Careless in Red (Inspector Lynley, #15)(158)

Now was the moment. There was nothing left but to present him with the evidence she’d gathered and to speak the truth as she understood it. Kerra had left the postcard in her mother’s bedroom, but the fact of the postcard still existed. She said, “I went to the cottage, Alan. I looked through your belongings.”

“I know that.”

“All right. You know that. I found the postcard.”

“What postcard?”

“This is it. That postcard. Pengelly Cove, the sea cave, Dellen’s writing on it in red and an arrow pointing straight to the cave. We both know what that means.”

“We do?”

“Stop it. You’ve been working in that marketing office with her for…how long? I asked you not to. I asked you to take a job some place else. But you wouldn’t, would you. So you sat in the office with her day after day and you can’t tell me…You bloody well cannot claim that she didn’t…You’re a man, for God’s sake. You know the signs. And there were more than just signs, weren’t there?”

He stared at her. She wanted to stomp her feet. He could not possibly be so obtuse. He’d decided this was the way to go: to feign ignorance until she simply threw up her hands in defeat. How clever of him. But she was not a fool.

“Where were you the day that Santo died?” she asked him.

“Christ. You can’t be thinking that I had something to do with?”

“Where were you? You were gone. So was she. And you had that postcard. It was in your room. It said This is it and we both know what she meant. She’d begin with red. The lipstick. A scarf. A pair of shoes. When she did that…When she does that…” Kerra felt as if she would weep, and the very thought of weeping because of this, because of her, because of them, caused all of her anger to come roaring back, swelling within her to such an extreme that she thought it might explode from her mouth, a foul effluent capable of polluting whatever remained between her and this man whom she’d chosen to love. Because she did love him, only love was dangerous. Love put one where her father was, and that she could not begin to bear.

Alan was apparently beginning to track all this because he said, “I see. It’s not Santo at all, is it? It’s your mum. You think that I…with your mum…the day Santo died. And this was supposed to have happened in that cave on the postcard?”

She couldn’t reply. She couldn’t even nod. She was working too hard to get back under control so that if she had to feel something?indeed, if she had to show that she felt something?what that something would be was rage.

Alan said, “Kerra, I told you: We talked about the video, your mum and I. I’d spoken to your dad about it as well. Your mum kept telling me about a spot along the coast that she thought would serve our purposes well because of the sea caves and the atmosphere they provided. She handed me that card and?”

“You are not that stupid. And neither am I.”

He looked away from her, not at the sea but in the direction of the hotel. From the lip of the Sea Pit the old Promontory King George Hotel could not be seen. But the beach huts could, that neat blue and white line of them, the perfect spot for assignations.

Alan sighed. “I knew what she had in mind. She suggested we go to the caves and have a look, and I knew. She’s rather painfully obvious and not very creative when it comes to innuendoes. But then, I don’t expect she’s ever had to be creative. She’s still a beautiful woman, in her way.”

“Don’t,” Kerra said. Finally they’d come to it, and she found she couldn’t bear to hear the details. It was, at heart, the same bloody story with the same bloody plot. Only the leading men altered.

“I will,” Alan said. “And you’ll listen and decide what you want to believe. She claimed the sea caves were perfect for the video. She said we had to go have a look. I told her I’d have to meet her there, and I used as an excuse the fact that I had errands to run, because I had no intention of riding in the same car with her. So we met there and she showed me the cove, the village, and the sea caves. And nothing happened between us because I had no intention of anything other than nothing ever happening between us.” He’d kept his gaze on the beach huts as he spoke, but now he looked back at her. His expression was earnest, but his eyes were wary. Kerra could not make out what that meant. He said, “So now you get to decide, Kerra. You get to choose.”

Then she understood: What would she believe: him or her instincts? What would she select: trust or suspicion? She said hollowly, “They take from me everything that I love.”

He said quietly, “Darling Kerra, that’s not how it works.”

“It’s the way it’s always worked in our family.”

“Perhaps in the past. Perhaps you’ve lost people you didn’t wish to lose. Perhaps you’ve let them go yourself. Perhaps you’ve cut them off. The point is that no one gets taken away who doesn’t want to be taken away in the first place. And if someone’s taken, that’s no reflection on you. How can it possibly be?”

She heard the words, and she sensed their warmth. The warmth made her go quiet inside. It was very strange. It was equally unexpected. With what Alan said, Kerra felt a subtle release within her. Something indefinable was giving way, as if a great internal bulwark were dissolving. She also felt the prick of tears, but she would not allow herself to go that far.