“Constable Perrot?”
He followed her along a lengthy corridor past a series of gun-metal doors, all showing neatly typed cards slotted into metal frames, down some uncarpeted stone stairs, along another seemingly endless corridor then two right turns in quick succession. He thought, I’ll never get out of this alive.
“Someone will take you back.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
Just as he started to feel they must have walked at least twice round the entire building, they turned into a much shorter corridor with a glassed-in door at the end. Sergeant Brierley rapped on this. As they waited, she smiled at him again.
“You’ll be all right. He’s a pussycat.”
Constable Perrot was not consoled. There were pussycats and pussycats in his opinion. Tigers were pussycats. And lions.
From inside the room came a raucous sound. More of a bark than a roar but still not very pleasant. Sergeant Brierley opened the door.
“Constable Perrot, sir.”
The big man behind the desk was scanning something that Perrot recognised as his Open Text report, riffling through the pages—there now seemed to be an awful lot of them—and frowning.
In the corner of the room, perched on a wide windowsill, was a thin, youngish bloke. Pale and ferrety-faced. Red hair. A mean mouth.
The air was like warm soup. A large fan swirled it round in sluggish circles. Perrot was not asked to sit down. Eventually the DCI said, without looking up, “Ever thought of writing a novel, Constable?”
“Sir?”
“With your eye for detail and feeling for suspense you should make a fortune.”
Unsure whether this was an insult, a compliment or a joke, Perrot remained silent. He kept his gaze forward and slightly cast down, avoiding the eye of the younger officer who he had already decided would give a coldly unsympathetic reception to anything he might say or do.
Next to a stack of trays full of assorted paper on the big bloke’s desk, Perrot noticed a photograph in a silver frame of an attractive woman with curly hair, holding on her lap a little girl of quite remarkable beauty. Like a Pears advert, she was. Perrot, slightly comforted by this sign of domestic normalcy, kept it in his line of vision until one or the other of his superiors saw fit to break the silence.
“Why wasn’t this report marked urgent?”
“Well ... I ...”
“We’ve got a man here whose wife has disappeared. He refuses to answer the door until you threaten to break it down. You find him drunk and in an extremely unbalanced mental state. He lies to you about why she’s left, contradicts himself, refuses to give the name of a single friend or relative who might confirm her whereabouts. He can’t produce any note or communication from her. After looking around upstairs—the only moment, incidentally, when you seem to have displayed a single shred of intelligence, let alone initiative—you find Mrs. Hollingsworth has gone without taking any of her clothing or personal effects.” Barnaby broke off here and threw the stack of paper into a wire tray. “Would you say that was an accurate summary of what I’ve just ploughed through?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cellar floors have been torn apart for less.”
“Sir.”
“I can’t think of a single officer in my nick who wouldn’t have had something like this,” Barnaby swiped the basket vigorously with the flat of his hand, “on a senior man’s desk within half an hour of completing it. And a good proportion of them would have brought Hollingsworth in for further questioning.”
Scarlet-faced with shame and humiliation, Constable Perrot hung on to his helmet and dropped his eyes to the carpet. He yearned for it to split apart and reveal gaping floorboards through which he could crawl away and die. The dreadful pause continued.
“Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. Tell me what you’ve found out since.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“This is dated Sunday. I presume you’ve had time since to make inquiries in the village? Did Mrs. Hollingsworth talk to anyone about going away? What did people think of her marriage? Does anyone know who this Blakeley you overheard her husband speaking to might be? How were the couple regarded? The usual stuff.” Barnaby paused for Perrot to reply. He stared at the policeman who still did not look up. His colour had deepened to a roguish violet and the perspiration pouring down his face and neck increased. He adjusted his helmet, leaving sweat marks on the navy blue nap.
“This beggars belief,” said the Chief Inspector. “Have you done anything, Perrot, anything at all, since you talked to Hollingsworth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s have it then.”
“And keep it short,” said the man on the windowsill. “Our annual leave starts next month.”
“I was concerned about Mr. Hollingsworth’s physical condition.” The policeman spoke in the manner of someone coerced into public address much against their will. “So I rang Dr. Jennings the local GP and suggested he call round. Which he did. But there was no reply.”
“Was Hollingsworth one of his patients?”
“Yes.” Here Perrot, feeling he was creating a sorry enough impression without cringing, braced himself, raised his head and looked directly into the fierce heat of the Chief Inspector’s regard. An unsmiling countenance. Fierce eyebrows like little black horsehair rugs. High colour. Eyes brown. Perrot had always thought brown eyes could never look anything but warm. Ah well, you live and learn. “Both Alan and his wife were registered but I think Dr. Jim had only actually met Simone.”
“Dr. Jim?” The red-haired man sniggered. “Jesus.”
“You’ve nothing else to add to this pathetic story?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ve been buried in the sticks too long, man. Right, I shall be at Fawcett Green within the next hour or so. Make sure you are as well.”
“Yes, sir.” Silently Perrot prayed that this would be the end of his ordeal. And vowed to make up for his foolish mishandling of matters so far. To be crisp, alert, observant. To show them that a country copper was not necessarily a dud copper.
“You certainly know how to play it by the book.” Barnaby nodded once more at the exuberantly detailed report and rose. Perrot gulped as he got the measure of the man. “But if you want to get anywhere in this business you’ll have to learn to play it by ear as well.”
Perrot, deeply contented where he was and with no ambition even to make sergeant, especially if it meant mixing with mean-lipped bastards with eyes like hailstones, mumbled, “Thank you very much, sir.”
“It was a reprimand, Perrot, not a compliment.”
The man on the windowsill burst out laughing then falsely pretended to disguise it as a cough.
“How long have you been in the force?”
“Thirteen years.”
“And your present posting?”
“Seven, sir.”
Yes, far too long, thought Barnaby. They got settled and over-comfortable staffing these rural outposts. A little sortie from time to time for a refresher course or an update on legal or ethnic matters then back under their security blanket. You couldn’t blame them. Their brief, after all, was to get really dug into the community. Frequently they got so well dug in that there was hell to pay when they were moved on. Especially if the locals had taken a shine. It was certainly about time they got this one shifted. Barnaby could imagine the style of policing employed by Perrot. Paternalistic, kind but firm. Caring—whatever that devalued word now meant. All well and good, but not if it left him incompetent to handle anything but the simplest of misdemeanours. The man appeared to be about as useful as a cat flap in a submarine.
Perrot read his senior officer’s mind and his heart turned over.