The Killings at Badger's Drift(34)

The room really was unbearably oppressive. It was crammed full of voluptuous showy furniture. And there were cabinets of china, mostly Capo di Monte, and shelves of dolls dressed in differing national costumes, plus several original deeply awful paintings. The one nearest to Barnaby showed a cocker spaniel in - he peered disbelievingly closer - floods of tears. The whole shebang was what his daughter would have called twentieth-century grotesque.

‘Thank you so much, Mrs Rainbird.’ He stemmed the tide, courteous but firm.

‘Not at all, Mr Barnaby.’ She flung a dazzling arc in his direction. He could not avoid shaking hands. It was like seizing a lump of dough. ‘What are we here for if not to help each other?’

As the two policemen walked down the drive Sergeant Troy said, ‘Men like that ought to be castrated.’ When Barnaby did not reply he tacked an ameliatory ‘sir’ on the end, adding, ‘as for his mother . . . nothing but a spiteful old gasbag.’

‘Mrs Rainbird and folks like her are a godsend in any investigation, Troy. Just don’t mistake gossip for facts. And when they give you what they say are facts, always check them thoroughly. And don’t come to early conclusions. An open mind, Sergeant, an open mind.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They made their way to Burnham Crescent and council house number seven, the home of Mrs Quine.





As Barnaby and Troy passed through the space in the sour and dusty hedge flanked with rotten gate posts, Mrs Rainbird and her son closed the door of Tranquillada and turned to each other, alight with excitement.

‘Did you get it?’

‘Mummy - I did.’

‘Ohhh . . . where . . . where?’

‘Wait a minute. You haven’t said . . .’

‘You’re a good boy. Now - show me.’

‘No.’ His face, an unpleasant orange colour beneath the hall lantern, became closed and stubborn. ‘That wasn’t properly. You’ve got to do it properly.’

‘You’re a goodboy,’ she crooned, kissing him full on the mouth. Her breath was very sweet, a soft explosion of violet cachous and cream and rich vanilla. ‘Mummysbestboy.’ Her fingers slipped into his shirt, caressing the bony wings of his shoulder blades. ‘Bestestonlyboy.’

He licked her ear with its dropping cluster of rhinestones. ‘Mmmm.’ His breathing quickened. ‘Clever Denny.’

‘Now’ - she took his hand, leading him down the corridor towards the french windows and the garden - ‘show me . . .’

‘I want to play some more.’

‘Later we’ll play.’

‘All sorts of things?’

‘Everything. Come on . . . where is it?’

They stepped out on to the lawn. Behind the gazebo was a large dark pile of something dripping wet, the water seeping out on to the bright green grass in concentric rings. Dennis led his mother up to it proudly. Hand in hand they gazed down. Mrs Rainbird’s eyes shone.

‘Where did you find it?’

‘In the pond behind the beechwoods. I saw them throw it in tied round some stones.’

She made no reply; just breathed out, a long slow contented hiss.

‘My mo-mo’s all wet. I had to put it in the boot, you see.’

‘We’ll buy you another one.’

‘Oh Mummy . . .’ Ecstatically excited, he squeezed her arm. ‘Do you think it’s worth a lot, then?’

‘Oh yes, my dear.’ She took a step forward and poked the sodden mass with the toe of her shoe. ‘A very great deal. A very great deal indeed.’





Chapter Five

The garden of number seven was a tip. Literally. There was a small pyramid of junk teetering up against the side of the house. Bed frames, broken prams, old boxes, rusty iron chains and a large splintering rabbit hutch. The curtains downstairs were tightly closed. Barnaby rattled the letter box. Somewhere in the house a child was crying. He heard a woman scream, ‘Shut it, Lisa Dawn.’ Then, ‘Wait a minute can’t you?’ Thinking this might apply to him he waited.

Eventually Mrs Quine appeared. She was a thin woman with a concave chest and a cluster of red spots around her mouth. She was smoking and had an air of constant movement even when standing still, as if she had just been wound up and was raring to go.

‘Come in.’ She stepped back as they entered. ‘My neighbour said you were going round everybody.’

The room they entered was thick with smoke and dimly lit with a centre light, a wooden chandelier with parchment galleon shades. The television was blaring loudly. Mrs Quine made no move to turn it down. The room was untidy and not very clean. A little girl was sitting at a plastic table, sniffling and snuffling.