Barnaby put the dishes in the sink, made some fresh tea and took a cup to Joyce. By the time he came down again there was a tight squeezing between his shoulder blades that presaged indigestion and Kilmowski was sitting by the fridge mewing anxiously.
‘Hasn’t taken you long to suss where the nosh is, has it?’ He put on his coat and scarf. ‘Well you needn’t get your feet under the table. They’ll be back in two weeks.’
Troy approached his boss treading on eggshells, for he knew the old man in this mood. No matter what the sergeant said or did nothing would be right. And if he just stood there saying or doing nothing then his thoughts would be for it. Or his choice of clothing. Or the way he combed his hair. Or the shape of his left leg. Might as well go and stick his head in a bucket and have done with it. He put the cup and saucer down with extreme caution.
‘What d’you call this?’
‘Coffee, sir.’
‘It’s cold.’
‘But I’ve only just—’
‘Don’t argue with me.’
‘No, sir.’ Troy hesitated. ‘Shall I get some more?’ A brown bottle was being unscrewed and tablets that he recognised tipped out. Two were swilled down with the scalding coffee. Barnaby’s eyes bulged and sweat broke out across his forehead.
‘Would you like some water, chief?’ Troy received a glance to strip his teeth of their enamel.
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Of course not. I just—’ The air was cleft by a furious gesture with a bunched fist and the sergeant tiptoed off.
But in the corridor his oppression was lightened with miraculous suddenness for, if life at Causton police station left a lot to be desired, one of the things it left most to be desired was now walking straight towards him. The delectably blonde Audrey Brierley. A source of grievous bodily pleasure if ever there was one.
Troy indicated the door through which he had just passed, gave a warning grimace and drew his thumbnail graphically across his throat. Audrey narrowed her baby blues, said, ‘Promises, promises!’ and walked on by.
Barnaby closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands, withdrawing from the clattering keys, shrilling phones and murmurs of conversation into a dark interior quietness and ordering his thoughts for the day’s briefing, which he had convened for nine thirty. He stayed like this for ten minutes, made a few notes and got up from his desk.
The chief inspector attempted to run, given the rigid police hierarchy, a democratic incident room. Time permitting, he would listen and talk to anyone, aware that intelligent insights could as well be present in the minds of the lowly ranked as elsewhere. And, should that prove to be the case, he would frequently give credit where it was due. This by no means common attitude meant that he was respected (if not always liked) by the majority under his command.
There would be two enquiry teams. The first, which would include several civilian machine operators, stayed in the incident room manning the telephones and computers, searching for and collating information. The second, the foot sloggers, went out and about, looking, listening, asking questions. Thirty people fell silent and paid attention as Barnaby made his way to the far end of the room.
He stood before a wall of aerated panels that strongly resembled grey Ryvita. On these were pinned still photographs plus enlarged freeze frames from the video made at the scene of the crime and when Barnaby opened by describing the case as a very messy one it was only too clear what he meant. A blow-up of Hadleigh’s wedding picture was also displayed, along with photographs of the murder weapon. Barnaby recapped only briefly on the information gathered so far, for they all had notes on yesterday’s interviews.
‘We now know that Jennings hasn’t flown to Finland, or anywhere else come to that, from Heathrow. We’re checking other airports today. We’ve also telexed the seaports and might pick up something there. Obviously the fact that he’s cleared off after lying about where he’s going is a cause for some concern. On the other hand we must remember that after leaving Hadleigh’s he drove home, went to bed and this morning had his valet pack for him and ate breakfast before leaving. This does not indicate a man in a hurry.
‘If he killed Hadleigh there was no way he could know that the body had not been found. Rex St John seems to have made his role as minder very plain so, for all Jennings knew, the minute his car drove off St John was back round there. The murder would have been discovered, the police notified, St John’s story told and Jennings easily apprehended. We also have to take into account the nature of the attack. This sort of severe bludgeoning indicates someone in a fit of rage, which argues against premeditation. I wouldn’t wish to push this suggestion too far. A murder can, of course, be coldly planned and still emotionally carried out, but I’d like you to bear this in mind.