In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(149)

“Your club's name?”

“Brooks s. I met a colleague there for dinner on Tuesday. He'll confirm, I dare say. But, my God, you won't tell him that I … No one knows, Inspector. It's something that's between Chloe and me.”

And anyone Nicola Maiden chose to tell, Lynley thought. What would it mean to Sir Adrian Beattie to have his most closely guarded secret held over his head like Damocles’ sword? What would he do if threatened with exposure?

“Did Nicola ever introduce you to her flatmate?”

“Once, yes. When I gave her the keys to the maisonette.”

“So Vi Nevin, the flatmate, knew about the arrangement?”

“Perhaps. I don't know.”

But why even take the risk of someone knowing? Lynley wondered. Why allow a flatmate into the mix and face the dangers inherent in an outsider's having knowledge of a sexual proclivity that could cause such humiliation to a man in Beattie's position?

Beattie himself seemed to read the questions in Lynley's eyes. He said, “Do you know what it feels like to be that desperate for a woman? So desperate that you'll agree to anything, do anything to have her? That's what it was like.”

“What about Terry Cole? How did he fit in?”

“I don't know a Terry Cole.”

Lynley tried to gauge the level of veracity in the statement. He couldn't do so. Beattie was too good at maintaining his expression of guilelessness. But that alone increased Lynley's suspicion.

He thanked the surgeon for his time, and he and Nkata took their leave, giving Beattie back into the arms of his family. Incongruously, the man had kept his papier maché captain's hat on throughout their interview. Lynley wondered if the wearing of that hat kept him firmly anchored in his family life or acted as a spurious symbol of a devotion that he did not feel.

Once out on the street, Nkata said, “My sweet Lord. What people get themselves into, spector.”

“Hmm. Yes,” Lynley agreed. “And what they get themselves out of as well.”

“You don't believe his story?”

Lynley answered indirectly. “Talk to the people at Brooks s. They'll have records showing when he was there. Then head over to Islington. You've seen Sir Adrian Beattie in the flesh. You've seen Martin Reeve as well. Talk to the Maiden girl's landlady, the neighbours. Let's see if anyone can recall glimpsing either of those gentlemen there on the ninth of May.”

“Asking a lot, Guv. Four months back.”

“I've faith in your powers of interrogation.” Lynley disarmed the Bentley's security system, saying over the car's roof, “Climb in. I'll drop you at the tube.”

“What's on for yourself?”

“Vi Nevin. If anyone can confirm Beattie's story, she's going to be the one.”

? ? ?

Azhar wouldn't hear of Barbara walking the seventy or so yards alone to her bungalow at the bottom of the garden. She might be mugged, raped, accosted, or attacked by a cat with a proclivity for thick ankles.

So he tucked his daughter into her bed, scrupulously locked the door of his flat, and ushered Barbara round the side of the house. He offered her a cigarette. She accepted and they paused to light up, the flaring match emphasising the contrasting colours of their skin as she held the cigarette to her lips and he sheltered the flame near to her mouth.

“Nasty habit,” she said conversationally. “Hadiyyah's after me all the time to stop.”

“After me as well,” Azhar said. “Her mother is—at least she was—quite a militant non-smoker, and Hadiyyah has apparently inherited not only Angela's dislike of tobacco but also her crusading spirit.”

The words constituted the most Azhar had yet said about the mother of his child. Barbara wanted to ask him whether he'd informed his daughter that her mother was gone for good or if he was still holding firmly to the fairy tale of Angela Weston's holiday in Canada, one which had now extended itself for nearly five months. But she said nothing beyond “Yeah. Well. You're her dad, and I expect she'd like to keep you round for a few more years.” They followed the path that led to her digs.

“Thanks for the dinner, Azhar. It was lovely. When I get beyond re-heating pizza, I want to return the favour, if you'll let me.”

“That would be a pleasure, Barbara.”

She expected him to turn back for his flat—her own small hovel being well in view, so there was little chance that she'd come to trouble in a five-second saunter down the rest of the garden path to it. But he continued to walk along with her in his quiet way.

They reached her front door. She hadn't locked it and, when she swung it open, Azhar frowned and said that her sense of security was not as heightened as it ought to be. She said Yeah, but she'd intended only to pop round for a moment and apologise to Hadiyyah for having forgotten the sewing lesson that she'd promised to attend. She hadn't intended to stay for dinner. And thank you for that meal, by the way. You are a brilliant cook. Or have I said that already?

Azhar politely pretended that she hadn't mentioned his cooking until that moment, after which he insisted that he be allowed inside to make certain there were no unwanted visitors lurking in the shower or under the day bed. Having examined the bungalow to his satisfaction, Azhar advised her to lock her door carefully when he left. But then he didn't leave. Instead, he glanced at the dining room table, where Barbara had flung her belongings upon arriving home from work. These consisted of her shapeless old shoulder bag and a manila folder into which she'd tucked the roster of employees from 31-32 Soho Square, her own surreptitiously duplicated copy of the post-mortem that she'd delivered to St. James, and the rough draft of the report she'd crafted for Lynley, delineating the information she'd gleaned from reading the SO 10 files of Andy Maiden.