A Clear Conscience by Frances Fyfield Page A

exact time of day, and as long as it was greater London, exactly where he was without reference to anything or anybody. The map and the minutes past the hour always seemed to tally with his preconceptions. The talent was one he dismissed as no more than accident; you walk round streets, he said, you get to know which way is south and how long it is since last you slept.
    T he Spoon and Fiddle surprised him, first for its diminutive size, then for the luxuriance of the flowers, third for its signs of taste and privacy, and lastly, as an afterthought, its proximity to the Eliots.
    â€˜Mr Boyce?’
    The man turned from an assiduous polishing of glasses at the bar, responded with an almost stagy deference, clicking his heels.
    â€˜At your service, sir!’ A small man, Bailey noted, muscular; soft round the chin.
    He produced his warrant card. ‘About the Donovan trial. Can I have a word?’ It sounded such a clichéd way to begin but Bailey knew life was full of clichés; most people understood little else and expected a policeman to talk like his TV equivalent. What he had not expected was for Joseph Boyce to respond in the same clichéd terms, by looking visibly shocked, turning white, so that the livid bruise on his cheekbone and round the left eye burned in a pale skin like the mark of a branding iron. The reaction was quickly controlled. Boyce shook himself, looked resigned, then smiled with a sigh and extended his hand.
    Baileydid not want to take it, did so reluctantly. The pressure was dry and firm.
    â€˜My, but you gave me a shock. I thought all that was over, bar the shouting. I hope they hang the bastard, but you can’t these days, can you?’
    â€˜You seem to have been in a fight, Mr Boyce.’ Bailey pointed at the bruise, somewhat rudely.
    â€˜Kids. Followed me home last evening after I wouldn’t serve them a drink. It’s nothing. I got away lightly.’
    â€˜Did you report it?’
    â€˜C’mon, sir, you know better than that. When I couldn’t begin to tell you what they looked like? I just wanted to get home. How else can I help you?’
    There was a hidden truculence behind the easy manner. The man was clean, but Bailey could sense fear.
    â€˜I just wanted to check a few points on your statement. About your brother-in-law and the evening he died. I’m sorry if it upsets you, but if I dot the Ts and cross the Is, there’s less chance you’ll be needed at the trial.’
    The light of hope sprang into Joe’s eyes. ‘That would be great,’ he said firmly. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere near a court if I can help it. Upsets the wife, see? What do you want to know? Thought I said it all.’
    Bailey hoiked his long frame onto a bar stool. He had not quite thought what to ask, an investigator without portfolio and a car pointed in the wrong direction, but he was rarely at a total loss for words.
    â€˜Were you fond of your brother-in-law, Mr Boyce?’
    â€˜Oh yes, of course, even though he could be a problem. Anyone who knew Damien loved him. You should have seen the turnout for his funeral. I’ve never seen flowers like it. Never.’
    Bailey nodded, without adding that he had been present himself on the edges of the same funeral, taking in the appearance of Damien’s friends and looking out for signs of his family. There had been one woman sobbing, only one. The flowers had been repellent; Bailey’s experience showed that the amount of floral tributes at funerals was often in inverse proportion to the grief, indeed they were sometimes a last revenge.
    â€˜Isyour wife the only relative?’
    â€˜There’s a cousin or two somewhere, but otherwise, yes. The parents died when they were kids; Damien and she grew up together. Like peas in a pod. Very close.’
    â€˜What does your wife do, Mr Boyce?’
    Boyce turned from friendly to angry.
    â€˜Leave her out of it, will you? She’s had