He cursed at the web this entire investigation had become. Barbara needed to march into Isabelle’s office, reveal everything, and throw herself upon the superintendent’s mercy. She had to take the bitter medicine Isabelle would then dole out to her. But he knew that Havers would never do it.
His mobile rang. For a moment he allowed himself to think that Barbara had seen sense. She’d thought rationally as she’d finished her coffee, and here she was to announce that she’d reconsidered.
But a glance at his phone told him it wasn’t Barbara phoning at all. It was Daidre Trahair.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he told her in answering the mobile’s ring.
“Where are you?”
“Ringing for the lift as it happens.”
“Does that mean a lift in Italy or somewhere else?”
“It means London.”
“Ah. Lovely. You’re back.”
“Only just now. I flew in from Pisa late this morning and came directly to the Met.”
“How is it that you coppers put things, then? Did you have a ‘good result’?”
“We did.” The lift doors opened, but he waved it off, not wanting to chance losing the signal. He gave Daidre a few details about Hadiyyah’s safe return to the arms of her parents. He didn’t tell her about SO12, Pakistan, or Barbara’s perilous situation.
She said, “You must be enormously relieved to have it turn out so well. She’s safe, she’s healthy, her parents are . . . what?”
“Certainly not reconciled to each other, but in acceptance of the reality that they must share her. Admittedly, it’s not the best situation for a nine-year-old, shuttling between parents in two different countries, but it’s how things must be.”
“This is how it is for so many children, isn’t it, Tommy? I mean, going between two parents.”
“You’re right, of course. More and more, it’s the way of the world.”
“You sound . . . not quite as relieved as I’d think you’d be.”
He smiled at this. She had read him astutely, and he found, unexpectedly, that he liked that fact. He said, “I suppose that I’m not. Or perhaps I’m merely tired.”
“Too tired for a glass of wine?”
His eyes widened. “Where are you? Are you not phoning from Bristol?”
“I’m not.”
“Dare I hope . . . ?”
She laughed. “You sound like Mr. Darcy.”
“I thought women liked that. Along with those tight trousers.”
She laughed again. “As it happens, they do.”
“And . . . ?”
“I’m in London. On business, of course—”
“Of the Kickarse Electra kind?”
“Alas, no. This is business of the veterinarian kind.”
“Might I ask what a large animal veterinarian is doing in London? Have we a camel at the zoo in need of your expert ministrations?”
“That brings us back to the glass of wine. If you’ve time this evening, I’ll explain it to you. Have you the time?”
“Name the place and I’m there.”
She did so.
BELSIZE PARK
LONDON
The wine bar she suggested was in Regent’s Park Road, north of both Regent’s Park and Primrose Hill. It was situated rather unceremoniously between a newsagent’s and a kitchen shop, but its exterior position was deceptive. Inside, all was candlelight, velvet-draped windows, and linen-covered tables for two.
As the hour was still early and the place largely unoccupied, he saw Daidre at once. She was seated at a table tucked into a corner, where a painting on the wall either featured a modern look-alike to William Morris’s wife—God, what was her name? he wondered—or there was a Pre-Raphaelite extant that he wasn’t aware of. A light shone brightly upon the piece, giving Daidre sufficient illumination to inspect a set of papers she’d spread on the table. She was also speaking to someone on her mobile.
He paused before crossing the wine bar to join her, aware of experiencing a decided rush of pleasure at seeing Daidre again. He took a rare opportunity to study her without her knowledge, noting that she was wearing new spectacles—rimless and virtually unnoticeable—and that she was dressed for business in a tailored suit. The scarf she wore bore a mixture of colours that matched her sandy hair and, it was likely, her eyes as well, and it came to him that he and she could actually pass for brother and sister, so similar was their colouring.
As he approached, he saw other details. She was wearing a simple pendant necklace: its decoration a gold depiction of the wheelhouse of one of the Cornish mines from the area of her birth. She had gold studs in her ears as well, but they and the necklace comprised her only jewellery. Her hair was slightly longer now, reaching below her shoulders, and she was wearing it back from her face and fastened somehow on the back of her head. She was a handsome woman, but not a beautiful one. In a world of thin, young, airbrushed things on the covers of fashion magazines, she would not have garnered a second look.
She’d already ordered a glass of wine, but it seemed untouched. Instead, she was jotting notes on the margin of her paperwork, and as he reached the table, he heard her say into her mobile, “I’ll send it on to you then, shall I? . . . Hmm, yes. Well, I’ll wait for your word. And thank you, Mark. It’s very good of you.”
She glanced up then. She smiled at Lynley and held up a just-a-moment finger. She listened again to whatever was being said to her by whoever was on the other end of the mobile, and then, “Indeed. I depend on you,” and she rang off.
She stood to greet him, saying, “You’ve made it. It’s lovely to see you, Thomas. Thank you for coming.”
They engaged in air kisses: one cheek, then the other, with nothing touching anyone’s flesh. He asked himself idly where the maddening social nicety had come from.
He sat and tried not to notice what he noticed: that she quickly put all the paperwork into a large leather bag by the side of her chair, that a faint blush had risen to her cheeks, and that she was wearing something on her lips that made them look soft and glossy. Then it came to him suddenly that he was taking in aspects of Daidre Trahair that he hadn’t taken in, in the presence of a woman, since Helen’s death. Not even with Isabelle had he noted so much. It discomfited him, asking him to identify what it meant.
He wanted, of course, to ask who Mark was. But instead, he nodded at the large bag on the floor and said, “Work?” as he drew out a chair to sit.
She said, “Of a sort,” as she sat again herself. “You’re looking well, Thomas. Italy must suit you.”
“I daresay Italy suits most people,” he told her. “And Tuscany in particular suits everyone, I expect.”
“I’d like to see Tuscany someday,” she said. “I’ve not been.” And in less than a second and most typical of Daidre, “Sorry. That sounds as if I’m begging an invitation.”
“Perhaps coming from someone else,” he said. “Coming from you, no.”
“Why not from me?”
“Because I’ve got the impression that subterfuge isn’t part of your bag of tricks.”
“Well . . . yes. Admittedly, I have no bag of tricks.”
“Exactly,” he said.
“I ought, I suppose. But I’ve never quite had the time to develop tricks. Or to sew the bag for them. Or whatever. Are you having wine, Thomas? I’m drinking the house plonk. When it comes to wine, I’m hopeless. I doubt I could tell the difference between something from Burgundy and something made here in the cellar.” She twirled her wineglass by the stem and frowned. “I appear to be making the most disparaging remarks about myself. I must be nervous.”
“About?”
“As I was in complete order a moment ago, I must be feeling nervous with you here.”
“Ah,” he said. “Another glass of wine, perhaps?”
