"Well, as far as I know, there have been no bodies in the last 24 hours, so this must be a social call," Barnaby announced as he leant his head around the door to the pathologists' department. Kate, with unusually yet lightly tanned skin, looked up from her computer and returned the small smile with humorous eyes.
"Yes, I heard it was quiet at the moment," she admitted with a growing grin, "I just wanted to catch up and - bring something to your attention." She gained a more serious expression standing up from the weathered chair and ushering Barnaby into the room, closing the door behind him furtively.
"Not so much of a social call then," John amended with narrowed eyes, "Has something happened?" He couldn't help but reprimand himself internally once more, noticing more than ever the chinks in his armour of formality, pushing him to show such outward concern for people. So many glances in Jones' direction as the younger man hunched over a piece of work at his desk, watching closely as if he might snap and run from the room in an instant.
"I'm not sure," Kate brought his attention back to the room, turning a small dictaphone over in her slim hands before holding it out to him. Barnaby looked it over and then glanced up expectantly. "One of them has gone missing."
"When?" he asked casually although his mind instantly grew a tree of possibilities.
"Dr. Allen emailed me at the weekend, just the usual formalities; telling me where he'd left his part of the report for the scarecrow case," Kate explained, gesturing over to a neatly stacked pile of folders and reports.
"The stand-in pathologist," Barnaby clarified, nodding, "And there was a dictaphone like this one left with them?" Kate nodded before shrugging to herself.
"Apparently," she said, "I've worked with Mark before - he's very reliable and, regardless, the report is all typed up and the documents are all still here. I gave him a day to reply to my emails and he's certain he didn't pick it up accidentally with his own belongings." The inspector paused for a moment for thought, pacing the room between the sterile, wiped down tables.
"So it wasn't a sabotage attempt," he mused under his breath before raising his voice, "And everything else is still here?"
"Where I left it," Kate replied with a nod, "I wouldn't have mentioned it, but there have been some rumours amongst uniform." Barnaby shook his head clear of thoughts and whipped around slightly with a frown.
"What sort of rumours?"
"You and Jones went to the house of a missing person," Kate spoke slowly and questioningly, waiting for Barnaby to confirm the truth, "The younger officers are all in a state about some recording you found there. From the evidence for this case?" Barnaby nodded reluctantly, glancing around the room despite the door being closed.
"We kept it quiet for a reason," he assured, "It was my idea actually. We don't want whoever did it to know what we suspect. It will be much easier to catch someone in the act of stealing another tape or, as it now seems, a dictaphone if they are one step behind us." It was Kate's turn to fix Barnaby with a pointed glance.
"And you think it was an inside job?" she checked briefly, "This could be bad news, John. You know as well as I do that the division is being watched closely at the moment." Barnaby nodded, recalling the meetings between the people of high enough rank to be told more confidential police details with disdain.
"It shouldn't be kept a secret," he knew he was preaching to the converted but continued regardless, "I don't know why they would consider closing down the Causton branch given the reputation of the area but corruption is all we need to be buried. I don't like to think what the lower down offices would do - there aren't enough transfers to go around." Kate looked at him knowingly for a second before turning away and speaking over her shoulder.
"Jones would be alright," she spoke tentatively, "He hasn't risen to Detective Sergeant rank unnoticed, John." Barnaby nodded grimly to himself,f wondering if he, as a psychologist, would currently pass Ben in an evaluation for a transfer.
"I'm worried about all of them," he said aloud, pushing the concern away once more, "But for now, we just need to keep things like this between as few people as possible." Kate nodded in agreement before retrieving the dictaphone at Barnaby had placed on her desk and locking it into the top drawer, holding the key up to Barnaby.
"I'll keep them all locked up," she promised earnestly, "And in the meantime, I'll let you know if any of the interns start acting suspiciously."
"Thank you, Kate," Barnaby said quickly, reaching into his pocket as his phone began to ring. He held his hand up in farewell and left the room, swiping his finger across the phone without glancing at the screen and raising it to his ear.
"Barnaby," he spoke into the phone shortly, hearing a shuffling sound on the other end of the line. He pulled the phone from his ear for a moment and looked at the caller ID, raising his eyebrows in confusion. "Jones?"
"Oh, sorry sir," the line crackled into life, "I was just - anyway, you need to get over to the address I've just texted to you."
"Always so cryptic, Jones," Barnaby replied with a roll of his eyes, "Save the smoke and mirrors to the criminals, what's happening?" Jones seemed to sigh to himself although the static made it hard to tell before replying.
"Another empty house," he answered eventually, "And another tape." Barnaby only then picked up the slight hesitation in the sergeant's tone, recalling the automatic chill that had run up his spine at the sound of their own voices ringing around a stranger's kitchen. And Jones was by himself.
"I'll be there soon," he said more reservedly, "What was it this time?" He reached his car, balancing the phone on the dashboard and checking his messages briefly. It was another unfamiliar address, no doubt one of the more secluded farmhouses as the previous one had been. Now on speaker, the phone broadcast the sounds of Jones' movements more loudly.
"The same report from a neighbour," he explained, "No lights this morning and the curtains were still closed just before they called the police. And I checked the evidence room, by the way, and there was no one else's name on the sign-in sheet except for mine from Friday. It was a quiet weekend."
Barnaby shook his head to himself slightly as he indicated around a corner, watching his phone as if balanced precariously with one eye as he steered down the winding, isolated roads, narrowly avoiding unfamiliar potholes in the tarmac.
"And the second tape?" he prompted more firmly, his intuition eagerly paying attention to the sergeant's more muted response.
"It's a pathology examination I think," he spoke uncertainly although Barnaby was confident he was well aware of what he had listened to, "It sounded like the man who was working here last week anyway and I recognised the name almost definitely of the victim."
"Go on," Barnaby replied, slowly reaching the scene of the crime, two modest houses appearing on the horizon. He noticed the absence of smoke coiling out of the chimney from one and, as he rounded another corner and the fields stretched away across the landscape, the small collection of cars at the gated entrance.
"Mrs. Conan was just finishing when I got here," Ben replied grimly, "And then Marjorie Friar started up. I stopped the tape after that. They were both from the case last week, weren't they?"
"I believe so, Jones," Barnaby said distractedly, his fingers restlessly drumming against the steering wheel as he pulled up behind a slow moving tractor, "Do you have the tape to hand?" Jones hummed in response and the crackling of movement returned as he seemed to cross a room. There was a loud clicking sound of the play button of a tape recorder being pressed down and then the sound of a familiar voice.
"Ms. Marjorie Friar, aged 84. Initial cause of death believed to be a lifelong condition, congenital heart disease." Barnaby winced to himself softly as the pathologist paused for a moment to think. There was a quiet sound in the background of shoe soles on the tiles of the pathology room.
"The stomach contents included Advil, known to aggravate the condition. There are no obvious physical signs of a struggle on the skin although further examination is needed. The combination of an overdose of the ibuprofen tablets and Ms. Friar's usual heart medication caused severe bleeding and some liver damage. Time of death expected to be in the early hours of the morning, before she was found by police." The tape wound on silently as the voice died away. Barnaby had pulled up at the gate to the house, his eyes trailing through the window on the ground floor searchingly as the voice spoke, eventually catching a glimpse of Jones wandering up and down the small room.
The inspector pushed the front door open, nodding to the uniformed officer who stood on guard and absentmindedly contemplating how far down the grapevine the rumours had spread. He could hear the faint sound of the tape continuing to play to itself in one of the back rooms and the faint footsteps of Jones in the adjacent room. Turning to the officer at the door he paused for a moment and thought to himself.
"Has this been called in officially?" he asked, watching as the young woman shook her head, ducking it slightly towards the floor. "Go and report from the car and get some tape on the door. Then, make sure the neighbour stays at home for us to talk to. Me and Jones can handle a search of the house." She nodded and murmured a hesitant 'yes sir' under her breath before hurrying towards the police car that was pulled onto the nearby grass verge. Barnaby shook his head at her retreating figure, almost certain she had heard most of the tape as it played.
He was half considering giving Jones a talking to, trying to emphasise the importance of handling a case like this more delicately, shielding the uniformed officers from the threat of corruption. Because that was almost definitely what they were dealing with; someone kidnapping people or else making use of empty houses and then taunting the police with stolen tapes. Buying officers' trust perhaps.
Pushing open the nearest door in the house, he found Jones in the middle of a tidy, decluttered living room, hands stuffed into his pockets beneath his slightly ill fitting blazer as he looked across the few belongings in the room. He had the same lost demeanour that ran straight through his hunched shoulders, aggravating his shuffling, restless feet as they moved subtly in his shoes. The voice of Dr. Allen persisted through the wall, now detailing a different report before falling silent more finally, the sound of the tape coming to an end dying away.
"Jones," Barnaby cleared his throat, the same mindset coming to the forefront of his head as he had the morning before. Despite what Sarah had suggested, he needed to give the sergeant his space.
"Sir," came the wavering, splintered reply, "I'll just finish up in here. The tape's in there." He waved a hand towards the wall, his head never turning from its perusal of the small collection of books on a nearby shelf. Barnaby thought of the description of bleeding, congenital heart disease still ringing in his ears.
"It wouldn't have been like that," he found himself saying, meanwhile cursing the small section of Sarah that had firmly lodged itself into his head. That's what marriage does to you, after all, he thought ruefully.
"I know," Jones replied a little icily, his shoulders tightening further into knots as he continued to position his back to Barnaby's tentatively approaching figure. He rapidly let out a breath, the tension releasing from his slim figure all at once, leaving him smaller as his voice returned to the cavernous room at a lower volume. "I know."
"It's acceptable to feel this way," Barnaby bit the bullet, opting for the lecture he had avoided so many times, "You need time to process everything and being around death and misery isn't going to help you." Jones shook his head to himself turning around and facing John with a bowed head. His eyes were still hidden by the falling locks of hair but his mouth was set in a firm line. He seemed anxious and prickly, keeping his distance from the inspector almost reluctantly.
"It was the recording, nothing else," he replied firmly, "You don't understand, sir, I need to be here." Barnaby opened his mouth to answer but glanced outside at the officer who stood beside the car, talking into her phone. He nodded towards one of the back rooms and began to walk towards the door, briefly checking that Ben was following behind him.
The tape was in the first room they came to; another farmhouse kitchen. Jones gave it a wide berth, leaning against the kitchen counters and staring out of the small window that framed a view of identical, sparse fields.
"Why won't you take time off?" Barnaby asked carefully, choosing his words more wisely than usual. Jones shrugged at first but the lingering silence told him that it wasn't enough.
"My parents never got on with her. They let me visit her in the holidays after we moved away from Midsomer when I was younger. Then, when I first started working here I stayed with Gran whilst I was finalising a house to live in. Mum and Dad were unhappy enough that I was closer to her than them in Wales and even more annoyed when they found out I was living with her. I'm not like my parents, sir, so I always used to confide in my Gran. They knew that, I'm sure, and it's probably what made them dislike her. I was more her son than I was their's."
Barnaby was uncharacteristically taken aback by the sudden flood of information but more acutely aware of the inner workings of Jones' reasoning. He didn't want to go home because Midsomer was home. Ben had lost his family in a single day, cutting him off from the people who were meant to look out for him and care for him at a time like this.
By the window, Jones had regained the pent up frustration in his shoulders, accompanied by a steady but persistent shudder. His hands clenched at the marble work surface without finding purchase and he closed his eyes tightly. Barnaby glanced over his shoulder at the still closed kitchen door and tentatively stepped forward, his arm finding the familiar spot on the sergeant's shoulder. Ben didn't react for a moment but eventually relaxed into the hesitant hand, shifting his body to face the inspector and opening his eyes. The blue returned, slightly watered down and brighter than usual but they were still Ben's eyes, Barnaby reminded himself; he was still the same old sergeant.
"It's a little sad really," Jones said suddenly with a watery laugh, "Even now Gran's gone, I've got more of a family in Midsomer than I do in Wales with my parents." Barnaby thought back to the slightly more fresh faced but mostly identical sergeant he had met on his first day in the new village, watching the young man sheepishly produce a modest bouquet of flowers for Sarah, patting Sykes with reserved affection. And he realised slowly that Ben only ever asked after Sarah and Sykes, happy to talk about Barnaby's family, occasionally throwing in a comment or a hint of gossip from his Gran but never talking about his own family.
The quiet had stretched on a little too long, leaving Jones shuffling his feet awkwardly at his sudden admission that his inspector was like family and he seemed to be itching to flee the room. Barnaby shook his head free of the pleasant memories of his own family and stepped forward again, his hand dropping from Ben's shoulder, only to join his other arm in a hesitant embrace of the sergeant. Ben's shoulders relaxed again slowly and Barnaby felt the sergeant's head come to rest on his shoulder briefly before the younger man pulled away with his typical yet slightly forced sheepish smile, carrying undertones of guilt.
"I'm sorry, sir," he apologised quietly, "I'll try to be more professional at the next crime scene." Barnaby smiled to himself softly before shaking his head at the sergeant whose eyes still appeared a little red around the edges. He made a rather sudden decision to inform the sergeant of his theories of corruption.
"Don't apologise, Ben," he emphasised strongly, "This case is rather unusual in the first place. We need to talk somewhere, privately." Jones nodded more seriously and left the room, grabbing the tape recorder, bagging it in an evidence bag and gesturing to it by way of explanation. Barnaby nodded approvingly and scanned the room briefly before following the sergeant out of the front door. The gate had been wrapped in crime scene tape, leaving the female officer to stand to one side, back straight and eyes observant.
"We'll come back after lunch for a more thorough search," Barnaby informed her authoritatively, "Don't let anyone else in before then." She nodded understandingly and watched as Barnaby ducked his head into his car, glancing into the rear view mirror and spotting Jones exhaling slowly in his own car before shaking his head and fixing an even expression.
"What do we do with you, Ben?" he asked himself aloud, finding his mind resurfacing the closed door meetings about the police department. Jones couldn't lose Midsomer, or Causton CID, not after everything else. And that meant their case needed to be closed as soon as possible.