The Killings at Badger's Drift(69)

Barnaby had in front of him the cutting on the Trace inquest. Now he knew the truth he read it again, remembering his earlier impression that there was something in there that hadn’t seemed quite right. He assumed that whatever it was would now stick out a mile, but he was wrong. Ah well . . . it was no longer important.

All around him was activity. Muted, orderly but intense. Breathing space between telephone calls was slight. Fleet Street had picked up the news as had BBC television. Although no appeal had yet been made several members of the public, no doubt anxious to appear to be playing some part in such a dramatic event, had rung offering information and ideas.

Paper was piling up. Every little detail was put on an action form and those not already transcribed on to the rotary card system were circling round like homing pigeons. Forensic and other information was being recorded in the portable pod. A vast blown-up map of the village hung on the wall behind Barnaby’s head. One of the monitors showed a local television reporter interviewing Mrs Sweeney, and Mr Fenton, senior partner at Brown’s Funeral Emporium (‘Every solace in your hour of need’) had appeared for the opposition. The villagers were being questioned by the police as to their whereabouts between three and five p.m. All the normal procedures were being carried out. But whilst Barnaby was aware that everything that was being done must be done, his mind refused to expand to absorb all the minutiae of an official inquiry.

It held only five suspects (he had decided to jettison Henry Trace, and Lessiter had an alibi) and these five moved in a slow tantalizing pavane on a screen behind his eyes. Wherever he was, whoever he was with, whatever he was doing, the dance went on. He drained his coffee. Old green-eyes was back.

It was now almost nine o’clock. He wrote down an order for the Chinese takeaway - Black Bean and Ginger Soup. Sweet and Sour Prawns. Rice and Spring Rolls. Toffee Apples - and had just sent it off when the phone rang.

‘It’s a Mrs Quine asking for you, sir. She’s in a call box. I’ve made a note of the number.’

‘Right . . . Mrs Quine?’

‘Hullo? What’s going on . . . didn’t that chap in the caravan tell you what I said? About that Lacey bloke?’

‘Yes. The message was passed on.’

‘Woss he doing still roaming round the village, then? We’ll all be torn to bloody shreds before you lot get off your arses and do something. I saw him go up to that house bold as brass.’

‘We also—’ Barnaby stopped. Around him the phones continued to ring, a typewriter rattled, outside a car screeched to a halt. He heard none of those things. His concentration was yanked to a single fine point. There was just him, the telephone and Mrs Quine. His throat was bone dry as he asked, ‘Did you say he went up to the house?’

‘I told you. In the message. He went through the hedge, up the garden path to the back door. Got his old denims on and that cap. I’d know him anywhere.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Well . . . the Young Doctors had just finished and Tickle on the Tum hadn’t started. I’d gone up to make the beds - which was how I came to spot him, y’see. Through the bedroom window. Lisa Dawn was making a cup of tea.’

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby, marvelling at the control in his voice, ‘but what time would that be?’

‘That’d be . . . um . . . five to four.’

He sat gripping the receiver for a moment longer. She continued speaking but her words were lost as a wave of exhilaration pounded through him. His brain felt as if it were being dragged all over the place by wild horses. Five to four. Dear God. Five to four. More words were getting through.

‘Was it you sent that nosey bugger from the Social round? Upsetting Lisa Dawn.’

The pips admitted a merciful release. Barnaby went to find Inspector Moffat to get a search warrant. He yelled ‘Troy!’ as he went through the outer office - a shout that could have been heard as far as the cattle market and the Soft Shoe Café. His sergeant leapt up from a spot of hot-eyed dalliance with Policewoman Brierley and responded with a ‘Sir!’ automatically pitched at the same level.

‘Car. Shift yourself.’

Leaving another ‘sir’ splintering the atmosphere Troy ran from the room. This was something like it, he thought, running across the car park and leaping into the Fiesta. Foot down. Siren blaring. Secret tip-off. Villain on the run. Troy and Barnaby closing in. Cuffs at the ready. But the Chief’s getting on. Oh he was fast in his day but now . . . So it’s Troy who makes the arrest. He was a tough bastard, too. One of the hard men. Afterwards Barnaby admitted as much. ‘Without you, Sergeant, I couldn’t have—’