There was a tap on the door and the uniformed constable looked in apologetically.
'Excuse me, sir, did that gentleman by any chance bring you anything?'
Frederick gazed at him blankly.
'Any fruit or –?' His eyes fell on the box of chocolates on the bed. 'Ah! I'm afraid I'll have to remove those, sir.'
'Remove them?' Frederick spluttered.
'Sorry, sir; I should have stopped him at the door, but he didn't appear to be carrying anything. Thought I'd better check, though, and it's as well I did, or they'd have had my guts for garters. I've got instructions, see, to confiscate anything edible that's brought in, for examination.'
And, bearing the offending box of chocolates, he left the room, leaving Frederick staring speechlessly after him.
Back in the interview room at Ashmartin, Webb studied the man across the table, comparing him in the flesh with his pencilled likeness. The resentment and antagonism were still there, but they were now overlaid by anxiety. Possibly Baring had detected a new confidence in the police officers.
The usual rigmarole was enacted, the tape switched on and Baring tensed, watching them closely.
'Now, Mr Baring,' Good began, 'since we last spoke we've obtained some important new evidence.' He paused, and the man moved uncomfortably on his chair. The solicitor beside him remained motionless. Webb was aware of his annoyance; Baring had been all but due for release.
The hair was produced in a plastic envelope and Baring regarded it stonily. When no one spoke, he said defiantly, 'Another of them samples, is it?'
'Yes, and this one belongs to you. Furthermore, it was found inside the jacket belonging to Simon Judd. Inside, mind you. Speaks for itself, doesn't it? Couldn't have been picked up casually; it must have been when you were lugging him out of the car.'
Which disposed of that loophole, Webb thought with relief.
Baring stared at the small envelope which could condemn him. 'Who says it's mine?'
'It has your DNA.'
'But why should I kill a bloke I'd never seen in my life?' It was said with bluster, playing the only card left to him, and Webb wasted no time in disposing of it.
'But, Mr Baring, you had seen him, hadn't you? Every day of your trial, in fact.'
Baring stared at him, and Webb saw the sudden hopelessness in his eyes.
The solicitor frowned; obviously, this was news to him. 'Chief Inspector, I'd like a word with my client.'
But quite suddenly. Baring had had enough. Either he couldn’t face his brief's recriminations, or he simply realized the game was up. At any rate, he burst out impatiently, 'Well, your client doesn't want a word with you!'
Good leant forward and offered him a cigarette, moving the interview into a new phase. Baring took it, bent to the lighted match, then raised his head, inhaling deeply with half-closed eyes. Webb, the nonsmoker, nevertheless welcomed the ritual as a prelude to confession.
Good, who had also lit up, leaned back in his chair. 'Suppose you tell us about it,' he said. 'Remember you're still under caution.'
Baring inhaled again. 'First off, let's get one thing straight – I never done that robbery I went down for. Gawdsake, I'd no previous on violence, they should have known that's not my form.'
The fact that he was now suspected of something much more serious seemed, in his indignation, to have escaped him.
'I ask you,' he went on, warming to his grievance, 'how would you feel, knowing you're clean, being banged up while the real villains scarper? Circumstantial evidence – that's what they got me on. Bloke that ID'd me got it wrong – it happens.' He grimaced, tapping ash on to the saucer on the table. 'I'm not saying he done it on purpose, but he makes a cock-up, and I go down – his word against mine. Call that ruddy justice?'
No one answered and after a moment he went on: 'Gawd knows that was bad enough, but then the wife ups and legs it. One for the bright lights was Shirl, and I'm no use to her, cooped up inside, now am I? Really got to me, that did. Thought the world of her.'
He paused again, remembering his wife. Then, suddenly, he slammed his hand on the table, making all three men jump.
'And it was all that poncey sod's fault!' he burst out. 'Sitting there passing judgement, all prissy and mealy-mouthed, fair revelling in it, he was! The rest of 'em was on my side – I could feel it. Nice, ordinary folk, the lot of them. I'd have got off if it hadn't been for that bastard Judd. I caught his eye once, before he'd time to look away. Cold as a fish.'
Webb said almost gently, 'You can't know Mr Judd swung the verdict.'
'Oh yes, I bloody can! You should have seen the smirk on his face when he gave it. The rest of 'em wouldn't meet my eye. Ashamed, most likely. It was his fault all right, and I swore there and then he'd pay for it.'
'So what did you do?' prompted Good.
As so often happened, Baring was now actually enjoying himself, boasting of how he'd achieved his end. 'Well, see, I remembered that murder down Oxbury way a few years back, the one the bloke got away with. So I asked Shirl to bring in everything she could find on it. (This was in the early days, like, before she went.) I reckoned if I could knock off Judd and leave him in a pub car park, you lot would think it was the same bloke. And since you didn't get him last time,' he added logically, then you wouldn't get me, neither.'
'Wasn't it rather risky, taking a dead body to a busy car park? Any number of people could have seen you.'
Baring looked surprised. 'They'd not seen the other bloke. Anyway, it was getting dark by the time I got there, I made sure of that. Did meet one car as we turned in, which threw me a bit. Still, no harm done. I kept my cool and drove to the far end, pulled him out, dumped him between two cars, and drove off like a bat out of hell.'
'As it happens, Mr Baring, some harm, as you put it, was done. The driver of that car gave us a description of yours. A local garage remembered doing an MOT on it and supplied the registration number, and Swansea did the rest.'
Baring stared at Good disbelievingly. 'You're telling me I'm sitting here now because of that bloke in the gateway?'
'He gave us the first lead,' Good confirmed.
'Where and how did you kill Judd?' Webb asked.
'In the car.' Baring answered almost absent-mindedly, still numbed by the consequences of that chance encounter. 'Dropped something on the floor, asked him to pick it up, and clobbered him with the wrench. Nothing to it.'
'Presumably you were parked at the time.'
'Yeah, I'd driven him into the country. Piece of luck him turning out a social worker. I just spun him a hard-luck story, and he never smelled a rat till right at the end.'
'What did you do with the murder weapon?'
Baring grinned mirthlessly. 'You'll have a job finding that, mate. Hurled it into a Welsh lake, didn't I, on me travels. And don't ask me which, neither, because they all look alike to me and I can't say their names anyway.'
Webb remarked, though without hope, 'You say you based the killing on the Feathers murder. Weren't you in fact responsible for that one, too? You might just as well admit it; you're going inside for a long while anyway, so it won't make much difference.'
Baring looked at him scornfully. 'Come off it. Wouldn't have tried to throw suspicion on meself, now would I?'
To which, Webb supposed, there was no answer. It would have been too easy, anyway. After all, there was still the man with the size-nine shoes out there somewhere.
It was Saturday afternoon, and Roy had taken the boys to a cricket match. As usual, they'd invited her to go with them, but of course they'd known she wouldn't. If she had to be bored, Alex told them, she preferred to be bored at home in comfort.
Restlessly, she prowled barefoot round the house. The cleaner had been the previous day, and there was nothing for her to do. She'd prepared the supper, she'd finished her library book, and there was only cricket on television.
The house was dim and cool behind slanted blinds but outside the sun was merciless, killing stillborn any thought
of doing some gardening. She was hot, sticky and depressed; there were all at once so many things to worry about – the hostility her father'd aroused, her marriage, her relationship with Patrick.
She stood in the middle of the hall, absorbing the atmosphere of the house. To her left the sitting-room clock ticked comfortably. Behind her in the kitchen the fridge gave one of its periodic roars and clicks. Outside, some boys shouted as they rode past on their bicycles.
It was no use ringing Gilly, she and Hugh would be at the club watching Loveday play tennis. Mother was probably at the hospital, but she didn't feel like making the effort of changing and driving there. She'd go along for a while this evening while Roy stayed with the twins, thereby avoiding having to spend the evening together and make small talk.
With both hands she lifted the heavy mass of her hair so the air could get to her neck. She'd tie it up – that would make her cooler. In fact, she decided, halfway up the stairs, she'd have a shower and wash it, let it dry naturally, and then pin it up. After which, to complete the cooling process, she'd make some fresh lemonade, using Mother's recipe. It would help to fill in the time, and the boys would be glad of it when they got back.
In the bedroom she stripped, stepped out of her clothes and, leaving them in a damp little pile, walked naked to the bathroom, welcoming the breeze of her movement on her body. She would treat herself to the expensive shower gel she kept for special occasions.
Moments later she was standing under the cool water, lifting her head to let it run in prickly streams over her face and neck and dripping hair. She squeezed the gel into her palm and massaged her body, feeling the heat and stickiness drain away. Then, reaching for the shampoo, she turned her attention to her hair. It felt almost decadent, to be performing these rites at three o'clock in the afternoon.
It was as she was rubbing her hair dry that she thought she heard the doorbell. Who could it be? Perhaps Susie about the scout picnic? She'd said she'd be in touch, but anyone would be welcome, to help pass this interminable afternoon.
She shook back her damp hair, reached for the robe hanging on the door, and ran barefoot down the stairs, pausing to look through the spy-glass in the door. Patrick stood on the step outside.
Alex flung open the door, noticing in that first moment that he looked tired, and a muscle was jumping at the corner of his eye.
'Alex,' he said.
Suddenly aware of her appearance, she took him by the arm, pulled him into the house and shut the door. In the cool, dim hall they stood looking at each other.
He said, 'You smell delicious.'
'Patrick, what are you doing here? You know we agreed –'
'I was desperate to see you, and I remembered Roy talking about taking the twins to the match. Anyway, I had to get away for a while – everything's so – bloody.'
He reached for her, burying his face in her damp hair, and she held him tightly, trying to find words to comfort him. How selfish she was, thinking only of her own problems, while Patrick's mother was dying and his sister a constant worry.
'Sonia didn't suspect anything, the other night?' she asked, as the panic thought struck her.
'What? Oh – no, I don't think so.' He drew back a little, looking into her face. 'I should have asked after your father. How is he?'
'Bouncing back, as usual.'
'That's great; when's he coming home?'
'They're keeping him in for a while, for his own safety. How about your mother?'
'Not bouncing anywhere, I'm afraid. Nor likely to.'
She looked up at him, her eyes full of sympathy, and saw him change. Sympathy was no longer enough. He said hoarsely, 'Alex,' and slipped the robe from her shoulders. As his mouth caressed her throat she felt her need rising to meet his and the heavy weakness over which she had no control flowed over her. She half turned towards the sitting-room, but he caught her hand and pulled her to the stairs.
'Oh no, my love. I'm not making do with the hearth rug. Not when there's a bed ready and waiting.'
Their coming together was as frenzied as always. There was none of the tenderness she'd shared with Roy, Alex thought, as Patrick finally fell back against the pillows. And – oh God, he was in Roy's bed!
Suddenly and totally, shame engulfed her. She could ignore her conscience as long as their lovemaking was clandestine and exciting – in the car, under the hedgerows like gypsies, even, once, in a hotel. But here, in the bedroom she shared with her husband, it had suddenly shed its glamour and stood exposed for what it was – underhand, sordid, both of them deceiving those who loved them.
She turned away from him, helpless against a rush of tears.
'Hey!' Patrick was leaning over her. 'Sweetheart, what is it? Is there something you're not telling me?'
She shook her head. How could she tell him? She was as much to blame as he was.
'Alex!' He gently shook her shoulder. 'For God's sake tell me what's wrong.'
'Reaction, I suppose,' she said between gasps. 'It's been pretty bloody here, too.'
'My poor love.' He pulled her back into his arms, cradling her against him, and she lay passive, waiting for her laboured breathing to quieten.
She said with an attempt at a smile, 'I had a shower to cool me down. Now I need another.'
'Let's have one together.'
'No.' She struggled away from him. 'Look, you'd better go. I'll have to straighten things up in here, and I'm not sure what time they'll be back.'
'Surely there's no hurry.' He frowned, looking down at her. 'There is something; what is it?'
She said unwillingly, 'We should have settled for the hearth rug.'
'Ah, the marital bed has been sullied, is that it? Bit late to develop a conscience, love. Anyway, I'm a firm believer that what the eye doesn't see, the heart won't grieve over.'
She forced a smile. 'No doubt you're right.'
To her relief, he got up and began to dress and, slipping on the robe again, she went down to the door with him.
'I parked round the corner,' he said. 'Your reputation is safe.'
'As long as no one sees you leave.'
'They won't.'
She opened the door cautiously. Outside, the hot street was deserted. He gave her a swift kiss.
'I'll be in touch. And don't worry, sweetheart, we're not hurting anybody.'
Glib words, she thought as she closed the door. She was no longer sure that she believed them.
12
By the end of Saturday afternoon, Lee Baring had been formally charged with the murder of Simon Judd. Not a bad day's work, Webb reflected, and now that the case was under wraps, he could take the couple of days' leave due to him. Counting Sunday, that would make three days in all; if Hannah was free, they might even go away somewhere.
He was whistling as he pushed through the swing doors of the police station on to the baking pavement. Before going home, he'd call at the hospital and give Mace the news. It would cheer the old boy up.
But when he got there, it was to find someone already with Mace, a tall, thin young man who rose uncertainly to his feet as Webb, after a quick tap, appeared in the doorway.
'Chief Inspector!' Mace greeted him. 'Come in, come in. I don't believe you've met my research assistant, Paul Blake. Chief Inspector Webb, Paul, in charge of the Judd case.'
Webb looked from one to the other. Despite Mace's heartiness, there was an air of constraint in the room. It seemed he had interrupted something. Blandly he took the bony hand the young man extended.
'I've come to tell you, Mr Mace, that Baring has just been charged with Simon Judd's murder. It'll be on this evening's news, but I wanted you to know first.'
'That's very good of you, Chief Inspector. I appreciate it.' The old man looked up at him consideringly. 'And what marks do I get for my theory of long-distance wrong?'
Webb grinned wryly. 'Ten out of ten, sir. He's done a stretch, and Judd was the foreman of the jury that convicted him. He was convinced he'd swung them against him.'
'Excellent. Quite excellent.'
Blake said eagerly, 'So the relevant Commandment, sir, would be bearing false witness?'
'I suppose it would,' Frederick agreed, 'albeit unintentionally; I don't doubt Judd was genuinely convinced of the man's guilt. However, Chief Inspector, Baring might have a point: Paul here was saying only the other day that these rather weak, mild-mannered men can be quite ruthless, holding doggedly to their opinions when they believe they're in the right. It would have been in character if, as foreman, he'd argued forcefully against Baring.'
His face brightened. 'But to more pertinent matters; now he's under lock and key, may I go home?'
'I'm afraid not, sir, not yet. It wasn't Baring who attacked you; we're still looking for someone who takes size-nine shoes.'
Mace gave a short laugh. 'They're on to you, Paul!'
Colour flooded the young man's face as Webb glanced quickly at his feet. They certainly looked the right size, and interestingly enough the sole of one shoe, visible since Blake was sitting with his leg crossed, was of rubber.
Webb smiled noncommittally and, deciding to stay a little longer than he'd intended, seated himself on the vacant visitor's chair.
'So you're Mr Mace's researcher, Mr Blake,' he said pleasantly. 'Does that mean you do all the hard work, and he gets the glory?'
'Exactly!' Frederick confirmed.
'I wouldn't say that, Chief Inspector.' Blake's flush was fading. 'I was born curious, and nothing gives me more pleasure than unearthing facts and figures.'
'So you research full time, for other people as well?'
'No – at least, I do carry out research for other people – quite often associations, in fact – but I'm not a full-time researcher. I work at the library, and I'm also Mr Mace's secretary.'
'A busy life. You live round here, I take it?'
'Yes, I have lodgings in Sheep Street. It's convenient both for Mr Mace and the library.'
Mace put in, 'I advertised for a researcher for my last book. Paul applied, and obligingly moved over here.'
'It fitted in very well,' Blake explained. 'I'd just been offered the post at the Central Library.'
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