The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(45)

Barnes led us down a narrow hallway and into a cramped dining room, centred on an oval table of dark wood.

‘Nice cosy little spot,’ Lockwood remarked.

‘Yes, really lovely brown carpet,’ George said. ‘And that row of ceramic ducks on the wall … I believe that kind of ornament has become quite hip again, hasn’t it?’

‘All right, all right,’ Barnes growled. ‘You can save your breath. Sit down, make yourselves at home. I assume you’ll all be wanting tea.’ He stomped off to the kitchen.

One by one we sat around the table. The chairs were upright, uncomfortable and clearly seldom used. There was a patina of dust on the tabletop. Aside from the ducks, there were photographs on the walls of soft green hills, misty valleys, tumbledown cottages, expanses of air and nature. They reminded me of my childhood, far from London.

A kettle boiled in the distance; spoons clattered; Barnes returned with a heaped tray. To our surprise, chocolate digestives were included in the offering. The usual ceremonials were completed. We sat in silence with our cups and plates, facing the inspector at the head of the table. It was an intimate setting, laced with ambiguity; we might have been about to join in prayers, or play cards for money, or do anything in between. The combination of drab formality and general awkwardness gave it the air of one of those suburban séances where dowdy women tried to summon ghosts.

‘I do honestly like these photographs, Mr Barnes,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you enjoyed the countryside.’

The inspector regarded me. ‘What, did you think I’d have pictures of truncheons or handcuffs on my wall, maybe? I do have other interests, you know.’ He shook his head sourly. ‘Anyway – yes, I do. But I didn’t ask you here to discuss my photos. I wanted to give you a warning.’

There was a silence. Lockwood sipped his tea. ‘A warning, Mr Barnes?’

‘That’s what I said.’ The inspector hesitated for a moment, as if even now he feared to commit himself; then he sat back in his chair decisively. ‘Everything’s changing,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you? DEPRAC, the agencies – how it’s all controlled. The big outfits are running the show: the Fittes Agency, the Sunrise Corporation – the people who make a lot of money from the Problem. Independent operations like yours are being squeezed out. I don’t need to tell you this. There’ve been plenty of announcements to that effect this summer.’

‘There’s another one coming tomorrow, I believe,’ Lockwood said.

‘Yes, at Fittes House, and I doubt it’ll be any better for you than any of the others. Still, it’s a general meeting, so whatever new rules they come up with won’t be directed solely at you. However, something’s come to my attention that is.’ Barnes’s shrewd eyes scanned us each in turn. ‘I’ve heard through the DEPRAC grapevine that certain prominent people are losing patience with you.’

‘Certain prominent people?’ Holly said.

‘You mean Penelope Fittes, I suppose?’ George asked.

Barnes pressed his lips tight together so that they both vanished under his moustache. ‘I leave it to your judgement who I’m talking about. It’s not necessary for me to say.’

‘Oh, it is, it is. Go on, say it,’ George said. ‘There’s no one listening, is there? Unless they’re hiding in the teapot.’

‘Thank you, Mr Cubbins. You illustrated my point before I could even make it.’ Barnes eyed us all severely. ‘It’s precisely that sort of irreverent, incautious attitude that’s leading you into trouble. Whatever you may think about the new rules we all live by, there’s no doubting the fact that we’re all being observed far more closely than before. It pays to keep a low profile. And Lockwood and Co. keeps being noticed. That’s all I’m saying.’

Lockwood smiled. ‘What can anyone object to? We’re not stepping out of line.’

‘Aren’t you?’ Barnes said. ‘If that’s the case, why are DEPRAC officers being commandeered to watch your place in Portland Row? Why is that popinjay Sir Rupert Gale so interested in you? Why does Penelope Fittes ask for regular reports on your activities?’

‘She does?’ Lockwood said. ‘We’re honoured.’

‘No. You’re not. You’re at risk. You may have heard about Mr Bunchurch’s little “accident”. There have been others too. I don’t want to see the same thing happening to you. Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘We’re not doing anything untoward, Inspector,’ Lockwood said. ‘We pay our taxes. We take proper precautions. We leave most of our clients alive.’ He flashed his brightest smile. ‘Remember last night at the theatre? We do good work.’

Barnes nodded grimly. ‘Bunchurch did good work too.’

‘Well, not very good work,’ George put in. ‘He was actually a bit useless, wasn’t he?’

‘That’s not the point!’ The inspector gave a sudden roar. He banged a hairy fist on the tabletop, making his cup jerk in its saucer. A gout of strong dark tea splashed across his plate. ‘That’s not the point! He crossed them, and he’s dead!’

We sat there, Barnes breathing hard, the rest of us in shocked silence. Even George looked stunned.