‘You’re not going to the station, Tom.’ He had got up from the table, picked up his jacket and was craftily easing his way towards the door.
‘Tom!’
‘Uh huh?’
‘It’s your rest day.’
‘Something really important turned up as I was leaving yesterday.’
‘So?’
‘I thought you’d rather I handled it today than spend half last night chasing things up.’
‘Can’t someone else “handle it” and phone through?’
‘I’d rather do it my—’
‘When you’ve got your teeth into something you’re like a dog with a bone. Frightened to death someone else is going to get a bite.’
‘Rubbish.’ Barnaby fumbled for his car keys and wondered if it was true. ‘Anyway, I’m home all day tomorrow.’
‘You know the Gavestons are coming for dinner?’
He had quite forgotten. ‘Yes.’
‘Half past six, latest.’
‘Yes!’ shouted Barnaby then was sorry and attempted a conciliatory kiss.
Joyce turned her cheek away and slammed the kitchen door. Barnaby slammed the front door. He got into his Astra and slammed that door then drove aggressively to the station, which was quite unlike him. At the station he strode first to the lift and then to his office where, just to make the numbers even, he slammed that door as well.
He hoped this latest set-to didn’t mean his wife and daughter would be ganging up on him, as they were wont to do from time to time, urging early retirement. Not that he hadn’t occasionally longed for an easier life himself. In spite of the team spirit and boozy, post-shift camaraderie, the sometimes umbilically close connections and protecting of each other’s backs, the fact remained that, at least in its upper echelons, the force was a pool of sharks. Great powerful beasts swimming around, jaws snapping, tails athwack. Egoistic, fiercely competitive individuals determined to strive ahead. To divide and rule.
And old sharks had better beware. No wonder so many of these sad, exhausted creatures ended up, long before it was strictly necessary, sheltered from the fighting behind a desk at headquarters. But not this one. Too many years at the sharp end had spoiled DCI Barnaby for such cushy, toothless repose.
Emerging from the lift, the chief inspector ran into his sergeant coming out of the Gents and reeking of high tar nicotine.
‘Still testing your resistance, Troy?’
‘It’s all very well for you, sir. An addiction can be really ...’
‘Addictive?’
‘Yeah. Nobody ever praises you, do they?’
‘What?’
‘People who’ve never smoked. Maureen, for example. They don’t know what it’s like.’
Barnaby was in no mood for such whingeing. He strode ahead to the incident room, slapped a near-empty folder of notes onto his desk and stared at his dejected-looking team. It was not only dejected but somewhat depleted. He stared fiercely round the room.
‘Where’s WPC Mitchell?’
‘On her way,’ said Inspector Carter. ‘She’s been working—’
‘She shouldn’t be on her bloody way! She should be here. You.’ He jabbed a finger at a constable perched on a table. ‘Go and—’
But at that moment Katie Mitchell rushed in. All smiles, all excitement.
‘Sir! I’ve—’
‘You’re late.’
‘The courier didn’t bring the original till half five this morning. And there were so many shreds and bits, assembling it took for ever.’
‘Ah,’ said Barnaby. ‘I see.’
‘And after all that there were only six words.’
Barnaby held out his hand. WPC Mitchell came forward and placed a sheet of A4 paper in it.
‘I’ve stuck them on in the only order that makes sense, sir.’
‘So you have,’ said Barnaby, taking the ‘only order’ in. And his heart sang.
‘I saw you push her in.’
Barnaby read out the words aloud again into the silence. He could see and feel the whole room becoming charged with interest and vitality. Lethargy and disappointment were wiped out in this one single moment of revelation.
The anonymous telephone call, it now seemed, was not a hoax. The strong likelihood was that someone actually had fallen or been pushed into the Misbourne at some period shortly before 10.32 p.m. on Sunday, 16 August.
‘Does anyone have any ideas,’ asked Barnaby, ‘as to how this breakthrough might put us on fast forward?’
Sergeant Troy did not hesitate. Although his thoughts and opinions were rarely canvassed, nevertheless he kept his mind in good trim. He could not bear to be found wanting.
‘Leathers saw someone being shoved into the river and tried a spot of financial arm-twisting. Instead of paying up, whoever it was gave him a nice wire collar. Also, as one of Lionel Lawrence’s bleeding hearts disappeared at roughly the same time, I’d say the two incidents were definitely connected.’ Troy paused, suddenly feeling very exposed, and stared hard at the nearest computer screen. The analysis seemed pretty sound to him but he knew the gaffer. Barnaby had a way of slicing through a presentation, finding the weak link and snapping it back hard under your nose, like a rubber band with a pebble in it.
‘Good.’
‘Sir.’ Troy received this with a certain amount of caution. He’d been here before. Something nice then a sting from the scorpion’s tail - e.g. good - for someone with three per cent of a dead amoeba’s single brain cell.
‘Although ...’
Here we go.
‘The idea that this,’ Barnaby waved the paper, ‘is the first step to blackmail, though extremely likely, must be only supposition at this stage.’
He smiled happily around at his officers, lifted right out of his previous mood of despondency. ‘Anyone else? Yes, Inspector Carter.’
‘This nine-nine-nine call, sir. Maybe it was made by whoever did the pushing. They might have panicked. Had second thoughts.’
‘A rescue would hardly be in their interest,’ said Sergeant Brierley. ‘They could end up being accused of assault, or worse.’
‘Whoever it was could have fallen in accidentally,’ suggested Troy. ‘During a fight, say.’
‘That’s no lever for blackmail.’
‘Oh, yeah. Got it.’ I’m not saying another word during this briefing. Not a bloody word.
‘Right,’ said Barnaby. ‘Now, I want the tape of this anonymous call from force headquarters, so somebody get on to Kidlington. Also a copy of the report submitted by the investigation team who were called out to the river. Then we’ll start yet another house-to-house at Ferne Basset - leave out the Old Rectory, I’ll be calling there myself - plus the other two villages in the triangle, Swan Myrren and Martyr Bunting. Check on any sounds of disturbance heard between the hours of nine o’clock, say, and midnight. Bear in mind that could be anywhere - not necessarily on or near the river. Arguments travel.
‘As do floaters. So we’ll have to fax not just all our stations but borderline counties as well - Oxford, Wiltshire. And notify the river authorities. They might even run a search if we’re in luck. And I want an examination of the river bank as far as the weir but starting in the village. This is where Leathers walked his dog so I should imagine this is where he saw her pushed in. Plus a check on all the hospitals and morgues in that area. They may have had a drowning during the past six days. Don’t forget the outpatients’ register. She could well have climbed out or been fished out, needed medical treatment then been sent home. Wherever that proves to be.’
‘Do we specifically ask about a young woman, sir?’ asked Constable Phillips.
‘No. I don’t want it narrowed down at this stage. We’re still only guessing.’ Barnaby waved his A4 sheet with the six-word message briefly in the air before laying it on his desk. ‘I want copies of this on the board. Will someone please get Mrs Pauline Grantham’s prints, for elimination, and Leathers’ for confirmation. Also I want the phone box at Ferne Basset printed though I suspect after six days it’ll be a waste of time.’