She smiled understandingly at him. "Absolutely, Superintendent." The door closed behind her.
"Did that vixen wink at you as she left the room, Lynley?" Webberly demanded.
"I didn't notice, sir."
It was half past eight when they began gathering together the papers
from the table in Webberly's office. Darkness had fallen and the
fluorescent lighting did nothing to hide the room's genial air of
disarray. If anything, it was worse now than it had been before, with
the additional files from the North spread out on the table and an acrid
cirrus of cigarette and cigar smoke that, in conjunction with the mixed
scents of whisky and sherry, produced the effect of being in a rather
down-at-heel gentlemen's club.
Barbara noticed the deep lines of exhaustion that were drawn on Lynley's
face and judged that the aspirin had done him little good. He had gone
to the wall of Ripper photographs and was inspecting them, moving from
one to the next. As she watched, he lifted a hand to one of them—it was
the King's Cross victim, she noted needlessly—and traced a finger along
the crude incision that the Ripper's knife had made.
"‘Death closes all,'" he murmured. "He's black and white, flesh with no
resilience. Who could ever recognise a living man from this?"
"Or from this, for that matter," Webberly responded. He brusquely gestured to the photographs that Father Hart had brought.
Lynley rejoined them. He stood near Barbara but was, she well knew,
oblivious of her. She watched the expressions pass quickly across his
face as he sorted through the photographs one last time: revulsion,
disbelief, pity. His features were so easy to read that she wondered how
he ever managed to conduct a successful investigation without giving
everything away to a suspect. But he did it all the time. She knew his
record of success, the string of follow-up convictions. He was the
golden boy in more ways than one.
"We'll head up there in the morning, then," he said to the
superintendent. He picked up a manila envelope and tucked all the
materials inside.
Webberly was examining a train schedule which he had unearthed from the jumble on his desk. "Take the eight-forty-fi ve."
Lynley groaned. "Have a bit of mercy, sir. I'd like at least the next ten hours to get rid of this migraine."
"Then the nine-thirty. And no later than that." Webberly glanced round
his offi ce one last time as he shrugged into a tweed overcoat. Like his
other clothing, it was becoming threadbare in spots, and a small patch
was worked poorly into the left lapel where, no doubt, cigar ash had
done its worst. "Report in on Tuesday," he said as he left.
The superintendent's absence seemed to rejuvenate Lynley at once,
Barbara noted, for he moved with amazing alacrity of spirit to the
telephone the moment the man was gone. He dialled a number, tapped his
fi ngers rhythmically against the desk top, and peered at the face of
the clock. After nearly a minute, his face lit with a smile.
"You did wait, old duck," he said into the phone. "Have you broken it
off with Jeffrey Cusick at last?…Ha! I knew it, Helen. I've told you
repeatedly that a barrister can't possibly make you happy. Did the
reception end well?… He did? Oh Lord, what a scene that must have been.
Has Andrew ever cried in his life?…Poor St. James. Was he absolutely
slain with mortification?…Well, it's the champagne does it, you know.
Did Sidney recover?…Yes, well, she did look for a while as if she'd get a
bit maudlin at the end. She's never made a secret of it that Simon's
her favourite brother…. Of course dancing's still on. We promised
ourselves, didn't we?…Can you give me, say, an hour or so?…Hmm, what was
that?…Helen! My God, what a naughty little girl!" He laughed and
dropped the phone back onto its cradle. "Still here, Sergeant?" he asked
when he turned from the desk.
"You've no car, sir," she replied stonily. "I thought I'd wait to see if you needed a ride home."
"That's awfully good of you, but we've all been kept here long enough
for one evening, and I'm sure you've far better things to do on a
Saturday night than see me home. I'll catch a cab." He bent over
Webberly's desk for a moment, writing quickly on a piece of paper. "This
is my address," he said, handing it to her. "Be there at seven tomorrow
morning, will you? That should give us some time to make more sense of
all this before we head to Yorkshire. Good evening, then." He left the
room.
Barbara looked down at the paper in her hand, at the handwriting which
even in a hurry still managed to be an elegant scrawl. She studied it
for more than a minute before she ripped it into tiny pieces and tossed
them into the rubbish. She knew quite well where Thomas Lynley lived.
The guilt began on the Uxbridge Road. It always did. Tonight it was
worse when she saw that the travel agency was closed, preventing her
from gathering the material on Greece as she'd promised. Empress Tours.
Where had they ever come up with a name like that for such a grubby
little shop where people sat behind plastic-topped desks that were
painted to look as if they were wood? She slowed the car, peering
through the dirty windscreen to look for signs of life. The owners lived
above the shop. Perhaps if she banged on the door a bit, she could
rouse them. No, it was too ridiculous. Mum was no more going to Greece
than to the moon; she'd just have to wait for the brochures a bit
longer.
Still, she'd passed at least a dozen agencies in the city today. Why
hadn't she stopped? What else did Mum have to live for but those silly
little dreams? Overcome with the need to compensate in some way for her
failure, Barbara pulled the car over in front of Patel's Grocery, a
ramshackle affair of green paint, rusting shelves, and precariously
stacked crates from which emanated that peculiar blend of odours that
comes from vegetables not quite as fresh as they ought to be. Patel was
still open, at least. Leave it to him never to miss a chance to make ten
pence.
"Barbara!" He greeted her from inside the shop as she bent over the
boxed fall fruit on the pavement outside. Mostly apples. A few late
peaches shipped in from Spain. "Whassa doin' out so late?"
He couldn't imagine her having a date, of course. No one could. She
couldn't herself. "Had to work late, Mr. Patel," she replied. "How much
for the peaches?"
"Eighty-five a pound, but for you, pretty face, we say eighty."
She picked out six. He weighed them, wrapped them, and handed them over. "I was seeing your father today."
She looked up quickly and caught the guard dropping over Mr. Patel's
dark face like a mask when he saw her expression. "Was he behaving
himself?" she asked casually, shouldering her handbag.
"My goodness, yes. He always behaves!" Mr. Patel took her money, counted
it twice carefully, and dropped it into his register. "You take care
now, Barbara. Men see a nice girl like you and—"
"Yes, I'll take care," Barbara interrupted. She tossed the peaches onto
the front seat of the car. Nice girl like you, Barb. You take care. Keep
those legs crossed. Virtue like yours is defi nitely easy to lose, and a
woman fallen is fallen forever. She laughed bitterly, jerked the car
into gear, and pulled out onto the road.
In Acton there were two potential areas of residence, simply called by
inhabitants the right and wrong streets. It was as if a dividing line
split the suburb arbitrarily, condemning one set of residents while it
elevated others.
On the right streets of Acton, pristine brick houses boasted woodwork
which always sparkled admirably in the morning sun in a multiplicity of
colours. Roses grew in abundance there. Fuchsias flourished in hanging
pots. Children played games on unlittered pavements and in patchwork
gardens. Snow kissed gabled roofs in peaks of meringue in the winter,
while in summer tall elms made green tunnels through which families
strolled in the perfumed evening light. There was never an argument in
the right streets of Acton, never loud music, the smell of cooking fish,
or fi sts raised in a fight. It was sheer perfection, the single ocean
on which every family's boat of dreams sailed placidly forward. But
things were much different as close as a single street away.
People liked to say that the wrong streets of Acton got the heat of the
day and that's why things were so different there. It was as if an
enormous hand had swept down from the sky and jumbled up houses and
avenues and people so that everything was always just a bit out of
sorts. No one worked quite so hard on appearances: houses sagged moodily
into decay. Gardens once planted were soon ignored, then forgotten
altogether and left to fend for themselves. Children played noisily on
the dirty pavements, disruptive games that frequently brought mothers to
doorways, shrieking for peace from the din. The winter wind spit
through poorly sealed windows and summer brought rain that leaked
through the roofs. People in the wrong streets didn't think much about
being anywhere else, for to think of being elsewhere was to think of
hope. And hope was dead in the wrong part of Acton.
Barbara drove there now, turning the Mini in on a street lined with cars
that were rusting like her own. Neither garden nor fence fronted her
own house, but rather a pavement-hard patch of dirt on which she parked
her little car.
Next door, Mrs. Gustafson was playing BBC-1. Since she was nearly deaf,
the entire neighbourhood was nightly regaled with the doings of her
favourite television heroes. Across the street, the Kirbys were engaging
in their usual preintercourse argument while their four children
ignored them as best they could by throwing dirt clods at an indifferent
cat that watched from a nearby fi rst-fl oor window sill.
Barbara sighed, groped for her front door key, and went into her house.
It was chicken and peas. She could smell it at once, like a gust of foul
breath.
"That you, lovey?" her mother's voice called. "Bit late, aren't you, dear? Out with some friends?"
What a laugh! "Working, Mum. I'm back on CID."
Her mother shuffled to the door of the sitting room. Like Barbara, she
was short, but terribly thin, as if a long illness had ravaged her body
and taken it sinew by sinew on a march towards the grave. "CID?" she
asked, her voice growing querulous. "Oh must you, Barbara? You know how I
feel about that, my lovey." As she spoke she raised a skeletal hand to
her thin hair in a characteristic, nervous gesture. Her overlarge eyes
were puffy and rimmed with red, as if she had spent the day weeping.
"Brought you some peaches," Barbara responded, gesturing with the sack.
"The travel agent was closed, I'm afraid. I even banged on the door to
get them down from above, but they must've gone out."
Diverted from the thought of CID, Mrs. Havers's face changed, lighting
with a dusty glow. She caught at the fabric of her shabby housedress and
held it bunched in one hand, as if containing excitement. "Oh, that
doesn't matter at all. Wait till you see. Go in the kitchen and I'll be
right there. Your dinner's still warm."
Barbara walked past the sitting room, wincing at the chatter of the
television and the fusty smell of a chamber too long kept closed. The
kitchen, fetid with the odour of tough, broiled chicken and anaemic
peas, was little better. She looked gloomily at the plate on the table,
touched her fi nger to the withered fl esh of the fowl. It was stone
cold, as slippery and puckered as something kept preserved in
formaldehyde for forensic examination. Fat had congealed round its
edges, and a single, rancid dab of butter had failed to melt on peas
that looked as if they had had their last warming in a former decade.
Wonderful, she thought. Could the "lovely crab salad" have even come
close to this epicurean splendour? She looked for the daily paper and
found it, as always, on the seat of one of the wobbly kitchen chairs.
She grabbed the front section, opened it to the middle, and deposited
her dinner on the smiling face of the Duchess of Kent.
"Lovey, you've not thrown away your nice dinner!"
Damn! Barbara turned to see her mother's stricken face, lips working in
rejection, lines drawn in deep grooves down to her chin, pale blue eyes
filled with tears. She clutched an artificial leather album to her bony
chest.
"Caught me, Mum." Barbara forced a smile, putting an arm round the
woman's bird-like shoulders and leading her to the table. "I had a bite
at the Yard, so I wasn't hungry. Should I have saved it for you or Dad?"
Mrs. Havers blinked quickly. The relief on her face was pathetic. "I…I
suppose not. No, of course not. We wouldn't want chicken and peas two
nights in a row, would we?" She laughed gently and laid her album on the
table. "Dad got me Greece," she announced.
"Did he?" So that's what he was doing out of the cage. "All by himself?" Barbara asked casually.
Her mother looked away, fingering the edges of her album, picking
nervously at the artificial gold leaf. She gave a sudden movement, a
quick, brilliant smile, and pulled out a chair. "Sit here, lovey, let me
show you how we went."
The album was opened. Previous trips through Italy, France, Turkey—now
there was a bizarre one—and Peru were fl ipped through quickly until
they arrived at the newest section, devoted to Greece.
"Now, here's the hotel we stayed at in Corfu. Do you see how it's just
right there on the bay? We could have gone down to Kanoni to a newer
one, but I liked the view, didn't you, lovey?"
Barbara's eyes smarted. She refused to submit. How long will it take? Will it never end?
"You've not answered me, Barbara." Her mother's voice quivered with
anxiety. "I did work so hard on the trip all today. Having the view was
better than the new hotel in Kanoni, wasn't it, lovey?"
"Much better, Mum." Barbara forced the words out and got to her feet.
"I've got a case tomorrow. Can we do Greece later?" Would she
understand?
"What sort of case?"
"It's a…bit of a problem with a family in Yorkshire. I'll be gone a few
days. Can you manage, do you think, or shall I ask Mrs. Gustafson to
come and stay?" Wonderful thought, the deaf leading the mad.
"Mrs. Gustafson?" Her mother closed the album and drew herself stiffly
upright. "I think not, my lovey. Dad and I can manage on our own. We
always have, you know. Except that short time when Tony…"
The room was unbearably, stifl ingly hot. Oh God, Barbara thought, just a
wisp of air. Just this once. For a moment. She went to the back door,
which led out to the weed-choked garden.
"Where're you going?" her mother asked quickly, that familiar note of
hysteria creeping into her voice. "There's nothing out there! You
mustn't go outside after dark!"
Barbara picked up the discarded chicken dinner. "Rubbish, Mum. I won't
be a moment. You can wait by the door and see I'm all right."
"But I…By the door?"
"If you like."
"No, I mustn't be by the door. We'll leave it open just a bit, though. You can shout if you need me."
"That sounds the plan, Mum." She picked up the package and went hurriedly out into the night.
A few minutes. She breathed the cool air, listened to the familiar
neighbourhood sounds, and felt in her pocket for a crumpled pack of
Players. She shook one out, lit it, and gazed up at the sky.
What had started the seductive descent into madness? It was Tony, of
course. Bright, freckle-faced imp. Fresh, spring air in the constant
darkness of winter. Watchme, watchme, Barbie! I can do anything!
Chemistry sets and rugger balls. Cricket on the common and tag in the
afternoon. And horribly, stupidly chasing a ball right onto the Uxbridge
Road.
But he didn't die from that. Just a stay in hospital. A persistent
fever, a peculiar rash. And a lingering, etiolating kiss from leukaemia.
The wonderful, delicious irony of it all: go in with a broken leg, come
out with leukaemia.
It had taken him four agonising years to die. Four years for them to make this descent into madness.
"Lovey?" The voice was tremulous.
"Right here, Mum. Just looking at the sky." Barbara crushed her cigarette out on the rock-hard ground and walked back inside.
