‘We’re trying to discover all we can about Mr Hadleigh. The smallest details help.’
‘It was just a holiday snap, in a restaurant or night club. There were three or four men dancing in a line, the Greek way. A woman was there as well but I cut her off.’
‘Was it the person in the wedding photograph?’
‘No. He was younger in the picture . . . laughing . . . happy. I wish I’d known him then.’
Although the words were clear enough her expression was becoming muddled and confused and she swayed on the edge of her seat with exhaustion, plainly at the end of her tether. Barnaby nodded to his sergeant and they both got up to leave. Laura made no attempt to see them out.
As he was being driven back to the station Barnaby re-ran the scene over and over in his mind. He recalled her tears and had no doubt that they were genuine. But tears could mean pain and anger as well as grief. Or even that most wasteful and bitter of emotions, remorse.
He wondered again if Laura Hutton, after the discovery that she was not only a woman scorned but a woman scorned in favour of another, had returned to Plover’s Rest after the writers’ meeting, confronted Gerald Hadleigh with his perfidy and struck him full in the face with the nearest means to hand?
That love could turn to hatred was hardly news to any policeman, for the majority of murders they were called upon to investigate were simple domestics. And crimes of passion, in the heat of occurrence, were simple, pared down to the emotional bone. It was only afterwards, in wretched recollection and, sometimes, regret, that even the most crude analysis could begin to take place.
So far she was the only person in his sights with a definite motive, for Jennings, circumstantially leading the field, was still an unknown quantity. And for that reason alone suspicion of her involvement could not be put aside.
Back in the incident room Barnaby immediately asked for a trace on the driver who had taken Hadleigh’s visitor to Plover’s Rest. She may well have been, as Laura Hutton hopefully suggested, a lady of the night but this did not necessarily mean that Hadleigh had not discussed with her what was on his mind. Lonely, buttoned-up types often found it easier to talk to strangers.
‘At least now we know,’ Troy was tapping at a keyboard, bringing up the report of the stolen Celica, ‘why she had to take a cab.’
‘He may not have given her a lift even if he had the car.’
‘Yeah. Him being so ultra-ultra.’ Troy absorbed details slowly and carefully then said, with a wink in his voice, ‘Maybe he picked her up at that new club. It’s not far from where he seems to have parked.’
‘What new club?’ Barnaby got up to read over his sergeant’s shoulder.
‘Latimer Road. The girls wear long ears and fluffy tails.’
‘Bit old-fashioned.’
‘Called “The Buck Stops Here”.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Straight up.’
‘I’ll bet they are.’ Barnaby laughed, checked the screen again and said, ‘Odd.’
‘What’s that, chief?’
‘He finds the car missing at ten p.m. and phones to report it at ten thirty.’
‘So?’
‘Silver Street, where he left it, is all of two minutes from the station. Why not go straight there? For all he knew it had only that second been nicked. Half an hour could have made all the difference.’
‘Maybe he was walking around looking for it.’
‘No time. Finding a cab, being driven home, which is where’ - Barnaby pointed to the dazzling emerald letters - ‘he said he was calling from, would take all of half an hour.’
Troy frowned and was plainly uncomfortable. Ten years in the force and he was still ill at ease when faced with unpredictable behaviour. Villainy, aggression, out-and-out lies, nil problemo. Routine. But when people did not do the obviously sensible thing that any given set of circumstances logically dictated they should then the sergeant found himself on shifting sands. And he didn’t like it. Pondering at some length on the general cussedness of human nature he came round to find the chief focusing strongly in his direction.
‘You have the gift of hearing, sergeant?’
‘Far as I know, sir.’
‘Milk and no sugar.’
‘Right.’ Troy turned smoothly on his heel. ‘Then is it all right if I take five?’
‘I thought you just did.’
Barnaby turned his attention to the messages and print-outs on his desk. Like many older officers he missed the circular card indexes and regular flow of action forms through his hands. But new tricks had to be learned and there was no denying the tremendous speed and efficiency of computers. Information that might once have taken days to obtain could now be displayed on a screen in as many minutes. Only a fool would wish the clock turned back.