Elizabeth George - In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

“And that's where I struck gold,” he said.

“Well done, Winnie,” Lynley said warmly. Nkata's initiative had long been one of his finest qualities. “What did you get?”

“Something dicey.”

“Dicey? Why?”

“Because of who got clamped.” The DC looked suddenly uneasy, which should have been a warning. But Lynley didn't see it and, at any rate, he was distracted by feeling too decidedly positive about how things had gone with Martin Reeve.

“Who?” he asked.

“Andrew Maiden,” Nkata said. “Seems he was in town on the ninth of May. He got clamped round the corner from Nicola's digs.”

Lynley felt a tight sickness in the pit of his stomach as he closed his front door and began to climb the stairs. He went to his bedroom, pulled out the same suitcase he'd brought back from Derbyshire on the previous day, and opened it on the bed. He started to pack for the return journey, tossing in pyjamas, shirts, trousers, socks, and shoes without giving a thought to what he'd actually need when he got there. He packed his shaving gear and nicked Helen's bar of soap from the bath.

His wife came in as he was closing the lid on a packing job that would have sent Denton into fits. She said, “I thought I heard you. What's happened? Are you off again so soon? Tommy darling, is something wrong?”

He set the suitcase on the floor and cast about for an explanation. He went with the facts without attaching an interpretation to them. “The trail's leading back to the North,” he told her. “Andy Maiden appears to be involved.”

Helen's eyes widened. “But why? How? Lord, that's terrible. And you admired him so, didn't you?”

Lynley told her what Nkata had discovered. He related what the DC had learned earlier about the argument and the threat heard in May. He added to that what he himself had put together from his interviews with the SO 10 officer and his wife. He finished with the information that Hanken had passed along on the phone. What he didn't embark on was a monologue dealing with the probable reason that Andy Maiden had requested one DI Thomas Lynley-a notable washout from SO 10-as the Scotland Yard officer sent north to assist in the investigation. He would face that subject later, when his pride could stand it.

“It made sense to me at first to look at Julian Britton,” he said in conclusion. “Then at Martin Reeve. I stuck with one and then the other and ignored every detail that pointed anywhere else.”

“But, darling, you may still be right,” Helen said. “Especially about Martin Reeve. He has more of a motive than anyone, hasn't he? And he could have tracked Nicola Maiden to Derbyshire.”

“And out onto the moor as well?” Lynley said. “How could he possibly have managed that?”

“Perhaps he followed the boy. Or had the boy followed by someone else.”

“There's nothing to say Reeve even knew the boy, Helen.”

“But he may have learned about him through the phone box cards. He's someone who watches the competition, isn't he? If he found out who was placing Vi Nevin's cards and began to have him trailed just as he had Barbara and Winston trailed to Fulham… Why couldn't he have tracked down Nicola that way? Someone could have been following the boy for weeks, Tommy, knowing he'd eventually lead the way to Nicola.”

Helen warmed to her theory. Why, she asked, could someone employed by Reeve to trail the boy not have followed him out of London, up to Derbyshire, and onto the moors to meet Nicola? Once the girl was located, a single phone call to Martin Reeve from the nearest pub would have been all that it took. Reeve could have ordered the murders from London at that point, or he could have flown up to Manchester-or driven to Derbyshire in less than three hours-and gone out to the ancient stone circle to settle with them himself.

“It doesn't have to be Andy Maiden,” she concluded.

Lynley touched her cheek. “Thank you for being my champion.”

“Tommy, don't discount me. And don't discount yourself. From what you've told me, Martin Reeve has a motive carved out of marble. Why on earth would Andy Maiden kill his daughter?”

“Because of what she became,” Lynley replied. “Because he couldn't talk her out of becoming it. Because he couldn't stop her by means of reasoning, persuasion, or threat. So he stopped her the only other way he knew.”

“But why not just have her arrested? She and the other girl-”

“Vi Nevin.”

“Yes. Vi Nevin. There were two of them in business. Doesn't it constitute a brothel if there're two? Couldn't he merely have phoned an old friend in the Met and brought her down that way?”

“With all his former colleagues knowing what she'd become? What his own daughter had become? He's a proud man, Helen. He'd never go for that.” Lynley kissed her forehead, then her mouth. He picked up his suitcase. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

She followed him down the stairs. “Tommy, you're harder on yourself than anyone I know. How can you be certain that you're not just being hard on yourself now? And with far more disastrous consequences?”

He turned to answer his wife, but the doorbell rang. The ringing was insistent and repeated, as if someone outside was leaning on the bell.

Their caller turned out to be Barbara Havers, and when Lynley set his suitcase by the door and admitted her into the house, she charged past him with a thick manila envelope in her hand, saying, “Holy hell, Inspector, I'm glad I caught you. We're one step closer to paradise.”

She greeted Helen and went into the drawing room, where she plopped onto a sofa and spilled the contents of her envelope onto a coffee table. “This is what he was after,” she said obscurely. “He spent over an hour at Terry Cole's flat pretending to look at Cilia's paintings. She thought he was in love with her work.” Havers ruffled her hair energetically, the signature gesture of her excitement. “But he was alone in that flat, Inspector, and he had plenty of time to search it stem to stern. He couldn't find what he wanted though. Because Terry had given it to Mrs. Baden when he'd realised he wasn't going to be able to flog it at a Bowers auction. And Mrs. Baden just gave it to me. Here. Have a look.”

Lynley stayed where he was, by the door to the drawing room. Helen joined Barbara and glanced through the numerous sheets of paper that she'd dumped from the envelope.

“It's music,” Barbara told him. “A whole slew of music. A whole bloody slew of Michael Chandler music. Neil Sitwell at Bowers told me he sent Terry Cole to King-Ryder Productions to get the name of the Chandler solicitors. But Matthew King-Ryder denied the whole thing. He said Terry came to get an artistic grant from him. So why the hell has no one we've talked to said a single word about Terry and a grant?”

“You tell me,” Lynley said evenly.

Havers ignored-or didn't notice-the tone. “Because King-Ryder is lying his head off. He followed him. He trailed Terry Cole round London everywhere he went, trying to get his mitts on this music.”

“Why?”

“Because the milk cow's dead.” Havers sounded triumphant. “And King-Ryder's only hope of keeping the ship floating for a few more years was to be able to produce another hit show.”

“You're mixing your metaphors,” Lynley remarked.

“Tommy.” Helen's expression carried an unspoken entreaty. She knew him better than anyone after all, and unlike Havers, she'd noted his tone. She'd also noted his unchanged position at the door to the room, and she knew what that meant.

Oblivious, Havers continued with a grin. “Right. Sorry. Anyway. King-Ryder told me that his dad's will leaves all the profits from his current productions to a special fund that supports theatre types. Actors, writers, designers. That sort. His last wife gets a bequest, but she's the sole beneficiary. Not a penny goes to Matthew or his sister. He'll have some sort of position as chairman or leader or whatever of the Fund, but how can that compare to the lolly he'd be gathering if he mounted another of his dad's productions? A new production, Inspector. A posthumous production. A production not governed by the terms of the will. There's your motive. He had to get his maulers on this music and eliminate the only person who knew Michael Chandler-and not David King-Ryder-had written it.”