Piece Of My Heart

the death of a friend, the woman had actually fainted.

“Annie Cabbot and Winsome Jackman from North Yorkshire Major Crimes,” she said.

“Yes, come in,” said the woman. “We’ve been expecting you.” If the sight of a six-foot black woman surprised her at all, she didn’t show it. Like many others, she no doubt watched crime programs on TV and had got used to the idea of a multiracial police force, even in such a “white” enclave as the Peaks.

She led them through a dim hallway where coats hung on pegs and boots and shoes were neatly aligned on a low slatted rack, then into an airy living room with French windows that led to the back garden, a neatly manicured lawn with stone birdbath, white plastic table and chairs and herbaceous borders. Plane trees framed a magnificent view over the fields to the limestone peaks beyond. The sky was mostly light gray, with a hint of sun hiding behind clouds somewhere in the north.

“We’ve just got back from church,” the woman said. “We go every week, and it seemed especially important today.”

“Of course,” said Annie, whose religious background had been agnostic, and whose own spiritual dabbling in yoga and meditation had never led her to any sort of organized religion. “We’re very sorry about your son, Mrs. Barber.”

“Please,” she said. “Call me Louise. My husband, Ross, is making some tea. I hope that will be all right?”

“That’ll be perfect,” said Annie.

“You’d better sit down.”

The chintz-covered armchairs all had spotless lace antimacassars, and Annie sat carefully, not quite daring to let the back of her head touch the material. In a few moments a tall, rangy man with unruly white hair, wearing a gray V-neck pullover and baggy cords, brought in a tray and placed it on the low glass table between the chairs and the fireplace. He looked a bit like a sort of mad scientist character who could do complex equations in his head but had trouble fastening his shoelaces. Annie admired the framed print of Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte over the mantelpiece.

Once tea had been served, and everyone was settled, Winsome took out her notebook and Annie began. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but anything you can tell us about your son would be helpful right now.”

“Do you have any suspects?” Mr. Barber asked.

“I’m afraid not. It’s early days yet. We’re just trying to piece together what happened.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm our Nicholas. He was harmless. He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

“It’s often the innocent who suffer,” said Annie.

“But Nicholas…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Did he have any enemies?”

Ross and Louise Barber looked at one another. “No,” Louise said. “I mean, he never mentioned anyone. And like Ross says, he was a gentle person. He loved his music and his books and his films. And his writing, of course.”

“He wasn’t married, was he?” They had not been able to find a record of a wife, but Annie thought it best to make sure. If a jealous wife had caught wind of what Barber was up to with Kelly Soames, she might easily have lost it.

“No. He was engaged once, ten years ago,” said Ross Barber. “Nice girl. Local. But they drifted apart when he moved to London. More tea?”

Annie and Winsome said yes, please. Barber topped up their cups.

“We understand that your son was a music journalist?” Annie went on.

“Yes,” said Louise. “It was what he always wanted. Even when he was at school, he was editor of the magazine, and he wrote most of the articles himself.”

“We found out from the Internet that he’s done some articles for MOJO and written a couple of biographies. Can you tell us anything else about his work? Did he write for anyone in particular, for example?”

“No. He was a freelancer,” Ross Barber answered. “He did some writing for the newspapers, reviews and such, and feature pieces for that magazine sometimes, as you said. I’m afraid that sort of music isn’t exactly to my taste.” He smiled indulgently. “But he loved it, and apparently he made a decent living.”

Annie liked pop music, but she hadn’t heard of MOJO, though she knew she must have seen it in W. H. Smith’s when she was picking up Now, Star or Heat, the trashy celebrity gossip magazines she liked to read in the bath, her one secret vice. “You didn’t approve of your son’s interest in rock music?” she asked.

“It’s not that we’re against it, or anything, you understand,” said Ross Barber. “We’ve just always been a bit more inclined toward classical – Louise sings with the local operatic society – but we’re happy that Nicholas seemed to pick up a love of music at a very early age, along with the writing. He loves classical music, too, of course, but writing about rock was how he made his living.”

“He was lucky, then,” said Annie. “Being able to combine his two loves.”

“Yes,” Louise agreed, wiping away a tear with a lacy handkerchief.

“Do you have any copies of his articles? You must be proud of him. A scrapbook, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Louise. “It never really entered our heads, did it, darling?”

Her husband agreed. “It wouldn’t mean anything to us, you see, what he was writing about. The names. The records. We would never have heard of any of them.”

Annie wanted to tell them that wasn’t the point, but it would clearly do no good. “How long has he been doing this for a living?” she asked.

“About eight years now,” Ross answered.

“And before that?”

“He got a BA in English at Nottingham, then he did an MA in film studies, I think, at Leicester. After that he did a bit of teaching and wrote reviews, then he got a feature accepted, and after that…”

“He never studied journalism?”

“No. I suppose you might say he got in through the back door.”

“What’s your profession, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I was a university professor,” said Ross Barber. “Classics and Ancient History. Rather dull, I’m afraid. I’m retired now, mind you.”

Annie was trying frantically to puzzle out why anyone would want to kill a music journalist, but she couldn’t come up with anything. Except drugs. Kelly Soames had said that she and Nick smoked a joint, but that meant nothing. Annie had smoked a few joints in her time, even while she was a copper. Even Banks had smoked joints. She wondered about Winsome and Kev Templeton. Kev’s drug of choice was probably E washed down with liberal amounts of Red Bull, but she didn’t know about Winsome. She seemed a clean-living girl, with her passion for the outdoors, and for potholing, but surely there had to be something. Anyway, it didn’t help very much knowing that Nick Barber smoked marijuana occasionally. She imagined it was par for the course in the rock business, whichever end of it you were in.

“Can you tell us anything about Nick’s life?” she asked. “We have so little to go on.”

“I can’t see how any of it would help you,” said Louise, “but we’ll do our best.”

“Did you see him often?”

“You know what it’s like when they leave home,” Louise said. “They phone and visit when they can. Our Nick was no better or worse than anyone else in that regard, I shouldn’t think.”

“So he was in touch regularly?”

“He phoned us once a week and tried to drop by whenever he could.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

Her eyes filled with tears again. “Just the week before last. Friday. He was on his way up to Yorkshire, and he stopped over for the night. We always keep his old room ready for him, just in case.”

“Was there anything different about him?”

“Different? What do you mean?”

“Did he seem fearful in any way?”

“No, not at all.”

“Was he depressed about anything?”