It was nearly one o’clock when they drove up to the Old Rectory. Troy, remembering Lionel Lawrence’s long ago link with the chief constable, half expected a courtesy call at the house first with an explanation of what they were doing there. But Barnaby indicated that he should park right over the far side of the drive, as near to the chauffeur’s flat as possible. As they got out, Troy spotted the Humber Hawk squatting heavily in the garage and said, ‘Looks as if he’s in, sir.’
Barnaby rapped loudly on the dark blue door. Around it clung a rich-smelling late honeysuckle and on the step were tubs of creamy petunias and salvias. Over their heads a window swung open.
‘What do you want?’
‘A word, Mr Jackson,’ called up Troy.
Their knowledge of his name was a blow, Troy could see. But surely the bloke had known they would be checking up on him?
‘Didn’t take you long to ferret that out.’
‘Here or at the station, it’s up to you,’ said Barnaby. ‘And get a move on. I don’t like standing on doorsteps.’
The window closed but the door was not opened for several more minutes. Troy saw this as an ‘in your face, make them wait, up yours’ gesture. Barnaby was more concerned that something which had been on view was being tidied away. He wished now he had come with a search warrant but the circumstances hardly seemed to justify it. They had discovered nothing to connect Jackson with the death of Charlie Leathers. Merely that he was the sort of man whose past activities indicated a murderous lack of self-control.
They followed him up warmly carpeted stairs into a long, L-shaped bed-sitting room. This was comfortably furnished with, Barnaby could not help noticing, much newer pieces than the Rectory. There was an oatmeal carpet, attractive flower prints on the wall and cream curtains patterned with scarlet poppies. Several sets of weights were stacked against the skirting board. Two doors led off, presumably to the kitchen and bathroom.
Sergeant Troy stared at all this, his face flushing angrily. He thought of beggars lying in doorways open to all weather and any abuse that passing thugs might feel like dishing out. Of youngsters, dossing down at night in damp cardboard boxes. Of his own grandparents living on their state pension, counting every penny, proud of never being in debt. While this jammy bastard—
‘Sergeant?’
‘Sir.’ Troy collected himself. He got out a notebook then sat in a comfortable fireside chair with orange cushions. Barnaby took its opposite number. Jackson stood leaning against the door.
‘Make yourselves at home, why don’t you?’
‘You seem to have fallen on your feet, Terry.’
‘Mr Jackson to you.’
‘Now, the night Charlie Leathers died.’
‘We’ve been through all that.’
‘Well, we’re going through it again.’ Sergeant Troy ground out the words through clenched teeth.
‘I was here from around seven. Watched the soaps.’ He nodded towards a Sony portable television. ‘Had a couple of beers, mixed up some Pot Noodles. Listened to John Peel on the radio. Went to bed.’
Barnaby nodded. He wouldn’t be able to move Jackson from that. And the man was sharp enough to know they had nothing to place him at the scene of the crime or he’d have been down Causton nick long since. The chief inspector moved to more flexible matters.
‘This gambling Charlie told you about, how did he place his bets?’
‘Phone.’
‘Who was the bookie?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘Dunno.’
‘But they were pursuing him and he was frightened?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Funny nobody else seems to know about this,’ said Troy. ‘Not even his wife.’
‘That sour old bitch?’ Jackson laughed. ‘All he dreamt about, poor old Charlie, was buttered crumpet. Know what I mean?’
‘Or his cronies in the Red Lion.’
Jackson shrugged.
‘I think you made it all up.’
‘Thinking’s free.’
‘Was he familiar with your background, Terry?’ asked the chief inspector.
‘I’m starting from scratch here. I told you.’
‘That must be nice. Wipe out the past, just like that.’
‘Yeah.’ Jackson looked wary, not sure he liked the way the conversation was going. He painted on an ingratiating smile. His incisors, so sharply pointed they could have been filed, twinkled and gleamed.
‘Not what you’d call a tasty past, is it?’ continued Barnaby.
‘I’ve done my time.’
‘You’ve done little else. Juvenile courts from day one. Thieving, lying, runner for the big boys. Look-out for dealers and pushers. Actual and grievous bodily harm, beating up a pensioner and leaving him more dead than alive. A stabbing—’