With No One As Witness (91 page)

“Things are very bad for him.”

She didn’t reply. Instead she saw Lynley at the front door to his house in Eaton Terrace. She saw the door open before he could put his key in the lock, his sister framed in the light from inside. She waited, thinking he might turn and wave a farewell, but his sister put her arm round his waist and drew him within.

“Terrible things happen to very good people,” Azhar said.

“Well yeah. Right.”

She couldn’t—and wouldn’t—talk about it. Too fresh, too sore, vinegar washing over open wounds. She ran her hand back through her chopped-up hair and gave a big sigh that he was meant to read as tired-woman-needing-her-rest-thank-you. But he’d been a fool only once in his life, and he’d learned to be a wiser man from that experience. So she couldn’t drive him off with theatrics. She would have to be direct or stand there and tolerate what he had to say.

“Such a loss. One does not recover completely from that.”

“Yeah. Well. I reckon that’s right. He’s got a row to hoe and I don’t envy him it.”

“His wife. And the child. There was a child, the papers said.”

“Helen was pregnant, yeah.”

“And did you know her well?”

She. Would. Not. She said, “Azhar…” and took an unsteady breath. “You see, I’m knackered. Absolutely done in. Pickled. Dead on my—”

The word. The word itself and she stopped herself on it. She strangled back a cry. Tears sprang to her eyes. She brought a fist to her mouth.

Leave, she thought. Please go. Bloody leave.

But he didn’t do that, and she saw that he wouldn’t, that he’d come for a reason beyond what she could, at that moment, comprehend.

She waved a hand at him, waved him off and away, but he didn’t do as she hoped he would do. Instead he crossed the small room to her, said only, “Barbara,” and took her into his arms.

She began to weep, then. Like the child she’d been and the woman she’d become. It seemed the safest place to do so.

WHEN AN AMERICAN ATTEMPTS TO WRITE A NOVEL SET in London, various forces and personalities come into play. For this book, a little volume called City Secrets, edited by Robert Kahn, set me off on my journey to find locations suitable for the action in this story. My editor at Hodder and Stoughton in London as well as my publicist there—Sue Fletcher and Karen Geary—made numerous helpful suggestions, and my fellow writer Courttia Newland introduced me firsthand to the immediate environs of West Kilburn. South of the river, Fairbridge opened its doors to me, and there I learned of the work that organization does to make a difference in the lives of young people at risk. My efforts to capture the flavor of the sort of police work that goes into the investigation of a serial killing were aided by David Cox of the Metropolitan Police and Pip Lane, retired and formerly of the Cambridge constabulary. Bob’s Magic, Novelties, and Gags in the Stables Market at Camden Lock stood in for Barry Minshall’s magic stall, and Bob himself was most kind to speak to me about the market and magic. Mind Hunter by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker and The Gates of Janus by—astoundingly—Ian Brady formed the background of my creation and understanding of the serial killer in this novel. And the ever resourceful and infinitely patient Swati Gamble of Hodder and Stoughton provided me with information on everything from schools to bus schedules to the floor coverings of vans.

In America, my editor at HarperCollins—Carolyn Marino—offered support and encouragement throughout the lengthy process of creating this novel. My longtime reader Susan Berner weighed in on the second draft with a fine critique. My fellow writer Patricia Fogarty graciously read a third draft. My assistant, Dannielle Azoulay, did everything from research to walking the dog in order to free my time to write. My husband, Tom McCabe, heroically put up with five A.M. wake-up calls for months on end—including on ski trips, hikes in the Great Smokies, and Seattle getaways—without a word of complaint. My students kept me sharp and honest. And my dog always kept me human.

To all these individuals, I owe a debt of gratitude. Mistakes found herein are not due to them but to myself.

Additionally, I must acknowledge the Man behind the Career: my literary agent, Robert Gottlieb. Every time he begins a sentence with, “Now, you know, Elizabeth…,” I realize it’s time to listen up.

Elizabeth George is the New York Times bestselling author of twelve novels of psychological suspense, one book of nonfiction, and two short story collections. She divides her time between London and Huntington Beach, California. Visit her website at www.elizabethgeorgeonline.com.