Careless in Red (Inspector Lynley, #15)(111)

“It was Maverick’s. Northern California.”

“Your knowledge astounds me.”

Her sarcasm went unnoticed by the man. “Oh, I don’t know much. A bit is all. I try to follow it, but who really has time, what with the little one at home? But see, the thing is, Guv, this picture of Jay Moriarty was taken the same week that?”

“Constable!”

He blinked. “Guv?”

“Get off that site and get back to work. And if I see you looking at one more wave on that monitor, I’ll boot you from here into next week. You are supposed to be dealing with Santo Kerne’s computer, looking for information relevant to his death. You are not supposed to be using your time to channel his interests. Is that clear?”

“But the thing is that that bloke Mark Foo?”

“Do you understand me, Constable?” She wanted to grab him by the ears.

“Yes. But there’s more to this than his e-mail, Guv. Santo Kerne went to these sites and I’ve gone to these sites, so it stands to reason that anyone?”

“Yes. I see. Anyone else could go to these sites. Thank you very much. I’ll go to them myself on my own time and read up all about Jay Moriarty, Mark Boo, and everyone else.”

“Mark Foo,” he said. “Not Mark Boo.”

“God damn it, McNulty.”

“Guv?” From the doorway, Collins spoke. He nodded towards the corridor, from which direction he’d apparently come as Bea and Constable McNulty had been squabbling.

She said, “What? What, Sergeant?”

“Someone to see you below. A…lady…?” He seemed doubtful of the term.

Bea swore beneath her breath. She said to McNulty, “Get back to work and stay back at work,” before pushing past Collins and clattering down the stairs.

The lady in question was in reception, and when she saw her, Bea assumed it was the woman’s appearance that had made Collins sound hesitant about the reference. She was in the process of reading the notice board, which gave Bea a moment to assess her. A yellow fisherman’s hat sat on her head although it wasn’t raining any longer, and she wore a lint-speckled donkey jacket over mud-coloured corduroy trousers. She had bright red trainers?they appeared to be high-tops?on her feet. She didn’t look like anyone who would have information. Instead, she looked like an orphan of the storm.

“Yes?” Bea said. She was in a hurry and she made no attempt to sound otherwise. “I’m DI Hannaford. How may I help you?”

The woman turned and extended her hand. When she spoke, she showed a chipped front tooth. “DS Barbara Havers,” she said. “New Scotland Yard.”

CADAN PUMPED HIS BICYCLE like a lost soul fleeing from Lucifer, which was no mean feat considering it was a trick bike not meant for maniacal street riding. Pooh clung to his shoulder and squawked in protest, occasionally shrieking, “Hang bells from the lamppost!,” a non sequitur he used only on occasions when wishing to indicate the level of his concern. The bird had good reason for voicing his trepidation, for it was the time of day when people were returning from some of the more distant places of employment, so the streets were crowded. This was particularly true of Belle Vue, which was part of the main route through town. It was a one-way thoroughfare, and Cadan knew he ought to have gone with the flow of traffic round the circular route long ago laid out to relieve congestion. But that would have meant riding out of his way for part of the journey, and he was in too much of a hurry to do that.

So he went against the flow of traffic, enduring horns honking and a few shouts of protest. They were small enough concerns to him, in comparison with his need for escape.

The truth of the matter was that Dellen Kerne?despite her age, which wasn’t really all that old, was it??represented exactly the kind of sexual encounter that Cadan always looked for: hot, brief, urgent, and done with, with no regrets and no expectations. But the truth of the matter also was that Cadan was not an idiot. Bonking the wife of the boss? In the family kitchen? Nothing like putting a tombstone on one’s grave.

Not that bonking in the kitchen per se was what Dellen Kerne had had in mind, as things developed. She’d released herself from their embrace?one that had left Cadan’s head swimming and all the important parts of his body rushing with blood?and continued the sensuous dance she’d begun as the Latin music from the radio played on. Within a moment, though, she was back at him. She shimmied against him and walked her fingers up his chest. From there, it required no complicated set of dance steps for them to be hip to hip and groin to groin, and the rhythm of the music provided a primal beat whose intentions were impossible to ignore.

It was the sort of moment when conscious thought absents itself. The big brain stops functioning and the little brain?knowing only the most atavistic of motives?takes over until satisfaction is achieved. So when Dellen’s hand slithered down his chest and her fingers found the most sensitive part of him, he was ready to take her on the kitchen floor if she was ready to allow him the pleasure.

He grabbed her arse with one hand, her breast with the other, caught a nipple tightly between his fingers, and hungrily shoved his tongue into her mouth. This, it seemed, was the signal she needed. She backed away with a breathless laugh and said, “Not here, silly boy. You know where the beach huts are, don’t you?”

He said stupidly, “Beach huts?” because, of course, the big brain was not functioning at all at this point and the little brain knew and cared nothing of huts, beach or otherwise.