Playing for the Ashes

  “Sorry, m’lord,” Denton said. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Someone…What time is it?” Even as he asked the question, Lynley strode to the table next to the bed and snatched up the alarm clock.

  “Nearly nine,” Denton said as Lynley simultaneously read the time and cursed soundly. “Shall I tell him—”

  “Who is it?”

  “Guy Mollison. I told him he ought to phone the Yard and talk to whoever’s on duty, but he insisted. He said you’d want to hear what he has to say. He said to tell you he remembered something. I told him to leave his number, but he said that wasn’t on. He said he had to see you. Shall I put him off?”

  Lynley was already heading in the direction of the bath. “Give him coffee, breakfast, whatever he likes.”

  “Shall I tell him—”

  “Twenty minutes,” Lynley said. “And phone Sergeant Havers for me, will you, Denton? Tell her to get over here as soon as she can.” He cursed again for good measure and firmly shut the bathroom door behind him.

  He’d already bathed and was in the midst of shaving when Helen joined him.

  “Don’t say another damn word,” he said to her reflection in the mirror as he whipped the razor against his lathered cheek. “I’m not up to dealing with any more nonsense. If you can’t accept marriage as the normal consequence of love, we’re finished. If this—” with a jerk of his thumb towards the bedroom—“is merely about having a good hot grind as far as you’re concerned, then I’ve had it. All right? Because if you’re still too bloody minded to see that—Ouch! Goddamn it.” He’d nicked himself. He grabbed a square of tissue and pressed it to the spot of blood.

  “You’re going too fast,” she said.

  “Don’t give me that. Don’t you bloody give me that. We’ve known each other since you were eighteen years old. Eighteen. Eighteen. We’ve been friends. We’ve been lovers. We’ve been…” He shook the razor at her reflection. “What are you waiting for, Helen? What are you—”

  “I meant the shaving,” she interjected.

  Half-masked in lather, he stared at her blankly. “The shaving,” he repeated.

  “You’re shaving too quickly. You’ll cut yourself again.”

  He lowered his gaze to the razor in his hand. It, too, was covered with lather. He thrust it under the tap and let the water wash over it and its speckling of ginger whiskers.

  “I’m too much of a distraction,” Helen noted. “You said so yourself on Friday night.”

  He knew where she was heading with her statement, but for a moment he didn’t try to block her path. He pondered the word distraction: what it explained, what it promised, and what it implied. He finally had the answer. “That’s the whole point.”

  “What?”

  “The distraction.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He finished his shaving, rinsed his face, and dried it on a towel she handed him. He didn’t answer until after he had slapped his cheeks with lotion. “I love you,” he said to her, “because when I’m with you, I don’t have to think about what I otherwise would be forced to think about. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.”

  He pushed past her into the bedroom and began tossing his clothes onto the bed. “I need you for that,” he said, as he dressed. “To temper my world. To offer me something that isn’t black or foul.” She listened. He threw on his clothes. “I love coming home to you and wondering what I’ll find. I love having to wonder. I love having to worry you might blow up the house with the microwave because when I worry about that, in those five or fifteen or twenty-five seconds that I’m worrying, I don’t have to think of whose murder I’m trying like the devil to investigate, how that murder was committed, and who’s responsible for it.” He went in search of a pair of shoes, saying over his shoulder, “That’s the way of it, all right? Oh, there’s lust involved. Passion. Body heat. Whatever you will. There’s plenty of lust, always has been, frankly, because I enjoy taking women to bed.”

  “Women?”

  “Helen, don’t try to trap me, all right? You know what I mean.” Under the bed, he found the shoes he was seeking. He thrust his feet into them and tied the laces so tight that pain shot into his knees. “And when the lust I feel for you wears off—as it’s going to, eventually—I suppose I’ll find myself left with the rest. All those distractions. Which just happen to constitute the reason I love you in the first place.”

  He went to his serpentine chest of drawers where he shoved the brush through his hair four times. He crossed back to the bathroom. She still stood by the door. He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her, hard.

  “That’s the story,” he said to her. “Beginning to end. Now decide what you want and have done with it.”

  Lynley found Guy Mollison in the drawing room that overlooked Eaton Terrace. Denton had thoughtfully provided the cricketer with entertainment as well as coffee, croissants, fruit, and jam: Rachmaninoff was soaring from the stereo. Lynley wondered who had made the choice of music and decided it had to be Mollison. Left to his own devices, Denton opted for show stoppers from musicals.

  Mollison was leaning over the coffee table, cup and saucer in hand, reading The Sunday Times. This was spread open next to the tray upon which Denton had laid out his meal. He wasn’t reading an article about sports, however, as one might expect of the longtime captain of England’s national team in advance of a test match with Australia, but about Fleming’s death and the investigation. Particularly, Lynley saw as he passed the table on his way to silence the stereo, he was perusing an article that bore the now outdated headline “Cricket Car Sought.”

  Lynley pulled the plug on the music. Denton stuck his head in the doorway. “Got your breakfast, m’lord. In here? The dining room?”

  Lynley winced inwardly. He hated the use of the title in any situation related to his work. He said brusquely, “Here. Did you track down Sergeant Havers?”

  “She’s on her way. She was at the Yard. Said to tell you the blokes are on the beat. That make sense to you, does it?”

  It did. Havers had taken it upon herself to assign the DCs he’d pulled off rota. The move was irregular—he would have preferred to talk to them himself—but the fact that she had assumed the responsibility was due to his own failure to set the alarm before falling into bed with Helen the previous night.

  “Yes. Thank you. It makes perfect sense.” As Denton vanished, Lynley turned to Mollison, who had risen to watch the exchange with undisguised interest.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Exactly.”

  “What?”

  “I saw the coat of arms by the doorbell, but I thought it was a joke.”

  “It is,” Lynley said. Mollison looked as if he was going to argue the point. Lynley poured the cricketer another cup of coffee.

  Mollison said slowly, more to himself than to Lynley, “You showed the porter some police identification last night. At least that’s what he told me.”

  “You weren’t misinformed. Now what can I do for you, Mr. Mollison? I understand you have some information for me.”

  Mollison cast a glance round the room as if evaluating its contents and matching them to what he knew or didn’t know of a policeman’s pay. He looked suddenly wary. He said, “I’d like to have a look for myself, if you don’t mind. At your identification.”

  Lynley fished out and handed over his warrant card. Mollison examined it. After a long scrutiny, he was apparently satisfied because he handed the card back and said, “All right, then. I like to be careful. For Allison’s sake. We get all kinds prying into our lives. It tends to be part of things when you have a name.”

  “Doubtless,” Lynley said drily. “As to your information?”

  “I wasn’t altogether truthful with you last night, not about everything. I’m sorry about that. But there are certain things…” He chewed on the nail of his index finger. He gave a grimace, made a fist, and dropped his hand to his thigh. “It’s this,” he announced. “S
ome things I can’t say in front of Allison. No matter the legal consequences. Understand?”

  “Which is why you initially wanted to conduct our interview in the corridor instead of in the flat.”

  “I don’t like to upset her.” Mollison picked up his cup and saucer. “She’s eight months along.”

  “You mentioned that last night.”

  “But I could tell when you saw her…” He set his coffee down, undrunk. “Look, I’m not telling you what you don’t know already. The baby’s fine. Allison’s fine. But anything upsetting could really cock things up at this point.”

  “Between the two of you.”

  “I’m sorry I stretched the truth when I said she wasn’t well, but I couldn’t think of any other way to keep you from talking in front of her.” He began on the fingernail again. He indicated the newspaper with a nod of his head. “You’re looking for his car.”

  “Not any longer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mr. Mollison, is there something you want to tell me?”

  “Have you found it? The Lotus?”

  “I thought you were here to offer information.”

  Denton entered, another tray in his hands. He’d apparently decided that heroic measures needed to be taken after last night’s fettuccine à la mer: He’d prepared cornflakes and bananas, eggs and sausages, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, grapefruit and toast. He’d thoughtfully provided a rose in a vase and a pot of Lapsang Souchong as well. As he was laying the meal out, the doorbell rang.

  “That’ll be the sergeant,” he said.

  “I’ll get it.”

  Denton was right. Lynley found Havers on the doorstep.

  “Mollison’s here.” He closed the door behind her.

  “What’s he given us?”

  “So far, nothing but excuses and evasion. He’s betrayed a passing interest in Rachmaninoff, however.”

  “That must have warmed your heart. I hope you crossed him off your list of suspects straightaway.”

  Lynley smiled. He and Havers passed Denton, who offered coffee and croissants to which Havers said, “Coffee. I’m dieting this hour.”

  Denton guffawed and went on his way. In the drawing room, Mollison had moved from the sofa to the window where he stood taking squirrel bits from his fingernails and their surrounding skin. He nodded a hello to Havers as Lynley went back to his breakfast. He didn’t say anything until Denton had returned with another cup and saucer, poured coffee for Havers, and left again.

  Then Mollison said, “Are you looking for his car?”

  “We’ve found it,” Lynley said.

  “But the paper said—”

  “We like to stay one step ahead of the papers when we can,” Havers remarked.

  “And Gabbie?”

  “Gabbie?”

  “Gabriella Patten. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Gabbie.” Lynley mused over the diminutive as he tucked into his cornflakes. He’d never managed to get a proper meal last night. He couldn’t remember when food had tasted so fine.

  “If you’ve found the car, then—”

  “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve come to tell us, Mr. Mollison?” Lynley said. “Mrs. Patten is either a primary suspect in or a material witness to a homicide. If you know where she is, you’d do well to share the information. As, no doubt, your wife has already told you.”

  “Allison isn’t to be involved in this. I told you that last night. I meant it.”

  “Indeed.”

  “If I can have your assurance that what I say to you will go no further.” Mollison nervously played his thumb along his index finger, as if testing the texture of his skin. “I can’t talk to you unless you give me an assurance.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Lynley said. “But you can phone a solicitor if you’d like.”

  “I don’t need a solicitor. I haven’t done anything. I just want to make certain that my wife…Look, Allie doesn’t know…If she somehow discovered that…” He spun back to the window and stared out at Eaton Terrace. “Shit. I was just helping out. No. I was just trying to help out.”

  “Mrs. Patten?” Lynley set his cornflakes down and went on to the eggs. Sergeant Havers slid her cover-creased notebook out of her bag.

  Mollison sighed. “She phoned me.”

  “When?”

  “Wednesday night.”

  “Before or after you talked to Fleming?”

  “After. Hours after.”

  “What time?”

  “It must have been…I don’t know…shortly before eleven? Shortly after? Something like that.”

  “Where was she?”

  “A call box in Greater Springburn. She and Ken had had a bust-up, she said. Things were finished between them. She needed somewhere to go.”

  “Why did she phone you and not someone else? A female friend, perhaps.”

  “Because Gabbie hasn’t any female friends. And even if she had, she phoned me because I was the reason for the bust-up in the first place. I owed her, she said. And she was right. I did.”

  “Owed her?” Havers asked. “She’d done you favours?”

  Mollison turned back to them. His ruddy face was taking on an ugly flush that had begun on his neck and was climbing rapidly. “She and I…At one time. The two of us. You know.”

  “We don’t,” Havers said. “But why don’t you tell us?”

  “We had some laughs together. That sort of thing.”

  “You and Mrs. Patten were lovers?” Lynley clarified and when Mollison’s hue deepened, he said, “When was this?”

  “Three years ago.” He returned to the sofa and took up his coffee cup. He drained it like a man who was desperate for something to give him strength or to calm his nerves. “It was such a stupid thing to do. It nearly cost me my marriage. We…well, we misread each other’s signals.”

  Lynley speared a hunk of sausage on the end of his fork. He added egg. He ate and impassively watched Mollison watching him. Sergeant Havers wrote, her pencil steadily scratching against the paper of her notebook.

  Mollison said, “It’s like this. When you’ve got a name, there are always women who decide they fancy you. They want…They’re interested in…They have these fantasies. About you. I mean, you’re part of their fantasy. They’re part of their fantasy as well. And they generally won’t rest until they’ve had an opportunity to see how close their fantasy comes to the truth.”

  “So you and Gabriella Patten boffed each other like rattlesnakes.” Havers was cut-to-the-chase incarnate. She even looked at her Timex in case her point escaped Mollison’s comprehension.

  Mollison scowled at her, a look that said, What could you possibly know? But he went on. “I thought she wanted what the others…” He grimaced once again. “Listen. I’m not a saint. If a woman makes me an offer, I’m likely to take it. But it’s just an hour of laughs on the side. I always know that. The woman always knows that.”

  “Gabriella Patten didn’t know that,” Lynley said.

  “She thought that when she and I…when we…”

  “Boffed each other,” Sergeant Havers prompted.

  “The difficulty was that things continued,” Mollison said. “I mean we did it more than once. I should have cut her off when I first realised that she was making more out of the—the affair…than she should have.”

  “She had expectations of you,” Lynley said.

  “I didn’t understand at first. What she wanted. Then when I did, I was just so caught up in…in her. She’s…How can I say this so that it won’t sound so blasted…There’s something about her. Once you’ve had her…I mean, once you’ve experienced…Then things become…Oh hell. This sounds awful.” He dug a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his face.

  “So she shivers your timbers,” Havers said.

  Mollison looked at her blankly.

  “She makes the earth move.”

  Still no response.

  “She’s a hot tamale betwee
n the sheets.”

  “Now listen here,” Mollison began, a hot one himself.

  “Sergeant,” Lynley said mildly.

  Havers said, “I was only trying to—”

  He lifted an eyebrow. Try less, it told her. She grumbled herself back into position, pencil at the ready.

  Mollison shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket. “When I knew what she really wanted, I thought I could play the affair along for a while. I didn’t want to give her up.”

  “And exactly what did she want?” Lynley asked.

  “Me. I mean, she wanted me to leave Allie so that she and I could be together. She wanted marriage.”

  “But she was married to Patten at the time, wasn’t she?”

  “Things were sour between them. I don’t know why.”

  “She never said?”

  “I didn’t ask. You don’t. I mean, if it’s just for a laugh—the bedroom business—you don’t actually enquire about the state of your partner’s marriage. You just assume things could be better, but you don’t want to get involved in something messy, so you keep everything light. Drinks. Perhaps a meal when time allows. Then…” He cleared his throat.

  Havers’ mouth formed the words You boff each other, but she didn’t say them.

  “So all I know is that she wasn’t happy with Hugh. I mean she wasn’t…How can I put this without sounding…She wasn’t happy with him sexually. He wasn’t always able to…He didn’t…When they did it, she never…I mean, I only know what she told me and I realise that since she told me while we were in the middle of it, she might have been lying. But she said she’d never actually…you know. With Hugh.”

  “I think we understand,” Lynley said.

  “Quite. Well, that’s what she told me. But as I said, she told me while we were doing it ourselves, so…You know how women can be. If she wanted me to feel like I was the only one who’d ever…And she was good at that. I did feel that way. Only I didn’t want to marry her. She was something on the side. A diversion. Because I love my wife. I love Allie. I worship her. The rest of this is just the kind of thing that happens when you have something, like a name.”

  “Does your wife know about the affair?”

  “That’s how I got out of it, actually. I had to confess. It upset Allison like hell—and I’m still sorry for that, mind you—but at least I was able to end things with Gabbie. And I swore to Allison that I’d never have anything to do with Gabbie again. Aside from the times I had to see her with Hugh. When the England team and potential sponsors met.”