A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(133)

“Second thoughts about living on a fishing boat, then?” Deborah said.

“Hell,” he said ruefully, “I had second thoughts about that after fifteen minutes in St. Peter Port gaol.” He paused at the square of concrete that served as the cottage’s front porch. “I know I’m to blame for all of this. I’ve put China where she is because it’s always been the fast and easy buck for me, and I know it. So I need to get her out of this mess. If I can’t do that...” He sighed, and his breath was a puff of fog in the air. “She’s scared, Debs. So am I. I guess that’s why I wanted to call Mom. She wouldn’t have helped much—she might even have made things worse—

but sti ll...”

“She’s still Mum,” Deborah finished for him. She squeezed his arm.

“It’s going to work out. It will. You’ll see.”

He covered her hand. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re...” He smiled.

“Never mind.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Were you thinking of making one of your moves on me, Cherokee?”

He laughed. “You betcha.”

They knocked on the door and then rang the bell. Despite the chatter of a television inside and the presence of a Peugeot outside, no one answered. Cherokee pointed out that Frank might be working among his immense collection, and he went to check the other two cottages as Deborah knocked on the door again. She heard a quavering voice call out,

“Hold your damn horses,” and she said to Cherokee, “Someone’s coming.” He rejoined her at the step and as he did so, keys and bolts operated on the other side of the door.

An old man swung it open. A very old man. His thick eyeglasses glinted at them, and with one frail hand he held himself upright against the wall. He seemed to keep himself steady through a combination of that wall and willpower, but it looked as if it cost him a tremendous effort. He should have been using a Zimmer frame or at least a cane, but he had neither with him.



“Well, here you be,” he said expansively. “Day early, aren’t you? Well, no matter, that. All to the good. Come in. Come in.”

Clearly, he was expecting someone else. Deborah herself had been expecting a much younger man. But Cherokee cleared that up for her when he said, “Is Frank here, Mr. Ouseley? We saw his car outside,” and made it evident that the old pensioner was Frank Ouseley’s father.

“It’s not Frank you’re wanting,” the man said. “It’s me. Graham. Frank’s gone to take that pie tin back to the Petit farm. ’F we’re lucky, she’ll do us another chicken and leek before the week’s over. Got my fingers crossed on that one, I have.”

“Will Frank return soon?” Deborah asked.

“Oh, we’ve time enough for our business ’fore he gets here,” Graham Ouseley declared. “Don’t you worry about that. Frankie doesn’t like what I’m up to, I got to tell you. But I promised myself I’d do the right thing

’fore I died. And I mean to do it, with or without the boy’s blessing.”

He doddered into an overheated sitting room, where he scooped a remote from the arm of a chair, pointed it to the television where a chef was expertly slicing bananas, and doused the picture. He said, “Let’s have at this in the kitchen. There’s coffee.”

“Actually, we’ve come—”

“No trouble.” The old man interrupted what he clearly thought was going to be Deborah’s protest. “Like to be hospitable.”

There was nothing for it but to follow him to the kitchen. It was a small room made smaller by the clutter it held: Stacks of newspapers, letters, and documents shared space with cooking utensils, crockery, cutlery, and the occasional misplaced gardening tool. “Sit yourselfs down,”

Graham Ouseley told them as he eased his way over to a coffee press that held four inches of some greasy-looking liquid that he unceremoniously dumped with its sodden grounds into the sink. From a bowing shelf he took down a canister, and with a shaking hand he spooned up fresh grounds: both into the cafetiere and onto the floor. He shuffled across this and captured the kettle from the cook top. At the tap he filled it with water, setting it to boil. When he’d managed all this, he beamed with pride.

“That’s that, ” he announced, rubbing his hands together and then frowning, said, “Why the hell’re you two still on your feet?”

They were on their feet because, obviously, they were not the guests the old man meant to receive into his home. But as his son wasn’t there—

although due to return soon if his errand and the presence of his car were any indication—Deborah and Cherokee exchanged a glance that said

“Well, why not?” They would enjoy a coffee with the old man and simply wait.

Nonetheless, Deborah felt it only fair to say, “Frank’s due back soon, Mr. Ouseley?”

To which he replied rather peevishly, “Listen up. You’re not to worry about Frank. Sit down. Gotcher notepad ready? No? Good God. You must have memories like elephants, the two of you.” He lowered himself to one of the chairs and loosened his tie. Deborah noticed for the first time that he was nattily dressed in tweeds and a waistcoat, and his shoes had been polished. “Frank,” Graham Ouseley informed them, “is born to worry. He doesn’t like to think what might come of this business between you and me. But I’m not concerned. What c’n they do to me that they haven’t done ten times over, eh? I owe it to the dead, I do, to hold the living accountable. We all have it as our duty, that, and I mean to do mine before I die. Ninety-two I am. Four score and more’n ten, it is. What d’you make of that?”