Written in Blood(100)

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby tersely. ‘What is it?’

‘Merely an idea—’

‘Would that be the idea you had last night when I asked you if you’d just had an idea and you said “No, sir”?’

‘Well . . .’ Meredith smiled and shrugged his elegant shoulders. ‘I thought it best to check my facts first. I needed to re-read Mrs Jennings’ statement. And work on from there.’

‘Work on?’ Barnaby spoke softly but there were few present who did not feel the wind of change. An ominous tightening of the atmosphere. Inspector Meredith was one of that few. Sublime in his ignorance, he continued.

‘Yes. You were cursing the elusive Jennings and the fact that all the information we had picked up led nowhere. But I had this niggling feeling that there was a name somewhere that had been overlooked and I was right. That name was - Barbara!’

At this triumphant conclusion he glanced smugly round the room as if expecting, at the very least, a round of applause. Then, stimulating the silence with a jaunty back flip, he explained, ‘The secretary.

‘Unfortunately I only had her Christian name. Tried to get the rest from Mrs Jennings, who wouldn’t play, then from the servant, who didn’t know. So I thought of his publisher. Seemed to me they were bound to have had dealings. I was lucky. Though it was late they had a book-launch party on and people were still around. Her surname, Cockaigne, was an unusual one and they were able to tell me she lived in North London. From then on it was a piece of cake. I rang and got an answerphone. Now, and this is where it gets really interesting—’

‘I hope you’re not going to give the entire plot away, Inspector Meredith,’ said Barnaby in a voice that reverberated like a hammer striking frozen steel.

The general assembly was by now slipping into its moon boots and ear muffs. Troy, leaning against the Ryvita panels, closed his eyes with pleasure as Meredith went bombasting on and thought, What a scrote!

‘The drill on the tape is that she’s away for five days, OK? And I don’t believe that is a coincidence. She’ll have left an address with someone - a friend or neighbour - in case of an emergency. People always do. Find her, chief inspector, and it’s my belief you’ll find Jennings.’

The silence which followed this improvisation went on for quite some time. Barnaby appeared almost distracted. Frowning, he moved his papers to and fro in an aimless heap. Eventually he said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

‘Let me try and explain to you, inspector, how we work here.’ He directed a glance of freezing disdain in Meredith’s direction. ‘We work as a team. I cannot over-emphasise the importance of this. Indeed you will find it a common element throughout the Force and I must say I’m amazed it was not drawn to your attention at Bramshill. It makes for speed and efficiency, you see. Often it saves lives. Of course we are all individuals, some perhaps more so than others, but when we have a little insight we don’t run off and hug it to ourselves, follow up on our clever little tod without telling anyone and then produce our conclusion while hogging centre stage like some spoiled kid at a party.’

‘I was only try—’

‘I haven’t finished!’

‘Oh.’

‘Dissemination of knowledge at every level and between every authority is vital. You only have to look at the Sutcliffe cock-up to see what happens when men of a rank to know better start playing Hooray For Our Gang instead of Pass The Parcel.’ He paused. ‘You’re looking somewhat perplexed, Meredith. Didn’t you get to hear about the Yorkshire Ripper in your ivory tower? Your intellectual eyrie in the sky?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Then you’ll know that women died unnecessarily because information was not quickly and properly conveyed.’

‘I thought that was a technical mix-up. Incompatible computers.’

‘Not entirely, by a long chalk.’

‘Still it’s not as if . . .’ Meredith tailed off, shrugged and said, ‘They were tarts, weren’t they?’

Barnaby stared across the room, his face momentarily distorted with disgust and disbelief. He said, ‘I’m not quite sure I heard you correctly, inspector.’

‘Prostitutes.’ Meredith looked around for confirmation. ‘Isn’t that right?’

The chief inspector’s large, grizzled head sank a little between his heavy shoulders. His neck all but disappeared.

‘Just remember what I said. All information, all ideas and insights, however slight, however cock-eyed, get tossed into the pool. That’s what briefings are all about.’