Written in Blood(20)

Even a man of six foot three cannot healthily carry sixteen stone and he had been warned, at his last check-up, that a minimum of thirty pounds would have to go. And he was trying. He really was. But it was bloody hard. At the moment he was spinning out a slice of toast, having polished off his boiled egg in two scoops.

Joyce, pressing the plunger in the cafetière, was keeping an eye out for the postman. She was hoping for a card or letter from Poland, where Much Ado was running for the next fortnight - hoping, she realised, probably in vain, for Cully was a negligent correspondent to put it mildly. Nicholas was the one most likely to keep in touch.

Joyce couldn’t help worrying about them both however much common sense pointed out that an august body such as the Arts Council would hardly be sending a company of English actors into danger. But the whole of Eastern Europe seemed to her so volatile that today’s safe area could well be tomorrow’s war zone. Threatening words and phrases pattered around Joyce’s mind - ‘unstable government’, ‘fundamentalist guerrillas’, ‘racial riots’, ‘trigger-happy border guards’, ‘roof-top snipers’.

These unhappy reflections were shattered by an enraged yell. She turned to see her husband grasping the kitten by the scruff of its neck and lifting it into the air.

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ She ran across the room. ‘Give him to me. Right now, Tom!’ Kilmowski was passed over. ‘How could you be so unkind.’

‘It’s just walked through my marmalade.’

‘He doesn’t know.’ Joyce kissed a grey velvet triangular nose. ‘Do you?’ The kitten squinted amberly at her. ‘Poor little scrap.’

She placed Kilmowski gently on the carpet, whereupon he immediately sought the edge of the tablecloth, dug in his claws and started to climb again.

‘Look! Look at that.’

‘Leave him alone. D’you want some fresh coffee?’

‘No thanks.’ Barnaby glanced at the clock. It was nearly nine thirty. ‘Better be off.’ As he was putting on his overcoat the phone rang. ‘Would you take that, love? Say I’m on my way.’

‘Of course it might just be for me.’ Joyce sounded quite huffy. ‘I do have a wide circle of friends, some of whom have been known to ring me up from time to time.’

‘’Course you have.’ Barnaby came back wrapped in heavy black and white herringbone tweed and pulling on his gloves. ‘And of course they do.’ He kissed a coolish cheek. ‘Back around six.’

As he turned to leave Barnaby sourly regarded the kitten, now squatting, with great dignity, in the precise centre of his tray. Kilmowski stared straight through him then, crossing his eyes with effort, gave a squeaky little fart.





It was a foul day. Rain during the night followed by an early morning freeze-up had turned the roads to glass. Barnaby drove his blue Orion with great care, taking twice as long over the journey as was usual. An extremely cautious swing through the police station’s main gates had his rear wheels skittering sideways. A scene-of-crime Sherpa van, on the point of exit, wheeled into nippy avoidance. He eased gently into his reserved space and walked slowly into the building.

A WPC at the desk looked up. ‘Morning, sir. They’ve been trying to get you at home. Something’s come up.’

Barnaby lifted his hand in acknowledgement and made for his office. He was crossing the enclosed walkway that linked the CID block to the station proper when he observed his bag carrier striding smartly towards him. Gavin Troy wore a long, tightly belted black leather coat which flapped and slapped against his boots. A dark cap covered his cropped red hair and he had, in readiness, put on the steel-rimmed glasses he wore when driving. He looked like a storm trooper.

Knowing the pleasure such a comparison would afford, Barnaby immediately put it from his mind. As they drew closer he could see that Troy was scowling with bad temper.

‘Morning, sergeant.’

‘Chief. We’ve got a murder.’ Troy gave a regimental swivel on his heel and fell into step beside the boss. ‘On your desk.’

‘Well, there’s a novelty.’

‘Midsomer Worthy. Just the bare details. Apparently the woman who discovered the body, a Mrs Bundy, was so hysterical nobody’s been able to get much sense out of her.’ Troy moved ahead quickly to open the office door. ‘SOCO have just left.’

‘Yes. I barely missed them.’

‘And Doc Bullard’s there.’

‘Already?’

‘He lives in the next village. Charlecote Lucy.’

‘So he does.’ Barnaby sat down behind his desk and picked up the report.