‘Really.’
‘Yes. Really.’
There was an even longer pause during which the two policemen exchanged confident, almost amused glances not missed (and not meant to be missed) by the interviewee. They were both enjoying his predicament but Troy more so for he had, by nature, an unkind heart.
Brian removed his glasses and polished them. They were little and round with cruel steel rims. The type that even good-looking people cannot wear to advantage.
‘You understand why we are asking this question, Mr Clapton?’ Barnaby said eventually.
‘Um . . .’
‘Mr Hadleigh’s murder took place between eleven and the early hours of this morning.’
Barnaby eased himself off the sofa and stood, a big broad man, towering over the desk. His expression was paternal. He smiled down at Brian with deep, confidence-inducing expectation and waited. It didn’t take long.
‘Oh!’ Brian struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘I did pop out. Just for a quick turn around the Green. To blow the cobwebs away.’ He looked up, half wary, half seeking approval, and gave a rather infantile smile.
‘See anyone?’
‘No,’ Brian said, adding, lest there should be the slightest confusion, ‘no one at all.’
‘Well, I think that’s it.’ Having got his way Barnaby let his jaws part in a smile. ‘For now.’
‘Thank you,’ said Brian.
As they were leaving the office Miss Panter called out, ‘Mr Clapton? Your wife rang just after your meeting started. She said it was urgent. If you’d like to call her back by all means use my phone.’
‘I’m that hungry.’ Troy, caught up in the Causton one-way system, crept around the market square, which was crammed with stalls covered in bright awnings and traders shouting out impossible never-to-be-repeated bargains.
‘You want to rob me, darling?’ yelled a man holding a cauliflower in each hand. ‘Come and rob me. I’m ready, willing and past it.’
‘You’re hungry?’ Barnaby made his irritation plain. His sergeant’s capacity to lower endless piles of highly calorific foodstuffs without ever putting the slightest pressure on his belt had long been a sore point. ‘You’ve just seen off half the contents of Huntley and Palmer’s warehouse. How on earth can you be hungry?’
‘Perhaps we could pop into the canteen for a lash-up.’ Troy turned right and pushed aggressively into a traffic jam inching along the High Street. ‘After we’ve seen Mrs Hutton. And speak of the devil . . .’
They had ground to a halt on a level with the Magpie’s shop front. A CLOSED sign hung on the door. There was a large tapestry hanging in the window showing a Bruegelesque scene of unbridled merrymaking. Rosy-cheeked burghers banged foaming tankards on rough-hewn planks. Snowy coifed buxoms fell out of their frocks, children in hand-cobbled footwear stuffed their faces with hunks of bread and one man lay flat on his face in the mud. Troy regarded it thoughtfully.
‘Bit like our Christmas social.’
No response. Why do I bother? he asked himself. Working my buns off trying to bring a little jollity into the miserable bugger’s life and for what? Might as well save my breath. I shall get one of Mrs Clapton’s dragons for the back window. Thank You For Not Laughing In Our Car.
‘Odd her being closed on a Wednesday. You’d think it’d be the busiest day.’
‘She must have heard about Hadleigh. I imagine there’s been quite a ring-round going on. She might still be on the premises. There’s narrow opening just here . . .’
Troy swung on the wheel.
‘I said narrow!’
‘OK. OK.’ Troy responded sharply as he always did to any adverse comment on his driving. And there was certainly no problem on this occasion. Twice the width of the paint. At least.
He pulled into the large asphalt parking area at the rear of the Magpie which it shared with the Blackbird bookshop next door. A Ford Transit van and a scarlet Porsche in beautiful condition were parked there. Over the solid rear door of the Magpie was a British Telecom burglar alarm. The door itself was secured by two mortice deadlocks and flanked by long rectangular windows which were heavily barred. Barnaby knocked once and then again more firmly. There was not the slightest reverberation. He could have been rapping a block of concrete. He pressed his ear to the jamb, but could pick up no response. Troy slipped his hands through the iron bars and tapped on the glass.
‘Someone in there, chief. I think they’re coming.’ He took off his headgear, smoothed his hair and replaced the cap at a more rakish angle. Then he turned up his coat collar and rounded off the transformation by allowing a half smile, warm and, he hoped, mysteriously compelling, to play lightly about his lips. A shadow appeared on the glass and a voice, promisingly husky it seemed to Troy, said, ‘What is it?’