A Ghost in the Machine (37 page)

Barnaby decided to risk it. “‘Coming through the Rye'?”

“I do the badinage, Chief Inspector.”

“Sir.”

Barnaby risked a glance at the clock. Ten minutes so far and the old man was barely getting into his stride. The DCI waited, unfazed, knowing the attack to be in no way personal. Spleen had to be vented daily, like bad blood.

“So no one has actually talked to anyone who knew this sad bastard. What's his name, Brinkley?”

“No, sir.”

“Says Brinkley down here.”

“No one has actually talked to anyone about him, sir.”

“Not a single question put anywhere?” Each word savagely gnawed off like a chunk of raw meat. Single. Question. Put. Anywhere. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I've already explained—”

“Then you don't have to tell me again, Chief Inspector. I've got a mind like a razor.”

“Sir.”

“And a memory like…a razor.”

“The coroner's verdict—”

“Coroners.” A single spit with excellent aim and range. “They think they know it all but they are not invaluable.” He paused glaring across the desk. “You find something amusing?”

“Amusing?” Barnaby appeared quite bewildered. “Erm…no…”

“And this second death, this fool of a woman reading tea leaves or whatever. You reckon she's been poisoned?”

“Yes.”

“Think she was involved in the first one?”

“She described exactly how it happened and promised to reveal the murderer the following Sunday.”

“What an idiot.”

“Quite.”

“Says here she talked to spirits.” He stared suspiciously down his long nose, which had a certain boxiness at the end, giving a fair impression of a snout. “You one of these New Age touchy-feelies, Barnaby?”

“No, sir.”

“Incense up your arse. Needles in your tickling stick.” He started laughing. Hideous barks and gleeful yaps. Joyfully he drummed his wolf paws on the edge of the desk like some lupine shaman. Then he picked up the folder and hurled it forcefully towards the chief inspector.

Barnaby moved quickly, snatching the falling papers from the air. He said, “Are we to proceed then, sir?”

Before the first briefing on the Garret/Brinkley murders, Chief Inspector Barnaby made himself familiar with the little background on Dennis Brinkley that was available. He discovered the man to be a quiet, respectable financial consultant; law-abiding to the extent that he had never received as much as a parking ticket. So far the only unusual thing about his life was the bizarre way in which he left it. Of course there would be vastly more to Brinkley than this simple outline suggested. If there was one thing experience had taught Tom Barnaby it was that few things were more extraordinary than ordinary lives.

He had been given a larger team than he expected but not as large as he would have liked. But then it never was. He looked at them, the fresh-faced, eager detective constables, the hard-bitten old lags, the middle ranks, capable, experienced, not yet completely cynical. Most of them looked lively and interested and so they should. This was no run-of-the-mill domestic. This looked like being complex, unusual and, Barnaby feared, long-running.

“You've all read the background notes?” Everyone nodded or mumbled or rustled their stuff. “As you know I always stress the importance of keeping a completely open mind…” An inaudible sigh possessed the room. A new DC carefully wrote down “open mind” and never heard the last of it.

“But we have to start somewhere,” continued Barnaby. “And in this case I'm afraid it has to be with an unproven assumption. Namely that Ava Garret was killed because she believed she could describe the murder of Dennis Brinkley. And, presumably, the murderer.”

Faces were pulled and there was a fair bit of laughter. The radio tape had entertained them all. As had the photograph of Ava in full fig, already known around the canteen as “Rocky Horror's Favourite Fuck.”

“Hard to imagine anybody taking such a threat seriously, Chief,” said Inspector Dancey, sitting as closely as he could to WPC Abby Rose Carter without actually climbing into her lap.

“You've killed someone,” said Barnaby, “you can't afford not to.”

“That's right,” said Sergeant Troy. “And there have been genuine—”

Garret and Dennis Brinkley lived in the same village. It's a small place; they may have known each other. I want to know all about both of them. Brinkley died somewhere in the early evening on Tuesday the twenty-fourth of July. Three weeks ago now, I'm afraid, but someone might remember something. Ask if any stranger was seen hanging round the house that day. Or even near the day. Talk to them in the village shop. Find out who delivered Brinkley's post. If he had domestic help or a gardener, I want to know. And don't forget the pub.

“I'll be talking to the people at…” He squinted at the spiral notebook. “Troy?”

“Appleby House, Chief.”

“And you can also leave out Ava Garret's immediate family. The situation there is quite fragile and involves a child.”

“Better give us—”

“The address is on the board. Audrey, I'd like your help in breaking this. We don't want Karen finding out via the telly or some nosy neighbour.”

Great. Thanks a bunch, sir. It was always the same. Always the bloody same. Any hammer blows to deliver – any painful, emotional or shocking news, a woman got lumbered. Where were all these sensitive new men when you needed one? Butching it out at nappy-folding class, no doubt.

“Also, try and persuade Roy Priest, who lives there, to come in and do an E-fit. He seemed agreeable when we talked on the telephone.”

“Even though no money will be changing hands,” added Sergeant Troy, laughing.

“Once that's done we can get them out to the staff at Uxbridge station. Issue a public appeal.”

“Shouldn't we check her car, sir?” asked WPC Carter. “If she did leave it near the Tube someone might have clocked her coming back. This Chris character could've still been around.”

“I doubt it. He's not the careless type. Her mobile seems to have disappeared. And neither Priest nor the girl knows the number or make.”

“What about the first call he made? To the house?”

“Number withheld,” said Sergeant Troy.

“That's about it then.” DCI Barnaby stood up, dismissing them. “Off you go. Debriefing, six o'clock.”

 

It was nearly two hours later before Barnaby himself was ready to depart. He passed Roy and Karen, escorted by Sergeant Briery, about to enter the incident room and took a minute to thank them for coming in.

Karen smiled and said hello. Roy mumbled something. He could still hardly believe he was voluntarily in a police station helping the police with their enquiries, as the saying went. But once Audrey had settled them down by this seriously weird machine and the guy who worked it explained what he'd like them to do, things got really interesting.

The only photograph of Ava extant in black wig and cloak was on the screen. The idea was to change it so that she looked exactly as she had when going out last Wednesday night. By the time this was completed the only thing left from the original was the shape of Ava's face and her features. Even then the eyes, without false lashes, thick eyeliner and heavy shadow looked different. As for the wig, it was simply wiped away.

They started with the clothes. Roy described her jacket and it was drawn over and over again until they got it absolutely right. The colour proved difficult. He didn't want to use the four-letter word that was closest, what with Karen sitting there and everything. So he said, “Sort of gold.” Then, “Khaki-ish.” It was Karen who suggested mustard.

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.”

“Oh, yes. Poor Benny.” He looked up; a quick realisation. “I suppose if you're right it means she was right.”

“Yes.” But Barnaby felt neither self-reproach nor guilt. No policeman would have attempted to overturn a properly obtained coroner's verdict on absolutely no evidence. “The night Mr. Brinkley died—”

“God. Do we have to?”

“Can you tell me exactly what happened from the time you arrived?”

“I…went into the war room.”

“The what?”

“It's a huge space where his machines were kept. He was lying on the floor close to a giant catapult thing. There's a sort of gulley overhead holding sling shot, great wooden things, heavy as cannon balls. It was hanging loose and one of them had rolled out and struck him on the head.”