A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(130)

“You’re a rich lad, love. Just think what you can do with all that money.”

He’d let them in and they’d spoken to him and to each other, but although he’d seen their lips moving well enough and had heard the occasional word or phrase, he’d already worked out what he was meant to do. He’d come directly to Le Reposoir to set about doing it. He wondered if Miss Ruth was in the house. He hadn’t thought to see if her car was outside. She was the person he’d come calling upon. If she wasn’t there, he intended to wait.

He took himself to the kitchen: along the stone hall, through the doorway, and down another corridor. The house was silent, although a creaking of the floor above his head told him Miss Ruth was probably at home. Still, he was wise enough to know that he oughtn’t to creep round someone else’s house looking for them, even if he’d come to see them especially. So when he got to the kitchen, he ducked inside. He’d have his cocoa and biscuits and by the time he was done, Valerie would be there and she would usher him upstairs to see Miss Ruth.

Paul had been in the kitchen of Le Reposoir enough times to know where everything was. He settled Taboo beneath the work table in the centre of the room, put the rucksack next to him for his head, and went to the pantry.

Like the rest of Le Reposoir, it was a magical place, filled with smells he wasn’t able to identify, as well as boxes and tins of foodstuffs he’d never heard of. He always loved it when Valerie sent him into the pantry to fetch something for her in the midst of her cooking if he was hanging about. He always liked to prolong the experience as much as possible, breathing in the mixture of extracts, spices, herbs, and other cooking ingredients. That took him to a spot in the universe that was utterly unlike the one he knew. He lingered there now. He uncapped a row of bottles and lifted them to smell one by one. Vanilla, he read on one label. Orange, almond, lemon. The fragrances were so heady that when he inhaled, he could feel the scent take up residence behind his eyes.



From the extracts he went on to the spices, taking in the cinnamon first. When he got to the ginger, he took a pinch no bigger than the edge of his littlest fingernail. He placed it on his tongue and felt his mouth water. He smiled and went on to the nutmeg, the cumin, the curry, the cloves. Afterwards came the herbs, then the vinegars, then the oils. And from there he mingled with the flour, the sugar, the rice, and the beans. He picked up boxes and read their backs. He held packets of pastas against his cheek and rubbed their cellophane wrappers on his skin. He’d never seen such abundance as he saw here. It was a wonder to him. He sighed at last with satiated pleasure and rooted out the cocoa tin. He carried it to the work top and fetched milk from the fridge. From above the cooker, he took down a pan and he carefully measured out one mug of milk and no more, which he even more carefully poured into the pan to heat. This moment represented the first time ever he’d been allowed to use the kitchen, and he meant to make Valerie Duffy proud of the diligence he employed to enact the rare privilege. He lit the burner and sought out a spoon to measure the cocoa. The ginger biscuits were on the work table, still fresh from the oven on their cooling racks. He pinched one for Taboo and fed it to the dog. He took two for himself and stuffed one into his mouth. The other he wanted to savour with his cocoa.

A clock bonged somewhere within the house. As if accompanying it, footsteps moved along a corridor directly above him. A door opened, a light snapped on, and someone began descending the back staircase into the kitchen.

Paul smiled. Miss Ruth. With Valerie not there, she’d need to get her own mid-morning coffee if she wanted it. And it was there, steaming in the glass carafe. Paul fetched another mug, a spoon, and the sugar for her, making everything ready. He imagined the conversation to come: her eyes widening in surprise, her lips rounding to an O , her murmured “Paul, my dearest boy” when she understood exactly what he meant to do. He bent down and eased the rucksack from beneath Taboo’s head. The dog looked up, tilting his ears towards the staircase. A low growl rumbled deep within his throat. A yip followed this, then a full-fledged bark. Someone said, “What on earth...?” from the stairs. That voice didn’t belong to Miss Ruth. A Viking-sized woman came round the corner. She saw Paul and demanded, “Who the hell are you?

How’d you get in? What are you doing here? Where’s Mrs. Duffy?”

Far too many questions at once, and Paul was caught with a ginger biscuit in his hand. He felt his eyes go as round as Miss Ruth’s lips would have done, and his eyebrows shot up in the direction of his hairline. At that same instant, Taboo darted out from beneath the table, barking like a Doberman and baring his teeth. His legs were splayed out and his ears were back. He didn’t ever like people talking harsh.

Viking Woman backed away. Taboo advanced on her before Paul had a chance to catch him by his collar. She started shrieking, “Get him away, get him, God damn it, get him!” as if she thought the dog actually meant to do her harm.

Her shouting only made Taboo bark louder. And just at that moment, the milk that was heating on the stove boiled over. It was too much at once—the dog, the woman, the milk, the biscuit in his hand that looked like he’d pinched it, only he hadn’t, because Valerie had told him to have one, and even if he had taken three, which was two more than she’d said he could take, that was fine, really, that was all right, that wasn’t a crime.

Fsssshhhhh. The milk frothed onto the burner beneath the pan. The smell of it as it hit the direct heat burst into the air like a covey of birds. Taboo barked. The woman shouted. Paul was a pillar of concrete.