Cordelia put the phone down and muttered, “Damn and blast. That was Gillian. She wants to see us on Monday for a progress report. It looks as if the police are pressing for an early committal hearing and if she can demolish their case in the magistrates’ court, she wants to have a go. So now we’re battling against time, too.”

Lindsay groaned. “That’s all we need. We’d better cancel the coffee and find the garrulous Miss Barrington. Who knows, she might have the answers to the whole sorry business.”

“If you were Hercule Poirot, she certainly would.”

“Ah yes, but if I was Hercule Poirot, you wouldn’t fancy me, would you?”

14

Longnor House seemed eerily silent as the two women climbed the stairs to Caroline’s room on the top floor. Cordelia knocked. There was no reply, so they opened the door and entered. They had already agreed that if Caroline was not there they would wait for her. Lindsay walked over to the window and perched on the radiator beneath the wide sill. Cordelia sat on an upright chair by the desk, her legs propped against the waste-paper bin. They both studied the room as if seeing it for the first time, Lindsay checking off its features as she had not done when she was actually using it as a bedroom.

The basic furniture was institutional: a bed, table, chair, wardrobe, cupboard, and chest of drawers. But Caroline’s personality was everywhere. On the walls were a poster of Lenin, a large photograph of Virginia Woolf, and a poster for a rally of peace women at Greenham Common. On the bookshelves were several textbooks. The rest of the space was taken up by dozens of books on politics, sociology, and feminism. The table was untidy, but three things stood out. One was a desk calendar with photographs of sailing ships. But, as if by arrangement, both women’s eyes reached out at the same moment to the two framed photographs which were also on the desk. Cordelia picked them up. One was a family group, presumably consisting of Anthony Barrington, his ex-wife, and their children. Caroline was between her parents, her brother and sister sitting on a sofa in front of them. The other was a photograph of the same man alone on top of a snow-covered peak, grinning into the camera. He was wearing climbing gear—old, stained clothes, heavy boots, ropes, a small rucksack. His face was lean and tanned, well-lined around the eyes. His eyebrows turned up slightly in the middle of his face, giving it a humorous cast. The rest of his face was unremarkable. But the eyes and their brows spoke of someone who might well be good fun to have around the place. No doubt Caroline thought so.