He smiled. “Suction cups, you mean? Like on kids’ bows and arrows?” He rolled past her and behind one of the display cases, where he took out a small box and emptied it on the low glass counter. These, he told her, were the piles used at the end of the cedar arrows. The most common for field archery was the bodkin head. Barbara could test its sharpness if she wanted to.
She did so. The metal piece was cylindrical, in keeping with the arrows shape, but it also narrowed to a nasty four-sided point that would be deadly when propelled with force. As she was pressing this tip into her finger experimentally, Harley chatted on about the other piles he sold. He laid out broadheads and hunting heads and explained their use. Finally, he separated from them the mediaeval reproductions.
“And these,” he concluded, “are for demonstrations and battles.”
“Battles?” Barbara asked incredulously. “People actually shooting arrows at each other?”
“Not real battles, of course, and when the fighting begins, the arrows are fitted out with rubber bunts on the end so they're not dangerous. They're reenactments, the battles are. A slew of weekend warriors gather together in the grounds of some castle or great house and play out the War of Roses with one another. It goes on all over the countryside.”
“People travel to reenactments, do they? With bows and arrows in the boots of their cars?”
“Just like that. Yes. They do.”
CHAPTER 27
he rain was unrelenting. The wind had joined it. In the car park of the Black Angel Hotel, both the wind and the rain played a sodden game with the top layer of rubbish in an overloaded skip. The wind lifted and hurled cardboard boxes and old newspapers into the air; the downfall plastered both to the windscreens and wheels of the empty cars.
Lynley climbed from the Bentley and raised his umbrella against the late summer storm. He hurried with his suitcase in hand round the side of the building and through the front door. A coat rack just within the entrance sprouted the dripping coats and jackets of a dozen or more Sunday patrons whose shapes Lynley could see through the translucent amber glass of the upper half of the hotel bar's door. Next to the rack, a good ten umbrellas stood in an elongated iron stand and glistened wetly under the light of the entrance porch where Lynley stamped the damp from his shoes. He hung his coat among the others, shoved his umbrella in with the rest, and went through the bar to Reception.
If the proprietor of the Black Angel was surprised to see him back so soon, the man gave no indication. Tourist season, after all, was nearly at an end. He would be happy enough for whatever custom came his way in the coming months. He handed over a key—depressingly, it was for the same room he'd had earlier, Lynley saw—and asked if the inspector wanted his bags taken up or would he rather see to them himself? Lynley handed over his suitcase and went to the bar for a meal.
Sunday lunch was long since finished, but they could do him a cold ham salad or a filled jacket potato, he was informed, as long as he wasn't overly particular about the potato's filling. He said that he wasn't, and he asked for both.
When the food was in front of him, however, Lynley found that he wasn't as hungry as he'd thought. He dipped into the potato with its thatch of cheddar, but when he brought the loaded fork to his mouth, his tongue thickened at the thought of having to swallow anything solid, chewed or not. He lowered the fork and reached for the lager. Getting drunk was still an option.
He wanted to believe them. He wanted to believe them not because they were able to offer him the slightest bit of evidence in support of their statements but because he didn't want to believe anything else. Cops went bad from time to time, and only a fool denied that fact. Birmingham, Guildford, and Bridgewater were only three of the places that had numbers attached to them—six, four, and four respectively—in reference to the defendants convicted on spurious evidence, interrogation room beatings, and manufactured confessions with signatures forged. Each conviction had been the result of police malfeasance for which not a single excuse could possibly be made. So there were bad cops: whether one called them overly zealous, outright tendentious, thoroughly corrupt, or simply too indolent or ignorant to do the job the way the job was supposed to be done.
But Lynley didn't want to believe that Andy Maiden was a cop who'd gone bad. Nor did he even want to believe that Andy was simply a father who'd reached the end of his tether in dealing with his child. Even now, after talking to Andy, after watching the interplay between the man and his wife and having to evaluate what every word, gesture, and nuance between them meant, Lynley found that his heart and his mind were still in conflict over the basic facts.
Nan Maiden had joined them in the airless little office behind Reception in Maiden Hall. She'd shut the door. Her husband had said, “Nancy, don't bother. The guests … Nan, you're not needed in here,” and cast a beseeching look at Lynley in an unspoken request that Lynley did not grant. For needed was exactly what Nan Maiden was if they were to get to the bottom of what had happened to Nicola on Calder Moor.
She said to Lynley, “We weren't expecting anyone else today. I told Inspector Hanken yesterday that Andy was at home that night. I explained—”
“Yes,” Lynley agreed. “I've been told.”
“Then I don't see what further good can come from more questions.” She stood stiffly near the door, and her words were as rigid as her body when she went on. “I know you've come for that, Inspector: questioning Andy instead of offering us information about Nicola's death. Andy wouldn't look like that—like he's being chewed up inside—if you hadn't come to ask him if he actually … if he went onto the moor so that he could—” And there her voice faltered. “He was here on Tuesday night. I told Inspector Hanken that. What more do you want from us?”
The absolute truth, Lynley thought. He wanted to hear it. More, he wanted them both to face it. But at the last moment, when he could have revealed to her the real nature of her daughter's life in London, he didn't do it. All the facts about Nicola would come out eventually—in interrogation rooms, in legal depositions, and in the trial—but there was no reason to drag them out now, like the bones of a grinning skeleton forced from a cupboard that the girl's mother didn't even know existed. If nothing else, he could honour Andy Maiden's wishes in that matter, at least for now.
He said, “Who can support your statement, Mrs. Maiden? DI Hanken told me that Andy had gone to bed early in the evening. Did someone else see him?”
“Who else would have seen him? Our employees don't go into the private part of the house unless they're instructed to do so.”
“And you didn't ask one of them to check on Andy during the evening?”
“I checked on him myself.”
“So you see the difficulty, don't you?”
“No, I don't. Because I'm telling you that Andy didn't …” She clenched her fists at her throat and squeezed her eyes shut. “He didn't kill her!”
So the words were said at last. But even as they were said, the one logical question that Nan Maiden might have asked went completely unspoken. She never said the words, “Why? Why would my husband have killed his own daughter?” And that was a telling omission.
The question was the single best way that Nan Maiden could have challenged the police conjectures about her husband; it was a gauntlet that she could have thrown down, one which called upon the police to give a credible reason why an unthinkable crime against human nature had been committed. But she didn't ask it. And like most people who don't ask questions when questions are called for, she gave herself away. For to ask the question gave Lynley an opening to plant in her mind the seeds of a doubt that she obviously couldn't afford to let grow there. Better to deny and avoid than to have to think the unthinkable first, than to have to learn to accept it second.
“How much did you know about your daughter's plans for her future?” Lynley said to both of them, giving Andy Maiden the opportunity of revealing to his wife the worst there was to know about their only child.
“Our daug
hter has no future,” Nan answered. “So her plans—whatever they might have been—are irrelevant, aren't they?”
“I'll arrange to take a polygraph,” Andy Maiden said abruptly. Lynley saw in his offer how keen he was to keep his wife from hearing an account of their daughter's London life. “That can't be so difficult to set up, can it? We can find someone … I want to take one, Tommy.”
“Andy, no.”
“I'll arrange for both of us to take one, if you like,” Maiden said, ignoring his wife.
“Andy!”
“How else can we make him see that he's got it all?” Maiden asked her.
“But with your nerves,” she said, “with the state you're in … Andy, they'll turn you and twist you. Don't do it.”
“I'm not afraid.”
And Lynley could see that he wasn't. Which was a point he clung to all the way back to Tideswell and the Black Angel Hotel.
Now, with his meal in front of him, Lynley considered that lack of fear and what it might mean: innocence, bravado, or dissimulation. It could be any one of the three, Lynley thought, and despite everything he'd learned about the man, he knew which one he still hoped it was.
“Inspector Lynley?”
He looked up. The barmaid stood there, frowning down at his uneaten meal. He was about to apologise for ordering that which he hadn't been able to consume, when she said, “You've a call from London. The phone's behind the bar if you want to use it.”
The caller was Winston Nkata, and the constable's words were urgent. “We got it, Guv,” he said tersely when he heard Lynley's voice. “Post-mortem showed a piece of cedar found on the Cole boy's body. St. James says th'first weapon was an arrow. Shot in the dark. The girl took off running, so he couldn't shoot at her. Had to chase her down and cosh her with the boulder.”
Nkata explained: exactly what St. James had seen on the report, how he had interpreted the information, and what he—Nkata—had learned about arrows and long bows from a fletcher in Kent.
“Killer would've taken the arrow with him from the scene because most long bows're used in competitions,” Nkata finished, “and all the long bow arrows're marked to identify them.”
“Marked in what way?”
“With the shooter's initials.”
“Good God. That puts a signature on the crime.”
“Isn't that true. These initials c'n be carved or burned into the wood or put on with transfers. But in any case, at a crime scene, they'd be as good as dabs.”
“Top marks, Winnie,” Lynley said. “Excellent work.”
The DC cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well. Got to do the job.”
“So if we find the archer, we've got our killer,” Lynley said.
“Looks that way.” Nkata asked the next logical question: “You talk to the Maidens, spector?”
“He wants to take a polygraph.” Lynley told him about his interview with the dead girl's parents.
When he'd finished, Nkata said, “Make sure he gets asked if he plays the Hundred Years’ War on his free afternoons.”
“Sorry?”
“That's what they do with long bows. Competitions, tournaments, and reenactments. So is our Mr. Maiden fighting the French for a lark up there in Derbyshire?”
Lynley drew in a breath. He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders at the very same moment that a fog bank cleared from his brain. “Broughton Manor,” he said.
“What?”
“Where I'll find a long bow,” Lynley explained. “And I've a very good idea who knows how to shoot it.”
In London, Barbara watched as Nkata rang off. He looked at her somberly.
“What?” She felt a clenching round her heart. “Don't tell me he didn't believe you, Winnie.”
“He believed me.”
“Thank God.” She looked at him more closely. He seemed so grave. “Then what?”
“'S your work, Barb. I don't like taking credit.”
“Oh. That. Well, you can't be thinking he'd have listened to me if I'd phoned him with the news. It's better this way.”
“Puts me in a better light than you. I don't much like it when I've done nothing to get there.”
“Forget it. It was the only way. Leave me out of it so his nibship can keep his knickers from twisting. What's he going to do?”
She listened as Nkata related Lynley's plans to seek the long bow at Broughton Manor. She shook her head at the futility of his thinking. “He's on a goose chase, Winnie. There's not going to be a long bow in Derbyshire.”
“How c'n you be so sure?”
“I can feel it.” She gathered up what she'd brought into Lynley's office. “I may phone in with the flu for a day or two, but you didn't hear that from me. Okay?”
Nkata nodded. “What'll you be up to, then?”
Barbara held up what Jason Harley had given her before she left his shop in Westerham. It was a lengthy mailing list of individuals who received his quarterly catalogues. He'd generously handed this over, along with the records of everyone who had placed orders with Quiver Me Timbers in the last six months. He'd said, “I don't expect these will be much help because there're plenty of archery shops in the country that your man might've ordered his arrows from. But if you'd like to have a go, you're welcome to take them.”
She'd jumped at the offer. She'd even taken along two of his catalogues for good measure. For some Sunday-evening light reading, she'd thought as she'd tucked them into her bag. As things were now, she certainly had Sweet FA. else to do.
“What about you?” she asked Nkata. “The inspector give you another assignment?”
“Sunday night off with my mum and dad.”
“Now, there's an assignment.” She saluted him and was about to stride off, when the phone rang on Lynley's desk. She said, “Uh-oh. Forget Sunday night, Winston.”
“Hell,” he grumbled, and reached for the phone.
His side of the conversation consisted of: “No. Not here. Sorry … Up in Derbyshire … DC Winston Nkata … Yeah. Right. Pretty much, but it's not 'xactly the same case, I'm 'fraid …” A lengthier pause as someone went on and on, followed by, “She is?” and a smile. Nkata looked at Barbara and, for some reason, gave her a thumbs-up. “Good news, that. Best news there is. Thanks.” He listened a moment longer and looked at the wall clock. “Right. Will do. Say thirty minutes? … Yeah. Oh, we definitely got someone who can take a statement.” He rang off a second time and nodded at Barbara. “That's you.”
“Me? Hang on, Winnie, you've got no rank to pull on me,” Barbara said in protest, seeing her Sunday-evening plans go down the sewer.
“Right. But I don't think you want to miss out on this.”
“I'm off the case.”
“I know that. But 'cording to the guv, this isn't exactly on the case any longer, so I don't see why you don't take it yourself.”
“Take what?”
“Vi Nevin. She's full conscious, Barb. And someone's got to take a statement from her.”
Lynley phoned DI Hanken at home, where he found him sealed within his small garage, apparently trying to make sense of instructions to assemble a child's swing set. “I'm not a bloody God damn engineer,” he fumed, and seemed grateful for anything that promised to take him away from a hopeless endeavour.
Lynley brought him into the picture. Hanken agreed that an arrow and its bow looked likely as their missing weapon. “Explains why it wasn't stowed in that grit dispenser with the knife,” he said. “And if it's initials that we're going to find on the arrow, I've a good idea whose they're likely to be.”
“I recall your telling me about the various ways Julian Britton makes money at Broughton Manor,” Lynley acknowledged. “It looks like we're finally closing in on him, Peter. I'm heading over there now to have a—”
“Heading over? Where the hell are you?” Hanken demanded. “Aren't you in London?”
Lynley was fairly certain in which direction Hanken would run when he learned why Lynley had returned so quickly to
Derbyshire, and his fellow DI did not disappoint him. “I knew it was Maiden,” Hanken exclaimed at the end of Lynley's explanation. “He found that car on the moor, Thomas. And there's no way in hell he would have found it had he not known where she'd be in the first place. He knew she was on the game in London and he couldn't deal with it. So he gave her the chop. It was the only way—I dare say—that he could keep her from spilling the news to her mum.”
This was so close to what Maiden's actual desires were that Lynley felt chilled by Hanken's perspicacity. Still, he said, “Andy's said he'll arrange to take a polygraph. I can't think he'd make an offer like that if he had Nicola's blood on his hands.”
“The hell he wouldn't,” Hanken countered. “This bloke's an undercover cop, let's not forget. If he hadn't been able to lie with the best of them, he'd be a dead man now. A polygraph taken by Andy Maiden's going to be nothing more than a joke. On us, by the way.”
“Julian Britton's still got the stronger motive,” Lynley said. “Let me see if I can shake him up.”
“You're playing right into Maiden's hands. You know that, don't you? He's working you like you're wearing the same school tie.”
Which they were, in a manner of speaking. But Lynley refused to be blinded by their history. He refused to be blinded in either direction. It was as foolhardy to believe beyond doubt that Andy Maiden was the killer as it was to ignore the possible guilt of someone with a stronger motive.
Hanken rang off. Lynley had made the phone call from his hotel room, so he took five minutes to unpack his belongings before heading out to Broughton Manor. He'd left his umbrella and trench coat below in the entrance when he'd gone upstairs to place the call, so after tossing his room key onto the reception desk, he went to fetch them.
The Black Angel's earlier patrons had mostly departed, he saw. There were only three umbrellas left in the stand and, apart from his own coat, only a single jacket remained on the coat rack.
Under other circumstances, a jacket on a coat rack wouldn't have caught his attention. But as he endeavoured to untangle the hook of his umbrella from the gaping ribs of another, he knocked the jacket from its spot on the rack and thus felt obliged to pick it up from the floor.