ACT II

"To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing."
—Leo Buscaglia

Chapter 11: Distractions

No matter how bitter the station's coffee, Barnaby always took it in the same manner: black, no sugar. Most days it was tolerable, but some days it was like oil, thick and rank, as though it had been sitting on the hot plate for hours, which it usually had. This morning, it was well on its way to being not merely oil but crude oil. His cup had been rescued just in time.

The statements were strewn across his desk—rifled through and read yet again—for no reason. He could almost recite them all, even the final one offered by Ginny Sharp. Just in time, he thought, shuddering as he swallowed a mouthful of the dark brew, an unpalatable sheen glistening on its surface. Killed Sunday evening, discovered Monday morning, and as of this morning, Tuesday, they knew little more than her cause of death.

And then there was Lady Chetwood, murdered Monday afternoon. They had eliminated one suspect—Lord Chetwood—simply because of a mass of tourists. Not a damn bit of investigation, just the man's only good fortune in recent days. Everything was drying up, becoming stale.

"Good morning, sir."

Barnaby glanced up from his desk, the light voice unexpected. "Ah, morning, Audrey," he said. "I didn't know you were back today." Sergeant Brierley was always a pleasant person to see: newly promoted to detective sergeant, she was a woman bravely navigating what had until recently been a man's profession. And doing a hell of a job of it, too.

"Yes, sir," she said. Her face was tinted pink—probably from the sun—her blond hair even brighter, and she stood perfectly straight, invigorated by the time away. "Two weeks to the day."

"Good holiday?" Barnaby asked, shuffling the papers together, away from the mug. The smell alone might burn a hole through the pages.

"Of course. It's always nice to get a little time away from here."

"Indeed it is. There's a limit to how much human depravity one can endure." He shoved them into one of several manila files piled beside his pens. "Getting worse every day."

"Sir?"

Barnaby sighed, leaning back into his chair. Whenever he thought about Midsomer Market, his head almost throbbed. "They always seem to pile up. Our Midsomer murderers never know when to stop."

"That bad?" she asked, crossing her arms.

Might as well, he thought. A fresh set of ears often recognized something in even the most basic facts, or asked a new question to which familiarity blinded those assigned to a case. "We're already at three. Two bashed about the head—one of them drowned after that—and one pushed off a roof." The possibility would haunt him for some time: what could they have done to prevent Ginny Sharp's death? Was she murdered for speaking to them, for seeing something, for hearing something? Or for a reason known only to the murderer? "And," he continued, "with all three belonging to the same small group, there might be more coming. Only five—three murdered, another one intimidated, however subtly..."

Marjorie Empson, Ginny Sharp, Lady Chetwood, Tamsin Proctor, all targeted in some way. Four of the five, which left only Sondra Bradshaw untouched. Well, that's something to start with, he thought. Coincidences were never entered into the files or presented in court, but they were the genesis of many a final conclusion.

"What group, sir?"

"A reading club," Barnaby said, laughing quietly. "The Reading Club. Seems the only thing they were reading was the investment page."

"Is that their only connection?" Sergeant Brierley asked.

"The only unique one I can see," he said, standing and taking his suit coat from the back of his chair. The pounding in his head had not quite appeared today, and maybe it wouldn't. There was at least one person with answers. Even if he could not speak to the particulars of the Reading Club, Harry Painter probably knew enough to sort out what the hell to make of the shares. "Unless they all have secrets we still haven't found."

"Sir—"

"I've only got a moment, Audrey," he said, pulling on the coat.

"I'm just wondering, sir—" She paused, looking around for a moment—directly at Troy, then to him again. "Is something troubling Gavin?" she asked quietly, almost whispering. He barely heard her.

Barnaby shrugged his shoulders, ignoring the possibilities lurking at the edge of his mind. At his desk in the center of the squad room, the man's face was down, his gaze fixed on a neat stack of papers. "Nothing I know of." Plenty, I think. Troy twisted his wrist, looking at his watch, his pen tapping sharply against his desk. Impatience? Anticipation? Nervousness?

"He's hardly said a word to me all morning."

"A welcome change, isn't it?" Barnaby asked. Sergeant Brierley smiled, exhaling loudly. Relieved, Barnaby knew. During her first few years as a WPC in Causton CID, Troy had lavished more than a polite amount of attention on her. Even now, he occasionally crossed that boundary—but perhaps not now.

"Yes, but he didn't answer when I just said 'hello'."

"He might be focused on his work for once," he said, stopping to glance at Sondra Bradshaw's statement one last time. That'll be the day. He had heeded his wife's words and asked Troy nothing yesterday, neither a question about the match nor about Cully. And it might be better not to, for if he remained uncertain, he could not eliminate either possibility.

"It's not like him, sir," she said, her arms falling back to her sides. "Sometimes, I can't get him to stop talking to me long enough so I can answer my phone."

"Things can change when you're on holiday, sergeant." He slipped the statements back into the proper folder. "Even if you don't expect them to." Particularly when you don't expect them to, he thought. At times, Barnaby wondered if they believed him blind: Troy, Cully, his wife, all of them. His sergeant's garbled confusion, his daughter's near silence after conversation turned to Troy, his wife's refusal to see things as they were for god only knew what reason...And, really, what else had changed? "Ran into Cully last night, sir." "I met Gavin for a cup of tea." Nothing else: it all sprang from that.

"Aren't you the first to say no one ever does anything out of character?" Sergeant Brierley asked, drawing him back to CID. She was almost amused.

"Quite right," Barnaby said, stepping around his desk. "But I think you'll have to ponder it on your own." He had already wasted enough time this morning without running through an impending disaster yet again. Even without anyone's cooperation, he could call it that. "Troy!"

"Yes, sir?" he asked, looking up from his forms, across the squad room.

"Worry about that later," Barnaby said. The man didn't glance at Sergeant Brierley. That's certainly a change, he thought. "We are heading back to Midsomer Market."

Troy stood, shuffling the pages together, dropping his pen into an already filled cup on his desk. Putting on his coat—like nearly all of the non-uniformed men in the station, Barnaby as well, he often shed it during the day—his eyes were on the clock across the room.

"Something bothering you?" Barnaby asked, now wondering what the time was himself as he stood by Troy's desk. Sergeant Brierley had followed him, though why...

"No—"

"Good morning, Gavin," Sergeant Brierley said, almost grinning. It was rather funny, seeing Troy's skin redden for a moment; the man could be easily flustered, particularly by his own mistakes.

"Hello—Audrey," Troy said, tugging down the ends of his sleeves. "Are you back early?"

Barnaby chuckled quietly. "That's what I said."

"No," she said, rolling her eyes, "I was on holiday the full two weeks."

"Oh, right." And again, Troy's gaze moved to his watch.

"If you keep looking at your watch," Barnaby said, narrowing his eyes at that simple irritating, repetitious motion, "it's going to fly off your wrist."

Troy scowled at Barnaby, though it faded as he turned to Sergeant Brierley again. "Where did you go?"

"Blackpool. I think I got a little too much sun," she said, pushing a lock of hair away from her pink face—almost burnt—with an equally pink hand.

"That is the danger of trying to enjoy the seaside," Barnaby added, waiting for...nothing. The silence from Troy was surprising, for teasing—and occasionally even harassing—Sergeant Brierley had long been one of his preferred pastimes. No one ever acts out of character, he reminded himself. If they do, it's either character changing or a lie. And after more than five years partnered with Troy—it was impossible to tell. But if it was change...Barnaby almost shivered. Why else? "I think we'll have to leave you now, Audrey."

"Of course," she said. "Just wanted to make sure no one had forgotten about me."

"I doubt that would ever happen," Barnaby said as the woman smiled one last time before walking away. And again, Troy paid her no attention. "I'm impressed."

"Uh, about what, sir?" he asked, shaking his head—like he was interrupted. Why?

"You've ignored Audrey all morning. I thought I'd never see that day." His sergeant opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Barnaby went on. He neither wanted nor needed to hear anything the man meant to say now. "Midsomer Market, Troy. It's time for us to settle these shares."

"Fine." The word was clipped, almost irritated.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing. I just hope you know something about the stock market I don't, sir," Troy said, checking his watch again.

What is it? Barnaby thought. There was no use in asking; he wouldn't receive a straight answer. "Only what it feels like to lose money," he said darkly, wishing once more he'd never seen that paper.

"I don't need the stock market for that, sir."

"Nor do I," Barnaby continued as they left the squad room, walking into the hall. It overflowed with people: uniformed officers carrying statements and complaints, plainclothes detectives returning from or preparing for interviews. Navigating the corridor was the perennial challenge—at least during the day—dodging bodies crowned with focused faces and eyes too occupied to observe the madness before them, trying distinguish thoughts from mere noise until the door at the far end swung open to freedom. "But, I believe we do know someone in Midsomer Market who has some idea—how to decipher this." His last words were lower, no longer battling with a dozen other voices. "One currency trader turned pool man."

"Harry Painter?" Troy asked as the mass of police officers and their chatter faded away.

"You have a better idea, Troy?" His sergeant didn't answer. "And it's time we had another conversation with Dr. Bradshaw. Or both of them, if we can manage it."

Barnaby was silent as they left the building, entering the car park. What were they to make of Sondra Bradshaw and her fortunate escape from the murderer's schemes? Coincidence—mere chance—or something more? God, how had he missed that possibility until now? She claimed near ignorance of the Reading Club's net worth when she should have been keenly aware of it, and had cautiously offered a figure, like she knew very little. "All the paperwork is at Marjorie's." Like she gave them all the information she possessed. Yet yesterday, she had told Troy, "Marjorie was in charge of the admin, I just—did the sums." A contradiction hid there, if a small one: doing the sums, seeing all the details, yet pretending she knew only as much as the others who regarded the stock market as a foreign language.

"Do you think he knows more than he's telling, sir?" Troy asked when they reached the car, all the doors opening with a click of the remote on his keyring.

"At the very least about Maureen Carter, I suspect," Barnaby said, narrowing his eyes at the man. He didn't know what he expected: a flinch, a breaking of eye contact, a scowl...But there was nothing in response, except perhaps a little impatience. And another look at his watch. "What is on your mind, Troy?"

There was the change; Troy looked away, and Barnaby heard the keys rattling in his hand. "Nothing much, sir," Troy said. "I'm just wondering how Cully's audition is going."

"What audition?" What was it? There was something just below the surface, something he should remember. The monologue...

"For the playhouse," Troy added. "I think she said it was supposed to start about now."

It is the right time, Barnaby thought, opening the door and sinking into the passenger seat. Another thing that had slipped his mind. "Very well, I expect. I'm sure there won't be any news for at least a of couple days." He almost slammed the door as Troy sat and turned the key in the ignition. Troy had remembered and he had forgotten. He frowned as the car jerked forward, his seat belt tightening across his chest. It was meant to be the other way around.

"Pygmalion, isn't it?"

"Dr. and Mrs. Bradshaw, Troy," Barnaby said, clenching his fingers on the door, "let's just worry about the Bradshaws."

"Right." Troy glanced out his window, then turned with a screech of the tires, almost slamming into a car in the far lane.

After the car's horn stopped echoing in his ears, Barnaby began to breathe again. "It's a miracle you haven't killed us yet. Have you looked into the driving course?"

"No, sir." Troy's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "I haven't had the time."

Haven't had the time, Barnaby repeated to himself. And there would never be any time for it at this rate. Precisely one week on, and it was impossible to determine who was worse off: his daughter—unwilling to do much more than admit she had met Troy for whatever reason—or his sergeant—his tongue more awkward than ever and distracted by goings-on that, in the end, had nothing to do with him. Or shouldn't.

Each of them belonged in a different part of his life: Cully was his daughter, Troy was his sergeant. His job and his family were destined never to intersect. Cully and Troy had both ignored that distinction before, and what had it been? An utter catastrophe. He still remembered her eyes the next morning, empty and furious, her voice both flat and quivering as she sat at the kitchen table drinking her tea. But Troy...a few moments of uncomfortable silence after questions he preferred not to answer, the empty space filled with a meaningless string of comments about crime scene and forensic reports. Not really a surprise at all that Troy wanted to say nothing now.

Sometimes, Barnaby wondered if he should feel any guilt at all, because he didn't. He never had, not even when he had seen his daughter that morning. It was the inevitable consequence of experiencing no regret. And in the end, the whole mess was confined to three or so months, from that play and his wife's amusement to his daughter's anger and Troy's refusal to say anything about it. At least if he forgot the even briefer madness at the rope course that neither Troy nor Cully had openly discussed.

Maybe it was better to hear nothing directly about it, for the thought alone left him feeling slightly ill. But the present, the suffocating stillness was no better—worse, really. It couldn't be avoided. Again. "Troy," Barnaby said, clearing his throat, "about Cully—"

"What about her, sir?" Troy said crisply. His face still revealed nothing.

"God, use your head! Do you need me to go through all that—"

"No, sir, I don't." Troy looked at the rear-view mirror, though not over his left shoulder, as he changed lanes. "Why do you want to talk to Dr. Bradshaw?"

Barnaby's hand tightened further on the door handle, all four of the car's wheels somehow remaining in contact with the tarmac. If that was the only miracle today, he would be grateful. He was not religious enough to hope for any more. "So you'll remember what I said then—"

"What's so important about Dr. Bradshaw?"

He drew a deep breath when the car lurched forward. Then later, he thought. The words could not remain unsaid forever. "Dr. Bradshaw...He is the village doctor," he said. "He knew more than we thought about Ginny Sharp. And who knows what else."

"Surely you don't think he's involved, sir," Troy said, leaning forward to see around a hedge as the car came to a sudden stop.

"Why not?"

Troy shrugged his shoulders, finally depressing the accelerator roughly. "Well, he's the village doctor—"

"So you've already forgotten Dr. Shipman*?"

"Who?" Troy asked, after a moment.

He didn't remember. "Dr. Harold Shipman, up north, in Hyde," Barnaby said, closing his eyes. The doctor's picture had headlined newspapers for weeks: a balding middle-aged man with a grey beard, dull glasses on his nose, vacant and heartless eyes staring through the lenses. Plain and entirely unremarkable, as they so often managed to be.

"Hang on—"

"Yes, GP and serial murderer. Convicted of fifteen a couple years back, but they're certain he's responsible for over two hundred fifty deaths."

Troy whistled lowly as he twisted the steering wheel. "That'll make you think twice about calling for an appointment."

"Not that I'm expecting Dr. Bradshaw is involved," Barnaby said. The possibility remained, but it didn't fit. "I think our case is more straightforward."

"That's a first."

"Yes." The time was nagging at him as well, now, his daughter's audition suddenly in the front of his mind. And Troy, whose head was sometimes worse than a sieve, had remembered it, not him! "But it's always the same, these villages. It's like an unwritten agreement."

"How do you mean, sir?"

"You said it yourself: never the truth the first time around from anyone." Barnaby drummed his fingers on the door, the trees alongside the road blurring into a mass of green and brown, leaves indistinct, branches and trunks muddled, almost invisible. He would have to ask Cully about the audition tonight, if he didn't forget again. "We never get a clear answer or the whole truth. Everyone has something to hide."

* A real doctor and serial murderer: convicted in 2000, hanged himself in 2004, and all details included are true. (At least according to Wikipedia; I don't feel like breaking out my copy of The Encyclopedia of Serial Killers.)