Lynley tossed down his newspaper and considered Barbara Havers. There
was no need to do so surreptitiously, for she was bent over the
glaucous-hued Formica train table between them, perusing the Keldale
murder report. He gave momentary, idle consideration to the depths to
which British Rail was sinking with its current colour scheme designed
to take maximum wear with minimum upkeep, but then his thoughts returned
to the offi cer opposite him.
He knew about Havers. Everyone did. She'd failed miserably through her
first tenure in CID, swiftly alienating MacPherson, Stewart, and Hale,
three of the easiest DIs with whom one could ever hope to work.
MacPherson especially, with his rolling highland humour and his paternal
approach, should have been a mentor extraordinaire for someone like
Havers. The man was a virtual teddy bear. Had any DS ever failed to work
successfully at his side? Only Havers.
Lynley remembered the day of Webberly's decision to put her back in
uniform. Everyone had known it was coming, of course. It had been coming
for months. But no one had been quite prepared for the woman's
reaction.
"If I was lah-dee-dah Eton, you'd be keeping me," she'd shouted in
Webberly's offi ce in a broken voice loud enough for the entire fl oor
to hear. "If I'd a cheque-book large enough and a title on my name and a
willingness to screw everything in sight—woman, man, child, or
animal—I'd be quite good enough for your precious department!"
At the mention of Eton, three heads had swivelled in Lynley's direction.
By the end of the diatribe, a quick cessation of workday noise
indicated to him that every person within range of vision was looking
his way. He'd been standing at a cabinet, rooting about for the file on
that miserable little worm Harry Nelson, but found that his fi ngers had
suddenly become clumsy. Of course, he really didn't need the file. Not
exactly at the moment. Indeed, he couldn't stand there forever; he had
to turn, to go back to his desk.
He made himself do it, made himself say quite lightly, "Good Lord, I
always draw the line at animals," and made himself walk casually across
the room.
Nervous, uncomfortable laughter greeted his remark. Then Webberly's door
slammed and Havers stormed wildly down the corridor. Her mouth was
twisted with rage, her face blotched and mottled with tears that she
wiped off savagely with the sleeve of her coat. Lynley felt the entire
force of her hatred wash over him as her eyes met his and her lips
curled in contempt. It was like being struck by an illness for which
there was no cure.
A moment later, MacPherson lumbered by his desk, tossed down the file on
Harry Nelson, and said, "Ye're a class act, laddie," in his amiable
rumble. But still, it had taken at least ten minutes for his hands to
stop shaking so that he could dial the phone for Helen.
"Lunch, old duck?" he had asked her.
She could tell. She could hear it at once. "Absolutely, Tommy. Simon's
been forcing me all morning to look at the most hideous hair samples
imaginable—did you know that scalp actually comes off when you pull out
someone's hair, darling?—and somehow lunch seems just the very thing.
Shall we say the Connaught?"
