Death in Disguise (44 page)

Mid morning. Barnaby sat hunched over his desk, a large fan cooling one side of his face, the other trickling with sweat. The dailies were scattered all over, weighted down against the artificial breeze. Only the tabloids still featured the story on their front pages and only the
Daily Pitch
made it their main headline. DID YOGI'S KILLER COME FROM VENUS? Heather, memorably unkempt, had made the front page.

Barnaby's door was wide open and showed a scene of orderly activity. Forms and more forms, photographs and reports. And dazzling green-lettered screens with yet more information. Plus of course the phones, which never seemed to stop.

Many callers offered ‘vital information' about, or even solutions to, the crime at the Golden Windhorse. It took more than the fact that a murder was domestic and had taken place in a tightly enclosed environment to stop the great British public sticking its oar in. One anonymous caller had got through at five A.M. to describe a vision wherein the ghost of Ian Craigie had appeared before him in chains, declaring that his spirit would never be at rest until all the coloureds in his beloved homeland had been returned to their natural habitat. The man had added, ‘That's tropical climes to you and me, John,' before hanging up.

But much of the information was official and a great clearer of the air: George Bullard rang to say that Jim Carter was probably prescribed Metranidozole and would indeed have been very unwise to imbibe alcohol whilst taking it; following permission from Arno Gibbs, Mr Clinch had agreed to reveal the contents of Ian Craigie's Will; the real Christopher Wainwright had been raised at White City Television Centre and had verified Andrew Carter's description of their schooldays at Stowe, meeting for drinks in Jermyn Street and subsequent lunch at Simpson's. The only point at which their stories diverged was that Wainwright seemed genuinely to have lost his wallet. He had said, ‘Andy paid for lunch,' sounding quite chuffed.

Noeleen, Andrew Carter's bedsitting neighbour at Earl's Court, had also confirmed that they were having breakfast for a good half of the morning on which his uncle died. Barnaby had not seriously thought the boy was involved, but it was not entirely unknown for a guilty person to put up an elaborate smokescreen of pretend-investigation to cover their tracks. Barnaby had been less successful so far concerning Andrew's activities on Blackpool's Golden Mile, but out there in the hive someone would be working on it.

Whether there was a link between the two cases was, at the moment, quite unclear although it was temptingly easy to start guessing. Sticking to facts, however, the only certainties were that Carter had made a discovery (
‘Andy—something terrible has happened…'
) and had shortly afterwards fallen or been pushed down the stairs. And that two months later Craigie had been murdered. The Master may or may not have been involved in the first death—Miss Cuttle had been unsure to whom the emotion-choked voice fearing a post mortem belonged. Assuming it was not Craigie's had he, in his turn, discovered the something terrible and likewise been despatched?

If so, that let out the Gamelin bequest, for Sylvie had told the chief inspector at her interview that she had not suggested it to the Master until the week before her birthday. And that neither of them had mentioned it to anyone else. Until Guy, of course, and that on the evening of the murder. Barnaby looked down at his pad. He often doodled as he thought, plants usually. Ferns, flowers, delicately detailed leaves. He had drawn the sharp spears and the curled-back veiny petals of the
iris sibirica
: the poor man's orchid.

‘Trust' was written several times in the margin. The word had been floating repeatedly to the surface of his mind as if asking to be paid attention to. It was a constant irritation, for Barnaby presumed he knew all there was to know about Sylvia's trust fund. How much it was, her determination to offload it, her father's determination that she should not, Craigie's feigned (according to Gamelin) refusal to accept. The chief inspector drew a thick, cross line down the margin, tore off the sheet and threw it in the bin. The word floated up again. So…

What about alternative meanings? Trust as in be certain of, or have faith or belief in. Trust as in lack of, falsely placed or betrayed. Certainly the last was the very essence of a con man's art. Barnaby ferreted away at this notion. Had Craigie been murdered by an acolyte who had discovered his true nature and felt betrayed? Or by some enraged victim of a previously successful scam? One of the time share losers, perhaps waiting patiently till his predator should be released. Most of them could doubtless be traced. But surely Craigie would know whoever it was, and be on his guard?

Troy came in with the lab report. He was wearing his usual tight trousers, a beautifully ironed, crisp white shirt buttoned right up, despite the heat of the day, and a narrow discreetly patterned tie. Barnaby rarely met his sergeant off duty so had no idea how formal the rest of his wardrobe might be, but at the station he never rolled his sleeves up or wore a casual shirt. Audrey had been heard to say this was because he had no hair on his chest.

Barnaby thought the reason for this sartorial swaddling was rather more complex. It was all of a piece with the sergeant's meticulous reports and scrupulously tidy working area. The second thing Troy would do when entering the office, after putting his jacket on a hanger and before calling for coffee, was to align the wire-meshed trays on his desk with the edge and twitch any disorderly bits of paper into a neat stack. Sometimes he would rub at a barely visible stain with his handkerchief.

It hardly needed a professional analyst to deduce that this was all about control. About the constant vigilance needed to keep disorder at bay. A bit glib, perhaps, to assume, this behaviour to be the outward manifestation of a million inward seething resentments. A touch of the Windhorse pop psychology there. Heavens, thought Barnaby, I'll be counselling him next. He held out his hand for the expected confirmation that the shreds of canvas from Suhami's bag were identical to the filament caught up on the murder weapon.

Troy handed over the envelope and switched on the portable television to catch the eleven o'clock news. There was an interview with Miss Myrtle Tombs, village postmistress at Compton Dando, who had been so cunningly placed before an excellent still of the Manor House that she appeared to be actually standing in the drive. She had nothing to say about the Gamelin case or the house's inhabitants and was saying it with great conviction and at great length. Troy switched off just in time to hear a lengthy hiss of indrawn breath from the far side of the office.

Barnaby was staring at the paper in front of him, his mouth slightly open, his eyes disbelievingly blank. Troy crossed over, slid the report from his chief's slackened grasp, sat down and read it.

‘This can't be right.' He shook his head. ‘They've cocked it up.'

‘The appliance of science. Highly unlikely.'

‘You'll check back though?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Where does this leave us if they've got it right?'

‘Up the bloody creek.' Barnaby began savagely punching at the buttons as if in retaliation for some mortal insult. ‘Without a bloody paddle.'

Felicity was up and dressed and sitting by the open window of her room. She was wearing the contents of the pigskin case: a Caroline Charles cream silk two-piece splashed all over with poppies and wild flowers. There were some companion shoes, bright grass-green suede by Manolo Blahnik. Peep-toes and heels like oil derricks. May put these firmly away in a drawer and offered a pair of comfortable slippers instead. Before putting them on, she had massaged Felicity's feet with a little scented oil. The orangey-copper skin was like fine wrinkled paper; her ankles the size of May's wrists.

‘We must feed you up,' May had said, smiling. ‘Lots of fresh vegetables and home-made bread.'

‘Oh I can't eat bread.' Felicity immediately added an apology. ‘You're very kind but I have to stay size ten.'

‘What on earth for?'

‘… well…' The fact was that all of Felicity's acquaintances were size ten and the minute they weren't they rushed off to a Health Hydro until they were again. Faced with twelve stones of blooming benevolent amplitude, this explanation seemed both feeble and insulting. ‘I don't know.'

‘You have a very long journey, Felicity. You will need all the help we can give you but you must also help yourself. Now, at the moment you are very weak and can only do a little, but that little must be done. It is your contribution, do you see?'

‘Yes, May.' Felicity was disturbed at the notion of a contribution—feeling that her spirit, brittle as ice, might well crack beneath the strain. At the clinic, where she had lived in a cosseted dream, her contribution had been purely financial. Perhaps that was what May meant. A nervous question revealed this not to be the case. Felicity gathered up the lees of a waifish courage and asked what she would have to do.

‘For now, just eat a little and rest. Then as you get stronger we shall see.'

Felicity stretched out her hand. As she did so her mind kicked up a vivid memory. Arriving home from her first drying-out, she had turned to Guy reaching out, precisely so. He had called her an emotional vampire and turned his back. But May took Felicity's hand between her own still faintly scented palms, kissed it and laid it against her cheek. Felicity felt her veins unfreeze.

‘You haven't any more of that dreadful stuff that goes up your nose?'

‘No, May.'

‘That's right. The body is the temple that houses your immortal soul. Never forget that. And never abuse it. Now,' she gently removed her hand, ‘I must go and help Janet with the lunch. There'll be some nice soup and you must try and drink a little.'

In spite of having promised at breakfast to do the main course once more, there was no sign of Janet in the kitchen. May started on the soup, chopping up Jerusalem artichokes and leeks and sweating them in a little Nutter. She had a look on the seasoning shelf, wondering what flavour might best tempt Felicity's appetite. The soup looked rather pale. May dwelt on the possibility of adding a pinch of saffron. Brother Athelstan's Herbal assured her that it ‘makyth a man merry' but added a cautionary postscript telling of the Norwegian mystic Nils Skatredt who, after a heavy night on the pistils in 1462, OD'd on the stuff and died laughing. May replaced the tiny box and took down a jar of bay leaves.

Once the soup was nicely bubbling she went in search of Janet, first going up to her room. Janet wasn't there but a letter was, propped up against a copy of Pascal's
Pensées
. May opened it then took herself off to the nearest telephone determined, after their telling off over Trixie's departure, to get it right this time. ‘What she says, Chief Inspector, is that she's a pretty good idea where Trixie is and if she isn't back this evening—Janet, I mean—she'll ring and let us know what's happening… Not at all. It's a pleasure. How are you? And that poor boy with—' But her contact had hung up so May went to seek out the others and put them in the picture.

Janet sat uncomfortably jammed up against the burning window of a double-decker by a stout woman with two bursting shopping bags. One of them was half lying across Janet's knees but the woman made no attempt to rearrange it or apologise. When Janet got off, she saw that some squashed tomatoes had left juice and pips on her skirt.

She had changed the stretch trousers for a summer dress at the last minute. Overlong and full-skirted, patterned with harsh electric blue and tan splodges, it had a scooped neckline. This exposed the rather scrawny hollow at the base of her throat, so Janet had put on a loosely strung necklace of large transparent beads resembling old-fashioned cough lozenges. The dress had an outside pocket to which her fingers constantly and nervously strayed. Tucked in there were instructions on how to find Seventeen Waterhouse. (That really had been the complete address. A block of flats the post office said.) There was also a bumpy homemade bag of lavender which Heather had thrust into her hand as she was coming downstairs, saying, ‘It's only a teeny tiny, Jan, but it comes with all my love.'