Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(57)

The office was already like a steam bath, despite the fact that its single window had been opened to its widest capacity. And three empty Evian bottles told the tale of what Emily had been doing so far to beat the heat.

“The damn building didn't even so much as cool off during the night,” Emily told Barbara as she crawled out from the beneath the table and punched the button on the fan's highest setting. Nothing happened. “What the … Jesus!” Emily went to the door and shouted. “Billy, I thought you said this goddamn thing worked!”

A man's disembodied voice called back. “I said, ‘Give it a try,’ guv. I didn't make any promises.”

“Brilliant.” Emily stalked back to the machine. She punched the off button, then each of the settings in succession. She drove her fist onto the plastic housing of the motor. Finally, the fan blades began a listless rotation. They didn't so much create a breeze as they lethargically massaged what rank air was in the room.

Emily shook her head in disgust, slapped the dust from the knees of her grey cotton trousers, and said, “What've we got?” with a nod towards Barbara's hand.

“Telephone messages received by Querashi over the last six weeks. I had them off Basil Treves this morning.”

“Anything we can use?”

“There's quite a stack. I've only gone through the first third.”

“Christ. We could've got to them two days ago if Ferguson had been remotely cooperative and marginally less interested in sacking me. Give them here, then.” Emily took the collection of messages from her and shouted, “Belinda Warner!” in the direction of the corridor. The WPC came running. Her uniform blouse was already damp from the heat, and her hair hung limply across her forehead. Emily introduced her briskly. She told her to see to the messages—”Organise, collate, log, and report back,”—and then turned back to Barbara. She gave her fellow officer a closer scrutiny and said, “Good God. Disaster. Come with me.”

She barrelled down the narrow stairway, pausing on the landing to shove a window open more fully. Barbara followed her. In the back of the rambling Victorian building, what had probably once been a dining or sitting room had been converted to a combination of workout and locker room. A fitness centre was set up in the middle—complete with exercise bicycle, rowing machine, and a sophisticated four-position weights module. Lockers lined one wall, with two showers, three wash basins, and a mirror standing opposite. A beefy red-head in a complete sweat suit worked the rowing machine, looking like a potential candidate for cardiac care. Otherwise the room was empty.

“Frank,” Emily barked, “you're overdoing it.”

“Got to lose two stone before the wedding,” he panted.

“So? Have some discipline about you at mealtimes. Cut out the fish and chips.”

“Can't do that, guv.” He increased his pace. “It's Marsha's cooking. I can't offend her.”

“She'll be more than offended if you drop dead before she gets you to the altar,” Emily shot back and marched to one of the lockers. She spun through its combination lock, pulled out a small sponge bag, and led the way to the wash basin.

Barbara followed uneasily. She had an idea what was going to transpire, and she didn't much like it. She said, “Em, I don't think—”

“That's clear enough,” Emily retorted. She unzipped the bag and she rummaged through it. On the edge of the basin she placed a bottle of liquid make-up foundation, two thin palm-sized cases, and a set of brushes.

“You can't be wanting to—”

“Look. Just look.” Emily turned Barbara to the mirror. “You look like hell on a January morning.”

“How d'you expect me to look? A bloke beat me up. My nose was smashed. I broke three ribs.”

“And I'm sorry about it,” Emily said. “Getting beaten up couldn't have happened to anyone who deserved it less. But it's no excuse, Barb. If you're going to work for me, then you're going to have to appear at least halfway the part.”

“Em. Bloody hell. I never wear this goop.”

“Chalk it up to another life experience. Here. Face me.” And when Barbara hesitated, ready to protest again: “You're not meeting with the Asians looking like that. This is an order, Sergeant.”

Barbara felt like minced beef being made into meatballs, but she submitted herself to Emily's ministrations. The DCI made a quick job of it, purposefully wielding sponges and brushes, deftly applying colour. The entire procedure took less than ten minutes, and when she was finished, Emily stood back and studied her handiwork with a critical eye.

“You'll do,” she said. “But that hair, Barb. It's beyond redemption. It looks like you cut it yourself in the shower.”

“Well … yeah,” Barbara said. “I mean, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Emily raised her eyes heavenward but made no comment. She repacked her cosmetics. Barbara took the opportunity to examine her own appearance.

“Not bad,” she said. The bruises were still there, but they were greatly reduced in colour. And her eyes—which she generally thought of as pig-like—actually appeared an acceptable size. Emily was right: Her hair was a disaster. But otherwise, she wouldn't terrify innocent maidens and toddlers. “Where'd you get that stuff?” she said in reference to Emily's make-up.