‘Presumably. The second point I’d like to clarify is rather more complicated. We’ve reason to believe that Hadleigh occasionally dressed as a woman. Appeared in public like this. Is that something you knew about?’
‘How extraordinary.’ But even as he spoke and gave a negative shake of the head Barnaby could see Jennings was preparing to qualify this response. ‘Although . . . I did talk to a friend once, an analyst, about Gerald - anonymously of course - and he asked me a similar question. Did I know if the respectable middle-class civil servant was the only fake persona this man had adopted? He said living a lie, to this extent and degree, imposed tremendous strain and often the people who were doing so needed desperately to escape. As returning to their true selves was psychologically dangerous they would create a third personality, usually quite different from the first two. Obviously this chap used fancier terminology, but that was about the gist of it.’
Barnaby nodded. This sounded, given that they were discussing behaviour most people would regard as completely abnormal, not an unreasonable proposition. Someone came in to remove the tea tray and ask if they needed any refills. Replying in the negative the chief inspector got up and crossed to the window, opening it a little, breathing in the cold night air. As if in response to this move Jennings rose as well, commenting on how late it was and asking for his overcoat.
‘I’m afraid there is no question of you returning home tonight, Mr Jennings.’
Jennings stared in amazement. ‘You’re keeping me here?’
‘That is the case, sir, yes.’
‘But you can’t do that. You have to charge me or let me go.’
‘Easy to see you don’t write crime stories, Mr Jennings,’ said Sergeant Troy. He grinned as he took down his black leathers. Middle-class outrage when the forces of law and order had occasion to tweak aside the velvet glove never failed to entertain. ‘We can hold you for up to thirty-six hours. And apply for an extension if necessary. This is a serious, arrestable offence we’re talking about.’
Jennings sank back on to his hard shell of a chair. He appeared numb with shock and was mumbling something that Troy did not quite get. He asked for clarification and was far from surprised when it came.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ said Jennings. ‘I want to see my solicitor.’
Hunting in Full Steel
It was the start of a new week and the weather had changed completely. Warmer, with a mizzle of rain. A sly day, as they say in Suffolk. When Troy entered the office Barnaby was on the phone. The sergeant saw immediately what was going on. The chief’s expression was one he recognised, blank, self-controlled, constraining with some force the response he thought appropriate to the occasion.
‘I am aware of that, sir . . .
‘Yes, I shall be talking to him again this morning . . .
‘It’s hard to say at this stage . . .
‘I’m afraid not . . .
‘Naturally I will . . .
‘I have already done so . . .
‘I’m sure we all hope . . .
‘No. At least nothing I’d care to put on the table . . .
‘I am pursuing—’
Troy heard the crash as the interrogator slammed the phone down right across the room. Barnaby replaced his own receiver without any visible signs of irritation.
‘Being leaned on from the top, chief?’
‘The head lama himself.’
‘Spit in your eye don’t they? Llamas?’
Barnaby did not reply. He had picked up a pencil and was doodling on a large note pad.
‘Jennings’ solicitor, is it?’
‘Just earning his hundred fifty an hour.’
‘They got it sussed - lawyers,’ said Troy, unbuttoning a cream trench coat of martial cut embellished with epaulettes, buckles, a belt of highly polished leather and pockets so wide and deep they could well have contained reinforcements from the US cavalry.
‘Whoever loses they win. Crafty buggers.’ He shook out the coat and placed it on a hanger, smoothing the fabric out and fastening the buttons.
‘You’re wasted here, sergeant. You should have been a valet.’
‘Load of rear gunners. I suppose it’s pressing trousers all day.’
‘Well, when you’ve finished faffing about, I’m in dire need of a caffeine shot.’
‘I’m as good as gone,’ said Troy, who was indeed already opening the door. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
‘Not right now.’
Barnaby was pleased with himself for not feeling peckish. Perhaps his stomach was adapting. Shrinking to accommodate the modest input that was now its daily portion. Of course, it could be that it was still only half an hour from breakfast time.