The Killings at Badger's Drift (25 page)

‘She offered me some coffee, wouldn’t take no for an answer, and Dennis went off to the kitchen. We sat facing each other in her revolting lounge. She wouldn’t say what she wanted. She kept twinkling at me, saying how I’d be needed more than ever at Tye House. “Quite the chatelaine you’ll be, dear.” Then Dennis came in pushing the trolley. There was coffee and biscuits on the bottom tier and on the top . . . the gun. No one said anything. It was horrible. They just kept looking at each other then at me, and beaming. As if I’d accomplished something extraordinary. As I suppose I had.

‘Then Dennis said he’d seen me shoot Bella and ditch the gun and run away and whilst they were both very anxious for my continuing happiness at Tye House they were sure I’d understand that poor people had to make their way in the world too and that they’d always known I was the sort of person to be generous to my friends. My plan had so obsessed me that I hadn’t given anyone else a thought, least of all Dennis Rainbird. But he was mad about Michael Lacey then. Was always following him about. I should have remembered that. Anyway’ - her shoulders sagged - ‘there’s not much else to tell, really. Since then they’ve cleaned me out. Henry gave me Bella’s jewellery - they’ve had the money from that. Then there were my own few bits and pieces and fifty thousand my mother left . . . and you see’ - a wave of sorrow washed over her features - ‘it was all for nothing. He didn’t love me at all. He was just being kind. And then Katherine came along.’

As the silence lengthened and she didn’t speak again Barnaby said, ‘Is that the end of your statement, Miss Cadell?’

‘It is.’

‘And Mrs Rainbird’s death?’ Even as he spoke the chief inspector knew what her answer would be. He could see her, buoyed up in the belief that Henry cared and primed with a flask of vodka, firing at Bella then, immediately overcome with shock and horror, running all over the place and hurling the gun away. What he couldn’t see was that stout, foolish-faced woman wielding a knife again and again, wading through blood, steeped in blood. Coolly changing clothes, scrubbing the traces away. So it was without surprise that he heard her say, ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

Yet he still felt it was in order to ask further questions. After all she had no alibi for that afternoon and she had everything to gain by Mrs Rainbird’s death. He pointed out both these things.

‘I don’t see how I benefit by her death. I might’ve done eighteen months ago but they’ve both known for weeks that all the money was gone. And I told them that if I went down I’d make damn sure they went down with me. They knew I meant what I said all right.’

After she had listened to the statement being read back, and signed it, Troy positioned himself at the bedroom door whilst she packed. She came out carrying a small case and her handbag and wearing a shapeless raincoat. She looked much older. She had never been an attractive woman but a certain amount of vitality and a high colour had added some liveliness to her appearance. Now she looked drained, even her hair seemed greyer. As they reached the foot of the stairs a door opened and Barnaby felt his prisoner shrink closer to him.

‘Phyllis.’ Henry wheeled himself into the hall, with Katherine close behind. ‘What on earth’s wrong? What is happening?’

‘You’ll know soon enough.’ She wouldn’t look at him but hurried through the front door, Troy following. Barnaby closed the door and turned to the waiting pair.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Trace, but Miss Cadell has just confessed to the murder of your wife.’

‘It’s not possible!’ Katherine looked absolutely astounded.

Henry seemed bereft of speech entirely. Finally he said, ‘Are you sure? There must be some mistake. I can’t believe it.’

‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt.’ Barnaby re-opened the door. ‘We have taken her into custody. You may wish to contact her solicitor.’ Then he closed the door and walked after the others to the car.

Barnaby sat behind his desk in the incident room. He pushed the last of the Tranquillada’s files aside and concentrated on his coffee. A few minutes before he had learned from the hospital that there was no change in Mr Rainbird’s condition but that he continued comfortable. Barnaby doubted that. He doubted that very much indeed. Until the person who had killed his mother was caught Dennis Rainbird, once memory returned, would never feel comfortable again. Because Barnaby felt sure that whatever she knew he knew. And what now, unless madness had permanently addled his wits, was to stop him talking? Which was why there was a guard at the door of his hospital room as well as someone always by his bed.

Barnaby had in front of him the cutting on the Trace inquest. Now he knew the truth he read it again, remembering his earlier impression that there was something in there that hadn’t seemed quite right. He assumed that whatever it was would now stick out a mile, but he was wrong. Ah well . . . it was no longer important.

All around him was activity. Muted, orderly but intense. Breathing space between telephone calls was slight. Fleet Street had picked up the news as had BBC television. Although no appeal had yet been made several members of the public, no doubt anxious to appear to be playing some part in such a dramatic event, had rung offering information and ideas.

Paper was piling up. Every little detail was put on an action form and those not already transcribed on to the rotary card system were circling round like homing pigeons. Forensic and other information was being recorded in the portable pod. A vast blown-up map of the village hung on the wall behind Barnaby’s head. One of the monitors showed a local television reporter interviewing Mrs Sweeney, and Mr Fenton, senior partner at Brown’s Funeral Emporium (‘Every solace in your hour of need’) had appeared for the opposition. The villagers were being questioned by the police as to their whereabouts between three and five p.m. All the normal procedures were being carried out. But whilst Barnaby was aware that everything that was being done must be done, his mind refused to expand to absorb all the minutiae of an official inquiry.

It held only five suspects (he had decided to jettison Henry Trace, and Lessiter had an alibi) and these five moved in a slow tantalizing pavane on a screen behind his eyes. Wherever he was, whoever he was with, whatever he was doing, the dance went on. He drained his coffee. Old green-eyes was back.

It was now almost nine o’clock. He wrote down an order for the Chinese takeaway - Black Bean and Ginger Soup. Sweet and Sour Prawns. Rice and Spring Rolls. Toffee Apples - and had just sent it off when the phone rang.

‘It’s a Mrs Quine asking for you, sir. She’s in a call box. I’ve made a note of the number.’

‘Right . . . Mrs Quine?’

‘Hullo? What’s going on . . . didn’t that chap in the caravan tell you what I said? About that Lacey bloke?’

‘Yes. The message was passed on.’

‘Woss he doing still roaming round the village, then? We’ll all be torn to bloody shreds before you lot get off your arses and do something. I saw him go up to that house bold as brass.’

‘We also—’ Barnaby stopped. Around him the phones continued to ring, a typewriter rattled, outside a car screeched to a halt. He heard none of those things. His concentration was yanked to a single fine point. There was just him, the telephone and Mrs Quine. His throat was bone dry as he asked, ‘Did you say he went up to the house?’

‘I
told
you. In the message. He went through the hedge, up the garden path to the back door. Got his old denims on and that cap. I’d know him anywhere.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Well . . . the
Young Doctors
had just finished and
Tickle on the Tum
hadn’t started. I’d gone up to make the beds - which was how I came to spot him, y’see. Through the bedroom window. Lisa Dawn was making a cup of tea.’

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby, marvelling at the control in his voice, ‘but what time would that be?’

‘That’d be . . . um . . . five to four.’

He sat gripping the receiver for a moment longer. She continued speaking but her words were lost as a wave of exhilaration pounded through him. His brain felt as if it were being dragged all over the place by wild horses. Five to four. Dear God.
Five to four
. More words were getting through.

‘Was it you sent that nosey bugger from the Social round? Upsetting Lisa Dawn.’

The pips admitted a merciful release. Barnaby went to find Inspector Moffat to get a search warrant. He yelled ‘Troy!’ as he went through the outer office - a shout that could have been heard as far as the cattle market and the Soft Shoe Café. His sergeant leapt up from a spot of hot-eyed dalliance with Policewoman Brierley and responded with a ‘Sir!’ automatically pitched at the same level.

‘Car. Shift yourself.’

Leaving another ‘sir’ splintering the atmosphere Troy ran from the room. This was something like it, he thought, running across the car park and leaping into the Fiesta. Foot down. Siren blaring. Secret tip-off. Villain on the run. Troy and Barnaby closing in. Cuffs at the ready. But the Chief’s getting on. Oh he was fast in his day but now . . . So it’s Troy who makes the arrest. He was a tough bastard, too. One of the hard men. Afterwards Barnaby admitted as much. ‘Without you, Sergeant, I couldn’t have—’

‘For God’s sake don’t just bloody sit there. Move!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Back to the village. And you can switch that thing off.’ He didn’t say slow down, though, and Troy touched eighty when they were clear of the town.

‘What’s up, sir?’ Barnaby told him. Troy whistled and said, ‘Wow. We’ve got him then.’

‘Keep your eyes on the road.’

‘But . . . that’s pretty conclusive, wouldn’t you say?’

‘He’s certainly got some explaining to do.’

‘I hope he hasn’t scarpered. He wasn’t in the cottage when I went back to check.’

When they entered the village a mere handful of people was now hanging round the portable pod. The television van had gone on to the next drama. It was getting dark. As soon as Troy eased through the hedge space they saw a light in the cottage.

‘He’s back.’

‘There’s no need to whisper, Sergeant.’ Barnaby got out. ‘I should think our headlights alone have alerted him to the fact that we’ve arrived.’

The sun was setting. The house was softened by the glow. The dark mass of surrounding trees was rimmed with deepest gold. An upstairs window reflected the sun. Troy squinted against it as it hung in the very centre of the pane. He thought it looked like a lump of blood. Barnaby knocked.

‘Heavens, not you again.’ Michael Lacey regarded them coolly from the doorway. He was eating a huge hunk of bread and cheese. ‘You never stop, do you? Really it makes it a pleasure to pay my taxes. If I ever earned enough to pay taxes, that is.’

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

He gave a little moan but it sounded phoney. Part of a game. He opened the door. ‘Come in then if you must. But I’ve already been asked a few questions. By one of your minions barely half an hour ago.’

‘Then I expect you know that Mrs Rainbird has been done to death—’

‘Done to death? How wonderfully archaic.’

‘In a particularly brutal manner.’

‘I hope you’re not looking for insincere expressions of regret on my part. She was a very nasty woman. Almost as nasty as her golden-haired boy.’

‘Indeed? I didn’t realize you knew her well.’

‘You didn’t have to know her well.’

Supercilious sod, thought Troy, hugging Mrs Quine’s revelation to his heart. Barnaby asked Michael Lacey where he was between three and five that afternoon.

‘Working.’

‘You wouldn’t like to expound on that?’

‘Not really. Thanks all the same.’

‘So if someone said they saw you walking up the path of Mrs Rainbird’s back garden at four p.m . . . ?’

‘I’d say they wanted their eyes tested.’

Barnaby produced one of his two warrants. ‘Mr Lacey, I have a warrant here to search these premises.’ At this the man’s expression changed. That’s wiped the smile off his face, thought Troy, allowing the hint of one to appear on his own. ‘I hope,’ Barnaby continued, ‘that you will cooperate in this matter.’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘I’m afraid this bit of paper says we can. Sergeant . . .’ Barnaby nodded towards the stairs and Troy vanished. ‘Would you accompany me to the kitchen, Mr Lacey?’

He searched the kitchen thoroughly while his companion stood sullenly by the sink. Then the room with the settee and bookshelves. He pulled out the paperbacks, lifted the matting. Lacey perched on one of the uncomfortable dining chairs and watched. Troy re-entered the room, giving Barnaby what he fondly imagined to be an imperceptible shake of the head. The chief inspector finished his task and turned to the man at the table, who said, ‘If that wild semaphoring of absolute despair is anything to go by, your clueless sergeant hasn’t dug up anything either. So I suggest you go on your merry way and leave me in peace.’

‘Next door, Troy.’ The sergeant nodded and walked out. Lacey jumped up.

‘That’s my studio. I won’t have my work disturbed. There’s nothing in there but paintings.’

Troy called, ‘It’s locked, sir.’

‘Well, break it down then.’

Michael Lacey ran into the passage and hung on to Troy’s arm. Delighted, the sergeant immediately seized the man’s wrists, wrenching his arms behind his back.

‘All right, Sergeant, all right.’ Barnaby ambled up. ‘He’s not going anywhere, are you, sir?’

Troy released Lacey, who glared at them both. But there was more than anger in his expression. There was fear. ‘Why don’t you just unlock the door and save us all a lot of hassle?’ asked the chief inspector.

Lacey ignored him. Troy put his shoulder to the wood. It gave on the fourth heave. He moved the door into the hall and stepped back, keeping an eye on Lacey who was leaning against the stair rail, very still, his face expressionless.