dramas on the telly: One had to know the proper steps and in which order one was supposed to make them.
"Where's your lady friend?" Barbara asked him.
"I've no idea."
"Moved out, has she?"
"I didn't say that. You c'n see for yourself that her car's not here, so - "
"Jemima's is, though. That's hers in the barn, isn't it?"
"She left it here."
"Why?"
"Haven't a clue. I assume she meant to come back for it when she had a use for it or a place to keep it. She didn't tell me, and I didn't ask."
"Why not?"
"What the hell does it matter? What do you want? Why are you here?" He looked round as if he could sort out what she'd been up to by glancing from the barn to the west paddock and from there to the east paddock and from there to the cottage.
The dog picked up on his agitation and began to pace, looking from her master to Barbara. After a few moments, she yelped once and headed for the back door to the cottage.
Barbara said to Jossie, "I think your dog wants feeding."
He said, "I know how to care for a dog."
He went to the cottage and disappeared inside. Barbara took the opportunity to fetch the magazine she'd had from Lynley when she'd met him earlier on the motorway. She rolled it up and went to the cottage, where she let herself in.
Jossie was in the kitchen, where the dog was gulping down a bowl of dry food. Jossie stood at the sink looking out of the window. It gave a view of his pickup, Barbara's car, and the paddock beyond. Earlier, she remembered, there'd been animals in it.
"Where'd the horses go?" she asked him.
"Ponies," he said.
"There's a difference?"
"They went back on the forest, I presume. I wasn't here when he fetched them."
"Who?"
"Rob Hastings. He said he'd come for them. Now they're gone. I reckon it's safe to assume he returned them to the forest, as they weren't likely to let themselves out of the paddock, were they."
"Why were they here?"
He turned to her. "Prime Minister's question time," he said, "is over."
For the first time he sounded menacing, and Barbara saw a glimpse of the real man beneath the exterior that he kept so controlled. She drew in on her cigarette and wondered about her personal safety. She concluded he was unlikely to dispatch her right there in his kitchen, so she approached him, flicked cigarette ash into the sink, and said, "Sit down, Mr. Jossie. I have something to show you."
His face hardened. He looked as if he'd refuse at first, but then he went to the table and dropped into a chair. He'd not removed his cap or his sunglasses, but he did so now. "What," he said. Not even a question. He sounded tired to the bone.
Barbara unrolled the magazine. She found the pages of social photos. She sat down opposite him and turned the magazine so that he could see it. She said nothing.
He glanced at the pictures and then at her. "What?" he said again. "Posh folk drinking champagne. Am I supposed to care about this?"
"Have a closer look, Mr. Jossie. This is the opening of the photo show at the Portrait Gallery. I think you know which show I'm talking about."
He looked again. She saw that he was giving his attention to the picture of Jemima posing with Deborah St. James, but that was not the picture of interest. She indicated the one in which Gina Dickens appeared.
"We both know who this is, don't we, Mr. Jossie?" Barbara said to him.
He said nothing. She saw him swallow, but that was his only reaction. He didn't look up and he didn't move. She looked at his temple but saw no wild pulsing. There was nothing at all.
Not what she'd expected, she thought. Time for a bit of a push.
She said, "Personally, I believe in coincidence. Or synchronicity. Or whatever. These things happen and there's no doubt about that, eh? But let's just say that it wasn't coincidence that Gina Dickens was at the portrait gallery for the opening of this show. That would mean she had a reason to be there. What d'you expect that reason was?"
He didn't reply, but Barbara knew his mind must be racing.
"P'rhaps she's wild for photography," Barbara said. "I s'pose that's possible. I rather like it myself. P'rhaps she happened to be wandering by and thought she could score a glass of the bubbly and a cheese stick or something.