‘I suppose it’s possible,’ I suggested tentatively, ‘that someone borrowed the Land-Rover for the night.’
‘But you don’t believe it,’ Picton remarked.
‘I wish I did.’
‘But where’s the connection?’ Picton asked. ‘There has to be more. The fact that Twyford Lower Farms Limited owned a blue Land-Rover of the relevant year isn’t enough on its own. We cannot search that vehicle for hand-prints unless we have good reason to believe that it was that one and no other that we are looking for.’
Archie said thoughtfully, ‘Search warrants have been issued on flimsier grounds before now.’
He and Picton walked away from me, the professionals putting their distance between themselves and Sid Public. I thought that if they refused to follow the trail it would be a relief, on the whole. It would let me off the squirming hook. But there could be another month and another colt… and an obsession feeding and fattening on success.
They came back, asking why I should link the Quint name to the deed. I described my box chart. Not conclusive, Archie said judiciously, and I agreed, no.
Picton repeated what I’d just said: ‘Rachel’s pony was bought by her father, Joe, on the advice of Ellis Quint?’
I said, ‘Ellis did a broadcast about Rachel’s pony losing his foot.’
‘I saw it,’ Picton said.
They didn’t want to believe it any more than I did. There was a fairly long, indeterminate silence.
Jonathan came back looking uncomplicatedly happy from his fast laps around the lake, and Norman Picton abruptly went into the clubhouse, returning with a can of Coke, which he put into Jonathan’s hands. Jonathan held it in his left hand to open it and his right hand to drink. Norman took the empty can from him casually but carefully by the rim, and asked if he would like to try the skiing itself, not just a ride in the boat.
Jonathan, on the point of enthusiastically saying, ‘Yes,’ remembered his cultivated disagreeableness and said, ‘I don’t mind. If you insist, I suppose I’ll have to.’
‘That’s right,’ Picton said cheerfully. ‘My wife will drive. My son will watch the rope. We’ll find you some swimming trunks and a wet-suit.’
He led Jonathan away. Archie watched inscrutably.
‘Give him a chance,’ I murmured. ‘Give him a challenge.’
‘Pack him off to the colonies to make a man of him?’
‘Scoff,’ I said with a smile. ‘But long ago it often worked. He’s bright and he’s bored and he’s not yet a totally confirmed delinquent.’
‘You’d make a soft and rotten magistrate.’
‘I expect you’re right.’
Picton returned, saying, ‘The boy will stay here until I get back, so we’d better get started. We’ll take two cars, mine and Mr Halley’s. In that way he can go on to London when he wants. We’ll leave your car here, Archie. Is that all right?’
Archie said he didn’t trust Jonathan not to steal it.
‘He doesn’t think stealing’s much fun without his pals,’ I said.
Archie stared. ‘That boy never says anything.’
‘Find him a dangerous job.’
Picton, listening, said, ‘Like what?’
‘Like,’ I said, unprepared, ‘like… well… on an oil rig. Two years of that. Tell him to keep a diary. Tell him to write.’
‘Good God,’ Archie said, shaking his head, ‘he’d have the place in flames.’
He locked his car and put the keys in his pocket, climbing into the front passenger seat beside me as we followed Norman Picton into Newbury, to his official place of work.
I sat in my car outside the police station while Archie and Picton, inside, arranged the back-ups: the photographer, the fingerprinter, the detective constable to be Inspector Picton’s note-taking assistant.
I sat with the afternoon sun falling through the windshield and wished I were anywhere else, engaged on any other mission.
All the villains I’d caught before hadn’t been people I knew. Or people — one had to face it — people I’d thought I’d known. I’d felt mostly satisfaction, sometimes relief, occasionally even regret, but never anything approaching this intensity of entrapped despair.
Ellis was loved. I was going to be hated.
Hatred was inevitable.
Could I bear it?
There was no choice, really.
Archie and Picton came out of the police station followed by their purposeful troop.
Archie, sliding in beside me, said the search warrant was signed, the Superintendent had given the expedition his blessing, and off we could go to the Twyford Lower Farms.
I sat without moving, without starting the car.
‘What’s the matter?’ Archie demanded, looking at my face.
I said with pain, ‘Ellis is my friend.’
Chapter 6
Ginnie Quint was gardening in a large straw hat, businesslike gloves and gray overall dungarees, waging a losing war on weeds in flower beds in front of the comfortable main house of Twyford Lower Farms.
‘Hello, dear Sid!’ She greeted me warmly, standing up, holding the dirty gloves wide and putting her soft cheek forward for a kiss of greeting. ‘What a nice surprise. But Ellis isn’t here, you know. He went to the races, then he was going up to the Regents Park apartment. That’s where you’ll find him, dear.’
She looked in perplexity over my shoulder to where the Norman Picton contingent were erupting from their transport.
Ginnie said uncertainly, ‘Who are your friends, dear?’ Her face cleared momentarily in relief, and she exclaimed, ‘Why, it’s Archie Kirk! My dear man. How nice to see you.’
Norman Picton, carrying none of Archie’s or my social-history baggage, came rather brutally to the point.
‘I’ m Detective Inspector Picton, madam, of the Thames Valley Police. I’ve reason to believe you own a blue Land-Rover, and I have a warrant to inspect it.’
Ginnie said in bewilderment, ‘It’s no secret we have a Land-Rover. Of course we have. You’d better talk to my husband. Sid… Archie… what’s all this about?’
‘It’s possible,’ I said unhappily, ‘that someone borrowed your Land-Rover last night and… er… committed a crime.’
‘Could I see the Land-Rover, please, madam?’ Picton insisted.
‘It will be in the farmyard.’ Ginnie said. ‘I’ll get my husband to show you.’
The scene inexorably unwound. Gordon, steaming out of the house to take charge, could do nothing but protest in the face of a properly executed search warrant. The various policemen went about their business, photographing, fingerprinting and collecting specimens of dusty earth from the tire treads. Every stage was carefully documented by the assisting constable.
The warrant apparently covered the machinery and anything else behind the front seat. The two sticking-up handles that had looked to Jonathan like those of a lawn mower were, in fact, the handles of a lawn mower — a light electric model. There were also a dozen or so angle iron posts for fencing, also a coil of fencing wire and the tools needed for fastening the wire through the posts. There was an opened bag of horse-feed nuts. There was a rolled leather apron, like those used by farriers. There were two spades, a heavy four-pronged fork and a large knife like a machete wrapped in sacking.
The knife was clean, sharp and oiled.
Gordon, questioned, growled impatiently that a good workman looked after his tools. He picked up a rag and a can of oil, to prove his point. What was the knife for? Clearing ditches, thinning woodland, a hundred small jobs around the fields.
There was a second, longer bundle of sacking lying beneath the fencing posts. I pointed to it noncommittally, and Norman Picton drew it out and unwrapped it.
Inside there were two once-varnished wooden handles a good meter in length, with, at the business end, a heavy arrangement of metal.