Chapter 6: A Bend Up Ahead

Barnaby was unsurprised by the spray of gravel as Troy braked rather too hard in front of the Empson house. One of these days, he's going to go off and not have a ditch to cushion the car, he thought. Releasing his seat belt, he took the photograph from the dashboard, turning it over as he opened the door.

In spite of the number of bodies he had seen, no corpse failed to spark a glimmer of sympathy in him, at first. Except perhaps the Rainbirds. It faded quicker each time, though, and now the frozen sight of Marjorie Empson—eyes open like she could still see her killer, cold blood matted against her cheek and through her hair—meant nothing, had been nothing almost as soon as he stared down at her over Bullard's shoulder. One quick pang of sadness for another victim, and then it was immediately supplanted by the calculated questions he needed to ask.

Troy slammed his door, clicking the remote on his keyring to lock the car. "Someday," his sergeant said, "they'll be nice enough to arrange murders better."

Barnaby looked up, squinting for a moment in the sunshine. "Who, criminals?"

"Yes."

He laughed as he went around the front of the vehicle, his fingers twitching on the picture's edge. "How so, Troy?"

"You know, actually letting us take our weekends off." They fell in step, walking toward the old door beneath its old-fashioned arch, the tiny stones crunching beneath their shoes. "Like the rest of the country."

"I wouldn't hold my breath."

Troy shrugged. "Maybe, but I can always hope for it, sir."

"After more than twenty-five years," Barnaby said, "I can promise you it will not happen."

"If you say so."

"Oh, I do." He glanced at the picture again. No, it wasn't right, something there didn't fit with what they knew now. "We don't have time to worry about that today." He dropped his left hand into his pocket, pulling out the house key. No receipt necessary this time, he mused as he slipped it into the lock, twisting it to open the ancient door.

"Or maybe witnesses will tell the truth on the first go," Troy continued, following him inside.

"That, at least, is possible." Just through the door, Barnaby stopped, frowning as he stared at the dead woman again, the matte paper and its white border another barrier to even empathy. Something... "Look at that, Troy."

The man looked at the photograph, eyes narrowed in a brief moment of concentration. "Look at what, sir?"

"That." God, they were both blind. "No rips on either sleeve. It doesn't match Ginny's statement." He strode ahead on the tiled floor toward the bloodstain and looked to the picture once more. Another lie from Ginny Sharp, or they had simply overlooked it yet again? Probably the latter.

"Well, if she lied the first time," Troy began, but Barnaby shook his head.

"No..."

"She could still be lying, sir." He finally closed the door before approaching the staircase, peering at the photograph over the chief inspector's shoulder. "We don't have any reason to believe her now."

"No, we forgot, Troy." Barnaby sighed, tapping the picture against his other hand. She needn't have been in the same clothes. "We didn't ask Ginny Sharp what Mrs. Empson was wearing, did we?"

After a moment, Troy said uncertainly, "Sir?"

Barnaby looked up, at nothing in particular. It was that simple. "We assumed she was wearing her nightclothes. But Ginny said she'd almost torn off one of Marjorie's sleeves. But there were no rips in the clothes the body was found in." He shook the picture again, annoyed. "Come on, Troy."

He took the stairs two at a time; they had no time to waste today. Though it was a Saturday, both had arrived at the station early to fit in a couple hours of work before his sergeant took to the pitch and his daughter went out to watch. Reaching the upstairs hallway, Barnaby frowned. Bloody cheek, he thought. But there was no time to spare for that annoyance now, either.

"So we're looking for another shirt, sir?" Troy asked, following as he walked to the open door at the end of the hall.

"What else, Troy?" Barnaby asked as they entered the dead woman's bedroom, handing over the photograph. It was indistinguishable from any other elderly woman's bedroom: ceramic lamps and figurines; unremarkable wooden furniture, all stained brown; a glass vase holding wilted pink orchids; dull paintings in dull frames; a bookshelf laden with a handful of hardbacks; several pictures of her late husband at varying ages...Like the foyer and the dining room where the crime had occurred, there was nothing distinctive at all. And, the pertinent fact, no blouse in sight.

SOCO had only dusted for fingerprints, even as everyone assumed it to be useless. All the forensic evidence possibly connected to the crime was at the foot of the stairs and in the dining room. A missing link could hide anywhere, though, in ridiculous nooks and crannies, the corners that were entirely illogical until the most critical clue was discovered there. But in this room, only the victim's fingerprints had been found, just as expected. Bloody waste of time, Barnaby thought as he opened the wardrobe door. It was the same at the beginning of every case, the inevitable start: blindly flailing about, investing man-hours to investigate dead ends, and sometimes missing the most important piece.

He pushed the hangers apart, lifting one from the rod spanning the length of the cupboard. The cream colored blouse was intact and he handed it to Troy before he turned back to the wardrobe, shifting a couple more garments aside. His hand landed on a textured green blouse, the rip at the seam gaping and obvious. "Here we are." It fell completely open as he touched it and then turned the hanger, examining it from the other side. If Ginny had seized Marjorie hard enough to leave bruises, he could easily believe the stitching had torn so much.

"Okay," Troy said, glancing at it for a moment, "that's what she was wearing when Ginny came round. I still don't see the significance." He was almost shaking his head, like he meant to dismiss it.

Barnaby gazed across the room, holding the already fraying edge of the sleeve. Bruises and a torn shirt from Ginny Sharp, but she changes before she's killed. It's time, there, between the bruises and her death. "Bullard's theory is that there were two assailants. Marjorie Empson was hit repeatedly from behind while someone else held her"—he ran a hand up and down, touching those glistening black marks in his mind—"leaving bruises on her upper arms."

"Are you saying Bullard's wrong?" He heard the disbelief in Troy's voice.

"I think he's just wrong about the timing." Again, he looked at the shirt. It was a wrench in the case, ruining the timeline they had envisioned, but verifying a new one. "What's this blouse tell us?" Not realizing it, he began to walk, circling the foot of the bed, dropping the hanger and garment on the quilt where Troy had left the first. "Ginny Sharp came here to confront Marjorie Empson. They argued. Marjorie attacked Ginny. Ginny grabbed her by the arms, leaving the bruises." Reaching for the air, he seized invisible arms, wrapping his fingers around nonexistent flesh and bone.

Troy took the same path around the bedframe, looking down at this new bit of evidence. "And ripping the blouse."

"Hmm...Yeah." The scene was assembling itself, one piece after another forming a likely picture. "Then Ginny goes. Marjorie gets changed for bed. And then, someone else turns up." Glass shattered in his ears, faint footsteps clicked on the floor and grew ever closer. Had she been frightened or merely worried before taking her walking stick and confronting the stairs, whomever waited at the bottom? He felt his face lighting up, seeing more detail every second. "And that someone else...is the killer."

"Or..." Troy shook his head slightly. "Ginny comes back." But the words were uncertain.

"No no, I don't think Ginny Sharp's the murderer."

"Why not, sir?" Yes, Troy was uncertain, unsure what to make of the altered situation.

"Well, there's timing for a start." He nearly began to tick the thoughts off on his fingers. "And now we come back to the silver: why would she get rid of it over her own garden wall? No, it's got to be a crude attempt to incriminate her, doesn't it."

His sergeant was catching up, like he was witnessing the same scene. "By someone who knew Ginny'd had a bit of a barny with Marjorie that evening."

Exactly, Barnaby thought as he met Troy's gaze. "That...is very good, Troy."

Troy smiled, and Barnaby noted a touch of pride in the man's pale face. "Thank you, sir."

They fell into a comfortable, almost contemplative silence as they walked down the hall again, as expensively and drearily furnished as the rest of the house—more boring paintings and tables with run-of-the-mill trinkets—and Barnaby turned the new ideas over in his mind. Every step on the stairs was muffled by the thick, patterned rug. "But," he began, "it still leaves us with the question of who."

Reaching the foyer with its bloodied tile, he paused, hearing his sergeant almost stumble to a sudden stop behind him. Who? Who? And not just who had killed Marjorie Empson...It was one of the handful of words that had throbbed in his brain earlier in the week, the same questions that had skittered around for the intervening days, chasing their answers. They had surfaced and disappeared, again and again, which was too much to hope for now. More than once, he was certain the unhappiness was blatant, but Troy seemed not to notice. Too much else to think about, Barnaby decided.

His sergeant stepped around him carefully to leave the stairs, tucking his hands into his dark grey jacket pockets. Never anything out of place, Barnaby thought, and today was the same, even for just a few hours. A coat to match the shirt and a shirt to match the tie. Like he's playing a bloody part. No, probably not, he knew.

But for his ineptitude at driving, precision pervaded every corner of Troy's life, just rarely descending into chaos that was most often rectified immediately. All those years ago, when so many people remarked on his youth—civilians and coppers alike were almost amazed that he had attained the rank of detective sergeant so young—the man had breezed through the exams, completed the training with only a handful of comments in his file. Every line in his notebooks was clean and orderly, the statements he transcribed were neat. More than once, Barnaby had wondered what about murder offended the man more: the tragedy of a stolen life or the untidy reality of it. Time and again, though, the smallest bit of turmoil gleamed—an excited word here, a scowl of disgust there—at just the barest hints of disorder beneath the surface.

What had Joyce said? "You only know Sergeant Troy. She probably knows him better than either of us." As if that wasn't enough!

Beside him, breaking the silence, Troy said, "If you still think it has something to do with the Reading Club, sir, that should narrow it down some."

"Oh, really?" Barnaby grumbled, his mind drifting back to the Empson house. If Troy's conclusions were as precise as his notes, he might have already reached detective inspector.

"Sure." Troy had put the crime scene picture into one of those pockets and now he pulled it out, examining it with narrowed eyes. "The other members: Tamsin Proctor, Sandra Bradshaw, Lady Chetwood. Plus, Ginny Sharp can't be completely ruled out, even if she is telling the truth now."

"Don't forget anyone who might have found out about the Reading Club's actual purpose," Barnaby said, shrugging his shoulders stiffly. Their pool of suspects had hardly changed at all. On the floor before his eyes, she lay there again, her limbs crumpled and her skull broken beneath her walking stick. "Couldn't get very far without it," Troy had said, reporting his conversation with Dr. Bradshaw. It was more bitter, then, her life ended by the implement she required for her participation in village life.

"But if they'd had it under wraps for four years, sir—"

"The possibility can't be ruled out, Troy." Barnaby crossed his arms, pinning his tie to his shirt, as he walked ahead, crouching beside the scoured spot where the woman's head had lain. "Three husbands—including a stockbroker—kept in the dark and a pool man with an intimate knowledge of the stock market, for a start." He tapped his fingers against either side of his torso. "Selwyn Proctor, Dr. Bradshaw, Lord Chetwood, Harry Painter..." he muttered. "Even the best kept secrets are sometimes exposed...Can I see that again, Troy?"

"Surely you could toss Lord Chetwood, sir," Troy said, handing the photograph back as Barnaby reached up for it. "I'm not sure he still knows which end is up."

"What did his wife tell you?" Barnaby asked as he stood slowly, the world fading for only a moment in the rush of blood from his head. "No talent for hanging on to money? That's a motive right there." From the picture to the room, his eyes slid from one to the other. There was nothing left to see.

"I suppose."

Again, they were quiet, finally leaving the silent house; the mere sound of the latch catching on the door was alien. Dust was already settling on the remnants of SOCO's fingerprint powder, a grey film that would only thicken in the empty house. "Why don't you put Mrs. Hopkins on the list, then?" Troy said, finding the car keys. "She said Mrs. Empson begged her to join it, but it doesn't sound like she was in on it—the investing, I mean. What if she found out what the Reading Club really did?"

"And was angry enough to kill her friend?" He twisted his mouth, thinking as he walked on the rocky driveway. "Then why on earth would she go round to discover the body?"

The locks released with a click. "To deflect suspicion, sir," Troy said, resting an arm on the car's roof. "We've seen enough murderers cry over their victims."

Barnaby shook his head, opening the passenger door. "No, it's not right." He sat and pulled the door closed, glancing at his watch. "But that'll do for today, Troy. And that should leave you more than enough time for your cricket match." The foul churning in his stomach was back, refusing to settle.

Turning the key in the ignition after he settled into the driver's seat, Troy glanced to the car's clock as it came to life with glowing digital numbers. "Plenty, sir." He was already smiling.

"I hear Cully is coming out to watch you," Barnaby continued as he fastened his seat belt. "Good, clear day for it."

"Well, I thought I'd just—" He coughed, fiddled with the knot in his tie, looked away before he started again. "Thought I'd throw out the suggestion—"

"Oh, your idea, was it?" It could be one or the other, not both, and each possibility was as troubling as the other.

The man struggled with the buckle beside the gearshift like he'd never been in a car before. "It's nice to have someone you know on the sideline, that's all I thought."

"But I heard—it was her idea, Troy," Barnaby said, "not yours." He had long since worked on the assumption that those with nothing to hide offered contradictions; one did not reexamine and commit every detail to memory to no end. Teasing out the contradictions from the lies, that was the heart of the job, after all. But would his daughter lie about something so trivial? Going to see a cricket match, it was harmless, no matter who was playing. Discrepancy or falsehood or his mind just trying to latch onto something? None of the choices quelled the unhappiness.

Even as he shifted the car into drive, Troy shrank back into the seat. "I don't really remember whose idea it was, sir." The words came too quickly.

"There's no one else in Causton willing to come watch?"

Troy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, almost thumped them as he scowled. "My cousin and his wife." He glanced either way on the road before turning onto the pavement with a crunch of gravel, yanking the wheel rather more forcefully than needed. "I see enough of the pair of them when I visit my mum or grandmum three or four times a year."

"A spot of bad blood between you?"

"No," Troy sighed, taking his eyes away from the road for the first of what Barnaby was anticipated would be many times before the engine fell quiet in the station's car park. They swerved for a moment before the wheels were righted.

He gripped the door as he often did when Troy drove, though not quite yet with white knuckles. Better safe than sorry. "It doesn't sound like you're sure."

"He thinks his university degree is everything—and he likes to point it out to everyone." At the first bend in the road, the front wheels briefly crossed the center line.

"Come now, Troy: never discount family. They can't be that bad."

Troy shook his head with a wordless murmur of disgust. "He's still an arrogant git."

"You mean The Hawk won't sit on your shoulder when you have to endure their company?" God, that was still worth more than a few laughs: Troy's embarrassment as the comic slipped from the bone dry Investment Daily and his hurried denial of reading even a single issue as he described the hero with excited, if subdued, knowledge. "Well, he's this...private detective—who fights evil. And he can turn into a hawk, at night. He's got this amazing night vision..." "Can he fly?" "Only when he's a hawk."

"The two are as bad as that bloody Inspector Meredith." Barnaby recognized an unpleasant smile creeping across his sergeant's face as he slowed before turning onto the main road. "I wonder if he's made DCI yet?"

There had been spite in that last sentence. Barnaby could still see the pinched, vile face beneath shiny black hair as the chief constable's nephew sat in the incident room, organizing ideas into theories he held back for his own benefit. Buoyed up by his earth sciences degree, he had climbed the rungs of the hierarchy quicker than far more capable police constables who had entered the force directly, rather than after university. And the man was probably still coasting on that momentum. "Just drive, Troy," Barnaby grumbled, tossing the photograph back onto the dashboard. He loathed the mere thought of him.

The interior of the car was suddenly too warm from the heat of the day and the captured sun. Barnaby loosened his tie, the thick air finally easier to catch in his throat as Inspector Meredith faded. But then, it was back to the same problem. Calculated or chaotic, that was the question at hand. Was it choice, these meetings—pursuit of a lovely face, the thrill of the chase? Or was it chance putting in an appearance—maddening, rash decisions concluded before reason could catch up? And then, what of Cully? Sometimes willful to a fault—"I rang him this afternoon."—yet no stranger to quick, poorly considered actions. Barnaby did not doubt the role of fate in that first encounter, but what to make of its aftermath? What response to assign to whom?

Every possible solution was unpleasant, and he trusted no one to provide a clear answer. Or a damn answer at all.