Cotter ran his finger down the door-jamb as if testing for dust. He nodded, but his face remained unconvinced.
St James reached for his crutches and swung himself to his feet. He headed across the room, hoping Cotter would see this activity as a conclusion to their discussion. But his design was foiled.
'Deb's got 'erself a flat in Paddington. Did she tell you that? Lord Asherton's keeping the girl like she was some tart.'
'Surely not,' St James replied and belted on the dressing-gown that Cotter handed him.
'What money's she got, then?' Cotter demanded. 'How else is it paid for, if not by 'im?'
St James made his way to the bathroom where the rush of water told him that Cotter — in his agitation — had forgotten that the tub was rapidly filling. He turned off the taps and sought a way to put the discussion to an end.
'Then, you must talk to her, Cotter, if that's what you think. Set your mind at rest.'
'What I think? It's what you think as well and there's no denying it. I c'n see it plain as plain on your face.' Cotter warmed to his topic. 'I tried talking with the girl. But that was no good. She was off with 'im last night before I'd the chance. And off again this morning as well.'
'Already? With Tommy?'
'No. Alone this time. To Paddington.'
'Go to see her, then. Talk to her. She might welcome the chance to have some time alone with you.'
Cotter moved past him and began setting out his shaving equipment with unnecessary care. St James watched warily, his intuition telling him the worst was on its way.
'A solid, good talk. Just what I'm thinking. But it's not for me to talk to the girl. A dad's too close. You know what I mean.'
He did indeed. 'You can't possibly be suggesting—' 'Deb's fond of you. That's always been the case.' Cotter's face spoke the challenge beneath the words. He was not a man to avoid emotional blackmail if it took him in the direction which he believed that he — and St James — ought to be travelling. 'If you'd caution the girl. That's ail I'd ask.'
Caution her? How would it run? Don't have anything to do with Tommy, Deborah. If you do, God knows you may end up his wife. It was beyond consideration.
'Just a word,' Cotter said. 'She trusts you. As do I.'
St James fought back a sigh of resignation. Damn Cotter's unquestioning loyalty throughout the years of his illness. Blast the fact that he owed him so very much. There is always a day of accounting.
'Very well,' St James said. 'Perhaps I can manage some time today if you have her address.'
'I do,' Cotter said. 'And you'll see. Deb'll be glad of what you say.'
Right, St James thought sardonically.
The building that housed Deborah's flat was called Shrewsbury Court Apartments. St James found it easily enough in Sussex Gardens, sandwiched in between two seedy boarding-houses. Recently restored, it was a tall building faced with unblemished Portland stone, iron-fenced in the front, its door gained by passing across a narrow concrete walkway that bridged the cavernous entrance to additional flats below the level of the street.
St James pressed the button next to the name Cotter. An answering buzz admitted him into the small lobby with a floor covered by black and white tiles. Like the outside of the building, it was scrupulously clean, and a faint odour of disinfectant announced the fact that it intended to stay that way. There was no furniture, just a hallway leading to the ground-floor flats, a door discreetly hung with a hand-lettered sign reading concierge — as if a foreign word might attest to the building's respectability — and a lift.
Deborah's flat was on the top floor. Riding up to it, St James reflected upon the absurdity of the position in which Cotter had placed him. Deborah was an adult now. She would hardly welcome anyone's intrusion into her life. Least of all would she welcome his.
She opened the door at once to his knock, as if she'd spent the afternoon doing nothing save awaiting his arrival. Her expression shifted quickly from welcome to surprise, however, and it was only after a fractional hesitation that she stepped back from the door to admit him.
'Simon! I'd no idea…' She offered her hand in greeting, seemed to think better of the gesture, and dropped it to her side. 'You've quite surprised me. I was expecting… this is really… you've only… Oh, why am I babbling? Please. Come in.'
The word flat turned out to be a euphemism, for her new home was little more than a cramped bed-sitting- room. Still, much had been done to fill it with comfort. Pale green paint, refreshing and spring-like, coated the walls. Against one of them, a rattan daybed was covered with a bright, multicoloured counterpane and embroidered pillows. On another, a collection of Deborah's photographs hung, pieces which St James had never seen before and realized must represent the result of her years of training in America. Music played softly from a stereo near the window. Debussy. Afternoon of a Faun.
St James turned to comment upon the room — what a far cry it was from the adolescent eclecticism of her bedroom at home — and caught sight of a small alcove to the left of the door. It comprised a kitchen where an undersized table was set with a china tea-service. Two places were laid.
He should have realized the moment he saw her. It was hardly in character for her to be lolling around in the middle of the day, wearing a soft summer dress in place of her usual blue jeans.
'You've someone coming. I'm sorry. I should have phoned.'
'I'm not connected yet. It doesn't matter. Really. What do you think? Do you like it?'
The entire bedsit was, he thought, pretty much what it was intended to be: a room of peace and femininity in which a man would want to lie at her side, throwing off the day's burdens for the pleasure of making love. But that was hardly the response Deborah wanted from him. To avoid having to give one, he walked to her pictures.
Although more than a dozen hung on the wall, they were grouped in such a way that his eyes were drawn to a striking black and white portrait of a man standing with his back to the camera, his head turned in profile, his hair and skin — both lit with a shimmering cast of water — acting as contrast to an ebony background.
'Tommy photographs well.'
Deborah joined him. 'He does, doesn't he? I was trying to give some definition to his musculature. I'm not at all sure about it, though. The lighting seems off. I don't know. One minute I like it and the next I think it's about as subtle as a mug shot.'
St James smiled. 'You're as hard on yourself as you ever were, Deborah.'
'I suppose I am. Never satisfied with anything. That's always been my story.'
'I'd say a piece was fine. Your father would agree. We'd bring in Helen for a third opinion. Then you'd celebrate your success by throwing it away and claiming we all were hopeless judges.'
She laughed. 'At least I didn't fish for compliments.'
'No. You didn't do that.' He turned back to the wall. The brief pleasure of their exchange withered to nothing.
A different sort of study had been placed next to the black and white portrait. It, too, was of Lynley, seated nude in an old iron bed, rumpled bedlinen thrown over the lower part of his torso. With one leg raised, an arm resting on his knee, he gazed towards a window where Deborah stood, her back to the camera, sunlight gleaming along the swell of her right hip. Yellow curtains billowed back frothily, no doubt serving to hide the cable release that had allowed her to take the picture. The photograph looked completely spontaneous, as if she had awakened at Lynley's side and found an opportunity in a chance of light, in the contrast of curtains and morning sky.
St James stared at the picture, trying to pretend he could evaluate it as a piece of art, knowing all the time it was affirmation that Cotter had guessed the entire truth about Deborah's relationship with Lynley. In spite of the sight of them together in his car last night, St James knew that he had been holding on to an insubstantial thread of hope. It snapped before his eyes. He looked at Deborah.
Two spots of colour had appeared high on her cheeks. 'Heavens, I'm not a very good hostess, am I? Would you like something to drink? Gin and tonic? Or there's whisky And tea. There's tea. I've lots of tea. I was about to —'
'No. Nothing. You've someone coming. I'll not stay long.'
'Stay for tea. I can set another place.' She went to the tiny kitchen.
'Please, Deborah. Don't,' St James said quickly, imagining the awkward civility of getting through tea and
