Playing for the Ashes (78 page)

Barbara had managed to keep him away from the grim realities of her home in Acton for the three and a half years of their partnership. But she could tell by the set of his jaw that she wasn’t going to be successful in arguing for the nearest tube station this evening. Especially since the nearest station was on the wrong line entirely and would require an extended romp changing trains at Baker Street and an even longer romp doing the same at King’s Cross. It was a good forty minutes by train or ten minutes by car. She grumbled about it, but she gave him directions with a show of good grace.

In Eton Villas, Lynley surprised her by pulling the Bentley into a vacant space and shutting off the engine. She said, “Thanks for the lift, sir. What’s on for tomorrow morning?” and opened her door.

He did likewise. He stepped into the street and took a moment to scrutinise the surrounding houses. The street lamps clicked on in the midst of his observation, highlighting in a pleasant fashion the Edwardian buildings beneath them. He nodded. “Nice area, Sergeant. Quiet.”

“Right. So what time d’you want—”

“Let’s see your new digs.” Lynley slammed his door.

See? she thought. Her chest filled with a bellow of protest, but she managed to control it. She said, “Uh, sir?” and thought of his own digs in Belgravia. Gilt-framed oil paintings, porcelains on the mantelpieces, silver glinting in the breakfront cupboards. Eaton Terrace was a far cry from Eton Villas, despite the homophonic coincidence of their names. Holy hell, she thought and hastened to say, “Oh, gosh. It’s not much, Inspector. It’s not anything, in fact. I don’t think you—”

“Nonsense.” And he was striding up the drive.

She followed him saying, “Sir…sir?” but saw it was useless when he pushed open the gate and began heading for the front steps. Still she tried with, “It’s just a cottage. No, that’s not right. It’s not even a cottage. It’s more like a shed. Sir, the ceiling’s not high enough for you. Really. If you go inside, you’ll feel like Quasimodo in less than a minute.”

He followed the path in the direction of the front door. She threw in the towel and said, “Balls,” to herself and then to him, “Inspector? Sir? It’s this way. Round the back.”

She led him along the side of the house, trying to recall in what condition she’d left the cottage upon her departure that morning. Underwear hanging over the kitchen sink? Bed made or unmade? Plates off the table? Crumbs on the floor? She couldn’t remember. She fumbled for her keys.

“Unusual,” Lynley said behind her as she searched through her shoulder bag. “Is this intentional, Havers? Part of the overall design for convenient modern living?”

She looked up and saw that her little neighbour Hadiyyah had at last seen to it that her promise was kept. The pink-draped refrigerator that as late as this morning had still been sitting on the flagstones in front of the ground
flo
or flat had now been moved and was standing to one side of Barbara’s own front door. A note was sellotaped to the top. Lynley handed it to Barbara. She ripped it open. In the diffused light shining from one of the windows at the back of the house, she saw a delicate script that resembled calligraphy more than it did cursive. Someone had written:
Unfortunately unable to place refrigerator within your cottage as door was locked. Terribly sorry
, and then signed, as if with disgust at the beauty of the script, two names of which only the initial few letters were legible. T-a-y on the
fir
st name. A-z on the second.

“Well, thank you Tay Az,” Barbara said. She related the ballad of the misplaced appliance to Lynley. She finished with, “So I assume Hadiyyah’s father moved it back here for me. Nice of him, wasn’t it? Although I don’t suppose he’s much liked having it as a conversation piece outside his front door for the last two days. When I get the chance…”

She flipped on the lights and gave the cottage a swift inspection. A pink bra and a pair of knickers speckled with green dots were slung over a cord that ran between two cupboards above the kitchen sink. She hastily buried them in a drawer with the cutlery before she switched on a light next to the day-bed and returned to the door. “It’s really not much. You’ll probably—Sir, what are you doing?”

It was a needless question, for Lynley had put his shoulder to the refrigerator and was in the process of moving it. Barbara had visions of oily grime soiling his elegant suit. She said, “I can manage that. Really. I’ll do it in the morning. If you’ll…Inspector, come on. D’you want a drink or something? I’ve got a bottle of…” What the hell did she have a bottle of, she wondered as Lynley continued to heave the refrigerator from one leg to another, walking it towards the door.

She went to assist him, taking up a position on the other side. They moved it easily enough across her small terrace and had only a few minutes’ discussion over how best to waltz it across the threshold and into the kitchen without having to remove the front door in the process. When they finally had the refrigerator in position, its flex plugged into the socket, its motor whirring with only an occasional ominous wheeze, Barbara said, “Terrific. Thank you, sir. If we get the sack over this Fleming business, we can always go into removals next.”

He was taking in the hotchpotch of her belongings, one part Camden Lock, three parts Acton, and a good fifteen parts jumble sale. Like a compulsive bibliophile, he went to the bookshelves. He chose a volume at random, then another. She hastily said, “Junk reading. It takes my mind off work.”

He replaced the volume, and picked up the paperback on the table next to her bed. He put on his spectacles and read its back cover. “Do people always live happily ever after in these books, Sergeant?”

“I don’t know. The stories stop short of the ever-after part. But the sex scenes are diverting. If you like that sort of thing.” Barbara winced as he read the title—
Sweet Southern Comfort
—and made an observation of the book’s obvious artwork. Bloody hell, she thought. She said, “Sir. Sir, d’you want something to eat? I don’t know about you, but I never got a proper lunch today. What about some food?”

Lynley carried the novel to one of the two chairs that were tucked beneath the dining table. He said, as he read, “I wouldn’t mind that, Havers. What have you got?”

“Eggs. And eggs.”

“I’ll have eggs then.”

She said, “Right,” and rustled for the bucket beneath the kitchen sink.

She wasn’t much of a cook because she never had the time or the energy to devote to practising. So as Lynley leafed through
Sweet Southern Comfort
, pausing every few pages to read, to harrumph, and once to say, “Good Lord,” she threw together what she hoped would pass for an omelette. It was slightly burned and slightly lopsided, but she
fil
led it with cheese and onions and a single tomato that was languishing in the bucket atop a mayonnaise jar, and she produced toast from four slices of decidedly stale—but thankfully not mouldy—whole wheat bread.

She was pouring hot water into a teapot when Lynley got to his feet. “Sorry. I’m not much of a guest. I ought to be helping. Where’s your cutlery, Sergeant?”

She said, “Drawer next to the sink, sir,” and carried the teapot to the table. She was saying, “This isn’t much, but it’ll have to—” when she suddenly remembered and crashed the teapot down. She dashed back to the kitchen just as Lynley was sliding the drawer open. She reached past him and snatched up her pants and bra.

He raised an eyebrow. She stuffed the underwear into her pocket. “Such a shortage of drawer space,” she said airily. “I hope you don’t mind P. G. Tips. I don’t have Lapsang Souchong.”

He picked out two knives, two forks, and two spoons from the tangled metallic maze of the drawer. He said, “P. G. Tips is
fin
e,” and took the cutlery to the table. She followed with the plates.

The omelette was on the rubbery side, but Lynley cut into it, forked it up, said, “This looks excellent, Sergeant,” and ate. She’d used the excuse of setting the table to remove
Sweet Southern Comfort
to the far reaches of the cottage, but he didn’t seem to notice the novel’s absence. Instead, he seemed thoughtful. Extended reflection wasn’t in her line, so after a few minutes of mutual silent forking, chewing, and swallowing, Barbara began to feel

restive and finally said, “What?”

“What?” he asked in reply.

“Is it the food, the atmosphere, or the company? Or is it the sight of my underwear? They were clean, by the way. Or was it the book? Did Flint Southern do the deed with Star Whatsername? I can’t remember.”

“They didn’t appear to take off their clothes,” Lynley said, after a moment’s pondering. “How is that possible?”

“Editorial error. So I guess they did it?”

“So I would assume.”

“Right. Good. I don’t need to read the rest. Which is just as well. Flint was getting on my nerves.”

They went on with their meal. Lynley spread blackberry jam on a triangle of toast, graciously ignoring the flecks of butter that speckled the fruit from previous meals. Barbara watched him, uneasy. It was unlike Lynley to withdraw into a lengthy re
fle
ction when he was with her. Indeed, she couldn’t remember a time during their partnership when he hadn’t shared with her every permutation of his thought process as they worked through a case. His willingness to sift through his ideas and to encourage her own was a quality in him that she had greatly admired and had ultimately come to take for granted. That he would abjure now what was most essential in their working relationship was out of character in him and disheartening to her.

When he didn’t pursue the opening she’d given him, she ate more omelette, lathered butter onto her toast, and poured herself another cup of tea. She finally said, “Is it Helen, Inspector?”

The mention of Helen seemed to rouse him moderately into saying, “Helen?”

“Right. You remember Helen. About
fiv
e feet seven inches. Chestnut hair. Brown eyes. Good skin. Weighs something like eight and a half stone. You’ve been sleeping with her since last November. Is this ringing a bell?”

He smoothed more jam across his toast. “It’s not Helen,” he said. “Any more than it’s not always Helen at one level or another.”

“That’s an illuminating response. If not Helen, what?”

“I was thinking about Faraday.”

“What? His story?”

“Its expediency bothers me. It begs to be believed.”

“If he didn’t kill Fleming, he’s going to have an alibi, isn’t he?”

“It’s rather convenient that his is so solid when everyone else’s is sketchy at best.”

“Patten’s is as solid as Faraday’s,” she countered. “For that matter, so is Mollison’s. So is Mrs. Whitelaw’s. So is Olivia’s. You can’t actually be thinking that Faraday’s got this Amanda Beckstead, her brother, and her neighbours all willing to perjure themselves for his benefit. Besides, what did he stand to gain if Fleming died?”

“He doesn’t pro
fit
directly.”

“Then who does?” Barbara answered her own question a moment after she asked it. “Olivia?”

“If they managed to get Fleming out of the way, it would be even more certain that Olivia’s mother would take her back. Don’t you agree?”

Barbara sank her knife into the jar of jam and smeared her toast liberally. “Sure,” she said. “After losing Fleming, Mrs. Whitelaw would probably be ripe for the emotional picking.”

“So—”

Barbara lifted her purple-stained knife to stop him. “But facts are still facts no matter how much we’d like to massage them to
fit
our theories. You know as well as I do that Faraday’s story is going to check out. I’ll do my duty and track down Amanda and Co. tomorrow morning, but
fiv
e quid says that everyone I talk to has a tale matching Faraday’s point for point. Amanda and her brother might even be able to add someone we can phone to verify everything further. Like a pub with a talkative barman, where Amanda and Faraday swilled pints of Guinness till time was called. Or a neighbour who heard one of them upchucking on the stairs. Or someone who banged on the ceiling and complained how much the bedsprings were creaking while they boffed each other from midnight till dawn. Sure, Faraday didn’t tell the truth at first, but his reasons make sense. You’ve seen Olivia. She’s making the big slide into oblivion. If you were in Faraday’s position, would you want to hurt her if you didn’t have to? You seem to be assigning him some sinister design when all that’s going on is a realistic protection of someone who’s dying.”

Barbara sat back in her chair and took a breath. It was the longest speech she’d ever made in his presence. She waited for him to react to it.

Lynley finished his tea. She poured him another cup. He stirred it absently without adding either sugar or milk, and he used his fork to chase round a last particle of tomato on his plate. It was obvious to her that he wasn’t persuaded by her line of reasoning, and she couldn’t understand why.

She said, “Face it, Inspector. What Faraday’s said is going to check out. Now, we can keep worrying the story if we want to. We can even assign three or four DCs to
fin
d out what Faraday’s really up to when he uses the stag party alibi to cover his arse. But at the end of the day, we won’t be any closer to Fleming’s killer than we were in the morning. And it’s Fleming’s killer we’re after here. Or has our focus shifted while I was blinking?”

Lynley crossed his empty plate with his fork and knife. Barbara went to the kitchen where she fetched a bowl of slowly decomposing grapes. She rescued those that still appeared edible and took them back to the table with a hunk of cheddar from which she peeled away a fine down of mould.