The Killings at Badger's Drift(57)

Barnaby turned back into the hall. ‘Don’t just prop the wall up. Get on the phone and get things moving.’ Then as Troy moved somnambulistically across the hall, ‘Don’t touch that, you bloody fool! Use the set in the car. And don’t open that door again without something on your hands. Anyone’d think you’d been in the force five minutes instead of five years.’

‘I’m sorry . . .’ Troy produced a handkerchief.

Barnaby returned to the lounge. He made his way towards the two figures in the centre of the room, placing his feet carefully on whatever unstained patches of carpet he could find.

How could one person have shed so much blood? Wasn’t there something vaguely theatrical about the scene? Surely an over-enthusiastic stage manager had been at work hurling buckets of the stuff about, preparing for a performance of Grand Guignol. And the strange thing was that over and above the sweep of disbelief and horror Barnaby felt his memory give a powerful kick. Déjà vu. But how could that be? Surely if he had experienced anything even faintly like this spectacularly nightmarish scene in the past he could hardly have forgotten?

‘Mr Rainbird . . . ?’ He bent down and saw, with a fresh wave of nausea, that it was only Dennis Rainbird’s encircling arm that was keeping his mother’s head on her shoulders. Her throat had been cut so deeply that Barnaby could see the bluish white gristle of the slashed windpipe. There were cuts all over her face and neck and arms and her dress was slashed open.

The room was in a hell of a mess. Photographs and pictures were thrown about, there were cushions and ornaments on the floor, two tables were overturned, the television set was smashed. Grey shards of glass were ground into the carpet.

Barnaby said, ‘Mr Rainbird’ again and touched him gently. As if this movement activated some hidden mechanism the man started to croon gently. He was smiling; a radiant wide mad smile. The cruel simulacrum of bliss seen on the faces of earthquake survivors or parents outside a burning house. A rictus of grief and despair.

Almost twenty minutes passed, then: ‘Good God . . .’ Barnaby got up. George Bullard stood in the doorway. He carried a small black case and looked around him, aghast. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘Careful where you step.’

The doctor stared at the two figures for a moment, his expression a mixture of pity and disgust, then picked his way gingerly across the floor. He knelt down and opened his bag. Barnaby watched as he cut into the stiff crimson cuff of Dennis Rainbird’s shirt and held his delicate wrist.

‘How long has he been like this?’

‘We got here around half an hour ago. I should think for at least half an hour prior to that. Did you sort out an ambulance before you came?’

‘Mm.’ The doctor shone a light into Dennis’ pupils. He didn’t even blink. ‘Should be here in a minute.’

‘It’s vital I talk to him—’

‘For heaven’s sake, Tom, use your sense. The man’s catatonic.’

‘I can see that. Can’t you give him something?’

‘No.’ George Bullard rose to his feet. ‘He’s made a good job of this and no mistake.’

‘How long do these states last?’

‘A day. A month. Six months. There’s no way of knowing.’

‘That’s all I need.’

‘Sorry.’

Through the net curtains Barnaby saw the ambulance drive up followed almost immediately by three police cars. There was a murmur of excitement from the crowd. The ambulance attendants, perhaps inured to scenes of carnage by years of scraping people off the motorway, seemed much less shocked by what had happened in the lounge at Tranquillada than either Barnaby or Doctor Bullard. Whilst one of them talked to the doctor the other attempted to separate Dennis from his mother. He tugged gently at Dennis’ wrist but the fingers were clamped on to her right shoulder and left upper arm as tightly as if he were hanging for his very life on a cliff edge. Patiently the man prised the fingers away one at a time and unhooked the thumb. Mrs Rainbird’s head rolled back, attached to the neck only by a thin flap of skin. The torso tipped over and slid on to the carpet. Dennis’ crooning ran down, then stopped.

‘Can he walk d’you think?’

‘Let’s try him. Up you come, my lovely.’

Dennis rose to his feet, rubber limbed, still smiling. His face, always pale, was now almost albino-ish in its lack of colour.

‘Shall we clean him up a bit?’

‘Sorry,’ interjected Barnaby, ‘nothing must be touched.’

‘Right. On our way then.’ The three of them left the room, Dennis clinging trustingly like a child. Barnaby followed them out. The crowd, their wildest expectations more than fulfilled, played their part to the hilt, gasping aloud and crying out. One woman said, ‘And to think I nearly stopped in to watch the six o’clock news.’