Elizabeth George - This Body of Death

She needed to ring Winston. He was likely in the incident room at this time of day, and he could have a close look at the photo of the murder weapon and tell her how the point was shaped. That wouldn’t sign, seal, and deliver anyone’s guilt in the matter of Jemima’s death, but at least it would let them know whether Jossie’s crooks here in his barn bore any resemblance to the one that was used on his former lover.

She headed towards the barn door to fetch her mobile from her car. Outside, she heard the sound of a vehicle in the drive, the quick slam of a door, and the barking of a dog. It seemed that Gordon Jossie had just arrived home from his workday. He wouldn’t be happy to find her prowling round his barn.

She was right in that. Jossie came striding towards her and despite the baseball cap that shaded part of his face, Barbara could see from the ruddiness of the rest of his complexion that he was not pleased.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Nice supply of crooks you’ve got in there,” she replied. “Where d’you get them?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Amazing that they’re still made by hand. Cos they are, aren’t they? I’d reckon at this point someone would be manufacturing them, what with the Industrial Revolution having come along. Can’t you get them from China or somewhere? India maybe? Someone’s got to be turning them out in masses.”

The golden retriever-absolutely worthless as a guard dog-had apparently recognised her from her earlier visit to the holding. The dog leapt up and licked her cheek. Barbara patted her on the head.

“Tess!” Jossie said. “Down! Get away!”

“S’okay,” Barbara said. “I generally prefer men, but in a pinch a female dog will do.”

“You didn’t answer me,” Jossie said.

“Makes us even. You didn’t answer me either. Why’re the crooks made by hand?”

“Because the others are crap and I don’t work with crap. I take pride in my work.”

“We have that in common.”

He wasn’t amused. “What do you want?”

“Who d’you get them off? Someone local?”

“One’s local. The others are from Cornwall and Norfolk. You need more than one supplier.”

“Why?”

“The obvious. You need masses of them to do a roof and you can’t get caught short in the middle of a job. Are you going to tell me why we’re talking about crooks?”

“I’m thinking of a career change.” Barbara went to the Mini and fetched her bag. She dug out her Players and said, “Mind?” to Jossie. She offered him one but he refused. She lit her own and observed him. All of this gave her time to consider what it actually meant that, when long came to short, he was asking her as much about the crooks as she was asking him. He was either very clever or he was very something else. Innocent of the crime came to mind. But she’d seen enough of the criminal element to know that the criminal element was the criminal element because it had been quite successful at being the criminal element. Talking to one of their sort was like dancing in one of those Regency costume dramas on the telly: One had to know the proper steps and in which order one was supposed to make them.

“Where’s your lady friend?” Barbara asked him.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Moved out, has she?”

“I didn’t say that. You c’n see for yourself that her car’s not here, so-”

“Jemima’s is, though. That’s hers in the barn, isn’t it?”

“She left it here.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t a clue. I assume she meant to come back for it when she had a use for it or a place to keep it. She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”

“Why not?”

“What the hell does it matter? What do you want? Why are you here?” He looked round as if he could sort out what she’d been up to by glancing from the barn to the west paddock and from there to the east paddock and from there to the cottage.

The dog picked up on his agitation and began to pace, looking from her master to Barbara. After a few moments, she yelped once and headed for the back door to the cottage. Barbara said to Jossie, “I think your dog wants feeding.”

He said, “I know how to care for a dog.”

He went to the cottage and disappeared inside. Barbara took the opportunity to fetch the magazine she’d had from Lynley when she’d met him earlier on the motorway. She rolled it up and went to the cottage, where she let herself in.

Jossie was in the kitchen, where the dog was gulping down a bowl of dry food. Jossie stood at the sink looking out of the window. It gave a view of his pickup, Barbara’s car, and the paddock beyond. Earlier, she remembered, there’d been animals in it.

“Where’d the horses go?” she asked him.

“Ponies,” he said.

“There’s a difference?”

“They went back on the forest, I presume. I wasn’t here when he fetched them.”

“Who?”

“Rob Hastings. He said he’d come for them. Now they’re gone. I reckon it’s safe to assume he returned them to the forest, as they weren’t likely to let themselves out of the paddock, were they.”

“Why were they here?”

He turned to her. “Prime Minister’s question time,” he said, “is over.”

For the first time he sounded menacing, and Barbara saw a glimpse of the real man beneath the exterior that he kept so controlled. She drew in on her cigarette and wondered about her personal safety. She concluded he was unlikely to dispatch her right there in his kitchen, so she approached him, flicked cigarette ash into the sink, and said, “Sit down, Mr. Jossie. I have something to show you.”

His face hardened. He looked as if he’d refuse at first, but then he went to the table and dropped into a chair. He’d not removed his cap or his sunglasses, but he did so now. “What,” he said. Not even a question. He sounded tired to the bone.

Barbara unrolled the magazine. She found the pages of social photos. She sat down opposite him and turned the magazine so that he could see it. She said nothing.

He glanced at the pictures and then at her. “What?” he said again. “Posh folk drinking champagne. Am I supposed to care about this?”

“Have a closer look, Mr. Jossie. This is the opening of the photo show at the Portrait Gallery. I think you know which show I’m talking about.”

He looked again. She saw that he was giving his attention to the picture of Jemima posing with Deborah St. James, but that was not the picture of interest. She indicated the one in which Gina Dickens appeared.

“We both know who this is, don’t we, Mr. Jossie?” Barbara said to him.

He said nothing. She saw him swallow, but that was his only reaction. He didn’t look up and he didn’t move. She looked at his temple but saw no wild pulsing. There was nothing at all. Not what she’d expected, she thought. Time for a bit of a push.

She said, “Personally, I believe in coincidence. Or synchronicity. Or whatever. These things happen and there’s no doubt about that, eh? But let’s just say that it wasn’t coincidence that Gina Dickens was at the portrait gallery for the opening of this show. That would mean she had a reason to be there. What d’you expect that reason was?”

He didn’t reply, but Barbara knew his mind must be racing.

“P’rhaps she’s wild for photography,” Barbara said. “I s’pose that’s possible. I rather like it myself. P’rhaps she happened to be wandering by and thought she could score a glass of the bubbly and a cheese stick or something. I could see that, as well. But there’s another p’rhaps and I reckon you and I know what it is, Mr. Jossie.”

“No.” He sounded a little hoarse. This was good, Barbara thought.

“Yes,” she said. “P’rhaps she had a reason for being there. P’rhaps she knew Jemima Hastings.”