Careless in Red (Inspector Lynley, #15)(195)

“Of what sort?”

“Of the sort involving greasepaint and the crowd. He longs to be onstage but the truth of the matter is that he stands little chance of being discovered as long as he limits his range to what it currently is. He vacillates between Algernon Moncrieff and the porter in Macbeth.”

Daidre smiled in spite of herself. She wanted to be angry with him and part of her remained so. But he made it difficult.

She said, “Why did you lie to me, Thomas?”

“Lie to you?”

“You said you hadn’t gone to Falmouth asking questions about me.”

He clicked off the hair dryer. He set it on the edge of the basin and considered it. “Ah,” he said.

“Yes. Ah. Strictly speaking, I realise, you were telling me the truth. You didn’t go personally. But you sent her, didn’t you? It wasn’t her plan to go there.”

“Strictly speaking, no. I’d no idea she was in the area. I thought she was in London. But I did ask her to look into your background, so I suppose…” He made a small gesture with his hand, a European gesture telling her to complete the thought on her own.

Which she was happy enough to do. “You lied. I don’t appreciate that. You might have asked me a few questions.”

“I did, actually. You likely didn’t think I’d check on the answers.”

“To verify them. To make sure?”

“That you yourself weren’t lying.”

“I seem so questionable to you. So like a murderer.”

He shook his head. “You seem as unlike a murderer as anyone I’ve ever come across. But it’s part of the job. And the more I asked, the more I discovered there were areas in your story?”

“I thought we were getting to know each other. Foolish me.”

“We were, Daidre. We are. That was part of it. But from the beginning, there were inconsistencies in what you said about yourself, and they couldn’t be ignored.”

“You mean you couldn’t ignore them.”

He gazed at her. His expression was frank. “I couldn’t ignore them,” he said. “Someone is dead. And I’m a cop.”

“I see. D’you want to share what you’ve discovered?”

“If you like.”

“I like.”

“Bristol Zoo.”

“I work there. Has someone claimed that I don’t?”

“There is no Paul keeping primates there. And there is no Daidre Trahair born in Falmouth, at home or elsewhere. Do you want to explain?”

“Are you arresting me?”

“No.”

“Then come along. Gather your things. I want to show you something.” She headed for the door but paused there. She offered him a smile that she knew was brittle. “Or d’you want to phone DI Hannaford and Sergeant Havers first, and tell them you’re coming with me? After all, I may send you over a cliff, and they’ll want to know where to find your body.”

She didn’t wait to hear him reply or to see whether he took her up on the offer. She headed for the stairs and from there out to her car. She assured herself that one way or another it didn’t really matter if he followed or not. She congratulated herself on feeling absolutely nothing. She’d come a long way, she decided.

LYNLEY DIDN’T PHONE DI Hannaford or Barbara Havers. He was a free agent, after all, not on loan, on duty, or on anything at all. Nonetheless, he took the mobile with him once he’d donned his socks?thankfully far drier than they’d been during breakfast?and gathered up his jacket. He found Daidre in the car park, her Vauxhall idling. She’d gone rather pale during their conversation, but her colour had returned as she’d waited for him to join her.

He got into the car. In closer proximity to her, he could smell the scent she was wearing. It put him in mind of Helen, not the scent itself but the fact of the scent. Helen had been citrus, the Mediterranean on a sunny day. Daidre was…It seemed like the aftermath of rain, fresh air after a storm. He passed through a fleeting moment in which he missed Helen so much he thought his heart might stop. But it didn’t, of course. He was left with the seat belt, which he fumbled into place.

“We’re going to Redruth,” Daidre told him. “Do you want to phone DI Hannaford if you’ve not already done so? Just to be safe? Although since I’ve seen your Sergeant Havers already, she’ll be able to tell the authorities I was the last one to see you alive.”

“I don’t actually think you’re a killer,” he told her. “I’ve never thought that.”

“Haven’t you.”

“I haven’t.”

She changed the car into gear. “Perhaps I can alter all that for you, then.”

They began with a jerk, bumping over the uneven surface of the car park and from there out into the lane. It was a long drive, but they didn’t speak. She flicked on the radio. They listened to the news, to a tedious interview with a nasally challenged and self-important novelist clearly hoping to be nominated for the Booker Prize, and to a discussion on genetically altered crops. Daidre asked him at last to sort out a CD from the glove compartment, which he did. He chose at random and they ended up with the Chieftains. He put it on and she turned up the volume.

At Redruth, she avoided the town centre. Instead, she followed the signs for Falmouth. He wasn’t alarmed, but he glanced at her then. She didn’t look his way. Her jaw was set, but her expression seemed resigned, the look of someone who’d come to the endgame. Unexpectedly, he felt a brief stab of regret, although put to the question, he couldn’t have said what it was that he regretted.