as well? While Barbara couldn’t quite get her mind round the idea of having it off with three blokes at once, she had to admit that anything was possible. She herself would worry about mistakenly shrieking the wrong name in the height of passion. On the other hand, heights of passion weren’t regular occurrences in her life.
She said to Castro, “How long did your affair with Angelina last?”
“Is that important?”
“Matter of curiosity, I suppose.”
He glanced at her and then away. “I don’t know. A few years? Two or three? It was always off and on.”
“How often did you meet when it was ‘on’?”
“Generally twice a week. Sometimes three.”
“Where?”
Another glance. He gave her a speculative head to toe. “What does it matter?”
“Another point of curiosity. Love to know how the other half lives, if you wouldn’t mind telling me.”
He looked away, his gaze settling across the room where he was reflected in the mirror. “Anywhere,” he said. “In the back of cars, in a taxi, here in the studio, backstage in a West End theatre, at my place, at her place, at a particular lap dancing club.”
“That must have been interesting,” Barbara commented.
“She liked risk. Once we did it in the pedestrian tunnel to Greenwich. She was creative, and I liked that about her. Passion drives her. And what drives passion is excitement and secrecy. That’s who she is. That’s how she is.”
“Seems to me that she’s the sort of woman a bloke would want to hang on to, then,” Barbara noted. “You know what I mean, I expect. Any time, any place, dressed, undressed, standing, sitting, kneeling, whatever. Don’t blokes get off on that kind of thing?”
“Some do.”
“And are you ‘some’?”
“I’m Latin, Sergeant. What do you think?”
“I think it would be tough to replace her,” Barbara pointed out, “once she was gone. Could have been a real heartbreaker for you.”
“No one replaces Angelina,” he said. “And like I told you, I expect her to be back.”
“Even now?”
“With her in Italy?”
“With her living with Lorenzo Mura.”
“I don’t know.” He looked at his watch and got to his feet, ready to resume rehearsal. “I suppose I should be glad it lasted as long as it did,” he added. “Come to think of it, so should Mura.”
24 April
HOXTON
LONDON
Bathsheba Ward was next on Barbara’s list. Since the wily cow had lied to her about her sister—and this was looking more and more like a bloody family trait, wasn’t it?—Barbara was determined to show her no pity. She was also determined to give DI Stewart and Detective Superintendent Ardery no further ammunition to fire upon her. For both of these reasons, she rose in what for her were the wee hours of the morning and headed to Hoxton. She bought a takeaway coffee on her way and used it to wash down a gratifyingly extra-large bacon butty. She was more than ready to take on the world when she arrived in Nuttall Street, where Bathsheba and her husband Hugo Ward lived in a flat on a very nicely kept estate of buildings fashioned from London brick.
No one was up and about on the estate when Barbara arrived, but that was no surprise as it was a quarter past six. She found the Ward flat with no trouble at all, and she leaned on the external bell for as long as it took until a man’s voice demanded, “What in God’s name do you want? Do you know what time it is?”
“New Scotland Yard,” Barbara told him. “I need a word. Now.”
This was greeted by silence as the man—presumably Hugo Ward—thought this one over. She gave him five seconds and then rang the bell a second time. He buzzed her inside the place without another word, and she made her way to the flat on the second floor.
Before she could knock, he had the door open. Despite the hour, he was dressed for the day in complete business regalia: three-piece suit, crisp shirt—although hideously two-toned with white collar and blue body— striped tie, and professionally polished shoes. He said, “
“What’s this about?” he asked, not unreasonably.
“A word with your wife,” Barbara told him.
“She’s asleep.”
“Wake her up.”
“Are you aware of the time?”
She wore a wristwatch, and she shook it next to her ear and squinted at it.
“Damn,” she said. “Mickey’s gone belly up.” And to Hugo Ward, “You’ve already mentioned the time, Mr. Ward. And I don’t have a hell of a lot of it to waste. So if you’ll fetch your wife . . . ? Tell her it’s Sergeant Havers, here to share a morning cuppa with her. She knows who I am. Tell her it’s about her trip to Italy last November.”
“She didn’t go to Italy last November.”
“Well someone did. And on her passport.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Believe me, Mr. Ward. In my line of work, you suss out pretty fast that anything’s possible.”
He looked disturbed by the information. That was good. It meant he would be inclined to cooperate. His glance went from Barbara to the corridor behind him. They stood in the small square entry of the flat, where a mirror on one wall reflected a pricey-looking piece of modern art on the other. It was all lines and squiggles suggestive of nothing. But even at that, it did look as if the painter had known what he was doing, although Barbara couldn’t reckon why this should be the case.
She said, “Mr. Ward . . . ? I’m short on time here. D’you want to rouse her from her beauty whatevers, or do you want me to do the honours?”
He said, “Just a moment, then,” and told her to wait in the sitting room, which he called the reception room like some estate agent getting ready to sell the place. This was just off the corridor and like the entry, it was hung with a plethora of modern paintings and decorated with furniture that bore the look of Bathsheba’s distinctive design style. On tables here and there were framed photographs, and Barbara sauntered over to give them the eye as Hugo Ward disappeared to fetch his wife.
She saw that the pictures were of the happy, extended Ward family: the two adult children and their spouses, a winsome grandchild, the beaming paterfamilias, the devoted second wife hanging upon him. They were in various poses on various occasions, and they all reminded Barbara of a quotation that she couldn’t identify but knew that Lynley could have: Someone was protesting too much. In this case it was all about Aren’t we a happy, handsome group? She gave a snort, turned away, and saw that Hugo Ward had come to the reception room’s door.
“She’ll see you when she’s dressed and had her coffee,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” Barbara told him. “Where is she?” She crossed the room and went into the corridor, heading towards three closed doors. “Bedroom’s this way?” she said. “Since it’s just us girls, she won’t be showing me anything I don’t own myself.”
“You bloody hang on!” Ward demanded.
“Love to but you know the situation with time and tide. Is it this door?”
She opened the first that she came to as Hugo Ward blustered behind her, protesting every inch of the way.
