A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(11)

Someone was there. A figure, mostly in shadow but obviously watching him, stood on the beach. To one side of the granite slipway, it wore dark clothing with a flash of white at the neck, which was what must have caught his attention in the first place. As Guy squinted to bring the figure into better focus, it stepped away from the granite and moved across the beach.

There was no mistaking its destination. The figure glided over to his discarded clothes and knelt among them to pick up something: the jacket or the trousers, it was difficult to tell at this distance. But Guy could guess what the figure was after, and he cursed. He realised that he should have emptied his pockets before setting out from the house. No ordinary thief, of course, would have been interested in the small pierced stone that Guy Brouard habitually carried. But no ordinary thief would ever have anticipated finding a swimmer’s belongings in the first place, unguarded on the beach so early on a December morning. Whoever it was knew who was swimming in the bay. Whoever it was either sought the stone or fingered through his clothing as a feint devised to get Guy back to shore.

Well, damn it, he thought. This was his time in solitude. He didn’t intend to get into it with anyone. What was important to him now was only his sister and how his sister would meet her end.

He resumed swimming. He traversed the width of the bay twice. When at last he looked to the beach another time, he was pleased to see that whoever had encroached on his peace was gone.

He swam to shore and arrived there breathless, having covered nearly twice the distance that he usually covered in the morning. He staggered out and hurried over to his towel, his body a mass of chicken flesh. The tea promised quick relief from the cold, and he poured himself a cup from his Thermos. It was strong and bitter and most especially hot, and he gulped down all of it before whipping off his swim suit and pouring himself another. This he drank more slowly as he toweled himself off, rubbing his skin vigorously to restore some heat to his limbs. He put his trousers on and grabbed his jacket. He slung it round his shoulders as he sat on a rock to dry his feet. Only after he’d donned his trainers did he put his hand in his pocket. The stone was still there.

He thought about this. He thought about what he had seen from the water. He craned his neck and searched the cliffside behind him. Nothing stirred anywhere, that he could see.

He wondered then if he’d been mistaken about what he’d assumed was on the beach. Perhaps it had not been a real person at all but, rather, a manifestation of something going on in his conscience. Guilt given flesh, for example.

He brought out the stone. He unwrapped it once more and with his thumb traced the shallow initials carved into it.

Everyone needs protection, he thought. The tricky part was knowing from whom or what.

He tossed back the rest of his tea and poured himself another cup. Full sunrise was less than an hour off. He would wait for it right here this morning.





December 1 5

11:15 P.M.



LONDON





Chapter 1





There was the weather to talk about. That was a blessing. A week of rain that had hardly ceased for more than an hour was something to remark upon, even by dreary December standards. Added to the previous month’s precipitation, the fact that most of Somerset, Dorset, East Anglia, Kent, and Norfolk were under water—not to mention three-quarters of the cities of York, Shrewsbury, and Ipswich—made avoiding a post mortem of a Soho gallery’s opening exhibit of black-and-white photography practically de rigueur. One couldn’t entertain a discussion about the small handful of friends and relatives who had comprised the opening’s meagre turnout when people outside of London were homeless, animals were displaced by the thousands, and property was destroyed. Not dwelling upon the natural disaster seemed nothing short of inhuman. At least, that was what Simon St. James kept telling himself. He recognised the inherent fallacy in this line of thinking. Nonetheless, he persisted in thinking it. He heard the wind rattle the window panes, and he grabbed on to the sound like a drowning swimmer finding salvation in a half-submerged log.

“Why don’t you wait for a break in the storm?” he asked his guests.

“It’s going to be deadly driving home.” He could hear the earnestness in his voice. He hoped they put it down to his concern for their welfare and not to the rank cowardice it was. Never mind the fact that Thomas Lynley and his wife lived less than two miles northeast of Chelsea. No one should be out in this downpour.

Lynley and Helen already had their coats on, however. They were three steps short of St. James’s front door. Lynley clasped their black umbrella in hand, and its condition—which was dry—told the tale of how long they’d already been gathered by the fire in the ground-floor study with St. James and his wife. At the same time, Helen’s condition—plagued at eleven o’clock at night by what in her case could only euphemistically be called morning sickness this second month into her pregnancy— suggested a departure that was imminent, rain or not. Still, St. James thought, there was always hope.

“We’ve not even talked about the Fleming trial yet,” he told Lynley, who’d been the Scotland Yard officer investigating that murder. “CPS got it to court quick enough. You must be pleased.”

“Simon, stop this,” Helen Lynley said quietly. But she gentled her words with a fond smile. “You can’t avoid things indefinitely. Talk to her about it. It’s not like you to avoid.”