Payment in Blood (Inspector Lynley, #2)(93)
“Bloody hell, what happened to you?” she demanded. And then amended the question truculently with, “Sir. Where are you? You’ve had a phone call from Inspector Macaskin. They’ve done the complete autopsy on both Sinclair and Gowan. Macaskin said to tell you they’ve fixed Sinclair’s time of death between two and a quarter past three. And, he said with a great deal of hemming and hawing that she hadn’t been interfered with. I suppose that was his genteel way of telling me that there was no evidence of forcible rape or sexual intercourse. He said that the forensic team aren’t through with everything they gathered from the room. He’ll phone again as soon as they have it all done.”
Lynley blessed Macaskin’s thoroughness and his self-assured willingness to be of help, unthreatened by the involvement of Scotland Yard.
“We’ve taken Stinhurst’s statement, and I’ve not been able to shake him into a single inconsistency about Saturday night at Westerbrae no matter how many times we’ve been through the story.” Havers snorted scornfully. “His solicitor’s just arrived—your typical old-boy, pinched-nostril type sent by the wife, no doubt, since his lordship hasn’t lowered himself to request the use of a telephone from the likes of me or Nkata. We’ve got him in one of the interrogation rooms, but unless someone comes up with a piece of hard evidence or a witness in double time, we’re in serious trouble. So where in God’s name have you taken yourself?”
“Porthill Green.” He cut off her protest with, “Listen to me. I’m not going to argue that Stinhurst isn’t involved in Joy’s death. But I’ll not leave this Darrow situation unresolved. Let’s not lose sight of the fact that Joy Sinclair’s door was locked, Havers. So like it or not, our access route is still through Helen’s room.”
“But we’ve already agreed that Francesca Gerrard could well have given—”
“And Hannah Darrow’s suicide note was copied from a play.”
“A play? What play?”
Lynley looked across the green to the pub. Smoke curled from its chimney, like a snake against the sky. “I don’t know. But I expect John Darrow does. And I think he’s going to tell me.”
“Where is that going to get us, Inspector? And what am I supposed to do with his precious lordship while you jolly about the Fens?”
“Take him through everything once again. With his solicitor present, if he insists. You know the routine, Havers. Plan it out with Nkata. Vary the questions.”
“And then?”
“Then let him go for the day.”
“Inspector—”
“You know as well as I that we have nothing substantial on him at the moment. Perhaps destruction of evidence in the burning of the scripts. But absolutely nothing else save the fact that his brother was a Soviet spy twenty-five years ago and he himself obstructed justice in Geoffrey’s death. I hardly think it’s productive to our case to arrest Stinhurst for that now. And you can’t believe his solicitor isn’t going to insist that we either charge him or release him to his family.”
“We may get something more from the forensic team in Strathclyde,” she argued.
“We may. And when that occurs, we’ll pick him up again. For now, we’ve done all we can. Is that clear?”
He heard the exasperation that edged her reply. “And what will you have me do when I send Stinhurst toddling on his way?”
“Go to my office. Shut the door. Don’t see anyone. Wait to hear from me.”
“And if Webberly wants a report on our progress?”
“Tell him to rot,” Lynley replied, “right after you tell him we’re wise to Special Branch and MI5’s involvement in the case.”
He could hear Havers’ smile—in spite of herself—across the telephone line. “A pleasure, sir. As I’ve always said, when the ship is sinking, one may as well bash a few holes in the bow.”
WHEN LYNLEY asked for a ploughman’s lunch and a pint of Guinness, John Darrow looked as if he would much rather refuse the business. However, the presence of three dour-looking men at the bar and an elderly woman dozing over gin and bitters by the crackling fire seemed to discourage him from doing so. Therefore, within five minutes, Lynley was occupying one of the tables near the window, tucking into a large plate of Stilton and Cheddar, pickled onions, and crusty bread.
He ate calmly enough, not bothered by the curiosity evidenced in the ill-hushed questions of the other customers. Local farmers, no doubt, they would soon be off to see to the rest of their day’s work, leaving John Darrow with no choice but to face another interview that he appeared to be doing his best to avoid.
Indeed, Darrow had become decidedly congenial towards the men at the bar within moments of Lynley’s arrival, as if an unaccustomed infusion of bonhomie into his behaviour would encourage them to linger long after they would otherwise have departed. They were talking of sports at the moment, a loud conversation about Newcastle football that was interrupted when the pub door opened and a young boy—perhaps sixteen years old—hurried in from the cold.
Lynley had seen him coming from the direction of Mildenhall, on an ancient motorbike whose predominant colour was mud. Wearing heavy work boots, blue jeans, and an antique leather jacket—all stained liberally with what appeared to be grease—the boy had parked in front of the pub and had spent several minutes across the street, admiring Lynley’s car and running his hand along the sleek line of its roof. He had the sturdy build of John Darrow, but his colouring was as light as his mother’s had been.