For the Sake of Elena (Inspector Lynley, #5)(113)

“No.”

“Rosalyn—”

“Gareth Randolph’s not a killer. He loved Elena. You could see that on his face. He wouldn’t have hurt her.”

“That’s a pile of rubbish. People kill each other all the time over love. Then they kill once again to cover up their tracks. Which is exactly what he’s doing, no matter what you think you saw on the island.” Melinda glanced round the room as if to make sure she’d forgotten nothing. She said, “Let’s get going. Come on.”

Rosalyn didn’t move. “I did it for you last night, Melinda. I went to DeaStu, not the police. And now Georgina’s dead.”

“Because you went to DeaStu. Because you talked in the first place. If you’d kept your mouth shut, nothing would have happened to anyone. Don’t you see that?”

“I’m responsible for this. Both of us are.”

Melinda’s mouth drew into a hair’s width line. “I’m responsible? I tried to take care of you. I wanted to protect you. I tried to stop you from putting both of us at risk. And now I’m responsible for Georgina’s death? Well, that’s rich, isn’t it?”

“Don’t you see how it is? I let you stop me. I should have done what I knew was right in the first place. I should always do that. But I keep getting sidetracked.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That it always comes down to a question of love with you. If I really love you, I’ll take the room under the eaves. If I really love you, we’ll have sex when you want. If I really love you, I’ll tell my parents the truth about us.”

“And that’s what all this is really about, isn’t it? That you told your parents and they didn’t approve. They didn’t fall all over themselves wishing you well. They played it for guilt instead of compassion.”

“If I really love you, I’ll always do what you want. If I really love you, I’ll have no mind of my own. If I really love you, I’ll live like a…”

“What? Finish it. Say it. Live like a what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Go on. Say it.” Melinda sounded giddy. “Live like a dyke. A dyke. A dyke. Because that’s what you are and you just can’t face it. So you turn it around and shove it on me. You think a man’s going to be the answer to your problems? You think a man can make you into something you aren’t? You’d better get wise, Ros. You’d better face the truth. The problem’s yourself.” She shouldered her rucksack and threw the other to the floor at Rosalyn’s feet. “Choose,” she said.

“I don’t want to choose.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t give me that.” Melinda waited for a moment. Somewhere on the staircase, a door opened. Quirky music swelled and a wavering, whimsical voice claimed to be u-n-c-o-u-p-l-e-d. Melinda laughed sardonically. “How appropriate,” she said.

Rosalyn reached towards her. But she didn’t pick up the rucksack. “Melinda.”

“We’re born the way we’re born. It’s a toss of the dice and no one can change it.”

“But don’t you see? I don’t know that. I’ve never even had a chance to find out.”

Melinda nodded, her face quickly becoming both shuttered and cool. “Great. So find out. Just don’t come snivelling back when you discover what’s what.” She grabbed her shoulder bag and pulled on her gloves. “I’m out of here then. Lock up when you leave. Give your key to the porter.”

“All this just because I want to see the police?” Rosalyn asked.

“All this just because you don’t want to see yourself.”



“My money’s on the pullover,” Sergeant Havers said. She picked up the squat stainless steel teapot and poured, grimacing at the pale colour of the brew with a “what is this stuff, anyway?” to the waitress who was passing their table.

“Herbal blend,” the girl said.

Blackly, Havers stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. “Grass cuttings, more likely.” She took a tentative sip and scowled. “Grass cuttings undoubtedly. Don’t they have the regular bit? P.G. Tips? Something to wear the enamel off your teeth good and proper?”

Lynley poured his own cup. “This is better for you, Sergeant. It has no caffeine.”

“It also has no flavour, or don’t we care about that?”

“Just one of the drawbacks to the healthy life.”

Havers muttered and pulled out her cigarettes.

“No smoking, miss,” the waitress said as she brought their sweets to the table, an arrangement of carob-chip biscuits and sugar-free fruit tarts.

“Oh, hell and damnation,” Havers said.

They were in the Bliss Tea Room in Market Hill, a small establishment squeezed in between a stationery shop and what appeared to be a gathering place for the local skin heads. Heavy Mettle had been scrawled by an obviously untutored hand in red greasepaint across the latter shop’s window, and the ear-assaulting screech of electric guitars periodically blasted out the front door. In apparent answer to the window decoration, the stationers had countered with Waitless Cowardice across their own glass, a joke that no doubt went unappreciated by the owners and patrons of the neighbouring business.