By lunchtime the men had finished. A car left, taking information obtained to the forensic laboratories, the cordons were removed and the team repaired to the Black Boy for beer and sandwiches. Half an hour later they drove out of the village to the beechwood. Most of the crowd had by then given up, but Barnaby heard a woman on the pub forecourt say, ‘Run home, Robbie, and tell your mam they’re going down the lane.’ A small boy shot off and, shortly after they had parked on a layby near the beechwood, another interested group had arrived.
In the woods the cordons enclosed a very large area. The scene-of-crime officers plotted it out, taking sections at a time for a fingertip search. Barnaby described his own movements and those of Miss Bellringer. The watchers pressed eagerly against the ropes, craning their necks. A man ducked underneath, saying, ‘It’s a free country, you know - we’re not in Russia yet,’ and was ordered back. A large woman with a golden retriever called: ‘I’m sure Henry could help.’
Barnaby watched and kept out of the way. He realized he was becoming impatient. These things could not be hurried, but so much time was going by. Another day for the reports to come through. He had the feeling that everything was turning to dust in his hands before he’d even started. He beckoned to Sergeant Troy and hurried back to the car.
In fact it took less than twenty-four hours. Forensic never closed (except on bank holidays) and Barnaby had the scene-of-crime reports in his hands before lunchtime the following day. He read them through carefully and now sat facing a row of alert faces in one of the station’s interview rooms.
‘What we’re trying to discover’ - he swallowed his first tablet of the day with the remains of his coffee - ‘is the whereabouts of all the inhabitants of the village, including any children who were not at school on the afternoon of the seventeenth, and also for that same evening - all right? There’s a stack of pro-formas on the table over there. Allocation of addresses on the board outside.’
‘At what point do we assume the afternoon to end, sir?’ asked Sergeant Troy, who had already forgotten his earlier animadversions and was anxious to shine. ‘Did anyone see her come back from the woods for instance?’
Barnaby looked at his sergeant. He had been quite aware of the man’s previous unspoken scepticism and wondered at the ease with which attitudes and beliefs which proved inconvenient were sloughed as naturally as a snake’s skin. He knew nothing of Troy’s private life but suspected that relationships might be handled with the same insouciance.
‘Well of course that would be very handy, but life is rarely so obliging. I think it would be best at this stage if you take the time in one block, from two p.m. to midnight. We know that Miss Simpson was alive at eight o’clock because she made a telephone call.’
‘This person or people that she’s supposed to have seen,’ asked a young policewoman, ‘how do we know they’re from the village at all?’
‘We don’t for sure, but it was certainly someone she knew, and no car parked on the verges anywhere near the field which leads to the woods. And the only other place to park, the layby in Church Lane, is clearly visible from the last house. The owner was in his garden most of the afternoon and is quite convinced he saw no car. This means whoever it was walked there.’
‘So we’re looking for someone who doesn’t have an alibi for part of the afternoon and some of the evening?’
‘Probably. I’m inclined to believe a couple are involved. The report shows that a rug, a Black Watch tartan, had been laid on the ground.’ He watched Troy give Policewoman Brierley a lewd wink and a nudge so sharp that she dropped her pencil. ‘Also other bracken and plants outside the actual area where the rug was placed show signs of bruising which seems to indicate that it may be a favourite spot. One that the couple have used several times before.’
‘Seems a bit incredible, sir.’ Troy again. ‘I mean that she could have been killed because she saw someone having it -’ He cleared his throat. ‘A bit old fashioned. We’re in 1987 after all. Who expects fidelity these days?’
Barnaby, who had never been unfaithful in his life, said, ‘You’d be surprised. People can still be divorced for adultery. Disinherited. Relationships can be ruined. Trust destroyed.’ There were a lot of blank looks and one or two understanding nods. He got up. ‘On your way then.’
‘Handy they were seen in the afternoon, sir. So many people at work then, it’ll make elimination easier.’
‘We don’t know when they were seen. It could have been seven o’clock. It’s still light then.’
‘Oh.’ Troy drove carefully, keeping an eye on the speedometer. ‘They could’ve walked over from Gessler Tye. It’s not all that far. Get off their own manor.’
‘Yes. We may have to spread out a bit.’
‘Course even if it was a couple it doesn’t mean they’re both in it.’
That thought had already occurred to Barnaby. It was more than likely that one half of the couple was fancy free, with nothing to lose by discovery. It was also likely that, even if both had partners, only one had so much to lose that he or she would be prepared to kill rather than have the liaison exposed. And the loss need not necessarily be a financial one. Barnaby did not discount the possibility that Miss Simpson had been killed to avoid causing anguish to someone’s legitimate partner. It was after all quite possible to love one’s spouse dearly and still not be able to resist a roll in the hay. They entered Badger’s Drift, passing two police cars already parked by the Black Boy. The house-to-house was under way.
Barnaby said, ‘I shall be starting at the Lessiters’. That big house with the lions.’
Sergeant Troy gave a low envious whistle as he crunched up the drive and let himself go a bit by the front door, parking in a showy swirl of dust and gravel. Barnaby sighed and climbed out. He used the mock ancient knocker and, whilst waiting, studied the carriage lamps and a board, with an arrow pointing sideways, giving the doctor’s surgery hours in Gothic, horror-movie script.
Barnaby was getting to know the surgery rather well. He had visited it again the previous day to inform the doctor of the post-mortem findings. The news had not been well received. Trevor Lessiter had looked at him incredulously, saying, much as George Bullard had done, ‘Hemlock?’ and dropped like a stone into his chair. He then so far forgot himself as to indicate to Barnaby that he should also be seated. Even his fingers were temporarily stilled.
‘And what put you on to that if I’m not being too inquisitive?’ Already he was on the defensive.
‘We were asked to look into the matter.’
‘Who by? That loopy old hag down the lane, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He noticed Barnaby’s slight change of expression and made a visible effort to calm down. ‘It would have been courteous of you to let me know.’
‘We are letting you know, sir.’
‘I mean before this, as I’m sure you damn well realize.’
Approaching footsteps recalled Barnaby to the present. A girl opened the door. Remembering Doctor Bullard’s description of a ‘not so scrumptious’ daughter, Barnaby immediately assumed that this must be she: short, not much over five feet, and dumpy. Her complexion had a thick, soupy texture and there was a fuzz of down on her top lip, her hair was coarse but full of vitality, springing up into a wiry halo around her head. She had large, rather beautiful hazel eyes which she blinked rapidly from time to time. This habit gave her a timorous yet slightly defiant demeanour: the sort of girl who made a career out of being insecure.
Barnaby stated their business and was admitted. He followed Judy Lessiter across the hall. Her legs, emerging from a shapeless pinafore dress, were really remarkable: hugely wide at the knees then tapering off into sparrow-thin ankles, like upended skittles. She pushed at the sitting-room door and went in, Barnaby close behind.