‘Poor Smokey.’
‘All right, all right. We’ll get you another.’
‘What time was it when your daughter went to the shop?’
‘Dunno exactly. We was watching Sons and Daughters so it must’ve been gone three.’
‘And this was definitely the afternoon of the seventeenth?’
‘Told you, haven’t I?’ She lit a third cigarette.
‘And you were in all that evening?’
‘Can’t go anywhere with her.’
‘Thank you.’ Whilst Troy read the pro-forma back and Mrs Quine inhaled and tapped her feet and sighed, Barnaby tried to talk to Lisa Dawn but she shrank back in her chair and would not look at him. Bluish black marks, pretty as pansies, flowered along her inner arms. Before they had passed again between the rotten gate posts Barnaby heard her start to cry.
Barnaby switched on the fan in his office and asked for some coffee and a sandwich from the canteen. Before leaving to fetch them Policewoman Brierley said, ‘I’ve put a message underneath your clip, sir. A Miss Bazely. She left her office number and asked if you’d ring.’
Barnaby lifted up the phone and dialled. The blue propellers of the fan, whilst making an efficient whirring sound, did no more than shift the warm air in a sluggish stream past his perspiring face. ‘Miss Bazely? Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby here.’
‘Oh yes . . . hullo . . . you know when we talked the other day and I thought there was something I hadn’t told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I’ve remembered what it was. I’ll tell you now shall I?’
‘Yes please.’
‘I was in High Wycombe yesterday with my sister. I’m going to be her bridesmaid next month, you see, and we went to try on my dress. The shop’s quite near the station actually, which means you can sometimes squeeze the car in - not for long of course - and it’s called Anna Belinda. And that’s what Miss Simpson said. Well, nearly.’
‘Do you remember exactly?’
‘Yes I do. She said, “Just like poor Annabella.”’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Not simply Bella?’
‘No. It was definitely Annabella.’
Barnaby replaced the phone and sat staring at it thoughtfully. His sandwich (chicken and watercress) arrived, and some delicious coffee from the office hotplate. Barnaby took it saying, ‘Give the Social Services a ring, would you? I think someone should call at seven Burnham Crescent, Badger’s Drift.’
‘What shall I say, sir?’
‘Ohh . . . possible child abuse. The woman’s name is Quine. She needs help too. On the verge of a breakdown, I would say. And if you could get on to Slough. I need the address and number of a Mrs Norah Whiteley. She’s a domestic science teacher. One son aged nine.’ He took a ravenous bite of his sandwich, reducing it by half, picked up the receiver and dialled again.
‘Miss Bellringer? Do you happen to know if your friend knew anyone called Annabella?’ There was a longish pause then a negative reply. ‘It wouldn’t perhaps be Mrs Trace?’
‘Oh no . . . her name was Beatrice. She called herself Bella because she thought it was more glamorous.’
‘But did Miss Simpson know this?’
‘She did indeed. I remember her saying to me what a mistake it was. She thought Beatrice a beautiful name. And Bella rather common.’ She paused for breath. ‘There was an Isabella in my music class years ago. An immaculate child. I believe she’s now a deaconess. Is that any help?’
Barnaby thanked her and said goodbye. He had forgotten for the moment that Miss Simpson had been a teacher for over forty years. The chances were that, even given the comparative rarity of the name, one or two Annabellas may have passed through her hands, swanking brightly amongst the mousey Jeans and Joans and Junes and Janes. But then Miss Simpson’s recollection of the name had been triggered by the sight of a fornicating couple. How young had they started having it away twenty, thirty, forty years ago? Probably, he reflected, about as young as they did now. Some things never changed.
And why poor Annabella? He took another swig of his coffee and watched, out of the corner of his eye, an abseilling spider swing back and forth. Had she been destitute? Depraved? Dead? Barnaby thought of all the characters an eighty-year-old woman could have met with in a long and fairly well-travelled life. And heard about. And read about. He sighed, took another bite of his sandwich and faced the facts. Annabella could be practically anybody.
‘Something I can do, sir?’ asked Troy.
‘Yes.’ Barnaby emptied his mug. ‘You can run me over to the Echo. I want to read the account of Bella Trace’s death.’