A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(24)

“What about her father? Is he...?” Deborah hesitated. The subject of China’s father had always been a delicate one.

Cherokee raised an eyebrow. “Locked up? Oh yeah. He’s inside again. So there’s no one to call.”

A step sounded on the kitchen stairs. Deborah put plates on the table and heard the uneven nature of someone’s cautious descent. She said,

“That’ll be Simon.” He was up earlier than usual, far before her father, which Joseph Cotter wouldn’t like. He’d cared for Simon throughout his long-ago convalescence from the drunken road crash that had crippled him, and he didn’t like it if Simon denied him the chance to hover protectively over him.

“Fortunately, I’m making enough for three,” Deborah said as her husband joined them. Simon looked from the cooker to the table where she had laid crockery. “I hope your father’s heart is strong enough to sustain this shock,” he said.

“Most amusing.”

Simon kissed her and then nodded at Cherokee. “You look much better this morning. How’s the head?”

Cherokee fingered the plaster near his hairline. “Better. I had a pretty good nurse.”

“She knows what she’s doing,” Simon said.

Deborah poured the eggs into the pan and set about scrambling them efficiently. “He’s definitely drier,” she pointed out. “After we eat, I’ve said I’ll pop him over to the American embassy.”

“Ah. I see.” Simon glanced at Cherokee. “Guernsey police haven’t notified the embassy already? That’s unusual.”

“No. They have,” Cherokee said. “But the embassy didn’t send anyone. They just phoned to make sure she had a lawyer to speak for her in court. And then it was Good, that’s fine, she’s being represented then, phone us if you need anything else. I said I do need you. I need you here. I told them we weren’t even on the island when it happened. But they said the police would have their evidence and there was really nothing else they could do till things got played out. That’s what they said. Till things got played out. Like this was a basketball game or something.” He moved away from the table abruptly. “I need someone from the embassy over there. This whole thing’s a set-up, and if I don’t do something to stop it from happening, there’s going to be a trial and a sentence before the month’s up.”

“Can the embassy do anything?” Deborah put their breakfast on the table. “Simon, do you know?”

Her husband considered the question. He didn’t work often for embassies, more often instead for the CPS or for barristers who were mounting a criminal defence in court and required an outside expert witness to offset the testimony of someone from one police laboratory or another. But he knew enough to be able to explain what the American embassy would doubtless offer Cherokee when he put in his appearance in Grosvenor Square.

“Due process,” he said. “That’s what the embassy works to ensure. They’ll make certain that the laws of the land are applied to China’s situation.”

“That’s all they can do?” Cherokee asked.

“Not much more, I’m afraid.” Simon sounded regretful, but he went on in a more reassuring tone. “I expect they’ll make sure she has good representation. They’ll check the lawyer’s credentials and make sure he wasn’t called to the bar just three weeks ago. They’ll see to it that anyone in the States whom China wants to have informed will be informed. They’ll get her post sent to her in good time and they’ll make her part of their regular round of visitations, I expect. They’ll do what they can.” He observed Cherokee for a moment and then added kindly, “It’s early days yet, you know.”

“We weren’t even there when all this came down,” Cherokee said numbly. “When it all happened. I kept telling them that but they wouldn’t believe me. They have to have records at the airport, don’t they? Records of when we left? They have to have records.”

“Of course,” Simon said. “If the day and the the time of death conflict with your departure, that’s something that’ll come out quickly.” He toyed with his knife, tapping it against his plate.

Deborah said, “What? Simon, what?”

He looked at Cherokee and then beyond him to the kitchen window, where Alaska sat alternately washing his face and stopping to press his paw against the rain tracks on the glass as if he could prevent them from coursing downward. He said carefully, “You have to look at this with a level head. This isn’t a third world country we’re talking about. It’s not a totalitarian state. The police on Guernsey aren’t about to make an arrest without evidence. So”—he set his knife to one side—“the reality is this: Something definite has actually led them to believe they’ve got the killer they want.” He looked at Cherokee then and he studied his face in his usual dispassionate scientist’s fashion, as if seeking reassurance that the other man could handle what he was about to conclude with. “You need to prepare yourself.”

“For what?” Cherokee reached as if unconsciously towards the table’s edge.

“For whatever your sister may have done, I’m afraid. Without your knowledge.”





Chapter 3