‘That’s a lie.’
‘We have grounds for thinking it’s true.’
‘Oh, sure. The grounds that I’m the only one round here with a record. The only one whose face fits. The only one you can take down the slammer and work on just because I’m vulnerable.’ Jackson was recovering fast. He looked about as vulnerable as a puff adder. He sauntered away into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, ‘Come back when you know what the fuck you’re on about.’
Barnaby put a quick hand on Troy’s arm and half eased, half dragged him out of the flat. As they were crossing the drive, he saw the Reverend Lawrence’s startled face through the dining room window and lengthened his stride.
‘Can I say something, sir?’
‘Of course you can “say something”, Troy. What d’you think this is, the Stasi?’
‘It’s not a criticism—’
‘OK. It’s a criticism. I expect I’ll survive.’
‘I just wonder if it was a good idea to tell Jackson we know about the blackmail. I mean, he’s on his guard now but we still can’t book him for anything.’
‘I wanted to spring it before he picked it up somewhere else. To see his reaction.’
‘Which was very satisfactory.’
‘Indeed. I don’t know what exactly is going on here but I’d say whatever it is he’s in it up to his greasy neck.’
It was almost dusk as they made their way back to the Red Lion car park. Halfway across the Green, an extraordinary thing occurred. Barnaby stopped walking and peered into the pearly mist of early evening.
‘What on earth is that?’
‘I can’t see . . .’ Troy squinted, frowning hard. ‘Blimey!’
A strangely fluid outline was looming, retreating, shifting and hovering some distance away. It emitted shrill little calls and cries and seemed to be somehow perched on waves of surging foam. Gradually the whole mysterious presence came closer.
‘If we were in the desert,’ said DCI Barnaby, ‘this would be Omar Sharif.’
A woman approached them. Stout, middle-aged and wearing floppy green trousers, a crimson velvet poncho and a trilby hat with peacock feathers in the brim. The foam resolved itself into several cream-coloured Pekinese dogs who continued to surge as the woman introduced herself.
‘Evadne Pleat, good afternoon. Aren’t you Hetty’s chief inspector?’
‘Good afternoon,’ replied Barnaby, and gave his name.
‘And I’m Sergeant Troy,’ said Sergeant Troy, already enamoured of the dogs, daft-looking things though they were.
‘I heard you were going round. I just wanted to say that if there is anything, anything at all, that I can do to help, you must call.’ Her round rosy face shone with earnestness. She had a sweet smile. Nothing like the common or garden smirk of daily exchange that barely reaches the lips, let alone the eyes. She smiled as a child will, enthusiastically, quite without calculation and confident of a friendly response. ‘It’s Mulberry Cottage. Over there by the Rectory.’
‘I see.’ Barnaby glanced over at the small, pretty house. ‘Hasn’t someone already visited you?’
‘Oh yes. A very efficient young man if somewhat fussy about his clothing.’ She had watched Constable Phillips standing at her gate for ages, frowning crossly and picking balls of pale fluffy stuff off his uniform trousers. ‘I’ve told him my ideas though I’m not sure he quite appreciated the wide range of my knowledge and experience.’
‘Would that be in some special subject then?’ asked Sergeant Troy politely.
‘Personal relationships,’ replied Evadne, beaming at them both. ‘The ebb and flow of emotion in the human heart. And really, isn’t that what all your investigations come down to in the end?’
During this conversation the Pekes had been lunging about and Evadne had lunged with them, hanging on to her trilby as best she could.
‘I’ll certainly keep what you say in mind, Miss Pleat,’ muttered Barnaby. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else . . .?’
‘Not at the moment. But if there is anything specific you need help with, you only have to ask. Say goodbye to the nice policemen,’ instructed Evadne.
Although they had not stopped barking since the conversation started, the dogs now redoubled their efforts, yapping and leaping and tumbling about and getting their leads mixed up.
‘What are they called?’ Sergeant Troy lingered and heard an irritated snarl somewhere in the region of his left ear.
‘Piers, Dido, Blossom, Mazeppa - don’t do that, darling. Then there’s Nero and the one right at the back is Kenneth.’ She indicated a tiny white chrysanthemum, squeaking and jumping straight up and down into the air.