A Place Of Safety

by Caroline Graham

  ‘You think he’s done it before, chief?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. But it’s certainly not a method one finds in your common or garden domestic.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s been practising on a melon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like the killer in the Day of the Jackal.’

  Barnaby closed his eyes briefly, placed the two centre fingers of his left hand on his forehead and drew a deep breath. Then he gathered up the photographs.

  ‘Get these displayed in the incident room. They’re setting up in four one nine on the ground floor. First briefing two thirty, by which time we should have something from SOCO.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And get me a Mars bar while you’re at it.’

  By the time DCI Barnaby’s team had gathered for their briefing, Dr Jim Mahoney, Charlie Leathers’ GP, had visited the morgue at Stoke Mandeville hospital and positively identified his patient’s body. SOCO had also divvied up their preliminary conclusions.

  Barnaby’s team included eight CID officers, one of whom was the delectable Sergeant Brierley, after whom Troy had hopelessly lusted from the moment, seven years earlier, when he had first clapped eyes on her. And twelve uniformed coppers. Less than half the strength the DCI would have liked but that was nothing new.

  ‘Scene of Crime report,’ Barnaby waved it in the air. ‘Copies available. Make yourselves familiar. He was killed by a piece of wire, possibly already looped, slipped over the head from behind and pulled tight. Dense leaf mould underfoot means we’ve no impression clear enough to be of use, even if the wildlife hadn’t been scuffing around. A torch was found a few feet from the body with Leathers’ fingerprints.’

  ‘Have we got anything at all on him, sir?’ asked Detective Inspector ‘Happy’ Carson, a lugubrious man, newly made up in rank and longing to shine.

  ‘Not much at this stage. He seems to have been an unpleasant piece of work. Bullied his wife. His daughter’s on record as saying she would have done the job herself given half the chance.’

  ‘And didn’t something happen to his dog?’ asked Sergeant Brierley. ‘I heard someone talking in the canteen.’

  ‘That’s right. Badly kicked about and thrown into the river.’

  ‘Bastard,’ said Sergeant Troy, who loved dogs. There were several murmurs of agreement. ‘By the bloke who did the killing?’

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘Doesn’t this indicate whoever it was is still around, sir?’ asked Carson. ‘That it’s someone the dog would recognise. And react to.’

  ‘A good point.’ DCI Barnaby liked to encourage quick thinkers. Unlike many senior officers, he did not assume that anyone holding a rank junior to his own would automatically be less intelligent.

  ‘Why didn’t it just run away?’ asked a young uniformed constable. More than one incredulous face turned in his direction.

  ‘You don’t know much about dogs, do you, Phillips?’ Sergeant Troy spoke coldly. Constable Phillips blushed.

  ‘We can see from the postmortem that he probably spent some time in a pub the night he died. Fingers crossed it was his local. That should save a bit of legwork. Two of you could start your house-to-house there. It’s not a large village, which is all to the good. I want every bit of gossip you can pick up. Everything everyone knows or thinks they know about Charlie Leathers. Work, life - as far back as you can go - hobbies, family. Who saw him on the night he died. Any unusual behaviour leading up to that time. Nothing, nothing is too trivial. I shall be talking to his widow myself. Next briefing tomorrow, nine a.m., and I don’t mean five past. Right, off you go.’

  The press had already picked up during their daily siftings through the Police Public Relations Office that a dead man had been found in a wood in Ferne Basset. Discovering the following day the man’s name and manner of his death brought them out in force.

  Newspaper reporters and cameramen vied with reporters and cameramen from the local television news. They all asked the same questions, received the same answers and generally got in each other’s way.

  Any television interviews took place in front of the Fainlights’ amazing house. Not that it had any relevance to the crime, as far as anyone knew. It was just that it was too wonderful not to use. The second most attractive backdrop was the forecourt of the Red Lion, the deceased’s favourite watering hole. The landlord and several habitués hung around by tubs of drooping pansies hoping to be asked to hold forth. The ones who did were bitterly disappointed to find themselves either missing altogether or snipped down to a few unflattering seconds on the local evening news. Unfortunately the really important interviews - those with the victim’s immediate family - were unobtainable.

  No sooner had this particular circus left town than the police arrived for the house-to-house and the questions started all over again. Few people really minded. The ones who did had ignored the press and felt superior, saying how sad it was that some people would do anything to get themselves noticed.

  Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby and Sergeant Troy were a little ahead of their support team. Plain clothes and an unmarked car (the chief’s own Vauxhall Astra) meant they could slide discreetly to a stop at the end of Tall Trees Lane unmolested. Barnaby, pausing only to admire the ravishing mauve hibiscus, walked briskly up the path to the Leathers’ bungalow and rapped on the door. It was immediately flung open.

  ‘What did I tell you buggers? She’s not talking to anyone. Now piss off before I call the police.’

  ‘You must be Mrs Leathers’ daughter.’ Barnaby produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. And this is Sergeant Troy.’

  Troy flashed his credentials and a reassuring smile.

  ‘Sorry. I’ve had reporters on the doorstep all morning.’ She stepped back to let them in. ‘How’s she supposed to rest?’

  ‘I’m afraid we do need to disturb your mother, Miss Leathers.’

  ‘Mrs Grantham. Pauline. She won’t mind that. You’ve got your job to do.’

  Pauline led the way into the snug kitchen. Mrs Leathers was sitting in a rocker by the Rayburn drinking a cup of tea. She had her feet up and a shawl round her shoulders.

  ‘It’s the police, Mum.’

  ‘Ohh . . .’

  ‘Please, don’t get up, Mrs Leathers. May I . . .?’ Barnaby indicated a shabby fireside chair and eased it a little closer to the warm.

  ‘Yes, of course. Sit where you feel comfortable.’

  Sergeant Troy took a wheelback to the table, turning a little away from the couple by the hearth. Unobtrusively he produced his biro and a notebook, laying them on the green and white gingham cloth.

  ‘I’m afraid I have bad news, Mrs Leathers,’ began Barnaby. ‘Dr Mahoney has positively identified the man found dead yesterday in Carter’s Wood as your husband.’

  ‘We sort of expected that. Didn’t we, Mum?’ Pauline had drawn up a raffia stool and sat close to her mother, holding her hand.

  ‘Yes. We’re coming to terms with it a bit now.’ Mrs Leathers moved quickly on. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you.’

  ‘How exactly did he die, my dad?’

  ‘I’m afraid he was deliberately killed, Mrs Grantham. This is a murder investigation.’

  ‘They were saying that on the Green.’ Pauline spoke to her mother. ‘I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Do you have any idea at all who might have been responsible?’

  Barnaby addressed his question to both women, looking from one to the other, drawing them into a circle of intimacy. His voice was low and calm. He looked and sounded both sympathetic and genuinely interested. It was this ability, which the DCI was able to draw on anytime and anywhere, that Sergeant Troy envied most. Troy aped Barnaby’s manner sometimes but people saw straight through him and never responded in the same way. He sensed he was not trusted.

  ‘It can’t have been anyone Charlie knew,’ insisted Mrs Leathers.

  Troy thought this
hardly worth making a note of. From what he’d heard of the miserable sod, there was every chance it was someone he knew. In fact almost anyone he knew. But this was hardly the time to point this out and naturally the chief did not do so.

  ‘But why would he be attacked by a complete stranger?’ Pauline asked her mother. ‘It’s not as if he was carrying lots of money. And what was he doing in the wood in the first place?’

  ‘Walking Candy,’ said Mrs Leathers.

  ‘In the pitch-dark? At that hour?’

  ‘Did he say why he was going out so much later than usual, Mrs Leathers?’

  ‘It wasn’t that much later. Around ten instead of half nine. When he never come back I assumed he’d settled down in the Red Lion.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Pauline bitterly. ‘Spending the housekeeping he’d never give you.’

  ‘Did he say he might be meeting someone?’ Then, when Mrs Leathers shook her head, ‘Or behave in some way differently in the days leading up to his death? Did he do anything out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated for a moment then added, ‘Just went to work as usual.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Mostly at the Old Rectory, where I work myself. And he put in an hour or two at the Fainlights’ over the road.’

  There was nothing else she could add and the policemen, having discovered where the Fainlights lived, prepared to leave. Barnaby said again how much he regretted being the bearer of such sad news. Sergeant Troy paused at the door.

  ‘How’s the dog, Mrs Leathers?’

  ‘Hanging on.’ Mrs Leathers’ face was now awash with the sorrow so markedly absent when they had been discussing her husband. ‘Mr Bailey says it’s a bit early to predict the outcome.’

  Troy knew what that meant. That’s what the vet had said to him when his German Shepherd had eaten some poisoned meat put out for rats. He said, ‘I’m really sorry.’

  After the police had gone, Pauline asked what it was her mum wasn’t telling them.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Leathers sounded quite indignant.

  ‘You were going to say something when they asked if Dad did anything strange before he died. Then you didn’t.’

  ‘If you were any sharper you’d cut yourself.’

  ‘Come on, Mum.’

  ‘It weren’t nothing relevant.’ Mrs Leathers hesitated, recalling her husband’s furious red-faced shouting when she had intruded into the front room. ‘They’d’ve just laughed.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He was making a sort of . . . scrapbook.’

  ‘A scrapbook? Dad?’

  At the sight of the Old Rectory, Barnaby was instantly entranced, for it was a truly harmonious and beautiful house. Tall narrow windows (Holland blinds at half-mast), an exquisite fanlight and elegant mouldings over the front door. Not in good repair, though. The mellow rose-gold brickwork, supported by a rambling Virginia creeper, was porous and fretted and in bad need of repointing. The paintwork was dirty and quite a bit of it had peeled off. The guttering was broken in several places and the attractive wrought-iron double gates were rusty.

  Troy was reminded of a setting for one of the telly costume dramas his mum was so keen on. He could just see a pony and trap wheeling up the drive guided by a coach-man in a tall hat, shiny boots and tight trousers. A servant would run from the house to let the little coach step down. Then a pretty girl, all flirty curls and ribbons, wearing a dress covering her ankles but showing plenty of—

  ‘Are we going to stand here all bloody day?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  Troy tugged at the griffin’s head bell pull - the old-fashioned sort on a wire. As he let go, he briefly wondered what would happen if he didn’t let go. Would the wire just keep on coming? Could he walk away winding it round and round his arm? Would it bring the house down? He had a quiet chuckle at the exuberance of this notion.

  ‘And wipe that smirk off your face.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘No one in,’ said the DCI who was not a patient man.

  ‘They’re in,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘They’re waiting for us to go round the back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tradesmen and deliveries.’ Troy’s lip curled as it always did when reckoning the bourgeoisie. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir. Three bags full.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s just the local vicar as was. Lionel Lawrence.’

  ‘You know him then?’

  ‘I know a bit about him. He married the chief constable twenty-odd years ago.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘They kept that quiet down the Masons’ lodge.’ He raised his arm to give a good bang on the knocker but Barnaby stayed his hand.

  ‘Someone’s coming.’

  Ann Lawrence opened the door. Barnaby took in a faded blue dress and grey hair so clumsily pinned up it was falling down. Her skin was almost translucent and the eyes so pale it was impossible to guess at their colour. The chief inspector thought he had never seen anyone so washed out. He wondered if she was ill. Perhaps seriously anaemic.

  ‘Mrs Lawrence?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was an air about her as of someone awaiting a blow. She seemed almost to be holding her breath. Her glance moved anxiously between the two men. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. Causton CID. And this is Sergeant Troy.’ As Barnaby held up his warrant card, Ann Lawrence made an involuntary little sound then covered her mouth with her hand. Such colour as there was drained from her face.

  ‘Might we have a word with you? And your husband, if he’s here.’

  ‘What about? What do you want?’ She made an obvious effort to collect herself, realising perhaps how strange her behaviour might appear. ‘I’m so sorry. Come in, please.’ She stood back, swinging the heavy door wide. ‘Lionel’s in his study. I’ll take you.’

  The way led through a black and white tiled hall. A great star lantern hung down over the stairwell on a heavy looped chain. A copper jug, crammed with beech leaves and achillea and dried tansies, stood on an oval table next to a little stack of outgoing mail.

  The study was a quiet, peaceful room overlooking the back of the house. Curtains of faded amber silk, so old as to be almost threadbare. Bowls of hyacinths, books and newspapers. A fire crackled with the sweet smell of applewood.

  Lionel Lawrence got up eagerly when they were announced, hurrying round from behind his desk to shake Barnaby’s hand.

  ‘My dear Chief Inspector! We’ve met before, I think.’

  ‘Once or twice, sir,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘At the magistrate’s court, I believe.’

  ‘Have you come about Carlotta?’

  ‘Carlotta?’

  ‘A young friend in our care. There was a disagreement - an argument with my wife - and she ran away. We’re both extremely worried.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Barnaby wondered if this explained Mrs Lawrence’s distraught behaviour on their arrival. It seemed a bit over the top. Most young people, even from stable backgrounds, were inclined to absent themselves occasionally. Smuggled into a friend’s house overnight maybe, after a row at home. A comfortable doss while their frantic parents rang every number in the book or walked the streets, calling and searching. He noticed she had now become much calmer.

  ‘Please, do sit down.’

  Ann Lawrence indicated an olive-green Knole settee then sat down herself, facing them. Caught in a shaft of sunlight, Barnaby saw that her hair was not grey, as he had first thought, but a delicate ash-blonde. She wore a poorly cut green tweed skirt and hand-knitted jumper. He noticed with a frisson of pleasurable surprise that she had absolutely lovely legs, albeit encased in tobacco-brown woollen tights. Now that the nervy tension had vanished, her skin looked smooth and relatively unlined. She could still be in her thirties.

  ‘I expect you’re already aware that Charlie Leathers has been found dead.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ann Lawrence shuddered. ‘It’s dreadful.’

  ‘Have you been to see Hetty?’ a
sked Lionel.

  ‘Of course I have.’ Ann spoke sharply. ‘Her daughter is there at the moment. They’ll let me know if I’m needed.’

  ‘Whoever did this must be found,’ said Lionel. This instruction was sternly directed at Barnaby. ‘Such a person is in desperate need of help.’

  Sergeant Troy stared, open-mouthed, at the tall, elderly man with shoulder-length, flowing pepper-and-salt hair who had now started pacing up and down. Bony ankles protruded from rumpled Harris tweeds and disappeared into elastic-sided boots. His long, corncrake legs bent and stretched in a scissor-like movement. His hands, locked together in anguished indecision, twisted and turned.

  ‘What can I do?’ he cried, eventually jerking to a halt near a pretty inlaid escritoire. ‘There must be something.’

  ‘Answering our questions is all that’s needed at the moment.’ Barnaby’s tone was crisp. He had no intention of indulging this kind of behaviour. ‘I understand that you employed Mr Leathers.’

  ‘Yes. He helped keep the garden in order. Did odd jobs - that kind of thing.’

  ‘Has he worked here long?’

  ‘I believe over thirty years.’

  ‘What sort of man was he?’

  ‘Good heavens, I don’t know. I had very little to do with him. Ann would probably . . .’ He turned inquiringly to his wife.

  ‘We didn’t talk much. Only about work.’

  ‘So you knew nothing about his private life?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Ann had no intention of betraying Hetty’s unhappy confidences.

  ‘You’d know if he was in trouble, though, sir?’ Sergeant Troy heard aggression kick-starting the words but couldn’t stop himself. He avoided the chief’s eye. ‘I mean, you’d sense it. And he’d want to talk. You being known for helping people, like.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Irony, even as leaden-footed as Troy’s, sailed past Lionel. He nodded, parting his thin lips in a complacent smile.

  ‘What about money troubles?’ asked Barnaby. ‘Did he ever ask for a rise? Or maybe a loan?’

  ‘He had a rise every year,’ said Ann. ‘As did Hetty. And no, he never mentioned money troubles.’