In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(123)

“Didn't notice at lunch, did you?” Jeremy asked.

“Notice what?”

“Water. Nothing else. That's what I was drinking. Didn't you see?”

“Sorry. I've had things on my mind. But I'm glad of it, Dad. Good for you. Brilliant.”

Jeremy nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Had a think over the past week, Julie. And here's what it is. I'm going to take the cure. I've been thinking about it since … oh, I don't know since when. And I think it's time.”

“You re going to stop? Drinking? You're going to stop drinking?”

“Enough is enough. I been … I've been blotto for something like thirty-five years. Thought I'd try the next thirty-five sober as a judge.”

His father had made this claim before. But he'd usually made the claim when either drunk or hung over. This time he seemed neither. “You're going to go to AA?” Julian asked. There were meetings in Bakewell, others in Buxton, in Matlock, and in Chapel-en-le-Frith. More than once Julian had phoned each town to get schedules of meetings that were sent to the manor house and then thrown away.

“That's what I want to talk to you about,” Jeremy said. “How best for me to beat the devil forever this time. Here's what I think, Julie,” and he handed over the fan of brochures he'd been holding, spreading them out on Julian's knees. “These're clinics,” he said. “Dry-out houses. You check in for a month—two or three if you need it—and you take the cure. Proper diet, proper exercise, sessions with the resident shrink. That's where you start. Detox. Once you've done the dance steps, you're into AA. Have a look, m'boy. Tell me what you think.”

Julian didn't need to look to know what he thought. The clinics were private. They were expensive. And there was no money to pay for them unless he gave up his work on Broughton Manor, sold off the harriers, and got a proper job. It would be the end of his dream to bring the estate back to life if he sent his father to a clinic.

Jeremy was watching him hopefully. “I know I could do it this time, m'boy. I feel it in my gut. You know how that is. With a little help, I'll do it. I'll beat the devil at his own game.”

“You don't think AA's enough to help you?” Julian said. “Because, you see, Dad, in order to send you to a place like this … I mean, I can check our insurance, and I will, absolutely. But I rather think they won't pay …. We have the most basic health insurance, you know. Unless you'd like me to …” He didn't want to do it. And the guilt of his reluctance felt like a gouge incised on his soul. But he made himself say it. This was, after all, his father in front of him. “I could stop work on the estate. I could get a proper job.”

Jeremy reached forward and hastily gathered up the brochures. “I don't want that. Great Scot, Julie. I don't want that. I want Broughton Manor back in its glory like you do. I won't take you from that, son. No. I'll make do.”

“But if you think you need a clinic—”

“I do. I do. I'd get squared away proper and have a foundation. But if there's no money—and God knows I believe you, boy—then there's no money and that's an end to it. Perhaps another day …” Jeremy stuffed the brochures into his jacket pocket. He gave his gaze moodily to the fireplace. “Money,” he murmured. “Damn me if it doesn't always come down to money.”

The parlour door opened. Samantha entered.

It was quite as if she'd heard her cue.





[page]CHAPTER 18


orry, luvs, members only” was how Lynley and Nkata were greeted at a lectern at the top of a staircase in Wandsworth. This led into the dark cavity that appeared to be the entrance to The Stocks, and it was being guarded in the early afternoon by a matronly woman doing needlepoint. Aside from her curious ensemble, which consisted of a black leather sheath with a silver zip lowered to her waist and exposing pendulous breasts of an unappealing chicken-skin texture, she could have been somebody's grandmother, and she probably was. She had grey hair that looked crimped for Sunday's church services and half-moon glasses at the end of her nose. She looked up over them at the two detectives and added, “Unless you're wanting to join. Is that it? Here. Have a look, then.” She handed each of them a brochure.

The Stocks, Lynley read, was a private club for discriminating adults who enjoyed the diversion of domination. For a modest yearly fee they would be offered access to a world in which their most private fantasies could become their most exciting realities. In an atmosphere of light food, drink, and music whilst surrounded by like-minded enthusiasts, they could live out, witness, or participate in the realisation of mankind's darkest dreams. Their identities and professions would be scrupulously protected by a management committed to complete discretion whilst their every desire would be seen to by a staff devoted to accommodating their needs. The Stocks was open from noon until four A.M. from Monday to Saturday, bank holidays included. Sundays were given to worship.

The worship of what? Lynley wondered. But he didn't ask. He slipped the brochure into his jacket pocket, smiled affably, said, “Thank you. I'll keep it in mind,” and took out his warrant card. “Police. We'd like a word with your barman.”

Black Leather Sheath wasn't exactly Cerberus, but she knew her cue. She said, “This is a private club for members only, sir. This isn't a disorderly house by any means. No one gets by me without showing his membership card, and when someone wants to join, he must bring with him a picture ID that includes his date of birth. We only give memberships to consenting adults, and our employees are thoroughly vetted for police records prior to being hired.”