Thank you for the reviews so far (I'm new to this website and I couldn't see a way to respond directly so I was going to do it here):
~ Kate will definitely make an appearance further down the line (I did have some plans for her to appear at some point anyway) as there are actually two separate murder investigations in this book - one is set a little later on so she will have returned by then :)
The door shut out the cold and the rain but did nothing to silence the howling wind as it bellowed down the chimney. Sarah drummed a finger against her glass, eyes never leaving Barnaby as he busied himself in the kitchen. It was only when he realised he had dried the same plate with a wet dishcloth twice that he placed both the flannel and the dish down on the side and turned around.
"I find myself in a difficult position," he began suddenly, surprised to see the raised eyebrows of his wife staring back so intently.
"Ben is hiding something from you and you can't concentrate on the case," she finished for him, moving to gently rub her hands across his stiff shoulders. He relaxed into the action, finding himself nodding in agreement, eyes closed as his chin rested against her forehead.
"I have a psychology degree, for God's sake, and I can't even read my sergeant," the frustration in his tone ebbed away at the memory of the phone call, of the quiet ride home and the conversation in the darkness, "He's in pain, and I don't know what to do." Sarah stepped away, head tilted to one side similarly to what Sykes often did when it felt like he was listening intently to every word.
"Physical pain?" She asked softly, her hands never leaving his arms, "Or something different?" He hummed in agreement to the second question although the subtle back stretches his sergeant had been doing had not escaped his attention. He finally stepped back and picked up a knife that had been left beside the wooden chopping board, slicing a partially cut carrot thoughtfully. He remembered the young man's eyes, flaring violently with anger that faded to pain, the murmured apologies to the faceless voice, his tired, half closing eyes.
"I think-" he stopped cutting suddenly and turned away from the counter to face his wife once more, the truth suddenly crushing against his chest, "I think Jones is grieving."
The next morning, John fastened his tie halfheartedly, shrugging a suit jacket over his unusually rumpled shirt and stared into the mirror blindly. He wondered how he hadn't noticed earlier; every little detail suggested one conclusion - Jones couldn't bare to even look at another dead body. The familiar pit in his stomach had expanded somewhat, allowing him to have a lie in purely because he didn't feel like eating a large breakfast. Every thought led annoyingly back to the sergeant; Barnaby wondered if Jones had eaten breakfast.
He heard a tentative knock on the front door and, moments later, Sarah's feet on the wood accompanied by the pattering claws of Sykes. There was a sound of muted conversation, Sarah sounded insistent, and soon the door closed again. Barnaby stood halfway down the staircase and listened again, absentmindedly holding a finger to his lips as Sykes watched him with perplexity at the base of the stairs.
"Long day yesterday," Sarah was saying politely to Jones who stood uncomfortably in the doorway to the kitchen. He nodded, a hand drifting to the base of his back, unseen by Sarah but watched closely by John who did not move to descend further.
"It's awful, isn't it?" Sarah continued lightly, making Barnaby wonder what buttons she was trying to press, "All of this business with the elderly. People that age should be allowed to feel safe and comfortable, don't you think?" Again, a muted response from the sergeant and a heavy silence returned relentlessly. Jones shuffled from foot to foot, undoing his suit jacket for a moment before automatically threading the button through the material again with one thumb.
"I'm sure John won't be long," Sarah tried again, "That 5 o'clock start must have left both of you tired. I was saying to him earlier, you must come for dinner this weekend. It would make a nice break from all of this, don't you think?" Jones seemed stumped for a moment, scratching the back of his neck tentatively before shrugging very slightly.
"I wouldn't want to interfere," he replied, "And I'm busy this weekend, unfortunately." His tone made it seem as if there was nothing unfortunate about it at all, and he was, in fact, glad to have an excuse. His body language, from the back, told a different story to the inspector as he watched his shoulders tighten at the mention of a break and again at the prospect of the weekend. A funeral, Barnaby contemplated.
He eventually put the younger man out of his misery, allowing his feet to sound heavily on the creaking oak stairs which complained loudly enough to send Ben's head turning in his direction. The sergeant's face flushed slightly in a way that was foreign to Barnaby and he passed him slowly, barely able to keep the usual frown he wore when he was thinking from his face. Jones ducked his head again as Sarah kissed John lightly, leaving only his red tipped ears on view from beneath his sandy coloured hair. Husband and wife shared a glance, Sarah conveying her own concerns and John nodding knowingly before he picked up an apple and placed it into his pocket.
"We should get off," he said, raising his eyebrow at Sarah secretively. She nodded subtly at him and then switched her gaze onto Jones whose head had not resurfaced from its survey of the parquet flooring. Barnaby shook his head with a tired pinch of the skin between his eyebrows and moved to stand next to the sergeant, patting his shoulder in a way that he hoped conveyed the quiet comfort he hoped to pass on.
"Ready, sir?" Ben's eyes shot up from the floor and his face settled again into a neutral expression.
"When you are," Barnaby replied, gesturing towards the front door and turning back to wave to Sarah, "See you later."
"Bye John, bye Ben," Sarah called from the kitchen, palms resting on the island as she came to agree with John's late night revelations; Ben was grieving.
Barnaby wasn't sure if he could think of a worse job to have when facing the loss of a loved one. The morning passed without incident, although Jones was forced to stand through yet another autopsy meeting, gathering together the four victims they had in total. He did not once make himself look into the peaceful faces of the dead surrounding him but seemed to visibly relax when the final white sheet had been replaced over the bodies. The afternoon posed more of a challenge; facing the family members who still wore the same open expressions of grief, not dissimilar from Jones when he thought no one was looking.
Mr Friar had been first; son of their latest victim. He did not offer much in the way of information having spent most of his time on an offshore oil rig for the last two years. He described Marjorie as everyone else had; perfectly pleasant with a hint of the usual forgetfulness and disorganisation of the elderly. She had no enemies, (who would at that age?) and had seemed fine when he had visited on his return from the coast just days before. It hurt, Mr Friar said, to think he could have been there for her more often but would never get the chance. Jones' mask slipped an inch and it took the entire car journey for him to look Barnaby in the eye again.
They moved onto the daughter, Abigail Marsh, happily married to Mr Marsh with two children. She doted on her mother although did not seem to be surprised she had passed away. Whilst she was not without the look of pain held behind her shining irises, she explained in an even tone that the heart disease had always been at the back of her mind. She was adamant, however, that Marjorie would never wish to cause herself harm. 'She didn't want to die; she had made plans for next weekend, attended the village knitting group, had a family she cared for too much to leave them.' It took Jones longer to regain his composure at that.
Barnaby pulled into a lay by on the way back from their final interview and rested his elbows on the steering wheel, thoughts troubling him. It had been the same with every other victim; the family were upset that they had died but couldn't come up with one reason between them to explain the stalker, or the mysterious disturbances.
"There must be a link," he felt like a broken record, repeating himself, "No one kills randomly with such a strong MO." Jones nodded attentively, although his eyes were fixed on the horizon where a scarecrow stood alone in a freshly ploughed field, mud tipped with frost.
"Did they all have plans for the weekend?" he suddenly spoke up with an idea, "Marjorie Friar had plans." The mention of the weekend sent a glum look across his face but he ignored it, blinking hard. Barnaby rested his head back and tried to remember.
The first victim had been Miles Fraser, a man with shocking white hair and a history of chronic back pain. His family had spoken fondly of the man, explaining that he had meant to retire from his gardening every year since he was sixty but, thirty years later he was still tending to the weeds every day. He had been found dead in his bed, seemingly passing away in his sleep, but upon further inspection, the contents of his bedside table had been swept to the floor and a discarded pillowcase lay on the floor. Suspected death by asphyxia and reports of a man watching him from across the street for a few weeks prior.
The second victim was Mr Fraser's friend and nearby neighbour, Fred Barnes. Similarly to Marjorie, he had a condition that could be aggravated by taking the wrong medication and so he was found dead. He collapsed in the kitchen, not far from his pill bottle that stood on the kitchen counter. He lay surrounded by cutlery and a towel; he had been washing up when the killer got to him. He too had mentioned to close relatives that someone always seemed to be watching him.
The third body had been that of Phyllis Conan, retired librarian and avid reader. She had been found in her quaint cottage by a distraught husband who told officers about her hyperkalemia. Only an in depth autopsy found the needle sized pinprick in her neck, the injection site of a high potassium fluid. Without it, it seemed as if she had passed away from a sudden flare up in her condition, causing cardiac arrest. She had been persistent in telling her husband that they were being watched but he admitted he had never seen anyone.
"We can ask, Jones," Barnaby eventually said, "There's a slim chance they might all have had the same prior arrangements of course." The sergeant slowly nodded before sitting up suddenly with another poorly hidden wince.
"The village show," he suggested cautiously, "That takes place this Saturday, sir. There's a list of categories in the newspaper; it's all baking and crafts this time though, the weather won't be right for growing until the summer show." He pointed to the grey clouds again by way of explanation and looked expectantly to the inspector.
"You may be right there," Barnaby thought aloud, "We've seen weaker motives than winning the village show." Ben almost smiled but shook his head again, muttering to himself.
"Your Gran likes to enter the show, doesn't she?" Barnaby continued, scolding his sudden lapse in concentration a second too late. Ben had frozen stiffly in his seat and didn't seem to breathe for a couple of minutes.
"Usually," he exhaled sharply through his nose, the shake audible in the breath that escaped his tightly strung body. Barnaby wished he could reach out for a moment but clamped one hand on the other in his lap and sat still, silently reprimanding himself over and over in the silence that stretched on. Jones didn't need to know he had picked up on anything although the evidence was beginning to stack up; Jones was grieving and it was his Gran who had died.
Barnaby thought of the weight behind the simple reply, 'usually,' the implication that what always happened wouldn't happen this year, or ever again. For a minute the dread crossed his mind that Ben's Gran may have been caught up in an elaborate plot by one of the more batty residents of Midsomer. Could she have, in fact, been murdered? But then he discredited the possibility; Jones would have been there at some point, he would have assessed the situation as he always did. Murder didn't often get past the young sergeant's sharp eyes. That didn't mean to say the thought couldn't have crossed the poor man's mind as well, however, and the mere idea that someone should have to consider such a fate for their family sent a shiver up Barnaby's spine.
Ben Jones was caught up in the mystery of four murders but the only thing he could think of was his the mystery of his own relative. Being a detective was the worst job to have when faced with a death like that, the young sergeant had decided numbly, because everywhere he looked he saw a situation he could have avoided. It wasn't unavoidable like the murders that came out of the blue, only coming to his blissfully ignorant attention when the call came in and it wasn't inevitable like the carefully hidden, premeditated plans he untangled for a living. It was natural causes, and it came too soon; it was out of his control and he had never felt so helpless. Ben Jones felt completely useless for the first time in his life and it terrified him.