Vault

CHAPTER TWENTY- SIX

‘SHE CONTACTED THE IPCC,’ said Tom. ‘Mildred Jones, I mean.’

For a moment Wexford had to think what the initials stood for. Of course, he knew perfectly well, but for a moment the meaning had eluded him.

‘The Independent Police Complaints Commission? What on earth is that about?’

‘Well, it’s about you.’ Tom laughed to soften the blow. ‘Lucy’s in trouble for taking you along to interview her.’

‘Old Mildreadful is what Goldberg calls her.’

‘Yes, but for goodness sake, she doesn’t know that?’

‘Of course not, Tom. What’s her specific grievance?’

‘It’s all rubbish, but she alleges you “laughed scornfully” when she “declined to provide you with refreshment”. That you asked her to answer a question in the manner you would talk to someone who was under arrest, and that Lucy allowed you to conduct the interview as if you were the police officer and she, I quote, had “just come along for the ride”.’

‘I see.’

‘The thing is that Lucy will have to be investigated and two officers appointed to do that. There’ll be no investigation of you, of course. In the eyes of the IPCC the onus will all be on Lucy and you don’t exist.’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Wexford. ‘Taking me on as your aide wasn’t such a good idea after all, was it?’ Tom made no reply. ‘I shall quietly disappear.’

‘No, I was wrong,’ Tom said in the quiet and just way he had and was what had made Wexford like him. ‘I shouldn’t have insisted you accompany an officer, but have left you to your own devices. I’m going to leave you to them now and ask no questions.’

‘Fair enough.’ As he said it Wexford was aware that it was an expression he hadn’t heard for years and he repeated it with emphasis. ‘Fair enough.’

He was left with nothing to do until Wednesday, unless he made tasks for himself. Any task connected with this case would now require careful thought. He must explain to those he interviewed that they were under no obligation to speak to him. They could show him the door and probably would. He must become a private detective without any sort of licence to practise, not even the fame which attached to a Hercule Poirot or Peter Wimsey, their names on everyone’s lips, their exploits chronicled. His role was more that of the private eye who – no longer even able to occupy himself spying on adulterers – was reduced to searching for missing persons. He wondered how on earth he was going to introduce himself to Colin Jones.

As it happened, other people intervened to help fill those two days. Perhaps it was true that he couldn’t keep away from Orcadia Place for long, though avoiding the Mews was essential. But he had paused outside Orcadia Cottage to look at its front garden and think about the builders and architects who had dismissed creating an underground room as an impossibility – Kevin Oswin and Trevor the heavy smoker, Mr Keyworth the reluctant fiance, Owen Clary and Rod Horndon – when Martin Rokeby came out of the house and spoke to him. Recalling their last encounter, Wexford, to say the least, was surprised.

‘Are you too busy to come in for a cup of tea?’

‘I’m not busy at all.’

Life would be simple if all the people involved in this case came so willingly to him. He followed Rokeby inside.

‘Anne’s out shopping. I feel I owe you an apology. I’ve been bloody these past few months and not just to the police. The thing was I felt the end of the world had come, that I owned a house I couldn’t live in, that I’d lost my children, that I was doomed for ever to be famous – well, infamous – as the man who lived in ‘that house with the bodies in the coal hole’, and everyone thinking I’d put them there.’

‘But you’re better now?’

‘It’s strange how things change. We know they do, but when we want that to happen we’re convinced that this time they won’t. Milk? Sugar?’

‘A drop of milk but no sugar, thanks.’

‘The mob are no longer hanging about outside, I’m back in my house and it feels just like it used to. My wife’s not going to leave me and my kids are coming home again. Remarkable really, isn’t it? You won’t believe this, but I’m going to have that underground room made after all and incorporate the coal hole. It’ll feel quite different when there’s a real room there. Apparently, there’s a staircase inside, and I’m going to have a door put in down at the end of the passage. Anne’s quite excited about it. I’ve applied for planning permission and I think I’ll get it.’

‘I daresay you won’t be using Subearth or Underland, though.’

‘It’s funny you should say that because I’ve got Chilvers Clary the architects making a – well, I suppose you’d call it a design. It’ll take in the whole area under the patio and the actual manhole will go. The only access will be from inside. I don’t have a problem with natural light, I can take it or leave it, but Owen Clary says he could put in a sort of shaft up to the patio with a window in the top. Sorry, I’m boring you.’

‘Not at all,’ said Wexford.

‘I’m so keen on this I get a bit carried away. Another cup?’

‘Thanks, but I must go in a minute. There’s just one thing I’d like to ask you. There are bolts on that door of yours into the mews. Have you ever bolted that door?’

‘Only when we were away on holiday.’

‘So when you were in Australia it was bolted and when you were in Florence this year it was bolted.’ Wexford looked at him and Rokeby nodded. ‘You must have gone away at other times in the past four years?’