The Killings at Badger's Drift(8)

From behind a glassed-in panel Policewoman Brierly called: ‘I saw him go across the yard for lunch.’

The canteen lay at the end of a large quadrangle. Everyone at the station moaned endlessly about the food which, to the chief inspector’s tortured palate, seemed positively Lucullan. They should try eating chez Barnaby, he thought, loading up with shepherd’s pie, soggy chips and livid mushy peas. That’d soon shut them up. He added a mincemeat slice and looked round, spotting the doctor alone at a table by the window.

‘Hello, Tom,’ said Doctor Bullard. ‘What brings you to these desperate straits?’

‘What brings you?’ said Barnaby, sitting down and tucking in.

‘My wife’s at her Ikebana class.’

‘Ah. I wanted to talk about something, actually.’

‘Talk away,’ replied the doctor, pushing aside the wreckage from a devilled haddock and considering a castle pudding.

‘An old lady had a fall and was found dead the next morning by the postman. Not, sadly, all that unusual. But she saw something, probably in the woods near her house, the afternoon before that distressed her considerably. So much so that she rang the Samaritans to talk about it but before she could say much someone came to the door. And that’s all we know.’

‘So . . . ?’ Doctor Bullard shrugged. ‘Slightly more unusual.’

‘I’d like you to have a look at her.’

‘Who signed the death certificate?’

‘Lessiter. Badger’s Drift.’

‘Ohhh . . .’ George Bullard blew out his cheeks and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘Well, it won’t be the first time I’ve trodden on his hand-made two-tones.’

‘What d’you think of him?’

‘Come on, Tom - you know better than that.’

‘Sorry.’

‘God, they don’t call these castle puddings for nothing, do they? This one’s completely impregnable.’ He stabbed at it then added, ‘I can tell you what’s common knowledge. That he has a lot of private patients and a pretty upmarket lifestyle. A definitely scrumptious second wife and a very unscrumptious daughter who must be about the same age as my Karen. Nearly nineteen.’

‘Can you look at the body this afternoon?’

‘Mm. I’ve got a hospital call at three, though, so we’d have to go straight away.’

There were only two funeral parlours in Causton. Brown’s was thought to be the more select. The other was the Co-op. Brown’s front window was padded with crumpled satin in the very centre of which was an urn of shiny black basalt holding several lilies. Engraved on the urn was: Til the Dawn Breaks and Shadows Flee Away. Parked in a space adjacent to the building was a new silver Porsche 924, sparkling in the sunshine.

‘Beautiful.’ Doctor Bullard stroked it appreciatively. ‘Nought to sixty in nine seconds.’

Barnaby imagined himself jammed into one of the low seats. The red and black chequered upholstery seemed to him hideously unattractive. He realized that he would always be, philosophically as well as incrementally, a middle-of-the range-family-saloon man. ‘I’d no idea these fellows were so well paid,’ he said, pushing open the glass-panelled door.

‘No short time either,’ replied the doctor jovially. ‘The one thing you can always be sure people are going to do is pop off.’

The bell rang with subdued and appropriate gravity. It disturbed only one occupant: a young man, almost colourless in appearance, who flowed through some deep velvet curtains at the back of the room. He wore a black suit and had a pale skin, pale straight hair, pale hands and pale, hard-boiled lemony eyes, like acid drops. About to give them extreme unction, he took a second look and rearranged his expression. ‘Doctor Bullard isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. And you’re . . . don’t tell me . . . Mr Rainbird?’

‘Got it in one,’ the young man beamed. His eyes didn’t change. He seemed to beam through his skin. ‘Dennis the menace,’ he added, apparently serious. He turned inquiringly to the doctor’s companion.

‘This is Detective Inspector Barnaby. Causton CID.’

‘My . . .’ Dennis Rainbird gave the chief inspector a slippy glance. ‘Well, you won’t find any naughtiness here. We’re all as good as gold.’

Barnaby handed over the note from Miss Bellringer. ‘We’d like to see the body of Emily Simpson, if you’d be so kind.’ He was watching the other man’s face as he spoke. There was an expression almost immediately suppressed, of unnaturally intense curiosity laced with excitement.

‘Toot sweet,’ cried Mr Rainbird, looking at the note then whisking off behind the curtains. ‘Always ready to help the force.’ He spoke as if it was an everyday occurrence.