In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

Barbara threw her cigarette smouldering into the street. She leapt towards the phone box. It wasn't the same box from which Nkata had made the call in the first place, but the box standing next to it. Which could, Barbara thought, mean nothing or everything, since they'd never known which of the two had been the one where Terry Cole had intercepted the call.

Nkata lifted the receiver on the third ring. He said, “Mistah King-Ryder?” as Barbara held her breath.

Yes, yes, yes, she thought when Nkata gave her a thumbs-up. At last they were in business.

“God damn bloody computers! What's the point of having them if they break down daily? You tell me that, damn you.”

WPC Peggy Hammer had apparently heard this demand from her superior officer many times before. “It's not actually broken, sir,” she said with admirable patience. “It's just like the other day. We're off-line for some reason. I expect the problem's somewhere in Swansea. Or I suppose it could be in London, if it comes down to it. Then there's always our own-”

“I'm not asking for your analysis, Hammer,” Hanken snapped. “I'm asking for some action.”

They'd brought into the Buxton incident room the stack of registration cards from the Black Angel Hotel with what had seemed like simple instructions which would allow them to gather information in a matter of minutes: Get on-line to the DVLA in Swansea. Feed in the numbers on the plates of each car whose driver had stayed at the Black Angel Hotel within the last two weeks. Get the name of the legal owner of that car. Match that name to the registrant on the hotel card. Purpose: to see if anyone had checked into the hotel using a false name. Corroboration for that possibility: one name on the registration card, a different name in the DVLA's system indicating ownership of the vehicle. It was a simple task. It would take a few minutes because the computers were fast and the registration cards-considering the size of the hotel and the number of rooms it had-were not innumerable. It would have been fifteen minutes of labour, maximum. If the sodding system had worked for bloody once.

Lynley could see all of this reasoning going on in DI Hanken's mind. And he felt his own share of frustration. The source of his agitation was different, however: He couldn't loosen Hanken's mind from the lock it had on Andy Maiden.

Lynley understood Hanken's reasoning. Andy had motive and opportunity. Whether he also had the slightest idea how to use a long bow made no difference if someone who had checked into the Black Angel Hotel under a false name possessed that ability. And until they discovered whether any false identities had been used in Tideswell, Lynley knew that Hanken wasn't about to move on to another area of enquiry.

That logical area was Julian Britton. That logical area had always been Britton. Unlike Andy Maiden, Britton had everything they were looking for in their killer. He had loved Nicola enough to want to marry her, and on his own admission he'd visited her in

London. How likely was it that he'd never come across something that had clued him in to her real life? Beyond that, how likely was it that he'd never had the slightest idea he wasn't her only Derbyshire lover?

So Julian Britton had motive in spades. He also had no solid alibi for the murder night. And as for being able to shoot a long bow, he'd likely seen long bows aplenty at Broughton Manor during tournaments, reenactments, and the like. How much of a stretch was it to posit that Julian knew how to use one?

A search of Broughton Manor would tell that tale. Julian's fingerprints-matched to whatever prints forensic managed to pull off the leather jacket-would put a full stop to the piece. But Hanken wasn't about to budge in that direction unless the Black Angel's records proved a dead end. No matter that Julian could have planted that jacket at the Black Angel. No matter that he could have thrown that waterproof into the skip. No matter that doing this would have taken him five minutes off the direct route from Calder Moor to his home. Hanken would deal exhaustively with Andy Maiden, and until he had done, Julian Britton might as well not exist.

When he was faced with the computer misfiring, Hanken soundly cursed modern technology. He left the registration cards with WPC Hammer and ordered her onto that antique means of communication: the telephone. “Ring Swansea and tell them to do it by hand if they bloody have to,” he snapped.

To which Peggy Hammer said, “Sir,” in meek compliance.

They left the incident room. Hanken was fuming that all they could “bloody well do now” was wait for WPC Hammer and the DVLA to come up with the information they needed, and Lynley was wondering how best he could turn the spotlight onto Julian Britton, when a departmental secretary tracked them down to tell them that Lynley was being asked for in the reception area.

“It's Mrs. Maiden,” she said. “And I ought to warn you, she's in something of a state.”

She was. Ushered into Hanken's office a few minutes later, she was panic personified. She was clutching a crumpled piece of paper in her hand, and when she saw Lynley, she cried out, “Help me!” And to Hanken, “You forced him! You wouldn't leave it. You couldn't leave it. You didn't want to see that he'd eventually do something… He'd do… Something…” And she brought her fist with the crumpled paper in it up to her forehead.

“Mrs. Maiden,” Lynley began.

“You worked with him. You were his friend. You know him. You knew him. You must do something, because if you don't… if you can't… Please, please.”

“What the hell's going on?” Hanken demanded. He had, obviously, little enough sympathy for the wife of his number-one suspect.

Lynley went to Nan Maiden and took her hand in his own. He lowered her arm and gently removed the note from her fingers. She said, “I was looking… I went out looking… But I don't know where and I'm so afraid.”

Lynley read the words and felt a chill of apprehension.

I'm taking care of this myself Andy Maiden had written.

Julian had just finished weighing Cass's puppies when his cousin came into the room. She'd evidently been looking for him, because she said happily, “Julie! Of course. How silly of me. I should have thought of the dogs at once.”

He was using the aniseed oil on Cass's teats, readying her puppies for the twenty-four-hour test of their sense of smell. As harriers, they had to be excellent trackers.

Cass growled uneasily when Samantha entered. But she soon settled when Julian's cousin adjusted her voice to the soothing tone that the dogs were more used to.

Sam said, “Julie, I had the most extraordinary encounter with your father this morning. I thought I'd be able to tell you at lunch-time, but when you didn't turn up… Julie, have you eaten anything today?”

Julian hadn't been able to face the breakfast table. And his feelings hadn't much changed by lunch. So he'd busied himself with work instead: inspections of some of the tenant farmers’ properties, researching in Bakewell what hoops one had to jump through when making changes in a listed building, throwing himself into the myriad chores in the kennels. Thus, he'd been able to ignore everything that wasn't directly related to whatever he designated as the immediate task in hand.

Sam's appearance inside the kennels made any further efforts at distraction impossible. Nonetheless, in an effort to avoid the conversation he'd promised himself that he'd have with her, he said, “Sorry, Sam. I got caught up in work round here.” He tried to sound apologetic. And, in fact, he felt apologetic, when it came down to it, because Sam was working her heart out at Broughton Manor. The least he could do to demonstrate his gratitude, Julian thought, was to show up for meals in acknowledgement of her efforts.

He said, “You're holding us together, and I know it. Thanks, Sam. I'm grateful. Truly.”

Sam said warmly, “I'm happy to do it. Honestly, Julie. It's always seemed such a shame to me that we've never had much of a chance to-” She hesitated. She seemed to sense the need to change gears. “It's amazing when you think that if our parents had only mended their fences, you and I could have-” Another gear change. “I mean, we're family, aren't we. And it's sad not to get to know the members of your very own family. Especially when you finally do get to know them and they turn out to be… well, such fine people.” She fingered the plait that hung long and thick over her shoulder. Julian noticed for the first time how neatly it was braided. He saw that it very nearly caught the light.

He said, “Well, I'm not always what I should be when it comes to saying thanks.”

“I think you're great.”

He felt himself colour: the curse of his complexion. He turned from her and went back to the dog. She asked what he was doing and why, and he was grateful that an explanation of aniseed oil and cotton swabs provided them a means to get past an awkward moment. But when he'd said all there was to be said about Pavlov, conditioning, and how the association of an unpleasant scent with their dam's milk could be used to test the puppies’ developing