“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 Époque.
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 its
elf 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.
Faithful unto Death Page 41
