Elizabeth George - For the Sake of Elena

“Does that make him innocent?”

“It certainly makes him something.”

They went to the door where Lynley rang the bell as his sergeant dug through her shoulder bag and brought forth her notebook. When there was no immediate answer and no apparent movement in the house, he rang the bell a second time. A distant shout drifted down to them, a man’s voice calling out the words, “A moment.” More than one moment passed as they stood waiting on the sliver of concrete that served as the front step, watching two sets of neighbours hurry off to work and a third usher two children into an Escort that idled in the drive. Then behind the five opaque shafts of glass in the door, a shadow moved as someone approached.

The deadbolt turned. Thorsson stood in the entry. He wore a black velour dressing gown which he was in the process of belting. His hair was damp. It hung loose round his shoulders. He had nothing on his feet.

“Mr. Thorsson,” Lynley said by way of greeting.

Thorsson sighed, looked from Lynley to Havers. “Christ,” he said. “Wonderful. We’ve got snuten again.” Roughly, he ran a hand back through his hair. It fell onto his forehead in a boyish tangle. “What is it with you two? What do you want?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned from the door and walked down a short corridor towards the rear of the house where a door opened into what appeared to be the kitchen. They followed and found him pouring himself a mug of coffee from an impressive-looking coffee maker that sat on the work top. He began to drink, making a great deal of noise, first blowing then slurping. His moustache quickly became beaded with the liquid.

“I’d offer you some, but I require the whole pot to wake up in the morning.” That said, he added more to his cup.

Lynley and Havers took places at a glass and chrome table sitting in front of French doors. These led into a small rear garden where flagstones formed a terrace which held a set of outdoor furniture. One of the pieces was a wide chaise longue. A rumpled blanket lay across it, limp with the damp.

Lynley looked thoughtfully from the chaise to Thorsson. The other man glanced out the kitchen window in the direction of the furniture. Then he looked back to Lynley, his face a perfect blank.

“We seem to have taken you from your morning bath,” Lynley said.

Thorsson swallowed some coffee. He was wearing a flat gold chain round his neck. It glittered like snakeskin against his chest.

“Elena Weaver was pregnant,” Lynley said.

Thorsson leaned against the work top, holding his coffee mug balanced against his arm.

He looked uninterested, overcome with ennui. “And to think I had no opportunity to join her in celebrating the future blessed event.”

“Was a celebration in order?”

“I wouldn’t know, would I?”

“I thought you might.”

“Why?”

“You were with her Thursday night.”

“I wasn’t with her, Inspector. I went to see her. There’s a difference. Perhaps too subtle for you to grasp, but a difference all the same.”

“Of course. But she’d got the results of the pregnancy test on Wednesday. Did she ask to see you? Or did you take it upon yourself to see her?”

“I went to see her. She didn’t know I was coming.”

“Ah.”

Thorsson’s fingers tightened their grip on the mug. “I see. Of course. I was the anxious father-to-be waiting to hear the results. Did the rabbit live, precious, or should we start stockpiling disposable nappies? Is that how you have it?”

“No. Not exactly.”

Havers flipped over a page in her notebook. She said, “You’d want to know about the test results, I imagine, if you were the father. All things considered.”

“What things considered?”

“The harassment charges. A pregnancy is rather convincing evidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Thorsson barked a laugh. “What am I supposed to have done, dear Sergeant? Rape her? Tear off her knickers? Ply her with drugs and have at her afterwards?”

“Perhaps,” Havers said. “But seduction seems so much more in your line.”

“No doubt you could fill volumes with your knowledge of that subject.”

Lynley said, “Have you ever had a problem with a female student before?”

“What do you mean problem? What kind of problem?”

“An Elena Weaver kind of problem. Have you ever been charged with harassment before?”

“Of course not. Never. Ask at the college if you don’t believe me.”

“I’ve spoken to Dr. Cuff. He confi rms what you say.”

“But his word’s not good enough for you, it seems. You’d prefer to believe the stories cooked up by a little deaf tart who would have spread her legs-or opened her mouth-for any idiot willing to give her a try.”

“A little deaf tart, Mr. Thorsson,” Lynley said. “Curious choice of words. Are you suggesting that Elena had a reputation for promiscuity?”

Thorsson went back to his coffee, poured another mugful, took his time about drinking it. “Things get around,” he settled on saying. “The college is small. There’s always gossip.”

“So if she was a”-Havers made a production of squinting down at her notes-“‘a little deaf tart,’ why not poke her yourself along with all the other blokes? What more reasonable conclusion for you to reach than to assume she’d-what was it?-” Again, the deliberately concentrated look at her notes. “Ah yes, here it is…spread her legs or open her mouth for you? After all, she should have been willing. A man like you could no doubt offer her a real cut above her usual bit of spare.”

Thorsson’s face washed scarlet. It did battle with the elegant red-gold of his hair. But he said only and with perfect ease, “I am sorry, Sergeant. I can’t oblige you, no matter how much you’d like the encounter. I prefer women who weigh under ten stone.”

Havers smiled with neither pleasure nor amusement, but rather with the knowledge of having trapped her quarry. “Like Elena Weaver?”

“ Djävla skit! Give it up!”

Lynley said, “Where were you Monday morning, Mr. Thorsson?”

“At the English Faculty.

“I mean early Monday morning. Between six and half past.”

“In bed.”

“Here?”

“Where else would I be?”

“I thought you might tell us. One of your neighbours saw you arriving home just before seven.”

“Then one of my neighbours is mistaken. Who was it, anyway? That cow next door?”

“Someone who saw you drive up, get out of the car, and go into your house. All of it done in a bit of a hurry. Can you elucidate on that? I’m sure you agree that your Triumph would be a difficult car to mistake.”

“Not in this instance. I was here, Inspector.”

“And this morning?”

“This…? I was here.”

“The car’s engine was still warm when we arrived.”

“And that makes me a killer? Is that how you read it?”

“I don’t read it in any particular fashion. I just want to know where you were.”

“Here. I told you. I can’t help what a neighbour saw. But it wasn’t me.”

“I see.” Lynley looked across the table at Havers. He felt wearied by and bored with the necessity for endless sparring with the Swede. He felt the need for truth. And it appeared there would only be one way to get it. He said, “Sergeant, if you will.”

Havers was only too delighted to do the honours. With great ceremony, she fl ipped her notebook open to the inside of the cover where she kept a copy of the official caution. Lynley had heard her give it hundreds of times, so he was well aware that she knew the words by heart. Her use of the notebook added drama to the occasion, and given his own growing antipathy for Lennart Thorsson, he didn’t deny her the pleasure of milking the moment for personal satisfaction.