Chapter Six

"It's got to be the jealous husband, sir." Jones was sitting at his computer the next morning, while Barnaby was sipping coffee from a plastic mug at the next desk.

"Anything on him?" he asked. "Ooh, this is disgusting!" and he threw away the plastic mug.

"Yes, sir. A conviction for ABH four years ago."

"Actual Bodily Harm? What did he do?"

"He assaulted a colleague outside a pub. Broke two of his teeth. Community service."

"Hmm. Our Mr Pigott has a violent temper, that is certain. But would he kill anybody?"

"He might do if he was caught in the act of stealing silver from him. Specially if the victim was the man that had got him the sack from his job. And we know he was living on his wife's earnings."

"His wife, whom he had just discovered was having an affair with the same man. It makes sense, Jones."

"Thank you, sir."

"What about Professor Stankiewicz?"

"Ah - I spoke to a very posh young lady at Sotheby's, who said that he was one of their most reliable valuers and that his credentials were impeccable."

"But do they know where he is?"

"No, sir. They only have a mobile phone number for him and he has not returned their calls for over a week."

"Very reliable," said Tom drily. "Does he have a record?"

"No, sir. Not in this country, at any rate."

At this point PC Angel opened the door and said with an air of triumph, "We've got him, sir."

"Got who?" asked Barnaby.

"The burglar, sir. Patrol stopped him between Midsomer Worthy and Parva late last night because the stop lights on his white van were defective. Turned out he had quite a haul in it. He's in Interview Room number 2 at the moment." He handed a file to Tom, who immediately got up and, followed by Ben, made his way to the Interview Room, where a young man with a pimply face, thick glasses and orange hair that stood up in spikes was sitting, chewing gum, attended by the officer on duty. On the desk was an array of silver objects - a duck, a goose, a pheasant, a partridge, a quail, and several other birds to which Barnaby could not immediately put a name.

"Mr - Stephen Wills," he said, putting on his glasses and reading from the file as he sat down at the desk. "I am Inspector Barnaby and this is Sergeant Jones."

"'S'right," said the young man, "but they call me Spike."

Barnaby looked at his hair. "Well, Spike, you've been caught red-handed. These objects were reported stolen by a Mrs Arleen Reece of Midsomer Worthy."

"Yeah," said Spike, looking down and nodding vigorously." "I admi' it."

"And it says here," said Tom, continuing to read the file, "that you are known to the police and that you are responsible for several other burglaries in the area."

"Well - one or two," said Spike modestly.

"But it does not say," said Tom softly but deliberately, looking up at the young man in front of him, "that you are responsible for murder." Tom smiled blandly.

"Murder! Oh, no! You've go' i' all wrong, Inspector."

"Then how do you account for the body of Mr Philip Reece at the scene of the crime?"

"I don't know nothin' about tha'," said Spike nervously.

"Mr Philip Reece was found lying on the floor in his living-room with his head bashed in," said Jones loudly.

"Was 'e?" asked Spike, glancing from one detective to the other.

"Finger-prints taken from these silver - objects," said Tom, "match yours."

"Wel'," said Spike, "I picked 'em up, did'n' I?"

"But what about the metal object that you used to batter Mr Reece to death?" asked Jones. "It isn't here."

"Metal object? What metal object?"

"A mortar. A heavy metal mortar." Jones leaned forward. "Like what you use to grind spices in in the kitchen - you know" - and Jones did a little mime of grinding spices in a bowl.

"Did'n' see nothin' like tha'."

"Come on, Mr Wills. You've admitted to the burglary. What about the murder?"

Spike said nothing but continued chewing his gum.

"Let's go back to the burglary," said Barnaby, leaning back in his chair. "Tell us exactly how and when it happened."

"Wel'," said Spike, shifting in his chair. "I bin watchin' that house for some time, see. Every night, reg'lar as clockwork, the lights wen' out about eleven thir'y. I seen the silver in the cabinet in the main room, an' I reckoned I could get a good price on it. Night before last, I was ready to do the job. So I goes down there, gone twelve thir'y, it was, but blow me if the light was'n' all a-blazin'. Winder was open an' curtains not drawn an' all. So I says to m'self, somethin' not right 'ere. Now, mos' people would leave all alone, at tha'," said Spike, getting into his stride, "bu' I ain' like mos' people."

"No," agreed Barnaby.

"So I crep' up, jus' to get a look inside, an' I could'n' see nobody in the room. No' a' first. But then I look a bit closer, an' blow me if I di'n' see a body lyin' on the floor. Must be your chap, I reckon."

Jones threw his pen onto the desk in irritation. "So you climbed in through the window and stole the silver," he said, "and failed to report a murder."

"Exac'ly."

"But what about the mortar? The heavy metal object?"

"I never seen tha'."

"Constable," called Barnaby, "detain this suspect for further questioning."

"Sir!" barked the duty officer looking straight ahead as Barnaby and Jones walked out of the interview room.

"It's a pack of lies, sir," said Jones in disgust. "He was surprised by Philip Reece and killed him with the mortar. It's obvious."

"Philip Reece was home before midnight," said Tom. "Our friend says it was after twelve thirty when he 'did the job'."

"Perhaps he heard the burglar and came downstairs - or something," said Ben. "And anyway - you can't be sure Wills is right about the time."

"It's possible, Jones, it's possible. But first we must find the mortar - and with any luck it will have incriminating finger-prints on it. His address," - Tom consulted his notes again - "is no.35, Railway Cuttings, Midsomer Parva."

"Right," said Ben, baring his teeth.