Chapter Ten
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Tom Barnaby woke the next morning with the definite impression that he could smell oranges. He looked at the alarm-clock on his bedside table. Ten to eight. He could hear Joyce clattering about in the kitchen. Swiftly he dressed and hurried downstairs. The smell of oranges became more intense.
"Joyce, what are you doing?" he asked. The kitchen door was only slightly ajar and when Tom opened it wide the wave of steam from two large bubbling cauldrons hit him. He could only just make out Joyce through the mist.
"I thought I'd start early," said Joyce.
"Oh ― do you think that's a good idea?" Tom saw that all the available work-surfaces were completely covered in the remnants of oranges.
"Of course I do. I said I'd do it, and I'm doing it."
"But you did wash those oranges thoroughly, didn't you, Joyce?"
"Yes!" said Joyce indignantly.
"I mean ― very thoroughly."
"Yes!" she screamed.
"Ah." Tom retreated to the dining-room and sank down at his usual place, "I hope I'm not going to have orange-juice for breakfast."
"No," said Joyce, entering with bowl and spoon. "Muesli! It's for your diet, Tom."
After about five minutes during which Tom consumed most of his bowl of muesli, Joyce returned from the kitchen with a cup of coffee and sat down to join him. "How's the case going?" she asked.
"Oh," Tom's voice was half-broken, "it's taking some time. Which reminds me, I must speak to Hector Ashby-Petherington."
"Hector who?"
"He lives in 'the Manor House', outside Midsomer Florey," said Tom.
"Morning!" A sleepy Gavin Troy stood yawning in front of them.
"Gavin!" said Joyce brightly. "Did you enjoy the film last night?"
"Yes ― thanks ― it was very good," said Gavin, sitting down, hoping that there would not be too many questions about the film.
"I didn't hear you come in," said Joyce. "It must have gone on rather late."
"It did ― rather."
"But what have you done to your hand?" For the first time Joyce noticed that Gavin had a bandage wound round his right palm.
"Oh, nothing ― just a scratch," he said with a little laugh. Tom looked at him quizzically.
"I do hope it's alright soon. What's it going to be this morning, Gavin? Bacon and eggs?"
"Oh, no ― thanks. Nothing for me."
"Well, if you're sure, I'd better get back to my marmalade-making. We got the oranges at Mrs Potts' nursery in Midsomer Florey. Primrose Lane, wasn't it, Tom?"
"Yes, it was." Tom put down his spoon in his finished cereal bowl and leaned back in his chair.
"I'll leave you boys to it," said Joyce and disappeared into the kitchen.
"Sir," began Troy hesitantly as soon as she had gone, "I mean ― Tom ― don't you think I could become involved in this case ― the one about the bodies hacked into pieces. I mean, I'm not really doing anything here, and it would help get me back into my stride ― if you see what I mean. Sir."
Tom looked at his lodger shrewdly while taking a sip of coffee. "Perhaps," he said. "Did you ever meet my present sergeant?"
"Yes, sir," said Gavin, "at Cully's wedding."
"Of course you did." Tom recalled the occasion of his daughter's wedding, which had almost eclipsed another case he had been working on at the time. "If you promise not to tread on his toes..."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" Gavin said with delight. "You told me there were three victims and that two of them were hacked to pieces. Have you found the murder weapon, sir?"
"No," said Tom, "but they were almost certainly killed with an axe. An axe belonging to Phyllis Potts, the owner of the nursery in Primrose Lane, Midsomer Florey, has gone missing."
"Gone missing?"
Tom was about to explain when his mobile buzzed. "Barnaby... yes... yes, I'll be right over. That was Jones," he said, snapping his mobile shut, "they've arrested a man trying to break into the Smiths' house. Jane and Andrew Smith are two of the unfortunate victims. It looks as though they were running a drugs racket. They were the ones hacked to pieces." Gavin's eyes gleamed. "The man's at the station now, waiting to be interviewed. Why don't you join us?"
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...
Ben Jones was waiting at the door of Interview Room no.2, shuffling some papers in his hand, when Barnaby arrived, closely followed by Gavin Troy.
"Oh, boy!" he said without looking up, "you're going to love this."
"Love what?" Barnaby paused. "You did meet Inspector Troy, my former sergeant, didn't you, Jones?"
Ben looked up in surprise. "We never properly met, there was such a crowd in that church. I've heard a lot about you." He enthusiastically shook Gavin's right hand, which was still bandaged. Troy said nothing but winced. "Before we go in, sir, you ought to have a look at this. Smith's bank statements."
Barnaby scanned the documents briefly. "Fifty thousand ̶ a hundred thousand ̶ eighty thousand ̶ in, out ̶ good heavens, Jones!"
"And always cash, sir. The entries usually say 'wages', but the only wages he could have been paying..."
"...Are the wages of sin," said Tom. "Quite. Let's get this over, shall we?"
At the desk of Interview Room No.2 sat, or rather lounged, a young man dressed entirely in leather, with his arms folded and his boots on the desk, chewing gum.
"Chief Detective Inspector Barnaby, Detective Inspector Troy and Detective Sergeant Jones," barked PC Robson.
"The three degrees, is it?" sneered the young man, who took his feet off the desk but continued chewing in the manner of a cow, his jaw moving slowly from side to side.
PC Robson switched on the voice recorder on the desk.
"I see here," said Barnaby, putting on his glasses and consulting a file in front of him, "that you are called Midge. Is that your real name?"
"Nah, my real name's Oliver, but nobody calls me that."
"Oliver what?"
"Oliver Benson. I already tol' 'em that at the desk." Troy, seated behind the other two detectives, was staring at him hard.
"And you were trying to break into the house of Mr and Mrs Smith in Blackwater Drive in Causton when you were apprehended, and found with a quantity of cannabis in your pocket."
"Yeah, well. Like I said, I dunno how it got there."
"Let's not beat about the bush," said Jones, "you're a known drug dealer and you were caught red-handed."
Tom leaned forward. "The Smiths' house is stashed full of drugs. Why were you there?"
"It's like this, see. They owe me and I owe them. But they owe me more than I owe them. So I wanted to go in 'n get what was mine."
"What ̶ was yours?"
"Ten grand. They owe me."
"Owed," said Tom. "Are you aware that Mr and Mrs Smith are both dead?"
Midge looked from Barnaby to Jones. "Dead? I dunno nothing about that."
"So I'm afraid," said Barnaby, "that whatever is owing to you will not be repaid in the short term."
"Just a minute," said Troy, leaning forward. "I know that bloke."
Midge stopped in mid-chew as recognition spread across his face. "Yeah," he said, "you're that kinky copper. Sorry about your hand," and he made a dismissive gesture.
"Interview terminated at 9.36 a.m.," said Barnaby, speaking into the voice recorder and switching it off. "Troy, can we speak outside?"
"I can have you done for assault, mate!" said Midge.
"Just watch it," said Gavin, getting up and pointing his finger at him.
"Jones, can you... carry on?" asked Tom vaguely.
"It would be a pleasure, sir," said Ben Jones, and as Tom and Gavin slipped outside they heard Jones shouting "Right! Benson, what do you mean by 'owed'?"
"What was all that about?" asked Tom as soon as they were in the corridor. "You said you knew him."
"I'm sorry, sir." Gavin hung his head, looking very ashamed. "You know when I said I went to the cinema to see that film..."
"Yes, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. A classic, so I believe."
"Well... in fact I didn't go there. I went to ‒ the Playmate club." Gavin blurted it out and immediately felt much better.
"The club with all the strippers? Well, there's nothing wrong in that, is there?"
"But... the night I went it wasn't female strippers." Gavin looked away from Tom's steady gaze.
"Oh, Troy," said Tom, almost tenderly. He thought his old assistant might be about to burst into tears.
"And when I came out ̶ I couldn't stay long, sir, not when I saw it was full of bum boys ̶ these two leather guys came out as well and they were having an argument. One of them was that bloke in there. They saw me listening and that bastard went for me ― that's how I got this, sir," and he held up his bandaged hand, "but I soon dealt with him. In a professional manner ― so to speak."
"Of course, Troy. I would expect nothing less." Tom Barnaby was not keen to hear the details of any fisticuffs that might have gone on from his former sergeant. "But you say they were having an argument? What sort of argument?" Tom's voice was suddenly sharper.
"I dunno. But one of them said he'd nearly been nicked and the place was crawling with coppers. That's all I remember, sir."
"Thank you for telling me that, Troy, thank you very much indeed. Why don't you go home and keep Joyce company? I hear it's chops tonight, and I'd hate to think of any of them being wasted."
"Oh, thank you, sir!" Troy suddenly looked like a happy puppy again.
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...
"It's obvious, sir," said Jones, as he and Barnaby emerged from the police station, "the Smiths were running a racket, providing a sort of temporary loan and storage facilities for the dealers. The dealers demanded too much, the Smiths couldn't pay, so one of them killed them."
"Yes," said Tom, rubbing his chin. "That would certainly explain all the money going in and out in cash. But what were they spending all that money on? Midge only talked of ten grand. There's much more than that going in and out of the account. It's not as if they lived in a palace."
"Perhaps one of the dealers got greedy," suggested Jones.
"Perhaps." Barnaby climbed into his black Volvo. "But that doesn't explain Belinda, or her mother. And why so much violence?"
Ben Jones thought it prudent not to question his boss as to the interaction between Inspector Troy and the suspect, but thought to himself that maybe it was just as well that the former sergeant had moved on from Midsomer.