Chapter 33: Slow Going
With just the touch of a finger to the proper speed dial button, the empty sound of an outgoing phone call began. Several rings echoed before Barnaby lost his patience. He pressed his finger to the switch that rested beneath the earpiece, then dialed the number again; this time, he did so manually, reading it from the string of numbers on the speed dial list. Once again, the ringing began—
"Detective Sergeant Troy, and I cannot take your phone call. Leave your name, number, and a message—"
Barnaby dropped the receiver for good. If Troy was not answering his phone now, there was no point in recording a message for him. "Suppose I'll never know if you've got the thing to hand when I don't need you here," he said. Sitting back in his chair, Barnaby stretched, extending his arms straight over his head. The squad room at CID was almost black, just his own desk lamp and the far off lights of on-call constables breaking apart the shadows.
Troy's small journal and his other notes lay scattered across Barnaby's desk: legible, complete, and entirely factual. His sergeant had listed what this witness said, what SOCO uncovered at that scene..."I suppose I can thank you for proper notes, Troy," Barnaby muttered. The page was full of facts and observations, no comments about meaning or deductions interrupting the flow of information. "And no dubious leaps of logic."
Yet, really, it was only reminding him of everything he already knew. Of course Sally Rickworth had looked in on the elderly man who had just perished from pneumonia. Of course she had just been in an accident caused by drink-driving. Of course the break-in at Raif Canning's veterinary surgery had provided someone in the community with lethal barbiturates and syringes. Troy's only note that was not merely fact was that the burglary there was more than coincidental. Hardly a leap like his comments about other break-ins.
God, please—no reminders about that...He shuddered at the thought of it. The investigation was more than languishing: it had stalled entirely. "Not the thing to worry about right now," he said, leafing through the pages in Troy's notebook. Always so precise. But there was nothing there he did not know, nothing he had missed in his own observations. Reminders were always useful, but rereading everything he recalled was useless.
Pushing Troy's notebook aside, Barnaby reached for the piece of paper on which he had scribbled a few lines earlier that evening when, out of the blue, Liz Keyne had phoned. As he had picked up the telephone receiver, he had anticipated any other voice but hers.
His office phone only let out a couple of rings before he lifted the receiver from the cradle. "Barnaby."
At first, a shaky breath greeted him. "Chief Inspector Barnaby?" a woman asked quietly.
"Yes," he said, leaning forward. Who— But of course... "Mrs. Keyne?"
"Yes—" Liz Keyne began, but she said nothing after that.
"Mrs. Keyne?"
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't—"
"No, no," Barnaby said, almost stumbling over the words as he reached for a piece of paper and a pen. "Is there something you needed?"
"Nothing I need, but..."
Crushing his ear to the receiver to hold it against his shoulder and free his hand, Barnaby ripped the cap from the pen. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"
"Yes," she said after a moment, then paused again. "Tomorrow...The bailiff is coming."
"The bailiff?" He scribbled a few words on the paper: Keynes: bailiff tomorrow
"Adam—Adam bankrupted us. He put everything we had into the car business..."
"Yes," Barnaby said quietly, nodding as he did. She could easily stop talking, stop offering up the information he needed—more than ever, he needed that information.
"And the bailiff is coming tomorrow, to collect for the creditors."
"That soon?"
"Yes."
The bailiff shouldn't be that much to worry about, he thought, his hand still poised above the paper, waiting for her next statement. "Is—there anything you want to tell me about the bailiff?"
"I don't know," she said. Barnaby heard scuffing—shoes on a wooden floor?—and then a door closing. "There were a couple of them at the door yesterday—or maybe a few days ago—shouting that the next time, it would be the bailiff."
"And that worries you?" He added to his notes: cred. came to door recently, mentioned bailiff
Liz Keyne said nothing for several seconds, and her final word was as worried as her first. "Yes."
Before she rang off, Mrs. Keyne had provided all the information she had about the bailiff's visit the next day: his name, office address, and office phone number. Even after a number of gentle but persistent questions, she had refused to provide a real reason for her fear, just mumbling, "Maybe he changed his mind." And then, nothing. But what she had said, that was less than real—it was ridiculous. Barnaby knew well that fear could easily overrule reason and logic...but he would speak with her again tomorrow. It could wait.
Scowling as he looked over the notes about the bailiff and Adam Keyne's creditors once more, Barnaby said, "No one's favorite person." Edwyn Hackett, he read again, picking up his pen as he scanned the details about the man. No matter what one's experience, no one liked the bailiff. Through some combination of good planning and good fortune, he and Joyce had never carried debt beyond car loans and mortgages. Even the possibility of assisting Cully with her university tuition had not made an impact, for she had won exhibition to Cambridge. Yet even with his own reasonably good financial past, he disliked the bailiff.
Yet, if he was honest, Barnaby couldn't recall a criminal incident that implicated one. The bailiff was probably more at risk than the general population, though he did not recall an incident targeting one, either—really targeting one. On the few instances a bailiff had become a victim, he or she had been targeted as a person.
Pushing the thought aside, Barnaby lifted the phone receiver again, turning the pen around to swiftly dial the series of numbers provided by Liz Keyne. The ringing began in his ear, going on and on until an answering machine took over. "This is the off—" He slammed the receiver down before the greeting finished. Lifting his eyes—and not allowing them to linger on Troy's empty desk—Barnaby glanced to the clock: gone ten at night. No surprise, he thought, but the irritation still rose in his throat. It was like the burning bile he had endured for years before Joyce finally sent him to the doctor to get it sorted.
"No one's around to answer their phones," he said, now smacking the end of his pen against the piece of paper with his new notes. Might as well be on my way home...But it was too curious, too interesting, too tempting. If he did return home, the possibility of the bailiff would refuse to leave him alone, not until he chased down that lead. At home, he would merely toss and turn and annoy Joyce as she tried to sleep.
Throwing down the pen and standing quickly, Barnaby made his way around his desk, one of his knees popping as he did. Though he had fewer and fewer instances to need the phone directory—as the number of mobiles increased, the number of listings seemed to decrease—the squad room always had the latest edition. It sat on the shelf across the room, collecting dust and rarely being removed. But it was all he had for the moment; as he walked toward that shelf, he tried to hold his hope in check.
Pulling the flimsy book down, Barnaby returned to his desk and reached for his reading glasses. Laying the directory on top of the strewn papers, he opened it to the middle, first coming across the I section. He flipped through the pages, through the Hy- section, the extremely small Hs- section, and the much larger Ho- section before impatience again overtook him. The next search brought him to a page headed Gi- that was filled with innumerable numbers for Gibbons and Gifford in the midst of other rarer names. Rifling through a smaller number of pages this time, Barnaby finally found himself at Hab-, then quickly Hac-. He pressed his finger to the list of minute text, his eyes scanning the names as they appeared.
When Hackett appeared, Barnaby released a deep breath: more than a dozen were listed. It's too late for this, he thought. But he ran his finger farther down...and there. Only one Edwyn was among them. Lifting the phone receiver from the cradle on his desk, Barnaby pressed the series of digits with a few quick and practiced motions.
The dull—and now very familiar—ringing in his ear went on a few times before the background noise of a house replaced it. The sound of labored breathing and then harsh coughing replaced it. Finally, a woman with a low, rough voice said, "Hello?" And she sounded none too happy.
"Good evening," Barnaby said, taking up his pen again. "Could I speak to Mr. Hackett, please?"
"For god's sake," the woman snapped, "it's the middle of the night—"
"This is Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby with the Midsomer Constabulary," he said, not waiting for her to finish. But once he rattled off his title, Barnaby paused to consider the silence at her end of the line. He supposed she wore the face he often saw when approaching men and women on streets and in offices, that almost indescribable mixture of confusion and fear. "And I need to speak to Mr. Hackett in connection with an official inquiry."
"Bloody hell. Someone's bitching about a repossession, are they?"
"I need to speak to him about a murder inquiry"—she cleared her throat, trying to pretend it was simply another cough—"and a subsequent disappearance." She was again silent, so Barnaby continued: "Mr. Hackett, if you could."
He heard shuffling deep in his ear. "Ed!" The name was muffled, like she had pressed her hand over the mouthpiece. "Move your arse down here, there's a copper on the phone for you!" Then, louder, she said, "Give him a minute, he's a lazy bastard."
A few seconds passed before Barnaby heard the thudding of feet on a set of stairs, then a faint stream of foul words. There was a quick breath, then a raspy male voice asking, "What do you need?"
"I am DCI Barnaby with the Midsomer Constabulary—"
"I haven't done anything I'm not authorized to do."
Barnaby shook his head. The guilty man... he thought. "So I presumed—"
"You can check the records however much you like—"
"I am not concerned—"
"—and you won't find anything else."
Barnaby clenched his right hand, almost tightening the fingers into a fist around his pen. "I'm not concerned with your business, Mr. Hackett—"
"Then what do you want?"
"I'm hoping to speak to you about Adam Keyne," Barnaby said, loosening his hand.
"Oh."
"Just Adam Keyne, Mr. Hackett," Barnaby said, not for the first time wondering what might be twisting about inside another man's skull.
"He's a deadbeat, that's what he is," Hackett said after another few moments, sounding calmer than he had throughout their entire conversation. "About all you need to know, I think."
"What can you tell me about him—really tell me about him?"
"Started a business selling cars a few years back. No business sense to go along with it. Not a penny to his name."
Barnaby scribbled down a few quick words. started car bus. sev. years ago "All of that seems to be public knowledge. What else do you know about him?"
"It's all in me records," Hackett said quickly. "Can't bother to memorize everything about all the debtors sent to me."
"Do you have your records with you?"
" 'Course not. Keep them at the office."
"I need to look at them," Barnaby said, dropping his pen on the paper. Useless man. "I assume you have a list of his creditors?"
"You know I do."
"I would like to see it."
"I'll be at the office tomorrow—"
"I would like to see it now, if you could." Even as he spoke, Barnaby was standing again, reaching for his jacket with his free hand.
"It's almost eleven—"
"Tonight, please," Barnaby added, pulling the jacket from the chair back. Liar, too. It was hardly half-past ten.
Silence replaced the man's protests, then a deep sigh. "All right, all right." There was another moment of quiet before Hackett continued. "You got the address?"
"From Adam Keyne's wife."
"I thought you did. Nice woman, they've all said. Just stuck with an idiot—"
"How long until you can get to your office?" He had no patience for this.
Hackett let out another sigh. "I can meet you in half an hour."
"Thank you," Barnaby said, scowling as he spoke. "At eleven, then." Not waiting for anything else, he dropped the receiver back on the cradle.
With both hands free, Barnaby tugged his jacket on, easily maneuvering his arms through the sleeves. As it settled on his shoulders, he reached for the same pen and paper he had been using before. One of those times Troy would actually come in handy, he thought. Eyeing the phone on his desk, Barnaby muttered, "Oh, hell."
He lifted the receiver once more, then pressed the same speed dial button as before. But now, the line did not even ring. Instead, a gentle and grating woman's voice began the standard greeting: "073 493 8457 is not available. To leave a message—"
"Oh, damn." Dropping the receiver with a clatter of plastic, Barnaby shoved the pen and paper into his right-hand pocket. Go on without him. Troy could grumble about the state of the notes tomorrow morning...and only have himself to blame.
The bailiff—tall and slim with thinning blond hair—was standing beneath the front lamp of the building sucking down a fag when Barnaby arrived at his office. Edwyn Hackett didn't even offer a greeting, instead throwing down the cigarette and grinding the orange embers into ash. He nodded harshly at Barnaby as he thrust his key into the building's lock, slamming the outside handle into the wall as he threw the door open.
"Couldn't wait a few more hours," Barnaby heard Hackett mutter, though he had the impression that the words were intentionally audible. With the layer of stubble covering his entire face and the longer hair carefully shaped into a small beard on the tip of his chin—and the stench of cigarette smoke clinging to him—Barnaby had to push back the desire to look the man up in the Midsomer Constabulary's records the following day. No reason, he reminded himself. And he shouldn't begrudge the man for hating to be out of bed at such an hour on such short notice.
"What contact have you had with Mr. Keyne?" Barnaby asked, stepping into the building behind the bailiff. So far as he could detect, Hackett put forth no effort to make room for him, and the door almost slammed on Barnaby's heels.
"Couple of phone calls, that's all."
"And you have scheduled a time to—see him?"
"Going tomorrow, as you know," Hackett said, opening the door to the stairwell just inside. Whether out of choice or necessity, the building had no lift; either way, Barnaby had never thought of bailiffs as particularly well-off businessmen. And the building itself had not appeared particularly tall, so perhaps a lift was not even considered in the planning. "Don't think he'll have much left when I'm done with him."
"It's that bad?" Barnaby asked as they reached the landing and the door that opened to the first floor...but went onwards and upwards.
"The man doesn't spend money. He burns it." As they reached the second floor, he continued, "Got no one left to lend him one quid." Hackett yanked open the door to the second floor hallway—it almost slammed closed before Barnaby could set foot on the carpet—and jerked his wrist around to look at the time on his watch. "Look, is this going to take—"
"Mr. Hackett, this is a murder inquiry."
"Murder?" Hackett said, the word mixing into a wild laugh. "Can't imagine anyone killing him over money—"
"Mr. Keyne is not dead, to my knowledge," Barnaby said, swallowing his irritation as he followed Hackett. It was hardly his fault that he did not know what had gone on in the investigation if the woman who had answered the phone—his partner, Barnaby supposed—had said nothing of it to him.
As they reached the office door itself, Hackett turned back. The door handle squealed as it turned and the hinges squeaked like they had never been oiled. "Then why—"
"However, a close friend of his is dead and Mr. Keyne is currently missing."
"Then why are you bothering me over it?"
Dear god, Barnaby thought, wanting nothing more than to draw out his words like he was speaking to a three year-old. "Thoroughness."
"My tax money hard at work." The words were, again, muttered rather loudly. Definitely intentional. Par for the course, Barnaby just made it through the door before it slammed closed, the sound thudding through an apparently empty building. Hackett was already at his desk, pawing through several thick manila folders. Several times, he licked his fingers before pushing the corner of a page out of the way. Working his way through the files seemed to calm him, for his words settled to a whisper and what little Barnaby was able to hear sounded like comments about what sort of document each page was.
Barnaby was almost missing Troy, his second pair of eyes—he was much improved since his first years, if still not quite discerning enough for to merit a promotion—when Hackett finally made a sensible sound. "Ah, here we are," the man said. "Might be what you're looking for. I've got a list of the fools who handed him money to torch."
Swiftly running his eyes over the names, Barnaby frowned; he didn't even know what he was hoping to find! "Are you familiar with these gentlemen?" he asked. The sentence just finished, he added, "And ladies?"
"Most of them," Hackett said, dropping into his desk chair with a loud thud. "Worked with most of them more than once." Only moments after sitting, he rolled the chair back with a foot, then settled both heels firmly on the edge of his desk and grinned, like his work was finished.
Git, Barnaby thought as he began at the top of the list another time, trying not to remember how comfortable it was to be stretched out as Hackett was. "Are there any who aren't on this list? Any who are being more patient with him?"
"No, can't think of any who wouldn't be. That's most of the ones what are in the area—and a few big ones in London." Hackett lifted his head briefly, nodding toward the list in Barnaby's hands. "He's run out of ones willing to talk to him."
"But they've all come to you?"
"The local ones," Hackett said, shrugging his shoulders. "The bigwigs might be biding their time. Not as pressed for cash to lend out, you know." A harsh laugh escaped his mouth. "Lucky bastards."
"And what is your opinion of those you've had contact with?" Barnaby asked, his fingers crinkling the paper in his hand.
There was another laugh. "They just want their money back. They're pros, not loan sharks. Just proper businessmen."
"And businesswomen."
"Well, there's no accounting for some things, is there?"
God. "Women have been in the public sphere for decades."
The man shrugged his shoulders again. "Like I said—"
"And they are more than capable of making their own decisions—including in business."
Hackett's feet dropped to the floor, landing heavily. "Look, are we done here? Got to get ready for my job at Keyne's tomorrow."
"Do you have copies of all this?" Barnaby asked, holding up the list.
"A few official ones. Need 'em all—"
"Do you have a few minutes to create an unofficial copy for me?" The chief inspector held the paper out to the bailiff.
Reaching for it, Hackett let out a loud breath. "Sure." He snatched the paper back and turned around to what appeared to be a greyish shelf covered with a messy stack of papers. As he picked them up in several batches, Barnaby realized they had been concealing a photocopy machine. With the top uncovered, Hackett placed the first page face-down and pressed the illuminated round button to begin the copying. The process went quickly, with Hackett not even bothering to close the machine, instead continuously turning round to swap old pages for new as the glow of the lamp traversed the length of the glass. When the last was finished, Hackett handed them over without a paperclip, staple, or file to keep them together.
"Thank you," Barnaby said, shuffling the edges to bring them into a neater stack. The first, at least, was legible.
"Always happy to help an investigation," Hackett said, returning the enormous pile of papers to the top of his copier.
Barnaby dropped his eyes to the floor, unable to say anything else while looking at the man; he might break into a laugh. "I'm sure you are." Just as quickly, he looked up again. "I may need to discuss things with you further, if I am unable to speak with Mr. Keyne in the near future."
Hackett was already pulling his keys from his pocket. "You know where to find me tomorrow—be there around noon." And he was heading for the door as well.
"Do you know for how long?"
"However long it takes. A lot of things to pack up." He wore a grin as he reached the door, opening and standing aside; Barnaby didn't wait for any other hints. "Auctioneer'll be keen to see it all."
"Naturally."
Hackett turned his left wrist over, bringing the face of his watch up. "Are you sure we're finished here? Can't be out too much longer."
"Yes, I think we are," Barnaby said as he stepped into the hallway. "Thank you for your help."
In an instant, Hackett had the door locked and was strolling down the hallway. "Always happy to help the coppers."
Barnaby didn't bother to try to keep up with the man's pace, for surely the door to the street locked automatically at this time of night. "I only hope it will be easier in the future."
Only a faint, muttered response came: "What do you think?"
In his office once again—refusing to look at the clock—Barnaby immediately began to shift through the photocopies. A few were blurred—Hackett had pulled them off the glass before the machine was finished—but even those were decipherable. Among the papers were lists, invoices, bills, legal documents...any number of things proving Hackett's legal rights when he arrived at the Keyne house the following day to take possession of most of the household goods. "No point in him doing anything to the man."
And there was no point in the creditors doing anything of the like, either. With all the paperwork in order, they would have had little reasonable doubt that Hackett was the best person to return at least a portion of their money. For such businessmen and businesswomen— Businesspeople, I suppose, Barnaby thought—that would be revenge enough. "They're pros, not loan sharks." It was true; otherwise, they'd be out of business.
There was nothing—absolutely nothing—in these papers. "Damn," Barnaby whispered. This much time, this late at night, entirely wasted. His mind was muddled, ready to tear things apart rather than piece them together. One more set of eyes could make the difference—it didn't really matter whom they belonged to. And without a conscious thought, Barnaby's hand drifted to the phone on his desk, and he had already lifted the receiver and pressed the speed dial button for Troy's mobile phone. Even Troy—
"073 493 8457 is not available. To leave a message—"
Barnaby flung the receiver back onto the cradle. "Oh, hell," he whispered. Never was Troy unreachable—well, rarely. Without a wife (now), children (Barnaby assumed), or girlfriend (he hoped) to worry about, Troy could always be counted upon to at least answer his bloody phone!
"She's out," he heard Joyce say again with that smile creeping across her face. "She's got a new boyfriend. Actually, I think he's a policeman, too."
"No, no, no!" Barnaby growled to himself. No use keeping silent, for there was no one else in the squad room, perhaps in the whole of CID apart from those unfortunates on the overnight shift. He would not consider it—he could not.
But just— No. Just worry about this.
Four times in the span of just a couple of hours, Troy had failed to answer his phone, to acknowledge that his presence might well be required at some moment inconvenient for him. Four times in one day! Barnaby thought, the acid beginning to rise in his stomach. Heartburn had left him alone for years—and he didn't want it resurging now. But he would give it one last go...
As he reached for the phone, Barnaby's eyes narrowed: a number was listed on the tiny screen above the column of speed dial buttons, a call he had missed. 073 4— "Oh, for the love of..." It was a missed call from Troy, but with no accompanying message. While I was Hackett's office, Barnaby thought. Why didn't you ring my mobile, Troy? Pulling the small phone from his pocket, he yanked it open—not a single missed call. Barnaby hadn't really expected one—his phone was never off or silenced—but it didn't calm the growing ire.
He didn't even touch the receiver this time, but instead pressed the button for speaker phone, quickly followed by the speed dial for Troy's mobile. The response was the same: "073 493 8457 is not—" Lifting it for only a moment, the chief inspector slammed the receiver down, silencing the robotic female voice. Putting me out on my own are you, Troy? Barnaby thought, fighting the desire to quell the churning acid with one of those chocolate bars Joyce still quietly forbade. After all, the chocolate machine was just a short walk away in the canteen—and if no one was around to see it...
"No time for that." Forgetting the chocolate bar and instead letting that acid churn to settle itself, Barnaby again began the long process of reading through Troy's notes. No matter how many times he looked through what the man wrote down, Barnaby always found himself overwhelmed by some varying combination of gratitude and pity. Every sentence was so straightforward, so factual...and so unexamined. Which was still for the best, given Troy's propensity for leaping to conclusions. "He'll grow out of it eventually," Barnaby said, turning over one page that he had read more times than he cared to recall. "Or he had better do."
With every new line of precise writing that Barnaby reread, Troy faded from his mind, and Malham's woes returned: the death of the old man, the notes, the drink-driving accident of Sally Rickworth, the break-in at Raif Canning's surgery, the death of Melissa, the disappearance of Adam Keyne...One tiny village with so many troubles and so many secrets. Just like all of the Midsomer villages—
"Oh, to hell with it." Barnaby almost threw the papers across his desk. Might as well try to get some sleep, he thought, standing from his chair and straightening the ends of his jacket sleeves. It would all be clearer in the morning.
A/N: Did my best to research this bailiff procedure in the UK. I freely acknowledge that there may be inaccuracies. I also tried my best with UK phone numbers, both in coming up with a unique area code and actually getting the format right. UK phone numbers are certainly not like numbers on the NANP. (And yes, a digit is intentionally missing...or at least I hope so.)