“That does play out, doesn’t it?”
“Except the guv said that he was hot, bothered, and righteous when the subject of Druitt diddling children came up. ’Course, that could have been all for show, I reckon, because he’d have to be heavy with the righteous protecting of Druitt so the gaff wouldn’t be blown, the gaff being the fact that he was the person grassing up Druitt in the first place, eh?”
Lynley took all of this on board as he managed a three-point turn farther along the lane and then headed them back in the direction of the village. It seemed to him that it was time to track down DCC Clover Freeman in order to get her side of the tale that concluded with the death of an Anglican deacon.
While he drove, Havers tracked the DCC. She began with West Mercia Headquarters, reporting back to him that Clover Freeman had left for the day. She managed to get the DCC’s mobile number off the chief constable’s secretary after explaining it was a matter of some urgency that the Met coppers speak with her personally since they’d sorted out her involvement in the matter of the death of Ian Druitt. . . . Reaching those last five words was as far as she’d needed to go. Lynley murmured, “Nice work,” as he followed the route into the village and pulled over when they were in view of the timber-framed Guildhall, where a woman with a selfie-stick was grinning into her mobile and, he reckoned, ruining an otherwise lovely picture of the town’s most photographed building.
He listened idly to Havers’s half of the conversation, which appeared to consist of a negotiation with the DCC, who seemed to think this matter of speaking with the Met officers could wait till tomorrow, especially since she herself was en route to her home.
Some back-and-forthing happened next, during which Havers was all courtesy with her No, ma’ams and It’s necessary, ma’ams and We can easily come to you, ma’ams. The result was an agreement that, considering the hour, she and Lynley would come along to the DCC’s home in Worcester, after having an early dinner themselves at some point. They would arrive at the DCC’s home round half past eight. If the DCC would text her address . . . ? Thank you, ma’am.
When Havers ended the call, she said to Lynley, “She’ll be waiting for us, but she won’t be happy.”
“I did get that impression,” he told her.
WORCESTER
HEREFORDSHIRE
When Trevor Freeman returned from his walk with the Rambling Rogues, he took an evaluative look at his hiking boots. They wouldn’t do, he decided. They were far too clean.
Along with his hiking sticks, he accomplished what needed to be accomplished in the back garden, where he used the hosepipe and the herbaceous border that was not a herbaceous border at all but rather a dug-up and eternally uncultivated rectangle of earth running along the fence. There, he created a nice pool of muck and stirred it about with one of his sticks, achieving a fine goo into which he plopped his boots. He wrestled them round a bit, and when they were sufficiently filthy, he returned to the front of the house, where he placed both boots and sticks in extremely plain sight.
Inside the house, he went for his mobile. He hadn’t taken it with him while he was out with the Rambling Rogues because mobile phones were verboten. The group leader was allowed one, of course, but only for use in cases of emergency. Should one of the older members of the Rogues have a heart attack or a stroke, the club did not wish to see him languishing away for want of a device of communication.
When he took his mobile from the work top, Trevor saw that he’d missed four calls while he’d been gone. Three of them were from Clover. The fourth had come from Gaz Ruddock. Trevor went for Clover’s first and was struck at once by what she asked him: Could Trev phone Gaz Ruddock? Would he invite him to dinner for tomorrow night? Trevor went on to her second: Had Trev managed to make contact with Gaz Ruddock yet? Was he coming for a meal? And finally: Why wasn’t Trev returning her calls?
Trevor found all of this mystifying and, frankly, a little troubling. Why, he wondered, had Clover not merely phoned Gaz Ruddock herself? Since she had the time to ring her husband on three occasions while he’d been with the Rogues, why not just make the phone call she was asking him to make?
He pondered this as he opened the fridge and brought forth a bottle of fizzy water. He drank it down, tried to come up with an answer, failed to do so, felt a twinge of disquiet, but phoned the PCSO as requested. He caught Gaz at the market, picking up some staples along with the ingredients to put together spag bol for dinner that night. Before Trevor could extend the invitation that Clover wished him to extend, though, Gaz continued.
“Scotland Yard are up here again,” he said. “I had the word from my sergeant this afternoon. It’s the Druitt suicide. You know about it, Trev?”
A very odd question, Trevor thought. That Gaz hadn’t been summarily sacked as a result of Druitt’s death was owing entirely to Clover’s intercession on behalf of the young man who’d quickly become her protégé while he was in training. Gaz surely knew that Clover would have told her husband about all of it. He said, “I’m not likely to be in the dark about that, Gaz.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean the . . . you know . . . the death? I meant did you know Scotland Yard’re coming a second time. Did Clo tell you? I’m only wondering why she didn’t ring me, see. I’d think she would do. She has to know about this, eh?”
“Haven’t the least idea. I’ve not seen her. I can have her ring you when she gets home.”
“I’d be that grateful. It’s only just that—”
“It’s only that you’re worried. I know. It’s reasonable.”
“Rumour is there might be a lawsuit.”
“Try not to think so far ahead. One day at a time. Clover’s asked me to phone you about having dinner with us, by the way.”
They made their arrangements for the dinner, and his duty done, Trevor set to rummaging through the fridge. He was the family cook—had been since the day of his marriage to a cop with a hellish schedule—and he sought whatever he could come up with for a decent stir-fry. He was sniffing a package of tofu and asking himself if tofu could go bad when his mobile rang.
He saw it was Clover and he answered with, “I expected you home long before now, Missus Freeman. I was hoping for a little bit of this and a bigger bit of that. Can I interest you?”
She answered him with, “Have you managed to reach Gaz? Why haven’t you returned my calls?”
“What’s all this with Gaz, Clover? He’s in a twist about Scotland Yard planning another trip to Shropshire, by the way.”
“They’re not planning. They’re here,” was her reply. “Wyatt’s in a complete state about it. Well, who can blame him? What a bucket of horseshit this is.” Then she sighed and went on with, “Never mind. I’m in a mood. I’ll be home soon. Shall I stop for takeaway? Or have you done the shop?”
Takeaway would save him, but he knew she was probably knackered and would prefer just to drive straight home. “No need,” he said. “I’ll manage something,” although the truth was that he’d also had a look at the celery, which had turned out to be as limp as a eunuch’s dick. The red and green peppers weren’t much better and an onion was in the midst of turning an unappealing shade of purplish grey. “I’m concocting a healthy dinner to impress you. I’m concocting other things as well.”
“Are you? We’ll see about that. I’ve had one hell a day.”
When they rang off, Trevor started the brown rice, a lot of it as the rest of the meal was going to need some serious help. Once he’d done that, he went for wine. Considering Clover’s state, she would want a very large glass of it. From the cupboard beneath the stairs, he unearthed a bottle of Tempranillo. He uncorked it and decided it could breathe well enough in two large-bowled glasses. He poured them and reckoned his own didn’t need to breathe at all.
He drank as he chopped all of the usable veg they had. He had bought himself an electric wok some time in the past, but so far he hadn??
?t gone to the bother of learning how to use it. So a large pan was going to have to suit, and he sorted this out and doused its bottom with cooking oil. He was just about to peel the garlic when he heard a car door slam outside the house. He grabbed Clover’s wine, made fast tracks for the front door, and opened it.
She was done up in that no-nonsense fashion she employed for workdays: hair a severe bun low on her neck, uniform uncreased even late in the day, stud earrings of gold and no other jewellery save her engagement and wedding rings. She did indeed look knackered, but as ever, she looked perfectly delicious to him.
He saw that she was examining his hiking sticks and boots as he’d intended. She raised her gaze from them to him. He extended the wineglass to her, and as she took it she said, “How far then?” When he said he’d done twelve miles, she hooted and returned with, “When pigs fly.”
But still she kissed him there on the doorstep. She made the kiss last and he did nothing to end it. She said against his mouth, “Please feel me up properly. The neighbours would probably like a diversion.”
He was very happy to cooperate. Despite the day she’d had, there appeared to be hope for what would follow.
She said, “You know, you’re still the most delicious thing on two legs.” And then she added with a laugh as her hand explored his crotch, “Hmm. Seems like three legs.”
Trevor decided that sex as a prelude to dinner and conversation could be the answer. After an interlude in the bedroom or the sitting room or right there in the entry, Clover might be able to relax. But before he could engage in a move other than circling the tips of his fingers round her left nipple, she stirred in his arms and said, “Is something burning?”
God. He’d completely forgotten. He released Clover and said, “Fuck!” Then, “Got to go to the rescue. Won’t be long till dinner. Sorry. About the . . . you know . . . the third leg and all.”
“Just as well. I’m done in.”
“P’rhaps later?”
“We’ll see. Best take care of—” She sniffed the air. “Would that be rice?”
“You’re very good,” he told her.
He dashed to the kitchen where he discovered that while the bottom of the rice pan held a real blackened skin of the stuff, the rest was edible. So while Clover was, one hoped, up in the bedroom slipping into something seductive, comfortable, and suitable for quick removal, he saw to the rest of their meal.
He’d finished browning the tofu when Clover returned to him, wineglass in her hand. She topped up her Tempranillo and held the bottle out to him with a questioning look, but he shook his head. The glass and a half he’d downed had produced enough of a pleasant buzz.
She sat at the table. He could see she was restless: rearranging cutlery, folding paper napkins, realigning plates. It wasn’t like her to be so fidgety. He said, “How bad is it?”
“This Scotland Yard business? I’m not drunk enough yet.” She took up her wineglass but merely examined the garnet colour of the Spanish wine. She said shrewdly, “Did you really walk twelve miles?”
He knew he looked abashed as he replied, “No.”
“One mark for honesty. Where did you go? Down the pub?”
“I was with the Rambling Rogues, all right. But there was . . . a shorter option today.”
“Of . . . ?”
He chose this moment to attend to the browning tofu. When she said his name in that way she had that declared, You’ll be in trouble if you don’t answer, he said, “Three miles,” and glanced in her direction.
She was casting her own gaze heavenward. “Oh for God’s sake, Trev. You own a bloody fitness centre. If you can’t find the time for a decent workout—”
“I know,” he cut in. “And I intend to. Don’t make your day worse by worrying about me. I’m fit. I’m giving up chips and beer.”
“As before, with the pigs and their wings . . .”
They bantered with each other as he finished up with their dinner. It didn’t take long till he carried the meal to the table, which sat in a small alcove that looked out at the back garden. In the month of May their lawn, at least, should have been thick and lush, but it seemed that they never had the time to deal with it properly. The sole attempt at making something special out of the entire space had been to throw fourteen different packets of seeds on the ground and to hope for the best. That hadn’t turned out half bad since they did have flowers here and there, those that survived through some sort of Darwinian process.
He said to her, “As to Scotland Yard?”
“Still not drunk enough. Tell me about your day.”
There wasn’t much to tell when one ran an fitness centre. Spinning classes, hot yoga, swimming, Zumba, weight training: these didn’t offer intriguing topics of conversation unless an old codger took on too much activity and an ambulance needed to be called. Occasionally one of the trainers ran afoul of propriety and had to be dealt with—hands off the lovely young mothers attempting to get back into condition, please—but that was it.
He said, “Very little to report. Went out with the Rogues, saw many trees, frightened half a dozen deer, observed rabbits, counted magpies. Aside from doing the wages at the centre and chatting to Gaz, that was it. I do think he wants you to ring and give him reassurance about Scotland Yard turning up again.”
She was, he saw, not digging into her food. She’d removed her hair from the severity of its bun and she ran her hand through it, back from her forehead. She said, “I expect he does. But I don’t know how much more I can do for him, Trev. The real issue is going to be Finnegan anyway.”
Trevor frowned. He saw that she clocked his expression because she went on to say, “They’re probably going to speak to him again, the Met.”
“Ah. Well, Druitt and Finn were mates, after all.”
“But they weren’t, not really. Ian Druitt was someone Finnegan thought he knew. And nothing anyone can say to him has been enough to convince him he didn’t actually know Druitt at all.”
“Anyone?”
“What?”
“You said nothing anyone can say. But I expect you mean nothing you could say.”
“I do tend to know more about the darker side of mankind than Finnegan does.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with that. On the other hand, the boy was rather involved in that club. He wasn’t just going through the motions. He had a real interest for once. So he would have seen things from the inside, wouldn’t he?”
“I think it’s rather that he would have seen exactly what he was intended to see. This passion he has about Druitt’s innocence in all matters . . . ? It’s quite mad, Trev. God. I wish he’d never met the man.”
Trevor had gone back to his food but now he looked up from it. He said nothing but he didn’t need to. She read him well, as she always had done.
“Yes, yes. I know,” she said. “I was the one who wanted him involved in a social programme. I was the one who made it a condition of this college experience he was so desperate to have. I was the one who approved his choice of the after-school club as the social programme. I see, I see, I see it all. But he was meant merely to volunteer in an activity in Ludlow. That was it. Full stop. He wasn’t meant to make it a life interest.”
“He’s hardly done that,” Trevor pointed out.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all gone straight to hell. My intention was just to keep him occupied so when he had free time, he’d have something other than . . . I don’t know . . . drinking, drugs, sexual profligacy, whatever to tempt him . . . and look how it’s all come out. Every which way it’s a mess when all along the only thing I want is to get him through life without his ending up in gaol.”
Trevor deliberately made no reply to this because he wanted her to hear her own words. From them, he wanted her to understand for once what she was declaring about their son. It was no lie that Finnegan had been a challenge straight o
ut of the womb, but he was not a criminal type nor had he ever been. A bit wild, yes. Rather more ungovernable, yes. Sometimes defiant. But never with any intention of doing wrong.
After a moment of silence, she said in a completely altered tone, “All right. I see what you want me to see. This isn’t about Finnegan. It probably never was. And I admit I’m out of sorts. It’s the pressure, Trev. If the work of the West Mercia police force is under scrutiny, it means we’re all under scrutiny and Gaz Ruddock’s work in particular is under scrutiny. Again. I suppose my concern is that Finnegan not make things worse with wild declarations about Druitt that cause everything to turn out badly.”
“For who?” Trevor found himself asking this question with some care because there seemed to be waters here that he’d not known existed before this conversation.
She said, “For Gaz, I suppose. This is—essentially—the fourth time he’s been looked at. He might be sacked.”
“He might well be. But that would be down to him, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, it’s hardly fair to ask him to go through this yet another time.”
“Is it a question of fairness?” Trevor reached for his wineglass but didn’t drink until he’d said, “To be honest, Clover, I’d no idea that what happens to Gaz Ruddock worries you.”
“Of course it worries me. Why wouldn’t it worry me? I took him on, Trevor. I told myself I saw something in him that warranted my interest and I made him special, my personal project, my protégé. And he’s done splendidly until this . . . this Druitt thing. He’s never put a foot wrong. So I don’t want him to lose his job, and beyond that . . .”
Trevor could tell she was hesitating because she’d either just realised something or because she was venturing near to something she didn’t want him to know.
He said, “What?”
Still, nothing. She looked at her wineglass. She turned its stem in her fingers. She drank.
“Clover? What?”
“It’s this. If he looks bad, then I look bad. I don’t want that and I expect, in my position, you wouldn’t want it either.”