Longshot. Part 35

Doone didn't say yes or no, and I understood what he'd meant by preferring to listen to unadulterated first thoughts, to the first pictures and conclusions that minds leaped to when questioned.

He talked to Bob for a while longer but as far as I could see learned nothing much.

'You want to see Mackie,' Bob said in the end. 'That's young Mrs Vickers. The girls tell her things they'd never tell me.'

Doone nodded and I led him and the ubiquitous Rich round the house to Mackie and Perkin's entrance, ringing the bell. It was Perkin himself who came to the door, appearing in khaki overalls, looking wholly artisan and smelling, fascinatingly, of wood and linseed oil.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said, surprised to see me. 'Mackie's in the shower.'

Doone took it in his stride this time, introducing himself formally.

'I came to let Mrs Vickers know that Angela Brickell's been found,' he said.

'Who?' Perkin said blankly. 'I didn't know anyone was lost. I don't know any Angela... Angela who did you say?'

Doone patiently explained she'd been lost for seven or more months. Angela Brickell.

'Good Lord. Really? Who is she?' A thought struck him. 'I say, is she the stable girl who b.u.g.g.e.red off sometime last year? I remember a bit of a fuss.'

'That's the one.'

'Good then, my wife will be glad she's found. I'll give her the message.'

He made as if to close the door but Doone said he would like to see Mrs Vickers himself.

'Oh? All right. You'd better come in and wait. John? Come in?'

'Thanks,' I said.

He led the way into a kitchen-dining room where I hadn't been before and offered us rattan armchairs round a table made of a circular slab of gla.s.s resting on three gothic plaster pillars. The curtains and chair covers were bright turquoise overprinted with blowsy grey, black and white flowers, and all the kitchen fitments were faced with grey-white streaked Formica; thoroughly modern.

Perkin watched my surprise with irony and said, 'Mackie chose everything in a revolt against good taste.'

'It's happy,' I said. 'Light-hearted.'

The remark seemed somehow to disturb him, but Mackie herself arrived with damp hair at that point looking refreshed and pleased with life. Her reaction to Doone's first cautious words was the same as everyone else's. 'Great. Where is she?'

The gradual realisation of the true facts drained the contentment and the colour from her face. She listened to his questions and answered them, and faced the implications squarely.

'You're telling us, aren't you,' she said flatly, 'that either she killed herself- or somebody killed her?'

'I didn't say that, madam.'

'As good as.' She sighed desolately. 'All these questions about doping rings- and boyfriends. Oh G.o.d.' She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them to look at Doone and me.

'We've just had months and months of trouble and anxiety over Olympia and Nolan, we've had the TV people and reporters in droves, driving us mad with their questions, we're only just beginning to feel free of it all- and I can't bear it- I can't bear it- it's starting all over again.'

CHAPTER 10.

I borrowed the Land Rover and at Doone's request led him down to the village and into Harry and Fiona's drive. I was surprised that he still wanted me with him and said so, and he explained a little solemnly that he found people felt less threatened by a police officer if he turned up with someone they knew.

'Don't you want them to feel threatened?' I asked. 'Many policemen seem to like it that way.'

'I'm not many policemen.' He seemed uninsulted. 'I work in my own way, sir, and if sometimes it's not how my colleagues work then I get my results all the same and it's the results that count in the end. It may not be the best way to the highest promotion,' he smiled briefly, 'but I do tend to solve things, I a.s.sure you.'

'I don't doubt it, Chief Inspector,' I said.

'I have three daughters,' he said, sighing, 'and I don't like cases like this one.'

We were standing in the drive looking at the n.o.ble facade of a fine Georgian manor.

'Never make a.s.sumptions,' he said absent-mindedly, as if giving me advice. 'You know the two most pathetic words a policeman can utter when his case falls apart around him?'

I shook my head.

'I a.s.sumed,' he said.

'I'll remember.'

He looked at me calmly in his unthreatening way and said it was time to trouble the Goodhavens.

As it happened, only Fiona was there, coming to the kitchen door in a dark blue tailored suit with a white silk blouse, gold chains, high-heeled black shoes and an air of rush. She smiled apologetically when she saw me.

'John,' she said. 'What can I do for you? I'm going out to lunch. Can you make it quick?'

'Er-' I said, 'this is Detective Chief Inspector Doone, Thames Valley Police. And Constable Rich.'

'Policemen?' she asked, puzzled; and then in terrible flooding anxiety, 'Nothing's happened to Harry?'

'No, no. Nothing. It's not about Harry. Well, not exactly. It's about Angela Brickell. They've found her.'

'Angela-? Oh yes. Well, I'm glad. Where did she go?'

Doone was very adroit, I thought, at letting silence itself break the bad news.

'Oh my dear,' Fiona said, after a few quiet reve-lationary seconds, 'is she dead?'

'Yes, I'm afraid so, madam.' Doone nodded. 'I need to ask you a few questions.'

'Oh, but-' She looked at her watch. 'Can't it wait? It's not just a lunch, I'm the guest of honour.'

We were still standing on the doorstep. Doone without arguing produced the photograph and asked Fiona to identify the man, if she could.

'Of course. It's Harry, my husband. And that's my horse, Chickweed. Where did you get this?'

'From the young woman's handbag.'