They parked on the verge next to a tall hawthorn hedge. They walked up the lumpy driveway, and they found him within a paddock to the west of a neat cob cottage. He was inspecting the rear hooves of two restless ponies. Under the baking sun, he wore dark glasses as well as a baseball cap, and he was protected further by long sleeves, gloves, trousers, and boots.
This was not the case for the young woman watching him from outside the paddock. She was calling out, “D’you think they’re ready for release yet?” and she was wearing a striped sundress that left her arms and legs bare. Despite the heat, she looked fresh and cool, and her head was covered by a straw hat banded by material that matched the dress. Hadiyyah, Barbara thought, would have approved.
“Dead silly to be afraid of ponies,” Gordon Jossie replied.
“I’m trying to make friends with them. Honestly.” She turned her head and caught sight of Barbara and Winston, her gaze taking them both in but then going back to linger on Winston. She was very attractive, Barbara thought. Even with her own limited experience, she could tell that the young woman wore her makeup like a pro. Again, Hadiyyah would have approved. “Hullo,” the woman said to them. “Are you lost?”
At this, Gordon Jossie looked up. He watched their progress up the driveway and over to the fence. This was barbed wire strung between wooden posts, and his companion had been standing with her hands clasped on top of one of the latter.
Jossie had the wiry sort of body that reminded Barbara of a footballer. When he took off his cap and wiped his brow with his arm, she saw his hair was thinning, but its ginger colour suited him well.
Barbara and Winston fished out their IDs. Winston did the honours this time. When he’d finished the introductions, he said to the man in the paddock, “You’re Gordon Jossie?”
Jossie nodded. He walked towards the fence. Nothing much showed upon his face. His eyes, of course, they could not read. The glass in his lenses was virtually black.
The young woman identified herself as Gina Dickens. “Scotland Yard?” she said, with a smile. “Like Inspector Lestrade?” And then to tease Jossie, “Gordon, have you been naughty?”
There was a wooden gate nearby, but Jossie didn’t come through it. Rather, he went to a hosepipe that was looped round a newish-looking fence post and attached to a freestanding water tap outside the paddock. He removed the hosepipe and unspooled it in the direction of a stone trough. Absolutely pristine, this was, Barbara saw. It was either new like the fence post or the man was more than a bit compulsive about keeping things tidy. The latter didn’t seem likely since part of the paddock was overgrown and in disrepair, as if he’d given up in the midst of repairing the area. He began adding water to the trough. Over his shoulder, he said, “What’s the trouble, then?”
Interesting question, Barbara thought. Directly to trouble. But then who could blame him? A personal visit from the Metropolitan police wasn’t one’s garden experience.
She said, “Could we have a word, Mr. Jossie?”
“Seems like we’re having it.”
“Gordon, I think they might mean…” Gina hesitated, then she said to Winston, “We’ve a table and chairs beneath the tree in the garden,” and indicated the front of the cottage. “Shall we meet you there?”
“Works for me,” Nkata said and went on with, “Hot today, innit?” giving Gina Dickens the benefit of his high-wattage smile.
“I’ll fetch something cool for us to drink,” she said, and she went off towards the cottage, but not before she cast a puzzled glance in Jossie’s direction.
Barbara and Nkata waited for Jossie, the better to make sure he took a direct route from the paddock to the front garden with no sidetracking. When he’d finished topping off the trough for the ponies, he returned the hosepipe to the post and came through the wooden paddock gate, removing his gloves.
“It’s this way,” he said to them, as if they couldn’t find the front garden without his help. He led them to it, a patch of parched lawn at this time of year, but containing flower beds that were thriving. He saw Barbara looking at these and said, “Gina uses the dishwater. We do the washing up with special detergent,” as if to explain why the flowers weren’t dead in the middle of hose pipebans and a very dry summer.
“Nice,” Barbara noted. “I kill most everything and it doesn’t take special washing-up soap for me to do it.” She got down to business as they sat at the table. This looked to be part of a little outdoor dining area featuring candles, a floral tablecloth, and complementary cushions on the chairs. Someone, it seemed, had a flair for decorating. Barbara pulled the postcard photo of Jemima Hastings from her bag. She laid it on the table in front of Gordon Jossie. She said, “C’n you tell us anything about this woman, Mr. Jossie?”
“Why?”
“Because your mobile number”-she flipped the card over-“is on the back here. And what with ‘Have you seen this woman?’ on the front, it seems like you probably know her.” Barbara turned the postcard faceup again, sliding it within inches of Jossie’s hand. He did not touch it.
Gina came round the side of the cottage carrying a tray on which sat a pink concoction in a squat glass jug. Sprigs of mint and a few pieces of ice floated in it. She placed the tray on the table and her gaze took in the postcard. She looked from it to Jossie. She said, “Gordon? Is something…?”
Abruptly Jossie said, “This is Jemima,” and indicated the picture on the card by flicking his fingers towards it.
Gina sat slowly. She looked perplexed. “On the card?”
Jossie didn’t reply. Barbara didn’t want to hasten to any conclusions about his reticence. She reckoned, among other things, his lack of response might well be due to embarrassment. Clearly this woman Gina Dickens was something to Jossie, and she’d likely be wondering why he was being faced with a postcard featuring another woman whom he clearly knew.
Barbara waited for Jossie’s answer to Gina’s question. She and Nkata exchanged a look. They were of one mind in the matter and that mind was of the let him swing for a moment variety.
Gina said, “May I?” and when Barbara nodded, she picked up the postcard. She made no comment about the photo itself, but her gaze took in the query at the bottom of the card and she flipped it over and saw the phone number printed across the back. She said nothing. Instead, she placed the card gently on the table and poured each of them a glass of whatever it was she’d concocted.
The heat seemed to grow more oppressive in the silence. Gina herself was the one to break it. She said, “I’d no idea…” Her fingers touched her throat. Barbara could see her pulse beating there. It put her in mind of the manner in which Jemima Hastings had died. “How long have you been looking for her, Gordon?” Gina asked.
Jossie fixed his eyes on the postcard. He finally said, “This is months old, this is. I got a stack of them…I dunno…round April, it was. I didn’t know you then.”
“Want to explain?” Barbara asked him. Nkata opened his neat leather notebook.
Gina said, “Is something going on?”
Barbara wasn’t about to give any more information than was necessary at this point, so she said nothing. Nor did Winston, except to murmur, “So…Mr. Jossie?”
Gordon Jossie made a restless movement in his chair. The story he told was brief but direct. Jemima Hastings was his former lover; she’d left him after more than two years together; he’d wanted to find her. He’d seen an advertisement for the photographic portrait show in the Mail on Sunday by purest chance and this-with a nod at the postcard-was the photo that had been used in the advert for that show. So he’d gone to London. No one at the gallery would tell him where the model was, and he hadn’t a clue how to contact the photographer. So he bought up the postcards-forty, fifty, or sixty because he couldn’t recall but they’d had to fetch more from their storage room-and he’d stuck them in phone boxes, in shop windows, in any spot where he thought they’d get noticed. He’d worked in widening rings round the gallery itself till he ran out of cards. And then he waited.