A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(39)

“Not at all,” Simon replied. “I’m merely suggesting that the amount of residue taken from the defendant’s skin could easily be consistent with his employment as a gardener.”

“Are you then also suggesting it’s a coincidence that Mr. Casey”—

with a nod at the man in the dock the back of whose neck Deborah and Cherokee could study from their position in the gallery—“would have upon his person traces of the same substance that was used to poison Constance Garibaldi?”

“As Aldrin’s use is for the elimination of garden insects and as this crime occurred during the height of the season when those same insects are prevalent, I’d have to say that trace amounts of Aldrin on the defendant’s skin are easily explainable by his profession.”

“His long-standing quarrel with Mrs. Garibaldi not withstanding?”

“That’s right. Yes.”

The Crown Prosecutor went on for several minutes, referring to his notes and consulting once with a colleague from the row behind the barristers’ seats. He finally dismissed Simon with a “thank you, sir,” which released him from the witness box when the defence required nothing more of him. He began to step down, which was when he caught sight of Deborah and Cherokee above him in the gallery.

They met him outside the courtroom, where he said, “What’s happened, then? Were the Americans helpful?”

Deborah related to him what they’d learned from Rachel Freistat at the embassy. She added, “Tommy can’t help either, Simon. Jurisdiction. And even if that weren’t the problem, the Guernsey police ask Cornwall or Devon for assistance when they need it. They don’t ask the Met. I got the impression—didn’t you, Cherokee?—that they got a bit shirty when Tommy even mentioned the idea of help.”

Simon nodded, pulling at his chin thoughtfully. Around them, the business of the criminal court went on, with officials hurrying past with documents and barristers strolling by with their heads together, planning the next move they would make in their trials.

Deborah watched her husband. She saw that he was seeking a solution to Cherokee’s troubles, and she was grateful for that. He could so easily have said, “That’s it, then. You’ll have to go the course and wait for the outcome on the island,” but that wasn’t his nature. Still, she wanted to reassure him that they hadn’t come to the Old Bailey to place further burdens upon him. Rather, they had come to let him know they’d be setting off for Guernsey as soon as Deborah had a chance to pop home and collect some clothes. She told him as much. She thought he’d be grateful. She was wrong. St. James reached a swift conclusion as his wife related her intentions to him: He mentally labeled the idea sheer lunacy. But he wasn’t about to tell Deborah that. She was earnest and well-intentioned and, more than that, she was worried about her California friend. In addition to this, there was the man to consider.

St. James had been happy to offer Cherokee River food and shelter. It was the least he could do for the brother of the woman who’d been his wife’s closest friend in America. But it was quite another situation for Deborah to think she was going to play detectives with a relative stranger or with anyone else. They could both end up in serious trouble with the police. Or worse, if they happened to stumble upon the actual killer of Guy Brouard.

Feeling that he couldn’t pop Deborah’s balloon so callously, St. James tried to come up with a way merely to deflate it. He guided Deborah and Cherokee to a spot where all of them could sit, and he said to Deborah,

“What is it you hope to do over there?”

“Tommy suggested—”

“I know what he said. But as you’ve already found out, there’s no private investigator on Guernsey for Cherokee to hire.”

“I know. Which is why—”

“So unless you’ve already found one in London, I don’t see what your going to Guernsey is going to achieve. Unless you want to be there to offer China support. Which is completely understandable, of course.”

Deborah pressed her lips together. He knew what she was thinking. He was sounding too reasonable, too logical, too much the scientist in a situation where feelings were called for. And not only feelings but action that was immediate, no matter how ill thought out.

“I don’t mean to hire a private investigator, Simon,” she said stiffly.

“Not at first. Cherokee and I...We’re goi ng to meet China’s advocate. We’ll look at the evidence the police have gathered. We’ll talk to anyone who’ll talk to us. We’re not the police ourselves, so people won’t be afraid to meet with us, and if someone knows something...i f the police have missed something...We’re goi ng to uncover the truth.”

“China’s innocent,” Cherokee added. “The truth...It’s there. Somewhere. And China needs—”

“Which means someone else is guilty,” St. James interrupted. “Which makes the situation inordinately delicate and dangerous as well.” He didn’t add what he wanted to add at this point. I forbid you to go. They didn’t live in the eighteenth century. Deborah was—if anything—an independent woman. Not financially, of course. He could stop her there by tightening her purse strings or whatever it was that one did to cut a woman off financially. But he liked to think he was above that kind of machination. He’d always believed that reason could be employed more effectively than intimidation. “How will you locate the people you want to talk to?”