Watching this process, so entirely out of his control, Barnaby was overcome by a strong sense of hazard. And yet, when the metamorphosis was complete, the result could not have been more ordinary. A motor car. Pearly pale with an interior full of shadows. As Barnaby bent to peer inside, one of the shadows turned a smiling face in his direction. He knew at once that he had found Max Jennings. And awoke hours later, with a totally numb left arm, a ball of fur dossing on his chest and a clamorously ringing telephone to hear that it was true.
Liam’s Story
In the end it had simply been a stroke of luck. A motor-cycle policeman, himself a passionate admirer of the Mercedes Benz and the proud owner of a G-registered 230TE, had taken special note when the search had been first registered. Idling by the lights in the town of St Just he had seen the car, facing in the opposite direction, doing likewise. There was a couple inside and the man was driving.
As soon as he was able the patrolman wheeled round and pursued it, keeping a discreet distance, waiting to see if the driver had business in town or was merely passing through. The car took the road to Botallack. The policeman was about to radio in its exact position when the Mercedes suddenly turned left and disappeared down a narrow side lane. He followed, cutting his motor-cycle engine to coast silently.
They had parked outside a small cottage quite close to the furiously pounding sea and were unloading cardboard boxes from the boot. The wind blew the woman’s scarf about and she had to keep pulling it away from her face.
Max Jennings expressed puzzled surprise (so Barnaby was later told) at an unexpected visit from the police, consternation at the reason for it and definite displeasure at the news that he would need to travel back to the Home Counties to answer questions rather than be interrogated in Cornwall.
‘Surely,’ he was now saying in the interview room of Causton CID, ‘I might have gone to the station in St Just. Or, failing that, couldn’t we have talked on the telephone?’
‘I’m afraid that is not possible, Mr Jennings,’ said Chief Inspector Barnaby. ‘The case is being handled here.’
‘I still can’t believe it. How appalling.’ Jennings reached out for his polystyrene beaker of station coffee and sipped with plain lack of appreciation. He took a deep breath as if to speak, moving his hand in emphasis, hesitated, then simply repeated himself.
‘Appalling. Christ - what a terrible way to go.’
‘Are you quite sure you knew nothing of this matter until today?’
‘I’ve already told you. The cottage has no telephone, radio or television. It’s very basic.’
‘But surely your car has a radio.’
‘Today was the first time we used the car. We took food and everything else we needed down with us. It lasted till this morning, when we ran out of milk and bread.’
He’d got everything off pat. And so he should have with six hours on the motorway to work it all out. Not that it couldn’t have happened precisely as he described. If he had reached Cornwall before the evening after the murder, and not bought a paper since, his surprise could be genuine. Unless of course he was guilty, in which case he’d had even longer to get everything off pat.
Jennings opened a dark green leather case lined with pale brown gold-banded cigarillos. On being informed of the No Smoking rule he put the case away without comment, but did not look best pleased. Troy was impressed by the elegance of both case and contents. Far more than by Jennings’ female companion, now shredding her hankie to bits in the outer office. Straight brown hair, frumpy camel coat, hardly any make-up. You’d have thought a famous writer could have done better for himself. In fact the only good thing you could say for her was that her name was Lindsay and not Barbara.
‘So - what is it you want from me?’ Max Jennings glanced at his watch, which was as stylish as the rest of him, with an air of slight impatience.
‘I’d like you to tell us all you know about this matter.’
‘Well, that won’t take long,’ replied Jennings. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘It does appear that you were the last person to see Mr Hadleigh alive—’
‘The last bar one, chief inspector. Let’s stick to the facts, shall we?’
‘I hope we shall both do that,’ said Barnaby and received a sharp-eyed glance for his impudence. ‘Could I ask first when precisely you left Plover’s Rest?’
‘Plover’s what?’
‘Mr Hadleigh’s cottage.’
‘I don’t honestly know. Lateish.’
‘Do you remember when you arrived home then? Perhaps we could work back from there.’