Written in Blood(136)

Only an impro. Only an impro. Brian trembled and shook in an agony of hope and bewilderment and rage. Surely it could not be so. They would never have the wit or imagination or discipline to dream up and carry through such a scenario. They were too stupid. Thick. Cretinous. Moronic. Hateful in their vacuous self-esteem. Loathsome in their self-congratulation.

‘You said we could do our own. Don’t you remember?’

‘Last week.’

‘No harm done, ay Bri?’

Christ, they’d be asking him next if he couldn’t take a joke.

‘And we put a twist in the tail - like you said.’

‘A coody theatre.’

‘To “astound and amaze”.’

‘I know what he’s worried about.’ Denzil threw the tape. Brian snatched at the air and seized the box.

‘Is this the . . . ?’

‘That’s it.’

‘The one and only.’

‘Refuse all substitutes.’

Brian unzipped his windcheater and put the tape inside. There was a long pause then, when Brian did not speak the circle around him started to break up. Denzil moved away to the parallel bars, released one of the ropes and started to swarm up it. The others, at a loose end, stared at Brian as if awaiting direction. They appeared, now that the fun was over, about to slip into their usual state of misanthropic lethargy.

‘We got half an hour yet, Bri.’

‘Don’t call me “Bri”.’

‘What shall we do, though?’

‘Do what you like.’ Brian felt the tape, the one and only, hard and safe against his concave chest. ‘Drop dead for all I care.’

He never intended to enter the gym again. All the stimulating and creative work that had taken place there was as ashes, dirty ashes, in his mouth.

‘Aren’t we rehearsing, then?’ asked little Bor.

‘I must have been mad to have ever wasted five minutes let alone five months of my life on any of you. Or to have thought that the stinking squalid sewers that pass for minds in your tiny pointed heads could ever begin to understand the first thing about literature or music or drama. I suggest you all crawl back to the gutter where you so obviously belong. And as far as I’m concerned you can stay there and rot.’





The briefing had been an arid business. Barnaby, having no definite lead, genuine insight or any sort of meaningful inspiration, was not a man to bluff and bluster his way towards giving the impression that he did. Nor did he blame the fact that he found himself thus high and dry on his team. That there were many officers, some far senior to himself, who would not have hesitated to do so was hardly a consolation.

Everyone had by then read the transcript of Jennings’ interview. The immediate response divided the incident room fairly cleanly down the middle. Half thought the story too far-fetched even for Brookside or EastEnders and the rest were moved and intrigued by the darkly predictive nature of the tale and the way it shed light on their previous understanding of the murder victim.

But if Barnaby had hoped for the sort of positive feedback that would shunt his inquiry on to a more fruitful and revealing track he was unlucky. True the room was full of silent support. The wish to contribute, perhaps even to brightly shine, was plain enough and the frustration at being unable to do so equally palpable. It was clearly killing Meredith.

Eventually Detective Constable Willoughby wondered aloud if Jennings might not himself be Neilson and had told the story to direct the investigation away from the successful figure he had now become. Admittedly there appeared to be an age discrepancy but he himself had established that and could well be lying.

Barnaby pointed out that the author’s CV was well documented and easily checkable and that he thought this probably made Constable Willoughby’s suggestion something of a no no. He did not put this at all forcefully - the lad was brand new and only eighteen - but Willoughby, though managing to nod calmly in response, thereafter was seen to fall quietly apart.

‘We shall have to start winding down here pretty soon if no new information emerges. We can’t have thirty people twiddling their thumbs. Some of you will have to go back to your divisions at the end of the week. Watch the board for names. We can always jack things up should the tide turn.

‘As for today, I’d like everyone who was present on the evening Hadleigh died re-interviewed. And before you do so go over their previous statements, including Hutton and Clapton’s follow-ups, until you know them inside out. Look for the smallest discrepancy or contradiction, especially self-contradiction. It’s six days since they talked to us. They’ll not only have forgotten most of what they said but they’ll have remembered things that they may well regard as irrelevant but which might be very relevant indeed to us. Don’t forget that though opinions won’t stand up in court they can sometimes point the way to stuff that will. Try and establish an atmosphere where errors can easily be admitted or minds changed. It’s often the fear of looking foolish that stops people backtracking and keeping what could be valuable information to themselves.