Elizabeth George - In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

Reeve made a choking sound. Lynley found that he liked it.

“Or shall I fill in the blanks myself? I dare say I know the dramatis personae.” Another twist with each name as he said, “Vi Nevin. Nicola Maiden. Terry Cole. Shelly Platt as well, if we come down to it.

Reeve gasped, “F… king… out… of… mind .” His hands clawed his throat.

At which Lynley released him, flinging him forward like a discarded rag. “You're trying my patience. I'm beginning to think a phone call to the local station isn't a bad idea. A few nights with the boys in the Ladbroke Grove lock-up might be just what we need to oil your tongue.”

“Your ass is history. I know enough people who'll-”

“I've no doubt of that. You probably know people from here to

Istanbul. And while every one of them would happily rise to your defence were you brought up on charges of pandering, you're going to find that assaulting women doesn't go down such a treat among the big public profiles. Not when you think of the fodder they'd be giving the tabloids if word got out that they came to your aid. As it is, they're going to find it a delicate enough business lending you a hand once I run you in as a pimp. To expect more from them… I wouldn't be so unwise, Mr. Reeve. Now answer the question. What happened to your face?”

Reeve was silent, but Lynley could see his mind working. The other man would be assessing what facts the police had. He hadn't lived on the periphery of the law for as long as he had without acquiring some knowledge about the law's application to his own life. He would know that had Lynley possessed anything solid-like an eyewitness or the signed statement of his victim-he would have made an immediate arrest. But he would also know that living outside the law as he did, he had fewer options when caught up in a dicey situation.

Reeve said, “All right. It's Tricia. She's on the shit. I came home from looking in on two of my girls whose work's fallen off. She was smacked out. I lost it. Jesus. I thought she was dead. I got physical with her, slapped her around, part fear and part anger. And I found out she wasn't as out of it as I'd thought. She got physical back.”

Lynley didn't believe a word. He said, “You're trying to tell me that your wife-strung out on drugs-did that to your face?”

“She was upstairs in a nod, the worst she's been in months. I couldn't deal with it on top of the girls and their troubles. I can't be everyone's daddy. So I lost it.”

“What troubles?”

“What?”

“The girls. Their troubles.”

Reeve looked towards the reception desk and upon it the display of brochures that ostensibly advertised MKR's financial services. “I know you know about the business. But you probably don't know what lengths I go to to keep them healthy. Blood tests every four months, drug screening, physical exams, balanced diet, exercise…”

“A real drain on your financial resources,” Lynley noted dryly.

“Hell. I don't care what you think. This is a service industry, and if someone doesn't offer it, someone else will. I'm not apologising. I supply clean, healthy, educated girls in a decent environment. Any guy who spends time with one of them gets value for his money and no threat of disease to take home to the ball-and-chain. And that's what I was uptight about when I got home: two girls with trouble.”

“Disease?”

“Genital warts. Chlamydia. So I was pissed off. And then when I saw Tricia, I snapped. That's it. If you want their names, addresses, and numbers, I'm happy to oblige.”

Lynley watched him carefully, wondering if it was all a calculated risk on the part of the pimp or an actual coincidence that he'd bear his wife's defensive marks on his face on the very same evening that Vi Nevin had been attacked. He said, “Let's have Mrs. Reeve down here to tell her side of the story, then.”

“Oh come on. She's asleep.”

“That didn't appear to bother you a moment ago when you were howling for her to phone the police. And Polmanteer… your solicitor, is that? We can still phone him if you'd like.”

Reeve stared at Lynley, disgust and dislike on his features. He finally said, “I'll get her.”

“Not alone, I'm afraid.” The last thing Lynley wanted to do was to give Reeve an opportunity to coerce his wife into supporting his story.

“Fine. Then come along.”

Reeve led the way up two flights of stairs to the second floor. In a bedroom overlooking the street he walked to a bed the size of a playing field and switched on the bedside lamp. Light from it fell upon the form of his wife. She lay on her side, curled foetally, deeply asleep.

Reeve flipped her onto her back, grabbed her under the armpits, and pulled her upright. Her head lolled forward like a rag doll's. He tipped her backwards and propped her up against the headboard. “Good luck,” he said to Lynley with a smile. He pointed out a string of nasty bruises round her throat, saying, “I had to get rougher than I wanted with the bitch. She was out of control. I thought she'd kill me.”

Lynley jerked his head away from the woman, indicating he wanted Reeve to back off. Reeve did so. Lynley took his place at the bed. He reached for Tricia's arm, saw the angry tracks of injections, felt for a pulse. As he did this, she heaved in a deep breath, making his gesture unnecessary. Lightly, he slapped her face. “Mrs. Reeve,” he said. “Mrs. Reeve. Can you wake up?”

Reeve moved behind him, and before Lynley realised what he intended, he'd grabbed a vase of flowers, tossed the blooms to the floor, and dashed the water across his wife's face. “God damn it, Trida. Wake up!”

“Stand back,” Lynley ordered.

Tridas eyes fluttered open as the water dripped down her cheeks. Her dazed glance went from Lynley to her husband. She flinched. That reaction said it all.

Lynley said through his teeth, “Get out of here, Reeve.”

“Fuck that,” Reeve said. And he went on tersely, “He wants you to tell him we fought, Tricia. That I went after you and you went after me. You remember how it happened. So tell him that you went for my face and he'll clear the hell out of our house.”

Lynley surged to his feet. “I said get out!”

Reeve stabbed a finger at his wife. “Just tell him. He can see we fought when he looks at us, but he's not about to take my word unless you tell him it's the truth. So tell him.”

Lynley threw him from the room. He slammed the door. He returned to the bed. There, Tricia sat as he'd left her. She made no move to dry herself.

There was an en suite bathroom, and Lynley went to this and fetched a towel. He used it gently against her face, against her damaged neck, against her sopping chest. Tricia looked at him numbly for a moment before she turned her head and gazed at the door through which he'd ejected her husband.

He said, “Tell me what happened between you, Mrs. Reeve.”

She turned back to him. She licked her lips.

“Your husband attacked you, didn't he? Did you fight back?” It was a ludicrous question and he damn well knew it. How, he wondered, could she possibly have done so? The last thing heroin users were good for was a vigorous round of self-defence. “Let me phone someone for you. You need to get out of here. You must have a friend. Brothers or sisters? Parents?”

“No!” She grabbed his hand. Her grip wasn't strong, but her nails-long and as artificial as the rest of her-dug into his flesh.

“I don't believe for a moment that you put up a fight against your husband, Mrs. Reeve. And my failure to believe that is going to make things difficult for you once your husband bails himself out of custody. I'd like to get you out of here before all that happens, so if you'll give me a name of someone to phone…”