Jax said, ‘In an emergency.’
‘Of course.’ Valentine buttoned his shirt with stiff, clumsy fingers. ‘That’s what I meant.’ He tried to keep his eyes off Jax who was running the tip of his index finger along soft, tan-gold skin on the inside of his thighs, crinkling it gently, first one way then the other. Up and down, up and down.
‘It was lovely to hear from you.’ Val was pleased and surprised that his voice came out so smooth. He was expecting a croak. ‘Out of the blue like that.’
‘I crave it sometimes, Val. Special times. And at those times I just gotta have it - know what I mean?’
‘Christ, yes.’
‘Today was, like, one of those days.’
‘And is it something special that sets you off?’
‘It is. Always the same thing.’
‘You wouldn’t like to . . . If I knew what it was, maybe—’
‘One day, Val boy.’ Jax got up then, crossed to the window and stared out. Then suddenly started to laugh.
‘Look.’ Sergeant Troy jerked his head across the drive as Barnaby closed the Old Rectory door.
‘A garage, yes. I have seen one before.’
‘No, upstairs.’
Barnaby lifted his head. Terry Jackson was standing at the window of his flat. Either he was completely nude or wearing the lowest pair of hipsters since Randolph Scott hung up his spurs.
‘Pity,’ said Troy. ‘Another couple of inches and we could have got him for indecent exposure.’
‘Sniggering bastard,’ said Barnaby and it was true the chauffeur was laughing at them. The chief inspector slowed his footsteps to a dawdle to give the man time to get his clobber on. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him to open the door bollock naked.’
‘I hope not,’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘We’re having toad in the hole tonight.’
Jax opened the window above their heads and called down, ‘It’s not locked.’
For the third time Barnaby made his way up the smartly carpeted stairs. He recalled his first visit which had ended in a sickening display of cringing and weeping by Jackson once his protector arrived. And the second, three days ago, when the chauffeur had been questioned about Carlotta Ryan and had nearly jumped out of his skin the moment Barnaby released the word ‘blackmail’ into the conversation.
So, what were they in for this time? Barnaby, passionate proselytiser on the necessity to keep an open mind all his professional life, had never found it as hard as he did now. In fact, if he was honest, in the case of Terry Jackson he had given up trying. He believed on next to no evidence that this man had killed Charlie Leathers and was involved, up to the hilt, in the disappearance of Carlotta Ryan.
He opened the door to the main flat without knocking and walked in. Jackson was once more leaning against the window, this time facing into the room. He seemed quietly pleased with himself. Glossy and replete like some smartly groomed, newly gorged animal. He wore a French matelot jersey and skin-tight white 501s. His feet were bare and damp hair was plastered to his head in minute, springy curls. Dyed and permed, thought Barnaby, remembering the dark, greasy hanks on Jackson’s earlier mug shot. It gave him a moment of brief, petty satisfaction. Then Jackson smiled at him, a smile like a Tyson upper cut, and the satisfaction faltered and died.
‘You’re after me, Inspector,’ said Jackson. ‘I know you are. Admit it.’
‘No problem admitting that, Terry.’ Because there was a third party in the room, Barnaby made the statement semi-jocular. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Fainlight.’
Valentine Fainlight mumbled something in Barnaby’s direction. He looked embarrassed, defiant and also mildly exasperated. No need to ask what they had interrupted. The whole place reeked of sex.
‘Well, Jax, I’ll be—’
‘Don’t go, sir,’ said Barnaby. ‘We still haven’t managed to talk to you about Carlotta Ryan’s disappearance. One of our officers called again on Saturday, I believe.’
‘I was in London all day.’
‘Well, now you’re here,’ said Sergeant Troy. He sat in the orange armchair and got out his notebook. There was no way he could produce a civil greeting, let alone a smile. If there was one species of human being he despised it was arse bandits.
‘Two birds, y’see, Val,’ said Terry Jackson.
‘I really don’t understand why you’re asking me. I barely exchanged half a dozen words with the girl.’
‘We’re asking everyone, sir,’ said Troy. ‘It’s called a house-to-house.’
‘The night she disappeared,’ continued Barnaby, ‘was two nights before Charlie Leathers was killed. She ran away from the Old Rectory and we now believe that she fell or, more likely, was pushed into the river.’