Hillier walked to the offi ce window. Afternoon sunlight shafted across
his face, detailing lines that spoke of too many late nights,
highlighting puffy pink flesh that spoke of too much rich food and port.
"By God, this is irregular. Has Kerridge gone quite mad?"
"Nies has certainly been claiming that for years."
"But to have the first person on the scene… and not even a member of the force! What can the man be thinking?"
"That a priest is the only person they both can trust." Webberly glanced
at his watch again. "He should be here within the hour, in fact. That's
why I asked you to come down."
"To hear this priest's story? That's certainly not your style."
Webberly shook his head slowly. He had come to the tricky part. "Not to hear the story. Actually, to hear the plan."
"I'm intrigued." Hillier went to pour himself another sherry and held
the bottle towards his friend, who shook his head. He returned to his
seat and crossed one leg over the other, careful not to destroy the
razor crease in his beautifully tailored trousers. "The plan?" he
prompted.
Webberly poked at a stack of files on his desk. "I'd like Lynley on this."
Hillier cocked an eyebrow. "Lynley and Nies for a second go-round?
Haven't we had trouble enough in that quarter, Malcolm? Besides,
Lynley's not on rota this weekend."
"That can be dealt with." Webberly hesitated. He watched the other man. "You're letting me hang here, David," he said at last.
Hillier smiled. "Forgive me. I was waiting to see how you were going to ask for her."
"Damn you," Webberly cursed softly. "You know me too well by half."
"Let's say I know you're too fair for your own good. Let me advise you on this, Malcolm. Leave Havers where you put her."
Webberly winced and swiped at a nonexistent fly. "It grates on my conscience."
"Don't be a bloody fool. Don't be worse than that—don't be a sentimental
fool. Barbara Havers proved herself incapable of getting along with a
single DI for her entire tenure in CID. She's been back in uniform these
past eight months and doing a better job there. Leave her."
"I didn't try her with Lynley."
"You didn't try her with the Prince of Wales either! It's not your
responsibility to keep moving detective sergeants around until they fi
nd a little niche in which they can grow old happily. It's your
responsibility to see that the flaming job gets done. And no job got
done with Havers on it. Admit it!"
"I think she's learned from the experience."
"Learned what? That being a truculent pigheaded little bitch is not likely to advance her up the ranks?"
Webberly let Hillier's words scathe the air between them. "Well," he said fi nally, "that was always the problem, wasn't it?"
Hillier recognised the sound of defeat in his friend's voice. That was
indeed the problem: advancing through the ranks. God, what an ignorant
thing to say. "Forgive me, Malcolm." He quickly finished his sherry, an
act that gave him something to do other than look at his
brother-in-law's face. "You deserve my job. We both know it, don't we?"
"Don't be absurd."
But Hillier stood. "I'll put a call out for Havers."
Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers tugged the door of the super's office
shut, walked stiffly past his secretary, and made her way into the
corridor. She was white with rage.
God! God, how dare they! She pushed her way past a clerk, not bothering
to stop when the folders he was carryiing slipped from his grasp and
scattered. She marched right through them. Who did they think they were
dealing with? Did they think she was so stupid she couldn't see the
ploy? God damn them! God damn them!
She blinked, telling herself that there would be no tears, that she
would not cry, that she would not react. The sign LADIES appeared
miraculously in front of her and she ducked inside. No one was present.
Here, it was cool.
Had it really been so hot in Webberly's offi ce? Or had it been her
outrage? She fumbled at her necktie, jerked it loose, and stumbled over
to the basin. The cold water gushed out of the tap beneath her fumbling
fi ngers, sending a spray onto her uniform skirt and across her white
blouse. That did it. She looked at herself in the mirror and burst into
tears.
"You cow," she sneered. "You stupid, ugly cow!" She was not a woman
easily given to tears, so they were hot and bitter, tasting strange and
feeling stranger as they coursed down her cheeks, making unattractive
rivulets across what was an extremely plain, extremely pug-like face.
"You're a real sight, Barbara," she upbraided her reflection. "You're an
absolute vision!" Sobbing, she twisted away from the basin, resting her
head against the cool tile of the wall.
At thirty years old, Barbara Havers was a decidedly unattractive woman,
but a woman who appeared to be doing everything possible to make herself
so. Fine, shiny hair the colour of pinewood might have been suitably
styled for the shape of her face. But instead, she wore it cut bluntly
at an unforgivable length just below her ears as if a too-small bowl had
been placed upon her head for a model. She used no makeup. Heavy,
unplucked eyebrows drew attention to the smallness of her eyes rather
than to their fine intelligence. A thin mouth, never heightened in any
way by colour, was pressed permanently into a disapproving frown. The
entire effect was that of a woman stubby, sturdy, and entirely
unapproachable.
So they've given you the golden boy, she thought. What a treat for you,
Barb! After eight miserable months they bring you back from the street
"for another chance"—and all the while it's Lynley!
"I will not," she muttered. "I will not do it! I will not work with that sodding little fop!"
She pushed herself away from the wall and returned to the basin. She ran
cold water into it carefully this time, bending to bathe her hot face
and scrub away the incriminating sign of her tears.
"I'd like to give you another opportunity in CID," Webberly had said.
He'd been fi ngering a letter opener on his desk, but she'd noticed the
Ripper photos on the walls and her heart had soared. To be on the
Ripper! Oh
God, yes! When do I start? Is it with MacPher son?
"It's a peculiar case involving a girl up in Yorkshire." Oh, so it's not
the Ripper. But still, it's a case. A girl, you say? Of course I can
help. Is it Stewart, then? He's an old hand in Yorkshire. We'd work well
together. I know we would.
"In fact, I'm expecting to receive the information in about
three-quarters of an hour. I'll need you here then, if you're
interested, that is." If I'm interested! Three-quarters of an hour gives
me time to change. Have a bite to eat. Get back here. Then be on the
late train to York. Will we meet up there? Shall I see about a car?
"I'll need you to pop round to Chelsea before then, I'm afraid."
The conversation ground to a sudden halt. "To Chelsea, sir?" What on earth had Chelsea to do with all this?
"Yes," Webberly said easily, dropping the letter opener onto the general
clutter on his desk. "You'll be working with Inspector Lynley, and
unfortunately we've got to pull him out of the St. James wedding in
Chelsea." He glanced at his watch. "The wedding was at eleven, so no
doubt they're well into the reception by now. We've been trying to raise
him on the phone, but apparently it's been left off the hook." He
looked up in time to see the shock on her face. "Something wrong,
Sergeant?"
"Inspector Lynley?" She saw it all at once, the reason they needed her, the reason why no one else would really quite do.
"Yes, Lynley. Is there a problem?"
"No, no problem at all." And then, as an afterthought, "Sir."
