‘Sir?’ Troy was holding out a telephone. ‘Miss Lacey.’ He took the receiver.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby.’
‘What’s happened? What were you doing with Michael?’ Barnaby told her. There was a terrible pause then Katherine started shouting. Barnaby heard ‘No . . . no . . . he couldn’t . . . it isn’t true . . .’ and Henry Trace’s voice. Then Trace took the telephone.
‘Tell me the exact situation, Barnaby. I can’t get any sense out of Katherine. Darling . . . please . . . it’ll be all right. Try to calm down . . . we can’t do anything till we know just what’s going on.’
Barnaby went through it again. He heard Katherine crying, ‘I want to see him . . . Henry - I’ve got to see him.’
‘May we see him, Chief Inspector?’
‘I suggest you ring in the morning, Mr Trace. We’ve settled him down for the night now.’ He could hear Katherine still sobbing hysterically as he replaced the telephone.
Barnaby leaned back and closed his eyes. He was feeling tired but not healthily so. He felt what his mother called ‘worn to a frazzle’. Wound up, worn out and nothing to show for it. But what was he saying? Of course he had something to show for it. Downstairs, sealed securely away in a cell, he had the murderer of Iris Rainbird. And tomorrow they would find the clothes. Lacey can’t have got far with them. Probably dumped in the pond in the woods. He remembered the little puddle of water in the Rainbirds’ shed. He had water on the brain. And an unpleasant tightness under his belt. His stomach was never satisfied. When he fed it it complained. And it complained when he didn’t. But everything was fine. Tired phrases that he would never normally use lumbered into his mind. An open and shut case. Caught red handed. No problem.
He threw the takeaway into the grey metal waste bin and heaved himself out of his seat. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said to the room at large. ‘See you in the morning.’ Troy, thriving on his twelve-hour shift, sprang up and accompanied Barnaby to the main door, holding it open for him.
‘Quite a session wasn’t it, sir?’ he asked, his face burnished with satisfaction.
‘You can say that again.’
‘I mean’ - Troy kept pace with Barnaby across the car park - ‘how often in your career have you arrested two murderers in one day? This has to be a one-off wouldn’t you say, Chief?’ Barnaby unlocked the door of his Orion. ‘God - I’ve seen some liars in my time but that Lacey . . .’
‘Goodnight, Sergeant.’
Troy winged a final bright-eyed glance through the window. ‘An open and shut case wouldn’t you say?’
He watched the blue car drive away. Surly old sod. Troy thought that if he’d pulled off a double coup like that it’d be drinks all round for the lads and Policewoman Brierley’s knickers in his glove compartment before the night was out.
Arbury Crescent was quiet as Barnaby eased into his garage. Dreaming suburbia. A few television sets still flickering but the guiltless inhabitants were mostly asleep, renewing their energies for the daily commuter slog to the city.
‘Is that you, Tom?’ called Joyce, as she always did.
He stood for a moment on the patio looking down the garden at the heavy mass of dark arboreal shapes. The leaves rustled in the night air and were touched with silver by the moon. He was glad he couldn’t see his herbaceous borders. He hadn’t touched them for a fortnight. He would get Joyce to do some deadheading at the weekend. This unfortunate phrase reminded him of work and the sighing of the trees ceased to be a comfort. He went indoors.
‘I’ve kept you some soup hot.’ Joyce was in her housecoat and slippers, her face cleaned of makeup.
‘Oohh . . .’ Barnaby slipped an arm around her waist. ‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘How did it all go today?’
‘So so.’ Barnaby took the mug.
‘I’m afraid it’s not home-made.’
Barnaby took the soup gratefully and drank deep. It was wonderful. Monosodium glutamate. Permitted stabilizers. HC and FCF. All the angst-producing E’s. Bliss.
‘You hadn’t forgotten Cully’s here for the weekend?’
‘I had, actually.’ Barnaby drained his mug.
‘Would you like some more?’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
She ladled some out but before he could drink put her arms around him. ‘Tom?’
‘Mm.’
‘You look sad.’ She drew his grizzled head down to her soft bosom. ‘Would you like a cuddle?’
‘Yes please.’ He kissed her. She smelt sweetly of fresh toothpaste and the baby lotion she used as a moisturizer. He felt a sudden overwhelming rush of gratitude. Today and every day, however dark the working hours, come nightfall he touched home base. He stroked her hair, adding, ‘And not just because I’m sad.’