That, she thought, was below the belt. It was one of those ex-husband kinds of remarks, the sort that lead to a row in which comments are made with the intention of drawing blood. She wasn’t about to participate. She went to the coffeemaker and topped up her mug. She held out the glass carafe in his direction. Did he want more? He did. He drank it as she did-black-which made things as simple as they ever could be between a man and a woman divorced for nearly fifteen years.
He’d shown up at her door at 8:20. She’d gone to answer it, assuming the courier from London had arrived far earlier than expected, but she’d opened it to find her former husband on the step. He was frowning in the direction of her front window, where a three-tiered plant stand displayed a collection of pot plants going through the death throes of the sadly neglected. A sign above them was printed with the words: “Fund-raiser for Home Nurses/Leave Money in Box.” Clearly, the poor home nurses were not going to benefit from Bea’s attempt to add to their coffers.
Ray said, “Your black thumb, I see, has not become greener recently.”
She said, “Ray. What’re you doing here? Where’s Pete?”
“At school. Where else would he be? And deeply unhappy at having been forced to eat two eggs this morning instead of his regular. Since when is he allowed cold pizza for breakfast?”
“He’s lying to you. Well…essentially. It was only once. The problem is, he has an unfailing memory.”
“He comes by that honestly.”
She returned to the kitchen rather than reply. He followed her there. He had a carrier bag in his hand, and he placed this on the table. It comprised the reason for his call upon her: Pete’s football shoes. She didn’t want him leaving the shoes at his dad’s house, did she? Nor did she want him to take them to school, yes? So his father had brought them by.
She’d sipped her coffee and offered him one if he wanted. He knew where the mugs were, she told him.
But she’d made the offer before she thought about it. The coffeemaker squatted next to her calendar and what was on this calendar was not only Pete’s schedule, but also her own. Given, her own was cryptic enough, but Ray was no fool.
He’d read a few of the notations inside the boxed dates. She knew what he was seeing: “Motormouth Wanker,” “Big Trouble Wanker.” There were others as well, as he would note if he flipped back to the previous three months. Thirteen weeks of Internet dating: There might be millions of fish in the sea, but Bea Hannaford kept hooking crab pots and seaweed.
It was largely to forestall a conversation about her decision to reenter the world of dating yet another ludicrous time that prompted Bea to bring up having the incident room in Casvelyn. It should, of course, have been in Bodmin where the setup would be minimal, but Bodmin was miles and miles from Casvelyn, with only tediously slow-moving two-lane country roads between them. She wanted, she explained to him, an incident room that was nearer to the crime scene.
He made his point once again. “You don’t know it’s a crime scene. It might be the scene of a tragic accident. What makes you think it’s a crime? This isn’t one of your ‘feelings,’ is it?”
She wanted to say, I don’t have feelings, as you recall, but she didn’t. Over the years she’d become so much better at letting go of matters over which she had no control, one of which was her former husband’s assessment of her. She said, “The body’s a bit marked up. His eye was blackened-healing now, so I’d guess he got into it with someone last week or earlier. Then there was the sling, that webbing thing they use for slinging round a tree or some other stationary object.”
“Hence the name of it,” Ray murmured.
“Bear with me, Ray, as I know nothing about cliff climbing.” Bea kept her voice patient.
He said, “Sorry.”
“Anyway, the sling broke, which was how he fell, but I think it may have been nobbled. Constable McNulty-who, by the way, has absolutely no future in criminal investigations-pointed out that the sling was being held together with electrical tape over a tear and is it any wonder the poor lad took a fatal tumble as a result. But every single piece of the boy’s equipment had electrical tape wrapped round it at some point, and I think the tape’s used to identify the equipment for some reason. If that’s the case, how difficult would it have been for someone to remove the tape, weaken the sling however it was weakened, and then replace the tape without the boy ever knowing it?”
“Have you had a look at the rest of the equipment?”
“Every piece is with forensics, and I have a fairly good idea what they’re going to tell me. And what they tell me is why I’ll need an incident room.”
“But not why you need one in Casvelyn.”
Bea downed the rest of her coffee and placed the mug in the sink with the bowl. She neither rinsed nor washed it and she realised this was yet another benefit to life-without-husband. If she didn’t feel up to doing the washing up, she didn’t have to do the washing up just to soothe the savage breast of the compulsive personality.
She said, “The principals are there, Ray, in Casvelyn. Not in Bodmin, not even here in Holsworthy. They have a police station, small but adequate, and it’s got a conference room on the first floor that’s perfectly adequate as well.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I’m trying to make it easier for you. I’m giving you details to support the arrangement. I know you can do this.”
He studied her. She avoided studying him back. He was an attractive man-hair going a bit thin but that didn’t detract-and she didn’t need to compare him to Motormouth Wanker or any of the others. She just needed him to cooperate or leave. Or cooperate and leave, which would be even better.
He said, “And if I arrange this for you, Beatrice?”
“What?”
“What’s the quid pro quo?” He was standing by the coffeemaker and he gave another look to the calendar. “‘Big Trouble Wanker,’” he read. “‘Motormouth Wanker.’ Come on, Beatrice.”
She said, “Thanks for bringing Pete’s football shoes. Finished with your coffee?”
He let a moment go by. Then he took a final gulp and handed the mug over to her, saying, “There had to have been less expensive shoes.”
“He has expensive tastes. How’s the Porsche running, by the way?”
“The Porsche,” he said, “is a dream.”
“The Porsche,” she reminded him, “is a car.” She held up a finger to stop him from retorting. She said, “Which brings to mind…the victim’s car.”
“What about it?”
“What does an unopened package of condoms in the car of an eighteen-year-old boy suggest to you?”
“Is this rhetorical?”
“They were in his car. Along with a bluegrass CD, a blank invoice from something called LiquidEarth, and a rolled-up poster for a music festival last year in Cheltenham. And two dog-eared surfing magazines. I’ve got my fingers on everything but the condoms-”
“Well, thank God for that,” Ray said with a smile.
“-and I’m wondering if he was about to get lucky, getting lucky, or hopeful of getting lucky.”
“Or just eighteen,” Ray said. “All boys that age should be so adequately prepared. What about Lynley?”
“Condoms. Lynley. Where’re we going with this?”
“What was your interview like?”
“He’s hardly going to be intimidated by being in the presence of a cop, so I’d have to say the interview was fine. No matter which way I flipped the questions, his answers were consistent. I think he’s playing it straight.”
“But…?” Ray prompted.
He knew her too welclass="underline" her tone of voice, the expression that she tried and obviously failed to control on her face. “The other one concerns me,” she said.
“The other…Ah. The woman at the cottage. What was her name?”