‘Of course not.’
‘What reason did you have for wiping that receiver clean?’
‘Me! I didn’t touch it . . . I didn’t.’ Some more nervous gulping. ‘Look . . . all right . . . I wasn’t here in the afternoon. Now, Barnaby . . . will what I’m going to tell you now remain absolutely confidential?’
‘I can’t guarantee that, I’m afraid. Of course if it doesn’t relate to the case there’s no reason why it should ever be made public.’
‘But it will go on record, won’t it?’
‘We shall take a further statement, certainly.’ Right on cue Troy produced his notebook.
‘I’d have to give up the practice if this became public. Leave the area.’ Trevor Lessiter slumped in his smart leather chair. His chipmunk cheeks, now quite deflated, were tuckered grey bags. Then the grey flushed red with panic. ‘You won’t tell my wife?’
‘We don’t “tell” anyone anything, sir. That’s not how we work. Alibis are checked to eliminate the innocent as much as to discover the guilty.’
‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
The range of people who thought lying to the police wasn’t doing anything wrong, reflected Barnaby, was widening all the time. He waited.
‘You’ve . . . er . . . met my wife, Chief Inspector. I’m envied, I know, by many people . . . men that is . . .’ Here, in spite of his intense anxiety, a shimmer of satisfaction flitted across his features. Barnaby was reminded briefly of Henry Trace. ‘. . . but Barbara is . . . oh dear, I don’t know how to put this without sounding disloyal. She’s a wonderful companion . . . great fun to be with but not very . . .’ His face looked smaller, shrunk with embarrassment. He forced a laugh. ‘I’d better be John Blunt here, I can see. She’s not too interested in the physical side of marriage.’
So much for the fancy wrapping, thought Barnaby, recalling the painted eyes and heavy scent and the twin peaks that might have caused stout Cortez himself a stagger of disbelief.
‘So,’ continued the doctor, ‘obviously wanting her to be happy, I don’t press my attentions.’ He dropped his gaze, but not before Barnaby had seen a flash of spite and sour resentment in his eyes. The look of a man who has kept his side of the bargain and been sold down the river. ‘However’ - a light-hearted shrug - ‘I have needs . . .’ Here his left lid trembled on the edge of a collusive wink, ‘. . . as we all do, and I . . . er . . . occasionally, very occasionally, visit an establishment that . . . um . . . caters for them.’
‘You mean a brothel?’
‘Ohhh!’ No longer John Blunt, he looked almost disgusted at Barnaby’s lack of finesse. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Not at all. It’s very . . . refined, really. There’s a little shop which sells all sorts of jolly things. And they put on a little show. And a get-together with one of the young ladies afterwards if one is so inclined. And one usually is inclined. The performances are quite stimulating. Tasteful but stimulating.’ ‘And that is where you were on the afternoon of the seventeenth?’ The doctor nodded. ‘And the name and address of this establishment?’
Lessiter rootled about in his wallet and produced a card. ‘Perhaps you know of the . . . er . . . club . . . ?’
Barnaby glanced at the card. ‘I believe I do, yes.’ He then asked for a photograph.
‘A photograph!’ The doctor gave a horrified squeak.
‘Purely for identification purposes. It will be returned, I assure you. Or perhaps you would like to accompany me . . . ?’
‘Good God no.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I’ve just had some passport pictures done. They’re in the study.’ He left the room, returning a few minutes later with four neat black and white squares. He handed over two of them. ‘I think this one . . . look . . . where I’m smiling is the most—’
‘I just need the one, thank you.’ As Barnaby turned away the doctor added, ‘You must ask for Krystal. She’s my special friend.’
Chapter Nine
The Casa Nova was not easily visible to the casual eye. It lurked in a grubby, unpoetic alley, Tennyson Mews, flanked by a stationery warehouse and a handbag factory. The windows of the latter were wide open, inviting the hot July sun into the already stifling workrooms. The smell of baking leather wafted out together with the jungle drumming of machinery. Troy parked near a peeling magenta door half garlanded with sickly lightbulbs offering ‘10 BEAUTIFUL GIRLS 10’ and, eyes alight with anticipation, undid his seat belt.