In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

  You are cordially invited to view the work of Miss Jane Bateman's Beginning Seamstresses, the note announced. It was meticulously printed in a childish hand that Barbara recognised. A drooping cartoonish sunflower was sketched on the bottom. Alongside this was the date and time. Barbara made a mental note to enter both on her calendar.

  She'd put in another couple of hours at the Yard after her conversation with Neil Sitwell. She'd been champing at the bit to start phoning the numbers of every employee listed under King-Ryder Productions on the roster she'd been given earlier, but she trod the path of caution lest Inspector Lynley turn up and demand to know what she'd gathered from the Yard computer. Which was sod bloody all in spades, of course. To hell with him, she'd begun to think during her eighth cumulative hour at the terminal. If he wanted a flaming report on every bleeding individual with whom DI Andrew Maiden might have rubbed elbows in his years undercover, she'd damn well give it to him by the shovelful. But the information was going to get him bugger all that would lead him to the Derbyshire killer. She would have bet her own life on that.

  She'd left the Yard round half past four, stopping at Lynley's office to drop off a report and a personal note. The report made her point, she liked to think, without stooping to rub his nose or otherwise dabble in the obvious. I'm right, you're wrong, but I'll play your stupid game were not words that she needed to say to him. Her time would come, and she thanked her stars that the manner in which Lynley was orchestrating the case actually left her more of a free hand than he realised. The personal note that she left with the report assured Lynley in the most polite of terms that she was taking to Chelsea the post-mortem file prepared by Dr. Sue Myles in Derbyshire. Which was what Barbara did as soon as she left New Scotland Yard.

  She found Simon St. James and his wife in the back garden of their Cheyne Row house, where St. James was watching Deborah crawl on her hands and knees along the brick path edging a herbaceous border that ran the length of the garden wall. She had a pump action sprayer that she was dragging along as she moved, and every few feet she stopped and energetically attacked the ground with a rainfall of pungent insecticide.

  She was saying, “Simon, there are billions of them. And even when I spray, they keep moving about. Lord. If there's ever a nuclear war, ants will be the only survivors.”

  St. James, reclining on a chaise longue with a wide-brimmed hat shading his face, said, “Did you get that section by the hydrangeas, my love? It looks as if you missed that bit by the fuchsia as well.”

  “Honestly. You're maddening. Would you rather do this yourself? I hate to be disturbing your peace of mind with such a slapdash effort.”

  “Hmm.” St. James appeared to consider her offer. “No. I don't think so. You've been getting so much better at it recently. Doing anything well takes practise, and I hate to rob you of the opportunity.”

  Deborah laughed and mock-sprayed him. She caught sight of Barbara just outside the kitchen door. She said, “Brilliant. Just what I need. A witness. Hullo, Barbara! Please take note of which partner is slaving away in the garden and which is not. My solicitor will want a statement from you later.”

  “Don't believe a word she says,” St. James said. “I've only sat down this moment.”

  “Something about your posture says you're lying,” Barbara told him as she crossed the lawn to the chaise longue. “And your father-in-law just suggested that I light a stick of dynamite under your bum, by the way.”

  “Did he?” St. James enquired, frowning at the kitchen window through which Joseph Cotter's form could be seen moving round.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Deborah called out in the direction of the house.

  Barbara smiled at their quiet, fond sparring. She pulled a deck chair up and sank into it. She handed over the file to St. James, saying, “His Lordship would like you to make a study of this.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Derbyshire post-mortems. Both the girl and the boy. The inspector'd tell you to have the closer look at the data on the girl, by the way.”

  “You wouldn't tell me that?”

  Barbara smiled grimly. “I think my thoughts.”

  St. James opened the file. Deborah crossed the lawn to join them, trailing the spray pump behind her. “Pictures,” St. James warned her.

  She hesitated. “Bad?”

  “Multiple stab wounds on one of the victims,” Barbara told her.

  She blanched and sat on the chaise longue near to her husband's feet. St. James gave the photographs a glance only, before he placed them face down on the lawn. He flipped through the report, pausing to read here and there. He said, “Is there something particular that Tommy's looking for, Barbara?”

  “The inspector and I aren't communicating directly. I'm currently his gofer. He told me to bring you the report. I tugged my forelock and did his bidding.”

  St. James looked up. “Things still bad between you? Helen did tell me you were on the case.”

  “Marginally.”

  “He'll come round.”

  “Tommy always does,” Deborah added. Husband and wife exchanged a look. Deborah said uneasily, “Well. You know.”

  “Yes,” St. James said after a moment, and with a brief, kind smile in her direction. Then to Barbara, “I'll have a look at the paperwork, Barbara. I expect he wants inconsistencies, anomalies, discrepancies. The usual. Tell him I'll phone.”

  “Right,” she said. And then she added delicately, “I'm wondering, Simon …”

  “Hmm?”

  “Could you phone me as well? I mean, if you unearth something.” When he didn't reply at once, she rushed on with “I know it's irregular. And I don't want to get you into a bad spot with the inspector. But he won't tell me much and it's always, ‘Get back to the computer, Constable,’ if I make a suggestion. So, if you were willing to keep me in the picture … I mean, I know he'd be cheesed off if he knew, but I swear I'd never tell him that you—”

  “I'll phone you as well,” St. James interrupted. “But there may be nothing. I know Sue Myles. She's nothing if not thorough. Frankly, I don't see why Tommy wants me to look her work over in the first place.”

  Neither do I, Barbara wanted to tell him. Still, his promise to phone her buoyed her spirits, so she ended the day in far better a frame of mind than she'd begun it.

  When she saw Hadiyyah's note, however, an unhappy twinge pricked at her mood. The little girl had no mother to speak of—at least no mother who was present or likely to become present any time soon—and while Barbara didn't expect to take her mother's place, she had struck up a friendship with Hadiyyah that had been a source of pleasure to them both. Hadiyyah had hoped that Barbara would attend her sewing lesson that afternoon. And Barbara had failed her. It didn't feel good.

  So when she'd dropped her bag on the dining room table and listened to her messages—Mrs. Flo reporting on her mum, her mum reporting on a jolly trip to Jamaica, Hadiyyah telling her she'd left a note on the door and did Barbara find it?—she wandered up to the front of the big Edwardian house where the ground floor flat's french windows were open from the sitting room onto the flagstones of the area and within the room itself, a child's voice was declaring, “But they don't fit, Dad. Honest.”

  Hadiyyah and her father were just inside, Hadiyyah seated on a cream-puff-shaped ottoman and Taymullah Azhar kneeling next to her like a lovesick Orsino. The object of their attention appeared to be the shoes that Hadiyyah was wearing. These were black lace-ups of school-uniform appearance, and Hadiyyah was squirming round in them as if they were a new device for extracting information from double agents.

  “My toes're all squished up. My toe knuckles hurt.”

  “And you are certain this pain has nothing to do with the desire to follow a fad of fashion, khushi?.”

  “Dad.” Hadiyyah's tone was martyred. “Please. These're school shoes, you know.”

  “And as we both recall,” Barbara said from the flagstones, “school shoes are never cool, Azhar. They always defy fash
ion. That's why they're school shoes.”

  Father and daughter looked up, Hadiyyah crying out, “Barbara! I left you a note. On the door. Did you get it? I stuck it with Sellotape,” and Azhar leaning back on his heels to give his daughter's shoes a more objective scrutiny. “She says they no longer fit,” he told Barbara. “I myself am not convinced.”

  “Arbitration is called for,” Barbara said. “May I … ?”

  “Come in. Yes. Of course.” Azhar rose and made a gesture of welcome in his formal fashion.

  The flat was fragrant with the smell of curry. Barbara saw that the table was neatly laid for dinner, and she said quickly, “Oh, Sorry. I wasn't thinking about the time, Azhar. You've not eaten yet, and … D'you want me to come back later? I just saw Hadiyyah's note and thought I'd pop round. You know. The sewing lesson this afternoon. I'd promised her …” She brought herself up short. Enough, she thought.

  He smiled. “Perhaps you'll join us for our meal.”

  “Oh gosh, no. I mean, I haven't eaten yet, but I wouldn't want to—”

  “You must!” Hadiyyah said happily. “Dad, say that she must. We're having chicken biryani. And dal. And Dad's special veg curry, which Mummy cries when she eats 'cause it's so spicy. She says, ‘Hari, you make it far too hot’ and her eye makeup runs. Doesn't it, Dad?”

  Hari, Barbara thought.

  Azhar said, “It does, khushi.” And to Barbara, “It will be our pleasure if you join us, Barbara.”

  She thought, Better run, better hide. But, nonetheless, she said, “Thanks. I will, then.”

  Hadiyyah crowed. She pirouetted in her ostensibly too-tight shoes. Her father watched her gravely and said with meaning, “Ah. As to your feet, Hadiyyah …”

  “Let me check them,” Barbara interposed quickly.

  Hadiyyah flew to the ottoman and plopped down upon it. She said, “They pinch and they pinch. Even then, Dad. Really.”

  Azhar chuckled and disappeared into the kitchen. “Barbara will decide,” he told his daughter.

  “They really pinch awfully” Hadiyyah said. “Feel how my toes're scrunched up in front.”

  “I don't know, Hadiyyah,” Barbara said, probing the toecaps tentatively. “What'll you replace these with? More of the same?”

  The little girl didn't reply. Barbara looked up. Hadiyyah was sucking in on her lip.

  “Well?” Barbara asked. “Hadiyyah, have they changed the style of shoe you can wear with your uniform?”

  “These're so ugly” she whispered. “I feel like I got boats on my feet. The new shoes're slip-ons, Barbara. They've the loveliest leather braid round the top and the sweetest little tassel dangling over the toes. They're a bit 'spensive, which is why not everyone has them yet, but I know I could wear them forever if I got them. I really could.” She looked so hopeful, brown eyes the size of old tuppence pieces.

  Barbara wondered how her father managed to deny her anything. She said in her position of arbiter, “Will you go for a compromise?”

  Hadiyyah's brow scrunched as effectively as had done her toes. She said, “What's compromise?”

  “An agreement in which both parties get what they want, just not exactly how they expected to get it.”

  Hadiyyah thought this over, bouncing her lace-up-clad feet against the ottoman. She said, “All right. I s'pose. But they're really pretty shoes, Barbara. If you saw them, you'd understand.”

  “Doubtless,” Barbara said. “You've probably noticed what a fashion hound I am.” She heaved herself to her feet. With a wink at Hadiyyah, she called into the kitchen, “I'd say she's got several months in these, Azhar.”

  Hadiyyah looked stricken. She wailed, “Several months?”

  “But she'll definitely need another pair before Bonfire Night,” Barbara said meaningfully. She mouthed compromise in Hadiyyah's direction and watched the little girl do the mental maths from September to November. Hadiyyah looked pleased when she'd counted up the weeks.

  Azhar came to the kitchen door. He'd tucked a tea towel into his trousers to serve as an apron. In his hand he held a wooden spoon. “You can be that exact with your shoe analysis, Barbara?” he asked soberly.

  “Sometimes my talents amaze even myself.”

  Curry in the kitchen was just another thing that Azhar appeared to do effortlessly. He accepted no assistance, even with the washing up, saying, “Your presence is the gift you bring to our meal, Barbara. We require nothing else of you,” to her offers of help. Nonetheless, she bullied her way to clearing the dining table, at least. And while he was scrubbing and drying in the kitchen, she entertained his daughter, which was her pleasure.

  Hadiyyah pulled Barbara into her bedroom once the table was cleared, declaring that she had “something special and secret to show,” a just-between-us-girls revelation, Barbara assumed. But instead of a collection of film star photos or a few penciled notes passed to her at school, Hadiyyah pulled from beneath her bed a carrier bag whose contents she lovingly eased out onto her counterpane.

  “Finished today,” she announced proudly. “In sewing class. I was s'posed to leave it for the display—did you get my invitation to the sewing show, Barbara?—but I told Miss Bateman I'd bring it back nice and clean but that I had to have it to give to Dad. 'cause he wrecked one pair of trousers already. When he was cooking dinner.”

  It was a bib apron. Hadiyyah had crafted it from pale chintz on which was printed an endless pattern of mother ducks leading their broods towards a pond with a stand of reeds. The mother ducks all wore identical bonnets. Their little ones each carried a different beach-going utensil under a tiny wing.

  “D'you think he'll like it?” Hadiyyah asked anxiously. “The ducks re so sweet, aren't they, but I s'pose for a man … I especially love ducks, see. Dad and I feed them at Regents Park sometimes. So when I saw this material … But I expect I could've chosen something more mannish, couldn't I?”

  The thought of Azhar encased in the apron's folds made Barbara want to smile, but she didn't. Instead, she examined the zigzagging seams and the hem with its lopsided, loving hand stitching. She said, “It's perfect. He'll love it.”

  “D'you think so? It's my first project, see, and I'm not very good. Miss Bateman wanted me to start with something simpler, like a hankie. But I knew what I wanted to make 'cause Dad wrecked his trousers like I said and I knew he didn't want to wreck any more trousers cooking. Which's why I brought this home to give to him.”

  “Shall we do that now, then?” Barbara asked.

  “Oh no. It's for tomorrow,” Hadiyyah said. “We've a special day planned, Dad and I. We're to go to the sea. We're to pack a picnic lunch and eat on the sand. I'll give it to him then. As a thank-you for taking me. And afterwards, we'll ride the roller coaster on the pier, and Dad'll play the crane grab for me. He's quite good at the crane grab, is Dad.”

  “Yes. I know. I saw him work it once, remember?”

  “That's right. You did,” Hadiyyah said brightly. “Would you like to come with us to the sea, then, Barbara? It'll be such a special day. We're taking a picnic lunch. And we'll go to the pleasure pier. And there's the crane grab as well. I'll ask Dad if you can come.” She scampered to her feet, calling, “Dad! Dad! Can Barbara—”

  “No!” Barbara interrupted hastily. “Hadiyyah, no. Kiddo, I can't go. I'm in the middle of a case and I've got mountains of work. I shouldn't even be here right now, with all the calls I should've been making before bed. But thanks for the thought. We'll do it another time.”

  Hadiyyah stopped, door knob in hand. “We're going to the pleasure pier,” she coaxed.

  “I'll be with you in spirit,” Barbara assured her. And she thought about the resilience of children and she marveled at their capacity for taking what came. Considering what had occurred the last time Hadiyyah had been to the sea, Barbara wondered that she wanted to go again. But children aren't like adults, she thought. What they can't endure, they simply forget.

  CHAPTER 21

  east we're running round incognito,”
was DC Winston Nkatas announcement as they pulled into the Boltons, a small neighbourhood shaped like a rugger ball, sandwiched between the Fulham and Old Brompton roads. It consisted of two curving, leafy streets that formed an oval round the central church of St. Mary the Boltons, and its predominant characteristics were the number of security cameras that were mounted on the exterior walls of the mansions and the ostentatious display of Rolls-Royces, Mercedes-Benz, and Range-Rovers that were tucked behind the iron gates of many of the properties.

  When Lynley and Nkata pulled into the Boltons, the streetlamps had not yet switched on and the pavements were largely deserted. The only sign of life came from a cat who slinked along the gutter in pursuit of another slinking feline, and a Filipina—dressed in the anachronistic black-and-white garb of a housemaid—who tucked a handbag under her arm and slid into a Ford Capri across the street from the house that Lynley and Nkata were seeking.

  Nkata's remark was in reference to Lynley's Bentley, as perfectly at home in this neighbourhood as it had been in Notting Hill. But other than being in possession of the car, the two detectives couldn't have been more out of place in the area: Lynley for his choice of occupation, so unlikely in a man whose family could trace its roots back to the Conqueror and whose more recent ancestors would have considered the Boltons a step down from their usual haunts, and Nkata for the obvious Caribbean-via-South-Bank-of-the-Thames sound of his voice.

  “Don't spect they see much rozzer action here,” Nkata said as he stood surveying the iron railings, the cameras, the alarm boxes, and the intercoms that appeared to be the feature of every dwelling. “But it makes you wonder what the point is—all that money—if you got to wall yourself up to enjoy it.”

  “I wouldn't disagree,” Lynley said, and he accepted an Opal Fruit from the detective constable's portable stash, unwrapping it and carefully folding the paper into his pocket so as not to foul the pristine footpath with litter. “Let's see what Sir Adrian Beattie has to say.”