Caroline surged past the black detective, who tried and failed to stop her this time. She got to the recorder and smashed her fist upon it as if to break it. Sergeant Havers got it away from her and silenced Clare’s relentless voice.
“Here’s how you did it,” the sergeant said. “You did your research on your husband’s computer. You did your ordering on your computer. You used Lily Foster’s name as the recipient for the same reasons you used your husband’s computer for the research: If things didn’t work out—which of course they didn’t—you had a very nice trail leading away from you and reason to declare yourself the victim. The only problem was having to use a credit card to buy the stuff. You couldn’t put your hands on Lily’s—if she even has one—and I expect Alastair’s on the same account as you. But that works anyway, doesn’t it, because it’ll still lead to him. And you had to use your own toothpaste, didn’t you, because just in case someone worked out that Clare didn’t have a heart attack but just got bloody ill, you needed to look like the intended victim.”
And then—just then—Alastair heard her words as she had said them to him when the Scotland Yard police had first come to town: I packed her bag. Yet he could not say them, even now. He could not betray her.
Caroline was silent, but she was breathing in short gasps. She stared at the recorder in the detective’s hand. Then she raised her eyes to look upon the ceiling as if an answer would appear above her. “Charlie,” she said.
“Your motive in a nutshell,” Sergeant Havers noted. “Clare was going to talk to Charlie to see what he knew about you and Will. But you couldn’t have that. You couldn’t have him learning what you’d done to his brother. Did you know Clare was writing her adultery book despite your attempts to prevent her, by the way? She was damn well sure you’d hold your tongue about her countryside flings long ’s she promised that she’d hold hers.”
“I want my son” was Caroline’s reply to this as she began to weep. “I want Charlie. I want my son.”
CAMBERWELL
SOUTH LONDON
India’s mobile rang at half past three. At first she thought it was the alarm, but when she woke into absolute darkness, she knew otherwise. She grabbed it and quickly silenced it. She glanced at Nat. He hadn’t stirred.
It was Charlie who’d rung, she saw. What she felt was annoyance, which was quickly replaced by consternation. What she did not need upon this first occasion of Nat remaining the night with her was Charlie injecting himself once again—no matter the reason—into their relationship. It was tenuous enough.
She eased herself from the bed. Her mobile showed no message left, and that was odd as Charlie usually left a message if he couldn’t reach her. But then the landline began to ring in her study and in the kitchen below. That she couldn’t ignore. If she did, the answer phone would take the call and that was guaranteed to awaken her lover.
She hurried to the study and picked up the phone before the third double ring. She said, “Charlie?” and expected him to ask why she hadn’t answered her mobile.
But instead he said, “Thank God. Alastair’s phoned me. India, my mum . . .”
“Has something happened to her? Is she ill? Have she and Alastair . . . ? Did he leave her for Sharon?” Because if he had done . . . India didn’t want to think of how the subsequent care of his mother would fall upon Charlie’s head.
“She’s been charged with Clare’s murder,” Charlie said. “India, it’s worse. She’s confessed.”
India opened her mouth, which went dry so quickly so felt as if someone had scoured it. All she could manage to say was, “My God. Why?”
“Alastair says they have a recording. The police. Clare had worked it out in her head that . . . Oh my God, India.”
“What? What?”
“She . . . Mum . . . She did things to him.”
“To Alastair? What on earth—”
“To Will.”
India pulled the desk chair out and sank upon it. “She did things to Will? What’s that even mean?”
“Sexual things. To Will. Alastair said he reckons it was going on for years and . . . Clare discovered . . . Will told Sumalee. I don’t know when. I don’t know anything else. Just that Sumalee told Clare and then there was some kind of recording and Mum fell apart when she heard it and they arrested her and something like an hour ago she confessed to everything or they wrote it up an hour ago and she signed . . . I don’t know.”
“But how is that even possible?” India asked. “Surely someone would have known. Will would have told . . . Did he not tell you?”
“God, no. He never . . .” Charlie’s voice broke.
India’s heart opened. But just as quickly as it had done so, she snapped it shut. What she felt was absolute fury at the whole boiling lot of them.
Charlie was struggling to speak. “Alastair said . . . He’s beyond distraught. He says he sees so many things now . . . They’re clear to him and they were right in front of him all the time . . . how she lost interest . . . how she had to have this . . . this special retreat . . . and there I was and here I am, and India, you know that I failed—”
“You did not fail him,” she cried. “Don’t you say that, Charlie. If she did something to Will, you couldn’t have known unless Will told you, so do not bloody go there. Do you hear me? Do not go there!”
“She always swooped in. She always rescued him. But what she was doing all the time . . . And I did nothing.” He began to weep. The sound of it was horrible.
“Stop,” she said. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Can’t,” he said. “Nothing. Just . . .”
“Charlie. Charlie.” And when he did not reply, she said, “I’m coming over there straightaway. Do you hear me, Charlie. I’m coming over at once.”
She rang off and stood. She replaced the phone.
She saw Nat standing in the doorway.
22 OCTOBER
VICTORIA
LONDON
It’s always been a circumstantial case,” Lynley said. “But despite that, she’s achieved a remarkable result.”
“You must admit we can hardly send up celebratory flares for a circumstantial case, Tommy.” He and Isabelle were meeting in her office. He’d come to her as soon as Dee Harriman had given him the word that the superintendent was in at last.
“But we can do for a full confession. It’s been written up and signed and the Goldacre woman’s been remanded into custody. I spoke to Barbara round six this morning, guv. It happened—the confession—round half past two.”
“Solicitor present?”
“She didn’t want one. Offered repeatedly but she kept refusing, so they brought in a duty solicitor, but she instructed him to observe and say nothing. All of it’s documented.”
Behind her desk with the rain-streaked window glass distorting the view of St. James’s Park and its wealth of amber-tinted trees, the superintendent nodded slowly. She sucked in both of her cheeks and then released them. She was, he knew, considering his announcement and everything that his announcement implied about Barbara Havers and her ability to do the job as required and—in this particular case—with constraints that might have held another cop back.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Isabelle settled on saying as she shifted a folder to the middle of her desk. She opened it and looked down at its contents before adding, “I take it that Sergeant Nkata was of assistance to her.”
“He was. As Barbara tells it, they worked well together.” Lynley decided not to mention the fact that Havers had gone off on her own more than once. It mattered little at the end of the day since the investigation had concluded with what Isabelle was looking for and what Barbara was desperate to have: a good result.
“How does Sergeant Nkata tell it?”
“I’ve not spoken to him.”
“Have you not?” The question was arch. “Please
see that you do. I’d not want to have to speak to him myself. Nor, I think, would you or Sergeant Havers want me to.”
Lynley got the implication well enough. He said, “Barbara could easily have managed this on her own with one or two DCs to direct. You do know that.”
Isabelle glanced at him. She did a half turn of her head, one smooth cheek exposed and a jade-green earring brushing against her skin. It was a movement and an accompanying look that implied there were subjects best left untouched at the moment and what Sergeant Havers could or could not manage on her own was one of them.
“You’re not a believer yet,” he said, despite the look, “and I won’t deny you’ve a score of reasons to doubt her.”
“That’s very good of you,” she said.
“But if I could point out . . . ?”
“Do I appear to be someone who needs something pointed out to her, Tommy?”
“Admittedly, no. But, Isabelle . . . Guv, I think some leeway is called for after this.”
“Do you indeed? No need to reply. Let me say this: I’m delighted that the situation in Shaftesbury has been cleared up successfully by Sergeant Havers and Sergeant Nkata. And I fully agree that more leeway is called for.”
Lynley was no fool. He knew there was more coming and come it did.
“Given enough rope, Tommy, I have no doubt that Barbara Havers will hang herself eventually. So giving her more leeway from now? I’ve not a single difficulty with that.”
She went back to considering the work on her desk. He wanted to say more, but there was little point. Isabelle, he knew, was going to go her own way in matters regarding Barbara. She would take note of Barbara’s success in Shaftesbury, she would even make it a mark in her favour, but she wouldn’t dismiss her intention to be rid of Havers when and if she could.
He wanted to argue a bit, but it seemed useless to do so. More to the point seemed to be Barbara herself and the necessity of making Superintendent Ardery a believer in the long run. That wasn’t going to happen overnight. He could only pray it would happen eventually.
He left Isabelle to her work and set off to see to his own. In the corridor, he caught sight of Dorothea Harriman coming towards him. She gave a slight inclination of her head when she reached the door that led to the stairway. Apparently, a word was in order.
Lynley followed her. She said, “Well . . . ?”
He raised an eyebrow, awaiting clarification.
“I mean, was it good enough for her? You went to talk to her about Detective Sergeant Havers, didn’t you?”
“While I’m curious as to your method of concluding that—”
“Oh really, Detective Inspector Lynley, I’m not an idiot. You arrived an hour early today. You’ve recently polished your shoes and there’s . . . what do I want to call it? . . . a vaguely festive air to your walk. Is that a new aftershave as well?”
“Holmes, you amaze me,” Lynley said.
“Well . . .” she repeated.
“Barbara’s wrapped matters up with a complete confession.”
“Has she indeed? That’s brilliant. Now. Onward, wouldn’t you agree? Would you like me to get back to it?”
“To . . . ?” Lynley prompted. He had an uneasy feeling about where Dee was heading.
“To normalising her, for want of a better word. I’ve had a think, you see. I’ve been wrestling with this whole matter for quite a bit. I do see that I pushed her rather too hard. I suppose I overwhelmed her. Too much information? Heading in too many directions at once? Forcing her into that terrible speed dating situation? After that, to be frank, I’d fairly well concluded that she prefers women—not that I have a problem with that—but upon reflection I realised there’s never been a woman in her life either. Has there?”
“Not that I know of. But she’s rather discreet in personal matters. As you’ve no doubt discovered.” Lynley added this last bit in the hope that Dee would take Barbara’s personal life and its mysteries as a knot too tightly tied for her to unravel.
Such was not the case. “Obviously, I was expecting her to . . . I don’t know . . . unburden herself to me? And really, how can one expect it on so brief an acquaintance?”
“Saving the fact that you’ve known her for years,” Lynley pointed out.
“Of course. But knowing her isn’t the same as knowing her, if you take my meaning.”
“It’s not biblical is it?”
“What?”
“Your meaning. The knowing bit. Adam knowing Eve? Noah knowing . . . whoever it was.” He was joking, of course, but he could see Dee’s confusion. Obviously, she was not a reader of the Bible.
“What I mean,” she plunged on, Bible or not, “is that I have to spend more time with her. We have to build some sort of friendship. One can’t possibly hope to have an effect upon someone if there’s no history between them. One can’t hope to make someone think differently from how they’ve always thought merely on the strength of a shopping excursion or the like. So what I’m saying is that I’m ready to tackle the project again but this time—” She’d hurried this last bit as Lynley opened his mouth to protest the entire idea of putting Barbara Havers once more into Dee Harriman’s efficient hands. That, he thought, was a kite that was never going to fly. “I’ll take it more slowly. She hasn’t exactly said no to the dancing lessons, Detective Inspector. She’s reluctant but I think I can make it work. You see, I’d thought of dancing with partners, which would, naturally, put her into the arms of a man. But what if it was dancing merely as exercise? Let me ask you this: What do you think she’d say to ballet?”
The very thought of Havers in a leotard—the instant image he had of her—caused Lynley to cough back a laugh. He said, “Dee, I tend to think—”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, of course,” she cut in. “What about tap, then? Brilliant for exercise, requiring less costuming . . . ? How does it sound?”
It sounded as absurd as ballet to Lynley, but he could tell when Dee had her mind made up. He would have to leave Barbara to her own devices in this one, he thought. And really, who knew? She might like tap dancing. It certainly wouldn’t hurt her.
“It sounds quite a brilliant plan,” he told Dee. She smiled brightly. He hastened to add, “But if I might make one small request?”
“Of course.”
“For God’s sake, don’t tell her I said so.”
SHAFTESBURY
DORSET
For the second night running, Alastair’s assistant had taken up the reins of MacKerron Baked Goods, producing what he thought best to produce. Alastair hadn’t even thought to ring him in order to let him know he would be absent for another day. He hadn’t thought about the baking at all. But when he’d arrived at home after hours upon hours sitting in reception at the local nick, it was to see that the vans were being loaded for the day, and things were ticking along quite well without him.
This did nothing to lift his spirits. He thought about being grateful that the young man had taken the initiative. It revealed much about him and all of it good. He gave his thanks and trudged to the house. He caught a look flash across his assistant’s face, and he reckoned the young man had concluded where he’d been on the previous night: in Sharon Halsey’s bed. Alastair had not bothered much with discretion when it came to Sharon, had he?
She’d rung, he found. He’d silenced his mobile at the police station, and while he’d turned it on briefly to make the one tortured call to Charlie, he’d switched it off again, not having the heart to speak to anyone after that. He was still reeling from Caro’s confession. He was still trying to come to terms with how badly wrong he’d been about Sharon. How had he ever thought that Sharon Halsey might harm another being? he asked himself again and again. It was as if he’d lost whatever limited ability he’d ever had in the first place to reach a conclusion about who a woman was. Well, Caro proved that well enough, didn’t she
? Years of being married to the woman, and he’d been utterly in the dark.
When he got into the house, he plodded into the kitchen. Weary but feeling hollowed out inside, he emptied his pockets onto the work top. He set the kettle to boil and then picked up his mobile. He switched it on, and he saw the messages that had come in on the thing: his assistant, Sharon, India, Sharon, Sharon again.
The only one he wanted to listen to was Sharon, so that was what he did. She wasn’t coming into work today. Then, she’d had a think and would like some time off. Then, Did you get my messages, Alastair? Has something happened? I’ve heard you’ve not been at the bakery.
Although the last message could be interpreted as Sharon wanting a phone call in return, he didn’t have the heart to make it. He was monumentally tired, more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life. He made for the stairs, but reckoned he would find it impossible to fall asleep.
That didn’t prove to be the case. It was as if he slipped into unconsciousness, to a place where at long last there were no more dreams to torment or delight him. Ultimately, it was the landline that awakened him. He grabbed it up, heart hoping for some kind of reprieve from what it was going through. But on the other end of the line, Ravita Khan identified herself.
She got directly to the point. “Why didn’t you ring me at once?”
He blinked and tried to shake the sleep out of his brain. It seemed to take longer than it should have done. He wondered how the solicitor had discovered whatever it was that she’d discovered. She’d finally been phoned by the custody sergeant, she told him. It was irregular, but she knew the man. Obviously, once Caroline had been remanded, she was going to need a very good solicitor to bring on board a very good barrister and somehow the custody sergeant had known . . . What did it matter how he knew? Caroline might well have finally made the request she should have made at the start of this mess, Ravita Khan said.