A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(33)

Ruth didn’t panic at first. Instead, she went up to her brother’s bathroom where he would have changed after his exercise, leaving his swimming trunks and his track suit behind. Neither was there, however. Nor was a damp towel, which would have given further evidence of his return. She felt it then, a pinch of concern like tweezers pulling at the skin beneath her heart. That was when she remembered what she’d seen from her window earlier as she’d watched her brother set off towards the bay: that figure who’d melted out from beneath the trees close to the Duffys’ cottage as Guy had passed. So she went to the phone and rang the Duffys again. Kevin agreed to set off for the bay.

He’d returned on the run but not to her. It was only when the ambulance finally appeared at the end of the drive that he came to fetch her. That had begun the nightmare. As the hours passed, it only grew worse. She’d thought at first he’d had a heart attack, but when they wouldn’t let her ride to the hospital with her brother, when they said she would have to follow in the car that Kevin Duffy drove silently behind the ambulance, when they whisked Guy away before she could see him, she knew something had dreadfully and permanently changed. She hoped for a stroke. At least he would still be alive. But at last they came to tell her he was dead, and it was then that they explained the circumstances. From that explanation had come her waking nightmare: Guy struggling, in agony and fear, and all alone.

She would have rather believed that an accident had taken her brother’s life. Knowing that he’d been murdered had cleaved her spirit and reduced her to living as the incarnation of a single word: why. And then: who. But that was dangerous territory.

Guy’s life had taught him that he had to grasp for what he wanted. Nothing was going to be given to him. But more than once he had grasped without considering if what he wanted was what he should actually have. The results had brought suffering down upon others. His wives, his children, his associates, his...others.

You can’t continue like this without someone being destroyed, she’d told him. And I can’t stand by and let you.

But he’d laughed at her fondly and kissed her forehead. Headmistress Mademoiselle Brouard, he called her. Will you rap my knuckles if I don’t obey?

The pain was back. It gripped her spine like a spike that was driven through the nape of her neck and then iced till the horrible cold of it began to feel exactly like fire. It sent tentacles downward, each one an undulating serpent of disease. It sent her from the room in search of rescue. She wasn’t alone in the house, but she felt alone, and had she not been in the grip of the devil cancer, she might have laughed. Sixty-six years old and untimely ripped from the womb that a brother’s love had provided her. Who would have thought it would come to this on that long-ago night when her mother had whispered, “Promets-moi de ne pas pleurer, monpetit chat. Sois forte pour Guy.”

She wanted to maintain the faith with her mother that she’d maintained for more than sixty years. But the truth was what she had to deal with now: She couldn’t see a way to be strong for anyone. Margaret Chamberlain hadn’t been in her son’s presence for five minutes before she wanted to give him instructions: Stand up straight, for the love of God; look people in the eye when you talk to them, Adrian; don’t for heaven’s sake keep banging my luggage about like that; watch out for that cyclist, darling; please signal for your turns, my dear. She managed, however, to hold back this deluge of commands. He was the most beloved and the most exasperating of her four sons—that latter a fact that she put down to his paternity, which was different to the other boys—but since he’d only just lost his father, she decided to overlook the least irritating of his habits. For the moment.

He met her in what went for the arrivals hall at the Guernsey airport. She came through pushing a trolley with her cases piled on it, and she found him lurking by the car hire counter where worked an attractive red-head to whom he could have been chatting like a normal man, had he only been one. Instead, he was making a pretence of studying a map, losing yet another opportunity that life had placed squarely in front of him.

Margaret sighed. She said, “Adrian.” And then, “Adrian,” when he failed to respond.

He heard her the second time and looked up from his scrutiny. He slunk over to the car hire counter and replaced the map. The red-head asked if she could help him, sir, but he didn’t reply. Or even look at her. She asked again. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and gave her his shoulder instead of a reply. “Car’s outside,” he said to his mother by way of hello as he hoisted her suitcases from the trolley.

“How about ‘Nice flight, darling Mum?’ ” Margaret suggested. “Why don’t we just wheel the trolley to the car, dear? It would be easier, wouldn’t it?”

He strode off, her cases in hand. There was nothing for it but to follow. Margaret cast an apologetic smile in the direction of the car hire counter in case the red-head was monitoring the welcome she’d received from her son. Then she went after him.

The airport comprised a single building sitting to one side of a single runway just off a series of unploughed fields. It had a car park smaller than her own local railway station’s in England, so it was an easy matter to follow Adrian through it. By the time Margaret caught him up, he was shoving her two suitcases into the back of a Range Rover which was, she discovered in very short order, just the wrong sort of car in which to be riding round the threadlike roads of Guernsey.