In The Presence Of The Enemy (76 page)

There was a pause. He picked up a pencil and used it to doodle on top of a manila folder.

He sketched out her name like a schoolboy.

He imagined her gathering resources for a reply. He heard the sound of crockery at the other end of the line and realised that he’d interrupted her dinner, which was the first reminder he’d had that he hadn’t thought much about eating since breakfast.

He said, “Helen?”

She said, “Simon tells me I must decide.

Into the fire or off the stove altogether. He’s an into-the-fi re man himself. He says he likes the excitement of an uncertain marriage.”

She’d gone right to the heart of the matter between them, which was unlike her. Lynley couldn’t decide if this was good or bad. Helen tended to use indirection to find her direction out. But he knew there was truth to what St.

James had told her. They couldn’t go on like this indefinitely, one of them hesitant to make a complete commitment, the other willing to accept that hesitation rather than having to face rejection. It was ridiculous. They weren’t in the frying pan. For the last six months they hadn’t even got close to the burner.

He said, “Helen, are you free at the weekend?”

“I’d planned a lunch with Mother. Why?

Won’t you be working, darling?”

“Possibly. Probably. Definitely, if this case isn’t closed.”

“Then what—?”

“I thought we might get married. We have the licence. I think it’s time that we used it.”

“Just like that?”

“Directly into the fi re.”

“But what about your family? What about my family? What about guests, the church, a reception…?”

“What about getting married?” he persisted. His voice was light enough, but his heart was full of trepidation. “Come along, darling.

Forget about the frippery. We can do that part of it later if you like. It’s time to make the leap.”

He could almost feel her weighing her options, attempting to explore in advance every possible outcome of permanently and publicly tying her life to his. When it came to making decisions, Helen Clyde was the least impetuous woman he knew. Her ambivalence maddened him, but he’d long ago learned that it was part of who she was. She could spend quarter of an hour trying to decide what stockings to don in the morning and an additional twenty minutes poring over her earrings for the perfect pair. Was it any wonder that she’d spent the last eighteen months trying to decide first if, then when, she would marry him?

He said, “Helen, this is it. I realise the decision is difficult and frightening. God knows I have doubts myself. But that’s only natural, and there comes a time when a man and a woman have to—”

“Darling, I know all that,” she said reasonably. “There’s no real need to give me a pep talk.”

“There isn’t? Then, for God’s sake, why won’t you say—?”

“What?”

“Say yes. Say that you will. Say something.

Say anything to give me a sign.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you needed a sign.

I was only considering.”

“What, for God’s sake?”

“The most important detail.”

“Which is?”

“Heavens. I expect you know that as well as you know me: What on earth shall I wear?”

He told her he didn’t care what she wore.

He didn’t care what she wore for the rest of their lives. Sackcloth and ashes, if she chose.

Blue jeans, leotards, satin and lace. She laughed and said she would hold him true to his words. “I have just the accessories to go with sackcloth.”

Afterwards, he realised just how hungry he was, and he went to the fourth fl oor, where the special sandwich of the day was avocado and prawn. He bought one, along with an apple, and he took both back to his offi ce with the apple balanced on a cup of coffee. He’d downed half of this makeshift meal when Winston Nkata came to the door, a piece of notebook paper in his hand. He looked perplexed.

“What is it?” Lynley asked.

Nkata ran his finger along the scar on his cheek. He said, “I don’t know what to make of it.” He lowered his lanky frame into one of the chairs and referred back to his paper. “I just got off the phone with the Wigmore Street station. They been working on the specials since yesterday. Remember?”

“The special constables?” When Nkata nodded, Lynley said, “What about them?”

“You remember that none of the Wigmore Street regulars rousted that bloke from Cross Keys Close last week?”

“Jack Beard? Yes. So we assumed it was one of the volunteers at the station. Have you located him?”

“Can’t be done.”

“Why not? Aren’t their records accurate?

Has there been a change in personnel? What’s happened?”

“No to both and nothing to the last,” Nkata said. “Their records are fine. And the same person coordinates the specials as always has done. In the last week, there’s no one quit.

And no one added onto the roster.”

“So what are you telling me?”

“That Jack Beard wasn’t rousted by a special constable. Or by a regular Wigmore Street constable either.” He leaned forward in his chair, crumpled up the paper, tossed it into the rubbish. “I got the feeling that Jack Beard wasn’t rousted by anyone at all.”

Lynley thought about this. It didn’t make sense. They had two independent corroborative statements—aside from the tramp’s own—that Beard had indeed been shooed off from those Marylebone mews the very same day Charlotte Bowen had disappeared. While both of the statements had initially been gathered by Helen, officers on the case had taken formal statements from the very same people who had witnessed the exchange between the vagrant and the constable who’d run him out of the close. So unless there was a conspiracy among Jack Beard and the inhabitants of Cross Keys Close, there had to be another explanation. Such as, Lynley supposed, someone posing as a constable. Police uniforms weren’t impossible to come by. They could be hired in a costume shop.

The implications behind this line of thought made Lynley uneasy. He said more to himself than to Nkata, “We’ve an open fi eld.”

“It looks to me like we got a field with nothing on it.”

“I don’t think so.”

Lynley looked at his watch. It was too late to start phoning costume shops now, but how many could there be in London? Ten? Twelve?

Less than twenty, surely, and first thing tomorrow morning—

The telephone rang. It was reception. A Mr.

St. James was waiting below. Would the inspector see him? Lynley said he would.

Indeed he would. He sent Nkata to fetch him.

St. James didn’t bother with the social nice-ties when he entered Lynley’s offi ce with Winston Nkata five minutes later. He merely said,

“Sorry. I couldn’t wait any longer for you to return my calls.”

Lynley said, “It’s been madness round here.”

“Right.” St. James took a seat. He was carrying a large manila envelope, which he set on the floor, balanced against his chair leg. He said, “Where are you with it? The
Evening
Standard
was concentrating on an unnamed suspect in Wiltshire. Is that the mechanic you were telling me about last night?”

“Courtesy of Hillier,” Lynley said. “He wants the public to know how well their taxes are being spent in the area of law enforcement.”

“What else do you have?”

“A great number of loose ends. We’re looking for a way to tie them together.”

He brought St. James up-to-date on the case, both the London end of it and the Wiltshire end of it. St. James listened intently. He interjected the occasional question: Was Sergeant Havers certain that the photograph she’d seen at Baverstock was of the same windmill where Charlotte Bowen had been held?

Was there a connection between the church fête at Stanton St. Bernard and anyone associated with the case? Had any of Charlotte’s other belongings been found—the rest of her uniform, her schoolbooks, her fl ute? Could Lynley identify the regional accent of whoever it was who had phoned Dennis Luxford’s home that afternoon? Had Damien Chambers any relations in Wiltshire, specifi cally any relations involved in policework there?

“We haven’t gone that route with Chambers,” Lynley said. “His politics put him in the IRA camp, but his connection to the Provos is fairly remote.” Lynley outlined the facts that they had gathered on Chambers. He ended with, “Why? Have you something on Chambers?”

“I can’t forget the fact that he was the only person, aside from her schoolmates, who called her Lottie. And because of that, he’s the only link that I can make between Charlotte and whoever killed her.”

“But there’s lots of folks who might’ve known what the bird was called without calling her that themselves,” Nkata pointed out.

“If her schoolmates called her Lottie, her teachers would’ve known it. Her mates’ parents would’ve known it. Her own parents would’ve known it. And that’s not even taking into account her dancing teacher, the leader of her choir, the minister where she went to church. As well as anyone who might’ve heard someone yelling her name when she was walking down the street.”

“Winston has a point,” Lynley said. “Why are you focused so firmly on the name, Simon?”

“Because I think that revealing his knowledge of Charlotte’s nickname was one of the mistakes the killer made,” St. James said.

“Another was the thumbprint—”

“—inside the tape recorder,” Lynley concluded. “Are there more mistakes?”

“One more, I think,” St. James reached for the manila envelope. He opened it and slid its contents onto Lynley’s desk.

Lynley saw that the contents comprised the photograph of Charlotte Bowen’s dead body.

It was the photograph he had tossed at Deborah and then left behind after their row.

St. James said, “Have you the kidnapping notes?”

“Copies only.”

“Those’ll do.”

The notes came easily to Lynley’s hand since he’d made use of them only a few hours earlier when Eve Bowen and Dennis Luxford had been in his office. He took them up and set them next to the photograph. He waited for his brain to make a connection between them. As he did so, St. James came round to his side of the desk. Nkata leaned forward.

“I had a long look at the notes last week,”

St. James said. “On Wednesday night, after seeing both Eve Bowen and Damien Chambers. I was restless, trying to fi t pieces together. So I spent some time assessing the writing.”

As he spoke, he indicated each point he was making by placing the rubber end of a pencil against it. “Look at the way he forms his letters, Tommy, the
t
and the
f
especially. The crosspiece of each leads into the formation of the letter behind it. And look at the
w
’s, always alone, unconnected to the rest of the word.

And notice the
e
’s. They’re always connected to what follows them, but never connected to what precedes them.”

“I can see the two notes are the work of the same hand,” Lynley said.

“Yes,” St. James said. “And now look at this.” He turned over the photograph of Charlotte Bowen, exposing her name, which had been written on the back. “Look at the
t
’s,” he said. “Look at the
e
’s. Look at the
w
.”

“Christ,” Lynley whispered.

Nkata got to his feet. He joined St. James, on the other side of Lynley’s chair.

“That’s the reason I asked about Damien Chambers’ connection to Wiltshire,” St.

James said. “Because it seems to me that someone—like Chambers—passing along the information to an accomplice in Wiltshire is the only way that whoever wrote her name on the back of this picture could have known her nickname when he wrote these two notes as well.”

Lynley considered all of the facts they had.

They led, it seemed, to one reasonable, frightening, and ineluctable conclusion. Winston Nkata straightened from his examination of the notes and gave that conclusion voice.

He blew out a lungful of air, saying, “I think we got ourselves some serious trouble.”

“My thought exactly,” Lynley responded and reached for the phone.

AT THE SIGHT OF BARBARA
and his mother on the floor, Robin went as white as mash at high tea. He cried out, “Mum!” and dropped to his knees. He reached for Corrine’s hand tentatively, as if she might dissolve at too rough a touch.

Barbara said, “She’s okay. She had a spell, but she’s okay now. I tore the place up looking for her inhaler though. I’ve left a mess upstairs.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. He said, “Mum?

What happened? Mum? Are you all right?”

Corrine made a feeble movement towards her son. She said, “Sweet chappie. Robbie,” in a weak murmur, although her breathing had vastly improved. “Had a spell, darling. But Barbara…saw to me. Quite all right in a moment. Don’t worry.”

Robin insisted that she go to bed at once.

“I’ll phone Sam for you, Mum. Is that what you’d like? Shall I ask Sam to come round?”

Her eyelids fluttered as she shook her head wearily. “Just want my little boy,” she murmured. “My Robbie. Just like old times. All right with you, darling?”

“Of course it’s all right.” Robin sounded indignant. “Why wouldn’t it be all right?

You’re my mum, aren’t you? What’re you thinking?”

Barbara had a good idea what Corrine was thinking, but she said nothing. She was more than happy to hand the other woman over to Robin’s care. She helped him get his mother to her feet and then assisted the two of them up the stairs. He went into the bedroom with her and shut the door. From behind it, Barbara could hear their voices, Corrine’s fragile and Robin’s soothing, like a father speaking reassuringly to a child. He was saying, “Mum, you’ve got to take more care. How can I give you over to Sam if you won’t start taking more care?”

In the corridor, Barbara knelt among the wreckage she’d made of the linen cupboard.

She began sorting through the sheets and the towels. She’d got as far as the board games, the candles, and the vast miscella-nea that she’d earlier f lung to the f loor, when Robin came out of his mother’s bedroom. He pulled the door shut gently behind him.

He said hastily, “Hang on there, Barbara,”

when he saw what she was doing. “I’ll see to that myself.”