‘Ohh ... probably since last night. Certainly no longer than twenty-four hours. That’s the joy of the garrotte. Immediate asphyxiation helps pin the time down.’ He got up, brushing leaf mould off his trousers. ‘Well, I’m off. Give my best to Joyce. How’s the sprog?’
‘Thriving, thank you.’
‘Should have something on your desk by morning.’
Barnaby watched the doctor stride away, head back, gazing at the sky, inhaling the peaty autumn scents with every appearance of satisfaction.
‘That would make a good title for the autobiography I’ve no doubt he’s secretly scribbling.’
‘What would?’ Sergeant Troy stood well aside to let the graveyard shift get moving.
‘The Joy of the Garrotte. Come on, let’s get back to the station.’
‘It’s gone lunchtime, chief. What about the pub? I could just get outside some sausage, egg and chips.’
‘Your guts must be made of cast iron.’
The news spread through Ferne Basset like lightning. A body had been removed from Carter’s Wood. The Scene of Crime officers arrived and, after removing all sorts of interesting paraphernalia from the back of their van, put on plastic overalls, gloves and bootees and disappeared into the trees.
The sergeant and young policewoman who had called on Mrs Leathers before called again. This time the door was opened by a stout, dark-haired girl who looked about sixteen but turned out to be Mrs Leathers’ 23-year-old daughter.
‘Now what?’ she said, arms akimbo.
‘Could we have a word with your mother?’ asked the policewoman. She was still at the stage where she put on a special voice as the possible bearer of bad news. Kind, gentle, slightly solemn. A dead giveaway, the sergeant thought, but you had to make allowances. She’d grow out of it.
‘I reckon she’s had enough upset for one day, don’t you?’
‘It’s all right, Pauline,’ called Mrs Leathers from the kitchen.
They all went into the front room where the sergeant declined the offer of a cup of tea. Just as well, thought Pauline, ’cause I certainly won’t be making any.
‘You reported your husband missing earlier today, Mrs Leathers. We were wondering if you have a photograph of him.’
‘Not a recent one, I’m afraid.’ She looked nervously at the sergeant then went over to the sideboard and took out an album. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just to help us with our inquiries, Mrs Leathers.’
‘Is this something to do with all those cars over by the Green?’ asked Pauline.
‘That’s the latest.’ Mrs Leathers handed over a picture of a choleric little man glowering at the camera. He was holding a shotgun and there were several dead birds at his feet. ‘Taken about eight years ago.’
‘Thank you.’ The sergeant stowed the photograph in his wallet.
Pauline said, ‘I asked you a question.’
‘Yes, it is.’ No point denying it. Half the village would have seen the stretcher brought out. The sergeant chose his next words carefully. ‘We have actually discovered the body of a man in the woods. Who he is or how he died we can’t say at the moment.’
Mrs Leathers tried to speak but her lips had become suddenly stiff. She couldn’t form the words. She stared at Pauline who reached out, took her hand and squeezed it hard.
‘I’ll show them out, Mum. Be right back.’ On the doorstep she said, ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
‘We don’t know for—’
‘Best not to get excited though, eh? Just fingers crossed.’
‘Pardon?’ said the policewoman.
‘The life that bugger’s led her. Tell you the truth, I’d have done it meself years ago if I’d thought I could get away with it.’
Valentine and Louise were having dinner on the top floor of their crystal palace. The house was extremely flexible and sleeping could be accomplished or food consumed almost anywhere.
Beds were in all the rooms: single divans covered with brilliantly coloured silk or fur throws. The kitchen was in the basement on a level with the garage. Sometimes they ate there. More often they would make use of the dumb waiter, an elegant heated cube of stainless steel suspended on black rubber cables. This glided smoothly up and down inside a transparent shaft which thrust, like a powerful obelisk, straight up through the centre of the house.
Most days they shared the cooking but tonight Valentine had spent so much of his time looking after Mrs Leathers that Louise had shopped and prepared the meal. A guinea fowl cooked in white wine with fondant potatoes and a watercress salad. Grilled peaches with Amaretto and homemade Sable biscuits. The wine was Kesselstatt Riesling.
Usually the conversation meandered easily about, touching on books or music or the theatre. Sometimes absent friends would be gently maltreated. Once upon a time, before the hearts of the couple had been chastened by the pain of their own unhappiness, such friends would have been savaged without mercy.
Sometimes Val would talk about his work but these occasions were not frequent. Barley Roscoe, the boy who had made Val’s fortune, was only seven and inevitably his daily experiences, though wildly, magically adventurous in comparison with the average child of a similar age, could not sustain much in the way of adult conversation.
But tonight, like everyone else in the village (except the Lawrences), Val and Louise were mulling over the grisly discovery in Carter’s Wood. Also like everyone else, they were convinced the dead person was Charlie Leathers.
‘One, he’s missing.’ Valentine ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Two, it was his dog found nearby, badly beaten. And three, absolutely nobody likes him.’
‘Not liking is no reason—’
‘It’s a damn nuisance. We’re going to have to find someone else to do the garden.’
‘He only does - did a couple of hours a week. I can manage that. It’s the Old Rectory that’ll feel the pinch. Which reminds me ...’ She told Valentine about her meeting with Ann Lawrence the previous afternoon when they had discussed Carlotta’s disappearance.
‘There is no way she would have got into that state over just a row. Trembling and shaking - she could hardly speak.’
‘Perhaps she’s the one who bumped off Charlie.’
‘That’s not very funny, Val.’
‘Murder’s not supposed to be very funny.’
‘More likely to be—’
Louise stopped, realising immediately it was too late. The time to stop had been when the words were still in her mouth. And she had been so careful. Always thinking, anticipating. Ever since the night, months ago, when she had first spoken her mind on the subject in question and Val had spoken his mind and it was plain there could be no meeting of the two minds, ever. She had never seen her brother behave as he had then. He was like a man possessed. Which, of course, he was.
‘More likely to be?’
The words lay across her heart like lashes from a whip. ‘I’m sorry, Val.’
‘One mistake and he pays for the rest of his life, is that it?’ He got up, taking a leather jacket from the back of his chair, cramming an arm into one sleeve, shrugging it over his shoulders.
‘Don’t!’ She ran round the table, not caring what she said now that the damage had been done. ‘Don’t go over there. Please.’
‘I shall go where I like.’ He was running down the curved glass staircase. At the bottom he turned round and stared back up at her, his face quite expressionless, his eyes burning. ‘If all you can find to do is criticise the one person who makes me glad to be alive then I suggest you find another place to do it in.’
Of course, someone had phoned the Old Rectory. The caller seemed to think that Lionel Lawrence, whom she insisted on addressing as ‘Your Reverend’, would wish to visit Mrs Leathers in his role as ‘our living Lord’s rod and staff and comforter’.