ACT IV

"We are often unable to tell people what they need to know because they want to know something else."
—George MacDonald

Chapter 34: Seizing the Wheel

After a few hours of sleep—sufficient, if not ideal, and its quality left him wanting more—Barnaby woke to a dull throb in the front of his skull. In those few early moments, it rapidly worked its way forward, settling into the bridge of his nose. He clenched his eyes in a desperate hope to quell that pain and possibly snatch a few more precious minutes of rest, but already his mind was whirring, turning over the events of the previous evening…those limited minutes and hours wasted in finding nothing but confirmation of his missing man's incompetence and another's misogyny.

He had arrived home a few minutes after midnight, barely taking the time to change into his nightclothes before collapsing into bed; the thought of disturbing Joyce hadn't even crossed his mind. The realization now left Barnaby with a twinge of guilt, and he took far greater care than usual as he sat up and set his feet on the floor with a few creaks of his joints. If he had woken her, she had said nothing, but he dared not chance it this morning.

Dressing was at first haphazard, rather than his usual precise routine: his shirt buttons were off by one and his tie was askew when he made his first attempt to walk out the bedroom door. No wonder, he thought, finally glancing at the clock on his bedside table as he finally made it out of the master bedroom. Though sunlight was already peeking through the window, it was just gone six. "Ghastly hour," he whispered as he softly closed the door...and the floor squealed beneath his shoes.

When he at last reached the kitchen, Barnaby didn't even bother to touch the kettle, instead pouring only a glass of water. Tea could wait until he reached the station...as could breakfast. In spite of himself and his lingering headache, Barnaby was already looking forward to a proper breakfast at the canteen: eggs, sausage, bacon, and toasted—almost singed—white bread with lashings of butter. Wholemeal bread and brown-tinged eggs were for Joyce's breakfasts.

His glass of water finished, Barnaby set it beside the sink, the first of the day's dishes to be washed. Removing his keys from the hook, he let himself out into the cool morning air, pulling the door closed as gently as possible with a palm against the wood to muffle the sound.

The drive through town was far easier than usual, as the roads bore only a fraction of their typical volume of cars. All that held him up was the occasional traffic signal, though often there was no car waiting to cross in front of him. It was in those moments that he found himself turning things over in his mind again—now not the case, but everything else that had transpired the previous night.

"Troy," he hissed, thumping his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the red light to turn. A reminder might be in order; there was no excuse for not answering one phone call after another. "For all he knew, could've been another body. Adam Keyne." But...it hadn't been another body, Adam Keyne or otherwise, just a rather unhelpful man who appeared to dwell on the side of the angels by only a hair. Perhaps his sergeant would have the last laugh after all.

As the last of the cross traffic skittered through the intersection, Barnaby made his own way through, coming down rather harder than he meant to on the accelerator...

CID was almost as it had been when he last left: the night constables were still at their desks—this time awaiting the end of their shifts—but the daytime constables were already trickling in to man their stations. "Good morning," Barnaby muttered as he passed them, receiving a few greetings of "Morning, Chief Inspector" in return. Not quite half past six when he reached his desk, Barnaby first grabbed the pages he had received from Hackett the night before, ready to scour them for anything that might be useful. "There must be something..."

He tossed the first sheet of paper aside, not bothering to give it more than a cursory glance; useless last night, useless this morning, no doubt.

But his stomach was already complaining, and his mind was still foggy with the lack of sleep and the absence of a cup of coffee or tea. Hackett's reluctant information would have to wait to give up its hidden treasures.

After a wonderful, warm breakfast of scrambled eggs, two pieces each streaky bacon and sausage, that delicious white toast dripping with butter, and a final addition of a modest portion of beans, Barnaby was back at his desk with a mug of black coffee. In the end, he had required something stronger than tea; the coffee was bitter as always and the oil still shimmered on the surface, but it was warm. A few minutes after the first sip, he was more alert despite the heavy meal he had just taken. Or perhaps, the Panadol tablets he had chased with a glass of water were already beginning to do their work.

Barnaby returned his eyes to the photocopies on his desk, leafing through them between sips of coffee, occasionally jumping over to his sergeant's precise and entirely descriptive notes. As much as he almost hoped it would be otherwise, the facts laid bare in the bailiff's notes—Keyne's financial woes, the impending consequences—were each corroborated. Hackett might be an unsavory man, but he at least he appeared an honest one. Yet, without anything more to look at, whether proper information or the slightest rumor, he could do nothing. "A job for Troy," Barnaby said, leaning into his chair as his back cracked and another twinge of pain pulsed beneath his skull. "A bloody good one."

Just as the night before, he jabbed the speed dial labeled troy mobile. And, just as the night before, he was greeted by a robotic female voice. "073 493 8457 is not available. To—"

"Oh, hell," he hissed, pressing his thumb against the switch, waiting only a moment before he dialed the number again. The response was exactly the same. "You can't do this, Troy." He again ended the call without leaving a message, nearly throwing the receiver back onto the cradle.

"Only one way." This time, Barnaby reached for his cell phone; as both he and Troy had begun to rely more and more on their mobiles, he had removed his sergeant's home phone number from his office speed dial, the more room for the expanding laboratory divisions that always seemed to accept only direct contact. But deleting it entirely had seemed a foolish endeavor. There had been no point in trying Troy's home the previous night: Cully's rehearsal had certainly been ongoing and, given his sergeant's tendency to provide his daughter with a ride home each evening, Troy had surely not been at home. But now..."You had better be, Troy."

As soon as the contact list appeared on his mobile phone's screen, Barnaby scrolled far down, almost to the end: troy home. With just as much ferocity as before, he pressed that green button. Now, at least, he was guaranteed to hear a ring...and he did. One after another, going on and on...until the noise abruptly stopped. At first, it was just the crack of plastic against plastic, then what sounded like wood. And finally, a muffled—perhaps exhausted—voice: "'Ello?"

Barnaby sat straight in his chair, almost shocked, reaching out for his mug of lukewarm coffee as he did. "Troy."