Webberly's shrewd eyes evaluated her response. "Good. I'm glad to hear
it. There's a lot you might learn from working with Lynley." Still the
eyes watched, gauging her reaction. "Try to be back here as fast as you
can." He gave his attention back to the papers on his desk. She was
dismissed.
Barbara looked at herself in the mirror and fumbled in the pocket of her
skirt for a comb. Lynley. She tugged the plastic through her hair
mercilessly, dragging it against her scalp, abrading the skin, welcoming
the pain. Lynley! It was only too obvious why they'd brought her back
out of uniform. They wanted Lynley on the case. But they needed a woman
as well. And every person on Victoria Street knew that there wasn't a
female in CID who was safe near Lynley. He'd slept his way through
department and division, leaving a trail of the discarded behind him. He
had the reputation of a racehorse put out to stud and, from all the
tales told, the endurance as well. She angrily shoved the comb back into
her pocket.
So, how does it feel, she demanded of her reflection, to be the one
lucky woman whose virtue is quite secure in the presence of the almighty
Lynley? No wandering hands while our Barb's in the car! No confi
dential dinners to "go over our notes." No invitations to Corn-wall to
"think the case out." No fear here, Barb. God knows that you're safe
with Lynley. In her five years working in the same division with the
man, she was certain he'd managed to avoid so much as saying her name,
let alone having a single second's foul contact with her. As if a
grammar school background and a working-class accent were social
diseases that might infect him if he were not scrupulously careful to
keep himself clear of them.
She left the room and stalked down the corridor towards the lift. Was
there anyone in all of New Scotland Yard whom she hated more than she
hated Lynley? He was a miraculous combination of every single thing that
she thoroughly despised: educated at Eton, a fi rst in history at
Oxford, a public school voice, and a bloody family tree that had its
roots somewhere just this side of the Battle of Hastings. Upper class.
Bright. And so damnably charming that she couldn't understand why every
criminal in the city simply didn't surrender to accommodate him.
His whole reason for working at the Yard was a joke, a flaming little
myth that she didn't believe for a moment. He wanted to be useful, to
make a contribution. He preferred a career in London to life on the
estate. What a ruddy good laugh!
The lift doors opened and she punched furiously for the garage. And
hadn't his career been convenient and sweet, purchased lock, stock, and
barrel with the family funds? He bought his way right into his current
position and he'd be a Commissioner before he was through. God knew
inheriting that precious title hadn't hurt his chances for success one
bit. He'd gone from sergeant to inspector in record time straight away.
Everyone knew why.
She headed for her car, a rusty Mini in the far corner of the garage.
How nice to be rich, to be titled like Lynley, to work only for a lark,
and then to swing home to the Belgravia townhouse, or better yet fly to
the Cornish estate. With butlers and maids and cooks and valets.
And think of it, Barb: picture yourself in the presence of such greatness. What shall you do? Shall you swoon or vomit fi rst?
She flung her handbag into the rear seat of the Mini, slammed the door,
and started the car with a sputter and roar. The wheels squealed on the
pavement as she ascended the ramp, nodded brusquely towards the offi cer
on guard in the kiosk, and headed for the street.
The light weekend traffic made getting from Victoria Street to the
Embankment a manoeuvre of a few minutes only, and, once there, the mild
breeze of the October afternoon cooled her temper, calmed her nerves,
and coaxed her into forgetting her indignation. It was a pleasant drive,
really, to the St. James house.
Barbara liked Simon Allcourt-St. James, had liked him from the first
time she had met him ten years ago when she was a nervous
twenty-year-old probationary police constable all too aware of being a
woman in a closely guarded man's world where women police were still
called Wopsies after a few drinks. And she'd been called worse than
that—she knew it. Damn them all to hell. To them, any woman who aspired
to CID was a bona fi de freak and made to feel that way. But to St.
James, two years her senior, she had been an acceptable colleague, even a
friend.
St. James was now an independent forensic scientist, but he had begun
his career at the Yard. By his twenty-fourth birthday he was the very
best of the scene-of-crime men, quick, observant, intuitive. He could
have gone in any direction: investigations, pathology, administration,
anywhere. But it had all ended one night eight years ago on a drive with
Lynley, a wild junket through the back roads of Surrey. They had both
been drunk—St. James was always prompt to admit this fact. But everyone
knew that it was Lynley who had been driving that night, Lynley who had
lost control on a curve, Lynley who had walked away without a scratch
while his childhood friend, St. James, had emerged a cripple. And
although he could have continued his career at the Yard, St. James had
instead retired to a family house in Chelsea, where for the next four
years he had lived like a recluse. Score that to old Lynley, she thought
sourly.
She couldn't believe that St. James had actually maintained his
friendship with the man. But he had, and something, some sort of quirky
situation, had cemented their relationship nearly fi ve years ago and
had brought St. James back into the field where he belonged. Score that,
she thought reluctantly, to Lynley as well.
She pulled the Mini into an available space on Lawrence Street and
walked back along Lordship Place towards Cheyne Row. Not far from the
river, it was an area of the city where elaborate white plaster and
woodwork decorated deep umber brick buildings and black paint restored
the wrought iron at windows and balconies. In keeping with the village
that Chelsea once had been, the streets were narrow, metamorphosed into
bright autumn tunnels by massive sycamores and elms. St. James's house
stood on a corner, and as she passed by the high brick wall that fenced
in the garden, Barbara heard the sounds of the party in progress. A
voice was raised in a toast. Shouts of approval followed applause. An
old oak door in the wall was closed, but that was just as well. Dressed
as she was, she hardly wanted to burst into the festivities as if she
were making an arrest.
She rounded the corner to find the front door of the tall, old house
open to the late afternoon sun. The sound of laughter fl oated towards
her, the pure tones of silver and china, the popping of champagne, and
somewhere in the garden the music of violin and fl ute. There were
flowers everywhere, right out onto the front steps where the balustrades
were twined with white and pink roses that fi lled the air with a heady
perfume. Even the balconies above held potted convolvuli that tumbled
trumpet-shaped flowers in a riot of colours over the edge.
Barbara drew in a breath and mounted the steps. There was no point to
knocking, for although several guests near the door gave her inquisitive
glances as she hesitated outside in her ill-fitting uniform, they
strolled back towards the garden without speaking to her, and it soon
became apparent that if she wanted to find Lynley, she would have to
barge right into the wedding reception to do so. The thought made her
more than a little bit ill.
