In Pursuit Of The Proper Sinner (57 page)

“You quarreled.”

“Bitterly. I withdrew my support. I knew she'd have to go back to the escort service—or perhaps even to the street—if she wanted to keep the maisonette when she returned to London, and I was betting that she wouldn't want to do that. But I bet wrong. She left me anyway. And I lasted four days before I was on the phone, ready to give her anything to return to me. More money. A house. God, even my name.”

“But she wouldn't return.”

“She didn't mind being on the street, she said. Casually, this was. As if I'd asked her how she was finding Derbyshire. ‘We've got cards printed and Vi's are already out there,’ she said. ‘Mine'll be out there as well when I get back to town. I have no hard feelings about what's happened between you and me, Ady. And anyway, Vi says the phone's ringing day and night, so we'll be fine.’”

“Did you believe her?”

“I accused her of trying to drive me mad. I railed. Then I apologised. Then she played up to me on the phone. Then I wanted her desperately and couldn't bear to think of what she was giving him, whoever he was. Then I railed at her again. Stupid. Bloody stupid. But I was desperate to have her back. I would have done anything—” He stopped, seeming to realise how his words could be interpreted.

Lynley said, “On Tuesday night, Sir Adrian?”

“Inspector, I didn't kill Nikki. I couldn't have harmed her. I haven't even seen her since June. I'd hardly be standing here telling you all this if I'd … I couldn't have hurt her.”

“Your club's name?”

“Brooks s. I met a colleague there for dinner on Tuesday. He'll confirm, I dare say. But, my God, you won't tell him that I … No one knows, Inspector. It's something that's between Chloe and me.”

And anyone Nicola Maiden chose to tell, Lynley thought. What would it mean to Sir Adrian Beattie to have his most closely guarded secret held over his head like Damocles’ sword? What would he do if threatened with exposure?

“Did Nicola ever introduce you to her flatmate?”

“Once, yes. When I gave her the keys to the maisonette.”

“So Vi Nevin, the flatmate, knew about the arrangement?”

“Perhaps. I don't know.”

But why even take the risk of someone knowing? Lynley wondered. Why allow a flatmate into the mix and face the dangers inherent in an outsider's having knowledge of a sexual proclivity that could cause such humiliation to a man in Beattie's position?

Beattie himself seemed to read the questions in Lynley's eyes. He said, “Do you know what it feels like to be that desperate for a woman? So desperate that you'll agree to anything, do anything to have her? That's what it was like.”

“What about Terry Cole? How did he fit in?”

“I don't know a Terry Cole.”

Lynley tried to gauge the level of veracity in the statement. He couldn't do so. Beattie was too good at maintaining his expression of guilelessness. But that alone increased Lynley's suspicion.

He thanked the surgeon for his time, and he and Nkata took their leave, giving Beattie back into the arms of his family. Incongruously, the man had kept his papier mâché captain's hat on throughout their interview. Lynley wondered if the wearing of that hat kept him firmly anchored in his family life or acted as a spurious symbol of a devotion that he did not feel.

Once out on the street, Nkata said, “My sweet Lord. What people get themselves into, spector.”

“Hmm. Yes,” Lynley agreed. “And what they get themselves out of as well.”

“You don't believe his story?”

Lynley answered indirectly. “Talk to the people at Brooks s. They'll have records showing when he was there. Then head over to Islington. You've seen Sir Adrian Beattie in the flesh. You've seen Martin Reeve as well. Talk to the Maiden girl's landlady, the neighbours. Let's see if anyone can recall glimpsing either of those gentlemen there on the ninth of May.”

“Asking a lot, Guv. Four months back.”

“I've faith in your powers of interrogation.” Lynley disarmed the Bentley's security system, saying over the car's roof, “Climb in. I'll drop you at the tube.”

“What's on for yourself?”

“Vi Nevin. If anyone can confirm Beattie's story, she's going to be the one.”

• • •

Azhar wouldn't hear of Barbara walking the seventy or so yards alone to her bungalow at the bottom of the garden. She might be mugged, raped, accosted, or attacked by a cat with a proclivity for thick ankles.

So he tucked his daughter into her bed, scrupulously locked the door of his flat, and ushered Barbara round the side of the house. He offered her a cigarette. She accepted and they paused to light up, the flaring match emphasising the contrasting colours of their skin as she held the cigarette to her lips and he sheltered the flame near to her mouth.

“Nasty habit,” she said conversationally. “Hadiyyah's after me all the time to stop.”

“After me as well,” Azhar said. “Her mother is—at least she was—quite a militant non-smoker, and Hadiyyah has apparently inherited not only Angela's dislike of tobacco but also her crusading spirit.”

The words constituted the most Azhar had yet said about the mother of his child. Barbara wanted to ask him whether he'd informed his daughter that her mother was gone for good or if he was still holding firmly to the fairy tale of Angela Weston's holiday in Canada, one which had now extended itself for nearly five months. But she said nothing beyond “Yeah. Well. You're her dad, and I expect she'd like to keep you round for a few more years.” They followed the path that led to her digs.

“Thanks for the dinner, Azhar. It was lovely. When I get beyond re-heating pizza, I want to return the favour, if you'll let me.”

“That would be a pleasure, Barbara.”

She expected him to turn back for his flat—her own small hovel being well in view, so there was little chance that she'd come to trouble in a five-second saunter down the rest of the garden path to it. But he continued to walk along with her in his quiet way.

They reached her front door. She hadn't locked it and, when she swung it open, Azhar frowned and said that her sense of security was not as heightened as it ought to be. She said Yeah, but she'd intended only to pop round for a moment and apologise to Hadiyyah for having forgotten the sewing lesson that she'd promised to attend. She hadn't intended to stay for dinner. And thank you for that meal, by the way. You are a brilliant cook. Or have I said that already?

Azhar politely pretended that she hadn't mentioned his cooking until that moment, after which he insisted that he be allowed inside to make certain there were no unwanted visitors lurking in the shower or under the day bed. Having examined the bungalow to his satisfaction, Azhar advised her to lock her door carefully when he left. But then he didn't leave. Instead, he glanced at the dining room table, where Barbara had flung her belongings upon arriving home from work. These consisted of her shapeless old shoulder bag and a manila folder into which she'd tucked the roster of employees from 31-32 Soho Square, her own surreptitiously duplicated copy of the post-mortem that she'd delivered to St. James, and the rough draft of the report she'd crafted for Lynley, delineating the information she'd gleaned from reading the SO 10 files of Andy Maiden.

Azhar said, “This new investigation keeps you busy. You must be gratified to be back among your colleagues.”

“Yeah,” Barbara said. “It was a long patch of waiting. Regents Park and I were becoming a bit more acquainted than I'd thought we might be when it all began.”

Azhar drew in on his cigarette, watching her over it and then through the smoke. She never liked it when he looked at her this way. It was a look that always left her wondering what was supposed to happen next.

She said, “Thanks again for the meal.”

“Thank you for sharing it with us.” But still he made no move to leave, and she realised why when he finally said, “The letters D and C, Barbara. They're an indication of rank in the police force, are they not?”

Her heart sank. She wanted to divert the conversation they were about to have, but she couldn't think of a quick way to do so. So she said, “Yeah. Generally. I mean, I suppose it depends on what they're attached to, those letters. Like Washington, D.C. That's not a rank. But, of course, it's not a police force either.” She smiled. Far too brightly, she decided.

“But attached to your name. DC. Detective Constable. Yes?”

Damn, Barbara thought. But what she said was “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

“Then you've been demoted. I saw the letters on that note that the gentleman left for you. I thought at first there was some sort of mistake, but as you've not been working with Inspector Lynley—”

“1 don't always work with the inspector, Azhar. Sometimes we take different parts of a case.”

“Do you.” But she could see he didn't believe the story. Or at least that he thought there was something more to it. “Demotion. And yet there's been no reduction in the force, has there? I believe you told me that earlier, didn't you? And if that's the case, it seems that you must be avoiding a truth. With me, that is. I find myself wondering why.”

“Azhar, I'm not avoiding anything. Hell. We don't exactly live in each other's knickers, do we?” Barbara said, and then found her face blazing with the implication of an intimacy which she hadn't intended. Bloody hell, she thought. Why was conversation with this man such a verbal minefield? “I mean, we don't do a lot of job talk, you and I. We never have done. You teach your classes at the university. I saunter round the Yard and try to look indispensable.”

“Demotion is serious in any profession. And in this case I expect that it comes from your time in Essex, doesn't it? What happened there, Barbara?”

“Whoa. How'd you make that jump?”

He crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray from which at least ten dog ends of Players protruded from the burnt tobacco like burgeoning vegetables. He regarded her. “I am correct in the surmise, am I not? You were disciplined because of your work in Essex last June. What happened, Barbara?”

“It's sort of a private situation,” she temporised, “I mean, you know, it's a personal thing. Why d'you want to know?”

“Because I find myself in a state of confusion about British law, and I wish to understand it better. How can I be of assistance to my people when they have legal difficulties if I don't clearly see how the laws of your country are applied to the individual who breaks them?”

“But this wasn't a case of breaking a law,” Barbara said. And that, she told herself, was merely a mild prevarication. After all, she hadn't been in the dock defending herself against a charge of assault or attempted murder, so she'd been able to convince herself that, law-wise, she'd always been in the clear.

“Nonetheless, as you are my friend—at least I hope that you are—”

“Of course I am.”

“Then perhaps you'll help me to understand more about your society.”

Bollocks, Barbara thought. He understood more about British society than she herself did. But she could hardly take the discussion in that direction, where it would soon enough crumble into a Punch and Judy of Yes you do, No I don't. So she said, “Its nothing much. I had a row with the DCI in charge of the case out in Essex, Azhar. We were in the middle of a chase. And the one thing an underling isn't supposed to do is to question an order in the middle of a chase. That's what happened and that's why I lost my rank.”

“For questioning an order.”

“I tend to question more forcefully than the average bird,” she said airily. “It's a habit that I learned in school. I'm short. I get lost in a crowd if I don't make myself heard. You ought to hear me order a pint of Bass in the Load of Hay when the football crowd's watching an Arsenal match on the telly But when I used the same approach with DCI Barlow, she didn't much like it.”

“Yet to lose your rank … It's a draconian measure, certainly. Are you being made an example of? Can you not protest it? Is there not a union or organisation who might represent you aggressively enough to—”

“In a situation like this,” Barbara cut in, “it's best not to make waves. Let the smoke clear, you know. Let sleeping dogs lie.” She groaned inwardly, the Queen of Cliché. “Anyway, when enough time passes, it'll sort itself out. The situation. You know.” She smashed her own cigarette among the others, putting an end to their discussion. She waited for him to bid her goodnight.

Instead, he said, “Hadiyyah and I go to the seaside tomorrow.”

“She told me. She's looking forward to it. The pleasure pier, especially. And she's expecting a big win from the crane grab, Azhar, so I hope you've been practising with the pincers.”

He smiled. “She asks for so little. And yet life appears to give her so much.”

“P'haps that's why,” Barbara pointed out. “If you don't spend your time looking for something particular, what you end up finding suits you just fine.”

“Wise words,” he acknowledged.

Wisdom's cheap, Barbara thought. She rustled in the manila folder on the table and brought out the roster of names from Soho Square. Duty was calling, her action told him. And Azhar was nothing if not astute at drawing inferences from unspoken implications.

The journey from Sir Adrian Beattie's home to Vi Nevin's maisonette was little more than a cruise down the Fulham Road in rather light traffic. It didn't take long. But it was long enough for Lynley to consider what he'd heard from Beattie and what he felt about what he'd heard. After years in CID, he realised that there was no real place in the investigation for him to be dwelling upon what he felt about anyone's revelations, least of all Sir Adrian's. But he found that he couldn't help himself. And he justified the direction his thoughts were taking by declaring them natural: Sexual deviance was as much a curiosity as a two-headed kitten. One might shudder at the sight of such an anomaly. But one still looked at it, however briefly.

And that's what he was doing: looking at the deviant behaviour for its anomaly quotient first, then evaluating the possibility that sexual deviance in itself was the relevant detail that would allow him to unearth Nicola Maiden's killer. The only problem he was having with attempting to use sexual deviance as a means of finding a killer was that he was discovering himself incapable of moving beyond the mere presence of the deviance in the first place.