A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(214)

Where the High Street veered right and became Le Pollet, descending to the harbour in a slope of neatly set cobblestones, Smith Street marked a passage up the hill. Deborah turned here and began the climb, thinking about the way in which twelve brief hours had managed to turn the day on its ear. What had begun in concern and growing desperation had ended in revelry. In revelation as well. But that was something she quickly dismissed. Cherokee’s words, she knew, came from the exuberant pleasure of the moment, of experiencing a freedom he had so nearly lost. One couldn’t take seriously anything that was said in the height of such jubilation. But the kiss...She could take that seriously. For what it was, only, which was simply a kiss. She’d liked the feel of it. More, she’d liked the excitement of it. But she was wise enough not to confuse excitement with anything more. And she felt neither disloyalty to Simon nor guilt. It had, after all, been only a kiss.

She smiled as she relived the moments that had led up to it. Such childlike joy had always been a characteristic of China’s brother. This interlude on Guernsey had been the exception in his thirty-three years, not the rule.

They could resume their travels now or return to their homes. In either case, they took part of Deborah with them, the part that had grown from girl to woman in three brief years in California. No doubt Cherokee would continue to exasperate his sister. China would continue to frustrate her brother. They would continue to spar as any two complex personalities might. But they would always come together in the end. Such was the way of siblings.

Thinking about their relationship, Deborah passed the shops in Smith Street, barely aware of her surroundings. It was only when she reached the midpoint that she stopped, some thirty yards from the news vendor where she’d bought a paper earlier. She gazed at the buildings on either side of the street: Citizens Advice Bureau, Marks & Spencer, Davies Travel, Fillers Bakery, St. James’s Gallery, Buttons Bookshop...Seeing all of them and more, she frowned. She retraced her steps to the bottom of the street and then walked more slowly—more conscientiously—once again to the top. She stopped when she got to the war memorial. I’ll have to spring for themeal myself.

She hurried to the hotel.

She found Simon not in their room but in the bar. He was reading a copy of the Guardian as he enjoyed a whisky, which sat at his elbow. A contingent of businessmen were sharing the bar with him, noisily tossing back their gin-and-tonics as they dipped into bowls of crisps. The air was acrid with their cigarette smoke and with the sweat of too many unwashed bodies soaked through at the end of a long day of offshore finance. Deborah worked her way through them to join her husband. She saw that Simon was dressed for dinner. She said hastily, “I’ll go up and change.”

He said, “No need. Shall we go on in? Or would you like a drink first?”

She wondered why he didn’t ask where she’d been. He folded the newspaper and picked up his whisky, waiting for her reply. She said, “I...perhaps a sherry?”

He said, “I’ll fetch it,” and he went to do so, weaving his way through the others in the bar.

When he returned with her drink, she said, “I’ve been with China. Cherokee was released. They were told they could go. They were told they had to go, in fact, as soon as there’s a flight available off the island. What’s happened?”

He seemed to study her, and he did so for a moment that went on and on and brought new heat to her cheeks. He said, “You quite like Cherokee River, don’t you?”

“I quite like them both. Simon, what’s happened? Tell me. Please.”

“The painting was stolen, not purchased,” he said, and added evenly,

“In Southern California.”

“Southern California?” Deborah knew she sounded immediately worried but could not help it despite the events of the last two hours.

“Yes. Southern California.” Simon told her the story of the painting. All the time he gazed at her, a long look that began to vex her, making her feel like a child who has in some way disappointed her parent. She hated that look of his—she always had—but she said nothing, waiting for him to complete his explanation. “The good nuns of St. Clare’s Hospital took precautions with the painting when they knew what they had, but they didn’t take enough. Someone inside either learned or already knew the route, the means, and the destination. The van was armoured and the guards had weapons coming and going, but this is America we’re talking about, land of the free and the easy purchase of everything from AK-47s to explosives.”

“The van was waylaid, then?”

“Bringing the picture back from being restored. As easy as that. And waylaid by something they would never have suspicions about on a California motorway.”

“A tailback. Road-works.”

“Both.”

“But how was it done? How could someone get away?”

“The van overheated in the crush of cars, assisted by a slow leak in the radiator, as was discovered later. The driver pulled onto the verge. He had to get out to see to the motor. A motorcyclist took care of the rest.”

“In front of all those witnesses? In all the other cars and lorries?”

“Yes. But what did they actually see? A cyclist stopping to offer help to a disabled vehicle, first, and then later that same cyclist skimming along between the traffic lanes where the cars are idling—”