There was a silence. She could imagine him in some hotel room in the north, frost on the window and Hadiyyah a small lump in the bed. There would be two beds, with a nightstand between them and he would be sitting on the edge of his. A lamp would be on, but not on the nightstand because he wouldn’t want its light to shine on his daughter and awaken her. He’d be wearing…what? Dressing gown? Pyjamas? Or was he dressed for the day? And were his feet bare or clothed in socks and shoes? Had he combed his dark hair? Shaved? And…And bloody hell, dolly, get a grip, for God’s sake.
He said, “I was not offering a response to your words, as it turns out, Barbara. I was merely reacting to what you said. This was wrong of me, this reacting and not simply replying. I felt…No, I thought, She doesn’t understand, this woman, nor can she possibly understand. Without the facts, she judges, and I’ll set her straight. This was wrong of me, so I apologise as well.”
“Understand what?” Barbara heard the water gushing freely in her shower and she knew she ought to turn it off. But she didn’t want to ask him to hold on while she did that because she feared he’d be gone altogether if she did.
“What it was about Hadiyyah’s behaviour…” He paused, and she thought she could hear the sound of a match being lit. He would be smoking, putting off his answer in that way they’d been taught by society, culture, films, and the telly. He finally said, very quietly, “Barbara, it began…No. Angela began with lies. Where she was going and whom she was seeing. She ended with lies as well. A trip to Ontario, relatives there, an aunt-her godmother, in fact-who was ill and to whom she owed much…And you will have guessed-have you not?-that none of that is the case at all, that there is someone else, as I was someone else for Angela once… So for Hadiyyah to lie to me as she did…”
“I understand.” Barbara found that she wanted only to stop the pain that she could hear in his voice. She didn’t need to know what Hadiyyah’s mother had done and with whom she’d done it. “You loved Angela, and she lied to you. You don’t want Hadiyyah to learn to lie as well.”
“For the woman you love more than your life,” he said, “the woman you have given up everything for, who has borne your child…the third of your children with the other two lost to you forever…”
“Azhar,” Barbara said, “Azhar, Azhar. I’m sorry. I didn’t think…You’re right. How could I possibly know what it’s like? Damn. I wish…” What? she asked herself. That he was there, she answered, there in the room so that she could hold him, so that something could be transferred from her to him. Comfort, but more than comfort, she thought. She’d never felt lonelier in her life.
He said, “No journey is easy. This is what I’ve learned.”
“That doesn’t help the pain, I expect.”
“How true. Ah, Hadiyyah is stirring. Would you like to-”
“No. Just give her my love. And Azhar, next time you have to go to a conference or something, think of me, all right? Like I said, I’m happy to look after her while you’re away.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I think of you often.” And he gently rang off.
At her end, Barbara held on to the receiver. She kept it pressed to her ear, as if this would maintain the brief contact she’d had with her neighbour. Finally she said to no one, “’Bye, then,” and replaced the phone. But she rested her fingers on it, and she could feel her pulse beating in the tips of them.
She felt lighter, warmer. When she finally made her way to the shower, she hummed not “Raining in My Heart” but rather “Everyday,” which seemed more appropriate to her altered mood.
Afterwards, the drive to New Scotland Yard didn’t bother her. She passed the journey pleasantly, without a single cigarette to buoy her. But all this good cheer faded once she arrived in the incident room.
The place was abuzz. Small knots of people gathered round three different desks, and all of them were focussed on a tabloid opened upon each. Barbara approached a group that Winston Nkata was part of, standing to the rear with his arms crossed on his chest, as was his fashion, but none the less riveted.
She said to him, “What’s up?”
Nkata inclined his head towards the desk. “Paper’s done their piece on the guv.”
“Already?” she asked. “Holy hell. That was fast.” She looked round. She noted the grim expressions. She said, “He wanted to keep that bloke Corsico occupied. Didn’t that work, or something?”
“He was occupied, all right,” Nkata said. “Tracked down his house and ran a picture of it. He doesn’t say what street, but he says Belgravia.”
Barbara’s eyes widened. “The sod. That’s bad.”
She worked her way forward as other of her colleagues moved off, having had their look at the paper. She flipped it to the front page to see the headline: “His Lordship the Cop” and an accompanying photo of Lynley and Helen, arms round each others’ waists and champagne glasses in their hands. Havers recognised the picture. It had been taken at an anniversary party the previous November. Webberly and his wife, celebrating their twenty-fifth, just days before a killer had attempted to make him another of his victims.
She skimmed the accompanying article as Nkata joined her. She saw that Dorothea Harriman had done her part, as Lynley had described it to her, encouraging Corsico to pursue information left, right, and centre. But what they had all failed to anticipate was the speed with which the reporter would be able to put together his facts, mould them into the usual breathless prose of the typical tabloid story, and combine them with information that was more than the public had a right to know.
Like the approximate location of the Lynleys’ house, Barbara thought. There was going to be hell to pay for that.
She found the photograph of the Eaton Terrace house when she made the jump to page four for the continuation of the story. She found there, in addition to that picture, another photo, of the Lynley family pile in Cornwall, along with one of the superintendent as an adolescent in his Eton togs as well as one with him posing with his fellow oarsmen at Oxford.
“Flipping, flaming hell,” she muttered. “How in God’s name did he get this stuff?”
Nkata’s response was, “Makes you wonder what he’s going to unearth when he gets to the rest of us.”
She looked up at him. If he could have looked green, he would have looked green. Winston Nkata would not want his background offered up for public consumption. She said, “The guv will keep him away from you, Winnie.”
“Not the guv I’m worried about, Barb.”
Hillier. That would be Winnie’s concern. Because if Lynley made excellent fodder for the papers, what would the tabloids do when they got their teeth into the “Former Gang Member Makes Good” variety of tale? What Nkata’s life was worth in Brixton was a moot issue at the best of times. What it would be worth should the story of his “redemption” hit the papers was a frightening one.
A sudden silence hit the room, and Barbara looked up to see that Lynley had joined them. He looked grim, and she wondered if he was castigating himself for having made himself the sacrificial lamb that The Source had offered on the altar of its circulation figures.
What he said was, “At least they haven’t got on to Yorkshire yet,” and a nervous murmur greeted this remark. It was the single but indelible blight on his career and his reputation: his brother-in-law’s murder and the part he’d played in the ensuing inquiry.
“They will, Tommy,” John Stewart said.
“Not if we give them a bigger story.” Lynley went to the china board. He looked at the photographs assembled on it and the list of activities assigned to the team members. He said, as he usually did, “What do we have?”