A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(40)

“I expect they have phone books on Guernsey,” Deborah said.

“I mean how will you know who to talk to?” St. James asked.

“Cherokee will know. China will know. They were at Brouard’s house. They met other people. They’ll come up with the names.”

“But why would these people want to talk to Cherokee? Or to you, for that matter, once they learn of your connection to China?”

“They won’t learn of it.”

“You don’t think the police will tell them? And even if they do speak to you—to Cherokee as well—and even if you manage that part of the situation, what will you do with the rest?”

“Which...?”

“The evidence. How do you plan to evaluate it? And how will you recognise it if you find more?”

“I hate it when you...” Deborah swung to Cherokee. She said, “Will you give us a moment?”

Cherokee looked from her to St. James. He said, “This is making too much trouble. You’ve done enough. The embassy. Scotland Yard. Let me head back to Guernsey and I’ll—”

Deborah cut in firmly. “Give us a moment. Please.”

Cherokee glanced from husband to wife then back to husband. He looked inclined to speak again, but he said nothing. He took off to inspect a list of trial dates that was hanging from a notice board. Deborah turned on St. James furiously. “Why are you doing this?”

“I just want you to see—”

“You think I’m bloody incompetent, don’t you?”

“That’s not the truth, Deborah.”

“Incapable of having a few conversations with people who might just be willing to tell us something they haven’t told the police. Something that could make a difference. Something that could get China out of gaol.”

“Deborah, I don’t mean you to think—”

“This is my friend,” she persisted in a fierce low voice. “And I mean to help her. She was there, Simon. In California. She was the only person—”

Deborah stopped. She looked ceilingward and shook her head as if this would shake off not only emotion but also memory.

St. James knew what she was recalling. He didn’t need a road map to see how Deborah had traveled to her destination. China had been there as soul mate and confessor during the years that he himself had failed Deborah. Doubtless she had been there as well while Deborah fell in love with Tommy Lynley and perhaps she had wept along with Deborah during the aftermath of that love. He knew this but he could no more bring it up at that moment than he could undress in public and put his body’s damage on display. So he said, “My love, listen. I know you want to help.”

“Do you?” she asked bitterly.

“Of course I do. But you can’t crash round Guernsey just because you want to help. You haven’t the expertise and—”

“Oh thank you very much.”

“—the police aren’t going to be the least bit cooperative. And you have to have their cooperation, Deborah. If they won’t divulge every bit of their evidence, you’ll have no way of truly knowing whether China is actually innocent.”

“You can’t think she’s a killer! My God!”

“I don’t think anything one way or another. I’m not invested as you are. And that’s what you need: someone who’s not invested either.”

Even as he heard his own words, he felt himself becoming committed. She hadn’t asked it of him and she certainly wouldn’t ask it of him now, after their conversation. But he saw how it was the only solution. She needed his help, and he had spent over half his lifetime extending his hand to Deborah, whether she reached out for it or not.





Chapter 6


Paul Fielder went to his special place when he fled Valerie Duffy. He left the tools where they were. He knew this was wrong because Mr. Guy had explained that at least one part of good workmanship was the care and maintenance of the workman’s tools, but he told himself that he’d go back later when Valerie couldn’t see him. He’d sneak round the other side of the house, the part that wasn’t near to the kitchen, and he’d collect the tools and return them to the stables. If it felt safe, he might even work on the shelters then. And he’d check the duck graveyard and make sure the little plots were still marked by their circlets of stones and shells. He knew that he had to do all of that before Kevin Duffy happened upon the tools, though. If Kevin happened upon them lying in the damp growth of weeds, reeds, and grass that surrounded the pond, he wouldn’t be pleased. Thus, Paul didn’t go far in his flight from Valerie. He just circled round the front of the house and rode into the woods along the east side of the drive.

There he dove onto the bumpy, leaf-strewn path beneath the trees and between the rhododendrons and ferns and he followed it till he came to the second fork to the right. Here he dumped his old bike next to a mossy sycamore trunk, part of a tree once felled by a storm and left to become the hollowed home of wild things.

The way was too rough to ride the bike forward from this point, so he shouldered his rucksack more firmly and took off on foot with Taboo trotting along beside him, pleased to be out on a morning adventure rather than waiting patiently as he usually did, tied to the ancient menhir that stood beyond the wall at the edge of the school yard, a bowl of water at his side and a handful of biscuits to see him through till Paul fetched him at the end of the day. Paul’s destination was one of the secrets he had shared with Mr. Guy. I think we know each other well enough now for something special, Mr. Guy had said the first time he introduced Paul to the spot. If you want to—if you think that you’re ready—I have a way that we can seal our friendship, my Prince.