“Don’t you think,” continued Mrs. Molfrey, “it all sounds rather,” she searched her mind for an adjective which would adequately sum up the dark and terrible complexities of the matter in hand, “Sicilian?”
Barnaby thought it sounded about as Sicilian as a stick of Blackpool rock. “Would you expect to hear from Mrs. Hollingsworth if she’s away for any length of time?”
“Probably not. She was an acquaintance rather than a friend. But that does not mean one is not concerned.”
“Indeed. And have you discussed this with anyone else?”
“Only Cubby—my innamorato.” The Chief Inspector kept his face straight by a supreme effort of will. “He feels it’s really none of our business but then he’s getting on a bit for any sort of arsy-varsy. Fruit-bottling, making faggots and appliqué embroidery—that’s all he’s good for. Typical male. That’s a nasty cough you’ve got there, Inspector.”
“No, no.” Barnaby wiped his eyes. “I’m fine.”
He got up then and Mrs. Molfrey got up too, pushing on the tubular steel arms of her chair for leverage and looking crisply about her.
“Thank you for coming, Mrs.—”
“Don’t I get a form to fill in?”
“Just leave the Hollingsworths’ address with the desk sergeant.”
“They do on The Bill.”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Molfrey, the matter will be looked into.” He’d get a call put through to the village beat officer. Get him to ask around discreetly. She sounded reasonably compos mentis but might well have got completely the wrong end of the stick. The last thing the station needed was complaints of wrongful accusation.
Barnaby came round from behind his desk to open the door. As he did so, Mrs. Molfrey held out her hand. The Chief Inspector enclosed the tiny, withered claw utterly in the spread of his palm. She was very small, the wavy brim of her picture hat level with the tip of his tie. Her raspberry smeared lips parted in a smile of great sweetness as she looked up at him through those preposterous eyelashes and said, “I’m sure we shall work very well together.”
After she had left, he sat shaking his head for a moment in amused disbelief then took the stop off his calls. Immediately the phone rang and the workaday world engulfed him.
Chapter Two
Police Constable Perrot’s beat, which he had now had for seven years, comprised three villages. Ferne Bassett, Martyr Longstaff and Fawcett Green. Of the three, he much preferred the last.
Ferne Bassett was overburdened with weekend cottages, holiday homes and London commuters. Most of the time it was as quiet as the grave. The quietude may have been skin-deep but, as long as what was festering underneath did not erupt and start acting illegally, Perrot regarded it as no concern of his. In Martyr Longstaff a long-running feud existed between a scrap metal merchant operating, contrary to all council regulations, a business from his home and a neighbour furiously determined to put a spanner in the works. Confrontations were loud, violent, monotonously regular and often took place in the middle of the night.
But Fawcett Green—ah, Fawcett Green! Constable Perrot sighed with pleasure as he gazed about him. Dozing in the sunshine the place looked remarkably unspoilt. A great deal of the surrounding land belonged to a stately home which had been bought by a Far Eastern conglomerate. They had planted rather a lot of beautiful and unusual trees, created a large lake and left the rest alone. And, with a couple of exceptions, local farmers had remained sturdily resistant to the brandished cheque books of Bovis and Wimpey. Over the last fifteen years the place had hardly changed at all.
PC Perrot had lifted his Honda on to its stand at the very edge of the village though his destination was a good ten minutes’ walk away. Residents, quite rightly, expected to see “their” bobby strolling about, stopping for a word, hearing complaints and generally making himself available. Consequently it took him nearly half an hour to reach Nightingales.
His brief was simple but open-ended. He could take the interview with Alan Hollingsworth as far or as deep as the occasion seemed to demand. The constable’s own feelings were that some nosy neighbour with too much time on their hands had got a bit carried away. He had not been informed who the concerned party was and did not wish to know unless it became absolutely necessary.
PC Perrot had deliberately chosen mid-morning on Sunday for his visit. It was nearly eleven. Time for the man to have finished breakfast but too early presumably to have gone out to lunch.
The constable’s approach to the front gates had been noted. Old Mrs. Molfrey, cutting branches of orange blossom in her front garden, smiled and waved her secateurs. In the adjacent house a white poodle with its front paws up on the sill barked at him through the glass and was promptly yanked from view.
The approach to the front step and garage could do with a weed. Thistles were starting to show in a border of leggy pansies and tangled aubretia. The tobacco plants on the front doorstep looked a touch on the dry side.
Finding no bell, Constable Perrot tapped smartly with the brass mermaid’s tail. Noticing the curtains were still drawn, he waited a few minutes in case Hollingsworth was still asleep then rapped again.
In the lane a woman went by dragging a bawling infant. She pointed out the constable, assuring the toddler that if he didn’t shut his bleeding gob the big policeman would cart him off, lock him up and chuck the key down the lavvy. PC Perrot sighed. What was the point of all his primary school visits when there were parents like that to contend with? No wonder some kids ran a mile when they saw him coming.
Hot, even in his blue cotton summer issue, Perrot rolled up his shirt sleeves and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Then he crouched down to bring himself to the level of the letter box, lifted the flap and peered in.
He could see the stairs and the hall floor on which were lying some letters and a freebie newspaper. At the far end of the hall was a closed door which Perrot assumed belonged to the kitchen. A second door stood ajar. By screwing his head sideways and pressing his cheek hard against the cold metal, the policeman could see a section of carpeted floor, part of a table, the arm of a chair and a pair of fully occupied leather slippers.
Putting his mouth close to the slit he called, “Mr. Hollingsworth?” Then, feeling more than a little foolish, “I can actually, um, see you, sir. If you could come to the door, please? Constable Perrot, Thames Valley Police.” PC Perrot straightened up and waited. A high-pitched whine nearby made him turn round. Next to the gate was a lad who looked to be about eight. He was leaning on a chopper bike and holding a dog on a piece of string. The policeman smiled and raised his hand. The dog yawned again, the boy stared back, unblinking.
PC Perrot once more agitated the mermaid then, feeling even more self-conscious, wondered if he should take upon himself the responsibility of a forced entry. Nervously he recapped on the circumstances in which such a procedure could be justifiably carried out. Immediate pursuit of criminal. To prevent a breach of the peace or a person being harmed. Someone inside unconscious or in need of medical assistance. It seemed to him that the last might very well apply.
He made one final attempt at addressing the feet, which he presumed belonged to the owner of the property. This time, sharply aware of being awarded marks out of ten for entertainment value, he remained upright and spoke very loudly at the opaque glass panel.
“I am about to forcibly enter sir, by breaking the door down. If you are able to—”
There was a thud inside the house then a dark shape loomed behind the glass. The safety chain was struggled with in a frantic manner accompanied by swearing and cursing. Two bolts; a mortise. The door was flung open. Someone on the threshold shouted, “For Christ’s sake!” into the startled policeman’s face then he was dragged forward and the front door slammed.