‘Cully came here, didn’t she, chief?’
‘That’s right.’ Barnaby spoke abruptly. He had never become indifferent to the wistful leer in men’s voices when they spoke his daughter’s name.
The head, Mr Hargreave, had vacated his office for their purposes and Miss Panter showed them in. Brian took the chair behind the desk, although a two-seater settee and large armchair were both empty. Barnaby, mindful of his earlier experience, sat on the edge of the sofa. Miss Panter returned with a tray of tea and some Garibaldi biscuits. Troy poured out, setting a cup in front of Brian.
‘There you go, Mr Clapton.’
‘What’s all this about?’
Barnaby thought the man’s bewilderment was probably genuine. The murder had not made the one o’clock news and, according to the main office, Brian had received no telephone calls that morning. Troy was taking advantage of the lull to despatch as many Garibaldis as he was able without appearing to push them non-stop into his mouth. He was starving. Parched too (down went the tea), plus, needless to say, desperate for a fag. He caught the chief’s eye and replaced morsel number five on the plate.
‘Delicious,’ he said, opening his notebook. ‘Squashedfly biscuits we used to call them.’
‘I’m afraid,’ began Barnaby, when Brian had finished his tea, ‘that I have some bad news.’
‘Mandy!’ The cup clattered into the saucer, spilling the dregs.
‘No, no.’ Barnaby hastily offered reassurance. ‘Nothing to do with your daughter.’
Troy watched as a little colour crept back into Brian’s deathly countenance. I shall be like that, he thought, when Talisa Leanne starts school. I shall never have a moment’s peace. The insight affected him physically, a cold gripe in the guts. As he struggled to put it aside Barnaby was explaining the reason for their visit.
‘Gerald!’ Amazement had barely registered before excited, almost pleasurable, interest took its place. The word ‘gleeful’ might have been appropriate. He said, in a crisp, self-satisfied manner, ‘I myself was with him only yesterday.’
‘We’re aware of that, Mr Clapton.’ Barnaby, who had no time for false displays of grief, had even less time for naked enjoyment in the face of violent death. ‘Could you tell—’
‘It was a most peculiar evening.’
‘Really? In what way?’
‘Tensions. Hidden tensions.’ Brian tossed back long but sparse ginger hair. ‘Visible none the less to a really perceptive person. Which of course, as a writer, one has to be.’
Barnaby nodded encouragingly and sat back to be a bit more comfy. This one was plainly going to run and run.
‘I’m in charge of drama here . . .’
Brian spoke at length and was very frank, as people often are who have little worth concealing. Troy took advantage, resting his Biro, and managed to put away two more squashed-fly biscuits before the chief steered it all back to hidden tensions. Perhaps Mr Clapton could expand?
‘Gerald was behaving very oddly. Unnaturally quiet. And couldn’t wait to get rid of us.’
‘What about the others?’
‘Spent the whole time gushing over our visiting “celebrity”. What a reactionary fossil he turned out to be. Not a clue about contemporary drama. Not surprising, the stuff he churns out.’
‘You don’t admire Mr Jennings’ novels?’
‘Never read them. Got better things to do with my time.’
‘Can you recall who first suggested inviting him?’ Barnaby watched Brian’s reaction write itself across his face. He didn’t know. He hated to admit he didn’t know. But if he made an answer up he might be proved wrong, thus losing face even more notably.
‘You’ll have to leave that with me, chief inspector.’ Brian stroked his beard thoughtfully. He had grown it as soon as he was physically able, to hide the numerous large pink shiny warts on his chin.
Troy, who had got Brian well sussed, curled his lip. He could just see the little squit asking round, finding the answer and phoning in having ‘just remembered’. What a piss artist.
‘Did you talk to Mr Hadleigh during the course of the evening? Get any idea why he was so withdrawn?’
‘Not really. The conversation was general. As I’ve already explained.’ He spoke tersely and glanced at his watch.
‘Do you have any idea who might be responsible for Mr Hadleigh’s death?’
‘Me?’ In the centre of his bushy beard Brian’s wet, pink lips rounded to a wet, pink O, like the orifice of some tentacular sea creature. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d’ve thought the question pretty clear, sir,’ murmured Troy.