A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(171)

To which question, Robilliard slapped his hand on the print-out and said, “See here, Louis. Not a damn thing tells me this is anything other than what it looks like.”

Le Gallez reached for the paper. “Right. We’ll see about that.”

Outside, the three men paused in front of a bakery, where Le Gallez looked longingly at a display of chocolate croissants in the window. DS

Marsh said, “It’s something to look into, sir, but as Brouard’s dead, I wouldn’t bet anyone over in London’s going to break a sweat getting to the bottom of this.”

“It could be a legitimate transaction,” St. James pointed out. “The son—Adrian Brouard—I understand he lives in England. And there’re other children as well. There’s a possibility that one of them owns International Access, and Brouard was doing what he could to prop it up.”

“Investment capital,” DS Marsh said. “We’ll need to get someone in London to deal with the bank over there. I’ll phone FSA and give them the word, but my guess’s at this point, they’re going to want a court order. The bank, that is. If you phone Scotland Yard—”

“I have someone in London,” St. James cut in. “Someone at the Yard. He might be able to help. I’ll ring him. But in the meantime...” He considered all that he’d learned over the past several days. He followed the likely trails that each piece of information had been laying down. “Let me deal with the London end of things, if you will,” he said to Le Gallez. “After that, I’d say it’s time to speak frankly with Adrian Brouard.”





Chapter 23


“So that’s the fact of it, lad,” Paul’s dad said to him. He clasped Paul’s ankle and smiled fondly, but Paul could see the regret in his eyes. He’d seen it even before his father had asked him to come upstairs to his bedroom for

“a bit of a heart-to-heart, Paulie.” The telephone had rung, Ol Fielder had answered it, had said, “Yessir, Mr. Forrest. Boy’s sitting right here,” and had listened long, his face going through a slow alteration from pleasure to concern to veiled disappointment. “Ah well,” he’d said at the conclusion of Dominic Forrest’s comments, “it’s still a good sum, and you won’t see our Paul turning his nose up at it, I can tell you that.”

Afterwards, he’d asked Paul to follow him upstairs, ignoring Billy’s

“Wha’s this about, then? Our Paulie not turning into the next Richard Branson af ’er all?”

They’d gone to Paul’s room, where Paul had sat with his back to the headboard of his bed. His father sat on the edge of it, explaining to him that what Mr. Forrest had previously thought would be an inheritance of some seven hundred thousand pounds had in reality turned out to be an amount in the vicinity of sixty thousand. A good deal less than Mr. Forrest had led them to expect, to be sure, but still a sum not to sniff at. Paul could use it in any number of ways, couldn’t he: technical college, university, travel. He could buy himself a car so he wouldn’t have to rely on that old bike any longer. He could set himself up in a little business if he liked. He might even purchase a cottage somewhere. Not a nice one, true, not even a big one, but one he could work on, fixing it up, making it real sweet over time so when he married someday...Ah well, it was all dreams, wasn’t it?

But dreams were good. We all have them, don’t we?

“Hadn’t got that money all spent in your head, had you, lad?” Ol Fielder asked Paul kindly when he’d concluded his explanation. He gave Paul a pat on the leg. “No? I didn’t think so, son. You’ve got some wisdom about these things. Good it was left to you, Paulie, and not to...Well, you know what I mean.”

“So, tha’s the news, is it? What a bloody good laugh.”

Paul looked to see his brother had joined them, uninvited as usual. Billy lolled in the doorway, against the jamb. He was licking the frosting from an untoasted Pop-Tart. “Sounds like our Paulie’s not going somewheres else to live the high life after all. Well, all’s I c’n say is I like that, I do. Can’t think what it’d be like round here without Paulie wanking off in his bed every night.”

“That’ll do, Bill.” Ol Fielder rose and stretched his back. “I expect you’ve some sort of business to see to this morning, like the rest of us.”

“You expect that, do you?” Billy said. “No. I don’t have no business to see to. Guess I’m different to you lot, huh? Not so easy for me to get employment.”

“You could try,” Ol Fielder said to Billy. “Tha’s the only difference between us, Bill.”

Paul shifted his gaze between his brother and his father. Then he lowered it to observe his trouser knees. He saw they were thin to the point of shredding at a touch. Too much wear, he thought, with nothing else to choose from.

“Oh, tha’s the case, is it?” Billy asked. Paul flinched at the tone because he knew that his father’s declaration, while completely well meaning, was the invitation Billy wanted to spar. He’d been carrying his anger round for months, just waiting for an excuse to let it fly. It had only got worse when their dad had got himself taken on by the road crew, leaving Billy behind to pick at his wounds. “Tha’s the only difference, is it, Dad? Nothing else, is there?”