The chamber, as they'd called it, had been fashioned out of several of the erstwhile servants' bedrooms. By knocking out walls, padding them, installing a ventilation system that obviated the use of windows—which were themselves shuttered against potential outside curiosity—the Beatties had created a fantasy world that was in part headmaster's office, operating theatre, dungeon, and mediaeval torture chamber. A line of cupboards had been fitted under the eaves, and Lady Beattie opened these to display the various costumes and devices of discipline, as she called them, that had been used on Sir Adrian.
It was clear why the Maiden girl had brought nothing with her to the house save her desire to be useful to Sir Adrian and to be paid well for her usefulness: The costumes in the cupboards ranged from a heavy wool nuns habit to a prison guards uniform complete with truncheon. There was, of course, the more traditional garb associated with the's & M game: PVC get-ups of red or black, leather teddies and masks, high-heeled boots. And the instruments of Sir Adrian's discipline, tidily arranged like the antique surgical instruments in the study, also explained why she'd been able to make her calls so lightly burdened. Everything necessary for discipline, pain, and humiliation had been collected and housed together.
From his years in policing, Lynley knew that he should by now have seen it all. But every time he thought he had, something in life caught him by surprise. And in this case, it wasn't so much the presence of the chamber in the Beatties' house that took his breath away. It was the attitude to it taken by the couple themselves, particularly the wife. She might have been showing them a state-of-the-art kitchen.
She seemed to realise this. Watching Lynley from her position in the doorway, observing Nkata wandering the length of the room with an expression on his face that suggested how actively his imagination was supplying him with images of the uses to which the costumes and the equipment were put, she said quietly, “I wouldn't have had it this way had I been given a choice. One does expect a traditional marriage. But loving someone means compromise occasionally. And once he explained why it was so important to him …” She gestured at the room with a hand whose knuckles were enlarged from the disease that had necessitated Nicola Maiden's entrance into the Beatties’ private world. “Need is just need. So long as judgement remains apart from it, need has no real power to hurt us.”
“Did you mind another woman seeing to the need?”
“My husband loves me. I've never had any doubt about that.”
Lynley wondered.
Sir Adrian rejoined them, saying to her, “You're wanted below, darling. Molly's not to be denied her presents another five minutes.”
“But will you—”
They communicated in that way peculiar to couples who'd been married for more than a generation. “As soon as I finish here. It won't be long.”
When she'd left them, Sir Adrian waited for a moment before he said quietly, “There's a part, of course, that I'd rather Chloe didn't know. It would only hurt her unnecessarily.”
Nkata made his notebook ready as Lynley thought about what the surgeon's statement implied. He said, “You paged her—Nicola—throughout the summer. But as she couldn't have serviced you with discipline from Derbyshire, I've a feeling your ‘arrangement’ was something more than you wanted to say in front of your wife.”
“You're very good, Inspector.” Beattie closed the chamber door. “I was in love with her. Not at first, naturally. We didn't know each other. But within a month or two, I realised how strongly I was feeling about her. Initially, I told myself it was only addiction: A new woman doing the discipline heightened my excitement, and I wanted that excitement more and more often. But it went beyond that in the end because she was far more than I expected. So I wanted to keep her.”
“As your wife?”
“I love Chloe. But there's more than one kind of love in a man's life—which you may know already or will come to know eventually—and selfishly, I hoped to experience it.” He dropped his gaze to the deformed nails at the ends of his fingers. He said, “I felt sexual love for Nikki, the sort that has to do with physical possession. Animal craving. My love for Chloe, on the other hand, is the stuff of our history. When I knew I had this other love for Nikki—this sexual thing that I found I couldn't get out of my mind the more we met—I told myself it was natural to feel it. She was meeting a tremendous need of mine. And no matter what I wanted, she was willing to do it to me. But when I saw there was so much more to her than domination …”
“You became reluctant to share her with other men.”
“An intuitive leap. Yes, you are very good.”
Nicola visited the Boltons at least five times a week, Beattie told them. And he explained the frequency of their sessions to Chloe by talking about the heightened stress of his work as younger doctors and advances in medicine had increased his level of anxiety to the point that only discipline could relieve it.
“I told Nikki that when the craving came upon me, I wanted her available to gratify it at once,” he said.
“But the reality was more complicated than that?”
“The reality was infinitely simple. I couldn't cope with imagining Nikki doing to others—and being to others—what she was doing and being to me. Thinking of her with anyone else was a quick descent into hell. And I didn't expect that, to feel that way about a tart. But then, when I took her on, I didn't know how much more than a tart she was going to be.”
Without his wife's knowledge, he'd offered Nicola a special deal. He would pay to keep her—and pay her, more than she'd ever dreamed of being paid—in whatever situation she fancied for herself: a flat, a house, a hotel suite, a country cottage. He didn't care, just so long as she promised him that her time would be kept open solely for him. “I claimed that I didn't want to stand in a queue or book an appointment any longer,” Beattie explained. “But if I wanted her available to me at any hour, I had to place her in a position where she was free.”
The maisonette in Fulham gave her that position. And since Nicola always came to Sir Adrian and not the reverse, it was of little account to him that she asked to be allowed a flatmate as company for the periods of time when he didn't want her services. “That was fine with me,” he told them. “All I wanted was her to be available whenever I phoned. And for the first month that's what she was. Five or six days a week. Sometimes twice a day. She'd arrive within an hour of being paged. She'd stay as long as I wanted her to be here. The arrangement worked well.”
“But then she returned to Derbyshire. Why?”
“She claimed that she needed to honour a commitment to work for a solicitor up there, that she'd be gone only for the summer. I was a fool in love, but not so much of a fool as to believe that. I told her I wouldn't go on paying for the Fulham place if she wasn't going to be in town for me.”
“But she went anyway. She was willing to risk losing what she had from you. What does that suggest?”
“The obvious. I knew that if she was returning to Derbyshire despite what I was paying her—and providing her—to be here in London, there had to be a reason and the reason was money. Someone there was paying her more than I was. Which meant, of course, another man.”
“The solicitor.”
“I accused her. She denied it. And I have to admit that an ordinary solicitor couldn't have afforded her, not without an independent source of income. So it was someone else. But she wouldn't name him no matter what I threatened. ‘It's only for the summer,’ she kept saying. And I kept bellowing, ‘I don't bloody care.’”
“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?”