‘The house was not secure, which means we can’t discount the possibility of some opportunist or vagrant nipping in. Aggravated burglary happens, as we all know, but I feel here the odds are against it. The cleaning lady is sure nothing was taken from downstairs. Unfortunately, upstairs she will not go. I had a further word with her last night however and it seems that, as I suspected, a large brown case is missing from the small bedroom. It was there the previous week when she cleaned through and I think it not unreasonable to assume that whoever emptied the chest of drawers used it to carry the contents away. I’m hoping SOCO will be able to give us some idea what they were.’
‘So are we looking at robbery as a motive after all then, sir?’ asked a young detective constable, shiningly alert and crisp as a biscuit.
‘Hard to say at this stage, Willoughby. The theft might have been an afterthought, yet I can’t help thinking, as a hugely expensive watch was left behind, that it was also quite specific. Mrs Bundy says the drawers were always kept locked.’
Inspector Meredith, who had so far sat in a distant silence picking his thoughts over (for all the world, Barnaby commented later, like unclaimed jewels), spoke up: ‘Using the suitcase as the means to hand would surely indicate that matey-boy did not expect to find what he did or he would have come prepared to take the clobber away. After all, you can hardly conceal that much stuff about your person.’
‘Indeed you can’t, Ian,’ replied Barnaby and heard, just behind his left shoulder, a sharp intake of breath and intuited, indeed positively shared, his sergeant’s antagonism.
Inspector Ian Meredith, heading the outdoor team, had been the object of Troy’s resentful envy since the day of his arrival. One of the short-cutters. A Bramshill flyer. Out of Oxbridge with his degree round his neck like an Olympic gold. Made up to sergeant before he’d taken his stripey scarf off, inspector in four years, plus, most galling of the lot, connections in high places. And without the grace to wear this largesse lightly.
‘Nevertheless,’ continued Barnaby, ‘it’s an odd house that doesn’t contain a couple of cases or travelling bags, so I don’t think we can read too much into the fact that he came apparently unprepared.’
That’s told him, said Troy’s supercilious mask. ‘Mateyboy’ indeed! Jesus. He smirked at Inspector Meredith and was disconcerted to discover that the man was nodding his head in agreement. Some people just didn’t seem to know when they were being put down.
‘We’ll keep the search going on both cars, but I imagine you’ll find Hadleigh’s in some local garage having a checkup. It’s the Mercedes that I suspect we shall find elusive.’
‘What sort is it?’
‘In your notes, Inspector Meredith.’
‘A 500 SL sir,’ said Detective Constable Willoughby, simultaneously.
‘Oh, yes.’
Meredith’s acknowledgement was of a casualness to imply that all his friends and relatives had one. Trouble was, thought Barnaby sourly, they probably did. He said: ‘I want you to find out all there is to know about Hadleigh. Gossip and hearsay as well as what’s officially on record. We’re told that he was married to a woman called Grace, surname unknown, and that they lived in Kent, where she died of leukaemia. He worked for the Civil Service, supposedly in the Ministry of Agriculture. Once all this has been verified we can start building on it. The video of the crime scene is now available. I shall expect you all to make yourselves familiar. That’s all.’
The outdoor team disappeared. The rest swung away from him on their swivelchairs involving themselves in the glint and dazzle of their VDUs. Barnaby strode off to his office, where he could use the telephone in reasonable peace and quiet.
He had the number of Max Jennings’ publishers and had already rung twice without reply. It was now nine forty-five. He picked up the receiver and tried again. Nothing. Barnaby sucked his teeth with a rather self-righteous click, for he had the early riser’s puritanical disdain for slugabeds. At last a Sloaney female accent responded.
He stated his business and was put through to publicity where, neatly fielding considerable curiosity, he asked if it was the case that Mr Jennings was currently on a book-signing tour in Finland. This remark was repeated aloud at the other end, causing much merriment.
‘We’re in stitches here,’ said his contact, unnecessarily. ‘We can’t get Max into his local bookshop under cover of darkness to sign as much as a paperback. Let alone the full cheese and wine at Waterstones. Someone’s been pulling your leg.’