I couldn't hold her gaze, and looked out the window, to see that the Range Rover that had been parked near the walls of Tyrrells court House when we came up here had gone.
FIFTEEN
Regina Tyrrell walked me down to the lobby. At reception, a tall slim girl of about nine or ten with long dark hair and dark eyes was waiting. When she saw Regina she ran to her and kissed her.
'Karen, meet Edward Loy. Ed Loy, Karen Tyrrell. My daughter.'
I shook the girl's hand, trying to fix a smile on my face. Her daughter? Behind the girl stood a slim male figure in his sixties, immaculate in tweed jacket, cavalry twill trousers, polished tan brogues, Tattersall shirt and cravat; only a small swollen belly betrayed F. X. Tyrrell's age. His weathered face had the same prominent cheekbones his brother's had; his eyes were smaller, but the same deep brown as his sister's; his lips were fleshy and loose. He had the quiet, watchful, half-sad, half-amused air of a man well used to having people report and defer to him; Regina, while not exactly going that far, seemed to genuflect an apology in his direction, which he dispelled with a half smile.
'I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Tyrrell,' I said.
He nodded to acknowledge my sympathy, and again to deflect it, gesturing toward the child. Everywhere in the lobby people were trying not to stare at F. X. Tyrrell and failing; they probably would have done so anyway, but with shy smiles on their faces; a glance at the pile of
'Do you have any children?' she said.
I couldn't really explain, not to a child.
'Yes,' I said. 'A little girl. She'd be about your age now.'
'I'm nine,' Karen said. 'What's her name?'
'Lily,' I said, and then heard myself saying: 'She lives with her mother. In America.'
'I live with my mother too,' Karen said. 'And Uncle Francis, but he's never there, and even when he is, he isn't. If that makes sense. Sometimes I don't make too much sense, Mum says.'
'It sounds sensible to me,' I said. 'A lot of men are like that.'
'I wouldn't know. My dad's dead,' she said gravely.
'I'm sorry,' I said.
'I suppose. I never knew him. I don't think Mum knew him very well either. She doesn't even have a photograph of him.'
Karen had been surveying the come-and-go around the room while we talked; now she looked up at me through eyes widened to express her bemusement at the scant trail her father had left. Her gaze left me reeling, and I felt as if it was setting me a challenge which, if met, could solve the mystery of the Tyrrells and of the killer who could be on their trail. For Karen Tyrrell's eyes were not identical: one was brown, and one was dark blue.
Regina joined us and told me her brother was waiting to speak to me outside the hotel. I found him by the far end of the building, looking back toward his stables. He didn't turn as I stood alongside him, barely moved a muscle.
'Did Jackie say anything about me?' he said quickly.
His voice was quiet but perfectly pitched, the kind of voice you listened closely to for fear of missing a beat. A king's voice.
'She said several things.'
'What were they?'
'Why do you want to know? It was a private conversation.' F. X. Tyrrell made a sound in his throat, a sound like a dry branch snapping.
'Just answer my question.'
'No, I don't think I will.'
Tyrrell still hadn't moved, but I could hear his breath coming quickly through his nose. He started to say something that sounded like a threat, then stopped himself and changed course.
'She was my wife, Mr. Loy.'
From another man it might have been a plea; F. X. Tyrrell made it sound like a command.
'I know that. But you weren't the subject of our meeting. Jackie spoke mainly about Miranda Hart, and Patrick Hutton. You know your brother has hired me to find Hutton?'
F. X. Tyrrell turned around and faced me, his small eyes blazing.
'A brother is loyal or he is nothing. I have no brother.'
'Father Vincent suggested I should ask you about close breeding.'
I don't know what reaction I was expecting; what I got was a weary shake of the head.
'Father Vincent should stick with his discipline, and let me stick with mine,' he said. 'Tell my sister I'll be waiting for her.'
I found Regina Tyrrell in reception. She whispered to Karen to wait with Uncle Francis, and Karen gave me a little salute somewhere between a nod and a curtsy and made to go; then came back and reached up and kissed my cheek and whispered something in my ear, and half skipped, half danced across to join her uncle, who was standing by the door.
'Great kid,' I said. Regina Tyrrell nodded as if that was beyond dispute, and looked at me impatiently, and I gave her my full attention.
'I have a proposition to put to you, Mr. Loy,' she said.
'I already have a client,' I said. 'Your brother Vincent.'
'We could pay more.'
'He's paying plenty. Besides, I don't know that F. X. Tyrrell took to me.'
'F.X. will do as I ask. We have our own security people, of course, but there are so many staff, here, and at the stables, and it would be good to have someone who's on top of the case. Not that I believe our lives are in danger, but…'
'I'm sure the Guards will offer some people.'
'That would be good for business. Guards clumping around.'
'I can't do it. There is someone…he's a little unorthodox…but I'd trust him with my life. Indeed, on several occasions, I have.'
'He'd be under your control,' she said.
I nearly laughed at the notion that Tommy could ever come fully under anyone's control.
'That's the general idea,' I said. 'I'll try and get him to you this evening.'
We discussed money, and when she didn't haggle, I got suspicious. I was suspicious anyway.
'Ms. Tyrrell, do you drive a Range Rover?'
'I do, as a matter of fact.'
'Could I see it?'
'It's right outside. Francis drove Karen over in it.'
'So you don't use it exclusively?'
'I usually do. Francis borrowed it today. His has something up with it.'
'He drives one as well?'
Regina nodded, already looking bewildered and a little bored by the questions. She nodded at me to follow her, conferred briefly with a trim blonde in a black trouser suit not unlike Regina 's who was presumably the duty manager and joined F.X. and Karen at the door. The Range Rover was outside and they climbed into it. I copied the number of the UK registration plate into my notebook. When I looked up again, Regina Tyrrell was standing before me, her face uncertain, her eyes wary.
