Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

The curly auburn hair took ages as well, what with lightening it then darkening it. Putting more red in, then more blonde. When Roy thought they’d finally got it right Karen said it was too ginger. They were there for simply ages but the time just flew. Halfway along Sergeant Brierly brought some sandwiches and chocolate Hobnobs and orange squash. Roy was really sorry when it was all finished and they had to go home. He talked a lot about it afterwards and seriously thought about going into computers.

By 9:00 a.m. that same morning scene of crime officers had begun a scrupulous examination of Kinders. Forbes Abbot was agog. The large van, lined with shelves themselves loaded with all sorts of fascinating equipment, brought out the gawpers in ten seconds flat. Frankly inquisitive, they mostly just stared and asked questions of the officers, which were ignored.

Other villagers, just as nosy but feeling that to show it was rather infra dig, felt a sudden need to walk their dogs back and forth, visit the post office, or perhaps drop in on a friend.

The ducks had never known anything like it. Most days someone would drift down at some point with a handful or two of bread or a biscuit. This day there were hordes of feeders. And they didn’t just toss a few crumbs into the water and go away. They hung around. The inexperienced ones had bought not just bread but cakes and tarts and stuff. One woman floated a whole lemon cheesecake, sending it on its way with a long stick, as if it was a boat. Another launched a large seeded bloomer. The pond became scummy, the surface crammed with bobbing confectionery. The ducks all climbed out and went to sit on the opposite bank.

“They don’t do all this for nothing, you know,” said an onlooker, jerking her head in the direction of the van’s interior. “A serious crime’s gone on in that house.”

“They reckoned he died in an accident,” said the man next to her.

“Huh!” Another man, leaning against the van’s bonnet with an air of authority. “It’ll be on Crimewatch – you see. A reconstruction.”

“Nick Ross’ll sort it. He’s ever so good.”

It was at this point that Sergeant Troy attempted to ease the DCI’s car through the congestion. Restraining a natural inclination to lean on the horn and shout, which he would certainly have done had he been alone, Troy let the window down.

“Excuse me…Thank you…If you’d just…thank you.”

“Give them a good honk,” said Barnaby.

As the car passed through the outlying stragglers a woman, rocking a screaming toddler, stared through the windscreen. She spoke to her neighbour: “I’ve seen him before – that fat bloke.”

“’Ave you?”

“He were round the Garrets’, Friday.”

Troy fixed his gaze straight ahead but couldn’t help picking up the slow hiss near his left ear. The chief was very sensitive about his weight. Burly, as a description, he liked. Well built he could live with. And no one could reasonably complain on being described as “a fine figure of a man.” But fat…

“I think this is it, sir.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Well, according to the instructions—”

“Go and have a look. And get a move on – I’m not sitting here all day.”

Injustice plodded up the drive with Sergeant Troy. Wrongful accusation and unfairness marched alongside. He found himself muttering, as he seemed to have been doing all his life, man and boy, why is it always me? The building was Appleby House. He beckoned the DCI who, still glaring, got out of the car and slammed the door. Troy rang the bell.

Barnaby thought the man who appeared was probably about his own age. If younger, he’d been having a tough time. Perhaps he had been ill. But he smiled pleasantly enough.

“Mr. Lawson?”

“What is it?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby, Causton CID.”

“Detective Sergeant Troy.”

“We need to talk to you regarding the death of Dennis Brinkley.”

“Yes—what’s going on?” asked Lawson. “Some of your people were here earlier after the keys to his house. Waving a bit of paper, which I suppose represented some sort of authority.”

“Perhaps we could come in?”

The furniture of the room they entered was strangely placed. Barnaby was reminded of a doll’s house whose owner, bored, had tumbled it in any-old-how. Lawson vaguely apologised.

“Can you find somewhere to sit? We’ve only just moved in.”

Troy took down a dining chair from a stack of three, settled at the table and opened his briefcase to produce a notebook. Lawson remained standing. Barnaby perched on a low nursing chair. He thought the man seemed more nervous than curious, but that this probably didn’t signify.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news. Recent developments have made it necessary for the police to reassess this case. It is now the subject of a murder inquiry.”

Lawson’s body folded down suddenly on to the nearest piece of furniture, a coffee table. His jaw swung loose. He stared at the chief inspector, then directed his attention to Sergeant Troy as if he might there find an alternative theory.

But Troy just shrugged and said, “We have your evidence from the inquest, sir, but, given the change in circumstances, need to talk to you again.”

“What?”

“I understand Mr. Brinkley was—”

“You’ve made a mistake. This just isn’t possible.”

“Could you please help us by answering the questions, Mr. Lawson?”

“No one would hurt Dennis. He was the most harmless person. Kind, friendly.”

“I understand you’ve known him a long time?” asked Barnaby.

“Since I was a child. He was my aunt’s financial advisor.”

“How would you describe him?”

“I’ve just described him.”

“In business matters?”

“Scrupulous, intelligent, totally honest. Carey trusted him completely.”

“Successful?”

“I believe he was very successful.”

“Though in partnership, I understand.”

Lawson duly rattled through the history of Fallon and Brinkley now Brinkley and Latham. Asked his opinion of Dennis’s partner, he said shortly, “No idea. Never met him.”

“Would you expect Latham to – ah, inherit Brinkley’s share of the business?”

“Certainly not. Dennis couldn’t stand the man.”

Troy asked for Latham’s first name and wrote down: “Andrew Latham. Disliked by Brinkley. Distrusted? Reason?”

Barnaby moved to more personal matters, asking Lawson if he had any idea at all who might have had a reason for killing Dennis Brinkley.

“Of course not. The whole idea’s preposterous.”

“Do you know if there was anything worrying him?”

“Actually…this won’t be of any help to you, I’m afraid.”

“Tell us anyway, Mr. Lawson,” said Sergeant Troy.

“He did want to discuss a problem that was causing some concern. We’d arranged to talk about it after dinner the night he died.”

“He gave you no idea at all what it was about?” asked Barnaby.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Not even whether it was work or something personal?”

Mallory shook his head.

“Do you know of anyone else he might have talked to? He must have had other friends.”

“Not that I know of. Quite a few people came to his funeral, though.”

“We’ll need a list of their names and addresses at some point, sir,” said Sergeant Troy.

“Heavens – I don’t know who they are.” He was starting to sound exasperated. “There was a notice in The Times. They just turned up.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said Barnaby. “What about people in the village?”

“Dennis wasn’t much of a mixer.”

“I understand that he and Miss Frayle were what one might call close.”