A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(106)

“That wasn’t wise, Deborah.”

She heard his tone. Her reply was sharp. “Why?”

“I wish you’d told me in advance.”

“Told you what?”

“That you intended to reveal—”

“I didn’t reveal—”

“You said he was there when you tracked the source of the ring, didn’t you?”

“He wanted to help. He’s worried. He feels responsible because he was the one who wanted to make this trip and now his sister’s likely to stand trial for murder. When I left China, he looked like...He’s suffering with her. For her. He wanted to help, and I didn’t see the harm in letting him.”

“He’s a suspect, Deborah, as well as his sister. If she didn’t kill Brouard, someone else did. He’s one of the people who were on the property.”

“You can’t be thi nki ng...He didn’t... Oh, for God’s sake! He came to London. He came to see us. He went to the embassy. He agreed to see Tommy. He’s desperate for someone to prove China innocent. Do you honestly think he’d do all that—do any of that—if he was the killer?

Why?”

“I have no answer for that.”

“Ah. Yes. But you still insist—”

“I do have this, though,” he interrupted. He hated himself even as he allowed the bitter rush of pleasure to wash through him: He’d cornered her and now he had the blow to defeat her, to establish exactly who was in the right and who in the wrong. He told her about the paperwork he’d delivered to Le Gallez and what that paperwork revealed about where Guy Brouard had been on a trip to America that his own sister hadn’t known he’d taken. It didn’t matter to St. James that, during his discussion with Le Gallez, he’d argued the very opposite of what he was now telling his wife about the potential connection between Brouard’s trip to California and Cherokee River. What did matter was that he impress upon her his own supremacy in matters that touched upon murder. Hers was the world of photography, his words suggested: celluloid images manipulated in a darkroom. His, on the other hand, was the world of science, the world of fact. Photography, however, was another word for fiction. She needed to keep all that in mind the next time she decided to forge a path he knew nothing about.

At the conclusion of his remarks, she said, “I see,” and her posture was stiff. “Then I’m sorry about the ring.”

“I’m sure you did what you thought was right,” St. James told her, feeling all the magnanimity of a husband who’s reestablished his rightful place in his marriage. “I’ll take it over to Le Gallez right now and explain what happened.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go with you if you like. I’m happy to make the explanation, Simon.”

He was gratified by the offer and what it revealed about her realisation of wrongdoing. “That’s really not necessary,” he told her kindly. “I’ll handle it, my love.”

“Are you sure you want to?” The question was arch.

He should have known what her tone meant, but he failed miserably, saying, instead, like the fool who thinks he can ever better a woman at anything, “I’m happy to do it, Deborah.”

“Funny, that. I wouldn’t have thought.”

“What?”

“That you’d forgo the opportunity to see Le Gallez put the thumbscrews on me. Such a fun sight. I’m surprised you want to miss it.”

She gave a bitter smile and pushed past him abruptly. She hurried back up the path in the direction of the street.

DCI Le Gallez was climbing into his car in the police station’s courtyard when St. James came through the gates. The rain had begun to fall once again as Deborah left him in the sunken garden, and although in his haste he’d departed the hotel without an umbrella, he didn’t follow Deborah in order to pick one up from reception. Following Deborah at that point seemed like an act of importuning her. As he had nothing to importune her for, he didn’t want to give the appearance of doing so. She was behaving outrageously. It was true that she’d managed to collect some information that could prove valuable: Discovering where the ring had come from saved everyone time, and managing to uncover a potential secondary origin of the ring provided ammunition that could shake the local police from their belief in China River’s guilt. But that didn’t excuse the stealthy and dishonest manner in which she’d gone about her private investigation. If she was going to set off on a path of her own devising, she needed to tell him first so that he didn’t end up looking every which way the perfect fool in front of the lead officer in the case. And no matter what she’d done, what she’d discovered, and what she’d gathered from China River, there remained the fact that she’d shared with the woman’s brother a score of valuable details. She’d had to be made to see the utter foolishness of such an action.

End of story, St. James thought. He’d done what he had the right and the obligation to do. Still, he didn’t want to follow in her wake. He told himself he’d give her time to cool off and to reflect. A little rain wouldn’t hurt him in the cause of her education.

In the grounds of the police station, Le Gallez saw him and paused, the door of his Escort hanging open. Two identical infant safety seats were strapped in the back seat of the car, empty. “Twins,” Le Gallez said abruptly when St. James glanced at them. “Eight months old.” As if these admissions accidentally indicated a fellowship with St. James that he did not feel, he went on. “Where is it?”