A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(121)

“Of course.”

“And you and I, Debs?...We’ve got to work harder to get her out of this mess. You know that, right?” He reached out, and it seemed for a moment as if he intended to caress her hair or her face. But he dropped his hand to her shoulder and squeezed. Then he strode off in the direction of Clifton Street, some distance from the Royal Court House, where China would stand trial if they didn’t do something soon to prevent it. Deborah returned to her hotel room. There, she discovered that Simon was in the midst of one of his morning rituals. He generally had either her or her father’s assistance, however, and using the electrodes by himself was an awkward business for him. Still, he seemed to have managed their placement with a fair degree of precision. He lay on the bed with a copy of yesterday’s Guardian, and he read its front section as electricity stimulated the useless muscles in his leg to prevent them from atrophying. This was, she knew, his primary vanity. But it also represented a remnant of hope that someday a way would be found that he could walk normally again. When that day arrived, he wanted his leg to be capable of doing the job.

Her heart went out to Simon whenever she caught him at a moment like this. He knew it, though, and because he hated anything that smacked of pity, she always made the effort to pretend his activity was as normal as brushing his teeth.

He said, “When I woke and you weren’t here, I had a bad moment. I thought you’d been gone all night.”

She took off her coat and went to the electric kettle, which she filled with water and plugged in. She put two bags into the teapot. “I was furious with you. But not enough to sleep on the street.”

“I didn’t actually think the street was where you’d end up.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, but he was examining an inside page of the broadsheet. “We talked about old times. You were asleep when I got back. And then I couldn’t sleep. One of those toss-and-turn nights. I was up early, so I had a walk.”

“Nice day out there?”

“Cold and grey. We might as well be in London.”

“December,” he said.

“Hmm,” she replied. Inside, however, she was shouting, “Why in God’s name are we talking about the weather. Is this what it comes to in every marriage?”

As if reading her mind and wishing to prove her wrong, Simon said,

“It’s apparently her ring, Deborah. There was no other among her belongings in the evidence room at the station. They can’t be certain, of course, till they—”

“Are her fingerprints on it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then...”

“We have to wait and see.”

“You think she’s guilty, don’t you?” Deborah heard the bitterness in her voice, and although she tried to sound like him—rational, thoughtful, dealing with the facts and not allowing them to colour the feelings—she failed in the effort. “Some incredible help we’re turning out to be.”

“Deborah,” Simon said quietly, “come here. Sit on the bed.”

“God, I hate it when you talk to me like that.”

“You’re angry about yesterday. My approach with you was...I know it was wrong. Harsh. Unkind. I admit it. I apologise. Can we move past it?

Because I’d like to tell you what I’ve learned. I wanted to tell you last night. I would have told you. But things were difficult. I was foul and you were within your rights to make yourself scarce.”

This was as far as Simon had ever gone in admitting he had taken a misstep in their marriage. Deborah recognised this and approached the bed, where his leg muscles twitched with electrical activity. She sat on the edge of the mattress. “The ring might be hers, but that doesn’t mean she was there, Simon.”

“Agreed.” He went on to explain how he’d spent the hours after they’d parted at the sunken garden.

The difference in time between Guernsey and California had made it possible to contact the attorney who had hired Cherokee River to carry the architectural plans across the ocean. William Kiefer began their conversation by citing attorney-client privilege, but he was cooperative once he learned that the client in question had been murdered on a beach in Guernsey.

Guy Brouard, Kiefer explained to Simon, had hired him to set in motion a rather unusual series of tasks. He wished Kiefer to locate someone perfectly trustworthy who would be willing to courier a set of important architectural plans from Orange County to Guernsey. At first, Kiefer told Simon, the assignment seemed idiotic to him, although he hadn’t mentioned that particular word to Mr. Brouard during their brief meeting. Why not use one of the conventional courier services that were set up to do exactly what Brouard wanted and at minimal cost?

FedEx? DHL? Even UPS? But Mr. Brouard, as things turned out, was an intriguing combination of authority, eccentricity, and paranoia. He had the money to do things his way, he told Kiefer, and his way was to ensure he got what he wanted when he wanted it. He’d carry the plans himself, but he was in Orange County only to make arrangements for them to be drawn up. He couldn’t stay as long as necessary to have them ready. He wanted someone responsible to do the couriering, he said. He was willing to pay whatever it took to get just that sort of person. He didn’t trust a man alone to do the job—apparently, Kiefer explained, he had a loser son who made him think no youngish man was worth anyone’s faith—and he didn’t want a woman traveling alone to Europe because he didn’t like the idea of women on their own and he didn’t want to feel responsible should something happen to her. He was old-fashioned that way. So they settled on a man and woman together. They would look for a married couple of any age to fill the bill.