A Place Of Safety(95)

Which reminded Evadne to ask if she had rung the hospital that day.

‘This morning. They said “no change” but if you’re not a close relative they won’t always tell you. I said to them, “I’m as close to her as anyone else in the world.” But it didn’t do any good.’ Hetty’s mouth slipped and trembled. ‘She used to come into the kitchen when she was little: I taught her to make pastry. She’d never use the cutters. Always wanted to design her own shapes. Flowers, cats, even little houses. I used to think she’d be an artist when she grew up.’

Evadne crossed over to her friend and put an arm round her shaking shoulders.

Hetty cried out, ‘How could anyone be so cruel?’

Evadne rocked Hetty backwards and forwards for a moment. ‘Hetty, would you like to say a prayer for her?’

‘What?’

‘It may help.’

Hetty seemed uncertain. And no wonder, thought Evadne. Her life had hardly been one to engender gratitude.

‘Well . . . if you really think so.’ Hetty made an awkward movement, about to get out of her chair, but Evadne eased her gently down again.

‘No, no. It’s not necessary to kneel down. God doesn’t care about that - a sincere heart is all that matters.’

‘I won’t know what to say.’

‘No need to say anything. Just picture Ann surrounded by divine light. And hold fast.’

Quietly Evadne began to pray. Hetty tried to imagine Ann surrounded by divine light. She came up with a sort of halo, like the Bible illustrations in her Sunday school class years ago. As for brightness, the most dazzling source she could think of was the halogen light in the garden of the Old Rectory which seemed somehow appropriate.

Around the room six pale heaps of fur sat or lay in complete silence. There was not even a scratch or a yawn. Evadne’s Pekes were used to moments like this and knew exactly what was required of them.





By six thirty in the evening Barnaby had been shut up in his office for nearly two hours. The incident room managed to appear both noisy and hectic even when nothing much was happening and he needed to be reasonably quiet. To be alone and think. Sergeant Troy came in from time to time with information and the occasional slug of strong Colombian.

Half an hour ago he had brought in an extremely satisfactory forensic report on the Lawrences’ Humber. A tiny filament of shiny black acetate had been caught on the worn piece of carpet lining the boot. And some fragments of grit had also been present. These were coated with white material which, on closer examination, proved to be garden lime. Nothing remarkable in that, no doubt Ann Lawrence had frequently carted such stuff back from the garden centre, but if it matched precisely grit found in the cyclist’s shoes, then they were really on to something.

Problem was, they didn’t have the cyclist’s shoes. Or his gear. Or his bike. The search for this had, so far, been fruitless. Yet the time factor meant it must have been abandoned very near the village.

As soon as reports of the black-clad figure started to come in, two officers had been sent to Jackson’s flat to search for the clothes and Ann Lawrence’s handbag. They had found neither. Which meant he had either taken other stuff to wear - hence the rucksack - or stashed a change of clothing where he planned to leave the bike. The handbag couldn’t have just vanished. Shortly after the men left, Lionel Lawrence rang the station, rather incoherently complaining of police harassment.

Having reached this one step forward two steps back point in his reflections, the chief inspector was rather pleased by the distraction of a door opening and his side-kick’s appearing this time with a steaming mug of strong Typhoo and a packet of biscuits. Fortunately they were Rich Tea, a dull morsel at the best of times. Hardly rich at all in any appreciable sense of the word.

‘You know I’m watching the calories, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, chief. It’s just, only a salad at lunch. I thought . . .’

Barnaby grandly waved the brightly coloured packet away and asked if anything new had turned up.

‘Our man’s report’s in from Ferne Basset. Apparently Jackson’s still not put his nose outside the house. DS Bennet’s taken over the shift. How long are they going to let you run this for, chief?’

‘Results in thirty-six hours or else. That’s the latest.’

‘D’you think Jackson’s spotted him?’

‘What, through the Rectory walls?’

‘I wouldn’t put anything past that scumbag. Oh, and the film’s arrived from the Top Gear shop.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I am saying so.’

Sergeant Troy flattened himself against the door as Barnaby, grasping his mug, hurried from the room. There was no need for him to get wound up, though Troy hadn’t the heart to point this out. They had already run the film through once downstairs so there’d be no hiccup when the boss came to view, and it was pretty useless. Blink and you’d miss the bugger.