Death in Disguise (24 page)

‘Oh you can't do that! He's withdrawn, hardly coherent. It'd just be a waste of time.'

‘He's a witness, Mr Gibbs.' Barnaby glanced down at his sketches. ‘Actually sitting at Craigie's feet. Closer to him than anyone. He may have seen something.'

‘He's asleep. Please let him rest.' Arno's freckled skin was beaded with luminous sweat. ‘His world has come to an end.'

‘In the morning, then.' Arno's alarm was palpable. Barnaby added gently, ‘We're not monsters you know.'

‘Of course not. I wasn't meaning to imply…oh dear. Could I be present?'

‘In the case of the mentally ill someone has to be, Mr Gibbs. And if you think you're the best person—by all means.'

They talked to Mrs Gamelin next and the conversation, though not short on entertainment value, was in all other respects an absolute frost. May, leading the police towards the communal sitting-room, described Felicity as ‘rather poorly and resting'.

Troy had already volunteered the information that the lady was a smackhead. As they walked along he added, ‘Crashed the car. They found some stuff. Lost her licence. It was in the
Sun
.'

‘Surely not,' replied Barnaby.

‘Bet she's tranqued out of her skull.'

Face to face with Felicity, Barnaby felt his sergeant might well be right. Her huge eyes beneath smudged purple lids swivelled and slipped all ways. The hands made delicate broken movements. Up as if to touch her face, changing direction, plucking at her dress, scrabbling in her tangled hair. Her face was shrunken and seemed to fold in on itself, pinched and tiny, like a worried marmoset's.

Felicity became aware that people were present. One was talking rather persistently and his voice rattled inside her head, making no recognisable sounds. He pushed a piece of paper of a pleasant pale shade her way. Felicity admired it politely and handed it back. He offered it again with a pencil and seemed to be urging her to try it out. She smiled, quite agreeable to this suggestion for she had loved drawing as a child. She spent a long time bending over the paper and the result, Barnaby had to admit, was not unattractive. Several quite charming horses, one with only three legs and a garland of flowers big as cabbages round its neck.

Felicity then asked for a drink and Troy got her some water. She hadn't meant water and poured it over his trousers. Shortly afterwards the interview came to an end.

While it was going on, and directly overhead, Trixie was walking up and down. She had been chain-smoking and the air was acrid and stale. ‘Why are they taking so long?'

‘I expect they want to talk with everyone. It's only been…' Janet turned the Snoopy alarm round, ‘an hour and a half since they first arrived. That's not bad.'

‘You're not waiting are you?'

‘I don't know why you're getting into such a state. You didn't have anything to do with it.' She crossed to the window and pulled aside a curtain to reveal a low hanging sliver of moon. Cold and sharp, like a scythe.

‘Don't do that. You know I hate the night.' Janet let the curtain fall. ‘What are they like?'

Janet recalled narrow lips, a fiery brush cut. ‘All right.'

‘Are you sure you told them about the glove?'

‘I've already said a dozen—'

‘And that you were the one who saw him hide it?'

‘
Yes
. How many more times?'

‘Then they should have arrested him, shouldn't they? I don't understand it.'

You and me both, thought Janet sadly. But I know it all goes back to this afternoon. After the first fierce rebuff she hadn't questioned Trixie again, but it had not been difficult to guess at the reasons for the girl's smeared make-up, milk-white face and held-together clothes. So Janet, guessing at revenge, understood when Trixie had explained what she wanted her to do.

‘The thing is Jan—I saw him hide the thing. I really did. I wouldn't ask you to tell otherwise. The trouble is, once Gamelin knew who shopped him he'd tell them I was making it up out of spite and they'd believe him.'

‘Why?'

‘Because he's rich and powerful, stupid.'

‘Then why can't we both say we saw it? I'd back you up.'

‘I don't want to be in it
at all
.'

So Janet had told her lie, still not sure if Trixie spoke the truth but sympathising with, indeed almost sharing, her friend's need to exchange a hurt for a hurt.

There was a knock at the door and a policewoman asked if Miss Channing could spare a few moments.

‘They're very civil, aren't they?' said Trixie. ‘I wonder what they'd be like if I told them to take a running jump.'

‘Don't antagonise people unnecessarily. And don't take those cigarettes. You've already had—'

‘Oh for heaven's sake, stop clucking. You're like a bloody old hen.'

Troy had no complaints about the cigarettes. As wreaths of smoke surrounded Trixie's blonde curls, his nostrils flared—sucking in such wisps as came his way. It helped to take his mind off his soggy trousers. She sat, knees very close together, gripping a golden box of Benson's and a lighter.

Barnaby could see she was frightened. Smell it too. A scent both sour and intemperate. He'd met it before, had attempted to describe it once and the nearest comparison he could find was to the smell released when digging out old nettles. He asked if she'd been at the Manor House long.

‘A few weeks. Why? What's that got to do with all this?'

‘Could you be more precise?'

‘No. I've forgotten the exact date.'

‘Do you like it here?' His tone was courteous yet she took immediate offence.

‘I suppose you think I don't belong. Just because I'm not wearing a wafty frock and chanting hallelujah.'

Troy chuckled. Trixie looked at him in surprise, then mistakenly believing his response to be sympathetic, with sly interest. She then assured Barnaby that she could not help at all regarding the death of ‘our poor Master', though her sketch showed her to be sitting very close.

‘But it was kind of dark, you see. We rushed to help May then the light came on and it was all over. He pointed Guy Gamelin out. But I expect everyone has told you that.' She looked at him expectantly.

‘There seems to be some difference of opinion there,' lied Barnaby.

‘Oh no—it was absolutely clear. Directly at him.' She flushed, recognising her insistence on the matter. ‘Also I heard upstairs he was seen hiding a glove. It must have been the one he wore to hold the knife.'

‘Had you met Gamelin before today, Miss Channing?'

‘Blimey—I don't move in those circles.' Then, as if remembering her persona, ‘They're so materialistic, aren't they?'

‘You seem to be quite sure that he's the guilty party.'

‘I don't see who else it could have been.'

‘May Cuttle is of the opinion,' said Barnaby, ‘that the despatch was brought about by supernatural means.'

Trixie laughed. A spontaneous robust shout of amusement, fear momentarily flown. Troy said, ‘You're not a believer then?'

‘Oh—' A devout expression appeared with such speed as to make her look positively silly. ‘Yes—I'm a disciple of course. Just not that far along the road.'

If you're a disciple, my girl, thought Barnaby, taking in the perky breasts, glossy lips and flashy triple wedges, I'm Joan Collins. She was back on Gamelin again.

‘Is…um…is he still here?' When Barnaby became engaged with some papers and did not reply, she added, ‘We need to know you see…if someone's staying overnight.' Another pause. ‘To make up the bed…and food…'

Finally the chief inspector took pity on her. ‘I believe Mr Gamelin has returned to his hotel.'

‘You let him go!'

‘I shouldn't worry about it,' said Troy. ‘We keep a close eye. On everyone.'

Grumbling that it wouldn't be of any use, Trixie did a sketch and then Barnaby released her. As the door closed. Troy said, ‘A worried girl, Chief.'

‘She's hiding something that's for sure. So're Wainwright and Gibbs. Yet when I pressed the murder button none of them jumped. Now why is that?'

‘Wheels within wheels, I'd say.'

‘It was Gamelin set her off. Claims she's never met him before today, yet can't wait to stuff an apple in both ends, truss him up and bung him in the oven. If there's one thing I can't stand,' he got up, moving stiffly, ‘it's being railroaded.'

‘Talk to him again in the morning?'

‘Oh yes. We'll bring him in I think. Meanwhile—drop these off at Forensic on your way home.'

Troy took the plastic bags. The lab was not on his way home. In fact it was not on anyone's, but if it
was
on anyone's way home then it was more on the chief inspector's way home than it was on his sergeant's way home…

Saying ‘Right you are sir' he foisted them on to Constable Fluffy and reached thankfully for the fifth cigarette.

Guy was slumped in a wide deep armchair in front of the flickering television set. He had undressed but he had not bathed. He had called his lawyer but he had not cleaned his teeth. He was wearing socks, boxer shorts and a sweat-stained unbuttoned shirt. Links removed, the cuffs flopped down—covering the backs of his hands.

His body was motionless apart from occasional movements towards a freshly filled ice bucket, but his mind stormed and raged. He felt nauseous, although whether this was because of what he had drunk (the bottle of whisky ordered that afternoon was almost empty), or because of the foul, seething blackness inside his head, he neither knew nor cared.

He was devoured by thoughts of Sylvie. Obsessed by the recollection that it was she who had been closest to him when they had all been bending over May. And on his left; side sinister. The side on which the glove was found. Her flowing robes could have concealed it perfectly as they could the knife. This fact, coupled with the knowledge that it was only because of her he had been there in the first place, pointed to the agonising assumption that he might have been set up. And struggle as he might against the idea, within his fog of alcohol and morbid introspection, Guy was unable to put it quite aside. His skull ached with the effort of trying to do so and the muscles in his neck were like knots of steel. The more he twisted and turned, the more remorselessly logical did the hot depths of his imaginings seem to be.

It explained why she had lured him into the kitchen and left him alone—so that he should have easy access to the knife and glove. And most terrible of all, her instant accusation. For, after the first hellish seconds when the lights went on and they had all stared immobile and disbelieving at the falling white-robed figure, Sylvie had turned on her father, shouting, ‘You… you…' and struck him across the cheek, her nails searing the flesh.

Someone had restrained her and Guy had backed away, assuming the position and role of pariah in which the police discovered him. Had it formed then—the first suspicion? The evil little canker. Guy groaned and reached for more ice, rummaging in the bucket with his glass, using it like a shovel. He poured whisky over the cubes. It slopped about, some going into the bucket, some on to the tray. The room reeked of it: a peaty, raw-paper smell. He drained the stuff in two gulps.

Muddied in with the dreadful apprehension of his daughter's treachery was a mixture of irritation and resentment against the dead man. They had been going to talk again. Guy had wanted that. Although there had not been even the faintest trace of the judgemental in either Craigie's attitude or conversation, Guy knew he himself had not come out of their earlier encounter well and the knowledge rankled. He felt that he had come across simply as a man with an out-of-control superego. But there was more to him than that. And life, in any case, had made him what he was. No one who hadn't been there knew what it took to climb out of the gutter. The energy and determination, the terrible transforming cost. A moment of weakness and you were face down again in the sewage with a dozen spiked boots ramming the back of your neck. If he could have told Craigie that…