‘Oh, no writer worth his salt’s going to settle for that. Far too tame. Where’s the plot?’
‘Why did you go and visit this group, Mr Jennings?’
‘I’ve already been asked that.’
‘Your agent was frankly disbelieving. She implied it was the sort of thing you’d never do.’
‘Talent? What on earth have you been talking to her for?’
‘We were trying to trace you. After your wife had told us—’
‘You’ve been to my house?’ The words emerged in a tangled skein as if the man’s tongue was so stiff it could not shape or separate them properly.
‘Obviously. Mrs Jennings seemed to think you had gone to Finland.’
‘Jesus Christ. What did you tell her?’
‘At that stage there was nothing we could tell her. And in any case she was hardly in a condition to take much in.’
‘It was your Mr Stavro,’ said Troy, ‘who described your movements. According to his statement you asked for an early call, saying you had to drive to Heathrow. He also mentioned that you got home on the night in question at one a.m. and not, as you have just suggested, between eleven and midnight.’
‘I told you. I never know what time it is.’
‘Rather a waste of that beautiful watch then, sir.’
Jennings seemed not to have heard. ‘Have you ... ? Did you go back to the house? Talk to my wife again?’
‘No.’
‘So, as far as she knows ...’
‘You’re still pussyfooting around Helsinki.’
Even as he spoke Barnaby wondered how true that was. He recalled the woman’s bitter, wasted smile and eyes that could take no more yet knew that more was surely on the way. Saw her coppery limbs, banded with cold fire, cleaving through the water; up and down, up and down, like some glittering, cruelly constrained tropical fish.
Jennings’ infidelities were his own affair (unless they had some bearing on the present case) and should have been a matter of complete indifference to Barnaby. Yet, momentarily, he felt both pity and disgust which he made no attempt to conceal. To his surprise, for the writer had struck him as self-contained to a fault, Jennings immediately started to explain and justify himself.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Really, Mr Jennings?’
‘If you’ve been looking me up you’ll perhaps know that my wife and I had a son who died when he was small. He would have been nine this year. His death affected Ava terribly. Everything about her seemed to change. She became morose and occasionally violent. Spent some time in a mental hospital. She wouldn’t let me near her physically or emotionally. I couldn’t comfort her and I had no one to comfort me. It was my child too.
‘I’m not the philandering type but eventually, more out of loneliness than anything else, I became involved with someone. Over a long period of time we’ve grown very close and, I must admit, I now can’t bear the thought of life without her. I wanted to tell my wife, but Lindsay wouldn’t hear of it. She said Ava had had enough misery already to last a lifetime. We’ve been together, if one can so call snatched hours here and there and a few weekends, for five years. This is the first time we’ve attempted anything like a real holiday. The cottage belongs to Lindsay’s friends. I was very happy there, but she couldn’t settle. Kept fretting, sure something would go wrong.’ Jennings picked up his beaker of coffee, by now quite cold, peered into it and said, ‘God - what a mess.’
It was only too plain what mess he meant. The murder of Gerald Hadleigh seemed hardly to engage his interest at all.
‘I hope this can be kept out of the newspapers, chief inspector. It’s not as if it’s relevant to your investigation.’
‘That’s really not in our hands, sir.’
‘I can’t believe that.’ Then, receiving no response, he rose wearily to his feet, saying, ‘Well, if someone will show me where you’ve parked my car ...’
‘I hardly think you’ll need to know that just yet, sir.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Jennings, already moving towards the door, turned back in some surprise. ‘Isn’t that it then?’
‘Not by a long way, I’m afraid.’
The chief inspector, more entertained than annoyed at this impromptu example of faux naivety, gave the machine the precise time and situation and switched off.
‘In that case I must talk to Lindsay. Persuade her to go home.’
‘You can have five minutes,’ said Barnaby thinking, as Troy had done, thank God, Lindsay not Barbara. ‘But I’m afraid it won’t be a private conversation.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Rules and regulations.’
‘I’ve never heard such arrogance. I shall complain about this. And at the highest level.’
‘By all means. But I think you will find that such a procedure is quite in order.’
When Jennings returned, in rather more than five minutes, he looked both unhappy and distracted. It was plainly an effort, when Barnaby once more switched on the tape, to drag his attention back to the matter in hand. When asked if he wished to have his solicitor present he hardly seemed to register. It was repeated.
‘No thanks. At one fifty an hour I keep him for high days and holidays.’
Barnaby chose his first question purely for its shock value. ‘Tell me, Mr Jennings, had you met Gerald Hadleigh before last Monday evening?’
‘What? I didn’t quite ...’
He had heard. He had heard perfectly. Barnaby kept his eyes on his suspect’s face watching the play for time, and simultaneously guessing at the selection/rejection thought processes now whirring away in Jennings’ mind. Why had that old buffer refused to go home? Could Gerald have possibly asked him not to? If so what reason had he given? Was my name mentioned? The police would have talked to St John by now - what had he told them? Alternatively, was there perhaps some letter or paper - perhaps and old diary - in the dead man’s effects that proves some connection between us. Better play it safe.
‘Yes, I knew him. Very slightly. Some years ago.’
‘Was this perhaps why you accepted the invitation?’
‘Partly. I suppose I was a bit curious as to how things had gone with him. You know, the way one is.’
‘So that’s why you made a point of staying behind? To catch up on old times?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not then, as you stated earlier, simply to talk about writing?’
‘That as well. It was something we had in common.’
‘Hardly to a comparable degree.’
Max Jennings shrugged. ‘Writing’s writing.’
‘You seem to have gone to a lot of trouble to bring about a meeting of so little moment.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I understand you stayed behind long after most of the others had gone, made a show of leaving, then virtually tricked your way back inside the house.’
‘What dramatic nonsense. I forgot my gloves.’
‘So why was it necessary to bolt the door?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘And, if you only went back for something you’d forgotten, why were you still there over an hour later?’
‘We got talking. All right?’
‘About the past?’
‘Largely.’
‘Did Mr Hadleigh get upset?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Then I’ll put it more plainly.’ Barnaby leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. Bringing his face closer. ‘Did you reduce him to tears?’
Max Jennings stared at Barnaby then skewed his head round to look at Troy. He regarded first one man and then the other, all the while struggling to project the image of someone utterly bemused at this preposterous notion that had been so crudely thrust upon him. But he did not answer and his eyes were bright and extremely concerned.