In The Presence Of The Enemy (35 page)

“Tommy! Good heavens. We were talking about you not fi ve minutes ago.”

He said, “I need to see Helen and Simon.”

Her smile faltered. She knew him well enough. She could hear from his tone—despite his effort at dispassion—that something wasn’t right. “In the kitchen. In the lab. I mean, Helen’s in the kitchen and Simon’s in the lab. Dad and I were just showing her…Tommy, has something…? Is anything wrong?”

“Will you fetch Simon?”

He left her climbing hurriedly towards the top floor of the house. He himself went to the back. Here stairs led down to the basement kitchen. Rising from there, he could hear Helen’s laughter and Joseph Cotter’s voice. Cotter was saying, “Now, egg whites’s the secret.

That’s what makes them brown proper and get nice ‘n’ glossy on top. But you separate the eggs first, see. Make a nice fi rm crack ’long the shell like this. Use the shell ’affs thisways to scoop the yolk back and forth till you got the whites separate.”

“Is that honestly all there is to it?” Helen was saying in reply. “Lord, it’s perfectly simple.

Even an idiot could do it. Even
I
could do it.”

“Simple it is,” he said. “You give it a try.”

Lynley descended the stairs. Cotter and Helen were on either side of the worktable at the centre of the kitchen, Helen wrapped in an enormous white apron, Cotter in shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. Spread out between them were mixing bowls, baking pans, boxes of currants, bags of f lour, and assorted other ingredients. Into one of the smaller bowls, Helen was in the process of separating her egg. The baking pans held the fruits of their labour: circular mounds of currant-spotted dough the circumference of teacups.

The St. Jameses’ small dachshund spotted Lynley first. She had been busily licking the flour dust from the floor round Helen, but perhaps sensing his presence, she raised her head, saw him, and gave a sharp bark.

Helen looked up, each hand holding the half of an eggshell. Like Deborah’s earlier, her face brightened with her smile. She said,

“Tommy! Hello. Imagine the impossible. I’ve actually made scones.”

“We need to talk.”

“I can’t at the moment. I’m about to be shown how to put the fi nal touch on my mas-terwork, just as soon as I fi nish separating this egg. Which I
do
believe I’m rather excelling at, as Cotter will no doubt agree.”

Cotter, however, had apparently read Lynley more accurately. He said, “I c’n fi nish up here. Quick as a wink. Nothing much to it.

You go with Lord Asherton.”

“Nonsense,” she said.

“Helen,” Lynley said.

“I can’t leave my creation at the climactic moment. I’ve come this far with it and I want to see it through to the end. Tommy will wait for me. Won’t you, darling?”

The endearment grated against his nerves.

He said, “Charlotte Bowen is dead.”

Helen’s hands were suspended, still holding the eggshells. She lowered them. She said,

“Oh God.”

Cotter, making an obvious gauge of the atmosphere between them, scooped up the little dachshund and took her lead from a hook that hung near the back door. He was gone without a word. In a moment, the gate on L ordship Place creaked open, then closed.

“What did you think you were doing?” Lynley asked her. “Tell me, Helen. Please.”

“What’s happened?”

“I just told you what’s happened. The girl’s dead.”

“How? When?”

“It doesn’t matter how or when. What matters is that she might have been saved. This might never have happened. She might have been back with her family right now had you possessed enough sense to inform the police what was going on.”

She recoiled slightly. Her next words were faint. “That isn’t fair. We were asked to help.

They didn’t want the police.”

“Helen, I don’t care what you were asked. I don’t care who did the asking. A child’s life was at risk and that life is gone. Over. Dead.

She’s not coming back. She drowned at the Kennet and Avon Canal and her body was left to rot in the reeds. So was it—”

“Tommy.” St. James spoke sharply from the stairs above him. Deborah stood behind him.

“We’ve got the point.”

“Have you any idea what’s happened?” Lynley asked.

“Barbara Havers just phoned me.” He made his awkward way down the stairs to the kitchen. Deborah followed. Her face was the colour of the flour on her T-shirt. She and St. James took up positions with Helen, on the other side of the worktable from Lynley. “I’m sorry,”

St. James said quietly. “I wouldn’t have had it end this way. I think you know that.”

“Then why didn’t you do something to prevent it?”

“I tried.”

“Tried what?”

“To talk to them both, the mother and the father. To make them see reason. To get them to phone the police.”

“But not to walk away. Not to force their hand. You didn’t try that.”

“Initially, no. I didn’t. I admit to that. We none of us walked away at fi rst.”

“None of…?” Lynley’s eyes went to Deborah. She was twisting her hands in the bottom of her T-shirt. She looked perfectly wretched.

He realised what St. James’s words had just told him, compounding their sin a hundred thousand times. He said, “Deborah? Deborah took part in this mess? Jesus Christ, have you all completely lost your minds? If I force myself, I can understand Helen’s involvement because at least she has a modicum of experience working with you. But Deborah?
Deborah?
She has as much business embroiling herself in a kidnapping investigation as the family dog has.”

“Tommy,” Helen said.

“Who else?” Lynley asked. “Who else took part? What about Cotter? Did he get involved?

Or was it just you three cretins killing off Charlotte Bowen?”

“Tommy, you’ve said enough,” St. James said.

“No. I haven’t. And I doubt I ever will.

You’re responsible, the three of you, and I’d like you to see exactly what you’re responsible for.” He opened the case folder he’d brought from the car.

St. James said, “Not here.”

“No? Rather not see how things turned out?” Lynley flipped a photograph onto the table. It landed squarely in front of Deborah.

“Have a look,” he said. “You might want to memorise it just in case you decide to kill any more children.”

Deborah’s fist went to her mouth, but it wasn’t sufficient to cut off her cry. Roughly, St. James pulled her away from the table.

He said to Lynley, “Clear out of here, Tommy.”

“It won’t be that easy.”

“Tommy!” Helen extended a hand towards him.

“I want to know what you know,” he said to St. James. “I want every piece of information you have. I want every detail, and God help you, Simon, if you forget to include a single fact.”

St. James had taken his wife into his arms.

He said slowly, “Not now. I mean it. Leave.”

“Not until I’ve got what I came for.”

“I believe you’ve just got that,” St. James said.

“Tell him,” Deborah said against her husband’s shoulder. “Please, Simon. Just tell him.

Please.”

Lynley watched St. James carefully weigh the alternatives. He finally said to Helen,

“Take Deborah upstairs.”

“Leave her here,” Lynley said.

“Helen,” St. James said.

An instant passed before Helen chose. She said, “Come with me, Deborah,” and to Lynley, “Or would you like to stop us? You’re big enough to do so, and frankly I’m wondering if you draw the line at striking women these days. Since you apparently draw no other lines.”

She swept past him, her arm across Deborah’s shoulders. They climbed the stairs and shut the door behind them.

St. James was looking at the photograph.

Lynley could see a muscle working furiously in his jaw. Outside at a distance, he could hear the dog barking. He could hear Cotter’s shout.

Then, finally, St. James looked up.

“That was particularly unforgivable,” he said.

Although Lynley knew what St. James was referring to, he deliberately chose to misunderstand. “Agreed,” he said evenly. “It was unforgivable. Now tell me what you know.”

They observed each other across the worktable. A long moment passed during which Lynley wondered if his friend was going to cooperate with information or to retaliate with silence. Nearly thirty seconds went by before he had his answer, and St. James began to speak.

He told his story tersely without looking up.

He took Lynley through each day that had passed since Charlotte Bowen had disappeared. He delineated his facts. He listed his evidence. He explained the steps he had taken and why. And when he was through, with his attention still fi xed firmly to the photograph, he said, “There’s nothing more. Leave us, Tommy.”

Lynley knew it was time to relent. He said,

“Simon—”

But St. James cut him off. “Go,” he said.

Lynley obliged.

The study door was closed. It had been open when Deborah had admitted him into the house, so Lynley knew that’s where Helen had taken her. He turned the knob without knocking.

Deborah was sitting on the ottoman, arms clasped round her stomach and shoulders hunched. Helen sat opposite her, on the sofa. She held a glass in her hand. She was saying, “Have a bit more, Deborah,” to which Deborah was replying, “I don’t think I can.”

Lynley said Helen’s name. In response, Deborah’s body pivoted away from the door.

Helen set the glass on the sofa’s side table, touched Deborah’s knee lightly, and came to Lynley. She stepped into the corridor and shut the door behind her.

Lynley said, “I was out of line. I’m sorry.”

She offered a brittle smile. “No, you’re not sorry. But I trust you’re satisfied. I hope you’ve managed to leave no stone of spleen-venting unturned.”

“Damn it, Helen. Listen to me.”

Tell me this. Is there anything else for which you’d like to excoriate us before you leave?

Because I’d hate to see you be on your way without having fulfilled your desire to castigate, humiliate, and pontifi cate.”

“You have no right to any outrage, Helen.”

“Just as you had no right to adjudication.”

“Someone’s dead.”

“It isn’t our fault. And I refuse, Tommy. I refuse to bow my head, bend my knees, and beg for your sanctimonious pardon. I’ve done nothing wrong in this situation. Neither has Simon. Neither has Deborah.”

“Aside from your lies.”

“_Lies_?”

“You could have told me the truth last Wednesday night. I asked. You lied.”

Her hand climbed to her throat. In the dim light of the corridor, her dark eyes seemed to grow even darker. “My God,” she said. “You rotten little pharisee. I can’t even
believe
…”

Her fingers tightened to a fist. “This isn’t about Charlotte Bowen, is it? This has nothing to do with Charlotte Bowen at all. You’ve come here and spewed like a broken sewer pipe because of me. Because I chose to keep something private in my life. Because I didn’t tell you something that you had no right to know in the fi rst place.”

“Are you out of your mind? A child is dead—dead, Helen, and I think I can safely assume you know what that means—so what are you doing talking to me about rights? No one but the person in danger has any rights at all when a life is at risk.”

“Except you,” she said. “Except Thomas Lynley. Except silver-spoon-in-his-mouth Lord Asherton. That’s what you’re getting at:
your
God almighty rights, and in this particular case, the right to know. But not to know about Charlotte because she’s just the symp-tom. She’s not the disease.”

“Don’t twist this into a refl ection on us.”

“I don’t need to twist it. I can see it straight on.”

“Can you?” he asked. “Then see the rest.

Had you put me in the picture, she might be alive. She might be at home. She might have walked away from her abduction and not ended up floating dead in a canal.”

“Simply because I told you the truth?”

“That would have been a fairly good start.”

“It wasn’t an option.”

“It was the single option that might have saved her life.”

“Was it?” She backed away, regarding him with a look that he could only interpret as pity-ing. She said, “This is going to come as a surprise to you, Tommy, and I almost hate to be the one to inform you, considering what a blow it’s going to be: You are not omnipotent and despite your tendency towards acting the part, you are also not God. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to see if Deborah’s all right.” Her hand reached for the knob of the study door.

“We’re not fi nished,” he said.

“Perhaps you aren’t,” she pointed out. “But I am. Entirely.”

She left him facing the door’s dark panels.

He stared at them. He worked to control the overpowering urge to kick in the wood. He found that at some point during their conversation his hands had clenched with the need to strike. And he felt that need now, a longing to drive his fi st through the wall or a window, to feel pain as much as to cause it.

He forced himself to move away from the study. He forced himself to make his way to the front door. Outside, he forced himself to breathe.

He could almost hear Sergeant Havers’

assessment of his interview with his friends: Nice job, Inspector. I even took notes. Accusing, insulting, and alienating everyone. A brilliant way to ensure their cooperation.

But what else had he been supposed to do?

Should he have congratulated them for their inept meddling? Should he have politely informed them of the child’s demise? Should he have even used that fatuous, innocuous word—
demise
—to spare them lest they feel what they bloody damn well ought to feel at the moment: responsible?

They did the best they knew, Havers would have said. You heard Simon’s report. They followed every lead. They tracked her movements on Wednesday. They showed her picture round Marylebone. They talked to the people who saw her last. What more would
you
have done, Inspector?

Done background checks. Tapped telephone lines. Put a dozen detective constables into Marylebone. Given the girl’s photograph to the television news and asked for the public to report sightings of her. Entered her name and her description into the PNC. All that just for a start.