A Place Of Safety(19)

‘That would make a good title for the autobiography I’ve no doubt he’s secretly scribbling.’

‘What would?’ Sergeant Troy stood well aside to let the graveyard shift get moving.

‘The Joy of the Garrotte. Come on, let’s get back to the station.’

‘It’s gone lunchtime, chief. What about the pub? I could just get outside some sausage, egg and chips.’

‘Your guts must be made of cast iron.’





The news spread through Ferne Basset like lightning. A body had been removed from Carter’s Wood. The Scene of Crime officers arrived and, after removing all sorts of interesting paraphernalia from the back of their van, put on plastic overalls, gloves and bootees and disappeared into the trees.

The sergeant and young policewoman who had called on Mrs Leathers before called again. This time the door was opened by a stout, dark-haired girl who looked about sixteen but turned out to be Mrs Leathers’ 23-year-old daughter.

‘Now what?’ she said, arms akimbo.

‘Could we have a word with your mother?’ asked the policewoman. She was still at the stage where she put on a special voice as the possible bearer of bad news. Kind, gentle, slightly solemn. A dead giveaway, the sergeant thought, but you had to make allowances. She’d grow out of it.

‘I reckon she’s had enough upset for one day, don’t you?’

‘It’s all right, Pauline,’ called Mrs Leathers from the kitchen.

They all went into the front room where the sergeant declined the offer of a cup of tea. Just as well, thought Pauline, ’cause I certainly won’t be making any.

‘You reported your husband missing earlier today, Mrs Leathers. We were wondering if you have a photograph of him.’

‘Not a recent one, I’m afraid.’ She looked nervously at the sergeant then went over to the sideboard and took out an album. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just to help us with our inquiries, Mrs Leathers.’

‘Is this something to do with all those cars over by the Green?’ asked Pauline.

‘That’s the latest.’ Mrs Leathers handed over a picture of a choleric little man glowering at the camera. He was holding a shotgun and there were several dead birds at his feet. ‘Taken about eight years ago.’

‘Thank you.’ The sergeant stowed the photograph in his wallet.

Pauline said, ‘I asked you a question.’

‘Yes, it is.’ No point denying it. Half the village would have seen the stretcher brought out. The sergeant chose his next words carefully. ‘We have actually discovered the body of a man in the woods. Who he is or how he died we can’t say at the moment.’

Mrs Leathers tried to speak but her lips had become suddenly stiff. She couldn’t form the words. She stared at Pauline who reached out, took her hand and squeezed it hard.

‘I’ll show them out, Mum. Be right back.’ On the doorstep she said, ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

‘We don’t know for—’

‘Best not to get excited though, eh? Just fingers crossed.’

‘Pardon?’ said the policewoman.

‘The life that bugger’s led her. Tell you the truth, I’d have done it meself years ago if I’d thought I could get away with it.’





Valentine and Louise were having dinner on the top floor of their crystal palace. The house was extremely flexible and sleeping could be accomplished or food consumed almost anywhere.

Beds were in all the rooms: single divans covered with brilliantly coloured silk or fur throws. The kitchen was in the basement on a level with the garage. Sometimes they ate there. More often they would make use of the dumb waiter, an elegant heated cube of stainless steel suspended on black rubber cables. This glided smoothly up and down inside a transparent shaft which thrust, like a powerful obelisk, straight up through the centre of the house.

Most days they shared the cooking but tonight Valentine had spent so much of his time looking after Mrs Leathers that Louise had shopped and prepared the meal. A guinea fowl cooked in white wine with fondant potatoes and a watercress salad. Grilled peaches with Amaretto and homemade Sable biscuits. The wine was Kesselstatt Riesling.

Usually the conversation meandered easily about, touching on books or music or the theatre. Sometimes absent friends would be gently maltreated. Once upon a time, before the hearts of the couple had been chastened by the pain of their own unhappiness, such friends would have been savaged without mercy.

Sometimes Val would talk about his work but these occasions were not frequent. Barley Roscoe, the boy who had made Val’s fortune, was only seven and inevitably his daily experiences, though wildly, magically adventurous in comparison with the average child of a similar age, could not sustain much in the way of adult conversation.