Death in Disguise (22 page)

‘Do you like living here, Miss McEndrick? Get on all right with people?' She looked wary. He sensed a retrenchment. ‘Yes. I suppose so.'

‘Do you have a particular friend perhaps?'

‘
No!
' In one swooping motion she had left her chair and veered towards the door. Opening it, she turned a tormented face to Barnaby. ‘I'll tell you something else about Guy Gamelin. The Master pointed him out when he was dying. Pointed him out to us all. That's how guilty he is. Ask him… Ask anyone…'

‘
I
had a sports teacher like that,' said Troy when Janet had departed. ‘Knobbly knees, plimsolls, no tits, whistle round her neck. They really turn me up, dykes. All members of the buggerocracy, come to that. Don't they you?' He directed his question at the note-taking constable.

The young man glanced across at Barnaby who, head down, was still writing busily and decided to play safe. ‘Never really thought about it, Sergeant.'

‘Going to have Gamelin in now, sir?' asked Troy.

‘I prefer to hear what everyone else has to say. See what we can build up.' He sent the constable after Christopher Wainwright.

‘I don't suppose he's used to being kept waiting.'

‘Bring a little novelty into his life then, won't it?'

Troy admired that. He knew plenty of officers (some far senior to Barnaby), who wouldn't have kept Gamelin waiting longer than it took to polish the seat of the visitor's chair. I shall be like the chief, vowed Troy, when I'm DCI. No one'll push me around. I shan't care who they are. That he would be operating from a position of psychological weakness, rather than strength, did not occur to him.

Christopher Wainwright looked to be in his late twenties. The pallor of his face was somewhat exaggerated by the solid blackness of his hair. He wore tight jeans and a short-sleeved sports shirt with a little green alligator patch. If he was devastated, he concealed it well. Although he looked at both policemen frankly enough, there was about him a controlled caution that puzzled Barnaby. What could the boy have to be worried about? He was one of the two people in the room who could not have delivered the fatal blow. Was he concerned on someone else's behalf? The weeping girl he had been holding in his arms? Barnaby asked if he had seen anything at all from his uniquely helpful viewpoint. Christopher shook his head.

‘Most of the time I was watching May. The last few minutes holding her hand. In any case we were a good ten feet from the others. And there wasn't a lot of light.' Asked to do a sketch he said, ‘It'll be rather vague; I hardly remember where anyone was. A murder puts that sort of detail right out of your mind.'

‘Do you have any idea why Craigie was killed?'

‘Haven't a clue. He was a most inoffensive man. Genuinely kind unlike one or two people here who talk about love a lot but fall down somewhat on the practice.'

‘Aren't you in sympathy with the general attitudes of the commune?'

‘With some, not others. I suppose you'd call me an inquirer with an open mind. I was on holiday in Thailand last year and was tremendously impressed by the spirit of the people. By the temples and the monks. When I came back I started reading Buddhist literature then I found a three-day course here—a meditation on the Diamond Sutra—listed in the
Vision
. I signed up for it and six weeks later I'm still here.'

‘And why is that, Mr Wainwright?'

‘I…met someone.'

Barnaby saw the shoulders loosen and the watchful tightness around the eyes smooth out and thought, so he's not concerned on behalf of the girl. It was something else. He seemed to want to talk about her and the chief inspector let him.

‘I couldn't credit it at first.' He appeared rather shamefaced as if admitting to a hidden vice or weakness. ‘Falling in love.' He attempted to sound ironical and failed. ‘One has had affairs of course…' he shrugged. ‘But the real thing…never. To be honest my first inclination was to scarper. I liked my life the way it was. Nice little flat, no shortage of female company. But I hung on just a fraction of a second too long and there I was…trapped.' His pale skin flushed. He didn't look trapped. He looked happy and hopeful. ‘I didn't know who she was then.

‘I took a month's leave—I'm a BBC cameraman—which was due. When that ran out, I asked for a three-month sabbatical which will also soon run out. By the time it does I hope I'll have persuaded Suze to marry me. She's frightened of the step, I think. The Gamelins have been at each other's throats for years. Her childhood must have been diabolical.'

‘So, Craigie's death,' said Barnaby, ‘could be said to work to your advantage. Her environment being now far less secure.'

‘Yes. It's sad and naturally I regret what's happened but I do feel it might tip the scales in my direction.'

Jammy devil, thought Troy. Talk about falling on your feet. Didn't know who she was. He must think they were born yesterday. Obvious to anyone with an ounce of brain what happened. He picks up on the telly grapevine where poor little rich girl's hiding. Comes down, makes a play and pulls it off. Once they're hitched with a joint bank account she won't see his Ferrari for gold dust.

This imaginative projection, linked with Barnaby's thoughts on the motive, gave Troy an idea. ‘Where actually is the light switch Mr Wainwright?' he indicated the just-completed sketch and Christopher obligingly put a cross. Troy looked over his shoulder. ‘I see. So to reach it, you'd have to pass quite close to the platform.'

‘Not really. To get from here to here,' he drew a diagonal line, ‘that's the quickest way.'

‘And is that the way you went?'

‘Of course it is.' Christopher stared at the sergeant. ‘What are you getting at?' Then, realising, he laughed. ‘Oh come
on
…'

The sergeant snatched up the sketch and studied it closely, eyes hooded to conceal his anger. Troy could stand anything, he told himself (untruthfully), except being laughed at.

‘I believe,' said Barnaby, ‘that the dying man pointed at someone before he fell.'

‘He was standing with his arm stretched out, yes. Whether he meant to indicate anyone special, I don't know.'

‘Doesn't seem much sense in it otherwise.'

‘It's been suggested,' Troy replaced the paper, ‘that he was fingering Gamelin.'

‘Who by?' Receiving no reply, Christopher continued, ‘Well you can understand that. He's the outsider. No one can bear to think it's one of us.' He was shown the knife and glove and agreed that they both came from the kitchen, then said, ‘Suze has some ideas about what really happened. Quite honestly I think they're a bit on the wild side. What I wanted to ask was, can I stay when you talk to her? She's still pretty upset.'

‘Provided you don't interrupt.' Barnaby gestured towards the door.

‘Is that a good idea, Chief?' said Troy, once Christopher had left.

‘I think so. The more relaxed and coherent she is, the sooner we'll be through and on to the next one.'

‘Tell you something about that bloke—he dyes his hair.' Troy presented this perception rather touchingly, as a dog might bring along an absurdly shaped bone. Barnaby, who had already noted the fact, said nothing. ‘Now he's not the sort to try for street cred. He's too young to be going grey. So why do it?'

The Gamelin girl must have been waiting outside for they were back already. Fresh tears lay on her cheeks and she was still in great distress. Barnaby never enjoyed questioning the grief-stricken but there was no doubt that it could be very fruitful, circumspection usually being the last thing on their minds. And so it proved now. No sooner had the girl sat down than she launched into a flood of anguished guilt-infested speech.

‘…it's all my fault…he was only here because of me… and now he's dead…the most wonderful man. He was a saint… he loved us all…he had so much to offer the world…so much to give…you've no idea what has been destroyed here today… wicked…so wicked…Ohhh I should never have come here…'

She continued for a while longer. Wainwright held her hand and Barnaby tried to sort out the various ‘he's'. Eventually she calmed down a little and wiped her eyes with her sari which already had many damp patches.

‘So you think this is all down to you, Miss Gamelin?'

‘My father would not have been here otherwise.'

‘You believe he was responsible for Mr Craigie's death?'

‘I know he is…
I know he is
…' She had leapt to her feet. ‘No one else would have done it. They had no reason. We all worshipped the Master. He was the centre of our world.'

‘So this “knowledge” is based on nothing more than emotional supposition?'

‘It's based on proof. The Master when he was dying pointed directly at my father. It was unmistakable.'

‘Were there not a whole group of people crowding round Miss Cuttle at the time? He might have been indicating any one of them.'

‘No.'

‘And the weapon?' Barnaby pushed over the knife.

She looked at it and shuddered. ‘It was on a rack in the kitchen. He was in there this afternoon. That was my fault too. I actually left him alone while I carried some tea upstairs. He took it then. He must have been planning it all along.'

‘And the motive?'

‘Ha! The motive behind everything he does.
Money
. I came into a trust fund today…my twenty-first. Half a million.'

Christopher gasped. ‘You didn't tell—'

‘Mr Wainwright…' Barnaby held up his hand and nodded for her to continue.

‘I didn't want it. It was just a burden.'

My God, the rich, Troy thought, the bloody rich. The idle fucking rich.
A burden
.

‘So I decided to give it away.'

Well look no further, lady. Here I am.

‘I wanted the commune to have it. The Master thought that was unwise. That I'd be sorry. He suggested I talk to my parents. Apart from the question of the money he thought we could heal our differences.' She laughed again, another grating humourless syllable. ‘He was so naïve. He didn't understand how terrible people can be.'

‘Tell me, Miss Gamelin—'

‘Don't call me that! It's not my name.'

‘Did your parents actually meet with Mr Craigie?'

‘My father did. They talked together for half an hour at seven o'clock. My mother was late arriving.'

‘Do you know anything of the outcome?'

‘Only that they were going to carry on the discussion later. I don't think much of the Master's influence rubbed off. My father was absolutely bloody at dinner.'

‘How did he react when you told him your decision about the trust fund?'

‘I didn't. I left that to the Master.'

Barnaby glanced down at the sketch. ‘You recall him then, your father, as standing directly behind Mr Craigie's chair?'

‘Yes. You can see why now. All he had to do was lean over and…and…'

‘It's not quite as straightforward as that, is it? For instance you've just said that your father knew nothing of your decision to hand over the money until he talked to Craigie.'

‘That's right.'

‘At seven o'clock.'

‘Yes.'

‘So why would he take the knife at five o'clock?'

‘Oh…'

Troy wondered how she'd cope with that one. Always pleased to see anyone disconcerted, he strolled over and placed himself behind Barnaby to watch.

‘Well…the money need not have been the only reason. I'd been talking about this place. Telling him how content I was.'

‘Surely no one could take offence at that?'

‘You don't know him. He's terribly jealous. He can't bear me to be happy with anyone. After I left home he used to hang round in doorways and spy on me.' She reached out and picked up the bag with the glove. ‘Did he wear this as well?'

‘We're presuming whoever handled the knife wore it, yes.'

‘It's a left-handed glove. He's left-handed. They were in the kitchen as well. What more do you want? And May getting upset was the perfect distraction.'

‘Trouble about that, Miss Gamelin,' perching on the table edge, Troy repeated her name with some satisfaction, ‘is that it rather works against the premeditation theory. As he hadn't been here before, how was he to know things would take such a dramatic turn?'

‘You're going to let him wriggle out of it aren't you?' She glared at Troy with contemptuous disgust as if he were infinitely bribeable. ‘I should have known. Money gets you off any hook.'

Troy was furious. He was a lot of awful things but he was not corrupt, nor would he ever be. ‘You keep your bloody insults to—'

‘All right. Enough.' The words were quietly spoken but Troy connected with the chief inspector's gaze, slid off the table, turned away.

Barnaby realised that the determinedly exclusive cast of his present witness' thought made further questioning pointless. Running out of factual evidence, there was a real danger she'd start dreaming something up. He let them both go and turned on his bag carrier.

‘What do you think you're about, Troy? Letting yourself be provoked by a bit of a girl?'

‘Yeh…well…'

‘Well what?'

‘Nothing. Sir.'

Barnaby checked his list and sent the young constable for Mr Gibbs. Troy stood, stiff-backed, staring down at the old Gestetner. It had a yellow sticker refusing Nuclear Power with a polite ‘No Thanks.' The mildness of Barnaby's reprimand in no way mitigated, to Troy's mind, its hurtful timing. To be pulled up like that in front of a policeman still damp behind the ears, plus two members of the public, was unforgivable. Crashingly insensitive to the feelings of others, Troy's own sensibilities were fragile to a fault. He was on his high horse at the merest hint of criticism.