Caroline Graham - The Killings at Badger's Drift

It held only five suspects (he had decided to jettison Henry Trace, and Lessiter had an alibi) and these five moved in a slow tantalizing pavane on a screen behind his eyes. Wherever he was, whoever he was with, whatever he was doing, the dance went on. He drained his coffee. Old green-eyes was back.

It was now almost nine o’clock. He wrote down an order for the Chinese takeaway - Black Bean and Ginger Soup. Sweet and Sour Prawns. Rice and Spring Rolls. Toffee Apples - and had just sent it off when the phone rang.

‘It’s a Mrs Quine asking for you, sir. She’s in a call box. I’ve made a note of the number.’

‘Right ... Mrs Quine?’

‘Hullo? What’s going on ... didn’t that chap in the caravan tell you what I said? About that Lacey bloke?’

‘Yes. The message was passed on.’

‘Woss he doing still roaming round the village, then? We’ll all be torn to bloody shreds before you lot get off your arses and do something. I saw him go up to that house bold as brass.’

‘We also—’ Barnaby stopped. Around him the phones continued to ring, a typewriter rattled, outside a car screeched to a halt. He heard none of those things. His concentration was yanked to a single fine point. There was just him, the telephone and Mrs Quine. His throat was bone dry as he asked, ‘Did you say he went up to the house?’

‘I told you. In the message. He went through the hedge, up the garden path to the back door. Got his old denims on and that cap. I’d know him anywhere.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Well ... the Young Doctors had just finished and Tickle on the Tum hadn’t started. I’d gone up to make the beds - which was how I came to spot him, y’see. Through the bedroom window. Lisa Dawn was making a cup of tea.’

‘Yes,’ said Barnaby, marvelling at the control in his voice, ‘but what time would that be?’

‘That’d be ... um ... five to four.’

He sat gripping the receiver for a moment longer. She continued speaking but her words were lost as a wave of exhilaration pounded through him. His brain felt as if it were being dragged all over the place by wild horses. Five to four. Dear God. Five to four . More words were getting through.

‘Was it you sent that nosey bugger from the Social round? Upsetting Lisa Dawn.’

The pips admitted a merciful release. Barnaby went to find Inspector Moffat to get a search warrant. He yelled ‘Troy!’ as he went through the outer office - a shout that could have been heard as far as the cattle market and the Soft Shoe Café. His sergeant leapt up from a spot of hot-eyed dalliance with Policewoman Brierley and responded with a ‘Sir!’ automatically pitched at the same level.

‘Car. Shift yourself.’

Leaving another ‘sir’ splintering the atmosphere Troy ran from the room. This was something like it, he thought, running across the car park and leaping into the Fiesta. Foot down. Siren blaring. Secret tip-off. Villain on the run. Troy and Barnaby closing in. Cuffs at the ready. But the Chief’s getting on. Oh he was fast in his day but now ... So it’s Troy who makes the arrest. He was a tough bastard, too. One of the hard men. Afterwards Barnaby admitted as much. ‘Without you, Sergeant, I couldn’t have—’

‘For God’s sake don’t just bloody sit there. Move!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Back to the village. And you can switch that thing off.’ He didn’t say slow down, though, and Troy touched eighty when they were clear of the town.

‘What’s up, sir?’ Barnaby told him. Troy whistled and said, ‘Wow. We’ve got him then.’

‘Keep your eyes on the road.’

‘But ... that’s pretty conclusive, wouldn’t you say?’

‘He’s certainly got some explaining to do.’

‘I hope he hasn’t scarpered. He wasn’t in the cottage when I went back to check.’

When they entered the village a mere handful of people was now hanging round the portable pod. The television van had gone on to the next drama. It was getting dark. As soon as Troy eased through the hedge space they saw a light in the cottage.

‘He’s back.’

‘There’s no need to whisper, Sergeant.’ Barnaby got out. ‘I should think our headlights alone have alerted him to the fact that we’ve arrived.’

The sun was setting. The house was softened by the glow. The dark mass of surrounding trees was rimmed with deepest gold. An upstairs window reflected the sun. Troy squinted against it as it hung in the very centre of the pane. He thought it looked like a lump of blood. Barnaby knocked.

‘Heavens, not you again.’ Michael Lacey regarded them coolly from the doorway. He was eating a huge hunk of bread and cheese. ‘You never stop, do you? Really it makes it a pleasure to pay my taxes. If I ever earned enough to pay taxes, that is.’

‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

He gave a little moan but it sounded phoney. Part of a game. He opened the door. ‘Come in then if you must. But I’ve already been asked a few questions. By one of your minions barely half an hour ago.’

‘Then I expect you know that Mrs Rainbird has been done to death—’

‘Done to death? How wonderfully archaic.’

‘In a particularly brutal manner.’

‘I hope you’re not looking for insincere expressions of regret on my part. She was a very nasty woman. Almost as nasty as her golden-haired boy.’

‘Indeed? I didn’t realize you knew her well.’

‘You didn’t have to know her well.’

Supercilious sod, thought Troy, hugging Mrs Quine’s revelation to his heart. Barnaby asked Michael Lacey where he was between three and five that afternoon.

‘Working.’

‘You wouldn’t like to expound on that?’

‘Not really. Thanks all the same.’

‘So if someone said they saw you walking up the path of Mrs Rainbird’s back garden at four p.m ... ?’

‘I’d say they wanted their eyes tested.’

Barnaby produced one of his two warrants. ‘Mr Lacey, I have a warrant here to search these premises.’ At this the man’s expression changed. That’s wiped the smile off his face, thought Troy, allowing the hint of one to appear on his own. ‘I hope,’ Barnaby continued, ‘that you will cooperate in this matter.’

‘You can’t do that!’

‘I’m afraid this bit of paper says we can. Sergeant ...’ Barnaby nodded towards the stairs and Troy vanished. ‘Would you accompany me to the kitchen, Mr Lacey?’

He searched the kitchen thoroughly while his companion stood sullenly by the sink. Then the room with the settee and bookshelves. He pulled out the paperbacks, lifted the matting. Lacey perched on one of the uncomfortable dining chairs and watched. Troy re-entered the room, giving Barnaby what he fondly imagined to be an imperceptible shake of the head. The chief inspector finished his task and turned to the man at the table, who said, ‘If that wild semaphoring of absolute despair is anything to go by, your clueless sergeant hasn’t dug up anything either. So I suggest you go on your merry way and leave me in peace.’

‘Next door, Troy.’ The sergeant nodded and walked out. Lacey jumped up.

‘That’s my studio. I won’t have my work disturbed. There’s nothing in there but paintings.’

Troy called, ‘It’s locked, sir.’

‘Well, break it down then.’

Michael Lacey ran into the passage and hung on to Troy’s arm. Delighted, the sergeant immediately seized the man’s wrists, wrenching his arms behind his back.

‘All right, Sergeant, all right.’ Barnaby ambled up. ‘He’s not going anywhere, are you, sir?’

Troy released Lacey, who glared at them both. But there was more than anger in his expression. There was fear. ‘Why don’t you just unlock the door and save us all a lot of hassle?’ asked the chief inspector.