Death in Disguise (27 page)

Irritated by these recollections, Janet decided to break the house rules and make some real coffee. Stimulating uplift—that's what she was in need of, and to hell with pancreatic cancer. Or was it liver fluke? She would take some up to Trixie as well. And perhaps some biscuits.

In the visitors' cupboard she found a commercial and sinfully inorganic packet of Uncle Bob's Treacle Delights. She ground some beans, inhaling with pleasure, and undid the biscuits. The wrapper, with a fine relish for the cultural cross-reference, showed a Chinese girl in a sombrero with corks dangling from the rim. Janet selected a blue flowered plate for the Delights, put it back, got out a little glazed mustard number with a spray of crimson blossom, put that back and finally settled for a pale pink trellised-edged look. She carefully arranged several syrup-coloured biscuits in overlapping circles then, while the coffee brewed, snipped an Albertine rose (a perfect match for the plate) from outside the kitchen window.

Entering the hall with her laden tray, stomach looping an apprehensive loop as she anticipated rousing Trixie from slumber, Janet came to a full stop. There, at the bottom of the staircase, were May and Arno talking to a huge man in a speckled suit. As Janet hesitated, May and the man turned and went upstairs.

‘Who was that, Arno?'

‘The Gamelins' solicitor.' His eyes were already slipping after May and he brought them back to Janet with an effort. ‘Something awful's happened. At least I suppose normally one would say it was awful. I can't help wondering if it's a blessing in disguise. He was found dead this morning in his hotel room.'

‘What…Guy?'

Arno nodded. ‘Apparently he'd asked to be called at nine. The maid took some tea up and he was just lying there. Hadn't even gone to bed. They seem to think it was a heart attack.'

‘How dreadful.' Even as she made the expected response Janet knew that she was glad. He had been a terrible man. Avaricious and unkind. The world was well shot of him. And what a piece of news to offer Trixie. What a sweet token of a gift! Better than the real coffee and Uncle Bob's Delights. Better even than the rose. Arno was saying something else.

‘May thought Suhami might be better able to receive the news. Her mother is still not quite…' He trailed off tactfully but Janet was already climbing the stairs.

Trixie was not sleeping after all but curled up on the window seat and smoking again. ‘Has the post come?'

‘Yes.' Janet put the tray down on the chest of drawers. She wondered if Trixie was looking for another letter in a blue envelope. ‘Were you expecting something?'

‘Not really.' Trixie was wearing an apple-green silk dress. Her face was unmade-up, the skin thick and smooth like cream. Inside her arms, Janet could see yesterday's scarlet pinch-marks transformed to little violets as the bruises came out.

‘I've made you some real coffee.' She filled two mugs.

‘You'll be for it. We're in a caffeine-free zone here.'

‘And opened some biscuits.' Janet put her own mug aside and took the tray over to the window. The rose now looked rather silly not to mention superfluous. She had forgotten Trixie already had a bowlful. ‘Drink it while it's hot.'

Trixie told her not to go on and Janet accepted this routine castigation with the patience of one who knows it is within her power to spring a big surprise. She made some headway into her own mug. Heavens—she'd almost forgotten how utterly delicious the real thing tasted! Was a squeaky-clean colon worth the sacrifice? ‘Is it OK?' she asked timidly.

‘Lovely. It'll warm me up.'

Janet didn't understand. The sun was streaming in and Trixie was bathed in it.

‘Is there any news? I mean from the police.'

‘They're here now. With the Gamelin solicitor.' Janet paused, her gaunt ardent face cloaked with anticipation. This was the moment. Still she hesitated, for the news could only be given once and then her purse would be empty. She could not tantalise, coyness not being her nature. In the end she just blurted it out.

‘Guy Gamelin's dead. He had a heart attack.'

She remembered always what happened next. Trixie jerked violently upright as if she'd received an electric shock. The coffee spilled down her apple-green dress and bare legs and the mug clattered to the floor. She gave a wild shout, which was cut off as she clapped her hands over her mouth. Then she cried, ‘Oh God—what am I going to do?' and started to scream.

About half an hour after this dramatic and sensational display the police arrived to interview Tim. Arno led the way slowly and with the utmost reluctance along the gallery towards the boy's room. As they approached the door, his steps became more and more sluggish until finally he stopped, turned to Barnaby and laid an urgent, detaining hand on the chief inspector's sleeve.

‘He won't be able to help, you know.'

‘Please, Mr Gibbs. We've been through all this downstairs.'

‘If you're determined…would you…?' Arno had moved some small distance away, beckoning. When the two men joined him he continued, lowering his voice. ‘I feel I should say something about his background. No one else here knows but it might help you to understand and be…you see I met him—well found him might be a better way of putting it—about six months ago.'

He paused, cupping his hands round his eyes like blinkers for a second, then continuing. ‘I'd driven the Master into Uxbridge—he was a hospital visitor, Thursday was his regular day—and we'd arranged to meet back at the car. There's a public toilet nearby which I needed to use. As I went down the steps, three men came up. Big men. One of them had tattooed arms, red and blue. They were laughing—great rough shouts. Not humorous laughter but ugly.'

‘I used the urinal thinking the place was empty, then I heard whimpering coming from one of the cubicles. He was in there—Tim. His trousers were round his ankles and he was bleeding from the anus. They had…used him.' Arno's voice had sunk almost to a whisper. Barnaby leaned forwards, barely able to hear. ‘Some money as well…a five-pound note…there. I mean, wedged…it was vile.'

Arno broke off unable to continue. He produced a handkerchief and rubbed his eyes, turning his back while he did so. Picturing the scene, Barnaby felt the pity of it and even Troy was moved to sympathy—thinking, life's a bugger and no mistake. After a few moments Arno apologised for the break in continuity and carried on.

‘He was in such pain and he didn't understand. I'll never forget how he looked…his eyes…it was like finding a child violated. Or a baited animal. As soon as he saw me, he started to scream. I tried to help him but he just hung on to the lavatory, his arms locked around it. I didn't know what to do. I ran to the car park where the Master was waiting and told him what had happened. He came back with me. Tim had fastened the cubicle by then. The Master talked to him through the door for over an hour, even though he got some odd looks from the two or three men who came in during that time.

‘You never heard him speak, of course, Inspector—but he had the most remarkable voice. Not just mellifluous but with a great promise of kindness…of happiness even. And so compelling. You felt whatever he told you must be true. Eventually Tim unbolted the door. The Master comforted him, stroked his hair. Then after a little while we helped him dress, took him to the car and drove him here. May put him to bed and we cared for him. And have been doing so ever since.

‘Everything had to be sorted out with the Social Services of course. We all got a thorough going-over which I thought a bit ironical considering how the boy had been neglected before. Turfed out of the hospital, shoved into a bedsitter and visited once a week, if he was lucky, by a care assistant. We got his benefit book and details of his medication and that more or less was it. I think the fact that we're a sort of religious organization swung it. They said we'd be checked up on from time to time but no one's ever come. I expect they're glad to have one less on their list.'

Arno paused then, with a look that plainly hoped this sorry tale would deflect Barnaby's intention. As it became clear this was not the case he said: ‘Better come along then…'

Tim's room was nearly dark. Through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, sunlight leaked to form buttery puddles on the sill. Arno pulled the velvet further apart. Only a little, but the humped form beneath the quilt twitched and shivered. The air was so smelly and stifling Barnaby longed to open the windows.

Arno approached the bed, uttering the boy's name: a syllabic croon. He drew back the quilt, the floss of golden hair glittered on the pillow and Tim looked up, his eyes flying open like those of a mechanical toy. Barnaby heard a quick intake of breath behind him and was not unmoved himself—for the boy's beauty, even disfigured by tears and grief, was remarkable.

‘Tim? Mr Barnaby would like to talk to you for a moment—it's all right…' The boy had already started to cower. Tim shook his head. There was a throbbing vein like a thin turquoise worm in his alabaster forehead.

‘I shall stay here,' continued Arno.

Barnaby took a chair so that he would not be looking down on the boy and sat near the opposite side of the bed to Arno. At a nod from his chief, Troy withdrew to a far corner of the room, producing a notebook but without much hope.

‘I know you must be very unhappy, Tim, but I'm sure you'll want to help us if you can.' A ring dove's voice, purling. Troy thought the station'd never credit this. Even so, Tim reached out and seized Arno's hands in what appeared to be an absolute frenzy of alarm.

Arno had said the previous evening that this was his usual condition. But it seemed to the chief inspector, cautious though he had been, the boy's fear was intensifying by the second. His staring eyes were shadowed by it and the throbbing vein became more pronounced. Barnaby gave it five then continued.

‘You understand what's happened, Tim? That someone has died here?'

Another long pause then, on the palely illumined pillow, the anguished face turned. Tim's cheeks were slobbered with tears. Brilliant dark blue eyes touched Barnaby's, slid away, returned. The procedure was repeated many times. Finally the connection held and he seemed to be getting ready to speak.

‘Ask…ask…'

‘Ask who, Tim?'

‘Ask…her…don…'

The voice was but a tangled filament of sound, but Barnaby did not make the mistake of leaning closer. He just repeated his question, adding, now that he had a gender, ‘Do you mean May, perhaps? Ask May? Or Suhami?'

‘Neh, neh…' Tim shook his head fiercely and the nimbus glittered and shone. ‘Askadon…askadon…'

Barnaby said, ‘Are you saying “accident”?'

‘No, Chief Inspector. He just—'

Arno broke off as Tim made an urgent strangled copy of the chief inspector's words.

‘…mean ackerdent…ack…si…dent…' Having got it right, Tim repeated the words more and more quickly, rising higher and higher on the scale until the three syllables became transformed into a stream of meaningless babble. His body was a single bolt of flesh beneath the quilt and his eyes rolled wildly. Arno gave Barnaby as near to a glare as a man of such equable temperament could muster, then stroked Tim's forehead with an air of resentful protectiveness that said quite clearly, now look what you've done.

Barnaby sat stubbornly on for a further thirty minutes, even though he suspected that Tim would not speak coherently again. Although the boy soon grew quiet, slipping into a self-protective doze, the measure of Arno's indignation did not abate and Barnaby felt the warmth of it across the narrow space.

He refused to feel guilty. He knew he had been right to question Tim and that he had done it in a tactful and humane way. The fact that the boy was mentally disturbed did not mean he was incapable of noticing what was going on. Of course Barnaby had not realised quite how disturbed he was. Even so…

At this point in his reflections he caught Troy's eye. As was his wont, the sergeant immediately blanked out any expression that might give away his true feelings. His lids fell but not before his superior officer had caught an impatient and derisive gleam. Barnaby accurately translated: What a waste of frigging time.

But he was not at all sure that he agreed. It was hardly unimportant that Tim, closest of all to Craigie on the dais, saw his death as an accident. And surely there was, in Arno's attitude, a much deeper anxiety than that caused by mere protectiveness?

No—Barnaby finally got up and moved towards the door, not a waste of time at all.