Elizabeth George - In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner

“From who?” Nkata asked the question without looking up from his meticulous note-taking.

“Does it matter from whom?”

“Tell us and we'll make up our minds,” Barbara said.

“From Douglas and Gordon.”

“Mates of yours?”

“Its an estate agency.”

Barbara watched as Vi replaced the portfolio on a shelf beneath the television. She waited till the young woman had turned back to them before she went on. “Mr. Reeve told us that Nicola Maiden had a problem with the truth and a bigger problem keeping her mouth shut about his clients’ finances. He said he was going to sack her, when she left.”

“That's not true.” Vi remained standing, arms folded beneath diminutive breasts. “If he was going to sack her, which he wasn't, it would've been because of his wife.”

“Why?”

“Jealousy. Tricia wants to eliminate every woman he looks at.”

“And he looked at Nicola?”

“I didn't say that.”

“Listen. We know she had a lover,” Barbara said. “We know he's in London. Could that have been Mr. Reeve?”

“Tricia doesn't give him ten minutes out of her sight.”

“But it's possible?”

“No. Nikki was seeing someone, it's true. But not here. There. In Derbyshire.” Vi went into the kitchen and returned with a handful of picture postcards. They depicted various sites in the Peak District: Arbor Low, Peveril Castle, Thor's Cave, the stepping stones in Dovedale, Chatsworth House, Magpie Mine, Little John's Grave, Nine Sisters Henge. Each was addressed to Vi Nevin, and each bore an identical message: Oooh-laAa. This was followed by the initial N. That was all.

Barbara handed the postcards over to Nkata. She said to Vi, “Okay. I'll bite. Clue me in on the meaning behind these.”

“Those are the places she had sex with him. Every time they did it in a new location, she bought a postcard and sent it along to me. As a joke.”

“A real scream,” Barbara agreed. “Who's the bloke?”

“She never said. But I expect he's married.”

“Why?”

“Because aside from the postcards, she never once mentioned him when we talked on the phone. That's how I'd expect her to act if she had a relationship that wasn't on the up and up.”

“Made a habit of that, did she?” Nkata set the cards on the coffee table and made a note in his book. “She did other married blokes?”

“I didn't say that. Just that I think this one was married. And he wasn't in London.”

But someone was, Barbara thought. Someone had to be. If Nicola Maiden had intended a return to town at the end of the summer, she would have been coming with some means of supporting herself once she got here. With this ultramodern, recently redecorated, plush, posh, and pleasant maisonette having try sting place written all over it, how unreasonable was it to assume that a punter deep in dosh had set her up in style to be at his disposal day and night?

That begged the question of what the hell Vi Nevin was doing there. But perhaps that had been part of the deal. A flatmate with whom the mistress could while away the boring hours while waiting for her lord and master to appear.

It was a stretch. But no more than that which was needed to accommodate the vision of Nicola Maiden as Sir Richard Burton, hiking across the moors to discover new and exciting bonking locations to share with a married lover.

What the hell am I doing in police work, Barbara wondered acerbically, when the rest of the world is having so much fun?

They'd like to have a look at Nicola Maiden's room and belongings, she told Vi Nevin. Somewhere there was going to be concrete evidence that Nicola was up to something, and she was determined to find it.

“He squirmed. The flaming bastard bloody well squirmed!’ DI Peter Han-ken leaned back in his chair and savoured the moment, arms locked behind his head. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, and he talked round it with the expertise of a man long practised in the art. Lynley stood at a set of filing cabinets, spreading out on their tops the photographs of both dead bodies. He studied these while doing his best to keep clear of Hanken's tobacco smoke. A former victim of the weed himself, he found cause for celebration in the fact that he experienced the smoke as an irritant at long last, when months before he would have queued just to lick Hanken's ashtray. Not that the other DI was using the ashtray. When the burnt tobacco needed dislodging, he merely turned his head and let the ashes fall to the floor. It was a gesture out of character in the otherwise compulsively neat DI. It spoke of the level of his excitement.

Hanken was recounting his interview with Will Upman. The gusto with which he told the tale was growing as he reached its climax. Metaphorically speaking, it seemed. Because according to Hanken, the solicitor apparently hadn't been able to perform to his usual standards.

“But he said popping his cork doesn't matter to him when he's with a woman,” Hanken scoffed. “Said what matters is ‘the fun of it all.’”

“I'm intrigued,” Lynley said. “How did you manage to get that admission from him?”

“That he shagged her or that he didn't go the distance once he had her on the skewer?”

“Either. Both.” Lynley selected the clearest picture of Terry Cole's face and set it next to the clearest of the wounds on his body. “I trust you didn't use thumb-screws, Peter.”

Hanken laughed. “Didn't have to. I just told him what his neighbours had reported, and he sent the white flag straight up the pole.”

“Why had he lied?”

“Claims he hadn't. Claims he would have told us straight out if we'd asked straight out.”

“That's splitting hairs.”

“Lawyers.” The single word said it all.

Will Upman, Hanken had reported concisely, confessed to a single fling with Nicola Maiden and that fling had occurred on her last night in his employ. He'd felt a strong attraction to her for the entire summer, but his position as her employer had prevented him from making a move.

“Being involved elsewhere didn't prevent him?” Lynley clarified.

Not at all. Because how could he be truly, madly, and deeply in love with Joyce-and consequently legitimately “involved” with her-when he felt so wildly attracted to Nicola? And if he was wildly attracted to Nicola, didn't he owe it to himself to see what that attraction was all about? Joyce had been pressing him for a commitment-she'd had her mind set on their living together-but he couldn't take the next step with her until he cleared his head about Nicola.

“May I assume he dashed off straightaway and proposed to Joyce once his head was cleared with regard to the Maiden girl?” Lynley asked.

Hanken guffawed appreciatively. Upman had oiled the wheels with drinks, dinner, and wine, the DI reported. He took her to his home. More drinks there. Some music. Several cappuccinos. He had candles set up round his bathtub-“Lord.” Lynley shuddered. The man was a victim of Hollywood cinema.

– and he got her undressed and in the water without any trouble.

“Her wanting it as bad as he did, according to Upman,” Han-ken said.

They played in the tub till they looked like prunes, at which point they adjourned to the bedroom.

“Which is where,” Hanken concluded, “the rocket didn't launch.”

“And on the night of the murder?”

“Where was he, you mean?” Hanken recounted that as well. At lunch on Tuesday, Upman had had another set-to with the girlfriend on the topic of cohabitation. Rather than go home after work and run the risk of a phone call from her, he went for a drive. He ended up at Manchester Airport, where he checked into a hotel for the night and had a massage therapist come to his room to relieve him of his tension.