‘On my third check, sir. Just before five. I noticed she wasn’t breathing. Called the police surgeon right away but it was too late.’
‘Well if she wasn’t breathing it bloody well would be too late wouldn’t it?’
The sergeant, his face rigid with misery and mortification, muttered, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re about as much use to the force, Bateman, as a jockstrap in a nunnery.’ Silence. ‘I’ll have your stripes for this.’ Pause. ‘And that’s only for starters.’
‘If I could -’
‘You’re suspended from duty. You’ll be notified about the hearing. And I don’t want to see your face again until you are. Now get out.’
The door had barely closed on the wretched sergeant before it reopened to admit a young constable. ‘It’s the prisoner in cell three, sir. He wants to make a statement about his movements yesterday afternoon.’
‘Well I assume you’ve been with us long enough to manage that without too much nervous strain.’
‘I’m sorry but he wants to talk to you.’
The prisoner in cell three was finishing his breakfast, mopping up his plate with a piece of bread. ‘One star for comfort, Inspector, but definitely two for cuisine. I can’t remember when I’ve dispatched a nicer poached egg.’
‘Say what you’ve got to say and get on with it.’
‘I’d like to go home now.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Lacey!’ Barnaby crossed to the man on the bed and bent down so that their faces were barely an inch apart. ‘I’ve had you up to here.’ He spoke slowly and quietly but the current of anger that flowed from him was almost palpable. Lacey shrank away and turned pale. The skin graft, unchanged, stood out like a piece of stretched pink silk. ‘And I should warn you,’ continued Barnaby, ‘that if you were lying to me yesterday you’re in dead trouble.’
‘Oh I wasn’t . . . technically that is . . .’ His speech was hurried now, not at all fluent, with an anxious edge. ‘When I said I was working in the afternoon that was quite true. I was making preliminary sketches for an oil I’m going to do of Judy Lessiter. I’ve been thinking about it for some time and she rang up about twelve o’clock and reminded me. We worked in their garden.’
Barnaby took a deep breath, struggling to contain his rage. ‘Don’t you usually work at home?’
‘One can sketch anywhere. And in any case she invited me for lunch. I never turn down a decent meal.’
‘So when did you arrive?’
‘About half one. Started work just after two, worked till around four. Stopped for some tea and cake and stuff. Worked on till around five then left.’
‘And why,’ said Barnaby, his voice stretched with the effort of control, ‘did you not tell me all this yesterday?’
‘Well . . . I don’t really know.’ Michael Lacey swallowed nervously. ‘I suppose I was so shattered when you discovered the knife . . . then I panicked and before I knew what was happening you’d bundled me into the car and there I was . . . in one of your little grey cells.’ He attempted a grin. The chief inspector did not respond. ‘And somehow the longer I left it the harder it got to say anything so I thought I’d try to sleep and leave it till morning.’ There was a long heavy silence and he stood up and said, a little uncertainly, ‘So can I go now?’
‘No, Lacey, you cannot “go now”.’ Barnaby moved away. ‘And let me tell you that you don’t know how lucky you are. I know men who would have had your head in and out between those bars half a dozen times by now if you’d messed them about like you’ve messed me.’ He slammed the door, locked it and flung the key back on the board.
As he climbed the steps and made his way to the incident room he became aware that he was clenching and unclenching his fists with fury. He changed tack, returned to his office and stood by the window, struggling to simmer down. His brain was in a turmoil, his skin burned, there was a band of steel around his forehead and his stomach bucked like a maddened bronco. He felt almost sick with anger and frustration. But there was no disappointment. Because he had known in his heart from the moment when he saw Lacey gaping incredulously at the blood-encrusted knife that it was all too easy. Caught red handed. No problem. An open and shut case.
He sat in the chair behind his desk and closed his eyes. Gradually his pulse and heartbeat slowed down. He breathed slowly and evenly. Five long minutes crawled by and he made himself sit still for five more. By then he felt himself more or less back to normal and with normality, surprisingly, came hunger. He checked his watch. If he was quick he would have time to expose his arteries to the comfort of a quick fry-up in the canteen and still catch Judy Lessiter before she left for work.