Caroline Graham - The Killings at Badger's Drift

He looked closely at all the paintings again. There seemed to be nothing revelatory about them. Nothing to indicate why they should be sealed away behind locked doors. Stepping back, he collided with the easel. It tipped to one side and the old shirt covering it fell off. Barnaby righted the easel and replaced the cloth. It made a squarish shape supported by the two cross bars. But it was a different shape from the one he had seen yesterday. Less solid. He was quite sure that yesterday there had been a largish canvas on that easel. Which meant that, between that time and now, someone had entered the cottage and taken it away.

‘Get Lacey up here.’

‘ Yes, sir ,’ cried Sergeant Troy italically, leaving the incident room at a brisk trot and clattering down to the basement. ‘Come on you.’ He unlocked the cell door and jerked a thumb in Lacey’s direction. ‘Get off your backside. The chief inspector wants a word.’ He watched the prisoner pick up his jacket. ‘And you needn’t bother with that,’ he continued, ‘you’re not going anywhere.’

Michael Lacey ignored the sergeant, pushing past and hurrying up the stone steps. Troy caught up with him and resentfully tried to regain the dominant position. He had been brought up to date by Policewoman Brierley as to the main dramatic disaster of the night but as yet knew nothing of Lacey’s alibi, and his confidence was absolute. ‘Just bloody well watch it, that’s all.’

The prisoner sat down in front of Barnaby’s desk without being asked and looked around with interest at the equipment and activity. At the bank of telephones, wheels of cards and television screens.

‘So this is where it all goes on. Most impressive.’ He gave Barnaby a smile, perky and sardonic. ‘I shall sleep more easily in my bed tonight. I assume that’s where I shall be sleeping?’

‘Well, Mr Lacey, your alibi has certainly been confirmed.’

The man got up. ‘So I’m free to go?’

‘Just a moment.’ He sat down again. ‘I returned to the cottage this morning to continue my search.’ No reaction. No fear. No alarm. Not even nervousness. Sod his hide, thought Barnaby. ‘I believe at the time when you were detained there was quite a large canvas, covered with a cloth, on the easel in your studio.’

‘I doubt it. I was just starting on a portrait of Judy Lessiter, as you know. I never work on two things at the same time.’

‘Nevertheless that was my impression.’

‘Then your impression was incorrect, Chief Inspector. Did you enjoy looking round? What did you think of it all?’ Then, before Barnaby could reply he continued, ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? You don’t know anything about art but you know what you like.’

Stung by this patronizing assumption that he was nothing more than a flat-footed clodhopping philistine, Barnaby retorted, ‘On the contrary. I know quite a lot about art and I think you have a most remarkable talent.’

He watched Lacey as he spoke. Watched his face change. All the pugnacity and superciliousness faded. A look of the most intense pleasure spread across his face. He said, ‘Yes, I have, haven’t I?’ But there was no arrogance in his voice. Just happiness laced with the merest thread of uncertainty.

‘Your technique is very assured. Have you been to an art school or college?’

‘What?’ He gave a shout of laughter. ‘For one term ... that was enough. Load of pretentious wankers. There’s only one way to learn and that’s to sit at the feet of the masters.’ The sincerity in his voice robbed the phrase of all pretension. ‘I shall go to the Prado. The Uffizi. To Vienna and Paris and Rome and New York. And learn my craft.’ There was a long pause then he said, ‘Is anything the matter, Inspector? You look quite ... well ... put out.’ Then, when Barnaby still did not reply he got up. ‘So ... is it all right for me to go now?’

‘What? Oh’ - Barnaby got up - ‘yes ... you can go.’

Michael Lacey strolled over to the door, saying, ‘Excuse me,’ to Sergeant Troy and adding, ‘you really should close your mouth, Sergeant. You could catch something very nasty.’

Troy snapped his jaws together and glared at the closing door. ‘Why the hell are you letting him go, sir?’

‘He was with the Lessiter girl all yesterday afternoon.’

‘But ... Mrs Quine saw him.’

‘She saw someone, I’ve no doubt. Someone wearing clothes and a cap very like those that Lacey wore. Now the point is,’ murmured Barnaby, ‘if the murderer was so keen to incriminate Lacey why didn’t he make a thorough job of it and dump the clothes at the cottage as well?’ Troy, understanding that these questions were self-addressed, kept silent. ‘Well, they can’t be far. Whoever it was was pushed for time. With a bit of luck the search should turn them up today. I’m just going over to Forensic to see what’s new. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Sort a car out, would you? And your bucket and spade.’ Troy’s jaws parted company again. Barnaby turned in the doorway and smiled grimly. ‘We’re going to the seaside.’

Troy took the A21 (Hastings and Saint Leonards) at Tunbridge Wells and re-opened the conversation that had been temporarily abandoned whilst he had negotiated unfamiliar roundabouts and watched for exit signs. He and Barnaby had been discussing the latest analysis reports from the Forensic department.

‘But if these ... filaments ... these bits of nylon were under her nails doesn’t that mean she must’ve scratched the murderer’s face?’

‘Not necessarily. If you pull a pair of tights over your head only a small section would cover your face. That means there’s quite a bit of stuff left over. She may have grabbed at that.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing - not for the first time - the terrible moment when Mrs Rainbird’s visitor disappeared from the sitting room, perhaps after asking to use the loo, to re-emerge moments later, features squashed out of all recognition, wielding a sharp knife. The fact that he now knew who that figure was added an extra gloss of horror to the scene. Troy moved on to the findings in the garden shed.

‘Must be the rug, sir ... the black and green fibres they found.’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘I suppose whoever it was thought dumping it in water would be safer than trying to burn it? Less conspicuous.’

‘Expect so. I’ve got a feeling it was in the pond in the woods near the cottage. And that the clothes might well be in there too.’

‘And one or the other of the Rainbirds got wind of it and tried to put the bite on?’

‘I think so. They were right out of their league, of course. The quickness and efficiency of Miss Simpson’s dispatch should have told them that. “Murder being once done,” Troy.’

‘That Jane Austen again is it, sir?’ asked the sergeant, zipping through Lamberhurst. ‘Shan’t be long now. That rug must have weighed something to cart away.’

‘Yes. I expect they had a plastic bag, probably a bin liner. And the clothes went in as well.’

‘All a bit risky. Broad daylight and everything.’

‘Ah - but it’s panic stations now. Things are starting to go wrong for them, Troy. Time’s running out ... time’s running out fast.’ Out of the corner of his eye he saw the sergeant turn his head.

‘What ... ? You mean you know who committed the murders?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘What ... both of them?’

‘All three of them.’

‘But ... I don’t understand ...’

‘Watch what you’re doing, man!’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Troy stared carefully at the road ahead for a few moments then continued, ‘Surely Phyllis Cadell killed Mrs Trace.’

‘I think not.’

‘But ... she’s confessed. God - she even took her own life.’