A Place Of Safety(73)

‘So, Mr Lawrence. When did you last see your wife?’

‘What on earth—’

‘Answer the question, man!’

‘Mid-morning.’ Lionel gulped the words in some alarm. ‘Around eleven.’

‘Did she say what her plans were for later?’

‘Drive into Causton. I suppose she was going shopping. She didn’t say.’

‘Did you have an argument?’

‘How did—You have my assurance that our . . . discussion yesterday has nothing to do with your present inquiry.’

‘Point is, sir,’ said Sergeant Troy, who had started scribbling, ‘it might help us to know what her frame of mind was.’

‘Why?’ Lionel appeared mystified. ‘How, help?’

‘I understood from you that Mrs Lawrence has never missed a Mothers’ union   meeting.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘Aren’t you worried?’

Lionel now appeared not only mystified but slightly alarmed. And Barnaby, realising that he had raised his voice, checked himself. Another decibel or two and he would have been shouting.

Lionel’s honest bewilderment pulled him back. He saw how his behaviour must appear. For the truth was he had no logical reason for feeling some harm had come to Ann Lawrence. She could have run into a friend, be choosing books at the library, trying on clothes . . . No logical reason. Just the icicle slowly stirring his guts.

He tried to speak more calmly. ‘Could you tell us what time she left?’

‘I’m afraid not. I was in my study. We didn’t lunch together today.’

Blimey, must have been quite a corker, that discussion, thought Sergeant Troy. He put a question of his own, knowing the answer but hoping to stir things to good effect.

‘Would Mrs Lawrence have driven to town, sir? Or might your Mr Jackson have taken her?’

‘No.’ Sadly, Lawrence didn’t rise. ‘She liked to drive herself. Although . . .’ Suddenly he could not be helpful enough. It was painfully clear that he wanted to get rid of them. ‘Jax might be able to tell you what time she left. I believe he was working on the Humber just before lunch.’





‘They talk to you?’ asked Jax. ‘The police?’

‘Yes. That is, they came round.’ Valentine was sitting on the edge of the divan. Now that the wrestling and fighting and subduing was over and blood had returned to his crushed limbs and strained muscles, all was pain and confusion. But the happiness, the dark shining, was in there somewhere.

‘About Charlie?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What sort of thing they want to know?’

‘It was Louise who saw them. I sloped off.’

‘They’ll catch up with you.’

‘We hardly knew the man.’

‘Makes no difference.’ Jax sauntered across the room and flung himself into the orange fireside chair. He spread his legs and leaned back, grinning. ‘Suppose I’d better put some clothes on.’

‘No,’ cried Val quickly. ‘Don’t, please.’

‘Ready for some more, then?’

‘It’s not that. I just like looking at you.’ He eased himself off the divan, reached down, wincing, to pick up his boxer shorts.

‘I know that shop.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sulka. In the West End, right?’

‘Yes. Bond Street.’

‘I met this bloke got his dressing gowns there.’

‘Really?’ Valentine felt a quite different sort of pain at the thought of the unknown man. ‘If you want I’ll take you. On your next day off.’

‘No, thanks. They’re crap. I like something with a bit of style. Like that jacket you got me.’

‘Jax . . .’ He hesitated, searching for the right words, desperate not to offend. ‘What are the conditions under which you have to stay here? I mean, is it for a specific time like, um . . .’

‘Community service?’ The phrase was invested with scornful disgust.

‘I just hate the thought of turning up one day to find you’ve gone.’

‘I wouldn’t leave you, Val boy.’

‘Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.’ Val waited but the longed-for assurance was not forthcoming. And what would it have been worth if it had? ‘The thing is, my sister—’

‘She don’t like me.’

‘Louise is moving out. She’ll be starting work again soon and wants to be nearer town. So, if you need somewhere to stay . . .’

‘Might be useful.’

‘I’d love to have you.’ Climbing into his khaki chinos, Valentine tried to sound casual even as his mind flooded with images of compelling happiness. He would cook marvellous food for himself and Jax. Play Mozart for him. And Palestrina. Read to him - Austen or Balzac. At night they would lie in each other’s arms, yellow stars shining through the glass roof, dazzling their eyes.