On the other hand if she did know it was there ... The girl was perfectly placed to deal the blow. A single step forward, turn and she’d be face to face with the victim. And if everyone else had fled leaving a single frail old man and a strong young woman? But what earthly motive would she have?
Barnaby wandered back to his desk, riffled through the papers and photographs and picked up her statement. He knew it almost by heart as he did most of the others. He remembered her anguished crying and her enraged accusations against her father. Barnaby was not a man to be easily taken in, and certainly not by tears, but he had believed the emotion to be genuine.
He read on. Like everyone else she had been quick to mention that Gamelin had been indicated by the dying man. She had also been quick to describe that her father had the perfect opportunity to take the knife and glove. But who had left him alone in the kitchen? And if he had taken the knife then and concealed it successfully about his person, why risk transferring it to her bag at a later time? He could not even have been sure that she would take it into the regression.
And if they were running two murders here - which he thought more than likely - what was the connection between the death of Craigie and that of Jim Carter? Suhami had certainly been there long enough to be involved in the earlier death and was physically quite capable of pushing someone downstairs but, even if she hadn’t got a cast-iron alibi, there was again no apparent motive.
Troy entered, full of conversation. ‘Got the clippings from her bag, Chief. Dropped them off at the lab. I said dead urgent. They said tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
Troy unbuttoned his jacket, put it carefully on a hanger and produced his notebook and a copy of Suhami’s earlier statement. Then he sat down, hitching up his immaculately creased trousers.
‘Confirms everything the other two said. Got the bag for her birthday. Certainly kept it with her to the extent that she didn’t take it upstairs to her room but it was in the kitchen for some of the day, in the dining room and one time she left it on the hall table.’
‘Did you ask if she put anything in it?’
‘Yes. She did. Wanted to feel ...’ Troy checked his notes, ‘she was using it straight away. Some make-up, a brush, packet of tissues, some combs for her hair. Thus helping out the murderer, because he’d hardly put the knife into an empty bag. Next time she picked it up she’d just open it to see what was inside.’
‘Unless they were in cahoots.’
‘Yeh. There’s that.’
‘Does she remember when she last checked it?’
Troy looked down again at his tightly written pages. ‘Didn’t open it after she put the stuff in at all. In the Solar, put it down at her feet. Didn’t see anyone touch it. The rest is a mystery. Would you think that narrows it down, Chief? I mean to the four who were closest to her?’
‘Tempting to think so. But the rest are no more than a sneeze away. I don’t think we can count any of them out at this stage.’
‘Not even poor old Felicity Smackhead?’
‘Not even her. Did you tell the Gamelin girl why you were asking about the bag?’
‘Didn’t have to. She’s sharp even if she is all tricked out like a Tandoori chicken.’
‘How did she take the idea?’
‘Dead upset. “That I should unwittingly supply the means ...” blah blah blah ...’ Troy raised his hands into the air, squawking in a shrill falsetto.
It was so bad Barnaby laughed. Troy, who thought his chief had laughed because it was so good, tugged at his shirt cuffs. Then Policewoman Brierley appeared holding some gritty-looking black and white prints.
‘Your shots, sir.’
‘What shots?’
‘You put a request in.’
Barnaby stared at his sergeant. ‘Sorry, Chief.’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘They’re the last ones.’ Troy took the photographs and asked what the chances were of rustling up some coffee.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Make that two would you, Audrey?’
‘Right away, sir.’
Right away, sir, muttered Troy inside his head. You wait till I’m a DCI. I’ll make you jump! I’ll make you all bloody jump. He glanced down at the pictures. Glanced down and was held.
Barnaby was reading over his sergeant’s notes when he sensed Troy approach and stand in front of him. After a moment, irritated by all this silent looming, he looked up. Troy, pale with triumph, laid the shots on the desk then slowly straightened up. The movement reminded Barnaby of a successful athlete bending to receive his medal. Barnaby didn’t look at the pictures. He didn’t have to. Troy’s face said it all.
‘You were right, then?’
That would be his lot Troy knew, but it was enough. Balm to the soul. And no one could take it from him. He had had a hunch, cold water had been thrown on it, he had persisted. And it had paid off. Who said nice guys finished last?
Barnaby finally took in the mug-shots of Albert Cranleigh. Prison-cropped hair, stubbled chin, lips pressed defiantly together. Eyes hardened into dark pebbles from the flash or perhaps by years of chicanery. A very long way from the pious smile and silvery flowing locks of the sage of the Golden Windhorse. Yet the two men were undoubtedly one and the same.
Janet had slept in Trixie’s room last night. Burrowing down in Trixie’s bed, inhaling traces of unsubtle perfume. Deceiving herself that an imprecise hollow in the pillow and creased outline on the bottom sheet were shadowy imprints of her departed favourite: her mignonne.
She woke into a cloud of unfocused dread. She had been walking along a narrow country lane when she came across an old churchyard. Drawn in, much against her will, she stumbled over a tiny mottled gravestone embedded in the grass. Bending down, she saw engraved the date of her birth and beneath this a second date partially obscured by moss. She started to scratch at the velvety green stuff when the stone changed its shape and texture, becoming red and slippy and rather soft. It started to move beneath her fingers, pulsing gently, and she backed away in horror.
Now, climbing stiffly out of bed and into the clothes she had thrown over the green flock velvet armchair the night before, Janet strove to shake off this grisly fantasy. Drawing on navy, strap-footed trousers, she caught sight of her lardy thighs dimpled with cellulite beneath seersuckered skin. Cover up quickly. Pulling the zip she remembered how Trixie had teased her about the trousers. Saying they were all the latest rage and poor old Janet was in fashion at last.
She buckled on a strap of watered silk threaded through a wafer-thin watch that had belonged to her great aunt. Then she went back to her own room, splashed her face with cold water and punished it dry with a huckaback towel. She dragged a brush through her tangled hair without looking again into the glass. She could not think of food (she had hardly eaten since Trixie disappeared), but her mouth was unpleasantly dry and she craved a cup of tea.
There was a smell of burnt toast in the kitchen. Heather sat at the table eating muesli, engrossed in The Secret Commonwealth of Elves, Fauns and Fairies. She closed the book when company arrived and got up, an intensity of sympathetic understanding flaking her features.
‘Aloha Jan - go in peace.’
‘I’ve only just got here.’
‘Let me get you some tea.’
She spoke in what Janet always thought of as her ‘Little Sisters of the Syrup Pudding’ voice. The way people did when filling the God-slot on Radio Four.
‘I’m perfectly capable of getting my own tea.’