‘Do you know why he had all the security put in?’ she asked. ‘
Was
it because of the vandalism?’
Paxton shrugged. ‘That’s what he said. But he wanted her where he could see her. He told me if he caught anyone letting her in without his permission, he’d get his cards. And I know he didn’t like folk just being able to walk in,’ he said. ‘Let his shotgun off at McQueen first time he came here.’
Judy’s eyebrows rose.
‘I’m going back a bit now,’ Paxton said. ‘To when the first Mrs Bailey was alive. I was with some of the lads, heard the gun go off. We ran up here, thinking there’s been an accident, or that Mrs Bailey has finally let him have it between the eyes, and find McQueen having a real go at him, shotgun or no shotgun. Bailey’s scared stiff. Yells to us to get McQueen off him and throw him out.’ He grinned. ‘We let McQueen get in a few before we grabbed him. Mind, he saw him again after that, and there was no trouble that time. And that was a while before the alarms went in, so it might not have had anything to do with that. Or with her. It could have been the vandalism, I suppose. But that’s what he was like,’ he said, tapping his forehead. ‘He was a nutter, I’m telling you.’
‘Tell me about yesterday. We were told there was going to be some sort of demonstration here.’
Paxton nodded. ‘Your lot were here, for a while. Till they decided it wasn’t going to happen. TV was here all day. No demonstrators, though. Bailey had the alarms set all the time, and all the windows locked and shuttered all day. God knows who he thought was coming. Genghis Khan at the very least.’
‘What about the front door? Had he locked it?’
‘No. It was closed, but it was unlocked. Has to be, really, so that he can get in and out to the office. And the entryphone’s in there, of course. He had to answer it himself, with Mrs Bailey being away.’
So, Mrs Bailey had been away. Judy was instantly suspicious of spouses who happened to be away at the material time.
‘Did he let anyone in?’
‘Not while I was here. I let the others go at five, and I knocked off at six.’ He smiled sourly. ‘He didn’t want me to go,’ he said. ‘He was scared shitless.’ He put a hand to his mouth in mock disapproval of his language. ‘Sorry. But he was.’
He quite possibly had been, thought Judy, remembering the smell with unwelcome clarity. ‘ Did he have the radiators on in the sitting room?’ she asked.
‘Radiators?’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t even have the sheet over me in bed last night, so I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual when you got here this morning?’ she asked.
He shook his head.
‘When does the morning paper get here?’
Paxton looked slightly puzzled. ‘Half six or so. They arrive in the village about six, and the lad does the farm first, I think. He leaves the paper in the mailbox by the gate. But you’ll be able to find out from the video exactly when it came.’
Judy had yet to see what the video had picked up from the camera that watched Bailey’s gate. Tom Finch had stopped the tape when he arrived, intending to check it, but for the moment he had his hands full. DC Marshall was on his way; she’d get him to look at the tapes, which had to be their best witnesses.
Fourteen alarms, six cameras, shutters on the windows, and Bernard Bailey had somehow contrived to be stabbed to death on his own sofa. The monitor was in the hallway, so he could check who was at his gate before he opened it for anyone. The front door had been unlocked, but the alarms had been set, and she knew from personal eardrum-rattling experience that they could not have gone off without alerting everyone for a mile in every direction.
Bernard Bailey had let someone in, and that someone had killed him, or he was killed by someone with a key to the gate. Or he was killed by someone already in the house, whatever Steve Paxton believed about Mrs Bailey being away. Had Mrs Bailey stabbed her husband to death when he was in the middle of having an apple for breakfast, and doing the crossword? A number of things argued against that. Did he have whisky for breakfast, too? He had not, as far as Judy had been able to see, attempted to defend himself, which suggested that he had been asleep, probably drunk. And she couldn’t really imagine Bailey doing a crossword.
Her father did crosswords; so did Lloyd. And they had something else in common; they both loved talking. They could talk for England. Well, Lloyd could talk for Wales. Her money would be on him, if he and her father staged an international, but it would be a close-run thing.
She felt homesick again, as she looked round this green, alien, rural world with its organic smells, and distant animal noises, and longed for London’s traffic-ridden, fume-filled, people-thronged streets. But that wasn’t what she was supposed to be thinking about: How had she got on to that? The crossword. Yes. The crossword. And the fact that the word-sparing Mr Bailey didn’t strike her as a crossword-doer.
‘Was he a crossword man?’ she asked Paxton.
‘Wouldn’t know. I doubt it.’ He looked at her, squinting in the sun. ‘ Why’d you want to know that?’
She smiled, not answering him. ‘Why did no one find him before his wife came home?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t anyone think it odd that he wasn’t up and about at that time in the morning?’
Paxton shook his head. ‘ We never saw him till afternoon,’ he said. ‘And she keeps the blinds closed anyway, because of the paintings, so no one coming up this way would notice the shutters.’
‘Thank you,’ said Judy. ‘I can let you get back to work. I might want to speak to you again, though.’ The entryphone buzzed, and she went back in, answering it to the FME, thank God. She hit the gate-open button. ‘On second thoughts,’ she said, calling Paxton back. ‘You couldn’t man this thing for me, could you? Just keep out anyone who isn’t police. Tell them it’s a crime scene.’
‘Yes, sure, if you want.’
She looked round for somewhere to extinguish her cigarette, and Paxton took it from her, grinding it out on the veranda, and took up his post as the Baileys’ GP came downstairs.
‘How is Mrs Bailey?’ asked Judy, taking the doctor out into the courtyard where they could not be overheard.
‘She’s not too bad now,’ she said. ‘But she’s still very agitated. If you can leave it for an hour or so before you speak to her, it would be better. And if it’s any help, I believe she really did get a terrible shock.’
Judy smiled at the implied assumption that Rachel might have wanted to stab her husband to death. ‘ She’s not the only candidate,’ she said.
‘Oh, no – of course. He was getting all those threats earlier in the year, wasn’t he? Do you think someone killed him over this business about the road? Surely not.’
Judy sincerely hoped not. There hadn’t been any threats in recent weeks, but perhaps that was because the sender had got serious. She gave a little shrug, and watched the doctor leave, thinking about that day when Bailey had dragged her through every muddy inch of his precious land.
Now
, now when a few muddy footprints might help, where was all that mud? Now, everything lay rock-hard and dry in the heatwave that was now nearly a fortnight old, and showed no sign of passing.
The FME was arriving, the two doctors’ cars passing on the roadway, and Judy prepared herself to go back into the house, into the room. At least Mr Bailey was about to be pronounced officially dead, which was a step in the right direction. But finding enough people to interview employees, watch videos, check on keyholders, search for the murder weapon – all that was proving very difficult, at the start of the summer-holiday season.
‘Just doing our jobs, officer,’ said Curtis, sounding a lot jauntier and cheekier than he felt, when Sergeant Finch had finished reading them the riot act about contaminating scenes of crime, looking a little like an offended cherub.
‘Yeah, well, when your job starts interfering with my job, mate, my job wins.’
Curtis smiled. ‘I suggest you watch Aquarius TV at ten-forty this evening and see if you still think that at eleven-thirty.’
Finch frowned, but ignored the remark. ‘Were you filming when you went into the house?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Curtis felt a bit guilty about that. ‘Sorry. But you know cameramen.’
‘What did you expect?’ said Gary. ‘It was a story. And stories on TV need pictures, don’t they? What did you
think
I’d do? Memorize it all, and draw pictures when I got back to the studio?’
‘We’ll want the film,’ said Finch. And there’s no way you’re going to be allowed to show it.’
‘Not now. But after, maybe. And it’s not a film,’ Gary added, removing the tape from the camera. ‘It’s a video. You can have it. But you’ll have to watch it in the studio in Stansfield – it won’t play on an ordinary VCR.’
Finch took it, and Gary reloaded. Curtis was worried about Rachel – she had looked so awful when they went in. Her face had been white, and she had been trembling from head to foot. He had wanted to hold her, comfort her, but he couldn’t. And then that oaf had come in and started a barney, the police had arrived, and she had started screaming.
‘Is Mrs Bailey all right?’ he asked.
‘Wouldn’t know,’ said Finch. ‘Shouldn’t think so, not if her husband’s just been stabbed to death. Someone will be in touch about having a look at this,’ he said, nut I don’t think we need detain you any longer.’
Curtis wanted to be detained; he wanted to see Rachel. He tried desperately to think of some good reason why he should stay.
‘You don’t mind if we hang about, do you, mate?’ said Gary. ‘ I mean, we’d be here anyway by now, right?’
‘Yeah, all right. But don’t get in the way,’ said Finch, and walked off.
Curtis hadn’t realized it was that simple. He had to remember that he was here as a journalist.
Nicola drove towards the farm, urging the old car to go faster. Gus sat beside her, trying to calm her down.
‘What else did she say?’ Nicola asked.
‘Nothing else. Just what I’ve told you. She walked in this morning, and found him dead on the sofa.’ He put his hand on hers where it rested on the steering wheel. ‘You don’t have to go so fast, Nicky,’ he said gently. ‘Slow down. Look – stop. Let me drive. You shouldn’t be driving.’
She braked, and brought the car to a halt, suddenly in tears. Gus was holding her, rocking her like a baby, saying all the things you would say to someone who had just lost her father.
But that wasn’t why she was crying, and she couldn’t tell Gus. She couldn’t tell anyone.
Lloyd had arrived back at Stansfield to discover that this Monday morning had yet more in store for him.
‘Bailey’s been what?’ he said, when Case told him.
‘You heard. Stabbed several times, according to Inspector Hill.’
Poor Judy. She always seemed to get the bloody ones.
‘And,’ said Case.
Here we go again, thought Lloyd. If he hadn’t asked for no calls while he considered how he intended approaching his colleagues tomorrow, Judy’s message would have come through to him. Now he was going to be given lengthy Case notes. But these turned out to be very short indeed.
‘He was found by his wife, who called us. But Curtis Law and his cameraman beat us to it and went in there all cameras blazing.’
Lloyd stared at him. ‘How did that happen?’ he demanded.
‘Combination of circumstances. They were a lot closer than we were, and they heard about it at more or less the same time. And they’re still there, covering the story, obviously. Finch tore them off a strip, but we can’t actually stop them reporting the murder. Look, Lloyd, if you don’t—’
‘Don’t say what you are going to say.’
Case sat back. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. If you think you can handle it. But don’t lose your temper, Lloyd. We don’t need any more adverse publicity. And the man was receiving death threats, remember. Law told us that if someone could get in to leave threats, they could get in to kill him. He’ll be gunning for us over this as well as the other business.’
And Lloyd had thought that today couldn’t get any blacker. ‘I’ll be on my very best behaviour,’ he said. His quick temper and injudicious tongue had got him into trouble with everyone from very senior officers to innocent bystanders, but he could keep his cool when it was important that he do so. He hoped.
He arrived at Bailey’s farm at the same time as Freddie, who was standing by his elderly, beloved, open-topped sports car, negotiating with whoever was manning the entryphone.
‘No – I’m the pathologist.’ He sounded it out, syllable by syllable. ‘Look – is Chief Inspector Lloyd there? Or Inspector Hill? Just tell one of them that Freddie’s here – all right?’
Lloyd watched, unobserved.
‘Freddie,’ Freddie repeated. ‘Never mind the last name – she’ll know who you mean. It’s a Polish name, you wouldn’t—’
The gate said something which to Lloyd was unintelligible, but Freddie understood it, having been conversing with it for some time, evidently.
‘I’m the
pathologist
, for God’s sake! I’m
supposed
to be at the crime scene!’ He turned and saw Lloyd laughing. ‘ Who the hell have you got manning this thing?’ he demanded.
‘Don’t ask me,’ said Lloyd. ‘ I’ve just got here. But you’ve cheered me up, Freddie – not something you often do, and something I would have thought impossible today.’
‘Sorry, Freddie,’ said the gate, now with Judy’s voice. ‘Hello, Lloyd.’
Lloyd realized that there was a camera high on a post, and smiled weakly at it. He had so many things to tell Judy that he had no idea where to start, and now it was all going to have to wait. The gate swung open, and he and Freddie got into their cars and drove through, arriving together in the courtyard, where Freddie parked beside the BMW, and leaped out over his pride and joy’s low door. Lloyd got out of his car to see an estate car with
Aquarius Television
painted on the side, and a camera pointing at him, but Curtis Law wasn’t evident. He joined Freddie, who was admiring the BMW.
‘Not a traditionalist, then, our Mr Bailey?’ he said. ‘This is not your average farm vehicle.’
‘It’s his wife’s,’ said Lloyd, with the knowing look that irritated Judy.