‘I expect it’s about the murder?’
‘Probably, Mr Wainwright.’ Troy tightened his lips to check a smile. He’d really enjoyed saying ‘Mr Wainwright’. Playing the bloke along. He enjoyed it so much that, swinging into Uxbridge turn off, he said it again.
‘Won’t be long now, Mr Wainwright. Five minutes at the most.’
Barnaby was at his desk re-reading statements when a blue Orion zoomed past his window and redirected into a sensational curve before braking savagely a hairline from the station wall.
The chief inspector buzzed for three coffees and they arrived stimultaneously with Sergeant Troy and his companion, who sat down, looking even paler than usual, convinced he had just narrowly escaped multiple windscreen lacerations at the very least.
‘What do you want to see me about?’ Christopher accepted the coffee, drank it very quickly then said: ‘Mind if I have a cigarette? They’re rather frowned on at the Windhorse.’
To Troy’s chagrin (the No Smoking sign was plain enough), Barnaby told Wainwright to go ahead. Catch me going ahead, thought the sergeant. I’d be hearing about it to the end of time, plus replays. Christopher shook out a pack of Gitanes and offered them round. Both men declined, Troy with a marked slaver. The cigarette was lit, vigorously inhaled and the first question repeated.
‘I take it you haven’t seen today’s paper?’
‘Not allowed. Too much external stimuli impedes one’s journey to a higher plane.’
Barnaby was sure he deduced a whisper of sarcasm. ‘Poppy Levine was married yesterday.’
‘Again?’ said Christopher. ‘Well, it’s kind of you to let me know, but surely a simple phone call would have sufficed.’
‘Rather a coincidence really.’ Barnaby folded the Independent to a quarter square. ‘The groom was a television cameraman.’ He passed the paper over.
‘Why not? We’re hardly an endangered species.’ He glanced down. ‘What a ghastly -’ A catch of the breath. Barnaby grabbed the paper just before it knocked over a coffee cup. There was a lengthy pause then Christopher said, ‘Sod it.’
‘Quite.’ Barnaby began to read. ‘The groom, who was at Stowe with the bride’s brother, has recently returned from shooting a film in Afghanistan. After a whirlwind romance and a wedding at Chelsea Town Hall, the happy couple returned to the bride’s house in Onslow Gardens. Next month they take a delayed honeymoon in Santa Cruz. So ...’ he dropped the paper into his wastebasket, ‘that tells us all about Christopher Wainwright. What we’d like to know now of course is - who the hell are you?’
The man facing Barnaby screwed the stub of his cigarette out in his saucer, fished in the pocket of his cotton Madras jacket and shook out another. ‘Do you think I could have some more coffee?’
Delaying tactics. Won’t get him anywhere. Troy stepped into the outer office to find Audrey on the telephone and the only other policewoman present comforting a scrubber who was faking tears that wouldn’t have deceived a baby. Reluctantly he got the coffee himself, managing even during this brief and extremely simple procedure to project an air of put-upon truculence wildly disproportionate to the task in hand. When he returned, the interviewee was still staring over Barnaby’s head and punishing his cigarette. The chief had a notebook in front of him and a Biro in his hand. Wainwright accepted the coffee, sipped a bit, stirred a bit. Barnaby waited until the cup was empty then said, ‘Answer the question, please.’
‘That’s rotten luck.’ He nodded at the Independent. ‘He’d only just met her when we had lunch. Bowled over though, went on and on.’
‘This lunch, I presume was before you moved to the Manor House?’
‘Directly before. I ran into Chris in Jermyn Street. He’d been buying shirts at Herbie Frogg’s. I was going to the cheese shop for some sausages, which should give you some idea of the delicate gap between our respective incomes. It’s quite true that he was at school with Levine minor and so was I. A spiteful little prig he was too. Wriggling in and out of people’s conversations and assignations, and beds.’
‘Stick to the point.’ Barnaby could easily sound more angry than he was. A useful accomplishment. The false Christopher Wainwright hurried on.
‘We went for a drink in the Cavendish then he suggested lunch at Simpson’s over which he told me in interminable detail about his glorious rise in the BBC and this trip to what he kept calling “the roof of the world”, although I’d always thought myself that was Tibet. Then he started on Poppy. I couldn’t get a word in so I just switched off and concentrated on the glorious protein. We had some trifle and when the bill came he picked up his jacket - we were sitting on one of the banquettes by the wall - and couldn’t find his wallet. Said he must have left it at the shirt-makers. I got lumbered with the bill for forty-eight quid. I was furious, being nearly broke at the time. Specially as I was sure he hadn’t lost it. He was always tight as a tick at school. Locked everything up - even his face flannel.’
Barnaby was hunched forward, elbows on desk and hardly aware of the increased fumage. He made a forceful beckoning gesture of encouragement with his left hand and ‘Christopher’ began to speak again.
‘I needed to visit the Golden Windhorse. To look around the house, get to know the people. Search their rooms and belongings if necessary. I couldn’t do any of those things under my own name.’
‘Which is?’
‘Andrew Carter.’
Troy looked quickly across the room and watched his chief absorb the name and settle back, easing off the pressure. As if a point of no return had now been reached and the unravelling could safely be left to continue on its own.
‘Jim Carter was my uncle. I don’t know if the name means anything to you?’
‘I’m familiar with it, yes.’
‘I believe he was murdered. That’s why I’m at the Windhorse. To find out why. And by who.’
Barnaby said: ‘Wild words.’
‘Not when you hear my reasons.’ He pulled out an envelope and produced a photograph. ‘My bona fides by the way. Such as they are.’
He passed the picture over. It showed a laughing fair-haired boy of perhaps ten or eleven years old, on a donkey. A man in early middle age, also blond, held the reins. The boy looked straight ahead but the man, so alert as to appear anxious, was studying the child’s face as if to reassure himself as to his safety and enjoyment.
‘There’s certainly a likeness.’ Barnaby did not return the picture. ‘But very slight.’
‘That why you dyed your hair, sir?’ Troy was now behind the desk-picking up the snap.
‘Hell - is it so obvious?’ Nervously he smoothed the dark cap. ‘Yes. I thought it might lessen any resemblance. He brought me up - my uncle - after my parents were killed. He was tremendously kind. He couldn’t afford to keep me on at Stowe but apart from that I wanted for nothing. I didn’t notice of course how much he went without himself. Children never do.’ He held out his hand for the photograph. ‘I was very fond of him.’
‘I’d like to make a copy of this, Mr Carter.’
Andrew hesitated. ‘It’s the only one I have.’
‘It’ll be returned before you leave.’ Barnaby passed the picture to Troy who took himself off with it. ‘When did you last see him?’
‘Some time ago. Our relationship was close but we didn’t meet all that often after I left home. I was eighteen. We had a row. I got involved with someone who was married and a lot older. It was the only time there was any real conflict between us. He said it was morally wrong. He was old-fashioned like that. He got really angry. His disappointment made me feel guilty and I stormed off. The rift didn’t last five minutes nor, oddly enough, did the affair, but I never lived permanently at home again.