‘Did he say what part of the world that was?’
‘Somewhere in Kent I think. He took early retirement from the Civil Service.’
‘Any idea what branch? Or where?’
‘I got the feeling it was the Min of Ag and Fish, although I don’t suppose they call it that nowadays. And it was in London I know because he said what a terrible fag the journey was.’
‘Do you have any idea when his wife died?’
‘Just before he moved here so that would be nine - no, ten years ago.’
‘And do you know if Mr Hadleigh has been involved with anyone else since then?’
‘Involved?’ Rex looked completely baffled.
‘An affair,’ said Troy. Poor old devil. Probably been so long he’d forgotten what he’d got it for. You had to make allowances. ‘Another woman?’
‘Oh, I’m sure not. Although—’
At this point they were interrupted by a fierce scratching at the door. The noise was so loud the policemen half expected to see claws splintering through the wood.
‘It’s Montcalm. He’s finished his tea.’ Barnaby experienced a risible representation of the dog sitting up, a napkin round its neck, tucking daintily into a plate of cucumber sandwiches. ‘I’ll have to let him in.’
‘We’re almost finished, Mr St John.’
‘But he doesn’t like—’ Rex broke off, head cocked. It had gone quiet outside. Montcalm padded away. Then, after a brief pause, they heard him return at a gallop which culminated in a tremendous crash. The door panels shivered mightily under the impact.
Rex said ‘Sorry’ and let the dog in, prudently closing up the tuck shop first. It trotted twice around the room, happily wagging its plumed tail, and knocking several soldiers flying. Then it scrambled up on to the chaise-longue beside its master, transferred itself to his knees and rested its great head against his cheek.
‘We were discussing . . .’ Barnaby broke off in some confusion. He found himself facing a pair of trousered legs, five feet of rough, grey, hairy hound and two intelligent, enquiring faces. It was like questioning some fabled beast from the realms of mythology.
‘Emotional friendships.’ Sergeant Troy came to the rescue. ‘I think you were about to have second thoughts, sir.’
‘Was I?’
‘You said “although”,’ the chief inspector reminded him.
‘Although what?’
Barnaby prayed for patience. Troy winked at the dog. It gave a cavernous yawn, its lolling tongue and sharp pointed teeth scarlet with bone juice.
‘Ah yes,’ remembered Rex. ‘I used to wonder if Laura didn’t have rather a pash.’
‘Any special reason for thinking so?’
Barnaby asked the question while his sergeant relished ‘pash’ and vowed to try it out on WPC Brierley.
‘Just that she was always watching him,’ said Rex. ‘With a certain expression. Rather like Montcalm when I’m about to open the Winalot.’
They talked for a while longer but Rex had little of note to add. Barnaby offered his thanks, then explained that it would be necessary for Rex to come to the mobile incident room or, after tomorrow, to the police station to have his fingerprints taken. On hearing this Rex perked up slightly, as if a visit to the pod was a sort of treat. Something to look forward to. Perhaps it was. Poor devil.
‘Who’d be old,’ said Barnaby, as they made their way back down the garden path.
‘He’s all right,’ replied Troy. ‘Got the soldiers. All those medals. Not to mention his posh nuts.’
‘What the hell sort of dog do you call that anyway?’
‘Irish wolfhound.’
‘Make a great rug.’ He strode across the Green (the grass was greyish-orange now in the sodium lighting) and climbed into the incident room. It was cosy inside and there was coffee on the go. A middle-aged couple, no doubt the last of many, were offering information which might or might not prove helpful.
Barnaby rang Amersham police station, asked them to check their electoral register for Max Jennings’ address then, while he was waiting, helped himself to a warm drink. They rang back in just under ten minutes.
‘Trouble is after a murder,’ said Sergeant Troy, picking up the A413, ‘people describe things differently from what they might have done otherwise.’
‘You mean the way they talk about the victim?’
‘That, yes. But their own experiences as well. Take St John - there he is, hanging around in Hadleigh’s back yard, supposedly keeping an eye. Now he says there was someone in the woods watching him. But did he genuinely think so at the time?’