‘A good point.’ DCI Barnaby liked to encourage quick thinkers. Unlike many senior officers, he did not assume that anyone holding a rank junior to his own would automatically be less intelligent.
‘Why didn’t it just run away?’ asked a young uniformed constable. More than one incredulous face turned in his direction.
‘You don’t know much about dogs, do you, Phillips?’ Sergeant Troy spoke coldly. Constable Phillips blushed.
‘We can see from the postmortem that he probably spent some time in a pub the night he died. Fingers crossed it was his local. That should save a bit of legwork. Two of you could start your house-to-house there. It’s not a large village, which is all to the good. I want every bit of gossip you can pick up. Everything everyone knows or thinks they know about Charlie Leathers. Work, life - as far back as you can go - hobbies, family. Who saw him on the night he died. Any unusual behaviour leading up to that time. Nothing, nothing is too trivial. I shall be talking to his widow myself. Next briefing tomorrow, nine a.m., and I don’t mean five past. Right, off you go.’
The press had already picked up during their daily siftings through the Police Public Relations Office that a dead man had been found in a wood in Ferne Basset. Discovering the following day the man’s name and manner of his death brought them out in force.
Newspaper reporters and cameramen vied with reporters and cameramen from the local television news. They all asked the same questions, received the same answers and generally got in each other’s way.
Any television interviews took place in front of the Fainlights’ amazing house. Not that it had any relevance to the crime, as far as anyone knew. It was just that it was too wonderful not to use. The second most attractive backdrop was the forecourt of the Red Lion, the deceased’s favourite watering hole. The landlord and several habitués hung around by tubs of drooping pansies hoping to be asked to hold forth. The ones who did were bitterly disappointed to find themselves either missing altogether or snipped down to a few unflattering seconds on the local evening news. Unfortunately the really important interviews - those with the victim’s immediate family - were unobtainable.
No sooner had this particular circus left town than the police arrived for the house-to-house and the questions started all over again. Few people really minded. The ones who did had ignored the press and felt superior, saying how sad it was that some people would do anything to get themselves noticed.
Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby and Sergeant Troy were a little ahead of their support team. Plain clothes and an unmarked car (the chief’s own Vauxhall Astra) meant they could slide discreetly to a stop at the end of Tall Trees Lane unmolested. Barnaby, pausing only to admire the ravishing mauve hibiscus, walked briskly up the path to the Leathers’ bungalow and rapped on the door. It was immediately flung open.
‘What did I tell you buggers? She’s not talking to anyone. Now piss off before I call the police.’
‘You must be Mrs Leathers’ daughter.’ Barnaby produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. And this is Sergeant Troy.’
Troy flashed his credentials and a reassuring smile.
‘Sorry. I’ve had reporters on the doorstep all morning.’ She stepped back to let them in. ‘How’s she supposed to rest?’
‘I’m afraid we do need to disturb your mother, Miss Leathers.’
‘Mrs Grantham. Pauline. She won’t mind that. You’ve got your job to do.’
Pauline led the way into the snug kitchen. Mrs Leathers was sitting in a rocker by the Rayburn drinking a cup of tea. She had her feet up and a shawl round her shoulders.
‘It’s the police, Mum.’
‘Ohh . . .’
‘Please, don’t get up, Mrs Leathers. May I . . .?’ Barnaby indicated a shabby fireside chair and eased it a little closer to the warm.
‘Yes, of course. Sit where you feel comfortable.’
Sergeant Troy took a wheelback to the table, turning a little away from the couple by the hearth. Unobtrusively he produced his biro and a notebook, laying them on the green and white gingham cloth.
‘I’m afraid I have bad news, Mrs Leathers,’ began Barnaby. ‘Dr Mahoney has positively identified the man found dead yesterday in Carter’s Wood as your husband.’
‘We sort of expected that. Didn’t we, Mum?’ Pauline had drawn up a raffia stool and sat close to her mother, holding her hand.
‘Yes. We’re coming to terms with it a bit now.’ Mrs Leathers moved quickly on. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’