Written in Blood(142)

Troy told the story well and Barnaby laughed.

‘Do you want me to get a warrant, chief? Bring him in.’

‘Perhaps tomorrow.’

‘I’ve found out what “Slangwhang” means.’

‘Slang what?’

‘You know - his daft play.’

‘Oh yes. How did you do that?’

‘Looked it up in the dictionary.’

‘You’ve—?’ Barnaby stopped himself - immediately but, he saw, not quite in time. Christ, what an incredibly patronising thing to think, let alone say. ‘Sorry, Gavin. Really.’

‘S’ all right.’ But Troy had gone very pink. ‘Understandable. I’m no scholar, as you know. We got it for Talisa Leanne. For when she has homework, like.’

‘So what does it mean, “slangwhang”?’

‘Noisy or abusive talk. He’s a pretentious git. That the right word?’

‘Dead right.’ Barnaby finished his drink, pushed his cup aside and was about to go into his mini-discovery on the Lyddiard front when several more men returned.

He saw at once that the crew brought no further revelations. They looked dull, bored and mildly resentful, as people do who have spent several hours getting nowhere and could have told you this would be the case before they started.

Detective Constable Willoughby approached Barnaby’s desk and was relieved when Troy got up and walked away, for he had suffered more than once from the sergeant’s abrasive manner. Barnaby indicated the vacant chair and Willoughby sat, placing his hat carefully on his knees and his notebook carefully inside his hat.

Barnaby prepared to listen with a mixture of sympathy and irritation. There weren’t many pro cons as tender round the edges as this one. The lad would either have to buck his ideas up or get out of the Force. Barnaby suspected it would come to the latter and only hoped this wouldn’t be by way of a nervous breakdown.

‘I’ve been talking to Mr St John, sir, as instructed,’ began Willoughby. ‘He hasn’t anything to add to his account of Hadleigh’s visit, or the evening and its aftermath. But there was something he noticed during the day, though I’m afraid it’s very trivial—’

‘I’ll decide what’s trivial, constable.’

‘Yes, sir. As he was seeing Mr Hadleigh off the premises Miss Lyddiard came out of the gate at Plover’s Rest and cycled away.’

‘Do you have a time for this?’ Barnaby picked up his pen.

‘Eleven thirty. Mr St John remembers because he lost exactly half an hour from his writing period. She came back on two occasions that afternoon. If you recall, Borodino is almost precisely opposite—’

‘Yes, yes. Get on with it.’

‘Hadleigh didn’t open the door, but that apparently was not uncommon if people knew who it was on the step.’

There was a pause. Willoughby, having reached his conclusion, started running his fingers round the rim of his cap, then gripped the peak tightly. In no time at all the silence became unbearable to him.

‘He’s a character isn’t he - St John. As for that dog . . .’

‘Thanks, Willoughby.’ Barnaby smiled in a distracted way across the desk. ‘Well done.’

‘Oh.’ Willoughby stumbled to his feet and tucked his hat beneath his arm. The notebook fell out. He bent down and retrieved it, his face glowing with pleasure. ‘Yes sir. Thank you.’

Barnaby was not listening. Sitting back, eyes closed, he was already transported to the Green, Midsomer Worthy as it might have looked that cold, deep frosted morning on the last day of Gerald Hadleigh’s life. He imagined a certain amount of excitement would have been present at the prospect of meeting a famous author. Food no doubt had to be prepared and packed up ready to go over to Plover’s Rest. By mid morning the owner of this delightful residence would be disturbing an old man who only wanted to be left in peace to get on with his spy story. At eleven o’clock a woman, weeping her heart out and filling a basket with soggy tissues was due to be interrupted by an equally unwelcome visitor. After their meeting this person had gone straight to the home of Gerald Hadleigh. Finding him absent she had returned later. And then a third time.

Barnaby opened his eyes. His heart gathered speed as a possible reason for this oddly persistent behaviour occurred. He made himself wait a moment, breathing slowly and deeply until he felt more composed.

Laura might still be in the shop. He looked up the number and punched it out. She answered straight away.

‘Mrs Hutton? Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby. I was wondering if you would do something for me.’

‘I was just going next door for a drink. Is it urgent?’