‘Mrs Rainbird and folks like her are a godsend in any investigation, Troy. Just don’t mistake gossip for facts. And when they give you what they say are facts, always check them thoroughly. And don’t come to early conclusions. An open mind, Sergeant, an open mind.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They made their way to Burnham Crescent and council house number seven, the home of Mrs Quine.
As Barnaby and Troy passed through the space in the sour and dusty hedge flanked with rotten gate posts, Mrs Rainbird and her son closed the door of Tranquillada and turned to each other, alight with excitement.
‘Did you get it?’
‘Mummy - I did.’
‘Ohhh ... where ... where?’
‘Wait a minute. You haven’t said ...’
‘You’re a good boy. Now - show me.’
‘No.’ His face, an unpleasant orange colour beneath the hall lantern, became closed and stubborn. ‘That wasn’t properly. You’ve got to do it properly.’
‘You’re a goodboy,’ she crooned, kissing him full on the mouth. Her breath was very sweet, a soft explosion of violet cachous and cream and rich vanilla. ‘Mummysbestboy.’ Her fingers slipped into his shirt, caressing the bony wings of his shoulder blades. ‘Bestestonlyboy.’
He licked her ear with its dropping cluster of rhinestones. ‘Mmmm.’ His breathing quickened. ‘Clever Denny.’
‘Now’ - she took his hand, leading him down the corridor towards the french windows and the garden - ‘show me ...’
‘I want to play some more.’
‘Later we’ll play.’
‘All sorts of things?’
‘Everything. Come on ... where is it?’
They stepped out on to the lawn. Behind the gazebo was a large dark pile of something dripping wet, the water seeping out on to the bright green grass in concentric rings. Dennis led his mother up to it proudly. Hand in hand they gazed down. Mrs Rainbird’s eyes shone.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘In the pond behind the beechwoods. I saw them throw it in tied round some stones.’
She made no reply; just breathed out, a long slow contented hiss.
‘My mo-mo’s all wet. I had to put it in the boot, you see.’
‘We’ll buy you another one.’
‘Oh Mummy ...’ Ecstatically excited, he squeezed her arm. ‘Do you think it’s worth a lot, then?’
‘Oh yes, my dear.’ She took a step forward and poked the sodden mass with the toe of her shoe. ‘A very great deal. A very great deal indeed.’
Chapter Five
The garden of number seven was a tip. Literally. There was a small pyramid of junk teetering up against the side of the house. Bed frames, broken prams, old boxes, rusty iron chains and a large splintering rabbit hutch. The curtains downstairs were tightly closed. Barnaby rattled the letter box. Somewhere in the house a child was crying. He heard a woman scream, ‘Shut it, Lisa Dawn.’ Then, ‘Wait a minute can’t you?’ Thinking this might apply to him he waited.
Eventually Mrs Quine appeared. She was a thin woman with a concave chest and a cluster of red spots around her mouth. She was smoking and had an air of constant movement even when standing still, as if she had just been wound up and was raring to go.
‘Come in.’ She stepped back as they entered. ‘My neighbour said you were going round everybody.’
The room they entered was thick with smoke and dimly lit with a centre light, a wooden chandelier with parchment galleon shades. The television was blaring loudly. Mrs Quine made no move to turn it down. The room was untidy and not very clean. A little girl was sitting at a plastic table, sniffling and snuffling.
‘Now look who’s come, Lisa Dawn.’ The child looked across at Barnaby. ‘Told you I’d get a policeman if you warn’t a good girl.’ More tears. ‘Look what she’s done, Mr Policeman.’ Mrs Quine seized a dark wet object from the table. ‘Her Baby Jesus Pop-Up Book. Only had it Christmas. Blackcurrant everywhere.’ She opened the book. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and a clutch of assorted beasts rose up from the page, richly and symbolically empurpled. ‘Nothing’s new for five minutes in this house.’
‘Oh I’m sure it was an accident.’ Barnaby smiled at Lisa Dawn, who knuckled her eyes sadly and sniffed again. He turned to Mrs Quine who was now pacing briskly around the room sucking violently on her cigarette and flicking the ash about. ‘I have to be on the go,’ she explained.
‘I understand that you worked for Miss Simpson?’
‘That’s right. There and Tye House. I worked for old Clanger an’ all. Only for a week though. She said I could do what I liked as long as I never moved anything. Well how can you clean without moving anything? You tell me.’
‘That would be Miss Bellringer?’
‘Right.’
‘Did you turn up as usual the morning Miss Simpson died?’
‘Course I did. No reason not to was there? Miss B. was keeping an eye through the window. She came out and told me. You can sit down if you want.’
‘Pardon? Oh - thank you.’ Barnaby sat on the edge of a black vinyl settee. One of the cushions was disgorging multicoloured foam chips through a razored slit.
‘She gave me a cup of tea in case I felt bad. Then I went on to Tye House.’
‘It must have been a shock?’
‘It was an’ all. The doctor’d only been a few days before. She’d had a bit of bronchial trouble but he reckoned if she took good care she was all right for another ten years.’ Mrs Quine lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old. ‘Course we know why she went now, don’t we? Bloody rapists. There was one on the telly the other night in full view. I know what
I’d do to them.’ She settled briefly on the fireguard, throwing her stub into the empty grate. Her foot drummed furiously on the carpet. She inhaled with such force that the flesh beneath her cheekbones fell away into great hollows. ‘Poor old gel. At her age an’ all.’
Forbearing to comment on this wild bit of embroidery, Barnaby asked if Miss Simpson had been all right to work for.
‘Oh yes ... she liked everything just so but I knew her ways. We got on OK.’
‘And Tye House?’
She gave a gratified smile, showing glacially perfect false teeth. ‘Been round there, have you?’ When Barnaby nodded she continued, ‘Laugh a minute there, ’ent it? Old Phyllis Cadell hanging on for grim death. You could see the way the wind was blowing there all right. Grooming herself for the situation vacant, warn’t she? Worked her drawers off even when Mrs Trace were alive. Making herself indispensable - so she thought. You should’ve seen her after the accident. Trying to look sorry when anyone was about. Sorry! She was tickled to death. You could see what she thought would happen. Then Miss Great Britain from Holly Cottage starts popping in and out and swaps the jackpot. I thought Miss Cadell was going to chuck herself under the nearest bus the morning the engagement was announced. It made my day, I can tell you.’
‘To return to last Friday, Mrs Quine ... were you in the village hall during the afternoon?’
‘Me? Mucking in with that lot? You’ve got to be joking. Women’s Institute? Load of cowing snobs. They can stuff their flower arrangements. And their bloody walnut pickle.’
‘You were at home, then?’
‘Yes. Watching the telly. Weren’t we, Lisa Dawn? All afternoon. Except she ran up the shop for some crisps.’ Barnaby looked at Lisa Dawn, whose thin legs dangled at least eighteen inches from the floor. Reading the look, Mrs Quine continued, ‘She’s ever so good crossing the road. And she always comes straight back. She’s a big girl, ’ent you, Lisa Dawn? Tell the nice policeman how old you are.’
‘Nearly four,’ whispered the little girl.