Caroline Graham - Death Of A Hollow Man

“What I can’t get, Sergeant, is the timing. …” Troy sat up. “There are dozens of ways to kill a man. Why set it up in front of a hundred witnesses … taking risks backstage … tinkering with a razor … when all you have to do is wait and catch him on some dark night?”

“I feel that’s rather a strike against Kitty, myself, chief. Trying it at home, she’d be the first person we’d suspect.”

“A good point.”

“And now we’ve flushed the lover out,” Troy bounded on, encouraged, “ and discovered that he was the one who supplied the razor in the first place. I bet he even suggested the tape—”

“I think not. I’ve asked a lot of people about that. The general consensus seems to be that it was Deidre.”

“Anyway, there he is with the perfect alibi, leaving Kitty to carry the can. That sort always do.”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit obvious.”

“But … excuse me, sir … the times you’ve said the obvious is so often the truth.”

Barnaby nodded. The observation was a fair one. As was Troy’s implication that the familiar unheavenly twins lust and greed were once again probably the motivating power behind a sudden death. So why did Barnaby feel this case was different? He didn’t welcome this perception, which seemed to him at the moment to lead absolutely nowhere, but it would not be denied. He saw now, too, that his previous knowledge of the suspects, which he had regarded from the first as an advantage, could also work against him. It was proving well nigh impossible to make his mind the objective mirror it should be if he was to appreciate what was really going on. His understanding of Kitty’s character, his liking for Tim and the Smys, his sympathy for Deidre, all were gradually forcing him into a corner. At this rate, he observed sourly to himself, I’ll hardly have a suspect left.

And then there was Floyd on Fish . He picked it out of his tray and fanned the pages yet again. The thing had been through the works at the lab. It was no more and no less than what it purported to be, and smothered with dozens of assorted prints. Now, why the hell should someone send Harold, who had not the slightest interest in cooking, a recipe book? Why was it given anonymously? Troy, asked for his ideas, had been worse than useless. Just given one of his excruciating winks and said, “Very fishy, chief.” Joyce said Harold had seemed to be genuinely puzzled by its arrival, assumed it to be a gift from an unknown admirer, and promptly given it away. Barnaby couldn’t see a single way in which it might be connected with the case, but it was certainly odd. A loose end. And he didn’t care for loose ends, although, as the case looked at the moment like a bundle of cooked spaghetti, he supposed another one more or less didn’t much signify.

Troy was clearing his throat, and Barnaby retrieved his wandering thoughts and raised his eyebrows. “If we’re leaving sex and cash out, chief, I suppose the other big one would be that he’d got something on somebody and they wanted to keep him quiet.” Barnaby nodded. “I know we didn’t find any surprises in his account, but it could still have been blackmail. He could’ve been stashing it abroad.”

“Mmm … it’s an appealing idea. The trouble is, it doesn’t fit the nature of the beast.”

‘‘Sorry, sir … I’m not quite with you on that one.” Troy was frowning; a little anxious about being found wanting, but determined to have each step quite clear before proceeding to the next. He never pretended that he understood what Barnaby was getting at when he didn’t, and the chief inspector, knowing how his sergeant longed to give the impression of keeping up or even leaping ahead, respected this veracity.

“I just don’t think Carmichael was the type. It’s not that he was a nice man—far from it—but he was completely self-absorbed. He had no interest in other people’s affairs, or the sheer energetic nastiness a successful blackmailer needs.”

‘‘Jealousy then, chief? Him being the leading light and all that. Maybe somebody else wanted a go?” Even as he voiced this suggestion, Troy thought it was probably a nonstarter. Although he had quite enjoyed Amadeus , he thought the actors a load of pimpish show-offs. Personally he wouldn’t have thought any of them had the guts to skin a rabbit, never mind putting somebody in the way of cutting their own throat. Still, he had been wrong before (Troy saw his willingness to admit to possessing this almost universal human weakness as a sign of real maturity) and might well be so again. ‘‘Perhaps they were all in it together, sir? Like that film on a train … where everybody had a stab at the victim. A conspiracy.”

Barnaby raised his head at this and looked interested. Interested but glum. Troy remembered a phrase from the early morning news and essayed one of his witticisms.

“A putsch-up job, sir?”

‘‘What?”

‘‘Put up—it’s a joke, chief. A sort of play on words. Putsch up—put up …”

Barnaby was silent for a minute, then spoke slowly. “My God, Troy. You might just be right.”

Gratified, the sergeant continued, “It was in one of these banana republics—”

“It’s so near …”

“That’s what I said. Put and—”

“No, no. I’m not talking about that. Perhaps … let me think. …”

Barnaby sat very still. A nebulous possibility, no more than a glimmer, flickered into his mind. Flickered and was gone. Came back, solidified a bit, was gently tested.

“I wonder,” continued Barnaby, “perhaps Esslyn gave us the reason for the murder. At least”—he groped toward the next words slowly—“he gave it to Kitty. She didn’t have the wit to see the implication behind what he said, but I should have. There’s no excuse for me.”

Troy, appreciating that he also hadn’t had the wit and that there was no excuse for him, either, regarded his boots sulkily. Barnaby got up and started to pace around, then sent his sergeant for some more coffee. Troy disappeared into the outer office and helped himself from the Cona.

When he returned to the inner sanctum, the DCI was gazing out the window. Troy put the mugs on the desk and returned to his seat. When Barnaby turned, he was struck by the paleness of the chief inspector’s countenance. Pale but lively. No sooner had one expression, hopeful elation, registered than it was chased away by disbelief, which in turn gave way to a jauntiness that was almost debonair, dissolving into puzzlement.

“You’ve … got something then, sir?” asked Troy.

“I don’t know. It’s all out of whack … but it must be. I just can’t see how .”

Fat lot of good that is then, opined Troy silently. The old sod always did this when he believed a case was shifting toward a conclusion. He would say that all the information so far obtained was as available to Troy as it was to him and that the sergeant should be perfectly capable of coming to his own assessment. The fact that this remark was a perfectly valid one in no way lessened the sergeant’s chagrin every time he heard it. Now, he noticed Barnaby was looking at him rather oddly. Then, to his alarm, the chief walked around the desk, came up to Troy’s chair, bent down, and brought his lips close to the younger man’s ear. Bloody hell, thought Troy, preparing to leap for the door. Who’d have thought it? Barnaby moved his mouth, breathed faintly, and returned to his seat. Troy produced a handkerchief and mopped his face.

“Well, sergeant,” Barnaby said, in a blessedly masculine and unseductive manner. “What did I say?”

“Bungled, sir.”

“Aaahhh …” It was a long, slow hiss of satisfaction. “Nearly, Troy. A good guess. Nearly … but not quite.”