She started the car. They reentered the road. They drove for some minutes in silence with the countryside passing and evening dropping round them like a shifting veil.
He finally said to her the only thing worth saying, the only request he had that she might grant at this point. He’d asked once and been denied, but it seemed to him that she might reconsider although he couldn’t have explained why. They were jouncing across the car park of the Salthouse Inn where they’d begun their day when he spoke a final time.
“Will you call me Tommy?” he asked her again.
“I don’t think I can,” she replied.
HE WASN’T PARTICULARLY HUNGRY, but he knew he had to eat. To eat was to live, and it appeared to him that he was doomed to go on living, at least for now. After he watched Daidre drive off, he went inside the Salthouse Inn, and he decided that he could face a bar meal but not the restaurant.
He ducked inside the low doorway and found that Barbara Havers had possessed the same idea. She was in the otherwise abandoned inglenook, while the rest of the bar’s patrons crowded on stools round the few scarred tables and at the bar itself, behind which Brian was pouring pints.
Lynley went to join her, drawing out the stool opposite the banquette that she herself occupied. She looked up from her food. Shepherd’s pie, he saw. The obligatory sides of boiled carrots, boiled cauliflower, boiled broccoli, tinned peas, and chips. She’d used ketchup on the lot of it, save the carrots and the peas, which she’d moved to one side altogether.
“Didn’t your mum insist you eat all your veg?” he asked her.
“That’s the beauty of adulthood,” she replied, shoving some of the mash and minced beef onto her fork, “one may ignore certain foods altogether.” She chewed thoughtfully and observed him. “Well?” she asked.
He told her. As he did so, he realised that, without anticipating or wanting it, he’d passed into another stage of the journey he was on. One week ago, he’d not have spoken at all. Or if he’d done so, it would have been to make a remark that served to abbreviate the conversation as much as possible.
He finished with, “I couldn’t actually make her see that this sort of thing…the past, her family, or at least the people who gave birth to her…It’s not important, really.”
“’Course not,” Havers said genially. “Abso-bloody-lutely not. Not in a bottle. Not on a plate. And specially not to someone who never lived it, mate.”
“Havers, we’ve all got something in our pasts.”
“Hmm. Right.” She forked up some broccoli doused in ketchup, carefully removing a single pea that had got mixed in. She said, “Except not all of us have silver serving dishes in ours, if you know what I mean. And what’s that big thing you lot have sitting in the centre of your dining room tables? You know what I mean. All silver with animals hopping about it. Or vines and grapes or whatever. You know.”
“Epergne,” he told her. “It’s called an epergne. But you can’t possibly be thinking that something as meaningless as a piece of silver—”
“Not the silver. The word. See? You knew what to call it. D’you think she knows? How much of the rest of the world ever knows?”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“That’s just the point. There’re places, sir, that the hoi polloi aren’t going to, and your dinner table is one of them.”
“You’ve eaten at my dinner table yourself.”
“I’m the exception. You lot find my ignorance charming. She can’t help it, you think. Consider where she came from, you tell people. Sort of like saying, ‘Poor thing, she’s American. She doesn’t know any better.’”
“Havers, hang on. I’ve never once thought—”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, waving her fork at him. She had chips on it now, although they were barely discernible through the ketchup. “I don’t care, you see. I don’t mind.”
“Then—”
“But she does. And that’s the bit that gets one into trouble: the minding bit. Don’t mind and you can swan round in ignorance or at least pretend to. Mind and you’re all thumbs and fumbling with the cutlery. Sixteen knives and twenty-two forks and why are these people eating asparagus with their fingers?” She shuddered dramatically. She went for more shepherd’s pie. She washed it down with what she was drinking, which appeared to be ale.
He watched her and said, “Havers, is it my imagination, or have you been drinking rather more than your usual tonight?”
“Why? Am I slurring my words?”
“Not slurring exactly. But—”
“I’m owed. A stiff one. Fifteen stiff ones if that’s what it takes. I’m not driving and I should be able to make it up the stairs. Just.”
“What’s going on?” he asked her, for it wasn’t like Havers to drink to excess. She was generally a one-a-week sort of drinker.
She told him, then. Jago Reeth, Benesek Kerne, Hedra’s Hut—which she referred to as “some mad cabin on the edge of the cliff where we all might’ve died, mind you”—and the result, which was no result at all. Jonathan Parsons and Pengelly Cove, Santo Kerne, and—
“Are you saying he confessed?” Lynley said. “How extraordinary.”
“Sir, you’re missing the point. He didn’t confess. He supposed. He supposed this and he supposed that and in the end he supposed himself right out of that hovel and on his way. Revenge is sweet and all that rubbish.”
“And that’s it?” he said. “What did Hannaford do?”
“What could she do? What could anyone do? If this had been written by the Greeks, I suppose we could hope that Thor would hit him with a bolt of lightning in the next couple days, but I wouldn’t count on that.”
“Good grief,” Lynley said, and then after a moment he added, “Zeus.”
“What?”
“Zeus, Havers. Thor’s Norse. Zeus’s Greek.”
“Whatever, sir. I am, we know, one of the hoi polloi. Point is this: The Greeks aren’t exactly involved here, so he walks away. She intends to keep after him but she’s got sweet FA to work with, thanks to that idjit McNulty whose sole contribution appears to be one surfing poster. That and giving out information when he’s meant to keep his mug plugged tight. It’s a right bloody mess, and I’m glad I’m not responsible for it.”
Lynley blew out a breath. “Ghastly for the family,” he said.
“Isn’t it just,” she replied. She examined him. “You eating or what, sir?”
“I thought to have something,” he told her. “How’s the shepherd’s pie?”
“Shepherd’s pie-ish. One can’t be too choosy when it comes to shepherd’s pie as a bar meal, I find. Let’s put it this way, Jamie Oliver’s got nothing to worry about tonight.” She forked up a sample and handed it over.
He took it and chewed. It would do, he thought. He started to get up to order himself a plate from the bar. Her next remarks stopped him.
“Sir, if you don’t mind…” She spoke so carefully that he knew what was coming.
“Yes?”
“Will you come back to London with me?”
He sat down again. He looked not at her but at her plate: the remains of the shepherd’s pie and the carefully avoided peas and carrots. It was all so vintage Havers, he thought. The meal, the carrots, the peas, the conversation they’d been having, and the question as well.
He said, “Havers…”
“Please,” she said.
He looked up at her. Ill featured, ill dressed, ill shorn. So quintessentially who she was. Behind the mask of indifference she presented to the world he saw what he’d seen in Havers from the first: the earnestness and the truth of her, a woman among millions, his partner, his friend.
He said, “In time. Not now, but in time.”
“When?” she asked. “Can you at least say when?”
He looked to the window, which faced the west. He thought about what lay in that direction. He considered the steps he’d taken so far, and the rest of the steps that remained to be taken.
&n
bsp; “I’ve got to walk the rest of the path,” he told her. “After that, we’ll see.”
“Will we?” she asked.
“Yes, Barbara. We will.”
Acknowledgments
I’D LIKE TO EXPRESS GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT TO THOSE people who assisted me in gathering the information necessary to write this novel, both in the UK and in the U.S.
In Cornwall, I’d like to thank Nigel Moyle and Paul Stickney of Zuma Jay’s Surf Shop in Bude for the assistance they gave me in understanding what surfing is like in Cornwall, so different from surfing in Huntington Beach, California, where I lived for many years. I’d also like to thank Adrian Phillips of FluidJuice Surfboards in St. Merryn and Kevin White of Beach Beat Surfboards in St. Agnes for everything they shared with me about shaping boards, both from Styrofoam blanks and from the new carbon hollow-core blanks.
Just north of Widemouth Bay, Rob Byron of Outdoor Adventures put me in the picture with regard to cliff climbing and everything related to that sport. I gathered additional details from Toni Carver in St. Ives.
Alan Mobb of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary was good enough to bring me up to date on policing in Cornwall, and he was kind enough to do it twice when I discovered my tape recorder hadn’t been working the first time through the information.
I gathered other information at Geevor Tin Mine, Blue Hills Tin Streams, the Lost Gardens of Heligan, the Cornish Cyder Farm, Gwithian parish church, Zennor church, and at the home of Des Sampson in Bude.
Swati Gamble once again proved an invaluable resource in London, cheerfully fielding questions from me on a variety of topics, for which I am extremely grateful.
In the U.S., longtime surfers Barbara and Lou Fryer were the first people to tell me about Mark Foo’s last ride, and they also gave me additional details about surfing so that I could attempt to write my moments in the water with at least a degree of verisimilitude. Dr. Tom Ruben supplied me with medical details. Susan Berner once again graciously consented to read a second draft of the book, giving it her usual fine critical appraisal, and my assistant Leslie Kelly did outstanding research on more topics that I could list here: from Roller Derby to BMX bike riding.
Perhaps the greatest kindness was done by Lawrence Beck, who took the time to unearth for me the one photograph of the late Jay Moriarty that I needed to complete the novel.
Books that I found useful were: Inside Maverick’s, Portrait of a Monster Wave, edited by Bruce Jenkins and Grant Washburn; Tapping the Source, by Kem Nunn; Surf UK, by Wayne Alderson; Bude Past and Present, by Bill Young and Bryan Dudley Stamp; and assorted guides on the South-West Coast Path.
Finally, I thank my husband, Thomas McCabe, for his consistent support, enthusiasm, and encouragement; my assistant, Leslie Kelly, for the myriad services she performs in order to free my time to write; my editors in the U.S. and the UK—Carolyn Marino and Sue Fletcher, respectively, for never asking me to write something outside my vision of the work; and my literary agent, Robert Gottlieb, who pilots the craft and charts the course.
And, of course, those others who gather within the Petri Dish. You know who you are. B——T——. We are one.
Whidbey Island, Washington
August 2, 2007
About the Author
Elizabeth George is the New York Times bestselling author of fourteen novels of psychological suspense, one book of nonfiction, and two short-story collections. Her work has been honored with the Anthony and Agatha awards, the Grand Prix de Littérature Policière, and the MIMI, Germany’s prestigious prize for suspense fiction. She lives in Washington State.
www.ElizabethGeorgeOnline.com
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Credits
Front Jacket Photograph
© Antony Nagelmann/Getty Images
Jacket design by Will Staehle
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
CARELESS IN RED. Copyright © 2008 by Susan Elizabeth George. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition April 2008 ISBN 9780061792953
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Elizabeth George, Careless in Red
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