Elizabeth George - In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

“He sent the cheque.”

The hand dropped. “Thank heavens. I'm so relieved to know it. Granted, I was terribly preoccupied with my music that day because I wanted to play at least one piece for dear Terry by the end of the week. After all, it was a sweet present. Not my birthday or Mothering Sunday or anything and there he was… Not that I'd expect something on Mothering Sunday from a boy not my son, mind you, but he was a dear and always so generous, and I felt I ought to show him how much I appreciated his generosity by being able to play it. But it hadn't been going well at all-my practise, that is-because my eyes aren't what they used to be and reading music that's been handwritten is rather a problem. So I was quite preoccupied, you see. But the young man-Mr. King-Ryder, this is-seemed honest and truthful, so when it came to taking his word about a cheque, why, I didn't once think that he might be untruthful. And I'm glad to know that he wasn't.”

Barbara only half heard her final comments. She was transfixed, instead, by the woman's earlier words. She said, “Mrs. Baden,” quite slowly, drawing in a breath carefully, as if to do it with too much energy might frighten away the facts which she believed she was about to coax from the older woman. “Are you telling me that Terry Cole gave you some piano music?”

“Certainly, my dear. But I believe I mentioned that the other day when you were here. Such a lovely boy, Terry. Such a good boy, really. He was always willing to do the odd job or two round the house if I needed him. He fed my little birds if I was out as well. And he loved to wash windows and hoover the rugs. At least that's what he always said.” She smiled gently.

Barbara dragged the old woman away from her carpets and back to the topic. “Mrs. Baden, do you still have that music?” she asked.

“Well, certainly, I do. I have it right here.”

Lynley had Martin Reeve delivered to one of the Yard's interview rooms. He'd refused to talk to him on the phone when DC Steve

Budde from the search warrant team had placed a call to the Yard from the pimp's Notting Hill home, relaying Reeve's offer to strike a deal. Reeve, Budde said, wished to produce information that might be valuable to the police in exchange for the opportunity to emigrate to Melbourne, a city that Reeve appeared newly eager to embrace. What did DI Lynley want done about the matter? Scotland Yard, Lynley said, didn't make deals with killers. He told DC Budde to relay that message and to bring the pimp in.

As Lynley had hoped, Reeve arrived without his solicitor in tow. He was haggard, unshaven, and wearing jeans and a boxy Hawaiian shirt. This gaped open on a pallid chest, the sanguinolent path of someone's fingernails still fresh upon it.

“Call off your goons,” Reeve said without preamble when Lynley joined him. “This dickhead's pals”-with a jerk of his head at DC Budde-“are still trashing my house. I want them out of there pronto or I'm not cooperating.”

Lynley nodded Constable Budde into a seat against the wall, where he assumed a watchful position. The DC was the size of Bigfoot, and the metal chair creaked beneath him.

Lynley and Reeve took places at the table, where Lynley said, “You're not in a position to make demands, Mr. Reeve.”

“The fuck I'm not. I am if you want information. Get those assholes out of my house, Lynley.”

In response, Lynley put a fresh cassette into the tape player, pushed the record button, and gave the date, the time, and the names of everyone present. He recited the formal caution for Reeve's benefit, saying, “Are you waiving your right to a solicitor?”

“Jesus. What is this? D'you guys want the truth or a tap dance?”

“Just answer me, please.”

“I don't need a solicitor for what I'm here for.”

“The suspect waives his right to legal representation,” Lynley said for the record. “Mr. Reeve, were you acquainted with Nicola Maiden?”

“Let's cut to the chase, all right? You know I knew her. You know she worked for me. She and Vi Nevin quit last spring, and I haven't seen either one of them since. End of story. But that's not what I'm here to talk-”

“How long was it after their departure before Shelly Platt informed you that the Maiden girl and Vi Nevin had set themselves up privately in prostitution?”

Reeve's eyes became hooded. “Who? Shelly what?”

“Shelly Platt. You can't be denying that you know her. According to my man at the hospital, she recognised you the moment she saw you this morning.”

“Lots of people recognise me. I get around. So does Tricia. Our faces must be in the papers once a week.”

“Shelly Platt states that she told you about the two girls' going into business for themselves. You can't have liked that. It can't have done much to enhance your reputation as a man with his stable under control.”

“Look. If a flatbacker wants to go it alone, I could give a shit, all right? They find out soon enough how much work and money's involved in attracting the calibre of clients they're used to. Then they come back, and if they're lucky and I'm in the mood, I take them back. It's happened before. It'll happen again. I knew it would happen to Maiden and Nevin if I waited them out long enough.”

“And if they didn't want back in? If they were more of a success than you anticipated? What then? And what can you do to prevent the rest of your girls from trying their luck as independents?”

Reeve leaned back in his chair. “Are we here to talk about the pussy game in general or do you want some straight answers to last night's questions? Your choice, Inspector. But make it quick. I don't have the time to sit here and chew the fat with you.”

“Mr. Reeve, you're not in a bargaining position. One of your girls is dead. The other-her partner-has been beaten and left for dead. Either this is a remarkable coincidence or the events are related. The link appears to be you and their decision to leave you.”

“Which makes them not my girls any longer,” Reeve said. “I'm not involved.”

“So you'd like us to believe that a call girl can leave you, set herself up in business in competition with you, and not expect any reprisal. Free market economy, with the spoils going to him or her with the superlative product. Is that it?”

“I couldn't have put it better.”

“The best man wins? Or the best woman, for that matter?”

“The first precept of business, Inspector.”

“I understand. So you'll have no objection to telling me where you were yesterday while Vi Nevin was being assaulted.”

“As my half of the deal, I'm happy to tell you. Once I learn what your half's going to be.”

Lynley felt weary with the pimp's manoeuvring. “Put him on the charge sheet,” he said to DC Budde. “Assault and murder.” The constable rose.

“Hey! Wait a minute! I came here to talk. You offered a deal to Tricia yesterday. I'm claiming it today. All you need to do is put it on the table so we both know what we're agreeing to.”

“That's not how things work.” Lynley got to his feet.

DC Budde took the pimp's arm. “Let's go.”

Reeve shook him off. “Fuck that shit. You want to know where I was? All right. I'll tell you.”

Lynley sat again. He hadn't switched the recorder off, and the pimp in his agitation hadn't noticed. “Go on.”

Reeve waited until Budde had returned to his seat. He said, “Keep a collar on Rufus. I don't like being manhandled.”

“We'll take note of that.”

Reeve rubbed his arm as if contemplating a future suit charging policy brutality. He said, “All right. I wasn't at home yesterday. I went out in the afternoon. I didn't get back till night. Nine or ten o'clock.”

“Where were you, then?”