A Place Of Safety(26)

‘What can I do?’ he cried, eventually jerking to a halt near a pretty inlaid escritoire. ‘There must be something.’

‘Answering our questions is all that’s needed at the moment.’ Barnaby’s tone was crisp. He had no intention of indulging this kind of behaviour. ‘I understand that you employed Mr Leathers.’

‘Yes. He helped keep the garden in order. Did odd jobs - that kind of thing.’

‘Has he worked here long?’

‘I believe over thirty years.’

‘What sort of man was he?’

‘Good heavens, I don’t know. I had very little to do with him. Ann would probably . . .’ He turned inquiringly to his wife.

‘We didn’t talk much. Only about work.’

‘So you knew nothing about his private life?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ Ann had no intention of betraying Hetty’s unhappy confidences.

‘You’d know if he was in trouble, though, sir?’ Sergeant Troy heard aggression kick-starting the words but couldn’t stop himself. He avoided the chief’s eye. ‘I mean, you’d sense it. And he’d want to talk. You being known for helping people, like.’

‘I suppose so.’ Irony, even as leaden-footed as Troy’s, sailed past Lionel. He nodded, parting his thin lips in a complacent smile.

‘What about money troubles?’ asked Barnaby. ‘Did he ever ask for a rise? Or maybe a loan?’

‘He had a rise every year,’ said Ann. ‘As did Hetty. And no, he never mentioned money troubles.’

‘Did anyone - a stranger - ever call here asking for him? Or perhaps ring up?’

‘No, they didn’t.’ Lionel Lawrence was getting testy. ‘Look, these questions are pointless and time-wasting. Leathers was plainly attacked by some poor, deranged soul who may well be compelled to cause further mischief if you don’t get out there and find him.’

At this, perhaps sensing exasperation rising in both their interrogators, Mrs Lawrence rose and made an awkward sideways movement towards the door, indicating with a slight movement of her slender hand that they should follow. A moment later and Barnaby and Troy found themselves on the front steps, once more cheek by jowl with the Virginia creeper.

‘Mischief!’ said Troy. ‘Jesus Christ. Talk about - aah.’ His forearm had been seized in a steely grip.

‘Listen. Don’t ever do that again.’

‘Bloody do-gooders. They make me want to throw up.’

‘Our feelings during any interview are irrelevant. Antagonise people and the information dries up - remember that.’

‘We should show him some of the photographs of the victim.’ Troy painfully eased himself free. ‘Run him round the morgue a few times.’

He could imagine the reaction back at the station once the ex-Rev’s point of view was known. Support for the death penalty was pretty solid and the subject was frequently booted around the canteen. A favourite diversion was a top five hit list compiled and updated in wistful anticipation of the happy practice being restored. Last week some joker had included Lord Longford and there was a long and quite serious argument before he was reluctantly crossed off.

As Barnaby started to walk away with Troy bringing up a sulky rear, his eye was caught by a movement near the garage. A man washing the Humber car. He had not thought to ask the Lawrences if they had any other staff. And, interestingly, they had not thought to tell him.

‘A chauffeur,’ said Troy, with deep scorn. ‘Huh! And I thought the clergy lived plain and simple.’

‘I’ve already told you, Lawrence is not the clergy. Gave it up years ago.’

‘Cushy,’ murmured Troy. ‘You think Mrs L’s got money?’

‘Not if the state of this place is anything to go by.’

The car was almost a museum piece. A Humber Hawk, its number plate four figures, three letters. Almost forty years old, heavy, Bible black, well-worn chestnut leather and brown cord upholstery. It was so precisely the type of car one would expect an elderly country clergyman to be trundling about in that Barnaby couldn’t help smiling. There were even little silver flower vases, shaped like ice-cream cornets.

Though the man must have been aware of their approach, he didn’t look up. Just kept circling the bonnet evenly and smoothly with a duster then giving it another squirt with the aerosol. He wore a tight, white singlet and even tighter jeans that looked genuinely battered rather than trendily drabbed down. He was in excellent shape and extremely good-looking. Sergeant Troy, already out of temper, glared at him.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Barnaby and introduced himself. The man looked directly into Barnaby’s eyes, his own warm with synthetic friendliness. He gave a wide, frank smile and held out his hand.