Elizabeth George - This Body of Death

“Two days,” she said. “And then I’m finished.” Her eyes brightened, but she shrugged off the emotion. “Well, John Stewart will be delighted, won’t he?” She gave a weak chuckle. “I forgot him in my office, Thomas. He’s probably still waiting there. D’you think he’ll spend the night? God, I need another drink.” She looked round the kitchen as if preparing to rise and fetch another bottle of vodka. Lynley wondered where she kept her supplies. They needed to be poured down the drain. She’d only get more, but at least her immediate desire for oblivion would be thwarted.

“I’ve made a dog’s dinner of this,” she said. “You wouldn’t have done. Malcolm Webberly wouldn’t have done. Even that blasted Stewart wouldn’t have done.” She crossed her arms on the table and put her head upon them. “I’m completely useless and hopeless and buggered and-”

“Self-pitying as well,” Lynley put in. Her head jerked up and he added pleasantly, “With all due respect, guv.”

“Is that remark part of being his ermine-clad lordship or just part of being a judgmental arse?”

Lynley made a show of thinking about this. “As wearing ermine gives me nettle rash, I suspect the latter.”

“Just as I thought. You’re out of order. If I want to say I’m useless, hopeless, and buggered, I’m damn well going to say it, all right?”

He added coffee to her mug. “Isabelle,” he said, “it’s time to buck up. You’ll get no argument from me that Hillier’s a nightmare to work for or that Deacon would sell his own sister to a New York pimp if it meant keeping the Met looking good. But that’s hardly the point just now. We’ve got a killer needing to be arrested and a case against that killer needing to be built for the CPS. Neither is going to happen if you don’t pull yourself together.”

She picked up her mug of coffee and Lynley wondered briefly if she intended to throw it at him. But rather than that, she drank from it and looked at him over the rim as she did so. She finally seemed to realise that he’d never answered her question about his presence in her flat because she said, “What the hell are you doing here, Thomas? Why did you come? This isn’t exactly your part of town, so I dare say you weren’t just passing by. And how’d you find out where I live, anyway? Did someone tell you…? Did that Judi MacIntosh overhear…? Did she send you? I wouldn’t put it past her to listen in at doorways. There’s something about her-”

“Control your paranoia for five minutes,” Lynley said. “I said from the first that I wanted to talk to you. I waited more than an hour in the incident room. Dee Harriman finally told me you’d gone home. All right?”

“Talk to me about what?” she asked.

“Frazer Chaplin.”

“What about him?”

“I’ve had most of the day to think about this from every angle. I reckon Frazer’s our man.”

SHE WAITED FOR Lynley’s explanation. She drank more coffee and decided to make an attempt with the toast. Her stomach didn’t recoil altogether at the thought of food, so she lifted one of the triangles Lynley had made for her, and she took a bite. She wondered if this was the extent of the inspector’s culinary talents. She thought it likely. He’d used far too much butter.

As he’d done earlier in the incident room, Lynley spoke of a magazine he’d had from Deborah St. James. Frazer Chaplin was in one of the pictures. That could indicate several things, he told her: Paolo di Fazio had been claiming from the first that Jemima had been involved with Frazer, despite the household rules that Mrs. McHaggis had put up for all her tenants to see. Abbott Langer had said much to support this claim, and Yolanda-at a stretch, Lynley admitted-had also indicated an involvement of some kind on Jemima’s part with a dark man.

So we’re going to listen to a psychic now? Isabelle wailed.

Just hang on, Lynley told her. They knew Jemima’s involvement wasn’t with di Fazio since she’d asked Yolanda repeatedly about whether her new lover returned her affections and she’d hardly be asking that about di Fazio after she’d ended her relationship with him. So wasn’t it safe to assume that Frazer Chaplin-his denials to the contrary-was the man they were looking for?

How the hell did that follow? Isabelle demanded. Even if he was involved with Jemima, that hardly meant he’d murdered her.

Wait, Lynley told her. If she would just hear him out please…?

Oh bloody all right. Isabelle was weary. She waved at him to continue.

Let’s assume a few things, he said. First, let’s assume that prior to her death Jemima was indeed involved romantically with Frazer Chaplin.

Fine. Let’s assume, Isabelle said.

Good. Next, let’s assume her possession of a gold coin and a carved carnelian are indications not that she carried a good luck charm or is sentimental about her father’s belongings or anything of the like. Let’s assume from these items that a Roman treasure hoard has been found. Then, let’s assume that she and Gordon Jossie are the individuals who found that hoard and they found it on their holding in Hampshire. Finally, let’s assume that prior to reporting that hoard-which must be done by law-something occurred between Jemima and Jossie that brought their relationship to a precipitate halt. She decamped to London, but all the time she knew there was a treasure to be had and that treasure was worth a fortune.

“What on earth brought their relationship to such a halt that she actually went into hiding from him?” Isabelle asked.

“We don’t know that yet,” Lynley admitted.

“Wonderful,” Isabelle muttered. “I can hardly wait to let Hillier know. For God’s sake, Thomas, this is too much assuming. What sort of arrest d’ you expect we can manage from all this speculation?”

“No arrest at all,” Lynley said. “Not yet at least. There are pieces missing. But if you think about it for a moment, Isabelle, motive isn’t one of them.”

Isabelle considered this: Jemima Hastings, Gordon Jossie, and a buried treasure. She said, “Jossie has a motive, Thomas. I don’t see how Frazer Chaplin has.”

“Of course he has. If there’s a buried treasure and if Jemima Hastings told him about it.”

“Why would she have done?”

“Why wouldn’t she? If she’s in love with him, if she hopes he’s ‘the one,’ there’s a good possibility that she told him about the treasure to make sure he stayed ‘the one.’”

“All right. Fine. So. She told him about the treasure. Doesn’t it stand to reason that he’d want to get rid of Gordon Jossie and not Jemima Hastings?”

“That would secure him the treasure only if he could hold on to Jemima’s affections. Her various visits to the psychic indicate she may well have been having second thoughts about Frazer. Why else keep asking if he was ‘the one’? Suppose he knew she was having doubts. Suppose he saw the handwriting on the wall. Lose Jemima and he loses the fortune. The only way to prevent this would be to get rid of them both-Jemima and Jossie-and he doesn’t have to worry about anything.”

Isabelle considered this. As she did so, Lynley rose from the table and went to the sink. He leaned against it and was silent, watching her and waiting.

She finally said, “It’s such a leap, Thomas. There’s too much to account for. He’s been alibied-”

“McHaggis could be lying. She could also be mistaken. She says he was home taking a shower but that’s what he always did, didn’t he? She was asked days later, Isabelle, and she could well want to protect him anyway.”

“Why?”

“She’s a woman.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what’s that supposed to-”

“Everyone agrees he has a way with women. Why not with Bella McHaggis as well?”