“I know,” he groused.
Lynley went under. It was simple, as St. James had said it would be. The dislodged stones hadn’t been in the water long enough to bear algae, so Lynley was able to find them quickly and heave them to the surface. He didn’t get out of the water, however. Instead he said to Fairclough, “There’s something else. Can you swing some light this way?” and he went under again.
As Fairclough swung the torchlight in his direction, St. James had a look at the stones. He was concluding that they were fine since there was no shine of strike marks against them when Lynley surfaced another time. He was holding something that he slapped against the dock. He lifted himself from the water, shivering, and grabbed the towels.
St. James looked to see what he’d brought to the surface. Fairclough, still above them on the dock, said, “What’ve you found?”
It was a filleting knife, St. James saw, the sort of knife used when one is cleaning fish. It had a thin blade some ten inches long. Most notable of all, its state clearly indicated it had not been in the water long.
MILNTHORPE
CUMBRIA
Deborah had no idea what on earth Simon thought was going to happen to her if she rang Nicholas Fairclough back. She’d perfectly weathered the confrontation with his wife; she was determined to do the same with Nicholas.
When she returned his phone call, he asked to meet her. He began by saying that he wondered if there was anything else she needed from him. He said he understood that filmmakers liked to include all sorts of footage to run during voice-overs, and there was plenty of scope for that, so he wondered if he could take her to Barrow-in-Furness to show her some of the areas where blokes lived rough. This might be important in the overall picture of things.
Deborah agreed. It was yet another chance to delve, and Tommy had wanted her to delve. Where should they meet? Deborah asked Nicholas.
He’d fetch her from her lodgings, he said.
She saw no danger in this. She had her mobile to rely upon, after all, and both Simon and Tommy were a mere phone call away. So she left her husband a note, along with the number of Nicholas’s mobile, and she went on her way.
Nicholas rumbled up in an old Hillman some twenty minutes later. Deborah was waiting for him in front of the hotel, and when he suggested that they have a coffee before setting off for Barrow-in-Furness, she didn’t demur.
Coffee was easy enough to come by, considering Milnthorpe was a market town with a good-sized square just off the main road. A church comprised part of this square, rising above the town on a modest slope of land, but two of the other three sides comprised restaurants and shops. Next to Milnthorpe Chippy— apparent purveyor of all things deep-fried— there was a small café. Nicholas led her to this, but not before calling out, “Niamh? Niamh?” in the direction of a woman who was just coming out of a Chinese takeaway three doors down from the chippy.
She turned. She was, Deborah saw, petite and slender. She was also formidably well put together, especially considering the time of day, which did not suggest stilettos and cocktail wear although that was what she had on. Her dress was short, showing well-shaped legs. It was also cut in a way to flatter breasts that were full, perky, and— it had to be said— patently artificial. Directly behind her was a man in the apron of an employee of the Chinese takeaway. There was apparently some relationship between them, Deborah saw, for Niamh turned to him and spoke while he offered her a long look that was clearly besotted.
Nicholas said, “Excuse me for a moment?” to Deborah and went over to the woman. She didn’t look pleased to see him. Her expression was stony. She said something to the man with her, who looked from her to Nicholas and decamped into the takeaway.
Nicholas began to speak. Niamh listened. Deborah sidled closer to catch something of their conversation, which wasn’t easy as it was market day in the square, so in addition to the vehicle noise from the main road through Milnthorpe, she had to contend with housewives chattily shopping for fruit and veg as well as individuals stocking up on everything from batteries to socks.
“…none of your concern,” Niamh was saying. “And it’s certainly none of Manette’s business.”
“Understood.” Nicholas sounded perfectly affable. “But as they’re part of our family, Niamh, you can understand her concern. And mine as well.”
“Part of your family?” Niamh repeated. “Oh, that’s a very good laugh. They’re your family now but what were they when he walked out and the rest of you let it happen? Were they your family then when he destroyed ours?”
Nicholas looked nonplussed. He glanced round as if searching not only for listeners but also for words. “I’m not sure what any of us could have done about what happened.”
“Oh, aren’t you? Well, let me help you out. Your bloody father could have put a bloody end to his bloody job unless he saw reason, and that’s just for a start. Your bloody father could have said, ‘You do this, and I’m finished with you,’ and the lot of you could have done the same. But you didn’t do that, did you, because Ian had you all under control— ”
“That’s not actually how things were,” Nicholas cut in.
“— and not a single one of you was ever willing to stand up to him. No one was.”
“Look, I don’t want to argue about that. We see things differently, that’s all. I just want to say that Tim’s in a bad state— ”
“Do you think I don’t know that? I, who had to find him a school where he could feel that the other pupils weren’t pointing him out as the bloke whose father had been taking it up the chute from some Arab on the sly? I goddamn know he’s in a bad state, and I’m doing what I intend to do about it. So you and your whole miserable family need to get out of our lives. You were happy enough to do that while Ian was living, weren’t you?”
She stormed in the direction of a line of cars parked on the north side of the square. Nicholas took a moment, head down and obviously pondering, before he came back in Deborah’s direction.
He said, “Sorry. Family matter.”
“Ah,” she replied. “She’s a relative, then?”
“My cousin’s wife. He drowned recently. She’s having trouble… well, coping with the loss. And there’re children involved.”
“I’m sorry. Should we…?” She gestured towards the café to which they’d been headed, saying, “Would another time be better for you?”
“Oh no,” he said. “I want to talk to you anyway. The bit about Barrow? To tell you the truth, it was something of an excuse to see you.”
Deborah knew he certainly wasn’t referring to a desire to be with her in order to experience her charms, so she prepared herself mentally for what was to come. Since he’d rung her and requested a meeting, she’d first assumed Alatea hadn’t told him the truth about their encounter. That, perhaps, had not been the case.
She said, “Of course,” and followed him to the café. She ordered coffee and a toasted tea cake and attempted to seem completely at ease.
He didn’t bring up Alatea until they’d been served. Then what he said was, “I don’t know how to put this, exactly, so I’ll have to say it directly. You need to stay away from my wife if this documentary thing is going to work out. The filmmakers will have to know that as well.”
Deborah did her best to look startled: an innocent woman completely unprepared for this turn of events. She said, “Your wife?” and then, with an attempt at dawning recognition and regret, “I upset her yesterday, and she told you about it, didn’t she? I was rather hoping she wouldn’t, frankly. I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Fairclough. It was unintentional on my part. Rather emotionally clumsy, to be frank. It was the magazine that did it, wasn’t it?”