances sideways. Barnaby looked stern. Imperturbable, you 
might say, should you be fortunate enough to have access to Talisa-Leanne 
Troy's dictionary. The sergeant decided that the chief was cast down at the 
total lack of possible faces to put in the frame. He could not have been more 
wrong.
Unlike his bag carrier, who liked things cut and dried as soon as was humanly 
possible, Barnaby was quite happy to drift, for a short while at least, in what 
some early mystic once called the cloud of unknowing. He was also reflecting, 
with a considerable degree of satisfaction, on the recent departure of his bete 
noir, Inspector Ian Meredith, a smug Oxbridge know-all from Bramshill, the 
police training college for the elite. Deciding, like Alexander the Great, to 
declare himself a god at the age of thirty-two, Meredith had promptly been 
elevated to the Flying Squad. The whole station had been relieved to see him 
go. No one wanted the nephew of the Chief Constable sniffing round the place.
The incident room was not what you'd call lively. Phones were ringing, sure. 
Staff were studying the notice-boards. Material was being logged and there was 
a regular low buzz of conversation as information was exchanged, checked, or 
cross-referenced. But the near frenzy of barely contained activity that could 
be generated at the start of an urgent or especially dramatic investigation was 
markedly absent.
Sergeant Brierley not being immediately visible, Barnaby went to the reader's 
desk to catch up on what was currently coming in. As he had expected, there was 
more hearsay and suggestion than hard facts. Dozens of people thought they had 
seen Simone. On a ferry to France. Sleeping in a doorway in Glasgow. At a 
bistro in Old Compton Street, plainly under the influence of drugs. And dancing 
on a table in the Old Dun Cow, Milton Keynes.
But there was something really solid from the marketday bus passengers. Two 
women plus a toddler in a pushchair had followed Simone into Bobby's, Causton's 
only department store. She had gone into the Ladies, as they had themselves. 
Both had used the toilet but Simone had still not come out by the time they 
left. Now, wise after the event, both were convinced that "poor Mrs. 
Hollingsworth" had been hiding "from those dreadful people who were after her."
Alan's first wife had been traced and interviewed in Birkenhead where, after 
remarrying, she was still working as a general practioner. Barnaby picked up 
the fascimiled sheets and settled at a desk to read them.
Miriam Anderson, as she now was, had last heard from her previous husband just 
before his second marriage. He had sent her and her husband an invitation 
accompanied by what Dr. Anderson described as a pathetic and childish letter. 
This described his present happiness in glowing terms. It also dwelt at some 
length on the youth, beauty and sweetness of his bride. And on how much she 
adored him.
"I suppose the idea," read Barnaby, "was to make me realise, now it was too 
late, what I'd thrown away. To be honest, it just made me laugh. I was never 
more glad to escape from anyone than I was from Alan Hollingsworth. And it was 
not easy by a long chalk. For weeks after I came back up here he was either on 
the telephone begging me to come back or driving up to the Wirral and making a 
nuisance of himself. It was only when I threatened to go to the police that he 
kept away. Even then, for several months, I was bombarded with letters. In the 
end I used to chuck them in the bin, unopened."
Asked in more detail about her first marriage, Dr. Anderson more or less 
repeated what Barnaby had already heard from Gray Patterson. On hearing of 
Hollingsworth's death, she had assumed it was suicide. Although he had never 
threatened her, he had threatened to harm himself on more than one occasion 
when she talked about leaving him.
Dr. Anderson could contribute nothing useful as to the matter or manner of 
Simone's abduction. On both dates relevant to the inquiry she had been provably 
elsewhere.
Not much meat there--Barnaby pushed the sheets of paper aside--but it was 
useful to have at least part of Patterson's statement confirmed.
"Good morning, sir."
"Audrey." He smiled at the sight of her. At her shining cap of blonde hair and 
peachy skin and tranquil, shining eyes. You couldn't help it. She gave him a 
slight but grave smile in return.
"I was going to wait for briefing but Gavin said you were looking for some 
feedback on the house-to-house straightaway."
Gavin--not Skipper, not Sergeant. Since Audrey had been made up, such 
respectful distinctions had melted away. And oh, how Troy resented it. The 
years of pulling rank--and no one pulls rank like the chronically insecure--had 
come to an end overnight. Barnaby watched with some amusement as Audrey more 
than came into her own.
"That's right. How did you get on at the Brockleys?"
"They're absolutely distraught about their daughter. She still hasn't come 
back."
"And there's been no more messages?"
"Nothing. They seem to think we're actively looking for her. It was a bit 
awkward, sir."
"I'm sure."
"I couldn't tell them there's no way we can spend time or resources on a 
missing person's file unless special circumstances make it necessary."
"Well, let's hope they don't."
"As you suggested, I asked if they had noticed anything at all in the way of 
comings and goings next door. And I got a really good result."
"Excellent. Let's have it then."
"Neither of them have been sleeping much. I gathered that most of their time's 
been spent staring out of the window, more or less willing Brenda home. Unlike 
Mr. Dawlish, they not only heard Hollingsworth drive away the night he died, 
but they also heard him come back just before eleven. What's more, they saw 
him."
"Ahh," said the Chief Inspector aware, even as he spoke, of the muscles in his 
throat slowly tightening. "Clearly?"
"Very. There's a powerful halogen lamp by Nightingales' garage. Any approach 
switches it on. He didn't get out of the car--the garage is 
remote-controlled--but Iris is absolutely sure it was him. They both paid very 
close attention. Being excited, you see, when a car turned into the close."
"They would be, poor devils. Was he by himself?"
"Yes. Reg said you could see right into the Volvo. There was no one else in the 
car."
"And afterwards?" His stomach became still and cold, then squeezed itself up 
into an apprehensive ball, as if in expectation of a blow.
"I'm sorry sir. Nothing."
"Don't do this to me, Audrey."
"No one came to the house, Chief Inspector. Iris watched until nearly one. Then 
she had a rest and Reg took over till daylight."
"Which window was this?"
"Brenda's bedroom. It overlooks the drive next door."
"One or the other must've dozed off."
"They say not."
"Made some tea, then. Went to the loo. Christ, they're only human."
"Yes, sir."
"It would only take a minute. Seconds, even. All we need is Brockley 
momentarily distracted and whoever murdered Hollingsworth would be across the 
forecourt and knocking on Nightingales' door."
"You think they were waiting, then? Concealed somewhere?"
"Yes, I do." Because the alternative, that there was no one waiting and that 
Hollingsworth, alone in the house, had taken his own life, was insupportable. 
Barnaby had abandoned that possibility for good and all within minutes of 
finding the body and he had no intention of reclaiming it.
"They saw no one leave?"
"No, Chief Inspector."
"Anything else?"
"Not really. They kept watching but after this only caught what everyone else 
did. SOCO about the place, officers guarding the house. That sort of thing."
"Sod them, then."
"Yes, sir."
It was just about that time, almost to the second, in fact, that Mrs. Molfrey 
cried out, "Eureka!"
Not in her bath, as things turned out, but while rootling around with a little 
hoe among the foxgloves and delphiniums. It was always the case, she thought, 
flinging down the implement and tottering up the garden path as fast as her 
twiggy old legs could carry her. Dwell and dwell upon something, seek it out, 
give it your undivided time and attention and where were you? Up the proverbial 
gum tree. But put it from your mind, thumb your nose at it even, and here it 
was, high-kicking its way into your consciousness for all it was worth.
Mrs. Molfrey had placed Barnaby's card directly underneath the heavy Bakelite 
telephone so had no need to hunt for it. She picked it up with trembling hands. 
Her fingers trembled as she dialled the number and her lips trembled as she 
prepared to speak. Her mind shook and trembled under the load of this surely 
revelatory snippet of information.
She was reminded of The Case of the Chocolate Scorpion. In this rather racy 
thirties crime novel an elderly lady, not all that unlike herself (except 
rather eccentric) had overheard a fragment of conversation through her ear 
trumpet whilst playing baccarat. Meaningless in itself, she had had the wit to 
relate these few sentences to the larger pattern of a crime with which the 
police of five continents had been unsuccessfully wrestling. At the end of the 
story she was awarded the OBE. Mrs. Molfrey exhaled wistfully. No one seemed to 
write books like that any more.
She got through to an answerphone. Much alarmed, for she had a horror of modern 
gadgetry, Mrs. Molfrey immediately replaced the receiver. She had expected 
Barnaby to be in his office, awaiting her call. An unreasonable assumption, she 
now realised. Of course he would be out and about measuring footprints, 
analysing cigar ash or scraping telltale mud from a sinister pair of galoshes.
Pausing only to wonder if the single of galoshes was galosh, Mrs. Molfrey made 
her way outside again. It was impossible to keep such a dazzling discovery to 
herself for more than a minute. Cubby had taken some calabrese to Ostlers but 
would surely be on his way back by now. Reaching the gate, Mrs. Molfrey leaned 
on it to get her breath back. And then, oh joy! who should appear but Constable 
Perrot.
Hardly of a comparable rank to her would-be confidant, he was nonetheless of 
the same persuasion and, as such, a more than satisfactory courier. Mrs. 
Molfrey cried, "Cooee!" and fluttered her tiger-striped organza pelerine.
PC Perrot was just wheeling his Honda out of Nightingales' forecourt. He had 
made a point of arriving almost half an hour before the postman, to be on the 
safe side. He had even remembered to bring some gardening gloves, the only sort 
he owned, should there be any letters to handle. There were three. He stowed 
them carefully away in his pannier.
"Good morning, Mrs. Molfrey."
"I'm all of a tremble," said Mrs. Molfrey using, for the first time ever, a 
phrase much favoured by Heather's grandma.
"Is there something I can do?"
"Yes, indeed. There's good news to be taken from Aix to Ghent. Are you my man, 
Constable Perrot?"
"Pardon?"
"Can I rely on you?"
"Yes." Perrot's reply was immediate and unthinking. He may not know precisely 
where Aix and Ghent hung out but reliable he knew, no question.
"Your chief is expecting to hear from me. Indeed he gave me his personal number 
to that effect but seems to be out of his office at the moment. Hot on the job, 
no doubt."
"More than likely, Mrs. Molfrey," said PC Perrot, mentally filing the 
conversation to entertain Trixie at suppertime.
"Will you be seeing him at all?"
"Going over to the station right now, as a matter of fact."
"Then you'll pass the information on." She explained her message clearly.
It made no sense to Constable Perrot. Indeed, he wondered briefly if it was in 
some sort of code. There was that word Youree? Uri . . . ? Yewree something.
"Eureka?" Questioned, Mrs. Molfrey told him not to worry. "You can leave that 
out. It's not really germane."
Perrot, already wondering how much of the rest he could safely leave out, 
mounted his Honda and revved up.
"Remember, not a chink or chime!"
"With you, Mrs. Molfrey."
"And why not, Constable? Why not? That is the question to which we must now 
address ourselves."
Perrot lifted a hand in salute, realised he was still wearing his emerald and 
bright yellow cotton gloves and took them off. Halfway up the lane he passed 
Cubby Dawlish and saluted again, this time with feelings of the deepest 
sympathy.
Barnaby was still in the incident room when Constable Perrot arrived at the 
station proudly bearing his envelopes. He placed them on the desk in front the 
Chief Inspector, took a modest step back and waited.
"Left your prints all over these, have you, Constable?"
"Damn!" Perrot leapt into explanation. "I was--that is, I only. Gloves off a 
moment. Gardening--I remembered specially. Waylaid the postma--"
"Spare me the sordid details." Barnaby regarded the envelopes sourly. An AA 
magazine, an electricity bill and a Racing Green catalogue.
"Anything else to report?"
"Well, I hardly like . . . I'm sure it's nothing really . . ."
At this point Sergeant Troy strolled up. He placed himself directly behind the 
Chief Inspector's desk, parted his thin, dry lips and bared his teeth.
"Wotcha, Poll."
"Good morning, Sergeant."
"Quark, quark."
As Perrot stood there in the painful spotlight of Troy's sneering regard, he 
imagined himself stumbling through Mrs. Molfrey's message. If it had sounded 
more than a little wonky in the quiet country lane at Fawcett Green, how much 
wonkier would it sound here?
Perrot looked around at the busy room; all professional ordered activity. 
Intelligent ordered activity. Don't show yourself up, Colin.
"Get on with it then."
"Pardon?"
"Whatever it is that's 'nothing really.' "
"I'm afraid it's slipped my mind, sir."
Troy laughed out loud at this. A harsh, raucous bark.
"I should clear off back to the village then, Constable," said Barnaby.
"And when you get there I'd like you to do something for me."
"Yes, Chief Inspector."
"It's a bit complicated but I'm sure, with a modicum of serious application, 
you can handle it."
"Sir." Perrot straightened his back in readiness.
"Pick up the keys to Nightingales from the solicitors Fanshawe and Clay and 
check whether or not the switch for the halogen light, which you'll find in the 
garage, is in the On position."
"Yes, sir."
"And--Oi! Poll?"
PC Perrot, now halfway to the exit, halted, sighed and turned round.
His cheeks still glowed as a result of the Chief Inspector's irony.
"Sergeant?"
"Canteen's in the basement if you want a bite of lunch."
"Oh, thank you."
"It's seed cake on Wednesdays. And cuttlefish omelette."
"Don't you ever get tired of playing Long John Silver?" asked Barnaby when the 
door had closed on the hapless policeman.
"Who?"
"A pirate."
"Well-endowed, was he?" asked Sergeant Troy.
At that moment a messenger from Forensic came in bearing a stout envelope 
containing SOCO's report on Hollingsworth's Audi.
There were few surprises. The boot had been empty but for the spare wheel and a 
jack. Apart from a single set of unidentified prints on the handles of the rear 
door, all the fingerprints in the car were those of Alan Hollingsworth, as were 
some hairs found on the driver's head rest. There were none on the passenger's 
side or in the rest of the vehicle. Indeed, someone had put a note in the 
margin to say it looked as if the Audi had been recently valeted.
Valeted. Barnaby, who loathed all such posey phrasing, sucked his teeth with 
irritation. Anyone would think the bloody thing was being steam-pressed, 
wire-brushed and a stitch taken up in its upholstery. No doubt during these 
ministrations it would be asked if it had been on its holidays yet.
Valeted! For God's sake.
The village shimmered in the blazing heat. The whitewashed edges of the kerb 
dazzled the eye and the hedges were thick with dust. At the side of the road 
the straw-coloured grass verges dried and crackled.
In the garden of Arcadia, Cubby Dawlish took an old zinc bowl with a wooden 
handle, lowered it almost to the very bottom of an ancient barrel and poured 
the silky rainwater round the base of his Glen Moy raspberries.
As he did this he wondered about Elfrida's new piece of information. He was 
glad she had passed it on to their local bobby instead of the Chief Inspector 
who had called at their house. Not that Barnaby hadn't been a very pleasant man 
but, placed very much at the top of the tree, as it were, he was bound to be 
extremely busy. Cubby could not bear the thought of Elfrida being brusquely 
dealt with. Or, much worse, being passed over to a younger person who might not 
appreciate just how much respect she was naturally entitled to. Who might even, 
God forbid, have a bit of a laugh at her expense.
As for the recollection itself, Cubby could not pretend he understood its 
significance. Secretly he suspected it would prove not to have any, though he 
would not have admitted this to Elfie for the world. She was already awaiting 
the CID's response with such eager anticipation. Over the hedge Cubby could see 
Colin Perrot and wondered whether to call across and check out the situation. 
But before he could come to any decision on the matter, the policeman 
disappeared inside the garage.
Constable Perrot had made a detour on the way to Fawcett Green to pick up his 
camera. He was determined not only to obtain the exact information that the DCI 
had requested but to have photographic proof of same. Carefully he photographed 
first the sensor switch and, secondly, its immediate surroundings.
After this he wrote a short summary (a novella, merely) of the situation. He 
read it through, keenly aware, after his boob with Hollingsworth's post, of the 
need to carry out this next allotted task with speed, efficiency and 
correctness. Barnaby's threat of an alien posting was never far from his mind.
Once certain the report could not be improved, he locked up and roared away, 
relieved at having avoided both the inhabitants of Arcadia. Sooner or later he 
knew one of them was going to ask how Mrs. Molfrey's red-hot, number-one star 
clue--which was how she described it--had been received. And then he was going 
to be in a right old pickle.
Fortunately Mrs. Molfrey was hardly likely to run into Barnaby and ask. 
Ignorant of the top echelons as he was, even Perrot knew that the officer 
running a murder investigation spends nearly all his time in the incident room.
Minutes after Perrot's departure, Barnaby's Rover turned into St. Chad's Lane 
and pulled up outside Sarah Lawson's cottage. A shabby red and white Citroen 
Quatre Chevaux was now parked on the spare patch of oily grass. Sergeant Troy 
stared at it, a sneer twisting his thin lips.
"Toys R Us, that's where you pick them up. With one hand tied behind your back, 
most likely."
Sweltering, mopping his brow with a large cotton handkerchief, Barnaby hove 
alongside.
"Kiddy cars," continued Sergeant Troy. "And foreign at that. If more people 
bought British, we might not be in the mess we are today."
"Got rid of the Nissan, have you then, Gavin?"
As well you know, you sarky old bugger. Troy made a mental note to watch his 
step. When over-heated, the boss was inclined to lash out, willy-nilly. A bit 
like Long John himself, no doubt.
Clouds of tiny butterflies, like scraps of fawn silk, fluttered over 
wallflowers and night-scented stock. Barnaby stood in the shade of the bay tree 
which presumably gave the cottage its name and admired them. Troy knocked on 
the front door with little result.
"She must be in if the Meccano set's outside."
"Not necessarily." Barnaby moved to the nearest window. The type with lots of 
small panes framed in white painted metal. He glanced inside.
A woman was lying on a sofa covered by what looked like a brightly patterned 
rug. She had long hair which fanned out across the cushions that supported her. 
One of her arms hung limply over the side of the sofa, the other lay across her 
breast. Barnaby was reminded of a Burne-Jones illustration. Or the Millais 
painting of Ophelia in her watery grave.
He began to feel alarmed. There was no way, unless she was in a drugged stupor, 
that she would not have heard Troy's knocking. The Chief Inspector tapped 
gently himself, this time on the glass, without result. Then, just as he was 
seriously considering breaking in, she sat up. And, very slowly, made her way 
across the room.
The first thing that struck him was that she looked very ill. The second that, 
even looking very ill, she was strikingly attractive. She opened the window 
slightly. He heard the music then. "Softly Awakes My Heart" from Samson and 
Delilah. It was sung in French, he guessed by Jessye Norman. Or maybe Marilyn 
Home.
She said, "What do you want?" Her breath was sour and cold. In the searing heat 
of the day, Barnaby shivered.
"Miss Lawson?"
"Yes."
"We're police officers. We'd like to talk to you for a moment about Mr. and 
Mrs. Hollingsworth from Nightingales."
"Why me? I hardly knew them."
"We're not choosing you specially, miss," said Sergeant Troy who was now also 
at the window. "This is part of a house-to-house."
"A what?"
"We're visiting everyone in the village. Just gathering general background 
information."
"Oh. I see."
"I believe someone has called once or twice before," said Barnaby.
"Have they? I may have been in bed. I'm not well . . ." Here she broke off, 
making a vague gesture with her left hand in the direction of the front 
entrance. The two detectives, rightly assuming they were now to be admitted, 
retraced their steps.
Once inside, having produced his warrant card and introduced himself and 
Sergeant Troy, Barnaby looked about him.
They had stepped straight into a room crowded with sunlight; the golden beams 
sought out powdery gatherings of dust and illuminated webby corners. It was a 
place full of colour and a certain ragamuffin charm. Apart from the sofa, there 
were a couple of saggy armchairs concealed under vividly striped and patterned 
durries. Several original paintings hung on the walls, mainly abstract but 
including one watercolour--pale sand, a limpid almost colourless sea, and sky 
like a taut sheet of amber silk. Books were everywhere. Stacked on the floor, 
jumbled about on shelves, piled on the furniture. None looked new. There were 
art and travel books, some essays. The Chief Inspector recognised the black 
spines of several well-worn Penguin classics. And marigolds: a blaze of orange 
in a black and white stone Dundee marmalade jar.
"May we?"
"I'm sorry, yes. Please. I'm sorry." She switched off the music.
Troy sat down on a ladder-back chair painted with birds and flowers. Barnaby 
shifted a weighty Thames and Hudson volume on Goya then balanced his bulk on 
the edge of the sofa.
Sarah Lawson, having the air of someone poised for flight, remained standing. 
It was the intruders who appeared most at home.
"I understand," began the Chief Inspector, "that you had arranged to visit Mrs. 
Hollingsworth on the day she disappeared."
"That's right."
"Could you tell me why?" asked Barnaby when the ensuing silence had lasted a 
full minute.
"She had some stuff for my white elephant stall at the church fete. I went to 
pick it up. Knocked on the front door, got no reply. Tried round the back and 
found she'd left the box on the patio."
"You were invited for tea as well, I believe."
"Yes."
"Was that a regular occurrence?"
"Not at all. No."
Troy made a brief note and looked surreptitiously about him. As always when 
surrounded by evidence of any sort of creative or intellectual existence, he 
saw it as a criticism of his own life. Typically, he began to redress the 
balance.
All these books, snob music. His eye fell on a stained glass panel and a heap 
of clay. Fancy messing around with that stuff at her age. Like a kid with 
Plasticine. Pity she didn't take a few minutes off to sweep up some of the 
grot. Or iron her clothes. He noticed with some satisfaction that the 
floorboards beneath the soft, washed out but still beautiful rugs were dirty. 
As a woman, he decided, she was a complete anachronism and it took a man of his 
cognisance to recognise it.
Delighted at this felicitous conclusion, he tuned back into the conversation. 
The governor was asking Sarah Lawson when she last saw Mrs. Hollingsworth.
"I really don't remember."
Barnaby was both patient and encouraging. "When she invited you for tea 
perhaps."
"Ahh . . ." Plainly she was grateful for the suggestion. "That was it. I don't 
recall the exact date, I'm afraid."
"The news of the kidnap must have come as a great shock."
"It did to all of us. I still can't quite . . . I mean, it's not something that 
happens to people you know."
The times the Chief Inspector had heard either that remark or a close variation 
on the theme. Every day thousands of people were burgled, mugged, beaten up, 
raped, murdered, arsonised--if there was such a word--yet the confidence of the 
human race that they, their loved ones and acquaintances had personally been 
granted divine immunity was uncrackable.
"You work in adult education, I understand, Miss Lawson."
"That's right. At Blackthorn College, High Wycombe."
"And Mrs. Hollingsworth came to your course for a while."
"Yes, she did."
"How did that come about exactly?"
"I'd been designing four glass panels for a conservatory. Just finished 
autumn--fruit, hips and haws, woodsmoke. It was resting up against the car 
waiting to be wrapped while I sorted out some sacking. Simone came by and 
pronounced it 'totally wonderful' and said she'd 'positively adore' to do 
something like that.
"Thinking she was only making conversation, I suggested she came along to a 
class sometime which she said she'd even more positively adore if only she had 
the transport. So then of course I felt constrained to offer her a lift which 
was a bit of a nuisance as I didn't always want to come straight home."
"Is that another of the pieces?" Barnaby had noticed it when he came in, 
leaning against the stone fireplace. Engraved with glittering snowflakes, 
stained dark green and crimson. Winter, no doubt.
Sarah nodded. Slowly she reached out a hand and brushed a speck of dust from a 
holly berry, glowing like a ruby. Then she rubbed a thorny stem gently with her 
sleeve. This involved turning her back on her visitors and Barnaby sensed a 
great relief as she did so.
"It's very beautiful."
"Thank you."
"You must have more work than you know what to do with."
"Not really. There are a lot of arty-crafty people in this part of the world. 
And some of them are very good."
"Do you ever do puppies or kittens, Miss Lawson?" asked Sergeant Troy. It was 
Maureen's birthday soon and she loved a nice ornament. Be cheaper, he reckoned, 
to buy direct, especially from an amateur. Cut out the middle man.
"I'm afraid not." There was a shred of colour in her voice for the first 
time--a faint shadow perhaps of indignation.
"Mrs. Hollingsworth's was an afternoon class, I take it?" asked Barnaby.
"Oh yes. I don't think she was allowed out in the evening."
"Her husband kept her on a pretty short leash, it seems."
"A choke chain, I'd call it." For the first time her voice and expression 
became animated. As she turned away, her high cheekbones flushed, a soft dusky 
rose. She shook her head, it seemed to Barnaby, with irritation. The loose knot 
of hair loosened further, tumbling over her thin shoulders and concealing her 
long silver and carnelian earrings. Her pale gold hair, coarse and very thick, 
had several silver threads which glittered in the sunlight.
The Chief Inspector wondered how old she was. Somewhere, he surmised, between 
thirty and forty, probably nearer the latter. He got up and walked about with 
the air of a man needing to stretch his legs, thus bringing himself into a 
position where he could once more see her profile which was gravely intense. 
Noticing him, she gave a disturbed, nervous cough and again turned away.
"Could you give me the dates that Mrs. Hollingsworth attended your course, Miss 
Lawson?"
"Roughly, the last half of February. Part of March. The college will have an 
accurate register."
"And do you know why she dropped out?"
"Apparently she hadn't informed Alan what she was up to. I discovered later 
that it was his habit to ring up during the day to see if she was 'all right,' 
though what on earth could happen to her in a fast-asleep place like this . . . 
Anyway, after the first class she told him she had been at Elfrida's when he'd 
rung. The next week that she'd been having tea with Avis Jennings. The third 
that she'd just popped up to the shop. The following Wednesday he decided to be 
persistent. Rang several times during the four hours we were out and demanded 
to know just exactly where she had been when he came home.
"She told him. God, you'd think it was innocent enough. He said of course he 
couldn't stop her but if she persisted he wouldn't have a minute's peace. He 
asked if she really wanted to load all this extra worry on to his shoulders. 
What about the fumes? he said. Weren't there chemicals involved in that sort of 
thing? Simone rang up that same evening and said she wouldn't be coming again. 
I think she'd been crying. She certainly sounded very subdued. I got the 
impression Alan was standing over her."
"You didn't attempt to persuade her differently?"
"Good heavens, no. What would have been the point?"
She was quite right, of course. No doubt any such approach would merely have 
made matters worse. "It's some distance to High Wycombe, Miss Lawson."
"About forty minutes."
"So, adding up the sessions, that's several hours you must have spent in Mrs. 
Hollingsworth's company."
"I suppose. Though, if you're driving, most of your attention's on the road.
"Did she tell you anything about her past life at all?" asked Barnaby. "Or 
discuss her marriage?"
"No to your first question. And all I know about the marriage is that she was 
bored. But then, I think Simone would be bored anywhere. Except perhaps in 
Harrods."
"What did she talk about?"
"Oh, rubbishy articles she'd read in magazines. Her stars. What was happening 
in Brookside or EastEnders. All Greek to me as I don't have a set."
"No TV?" Troy gaped in astonishment. He had noticed the absence but assumed it 
was in her bedroom. He had never in his life met anyone who did not own a 
television.
"That's right." She turned to face them then, almost smiling. "I'm part of the 
one per cent."
"So, what with one thing and another, you must have been quite relieved when 
she gave up?" Barnaby said.
"Well, I certainly had no objection. And there's always a waiting list."
He saw her loosen up. Her shoulders slackened, the planes of her face became 
less tautly defined. Barnaby got the impression that some precarious corner in 
the conversation had been safely turned. Or a minefield successfully 
negotiated. Was he being overly dramatic? It could be that she was simply 
getting accustomed to their presence.
"Was there anyone in the class that Mrs. Hollingsworth was especially friendly 
with?"
"They were mainly pensioners," said Sarah. She added drily, "Not at all 
Simone's cup of tea. She was pleasant enough to them, I suppose. But no, no 
real friends." She sat down on one of the armchairs, her narrow, brown hands 
banded with many brilliant turquoise rings, loosely clasped.
Barnaby didn't like this new composure at all though he found it hard to 
understand his resentment. After all, if there was no reason for her to feel 
guilty, why should she not appear calm? Perhaps it was simply that such a state 
of mind was not conducive to further revelations. He ought to ruffle things up 
again. Cast around for a remark or question that would really strike home. 
Difficult when you know next to nothing about your target. So, a shot in the 
dark it would have to be.
"Did you know he was violent, Hollingsworth?"
"What? To . . . ?"
"To her, yes."
"No, I didn't." Her fingers flew, touching her breast, as if to soothe a 
thudding heart. Her mouth shook. "I hate that sort of thing. Why women put up 
with . . . God, how can . . ."
Sergeant Troy, never averse to seeing others all of a twitch, especially when 
they so plainly regarded themselves as his superior, bit his lip to keep back a 
grin. Personally he had never hit a woman though it couldn't be denied that 
they spent half their lives begging for it. Especially Maureen. He regarded 
this restraint as worthy of a medal.
Barnaby, pushing now, asked Sarah when she had last seen Alan Hollingsworth.
"One never 'sees' Alan. Just the car zooming in and out."
"What about last Monday?"
"No. That was the night he . . . ?"
"Died, yes. Were you at home?"
Sarah shook her head. "Not in the evening. I went to a film. Farinelli Il 
Castrato"
"Good, was it?" asked Sergeant Troy, thinking, bloody hell, we've got a right 
one here.
"The music was wonderful. Which was the reason I went."
"Alone?"
"That's right."
"Where was it showing, Miss Lawson?" A page in the notebook rustled loose and 
was flipped over.
"The Curzon at Slough." She looked at Sergeant Troy and then across to the 
Chief Inspector. "All these questions--you make it sound very serious."
"An unexplained or suspicious death is always serious," said Barnaby.
And there and then it happened. There had, after all, been a single undefused 
mine. Now, as they watched, she stepped on it. And fell apart. She uttered a 
sort of moan and clutched at her face savagely with her hands. Then keeled 
over, dropping first to her knees and then, face forward, on to the wooden 
boards.
"Get some water!"
As Troy ran to the kitchen, Barnaby knelt by the unconscious figure on the rug. 
But even as he attempted to take her pulse, Sarah Lawson started to come round.
"Sorry . . ." Already she was struggling to get up. There were deep half-moon 
nail marks on her cheekbones.
"That's all right, Miss Lawson. Take your time." He gripped her left hand then, 
putting his other arm round her waist, helped her back into the chair. She felt 
very thin and light.
"Drink some of this." Barnaby took the none too clean glass from Troy but she 
pushed it away, slopping the water over her faded blue skirt. Little crystal 
droplets settled on the velvet surface and rolled about.
"I don't know what happened. I don't usually . . ."
"When did you last have something to eat?"
"I don't remember. Thursday perhaps."
Three days ago. "No wonder you're fainting on us."
Troy watched the old man bring, in every sense of the word, the woman round. 
Barnaby had many personas that he drew upon when conducting an interview and 
this one, everybody's pet uncle, was the sergeant's favourite. Listening to the 
soft, concerned comments, the suggestion that a friend or doctor should be 
contacted, Troy was lost in admiration. He acknowledged that it was not a 
technique he would ever be able to employ. He could not bear to be thought 
gullible. Or less intelligent than the person he was in conversation with, no 
matter how much of a simpleton that man or woman might be. It was a matter of 
pride. The chief, on the other hand, couldn't care less. Whatever means were 
needed to winkle people out of their protective shells, those means would be 
brought into play.
Now he had stopped speaking and an atmosphere of persuasive calm took over the 
room. Into this pool of silence, as Barnaby had known she would, Sarah Lawson 
eventually voiced the real reason for her nervous collapse.
"I was surprised to hear you say that, about Alan. People in the village . . . 
we all thought he had committed suicide. I mean, wasn't there a note?"
"Not really," said the Chief Inspector.
"I see." She took a deep breath. You could see her, gathering both energy and 
wits together, as if for an affray. "Was it an accident then?"
"We're in the middle of our investigations, Miss Lawson. I'm afraid I'm not 
able to discuss the matter in any sort of detail." He wondered if she would be 
able to bring herself to take the next step and speak the unspeakable. The M 
word. So much more appalling, to the Chief Inspector's way of thinking, than 
what is coyly called the F word, and yet bandied hither and yon in polite 
society, heard daily on Radio Four without a single squeak of complaint from 
Outraged, Tunbridge Wells, and printed on the spines of books in respectable 
libraries everywhere. Miss Lawson chickened out.
"Of course. I understand."
He decided to leave it there. For now. A day or two to recover, to settle into 
the reassuring belief that she had seen the last of them, and he would have her 
brought into the station and find out precisely why she had fainted from 
emotion on discovering that Alan Hollingsworth had not died a natural death.
"That woman's a dyke," said Sergeant Troy as they made their way towards the 
car.
"Oh, yes?" Barnaby laughed. "How do you make that out?"
"Going out of her way to watch a movie where men's todgers are chopped off."
"Balls, not todgers."
"Oh well," said Sergeant Troy, attempting a little low-key irony of his own for 
once, "that's all right then."
Several hours later Barnaby, his face by now grey with fatigue though 
lightening by the minute, was in the kitchen at Arbury Crescent shaving thin 
curls of Parmesan from a large knobbly lump, holding the cheese steady with the 
palm of his hand and using a potato peeler.
He had a little grater described by his daughter as a "piss elegant Italian 
job"; a souvenir from Padua. However, though extremely smart in matt black and 
chrome, the top kept falling off and Barnaby had soon reverted to his old 
familiar ways.
In a square wooden bowl he had placed some young globe artichoke hearts, black 
olives, strips of red pepper and chunks of his neighbour's home-grown Ailsa 
Craig tomatoes. Now he tore up the heart of a cos lettuce, cut some anchovies 
in half and added garlicky croissants, kept hot in an iron pan. Unwinding 
slowly, feeling his joints loosen, the tightness across his shoulders ease, 
little by little, he put Fawcett Green, the Hollingsworths, Penstemon et al 
from his mind. Gradually, over the years, he had become quite good at this. One 
had to survive.
Joyce had already prepared a vinaigrette with herbs from the garden, lemon 
juice and olive oil. She made salad dressing, toast and cups of tea and that, 
unless she was on her own and had only herself to please, was that.
Barnaby's wife was a dreadful cook. Not dull or unadventurous; on the contrary, 
she had quite a bold, if rather haphazard, way with a chopping knife and an egg 
whisk. No, she simply had no gift for it. This in itself, of course, might not 
have mattered. Plenty of people with no talent for cooking manage to turn out 
perfectly edible meals. Some of them even earn a living at it. But Joyce was 
further handicapped in that her taste-buds seemed to have had some sort of 
bypass surgery early in their career. Her palate was, as you might say, tone 
deaf. She had once been memorably described, though not by him, as the Florence 
Foster Jenkins of the chafing dish.
He took a couple of glasses from the fridge, filled them with Montana McDonald 
Chardonnay and wandered into the conservatory. There, surrounded by ferns, 
grasses, orange and lemon trees and fluorescent blossoms the size of frisbees, 
Joyce reclined, like Titania, on a flowery bed.
"Oohh, lovely." The Independent slid to the floor.
"Budge up then." Barnaby gave his wife her drink and sat beside her on the 
bamboo sofa. He took a long, deep swallow of the wine which was truly 
marvellous: silky soft and smelling of melons and peaches.
"This is a bit of all right," said Joyce.
Barnaby put down his glass, took hold of one of Joyce's slender brown feet and 
started to stroke it gently. She watched him for a moment then sighed.
"They're always the last to go, feet."
"Don't talk such rubbish. Nothing's 'gone,' as you put it."
This was only partly true. Her ankles were still slender, the skin on her 
burnished calves and plump upper arms remained unwrinkled, her curly mop of 
hair was still more brown than not. But the blurred line of her bottom jaw 
would soon become a double chin. Nose to mouth lines, barely sketched in a few 
years ago, were now engraved. Her eyelids drooped. She would be fifty in two 
weeks' time. Where had the years gone?
"Will you still love me when I'm old and grey?"
"Good lord, no. I'm already planning a new life with Audrey."
"Is that why you bought those polka-dot boxers?"
"We're thinking of New South Wales."
"Supposed to be very nice there."
"Great grazing land. And a mighty fine place to raise youngsters."
"Oh, Tom." She caught his hand, pressed it to her cheek, against her lips. "Do 
I still look forty?"
"You've never looked forty, sweetheart."
Barnaby sympathised with his wife's gloomy apprehensions. Time was when 
birthdays had a proper sense of the order of things, strolling along at more or 
less regular yearly intervals. Now they turned up every other Thursday. 
Importuning, leering, tapping you on the shoulder. Best not look round.
"Come on, I'm starving. Let's eat."
He was starting to wonder whether new perfume was a good idea after all. 
Barnaby was keenly aware that, even after buying gifts for nearly thirty years 
for someone he knew better than anyone else in the world, he didn't always get 
it right. Lack of time and, though he didn't like to admit it, defective 
artistic vision were largely responsible.
Cully was something else. Even as a young child with very little money, his 
daughter had had the knack. She would scour charity and junk shops and, later, 
auction rooms, dress agencies and the posh sales, always coming up with the one 
thing that the grateful recipient vowed they could never live without.
One Christmas, aged eight, Cully had been with her father rootling through what 
he described as "a box of old rubbish" when she had found a soft leather bag, 
dark blue in the shape of a lotus. It had a broken zip and a long, frayed 
strap. Unable to dissuade her from spending twenty-five pence, he had then seen 
the rest of her money go on three brilliantly coloured feathered birds and some 
vivid crimson tissue which she had then made into paper roses. Nestling the 
birds inside the flowers, she had tucked the whole lot inside the lotus.
Joyce's cries of delight had to be heard to be believed. The birds were still 
perched on a house plant in the spare bedroom. The lotus eventually 
disintegrated after years of constant use as a peg bag. Her husband's gift of 
an expensive cardigan with a snowflake design had hardly seen the light of day.
As they wandered into the dining room she said, "Will you be here on Tuesday 
evening, Tom? Cully's coming over to pick up the movie we taped."
"I thought she'd changed her mind about watching it."
"She's still not sure."
Their daughter was about to start rehearsals for a revival of Pam Gem's play 
The Blue Angel at the Haymarket. The 1930s film had recently been on television 
and, the Bradleys' video being on the blink, Joyce had done the honours.
"So, will you?"
"I shouldn't bank on it."
"But you'll try?"
They sat down, talking about their only child. About her career; flourishing. 
And her marriage; still in existence but, according to her father, hanging by a 
thread.
Joyce was more optimistic, believing that outsiders--and especially 
parents--never really know exactly what's going on. It was true there had been 
plenty of friction. The last splendid display ended with a Coupe Jacques 
whizzing across a table at La Caprice and a month's trial parting.
The reconciliation, just as melodramatically staged and verbally inventive, 
took place on the roof garden of their Ladbroke Grove flat. It brought out half 
of Oxford Gardens who, when the champagne was finally broached, spontaneously 
broke into loud applause.
"Actors," murmured Joyce, and turned her attention to the meal.
Cold lemon and tarragon chicken with Jersey mids. Followed by the salad, a 
fruity piece of Mimolette and a dish of golden Mirabelles. Barnaby was reaching 
out for some more potatoes.
"You can't have those and French bread. And cheese."
"I'm having second thoughts about all this dieting."
"Put them aside, Tom. The doctor said--"
"I'm beginning to wonder if excess weight is really harmful at all. I think 
it's a canard put about by the manufacturers of slimming products and all those 
loathsome magazines."
"You know very well--"
"The words 'low fat' should be stricken from the English language." He tucked 
in. "I shall become more relaxed about this whole food thing. Let it all hang 
out."
"Sergeant Brierley won't like that."
"Seems to work for Gerard Depardieu."
"Gerard Depardieu's French."
Having run amiably through this not entirely unfamiliar routine, the Barnabys 
finished eating in a comfortable silence. They had coffee in the garden, 
sitting on a bench in the rose arbour. The twilight air was heavy with perfume. 
A Himalayan musk rose clambered above their heads.
In the dusk the trees and shrubs were that strange steely colour, not quite 
blue, green or grey, which, if seen in the sky, would indicate a coming storm. 
Already their outlines were indistinct as they merged into dark clumps. The sky 
was thick with pale stars.
The birds were quiet but, three or four houses away, someone was playing a 
piano. Satie, the third Gymnopedie. Stumbling through it, repeating a phrase 
over and over again. Rather than breaking, it emphasised the silence.
Barnaby put his coffee cup on the grass and his arm round his wife. He kissed 
her cheek, her lips. Joyce relaxed against him, slipping her hand in his.
In the house the telephone rang. Barnaby cursed.
"Don't answer it."
"Joycey . . ."
"Sorry, sorry."
"It might not be the station."
"With that timing?"
"At least we've eaten." The words were called over Barnaby's shoulder as he 
strode across the lawn.
Joyce gathered up the cups and followed more slowly. When she came into the 
sitting room he was already putting on his jacket. Half a lifetime of moments 
like this did not make them any easier.
"I suppose we should be grateful it isn't Saturday week. We might have all been 
rollicking around singing 'Happy--' "
He turned aside but not before she had seen the expression on his face. 
Immediately Joyce's whole demeanour changed.
"It's something terrible, isn't it, Tom?"
"I'm afraid so."
"What's happened?"
"They've found a woman's body."
"Oh God. Do you think it's--"
"How the hell should I know who it is?" It was quicker that way. But lying made 
him even more irritable. He moved into the hall, scrabbling in his pocket for 
the car keys and shouted, "Don't wait up."
Chapter Eight
It was a member of the NCP staff who first spotted the woman. She was lying, 
almost completely concealed, behind a large Buick. He could see that she was 
unconscious and badly injured and immediately notified Heathrow police station 
to which each of the car parks had a direct line.
The duty officer arrived, closely followed by a doctor from the Medical Centre 
of the terminal, who pronounced life extinct. They were followed by a police 
unit from the station proper and an ambulance. It having quickly been decided 
that the death could be suspicious, the body was covered, the coroner's office 
contacted and the whole floor sealed off. At this point no one had any idea of 
the corpse's identity.
The numbers of every car on that level were checked on the Police National 
Computer and attempts were begun to trace the owners. Quite a few of them 
turned up unsolicited within the first couple of hours of the investigation and 
were not best pleased at finding themselves unable simply to climb into their 
vehicles and drive away.
The Forensic Laboratory Liaison Sergeant came out and examined the body in 
queasily precise detail after which, some five hours after it had first been 
discovered, it was transported to the mortuary at Hillingdon Hospital. There 
its fingerprints were taken and all of its clothing bagged and sent to the 
nearest forensic department should analysis eventually prove necessary. Scenes 
of Crime then began an analytical assessment of the area.
By nine o'clock the following evening the police at Heathrow believed they had 
possibly discovered the identity of the dead woman. The owner of every vehicle 
but one on the level where she was killed had been traced and interviewed 
either in person or by telephone. The exception was the possessor of a dark 
brown Mini. This was registered under the name of Brenda Brockley at an address 
within the jurisdiction of Causton police who were duly contacted. It was this 
notification which led to the call that had so rudely interrupted Tom Barnaby's 
sweet dalliance with his wife.
Heathrow police station is situated in a web of arterial roads about a mile 
from the airport proper and surrounded by an unlovely mass of hotels, petrol 
stations and factory buildings. In the office of Inspector Fennimore, DCI 
Barnaby and DS Troy were given the background to the discovery of the body. 
They in their turn gave what information they had on Brenda's disappearance.
The postmortem was due to be carried out at eleven the following morning by a 
Home Office pathologist. Until then the precise cause of death would not 
officially be known but the doctor who had first examined the body was of the 
opinion that a savage blow to the head was to blame.
"There were other injuries," explained Inspector Fennimore, "consistent with 
the girl being struck by a car. I think it's likely this flung her to the wall 
against which she was found rather than her being put there after death."
"You mean we're talking about a hit and run?"
"It's the most likely conclusion. Scenes of Crime photographs may help us 
there. Certainly there were tyre marks on her skirt. Why, have you any reason 
to suspect a deliberate killing?"
"Perhaps." Briefly Barnaby explained the situation at Fawcett Green. "Is it 
possible you could run a check for us on cars parked there on Monday the tenth 
of this month? From around eight p.m.?"
"We can do that for you, yes. Are you looking for anything special?"
Troy passed over the registration numbers belonging to Alan Hollingsworth and 
Gray Patterson. Inspector Fennimore made a careful note and returned the card.
"Were you given any idea of the time of death when she was first examined?" 
asked Barnaby.
"Dr. Hatton thought it had probably occurred around three days ago. Which would 
put it at some time Monday evening."
"It's incredible she wasn't found earlier," said Barnaby. "Aren't these places 
patrolled at all?"
"Good heavens, yes. Every hour, according to the NCP staff. But they don't have 
time to go all round and in between every single vehicle. Mainly they're on the 
look-out for any cars that have been damaged or dodgy people. Anyone dealing, 
passing stuff--that sort of thing."
"Even so, sir," interrupted Sergeant Troy. "A body--"
"You'll see when you get there how it could have happened. She was lying in the 
corner at the junction of two walls hidden by this big American car. Our 
Forensic guy thought she had probably been thrown clean over it."
"Christ," said Barnaby.
"And though the place is designated short-term, people leave their vehicles for 
varying periods. The Buick has been there for nine days. The driver went on a 
weekend trip to Basle and ran it on a bit."
As Inspector Fennimore now seemed to have come to the end of his information, 
Barnaby nodded to Troy who produced an envelope and handed it across the desk. 
The inspector drew out three photographs.
"I'd like all of those circulated around the Terminal One complex." explained 
Barnaby. "Shops, cafes, check-in desks, bureaux de changes. And include the 
National Car Park staff, if you would."
"No problem." He studied the pictures. "That certainly looks like the dead 
girl. Is this the man you believe to have been murdered?"
"That's right. The other woman is his wife, a probable kidnap victim."
"Surely she won't have been seen here then," said the inspector.
"I'd still like it included."
"Fine by me. There'll have been some plane spotters on the top level during 
daylight hours. Several of them are regulars. We'll show them the pictures as 
well."
"Thank you. I really appreciate this." The Chief Inspector spoke with 
sincerity. Generous and wholehearted cooperation between varying police 
authorities could never be taken for granted.
"I'll arrange for a copy of Scenes of Crime findings and the postmortem report 
to be sent to you direct."
"And the dead girl's prints to be sent to our Forensics, if you would."
As Barnaby rose to leave, Fennimore rang the airport and arranged for him to be 
met and escorted to the place where the body had been found.
The tape barriers had been dismantled. The Buick coupe, its examination 
complete, rested in all its glittering two-tone emerald and apple-green glory. 
Chrome fins, fenders and twin exhaust, their shining surfaces somewhat subdued 
beneath the residue of SOCO's powdering, writhed and twisted around and about.
Sergeant Troy, vastly impressed, immediately saw himself in the car--hood back, 
naturally--coasting along, a la American Graffiti. Lightly caressing the 
ivory-padded steering wheel with his right hand, his left arm negligently 
draped along the back of the passenger seat. By his side an exquisite girl with 
a tumble of blonde hair, glossy scarlet lips and wearing shorts a man could 
tuck into his glove compartment and still have room for the halter top. Music 
blasting out of the car radio. "Earth angel, Earth angel . . . Puleeze be mine 
. . ."
"You in a bloody trance again?"
"No, sir. Of course not." Troy was furious at being shown up in front of the 
policeman who had accompanied them. He stepped closer to the car, studied it 
intently and nodded several times. He pictured cool things, hoping this would 
bring his colour down.
"Where exactly was she found?"
"Just here, Chief Inspector." The constable moved down the side of the car and 
Barnaby followed.
He could see now what Fennimore meant. The Buick was last in line almost 
parallel to the exit and flush against the wall. A body lying behind it could 
easily have remained unnoticed for several days.
There were smears of blood on the concrete about two feet above ground level, 
presumably from the injuries to her head. Whether she had received these after 
being run over or not until hitting the wall, later analysis would no doubt 
determine.
Crucial also was where the vehicle that struck her had been parked. It must 
have been going at a fair old lick. Travelling from the far side of the bay it 
would have been possible for someone in a hurry to pick up the necessary speed. 
The nearer one came to the point at which the body was found, the harder this 
would become. Really close and you were talking about a deliberate revving up 
and stamping on the accelerator.
Barnaby sighed. He went and stood in the centre of the white exit line and 
stared up the empty ramp and tried to picture Brenda Brockley in the last 
moments of her life. Had she been running after someone? Or running away? 
Plainly she had been knocked down by a moving vehicle but was it this impact 
that had thrown her over the gaudy Buick? Perhaps she had been crammed into 
that ugly grey stone corner by the driver, anxious to gain time to put some 
distance between himself and the result of, at the best, dangerous driving.
Two cars were now approaching at a sedate 5 m.p.h. Barnaby stepped to one side 
and watched them pass, thinking what an old cynic it would be who made any 
connection between their tortoise-like progression and the presence of a 
uniformed copper.
The next step was Hillingdon Hospital to which Sergeant Troy drove with no 
great eagerness. After a cup of tea and a longish wait in the security office, 
both officers were directed to the mortuary.
Though the experience was nothing new to either of them, they reacted in very 
different ways. Barnaby, though never completely detached, had over the years 
come to accept what now lay all about them with a certain amount of saddened 
resignation.
Troy who, until he was around twenty-five, had been convinced he was immortal, 
was still not a hundred per cent sure that he would be going the way of all 
flesh. He knew it was true but he couldn't believe it. A bit like hearing 
Terminal Cheesecake had made the Top Ten. In any case, the way things were 
shaping up right now, what with science and all, some magical potion or process 
of suspended animation was bound to be discovered long before his turn came 
round. Perhaps he could be frozen. Rich people in the States were. One man had 
just had his head done--lowered into a cylinder accompanied by clouds of dry 
ice. Troy had seen it on the telly. He pondered now on what bit he might have 
preserved should the chance arise, on what portion of his anatomy had given the 
most happiness to himself and the world about him.
"Up this end, Sergeant."
"Right, guv."
The attendant had already folded back the unstained, white sheet. Barnaby stood 
looking down at a youngish woman of scarcely describable ugliness. Her head was 
lying at an unnatural angle along the twisted line of her shoulder. A great 
beak of a nose, no chin to speak of, a tiny puckered drawstring mouth. Although 
her eyes were closed they still bulged, fish-like, beneath swollen blue lids. 
Her brown hair, stiff with dust and grit, was short and plainly cut.
Barnaby had a sudden vivid recollection of his own daughter who was so 
insistently lovely there was no getting away from her. No one pretended life 
was fair but unfairness on this scale must indicate a quite savage whimsy on 
the part of the Fates. To what despair must such a profile have reduced this 
poor girl?
Having called Sergeant Troy over and now sensing his approach, Barnaby felt a 
need to shield Brenda Brockley from any comments. He flung the sheet over her 
face as he had once, long ago, pulled down the skirt on a corpse lying in a 
muddy ditch.
"Sorry, Audrey. I thought, as you'd already met and talked to them . . ."
"That's all right, sir."
It was not the first time Sergeant Brierley had travelled alongside a male 
colleague on his way to break the news dreaded above all other. Not the first 
and, she had no doubt, not the last.
She sometimes thought her approach up the path or arrival on the doorstep might 
alone be enough to telegraph the reason for their visit. So many people 
realised now, from watching various police programmes, that a female officer 
invariably accompanied the bearer of ill tidings. A pastoral presence; that was 
the idea. Someone to make the tea. To listen while the bereaved wept and 
shouted, rambled with repetitive and confused anguish or brought out 
photographs of the newly dead. Sometimes they would just sit silently, grief 
breaking them apart, like a hammer shattering a stone.
Chief Inspector Barnaby rang The Larches' bell. Two thirty in the morning but 
there was still a light on downstairs. Like Audrey, this was the part of the 
job he hated most. And it was not only psychologically uncomfortable, it could 
be dangerous. As in ancient Greece, the messenger's report could sometimes 
bring about quick and savage retribution. Barnaby knew of an officer detailed 
to inform someone that his pregnant wife had been killed by a drunken driver. 
In a fit of agonised rage, the man had snatched up the first weapon that came 
to hand--a set of fire irons--and struck out with them. The sergeant had almost 
lost an eye.
As soon as Barnaby rang the bell, the dog had its paws up on the windowsill. 
She wasn't barking this time. Just staring silently out. There was a full moon, 
a great circle of glowing alabaster. The close was flooded with cold, silver 
light.
Reg opened the door. He looked at them both. Stared into their faces, one at a 
time, with great intensity. His pallor, already very pronounced, deepened to a 
ghastly whitish-grey. He stood aside so they could enter.
Iris, wearing a quilted nylon housecoat over her nightdress, was seated bolt 
upright on the settee facing a blank television screen. She got up quickly when 
Barnaby entered. Unable to read his expression as her husband had done, her 
drawn face plumped up with anticipation.
"Is there any news?"
"I'm afraid it's bad news, Mrs. Brockley. The body of a woman was found earlier 
this evening at Heathrow Airport--"
"No!"
"I'm very sorry but we believe it to be that of your daughter."
A long pause. Then, with one swift movement, Iris doubled over and started to 
howl. Bloodcurding sounds interspersed with little snorts and grunts of agony. 
Audrey crossed over and tried to comfort her but was pushed away.
Reg remained standing, staring desperately around. He seemed to be seeking a 
third person. Someone perhaps with new information rendering that which had 
suddenly brought death into his house null and void.
Barnaby repeated himself. "I'm so sorry."
"What . . . how did . . . ?"
"She was hit by a car."
"Are you sure?" The words were blurred, spoken through flabby lips. "I mean 
that it's Brenda?"
"Obviously the body has not been officially identified--"
"Well then!" shouted Reg, a parody of a sergeant major on parade with his 
ramrod stance and bristly moustache and unfocused, staring eyes. "You can't 
know for sure. They don't know, Iris. Not for sure."
"Don't know?"
This was terrible. Barnaby saw the beginnings of hope in Iris's tortured face. 
He spoke quickly before it could gain any sort of focus.
"It is the person in the photograph you left at the station, Mr. Brockley. 
There's no doubt about that."
At this, Iris began to scream silently, opening and closing her mouth with 
great energy and drawing her lips back in a savage snarl.
Barnaby said, "I think you should ring your GP, Mr. Brockley. Is it Jennings?"
"You can't do that. He might tell someone."
"Your wife needs a sedative." The Chief Inspector could hardly believe he had 
heard aright. "I imagine you could do with some help as well."
When Reg did not reply, Barnaby picked up a tapestry address book by the phone 
and opened it under J. Then under D with more success. While he dialled, 
Sergeant Brierley asked if she could make the Brockleys some tea. Iris, even in 
extremis, was then compelled to do the correct social thing. Somehow she got 
herself into the kitchen but then just stood gazing blindly around, unable to 
remember where the teapot was, let alone the tea.
Shona, having long since appreciated the abandonment of all previous rules and 
regulations, was lolling in an armchair on a mass of scatter cushions. She 
jumped down when the two women left and followed with a melancholy swagger. As 
Barnaby replaced the receiver, Reg began to argue.
"Photographs aren't real life. You should get someone who knew her to do a 
proper identification. Try Mr. March-banks, from the office. Or Miss Travers 
from Personnel. They thought the world of Brenda."
To his shame, Barnaby became aware of a flicker of irritation, as if this man's 
refusal to accept the loss of his only child was somewhat irrational. After 
all, it was not as if such a reaction was out of the ordinary. Shock took 
different people different ways and one of the most common was an inability to 
believe that what had truly happened, had happened. And who would not use every 
ounce of energy to hold the smashing of their entire world at bay? How would I 
cope if it was Cully? wondered the Chief Inspector. And knew that it would 
finish him.
"Why don't you sit down, Mr. Brockley?"
"Yes." Reg walked hesitantly to the nearest chair, running the tips of his 
fingers over the arm before lowering his body, like a blind person. He said, 
almost to himself, "Why on earth would Brenda have been at Heathrow?"
Unable to answer, Barnaby asked if there was anyone Reg would like the police 
to contact.
"What?"
"A neighbour? A relative perhaps?"
"What for?"
"You and your wife will need some support, sir." Silence. "And help, if only of 
a practical nature."
"We're a very private family."
It seemed unnecessarily cruel to point out that they would not be very private 
for much longer. The fact that their daughter had lived next door to a couple 
who were themselves currently making lurid headlines would not be missed by the 
tabloids. In next to no time journalists and photographers could be swarming 
all over their neat little pea shingle drive. Barnaby wondered if he could 
perhaps prepare the Brockleys for this invasion without being too blunt about 
it. He suggested they might like to go and stay with friends for a few days. 
Dully, Reg explained that they had no friends.
Audrey, having brought Iris back into the sitting room, was handing round cups 
of tea when the doorbell rang.
Barnaby had been brief on the telephone, simply telling the Brockleys' GP that 
they had received very bad news and that his presence was urgently required. 
Audrey let Dr. Jennings in and spoke to him in the hall, explaining the 
situation in more detail. He entered the room looking deeply shocked, went over 
to Iris and began to talk quietly. Eventually he persuaded her to get up and he 
and Audrey half led, half carried her upstairs.
As soon as they had gone, Barnaby began to speak. He did this from regretful 
necessity knowing, from long experience, that there was no way to make the 
sudden transition from the personal to the practical sound anything but crude, 
even heartless.
"I was wondering, Mr. Brockley . . ."
Reg did not respond. He was sitting quietly, resting his elbow on one knee and 
his forehead in the heel of his hand, as if shading his eyes from an 
unspeakable catastrophe.
". . . if you feel up to answering one or two questions."
"About what?"
"Well, Brenda. Time is very important in a situation like this. Your daughter 
has already been dead for perhaps five days. The sooner we can start to gather 
information, the better our chances are of catching whoever brought this 
tragedy about."
In normal circumstances this sort of fudge-up would have rung an extremely loud 
warning bell, for there was no logical reason why knowing the background to a 
random hit and run victim's life would help trace the driver responsible. 
Barnaby was banking on Reg's devastation not to spot this. And on his 
remarkable subjection to authority.
"So if you could tell me a little--"
"She was very highly respected."
"I'm sure--"
"You won't find anyone to say a word against her."
"Forgive me if I recap on ground you may have covered at the station," he would 
look over the couple's earlier interview when he got back, "but it's obviously 
very important that we get every detail absolutely right. She dashed out of the 
house--I think that was how you put it--at around about seven thirty."
"Watchdog was on."
"Did Brenda say anything at all as she went out?"
"She just ran off."
"Nothing about meeting anyone?"
"No."
"Did she take a coat?"
"No." He was becoming querulous. "I told them all this."
"Yes, I'm sorry, Mr. Brockley. You said Brenda had no special friends. Was 
there anyone at work perhaps she was close to?"
"No person more than another. She got on with everyone."
Barnaby took this with a grain of salt. No one got on with everyone, but the 
pitifully unattractive needs must develop their own defences and stratagems 
against rejection. Perhaps Brenda's had been a continuously compliant and 
ingratiating manner. Well, he would soon find out.
"They bought her a lovely brooch," said Reg. "With her name on."
"What about telephone calls at home? Or letters?"
"From men, you mean?"
"Not necessarily, sir."
"Brenda was very choosy."
Barnaby narrowed the circle, asking about possible acquaintances in Fawcett 
Green. He got nowhere. Brenda Brockley had got up, gone to work, come home, had 
her tea, walked her dog and gone to bed. That was it. The life plan.
"Although . . ."
"Yes?"
"It's nothing, really. Just that, over the last few days, she has been, well, 
different."
"In what way?"
"Abrupt. She's always had a lovely way with her. Mummy and I insisted. Courtesy 
costs nothing. But then she started getting all reserved. Not joining in the 
conversation. Refusing to answer questions about her day. That sort of thing."
Barnaby, who lived half his life in just such a manner, much to his wife's 
annoyance, hardly knew what to say. But it was interesting that this change in 
Brenda's behaviour seemed to have taken place around the time of Simone 
Hollingsworth's disappearance.
"I suppose we'll never know what the problem was now." Reg's voice had become 
strained and forlorn.
There seemed little point, at this stage, in being any more precise or 
stringent. It could even be counterproductive. Iris, when she was in any sort 
of state to answer questions, might well be more helpful.
Barnaby explained that it could be necessary to make Brenda's room available 
for examination some time during the next few days. Bearing this in mind, would 
Mr. Brockley have any objection if he, Barnaby, had a look around right now?
"Normally I'd have to say no," replied Reg. He got up quickly, as if glad to 
have a definitive objective. Almost bustling across the carpet. "Her door was 
always locked, you see."
"Oh?" Barnaby was immediately intrigued as to why a blameless spinster, long 
past the adolescent "Keep Out--This Means You!" phase, would do such a thing.
"But she dashed off in such a rush she didn't take her bag." As they climbed 
the stairs he added, unhappily, "We've spent a lot of time up here, over the 
past few days."
He hovered wretchedly just inside the door while Barnaby, who would much rather 
have had the place to himself, looked around the silent, abandoned room.
A pink candlewick dressing gown was draped over the back of a chair. The 
curtains and bedspread were of a matching trellised print of insipid leaves and 
flowers. There was a clock radio and a couple of framed country scenes so 
completely characterless they could have been set almost anywhere. Above the 
bed was a large framed print of two small street urchins, a boy and a girl, 
holding hands and crying. Tears, in the form of several tiny, clear glass 
beads, were glued to their cheeks.
Barnaby, who had seen the likeness more than once before, remained bewildered. 
What sort of person would want, permanently displayed in their home, images of 
distressed children?
He opened the wardrobe and looked briefly inside. Duncoloured suits, a single 
patterned dress (brown and olive green), several pairs of highly polished black 
and navy court shoes, all on trees. A drab overcoat. Dressing-table drawers 
revealed some plain cotton underwear and several pairs of heavy denier, 
flesh-coloured tights. They held no perfume or make-up. Perhaps she had long 
ago recognised the futility of any attempt at cosmetic improvement, let alone 
transformation.
Close to the narrow, single bed was a glass shelf supported by curly metal 
brackets, painted white. This held soft toys and a small stack of romantic 
novels.
Barnaby turned his attention to the pretty antique desk placed by the window. 
He lifted the lid. The desk was empty but for a flat, dark green, beautifully 
marked book which he took out and opened. An action that finally provoked Reg 
into speech.
"Inspector, if you wouldn't mind. I think that could be rather personal."
"It's the personal that might help us the most, Mr. Brockley." Barnaby switched 
on the little goose-necked lamp, adjusted the pink shade, opened the pages at 
random and began to read.
April 3rd: Today a new departure. A has discovered where I work! Emerging from 
the office I literally "cannoned" into him. And there was something about his 
expression--slightly guilty but at the same time eager and excited--that told 
me this was no coincidence.
After this accidental (quote unquote) collision there was nothing for it but 
that he absolutely must take me to lunch. We went to the Lotus Garden where 
much hilarity ensued due to my complete incompetence vis a vis chopsticks. He 
insisted on advising me which, needless to say, involved a lot of "hands on" 
tuition. His fingers are slender but so strong. Did they press a little too 
firmly and with unnecessary warmth? He has such laughing eyes. When they met 
mine I think we both realised that something hugely significant had just 
occurred.
The Chief Inspector, his expression one of amazed disbelief, flicked through 
several more pages of vivid green script that should surely have been purple, 
and picked up the thread.
May 7th: Strictly against instructions A has started to ring me at the 
Coalport. Need I say "raised eyebrows all round"? Trish Travers commenting on 
his sexy voice, everyone asking questions. I maintained a discreet silence, 
simply saying "no comment at this stage."
I'm determined not to succumb but he is so good-looking. Persuaded into another 
lunch--this time at the Star of India. He confessed then what I have long 
suspected. That his marriage is an empty sham and his life desperately unhappy. 
Little does he know that I also have experienced loneliness, that special He 
having proved elusive. Until now. Much against my better judgement and purely 
out of sympathy, I allowed my hand to rest briefly on his. Those laughing eyes 
became deadly serious and seemed to look directly into my soul. I think I knew 
then that there was no turning back.
Barnaby dipped into the saga three or four more times. The gist, style and 
content did not change. On the point of closing the diary, he noticed a 
photograph pasted inside the front cover. He passed the book over, saying, 
"Have you seen this, sir?"
Reg's stretched out hand was tentative. Longing to be privy to his child's 
innermost thoughts when she was alive, he now experienced feelings of severe 
unease at such an intrusion.
"It doesn't seem right."
"Just look at the photograph, if you will."
Reg stared at the picture, his eyes and mouth circles of stupefaction. He 
handed the diary back. "It's Alan." Then, as if trying to clarify an 
impenetrably murky situation, "From the property adjacent." He walked, 
stiff-legged, to Brenda's pretty little mother-of-pearl seat and leaned on it. 
"What does this mean? What is she writing? I don't understand."
"There are several meetings of a romantic nature described here, Mr. Brockley. 
A courtship, as it were."
"With Hollingsworth?"
"No name is mentioned in full." Though a closer reading, he hoped, would prove 
otherwise. "But the initial A does recur from time to time. And this, coupled 
with the photograph--"
"But we hardly knew them. I told you that the other day."
"You and your wife may hardly have know them but--"
"Oh God! You don't think it was Alan who . . ." Reg's face was contorted, 
crazed with pain. "Could that be why he took his own life?"
At this point Audrey appeared in the doorway to say that Iris was now asleep 
and that Dr. Jennings had left but would call again first thing in the morning.
Reg cried out, "My little girl. Brenda, oh Brenda."
Audrey helped him up and persuaded him to go downstairs. As the two of them 
left the room, Barnaby thought about Reg's agonised suggestion. Until the 
motorist responsible was apprehended, no one would know precisely when Brenda 
Brockley died; even after a post-mortem, there was always a certain amount of 
uncertainty. But if she had been killed last Monday night before, say, ten 
thirty Hollingsworth could have been responsible. He was out and about and on 
wheels. And it was certainly possible, given reasonable traffic conditions, to 
drive to Heathrow and back in under three hours.
So, means and opportunity may turn out to be not so problematical. But motive? 
That was a facer. Barnaby found it difficult to believe that Alan Hollingsworth 
was sexually involved with the Brockleys' daughter. His guess was that her 
secret writings were as much a work of fiction as the Mills and Boon novels on 
the little glass shelf. Not that extremely ugly woman were inevitably unable to 
hold a man in thrall: history had plenty of examples to prove otherwise. The 
Duchess of Constantinople, whose lovers were legion, was said to have warts on 
her nose, one shoulder higher than the other and breath to set the Bosphorus on 
fire.
But in this particular instance Barnaby felt convinced he was right. Perhaps 
because Hollingsworth's obsession with his wife was so consuming as to make an 
interest in any other woman appear unlikely. But how had Brenda viewed next 
door's marriage? Did she, keeping herself to herself in this sad little cell, 
really know anything about it at all?
Working on the open mind principle, Barnaby considered, for one wild moment, 
the idea of the Brockleys' daughter as Simone's kidnapper. She may well have 
been jealous of Simone, and even wished to do her harm. And deliberately 
driving Alan half mad with anxiety was also not entirely out of the question. 
Unrequited love could spawn behaviour both cruel and perverse. But when would 
she have had the time? Unless subsequent interviews at the Coalport and 
National proved absenteeism, every moment of her blameless, tightly organised 
life seemed to have been accounted for. Which meant an accomplice.
Rapidly painting himself into a more and more impossible corner, the Chief 
Inspector shook the whole muddle from his mind and turned once more to the 
diary.
The viridian script, tightly crammed, jigged about on the page. He flicked back 
and forth and then, suddenly, there was a breathing space. A cool expanse of 
blank lemon paper. It was broken by two lines, calmly written in pencil. He 
addressed himself to the brief paragraph and the words flew like arrows, 
straight to his heart.
People say what you've never had you never miss. That isn't true. You dream of 
what you're missing all night long. And then you ache, all through the day.
By 8 a.m. on Monday morning the incident room was as busy as a hive of bees. 
There was still a certain amount of fresh information coming through regarding 
the Hollingsworth case, including several sightings. Desk staff, civilian and 
uniformed alike, listened and transcribed.
In Brick Lane, Simone had worn a gold and scarlet sari and bells on her toes. 
In Telford she posed as a him, in Devizes as a traffic warden. Near 
Stratford-on-Avon she sported on the deck of a canal barge in Gipsy earrings 
and little else.
More sensibly and closer to home on the day of her disappearance, Mrs. 
Hollingsworth had appeared at Uxbridge Tube station loaded with Marks and 
Spencer's shopping and constantly looking at her watch "as if she was waiting 
for a friend."
On a Country Route bus to Aylesbury a passenger had sat next to someone wearing 
a shocking pink linen jacket over a flowered dress with a pattern similar to 
Simone's. Though this person had auburn hair and was wearing dark glasses, she 
still bore a close resemblance to the kidnapped woman. As the informant left 
the bus at Flackwell Heath she had no idea of the woman's final destination.
Thirdly, and most promising of all, Simone had been spotted getting into a 
shabby white van parked only a few yards from the department store where she 
had last been genuinely sighted. The person who reported this had not noticed 
the number but did recall that the vehicle was unmarked. In other words, not 
trade.
Barnaby, refreshed after a Sunday spent pottering in his garden and lying in 
the deck-chair, caught up with all the other salient stuff, then asked that an 
"anxious to trace" notice be put out on the van driver. Also that every store 
in Causton, including charity shops, be questioned over the sale of an auburn 
wig and a pink jacket. For Mrs. Hollingsworth had certainly not been carrying 
either item when she boarded the market bus at Fawcett Green.
Finally he asked for some posters of Simone showing the relevant time and date 
of her supposed sighting to be plastered all over Uxbridge Tube station, 
entrance hall and platforms. You never knew your luck.
After this he retired to the quietest corner he could find. A briefing had been 
called for eight thirty which was in about twenty minutes' time. The Chief 
Inspector took with him some strong coffee and Brenda Brockley's diary which he 
had been perusing, on and off, since breakfast.
A closer reading had not revealed the significance of the gold and silver 
asterisks and little scarlet hearts and Barnaby doubted now that he would ever 
understand their significance. But if they remained mysterious, Brenda's 
adventures were proving to be sadly conventional. There was no breaking of 
banks in Monte Carlo or skiing in Gstaad. No yachting on wine-dark seas beneath 
a brazen Aegean sky. She did not even go to Ascot or Cowes.
She had wanted so little, poor girl. Dinner at a pub on the river bank at 
Marlow, "with white swans so very graceful bobbing at their reflections in the 
water. Daintily they ate some petty fours straight from my hand." A concert at 
High Wycombe with a slow drive home in the moonlight "which Alan begged and 
pleaded might never end." Yet another Chinese, this time at the Kyung Ying.
The room was filling up. Some people had gathered in front of the notice-board 
on which were pinned blow-ups of Brenda's studio photograph along with the SOCO 
pictures of Alan on the hearth rug, the happy nuptial portrait and the 
Polaroids of Simone. Others were making themselves familiar with the latest 
developments to date. Barnaby closed the diary and returned to his official 
place.
"All right, everyone." The jabber lessened only slightly. He gave the surface 
of the desk a smart blow with his fist. And tossed a cold "Thank you" into the 
ensuing silence.
"Now, this is what we've got and so far it isn't much. Brenda Brockley was last 
seen by her parents at seven thirty last Monday evening. She left the house in 
the clothes she was wearing when she died. She said nothing as to where she was 
going. Just jumped into the car and drove off 'like a mad thing," to quote her 
father. She didn't even take a handbag and scraped the gatepost as she went by.
"At nine o'clock she called to say she had met a friend and was going for a 
meal and they weren't to wait up. Her father, who took the message, got the 
impression, from the background noise, that she was ringing from a railway 
station. We now know that it was almost certainly Heathrow. All of this 
information is already on a Four Two Eight which is being photocopied and 
should be up here shortly, so make yourselves familiar.
"The body was found on the top level of the Short Stay Car Park that serves 
Terminal One, as was her car. The injuries are commensurate with being struck 
by a vehicle moving at some considerable speed. The PM's being done this 
morning so we should know more by tomorrow at the latest. Her photograph, 
together with that of Hollingsworth and his wife, are being circulated at the 
airport. She could have had the meal she was referring to on the concourse 
itself, in which case she may well have been noticed. She was an . . . unusual 
looking girl."
Someone said something at the back of the room and someone else laughed.
"What was that?" Barnaby's voice cracked like a whip.
"Sorry, chief." A throat was cleared. "Got a bit of a cough."
"We can't all look like Ava Gardner, Constable."
"No, sir."
"The Heathrow police are being very cooperative and, as more stuff comes in, we 
shall know better how to proceed. Now, as to the Hollingsworth inquiry, any 
more catching up for me to do? Yes, Beryl?"
Detective Sergeant Beryl, whose surname was the bane of his life, said, "I 
talked to someone in St. Chad's Lane yesterday, sir. A Mr. Harris. He was 
working in his front garden and actually saw Alan Hollingsworth drive away at 
the time Dawlish said he heard him."
"Excellent. Get in touch with him again, would you? Find out if he saw the 
Brockley girl leaving as well. It sounds to me as if they set off within 
minutes of each other. And bear in mind, everyone, that this was the evening of 
the day that Hollingsworth received the money. I don't think it's stretching 
matters to assume that he was on his way to hand it over. And if she was 
following him . . ."
There was an interested and lively murmur of speculation then a plainclothes 
inspector, leaning against the water cooler, said, "Has there been any feedback 
from her parents at all? I mean, any suggestion as to why she might have been 
pursuing Hollingsworth?"
"She fancied herself in love with him." Barnaby glared around the room as if 
daring it to respond risibly. Everyone was quiet. "As far as we know, she never 
even went inside the house, though once we've got her prints, we may find 
otherwise.
"I'm holding back on any large-scale inquiry at this stage mainly because it's 
possible we might simply be looking at an accident. But I would like her 
photograph, together with Hollingsworth's, shown at all the cafes and 
restaurants in Causton. See if anyone remembers seeing them together." Though 
Barnaby firmly believed the diary to be a complete work of fiction, he couldn't 
risk not checking the matter out.
"I shall be visiting her place of work in half an hour and hope to fill in the 
background somewhat. The next briefing's at six o'clock. So, go to it. Gavin?"
Sergeant Troy picked up his jacket and followed his boss from the room. As the 
door closed behind him, the man who had laughed said, "Who the hell's Ava 
Gardner?"
Approaching the Rover where his chief was already installed, Sergeant Troy, 
carrying two cans of iced pop from the iced pop machine, was laughing silently 
to himself. His expression was bemused and his head moved back and forth in 
disbelief as he climbed into the driving seat.
"Thanks," said Barnaby, holding out his hand. "I could do with one of those."
"Oh. Right." Troy, who had bought both cans for himself, handed over the least 
pleasant. "This one's supposed to be pretty good."
"I wouldn't deprive you, Gavin," said Barnaby, seizing the alternative. "What 
were you chortling at?"
Troy explained. "There was this old tramp downstairs trying to make a 
complaint. Apparently he'd been sitting on the pavement, everything he owned in 
the world packed into a fraying carrier, when some smart Charlie walks up. 'I 
represent Sainsbury's,' he says. 'Penny for your bag?' Chucks the coin down and 
walks off with all the old geezer's stuff. They were still wetting themselves 
in reception."
"Made your day, did it?"
"Pretty near," said Sergeant Troy, opening his Cherryade and taking a long swig.
"Well, you're not here to enjoy yourself so knock that back double quick and 
get a move on."
"Right, guv." He drained the can, wedged it behind the gear box and turned on 
the ignition.
They had been asked to go to the back entrance of the Coalport and National 
but, on arriving, found it locked. Barnaby peered over half-mast lace curtains 
into what proved to be a kitchen/rest area. A girl who was washing up dried her 
hands on a tea towel and let them in.
"Sorry. I was supposed to watch out for you." Easing past them, she opened the 
inner door revealing a large, high-ceilinged room with several desks and a 
counter at the far end at which one person was standing. "I'll just let the 
manager know you're here."
After the customer had left, Mr. Marchbanks, a Lowry stick-figure with a mass 
of pale lemon curls, eyes like boiled gooseberries and a handshake like a damp 
flounder, admitted the two policemen to the main office.
"I was sure you would wish to discuss matters undisturbed," he said, indicating 
the notice on the glass door. The side facing them said Open. "But I do hope . 
. ."
"I'll try not to take up too much of your time," replied Barnaby. "May I?"
As he sat down at an empty desk, a great sepulchre of a woman, very tall and 
wide with more bristles on her top lip than an Oral B, came out of an office 
marked Personnel. The Chief Inspector presumed this to be Trish Travers.
Everyone looked subdued but not overly distressed. Not even Mr. Marchbanks, who 
had thought the world of Brenda.
"This is devastating news," he said, with the air of a man about to pare his 
nails. "The whole office is in a terrible state of shock."
"I understand," said Barnaby. "And I do appreciate your cooperation."
Troy selected a high stool at the counter, laid his notebook down next to the 
Day At A Time calendar and took stock of the talent. Four in number (you 
couldn't count Adolf) and of variable delectability.
There was the very short one who had let them in: a proper little butter ball, 
completely round with long eyelashes and a ginger fringe. Fringes, Sergeant 
Troy thought, always made a girl look saucy. An only half-decent looker with 
floppy wings of silky fawn hair, a complexion like the wrong half of the Flash 
floor ad and a long pointed nose. Fine if you liked Afghans. An irritable, 
harassed looking one with worn hands, too much jewellery and a habit of 
screwing up her face and blinking. And Troy's fancy; tall, red-headed like 
himself, wearing enormous tortoiseshell glasses perched on the tip of her 
pretty nose. Long fragile legs folded away beneath her chair. A juicily 
deluscious eye-boggier. Viewing alone fair brought a lump to your trousers.
He waited till the smoky lenses glinted in his direction and gave her a 
brilliant, uncomplicated smile.
She parted her own lips, wet and glistening like newly washed cherries, in 
acknowledgement.
"It would be helpful," the Chief Inspector was explaining, "if we could 
discover a little about Miss Brockley's background and private life. I know 
that girls often--"
"Women, I believe you mean," put in the tired hands.
"Indeed," said Barnaby. "I beg your pardon. Women will sometimes tell their 
colleagues in the workplace things they might not discuss with immediate 
members of their family. I wonder if Brenda perhaps . . ."
There was an uncomfortable silence. Barnaby took the room's temperature and was 
not encouraged. He had already suspected that the sterile pattern of Brenda's 
life as described by her parents indicated the type of withdrawn personality 
that did not communicate easily with others.
"Was she . . . well-liked here?"
"I wouldn't say well-liked," said Mr. Marchbanks.
"But not disliked," the roly-poly girl, Hazel Grantley from Accounts, 
interrupted quickly.
There was an immediate chorus of over-emphatic agreement which died down into 
another awkward pause.
Barnaby recognised their collective dilemma, for it was not uncommon. Many 
people who thought nothing of speaking ill about the still woundable living 
could not bring themselves to breathe a syllable against the indifferent dead.
"So no one here was what you would call close to Brenda?"
There was a negative mumble. Not a single person looked directly at him.
"What about outside the office? Did she ever mention anyone she regularly went 
about with?"
"Not to us."
"A boy friend, perhaps?"
Everyone looked surprised and then ashamed of looking surprised and then cross 
at looking ashamed.
"I don't think she had a boy friend," said Mr. March-banks.
"Brenda didn't go in for that sort of thing."
"She was a born singleton," said the girl with the Bambi legs.
Barnaby winced as much at the casual unkindness as at the excruciating 
terminology. "What about personal telephone calls? Did she receive or make 
many?"
"They're not allowed."
"Officially," said the girl with the long nose and everybody started to giggle 
until they remembered how solemn the occasion was.
"She got one," corrected the woman clanking with jewellery. "The first morning 
she didn't come in. A man rang and asked to speak to her. About nine thirty, it 
was."
That would have been her father. Barnaby asked then how long Miss Brockley had 
been working at the Coalport and National.
"Since she left school," said Mr. Marchbanks. "That would be thirteen years."
Unlucky for some, thought Sergeant Troy. Appreciating the fan standing next to 
the calendar, he eased it more directly towards him, loosened the collar of his 
check sports shirt and flicked over the first page of his notes.
"What about when she was up at the counter?" persisted the Chief Inspector. 
"Did she have any long conversations with anyone in particular? Perhaps the 
same person on more than one occasion?"
"Well," Mr. Marchbanks cleared his throat, "she didn't do a lot of, erm . . ."
"One-to-one customer relations." The Afghan helped him out.
"That's right. She seemed to prefer to work more quietly."
"By herself, like," said the woman from Personnel.
Barnaby had a quick apprehension of the abyss of loneliness on the edge of 
which Brenda must have existed at the Coalport and National. Arriving in the 
morning to conversations about boy friends, problems at school, family rows, 
how would she have responded? By nodding and smiling while listening to 
described situations completely outside her own experience? Perhaps, 
appreciating that any attempt properly to participate must necessarily be known 
to be false, or even condescending, she had pretended not to hear--and may well 
have been thought stand-offish for her pains. Perhaps she simply sat quietly at 
her desk, hoping not to be noticed--no doubt the empty one in the far corner of 
the office on which now lay a solitary bunch of roses, swathed in shiny, 
white-spotted paper. He wondered if they had ever bought flowers for her when 
she had been alive.
Barnaby asked about the midday break. Had anyone ever called to take Brenda out 
to lunch? No. Never. Did she perhaps spend time during this period with any of 
her workmates?
"Not really. We all had things to do, you see."
"She'd stay here, make herself a coffee and eat her sandwiches."
"Sometimes she went to the library."
"We'd come back absolutely fagged. Racing round the shops buying food and 
stuff. She'd be sitting there, feet up, reading one of her romances."
"I think her mother did everything."
"Yeah, she had it dead cushy."
"Wouldn't do for me. Nearly thirty and still living at home." The needling 
words were delicately shaded with spite. Troy directed a glance of warm 
admiration at this lovely girl, so after his own heart. She recrossed her 
slender, breakable legs and smiled to herself. He noticed that her identity 
brooch read "Jacqui Willing" and hoped it wasn't having him on.
Mr. Marchbanks began tousling his limp curls with a worried hand at this point, 
Trish Travers looked at her watch and the heavily ringed fingers on the tired 
hands crept towards the nearest keyboard. Someone knocked on the glass front 
door.
Realising there was probably little else to be gained at the Coalport and 
National, Barnaby thanked the manager, handed over a card should any of the 
staff remember anything that they might consider helpful, and prepared to leave.
Bambi was detailed to show them out. As she opened the back door, with Troy's 
zealous and quite unnecessary assistance, she said, "Poor Brenda, she was 
really oversensitive about her looks. Many's the time I've tried to cheer her 
up. 'Bren,' I used to say, 'beauty's only skin deep.' But you just can't help 
some people, can you?"
Barnaby could have hit her.
By the time the Chief Inspector had concluded his building society interview, 
the Evening Standard had already published its midday edition under the 
headline "Mysterious Death Of Kidnap Woman's Neighbour."
This time the village, genuinely and deeply shocked, kept its distance when 
invaded. Journalists, asking in the Goat and Whistle for the Brockleys' precise 
whereabouts, got nowhere. The fact that the couple were not well liked did not 
enter into the matter. As is the way of the fourth estate, they quickly sussed 
the address anyway and were soon giving The Larches' push button bell some 
really serious stick.
Shona jumped up at the window, barked and had her picture taken. Next day it 
appeared under the caption "Dead Girl's Pet Pines Away." Several people rang 
the Mirror wanting to adopt the dog.
Few people could cope easily with such an onslaught. Brenda's grief-stricken 
parents were prodigiously ill-equipped. They cowered behind their starched net 
frills. Iris wept, Reg wrung his hands and rained blows on the walls and 
furniture. The poodle, desperate to go out, scratched and whined for half an 
hour then did a puddle in the hall. When a bearded face pressed up against the 
kitchen window, Iris started to scream.
It was at that moment that Constable Perrot, accompanied by the vicar, arrived. 
Perrot, alternately cajoling and threatening arrest for trespass, eased the 
press out of the Brockleys' garden and back into the lane. Then supposing, 
rightly, that the door chimes must have by now worn out their welcome, he 
ignored the bell and reprised his earlier star turn at Nightingales. Bending 
down he spoke, very clearly, through the letter box.
"Mr. Brockley? This is Constable Perrot. I'm your local community police 
officer." He felt this explanation necessary as he had never actually spoken to 
Brenda's parents before. "The vicar is with me. We're anxious to help in any 
way we can. Please open the door."
Reg and Iris looked fearfully at each other. Having heard the noise from the 
army of pressmen diminish slightly, Reg had peeped through a narrow gap in the 
curtains and seen Perrot firmly shepherding them away. Gratitude alone thus 
inclined him to admit the visitors. Common sense reinforced the idea. After 
all, sooner or later he and Iris would be forced to let someone in. Or, horror 
of horrors, go out themselves. And at least these people's interest would, 
hopefully, be impersonal.
It was nothing new for the vicar to enter a house of mourning. Years of 
experience had equipped him with suitable responses and to spare. To give him 
his due, he tried to empathise afresh in every case and not sound platitudinous 
or mechanical. But as soon as he stepped into the Brockleys' private hell, he 
knew that the situation was beyond him. Childless himself, he understood that 
anything he might have to say could only be cruelly impertinent. He hovered in 
the hall, one foot spongily sinking into the dog's puddle. Shona herself 
crouched on the stairs, isolated and lonely, her nose between her paws.
Perrot, quietly and with concerned sympathy, took charge. In the lounge Iris 
lay full length on the sofa, her stout legs stretched out, her arms by her 
side. She looked as if she was on a bier. Reg stood in the centre of the room. 
He seemed lost, as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do.
Perrot made some tea and cut some bread and butter. As he did this, he asked 
one or two questions in a soft, uninsistent way. Had the doctor been? Was there 
a prescription to be filled? Could he make any telephone calls on the 
Brockleys' behalf?
Reg said, "We've stopped answering the phone."
Watching Perrot's skilful ministrations, the vicar began to feel not only de 
trop but utterly useless. He moved awkwardly across to where Iris was lying, 
sat down on the fringed pouffe and took her hand. In spite of the hot, stuffy 
room, it was icy cold. She did not open her eyes or appear even to notice his 
presence.
He was reminded of that other occasion, ten days ago, when he had found himself 
in a similar position at the house next door. He had been of no help there 
either. And the result of his daily prayers for the restoration of order and 
the wellbeing of each and every parishioner in Fawcett Green had been yet 
another violent death. If the Reverend Bream had ever doubted that God worked 
in mysterious ways, he doubted no longer.
"My wife," he said, clearing his throat with nervousness. "Food. Anything at 
all, happy to bring. If you would like to come and stay, just for a few days. I 
mean, that is, as long as you like . . ."
Everyone ignored him.
Perrot, having placed a cup of tea in Reg's hands and made sure he was grasping 
it firmly, sat close by, talking quietly. He also offered plenty of encouraging 
silence, which Reg occasionally broke. Perrot explained that the police might 
very well need to talk to both him and Iris again, but there would be no 
pressure. He, Perrot, would ask to be present if they felt it would help. 
Should they go to stay with relatives or friends, please make sure to let him 
know.
The vicar whose eye, having once been snagged by the leaping butterfly clock, 
found it could now settle on little else, was glad when the dog started whining 
and scratching again and he had a practical task to perform.
On Perrot's advice he took her into the back garden. Shona, already shamedly 
conscious of her disgrace in the hall and desperately afraid she was about to 
disgrace herself even more profoundly, streaked off down the path with a yelp 
of gratitude. She relieved herself on Reg's flawless green lawn, dragged her 
bottom around on the grass then stood up. She looked expectantly at the vicar 
who stared uncertainly back. Neither he nor Mrs. Bream cared for animals 
although they did look after the Sunday School hamster when the necessity arose.
There was a sudden flash. Rightly suspecting a concealed photographer and 
mentally composing the subsequent headlines, "Vicar Abducts Bereaved Parents' 
Sole Comfort," the Reverend Bream hurried back into the house.
Barnaby was in the canteen squaring up to two tomatoes, some wholewheat bread, 
a small wedge of Double Gloucester and a Cornice pear when the news came 
through from Heathrow that a witness had come forward. Someone who had seen not 
only Brenda Brockley on the night she died but also Alan Hollingsworth. A 
double whammy. The girl, a counter assistant in an ice-cream parlour on the 
Terminal One concourse, finished her shift at three thirty.
The first part of their second drive to the airport in as many days took place 
in virtual silence. Barnaby was lost in recollections of the case so far, mixed 
with hopeful anticipation of what might shortly be thrown in his lap. Sergeant 
Troy was seeking a grievance to while away the fleeting hour.
After picking a few over, he settled for an old favourite, the iniquities of 
the car mileage system. Or: Why Did They Always Have To Use The Rover? 
Forty-two point one pence a mile allowance straight into the gaffer's pocket. A 
nice lump sum every twenty-eight days, even after you'd taken the petrol off. 
And it wasn't as if he needed it. Fat salary, pension assured, no kids, 
mortgage paid off, but would he be driven around in Troy's Cosworth? Would he 
buggery. OK, OK, he's a big bloke and the Cossie might be a bit of a squeeze 
but the response had been the same whatever car Troy had had.
Course he was music mad, old Tom. And there was no doubt the equipment in the 
Rover was stellar. Waste of space, though, with the tapes he'd got. So-called 
singers warbling and gargling like canaries on speed. 
Musicians--musicians--scraping and sawing and twanging away.
As if reading his sergeant's mind, Barnaby reached out, slipped a tape in the 
deck and turned up the volume. Rich and full, the singer's voice filled the 
confined area of the car and poured out of the window on to the still summer 
air. She kept it up until they were entering the slipstream of traffic aiming 
for the Short Stay Car Park. Troy had to admit it was one of the less offensive 
numeros. At least she stayed in tune, which was more than you could say for 
some. Big Lucy and his football aria excepted.
"She can give it some welly, chief," said Sergeant Troy as he searched for a 
parking space. "That that Cecily Bertorelli, is it?" He tried to remember the 
odd name. Show an interest.
"No," said Chief Inspector Barnaby. "That's my wife."
Barnaby had decided to talk to the girl in her place of work, where she would 
be more relaxed, rather than in the police offices. Also he would need, at some 
stage in the interview, to look at the scene from her point of view.
They were offered delicious iced coffee in the Haagen-Dazs spotlessly clean 
kitchen. Eden Lo, a pretty Chinese girl, was taking off her maroon overall and 
yellow-banded forage cap. The three photographs which the Causton CID had 
circulated lay on a freckled Formica table with those of Alan Hollingsworth and 
Brenda set a little apart.
"These are the people that I saw." She pointed at the two pictures.
"They were here, in the cafe?"
"Not together. He was in the cafe. She was, well, sort of hiding. At least I 
got that impression."
"How was it you saw her then, Miss Lo?"
"I came out to clear just after I had served this gentleman with his coffee. 
She was standing behind the notice-board outside the fish restaurant next door. 
I noticed because she was so," she hesitated, being a kind girl, unlike Bambi, 
"different looking."
"Quite."
"Also she was peering over this way. As if she was keeping an eye on someone."
"And the man you served. Tell me about him."
"That was rather strange as well. He took his coffee to the middle table. The 
circular one that runs--"
"Show me, would you, please?"
They left the kitchen to stand behind the chill cabinet and Eden Lo pointed out 
the round rim table overlooked by the blow-up of the radiantly lascivious 
half-dressed guzzlers. Sergeant Troy had a knee-jerk reaction (well, to be 
honest, it wasn't his knee) and transferred his jacket to his other arm where 
it could be more tactfully disposed.
"And then," continued the Chinese girl, "he didn't drink it."
"You mean he just sat there, waiting?"
"No. He sort of leaned against the stool for barely a second. Put the cup down 
and walked away."
"Which direction?"
"Towards those stairs. When the girl who was watching realised he'd gone, she 
rushed after him. I saw her on the steps staring down all over the floor. She 
was really upset. I heard her cry out, 'Oh, what'll I do? What shall I do?' "
"Was that the last you saw of her?"
"Of both of them, yes."
"And what happened to the coffee?" asked Barnaby, leading the way back to the 
kitchenette.
Sergeant Troy raised his eyebrows at the frivolity of such a question. If he'd 
asked it there'd have been a bloody lecture afterwards on how not to waste a 
witness's valuable time.
"That's the odd thing," said Miss Lo. "When I looked again there was this old 
woman drinking it. I thought, what a cheek!"
"What was she like?" Barnaby leaned forward, intent and purposeful.
"Really dirty. Some old bag lady."
"Had you seen her before?"
"No. The airport police are quite strict about people like that. They usually 
move them on."
"I meant before, that same evening. In the restaurant."
"Not really. She just seemed to appear out of nowhere. To tell you the truth, I 
wondered if she'd been hanging around in Garfunkels. Or maybe the Tap and Spile 
next door, keeping an eye out for a half-empty glass, that sort of thing. It's 
all open here, as you can see. She could have spotted a coffee going begging 
and just nipped across."
"How tall would you say she was?"
"Oh dear, I don't really . . ."
"You don't have to be precise. Just a general impression."
"For a woman I would say tall. Quite a bit taller than me."
"And did you talk to her?"
"Well, I started to go over but when she saw me coming she picked up this 
grotty string bag and hurried away."
"Now, this could be very important, Miss Lo. Did you notice if the man who 
bought the coffee had a bag or case of any sort with him?"
"He certainly didn't have one with him at the counter. He used both hands to 
carry the tray."
"But he could have put it down by the table he intended to occupy?"
"He could have but I didn't see that. I'm sorry."
"So the first time you caught sight of the string bag was when this old woman 
ran off with it?"
"That's right."
"Did you get any idea of the contents?" Barnaby didn't have much hope. The 
whole incident seemed to have happened within seconds.
"Um, just newspaper, really. Parcels wrapped in newspaper."
"Little parcels?"
"I'm sorry." She opened her arms, turned up the palms of her hands and shrugged.
"Did you clear the coffee cup away then?"
"Yes, I did."
"And you're sure of the date on this?"
"Quite sure. My friend on the Air Indonesia desk has been trying for ages to 
get me a cheap flight to Hong Kong and it was Monday it came through."
"Could you give me a time at all?" asked the Chief Inspector.
"Not really. I came on at eight and I'd been here maybe an hour. Maybe longer."
Brenda had rung her parents at nine o'clock. Barnaby tried to fit this into the 
fragment of knowledge, far too slight to be called a pattern, that had just now 
come his way.
It wasn't easy. If she was trailing Hollingsworth, she would hardly have risked 
losing him by taking time off to make a phone call. So it must have been made 
later after Brenda, by then "really upset," had completed her survey from the 
top of the staircase. Had she spotted Hollingsworth in that great swarming mass 
of people? Caught up with him? Arranged to go for a meal? It seemed unlikely 
but if she hadn't, who was the friend she had talked about?
"Was there anyone else on duty with you, Miss Lo?"
"Yes, but not out front at the time it happened. They were working in here."
"Right. I'm going to ask you to come along to Heathrow police station and sign 
a statement. And you may also be asked if you could assist in compiling an 
Identikit picture of this elderly lady."
"But 1 only saw her for a second."
"That doesn't matter. Just do the best you can."
She collected a white lacy cardigan and they left together by way of the steps 
that first Alan and then the frantic Brenda had descended.
But Barnaby was never to know about the dark-skinned boy in the sweaty T-shirt. 
The boy who had agitated the war machines and asked for change and laughed at 
Brenda's distress and who could have helped them most of all. For he had long 
since taken a flight into Egypt.
Chapter Nine
By the following morning there had been a considerable falling off in sightings 
of Simone Hollingsworth. Plainly she was becoming yesterday's news. And 
Brenda's death, in spite of all the tabloids' nudging, exclamatory prose 
hinting at a possible connection, had not obtained the same imaginative grip. 
This made for a rather less frenetic atmosphere in the incident room which did 
not please everyone. Sergeant Troy, for example, blossomed when the adrenaline 
flew.
Information both positive and negative was still coming in but was proving 
helpful rather than exciting. Clearing useless stuff out of the way rather than 
shedding light into dark corners.
The man with the white van phoned to say he was innocent of all knowledge of 
what he called "the missing Mrs. Haitch." She was definitely not the blonde who 
had been seen climbing into his vehicle outside Bobby's department store on the 
afternoon of her disappearance.
He rang anonymously on 999, unaware that the number from which all such calls 
are made is automatically displayed to BT as they come in. He was furious when 
someone from the station later called at his house. But not as furious as his 
wife who had thought he was working on the Friday in question over at Naphill.
The check on the possible purchase that same day in Causton of a pink jacket 
and auburn wig had also proved negative. The nearest the inquirers could manage 
was the sale of a size 20 cerise blazer with diamante buttons and sequined 
lapels from the British Heart Foundation shop. A coronary causing little number 
if there ever was one.
Mid-morning Barnaby received a call from the coroner's office to say that a 
death certificate had now been issued for Alan Hollingsworth and the remains 
released for burial. In the absence of the deceased's wife, notification had 
been made to his brother.
There was some news on Simone Hollingsworth's first husband although he had not 
yet been physically traced. While not actually the "bad lot" as described by 
Hollingsworth to Gray Patterson, Jimmy Atherton, born and dragged up in Cubitt 
Town, certainly seemed to be swilling around somewhere near the bottom of 
society's barrel. Runner of iffy errands and deliverer of highly flexible 
packages; selling from a suitcase in the West End; bookie's messenger; bag 
carrier and front man for a casino near Golden Square; street trading from a 
suspiciously mobile lorry and kiting dud cheques.
The word on the street was that Jimmy's wife had been mad about him and he was 
mad about her and both were mad about money but he was worse. And so, when a 
new project with the possibility of immediate potential and long-term growth 
came up, you didn't see him for the proverbial. She cried fit to float a P&O 
liner but he still cleared off.
Incredibly, given such a profile, this jammy dodger had somehow managed to 
convince Australia House that he would be an asset to the country's community. 
Consequently, a mere six months ago, Atherton had set off, via Quantas, along 
the well-worn convict trail to the Antipodes. Had this not been the case, the 
Chief Inspector would have got a search going, for Jimmy sounded just the sort 
to be mixed up in a plot to raise a stack of the readies on the exmissus.
Thinking along these lines, Barnaby experienced a sudden powerful sense of 
coincidence which directed him back to Dr. Jennings' surgery. Once more he 
attended to the descriptions of Simone Hollingsworth's bruised arms and her 
distressed condition. He found his notes and checked out the date of her first 
visit. March the ninth. He pulled a keyboard towards him, scrolled through 
Sarah Lawson's statement and hit on the lines: "Simone rang up and said she 
wouldn't be coming again. I think she'd been crying. She certainly sounded very 
subdued. I got the impression Alan was standing over her." That had been early 
March too, both incidents taking place just over a week before Simone had been 
given the necklace.
The pattern was not unfamiliar. A bullying partner brings pressure to bear to 
get his or her own way. Once achieved, at whatever the cost to the recipient, 
the victor is all smiles and affectionate generosity. Loving assurances are 
made that such a thing will never happen again. Gifts are quite frequently 
offered--in this case, one would have thought, of quite disproportionate value 
to the petty victory gained.
This train of thought led Barnaby to dwell on the disappearance and possible 
theft of the jewels. Their illustration in Harpers was being well circulated by 
the police both in legitimate and highly suspect circles but so far to no 
effect. And surely if they had been stolen, Hollingsworth would have reported 
it, if only for the insurance.
The Chief Inspector's opinion was that Simone had taken the necklace with her. 
No doubt she felt she'd earned it and it would certainly have fitted into her 
handbag, or even her pocket. This notion went well with the theory that she 
believed she was off to start a new life with a new partner, albeit without 
much in the way of luggage. Then one was left with the problem of why, with two 
hundred thousand smackers worth of razzle dazzle in his hot little hand (and 
perhaps the ring as well) the man had persisted with a possibly risky kidnap 
and ransom demand. Unless, as was so often the case, the original request was 
scheduled to be the first of many.
At this point in his reflections an update from Heathrow was put on Barnaby's 
desk. Of the two registration numbers he had left with Inspector Fennimore, one 
had come up trumps. Alan Hollingsworth's Audi convertible had definitely 
checked into the Short Term Car Park. A ticket found in Brenda Brockley's Mini 
indicated that she had been barely minutes behind him. There was no record of 
the second number, which belonged to Gray Patterson.
A fax of the Identikit portrait of the bag lady drawn with Eden Lo's assistance 
also arrived. This had only been in circulation around the airport for an hour 
or two so it was unrealistic to expect much feedback as yet. Barnaby drew it 
towards him and switched on his Anglepoise for a closer look.
It was not a pretty sight. The Chief Inspector was reminded of the drawing in 
the final box of the Have You Got Your Pension Sorted adverts. A jolly smile in 
the first, a couple of faintly sketched frown lines in the second, a much more 
definite network of anxiety as our improvident hero flirts with middle age, and 
finally something resembling a man with a densely woven spider's web stuck to 
his face.
This was a female, of course. Seamed and wrinkled as a walnut, wearing a 
patterned headscarf loosely tied under her chin. Clothing listed alongside: 
stained dark skirt, shabby cardigan with some sort of design which might, Miss 
Lo suggested, have been Fair Isle. An ancient jumper, colour not remembered. 
Dirty tennis shoes.
Not bad for a glance lasting a couple of seconds. Barnaby, duly grateful, 
prayed that someone somewhere would recognise the woman and that the police 
would then be able to lay hands on her. He leaned back and closed his eyes, 
picturing the scene in the Haagen-Dazs cafe.
Hollingsworth coming in, buying a coffee, taking it to a table and walking 
away. Almost immediately the woman crosses over and starts to drink it. At Miss 
Lo's approach she hurries off carrying a string bag holding parcels wrapped in 
newspaper. It was not known whether she brought this in with her.
It seemed to Barnaby there were three ways of explaining this little vignette. 
She was a genuine transient simply keeping a sharp eye out for a free nibble or 
bevy; she was a transient who had been paid to go into the cafe, pick up the 
bag and deliver it elsewhere; or she was directly involved in the kidnap and 
ransom of Simone Hollingsworth.
Barnaby thought this last extremely unlikely and favoured the second notion. 
Which led to the interesting question as to why such a messenger would be 
necessary. The most obvious reason--because she was substituting for someone 
who would otherwise have been recognised--was not the only one. Presumably this 
person also needed to establish an alibi well away from where the drop was made.
The more Barnaby thought along these lines, the more it seemed to him that this 
old crone might have the key to the whole business. If they found her, they 
might well get a description of the man they were looking for.
Fingers crossed.
He pulled forward the next envelope and took out Perrot's report on the 
position of the Halogen switch in the garage and accompanying pair of 
photographs. Barnaby hardly knew whether to laugh or fling the whole caboodle 
up in the air and the over-scrupulous constable with it. All he had wanted was 
a simple message: "on" or "off."
The pictures showed the main switch and the surrounding area from two points of 
view. Aesthetically there was not a lot to choose between them. One lawnmower 
and collection of garden equipment looked, as far as Barnaby was concerned, 
much like the next. But the interesting point, the ah! factor, if you like, was 
that the Halogen light which, according to Reg Brockley, came on when 
Hollingsworth drove home was now switched off.
Barnaby sat quietly, warmed by this tiny bit of information even more 
powerfully than by the summer sun, now streaming through the ivory plastic 
slats of the incident room's Venetian blinds. For if Hollingsworth had not 
pulled that switch, someone else had. Someone who needed to leave Nightingales 
without being observed. Which meant there had been another person in the house 
in spite of the Brockleys' insistence that no one had entered or left.
Barnaby looked around for Troy and singled him out, half hidden by a busy, 
moving crowd of people at the far end of the room. The DCI stood up, preparing 
to attract his assistant's attention.
Troy, unaware of the chief's regard, was about to embark on the most delightful 
method of time-filling imaginable. Chatting up every man in the station's 
favourite ingredient, Sergeant Audrey Brierley.
"Blimey," he began, perching on the edge of her desk. "It's a fair cop."
Audrey wrinkled her her lovely brow with irritation and moved an I Heart New 
York mug out of his way.
"Sometimes," continued Sergeant Troy, gazing hungrily at the matchless profile, 
"I wonder if you quite appreciate what a lonely person I am."
"Whose fault's that?"
"Pardon?"
"If you weren't so . . ."
"So what?" Troy was genuinely curious. He could see no logical reason for this 
continual rejection for, while acknowledging that he had faults, being 
imperfect was surely not one of them.
Audrey, cross at having allowed herself to be provoked into a personal 
exchange, decided she might as well continue. "I just think you'd be happier if 
you weren't so spiteful."
Troy blinked with surprise. This was not a connection he would have made 
himself. If anything, the reverse was true. Life, if you didn't put the boot 
thoroughly into it from time to time, would pretty damn soon walk all over you. 
A cruel aside could put people in their place before they had a chance to screw 
you into yours.
Memory sparked. A small boy with his dad, sober for once, climbing on a swing 
in the park. A slightly larger boy coming along and tugging on the chain. Not 
violently, probably only wanting to play. Told to stand up for himself and push 
the intruder away, the younger child had started to cry. The man had seized his 
son's fist and swung it hard against the other boy's jaw. The boy fell down, 
hurt. It struck Troy now that this was possibly the very first occasion that he 
had got his retaliation in first.
"Where was I, Aud?"
"Lonely, 'Gav.' "
"Ah, yes. Reason being," sorrow weighed down his voice, darkened the pupils of 
his eyes, "my wife doesn't understand me."
"Oh, I bet she does, sweetheart. I bet she understands you till it's coming out 
of her ears."
"I sometimes feel I'm--"
"Whatever would men do for conversation if the letter 'I' was abolished?"
"What?"
"You'd be absolutely dumbstruck."
"God, skipper." He slid off the desk. "It's a business doing pleasure with you."
"I should give up then."
"There's thousands be glad of it."
"There's thousands watch Jeremy Beadle."
Troy hesitated, unsure how to respond. Was it a joke? Or an astonishingly 
generous compliment?
"Get a grown-up to help you with that one," said Audrey kindly. She half turned 
in her swivel chair. "What's that roaring sound?"
Troy, who had absorbed the bellowing through the back of his head without 
giving the source much thought, now sprang to attention. He hurried to the 
gaffer's desk.
"Yes, sir."
"Is that all you can find to do?"
"Developing good relationships with colleagues, chief. I mean, that's what it's 
all about, isn't that right? On the streets, in the field--"
"Credit me with some intelligence, Sergeant."
"Righto."
"I need something very wet and very cold from the Automat." Barnaby rootled a 
pound coin from the jangling collection in his trouser pocket and passed it 
over. "There you go."
"Tango?"
"No thanks. You're not my type."
It was not often Troy found himself in the position of being able to 
deliberately withhold laughter at his superior's jokes--the DCI hardly ever 
made them and when he did they were usually quite good. Troy kept his lips 
firmly closed now with some satisfaction.
"Make that two," called out Barnaby as his leg man sauntered off. "I'm 
celebrating."
"Celebrating what?" asked Sergeant Troy on his return.
Barnaby made rings on the desk with two Lemon and Lime Fantas. "An extremely--"
"That's another twenty pee, by the way."
"Oh." Barnaby continued speaking as he rootled some more. "After Hollingsworth 
returned home on the night he died someone switched off the Halogen lamp."
"Fancy." The sergeant waited for the bit worth celebrating. The chief looked so 
pleased with himself Troy thought the murderer must have turned up while his 
own attention was wandering. Just presented himself at the front desk with a 
fringe of parsley round his mouth and an apple up his bottom.
"Which means the man wasn't alone."
"Not necessarily."
"What?" Barnaby, popping his first can, looked displeased.
"It could have been Alan."
"What reason would he--"
"Habit. Probably did it every night, like winding up the cat and putting the 
clock out."
"But they're specifically for use in the dark."
"He knew someone was after him, then. Wanted to hide."
"In that case, wouldn't he want the light to be working? So he could see if 
anyone approached the house?"
"Not nec--"
"For God's sake!" Barnaby slammed his drink down. An effervescent fountain of 
spume shot up in the air. "Whose side are you on?"
Tight-lipped, Troy produced a spotless handkerchief and dabbed at his newly 
spotted cuff. Typical of the force, this sort of thing. They asked you to use 
your initiative. You used your initiative. They threw Lime and Lemon over you. 
It was the way of the world. No point complaining.
"Sorry, Gavin."
"Sir." Old people today, thought Sergeant Troy, refolding his snowy cotton 
square and tucking it back into his sleeve. They couldn't care less. "Want 
anything to eat with those, chief? Sandwich? Some crisps?"
"No thanks. I'm taking an early--yes, what is it?"
"The information you asked for from the Curzon cinema, Chief Inspector?" said 
one of the civilian telephonists. "Programme times?"
Barnaby loathed perfectly straightforward statements that transformed 
themselves into questions almost as much as he loathed jargon. He grunted and 
took the print out, churlishly withholding any thanks.
And then he was sorry, for the girl had handed him one of the most interesting 
items to date. A nice little length of rope, you might say, to hang someone 
with. Or at least give them an extremely sharp tug.
"Have a look at this." He passed it over.
Troy read the page and emitted a long, slow hiss. "New programme starts each 
Monday . . . tenth of June we've got Olivier, Olivier. Whoever he is. 
Facinelli. It finished Saturday night. Well, waddya-know.
"She's not very good at it, is she, our Sarah?"
"Got her head in the clouds, no doubt, creating and that."
"A lie's a lie. Go and pick her up."
"OK," said Sergeant Troy, making a mental note to cover all extremities and 
wishing, for the first and only time in his life, that he had access to a 
cast-iron chastity belt.
"Take her to the interview room in the basement." Barnaby passed over the 
Identikit drawing. "And before you go, pin this on the board."
"Strewth!" Troy regarded the sketch with disgust and disbelief. "The granny 
from the black lagoon."
Barnaby drained the first drinks can and Troy took it off the desk and placed 
it carefully in the waste paper basket. He tried to ignore the damp rings and 
certainly was not going to use his handkerchief to wipe them off. He made a 
mental note to bring a paper towel roll in and put it in the cupboard. He was a 
bit of a messer, old Tom.
"What I can't understand about this whole Haagen-Dazs scene," Troy fished some 
drawing pins out of a Sharpe's toffee tin, "is the business with the coffee."
"Oh, yes?"
"Well, Hollingsworth goes and buys it. The girl says he needed both hands for 
the tray which means leaving whatever he was carrying, i.e. the loot, somewhere 
in the cafe. Highly dodgy. You don't turn your back on your valuables for a 
second in an air terminal. Thieves are everywhere."
"Presumably that was the drop."
"But the old hag turned up after he took the coffee to the table. Not while he 
was at the counter."
"That was the first time she was spotted. Not necessarily when she first turned 
up."
"And why buy the stuff and not drink any?" That had really niggled Troy. He 
hated seeing money wasted. "It wasn't as if it was the sort of place where 
people are breathing down your neck if you don't immediately order."
"Now Hollingsworth's gone, we may never know."
"I hate mysteries." Sergeant Troy saw nothing incongruous in the fact that a 
detective should make such a statement. Yearning for a society that was 
passive, ordered and static, he regarded police work as nothing so much as an 
endless and ever more stringent tidying. Sweeping the country's rubbish off the 
streets and into first the courts and then Her Majesty's detention centres.
Not that it always worked like that. Half the time you were no sooner out of 
the witness box after giving evidence for the Crown than the rubbish was back 
on the pavement giving you the finger and either laughing or spitting in your 
face.
"What's that?"
Sergeant Troy hadn't realised he'd been mumbling aloud.
"Restoring order, chief. The right balance. That's our job, isn't it?"
"Symmetry's for the gods, Gavin. We mustn't presume." Barnaby got up, taking 
his jacket from the back of his chair. "They don't like it."
Sergeant Troy parked his beloved Cosworth outside Bay Tree Cottage. He got out 
and stood, in a blaze of oppressive sunshine, in the space where a gate should 
be. Briefly he lifted his face to the sun and revelled in it.
The Citroen was not there. Troy crossed over to the window, leaned on a pale 
windowsill bleached even paler by the consuming "heat, and looked inside. The 
sitting room appeared empty.
He walked to the rear garden and studied the tangle of herbaceous and climbing 
plants, receiving no pleasure from what he immediately designated a right old 
mess. There was a wishing well with a small ornate arch made of cast iron 
wreathed in nasturtiums. Troy lifted the old wooden cover and peered down the 
shaft which was lined with damp moss and appeared very deep. It smelled sweet 
and clean. A pretty good sign that there was no one having a casual kip at the 
far end.
Disappointed that he was not going to be hurrying back to the station with news 
that he and he alone had found the body of Simone Hollingsworth, Troy replaced 
the lid. In the back yard--you couldn't really call it a patio--was a scarred 
and battered table covered with a right load of old junk--pebbles and driftwood 
and shells. There were lots of earthenware pots in all shapes and sizes 
containing assorted cuttings, trays crowded with leggy seedlings and some 
tomato plants. Although there was a length of hose close by already connected 
to a tap, everything looked as if it could do with a good soak.
Troy dragged the table out and had a gander into the kitchen. There was some 
dirty crockery in the sink. Normally he would regard that as a sign that 
whoever the stuff belonged to would be back soon but with a slut like Sarah 
Lawson you could never tell. He wouldn't put it past her to go off on a 
round-the-world trip without even putting the bin out.
At the front again, he lifted the letter box and peered through, hoping there 
might be some post on the hall carpet--that would at least give him some idea 
how long she'd been out--but no joy.
The sergeant drifted back on to the pavement, wondering what to do next. He had 
no intention of returning empty-handed to the station. He might not be able to 
produce Ms. Lawson in person but at least he should be able to glean some 
information on her whereabouts. So where would be the best place to start?
He was facing Ostlers which was ideally situated for observing all the comings 
and goings at Bay Tree. In a matter of seconds, Sergeant Troy was in there. A 
red-faced woman with bobbing little sausage curls, wearing a floral pinafore 
dress and pearl stud earrings, sat behind the till. Troy did not recognise her. 
But Mrs. Boast remembered him.
"So. It's you."
"Pardon?"
"How you can show your face . . ."
"Me?"
"The Incident of the Curdleigh Posset?"
"Ohh . . . yes." Troy smiled.
Mrs. Boast pushed her red angry countenance close to his own until their noses 
were almost touching and snarled. It was very off-putting. She smelled of 
candles and lavender wax polish. "That's the high spot in my talk. I can't 
culminate without my posset."
Sergeant Troy essayed a spot of light relief. "Whatever turns you on."
"I reach my peak, I have the audience in the palm of my hand, I lift up my 
hedgehog and what do I see?"
Troy had had enough of this tomfoolery. He produced his warrant card and said, 
"Causton CID need your assistance, Mrs. Boast, in a matter of some discretion. 
I hope we can rely on you?"
"That depends," said Mrs. Boast peering at his photograph with the deepest 
suspicion.
"On what?"
"Neither hubby nor myself would be prepared to do anything illegal."
It was not often Sergeant Troy found himself lost for words. Eventually he 
said, "There'd be no question of that. It's a simple matter of surveillance."
"I see." Mrs. Boast's eyes narrowed. Without moving a muscle she managed to 
strike an attitude. That of a woman of whom her country may demand great things 
at any moment and who would not be found wanting. She straightened her 
shoulders and said, "Message received. Over."
"We're hoping to interview Sarah Lawson--"
"What about?"
"That's the discreet bit."
"I thought you meant--"
"She's not in at the moment. I wonder if you noticed what time she went out?"
"Her car hasn't been there for a day or two. In fact, she drove off not long 
after you and that other policeman, the one with the nice manners, called at 
the cottage the other day."
"And she hasn't been back?"
"No."
Ah shit. The boss was going to love this. "Have you seen anyone calling at the 
house?"
"Not that I've noticed."
"I see. Well, as you're so ideally placed, Mrs. Boast, perhaps you or your 
husband would be good enough to give us a ring the minute she does return." He 
placed one of Barnaby's direct line cards on the counter.
Mrs. Boast studied it, plainly with some disappointment. "Is that all?"
"It may not seem like much but it could be of great assistance."
"Like in Crimewatch?"
"Exactly."
"And should I listen out for any comments--on her possible whereabouts or 
suchlike? This place is a good clearing house for village gossip."
Troy could well believe it. He hesitated. The DCI might not be prepared as yet 
for their interest in Sarah Lawson to get around. "Listen by all means, Mrs. 
Boast, but I can't stress how important it is that you keep this present 
conversation to yourself."
"Have no fear."
"And your husband too, of course."
"There is no need for you to concern yourself over Nigel," retorted Mrs. Boast. 
"He played Francis Walsingham in our last Tudor pageant so there's not much you 
can tell him about surveillance."
Troy escaped but not without buying a pack of twenty Rothmans which cost seven 
pence more than those at his local newsagent.
While this conversation was going on Elfrida Molfrey reclined in her lovely 
garden on a slatted wooden steamer. The chair, like its occupant, was the 
genuine article, having been reserved for her personal use on the top deck of 
the Cherbourg Orion during its 1933 maiden voyage to New York. After the ship 
had docked, the Captain, at whose table every evening she had glittered and 
sparkled like the great star she was, had presented her with the lounger. It 
had been crated up and delivered to the Music Box where she was triumphantly to 
appear in a revival of Oh Lady, Lady.
For a while Elfrida's mind wandered, recalling the towering pagodas of 
flowers--red roses and lilies and Malmaison carnations that had filled her 
dressing room to the ceiling and lined the long stone corridors outside. She 
thought of dinner at Sardis and how everyone in the restaurant would get to 
their feet and raise their glasses when she came in. Of dancing in her white 
satin Worth gown at DeLanceys on Madison Avenue. And of the rope of rose gold 
Okinawa pearls that Jed Harris, the meanest man on Broadway, had looped round 
the neck of a pretty little marmoset and had delivered to her suite at the 
Astor Hotel.
Elfrida sighed but briefly for, unlike many people with a brilliantly 
successful past, she was extremely happy in what some might regard as a rather 
mundane present. Struggling to sit up, she looked around for Cubby. Not seeing 
him immediately, Elfrida closed her eyes and concentrated hard, for she 
believed her secret thoughts to have great carrying power.
And sure enough, a moment later, he came trotting round the corner of the house 
bearing a bunch of forget-me-nots and stephanotis.
"For your bedroom, dear," he called across the herbaceous border. "Which vase 
would you prefer?"
"I need my writing things, Cubby. If you would be so kind."
"Of course."
Cubby retrieved the cigar box, writing paper, envelopes and the gold and 
tortoiseshell lorgnettes from the trolley in the sitting room. One of the 
loveliest things about Elfrida, he thought as he made his way back into the 
garden, was her manners. And, though exquisite, they were in no way artificial. 
She just always considered other people's feelings.
"We simply must do something about those poor souls next door," said Elfrida, 
proving his point. She opened her cigar box and took out a fountain pen. "If it 
is only to express our sympathy and offer what help we can."
"I doubt if it would be wanted."
"This is no time to worry about being rebuffed, my love."
"I didn't mean that. I just can't imagine what on earth we could do."
"Sometimes just knowing that concern--and I'm not talking about prurient 
nosiness or the wish to meddle but genuine concern--exists can perhaps yield a 
grain of comfort."
Cubby still looked doubtful. His whole nature shrank from entering the force 
field of another's agony. All he wanted was to be left alone to cultivate his 
garden.
Elfrida, understanding this, said, "You don't have to be involved, sweeting."
Then of course Cubby wanted to be involved, fearing that the Brockleys might 
think he didn't care.
"I shall write a little note which will naturally be from both of us and slip 
it through their letter box." Elfrida selected a sheet of thick ivory paper 
with taffeta watermarks and a long narrow envelope. She uncapped her pen.
Coincidentally Reg Brockley, accompanied by Shona, was at the same time 
entering St. Chad's Lane at the point where the very last house in the village 
abutted on to the barley fields.
Reg had neither seen nor spoken to anyone, except PC Perrot and the vicar, 
since the public announcement of his daughter's death. He dreaded the time when 
a confrontation would be forced upon him and had chosen to take his walk at 
twelve thirty for this very reason. For most of Fawcett Green's inhabitants 
would surely, at that hour, be either preparing or actually eating their lunch.
Shona had been allowed out again into the back garden and had, out of timid 
desperation, once more fouled that pristine velvet showpiece. She had crept 
back into the house with the deepest apprehension, peering round the kitchen 
door and cringing when Reg approached.
It was this as much as anything that had driven him to go out. He no longer 
gave a damn about the garden but this was his daughter's dog. Plainly anxious, 
bewildered and lonely, Shona had received no exercise since the evening Brenda 
disappeared, let alone any word of comfort or affection. Somehow Reg had made 
himself take the lead off the hook in the hall, as Brenda had done every night 
of her life. Then, after checking that Iris was still deeply asleep and the 
lane was deserted, he and Shona had set off.
They made a square round the nearest field, the poodle moping and sighing at 
Reg's heels. She never leapt and pranced now. He tried to make conversation but 
simply felt foolish and could think of nothing to say. Brenda would have 
chattered away to the dog about everything and nothing, using sweet pet names 
and baby talk. Unbelievably, he and Iris had sometimes been irritated by this.
On the way back and just a few yards from his house, a woman whose name Reg did 
not know but who lived in the village appeared. She was on a bicycle and 
travelling towards him. It seemed inevitable that they must pass each other.
Reg's stomach bucked and churned. In the throat-searing heat his upper lip and 
forehead became drenched in cool sweat. Convinced that she would know just who 
he was, he stared hard at the moving polished toecaps of his shoes.
But then, as they drew nearer to each other, an extraordinary thing happened. 
His gaze would not stay lowered. He felt his eyes being tugged upwards and 
sideways, again and again. A confused need for human contact overwhelmed him. 
And by the time she was barely a few feet away he was staring, hard and 
determined, directly into her face.
The woman started frowning; looking at her watch. She shook her wrist, checked 
the watch again, tutted and sighed with an irritation that was plainly 
artificial. By the time all this had been accomplished she was well past him 
and pedalling quickly away.
Reg stood quite still, gazing after the departing cyclist, amazed at the 
distress he felt at the rebuff. It was as if he had suddenly become invisible. 
And, worse, untouchable.
Slowly he covered the remaining distance to The Larches. As he approached the 
gate, a figure draped in floating organza was just coming out. No problem with 
recognition on this occasion.
Forewarned by now, Reg braced himself. He stood aside for her to pass; Shona 
humbly came to heel.
"Mr. Brockley."
"Good . . . er . . ." Reg licked his dry lips and tried again. "Good morning, 
Mrs. Molfrey."
"I just wanted to say how very sorry both Cubby and myself were to hear the 
terrible news about Brenda. We're close by, as you know, and if there is 
anything, anything at all we can do to help, please don't hesitate to ask." 
Whilst speaking the last few words, she laid her hand gently on his arm.
It was this, or so Reg thought, long afterwards, that broke him. He had not 
shed a tear since his daughter's death. Now the frozen shell round his heart 
splintered, cracked, fell away. He stood there weeping in the street and pain 
ran through his veins like fire.
Sergeant Troy did not drive back to Causton straightaway. So far his purse was 
empty of all save bad news and he wanted to be able to offer at least a coin or 
two which had a positive ring.
Troy thought about Gray Patterson. He had had as much to do with Sarah as 
anyone in the village. And even if his attempts to know her better had, as he 
had put it, "got nowhere," he must have found out quite a bit about her 
background, family, friends and so forth during their conversations. He might 
also know where she'd hopped off to.
It took Troy all of three minutes to walk round the corner to Patterson's. That 
was about all you could say in favour of country life, in the sergeant's 
opinion. At least everything was near everything else. Pub, shop, post office. 
Trouble was they were all surrounded by miles and miles and miles of nothing.
The first thing he noticed was that the agent's For Let board had been taken 
down. It was lying on its side just behind the belt of blue piceas. Bess came 
rushing up, doing her stuff. Troy liked to think the welcome meant she 
remembered him.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Patterson."
"Hullo." Patterson's greeting was much more cautious. He had plainly not 
forgotten their last meeting. As if sensing a certain reserve in the situation, 
Bess's tail began to wag less confidently. "What is it this time?"
"Let the house, have you, sir?"
"That's right. Move out at the end of the month and, yes, I will inform you of 
my new address."
"Planning to go far?"
"I'm going to look at a flat in Uxbridge this afternoon." He had been cleaning 
up the drive when Troy arrived. Now he started again wielding the rake with 
smooth, sweeping movements, lightly dragging the pea shingle back and forth. 
Tugging up weeds.
"Thirsty work," suggested Sergeant Troy through dry lips.
"What do you want?"
"A word about Miss Lawson, actually."
"I'm not discussing Sarah behind her back."
"Mr. Patterson, refusing to help the police with their inquiries--"
"Don't give me that crap."
Sergeant Troy reacted immediately to this insult. Colour flared beneath his 
near transparent skin. His cheeks became hollow with tension as he clamped his 
lips together. He concealed his annoyance by bending down to pat the collie, 
murmuring, "Good dog."
He used these few moments to ask himself some sensible questions. Such as, 
could he handle this supercilious bastard as the chief might in similar 
circumstances? Could he, just this once, not let himself be pushed all over the 
shop by his emotions? He decided to give it a whirl.
"Thing is," Troy drew a deep breath and straightened up, "we're rather 
concerned about her. Were you aware that she has been missing for the past two 
days?"
"I'm not sure I'd use such an emotive word as missing."
"Could I ask when you last saw her, Mr. Patterson?" God, this phoney civility 
stuck in his throat. Troy could not believe that the words This Man Is A 
Creeping Toad were not branded on his forehead in letters of fire.
"Well, it was four days ago actually." Gray had no intention of saying how 
often he had called at the house. Or how, for no logical reason, anxiety as to 
Sarah's wellbeing had been gradually building up in him until, last night, he 
had been unable to sleep.
"And how did she seem to you then?"
Gray hesitated. He could just imagine what the police would make of the news 
that Sarah had been distressed beyond measure by Alan Hollingsworth's death. 
Yet he felt to prevaricate might look odd.
"A little bit down, I think."
"Did she say why?"
"Look, a woman has disappeared here and two people have died in mysterious 
circumstances. Even if they weren't well known or liked, something like that 
seeps into the bricks and mortar of a small community. I think everyone has 
been affected to some degree or other."
"And she'd be specially sensitive. Being artistic."
"Up to a point, Lord Copper," said Gray drily. Sarah had not been all that 
understanding when it came to his own feelings.
Troy did not reply and it was not until Gray glanced up again that he became 
aware that the other man appeared flushed and angry. It occurred to him that 
perhaps Troy had never heard the phrase before and thought he was being 
sarcastic. He said, "It's a quote, Sergeant."
"I'm aware of that, sir. Thanks very much." Always more comfortable with a lie, 
Troy felt his flush subside. "So, Miss Lawson didn't tell you she was going 
away?"
"There's no reason why she should."
"Sounds a bit sudden." Troy remembered the plates in the sink, the feeling he'd 
had that someone had simply walked straight out, leaving the house exactly as 
it was. Just like Mrs. Hollingsworth.
"Isn't tomorrow her teaching day?"
"That's right."
"Could you give me the name of the place where she works, please?" Troy 
produced his notebook and jotted it down, murmuring casually as he did so, "We 
did actually talk to Miss Lawson on Saturday morning."
"Really?" His voice was wary.
"Mmm. She hadn't quite realised that Mr. Hollingsworth's death was being 
treated as suspicious. I must say when we explained this, her reaction was, 
well rather extreme."
"In what way?"
"She passed out."
"Christ!"
"Which naturally gave one pause for thought, as you might say."
"You surely don't think she had anything to do with it?"
"Who's to say?"
"I'm to say. I know Sarah. You're barking up totally the wrong tree."
"Have you discussed the matter with her then, Mr. Patterson?"
Gray paused then, realising that "no" would not be believed. "Briefly. And came 
to no conclusion, before you ask."
"Did she ever mention any close friends or relatives to you? I'm thinking of 
where she might be staying."
"Where you might be able to hunt her down, you mean."
"I think hunt is rather an emotive word, don't you, sir?" Pleased with this 
natty bit of table turning, Troy put away his notebook. "Thank you for your 
time, Mr. Patterson. Oh, by the way . . ."
"Now what?" Gray had already returned to his raking.
"Your alibi for the sixth of June checks out. The cashier at the cinema 
remembers you buying a ticket." All that meant, of course, was that Patterson 
had gone into the Odeon at the time he said he had. Nothing to say what time he 
had come out. Might have been sitting in there five minutes before climbing out 
of the toilet window. Still no point in saying so at this moment in time. Get 
them off their guard and keep them there.
Troy was quite chuffed with his performance. He went into the phone box and 
gave the Coalport and National a bell. He asked for Miss Willing, left his name 
and explained that one or two things had come up regarding the Brockley case 
that he thought she might be able to help him with. He didn't like to disturb 
her at work but perhaps later?
Then he rang Sarah's college and was told that a supply teacher was taking the 
Stained Glass Design Course this week. Sarah Lawson had rung in saying she had 
had an accident which had left her incapacitated. She would not be returning 
until next term at the earliest.
Barnaby had withdrawn from the incident room to his office three floors away 
and was already thinking of going back. The atmosphere, merely soupy 
downstairs, was positively gluey up here.
The DCI's blue and white striped shirt had great dark patches of sweat under 
the arms. He had opened the front and loosened his tie the better to ease the 
collar away from the back of his burning neck. Even the desk fan, heaving its 
propellor blades slowly round, appeared to be on the point of grinding to a 
halt.
The idea was that, being quieter up here, it would be easier to think. He was 
struggling to put this notion into practice but his brains had become addled by 
the heat. He heaved himself to his feet and wandered over to the wall by the 
window on which was spread a map of the Thames Valley area.
He studied it with a certain amount of gloom. Somewhere in that great expanse 
of land and water existed--or, more likely, had by now ceased to exist--Mrs. 
Alan Hollingsworth. And all the newspaper publicity and posters and flyers and 
handouts had failed to discover where.
Barnaby, though deeply disappointed, was not really surprised. If it was easy 
enough to disappear under one's own volition--and Missing Persons files were 
heartbreakingly clear on this point--how much more easy to vanish from public 
view under duress.
And vanish was the word. Like the pretty assistant of a master magician, she 
had entered the magic box--in this case the ladies' loo in a department 
store--and apparently never come out again.
The key word, of course, being apparently. The store was very busy on market 
day, which was probably why none of the assistants or shoppers had noticed 
Simone leave. Certainly she must have walked through Bobby's to get to the 
street. The ladies' room was on the second floor so she could hardly have 
climbed through the window.
Barnaby closed his eyes and pictured the thronging streets, busy stalls with 
their bright striped awnings and bawling, shouting occupants, hot dog and fresh 
fish mobile vans, and the open-sided lorries selling clothes and china. Simone, 
or whoever was pulling her strings, had certainly chosen the right day for it.
A knock at the glass-panelled door and Sergeant Troy put his head round.
"About time." Barnaby lifted his crumpled linen jacket from the old-fashioned 
hat stand. "Are we fit then?"
"No, chief." He came properly into the room. "Sorry. She's scarpered."
"What!"
"Left the house soon after our visit. Hasn't been seen since. Phoned the 
college to say she won't be in again this term."
"Oh hell." The Chief Inspector stumbled back to the old leather swivel chair 
behind his desk, slumped into it and groaned again. "Bloody sodding buggering 
hell."
"Yeah, it's a pisser all right." Troy closed the door and leaned against it. "I 
tried Patterson on the off chance. Him doing a bit of courting, like. Or trying 
to. But he doesn't have a clue where she's gone either. Or so he says."
"Of all the stupid, stupid . . ." Barnaby's voice shook with self-directed 
anger. It had been plain, talking to the woman, that she was emotionally 
entangled in some way with what had been going on. He had known of her 
friendship with Gray Patterson, the main man in the frame. He had seen her 
trembling with nervous distress throughout their whole interview and passing 
out with shock on discovering Hollingsworth had not taken his own life. On 
coming round she had wept.
And still he had not taken her in. Just how serious an error his decision was 
to leave matters for a day or two now became plain. A breathing space was how 
he remembered regarding it. Time to "settle into the reassuring belief that she 
had seen the last of them." What a grave miscalculation. What swaggering hubris.
And now she had turned the tables on her tormentors with a vengeance, 
presenting them with the alarming proposition that it was they who might well 
have seen the last of her.
Barnaby returned to his desk in the incident room to wade through the latest 
backlog of information and kill time till the five o'clock briefing. He found 
clarification from Scenes of Crime who, having received a facsimile of Brenda 
Brockley's fingerprints from Heathrow, were now able to inform him that they 
had not been present anywhere in Nightingales. No more than he had expected.
Also pretty predictable was the postmortem report. Brenda had died from a 
subdural haemorrhage following the fracturing of her skull. She also had a 
broken tibia in her left leg, a fractured pelvis and three broken ribs. The 
accompanying SOCO report described the marks on her legs and dress as being 
made by Pirelli tyres identical to the ones fitted to the Audi convertible. The 
Heathrow team had already liaised with Causton Forensic and would be coming 
over to examine Hollingsworth's car within the next two days.
No luck with the letting agencies as far as discovering the hiding place for 
the kidnapped woman was concerned though the checking procedure had borne some 
rather unpleasant fruit. A two-bedroomed flat in Princes Risborough had been 
found to be in use for highly immoral purposes. And, nearer home, a lockup with 
dripping walls and no proper ventilation proved to be doubling as a sweat shop 
in which over twenty Asian women and young girls spent their days inhaling 
kapok while making soft toys.
Barnaby drank some tea, a cold drink, more tea and tried not to dwell on the 
fact that it was now twelve days since Simone had taken the market bus to 
Causton and never returned. And almost eight since Alan Hollingsworth and 
Brenda Brockley had died. He reminded himself that all investigations moved at 
their own pace. That some, lacking witnesses perhaps or forensic detail, never 
got off the ground and others, like this one, could be submerged in such a wash 
of assorted information that any movement that was at all subtle could very 
easily be overlooked.
He recalled the moment in the lift, not all that long ago, when he felt himself 
content to be submerged for a while in a "cloud of unknowing." And tried to be 
unbothered by the fact that the cloud now seemed to have transformed itself 
into a sea of blind ignorance in which he was floating, rather more quickly 
than he would have liked, to a watery grave.
The room was filling up. At 5 p.m. precisely the Chief Inspector got up to 
speak.
"I'm afraid there's been a disappointing development," he began and went on to 
describe Sarah Lawson's disappearance. "I'm now quite convinced that Lawson is 
seriously involved in this matter. She lied about where she was on the evening 
of Hollingsworth's death. On the other hand, she appeared absolutely devastated 
when I told her that we were regarding it as suspicious."
"P'raps they were lovers, sir," suggested Sergeant Beryl. "On the Q and T."
"More likely she was devastated on Gray Patterson's behalf," said Troy. "I 
reckon she knows something about his movements that really puts him in the 
frame."
"That level of concern implies some sort of genuine involvement. He led us to 
believe he was keen but getting nowhere."
"Men have been know to lie," said a young red-haired girl. And immediately 
ducked down behind her VDU.
Barnaby cut the jeering short. "The crucial thing now is to find her. The 
college will be open tomorrow at eight thirty. Talk to the staff and 
administration and get a photograph if they have one. And it's the day her 
class meets so talk especially to her students. Find out everything you can 
about her background, especially any friendships or close relatives she may 
have spoken of. She might be staying with one of them. Ask the students their 
opinion of Simone Hollingsworth while you're at it. She wasn't on the course 
for long but it will be interesting to see what they thought."
"Will we be searching Sarah Lawson's house, sir?" asked a fresh-faced young 
constable with an extraordinary moustache; very curly and totally out of 
control. "There might be some clue there as to her present whereabouts."
"Probably within the next day or so, Belling, yes." Barnaby nodded, half 
smiled. They asked questions now, the youngsters. Were encouraged to do so 
which was quite right. Thirty years ago he would never have dared.
"Unfortunately we can't spare anyone to watch the cottage full time in case she 
returns but our man on the beat will keep an eye. Details of her car have 
already been circulated. It's a red and white Quatre Chevaux. Far from unique 
but out of the ordinary enough perhaps to catch someone's eye."
"Be well tucked away by now, sir, though, won't it?" asked Sergeant Brierley. 
"Garaged somewhere."
"Not necessarily," said Barnaby. "She may not realise we're searching for her. 
It could be, of course, that her disappearance has nothing to do with my visit 
and we're in a muck sweat over nothing." He paused, looking round. The famous 
eyebrows lifted slightly evoking a response. It was plain from the expression 
on their faces that no one believed that. Barnaby didn't blame them. He didn't 
believe it himself.
"Well," he got up and stretched his legs. "Until eight o'clock tomorrow then. 
And that's eight sharp."
"Yes, sir. I certainly will. I'll be over there, on the spot, within the next 
half hour."
Trixie Perrot, keeping an eye on her youngest child who was just learning to 
feed himself, drying the hair of the oldest and trying to keep the dog from 
mangling her husband's slippers, shouted across the room, "Tell him it's your 
rest day."
"Sorry, Chief Inspector? No, no, that's the television set. It's a bit loud."
The Perrots had had a lovely afternoon. Trixie's parents had brought around a 
bright blue plastic paddling pool. Colin had inflated it in the garden and 
filled it from the hose. Back from school the kids had laughed and screamed and 
splashed about while the grown ups sat in the shade and ate scones and freshly 
picked raspberries with Devon cream.
In half an hour, when the children were upstairs, there would be chicken salad, 
an ice cold lager and Keith Floyd who Colin and his wife loved to watch. More 
for the tears before bedtime factor than the recipes if truth were told, the 
sense that any minute the whole boiling might well go up in smoke.
"Daddy . . ."
"What was all that about?"
"Daddy!"
"Sarah Lawson's disappeared. They want me to keep an eye on the house."
"But you're off duty."
"It's my beat. There's no one else."
That this was true in no way mitigated Trixie's distress. "What are you 
supposed to do then? Sit on her doorstep in case she turns up?"
"I suppose. Well, on and off."
"That's ridiculous. And surely you don't have to go this minute?"
"Dadee, look."
"Good grief, Jamie." Colin pulled out his handkerchief. His son's face was 
covered in ice cream, as was his hair. There was even a certain amount up his 
nose. "Have you eaten any of that?"
"Eaten all," cried Jamie proudly.
"At least stay until they're in bed." Trixie tried to keep the irritation out 
of her voice but she hated seeing him like this, so anxious to please running 
round in circles the minute that sneering lot at Causton blew the whistle.
"Can I go and watch TV now?"
"No." She ran her fingers through the hair of the child on her lap. "You're 
still damp." Then, to her husband. "They won't think any more of you."
"You know how things are, Trix. The mistakes I've made. I've already been 
threatened with a transfer."
"Well, they shouldn't expect you to do CID work. That needs special training. 
You're a village bobby. And the best there is."
"Don't get upset."
"I'd like to see them come down here and do your job."
Constable Perrot stayed to see his sons to bed then got his Honda out and rode 
over to Fawcett Green. He parked outside Bay Tree Cottage, walked up and down 
the lane a bit and visited the Goat and Whistle for a quick half. Then he sat 
in the warm evening sun in Sarah Lawson's back garden. The time passed very 
slowly. Next time, he decided, he would bring something to read.
While Perrot kept his lonely vigil, Barnaby was enjoying the pleasure of his 
wife's company and a chilled glass of Santara Chardonnay. He was suffering 
rather than enjoying a series of more or less painful pinpricks in his knees.
"Those trousers'll be ruined."
"Leave him alone. He's all right."
Eighteen months ago the Barnabys' daughter and her husband, having signed up 
for a three-month European tour, had left behind their newest acquisition, a 
Russian Blue kitten, Kilmowski.
Barnaby pointed out sourly that he thought the period wherein your offspring 
begs for a pet, promises to wash, groom, feed and exercise it to the end of its 
days then promptly dumps the whole procedure on to you drew to a natural close 
around the fifteenth year.
Joyce, enchanted by the adorable little creature, told her husband he was an 
old grump. Barnaby, just as deeply disenchanted, soon had his worst fears 
realised. Food nicked off his plate while he wasn't looking, his newspaper torn 
up then wee'd on. He counted the days to his daughter's return.
But by the time Cully and Nico got back, the kitten had seduced him utterly and 
it was not only Joyce who was unhappy at the thought of giving it back.
However, as things turned out, Cully was barely unpacked before she had to 
leave for Manchester Royal Exchange and Hedda Gabler. Nicholas had a surprise 
chance to go to Stratford where an actor had broken his contract and taken a 
movie offer. They decided to let their flat for the next six months. By the 
time they had stopped vagabonding and had once more settled in London, 
Kilmowski, though still richly endowed with beauty, elegance and playfully 
winning ways, was plainly no longer a kitten. He had, as Cully put it with 
sorrowful wit, transmogrified. She and Nico both agreed that it would be not 
only selfish but cruel to whisk him away to a window-boxed flat when he had all 
of Arbury Crescent to roam around in. So Kiki, as he had been called almost 
from the day of his arrival, stayed put.
"What time are they coming?"
"Not they. It's Cully on her own."
"Oh, we're not starting all that again, are we?"
"Of course not. Nice's got to be at Pinewood by half past seven in the morning 
so he's having an early night. I told you."
"You always say that."
"It's always true."
"I meant to tell you," Barnaby changed the subject, "I played your Amadeus 
rehearsal tape yesterday--"
"Oh Tom, that's really nice."
"Gavin thought you were Cecilia Bertoli."
"Perhaps I've misjudged that boy."
"No you haven't."
"No, I haven't." Joyce laughed.
The doorbell rang. She left to answer it. Barnaby put the cat down and went to 
the kitchen where he retrieved his gazpacho from the fridge and began to crack 
some ice.
Cully entered (no other word would do), crossed centre left and gave him a 
kiss. She wore a very short plain white linen dress and black espadrilles, the 
laces cross-gartered almost to her richly bronzed knees. No make-up, hair 
tumbling every which way. Beauty unadorned.
"Hullo, Pa."
"Hullo, darling. You've decided to watch this film then?"
"Almost. I think. I wanted to see you and Mum, anyway."
Barnaby, ridiculously pleased, said casually, "Nice to see you, too."
"Yum yum." She dipped her finger into the gazpacho and sucked it. "What else is 
there?"
"Crab and rice salad and gooseberry--Don't do that."
"We're all family."
"Licking your fingers then sticking them back in the food, that's not how we've 
brought you up."
Cully giggled. "Shall I go and stand in the corner?"
"You can help your mother with the plates. And help yourself to some wine."
"You sure I'm old enough?"
Barnaby got out three white soup bowls with a blue fish on the bottom. 
Souvenirs from Galicia. He set them in slightly larger bowls packed with 
crushed ice and poured in the soup. Put French bread on the tray and a dish of 
pale, unsalted butter from Brittany.
"Shall I open another bottle?" said Joyce through the serving hatch.
"I shouldn't." He had noticed Cully's car keys, swinging from her little finger.
The food was set out on a low coffee table in front of the television. The tape 
of The Blue Angel, set to Rewind, whizzed, hissed and finally clicked off. 
Joyce picked up the remote control and looked at her daughter.
"Do I press Play?"
"Sure. Why not?" Cully pushed an imaginary trilby to the back of her head with 
the edge of her thumb. "Let's hear it for Marlene and the professor."
Barnaby, as far as he could remember, had never seen the film. This made the 
score two out of three. Joyce had caught it at the Hampstead Everyman "years 
and years ago."
Supposedly a new print, it was still pretty grainy. But nothing could mar that 
astonishingly flawless face. A face whose mysterious perfection no words could 
even begin to describe. Beautiful was hopelessly inadequate. And where could 
you go from there?
Cully sighed deeply. She said, "I will never, ever again believe that 
cheekbones are merely deposits of calcium."
Watching the character played by Emil Jannings, twisting and turning in the 
fatal net, Barnaby thought how useless a weapon intelligence was against the 
inscrutable devouring onslaught of sexual passion. Here was a man fighting for 
his honour, his marriage, his very life even with no weapons but his mind. When 
physical obsession took over, it seemed that common sense and even sometimes 
sanity itself fled.
Barnaby put the film on Pause and went to dish up the crab and rice salad. When 
he came back, his wife and daughter were discussing Dietrich, then and now.
Cully was saying, "It's impossible for us to react to the film, and especially 
to her, as people did in the thirties."
"I don't see why."
"Because then she was simply a stunning looking woman at the start of her 
career. Now she's an icon. And whatever else icons might be, they are not sexy. 
Isn't that right, Dad?"
"Hang on a sec." He forked up some of the rice and tasted it. "Not enough 
nutmeg."
"Don't put your fork back into that when it's been in your mouth," cried Joyce.
Cully started giggling again but stopped when her father refused to refill her 
glass. There was a fairly brisk argument which ended with the youngest Barnaby 
deciding she had had enough of the film, the dinner and her parents, thanks 
very much and vanishing abruptly into the night.
Chapter Ten
The next morning Barnaby awoke with a vaguely depressed feeling that he could 
not shake off. It stuck with him all through his fruit-filled, fibre-rich, 
niacin-laced breakfast, any benefits from which were surely cancelled out by 
the long, self-fumigating crawl along the A412. He decided it would probably be 
quicker to jump out and swim to work in the Grand Union which was running along 
beside him.
It was partially the previous evening's disagreement, of course. He did not 
regret refusing Cully another drink. Or sticking to his guns when she started 
playing up. But he hated it when they had even a minor tiff. However his 
daughter, though a champion flouncer, was, thank God, not a sulker. She had 
rung up before he'd gone to bed to say he was right, she was wrong, she loved 
him and not to forget her mother's birthday.
Thinking of his wife reminded Barnaby that he had reluctantly promised to 
listen to a tape she had pressed upon him the other day. Four Last Songs by 
Richard Strauss. He'd argued that he only liked the popular classics. Joyce had 
said this was a popular classic and it was high time he broadened his mind. 
Knowing the only occasion he would sit and listen to something all the way 
through was in his car, she had slipped the cassette in the appropriate slot 
and taped over the opening a blank postcard on which she had drawn a large ear.
Barnaby's love of what he thought of as "musical music" went back a long way. 
As a little boy he would listen for hours with his father to heavy shellac 
records on a wind-up gramophone enclosed in a fumed oak cabinet. When the 
voices started to go all yawny and flat he would rush to turn the handle and 
speed them up so they would sing normally again. Sometimes, when the tips of 
the needles got all rough and scratchy, he was allowed to put a new one in.
A lot of the songs were performed by the Carl Rosa Opera Company. Gems from The 
Merry Widow, The Fledermaus, The Gipsy Baron. All great stuff. Wonderful tunes 
the heart could waltz to. Barnaby sighed and dutifully pressed the Play button.
Joycey's pupils seemed to want to perform the most extraordinary things. 
Occasionally Barnaby was at home when his wife was giving a lesson and, during 
any brief moments he was compelled to leave his study, could hardly believe his 
ears. It seemed incredible to him that people would actually pay good money to 
be taught how to squawk off key. No wonder the cat disappeared under the sofa.
The glorious voice of Kiri te Kanawa poured out of the car. The man in the 
vehicle creeping along parallel to his own stared. Barnaby turned the sound 
down and closed his window. Ever since the advent of that opera-loving cop on 
the telly, he had had moments of feeling self-conscious, as if caught out in 
some affectation when idling musically in a queue or at the traffic lights.
He was aware that this was nonsense. After all, no one knew he also was a 
Detective Chief Inspector in the CID. And even if they did, tant pis. If life 
could not occasionally imitate art, what was the world coming to?
Arriving at the station, he pulled into his private parking space and switched 
off his tape. Nice enough, but not a patch on the Easter Hymn from Rusticana.
The incident room was ominously quiet. All right, you could say it was barely 
eight o'clock. That the people manning it were just coming to the end of a long 
shift and that the great British public was too busy scraping the sleep out of 
its eyes to be on the blower feeding helpful information to its local nick. 
Even so, there was no escaping the sense that things were grinding slowly to a 
halt.
The Chief Inspector poured himself some coffee from the hot plate. It had been 
stewing for some time and was quite bitter.
The day dragged on. Barnaby, with little that was new to work on, recapped on 
the story so far. Read through all the Fawcett Green interviews, those at 
Penstemon and the Coalport and National and the one with Freddie Blakeley.
His mind was beginning to feel like a bowl of alphabet soup. One stir and 
certain letters floated up, a few would join briefly and seem to make some sort 
of sense before sinking once more to the bottom of the dish. Another stir would 
produce only disconnected gibberish.
Troy, an old hand at assessing the chief's moods, was also an expert at being 
both present and absent at the same time. Positioned so that he was immediately 
available should old misery guts happen to look around for him or call out, he 
had also organised enough space between them to remove himself from the 
turbulent range of Barnaby's bad temper.
He understood the reason, of course. Felt the same himself. There were times 
when you wanted to get hold of a case and shake it till its innards rattled. 
Shake it until the entire shape of it changed or until someone caught in the 
frame started to sing a completely different tune.
Like Sarah Lawson, for instance. Troy would have handled that interview the 
other day quite differently. Seemed to him the time to put pressure on someone 
was when they were at their most vulnerable. Now, even if they picked the woman 
up within the next twenty-four hours, she'd had over three days to sort herself 
and her story out. Go over and over it. Make it question-proof.
Mind you, having said that, it paid to be a bit cautious when dealing with a 
member of the middle class. You couldn't really let yourself go as you might 
with a steaming pile of lowlife from the average tower block. They would sit 
there, the Lawsons of this world, looking as if they couldn't afford a pot to 
piss in and all the while they were shagging the local MP. A wise man watched 
his back in these matters.
Sergeant Troy was a bit off women anyway at the moment. They were, it seemed to 
him, deceivers ever. Take Jacqui definitely non-Willing. What a teaser she'd 
turned out to be. An extremely spicy wrapper, no question (four chillies, Troy 
would have said, asked to grade that luscious exterior) but more of your three 
hundred cals a portion when it came to tasting time. One quick lager and lime 
in the Turk's Head and she'd had to dash off to get her husband's dinner. 
Seemed that if he didn't have something hot on the table the minute he got in, 
there was no handling him. Troy said sourly he knew just how the man felt.
It was at this point in the sergeant's irritable musings that the fax machine 
leapt into life. He went across, read the results and tore the paper off with 
some satisfaction. This would cheer the boss up.
"Something from Heathrow, sir." He placed the fax on Barnaby's blotter. "Bit of 
a breakthrough, wouldn't you say?"
The gist of the matter was this. Someone working in the Left Luggage department 
and seeing the photographs of Alan Hollingsworth and Brenda Brockley pinned up 
in the office recognised the girl.
Gordon Collins had seen Brenda, on the evening of her death, standing just 
underneath the stairs in the section where cases were deposited. She had at no 
time joined the queue. At one point she had been reading a paper. Like Eden Lo, 
the Left Luggage clerk got the impression that Brenda was hiding from someone.
Inspector Fennimore had left unasked no question that Barnaby himself would 
have put. The Chief Inspector read on with increasing satisfaction not unmixed 
with gratitude that he would be spared a sweltering drive to Heathrow to talk 
to the man himself.
In spite of being asked to look and think and look again, Mr. Collins could not 
recall ever seeing Alan Hollingsworth either passing over his luggage or 
collecting it. He pointed out that three handlers were on duty at any given 
time and he may not have been the one to take the case in question or issue the 
ticket.
The other two men on the same shift were equally unable to help. Hundreds of 
passengers used the system every day. A customer would need to be really 
remarkable either in manner or appearance to stand out.
The excellent Inspector Fennimore had worked out the next step in the puzzle 
with admirable speed. Hollingsworth had gone to the Haagen-Dazs cafe, ordered a 
coffee he didn't want and immediately walked away. So why buy the drink? 
Because he had been instructed to leave the ticket under the saucer.
Fennimore had shown the baggage handlers the Identikit portrait of the old lady 
and asked if any of them had seen her. Receiving a negative reply, he then 
wondered what the situation would be if she had presented herself at the 
counter and handed over Hollingsworth's ticket.
All three men agreed that it was unlikely the item would be released without 
question. Normally this would be done, for there was nothing in the rule book 
to say that the party who handed in the luggage had to be the party who picked 
it up. But some dirty old transient?
So, wrote Inspector Fennimore, this meant surely that the old woman had merely 
taken the ticket for someone else. And take it she certainly did for Miss Lo 
cleared the cup away immediately after chasing her off and it had not been 
there then.
The fax's concluding paragraph gave the date of the preliminary inquest on 
Brenda Brockley as Thursday week at Hounslow Civic Centre. It also offered 
continued assurances of assistance should Causton CID feel the need.
Barnaby pushed the letter aside. The upsurge of interest, the feeling that at 
last something was happening to move things further forward or show them at a 
new angle was fading fast. For what had they got now that they didn't have 
before? Only the knowledge that the ransom money was not in the old biddy's 
string bag, as previously supposed, but in some sort of container in the Left 
Luggage department.
"Get that acknowledged, would you? Include our thanks."
"Right, sir." Troy, dismayed at the quick return to surly withdrawal, added. 
"After that I thought I'd take a break. Grab a bite in the canteen. You 
coming?" This last sentence was prompted by the sight of Barnaby unhooking his 
jacket from the hat stand.
"No. I'm off to the bar."
Troy stared then glanced, as he thought surreptitiously, at the clock. It was 
barely twelve thirty.
"Got a problem with that, have you, Sergeant?"
"Of course not, sir." Not what you'd actually call a problem. Admitted, he had 
never known it happen before, the gaffer taking a drink in the middle of a 
shift; still, he supposed there had to be a first time for everything.
But he felt uncomfortable as he picked up the letter from Heathrow and set 
about organising the reply.
As things turned out, Barnaby only had a half of mild and a cheese and tomato 
farmhouse bap. A farmhouse bap was indistinguishable from the common or garden 
bap but for a smattering of white flour on the top and an extra penny on the 
price.
It was while chewing away at this uninspiring slab of tasteless stodge that the 
perfect solution to the problem of what to do with this completely unproductive 
lunch hour presented itself. He would go and buy Joyce's perfume.
The slip of paper with the address of the nearest stockist was in his wallet, 
as were some credit cards. He also carried his cheque book. Barnaby drove to 
Uxbridge, filled up with petrol, took the A4007 and got into the city centre 
about thirty minutes later.
Policewoman Titheridge, who had chased up the details, had thoughtfully asked 
for the precise position of the shop and the Chief Inspector was glad of it for 
La Parfumerie was in a tiny cobbled street behind a Norman church. He could 
have been wandering around for hours searching.
It was a lovely little place, the interior a glittering octagon of mirrored 
walls which multiplied again and again the crystal bottles and 
cellophane-wrapped and beribboned boxes that lined the shelves.
A pretty woman with a cloud of dark hair wearing a pink cotton wraparound 
overall smiled at Barnaby and asked if she could help him. He said he was 
looking for some Joy.
"The perfume, sir? Or the eau de toilette?"
"Oh, perfume. It's for a special occasion."
"We're out of the one ounce size." She took down a glistening gold and white 
box striped with red. "But we have this which is the two ounce. Or the fifteen 
millilitre."
This second box was very much smaller. Almost minuscule, it seemed to Barnaby. 
Not much to offer the wife of your bosom on the occasion of her big five oh.
"I'll have the first one."
"Thank you." The girl smiled at him and started to wrap the larger box first in 
fuchsia tissue paper and then in a sheet of shining metallic gold. She tied it 
up with wide satin ribbon, making several lavish bows. Then she reached under 
the counter, produced a velvet rose slightly deeper than the colour of her 
overall and wound the stem round the ribbon.
"That looks lovely," said Barnaby who had unfolded his cheque book and uncapped 
his fountain pen while all this was going on. "Now, what's the damage?"
She described precisely the extent of the damage then said, "Oh dear, you've 
dropped your pen."
"Yes." Barnaby bent down and retrieved it off the floor. The sudden movement 
made him dizzy. But not nearly as dizzy as he felt already. "Four . . ." He 
realised he was croaking and cleared his throat. "Four . . . ?"
"Four hundred and seventeen pounds and eleven pence, please, sir." She watched 
as his pen jerked around, pecking at the paper eventually, almost, one would 
have said, against its will, inscribing the correct words and figures. 
"Someone's a very lucky girl."
It struck Barnaby then that she thought the gift was for his doxie. A furtive, 
guilt-absolving donation to some tucked-away mistress in a service flat.
"The perfume is for my wife. Her fiftieth birthday's coming up. I wanted to get 
her something really special."
"Goodness." She blinked, plainly at a loss. "Have you been married long?"
"Thirty years."
"Thirty . . . ?" Not even the excuse of a newly revived lust then. "Well, all I 
can say is, she must have made you very happy."
"Happiness," said Barnaby, picking up his box and turning to leave, "is not the 
word for it."
"That looks a bit of all right," suggested Sergeant Troy as his boss put the 
conspicuously decorated box in his desk side cupboard.
Barnaby gave a noncommittal grunt. Normally he would have simply left such a 
thing in the car. After all, the vehicle was locked and standing on a police 
station forecourt. But the value of the perfume had made him extra cautious. He 
gave a final squint at it as he closed the cupboard door. The gift wrapping 
already appeared to him both garish and tawdry.
"I've got two birthdays coming up next week," volunteered Troy. "Maureen and my 
mum."
"What are you getting them?"
"Maure wants that beauty book by Joan Collins. I said to her, 'Maureen, if 
everybody could get to look like Joan Collins simply by reading a book, Joan 
Collins wouldn't be worth shit.' "
"That must have gone down well."
"The old lady's a doddle." This had always been the case. Mrs. Troy was 
invariably overwhelmed by the smallest kindness demonstrated by her children. 
Or anyone else, come to that. Self-esteem was not her strong suit.
This year Troy planned to give her the video of Martin Chuzzlewit. He had 
missed at least half the episodes and it would give him a chance to catch up. 
The sergeant liked a good costume drama. Lace-up boots, frilly bonnets, 
powdered wigs. And that was only the horses.
Troy waited for an appreciative laugh for this sally in vain. The boss appeared 
distracted and remained so for the rest of the afternoon.
In the incident room all the leg men were back from Blackthorn College in time 
for the five-thirty briefing. The good news was that each staff member, as well 
as the students, had to carry an identity card complete with photograph. Only 
one had been needed from Sarah Lawson's strip of four and the rest, still on 
file in the office, had been willingly handed over. The bad news was that there 
was no more good news.
Each member of her class had been interviewed but could tell the police nothing 
apart from the fact that their tutor kept herself to herself. During the 
class's tea break she usually stayed in the studio. It was felt that, though 
encouraging and plainly interested in their efforts, Sarah remained very 
detached.
About Simone the group's opinion was also united. A pleasure to look at, she 
had also been very popular. Friendly and always ready for a chat though not 
talking much about herself at all. Often she would laugh or whisper in class 
which could be a bit distracting. Sometimes Miss Lawson would give her a 
telling off. Everyone was sorry when she stopped coming.
The administration department and the rest of the staff were likewise 
unhelpful. Taking only one mid-afternoon session a week, Sarah never made use 
of the senior common room. Asked to describe her last telephone call in more 
detail, the woman who took it said the accident which was keeping Sarah away 
for the rest of the term was a fall from a stepladder. She had a badly strained 
arm and displaced shoulder. No, she had not sounded unusually distressed. Just 
her usual rather dry, sardonic self.
"Wonderful," said Barnaby when all this came to an end. "Nothing minus nothing. 
Which leaves us with?"
The room, infected by his pessimism and recognising the question as purely 
rhetorical, remained silent. Eventually Sergeant Brierley offered a consoling 
observation.
"At least we have Lawson's picture now. Get that circulated, someone's bound to 
catch sight of her somewhere."
"Like they did Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"All due respects, sir, Mrs. Hollingsworth was being deliberately concealed."
Barnaby's expression did not lighten. It was now past six and no overtime in 
the offing. Indeed the next shift, with little to check out, follow up or run a 
search on would definitely be overmanned.
Everybody started to collect their gear. Barnaby's telephone rang; his own 
line. He had been waiting for a call from Heathrow Forensic. They had been 
examining Hollingsworth's car hoping to find proof positive that it was the one 
responsible for Brenda Brockley's death. But it was not Heathrow Forensic.
Barnaby turned his back on the others, mumbled something, left the room. In the 
corridor he pressed the elevator button for the next floor up.
Troy, who had followed him out at a respectful distance, knew what that meant. 
So he didn't go home with the others but stayed behind, hovering near the lift 
doors, pretending to study the notice-board. Just in case the chief wanted to 
let off steam when he came down. Talk things over. Maybe go for a quick drink.
But his presence was not required. Half an hour later Barnaby stormed out of 
the lift, his face black as thunder, dived into the incident room, seized his 
briefcase and left via the stairs without even noticing the presence of his 
faithful sidekick.
Sergeant Troy had never come across the phrase "darkest before the dawn" or 
surely would have added it to his well-worn list of aphorisms. Like most hoary 
old sayings, it only applied to some of the people some of the time but Barnaby 
would have gone to sleep a good deal happier that miserable Wednesday if he had 
known just how soon it was going to apply to him.
What happened was this. When Troy got home, his deeply loathed cousin Colin, 
girl friend Miranda and Maureen were sitting under the B&Q umbrella in the 
backyard drinking champagne. Talisa-Leanne was flinging around a Mickey Mouse 
drinking cup half full of Buck's Fizz.
Torn between the pleasurable novelty of a bibulous homecoming and resentment at 
Col's "great surprise" (he and Miranda had just got engaged), Troy sat down 
with the intention of making serious inroads into the Asda non-vintage.
Conversation dawdled. The four really had nothing in common. Troy was tired, 
Maureen distracted by the toddler, Colin and Miranda were simply doing the 
rounds as people with wonderful tidings to impart have always delighted in 
doing.
"How's work then, Gav?" inquired Colin. "Still making the streets safe for 
muggers and pushers?"
Maureen laughed.
Miranda said,"Colin."
"Looking for someone who taught at your place actually," said Troy to Miranda. 
"Crafts department. Wednesday afternoon."
"I wouldn't know them then. I'm full-time Business Studies."
"Sarah Lawson?"
Miranda shook her head. "Disappeared, has she?"
"That's right. Three--no, four days ago."
"What do you do now?" asked Miranda. "I mean, how do you set about finding 
someone?"
"Don't encourage him, sweetheart," said Colin.
"It's interesting though."
"Yeah. Like watching paint dry."
"Don't do that, Talisa-Leanne!" yelled Maureen.
"Whaaahhh . . ."
"Pass me that cloth, Gav."
"Well," said Troy, passing the J cloth, "we circulate a photograph, if we have 
one. Ask the press and public to help. Talk to people who knew her. Perhaps run 
a check on estate agents and letting agencies in case she's renting a hidy-hole 
somewhere. If it's a really big fish, some absconding financier or suchlike, we 
inform the sea and airports." It sounded quite exciting, put like that. Very 
different from the dreary foot-slogging actuality.
Miranda said something inaudible under Talisa-Leanne's righteously indignant 
bawling.
"Give her back her mug," instructed Sergeant Troy.
"And have it thrown over everybody?"
"She's only three."
Tight-lipped, Maureen returned the mug and sponged the orange juice off her 
skirt. It was always the same. She's only one, she's only two, she's only 
three. Maureen could see handsome young men thronging the doorstep only to be 
told Talisa-Leanne couldn't come out to play because she was only twenty-one.
"Sorry, I missed that," said Troy to Miranda.
"I said, have you tried the college accommodation bureau?"
"Didn't know they had one."
"They find bedsits and digs for students. And sometimes flats if people want to 
share."
"Is that a separate department?"
"No. They work from the main office."
And so, the very next morning, Sergeant Troy left home an hour 
early--absolutely no hardship there--and burned up the M40 on his way to High 
Wycombe.
He had no expectations of success. In fact, as he waited at the counter in the 
main office having shown his card and stated his business, he began to think 
what a waste of time coming here had been. Because if Sarah Lawson had 
disappeared on impulse, and then only because of the visit from himself and the 
chief, she would hardly have a room all sorted out and waiting.
Automatically Troy gave the women in the office the once-over. All middle-aged 
with hips like, well like a hippo's. A motherly one smiled at him. Troy smiled 
back but ruefully, trying to get across that much as he appreciated the 
come-on, he wasn't in the toy boy market.
The woman, who had simply felt sorry for a man who was plainly desperate for a 
good square meal, said something to her colleague and they both burst out 
laughing.
Troy did not notice. His gaze was fixed on the girl who had been sorting out 
his inquiry. She was returning to the counter. And she had a card in her hand.
He told himself not to get excited. It might simply be an ordinary record card. 
The girl would say: Is this the Miss Lawson you mean? Bay Tree Cottage, Fawcett 
Green? I'm afraid we only have the one address for her. And that would be the 
end of that.
"We did have a request for accommodation from Miss Lawson. Just over a month 
ago. Her cousin was coming on a visit from America. She was looking for a 
studio flat."
"Did you find something?" Troy was amazed at the way the words came out. Deep 
and crisp and even--just like the carol. His skin might be creeping and 
crawling with excessive and rapid temperature changes and the back of his neck 
prickling like a thousand copulating porcupines, but the voice--you couldn't 
fault it.
"Yes, we did. A small one-bedroomed place in Flavell Street, High Wycombe. 
There wasn't a phone but she didn't seem to mind."
"Could I?"
"Be my guest."
This girl, the most beautiful, Troy was beginning to realise, that he had ever 
seen in his entire life, handed over a Biro and a notepad. He wrote the address 
down. Then, unable to offer what she deserved, the moon and stars, the world, 
the universe and everything he simply thanked her and left.
Shortly after this a great shout was heard outside the administration 
department windows. Everyone rushed over. A few yards away in the car park they 
saw the thin, redhaired, good-looking man who had just been inquiring about 
accommodation.
As they watched, he shouted again, raised high two clenched fists and jumped 
into the air.
The flat at 13 Flavell Street was situated in a busy but decidedly scruffy 
area, directly over the Sunbeam Washeteria. The launderette was one of a small 
terrace containing four trading places. The others were a halal combined 
butcher and greengrocer, a branch of Joe Coral and a Homeless Settlement 
Charity shop.
It might be thought that someone wishing to hide another person or conceal 
their own whereabouts might do well to choose an isolated area many miles from 
what is called, for the sake of a better word, civilisation. Barnaby did not go 
along with this. Like the man who suggested that the best place to hide a book 
is in a library, he believed the best place to hide a human being was in a 
crowd.
There was nowhere to park and, rather than draw attention to their presence by 
stopping on a double yellow line, Troy drove around until he found a large 
empty space reserved for the clients of Fenn Barker, Sols, Commisioner for 
Oaths, and pulled in there.
Today the weather had broken. The two men made their way back to Flavell Street 
under a sky thundering with darkness; clouds clashed and rumbled over their 
heads. They were passing a hairdressing and massage parlour, the Cut and Come 
Again Salon, when the first drops of rain fell. These were so heavy that little 
puffs of dust bounced up where they hit the paving slabs.
The only access to the flat above the launderette was up a dirty iron 
staircase. Troy kicked aside some orange boxes, old cabbage stalks and rotting 
fruit and started to climb. He knocked sharply on the door of number thirteen 
then brought his face close to the single window and tried to peer through. But 
the yellowish-grey net curtains, rigid with age and grime, were impenetrable. 
While waiting for a response, he passed the time reflecting, with a pleasure so 
intense it was almost painful, on his recent triumph.
While driving to the station Troy had naturally anticipated over and over again 
the moment when he would hand over his slip of paper bearing the information, 
obtained entirely on his own initiative (he had already forgotten all about 
Miranda), that would reshape the whole landscape of the case.
First he pictured keeping quiet for a while then lobbing the information 
casually into the pool at the nine o'clock briefing. Then he thought he might 
write it up on the board and see how long before somebody noticed. Or should he 
casually put a note on the chief's desk? This might be of some use, sir.
In the end, of course, he did none of these things. Just walked extremely 
briskly from the parking lot to CID reception; gathered speed during lap two 
along the main corridor and erupted into the incident room shouting, "Hey! Hey! 
Guess what?"
Joe Cool he would never be. But for a man whose soul yearned above all else for 
praise and admiration, the response to the news he carried left a glow that was 
with him still.
Now, as he rapped hard on the shabby door for a second time, Barnaby wandered 
along the balcony, peering in through the windows of the other three flatlets. 
Only the furthest from number thirteen seemed to be in use as a normal domestic 
habitat. The one over the bookie's was crammed with packs of stationery, 
catering-size drums of instant tea and coffee and towers of polystyrene cups 
wrapped in polythene. The third was completely empty.
Troy crouched down, lifted the scarred aluminium flap of the letter box and 
peered in. No sign of human life. "No one here, chief."
Troy was disappointed. He had plotted quite a different scenario. Sarah Lawson 
would appear, then, distraught with amazement and alarm at being discovered, 
try to make a run for it. Alternatively she'd attempt to shut the door in their 
faces. In either case Sergeant Troy would have no problem bringing her to heel.
"Not to worry." Barnaby was resting his elbows on the waist-high brick wall and 
enjoying the sensation of rain upon his face. "She'll be back." He had not 
waited that morning to organise a search warrant. Apprehending the woman was 
what mattered. This place and Bay Tree Cottage could be gone over tomorrow, the 
next day, any time. "There's a kebab house across the way. Let's get some 
coffee. We can keep an eye on the flat from there."
But as things turned out, their drinks were left untasted for they had barely 
sat down when they saw their quarry making her way aimlessly along the pavement 
on the far side of the road.
Barnaby said, "Get the car."
The interview room in the basement of the CID building was windowless but 
brightly lit by two long fluorescent strips. The walls were white perforated 
plasterboard, the chairs had tweedy seats and padded arms and the table was 
pale grey. Functional but hardly sinister. Nothing there, you might say, apart 
from the location of course, to inspire discomfort let alone despair.
But Sarah Lawson, from the moment she had been brought in, exhibited symptoms 
of the deepest unease. Barnaby could see it was the room that was at fault 
rather than her situation for, until she entered it, her demeanour had been 
quite different.
When he had blocked her way outside Joe Coral's, repeating her name and saying 
he wanted to talk to her, she had stared hard at him as if he was some 
mysterious stranger. Eventually she said, flatly, "Oh, it's you."
Barnaby knew then that he had got it wrong. Realised that, whatever the reason 
she had left Bay Tree Cottage in such a hurry, her departure had not been 
prompted by a visit from the police. This threw him somewhat and he had still 
not quite recovered his balance.
Not that Sarah Lawson had been happy to accompany them to the station. She had 
asked if it would take long and why they could not just talk where they were 
now. As she climbed reluctantly into the car, she was still staring up and down 
the street and continued to gaze out of first one window then the other until 
they were well away from the centre of the town.
As she was plainly looking out for someone, Barnaby said they would be happy to 
wait if she wanted to leave a note at the flat. He did not add that they would 
insist on knowing the contents of any such communication. But the offer was 
declined.
Sarah had politely accepted the tea which had been brought to the interview 
room but left it untasted. The questioning had been going on for half an hour. 
She slumped, blank-faced, in her chair, showing a lack of interest in the whole 
proceedings so deep and total that Troy thought they might as well be tossing 
the questions down the well in Bay Tree's back garden.
Her appearance, mildly unkempt when they had last seen her, had deteriorated to 
a marked degree. She wore the same saxe blue dress which was now none too clean 
and still damp from when they had all stood together in the rain. She was 
thinner. Her dull hair had become matted and was lying over her shoulders in 
heavy hanks. The skin on her face seemed looser and more coarse and, although 
there was a small but efficient fan on the table, her forehead was beaded with 
sweat. She plucked at the neck of her dress with thin fingers, pulling it away 
from her throat as if it was constricting her breathing. She spoke then for 
only the third time since they had entered the room.
"Can we talk somewhere else, please? I can't . . . this place . . . it's 
choking me."
"I'm afraid there's nowhere else available at the moment."
This was not true. And Barnaby, having finally discovered a weak spot in a 
previously mute suspect, now prepared to exploit this for all it was worth.
"Once the formality of our interview is concluded, Miss Lawson, we can go and 
talk in my office." He added, "It's on the fifth floor."
She said nothing but her eyes, her whole face lightened.
The Chief Inspector wondered if she was seriously claustrophobic. If so, he 
would have to play this very carefully. A clever brief could get great mileage 
out of an interview conducted under that sort of psychological stress.
"As I said earlier, Miss Lawson, you are allowed to have a solicitor present 
if--"
"I don't know any."
"A duty solicitor is provided by the courts."
"Why would I want such a thing?" Then, receiving no reply, "Can't we just get 
on?"
"By all means. First I'd like to recap on our earlier interview. There seems to 
be some discrepancy in the matter of dates. You told us you went to see 
Castrato on the evening of Monday the tenth of June. In, fact, the last showing 
of this film was on the previous Saturday."
"Oh. In that case it must have been then. Or earlier in the week perhaps. What 
does it matter?" She sounded not only as if she genuinely did not know why it 
should matter but that she did not care.
"Do you remember what you actually were doing?"
"Loafing around in the garden, I suppose."
Barnaby, taking a softly, softly line, did not press the matter. Did not point 
out that Gray Patterson had called "around eightish" to find both Sarah and her 
car missing. The time for that sort of punch would come during round two. He 
moved on to the subject of Alan Hollingsworth's demise, inquiring first how 
well she knew the man.
"You asked me that before."
"Refresh my memory, Miss Lawson."
"I didn't know him at all."
"Then I would have thought your reaction to his death rather inappropriate."
"When you said it was suspicious I was shocked. Violence introduced suddenly 
into a conversation can have that effect. Perhaps I'm over-sensitive."
That could be true. Barnaby recalled how distressed she had been at the news 
that Hollingsworth had physically ill-treated his wife.
"When Mrs. Hollingsworth asked you round for tea on the Thursday she 
disappeared, did she give any reason for choosing that particular day?"
"Not really."
"Perhaps it was the only occasion you were available?"
"No. I'm free every afternoon except Wednesday."
"Why do you think she asked you at the same time that she'd made a hair 
appointment?"
"I should think she just forgot. Simone was a bit on the dizzy side."
"And that same evening, Miss Lawson," continued Barnaby. "What did you do then?"
"What I always do. Read a bit, listen to music, potter in the garden."
"So that wasn't the night you saw the movie?" suggested Sergeant Troy.
"Oh, well, I suppose it could have been. I really . . ."
"Don't remember?"
"Look, will this take much longer?" During the last few minutes her breathing 
had changed. It was now so rapid and shallow she seemed to be almost panting. 
Barnaby asked if she would like some water but she declined. "I'll be all right 
once I'm outside."
"I'd like to ask you next about the flat at High Wycombe," said the Chief 
Inspector. "I understand you told the college you wanted it for a cousin who 
was coming over from the States."
"Yes, I did."
"And is that the truth?"
Her eyes roved constantly around the concrete cube. Searched every corner, 
raked the floor and ceiling. She seemed to shrink into herself as if for 
protection. As if the room was not inanimate but a physical threat.
"Miss Lawson? Is that the truth?"
"Why would I make something like that up?"
"Could you give me the details then, please?"
"What do you mean, details?"
"We mean," said Sergeant Troy, "your cousin's name, address and telephone 
number."
"He . . . travels. Moves around a lot. Usually I wait for him to contact me."
Barnaby inserted a pause into the conversation; a long one during which he made 
plain his disbelief. Quite honestly he was surprised at such pitiful 
transparency. She must surely have had time to work out something more credible 
than a mythical relative from America.
Troy, taking his cue from the boss, merely leaned against the wall and sighed, 
shaking his head. Though enjoying himself he was, like Barnaby, somewhat 
disappointed at the lack of invention on offer. After all, what was the point 
of being creative if you couldn't make up a really good story?
"So you'll be keeping on the flat till you hear from your cousin?"
"Yes." For some reason this question, answered only in a whisper, brought Sarah 
to the brink of tears.
Barnaby waited, not for her to recover but because he was unsure just how and 
where to press on this plainly weak point. The fact that it had been revealed 
only by a lie didn't help. In the end he said, "You were looking for someone 
when we met earlier today."
"No."
"Waiting then?"
"You're mistaken."
"Very well." There was no point in wasting time trying to prove the unprovable. 
"Let's talk about your accident now, shall we, Miss Lawson?"
"What acc--" She stopped herself just too late.
"Quite," said Barnaby, and waited.
"I needed a break from teaching. To be honest I was simply tired but I didn't 
think the college would rate that very highly as an excuse."
"Is your health poor then?" asked the Chief Inspector.
"No, why?"
"I wouldn't have said three hours teaching once a week was especially 
exhausting."
"Perhaps you've been going in for extramural activities?" Troy's polite tone 
did not conceal the offence in the words. Nor was it meant to. "Private lessons 
like."
"Look." She had turned her attention now to the table top, brushing a little 
ridge of dust backwards and forwards with the index finger of her left hand. 
"You said . . . you . . ."
Barnaby leaned forward, experiencing some concern. She was opening and closing 
her mouth quickly, like a fish gasping for breath. He was about to offer her 
some water again when she began repeating herself.
"Said. You said. We could go upstairs. To the fifth floor."
"After the interview."
"I can't breathe in here."
"Sergeant. Open the door."
Reluctantly Troy did so. He didn't hold with pandering to the whims of the 
incarcerated. They had enough of their-own way as it was what with the entire 
Social Services and half the legal profession on their side.
"You don't understand, it's not lack of air." Troy closed the door. "But 
there's no daylight."
"Just one or two more questions."
"I'm sorry. I have to get out!"
"We won't be long."
"I need to go to the lavatory."
"Right." Though this had plainly been a spur-of-the-moment improvisation, 
Barnaby could not refuse. "Find someone, would you, Gavin?" He timed the tape 
and switched off.
When the policewoman arrived, the Chief Inspector beckoned her over and said, 
"It might be an idea to take another officer with you."
"You don't think Lawson's going to do a runner surely?" asked Sergeant Troy 
when the women had left.
"That's not what I'm worried about."
Though the toilets were only a short distance away, it was ten minutes before 
voices were heard in the corridor, arguing and persuading. Eventually Sarah 
Lawson was half coaxed and half dragged back inside the interview room.
"Sorry we've been so long, sir. It was all a bit troublesome."
"I'm trying to be patient, Miss Lawson," said Barnaby when Sarah was once more 
sitting down. "But you're making things very difficult."
"I'm sor--"
"The more you cooperate with us, the sooner all this will be over and done 
with. Which is what we both want, right?"
Sarah nodded. The break, far from doing her good, seemed to have made matters 
worse. She was shaking in every limb and her lips trembled.
"I'll ask you now about your relationship with Gray Patterson. Are you friends 
or lovers?"
"Friends."
"Close friends?"
"Not at all. The relationship is very casual."
"Have you conspired with him in any way to bring about the kidnap and 
consequent ransom of Simone Hollingsworth?"
"No!"
"Has he ever discussed such a possibility with you?"
"Never."
"Has he talked about revenge? Ways of getting his own back after Hollingsworth 
swindled him?"
"No."
"When you met, what did you talk about?"
"Nothing. Day-to-day trivia."
"How well did you know Alan Hollingsworth?"
"What?" She stared at him, mesmerised and bewildered.
"The question was," snapped Troy, "how--"
"You've asked me that! I've answered that! What are you trying to do?" She 
jumped up, her cheeks blazing. She shook her head in anguish and the damp 
pleats of hair fell against first one and then the other of her sunken cheeks. 
"Why are you dragging it out like this?"
"All right, Miss Lawson, calm yourself. One final question and that's it." For 
now. "What were you doing on the night Hollingsworth died?"
"I've told you. I was at home."
"Gray Patterson called at Bay Tree Cottage at eight p.m. Neither you nor your 
car were anywhere to be seen."
That stopped her. Stone cold in her tracks. And her mental state was such that 
she could not gather her wits even to the degree necessary for the simplest 
response.
"I shall be obtaining a warrant shortly to search the flat at Flavell Street. 
And also your house at Fawcett Green. It would help us if you would hand over 
the keys, otherwise I'm afraid it's a forced entry which can mean quite a lot 
of mess."
She did not reply but pushed her bag across the table. Made from Liberty's 
peacock fabric, it was floppy and un-lined with a drawstring neck.
After Troy had made a statement to the effect that the suspect had now 
willingly surrendered her handbag and its contents, the tape was once more 
timed and switched off.
Then, to Sarah Lawson's loud and continuing distress, she was told she would be 
further detained at least until the results of the search were available.
This meant a cell. There was only one with bars and it was occupied. Barnaby 
had a word with the duty sergeant. He explained the extreme stress his suspect 
was suffering and that her psychological condition could only deteriorate 
should she be put in a room with no window. At this, the inhabitant of the 
first cell was transferred.
Once Sarah Lawson was installed, the duty sergeant wondered if it would be wise 
to remove her belt and shoe laces. Also, bearing in mind that a remand prisoner 
had managed to hang herself earlier this year with a bra . . .
The Chief Inspector weighed the possibility of attempted self-damage against 
the added distress caused by the forcible removal of his suspect's clothing and 
decided against such a step. However, he did ask that the usual four times an 
hour surveillance should be increased to a check every five minutes. Ignoring 
the disbelieving and resentful glances spreading around an understaffed and 
overworked front office, he also suggested that a doctor should have a look at 
the prisoner.
After obtaining a warrant and while waiting for his car to be brought round, 
Barnaby went back to the cell block. He let the door flap of number three down 
and looked in.
The cell window was way above the sightline even of someone as tall as Sarah 
Lawson. So she had climbed on to the rim of the toilet and seized the bars to 
pull herself level. The tips of her toes rested on the porcelain and her face 
was turned towards the sky. A golden rectangle of sunlight fell across her eyes 
like a blindfold.
No one took the slightest notice of Barnaby and Troy as they climbed the iron 
staircase once again. Or even when they put on some latex gloves, produced a 
set of keys and let themselves into the Flavell Street apartment taking a 
dustbin, which proved to be empty, from the balcony in with them.
The first thing that hit their nostrils was the smell of stale fat--in the air, 
in the curtains and carpets and, no doubt, the furniture as well. Decades of 
greasy fry-ups. Troy felt around for a light switch.
They were standing in a narrow hall with three doors off, the cheap, hollow 
type filled with wadding and varnished light brown. One opened on to a 
bathroom--cracked green and black tiles and an old, once white bath. The second 
revealed a scruffy kitchen--a couple of odd, freestanding cupboards, a stained 
Formica table, two plastic chairs, one with the seat slashed, and an extremely 
grotty fridge. Barnaby poked distastefully at some chipped pots and pans in the 
sink. He unlocked the back door. Another set of iron steps, this time leading 
down into a deserted little back alley bordered by a row of garages.
He was locking up again when Sergeant Troy called loudly, "Guy! Quick, in here!"
Barnaby lumbered away into the sitting-cum-bedroom. Troy was standing in the 
centre of a hideous black and yellow carpet staring at the wall.
"Aahhh," cried the Chief Inspector.
"Geronimo, yes?"
"Too right," agreed Barnaby. Longing to demonstrate the passionate satisfaction 
consuming him but a bit heavy for anything more taxing than a saunter round the 
room, he slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand and said, more 
loudly, "Too bloody right."
Though the paper on the wall was deeply unattractive and none too clean, both 
men devoured the pattern of narrow ribbon stripes and sentimental puppies as if 
it was the latest from the brush of Michaelangelo.
"OK, that's enough gloating. Now, where's the camera?"
"Shouldn't be difficult." Sergeant Troy, bringer of good fortune and turner of 
tides, swaggered. "Place is no bigger than a flea's bumhole."
They both started to look. It didn't take long. Troy pulled out the 
furniture--one armchair covered in rusty red nylon fabric and a well-snagged 
mustard tweed Put-U-Up. While he checked down behind the cushions and opened 
out the single bed, Barnaby went through the dressing table's drawers and the 
wardrobe which took no time at all as they were both empty but for two sheets, 
a pillow and a couple of blankets.
Physical elation gradually draining away, the Chief Inspector inspected the 
kitchen cupboards. They held a few storage jars and tins with nothing in them, 
some tea bags and a carton of milk. That was it.
"One toothbrush." Troy came in from the bathroom. "One towel, one bit of soap. 
The Ritz it ain't."
"Well," they wandered back next door, "it was only needed as a place to hide 
Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"And use her as a punch bag."
"As you say." Barnaby stared morosely at the capering canines. He was 
remembering Aubrey Marine's comment on the wallpaper when they had first seen 
the ransom pictures: "It was everywhere, that," declared Aubrey, "a few years 
ago." A sharp defence could make persuasive headway on such popularity.
"Cheer up, guv. It'll be at her cottage--the camera."
Barnaby did not reply. He stood quietly, regarding the plain bevelled mirror on 
the wall opposite the window, and wondered if Simone had been dragged in front 
of it to see the results of her captor's handiwork. He thought about 
constraints and how they had been managed. Had Simone been tied to one of the 
kitchen chairs? Or drugged? Or simply promised more violence if she made any 
move to draw attention to herself and her plight? He remembered how her hair 
had been wrenched out and her mouth bloodied. Threatened with another helping 
of the same, who wouldn't keep quiet?
He was surprised the room retained no sense of any of this. He remembered 
crossing the Bridge of Sighs once in Venice and the very fabric seemed to groan 
in sad recollection of the prisoners' tears.
"There's two of them in this, isn't there, guv?"
"Oh, yes."
"Patterson?"
"I don't think so. I believe Sarah Lawson's working with someone entirely 
unknown to us. Which is why, if she decides to keep schtum, we're going to be 
in real trouble."
"What about Simone? Do you think she's still around?"
"I doubt it. Hollingsworth's gone, which means no more money. Alive and able to 
identify them, she's a continuing threat. My guess is they've already got rid 
of her."
"Christ."
"Well." Barnaby turned briskly towards the poky little hall. "No point in 
hanging around. We'll get Aubrey's little lot over and see what they can dig 
up."
"With a bit of luck, Patterson's fingerprints."
"Don't hold your breath."
Before returning to the station they talked briefly to the owner of the Asian 
greengrocery who gave them the disappointing news that number ten, the only 
other flat in the terrace that was occupied, was owned by his uncle, Rajni 
Patel. And that Mr. Patel had flown to Bangladesh a month previously to join 
the family celebrations on the birth of his first male grandchild.
Asked if he had seen anyone entering or leaving number thirteen, the available 
Mr. Patel described only Sarah Lawson, whom he referred to as a thin, wild 
woman.
So it would be back to more foot-slogging and photo-flashing and persistent 
questioning up and down Flavell Street and nearabouts. Which meant there would 
be no reason at all for the Chief Super to cut Barnaby's team by half, as he 
had threatened to do the previous evening. So in that respect, at least, life 
was definitely looking up.
Fawcett Green had also caught the rain. A certain amount of dampness still 
marked the ground in St. Chad's Lane and clung to the grass borders. The air 
was fragrant with the scent of newly washed leaves and flowers. Sergeant Troy 
pulled in off the road and parked on the spot previously occupied by Sarah 
Lawson's Dinky toy.
"I thought the home guard was supposed to be keeping an eye on this place," 
said Troy.
Poor Perrot. He had been staunch and true but, like all human beings, 
occasionally needed a rest and something to eat. Give or take an hour here or 
there, he'd been hanging around Bay Tree Cottage for nearly two days. It was 
just his bad luck that, after a lengthy early-morning shift, he should have 
popped home for a quick shower and a bowl of Coco Pops.
Barnaby and Troy had donned their gloves and were standing on the front steps 
when the decelerating cough of the Honda's engine preceded his return. A 
picture of dismayed disbelieving guilt, the policeman hurriedly lifted his bike 
on its stand and ran towards the broken gate.
"Chief Inspector--"
"Ah, Constable. Nice of you to drop by."
And that was that as far as Perrot was concerned. As he told Trixie later, 
"Something snapped and everything went red." Driven by the injustice of the 
remark and convinced by now that he was done for anyway, Perrot threw himself 
into his swan song.
"Actually I haven't just dropped by, sir. I have just dropped back. I have 
stayed close to this house and its immediate environs for the last forty-eight 
hours as per your instructions. I have hardly slept and I have eaten on the 
hoof. I was not able to attend the Infant Cyclists' Time Trials yesterday as I 
have done every year since I moved to this posting. Likewise the Old Reliables 
Bowls Tournament. My wife and children have hardly seen me since this case 
began. I have tried to carry out my duties to the very best of my ability and 
all I've had is sneering remarks and cruel comments. It's . . . it's not right."
Silence, open-mouthed and thick as treacle, followed this intemperate outburst. 
Then Troy walked slowly over to Constable Perrot, squared his shoulders, thrust 
out his chin and said, "You give the DCI any more lip, Poll, and I'll squeeze 
your cods till your eyes bubble."
"Don't call me Poll." Perrot spoke up boldly though his lips were stiff with 
misery and fear. "I don't like it."
"Who the fuck do you--"
"All right, Gavin. That'll do." Barnaby stood on the doorstep regarding 
Constable Perrot. Now that all restraint had been removed and his bolt was 
shot, the policeman stood silently quaking. His face was white going on grey; 
his eyes were ringed darkly with exhaustion. Asked for a comparison from the 
animal kingdom, Barnaby would have suggested a panda on the edge of a nervous 
breakdown. "There's no need for any further surveillance here, Perrot. We'll be 
keeping Sarah Lawson at the station for the present. Better go home and get 
some sleep."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"And I should think twice before you give a senior officer the benefit of your 
private opinions in future."
"I will, Chief Inspector. Thank you very much."
"You let him off light, guv."
"Poor sod," Barnaby turned the key in the Yale. "Out of his league, out of his 
depth, desperate to please. All he wants is a kind word."
"He's in the wrong bloody job then," said Sergeant Troy.
Remembering how withdrawn and subdued and lacking in energy Sarah Lawson had 
been during their previous interview at Bay Tree Cottage, Barnaby was surprised 
at how plainly the house reflected her absence. It seemed to have shrunk. It 
had a collected air of seclusion, a quietness that also seemed somewhat 
sterile. He was put in mind of a rarely visited museum.
Even Troy sensed it. He stood awkwardly on the glowing, shabby rugs and finally 
said, "Where should we start, do you think?"
"I'll look in here. You take next door."
Sergeant Troy, remembering the dirty plates, sighed. He braced himself to check 
the sink first and get it over with. One plate was already wearing a greenish 
grey fur collar.
He pulled out all the drawers including those in a battered Welsh dresser. 
Wooden spoons, old but hand-carved, all sorts of cooking pots and utensils in 
different styles and colours, bowls and dishes painted all over with flowers 
and fish and stars and suchlike. A proper junk shop. Troy recalled his mum's 
kitchen which was Diary of an Edwardian Lady throughout, including the tea 
towels. That'd open Sarah Lawson's eyes all right.
Barnaby, for reasons that he could not quite determine, was reluctant to get 
going. This was unlike him. Rooting determinedly through other people's most 
private possessions was all in a day's work. He tried to disentangle his 
thoughts but to no avail and eventually wiped the wretched image of an 
incarcerated Sarah Lawson from his mind and simply began.
He started on a little writing table with a brass rail littered with used 
cheque books, bills and sheaves of loose paper, most of which were covered with 
sketches. He was hoping to find something personal; a note or letter, perhaps a 
photograph, but he was out of luck. Nothing was concealed in any of the books 
nor inside the covers of the vinyl records which Sarah still seemed to prefer 
to tapes or compact discs. Perhaps she couldn't afford a CD player. This theory 
led Barnaby into wondering about his suspect's financial affairs. Just how poor 
was Sarah Lawson?
The Chief Inspector was well aware that middle-and working-class ideas of what 
constituted poverty were very different. True, she had no television set but 
Barnaby suspected this was from ideological reasons rather than lack of money. 
She must have some sort of private income, though. At the most, three hours' 
teaching would bring in sixty or seventy pounds. Who could live on this, pay 
their council tax and bills (in her case electricity, phone, Calor gas), and 
run a car?
Plainly, from the state of the house, she had no spare money to chuck about. 
But Barnaby could not believe she would have got involved in something as 
alarming and dangerous as the abduction and wrongful ill-treatment of another 
human being for the sake of a few thousand quid to do up Bay Tree Cottage.
"Look at this, guv." Troy, going through the last stack of books by the window, 
held a study of Picasso open at a page showing a portrait of Dora Maar.
"Mmm." Barnaby waited to hear that the drawings from Talisa-Leanne's playgroup 
made more sense and you didn't have to know anything about art to know what was 
crap.
"Look." Troy came over and sat down on the old sofa. "She's got a red eye 
looking one way, a green eye the other and a yellow face."
"Nobody's perfect," said Barnaby, stealing the great line without a qualm.
"What do you think he's getting at?"
"Search me."
"I mean," he gestured angrily at the shelves of books, the music and stained 
glass, the beaten-up pile of clay on the marble slab, "what's it for, all this?"
"Supposed to make life more bearable."
"Give me a good shag and a double Scotch any day."
"Upstairs." And, when they were on the tiny landing, "You take the bath and 
loo."
There was just one bedroom which ran the length of the house and had windows at 
both ends. These had unlined curtains made from faded velvet patches hanging 
from thin metal rods. Barnaby glanced out of the window facing the lane and 
noticed a group of three women on the other side of the road staring at the 
house. When they saw him they immediately turned their backs and started to 
chat among themselves but he had no doubt that the news of his own and Sergeant 
Troy's presence (and Sarah's continuing absence) would be zinging along the 
village hotline in no time.
He turned his attention to the room which was as austere as the one downstairs 
was rich and colourful. The divan had a cover made from crushed velvet the 
colour of moleskins. A raffia stool by the bed held a flat dish full of 
beautifully marked stones, a paperback novel by Barbara Trapido and a jar of 
honey.
The bare walls had been painted white then washed in a soft, powdery blue but 
so thinly that the original colour showed through giving them an almost 
luminous glow. A very delicate scent in the air could be traced to a bunch of 
white violets in an egg cup placed on an old linen chest. The room was crowded 
with sunshine.
Barnaby put the egg cup carefully on the bare wooden floor and lifted the lid. 
As he did so, Troy came in.
"Dead basic in there, guv. One of them old-fashioned baths--ball and claw foot."
"Is that right?" Barnaby took out some unironed shirts and blouses and a long 
skirt patterned with wild irises.
"They're in again now. You can pay a fortune for something your granny used to 
scrub the old man down in."
"Well, you know what they say . . ." An embroidered jerkin, a three-quarter 
length coat with a sheen like hammered bronze, some boots made of patterned 
skin and fastened with six tiny silver buckles, a frayed straw hat. "What goes 
round . . ."
"You never know what to chuck away these--" Troy broke off. Though the DCI was 
facing the other way, there was that about the quality of Barnaby's 
attention--a sudden rigidity in the spine, an abnormally still line to the 
shoulders--that reminded Troy of a Jack Russell at a rabbit hole.
"You've found something." It was not a question.
Barnaby sighed then and raised his head and looked around the room. A room 
which, when he first entered it, had seemed so full of quiet innocence.
"Yes, I have," he said and held up his left hand. "I've found the camera."
The next interview with Sarah Lawson took place, as he had assured her it 
would, in Barnaby's own office.
He had charged Sarah in her cell on suspicion of kidnap and obtaining money by 
ransom and repeated the caution twice until he was sure she understood the 
importance of what he was saying. She seemed quite dazed and the duty sergeant 
explained that the doctor had left two tranquillisers at the desk which the 
prisoner had taken "docile as a lamb." Offered food, it had been refused.
Barnaby also urged, given the seriousness of the offence, the importance of 
having a legal representative present. Until this was sorted, he made notes and 
reviewed the case so far, attempting to pare away the dross of rumour, 
suspicion and supposition and leave bare only incontrovertible facts. He had 
just completed this when Troy came in with the suspect and John Starkey.
There is a general feeling abroad that altruism is a highly perishable 
commodity and that solicitors only offer legal aid if they can't get enough of 
the other stuff to keep the practice going. Though this was not always the 
case, it certainly was with Starkey. If he had been very sharp or the sort to 
sail close to the wind, Sarah might have been better off. But he was idle, 
nearly always ill-prepared in court and, as he usually had the sort of clients 
whose apathy and lack of expectation matched his own, complaints against him 
were rare.
Some investigating officers might have been glad to have a suspect under 
interrogation so poorly protected but DCI Barnaby was not of their number. 
Sergeant Troy, on the other hand, thought it evened things up somewhat. It 
seemed to him the chief had already given enough ground letting Lawson dictate 
where the present interview should be held.
Starkey, who wore a white-shirt which was far from pristine and had a faint 
whiff of Newcastle Brown about his person, already seemed to have drifted into 
a light trance. Barnaby started the tape, gave precise details of the present 
set-up and began.
"Let me explain, Miss Lawson, what has led to the present charge being made 
against you."
He described the search of the flat in Flavell Street and Bay Tree Cottage and 
what had been found there. He did not point out that, until forensic reports 
had been completed, the evidence was merely circumstantial. That was Starkey's 
responsibility. A fact which appeared to have completely passed him by.
Barnaby then turned over three enlargements of the ransom pictures and placed 
them one at a time and in order of harrowingness in front of Sarah, describing 
his actions for the tape.
If he had had the slightest doubt that she was involved in the kidnap of Simone 
Hollingsworth it would have been extinguished by her response. It was 
immediately plain that she had seen all of the photographs before. There was a 
bitter twist to her mouth as she placed them in a neat pile. Barnaby could not 
help noticing that the final picture was on top and that she was regarding it 
with apparent indifference. Such callousness provoked in him a harsh response.
"Were these taken at number thirteen Flavell Street?"
"You don't have to answer that, Mrs. Lawton."
"For heaven's sake, Starkey. Can't you even get your client's name right?"
"What?" The solicitor bent his head and rustled his papers. His bald spot shone 
greasily under the fluorescent strip. "Oh, I do beg your pardon."
"I'll repeat the question. Miss Lawson, were the photographs I have just shown 
you taken at number thirteen Flavell Street?"
"Yes, they were."
"With the camera that I discovered in a wooden chest in the bedroom of Bay Tree 
Cottage?"
"Yes."
Troy, who hadn't realised he had been holding his breath since the question had 
first been put, now let it go. A lengthy, jubilant exhalation. In one day--no, 
tell a lie, half a day--they had moved from floundering in a desert of 
ignorance getting practically nowhere to being home and dry.
He turned to glance at the chief--they were sitting side by side--expecting to 
see the same triumphant flush on those brawny, slab-like cheeks that he could 
feel warming his own. But Barnaby's profile was motionless. Cold and 
judgementally grave. A chill seemed to emanate from the large frame so close to 
his own and Troy then began to chill out in his turn. Though not an imaginative 
man, he began to comprehend in a more sharply focused, fresh and vivid manner 
how cruel were the actions to which Sarah Lawson had just confessed.
John Starkey also seemed to be waking up to the fact that his client was in the 
process of laying herself open to a very long jail sentence. He began to close 
the stable door.
"You know you're allowed to remain silent--"
"Miss Lawson is fully aware of that fact," said Sergeant Troy. "She has been 
properly cautioned. Twice."
"Well, um, Sarah, I advise you not to say anything else for the--"
"What does it matter?" She drew one long, shuddering breath. "What does 
anything matter? It's all over now."
Barnaby stared at Sarah across the desk. She was sitting very still, her head 
bowed, her face expressionless. She looked even more haggard than when they had 
first talked. Her skin was as thin and fine as tissue paper and the bones at 
the base of her neck stuck out like sharp little wings.
"Where is Mrs. Hollingsworth now, Sarah?"
"Don't know." It was little more than a whisper.
"Is she still alive?"
"I . . . I doubt it."
"When did you last see her?"
"On Thursday. I went over--"
"Hold on, which Thursday are we talking about?"
"The day she disappeared." Her voice became crowded with agitation. "If only 
she'd done exactly what we said, none of this would have happened!"
"Who's 'we'?"
"I can't tell you that."
"Can't?" asked Sergeant Troy. "Or won't?"
She did not reply and Barnaby did not press the point. The vital thing was to 
keep the information coming, not dam up the stream for the sake of a single 
detail. They'd fish it out sooner or later.
"I think you'd better tell me about this from the beginning, Sarah."
"I wouldn't know where to start."
"Well, how the whole thing was set up, for instance. And why."
"We were desperate for money. My . . . friend--"
"You mean your lover?" said Troy nastily. The middle classes could be so 
mealy-mouthed.
"He's being pursued in the courts by his ex-wife. Been forced to sell the house 
and, because she found a really sharp lawyer and there are two children, he got 
next to nothing. I would have been happy for us to just live at the cottage, 
we'd have managed, but he's used to . . . well, finer things.
"Then one day--this was before she had started my classes--Simone invited me 
round for coffee. She was always asking people to the house, looking for 
company. I must have been miles away and said yes without thinking. It was like 
spending time with a silly child in a toy shop. She ran around chattering away, 
showing off all her ghastly clothes and make-up. Then she produced this jewel 
box and flashed the contents about. There was a diamond engagement ring that 
apparently had set Alan back sixty thousand pounds. It was just so . . ."
"Gross?" Troy had a quick fantasy of pretty, goldenhaired Simone prancing 
innocently about her bedroom showing off her trinkets.
"I told--" She stopped suddenly, glancing across at Barnaby. "Sorry, it's not 
that I don't want to carry on. But it's difficult."
"Look. You're going to be talking about this man for some considerable time and 
on more than one occasion. It'll be simpler all round if you make up some sort 
of name for him."
"That seems . . . Oh, well," she shrugged, "why not? Tim then."
"Right. You told Tim about Simone's collection of jewellery?"
"Not in the way you've made it sound."
"Leading the witness." John Starkey briefly broke the surface of his 
subterranean doze.
"It was in passing. During general conversation. We were simply catching up on 
what we'd been doing since the last time we met. When I described the scene at 
Nightingales Tim said, 'A fool and her knick-knacks are soon parted,' and 
laughed. Nothing more was said about it at the time. Then, a few weeks later, 
Simone started coming to my classes.
"I didn't tell you the truth about our journeys to and from the college. They 
weren't straightforward. The very first time she attended, Tim met us as we 
left the building. Didn't tell me he was going to, just turned up. She was 
smitten by him straightaway. People were. It wasn't just that he was very 
attractive. He had a gift, an air about him that made you think he was on his 
way to a really wonderful party and that all you had to do was stretch out your 
hand and he'd take you along."
"A useful accomplishment," said Barnaby.
"You make it sound calculating. It wasn't like that."
It sounded exactly like that to Sergeant Troy. He thought, of all the tricks a 
con artist could draw on, this sounded like one of the neatest. The guy sounded 
like the Pied Piper in Talisa-Leanne's picture book. Except that he was one of 
the rats.
"We went for some coffee and stayed so long I only just got Simone home in 
time. All she could talk about in the car was Tim. Just one meeting and he had 
her in the palm of his hand. I was very upset of course. I rang him that night."
"Where does he live?"
"I'm not prepared to tell you that."
"All right. What happened next?"
"He said he had a wonderful plan, the answer to all our troubles. We would be 
able to buy a house--he mentioned Ireland--and live together. No money worries. 
The thought of it--to be able to sculpt and paint all day. And, in the evening, 
to be with him. It seemed too good to be true."
"And did he tell you what this plan was?"
"Not then. He just said that, at the beginning, it would involve Simone and, 
however things looked, I was to trust him." Her eyes brimmed with tears, some 
of which splashed down on to her cheeks. She brushed the moisture away with the 
back of her hand and wiped it thoughtlessly on her skirt. "The next week Simone 
asked if we could go in an hour earlier than usual as she was having lunch with 
Tim. I could see that she didn't expect me to be present. After class we all 
went for coffee again and she was all over him. This routine happened every 
Wednesday until, as you know, Alan stopped her coming. But by then she was 
hopelessly in love with Tim who had no trouble at all persuading--"
"Hang on, hang on," said Barnaby. "I don't want the fast track Reader's Digest 
version. I want it unexpurgated and a step at a time. First, at what point did 
Tim tell you what he was actually planning?"
"When he asked me to sort out a flat. It's cheaper, going through the college. 
Also, though this didn't strike me till later, he didn't want to do the rounds 
of estate agents and get his face known. The idea was that Simone would 
'disappear' and then ransom demands would be made. She was sure Alan would do 
anything to get her back and, as things turned out, she was right. I've never 
seen anyone so excited. She was like a captive bird watching someone coming to 
open the cage door. Of course she believed that she and Tim, after they'd got 
as much as they could from her husband, would be going away together.
"As fellow conspirator I was naturally privy to it all. She was for ever 
popping into the cottage going on about how exciting it was, plotting and 
planning. Discussing the latest twist or turn."
"You say 'plotting and planning,' " said the Chief Inspector, "but from what 
you say all the plotting seems to have been done by other people. What was left 
for Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"Oh, nonsensical dramatic flourishes. She decided when she was running away 
that it would be fun to be disguised. So she put a wig and some dark glasses in 
her handbag. That sort of thing. And wore an outfit with a little reversible 
coat which she could turn inside out."
"I see." No wonder Simone had been so long in the Ladies at Bobby's department 
store. Barnaby tried not dwell on the wasted man hours checking on the sale in 
Causton of pink jackets.
"Didn't you find that a problem, Miss Lawson?" asked Troy. "Listening to her 
burbling on while all the time the shakedown was for you and your fancy man."
"It's not as if her feelings were deeply involved. She was a silly, spoiled 
woman and very shallow. And I assumed once we'd got enough money, she would 
simply be returned to her husband who would be so overjoyed to have her back 
he'd spoil her twice as much."
"But something went wrong?"
"Yes, from the very beginning. She was supposed to take the two thirty market 
bus to Causton and the four o'clock from there to High Wycombe. Tim, who had 
already moved into the flat, was meeting her at the bus station. But, I suppose 
unable to wait to begin her 'great adventure' as she kept calling it, she 
caught the twelve thirty instead and took a taxi to the flat.
"It was so like her that we should have anticipated it. Anyway, knowing there 
might not be another chance of being alone together perhaps for some weeks, Tim 
and I had taken advantage of this last opportunity and gone to bed. The street 
door wasn't locked and she just walked in on us."
"Holy Moses," said Sergeant Troy.
"Simone was devastated. She stood staring for a minute then tried to run away. 
Tim grabbed her, told me to clear out and bundled her into the kitchen. I got 
dressed and left straightaway."
"So what on earth was the point of then turning up at Nightingales in the 
afternoon?"
"For the same reason that Simone didn't cancel her hair appointment. We wanted 
to put the idea in people's heads that she had definitely expected to be back 
home at that time. In other words, that she was not absent of her own free 
will. I thought, as I had no idea what was happening back at High Wycombe, I'd 
better just carry on."
"I'm sorry, Miss Lawson, I really don't see the rationale behind all that. What 
on earth did it matter what people in the village thought?"
"I suppose we saw it as a check against the idea of collusion, just in case the 
news of the kidnap somehow got out."
"Which did actually happen."
"Yes. Alan did everything we asked. Except burn the photographs."
"What about the jewellery?" asked Barnaby. "There's a necklace missing as well 
as the engagement ring. I'd have thought that would indicate collusion all 
right."
"That was entirely Simone's doing. We had no idea she was bringing them."
"A nice little bonus then," said Sergeant Troy. "Put them in his pocket when he 
scarpered, did he, our Tim?"
Sarah Lawson did not reply but became so pale Barnaby thought she was going to 
faint. He asked if she would like some water and when she said yes, decided 
this might be a good time to take a break.
"Get some tea sorted, would you, Sergeant? And sandwiches."
Troy pushed his chair back and attempted to conceal his contempt that this 
latest diversionary ploy by the suspect had born such a quick result.
"Try not to disturb our legal eagle as you go. I think he's hibernating."
"Milk and two sugars," said Starkey as Troy moved towards the door. "And I 
prefer corned beef and pickle. I hope, Chief Inspector," he turned the desk fan 
to an angle more advantageous to himself as the door closed, "that the full 
extent of my client's cooperation will be drawn to the court's attention at the 
proper time."
"Rest assured," replied Barnaby, turning the fan back. "Although, if you can't 
soon talk her into eating a few square meals, I fear there'll be nothing left 
of her at the proper time."
Sergeant Troy brought, as well as the glass of water, tea, ham sandwiches and 
four Wagon Wheels. All the men tucked in although Sarah would not be persuaded. 
Starkey ate three of the biscuits.
After about fifteen minutes Barnaby restarted the tape and the interview 
continued. To Troy's disappointment the DCI did not pick up where he himself 
had left off, on the matter of Mrs. Hollingsworth's jewellery.
"So, Miss Lawson. On Thursday the sixth of June things were left in a rather 
fraught state at Flavell Street. What did you do then?"
"I stayed at Bay Tree Cottage till I couldn't bear it any longer. Tim wasn't 
able to tell me what was happening, you see, as there isn't a phone at the 
flat. I drove back about eight o'clock that same evening. When I knocked, he 
opened the door. The place was very quiet. There was no sign of Simone. Tim 
took me into the kitchen. He said he had got the first letter and a photograph 
off to Alan. I wanted to--"
"Just a minute. If he was able to leave the flat to post a letter, why couldn't 
he ring you from a public box?"
"Can I just tell this in the order that things happened? Then you'll 
understand."
"All right," said Barnaby. "So, you're both in the kitchen."
"I asked if I could see Simone but Tim said she was asleep and not to go into 
the other room. I should have been more persistent. I knew, after what she'd 
discovered earlier, she wouldn't cooperate willingly. But then I told myself 
that somehow he had managed to talk her round." She looked back and forth 
between the two men, urging them to see the inevitability of her actions.
"He told me to stop worrying, go home and make sure I was seen round and about 
the village over the next couple of days. And that he would ring me after the 
weekend. Tim did this on Monday afternoon and said that Hollingsworth was 
paying up. He didn't give me any details. Just that he was collecting the money 
that same night and I should come to the flat around one o'clock the next day 
and help him count it. I asked about Simone, if she was all right and how he 
was going to, well, hand her over but he cut me short and rang off. When I 
arrived on the Tuesday he'd gone. There was no sign of Simone and her handbag 
was missing. I waited there for an hour or two. But I knew, in my heart, he 
wasn't coming back.
"I thought at first that I'd simply been betrayed. That he and Simone had taken 
the money and gone off together. But then, in the sitting room next to my 
camera, I found the photographs. He'd obviously taken more than one at each 
stage and calmly chosen the most . . . the most . . ." Here Sarah broke down in 
a torrent of despair which completely overwhelmed her. She folded her arms on 
the edge of the desk and hid her face. There was little any of them could do 
but wait until the storm passed.
When she finally became calmer, Barnaby asked if she felt ready to continue. 
And Sarah replied, with great weariness, "Why not?"
"How long did you stay at the flat after this?"
"I suppose until the evening."
"And you kept going back, even though you knew he had gone for good?"
"Hope springs eternal." Everything about her belied the words.
"And then?"
"I heard that Alan had killed himself--at least that's what people were saying. 
I was devastated. I knew he'd paid the ransom so I thought it must mean he'd 
been told Simone was never coming back. Then, when you told me it was an 
unnatural death I--God, I couldn't believe it. There seemed no sense in it. And 
then I realised that was probably why Tim had had to run away."
"You mean because he was responsible?"
"Well, there must be some sort of connection. The coincidence is too great."
"I'd agree with you there," said Barnaby. "But what reason do you think he'd 
have for killing Hollingsworth?"
"All I could think of was that something had gone wrong when Alan handed over 
the money. That he'd tried to follow--Tim. Or recognised him."
"Recognised him?" This time it was Sergeant Troy quick off the mark.
"I mean, would have recognised him if he'd seen him again. In a . . . what do 
you call them? A police line-up?"
"I don't think that's what you--"
"Look, Sergeant, my client is answering all your questions willingly and to the 
very best of her ability. And this in spite of being in an extremely distressed 
condition." For the first time John Starkey spoke with some authority. In fact 
he sounded quite dynamic, as if he had been stoking up the few scraps of 
conviction he naturally possessed to let forth in one splendid salvo.
Sergeant Troy was indignant. "We have a right--"
"You have no right to badger people. Especially those who . . ." The imperious 
dialogue tapered off. Barnaby guessed that the man had been about to say "who 
have done nothing wrong" and then recalled the precise details of Sarah 
Lawson's situation. Everything about Starkey suddenly deflated. He began to 
wobble, looking rather like a shabby jellyfish in his tight brown Terylene suit.
Barnaby asked if they could please get on.
"Yes, Chief Inspector, of course. Absolutely."
"Let's recap for a moment, Miss Lawson. I'd just like to confirm that you have 
not seen or heard from this man, who for the moment we have decided to call 
Tim, since he telephoned you on Monday the tenth of June?"
"That's right."
"He did not come to your house late that night or during the early hours of 
Tuesday morning?"
"No. I've just told you."
"You have no idea where he is at the moment?"
"None at all."
"And you are not prepared to help us further in this matter?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"By giving us his home address, for instance."
"No."
"I'm wondering if you fully realise the gravity of your position. Apart from 
the part you have played in the kidnap and ransom of Mrs. Hollingsworth, you 
now appear to be shielding someone who may well be guilty of murder."
"I do understand how serious it is, yes."
"And do you understand that you could be looking at a very long custodial 
sentence? If you couldn't cope with a couple of hours in the station interview 
room, how will you cope with ten years in a prison cell?"
"I shall never have to."
"If you think you're going to get off light," Sergeant Troy was truculent, 
throwing in a sarcastic laugh for good measure, "on the ploy that you didn't 
know exactly what he was up to, you can think again."
"That isn't what I meant."
After this Sarah Lawson would not speak and, fifteen minutes of fruitless 
questioning later, Barnaby drew the interview to a close.
Over the next two days both the flat in Flavell Street and Bay Tree Cottage 
were subjected to a scrupulous Scenes of Crime investigation. The results were 
disappointing.
Only Sarah Lawson's prints were found at the flat where Simone Hollingsworth 
had been held. And only she appeared to have handled the camera. This seemed to 
indicate, as Barnaby pointed out to his team at their next full briefing, a 
pretty cold-blooded and thorough clean-up by her lover before he moved out.
The much more neglected interior of Bay Tree Cottage yielded a richer and more 
complex haul although, alas, no hint of the identity or natural habitat of the 
man still only known to the police as Tim. But there were many and various 
prints, all of which took some time to identify and disentangle. Sarah's own, 
those of Avis Jennings and Gray Patterson, and several that had still to be 
identified. Some from a very small hand matched precisely those taken from 
toiletries in the bathroom at Nightingales and were thus presumed to be those 
of Simone Hollingsworth. Several strands of very fair hair were taken from an 
armchair cushion, carefully analysed (they proved to be dyed) and 
optimistically filed. The white-gold filaments would be useful should the body, 
for that is how everyone's thoughts by now inclined, be discovered.
But everyone was to be proved wrong, for on Saturday, 22 June, two weeks and 
two days after she had disappeared from her home in Fawcett Green, Simone 
Hollingsworth was found.
Indeed it would have been hard to miss her for she was thrown out of a van, 
alive if not actually all that well, barely ten yards from the main entrance of 
Causton police station.
Chapter Eleven
It was not long before the identity of the woman was revealed, even though she 
was unable to give her name or even talk at all with any degree of sensibility. 
Famous only for fifteen minutes and that a whole fortnight ago, several people 
at Hillingdon Hospital immediately recognised Simone.
And so it was that Barnaby and Troy found themselves hanging around reception. 
It was as depressing as such places always are. People sat about either with 
sluggish apathy or nervily on the edge of their seats, as if wired to receive 
dreadful news. Children ran about shouting with laughter. Others whined, 
begging money for the snacks machine. Old people, with little to gain and 
nothing to lose, glared about them, tutting severely at anything that moved.
The staff, having barely a second to draw breath, remained efficient and 
cheerful. Mrs. Hollingsworth was in G ward, third floor. The two policemen were 
told to go first to the staff nurse's office.
"Turn right," recalled Sgt. Troy in a subdued voice as they got out of the 
lift. He hated hospitals.
Shown into a corner cubbyhole, it was some time before Staff Nurse Carter 
arrived, though the wait was far from dull. Nurses were in and out, the phone 
rang nonstop and the lift doors hissed. Through the top half of the glass door 
the two policemen could see people passing endlessly back and forth along the 
corridor as if on a concealed conveyor belt.
"Sorry to keep you." Jenny Carter hovered just inside the doorway, plainly on 
the wing.
"Mrs. Hollingsworth?" inquired Barnaby. "In for observation."
"Ah, yes, our celebrity. Well, physically she's not bad. Scratched and 
bruised--I understand this is due to being thrown out of a car on to the 
pavement."
"Partly. Fortunately it wasn't moving but, according to witnesses, there was 
still a certain amount of force employed."
"But mentally," Staff Nurse Carter shook her head. "That's something else. She 
hardly seems to know who she is or what's going on. The doctor seems to think 
the amnesia's temporary. It happens sometimes after a severe blow to the head."
"Has she had any visitors?"
"No. Not even a telephone inquiry."
"What about the press? Has anyone here talked to them?"
"Certainly not. We've better things to do with our time."
"Quite. Well, being aware of Mrs. Hollingsworth's story, Nurse Carter, I'm sure 
you appreciate that we'd like to interview her as soon as possible."
"I wish you luck. Perhaps," she plucked a pen from the top pocket of her 
uniform and moved over to the desk, "you have the name of someone we could 
contact. She's not ill enough to be kept here, you see, but we can't discharge 
her in her present confused state except in someone's care. And we desperately 
need the space."
"I'm sure you do." Like everyone else, Barnaby was familiar with stories of 
lengthy waiting lists, patients on trolleys in corridors waiting for beds and 
dramatic dashes from one hospital to another trying to find a unit available 
for someone in need of intensive care. He wondered how long it would be before 
hospital administrators, tapping their feet, sucking their teeth with 
impatience and checking their watches, would be positioned at the bedside of 
the dying, silently urging them to get a move on.
"She is married, I believe. Perhaps her husband--"
"Mrs. Hollingsworth is a widow."
"Of course, I forgot. What about the name of her doctor?"
"Now there I can help you."
"Excellent," said Staff, writing it down then reaching for the telephone.
"Oh, one more thing. We shall need to examine everything she had on when she 
was brought in. Someone from Forensic will call and collect the stuff."
"What on earth is she going to wear when she leaves?"
"Whoever collects her will no doubt bring something."
As Barnaby and Troy left the office, Staff Nurse Carter was already punching 
buttons.
"Mrs. Hollingsworth's right at the end," explained a probation nurse brightly 
over her shoulder. Her soft shoes squeaked slightly on the shiny composition 
floor. The ward, which was flooded with sunlight, fell silent as the two men 
marched along behind her. Everyone capable of sitting upright stared with avid 
interest changing rapidly to disappointment as the nurse drew the brightly 
flowered curtains round the patient.
There was a single chair which Barnaby drew up to the bedside. Troy moved 
closer, looked down on the still, small figure in the bed. And fell instantly 
and wordlessly in love.
What is there to say? It happens. It's a fact of life. One could say it was the 
fact of life. But it had never happened to Sergeant Troy before.
He had fallen into lust, oh yes. As easily and naturally (and almost as often) 
as he scored at snooker or washed the Cosworth. And, in his simplicity, he had 
thought that was it. The many-splendoured thing of which the poets sang. The 
stuff that was always just around the corner when I'm around you. How could he 
have been so blind?
"Mrs. Hollingsworth?" Barnaby spoke very softly.
"She's asleep, sir." Immediately defensive on behalf of the unconscious girl, 
Troy was not aware that his tone verged on the indignant. He gazed down in a 
passion of protective concern. How small she was. Her hands rested on the 
counterpane with the fingers, badly scratched, curling loosely inwards like a 
child's. There was a dressing taped to her temple and the left cheek was badly 
bruised. Her white-gold hair, chopped and torn about, was dirty.
Rage directed against the bastard who had ill-treated her swept over Sergeant 
Troy like a tidal wave. The volume and intensity of the experience alarmed him, 
for he could not bear to be out of control. It was as if someone had attacked 
Talisa-Leanne. He stepped back a little and took several deep breaths, averting 
his eyes from the girl in the hospital bed who was now opening her eyes.
"Mrs. Hollingsworth?" said Barnaby again. And then, when she did not respond, 
"Simone?"
"What is it?" Her voice was so faint Barnaby had to bend over the bed to make 
the words out.
"I'm a policeman. From Causton CID." He paused. When she did not respond he 
went on, "I realise that you've just been through a dreadful ordeal but the 
sooner you can bring yourself to talk about it, the sooner we'll be able to get 
after the people responsible." He paused again and with much the same result. 
"Do you understand what I've been saying, Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"Yes but . . . I . . . I can't remember anything."
"Nothing at all? Even the smallest thing might help. Do you recall any names?"
"No."
"Sarah for example?"
"Sarah." Though Simone repeated the word tiredly and without any recognition, 
the colour ran suddenly under her pale skin and her lips trembled.
"Or the name of Sarah's friend." Sensing concealment, Barnaby began to push. 
"She calls him Tim. Did she call him something else when you were all together? 
Did she perhaps use his real name?"
"I . . . I don't know . . ."
"You were planning to leave your husband and run away with this man." He was 
leaning over her now. "Surely you remember something about him."
It was terrible. Like watching somebody bullying a child. Troy stepped forward, 
positioning himself directly behind his boss's shoulder where he could see 
Simone and she him. He said, "Not to worry, Mrs. Hollingsworth. It'll all come 
back to you, in time." He smiled, received the faintest sketch of a smile in 
return and a sour look for the interruption from his chief.
Then someone came up with a note from the staff nurse. She had explained the 
situation to Mrs. Hollingsworth's doctor and his wife would be coming over to 
the hospital later that afternoon to collect Simone. They would be happy to 
look after her for the next few days or for longer should this turn out to be 
necessary.
Barnaby had got to his feet when the message arrived. Troy promptly whipped the 
chair some distance away, hoping this might dissuade his boss from sitting down 
again. But the Chief Inspector had already decided that pressing ahead under 
the present circumstances would probably be counterproductive. Now that 
Simone's immediate whereabouts when she left the hospital had been securely 
established he was happy to postpone any further interrogation until later.
Once more outside in the busy corridor, Barnaby disappeared into the visitors' 
toilet. Troy seized the opportunity to dash back to Simone's bedside. He stood 
feeling awkward, uncertain what to say but determined to dispel any anxiety 
that the enforced interview had aroused.
In the end they spoke together. Simone saying, "Thank you for--" Sergeant Troy, 
"You mustn't worry--"
"His bark's worse than his bite." Her eyes were lovely. Huge, grey-green, 
terribly sad. But seen now, without make-up, he would never have recognised her 
from the glamorous wedding portrait. Her pinched little face looked almost 
plain. Mysteriously, his feelings remained unaltered. "We understand what 
you've been through, Mrs. Hollingsworth. Obviously we'll need to talk to you 
again but you mustn't worry. Until you feel able to cope there won't be any 
pressure."
Tears started to trickle down Simone's wan cheeks.
With the greatest difficulty Troy resisted taking the small hand in his. He 
said, "It's not the victims we're after."
Troy caught up with Barnaby at the front entrance.
"You never give up, do you, Gavin?"
"What do you mean?"
"That woman's in no state for what you've got in mind."
"Actually, sir, I don't have anything 'in mind' as you call it." They strode 
off towards the car park. "And I can see for myself what sort of state she's 
in, thanks very much. Anyone would suppose," continued Sergeant Troy, angrily 
yanking open the door of the Rover and climbing in, "I was the sort of man who 
never thought of anything else."
That afternoon, in response to a request from DCI Barnaby, the person who had 
reported seeing Simone Hollingsworth wearing a wig, shades and a pink jacket on 
the Aylesbury bus called in at the station.
She was a sensible body, not at all the sort to put herself forward for the 
sake of it and was pleased that her contribution had been of some help. They 
settled her down with a cup of tea and a biscuit and left her with a graphic 
artist describing, in as much detail as she could remember, the style of the 
wig and design of the sunglasses.
Within a couple of hours a detailed sketch of Simone wearing both had been 
circulated by the press office to the newspapers and to the television 
programme Crimewatch. In both instances the public was asked to communicate 
with the police if they had seen the woman in question at any time within the 
last two weeks.
Barnaby put a call in to Avis Jennings and asked that she keep in constant 
touch with the station once Simone was living at her house. He would be coming 
over himself to talk to Simone again within the next day or so. If her memory 
appeared to return or if she showed any signs of wishing to leave, even if it 
was only to return to Nightingales, he should be informed at once.
He read through the statements of people who had been present at the incident 
with the van. One woman said Simone had "sort of rolled out." Another that she 
had been pushed by the man behind the wheel. A third witness thought that she 
had been thrown with some force. All agreed that there had been no struggle. 
The person who sat with her until the ambulance arrived had the impression that 
she was unconscious even before she hit the pavement.
So concentrated was the attention on Simone that hardly any attention had been 
paid to the driver. But a youth with quick wits and sharp eyesight, who 
described the van as dirty yellow and very rusty, had made a note of the number 
plates. On checking, these proved to have been stolen.
So far the investigative interviews in and around Flavell Street, now in their 
second day, had come up with only one really interesting result. But this 
certainly seemed, at least in part, to bear out Sarah Lawson's story.
A couple, backing their Ford Fiesta out of one of the lockup garages behind the 
flat, had seen a man running up the iron staircase. He had entered number 
thirteen by way of the kitchen door, going straight in without even knocking. 
They said the man, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, had dark, curly hair and 
was not very tall. As he had his back to them they were unable to describe his 
features. From the way he moved they believed he was youngish. Pressed, they 
suggested no more than the early thirties. This had occurred at around two 
thirty on Tuesday, 11 June.
Shown photographs of Sarah Lawson and Simone Hollingsworth, the couple 
recognised only Sarah. There were half a dozen other such confirmations, mainly 
from people in the launderette or Mr. Patel's greengrocery. More than one 
person described her as wandering about like a lost soul.
The following morning Sarah Lawson was due to be arraigned before the 
magistrate. Bail, due to the seriousness of the offence, would probably be 
refused. Certainly it would be opposed by the police.
Once officially on remand, she would be transferred to a woman's prison, 
probably Holloway. Barnaby took this last opportunity of interviewing her on 
his own patch. Though he had been told she was still not eating, he was shocked 
at the rapid change in her.
She was crouched, shivering in the corner of her cell on a foam mattress, knees 
drawn up under her chin, long skirt covering her legs. The bones of her cheeks 
and forehead were jutting forward as if they would break through the skin. She 
stared around wildly as the door was opened, shame and despair ravaging her 
face.
"Miss Lawson," said Barnaby. He couldn't bring himself to ask how she was. He 
sat down on the edge of the toilet. "What are you hoping to gain by all this?"
"I just want to get it over with."
"What?"
"Everything. This long disease, my life."
"You won't be allowed to starve yourself to death, you know. You'll be taken to 
hospital and fed, one way or the other."
"So it'll be later rather than sooner. What does it matter?"
"I wonder if you understand the process--"
"Far better than you, I suspect."
"What I mean is that fasting can inflict serious and permanent internal damage. 
What if you decide, after all, that you want to survive?"
"I shan't change my mind." Though distracted and full of suffering, her profile 
was set as if in stone.
He couldn't leave it there. In some muddled way he felt he had to try and talk 
her round. Yet all he seemed to be capable of was reducing the situation to 
banality. Trite phrases fell from his lips. Her betrayer was not worth it. The 
world was full of people. She would meet someone else. (Sergeant Troy would 
have been proud of him.) At least he avoided time heals all wounds.
"You're wrong," said Sarah, "about meeting someone else. I believe Plato got it 
right and that we partly exist until we find the single missing person who will 
make us whole. Only then shall we know true happiness."
"Goodness. I wouldn't like to calculate the odds on that. They must be worse 
than the Lottery."
"And yet, by some wayward calculation of the stars, I found mine. So you see, 
Inspector, there's no point in searching again. And, once you have known that 
completeness, being torn apart is simply unbearable."
The calm finality behind the words made further discussion of the matter 
pointless. Barnaby got up and walked towards the door, turning back as he 
reached it. "You know Simone has been found?"
She cowered at the words. Flinched as if a bucket of icy water had been thrown 
in her face. "Yes. They told me. Is she . . . all right?"
"Physically, yes. But she's still confused. He threw her out of a van, did they 
tell you that? Your charming better half?"
"Out of . . . ?" She stared at him as if he had suddenly broken into a foreign 
language.
"We've got a description of him. He was seen going into Flavell Street via the 
back entrance. Not too tall, thirtyish, dark hair. That accurate, would you 
say?"
"What . . . what are you . . ."
And then, as Barnaby received the stare and returned it with an equal force and 
intensity, Sarah Lawson began to batten down the hatches.
The Chief Inspector was reminded of a film he once saw, a costume drama where a 
distraught, unhappy heiress, discovering the man she loves is only after her 
money, runs around the great dark Victorian house in which she lives barring it 
against his next visit. He could still hear the shutters. Slam, slam, slam, 
slam. Slam.
And so it was now.
"Yes." When Sarah eventually spoke she sounded very tired. "Yes, I think that's 
a fairly accurate description."
"Is there nothing you won't say, Sarah? Nothing you won't agree to to help 
out?" Pitiful though she was, Barnaby still experienced anger. "No lies you 
won't tell?"
"No. None."
Barnaby let down the flap then and shouted for the duty officer to unlock the 
door.
Next day, following the publication of the drawing of Simone in her dark 
glasses, some reports of sightings started trickling in. These were nowhere 
near as numerous or as full of exotic detail as happened at the beginning of 
the case. Either the public was by now fed up with the Hollingsworth 
extravaganza or Simone had been very securely hidden away after she was removed 
from Flavell Street. Of the few that were reported, nearly all in or around 
London, none proved to be worth the time and effort spent following them up. 
Crimewatch, which should flush out many more, was not due to go out for another 
three days.
Just after lunch Barnaby received notification from Rain-bird and Gillis, 
Causton's most well-established undertakers, that the funeral of Alan 
Hollingsworth had now been arranged and would take place in two days' time. The 
service would be held at St. Chad's parish church, Fawcett Green, and the 
internment directly afterwards in the burial ground adjacent. No flowers by 
request.
Barnaby, wondering by whose request, scribbled a note on his pad. The last 
thirty-six hours had been so crammed with new incident and revelation that 
trying to absorb and assess it all had pushed the deaths of Hollingsworth and 
poor Brenda Brockley to the fringes of his mind. Now he turned his attention to 
both.
Brenda was the one that depressed him most, perhaps because he felt that it was 
the one he could do least about. They knew she had been killed by 
Hollingsworth's car. Presumably, if not inevitably, he had been driving it. 
What chance now, though, to find out exactly what had happened?
At least, in the matter of Hollingsworth's own death, they had a suspect. The 
faceless, false-hearted and falsely named Tim. Sarah, at her second interview, 
had seemed to imply it was he who was responsible.
Of course there was also Gray Patterson who fitted the bill to perfection. A 
powerful motive, no alibi and a friend of Sarah Lawson. However, set against 
this must be the fact that there was absolutely no forensic evidence to put him 
inside Nightingales the night of Hollingsworth's death. Also, on the afternoon 
Simone absconded, he was sitting in the Causton Odeon watching Goldeneye. 
Thirdly, and surely most telling by far, Patterson could by no stretch of the 
imagination be described as a short man with dark curly hair.
And it was this man that they now had to lay their hands on.
The storm of two days ago had really broken the weather. The day of the 
funeral, though warm, was patchy. The sun was inconstant, clouds scudded about 
and the branches of the elms and yew trees in the churchyard bent and rustled 
in the slight breeze.
The Reverend Bream, a snowy surplice covering his shabby cassock, read the 
elegy. His voice was grave and rich and full of quite genuine-sounding sorrow. 
It was at such moments that he came into his own.
Barnaby and Troy did not go to the service. Neither did they join the tiny 
group at the graveside but stood some small distance away on a grassy 
knoll--outsiders with no part to play but that of spectres at the feast.
"For man born of woman has but a short time to live . . ."
And who could argue with that? We give birth astride a grave, as the poet said. 
At least Barnaby thought it was a poet. Or maybe he remembered it from one of 
the plays that Joyce's group put on. Whatever, the writer was spot on. Looked 
at in cosmic terms, it was as fast as that. Now you see the sun shine, now you 
don't.
Although quite a large collection of people hovered at the lych gate, there 
were only eight mourners at the graveside. Avis Jennings was there next to 
Simone, her arm round the girl's slender shoulders. Constable Perrot, his 
helmet in the crook of his elbow, stood more or less to attention. The 
accountant Ted Burbage, representing Penstemon, was next to Elfrida Molfrey. 
She and Cubby Dawlish held hands and gravely bowed their heads.
The other two mourners were strangers to Barnaby. He guessed at the dead man's 
brother and his wife. She must be a wife for surely such an upright, 
stern-faced, joyless countenance could not belong to a man frivolous enough to 
bring along a mistress. He wore a black suit of dull, heavy cloth. She a limp 
dress the colour of dirty water with an uneven hemline and a black velvet band 
stitched round one sleeve. Her expression was even more sour than her 
husband's. Barnaby was reminded of his mother's phrase, "Fit to turn the milk."
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . ."
"If the booze don't get you the tax man must." Troy spoke almost absently, his 
gaze fixed on the window's pale, distressed face. He trembled unaccountably and 
felt rather queasy.
"What on earth's wrong with you?"
"Ay?"
"Shaking about."
"It's the heat, guv."
The baked meats were laid out at the doctor's house. Mrs. Jennings had been 
quite restrained. Flamboyantly showy cakes and delectable confections of cream 
and sugar were absent. The most elaborate item on the table was a many-layered 
millefeuille made with fresh raspberries. There was half a York ham on an 
old-fashioned white china stand and a herby salad freshly picked from the 
garden. Dr. Jennings began to carve but was interrupted by an urgent call, 
whereupon he disappeared and the vicar took over.
Conversation was subdued and remained so, perhaps because the only liquid 
offered was Indian or China tea. Simone, naturally the focus of everyone's 
concern, appeared overwhelmed. She sat between her husband's relatives on a 
velvet chaise longue looking, to Sergeant Troy's way of thinking, like a soft 
and lovely rose between two cacti. The hospital dressing on her temple had been 
removed and, though she was carefully made-up, the bruise showed through.
Mrs. Jennings had made it plain to both himself and Barnaby that they would be 
welcome to partake of the refreshments but Troy still felt extremely 
uncomfortable. Being neither friends nor family their presence could only 
underline the dark provenance of the situation. How could he simply go up and 
offer his condolences to Simone, no strings attached? For the first time since 
he joined the force, Sergeant Troy wished he wasn't a policeman.
Barnaby did not mingle. He was in the kitchen tucking into some home-baked 
Ciabatta with a piece of runny Brie and a bowl of salad. He was also talking to 
Avis Jennings who had discovered she was a cake fork short and was rummaging in 
the cutlery drawer.
"I understand from your husband that Simone is getting better."
"She's quite a bit better, yes. Her memory's returning in fits and starts. Jim 
says it's often like that. She knows us and Elfie and remembers all sorts of 
things about the village but not much about her . . . ordeal. It's not 
surprising, is it? I mean, that she wants to block things out for as long as 
possible. Ah, there you are!" Avis scolded the missing fork and started to 
polish it on her skirt. "I know I would."
"Perfectly understandable."
"I took her round to the house just to get some fresh clothes and stuff. But 
she didn't want to stay."
"How did you get in, Mrs. Jennings?"
"Jill Gamble let us have the key." She looked at Barnaby somewhat anxiously. "I 
hope that's all right. We were only there a few minutes."
"And were you with Mrs. Hollingsworth all the time?"
"I was, actually." Avis was deeply puzzled. "She just put a couple of dresses 
and some underwear in a bag. They are her own things, Inspector."
Barnaby, his mouth full of delicious cheese, merely nodded.
"Well, I must to my muttons," said Avis. "I wish the Scottish contingent would 
tuck in. It's not as if they're overwhelmed by grief. Simone said Alan hadn't 
spoken to either of them for years."
"Some people would think such behaviour perfectly proper for a funeral."
"Hm." Avis sniffed. "In my opinion a pinch of rectitude goes a very long way."
Troy, in the odd moments that his eyes strayed from Simone, had noticed general 
eddying towards a door at the far end of the room which led directly to the 
kitchen. Although there was definitely not what you could call a queue, 
Sergeant Perrot was hovering near the opening and slipped in as Mrs. Jennings 
emerged. Mrs. Molfrey was also gently whirling in that direction followed by 
Cubby Dawlish, whirling counterclockwise while hanging on to a plate of ham and 
salad and a nice strong cup of Ridegway's Breakfast Blend.
As things turned out, all three arrived together. Perrot remained standing but 
the other two sat down. Cubby drank his tea. Elfrida, delighted to be tete a 
tete once more with the top brass, turned her glowing face towards Barnaby.
"I'm not reproaching you of course, Chief Inspector. I know how incredibly busy 
you must be. But I was disappointed not to hear from you, after the news of my 
revelation."
"I'm afraid I'm not with you, Mrs. Molfrey."
"No chink, no chime. Didn't--" Elfrida glanced over the Chief Inspector's 
shoulder and, in the nick of time, saw Colin Perrot's expression of horrified 
apprehension,"--you get my message? I spoke into your answering machine."
"Sorry," smiled Barnaby. "They're not always reliable, I'm afraid. What was it 
about, Mrs. Molfrey?"
"As I think I previously told you on the day Simone disappeared, I walked up 
the lane with Sarah Lawson and she was carrying this large box. She said it was 
some Kilner jars that Simone had promised for her white elephant collection at 
the fete. But then, when we got to her gate, she sort of hefted it up in her 
arms, like this, oof oof--"
"Careful, dearest," murmured Cubby.
"--and there was not a single sound. This from a box supposedly full of glass. 
Then I thought to myself, what on earth would Simone be doing with such things 
anyway? She could hardly cook, let alone bake bread or make jam. Certainly I 
can't imagine her ever bottling fruit or vegetables. Also," Elfrida gave 
Barnaby a look he immediately recognised. It was identical to the one worn by 
Kilmowski when he brought a particularly large and succulent corpse into the 
house and laid it proudly on the doormat. "You could tell by the way she was 
hanging on how heavy the box was. There was more in there, believe you me, 
Inspector, than a few empty jars."
"That's very interesting, Mrs. Molfrey." And it was too. There had certainly 
been no such box either in Bay Tree Cottage itself or the garden shed when they 
were searched. "When is this fete?"
"Not until August Bank Holiday Monday."
"And who would Sarah pass them on to?"
"No one if she was running her own stall. You could ask Mrs. Perrot--she is on 
the committee again this year, I believe, Colin?"
"That's right, Mrs. Molfrey." Perrot, still metaphorically wiping the sweat of 
relief from his brow, smiled warmly at his rescuer. "I'll certainly ask, sir, 
if the stuff has been passed to someone else."
"If you would, Constable."
"I should tell you both perhaps, although you'll no doubt hear it on the news 
tomorrow, that Miss Lawson has been charged with taking part in the kidnap and 
ransom of Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"Oh! But that's . . ." Mrs. Molfrey could not continue. With trembling fingers 
she adjusted the anthracite chiffon veiling draped over her ringlets. It was 
trimmed with marcasite which sparkled as it caught the sunlight pouring through 
the kitchen window. "I can't believe. No. No."
"That's right. No," echoed Cubby firmly. His bright blue eyes shone with 
conviction. "She's too . . . what is the word I want, Elfie?"
"Proud."
"That's right. Proud."
"You've got it wrong, Inspector," said Elfrida. "I'm sorry, I know how 
presumptuous that must sound--"
"We don't charge people without strong evidence, Mrs. Molfrey. Also, Sarah 
Lawson has confessed."
"But she doesn't care about money. You've seen how she lives."
"She may not care about money. But the person she was working with cares very 
much indeed."
This shocked them both. He watched new and terrible complexities crowding their 
minds. Neither spoke again. They sat on, bewildered, for a few moments then got 
up and went away, Cubby patting Elfrida's hand in tender consolation.
"Perrot?"
"Sir." Constable Perrot moved smartly up to the pine table and rested his 
helmet.
"I'm putting a twenty-four-hour watch on this place. To be transferred to 
Nightingales should Mrs. Hollingsworth decide to move back."
"Do you think she's still in some sort of danger then?"
"Perhaps. In any case we need a sharp eye kept. She's a very important witness. 
I'll leave it with you." Barnaby pushed his chair back. "You'll be relieved 
once the shifts get sorted."
"No problem, sir."
"Are you all right for tea?" Avis popped her head round the door.
"I could do with another cup," said Barnaby. "But I'll take it out there."
The scene in the Jennings' drawing room had changed slightly. Elfrida and Cubby 
were no longer present. Edward Hollingsworth had moved to the window seat where 
he was deep in conversation with Penstemon's accountant. His wife was stacking 
used plates at the table and putting them on a large wooden tray. Troy was 
sitting next to Simone on the green velvet chaise longue.
Barnaby, unnoticed by either, watched them both. Simone was speaking, pausing 
to bite her lip and frown, hesitating, speaking again. Her hands fluttered 
constantly, at her white bruised forehead, over her heart, smoothing her shaggy 
silver gilt hair. She was wearing a simple cotton dress, pink and white stripes 
with a sprig of mignonette pinned to the collar. Beneath it the slender outline 
of her body was tense.
Troy, his whole attitude one of absorbed tenderness, listened. Every now and 
again he nodded his head. Occasionally he said something. Barnaby thought he 
lip-read the words, "I'm so sorry."
He stepped sideways to the woman at the table and introduced himself.
"Oh, I know who you are." Each word came out well-rounded, hard and individual, 
like polished pebbles. She had a strong Scottish accent. "It's taking you long 
enough to find out who's responsible for my brother-in-law's death."
"When did you arrive, Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"Yesterday. We had a communication from Alan's solicitor and have a meeting 
tomorrow morning. We shall be getting straight back then. My husband has to 
prepare his weekly sermon." Then, just in case Barnaby had not fully understood 
the importance of her spouse's position, "Edward is a minister of the church."
Yes, thought the Chief Inspector, glancing at the bloodless profile and 
sanctimonious curling lower lip. I guessed he might be. "I understand your 
husband and his brother had been estranged for some years."
"Not at all. They may not have communicated all that frequently but there was 
no estrangement. In fact over the past few months they have spoken on more than 
one occasion."
"But I am right in thinking you didn't approve of his second marriage?"
"As we do not acknowledge divorce there can be no such thing as a second 
marriage." She picked up her tray and bared her yellow tombstone teeth at him. 
"Fornicating liaison, I think the Lord would call it."
Blimey. Barnaby watched her ramrod back, long and thin and stiff as a poker, 
marching off to the kitchen. I wouldn't fancy trying to warm my feet on that on 
a winter's night.
He made his way over to the couple in the corner relishing, even before he 
reached it, the pleasant change in the scenery.
"And how are you feeling today, Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"Ohh, Inspector." They were like white doves, those hands. Her prettiness, her 
loveliness was returning. Cosmetics had been lightly applied but with such art 
as to appear artless. How long and silky her lashes were.
"Much better, I can see."
"Yes. Thank you."
"Sergeant, there's going to be a police presence here until further notice. 
This needs to be explained to Mrs. Jennings. So if you'd do the honours?"
"What, now?"
"Yes. Now."
There was no mistaking the emphasis on the second word. Troy reluctantly rose 
to his feet. He gave Simone a smile, a mixture of comfort and encouragement, 
and retreated. Unluckily for him, Mrs. Jennings chose that moment to disappear 
through the French windows into the garden. Still looking anxiously over his 
shoulder, Troy followed.
"Avis has been so kind," explained Simone. "And her husband too."
"Even so, I expect you're looking forward to going home."
"Home?"
"Nightingales."
"I'm never going back there." The palms of her hands pressed violently against 
her knees. "I hate it!"
"You remember being unhappy, then?"
"Yes." She looked at him uncertainly. "Some things more than others."
"I understand. I want to ask you a question, Simone. And," her eyes had already 
widened in alarm, "it's nothing to do with . . . Well, perhaps very indirectly. 
Please don't be alarmed."
"You must think I'm very foolish."
"Not at all." Barnaby smiled. "Do you recall, just before you . . . went away, 
leaving a box with some glass jars on your patio for Sarah Lawson to collect?"
"Jars? What sort of jars?"
"Apparently they were Kilner jars. For bottling fruit."
"I can't . . . Wait a moment. Yes. They were for the f&e."
"That's right." He barely stopped himself saying "good girl" for, having 
produced the right answer, she appeared as delighted as a child.
"Now, can you tell me where you got them?"
"Um, let's mink." She frowned and sighed and frowned again. "The church jumble. 
Everyone is always expected to buy at these dos. And then, as nearly 
everything's usually pretty horrible, when the next fete or bring and buy comes 
round, it goes back in. There's been a dreadful table lamp apparently doing the 
rounds for years."
"Excellent," said the Chief Inspector. "That's tidied up, then."
"Is that all?"
"At the moment."
She relaxed; lifted her hands from her knees. But so fierce had been the 
pressure that their imprint remained in the fabric of her dress. "What did you 
mean when you said to Gavin there'd be a police presence here?"
"It's for your own protection, Mrs. Hollingsworth." Gavin, is it? We'll see 
about that.
"But isn't it all over?" Under the cosmetics her face paled. "I mean--"
"Passed the message on, sir." Sergeant Troy was once more urgently present. 
Standing four square on the carpet and daring anyone to shift him.
"Right." Barnaby got up. "Let's away."
When they reached the car, which they had left parked outside Bay Tree Cottage, 
Gray Patterson was leaning up against the bonnet. He moved towards them 
anxiously.
"I recognised the Rover, Inspector," he said. "Didn't like to intrude at the 
Jennings' or come to the church. Especially with Alan's brother there. I 
thought it might look rather two-faced."
"I've no doubt it would," replied Barnaby. "Given your past history."
"I'm trying to find out what's going on regarding Sarah. I heard she'd been 
arrested so I went down to the station. But they wouldn't let me see her."
"I shouldn't fret about it, Mr. Patterson."
"But she'll need me. To help get this stupid mistake sorted out."
"There's no mistake, I'm afraid." Barnaby repeated the information he had so 
recently given to Cubby and Mrs. Molfrey and with much the same result. 
Patterson was absolutely devastated.
"That can't be right. Sarah?"
"Working with her lover," said Sergeant Troy. Still peeved at seeing Simone 
bullied yet again, he was determined to take it out on someone. "I expect 
that's why she suddenly got all chummy with you. To deflect attention, like."
"Rubbish."
"Not caught up with him yet, but we will." Smiling, Troy delivered the coup de 
grace. "A very passionate affair, by all accounts."
Patterson turned from them then. Turned away and walked straight into the road, 
which was fortunately empty. After this, stumbling and wavering, he wandered 
off along the grass verges in the direction of his home.
We are all in the lap of the gods. When Barnaby listened to criminals whining 
during interrogations or later from the dock that they had never had any luck, 
he was not overly sympathetic.
Though he himself had had the luck--affectionate parents, a stable and happy 
marriage, an intelligent and healthy child--he was not a man to pour libations 
or even offer up a grateful prayer. Like most people in such a fortunate 
position, he took it all for granted.
But now, entering the final stage in what was to be called, in the first of 
many books dealing with the subject, Twist and Counter Twist: The Mysterious 
Lives of Alan and Simone Hollingsworth, the Chief Inspector became keenly aware 
of the part that the Fates had played in his investigation.
They always did, of course. And you soon knew if they were for you or against 
you. For instance if someone--and Barnaby didn't believe for a minute that that 
someone was Sergeant Troy--had not had the idea of questioning the college 
accommodation bureau, the chances were the flat at Flavell Street would never 
have been discovered.
And if Eden Lo had been looking elsewhere during the few seconds that it took 
Alan Hollingsworth to put down his coffee cup and walk away, the Heathrow 
connection might never have been made.
And now the most vital link of all was winging its way along the ether. At 
first, it looked like nothing much. Just another sighting, in fact. A woman on 
the blower, a genuine Bow Bells Cockney, rang in the morning after the funeral. 
Barnaby picked up the extension and listened in.
At the time he could not have said why it was this call out of all others that 
spoke to his condition. It was only a couple of hours later, on the spot as it 
were, that he recognised the connection.
Her name was Queenie Lambert and she lived on the Isle of Dogs. The woman 
sketched in her copy of the Sun had been staying in a flat across the walkway. 
Although she hadn't been out and about as such, Mrs. Lambert had glimpsed her a 
couple of times, once opening the door to the postman and later watering the 
window boxes on the balcony.
Mrs. Lambert sounded elderly and Barnaby imagined her life to be somewhat 
constrained. She probably spent much of it taking keen note of what the 
neighbours were up to. Probably regarded as a nosy nuisance around the 
buildings, such people could be an absolute godsend to the police.
Although, like everyone else, both detectives were aware that massive 
development had been taking place around the quays and docks of Canary Wharf, 
the scale and magnificence of the enterprise was pretty breathtaking. Great 
towers of glass and steel surrounded by piles of rubble glittered in the 
sunlight. Diggers roared and trundled about, raising huge clouds of dust. New 
apartments, soon to be sold for hundreds of thousands of pounds, rose up just a 
few yards from old thirties-style low-rise council estates, broken down and 
boarded up poverty fisted by brazen, upmarket cash.
Driving out of the Blackwall Tunnel, Troy gave an impressed whistle of 
appreciation and even Barnaby was much taken by the hugely confident operatic 
splendour that lay spread out before them.
As it was nearly twelve thirty they stopped at the George, Westferry Road, for 
a pint of Webster's Yorkshire bitter and some excellent sandwiches. Sergeant 
Troy threw a few darts. Barnaby sat quietly thinking. The atmosphere between 
them seethed and simmered. Troy was still angry that his passionate concern for 
Simone's wellbeing had been crudely interpreted as creating an opportunity to 
get his leg over. He was also smarting over a follow-up lecture against the 
advisability of getting involved, on any level, with someone so severely 
entangled in a case that was presently under investigation.
He knew what that meant, all right. It meant the chief did not trust him to 
keep his mouth shut. Thought that he, Troy, was so careless and dim that any 
bit of fluff could wind him round their little finger, ask any questions they 
fancied and get the right answers. Talk about a fucking insult.
"You fit then, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir." Troy hit a bull's eye, drained his glass and put his black leather 
jacket back on.
Mrs. Lambert's flat was on a small development of Peabody buildings, just 
behind Thermopylae Gardens, two storeys high with balconies running all round, 
some strung across with washing. Most of the windows on the ground floor were 
either barred or covered with wrought-iron grilles. One or two people had 
bought their homes and personalised them by painting the bricks blue and orange 
or replacing the original doors and windows. But mostly they remained uniformly 
drab, grubby looking and in need of repair.
"Don't drive right in." Barnaby recalled an occasion when his car had been 
parked outside a tower block for barely ten minutes while he had struggled to 
arrest someone on the eighth floor. When he came out every removable part of 
the vehicle had vanished, including the seats. "Over there'll do."
Troy parked neatly facing a little row of single-fronted shops and climbed out. 
The Chief Inspector picked up his mobile phone and followed. They walked across 
the open well of the courtyard and past smelly communal rubbish bins that were 
taller than they were. As they climbed the metal staircase, Barnaby wondered 
again at the strange compulsion that had brought him way out of his own manor 
to investigate something a local man could have checked out in no time.
He could see Mrs. Lambert agitating her curtain, watching them approach. The 
old lady snatched open her door before Troy could even ring the bell. Showed 
into a sparklingly clean sitting room so overstuffed with furniture they 
practically had to walk sideways, and having declined the offer of a cup of 
tea, Barnaby asked where Mrs. Lambert had seen the woman in dark glasses.
"I'll show you." She hobbled painfully towards the window. "Directly over the 
way, see? Where them boxes wiv the red geraniums are."
"And could you tell me--I'm sorry," the Chief Inspector interrupted himself, 
"perhaps you'd like to sit down."
"I'm better upright, if it's all the same to you." She wore large men's checked 
slippers bulging round the toes. "Uvverwise the blood rushes to me bunions."
"When did you last see this woman?"
"Oohh, must be four or five days now."
"Could you possibly be more precise, Mrs. Lambert?" Barnaby's heart plummeted 
in his breast. Five days ago Simone Hollingsworth was lying in Hillingdon 
Hospital.
"Well, let's see. It was the day before our Elaine came round to take me to the 
chiropodists. They won't send transport if you can dig up somebody wiv a car. 
Mean buggers."
"And that was?"
"Well, it's Thursday afternoon, Health Centre, so it would have been the day 
before I spotted her."
"Wednesday?" Eight days ago. Barnaby held his breath.
"That's right."
"And can you remember when you saw her first?"
Troy took no part in this. He told himself there was no point. That it was a 
complete waste of time. But in truth a nervous apprehension, the like of which 
he had never known, was gradually seeping into his bones.
"I can't, in all honesty," replied Queenie Lambert. "But I do know it was after 
June the twelfth because that's when I come back from me holiday in Cromer."
"Thank you," said Barnaby feeling the phrase would prove to be shamefully 
inadequate but not knowing quite what to put in its place.
He and Troy had to go down to the courtyard again to get to the other side. 
Halfway across they passed some little girls skipping. One of them wore a 
T-shirt that caught the Chief Inspector's eye. The bold letters read: Cuba 
Street Carnival.
He stopped walking then and stood, stock still, engrossed in thought. Troy 
carried on for a few steps, realised he was alone and also came to a halt. 
Deciding he had deliberately been made to look foolish, the sergeant refused to 
backtrack. Instead he wandered over to the little girls, smiled and said, 
"Hullo."
They all ran away.
"Gavin?"
"Sir."
"You got the London A to Z?"
"In my pocket."
"Look up Cuba Street, would you?" As he waited, Barnaby couldn't help wondering 
what he was waiting for, why the word Cuba rang in his ear like a cracked bell, 
and what earthly connection this seedy environment could prove to have with the 
beautifully maintained hamlet of Fawcett Green. Yet the longer he stood there, 
the surer he became that he was in the right place at the right time. And for 
the right reasons.
"There you go." Coolly Troy handed over the book, open at page eighty. "Cuba 
Street. Square two C."
Barnaby stared at the page. The River Thames, like a great white snake, twined 
through it, cutting off the Isle of Dogs from Rotherhithe and Deptford and 
Greenwich. He located Cuba Street at the West Indian Dock Pier. It meant 
nothing at all.
Sergeant Troy noted this and not without a certain amount of satisfaction. He 
hadn't a clue as to what the chief was after but recognised a letdown when he 
saw it.
Barnaby continued studying the map. And then he did find something. Troy knew 
this because an expression of recognition followed quickly by one of 
astonishment possessed Barnaby's solid features. Troy thought the boss looked 
like that daft bird in a story he sometimes read to his daughter. Left the 
safety of the farmyard to go walkabout and the sky fell on it. Say what you 
like about chickens, they may be stupid but they know where the action is.
"It's not Cuba, Sergeant. It's Cubitt."
"Right, guv."
"Cubitt Town."
"Got that."
"Mean anything?"
"Not offhand." Here we go.
"Think about it."
Yeah, think about it, Gavin. Give your mind a hernia, why don't you?
They negotiated the second staircase and walked along the balcony. The flat 
with the window boxes was the last in the row. As they approached, Barnaby's 
footsteps slowed. He was conscious of feeling extremely nauseous and slightly 
dazed. There was a lump the size of a ping pong ball stuck in his throat and 
his whole body felt as heavy as lead. Now, so close, his previous certainty 
wavered. Wasn't it rather foolish to build up such hopes merely on a single 
geographical coincidence?
Then he noticed, stretched along the balcony wall, yawning and sunning itself, 
a beautifully marked tabby cat. He bent down, stretched out his hand and 
called, "Nelson?"
The cat jumped down and came straight to him.
"Nelson?" Sergeant Troy stared at the animal now weaving itself around and 
about Barnaby's trouser legs and purring. "You mean that's . . . ?"
"Simone's cat, yes." Barnaby rapped hard on the door.
"What the hell is it doing out here?"
"I suppose they've been looking after it for her."
"But how did it . . . I mean, who's they?"
Someone was moving inside. They could see through the small frosted panes of 
glass a dark formless shape approaching. A mortise was unlocked, a key turned, 
a chain rattled then fell, clattering against the frame. Slowly the door opened.
A middle-aged woman stood there. Thin, consumptive looking, heavily made-up. 
Sucking in smoke through a slim cigarette. Frizzy henna'd hair. She smelt of 
vinegar and chips and wore a denim mini skirt and a semi-transparent nylon 
blouse with rhinestone buttons.
"Whatever you're selling I don't wannit. And that includes religion. So piss 
off."
"Mrs. Atherton?"
"Who wants to know?" This came from a man at the back of the hall. A man 
perhaps in his early thirties, not too tall with dark curly hair.
"DCI Barnaby, Causton CID," replied the Chief Inspector. And got his foot in 
the door just in time.
One of the most infuriating things about the guv'nor was his refusal to talk 
until he was good and ready. Another, equally infuriating, was this habit of 
pointing out to his irritated bag carrier that the said carrier had all the 
information that he, the guv'nor, possessed and so should be quite capable of 
drawing his own conclusions.
That Sergeant Troy knew his chief well enough to appreciate that this attitude 
was neither spiteful nor motivated by any desire to show off only made matters 
worse. He was well aware that Barnaby was simply offering encouragement. Trying 
to persuade him to recall, reflect, deduce, connect.
But these were not Troy's natural strengths. He was sharp-eyed, fast and 
aggressive. He was a good man to have on your side in a fight. But he was not 
patient. When they eventually got back to the ranch, there was no way he would 
be going over every statement and interview relative to the Hollingsworth case 
to find out where the words Cubitt Town had cropped up.
The two inhabitants of the council flat behind Thermopylae Gardens were being 
held at Rotherhithe police station pending a transfer to Causton CID for 
questioning. Queenie Lambert, already vaguely aware of playing some small part 
in what she suspected might prove to be a very large drama, had further 
consolidated her position by offering to look after the cat.
On leaving the East London nick, Barnaby had asked to be driven straight to 
Fawcett Green and now Sergeant Troy, his heart beating twenty to the dozen and 
his thoughts jumping like deranged fleas, was walking very quickly down St. 
Chad's Lane to Nightingales, aware, as he almost ran along, of an urgency he 
could not put a name to, a compulsion that, at all costs, he must get there 
first.
Calling earlier at Dr. Jennings' they had been told that Simone, accompanied by 
the attendant officer who had taken over from PC Perrot, had gone home to sort 
out a change of clothes and pick up any post that may have arrived. The place 
was otherwise unoccupied. Hollingsworth's brother and his wife, having 
resolutely refused to spend a single night under the roof of "the devil's house 
of sin," were staying at the Vicarage.
As Barnaby walked up the weed-choked path to the front door for the last time, 
he thought how much longer it seemed than two weeks since he had walked up it 
for the first time.
The nicotiana in the Italian terracotta jars were dead and dried up and one of 
the pots had cracked open, spilling fine earth all over the doorstep. Thistles 
and nettles had got a stranglehold on the front garden and the windowpanes were 
thick with dust. All the downstairs curtains were drawn. The whole place had a 
somnolent air and although the interior had been cleaned, a faint smell of 
stale food still mingled with that of lemon-scented furniture polish.
"Afternoon, Chief Inspector," said the constable positioned by the front door 
which was standing open.
"Mrs. Hollingsworth inside?"
"That's right, sir."
Barnaby entered first but he was hardly in the hall before his sergeant pushed 
past. Troy blundered into the living room and from there to the dining room and 
kitchen. He returned and stood in front of Barnaby, breathing deeply. He 
appeared to be in a state of extreme physical discomfort and his face was 
transfigured by a passionate determination. There was a footfall overhead.
Troy moved quickly forward but found his way blocked.
"Gavin. Listen to me."
"Someone's upstairs."
"There's only one way out of this."
"I don't believe you."
"I'm truly sorry."
"There's always more than one way. You told me that a long while ago."
"Not this time."
"Oh Christ."
"Do you want to stay down here?" The words, spoken as Barnaby moved towards the 
staircase, were barely audible. Troy shook his head. "Then keep quiet, OK?"
They ascended the stairs, Troy struggling to make his face blank and keep some 
sort of grip on his emotions. He felt as if he was being put through a wringer; 
the ventricles of his heart squeezed by a giant fist. He thought, if this is 
love, give me a vicious kicking any day of the week.
The door of the master bedroom was wide open and they could see clear across it 
when they reached the landing. Barnaby rested a warning hand on his sergeant's 
arm--unnecessarily, for Troy could not have spoken for the world.
A woman, unrecognisable to both men though they each knew who she was, stood 
gazing into a full-length mirror. Lost in the happy contemplation of her 
reflection, she remained unaware of their proximity.
She wore a beautifully cut dress of rich black velvet, backless and a stitch 
away from frontless. On her feet were elegant sandals with dangerously high 
heels. She balanced easily on them, swaying slightly but in a poised and 
naturally graceful manner. She wore an ash-blonde shoulder-length wig, teazed 
and tousled into a cloud of soft, loose curls. At her throat, wrists, hands and 
ears a conflagration of light blazed.
Her face was both very beautiful and completely soulless. A dazzling example of 
cosmetic alchemy. Peach and ivory skin blushing coral over cleverly modelled 
cheekbones, huge, brilliant but very hard eyes enlarged and enhanced by layer 
upon delicate layer of shadows. False lashes dark, glossy and thickly curled.
But it was about the mouth where the most startling transformation had taken 
place. Her own rather thin lipline having been skilfully erased, a, new crimson 
mouth, greedy and voluptuous, bloomed in its place.
She turned sideways, pausing briefly to admire the compelling perfection of her 
image, adjusted the diamond necklace then picked up a magnificent full-length 
blue fox coat from the back of a chair and draped it round her shoulders.
And it was then that she saw them.
Simone did not turn round but she did become very still, regarding the 
intruders silently in the mirror. Barnaby observed the calculation process at 
its most naked. Explanations, excuses, evasions, exits. She ran them all by 
with alarmed rapidity. It was like watching a fruit machine lining up the 
total. Ching, ching, ching. And every one a lemon.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"Oh. Hullo."
There was nothing she could do now, thought Barnaby with some small 
satisfaction and a great deal of anger. No way she could revert to the shy, 
sad, winsome little scrap that the world had treated so cruelly.
"I just came over for some clothes."
"So I see." He glanced at the bed which was strewn with money. There were 
dresses lying there too. And underwear and shoes. Several real leather 
suitcases stood nearby with their lids open. "I hope you're not thinking of 
leaving us."
Simone ignored this remark. Her pretty pink tongue flicked out, wetting her 
already glistening lips. She glanced at Sergeant Troy and attempted a seductive 
smile, lifting her scarlet top lip to reveal sharp white incisors. But extreme 
tension froze the movement, distorting it into a half sneer.
"Hi, Gavin."
Troy turned and walked back to the landing. He leaned over the stair rail 
feeling sick with betrayal and unhappiness. He felt his longing, poisoned 
beyond redemption, curdle in his heart.
From the bedroom he could hear Barnaby start to speak but the words seemed to 
come from a great distance and echo strangely. Troy wondered if, for the first 
time in his life, he was about to faint.
"Simone Hollingsworth," began the Chief Inspector, "you are under arrest on 
suspicion of the murder of your husband, Alan. You do not have to say anything 
. . ."
He was taken at his word. Simone had now been in custody for just under two 
hours and had remained silent apart from making a single telephone call to 
Penstemon's solicitor who was unable to get to the station until seven o'clock 
that evening.
Awaiting Jill Gamble's arrival, Barnaby organised a debriefing at thirty 
minutes' notice, inevitably garnering, in the incident room, only the immediate 
shift of men and women who had worked on the Hollingsworth case.
Audrey Brierley was present; Gavin Troy was not. He had cried off and Barnaby 
thought for once the term not inappropriate. Naturally, though perilously close 
to breaking down, Troy would have died rather than be seen weeping. He had 
turned the keen edge of his distress against himself and fallen on it like a 
defeated warrior upon his sword, mutilating his emotions, furiously attempting 
to kill what had been so newly born. Wounded and a fool for love, he was fit 
for nothing and Barnaby had sent him home.
People were scattered around the room, popping cans or queuing for the kettle 
to make coffee filters. Some peeled confectionery wrappers others tore open 
crisps. The lines were diverted to the separate office and a couple of civilian 
telephonists detailed to take the calls. There was a slight air about the place 
of getting dug in.
The Chief Inspector had so far just given them the bare bones of the matter. 
They all knew that Simone Hollingsworth had been arrested and why. It was the 
sordid details, what someone had once called the "shitty gritty," that now 
closely engaged their attention.
Naturally, as the subject of Barnaby's disquisition had yet to speak, his 
narrative would be in the nature of an imaginative re-creation rather than a 
straightforward listing of acknowledged facts. But he still looked forward to 
unravelling the tangled web in which they had all been ensnared. Like his 
daughter, he had been born to the sound of a drum roll. And now, ladies and 
gentlemen, before your eyes, before your very eyes . . .
But--Barnaby shuffled his notes--where to begin? No crime takes place in a 
vacuum and he had the feeling that this one had been in the making for a long 
while. Certainly since the beginning of the marriage and maybe even earlier. 
Perhaps since the very first moment the black widow spider spotted such a big 
juicy fly.
"So what made you first think to put her in the frame, Chief Inspector?" 
Sergeant Beryl kicked off.
"There was never one specific thing. Rather an accumulation of signs, scraps of 
information, conversations that meant nothing at the time but, viewed in 
retrospect, became significant."
Perhaps that would be a good starting point. The village itself, Fawcett Green. 
And its opinion of Alan Hollingsworth's second wife.
"The first unusual thing I noticed about Simone was that everyone I spoke to 
described her in exactly the same way. Now, this is very odd. Usually, if you 
ask half a dozen people's opinion of someone, you'll get six varying replies. 
But the same adjectives turned up again and again in this case. Mrs. 
Hollingsworth was wistful, lonely, childlike and not too bright. Easily bored, 
she remained a docile and loving wife even in the face of her husband's 
apparent cruelty."
"Don't know about apparent, sir." Audrey sounded a bit bullish. "We've got the 
interview with her doctor to bear it out."
"I'll come to that. The point I'm making now is that unlike the rest of us, who 
adjust our behaviour according to the situation and who we're with, Simone gave 
a rubberstamp performance. So, what does this tell us?"
"That she was playing a part?" suggested PC Belling hesitantly, tugging at his 
curly moustache.
"Just so. The boredom I've no doubt was genuine. But apart from that, she was 
playing a part. And biding her time. She married for the cash and, as a quick 
look around her bedroom will show, very quickly got through a great deal of it. 
But, though this case appears to be all about greed, it is also all about love."
"Love?" Sergeant Beryl rolled his eyes in disbelief. "Seems to me she took him 
for all she could get then did him in."
"Oh, she didn't love Alan! No, we're talking here about husband number one." He 
flicked through his notes and found the lines relating to the man dragged up in 
Cubitt Town. " 'She was mad about him and he was mad about her and both were 
mad about money.' But Atherton, or so the story goes, found a likely mark and 
disappeared."
"So, you reckon she followed his example and found a mark of her own," 
suggested Alan Lewis, a plainclothes inspector.
"And plotted her own kidnapping?" PC Belling sounded incredulous.
"With his help, yes. I don't believe they ever really lost touch."
"Hang on, sir," said Audrey. "I'm not with you at all on this one." There was a 
general murmur of agreement around the room. "Surely Sarah Lawson and this 
bloke we're calling Tim were responsible."
"That's right."
"Lawson confessed."
"And there's proof--she rented the flat where Simone was held."
"We found the camera at her cottage."
"You said she recognised the photographs."
"Besides, Simone was infatuated with her boy friend. That's how it all began."
"Everything you say--the last remark aside--is true," granted the Chief 
Inspector.
"Then I don't see what you're driving at, guv," Audrey finished where she had 
begun. "Either Lawson and her boy friend set it up or Simone and her ex-husband 
set it up. All four of them couldn't have been involved."
"But they were," said Barnaby. "Except it was all three." He waited for a 
second baffled murmur to subside. "However, only two knew what was really going 
on. I spoke of love a moment ago. The love of Jimmy Atherton and his wife. But 
I suspect this will prove to be a poor thing in comparison to that of Sarah 
Lawson. Unfortunately I didn't bring her in for questioning when I should have 
done and she was left with plenty of time to dream up an alternative scenario. 
A cover to protect the woman who so cruelly betrayed her. And I have not the 
slightest doubt she will stick to her story to the very end. For she has 
nothing to lose and, it seems now, nothing to live for."
"Are you saying," asked Inspector Lewis, "that this man 'Tim' doesn't really 
exist?"
"That's right."
"When did you discover this?"
"The last time I spoke to Lawson. I told her he'd been seen going up the back 
steps at Flavell Street and into the flat. She was completely mystified. Just 
didn't have a clue as to what I was talking about." In his mind Barnaby ran the 
scene again. Saw Sarah finally understand the true extent of her betrayal and 
watched her efforts, even as the knife plunged home, to protect the woman she 
loved.
"So why was it necessary to make him up?"
"It wasn't at first. Getting Hollingsworth to believe that someone had 
kidnapped his wife was a doddle. Locking her away, taking the photographs and 
posting them--no problem. But once the pictures had been dug up, things rapidly 
got much more complicated. And when the flat in Flavell Street was discovered, 
Sarah Lawson was really up against it.
"Not that she was worried on her own behalf. As we know, Sarah was at Fawcett 
Green the Friday evening following the kidnap and nearly all the following 
weekend so she couldn't have been the person responsible."
"So . . . this was Atherton?" said Constable Belling.
"No, no." Barnaby was starting to sound irritable. "Don't you see? There was no 
one else. The pictures were faked."
"Faked!"
"They were a bloody professional-looking job then, sir."
"You've picked exactly the right word, Belling. When I interviewed Avis 
Jennings she talked about Simone's early life. The various jobs she'd had." He 
referred once more to his notes. " 'Spent some time in a florist's, did a 
cosmetics course, demonstrated food mixers, was in television for a bit and a 
cashier in some sort of nightclub.' I didn't have the nous to spot a possible 
connection between make-up training and television. I presumed she'd worked in 
one of the offices."
"None of us spotted it, sir," said Audrey. She could be quite protective at 
times. "And we all read the interview."
"Did that idea check out then, guv?"
"We're still waiting for feedback from the TV companies."
"I reckon you could be right, chief. I watched Casualty last week. God, some of 
those injuries. Bleeding off your screen."
"I suppose that's why she had to disappear for so long."
"Precisely. She could hardly just wash it off and turn up. All the supposed 
cuts and bruises had to have time to heal."
"Why risk coming back at all though, guv?" asked Constable Belling. "She'd got 
the necklace, the ring, the ransom money."
"But as Hollingsworth's widow she would expect to inherit all his worldy goods. 
Nightingales, Penstemon--that alone must be worth a fair shake."
"So, is that why she killed him?"
"That's my belief, though I've no doubt there'll be a different version at the 
interview."
"If she decides to cough it."
"Yes." Barnaby didn't really want to consider the alternative. In the brief 
period that he had spent in the company of the real Mrs. Hollingsworth he had 
sensed a backbone of steel, a heart of stone and an iron will that might prove 
to be more than a match for his own.
"How she got him to drink the stuff we can only guess at at this stage but we 
do know how she obtained it. She visited her doctor twice, treating him to a 
pretty display of nervous distress plus a few bruises thrown in for good 
measure. Though it's interesting to note that when Jennings tried to examine 
them more closely, Mrs. Hollingsworth, in his own words, 'shrank away.' There 
were two prescriptions given for haloperidol but Jennings became suspicious 
when she tried for three. He thought she might wish to harm herself."
"That's a good one," mumbled a machine operator at the back of the room, 
through a mouthful of Twix.
"To anyone who hasn't met her, all this easy manipulation of other people must 
sound a bit unbelievable," said Barnaby. "All I can say is, in all the years 
I've been at it, she's the best I've come across. I was deceived along with 
everyone else."
Here Barnaby paused and glanced at the familiar face of his watch. Just on six 
thirty. Time to draw the briefing to a close. Time to have a wash, a cup of tea 
and a quiet reflective fifteen minutes in his office. Because for the next 
encounter he knew he would need to be very much on his toes. And that was 
putting it mildly.
Accompanied by Sergeant Beryl, DCI Barnaby entered the same interview room that 
was used when he had talked to Sarah Lawson. He had no particular course of 
action in mind. Nothing up his sleeve, no rehearsed rhetoric or cunning verbal 
games. Just prepared to play it as it lays.
Simone and Jill Gamble broke off talking as the detectives went in and Barnaby 
got the feeling that they had been in discussion for some time.
Simone was looking very composed. Obviously deciding to split the difference 
between the flamboyant splendour of her last public appearance and the milkmaid 
demureness of all previous ones, she wore a grey silk shirt dress, polished 
silver triangles in her ears and a carved coral bracelet. Discreet make-up lay 
on her skin like a natural bloom and her perfume was light and flowery. Barnaby 
was relieved to discover it was not Joy.
He shook hands with Jill Gamble whom he knew quite well. Sergeant Beryl set up 
the tape and the interrogation began. The solicitor spoke first.
"I should say straightaway Chief Inspector, that my client denies the charge 
that has been brought against her. She does not, however, deny that she was at 
Nightingales on the evening of her husband's death and is willing to answer 
frankly any questions that you might wish to put to her regarding this whole 
case."
"That's very encouraging," said the Chief Inspector. "So, Mrs. Hollingsworth--"
"Oh, Inspector Barnaby!" cried Simone. She leaned forward, clasping her hands. 
"I can't tell you how glad I am that it's all over. At last."
"I'm sure we're all--"
"You've no idea how unhappy I've been. I'd got to the stage where I was saving 
up the tablets I'd got from the doctor . . ." She looked anxiously at her brief 
who nodded encouragingly. "I felt I'd rather be dead than go on living the way 
I was. I'd asked Alan for a separation, so I could go back to London and make a 
new life. But he said he'd never let me go. And if I ran away he'd find me 
wherever I was and . . . kill me . . ."
"So, you decided to get your retaliation in first?" The phrase reminded him 
sharply of Troy and his voice was harsher than it might otherwise have been.
"It wasn't like that. If you're going to make everything sound so calculated--"
"If pulling open thirty capsules, disposing of the casings, mixing the powder 
that was left with whisky and persuading someone to drink it isn't calculating 
I don't know what is."
"You don't understand."
"So tell me."
"It's difficult." Simone pulled a little silk square from her bag, dabbed at 
her eyes, slid the hanky through her bracelet and sighed. Then she said 
something so outrageous that Barnaby thought at first his ears were deceiving 
him. "The thing is, I don't want to get Sarah into trouble."
"Miss Lawson has already been arrested and charged, as you are well aware," 
said the Chief Inspector when he'd got his breath back. "She has also made a 
full confession as to her part in the conspiracy. Now, tell me about your 
relationship."
"Well . . ." Simone settled herself comfortably, folding her hands in her lap. 
"It all started shortly after I moved to Fawcett Green. She started asking me 
round for coffee. And I did go sometimes, out of sheer loneliness. But it was 
ever so embarrassing. All talk about art and music and stuff, showing me books 
with paintings in and trying to get me interested. Then she started putting her 
arm round my shoulder, moving in close, that sort of thing. She wanted to 
sketch me and I gave it a go but it was so boring. Just sitting there, not able 
to move, staring into space."
"What sort of drawings were these?" asked Sergeant Beryl.
"I didn't take nothing--anything off, if that's what you're getting at."
"If you felt like this about Miss Lawson," said Barnaby, "how on earth did you 
come to be doing her course?"
"She kept on and on about how art could change my life. Naturally I never 
believed that. But in the end I thought, why not give it a whirl? I'd get out 
of that poky hole and meet a few new faces. But the car journeys were that 
tense I couldn't stick it. She never actually did anything but I got all this 
hassle about women's friendships and how we were really sisters in heart, mind 
and soul. I thought, do me a favour. Then, after the third or fourth class, 
things really came to a head."
Simone broke off here, took a sip of water and sat quietly for a moment before 
continuing. Barnaby understood the pause which he was sure would be the first 
of many, for although there had been plenty of time to work out both the plot 
and emotional subtext, the telling of the story was bound to be extremely 
complex.
"On the way home Sarah turned off into a little lane near Hellions Wychwood. I 
got quite twitchy--I was sure she was going to make a grab at me--but she was 
really calm. She just said she loved me more than anything in the world and 
wanted me to leave Alan and come and live with her. I was knocked sideways. She 
promised she would never make any demands on me. Well," Simone gave a coarse 
chuckle, "we've all heard that one.
"She said she'd sell the cottage and buy a house wherever I liked. I said I 
liked the Smoke and she'd be lucky to get a one-bedroom flat in Walthamstow in 
exchange for that old Bay Tree dump. She told me she had a bit of money put by 
and some things of her parents she could sell. It was all a bit pathetic, to 
tell you the truth."
That'll be the day, thought Barnaby.
"So was that the last time you went to the class?" asked Sergeant Beryl.
Simone hesitated, frowning.
Barnaby said, "It must be difficult, Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"What?"
"Trying to remember what comes next."
"I don't know why you're being so sarcastic." Her soft rosy bottom lip started 
to tremble.
"Perhaps I can jog your memory."
"Please don't put words in my client's mouth." Jill Gamble spoke with some 
annoyance. "Perhaps you have forgotten that she is doing her very best to 
cooperate with you in every way."
Sergeant Beryl bridged the following chilly pause by repeating his question.
Eventually Simone said, "That's right. Alan discovered I'd been going. He was 
very jealous and could be violent. So I had to give up."
"And he was so grateful," said Barnaby, "that he bought you a diamond necklace 
worth nearly a quarter of a million."
"Alan loved giving presents. It was almost the first thing that attracted me to 
him." She looked puzzled when both detectives laughed and murmured something to 
her solicitor.
Jill Gamble shook her head. "It's all right. You're doing fine."
"You know what he did to raise the money?" Barnaby said.
"Vaguely. But, me and business . . ." Simone lifted her slender shoulders and 
sighed. Her pretty brow wrinkled with incomprehension. Plainly she was as a 
child in these matters.
"Why do you think he took such desperate measures?"
"Heavens, I don't know."
"I suggest that, far from your husband being the forceful and domineering 
partner, all the power in that marriage lay in your hands, Mrs. Hollingsworth. 
And that you told Alan, not for the first time, that if he didn't buy you 
exactly what you wanted you would leave."
Simone shrank slightly at this and looked more waifish then ever. She remained 
silent but her response was written clearly in those ravishing eyes. Prove it.
And, of course, he couldn't.
"It was after this painful episode that the plan for your escape was conceived?"
"That's right. Sarah didn't give up. She came round to Nightingales several 
times and got that worked up at Alan's brutality she threatened to have a go at 
him."
"Awkward," commented Sergeant Beryl.
"Anyway, one day she turned up with the kidnap plan. She knew I'd worked in 
television; I'd told her all about making up actors as road accident victims 
and corpses and that. Her idea sounded really simple. I'd disappear, we'd mock 
up some piccies, collect the money and Bob's your uncle."
"And afterwards?" asked Barnaby.
"Pardon me?"
"Did you lead her to understand that you would then be on the brink of a 
glorious new future together?"
"I suggested we just took it a step at a time."
"How wise."
"And I told her I couldn't possibly leave without my darling Nelson. So we 
arranged that I put him in a box on the patio and she would pick him up. I put 
one of the tranquillisers Dr. Jennings gave me into his breakfast so he'd stay 
nice and quiet. Poor sweetie."
"You told me on Tuesday the box held Kilner jars."
"But Inspector, on Tuesday I was still very confused."
"So. On disappearance day you took the bus and Sarah took the cat."
"She drove over with him at tea time to that absolutely foul flea pit she'd 
rented. She brought the stuff for my face--I'd given her a list earlier--food 
for me and Nelson, some magazines and a litter tray. Then she went back to 
Fawcett Green to make sure she was seen around the place. Sort of an alibi 
during the time I was banged up. She just came back here to collect the letters 
and take them to the post."
"Your timing's a bit cockeyed on that one, isn't it, Mrs. Hollingsworth?" 
suggested Barnaby. Aware of having caught her out, he felt the first glimmer of 
satisfaction since the interview began. "We know from talking to Penstemon that 
you rang your husband at five fifteen the day you disappeared. How could you do 
that if you were already incarcerated at Flavell Street?"
She didn't even hesitate. "Sarah bought me a sweet little mobile. We needed a 
phone, you see, to give instructions about the ransom though that first call to 
Alan was entirely my own idea. I thought it would get us off to a good start."
Barnaby remembered the drunken anguish of Simone's husband as described by 
Constable Perrot. "It certainly did that."
"In fact the whole thing went like a house on fire. Sarah made all the other 
calls, disguising her voice, naturally, while I cried and kept shouting. 'Don't 
hurt me' in the background." She made it sound like a jolly jape. When no one 
responded in kind, let alone gave any sign of admiration for such 
resourcefulness, Simone frowned again, this time somewhat peevishly.
It occurred to Barnaby then that a way through that impregnable composure might 
be found by the application of flattery.
"I must say the whole plan seems to have been very cunningly worked out."
"I thought so." The shadow of guileless petulance lifted.
"Especially the set-up at Heathrow."
"Oh, that was fabulous." For a moment he thought she was going to clap her 
hands. "Sarah came over around four o'clock on Monday, bringing some shabby 
clothes she'd picked up in a jumble sale. I made her up to look like an old 
woman--quite brilliantly if I might say so--and around half past six, off she 
went."
"We know all about what happened when she got there."
"Do you really?" Simone looked both genuinely impressed and slightly alarmed.
"I presume she changed back into her own clothes before collecting your 
husband's briefcase?"
"That's right. She took them with her in a string bag plus a pot of removal 
cream."
It was so obvious once you knew the trick. Barnaby felt he was being led around 
backstage by a magician. Shown the false fronts and distorting mirrors and 
concealed trap doors. And still to come was the grand finale.
"And what were you doing while all this was going on?"
"This is going to sound really awful," began Simone.
"Come to a bad bit, have we, Mrs. Hollingsworth?" asked Sergeant Beryl.
Barnaby couldn't help laughing again and Jill Gamble gave an irritated little 
cough.
"Sarah's a very dominant personality," continued Simone. "This was her plan, 
she was running everything and I was just a pawn in the game. I thought what 
if, once she'd got the money, she never came back? There wouldn't be nothing I 
could do about it."
"Surely her feelings for you would have brought her back," suggested Barnaby. 
He was finding it more and more difficult to keep his temper at this heartless 
reversal of the truth.
"Oh, feelings! All they mean is somebody's all over you till they get what they 
want then you don't see 'em for dust."
"So you decided to keep an eye on her?"
"Yes. There was a scarf of hers in the flat. I wrapped it round my face as well 
as I could--"
"What on earth for?" asked Sergeant Beryl.
"Because I was all bashed up, why do you think?"
"Why didn't you clean it off?"
"There wasn't time."
"I would have thought," suggested Barnaby, "that as the last photograph must 
have been despatched on Saturday and this was now Monday evening, you would 
have had ample time."
Simone stared at him, her lovely face so blank she could have been dreaming. 
Her shimmering hazel eyes opened very wide, reflecting what they saw like pools 
of liquid light. Behind them he knew her mind was racing.
"A really complicated make-up such as I was wearing can take a long time to 
construct. Two or three hours at least. We had one last photograph to take and 
I didn't want to start again from scratch."
"You were going to ask for more money?"
"No, no." Perish the thought. "But Sarah believed, and I'm sure she was right, 
that Alan would never give up looking for me while he thought I was still 
alive. After his first wife left he made her life such a misery she had to take 
a court order out against him. He didn't give up till she remarried. So, I was 
to become a corpse. Throat cut, probably. I do a very realistic knife job."
It had taken her all of five seconds to come up with a completely convincing 
answer soundly based on an accurate assessment of her husband's character. 
Barnaby, who had been sure he knew the real reason for the non-removal of the 
make-up, felt his confidence slipping slightly. Not his belief in her guilt, 
never that. But in his ability to lay this guilt out, pin it down supported by 
scrupulous evidence, before a judge and jury. And prove it.
"So I rang for a cab and told him the airport. I'd no idea where Sarah might've 
parked but I knew exactly where Alan would be because he'd been given strict 
instructions. So I decided to check him out arriving with the money, wait till 
he came back and drove off, then go and find Sarah and give her a lovely 
surprise." She chirruped with pleasure, sounding like an excited little bird. 
"But it all went horribly wrong."
Barnaby interrupted her there. Partly because the interview had already lasted 
over an hour and he needed to change the tape. Partly because he sensed that 
control of it had somehow slipped from his hands and he was determined to get 
it back.
He ordered some drinks and sandwiches to be brought up from the canteen. Simone 
sipped half-heartedly at a cup of very weak lime tea and said she couldn't 
possibly swallow a thing. The men dove in and all the edibles quickly 
disappeared.
Then the two women went to the loo and Sergeant Beryl stepped out of the 
building for a cigarette. Barnaby was left alone with his thoughts which were 
not comfortable. So far he hadn't managed to make even the slightest dent in 
Simone, Hollingsworth's slippery but totally convincing performance as a victim 
of bullying and gross injustice.
Feeling suddenly stiff and awkward in his chair, he got up and walked around. 
He flexed his shoulders and turned his head from side to side to loosen up the 
neck muscles. He felt the need of a sharp gust of fresh air to stir his 
sluggish mind but knew the atmosphere outside to be warm and humid. The 
complete silence in the room pressed upon him. There was not even the hiss of 
the tape for company. He should have gone outside with Beryl.
On her return, Simone picked up precisely where she had broken off. The taxi 
having put her down near the Short Stay Car Park, she made her way to the top 
level in the lift and walked to the far end. Barely minutes later the Audi 
convertible turned up. Simone ducked down behind a Lan-drover. Alan parked any 
old how, got out slamming the door and raced off without even bothering to lock 
it.
"And thank God he didn't because who should drive in then but that weird girl 
from The Larches. She got out of her Mini, crouched down behind the other cars 
and started creeping along by the wall! I scrambled into the back of the Audi 
just in time. I pulled a travelling rug over me in case she looked through the 
window. I waited--oh, I don't know, ten or fifteen minutes--and I was just 
wondering if it was safe to climb out when Alan came back!"
"Oh dear," said Sergeant Beryl.
"There was shouting, quite near. Then, when Alan started the car up, the 
passenger door opened and someone tried to get in. I couldn't see any of this 
you understand, but I could hear the voices. She kept saying, 'You're ill' and 
"Let me help you." He told her to get out and I think he pushed her. Then he 
drove off but I could still hear her calling to him to stop. I think perhaps 
she was hanging on to the door handle or maybe her dress was caught up. Then 
there was this terrific bump and she screamed and he stopped the car. "I heard 
him swearing. He got out and then there was another sound. More of a bang 
followed by a thud. Then he got back into the car and drove away."
Here Simone paused, turned a fresh, untroubled profile to Jill Gamble and asked 
if she could possibly have a fresh glass of water as this one had got rather 
tepid in the heat. She listened gratefully to her solicitor's murmured 
encouragement. Then she tugged her grey silk handkerchief free of the confining 
bracelet and dabbed at her dry eyes.
Barnaby watched her, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the metal table. 
He was pleased to see that, whatever else she could do, Simone Hollingsworth 
could not cry to order. As he waited he was aware of a certain melancholy 
satisfaction that he would now be able to inform the Brockleys that the loss of 
their daughter was due to a tragic accident. After all, there was little point 
in raising a charge of manslaughter against a man already dead.
He recognised the drink of water ploy for what it was, a device to provide a 
necessary break in the questioning and, sure enough, once the glass arrived, 
Simone ignored it.
Barnaby became aware of a deepening tension in the room and then became aware 
that the tension was not within the room but in himself. There was a tightness 
in his breast and his breathing was shallow. His concentration, which had not 
faltered since the interview began, now narrowed to a degree where he felt it 
must be almost visible, like a pinpoint of brilliant light at the end of a dark 
tunnel.
"So, Mrs. Hollingsworth. You now find yourself on your way home to 
Nightingales."
"To my amazement and distress, Chief Inspector."
"What happened when you arrived?"
"Alan drove straight into the garage. I stayed very still, holding my breath. I 
thought, once he'd gone into the house, I could maybe get out of the car and 
somehow work my way round into the back garden. Hide there till it was really 
dark. But then he leaned over the back seat to check the door, saw there was 
something underneath the blanket and that was that. He was overjoyed to see me, 
almost hysterical with relief but at the same time there was something black 
and despairing about him. He wrapped the rug round me and--"
"What happened to this rug?"
"Sorry?"
"It was not in the sitting room when the police broke in."
"Oh, he took it upstairs, I think. Later."
"Right. Carry on, Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"We got in the house and he started rambling wildly on about how the whole 
business had nearly killed him. And that it would happen again or that I would 
leave or meet someone else and his life would be over. I tried to calm him down 
and it seemed to work because he suddenly went very quiet. Said he was sorry 
he'd frightened me and that I wasn't to worry any more because from now on 
everything would be all right. I suppose I should have been suspicious at such 
a quick change but I was just so relieved he'd stopped raving. By this time--"
Barnaby interrupted her. He had a terrible premonition as to where all this was 
leading and a cold foreboding gripped his heart. He longed to stop the 
immaculate and callous recitation, if only for a minute.
"As you yourself have introduced the word suspicious I suggest it might be more 
likely to apply to your husband. Surely, once he had seen you really close to, 
he would know he'd been duped."
"I only switched one lamp on."
"Even so--"
"And he'd have had to touch my face which I'd already told him was extremely 
painful. That was when he went upstairs--to get me some Panadol, he said, 
though he came down without it. Told me we'd run out."
"Then what happened?" asked Sergeant Beryl.
Barnaby drew in his breath sharply with irritation. He had wanted to explore 
that scene a little further. But before he could put a question of his own, she 
was off again, speaking now in an intense, gasping little voice as if short of 
breath.
"He talked and talked about how he'd missed me and asked a lot of questions but 
I said the whole experience was so awful I couldn't bear to talk about it and 
he seemed to accept that. After he'd run down he went very quiet for some time. 
Then he got up and made us both a drink. Whisky. It's not something I like but 
Alan said it would help me sleep. Then he went to get some water from the 
kitchen though there was already a siphon on the tray. He sat on the settee and 
started to knock it back. I just sipped mine but he kept urging me to drink up 
so I swallowed a bit more. He was terribly pale and sweating. I got quite 
alarmed. Then, when he leaned back and closed his eyes, I tipped the rest of 
the stuff away."
"Where?"
"Into the ice bucket. The drinks table was next to my chair. When he looked at 
me again he smiled and seemed really content. He said, 'Good girl.' Then 
'Forgive me, my darling. We'll always be together now.' I didn't understand 
what he meant."
The hell you didn't, you lying bitch. Barnaby saw the brilliance of her 
solution now. Understood the final twist, in all its cruel clarity. He saw poor 
Hollingsworth beside himself with happiness from the moment his wife decided to 
reveal herself. Touched perhaps almost to tears when, despite her injuries and 
all that she had gone through, it was he to whom she showed concern. Mixing him 
a drink with her own fair hands; settling him on the settee. Making sure he 
drank it all.
Prove it.
"And when did you discover, Mrs. Hollingsworth, that your husband had not 
simply fallen sleep?"
"But I didn't! After I'd washed up my glass--"
"Why did you do that?"
"I'm a tidy person."
"The mess that kitchen was in," said Sergeant Beryl, "I wouldn't have thought 
one glass would make a lot of difference."
"Also the smell of whisky in the room was most unpleasant."
"Mrs. Hollingsworth," said Chief Inspector Barnaby, "there was no trace of 
spirits in the ice bucket."
"I rinsed that out as well before I went."
"Did you not simply, once your husband had finished his lethal potion, throw 
your own undoctored drink down the kitchen sink?"
"Undoctored?"
"And if you were about to leave anyway," said Sergeant Beryl, "why worry about 
the smell?"
"Look, do you want to hear this story or don't you? Because I am just about 
getting--"
"You are harassing my client, Chief Inspector." Jill Gamble had placed a 
restraining hand on Simone's arm. "And if you persist I shall be forced to 
advise her against assisting you so comprehensively."
There was a brief silence during which Sergeant Beryl chewed his bottom lip, 
Simone once more ran round the eye area, this time with a pink tissue, and 
Barnaby tried to stifle the feeling that he was driving along the edge of a 
cliff in a car he couldn't control.
"Shall I continue?"
"Please do, Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"Not that there's much more to say. I left the house--"
"Haven't you forgotten something?"
"I don't think so."
"Before you left you went upstairs--"
"I never went upstairs!"
"And typed a message on your husband's computer. What did you use to cover the 
keyboard? One of your many scarves perhaps? I noticed a couple of near 
transparent ones in your bedroom."
Simone was utterly mystified. "What did the message say?"
"It was a farewell note."
"There you are then!" She turned to her solicitor and seized her arm. Exultant, 
vindicated. "Ohh, isn't that . . . He left a note!"
This was unbearable. For a moment the Chief Inspector felt so enraged he could 
have thrown up. It was three or four minutes before he felt able to speak and 
move the interview on. Then he said, "Tell me what time you left the house, 
Mrs. Hollingsworth."
"Around eleven, I suppose." She still hadn't simmered down. Everything about 
her sparkled.
"And which way did you go?"
"Through the front. There were a couple of false starts till I thought of 
switching the halogen off. Mr. and Mrs. B next door kept peering out of the 
bedroom window. And then, of course, I had to get back to High Wycombe."
"But why?" asked Barnaby, in mock puzzlement. "With Bay Tree Cottage just two 
minutes away."
"There was no one there. I knocked and knocked."
"Wasn't it more the case that you could not afford to let Sarah or anyone else 
know you were in Fawcett Green the night your husband died?"
"But I didn't know he'd died then" sighed Simone with an ever patient, sweetly 
resigned expression.
If Barnaby was disappointed that the trap he had cunningly placed in his 
suspect's path had been so neatly circumvented, he showed no sign of it.
"And anyway, I couldn't risk running into anyone while I was still supposed to 
be kidnapped."
"So how did you get back to High Wycombe, Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"I decided to walk to Ferne Bassett and ring from there for a taxi. It's only 
about a mile."
"A bit risky," suggested Sergeant Beryl, "walking along a country road at that 
time of night."
"You're not the only one to think so," replied Simone. She started to laugh in 
a merry, uncomplicated way. "This old guy in a Morris Minor picked me up. He 
was actually going through High Wycombe and I thought, great! But when he saw 
my face he wouldn't drive me home, insisted on taking me to a hospital. So we 
ended up in casualty." She could hardly speak now for laughter.
The two policemen watched, their faces expressionless.
Jill Gamble said, "Calm down, Mrs. Hollingsworth," and offered the glass of 
water.
"Oh dear, oh dear," said Simone and her shoulders shook. "It's all right, I'm 
OK. So I had to hop out the back way and grab a cab from the rank. And far as I 
know," more peals of merriment, "he's still there."
"You're lucky you were picked up by someone so considerate," said Sergeant 
Beryl.
"I'm a lucky person."
By the end of the third session, weaponless in the face of such calm, bland 
resolution, Barnaby knew himself defeated.
There had been more tea and this time Simone, no doubt more relaxed now that 
the trickiest corner of all had been successfully turned, really tucked in. She 
ate a cheese and tomato sandwich and two Jacobs Club biscuits (fruit and nut). 
Her pearly little teeth were speckled with chocolate. She licked her 
handkerchief and daintily wiped her lips.
"Right. Tell me about the Athertons, Mrs. Hollingsworth. Where do they fit into 
this elaborate fairy story?"
"I shouldn't use the word fairy in front of Ronnie--"
"Will you answer the bloody question!"
"I'm sorry." Simone shrank away, blinking in distress. "It was just a joke."
Barnaby, furious that he had allowed her to provoke him, struggled to swallow 
his anger.
"I think my client has had more than enough bullying in her life already, don't 
you, Chief Inspector?"
"We are trying to find the truth here, Mrs. Gamble, about the death of your 
client's husband. She seems to regard this extremely serious matter as a bit of 
a giggle."
"I don't, I don't!" cried Simone. "But different people react to nervous strain 
in different ways. And I get a bit hysterical. I always have."
"If you say so. Are you ready now to answer the question?"
"Of course I am. I always was." She patted her hair and briefly rested her 
fingers on her brow, smoothing it gently.
"Renee Atherton is my mother-in-law--ex, that is. We've always got on really 
well. Even after Jim and I split I kept in touch--went to see her and 
everything. Before I remarried, naturally. I used to ring her up from the box 
sometimes when stuffy old Fawcett Green got unbearable. Jimmy's brother--well, 
he's always fancied me but I only like him as a friend."
"Someone you can turn to in time of trouble?"
"That's right." She beamed happily, delighted at how quickly he had got the 
hang of the situation. "So as soon as I got back to Flavell Street, I gave them 
a bell."
"At that hour?"
"They're late birds. I knew they wouldn't mind. Explained I had to have 
somewhere to stay for a week or two, dead urgent."
"So why the sudden need to move?"
"I dunno, premonition maybe. I just felt a bit panicky. Ronnie wanted to drive 
straight over." She smiled, shaking her head in tender recollection. "Talk 
about keen."
"But that wouldn't have done at all, would it, Mrs. Hollingsworth?"
"Pardon me?"
"Not much point in leaving empty handed."
"If he's going to be spiteful," said Simone to her brief, "he can whistle for 
the rest."
Jill Gamble murmured something conciliatory; Sergeant Beryl favoured the 
polystyrene ceiling tiles with a hard stare; Barnaby ground his teeth.
Eventually Simone, with a much put-upon air, condescended to continue. "I told 
him best thing was to time it for around two o'clock the next day. Park in the 
multistorey and I'd give him a buzz on the mobile when the coast was clear."
"I see. And where does your first husband come into all this?"
"Jimmy. He don't come into nothing. He's in Australia."
"We're aware of that. But, even so--"
"He's hardly kept in touch with his family so he's not likely to have kept in 
touch with me."
"Right." One more cherished theory gone to pot. "So Ronnie picked you up. And, 
presumably, put you down."
"Don't." Simone gently touched the bruise on her forehead. "We wanted to make 
it look convincing but he pushed me a bit too hard.
"Sarah turned up about one. And, honestly, Inspector if I'd ever had any doubts 
about running away . . ." Here Simone stopped speaking and trembled slightly. 
Her eyelids fluttered and one hand rested on her breast as if to ease her 
breathing. "That woman seemed to think because she'd brought the money she'd 
bought me. She tipped it out on the bed and started throwing it into the air 
and laughing. I thought she'd gone a bit mad, to tell you the truth."
"I can imagine," said Barnaby, able to picture Sarah, now that the whole 
traumatic law-breaking procedure was safely accomplished, dancing around the 
room in joy and relief.
"She said, 'Here, here--have some,' and started stuffing it down my dress, 
trying to undo the buttons. Well, I weren't having none of that. I reminded her 
she'd promised we'd just be friends. I'd hardly got the words out when she 
started kissing me and pushing her hand up my skirt. It was bloody disgusting."
Barnaby tried to imagine that also and failed. But he could see how powerfully 
such a scene would come across in a court of law. Especially when embellished 
by a few even more salaciously inventive details.
"She went out to get some things for lunch. Oh, what we weren't going to have. 
Salmon, foie gras, lovely cakes, champagne. She said when I'd had a few glasses 
I'd change my mind about going to bed. The minute she'd gone I rang Ronnie."
"And left."
"Wouldn't you?"
"Taking the money."
"I took my share."
"Which was?"
"Straight down the middle. I know it was all Sarah's plan but without the 
photographs it wouldn't have even got off the ground. So I reckon I'm entitled."
"Our information is you took the lot."
"Only Sarah knows what I took and she wouldn't make up a lie like that." She 
smiled at both policemen, her confidence impregnable. "Even if she is an old 
dyke."
Barnaby thought of Sarah Lawson slowly fading from the light in her prison cell 
and Alan Hollingsworth in the cold ground. But he would not allow his anger to 
get the better of him a second time. Not when he was handling something as 
slippery as a basket full of cobras. Unkindness, well, that was something else.
"Quite a contrast between the pair of you, isn't there, Mrs. Hollingsworth?" 
Simone stared at him. "Here's you calling Sarah all the names under the sun. 
Yet she'd die rather than speak a word against you."
"I should hope so too!" She blushed all the same. Just a shade.
"But you've known that all along, haven't you? Known that she loved you so much 
you would always be safe?"
Simone turned to her solicitor and said, "All this is a mystery to me."
She decided then, in the face of the ungrateful way all her efforts to help 
were being received, that she had nothing further to add. Shortly after this, 
the interview was terminated. Simone was taken downstairs. Barnaby sat on in 
the room with the pale blue walls and metal chairs and poster of the Colorado 
beetle. He sat with his head in his hands and his eyes closed. He was seeing, 
as vividly as if she was standing a few feet in front of him, Simone 
Hollingsworth in the dock.
Wearing flat shoes she would appear very small indeed inside the witness box. 
Slender though she was, he would not put it past her to lose weight before the 
trial began.
Her hair would have been allowed to revert to its true colour and she would be 
wearing the sort of make-up which, though remaining indiscernible, emphasised 
her fragility. Her clothes would be plain and inexpensive. Perhaps even a 
trifle shabby. There would be no jewellery apart from a wedding ring.
She would have an outstanding defence lawyer but would give her evidence 
throughout so shyly that the judge would frequently have to ask her to speak up.
The tale unrolled would be a tragic one. Abandoned after a brief marriage to a 
man she truly loved, she then fell under the spell of a cruel exploitative 
neurotic who watched her like a hawk. Though generous if she behaved exactly as 
he wished, this man responded with violence if she made even the slightest 
attempt to have any sort of interest outside the home. Mrs. Hollingsworth's 
doctor would testify to this.
An offer of friendship from a local artist was seized on with gratitude by this 
lonely and, yes, we admit it, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, perhaps rather 
simple and naive woman. A friendship which was to prove fatal to Simone's 
future wellbeing. For Sarah Lawson, an articulate, highly educated and 
extremely forceful personality, was also a lesbian. A woman who, having 
persuaded the now unprotected and deeply vulnerable Mrs. Hollingsworth to leave 
her home, attempted to rape her.
Fleeing from this new oppression Mrs. Hollingsworth found herself accidentally 
entrapped once more with her brute of a husband and this time was lucky to 
escape with her life.
And so on and convincingly on . . .
You could forget all about a murder charge. What evidence would the Crown 
Prosecution Service have been able to offer? That the prisoner had washed up a 
glass and an ice bucket? They'd be laughed out of the Old Bailey, all the way 
down to Blackfriars and over the river to Southwark.
If the more-sinned-against-than-sinning defence came off she might get away 
with three to four years. And as anything under four was automatically halved 
all the red blooded males in the country could have a shot at the pleasure of 
her company in a mere eighteen months' time. The lucky bastards.
"Sir?" It was the desk sergeant.
"Oh, sorry." Barnaby looked up. "You waiting for the room?"
"We are Chief Inspector, actually."
"I was miles away."
"Going over the Hollingsworth case?"
"Well, at that precise moment sergeant I was thinking of Marlene Dietrich."
"Really sir?"
"Saw one of her old movies last week on television."
"Good was it?"
"Excellent," replied DCI Barnaby. "Very true to life."
But there was some justice to be had, after all. Just a little. A short while 
later the Chief Inspector was pleased to discover, via the good offices of 
Fanshawe and Clay, that Alan Hollingsworth's will, carefully and very tightly 
drawn, left every single one of his assets and whatever monies accrued from 
these to his brother, Edward.
The bequest had one condition. Alan's widow was to be housed, fed and cared for 
in every way necessary to her basic well being by Edward and Agnes 
Hollingsworth unless or until she remarried, upon which all financial provision 
would cease.
Barnaby would have given much to be present when Simone discovered that the day 
she walked out of Nightingales in her plain grey dress and simple earrings, 
leaving behind her entire wardrobe, her necklace and diamond solitaire and the 
ingeniously raised ransom money, the whole kit and caboodle already belonged to 
someone else.
Barnaby could not help but wonder, when he heard about all this, if Alan had 
not always had some inkling of the darker side of his wife's personality.
A happier side effect of this surprising legal document was when Edward 
Hollingsworth, informed of Gray Patterson's plight and discovering it to be the 
result of his own brother's immoral behaviour, decided to reimburse him fully.
Sarah Lawson was brought from Holloway Prison to Wood Green Crown Court where 
she was charged under Section One of the Criminal Law Act, 1977, with 
conspiracy to obtain money by falsely claiming to have kidnapped Simone 
Hollingsworth. When requested to stand and face the court it became plain that 
Miss Lawson was unable to do so without assistance. She received the charge 
calmly and, when asked if she had anything to say, chose to remain silent.
Later that same week Renee and Ronald Atherton were charged on suspicion of 
obstructing a police inquiry. Neither had form, much to Barnaby's surprise, and 
would probably end up with little more than a caution or a suspended sentence.
Sergeant Troy came back to work, not quite his old self. In his first lunch 
hour he went out to W. H. Smith and bought the Joan Collins book for Maureen's 
birthday. He added a large box of Belgian chocolates from Marks and Spencer and 
a vast bouquet of flowers, which was really two put together. He chose a card 
with some care.
PC Perrot remained on the Chief Inspector's mind. Barnaby remembered the 
inexperienced constable's early lapse in reporting the interview with Alan 
Hollingsworth and compared it to his own crass error of judgement, after thirty 
years in the business, in relation to Sarah Lawson.
It seemed to Barnaby, after these reflections, that he had treated Perrot 
unreasonably. He then made the decision that it would be not only unkind but 
foolish to remove the policeman from a job that he was doing superbly well. He 
dictated a memo to this effect and received reams of thankful gratitude in 
response. Interleaved with the ten-page letter were details of all the coming 
events in every village on Perrot's beat and a request, if it was not too much 
trouble, that they be put on the station's notice-board.
Gradually, in the offices of Causton CID, the machinery of the case was wound 
down and the inquiry team absorbed into other ongoing investigations.
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby licked his wounds in private. This was not 
his first failure and doubtless would not be his last but it was one that he 
found especially irksome. He imagined the station discussing the affair, not 
entirely sympathetically. Recalling the day a pretty blonde, with the face of 
an angel and the temperament of an assassin, ran rings round old Tom.
But one had to keep such things in proportion and, in the end, they did not 
really matter. What mattered was that in two days' time it would be Joyce's 
birthday.
Barnaby planned a tomato mousse to be served with slices of avocado and lettuce 
hearts. After this there would be grilled wild salmon with Hollandaise sauce 
and new broad beans from his garden. Cully and Nicholas were bringing an 
apricot tart from Patisserie Valerie and some Perrier--Jouet Belle Epoque.
They would eat out in the garden and afterwards sit on together in the dusk 
under the diffused radiance of the stars. Barnaby and his daughter and her 
husband would sing "Happy birthday to you" and then Joyce would sing to them, 
as she always did. "Greensleeves" perhaps. Or "There's No Place Like Home."
Read on for an excerpt from Caroline Graham's book
A Place of Safety
Now available from St. Martin's Paperbacks
Every night, at exactly the same time and whatever the weather, Charlie 
Leathers took the dog for a walk. When Mrs. Leathers heard the gate of their 
breeze block council bungalow click to, she would peep through a gap in the net 
curtains to check he was on his way then switch the television back on.
Mr. Leathers was usually out about half an hour but his wife would set her 
kitchen timer for twenty minutes then switch the set off just to be on the safe 
side. Once he had come back early, stared suspiciously at the newly blank 
screen and laid the back of his hand against the glass. It was still warm. 
Hetty had to listen to a droning lecture on how it stood to reason that nothing 
worth watching was on after ten and it was a known fact that valves wore out 
more quickly during the hours of darkness. Once she had had the temerity to ask 
him who paid the licence fee out of their wages and he hadn't spoken for three 
days.
Anyway this night--or the night in question as the police were to call it once 
its significance was appreciated--he was out rather longer than usual. Hetty 
could have watched every moment of Absolutely Fabulous. It was only a repeat 
but was still her favourite programme, being as far removed from her everyday 
life of domestic drudgery as it was possible to imagine.
Bright moonlight washed over the village green, illuminating the Best Kept 
Village notice and Ferne Basset's amateurishly painted coat of arms. This was a 
made-up, folkloric affair showing a badger rampant, several sheaves of wheat, 
crossed cricket bats and an unnaturally vivid lime green chrysanthemum.
Charlie Leathers strode across the shorn grass and onto the pavement opposite. 
He directed an angry stare at the dark mass of half-finished new homes and 
builder's equipment next to the pub and kicked a pile of bricks as he went by. 
He passed several Victorian cottages and a remarkable modern house made almost 
entirely of glass, over which the moonlight ran like silver rain. A few yards 
further and he was entering the churchyard behind which lay the beginnings of 
Carter's Wood. He walked quickly with the angry, vehement energy that drove all 
his movements. Charlie never relaxed and even slept twitching, sometimes 
flailing at the air with clenched fists.
The Jack Russell kept up as best she could, trotting along with many an 
anxious, upward glance. Tiredness or hard stones along the way were no excuse 
for faltering. A savage hoik on the collar or an even sharper flick of leather 
on her tender nose kept her up to scratch. She was only allowed to pause once 
to do what she had been brought out to do. A wee was accomplished hopping on 
three legs. And the wonderfully rich and varied scents that thickened the night 
air remained for ever unexplored.
After being half dragged through a tangle of thick brambles and undergrowth, 
Candy was relieved to find herself padding on soft leaf mould before a sideways 
yank on the lead pulled her round in an awkward half-circle as they turned to 
go home.
This involved approaching Tall Trees Lane, where Charlie lived, in the opposite 
direction from which they had left. This way they would pass some semi-detached 
bungalows, several almshouses, the village shop and the church of St. Timothy 
in Torment. And then, before the money started to show itself again, there was 
the river.
The Misbourne was fast-running and deep. A shallow weir a few hundred yards 
downstream made a soft swishing sound which mingled with the rustle of leaves 
in the still night air. Over the river was a stone bridge with a carved parapet 
barely three feet high.
Charlie had just walked across this when he heard shouting. He stood very still 
and listened. Noises are hard to place at night and at first he thought the 
shrill, angry voices were coming from the council houses where people couldn't 
care less who heard them rowing. But then they suddenly became louder--perhaps 
because someone had opened a door--and he realised the source was the building 
close by the church: the Old Rectory.
Charlie hurried into the church yard, stood on tiptoe and peered eagerly over 
the yew hedge. He wound Candy's lead round and round his hand until she was 
almost choking. Warning her to be quiet.
Light from the hallway spilled out, flooding the front steps. A girl ran out 
calling something over her shoulder, the sense of it distorted by gulping sobs. 
There was an anguished cry from inside the house. "Carlotta, Carlotta! Wait!"
As the girl hared off down the drive, Charlie quickly backed round the corner 
of the hedge. Not that she would have noticed him. Her face as she ran by, just 
a few feet away, was blind with tears.
"Come back!"
More running. A regular pounding on the gravel and a second woman, some years 
older but no less distressed, flew across his line of vision.
"Leave me alone."
Reaching the bridge, the girl had turned. Although the way behind her was 
perfectly clear, Charlie had the most vivid impression of a wild creature at 
bay.
"I didn't mean any harm!"
"I know, Carlotta." The woman approached cautiously. "It's all right. You 
mustn't--"
"It was my last chance--coming to you."
"There's no need for all this." Her voice was soothing. "Try and calm down."
The girl climbed onto the parapet.
"For God's sake--"
"They'll send me to prison."
"You don't have to--"
"I thought I'd be safe here."
"You were--are. I've just said--"
"Where else can I go?" She hung her head, exhausted by her tears, swaying 
precariously backwards then jerking upright again with a little cry of fear. 
"Ahh . . . what will happen to me?"
"Now don't be silly." The woman moved forward, her face and hair ghostly in the 
moonlight. "Nothing's going to happen to you."
"I might as well be dead." The girl on the bridge became considerably more 
agitated, covering her face with her hands and once more starting to cry, 
rocking wretchedly back and forth.
Momentarily unobserved, the woman approached quickly. Softly. She was level 
with the girl. Had her arms wrapped round the slender legs.
"Get down, Carlotta. Look--I'll hold your hand."
"Don't touch me!"
Charlie Leathers had been easing forward, a breath at a time, while all this 
was going on. Tugged into the drama, not caring, such was his excitement, that 
he might be seen.
The moon slid behind a cloud. Detail was lost but there was still light enough 
to outline a dark agitated shape, grotesquely tall, as if one woman was 
balanced on the other's shoulders. For a few seconds they wrestled backwards 
and forwards, grunting.
The girl cried again, "Don't . . . don't push--"
Then there was a terrible cry and a splash as something heavy hit the water. 
Then silence.
Charlie stepped back into the shelter of the hedge. He was trembling, his nerve 
ends jumping like fleas on a hot plate. It was some time before he could start 
to make his way home. And when he did, more than one person noted his progress, 
for an English country village, despite all appearances to the contrary, is 
never quite asleep.
For instance, in the beautiful glass house Valentine Fain-light and his sister 
Louise were enjoying a ferocious game of chess. Valentine played with savage 
vigour and a determination to win. He would swoop over the board, snatch up 
pieces and wave them in the air triumphantly. Louise, more detached but equally 
resolute, remained very still. She would smile, a cool parting of the lips, 
after a successful move but showed neither disappointment nor displeasure in 
the face of failure.
"Checkmate!" The board was tipped over and the figures, dark blue resin styled 
in the manner of mythical beasts and warriors, clattered and fell. Immediately 
Louise got up and walked away.
"Don't sulk, Lou. Fair and square. Wasn't it?"
"As much as anything ever is with you."
"I wouldn't mind a glass of something."
There was no denying that, so far, it had been good having Louise around. 
Valentine had been edgily uncertain when she had first asked if she might come 
and stay. He was sorry for her, of course. The break-up of her marriage had 
caused real damage. For the first time in her life she had been dealt wounds 
deeper that those she had inflicted. But it had worked out very well. On the 
whole.
To allay his anxiety and emphasise the transitory nature of her visit, Louise 
brought only two small suitcases. A month later she collected the rest of her 
clothes. Then her books and a tea chest full of stuff that had what is 
described as only sentimental value. Packing these things had hurt so much (why 
do people say "only?") that the crate remained in the garage, unopened.
"A spot of Casa Porta would be nice."
Louise started to pull the curtains. These were immensely long and full yet 
almost weightless, being made of gossamer-fine fabric scattered with pale 
stars. There was a gap between the upper floor, suspended from a huge loft by 
steel cables, and the external wall and the curtains fell through this, 
tumbling from the top of the house to the bottom, over a hundred feet to the 
ground. When Louise walked along, pulling them behind her, she always felt like 
someone in a theatre at the beginning of a play. Halfway across she stopped.
"There's Charlie Leathers with that poor little dog."
"Aahh . . ."
"Why do you have to mock everything?"
"Not quite everything."
No, thought Louise. If only.
"You're turning into a village drab, woman. Peering through the acrylics. 
You'll be joining the WI next."
Louise stood for a moment staring at the dark, shifting silhouettes of trees. 
And the houses, solid black building blocks. She pictured people asleep, 
dreaming. Or awake, overcome by night-time fears of illness and their own 
eventual decay. As she moved again, the muslin soft against her arm, her 
brother called, "Hang on."
Louise stood still. She knew what was coming and kept her thoughts deliberately 
even and colourless. There really was nothing more to be said. They had 
exhausted all the arguments. In a way, having been through the same fire, she 
could sympathise.
"Is the blue door open?"
"It's too dark to see."
"What about a light in the flat?"
The Old Rectory was shrouded by trees but the garage, over which the flat was 
built, stood some way from the house and was clearly visible.
"No."
"Let's have a look."
"Val, there's nothing to look at."
"Humour me, darling."
They stood together staring into the night. Louise averted her eyes from the 
sensual hunger and raging tenderness that consumed her brother's features. They 
waited for a few moments then she lifted Val's hand and pressed it sadly 
against her cheek. As she did this the powerful headlights of a car swept down 
the village street and turned into the Old Rectory drive.
Ann Lawrence was not asleep. But when she heard the front door slam and her 
husband climb the stairs, she jumped into bed, shut her eyes and lay very still 
thanking God they slept in separate rooms. Lionel opened the door of her room, 
spoke her name without lowering his voice, waited a while, gave an irritated 
sigh and briskly closed it.
Ann got up again and started once more to pace about, padding up and down 
softly on the faded yellow Aubusson carpet. She could not be still for a 
minute. Had not been still since that terrifying moment on the bridge when 
Carlotta had slipped from her grasp and drowned. For surely, by now, she must 
have drowned.
Ann had run along the side of the river calling, crying her name, staring into 
the dark, rapidly swirling water. Ran until she was exhausted. Eventually she 
reached the weir, a narrow strip of foam, curling and hissing in the moonlight. 
Nothing. Not the slightest sign of life, animal or human.
She trudged back to the village sick with emotion and fear. What could she do? 
Her watch showed that nearly half an hour had gone by since the accident had 
happened. What would be the point of telling anyone now? On the other hand, how 
could she not? Suppose, by some miracle, Carlotta had not drowned but was 
caught up somewhere beyond the weir. Perhaps she had managed to grab an 
overhanging branch and was hanging frantically on, cold, soaking wet and 
desperate for help.
Ann saw now that she had made a dreadful mistake in racing along the river 
bank, searching and calling. It had been instinctive, a natural human impulse. 
What she should have done was run to the nearest telephone and dial the 
emergency services. Surely they would not have taken half an hour. And they 
would be properly equipped with lights and ropes. And divers.
There was a telephone box next to the Red Lion now quietly shuttered against 
the night, all revellers departed. Ann stabbed at the figure nine three times, 
the receiver slipping and twirling in her sweaty hand. Asked what service she 
required she hesitated then said the police. They would notify the ambulance 
service surely, should one be necessary.
She described the situation somewhat incoherently while still managing to make 
it plain that a person had fallen into a river and been swiftly carried away. A 
search immediately afterwards had proved fruitless. She gave the exact 
locations but then, asked what time the accident happened, stared at her watch, 
struggling to make sense of the figures on the dial. She said she didn't know. 
Perhaps half an hour ago. Maybe less. And then the person on the other end of 
the line wanted her name.
Ann dropped the receiver which swung and clattered against the glass. Her 
throat constricted suddenly as if a hand had gripped it tight. She stood 
rigidly, swamped by horror. Her name. How could she possibly give her name? Her 
mind leapt ahead and saw it printed in large letters across the front page of 
the local newspaper--maybe even the nationals. She pictured the repercussions. 
Her husband's distress and its possible effect on his reputation. His sorrowful 
disappointment not only at her failure to provide the secure environment that 
Carlotta had so urgently needed but that she had actually driven the girl from 
the house. At least that was how it would appear.
Ann slid into a maelstrom of miserable reflection. When she emerged moments 
later, wretched and on the verge of tears, it was to realise she had put the 
phone back on the hook.
Fortunately there was no one to see her return home. Ann was horrified at the 
sight of herself in the hall mirror. Face streaked with dirt. Shoes and 
stockings soaked through. She was shivering as the sweat generated by her mad 
dash along the river bank dried coldly on her skin.
She started to run a bath before she had even taken off her coat Bypassing her 
husband's Radox which promised to "soothe away aches and pains, easing tension 
and tiredness," she reached for Molton Brown's Sensual Foaming Bath. A 
Christmas present from Louise Fainlight, ravishingly scented, wonderfully 
effervescent and surely much more likely to ease tension and soothe pain. 
Tiredness was not a problem. She had never felt so wide awake. Was inclined to 
believe she would never sleep again. Unscrewing the cap, she noticed without 
surprise that the bottle, which she had used only once, was nearly empty.
She dropped her clothes on the floor, put on a robe and went downstairs to pour 
herself a drink. There wasn't much choice. Harvey's Bristol Cream. Some dregs 
of Dubonnet which her husband would drown in soda and sip rather daringly. 
Rose's Lime Juice.
Ann sighed, terribly tempted in her present frame of mind to empty the lot into 
a giant tumbler and swig herself to oblivion. She opened the huge carved 
sideboard carved discovered, right at the back, a single bottle of Sainsbury's 
claret. Five minutes later, lying in perfumed water and knocking back the 
fruity stuff, she replayed the dreadful events of the past two hours a frame at 
a time. She could still hardly believe that the ground could have been so 
violently snatched from under her. Or that events had whirled out of control at 
such a speed. Surely there must have been some point at which she could have 
avoided being sucked into the eye of the storm?
It had all started with the disappearance of her mother's earrings. Delicate 
exquisite things: rose diamonds and emeralds on an amethyst clip. They had been 
given to Ann on her eighteenth birthday, together with a fob watch on a watered 
silk strap, a garnet and turquoise necklace and several beautiful rings, too 
small for all but her littlest finger.
She had been looking for a handkerchief when she noticed that the tortoiseshell 
silk scarf under which she kept her carved jewel box had been moved. She opened 
the box. The earrings had gone.
Ann rarely used any of the jewellery. The life she led gave little opportunity 
for wearing such lovely things--or showing them off, as her husband would have 
put it. We mustn't flaunt our wealth, he would frequently say in his bland, 
determinedly non-critical way. And Ann always agreed, never ever pointing out 
that it was in fact her wealth.
She sifted through the other items in the box, her fingers shaking. She counted 
the rings, held the necklace briefly to her heart then put everything back. 
Nothing else was missing. She stared at her pale face in the glass, at her 
sandy lashes already fluttering and blinking with apprehension. But she 
couldn't, she wouldn't let it pass.
The fact that she knew who had taken the earrings made things worse rather than 
better. It meant a confrontation. Something from which her very private soul 
shrank. But the only alternative was telling Lionel and that would mean a 
deeply embarrassing meeting between the three of them. Herself struggling to 
appear non-accusatory. Lionel twisting himself into compassionate knots trying 
to understand and excuse and forgive Carlotta. Carlotta either denying she had 
taken them, in which case what could they do? Or playing her deprived, unhappy 
background card, whining that she never meant any harm. All she had wanted was 
to try them on, having never owned anything worthwhile or beautiful in her 
whole wretched unloved young life.
Ann was pretty certain that Carlotta occasionally wore some of her clothes. She 
had noticed a rather sour smell on one or two shirts and dresses. And various 
items had disappeared before. Some rather expensive diamond-patterned tights. A 
pair of fur gloves left in her coat pocket in the hall. Small amounts of money 
from her purse. Pretty much what she had come to expect from Lionel's 
succession of lame ducks.
Lifting her head, Ann stared upwards in the general direction of Carlotta's 
room from which came the relentless thud, thud, thud of rock music. It was 
played from the moment the girl got up until eleven at night: a curfew Lionel 
had imposed as, by then, even his patience was wearing thin.
She would have to tread carefully. Carlotta was supposed to have a history of 
instability. When she had first arrived, Lionel had urged caution, assuring his 
wife that the slightest criticism or pressure to embrace petty, bourgeois 
restrictions could well tip Carlotta over the edge. So far Ann had seen little 
sign of this. In fact she was starting to think the boot could well be on the 
other foot.
She felt queasy, as she always did when faced by the compulsion to demonstrate 
aggression. Feeling it, no problem. Showing it, well, maybe tomorrow. But 
perhaps--Ann started to backtrack--it might not after all be necessary. For 
instance, shouldn't she first make sure the jewellery was really missing?
Relieved at the possibility of postponement, Ann removed the top drawer, tipped 
the contents out on the bed and started to sort carefully through her tights 
and underwear. No earrings. She checked the other two drawers. Same result.
She recalled clearly the last time she wore them. It was the anniversary of her 
mother's death. Ann had taken fresh flowers to the grave. While her grown-up 
self had poured water into the stone urn and carefully arranged yellow roses 
with buds like candle flames, her six-year-old self, aching with grief and 
loss, had longed for her mother to appear, just for a moment. Just long enough 
to see that she was wearing the earrings. That she had not forgotten. That she 
would never forget.
The music suddenly became very loud. Whether it was this ugly intrusion into 
her painful reflections or the renewed conviction that the girl had indeed 
stolen one of her most precious possessions, Ann suddenly found the courage to 
move. She strode along the landing, half ran, half stumbled up the attic steps 
and banged on the door.
The volume increased again, hugely this time. The pounding bass battered her 
eardrums, burst through, invaded the inside of her head. The wooden panels of 
the door and the boards beneath her feet danced and shuddered. Consumed by 
anger--this is my house, my house!--Ann thundered on the door with her fists 
until the knuckles grazed.
The music stopped. A few moments later Carlotta appeared, standing square in 
the doorway in her dusty black jeans and T-shirt. Split sneakers on her feet. 
Long matted dark hair tugged through a purple scrunch band. She wore the 
expression so frequently present when they were alone together. One of amused 
contempt. Then she ducked under the Mind Your Head notice, crossed the 
threshold and stood, blocking Ann's way.
"Got a problem, Mrs. Lawrence?"
"I'm afraid I have."
Ann stepped boldly forward and, surprised by the sudden movement, Carlotta 
stood aside. She did not follow Ann into the room which was very untidy and 
reeked of cigarette smoke.
"What's that then?"
"I can't seem to find my mother's earrings."
"So?"
Ann took a deep breath. "I was wondering if you'd . . ."
"Thieved 'em?"
"Borrowed. Perhaps."
"I don't wear old lady's stuff. Thanks all the same."
"They were in my jewellery box the other day--"
"You calling me a liar?" Spittle flew as the words twisted thin scarlet lips.
"Of course not, Carlotta."
"Search the place then. Go on."
She knows I never would, thought Ann. Especially with her standing there 
watching. She imagined calling Carlotta's bluff but couldn't bear the 
humiliation of not finding the earrings. Or the awful scene that could ensue if 
she did.
She wondered if the jewellery had already been pawned or sold and felt quite 
ill at the idea. She pictured her precious things being handled by knowing, 
dirty fingers. Money, a fraction of what they were worth, changing hands. It 
was this that prompted her fatally rash next words.
"If you do know anything about this I'd like them returned by tomorrow. 
Otherwise I shall have to tell my--"
The girl ran forward then, pushing past Ann with so much force she nearly fell 
backwards. Carlotta hurtled around the room, pulling out drawers and tipping 
the contents over the bed--makeup, tights, underwear, hair spray. A box of 
powder burst: tawny dust flew everywhere. She ripped down posters, pulled old 
clothes out of the wardrobe and cushions from chairs, shook open magazines, 
tearing savagely at the pages.
"Don't seem to be here, do they! Or fucking here! Or here neither!"
"No! Carlotta--please." It was a cry of horror. Ann realised Carlotta was 
weeping as she stumbled blindly about. "Look, it doesn't matter. I must have 
made a mistake."
"You'll still tell him though, I know you. Any chance to get rid of me."
"That's not true." Ann, facing the fact, protested too much.
"You don't know what it's like out there, do you? You spoiled bitch! You ain't 
got a sodding clue."
Ann hung her head. What could she say? It was true. She didn't know what it was 
like out there. She didn't have a clue. The savage snarling raged on.
"You any idea what it's meant to me, this place? People want to harm you where 
I come from, you know?" She dragged her sleeve roughly across her face, grossly 
swollen with tears. "They want to do you damage. Now he'll send me back!"
It was then she ran away. One second she was screaming in Ann's face and 
throwing books about. The next, gone. Down the stairs. Across the hall. Out 
into the night.
At this point Ann, by now lying in nearly cold water, struggled to put a clamp 
on these wretched reminiscences. She wrapped herself in her robe and took the 
claret and her glass into the bedroom. She drank a little wine but it made her 
feel sick so she simply lay down on the bed and prayed for oblivion. But it was 
nearly dawn before she fell asleep.
EVERYONE LOVES AGATHA!
"[Beaton's] imperfect heroine is an absolute gem!"
--Publishers Weekly
"[Agatha] is a glorious cross between Miss Marple, Auntie Mame, and Lucille 
Ball, with a tad of pit bull tossed in. She's wonderful."
--St. Petersburg Times
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE
WELLSPRING OF DEATH
by M.C. Beaton
When Agatha stumbles upon the victim of an unnatural death in Cotswold 
village's famous natural spring, she discovers the corpse to be the Ancombe 
Parish Council chairman--and the only uncommitted member voting on whether to 
allow the Ancombe Water Company to tap into the town's spring. Add ex-fiance 
James, watery politicians, and slippery entrepreneurs to the mix, and you have 
Agatha up to her neck in a murky murder mystery.
AGATHA RAISIN AND THE
WITCH OF WYCKHADDEN
by M.C. Beaton
Left with bald patches thanks to the murderer from a previous case, Agatha 
flees to Wyckhadden to grow her tresses back in privacy. When a local witch 
provides her with hair tonic, Agatha's hair begins to sprout--but the witch is 
found bludgeoned to death. As she delves into the killing, Agatha turns up 
secrets best left undiscovered, and powerful motives for revenge. Balancing the 
amorous attentions of a local police inspector with a treacherous search for 
the culprit, Agatha is ready to cast a spell of her own . . .
AVAILABLE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD
FROM ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS
AGATHA 3/00
When you make a game of murder,
be careful who the players are . . .
THE MURDER AT
THE MURDER AT
THE MIMOSA INN
A Claire Malloy Mystery
Joan Hess
Who could resist the mock-murder weekend at the charming Mimosa Inn? Certainly 
not bookstore owner and amateur sleuth Claire Malloy, who decides to bring her 
petulant daughter Caron along for some detecting. As the guests settle in for a 
weekend of sleuthing, dressed as their favorite literary detectives, many a 
Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot stand poised to solve a murder. But fiction 
becomes alarmingly real, as the mock murder victim isn't just playing 
dead--he's really been bashed to death. More determined than ever to find the 
killer, Claire combs the grounds of the lovely inn for the most uninvited guest 
of all: a murderer . . .
"Just the book for a cold winter night."
--Chicago Sun-Times
AVAILABLE FROM ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS
WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD
MAMAMI3/00
RALPH McINERNY'S
NOTRE DAME MYSTERIES
In each of these acclaimed mysteries, the brilliant Knight brothers--a 
detective and a philosophy professor--must scour the Notre Dame campus for a 
ruthless killer and score a goal for justice.
"Wonderful...Give Mclnerny a few more entries, and he'll have readers comparing 
the Knight brothers with the best detective duos in the genre." --Booklist
ON THIS ROCKNE
Bodies pile up as the stage is set for a 10-million-dollar memorial to 
legendary Notre Dame football coach Knute Rockne.
LACK OF THE IRISH
The mysterious death of a campus administrator threatens to steal the headlines 
at the big football game between Catholic Notre Dame and Protestant Baylor 
University.
IRISH TENURE
When the body of a female philosophy professor is found in a freezing lake, the 
suspects include a rejected would-be suitor, a rare-book dealer and a rival for 
tenure. Who on campus would take academic rivalry to murderous new heights?
AVAILABLE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD
ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS
RM4/00
Read More Wlarvelous Wlysteries
from the Qrande Dawe of Detective Ylovels
Ngaio
MARSH
COLOUR SCHEME
Near the decaying sulphur springs of a New Zealand spa, one unlucky guest meets 
his demise in the mud baths--and Scotland Yards Inspector Roderick Alleyn must 
figure out who resorted to such cold-blooded murder,
FINAL CURTAIN
Inspector Alleyn's beautiful wife Troy is dispatched to the castle of Ancreton 
to paint the portrait of famed Shakespearean actor Sir Henry Ancred. But when 
Henry is found dead after dinner, Troy calls upon her husband to help decipher 
who may have sent the aging actor to take his final bow.
DIED IN THE WOOL
When a Member of Parliament is found dead, pressed into a bale of wool near her 
placid country home, Inspector Alleyn steps in to uncover who could have 
committed such a woolly crime.
A WREATH FOR RIVERA
The sultry sounds of Breeay Bellair and his Boys waft from the stage, and 
Inspector Alleyn has a front row seat for murder, as he witnesses the death of 
the band's accordionist. Now he must use his brilliant skills of deduction to 
bring down the curtain on a killer.
AVAILABLE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD
FROM ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS
NGAIO2 2/98

• References:
  • [ebooktalk] Books added to my library in October.
    • From: Shell
  • [ebooktalk] Re: Books added to my library in October.
    • From: Elaine Harris (Rivendell)

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• » [ebooktalk] caroline Graham Attached. - Shell

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