In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(115)

“Terry Cole had this address among his belongings,” Barbara said. “He could have come here passing himself off as an artist of sorts. A sculptor. Does this sound familiar?”

“No one here's an art buyer. What you want is one of them posh galleries, luv. Over in Mayfair or places like that. Though it does look a bit like a gallery in here, eh? What about that? What d'you think?”

What she thought was that she didn't have time to discuss Triton Entertainment's interior decoration. She said, “Could he have had a meeting with someone at Triton?”

“Or at any of the other companies,” Dick said.

“There're more groups than Triton at this address?” she asked.

“Oh yeh. Triton's only one. They get their name above the door 'cause they take up the most space. T'others don't mind, as their rent's lower.” Dick jerked his head in the direction of the lifts and led Barbara to a notice board between two of them. On this she saw names, departments, and lists of companies. They represented publishing, film making, and theatre. It would take hours—perhaps days—to talk to everyone whose name was Usted. And to everyone else whose name wasn't included because he or she played a supporting role.

Barbara turned away from the lifts and caught sight of the reception desk. She knew what such a desk meant at the Yard where security was paramount. She wondered if it meant the same here. She said, “Dick, do visitors sign in?”

“Oh yeh. They do.”

Excellent. “Can I have a look at the book?”

“Can't do that, miss … er, Constable. Sorry.”

“Police business, Dick.”

“Right. But 'tis locked up at the weekend, like. You can have a try of the desk drawers to make sure though.”

Barbara did so, slipping behind the walnut counter and pulling on the drawers to no avail. Damn, she thought. She hated having to wait till Monday. She was itching to slap handcuffs on a guilty party and to parade him in front of Lynley, shouting, “See? See?” And waiting nearly forty-eight hours to take another step closer to the perpetrator of the Derbyshire homicides was like asking hounds on the scent of a fox to have a bit of a kip once their quarry was in sight.

There was only one alternative. She didn't much like it, but she was willing to put in the time to give it a try. She said, “Tell me, Dick, have you a list of the people who work here?”

“Oh, miss … er, Constable … as to that …” He pulled on his nostrils again and looked uneasy.

“Yes. You do. Right? Because if something's dodgy in part of the building, you need to know who to contact. Yes? Dick, I need that list.”

“I'm not supposed to—”

“—give it out to anyone,” she concluded. “I know. But you're not giving it out to anyone. You're giving it to the police because someone's been murdered. And you understand that if you don't assist in the enquiry, it might look like you're involved in some way.”

He looked affronted. “Oh no, miss. I never been to Derbyshire.”

“But someone here may have been. On Tuesday night. And to be a party to protecting that someone … That never looks very good to the CPS.”

“Wha'? You think there's a murderer works here?” Dick glanced at the lifts as if expecting them to disgorge Jack the Ripper.

“Could be the case, Dick. Could very well be.”

He thought it over. Barbara let him think. He looked from the lift doors to Reception once again. He finally said, “As it's the police …” and joined Barbara behind the reception desk, where he opened what looked like a broom cupboard containing reams of paper and coffee supplies. He took from the top shelf a stapled sheaf of papers. He handed it over. “These're them,” he said.

Barbara thanked him fervently. He was making his mark for the cause of justice, she told him. She would need to take a copy of the document with her though. She was going to have to phone all of the employees listed, and she didn't expect that he wanted her to do so sitting in the empty lobby of the building.

Dick gave his reluctant permission and disappeared for five minutes to make a copy of the paperwork. When he returned, Barbara did her best to stride with dignity—and not dance with delight—out of the building. Maintaining her poise, she didn't take a look at the list until she rounded the corner into Carlisle Street. But once there, she dropped her gaze to it eagerly.

Her spirits plummeted. It was page after page. No fewer than two hundred names were printed.

She groaned at the thought of the job ahead of her.

Two hundred phone calls with no one to help her.

There had to be a more efficient way to serve up humble pie for Lynley's dining pleasure. And after a moment's thought, she decided what it might be.





[page]CHAPTER 17


I Peter Hanken's plan was to carve an hour out of his Saturday to work on Bella's new swing set, a plan that he had to abandon not twenty minutes after his return from Manchester Airport. He'd got back home by midday, having used up his morning tracking down the Airport Hilton masseuse who had worked on Will Upman on the previous Tuesday night. She'd sounded sultry, sexy, and seductive over the phone when Hanken had spoken to her from the Hilton lobby. But she'd turned out to be a thirteen-stone Valkyrie in medical whites with the hands of a rugby player and hips the width of a lorry's front bumper.