Authors: Elizabeth George
“I’ve brought Chinese,” she told her father, indicating the sack she cradled in one arm. “I’m off again tonight, though. I’ve only half an hour to eat.”
Her father frowned. “Mum won’t like that, Barbie. Not one bit.”
“That’s why I’ve brought the food. Peace offering.” She went on to the kitchen at the back of the house.
Her heart sank at the sight of it. A dozen tins of soup were lined up near the sink with their lids gaping open and spoons stuck in them as if her mother had sampled each one before deciding which to offer their neighbour. Three had actually been heated, in separate pans which still stood on the stove with the fire left carelessly on beneath them and their contents burnt to nothing, sending up a scent of scalded vegetables and milk. Perilously near the flame, a package of biscuits lay open, spilling out its contents, its wrapper hastily torn away and part of it discarded on the floor.
“Oh hell,” Barbara said wearily, turning off the stove. She put her package down onto the kitchen table, next to her mother’s newest album of travel information. A glance told her that Brazil was this week’s destination, but she wasn’t interested in looking at the collection of brochures and photographs clipped from magazines. She rummaged beneath the sink for a rubbish sack and was dropping the tins of soup into it when the front door opened, hesitant steps teetered down the uncarpeted hall, and her mother appeared at the kitchen door, a badly scored plastic tray in her hands. Soup, biscuits, and a withered apple were all in place upon it.
“It went cold,” Mrs. Havers said, her colourless eyes trying to focus past her own confusion. She was wearing only an irregularly buttoned cardigan over her shabby housedress. “I didn’t think to cover the soup, lovey. And when I got there, her daughter had come to stay and said that Mrs. Gustafson didn’t want it.”
Barbara looked at the curious mixture and blessed Mrs. Gustafson’s daughter for her wisdom if not for her tact. The soup was a blend of everything on the stove, an unappealing concoction of split pea, clam chowder, and tomato with rice. Rapidly cooling in the night air, it had formed a puckered skin on the top so that it vaguely resembled coagulating blood. Her stomach churned uneasily at the sight.
“Well, no matter, Mum,” she said. “You thought about her, didn’t you? And Mrs. Gustafson will be sure to learn of that. You were neighbourly, weren’t you?”
Her mother smiled vacantly. “Yes. I was, wasn’t I?” She set the tray down on the very edge of the table. Barbara lunged forward to catch it before it toppled to the floor. “Have you seen Brazil, lovey?” Affectionately, Mrs. Havers fingered the tattered artificial leather cover of her album. “I did some more work on it today.”
“Yes. I had a quick glance.” Barbara continued sweeping things off the work top into the rubbish. The sink was piled with unwashed crockery. A faint odour of rot emanated from it, telling her that uneaten food was also buried somewhere beneath the mess. “I’ve brought Chinese,” she told her mother. “I’m off again in a bit, though.”
“Oh, lovey, no,” her mother responded. “In this cold? In the dark? I don’t think that’s wise, do you? Young ladies should not be on the streets alone at night.”
“Police business, Mum,” Barbara replied. She went to the cupboard and saw that only two clean plates were left. No matter, she thought. She would eat out of the cartons once her parents had taken their share.
She was setting the table as her mother puttered uselessly in her wake when the front doorbell rang. They looked at each other.
Her mother’s face clouded. “You don’t suppose that’s…No, I know. Tony won’t come back, will he? He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“He’s dead, Mum,” Barbara replied firmly. “Put the kettle on for tea. I’ll get the door.”
The bell rang a second time before she had a chance to answer it. Muttering impatiently, flipping on the exterior light, she pulled the door open to see, unbelievably, Lady Helen Clyde standing on the front step. She was dressed completely in black from head to toe, and that should have served as warning enough for Barbara. But at the moment, all she could contemplate was the horrifying thought that, unless this was a nightmare from which she could mercifully awaken, she was going to have to ask the other woman into the house.
The youngest daughter of the tenth Earl of Hesfield, child of a Surrey great house, denizen of one of the most fashionable districts in London. Come to this netherworld of Acton’s worst neighbourhood…for what? Barbara gaped at her wordlessly, looked for a car in the street, and saw Lady Helen’s red Mini parked several doors down. She heard her mother’s nervous whimper some distance behind her.
“Lovey? Who is it? It’s not…”
“No, Mum. It’s fine. Don’t worry,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Forgive me, Barbara,” Lady Helen said. “If there had been any other way, I would have taken it.”
The words brought Barbara back to herself. She held the door open. “Come in.”
When Lady Helen passed her and stood in the hall, Barbara felt herself looking at her home involuntarily, seeing it as the other woman must see it, as a place where lunacy and poverty whirled wildly hand in hand. The worn linoleum on the floor unwashed for months at a time, tracked with footprints and puddles of melted snow; the faded wallpaper peeling away at the corners with a damp patch growing mouldy near the door; the battered stairway with hooks along the wall on which ragged coats hung carelessly, some unworn for years; the old rattan umbrella rack, with great gaping holes in its sides where wet umbrellas had eaten through the palm over time; the odours of burnt food and age and neglect.
My bedroom’s not like this!
she wanted to shout.
But I can’t keep up with them and pay the bills and cook the meals and see that they clean themselves!
But she said nothing. She merely waited for Lady Helen to speak, feeling a hot tide of shame wash over her when her father shambled to the door of the sitting room in his baggy trousers and stained grey shirt, pulling his oxygen along behind him in its trolley.
“This is my father,” Barbara said and, when her mother peeped out of the kitchen like a frightened mouse, “and my mother.”
Lady Helen went to Jimmy Havers, extending her hand. “I’m Helen Clyde,” she said, and looking into the kitchen, “I’ve interrupted your dinner, haven’t I, Mrs. Havers?”
Jimmy Havers smiled expansively. “Chinese tonight,” he said. “We’ve enough if you want a bite, don’t we, Barbie?”
At another time, Barbara might have taken grim amusement from the thought of Lady Helen Clyde eating Chinese food out of cartons, sitting at the kitchen table and chatting with her mother about the trips to Brazil and Turkey and Greece that occupied the inner reaches of her madness. But now she only felt weak with the humiliation of discovery, with the knowledge that Lady Helen might somehow betray her circumstances to Lynley.
“Thank you,” Lady Helen was replying graciously. “But I’m not at all hungry.” She smiled at Barbara, but it was at best only an unsteady effort.
Seeing this, Barbara realised that whatever her own state was in the face of this visit, Lady Helen’s was worse. Thus, she spoke kindly. “Let me just get them started eating, Helen. The sitting room’s over there if you don’t mind a rather large sort of mess.”
Without waiting to see how Lady Helen might react to her first sight of the sitting room, with its ancient creaking furniture and general air of decay, Barbara ushered her father into the kitchen. She took a moment to soothe her mother’s querulous fears about their unexpected visitor, dishing out rice, fried shrimp, sesame chicken, and oyster beef as she considered why the other woman had appeared on her doorstep. She didn’t want to think that Lady Helen might already be aware of the machinery set in progress for tonight’s arrest. She didn’t want to think that the potential arrest might be the reason for this visit in the first place. Yet, all the time she knew in her heart that there could be no other reason. She and Lady Helen Clyde did not exactly travel in the same circle of friends. This was hardly an impulsive social call.
When Barbara joined her in the sitting room a few minutes later, Lady Helen did not leave her long in suspense. She was sitting on the edge of the sagging, artificial horsehair couch, her eyes on the wall opposite where a single photograph of Barbara’s younger brother hung among ten rectangles of darker wallpaper, remnants of a previous collection of memorabilia devoted to his passing. As soon as Barbara entered the room, Lady Helen got to her feet.
“I’m coming with you tonight.” She made a small, embarrassed movement with her hands. “I’d have liked to put that more politely, but there doesn’t seem to be a point, does there?”
There also seemed to be no point to lying. “How did you find out?” Barbara asked.
“I telephoned Tommy about an hour ago. Denton told me he was on a surveillance tonight. Tommy generally doesn’t do surveillance, does he? So I assumed the rest.” She gestured again, with an unhappy smile. “Had I known where the surveillance was to be, I simply would have gone there myself. But I didn’t know. Denton didn’t know. There was no one at the Yard who could or would tell me. So I came to you. And I
will
follow you there if you don’t let me come with you.” She lowered her voice. “I’m terribly sorry. I know what kind of position this puts you in. I know how angry Tommy will be. With both of us.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Lady Helen’s eyes moved back to the photograph of Barbara’s brother. It was an old school picture, not very well taken, but it depicted Tony the way Barbara liked to remember him, laughing, showing a missing front tooth, a face freckled and elfish, a mop of hair.
“After…everything that’s happened, I
must
be there,” Lady Helen said. “It’s a conclusion. I need it. And it seems that the only way I can bring it to an end for myself—the only way I can forgive myself for having been such a blundering fool—is to be there when you take him.” Lady Helen looked back at her. She was, Barbara saw, terribly pale. She looked frail and unwell. “How can I tell you how it feels to know that he used me? To know how I turned on Tommy when all he wanted to do was to show me the truth?”
“We phoned you last night. The inspector has been trying to reach you all day. He’s half-mad with worry.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t…I couldn’t face him.”
“Forgive me for saying so,” Barbara said hesitantly, “but I don’t think the inspector’s taken any pleasure at all from being in the right in this case. Not at your expense.”
She did not go on to mention her afternoon meeting with Lynley, his restless pacing as he set up the surveillance team, his continuous telephone calls to Lady Helen’s flat, to her family’s home in Surrey, to the St. James house. She did not go on to mention his black brooding as the afternoon wore on, or how he jumped for the telephone each time it rang, or how his voice maintained an indifference that was contravened by the tension in his face.
“Will you let me come with you?” Lady Helen asked.
Barbara knew the question was a mere formality. “I don’t see how I can stop you,” she replied.
L
YNLEY HAD BEEN
at Joy Sinclair’s home in Hampstead since half past four. The members of the surveillance team had arrived not long after, establishing themselves in prearranged locations, two in a dirty van with a flat tyre parked midway down Flask Walk, another above the bookstore on the corner of Back Lane, another in an herb store, still another on the high street with a view towards the underground station. Lynley himself was in the house, not far from the most logical means of access: the dining-room doors that faced the back garden. He sat in one of the low chairs in the unlit sitting room, monitoring the conversation that came spitting through the radio from his men on the outside.
It was just after eight when the van team announced, “Havers on the lower end of Flask Walk, sir. She’s not alone.”
Perplexed, Lynley got to his feet, went to the front door, and cracked it open just as Sergeant Havers and Lady Helen passed under a street lamp, their faces exposed in its eerie amber glow. After a quick survey of the street, they hurried into the front garden and through the door.
“What in God’s name—” Lynley began hotly once he’d shut the door behind him and they stood in a circle of darkness within the hall.
“I gave her no choice, Tommy,” Lady Helen said. “Denton told me you were on a surveillance. I put the rest together and went to Sergeant Havers’ house.”
“I won’t have you here. Damn it all, anything could happen.” Lynley walked into the sitting room where the radio was, picked it up, and began to speak. “I’m going to need a man here to—”
“No! Don’t do this to me!” Lady Helen reached out desperately but did not touch him. “I did just what you asked of me last night. I did everything you asked. So let me be here now. I need to be, Tommy. I won’t get in your way. I promise. I swear it. Just let me end this the way I need to. Please.” He felt suddenly torn by irrational indecision. He knew what he had to do. He knew what was right. She no more belonged here than caught up in the middle of a public brawl. Words came to his lips—appropriate and dutiful—but before he could say them, she spoke in a manner that struck him to the quick. “Let me get over Rhys the best way I know how. I beg it of you, Tommy.”
“Inspector?” a voice crackled from the radio.
Lynley’s own voice was harsh. “It’s all right. Maintain your positions.”
“Thank you,” Lady Helen whispered.
He couldn’t reply. All he could think of was the single most telling remark she had made.
I did everything you asked
. Remembering her final words to him last night, he couldn’t bear the thought of what that meant. Unable to respond, he moved past her into a dim corner of the dining room, flicked the curtains a scant inch to view Back Lane, saw nothing, and returned. Their long waiting together began.
F
OR THE NEXT
six hours, Lady Helen was as good as her word. She did not move from the chair she had taken in the sitting room. She did not speak. There were times when Lynley thought she was asleep, but he could not see her face clearly. It was merely a ghostly blur under the black bandana she wore.