A Place Of Safety(87)

Also he was in grave danger of becoming personally involved. Never recommended, it still sometimes happened. When the cruel mistreatment or murder of a child occurred, for instance, few policemen were able to remain completely detached. But this was not the death of a child. This was the death of an extremely unpleasant old man who had been attempting blackmail.

So why the hatred? Barnaby realised with a shock that this was the correct word. He had begun to hate Terry Jackson. Hate his merry smile and shameless posturing, his conversation which danced back and forth as lightly as a featherweight, a spiteful jab here, a feint - the sham attack which made a fool of the recipient. And, just as it did, the real attack. A serious blow, fast and heavy, to the solar plexus.

Hatred sparkled too when he thought of the man’s appearance. Dwelled on that spare, tawny flesh and hard muscle, and the shining navy blue eyes with strange golden pupils. The only physical flaw in this Apollonian perfection, as far as Barnaby could see, were the teeth which had never been properly cared for. But no doubt once this need for cosmetic dentistry was brought to Fainlight’s attention the omission would be quickly rectified.

Barnaby yanked his attention away from this idea. Because it would never happen. There were no upmarket dentists whitening and capping and straightening in the Scrubs. Or in Albany or Strangeways. And that’s where Jackson would be ending up.

And you’d better believe that, you heap of festering slime. Realising he had spoken aloud and was now gripping the steering wheel as though his very life depended on it, Barnaby slowed down almost to a halt. Because it was not good, this feeling. Hatred could blind you, narrow your options to nothing, obscure evidence that might be right under your nose. Not to mention sending your blood pressure into a spin.

He remembered what Joyce had said to him the other morning, that, once on a case, he was like a dog with a bone, gripping it between his teeth, anxious that no other dog should get a taste. He had been angry at the time. He wondered again if it was true and decided it was. Well, partially. Barnaby had a strong sense of self-worth, he would not have risen to his present rank otherwise, but he believed he was also prepared to listen. In this, although not unique, he was very much in the minority. Still in second, he turned into the driveway of number seventeen.

And then things started to get better as they always did. Whatever foul muck he’d been up to his oxters in during working hours, this was where it started to fall away. It was a strange process, not forgetfulness so much as a psychological cleansing, and he never quite understood it.

It could have been the verdant sweetness of the garden (even in winter there was always something irresistibly beautiful to look at) or the familiar warmth of the solid, red-brick building where he had lived contentedly for over twenty years. But overwhelmingly, of course, it was Joyce. Wherever she was, he was happy to be.

Barnaby never took this good fortune for granted. You didn’t, with a job like his. Anyway, complacency was an absolute magnet for disaster. He had heard the words, I never thought this would happen to me, almost more often than any others. He would never say them. Or believe that never doing anyone any harm was a talisman against disaster. Barnaby reached out and touched the walnut dashboard before getting out of the car.

Cully’s Dyane, yellow and mermaid green with a huge sunflower painted on the boot, stood under the laburnum tree. Barnaby’s step, already eager, quickened. He had hardly put his key in the lock when she opened the door.

‘Dad! Something wonderful’s happened!’ She seized his hand. ‘Come on.’

‘Let me take my—’

‘No. You’ve got to come now.’

The kitchen door was wide open. He could see Joyce smiling, Nicolas looking tremendously proud, golden-foiled bottles and champagne glasses. Public rejoicing. He looked down at his daughter’s shining face and knew what she was going to tell him. He put his arm round her and caught the sweet fragrance of her hair. His little girl.

‘Cully. Oh, darling, what can I say?’ Barnaby realised the backs of his eyes were prickling. So what? It wasn’t every day one became a grandfather. ‘Congratulations.’

‘It’s not me you have to congratulate, silly. It’s Nico.’

‘Nico?’ Barnaby rearranged his expression quickly but the disappointment sliced across his heart. They went into the kitchen together.

‘I’ve got into the National, Tom.’ Nicolas laughed, raising his glass, plainly not for the first time. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Wonderful.’ Barnaby formed the word through stiff lips. He said ‘Congratulations’ again.