‘What’s up, sir?’ Barnaby told him. Troy whistled and said, ‘Wow. We’ve got him then.’
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘But ... that’s pretty conclusive, wouldn’t you say?’
‘He’s certainly got some explaining to do.’
‘I hope he hasn’t scarpered. He wasn’t in the cottage when I went back to check.’
When they entered the village a mere handful of people was now hanging round the portable pod. The television van had gone on to the next drama. It was getting dark. As soon as Troy eased through the hedge space they saw a light in the cottage.
‘He’s back.’
‘There’s no need to whisper, Sergeant.’ Barnaby got out. ‘I should think our headlights alone have alerted him to the fact that we’ve arrived.’
The sun was setting. The house was softened by the glow. The dark mass of surrounding trees was rimmed with deepest gold. An upstairs window reflected the sun. Troy squinted against it as it hung in the very centre of the pane. He thought it looked like a lump of blood. Barnaby knocked.
‘Heavens, not you again.’ Michael Lacey regarded them coolly from the doorway. He was eating a huge hunk of bread and cheese. ‘You never stop, do you? Really it makes it a pleasure to pay my taxes. If I ever earned enough to pay taxes, that is.’
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
He gave a little moan but it sounded phoney. Part of a game. He opened the door. ‘Come in then if you must. But I’ve already been asked a few questions. By one of your minions barely half an hour ago.’
‘Then I expect you know that Mrs Rainbird has been done to death—’
‘Done to death? How wonderfully archaic.’
‘In a particularly brutal manner.’
‘I hope you’re not looking for insincere expressions of regret on my part. She was a very nasty woman. Almost as nasty as her golden-haired boy.’
‘Indeed? I didn’t realize you knew her well.’
‘You didn’t have to know her well.’
Supercilious sod, thought Troy, hugging Mrs Quine’s revelation to his heart. Barnaby asked Michael Lacey where he was between three and five that afternoon.
‘Working.’
‘You wouldn’t like to expound on that?’
‘Not really. Thanks all the same.’
‘So if someone said they saw you walking up the path of Mrs Rainbird’s back garden at four p.m ... ?’
‘I’d say they wanted their eyes tested.’
Barnaby produced one of his two warrants. ‘Mr Lacey, I have a warrant here to search these premises.’ At this the man’s expression changed. That’s wiped the smile off his face, thought Troy, allowing the hint of one to appear on his own. ‘I hope,’ Barnaby continued, ‘that you will cooperate in this matter.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I’m afraid this bit of paper says we can. Sergeant ...’ Barnaby nodded towards the stairs and Troy vanished. ‘Would you accompany me to the kitchen, Mr Lacey?’
He searched the kitchen thoroughly while his companion stood sullenly by the sink. Then the room with the settee and bookshelves. He pulled out the paperbacks, lifted the matting. Lacey perched on one of the uncomfortable dining chairs and watched. Troy re-entered the room, giving Barnaby what he fondly imagined to be an imperceptible shake of the head. The chief inspector finished his task and turned to the man at the table, who said, ‘If that wild semaphoring of absolute despair is anything to go by, your clueless sergeant hasn’t dug up anything either. So I suggest you go on your merry way and leave me in peace.’
‘Next door, Troy.’ The sergeant nodded and walked out. Lacey jumped up.
‘That’s my studio. I won’t have my work disturbed. There’s nothing in there but paintings.’
Troy called, ‘It’s locked, sir.’
‘Well, break it down then.’
Michael Lacey ran into the passage and hung on to Troy’s arm. Delighted, the sergeant immediately seized the man’s wrists, wrenching his arms behind his back.
‘All right, Sergeant, all right.’ Barnaby ambled up. ‘He’s not going anywhere, are you, sir?’
Troy released Lacey, who glared at them both. But there was more than anger in his expression. There was fear. ‘Why don’t you just unlock the door and save us all a lot of hassle?’ asked the chief inspector.
Lacey ignored him. Troy put his shoulder to the wood. It gave on the fourth heave. He moved the door into the hall and stepped back, keeping an eye on Lacey who was leaning against the stair rail, very still, his face expressionless.
Barnaby entered the studio, which seemed innocent enough. And meticulously tidy in comparison with the rest of the house. Some canvases were stacked against the wall, one or two tied together with string. The easel was covered with a cloth peaked into a square by the canvas beneath. The floor was swept clean and there was the scent of turps and resin in the air. A trestle table held an orderly array of jars and brushes and there was an unlit Calorgas heater in one corner.
In the hall Troy stood, legs apart, ready for anything. Over his head the electric meter buzzed like a trapped bee. He glanced up. Slim grey cables snaked about. Funny to see a meter in a private house. Plenty of council tenants had them of course. Set too high as often as not so there’d be some cash to spare when they were emptied. A bloody irritating noise. He turned and looked up. It wasn’t the meter buzzing. It was flies. Dozens of them; great filthy bluebottles with iridescent wings. They were clustered all over something. Something jammed behind the meter. He stood on his toes and stared harder.
‘Chief ...’ Barnaby hurried out. ‘Look - up there!’
‘Get a chair - and something to hold it with.’
Troy climbed on to one of the dining chairs with a dirty tea towel in his hand and tugged at the knife. It bloomed with dark stains. The flies lifted sluggishly but didn’t go far. As Troy held it out they hovered over his hand. Barnaby looked at Michael Lacey, who moved away from the banisters and came towards them, staring at the knife in astonishment.
‘Can you explain what this is doing behind your meter, Mr Lacey?’
‘Of course I can’t.’
‘Does the knife belong to you?’
When Lacey remained silent Troy gave him a none too gentle nudge. ‘The chief inspector’s talking to you.’
‘I don’t know ...’ He looked more closely, his mouth puckering with distaste. ‘Yes ... it’s the knife we use for the vegetables.’
‘And where have you hidden the clothes, Mr Lacey?’
‘What?’
‘The dungarees, the cap, the gloves. The tights.’
‘Tights. What d’you take me for? A transvestite?’
‘The clothes that you wore,’ Barnaby continued implacably, ‘when you killed Mrs Rainbird.’
‘When I -’ Lacey gazed at him open mouthed. ‘You’re raving mad. You’re not hanging that on me. I’ve heard all about police corruption. You probably planted that yourself. Came round here earlier when I was out.’
Barnaby was turning back into the studio when Lacey ran for it. Pushing the chief inspector violently aside and hitting Troy in the chest, he flew through the doorway and raced across the open space in front of the cottage. Troy, picking himself up, ran after him and brought the man down by the car. When Barnaby reached them Lacey was handcuffed and Troy pink faced with exertion and pride.
‘In the car, Lacey.’
Barnaby’s prisoner stared at him. The look held everything he expected to see, fright and despair, but there was something else behind his eyes. A disturbing expression that the chief inspector could not put a name to. Troy bundled the man into the back seat. Barnaby put the knife into the boot, then said, ‘Do you have a key to secure the house?’