In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(117)

It was, Hanken realised, the logical place to begin. But something about tackling the enquiry from that direction didn't feel right to him. “Are you personalising this in some way?”

“I might very well ask the same of you” was Lynley's reply. Before Hanken could argue, the London DI concluded the call with the information that Terry Cole's black leather jacket was missing from the personal effects Usted on the receipt that had been handed over to his mother on the previous morning. “It makes sense to have a thorough look for it among the crime scene evidence before we rally the troops,” he pointed out. And then, as if he wished to smooth over their disagreement, he added, “What do you think?”

“I'll see to that at this end,” Hanken said.

The call concluded, he looked at his family: Sarah and Bella shredding their sandwiches and dipping the torn bits of bread into their milk, PJ awakening and beginning to fret for his own lunch, and Hanken's own darling Kathleen unbuttoning her blouse, loosening the nursing bra, and raising their son to her swollen breast. They were a miracle to him, his little family. He would, he knew, go to any extreme to keep them from harm.

“We're richly blessed, Katie,” he said to his wife as she sat at the table where Bella was inserting a carrot stick into her sister's right nostril. Sarah screamed in protest and startled PJ. He turned from his mother's milk and began to wail.

Kathleen shook her head wearily. “It's all in the definition, I dare say” She nodded at his mobile. “Are you off again, then?”

“Afraid so, darling.”

“What about the s-w-i-n-g-s?”

“I'll have the set up in time. I promise.” He took the carrots away from his daughters, grabbed a dish cloth from the sink, and mopped up some of the mess they'd made on the kitchen table.

His wife cooed, crooned, and comforted PJ. Bella and Sarah made tentative peace.

After directing DC Mott to paw through everything they'd taken from the murder site, and after phoning the lab to make sure Terry Cole's jacket hadn't been accidentally omitted from the list of clothing sent onward for analysis, Hanken set off to duel with Will Upman once more. He found the solicitor in the narrow garage that abutted his home in Buxton. He was casually clad in jeans and a flannel shirt, and he squatted next to a fine-looking mountain bike whose chain and gear cluster he was attending to with a hose pipe, a small spray bottle of solvent, and a plastic bristle brush with one end shaped like a crescent.

He wasn't alone. Leaning against the bonnet of his car, her eyes fixed on him with the unmistakable hunger of a woman desperate for a commitment, a petite brunette was saying to him, “You did say half past twelve, Will. And I know I'm not mistaken this time,” as Hanken joined them.

Upman said, “I couldn't have done, darling. I'd always planned to clean the bike. So if you're ready for lunch this early—”

“It isn't early. And it'll be even less early by the time we get there. Damn it. If you didn't want to go, I just wish you'd have told me for once.”

“Joyce, did I say … did I even bloody hint that—” Upman caught sight of Hanken. “Inspector,” he said, rising and tossing the hose pipe to one side, where it burbled water in a gentle stream from the garage out onto the driveway “Joyce, this is Inspector Hanken, Buxton CID Could you deal with the tap for me, darling?”

Joyce sighed and saw to the water. She returned to the car and took up position in front of one of its headlamps. “Will,” she said. I've been patient as a saint, her tone implied.

Upman flashed a smile at her. “Work,” he said with a jerk of his head in Hanken's direction. “Will you give us a few minutes, Joy? Let's forget the lunch and have something here. We can drive over to Chatsworth afterwards. Have a walk. Do some talking.”

“I have to pick up the kids.”

“By six. I remember. And we'll manage it. No problem.” Again the smile. It was more intimate this time, the kind of smile that a man uses when he wishes to suggest to a woman that he and she speak a special language understood only by the two of them. It was mostly the language of bollocks, Hanken decided, but Joyce looked needy enough to accept the central theme such a language implied. “Could you make us some sandwiches, darling? While I'm finishing here? There's chicken in the fridge.” Upman didn't mention Han-ken's presence or the privacy that Joyce's removal to the kitchen would effect.

Joyce sighed again. “All right. This once. But I wish you'd start writing down the time when you want me to come over. With the kids, it's not exactly easy to—”

“Will do in future. Scout's honour.” He sent her an air kiss. “Sorry.”

She took it all in. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother,” she said with absolutely no conviction.

We all know the answer to that, Hanken thought.

When she'd taken herself off to prove herself in the housewife department, Upman went back to his mountain bike. He squatted and sprayed solvent lightly on the gear cluster and along the chain. The pleasant smell of lemons rose round them. He spun the left pedal backwards as he sprayed, running the chain through one revolution round the gears and, when it was soaked, he leaned back on his heels.

“I can't think we have anything more to talk about,” he said to Hanken. “I've told you what I know.”