A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(154)

Outside, they found a soft rain had begun to fall, and Deborah took Simon’s arm, tucking herself into his side. She liked to think he might interpret her gesture as one made by a woman seeking shelter in the strength of her man, but she knew it wasn’t in his nature to flatter himself in that way. He would know it was what she did to assure herself that he didn’t slip on a cobblestone made slick by water and, depending upon his mood, he would humour her or not.

Humouring her for whatever reason appeared to be his choice. He ignored her motives and said, “The fact that he said nothing to you about the ri ng...Not even that his sister had bought it or had mentioned buying it or had mentioned seeing it or anything of that nature...It doesn’t look good, my love.”

“I don’t want to consider what it means,” she admitted. “Especially if her fingerprints are clearly all over it.”

“Hmm. I did think you were heading in that direction towards the end. Despite the remark about Mrs. Abbott. You looked...” Deborah felt him glance at her. “You looked...stricken, I suppose.”

“He’s her brother, ” Deborah said. “I just can’t stand to think her own brother...” She wished to dismiss the very idea, but she couldn’t. There it resided, as it had done from the moment her husband had pointed out that no one had known the River siblings were coming to Guernsey. From that instant, all she’d been able to think of was the countless times throughout the years when she’d heard of Cherokee River’s exploits just this side of the law. He’d been the original Man with a Plan, and the Plan had always involved the easy acquisition of cash. That had been the case when Deborah had lived with China in Santa Barbara and listened to tales of Cherokee’s exploits: from the rent-a-bed operation of his teens in which he allowed his room to be used on an hourly basis for adolescent assignations, to the thriving cannabis farm of his early twenties. Cherokee River as Deborah knew him had been an opportunist from the first. The only question was how one defined the opportunity he may have seen and jumped upon in Guy Brouard’s death.

“What I can’t stand to think of is what it means about China,”

Deborah said. “About what he intended to happen to her...I mean, that she should be the one...Of all people...It’s horri ble, Si mon. Her own brother. How could he ever...? I mean, if he’s done this in the first place. Because, really, there has to be another explanation. I don’t want to believe this one.”

“We can look for another,” Simon said. “We can talk to the Abbotts. To everyone else as well. But, Deborah...”

She looked up to see the concern on his face. “You do need to prepare yourself for the worst,” he said.

“The worst would be China standing trial,” Deborah responded.

“The worst would have been China’s going to prison. Taking the fall for...taking the fall for...for someone...” Her words di ed out as she realised how right her husband was. Without warning, with no time to adjust, she felt as if she were caught between two alternatives named bad and worse. Her first loyalty was to her old friend. So she knew she should have been experiencing a fair degree of joy from the fact that a false arrest and a faulty prosecution that could have resulted in China’s imprisonment appeared—at this eleventh hour—to have been obviated altogether. But if the cost of China’s rescue came at the expense of knowing that her own brother had orchestrated the events that had led to her arrest...How could anyone celebrate China’s deliverance after being presented with that sort of information? And how could China herself ever recover from such a betrayal? “She’s not going to believe he’s done this to her,” Deborah finally said. Simon asked quietly, “What about you?”

“Me?” Deborah stopped walking. They had reached the corner of Berthelot Street, which sloped steeply down to the High Street and the quay beyond it. The narrow lane was slick, and the rain snaking towards the bay was beginning to form serious rivulets that promised to grow in the coming hours. It was no wise spot for a man uncertain of his footing to walk, yet Simon turned towards it resolutely while Deborah thought about his question.

She saw that midway down the slope, the windows of the Admiral de Saumarez Inn winked brightly in the gloom, suggesting both shelter and comfort. But she knew these were specious offerings even at the best of times, no more permanent than the rain that fell on the town. Nonetheless, her husband headed towards them. She didn’t answer his question till they were safely within the shelter of the inn’s front door. Then she said to him, “I hadn’t considered it, Simon. I’m not exactly sure what you mean, anyway.”

“Just what I said. Can you believe?” he asked her. “Will you be able to believe? When it comes down to it—if it comes down to it—are you willing to believe Cherokee River has framed his own sister? Because that will likely mean he came to London expressly to fetch you. Or me. Or both of us, for that matter. But he didn’t come only to go to the embassy.”

“Why?”

“Did he fetch us, you mean? To have his sister believe he was helping her. To make sure she didn’t dwell on anything that could have caused her to look on him with suspicion or, worse, turn the spotlight on him in the eyes of the police. I’d suggest that he was applying salve to his conscience as well by at least having someone here for China, but if he intended her to take the fall for a murder, I don’t actually believe he has a conscience in the first place.”