‘Causton CID, Mrs Hutton,’ said Barnaby. ‘Like a word, please.’
A bolt was withdrawn and then a second, heavier and needing a spot of oil. A chain rattled, a key turned in one of the mortice locks. Troy, holding his breath, realised he had lost his light but compelling smile and hurriedly tacked it on again.
‘I shouldn’t bother, Gavin.’
‘Sir?’
‘She’s too old for you.’
The smile vanished and Troy looked perturbed. This was not so much at having his mind read - the chief had always been good at that (far too good actually) - but by the heretical suggestion that anyone with more money than they knew what to do with could possibly have a sell-by date.
‘Come in.’
Laura Hutton was standing behind the door, covering her face. Barnaby presented his card. She didn’t even glance at it, but walked away towards a tiny office of glass and tongue-and-groove boarding which had been made by enclosing a small corner of the large, high-ceilinged space through which she was now leading them.
Barnaby looked around him. He could have been in the props room of Joyce’s amateur theatre group. Furniture stacked on top of itself, paintings two or three deep facing the wall. Ornaments. Cardboard boxes, with lot numbers stamped on, crammed with old cutlery and other household junk.
Her office had a tiny antique desk, the surface almost invisible beneath a Macintosh LC, telephone, fax and answering machine. The air was scented by a soapy fragrance. Barnaby guessed that she had probably heard his first knock and had washed her face in the pretty flowered hand basin before coming to the door. If this was in an attempt to conceal the fact that she had been crying it had failed, one could say miserably.
Her face was screwed up with distress and, even as Barnaby apologised for the intrusion, her eyes shimmered and brimmed with fresh moisture. At last, he thought, someone is weeping for Gerald Hadleigh.
‘I’m sorry.’ She caught the tears, now pouring down her cheeks, with the brightly coloured silk square in her hand. ‘It’s the shock . . .’
Oh, more than that. The chief inspector watched her mouth, once speech had stopped, fall into a slack, grief-stricken curve. Much more than that.
‘Then you know why we’re here, Mrs Hutton?’
‘Yes. I can’t believe it. Can’t . . .’ Her narrow shoulders shook and she covered her eyes with her hands. She said ‘sorry’ again.
‘I shouldn’t have let you in. I thought I could cope.’
Barnaby hesitated, unsure whether to continue. Not out of sensitivity. He was a sensitive man but it had never stopped him doing extremely insensitive things if he had to. But because he could see that she might, in all probability, go to pieces. He’d get nowhere and next time her memories of the present encounter could well make questioning her that much more difficult. He said, ‘Would you like us to come back another time?’
‘No. Not now you’re here.’ Laura reached out and switched off the desk light. In the dimness that ensued she seemed slightly more comfortable. She sat down in a padded swivel chair, the only seating in the room. Troy rested his notebook on the filing cabinet and only hoped he could read his writing. Barnaby leaned against the door. ‘Though I don’t quite understand what you want.’
‘Just a word about last night, Mrs Hutton.’
‘I see.’ She obviously didn’t see and her dull, lifeless voice indicated that neither did she care.
‘How your meeting went, for instance.’
‘The meeting? But what has that to do with . . .’ She appeared not to be able to say his name.
‘Did you notice anything different about Mr Hadleigh at all?’
‘Yes. He barely spoke to anyone, which was unlike him. He was never a garrulous man, but he enjoyed talking about writing. I expected him to seize the opportunity to ask lots of questions.’
‘Did you get the impression that this withdrawal was in any way connected with the visiting speaker?’
‘No, not really. Although . . . it’s strange you should say that. Because when Max Jennings’ name first came up he—’
‘You mean Mr Hadleigh?’
‘Yes, he was very put out. He actually dropped his coffee. You can still see the stain.’
‘He was opposed to the idea?’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that. He just seemed to think it was a waste of time. We’re always asking well-known authors to come and talk to us and they never do. But in the end he agreed to ask.’
‘Why was it down to him, Mrs Hutton?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘He was the group’s secretary.’
‘A lonely business, writing,’ said the chief inspector, as people always do who’ve never done it. ‘What’s your line exactly?’