‘As do floaters. So we’ll have to fax not just all our stations but borderline counties as well - Oxford, Wiltshire. And notify the river authorities. They might even run a search if we’re in luck. And I want an examination of the river bank as far as the weir but starting in the village. This is where Leathers walked his dog so I should imagine this is where he saw her pushed in. Plus a check on all the hospitals and morgues in that area. They may have had a drowning during the past six days. Don’t forget the outpatients’ register. She could well have climbed out or been fished out, needed medical treatment then been sent home. Wherever that proves to be.’
‘Do we specifically ask about a young woman, sir?’ asked Constable Phillips.
‘No. I don’t want it narrowed down at this stage. We’re still only guessing.’ Barnaby waved his A4 sheet with the six-word message briefly in the air before laying it on his desk. ‘I want copies of this on the board. Will someone please get Mrs Pauline Grantham’s prints, for elimination, and Leathers’ for confirmation. Also I want the phone box at Ferne Basset printed though I suspect after six days it’ll be a waste of time.’
As they all moved off, Barnaby sat back in his chair, eyes closed for a few moments of recapitulation. He decided to apply for a search warrant. It might be a good idea to look over the girl’s room and he could imagine Lawrence’s reaction should he turn up without the correct authority. Meanwhile . . .
‘Troy.’
‘Sir.’ Sergeant Troy scrambled quickly to his feet.
‘Mars bar.’
Hetty Leathers was anxious to get back to work. She was surprised, after Pauline had returned home to her husband and children, how much she missed the company. Though Hetty would be the last person to suggest that an unhappy marriage was better than no marriage at all, there was no doubt you got used to having another human being around the place. Pauline rang every evening and the whole family would be over at the weekend but it wasn’t quite the same.
The second reason was money. Hetty was in the deeply embarrassing position of being unable to pay for her husband’s funeral. She had been horrified to discover exactly how much it would cost. Her only savings, just over two hundred pounds, had been penny-pinched from the housekeeping over the years. Occasionally there was a pound or two left at the end of the week; mainly there was nothing.
Candy was still showing great distress if Hetty as much as left the room so Ann Lawrence suggested she brought the dog to work with her. Ann drove down to the end of the lane, Hetty carried the dog to the car wrapped in her blanket and Candy spent the day in an old armchair by the Aga.
This was where she was lying, fast asleep, when Barnaby and Troy arrived. Barnaby noticed the garage was empty and was not entirely displeased. Presumably Jackson was driving the Reverend Lawrence about his business, which meant that Mrs Lawrence would be by herself.
He recalled their first meeting. Her shocked recoil when she understood who they were. Her extreme wariness during their questioning and hasty willingness to show them out. This time he would have a button to press. And he would press it. Hard.
But it was Hetty Leathers who opened the door and explained that both the Lawrences were out. She was very apologetic.
‘We’d also like a word with you, Mrs Leathers.’ Barnaby smiled, suddenly in the hall. ‘If that’s all right?’
‘Well.’ She stared anxiously at Sergeant Troy who was closing the heavy front door behind him. ‘I am working.’
‘Kitchen, is it?’
Now they were just as suddenly in the kitchen. Troy exclaimed with genuine pleasure at the sight of the little dog.
‘She’s getting better?’
‘Yes. The vet said . . .’
Barnaby let them run on for a moment. It would relax Mrs Leathers, which might help when it came to answering questions. For himself, he was not really interested in animals unless well-stuffed, preferably with sage and onion and a nice strip of crackling on the side.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
Both policemen said yes and sat round the long, worn deal table to drink it. There was a plate of biscuits too. Hetty, looking puzzled but interested, passed the sugar bowl. Troy took several spoonfuls, stirred then discreetly removed his notebook from his jacket pocket and placed it on his knee.
‘What did you want, Inspector? Is it about Charlie again?’
‘Not directly, Mrs Leathers. I’d like you to tell us, if you would, about the young girl who was recently staying here.’
‘Carlotta?’
‘I understand she ran away.’
‘Good riddance,’ said Hetty. ‘She should never have been here in the first place, a girl like that.’
‘Was she here long?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘Too long,’ said Hetty. Then, when Barnaby smiled encouragingly, ‘A couple of months.’
‘What sort of person was she?’
‘Two-faced. Talked to people like dirt unless the Rev was around, then butter wouldn’t melt.’
The performance sounded familiar. Barnaby picked up the connection and followed it through. ‘What about Jax, though? Two young people - I presume they got on?’
‘No.’ Hetty, deeply grudging, added, ‘It’s the one good thing you could say about the girl. She couldn’t stand him.’
‘Not one of your favourites either, then?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘Gives me the creeps. Mrs Lawrence won’t have him in the house and I don’t blame her.’
‘Has that always been the case?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I mean, did something specific happen to cause it?’
‘No. She put her foot down right from the beginning. Mind you, he got in the other day - Wednesday morning, I think it was. I went into the dining room to clear and there he was, leaning up against the door as if he owned the place. And poor Mrs Lawrence trembling and shaking like a leaf. I soon saw him off, I can tell you.’
Troy wrote Wednesday’s date down, catching the chief’s eye. It was gleaming with interested curiosity.
‘Did she say what he wanted?’
‘Something about the connecting phone not working. Load of rubbish.’
Barnaby waited a moment but nothing more seemed to be forthcoming on the subject so he turned the conversation back to Carlotta.
‘Do you know anything about this girl’s background? Where she originally came from, perhaps?’
‘She come from where they all come from. That charity trust what the vicar’s involved with.’ Hetty drank some of her own tea and pushed the hazelnut biscuits in Sergeant Troy’s direction. ‘Ask me, it’s money chucked down the drain. Why can’t it go towards decent kids trying to make their way in the world?’
‘You’re right there, Mrs Leathers.’ Sergeant Troy wolfed three biscuits.
‘I understand that Carlotta disappeared after an argument,’ said Barnaby. ‘Do you happen to know what it was about?’
‘No I don’t and if I did I wouldn’t tell you. I’m not discussing Mrs Lawrence behind her back.’
‘I wouldn’t expect—’
‘That woman’s a saint, what she’s had to put up with.’
Ruffled feathers. There was a small silence. Barnaby nodded at the last statement, looking extremely sympathetic. Troy smiled and winked at the dog who had woken up. Candy yawned back at him. The chief inspector tentatively put another question.
‘Did visitors call here to see Carlotta? Friends or relatives?’
‘Not that I know of. She had the odd letter - airmail, from abroad. I won’t tell you what she did with them.’
Plainly this was a threat without foundation. Both policemen waited patiently.
Hetty said, ‘Straight in the fire.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Barnaby.
‘Never even opened. I said to her one day, that might be important. What if someone’s died?’
‘How did she take that?’ asked Troy, stirring it.
‘Told me to mind my own blankety-blank
business.’ Hetty got up quickly then and started collecting the teacups. ‘I’ve got to get on.’
She put the rest of the biscuits back in the tin under Troy’s wistful gaze then took the teapot to the sink. Barnaby guessed that, although she had actually said very little, she was worried about having said too much. Perhaps of being disloyal. He decided to leave it for now. Should there be a next time he would talk to her at home where there might be less constraint. Troy replaced his notebook and started re-buttoning his jacket.
‘Do you have any idea when Mrs Lawrence might be back?’
‘She shouldn’t be too long,’ said Hetty. She had turned the taps full on now and Barnaby did not catch the words: ‘She’s had to go to the bank.’
He waited until she had turned them off then asked if he might look over Carlotta’s room.
There was a deeply embarrassed silence. Finally Hetty, not looking him in the eye, said, ‘I don’t want to seem rude, Inspector, but aren’t you supposed to have a . . . er . . . something . . .’
‘I shall have a warrant later today, Mrs Leathers, but it would really save time if we could—’
‘I just don’t think the Reverend would like it.’
He’ll have to lump it then, thought Sergeant Troy. He spent a pleasant few moments picturing Lionel lumping it and rather hoped Mrs L would stand firm. But he was to be disappointed.
‘He won’t have a choice,’ warned Barnaby, ‘when we come back after lunch.’
‘Well . . . I should have to be present,’ said Hetty, adding quickly, ‘No offence.’
‘We would expect you to be,’ Sergeant Troy assured her.
And Barnaby said, ‘Could you show us the way, please?’
It was a long climb to the attic. The first two sweeping staircases had wide and shallow steps, carpeted with deep blue and red Axminster patterned in the Turkish style and so faded in places its backing showed through. The banisters were solid dark oak ending in huge octagonal lantern shapes with large carved acorns on top.
‘Mrs Lawrence used to slide down these,’ said Hetty.
‘Mrs Lawrence?’ Troy stared at the wide gleaming bars in amazement.
‘When she was little.’
‘Ah.’ He felt foolish and covered up quickly. ‘I didn’t realise you’d been here so long.’
‘She used to put a cushion at the end. One day her father took it away and she really hurt herself.’
‘What, on purpose?’
Hetty chose not to reply.
Having paused on the first landing for a breather, Barnaby said, ‘You must have started straight from school.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hetty. ‘Fifteen I was. All my friends thought I was daft, coming to work here. They were off getting jobs in Boots or Woollies or some office or other.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘I don’t like those big places, full of people crowding you - foreigners as like as not - all gossip and backbiting. I wanted a quiet, orderly job with a nice family.’
Barnaby had started climbing again. Hetty followed, with Troy bringing up the rear, gazing about him. He was amazed at how much old stuff there was about. Dark, dreary oil paintings like you get in museums. Little carved brass tables. A big gong on a stand and a padded drumstick, the head wrapped in linen. Plus a fully-grown crocodile in a glass case. It was covered all over by cracked squares of shiny caramel-coloured skin. The beast was smiling, flashing hundreds of winky, twinkly teeth.
‘Keep up, Sergeant.’
‘Sorry.’ Troy hurried across the second landing. The chief and Hetty Leathers were about to ascend a much more steep and narrow set of stairs covered in fawn haircord. There were only about a dozen steps leading to a white painted door. This was of the cheapest type, available from any B & Q. Plywood, hollow inside, with a silver-coloured oxide handle. It was closed.
As Hetty reached out, Barnaby touched her arm.
‘Have you been in here since Carlotta disappeared?’
‘No. She wouldn’t let me - Mrs Lawrence. Said she’d see to it.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘It certainly is.’ Hetty clucked gently. ‘I was quite put out, I don’t mind admitting.’
‘And has she? Seen to it?’
‘Not to my understanding. But then, I don’t live in so I wouldn’t know everything she does.’ She turned the handle and opened the door. All three stood staring into the room’s interior.
Eventually Hetty said, ‘Well! I’ve seen some messes in my time but I’ve never seen anything like this.’ She sucked in another highly indignant breath. ‘Filthy young madam.’
Troy, never one to create a newly minted epigram when a well-worn one was to hand, muttered, ‘Looks like a bomb’s gone off.’
Barnaby said nothing. He was recalling what the Lawrences had said at their first interview. He remembered Lionel putting the blame for Carlotta’s departure on his wife. There had been a disturbance. She and the girl had had ‘an argument’. Some argument.
Once again he put his hand on Hetty’s arm, this time as she was about to step inside the room.
‘I think the fewer people walking around the better, Mrs Leathers.’
‘If that’s what you want, Inspector.’ Hetty positioned herself firmly in the centre of the doorway. She kept her eye on both policemen while they were together and on Troy when they had separated to different parts of the room. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.
If Barnaby had not known the circumstances he would have assumed he was looking at the aftermath of a burglary. There was the same sense of wild, angry searching, clothes ripped from hangers and flung all over the floor, magazines - Minx, Sugar, 19 - torn to shreds, posters ripped off the walls and torn across. He picked up a couple. The names - All Saints, Kavana, Puff Daddy - meant nothing to him. Since Cully had left home eight years ago, he was totally out of touch.
All the drawers from a small chest had been pulled out and flung across the room, the contents lying where they fell. Cosmetics, underwear, a loose tangle of tights, a pink plastic hair dryer. Brushes, rollers, combs. The place smelt pungently of cheap hair spray overlying a more pleasant, peachy fragrance.
Troy, agitating the corner of the prettily flowered duvet, released a cloud of tawny dust. Then he saw several little piles of it on the bed and the floor. If this was junk it was a new one on him. He bent down and sniffed.
‘She’s been chucking face powder about, chief.’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much that she hasn’t chucked about.’
‘That girl always did have a paddy on her,’ said Hetty. ‘There’s the box - look.’
Barnaby picked up the box, Rimmel’s Honeybun, and put it carefully on the bedside table. Troy, noticing this, went to the far side of the room, retrieved a cushion that belonged to the single armchair and just as carefully replaced it.
‘Don’t touch anything, Sergeant.’
The times I have to bite my tongue, thought Troy, it could double as a sieve. He watched the chief, who was standing by the little porthole window, apparently lost in thought.
But Troy knew what the DCI was really doing. And there was a time, some years since admitted, when he would have attempted to do the same. To observe the scene, noticing every minute detail, to attempt to bring the drama which had brought such destruction about to life. To put flesh on the antagonist’s bones.
Yes, Troy had had a go at all that. But he had so rarely been right and so often monumentally wrong (once he had arrested a shady antiques dealer on suspicion of stealing the local church’s ornaments, only to find it was the vicar) that he soon gave up. As he put it to Maureen, ‘With an ace fishmonger on the doorstep why struggle to catch your own?’
Barnaby was wondering if he had made a mistake asking Mrs Leathers to show him Carlotta’s room. He thought about the coming interview with Ann Lawrence and was beginning to feel it might have been better to arrive with a search warrant and enter the place with her at his side.
He would have had a reaction then. Been able to watch the play of expression on her face as he moved around. Getting warmish, warm, warmer! Getting cool, no - cold, icy, brrr!
Irritated, he put the image aside. This was pure fantasy. If she had anything at all to hide there’d been ample time to clean up the place. But perhaps it had never occurred to her that the police might wish to see where Carlotta had lived. Possibly the experience of their extremely violent parting had left her unwilling, perhaps even unable, to enter the room again. Yes, that was more like it.
A heavy sigh and an ostentatious clearing of the throat from the doorway returned him to the present.
‘Mrs Leathers,’ said the chief inspector, ‘thank you for being so patient.’ He nodded at Troy and both men moved towards the door.
‘No trouble, Inspector. Only I must get on.’
As they walked away from the house, Troy, father of one, female, four years, three months, nine days, said, ‘You’ve got a daughter, sir. Was her room ever like that?’
‘Pretty near,’ said Barnaby. ‘The cat had kittens in it once and we didn’t find them for three weeks.’
‘Blimey.’ Troy looked sideways at the boss. He seemed to be smiling but you could never be sure. ‘You’re exaggerating. Aren’t you?’
‘Only slightly.’
Ann’s branch of Lloyd’s in Causton not only still had a manager actually in residence but was also open for three hours on alternate Saturday mornings. Richard Ainsley had an office with his designation on the door and a polished wooden Toblerone on his desk with his name printed in gold. Ainsley had known Ann a long time, as he had her father. He had met her husband too, whom he didn’t much like. As Ann had anticipated, he was prepared to lend her what she needed against the security of the house. But she was very surprised at the high rate of interest.
A Place Of Safety Page 12
