"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too." [30/???] [Midsomer Murders]

[k_s_b_l]

"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too."


Chapter 29: Assured Clear Distance

The day's first mug of station coffee was cooling beside Barnaby's hand when the police constable offered him the manila folders. Reaching for it, Barnaby grimaced as a crack rang from his lower back. He had not slept well the past few nights, but had instead tossed and turned until the early morning. The prior night had been a particularly bad one. "These them?"

"Yes, sir," the young man said with a nod, "the originals are on top. Copies of each are in the next folder."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir." With another nod, the young constable turned and walked back across the squad room, weaving in and out of the flow of uniformed bodies. With the worst of the traffic traversed, he veered away from the exit, dallying for a moment at Sergeant Brierley's desk. She didn't even look up from her work, and so the man continued on, though at a slower pace.

Silly bastard, Barnaby thought, his back complaining another time as he settled into his chair once more. You think they'd all be done with trying by this point.

In the top folder lay several pieces of paper encased in plastic sleeves, already dusted in vain for fingerprints. "Seems useless to try in any case," he muttered, setting them beside one another on his desk. The letters were haphazard, cut roughly from newspapers and magazines and pasted onto plain paper available in any shop catering to the public.

No better tHan an AniMAL

iF Neil diEs BEfore ThE ROOf iS fiXED youll FOLLoW HIM CloSE behiND

Barnaby attempted another sip of coffee, but shuddered. It was hardly lukewarm and now tasted even worse than when he had first taken it from the pot smoldering on the burner, if such a feat was possible. Pushing the top folder aside, he opened the second, containing copies of the threatening notes, the complaint, and related documents. Hardly anything was written on the initial form: a name and pertinent information, an address, a phone number, and a brief description of the situation. "'Threatening notes appeared after death of complainant's tenant. No other information given.'" Beneath that page was a copy of a death certificate for an elderly man, Neil Axtell, with pneumonia listed as the cause. Under that were a few complaints regarding the property the man rented, citing roof problems and a general lack of upkeep. Those had been made by a close friend of the now deceased tenant, and nothing had been done about them.

Barnaby tried one final mouthful of coffee, but finally concluded it was good for nothing but clogging a drain. "Well, that's enough to be going on with," he muttered with a shake of his head, bracing himself to stand. He ignored the popping in his spine as he rose from his chair-he only hoped it was the end of it for the day, though he knew it was not-and spun around quickly to lift his jacket from the chair's back. His fingers almost caught in the elbow of one sleeve as he yawned.

"You can let that alone for the moment," Barnaby said as he rounded his desk, still forcing his hands through the ends of his sleeves.

At his own desk, Troy glanced up from the pile of papers that Barnaby had watched grow as the morning progressed. "Sir?"

"Believe it or not, Troy."

His sergeant shook his head, dropping his pen on the page he was filling in at the moment. "A bit of a stretch for it to be true."

"That tired of it?"

Troy shoved the pen away with his hand; it clattered against the neat pile of other pens, scattering them across the front of his work area. "Wouldn't you be, sir, if you'd spent the last few bloody weeks filling in forms about break-ins and had it go nowhere?"

Barnaby bit back a smile. Brought it on yourself, Troy, he thought. "Then believe me when I say you're done with it for a spell."

"I'm willing to believe you, sir."

"Good," Barnaby said, shaking his right arm a final time, "because we're due in Malham as soon as possible." Even though he paused to pick up the folder of photocopies and other documents, he was through the door, down the corridor, out of the building, and standing beside the car before Troy caught up with him.

"Why the hurry?" Troy asked, fumbling in his pocket for his keys and squinting in the bright morning sun.

Barnaby shrugged, and found his shoulders still stiff. "Why not hurry? It's a good habit."

As soon as Troy found his key ring in his pocket, the locks opened with a gentle click as he pressed the button on the remote opener. "Back to my education, sir?"

Opening his door and sitting heavily, Barnaby took in a deep breath when his back cracked another time. "Never stop trying to learn, Troy, whether you're educating yourself or learning from someone else."

"Right," Troy muttered, sitting and fastening his own seat belt, his hand quickly moving to the key already positioned in the ignition. Turning it over, he asked, "So what's in Malham, sir?"

"There was an ill tenant."

"Was?"

Barnaby tightened his hand on the door as the tires squealed on the turn onto the main road. "And there is a disliked landlord."

Lifting his face to look in the rear-view mirror then turning to glance out the window to his right, Troy scowled. "Is there any other kind?"

"You do find them occasionally."

"I'll try to remember that."

"Occasionally," Barnaby said loudly, the knuckles of his left hand growing white as the car swerved to the left to avoid a cyclist. "Thank you for your caution, Troy."

His sergeant yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, both returning to the proper side of the road once clear of the cyclist and turning sharply onto a street Barnaby supposed Troy had only just noticed. "So," Troy said, straightening the car, "how disliked is he?"

Barnaby was about to speak when a quick memory of the complaint shot through his mind. Opening the folder on his lap, he tugged out the complaint itself. In the short description of the situation was a name: Melissa Townsend. "She, Troy," he said, opening the glove compartment. A few days earlier after an endless day of drives and interviews, he had tucked a bag of boiled sweets into the small area. She'll never know, Barnaby thought, though he still heard a tsk of disapproval as if Joyce sat in the back seat.

"Fine-how disliked is she?" Troy asked, his eyes focused on the road for once.

"Enough that someone's threatened her."

"And that's enough to drag us all the way out to Malham, a threat against a landlord?" Sighing loudly, Troy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Or landlady?"

"Troy, that is what we do."

"I thought we were supposed to investigate actual crimes, sir."

Closing the folder, Barnaby set the paper bag on top. "It would be nice to prevent one for a change."

As the man glanced away from the road-Barnaby's heart throbbed with panic for a moment-Troy said, "It's just that it won't be the first time someone's threatened a landlord. Or the last."

"They normally don't put it in writing." With his sergeant's gaze on the road again, Barnaby's heart began to slow. Ignoring the crinkling of the paper bag and then the plastic wrapper, he popped a purple sweet into his mouth. The blackcurrant flavor was harsh, artificial, and delicious.

"It's been tempting," Troy said, shaking his head.

Pulling the various complaints and the death certificate from the folder, Barnaby said, "We've all been there. The owner is...Melissa Townsend. The property was sold to her by her father three years ago." He reached into the bag of sweets another time, retrieving a red, strawberry-flavored piece. "Tenant was Neil Axtell, an elderly man who recently died of pneumonia."

"Sending threatening notes because of that's a little much, don't you think, sir?"

"Not if you blame her for his death," Barnaby muttered, running his eyes over the reports about the house's condition.

"Even then..."

Barnaby said nothing else, instead rereading the complaints regarding the house. Drafty windows, leaky roof, landlord informed of needed maintenance several times. He did not realize his hand had drifted to the sweet bag another time and he held an unwrapped green candy before he had a chance to look at it. Barnaby could not abide the green ones and held it out to his sergeant. "Troy."

Troy looked away from the road briefly. "Could I have a red one please, sir?"

Barnaby held back a growl of irritation. Almost forgetting himself, he thought. "I've unwrapped this one, eh," he said, focusing his eyes on the papers before him.

Sighing quietly, Troy took the sweet without further complaint. "So, how old's this Melissa Townsend, then?"

Barnaby looked to his paperwork once more. "Twenty-two."

Troy glanced to him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "A bit young, isn't it?" he asked, the words slightly muddled as he spoke around the sweet.

"Her father wanted her to get used to the responsibilities of property ownership early on." Lifting the photocopies of the letters, Barnaby read over the supplementary information another time. "Seems she didn't do much in the way of maintenance."

"She passed the first landlord's exam, then." Barnaby couldn't help but smile and caught his sergeant's eye as they shared a laugh, what felt like the first in weeks-

"Troy!"

Two sets of tires squealed on the pavement as Troy yanked the wheel hard again, almost veering off the road before the car screeched and came to a heart-pounding halt. Even though there was no impact with the foliage along the road's edge, Barnaby gritted his teeth against another throb of his shoulder.

The other driver was already out of his vehicle, a sleek sports car laden with curves designed to hug the twists and turns of both rural roads and crowded motorways. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted, slamming his door closed and proceeding to the center of the road with long, angry strides. Barnaby refused to look at Troy, instead opening his door and setting the folder and bag on his seat as Troy exited the vehicle as well. Slamming his own door was a difficult temptation to resist.

"You might not mind writing off that heap of junk," the man continued, his arms swinging, "but mine's just out of the showroom!"

At last in the middle of the road a few feet from the other driver, Barnaby fished his warrant card from his jacket pocket. "I'm Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby," he said, opening it to his identification. With a nod to his sergeant as he displayed the same card, he added, "This is Detective Sergeant Troy."

The man before them was clad in a well tailored suit coat, wearing a cravat at his neck and his hair combed flat against his head as he glared down his broad nose. "I thought you chaps were supposed to know how to drive."

Returning his warrant card to his pocket, Barnaby asked, "And your name is..."

The man yanked his wallet from his own pocket, showing little caution for a dark blue jacket that must have cost several hundred pounds. "Frederick Bentine-Brown," he said, handing over the small card. "I would like to know where to write my letter of complaint."

Barnaby ran his eyes over the information on the license; the address listed was in Midsomer Worthy, and certainly a large piece of property given the man's well known wealth and connections. "You have every right to do so, of course. And we have grounds-thank you," Barnaby said, handing the driving license back, "for charging you with reckless driving." The man's eyes narrowed, and Barnaby thought he saw that proud face wrinkle as well. "But we're a bit busy at the moment, sir, so why don't you just climb back into your motor car and continue with a little more care?"

Not bothering to answer, Bentine-Brown shoved his wallet away as he turned, heading to his sports car with the same long paces he had taken before.

Standing beside him, Barnaby heard a quiet hiss of anger from Troy. "And let us get on with our investigations," his sergeant called.

"Wouldn't want to keep you from your crime busting," Bentine-Brown said, still strolling back to his car. As he opened the door, he turned back; even so far away, Barnaby could see the hint of an arrogant smile. "Somebody's stolen a lawnmower, have they?"

The man folded himself into the driver's seat, turned the ignition, and roared around the curve toward Causton, leaving a small spray of dust and the fading hum of the engine as the only evidence of the narrowly avoided collision. "Troy," Barnaby began, still staring at the soil settling on the edge of the road, "if you're going to drive innocent members of the public off the road, try not to pick on influential multimillionaires, would you?"

Taking a stuttering step toward their own vehicle, Troy threw a disgusted glare back at the road the sports car had disappeared down. "Git."

"A justifiably irritated one."

As they climbed into the car again-Barnaby fastened the buckle of his seat belt quickly and very firmly before placing the bag and folder on his lap again-Troy scowled. "Could hardly tell what he meant to do when he came round the bend."

"Say what you will, but for the moment, I'll blame it on the lack of a center line."

With his seat belt in place as well, Troy shoved the key into the ignition and turned it over again with a heavy hand. "And not the other driver?"

Barnaby shook his head. "Not after this many years."

"Sorry, sir," Troy muttered as the car shuddered forward for the first few feet.

"I only have to survive until Thursday," Barnaby said, rolling his shoulder to relieve the gentle throbbing but just shifting it to the top of his back instead. "So, if you could please avoid killing us until after then..."

Troy's gaze moved away from the road. "What about Thursday-"

"It's the opening night of Pygmalion at the Playhouse." A gentle warmth swelled in Barnaby's chest even as the car reached a sudden halt at a stop sign, pushing the ache in his shoulder and back from his mind. About time I remembered something, he thought. "You coming?"

"Of course, sir. I promised Cully I would."

"I thought you would be," Barnaby said, the words lower than he intended. No surprise there.

"Well, as many times as I've read that play..."

And spent all those afternoons and evenings with her, Barnaby thought. Just like before. But it wasn't just like before, he knew. Troy had, after all, passed much of that time with her clutching an increasingly bedraggled and annotated copy of Pygmalion. In the past, there had been no reason except for a desire on both his sergeant and his daughter's parts. Now it was a garbled mess of mere desire, request, obligation, and probably enough other reasons to set his head spinning if he was ever party to them.

"It's been a while since her mother and I didn't have to read her lines with her," Barnaby said, turning his gaze out the window.

"Sir?"

The edge of the road sped along, bushes and trees and shrubs blurring together into a mass of green. This could not become what it had before, a shouting match with his sergeant. That moment had complicated their working relationship, and god only knew what his daughter had thought-but not said. "For a long time, she just read them with Nico, but not for a while, now."

"I just-"

"Not that we never offered, this time around," Barnaby added. "She said she had all the help she needed."

Troy nodded as his fingers began to tap the steering wheel again. "I tried my best-"

Barnaby gritted his teeth as the ache seared his muscles anew. "Never asked for one read-through with either of us."

"Sir," Troy said as the car swerved briefly again, "she mentioned once asking your wife-"

"So"-Barnaby smacked his knuckles against the window as he cut Troy off-"I suppose you did almost as good a job as Nico." Though he was waiting for an answer, the only thing Barnaby received from Troy was silence, broken by the rustling of the car's tires on the pavement.

After a moment, Troy managed, "Well, she asked if I would read-"

"Yes, I know she did, Troy," Barnaby said flatly, narrowing his eyes as he focused on the meeting of green foliage and grey road. "That is not the point." The papers and the bag on his lap crinkled as he shifted toward the car door. "You do remember what I said before, don't you?"

Troy's fingers ran even more quickly along wheel. "What, sir?"

"Something about daughters, and sergeants, and their appropriate places in the world."

"I don't think I'll forget-"

"So I don't have to repeat it."

"No, sir."

"I'm glad to know that," Barnaby said, his shoulder twinging again.

As Troy touched the indicator, preparing to turn left off the main road, Barnaby heard him say quietly, "And neither do I."

Barnaby's face snapped back toward his sergeant. "You have something to add?"

"Hmm?"

"I thought I heard you say something."

"No, nothing," Troy said, shaking his head vigorously.

"Are you sure, Troy?"

"Quite, sir."

Though the disappointment of the burglary task force had weighed on his mind Friday night, it had not been the thought keeping him from sleep. That day at CID had wrapped up comparatively earlier, allowing both Troy and him the rare joy of leaving at something approaching a decent hour. When he arrived home, Joyce and dinner were waiting for him-a Marks and Sparks quiche paired with a simple green salad, a meal mercifully devoid of his wife's attempts at culinary creativity-but his daughter was not. While late rehearsals were something he and Joyce had both become accustomed to, his daughter had not returned until half ten, long past what he expected. For the next few days, it was to be a different situation, but that Friday night? The final respite before the hell of technical week? Unanticipated. Her late arrivals Saturday and Sunday evening had only served to keep that unexpectedly long Friday in his mind, and to keep him awake long after he wished to be asleep. "Come now," Barnaby said, "out with it, Troy."

"I've-" Troy stopped and Barnaby heard him suck in another, deeper breath. "I've enjoyed spending the time with her."

You must learn to lie better, Barnaby thought. "Most people do," he said, finally peeling his hand away from the door to pick through the papers in the folder on his lap. "She's usually a pleasant person to be around."

"Usually?"

Barnaby pulled out one of the notes, wondering again what sort of young woman awaited them in Midsomer Malham. A twenty-two year-old woman who had no concern for the condition of the property she owned, living in one of the wealthier Midsomer villages. "Pretty faces can hide sharp tongues," he said quietly. If his experience was anything to go by, they were about to encounter a vile person.

As Troy took another turn without bothering with the indicator, Barnaby heard him sigh. "I don't need you to tell me that, sir."

Barnaby's eyes narrowed, for there was a strange regret in his sergeant's voice, like he was in the midst of reliving a memory. Sounds like experience, he thought, though the possibility was unsurprising. He had had more than enough moments when his daughter's quick observations and sometimes harsh comments had cut him deeply, most often with no apologies to soften the sting. Despite the mellowing of her temper since she had left secondary school, her words often remained blunt. I'd have expected her to be more careful with him. "That bad, was it?"

Troy's gaze left the road another time. "Didn't you ask-" Mid-sentence, his eyes returned to the now unpaved road and his words stopped.

"Yes, ask what?"

His sergeant shook his head. "Nothing, sir."

"Are you still sure?"

"No, it's nothing."

Well, that's bloody useless. Juggling the bag and the folder, Barnaby brought out the complaint again. "'Threatening notes appeared after death of complainant's tenant. No other information given,'" he read again. "Doesn't sound like she's too concerned about it."

"Then why should we be, sir?"

"Because we are paid to be concerned, even if we don't want to be." Pulling the wrapper from a sweet, Barnaby scowled as he saw it was yellow. Even worse than the green ones, he thought, holding it out to Troy.

Troy's face was no happier than his own. "Could I trade you for a red one-or a purple-"

"No, Troy."