This Body of Death (39 page)

Ardery moved. She had him by the arm and then against the wall and she was inches from his face before he had even noted her location in the room. She hissed, “Do you
ever
bloody listen? I told you not to approach the man.”

“Guv, I didn’t—”

“If we lose him, Philip, you’re taking the blame. I’ll see to it personally.”

“But, guv—”

“Under review, in the dock, in the box. What
ever
it takes to get your attention because when I say you are not to approach a suspect, I do not sodding mean anything else, so you tell me—you God damn bloody tell me, Philip—which part of that you didn’t understand because we’ve got a man who’s been hit by a car and likely to die and if you think
anyone’s
about to let this go and pretend it didn’t happen, then you’d better have another God damn think about the matter and you’d better do it now.”

The DI glanced Lynley’s way. There could not be, Lynley knew, a better cop and more decent person than Philip Hale. Given an order, he’d follow it to the letter, which was what he’d done and all of them knew it.

Hale said, “Something spooked him, guv. One moment he was playing the violin and the next he was on the run. I don’t know why. I swear to God—”

“You swear to God, do you?” She shook his arm. Lynley could see the tension in her fingers, and her grasp had to be a raw one because the tips of her fingers were red and the skin beneath her nails had gone crimson. “Oh, that’s
very
pretty, Philip. Step onto the pitch. Take responsibility. I’ve no time for men who snivel like—”

“Guv,” Lynley intervened quietly. “That’ll do.”

Ardery’s eyes widened. He saw that she’d eaten the lipstick from her mouth and what replaced it for colour on her face were two circles of red fury high on her cheeks. Before she could reply, he said to her urgently, “We need to get to his brother and let him know what’s happened.”

She began to speak and he added, “We don’t want him to hear this from a news report. We don’t want anyone significant learning it that way.” By which he meant Hillier and she
had
to know that, even as she was driven by demons he well recognised but had never actually understood.

She released Hale’s arm. “Get back to the Yard,” she said and then to Lynley, “That’s twice now. You’re warned.”

“Understood,” he said.

“And it makes no bloody difference, does it?” Then she swung on Philip Hale once again. “Are you an idiot, Philip? Did you not hear me? Get back to the Yard!”

Philip Hale looked from Ardery to Lynley and back to Ardery. He said, “Guv,” with a nod and he left them. Lynley saw him shake his head as he went.

Ardery said to Lynley, “Get on to the brother, then,” and she began to pace. As Lynley made the necessary calls, he watched her and he wondered at what point she’d make another trip to the ladies’, because there was little doubt in his mind that she desperately needed a drink.

However, during the forty minutes they waited for Hiro Matsumoto’s solicitor to find the cellist and to bring him to St. Thomas’ Hospital, the acting superintendent remained in the waiting area and Lynley developed a reluctant respect for the manner in which she mastered herself. She made the appropriate phone calls to the Yard, putting the press office into the picture and passing along information to AC Hillier’s office as well. Hillier, Lynley reckoned, would ultimately give Isabelle Ardery an earful. There was nothing the assistant commissioner hated more than bad press. Half of London could shoot the other half in the street and Hillier would not be as bothered as he would be by a tabloid screaming M
ORE
B
RUTALITY FROM THE
M
ET
.

When they finally arrived, Hiro Matsumoto was far calmer than his solicitor, who breathed fire and threatened lawsuits, neither of which was unexpected. She was interrupted only when they were joined by the physician who’d initially seen to the violinist’s injuries. He was a gnomelike man with overlarge and oddly translucent ears and a nametag reading H
OGG
. He spoke directly to Hiro Matsumoto, obviously recognising him as the party probably most intimately connected to the injured man. He ignored the others.

A broken shoulder and a broken hip constituted the initial information, which sounded hopeful considering how bad things could have been. But then Mr. Hogg added fractured skull and acute subdural haematoma to the mix, as well as the fact that the size of the injury was going to cause a dangerous increase in intracranial pressure, which in turn would result in damage to delicate brain tissue if something was not done immediately. That something was decompression, effected only by surgery, and Yukio Matsumoto was being prepared for the operating theatre as they spoke.

“This is a murder suspect,” Isabelle Ardery informed the doctor. “We’re going to want to speak with him before
anything
is done to make him incommunicado.”

“He’s not in any condition—,” the doctor began, to be interrupted by both the brother and the brother’s solicitor.

One said, “My brother did not kill that woman,” as the other said, “You’re not speaking to anyone but me, madam, and let’s make certain that’s
very
clear. And if you so much as approach Yukio Matsumoto without my knowledge—”

“Don’t you threaten me,” Isabelle Ardery cut in.

“What I’ll do—what I
intend
to do—is to find out exactly what led to this unbelievable development and when I find out, you’ll be under a legal scrutiny the likes of which you have never seen. I hope I’m being completely clear.”

The doctor snapped, “My interest is in the injured and not on whatever quarrel you two are having. He’s going into surgery and there’s an end to the matter.”

“Please,” Hiro Matsumoto said quietly. His eyes were liquid. “My brother. He’ll live?”

The doctor’s expression softened. “It’s a traumatic injury, Mr. Masumoto. We’ll do our very best.”

When he departed, Isabelle Ardery spoke, saying to Lynley, “We need to collect his clothing for forensics.”

“I’ll have something to say about that,” Zaynab Bourne snapped.

“He’s a principal suspect in a murder investigation,” Ardery snapped back. “We’ll have the appropriate paperwork and we’ll take the clothing and
if
you have a problem with that, you can take it up via the proper channels.” To Lynley, “I’ll want someone posted here as well, someone capable of staying on top of every development. The moment he’s able to speak, we want an officer in the room with him.” She turned to Hiro Matsumoto and asked if he could tell them where his brother had his digs.

His solicitor was winding up to protest, but Matsumoto said, “No, please, Mrs. Bourne. I believe it is in Yukio’s best interests to clear this matter up.”

“Hiro, you
can’t
 …” Mrs. Bourne drew him away from Lynley and Ardery. She spoke urgently into his ear and he listened gravely. But the end result was no different. He shook his head. A few more words passed between them and Zaynab Bourne made for the outer doorway, flipping open her mobile phone as she went. Lynley had little doubt the solicitor had resources upon whom she was calling to light a fire under the feet of the Met.

Hiro Matsumoto returned to the police. He said, “Come. I’ll take you there.”

I
SABELLE FIELDED A
phone call from AC Hillier as they crossed the river, heading up Victoria Embankment to avoid Parliament Square. Previously, she’d spoken only to the AC’s secretary, grateful for the opportunity to rehearse the passing along of information that was likely to send Hillier into orbit. He said, “Tell me,” as a means of greeting. Isabelle, cognizant of Hiro Matsumoto’s presence in the backseat of the car, gave him as little information as possible. She concluded her recitation with, “He’s in the operating theatre and his brother is with us. We’re heading to his digs.”

“Have we got our man?”

“It’s very possible.”

“Considering the situation, I don’t need
possible
. I need probable. I need yes.”

“We should know quite soon.”

“God knows, we had better. Get to my office when you’re done out there. We need a meeting with Deacon.”

She didn’t know who the hell Deacon was, but she wasn’t about to ask Hillier to identify him. She said she’d be there as soon as she could and when she ended the call, she asked Lynley the question.

He said, “Head of the press bureau. Hillier’s lining up the cavalry.”

“How do I prepare?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never known.”

“Philip cocked this up, Thomas.”

“Do you think so.”

The fact that he said those words as a statement was, she decided, a declaration of his own opinion, not to mention of his judgement. And, perhaps, a declaration of his loyalties as well.

They said nothing more, merely riding in a tense silence to Charing Cross Road where Hiro Matsumoto directed them to its intersection with Denmark Street. There a redbrick structure of eight floors housed living accommodation that was called Shaldon Mansions, which appeared to be flats that filled a building whose ground floor comprised a line of shops. These carried on a theme of music that extended down Denmark Street—which itself appeared to comprise nothing but outlets for guitars, drums, and various types of horns—and combined this theme with news agents, luggage shops, cafés, and bookstores. The entrance to the flats consisted of an opening tucked between Keira News and Mucci Bags, and as they walked towards it, Isabelle sensed Lynley’s steps slowing, so she turned to find he was gazing intently at the building. She said, “What?” and he said, “Paolo di Fazio.”

“What about him?”

“This is where Jemima Hastings took him.” He gave a nod to the entrance to the flats. “That first night they met. He said she took him to a flat above Keira News.”

Isabelle smiled. “Well done, Thomas. So we know how Yukio came to meet her.”

Hiro Matsumoto said, “Knowing they might have met does not mean—”

“Of
course
it doesn’t,” Isabelle said grimly. Anything to keep him moving. Anything to get him to take them to the flat, as there appeared to be no concierge to direct them.

Unfortunately, the cellist had no key. But as things turned out, a few bells rung, followed by a few knocks upon doors and a few questions here and there led them into Keira News. There Isabelle’s identification produced a master key to every flat in Shaldon Mansions, held by the shop’s owner who did double duty as a recipient of packages and emergency contact should a crisis arise within the building.

They definitely had a crisis on their hands, as Isabelle explained to the man. He handed over the key and they were about to set out when Lynley paused to ask him about Jemima Hastings. Did he know her? Did he remember her? Unusual eyes, one green and one brown?

The eyes did it. She had indeed lived in Shaldon Mansions, in a bed-sit quite similar to the one into which they were seeking entrance.

This confirmed another connection between Yukio Matsumoto and Jemima Hastings, and the fact gratified Isabelle hugely. It was one thing to connect them by means of Covent Garden. It was quite another to connect them through their living accommodation. Things were looking up.

Yukio’s bed-sit was on the fifth floor of the building, a point at which the spaciousness of the floors below gave way to crow-stepped gables and a mansard roof. As much accommodation as possible had been crammed into the space, and these rooms opened off a narrow corridor where the air was so close it had probably gone unrefreshed since the first Gulf War.

Inside Yukio Matsumoto’s bed-sit, the atmosphere was oppressively hot, and the place was quite disturbingly fitted out with floor-to-ceiling figures that had been drawn on the walls with marker pens. They loomed everywhere, dozens of them. A scrutiny indicated they depicted angels.

“What in God’s name … ,” Isabelle murmured as next to her Lynley fished out his reading glasses to give the scrawled figures closer scrutiny. Behind her, she heard Hiro Matsumoto sigh tremulously. She glanced his way. He looked infinitely sad.

“What is it?” she asked.

The cellist’s gaze went from one drawing to the next to the next. “He thinks they speak to him. The celestial host.”

“The what?”

“All the different kinds of angels,” Lynley put in.

“There’s more than one kind?”

“There are nine different kinds.”

And he could no doubt list them, Isabelle thought grimly. Well, she didn’t want to know—nor did she need to know—the categories of celestial whatever-they-were. What she needed to know was what, if anything, they had to do with Jemima Hastings’ death. She reckoned nothing. But Hiro said, “They battle for him. In his head, of course, but he hears them and he sometimes thinks he sees them. What he sees are people, but angels have come in human guise in the past. And of course they are always depicted in a human form in art and in books and because of this, he thinks he’s one with them. He believes they’re waiting for him to declare his intention. It’s the very heart of his illness. Yet it proves, doesn’t it, that he harmed no one?”

Isabelle took in the drawings as Lynley moved along them slowly. There were angels descending into pools of water where humans lay crumpled with arms extended in supplication; there were angels driving demons before them to work on a temple in the distance; there were angels with trumpets, angels holding books, angels with weapons, and one enormous wing-spread creature leading an army, while nearby another cast destruction upon a biblical-looking town. And one entire section appeared to be given to a struggle between two types of angels: one armed with weapons and one with wings spread to cover cowering humans below.

“He believes he must choose,” Hiro Matsumoto said.

“Choose what?” Isabelle asked. Lynley, she saw, had moved to a narrow single bed, where a bedside table held a lamp, a book, and a filmy-looking glass of water. The book he picked up and opened. A card fell out and he bent to take it up from the floor as Hiro Matsumoto answered.