The Killings at Badger's Drift(3)

‘Where did you find this?’

‘On her little table, tucked under the telephone. I can’t imagine why she would have rung them up.’

‘Presumably because she was worried or depressed and needed to talk to someone.’

‘To total strangers? Fiddlesticks!’ Hurt lay behind the snort of disbelief. ‘Anyway our generation didn’t get depressed. We soldiered on. Not like today. People want tranquillizers now if the milk goes off.’

Barnaby felt his innards twang aggressively and shifted in his chair. The brief flicker of interest her story had aroused died away. He felt irritated and impatient. ‘When did your friend actually die?’

‘Friday the seventeenth. Two days ago. I’ve been stewing about it ever since. Knew there wasn’t much to go on, y’see. Thought I’d probably be told I was talking a load of nonsense. Which of course I was.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Young man at the desk. Said at her age it was to be expected and hinted that I was wasting his valuable time. Not,’ she added caustically, ‘that he seemed to be doing very much.’

‘I see. No, all complaints and inquiries are investigated. Our opinion on their veracity is quite irrelevant. Who is the next of kin in this case?’

‘Well . . . I am, I suppose. Neither of us had any near relations. Odd cousins and aunts long since popped off. She had a nephew somewhere in the Antipodes. And I’m her executor. We left everything to each other.’

Barnaby made a note of Miss Bellringer’s name and address then asked, ‘You’re in charge of the funeral arrangements?’

‘Yes. She’s being buried on Wednesday. That doesn’t leave us with much time.’ Suddenly they were in the realms of melodrama. ‘You know, I can’t help being reminded of The Case of the Vanishing Orchestra. The circumstances are really quite -’

‘You read detective fiction, Miss Bellringer?’

‘Avidly. They’re a mixed bunch, of course. My favourite is -’ She broke off and looked at him sharply. ‘Ah. I see what you’re thinking. But you’re quite wrong. It’s not my imagination.’

Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby rose and, after a preliminary flapping of garments, his companion did the same. ‘I shouldn’t worry about the funeral, Miss Bellringer. These things can always be postponed if it proves to be necessary.’

In the doorway she turned. ‘I knew her, you see, Emily.’ Her fingers tightened on the bone handles of her bag. ‘All this is totally out of character. Believe me, Chief Inspector, there is something very wrong here.’

After she had left Barnaby took two tablets and swished them down with some water. He leaned back in his chair and waited for them to work. It seemed to take longer and longer. Perhaps he should start taking three. He loosened his belt and returned to the child molester’s file. A photograph grinned up at him: a sunny-faced little man who had had three previous convictions, then been given a job as a primary school caretaker. He sighed, pushed the folder away and wondered about Emily Simpson.

It was his belief, forged by thirty years of looking and listening, that no one ever acted out of character. What most people thought of as character (the accumulation, or lack of, certain social, educational and material assets) was shallow stuff. Real character was revealed when these accretions were stripped away. It was the chief inspector’s belief that anyone was capable of anything. Strangely enough this did not depress him. He did not even regard it as a pessimistic point of view but rather as the only sensible one for a policeman to hold.

However, Miss Simpson had done several things on the last day of her life that someone who had known her closely since childhood had never known her do before. And that was odd. Odd and interesting. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby had made a note of the Samaritans’ number and took hold of the phone. But first there was the little matter of Miss Bellringer’s reception to be dealt with.

He pressed the buzzer and said, ‘Send Sergeant Troy in here.’





Chapter Two

There was no joy from the Samaritans. Barnaby had not expected that there would be. Clam tight as usual. Which was why after a second, later telephone call he presented himself at their tiny terraced house behind Woolworth’s at seven p.m. looking worried.

An elderly man sat behind a desk with two telephones. The receiver of one was clapped to his ear. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, ‘Please sit down’ to Barnaby, then continued listening, nodding gravely from time to time. Eventually he replaced the receiver and said, ‘You’re the person who rang hoping to see Terry?’