The Killings at Badger's Drift by Caroline Graham Page A

go?’
    ‘Just down Church Lane, past the fields for about half a mile, then back.’
    ‘Did you meet anyone?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you hear or notice anything out of the ordinary when you were passing Beehive Cottage?’
    ‘No . . . I think the curtains were closed.’
    ‘And what time did you return?’
    She gave a couldn’t-care-less shrug.
    ‘Can you be of any help here, Doctor Lessiter?’ asked Barnaby.
    ‘No.’ The doctor had returned to the settee and reimmersed himself in his newspaper. Barnaby was just about to ask if he could see Mrs Lessiter when she appeared in the doorway behind him. He was made aware of this by a sudden change in the atmosphere. The doctor, after a glance over Barnaby’s shoulder, started reading his paper with a degree of intensity which could only be feigned, Judy glowered at no one in particular and the blood heated up and zipped around under Sergeant Troy’s almost transparent skin, staining it an unbecoming bright pink.
    ‘I thought I heard voices.’
    She dropped into the armchair by the window, put her feet up on a tiny footstool and smiled at the two policemen. She could have stepped straight out of one of his centrefolds, Troy thought, eyeing the ripe curves pressing against a terry-towelling jump suit, the tumbling hair and glossy fondant lips. Her slender tanned feet were in high-heeled golden sandals. Barnaby thought she was not as young as all that hard work and hard cash would have you believe. Not early thirties but mid, maybe even late forties.
    In reply to his question she said that in the afternoon she had been in Causton shopping and in the evening she was at home except for a short period when she had gone out for a drive.
    ‘Was that for any special purpose?’
    ‘No . . . well . . . to be honest we’d had a little tiff, hadn’t we, Pookie?’
    ‘I hardly think our domestic squabbles are of any interest to the police, my dear -’
    ‘I overspent my dress allowance and he got cross so I took the Jaguar and drove around for a bit till I thought he’d’ve cooled down. Then I came home.’
    ‘And this was?’
    ‘Was Miss Lessiter here when you returned?’
    ‘Judy?’ She frowned at the girl in an impersonal way, as if wondering what she was doing in the place at all. ‘I’ve no idea. She spends a lot of time in her room. Adolescents do, you know.’
    Barnaby could not think of the figure now lumpily taking up half a settee as an adolescent. The word implied not just a lack of confidence, ungainliness and a personality in a state of flux but fragility (if only of the ego) and youth. Judy Lessiter looked as if she had been born middle aged.
    ‘You didn’t stop anywhere, Mrs Lessiter? For a drink perhaps?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Well, thank you.’ As Barnaby rose he heard the flap of the letter box. Judy heaved herself up from the sofa and lolloped out of the room. Her stepmother glanced at Barnaby.
    ‘She’s in love. Every time the post arrives or the phone rings we get a touch of drama.’ Her shiny unkind smile included all three men. It said: isn’t she ridiculous? As if anyone would. ‘A dreadful man too, but devastatingly attractive, which makes things worse.’
    Trevor Lessiter’s knuckles whitened over the newsprint. Judy returned with a handful of letters. She threw one into Barbara’s lap and dropped the rest down the inside of the Daily Telegraph chute. Her father clicked his tongue with annoyance.
    When they left the house Barnaby stopped to admire a spectacular Madame le Coultre clematis climbing up the portico. Before he walked on he looked back through the window of the room they had just left. Barbara Lessiter, standing now, was staring out unseeingly into the garden. Her face was a mask of fear. As Barnaby watched she crumpled a letter into a tight ball and thrust it into the pocket of her suit.
     
    ‘What’s the matter, Stepmamma?’
    ‘Nothing.’ Barbara moved back to the armchair. She was longing for some strong black coffee.