Payment in Blood (Inspector Lynley, #2)(80)

Barbara took it out, glanced at it, turned to Lynley. “Are you trying to say that this is something Hannah Darrow copied? Why? Was she practising her handwriting? Acting out of sheer boredom? Life in Porthill Green looks like it might be less than ducky, but I don’t exactly see a village girl whiling away her time by improving her script. And even if she did, are you going to argue that Darrow found this note somewhere and realised how he could use it? That he had the foresight to stow it away until the time was right? That he put it out on the kitchen table? That he…what? Killed his wife? How? When? And how did he get her to wear all those clothes? And even if he managed it all without raising anyone’s suspicion, how on earth is he connected to Westerbrae and Joy Sinclair’s death?”

“Through the telephone calls,” Lynley said. “Wales and Suffolk over and over. Joy Sinclair innocently telling her cousin Rhys Davies-Jones about her frustrations in dealing with John Darrow, not to mention her budding suspicions about Hannah’s death. And Davies-Jones biding his time, suggesting that Joy arrange to have a room next to Helen, then finishing her off the moment he saw his chance.”

Barbara heard him, incredulous. Once again she saw how he was turning and interpreting all the facts skillfully, using only what he needed to take him closer to an arrest of Davies-Jones. “Why?” she demanded in exasperation.

“Because there’s a connection between Darrow and Davies-Jones. I don’t know what it is yet. Perhaps an old relationship. Perhaps a debt to be paid. Perhaps mutual knowledge. But whatever it is, we’re getting closer to finding it.”





12


WINE’S THE PLOUGH was just minutes short of its midafternoon closing when Lynley and Havers entered. John Darrow made no secret of his displeasure at seeing them.

“Closing,” he barked.

Lynley ignored the man’s implied refusal to speak with them. Instead, he approached the bar, opened the file, and took out Hannah Darrow’s suicide note. Next to him, Havers flipped open her notebook. Darrow watched all this with his mouth pressed into a hostile line.

“Tell me about this,” Lynley suggested, passing the note across to him.

The man gave it a moment’s sullen, cursory attention, but he said nothing. Instead, he began gathering the pint glasses that lined the bar, dousing them furiously into a pan of murky water beneath it.

“How much education did your wife have, Mr. Darrow? Did she finish school? Did she go to university? Or was she self-educated? A great reader, perhaps?”

Darrow’s scowling face revealed a stumbling search through Lynley’s words for a trap. Apparently not finding one, he said shortly, “Hannah didn’t hold with books. She’d had enough of school at fifteen.”

“I see. But interested in the Fens, was she? The plant life and such?”

The man’s lips moved in a quick snarl of contempt. “What d’you want with me, pommy boy? Have your say and get out.”

“She writes here about trees. And a tree that died but still sways in the wind. Rather poetic, wouldn’t you say? Even for a suicide message. What is this note really, Darrow? When did your wife write it? Why did she? Where did you find it?” There was no reply. Wordlessly, Darrow continued washing glasses. They clanked and scraped angrily against the metal pan. “On the night she died, you left the pub. Why?”

“I went looking for her. I’d been up to the flat, found that”—Darrow’s sharp nod indicated the note—“in the kitchen, went out to find her.”

“Where?”

“The village.”

“Knocking on doors? Looking in sheds? Searching through houses?”

“No. She wasn’t likely to kill herself in someone’s house now, was she?”

“And you knew for a certainty that she was going to kill herself?”

“It bloody well says that!”

“Indeed. Where did you look for her?”

“Here and there. I don’t remember. It’s fifteen years past. I didn’t heed it at the time. And it’s buried now. Am I clear on that, man? It’s buried.”

“It was buried,” Lynley acknowledged. “Quite successfully so, I should guess. But then Joy Sinclair came here and began an exhumation. And it looks very much as if someone was afraid of that. Why did she telephone you so many times, Darrow? What did she want?”

Darrow swung both arms up from the dishwater. Irately, he slammed them onto the bar. “I’ve told you! The bitch wanted to talk about Hannah, but I was having none of it. I didn’t want her raking up the past and mucking about with our lives. We’re over it. God damn you, we’re going to stay that way. Now, get out of here or make a f*cking arrest.”

Regarding the other man calmly, Lynley made no reply, so the implication behind Darrow’s last statement grew with every moment. His face began to mottle. The veins in his arms seemed to swell.

“An arrest,” Lynley repeated. “Odd that you should suggest that, Mr. Darrow. Why on earth should I want to make an arrest for a suicide? Except we both know, don’t we, that this wasn’t a suicide. And I believe that Joy Sinclair’s mistake was telling you that it didn’t much look like a suicide to her.”

“Get out!” Darrow roared.

Lynley took his time about gathering the materials back into the folder. “We’ll be back,” he said pleasantly.