‘Why not just do as he asked,’ said Troy and was swiftly frowned on for interrupting.
‘I started talking quietly. Saying how happy I’d been to hear from him, to see him again. That I meant him no harm and just wanted to explain things. Eventually he calmed down a little and slumped into one of the armchairs. I drew up a stool and sat with him. And then I told him what I’ve told you. I described my disappointments, my sad marriage, my lost child. I said if he had spent years thinking my life was nothing but success and happiness and all at his expense he could not have been more wrong.
‘And then I talked about the letters that came after Far Away Hills. Sent to me but written to him. I had kept a few and offered to bring them over for him to read. Above all I tried to explain that I’d stolen his story to give it to the world, not for my own advancement.’ Absorbed as he was in his narration, Jennings did not miss the sudden gleam of mockery in the chief inspector’s eyes. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘self-justification if you like, but not only that. I was trying to do something about his hurt, perhaps repair some of the damage. Give me some credit.’
Barnaby saw no reason to respond. Certainly he had no intention of demonstrating a shred of understanding, let alone approval. Jennings continued:
‘Eventually I realised I was just saying the same things over and over again. He was still in the chair. His position hadn’t changed, but he’d put his head in his hands, covered his face as though he couldn’t stand the sight of me. Then I saw moisture rolling over the inside of his wrists and down into the cuffs of his shirt in a steady stream. I was so ... I took one of his hands in mine. It was like a stone, cold and heavy. Tears splashed everywhere. The hollow of his palm was brimming with them, like a little pool.’ He repeated himself, shaking his head as if this was still not quite within the bounds of belief.
He slipped then into a silence which seemed to have something of genuine shame about it and not a little mystification. His face was crowded with emotion. The silence continued for some time.
‘It was this single moment that turned my thinking completely round. I understood then, for the first time, what a terrible thing I had done. For I had other stories to tell - even now my head’s full of them - but Far Away Hills was all he had and the theft of it broke his heart.
‘We sat there ohh ... God knows how long. I asked him if there was anything, anything at all I could do to put things right, even as I knew there couldn’t possibly be. Eventually he told me it was of no importance. His actual words were, “Who steals my life steals trash”. Then he asked me, begged me, to go away. But I couldn’t bring myself to. So, after a little while, he did. Quietly disengaged his hand and went upstairs. He looked so bloody lonely. And battered, as if he’d just climbed out of a boxing ring. Yet of the two of us he was the one with dignity. He’d had the courage to see my offer for the shoddy hypocrisy that it was and spit in its eye. I waited half an hour - by this time it had gone midnight - till it became plain that he was not going to come down, then put on my coat and left.’
‘Pulling the front door to?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re positive it was properly fastened?’
‘Positive. I made a point of slamming it loudly so Gerald would know I’d gone.’
‘Did you see anyone at all when you left the house?’
‘At that hour? In that weather?’
‘Just answer the question, Mr Jennings,’ said Troy.
‘No.’
‘Perhaps in a parked car?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Did you go upstairs during the course of the evening?’
‘No.’
‘What about any of the other rooms?’
‘No.’
‘The kitchen?’
‘Hell.’ He got up and poured some water, the glass clinking, trembling against the rim of the jug, then returned to his seat. ‘What is all this? What do you want me to say? I’ve told you the truth.’
‘You have told us two totally conflicting stories, Mr Jennings.’ Barnaby leaned forwards and once more rested his elbows on the edge of the table. His thick neck and wide shoulders blotted out all else from Jennings’ field of vision. ‘Why should we believe the second any more than the first?’
‘Oh God ...’ Fatigue had made him apathetic. He opened his arms and turned his hands upwards in resigned disbelief. He reminded Barnaby of the cauliflower man in Causton market chanting, ‘You want my blood, lady? It’s yours.’
‘Think what you like. I’m finished.’
‘There are one or two more questions—’
‘Totally wacked. You’re flogging a dead horse here, Barnaby.’
‘Did you know that Hadleigh was married?’
‘Married?’ Bafflement and incredulity combined to revive Jennings’ energies somewhat. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘There’s a wedding photograph in his sitting room.’
‘I didn’t see that.’
‘Put away before you came.’
‘Must be a fake. A prop to flesh out the background. Where’s the lady supposed to be now?’
‘Dead of leukaemia.’
‘Very convenient.’
‘According to Mr Hadleigh, just before he moved to the village, which would be in 1982.’
‘That’s when I knew him.’
The chief inspector congratulated himself on his decision not to waste yet more man hours chasing up Hadleigh’s marriage certificate or details of Grace’s death. Jennings’ suggestion would also explain why the dead man found it easy to tell anyone and everyone about this supposedly deeply painful episode in his life.
Jennings continued, ‘I suppose that’s why the picture was concealed. Because I was in a position to give the lie to such a story.’
‘Presumably. The second point I’d like to clarify is rather more complicated. We’ve reason to believe that Hadleigh occasionally dressed as a woman. Appeared in public like this. Is that something you knew about?’
‘How extraordinary.’ But even as he spoke and gave a negative shake of the head Barnaby could see Jennings was preparing to qualify this response. ‘Although ... I did talk to a friend once, an analyst, about Gerald - anonymously of course - and he asked me a similar question. Did I know if the respectable middle-class civil servant was the only fake persona this man had adopted? He said living a lie, to this extent and degree, imposed tremendous strain and often the people who were doing so needed desperately to escape. As returning to their true selves was psychologically dangerous they would create a third personality, usually quite different from the first two. Obviously this chap used fancier terminology, but that was about the gist of it.’
Barnaby nodded. This sounded, given that they were discussing behaviour most people would regard as completely abnormal, not an unreasonable proposition. Someone came in to remove the tea tray and ask if they needed any refills. Replying in the negative the chief inspector got up and crossed to the window, opening it a little, breathing in the cold night air. As if in response to this move Jennings rose as well, commenting on how late it was and asking for his overcoat.
‘I’m afraid there is no question of you returning home tonight, Mr Jennings.’
Jennings stared in amazement. ‘You’re keeping me here?’
‘That is the case, sir, yes.’
‘But you can’t do that. You have to charge me or let me go.’
‘Easy to see you don’t write crime stories, Mr Jennings,’ said Sergeant Troy. He grinned as he took down his black leathers. Middle-class outrage when the forces of law and order had occasion to tweak aside the velvet glove never failed to entertain. ‘We can hold you for up to thirty-six hours. And apply for an extension if necessary. This is a serious, arrestable offence we’re talking about.’