‘Well, Mrs Lessiter?’ asked Barnaby. ‘Why are you being blackmailed?’
‘It’s absolute nonsense. I don’t know where the silly cow even got such an idea.’
‘Perhaps I should tell you that we have removed a good many files, copies of letters and documents, from the dead woman’s house.’ This time the silence was even longer. ‘Would you prefer to come to the station -’
‘Christ, no. Hang on ...’ She crossed to a Welsh dresser, shook out a cigarette with shaky fingers and lit up. ‘I had a letter from her about a week ago.’
‘Signed?’
‘That’s right. Your friend Iris Rainbird. On her horrible lilac writing paper that stinks of dead flowers. It just said that they knew what was going on and if I didn’t want my husband to hear all the juicy details it’d cost me five thousand quid. She’d give me a week to raise it then be in touch again.’
‘And what was going on?’
‘Me and David Whiteley.’
‘I see.’ Barnaby’s mind back-tracked. She could have been the woman in the woods (no checkable alibi). And David Whiteley the man (Ditto.) At the time Miss Simpson was killed she was vaguely driving round. And she could, just about, have squeezed through the larder window. He hesitated and was wondering how most delicately to phrase his next question when she answered it for him.
‘We used to use his car. The seats let down. He’d tell me where he was working. I’d drive there. Hide my car behind a hedge or some trees and we’d climb into the estate for half an hour.’
One up for Sergeant Troy, thought Barnaby. ‘And you think that one of the Rainbirds must have seen you?’
‘Oh no.’ She shook her head. ‘Impossible. But there was one occasion ... we were supposed to meet around three and Henry kept him all afternoon at the office. And when five o’clock came and I knew he’d be home I drove round.’ Barnaby remembered the notebook. Mrs L drove into the W garage. And the red star.
‘It was something we agreed I’d never do because of the risk but I couldn’t wait, you see. I had to have him.’ She stared at Barnaby defiantly. ‘I suppose that shocks you?’ Barnaby managed a look of mild reproach. ‘And he was just as bad. He didn’t even let me get out of the car. Then we went upstairs and started all over again.’
There was nothing amative in the description. She did not even use that consoling euphemism ‘making love’. Love, as Barnaby understood the word, probably didn’t enter into the arrangement at all. He asked if they had spent any time together yesterday afternoon.
‘Yes. We met about half-past three. He was shifting the combine so he didn’t have the Citroën. We managed in the front seat of my Honda. We were together for about an hour, I suppose.’
‘Well, thank you for being so cooperative, Mrs Lessiter.’ Barnaby turned to leave. ‘I may need to talk to you again.’
‘Well, you know where to find me.’ She turned also, then stopped, staring over his shoulder. Her husband was standing in the doorway. Barnaby glanced at the man as he left. Rage and triumph struggled for supremacy on the doctor’s features.
When the door had closed behind the chief inspector Trevor Lessiter said, ‘I shouldn’t be too sure about that.’
‘How much did you hear?’
‘More than enough.’ The rage and triumph dissolved into a look of intense satisfaction. He gazed at her, a close and rewarding scrutiny. She had started coming down to breakfast without what she called her warpaint. Something she would never have done when they were first married. And her age really showed. She wouldn’t find another mug like him in a hurry. But maybe she wouldn’t have to. If she came to heel. Did as she was told. She had too much time on her hands, that was her trouble. Too much time and too much money. Her allowance could go for a start. So could the car. And Mrs Holland. Keeping a house this size clean and in order, cooking for three, gardening, the ordinary duties of a doctor’s wife should keep Barbara occupied. And at night there’d be other duties. And he’d make damn sure he wasn’t sold short there, either. Once a night every night and more if he felt like it. Then there were lots of little variations he had picked up at the Casa Nova. She could learn all those just to be going on with. He’d still go to the club of course (couldn’t disappoint little Krystal) but not nearly so often. At the thought of the money he had spent there over the last couple of years while his wife had been ... He remembered his blood pressure and tried to take it all more calmly. Yes, the bitch had a lot to make up for (every locked door, every headache, every cutting remark) but make up for them she would or out she’d go. He recalled the tasteless tatty hole where she’d been living when they first met. That should have told him something about her for a start. She’d do anything before she’d sink back to that. She’d dance to his tune all right. He visualized a future rosy with sensual delights and started to explain the situation to his wife.
Barbara listened to him droning on. Every now and again he’d rise to the balls of his feet, cradling his pot belly with splayed fingers. She was to do this. She was to do that. She was to be a loving mother to that stumpy boss-eyed little mixer Judy. And to listen and look charitably on his bug-infested patients when they started whingeing. Poxy four-course meals were mentioned.
She thought of the blackmail money in her bag upstairs. Four thousand. And she still hadn’t sold her watch. She could scrape up enough for a deposit on a house. But what sort of house would it be? A terraced hovel like the one her parents, if they were alive, were probably still living in. Back to square bloody one with a vengeance. And how would she pay off a mortgage? What sort of job would she be able to get at her age? Of course once you had a property rooms could be let. With optional extras if need be. But if she was going to spend the rest of her life wrestling between the sheets why not do it here in comfort? She could always lie back and think of Capri. Or Ibiza. Or the Côte d’Azur.
She gazed out of the window. At the green sweet grass sparkling under the hypnotic sprinklers. At the flowering trees and the terrace with its tables and umbrellas and urns brimming with flowers. Then her eyes roamed around the room. Thick Chinese rugs and puffy sofas and onyx tables, nesting slabs of green and gold. And all she had to do was pretend. She should be able to manage that. After all she’d been doing it all her life.
She looked at him. He was really getting into his stride. Shredded rhubarb eyeballs staring, a frothy tic of malice tweaking at his lips. She would have to manage without a car. Three in one household was ridiculous. Mrs Holland would be given notice. The gardener’s hours drastically revised. It wouldn’t hurt Barbara to find out what a hard day’s work was like. Or a hard night’s work come to that. The days of freeloading were over. Ah - that had reached her. At last it had sunk in which side the bread was buttered. She was coming over now, a tender smile on her face. She reached out a hand and laid it gently on his arm.
‘Fuck off, Pookie,’ she said.
Chapter Eleven
Barnaby sat in the Orion at the end of Church Lane. The windows were open and the sun was warming his face. He was thinking.
Lacey’s alibi was, as he had expected it to be, confirmed. The man was innocent of the murder of Iris Rainbird. Yet he had made a run for it. Why? Had he really just panicked? Sensed a frame-up? The first folds of a net falling around him cast by an unknown hand? It was feasible enough, Barnaby knew. He had seen people bolt more than once on a lot less provocation. Lacey had set off running like the wind yet Troy, who had to pick himself up from the floor before setting off in pursuit, had caught the man and brought him down before he had covered more than a few yards.