A Place Of Safety (12 page)

‘Well, it’s nothing to do with you. In case you were wondering.’ Joyce drank a little wine, pronounced it delicious, wandered over to her daughter and slipped an arm round her waist. ‘That an Elizabeth David?’

‘Mm. The Navarin Printanier.’

‘I thought so.’ She tasted the juice. ‘Lovely. You’re really coming on, darling.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’

Barnaby went back to his window. The giant crate had been put down while Nico swung up the garage door. The chief inspector, quite sure it was his present, wracked his brains. There was only one thing he really needed, garden wise, and surely even in these stylish and sybaritic times no one made silver lawn mowers.

Before his 9 a.m. Friday briefing Barnaby had a quick read through the first of the house-to-house reports. They were disappointing. Apart from a statement from the landlord of the Red Lion that Charlie Leathers had been in the Smoking Bar until gone eleven, there was nothing really helpful. Confirmation that Charlie was a miserable old sod who wasn’t too fussy where his fists landed came from several sources.

Apparently on the night in question he had also been boasting about coming into some money and how he was going to spend it. But as he was forever on about how he would spend his pools winnings or lottery handouts, no one paid him any mind. No mention anywhere that he gambled on anything else.

Barnaby pushed the sheets of paper irritably aside and sent up a quick prayer to the gods of cause and effect that this was not going to be ‘a random’. Every investigating officer’s dread, a stranger killing a stranger. No motive that any sane person could understand although, if caught, the murderer would often have passionately argued reasons why he had been driven to do it. Of course, with no single thread to instigate a search, they frequently weren’t caught and huge amounts of time and money were poured away to no effect whatsoever.

Pushing this negative state of mind aside, the chief inspector got up quickly, scraped back his chair and shouted for coffee. There was no response and he remembered that Troy was running a computer search on the character who gave his name as simply Jax. It would be interesting to discover just what ‘little bit of trouble’ the man had been involved in.

Barnaby wandered into the main office, poured himself a cup of strong Colombian and looked around for his assistant. He spotted Troy at the far end of the room with one eye on his VDU and the other on a pretty telephonist. The chief inspector soft-footed over and slapped Troy hard on the back.

‘Bloody hell!’

‘How’s it going?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that, sir.’ Troy pushed and pulled on the lightly padded shoulders of his Cero Cerruti jacket. ‘Not so good, actually.’

‘What have you tried?’

‘Jax, just in case. Jacks with a CK. Jacklin. Now working through Jackman, which seems to include about half the prison population.’

Barnaby watched over his sergeant’s shoulder as faces flashed rapidly on and off the screen. Faces of unparalleled viciousness and kindly, snug little fellows you could put in your pocket and take home to mother. Black and white and all shades of brown. Tattooed and be-ringed or baby pink, round-eyed and smooth. Ugly shaven heads, all bumps and stubble and neat grey thatches.

‘Blimey, get a load of this one.’ Sergeant Troy held the button and they both studied the mug shot. A more depraved personality it would be hard to imagine. Cannon ball head growing directly out of bullish shoulders. A spreading, deeply porous nose, thin lips drawn back from gappy, snarling teeth, ragged hair, the whole charming arrangement topped off with a leering squint of pure avarice.

‘What’s he done?’

‘Bent solicitor.’

Shortly after this they came to the end of the Jackmans.

‘Maybe,’ suggested Sergeant Troy, ‘our man’s gone right away from his real name. You know - Saunders, Greenfield?’

‘Doubt it. They don’t have much imagination when it comes to an alias, fortunately for us. Try Jackson.’

There were a lot of Jacksons too but at last they found their quarry, dark-haired at the time of recording his matchless profile and with quite a heavy moustache but the same man nonetheless.

‘Gotcha!’ said Barnaby. ‘So, what does his “bit of trouble” amount to?’

Troy tapped some more. Both men studied the screen then turned to each other with expressions of disturbed bewilderment.

‘I don’t believe this,’ said Sergeant Troy.

‘I do.’ Barnaby remembered how his skin had tightened at the first sight of the chauffeur. His repulsion at the thought of gripping the outstretched hand deepened as he read the list of offences. ‘What I can’t believe is that old fool Lawrence letting the wicked bastard anywhere near his family.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t know.’

‘Of course he knows. He’s on the resettlement board.’

 

It was a pleasant drive to Ferne Basset. A warm wash of autumn sunshine drenched the hedgerows and patchily reflected light from the road, still damp after a recent shower. The fields were already being ploughed. Shining seams of rich brown earth curled up and over behind the harrow’s teeth, to be picked over by a flock of screaming gulls.

The village was looking almost its old self. The police presence had departed, as had the fourth estate. A group of youngsters were acting the fool on the fringe of Carter’s Wood where the crime had occurred. Running in and out of the trees making creepy ‘whaah, whaah’ noises, pretending to strangle themselves and each other, walking around stiff-armed and legged like Frankenstein’s monster.

It was nearly one o’clock when they drove up to the Old Rectory. Troy, remembering Lionel Lawrence’s long ago link with the chief constable, half expected a courtesy call at the house first with an explanation of what they were doing there. But Barnaby indicated that he should park right over the far side of the drive, as near to the chauffeur’s flat as possible. As they got out, Troy spotted the Humber Hawk squatting heavily in the garage and said, ‘Looks as if he’s in, sir.’

Barnaby rapped loudly on the dark blue door. Around it clung a rich-smelling late honeysuckle and on the step were tubs of creamy petunias and salvias. Over their heads a window swung open.

‘What do
you
want?’

‘A word, Mr Jackson,’ called up Troy.

Their knowledge of his name was a blow, Troy could see. But surely the bloke had known they would be checking up on him?

‘Didn’t take you long to ferret that out.’

‘Here or at the station, it’s up to you,’ said Barnaby. ‘And get a move on. I don’t like standing on doorsteps.’

The window closed but the door was not opened for several more minutes. Troy saw this as an ‘in your face, make them wait, up yours’ gesture. Barnaby was more concerned that something which had been on view was being tidied away. He wished now he had come with a search warrant but the circumstances hardly seemed to justify it. They had discovered nothing to connect Jackson with the death of Charlie Leathers. Merely that he was the sort of man whose past activities indicated a murderous lack of self-control.

They followed him up warmly carpeted stairs into a long, L-shaped bed-sitting room. This was comfortably furnished with, Barnaby could not help noticing, much newer pieces than the Rectory. There was an oatmeal carpet, attractive flower prints on the wall and cream curtains patterned with scarlet poppies. Several sets of weights were stacked against the skirting board. Two doors led off, presumably to the kitchen and bathroom.

Sergeant Troy stared at all this, his face flushing angrily. He thought of beggars lying in doorways open to all weather and any abuse that passing thugs might feel like dishing out. Of youngsters, dossing down at night in damp cardboard boxes. Of his own grandparents living on their state pension, counting every penny, proud of never being in debt. While this jammy bastard—

‘Sergeant?’

‘Sir.’ Troy collected himself. He got out a notebook then sat in a comfortable fireside chair with orange cushions. Barnaby took its opposite number. Jackson stood leaning against the door.

‘Make yourselves at home, why don’t you?’

‘You seem to have fallen on your feet, Terry.’

‘Mr Jackson to you.’

‘Now, the night Charlie Leathers died.’

‘We’ve been through all that.’

‘Well, we’re going through it again.’ Sergeant Troy ground out the words through clenched teeth.

‘I was here from around seven. Watched the soaps.’ He nodded towards a Sony portable television. ‘Had a couple of beers, mixed up some Pot Noodles. Listened to John Peel on the radio. Went to bed.’

Barnaby nodded. He wouldn’t be able to move Jackson from that. And the man was sharp enough to know they had nothing to place him at the scene of the crime or he’d have been down Causton nick long since. The chief inspector moved to more flexible matters.

‘This gambling Charlie told you about, how did he place his bets?’

‘Phone.’

‘Who was the bookie?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘Dunno.’

‘But they were pursuing him and he was frightened?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Funny nobody else seems to know about this,’ said Troy. ‘Not even his wife.’

‘That sour old bitch?’ Jackson laughed. ‘All he dreamt about, poor old Charlie, was buttered crumpet. Know what I mean?’

‘Or his cronies in the Red Lion.’

Jackson shrugged.

‘I think you made it all up.’

‘Thinking’s free.’

‘Was he familiar with your background, Terry?’ asked the chief inspector.

‘I’m starting from scratch here. I told you.’

‘That must be nice. Wipe out the past, just like that.’

‘Yeah.’ Jackson looked wary, not sure he liked the way the conversation was going. He painted on an ingratiating smile. His incisors, so sharply pointed they could have been filed, twinkled and gleamed.

‘Not what you’d call a tasty past, is it?’ continued Barnaby.

‘I’ve done my time.’

‘You’ve done little else. Juvenile courts from day one. Thieving, lying, runner for the big boys. Look-out for dealers and pushers. Actual and grievous bodily harm, beating up a pensioner and leaving him more dead than alive. A stabbing—’

‘I were egged on. There were a whole crowd of us.’

‘You held the knife.’

‘So? Everybody deserves a second chance.’

It wasn’t a whine, just a simple statement of fact. Barnaby wondered if the pensioner might have liked a second chance. Or the guy left lying in the gutter with a punctured lung. He said, ‘If you got what you deserved, Jackson, the world might be a sweeter smelling place.’

Downstairs the flat door opened and closed. Barnaby, watching Terry Jackson, marvelled at what happened next. A strong and heartless man was transformed, before his very eyes, into a persecuted, hunted creature driven by cruel fate to the very end of its despairing tether. All the steel dissolved from his muscular frame which had now become so soft and boneless it could no longer support him. His legs buckled. He crouched on the floor hugging his knees to his chest, hiding his face.

‘What on earth is happening here, Jax?’

The boy (yes, boy, for so he had become) slowly lifted his head and gazed with great agitation at the Reverend Lawrence. Both policemen stared in disbelief at the pale and fearful countenance, the troubled eyes now swimming with moisture, the shaking, tremulous mouth.

‘They just pushed in and started on me, Lionel. I ain’t done nothing.’

‘I know that, Jax. It’s all right.’

‘I promised you I’d never let you down.’

Lionel Lawrence turned and faced Barnaby. He looked severe and disappointed, giving the impression that if anyone had let him down it was Her Majesty’s Police Inspectorate.

‘Why are you persecuting this young man?’

‘There’s no question of persecution, sir. We are simply pursuing our inquiries into the death of Mr Leathers.’

‘I’d’ve thought,’ suggested Sergeant Troy, ‘you’d want that thoroughly gone into. Him being your employee, so to speak.’

‘This is my property. If you need to speak to Jax again, you call at the Rectory first. I shall come over here with you. There’ll be no more bullying. He has that right.’

‘Actually, he doesn’t.’ Barnaby nodded angrily to his sergeant who put away his notebook and got up to leave. The chief inspector followed, glancing back just once.

Lionel Lawrence was bending over, helping Jackson to his feet. Jackson was clinging to the older man’s arm for support. His tear-stained face glowed with pious gratitude as if he had received a blessing.

Barnaby, nauseated, slammed the door and hurried down the stairs.

 

‘Gay as a bent banana, that old geezer.’ Sergeant Troy strode towards the car, giving vent to his feelings by kicking furiously at the gravel.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What, then? What’s he doing it
for
?’

What was Lionel Lawrence doing it for? Barnaby let the question occupy his mind as Troy churned up the drive and zoomed into the main road.

Unlike many of his colleagues, the chief inspector did not automatically lump all ‘do-gooders’ together and despise the lot. He had met very many, both professional and amateur, during his long career as a policeman and grown to recognise the different types and the many different angles from which they approached the business. There were always quite a few who denied they had any angle at all. And many more who were extremely muddled as to what their angle actually was.

Many were in it for the power it gave them, the opportunity to forge relationships where they would always be in charge. These were the sort of people whose personality and talents made it highly unlikely that, in the normal run of things, they would ever have authority over anything more charismatic than the office cat. With them, compassion was merely a mask for condescension.