A Great Deliverance (32 page)

“Havers,” he said sharply. “Are you listening to me?”

Her head turned with slow insolence. “To every word … Inspector.”

“Then start with the kitchen.”

“One of the two places where a little woman belongs.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not a thing.” She left the room.

His eyes followed her, perplexed. What in God’s name had got into the woman? They had been working so well together, but now she was acting as if she could hardly wait to throw it all away and return to uniform. It made no sense. Webberly was offering her a chance to redeem herself. Given that, why would she deliberately attempt to prove justifiable every prejudice held against her by the other DIs at the Yard? He muttered an oath and summarily dismissed her from his thoughts.

St. James would be in Newby Wiske by now, the corpse of the dog wrapped in a polystyrene shroud in the boot of the Escort and Roberta’s clothing in a cardboard carton on the rear seat. He would perform the autopsy, supervise the tests, and report the results with his usual efficiency. Thank God. St. James’s involvement would ensure that at least something in the case was handled correctly.

Chief Constable Kerridge of the Yorkshire Constabulary had been only too delighted to hear that Allcourt-St. James would be coming to use their well-equipped lab. Anything, Lynley thought, to put another nail in Nies’s coffin. He shook his head in disgust, went to William Teys’s desk, and opened the top drawer.

It held no secrets. There were scissors, pencils, a wrinkled map of the county, a typewriter ribbon, and a roll of tape. The map caused a flurry of short-lived interest and he unfolded it eagerly: perhaps it marked out a careful search for Teys’s older daughter. But it was unmarred by any cryptogrammic message that indicated the location of a missing girl.

The other drawers were as devoid of pertinent facts as the first: a pot of glue, two boxes of unused Christmas cards, three packets of photographs taken on the farm, account books, records of lambing, a roll of aging breath mints. But nothing of Gillian.

He leaned back in the chair. His eyes fell on the bookstand and the Bible it held. Struck by a thought, he opened it to the previously marked page. “And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, ‘Forasmuch as God hath showed thee all this, there is none so discreet and wise as thou art. Thou shalt be over my house, and according unto thy word shall all my people be ruled: only in the throne will I be greater than thou.’ And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, ‘See, I have set thee over all the land of Egypt.’ And Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it on Joseph’s hand, and arrayed him in vestures of fine linen, and put a gold chain about his neck; and he made him to ride in the second chariot which he had; and they cried before him, ‘Bow the knee’: and he made him ruler over all the land of Egypt.”

“Seeking guidance from the Lord?”

Lynley looked up. Havers was leaning against the study door, her shapeless body silhouetted sharply by the morning light, her face a blank.

“Have you finished the kitchen?” he asked.

“Thought I’d take a break.” She sauntered into the room. “Got a smoke on you?”

He handed her his cigarette case absently and went to the bookshelves, running his eyes over them, seeking a volume of Shakespeare. He found it and began looking.

“Is Daze a redhead, Inspector?”

It took a moment for the odd question to strike him. When he looked up, Havers was back at the door, running her fingers meditatively against the wood, apparently indifferent to whatever answer he might give. “I beg your pardon?”

She flipped open the cigarette case and read its inscription. “‘Darling Thomas. We’ll always have Paris, won’t we? Daze.’” Coldly, she met his eyes. It was then that he noticed how pale she was, how the skin beneath her eyes was dark with fatigue, how the gold case shook in her hand. “Aside from her rather hackneyed use of Bogart, is she a redhead?” Havers repeated. “I only ask because you seem to prefer them. Or is the truth that anyone will do?”

Horrified, Lynley realised too late what the change in her was and his own responsibility for having brought it about. There was nothing he could say. There was no quick answer he could give. But he could tell at once that none was necessary, for she had every intention of continuing without his response.

“Havers—”

She held up a hand to stop him. She was deathly white. Her features looked flat. Her voice was tight. “You know, it’s really poor form not to go to the woman’s room for your trysts, Inspector. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. With
your
experience I should think that a little social nicety like that would be the last thing you’d forget. Of course, it’s just a small lapse, and it probably doesn’t really bother a woman at all, not when it’s compared with the ecstatic experience of fucking you.”

He recoiled from the brutal ugliness that her tone gave the word. “I’m sorry, Barbara,” he said.

“Why be sorry?” She forced a guttural laugh. “No one thinks about listeners in the heat of passion. I know I never do.” She gave a brittle smile. “And it certainly was the old heat of passion last night, wasn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when you two started banging away on a second go. And so
soon!
Lord, you barely gave it a rest.”

He watched her move to the shelf and run a finger along the spine of a book. “I didn’t know you could hear us. I apologise, Barbara. I’m terribly sorry.”

She swung back to him quickly. “Why be sorry?” she repeated, her voice louder this time. “You aren’t on duty twenty-four hours a day. And besides, it’s not really your fault, is it? How were you to know Stepha would howl like a banshee?”

“Nonetheless, it was never my intention to hurt your feelings—”

“You haven’t hurt my feelings at all!” She laughed shrilly. “Where on earth did you get an idea like
that?
Let’s say you’ve merely piqued my interest. As I listened to you sending Stepha to the moon—was it three times or four?—I wondered if Deborah used to howl as well.”

It was a wild shot in the dark, but the barb had gone home. He knew that she saw it, for her face blazed with triumph. “That’s hardly your concern, is it?”

“Of course not! I know that! But during your second session with Stepha—it
was
at least an hour, wasn’t it?—I couldn’t help thinking about poor old Simon. He must have to struggle like hell to follow
your
act.”

“You’ve certainly done your homework, Havers. I’ll say that much for you. And when you take off the gloves, you do shoot to kill. Or am I mixing my metaphors?”

“Don’t you patronise me. Don’t you dare!” she shouted. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“Your superior officer, for a start.”

“Oh, that’s right, Inspector. Now’s the time to pull rank. Well, what shall I do? Shall I get to work in here? Don’t
mind
if I’m not quite up to par. I didn’t
sleep
well last night.” She pulled a book angrily from the shelf. It toppled to the floor. He could see she was struggling not to cry.

“Barbara—” She continued to pull books down, to turn the pages savagely, to drop them to the floor. They were mildewed and damp, filling the air with the unpleasant odour of neglect.
“Listen
to me. You’ve done good work so far. Don’t be foolish now.”

She pivoted, trembling. “What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“You have a chance to be back in CID. Don’t throw it away because you’re angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you! I don’t give a
shit
about you.”

“Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that you did.”

“We both know why I was assigned to you anyway. They wanted a woman on the case and they knew I was
safe.”
She spat the word out. “The minute this is over, I’m back on the street.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Inspector, I’m not stupid. I’ve looked in a few mirrors.”

He was astonished at the implication behind her words. “Do you think you’ve been brought back to CID because Webberly believes I’d take any other female officer to bed?” She didn’t respond. “Is that what you think?” he repeated. The silence continued.
“Dammit
, Havers—”

“It’s what I know!” she shouted. “But what Webberly doesn’t know is that
any
blonde or brunette is safe with you these days, not just pigs like me. It’s redheads you’ve a taste for, redheads like Stepha, replacements for the one that you’ve lost.”

“That has
nothing
to do with this conversation!”

“It has everything to do with it! If you weren’t so desperate to have Deborah back, you wouldn’t have spent half the night pounding Stepha into pulp and we wouldn’t be having this whole, bleeding discussion!”

“Then let’s drop it, shall we? I’ve apologised. You’ve made your feelings and beliefs—bizarre as they are—absolutely clear. I think we’ve said enough.”

“Oh, that’s damned convenient to call
me
bizarre,” she cried bitterly. “What about
you?
You won’t marry a woman because her father’s in service, you watch your very own friend fall in love with her instead, you spend the rest of your life racked with misery over it, and then you decide to call
me
bizarre.”

“Your facts aren’t quite straight,” he said icily.

“Oh, I’ve got all the facts I need. And when I string them together,
bizarre
is just the word I’d use to describe them. Fact one: you’re in love with Deborah St. James, and don’t bother to deny it. Fact two: she’s married to someone else. Fact three: you obviously had a love affair with her, which leads us inescapably to fact four: you
damn
well could have married her but you chose not to and you’re going to pay for that stupid, narrow-minded upper-class decision for the rest of your bleeding, goddamn life!”

“You seem to have a great deal of confidence in my fatal attraction for women. Any woman who sleeps with me is only too willing to become my wife. Is that correct?”

“Don’t you laugh at me!” she shrieked, her eyes squeezed shut in rage.

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m also not spending another moment discussing this with you.” He started for the door.

“Oh that’s it! Run away! That’s just what I’d expect of you, Lynley! Go have it off with Stepha again! Or what about Helen? Does she pop a red wig on so you can get it up? Does she let you call her
Deb?”

He felt anger like a current shooting through his veins. He drove himself towards calm by looking at his watch. “Havers, I’m going to Newby Wiske to see the results of St. James’s tests. That gives you about—shall we say—three hours to tear this house apart and find me something—
anything
, Havers—that leads me to Gillian Teys. Since you have such a remarkable ability to gather facts out of thin air, that should prove to be no problem whatsoever for you. If, however, you have nothing to report within three hours, consider yourself sacked. Is that clear?”

“Why not sack me right now and have done with it then?” she shrilled.

“Because I like to look forward to my pleasures.” He walked over to her, took his cigarette case from her limp hand. “Daze is blonde,” he said.

She snorted. “I find
that
hard to believe. Does she wear a red wig for those intimate moments?”

“I don’t know.” He turned the cigarette case over in his hand so that the old ornate A engraved on its cover was face up. “But it’s an interesting question. If my father were still alive, I’d ask him. This was his. Daze is my mother.” He picked up the volume of Shakespeare and left.

Barbara stared after him, motionless, waiting for the pounding of her blood to stop, slowly coming to terms with ther terrible enormity of what she had done.

You’ve done good work so far … You have a chance to be back on CID. Don’t throw it away because you’re angry with me.

And isn’t that exactly what she had done? The need to rage at him, to castigate him, to rail against his attraction to a beautiful woman had overcome every good intention that she had ever possessed in setting to work on the case. What in God’s name had come over her?

Was she jealous? Had there been one insane moment when she had been so foolish as to think that Lynley might ever look at her and not see her for what she truly was: a plain, dumpy woman, angry at the world, bitter and friendless and terribly alone? Had she possibly harboured a secret hope that he might come to care for her? Is that what had driven her to attack him this morning? The thought was patently absurd.

It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. She knew enough about him not to be
that
ignorant.

She felt drained. It was this house, she decided. It was having to come and work in this dwelling place of ghouls. Five minutes here and she was ready to snap and snarl, to climb the walls, to tear wildly at her hair.

She went to the study door and looked across the sitting room to Tessa’s shrine. The woman smiled at her kindly. But wasn’t there just a touch of victory in her eyes? Wasn’t it as if Tessa had known all along that she could do nothing but fail once she walked into this house and felt its silence and chill?

Three hours, he’d said. Three hours to find the secret of Gillian Teys.

She laughed bitterly at the thought, tasting the sound in the empty air. He knew that she would fail, that he would have the enjoyment of sending her back to London, back to uniform, back to disgrace. So what was the point of trying at all? Why not leave now rather than give him the pleasure?

She threw herself down on the sitting-room couch. Tessa’s image watched her sympathetically. But … what if she could find Gillian? What if, where Lynley himself had failed, she was able to succeed? Would it really matter then if he sent her back to the streets? Wouldn’t she know, once and for all, that she was good for something, that she could have been part of a working team?

It was a thought. She picked idly at the worn upholstery of the couch. The sound of her fingers scratching at the threads was the only noise in the house. Except for the rustling and burrowing of mice at the edge of her consciousness, like a half-formed thought.